okay

18 MDNI

[byjove]

blond men only exist for sexual purposes and are useless outside of that

[your-local-dead-girl]

Been thinking about husband!Graves recently...

- Husband!Graves who you originally worked for as his secretary, as soon as he saw your sweet smile he decided right then and there that he would be the one to put a ring on your finger

- Husband!Graves that every single morning never fails (unless he's deployed) to embrace you flush against his chest and plant a kiss on your cheek making sure that you're awake first before asking if you want him to make you breakfast. He's not afraid to let you know he loves you, darling.

- Husband!Graves who insists that you put on your wedding dress again every anniversary of your wedding, and makes you sit on his lap sharing a beer while you watch the sun go over the horizon together. "Can't break tradition now, can we, sugar?"

- Husband!Graves who always falls asleep on your shoulder if you two watch a movie together late at night; his arms wrapped tightly around your waist as you're sat on his lap. He insists he's just 'resting his eyes'. But you both know that's not true.

- Husband!Graves who has the eyesight of a 50 year old man, but suspiciously only at home. Always beckons you over, his reading glasses perched on his nose, asking you to read something for him. You think it's just an excuse for him to rely on you for a change, but you don't mind, in fact it feels nice, different.

- Husband!Graves who loves spoiling you, to him it's more than just another way for him to dote on you, it's how he shows his love for you in physical form. You been wanting a new designer bag? Done. Out of your expensive perfume? Already in your bedroom. Can you really blame him for wanting to spend his hard earned money on his sweet and caring wife?

[yard666sale]

[reallifedakimakura]

god I would murder for these

[nattousan]

ladies and gents may i present you with my favorite photo of Ella Fitzgerald ft. that guy

homie was down bad, and can we blame him?

[hopeless-eccentric]

that guy is jazz trumpeter dizzy gillespie! i think it was the smithsonian which just found a second angle of this moment and .

yeah, me too dizzy

[littledes1re]

Sweat, Soup and Stubbornness 

Pairing: Old!joel miller x f!reader

Summary: Joel’s sick, stubborn, and swears up and down that he’s fine. But you know better—and with soup, soft clothes, and relentless care, you prove that even the grumpiest old men only need just a little love.

Warnings: Fluff, tooth rotting sweetness, outbreak, unspecified age gap, cursing, Joel being really stubborn and grumpy

A/N: just something short and sweet for the weekend <33

You wake to the sound of moving fabric and a low, gravelly rough cough that disturbs the quiet morning. The sun hasn’t even touched the horizon yet, but Joel was already up, standing by the dresser and tugging on his flannel preparing to leave the house.

You blink the sleep away from your eyes and sit up, squinting at his silhouette in the dim light.

“Joel?”

He pauses, just for a second, then clears his throat, another rough cough escaping him. “Go back to sleep, hon. I’m just gettin’ ready.”

You frown. “Ready for what?”

“Patrol.”

You glance at the clock. “It’s barely six.”

“Exactly. Gotta meet Tommy at the gate.”

You throw off the covers and pad quickly over to him, ignoring the coldness in the air. One look at him up close makes your stomach twist—his face is flushed, his eyes glassy, and there’s a sheen of sweat on his forehead despite the cold.

You reach out and press your palm to his skin. He flinches slightly but doesn’t pull away. The heat radiating from him makes your eyes widen.

“Joel, you’re burning up.” You say in worry.

“I’m fine,” he mutters, brushing your hand off. “Just a little warm. Nothin’ to fuss over.”

You arch a brow, hands landing on his shirt, feeling that it’s damp. “You’re literally sweating through your shirt.”

“It’s the damn heater. Tommy probably cranked it up again.” And another cough. This time he puts his arm over his mouth, trying to hide it, but fails miserably.

You cross your arms. “Joel. You’re sick.”

“I ain’t sick.”

“You’re glowing like a damn furnace and coughing like—“ you pause to think and follow quickly with: “you’ve got a whole chainsaw stuck in your throat.”

He doesn’t answer, instead, he grabs his jacket and heads to the stairs. So, you start following him. “I got work to do.” He mumbles under his breath.

And as he steps foot on the ground floor you step quickly in front of him, planting yourself firmly between him and the front door. “You’re not going anywhere.”

He gives you that look—the one that says I’ve fought off worse than this, and I’ll fight you too if I have to. But you’re definitely not backing down, especially knowing Joel and his habit of working too hard and getting himself exhausted. And being sick? That would send him straight to the heavenly gates.

“Joel,” you say softly, reaching up to stroke his cheek. His skin is hot, and his stubble is damp with sweat. “You’re not well.”

“I’ve worked through worse.” he grumbles, eyes flicking away.

You smile gently, brushing his hair back from his forehead. “I know. You’re tough. But even tough old men need rest.”

He groans, shaking his head. “Don’t call me that.”

You grin. “My old man. All grumpy and feverish.”

“I ain’t grumpy.” He looks away, cheeks flushed.

You chuckle softly, taking his hand and tugging gently. “Come on. Back to bed, mister.”

He resists, of course, he does. He is too stubborn for his own damn good. “Tommy’s gonna be waitin’. I said I’d cover the north ridge.”

“And I’m saying you’ll collapse halfway there and freeze to death in the snow.”

“I ain’t gonna—” “Joel. Please.” You look at him, sternly.

That does it, this time he can’t argue back. He sighs, long and dramatic, and lets you guide him back to the bed. It’s like coaxing a bear into a cave, but eventually, he sits down with a grunt, arms crossed like a bratty teenager.

“I don’t need babysittin’.” He mumbles.

You kneel in front of him, tugging off his boots. “I’m not babysitting. I’m taking care of my old man.” You smile.

He mutters something under his breath, but doesn’t stop you. You help him out of his damp flannel, making sure to kiss the bare skin under and put over his softest hoodie—the one you knitted him months ago. You pull out the cozy sweatpants he pretends not to like and help him change into them, ignoring his grumbling.

“This is humiliatin’.” He sighs.

“You’re in your own house. With me. Wearing your favorite hoodie. It’s not exactly a press conference.”

He settles back against the pillows, arms still crossed, looking like a very grumpy burrito. You tuck the blankets around him and kiss his forehead.

“You’re still burning up,” you murmur, brushing his hair back again. “Let me get the thermometer.”

“I don’t need—”

You slide it under his tongue before he can finish. He glares at you the entire time like you betrayed him.

When it beeps, you check the reading. “102.9.”

Joel groans. “That ain’t even that high.”

“It’s high enough to keep your ass in bed.”

You sit besides him, stroking his face gently. His eyes flutter closed for a moment, and he leans into your touch without realizing.

“You’re takin’ too much joy in this,” he mutters.

“I’m taking joy in you not dying.” You kiss his temple. “Now stay put. I’m making soup.”

“I ain’t hungry.” He groans.

“You will be.”

You head to the kitchen, listening to him cough every few minutes. The soup simmers, filling the house with warmth and the scent of garlic and vegetables . When you return with the bowl, he’s already half asleep, brows furrowed, lips parted in a soft snore. You smile.

You sit besides him and gently shake his shoulder. “Joel, baby. Soup.”

He blinks awake, groggy and annoyed. “I said I ain’t—”

“Just try it.” You hand it to him.

He takes the bowl with a long, dramatic sigh and eats slowly, clearly trying not to enjoy it. You brush his hair back again, fingers threading through the silver strands, drawing circles on his cheek, and finding it so cute how he blows air into the spoon before putting it into his mouth.

“You’re spoilin’ me, baby.” He murmurs.

“I’m just nursing you back to health.”

“Same thing.”

You grin. “My poor old man. All bark, no bite.”

He snorts. “I got bite.”

“Not today, you don’t.” You shake your head, giggling.

He finishes the soup slowly and then sets the bowl aside. “Tommy’s gonna come knockin’. Wonderin’ where I am.” he says.

“Let him. I’ll tell him you’re sick.”

“I ain’t—”

A knock interrupts him.

You smirk. “Perfect timing.”

You open the door to find Tommy standing there, bundled up in his patrol gear and one hand leaned against the doorframe. He peers past you into the house.

“Joel didn’t show. Everything alright?”

You step back, letting him in. “He’s sick.”

Tommy steps inside and you both go upstairs to the bedroom where he peers at his brother, who’s now sitting up in the bed, hoodie pulled tight around his face like a cocoon.

“Jesus Christ,” Tommy says. “You look like you were run over by a truck.”

Joel groans. “I ain’t sick.”

Tommy raises an eyebrow. “You’re sweatin’, pale, and sound like you swallowed a chainsaw. You’re sick.”

Joel finally slumps back against the pillows, defeated. “Fine. Maybe I’m a little sick.”

You grin and sit besides him, brushing his hair back again. “There we go. That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Joel grumbles something unintelligible and closes his eyes, but his hand finds yours under the blanket and squeezes.

You squeeze back, smiling softly.

You walk Tommy to the front door, pulling it open just enough to let the cold air in without disturbing the warmth inside.

Tommy stands there with his gloves tucked under one arm, his breath fogging in the air.

“He’s a damn mule.” Tommy mutters, shaking his head with a half smile.

You laugh softly. “Tell me about it.”

Tommy looks at you, eyes kind. “Y’need anythin’? Medicine, vegetables? I can swing by the depot.”

