summary: Harry is a man who always needs control. But when you come along, the lines between lust, obsession, and love start to blur, and he gets the urge to let go completely.
contents/warnings: Explicit (18+ MDNI!) - fifty shades of grey vibes, AU, banter, playing hard to get, age gap (nearly 30 years… oops), Harry is a playboy, mentions of sex workers, longing, obsession, possessiveness and jealousy, dark romance (??), learning to love, one face slap, angst (i cannot be stopped), some description of reader (long enough hair to put up, sex on legs according to Harry), no uses of y/n. Apologies if I missed anything.
smut tags: m!masturbation, overstimulation, impure day dreams, dirty talk, dubcon (??), unprotected sex, a few ass slaps, rough sex, sex contract, exhibitionism, aftercare (kinda), the red room 😛, sex toys
wc: 9600+ (oops)
a/n: my entry for @time-for-my-weekly-spanking 's 2026 kinky challenge (i chose age gap for my husband Harry). biggg thank you to @mcthsman for proofreading and helping me edit this! love you lots 🤍 (more notes at the end)
᯽ part 2 | soundtrack | read on ao3
Harry Castillo is a man of power. He works for the private equity business that his mother started up when she was younger, and he owns the most businesses out of anyone there. Besides his mother of course.
The Castillos have never been afraid of money. Hell, they bathe in it every night. Because of this, Harry isn’t afraid to spend a pretty penny on a woman. Except he hasn’t found someone that actually deserved it.
Sure, he’s had his fair share of women — none that he’s ever been photographed with. A list extending from women he’s worked with to sex workers. But no one has interested him long enough for him to think about any type of future with them. He’s not necessarily proud of his ways, but it’s a big stress relief for him.
Control is a necessity in all parts of Harry’s life — including in the bedroom. These women willingly submit themselves to please him in whatever way he desires. Of course, Harry still respects them and makes sure they’re properly taken care of. After all, he’s not a dick. He just thinks with his.
Harry is currently on a phone call in his office. Something about a leak that was reported in a recent building he bought. To be honest, he tunes out the man on the other end about halfway into the conversation.
“Yeah, I’ll look into it,” he says, exasperated as he waits to end the phone call sooner rather than later.
“Okay. Thank you, Mr. Castillo. Have a good—“
The man’s voice dies out as Harry puts down the phone, effectively ending the conversation before the man could finish his thought. He slumps back in his chair, running a hand down his face.
Crown Castillo has been the busiest and biggest it’s ever been. The annual New Years gala is in a few weeks, and his mother wants him to have a date for it. Harry could get any woman he wants for it, really. But he has been getting tired of that life. He is well into his fifties and coming to terms with the fact that he might end up alone.
Just then, his assistant, Rick, knocks on his door. “Come in,” Harry calls out, sitting up straight in his chair.
The door slowly opens before Rick steps in, “Mr. Castillo, there’s a woman here to see you. Something about the photography at the gala.”
Confusion stretches across Harry’s face before he tells Rick to let her in. He wasn’t aware of any meetings with a photographer, but he’d see what they needed.
What Harry doesn’t expect is for you to walk in: younger, long hair that went down past your shoulders, soft skin, black blazer, black skirt that stopped at your mid thighs, and the expanse of your legs being covered by sheer stockings.
Fuck, you’re a sight.
Standing up, Harry buttons the middle of his suit jacket. “How can I help you, ma’am?” he asks with a small nod.
You wait for his assistant to close the door before you walk up to Harry’s desk. Extending out your hand, you introduce yourself. Your hand is practically swimming in his as he gives you a firm handshake.
“Pleasure to meet you,” he says before gesturing for you to sit in one of the chairs across from his desk.
“My business was called about taking pictures for your upcoming New Years gala. They sent me out to confirm with you. Make sure everything is exactly the way you want; the pictures you want taken of the venue, the people – the food even.”
Harry watches your lips move as you talk, subconsciously licking his own while he takes in your words. He hadn’t been aware that there would even be photographers at the gala this year, so this must’ve been his mother’s doing.
He clears his throat, “I’m sorry, but I don’t think I was made aware about any of this. You might’ve been looking for my parents, not me.”
You raise an eyebrow, “Your parents?”
“It’s a family business,” he shrugs like it’s nothing. As if Crown Castillo isn’t the wealthiest private equity firm in the U.S.
“Ah, I see,” you nod slowly, “So who do I speak to then?”
“Well,” he rounds his desk, moving to stand in front of you, “if you were looking for a ‘Mr. Castillo’, that would be my father: Emiliano.”
You nod once, taking in the information and correcting the form you brought in. As you build up the courage to ask, you place the end of your pen between your lips, drawing Harry’s gaze towards them once more.
His gaze darkens, hands tightening on the edge of his desk until his knuckles are nearly white.
“Do you mind showing me where your father’s office is then?” you finally ask, putting down your pen and meeting his eyes.
Harry would normally tell someone who asked for directions to ask his assistant, but something about you draws him towards you. His body craves a little more time with you, even if it’s just for five more minutes.
“Sure. This place is easy to get lost in,” he huffs out something close to a laugh.
He gestures for you to walk in front of him, getting a small whiff of your perfume. It’s something subtle, sexy and sophisticated, causing his slacks to feel a little tighter and uncomfortable. Harry doesn’t think he’s ever been so easily affected by a woman, let alone one he just met.
As he holds the door open for you, he allows his eyes to travel down the back of your body, getting a good view of your ass before he walks in front of you.
“Such a gentleman,” you tease him lightly as the two of you walk in unison.
Harry feels heat creep up his neck, wondering if you felt his heavy gaze on you or if you’re referring to his manners. “Yeah,” he says gruffly before he clears his throat, “I’m not as big of an asshole as they say I am in the press.”
Your brows knit in confusion at that, “The press?”
He freezes in his tracks, making you stop as well. The stare he’s giving you is almost like he’s trying to figure you out. His eyes are narrowed, mouth slightly agape as he reads you.
Your pulse picks up under his intense stare. Chest rising and falling a bit faster before he speaks. “You don’t… know who my family is?” he asks in disbelief.
“Am I supposed to?”
“I… guess not,” he says quietly, brushing it off before he continues walking.
You stand there, trying to process what just happened before you trail behind him.
“Sorry if I offended you, Mr. Castillo, but I’m not really into the whole… business world of things. I’m sure you and your family have plenty of fame. I just don’t know anything about it.”
Immediately you realize how much you’re rambling when Harry doesn’t even bat another eye at you. His expression is stoic as he walks, keeping his eyes trained forward. You got a sense that you would ruin this deal if you kept talking, so you stayed quiet for the rest of the walk.
After another minute of walking past the most expensive and busiest people you’ve ever seen, the two of you stop in front of an office door that reads: Emiliano Castillo.
“Thanks for walking me here,” you murmur once he turns towards you.
There’s the faintest hint of a fire burning behind Harry’s eyes. So faint that you aren’t even sure if you’re really seeing it.
“Guess I’ll see you soon,” he states, his voice a little rougher than it was before.
You’re not too sure why, but your skin prickles at his tone. Goosebumps spread across your arms as you look up at him.
“See you soon, Mr. Castillo.”
With that, he walks away, leaving you alone to talk to his father.
Harry Castillo was a man of power, and he was slowly losing it with you. After leaving you, he makes his way to the men’s restroom, locking the door behind himself before he steps into a stall. The heavy ache between his thighs becomes too much, and his erection is noticeable. He needs to do something about it quickly.
The second the sound of him unbuckling his belt echoes within the four walls of the restroom, he knows he is going to regret this. He pulls out his throbbing cock with a small hiss before spitting on his hand and fisting himself.
He works his wrist at a steady pace, tipping his head back in ecstasy as his thoughts drift to you. He imagines hiking up your short skirt and bending you over his desk, or fucking you against the floor-to-ceiling windows in his office.
God, he just knows you’d make the prettiest noises as he fucked you into oblivion. He’d make sure to drag his cock within the deepest depths of you, making you and your pussy sing.
Just the mere thought of it has him thrusting into his hand faster, fucking his fist until he creams all over it. He shudders through his orgasm, vision going a little blurry around the edges, causing him to place a hand on the stall door to keep his balance.
Harry doesn’t think he’s ever cum like that just from the thought of someone he barely had five minutes of interaction with. No, this is something entirely different, and he isn’t completely sure about what it was exactly.
After all of that, there’s one thing Harry knows for sure: You’re his, whether you know it or not.
Setting up the gala with the coordinator has been… eventful. You’re not even completely sure if he was actually listening to your advice or if he was just staring at your tits. Perhaps the dip of your dress was a little too far down your cleavage, but it isn’t your fault that men act like pigs around you.
The venue is beautifully decorated and you’re sure you are going to get some gorgeous shots. Diamonds dangle from the ceiling in forms of chandeliers, reflecting off of the tall walls covered in expensive art. You had an inkling that the Castillos were rich, you just didn’t know how rich.
Right at 7PM, guests start to pile in. Women wearing diamonds and gold around their necks, wrists, and fingers. You’re guaranteed that if you sold this building and the people in it alone, you’d make a lot of money. But you aren’t here to think hypothetically, you’re here to do your job, and you’re going to make sure the photographs are up to both your boss’ and Emiliano’s standards.
Guests mingle, drinking punch, eating the appetizers that were set out, some checking out the art, but the Castillos are still nowhere to be found. It’s nearing 8:30 and Gavin — another photographer — is starting to get antsy.
“We’re supposed to get a shot of them coming in,” Gavin says through his teeth, letting out an exasperated breath.
“They’ll be here,” you murmur, your eyes focused within the camera lens.
You’re watching the guests through your camera, always ready for the perfect shots. A happy couple smiling, the camera flashes. Guests looking up at the art, another flash.
When one head snaps towards the door, so does your camera, and you don’t hesitate to take the shot of the family walking in. The lens whirs as you zoom in on the parents alone, and then the brothers.
It’s almost automatic when Harry feels a camera on him. His gaze finds you in the crowd after the picture is taken, and you lower the camera just slightly to catch his eyes. His eyes travel down your body before he tips his head slightly towards you. Immediately, you feel your skin heat up.
He is clad in a tailored black suit, broad shoulders stretching out his suit jacket so much that you could hear the fabric begging for mercy from where you stand. A white handkerchief folded neatly in the pocket of his suit jacket, black slacks down his legs.
You could already tell he was a big and broad man. Probably manhandling every woman he’s ever been with.
“Did you get the shot?” Gavin asks, pulling your attention away from the man across the room.
“I got it,” you nod slowly, taking a few more just for good measure.
Harry’s gaze still hasn’t moved from you, and for a brief moment, you wonder if this is how mice feel underneath a microscope. Their little bodies squirming as they’re being examined and experimented on against their will.
“You better fucking have,” Gavin states before he walks away from you.
Ignoring his comment, you take more pictures of Anastasia and Emiliano walking up to the small makeshift stage by the speakers. A microphone stand sits idly on it, waiting to be used for announcements.
You may not be looking at Harry, but you can still feel his gaze on you. Briefly, you wonder what he’s thinking about, but then his father starts speaking.
“May I have your attention ladies and gentlemen. It is with great honor that I thank each and every one of you in this room tonight. My wife’s business would not be as successful as it is without the help of you all. We are extremely grateful for your commitment and dedication to the place we call home: Crown Castillo.
Friends, family, employees – all of you are important and valuable. All of our hands keep this place up and running, and that is what a found family is. I hope we all continue to have each other’s backs during the years to come. And please… enjoy yourselves tonight, and don’t forget that all the funds collected tonight are going towards charity.”
Emiliano and Anastasia raise their glasses of champagne before Ana continues, “To the Crown Castillo family.”
Everyone raises their glasses, repeating her words and going back to mingling. A handful of cameras flash, you and your coworkers getting hundreds of shots for the family and company. The more lively the photo, the better. You’ve learned over the years that these kinds of people appreciate the ‘vibe’ of the pictures more. If they look united, they’ll love the photos.
You lower your camera, checking all of the photos you’ve gotten so far before a man walks up to you. “Excuse me,” he says, placing a hand on your bicep to get your attention.
You look at his hand before you look up at him, “Can I help you, sir?”
He extends his hand out, introducing himself, “Lucas Taylor, Taylored Photography.”
Extending your hand out, you stare at him. He’s a recruiter, no doubt. With a company name that doesn’t even sound familiar to you, and you know all of the photography companies in New York. Emiliano didn’t tell you about another photographer being here, so you’re a little confused.
“I must say,” he puts his hands in his pockets, straightening his posture, “the photos you’ve taken thus far are beautiful.”
“How would you know?” you query, “You haven’t seen them… Lucas.”
He chuckles softly at your retort, nodding, “You’re right.” The heated look he’s giving you isn’t very subtle, and it makes you a bit uncomfortable. “I just wanted to tell you how breathtaking you look in that dress, miss…” Lucas trails off, trying to get you to tell him your name.
You press your lips into a fine line, getting ready to open your mouth, but Harry steps in next to you, placing a hand on your lower back. “You’re a little close, aren’t you?”
“Oh, I,” Lucas stammers, chuckling sheepishly, “I was just complimenting her on her-”
“I’d advise you to leave,” Harry states, his voice cold and calculated as he stares Lucas down.
Harry has a good few inches on Lucas, so he shrinks into his skin, murmuring something under his breath as he walks away. Immediately, you step away from Harry, the warmth of his hand leaving your back and sending a cold shiver up your spine.
“I didn’t need saving.”
“Really?” he draws out with a raised eyebrow, putting his hands in his pockets, “‘Cause it seemed like you were dying to be saved.”
His tease makes you narrow your eyes slightly, “I appreciate the act, but I can handle myself, Mr. Castillo—”
“Harry,” he corrects you, “I think we’re well past the formalities now, don’t you think?”
“What, because you ‘saved’ me?” you retort.
“That’s exactly why,” the corner of his lips tug up into a small smirk, making you roll your eyes.
“Look, I’m trying to do my job for your father. So if you don’t mind, I’d like to get back to it now.”
Harry chuckles fondly, watching you raise your camera back up to your eyes. You have a good work ethic, which he admires. But he also wonders if you ever took a break and truly winded down. There’s a huge chance that you don’t do anything remotely close to what he does to wind down, but he feels the need to push your boundaries.
Throughout the night, his gaze keeps landing on you. Watching you mingle with guests, take pictures, talk to his parents, and sip your own glass of champagne. There’s just something so intriguing about you and how you carry yourself. It’s not surprising that he’s thinking with his dick first, but he feels some sort of pull towards you. Like something within the both of you is calling out to each other.
It’s been weeks.
Harry hasn’t been able to get you off his mind. He doesn’t think he’s ever fucked his fist as often as he has lately. He’s done it at least four times today, and he’s painfully hard again, but he can’t wrap his hand around his cock without hissing.
You’re taking over his mind, and you haven’t even really done anything.
He’s looked up the photography company you work for to see if your number is anywhere on it, but the website only has the owner’s information on it.
Asking his parents would be the easy thing to do, but he doesn’t want to raise their suspicions. They already hassle him enough about finding someone to marry, and he doesn’t need more of it.
As if the Gods were blessing him, he looks up from his desktop just in time to see you walking by. A black portfolio folder is in your arms as you walk swiftly towards his father’s office. You’re probably here to drop off the pictures, but Harry knows that his parents are out on a lunch date.
Without really thinking it through, he leaves his office, walking past the many cubicles while keeping his eyes trained on you. You’re on the opposite side and have yet to notice him, but he catches up to you just before you make it to his father’s office door.
Just as you’re about to knock, Harry slides right in front of you, blocking the door with his broad frame. Your palm meets his chest instead of the door, causing warmth to bloom throughout his entire body.
“Hey you,” Harry says, putting his hands in his pockets like he wasn’t entirely in your way.
“Hi,” you reply tentatively, dropping your hand down to your side. “Is your dad here?”
“No, he’s out on lunch,” he averts your gaze for a moment, making eye contact with his assistant before he looks back down at you.
“Oh, I was told to drop off the pictures here,” you murmur, tucking your hair behind your ear as you take a step back. “I’ll just come back later—”
“I can look at them,” Harry says a little too quickly, clearing his throat and backing off the door, “I mean, this is my firm just as much as it is my parents’. Let me look at them.”
“Okay,” you draw out, handing him the portfolio, “Your dad can email me if you guys aren’t happy with the photos.”
“I’m sure we will be,” Harry states matter-of-factly, giving you a charming smile as he takes the folder from you. He holds it like it’s something sacred, “We can get this done now, if you want. Why waste more time on this?”
You ponder his request, biting the inside of your cheek. The instructions your boss gave you were to drop the photos off, get all information if changes needed to be made, get lunch, and come back to edit photos for another company. But with Emiliano gone, Harry is your best option right now.
Reluctantly, you agree, following him to his office. The look he and his assistant share isn’t lost on you as he closes the door, drawing the blinds as well, plunging the room in partial darkness as the sun spills in from the floor-to-ceiling windows.
The cool leather quietly squeaks as you sit down across from his desk, watching him sit in his own chair and open the folder. He carefully studies each photo, not saying anything yet, but his dark eyes meet yours every now and then over the photographs.
You shift under his heated gaze, crossing your leg over the other and sitting up straighter.
Harry smirks faintly at your reaction, knowing he’s got you right where he wants you. “These look amazing,” he compliments, putting down the photographs to make eye contact with you.
You murmur a small thank you, intertwining your hands in your lap. “I’ll send them over to your father this afternoon so you guys can… do whatever you please with them.”
“And then we’re done?” he asks.
“And then we’re done,” you confirm, slowly nodding.
“So,” Harry starts, standing up to round his desk, “you won’t be working for my company anymore, right?” he asks, sitting on the edge of his desk – directly in front of you.
You can hear the frantic pulse of your heartbeat thrumming in your ears. Though, you keep it strictly professional.
Harry’s eyes follow your movements as you stand, pressing his palms into his desk and looking at you with his big brown eyes.
“That’s correct,” you confirm, straightening your posture and adjusting your suit jacket. “We won’t ever have to see each other again, Mr. Castillo.”
“Harry,” he corrects you again, “And who said anything about not seeing each other anymore?”
“I did.”
Harry huffs, shaking his head slowly, “You can be very disobedient. Someone outta teach you a lesson.”
Your eyes narrow by a fraction, taken aback by the sudden statement that came tumbling out of his mouth. “Is that what you tell all the women you sleep with?”
“I—”
“Women aren’t on this earth for men’s pleasure. We are people, and we have feelings,” you scoff.
Suddenly he stands, towering over you with his broad frame. But you don’t back down, standing your ground and looking up at him with a defiant look.
“I never told you anything about my sex life,” he states, his voice low.
“Aw, did I hit a nerve?” you pout, “I know you didn’t. I like to know the people that I work for, and it wasn’t that hard to find out about your… extracurricular activities, Mr. Castillo. Maybe you should make sure the women that you fuck are more tightlipped than they let on—”
Harry’s hands grip your waist, pulling you flush against the warmth of his body. You can feel his breath fanning over your face, his lips slightly agape as he stares down at you.
“Say one more thing,” he warns, eyes flicking to your lips momentarily. “I’m used to getting what I want, when I want it.”
“That must get very boring,” you tease with a tilt of your head. “You want me? Then earn it,” that’s all you leave it at before you step back from him, heading towards his office door. “Tell your father I said thank you for the opportunity,” a small smirk tugs at the corner of your lips, and then you’re gone.
Harry exhales harshly through his nose, running a hand through his curls as he’s left there: wanting you.
You gave him a challenge and he sure as hell isn’t going to back down.
Steam from your coffee mug curls around your laptop in lazy tendrils, patrons of the coffee shop chattering amongst themselves. The raised ceilings give the place a more open feel, the hissing of the espresso machines echoing throughout the building.
Your friend, Samantha, sits across from you, telling you about her latest hookup. It’s some guy she met at a party a few months ago. They’ve been talking back and forth for a while and only recently decided to just bite the bullet and fuck.
She waves her hands around as she speaks, telling you in grave detail about the fun night she had.
“I think I blacked out at some point,” she mentions, prompting you to raise your brows in surprise.
“Jesus, Sammy,” you breathe out, astonished by the statement.
As the conversation goes on, she tries to press you into telling her about the last person you worked for.
“Have you heard from Harry?” she casually asks, earning narrowed eyes from you.
“Why would I have heard from him?”
“Because,” she draws out, lifting her coffee mug to her lips, “he definitely wanted to fuck you and you totally shot him down!”
You bite the inside of your cheek, “He’s just like every other rich asshole, Sam. He thinks he can walk all over people and expect them to polish his Italian shoes with their tongues. I don’t need anything like that.”
“So?” she shrugs, placing her elbows on the wooden table, “I bet he fucks like an animal.”
“Samantha,” you deadpan.
“What?” she feigns innocence, “He is a man that screams dominance in the bedroom. If you won’t get under him, I will.”
Against your will, a fire of possessiveness begins to burn in your gut, prompting you to narrow your eyes at your friend. She continues to talk, oblivious to the uneasiness you’re beginning to feel.
“It’s a crazy feeling being with someone that dominant and kinky,” she pauses, thinking. “Oo, maybe he has a sex dungeon—”
“Sam,” you shake your head once, “Enough.”
“I’m just saying,” her tone switches to something lighter, “maybe you’re missing out on what’s right in front of you.”
“Or maybe I dodged a bullet,” you tilt your head to the side slightly. “He’s like… in his 50s, Sam. You do know that, right?”
She shrugs, “Just because the wrapper is wrinkled, doesn’t mean the candy isn’t sweet.”
You raise your brows, amusement spreading across your face as you let out an incredulous chuckle. “You did not just say that. Do I need to take your phone away from you?”
“Probably,” she grimaces, “But seriously, he wants you. I don’t think you should let that go to waste.”
You press your lips into a fine line, hearing the murmurs of the cafe die down. Everyone’s gazes collectively fall to a single person who walks in, reeking of luxury and money. Like a moth to a flame, Samantha’s eyes lift as well.
You bite into your toast, the crunch a lot more audible than it should be in a busy cafe in New York.
“Oh my God,” your friend murmurs, causing you to look up at her.
“What?” you ask, putting your hand over your mouth as you chew.
“Expensive looking hottie alert,” she states, nearly making you choke on your food.
You wipe the corner of your mouth, turning to look over your shoulder at who’s caught everyone’s attention. The world slows around you, Harry’s dark eyes locking onto yours as his signature smirk pulls at his lips.
“Wait, isn’t that—”
“Yes, it is,” you cut Sammy off, pulling your bottom lip between your teeth as Harry begins to stalk towards you.
“Ladies,” Harry greets, nodding once towards your friend before his gaze locks onto yours. He crouches down to your level, so close that you can feel his breath fanning across your face. “Hi,” he murmurs to you, a shit-eating grin plastered across his face.
“Hi,” you repeat his words, narrowing your eyes at him. “How the hell did you find me?”
Harry nods towards Samantha again, “Your friend posts a lot on social media.”
Of course.
“Look—“
“I just wanted to personally invite you to the Crown Castillo Black & White Gala,” he speaks lowly for your ears only. “But…” he trails off, reaching for a manilla envelope from the inside of his suit jacket, “I’d like you to look over something for me.”
“Is it regarding the photos I took?” you ask steadily, not looking away from his deep espresso eyes.
His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows, drawing your eyes towards it. “Not necessarily, but it is business.”
You tilt your head to the side, “What—”
“Just think about it and have an answer by the night of the gala.” He hands you the envelope, standing up and straightening his suit jacket. “I look forward to doing business with you.”
The second you get to your apartment, the sound of the envelope ripping fills the empty space. You pull out a thick packet of white paper. The title page reads: “THE COMMENCEMENT DATE BETWEEN THE DOMINANT AND THE SUBMISSIVE”
“Oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” you blurt out immediately.
Your thoughts start to swarm as you glance through the pages, words like sex toys, gags, and whipping sticking out to you.
He wants you to be his sex slave?
Did he listen to a single word you told him in his office?
Your phone buzzes in your pocket and you pull it out without thinking. A new email pops up on your lock screen, Harry Castillo being the obvious name as the sender.
The packet hits your kitchen counter with a sharp thud as you unlock your phone, quickly opening the email he sent.
“Good afternoon, I hope this email finds you well.”
You narrow your eyes at the first line before you continue reading.
“I hope you consider reading over the packet I left with you. Whatever you aren’t willing to do, I will accept immediately and set up a meeting to change them. Please read over everything. All I need is your written consent.”
You scoff, placing your phone face down on the counter, hands gripping the edge of it until your knuckles are white. Darkness envelops you when you close your eyes, your breathing picking up as you attempt (and fail) to process whatever the fuck you just read.
There’s no way this is real life, right? People don’t actually do this outside of movies.
Right?
The thick packet taunts you when you open your eyes, sticking out like a sore thumb in your peripheral vision.
As the weeks go by, the contract sits untouched in your nightstand drawer. Harry emails you, but most of the time you don’t respond, earning desperate messages from him late at night.
You don’t know what to think about the situation. Honestly, you thought everything you found out about him were all lies, but this seems pretty fucking real to you.
The night before the gala, you build up the courage to show up at his office. You briskly walk past the security, the packet held tightly against your chest as you reach for the elevator, repeatedly pressing the button for his floor until the doors close.
You exhale in relief once the security guards faces are no longer in view, leaning back against the back wall. Briefly, you look down at the contract again, the word submissive staring back at you.
That isn’t who you are. Isn’t who you were going to be.
You refused to bend yourself to a man’s will just to please him. It goes against everything you stand for.
The elevator dinging pulls you out of your thoughts, the doors sliding open to reveal his floor. It’s dark and quiet, nothing like the other times you’ve been here. Your heels echo in the space as you step out.
Too loud.
Too final.
You turn back around to leave but the doors close too quickly, sealing your decision.
A familiar voice calls out your name, you looking over your shoulder to see Harry’s assistant, Rick, walking towards you.
“Sorry,” you call for the elevator again before turning around to face him, “I shouldn’t have come here. I was just leaving—”
“Mr. Castillo will see you now.”
That catches your attention, the doors sliding open behind you and revealing the two security guards. Rick holds up his hand, signaling them away. “We’re fine here. She has an appointment.”
The men share a look, deciding it’s best not to say anything.
“Please, right this way, miss,” Rick beckons you to follow him.
You glance back at the two brawly men, figuring that it’s best not to get in the elevator with them since you technically just snuck into the building. Against your better judgement and your body screaming at you not to, you follow Rick to Harry’s office.
There’s nobody on the floor. Not even a single janitor in sight. It’s like a ghost town, or one of those horror movies that start off with a vulnerable woman left alone in an office building. Nine times out of ten, she ends up dead in her car.
Rick knocks on Harry’s closed office door twice before opening it. “Have fun.”
“Wait, you aren’t staying?” you ask quietly, watching him shake his head.
“I don’t work overtime.” With that, he gathers his things and heads back towards the elevator, leaving you alone with a stranger that asked you to be his submissive through a packet of paper.
You walk in slowly, noting that his eyes immediately dart down to your bare legs as he stands. He says your name, nodding in greeting. “I’ve been expecting you. Please, shut the door.”
Hesitantly, you close the door behind yourself, feeling like you’re sealing a deal without signing your signature.
“Why were you expecting me?” you ask, walking deeper into his office. The skyline of New York City gleams behind him, like diamonds against a dark sky.
He shrugs faintly, placing his hands in his pockets. “Women usually come around to these sorts of things.”
The statement nearly gives you whiplash, your fingers tightening around the contract before you toss it onto his desk with a sharp thwack.
“Is that what you think? That women want to be your little plaything?”
“It’s not about that,” Harry claims, rounding his desk to stand in front of you. “It’s more about… testing your limits. Seeing how far you’ll go, learning what pleases you—”
You hold out your hand, “I’m gonna stop you right there.” Harry goes quiet, allowing you the space to speak freely, “You tell me one thing, but the contract says another.”
“So you read it?” he asks.
“No, I only read the title page,” you explain. “Sex shouldn’t be a business deal. A relationship shouldn’t be a business deal.”
Harry weighs your words, rolling his tongue over his teeth. “I prefer the term fucking.”
“I didn’t ask.”
He chuckles faintly, crossing his arms over his chest and sitting on the edge of his desk. “If you want to change things in the contract—”
“No, you don’t get it,” you cut him off again, stepping closer, “I didn’t want it in the first place. Did our conversation in this very office just fly over your head?”
“No, it didn’t,” he claims, shaking his head slowly, “but I can tell that you want more from me.”
