pairing: stepdad!joel miller x reader
rating: 18+
tags: daddy kink, adultery, slow morning sex, mommy issues, 20s/50s age gap, fluff, smut, no-outbreak, reader is an adult
word count: 3,095
summary: you & joel spend the morning together
a/n: reader experiences age regression, Joel steps into the caretaker role to fill a hole in his heart - think im gonna make step-dad joel a continuous thing cause i fell in love with him lowk
“Quiero amanecer entre tu piel de miel, luego acariciarte hasta quitar tu sed”
⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹ ⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹
Patience.
Patience was your word of the week.
Joel had gifted you the word earlier in the week when you attempted to rush him into the car to see some new film he’d promised to take you to. You enjoyed watching the previews, and he insisted that you’d make it in time, saying, ‘Slow and steady.’
You, of course, made it in time, and Joel reminded you of it on the way home, too.
“See, slow and steady, darlin’.”
That’s when you were awarded your word of the week. Patience.
“Fuck patience,” you mutter, laid out in your bed. The morning sun pierces through the slits in your blinds as you stir awake anxiously, waiting.
Saturday. Book club.
Your mother attends a book club every other Saturday morning for a couple of hours, routinely. Which meant you would be alone… alone with Joel.
You weren’t too sure when it started, maybe a few months back, but since then, the relationship, if you could call it that, had taken off. Stealing moments with just the two of you, sneaking around like teenagers; it was silly and thrilling.
Your mother & yourself weren’t exactly on the same page; you never had been, truthfully. She seemed to have resented you, maybe reminded her of your father, who left her when he found out she was with child. Maybe because you “stole her youth”, something you overheard her say when she had friends over for drinks when you were 12.
She didn’t like you, you didn’t care for her.
Losing your job earlier this year had sent you into a manic state, forcing you to reach out to the woman you hadn’t talked to in half a decade. After finding the courage to dial her number, she was reluctant, of course, insisting you could handle it until her new husband stepped in, insisting you could stay until you were back on your feet. It was his house you’d be staying in anyway.
Joel. Your saving grace.
Your hand plays with the band around your hips before dipping below the hem of your underwear, fingers twirling as they coat in your slickness, Joel, Joel, Joel.
Resentment is thick and ugly in your veins; it sits bitterly on the back of your tongue as you huff out, sexual frustration rising.
It isn’t fair. It isn’t fair that she gets to wake up to him. To his warm skin, deep, heavy breaths. She doesn’t even abuse it as you would. Like you will.
The garage door opens with a whirr, your ears perking up, excitedly tuning into the distant sound, alerting you to your mother's departure… that your time with Joel has come.
It’s embarrassing how fast you move, stripping yourself down the hall, leaving a trail of bedtime clothing until you’re in front of the master suite, pushing past the ajar door softly.
It smells like her… makes you wanna vomit until your eyes catch where he’s lazily sprawled out, limbs askew as his chest rises and falls. The thick, graying hair curls a bit on his chest as the warm morning hue makes him seem golden, illuminating him in a way you’ve always seen him.
A soft giggle escapes your lips, never seeing him in such a vulnerable position.
He’s always been capable, stern, steady, and proud. From the first time you met him and watched as he offered you a firm handshake. Or the time you visited him at work and saw the way others cower in fear at his disapproving gaze. You’ve watched people maneuver around him in grocery stores, not wanting to poke the bear.
But there he lay, as vulnerable as a bunny in the meadow.
To see him so exposed fills you with a strange desire, knowing others don’t get to see this intimate side of him, that it's reserved for you - maybe sometimes her.
“Can make the room smell like me…” You whisper, hushed, soft pads of your feet connecting with the carpet as you walk over closer to him.
His dry lips welcome in puffs of breath as you near, ideas forming in your head.
It isn’t difficult to dip under the covers into the bed, immediately enveloped in his warmth, hearing him stir awake, the lightest sleeper you know.
You move a bit eagerly, wanting to surprise him with your presence, straddling him as your knee lands on the other side of his body, strategically dropping your bottom where he’s gone hard in his sleep, the only separation being his boxers.
“Daddy?” You whisper, leaning over to connect your lips to his, a soft, unresponsive peck, nothing more, wanting him to see you in your full glory.
“Mmm,” he groggily groans, limbs constricting then stretching out as his hips instinctively buck you up a bit, realizing there’s a body as his eyes blink open. Grey and bewildered as he takes in the sight, his gaze softens as he realizes.
“Sight for sore eyes…” he smacks, yawning as his cock nudges you from below, your bottom lip moving between your teeth. His voice is like butter on hot toast, melting in his throat & filling your ears like a symphony.
“Daddy, wake up, cmon, fuck me,” you’re overly excited, beginning to move your hips, your ass bumping against his hardened length, desperate to feel him, thinking back to the last time you were able to. Must have been a week, maybe two.
He laughs, deeply as it comes out like molasses, his southern accent worsened by lack of sleep, “Easy, princess.”
His bristly hands find their way on your thighs, calloused fingers rub at the soft skin there before moving up your side, strategically ignoring your breasts, teasingly, moving towards your back where he rubs there, feeling every inch of you, “Ain’t no rush.”
You pout, angrily, wanting him, needing him - feeling as if you’re on fire. You could never give it to yourself, you tried. He was the only one who knew your body, knew what would make you squirm and squeal. You needed him.
“Daddy, hurry up, we have to go quick.” Your hands fall to his head, messing up his hair a bit as you dig your fingers in, desperately, tugging a bit as his eyes fall closed again, not giving into your antics.
“Got a couple of hours, baby girl, patience…” He hums, lowly in a way that vibrates you to your core, causing you to leak where you’ve gone wet between your thighs, soaking him below.
“Patience is stupid,” you profess, brattily, dipping your own hand under you to satiate your needs, moaning softly as your fingers connect to your nub, wanting him to see what he’s done to you, that you’re only his.
It isn’t but a few seconds until he has your hand in his, gripping it authoritatively, yet softly, bringing your fingers to his mouth, eyes still closed as his lips wrap around your slick, tasting you there. “Well, ain’t you just sweet as pie.”
Those same fingers are soon pressed to your lips as you open obediently, sucking at them gently to taste the mix of your wetness and Joel's spit, tongue wrapping needily there, squirming at the taste of him.
“Take me out,” He grunts, lazily blinking open as he settles his back into the bed, watching you carefully as you hurriedly reach behind you to tug his boxers down, feeling rather than seeing when he’s free.
He’s hard, incredibly hard. The way his cock twitches behind you, heat branding the skin on your ass as you know it without seeing it, just how hard he is. Makes you confused as to why you’re not being pounded into the mattress.
He only hums simply below you, eyes studying your breasts in the morning light, your nipples hardened with desire as he brings his fingers up to one of them, tweaking it softly before greedily enveloping it in his hand, kneading at the skin curiously.
“Listen up,” His voice solidifies, signaling his serious nature as you lock in, “We’re gonna fuck nice’n slow today. Gotta teach you patience.”
Your thighs tremble a bit just at the thought of being able to fuck him once more, having touched yourself for weeks at your last interaction, where he had you bent over the kitchen counter.
“Repeat it…” He demands, eyes darkening as his brows knit together, going into his mean Joel Miller mode you’ve seen him in with others.
“Daddy n I gonna fuck nice n slow…” You mimic his deep southern accent, your hips rock eagerly back into his cock where it stands firm and proud, leaking down the shaft.
“Good girl… lift those hips.” He’s settled now, fully awake, legs widening to prepare for your clutch as you comply, hungrily raising yourself as his hand moves under you, positioning his member to align, his tongue swiping against his bottom lip in anticipation.
“Go ‘head’n drop down… slowly,” he warns, giving you a look that makes you wanna hide your face as your blood rushes with desire, heat exuding from where you two collide, nodding in agreement.
“Oh my- uhhh,” your opening catches on his tip as you press down, beginning to let gravity do its job as you drop, your tight aching cunt giving way to the pressure of his mass until you’re stopped abruptly, two hands gripped to your hips.
“Too fast… do it again.” He removes himself, disapprovingly, the look of disappointment on his face makes you want to cry as you suck in a breath, repositioning yourself again, shame branding into your skin.
“Need to feel every part of my girl… gotta savor it.” He grunts, touching at his wetted tip, sliding the moisture down the shaft with a pump before repositioning himself again, tapping your thighs to tell you to try again.
It’s painful, so painful. Your hole once more catches at his tip as it takes everything in you to not slam down there, allowing him to fully feel you all at once and vice versa. Instead, you allow yourself to swallow him section by section.
His tip breaches the wet clench and passes the restrictive walls, pushing deeper, inch by inch, as slowly as possible, feeling like time stops as you take him, crying out as you feel him unlike any way before.
It’s difficult to describe, the way it feels never-ending, his cock infiltrating your center as it pushes and pushes in, creating space just for itself, a little nook just for him.
He’s right. He tends to be, it’s unreal, your hands grasping his chest hair, fingers lazily twirling there as you don’t know if his mass will ever end.
“Feels, s’good,” you murmur drunkenly, inebriated by desire as your eyes roll back gently.
“Tha’s it, baby girl, don’t that feel nice?” He coos from beneath you, rubbing it in your face as well, knowing how to please his girl, how to show you the different points of pleasure.
Eventually, after eons, you hit his base, crotches connecting on a grind. You aren’t usually able to take all of him in this position; it’s new as you relax onto him, feeling him nudge at your limit uncomfortably.
He offers his thumb, pressing it to your lips as you take it, your lips hugging around it there, gratefully satisfying your known oral fixation as you can’t help but drool.
“Let’s just stay like this for a bit.” He mutters, a bit hoarsely, allowing you to understand he’s experiencing as much bliss as you.
His thumb removes from your mouth, going down down down until it connects with your swollen nub, swirling to offer you some needed satisfaction.