You shake your head. “No, s’fine. I’ve got soup, tea, and enough stubbornness to match his.”

He chuckles. “That’s sayin’ somethin’.”

You lean against the doorframe, arms crossed loosely. “Just—don’t go out alone today. Take someone with you.”

Tommy nods, the smile on his face softening. “Yeah. I’ll ask around, see if someone can take up Joel’s spot. He’s earned a day off, even if he won’t admit it.”

Tommy steps forward, pulling you into a quick, familiar hug. It’s warm, brotherly, and full of unspoken gratitude. “You take care of my brother.”

You smile against his shoulder. “Don’t I always?”

He pulls back, eyes crinkling with amusement. “You do. Better than anyone ever has.”

You watch him walk off into the snow, his figure slowly swallowed by the quiet white. You close the door gently, the warmth of the house wrapping around you again. Joel lets out a muffled cough from the bedroom, followed by a grumble that sounds suspiciously like your name.

You smile to yourself.

His eyes flutter open when he hears you coming to the bedroom. He blinks, groggy, voice low and scratchy. “You done talkin’ to Tommy?”

You nod, sitting down besides him, the mattress dipping gently under your weight. “He’s gone. Said he’ll find someone to take your spot today.”

Joel grunts, eyes slipping closed again. “I could’ve gone.”

You smile and reach out, cupping his cheek and stroking gently. His skin’s still warm, but not as burning as before. “You would’ve collapsed halfway there.”

He doesn’t argue this time. Just murmurs, “Y’gonna get sick too.”

You chuckle softly, fingers trailing through his hair. “And? Then you can take care of me.”

Joel cracks one eye open, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I make terrible soup.”

“I can settle for toast and grumbling.”

He huffs a laugh, then coughs into his sleeve. You shift closer, slipping under the blanket beside him, and he doesn’t protest. His hand finds yours beneath the covers, rough fingers curling around yours like instinct.

“You always do this,” he says quietly.

“Do what?”

“Make me feel like it’s okay to stop pretendin’ I’m fine.”

You squeeze his hand gently. “Because it is. You don’t have to be strong all the time.”

Joel’s thumb brushes over your knuckles, slow and gently. “I don’t know how you put up with me.”

You smile, resting your head lightly against his shoulder. “You’re my favorite headache.”

He chuckles again, low and raspy. “That’s romantic.”

“It is when you’re sick and soft.”

Joel turns his head slightly, pressing a kiss to your hair. It’s barely there, but it’s enough to make your heart ache in the best way.

And for a while, you just stay like that—wrapped in blankets, tangled in each other, the world outside quiet and cold while everything between you stays warm.

Oh to take care of sweet old man Joel…a girl can only dream😩

Taglist: @vickie5446 @a-goose-on-mars @thatgirlmendo @ihearttdilfs @pickyeater13 @sweetiegirl16 @afyreinjuly @shivispunk @cuntyhunty22 @kyloispunk @marisemonteiroo @meetmeatyourworst @joelmillerswife9 @iveseenstrangerthings50 @idrkman @lovelystrawberrysblog @vanishintoyoubby @dlwrish @brittmb115 @xcallmetaniax @umadirectioner @millersweetheart @wildthyng @armandispunk

[littledes1re]

Sugar for Repairs 

Pairing: sleazy mechanic!joel miller x f!reader

Summary: Your car breaks down on a scorching Texas day, and Joel Miller—a sleazy, perverted mechanic—offers to fix it. You can’t afford the price, but Joel’s got other ways to settle debts. You agree once…then come back, heartbroken. This time, he says it’s free. But you? You’re not done wanting.

Warnings: 18+, Smut, MDNI, Fluff, slight Angst, crying, reader being insecure, Joel kinda catcalls reader, pervert!joel, sleazy!joel, age gap! (20s and 50s), cheating (but also not bc reader is not together with lucas), dub con?, unprotected sex, pinv, fingering, boot riding (oh hell yea), spanking, oral m!receiving, oral f!receiving, multiple orgasms, creampie, slight overstimulation, real dirty talk, pet names, praise kink, no outbreak (alternate universe)

A/N: OKEY this was supposed to come out LAST week but I got sick🤧 it’s also wayyyy longer than some of my fics but I wanted to really write this out. Soooo here comes unhinged pervert Joel miller :)) enjoy!

To some, driving halfway across the country just to see someone who won’t admit how he feels might seem a bit too much.

A boy who left you hanging countless times. Someone who shows his feelings only when you beg, and only when his lust is speaking.

Lucas.

Yet, you were driving your car like there was no tomorrow.

And admittedly, it wasn’t really your heart speaking. Maybe it was that aching feeling between your legs, maybe it was that one thought in your mind that wanted to feel needed and validated. Even if the consequence is waiting for something that never comes—a ‘will you be my girlfriend?’ or an ‘I love you.’

The Texas heat makes your clothes cling to your skin—damp, hot, and soaked in sweat, like you’ve already been swimming. You’re driving with the windows down, letting the wind slap your hair around while the radio hums something low and lazy, something that fits the mood.

You’re stuck in a loop of your thoughts until you hear it:

A cough from your car.

It’s subtle at first—a hiccup in the engine, a stutter in the rhythm. You furrow your brow, tap the gas, and it responds with a groan.

Then it jerks. Stops. Dead. Just like that.

Your eyes widen. “No, no, no,” you mutter, twisting the key in hopes that it works again. The engine wheezes, sputters, then falls silent again.

Trying it once more, it catches—barely—but the sound it makes is ugly, like metal grinding against rocks.

This is exactly what you needed right now.

You huff, slam your palm against the steering wheel, and lean back in your seat, sweat gathering at the base of your neck and forehead.

The sun is merciless. The air inside the car is uncomfortable. You glance around, hoping for a miracle, and that’s when you see it: a faded sign, half-hidden behind a cluster of stubborn weeds.

Miller’s Auto & Repair—400 meters.

You squint. You don’t have much of a choice, really. Lucas is too far to walk to, and you’re not about to call him for help—not when you’re still unsure if he’d even pick up.

So you sigh, start the engine again, and hope it’ll carry you at least 400 more meters before giving up. It starts slow, rough noises spilling out, over and over again. And to your luck, it keeps going.

Keeps going and going until…

You see it.

The place looks half-abandoned, dirty. A dry, sun bleached building with peeling paint and rust creeping up the sides. The sign overhead reads Miller’s Auto & Repair, the letters faded and cracked, like they’ve been baking in the heat for decades.

You finally roll into the lot, the car wheezing like it’s on its last breath.

It was only 400 meters, but under this sun, it felt like an eternity. Your dress sticks to your back, your thighs to the seat, and your patience is long gone.

You find the door—a really heavy metal thing with a hot handle—and push it open. The inside hits you like a wave: the sharp smell of gasoline, the musk of motor oil, and something metallic and burnt, like overheated steel.

You step in, blinking against the dim light, and that’s when you hear it.

A whistle. Low, lazy, and unmistakably directed at you.

“Well look at ya, sugar. What’s a pretty little thing like you doin’ in a place like this?”

When your eyes land on him, you have to swallow. An older man, standing there, cigarette in one hand and in the other holding a wrench—his eyes are on you, lingering up and down, staying far too long under the hem of your dress.

His flannel shirt, dirty, from sweat and grease—just like the worn jeans and boots he was wearing. His hair slicked back, hints of silver shining through.

“Hi,” you breathe out, not realizing until then that you’ve been holding your breath.

His eyes darken, as he takes another look at you. From top to bottom.

He chuckles, “Yes, hello sugar.”

Your cheeks heat up, suddenly feeling intimidated under his gaze. Your eyes land unknowingly on his arms, his biceps then, his crotch. His jeans hangs low on his hips, revealing a sliver of skin and a trail of hair that disappears beneath the waistband—and you absolutely hate that your eyes stay there.

“M-my car broke down. It still works kinda, but it’s making lots of noise and it’s very slow.” Your voice comes out smaller than you excepted.

“That so, hm?” His voice low and hoarse, like gravel soaked in whiskey. It slides down your spine leaving goosebumps.

He leans against the wall, arms crossed, cigarette still burning between his fingers. He glances out the open door, squinting at your car.

“I ain’t got time today,” he says, dragging the words out slow. “But for a pretty girl like you… I can rearrange.”

The compliments he makes (if you even can call them compliments) should disgust you, not make you blush like an apple fallen from a tree. And the grin he gives you is anything but friendly; it’s cocky. Flirty.

“I tell ya what, sweetheart,” He takes a drag from his cigarette and exhales slowly. “You can sit in my office, got a nice air conditioner in there and I’ll look at your little car. Alright?”

Lucas wouldn’t be missing you when you come a little late. So, you agree.

When he leads you to his office, his hand dangerously close to the small of your back, you take in his musk—cigarettes, gasoline, and beneath it all, the faint trace of his fragrance. It’s overrun by sweat, but you still notice the calloused hands, the patchy salt and pepper beard, and his height—a full head taller than you. And you wish you could slap yourself right then and there for the warmth spreading inside of your tummy.

His office smells like motor oil and old cigarettes.

Papers are scattered everywhere—invoices, manuals, receipts—some yellowed with age, others stained with grease.

