Joel’s Sweetheart ☾ ˙˖ ⋆࿐༢

꒰ ₊˚ෆ I love Joel Miller | 25 ❀ ₊˚ . ɞ

[littledes1re]

What if…we reverse the roles for a second and imagine it's you who takes Peepaw Joel's virginity?

Yes, of course old Joel dated. Plenty. I mean, look at him. Women were gushing for him. But going to bed with them? Never happened. And after the outbreak, sex just wasn't his priority. Survival was. Trust was. And by the time he reached Jackson, he'd built walls so high that even he forgot there was a virgin hiding behind them.

But Jackson changed things. Tommy was happy. Maria was pregnant. Joel watched those couples walk hand-in-hand, and something twisted in his gut—a hollow ache. He never had that. Not even once. And now he's sixty, belly soft from steady meals, hands calloused from years of work, he figured it's too damn late.

Who the hell would want a grumpy old virgin?

Then you came to Jackson.

Bold, young, too goddamn pretty. Everything Joel needed to stay away from, because his heart couldn't take it anymore. But when you placed a kiss on his cheek, told him he looked handsome, and invited him over to your house—he couldn't possibly say no.

"Ain't never...done this before," he blurted out the moment your hand slid under his shirt, while you sat on top of him. He braced for your reaction, embarrassed, but you only cooed, kissed him, and promised to take real good care of him.

And yes—Joel's cock was excited. He's old, but he's not dead. The moment your hands started roaming—his thigh, his belly, the zipper of his jeans—he hardened like a rock. Blood rushed to his groin with a desperation he'd never felt before.

But his insecurities hit hard. When you started to tug his shirt up, he grabbed your wrists. "Too much gut on an old man like me."

You just nuzzled your face into the soft skin of his belly and told him how much you wanted it pressed against you while he fucked you.

And when you finally wrapped your hand around his cock for the first time? That poor old man nearly had a heart attack. Deep, shaky moans spilled from his mouth. He tried to stay quiet at first, but the new sensations wrecked him—little gasps, grunts that turned into desperate groans, maybe even your name said like a prayer when he got close.

First time your cunt clenched around him? He was already gasping. A few pumps up and down, and he was babbling: "I'm gonna—fuck, I can't hold it—stop or—"

And he spilled inside you, all pathetic and breathless, gaping for air. His cock pulsed and pulsed, twitched and twitched until he collapsed, face buried in your neck, breathing hard. He was mortified. "That...that was damn pitiful. I'm sorry."

But you just stroked his hair, smiling to him. "It was perfect. And we've got all night."

And because he's old but not spent—once he caught his breath, his cock stirred again, curious and ready.

This time, you let him take control.

He was slower. More gentle. He wanted to please you. Wanted to make up for that quick finish. So he fingered you, licked you, followed your instructions until he had you gasping beneath him. Then he pushed in again, and he lasted longer. He learned. He memorized every sound you made.

And Peepaw Joel was not a virgin anymore.

[millersweetheart]

I am in love with anything you post genuinely.

[hauntedinkk]

hundred dollar bill (the road trip) ~ j.m

tags: 18+ (sexual content), dbf joel!miller x afab!reader, road trip, age gap (46/22) I came up with this idea while listening to hundred dollar bill by Lana del Rey, Sarah is 19 in this, readers fathers name is mark (idk i was just trying to think of a basic name lmao), one use of y/n, lake house vacation, Joel is guilt ridden, “we can’t do this” vibes, readers mother is not mentioned, reader is mentioned wearing denim shorts and a gingham shirt but her looks is not physically described, situationship, groping, blowjob, spit, handjob, clit stimululation and cum eating.

summary: you and your dad’s bestfriend have been fooling around for months now and after weeks of joel pushing you away, trying to be the responsible one, a road trip and shared car makes things hard to resist.

3.5k

Joel doesn’t know how he had gotten himself into this particular situation with you.