Harry stands slowly, closing the last bit of space between the two of you until you have to tilt your chin up to look at him directly. A faint smirk tugs at his lips, “What is it that you want? Money? Jewelry—”
“You can’t buy me, Harry,” you interrupt him. “I won’t sign your sex contract and I don’t want to see your face again.”
He nods once, “You came to my office at 9PM just to tell me that? Something you could’ve emailed me or told me over the phone.”
You roll your eyes.
“I mean, it’s a little much, don’t you think?” he asks.
“No, you’re right,” you take a slow step back, “Goodbye, Mr. Castillo.”
You turn around, exhaling through your nose as you begin to head for his office door. Before you can get too far, you feel his hand wrap around your wrist, spinning you around until you’re flush against his chest. The collision steals all the air from your lungs, hands instinctively coming up to steady yourself on his biceps.
Harry’s breath mingles with yours, one of his hands coming up to cup the nape of your neck before he crashes his lips against yours in a searing kiss.
A sound of surprise leaves you, and without thinking, you push at him just enough to jostle him before your hand flies across his face. Your hand stings from the force of it, causing you to shake off the pain. Harry keeps his head turned to the side for a moment, his gaze dark when he looks back at you.
What you don’t expect is for him to spin the both of you around, sending everything on his desk flying before he bends you over it.
“Is this what you wanted, princess?” he rasps, breath hot against your ear as he hikes up your skirt.
“Harry—” a low moan cuts you off when he sucks at your pulse point, the rapid flutter of your heartbeat quivering in between his teeth.
He slips his foot between your legs, kicking them apart before he delivers a harsh smack to your ass. You jolt forward upon impact, a sharp gasp leaving your lips. He soothes the plush skin, rubbing his hand along the red spot that’s started to bloom from the force of his palm.
“You have no idea what you do to me,” he murmurs in your ear, the metallic rattle of his belt unbuckling filling the office.
“This is a bad idea,” you weakly protest. Though, you make absolutely no effort to move.
“Really?” he taunts, dropping his slacks and boxers in one go. “You’re saying one thing… but your body is saying another,” he repeats what you said in his own twisted way, peeling your lacy panties to the side.
The cool air hits your slick heat, sending a shiver throughout your body. You know this shouldn’t happen. Fuck, you shouldn’t have even shown up here tonight. But then he swipes the tip of his cock through your folds, parting them, smearing your slick as well as his precum.
His hand is steady on your hip, the other gripping the base of himself as he repeatedly stimulates your clit with his swollen tip until your knees nearly buckle.
“Fuck,” he breathes, “you’re so pretty.”
“Just shut up and fuck me,” you quip.
Harry chuckles darkly, shoving himself in, the stretch stealing the air from your lungs as you both moan in unison. He doesn’t give you time to adjust to his girth before he’s fucking you raw. The obscene slap of wet skin against each other fills the space of the office, his breathy grunts behind you stirring you on.
Push him back, you repeat in your head over and over again. It feels so right, like the Earth’s axis has finally shifted into place as your slick velvet walls greedily suck him in deeper. But you know this shouldn’t be happening – you worked for his family, he left a fucking sex contract with you, and he’s the most cocky son of a bitch you’ve ever met.
Not to mention, absolutely infuriating.
But he feels too good, angling his hips to reach parts of you that have never been touched before. You’ll get your fill just this once, you tell yourself, succumbing to the feeling of him splitting you open.
“Look at you,” he purrs, “taking my cock so well, baby.” Another gasp comes tumbling from your lips when he smacks the supple skin of your ass, watching it ripple with every deep thrust.
The ruthless pace has you mewling, arching your back until your arms are straight forward across the surface of his desk. Harry wraps your hair around his hand, using it to pull your head back and fuck you harder.
“Yesyesyes,” you chant, your jaw going slack, the sting of your hair being pulled, an odd but welcome sensation.
Harry’s other hand slides up to your waist, indenting his fingertips into your skin. “Is this how you like it?” he punctuates between thrusts, “I knew you’d be fucking perfect.”
For now, you ignore the comment, too focused on your pending orgasm and the roaring of your blood rushing in your ears. “Ohh, fuck,” you slur, feeling every ridge of his cock stimulate your sensitive spots perfectly – like it was made to ruin you specifically.
He groans, gritting his teeth as your walls squeeze his shaft. Without much warning, he hooks his forearm under you, lifting your upper body towards his. His hot breath fans over your ear, deep grunts telling you he’s just as affected as you are.
“You feel so fucking good,” he growls, tugging at your blouse until your tits spill free. Roughly, he takes one in his warm palm, massaging the soft skin and rolling your peaked nipple between his thumb and forefinger.
You lean your head back on his shoulder, closing your eyes and pulling your bottom lip between your teeth when his hand leaves your waist to wrap around your throat. He squeezes gently, feeling the frantic pulse of your heartbeat under the pads of his fingers.
“Harry,” you whimper, heat pooling low in your abdomen as you near your peak.
“Shit,” he hisses, your walls pulsing and squeezing him just right. “You gonna come for me?” he rasps, slipping his hand between your legs to circle your swollen clit.
Your vision goes blurry around the edges, incoherent moans toppling out of your lips as shockwaves spark through your body in fast-rising surges. Blood roars in your ears, your body threatening to double over, but Harry holds you tightly to his heaving chest.
He lets out a ragged groan, bending you back over the desk and pulling out just in time to release his thick, hot, white spurts of cum. He shudders through his orgasm, fucking his fist until he has nothing left to give.
The room stills, both of you breathing heavily from your equally intense climaxes. Your heart pounds in your ears, mind a little hazy and not fully coherent as you lift yourself up, palms pressing into the desk.
Harry pulls up his boxers and slacks, grabbing the box of tissues on his desk to clean up the mess he made.
“Did I hurt you?” he asks quietly when you don’t speak, watching you adjust your clothes and hair back into place.
“No,” you shake your head, turning around to face him, “it was good.”
He hums in acknowledgement, “So will I see you tomorrow night?”
You open your mouth to speak, but nothing comes out just yet. Honestly, you hadn’t thought about whether or not you would go to the gala. What would you even do there besides accompany him and fulfill his… needs?
“I haven’t made up my mind yet.”
Harry steps closer, closing the distance between the two of you and placing his hands on the desk behind you. This way, you have to tilt your chin up to meet his eyes.
“You should go,” he murmurs, leaning in to press his plush lips to yours, giving you a tender kiss that you didn’t think he was capable of.
Despite yourself, warmth blooms in your chest, leaving you wanting more.
Everything feels wrong: your heels are too uncomfortable, dress too tight – too long, jewelry too heavy.
You felt completely out of place. This isn’t your crowd. You’re always the one in the back, a professional black dress and pumps on your body, camera in hand while you blend in with the wall.
You’ve never been in the sea of people you take pictures of.
The building is 24 stories, drowning in exquisite taste and class – something you definitely missed the lesson on in school. Chandeliers scream money, reflecting off the lights and the diamonds dangling from women's necks.
Soft jazz music fills the lobby, creating an alluring atmosphere that eases your nerves for the moment.
A worker offers to take your coat, hanging it up with the rest when you give it to him. You feel exposed, anxiety rising once more now that your dress is revealed. It was a black off-the-shoulder dress, the back of it stopping in the middle of your back.
Goosebumps sprinkle across your skin, shrinking you into your own warmth as you take cautious steps towards the grand double doors. Your heels clack on the marble floors, echoing in your ears.
Inside, classical music drifts through the air, strangers chatting too loudly and overlapping one another.
What the fuck were you doing here?
This isn’t your scene and you’re already going against your morals – stepping out of your comfort zone because a man asked you to.
On instinct, you stick close to the back wall, not wanting to draw attention to yourself, but also not wanting to intrude.
Neither Harry or his family are anywhere to be seen, tempting you to leave before you’re noticed by anyone.
Servers pass by, not giving you a second glance as you practically hug the wall. One walks by holding glasses of champagne and you don’t hesitate to grab one, hoping the fizzy beverage will ease your racing heart.
It’s just a party, you tell yourself. Hell, not even a party, this could pass as someone’s fucking wedding reception.
Just before you burrow deeper into your inner turmoil, everyone goes silent – even the music. Someone on a microphone somewhere introduces the Castillo family and everyone claps. You look around for a moment, lost, before you tuck your clutch under your arm and clap along with them; careful of your glass of champagne.
“Happy birthday, Mrs. Castillo!”
“Happy birthday, Ana!”
People begin shouting out, the older woman laughing and wrapping an arm around her husband.
Harry invited you to his mother’s birthday party and acted like it was just another annual gala.
Jesus Christ.
After a while, you manage to make your way to the bar, successfully ignoring Harry to the best of your abilities. You don’t move from your spot until he disappears into the crowd and you’re 100% sure he can’t see you.
You order a vodka martini, downing it pretty quickly before you pop the olive in your mouth. The sting tingles your throat, causing you to clear it into your hand, ordering another one.
“There you are,” a familiar voice says behind you, placing his forearms on the counter. “You’re avoiding me.”
You stand up straighter, rolling a toothpick in between your fingers. “Am I?” you query, tilting your head to the side. “You don’t even know how long I’ve–”
“I noticed you the second I walked in,” Harry cuts you off, rendering you speechless for a second.
He chuckles when you don’t respond, another glass being replaced with your empty one. “Is that so hard to believe?”
“A little, yeah,” you murmur, nodding before you sip on your drink.
Harry watches your throat work when you swallow, his mind going to more impure places. “You wanna get out of here?”
You raise your brows, “Isn’t this your mom’s party?” you pause, leaning in and lowering your voice. “Y’know, I don’t appreciate how you blindsided me with that, by the way. I would’ve brought a present.”
He chuckles, straightening up and looking down at you. “Now where would the fun be in that?” he asks, pausing before adding, “Plus, you didn’t need to. My mom already adores you.”
Surprise flashes across your face before you remember that you worked with her and her husband – not just Harry. “Well, she was lovely to work for,” you murmur.
“So what do you say?” he asks, leaning in to whisper in your ear, “Let’s go somewhere more private.”
Your skin tingles, not only from his tone of voice, but also from his proximity. In order to keep your sanity, you press your palm against his chest, pushing him just a bit. “Just because we had sex doesn’t mean that we’re together now.”
“Really?” he draws out, straightening up and placing his hands in his pockets. “So you’re not gonna go home with me?”
“I didn’t say that.”
The city of New York twinkles below, reflecting in your irises. There hasn’t been a time where you’ve seen the city like this: so high up and a lot clearer.
“You can see most of the city from here,” you murmur to Harry once he steps behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and turning you around.
“Wouldn’t you rather look at me?” he teases, earning an eye roll from you.
“You do that a lot,” he points out.
“Do what?”
“Roll your eyes at me.”
A small smirk tugs at your lips, “And you’ve deserved it every single time.”
Harry’s hands tighten on your waist, pulling you flush against the hard planes of his body. “Have you thought about the contract anymore?”
Your expression falters, opening your mouth but nothing comes out. In your hasty escape from his office last night, you completely forgot about the contract. “No, because I don’t have it anymore. Plus, I already told you my answer.”
His eyes narrow by a fraction before he pulls you by your wrist, leading you up the stairs in his penthouse.
“Harry,” you try to get him to stop, but he tightens his grip on your wrist.
“I just need you to see,” he states, stopping in front of a locked door and fishing the key out of his pocket.
The lock clicks, your heart races, practically in your throat as he opens the door. Lights slowly turn on, reflecting off of the deep red of the walls. Harry gestures for you to go first, and your breath catches in your throat when you step inside.
“Oh, my God,” you whisper, your body going rigid, the shock evident on your face.
A king-size bed sits in the middle of the room, gold hoops attached to the four bedposts. The walls look like a horrific murder scene, a wine red making everything seem more intense and unnerving.
“This is my playroom,” Harry announces.
Your eyes are wide, lips agape as you assess the sight in front of you. “Yeah, I can see that,” you breathe, “Jesus Christ, Harry–”
“Before you start,” he cuts you off, “just look around. Nothing in here can harm you, I promise.”
You glance at him sideways before he stands off to the side, giving you free reign to look around. Your eyes dart around the room, trying to figure out what you’re looking at. Hesitantly, you put one foot in front of the other, heels clacking against the hardwood floor.
The wall on your right is lined with various paddles and sensory toys. A rack of items you’ve never seen before sits in front of the bed, and without really thinking, you run your fingers through the rough material.
“That’s called a flogger,” Harry informs you, moving to hover beside you.
You snatch your hand back like you’ve been burned, suddenly remembering his reputation and the other women he’s most likely used this stuff on. Crossing your arms over your chest, you move on, examining the various cuffs and gag toys he has.
“Say something,” he murmurs, “Please.”
You take a deep breath, tilting your head back to look at the ceiling as you muster up the courage to even open your mouth again. Only, you realize that the expanse of the ceiling is covered in a metal grid system. Bondage is the first thing you think of.
You knew he was kinky, you just didn’t know how kinky… Until now, that is.
What the fuck have you gotten yourself into?
This has never been something you’ve been remotely interested in, and now it is right in your face.
Finally, you look back at Harry. “You do this stuff to women?” you ask, even though you already know the answer.
“Yes,” he confirms, “but everyone walks away happy.”
“H-How?” you stammer, some of your willpower returning to your body. “You’re a sadist.”
“Dominant,” Harry corrects you, earning an eye roll from you. “That right there,” he points at you, “If you were mine, you wouldn’t be able to sit for a week.”
“Excuse me?” you chuckle breathlessly, crossing your arms tighter across your chest. “By definition, you are a sadist. You get off on people’s pain.”
“It’s not that,” he states, a smirk tugging at his lips. “I told you: it’s all about testing limits.”
“Why?” you shrug, “Why would you want to…” you gesture towards the dangling whips on the opposite wall, “use these kinds of things on people?”
“For pleasure,” he answers like it’s completely obvious.
You shake your head slowly, “You can’t just enjoy regular sex like everyone else?”
When he doesn’t answer, you continue. “I don’t know what you want from me, but I sure as hell know that this isn’t a relationship.”
“I never said anything about a relationship.”
That’s what gets you. Your brows knit, an unfamiliar ache settling in your heart. “Then what the fuck are you doing with me?”
Instead of answering, he grabs a silk ribbon from a drawer, walking back over to you. “Hold out your wrists,” he instructs.
You glare up at him, and he senses your defiance. “I’m not gonna use them to force you into anything, I promise.”
To make sure he knows you don’t want to do this, you continue glaring at him as you slowly hold out both wrists. His signature smirk pulls at his lips, his hands deftly tying the red silk around you. Once tied, he tugs harshly, pulling a gasp from your lips.
“It doesn’t hurt, does it?”
“No,” you whisper, meeting his eyes. “No, it doesn’t.”
“All the fear is in your head,” he voices firmly, letting the silk slip from your wrists.
A thought pops into your mind as you drop your hands to your sides. “If you want to… continue having sex with me, then why can’t we be together?”
“This is the only kind of relationship I associate myself with.”
Confusion stretches across your face, your brows furrowing as you try to see through his facade. He’s telling you one thing, but the way he’s acting is the complete opposite. He almost seems… obsessed with you; he hasn’t left you alone for months, he tracked you down via Samantha’s Instagram stories, and now he is trying to force a contract on you to keep you.
To you, it seems like he enjoys the thrill of the chase rather than anything else.
“How many women have you done this with?”
All you know is what you and your friend could find on the internet, and honestly, it wasn’t much. News outlets are very vague when it comes to Harry Castillo’s personal relationships, and it makes you curious.
He tosses the ribbon onto the bed, placing his hands in his pockets. “Let’s not go there right now.”
“Why not?” you push gently, closing the distance between the two of you, only for him to suddenly take a step back.
Oh, is all you can think as you stare up at him, trying to read between the lines of what he’s not telling you.
“How many?” you repeat your question earnestly, keeping your place.
Harry rolls his tongue over his teeth, “Twenty.”
“Twenty?” you breathe, all of the air leaving your lungs at once. “Christ, Fabio,” you joke, deflecting the situation.
Your mind swims within multiple questions.
Who’s to say that there won’t be twenty more after you?
How has his dick not fallen off?
Do you need to get tested?
The two of you fucked raw on his desk. You should definitely get tested.
Harry doesn’t laugh at your joke, his face remains serious. “It’s the way I am.”
“Why?” you ask quietly, almost scared of the answer.
His lips press into a fine line, avoiding your gaze for a moment. Abruptly, he grabs you by your upper arm, leading you out of the room and locking up behind the two of you.
In the hallway, you can think clearly, not intimidated by the actual sex dungeon you were just in. You swallow thickly when he turns to face you, he seems steady but his eyes tell you otherwise. There’s the smallest hint of vulnerability in them, and it’s gone the moment you notice it.
“Be honest with me,” Harry says, “what are you thinking?”
You exhale sharply. What are you supposed to think after being shown that? It is the exact opposite of what you firmly stand on, but he seems set in his own ways.
“I don’t know,” you answer honestly, heading for the stairs. “That’s… a lot to take in,” you look over your shoulder, seeing that he’s following a few steps behind you.
“If you don’t want anything to do with me anymore,” he stops at the end of the hallway, looking down at you, “that’s completely fine.”
You know he’s not fine with it, but you appreciate the statement more than you’d ever let on. “I just,” you start, trying to find the right words as you process what he showed you, “I don’t think I can do that: bend to the will of someone else. That’s not me.”
He nods slowly, his eyes mimicking a puppy. It’s almost enough to make you change your mind.
Almost.
“I can’t be one of your girls – I won’t.”
part 2
a/n: i couldn't find anything like this so i wrote it myself 🌝 ive genuinely only been thinking about fifty shades since i watched it in december and Harry was the perfect character to write something related to those movies on. this isn't like anything else ive written so im stepping out of my comfort zone a bit here 😅 but i hope you enjoyed reading it. feedback is much appreciated! (part 2 soon i hope lmao)
Pairing: Joel Miller x female!reader
Series summary: After years apart, you're pulled back into your ex-husband’s life when an accident leaves him believing you're still married. Forced to play along for his recovery, you quickly realize some things, like love, lies, and the past, don’t stay buried as easily as they should.
Tags/Warnings: 18+ MDNI, amnesia, slow burn, divorce, arguing, infidelity, eventual smut, angst, medical terminology, but i'm not a professional so pls be kind. extra tags will be put on each chapter.
Summary: Kinktober 2024 Day 14 - Praise & Bondage. Severus has a girlfriend and he's about as shocked as anyone about it. She brings something out in him, something loving, something experimental, but also something slightly more sinister.
Tags: Praise kink, Light bondage, Fingering, Dom!Severus, Lots of praise, Good girl, Reader is referred to as a girl a LOT, Established relationship (kinda?), Getting together, Fluff, Red flags, Possessive behaviour, Unhealthy/Toxic relationship dynamic forming, Ambiguous ending (kinda).
Word count: 3.6k
all fandom masterlist | hp masterlist | read it on ao3
Authors note: I can't write Severus as anything other than at least a bit of a creepy little freak, even though this is mostly normal and fluffy!! Again this includes a lot of unnecessary backstory to set the scene!! Hope you like it anyway mwah ( ◕◡◕)っ ♡
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Being in a relationship was a very novel concept to Severus. It wasn’t something he’d ever really thought would happen to him until recently. Sure, he’d daydreamed about it throughout his life to various degrees, but he’d always resigned himself to the fact that daydreams would be the closest he would get. However, you were very real. He’d known of you since the first year, being in his same year group he was bound to have heard your name a few times, whether on registers or from overheard gossip at the Slytherin table.
He’d never thought of you very much at all until the sixth year when you were in the same advanced potions class as him. The class was much smaller than in previous years, full of only the highest achievers in the subject in the O.W.L.s and this is where he noticed you. You were on the quieter side in class, but whenever you were called on, you gave the correct answers. You were obviously intelligent, especially at this subject, which intrigued him as a bit of a ‘swot’ as his few friends called him. He liked that you cared about studying, much more than most of your peers seemed to. It was also quite obvious even by a glance that you were a pretty girl. Once he’d started paying a little more attention to you, he’d overheard many unsavoury comments about you by his peers, about what they might like to do to you. But, you kept yourself to yourself, frequently kindly (but firmly) turning down boys who tried to flirt with you. He admired that you weren’t above a little threat against the boys who couldn’t hear the word ‘no’. Despite your withdrawn nature, you were well known as a member of the duelling club, a high achieving one at that, and so often were able to threaten the boys into backing off.
All sixth year he’d silently admired you. When the seventh year began, he told himself he’d let go of it and focus solely on his studies, but he’d never been less focused in his life. All the feelings he’d harboured for Lily for so long latched themselves onto you, becoming much larger and more consuming. They felt like a frightening entity on their own, following him around everywhere he went, trying to pounce on you whenever you’d make small talk with him before class in the corridor, or seek him out for advice on your potions homework, even though you always seemed to actually know what you were talking about. He should have realised something was odd about this, but he was too blinded by self-hatred to see the woods from the trees. So when you confessed to having feelings for him, he’d initially just sat and stared silently at you.
You’d caught him in the library, as you had taken to doing often lately and asked to sit. He’d agreed, expecting another odd question about the homework but instead, you’d sat there chewing your lip. His eyes had strayed down to the sight a few too many times, no matter how he tried to control himself. He watched as the corners of your lips tugged up a little.
“I have a crush on you, Severus,” you’d admitted with a shaky breath. He’d just blinked at you. “Well… crush sounds so juvenile… I fancy you? I have… feelings for you?” you continued on. “I just figured I ought to say something before it’s too late, you know?”
And that’s how he’d ended up in a relationship with you. He was so shocked at the time that he can't even remember what he’d said to you in response, and it was too late to ask. Whatever it was, it had clearly worked, as you had pulled him into a hug and kissed his cheek and the next weekend, he was waiting for you at the Three Broomsticks. By the end of that evening, you’d been sitting in his lap and kissing him with a passion he had never even seen, let alone felt for himself, his arms around your waist, touching you gingerly.
The entire school was baffled by your relationship. His friends and even several strangers asked him how the hell he had managed to ensnare you and he had no answer for any of them even if he wanted to, he couldn’t understand it either. One day he believes he will never be in a relationship in his life, and the next, the most beautiful girl in all of Hogwarts is hanging off of his arm for all to see. He’s surprised how unashamed you are, not only to be dating him but with public displays of affection. You always hook your arm around his as you walk, kiss his cheek as a goodbye, sit in his lap in the library and sneak his hand up your thigh. Sex. That’s the part of all this that seems the craziest to him because all of a sudden he has an active sex life. You’re all over him, and as much as it makes his head spin, he’s always willing to indulge you.
The first time you’d brought him into your dorm, he hadn’t known what was going on until you were stripping him down. Of course, you’d asked him several times if you could proceed, but he had just blindly agreed because he would let you do anything. He hadn’t told you he was a virgin until after you were done, even though he knew you knew, if from nothing else, from his very speedy performance. You’d been very sweet about it, as you were about everything, and snuggled up to him, falling asleep in his arms. No one had ever felt so safe around him before. He wanted desperately to keep you in his arms forever, and when you got up in the morning, he almost held you hostage but ended up playing it off as a joke. You’d just giggled at him and told him he’d be the cutest captor in the world, which he laughed off, but the thought crossed his mind.
He was having the most sex out of everyone in his dorm, which would have been completely unfathomable only a few months ago. It surprised him how voracious you were, you’d always seemed rather meek, yet you were dragging him away at least once a day if not more. It was a surprise that he loved. You’d created a monster, a monster that constantly loomed over his time with you. He wasn’t sure how he would ever cope if this relationship ended, not only emotionally, but also having gotten used to such frequent sexual activity. There was hardly anyone else who would ever be willing to indulge him, and you loved to, which made it a thousand times better. He felt desirable to you, a feeling he’d been inadvertently chasing his entire life. He was never going to let you go. Ever.
You didn’t seem to realise how serious he was when he told you as such. You’d giggle and peck his cheeks and tell him in a sweet little voice that you’d never let him go either, but he knew you didn’t mean it quite like he did. You enjoyed his possessive streak, loving the way his arm would slip around you when a boy would stare, marking you all over as his. As baffling as it was to everyone, there was no confusion about the fact you were taken, constantly covered in little lovebites, his hands on you whenever they could be. He’d adjust your skirts and button up your tops, softly whispering how this skin was for his eyes only now. As he gained more confidence in public displays of affection with you, he’d grip your thigh in a possessive gesture under the table, and kiss at your neck in front of others, a reminder of who left those marks there.
Severus was always up for anything that you recommended in the bedroom, surprisingly experimental despite his rigid routines during the day. You played around often, trying new things, different dynamics, different positions, and introducing various aids. As time went on, you could tell he was coming into himself as a more dominant presence, his initial nerves and shyness wearing off as he got used to you and the idea that you truly did like him and desired him. You were happy to submit to him and let yourself go with whatever he wanted from you. Every part of him was long and lithe and elegant, exploring parts of you that had never been touched before, deep within you. He loved to watch you come undone, taking immense satisfaction in the knowledge of his effects on you, effects he thought he’d never have on anyone. He worships you in the most sinful ways, and you worship him in return. Your roommates all hate the both of you, no matter how many silencing charms you cast.
You’re a little anxious when Severus heads to Hogsmeade alone one weekend, no matter how much he insists he’s only buying you a present. You’ve barely been apart for more than classes since your relationship began, and while you doubt he’s off cheating on you, the distance still makes you unreasonably anxious. You pounce on him when he returns, telling him how much you missed him, not spotting his smug smile against your shoulder. He rubs your back and assures you he felt similarly while he was away, which he did, he’d been desperate to get back to you, for many reasons. He gives you a little box, housing a little silver necklace that he’d gone to fetch from Hogsmeade for you. It has a little ‘S’ as the pendant, his initial, another means with which to stake claim over you. He clasps it behind your neck and you’re all smiles as you declare how much you love it. Then you notice another little bag.
“Is that for your other girlfriend?” you joke, pouting a little. He laughs, kissing your cheek.
“No, it’s for you my love, but we have to be alone for me to show you,” he guides you up to his dorm which is currently empty, most of his dormmates now avoid the space whenever they can because of the two of you. He brings you to his bed to sit in his lap and closes the curtains around you. You giggle, fascinated to see what he’s got, already making a few mental guesses.
Although it hadn’t popped into your head as a guess, the small spool of rope makes sense as he pulls it from the bag. He explains that it’s a soft cotton material that is both sturdy and comfortable. He doesn’t have to tell you what it’s for, you already know, and you’re willing to give it a go, the idea already exciting you a little. He can tell from the way you begin to rub your thighs together slightly. He’s become fluent in your body language over the course of your relationship, by now he’s sure he could write the dictionary. He grins at you.
“So sweet already getting all excited,” he whispers, his voice deep and silky. You love the authoritative tone he uses to speak to you when he wants to be in charge like this, it makes your thighs clench even more. “Now come on, my love, how would you like your hands tied?” he enquires softly, rubbing a hand over your thigh. After a short period of deliberation between the two of you, he lies you down against the bed and starts slowly popping open the buttons of your shirt one by one, making his way down to untuck it from your skirt. He pushes the shirt open and down, palms smoothing over your bare shoulders. You sit up for a moment to let the shirt fall away completely and so that he can reach around you to unhook your bra more easily. Once he’s pulled the bra away from you, you lie back down. “Good girl, my beautiful girl,” he praises, gently folding your shirt up and placing it onto the ground, then setting your bra on top of it. He taps your hips, urging you to lift them, gently sliding down your skirt, followed by your underwear. His need for you is mounting, folding these items a little more haphazardly before he places them on the ground by the others. He gently holds your legs apart, rubbing a hand up and down your thighs. “You like the idea of being tied up for me?” he chuckles, seeing you already glistening with want. You nod and he hums. “Aren’t you just perfect? My perfect girl,” he coos, leaning down to pepper kisses on your stomach for a moment before sitting back up. You watch him eagerly, yearning for him to give you what you want. He takes a gentle hold of your wrists and lifts them over your head, reaching for the length of rope. “Is this alright? Your arms aren’t stretching too much?”
“No, it’s fine,” you assure, watching as he starts carefully threading the rope around your wrists in figure-eights.