The air conditioner feels like salvation. For the first time today, you can finally breathe, and the sticky sheen clinging to your skin begins to fade.

Joel doesn’t let you stand for long. “A sweet lady like you shouldn’t be on her feet in this heat,” he mutters, already popping open a can of cold Coke and handing it to you.

You sit down on the chair in front of his table, watching him leave with a smirk on his lips.

Sipping on the Coke, fizz sharp against your tongue, you listen to the sounds coming from the garage. Machinery whirling to life, metal clanks against metal, and you hear Joel cursing under his breath just faintly—something about a busted part.

It’s fast. Too fast. You barely have time to cool off before the door creaks open again.

Joel steps in, wiping his hands on a rag, his shirt clinging to his chest. He’s got that same cigarette hanging from his mouth, the smoke curling around his jaw like a halo made of ash.

“Serpentine belt was shot,” he mutters, voice rough as gravel. “Fixed it for ya, sugar.”

His eyes linger on you, longer than necessary, longer than comfortable. And that nickname, ‘sugar’—he says it like it’s second nature, but it curls around your spine in a way that makes you flustered. Maybe more than you’d like to admit.

He was too old. Too old to be calling you pet names and looking at your body like that. God knows what runs through his mind when those darkened eyes land on the hem of your dress, or the low-cut cleavage you had no choice but to push out and let hang low—still clinging to the fantasy that maybe, just maybe, Lucas might take you today.

You stand, placing the coke on the desk, and offer a smile. “Thank you. Really. You kinda saved my ass.”

He lets out a slow, low chuckle, then flicks the cigarette to the ground without a second thought.

“I sure did, hon. But it ain’t gonna be cheap. Had to replace the whole belt. Those things don’t come easy.”

Of course.

That was something that somehow went completely over your head. And you’d be lying if your heart didn’t sink into your gut at his description of the repair being expensive.

You bit your lip, gawning at the flesh inside of your mouth, when you peep out: “and how much?”

He walks over to his seat, rough boots loud as he steps, groaning when he sinks into his chair, the leather creaking beneath him. He crushed his cigarette into the ashtray before lighting another cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating the lines on his face.

“250$. But for you, I’ll make 200$.”

Eyes widened, you look at him take another puff of his cigarette, with the other hand running his hand through his hair. The realisation that you only have 50$ dollars with you settles in your bones.

“Can I maybe pay it off later?” you ask, voice soft. “I promise.”

He chuckles, that cute voice of yours already making his brief tighten. “That ain’t how that works, sugar.” Continues after exhaling smoke. “You come in here, think lookin’ pretty’s enough to get a free fix?”

Your heart starts to race. You glance at the door, then back at him. “I just… I don’t have much money with me. Please, just let me pay you another day.”

He leans back, eyes narrowing. “If I let that happen, I’d have to let it happen with everyone.”

And of course, he was being cruel, just that way men sometimes are when they know they’ve got the upper hand. Sure, he let others pay later, scribble out a check and drive off. But not you. Not the sweet girl with that skimpy dress and the nervous smile.

No—he wasn’t letting you off the hook that easily.

You slump into the chair, defeated. The room feels smaller now, hotter. Joel’s gaze drifts — from your face to your shirt, lingering a little too long before trailing downward. You feel it. The weight of it. The way it makes your skin prickle.

“How about another way you can pay me, sugar?” he says, voice thick with suggestion.

Your eyes meet his, and something flickers in your chest—nerves, maybe. Or something darker. You nod, faintly, unsure if it’s fear or curiosity guiding you.

“S’just a tiny bit dirty,” he adds, eyes dropping to his crotch, then back to yours, “But ain’t nothin’ you’re not used to already, I’m sure.”

You freeze. Just for a second. You want to scoff, to roll your eyes, to say something biting. But nothing comes out.

Instead, your gaze flickers—to his face, to the cigarette on his hand, to the door that suddenly feels way too far away. Your skin begins to prickle, not from the heat this time, but from something colder. Shame, maybe. Or the fact that part of you isn’t recoiling. You hate that. Hate the way your body responds before your mind can shut it down. Hate the spreading of warmth in your belly, the pulse in your throat, the way your breath catches just slightly.

“That’s—that’s inappropriate,” you stammer out, not having many words left to answer him.

“Is it more appropriate if I call the cops on ya ass?” His eyebrows furrow together.

Your heart sinks. You stare at him, unsure what to say. The room is quiet now, save for the hum of the air conditioner and the soft fizz of the Coke can.

“C’mon, sugar,” he says, eyes landing on yours then flicking back to his crotch.

The door’s right behind you. You could say no. You could walk out, call your dad, tell him to come get you from the creepy mechanic who trades dirty favors for payment.

But you don’t.

Warmth rushes through your body, adrenaline pumping through your veins as you stand—his eyes following you—and take the first steps toward his desk. A familiar, cocky grin forms in his face, and yours stay frozen on the big bulge forming in his crotch.

“S’what I thought,” he murmurs, leaning back against his chair, making room for you under his desk.

You kneel, skin touching the cold floor.

“Look at you, folding at the thought of getting dick into that mouth.”

And you can’t help but feel turned on by his words. They should disgust you, especially when he says them in a degrading tone.

Your hands move without you even noticing, resting on top of his thighs, feeling the rough jeans beneath your fingertips. While your eyes are fixated on his bulge, you murmur:

“Can I?”

A low grumbling chuckle comes from above. “And a polite one are you too.”

Your gaze watches as his rough fingers opens his zipper, quickly moving and pulling out his hardened cock. The sight makes you want to roll your eyes to the back of your mind. He is thick, pulsing and aching from top to bottom while his big swollen head is leaking pre cum from his slit.

He grips himself from the base, tugging on him for a few times before swiping his wet tip with a thumb, bringing it to your mouth.

You open instantly and close your lips around his finger, sucking on it softly, while your eyes look up, landing on his—face all hazy, watching you like he is mesmerised.

“Y’ready for the real thing?” He murmurs, pulling his thumb out of your mouth, “Now open wide, sweetheart.”

You do. Obeying him like your life depends on it. Your mouth opens slack, your tongue out as you wait for his tip to push in. The first feeling is wet—his pre cum mixed with your saliva making it easy for him to slide into your mouth. You close your lips around him, looking up with big eyes—his breathing ragged while looking down on you through hooded eyes.

“Thaaas’it, sugar.” He praises, as you replace his hands with yours, wrapping around his length and taking him in further.

Your head slowly bobs up and down, your tongue swirls around his tip as you hear groans and moans on top of you. The rest of his cock is being pumped by your hand, while your mouth starts to memorise every vein and every throb his dick has to offer.

Joel’s hips start slowly bucking, and you notice his tummy going up and down, happy trail glistening in the light while doing so.

“So fuckin’ warm and tight,” Your hair is suddenly pulled back by his hands, gathered in a ponytail, to keep the strands from disturbing you while you work. “Bet that cunt feels equally warm and tight, doesn’t it sweetheart?”

His words spread warmth in your tummy, your panties start to get wet—feeling throbbing inside of your cunt. Without noticing you start grinding against the air, small little bucks coming from your hips, while your mouth concentrated on his cock.

“Yeah, there she goes. Talkin’ bout being inappropriate, now she is humpin’ the air like a bitch in heat.”

With a lazy shift, his boot finds its place between your thighs—first just touching your thigh but pushing against your underwear. You don’t realise—maybe you don’t think before starting to grind yourself on the tip of his boot, the worn leather nudging at your clit over and over again.

His cock leaves your mouth only to moan. Joel moves his boot just right to meet you over your panties, rubbing from top to bottom.

“She wet already?” He asks, pressing down harder. “Only from sucking cock?”

You look up to him, eyes glassy as you nod, wanting him to continue his work on your pussy.

Joel is watching you, his hand wrapped around his cock, hooded eyes and a smug smirk—moving the tip of his boot tightly against your wet, throbbing cunt. The fabric feels soaked, the pleasure is unbearable and you wonder how a shoe is getting you off more than Lucas ever did.

Your hips rock in a quick rhythm as your hands grip into his thighs, completely forgetting about his cock, silently hoping that he will still make you take him after you’re done.

“Oh, she’s enjoying herself” he grumbles under his breath, hand tight against his cock. “Keep going, sugar. You’re almost there.”

Muscles tightening, legs shaking as your clit meets the tip of his shoe just one more time and you’re coming without a warning. Your body lunches forward, gripping on his thighs, your tights closing around his foot. Silent whimpers and cries leave your chest and underneath all that bliss you can feel his calloused hand rubbing up and down your back.

When you calm down and you look up again, you see his face first—hazy, breathing hard and looking at you with a lazy smirk. Then, looking further down you realise, he came. All over his hand that is still wrapped around him and his crotch, even a little bit on your hair.

Joel lazily milks the rest of his cum, hand still soothing on your body, now moved to your cheek, just stroking.

“I’m gonna let that slide, made me cum nonetheless,” he says nodding to you. “Even cleaned the tip of my boot with your wet cunt.”

His fingertips slide further down, catching your lip and squeezing. Eyes just focused on your fucked out face. Flushed cheeks, glassy eyes and swollen lips. God knows, what he would do with you if he could. But works waiting.

“C’mon, sugar. Off ya go.”