“Jo-Joel…” your hips sway a bit, feeling him nudge against your silky walls as you don’t understand why you’re so close, maybe it’s the desperation, maybe it’s the pent-up sexual frustration, maybe it’s the fact you’ve never experienced him like this in such a way.
“Wrong name, sweetheart,” he swirls faster, your eyes clenching closed as your cunt reflexively familiarly tightens around him, knowing what he wants, knowing that it’s coming, you have to tell him. “Slow down, baby.”
You can’t slow down, your hips jutting front and back to match the tender rubs on your sensitive spot, building within you like the rising sun, getting bigger and bigger until its pounding at your doors, “Oh god, oh my god, daddy!”
You cry, incredibly loud, falling on top of him weakly as your hips find your release, flinching beneath you. You bite at his chest as you coat him in your orgasm, his arms going around to hold you steady as you’re blinded by it, speaking incoherently as spots blur your vision.
“Jesus, darlin’, didn’t know you were that worked up,” He sighs out a chuckle over your head, where you're nuzzled into his chest, still trying to come back down, hips still spazzing.
“Uh huuuuhhhh,” you whimper, digging your face in there, a little embarrassed that you needed him so badly, grateful, however, to have finally found your release.
“Tha’s alright, baby girl, just missed your daddy.” His hand finds your back, rubbing soothing circles there as you nod apologetically, immediately comforted by his gentleness.
“Gonna make you finish, daddy,” you mumble, exhaustedly into his chest as he chuckles lowly, in a curious manner.
“That right?”
“Yup…” you think for a beat, “Horsie ride.”
An exacerbated sigh leaves his mouth swiftly.
“Fuck- baby, we can’t do horsie ride.” He disagrees, words coming out throaty & flustered as he knows what happened last time.
It had been the second time you ever fucked him; he was teaching you a few things. One of those things included teaching you how to ride a cock.
It hadn’t been your cup of tea, preferring to be the pillow princess you were, but he insisted it would be fun.
You were struggling, trying to find the correct position for your legs and attempting to not put too much weight on his balls.
“Baby, try’n ride it like a horse… have fun with it, don’t think ‘bout it too much,” He convinced you, letting you let down your inhibitions for a moment before looking to him.
“Horsie ride?”
“Tha’s it, baby girl, horsie ride.”
The memory has your hips settling down, legs spreading over him as you push off his chest, his eyes giving you a warning, a warning you ignore, knowing you’ll pay for it sometime soon.
He opens his mouth to speak, to reprimand you, but it’s cut off as your hips jolt up and down incredibly fast, imagining how it must feel to ride a stallion as his cock tugs up inside you and pumps with your movement.
“Jesus Christ,” Joel angrily gets hold of your hips, but only encourages more pressure as you grind into him deeper, watching him experience the same pleasure as last time. His eyes knit together as his mouth falls open silently, adams apple bobbing in his throat.
“Want to feel you…” You pant, breathlessly, ignoring your own discomfort as he nudges too deeply at your cervix, knowing that’s what makes horsie ride so fun for him. The unimaginable depth, the quick pace, he won’t last long.
“Gon’ get the belt if ya don’t-” He’s cut off by his own moan, a rare occurrence for him to not have control. A rare occurrence for you to have control, solely motivated by the need to produce his release, wanting him to feel as free as you do in the moment.
You know he’ll punish you, he’ll angrily scold you, and spank you when you finish, you don’t care, don’t mind it. It’s about now.
You hop up and down on him like a bunny, fucking him deep into you as far as he can go, jilting and jolting your hips in every direction so he feels every inch of you, giggling as you do, mumbling ‘horsie ride, horsie ride’.
You desire for him to know that you’re made for him, that you can bring him pleasure & happiness like no other, you’re the only one for him, just as he is for you.
It’s typical, his signs of pleasure, the veins that bulge from his neck, the grip that tightens and most likely bruises your skin, the way he goes quiet when he’s about to finish, focusing on his overwhelming pleasure.
“Aw, baby girl…” He’s cursing then, trying, you know, he is, trying to hold back his orgasm as it overtakes him, going rigid as his head tilts back, pulling you down on him as his cock sinks deep to expel his seed right into your womb, sullying you as you gasp, surprisedly. As if this wasn’t your end goal.
You’re very well aware of how pissed he is in the moment, knowing that his bodily reactions have betrayed his desires, and you are the reason for it. He doesn’t like not being in control, and he doesn’t like to finish too fast. You know both these things.
But... punishment usually equals his attention; you find it as a win either way.
“Daddy?” You question, exhaustedly, falling back down to his chest, feeling him go soft from within you. He stays, his hand lazily falling on your ass, rubbing there.
“Mm?” He breathes deeply, trying to catch his breath, chest slowing in movement to settle his aroused bones.
“How’d’you know that would feel so good?” You trace hearts on his abdomen where he’s tan and muscular, noting a scar there.
“Lots of years between 20-something and 50-something, learn a thing or two…” He mumbles, fatigued. “You know you're gettin’ punishment?”
“Uh huh!” you squeak, moving your head to tilt up to him, where he’s looking down at you, eyes gone dark with warning that you only grin at, excitedly, causing his expression to soften on a chuff, baffled at your reaction.
“Sure know how to make me feel like a man.” He laughs a bit, placing his head back against the headboard, the wrinkles on his face becoming more prominent as he smiles in the most beautiful manner.
“My man?” you question, needing him to confirm the connection, to affirm the secret love you hold for each other.
“Your man baby, your man.” He nods in agreement, head leaning over as you tilt yours up expectantly, lips colliding on a soft Saturday morning kiss, “Your man.”
Summary: Existence is a needful thing. Choice is fickle, nature inescapable. Run to the end of the world, Joel, all those things will still find you.
She'll still come for you.
-OR-
the A/B/O outbreak AU
Rating: Explicit 18+
Content Warnings: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics; Dystopian Society; Outbreak not Cordyceps AU; Light Angst; Slow Burn; Shocking Considering the Implications of Me and This Trope but Alas; Biologically Assigned Soulmates; Power Dynamics; Topping From the Bottom; Government Controlled Reproduction; Segregation of the Designations; Institutionalized Sexism; Vaguely Handmaidien Undertones; Incredibly Soft Despite the Tags; Be Not Afraid, Dear Reader!; Yearning; Emotional Hurt/Comfort; Competence Kink; Alpha Joel; Omega MC; Knotting; Heat Sex; Mating Rituals; Very Soft Joel; Enthusiastic Consent; Older and Jaded Alpha; Young and Needy Omega; Possessive Behavior; Age Gap; Size Difference; Size Kink; Breeding Kink; Brat Taming; Loss of Virginity; Not Safe to Read if Triggered by Pregnancy
- summary: the ‘sweetheart’ of jackson has both the miller brothers wrapped around her finger—and they’re ready to take what she’s willing to give
- warnings: sex, threesome (m/m/f), rough sex, oral (m receiving), hair pulling, light spanking, cum eating/swallowing, sort of cucking, alcohol consumption, manhandling, creampie, light fingering, joel lovessss ass, kissing, neck kissing, thigh riding, orgasms
- word count: 10.3k 😮💨😮💨
very roughly inspired by the song ‘the giver’ by chappell roan…. writing that as i forgot about it being the inspo a third of the way through
on ao3
masterlist
Being the sweetheart of Jackson comes with its perks.
You’re not one to join patrol shifts. Not one to dig perimeter trenches or be on the lookout for infected or raiders in the distance. Hell, you barely raise your voice in town, and folks just seem to gravitate to you.
Not once have you had any real work to do like everyone else–you sit and look pretty while the world is practically in flames around you. The comfortable town of Jackson keeps you safe from the apocalyptic world outside, and it’s virtually all you know now. Just sunsets dusted over the sky like gold, wooden porches, horses, movies every Friday night.
It’s never too serious with you, and that’s how you like to keep it. You have the freedom to head out to bars and drink your heart away, sing alone and spend your time however you like it.
Nobody expects much out of you. You’re always in your pretty cowboy boots and tiny tanks, glossed lips, baking for your neighbors and planting flowers.
Maybe it’s your baking. Sugar-dusted pies and muffins that everyone swears are to die for. Or maybe the wildflowers you insist on planting on wooden walkways to bring pops of color to the town saddened by the reality of the outbreak. Or, it could be your smile–looking stitched by sunlight, a certain sweetness that can only come with a warning.
The rumors say you came from a QZ in Colorado, wearing boots too clean for the end of the world. Some women are skeptical, but many of the men in town are stunned. Two, in particular. They’re wrapped around your pretty finger.
And you, on the other hand, don’t care. You wear that sneaky smile proudly and walk around Jackson calling everyone ‘darling.’ Handing out cookies to children, making friends with the community’s animals alongside Ellie, and sending an occasional wink to the many older and married men of the little ‘commie’ town. Cowboys are a favorite of yours.
You don’t normally need a map to find trouble–or to find men. They find you, and you hear it in the boots clacking on porches and smell it in the sweat and whiskey of Saturday night bonfires.
You’ve learned how to read a glance. To read pauses, sense held breaths. Quite familiarized with stares.
It’s in your nature.
So, you sit and look pretty on a daily basis, humming along to old country songs with the warmest voice and making your rounds. While you don’t have your own job, you seem to always help everyone else. You’re a giver.
When a job needs to be done, they know they can call you.
And that’s why everyone seems so devout to you–Jackson’s angel and heartbreaker all at once.
Tommy Miller, though, is a flirt. The man could sweet talk a bloater if he thought it’d wink back. The kind that talks to anything that breathes–but in an effective manner.
He’s attractive. A smile that belongs on a billboard and the warmest laugh ever that makes women peek over their shoulders. Lucky for Jackson, there weren’t many billboards left–so Tommy’s handsome face is kept safe in the borders of the town.
And unlucky for you, the man knows how to work that charm a little too well. Often in your direction.
