uh this is my secret blog to save all my fav filthy fics lol Mostly character/reader stuff these days, including RPF Some but not all fandoms: Bandom (IYKYK Peterick) Marvel MCU (Thorki) Sherlock Holmes (NOT Sherlock but other versions lol) The Batman (Bruce Wayne/Batman) The Witcher- Geralt of Rivia (Henry Cavill also) The Last of Us- Joel Miller (Pedro Pascal also) The Sandman
Set in a brothel in the late 1800's in a desolate desert town, you've only been working there for a month when Din Djarin shows up. A bounty hunter who makes his stops into town between jobs, he's known at the inn for his generous appetite and demanding preferences. Asking for you to be made available to him every time he's in town, neither one of you is ready for where this requests leads.
Rating: Explicit af - it's a brothel, friends 🥰
A/N: This is a complete revision of the previous story I posted in 2020. The original story was the very first thing I ever wrote, and this revision is truly the labor of love it deserves. Nothing is going to be removed from the original story -- this is an expansion and improvement on the original, hopefully for the better. To everyone who has been here since the first chapter all the way to the new readers -- I hope you enjoy! ❤️
--
The first time you see him in the brothel, you call dibs.
With your eyes fixed on the way his throat moves when he swallows his drink, the madam laughs.
“You’re too sweet for that one. He needs more experienced girls.”
From across the room, the two of you size him up together – your face curious, hers more knowing.
“He’s more generous than you’ll ever meet when it comes to money,” she confides, leaning in close. “But his appetite and size are also generous.” A lewd smirk graces her lips. “I’m not sure you’re ready.”
Giving her a skeptical glance, your eyes go back to the man. He pushes back from the worn bar top, tipping his head in a silent thanks to the bartender. Broad shoulders tightly encased in a worn but clean jacket, holsters slung low on his hips, trail dusted boots. Following his loose, confident gait up the stairs, you take in the way he moves with surety up the staircase, disappearing into a room.
“Wait. What do you mean, “his appetite”?” you question, turning back to the madam, but she’s already gone, cooing over someone else playing cards nearby.
Giving one last glance at the door of the room he went into, you plaster on a smile and make your way towards the crowded tables.
--
The next time he comes into town, the madam tells him you’ve been asking about him.
The settling of quarries, the payment of services, the collection of flyers among other useful pieces of information – he’s fresh from the sheriff’s office, his sparse patience running even thinner. His replies have become near one word responses while he drops a few coins towards the barkeep, in payment for a hot plate of whatever is available.
“Is that so,” he asks, tipping his hat in thanks when the plate is set in front of him. A glass of whiskey is poured next, followed by a tin cup of water.
“Well,” she asks, leaning on his shoulder. “What do you think of her?”
Spearing a bite of food, he chews while his dark eyes study you from across the bar. Chatting with another girl, your face breaks into a smile at something she says.
The madam’s head tilted in appraisal, her tone is thick with the sweetness of someone trying to sell their wares. “All the men love how sweet she is.”
“Sweet?” he questions, skeptical. Swallowing his whiskey in one go, he sets his glass down on the bar, giving her a side-long look. “I don’t think sweet –”
“Oh, hush,” the madam replies, swatting his shoulder with a fan. “Besides, the girls you had last time moved on. It’s been a while since you’ve been around.” She nods in your direction. “Give her a try. I think you might like her.”
–
He has a routine, the madam tells you.
“Always two girls, always a bath first.” Opening the door to your room, she strides in, gesturing to a table in the corner.
A girl of twelve scurries behind her, a maid. Placing clean towels down and laying a fresh bar of soap on top, she gets to work on filling the copper tub. The madam straightens the blanket on your bed, and you inwardly laugh. Like that thing stays straight.
“Always the whole night, and the next day,” she continues.
“The next day?” Gracie asks, her brows raised. “He keeps going?”
You laugh at the impressed look on Gracie’s face, and she gives you a wink.
“Most men only get an hour,” she muses. “He must be really generous if he gets the whole night.”
“The next day isn’t for him,” the madam replies. “It’s for you, so you can rest.”
Scooting the girl out of the room with an affectionate swat on her behind, your face sobers, and it’s Gracie’s turn to laugh.
“Oh, please,” she rolls her eyes. “They’d all like to think themselves so good.”
The madam gives her a knowing look. “You’ll see.” She starts towards the door, then turns around. “He’s one of our best customers. Make sure you give him what he wants.” With those final words, she shuts the door behind her.
You immediately turn to Gracie.
“Think we bit off more than we can chew?” you tease, trying to hide the sudden nerves in your stomach.
She waves your worries away. “We would have heard about him sooner if he was a rough one.”
That’s true. There are rough ones, and they are well known among the girls.
One of the most popular girls since her start at the brothel, Gracie has been by your side since you started. Up for anything, she wasn’t fool enough to think she had actual agency in this world, but the little she did have, she used to the full extent. She knew she could reduce these men to nothing with the roll of her hips on theirs, with the whisper of her sweet words – and so she did. She didn’t take anything too seriously, and you loved her for it, especially in contrast to your natural inward nature.
“I’ve only ever seen him that one other time,” you reply, testing the water with your hand. “Have you seen him before?”
“No. I would have remembered one like that. He is a handsome thing,” she replies, fixing her hair in the mirror. “He’s got tall, dark and mysterious written all over him. A bit dirty,” she shrugs, “but do at least he’s asking for a bath. More than most before they crawl into bed.”
Scrunching your nose, you agree.
“I’m going to get ready,” she says. “Get him in the tub, and I’ll be back. Try not to have all the fun without me.”
Blowing you a kiss, she slips out of the room.
Without the distraction of others, you fuss with the tub until it’s filled with hot water, steam curling above the surface. Shampoo, pitcher, basin. Towel draped to the side, and a sack for him to put his clothes in. The inn ran a laundry service that overnight visitors took advantage of, and you weren’t sure if he was the type to trust others with the clothes off his back, but you prepared for it just in case.
Everything ready, you slip into a silk shift that skims your curves, and try to recall the anticipation and bravery you felt when you called dibs. The warning the madam gave has rattled you, and you wish Gracie were here to help distract. She’d help you shake the nerves free, crack jokes to help clear the tension from the room.
Finding yourself fiddling with the edge of the blanket, you huff a laugh at yourself before a sharp knock has you straightening.
He enters, and your greeting is automatic.
“Hey there,” you smile with practiced sweetness. “Come on in.”
He tips his head in acknowledgment, and all bravado you had when you called dibs disappears, slowly replaced with hesitation.
He’s so much bigger in your small room than he seemed downstairs in the main room, especially with the door closed. So much more intimating, his silence making it even more so. The amount of weapons on him doesn’t help. Hip holsters with two pistols, ammo slung low across his hips and attached to one of his boots.
He looks dangerous – until he lifts his hat from his head, uncovering rumpled, dark brown curls. Dirty from weeks in the saddle, the sight of them is surprisingly vulnerable and helps take the edge off his appearance. He looks softer with them, even while working his holster open next, placing the heavy weight of his guns over the back of your chair.
His silence is unusual. Most men are vocal, demanding, crass. They come in and take what they want, knowing full well they only have an hour to get it – though most of them only need about ten minutes. They are full of boasting pride, of rushed lust, or in the worst instances, poorly disguised condescension. They paid for the hour, which means they paid for you. It comes with a natural assumption that your body is theirs to do as they please, and it often brings loud-mouthed attitudes with it.
Piquing your interest, the man in front of you says nothing, continuing to get undressed.
Maybe he wants seduction. Come on, you scold yourself. Give him what he paid for.
You stand, the thin strap of your shift slipping down off your shoulder. “Want some help?”
Stepping closer, you tilt your chin up to meet his gaze.
It’s unforgiving, but not unkind. Bold, unashamed, assessing. His eyes are a deep brown, almost black in the dim, romantic light of your room. Fringed with thick lashes, creased at the edges from the sun, showing evidence of living life in the saddle. A strong nose, a pouty mouth, a dark mustache with scruff that covers his cheeks.
Handsome. Definitely handsome.
He continues to look, curious, with a slight lift of his chin like he’s testing you. A natural arrogance, you assume, from having to navigate the rough world outside. There is a thrum of tension between your bodies, one you don’t usually feel with customers. Unsure if it’s his quiet confidence, or just his handsomeness you’re drawn to, you use it to bolster your own forwardness.
Standing on your toes and bracing yourself on his chest, you lean in, whispering just under his ear. “I heard you like to get clean…so you can get me all dirty.”
Pulling back with a mischievous twinkle in your eye, you let your touch slip down the front of his shirt. “That true?”
He waits a beat before answering, his darkening eyes rovering over your face as his expression relaxes slightly, the corner of his mouth lifting. Like you’ve passed his own silent test.
“It is,” he answers, in a rough baritone.
“Well then,” you reply. “Let’s get these clothes off.”
Keeping your eyes on his, you start with his vest, working the buttons free one at a time.
–
He waits in the bath, watching as you undress. His arms stretch wide along the edge of the tub, his broad chest and shoulders taking up space. Admiring the quiet strength held in the way he holds himself, you smile at the naked hunger clear on his face as you climb into the tub, lowering yourself onto his lap.
“So,” you make conversation, “What do you do?”
“I’m a bounty hunter.”
Your eyebrows raise. “Sounds dangerous.”
“For some.” The reply reeks of confidence, of the implication that he isn’t one of the people he’s referring to. Relaxing, he sinks lower into the tub, closing his eyes.
“How long has it been since you’ve had a bath?”
A low sigh of relief slips out of him, his voice low. “Too long.”
Lathering the soap, you start with his hand, slipping your fingers between his. You work each finger, comparing the size of your reach against his. His palms are rough and calloused, worn from handling rope. Massaging as you go, you work your way up – over his thick forearms, up along the muscles in his arms. Your fingers dig into the firm rounds of his shoulders, and he lets out a grunt of appreciation.
Sneaking a peek at his face, you’re startled to find him openly looking back at you. His dark eyes rake over your face and shoulders, dipping low and sweeping back up. His expressions – lust, blended with curiosity – aren't guarded at all, like he’s not used to hiding them, and you suppose his job has made him this way. The sensation is unfamiliar, and unmooring. Most don’t care enough to look as much as he has. None have ever studied you the way he has, that’s certain.
You swallow, reaching for the soap again.
“I’m not going to hurt you.”
The bar in your hands, his blunt words make you look up, meeting his eyes. He is earnest, sincere. His statements have been blunt and to the point since he’s walked into the room, with right now being no exception. And somehow, that lets you know he’s telling the truth.
Your own practiced expression slips before you can catch it, open vulnerability displayed on your face before you quickly reel it back in.
“I know,” you reply, though you don’t – and he knows it.
His head tilts to the side, waiting. Patient, letting you come to your own decision. After a beat, you dip your chin in acknowledgement.
Confirmation at your reassurance, he closes his eyes and leans back, letting you continue.
The tension broken, you resume. The quiet makes the situation seem so much more intimate than usual; the trickling of water, the soft sweep of your touch over his skin. Your thumbs work the base of his throat, your palms sliding over his firm chest. The sparse collection of hair along his sternum catches suds, and you soap under his arms, and along his ribs; his body releasing tension with every smooth glide of your hands.
You can feel him harden underneath you, but he does absolutely nothing about it…and for some reason, that makes you relax around him even more. You can feel the evidence of how much he wants it, have heard from the madam how demanding he can be…but yet he waits, savoring this part. You suppose weeks without a bath will do that to a person, and you’re determined to reward him for the wait.
Pouring shampoo into your palm, you lean forward to start on his hair. Pressing your bare front against his own, the sensation gives you your first real reaction since he’s entered the room – a low hum of appreciation, deep from within his chest. Lifting the corner of your mouth with a smile, you become bolder, and let yourself slide down, dragging the pressed weight of your slick breasts over his skin.
He lets out a shaky breath, and dropping his hands from the edges of the tub, they find the meat of your hips under the water with a squeeze. Lifting onto your knees, you lean your weight into him again, lining your front with his. Breast to chest, stomach to stomach, hip to hip – the sensation of his firm, warm, wet skin pressed against your own has you distracted for a moment before you slide your fingers up through the curls at his nape, working the shampoo into his hair. Your nails drag across his scalp, your fingers twist in his curls, and he simultaneously melts underneath your touch while tightly bundled tension rises between you.
“Feel good?”
“Yes.” His answer is immediate, low with desire. His hands squeeze your hips, hard, and he kneads your skin under the surface, his touch becoming bolder. Stretching his arms to reach your ass, he grabs greedy palmfuls, tugging you against his lap.
The warm weight of desire fills the cradle of your hips, and reaching for a jug to rinse the shampoo from his hair, you yelp when he surprises you by gripping your waist to hold you in place and sliding down to submerge himself underwater. Suds float to the surface as he quickly scrubs the soap from his hair, and when he sits back up, you’re laughing – a sound that brings the first smile you’ve seen on his face. It’s quick, yet no less devastating, with two deep dimples in his cheeks that make you want to press your thumbs into the divots.
A smile that makes you want to kiss him.
Wiping the water from his face with a broad sweep of his palm, he slicks his dark strands off his face and the effect is startling. Still handsome – so handsome – but the vulnerability of the rumpled curls is gone, replaced with dominance. The hunger in his hooded eyes darkens, and feeding off the tension gathering between your bodies and greedy for another groan or smile, you grab the soap.
Arching your back, you put on a show as you reach behind and slide your soapy touch up the length of his legs. Over his shins, behind his knees, up the top of his thighs. Stopping short right before his groin, you straighten again and reach the soap, but he plucks it from your hands.
“Hey!” you protest, biting a grin.
Keeping his eyes on your face, you watch as he slowly lathers it between his large hands and lets it drop into the water before splaying his hand across your sternum. Whether it’s the hold itself or the way he’s looking at you, you sense the shift of power in the small space as it transfers to him. Sliding his hand to the side with an appreciative hum, he palms your breasts, covering them with soap. He cups the weight of them, smearing his thumbs over your nipples with a slippery glide until they pucker under the suds, teasing them with exploring, needy touches that have you arching your back, leaning into his touch.
Desire trickles down from the tight peaks along your spine, settling between your hips. Slick and warm, you begin a slow roll over his lap and dip your hand beneath the water in search of his cock. When you find it with a firm grip, he sucks in a sharp breath.
“You ready to get out yet?” you breathe, your hand stroking him root to tip. He’s thick, a heft to his cock that is more than most and your cunt clenches with anticipation. The space between you is filled with steam, with the slick warmth of the water, with the weighty charge of electricity. He swallows hard, the bob of his tanned throat calling for your lips and leaning forward, you press your mouth to his skin. Warm and wet and fragrant under the press of your mouth, you open up wider, your tongue slipping out for a taste.
The sound he lets out is delicious.
A rough scrape of need, a low growl as his touch grows needier, his hands scooping up your breasts with a squeeze. The soap aids in a slide of his touch down to your hip, his other hand curling around the nape of your neck as he guides you back, and your neglected chest heaves; your hand still working under the water.
You want him. A rare feeling with clients, always fleeting on the rare occasion it happens, you can taste the edge of your arousal, the spark of it burning bright. He’s handsome, but there is also something about his patience and his attentiveness that has you feeling more comfortable than you have in ages. Usually, at this point, you’d be faking your interest just to get the hour over with. Right now, you’re surprised by how much you want it.
“You just gonna stare at my mouth, or —“ Your words cut off with a gasp when he drags his thumb over your bottom lip, your question finishing in a whisper. “Or are you gonna kiss me?”
Pulling you in, he does. Fuck, he does.
The first press of your mouths together is sure and firm, his need leading your mouth. He tastes you like he’s been dying for it, like you’re an oasis in the middle of the desert. Fitting your mouth against his, he devours the whimper that you let out, drinking it down. His hands splay in their hold around your waist, sliding up over the smooth skin of your back and abandoning his cock to scoot closer, you wind your arms around his neck, deepening the kiss.
Grinding down against his lap, the steamed air above the bath fills with the sound of ragged breath, of low groans, of the gentle lap of water as your mouths taste and part, only to seal again. He meets your need with his own – savoring, full sweeps of his tongue over yours, kisses that are lazy until they’re not. Breaking the kiss to taste your neck, his teeth scrape over the delicate skin before he sucks, groaning against your throat. His tongue smears over your skin, and you reach for the soap, wrapping your arms around him to wash his back.
“Stop, he groans, his lips brushing against your skin, and you pause.
“You don’t want me to wash you?”
He growls low in his throat, cupping your jaw with his hand. He slides his thumb over your lips again, pushing against their plush softness and when you suck on the pad, his eyes fixate on the sight. He shakes his head slowly, his tongue sliding over his bottom lip.
“I want you to get on that bed, girl.”
Girl.
The word should be demeaning, but it’s not. It slips through your torso, shivers along your spine, the weight of it curling low between your hips. The word is like the man – forcing you to yield. He’s been lying in wait this whole time, letting you believe you have the advantage until you get comfortable, letting you come to him…just like you assume he does with his quarries. You fell for the trap, and you don’t even care.
Scrambling out of the tub, he follows you — and that’s when Gracie walks in.
“Oh,” she breathes, openly appreciating the size and breadth of his nude body. Her eyes drag down and back up again, a pleased smile playing at the edge of her lips. “Aren’t you a sight.”
He jerks his head towards the bed. “Get in here.”
“Whose in charge here, mister?” she teases, and he replies without hesitation.
“I am.”
“Yes, sir,” she coos with a little shimmy, shutting the door behind her.
–
That night, you learned who he was.
Not only his name – Din Djarin – which was exchanged in the middle of the night, with your body draped over his, but who he was, as a man. Blunt, straight forward, used to being in charge. Your bodies sore, spent and sated – he had spent hours putting you through your paces, and your eyelids were as heavy as your limbs as you relaxed into the warmth his bare skin radiated.
Gracie curled into his other side, the reasoning behind two women became evident after that first night: he was touch-starved, with the desire to be immersed in skin to skin, buried underneath someone or within them. Two women at once allowed him this luxury, while also providing him ample resources to expend his excess...energy.
You also learned that he seemed to care about your pleasure. Needed it, in fact. Demanded it from you, pulled it from your body even when you thought you couldn’t give him any more. He pushed and pushed and pushed you, and that night, you understood the madam's earlier comments.
He didn’t seem satisfied until you were just as wrung out as he was, and afterwards, he left you sated and sore, thoroughly used – and thoroughly asleep.
He had spoken to the madam before he left the next morning.
“I always want that one. Make sure of it.”
–
Since that first night, he’s shown up a few times.
Always weeks apart: saddle weary and dusty, worn around the edges and ready for a softness that only you could provide.
Tonight, when he gets to your room, you’re already in the bath with Gracie perched on the side, soap and rag in hand. You take turns with him: you, washing his body from your seat on his lap, Gracie leaning over to offer her mouth. His kisses are demanding and deep, his hands reaching to hold her in place while his mouth tastes everything she gifts him. When you interrupt to wash his hair, he shifts to you, cupping your breasts to latch that same hungry mouth onto the peaks. The swirl of his skillful tongue is distracting, decadent, and a hum pours from your throat when his nose brushes along the length of your neck, his mouth sampling the hollow under your ear. His hand travels down your back and over your hip, his thick fingers pressing between your legs.
“I’ve been dreaming of that cunt of yours,” he confesses, his voice like gravel. You can feel how hard he is beneath you, his middle fingers parting you under the water, sliding through the slick wetness he’s pulled from you already. “Let me taste it.”
It doesn’t take long until he stands, pulling you from the water and guiding you backwards onto your bed with a push.
“You’re going to get my bed all wet – oh my god,” you moan, arching into the wet heat of his mouth. From the bath to his knees, he’s found his way between your thighs with a rough jerk of your body to the edge of the mattress. His shoulders spread you wide, his mouth devouring your cunt in a wet, decadent kiss. Gripping behind your knee, he shoves it up to open you up wider, and his tongue smears and licks across your spread center as he groans, savoring the taste.
Kneeling on the floor next to him, Gracie wraps her hand around his thick cock with a stroke, an action that has him pressing his face closer. He’s messy, open mouthed and hungry, like he’s starved for it and you roll your hips against his greedy mouth, losing yourself in the sensation.
She strokes him harder, faster and breaking his kiss to your cunt, he circles the nape of her neck, tugging her in for a kiss. You watch, his glistening mouth meeting hers, his other hand still splayed with a grip on the inside of your thigh to hold you in place. Slipping your fingers down across your soft belly, you find your clit and swirl a practiced circle over it – until his hand swats yours away.
“It’s mine,” he orders. “That cunt belongs to me.”
“Then take care of it like it’s yours,” you challenge. Your tone is sweet and soft, but the lift of your chin tells him it’s an order.
He likes the way you push against him, you’ve come to find out. His need to make you submit is only satisfying if you push back, if you play at fighting against it. It needs to feel hard won for him, but not in a way most men like to win. Not with harsh, demeaning words and cruel orders. No – he needs to overpower with pleasure, needs to make you succumb because you can’t fight it anymore. Begging, pulling against restraints, pushing against the weight of his body as he forces you to take it – those are the ways he likes it.
Giving you a look that pins you in place, he spreads you wide as his hands grip and pinch. He bends, his mouth sucking and biting at the soft skin of your thighs, soothing it with wide sweeps of his tongue. Your head tips back, a moan pouring out of your throat towards the ceiling and you feel the bed dip beside you as Gracie crawls onto it. Reaching over to you, she tips your chin towards her and pulls you in for a kiss.
She’s so much softer than the man at your feet: her lips lush and pliant, her breath sweet. Her hand cups your breast with a gentle squeeze, toying with the peak while taut pleasure fills the cradle of your hips. His eyes on your face, you can feel his possessiveness in the way his mouth devours, and the combination of her sweetness mixed with his intensity pushes you closer and closer to the edge. The attention is all consuming, your thighs trembling with the release he’s building deep inside you. Breaking away from Gracie, you beg him for relief.
“Fuck – Din,” you moan, threading your fingers through his dark curls with a tug. Letting yourself drop back into the plush mattress, you reach for Gracie as he moans into your spread cunt, and she holds your hand while your back arches, your heels digging into the firm muscles of his back. “I’m – you’re going to make me cum.”
Your voice breaks when you do, a bright wave of taut warmth spreading from your core outwards. He licks you through it, sliding his tongue through the gush of wetness, focusing his efforts on your swollen clit. Your hips jerk and you whimper, a sound Gracie hushes with another kiss.
Focused on her and still floating, you don’t notice he’s stood up until you feel his sure hold slide up over the top of your shins, guiding your knees back against your chest. He steps forward, and you can feel the thickness of his cock pressing against the slick dip of your entrance.
“You ready, girl?” he asks, grinding his hips into you. His breathing is ragged, pent up, his chin glistening and wet.
You can feel how soaked you are, his movement smearing your wetness into the curls at his base, over his thick shaft. He positions the weighty, blunt tip of his cock in place, groaning when he feels you clench against it. When he breaks you open, your lips catch against Gracie’s, your hot whine fanning over her mouth.
He’s so much – so filling, so thick, the slide inside so satisfying it makes you want to cry. He reaches further than most, pushing forward with a grind and though Gracie has your mouth, he leans to focus your attention on him. Pulling out and sliding back in with a firm roll of his hips, he breaks your kiss with a grip of your chin, forcing you to look at him.
“Look at me,” he commands, another slide out, another grind in. Another, another. Trying to match your rhythm with his, you can’t move your hips with how he has them pinned in place, forcing you to take it.
“So –,” he hisses, pulling out to slide back in, “So fucking wet. So tight,” he groans, picking up pace. You bounce lightly with the motion; the muscles along his ribs rippling with the action. “Gracie, look at her gorgeous tits. They look neglected to me.”
The smile she gives him is affectionate and sweet, though the situation is anything but. Crawling to you, she bends and licks a wide stripe up the soft underside of your breast, before giving it a lingering kiss.
“Din –,” you beg, arching into her wet mouth. He’s already building something low in your tummy, ratcheting it higher with every thrust of his hips, even higher with the unrelenting grip he’s using to pin you in place.
Gracie switches breasts with a wet path from one to the other, nibbling at the stiff peak of your nipple. The two of them work in tandem: her sweet mouth with his unrelenting pace, her softness paired with his strength.
She pulls back and Din bends forward just enough to give you a rough, hungry kiss, one that has your knees pressing into your chest and then he’s fucking down into you, his hips pounding into your ass, your mouths hovering over each others as you drink down his panting, ragged breaths –
“Gracie,” he tells her, a soft grunt between each word, “Show me your fingers. That’s right,” he praises her, as she dips them inside herself with a sigh. “Get yourself nice and wet for me – you’re next.”
Out of the corner of your eye, you can see Gracie rolling her hips against her hand, her soft thighs spread wide, the silk nighty she’s wearing twisted around her torso while her eyes glaze over watching him fuck you.
You whine underneath him, earning yourself a quick, breathless kiss. “You can take it, girl. I know you can.” He gives a couple of particularly rough thrusts, groaning over your higher moan. “Go ahead, girl. Tell her how good it feels. Tell her –”
Before he can get the words out, you pull his head down to seal his mouth with yours, breaking again underneath him with a hoarse moan. Stronger and more intense than the last one, your cunt squeezes him so hard you feel him stutter a grunt against your mouth, trapped in place. Everything is so wet: your sore cunt, his lap, the sweat that clings to his lower back and along your hairline, the kiss you share with him, as you come down from your peak.
Pausing to let you catch your breath, he’s tender with his touches, brushing your sweaty hair back from your face. “You did so good for me girl. So good,” he murmurs between kisses. Giving a final caress to your cheek, he gently eases himself out of you. “You stay there and rest – it’s Gracie's turn.”
So tender and soothing with you, his rigid cock betrays his yet unsatisfied need as he shifts his focus to her. She looks delighted at the sight – a desperate Din, his muscles rigid with tension, his stomach taut with effort. Limp and pliant, you lay still while he gently eases your thighs open with a sweep of his hands to look at your cunt. His expression clearly torn between tasting the sticky, slick mess you’ve made for him and leaving you be, he wets his bottom lip, before sliding two fingers through the mess, feeding it to Gracie.
Radiating dominance and tightly wound need, he watches as she sucks on his fingers like it’s nourishment, scrambling up on her knees to pull him towards her. He jerks the neckline of her nighty down, palming her bare breasts with a squeeze and her hand reaches for his cock, eager for him to fill her. Pushing her backwards, the bed bounces with the weight of their bodies falling together and bracing himself on his forearm, he reaches down to slide into her in one, brutal stroke. One hand fisting into the bedding over her head and the other roughly massaging her breast, the flesh of it spills out between his fingers as he pounds into her, needing to be rough.
It’s a lot, even for her — but you can tell she loves it. Worked up and waiting for her turn, her fingers dig into his ass, pulling him into her as her hips grind against his. Reaching for her wrist and pinning it into the mattress above her head, he presses his weight into the hold while his hips shove into hers, over and over.
Everything about the way he fucks is so filthy and base. Almost feral, frantic with need. He demands so much from both of you, but also of himself. Edging himself until he’s exhausted. Seeing just how long he can go and how many times he can make you come before he allows himself the same pleasure.
“What do you think, girl?,” he asks, looking over at you. “Can she take it?”
Gracie moans loudly at a particularly rough thrust and he turns back to her, clamping his hand tight over her mouth while continuing to push her further. Her dazed eyes widen above his broad hand before rolling back, her brow bunching when they slide shut.
Pressing a kiss over the top of his hand where her lips would be, he shushes her. “Shhh. It’s okay, filthy girl. I thought –” he groans, “ – I thought about making a mess of your pretty little cunt, but I – fuck – I think I want it in your mouth instead.”
At this, Gracie comes – her legs squeezing tight around his waist, her whines still muffled by his palm as her body arches underneath him. Digging her fingers into his bicep, he holds himself still as she sobs underneath him, trembling with her release.
At the edge himself, he pulls out of her and quickly climbs up over her body, he pinching her cheeks together until her mouth opens up. Fisting his cock with an audible stroke, he rests the tip between her lips and cums, hard.
There is so much of it. Coating her lips and tongue, his release pours into her mouth, dripping down her chin. She sits up, eager for more, swallowing him deeper and he hisses, his hips jerking forward to chase the wet heat. She looks up at him with a warmth of adoration, eager for praise, as his hands cradle her jaw while his hips roll lazily against her mouth. Staying there until he’s too sensitive, he slips out and slumps forward, catching himself on the bedframe.
“Fuck me,” he pants, the tension in his muscles slowly ebbing away. Sluggish, he moves like he’s drugged and the two of you shift on the bed to make room for him. Him in the middle, he gathers you into his arms, while reaching back to ensure Gracie is tucked tight behind him.
The first time he held you in his arms, you fell asleep immediately, exhausted from all he demanded from you. He slept like the dead as well, finally being able to let his guard down. Tonight, you resist the urge to close your eyes, savoring the warm weight of his arm curled around your waist, and the firm, solid tuck of his body behind yours. Delicately tracing his knuckles, you think about how no other man has ever held you like this. So used to them taking what they want and then leaving, you know you shouldn't get too attached or read too much into it…but it’s nice, the weight and comfort of his warmth.
In the small hours of the morning, you wake to the sensation of his nose gliding up the nape of your neck, his lips peppering kisses along the top of your spine. The room is dark, before dawn, and rolling over to face him, you see Gracie curled up behind him, dead to the world.