You stand up slowly, holding into his frame for support, realising that your dress slightly slid down, revealing just one of your tits. And instead of sliding it up and feeling embarrassed, you look at him, breast handing in front of his face.

He doesn’t say anything, he just looks into your eyes before nearing his mouth against your tit and taking your nipple into his mouth. He suckles on it for a moment, keeping eye contact with you, before slapping it slightly with his rough hand.

“Fuckin’ work is callin’,” he groans, standing up, packing his cock back to his trousers and sliding your dress back up to your shoulder. “Oh, what would I do to ya, sugar. Take you just the way this cunt deserves,” your breath hitches when his hand cups your pussy over your dress suddenly. “Fuck you just the way my cock likes.”

He lets go and before he heads to the door, he pauses. Reaches across the desk, fingers brushing past scattered tools and ash to pluck a card—worn at the edges, slick with grease. He holds it out to you, eyes locked, a smirk tugging at his mouth.

You take it, fingertips grazing his. Your eyes flick down, then back up. “Joel?”

He nods, slow. Like he’s confirming something you already knew.

You hesitate, then offer your name—soft, almost shy.

That’s when he chuckles. Low. Rough. The kind of sound that makes your stomach flip. “Introducin’ yourself after you had my cock in your mouth?”

Your breath catches, but a smile slips out before you can stop it. It’s small. Crooked. Embarrassed. But it’s there.

He sees it. Of course he does. And he leans in just enough to make the air feel heavier. “You can call me anytime, sugar.”

He starts walking towards the door holding it open for you. You walk over with wobbly legs and a wet cunt.

“Thank you.” You whisper, throat dry.

“Anytime, sugar.”

—

You slide into the driver’s seat, the door clicking shut besides you. The engine hums to life without protesting this time, and for a moment, you just sit there.

Your breath is uneven. Not fast just… off. Like your body’s still catching up to the heat that bloomed inside you minutes ago, on the mind blowing orgasm you just had on his shoe. Your skin is hot, there are goosebumps all over your it—just from the way his voice curled around each word. From the way he didn’t hesitate. From the way you didn’t either.

You feel like you’ve done something forbidden. Something you weren’t supposed to want. But you did. God, you did. And that’s the part that makes your stomach twist—not the act itself, but how much you liked it. How much you still feel it.

The ache between your legs is sharp, insistent, like a whisper you can’t ignore. You shift in your seat, trying to shake it off, but it lingers.

You could go back in there. You could ask him to fix it properly. You know he would.

But Lucas is waiting.

You put the car in drive and pull away from the garage, the tires crunching softly against gravel.

The evening slowly wraps around you, quiet and thick, the radio hums low and your thoughts never stop.

Should you tell Lucas? Should you pretend nothing happened? Should you go back to Joel and let him finish what he started? Your mind is a mess, tangled in guilt and desire and something that feels dangerously close to freedom.

And when you finally pull up in front of Lucas’s house just as the last light drains from the sky, you take a big breath. The Texas heat has finally loosened its grip, replaced by a breeze that brushes against your skin and makes you shiver.

You sit in the car for a moment, engine humming, heart thudding.

Your thoughts are a mess—Joel’s voice still echoing somewhere in the back of your mind, the ache between your legs still not quite gone.

But this isn’t about him. Not now.

You climb out of your car and walk up to his door slowly, each footstep louder than it should be.

You knock, soft at first, then again.

The door opens.

And there he is.

Lucas. Joggers hanging low on his hips, hair messy like he just rolled out of bed, freckles scattered across his nose like they were placed there by someone careless. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t say hello. Just looks at you like you’re a stranger who showed up uninvited.

You try to keep your voice steady. “Hi. How are you doin’?”

He doesn’t answer. Just scoffs—a short, sharp sound that cuts through the quiet. Then he gestures, finger flicking between you and himself.

“We need to stop doing this.”

You blink. Your heart stutters. “What do you mean?”

“I’m with someone else, now.” He says, voice calm.

“What?”

He shrugs, casual. Like he’s telling you he forgot to take out the trash. “Yeah. I met someone at work. Just clicked between us two.”

You stare at him, mouth slightly open, trying to make sense of the words. He keeps going, like it’s nothing. Like you’re nothing.

“And I know we had this thing going on, but I want to end it.”

Your breath catches. Your chest tightens. You feel your face drop, the warmth draining from your skin. Sadness floods in fast, but it’s not alon —anger rides in with it, hot and bitter. You stare at him, your expression twisted into something raw, something broken. You want to scream. You want to ask him why. You want to ask him if any of it meant anything.

But you don’t.

You just stand there, blinking, trying to hold yourself together while he looks at you like he already moved on.

“So… bye,” he says, voice flat. And then he closes the door.

Just like that.

You stand there, staring at the door, the porch light buzzing above you. The wind picks up, brushing your hair into your face, but you don’t move.

Minutes pass. Maybe more. Your cheeks are wet before you realize you’re crying. The tears come slow, then faster, until you’re hiccuping quietly, mascara bleeding down your skin like bruises.

You can’t say you didn’t see it coming. Lucas never said he loved you. Never said anything, really. Just showed up, touched you, left.

But still—you thought maybe. Maybe there was something. Maybe he cared in his own quiet way.

And now you wonder if you deserved this. If you brought it on yourself. You weren’t his girlfriend. You weren’t anything official. But you still let someone else touch you. You still sucked on someone else’s cock.

You let out a sob, sharp and sudden, and turn away from the door. You walk back to your car, each step heavier than the last. You slide into the seat, shut the door, and start the engine.

That’s when it hits you.

The sobs come hard now, shaking your shoulders, blurring your vision. You grip the wheel like it’s the only thing keeping you together. You cry for him. For Lucas. For yourself. For the way no one ever seems to choose you. For the way you keep giving and giving and end up empty every time.

Maybe you weren’t enough. Maybe you were never enough. Maybe you were too quiet, too needy, too messy. Maybe if you’d been prettier. Smarter. More mysterious. Maybe if you hadn’t let him see how much you cared. Maybe if you hadn’t let someone else touch you.

You grip the steering wheel tighter, nails digging into the leather. You feel stupid. Used. Like you gave away something sacred and got nothing in return. Like you were just a placeholder until someone better came along.

-

The time slowly passes as you drive with your window down, dry skin, streaked with salt from tears that stopped flowing miles ago. Your muscles are stiff, your eyes swollen, but you don’t feel anything anymore. Not sadness.

Not anger. Just empty. Numb.

You stare forward, not at the road but through it, like you’re driving into nothing. Thoughts are scattered, but they all circle the same drain—Lucas’s voice, his shrug, the way he said “I met someone else” like it was nothing. Like you were nothing. You replay it over and over, trying to find a crack in it, trying to make it make sense. But it doesn’t. It just hurts. And you’re too tired to fight it.

Then the car coughs. Once again.

A sputter. A stutter. A sound you’ve heard before—just today. The engine slows, hiccups, spits.

You press your foot to the gas, but it resists, groaning like it’s dying. You pull over, gravel crunching beneath the tires, and throw it into park.

Your head drops to the wheel with a dull thud.

“Not again,” you whisper, voice hoarse, barely there.

You sit there for a moment, forehead pressed against the leather, breathing shallow. The silence wraps around you, thick and unforgiving. You don’t cry. You don’t scream. You just sit. Because what’s the point?

Then your eyes drift down.

There it is. The card.

Joel’s card. You forgot it was there. You forgot he gave it to you—that moment in the doorway, his fingers brushing yours, that smirk like he knew exactly what he was doing.

“You can call me anytime, sugar.”

The words echo in your head, low and lazy, wrapped in smoke and heat. You remember the way he looked at you. The way he touched you. The way he made you feel wanted—not sweetly, not gently, but fully. Like you were something to be devoured.

Your heart thuds once, hard. Your head pounds from all the crying, all the anger, all the confusion. You sit up slowly, fingers brushing the card like it might burn you. You stare at it. Then you start the car again.

It groans, but it obeys.

You pull back onto the road, headlights slicing through the dark, and you drive.

Towards Joel’s repair shop.

You climb out of the car, the wind tugging at your clothes, brushing hair across your face. You feel hollow. Like someone scraped you out and left the shell behind. You walk up to the door, heart thudding, and knock.

For a moment, nothing.

Then the door creaks open.

Joel stands there, framed by the dim light inside. He looks the same—flannel sleeves rolled up, jeans worn and stained, boots heavy on the concrete. But there’s something different in his face. Something tired. His eyes flick over you, and the smirk comes slow, lazy.

“Now who do we have here,” he drawls, voice low and teasing. “Can’t remember that I ordered my dinner.”

You want to laugh. You want to roll your eyes, toss back something sharp. But you can’t. The sadness is still sitting heavy in your chest, thick in your throat. You just look at him, eyes wide, lips barely moving.

“Hey,” you say, voice small.

Joel’s smirk fades. His brows knit together, and before you can react, his hand lifts—rough fingers pinch your chin, tilting your face towards him. His eyes scan you, slow and deliberate, taking in the smeared makeup, the red-rimmed eyes, the way your mouth trembles.

“The hell happened to ya?” he asks, voice quieter now. Not teasing. Not cocky. Suddenly concerned.

You scoff, brushing his hand away. But it’s not anger. You just can’t be touched right now. Not gently. Not like that.