A walking distraction dressed in boots and a perfect Southern twang, he carries himself well despite going through hell–still comes out the other side with a wink and the occasional joke. Where his brother, Joel, is more silence and tension, Tommy is easy laughter and a lazy arm slung around your waist. Before you can even realize he’s too close.
He always seems to be smiling, even if his mouth physically isn’t.
And it’s unfair. It makes you forget what you’re doing. What day it is. Your own name.
Tommy’s hair is always a little tousled by the wind, messy like he’d just taken off a hat or came in from a horse ride. His tan and freckled face seems to season him, and he wears it proudly. Comfortably. He’s gorgeous.
Strong, sure, after years of patrol and learning to fend and survive after the outbreak. But he doesn’t wear it. He’s laid back, like he’s not trying to intimidate, like he’s so casual and comfortable in his own skin that he doesn’t feel the need to flaunt. He’s the embodiment of warmth wrapped into a gorgeous body of a man–steady hands and touches.
An occasional shoulder bump, knee grazing yours under the table. Even his arm slung around your shoulders while he plants a wet kiss on your rosy cheek during a bonfire. Each touch lingers just enough to make you wonder whether or not he meant it, or if he’s just that friendly.
Joel, on the other hand, is a harder read.
Tommy is all sunshine stirred into sawdust, and Joel is dusk. Slower movements, eyes that see more than he lets on–he doesn’t say as much as his brother. He’s older, and you can tell. You sometimes see him holding the small of his back when he stands up or hear the crack of his knees when he leans down.
And when he does talk, it’s usually gruffer and quieter. About something pragmatic, not flirtatious in the slightest.
He fixes fences, carries crates by, drops things off you don’t ask for with a small “figured you could use it.”
Not much for compliments.
But he watches, and you enjoy that. The quiet is nice sometimes in contrast to Tommy’s outward flirtation and neverending sweet talk. From across the town square, behind his guitar, over the rim of his coffee mug at his favorite diner in Jackson–he’s always just there. Watching.
Noticing you. The feeling of his dark eyes burning into you makes the rest of the world go quiet, even managing to mute a drunk Tommy on saturday nights.
Joel has the raw and rough kind of beauty that also doesn’t flaunt itself, but creeps up on you. Broad hands, calloused and rough and capable from years of both contracting and fighting infected. His forearms are tanned from work, sleeves always pushed up to keep out of the way. A salt-and-pepper scruff covering his jaw that doesn’t behave very well, and his hair always sloppily pushed back with his hand.
Compared to Tommy, it’s like he doesn’t own a mirror. Rugged and hardened and messy but so, so gorgeous. Carries himself like a man. The most masculine you’ve ever seen. Big frame, thick and warm like a large space heater. Makes you wonder if all of him is that big.
He’s older, but not in a way that makes him seem out of place. More like he’s earned the scars and little creaks and marks dug into the crevices of his handsome face. He looks like a fighter and still doesn’t deserve to rest, like he’s carrying something you can’t figure out.
And his voice–god–his voice. Gravelly, but smooth and bourbon-like, hiding something a little dangerous beneath it’s drawl. Everything about him gets to you. The way he keeps greater distance, doesn’t flirt. He doesn’t let himself get close like his brother does, but it ruins you even more.
So you flirt a little more with Tommy when Joel’s around. Maybe you like watching him try not to look.
Yes, ma’am. No, darlin.’
Their matching Texan accents ring in your head, drawing you to them while you head out in Jackson with an unsurprising batch of cookies–baked to perfection and nestled in tupperware–in your arms.
The sun today is high, but not cruel, casting a warmth over the town that makes it look as golden and sugary as the pies you normally whip up. Kids are running barefoot down the road while their fathers work on splitting wood. Someone is playing their radio out of an open window.
You can hear the faint and tinny country music over the hum of townspeople going about their normal afternoon routines. Taking your time for a nice stroll, you have an apron tied around your waist and maybe a hint of flour streaked across your denim-clad thigh. Like your badge of honor.
And, like always, you’re not in a rush. What’s the rush when there's a dozen voices calling out to you when you pass by the men working?
“Smells like cinnamon again.” One calls out, giving you a charming smirk while obnoxiously chewing on his gum. Hot.
You laughed, but waved them off. Okay, maybe you gave him a wink.
But it’s just a batch of cookies, nothing too fancy. Chocolate chip with a sprinkle of coarse sea salt on top for the added flavor: your signature. You’re not trying to cause a stir, it just comes to you. People happen to notice when you walk by, smelling of baked goods and looking like the sweetest girl Wyoming has ever seen.
And then, like an answer to a distant prayer, there he is. Your favorite of Jackson’s men.
Tommy Miller, shirt half unbuttoned and clinging to his broad chest and shoulder blades with streaks of sweat. He’s standing in the gravel yard beside a pile of fresh cut logs. An axe in one hand and a rag in the other.
He’s mid-wiping the sweat off his forehead when he catches sight of you, dragging it along the back of his neck right after while he presents his usual ever-charming smile. Cheeky, but slow. And so, so handsome.
Normally, you just shoot him a smile and offer a small glance up and down–occasionally narrowing in on his crotch. So you do the same–smile, wave, move on with your day.
“Hey, hold on.” This time, his voice pulls you back. Easy, like he doesn’t want the moment to end quite yet. Needs a good look at you, a taste of the cookies you’re holding. Maybe of something else.
He seems to take interest in the outfit under your apron when you stop: a pretty little white tank made of cotton and decorated with innocent lace. Big jeans held up by a dark cherry-colored red belt, matching maroon cowgirl boots thrown on your feet. And maybe he wants to know if what you’re wearing underneath would match the so-perfectly planned boots and belt technique.
He doesn’t move, not really. One hand is still resting on the axe handle, the other now supporting his weight against the chopping block. Leaned over and propped up on his hand, shamelessly checking you out. Sweaty. Gorgeous.
“You in a rush? He smiles, tilting his head just slightly to the left.
“Uh-uh. Not unless there’s a line somewhere waiting on these cookies.”
You giggle and lift the tupperware, showing off the newest batch of everyone’s favorite sweets. Better than the bakery’s, that’s for sure. Your smile distracts him for a second, the pretty gloss pasted over your lips luring him in like a siren.
Tommy chuckles, tongue pressing to the inside of his cheek. Kind of makes him look like an asshole. But you like it.
“As far as I know, I’m the only one who should be getting a fresh one.” He raises his eyebrows, letting go of the chopping block of wood and setting his trusty axe down. He steps closer, resting his thick fingers on the lid of the container.
“Please?”
He looks down at you, a manipulative smirk crossing his face. His gaze is switching between your face–your lips, eyes, freckled skin–to the batch of cookies you’re supporting. Almost begging.
When he moves closer, you catch a whiff of his scent. Most people wouldn’t exactly enjoy the smell of a man’s sweat after chopping wood for an hour in the summer, wearing a long sleeve shirt, but something about it is alluring to you. Anything that relates to masculinity is alluring to you, really. Musk and the faint scent of cedar from his cologne that was barely holding on but also accentuated by the aroma of the wood surrounding you.
“Fine. One.” You give in to that smile, any woman would. Stepping back, you set the container down on a nearby block of wood, crouching down next to it. You flick your hair back and Tommy is soon gazing at your profile now, the way you bite your lip in focus to get a cookie out for him. Also, the way your ass looks when you crouch down in the dust like that.
You grab one with a napkin, shutting the lid and standing back up to return to him.
“Here. Guess you’re special today. These are actually meant for the preschool.”
Tommy looks at you for a moment, and this time, his flirting is a little quieter. Muted. Softer. “Special? Not sure I’ve heard that one before.”
You roll your eyes, handing him the warm treat carefully before crossing your arms over your chest.
“Then nobody’s been looking close enough.” You snort, motioning for him to try the cookie. Your words shut him up for a second, eyes flicking up and down as if deciding something. Looking for the right kind of words.
But he ignores the feeling, taking a big bite of the cookie. You watch his lips as his teeth sink down into the dessert, the way his tongue darts out to clean the crumbs off his bottom lip while he chews.
And, as usual, his face displays his reaction to the taste shamelessly. He leans his head back, the cookie eliciting a small groan of pleasure from the back of his throat. His head bobs up and down with a nod of approval, of complete satisfaction at the taste of a single bite.
Upon swallowing, he looks down at the treat in his hand and grumbles in delight. “Mmhm. Sweetheart, that’s it. You’ve mastered it this time.”
His reaction is a little dramatic, but it makes you laugh. Makes you proud. Draws out that sweet giggle of yours that he loves so much, which makes him proud in return.
“It’s the same recipe as always. I did not master it, sweetheart.” You answer, playfully mocking the nickname he likes to use on you. Something about the way that Tommy is an expert flirt changes the way you flirt back. You don’t go easy on him, you’re a little ruder with it–sassy.
“Yeah, sweetheart. You did.” He rolls his eyes dramatically and mocks back, expression quickly changing back to an amused grin. He finishes the cookie in two short bites, stuffing his face and rubbing the crumbs off on his thighs.
You go back to the block of wood to pick up your cookies so you can carry on with your day, but Tommy follows. He steps right behind you, wrapping a warm and rough hand around your wrist before you can pick up the container.
“Hey–hey.” He stops you with a laugh, making your head turn to look up at him.
You try your best to seem annoyed, but it’s all performative. Really, you’d stay here as long as he wanted. Stay and watch him chop wood, feed him cookies to his heart’s desire.
“One more. C’mon.” Tommy grins, holding a hand out so you bless him with another.
“No, Tommy.” You groan, keeping your hands on the container to ensure it stays shut and he doesn’t cheat you for more treats. “They’re for the kids. I’m not gonna keep giving away my cookies to a grown ass man. You had one.”
He grumbles like a petulant child, pouting down at you. It’s annoying, but a little funny. Makes you want to give in and give him all the desserts in the world.
“It’s not for me,” he starts explaining, shaking his head in protest. “For Joel. He’s on patrol, I’m sure he’d appreciate a little snack when he returns.”