“I read up on how to do this, let’s hope I get it on the first try,” he smiles down at you. You giggle in return. He fusses for a little while, adjusting and readjusting so it’s not too tight, but that you can’t slip out of the restraints either. You’re sure he’s being a perfectionist about it like he is about most things, so you wait patiently. Once he’s happy, he sits back and looks at you, in all your naked glory, lying there tied up and waiting for him. He shivers and groans. “Merlin… You look like an angel, my beautiful perfect girl,” he leans down and leaves open-mouthed kisses along your neck, reinforcing several fading hickies he’s left on you before. You moan softly and squirm beneath him, pulling at your restraints without meaning to, feeling the need to touch him. You’re surprised how quickly you feel the need to use your hands and he just smirks at you. “Be good for me and don’t fight your restraints, won’t you?” he murmurs. You nod weakly, ceasing your movements and taking a deep breath, forcing yourself to relax as his lips and hands explore your body at a torturous pace. His lips kiss patterns around and between your breasts slowly, leaving a litany of little marks behind to mark his territory, his hands slowly sliding up and down your hips and waist. “Your body is absolutely exquisite, I don’t tell you that enough, my love, sculpted by the gods, all for me,” he mutters against your skin, sucking another lovebite into the side of your breast. The praise flusters you, part of you wants to argue, but you adore the idea of him truly seeing you that way, and you believe he does. He continues to press deliberate kisses across your chest, his eyes shut in prayer. His hands brush your stomach, teasing you by skimming low and withdrawing. You sigh needily and feel him nip your skin in response. “Tell me what you want,” he orders softly.
“I want your fingers inside me,” you answer breathily, writhing a little but making sure to keep your hands still. You feel him smile and nip the skin of your sternum, by your fluttering heart.
“That’s my girl, always so direct,” he chuckles, sitting up and spreading your legs once more. He gasps softly. “Oh… you must really be liking being at my mercy, hm? Dripping wet for me,” he smiles, rubbing the soft skin of your inner thigh. His genuine smile is a rarity, he’s usually so stoic and serious, that the sight of it makes you whimper for him. Oh, how crazy he drives you. “Shhh, wait like a good girl, I know you can wait, you’re more than capable,” you pout up at him and he smiles again.“Those perfect pouty lips,” he leans down and gives you a soft sensual kiss, his fingertips tracing patterns up your thigh as he kisses you. You want to wrap your arms around him, to slide your hand in his trousers, but instead, you pull pathetically at your ropes for a moment before giving up and focusing on kissing him. His fingers nudge gently at your folds, making you spread your legs further eagerly. The tip of his index finger slides up and down between your folds, gathering wetness and using it to help circle your sensitive nub. You whine softly against his lips. “Good girl, you sound so beautiful when I make you feel good,” he praises. He leisurely slides a finger into you, which you accommodate easily due to your high state of arousal. His lithe fingers reach places you’d never even realised you’d had before your relationship with him, gently stimulating the tender spongy spot within you that makes your hips buck. He adds another finger, making you gasp and moan softly. He strokes your walls for a moment, letting you adjust to the stretch, which doesn’t take too long in the state you’re in. You stare up into his eyes, silently begging him to move his fingers, he grins back at you, his nose bumping yours affectionately. “What is it, my love?” you whine at his playful innocence, he gets like this sometimes, all smug and teasing, a monster that you had created.
“M-move them, please,” you pant, tugging uselessly at your restraints. He gives you a pointed look and you stop.
“Okay, but you have to keep being good for me, I know you can,” he kisses the corner of your mouth, slowly withdrawing his fingers and pressing them back in. You mewl softly, digging your heels into the plush mattress. His fingers move slowly and expertly from months of memorising your body, pushing up against that tender spot with each thrust. The room fills with vulgar wet sounds and Severus finally thinks to cast a silencing spell with his free hand. You blush, both at the realisation you hadn’t been silenced, but also at the nonchalant way he does magic while moving his fingers inside you. It’s oddly hot and he feels you fluttering around his fingers. “What is it, sweet girl? What made you throb?” he enquires, kissing your jaw. You giggle breathlessly, his fingers still working you.
“Just you,”
“I’m flattered, my love,” he purrs. “You’re so perfect for me, aren’t you? My dream girl, my perfect girl,” he mumbles between kisses against your skin, his fingers speeding up, making you whimper and squirm. He sits up, his movements never ceasing, to look over you. Your hands tied sends a possessive thrill through him, the more innocent thought that you trust him like this, and the more dangerous idea to keep you like this. “Look at you,” he hums. “You look divine, all flushed and needy for me,” he punctuates his sentence by beginning to circle his thumb over your sensitive bundle of nerves. You choke out a moan, your eyes closing for a moment. “You’re doing so well, my love, good girl, you must be getting close,”
“Y-yeah,” you moan, your back arching slightly.
“You always look so beautiful when you come,” he muses, intensifying his movements. Your moans pick up, louder and more frequent, your hands tensing and untensing in the restraints, wishing to grab onto something but unable to do anything but dig your nails into your palms. “That’s it, let yourself go, be a good girl for me like I know you are,” he coaxes. “Let me feel you come on my fingers, let me feel your pussy clench,” you gasp at his lewd words, your head growing fuzzier. It only takes a few more moments and you fall apart, your whole body shivering and going warm. You cry out his name in desperation, nails digging into your palms, back arching up off of the bed. He keeps going relentlessly, feeling you clenching around his fingers, driving you to the point of near insanity, wailing in pleasure before he finally slows down his ministrations. “You were so good, my love, so beautiful, I’m so proud of you,” he leans down, kissing across your chest once more, slowly withdrawing his fingers. You whine softly, your chest heaving under his lips as you struggle to regain your breath, your heart pounding under your skin. “That’s it, calm down for me,” he soothes, kissing up to your mouth and pressing a lingering kiss to your parted lips. “How was that?”
“Yeah, good, very good,” you laugh breathlessly. He caresses your cheek, nuzzling your nose with his own.
“Did being tied up make it better?”
“In some ways, it felt more intense, more submissive than I usually am, but I did miss touching you,” you explain quietly. He nods along in understanding. “But I’ll happily do it again, I just need some recovery time,” you smile sheepishly, and he kisses your cheek.
“I understand, my love, you’ve been a very good girl, no more tonight, my perfect girl must be tired,” he hums. He leans up and loosens your restraints, placing placating kisses on your wrists where the rope had been rubbing slightly, but he doesn’t entirely remove the rope, just gently massaging your wrists with his thumbs for a moment.
“Are you going to untie me?” you ask playfully. He pauses for a moment, thinking, before fiddling with the rope again. He secures your wrists to the headboard of his bed, making you furrow your brows in confusion. “You said no more tonight,”
“I know, my love, and I stick to it, but I think I’ll keep you here anyway,”
︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶
hey you! want to get tagged in my work when it comes out? click here! (˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✧
Rating: Explicit. 18+ (Minors DNI)
Summary: The sleeve squeezes him, the grip and pull of the latex is just enough as he jacks himself off. He groans, hand flexing as he slides the toy down to the base of his cock, then back up. His hips rock with the rhythm, and he slows down, wanting this pleasure to last. But he’s thinking about you, the way your soft lips formed to say pussy, so plainly and unaffected. He wonders if you’d smirk at him, knowing he’s home getting off with what you sold him.
Warnings: smut, joel jerking it with a fleshlight, voyeurism, cum eating, pussy fingering, sex shop, porn, i'm gonna make that man yearn, listen to grunge, and cum in everything i write
Words: 7,000
A/N: Enjoy two of my loves... Joel Miller and vintage porn. Thank you to @mothandpidgeon, @schnarfer, @magpiepills, and @sin-djarin for letting me talk this whole thing out with them.
Masterlist
—-
Joel Miller doesn’t know why he stopped into Austin Fantasy Gifts on the way home from the construction yard. Maybe it’s the fact that his house is empty for the first time in eighteen years. Maybe it’s due to his and Tess’s breakup almost a year ago, when the distance between Detroit and Austin got to be too far. Could be because he’s been too damn horny and he’s too scared to Ask Jeeves for porn on his work laptop.
The store welcomes him with a loud ding-dong when he steps into the oddly bright space. Fluorescent lights reflect off the black and white tiled linoleum, and he doesn’t know where to look. There’s a giant wall full of dildos in all different sizes, shapes, and colors, a rack of lace underwear he’s sure he can rip in one pull, and an empty check out counter. Nobody greets him, he feels all alone amongst the plastic and vinyl. It almost feels like he shouldn’t be here all alone, but he walks the perimeter, pretends to browse, but mostly tries to keep his eyes level and his mouth shut. There’s a slightly musky, plasticky smell in the air mixed with a sweet vanilla, it’s almost intoxicating in a good way. His boots occasionally squeak on the tile as his footsteps lead him across the store. He can feel the hot blood in his neck and his ears, and he almost wants to admonish his forty-year-old self for the feeling of shame he holds.
He finds the movie section… rows upon rows of clamshell cases lined up under a sign promising “OVER A THOUSAND HOURS OF FUN.” He browses through title after title, barely looking at the covers because after a while, the photoshopped fronts all blend, no matter the name. PUSSY PIRATES 14, QUEENS OF ANAL 3, LESBIAN LOVERS 39… the women all look the same: long acrylic nails, swollen and injected lips, rock hard tits, and platinum blonde fried hair. Joel grimaces and rolls his eyes. He’s not sure what he’s looking for, exactly, but it’s not this.
He thinks of his first porno, bought at the skeazy hole-in-the-wall “newsstand” near the dairyette he used to work at during the summer. He can still perfectly recall the cover… the title in bright red and the pretty brunette on the cover in a white bikini. Oh, the times he had with that tape.
Back then, the women looked like women, and the sex felt real. It all seemed so goddamn sincere to whatever is going on now. He suddenly feels so nostalgic as he slides a box titled “SORORITY SLUTS 7” back onto the shelf and wipes his palm on his jeans before picking up “COLLEGE HUSTLERS 4.”
He hears a soft cadence of steps approach him, and his body straightens. “Welcome. Can I help you find something, or are you just browsing?”
Your voice is sugary sweet, and Joel nearly drops the case he’s holding as he places it back on the shelf. He glances toward you, his eyes widening when he sees you. Oh god, you’re pretty. Even prettier when he sees what you’re wearing. You’ve got an olive green flannel on, it sits open and oversized atop an old Nirvana shirt. Your jeans are ripped at the knees, light blue like the sky, and your boots are dark, scuffed, and used.
Shit, he’s staring. He attempts to recover with a throat clear. “No, I’m, uh. Good. Just lookin’, thanks.”
“We get a lot of just looking here,” you say before you tell him your name. “I’m here if you need any help or any recommendations.”
His mouth feels dry, and he can only nod before you turn back and head towards the checkout counter. What kind of person asks for recommendations at a place like this?
Nothing really catches his eye, but he settles on a movie, because at the end of the day, tits are still tits, even when they’re stuffed full of silicon. Joel could leave now, he’s accomplished what he came in here to do… until he sees the long, flashlight-looking apparatus. FLESHLIGHT, he chuckles at the pun. He picks it up despite himself. The image on the box makes his brows rise in surprise. That’s…. that’s a pussy, pink and open, waiting.
He glances up at the sound of you walking through the beaded curtain to the back, and he wonders what your pussy looks like. Fuck.
He’s never fucked a toy before, but there’s a curiosity. A grown man, a father, a builder of homes, standing here in a fluorescent wonderland of fake cocks and cunts, considering taking one home. The consideration doesn’t take long, he picks up the black box and heads to the counter, setting both the movie and the Fleshlight down without a word.
You walk back through the curtain and don’t bat an eye when you ring up the movie, then the toy. “We’ve got lube too, if you want. I’m pretty sure you’re going to want it,” you say with a smile.
He stares at the wall behind you, covered in ads of women in different states of undress, unable to look directly at you. “Yeah. Uh. Sounds good.”
You walk out from behind the counter, and Joel can’t stop staring at the sway of your hips as he follows you down the aisle. He should be a better man and maybe keep his eyes up, but damnit, he can’t look away. Especially when you crouch down to pick up a bottle from a lower shelf. He struggles so hard not to reach down and adjust himself.
You hold up a bottle, the label an orange flame. “This one’s supposed to warm on contact. It’s the big seller for the customers who buy a pocket pussy.”
A tingle runs up his spine, and he feels his cock twitch. Jesus Christ, the way you say “pussy” so casually… it’s almost admirable.
“That works,” he nods, his head bobbling slightly as he follows you back to the counter.
You finish ringing him up and hand him the brown paper bag.
“Thanks for coming in—”
“Joel, I’m Joel,” he blurts.
“Joel,” you repeat his name with a smile, and he wonders if you look at all your customers the way you’re looking at him. “Don’t be a stranger.”
The bag feels heavy in his hands when he makes his way back to his truck. It’s such an odd transaction, he just handed over a $100 bill to you, leaving you with the knowledge that he’s going to get off later tonight.
—-
Joel’s shut all the curtains in the house, even if he’s in his bedroom upstairs. He’s also shut Sarah’s room door, just for good measure, even if she’s 200 miles away at college in Dallas.
He feels ridiculous. Why does he feel so shy all of a sudden, especially in his own home? Hell, one of his and Tess’s favorite things was to go out into the middle of the fields east of town and fuck in the sunlight.
He sits down on the plaid, overstuffed reading chair he uses more as a glorified closet than a place to rest and flips the TV on. The DVD menu is all loud pinks and purples. A naked woman with her pouting red lips stands to the left of PLAY, TRAILERS, and DELETED SCENES. As soon as Joel hits play, a loud saxophone over a techno beat plays, and he rolls his eyes.
Everyone’s impossibly smooth and shiny, fake moans and plastic parts. He lets the overwhelming SEX of it all happen for a couple of minutes before he mutes the sound and just lets the images play.
He opens the lube, and it already warms when he feels it between his fingers. He slicks his hand and wraps it around his cock. He wonders if you’re even warmer than this magical gel. He’s already so worked up, and it’s not from the porn stars on his TV, no, it’s from you, from knowing you knew exactly what he was going to do tonight. He grunts, squeezing tight and stroking just enough to let his dick stand tall and hard.
On the screen, a blonde on her knees gags herself on some roided-out dude’s monster cock. She’s all watery eyes and smeared mascara. Her pussy shines under the blue studio lights, all bald and pouting, her slit almost looks fake.
He’s so fucking worked up, and it’s not the porno flickering in front of his eyes. It’s you. He wonders what your pussy looks like, if it has hair, if one lip's bigger than the other, if it's as sweet as he thinks it'd taste.
He hovers the toy over his cock, and slowly pushes it down, letting the silicone swallow his cock. It’s tight and hot, and he imagines he’s anywhere else but inside his bedroom. Maybe he’s back at that sex store, pressing you up against the counter, fucking you so hard the mug full of pens that reads I LOVE COCKS gets knocked off the glass top. Maybe you’re on the silk sheets like the big-titted brunette in the movie, and he’s over you, railing into your tight pussy as you moan his name.
The sleeve squeezes him, the grip and pull of the latex is just enough as he jacks himself off. He groans, hand flexing as he slides the toy down to the base of his cock, then back up. His hips rock with the rhythm, and he slows down, wanting this pleasure to last. But he’s thinking about you, the way your soft lips formed to say pussy, so plainly and unaffected. He wonders if you’d smirk at him, knowing he’s home getting off with what you sold him.
He imagines you spread out on the counter, mouth open for him, hand between your legs, fingering yourself with the same lube he’s using now. Joel twists the toy and palms his balls with his free hand. He wonders if he looks as desperate as he feels, grinding into the toy as if he’s grinding into you.
He shocks himself when he moans your name, but he lets any shame leave when he imagines you straddling him in that back room hidden behind the beaded curtain, pulling at his chest hair, calling him an old perv while you ride him until he shoots his cum inside you. He fucks the toy harder, his thighs quivering, breath huffing out deep and fast as he edges himself closer and closer.
He’s barely even watching the TV, where two too-tanned orange blondes get fucked by just-as-orange bros. He catches himself muttering, “fuck, fuck, fuck, you’re so tight,” as if you’re there with him, moaning into his ear. He imagines the shape of your tits under the flannel, the color of your nipples, if you’d bite your lip when he sucked them. He grinds the toy all the way down, feels himself throb hard against the walls over it, and he shudders as he cums. His hips are canting higher and higher off the chair now, he doesn’t know what’s leaking out of his toy down his thigh, if it’s lube or his cum, or both. But he’s a fucking mess. He’s grunting and groaning, twisting the toy around his hard, aching cock.
Joel’s orgasm is dizzying. He milks himself for all his worth, filling the toy with every single drop of cum he’s been saving. He imagines it’s your wet cunt, and you’re under him, moaning his name, your tits bouncing as he fucks his cum deep into you. His head thuds against the back of the chair as he pants and stares up at the ceiling. He stays like that for a while, his cock still shrouded in the fleshy latex.
He wonders if you ever bring your work home. If you ever mind the way people look at you, and wonder what you’re like in bed. He slides the toy off and sets it on the dresser with a shaky laugh of amazement. The movie still continues, and he can’t even look at the TV when he picks up the remote and shuts it off.
Maybe he will take you up on those recommendations.
—-
Joel makes it three days before he caves and heads back to the store.
He pulls into the parking lot and checks himself in the rearview mirror. Why? Who knows. Maybe he does want to impress the pretty girl behind the counter with the fishbowl full of condoms.
The same ding-dong plays when he steps in, and his heart begins to race in his chest when he sees you. This time, you’re at the counter, same flannel as before, but this time it’s tied over a black PEARL JAM shirt. Goddamn. Joel’s pretty sure he’s found his dream girl in a strip mall across from the HEB.
“Hey,” you smile. “Welcome back.”
He can only offer a grunt of “hi” back.
“What brings you in today?” you ask.
He’s actually not sure what brings him here, he really just wanted to see you, but he quickly finds an excuse and blurts it out. “Need a different movie.”
You fold your arms across your chest and raise an eyebrow. “Oh? The one you bought is a hit here.”
“I think I, uh, like the more vintage variety of…. that entertainment.” Joel cannot believe he admitted such a thing to a practical stranger, but the way you nod in understanding, and the look you give him that holds a hint of mischief, calms his internal struggle.
“Fully understand that. What are you thinking? The Golden Age? Polyester, tighty whities, shag carpet, brown furniture, and full bush?”
There’s an almost flirty lilt to your voice, and Joel wants nothing more than to respond with a “you’re reading my mind,” but he doesn’t; he only offers a nod.
When you step out from behind the counter, Joel’s heart almost stops at the sight of you in cutoff jean shorts, the hem landing high across your thighs. You lead him to the wall of movies, kneeling down to the bottom shelf. You’re digging through the titles, searching through the blocky VHS covers and thin DVD cases. It’s then that he realizes just how close your head is to his crotch. It blinks through his mind first before it stays constantly, the image of your mouth stuffed with his cock. He takes a deep breath, trying to hide the rumble of his inhale.
You look up, tugging out a box from the shelf. “This one’s a classic,” you say, still squatting down and level with his cock that’s now pulsing under his jeans. You turn the box in your hand and reach it up to him. He takes the box, your eyes locking for a second.
“Full bush, polyester, and some plot,” you say, rising up. You’re closer now than before, and he smells the sweet, citrusy scent of you mixed with the vanilla warmth of the wax melts by the register.
Joel’s pretty sure you’re sauntering back to the counter for him, and his eyes cannot look away from the swell of your ass underneath the worn, light blue denim of your tight shorts. He almost trips over his steps when he lets himself imagine your legs wrapped around his body.
“Anything else?” you ask him, ringing up his video.
Joel quickly glances around, still overwhelmed by the sight of plastic parts and nudity. “Not today,” he responds.
You hum a response and slide his change across the counter. You dangle his bag from your finger, but you don’t reach it out to him yet. “You know, I do have my own collection of movies that might be more up your alley. I work tomorrow, I can bring them in, see if you’re interested in borrowing something?”
God, you’re bold.
“Sounds good,” he instantly rasps without any thought.
Your smile is wide and wicked, one edge of your lips lifting higher than the other. He catches the way your eyes flick down to his mouth and back up to his eyes. It’s been so long since anyone has looked at him like that, at least as far as he knows.
“We close at 8. If you want to meet me here around 8:15?”
It almost feels like a date.
“Sounds good,” Joel repeats.
Christ, he needs to find more words.
“Cool,” you say, reaching his purchase out to him. “Enjoy.”
Goddamn, he will. He wonders if you can sense the way he’s growing hard in his pants, if you know he’s already so fucking worked up, he’s going straight home and fucking himself as he thinks about you. The thing is, he doesn’t really seem to care.
—-
Can you dress up for a trip to the sex store?
Joel wonders it to himself as he tucks and untucks his blue denim shirt. It’s about the only non-plaid and flannel button-up in his closet. He’ll leave the plaid-wearing to you, hell, you look a lot better than he ever could in it. He leaves it untucked, and he doesn’t slick back his hair. He doesn’t want to make it seem like he’s trying too hard when he’s meeting someone to look at porn.
The bright OPEN sign is now off, and Joel knocks a couple of taps against the glass door. He hears the click of the deadbolt and the familiar ding-dong when you open the door.
He’s pretty sure his jaw drops when he sees you. Same irresistible flannel, but this time, only a thin, black tank top is under it. You’re not wearing those ripped jeans or shorts like before; no, your legs are on display thanks to the short, denim skirt, and you’ve traded your Doc Martens for a pair of chunky loafers and ruffled socks. Joel isn’t sure if he’s fantasizing this whole experience or not, but when someone describes his dream woman, he’s sure it’s you.
“Hi,” you say. There’s a slight growl to your voice, and it causes his back to straighten.
It takes Joel a whole ten seconds to realize he’s standing in the doorway, mute. You give him that look he thought about just last night as he came so hard he felt like he was going to black out. The one that tells him you know exactly how much he likes you, and how you know what men are thinking.
You crook a finger and beckon him inside. The lights are lower now, the drop ceiling fluorescents are off, and only the few spotlights above the displays are on. You lead him past the racks of strap-ons and novelty vibrators, past the wall of lube in every flavor and viscosity, until you reach the beaded curtain at the back of the wall. The beads part around you like water, and he follows.
Joel expects to see a stockroom or a break area, but that’s absolutely not what he finds. There’s an old TV on a desk and a small, round coffee table. What really surprises him is the loveseat, fake leather, and glossy, a pale camel color. He’d never think an adult video store would have decorative pillows, but two lie on the couch, one in the shape of a red heart, the other a turquoise Aztec print. There’s a glow to the room thanks to the couple of strands of multi-colored string lights.
“There’s a lot of downtime,” you reason over your shoulder as you remove your flannel. Joel swallows a thick gulp of need when more and more of your skin is revealed to him.
You turn and lift a messenger bag onto the folding table. He tries to look anywhere else but the swell of your tits that are framed perfectly by the low neckline of your tank… but he loses the fight. Especially when the little gold chain you wear disappears between them. There’s something so mysterious to you, an aura of sex and acceptance. He knows you can feel the heat of his eyes, and yet you ignore them, letting him gawk and gaze as you pull out a stack of DVDs and lay them across the table.
It is a ridiculous feeling, standing in the backroom of some strip mall porn shop, waiting for someone to show him “the goods.” It’s all perfectly legal, and yet it feels taboo.
He sees the film before you even put it down… the title in that familiar, red print across the spine. Joel’s body tightens, all the memories of him watching the battered tape at any chance he could when he was a horny teenager. Sneaking down into the basement at 2 AM while his dad and Tommy slept. His teenage self, on the ripped floral couch, the TV on mute, his breath held, hoping he doesn’t hear the creak of the stairs. And now, it sits on the table, angled so the cover is facing him.
He looks up at you, and he tries for casual, but it comes out gruff, “Didn’t think I’d ever see this one again.” He reaches for the DVD and picks it up, assessing the pretty brunette on the cover.
“That one’s my favorite,” you say.
His stomach tightens. Of course it is. He mulls over the DVD, assessing it like he’s some sort of expert.
“There’s a website that sells all of the classics on DVD,” you say. “A little expensive, but worth it… in my opinion.”
Joel nods, reading over the minuscule blurb on the back cover over and over, unsure where to take the conversation or the situation.
“Want to watch it with me?” you ask. Your voice is low and slightly gravely, and when he looks up, he sees pure heat in your eyes.
He bobbles his head up and down, a little too rapidly and eagerly, and reaches the DVD out to you. You take it, your hands grazing over his, staying for a beat longer than propriety should allow. Suddenly, he no longer feels like just a customer or consumer, he feels like someone desired.
“Go ahead and get comfortable,” you say, head nodding towards the sofa.
He settles on the couch, sinking into the overstuffed cushions. He wonders just how many of your other customers have done such a thing. If you make a habit of parting the beaded curtains for just any person who steps into the store. His boot nervously taps on the floor, and he stops it, his whole body tight and awkward in the small space.
You turn the TV on, the static sound fills the room and the snowy fuzz of the screen backlights your body. You bend over, your skirt hiking up your thighs, and Joel gulps. There’s a peek, just a peek, of black lace in between your legs, and he adjusts the way he’s sitting as imperceptibly as he can.
The DVD is loaded into the player with a whirr, and you turn back towards him with a slight smile. Every step you take closer to the sofa, his heart beats harder and harder, and when you settle next to him, your bare knee touching his, he can feel the heat of your skin through his jeans.
“You good?” you ask, your hand holding the remote suspended in the air.
This is all so absurd, and absolutely something he’d never expect he’d be okay doing. But Joel nods an affirmative and responds with a low “yes.”
You hit play on the 25-year-old porno.
There is no preamble, no credits, no opening scroll. Just music and full bush. It’s why a much younger Joel enjoyed it so much. No plot, no performances, just pussy. Joel is thrust right into it, sitting next to a pretty girl watching a cavalcade of women get dressed and undressed. He really doesn’t know where to look. It’s not like he’s uncomfortable, in fact, it seems like the opposite of that, because you’ve done nothing but greet him with openness and acceptance.
It’s quiet between you two, Joel keeps glancing to your side, your profile lit in an almost ethereal glow by the light of the porno. He can already feel his dick growing hard, he doesn’t know what he’s anticipating more, the next scene or the next time you’ll say something.
Funny, he hasn’t seen this movie in over twenty years, and yet he can remember most of the very few lines of dialogue. The diary is pulled out of the drawer on the screen. Joel thinks he knows this whole scene by heart. He always found it ridiculous how the girl lies on her bed in her bright, red high heels, but before it can bother him anymore, his favorite scene begins. Joel catches the way you lean towards the TV when it starts.
“They were married in real life,” you note, eyes planted on the screen.
“Oh?” Joel manages, though it comes out a little too high-pitched than he’d like it to be.
“Mmhmm. I think that’s why I like it so much,” you say, turning to him. “Sometimes you can just tell.”
He stares into your eyes, unblinking. You stare right back at him, and his vision narrows. You’re sitting so close, all he’d have to do is lean a little closer, and his lips could be on yours… he bets they taste so sweet.
Your lips curve up like you’re about to spill a secret for him, but instead you tip your head back to the television. “I love when I can feel how real it is. That’s not a script moan.”
Joel thinks he could listen to you wax poetic about porn for hours. “Yeah,” he says, and it’s gravelly, almost a cough. “You can tell.”
On the TV, a brunette arches her back, mouth open, hand reaching between her legs to stroke herself as she fantasizes. He can’t help himself, looking over at you, watching the way your lips part in tandem with the actress as she pets her pussy. Joel wonders what you look like when you touch yourself… if you draw a circle or line, if you use one or two fingers to fuck yourself.
Fuck. He has to stop thinking, or else he’ll cum in his jeans right here and now.
He tries to turn his brain off. Tries so hard, but when he glances over at you again, you meet his eyes.
“Is it everything you remember?” you ask.
“It is,” he responds.
You hmph a satisfied sound and scoot closer to him, the plastic leather squeaking under you. He hasn’t shared space like this in so long, ever since Tess left back for Detroit. He almost feels dizzy, and he knows he’s already sweating under his shirt. He’s never felt so immediately wanted.
On the screen, the pretty brunette is lying down in front of a fire, her legs spread wide, a man in between her legs eating her out. Joel thinks of you spread out in front of him, your hips canting into his mouth, his big hand pawing at your chest. It goes quiet in the scene, and he can hear your breathing… he wonders what you sound like when you moan.
You lean even closer, you’re now pressed so close to him, and your hand rests on his thigh. He glances down at it and then back up at your face. You have that same look on your face, a little amused, soft with understanding, and yet direct with desire.
Your hand drags up and down, slow, so slow, hovering so close to where his cock is pressing against his zipper. You watch the movie like nothing is happening, as he wills himself to calm his breathing.
“So,” you say after a while, “I keep meaning to ask… how’s the toy?”
Toy? What toy?” It takes Joel a bit to catch your meaning, and then more time for him to collect his thoughts while your palm still runs along his thigh.
Does he tell you he’s used that thing every night since he first met you? How he thinks of your pussy wrapped around his cock instead of the overpriced latex? How he imagines you’re so much softer and wetter than anything he could ever find?