Joel steps back, understanding. His posture shifts, the swagger draining from his shoulders. He glances past you, looking at your car parked crooked in the lot.

“S’your car again?”

You nod, arms crossed tight over your chest. “Makes the same noise as earlier today. Also feels slow. Like it’s choking.”

He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. His eyes flick back to your face, lingering on the dried streaks, the way you won’t meet his gaze.

“We’re actually closed,” he murmurs, voice softer now. “But I can take a look at it.”

You nod again, not trusting yourself to speak. Joel watches you for a beat longer, then gestures towards the inside.

“Why don’t ya come in. Sit at my office again, yeah?”

You step past him, the warmth of the garage brushing against your skin. You don’t look at him. You don’t say thank you. You just walk— slow, heavy—to the office door. You open it, slip inside, and sit down in the same chair you did earlier.

It feels different now.

The room still smells like oil and smoke. You sink into the chair, arms still wrapped around yourself, eyes fixed on the floor. You hear Joel moving outside, the soft clink of tools, the low murmur of him talking to himself.

You don’t cry.

Even if you want to. The silence makes it hard, your head feels heavy.

Joel steps into the office, the door creaking behind him as he wipes his hands on a rag, the scent of oil and metal trailing in with him. His eyes land on you instantly—slouched in the chair, arms tight around you, eyes glassy and distant. You don’t look up right away. You don’t need to. You can feel the weight of his gaze settle on you like a coat you didn’t ask for but might need.

“Fixed it again for ya, sugar,” he says, voice low and rough. “Tensioner was loose—belt couldn’t hold. Lucky it didn’t snap on you.”

You lift your head slowly, eyes meeting his. There’s no smile. Just a nod. Your heart aches in your chest, heavy and swollen, like it’s holding back something that wants to spill. Joel sees it—something’s wrong. But maybe he doesn’t know how to ask. Maybe the invisible line between mechanic and customer holds him back. Maybe it’s the age gap. Maybe it’s something else.

“The cost?” you ask, voice quiet, almost hopeful. You don’t know why you want him to say a number you can’t afford.

Joel leans against the wall, arms crossed, watching you.

“150 bucks,” he says. Then, with a crooked smile: “I’m assuming you didn’t go and get money since last time.”

You don’t answer. You just stand slowly, legs shaky, and begin to lower yourself to your knees. It’s not graceful. It’s not seductive. It’s desperate. But before you reach the floor, Joel’s hands are on your arms, pulling you back up.

“No, no, no,” he mutters, voice firm but not unkind. He steadies you, hands lingering at your elbows.

“S’on the house this time.”

You blink, confused. Embarrassed. Your heart thuds painfully, thinking maybe he doesn’t want it. Maybe he doesn’t want you. You look away, shame crawling up your spine.

“Hey,” he says, softer now. “You ain’t—sugar, you ain’t in the best shape. Not gonna accept something from you when you’re like…” He trails off, unsure how to finish.

Your forehead drops against his chest, pressing into the fabric of his shirt. You move side to side, a quiet whine escaping your throat.

“But I wanna,” you mumble, voice muffled against him. You’re not sure what you want. Maybe for him to make that empty feeling go away.

Joel’s breath catches. His hands hover at your sides, unsure. He’s holding himself back—you can feel it in the tension of his body, the way his fingers twitch but don’t grip. He could take you. He wants to. But he doesn’t. Not yet.

So you lean in—slow—and press a kiss to his mouth. Just a peck. Then another. And another.

He exhales through his nose, like he’s been holding his breath for hours. His hand comes up, rough palm cupping your cheek, thumb brushing just beneath your eye. And then he kisses you back—deeper. His lips part against yours, warm and steady, and you melt into it like you’ve been waiting your whole life for this exact moment.

Your mind goes foggy. Almost numb—just full. Full of him. Full of heat and ache and the need to be closer. So you move without thinking, arms wrapping around his neck as you jump into him, legs curling around his waist. He catches you instantly, hands gripping to your thighs, holding you like you weigh nothing.

He walks you backward, lips still locked with yours, and gently sets you down on the desk. The wood is cool beneath you, but his body is warm, grounding. You don’t stop kissing. You can’t. It’s messy now—breathless, hungry, like you’re trying to climb inside his skin.

Then Joel pulls back, just a little. His lips trail down your jaw, soft and slow. He plants a kiss beneath your ear, then down your neck, then lower—to your shoulder, your collarbone, the top of your chest. Each kiss is deliberate, reverent, like he’s memorizing you with his mouth.

You start to squirm.

It’s not discomfort. It’s something else, something tangled. Your body wants more, while your mind is drifting, slipping somewhere distant. It feels foggy, and he is the only person who is your anchor. Joel feels it instantly. He pauses, hand still on your thigh, lips hovering just above your skin.

He looks up at you, brows furrowed, eyes scanning your face like he’s trying to read a language he doesn’t speak.

“Don’t go easy on me. Please.” A whine escapes your throat, tears already starting to bubble inside of your eyes. “Not gentle. I need to feel it.”

Joel’s jaw tightens. His eyes search yours, not for lust—for permission. For clarity. For something that tells him this is what you need, not just what you think you deserve.

Slow and deliberate, he makes you hop off the desk and turns you around with a firm hand on your waist. You don’t resist. You let him guide you, let him bend you gently over the edge of his desk.

The wood is cold against your forearms, grounding. Your breath catches, your heart beating faster.

Then you feel it—the hem of your dress lifting, fabric sliding up, exposing skin that feels too bare, too vulnerable. You brace yourself, fingers curling against the desk.

The first spank lands with a sharp crack, your mouth falls open with a gasp.

Your skin prickles instantly, nerves lighting up like static. Your breath hitches, eyes squeezing shut. But the fog—the numbness that’s been clinging to you like a second skin finally starts to clear. Just for a second. Just enough to remind you that you’re here.

Joel pauses, his hand gently kneading the flesh.

“Like this?” he asks, voice low, rough. “Y’want more, sugar?”

You nod, too fast, too desperate. “Please. More.”

He gives you the second spank—firmer this time. Your body jolts, but you don’t flinch. You lean into it. You want it. You need it.

By the third, you’re already crying.

The tears come fast, hot, and silent at first. Then they bubble out, thick and broken.

“He didn’t want me,” you sob, voice cracking open like a wound.

Joel freezes. His hand stills. He leans over you, hand rubbing slow circles up and down your back, grounding you, holding you together.

“I don’t know what I’m doing wrong,” you whisper, the words spilling out like they’ve been waiting for someone to catch them.

Joel’s voice is quiet, but steady. “Can’t even imagine someone who wouldn’t want ya, sugar.” He tries to sound cocky, tries to lighten the weight in the room, but his voice falters just enough to show he means it.

You glance back at him, eyes glassy, lips trembling. A small smile tugs at the corner of your mouth, feeling understood.

“He—he made all sorts of promises,” you say, voice thin and shaking.

Joel nods, listening. Then, without warning, he gives you the fourth spank, but it’s not cruel, just a reminder. A reminder that you’re here.

“And then he just went with someone else,” you sigh, hiccuping through the words.

Joel’s hand kneads your skin gently, rubbing your ass cheek in gentle circles—soothing the sting, grounding the ache.

“Fuckin’ douchebag,” he mutters, voice thick with disdain. “He ain’t even deserving of these tears.“ His fingers trail softly over your skin, calming you softly. “Of all of you. Can’t handle a sweet thing like you…that’s what ya call a pussy.”

A giggle slips from your lips and it’s unexpected, for Joel and you. It feels that finally you can breathe, and feel safe.

Joel bends over you, his chest warm against your back, and plants a soft kiss on your cheek.

Then comes the fifth and final spank.

It’s the hardest. Not brutal—just final. Like a door closing. Like a breath held too long finally released.

You crumble.

Your knees buckle slightly, your head drops to the cold desk, and you let out a deep, shuddering breath, it stings and it hurts. But it feels good. It feels like a release.

Joel doesn’t move. He stays close, one hand on your back, the other resting gently on your hip.

And you wonder how you’re feeling more understood and comfortable with a stranger than the boy you used to love.

As your hiccups gently vanish, and the silence falls back into the room, Joel moves his body just slightly so you feel his bulge, nudging against your underwear.

Breath hitching you turn to him, the wood beneath you soaked with tears as his lips turn into a smirk, giving you a tiny peck on your lip.

“You feel that, sugar? That’s what it means to be wanted.”

A whimper leaves your lips as Joel grinds his bulge against you, the rough fabric of his denim just perfectly meeting the center of your cunt.

His hands slide under your arms, pulling you upright from the desk where you collapsed, breathless. You barely register the movement before he turns you, guiding you gently until your hip hits the edge of the table. His arms bracket you in, one on the desk, the other wrapped around your waist, holding you steady.

“Lookin’ so fuckin’ pretty when you cry, baby.” He cups your cheek, thumb swiping away the tears. “You just need someone to properly ruin you, yea?”

Dazed, and desperate. Throbbing and aching. In need of something, you nod your head quickly, nuzzling against his touch.

“Then c’mon. Up on my desk.” He demands, his head nodding towards his table.

You do as he says, jumping on his desk, the things that fall on the floor are long forgotten.