The fact that it’s for Joel makes you a little more receptive to the idea. You’re a sucker for that man, for whatever reason. And, unluckily for you, Tommy knows that. Joel Miller is your weakness.
You sigh, shaking your head and slowly opening the container back up. Tommy grins at the sight of the lid coming up and your hand reaching in for a second.
“Atta’girl.” His hand lands on the small of your back while you’re leaned over to get Joel’s treat, a warm presence that brings a flush up your neck and ears. Tommy’s always been a touchy one, especially in comparison to his brother. He loves to swing an arm around your shoulder and ruffle your hair whenever he can. Loves to say things like ‘atta’girl’ and ‘good job’ to watch how you get as red as a tomato.
Once the cookie is wrapped up in a napkin and kept safe in his pocket for Joel, he straightens his back and lets you stand back up, removing his hand from your spine. He rubs the back of his neck, something that would seem sheepish if it was anyone else. But on Tommy, it seems practiced. Like he knows just how to make you wanna lean in even more.
“Speaking of him,” he starts, pointedly. “There’s a bonfire tonight. Out past the paddock fence.”
You nod, knowing of it–you’re planning on going already, actually, but you listen anyway.
“Yeah?”
“Mhm. Couple folks are bringin’ instruments. Drinks and whatnot. I might even get Joel to bring out his old guitar.”
You lift an eyebrow in intrigue, especially by the sound of Joel bringing out his guitar. You’d love to hear him play–love to see his big fingers work the chords and strings under the light of a fire.
“You’re working real hard to make it sound casual, Tommy.” You giggle and tilt your head, finally picking up the container of cookies once and for all.
He snorts and shakes his head, wiping the sweat dripping down the back of his neck again. It catches your attention, distracting you, drawing you to the sight of little beads against his hot, tanned skin.
He gives you a crooked, stupid grin. “Yeah, well. I ain’t askin’ the whole town if they’re going. Just you.”
Your heart does the little thing–not jumping, not exactly skipping. But warming up. By the idea of Tommy only asking you about the bonfire. Like he wants you there. It felt like settling into a chair that feels just right.
You let your gaze drift down to the sweat-streaked white shirt clinging to his shoulders and the way the sun is catching on his temples. The crumb of the cookie still left on the corner of his mouth. Hell, he could be selling sins door-to-door and you’d still buy it. Of course you wanna go.
“I was already planning on going. But since you’re asking so sweetly…” You start, drawing out the words teasingly.
“That a yes?” He perks up, the grin on his handsome face growing exponentially.
“I guess so. Depends. Will you save me a seat with you and your brother?” You grin and lean back, fingers drumming against the tupperware in your arms.
Tommy nods obediently, crossing his arms over his chest. They look big that way, especially when the sweat seeps through the white shirt he’s wearing and makes it a little see-through.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Fuck, that always gets you weak. Being called ma’am–by none other than Tommy Miller, in particular, has you aching. The things you would do to hear that in a not-so-innocent context invade your mind.
“M’kay. As long as you two behave–and don’t talk through all the music–I’ll be there. See you tonight, Miller.”
You lift the tupperware in a little sort of a wave, sauntered off before he can even say anything else. Left with the little cookie in his pocket saved for Joel. Oh, it’s gonna be a long night. He’s in trouble.
Later that night, the sun starts to dip low and spill gold light into your kitchen window. That sweet, syrupy light that makes your skin glow. Makes you wanna dance in the kitchen and mess around.
You spent the day baking and then handing out cookies to the kids at Jackson’s preschool–it was adorable. But now, you’re getting ready for a night of drinking by a fire. A self-proclaimed “date” with both of the Miller brothers at once. With the town’s two hottest and beaten up men.
You’re standing barefoot in front of the mirror, one boot on while you weigh the options. Black, brown, or red? The outfit you settled for was a tiny old denim skirt held low on your hips and supported with the same belt as earlier. Paired with a little red gingham top you’d stitched yourself from scraps.
It was only the right option because it hugs your waist perfectly and clings to your chest, enough to surely make Tommy lose his train of thought mid conversation.
As hard as you tried to tell yourself this should just be another normal night, another bonfire, another excuse to laugh and drink with friends–it isn’t. You know why you’re going. You’re going to get drunk and mess with two brothers to the best of your ability. Fuck it.
Tugging a brush through your hair and letting it fall around your shoulder in lazy curls, not too fussy, you stared in the mirror. A dull red lipstick painted over your lips, highlighted by a smooth cherry-flavored gloss. Vanilla perfume on your wrists, lotioned legs–you smell as sweet as the cookies from earlier. Maybe Joel and Tommy would want a bite of you instead.
Sure, the world is over outside of Jackson. But tucked safely in the town, your biggest worry is how good you look tonight. And which brother you’d choose. Or if you’re even going to settle for one.
Your mind drifted as you put on all your jewelry.
Tommy. Sweet-talking and warmed from years in the sun. The biggest flirt you know. He makes you feel like the only woman in the room, looking at you like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. There’s something so easy about him, which makes you feel comfortable.
He’s never boring, just familiar. Worn-in and all feel-good.
The only issue with Tommy is his flirtatious nature. Sure, it works on you, and makes you feel seen. But if he’s that good with his words, touch, and eyes, he must have too much experience. You’re sure he sweet talks every single woman in this town the same way he does with you, which makes you uneasy.
He flirts and doesn’t try to hide it. Makes it clear as day that he wants you. But might also want other women, so you’re not sure if he’s the perfect choice.
Then there's Joel.
Quieter, broader, and stiller. Doesn’t flirt or talk you up the way his brother does, but hovers. Makes you feel pretty with his eyes rather than his words.
He looks for too long, staring at you, whether you’re paying attention or not. His rougher voice settles low in your stomach when he speaks, smoke curling around your ribs and heating up your insides–all the way into your cervix, actually.
He’s much harder to pin down and slower to trust, but Lord, he’s worth the chase. You just know it.
Something about the fact that he makes it so much harder to tell if he wants you than Tommy arouses you. The slow burn of it all, confusion at each of his lingering glances. It gets you wondering, which eventually leaves you more hot and bothered than Tommy can get you. If Joel’d ever let himself get closer, he’d hold on tighter than his brother can.
Tommy is more a sunrise and Joel is a storm on the horizon. But they’re both fucking beautiful and dangerous, all at the same time.
You tap on your bottom lip in the mirror’s reflection, weighing the options. Most days, you don’t let the thought linger for two long. Jackson is small and gossip gets around quick, and you don’t want to ruin the existing flirtatious friendship with one brother and the stolen glances you exchange with the other.
Truth be told, most men wouldn’t be able to handle it very well if they were to find out that one woman was sharing attention with both him and his brother.
But, fuck, the idea of it?
Two men, both strong and stubborn and so big. So much bigger than you. Older, beaten by years of working. They’re burdened, and it makes them hotter to you in some sick way.
One with charm and one with intense heat, both circling you as if wanting to worship you and warn you off at the same time. What would it feel like to be in the middle of that want–to have Tommy’s hot breath and mouth on your neck and Joel’s big hands holding your hips down?
You exhale, slow and deliberate. Your thighs squeeze together and you allow yourself a single quiet smirk in the mirror.
No harm in thinking of it, right? After all, tonight’s just a bonfire. A little whiskey and music and possibly a seat between the Miller brothers on a bench. Not so bad.
So, you settle on the red boots. They match your belt and lipstick, after all. Lacing them up and giving yourself a last look, you head out.
The supposed ‘sweetheart’ of Jackson, ready to stir up trouble and, hopefully, have her way with at least one brother.
Later that night, you arrive just past nine. The bonfire is crackling tall and bright, its flames licking up at the starry sky. The scent of smoke curls through the air, sweetened by sap and pine of the surrounding forest. The low hum of voices–and a guitar being tuned–fills the space.
Tommy catches your eye first, sitting on a hay bale near the fire with one boot planted in the dirt and the other propped up on a small stump. He smiles, not flashy this time, but warm. Warmer than the fire, warmer than the heat beginning to return to your belly.
He knows exactly who you’re here to see.
Joel’s nearby, hiding more out in the corner, further from the fire. He’s tuning his guitar held across his lap, catching sight of you.
The signature look. He doesn’t smile or wave yet, just lips tightening in a greeting as he holds your gaze. Enough to make your breath catch in your chest. He looks back down like it’s nothing, deciding the strings of his old guitar need more attention than you do.
Fair enough, you’re already getting enough in that little outfit. From the men around the fire–Tommy, obviously.
You make your way over with a friendly smile, the firelight catching on your smooth bare legs. The glint of your lip gloss and shine of your hair not going unnoticed by the first brother.
“C’mere. Finally made it!” Tommy pats the spot next to him, thigh brushing yours while you sit. His gaze is quickly drawn to your lap, how short the skirt is–low on your waist but still only mere inches away from exposing your panties.
The warmth of the fire pressing on the two of you and making his skin glow more than it already does feels good, settling the moment into something comfortable. The familiar hum of the forest at night around you, all of your friends and neighbors gathered around the fire.
“I did make it. Can’t deny an invite from you.” You flash a smile back at Tommy, already entirely turned toward his body. With a little bit of whiskey on his breath and a more relaxed outfit now, he seems even more genial to see you tonight.
“Yeah? He chuckles, lifting the hand that isn’t occupied with a bottle to settle it on your thigh. Your smooth, shaven, and moisturized patch of skin that’s all free for him to touch. The bonfire is heating your skin up, and so is Tommy’s touch, making you feel like you’re truly on fire.
“You look good, though. I’m likin’ the gingham on you.” He nods casually, moving the hand up to toy with the bow on the straps of the top. “Lookin’ like a little cowgirl. Would never guess you’re not from the South.”
His voice is so sweet and lazy, more laid back than normally, most likely due to the bottle of whiskey in his other hand.