He’d watched you grow up, had you and your family over for cookouts, spent Christmas’s with you, hosted sleepovers for you and Sarah. You and your father were like a found family for him.

And he could relate to your father, y’know? Being a single parent with a daughter. That was why they’d clicked so well when Joel moved into your neighbourhood with a baby Sarah — twenty seven years old and completely unprepared for raising a baby by himself.

But now? Now you were an adult — twenty-two years old at that. And he’d never thought about you in a sexual way before. Never perved on you or even viewed you in any other way than being Sarah’s childhood best friend and his buddies daughter. The girl he’d offer a ride to here and there when her dad wasn’t home, who he’d walk back the few doors down to her own home in the neighbourhood after one too many with Sarah — despite being furious with Sarah for even thinking about drinking underage.

But that changed the night you’d made a move on him while tipsy.

Your father had asked him to pick you up from a bar after getting delayed in traffic coming home from visiting your grandparents. One thing led to another when you stumbled into the car, giggly and glassy eyed, and you kissed him.

And there was just something about that kiss.

Maybe it was just him being completely touch starved for the past six months — going through quite the dry spell in the bedroom department — but he’d kissed you back. Your hand eventually found his cock, palming him through his jeans and it was then in that moment that any responsibility eddied from his brain.

He’d taken you right then and there. In his lap, in his car, in the parking lot of that fucking bar.

And that one time thing? It became sneaking into his house at night, quickies in the bathroom of whatever neighbourhood event you were at, copping a feel in the new hot tub your Dad installed in your backyard.

And he felt fucking awful for it. Disgusting. Perverted and filthy. So he’d kept his distance from you. He’d linger around your father or Tommy at events, he’d make excuses about how you couldn’t come over during the night.

He did everything he could to avoid seeing you. Not because he didn’t like you, not because he didn’t want you, but because he knew that if he was around you, he wouldn’t be able to deny what you needed from him.

And that terrified him.

The sweltering heat of the Texan sun burned down onto your skin, the denim shorts and gingham shirt you were wearing showing off enough skin that the temperature was just about bearable.

You assisted Sarah in dragging her insanely heavy suitcase out into the front yard of Joel’s home. Your dad had brought the car around to Joel’s place to make things easier when it came to lugging bags into the cars.

Your aunt Kelly was tagging along this year to the anual lake house trip with Joel and Sarah. Normally, it was just you and your dad from your family, but this year, after your aunts divorce, she insisted on needing to get the hell away from that damn house, considering her Ex Husband still hadn’t gathered enough money to move out and the sound of his snoring — even from the guest bedroom — was as insufferable as it had been when they were married.

Which then meant that Tommy — Joel’s younger brother — suspiciously opted to come along too after consistently refusing to for the past month. Tommy had actually known your aunt previous to Joel meeting your father, from highschool. And ever since Joel became friends with your dad, Tommy used that as his excuse to try and sway your aunt in his direction. Shameless flirt.

So it was made clear last night that Tommy would be riding in your car with your Dad and Kelly, therefore meaning you would have to suffer through a whole two hours of listening to Tommy sweet talk and Kelly pretending not to notice or care.

“Jesus, what did you pack in this thing? We’re going for a week, Sarah. Not a year.” You huff, dragging the handle of the case while she pushed it along with her foot. Of course, she’d had to choose to pack her shit in a suitcase without wheels on the bottom.

Sarah laughs breathlessly, kicking the luggage rather harshly for emphasis, nearly sending you toppling over. “Girl, this is only the second case. Wait until you feel the weight of the third.” She grins.

You groan, dropping the handle and laying your hands on your knees. Jesus, you needed to build up your strength. But you couldn’t help the laugh that spilled out of you from the complete ridiculousness of the situation.

Just as you and Sarah start pull yourselves together, a strong hand comes down on your waist, gently straightening you and moving you out of the way. “Give me that, baby girl,” Joel says to Sarah, the sound of his voice making your toes curl beneath your sneakers. You’d heard him call you that nickname multiple times by now.