Joel’s gaze pins you in place—heavy, deliberate, and laced with a promise. Not soft. Not sweet. Just the quiet certainty of a man who knows exactly how he’s going to break you open and make you beg for more.

“There ya go, sugar. Now open them legs. Let me see what i’m workin’ with.”

You spread your legs wide, feet planted besides your hips, revealing the soft cotton panties, soaked in your wetness—just waiting to be touched. And without him saying something, you even hook your thumbs beneath the waistband, and slide the fabric down your hips slow, deliberate, like you want him to feel every second of it. You lift one leg, then the other, panties slipping off and landing softly besides you on the desk. Joel doesn’t blink—just watches, jaw tight, breathing shallow, like you’ve just undone something inside him.

“Fuckin’ look at that.” He murmurs after a silent moment. He comes closer to your pussy, bending over a little bit to analyse. “Prettiest thing. Weepin’ and creamin’ without any stimulation.”

“S’a shame,” As he comes closer, so much so that you feel his breath against your clit. “Let’s change that, yea?”

A long, wet, lick from your dripping hole to your clit. You gasp into the room, breath hitching as you watch Joel bend over even more and put his hands on you. His thumbs grazing on your pussy lips, opening you up like a flower.

A low whistle leaves his lips.

“Poor thing, all twitchy. Gonna bury my face into this sweet mess, make you forget any men that made you feel unwanted.”

His lips wrap around your clit, sucking on the button like his life depends on it.

You start to moan into the quiet room, praying that Joel doesn’t have any workers still in the building. Two fingers start to fill you, burying to the brim and curling inwards, rubbing that sensitive, sweet spot in you.

“Sweet as sugar.” He releases your clit with a plop. “And so fuckin’ tight, squeezing me like a god damn vice.”

His mouth starts lapping on you again. This time, removing his fingers from your cunt and opening your pussy lips with his thumbs. His tongue explores your hole, goes back to your clit, whirls around and sucks a few times before thrusting his tongue back into your hole.

A cry leaves you at his movements, already feeling your tummy tightening and legs shaking.

And of course, he notices.

“You cummin’ angel?” he asks, slipping his two fingers into you again. “Oh, she is. Look at ya creaming around my fingers.”

His words make you snap already, and you moan into the room, your body falling back on top of the desk, as you buck your hips against his fingers. He strokes your insides with deliberate precision, riding out your orgasm to the fullest, while watching your cunt spasm and twitch with your release.

“Pussy deserved it.” He murmurs, slipping his fingers out of your sensitive hole and gently caressing your thighs.

You lay there, breathing heavily as you look up to the ceiling, already feeling dazed again.

Joel draws lazy circles around your mound, going back and forth before slipping under your dress and landing on your breasts.

“Need to give these girls attention too.” While pinching your nipples and squeezing the flesh with his calloused hands. A few whimpers leave your lips before—you feel it.

The tip of his cock nudging at your entrance, lazily drawing circles around.

“He missed you, sugar. Gonna let me fuck you full?” He asks, pinching your nipple one last time before his hands land on your hips. You sit up slightly, eyes landing on his hard cock. Just as you remember.

Red, swollen and dripping with pre-cum.

“Think your hole clenching down is already an answer,” He chuckles, his hand jerking him up and down before lowering himself to your hole and starting to fill you.

“Ungh—Joel.” And it’s a big stretch. A way bigger stretch than his fingers and even more so from all other men you had.

He coos, thumb landing on your clit as you spread your legs wider for him. His tip pushes into you with a sting, a sting that rather feels good than it hurts.

“I’m inside ya now,” He whispers before slowly feeding you the last inches of his cock. “Ain’t no goin’ back.”

“Joel.” You whimper, lying back down on the desk and feeling full.

“That’s it. Taking me so well, sugar.” And with that, he thrusts once. A cry leaves your lips, begging for more. So he just does that, giving you small shallow thrusts, while focusing on your fucked out face. Mouth hang open and eyes squeezed together.

His hands explore your tummy, rubbing circles and every now and then slipping under your dress to pinch your nipples. A groan leaves his mouth, breathing heavy into the room as his hips start to take pace, going in and out of you in a faster way.

“I’m gonna ruin this pussy for anyone else,” he mutters, grabbing both of your wrists, bunches them together, and yanks them against his stomach holding you there, tight, like he’s using your own body to pull himself deeper.

You gasp, the angle sharper now, the stretch unbearable in the best way. His grip doesn’t loosen. If anything, it tightens. “You feel that stretch?” He asks and you can’t do anything else but mindlessly nod.

“That’s me settlin’ in. Deep. So deep that you’ll be feelin’ me for days.”

His thrusts grow quicker and deeper, your body moves up and down while your tits spill from your dress now bouncing with his hits. He grunts, one hand coming at your clit and rubbing in quick circles.

“Joel—please. I think i’m gonna cum,” you whine out, shaking your head to left to right in frustration.

He chuckles. “Course ya gonna’, sweetheart,” his hand leaving your clit only to pinch your nipple between his fingers. “Sweet pussy is gushing around my cock, baby.”

And that does it. Unexpectedly.

Your body locks in as a big cry leaves your mouth, back arching off the table, eyes squeezed shut while you ride through your orgasm. Joel’s thrusts don’t stop, he supports it with circling and pinching your clit while going in, and out of you deeply.

You try to move your hands, but he won’t let you, his hand gripping tighter against both of your wrists, still pulling you towards him so he gets impossibly deep into you.

“Oh yea, sugar. That’s it, there we go.” He murmurs, watching your face twist with pleasure, fingers slowing down on your clit.

You sigh once more deeply and land with your back on the desk again before looking to him, a lazy smile forms on his face, droplets of sweat hanging from his forehead while he slows down with his hips.

“Y’ready for round two, baby?” He asks, and before even getting an answer he starts rubbing your clit quicker. “Y’got a few more in ya. Gonna properly wreck this pussy.”

“Too sensitive, please.”

He only chuckles. “That so? Your cunt gripping me tight says otherwise.”

“And that sweet button, twitching like no tomorrow,” He nods, circling around it. “I’m gonna keep goin’ until you forget your own damn name sugar.”

It was a promise.

Joel’s thrusts start picking up pace again. You can only whimper around, when his cock starts punching into your cervix. And you were sure that at how tight he was gripping your wrists, that he was going to leave marks tomorrow. And you wish it was something that didn’t turn you on.

“Fuckin’ milkin’ me.” He mutters, noticing you squirming around with sensitivity, and when you break your hands from his grasp, you try to pull yourself upwards—away from his cock.

But he ain’t having it, he stills with his thrusts, roughly gripping your wrists again and holding them down to your stomach.

“Hold still,” He mutters and when you don’t, he tugs them sternly. “I said hold still, sugar.”

“I can’t—“ you cry out, feeling like you’re going to spiral when you feel his thrusts pick up again. He pinches your clit between his fingers, already feeling himself getting close. You let yourself get pulled up by his hand, now sitting on the desk again and your forehead’s touching.

“I know you can,” he whispers. “Don’t you dare to pull away, now. You asked for this.”

And maybe you did. Maybe you did when you asked for him to not go gentle. Maybe you did when you didn’t want him to be soft.

But it felt like too much.

He looks into your eyes, grunting curses under his breath, while you bite your lip so hard that you can feel it bleeding.

“That’s me takin’ what’s mine, sugar.” He nods his head, giving your lips a quick peck.

“Y’close, I can feel it,” his thrusts go sloppier and sloppier. “Keep goin’, baby. Focus on me.” He whispers.

And you do, focus on the way his cock hits your sweet spot over and over again, cries leaving your lips as you feel the need to release bubbles up once again.

“C’mon say you’re mine,” he grits out, “say it like you mean it.”

“Joel. Please.”

He slows down with his thrusts, his hand leaving your clit. A frustrated whimper leaves your lips.

“Say it.”

“I’m yours—please.” You blubber out, bucking your hips against his cock wanting any stimulation so you can cum.

“Louder, baby.” He demands and you do just that. Screaming “i’m yours” over and over again until he is satisfied and starts fucking you again.

Quick, sloppy and mouth on you, kissing your lips your cheeks and whispering encouraging words until you let go.

And when you do, he does too.

Your cunt clenches down on him, he lets you lay down on the table again and buries himself so deep that you can even feel him filling your tummy with every spurt that his cock releases into you.

Tears leave your eyes as you lay there, spasming on his cock, while he grunts and groans, slowly bending over your body and burying his face into your neck.

And the room goes silent again, save for the heavy breathing.

Gently after a quiet time passed Joel stands again, groaning while pulling his cock out of you.

“Filled ya to the brim, sugar.” He remarks cockily, watching as his cum oozes out of you. You sit up gently, your wrists hurting, breasts handing from your dress, limbs almost feeling numb and most importantly—your pussy aching from sensitivity.

He runs a hand through his hair, then steps closer, voice low and rough.

“You’re mine now, y’know.”

You look up at him, and something flickers in your chest—doubt, maybe. Not fear, just the quiet ache of wondering if this was only heat. If it ends here.

Joel sees it. Of course he does.

He leans in, gaze steady, voice softer this time.

“Ain’t just this once, sugar. I want more. If you let me.”

Your breath catches. You blink once, then nod—slow, shy, but certain.

“I’ll let you.”