“S’good,” he says, and then again, “S’good,” because apparently he only knows a few goddamn words now.
You huff a delighted sound out of your nose. “Good.”
Your hand moves higher and deeper up his thigh, your thumb brushing at the side of his hard-on, and he can’t help the way his hips jerk an involuntary movement.
“I keep thinking about how you look using it,” you confess, and Joel blinks at you. “In fact, I can’t look at a box the same since you bought it.”
Your palm wraps around his cock and you squeeze him. Joel’s breathing’s gone hard. He whimpers, actually whimpers. Your grin is sly and warm, like all you needed to hear was his need for you.
“We got a new model in,” you say, your hand sliding up and off. He aches, fuck, he aches so badly. It’s all caught up to him so quickly. “It just came in yesterday. This one is full of new features.” Your eyes sparkle, and Joel feels his brain go into total failure mode, shorting out, synapses firing off like the old Christmas lights hung across the wall.
“Oh,” his head bobbles. “Wow.”
Fuck, he feels like an idiot, a goddamn useless and horny idiot.
“Let me show you,” you say, already standing up and crossing the small room.
You don’t bother pulling your skirt hem down for decency when you bend over and reach into a cardboard box. You’re making a show of it, your hips softly swaying as you rummage through the box labeled NEW, the globes of your ass and the tiny string between them revealing themselves to him as your skirt rises higher and higher. His mouth waters, and he’s shocked he hasn’t already creamed all over his jeans.
Suddenly, he doesn’t care much about the porno on the TV. Even if he knows what’s about to happen on the TV, he can hear the scene progress, the moans getting louder, and the music reaching its crescendo, but he can’t look away from you. He’s just going to have to miss the cum shot.
You tilt your head back and look over your shoulder at him. “You wanna try it?”
He chokes a laugh, maybe a moan. “Now?”
“If you’re okay with it.”
He nods, all wide-eyed and in awe, and you gift him a triumphant sound of joy, sauntering back with the orange and black box in your hands. You kneel on the floor in front of him, and he parts his legs wide to make room for you. You hold the box up and give him a honey-sweet sales pitch, purring out words like “vibrating” and “heated.”
You tear the box open, and he can hardly believe what’s happening when you pull out the silver cylinder. Porno plays on the tv, the collective sounds of moans, groans, and saxophone comingles with the crinkle of the plastic as you unwrap the toy from its plastic shell.
You hold it like it’s a trophy. The toy is sleek and silver, and when you thumb the dial at the base, it begins to thrum in your hand. You stare at him as you drag your finger around the rim slowly, and then you spit, a steady dribble down to the latex hole. He shudders at the sight, and he’s pretty sure he’s never been this hard before. Your finger circles your spit into the opening, pushing just the tip inside. You angle the toy up, showing him the way it flexes around your finger, and he feels his heart skip every other beat.
He grunts, and you laugh all soft and delighted and wicked. Your other palm presses against his cock. “Bet he’s dying to try,” you tease, your hand around it underneath the dark denim of his jeans. “Can I see?”
Joel nods, unable to do anything but. His fingers fumble with the zipper and button of his jeans, and he frees himself, all flushed and leaking and desperate for you to see. He’s not even shy, hell, he’s too fucking horny to be shy when he wraps his hand around his base and squeezes himself, gifting him the pressure he’s been craving.
“Knew you’d be big ‘n pretty,” you admire with a lick of your lips.
You reach to your side, pop open the drawer on the desk, and pull out a bottle of lube. The cap flips open and you squirt a cold glob into Joel’s palm. “Go on,” you say.
He wraps his hand around his cock, stroking a slow line across his length, your eyes watching his every movement. You bring the Fleshlight to your lips, dragging your tongue along the entrance, and Joel nearly loses it right then, squeezing himself tight and thinking about the cost of lumber to keep him from cumming all over himself.
You look up at him and grin, all beautiful and tempting. “May I?”
He hisses. “Jesus, yes.”
You lean forward, and when he gets the first buzz of vibration as you push the toy down along him, he sees a galaxy behind his eyelids as he flutters them shut. You slide him deeper in, and he has to will every tightly wound nerve in his body not to let him explode right then and there.
The toy pumps up and down, the friction is tight, the wet gloss of your spit, precum, and lube enveloping his cock is perfect. Joel can’t look away from you, your eyes focused on his cock moving in and out of the toy, your bottom lip captured between your teeth. Your eyes flick up to him when you twist the toy around the crown of his cock, and he lets out a needy gasp. He’s past trying to hide how much he wants this, how wild you make him.
“Here,” you say, unwrapping your hand. “You try. I want to watch you.” There’s a dare in your voice, and the heat spreads through his body.
He feels so clumsy when he wraps his hand around the toy, but he gets the hang of it, fingers tight as he torques the silver cylinder up and down.
“Fuck,” you whisper. “You look so good, Joel.”
Oh god, the way you say his name. He grunts, sliding it faster and a little rougher, his balls drawing up as he tests the limits of the toy and himself. He barely even remembers there’s a movie playing behind you… all that TV is now is just a source of more light for him to see your beautiful face.
You watch, your face mere inches from his dick, all greedy-eyed and heavy-lidded with lust. He sees the way your chest is heaving, the gold chain around your neck rising and falling with each breath.
Joel can’t believe how in the hell he’s got himself here, legs spread on the fake leather couch, dick gripped by some sort of futuristic sex tube, and the prettiest woman he’s ever seen in his life crouched in front of him. You watch him like he’s some sort of art piece in a museum, like he’s the most interesting thing you’ve ever seen. Your hand comes up and rests on his knee. You give him a reassuring and encouraging squeeze. You’re waiting patiently, he can feel your need for him simmering, and it makes him want to show off. He jerks himself faster, the slurping wet of the toy making an obscene sound when it’s layered with the now-ignored sound of fucking coming from the TV. His hips rock up when he chases the pressure, the toy buzzing around his cock.
You hook your thumbs under the thin straps of your black tank and pull them down, gifting him the sight of your gorgeous tits. There’s no ceremony, no awkwardness, you expose yourself all confident and cool, and all Joel can do is stare dumbfounded by your beauty. He grunts and pushes the toy all the way down his shaft and his whole body tightens, arching off the couch. He explodes, his orgasm ripping through him, his cum surging into the toy. He can only groan and stare, his eyes flowing from your face to your tits, then back as he fills the latex.
You reach up, take his chin in your hand, thumb tracing his jaw. “Good boy,” you growl.
You take the toy from his tight grip, a stream of his cum and lube dribbling out when you lift the cylinder off of him. Before Joel can even process what’s happening, you bring it to your mouth, making a show of sticking your tongue out to lick up the mess, and you moan. Joel can hardly believe it when his overwhelmed cock jerks at the sight.
“Jesus Christ,” he mouths. You look up, tongue out, and he wants to reach for you and kiss you. It’s like you can read his mind. The toy lands on the table with a thunk when you toss it behind you and crawl up onto his lap. You straddle him, your skirt hiking up, and the heat of you radiates against the sticky head of his cock when you begin to grind down.
You kiss him, fucking finally, and it’s messy, open-mouthed, and feverish. You taste of peppermint and him, and Joel groans into your mouth when he sucks the taste from your tongue.
“Touch me,” your breathy voice implores against his mouth. “Touch me.”
His hand slips down between your legs, and he cups the soaked lace of your thong, thumb pressing into the wet gusset of your panties. You give him a moan of approval and a slight nibble against his bottom lip.
Fuuuck, you’re so hot. He grabs at the flimsy scrap of lace, pushing it aside, and the wet heat of your cunt practically sears his fingers. He keeps his hands there, letting you rut against his palm, smearing yourself across his fingers. It’s filthy, the way you’re grinding so shamelessly, and it makes him want to make you sob and shake and scream his name.
He slides two fingers into your eager hole with a single push, and you gasp, clutching at his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin. The gasp is a real sound, not some porn star scream. Your needy cunt clamps down on him, greedy and pulsing, swallowing his fingers.
He holds your hips tight in his other hand, helping you grind against his knuckles. You break the kiss, head tipping back, panting and moaning. Joel marvels at the way you look, your face wild, lips swollen from his scruff and mouth. You’re so beautiful, he feels like he can’t breathe. He just mind be the luckiest man to have ever stepped foot into a sex shop.
Joel buries his face in your neck and breathes the heady scent of you in, his tongue licking against the sweet taste of your skin. He feels like he’s a teen again, fumbling and desperate, learning new pleasures, getting lost in the sensation of the creamy heat clutching him, in the wet sound of his fingers fucking your cunt. He grins against your throat, a little cocky, a little skeptical of how lucky he feels, because he can tell how close you are for him, the way your muscles tighten around him and your thighs tremble. He wants every other man to pale in comparison to him, he wants you to ache for him the way he’s ached for you.
And so, he brings his free hand up to your neck, cupping the back of it, angling your head to look at him. He stares into your eyes as he crooks his fingers and runs them against the spongy swell of you. You stare back all wide-eyed and awe-filled, moans escaping your lips.
“C’mon, baby, I got you. I got you,” he grits.
Your pussy pulses and squeezes Joel’s fingers so hard he can hardly move them. Your eyes stay on his as you ride him out, clenching and gasping, your body shuddering against his. You flood him, the slick and hot nectar of you dripping down onto his knuckles. You’re beautiful, every single fucking part of you, and Joel can’t stop looking at your face.
You slump forward, your head landing against his chest as you catch your breath, and Joel lets out an incredulous-sounding chuckle. The TV is still flickering porn, and Joel pays no mind to it. He stares up at the drop ceiling panels, feeling like he’s in his own porno scene… with a pretty girl on his lap and his fingers still nestled in your hot cunt.
When he pulls his fingers away, you shudder and sigh, your body heavy with satisfaction against him. Joel feels like a champion, like he’s won some sort of competition, and your satiated body atop his is the prize.
“Your boss know you do this?” he asks.
“She does,” you chuckle, nestling closer against his chest. “I’m the boss.”
“Well, then, you do this with your other customers?”
This time, you pull away and look into his eyes, an almost serious look on your face. “Just the VIP list… and there’s only one member on it.”
Joel can’t help the wide smile that spreads. “Reckon I like being a VIP.”
Your best friend has invited you to her house party knowing that she's also invited a special someone who's bound to make you lose your mind...
~~Read here on AO3~~
Audience: 18+
Wordcount: 12k
Tags: Oneshot, Meet/Cute, Fluff and Smut, Explicit Sex.
(for full tags please check on AO3)
~~Read here on AO3~~
God, I really hope he would have taken what I write in good humour and wherever he is right now he's probably ignoring the content and just critiquing my writing with a sharp tongue.
Title: DAY 15
Pairing: Colonel Brandon x Fem!Reader || Sense and Sensibility
Categories: regency birthday sex | angry sex | smut
RICKMAS: Winter Solitude - Justin R. Durban
Word count: 2.1k
HAPPY BIRTHDAY! @cruentum-melis
"Why, Colonel! You are a blessed man! Hah, isn't he, John? Oh, he is, and you can't tell me otherwise!" Mrs Jennings exclaimed as she usually would, a bit too loud for comfort yet not loud enough for anyone to dare mention it.
She always behaved this way, treading on the edge of acting out too much, but not quite enough to make anyone risk bringing it up. She clapped her hands, laughing and leaning back in her seat. Before long, she pushed herself upright again to grab one of the tea cups that lay waiting for her.
"Oh! He certainly is, oh! Ha ha, Mrs Jennings!" John laughed, covering his stomach with his arms.
Both laughed together, much to Colonel Brandon and the Dashwoods' awkwardness. At least the young Dashwoods. They didn't seem to understand the situation any more than he did. They tolerated the outlandish expression of emotion done by Mrs Jennings and Sir John because by now, they were known for their spirited behaviour.
It was hard to tell what was amusing Mrs Jennings and him so much, seeing how the conversation was purely revolving around the fortunate proximity between two joyous events. These two events were the upcoming Christmas, but even sooner, it was Lady L/N's birthday. Decorating would have commenced later, perhaps, by a few days. But, with Lady L/N's arrival, the Colonel arranged for his home to be as welcoming for the holidays as common sense permitted. She was a fine lady, and most importantly, everyone figured something was going on between her and the Colonel. Mrs Jennings, who had no better activity than to sit around and concoct possibilities for the best marriages, was already confident in the outstanding compatibility between the Colonel and Lady L/N.
"Before June, they will be wed, and she'll be with the Colonel's son only weeks after they say their vows. Mark my words, John." Mrs Jennings insisted. This time, the conversation was going a bit too far for comfort, and the Colonel rose to his feet to excuse himself momentarily. Just then, a chance of escape came.
One of the servants had come to bring refreshments to the Drawing Room, excusing her delay and explaining that it had taken longer because they were still concerned with decorating the Lobby and hall as per Colonel Brandon's instructions.
The man turned on his feet at the mention of his name and bowed his head respectfully to Mrs Jennings before following the servants outside to see how they were faring with the decorating and to offer a hand if needed. Outside, he discovered that his servants had done an impressive job, and the arrangements were nearly all in place. Soon, Lady L/N would arrive, and he desired to welcome her as a gentleman should. Especially considering that she was as kind as to accept his offer.
When she told him that her birthday was only a few days short of Christmas, in a fit of passion, the Colonel invited her to take residence at his Delaford manor for the celebration. Afraid she'd refuse if he requested her alone, he promised to extend the offer to their common acquaintances. To invite the Dashwoods and Palmers.
As for Mrs Jennings and Sir John, well… They invited themselves as they usually would.
"Mr Brandon, the stable boy said he saw a carriage a few miles from here." One of the servants came up to the Colonel, who was concerned with helping one of the maids hang up the mistletoe. He smiled kindly at her as he took the holly bough from her hands to ease her work. As he hung it, his mind drifted to what Mrs Jennings and John would have to say about this, would they notice, but luckily, the servant calling out for him pulled him out of his concerns.
"That should be Ms L/N." Colonel Brandon smiled, then followed the man who warned him out to the stables. "Is there any word from the Palmers yet?"
The servant walked past Brandon to fetch a hay bale. He dragged it lazily after himself into one of the unoccupied stables and began to break it apart. He removed its twine, then pulled off flakes by hand to spread it out for bedding and some for feed.
"The Palmers might not make it tonight, Mr Brandon. Days fall shorter, and Mrs Palmer might have chosen to remain housed at a lodging on her way here."
The Colonel held his hands behind his back, sighing. "That is a shame. Lady L/N takes kindly to the Palmers and sees Mr Palmer as a dear friend. I can but hope the news of his absence will not dishearten her." Just as he was done speaking, the stable boy rushed in, warning them that the Lady L/N's carriage had arrived.
"Oh, and then I told Colonel Brandon what a charmer he is!" Mrs Jennings laughed alongside Sir John. The Colonel was polite as he usually would, but he was visibly uncomfortable in this situation, embarrassed by that woman in front of Lady L/N, whom he wanted to court. But with the brash, blatant behaviour she displayed, his chances to grow closer to Y/N L/N grew thinner by the second.
You figured out how the poor Colonel was feeling, but you would be lying if you pretended not to think his shame adorable. You knew how Mrs Jennings could be, so you had a habit of letting what she said come through one ear and leave the other. Seeing Brandon embarrassed in a group of close friends was definitely a sight.
The man tried to intervene. "But, if I may, should we not turn our attention to Ms L/N instead? It is a day of celebration for her, and I daresay it feels unfair to talk of me."
"Oh, Colonel, why so humble! I found that story enticing! Oh, and so what if it is my birthday? These stories of you are certainly a lovely gift from Mrs Jennings!" You teased, with a soft smile at the corner of your lips. Less the story, more the embarrassed reaction the Colonel was trying to hide. "Please, Mrs Jennings! Resume that story!"
The Colonel's face was dusted pink, but despite the embarrassment and desire to say something, he remained silent. His gaze fixed on the ground, he was subjected to this torturous experience. Forced to see how every chance to court you was being crushed as Mrs Jennings made him appear a fool in your eyes.
"Oh, you cannot stay?"
"Oh, Y/N, I promise on my honour I would, but I have to take these young ladies home! Oh, their mother must be worried sick, isn't that so, John?"
"Precisely!"
"But don't be so gloomy, dearest! As soon as morning comes, we will come back and bring their poor mother with us. You must understand, I don't have it in my heart to let poor Mrs Dashwood alone in such an unforgiving winter night at Barton." Mrs Jennings hugged you and followed Sir John and the Dashwoods to the carriages. "Oh, and I'll pull Mr Palmer's ears for being such a Dicked in the nob and missing your birthday!"
You waved off the noisy bunch, smiling. All gone but yourself and Colonel Brandon, who had greeted them out, then went to assure himself that your room had been warmed up properly to last over the night.
"She would not keep quiet!" Colonel Brandon grunted, his hands firmly holding your hips as he pounded into you from behind, rocking the bed beneath you. "She shames me in front of you, Ms L/N, after she herself admits it is visible that I desire to court you."
You couldn't be any more glad that Mrs Jennings annoyed Colonel Brandon, because here he was fucking the attitude out of you. Teasing him about Mrs Jennings had been both the best and worst choice you've made, and you weren't regretting it one bit.
"What brash behaviour! What lack of elegance! She wishes me married before June, yet when I set myself to court you, miss, she cannot help herself but devastate my chances." The Colonel's hands buried angrily in your hips, his thrusts picking up pace. He pushed his hands up against your hips, lifting your nightgown further to reveal your back. He leaned forward, his chest pressed against your heated back.
"Tell me, Miss L/N, would you desire me after the way in which Mrs Jennings portrayed me as a fool?"
His hand released your sides, and he placed it on top of yours as he hovered over you from behind. The Colonel had you trapped under his body, holding you in place as he continued to drive his hips forward. Each thrust drove so deep inside you, stroking your insides so right that your words turned to mush and by the time an answer formed, it became a jumbled mess with the next thrust.
"It was supposed to be the perfect celebration for you, Miss L/N. A favourable day to appreciate you." The Colonel buried his face against your shoulder, kissing the skin with burning touches of his lips, which craved you like a man starved. He let himself go in this anger, which he had contained so dutifully for so long.
You grunted, leaning your head into the kisses, exposing your neck and shoulder further for his lips. "Keep going."
The Colonel growled, pressing his forehead into your shoulder. One hand remained on top of yours, to keep you trapped, while the other moved around you, squeezing your body up into his own as he fucked into you. He was so eaten up by his shame and anger that he didn't notice how little sense his fears made. He worried you would not desire him no longer because of Mrs Jennings, yet here you were, bare and on your fours, taking his cock despite no proposal having been made and no wedding in sight. You let him have his way with you with an eager passion which he became nearly drunk on, so intoxicated that he paid no mind to what it all implied.
"I assure you her comments did not change my mind, Colonel." You moaned at the kisses, squirming in his grip as he shoved his hips further up into yours, the sound of his cock too lewd for what you imagined the Colonel to be like in the safety of his chambers. "Her comments, you should thank, for they made me think of you sweeter than a cake and more desirable than any other gentleman."
"Nonsense…" The Colonel growled, yet this time he sounded softer. Your words, your favour, he desired so deeply that any word from you he would have blindly believed, for it was spoken by your sweet lips. "By her words, she ruined my chances to court you gentlemanly, to pursue you and ask for your hand,"
You held tightly on the mattress, arching your back and pushing back against his cock, feeling yourself dripping around his size. "I dare disagree with a large majority of what you have said. Indeed, you 'court' me not in a gentlemanly way at the moment, but it is a form of courting nonetheless, and I surely expect you to pursue me still."
The Colonel continued to drive his hips into you until you came around his size. The feeling of your cunt squeezing around him caused a loud groan to come rumbling from his chest and for his own orgasm to rapidly come over him. Yet, he pulled away sharply and came over your ass, his hand moving to your hip and the other using the mattress as leverage. He leaned on your back, his weight making you both crash down on the bed together.
He spent a while with you in his arms, until both of you caught your breath. Only after his mind came down from the high to a serene state did he become painfully aware of the extent of his actions. The Colonel nearly jumped to apologise, but you rolled your eyes, expecting it and grabbed him by the shoulder, pulling him to kiss you. He softened up and returned the gesture, yet when the kiss broke, he tried to apologise again.
You rolled your eyes and kissed him again. You prevented him from saying anything.
After having done so a few times, he caught the hint and tried no more to apologise. He merely pulled you into his chest and whispered against your lips, "Happy birthday," before allowing your lips to capture his again.
╰─▸ mentioned: The Carnival of the Animals, R. 125: XIII. The Swan [Le Cygne]
"Darling, your looks can kill / So now you're dead."
Hint: What happens when a mischievous ghost earns a second chance at love?
Word count: 11.3k
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You had only just set foot in your home, late in the evening, as another exhausting day came to an end. As you pushed the door open, you were greeted by the agitating sound of a makeshift orchestra rehearsing a piece that seemed familiar, though it was muffled by the walls that separated the hallway from the living room; you couldn’t tell what piece it was this time. Having just arrived home, soaked through and freezing, the sound which would usually be comforting did nothing but remind you that peace and quiet were not something achievable in your life, not even an option ever since you got a peculiar musician housemate.
The flat was engulfed in a dark gloom that was pierced by a ray of light coming from around the corner, where the living room was. The light was matched by the sound of the instruments – all familiar to you by now. As you stepped forward, quietly, having already discarded your jacket and umbrella, you peeked around the corner. Right as you did, the music concluded with a striking rapidity that was certainly distinctive. You were about to draw back, go to your room to get changed and perhaps head to bed early, when you heard a voice, his voice.
“Let’s have another go! This time, put your hearts into it!” said a man, who you recognised from the start as being your peculiar guest.
You had no idea when he became the heart of the orchestra, seeing how he was one of the cellists, but here he was now, planning to start off another go at the piece. For a moment, you let your eyes wander over the strange, diverse figures in your home, and all you could do was let a soft sigh escape your lips before turning away. You could not tell them to leave, not when they seemed all so joyous to be there. Your gaze was gone from the figures for only a moment, your hand still resting on the wall, when you heard your name called by the same familiar voice.
“Home already?”
You peeked over towards the living room. This time, many pairs of eyes were turned to stare at you and among them that hazel pair that always brought with it the warmth of a summer’s day. His eyes were different, and somehow in the entire room, he stood out. The man set aside his cello with a delicate ease. Once his instrument was aside, he tilted his head, lips scrunching in a displeased manner, and his arms crossing as soon as they had been free.
“…You definitely have to secure those doors better. I heard nothing, did you guys?” The others mumbled a series of ‘no’ followed by the man’s hand wave in their direction.
“See? This is very dangerous. What if it were some stranger and found us rehearsing, oh, you really don’t think about us at all?” The figure pouted, tightening the self-embrace he had, the others nodding approvingly.
Then, just then, the scornful little look turned into a mischievous grin, “What on Earth’s name happened to you? You look like you just showered with your clothes on. You must dry yourself and quick, trust me, an eternity of sneezes is not an eternity you’d like.”
You rolled your eyes at him, his behaviour the same as always, his mischief something you had already grown accustomed to over the previous months.
“It’s raining out there…” You started, and he watched you with a curious look that resembled a golden retriever in that light. The sort of gaze which softened you; as a result, you shook your head and glanced over to the window, “I will get dry, alright. You’ve been going at it for long?” You asked, an arm stretched to point at the cello that currently lay aside.
The man turned to the instrument as if shocked to find it near him and reached out to hold it again, almost as if waiting for it to give him an answer. There was a pause that felt much too long to be comfortable. Then, with his eyes still fixed on the instrument, his curious look gained a nostalgic undertone to it.
“Not long enough,” he replied calmly.
You knew him better, and this was precisely why his reply did not narrow it down. You sensed there was more to it; in that look, you could discern he had been reminiscing again. On any other day, you wouldn’t press the matter, but you had been gone since the morning; you expected to know what happened so you’d know if any neighbours could have become suspicious of the noise.
Being the peculiar guest he was, there were instances when you would not see eye to eye in terms of how long it had been since he began his cello practice. At times, he’d go over the same piece ten, twenty times, other times he’d go for two… and sometimes when you were gone for longer, he’d play for the whole length of the day and into the night some more. That made you turn to one of his friends, brow raised expectantly.
The answer didn’t fail to follow. “Jamie’s been going at it since about the afternoon, Y/N. Not that long, we all took breaks and all.” A murmur of approval came from all of the men at once, and you crossed your arms.
“Will you stay and listen? We perfected this one…” The man himself, Jamie, intervened and continued to observe you. While your attention had been away from him, he had regained his happiness. The cellist smirked, then followed it with that smile full of mischief, “You can’t say no. Come sit, I know you can’t say no.” His eagerness was almost hypnotising, but after months of his company, you just liked to reciprocate his teasing.
You began to get closer, not rushing your pace, but feeling the carpet beneath your feet with each step until you reached the couch. “Oh, what happened to go dry yourself so you don’t get a nasty, eternal cold?” You mocked just as he had lifted his cello excitedly.
That remark toned down his excitement temporarily. Those were his words you used against him! Jamie’s eyes narrowed a little, and his lips scrunched in a small, sulky shape as he arranged the cello between his legs, resting it on his shoulder.
You caught it better now than ever; he had changed since the first time you met. That day when he came into your life, he was not as sparkly, not as full of mischief. These moments of nostalgia were lengthier and heavier before, but he had known how to put on an act for the most part. With months passing, that nostalgia had shifted into occasional moments when he’d lose himself in thought for a while, or he’d get quieter, but those were shorter and shorter lived. You could only be glad to see he was getting better. As annoying as he could be sometimes, it would be a lie to say he hadn’t grown on you over the past months.
He scoffed, but secretly he eyed you, just as you had observed him only a moment before.
“I am entitled not to answer that.” Luckily, that had caused you to smile, just as he intended. Jamie smiled in return, lifting his bow and signalling his friends that they could start, “I will make sure you get dry after you listen to us–”
His friends snickered as he said that, and one even muttered under his breath something about that being a terrible thing to tell a woman. Jamie had heard and snapped his head in that one’s direction, squinting grumpily.
Even like this, pretending to be upset, he appeared to you as a very warm presence, which contrasted the truth about him quite a bit. Everyone giggled, though, including you… Everyone, but Jamie, who let out a dramatic, exasperated sigh and ushered everyone to start playing.
You had not doubted for a second that their performance would be short of incredible, knowing they had plenty of time to rehearse, yet it was more than that. You had got comfortable on one side of the couch, head resting on your hand, elbow propped against the armrest, watching them play. That in itself felt very intimate, being allowed this close, to watch the bond between each of them and their instruments; you didn’t even notice you would hold your breath at times. From all, Jamie stood out to you the most. With your eyes lingering on his figure, you saw the way his fingers caressed the strings, his bow gliding across them with that impeccable precision; it slowly became a trance, and your mind drifted away.
How did you get yourself into this situation to begin with? How did Jamie come to be in your life?
𓎢𓎠𓎟𓎠𓎠𓎟𓎠𓎟𓎠𓎠𓎟𓎠𓎟𓎟𓎠𓎠𓎟𓎠𓎟𓎟𓎠𓎡
You had only just bought an apartment from a sweet lady who referred to herself as Nina; she had moved out with her current husband after her ex-lover, a cellist, had passed away. Tragic story, a sore throat on his part had led to an insurmountable amount of sorrow in that woman. Once you learnt about it, you were glad she appeared happy now, although you did not want to imagine what she must have gone through.
You received a good deal for the place. At the time, nothing seemed out of the ordinary, other than perhaps the rush with which she was attempting to sell it to you when you showed interest in buying it; you motivated that with the fact that the place must have harboured the tragedy to it and Nina could not stay there without feeling the weight of what had happened. She was grateful you showed up. She seemingly had tried for nearly two decades to rid herself of it, but she said, ‘The right one is yet to come. ’ You thought that was somewhat strange, but assumed people were too picky over the location or interior. That did not lessen your excitement about having your own place.
The day you set foot in your new home was… rainy, just as today, a frighteningly rough storm that soaked you through. Most of the afternoon and part of the evening, you had spent attempting to dry yourself, ironically, when your eyes fell on an object that was almost haunting the corner of your eye. A cello case propped almost defiantly against the wall, facing you.
There was something eerie about it. You spent some time warming yourself up and watching the case, drawn to it like a moth to the flame. At first, the story did not come to you, but as you sat with your eyes on it, Nina’s words resonated in your mind, “Before he passed? He was a cellist. A very good one... the cello, well, he was the cello.”
Your breath had been stuck in your throat then, too, the case facing you, as if it was staring back. How long had it been abandoned there? Nearly two decades… That’s when Nina said her partner had passed.