He’s achingly soft with his handling of you: sweeps of his palms over your soft skin, kisses that have you aching for more. It’s hard to see him in the darkness of the room, but that only makes every sensation more heightened. You focus on other senses: his low, rumbling hums, the heat of his skin, the taste of his mouth. His hand teases down the slope of your body, finding a home between your legs. Cupping your cunt, he preps you to take him again.
Swirls over your clit, fingers slipping inside to draw out slick wetness. Bringing the digits to his mouth, he coats them thoroughly with his saliva before bringing them back down to your cunt, easing them into you.
Half awake, everything feels like a dream, saturated with sensation. The weight of his body on yours, the filling push of him inside. His warm breath ghosting over your skin, the press of his mouth along your jaw.
“You’re such a good girl,” he murmurs, his forehead sliding against the soft skin on your shoulder, inhaling the scent of your skin. “You always take me so well. You make me feel so good.”
Your fingers thread through his curls, guiding his mouth to yours for a kiss. Deep, just like his achingly slow thrusts inside of you. Deep, like the aching feeling in your chest at his tenderness.
Swallowing your moans, he breaks the seal of your mouths just long enough to make whispered promises in the dark: that he’s going to come back in a month, that some day he’s going to settle down in this town. That someday, he’s going to build a house and take you home with him, just to keep you all to himself.
At the last promise, you let out a quiet laugh, tipping your head back into the pillow as he runs the bridge of his nose against your throat, nuzzling the soft skin.
“They all say that,” you tease.
You feel him smile. “Yeah, you’re right.”
Knowing that he’s going to have to leave soon, you shift your focus on giving him everything he asks for – your legs hitching high on his hips, your thighs squeezing him tight as he rocks into you, deeper, harder. With every grinding slide, he makes you repeat his words back to him, each statement sounding needier than the last:
No one fucks me like you do.
I can’t think about anything else when you’re deep inside me.
I’m your girl. Only your girl.
When you both come, he rests his head on your chest for a while, listening to the rapid thrumming of your heart as you stroke his soft hair away from his temple. The sun begins its ascent outside, the room slowly becoming hazy with dawn.
With one last kiss for you, and a kiss placed on Gracie’s temple, he pulls himself from the bed.
You watch as he searches for his clothes, his belt, his boots.
Your eyes sliding shut, you listen to him slip from the room, shutting the door with a soft click as you roll over into Gracie’s warm heat and go back to sleep.
Ooooh oh my god. I still think about this from reading it the first time years ago. This is the perfect time to “reread”. Can’t wait to live through this beautiful story again.
Description: A heavy, multi-chapter-style angsty Geralt x Sorceress!Reader fic. Tracking the journey from years of devoted love, to the devastating betrayal in Rinde with the Djinn, the painful echoes during the dragon hunt, and a destiny that refuses to die. Features a deeply guilt-ridden Geralt, a heartbroken reader, supportive Jaskier and Ciri, and Vesemir acting as the ultimate anchor. Warning: Contains high angst, emotional betrayal, and explicit/smutty descriptions of Geralt's infidelity with Yennefer.
Part I: The Foundation of Centuries
The rain in Maribor did not merely fall; it wept, slicking the cobblestones of the filthy, narrow alleys with a greasy sheen of soot, offal, and blood.
You found him crumpled against the rotting timber of a tanner’s shop, his breath coming in shallow, wet rattles. A manticore’s venom was a hideous thing, blackening the veins of even a mutated witcher, turning his blood to thick, sluggish tar. Normal men died within minutes; Geralt of Rivia was merely taking his time.
"Don't... touch," he had growled then, his golden eyes blown out, nearly entirely swallowed by pitch-black pupils. He had raised a hand, slick with his own gore, a pathetic attempt to form the Quen sign.
You hadn't listened. You had knelt directly into the foul puddle of rainwater and mud, your fingers already alight with the pale, warm gold of elemental chaos. When your palms pressed against his leather brigandine, the magic didn't flash or explode; it seeped inward, a steady, deliberate hum that mimicked the deep, resonant vibrations of the earth itself.
"Quiet, witcher," you had whispered, your voice a stark contrast to the thunder rolling overhead. "Your hearts are failing. Let me find their rhythm."
That night in Maribor became the first chord in a symphony that spanned decades. As a sorceress whose magic was rooted not in the detached academic theories of Aretuza, but in the raw, primal currents of the earth, your senses were a beautiful, agonizing curse. You did not just see Geralt; you felt him.
Over fifty years, you learned the intricate geography of his body and soul. Your supernatural hearing, a byproduct of your deep attunement to the world’s vibrations, could isolate the precise cadence of his dual heartbeats from miles away through a crowded market or a dense forest—a steady, comforting thump-thump, thump-thump that became your personal North Star. You knew the exact, sharp scent of his skin when an ambush was brewing; the heavy, ozone-and-leather musk of his exhaustion; and the sweet, rare warmth of his skin when he looked at you in the dark and allowed himself to be vulnerable.
The Path became yours as much as his. You didn't ride in carriages; you rode a bay mare named Mist alongside Roach. You shared silent, freezing nights by campfires in the swamps of Vizima and the peaks of Redania. While he sharpened his silver blade, you would weave your elemental magic with his muted witcher signs, strengthening his Igni with a breath of pure oxygen, or tethering his Yrden to the literal bedrock beneath his feet.
"You're too good for this life," he had murmured one night in the forests of Temeria, his fingers tracing the faint glow of your runes as you mended a tear in his cloak. He had leaned his forehead against yours, his breath warm against your lips. "Too good for me."
"I am where I choose to be, Geralt," you had replied, capturing his mouth in a slow, deeply grounded kiss that tasted of pine smoke and devotion. "You are my anchor."
"And you are my peace," he had whispered into your hair.
Until Rinde.
Part II: The Djinn and the Window
"I just wanted some peace! A bit of quiet! Is a decent night's sleep and a warm bath too much for a man of my immense talents to ask?!" Jaskier wailed, his voice echoing shrilly across the misty riverbank. He was dripping wet, swearing in three different dialects as he dragged a heavy, encrusted, water-logged amphora out of the reeds.
"Jaskier, put it back," Geralt growled. He was standing a few paces away, his boots squelching deeply in the thick mud as he wiped the grease from a freshly slain drowner off his silver sword. "It's old. It's bound. Nothing good comes out of the water in these parts."
You stood on the higher embankment, your boots sinking into the wet moss. Suddenly, the air grew violently thin. The fine hairs on your arms stood on end as a sudden, oppressive spike in the ambient magic hit you like a physical blow. The earth beneath your feet felt hollow, suddenly stripped of its natural resonance. "Jaskier, drop it," you commanded, your voice sharp with genuine alarm. "The seals on that clay are ancient. It’s heavy magic—unbound chaos."
"No! I'm going to open it, and I'm going to demand a lifetime supply of finest Redanian wine and a estate in—"
Crack.
The bard, clumsy and impatient, slammed the base of the jar against a jagged river rock. The ancient, brittle clay shattered into a dozen pieces. For a fraction of a second, there was absolute silence. Then, a violent, roiling column of violet and magenta smoke erupted from the shards, screaming with the sound of a thousand tearing metal sheets.
Geralt lunged forward, his witcher reflexes kicking in as he reached to yank the screaming bard away from the vortex. But as he grabbed Jaskier’s doublet, his palm sliced deeply across a massive, jagged edge of the broken vase still stuck in the mud. Blood, bright and thick, welled from the deep gash, mixing instantly with the dark, churning river water.
Within seconds, the violet smoke didn't dissipate; it coiled, intelligent and malicious, wrapping itself tightly around Jaskier’s throat like a physical noose. The bard’s eyes went wide, bloodshot and terrified, as his neck visibly began to swell. His airway constricted with a horrifying, wet clicking sound, choking out his breath entirely.
"Geralt!" you cried, throwing yourself down the muddy bank. Your hands lit up instantly, a brilliant, golden aura blooming from your palms as you pressed them to Jaskier's chest, trying to force elemental air directly into his collapsing lungs, trying to ground the hostile magic into the earth. "My magic isn't breaking it! It’s a djinn, Geralt! It's an ancient seal, and it's angry. It’s feeding on his essence. We need an external specialist—someone who forces djinn magic through sheer willpower, not alignment."
"Rinde," Geralt gasped, clutching his bleeding, sliced hand against his chest, his own face pale as he watched his friend suffocate. "There's a mage there. Council decree... took up residence. Yennefer of Vengerberg."
You felt a sudden, ice-cold dread settle deep in your stomach at the name, a primal instinct warning you of a storm you couldn't weather. But you looked at Jaskier, whose lips were turning a terrifying shade of blue, and you nodded. "We ride. Fast."
Finding Yennefer of Vengerberg in Rinde was easy; dealing with her was a descent into a specific kind of hell. She was breathtakingly beautiful, sharp as a broken glass shard, and entirely, pathologically consumed by a desire for power. She looked at Jaskier’s affliction not with mercy, but with the calculating gaze of a scientist finding a rare specimen.
While you worked frantically in the cramped, damp lower rooms of the grand estate, channeling every ounce of your elemental energy into keeping Jaskier's fading vitals stable, Yennefer was already weaving her web. She saw the djinn not as a threat, but as her ticket to godhood. She lured Geralt upstairs, into the master bedchamber, intent on using the witcher’s mysterious connection to the creature to capture it for herself.
Suddenly, the house began to tear itself apart.
The foundations groaned. Pure, unadulterated Chaos shrieked through the floorboards, shattering the fine porcelain downstairs and cracking the stone arches. You could hear it—your ears, attuned to the earth, felt the very stones of Rinde screaming. Up above, the djinn was thrashing, turning Yennefer’s ambition into a death trap.
Realizing that the raven-haired sorceress was about to be obliterated, torn atom from atom by a creature she possessed no right to control, Geralt did the unthinkable. He didn't use a sign. He used the final, lingering breath of the blood-seal on his hand. He used his final wish.
Through the roaring wind, your supernatural hearing caught the exact, gravelly timbre of his voice, echoing through the rafters:
“I wish that our fates are bound... yours and mine.”
Downstairs, your heart physically stuttered.
It didn't just hurt; it felt as though an iron fist had reached inside your chest, grabbed the invisible, golden thread of pure, choice-driven love that had connected your soul to Geralt's for half a century, and snapped it with the force of a thunderclap. The sudden, violent void left behind made you drop to your knees, gasping for air that felt like liquid lead.
When the magical storm finally cleared, the silence that followed was deafening, heavy with the scent of ozone and crushed lilies.
Trembling, your chest hollowed out, you forced yourself up. You rushed up the splintered, broken stairs, a weakly coughing, newly healed Jaskier stumbling behind you. You reached the upper landing and stopped just outside the shattered bedroom window, looking through the ruined timber frame.
Inside, amidst the swirling dust, falling plaster, and splintered wood of a collapsed canopy, Geralt was on his knees. But he wasn't looking for you. The magic of the wish was thick in the air, a sickening, heavy, artificial perfume of gooseberries and tart lilac that choked out his natural scent entirely.
Before your eyes, as if possessed by a fever that burned away his very identity, he reached out. His large, scarred hands pinned Yennefer of Vengerberg against the ruined, silk-covered mattress.
You watched, entirely paralyzed, your breath catching in your throat as he tore his heavy leather armor away with a desperate, frantic impatience. His hands—the very same hands that had held your face with such reverence just days ago, the hands that knew every curve of your body—gripped Yennefer’s pale hips with an unbridled, desperate, animalistic lust.
He buried his face in the crook of her neck, a low, guttural, feral groan escaping the depths of his throat as he drove into her, hard and unyielding. Yennefer arched her back off the ruined bed, her eyes wild, her long black nails clawing violently at his scarred shoulders, crying out in an ecstasy born entirely of a forced, unnatural destiny. The wet, rhythmic, frantic sounds of their sudden coupling filled the ruined room, bouncing off the broken walls.
A ragged, choking sob caught in your throat. Your spectacular hearing, the curse of your magic, amplified every sound. You heard the slick, wet friction of their skin; you heard the breathless, frantic gasps of a witcher losing his mind to a spell; you heard the scratch of his heavy chest hair against her smooth skin.
It was a total, absolute desecration of everything you had built.
Jaskier reached out, his hand trembling violently as he caught your shoulder from behind, his face pale with horror as he realized what was happening through the broken frame. "Y/N... don't look. Oh gods, Y/N, please, come away. Don't look at them."
Tears, hot and silent, streamed down your face, washing the plaster dust from your cheeks. You looked at the bard, your eyes completely dead, your voice a hollow, shattered whisper. "Tell him it's over, Jaskier. Tell him he chose."
Without waiting for a reply, without letting out another sound that would betray your agony, you raised your hand. A swirling, deep blue vortex of elemental portal magic tore open behind you. You took a step backward into the light, and vanished into the cold, quiet night, leaving the sickening scent of lilies behind.
Hours later, the sun was beginning to peek through the ruined roof when Geralt finally emerged from the room. He was adjusting his leather vambraces, his movements slow, his yellow eyes clouded and dazed, as if waking from a heavy, drug-induced sleep. He scanned the ruined courtyard, his nose twitching, looking for a scent that wasn't there.
He only found Jaskier, sitting on the bottom stone step, holding his lute like a shield, looking older and more tired than the bard ever had.
"Where is she?" Geralt asked, his voice rough, a sudden, sharp spike of anxiety piercing through the lingering haze of the wish.
Jaskier stood up slowly. For the first time in his life, there was no joke on his lips. His blue eyes flashed with a rare, furious, unadulterated contempt. "How could you? How could you betray her like that?"
"Jaskier, the djinn... it was tearing the place apart. She was going to die—"
"We saw you, Geralt!" Jaskier shouted, his voice cracking as he pointed a trembling finger up at the shattered window. "She saw you! She heard everything! Every single wet, miserable thing you did to that woman while the smoke hadn't even cleared! She was downstairs saving my life, and you were up there... gods, Geralt. She’s gone. She told me to tell you it's over. You threw away fifty years of real, true love for a fucking spell."
Geralt froze, the words hitting him like a silver blade to the chest. The color completely drained from his face, his dual hearts hammering a frantic, erratic rhythm against his ribs as the heavy, suffocating weight of what he had just done finally crashed down through the magic.
Part III: The Dragon Hunt
The months that followed were a perpetual, grey fog. Geralt lived like a ghost. The unnatural, magnetic pull of the djinn's wish constantly dragged his thoughts, and sometimes his boots, toward Yennefer. Yet, his true soul felt violently, catastrophically orientation-less without you. He was a man split down the middle, bleeding out from an invisible wound.
When Borch Three Jackdaws recruited him to join a ragtag caravan for a dragon hunt in the mountains of Caingorn, Geralt had sought distraction. He didn't expect to find both of his ghosts in the exact same camp.
Yennefer was there, radiant, cold, and sitting amongst the roguish Reavers of Crinfrid like a queen.
And there you were.
You were sitting by Sir Eyck of Denesle’s fire, wearing sturdy traveler's leathers, your hands wrapped around a wooden mug. Your eyes were fixed entirely on the dancing flames, your posture straight and unyielding. You didn't look up when Roach whinnied. You didn't look up when his heavy witcher boots crunched on the gravel. You completely ignored the White Wolf’s existence, treating him like nothing more than a passing breeze.
Geralt stood in the center of the camp, paralyzed, his heart tearing violently in two separate directions.
Two days into the grueling trek up the rocky mountain passes, the sheer, suffocating tension broke him. Driven by a desperate, agonizing need for comfort, or perhaps seeking answers to the toxic, burning magic that constantly twisted in his chest whenever Yennefer was near, Geralt slipped into her tent under the cover of a freezing mountain rain.
"Geralt," Yennefer murmured, her violet eyes dark with a sharp, possessive desire as she looked up from her furs.
"Yen..." He didn't talk. He couldn't. The words tasted like ash.
Instead, he lunged forward, pushing her down onto the heavy furs. He knew you were in the camp. He knew, with a sickening certainty, that your spectacular, curse-like hearing could catch the slightest rustle of the canvas through the quiet night air. Yet, the unnatural allure of the wish, combined with his own fractured, miserable psyche, drove him forward like a man possessed.
He took her roughly, his movements frantic, loud, and borderline violent—a desperate, doomed attempt to drown out his own roaring conscience. The small tent quickly filled with the heavy, cloying scent of gooseberries and sharp musk. The sounds of their shifting bodies, the heavy thud of his knees against the earth, and Yennefer’s loud, uninhibited, echoing moans pierced right through the fabric of the tent, vibrating into the quiet mountain air.
Across the camp, inside your own small tent, you sat upright on your bedroll. You pressed your palms over your ears so hard your knuckles turned white, but it did nothing. Your supernatural senses betrayed you, delivering the crystal-clear audio of his betrayal straight into your mind. You heard every gasp, every familiar moan he used to reserve for you, every slap of skin against skin.
You wept silently, the tears burning your eyes, as the final, tiny piece of your heart that had somehow survived Rinde was thoroughly crushed into dust.
The next morning, the mountain collapsed into absolute chaos. The Reavers, the knights, and the magnificent gold dragon clashed on the precipice of a deadly gorge. Despite the bitter venom humming between the three of you, when the steel was drawn, the muscle memory of a lifetime took over.
You, Geralt, and Yennefer fought side-by-side. It was a deadly, breathtaking trinity of steel, earth magic, and violet chaos. You shielded his back from an axe; he deflected a spear meant for your throat; Yennefer blasted a line of Reavers into the rocks. For a moment, the rhythm was perfect.
But during a breathless, sweating lull in the combat, a massive boulder came crashing down from the upper ridge. Geralt lunged, yanking Yennefer back into his chest, his large hands lingering heavily on her narrow waist. In the heat of the adrenaline, with the dust still settling around them, he leaned down and kissed her—deeply, thoroughly, his mouth desperate and possessive, right in front of you.
You stopped casting. The golden runes fading from your fingertips as your hands dropped limply to your sides.
When the dust finally settled and the Reavers were thoroughly defeated, the three of you stood in a tense, suffocating triangle on the narrow mountain ledge, the wind howling around you.
Geralt turned, his yellow eyes wide with a sudden, panicked realization as he saw the absolute emptiness in your face. He took a frantic step toward you, his hands open. "Y/N... please. Let me explain. You have to let me explain."
"Explain what, Geralt?" you interrupted. Your voice wasn't loud, but it was deadly quiet, cutting through the roaring mountain wind like a razor blade. "Explain how you threw away decades of real, earned devotion for a djinn's cheap trick? Explain how you laid with her in Rinde while my heart was snapping in two? Or maybe you want to explain last night?"
Geralt winced, flinching back as if he had been struck across the face with a silver blade.
"Did you think I couldn't hear you?" you continued, a bitter, broken laugh escaping your lips. "I heard every breath, Geralt. I heard every lie you whispered into her skin while I sat thirty paces away. I felt the earth shake beneath your choices."
"I... I can't help it!" Geralt choked out, his fists clenching so hard his gauntlets creaked. "There's something... an iron band around my chest, pulling me to her. You need to understand... I love you. My soul knows you. But with her, I can't think, I can't breathe, I can't—"
"Then choose, Geralt," you demanded, the tears finally spilling over your eyelids, hot against the freezing mountain air. "Look me in the eye, right now, and choose. Her or me. No magic, no excuses. Choose."
Geralt looked at you, his yellow eyes begging for mercy. Then he looked at Yennefer, who stood a few paces back, her arms crossed, her purple eyes unreadable, guarded, and cold. The magical tether of the wish pulled violently at his sternum, dragging him toward the raven hair, while his true, original heart bled out on the stones before you.
He looked down at his boots, his broad shoulders slumping in total defeat. "I... I can't. I can't explain why, but I can't break it. I can't choose."
A bitter, profoundly tragic smile touched your lips. "Then I’ll make the choice for you. It's over, Geralt. Truly and completely."
You turned your back on him and began the long, solitary walk down the steep mountain path. Geralt reached a hand out, his throat tight, his lips moving soundlessly, but the wish held his boots in place. He let you go.
Later that evening, sitting around a small fire in the cavern, Borch Three Jackdaws—now back in his human guise—looked across the flames at Geralt and Yennefer with ancient, deeply pitying eyes.
"You both are absolute fools," the golden dragon stated bluntly, tossing a stick into the embers. "You sit there, wrapped in your brooding silence, thinking this burning, toxic passion between you is something grand. Something real. It is nothing but the residual magic of a desperate wish. A djinn's knot, tangled and ugly."
Borch looked directly into Geralt’s hollow eyes. "You have blinded yourself, witcher. The sorceress who walked down that mountain path alone today—she was your true destiny. Not by a monster's magic, not by a forced wish, but by decades of choice, devotion, and soul. She was your anchor, and you have broken her for an illusion."
Yennefer looked away into the darkness, the grand romance of their connection suddenly feeling plastic and heavy. Geralt merely stared into the dying embers, his chest completely empty, realizing he had traded a diamond for a piece of shattered glass.
Part IV: The Path to Kaer Morhen
The years passed like a brutal, unending Northern winter. Geralt eventually found his destiny—a young, terrified, silver-haired princess named Ciri, fleeing the ashes of Cintra. He became a father, a protector. But even with the child’s bright, fierce presence by his side, the phantom ache of your absence never left him. It was a constant, throbbing pain in his chest, a reminder of the man he used to be when he was loved by choice.
But fate is a cruel, beautiful, and utterly relentlessthing.
On a muddy, rutted crossroads leading deep into the snowy passes of the Blue Mountains, Roach suddenly came to a dead halt, her ears pinning back.
Ahead of them, blocking the narrow pass, was a traveling wagon with a shattered rear wheel. And there, managing the heavy timber with a simple, elegant flick of her wrist and a low hum of earth magic, was you.
Geralt’s breath caught violently in his throat. His dual hearts skipped a synchronous beat. "Y/N..."
You froze, the golden glow fading from your fingers. You turned slowly, your heavy fur cloak swirling around your ankles. The years had changed nothing of your ethereal, grounded beauty, but your eyes—once so warm when looking at him—were instantly guarded, veiled behind a wall of ancient ice.
Before you could speak, Ciri, who had been riding behind Geralt, scrambled down from Roach’s saddle. The girl possessed an innate, wildly powerful Source magic, and the moment her boots hit the mud, her emerald eyes went wide. She didn't just see you; she felt the ancient, golden thread of real, unforced love that still lay dormant, battered but unbroken, between you and her foster father.
"You're her," Ciri whispered, stepping forward boldly, completely ignoring the tension as she reached out and grabbed your hand. "The one from his dreams. The one he calls for in the dark when the nightmares are so bad he wakes up shaking."
You looked up from the girl, your eyes meeting Geralt’s. The White Wolf looked battered, his face lined with profound, crushing shame, but beneath it, a desperate, pathetic glimmer of hope.
"Geralt," you said softly, your voice sending a shiver right down his spine.
"Please," Geralt said, taking a step forward, his voice cracking in a way it never had before. "The mountain passes are freezing over. The wraiths are active. We're heading up to Kaer Morhen for the winter... it's too dangerous for a lone traveler. Come with us. Just for the journey. Just until the spring."
Ciri tugged hard on your sleeve, her eyes pleading with the innocence only a child could muster. "Please come with us. I can feel it... I can feel how much he needs you. How much we both do."
Looking down at the fierce, magical child, and then up at the broken man before you, your elemental magic hummed, sensing no deceit in his frantic heartbeats. Reluctantly, you nodded. "Just until the pass clears."
The journey up the treacherous, winding switchbacks to the witcher keep was filled with a thick, suffocating silence. Geralt was hyper-aware of every breath you took. He kept his distance out of profound respect for your boundaries, never pushing, but his yellow eyes never truly left you. He watched over you like a sentinel. And you, despite the armor around your heart, felt it begin to soften as you watched him gently adjust Ciri’s oversized sword-belt, or patiently teach her how to track a snow-hare in the brush.
When the massive, ancient stone gates of Kaer Morhen finally groaned open, shedding their coats of ice, Eskel and Lambert were standing in the courtyard to greet them.
The moment your boots stepped over the threshold, the two hardened witchers stopped dead in their tracks. Their mutated senses hummed violently. They could feel the sheer, undeniable weight of a restored destiny radiating off the three of you. It wasn't a spell; it was an unbreakable, natural triad of earth, steel, and blood.
"Damn, Geralt," Lambert muttered under his breath, shaking his head as he took Roach's reins. "You went out into the world and actually brought home a miracle."
That evening, the grand hall of the keep was quiet, illuminated only by the massive, roaring hearth. You sat in a dimly lit corner, away from the heat, slowly nursing a wooden cup of warm mead. Your sharp ears picked up the low, rumbling laughter of the witchers across the room.
A heavy, deliberate, older step approached your table.
Vesemir sat down on the bench across from you. His wise, weathered face, scarred by a century of survival, softened into a warm smile as he looked at you. He placed a massive, calloused hand over yours, his touch steady and grounding.
"He hasn't slept through a full night in years, you know," Vesemir said quietly, nodding his chin toward the far side of the room. Geralt was sitting by the fire, pretending to run an oil-rag down his silver sword, but his eyes were fixed entirely on your silhouette in the shadows. "Not since he came back from Rinde all those years ago. He knows what he did. He knows the absolute fool he was."
"He chose a djinn's whisper over fifty years of devotion, Vesemir," you said, your voice trembling slightly, the old pain flaring like a cold burn. "Some cracks are too wide to be mended, even by time."
"A djinn's magic forces the mind, child, but it cannot touch the soul," Vesemir said firmly, squeezing your hand. "Look at him. Look at the girl. Destiny didn't hand him Ciri just to give him a child to protect; it handed him a path back to his humanity. Back to you. He is a stubborn, foolish, broken boy, but his heart has only ever belonged to one person. Don't let a dead monster's wish dictate the rest of your immortal life."
Vesemir stood up. He walked across the hall, grabbed Geralt by the shoulder, clipped him hard enough to make his armor rattle, and pointed a stern finger directly at your dark corner before turning and walking out of the hall, ushering Lambert, Eskel, and a sleepy Ciri out with him.
The great hall was completely empty now, save for the crackling of the pine logs.
Geralt slowly walked across the stone floor. He didn't say a word. He didn't try to touch your hand. Instead, the legendary White Wolf, the slayer of monsters, dropped heavily to his knees on the cold stones right before your bench. He rested his forehead against your lap, his broad, scarred shoulders beginning to shake violently.
"I am so sorry," he choked out, the centuries of witcher stoicism completely breaking away into raw, jagged pieces. "I am so sorry, Y/N. I love you. I have always loved you. Please... come home."
Hearing the raw, unfiltered truth of his dual heartbeats—beating in perfect, desperate synchronization with your own name—the final, icy walls around your soul crumbled into nothingness.
You reached down, your fingers burying deep into his long, thick white hair, pulling him close, finally bringing the White Wolf home.
The heavy silence of the grand hall dissolved into the quiet, rhythmic sound of Geralt’s breathing as he remained on his knees, his forehead pressed against your thighs. The touch of your fingers in his hair was a mercy he hadn't dared hope for, a cool balm on a soul that had been burning in its own regret for years.
"Stand up, Geralt," you whispered, your voice thick with an emotion you had spent a lifetime trying to bury.
He rose slowly, his yellow eyes locked onto yours, completely vulnerable in a way he never allowed himself to be before anyone else. Without a word, he reached down and took your hands, lifting them to his lips. He kissed your knuckles, your palms, his rough stubble scratching against your skin, before pulling you up from the bench.
"Come with me," he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that sent a familiar shiver down your spine. "Please."
You didn't resist as he led you up the winding stone stairs of the keep, away from the grand hall and into his private quarters. The room was sparse—a heavy oak wardrobe, a desk littered with alchemy ingredients, and a large bed covered in thick furs. It smelled entirely of him: leather, cedar, and the sharp, metallic tang of the road. Missing entirely was the suffocating scent of gooseberries and lilac that had haunted your nightmares.
The moment the heavy wooden door clicked shut behind you, the tentative restraint Geralt had held onto for years snapped.
He lunged forward, catching your waist in his massive hands and pressing you back against the closed door. A soft gasp escaped your lips, but it was immediately swallowed as his mouth came down on yours. It wasn't a gentle kiss; it was starved, desperate, and filled with a frantic need to erase the distance he had created between you. His tongue parted your lips, tasting you with a fierce hunger that made your knees go weak.
Your hands, operating on a decades-old instinct, slid up his chest, tangling in the collar of his shirt. Your supernatural senses, which had so often been your curse, now flooded you with a rush of intense clarity. You could hear the thundering, erratic pace of his dual hearts beating against his ribs. You could feel the heat radiating off his skin, melting away the lingering winter chill of the Blue Mountains.
Geralt groaned against your mouth, a dark, primal sound that echoed in your ears. His hands moved down to grip your thighs, lifting you effortlessly. You wrapped your legs around his waist, burying your face in the crook of his neck as he carried you across the room, never breaking the kiss.
He came down over you on the bed, the thick furs swallowing you both. The weight of his body pressed you into the mattress, a grounding, heavy presence you had starved for.
"I missed you," he growled against your skin, his lips tracing a burning path down your jawline to the sensitive skin of your neck. "Every day. Every goddamn night, Y/N."
"Geralt..." your voice was a breathy sigh, your fingers clawing at his back as his hands began to strip away your clothes.
He was worshipful in his undoing of you. Every inch of skin he exposed, he met with his lips, his hands trembling slightly—a rare testament to how deeply you affected him. When you were bare beneath him, he paused, his gaze sweeping over you in the dim firelight, his eyes dark with an unbridled, possessive lust that was entirely yours. No magic. No wishes. Just him.
He shed his own clothes carelessly, tossing the leather and linen to the floor. When he came back to you, the friction of his bare, scarred skin against yours made you arch your back with a soft whimper. He caught your hands, pinning them to the mattress above your head, his fingers locking tightly with yours.