His thumb brushes your knee, firm but gentle. “Ain’t no room left in you for that other guy, anyway. I made sure of it.”

You laugh—soft, the kind that curls at the corners of your mouth. You glance up at him, and Joel’s mouth twitches into something like a smile. “You forgot about him, didn’t you?” he asks, teasing but hopeful.

You nod, still smiling. “I think I did.”

Joel leans in, resting his hands on either side of your thighs, gaze steady.

“You wanna come back to my van?” he murmurs. “Ain’t gonna do nothin’ crazy. Just wanna hold you for a while. Maybe let you fall asleep on me.”

You nod again, and Joel kisses your forehead like it’s a promise—one he intends to keep.

Oh phew….that was a lot🤧 I’m a sucker for sleazy Joel and I hope you guys liked it and that it met your expectations lol

I haven’t had the time to really proofread it a hundred times so please, if you see any mistakes just ignore them! Or tell me and I edit it out☺️

Wanna be tagged in my posts? Just write your username in right here!🫶🏻

Taglist: @vickie5446 @a-goose-on-mars @thatgirlmendo @ihearttdilfs @pickyeater13 @sweetiegirl16 @afyreinjuly @shivispunk @cuntyhunty22 @kyloispunk @marisemonteiroo @meetmeatyourworst @joelmillerswife9 @iveseenstrangerthings50 @idrkman @lovelystrawberrysblog @vanishintoyoubby @dlwrish @brittmb115 @xcallmetaniax @umadirectioner @millersweetheart @wildthyng @armandispunk @mossy-buds @alwaysanundertone @balljointedpup @almodovarispunk @rafeysgirl5 @darknight3904 @lanasdolll @anheloamores @white-wolf-buckaroo @valitagun @imdoingitareyou

[gravygranola]

Batman used unfair hand placement

[malenjoyer]

warm…

[sisaloofafump]

Little kiss from his little star

[brenshor]

Lois girl how do you still sit?????

[asiaemerald]

He’s so Clark Kent coded

[westviewsoldest]

Cockwarming your busy boyfriend (ft. Peepaw Joel because he does so much more for me than pre-outbreak Joel... WHO SAID THAT???)

Pairing: Joel Miller x Reader

Warnings: 18+ (mdni), smut, unprotected sex, pinv, cockwarming

A/n: I'm sorry but I haven't stopped thinking about that scene with him fixing the panel since episode 1 came out, and this clearly shows it. Might consider a full fic of this in the future...

Also read another drabble like this a while ago by @littledes1re about cockwarming w/ Joel Miller, and whilst I've obviously written this on my own and not with her fic in mind, I would just like to give credit to her in case of any similarities bc that was truly an amazing read!

Summary:

Joel Miller's a busy man; his biggest mistake? Putting his cock in you and expecting you to sit still.

Masterlist

Just thinking about peepaw Joel—he’s older now, more slowed down than when he first arrived in Jackson with Ellie—but that doesn’t make him any less hot. Especially to his controversially young girlfriend—the one that Ellie and Tommy make sure to give him a ridiculous amount of shit for. 

“Nice to see ya found a new hobby, Joel.” Tommy would shout across the street at the sight of Joel’s calloused hand attached to yours. “What’d’they call it nowadays? Robbing the cradle?” 

And Joel would grumble, the grumpy, old man stereotype coming to life, until he’d hear your warm laughter echoing down the streets, and suddenly… he was pretty damn proud that he got your attention. ‘Specially with all the attractive guys your age. 

And then Ellie would say some shit like: “So… what’s the plan, Joel? You gonna drop her off at daycare before your shift?” And he’d push her into a bush or a big pile of snow and retort: “Don’t speak about your mother like that.” Which would have both of them grinning ear to ear. 

They know you’re a lot younger than him, they’d be blind not to. But what they don’t know? Just how goddamn needy you are for him 24/7. 

Because, sure, Joel Miller has certainly slowed down with age and comfort—trading in patrol and clickers for toolboxes and bossing around cocky little shits who think they know more about renovating houses. 

But he’s also the kind of guy to blow your brains out in the bedroom and have you walking crooked for the next 24 hours with only shitting his back up once. Or worse, not doing much at all and still making you cum in five different ways before you had to tap out. 

Like tonight—sitting at the kitchen table, glasses perched on his nose in a way that he knows drives you crazy, thick brows furrowed beneath them as he worked on a breaker panel that had been giving him hell since this morning. 

He should have expected you to get bored—you always did if you went over 24 hours with some sort of fuck—because yes, he’s figured you out by now to a timeline. 

He should have expected you to climb on his lap, beg and mewl for his attention—despite the fact Maria requested this to be fixed by tomorrow. 

And Lord knows, he certainly should have expected you to grind down on his clothed dick, like the desperate girl he knows you to be, with a: “Pleeeease, Joel. Just a few minutes. I’ll be quick.” 

Which resulted in a scoff of disbelief and a comment about how it would never be quick with you, not the way you always begged for more. 

Which leads to a new discovery, a way for you both to get what you want. 

Cockwarming.

Not something he’s ever seen the point in before—with neither of you coming—but what a mistake that was. Because here you are, fingers digging into his unbuttoned flannel (your doing), stuffed to the brim with his cock through the zipper of his trousers. 

He tries to concentrate, he really does, but with the way he’s having to force his head over your shoulder to look down at the breaker, and the way his arms have to awkwardly wrap around you to poke around with his screwdriver, he’s having a very difficult time. 

Oh no, that would actually be because you keep trying to ride him, and when he stops you with a gruff sound, and his elbows digging into your sides, you then decide to clench around his hard cock—like you do when he makes you cum. 

Heartless, needy tease, are just three words he’d use to describe you right now. 

“Come on, baby, you promised to sit still.”

You respond in a whine, and it only irritates him further—because he knows he’s spanked the brattiness out of you before, and clearly naively thought it would last. He really should have fucked you before he sat his old ass down to finish his work. 

“Please, Joel.” You beg, hips shifting forward and back to grind against him. 

He groans, head slamming down on your shoulder. “Fuckin’ move again, and I’ll make sure you don’t cum for the rest of the week.” 

You pout, imagine stomping your foot if you were a child, but instead you bite down on his shoulder—enough to have him jolt, hips slamming up into yours with one unintentional, but heavy thrust. He always did like you biting him.

He curses into your skin—clearly struggling with the fact he might not be as in control as he usually is when it comes to you. “Fuckin’ needy, little whore. Just can’t fuckin’ wait, can ya?” 

“Please, Joel.” You repeat, squeezing your tight pussy around his hard shaft. “Joel–”

“That ain’t how you ask nicely, baby.” 

“Please, daddy,” you correct. “Need you so ba–”

He pistons up into you again, grabbing a fistful of your hair to harshly pull you down onto his thick cock. He fucks into your mercilessly, one hand splayed against your back to pull you closer too. He takes his time watching the way your head throws back, the way your cheeks flush and your cunt tightens around him. He just can’t wait to see your eyes roll to the back of your head. 

“Silly girl, always needing her daddy to fill ‘er up. You get empty when I’m not around, huh? That why you always get so fuckin’ pouty when you don’t have my cock in you?” He growls, heavy balls slapping against you with each thrust up. 

Your fingers tighten in his shirt as you meet his hips with each bounce—both of you groaning into the movement, as you say: “Always, daddy,” “thank you, daddy,” and Joel’s personal favourite: “Feels too big, daddy. I can’t–” 

And when he feels you clench one more time and your breath stutter, he knows you're close. 

And all he does?

He stops his movements, reaching around you once more and continuing fixing the ridiculous electrics like he didn’t almost fuck your brains. Your heavy breaths stall, sweat dripping down your back as you open your mouth to ask—

“Told ya, baby. Ain’t letting you cum for the rest of the week if you kept moving.”  

@looking1016 @subconsciouscollapse @classybroad2 @ilovetoomanymen @lilyhoneyboo @mentallyimaraccoon @theoraekenslover @twilightblogss

(comment to be added to the tag list for all Joel Miller fics <3)

[hauntedinkk]

husband joel headcannons ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ.

husband joel who massages your boobs after a long day in an uncomfortable bra. pressing gentle kisses to your swollen nipples and cupping the full skin in his hand, muttering “hurtin’ real bad, huh baby?”

husband joel who has the weirdest yet cutest obsession with your belly. always talking about how he “love this fuckin’ belly, baby girl,” bathing your soft stomach in kisses, hands always finding a way to rub it when you’re both laying down.

husband joel who has absolutely no issue with using toys on you, unlike other men. some guys find it insulting for a woman to want a toy during sex, but joel? god, he’d summersault into lava if it made you feel good. his personal favourites are likely a simple vibrator and at a push, a little plug for your pretty little asshole, but only if you’re into it and are the one to initiate it. joel loves the way you whine and beg, little hiccuping sobs as you rock your hips back into the vibrator wand, or how your puckered little hole stretches so fucking good for him when he lubes you up real good. “s’just a little stretch f’ya, baby. gotta lube ya up a little though, yeah? can’t have my girl in pain.”

husband joel who still — even when tired from a long day of laying concrete — will never hesitate to carry in the grocery bags for you or cook some dinner (even if he isn’t that good at it). joel is the kinda man who silently likes to care for those close to him, so when he comes home from work while you spent the day at work or at home doing chores, there’s no way he can let his pretty wife strain herself.