You knew Nina had told you his name, but you could not remember it. The sight of the case was almost frightening, but not in a horrific way. It hurt in a personally tragic way. It must have belonged to him then… It took you nearly another hour until you earned the courage to get up from your spot on the floor, wrapped up in a blanket, to walk up to the cello.
It was still, completely still, just like a normal cello case should be. You blamed yourself at the time for being so foolishly intimidated by something so trivial; your hand reached out, but before your fingers could touch the case, something stopped you. Your own fear; it felt sacred; Nina had said the man was the cello… so maybe moving it was not right. Your hand drew back, and for a time, you did not dare to make a move other than sit on the floor watching the case.
You felt silly, and yet your rationality would not prevail, and you settled for merely watching it.
That day, you did not touch the case.
Another day passed the same way, and then another, and then another.
You grew used to the place.
You suspected now why people did not buy it before. The heating system was faulty, but it was summer after all, and you would not have to worry about that anytime soon. Then there was the fridge, an old one that you replaced right the following day after settling in. And, the worst of all, the rats. The first day you came there, the rats were audible, squeaking and running about, but that very evening, the noise ceased, and they had not come back since. You didn’t foolishly believe they all just vanished into thin air, but assumed they must have felt a new tenant and lowered their activity a tad, even though for unlikely rats.
It was about the third day after moving in, and you had finished most of the unpacking and cleaning by now. You would need to replace a few things, but the majority of the work was completed.
Yet there was one thing that you still had not touched, and that was the cello case. It had stayed there, right against the wall with its imposing presence; it was time.
You rose to your feet and this time approached it with more confidence, staring down at it, “You know,” you couldn’t believe you were speaking to yourself like that, out loud, “I don’t know many things about cellos, but I know you must have gathered dust. It’s not right, is it?” And so, you closed your eyes and reached forward.
You gasped, perhaps because the tension built in you made you feel something was coming, yet nothing happened; all there was to feel was the cold fibreglass texture under your fingers and the dust that immediately stained them. You pulled your hand away, looked at your fingers, then grunted at yourself, before picking up the case and lowering it onto the floor. There was gentleness in your action that not even you believed yourself capable of.
When the case was finally laid down, you felt that sensation of sacrality again. This time, you pushed it aside and, as silently as you could, opened the case to reveal the cello within.
You would be lying if you said you were not expecting something to jump at you from the case, maybe a rat, or perhaps find out something horrific like a pile of bones – the story Nina told you had apparently scared you to some extent. Now, with an ordinary cello in front of you and no horrific things striking, you laughed at yourself and lifted it up.
“Oh, you are heavier than I expected…”, you whispered to yourself, letting it rest against you while you traced your pinky over the surface. Strange, there was no dust. It means the case had done its job nicely. Nonetheless, you got a piece of fabric and began to stroke the surface, to make sure you rid it of all the potential dust; that sense of intimacy crept up your spine again, and this time it was so intense, it caused you to feel watched, yet as you turned around, you were met by nothing other than those familiar walls.
“My heart won’t let me sell you, or put you in the attic… or worse, throw you away.” You told the instrument as you continued to clean it, “Maybe I will just let you stay where you were? Clean you from time to time…” You laughed softly at the situation you were in, talking with an inanimate object. “You don’t seem to need cleaning, though, but… it does not feel fair to just leave you forgotten in that case.”
The feeling of being watched had become so pressing that you snapped your head around again. Just as before, there was nothing other than the eerie sensation that you were not alone. In that moment, a sense of nostalgia, of ennui, engulfed you, and you rested your head against the cello’s neck for a moment. You could not put it into words, but at that moment, your eyes filled with tears, “Before he passed? He was a cellist. A very good one... the cello, well, he was the cello.”
You had not even met the man, and yet you could feel that Nina was right, that the cello was bonded to its owner.
You wiped your eyes, and once you finished cleaning it and the case, you put everything back as it used to be and left it propped against the wall. Your eyes were fixed on it again, but after a few minutes, you left it there and tried to busy yourself with other thoughts.
It was then that the feeling of being watched had gradually disappeared.
The night came. You had just showered and slipped into bed, under the covers. You were drained from having been working alone on the arrangements in the flat when you were slowly falling into slumber. However, just as you were in that state between wakefulness and dream, you started to hear a faint… sound.
At first, it was so faint you thought it had to be a neighbour or some noise from outside. But it became clearer and clearer until, in that half-asleep state, you discerned a song… music. You did not recognise the piece then, but as you lay there hearing it grow more and more evident, a sort of dull ache nested itself in your heart, and you opened your eyes sharply.
Cello music.
It could not be. You rose to your feet only to realise the music had stopped.
Frustrated, you sat back down, ‘and now I’m imagining things,’ you told yourself, lying back down. You tried to sleep again, and once more, when you were nearly asleep, the music started, with even more passion… the pain behind the song so much rawer than before.
This time, you did not raise, only listened until sleep took over, and you fell into a deep slumber.
That repeated throughout many nights after that one.
Each time, the same song would be played, and you would fall asleep to it, and every morning, your first stop would be at the cello. It was intact, still frozen against the wall, still frozen in time.
Until one morning, you walked into a change.
The case was there, but it was not closed against the wall. Instead, it was on the floor, open, and the cello was on a chair. You were full-on frightened and had spent the whole day checking if you had been robbed, but nothing had gone missing; everything was exactly the same, besides… the cello. You had approached it then and noticed it for the first time, his bow. You did not know much about string instruments; you heard that bows had to be rosined, and this one clearly had gone about two decades without it. You checked the case for a rosin recipient, and when you found none, you stood there, arms crossed, glancing down at it.
And that’s how you bought rosin.
You had no experience whatsoever, and so you just got whatever had been recommended to you by the cashier at the store. That night, you stored the cello back in its case, but this time left the rosin container by the case.
“Either I’m losing my mind – either…” You didn’t continue that thought because this time that feeling you were being watched became so acute it was as if you could feel a whole person a few centimetres behind you.
When you turned, there was nothing.
That night had been different; you expected the music to begin again, but it didn’t. That almost scared you. Did you imagine all those previous nights? Were you genuinely losing your mind? Maybe it had been a neighbour all along. You got off the bed and made your way to the living room to check.
That was when you saw him.
That was also simultaneously nearly the moment you joined him [in afterlife] from the scare.
In your living room, on a chair, was a man looking straight in your direction.
You froze.
He stood up.
You were paralysed from fear, when suddenly...
“This is not the right one, come on, and I left plenty of hints!”
What.
“I even dragged that nearly withered plant of yours over to suggest I wanted a darker rosin! Do you know how hard it was to move that pot without waking you up? Oh, and you should thank me; if I weren’t watering the plant extra, it would be drier than the desert. And the rats, they don’t like me around one bit.”
What.
You watched him, unsure of what to do in that situation. There was a man you didn’t know in your living room with a cello. Nothing could prepare someone for a situation like this, so you watched him suspiciously.
“Will you not say something? I made an effort to be here, and now I’m being ignored!” The figure sulked, with his arms crossed. “And I made an effort to play every night with a bow that wasn’t rosined. I figured the place is new to you and you will have a hard time sleeping, so I got a genius idea.” He rambled, coming closer.
You only just then noticed how tall he was.
“I guessed, since you were so lovely to take care of my cello, I will take care of your sleep! Oh- no, scrap that, that makes me sound like a stalker.” He turned and looked to the side with a half-displeased look at what he said himself.
His cello?
“Excuse me, Mr., but you are a creep. You are in my house at night. Please leave.”
The man did not like that, his sulkiness exacerbating, “I was here first; if someone has to leave, you leave.” He sat down again, arms crossed grumpily. In this angle, he seemed inoffensive, if a bit childish in behaviour. In general, he did not make you feel threatened.
You could not really make a scene and scream.
What were his intentions? What if he became aggressive? Unlikely but a possibility.
“I’ve been here since the 90s; you just moved in.”
Oh, now you got it.
The man was impersonating the dead lover; it all clicked! Nina was a con artist who was selling the apartment repeatedly to people who then got scared off by the story of the dead cellist and sold it back to her, and a profit was made. You felt brilliant in that moment and crossed your arms as if you pulled the most Scooby Doo investigation on this scam couple.
The man suspected you were thinking of something. The way you smirked, though, made him feel you were not actually getting closer to the truth, “… something tells me we are not on the same page.”
“Of course not, oh, Mr. Ghost who will now haunt me out of the house…” You were brilliant. Genius.
“Jamie, first of all.” He started, tilting his head, “and what are you on about, second of all?”
“Oh, I know I know, ooooh I’m so frightened oh.” You dramatically played along with your own imagined scenario.
Jamie was staring at you like he was the one seeing a ghost. He was so stunned; he was not even sure what exactly it was you were thinking he was. It took you about 30 seconds of staring directly at Jamie, who was staring back at you with a disappointed look, to figure that maybe it was not the way you thought it was.
Proving that he was a ghost had been a lengthy trial; he willingly accepted. After a series of ‘walk through this wall’ and ‘make yourself invisible’ sort of commands, you eventually came to believe he was that dead lover. The most influential part of it was played by the forgotten framed old photo of Jamie in black and white, supposedly for his memorial, which you found.
That’s how he came into your life.
He was an added boon to the house when you bought it. Ever since, he has lingered.
He was a real pain in the ass for the first few weeks until you got used to the fact that he was bothering you to check your limits. After you figured that out, staying with him became rather fun. Boundaries were set, such as ‘don’t walk on me when I am in the bathroom, changing or sleeping’.
From being a sulky sod, he turned out to be entertaining, sometimes he’d play tricks, change the TV channels to annoy you or swap books around or turn picture frames upside down to see how long it took you to notice, and when you did, he’d grin and let you chase him around the living room for a little.
You never got annoyed; no matter how hard he tried to get you to be upset with him, it was always just compassion you showed him. He would do good things, too. A few times, you found the place cleaner. He just motivated it, saying he was bored and needed an occupation. You suspected he must have felt a bit guilty staying over without contributing.
One time, out of nowhere, he told you the name of the song he used to play while you were trying to fall asleep, The Swan, was the piece, and he promised he’d one day show you a full play at it.
As the weeks turned into months, you’d let him hang out with you while watching TV, and he’d always be grumpy about some poor staging of shows or the low quality of them.
You’d laugh; he’d secretly smile. That was Jamie; he was a complainer, but sometimes those criticisms had an additional role.
It was about that time he began to wait for you around the door and surprise-hug you when you came. The first time he did that, your heart nearly jumped out of your chest, and you’d accused him of trying to drag you to the afterlife. He sulked and just squeezed you, arguing that he was ‘terribly cold’. You had your doubts about that, but you let him do it since he was delighted about it.
Then more time passed.
He was bolder.
One day, you found him rehearsing with a group of strangers. You discovered that those were his ghost companions, who were very happy you had so kindly let them hang out at your place. You didn’t. Jamie again… This was a little more challenging to get used to, but after some time, you even knew the men’s names, ages and causes of death.
You really were lonely, hm?
That you and Jamie shared, and it was a silent agreement between you. You both knew about it but would never bring it up. It was in the way your eyes met at times, without words, just filling the silence with whatever silly stunt Jamie pulled or event that had happened to you during the day. Jamie was surprisingly a good listener when he wanted to, even if sometimes he acted too rashly.
𓎢𓎠𓎟𓎠𓎟𓎠𓎟𓎟𓎠𓎠𓎟𓎠𓎟𓎟𓎠𓎠𓎟𓎠𓎟𓎟𓎠𓎡
“The Swan,” you caught yourself whispering as you raised your eyes from the ground, coming back from your small moment of reverie.
The music had come to an end.
“That’s what you played when I moved in, you promised back then you’ll show me a full performance. Thought you’d forgotten.” You smiled up at him, wiping your eyes.
In those moments when he played, all the months you’ve been living there had crossed your mind, like a movie tape. You began to clap for them and stood up from the couch. Jamie proudly jumped up with a grin on his face, and his friends joined him and bowed playfully to match Jamie’s dramatics.
Jamie caught your eyes, like he often would, and noticed in them a sort of pain he did not understand.
When he decided to surprise you with this piece, he expected something else, maybe your own complaints about how he used to ‘scare’ you while playing in the living room when you slept.
This longing that he sensed was foreign.
Not to him, he longed, many nights when he stayed to rehearse. It was this very longing that led him to put his heart into the cello, but why – he wondered – why could he see it in you now? To him, the reasoning was not hard to understand. He was longing for life and love, for everything he had lost when that sore throat tore him away from the world; he was longing to feel alive, and some nights it was such an acute desperation that his strings would be the only solace.
But why did he see it in you?
Jamie never revealed the truth to you about how he felt; he always joked that being a ghost was more fun and all, so why… why did his own agony reflect now in your eyes? He was still, observant, until one of his ghost buddies suggested they continue now with something a little livelier. A cover of a modern song, or something along those lines, and he absent-mindedly agreed to play along.
You stayed and listened to them for a while longer, despite being tired; it was always warming your heart to see him play.
It was foolish, so foolish.
There you were, watching Jamie, and at the same time trying to conceal what had been a secret of your own. You had grown fond of him long ago, and with the time that fondness – you did not want to admit – but it turned into love, one that you would never be able to voice.
Who would dare, when this man had been loyal even in death to Nina, despite being the one to push her into living – even if it was away from him. So, you listened, and watched, and your heart was breaking a little more with each string he played.
Soon, however, it had become too much for you to bear, and you stood up and excused yourself to go to bed. All of his friends complained jokingly about losing their best audience, but Jamie said nothing.
For once, he was the one to tease you least.
He studied your eyes, and without any protest, wished that you would have a good sleep in a tone you had never heard him use. He spoke lowly with a calm that surprised you and with a depth that tried to penetrate the riddle in your eyes. The way he glanced at you almost made you feel ashamed of your own feelings, and for once, you avoided his gaze and left, using the excuse of a bath to turn away from him.
His heart broke when you did that.
Had he done something? Was there something you had been hiding from him? What changed… And most importantly, why did it hurt him so terribly to see you pull away from him?
It reminded him of the pain he felt when he had to drive Nina away to make her live. He swallowed back the knot that had formed in his throat.
You were not gone, so why did it hurt this much?
His eyes remained on the direction you had left to, and he was so lost in his questions that his musician buddies had all put their instruments down quietly. It was not the first time they saw this in him, not the first time they saw him break despite swearing he would not love again since he passed. But this was Jamie, this was his curse… He had so much love to give, and having been torn away from life so early, he carried that capacity to love with him to the afterlife.
One of the ghosts came over and put their hand over Jamie’s shoulder. He did not say anything at first, just looked in the direction Jamie was looking, giving him time. “Will you tell her?”.
Jamie’s eyes filled with tears the second he heard his friend, and he moved his coat sleeve to wipe away his tears.
“…You ought to tell her. It’s doing neither of you good keeping it secret.”
Jamie let out a breath he didn’t even realise he had been holding. He looked at his friend, eyes in tears, but still somewhat composed, “…I can’t tell her. I can’t do this to her.” Then he had to sit down, burying his face in his hands, tears streaming down his cheeks, breaking.
His friends understood it perfectly. He did not want to guilt you into returning the sentiment; he did not want you to sacrifice your own chance at living, to split your life with him. He loved you too much to damn you this way, and so he broke into tears, shielded by his friends.
“What if she feels the same, Jamie? We all see the way you look at each other, what if – ”
“What if what? What if what? I will not do this to her. I know the pain I cause. I can’t do this to someone else. Not when I…”
“When you love them?”
There was silence, and his answer was just his quiet tears.
His friends stayed there with him for a while, rubbing his back and trying to make sure he was alright before they all had to leave, promising they’d return in the morning. He assured them he was okay. He really was not, but what could he do? He saw his friends off, one by one, then stayed there on the living room’s floor until there were no more sounds.
You must’ve been sleeping by now…
What did you want from your life?
He had tried to observe you before, to learn what it was that would make you happy. Nina had wanted children, something he could not provide.
But what about you?
He could understand why a woman would be reluctant to ramble about men around a man. You never told him anything; it was as if you were intentionally avoiding everything about the topic. He knew you had no lover, only because you were either gone with work or back home with him. Frankly, he joked a few times with you before that the only difference between you and him was that you had utilities to pay.
He remembered the laugh, but you also gave him a look… hopeful? But it was gone in seconds, and he could not tell at the time what it meant. But now, reminiscing on the floor in the dark, he was beginning to understand. Was it because of him that all of your free time was spent in his company?
Was he the reason for that longing he saw in your eyes tonight?
He got up without a sound and went to your bedroom, standing in front of the door.
“Rule no. 1, you don’t come into my bedroom uninvited.”
He stared at the door.
He did break that rule a couple of times if he were to be honest. Mostly, it was out of wanting to protect you. A few times, he came because he heard you had a nightmare, and he secretly soothed you back to sleep. Luckily, you didn’t seem to recall what happened when morning came.
There was also that one time, when he thought you had a nightmare, but you did not. You… were very much awake, and the noise he heard was… not a nightmare. Not even close. The second he realised what he was witnessing, he vanished so fast he beat the speed of light. His face had been bright red the whole night; luckily again, you hadn’t sensed him being in the room.
But now? Now, he had no reason other than wanting to see you.
He slowly pushed the door open, peeking inside. All the lights were turned off; other than a lamp you kept on to read, and that you almost always forgot to turn off.
He squinted and could see you were definitely asleep, so he got a little braver and took a few steps inside, slowly closing the door behind him. Jamie’s steps were calculated as he tried to move without making any creaking noise and alerting you, which frankly was not that hard, seeing how he was a ghost. When he reached your bed, he stood by it, arms crossed around his chest, head tilted to the side to watch you. There was really no reason for him to do this. He could not explain to himself why he felt that pressing urge to come, or why he was there… all he knew was that seeing you sleep so peacefully was putting him at ease.
He leaned closer instinctively, then closer, until his head was only a few inches away. To do so, he had to squat on the floor near the bed, elbows on it… and a smile slowly grew on his face seeing you this close when –
Your eyes opened.
His smile died instantly. “Uh-oh…”
The banshee scream you let out in that moment was sure to wake up the dead. Jamie fell on his butt on the floor; you jumped up so fast, your foot got caught up in the blanket, and you landed off the bed too with a thud that caused Jamie to bite the inside of his cheek to refrain from laughing when hearing it. For about ten seconds, there was silence, and he had just about enough time to prepare emotionally for the scolding he was going to get.
He knew it was coming. He scared you half to death and broke a rule.
But then another ten seconds passed… nothing?
Jamie got worried and looked over the bed to the other side, where you landed, now frightened, you had knocked your head or something. But you hadn’t. You were right there, staring at him, expecting an explanation first before you’d send him back to the grave a second time.
“… I was cold.” His eyes were all big and apologetic, “…I mean... It’s cold. It’s terribly cold! I was wondering if it’s a little less freezing in here. It would be a real shame if you froze yourself to death.” He tried to be as believable as possible. “AchoOo!” He sneezed. “Uh-oh, no, Y/N, look at this! Now I will be stuck with a cold for the rest of eternity. I told you to do something about that awful heating, this flat is terrible!”
Given the fact that you were groggy, and you never caught him misbehaving this way before, you nearly actually believed him. “… hm, you might be right, I wonder if I left a window open –”
You rose up to your feet and held your head that was still throbbing slightly from the fall. You walked to the window and indeed found it was not properly shut – lucky for him – and then you returned and sat on the edge of the bed.
“I was? I was, I mean obviously, I was, even the freezer is warmer than this!” Jamie quickly added to make his complaint more believable, arms wrapped around himself after he rose to his feet, too.
You did not question why his way of assessing the room temperature was unconventional, like that. He was in fact about to leave, humbled, when he heard you speak.
“Hey, Jamie.”
He froze and slowly turned to you.
“Uh… I have two blankets here. If you want to warm up.” You sounded embarrassed, almost shy to suggest it, but Jamie was the one in absolute shock. “There’s one right now on the bed, but if you’re kind enough, there’s one over there,” you pointed to a chair where a second blanket was folded neatly. “Could you bring it over? You can also stay with me until you warm up.”
He did not need to be told twice.
He quickly fetched the blanket with the eagerness of a puppy who had a treat offered to him, and even went to the extent of tucking you in with a large grin; you just rolled your eyes and made room for him to join you.
Once he was under the blanket with you, he felt at ease again; this time, for once, he felt warm, something he hadn’t felt in a long time. You did not seem to mind him being there as much as he worried you would, and in fact, you fell asleep pretty quickly. Jamie, on the other hand, was awake, and once you fell asleep, he rolled onto his side to watch you.
He spent a long time just watching you, perfectly awake, when you began to stir. He reached out, placed his hand against your cheek and chirped, “Shh – you’re fine. You’re fine. It’s fine… you’re dreaming. It’s a dream, shh, I love you, go back to sleep.”
You did fall asleep again, but not too long passed until Jamie’s mischievous side kicked in.
He was not silly to miss a perfect chance like this to tease you; he had started getting bored, even though just the sight of you was enough to put him at peace; to him, peace was never an option. You were sleeping just fine when that agitating ghost started speaking again.
“Hey… hey – pssst!”
You groaned something nonsensical in your sleepy haze.
“Psst.”
Your eyes slowly opened, although just barely, squinting at him.
“It suits you… This dishevelled, groggy creature style, what is it called?” Jamie was grinning.
You rolled your eyes and rolled onto your side, away from him. But he scooted closer.
“You know I meant it as a compliment!”
“I have no doubt about it,” you said, unfazed and somewhat grumpy, he woke you up again.
You closed your eyes again, praying at least this time you would be able to sleep when you felt his arm slither around you. Before you could scold him, there came his voice. This time it wasn’t mischievous, just low, and sleepy, and warm…
“I can go; do you want me to go?”
You did not answer for a while, but then, with a deep sigh, your hand moved onto his, “Let me sleep this time, okay?”
══════════ SMUT START ═══════════
For a while, Jamie listened and was grateful you let him have this moment alongside you.
He lay there, obediently, not making a noise, but there was something that was warming up in him. You had always been so kind to him, and he had accepted deep down that he had feelings for you, so now he yearned to have you. After all, when he was with you, he would forget he was even dead to begin with. You made him feel alive, and it was such a profound feeling that Jamie felt the need to squeeze you into him when he realised it. If only you’d feel the same, and had he been alive, he would be sure to tell you what he felt. He would do anything to be yours, but you had so much ahead to live for, you might want a family, children, a man who could be there to support you, but all Jamie could give you was his love, something any other man better than him – and alive – could.
While holding you, he felt you might not be asleep… You were breathing, but not the way you had when you were sleeping before; it was as if you were pretending to be asleep.
He was so caught up with reminiscing over the way you made him feel that his hand had mindlessly begun to slide across your body. No longer stationed just on your stomach, it began to roam over your side. It was not a lustful kind of movement or anything to cause you worry. His movement was slow, languid, almost lazy as his nails slowly grazed over the fabric of your pyjama top.
Jamie sighed deeply, his head pressing against the back of your shoulder, and in a moment of untamed yearning, his hand wrapped around you. He pulled you in so tightly, so urgently, his nose nuzzled into the side of your neck.
“I always thought…” he started, voice low, raspy… it came straight from his chest, and yet despite its depth, it was warm and sweet as honey. “Dying will make me forget what this feels like…” he was nearly breathless. “That it will make me stop wanting it.”
You heard everything, felt everything, but did not interrupt him. You chose to move your hand above his once again, to confirm you were listening.
“But I was so wrong. It isn’t kind… It’s so cruel. You never stop craving it. The love, the affection… the warmth… You never stop being human in that way.” He was so vulnerable, you could not believe you were hearing these words coming from the mouth of the man who had been the agitating ghost fellow that nagged you for months. “You stop being alive, and that’s when you lose the privilege. You keep loving… There are times when someone loves you back. It hurts just the same, watching, yearning and… having to stay away for their good. Because you love them… You love them so truly, so deeply, so madly, so passionately, and yet you know they have to keep on living, and you’d be selfish to linger.”
You listened, a knot forming in your own throat, and tears welling up in your eyes. How much pain had he been in for these decades? Had he loved Nina since?
“Sometimes you let go, and it gets easier. It took me a long time after Nina went with that funny fellow… the guy with that terrible haircut.” – There was the Jamie you knew – “The pain was unbearable at first, and then after years passed, I knew she was happy and the pain was replaced by pride. I loved her so much at the time that seeing her happy made me proud of her strength. I was not as strong as she was, and all these years… I just craved to come back into the world, to have more time, to love again.” His nails dug ever so gently into your skin, and his face nuzzled into the back of your neck.
“I still remember when you came, you know? I saw you were staring at my cello. God knows I wanted to scare you off so you won’t sell it or something. But I did not have to do that. You just watched it, and… well, I watched you. Then you did that nice thing, you cleaned it. I sat next to you then, and I did want to smack your hand away once when you were too close to the strings, you know…” he chuckled, and you squeezed his hand.
“I thought then maybe you wouldn’t be that bad to have around. I saw you got frightened by those rats the first night. I noticed you had a hard time falling asleep, so I wanted to repay your kindness. Plus, I could do with a bit of practice…” He laughed into your neck, the sound so deep it echoed into your own body. “You were so distracted back then, you did not even notice I was moving things about, woman! I moved an entire flowerpot, and you did not notice. Not to mention I even watered your plants for a few days before I let you see me.”
You started laughing too, nudging your elbow back and hitting him in the tummy. It was a playful hit.
He bit his lip excitedly and squeezed you to secure you and stop you from nagging him like that. “Don’t hit me, silly girl, it’s not nice! That’s how you repay my kindness?”
Then… after a silence that lasted a few moments, he placed a kiss on your neck. It was so unexpected, yet so sincere; so pure that you froze… And he froze too, nervous. After everything he had revealed, surely you must have understood what he was getting at, and the kiss… You had to know now.
For the first time, you spoke, “… why did you not tell me before?”
“I couldn’t have. And even now, I am frightened I made a selfish mistake…” His excitement was replaced by a nostalgic, pained voice. “But you deserved to know.”
You turned, so you were no longer spooning, but instead, your chest was pressed against his.
Although it was dark, the lamp provided enough light that you could see those hazel eyes you could have recognised from a thousand. You were not sure what to tell him. Or how? How could you inform him that he embodied everything you wanted from someone? His wit, his kindness, his humour, his smile… You could go on forever, and yet… how could you ever tell him that you needed nothing else other than him, just as he was.
So what if he was a ghost?
You could feel his touch, and that was all you would need. The idea of children never crossed your mind… and what else could there be that he was worried he could not give you? Money? You would always pick love over that… so then, what would there be to keep you apart from him?
You did not give him words, at least not the kind he would expect. You just gazed into his eyes, a soft smile now on your lips, “Are you still cold?” you asked, and that seemed to be the last thing Jamie expected to hear.
He stuttered, almost, looking at himself for a second. “Yes, terribly cold…”
Then, as if per queue, he understood what you meant. His face relaxed, then shifted into a grin, his forehead resting against yours. “Are you cold?”
“Terribly cold.” You replied, your hand reaching out for his cheek, thumb stroking the skin on his cheek, a little rough, stubbly almost.
You leaned in, and your lips met.
It was so soft, so gentle, that both you and Jamie smiled into it, and had to break it because you were both chuckling, but then his hand moved to the back of your head, fingers raking through your hair lovingly as he pulled you into a proper kiss this time, tilting his head to get a better angle and a little more depth. You did not know how long you kissed; when you did break it to catch your breath, both of you seemed to want to continue, so you did the most appropriate thing you could think of in that moment, and you pushed him back slightly and climbed on him.
Jamie let out a little groan in surprise, his resolve weakening as he felt your body pressed against his, and above him, of all places. His hands reached for your hips, gripping them tightly, his fingers digging into your flesh, eyes up to admire you, he did not take you for the kind to like to be on top... as for him, anyway, it was great, but like this was especially perfect since he could get to feel everything better.
“Well... hello.” He gave you an almost innocent look, but you could tell he was playing it to make you tease him. He ran his tongue over his lips, then pushed himself up slightly on his elbows, shifting to adjust himself under you, “I quite like this, I can get used to this.”
You scoffed and, with your hands pressed against his chest, pushed him down and hovered over him, until your noses touched, your hands moved to support yourself above him, on the bed, either side of his head, while his hands held your hips. “Cat got your tongue?”
“Not at all, I was just caught up thinking...”
“Of what?”
“Of how to get the best sounds out of you... Like I do with my cello?” He smirked.
“... please don’t flirt again, that was terrible.” You laughed, and after sulking for a second, he joined you in laughing, using that distraction as an opportunity to let his hands wander to your butt and squeeze it.