“Made this top myself,” you answer, stealing the bottle from his hand and taking a long swig. The feeling of it burns your throat, makes you almost sputter. You’re still so young compared to Tommy, and the intolerance to the strong alcohol reminds him of the fact.
He raises his eyebrows, shifting to face you more, forgetting entirely about the fire and his brother thirty feet away, tuning away at a guitar.
“Looks real good. I like it.” He takes the bottle back and drinks, slowly, before setting it down on the ground in front of the hay bale. “Almost didn’t recognize you without the apron and all the flour on your jeans.”
That makes you giggle. Of course you’re known to everyone in Jackson as the sweet girl who bakes, constantly lost in a cloud of flour and never seen without an apron. Valid comment.
“Is that a compliment or an insult, Miller?
“Both,” he chuckles and leans his head back to gaze down your body again, eyes narrowing down on your chest–the way the homemade shirt squeezes your breasts together perfectly. With the way you’re sitting, he’s got a great view down your chest. And you certainly notice–but, obviously, don’t mind. You’re not one to dislike attention.
The whiskey is rough but sweet, lighting your stomach up, and it slowly brings everything around you into a softer blur. The music presses pause on the rest of the world when Joel starts playing his guitar. Low and easy, something old and slow that sinks into your skin.
Everyone quiets down a tiny bit and limits their conversation as Joel gets up and moves closer. Inevitably, he comes right over, plopping down and sandwiching you between you and his brother.
The weight of the two men on your sides is two very different kinds of attention. Tommy’s is neverending, letting you know how he feels. His hand gravitated back to your thigh possessively when Joel sat down, silently pulling your leg against his.
And Joel’s was muted. Barely looking, focused on his guitar. But every chance he got to look away, it drifted toward your lap with his brother’s hand resting on it. If the guitar wasn’t strewn across his body and covering him, it’d be hard to miss the tent forming over his crotch.
The conversations around you died down to a low whisper, leaving you able to soak up Tommy’s touch and Joel’s music. His fingers stretched out on your thigh while he let out a satisfied sigh, lazy and confident and familiar on the skin.
He’d occasionally lean in, whispering all up close in your ear–on purpose, obviously. His breath is warm and smells of the whiskey and faintly of a cigarette he must’ve smoked before you showed up. His touch is unmoving, keeping you grounded by his side like you’re his.
His whispers are a random assortment, making you laugh and quiver all at once. He’d mention something stupid, like making fun of someone across the fire, or he’d lean in and remind you how good your tits look in that little top.
Joel’s playing slowed after a while, then stopped altogether. When he sets his guitar aside without ceremony the conversations pick up around you again.
You can finally take a breath as Tommy backs up and it isn’t as quiet anymore. But within seconds, it all gets more intense. Joel finally lets himself lean in and speak, smelling dangerously of cedar and something darker.
His thigh brushes yours, jaw clenching when he gives you a polite nod.
“Cookie was good earlier. Tommy gave it to me when I got back.”
You don’t even register what he’s talking about for a moment, awfully distracted by the feel of both their thighs pressing into the sides of yours, especially when accompanied by Tommy’s hand that seems to keep moving higher and higher.
“Oh, right. Thanks.” For a girl who’s normally confident, you choke up a little. Tommy laughs to himself, covering his mouth and letting his thumb rub the inside skin of your thigh.
Fuck, they’re actually getting you nervous. This isn’t what you planned for. You turn to look at Joel upon sensing he’s gonna speak again, the slow pull of attraction tightening in your belly.
But he whispers, glancing at Tommy leaning back with his hand splayed so intimately on your leg.
“You’re lettin’ my brother get real close tonight, huh?”
He questions, finally letting on a small smirk. He’s fucking into this. They planned this. And you’re only just now realizing.
It overwhelms you, but it makes the wetness build in your panties more than it may ever have before. The idea that the two brothers actually discussed this beforehand–sharing you–gets you weak.
“Pretty dangerous sittin’ between us like this.” Tommy interrupts before you can respond to Joel, making your head snap back around to him. You almost let out a nervous whimper, you can’t even register what’s happening. But somehow, you’re into it. You let it happen.
“Okay? I like it here.” You manage out with a gulp, eyes trained on Tommy before his brother’s hand lands on your other thigh. Still sassy. Both of them tighten their grips, squeezing at the supple flesh shamelessly as if you’re not all in public right now.
Too gone to care.
Joel snorts, shaking his head, and you look over at him now. He’s smiling, which isn’t too common of a sight. Must really be satisfied with their work right now.
“Careful what you ask for, baby.” He whispers and strokes your skin, hand moving up and down tantalizingly. You don’t know who to look at. Hell, you don’t actually know what you just asked for.
The moment goes entirely silent, the three of you exchanging glances. You–confused, but into it. The two men–seemingly have practiced this scenario millions of times before actually illustrating it.
Tommy’s watching you with a little half-smile, like he’s been waiting for this moment for longer than either of them would like to admit. His gaze zeroes in on your chest yet again, almost predatorily. Then, to Joel–his gaze is unreadable but filled with more desire than you’d like to imagine.
It hits you. Not fear or nerves, but want. This isn’t something to be scared of. Fuck, you were hoping for it in your bedroom while you were getting ready. You wore this outfit just for the hopes of this happening. Said ‘fuck it,’ so why would you be afraid?
In return, you let your hands rest on both of theirs, fingers trailing lightly over their knuckles. Your thumbs brush their skin, and nobody moves. The fire crackles and everyone nearby is laughing, drinking, and–most importantly–distracted.
As if reading your mind, Tommy leans in.
“We could get outta here,” he whispers, almost too casual. “Back to mine. Joel’s. Yours. Wherever you want.”
Your eyes flicker up to his, licking your lips and letting the overwhelming desire shine through once he essentially confirms what’s about to happen.
“Only if you want to.” Joel adds, ever the gentleman compared to his brother.
Their hands slide a little higher on your thigh, wanting and ready, and nothing else is exchanged but a quiet nod of approval from you.
Yet again, you’re the one left breathless.
The next thing you know, you’re at Joel’s, laid out on his bed like prey.
His place wasn’t far from the bonfire, a quiet little house on the edge of Jackson, tucked behind fencing and lots of trees. Quiet in the same way he is. You’ve been here before, dropping off food or supplies, but never like this. Never with your heart thumping this hard, two sets of heavy footsteps made by boots following behind you, two sets of warm hands ready to explore you and converge the different flavors of need in one space.
Joel opened the door without second-guessing anything, no more ‘are you sure?’ The two men gave you a look for confirmation when you reached the bedroom, and that’s all they needed. You, on the other hand, didn’t even have to answer.
Inside his house is warm, very lived-in. Very Joel. An old lamp in the corner and a woodworking table in the living room where he carves little animals and whatnot. He walks ahead, dropping his guitar in its case by the couch while Tommy peels off his jacket and throws it mindlessly on the floor.
You stood quietly for a second to process, and they both just looked at you. The air shifts, thick. So, so heated.
And this time, the older brother moves first–stepping close once you’re in his bedroom. You don’t stop him. His hand comes to your waist, rough and solid, checking one last time that you’re still good with a raise of his eyebrows.
You nod wordlessly, and Joel lifts you up by the waist.
“C’mere,” he murmurs, lips brushing your ear before tossing you gently onto the bed. Neither of them took the time to get their boots off–or yours. Nothing stopping the three of you.
He climbs over you while Tommy stands back for a bit to watch. In seconds, you feel the first pair of lips on yours–firm and grounding. One big hand on the back of your neck, the other slipping underneath you to the small of your back, pulling you up against him as if he needs it.
Joel tastes amazing. Darker than you imagine Tommy will. More tobacco, stronger liquor.
Tommy steps forward finally, climbing onto the bed next to the two of you and smoothing a hand over your hip. While his brother is on top of you, kissing you, he waits his turn and instead lets his lips brush your shoulder.
Their energy is different, obviously, but they move together in harmony. Joel is slower, more intense, seemingly controlling the moment. Tommy is more free and tactical, his touch lighter but never giving up.
And you let yourself be used.
Growing up as brothers, they had to learn to share. And, naturally, they carried that ability into adulthood. So Joel gets off, freeing your body to his brother.
Tommy laughs, diving right in and attaching his lips to yours. It’s softer but more playful, like you don’t have to take him seriously in the way you just had to with Joel. He encourages you with his hands on your waist, squeezing and tickling at your sides teasingly.
“Tommy,” you gasp and giggle, leaning your head back and breaking the kiss.
“What?” He chuckles in return, peppering the kisses down your chin and to your neck, focusing on the soft area just beneath your ear. That way, when he whispers, it feels even better.
You don’t respond, laughing and laying back while he works at your neck so perfectly. Everything is revolving around you right now. They just want to give you everything.
In minutes, you’re forgetting where you are, overwhelmed by the feeling of not one, but two sets of hands exploring you and worshipping you in every way possible.
“Pretty little thing,” Tommy would laugh, sitting up and tangling his hand in your hair to give it a tug.
Joel was more quiet, but still whispered little instructions. He was more of a guidance while his brother was the fun part: both necessary in the moment.
“C’mere,” Joel whispered, moving back on the bed after you all actually took the moment to remove your shoes. He sits back against the headboard and pillows, spreading his meaty thighs and patting the right one. He pulls you into his lap, wrapping a hand around your waist to get you nice and close.
You comply, climbing right up and settling yourself on his thigh–legs spread and straddling his denim-clad leg. You’re surely leaking and making a mess on it, your skirt pushed up to your waist.
Joel’s head dips down, nose brushing your jaw while he murmurs and begins to guide your hips.
“Good girl. C’mon, you can move, sweet girl.” He manages out, hoarsely, with a bite at your sensitive earlobe. It makes you shudder, following his orders and shifting your hips.
The feeling of his jeans pressed against your clothed pussy elicit quiet gasps from your lips, leaning in and resting your head on his shoulder. He keeps an arm wrapped around you, grounding you against him and ensuring you feel safe while getting off on his thigh like this.