"Look at me," he commanded softly.
You opened your eyes, meeting his burning amber gaze.
"It's just you," he whispered, his voice cracking with intensity. "It has only ever been you."
He shifted, guiding his length against your center, and with a slow, deliberate push, he drove himself inside you.
A loud, broken gasp left your lips, your head tossing back against the pillows. He filled you completely, stretching you, a sensation so intense and familiar that tears pricked the corners of your eyes. Geralt froze, holding himself deep within you, his chest heaving as he waited for you to adjust. He leaned down, catching your tears with his tongue, whispering sweet, desperate nonsense against your lips.
Then, he began to move.
The pace was slow at first, a agonizingly sweet friction that built a fire deep in your core. Geralt’s hips rolled against yours, each stroke deliberate and deep, marking you, reclaiming you. Your spectacular hearing picked up every intimate detail—the wet, heavy friction of your bodies sliding together, the ragged catch of his breath, the low, steady thrum of his heartbeat shifting into a wild, frantic rhythm.
As the pleasure began to coil tightly inside you, Geralt’s pace quickened. He released your hands, his arms pinning your sides as he drove into you with a raw, bruising intensity. The bed creaked beneath his weight, his muscles rippling under your fingers as you gripped his shoulders, riding the waves of tension he was building within you.
"Geralt—I can't—" you cried out, your magic flaring slightly, causing the candles on the nightstand to flicker and dance wildly.
"I have you," he growled, his thrusts becoming faster, harder, hitting your sweetest spot with a ruthless precision. "Come for me, Y/N. Let it go."
With a final, deep surge, your body shattered. Waves of intense, blinding pleasure crashed over you, your internal muscles squeezing him tightly as a loud sigh broke from your throat. The sheer force of your release triggered his own; Geralt threw his head back, a guttural, roaring groan ripping from his chest as he came deep inside you, his body shuddering violently as he emptied himself into you.
He collapsed against you, careful not to crush you, his face buried in your hair as you both breathed in the quiet aftermath. The room was warm, filled with the scent of raw intimacy and the unmistakable, deep-seated peace that had been missing from the keep for far too long.
The next morning, the winter sun broke through the frosted windows of the keep, casting long, golden boxes across the floor.
You woke up slowly, wrapped tightly in Geralt’s arms. His chin was resting on the top of your head, one of his massive, calloused hands resting heavily over your stomach. For the first time in years, the static white noise of your heightened senses was quiet. The only sound that mattered was the steady, calm thumping of his heart beneath your ear.
A soft knock on the heavy wooden door broke the silence.
Geralt stirred, his grip tightening around you defensively before he blinked his eyes open. "Who is it?" he called out, his voice rough with sleep.
"It's me," Ciri’s voice came through the thick wood, sounding small but hopeful. "Vesemir said we're starting training on the lower terrace, and... and he wanted to know if Y/N was joining us for breakfast."
You smiled softly, shifting against Geralt’s chest. He looked down at you, a soft, rare smile tugging at the corners of his lips—a look of pure, unadulterated relief.
"Tell him we'll be down in a few minutes, Ciri," you called back.
"Okay!" you heard her boots excitedly clatter away down the stone corridor.
Geralt leaned down, pressing a lingering, sweet kiss to your forehead, his thumb gently stroking your hip beneath the furs. "You don't have to leave," he whispered, a sudden flash of vulnerability crossing his features, as if he was afraid you would vanish into thin air the moment you stepped out of the room. "You can stay here. For the winter. For good."
You reached up, cup-ping his jaw, feeling the rough stubble beneath your palm. "I'm not going anywhere, Geralt. Destiny brought me back, but I am choosing to stay."
When the two of you finally walked down to the grand hall, hand-in-hand, the atmosphere in the keep had completely shifted. The heavy, suffocating gloom that had hung over the Wolf School for years was entirely gone.
Eskel looked up from his plate, a knowing, genuine smile crossing his scarred face. Lambert let out a dramatic, rolling sigh, though the tension in his shoulders had visibly relaxed.
At the head of the long table, Vesemir sat with a cup of cider. He caught your eye, raising his mug in a silent, respectful toast. Beside him, Ciri beamed, practically vibrating with excitement as she patted the empty bench next to her, welcoming you into the family that destiny had broken apart, and true love had finally put back together.
The winter at Kaer Morhen settled in with a fierce, howling intensity, burying the mountain passes in impenetrable walls of white. But inside the ancient stone fortress, the freezing winds couldn't touch the warmth that had finally returned to the Wolf School.
The weeks bled into a comfortable, domestic rhythm. During the crisp mornings, you sat on the wooden scaffolding overlooking the lower courtyard, wrapped in heavy furs, watching Geralt and Vesemir put Ciri through her paces on the pendulum. Ciri was a whirlwind of raw potential, her boots clicking sharply against the frosted stone. Whenever she stumbled or grew frustrated, her eyes would instinctively find yours. With a subtle flick of your wrist, you would send a gentle breeze of stabilizing earth magic her way, or simply offer a reassuring smile that gave her the confidence to try again.
Geralt noticed every single look. Every time you anchored his child, his yellow eyes would soften, sending a silent wave of profound gratitude across the courtyard that your sharp senses caught instantly.
But it was the nights that truly healed the jagged scars of the past.
After Ciri had gone to sleep and the other witchers had retired to their quarters, the heavy oak door of Geralt’s room would shut out the rest of the world. There, in the dim, amber glow of the hearth fire, there was no past betrayal, no lingering ghosts of Rinde—only a fierce, consuming reality.
Geralt was sitting at the edge of the large bed, his heavy leather trousers still on but his shirt discarded, revealing the map of silver scars cutting across his broad chest and shoulders. He watched you shed your heavy winter robes until you stood before him in nothing but a thin, silk shift.
"Come here," he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that made your skin prickle with anticipation.
You walked over, stepping between his knees. Geralt’s massive, calloused hands immediately wrapped around your hips, pulling you flush against him. He buried his face in the softness of your stomach, inhaling deeply. Your heightened senses tracked the immediate, frantic spike in his pulse. He smelled of woodsmoke, mountain air, and the clean, sharp scent of winter—a scent that belonged entirely to the Path you shared.
"I still feel like I'm going to wake up," Geralt whispered against your skin, his grip tightening as if you might slip through his fingers like smoke. "Like the snow will melt, and I'll look for you, and you'll be gone again."
You leaned down, taming the wild strands of his white hair, your thumb stroking the tense line of his jaw. "I am right here, Geralt. Listen."
He pressed his ear directly against your chest, closing his eyes as he listened to the steady, rhythmic, and fiercely devoted beat of your heart. It was a cadence he knew better than his own.
Unable to wait any longer, Geralt stood up, his towering frame casting a long shadow across the room. In one swift, fluid motion, he gathered the hem of your shift and lifted it over your head, leaving you completely bare in the firelight. His amber eyes darkened, a heavy, unbridled lust pooling in them as his gaze swept over your body.
He didn't waste time with his own clothes, shedding his trousers with a careless urgency until his hard, scarred length was exposed. He caught your waist and backed you onto the bed, the thick, heavy furs swallowing your backside as he came down over you. The sheer weight of him was a delicious, grounding pressure.
Geralt pinned your hands above your head, interlocking his thick fingers with yours. He leaned down, his mouth crashing onto yours with a desperate hunger. It was a deep, wet, possession of a kiss. His tongue parted your lips, tasting you thoroughly, drinking in your soft whimpers.
He moved his lips down your jaw, biting gently at the sensitive junction where your neck met your shoulder. A sharp gasp escaped you, your hips arching instinctively against his. Your spectacular hearing magnified every intimate sound in the quiet room—the rasp of his heavy stubble against your chest, the ragged, heavy intake of his breath, and the slick, friction of your lower bellies rubbing together.
"Geralt... please," you begged, your internal temperature skyrocketing, your core aching for him.
"Tell me you're mine," he growled against your skin, his hand sliding down to part your thighs, his fingers finding you already dripping, slick and ready for him. He stroked you once, hard, making you cry out. "Tell me, Y/N."
"I'm yours," you panted, your ankles locking behind his waist, pulling him flush against your aching center. "Always."
He didn't hesitate. With a slow, heavy, deliberate thrust, Geralt buried himself inside you to the absolute hilt.
A loud, broken moan ripped from your throat, your head tossing back into the furs. He was so thick, so impossibly large, stretching you completely and filling the hollow ache that had plagued you for years. Geralt paused, his chest heaving, his muscles trembling under the sheer effort of restraining himself as he let you adjust to his size. He leaned down, capturing your mouth in a bruising, possessive kiss as he began to move.
The rhythm was punishingly beautiful. Geralt drove into you with a raw, primal intensity, his hips slamming against yours with a wet, heavy rhythm that echoed off the stone walls. Your heightened senses picked up the erratic, thundering double-beat of his witcher hearts, matching the wild pace of your own. You could feel every ridge of him, every deep stretch, a sweet torture that built a blinding pressure in your lower abdomen.
"Look at me," Geralt commanded, his voice thick with lust.
You forced your heavy eyelids open, meeting his burning, feral gaze. He wanted you to see him. He wanted you to know that every ounce of his pleasure, his soul, and his body was dedicated entirely to you. He quickened the pace, his thrusts becoming shallower but faster, hitting your g-spot with a ruthless precision that had you sobbing his name.
"Geralt—I'm close—I can't—" you cried out, your fingers clawing at the muscles of his back, digging your nails into his scars.
"Go," he growled, his jaw clenching as he delivered three more deep, devastating thrusts. "Come for me, Y/N. Let me feel it."
Your internal muscles clamped around him in a tight, violent spasm as your climax shattered through you, waves of blinding, electric pleasure radiating through your entire body. The intensity of your release broke Geralt’s iron restraint. With a guttural, roaring groan that vibrated deep in his chest, he drove himself inside you one last time, freezing as he came, pumping his thick, hot seed deep into your womb.
He collapsed onto his elbows, holding his weight off you, his forehead resting against yours as you both panted, your sweat-slicked bodies cooling in the mountain air. The room was heavy with the rich, unmistakable scent of your union.
Geralt slid out of you with a soft, wet sound, pulling you tightly against his side and wrapping the heavy furs over you both. He didn't say anything, but his hand remained firmly placed over your heart, drawing peace from its steady rhythm.
The next morning, the grand hall was quiet as the witchers gathered for breaking their fast. The heavy tension that usually accompanied Lambert’s presence was gone, replaced by a rare, relaxed camaraderie.
Ciri sat next to you, eagerly pouring over an old bestiary, asking you a million questions about the elemental properties of foglets. You answered her patiently, leaning into her side, feeling a deep, maternal bond forming with the young princess.
Vesemir sat at the head of the table, cutting into a loaf of dark bread. He looked across the table at you and Geralt, noting the way Geralt’s arm was draped over the back of your bench, his fingers casually tangling with the ends of your hair. The old witcher offered a rare, genuine smile.
"The pass will open in a few months," Vesemir stated, looking at Geralt. "Where will you go?"
Geralt looked at Ciri, then turned his gaze to you. For the first time in his life, the thought of the Path didn't feel lonely or exhausting. It felt like an adventure.
"We go together," Geralt said, his voice firm and unwavering. He looked at you, his thumb softly stroking your shoulder. "Wherever the Path takes us. The three of us."
Ciri beamed, looking up from her book with a wide, bright smile. You reached over, squeezing Geralt's hand beneath the table, knowing that no matter what monsters or curses lay ahead in the world, destiny had finally gotten it right. You were home.
The fragile peace of Kaer Morhen shattered on a bleak Tuesday in late winter.
Your heightened hearing caught the disturbance long before the keep’s heavy iron bell began to toll. A sound—sharp, piercing, and laced with a chaotic magical frequency that made the hairs on your arms stand up—vibrated through the stone floorboards. It was the distinct, violent tear of a portal opening just outside the fortress walls.
Down in the grand hall, the relaxed atmosphere instantly evaporated. Geralt’s hand froze over his sword belt. Beside him, Ciri looked up, her expression turning from curiosity to sudden, instinctive dread.
"Someone’s breached the perimeter wards," Eskel muttered, his hand flying to the hilt of his silver blade.
"Not just anyone," you said, your voice tight as you stood up from the bench. The air in the room suddenly smelled of sharp ozone, cold ash, and an unmistakable, suffocating perfume. "Gooseberries and lilac."
Geralt’s jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked violently in his cheek. He looked at you, a sudden, panicked desperation flaring in his amber eyes. "Y/N—"
Before he could finish, the heavy oak doors of the grand hall burst open, catching on the wind and slamming against the stone walls. Standing in the threshold, framed by the swirling white snow of the courtyard, was Yennefer of Vengerberg.
Her dark curls were wild, dusted with frost, and her violet eyes scanned the room until they locked onto Geralt—and then, inevitably, onto you. She didn't look angry; she looked desperate, her breath coming in ragged plumes in the freezing air.
"Geralt," she gasped, taking a stumbling step into the hall, ignoring the defensive stances of Lambert and Eskel. "The Council... the Nilfgaardians are moving on the northern borders. They have mages tracking the Source. They know about the girl. They know she’s here."
Ciri shrank back, her hand instinctively finding the hem of your tunic. You stepped in front of the princess, your body forming a protective shield, your hands lighting up with a dangerous, low golden hum of raw earth magic.
"How did you find this place, Yennefer?" you demanded, your voice echoing off the high stone ceiling, cold and unyielding. "The path to Kaer Morhen is hidden. No outsider forces a portal through these mountains unless they were given a coordinate."
Yennefer’s gaze shifted to you, a flash of her old defiance sparking in her eyes, though it was dampened by exhaustion. "The djinn's bond, Y/N. Do you really think a few years of silence snaps a tether like that? I felt his panic months ago, and today, I felt his location. I came to warn him. To warn the girl."
The mention of the djinn’s bond was like a physical blow in the room. The air grew suffocatingly heavy. You felt the raw, ugly memories of Rinde and the dragon hunt clawing their way back to the surface—the sound of the canvas tent, the rhythm of his betrayal.
You turned your head slowly to look at Geralt. His face was pale, his eyes wide as he looked between you and the sorceress who had once held his destiny in a vice grip of artificial magic.
"Geralt," you whispered, the gold magic fading from your hands, replaced by a sudden, hollow ache. "Is the tether still there? Can you still feel her?"
"Y/N, no," Geralt stepped forward, his hands raised in a desperate gesture of surrender. "The dragon told us—it was just a wish. I don't want her. I want you."
"That wasn't the question, witcher," Yennefer interrupted, her voice sharp as she stepped closer to the hearth. "He can deny it all he wants, but the moment I stepped into this valley, the pull returned. Look at him. He’s fighting it right now."
Your spectacular hearing betrayed you once again. You didn't want to listen, but you couldn't stop it. You focused on Geralt’s chest. His dual hearts were hammering a wild, erratic, and deeply conflicted rhythm. One heart beat for you—steady, deep, and full of grief. But the other? The other was spiking, reacting to Yennefer's proximity, trapped in the residual, toxic resonance of the last wish.
A bitter, heartbroken laugh escaped your lips. "You told me it was over. You told me you chose me."
"I did choose you!" Geralt roared, his voice cracking with a raw emotion that startled even Lambert. He took a violent step toward you, but you took a step back, pulling Ciri with you. "Y/N, please. It's a curse. It's an echo in my blood, but my mind—my soul—is yours."
"If your blood can be hijacked by a dead monster's wish every time she walks into a room, then what do we actually have, Geralt?" your voice trembled, tears finally burning the corners of your eyes. "Am I supposed to live the rest of my immortal life wondering if the next time she needs your help, your body will just... betray me again? Because it feels real to you?"
"It doesn't feel real!" Geralt bellowed, turning a furious, lethal glare onto Yennefer. "Get out. If you came to warn us, you've warned us. Now leave my keep."
Yennefer looked at him, a genuine flash of hurt crossing her features before her face hardened into a mask of pure ice. "I risked my life breaking through the mountain wards to save your child, Geralt. And this is how you treat me? Because you're terrified of a little truth?" She turned her violet eyes to you. "He will always look for me, Y/N. Not because he wants to, but because he has to. You're trying to build a house on a foundation made of shifting sand."
"Enough!" Vesemir’s voice boomed through the hall, cutting through the thick layer of romantic and magical tension. The old witcher stood up, his heavy boots echoing as he walked down from the dais. He looked at Yennefer with a stern, unforgiving glare. "You will respect the laws of this keep, sorceress. You have brought your warnings, and for that, we thank you. But you will not bring your chaos into my house to tear my family apart."
Vesemir looked at Eskel and Lambert. "Take the girl to the upper laboratory. Secure the perimeter. The Nilfgaardians won't find it easy to climb these rocks."
Lambert immediately grabbed Ciri’s hand. Ciri looked back at you, her eyes wide with terror. "Y/N... please don't leave. Don't let her take him."
"I'm right here, Little Owl," you whispered, though your voice lacked conviction.
As the room cleared, leaving only you, Geralt, Yennefer, and Vesemir, the silence became deafening. The domestic peace you had spent months building felt fragile, like a thin sheet of ice over a freezing river, ready to crack at the slightest pressure.
Geralt stood in the center of the room, a man torn between the woman he loved with every shred of his genuine soul, and the supernatural ghost of a wish that refused to stay buried.
Yennefer didn't leave immediately. With the mountain passes completely choked by a sudden, violent blizzard and the threat of Nilfgaardian scouts looming in the lower valleys, Vesemir reluctantly decreed she would stay the night in the western tower. It was a tactical decision, but it felt like a death sentence to the fragile peace you had fought so hard to reclaim.
Dinner in the grand hall that evening was suffocating. You sat at the far end of the table, your hands wrapped around a wooden mug of mulled wine just to keep them from trembling. Geralt sat beside you, his presence heavy and frantic. He kept trying to touch you—his knuckles brushing against yours, his knee pressing against your thigh beneath the table—but you remained rigid, staring straight ahead.
Across the room, Yennefer sat by the hearth, nursing a cup of tea. She didn't speak, but her violet eyes occasionally flickered toward Geralt, and every time they did, your curse of heightened hearing forced you to endure the consequence.
Geralt’s dual hearts were in a state of violent warfare. You could hear the deeper, primal thump of his true heart, the one that bled for you, pulsing with a desperate, terrified rhythm. But right alongside it, triggered by Yennefer’s proximity and the residual magic of the djinn, the secondary rhythm was erratic, spiked with an artificial adrenaline. It was a physical manifestation of the curse, a phantom limb twitching in his chest. To anyone else, he looked perfectly stoic. To you, he sounded like a man being torn apart from the inside out.
Unable to bear the noise of his internal betrayal a second longer, you abruptly stood up, the legs of your wooden bench scraping loudly against the stone floor.
"Y/N," Geralt muttered, his hand instantly shooting out to catch your wrist.
"I need some air," you said, your voice dangerously quiet. You pulled your wrist from his grip, ignoring the flash of pure agony that crossed his features, and walked out of the hall.
You didn't go to his room. Instead, you climbed the winding stone stairs to the battlements, stepping out into the freezing mountain air. The blizzard howled around the high stone walls, the biting wind whipping your hair across your face. The cold was a relief; it numbed the raw, throbbing ache in your chest. You leaned against the icy stone parapet, staring out into the white abyss of the mountains, tears freezing on your cheeks before they could even fall.
"You're going to freeze out here."
You didn't need to turn around to know who it was. The sharp scent of gooseberries and lilac cut through the crisp mountain air. Yennefer walked onto the battlements, pulling a thick fur cloak tighter around her shoulders.
"Leave me alone, Yennefer," you said, not looking at her.
"I didn't come here to tear your life apart, Y/N," Yennefer said, her voice unusually subdued as she stepped up to the parapet a few feet away from you. "I came because the girl is in danger. But I won't apologize for what exists between Geralt and me. We didn't ask for the djinn's wish."
"No, but you certainly enjoyed the fruits of it," you spat, finally turning to face her, your eyes flashing with a dangerous, golden spark of elemental magic. "You knew what we were to each other. We had decades, Yennefer. Real, earned, painful, beautiful decades. And you let him slide into your bed in Rinde while the ink on that wish wasn't even dry. You let him do it again at the dragon hunt, knowing I could hear every single sound."
Yennefer’s mask of indifference cracked, just for a fraction of a second. She looked down at the snow-covered stones. "The wish forces a hunger, Y/N. It’s like a sickness. When he is near me, the magic demands to be fed. It doesn't care about your decades. It doesn't care about my pride. It is an apex predator of a spell."
"Then he is flawed," you whispered, your voice breaking as the wind roared around you. "Because if his love for me was as absolute as he claimed, he would have broken the spell. He wouldn't still be fighting his own blood every time you breathe the same air."
"Maybe," Yennefer said softly, turning her violet eyes back to you. "Or maybe some bonds are simply too heavy for a mortal man to carry, even a witcher. I am leaving at dawn, Y/N. Whether you stay with him or let the snow swallow you is up to you. But don't look at me like I am the only monster in this story."
She turned and walked back into the keep, leaving you alone with the howling wind.
An hour later, you finally walked back inside, your body numb from the cold. You walked down the quiet corridor toward Geralt’s quarters, your mind a chaotic storm of doubt and exhaustion. When you pushed the heavy wooden door open, you found him waiting.
The fire in the hearth was roaring, casting long, dancing shadows across the room. Geralt was pacing, his white hair messy, his chest bare. The moment he saw you, he lunged forward, closing the distance between you in a heartbeat. He slammed the door shut behind you and grabbed your face in his massive hands, his palms freezing against your icy cheeks.
"You're freezing," he choked out, his breath hot against your face. "Gods, Y/N, you're like ice. Don't do that to me. Don't run from me."
"Geralt—"
"No, listen to me," he interrupted, his voice a desperate, gravelly roar as he pressed his forehead against yours. He was trembling violently. "I don't care about her. I don't care about the Council, or the djinn, or the magic. It's a sickness in my chest, yes, but it is nothing compared to what I feel for you. When she is here, it's like an alarm going off in my ears, but when I look at you... you are my peace. You have always been my peace."
He didn't give you a chance to answer. His mouth came down on yours with a bruising, terrifying intensity. It wasn't the worshipful, slow lovemaking of the past weeks; this was a frantic, unhinged reclamation. He was a man trying to anchor himself to reality before the storm wiped him out completely.
He ripped your wet wool cloak from your shoulders, his hands tearing at the fabric of your shift until it pooled at your feet. He lifted you roughly, your legs automatically locking around his waist as he carried you to the bed, throwing you down into the heavy furs.
He came down over you instantly, his heavy, scarred body pressing you deep into the mattress. He pinned your wrists above your head, his grip tight enough to leave bruises, his yellow eyes blazing with a feral, desperate lust.
"You are mine," he growled, his jaw clenched, sweat already beading on his forehead as he fought the internal chaos raging in his blood. "Tell me you're mine, Y/N. Block out the rest of the keep. Block out her scent. Just listen to me."
"Geralt, stop," you whispered, a tear slipping down your temple. "You're fighting her through me. You're using me to drown her out."
"I am using you to survive!" he roared, and before you could protest further, he guided his hard, swollen length against your center and drove himself inside you with one deep, punishing thrust.
A loud, broken sob escaped your lips, stretching your head back against the pillows. He filled you completely, his thickness stretching you to the absolute limit, the sudden friction sending a lightning bolt of raw, undeniable pleasure straight to your core. He didn't wait for you to adjust. He began to move with a savage, unrelenting rhythm, his hips slamming against yours with a heavy, wet force that shook the heavy oak frame of the bed.
Your heightened senses were entirely overwhelmed. You tried to shut it out, but you could hear everything—the wet, desperate sliding of your bodies, the heavy, ragged gasps tearing from his throat, and the wild, chaotic thumping of his hearts. He was thrusting into you with a raw fury, each stroke deep and unyielding, as if he could physically weld your souls back together through the sheer force of his body.
"Geralt—ah! Please—" you cried out, your fingers breaking free from his grip and clawing at his back, your nails digging deep into the silver scars of his shoulders, drawing thin lines of red.
He groaned, a dark, primal sound that echoed in your ears as he shifted his angle, driving harder, faster, bottoming out inside you with a ruthless precision. The pleasure built instantly, coiling tight and hot in your stomach, fueled by the sheer, volatile angst of the night. It was an toxic, beautiful collision of grief and desire.
"I love you," he panted against your mouth, his lips frantically kissing yours, tasting the salt of your tears. "I love you, Y/N. Only you. Only ever you."
With a final, devastating surge, he hit your deepest spot, and your body completely fractured. A loud, piercing moan was ripped from your lungs as your climax crashed over you in violent, pulsing waves, your internal walls gripping him in a tight, vice-like hold. The intense squeeze broke him. Geralt threw his head back, a guttural, roaring cry echoing through the room as he drove into you one last time and came, pumping his hot, thick seed deep inside you, his entire body shuddering with a violent, exhausting release.
He collapsed onto you, his face buried in the crook of your neck, his heavy chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. The room was thick with the scent of sex, sweat, and raw, bleeding emotion.
For a long time, neither of you moved. You lay beneath his heavy frame, your fingers idly tangled in his white hair, staring up at the stone ceiling. The storm inside him had quieted, his hearts finally returning to a single, unified rhythm of pure exhaustion. But as you listened to the quiet howling of the wind outside, you couldn't shake the terrifying realization that the blizzard might pass, but the ghost of the last wish would always be waiting for the snow to melt.
The storm broke at dawn, leaving behind a crisp, blinding silence that hung over the mountain peaks. True to her word, Yennefer was gone before the first rays of sun hit the battlements, stepping through a silent, violet portal without a backwards glance. But the ghost of her visit remained, a heavy, suffocating poison that contaminated the very air of Kaer Morhen.
You lay in Geralt’s bed, staring blankly at the stone ceiling. He was still asleep beside you, his massive arm slung over your waist, anchoring you to his side as if his subconscious knew that the moment he let go, you would slip away. Your heightened hearing tracked the slow, steady thump of his dual hearts. The artificial spike from last night was entirely gone, replaced by the calm, familiar rhythm of the man you had loved for centuries.
But the damage was done. The desperate, bruising friction of his body against yours from the night before hadn't felt like lovemaking; it had felt like an exorcism. He had been using your body, your magic, and your love to drown out the phantom echo of another woman.
Gently, carefully, you lifted his heavy arm off your stomach. He stirred, a low grunt escaping his throat, but he didn't wake. You slipped out of the bed, the freezing air of the room biting at your bare skin. You dressed in silence, pulling on your heavy wool tunic and your riding boots. You didn't pack much—just your arcane focuses and a few essentials.
As you reached for the heavy iron latch of the door, a small, choked voice pierced the quiet room from the shadows near the wardrobe.
"You're leaving."
You flinched, turning your head. Ciri was standing by the doorframe, wrapped in a oversized fur blanket, her pale face streaked with dried tears. She had been waiting for you. Her Elder Blood, raw and deeply attuned to the threads of fate, could feel the sudden, tragic slack in the bond between you and Geralt.
"Little Owl," you whispered, kneeling down so you were at eye level with her. "What are you doing up? It's freezing."
"Don't go," Ciri begged, stepping forward and throwing her small arms around your neck. She was trembling. "I felt it last night. When that lady was here... it felt like the sky was tearing open. But when you look at him, the sky is quiet. Please, Y/N. If you leave, the nightmares will come back for both of us."
Your heart fractured into a thousand jagged pieces. You squeezed the young princess tight, burying your face in her ash-blonde hair. "I have to, Ciri. A witcher’s keep is a place for training, but it’s no place for a heart that’s bleeding out. I love you. I will always love you. But I cannot stay in a house where his blood answers to a spell I can never break."
You pulled back, kissing her forehead, using a tiny fragment of your earth magic to send a wave of deep, soothing warmth through her body, lulling her into a sudden, heavy drowsiness. You caught her as her eyelids fluttered shut, carrying her gently across the room and laying her on the small cot by the hearth.
You didn't look back at Geralt’s sleeping form. If you looked at him, you would stay, and staying meant slowly dying. You pushed the door open and stepped out into the corridor.
By the time you reached the lower courtyard, the snow was crunching loudly beneath your boots. Your horse was already saddled. Standing by the stable door, a thick winter coat wrapped around his broad shoulders, was Vesemir. He didn't look surprised. He just looked incredibly old, his eyes filled with a profound, heavy sorrow.
"I told him he was a fool decades ago," Vesemir said, his voice a low gravelly rasp in the crisp morning air. "He didn't listen then. He’s paying the price now."
"I can't live like this, Vesemir," you said, your voice cracking as you took the reins of your horse. "Every time she walks into a room, his chest turns into a warzone. My hearing... it’s a curse. I hear the exact moment his body betrays his mouth. I won't be a shield he uses to fight off a djinn's wish."
Vesemir walked over, his large, calloused hand resting heavily on your shoulder. He didn't try to stop you. He knew better. "The Path is long, child. And destiny is a stubborn bitch. She doesn't let go just because a man is stupid enough to break what he was given. Go. Heal. But know that the gates of this keep will never be locked to you."
You nodded, a single tear freezing on your cheek as you mounted your horse. You guided the animal through the massive stone archway of Kaer Morhen, riding down the treacherous, snow-choked mountain pass without looking back.
Two hours later, the grand hall of Kaer Morhen erupted into pure, unadulterated chaos.
"What do you mean she's gone?!" Geralt’s voice was a terrifying, feral roar that echoed off the high rafters. He stood before Vesemir, his chest heaving, his face pale with a mix of absolute panic and rising fury. He was still half-dressed, his white hair wild around his face.