You leaned down and captured his lips into another kiss whilst feeling his hands grope your butt, kneading it, which caused soft, satisfied grunts to escape his lips and be muffled into your kiss. As soon as he thought he had assessed your butt properly, he roamed again, up to your hips, then to your front, reaching up to cup the soft mounds that your breasts were, his thumbs gently teasing your hardened nipples.
You sensed he might want to make a remark about them being hard already, but he was too busy pulling away and leaning in.
Displeased by the fact that the fabric was in the way, he slipped his hands swiftly to the hem of your pyjama shirt and pulled it over your head. He pressed his face up between them, then swirled his tongue around the sensitive bud of your right breast, before sucking hard, sending sparks of pleasure through your body. His hand came up to squeeze and knead the soft flesh of your left breast, rolling the nipple between his fingers.
You only now noticed that even as a ghost, he had kept features from life; you could feel the slight roughness of his finger pads from playing the cello.
Jamie’s other hand slid down to your hip, gripping it tightly.
You had begun to grind into him almost reflexively, and sensing it, he too began to grind up against you. Even through layers of clothing, you could feel he was aroused. Made you question how ghost anatomy worked, but that was something to think about another time. For now, you continued to grind into him while his face was occupied with your breasts. He appeared to have a good time because when you tried to pull back slightly to readjust on top of him, he huffed and pressed his face further up into them, to make sure he was not losing them.
Jamie could feel your arousal too, not directly, but he sensed it from the way you rode him, that you must be ready to take it another step.
He released your nipple with a soft sound before switching to the other. He repeated the process, teasing the flesh whilst he released your hip for a moment and tried blindly to undo his belt.
Jamie could have stopped for one moment to do it properly; he was so determined not to lose a second of your breasts in his face, that he coordinated himself as well as he could, face on your left breast now, hand on the right one to not let it unattended, and his left hand down to his crotch between your bodies, trying to unbuckle it.
You felt what he was up to and lifted yourself slightly, giving him just enough time to quickly push his trousers down to his knees alongside his boxers.
“Do you need a second...?” you asked teasingly; he grunted into your chest, struggling yet eventually managing to rid himself of his trousers and boxers.
You tried to do the same, pushing your pyjama shorts down alongside your knickers, which caused Jamie to finally part with your breasts. You were naked fully now, so he had to stop and admire that, even if his sight was only as much as the dim light from the lamp permitted.
He, on the other hand, was only naked waist down, so you helped him shrug off his coat and shirt.
“If you plan on complaining you are cold...” you started, moving the clothes aside so you would not get tangled in them, while he leaned up and kissed your neck like a man starved, hands still very much on you. Jamie did not seem to hear that, because his hands had already moved down to your butt again, helping you move, guiding you into grinding harder against him, now your cunt moving against his cock. You were dripping.
Feeling that caused Jamie to throw his head back, letting out the softest whine, “Can I? Please... please, can I?”
You nearly chuckled, placing a peck on his lips while he bucked his hips up against you, begging to be inside you. “If you say those three words out loud, I may say yes.”
Jamie’s eyes looked up at you, all wide and innocent and pleading as he squeezed your butt in desperation. He knew what you meant, even in this needy state; and being as desperate as he was, he wasted no time in panting and chanting those words like a prayer, “I love you... I love you, please let me...” and you did.
He did ask nicely after all, and you were also quite eager yourself to have him.
He adjusted himself again under you, but this time, as you lifted and lowered yourself back onto him just enough for his tip to feel your heat, he let out the neediest sounding gasp, hands moving down to your hips, gripping the flesh. He was already twitching, and you sensed it was about time you started to ride him properly.
Jamie eagerly thrusted his hips upwards, burying himself to the hilt inside you. Under different circumstances, he probably would have taken his time. He had not done this in decades, so patience was not his strong suit at this point.
A guttural moan came from his throat as soon as he felt you clenching around him. He started to move, setting a slow, deep rhythm at first. Jamie leaned up, and you met him halfway, having your mouth captured in a passionate kiss. His hips never stuttered, driving into you with a pace that gradually quickened, soft but precise thrusts that hit just the right spot inside you, causing sweet cries of pleasure to be torn away from you.
You pushed your back straight, hands on his chest, keeping him down on the bed while he thrust up into you; he seemed to have an ace up his sleeve, because seeing from the best angle your breasts bouncing, and face twisting in pleasure, he moved one hand between your bodies and used his fingers to reach your clit. He rubbed it in quick circles, matching the rhythm of his thrusts.
Jamie could feel your walls starting to flutter around him, your body tensing as your climax approached... but unfortunately so was his, and to his shame, he could not hold back, and he came before you did.
His climax hit him hard, suddenly and a little too early. [like his death]
His back arched, hands gripping your thighs in an attempt to secure you on him, nails digging into your flesh as rapid, pathetic gasps left his lips.
His tensed muscles began to relax after a while, and his eyes opened to look at you with a guilty pout, massaging the flesh he had so roughly handled. “That...” he panted, still recovering, “I shouldn’t have done that...”
You were catching your breath yourself and found the absolute disappointment in his eyes endearing.
He squinted and rolled you over, getting on top of you.
Jamie was not going to let you go to sleep without making you feel good, so he placed a kiss on your lips. Seeing him above made you sink into the bed; yes, he suited the spot under you better, but seeing him above did not disappoint.
He placed kisses down across your jaw, neck and shoulder, between your breasts and chest, down to your stomach. He got on his knees between your legs, hooking his arms under your thighs. He threw them over his shoulders while burying his face in your cunt. He did not seem to mind the fact that you were dripping with his release.
You had no idea what went through his mind, but you found that quite erotic.
He placed a soft kiss just above your mound, moustache tickling you slightly, his lips brushing against the skin. Then, without warning, he licked a long, slow stripe up your slit, his tongue delving between your folds to taste you. He was not patient still, and had you the possibility you would have loved to see him do it, licking his cum off of your cunt.
He groaned at the swipe of his own tongue, the sensation causing your hips to jerk instinctively, almost as if trying to escape him. Jamie gripped your thighs harder, groaning again, “no,” holding you still and exposed to him as he followed that first lick with a second, and then another.
Jamie focused on your clit, suckling and twirling his tongue over the sensitive spot. Then, with you already arching and writhing, he made another move. He slid two fingers inside you and started pumping in and out in time with the movements of his tongue. He curled them just right, not that you expected anything else of a cellist. If he could play that damned instrument for over an hour, you had no chance.
His fingers found your sweet spot just as fast as his cock had, and he began using that to his advantage, and you were definitely going to lose it before his trained fingers would.
He could feel your body tensing, your hips rocking against his face as your climax approached.
“That’s it, baby,” Jamie mumbled against your cunt. “Come for me. I know I’m hitting the right string.”
He rubbed your sweet spot, your thighs shaking as your orgasm crashed over you before you could even bark at him for using one of those stupid cello innuendos. You came too hard to think of complaining, thighs locking around his head, heat clenching around his fingers; he insisted, keeping the pace going, gradually slowing down as he guided you through your orgasm.
When you were done, he pulled himself up from between your legs, resting his chin on your knees, which he hugged with a dumb, sleepy grin plastered on his face. “... see, you liked it. I made you cum with my dirty talk.”
You were still catching your breath, and all you could do was roll your eyes at him, to which he chuckled and slid over next to you, kissing you lovingly and getting up to get dressed. You fell asleep almost right away, but you woke up briefly when he rejoined you in bed.
He had made sure to give you aftercare, but you were too deep into sleep to feel he had cleaned you and helped you back into a pair of clean knickers.
He had been your housemate ghost for long enough to know where you kept them, plus the rule of not coming into your room only applied when you were asleep, so he had explored it before.
All you felt was him spooning you, and when you stirred, he whispered into your ear. “Shh – you’re fine. You’re fine. It’s fine… you’re safe, I’m here. It’s alright, shh, I love you, go back to sleep.”
══════════ SMUT END ═══════════
When you woke up, it was late into the morning and… Jamie was not next to you.
The whole last night had been so strange that you would not be surprised if you found out you dreamed it happened. The issue was, if that was indeed a dream, then it would be terrible to face him with the memory of what you saw in your dream in your mind. As you lie on the bed, on your back, looking at the ceiling, you suddenly caught the smell of food, then a sudden loud banging noise as if something had fallen. By the sound of the metallic click, you guessed it had to be a pan or something alike it.
With a groan, you pushed yourself up and got dressed for the day, the noise persisting. No more banging noise, but there was clinking and a frizzling sound at one point.
Once your clothes were on, you pushed the bedroom door open and walked to the living room, which was empty, and then into the kitchen. You let out an audible sigh. In front of you, Jamie and another four ghosts were arguing in front of the oven.
You rubbed your eyes, clearing your throat loudly. Alerted by the new sound, the five pairs of eyes turned to you. Jamie’s sulk turned into a grin, and he came over, urging you to sit at the table whilst the rest of his friends were left attempting to manoeuvre the stove on their own.
Your attention was mostly on them, since you really hoped they would not set your flat ablaze. Jamie thought you must be interested in what they were doing, so he cleared his throat, “Oh, they offered to make you breakfast, because you are always such an incredible host and let them come here and rehearse with me,” his grin was wide, cheeky.
You just sighed, but there was the start of a smile on your face, “I think you mean I tolerate it when you invite a whole orchestra into my flat.”
“Same thing, really.”
You chuckled as the ghosts came over and put a plate in front of you and one in front of Jamie, “He’s lying.” One of them said. “Lying like a bastard!” Another chirped in laughing, causing Jamie to pout. “He whined at us to make something because he did not want to get off the bed this morning when we came! He shooed us off the bastard!” All of them laughed, including you.
Jamie was sulking at them for outing him like that.
“We didn’t say no, miss. He told us he came clean with you, and we tried to talk him into doing it many weeks before. Now he did it, so we said, he earned a little treat, and how he got us cooking for him, the rascal!”
You turned to Jamie with a teasing look, but he looked away with his face slightly redder than before.
“Oh, is that so? You’ve been keeping your feelings a secret, Mr Cellist”
He grumbled, “I was going to tell you the truth… at one point.” “No, you weren’t.” “In any case, could we just focus on dinner? She must be starving after last night.” He added proudly, suggestively even.
You could not deny that you were pretty hungry, so you began to eat while Jamie’s friends left you to talk. Jamie mostly just watched you eat, clearing his throat.
“So what did you tell them happened last night?” you asked, eyeing him suspiciously.
He blushed, visibly so. “…Not too much! I just mentioned a thing or two, I’m not that vulgar! Oh, not that look! I… I just told them last night… felt very alive.” He stared down at his plate in shame. “…being with you made me feel alive. I promise, no details were shared.”
You laughed, rubbing your eyes.
The ridiculousness of the situation was catching up to you after months, but it was a bit late for that, huh? You really were in love with a ghost and… made love to him too. You did not regret it; never in a million years would you change anything about it. In that moment, Nina’s words came to you, like a sort of silly prophecy that had just been fulfilled, ‘the right one is yet to come’. Looking now at Jamie’s grin, that innocent heartwarming smile… the way he excitedly dove into his breakfast… unknowing of everything.
But you understood it now.
Nina had done for Jamie what he had done for her decades ago. After all, even a ghost deserved a chance to move on.
blurb - You know your husband—five years of marriage has seared every one of Joel’s habits into your mind. The good, the bearable, and especially the parts you’ve learned to swallow down. So when he gets petty, you know how to manage it. But how much can Joel really handle when his wife is standing right there—and how much longer can he stand there when you look like that?
warnings - nsfw, mdni 18+, jealousy, established relationship (marriage), petty!Joel Miller, slightly possessive!Joel Miller, slightly mean!Joel, no outbreak AU, fluff, slight angst, mentions of Sarah, some plot before the porn, DIRTY talk, orgasm control/denial, condescending, panty gags, finger fucking, oral sex (f receiving), marriage kink??, heavier (yet not fully stated) Dom/sub dynamic, light spanking, creampies (don't try this at home!), and aftercare.
One shot requested by: @ anyomous
wc: 14.4 k
You noticed it in the produce section.
At least, that’s where you started paying attention.
Joel was standing in front of the tomatoes. Arms crossed over his chest, brows low, jaw clenched tight enough to crack a tooth. You watched him stare at a container of cherry tomatoes for a solid minute without blinking.
You approached slowly, pushing the cart with your forearms as you scrolled on your phone. “What’s going on over here?”
No answer.
“...Joel?”
His head tilted, just slightly. But he didn’t look at you. Then he spoke. That flat, deadpan, bone-dry drawl. “Tomatoes look like shit.”
You blinked. “Okay?”
“They’re soft.”
“You don’t even like cherry tomatoes.”
Joel still didn’t look at you.
You stared at the side of his face. “...Are you mad at the produce section?”
Nothing.
Just a grumble under his breath and a slow pivot toward the green beans like that would explain everything. You stared at his back as he walked away—boots heavy, jaw set, posture stiff—like he was storming a trench.
Okay, you thought, weird.
You exhaled, rolling your eyes affectionately, and turned back to the tomatoes, tossing a decent-looking carton into the cart anyway. He was right, they did look a little sad. But they were for Sarah, and if she wanted soft tomatoes, soft tomatoes she would get.
You plucked up a few avocados next, giving each one a careful squeeze, mind half on ripeness and half on tomorrow. Joel had been buzzing around the house all week like a man possessed. Re-caulking sinks that didn’t need caulking. Replacing lightbulbs that hadn’t even burned out yet. He scrubbed the guest bathroom twice.
You hadn’t been much better. The linens were washed, the throw pillows fluffed and rearranged. You dusted the top of the kitchen cabinets, for God’s sake. You’d picked up her favorite shampoo, baked muffins for her first morning back, and cleaned out a corner of the garage in case she wanted to bring any boxes home from her dorm.
She wasn’t yours biologically, but it didn’t matter. She was Sarah. Bright, funny, stubborn as her father. She gave the best hugs and asked about your day even when she was swamped with finals. You’d loved her before you even realized that was what it was. And now that she was coming home?
You were nervous.
Ridiculously so.
So Joel’s poor attitude today was the least of your worries.
You shrugged it off. Kept pushing the cart. You were halfway to the cereal aisle when he started doing it again.
You held up a box of your favorite granola. “This one okay?”
He didn’t even look. “S’fine.”
"Or do you want something else?”
“Nah.”
"...Raisin Bran? You’re always weird about fiber—"
“I said it’s fine.”
You blinked again. Slowly lowered the box. The tone was clipped. Not sharp, not angry, but weird. Off. Tired and dry and… cold.
That was when it really hit you.
He was being weird. Really weird.
Joel was never chatty, sure. You didn’t expect him to spin cartwheels down the aisles and ask about your day like a sitcom husband. But he did usually toss random things in the cart. Made fun of the music playing. Stood behind you at the fridge section and pressed his hand low against your back like he always needed to touch you somehow, even in the most ordinary moments.
But today? Nothing.
You watched him reach for a gallon of milk. Shoulders hunched, lips pressed tight, no eye contact. He handled it like it might explode if he moved wrong—slowly, deliberately, fingers curling around the 2% as he dragged it off a wire shelf.
You grabbed the cart and rolled up beside him, not quite shoulder-to-shoulder. “Okay. Seriously. Are you mad?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Yep.”
The voice was outhern and flat, worn paper edges and deadpan delivery. He didn’t look at you. Didn’t so much as blink in your direction. Just dropped the milk into the cart like it might bite him if he held onto it too long.
You sighed. Here we go.
Joel wasn’t dramatic by nature—not loud or combative, not the storming-out, voice-raising type. He didn’t get into shouting matches or start fights for the sake of it. No, when he was pissed, it was like this.
Quiet.
Tense.
Internalized.
Five years married to him and you could spot the signs from a mile off: the long silences, the passive-aggressive sighs, the way he clammed up like someone stapled his jaw shut. He’d sulk for anywhere from 24 to 48 hours depending on the severity of the offense. And, of course, with how hot it was outside, it added about twenty percent to his overall grump factor.
It wasn’t malicious. It wasn’t even intentional, really.
It was just Joel. It was his version of cooling off. Letting his mind spin out until he could file his feelings into neat, Joel-shaped boxes. Then he’d let you in. After he’d suffered in silence for a while first.
You’d learned to give him space. Learned to let him take the long road back to you.
So, you just sighed, patted his shoulder as you passed, and said, “Okay. You do your thing, baby.”
Joel followed behind you like a mutter-shadow.
Not close, not far—just hovering within a four-foot radius like some brooding, ghost. You could hear his boots behind you, heavy and slow, the rhythm off-tempo like he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to walk next to you or not.
You didn’t look back.
You were wearing one of your thinner sundresses—pale yellow, soft cotton, the hem brushing high on your thighs. It clung in the heat, even in the fridge aisle, the air conditioning barely keeping up with the July temperatures that had been frying the pavement outside. Your thighs felt tacky. Your collarbone was slick. You could still feel the outline of sweat across your lower back, even though it had dried on the walk from the car to the store.
You crouched in front of the dairy case, cold air blasting against your legs, trying to find the right cheese for the pasta you were planning that night. You could feel him watching you—even if he was trying really hard to pretend he wasn’t.
You stayed there for an extra second, reaching slowly, letting your fingers graze a few of the blocks. Then, without looking back, you asked:
“Joel, which cheese do you want for your pasta?”
There was a beat of silence. Then, with no help to you what-so-ever: “Cheese.”
You blinked and turned your head slowly.
“You wanna say that again?”
He was leaning on the edge of the freezer case, arms crossed, pretending to study the shredded cheese.
You held up a block of cheddar. “Yes, Joel. Cheese. Incredible answer. Groundbreaking. But what kind of cheese?”
“You pick.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Oh, hell no. Last time I picked, I used goat cheese and you had one of your little fits.”
“I do not fit,” he growled.
You arched a brow. “Really?”
He didn’t answer.
Just crossed his arms harder, like he could make himself immune to the conversation by doubling down on the pout.
You looked him up and down. The heavy brow. The tight jaw. That stubborn line his mouth always settled into when he was trying to bury his emotions six feet.
“Sure,” you said. “Sure, you don’t throw fits. You just stop talking, glower at your dinner plate, and mumble about textures like you’re the one who did the cooking.”
That earned you a twitch. Not a full reaction— but a crack in the armor.
You rolled your eyes, sighed dramatically, and grabbed the block of aged white cheddar you knew he liked. “Fine. If this one suddenly offends your delicate palette, that’s on you.”
He didn’t respond. Didn’t even look at you. So you pivoted and veered into the home décor section.
You didn’t need anything.
But Joel wasn’t talking, so you were going to use the opportunity however you wanted.
You could feel him trailing behind you, still not talking, still definitely watching, filled to the brim with opinions he refused to say out loud.
You stopped in front of a little wooden sign that read Home is where the coffee brews and snorted. “We need this.”
Joel scoffed behind you.
You didn’t turn around. Just kept moving, hips swaying a little more than necessary, letting your fingers trail across a row of throw blankets you absolutely didn’t need. The fabric was soft, plush. Your fingertips curled around the edge.
“Hmm,” you murmured. “This one would look good on the couch.”
“We got three already,” Joel said, voice gravel-thick and grumbled.
You gasped and turned. “Oh my god. He speaks.”
Joel gave you a dead stare.
You sighed, amused, and reached up to adjust the strap of your dress. The movement lifted the fabric just enough to expose more skin, your hand brushing your collarbone lightly.
Joel’s eyes—subtle as they tried to be—dropped.
For just a second. Just a flicker of heat. Then gone. Buried again under that mask of annoyed indifference.
You reached for a vase you didn’t need. “Should I get this? Maybe put some fake sunflowers in it?”
Joel didn’t answer.
But when you gently dropped the too-expensive vase into the cart, he reached out with one big, calloused hand and nudged it so it wouldn’t tip over.
You saw that. You always saw it.
The little things. The quiet things. The kinds of gestures that lived in the in-betweens. Between I’m pissed and I love you too much to let you drop something and break it. Between leave me alone and don’t go too far.
You smirked to yourself, just a little.
“You’re lucky you’re cute when you’re mad,” you murmured.
He didn’t respond.
Still standing there like a statue. Still arms crossed, still jaw clenched, still eyes focused anywhere except you. He looked like he was trying to manifest a portal in the linoleum. Like he’d rather fall through it than talk about his feelings.
So you stepped in close.
You didn’t even think about it, you just moved on instinct. The same instinct that had been honed over five years of knowing his rhythms, his moods, the way he built walls only so you could gently scale them.
You lifted your hand and cupped his face.
Fingers soft, brushing over his scruff. His skin was warm—not just from the heat in the store, but from him. Always was. Like he carried a low burn under the surface, something he never let reach his mouth, but always lived in his eyes.
His body went still the second you touched him.
And then—after a breath—his arms dropped from his chest, as he slightly melted.
You tilted your head, giving him your softest smile. The one that usually melted him like butter left out in the heat.
“Sorry,” you whispered, brushing your thumb across his cheek. “I don’t even know what I did, but I’m sorry.”
Joel’s eyes finally met yours. They were darker than they’d been earlier. Brow drawn, mouth slightly parted—like he wanted to say something but couldn’t quite sort out what.
“You’re not mad at me,” you continued gently. “Not really.”
He still didn’t speak.
So, you leaned in and pressed a kiss to his cheek.
Just soft lips brushing rough skin. Just one warm second of closeness. You pulled back with another sheepish smile, fingers still cupping his jaw.
“Truce?” you whispered.
Joel blinked, then his eyes darkened. His voice came low. Tight. Gritted like he’d chewed through a whole bag of nails.
“…Don’t do that.”
You frowned. “What?”
“Look at me like that.”
Your hand dropped. You took half a step back.
“I—I was just saying sorry,” you said. “Joel, I didn’t mean to—”
He closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose. His other hand went to his hip. Like he was physically restraining himself.
“Not really mad at you,” he muttered. “Ain’t even the point.”
You stared. “Then what’s the point?”
Joel’s jaw flexed. He looked at you like you’d just asked him to explain the concept of gravity. Something he felt every damn day, pulling at his bones, weighing him down—but couldn’t quite put into words.
The silence stretched. You stared at him.
And he stared at your mouth. Then your neck. Then your legs.
The hem of your sundress had hitched higher when you leaned forward earlier. You didn’t even realize.
But Joel did.
You reached for his hand.
That was it. That was the end of him.
He took a step back. Like he needed space. Like he was two seconds from doing something that’d get you banned from this store for life.
“Go get the soap,” he said quietly.
You blinked. “What?”
“Go. Get the rest of what you need. I’ll finish up here.”
“Joel—”
“Please.”
The look in his eyes stopped you cold. It was raw. Like he was hanging on by a thread.
Your head tilted, then you nodded slowly, trying not to let your smile falter. “Okay… yeah. I’ll, um… I’ll grab the rest.”
You stepped back, turned away.
You rush, but you didn’t look over your shoulder either. You didn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing you were even a little wounded by the way he’d shut down.
Like you weren’t standing in the middle of a home decor aisle asking your husband for a truce while he looked at you like touching you was some kind of mistake.
You grabbed the last few things you needed: soap, razors, paper towels. You took your time. Didn’t linger, didn’t sulk, but you didn’t exactly hurry either.
It wasn’t the first time Joel had gotten like this. And it wouldn’t be the last. Still, that didn’t mean it didn’t sting.
You knew his moods. Knew how he simmered. But today felt different—a little sharper around the edges. A little less I just need a minute and a little more don’t touch me unless you want me to snap.
You sighed and rolled your cart toward the checkout.
Register Four was open. You recognized the boy behind it—he was young, probably twenty at most. Soft brown curls under a baseball cap, name tag crooked, fingers fidgeting with the barcode scanner like it might bite him if he didn’t angle it right.
You came here often, usually alone. Joel was extremely busy during the late afternoons to do anything like this with you, but Tommy had given him the day off to go on a ‘real date’ for once.
“Take your wife out,” he’d said with that crooked grin, “‘fore she starts thinkin’ Maria’s the only one in Austin who knows what wine is.”
Joel had grunted. You’d been excited. But now?
Now you were standing in line feeling vaguely rejected while the AC hummed and a nervous boy with too-kind eyes struggled to scan your bottle of dish soap.
He cleared his throat. “Uh—uh, sorry, ma’am.”
You smiled politely. “It’s fine, sweetheart. Take your time.”
He flushed immediately. His fingers fumbled with the box of pasta. Nearly dropped it. Caught it at the last second and blurted, “C-Can I ask you somethin’?”
You cocked your head to the side. “Sure.”
He looked like he was going to combust. Then, suddenly, in a rush: “Can I have your number?”
You froze.
The world tilted for a second, like the floor dropped two inches beneath your feet.
“Oh,” you said. His face turned crimson. You held up your hand slowly, showing him your ring. “Oh, sweetie—I’m married.”
The words left you gently. Kind. Soft. Not an ounce of mockery in your voice.
His eyes went wide. “Oh my God—no—I didn’t—I didn’t mean anythin’ bad—I just thought—y-you come in here a lot and you always smile and you’re so—uh, I mean—ma’am, I’m so sorry—”
You winced. “Oh no, don’t apologize. I’m not upset. Really.”
“I didn’t mean to disrespect—”
“You didn’t!” You leaned forward, laughing softly. “Hey. Breathe. I promise you, it’s okay. You’re sweet. You were just being brave, and I think that’s admirable.”
He stared at you like you’d just spoken ancient Greek.
“Some girl’s gonna be real lucky,” you said, giving him an encouraging nod. “It’s not me, but—hey, you’ll get there.”
The poor boy looked like he might cry. Or faint.
You reached into your purse to grab your wallet, hoping the small distraction might settle the tension—and that’s when you heard it.
The huff. Low. Dangerous. Behind you.
You felt him before you saw him—a heat behind your back, a presence too heavy to ignore. All broad shoulders and silence. The cart creaked slightly as Joel gripped the handle tightly. You didn’t turn. Didn’t say anything.
The boy immediately blanched.
Joel didn’t speak. Didn’t smile. Just stood there, arms crossed over his chest, jaw set, eyes fixed like a sniper’s scope on the poor kid who had just made the mistake of his life.
You turned slowly. Looked up at your husband. He didn’t glance at you.
He was too busy leveling his deadpan, I’ve killed a man with a wrench stare at a twenty-year-old cashier who probably still lived with his mom.
The kid squeaked.
Literally squeaked.
“I—I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t know—I didn’t mean anythin’—”
“Oh my God,” you muttered, turning fully to Joel. “Joel.”
He didn’t say a word. Didn’t need to.
His presence was doing the job just fine. His glare was practically a physical force. You stepped between them slightly, trying to cut off the eye contact.
“Hey, baby. Relax.”
Still nothing.
The boy was now full-on panicking. “Please—I swear—I wasn’t trying to cross a line—I just—I didn’t know!”
Joel’s brow twitched.
You pressed a hand to your face. “Joel, stop.”
“I ain’t sayin’ a word,” he muttered.
“Your face is saying words. Loud words.”
The kid swiped your items faster than humanly possible. It was honestly impressive. You barely saw his hands move. Bags were packed, receipt printed, card already back in your purse and you hadn’t even finished sighing.
You took the bags gently.
“Have a good day,” you said softly.
The kid didn’t reply.
He just nodded, eyes still wide, and looked like he might call for security if Joel so much as blinked wrong.
You and Joel walked out of the store in silence.
The Texas heat hit you again like a slap. Joel loaded the bags into the truck while you stood there with your jaw locked and your arms crossed.
Finally, once everything was packed and the cart shoved into the return stall, you turned to him.
“Well,” you said dryly. “I hope you’re proud of yourself.”
Joel didn’t answer.
“You traumatized the poor boy.”
“He’ll live,” Joel muttered, rounding the front of the truck.
You followed behind, shaking your head. “He’s like, twenty.”
“He asked for your number.”
“He asked once. The second he saw you he died, Joel. Like he was gonna apologize himself into the floor.”
Joel didn’t answer.
You threw up your hands. “If he pushed after I said I was married, then fine—that’d be a problem. But he didn’t. He backed off. He was nervous as hell. That’s it.”
Still nothing.
He opened the driver’s side door, one big hand gripping the top of the frame as he climbed in. You swore you heard him mutter something under his breath—something that might’ve been kid shoulda known better.
You stared at him for a beat.
And then you dropped into the passenger seat, slammed the door, and exhaled sharply. “Just drive, Joel.”
The truck rumbled to life.
The drive was quiet.
Unbearably quiet.
No music. No conversation. Just the buzz of the engine and the whoosh of cars passing by. The windows were rolled halfway down, letting in thick summer air and the occasional wail of cicadas from the tree line. You sat with your arms crossed, looking out the window, sighing loudly every five minutes like it might crack the silence open.