husband joel who always kneels down to take your heels off after a night out. gently undoing the clasp and kissing your achy feet.

husband joel who holds your hand in public when he feels anxious or awkward, squeezing your hand a little — not enough to hurt, he’d never hurt you, but just to ground himself. to remind himself that your here with him and that everything is okay.

husband joel who is a little awkward when it comes to periods but always finds a way to look after you. if you ask him to buy tampons? he’s on it, but walking into the store with a flushed face and a trembling hand scrolling through his phone to check the text you sent him with what type for the 14th time. have cramps? he’ll get you a glass of water and depending on how bad it is, some ibuprofen. he’ll settle into bed next to you and rub your lower belly — not talking though, he knows when you’re in pain you’ll usually get cranky — just grounding and silently telling you that he’s here.

husband joel who gets all flustered when you go down on him. face flushing when you drool over his cock — shivering when your saliva reaches his sensitive balls. moaning a strangled “god darlin— that’s it — fuck, doin’ so well..” when you bob your head up and down his shaft, sucking a little harder when you reach his messy tip. loving the way you tear up and whimper around him with every choke of his cock.

husband joel who loves to shower with you whenever he has the chance. sometimes in the morning before the two of you go to work, he’ll urge you to get up a little earlier so he can wash with you. fumbly washing your hair while you laugh at how gentle he’s trying to be. he’ll laugh — one of those genuine laughs — against your lips when you reach for him and move your lips eagerly against his. sometimes when he has time, he’ll pick you up and carefully wrap your legs around his waist and toy with your clit until you roll out a lazy orgasm.

[hollyseb]

SLOWBURN- joel miller x reader

pairing: jackson!joel x reader

summary: joel sees sex as a release only. until he meets u.

warnings: sexual content, 18+ only, p in v, oral, dirty talk, but still sweet, dark joel (ish)

wc: 1.1k

an: ok ik i was supposed to put out a fic from my poll thing but omgg i literally couldn’t write anything until i finished this muhahahah im terrible but enjoy regardless. poll fic will be out later, i promise. as always, pls leave feedback pookies.

Joel was used to quick fucks.

Stuffy storage closets in QZ’s. Jeans never making it past his thighs. Fingertips pressing bruises into hips as he drove in from behind. Teeth grazing against necks, muffled grunts usually swallowed his hand over their mouths.

He never kissed them. Never even really looked them in the eye. Faces blurred in the dark didn’t matter when all he wanted was friction and silence.

There weren't many women. Just enough to take the edge off. Soothe the burn in his chest before it swallowed him.

It was never soft, never slow. He chased his high with brutal efficiency. Then, he’d leave. Jeans yanked back up after he got what he needed. A grunt, a quick goodbye, and he was gone. He took all he could in a place that allowed for so little.

But then he found Jackson and in turn, you.

You had a sweetness that he hadn’t seen in anyone for a long time. Something that caught him off balance. He tried to keep you at arm’s length in the beginning. Telling himself he was too old, too bitter, too hollow for someone like you.

But that sweetness has a way of wearing him down.

Now, it was different.

Joel had never taken his time before. But with you, he couldn’t help it. With you, he wanted to draw it out, feel every movement, hear every gasp.

He wasn’t taking anymore. He was giving it all back.

When Joel was with you, everything was deliberate.

He kisses like he wants to remember the taste, calloused fingers working carefully at your clothes, tugging them off piece by piece. He pauses between each layer, letting his knuckles skim over your skin, watching you.

He presses you into the mattress slowly, watching as your hair forms a halo around your head. His big hands tucking stray pieces behind your ears as his lips trace down your neck. He murmurs your name into your skin, his nose brushing your jaw to breathe you in.

His heavy body covers yours, taking his time to explore every inch of skin his hands uncovered. He watches your reaction to everything. Every tweak, pinch, squeeze. Making mental notes of what to do more of.

He lowers himself between your thighs, spreading you open with his mouth. He groans low in his throat at the taste, lapping slow, deliberate strokes, dragging the flat of his tongue against your clit until your hips jerk up from the mattress. He’s steady, unhurried, like he could do it all night.

“Fuck, baby,” he mutters against you, voice rough, “so fuckin’ sweet.”

Your fingers twist in his hair, and Joel wraps his arms under your tights, pulling you closer, keeping you there, drinking down every sound you make, every stutter of your hips.

He doesn’t stop until you’re trembling, until your cries break open and you’re tugging desperately at his hair. “Let me hear it, baby,” he murmurs, thumbs stroking circles into your thighs, “nothin’ better than this.”

When he finally rises, his mouth is wet, his chin slick, and his pupils are blown wide, almost worshipful. He kisses the inside of your knee before crawling back up, eyes trailing over your flushed cheeks and coy smile.

When he finally pushes into you, it’s slow, controlled. Stretching you until you cling to him, mewling his name. Joel grunts when he’s inside, forehead pressing against yours, giving you a moment to adjust. He raises his rough hand to cup your jaw, keeping you looking at him. “That’s it, baby,” he murmurs, voice already wrecked, “you can take me.”

When he starts to move, hips rolling deep, he keeps his pace measured, savouring how you squeeze around him.

But it’s not long before the old hunger creeps in, clawing in his chest. It’s instinct, tangled with something softer. A need to feel all of you, to give you all of him.

He tries to hold back, but the way you squeeze around him, the way you whimper into his mouth, tears at his control.

His hips begin to drive deeper, sharper, each thrust pulling a sweeter sound from you. His breath catches, ragged in your ear, low groans rumbling in his chest as he buries himself again and again.

One hand clamps firmly on your hip, anchoring you to the bed so he can press into you just right. The other slides up to catch your wrists, guiding them above your head, but not with force — with steady pressure, his fingers twining briefly with yours before holding you there. His eyes don’t leave your face, searching through the haze for every flicker of pleasure, making sure you’re still with him even as his rhythm grows rougher.

His thumb finds your clit as he grinds deeper into you, coaxing you higher with steady strokes that make your back arch off the bed. “C’mon baby,” he rasps, “need to feel you fall apart on me.”

You feel yourself shatter around him, body trembling. Breath coming in ragged gasps, gripping him so tight he curses low in his throat. His eyes stay locked on your face, scanning every flicker of expression, every hitch of your breath, every moan, searching for any sign that you’re not completely lost in it. He watches how your lips part, how your eyes flutter closed, how your hips buck to meet his.

He can’t help but praise you when he sees you like this, enamoured by how angelic you look. “Just like that, baby,” he whispers as you finish.

Then he feels his own climax approaching. He curses your name low in his throat, thrusts becoming erratic, losing the rhythm he tried to hold. You raise your hand and cup his face, thumb brushing over his cheek, a silent statement. ‘You can lose yourself in this too.’ Joel leans into your touch, forehead dropping to yours. He buries himself deep inside you, spilling over and over.

As his climax fades, he stays pressed against you. And for a while, he doesn’t move. Instead, he holds you close, thumb gently caressing your jaw.

When he finally shifts, he doesn’t pull away — he tucks you against his chest, lips brushing over your shoulder. “You okay?” he whispers, so quiet it’s almost swallowed by his own breath. His hand smooths over your thigh, soothing the spots where his grip had been, tracing lazy circles like he’s making up for every rough edge.

You nod, a soft smile tugging at your lips, and he exhales slow, almost relieved. He presses soft kisses along your temple, your hairline, your cheek, wherever his lips can reach without letting you go. His fingers lace with yours, holding tight, like he’s grounding himself in the warmth of your palm.

Joel never took his time before. But with you, it’s all he knows how to do.

[byjove]

Since I’ve already pissed off the weak link in my trans masculine audience, I hate how some trans men feel the need to compensate for their dysphoria by becoming edgy and misogynistic. There was a whole breed of anti-SJW trans men in the 2010s. If you’re a teenager and you’re doing that shit, get it together. If you’re a grown adult trans man somehow drifting down the MRA pipeline, I don’t even know if anything can be done for you anymore. That is ridiculous.

[byjove]

It almost happened to me back in like 2014 when I was 13 and became interested in videos on atheism but then I entered 7th grade and started writing bad gay porn instead.

[acediaooc]

Is there such a thing as bad gay porn?

[byjove]

If it is written by a 13 year old who has only learned about sex from reading other works of fanfiction, likely written by other teenage virgins, yes.

[vinfluorine]

Great archaeologists and sociologists reconstructing the ancient rituals

[byjove]

the description of sex but as an urban legend passed around by middle schoolers for two decades

[byjove]

controversial post and I’m sure the reactions are going to be atrocious but being a super submissive tradwife is actually a fetish for a lot of the women in the movement but they’re so repressed they’d rather align themselves with Christian nationalism and ‘conservative values’ than admit it turns them on to be dependent and treated as hyperfeminine and weak and fragile. this is especially true for the women who weren’t raised and groomed into Christian fundamentalism but randomly decided to align themselves with it later in life. my dad genuinely dated a woman like this who wanted a ‘strong male leader’ and ‘Christian family discipline’ and it was like, Jesus Christ get into BDSM and out of that mega church you joined.

[byjove]

you don’t have to bring god or law into being submissive and treated like a servant, that can just be your thing

[viralfrog]