"She left at dawn, Geralt," Vesemir replied calmly, though his eyes were hard as flint. "And you are going to let her go."
"Like hell I am!" Geralt snarled, turning on his heel to sprint toward the stables.
"Geralt, stop!" Ciri’s voice shrieked from the stairs. She was running down the stone steps, her face pale. "She’s gone! She told me she had to go because of the lady with the purple eyes. She said she couldn't stay where your blood lies to her!"
Geralt froze in the center of the hall, his boots skidding on the stone floor. It was as if someone had driven a silver blade straight through both of his hearts. Because your blood lies to her.
He stumbled backward, slamming his back against one of the heavy wooden pillars of the hall. He covered his face with his massive hands, a low, broken sound—a sound that was half-groan, half-sob—ripping from his chest. Lambert and Eskel stood by the hearth, completely silent, unable to offer any comfort to a brother who had entirely engineered his own destruction.
"You brought this on yourself, wolf," Vesemir said, his voice cutting through the heavy grief in the room. "You used your last wish to bind your fate to a sorceress you barely knew, purely out of panic and lust. You broke the heart of the only woman who loved you before the world gave you a name. You thought you could have both—the toxic burn of the wish, and the pure peace of Y/N’s love. Well, the bill has come due, Geralt. And you're going to pay it in full."
Geralt slid down the wooden pillar until he was sitting on the cold stone floor, his head buried in his knees. The keep around him was dead silent. The blizzard had passed, the sky outside was a clear, mockery of a beautiful blue, and he was completely, utterly alone in the wreckage of his own design.
The months that followed your departure from Kaer Morhen were a blur of isolation and silent, agonizing recovery. You retreated deep into the heart of the Sodden wilderness, building a modest sanctuary among the ancient, towering oaks where the raw, elemental magic of the earth could dull the persistent ache in your chest. For a long time, the silence was your only companion—and for a woman with your supernatural hearing, it was a hard-won luxury.
But the world outside your woods was fracturing. Rumors drifted through the treeline on the backs of localized winds: the Nilfgaardian empire was pushing further north, the continent was sliding toward total war, and the White Wolf was tearing through the kingdoms like a man possessed, tracking a child of Elder Blood while running from his own shadow.
You tried not to listen. But destiny, as Vesemir had warned, is an unforgiving force.
It was a damp, fog-heavy evening when the wards around your glade tripped. The magical frequency didn't hum with the violent, ozone-heavy crackle of a portal, nor did it carry the heavy, rhythmic thud of witcher boots. It was erratic, frantic, and accompanied by the wet, uneven squelch of horses slipping in the mud.
You stepped out onto the wooden porch of your cabin, your fingers instinctively curling as you summoned a defensive aura of golden, pressurized air.
"Y/N! Please!"
The voice that shattered the twilight was young, cracked with exhaustion, and entirely familiar. Ciri came stumbling through the thick briars, her clothes torn, her face smeared with soot and dried blood. She didn't look like a princess anymore; she looked like a hunted animal. Behind her, struggling to dismount from a heavily lathered horse, was Jaskier. The bard looked pale, his usual vibrant attire ruined, a dark bandage wrapped hastily around his shoulder.
"Ciri!" You dropped your stance, sprinting down the wooden steps as the girl practically collapsed into your arms. She was freezing, her tiny body shaking violently with deep, traumatic sobs.
"They found us," Jaskier gasped, stumbling forward and catching himself against a tree trunk. "Cintra... it's gone, Y/N. The black sails. Cahir... the man with the winged helmet, he chased us through the valley. Geralt... Geralt told us to run. He stayed behind to hold the line at the river crossing, but there were too many of them. Too many mages."
Your breath hitched. Your heightened hearing automatically stretched out, pushing past the boundaries of your glade, past the forest, searching the distant valley for the one sound you had spent a year trying to forget.
Nothing. Just the distant, oppressive roar of the river and the crackle of burning villages.
"Is he...?" The question caught in your throat, a sudden, suffocating panic paralyzing your lungs.
"We don't know," Ciri cried, gripping your tunic with a desperate, white-knuckled strength. "The bond... the golden thread between us, it went completely quiet right before we crossed into your woods. Y/N, please. He's dying out there. I can feel the cold."
Every boundary you had built, every wall of self-preservation you had erected to protect your broken heart, collapsed in a single heartbeat. You looked at Jaskier, whose eyes were wide with a pleading, desperate hope, and then down at the terrified girl who had been handed to Geralt by fate.
"Inside. Both of you," you commanded, your voice shifting into the authoritative tone of a high sorceress. "Bar the door. I’m going to the river."
The valley was a slaughterhouse. The stench of iron, burning flesh, and corrupted chaos magic hung heavy in the damp air. You moved through the fog like a phantom, your boots silent against the blood-soaked mud, your senses dialed to a agonizingly sharp frequency.
You heard the flies first. Then, the slow, agonizingly weak vibration of a heart.
Thump... pause... thump.
Only one. The secondary heart was entirely silent, stopped by trauma or blood loss.
You broke into a sprint, tearing through a thicket of weeping willows until you reached the rocky bank of the river. There, half-submerged in the freezing, dark water, lay the White Wolf. His silver armor was shredded, his chest torn open by deep, ragged gasps from a Nilfgaardian mage's localized lightning strike. His white hair was matted with crimson, his yellow eyes half-open and glazed with the dull film of approaching death.
"Geralt!" You lunged into the water, your knees slamming into the rocks as you hauled his massive, dead-weight upper body onto your lap.
He didn't move. He was completely unresponsive, his skin a sickening, translucent grey. The remaining heartbeat in his chest was fluttering, a dying bird trapped behind broken ribs.
"Don't you dare," you sobbed, your hands flying to his chest. You didn't use the gentle, domestic magic of Kaer Morhen. You tapped into the raw, violent core of the earth beneath you, drawing up the heat of the magma, the unyielding strength of the bedrock, and shoved it directly into his sternum. "Do you hear me, witcher?! You don't get to die like this! Heal!"
A blinding, golden light erupted from your palms, searing into his wounds. Geralt’s body arched violently, a choked, agonizing gasp tearing from his throat as his secondary heart gave a sudden, spasmodic leap, restarting with a deafening, irregular thud.
He coughed violently, spitting up river water and dark blood, his fingers automatically clawing into the mud beneath him. His amber eyes rolled back, finally focusing on your face through the haze of agony.
"Y/N..." he wheezed, his voice a broken whisper, his massive hand trembling as he reached up to touch your cheek. His palm was slick with his own blood, leaving a dark smear against your skin. "You... you came."
"Shut up," you wept, pressing your forehead against his damp, blood-matted hair as your magic continued to knit his flesh together, the sheer output of power making your own vision blur at the edges. "Just shut up and breathe, you stubborn, foolish wolf."
"The girl..." he gasped, his grip tightening on your sleeve with a sudden, panicked strength. "Ciri..."
"She's safe. She's at the cabin with Jaskier," you murmured, your voice trembling as the adrenaline began to fade, leaving you exhausted and raw. "They found me, Geralt. She brought me back to you."
Geralt closed his eyes, a single, heavy tear cutting through the grime and blood on his face. The double-beat of his heart beneath your hands was erratic, weak, but entirely unified. There was no artificial spike, no phantom resonance of the last wish—just a pure, desperate relief that vibrated through his entire skeletal frame.
You managed to get him back to the cabin under the cover of the rising fog, his massive arm draped over your shoulders as he stumbled through the trees, his body burning with the fever of a accelerated witcher mutation trying to fight off the infection of the blade wounds.
When you pushed the door open, Ciri let out a shriek of pure joy, throwing herself against his uninjured side. Geralt collapsed onto the heavy wooden bench by the fire, his hand automatically wrapping around the back of the girl's head, pulling her tight against him as he let out a long, shuddering breath.
Jaskier stood by the window, a cup of herbal tea in his hands, watching the scene with a quiet, profound solemnity. He caught your eye, offering a slow, appreciative nod. He knew, perhaps better than anyone, the toll this rescue had taken on your pride.
The night settled in, heavy and thick with unsaid words. Ciri had finally fallen asleep on the pallet by the hearth, her head resting on Geralt’s thigh. The witcher sat perfectly still, his eyes fixed entirely on you as you moved around the small kitchen space, preparing a poultice of comfrey and wintergreen to soothe the deep burns on his chest.
You walked over, kneeling between his knees just as you had done a year ago in the high keep of Kaer Morhen. The familiarity of the position made your throat tighten.
"Lean back," you murmured, keeping your eyes strictly on the dark, puckered flesh of his chest as you began to apply the cool paste.
Geralt didn't move. Instead, he reached out, his large, calloused fingers gently catching your chin, forcing you to tilt your head up until your eyes met his burning amber gaze. The firelight flickered across his sharp features, highlighting the deep lines of exhaustion and grief that had etched themselves into his face during your year apart.
"I didn't track her, Y/N," he said, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that resonated deep in your chest. "After you left... I didn't look for Yennefer. Not once. I went to Cintra. I went for the girl. Because she was the only piece of destiny I had left that didn't remind me of how thoroughly I had ruined my own life."
You paused, your fingers resting against the heat of his collarbone. Your heightened hearing caught the steady, unyielding truth of his words. His heart was a heavy, mournful weight, beating solely for the woman kneeling before him.
"It doesn't change what happened, Geralt," you whispered, your eyes welling with fresh tears. "It doesn't change the fact that the magic is still out there. If she walks through that door tomorrow—"
"If she walks through that door tomorrow, I will look her in the eye and tell her that the wish is a dead thing," Geralt interrupted, his voice fiercely absolute, a dark intensity pooling in his eyes. He leaned down, his face inches from yours, his breath warm against your lips. "I died out there in that river, Y/N. My heart stopped. The only reason it's beating right now is because your magic dragged me back. My life belongs to you. Not to a djinn. Not to a spell. To you."
The raw, unfiltered honesty of his words broke the last remaining dam within your soul. You let out a soft, broken sigh, your hands sliding up his chest to cup the back of his neck as you closed the distance between you, pressing your lips against his.
The kiss was entirely different from the frantic, desperate couplings of the past. It was slow, deeply tender, and heavy with the weight of mutual survival. Geralt groaned softly against your mouth, his large hands coming up to cradle your face, his thumbs gently wiping away the tears that slipped down your cheeks. He tasted of copper, salt, and the rich, familiar warmth that had defined your life for decades.
"Stay," he murmured against your lips, his forehead resting against yours as his dual hearts beat a synchronized, fiercely devoted rhythm that echoed perfectly in your ears. "Don't leave us behind again."
You looked at him, then over at Ciri, who was sleeping peacefully by the fire, wrapped in the safety of the fortress you had built together in the woods.
"I'm here, Geralt," you whispered, your fingers tangling in his white hair, finally sealing the fractured pieces of your shared fate. "We ride together."
The next few days passed in a quiet, fragile haze of recovery. The Sodden wilderness kept its secrets well, shielding your cabin from the Nilfgaardian scouts patrolling the main roads. Inside, the small space became a sanctuary of quiet healing.
Geralt’s witcher physiology, accelerated by the raw earth magic you had pumped into his veins, began to knit his torn flesh together with terrifying speed. By the third evening, the grey tint had completely left his skin, replaced by the healthy, warm flush of a man returning to full strength. Yet, he remained uncharacteristically quiet, his eyes following you with a heavy, watchful intensity every time you moved across the room.
Ciri barely left his side, but she had bonded to you just as fiercely. She spent her afternoons sitting on the floor by your knees, learning the names of the dried herbs hanging from the rafters and listening to your explanations of how the earth’s natural currents could be used to stabilize her erratic, overwhelming chaos.
"You make it sound so peaceful," Ciri murmured one afternoon, her bright green eyes fixed on a bundle of lavender in her hands. "When the mages in Cintra spoke of magic, it always sounded like a fire that wanted to burn you alive."
"It can be," you replied softly, smoothing a stray strand of ash-blonde hair behind her ear. "But magic is just a reflection of what’s inside the person wielding it. If you force it, it fights back. If you listen to it, it guides you."
From the heavy wooden bench by the hearth, Geralt let out a low, rough breath. Your heightened hearing caught the sudden, painful spike in his heartbeat. He was looking at you, his amber eyes clouded with a familiar, deep-seated reverence that had been absent for far too long. He knew exactly what it meant to force something—and he knew the devastating cost of failing to listen.
When night fell, Jaskier and Ciri retired to the small loft above the kitchen, their deep, rhythmic breathing signaling they were finally asleep. The main floor of the cabin was left in a warm, amber silence, illuminated only by the dying embers of the hearth.
You stood by the washbasin, wringing out a cloth, when two massive, scarred hands gently clamped onto your waist from behind.
You didn't flinch. You had heard his silent, predatory footsteps approaching, but your body didn't feel the need to defend itself anymore. Geralt stepped flush against your back, his broad, solid chest anchoring you. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply, his rough stubble scraping against your skin.
"You still smell like wintergreen," he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that sent a violent shiver down your spine. "And rain."
"Geralt..." you whispered, leaning back into his weight, your hands resting over his forearms.
Without a word, he turned you around in his arms, lifting you effortlessly to sit on the edge of the heavy wooden counter. He stepped between your thighs, pinning you in place with his massive frame. He looked up at you, his sharp features softened by the firelight, his yellow eyes burning with an unbridled, desperate need that was entirely stripped of any magical interference.
"I want to look at you," he whispered, his hands moving to the hem of your tunic.
You helped him slide the fabric over your head, leaving you bare to the waist in the warm room. Geralt paused, his gaze sweeping over your skin with a slow, worshipful intensity that made your breath hitch. His large, calloused hands traced the curve of your ribs, his thumbs tracing slow circles against your skin.
He didn't waste time with his own trousers, stripping them away with an urgent, reckless movements until he stood bare between your legs, his hard, swollen length pressing against your inner thigh.
He caught your jaw in one hand, his thumb tilting your face up. "No more ghosts, Y/N. No more whispers. Just me. Just you."
"Just us," you panted, your fingers tangling in his long, white hair as his mouth came down on yours.
The kiss was deep, wet, and utterly consuming. His tongue parted your lips with a fierce hunger, drinking in your soft moans. He shifted his weight, his hands sliding beneath your thighs to pull you to the very edge of the counter, and with one slow, deep, agonizing surge, he drove himself inside you.
A loud, breathless gasp was ripped from your throat, your head tossing back against the wooden cabinets. He filled you completely, his thick, rigid length stretching you to the absolute limit. He froze, his chest heaving against yours, his muscles trembling violently under the sheer strain of holding back.
Your heightened senses flooded you with a terrifying, beautiful clarity. You could hear the wild, thundering double-beat of his witcher hearts, a synchronized, furious rhythm that beat entirely for you. There was no static, no artificial resonance—just the raw, animalistic truth of his body reclaiming its true destiny.
Geralt began to move, his hips rolling against yours in a heavy, punishingly slow rhythm. The friction was unbearable, a sweet, mounting torture that had you clawing at his shoulders, your nails digging deep into his scarred flesh.
"Geralt—ah! Please—" you whimpered, your legs wrapping tightly around his waist, pulling him deeper, wanting to erase every inch of space between you.
"I have you," he growled against your skin, his pace quickening, his thrusts becoming harder, faster, slamming against your center with a wet, heavy rhythm that echoed softly in the quiet cabin. He was marking you, embedding himself so deeply into your soul that nothing could ever tear you apart again.
The pleasure built like an elemental storm, coiling tight and hot in your lower abdomen. Geralt shifted his grip, lifting your legs higher over his shoulders, driving into you with a raw, primal depth that had you sobbing his name into the dark.
"Look at me," he panted, his jaw clenched, sweat dripping from his chin onto your chest.
You forced your heavy eyelids open, meeting his burning, feral amber gaze.
"You are my destiny," he choked out, his thrusts becoming frantic, unyielding. "Not the wish. You."
With a final, devastating surge, your body completely fractured. A loud, piercing moan left your lips as your climax shattered through you, your internal walls clamping around him in a tight, pulsing spasm. The sheer intensity of your release broke him completely. Geralt let out a low, guttural roar, his entire body shuddering violently as he drove deep inside you one last time and came, pumping his hot, thick seed deep into your womb.
He collapsed against you, his face buried in your neck, his heavy breath hot against your skin as you both shook in the violent aftershocks of the release. He held you tightly, his arms a fortress around your body, as the synchronized double-beat of his hearts slowly calmed, settling into a deep, peaceful cadence that filled your ears like a lullaby.
The next morning, the sun broke through the damp fog, casting a bright, clean light over the glade.
Jaskier was sitting at the table, tuning his lute, while Ciri helped you pack the final saddlebags with supplies. The wilderness was no longer safe; the war was moving closer, and it was time to find a new path.
Geralt walked in from the stables, his silver swords strapped tightly to his back. He looked at Ciri, then at Jaskier, before his eyes settled on you. For the first time in his life, the White Wolf didn't look like a man running from his fate. He looked like a man who knew exactly who he was protecting.
"Where to, Geralt?" Jaskier asked, looking up from his instrument with a rare, quiet seriousness.
Geralt stepped over to you, his large hand sliding naturally into yours, his fingers interlocking tightly with yours. He looked down at you, a soft, rare smile touching his lips.
"We go north," Geralt said, his voice firm and unwavering. "Beyond the mountains. Together."
You squeezed his hand, your heightened hearing catching the steady, fiercely devoted rhythm of his heart. The Path ahead was dangerous, and the world was burning, but as the four of you stepped out of the cabin and into the sunlight, you knew that destiny had finally met its match.
The journey north was long, pushing through hidden mountain passes and skirting the edges of skirmishes as the continent tore itself apart. But the small pack traveled in a tight, impenetrable formation. There were no more secrets, no more lingering hesitations. By the time the early autumn frost began to paint the leaves of the lower valleys, the towering, jagged peaks of the Blue Mountains loomed ahead.
Kaer Morhen welcomed you back not with tension, but with the quiet reverence of an ancient fortress receiving its true masters.
When the horses clattered into the lower courtyard, Lambert and Eskel were already there. They didn't say a word about the past. Lambert simply stepped forward, throwing a heavy arm around Jaskier’s shoulders with a smirk, while Eskel gently took the reins of your horse, offering you a warm, respectful nod.
Vesemir stood at the top of the stone steps, his arms crossed over his chest. His weathered face didn't break into a massive smile, but as his eyes traveled from Geralt, to Ciri, and finally to you—noting the way Geralt’s hand was firmly, possessively anchored to your hip—the old witcher let out a long, contented breath. The heavy, centuries-old worry that had lined his brow for years seemed to vanish in the mountain air.
"You're late for dinner," Vesemir called down, his rough voice carrying a distinct, paternal warmth. "Get inside before the stew freezes."
That night, the grand hall of the Wolf School felt different than it ever had before. The heavy, suffocating gloom of the past winter was entirely gone, replaced by the chaotic, beautiful noise of a family completely remade. Jaskier sat by the hearth, strumming his lute and aggressively exaggerating the details of your escape from Sodden, while Lambert threw roasted potatoes at him to shut him up. Ciri sat between Eskel and Vesemir, her face bright as she retold her first successful attempt at channeling earth magic under your guidance.
You sat at the center of the long table, a cup of warm mead between your hands. Beside you, Geralt was a solid, grounding presence. His heavy leather armor was off, his white hair tied back loosely. Beneath the table, his massive, calloused hand was wrapped tightly around your thigh, his thumb tracing slow, soothing circles against your skin.
Your spectacular hearing, once a source of absolute torment, was now your greatest gift. You tuned out the bickering of the bards and the witchers, focusing entirely on the space beneath Geralt’s ribs.
Thump-thump... thump-thump.
The dual hearts beat in a flawless, undisturbed, and fiercely devoted synchronization. There was no static. There was no phantom echo of a djinn's wish. The toxic resonance of Rinde had been completely washed away in the river of Sodden, replaced by a deep, resonant truth. He was entirely, beautifully yours.
Geralt shifted, leaning close to your ear so his breath warmed your skin. "What are you listening to?" he murmured, his gravelly voice low enough that only you could catch it over the din of the hall.
You turned your head, meeting his burning amber gaze, seeing the absolute peace reflecting in his eyes. You reached down, placing your palm flat against his chest, feeling the solid, unyielding rhythm beneath his skin.
"I'm listening to my destiny," you whispered, a soft, radiant smile touching your lips.
Geralt’s eyes darkened with raw emotion. He leaned in, pressing a deep, lingering kiss to your temple, his grip on your thigh tightening with a quiet, fierce promise. The Path outside Kaer Morhen would always be dangerous, and the world would continue to fight for power and thrones. But inside the ancient stone walls, surrounded by the family you had saved and the man who had died to hold onto you, the sky was finally, beautifully quiet. You were home, and this time, nothing would ever tear you apart.
The autumn frost quickly gave way to the brutal, unforgiving grip of a true mountain winter. Thick sheets of ice coated the battlements of Kaer Morhen, and the heavy wooden doors of the grand hall were barred against the screaming winds. Inside, the keep became a world of its own—self-contained, fiercely protected, and bound by a quiet, domestic intensity.
For you and Geralt, the cold months weren't a confinement; they were a sanctuary. The jagged trauma of the past had finally been laid to rest, buried under the weight of shared glances, quiet touches, and the absolute certainty of his heartbeat.
On a particularly bitter evening, after a grueling day of training Ciri in the lower vaults, the two of you retreated to his quarters. The hearth was packed with heavy oak logs, throwing a deep, crimson glow across the stone room. The scent of cedar and dried wintergreen hung thick in the air, completely erasing the cold.
Geralt closed the heavy door, throwing the iron bolt into place with a definitive, echoing thunk. He turned to look at you, his yellow eyes immediately darkening as he watched you unlace your heavy leather bodice, letting the thick fabric drop to the floor until you stood before him in just a sheer, linen shift.
"You're quiet tonight," he murmured, his gravelly voice vibrating low in his chest. He walked over, his massive, heavily scarred frame instantly absorbing the space around you.
"I’m just listening," you whispered, reaching out to lay your palms flat against his bare chest.
Your spectacular hearing focused instantly. Beneath the thick muscle and the map of silver battle scars, his dual witcher hearts beat a heavy, perfectly synchronized rhythm. It was a calm, resonant cadence—untouched by artificial magic, entirely stripped of the chaotic, desperate panic that had haunted him for years. It was the sound of a man who was completely, entirely home.
Geralt groaned softly at the touch of your hands, his large, calloused fingers wrapping around your waist. In one smooth, effortless movement, he lifted you onto the edge of the heavy oak desk, scattering a few loose pieces of parchment and alchemy vials. He stepped tightly between your thighs, pinning you against his solid frame.
"Listen to this," he growled softly, leaning down to press his lips against the sensitive hollow of your throat.
A breathless gasp escaped your lips as his teeth nipped gently at your skin, sending a violent jolt of heat straight to your core. His hands slid up the sides of your thighs, gathering the hem of your linen shift and pulling it over your head, leaving you completely bare beneath his gaze. He paused, his amber eyes raking over your body with a fierce, unbridled lust that made your skin tingle.
He didn't waste time with his own trousers, discarding them carelessly onto the stone floor until his thick, rigid length brushed against your inner thigh. He caught your jaw in one massive hand, his thumb tilting your face up to force you to meet his gaze.
"No more running," he whispered, his breath hot against your lips. "No more doubts, Y/N. Look at me."
"I'm looking, Geralt," you panted, your fingers tangling desperately in his long, white hair as you pulled him down.
The kiss was deep, wet, and utterly possessive. His tongue parted your lips with a starved hunger, drinking in the quiet moans that rolled from your throat. He shifted his grip, his hands sliding beneath your hips to lift you slightly, and with a slow, heavy, deliberate thrust, he buried his full length inside you.
A loud, broken cry was ripped from your lungs, your head tossing back against the wooden cabinets behind you. He filled you completely, stretching you to the absolute limit with a thickness that made your lower abdomen ache with a sweet, agonizing pressure. Geralt froze, his chest heaving violently against yours, his muscles trembling under the sheer weight of his iron restraint as he let your body adjust to him.
Your heightened senses flooded you with a terrifyingly beautiful clarity. You could hear the sudden, frantic acceleration of his dual hearts—a furious, primitive double-beat that resonated through his skeletal frame and directly into yours. It was a rhythm born of pure devotion, a physical declaration that his body belonged entirely to you.
He began to move, his hips rolling against yours in a heavy, punishingly deep rhythm. The friction was intoxicating, a mounting, building fire that had you clawing at his broad shoulders, your nails digging deep into his scars as he drove into you again and again.
"Geralt—ah! Please—" you whimpered, your legs wrapping tightly around his waist, locking him flush against your center, wanting to absorb every single inch of him.
"I have you," he growled against your mouth, his pace quickening into a raw, animalistic urgency. His thrusts became harder, shallower, hitting your sweetest spot with a ruthless precision that had you sobbing his name into the firelight. He was marking you, embedding himself so deeply into your flesh that nothing in this world could ever tear you apart again.
The pleasure built like an elemental storm, coiling tight and white-hot in your stomach. Geralt shifted his grip, lifting your legs higher over his shoulders, driving into you with a raw, primal depth that shook the heavy desk beneath you.
"Look at me," he panted, his jaw clenched so tight the muscles in his neck strained, sweat dripping from his chin onto your chest.
You forced your heavy eyelids open, meeting his burning, feral amber gaze.
"You are my true destiny," he choked out, his thrusts becoming frantic, unyielding. "My only choice."
With a final, devastating surge, your body completely fractured. A loud, piercing moan left your lips as your climax shattered through you, your internal muscles clamping around his length in a tight, pulsing spasm. The sheer intensity of your release broke his restraint completely. Geralt let out a low, guttural roar, his entire body shuddering violently as he drove deep inside you one last time and came, pumping his hot, thick seed deep into your womb.
He collapsed forward, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his heavy breath hot and ragged against your skin as you both shook in the lingering aftershocks of the release. He held you tightly, his arms an unbreakable fortress around your body, as the synchronized double-beat of his hearts slowly calmed, settling into a deep, peaceful cadence that filled your ears like a lullaby.
The next morning, the sun broke through the frosted glass, casting long, golden boxes of light across the stone floor.
Down in the grand hall, the family had already gathered around the hearth. Jaskier was quietly tuning his lute, while Ciri sat by Vesemir’s side, listening intently as the old witcher explained the structural weaknesses of a drakolisk.
When you and Geralt walked down the stone stairs hand-in-hand, a sudden, warm silence fell over the room. Geralt looked at Ciri, then at the old witcher, before his eyes settled entirely on you. For the first time in centuries, the White Wolf didn't look like a monster hunter drifting aimlessly through a cruel world. He looked like a man who knew exactly what—and who—he was living for.
Vesemir looked up from his coin purse, catching your eye. A slow, knowing smile touched his weathered face, and he raised his tankard in a silent, respectful toast.
You squeezed Geralt’s hand, your heightened hearing catching the steady, unyielding, and fiercely devoted rhythm of his heart. The Path ahead would always be dangerous, and the world outside the mountains would continue to burn, but as you sat down at the table surrounded by your pack, you knew that destiny had finally gotten it right. You were home.
Epilogue: The Quiet Path
The spring thaw came to the Blue Mountains not with a sudden roar, but with a gentle, persistent drip of melting ice echoing through the canyons. For the first time in centuries, the opening of the mountain passes did not fill Geralt with the restless, hollow urge to flee.
Down in the lower valley, three miles from the looming shadow of Kaer Morhen, the world was blooming. You stood in the center of a small, sun-drenched meadow, your boots sinking into the rich, damp earth. The ambient magic of the valley was singing, a vibrant, green hum that vibrated through the soles of your feet.
"Watch the wrist, Ciri. Don't force the connection; let the earth offer the energy willingly."
A few paces away, Ciri stood with her eyes closed, her brow furrowed in deep concentration. She took a breath, relaxed her shoulders, and extended her palms toward a patch of barren soil. Within seconds, a cluster of pale mountain orchids erupted from the dirt, their petals unfurling in a soft, rapid blur.
"I did it!" Ciri shouted, her bright green eyes snapping open as she spun around to look at you, a brilliant, unobstructed smile lighting up her face.
"You did beautifully," you praised, stepping forward to catch her as she threw her arms around your waist. The bond between you and the young princess had grown into something fierce and maternal over the long winter months—a steady anchor that kept her nightmares at bay.
From the edge of the tree line, a low, familiar rumble cut through the quiet afternoon air.
Thump-thump... thump-thump.
Your heightened hearing caught the dual rhythm instantly. It was deep, perfectly synchronized, and heavy with a profound, unshakeable contentment. You looked up to see Geralt walking out from the shade of the pines, a bundle of firewood slung over his broad shoulder. He had shed his heavy winter leathers, wearing only a loose linen shirt that flapped slightly in the warm breeze.
Ciri let go of your waist, running over to show him the orchids. Geralt knelt down, listening patiently as she rambled about the elemental currents of the soil, his large, calloused hand gently resting on her head. When he looked up, his yellow eyes locked onto yours, and the sheer volume of love radiating from his gaze made your breath hitch.
"Vesemir wants us back at the keep before sundown," Geralt said, his gravelly voice carrying across the meadow. "Jaskier is threatening to test his new ballad on the horses if we aren't there to stop him."
You laughed, a clear, bright sound that echoed off the surrounding cliffs. "Gods forbid. Let’s go."