It didn’t.
Joel didn’t so much as glance at you.
Your mind spun in circles the whole way home.
He pulled into the driveway, killed the engine, and got out without a word.
You didn’t follow right away.
You just sat there, hands limp in your lap, watching as Joel carried every single grocery bag inside on his own—arms full, face still unreadable, steps heavy against the driveway like he was stomping out a fire.
You finally got out once the door swung closed behind him.
Inside the house, you didn’t say anything.
Just slipped quietly into the bathroom, peeled off your sticky clotes, and stepped under the hot water.
And then you let yourself think.
Okay.
What the hell could you have done?
You rewound the day like a cassette tape.
Grocery list. The belt joke. Teasing him in the dairy aisle. Cupping his face. The kiss. Okay, maybe the kiss.
But he didn’t even look mad about that.
More like… tense.
You dragged your hands through your hair, water cascading down your back, and sighed. Again.
This wasn’t like a normal Joel mood. He was always slow to process—needed time, needed space, needed quiet. But this felt different. Sharper. Heavier.
More... personal.
By the time you shut off the water, you were still no closer to an answer.
You toweled off, still thinking, still analyzing, and threw on one of Joel’s old contracting t-shirts—the faded gray one with Miller Bros. Construction across the chest in chipped blue lettering. It hung soft and oversized over your hips, swallowing your frame in familiar cotton.
You slipped on a pair of sleep shorts. Didn’t bother with a bra. Your skin was still warm from the shower, hair damp, sticking slightly to the back of your neck.
You padded out barefoot.
Joel was in the living room.
Sprawled on the couch, one arm thrown across the back cushion, the TV flickering against his cheekbone. Some football game was on—low volume, closed captions flickering across the bottom of the screen.
He didn’t look at you.
Didn’t say a word.
Just sipped a beer, eyes on the screen.
You stood in the doorway for a minute, watching him. Your arms folded gently across your chest, the hem of your shorts brushing your thighs.
The silence crackled.
You cleared your throat softly. “Hey.”
He grunted.
“You gonna tell me what’s going on, or are we just gonna do the Cold War thing ‘til I forget why I like you?”
Nothing.
Not even a twitch.
You narrowed your eyes and slowly walked around behind the couch. Your steps were soft. Bare feet against wood. You leaned over the back of the couch, arms draping over Joel’s shoulders like a shawl. He was so warm. Stubbornly still.
You pressed your mouth to his neck. Right beneath his ear. Soft. Sweet.
Nothing.
You did it again.
Still nothing—except for the slight shift in his shoulders. Barely there. But you felt it.
He swallowed.
You smirked to yourself. Didn’t mean to. It just happened.
“Baby,” you whispered against his skin, “if you don’t tell me what I did, I’m gonna start apologizing for everything I’ve ever done.”
No response.
“I’m sorry for throwing away that old shirt you said you didn’t care about, but definitely cared about.”
Nothing.
“I’m sorry I fell asleep during Scarface. Twice.”
Still nothing.
“I’m sorry for making you late to that dentist appointment ‘cause I wanted to see how long I could make you moan in the shower—”
His head tilted slightly. Barely.
But you saw it.
And you grinned.
Bingo.
“I’m sorry for using your flannel to clean up that wine spill,” you continued sweetly. “I’m sorry for not telling you I bought more candles when you said we had enough. I’m sorry for giving the mailman banana bread and not saving you the corner piece you like.”
Still nothing
You leaned over the back of the couch, lips brushing his temple, hands sliding around to gently cup his jaw and turn his face to you.
“Joel,” you whispered, lips brushing his ear, “Please.”
He finally looked at you.
Expression flat. Deadpan.
Eyes dark, unreadable.
But there was something under it. A spark you could feel in your chest like a struck match. His hands didn’t move. His shoulders stayed tense.
You sighed dramatically and rounded the couch.
Then you flopped onto him—full weight, no hesitation. Limbs splayed, pressing him into the cushions like a weighted blanket of pure intent.
He let out a soft oof like you’d knocked the wind out of him.
Good.
You wiggled, settling in. Your leg slid between his. One arm wrapped around his middle. Your cheek found the curve of his shoulder, pressed against soft cotton and sun-warmed skin.
“You’re not that fragile,” you murmured into his shirt.
“Didn’t say I was,” he replied dryly.
You smiled.
Joel always gave you something when you got dramatic enough. It was like chipping away at a glacier with a spoon, but eventually, you knew he would crack.
You sighed. “You know this would be a lot easier if you just said what was bothering you.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re never fine when you say you’re fine.”
He didn’t respond again.
So you started stretching—slowly, like a lazy cat. Arms up, spine arching, your full weight still sprawled across his lap and chest. You felt his hand twitch slightly against your waist, like he wanted to grab you. Anchor you. Maybe throw you.
You smirked.
“God, you’re such a man,” you muttered teasingly. “All silence and brooding and long-suffering looks. It’s like being with a cowboy who doesn’t know how to write his own country song.”
You nuzzled into the crook of his neck. Pressed a soft kiss there. Then another.
Joel stayed still.
Stone quiet.
But you could feel the tension in his chest now. Could feel the way he wasn’t breathing evenly. The heat of his skin.
Still, you pressed another kiss to his jaw.
You pulled back slightly, leaned over him, peering into his eyes. “Is this about the cheese?”
Joel blinked.
You raised an eyebrow. “Be honest.”
He sighed. “It ain’t about the cheese.”
“Oh, thank God,” you whispered, deadpan. You threw your head back for dramatic effect. “Because if I have to listen to your slideshow on all your picky foods, I’m calling Sarah to mediate.”
That got him. A tiny—tiny—upward quirk of his mouth.
You leaned down and kissed it.
Soft and sweet.
You pulled back just an inch.
Then climbed farther into his lap.
Joel’s hands hovered near your thighs now. Not touching. Just there. Like he didn’t know what to do with them. Or he did, and was trying not to.
You kissed his cheek.
His jaw.
The soft curve of his neck again.
And all the while, you kept talking. Soft little murmurs between kisses.
“Remember when we first moved in and you said, ‘I don’t need throw pillows’ and now you’re the one who fluffs them before bed?”
No response.
“Remember when you said you didn’t want a dog, and now every time you see one on the street, you stop and talk to it?”
Still nothing.
“Remember when you said you don’t do pouting?”
You kissed the edge of his mouth.
Then pulled back and pouted.
Big eyes. Bottom lip jutted. Full dramatic effect.
He exhaled hard through his nose.
Not quite a laugh.
But not nothing either.
“You’re ridiculous,” he muttered.
You gasped, loud and dramatic. “You do still speak!”
Nothing in his expression changed.
But his eyes flicked over your face. Down your body. Then quickly back up, like he hadn’t done it.
You didn’t comment.
You just smiled—soft and amused—and stretched again, your hips shifting in his lap as you moved to loop your arms around his neck.
“God, you’re warm,” you murmured, half to yourself. “You always get warm when you’re annoyed. Or when you’re turned on.” You snorted. “Which, now that I think about it, probably means I’m annoying and hot.”
Joel blinked once. Slowly.
You ran your hands along the back of his neck, fingers brushing through the hair at his nape as you kept going. “Also, this shirt is very soft. I get why you wore it for ten years. Smells like you too. Not fair.”
Joel exhaled—tight. Controlled. His hands hadn’t moved, but the one at your waist was gripping just a little harder now. Not enough to stop you. Just enough to let you feel it.
Joel dropped his gaze.
You didn’t stop.
“Y’know,” you added thoughtfully, fingers trailing down the edge of his collar, “when I was in the shower, I kept thinking about all the stuff I could’ve done to make you mad. I even washed all the way behind my knees just in case you were mad about that.”
That got him.
A strangled sound—half cough, half growl—escaped his throat.
“What?” you asked, blinking innocently. “You’re always saying I never rinse right.”
Joel’s hand flexed hard against your thigh.
And then his head dropped.
Right onto your shoulder.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just slumped a little heavier, his breath hot against your skin.
You froze, heart thudding in your chest.
Your voice came quiet. “Joel?”
He didn’t lift his head.
Just sighed. Deep and long. A full-body exhale like he'd been holding something in for hours.
Then, low, gravelly, and rough:
“You really don’t know?”
You blinked. “...Know what?”
He turned his face slightly, forehead still pressed to your shoulder, lips near your collarbone.
You waited.
Silence stretched.
Then finally, slowly, he said:
“You were wearin’ that dress.”
You paused. “…What?”
He sighed again. Frustrated. “At the store. That yellow one. The one that clings. That makes your thighs—” He cut himself off, groaning. “Fuck.”
You stared at him.
“…You’re being pissy at me ‘cause of my dress?”
He finally sat up. Met your eyes. And oh—his face.
That quiet, deadpan fury.
That exasperation laced with the deepest, dirtiest want.
“I ain’t mad at the dress,” he ground out. “I’m mad ‘cause you wore it without even thinkin’. You just—put it on. Walked around the store, leanin’ over, lookin’ like—like that. Like you didn’t know. And that little boy looked at you like he’d just seen God.”
You blinked.
Then you bit your lip.
But Joel wasn’t done.
“I’ve been hard since the dairy aisle.”
You choked.
He leaned in. Voice lower now. Rougher.
“And then you came home. In my shirt. No bra. Crawled all over me. Kissed me like it was sweet. Like you didn’t know what you were doin’. Whisperin’ all soft, makin’ those fuckin’ pouty faces. I’m sittin’ here tryin’ not to throw you over the back of the couch, and you’re talkin’ about ‘behind your knees.’”
Your lips parted.
He growled.
“And I can’t be mad at you,” he muttered, voice thick. “Not really. ‘Cause you didn’t do it on purpose. You were just bein’ you.”
You opened your mouth to respond.
But nothing came out.
You just stared.
Joel stared back.
His chest was rising hard now. His hands had slid to your hips. Gripping. Holding you still in his lap like he wasn’t sure what he’d do if you moved again.
“I hate how much I love you,” he said, voice like gravel. “Hate it when you’re cute. Hate it when you wear my shirts. Hate it when you kiss me when I’m tryin’ to be mad.”
You whispered, breathless, “So don’t be mad.”
“I ain’t tryin’ to be mad,” he snapped, fingers tightening. “I was tryin’ not to fuckin’ lose it.”
You blinked.
And then—quietly:
“…You want me to get off you?”
Joel’s eyes darkened.
“Fuck no,” he said, and the word hit like a warning. “You move now, I swear to God—”
You didn’t move.
Didn’t breathe.
You just smiled—soft and stunned—and whispered:
“…So I’m off the hook about the cheese?”
Joel scoffed.
But it came out rough.
More breath than sound.
Then, without another word—
He kissed you.
Hard.
Like he’d been waiting all day to do it. His mouth found yours with heat, with hunger, with the kind of urgency that made you squeak softly against his lips before melting—completely—into him.
His hand cupped the back of your neck, the other sliding over your hip to keep you grounded, pressed tight into his lap where you belonged.
You gasped into his mouth when he angled you just right, when he kissed you like he wasn’t your husband of five years but a man trying to earn you.
“Joel—” you breathed, between kisses, lips brushing his jaw, “baby, I—need to start the pasta—”
“Screw the pasta,” he growled, dragging his mouth down your throat, kissing along your collarbone like he was mapping it for memory. “Fuck all of it.”
You laughed. You couldn’t help it. It bubbled up in your chest, bright and breathless.
Joel kissed the sound right out of you.
“God, I missed you,” he muttered against your skin.
You blinked, a little dazed. “Missed me?”
He nodded, nose brushing along your jaw. “Yeah. I know you’ve been here, but baby… you’ve been everywhere but with me.”
Your brows drew together, guilt tugging already, but Joel just kept going, voice low and full of heat and heartache.
“You’ve been movin’ nonstop all week. Preppin’ the guest room, scrubbin’ the floors like it was a damn hotel inspection comin’. Stressin’ over the timin’ of the plane, re-foldin’ towels that didn’t need foldin’, runnin’ errands twice ‘cause you forgot the list the first time. Cookin’ like we’ve got ten people to feed instead of just one girl comin’ home for the week.”
His hand curled at your waist, grounding you.
“Runnin’ out the door before I can even tell you I love you.”
He was still kissing you, slower now. Softer. Like every word cost him something.
“I ain’t mad about the cheese,” he whispered. “Ain’t mad about that poor boy at the register lookin’ at you like his world was endin’. I’m just…”
He sighed.
And then held you closer.
“…selfish,” he admitted. “I want my wife.”
You melted against him, curling your fingers through the back of his hair. “Joel…”
“I want her mouth,” he murmured, kissing the corner of yours. “Want her laugh. Her hands. Her smart mouth and her soft skin and her stupid apologies about flannel.”
You giggled again, and he kissed that too.
“I’m yours,” you whispered.
“I know,” he said roughly. “And I still missed you.”
Your heart cracked open. And that was it.
That was the moment you moved.
You slid forward, slow and deliberate, swinging one leg fully across his lap until you were straddling him—knees planted firm on either side, thighs bracketing his hips.
Joel didn’t stop you. Didn’t move.
He just watched you.
His hands landed on your waist automatically. Like muscle memory. Like they’d been there a thousand times and still weren’t done learning the shape of you.
You lowered yourself slowly into his lap, letting the weight of your body sink against the growing heat beneath his jeans. The second your hips touched down, you felt it—thick, hard, there.
Joel’s jaw clenched.
But he didn’t say a word.
Didn’t make a move.
So you did.
You leaned in and kissed him. Open-mouthed and deep.
Not sweet this time.
Not soft.
You kissed him like you missed him too, like you hadn’t seen him every day. Like you meant it. Like every minute of silence between you had been a mistake you were now determined to fix with your mouth.
He let you lead, just for a moment.
And God, the sound he made when you pulled back just slightly, only to roll your hips forward, pressing down against him with a teasing grind—
A low, broken grunt spilled from his throat, half-pain, half-prayer.
“Jesus, baby…”
You smiled into the kiss. Innocent. Dangerous.
And did it again.
Joel’s hands gripped your waist like he was barely holding back. Like he was grounding himself. You felt the flex of his fingers through the fabric of your shirt—his shirt.
He pulled back, just an inch, breathing hard.
You shifted again, dragging your cunt over the firm line of his jeans, and Joel exhaled like it physically pained him.
He grunted and dug his fingers harder into your skin.
“You tryin’ to kill me?” he muttered again, trying to keep his classic deadpan delivery, but his chest was rising hard now, breath shallow.
You tilted your head, smiling innocently, biting the corner of your lip like you weren’t absolutely soaked and unraveling already.
“Why?” you asked sweetly. “What am I doing?”
He gave you that look—half narrowed eyes, half disbelief—like he could see straight through you.
You didn’t give him time to answer.
Just leaned in. Pressed your mouth to his.
Soft, at first.
Just a brush.
Then firmer, deeper—trailing kisses along his jaw, down the column of his throat, until you reached the warm patch of skin behind his ear that always made him twitch. You kissed it slowly, let your breath spill over it.
“You said you wanted my mouth,” you whispered. “Just trying to give it to you.”
Joel groaned. Just one low, wrecked sound from deep in his chest, like it cost him something.
You felt his grip slide lower, from the swell of your hips to the backs of your thighs, and then he rocked you forward for you.
One, slow drag.
Denim on cotton. Pressure exactly where you needed it.
Your breath hitched. “Oh—”
“Yeah?” he muttered, voice rough and fraying. “Then give it to me, baby. Just like that. Keep grindin’. Nice and slow.”
You whimpered. Didn’t mean to. Couldn’t help it.
So you did what he asked. What he always made sound like a command, even when he spoke soft.
You rolled your hips against him again. And again.
Each pass sent sparks shooting down your spine. Each brush of friction left you clinging a little tighter, breathing a little harder.
The TV flickered in the background, some commentator still droning about pass coverage or something equally irrelevant.
But Joel didn’t look away from you. Not once.
He kissed you again—messier now, more desperate.
His mouth opened against yours, tongue curling deep, hand still anchored around your thigh, keeping you pressed tight. Like if he let go, the earth might shift.
“This what you wanted?” he murmured, lips brushing yours between kisses. “Crawlin’ all over me in that damn shirt… knowin’ I was tryin’ to stay mad?”
You huffed out a breathless laugh, hips still moving, pace steady and deliberate.
“I was trying to apologize.”
“Tryin’ my ass,” he growled, biting the edge of your jaw. “You were makin’ it worse. Bein’ all soft and sweet… kissin’ on me like you didn’t know what you were doin’.”
You leaned in close again, breath mingling.
“Didn’t I say I was yours?”
Joel looked at you then.
Really looked.
And it hit you—like a wave crashing in all at once.
That stare.
That devotion.
That deep, simmering heat that lived behind his eyes, like he was fighting it every second just to keep it contained.
“Yeah,” he whispered, voice cracking. “You did.”
His hand slid up under the hem of your shirt, fingertips dragging slow and reverent across your stomach, then higher, like he was relearning every inch of you.
“Still tryin’ to stay mad,” he muttered, tone dry but unraveling. “Not doin’ a very good job of it.”
You grinned. Pressed your hips to his again. Harder this time.
Joel hissed through his teeth, hands tightening on your waist for just a second. Like he had to remind himself not to flip you over right then and there.
Because the truth was—he was just as mad. At himself. At the way he always snapped at you first before ever admitting how he felt. At how you knew how to twist him up without even trying. At how good you looked in his damn shirt.
At how fucking much he wanted you.
“Up,” he grunted.
“What?”
He didn’t explain. Just grabbed the hem of the shirt and tugged it up over your head, arms slightly rough but careful, like muscle memory had him treating you like something expensive.
You didn’t even get a second to tease him for it. Because the second your shirt hit the floor, he was on you.
Mouth hot. Open.
His mouth locked around your nipple like he’d missed it. Like it was a lifeline.
“Jesus—Joel—”
His only response was a low groan. One hand splayed between your shoulder blades to keep you pressed to him, the other still gripping your waist like he didn’t trust you not to float away.
The couch creaked beneath both of you. That ugly old brown one you always said he should’ve gotten rid of when you first moved in. But right now? The way he had you anchored in his lap, thighs spread, chest bare under his mouth—you would’ve worshipped that goddamn couch if it meant you got to stay right here.
He switched sides, mouth greedy now, and your head dropped back as your nails dug into his shoulders. He sucked, slow and deep, then grazed his teeth along the sensitive skin, a groan vibrating low in his throat when your hips rolled again—instinct, need, love, all tangled together.
He pulled back just enough to look at you.
Hair tousled, lips red, eyes feral.
You barely had time to register the look before he moved—swift and deliberate. One arm looped around your waist, the other shifting beneath your thigh, and suddenly you were airborne for half a second—
Then thud.
You yelped, a high, startled sound, as your back hit the couch cushions, Joel’s weight braced above you, one hand cupping the back of your thigh as he hiked your leg up and perched it over the armrest like it was his position and his idea.
Your hands flew to his chest, more out of instinct than resistance, heart thudding as he looked at you with that flat, unreadable Miller stare. The one that meant he was thinking something loud but saying absolutely nothing.
“Joel,” you warned, already breathless. “I just showered.”
He didn’t even blink.
“Yeah.”
His fingers were already sliding under the waistband of your shorts.
“And the game’s still on,” you added quickly, trying to hold onto a sliver of reality as your shorts started disappearing, Joel tugging them down like they were offending him.
Joel didn’t answer.
Just stared at you, flat and unreadable, that slow blink that always made you feel like he was assessing something. Whether he was going to tease you or be straight forward. Go gentle or go mean.
Then—his brow lifted. Just a slight arch, subtle, but smug in that way that made your stomach twist.
Your hips jolted as he tugged your shorts the rest of the way down—slow, unhurried—and left your panties on. Thin lace, soaked clean through. Like it was part of your punishment.
You shifted, instinctively trying to lift for him, to help.
He didn’t let you.
“Stay,” he muttered, pressing one broad palm flat on your hip. His other hand slid between your thighs, spreading them open with firm, heavy pressure, until you were open for him.
Then his mouth.
Hot breath dragging over fabric that felt thinner by the second. His tongue didn’t touch skin. It ran slow and warm across the center of you, pressing the soaked material against your aching clit.
You whimpered. The sound came out high and needy, and he smiled.
“Joel—” you gasped.
“You said the game’s still on,” he said, voice low and infuriatingly calm. His eyes flicked up to meet yours. “So we’re watchin’. Both of us.”
And then—finally—his tongue. Right through the center of you. A slow, deliberate drag that made your eyes roll back in your head. Your thighs clenched around his shoulders, hips bucking before you could stop them.
He paused. Pulled back. Looked at you with that lazy, lethal stare. “Don’t move,” he said, quiet. Dangerous. “Or I stop.”
You swallowed hard. “This is insane.”
Joel didn’t reply. He never did when he was in this mood—this controlled, razor-sharp space he sank into like second nature. He just bent again, licked over you with slow, measured cruelty. Tongue steady, pressure maddening. Over. And over.
You were soaked. The lace clung to you, sticky and wet. And he didn’t move it. Didn’t need to. He was teasing you through it, sucking at it like it was skin, like he had all day.
“Joel,” you whispered, hips twitching again.
“Watch the game,” he murmured, lips brushing right against your clit, his voice muffled by your body. “You’re fallin’ behind.”
You blinked at the screen, trying to focus, but everything was heat and static and him.
“What’s the down?” he asked.
You froze. “What?”
Another flick of his tongue—sharper this time. Precise. You choked on a moan.
“I said,” he said again, tone cooling, “what’s the down, baby?”
Your brain scrambled. “Uh—third?”
His brow quirked. “You guessin’?”
You hesitated. “Maybe?”
Joel sat back on his heels. Fingers hooked in the side of your panties, tugging them aside with infuriating gentleness. He leaned in again. One long, hot lick—bare skin now. Bare clit. Bare torture.
Then he pulled away. Sat there. Breathing you in. Looking at you like you were a meal he’d decided to starve just because he could.
You shook, panting. “Joel—”
“You don’t guess,” he said flatly. “You either know, or you don’t get to come.”
You whimpered. Full-body shiver. Nails curled into the couch cushion. Every muscle screamed for friction, for movement.
“Focus,” he said softly. Not kindly. “Get it right, or I’ll make you beg for more than just permission.”
You turned to the screen, vision blurred with tears and need. Some play was happening. You weren’t even sure what anymore.
Joel’s tongue met you again. Gentle, coaxing, relentless. And then—
“Possession?”
“Colts,” you gasped.
He hummed. A reward. His tongue flattened against your clit, slow circle, firm pressure. Just enough to make your breath hitch. You moaned, moved just barely, and he immediately pulled back.
“Nope.”
“What? Joel—!”
“You moved.”
“I twitched.”
“You moved,” he repeated. Cold. Decided. “Better learn the difference.”
You covered your face with your hands. “You’re evil.”
“I’m patient.” He brushed a single finger over your thigh. “That’s worse.”
You whimpered, again. And he didn’t stop.
The next stretch was agony.
He mouthed at you—sometimes slow, sometimes fast, always calculated. Just when your hips rose, just when your chest stuttered with that telltale gasp, he’d pause.
Then came the questions.
Flag on the play—what for?
Which quarter?
What yard line?
If you answered right—he’d reward you. Tongue firm and dragging. The kind of lick that made you sob.
If you answered wrong—he went silent. Kissed all around your thighs, letting his stubble drag out whimpers and pleads.
He didn’t speed up. He didn’t give in. Joel Miller had you mapped. He knew every twitch. Every inhale. Every desperate, clenching muscle.
He kept you on the edge for what felt like hours—until your eyes were glassy and your thighs were trembling. Until your nails had torn at the cushion. Until your chest was heaving and your panties were ruined, and you weren’t even watching the game anymore, just listening—but you couldn’t tear your eyes away from him. From his mouth. From his tongue tormenting you.
“Joel,” you begged, voice cracking open under the weight of it. “Please—please, I’m—”
“Score?”
Your mind scrambled, hands fisting the cushions. “Uh—24–21?”
Joel looked up at you from between your thighs. Smug. Ravenous. His mouth slick and glistening, chin wet with your arousal. His eyes held that gleam—that sharp, satisfied gleam that made your stomach flip.
“Good girl.”
And then he devoured you.
No teasing. No slow build. No more cruel, lingering licks meant to test your patience. He shoved your panties properly aside, and dropped his mouth to your cunt like a man starved—like he’d waited all damn day to rip into you and was finally cashing the check.
Your breath caught, then tore loose in a sob. You cried out, voice shattering in your throat as heat rolled over your body in waves. Hands flew to his hair—those thick strands you loved to grip—fingers curling in deep. Your thighs twitched around his head, instinctively trying to pull him closer, to anchor yourself to something as he wrecked you.
And fuck, did he wreck you.
His tongue slid through your folds with obscene pressure—long, deliberate strokes that left you soaked and quaking. Like every lick was a reminder: this was his. You were his.
His beard scraped deliciously against your thighs, the rough drag a perfect contrast to the wet heat of his mouth. His nose nudged against your clit with every stroke.
You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.
Joel groaned into you like the taste of you was everything. His hands gripped your thighs tight—bruising tight—thumbs digging in, keeping you open, helpless, exactly where he wanted you.
“Sound real sorry now,” he growled against your cunt, voice shredded and low. His tongue never stopped moving. “Should I keep goin’? Or you wanna get smart again?”
You sobbed. You sobbed, the sound barely human. Your legs clamped around him and your hips bucked wildly against his face.
“N-no—please—don’t stop—please—”
Joel laughed. A dark, amused sound, muffled by your cunt. He sounded pleased. Too pleased.
Then he flattened his tongue over your clit and dragged it slow. Long. Torturous. Like he knew how close you were. Like he could feel it in your thighs, in the twitch of your hips, in the broken way you moaned.
“Thought so,” he muttered.
And then you broke.
Your orgasm slammed into you like a huge wave. There was no slow climb. It hit hard—violent in its release—like your body had finally quit holding back and gave itself over to him completely.
Your mouth dropped open in a silent scream before the sound ripped free—raw and wrecked. You came with your whole body—hips jerking, thighs clenching around his head, back arching off the couch. Fingers yanked hard in his hair, like that was the only thing keeping you from flying apart.
And Joel didn’t stop.
Didn’t budge.
He kept his mouth on you like it was his right, his job, his revenge. Licking you through it, dragging it out until your thighs trembled and your hips jolted with every aftershock.
When he finally pulled back, your thighs were shiny. And you were boneless, panting like you’d just run a marathon barefoot.
Joel sat back on his heels, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, lick the rest off his lips, and gave you that look. The one that was from a smug husband who just made you weak from one orgasm.
“You cryin’?” he asked, brow arched. “Or just finally quiet?”
You blinked up at him, tears spilling from the corners of your eyes. Your voice was wrecked. “Need more—”
He tilted his head. “More?”
You nodded desperately. “Yes—please, Joel, I—fuck—I need it—”
He looked at you for a long, quiet second. Then glanced at your ruined panties, still moved off to the side, completely soaked through. Then back at your face.
He slid them off slowly with a firm grip on your ankle. They made a quiet, wet sound as they peeled off your cunt.
“Should make you wear these around the house after I’m done,” he muttered. “Let you feel how soaked you get beggin’ for it. Make you sit in your own mess while I watch somethin’ nice.”
You whimpered.
Joel smirked again. “What, that too much?”
You shook your head. “No—no, I want it.”
He leaned in, hand sliding up your bare thigh, settling heavy on your pelvis, thumb brushing between your folds where you were still sensitive and trembling.
You gasped. Twitched. Your hips bucked helplessly into his touch.
“Goddamn,” he murmured. “Look at you. Blissed out and still greedy.”
You whined.
And Joel—dear and evil—laughed low in his throat.
“C’mon, baby. Spread these legs wider. I ain’t done teachin’ you your lesson yet.”
You did as told. Because how could you not?
Your hips tilted, thighs falling open, and the pads of his fingers got better access as he barely brushed where you were soaked, and your hips jumped.
You let out a shuddery breath, squirming beneath his touch. “Please—”
“Please what?”
You swallowed, tried to speak, but your voice cracked in the middle of it. “I—I want your cock.”
That earned a low hum.
Joel tilted his head, eyes sweeping over you with that unreadable expression he wore when he was especially unimpressed.
“Yeah? Wantin’ don’t mean gettin’,” he muttered. “Don’t remember sayin’ you could ask for anythin’.”
Your cheeks burned. “Joel, I—I need—”
He cut you off with a sharp glance, fingers sliding between your folds in one slick.
“I said,” he growled softly, “you take what I give you. And you stay damn quiet.”
You whimpered again. Loud. Desperate.