By the foot of the bed, Tommy is forgotten now while Joel’s scent and touch invades your brain. He’s fine with waiting his turn, though. He undoes the buckle of his belt, the clank of metal not disturbing you and his brother.
Discarding his jeans, Tommy pulls himself out of his boxers shamelessly, unable to help himself. He’s been hard since you sat down with him at the bonfire in that pretty outfit. Hell, since he saw you earlier today and you gave him a cookie.
He begins to stroke himself–one hand moving up and down the shaft, stretching himself, while the other rests under his balls and gently tugs at them to heighten the pleasure. His eyes are trained on the way your hips move back and forth on Joel’s leg, the small wet patch he can see forming on the denim fabric, even through your panties.
“She looks so good on you like that, doesn’t she?” Tommy groans, thumb brushing over the tip of his own cock while his brother nods.
“Mm–real pretty.” Joel grumbles, leaning back and letting his head hit the wall when you let out a particularly pretty little moan. His big hands come back to your waist, squeezing it and holding you tight to guide you in a slower rhythm.
You whine, opening your eyes back up to look into his. Eyebrows furrowing, you pout and try to speed up again.
“Baby,” Joel chuckles, squeezing you harder to keep you in place, to keep you going the speed he wants you to. “Gotta slow down for me, yeah? Be good. Take it slow, relax.”
His words are meant to be soothing and encouraging, but the low tone of his voice that gets you so wet only makes it all worse.
“Want–wanna go faster. Please, Joel.” You whimper, trying to rut your hips and speed up the agonizingly slow pace he’s got you going at. “Feels good.”
“I know, I know it feels good.” He sighs, giving up for now and letting you do it how you want to. Tommy laughs from across the bed, amusement and arousal all wrapped into one while he jerks himself off to the sight of you and his brother.
Joel only lets you get off on his thigh for maybe a generous twenty seconds before lifting you up, patting your ass in the process. The pressure was building in your belly, tiring you out, making you feel so good. You were approaching an orgasm in a short time, motivated by the arousal the scene itself produced in your brain, but soon were stopped by his big hands.
“Joel.” You frown, writhing on the bed and reaching down to touch yourself instead when he sets you down.
Tommy sits up, abandoning his achingly hard cock, crawling up to you and grabbing at your wrist.
“Uh-uh. Don’t gotta do that, angel.” He laughs, collecting both of your wrists in one hand and pushing them back. You’re pinned down and whining under him, but eventually give up protesting when you remember it's you versus two–very, very large–men.
He passes your wrists to Joel, who holds them with even more ease due to the size of his hands.
“Let’s make sure Tommy gets some lovin’ too, sweet girl.” Joel kisses you once, a soft peck, holding you down for a moment to let his brother get settled. Both of you watch as Tommy fully discards his boxers, stripping off his shirt and socks in the process until he’s entirely bare.
The man is a work of art. Tanned skin, some sun damage from always working outside–little spots all over his body, and freckles. He’s covered in hair, which you’d always expected due to the thick head of it he carries.
His lower stomach, especially. It’s got the most gorgeous spread of tiny hairs leading to something even more beautiful–thick and wiry. Not graying just yet. His cock is long but thin, already red and twitching from jerking himself off to the sight of you just a couple minutes ago. The fat tip of it is leaking desperately, just begging to be treated.
Tommy lays back, seated against the headboard like Joel was, his legs spread out wide. His head tips back lazily, sinking into the bed and patting his thighs.
Joel lets your wrists go, and you’re lunging forward like an animal in seconds. His thick, hairy thighs open to accommodate you while you kneel between them on the bed.
“Nice n’ big.” You whisper and giggle, hands on his thighs while you sort of nestle your head down for now. Nuzzling into his crotch, you worship Tommy’s cock–nose exploring every crevice, tongue darting out under his heavy balls.
He moans out quietly, hand finding your hair before you even begin and wrapping it up into a tight makeshift ponytail.
“Look at you, baby.” Tommy praises, lifting his hips up to encourage you to take him. You were resting your head on his thigh and taking a moment, but the sight of him literally aching for you has you moving quickly.
You grab the base of his cock, giving it a slight squeeze to draw more noises out of the man. Satisfied by a little grunt, you snicker and open your mouth, taking his tip into it eagerly.
“Fuck.” He jolts, head tipping back and eyes shutting happily. You focus on only the tip for a moment, swirling your tongue around the head and collecting the embarrassing amount of precum before sinking your head down and taking as much of his length as you can.
You sputter for a moment, just as you did earlier on the whiskey, but regain your bearings and start to move. His tip is hitting the back of your throat as if urging you to take more, but you physically can’t. He’s so big,
Tommy’s hand tightens in your hair, a little rude with the way he’s tugging and forcing your head down.
“Jesus, Tommy.” Joel interrupts after watching carefully for a few moments. “Careful with ‘er. She’s gonna gag.”
The older brother’s hand comes to your back, gently stroking it to keep you grounded while his brother forces your head down on his cock. Tommy doesn’t mind too much, easing up on the pushing but not entirely stopping. He’s always been much less of a gentleman.
“You’re okay, angel. Go slow if you have to.” Joel whispers to you, patting your back before standing up and discarding his own clothes. You hear the sound of fabric and a belt hitting the floor, and want nothing more than to look.
But you can’t, because his brother is holding your head down on his dick. It’s not all bad, though. You’re still eagerly taking it, hollowing your cheeks and sucking him with near-perfect technique. He’s very vocal, noisily encouraging you to somehow work him even better.
The mattress sinks as Joel returns from undressing, and while you can’t see, you feel where he’s going. While your head is buried between Tommy’s thighs, Joel gently unfolds your body and pulls your skirt off for you, leaving you in pretty panties and that damn gingham top.
He smiles, stretching the elastic of your underwear and letting it snap back against your skin. You gasp.
“Tommy, look at this.” He rubs your ass, giving it a gentle smack, showing off the fabric. It’s little cherries over the same red gingham that your top is made of. Matching, making you look like the prettiest cowgirl they’ve ever seen.
Tommy snorts, opening his eyes and giving your head another push down on his lap at the sight.
“How cute. Bet you wore 'em just for us, ain’t that right?” He smiles and uses his free hand to cup the side of your face, stroking it with a thumb while you suck on him so perfectly. “Fuckin’ slut.”
Joel shoots him a glance to be nice, because he’s already pushing your head down. He shouldn’t be calling you a slut like that.
“Ignore him.” He advises you, rubbing the skin of your ass that’s now pink from the little slap. He pulls at the fabric, tugging it down gently and working it over your feet before throwing them on the floor. On his way back to your ass, he kisses the back of your feet, ankles, calves, and thighs, leaving a trail of fire all the way to where he really wants to be.
His fingers go straight to the source, not even bothering to spread your legs. He digs two digits into your folds, groaning lewdly at the filthy feeling of how wet you are. Soaking his fingers, soaking the bed underneath you. Genuinely dripping for the two brothers.
“If only you could feel how wet this girl is,” Joel huffs in amusement, slipping his fingers back out and gripping the supple flesh of your ass again. The loss of touch elicits a quiet whine from the lips you have wrapped around Tommy’s cock.
“I bet.” Tommy answers, groaning and leaning his head back yet again in pleasure when he hits particularly deep in that warm, wet mouth of yours.
Joel grabs at your body with a mix of gentleness and fervor, lifting your hips until your knees are able to support your weight. Your head is down between his brother’s legs, your back arched, and your ass in the air for him to do whatever he desires with.
He leans over you, pressing a trail of kisses down your back–the center of it. Between your shoulder blades and down your spine, while his fingers trail all over your soft skin. Exploring. Taking his time.
He ends the trail at your back dimples, the spot where your butt and the small of your back meet. One last little kiss before he sits back up, spreading your legs just a bit so he can fit.
Once Joel ensures you’re not overwhelmed with what you’re doing with Tommy, he grabs his own cock and strokes it before gently pressing it against your ass. You moan around the other man’s length, and Joel taps him to let you have a break.
Tommy releases his grip on your hair, gasping when your mouth comes off of him–a string of spit connects his crotch and your mouth due to the excessive slobbering you’d been doing. Dirty and beautiful.
“Fuck.” The two men say, almost in perfect unison.
You take a moment to catch your breath, glancing back at Joel behind you when you remember he’d gotten undressed.
And, lord, he’s somehow more perfect than Tommy.
He’s built. Broad, hairy chest and a little tummy coming over his hips. Looks like he works out but certainly doesn’t deny a beer when offered. He’s hairier, even, a thicker and grayer trail leading to his pubic bone that’s pressed against your ass currently.
Older. Seemingly more experienced. He’s scarred and hardened, and it’s the sexiest thing you’ve ever seen. The mere sight of him makes you moan.
Both of them laugh at the little strained moan you let out, Joel’s hand rubbing your hip while Tommy’s strokes your hair.
“You like him that much?” Tommy chuckles, kissing your forehead.
You nod mindlessly, still searching for the air you’d lost when your head was getting pushed down.
“Mm–mmhm. Like Joel. A lot. Fuck.” You manage out, dropping your head back on Tommy’s thighs and resting it there.
Joel smirks and lets the hand on your hip travel back to your ass, rubbing it before gripping his cock and giving it a few small strokes. “Yeah, baby?”
You nod again and groan against the fatty flesh of the thigh under you, kissing his warm skin. Your hips naturally move backward when you feel movement behind you, subconsciously begging for Joel. Your back arches as well, giving him quite the sight.
“You want it? Gonna take me good with my brother’s cock in your mouth?”
He smiles, teasing your dripping hole with his own leaking tip. Of course you want it. You’ve been dreaming of this all day–maybe even weeks before. But back then, it was a fantasy. Never a possibility in your mind. Now, you’re bent over, face down and ass up between the two of them. You couldn’t want it more.
“Yes, please.” You gasp out, arching more and forcing your ass back against Joel’s cock. You feel him twitch.