That night, the grand hall of the Wolf School was quiet. Lambert and Eskel had ridden out at dusk to scout the lower trails, and Jaskier had finally passed out in front of the hearth, a half-empty bottle of Temerian rye clutched against his chest. Ciri was asleep in the library, curled up on a pile of old furs with a book on elven history resting on her stomach.
You sat on the wide stone ledge of the western tower window, staring out at the sea of stars painting the night sky. The mountain air was crisp, tasting of pine and distant rain.
A heavy, grounding warmth settled against your back as Geralt stepped up behind you. He didn't say a word; he simply wrapped his massive arms around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply, his rough stubble scraping pleasantly against your skin.
"What are you listening to?" he murmured against your skin, his hands sliding beneath your tunic to rest flat against your bare stomach, his thumbs tracing slow, possessive circles.
You leaned back into his weight, placing your hands over his forearms. You closed your eyes, tuning out the distant howling of the wolves, the crackle of the hearth downstairs, and the rustle of the wind through the pines. You focused entirely on the space beneath his breastbone.
The rhythm was flawless. A steady, unyielding, double-beat that resonated with absolute truth. The toxic, artificial pull of the djinn was nothing but a distant, dead memory. In its place was a bond forged in blood, choice, and decades of genuine devotion.
"I'm listening to the only sound that matters," you whispered, turning your head slightly to press a sweet, lingering kiss to his jaw line.
Geralt groaned softly, turning you around on the stone ledge so you were facing him. He caught your chin in his large hand, lifting your face until your eyes met his burning amber gaze. The moonlight caught the sharp angles of his face, softening the harshness of his scars.
"The Path will open tomorrow," he said softly, his voice cracking with a sudden, raw vulnerability. "The world out there is still broken, Y/N. There are still monsters, still wars, still people who want to take the girl."
You reached up, cup-ping his face in both of your hands, your thumbs stroking his high cheekbones. "Let them try, witcher. We have the mountains. We have the pack. And we have each other."
A slow, rare, and breathtaking smile spread across Geralt's lips. He leaned down, capturing your mouth in a deep, slow, and profoundly tender kiss. It wasn't born of panic, or the need to drown out a ghost; it was the quiet, absolute declaration of a man who had finally reclaimed his soul.
As his lips parted yours, your heightened hearing tracked the beautiful, wild spike of his hearts—a furious, primitive rhythm that beat entirely, beautifully, and eternally for you. The wishes of the past were gone, the mistakes of the road were forgiven, and as the White Wolf held you tight against the winter's end, you knew that destiny had finally met its master. You were home, and the Path ahead was yours to write together.
some of you need to realize that your faves would be having unsafe bdsm sex because they don’t actually know what bdsm sex is, they just want to fuck and also kill each other. you must understand this.
Summary: Joel has got you right where he wants you, tied up to his bed.
Warnings: explicit content, mature themes, pure porn, smut, established relationship, dominant Joel, bondage, oral female receiving, fingering, dirty talking, Joel being a major tease, kinky Joel, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, unprotected sex.
A/N: hello my favorite people how is everyone today?? Don’t forget to reblog and comment your little hearts out, and spread the love for writers! My tag list is always open so please comment or message or hit my inbox if you would like to join! Thanks again everyone for all your love and support! XOXO
Hall of Hunks Pedro pascal Masterlist
Tag list for everything: @iam-laiya @rosie-posie08 @madzleigh01 @alwaysclassyeagle @mytbel0st @shanimallina87 @marvelstarker-mha98 @powellssugarbaby @lora21 @kmc1989
Tag list for Pedro Pascal: @pedrohoe04 @k-k0129 @livingdeadmaria @angelofsmalldeath-codeine @milly-louise @kittenlittle24 @trisaratops-mcgee @subconsciouscollapse @hooked-on-penapascal27 @red-red-rogue @fellinfromthetop @drewharrisonwriter @vickie5446 @millerfan @lover-of-books-and-tea @bbyanarchist @justajoelsreader @meetmeatyourworst
"Hands above your head, baby," he says, voice low and gravel-rough. It's not a request.
You obey, stretching your arms toward the headboard. The old iron frame is cool against your wrists as Joel wraps the soft leather belt around them once, twice, then threads it through the bars and pulls it snug. Not tight enough to bruise, but tight enough that when you tug slightly testing it he gives a satisfied little hum.
"There we go," he murmurs, stepping back to look at you. You're already naked, skin prickling under his stare. He's still in his black Henley and boxer briefs, cock thick and straining against the cotton. The sight makes your thighs clench instinctively.
Joel drags a calloused palm down the center of your body—between your breasts, over your stomach, pausing just above your mound. His touch is so soft and delicate, but it feels so heavy and affective.
"Look at you. All spread out and helpless for me." His thumb brushes the top of your slit, barely a tease. "Already so fuckin' wet I can smell it from here."
Heat floods your face. You turn your head into the pillow, but he catches your chin and forces you to meet his eyes.
"Nuh-uh. You don't get to hide tonight." His thumb presses harder, parting your folds just enough to graze your clit. You jerk, a sharp gasp slipping out. "That's it. Let me hear you. Been thinkin' about this all goddamn day—tyin' you up, makin' you take every filthy thing I wanna do to this pretty little cunt."
He climbs onto the bed, knees bracketing your hips, and leans down until his mouth is a hot whisper against your ear. "You're gonna come so many times tonight you're gonna beg me to stop. And I might not listen."
A shudder rolls through you. Joel chuckles—dark, pleased—and drags his open mouth down the side of your neck, teeth scraping just enough to sting. He bites the soft spot where your shoulder meets your throat, sucks hard, marking you while his hand cups your breast and squeezes.
"These tits," he growls against your skin. "Fuckin' perfect. Been dyin' to get my mouth on 'em since you walked around the house in that thin little tank top this mornin'."
He latches onto one nipple, tongue swirling, then pulls back to blow cool air over the wet peak until it pebbles painfully tight. "Look how hard you get for me. Like you're beggin' to be sucked."
You arch, wrists straining against the belt. "Joel—please—"
"Please what, sweetheart?" He switches to the other nipple, sucking hard enough to make your back bow. "Please suck your pretty tits? Please finger your soaked pussy? Please fuck you so deep you feel me in your throat?" He nips the underside of your breast. "Use your words. Tell me exactly what that greedy little hole needs."
Your voice shakes. "I need you inside me. Please, Joel, I can't wait anymore."
He laughs softly, dangerous. "Oh, you're gonna wait, baby girl. You're gonna wait until I've tasted every inch of you and you're cryin' for my cock."
He slides down your body, rough palms dragging along your ribs, your waist, your hips. When he settles between your spread thighs, he hooks your knees over his broad shoulders and just... looks. Long, shameless seconds of staring at your glistening folds like he's memorizing them.
"Jesus Christ," he mutters, almost reverent. "So pink and swollen already. Drippin' down your ass. You're makin' a mess of my sheets, darlin'."
He drags one thick finger through your slick, collecting it, then brings it to his mouth and sucks it clean with a low groan. "Taste like fuckin' heaven."
Before you can process that, his mouth is on you.
No teasing licks, no gentle buildup—just Joel burying his face in your cunt like a starving man. Tongue flat and broad, he licks a slow, filthy stripe from your entrance to your clit, then seals his lips around the swollen bud and sucks. Hard.
Your hips buck. A broken moan tears out of you. He growls against you, the vibration making your toes curl. Wishing so badly you could claw at his greying curls, and pull him closer to you.
"That's it. Let me hear how much you love my tongue in your cunt." He pulls back just enough to spit on your clit—once, twice—then dives back in, tongue flicking fast and merciless while two thick fingers push inside you, curling immediately to stroke that spot that makes your vision white out.
"Fuck—Joel—oh god—"
"God ain't here, baby," he rasps between licks.
"Just me. And I'm gonna ruin this tight little cunt for anyone else." He pumps his fingers deeper, slower now, letting you feel every ridge, every knuckle. "Feel that? That's where my cock's gonna be soon. Stretchin' you open. Fillin' you up till you're leakin' me for days."
You're trembling, thighs shaking around his head. He doesn't let up—sucks your clit in rhythm with his fingers, curling and stroking until your whole body tightens like a drawn bow.
"Gonna come already?" he taunts, voice muffled against your soaked skin. "Go on then. Come all over my face. Drench me. I wanna taste it when I kiss you later."
You come with a choked cry, hips jerking, walls pulsing hard around his fingers. Joel groans like he's the one coming, licking you through every shudder, dragging it out until you're whimpering from overstimulation.
He finally pulls back, lips and chin shiny, eyes black with hunger. He crawls up your body, caging you in, and kisses you deep—letting you taste yourself on his tongue.
"Sweetest thing I ever had," he mutters against your mouth. "Now I'm gonna fuck you like I've been dreamin' about."
He shoves his boxers down, cock springing free—heavy, thick, already leaking at the tip. He grips himself, notches the head against your entrance, and pauses.
"Look at me," he orders. Your eyes flutter open. His are locked on yours, fierce and tender all at once."Gonna watch your face while I sink into this perfect fuckin' pussy. Wanna see every second of it."
Then he pushes in.
Slow.
Inch by thick inch.
Your mouth falls open on a silent gasp as he stretches you, fills you, doesn't stop until his hips are flush against yours and you're stuffed so full you can barely breathe.
"Fuck," he hisses, forehead dropping to yours. "So goddamn tight. Takin' me so good, baby. Like you were made for this cock."
He starts to move—long, deep rolls of his hips that drag every ridge along your sensitive walls. You can feel him everywhere.
"Goddamn, listen to that," he groans. "Hear how wet you are? How greedy this cunt is for me?" He snaps his hips harder, making the headboard rattle against the wall. "That's it. Take it. Take every fuckin' inch."
You're moaning nonstop now, wrists yanking uselessly at the belt, desperate to touch him. He notices.
"Poor thing," he croons, mocking and filthy.
"Wanna touch me so bad, don't you? Wanna claw up my back while I pound this pussy?" He thrusts deeper, grinding against your clit with every stroke. "Maybe next time. Tonight you're just gonna lie there and come on my cock like a good girl."
He hooks one of your legs over his elbow, opening you wider, and the new angle lets him hit even deeper. You cry out, back arching.
"Right there?" he growls. "Yeah, I feel it. That spot that makes you stupid. Gonna fuck it till you can't remember your own name."
His pace turns brutal—hard, punishing thrusts that slap skin against skin, wet and obscene. His free hand finds your throat—not squeezing, just holding, thumb stroking your pulse.
"Look at me while I fuck you," he demands. "Wanna see those pretty eyes when you come again. Wanna watch you fall apart knowin' it's my cock doin' it to you."
You're close already, embarrassingly fast. The stretch, the dirty words, the way he's looking at you like you're the only thing in the world—
"Joel—I'm—fuck—"
"Come on, baby. Give it to me. Squeeze my cock. Milk it. Show me how bad you need it." You shatter. Harder than before. Walls clamping down, fluttering, gushing around him. A sob rips out of you as pleasure whites out everything else.
Joel fucks you through it, growling praises.
"That's it, good girl, fuck yes, soak me"—until his rhythm stutters."Gonna come, darlin'. Where d'you want it?"
"Inside," you gasp, voice wrecked. "Please—inside me—"
He slams in one last time, burying himself to the hilt, and comes with a guttural moan. You feel the hot pulse of him filling you, spilling deep, claiming.
He stays there, breathing hard against your neck, cock still twitching inside you. After a long minute he reaches up, undoes the belt, rubs the red marks on your wrists with gentle thumbs.
"C'mere," he murmurs, gathering you against his chest. His lips brush your temple. "You okay?"
You nod, boneless, still trembling from aftershocks. He kisses you slow this time—soft, reverent.
"Love you," he whispers against your mouth, so quiet you almost miss it. You smile into the kiss.
"Love you too."
He doesn't pull out for a long time. Just holds you, cock softening inside, both of you sticky and sated and perfectly ruined for anyone else.
Summary: It’s Joel’s birthday and you forgot to get him a cake, so you make yourself the cake instead.
Warnings: explicit content, mature themes, porn with plot, established relationship, use of frosting, oral female receiving, dirty talking, teasing, fingering, unprotected sex, dominant Joel, Joel is a kinky mofo.
A/N: hello my favorite people!! I hope I’m not annoying everyone with all my posts! Don’t forget to reblog and comment your little hearts out, and spread the love for writers! My tag list is always open so please comment or message or hit my inbox if you would like to join! Thanks again everyone for all your love and support! XOXO
Hall of Hunks Pedro pascal Masterlist
Tag list for Pedro Pascal: @pedrohoe04 @k-k0129 @livingdeadmaria @angelofsmalldeath-codeine @milly-louise @kittenlittle24 @trisaratops-mcgee @subconsciouscollapse @hooked-on-penapascal27 @red-red-rogue @fellinfromthetop @drewharrisonwriter @vickie5446 @millerfan @lover-of-books-and-tea @bbyanarchist @justajoelsreader @meetmeatyourworst
Tag list for everything: @iam-laiya @rosie-posie08 @madzleigh01 @alwaysclassyeagle @mytbel0st @shanimallina87 @marvelstarker-mha98 @powellssugarbaby @lora21 @kmc1989
The bedroom door clicks shut behind you, and the low hum of the party downstairs fades to nothing. Just the two of you now.
Joel stands with his back to the dresser, arms crossed, sleeves of his black button-down rolled to the elbows. The faint glow from the bedside lamp catches the silver in his beard, the tired-but-hungry lines around his eyes. He's forty-something today since he refuses to tell you the exact number anymore. Plus the way he's looking at you says he's already decided how he wants to spend the rest of his birthday.
"You're late," he drawls, voice gravel-rough.
"I was getting your present ready." You let the silk robe slip off one shoulder, then the other. It puddles on the hardwood.
Joel's gaze drops, slow and deliberate. You're wearing nothing underneath except the thin black thong he likes—the one that's already damp between your thighs from the way he's been staring at you all night like he was planning something depraved.
He pushes off the dresser. "That so?" His boots scuff softly as he closes the distance. Big, warm hands settle on your hips, thumbs brushing the lace edges. "What'd my girl get me, then?"
You reach behind you to the nightstand and lift the small white bakery box you'd hidden there earlier. When you open the lid, the rich scent of vanilla buttercream and dark chocolate spills into the room.
Joel's brows lift. "Cake. For me."
"Mhm." You dip your index finger into the thick swirl of frosting on top and bring it to your lips, sucking slowly while holding his stare. "But I thought... maybe you'd rather eat it off something else tonight."
His nostrils flare. The corner of his mouth twitches—half smile, half warning.
"Careful what you offer, baby." You set the box on the bed and climb up after it, kneeling in the center of the mattress. The sheets are already turned down. You'd planned this.
Joel doesn't move right away. He just watches you—watches the way your breasts shift with each breath, the way your thighs press together like you're trying to ease the ache he's already caused.
"Lie back," he says finally. Quiet. Commanding.
You obey, stretching out on your back, arms above your head, thighs parted just enough to make your invitation clear.
He shrugs out of the button-down, lets it fall. The white t-shirt underneath clings to the breadth of his chest, the soft stomach he's stopped trying to hide. You want to lick every inch of him.
Joel grabs the box, sets it beside your hip. He dips three thick fingers straight into the frosting—way more than necessary—and smears a slow, deliberate stripe from the hollow of your throat down between your breasts, circling each nipple until they pebble tight and aching.
"Fuckin' mess already," he mutters, almost to himself. "And we ain't even started."
He leans down and licks that first stripe off in one long, filthy drag of his tongue. You arch, gasp. His beard scrapes deliciously against your skin.
"Tastes better like this," he says against your collarbone. "Sweet... and you."
More frosting. This time he paints it across your stomach in lazy loops, then lower—dangerously lower—until he's dragging a sticky line along the top edge of your thong.
"Look at you," he murmurs. "All decorated for me. My own little birthday cake."
You whimper when he hooks two fingers in the waistband and yanks the thong down your thighs, tossing it somewhere behind him.
"Spread," he orders you which you immaturely obey.
Joel makes a low, appreciative sound in his throat. He scoops another generous dollop of frosting and smears it over your mound, then down—slow, obscene circles around your clit, painting your folds until you're glistening with buttercream and your own slick.
"Joel—" Your voice cracks.
"Yeah?" He glances up, eyes dark. "What's my girl need?"
"Touch me." Whimpering pathetically so desperate for more of him.
"Already am." He drags the flat of his tongue through the mess he's made, lapping at your clit with slow, deliberate strokes. "Fuck, you're soaked under all this sugar."
You moan, hips jerking. He pins you down with one heavy forearm across your pelvis.
"Stay still," he growls against your cunt. "Let me eat my cake."
He buries his face between your thighs. There's no teasing now—just greedy, hungry licks. He sucks frosting off your clit, then plunges his tongue inside you, fucking you with it while his nose grinds against the sensitive bundle of nerves. You can hear how wet you are, how filthy the sounds are, how much he's enjoying it.
"Goddamn, baby," he groans, pulling back just enough to speak. Frosting clings to his mustache, his beard. "You're the best fuckin' thing I've ever tasted. Sweeter than any goddamn bakery."
He shoves two thick fingers inside you without warning, curling them hard against that spot that makes your vision white out.
"Joel—fuck—!"
"That's it." He pumps slowly, watching your face. "Let me hear how much you like bein' my dessert."
You're shaking already, thighs trembling around his head. He doesn't let up—keeps licking, sucking, finger-fucking you until the pressure coils so tight you think you'll snap.
"Gonna come," you gasp. "Joel—please—"
"Come on my tongue," he orders, voice wrecked. "Wanna taste it when you do. Wanna lick every drop of you mixed with this fuckin' frosting."
You shatter.
Back arched, fingers twisted in the sheets, crying his name as you pulse around his fingers and flood his mouth. He groans like he's the one coming, licking you through every shudder until you're oversensitive and twitching.
When he finally lifts his head, his lips are swollen, chin glistening. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes never leaving yours.
"Not done yet," he says.
He stands long enough to strip off the rest of his clothes. His cock is thick, heavy, already leaking at the tip. He strokes himself once, twice, smearing pre-cum over the head while he stares down at you like you're his next meal.
"Turn over," he says. "Ass up."
You scramble to obey, knees spread, chest pressed to the mattress, back arched. He grabs the box again. You hear the wet sound of him scooping more frosting, then feel the cool smear of it down the crease of your ass, over your hole, dripping down to where you're still throbbing from your orgasm.
"Fuck," he breathes. "Look at that. All pretty and messy for me."
He spreads you open with both hands. You feel his breath first—hot, ragged—then the flat of his tongue dragging over your rim, licking the frosting away in slow, filthy circles.
You whine into the pillow.
"Yeah?" His voice is low, teasing. "You like that, baby? Like me eatin' every inch of my present?"
"Yes—God, yes—"
He groans, presses his tongue inside. You see stars. He works you open slowly, one hand reaching around to circle your clit while he fucks you with his tongue, getting you slick and ready.
When he pulls back, you feel the blunt head of his cock nudge against your entrance.
"Gonna fill you up now," he murmurs, voice dark with promise. "Gonna fuck my birthday cake 'til you're drippin' me."
He pushes in slow—inch by thick inch—until he's buried to the hilt. You both moan at the stretch, the fullness.
"Fuck, you're tight," he grits out. "Even after comin' all over my face."
He starts to move—long, deep strokes that make your toes curl.
"Tell me," he growls, hand fisting your hair, pulling your head back so he can see your face. "Tell me who this pussy belongs to."
"You," you gasp. "It's yours—Joel—fuck—"
"That's right." He snaps his hips harder. "Mine to eat. Mine to fuck. Mine to come in."
He reaches around again, fingers finding your clit, rubbing messy circles while he pounds into you.
"Gonna make you come again," he pants. "Gonna feel you squeeze me so fuckin' tight—then I'm gonna fill you up. Gonna mark my cake."
He slams deep one last time and you break again, clenching around him so hard he curses under his breath.
"Fuck—fuck—there it is—"
He follows right after you, burying himself as far as he can and coming with a long, broken groan. You feel every pulse, every hot spurt filling you until it's leaking out around his cock.
He stays inside you for a long minute, breathing hard, forehead pressed between your shoulder blades.
Eventually he pulls out slow, watching the way his come drips out of you, mixed with the last smears of frosting.
"Jesus," he mutters, almost reverent. "Best fuckin' birthday I ever had."
You laugh breathlessly, face still pressed to the sheets. He collapses beside you, pulls you into his chest, sticky and sweaty and wrecked.
"Next year," he says against your hair, voice low and sated, "we're doin' this again. But I'm bringin' two cakes."
Your writing? Absolutely stunning. Any way we could get a Joel miller fic dedicated to squirting..? The idea of him dedicating an entire day to staying in bed trying to make it happen..mm. Can’t wait ✨
A/N: first of all let me just say thank you so much anonymous for enjoying my writing that genuinely means a lot to me, and second I absolutely love this request it’s dangerously delicious. I hope that it’s kind of what you envisioned or wanted, but let me know what you think! Don’t forget to reblog and comment your hearts out everyone! Also, taglist for Pedro is still open! Thanks everyone so much!! XOXO
Hall of Hunks Pedro Pascal masterlist 
Tag list for everything: @iam-laiya @rosie-posie08 @madzleigh01 @alwaysclassyeagle @mytbel0st @shanimallina87 @marvelstarker-mha98 @powellssugarbaby @lora21 @kmc1989
Tag list for Pedro Pascal: @pedrohoe04 @k-k0129 @livingdeadmaria @angelofsmalldeath-codeine @milly-louise @kittenlittle24 @trisaratops-mcgee @subconsciouscollapse @hooked-on-penapascal27 @red-red-rogue @fellinfromthetop @drewharrisonwriter @vickie5446 @millerfan @lover-of-books-and-tea @bbyanarchist @justajoelsreader @meetmeatyourworst
*My inbox and requests are always open.*
You wake to the soft gray light of a February morning slipping through the blinds, the kind of cold, quiet dawn that makes the bedroom feel like the only warm place left in the world. Joel's already awake.
He's propped on one elbow, sheets pooled around his bare hips, watching you with that heavy-lidded look he gets when he's been thinking about you for hours. His hair is sleep-mussed, silver threads catching the light, and the scar on his right eyebrow stands out sharper than usual. There's no smirk, no teasing drawl—just quiet, focused hunger.
"Mornin'," he rasps, voice still thick from disuse. You mumble something incoherent and try to roll toward him. He stops you with one wide palm flat on your stomach, pressing you gently but firmly back into the mattress.
"Nuh-uh," he says. "Stay right there.”
You blink up at him, suddenly more awake. "What're you—"
"Been thinkin'," he cuts in, low and deliberate. "All damn night. Wanna try somethin' with you today. Somethin' we ain't done right yet."
Your pulse kicks. Joel Miller doesn't do vague. When he says he's been thinking, he means he's already mapped out every step in his head like he's clearing a building room by room.
He leans down, kisses you slow and filthy—tongue sliding against yours like he's tasting the last of your dreams—then pulls back just enough to speak against your lips.
"Wanna make you squirt, baby. Properly. Not the little half-there ones you give me sometimes when I'm fuckin' you hard." His thumb drags a lazy circle below your navel. "The kind that soaks the sheets. The kind you can't stop. Gonna spend all goddamn day on it if I have to."
Heat floods your face and your cunt at the same time. You open your mouth to protest—embarrassment, self-consciousness, the automatic "I don't know if I can"—but he's already kissing you again, swallowing the words.
"Don't gotta be able to," he murmurs. "Just gotta let me try. You trust me?"
You do. You always have. So you nod. That's all he needs. He doesn't rush.
He starts the way he always does when he wants to take you apart slow: mouth on your throat, beard scraping just enough to make you shiver, big hands roaming like he's re-learning every inch. He peels your sleep shirt up and off, tosses it somewhere you'll never find again, then spends long minutes kissing and licking your breasts until your nipples are swollen and aching. Every time you arch or whimper he hums approval against your skin, the sound vibrating straight to your clit.
When he finally hooks his fingers in your panties, he doesn't yank them down. He drags them off millimeter by millimeter, watching your face the whole time, cataloging every hitch in your breath. Naked now, you feel exposed in a way that has nothing to do with clothes. Joel sits back on his heels between your spread thighs and just looks—eyes dark, jaw tight, cock already thick and heavy against his stomach.
"Fuckin' gorgeous," he mutters, almost to himself. Then louder, "Spread a little wider for me, sweetheart. Let me see."
You do. The cool air hits wet skin and you flinch; he soothes you with a broad palm on the inside of your thigh.
"Easy. Gonna take care of you." He starts with his fingers—two, thick, callused—sliding in so slow you feel every ridge, every knuckle. He curls them immediately, searching, testing, watching your face like a hawk. When your breath catches he pauses.
"There?" You nod, biting your lip.
He doesn't speed up. He keeps that exact angle, that exact pressure, rocking his wrist in tiny, relentless circles. The pad of his thumb finds your clit at the same time—light, almost lazy circles—and the twin sensations make your hips jerk.
"Stay still," he says, not mean, just firm. "Let it build."
Minutes stretch. Your thighs start to tremble. He adds a third finger—slow, careful stretching—and the fullness makes you moan loud enough that you slap a hand over your mouth.
He pulls your wrist away. "Don't. Wanna hear you."
The wet sounds are obscene now. You can feel yourself getting slicker, hotter, the pressure inside coiling tighter and tighter. It's different from the sharp, bright build of a regular orgasm—this feels deeper, heavier, almost scary in how much it promises. Joel must feel it too because his voice drops even lower.
"That's it. Fuck, you're gettin' so wet. Can feel you startin' to flutter around me."
He shifts his angle just a fraction—barely anything—and suddenly the heel of his hand is grinding against your clit with every thrust of his fingers and oh god. Your back bows. A sound rips out of you that you don't recognize.
"There she is," he breathes. "That's my girl."
He doesn't let up. The rhythm stays steady, unhurried, but the pressure is merciless now. You can feel it—the wet, swollen place inside that he's bullying over and over. Every pass makes your toes curl, makes your breath come in sharp, helpless pants.
"Joel—fuck—I think—I'm gonna—"
"Yeah you are," he growls. "Gonna come all over my hand, aren't you? Gonna make a fuckin' mess for me."
The words tip you. The orgasm hits hard and different—not the clean snap of a clit orgasm but a rolling, pulsing wave that starts deep and spreads outward. You feel the gush before you register what it is—hot, wet, soaking his wrist, dripping down your ass, puddling under you. He groans like he's been punched in the chest.
"Jesus fuckin' Christ—look at that." He keeps moving through it, slower now, drawing it out until you're shaking and whimpering and trying to push his hand away because it's too much, too sensitive.
He finally eases out, fingers glistening, and brings them to his mouth. Sucks them clean while holding your gaze.
"Taste so goddamn good when you come like that." You're still panting, dazed, when he leans down and kisses you deep—letting you taste yourself on his tongue.
"That was just the warm-up," he says against your lips. "We're nowhere near done."
He spends the next two hours proving it. First with his mouth—slow, filthy licks that circle your clit without ever settling, then long flat strokes up your slit, gathering every drop of you before sealing his lips over your entrance and sucking. You come again that way, smaller this time, but still enough to make you drip down his chin. He wipes his face on the inside of your thigh and grins—actually grins—like a man who's proud of his work.
Then his cock.
He doesn't fuck you hard at first. He slides in slow, so slow you feel every vein, every ridge, until he's buried to the hilt and you're both shaking. He stays there, grinding deep, pubic bone pressed hard against your clit, rocking in tiny circles that make stars burst behind your eyes.
"Feel that?" he murmurs. "Feel how full you are?"
You can only whine. He starts to move—long, deliberate drags out, then slow, heavy thrusts back in, always angling up, always hitting that spot. Every time you start to clench he slows down again, keeps you teetering right on the edge. Hours blur.
He flips you onto your stomach, knees spread, ass up, and works you open again with slick fingers while he strokes himself against your thigh. When he finally pushes inside this time he's thicker, hotter, and the new angle makes you sob into the pillow.
He reaches around, middle finger rubbing tight circles on your clit while he fucks you steady and deep.
"Come on, baby," he coaxes. "Give me another one. Soak my cock this time."
You do—messy, loud, gushing around him until he has to pull out for a second just to watch it drip out of you. He swears under his breath, filthy and reverent, then slides back in and fucks you through the aftershocks.
By late afternoon the sheets are wrecked—dark wet patches spreading out beneath you, sticking to your skin. You've lost count of how many times you've come, how many different ways he's made you spill. Your thighs are trembling, your voice is hoarse, and still he's not done.
He pulls you into his lap, your back to his chest, legs hooked over his forearms so you're spread wide and helpless. His cock notches at your entrance again.
"One more," he says, voice wrecked. "Gonna give me one more, yeah?"
You're not sure you can. You're oversensitive, wrung out, every nerve singing. But then he's inside you—slow, careful—and his fingers are back on your clit, feather-light now, just enough to keep the pressure climbing. His other arm bands across your chest, holding you tight against him so you can feel every word against your ear.
"You're so fuckin' perfect like this," he whispers. "All wet and open and mine. Gonna keep goin' till you give it to me again. Till you can't anymore."
He rocks up into you in shallow, grinding thrusts—never pulling out far, just enough to drag over that spot again and again. The pleasure is so intense it almost hurts, a deep, aching fullness that makes your eyes water.
"Joel—"
"I got you," he soothes. "I got you, baby. Let go."
The orgasm builds slower this time, heavier, like a tide rolling in. You feel it start deep in your belly, spreading outward, making your toes curl and your breath stop. When it finally breaks it's cataclysmic—hot, endless, drenching his thighs, the sheets, everything. You cry out, broken and raw, and he groans like he's coming too, hips stuttering as he fucks you through it, chasing every last pulse.