And that was it. That was enough.
He reached behind him without warning, took your panties in his free hand, and before you could even react, he stuffed them into your mouth.
You gasped, muffled immediately, lips stretched around the fabric. You could taste yourself—warm, musky, sharp from where he'd worked you over earlier—and the moan that escaped your throat was pathetic.
Joel grinned. Not wide. Not gleeful. Just slow and knowing.
His hand cupped your jaw for a moment, thumb dragging across your cheek, eyes sharp as they bore into yours.
“Jesus,” he murmured. “Gettin’ worked up over your own mess. Filthy girl.”
You nodded because it was all you could do. Your thighs tried to rub together restlessly. Your hands twitched at your sides, unsure where to go, what to do with yourself.
Joel got up. Shifted his weight to sit back onto the couch next to you.
Then, without warning, he reached for you and dragged you into his lap. Strong arms wrapped around your waist and hauled you easily until your spine was pressed against his chest, your legs straddling his denim-covered thighs, your ruined panties still in your mouth.
The couch groaned under both your bodies, the old leather protesting with every shift—but you didn’t hear it. Didn’t care. Your brain was mush, your limbs boneless, your mouth still slack and wet around the wad of fabric he’d stuffed there minutes ago.
And then—Joel’s hand again.
Sliding down between your thighs like it belonged there. Like it had never left.
Two fingers pushed into you without warning. Thick. Slick. Deep. The stretch punched the air from your lungs and sent your hips jerking reflexively.
Your cry was strangled by the fabric in your mouth.
“Uh-uh.” His voice was low, right at your ear, slow and steady like he wasn’t the one wrecking you open on his lap. “You stay still.”
But you couldn’t.
Your hips moved anyway, rocking helplessly against his hand, the wet sounds obscene in the space between you.
His fingers curled inside you, just the right pressure against that devastating spot that made your back arch and your knees quake.
You choked on a moan, muffled and desperate.
“Goddamn,” he rasped, lips brushing your jaw as he fucked his fingers into you harder. “Can feel you clenchin’ already. Barely inside and you’re already fallin’ apart on me.”
You pressed your head back against his shoulder, trembling all over, thighs spread wide over his lap. The rough fabric scraped your skin. Your hands clawed at the front of his jeans, grabbing at anything, his belt buckle, waistband, seams, anything to keep you sane.
His pace quickened. His fingers drove up into you, every stroke sharp, confident, filthy. His palm was soaked, smacking wetly with each thrust, the heat of your arousal smeared over your thighs, your folds, your inner legs.
His thumb started to brush your clit. Fast. Tight little circles.
Your whole body jolted.
“Fuckin’ greedy thing,” he murmured, lips dragging against your neck. “Thought you were done cryin’. Thought I’d worn you out.”
You whimpered around the gag, back arching. Every muscle tight, electric.
Joel grunted softly, like the sound of you unraveling turned him on more than anything. “Dumb question,” he muttered. “Course you got more in you.”
You were ruined. The couch cushions beneath you were damp, and the mess between your legs was shameful, slick, and constant. Your thighs were shaking. Your jaw ached from the gag. Your body burned—hot and tight and strung out.
His arm stayed locked around your waist, holding you still, keeping you open. His fingers fucked into you relentlessly, slick and punishing, while his thumb dragged over your clit with merciless precision.
And then—
You came.
So fast, it blindsided you.
That coil inside you snapped, sharp and raw, and your whole body convulsed in his arms. Your thighs slammed shut around his hand, your spine bowed, and the scream that tore from your throat was strangled by cotton and spit.
You shattered—mouth wide, tears spilling, muscles spasming.
“Mm. There she is,” he said, low and warm like you hadn’t just come like you were dying. “Knew you had another one in you.”
You whimpered, boneless now. Arms limp. Head heavy against his shoulder.
His fingers slipped out slow, wet and obscene.
You let out a broken sob through your gag, and Joel just grinned, pressing a kiss to your jaw.
He shifted behind you—gentle now. No more teasing pressure. No more mean streak. Just a warm, solid wall of comfort at your back.
His big hand rested low on your belly, spread wide, thumb tracing little slow, aimless circles over sweat of your skin.
Protective.
Sweet.
Possessive.
He pressed a kiss to your shoulder. Bare skin, damp with sweat. His nose nudged you after, slow and unhurried.
One kiss. Then another.
Then one right behind your ear, soft enough to make your heart hiccup. You made a small sound, muffled by the panties still stuffed in your mouth.
Joel heard it.
“‘S’alright,” he murmured. “I got you. Just breathe a sec.”
You did. Or tried to. Inhale in. Exhale out. His scent wrapped around you—soap and salt and the heat of his skin. The TV was still on, some post-play analysis murmuring in the background, but it felt far away. Fuzzy. Like it didn’t matter anymore.
Joel reached up. Fingers brushed along your jaw. Then gently, he pulled your ruined panties from your mouth.
They came free with a soft, wet sound, and he set them aside without a word. You breathed in deeper, lips tingling, tongue dragging over them instinctively.
“You with me now?” he asked, pressing another kiss to the shell of your ear. “Hm?”
“Yeah,” you whispered, voice rough.
You felt his smile more than saw it—small, private. His chin dipped down, and he kissed your cheek. The side of your neck. Then your shoulder again.
“Did good for me,” he murmured.
Your lip quivered. “You were so mean.”
That earned a low sound in his throat—somewhere between a laugh and a hum. You could hear the apology in it, even if he didn’t say it aloud.
“Was I?” he asked. “Don’t remember hearin’ any complaints.”
“You gagged me with my own panties.”
He kissed the side of your mouth.
“You whined so damn loud, baby. Was the only way to shut you up.”
You huffed—weakly. No real fight in it.
“I was desperate.”
“You were perfect,” he said.
That quieted you. Completely. Because even with your hair stuck to your forehead, your thighs slick and trembling—you believed him. You felt it in the way he rocked you just slightly in his lap, grounding you. Felt how he loved you completely with no conditions.
Joel didn’t say shit he didn’t mean. He didn’t waste words. So when he whispered things like that—it hit hard.
You turned your head just enough to meet his eyes. He looked tired. Soft. His forehead rested against yours.
But even through all the love, you could feel it.
Pressed tight behind you, the warmth of his body steady, grounding—but his cock, straining hard against the thick denim of his jeans, throbbed like a barely-contained secret. And it wasn’t subtle, either. Not with the way you’d come apart for him, more than once, all over his tongue and fingers and the damn couch.
He was giving you a break.
Just like he always did.
Even if it cost him his own pleasure. Even if it meant sitting there while you trembled, thighs sticky and breath still catching in your throat.
Because Joel never asked for more than you could give. He knew your edges, every single one.
Where to push. Where to let you fall.
And right now, he was holding.
Letting you rest.
Even though his body was screaming to take.
That kind of restraint? It made your chest ache.
So you shifted—slow at first, experimental—grinding your hips back into him. Rubbing your bare skin against the rough denim of his jeans, where you knew he was aching, pulsing.
Joel groaned. Low and guttural, barely contained. His hand tightened on your hip like a warning.
“Baby,” he gritted out, voice hoarse, “I’m bein’ nice.”
You rocked again. Firmer this time. Your breath hitched when you felt him twitch beneath you. Big. Hard.
“Tryin’ to give you that break,” he went on, jaw clenched. “C’mon. Take it.”
Your smile was lazy. Satisfied. Almost smug.
“I had my break.”
He huffed. Short. Sharp. No patience left. “You sure?”
You turned your head a little. Just enough to whisper, “Yeah.”
Joel paused, studying your face to confirm you were sure.
“Alright.”
The next second, his hands were under you, lifting you like nothing, and you squealed, breathless as he turned your body with ease and planted you down again. Hips against the armrest this time, bare skin against leather, ass in the air, legs spread.
Vulnerable.
Exposed.
Ready.
You barely had time to breathe before he was behind you again—hovering close, hands sliding down the back of your thighs, thumbs digging in like he wanted to mark you there.
You felt the heat of him through his jeans. Still in control. Always in control.
He palmed your ass, slow and reverent at first. Then slapped it, sharp and deliberate.
You jumped. Moaned softly. Chest pressed to the armrest.
He did it again. Slower this time.
“So pretty,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Such a pretty ass for my pretty wife.”
You huffed, still breathless but unwilling to let him have the last word. “Pretty enough to make you lose your damn mind in a store.”
Joel made a sound. Something between a groan and a laugh. His palm skimmed over your ass again, this time lingering. Loving.
“Mm,” he drawled. “You think I forgot about that dress?”
“I think you stared long enough to memorize every inch of it.”
“Wasn’t the dress I was memorizin’,” he muttered, hand slipping lower. “You walked in front of me on purpose.”
You smiled against the armrest, eyes fluttering shut. “Sure did.”
Another slap. Harder this time.
“Goddamn tease.”
You moaned at that. Couldn’t help it.
Behind you, you heard the soft clink of metal. His belt—coming loose. Then the snap of his jeans as he unbuttoned himself one-handed, still keeping you pressed down with the other.
You craned your head, trying to look back at him. “You’re still dressed.”
“Yeah.” His voice was low. Dangerous. Warm. “And you’re not.”
The implication of that was everything. The unfairness of it. The intentionality.
You clenched around nothing, already needy again. You heard him sigh—a deep, throaty exhale like he was trying to keep his composure.
“You don’t even know what you do to me,” he murmured.
You smiled again, cheek resting against the couch cushion. “I think I do.”
Another pause.
Then the sound of his zipper lowering. Slow, easured and drawn out like a threat. Like a promise.
Your whole body tensed—not from fear, but from the kind of aching anticipation that made your skin burn.
“Joel—” you started, breath hitching.
“Shhh.” His mouth was close. Too close. The rough scratch of his beard brushed your cheek as he leaned in, voice pitched low and raspy—like it came from the center of his chest. “Lemme look at you…”
His palm braced against the small of your back, steady and firm, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.
His other hand?
Stroking.
You felt it—hot and thick behind you, heavy in his grip. The barest brush skimmed your ass, then slid down the curve with a slow, deliberate drag.
Then over the swell of your hip. Along the inside of your thigh. Everywhere but where you needed him.
Your breath caught. Fingers clenched the couch cushion like it was the only thing holding you to earth. Your knuckles ached. Your thighs twitched.
He let the weight of him trail over your bare skin. Lazily. Like he was painting you with it. Marking every inch of you with his cock before he even gave you the chance to take it.
You panting. Absolutely wrecked, your body overstimulated, used up, still trembling from two orgasms, but it didn’t matter. Not when Joel was like this. Not when his patience was more devastating than any touch.
“Joel—” you gasped, trying to tilt your hips back, desperate to catch the head of his cock, to line him up, to feel something. You missed.
He chuckled. Low. Pleased. Like you were performing exactly the way he liked. “Aw. Sweet thing,” he murmured. “You’re tryin’, huh?”
“Please,” you whimpered. “Please, just—just put it in—”
“Mm.” That small sound of false consideration. Barely interested. “You think beggin’s all it takes?”
You let your forehead drop to the cushion, gasping now, thighs spreading wider out of instinct. “It’s not fair,” you said, voice cracking with frustration. “You’re teasing—”
“That’s ’cause I can,” he said simply. Another drag of his cock, this time notched so close to where you needed him—almost there—and still he didn’t push forward. “And you like it.”
You shook your head. Tried to protest. Then he leaned down again, chest brushing your back, the rough cotton of his flannel rasping against your flushed, sweat-slicked back . His breath ghosted over your neck.
“You been good?” he asked, casual as anything. Like he was asking about the weather. Like you weren’t spread open and dripping for him.
You nodded, frantic. “Yes.”
He hummed, unconvinced. A kiss landed at the base of your nape. Warm. Unfairly tender.
“Don’t believe you.”
“Joel—”
“You wore that little yellow dress,” he murmured. His mouth dragged down your shoulder, slow and unhurried. “Knew exactly what it’d do to me.”
Your breath hitched. “You liked it, though…”
“I liked it too much.”
He shifted, and his cock slid down the inside of your thigh again, hot and impossibly slick from how ready you were. The head caught—just briefly—at the edge of your folds.
It was enough to make your spine jolt.
Joel grunted softly. Like the feel of you against him had snapped something loose in his control. “You wanna be filled up, baby?”
“Yes.” Your voice broke, wrecked and raw. “Yes—please—God, please—”
The hand at your back flattened. A warning. A reminder.
He just hovered. Let the head of his cock rest there, heavy and perfect, teasing your entrance, just existing. Threatening.
“You look real pretty like this,” he murmured, dragging a hand down the curve of your spine. “Bent over. Waitin’. Drippin’.”
You were panting now. Shaking. Your hips trembled with need.
“I’m ready,” you whispered.
He laughed—low. Dark. A little cruel, a little sweet. Like he couldn’t decide whether to fuck you or worship you.
“I know you are,” he said.
You felt it. The tip of him, thick and flushed, pressing just barely where you needed it most. The promise of relief, right there—
And then he paused.
“Say thank you,” he commanded.
You whimpered. Nearly sobbed. “Thank you.”
His voice dropped, a growl at your ear. “For what?”
Your legs shook.
“For—fuck—baby—”
“Say it.”
You shut your eyes, mouth trembling, chest heaving. “Thank you… for making me feel good.”
The words left you hoarse and broken. Quiet and sincere. Your voice barely made it past the pounding of your pulse.
But Joel heard it. He always did.
A beat of silence. A low grunt.
He pushed in.
All at once.
Your breath left you in a broken gasp, your spine arching hard as he filled you deep, impossibly deep, the stretch so intense your hands scrabbled against the couch for anything to anchor you.
“Jesus,” Joel hissed behind you, voice ragged, gravel thick in his throat as he started to rock back and forth. “Always so fuckin’ tight after you come.”
You whined. Couldn’t help it. Could barely hold yourself upright with the way your body shook, stretched full and pulsing around him. It felt like he’d taken everything—what was left of your breath, your bones, your reason—and replaced it with him.
He was so warm. So there. One braced at your waist, holding you in place like he was scared you’d float away.
You reached for it.
Blindly. Desperately. Your left hand stretching back, trembling midair, searching behind you for something that made this real. Something solid.
You didn’t even have to ask.
Joel’s hand found yours. Rough, warm fingers threaded between yours, locking down. Anchoring. His palm enveloped the back of your hand like a promise.
And that’s when he broke.
You felt it in the tremble of his exhale, the way his hips faltered for just a beat before crashing into you again, harder, deeper. A growl built low in his throat—raw and breathless, cracked at the edges.
“Goddamn,” he muttered, tightening his grip on your hand. “I’ll never get over this.”
You whimpered. “Joel—”
“Our rings,” he gritted out between his teeth, his thrusts jolting your whole body. “Your fingers on mine like that—fuck.”
He didn’t stop moving.
Didn’t slow down.
But the rhythm had changed. Something deliberate in it now. Like every thrust was a vow.
He shifted forward, chest brushing your back, his weight covering you now, thick denim scratching against your thighs. His breath was hot at your ear.
“That ring, baby,” he whispered, voice shaking now. “Means you’re mine when we’re like this. Means you chose me.”
You squeezed his hand.
“I’ll always choose you,” you whispered.
He pressed his lips to the back of your shoulder, soft and fleeting, like he couldn’t let himself be gentle for long without unraveling.
You cried out when he bottomed out again, your body clenching down instinctively. The sound tore from your throat was high, open, and honest.
He held your hand tighter. Like it was the only thing tethering him now.
You could feel his wedding band press into your skin as he gripped your hand. Could feel your own—twisting slightly on your finger as his thrusts jolted you forward and pulled you right back again.
You were trembling. Overstimulated. Barely here—but that grip in your hand kept you grounded.
“You love this,” he whispered, nose brushing behind your ear, breath hot. “Love when I take my time. Love when I make you earn it.”
You nodded—shaky, frantic. “I do. I do, Joel—”
He kept driving into you like he wasn’t done yet. Like he needed to finish what he started and brand the memory of this into your bones.
“I give you everythin’, baby,” he muttered, fingers flexing in yours. “All day long. Every day. You know that, right?”
You gasped, nodding. “Yes—yes—”
“So when I ask you to wait,” he said, still going, “when I tease… make you beg…”
He pulled your hand further, dragged it down the curve of your stomach, placed it flat over your own belly, his on top.
“This is what I’m thinkin’ about.”
You couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe.
“You. This sweet body. Mine.” He grunted the word, thrusts getting sloppier, chest heaving behind you. “You wearin’ my ring, cryin’ for my cock—”
“Joel,” you gasped, throat burning, hips jolting with every punishing thrust. “I can’t—”
“Yes, you can,” he snapped. “You will.”
And God help you, you did.
The orgasm hit like a truck.
Your whole body seized. You went rigid, then loose, your limbs jerking helplessly as pleasure tore through you—raw, electric, and far past the point of sanity. Your vision blurred. Your knees buckled.
Joel didn’t stop. Didn’t even slow down.
He just adjusted his grip, dragged you up against his chest, and kept going, growling low in your ear.
“You think I’m gonna let you go now?” he breathed, his arm banded tight around your waist. “After that? After the way you fuckin’ beg for it?”
He pushed in deep and held, breath shuddering. His hand slid down between your legs, fingers toying with the mess he’d made of you.
“Look at this,” he muttered. “Look how good you take it. How fuckin’ ruined you are.”
You whined—pathetic, needy. Your whole body was trembling, oversimulation taking over, heart jackhammering against your ribs. And Joel…
“Gonna fill you up,” he grunted, pace stuttering. “Gonna come so fuckin’ deep you feel me for days.”
Then you heard him groan. It hit all at once—warm and hot and so thick inside you, it made your stomach twist.
Joel kept pushing. Grinding. Emptying everything into you with his jaw clenched and breath stuttering.
You cried out—overwhelmed, stunned, mind white-hot and blank. It was all too much. Too much heat, breath, heartbeat, and sweat. The air around you thick and quiet, like the house itself had stilled to make space for what just happened.
Your cheek was pressed to the couch, your chest heaving. Your knees trembled where they’d gone weak. Your fingers were still laced with his, though neither of you had moved.
And he was still inside you.
Or maybe it just felt like he was. The weight of him, of what he’d just given you, settled so deep, so complete, it didn’t feel like something that would leave anytime soon.
Then you felt it. His breath on your spine.
A kiss.
Just between your shoulder blades. Warm and lingering.
Another, lower. Then one to the side of your neck, his lips pressing into the flushed skin like they had all the time in the world.
“You okay?” he murmured.
You nodded. Couldn’t speak yet. Could barely think. But God, you leaned up into him.
Shivering a little, your muscles twitching, nerves frayed, but still chasing every brush of his mouth. You could feel him softening in you, feel the shift in his breathing, calmer now.
His nose brushed the back of your neck. “I didn’t mean to go that hard,” he murmured, lips grazing your skin between words. “You always just—fuck. You bring it outta me.”
You closed your eyes. Your hand found his again, right where he’d dropped it at your hip. You tangled your fingers, holding him.
“You okay?” he asked again, a little lower this time.
“Mmhm.”
He chuckled, just under his breath. “That all you got in you?”
“Don’t make me talk, Miller.” You hummed, too wrecked to laugh.
Another kiss. Your shoulder this time.
“I’m serious,” he said, quieter now. “You need water? Blanket?”
“Maybe… a new back,” you whispered.
He laughed for real then. Low and breathy. God, you loved that laugh.
“Smartass,” he murmured.
Joel pulled out slowly, quiet and attentive.
You winced. A soft inhale through your teeth. Your whole body trembled once, a shiver slipping down your spine like your nerves hadn’t figured out that you were done.
And then you felt it.
Warmth. A slow trickle between your thighs.
Joel stilled behind you. You didn’t have to look at him to know he was watching.
Closely. Intently. Probably with that smug, twitchy-lipped expression he wore when he was trying not to look smug.
“Don’t,” you warned, voice hoarse as you buried your face into the couch cushion. “Don’t say a word.”
Silence.
Then: a short huff. Half a chuckle. A shake of his head. “I didn’t say anythin’,” he muttered.
You lifted your head just enough to side-eye him. He was standing now. Somehow still put-together while you were bare and wrecked in the living room sunlight. His belt hung loosely open, jeans low on his hips, cock still out.
He looked down at you like you were the prettiest mess he’d ever seen.
You sighed, every limb jelly. “Joel.”
“I’ll get somethin’,” he said simply. Voice flat. Not unkind—just Joel.
And then he was gone, disappearing down the hall. You took a breath. Stood up slowly. Very slowly.
“Oh—shit,” you whispered, biting your lip as you shifted your weight to maneuver around the couch to sit. The movement sent a dull ache radiating through your thighs and lower back. Everything between your legs was sore. Sticky. Tender.
Your arms wrapped instinctively across your chest—not out of shame, but because your skin felt loud. Touched in every sense of the word.
You looked around your living room. The way the sun hit the hardwood. The TV was still playing, now with an ad that was sponsoring some new water bottle.
And there you were. Naked. Blown apart. Sitting on a couch you complained constantly about.
Great.
Joel returned with a warm towel in one hand and a bottle of cold water in the other, zipped up and looking a tad bit flushed. He handed you the towel first wordlessly, and you took it with a whispered, “Thanks.”
He didn’t move far. Just leaned a hip against the armrest and waited. You cleaned yourself slowly.
Carefully.
The towel was soft and warm from the dryer. You pressed it between your legs and flinched, hips jolting at the sting. Not pain, not exactly. Just the rawness..
And God, the mess. You breathed through it. Wiped slowly, trying not to tense up, trying not to think about how full you still felt.
And Joel watched.
Not in a way that made you feel exposed. Like he was giving you the space to care for yourself, but couldn’t stop making sure you were okay.
When you were done, you dropped the towel back into his out stretched hand. He handed you the water next. You drank.
“Better?” he asked.
You nodded. “Yeah. Just sore.”
“Figured.” He stepped away and returned a second later with a folded t-shirt and another pair of cotton sleep shorts. He didn’t hand them to you, just set them gently beside you on the couch. “These’re clean. I’ll throw the rest in the wash.”
Joel dutifully went around the living room, picking up each of your discarded clothes. His fingers brushed over your panties on the opposite end of the couch, and you swore a smile crossed his face. He then disappeared back into the hallway.
The shirt he gave you was soft and worn—another one of his. Still smelled faintly of him and laundry detergent. You tugged it over your head slow, your limbs still limp, body aching in all the right ways. The cotton shorts were better. And, importantly, clean.
You sank down onto the couch with a quiet exhale, limbs folding in like you’d melted. The TV was still droning on in the background—some post-game commentary, pixelated stats dancing on the screen.
You grabbed the remote with the tips of your fingers and clicked around until you landed on something quieter. Comforting. Just background hum. A house-hunting show, with soft music and couples debating backsplash options.
You should’ve stood up. You should’ve gone to the kitchen. Started the water. Chopped the garlic. That was the plan, wasn’t it?
But your body wasn’t listening. It was sunk deep into Joel’s shirt—your shirt now—and your limbs were humming, still, faint echoes of everything he’d done to you not even five minutes ago.
And then you heard the washer click on down the hall. Then the creak of the floorboards. The sigh of the hallway. Joel’s footsteps, low and even, approaching from around the corner.
He rounded the corner, changed into a plain black t-shirt and sweatpants, his hair still slightly damp from where he’d splashed his face.
You glanced up, already reaching for the armrest to start pushing yourself up.
“Joel, I need to start on the pasta—”
“I’ll handle it.”
“You don’t even like making pasta.”
“I like you not passin’ out in the kitchen ‘cause you’re too stubborn to sit down.”
You huffed, flopping harder against the cushions. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Uh-huh,” he muttered, already heading for the kitchen. “And you’re gonna be walkin’ funny, so maybe hush.”
You covered your face with your hands and groaned.
God, he was impossible.
But you didn’t move. You stayed curled on the couch while he rummaged through into the bags, found the pasta box, clattered the pot onto the stove. You heard him muttering about the olive oil again. He never remembered where you kept it, even though it hadn’t moved in five years.
The water started to boil. You caught the smell of garlic—strong and sharp, mixing with the citrus of the countertop cleaner he must’ve wiped up with after.
He was humming now. Quiet. Just a line or two of something—sounded like it was from the radio. You couldn’t quite place it, but the low timbre of it settled in your ribs like a lullaby.
You peeked over the back of the couch.
Joel stood barefoot at the stove, spoon in one hand, your favorite chipped mug full of water in the other, waiting for the timer to go off. The sunlight caught on the edge of his watch. Alongside that, his wedding band glinted.
Your chest squeezed.
It hit you like it always did after days like this—when your body was sore, and your heart felt wrung out, and the house was quiet. That ache of love. That sense of this is real. This man. This home. This life. Five years of inside jokes and laundry folded wrong and everything in between.
You leaned your cheek against the back cushion and watched him for a moment longer, smiling softly to yourself.
You then tell yourself it was fine to just let Joel do it—to lay back, enjoy the pleasure of being cared for, every ounce of soreness earned and every bite of pasta lovingly stirred by the same hands that’d destroyed you.
But the moment he muttered something about not being able to find the damn colander—again—you were already on your feet.
You padded into the kitchen slow, your knees sore but steadied. The ache between your legs was sharp, but not enough to stop you. You leaned against the fridge for a beat, watching Joel try to juggle both the spoon and the strainer.
He clocked you instantly. Didn’t even turn, just said, “No.”
You blinked, faking innocence. “What?”
“I told you to sit down.”
You reached up and grabbed the block of cheese from the grocery bags. “Just grating cheese. I’m not building a deck.”
He turned slowly, eyes narrowing. “Gratin’ cheese turns into settin’ the table, then stirrin’ the sauce, then fillin’ glasses—”
“I’m just grating,” you repeated, fighting back a smile as you pulled the grater down from the cabinet and got to work.
He groaned under his breath. “You don’t listen to a damn thing I say.”
“No,” you chirped. “Not a one.”
He went back to stirring, jaw working like he was biting back whatever scolding he wanted to give you. You didn’t look at him—just grated slowly, deliberately, watching curls of cheese pile onto the plate.
There was a silence as you both worked. Only the sound of water bubbling and voices of a couple decided between city or suburban life echoed between you both. Then, quietly, you placed down the cheese and grater, and stepped around him
You didn’t say anything at first—just looped your arms around his neck from behind and pressed a kiss to the nape of it, right where his skin was still a little warm.
“Hey,” you whispered.
Joel sighed. “You’re ‘pose to be gratin’ cheese. Why are you kissin’ me?”
You smiled, let your lips trail to his shoulder, pressing soft kisses there through his shirt. Then another. And another.
One to his jaw. Another to the spot just behind his ear.
Finally, he turned—just enough to glance at you out of the corner of his eye. “What’s all that for?”
You leaned in, pressed your forehead to his shoulder.
“I love you,” you murmured. “And all your little grievances.”
He stilled.
“…Grievances,” he repeated, flat.
“Mhm.”
His brow twitched. “The hell does that mean?”
You grinned against his cheek. “Just sayin’ I love all the Joel-isms. The stuff you complain about every day.”
“Complain?”
“Yep.”
He turned now, fully, the spoon still in his hand, water boiling quietly behind him. “Like what.”
You counted on your fingers. “The thermostat. The towels being folded ‘wrong.’ Your mystery colander you keep misplacing. People who park too close to your truck. People who walk too slow at the store. Mushrooms—”
“I hate mushrooms.”
“Exactly,” you laughed. “And you complain about them like they’ve been made to spite you.”
“They are,” he grumbled, but his mouth twitched.
You kissed him again. This time slower. Right on the lips. Your fingers hooked behind his neck now, your body slotting up against his.
“And I love all of it,” you whispered.
He was quiet for a beat.
Then: “Even when I get pissy ‘cause you wear that dress to the grocery store?”
You grinned against his mouth. “Especially then.”
Joel huffed, but he was smiling now, really smiling, that quiet, softened version of it that only ever showed up at home, when no one else was around to see.
You rested your cheek against him again. Let him hold you.
The water boiled behind you. Garlic and tomatoes scented the air. Mushrooms in a pack laid unopened.
But neither of you moved.
Because some grievances could wait.
It’s official, Tumblr hates me 😭. A girl can’t write fan fic in peace without having to gut her work to fit the 1000 block limit.
Can you guys tell I'm obsessed with domestic Joel?? I love all the requests that ask me to do Joel when he's your husband/boyfriend. Hehe...
Anyway, I hope you guys enjoyed this! Just letting you guys know my requests are still open!!
ellievsbear
prguitarman
gracieabrams
pixelskylines
baratheonpilled
yousharknotpass
dailybridgerton
vaporwave
germansingergirl