He hums in approval, not saying anything else before lining himself up. At the feeling of him against you, you know what you’re supposed to do in return. Tommy is back in your mouth in mere seconds, and you’re sucking and slurping to the best of your ability in hopes that it’ll get you more. More of Joel. More praise. More cock.
Joel slides in once Tommy looks satisfied, slowly stretching your tight pussy out. The noises are filthy, squelching and wet.
“Fuck–” He groans, panting and bracing himself by gripping your lower back. He isn’t even fully in yet and he’s ready to come all over you. He’s dreamed of painting you in ropes of release, of fucking you senseless and filling you up with his seed. Now it’s happening, and, God, he doesn’t know if he can even handle a minute.
You whine around Tommy, but he doesn’t push your head down again. He knows it probably hurts a bit, given the Millers are genetically big men. They let you adjust to Joel before resuming, going nice and slow.
“Pretty. So fuckin’ pretty, taking me this good. Just like that.” Joel becomes more vocal as he moves inside you, picking up the pace slowly, ensuring you’ve adjusted enough to take his size before doing anything you can’t handle.
The praise makes your head spin. Apparently, Tommy’s is too. You feel him twitch more in your mouth, see the way his hips are stuttering with each little bob of your head.
So you pick up pace. And so does Joel. Everything gets more intense.
Sucking in your cheeks, you take Tommy’s cock so deep that it hits your uvula, resulting in a soft gag. His first instinct is to let you take a break, but you continue despite the tears spilling from your eyes and the urge to vomit increasing.
Your hands fiddle with his balls, giving them a gentle squeeze that draws out the loudest moan of the night from the man. Success.
If you could smile, you’d be doing it. But he’s so deep in your mouth that you can’t move a muscle–not until you feel hot strings of release fill your throat.
You didn’t realize Tommy was that close, but he fills your mouth up more than it’s ever been stuffed. You’ve never felt a man come so hard. So much. He’s shaking as he finishes, piping it into your mouth and seeing it dribble down your chin as he pulls out.
“Ah-” he whimpers, actually whimpers, when your lips reattach to his tip to give it a final kiss.
Joel sees his brother’s orgasm, getting a little jealous. He would give anything to be filling your pretty mouth with his come right now, cleaning it off your lips where it spills out. But he remembers he’s the one inside you, and he has a better dumpster than Tommy does right now.
Once Tommy’s cock is removed from your mouth, he knows he can go a little harder. He wants to go a little harder. He can actually hear your pretty little moans and whimpers now that you’re not occupied.
When Joel starts hitting your cervix, the lewd noises slipping from your throat are unstoppable. You still haven’t swallowed the come, gurgling while moaning and trying to keep it in your mouth–almost to savor it.
His hand comes forward to grip your hair, remaking that damn makeshift ponytail his brother was just using. He tugs, forcing your back to arch as your head flies back with a whimper. He’s fucking you harder now, one hand gripping your hair and the other on your hip to press your cunt as close to him as he can possibly get it, pounding into you at a near-painful speed.
“Joel,” you cry out, more tears slipping from your pretty eyes that are quickly cleaned off by Tommy. You gasp and finally swallow his come, groaning in satisfaction and letting your head fall forward until it’s rudely tugged back by the other brother.
“You got it, darlin.’ You can take it. C’mon now, don’t go dumb on me.”
He groans, the hand on your hip giving your ass a solid smack. You cry out again, squealing with the mix of pain and pleasure. Pain, mostly now, as he’s fucking you deep and painfully harsh.
“Hold her still. She’s shakin,’ Tommy.” Joel leans forward with a growl, draping his body over yours and letting his head fall to your shoulder while he fucks you from behind. His teeth bare, nibbling on any exposed skin he can get, licking and sucking and kissing like an animal.
Tommy’s hands come to your shoulders, holding you still and shushing you while you cry under Joel’s hard body. “Almost there, angel. We’ve got you.”
And within the next minute, you and Joel’s orgasms approach at once. You can tell with him because his pace gets sloppy, hips slamming into your ass uncontrollably and inconsistently. He can tell with you because you’re impossibly more vocal, whimpering out and trembling.
When your thighs start to shake, he snakes a hand down your body and attaches his index and middle finger to your clit. That’s your weakness.
It’s not even eight seconds after he touches your clit that you’re coming, gasping and writhing and falling forward against Tommy. Joel follows suit, finishing deep inside you and smacking your ass as he comes.
The next thirty seconds go silent. You fell forward against Tommy, he pulled you into his arms. Joel’s now-soft cock slipped out, leaving you pumped full of his seed.
Tommy strokes your hair, kissing your forehead in an attempt to get your shaking body down from the intense high his brother had just given you. The other man lays next to the two of you, senseless now and in his own little world. His eyes are pressed shut, sexy pants coming from his mouth and into his pillow.
The room is quiet and hazy, heavy with sweat and the familiar scent of sex. It’s absolutely filthy. Wrecked.
Your limbs are all tangled up, breath catching. The silence isn’t awkward. It’s earned.
The sheets are tangled and damp, clinging to your thighs when Joel manages to sit up. He grumbles, moving closer and cuddling into your side that isn’t occupied by his brother.
On the floor are your clothes, laying scattered and forgotten. Tommy is on your other side, hand curled over your hip and quiet breath in your neck where his head is buried. Joel is curling onto your left, kissing your sweaty shoulder and arm, anywhere he can get.
And you–God. You’re spent, utterly and completely fucked-out. Used. Wrecked.
You’re past satisfied, actually sure that your bones probably aren’t solid anymore. Your limbs are too heavy to move, cheek pressed to Tommy’s chest and an arm slung over his brother’s body. They hold you like they’re afraid you’ll float off somewhere.
“Nothin’ left in me now.” Joel mumbles, lips brushing your skin. His voice is hoarse and dried out, more of an exhale than actual speech. “Not movin’ at all.”
The only part of him that can move is his fingers, trailing so slowly up and down your spine.
Tommy nods and huffs in agreement, kissing your cheek and pulling you closer. You just smile–lazy and slow and perfectly wrecked. Everything aches in the best kind of way. You feel as if you’ve been pulled apart and put back together with hands that know exactly what they’re doing.
Your throat is burning, hips stinging from Joel’s grip, your pussy leaking out his seed. And no one said much. They didn’t have to.
The air is thick and sticky, but also soft. Comfortable. Hearts beating in sync and bodies pressed so closely that you can’t tell where one ended and the next began.
Tommy is the last to speak–“Might have to stay here ‘til winter. Jus’hibernating.”—and you laugh. Blissed out and tangled between the men. Just laughed, warm and slow, like the fire hadn’t gone out yet.
WOO that was a journey to write. I’m going to hell. Love yall though 💋💋
TUMBLR ONLY LETS ME TAG 50 👎👎 I’m so sorry to everyone else ik i got like over 100 asking to be tagged so i tried my best
dad!joel who de stresses after a long day at work by using his dear daughter reader. shes so soft and cute. shes his wife. better than her mother who left him. using her cute breasts as pillows, no matter how small they could be. her breasts are still so lovely.
dad!joel who lets reader do whatever she wants no matter what his personal opinion could be about it.
dad!joel who has his daughter be the absolute light of his world. he loves her more than absolutely anybody else.
dad!joel who claims his daughter is always right whenever he's in a parent-teacher conference.
dad!joel whos planning to never get into the dating field. his wife is his daughter, of course. and joel is the only man that reader ever needs.
dad!joel whos always gentle during sex. making sure that his daughter is the one who's getting all the pleasure. never caring about his own needs. he could already get off to his daughter crying, whimpering and whining to the stupid amount of pleasure joel can give her. he knows his daughter best of course. hes literally her father. ♥︎
𐔌 .₊۶ৎ˙⋆ held close all the time, knowin’ i’m half of you ۫ ꣑ৎ ֹ ₊ ꒱
author's note: just sharing this edit trailer and little one shot of a fic i'm writing on the side. this is purely indulgent content for me, i love art that isn't afraid to address the taboo because that's the fun of art/fiction! the story is told from the pov of madeline or mads, joel's eldest daughter, who survived the outbreak with him.
cw: DDDNE (dead dove do not eat), age gap (joel is 40s, mads is 20s), incest adjacent as in it's leaning that way but it's not there yet (but it will, they’re in love sorry). if this makes you uncomfortable and isn't your thing then don't read! it's that simple <3
disclaimer: this is fiction, i obviously do not condone or support real life incest don't be dumb. this is purely a made up headcanon inspired by this post by @thechaoticcherub, it obviously does not reflect the actual character of joel miller depicted in the game/show the last of us.
It’s been two years since we lost Sarah. Two years since we lost the world, since my dad lost himself. We’re on the way to Boston, Dad heard talk of the QZ up there bein’ better than Austin. Uncle Tommy’s already on his way, paired up with a group makin’ the journey. I told Dad we should’ve tagged along but he said he didn’t trust them. We could make the journey on our own. It’s been a month since we left, the truck ran outta gas in the first few weeks, so we’ve been on foot. Just me, Dad, and Sarah.
She’s always with us, like a ghost that refuses to move on. Sometimes I think she haunts Dad more. In my mind I still see her as she was, all hair and a toothy grin. But Dad can’t stop seein’ her layin’ there. That blood never washed off. Not really.
For a while, I didn’t think he was ever gonna be the same. There are days I still don’t think he would’ve made it this far if it weren’t for me. Sarah was always his favorite – his baby.
That’s not fair, he loves me, always has. But they just had somethin’ I worry we never did. I’m too much like him – all rough edges. Nothing soft to hold on to. He used to look at me and see himself, now I think I’ve become some sort of twisted amalgamation of bodies. Him, Sarah, myself.