When it finally ebbs you're boneless, shaking, tears on your cheeks. He eases out carefully, lays you down on the one dry corner of the bed he can find, and pulls you into his arms. He kisses your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth.
"You okay?" he asks, voice soft for the first time all day.
“Think you broke me." You manage a shaky laugh. He chuckles low, presses another kiss to your damp hair.
"Good." He reaches over the side of the bed, drags the spare blanket up over both of you. Outside the window the winter light is already fading to dusk. He tucks you against his chest, one big hand splayed protectively over your stomach.
"Rest now," he murmurs. "We'll clean up later."
You're already drifting—exhausted, sore, blissed-out, and so thoroughly claimed you can still feel the ghost of him inside you. Just before sleep takes you, you feel his lips brush your ear one last time.
"Next time," he whispers, "I'm gonna see how many times I can make you do that before you beg me to stop."
Summary: you and Joel just got married, and it’s your honeymoon, and he can’t wait to get his hands on you.
Warnings: explicit content, mature themes, smut, porn with plot, unprotected sex, dominant Joel, fingering, oral female receiving, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, teasing, praising, dirty talk, Joel would be absolutely feral on his honeymoon.
A/N: hello loves! Don’t forget to reblog and comment your little hearts out they are always appreciated, and of course encouraged! If you would like to be added to my Pedro tag list please let me know, and I’d be more than happy to add you. Thanks everyone again so much for your love and support! XOXO
Hall Of Hunks Pedro Pascal Masterlist
Tag list for everything: @iam-laiya @rosie-posie08 @madzleigh01 @alwaysclassyeagle @mytbel0st @shanimallina87 @marvelstarker-mha98 @powellssugarbaby @lora21 @kmc1989
Tag list for Pedro Pascal: @pedrohoe04 @k-k0129 @livingdeadmaria @angelofsmalldeath-codeine @milly-louise @kittenlittle24 @trisaratops-mcgee @subconsciouscollapse @hooked-on-penapascal27 @red-red-rogue @fellinfromthetop @drewharrisonwriter @vickie5446 @millerfan @lover-of-books-and-tea @bbyanarchist @justajoelsreader @meetmeatyourworst @lilacs97
*My inbox and requests are always open*
The honeymoon suite smells faintly of cedar and sea salt, the wide balcony doors thrown open to let the warm night breeze roll in off the water. Moonlight spills across the white sheets, turning everything silver and shadow. You're still in the thin lace slip you wore under your dress at dinner—cream-colored, barely there, clinging to every curve like a second skin. Joel hasn't taken his eyes off you since you stepped through the door.
He's behind you now, big hands sliding up your bare arms, slow and deliberate. His chest presses to your back, the rough cotton of his half-unbuttoned shirt catching on the lace. You feel the heat of him, the steady thump of his heart against your spine.
"Been thinkin' about gettin' you outta this thing all damn night," he murmurs, voice gravel-low against your ear. His lips brush the shell of it, then drag down the side of your neck. "You gonna let me, baby?"
Your breath hitches, suddenly your nerves hitting you all at once. "Yes."
One word and he's already moving.
His fingers find the thin straps first, sliding them off your shoulders with surprising gentleness for hands that size. The lace pools at your elbows; he doesn't pull it down yet—just holds it there, trapping your arms lightly while his mouth works a slow, wet path along your collarbone. You arch back into him instinctively, and he groans against your skin when your ass presses against the thick ridge already straining behind his jeans.
"Fuck, darlin'," he breathes. "Feel that? That's what you do to me. Every time I look at you."
He finally lets the slip fall, fabric whispering to the floor. Cool air hits your naked skin and your nipples tighten instantly. Joel's hands are there a second later—rough palms cupping your breasts, thumbs circling the peaks until you're squirming.
"Look at these," he says, almost reverent. "Perfect. Always so fuckin' perfect for me."
You turn your head, seeking his mouth, and he meets you halfway—hard, hungry kiss, tongue sliding deep like he's trying to taste every inch of you at once. One hand stays on your breast, rolling the nipple between calloused fingers; the other drifts lower, skimming your stomach, dipping between your thighs.
He finds you already soaked.
"Jesus Christ," he growls into your mouth. Two thick fingers part your folds, stroking through the slickness, spreading it up over your clit. "This wet already? We haven't even started."
"Been wet since you slid that ring on my finger," you gasp against his lips. "Since you called me your wife."
His fingers freeze for half a second—then plunge inside you without warning, two at once, curling hard. You cry out, knees buckling. He catches you against his chest, arm banding around your waist to hold you upright while he fucks you with his hand, slow and filthy.
"That what you like hearin', huh?" His voice is wrecked. "That you're mine now? All fuckin' mine?"
"Yes—God, Joel—"
"Say it."
"I'm yours." You rock down onto his fingers, chasing the stretch. "Your wife. Yours."
He growls something unintelligible, pulls his fingers free, and spins you around so fast your head spins. Then he's walking you backward toward the bed, kissing you like he's starving, hands everywhere—gripping your ass, your hips, your throat just enough to make your pulse jump under his thumb.
When the backs of your knees hit the mattress he doesn't let you fall gently. He pushes—just enough that you tumble onto the sheets with a soft bounce. He's on you in an instant, knee between your thighs, spreading them wide while he yanks his shirt off over his head. The moonlight catches the silver in his hair, the scars across his chest, the dark trail of hair disappearing into his jeans.
You reach for his belt. He catches your wrists, pins them above your head with one hand.
"Not yet," he says. "Wanna taste my wife first."
He slides down your body, rough stubble scraping your skin, leaving fire in its wake. When he gets between your legs he hooks your thighs over his broad shoulders and looks up at you—eyes black with hunger.
"Spread wider, baby. Let me see her." You do, shameless, trembling. He groans at the sight—your cunt glistening, swollen, aching for him. Then his mouth is on you.
No teasing. No gentle licks. He dives in like a man who's been denied for years, tongue flat and broad, licking a long, slow stripe from your entrance to your clit before he sucks the bud into his mouth hard. Your hips buck; he pins them down with one forearm across your pelvis, the other hand sliding up to knead your breast again.
"Joel too much." He pulls off just long enough to catch his breath, and look up into your disheveled face.
"You can take it. You're gonna take everything I give you tonight." Then he's back, tongue spearing inside you, fucking you with it while his nose grinds against your clit.
You come fast—too fast—back arching off the bed, thighs clamping around his head as you sob his name. He doesn't stop. Keeps licking through it, slower now, drawing it out until you're shaking and oversensitive and begging.
"Please—Joel—need you inside—"
He finally lifts his head, lips shiny, beard wet. "Yeah? Need your husband to fuck you?"
You nod frantically. He rises to his knees between your legs, hands working his belt open with practiced ease. The zipper rasps down. He shoves his jeans and boxers just low enough—cock springing free, thick and heavy, the tip already leaking. He fists himself once, twice, smearing the precum over the head while he stares down at you like he's memorizing every inch.
"Look at you," he mutters. "All spread out for me. Drippin'. Ready to take every goddamn inch."
He notches himself at your entrance, rubs the head through your folds, coating himself in your slick. You whine, hips lifting.
"Ask for it," he says, voice dangerous. "Ask your husband to fuck you on our wedding night."
"Please, Joel—" Your voice cracks. "Fuck me. Please fuck your wife."
He pushes in one long, relentless stroke—slow enough to feel every ridge, every vein, stretching you wide until your breath punches out of you. He bottoms out with a guttural sound, hips flush to yours, holding there while you adjust.
"Fuck, baby," he breathes. "So tight. So wet. Like you were made for this cock."
You clench around him instinctively and he swears under his breath. Then he starts to move.
Slow at first—long, deep drags that make your toes curl. Every time he pulls almost all the way out, he sinks back in harder, grinding against your clit on the downstroke. You wrap your legs around his waist, heels digging into his ass, urging him faster.
He gives you what you want.
The pace turns brutal—bed creaking, headboard knocking against the wall, skin slapping skin. His hands grip your hips hard enough to bruise, angling you so he hits that spot inside that makes stars burst behind your eyes.
"Goddamn, listen to you," he pants. "Takin' it so good. Takin' your husband so fuckin' good."
"Harder," you beg. "Please—want to feel you tomorrow—"
He growls, pulls out suddenly, flips you onto your stomach. You barely get your knees under you before he's behind you again, one hand fisting your hair, the other guiding himself back inside. This angle's deeper—meaner. He slams home and you scream into the pillow.
"That what you want?" He yanks your head back just enough to see your face. "Want me to fuck you raw? Fill you up?"
"Yes—fuck—yes—"
His other hand cracks across your ass—not hard, just enough to sting, enough to make you clench down around him. He groans.
"Do that again," he orders. "Squeeze me like that."
You do. Again and again, every time he bottoms out. He's relentless—pounding into you, balls slapping against your clit, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet room.
"Gonna come," you gasp. "Joel—gonna—"
"Do it," he snarls. "Come on my cock. Let me feel my wife come."
You shatter—harder than before, walls pulsing, fluttering, milking him. He fucks you through it, pace faltering, hips stuttering.
He buries himself to the hilt, grinding deep, and comes with a broken groan—hot pulses filling you, spilling out around his cock as he keeps rocking into you, drawing it out. His grip on your hair gentles; he presses open-mouthed kisses along your spine, your shoulder, the back of your neck.
When he finally stills, he doesn't pull out right away. Just stays seated inside you, softening slowly, one arm wrapping around your waist to pull you back against his chest. You're both slick with sweat, breathing hard.
He kisses your temple, voice rough and wrecked.
"My wife," he murmurs against your skin. "Fuckin' perfect."
You turn your head, find his mouth again—slow this time, lazy and sweet.
"Round two?" you whisper. He huffs a laugh, already twitching inside you.
"Give me five minutes, darlin'," he says, nipping your earlobe. "Then I'm gonna fuck you against that balcony railing so the whole ocean hears how loud my wife screams for me."
“Joel.” You giggle but the look in his eyes tells you he is dead serious.
He thrusts once—just enough to make you gasp. "Swear it."
The night is young. And Joel Miller—your husband—has no intention of letting you sleep.
The moon hangs low and fat over the ocean, turning the water into a sheet of hammered silver. The balcony railing is cool wrought iron under your palms as Joel presses you forward, bending you just enough that your breasts brush the top rail with every shallow breath. The night air licks at your sweat-damp skin, raising goosebumps, but the heat pouring off him behind you chases them away almost instantly.
He's still inside you—thick, half-hard from the first round, slowly thickening again with every lazy roll of his hips. He hasn't pulled out since he came; just kept you plugged full, letting his spend leak slow and warm down your thighs while he kissed the back of your neck and murmured filthy promises against your ear.
Now his big hands slide up your sides, possessive, until they cup your breasts from behind. He pinches your nipples—sharp enough to make you gasp—and tugs them forward so your upper body arches over the railing.
"Lean," he rasps, voice wrecked from groaning your name for the last hour. "Let 'em see."
Your heart stutters. "Joel—"
"Ain't nobody out there this late," he says, but the lie is so thin it's almost playful. The beach below is empty, the resort lights dim and distant, but the idea alone—the risk—makes your cunt clench around him hard enough that he hisses through his teeth.
"Fuck, there it is," he groans. "You like that thought, don't you? My wife bent over a balcony, tits out, drippin' my come while I fuck her again."
You don't deny it. Can't. Not when he's already pulling back—slow, deliberate—until just the fat head of him is stretching your entrance, then slamming back in with enough force that your palms slap the iron and your moan echoes off the water.
The sound makes him laugh, low and dark. "Louder, baby. Let the whole damn ocean know who you belong to."
He sets a punishing rhythm—deep, rolling thrusts that drag every ridge of him along your walls, the wet slap of skin on skin obscene against the quiet night. One hand stays on your breast, rolling the nipple, tugging until it's swollen and aching; the other slides down your stomach, fingers finding your clit and circling with the same rough precision he used earlier to make you scream.
You're so full—his cock, his come, the fresh slick he's coaxing out of you—that every thrust pushes more of it out, dripping down your thighs, cooling in the breeze. The sensation is filthy, perfect.
"Joel—God—harder—"
Grips your hips with bruising force, yanks you back onto him so hard the railing creaks under your weight. Your toes barely brush the cool tile now; he's lifting you onto the balls of your feet with every brutal snap of his hips. The angle changes—deeper, meaner—and he hits that spot that makes your vision white out.
"Right there?" he growls, voice shaking with restraint. "That the place that makes my wife fuckin' melt?"
"Yes—fuck—yes—"
"Say it. Tell me who's fuckin' you."
"My husband," you gasp, the word still so new it lights you up inside. "My husband's fucking me—oh God—on our honeymoon—on the balcony—"
He snarls something broken and primal, then wraps one arm around your waist, hauling your back flush to his chest so he can speak right against your ear while he pounds into you.
"That's right. Your husband. The one who put that ring on your finger. The one who's gonna keep you full of his come every damn night from now on. You hear me?"
You nod frantically, tears of pleasure stinging your eyes.
"Gonna breed this pretty cunt whenever I want," he continues, words slurring with lust. "Gonna wake you up with my tongue, fuck you slow in the morning, then bend you over like this whenever the mood strikes. You're mine, baby. All fuckin' mine."
The possessiveness tips you over.
You come with a broken cry—loud enough that it bounces off the dark water below—walls spasming, fluttering, trying to pull him deeper. He doesn't let up; fucks you through it, drawing it out until your legs shake and you're babbling nonsense.
When your orgasm finally ebbs he slows—just enough to let you breathe—then pulls out completely. You whine at the loss, empty and aching.
"Turn around," he orders, voice gravel-rough.
You obey on trembling legs. He lifts you like you weigh nothing—hands under your thighs, spreading you wide—and pins you against the railing, the iron pressing into your lower back. Your legs wrap around his waist instinctively; he notches himself and sinks back in with one long, slow glide.
This time he doesn't go fast.
He fucks you deep and deliberate, grinding against your clit with every roll of his hips, eyes locked on yours in the moonlight.
"Wanna see your face when I come inside you again," he murmurs. "Wanna watch my wife fall apart one more time."
You cup his face, thumbs brushing the silver in his beard, and kiss him—slow, filthy, tongues sliding together while he rocks into you like he's trying to imprint himself on your soul.
"Joel," you breathe against his mouth. "Come in me. Please. Want to feel it—want to be so full of you—"
"Fuck—gonna—baby—"
He buries himself to the hilt, grinding hard, and spills again—hot, thick pulses that make you whimper into his mouth. You clench around him, milking every drop, and he shudders through it, forehead pressed to yours, breathing ragged.
For long minutes you stay like that—locked together, hearts hammering, the ocean whispering below. His arms are steel bands around you; he doesn't seem inclined to let go anytime soon.
Finally he kisses you again—soft this time, almost tender—and murmurs against your lips.
"Still with me?"
You laugh, breathless. "Barely."
"Good." He nips your bottom lip. "'Cause we're not done. Not even close."
He carries you back inside like that—still buried deep, legs wrapped around him—kicking the balcony door shut behind you. The bed is only a few steps away, but he doesn't make it that far.
He presses your back to the nearest wall instead.
"Five more minutes," he says, already rocking into you again, slow and filthy. "Then I'm takin' you to that big shower. Gonna wash my come off these thighs... then put more right back where it belongs."
You shiver, already tightening around him. "Promise?"
He grins—dangerous, devastating—and thrusts deep.
"Swear it, wife." The night stretches on. And Joel Miller has every intention of making sure you feel him for days.
Warnings: explicit content, porn no plot, established relationship, no outbreak, smut, unprotected sex, dominant Joel, sexy film time, fingering, dirty talking, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, teasing.
A/N: hi guys I know I’ve been kind of posting a lot, and I’m sorry if y’all are getting annoyed with me, but if I don’t write and post this then I won’t be motivated to, and then I’ll find myself in a cycle of not wanting to post. Don’t forget to reblog and comment your little hearts out, and spread the love for writers! My tag list is always open so please comment or message or hit my inbox if you would like to join! Thanks again everyone for all your love and support! XOXO
Hall of Hunks Pedro Pascal Masterlist
Tag list for everything: @iam-laiya @rosie-posie08 @madzleigh01 @alwaysclassyeagle @mytbel0st @shanimallina87 @marvelstarker-mha98 @powellssugarbaby @lora21 @kmc1989
Tag list for Pedro Pascal: @pedrohoe04 @k-k0129 @livingdeadmaria @angelofsmalldeath-codeine @milly-louise @kittenlittle24 @trisaratops-mcgee @subconsciouscollapse @hooked-on-penapascal27 @red-red-rogue @fellinfromthetop @drewharrisonwriter @vickie5446 @millerfan @lover-of-books-and-tea @bbyanarchist @justajoelsreader @meetmeatyourworst
"You sure about this, baby?" His voice is gravel and smoke, quieter than usual wanting nothing more than to make sure this is what you want. "Once we hit record there's no take-backs."
You nod, pulse already loud in your ears and your body tingling with excitement. "I want it. I want to watch you fuck me whenever I miss you."
A muscle ticks in his jaw. He reaches out, rough fingertips catching the hem of the shirt and dragging it up just enough to expose the bare curve of your ass. Licking his lips as his eyes traced your entire body.
"Christ," he mutters, almost to himself. "Turn around for me. Let me see all of you first."
You do, slowly, feeling the weight of his stare like a physical touch. When your back is to him he steps right up behind you—close enough that you feel the heat rolling off his chest, the hard ridge of his cock already pressing against your lower back through denim.
"Gonna start easy," he says against your ear, breath hot. "Gonna get you nice and wet before I really give the camera somethin' to look at. That okay?"
"Yes." The word comes out shaky.
His big hand slides between your thighs from behind, cupping your pussy possessively. Two thick fingers part your folds immediately, finding you already slick.
"Fuckin' soaked already," he growls low, approval thick in his voice. "You been thinkin' about this all day, huh? About me bendin' you over and fillin' you up while that little red light watches?"
You whimper, hips rocking forward onto his hand. "Yeah. Couldn't stop."
"Good girl." He circles your clit with slow, firm strokes—teasing, never quite fast enough. "Tell the camera. Tell it exactly what you want tonight."
You glance toward the blinking red dot. Heat floods your face, but the words spill out anyway.
"I want Joel to fuck me," you say, voice trembling but clear. "I want him to stretch me open on his cock and—and make me come so hard I cry. I want to see his face when he fills me up."
“Jesus Christ, baby.” Joel lets out a rough exhale against your neck.
His fingers push inside you without any kind of warning. Two at once, thick and calloused, curling them just right. Your knees already buckling as he slowly thrust them curling up. The feeling is already overwhelming, and your thighs are already tingling.
"Easy," he murmurs, free arm banding around your waist to hold you up. "Gonna need those legs workin' when I bend you over the couch later."
He pumps slowly, obscenely wet sounds filling the quiet room. Every drag of his fingers makes you clench, makes more slick drip down your thighs.
"Look at the camera," he orders softly. "Let it see how pretty you are when you're fallin' apart on my fingers."
You force your eyes open, staring straight into the lens while Joel scissors his fingers inside you, stretching you open.
"Tell me when you're close," he says. "Wanna feel it. Wanna feel this little cunt squeezin' me before I give you my cock."
It doesn't take long. Not with the way he's rubbing that spot inside you, not with his thumb now circling your clit in tight, relentless strokes.
"Joel—close, I'm—fuck—"
"Come on, sweetheart. Give it to me. Let the tape see how wet you get when you come thinkin' about my cock." You shatter with a broken cry, thighs shaking, pussy pulsing hard around his fingers. He doesn't stop moving until you're whimpering from overstimulation, until your knees are threatening to give out completely.
When he finally pulls his hand free, his fingers glisten. He brings them to your mouth without asking. It’s such a simple gesture, but it has heat flooding to your cheeks at the filthy act.
"Clean 'em," he says, voice wrecked. "Show the camera how good you are for me."
You suck his fingers into your mouth, tasting yourself, tongue swirling. His eyes darken impossibly. You’ve never tasted yourself before but it felt wicked, and you wanted more. Like something was taking control of your mind, and craving every delightful sin.
"That's it," he breathes. "Fuck, look at you."
He pulls his fingers free with a wet pop, then grips your chin and kisses you—deep, filthy, all tongue and teeth. When he breaks away he's already undoing his belt with shaking hands.
"On the couch," he rasps. "Hands and knees. Ass up. I want the camera to see every inch of you takin' me."
You scramble to obey, knees sinking into the worn cushions, back arched, thighs spread. The T-shirt rides up your spine, leaving you completely exposed. Joel steps behind you. You hear the rasp of his zipper, the soft thud of denim hitting the floor. Then his hands are on your hips—rough, possessive—spreading you open.
"Look at this pretty fuckin' cunt," he mutters, almost reverent. "All swollen and drippin' for me. You ready, baby?"
"Please," you beg, pushing back toward him. "Need you inside me."
He notches the thick head of his cock at your entrance, teasing, letting you feel how wide he is. Trying with all your will not to move your hips knowing it would only delay what you want.
"Eyes on the camera," he orders. "I want you lookin' right at it when I slide in."
You lock eyes with the little red light. Joel pushes in slow—agonizingly slow—letting you feel every ridge, every vein, until his hips are flush against your ass and you're both shaking. Joel keeping you flush against his body as he felt you adjusting around him.
"Fuck," he chokes out. "So goddamn tight. You feel that? Feel how deep I am?"
"Y-yes—Joel—oh god—.” He pulls back just as slow, then snaps his hips forward hard. The slap of skin on skin echoes. You cry out, fingers scrabbling at the cushion.
"That's it," he growls, setting a brutal rhythm. "Take it. Take every fuckin' inch while that camera watches me ruin you."
You can't form words anymore—just broken moans and his name. He reaches around, fingers finding your clit again, rubbing fast circles while he pounds into you.
"Gonna come inside you," he pants against your shoulder. "Gonna fill this pussy up so full it's still leakin' me tomorrow. You want that?"
"Yes—please—Joel, please—"
"Say it louder. For the tape." It was pretty clear that Joel wanted this tape for personal use just as much as you did, and it turned you on tremendously.
"I want you to come inside me," you gasp, voice cracking. "Want you to fuck your cum deep and—and leave it there so I can feel it when I watch this later—"
He groans like you've punched him in the chest. His thrusts turn sloppy, desperate. His fingers on your clit speed up. His eyes never once looking away from your blissed out facial expressions.
"Come with me," he demands. "Come on my cock I wanna feel that cunt squeeze around me, baby—now—"
You shatter again, harder this time, vision whiting out as your cunt clamps down on him like a vise. Joel swears viciously, hips stuttering, and then he's coming—hot, thick pulses deep inside you, so much you can feel it spilling out around his cock.
He keeps rocking into you through both your aftershocks, milking every last drop, until you're both trembling and oversensitive.
Finally he stills, chest heaving against your back. He presses a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the nape of your neck. The act is so tender and sweet, you feel like you could just melt into his arms.
"Stay just like that," he murmurs, voice hoarse. "Let the camera see what you look like fucked full of me."
You feel his cum start to leak out, warm and sticky down your thighs. He reaches down, gathers some on his fingers, then pushes it back inside you with a low groan.
"Perfect," he whispers. "Fuckin' perfect."
Only then does he ease out, careful, and helps you turn around so you're sitting on the couch, legs spread, his spend still dripping from you. Watching as your cunt then pushed out much of him as you could. He thought he would never see a sight so beautiful.
He crosses to the camcorder, hits stop, then looks back at you with the softest, filthiest smile you've ever seen on his face. Almost like he was proud of himself, but deep down inside was wanting more.
"Think we got enough for one night?" he asks, already half-hard again. You shake your head, reaching for him as you pull him on the bed climbing on top.
"Hit record again," you say. "We're not done yet."
Summary: You just caught your boyfriend with another woman, and so you go to the one man who could help, his father.
Warnings: explicit content, mature themes, smut, porn with plot, cheating, unprotected sex, age gap, boyfriend’s father, fingering, dominant Joel, dirty talking, oral female receiving, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, use of the word ‘daddy’ one time.
A/N: hi my loves! I feel like I need a cold shower and to pray after this one. Anyways, don’t forget to comment and reblog your hearts out and share the love! Just know every single heart, reblog and comment on my works is always and greatly appreciated and encouraged! Also, taglist for Pedro is open so please let me know! By the way, if you don’t have anything nice to say, then please don’t say anything at all. Thanks everyone again! XOXO
Hall of Hunks Pedro Pascal Masterlist
Tag list for everything: @iam-laiya @rosie-posie08 @madzleigh01 @alwaysclassyeagle @mytbel0st @shanimallina87 @marvelstarker-mha98 @powellssugarbaby @lora21 @kmc1989
Tag list for Pedro Pascal: @pedrohoe04 @k-k0129 @livingdeadmaria @angelofsmalldeath-codeine @milly-louise @kittenlittle24 @trisaratops-mcgee @subconsciouscollapse @hooked-on-penapascal27 @red-red-rogue @fellinfromthetop @drewharrisonwriter @vickie5446 @millerfan @lover-of-books-and-tea @bbyanarchist @justajoelsreader @meetmeatyourworst @lilacs97
*My inbox and requests are always open*
The apartment smells like his cologne and someone else's perfume, something cheap and floral that makes your stomach turn before your brain even catches up. You hear it before you see it: the wet slap of skin, the low grunt that's so familiar it's almost comforting until it isn't, the breathy little "yesyesyes" that definitely isn't yours.
You don't scream. You don't cry. You just stand in the hallway, keys still dangling from your fingers, and watch through the half-open bedroom door as your boyfriend of two years pistons into a girl who looks barely old enough to drink, her ankles locked behind his back, nails raking down his shoulders the way you used to do.
He doesn't notice you. Neither of them does. You turn around, walk back to the front door, and leave without making a sound. The door closes with the softest click.
You drive for forty minutes with no destination until the gas light comes on. When you finally pull over, you're in the gravel lot outside the old auto shop Joel still half-runs even though he says he's retired. The neon "Miller's" sign is off, but his truck is there—same beat-up Ford he's had since before you met his son—and the bay door is cracked open, spilling warm yellow light onto the concrete.
You don't think. You just get out.
He's under the hood of a '78 Bronco when you step inside. Grease-streaked forearms, faded black tee clinging to the broad planes of his back, jeans slung low enough that you can see the waistband of his boxers when he leans forward. He doesn't look up right away.
"Shop's closed, darlin'," he drawls without turning. "Unless you're here to confess you keyed Tommy's new Silverado, I ain't takin' appointments."
You don't answer. Your throat is too tight. Joel finally straightens, wiping his hands on a rag that's more oil than fabric. He sees your face and the easy smirk drops off him like it was never there.
"Jesus. What happened?" You open your mouth. Nothing comes out at first, then you take a deep breath before you speak.
"He's fucking someone else. In our bed. Right now." Joel goes still. Not the dramatic freeze like in the movies but just the slow, deliberate stillness of a man who's deciding exactly how much violence he's willing to commit tonight. He exhales through his nose.
"That little shit." You laugh once, sharp and ugly. It sounds more like a sob.
"I didn't even yell at him," you say. "I just... left."
Joel tosses the rag onto the workbench. Steps closer. Not crowding you, but close enough that you can smell motor oil and sawdust and the faint cedar of whatever soap he uses.
"You want me to go drag him out by his hair?" he asks, voice low. "I will."
You shake your head. "No."
"Then what do you want, baby?" The endearment lands like a match on dry grass. He's called you that before—teasing, paternal, safe. Never like this. Never with his eyes dark and his jaw ticking like he's holding something back with both hands.
You look up at him—really look. The silver threaded through his beard, the deep lines carved around his eyes from too many years of squinting into sunlight, the way his shoulders seem to carry the whole damn world and still have room for more. He's not twenty-five. He's not even thirty-five. He's old enough to know exactly what he's offering, and young enough in the body to make good on it.
You step forward. Just one step.
"I want to feel something else," you whisper. "Anything else."
Joel doesn't move for a long second. Then his hand lifts—slow, giving you every chance to pull away—and cups the side of your face. His thumb brushes the tear track you didn't even realize was there.
"You sure?" he murmurs. "Once we start, I ain't gonna be gentle about it. Not tonight."
Your laugh is breathless. "Good."
That's all it takes. He kisses you like he's been starving for it. Not tentative. Not sweet. His mouth is hot and sure and filthy, his tongue sliding against yours immediately, deep, claiming. One big hand fists in your hair, angling your head exactly how he wants it; the other clamps around your hip and yanks you flush against him so you can feel how hard he already is through denim.
You moan into his mouth. Loud. Shameless. He growls in response, walks you backward until your ass hits the workbench. Tools clatter to the floor. He doesn't care. Neither do you.
Hands everywhere with yours clawing at his shirt, his shoving under yours, rough palm skating up your ribs to cup your breast over your bra. He thumbs your nipple through the lace until it pebbles, then pinches hard enough to make you gasp.
"Fuck," he breathes against your lips. "Been thinkin' about these tits for longer than I'm allowed to admit."
The confession makes heat flood between your legs.
You drag your nails down his chest, catching on the fabric, then lower, palming the thick ridge of his cock through his jeans. He's so hard it has to hurt. He jerks into your hand with a guttural sound.
"Off," you demand, tugging at his belt.
He laughs deep, low, dangerous. "Bossy little thing."
But he lets you yank the belt open, pop the button, drag the zipper down. You shove his jeans and boxers just far enough that his cock springs free—thick, flushed dark, already leaking at the tip. You wrap your fingers around him and he hisses through his teeth.
"Easy, baby. You're gonna make me come too fast like that." You stroke him anyway—slow, deliberate, watching his face the whole time. His eyes flutter shut for a second before snapping back open, pupils blown.
He grabs your wrist, pulls your hand away, then spins you around so you're facing the workbench. One arm bands across your chest, holding you back against him; the other hand dives under your skirt, shoves your panties to the side, and two thick fingers plunge straight into your soaking cunt.
You cry out, head falling back against his shoulder.
"So fuckin' wet," he growls into your ear. "This all for me, or were you already drippin' when you walked in here thinkin' about gettin' revenge?"
"Both," you gasp. He laughs darkly, curls his fingers, finds that spot that makes your knees buckle.
"That's my girl." He pumps them hard—wet, obscene sounds echoing off the concrete—while his thumb circles your clit in tight, relentless strokes. You're shaking already, thighs trembling, hands braced on the workbench.
"Joel—fuck—please—"
"Please what, baby?" He bites the shell of your ear. "Use your words."
"I want your cock," you choke out. "Want you to fuck me so hard I forget his name."
He groans like you've wounded him. Fingers slip out. You whine at the loss. Then he's shoving your skirt up to your waist, yanking your panties down your thighs. You kick them off. He spreads you open with one hand, notches himself at your entrance with the other.
"Look at this pretty pussy," he mutters, rubbing the head through your folds, coating himself in you. "All swollen and needy. Gonna stretch you so good, baby. Gonna ruin you for anyone else."
You push back, trying to take him. He holds you still with that iron grip across your chest.
"Ask me nice." You're beyond shame.
"Please, Joel," you whimper. "Fuck me. Please fuck me."
He slams home in one brutal thrust. Your scream bounces off the walls. He's so thick it burns—delicious, aching stretch—and he doesn't give you time to adjust. He pulls out slow just to drive back in harder, setting a punishing rhythm that makes your teeth clack together.
One hand grips your hip, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. The other slides up to wrap around your throat—not choking, just holding, possessive.
"You feel that?" he rasps, hips snapping. "That's what a real man feels like. Not some boy who can't keep his dick in his pants."
You can only moan—high, broken sounds every time he bottoms out. He changes the angle, hits that spot again and again until your vision whites out at the edges.
"Gonna come on this cock?" he growls. "Gonna soak me like a good girl?"
"Yes—fuck—yes—" He reaches around, rubs your clit fast and rough.
"Then do it. Come all over your boyfriend's daddy's dick." The words tip you over.
You shatter—screaming his name, walls pulsing, thighs shaking so hard he has to hold you up. He fucks you through it, relentless, drawing it out until you're sobbing from overstimulation. He doesn't stop.
He pulls out, spins you again, lifts you onto the workbench like you weigh nothing. Your back hits the cold metal. He spreads your thighs wide, hooks your legs over his forearms, and drives back in so deep you swear you feel him in your throat.
"Look at me," he orders. You do. His eyes are feral, sweat dripping down his temples, shirt clinging to every muscle.
"Say it," he demands, pounding into you. "Say who's fuckin' you right now."
"You," you gasp. "Joel—your cock—only yours—"
"That's right." He leans down, kisses you filthy and deep while he rails you. "Mine now. This pussy's mine."
You're climbing again—impossibly fast. He feels it, angles his hips so every thrust drags against your clit.
"Come again," he growls against your mouth. "Wanna feel you milk me. Wanna fill you up so deep you'll be drippin' me for days."
You come so hard you almost black out—back arching, nails raking down his arms, cunt clamping down like a vice.
Joel groans—long, guttural—hips stuttering. He buries himself to the hilt and comes with a broken curse, flooding you with heat, pulse after pulse until it's leaking out around his cock. He stays inside you for a long minute, both of you panting, foreheads pressed together.
Finally he pulls out slow—hisses at the sight of his cum dripping from your swollen pussy.
"Fuckin' beautiful," he mutters, almost reverent. He grabs a clean shop rag, wipes between your thighs with surprising gentleness, then pulls you into his arms. You're shaking. He holds you tighter.
"You okay?" he asks quietly.
You nod against his chest. "Better than okay."
He kisses the top of your head. "Good. 'Cause we ain't done."
You laugh—shaky, wrecked. "There's more?"
He smirks, already half-hard again against your thigh.
"Baby," he says, voice gravel-rough, "I've waited years to get my hands on you. We're just gettin' started."
He lifts you off the workbench, carries you toward the back office like you're something precious and filthy all at once. The door clicks shut behind you.
The office door shuts with a decisive click. It's not even a real office—just a cramped room off the back of the shop with a battered metal desk, a sagging couch that's seen better decades, a mini-fridge that hums like it's dying, and one naked bulb hanging from the ceiling. The air smells like old coffee, motor oil, and now, unmistakably, sex.
Joel sets you down on the edge of the desk but doesn't let go. His hands stay on your hips, thumbs stroking slow circles over the places he gripped hard enough to leave marks. You're still trembling from the aftershocks, thighs slick, his cum slowly leaking out of you and onto the desk's edge. You should feel filthy. Instead you feel powerful.
He studies your face like he's memorizing it.
"Still with me?" he asks, voice softer now but still rough at the edges.
You nod, because words feel too small. "I want more."
His mouth curves on just one side, slow and filthy. "Greedy."
He kisses you again, slower this time. Deep, lazy licks of tongue. Like he's tasting the way you taste after he's already been inside you. His hands slide up under your shirt, calluses dragging over sensitive skin until he's cupping both breasts, thumbs flicking your nipples in lazy rhythm with his tongue in your mouth.
You arch into him. Already aching again. Already empty and desperate to be filled. He breaks the kiss long enough to yank your shirt over your head and toss it somewhere behind him. Your bra follows. Then he steps back—just far enough to look.
"Goddamn," he breathes, eyes raking over you. "Look at you."
You're suddenly hyper-aware of everything, with the way your chest rises and falls too fast, the faint red marks his fingers left on your hips, the sticky shine between your thighs, the way your skirt is still bunched around your waist like a belt. He drops to his knees.
No preamble. No teasing. Just wide hands spreading your thighs wide enough that the cool air hits your soaked cunt and makes you shiver. Then his mouth is on you.
You cry out—sharp, surprised—because his tongue is hot and flat and dragging through your folds like he's trying to lick up every drop of himself he left behind. He groans against you when he tastes the mix of you both, the sound vibrating straight through your clit.
"Joel—fuck—" He doesn't answer with words. He answers by sucking your clit into his mouth, hard, while two thick fingers slide back inside you, curling, stroking that spot until your hips jerk off the desk.
You grab fistfuls of his hair. Not to guide him—he clearly knows exactly what he's doing—but because you need something to hold onto while he eats you like a starving man.
He pulls back just long enough to growl against your inner thigh: "Taste so fuckin' good together. Gonna make you come on my tongue, then I'm gonna fuck you again. And again. Until you can't remember what it feels like to be empty."
Then he dives back in. You don't last long. Not with the way he's sucking, licking, humming against you. Not with the way his beard scrapes the tender skin of your thighs. Not with the filthy wet sounds filling the tiny room.
You come with a choked sob, thighs clamping around his head, back bowing so hard the desk creaks. He doesn't stop—just keeps licking you through it, slower now, gentler, until you're whimpering and pushing weakly at his forehead.
He rises, lips shiny, beard wet, eyes blazing. You reach for his belt again—he's already hard, straining against the half-open fly. You free him, stroke him once, twice. He hisses.
"Turn around," he orders. You do. Bend over the desk. Brace on your forearms. Ass up, thighs spread, still dripping. He doesn't make you wait.
One hand fists your hair—not pulling, just holding—while the other guides his cock back inside you in one long, slow slide. You both groan at the feel of it. He's thicker this time, or maybe you're just more sensitive, every ridge and vein dragging against oversensitive walls.
He starts slow—deep, rolling thrusts that make your toes curl inside your shoes.
"Feel that?" he murmurs, voice wrecked. "That's me claimin' what's mine now."
You push back to meet him. "Yours."
He picks up speed. Harder. Deeper. The desk starts to slide forward an inch with every thrust. Papers scatter. A coffee mug tips over and rolls across the floor. Neither of you cares. His free hand slides around to your clit again—light, teasing circles now, keeping you right on the edge without letting you fall.
"Beg," he growls. You don't even hesitate.
"Please—Joel—please let me come—need it—need you—" He slams in hard enough to knock the breath out of you.
"Come," he commands. "Come on my cock again. Let me feel it."
You do—shattering, screaming, nails scraping the wood of the desk. He fucks you through it, relentless, until your arms give out and you collapse forward, cheek pressed to the cool surface.
Only then does he let himself go. He pulls out at the last second—grunts low and broken—comes hot and thick across your ass and lower back in long, pulsing stripes. You feel every spurt, feel the way his hand shakes where it grips your hip.
For a minute there's only the sound of both of you trying to remember how to breathe. Then he's gentle again.
He grabs that same rag from earlier—wipes you clean with careful strokes. Helps you stand when your legs threaten to give out. Pulls you against his chest, arms wrapped around you like he's afraid you'll disappear.
You rest your forehead against his collarbone. Listen to his heartbeat thundering under your ear.
After a while he murmurs, "You hungry?"
You laugh—hoarse, surprised. "You're thinking about food right now?"
"Gotta keep your strength up," he says, deadpan, but there's a smile in his voice. "I ain't done with you yet."
He leads you to the couch—old, cracked leather, smells faintly of cigarettes someone smoked in here twenty years ago. He sits, pulls you into his lap so you're straddling him. Your skirt's still rucked up, his jeans still open. It's obscene. Perfect.
He kisses you slow, lazy. Hands roaming. Not trying to start anything yet—just touching. Learning.
You break the kiss to ask the question that's been simmering since you walked in here.
"What happens tomorrow?" His thumb traces your bottom lip.
"Tomorrow you decide what you want. You wanna go back to him? I'll help you pack your shit and move out tonight. You wanna burn his shit in the driveway? I'll bring the gasoline. You wanna never see him again? I'll make sure he understands that's the smart choice."
You swallow. "And if I want... this?"
His eyes darken. "Then you got me. All of me. Every night. Every morning. Every time you need to be fucked so hard you forget your own name. I'm yours."
You feel something crack open inside your chest—something that's been locked tight for too long. You kiss him again. Harder this time.
"Stay tonight," you whisper against his mouth. "Don't want to go back there."
He nods once. "You ain't goin' anywhere tonight except my bed."
He stands, lifts you with him like it's nothing. Carries you out of the office, through the dark shop, out to his truck. The night air is cool against your overheated skin. He sets you in the passenger seat, buckles you in like you're precious cargo, then climbs in beside you. The engine rumbles to life. He reaches over, squeezes your thigh.
"Hold on, baby," he says, voice low and promising. "We got all night. And I plan to use every goddamn minute of it."
The truck pulls out of the lot, headlights cutting through the dark. And somewhere behind you, in an apartment that already feels like it belongs to someone else, your ex is probably still fucking that girl.He has no idea what he just lost. But you do. And Joel's hand is warm on your leg the whole drive home.
Summary: Joel becomes absolutely feral when he comes home and sees you wearing his flannel shirt.
Warnings: explicit content, have your holy water ready, it’s pure smut and porn, established relationship, feral Joel, dominant Joel, unprotected sex, rough sex, nipple play, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, major dirty talking, different sex positions, and altogether just filth.
A/N: hi my loves! I feel like I need a cold shower and to pray after this one, cause I might’ve gotten a little carried away with this one, over 3,000 words carried away, and I really couldn’t help myself, but to be fair in my defense who wouldn’t! Anyways, don’t forget to comment and reblog your hearts out and share the love! Just know every single heart, reblog and comment on my works is always and greatly appreciated and encouraged! Also, taglist for Pedro is open so please let me know! Thanks everyone again! XOXO
Hall of Hunks Pedro pascal masterlist
Tag list for everything: @iam-laiya @rosie-posie08 @madzleigh01 @alwaysclassyeagle @mytbel0st @shanimallina87 @marvelstarker-mha98 @powellssugarbaby @lora21 @kmc1989
Tag list for Pedro Pascal: @pedrohoe04 @k-k0129 @livingdeadmaria @angelofsmalldeath-codeine @milly-louise @kittenlittle24 @trisaratops-mcgee @subconsciouscollapse @hooked-on-penapascal27 @red-red-rogue @fellinfromthetop @drewharrisonwriter @vickie5446 @millerfan @lover-of-books-and-tea @bbyanarchist @justajoelsreader @meetmeatyourworst
You're standing at the kitchen counter now, pretending to read the back of a can of beans you have no intention of opening, when the front door opens on a gust of late-autumn air. Joel steps inside, shoulders dusted with the first snow of the season, cheeks and nose ruddy from the cold. He kicks the door shut, shrugs out of his coat, hangs his rifle on the pegs by the entrance. Then he sees you.
You feel the shift in the room like a physical thing—air thickening, temperature spiking. His dark eyes drag down your body in one slow, deliberate sweep: bare legs, the way the shirt gapes just enough at the top button to show the inner curve of your breast, the hem barely covering the cleft of your ass. His jaw flexes. Once. Twice.
"Jesus fuckin' Christ," he rasps, voice already gravel-rough from the cold. "That's my shirt."
You turn slowly, leaning your hip against the counter, letting the flannel ride up another half-inch. "Found it in the drawer. Smells like you."
His nostrils flare. He takes one step, then another, boots heavy on the wood. "You wearin' anything under it?"
You bite your lip, let your eyes flick down to the obvious bulge already straining behind his jeans. "What do you think?"
He's on you in three strides. Big hands clamp around your waist, lifting you onto the counter like you weigh nothing. The cold edge of the wood bites into the backs of your thighs but you barely register it—Joel's mouth is already on yours, hungry, bruising, tongue pushing past your lips like he's starving. You moan into the kiss, fingers curling into the thick salt-and-pepper hair at his nape, pulling him closer.
He breaks away just long enough to look down between you. The flannel has ridden up; your bare cunt is exposed, already glistening. His thumb brushes the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, teasingly close but not touching where you need him.
"Look at you," he murmurs, voice low and wrecked. "Walkin' around my house in nothin' but my goddamn shirt, drippin' for me. You want it bad, don't you, baby?"
"Yes." The word comes out on a shaky exhale.
"Say it." His thumb finally grazes your clit—just a feather-light pass—and your hips jerk. "Tell me exactly what you want."
"I want you to fuck me," you breathe. "Hard. In your shirt. Don't take it off."
A growl rumbles deep in his chest. "That's right. Gonna fuck you just like this—my pretty girl wearin' my clothes, smellin' like me, takin' my cock like she was made for it."
He yanks you forward by the hips until your ass is right at the edge of the counter. You hear the metallic clink of his belt, the rasp of his zipper, then the thick, hot length of him springs free—already leaking at the tip, flushed dark and heavy. He doesn't bother with teasing. One hand fists the flannel at your lower back, holding it up and out of the way; the other guides his cock to your entrance.
He doesn't push in slow. He slams home in one brutal stroke. The stretch burns so good your head falls back on a choked cry. He's so thick, so deep, the head of him kissing your cervix on the first thrust. Your walls flutter around him, trying to adjust, but Joel doesn't give you time. He pulls almost all the way out—only the fat crown still inside—then drives back in, setting a punishing rhythm right from the start.
"Fuck—tight little pussy grippin' me so good," he grits out against your throat. His teeth scrape your pulse point. "You feel that? Feel how deep I am? That's my cock rearrangin' you, baby. Makin' sure you remember who you belong to."
You can only whimper, nails digging into his shoulders through his Henley. The flannel slips off one shoulder; he immediately mouths at the newly bared skin, sucking a bruise into the slope of your neck while he fucks you harder, hips snapping forward with wet, obscene sounds.
"Look at these tits bouncin' under my shirt," he growls, shoving the fabric higher so your breasts spill out. He palms one roughly, thumb flicking the stiff peak. "No bra, no panties—just my flannel hangin' off you like a fuckin' claim. You like bein' marked up like this? Like everyone who sees you knows you're mine?"
"Yes—God, Joel—yes—"
He angles his hips on the next thrust and hits that spot inside you that makes your vision white out. You scream his name; he groans like he's been punched.
"That's it. That's the spot I'm gonna ruin tonight." He hooks one of your legs over his forearm, spreading you wider, opening you up so he can drive even deeper. "Gonna fuck you till you can't walk straight. Till every time you sit down tomorrow you feel me still inside you."
Your hands scramble for purchase—fisting his shirt, the counter edge, his hair—anything to hold on while he pounds into you. The flannel is rucked up around your ribs now, the worn fabric rubbing against your overheated skin with every brutal snap of his hips. You can smell him on it—leather, pine, gun oil, sweat—and it only makes you wetter, slicker, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing in the small cabin.
"Touch yourself," he orders suddenly, voice dark. "Rub that pretty clit while I fuck you. Wanna feel you come all over my cock while you're wearin' my name on your back."
You obey instantly, fingers finding your swollen clit, circling fast the way you like. The added stimulation makes your walls clamp down hard; Joel swears viciously.
"Fuck—yeah, squeeze me like that. Milk me, baby. Gonna fill this tight cunt up. Gonna pump you so full you'll be leakin' me for days. You want that? Want my come drippin' down your thighs under my shirt?"
The filthy words tip you closer. Your fingers speed up, breath coming in ragged gasps. "Joel—please—I'm so close—"
"I know you are. Can feel it. This little pussy's flutterin' around me like it's beggin'." He leans in, lips brushing your ear, voice dropping to a gravel whisper. "Come for me, sweetheart. Come on my cock while you're wrapped in my flannel. Let me feel you soak me. Then I'm gonna flip you over, bend you over this counter, and fuck you again till you're screamin' my name so loud the goddamn trees hear it."
That does it. Pleasure snaps through you like a live wire—sharp, blinding, devastating. You come with a broken cry, walls pulsing, gushing around him. Joel keeps thrusting through it, dragging the orgasm out until you're shaking, thighs trembling, tears pricking your eyes from how good it feels.
He pulls out suddenly—your whine of protest cut off when he spins you around, bends you over the counter. Your forearms brace on the wood; the cold surface is a shock against your overheated breasts. He kicks your feet wider, notches himself at your entrance again, and slams back inside.
The new angle is devastating. Deeper. Harder. His hands grip your hips so tight you'll have bruises tomorrow—perfect imprints of his fingers. The flannel hangs loose around you now, slipping off both shoulders, pooling at your elbows like a cape.
"Fuckin' perfect," he pants, pace brutal. "Ass up, back arched, takin' every inch like a good girl. Look at you—my shirt, my cock, my come gonna be leakin' out of you soon."
You push back to meet every thrust, moaning brokenly. "Fill me—please, Joel—want it—want you to come inside—"
He groans your name like a prayer and a curse. One hand slides up your spine, gathering the flannel in his fist, using it like a handle to yank you back onto his cock even harder.
"Gonna do it, baby. Gonna come so deep you'll feel it in your fuckin' stomach. Gonna mark you from the inside while you're wearin' my clothes on the outside. You're mine—say it."
"I'm yours," you gasp. "All yours—only yours—"
He buries himself to the hilt and stills. You feel the first hot pulse of him spilling inside you—thick, endless, flooding you. He grinds against your ass in slow, deep circles, working every drop as deep as it'll go while he pants against your neck.
"Fuck... that's it... take it all... good girl... so fuckin' good..." When he finally pulls out, you feel the warm trickle immediately—his come leaking out, sliding down your inner thigh. He groans at the sight, swiping two thick fingers through the mess and pushing it back inside you, making you whimper.
He turns you gently this time, cups your face, kisses you slow and filthy—tongue lazy, tasting himself on you. Then he pulls back just enough to look at you: hair wild, lips swollen, cheeks flushed, his flannel hanging off you like it was made to be ruined this way, his spend still dripping down your legs.
"Keep the shirt on," he murmurs, thumb brushing your bottom lip. "We ain't done yet. Bed. Now."
Joel's hand is already curled around the back of your neck the second your bare feet hit the hallway floor, steering you forward with that firm, unhurried grip that makes your pulse kick up all over again. The flannel is still hanging off you—half-unbuttoned now, one sleeve slipping down your arm, the tails brushing the backs of your thighs with every step. You can feel his come still leaking out of you, warm and slick, coating your inner thighs, making them stick together as you walk. Every few steps you clench involuntarily, trying to keep more from dripping, and he notices.
"Still leakin' me out, huh?" His voice is low, amused, filthy. He presses himself against your back so you feel how hard he still is—already recovered, thick and insistent against the small of your back. "Good. Means I didn't waste a drop. Gonna make sure there's plenty more where that came from."
You whimper when he pushes you through the bedroom doorway. The room is dim—only the soft amber glow from the bedside lamp and the faint silver of moonlight through the frost-etched window. The bed is unmade, sheets rumpled from this morning, smelling faintly of him: cedar soap, gun oil, sleep-warmed skin. He doesn't bother turning on more light. He just kicks the door shut behind you both and spins you to face him.
His eyes rake over you again, slower this time, savoring. The flannel gapes open enough that both breasts are exposed, nipples still tight and aching from earlier. His gaze lingers on the dark marks he's already sucked into your throat and collarbone, then drops to where the fabric clings damply to your lower belly—evidence of how wet you got, how much he made you come.
"Fuckin' look at you," he mutters, almost to himself. One rough hand reaches out, fingers tracing the open placket of the shirt, brushing the underside of your breast, then sliding down to palm your mound. Two thick fingers slip easily through your soaked folds, gathering the mix of your arousal and his come before pushing back inside you. You gasp, knees buckling.
He catches you around the waist, walks you backward until the backs of your legs hit the mattress.
"Lie down," he says. Not a request.
You drop onto the bed, scooting up until your head hits the pillows. The flannel falls open completely now, framing your body like dark wings. Joel stands at the foot of the bed for a long moment, just looking—chest rising and falling, jeans still unzipped, cock jutting out heavy and slick from earlier. He strips the rest of the way slowly, deliberately: Henley tugged over his head, jeans and boxers shoved down and kicked off. Every inch of him is solid, scarred, powerful. The silver in his hair and beard catches the lamplight; the dark trail leading down his stomach makes your mouth water.
He climbs onto the bed, knees sinking into the mattress, crawling over you until he's braced on his forearms above your head. His weight pins you without crushing, heat rolling off him in waves. He dips his head and kisses you—slow this time, deep, filthy. Tongue stroking yours like he's tasting every sound you make. When he pulls back his voice is wrecked velvet.
"Hands above your head. Grab the headboard." You obey instantly, fingers wrapping around the cool iron bars. The position arches your back, pushes your breasts up toward him. He groans low in his throat.
"Perfect. Stay just like that." He sits back on his heels between your spread thighs, eyes locked on where you're still dripping. You would have thought he was looking at a priceless work of art the way his eyes sparkled.
"Look at this mess I made." His fingers spread you open—gentle but firm—exposing your swollen clit, your puffy folds, the slow trickle of white leaking out. "So pretty. All creamy and fucked-out and still wearin' my shirt like it's yours now."
He leans down, breath hot against your core. You tense in anticipation—but instead of his mouth he drags the tip of his cock through your slit, coating himself in the slick mix of both of you. Up, down, circling your clit until your hips twitch and you whine.
"Joel—please—"
"Shhh." He notches himself at your entrance again, just the head inside. "You're gonna take me slow this time. Gonna feel every inch. Gonna watch my cock disappear inside my girl while she's wrapped up in my clothes."
He sinks in one torturously slow inch at a time. Your head tips back, mouth falling open on a silent moan. He's so thick—stretching you open again, dragging against every sensitive place inside. When he's buried to the hilt he pauses, grinding in deep circles, letting you feel how full you are, how perfectly he fits.
"Fuck, baby," he breathes against your throat. "This pussy was made for me. So hot. So wet. Still flutterin' around me like you didn't just come all over my dick in the kitchen."
He starts moving—long, rolling thrusts that drag almost all the way out before sliding back in, slow enough that you feel every vein, every ridge. The wet sounds are obscene in the quiet room. Every time he bottoms out the base of his cock grinds against your clit and you gasp.
"Look at me," he orders. Your eyes snap to his. Dark, blown pupils. Jaw clenched. Sweat beading at his temples.
"Watch me fuck you," he growls. "Watch how deep I go. Watch how this little cunt takes every inch like it's hungry for it."
You glance down—his thick length disappearing inside you, slick and shining, the dark curls at his base grinding against your mound. The sight makes you clench hard around him; he curses under his breath.
"Yeah—just like that. Squeeze me again, sweetheart. Let me feel how bad you want it."
You do. Over and over. He rewards you by picking up speed—still controlled, but deeper, harder. The headboard thumps rhythmically against the wall. The flannel bunches and twists around your torso with every thrust, the soft fabric rasping over your nipples, keeping them peaked and sensitive.
He drops his mouth to one breast, sucking the nipple hard through the open shirt, teeth grazing just enough to sting. You cry out, back bowing.
"Love these tits," he mutters against your skin. "Love how they bounce when I fuck you. Love how they look peekin' out of my shirt like you're tryin' to drive me fuckin' insane."
He switches to the other, sucking a fresh bruise into the soft underside while his hips snap forward harder. The angle shifts—he hooks one of your legs over his shoulder, opening you wider, driving so deep you swear you feel him in your throat.
"Joel—oh God—right there—"
"I know, baby. I know exactly where you need it." His voice is rough, strained. "Gonna make you come again. Gonna make this pussy gush all over me while you're still wearin' my name on your skin."
His free hand slides between you, thumb finding your clit—rubbing firm, steady circles that match the brutal rhythm of his thrusts. You're shaking now, thighs trembling, breath coming in short, desperate pants. The pleasure coils tighter, hotter, unbearable.
"Come on," he coaxes, lips brushing your ear. "Give it to me. Let me feel you fall apart. Let me feel this tight little cunt milk every drop outta me again. You're gonna come wearing my shirt, gonna come screaming my name, gonna come so hard you soak the fuckin' sheets."
Your whole body locks up—back arching off the bed, walls clamping down so hard he groans like he's been punched. You come with a broken sob of his name, pulsing around him, gushing wet heat that slicks his cock, his thighs, the sheets beneath you. He fucks you through it—hard, relentless—chasing his own release.
"Fuck—fuck—gonna come—gonna fill you up again—"
One last brutal thrust and he buries himself deep, grinding against your cervix as he spills inside you. Hot, thick pulses that seem to go on forever. His forehead drops to yours, breath ragged, hips still twitching with aftershocks as he empties every last drop.
For long seconds you just lie there—sweaty, trembling, tangled. His cock still softening inside you. His come leaking out around him, pooling beneath you. The flannel is wrecked—twisted, damp, clinging to your skin.
Finally he lifts his head, brushes damp hair off your forehead, kisses you slow and sweet.
"Still with me sweetheart?" he murmurs, voice hoarse. You manage a shaky nod, a wrecked little laugh.
"Barely." He smirks—soft, satisfied, possessive.
"Good." He doesn't pull out yet. Just rolls you both so you're draped across his chest, still connected, his arms banded around you. One hand strokes lazily down your spine, over the rumpled flannel. "Keep it on. All night."
You bury your face in his neck, smiling against his skin. "Wasn't planning on taking it off."
"That's my girl." He chuckles low, the sound vibrating through you both.
Summary: Joel simply wants you to sit on his face.
Warnings: explicit content, mature themes, smut, face sitting, face riding, oral female receiving, dirty talk, unprotected sex, barn sex, cowboy Joel, dominant Joel, multiple orgasms, overstimulation.
A/N: sorry for the super cliche title you guys but I just had to! Anyway, let me know what you guys think in the comment section I really would like to hear from readers! Don’t forget to reblog and share it’s encouraged and greatly appreciated! Also, my tag list for Pedro is still always open, so don’t hesitate to ask to join I would love it! Thanks everyone so much! XOXO
*My inbox is always open*
Hall of Hunks Pedro Pascal Masterlist 
Tag list for everything: @iam-laiya @rosie-posie08 @madzleigh01 @alwaysclassyeagle @mytbel0st @shanimallina87 @marvelstarker-mha98 @powellssugarbaby @lora21 @kmc1989
Tag list for Pedro Pascal: @pedrohoe04 @k-k0129 @livingdeadmaria @angelofsmalldeath-codeine @milly-louise @kittenlittle24 @trisaratops-mcgee @subconsciouscollapse @hooked-on-penapascal27 @red-red-rogue @fellinfromthetop @drewharrisonwriter @vickie5446 @millerfan @lover-of-books-and-tea @bbyanarchist @justajoelsreader @meetmeatyourworst
The barn smells of hay and old leather, warm and dusty in the late afternoon light that slants through the gaps in the weathered boards. Dust motes drift lazily in the golden beams. You can hear the horses shifting in their stalls, the occasional soft snort, but the world feels smaller here—contained between these four walls and the man currently sprawled on his back in the loose pile of fresh straw he dragged over just for this.
Joel Miller looks up at you from below, shirt already gone, jeans shoved down just far enough that the thick length of him is freed and lying heavy against his stomach. His chest rises and falls slow, deliberate, like he's trying to keep himself leashed. The silver in his beard catches the light. His eyes—dark, hungry, a little dangerous—are locked on yours.
"C'mere," he rasps, voice gravel-rough from disuse and want. One big hand pats his chest once, twice. "Been thinkin' about this all goddamn day."
You're already barefoot, jeans and underwear long discarded somewhere near the ladder to the loft. The straw prickles against the soles of your feet as you step over him, straddling his shoulders. He doesn't wait for you to lower yourself—he reaches up, rough palms sliding along the backs of your thighs, gripping hard enough to leave the shape of his fingers on your skin later. He pulls you down without preamble.