I’d like to say it’s gotten better. I think after the first few months, when he started to realize I could handle my own, I finally started to fade through the cracks. Each day we woke up next to each other in some shoddy tent or rundown building. I’d wake up to the gentle feeling of him stroking my hair, eyes tired and red like he hadn’t slept at all. Like he’d spent the whole night watching me. He’d tuck a stray hair behind my ear, and whisper things about how lucky he was to still have me, his pretty girl. And each day we woke tangled like that, it was like he could see me a little more clearly.
He holds me tighter now that Sarah’s gone. He never lets me out of his sight, and we always sleep together. He says he just wants to protect me, but part of me thinks he just likes having me close. Like he can’t be sure I’m safe unless I’m in his arms. And his eyes are always on me, whether we’re in a crowd or alone. He missed Sarah’s last moments, looking over at me and Uncle Tommy for help, and I think that haunts him. So now his eyes never leave me. I’m all that’s left of the man he was before, the father he was, and I know in my heart he would burn down the world before losing me. It’s a comforting feeling, even if it’s a bit suffocating at times. But that’s what love is.
It’s getting colder each day. Every night we huddle a bit closer to the fire, drink a little bit more whiskey just to feel the burn. We’ve started sharing a sleeping bag, Dad’s body solid behind mine, a constant reminder. He’s started stroking gentle circles on my back, hand tucked under my shirt to help me go to sleep. It’s something he used to do when I was a kid, the first time it had just been the two of us. With the crackle of the fire, and his steady even breaths on the back of my neck; I find myself sleeping easier than I have since the outbreak.
There was one incident a few days ago, where we ran into a group of raiders. Dad’s taught me how to defend myself over the past couple years, and Uncle Tommy showed me a thing or two with his rifle, but these guys got the jump on me. It was a rare moment that Dad’s eyes weren’t glued to me. We were in the middle of the woods, far from any highway (Dad refused to walk near them) and we stumbled upon a cabin. It seemed to be abandoned, Dad and I did a thorough check and there was no sign of life. We took it as refuge from the cold, giving ourselves a rare rest day before setting back on our way. It was the second day there, I’d somehow managed to convince Dad to let me go check the trap we’d set. He wanted to come with me, but I bat my lashes at him and swore I’d be less than ten minutes, and he let me – it was the last time he ever did.
I had been on my way to check the trap when this group of three men jumped me. The biggest one put his grimy hand on my mouth, the tip of a knife pushing into my jacket. The other two made lewd comments about how pretty I was, and if I was alone. They walked me back to the cabin, and yelled out to my Dad. He opened the door, and the look on his face was absolutely terrifying. He was calm. Calm in that deathly way reserved only to those ready to kill. The men shouted at him, things I can’t remember because all I could take in was his eyes on mine. I couldn’t look away from him, all I wanted in that moment was to be back in the safety of his arms. Soft circles on my back.
He disappeared for less than a minute with our packs, dropping them at the feet of the men. They must have come to some sort of agreement, because next thing I knew they’d thrown me at him, and I got my wish. His arms were on me in an instant, roaming over my face and body, making sure I was okay. I told him I was, and the love in his eyes made my heart ache. But in a flash it was gone again, his eyes over my shoulder staring down the men as they searched through our things. They’d gone dark, his usual brown turned obsidian. It would have scared me if I hadn’t felt his tender hands still on me.
It was only an instant, one moment he was standing before me, and the next he was on them. He’d picked up some of the firewood that was outside the cabin, and suddenly the big one’s head was a mess of gore. The other two were scrambling to get away, but before they could he’d pulled his pistol out and shot one of them in the leg and the other in the head. The one still alive was trying to drag himself away, but Dad came up behind him, log in hand and all I could hear was the sound of bone crunching and the squelch of viscera.
I stood frozen in place, staring at my Dad’s back, his broad shoulders moving up and down as panted. When he turned around he was a mess — barely an inch of him free from blood. He walked right up to me and wrapped his arms around me. The blood was still warm and smelled of iron. But I held him tighter.
My boots crunched on hard snow, Dad a few feet ahead of me, walking slowly. With each step the ice creaked more, his footfalls sure but careful. I did my best to follow his path exactly, but I must have miscalculated, because I heard a crack and froze. One snap, then another, and before I could process what was happening the unrelenting chill of the water stole my breath. My lungs were on fire, my skin burned. I couldn’t even call out to him, the weight of my pack and clothes trying desperately to drag me under.
I heard the howl of my name on the air, the kind of fear in my Dads voice I’ve only heard once before. He rushed to me, sliding to his knees, careful not to further break the ice. He threw his pack and rifle to the side, reaching for me instantly. I could see the pure fear in his eyes, he looked wild, like a spooked animal. I was trying desperately to reach for him but I was losing function of my limbs faster than I could process.
I wanted to call out to him, but the tears were freezing on my cheeks, and my lungs were so small in my chest I could barely breathe. Then suddenly his grip found me, hand strong and warm. He pulled me up with a roar, pure animal instinct pulling me from the frozen depths of the lake.
When the cold air hit my soaked body, I gasped loudly, and my whole body shook so hard it hurt. The convulsions were unrelenting, and within moments he was on me, picking me up into his arms, panting heavy words, I’ve got you babygirl, I got you. It’s okay baby, ’s okay. I got you. I wanted to cry, but I could barely process anything but the cold.
He grabbed our packs, and carried me all the way to the other side. Lucky for us both we were almost across when I’d fallen through, so we were able to get to land safely, but still he held me. I’m not quite sure how long he walked, my brain incapable of coherent thought through the chill sinking into my bones, but I could hear his soft words in my ear soothing me; Hold on, stay with me babygirl, just another moment.
He finally set me down beneath the roots of a large fallen tree that provided a semblance of shelter from the biting wind. He pulled his coat from his body, wrapping it around me before getting to work on a fire. I made some protest about him being cold, but he wouldn’t have it. The flames slowly came alive, and though I could feel them they weren’t sinking in. Dad strung a rope above the fire, and walked over to me, pulling me to stand. My legs hurt and a whine slipped from my lips, I know baby. Get undressed. It was a command, no room for questioning. Though the thought of facing the full brunt of the chilled air made tears sting my eyes, I did as I was told. He followed suit, unbuttoning his flannel, peeling the wet fabric from his chest. I stripped off my soaked coat, my sweater and undershirt. My jeans clung to my legs and hurt to peel off but they came soon enough, algonside the leggings I had underneath. I handed the pile of drenched clothes to him, and he started hanging them above the fire.
I stood shaking so hard I thought my teeth would break, one arm draped across my chest, trying to manage some semblance of humility as my nipples peaked razor sharp through the thin fabric of my tank top. Dad didn’t notice my discomfort, grabbing the sleeping bag that gratefully was in his pack, and laid it as close to the fire as he could. He climbed in, and motioned for me to follow, and I’ve never moved so fast. I curled into him, and the heat of his body had a whimper escaping my lips. He wrapped his big arms around me, pulling me impossibly close — tangling our legs, his head on the top of mine. He rubbed my back, my arms, my legs, doing anything to warm me. The firm lines of his body were both familiar and foreign, never having felt his body this closely before — skin on skin. The roughness of his hands across my body, the friction and warmth, had my lungs tightening in my chest. It felt strange, like something we shouldn't be doing, yet I couldn’t find it in myself to care. And he didn’t seem bothered by it. At some point I stopped shaking, and between the warmth of the fire and my Dad holding me, I was able to fall asleep.
My dreams were filled with visions of the ice, of Sarah, of Dad. Of a snowy wood and a wolf pup chasing a rabbit. Then a larger wolf came, tackling the pup, holding it down. It whined and whined, but the other wolf held strong, the rabbit forgotten. The wolf nuzzled into the pup, and slowly the wolf pup stopped struggling; finding comfort in the firm weight of the other.
I’m not sure what woke me up, but when I did, Dad’s body was firm behind mine. It’s a familiar comfort, the strong lines of him. The sound of his even breath told me he was asleep, but his hands were still moving — tracing slow circles on my skin, moving up and down my stomach. I sucked in a breath every time his fingers dip low on my stomach. It tickled, alongside something else. Some unfamiliar feeling, yet one that I am distinctly aware I shouldn’t feel from the drag of my father’s hands. But his breath was even against my neck, the same it always is, so I didn't move. I didn’t stop his roaming hands, instead closing my eyes, allowing myself this one sin. A warmth pooled low in my stomach, worsened every time he dipped below my belly button, again and again.
I was about to fall back asleep, soothed by the feel of his hands, when I heard his voice quiet in my ear, You awake baby? I startled, my cheeks flushing like I’d been caught. I rolled over to face him, his hand moving from my stomach to my lower back never stopping its slow movements. I looked up to meet his eyes, and tried not to let him read the shame in mine. His left arm was still wrapped around me, and holding my gaze he began to move his right hand up from my lower back. Slowly he dragged his fingers up my side, making me squirm into him from the tickle, his eyes watching me. His fingers slid up my shoulder, the side of my neck, finally coming to rest on the back of my head, rubbing the small notch behind my ear. His eyes roamed over my face, and his voice came out low and quiet, ‘M pretty girl. ‘fraid I was gon’ lose you. We’d both be restin’ at the bottom ‘fore I let that happen. Not again. You’re my girl, it’s you ‘n me. I nodded at his words, tears stinging my eyes. I tried not to let them fall, I wanted to be strong for him. But one escaped, sliding down my cheek, oh babygirl, and he leaned in slowly, kissing the tear from my cheek. He pulled away slightly, searching my eyes for something. I don’t know if he found it. But he leaned back in, gently placing another kiss to my other cheek where another tear had fallen. Then one to my brow, my temple, my nose. My eyes were closed, but I felt his breath over my lips. I opened my eyes just enough to see him, his expression unreadable, he looked different in that moment, and I was reminded of my dream. So I closed my eyes again, thinking it’ll make him feel better. Then, softly, like he was afraid I’d break, he placed a kiss on my lips like he used to when I was little.
I told myself that’s all it was, but the warmth in my stomach, the flutter in my chest, knew that’s a lie.
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