The first press of his mouth is obscene. Hot. Wet. Unrelenting.
His tongue flattens against you immediately, broad and firm, dragging a slow, deliberate stripe from your entrance all the way up to your clit. You choke on a sound—half moan, half gasp—and your hands fly to the wooden beam above you for balance. The wood is sun-warmed, splinter-rough under your palms.
Joel groans into you like he's tasting something he's been starving for.
"Fuck, that's it," he mutters against your folds, words vibrating straight through your core. "Sit. Don't hover. Sit on my face like you mean it, baby."
Your thighs tremble. You lower yourself another inch—and then another—until your weight is fully settled, until his nose is pressed tight against your mound and his tongue is working inside you, thick and insistent. He doesn't tease. He never does when he gets like this. He eats you like a man who's been dreaming about it for weeks.
The flat of his tongue circles your clit once, twice, then flicks—sharp, quick, perfect—and your hips jerk forward on instinct. He growls in approval, the sound muffled and filthy, and wraps both arms around your thighs, locking you in place. His biceps flex under your weight. You can feel every scrape of his beard against the tender skin of your inner thighs, every hot exhale against your dripping cunt.
You rock against him—tentative at first, testing. His hands tighten. Encouraging. Demanding.
"Ride it," he orders, voice thick and wrecked. He pulls back just enough to speak, lips shiny with you. "Fuck my face. C'mon. Use me."
That breaks something in you.
Your hips roll forward harder. You grind down, chasing the pressure of his tongue, the scrape of his stubble, the way his lips seal around your clit and suck—hard—until your vision sparks. He lets you set the rhythm but meets every roll with a flick of his tongue or a slow, deep lick that makes your toes curl in the straw.
You're dripping. You can feel it—slick sliding down his chin, coating his beard, making obscene wet sounds every time you drag yourself over his mouth. He doesn't care. If anything, it makes him hungrier. One hand leaves your thigh and slides up your body, rough fingertips finding your nipple and pinching—twisting just enough to make you cry out.
"Joel—"
He answers with a long, slow suck on your clit that has your thighs shaking violently around his ears. You grind down harder, faster, chasing that bright edge. Your fingers dig into the beam overhead until your knuckles ache. The wood creaks.
His tongue spears inside you again, fucking you with it—deep, messy strokes—then pulls out so he can lap at your entrance like he's trying to drink every drop. Then back to your clit, circling, flicking, sucking, over and over until your rhythm stutters and your breath comes in ragged sobs.
"Look at you," he growls when he pulls back for air, voice absolutely ruined. His lips are swollen, beard soaked, eyes blown black. "Ridin' my face like you own it. So fuckin' wet I can barely breathe. You gonna come for me? Gonna soak my beard, baby?"
You can't answer. Words are gone. All you can do is nod frantically and grind down harder, hips snapping, chasing that coil winding tighter and tighter in your belly. He senses it—the way your thighs start to quake, the way your clit swells against his tongue.
"That's it," he murmurs, voice dark and filthy. "Give it to me. Let me feel it. C'mon—come all over my fuckin' mouth."
He seals his lips around your clit and sucks—hard, rhythmic, unyielding—while the flat of his tongue lashes against the underside at the same time.
The orgasm hits like a freight train. Your whole body locks up, thighs clamping around his head, back bowing as you grind down one last time and come with a broken, keening cry that echoes off the rafters. Pleasure rips through you in brutal waves; you can feel yourself pulsing against his tongue, gushing, slick running down his chin and throat. He doesn't stop. He keeps licking, slower now, softer, drawing it out until you're whimpering from overstimulation and your legs are shaking so badly you're afraid they'll give out.
Finally—mercifully—he eases off.
He presses one last open-mouthed kiss to your swollen, oversensitive clit, then helps you slide down his body until you're straddling his hips instead. His cock is still rock-hard against your ass, leaking steadily onto his stomach. His hands stroke up and down your trembling thighs, soothing.
You're panting, chest heaving, skin flushed and damp with sweat. Joel looks wrecked in the best way—hair mussed, beard glistening with you, lips red and slick. He licks them slowly, deliberately, like he's savoring the taste.
"Goddamn," he mutters, voice hoarse. His thumb brushes over your bottom lip. "You taste like fuckin' heaven."
You lean down and kiss him—deep, filthy, tasting yourself all over his tongue. He groans into your mouth, hands sliding up to cup your face, holding you there while he licks into you like he can't get enough.
When you finally pull back, both of you are breathing hard. He smirks—slow, lazy, smug.
"Think you got one more in you?" His hand slides down between your bodies, fingers finding your soaked folds again. You jolt at the contact, still too sensitive, but he just circles your clit with the lightest touch. "'Cause I ain't done with you yet, sweetheart. Not even close."
You feel him twitch beneath you—thick, hot, ready. The horses shift again in their stalls. The sun keeps slanting through the boards. And Joel Miller—still flat on his back in the straw—looks up at you like you're the only thing in the world he's ever wanted. Your thighs clench around his hips. Yeah, you've definitely got one more in you.
You're still trembling from the aftershocks when Joel's hands slide up your hips again, steady and sure. His thumbs brush slow circles over the sensitive skin just above your pubic bone, grounding you even as your pulse hammers between your legs. His cock is thick and hot where it rests against the cleft of your ass, the head already slick from how much he's been leaking while you rode his face.
He doesn't rush. He never does when he knows you're still sensitive. Instead he just watches you—dark eyes tracking every hitch in your breath, every flutter of your lashes. One hand leaves your hip to cup the back of your neck, pulling you down until your forehead rests against his. His beard is still damp with you; you can smell yourself on him, musky and sweet.
"Still with me?" he murmurs, lips brushing yours.
You nod, swallowing hard. "Yeah."
"Good girl." The praise lands low in your belly, fresh heat blooming even though you just came so hard you saw stars. You shift your hips experimentally, sliding back until the fat head of him nudges your entrance. You're so wet—still dripping from his mouth—that he slips against you easily, coating himself without even trying.
Joel groans, low and wrecked. His fingers flex on your neck.
"Fuck, baby... feel how ready you are for me." You rock back just enough to let the tip breach you—slow, deliberate. The stretch is immediate, delicious. You both hiss at the same time. He's thick, always has been, and even after his tongue worked you open you still feel every ridge, every vein as you sink down another inch.
"Easy," he rasps, though his hips twitch like he's fighting not to thrust up into you. "Take what you need. I've got you."
You brace your hands on his chest—his heart slamming under your palms—and sink lower. Inch by inch. Until your ass meets his hips and he's buried to the hilt.
The fullness makes your eyes roll back. You can feel him everywhere—deep, throbbing, pressing right against that spot that makes your thighs shake all over again. You stay like that for a long moment, just breathing together, letting your body adjust to the way he fills you completely. Then you start to move.
Small rolls at first—tiny circles of your hips that drag him against every sensitive place inside you. Joel's head tips back into the straw, throat working on a swallow. His hands slide to your waist, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise.
"That's it," he breathes. "Ride me just like you rode my face. Slow... fuck, just like that."
You find a rhythm—lifting until only the head is inside you, then dropping back down hard enough that your ass slaps against his thighs. The sound is filthy, wet, echoing in the quiet barn. Each downward stroke punches a grunt out of him; each upward slide makes you clench around the thickest part of him, trying to keep him deep.
He lets you set the pace for a while—lets you grind, lets you bounce, lets you chase whatever angle feels best. But when your movements start to falter—when your thighs begin to burn and your rhythm turns sloppy—he takes over. One arm bands around your lower back. The other hand grips your hip.
Then he plants his boots in the straw and thrusts up into you—hard, deep, controlled. You cry out, nails digging into his pecs.
"Joel—fuck—"
He doesn't stop. He fucks up into you with steady, punishing strokes—pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in, making sure you feel every inch. The angle's perfect; the head of him drags right over that swollen spot inside you with every pass. Your clit grinds against his pubic bone on every downstroke, the coarse hair there rubbing you just right.
You're dripping down his balls now. You can hear it—slick, obscene sounds every time your bodies meet. His breathing has turned ragged; sweat beads along his hairline, trickles down the side of his neck.
"Look at me," he growls. Your eyes snap to his. He's wrecked—pupils blown, lips parted, cheeks flushed under the gray in his beard. But his gaze is steady. Possessive.
"You feel that?" Another hard thrust. "That's all you. So fuckin' wet, so tight... gonna make me lose it, baby."
You clench around him on purpose—he curses under his breath—and start meeting his thrusts, rolling your hips down to take him deeper. The pressure builds fast, too fast, that familiar coil tightening low in your belly again.
"Joel—I'm—"
"I know." His hand slides between you, rough fingertips finding your clit. He doesn't tease this time—just firm, steady circles that match the rhythm of his hips. "Come on my cock. Let me feel it. Wanna feel you fuckin' milk me."
The combination—his thick length pounding into you, the relentless pressure on your clit, the way his voice has gone hoarse and desperate—snaps the tension like a bowstring.
You come with a broken sob, harder than before. Your whole body locks up, inner walls fluttering and pulsing around him, trying to pull him even deeper. Slick gushes around his cock; you can feel it running down where you're joined, soaking his balls, the straw beneath him.
He fucks you through it—doesn't let up—drawing the orgasm out until you're whimpering, oversensitive and shaking. When your spasms finally start to ease, he flips you.
One moment you're on top; the next your back is in the straw, legs hooked over his forearms as he spreads you wide. He doesn't pull out—just grinds deep while he rearranges you, making sure you feel every inch of him still buried inside.
Then he starts fucking you in earnest. Hard. Fast. Deep.
The barn fills with the wet slap of skin on skin, your gasping moans, his low, guttural grunts. Straw sticks to your damp back, catches in your hair. You don't care.
His mouth crashes down on yours—messy, desperate, all teeth and tongue. You taste yourself on him again, salt and sweet, and it only makes you arch harder into him.
"Gonna come," he warns against your lips, voice raw. "Where do you want it, baby? Inside? On you?"
"Inside," you gasp without hesitation. "Please—Joel—fill me up—"
That's all it takes. His rhythm stutters. His hips slam forward one last time—deep, grinding—and he comes with a broken groan that vibrates through your chest. You feel him pulse inside you, hot and thick, spilling deep. Wave after wave. His cock twitches with every spurt, painting your walls until you're so full you can feel the excess leaking out around him.
He stays buried to the hilt while he rides it out, forehead pressed to yours, breathing hard against your mouth.
When he finally stills, neither of you moves for a long minute—just panting, hearts hammering, bodies slick with sweat and come and spit. Eventually he eases out—slow, careful—and you both hiss at the loss. You feel the warm rush of his release trickle out of you, pooling beneath your ass in the straw.
Joel drops down beside you, one arm slung possessively over your waist. His beard scratches your shoulder as he presses a lazy, open-mouthed kiss there.
"Jesus," he mutters, voice wrecked. "You're gonna kill me one of these days."
You laugh—breathless, shaky—and turn your head to kiss the corner of his mouth.
"Worth it." He hums in agreement, hand sliding down to cup you between your legs—gentle now, soothing the swollen, sensitive flesh.
"Stay here a minute," he says quietly. "Let me take care of you."
The horses snort softly in their stalls. Sunlight keeps pouring through the cracks. And Joel Miller—still half-hard, still covered in you—looks at you like he's already planning round three. You smile against his neck. Yeah. Definitely worth it.
Summary: there’s nothing that Joel loves more then some lazy morning sex.
Warnings: explicit content, mature themes, pure smut, sleepy Joel, unprotected sex, sleepy sex, dirty talk, orgasms, overstimulation, shower sex, oral female receiving, fingering, Joel being a horny mofo in the morning.
A/N: hi guys I know I’ve been kind of posting a lot, and I’m sorry if y’all are getting annoyed with me, but if I don’t write and post this then I won’t be motivated to, and then I’ll find myself in a cycle of not wanting to post. Don’t forget to reblog and comment your little hearts out, and spread the love for writers! My tag list is always open so please comment or message or hit my inbox if you would like to join! Thanks again everyone for all your love and support! XOXO
Hall of Hunks Pedro Pascal Masterlist
Tag list for everything: @iam-laiya @rosie-posie08 @madzleigh01 @alwaysclassyeagle @mytbel0st @shanimallina87 @marvelstarker-mha98 @powellssugarbaby @lora21 @kmc1989
Tag list for Pedro Pascal: @pedrohoe04 @k-k0129 @livingdeadmaria @angelofsmalldeath-codeine @milly-louise @kittenlittle24 @trisaratops-mcgee @subconsciouscollapse @hooked-on-penapascal27 @red-red-rogue @fellinfromthetop @drewharrisonwriter @vickie5446 @millerfan @lover-of-books-and-tea @bbyanarchist @justajoelsreader @meetmeatyourworst
*My inbox is always open and so are my requests*
The first thing you register is the heat. Not the sharp, urgent kind that comes from running or fighting, but the slow, heavy warmth of Joel's body curled around yours like he's still trying to shield you from the world even in sleep. His arm is slung low across your waist, calloused palm splayed possessively over your bare stomach, fingers splayed wide enough that the tip of his pinky brushes the sensitive skin just above your mound. His breath fans slow and steady against the nape of your neck, warm whiskey-sleep exhales that make the tiny hairs there stand up.
Sunlight is sneaking through the crooked slats of the bedroom blinds—late morning, probably close to ten. No patrol today. No urgent knocks at the door. Just the two of you, tangled in sheets that smell like sex from last night and the faint cedar of his skin.
You shift, just a lazy roll of your hips, and feel him instantly. He's already half-hard against the cleft of your ass, thick and warm, the blunt head nudging between your cheeks like it knows exactly where it wants to be. A low, gravelly sound rumbles out of his chest—half groan, half warning.
"Mornin'," he mumbles, voice wrecked from sleep and last night's growling. His lips brush the shell of your ear. "You tryin' to start somethin'?"
You arch your back just enough to press yourself more firmly against him. "Maybe."
His hand slides up, slow, deliberate, cupping the underside of one breast. His thumb drags lazy circles around your nipple until it pebbles under the rough pad.
"Greedy little thing," he mutters, but there's a smile in it. "Didn't I fuck you hard enough last night?"
"Apparently not." You reach back, threading your fingers into the curls at the nape of his neck, tugging just enough to make him hiss. "Still feel empty."
Joel's grip tightens on your hip, holding you still while he rocks forward once—slow, deliberate—letting you feel every thick inch of him slide along the seam of your cunt. You're already slick from dreams and from the way he'd spilled inside you hours ago; the wet sound is obscene in the quiet room.
"Christ," he breathes against your throat. "You're still drippin' me out."
You whimper when he notches the head at your entrance, not pushing in yet, just letting the fat crown stretch the rim of you open and closed, open and closed, teasing.
"Joel—"
"Shh." His free hand slides up to wrap loosely around your throat—not squeezing, just holding. A reminder. "Gonna take my time with you this mornin'. No rush. No one's comin' for us."
He pushes in one slow, devastating inch. Your mouth falls open on a silent gasp. Even after last night he still feels impossibly thick, the stretch burning sweetly as your walls flutter and try to pull him deeper.
"That's it," he murmurs, voice like gravel dragged over silk. "Let me in, baby. Let me fill you up again."
Another inch. Then another. Until he's seated so deep you swear you can feel him in the back of your throat. He stays there, perfectly still, letting you feel the heavy throb of him inside you, the way your cunt pulses around the intrusion like it's trying to keep him.
"Fuck, you're tight," he groans, forehead dropping to your shoulder. "Still swollen from last night. Feel that? How your little pussy's grippin' me?"
You nod frantically, nails digging into his forearm. "Move. Please."
He chuckles—low, dark, mean in the best way. "Not yet. Wanna feel you come apart just like this first."
His hand leaves your throat and slides down between your legs. Two thick fingers part your folds, finding your clit already swollen and slick. He circles it once, slow, then taps it lightly—once, twice—making your whole body jerk.
"Joel—fuck—"
"There she is," he purrs. "My sensitive little girl." He starts the smallest, laziest rocks of his hips. Not thrusting, not really—just grinding, stirring his cock inside you in tiny circles that drag the ridge of him over that spot that makes your vision white out.
"Harder—"
"Nope." He nips your earlobe. "Told you. Slow. Gonna make you come just from bein' stuffed full and a little rub on this pretty clit."
His fingers prove his point—sliding down to gather more of your wetness before returning to your clit with slick, unhurried strokes. Up, down, little side-to-side flicks that have you keening.
"Look at you," he murmurs, voice thick with something like awe. "Already shakin'. Haven't even fucked you proper yet."
"Please," you beg, voice cracking. "Joel, please—"
"Say it again." His hips give one harder grind, making you choke on a moan. "Beg me nice."
"Please fuck me," you gasp. "Need it—need you to fuck me slow and deep and—fuck—make me come on your cock—"
He growls against your neck, teeth scraping skin.
"That's my girl." And then he moves. Not fast. Not rough. Just long, deliberate drags out until only the head is inside, then slow, heavy thrusts back in that make your toes curl and your breath punch out of you. Every stroke bottoms out with a wet smack of skin on skin, his balls pressing tight against you.
"Goddamn," he groans. "Hear that? Hear how wet you are for me? Fuckin' soaked."
You can't form words anymore—just broken little whimpers and his name over and over. He hooks one of your legs over his forearm, opening you wider. The new angle lets him sink impossibly deeper, the head of his cock kissing your cervix on every slow plunge.
"Right there?" he rasps, grinding against that spot until your eyes roll back. "That the place that makes you stupid?"
"Yes—yes—Joel—"
His fingers never leave your clit—slow, slippery circles that match the rhythm of his hips. Lazy. Torturous. Perfect.
"You gonna come for me like this?" he murmurs, lips brushing your jaw. "Gonna come all over my cock while I'm barely movin'?"
You nod, frantic, tears pricking the corners of your eyes from how good it feels, how full, how close—
"Come on, baby," he coaxes, voice low and filthy. "Let me feel it. Squeeze me so fuckin' tight I can't think straight. Wanna feel that pussy cream me while you shake."
It hits you like a slow wave—starting deep in your belly and rolling outward until every muscle locks. You cry out his name, high and broken, as your cunt clamps down hard around him, fluttering, pulsing, dragging him deeper.
"Fuck—fuck—there you go," he groans, hips stuttering for the first time. "Good girl. So goddamn good for me."
He doesn't stop moving—keeps those long, slow thrusts going right through your orgasm, drawing it out until you're whimpering from overstimulation. When the aftershocks finally ebb he pulls out slow—agonizingly slow—until just the tip is inside you again. You whine at the loss.
"Shh," he soothes, kissing the sweat-damp skin behind your ear. "Not done with you yet."
He rolls you onto your stomach, nudging your thighs apart with his knees. You feel him settle behind you, one big hand pressing between your shoulder blades to keep your chest down while the other guides himself back to your entrance.
This time he doesn't tease. He sinks in one long, smooth stroke until he's buried to the hilt. You both moan—loud, wrecked sounds that echo in the quiet room.
"Christ, baby," he breathes, hips flush against your ass. "You take me so fuckin' perfect."
He starts moving again—still slow, but deeper now, heavier. Every thrust punches the breath from your lungs. His balls slap softly against your clit with each roll of his hips.
"Love this," he mutters, almost to himself. "Love wakin' up inside you. Love how you feel when you're still sleepy and soft and mine."
"Yours," you gasp into the pillow. "Always—fuck—yours—"
He leans down, chest to your back, caging you in. One arm snakes under you to palm your breast while the other braces beside your head.
"Gonna fill you up again," he growls against your ear. "Gonna pump you so full it'll be leakin' out of you all day. You want that?"
"Yes—God, yes—"
His pace picks up—just a fraction. Enough to make the headboard tap the wall in a slow, steady rhythm.
"Touch yourself," he orders. "Want you to come again baby."
Your hand flies between your legs, fingers finding your swollen clit. You rub fast little circles while he fucks into you with those long, punishing strokes.
"That's it," he pants. "Rub that pretty clit while I fuck my come deeper. Gonna make sure it stays right where it belongs."
The filthy words tip you over again—harder this time. You sob his name into the mattress as your cunt clamps down like a vice, rippling around him.
Joel swears viciously. "Fuck—gonna—baby, I'm—"
He slams home once, twice, then stills—buried so deep you feel every pulse as he comes. Hot, thick spurts coat your walls, filling you until you're overflowing, until you can feel the excess slicking your thighs. He collapses over you, breathing ragged, lips pressed to your shoulder. For a long minute there's just the sound of both of you trying to remember how lungs work. Then he huffs a soft laugh against your skin.
"Mornin'." You laugh too—breathless, blissed-out.
"Morning." He kisses the back of your neck, slow and sweet.
"You good?"
"Very." He stays inside you a while longer, soft now but still thick enough to keep most of his come from leaking out. One big hand strokes lazy patterns up and down your spine. Eventually he pulls out with a low groan from both of you. You feel the warm trickle immediately—his release sliding out of you, down your thighs. Joel makes a pleased sound in his throat.
"Look at that," he murmurs, reaching down to drag two fingers through the mess and push it back inside you. "Fuckin' beautiful."
You shiver at the casual possessiveness of it. He rolls you onto your back, settling between your thighs again—this time just to look at you. His eyes are soft in the morning light, thumb brushing your cheek.
"Love you," he says quietly, like it's the easiest thing in the world. Your heart does that stupid flip it always does when he says it like that—raw, unguarded.
"Love you too." He kisses you then—slow, lazy, tasting like sleep and sex and him.
"Shower?" he asks against your lips.
"Only if you carry me." A slow, crooked grin spreads across his face.
"Deal." He scoops you up like you weigh nothing, sheets and all, and heads for the bathroom—still leaking him, still marked by him, still so thoroughly his that you can't imagine ever being anything else.
Joel carries you into the bathroom like you're something precious and breakable, one arm hooked under your knees, the other supporting your back. The sheets trail behind you both for a few steps before they slip to the floor in a rumpled heap. You can still feel the slow, warm trickle of him leaking out of you with every gentle sway of his stride—sticky, intimate proof of how thoroughly he just claimed you.
He doesn't bother with lights. The bathroom is already soft with morning glow filtering through the frosted window above the tub. He sets you down on the edge of the counter, cool tile shocking your overheated skin. Your thighs part instinctively when he steps between them, and he just stands there for a second, looking.
His eyes rake over you—messy hair, flushed cheeks, the faint red marks his teeth left on your shoulder, the glistening evidence of both your releases smeared along your inner thighs. His cock, still half-hard and shiny with you, twitches against his stomach at the sight.
"Fuckin' hell," he mutters, voice rough again already. "Look at the mess I made of you."
You reach for him, fingers curling around the back of his neck. "You're the one who keeps filling me up."
"Yeah." His mouth quirks. "And I ain't done yet."
He leans in and kisses you—slow this time, deep, like he's tasting every sound you made while he was inside you. His tongue slides against yours, lazy and possessive, while his hands roam. One cups your breast, thumb brushing the still-sensitive nipple; the other slips between your legs, two thick fingers gliding through the slick mess of both of you.
You gasp into his mouth when he pushes those fingers back inside—easy, no resistance left after the way he stretched and fucked you open.
"Still so wet," he murmurs against your lips. "My come's just slidin' right back out every time you clench."
"Joel—"
"Shh. Let me play a little." He curls his fingers, stroking that spot inside that makes your hips jerk. His thumb finds your clit at the same time—slow, slippery circles that have you whimpering against his jaw.
"You're gonna come again before we even get in the shower," he says, low and certain. "Just like this. Gonna make you soak my hand while I watch."
Your head tips back against the mirror, breath hitching. "You're evil."
"Mm." He kisses the pulse point under your jaw. "And you love it."
He keeps the rhythm unhurried—lazy pumps of his fingers, lazy drags over your clit—until your thighs are trembling and your nails are digging crescent moons into his shoulders.
"Joel—close—"
"I know, baby. I can feel it. That little flutter you do right before you come all over me." His voice drops lower, filthy. "Go on. Let it go. Wanna feel you gush around my fingers while my come's still leakin' outta you."
You shatter with a choked cry, hips bucking against his hand as your cunt clamps down hard, pulsing, slick coating his palm and dripping onto the counter. He works you through it, slow and steady, murmuring praise against your throat until you're shaking and boneless. When you finally slump against him, panting, he chuckles—dark and pleased.
"Good girl." He scoops you up again, this time stepping over the lip of the tub and setting you on your feet under the wide showerhead. The water's already running—he must've turned it on while you were still coming apart on the counter. Warm, almost hot, it sluices over both of you instantly, plastering your hair to your shoulders and turning his into dark, wet curls.
Joel reaches for the soap, lathering his big hands before sliding them over your skin. He starts at your shoulders, down your arms, then back up to cup your breasts—thumbs circling your nipples until they pebble again under the warm spray.
"Sensitive?" he asks, voice teasing. You nod, biting your lip. He hums, pleased, and drops to one knee in front of you. Your breath catches.
He looks up at you through wet lashes, water streaming down his face, over the scar on his nose, the silver in his beard. Then he leans in and drags his tongue slow and flat along the crease of your thigh, tasting the mix of you both that's still leaking out.
"Joel—fuck—"
He doesn't answer with words. Just hooks one of your legs over his shoulder, opening you, and licks a long, deliberate stripe up your slit. You cry out, hands flying to his hair.
He groans against you like you're the best thing he's ever tasted—deep, hungry sound that vibrates through your clit. His tongue parts you, lapping up every drop of his own come mixed with yours, swirling around your entrance before pushing inside as far as he can.
"Jesus Christ," you gasp, hips canting forward.
He pulls back just enough to speak, lips shiny, voice wrecked. "Taste us together, baby. Fuckin' perfect."
Then he's back on you—sucking your clit into his mouth, gentle but insistent, while two fingers slide back inside, curling, stroking. The water pounds down around you both, muffling your moans, turning everything slick and hot and overwhelming.
You're already climbing again—too soon, too fast—but he doesn't let up. His free hand grips your ass, holding you exactly where he wants you while he eats you like a man starved.
"Joel—gonna—oh God—"
He hums encouragement against you, the vibration sending you flying. You come on his tongue with a broken sob, thighs clamping around his head, fingers yanking at his soaked curls. He drinks you down, licking slower now, softer, until the aftershocks fade and you're trembling so hard he has to stand and pin you against the tile to keep you upright.
He kisses you then—deep, filthy, letting you taste yourself and him on his tongue. You moan into his mouth, hands sliding down his chest, over the hard planes of his stomach, until you wrap your fingers around his cock. He's fully hard again—thick, hot, pulsing in your grip.
"Fuck," he hisses against your lips. "You're gonna kill me."
You stroke him slow, matching the lazy rhythm he's kept all morning. "Want you inside me again."
His forehead drops to yours, breath ragged. “Yeah?”
"Yeah." He turns you around so your palms brace against the tile, water streaming over your back. His hands slide down your sides, over your hips, then one palms your ass, spreading you open.
"Look at you," he murmurs, voice thick. "Still swollen. Still drippin' me."
He guides himself to your entrance, rubbing the head through your folds—once, twice—coating himself in the mess he just licked clean. Then he pushes in. Slow. So slow you feel every ridge, every vein, every inch stretching you open again. You both groan in unison when he bottoms out, hips flush to your ass, his balls pressed tight against you.
"Goddamn," he breathes, hands gripping your waist like anchors. "This pussy was made for me."
He starts moving—long, lazy drags out, long, lazy rolls back in. The angle has him dragging over that spot inside with every stroke, making your knees shake.
"Touch yourself," he orders, voice gravel. "Want you to come on my cock one more time before I fill you up again."
Your hand slips between your legs, fingers finding your clit—still so sensitive it almost hurts, but the good kind of hurt. You rub in tight little circles while he fucks you slow and deep, water pounding down around you both.
"Tell me," he growls against your ear. "Tell me how good it feels."
"So good," you whimper. "So full—fuck—Joel, you're so deep—"
"Yeah?" He snaps his hips a little harder—just once—making you cry out. "Right here?"
"Yes—there—don't stop—"
"Never," he promises, voice raw. "Gonna keep you stuffed full of me all goddamn day."
The words, the stretch, the pressure on your clit—it's too much. You come again—harder than before—screaming his name as your cunt locks down around him, milking him, fluttering wildly. Joel swears viciously, thrusts turning sloppy.
"Fuck—baby—gonna—"
"Do it," you gasp. "Come inside me—please—"
He slams home one last time and stills—cock pulsing, flooding you with heat, thick spurts that you can feel painting your walls. He groans long and low, hips jerking with each pulse until he's empty, trembling against your back.
For a long minute you just stand there—panting, water cooling around you, his softening cock still nestled inside, keeping everything where he wants it. Finally he kisses your shoulder, your neck, the shell of your ear.
"Love you," he murmurs, soft as anything. You turn your head, catch his mouth in a lazy, exhausted kiss.
"Love you more."
He chuckles—breathless, wrecked. "Not possible."
He pulls out slow, both of you hissing at the sensation. His come starts to leak immediately, milky white against your thighs, washed away by the shower almost as soon as it appears. Joel turns you around, cups your face in both hands, thumbs brushing your cheekbones.
"You okay?"
You nod, smiling like an idiot. "Better than okay."
He kisses you again—sweet this time, gentle—then reaches to shut off the water.
"C'mon," he says, grabbing a towel and wrapping it around you before grabbing one for himself. "Back to bed. We're not leavin' it for the rest of the day."
You laugh, letting him scoop you up again—towel and all.
"Promise?" He smirks, already heading for the bedroom.
"Baby, I'm just gettin' started."
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