You step out of the older man’s way, allowing yourself to subtly take in the sight of him in front of you. He was wearing a pair of dark navy jeans, the ones he was clad in quite frequently, and a simple denim shirt, rolled up to his forearms to accommodate the warm weather.

Really and truly, with the things you and Joel had been getting up to recently, going on the lake house trip for a week, sleeping in the same house, your room just a door down from his, was not convenient in the slightest.

Joel had been keeping his distance from you, and as much as he tried to act as if it was down to being busy, or responsible, you knew he was just guilt ridden about the whole situation.

You knew he felt bad. Shit, so did you. But it wasn’t like what you were doing was necessarily wrong. Yeah, maybe it was a little unconventional, but you were both two adults who could make their own decisions.

You watched as Sarah gave her dad a grateful smile as he bent over and hauled the suitcase off the ground with a grunt, walking over toward his car to load it into the trunk.

But Sarah’s voice cut him off.

“Can you actually put it in Mark’s car? Tommy’s going with him and Kelly and I really wanna watch the show. Plus, I’d be doing y/n a favour.” Sarah turned to you, a playful smile on her face, completely oblivious to the shit going on between her childhood bestfriend and her father. “You don’t mind going with Dad, do you?”

You saw Joel’s back stiffen as he paused at the trunk of his own car, before quickly pulling himself together and picking up the case to take it to your father’s open trunk. You felt yourself freeze for a moment before clearing your throat with a playful grin of your own, turning towards Joel. “Of course I don’t.

“Put your seatbelt on, m’not gonna tell you again.” Joel orders, one hand on the wheel while the other reaches over to grab your belt, waiting for you to take it off him. His eyes remained fixed on the road, but you could feel how tense he was with having to make contact with your body.

You were only ten minutes into the drive to the lake house and you’d already succeeded on getting on Joel’s last nerve. First, it was you insisting on playing One Direction full blast on the radio, then it was the continuous bubbles you were blowing, forcing him to roll down the window and practically beg you to throw out your gum, and now it was this.

You knew that the constant reprimands were just his own way of keeping from any awkward silences, not that you would let there be any. You were quite content to yap his little ear off the entire ride, push his buttons until he finally decided to give in.

You huff, straightening in your seat and shoving the belt into the buckle. “I was just taking it off to tie my shoe. Relax, Dad.” You say with a grin, knowing just how wrong that nickname would sound considering what the two of you had done together.

“Please, don’t call me that. Just.. fuck. Just sit still, would ya? All this goddamn fidgeting is gettin’ on my nerves, kid.” He grits, his gaze still unfaltering from the road ahead.

“Hmm, sure it does,” you croon, picking up the can of Cherry Coke to your lips and taking a long sip, exhaling dramatically at the taste. You cross your leg casually over the other, keeping your eyes ahead. “Y’know, with the way you’ve been acting toward me recently, some would call that avoiding.” You say condescendingly.

Joel sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose as if a headache had formed there. Yet, not that he’d show it, he felt a pang of guilt hit him in the chest for how he’d been acting. You didn’t sound particularly upset, if anything, your voice was light, teasing.

“Things have just been.. busy.” The lie was smooth, he thought. But the tone in which he said it in was slightly warning. Don’t push it.

You seemed to get the message and hummed thoughtfully. But then, a dramatic gasp left your lips, one that if he didn’t know better, sounded rehearsed.

You may or may not have purposely spilled a bit of the Pepsi down your shirt. You were sly like that. You’d spotted a dark grey t-shirt tossed on the back seat behind you, and a dirty, slightly cheesy, little plan had formed in your head. One that would hopefully make Joel crack.

“Fuck!” You exclaim, setting your drink into the cup holder and beginning to rub at the wet, dark patch of your red, gingham shirt. Joel turned his head, temporarily removing his eyes from the road at the sudden outburst and recognised the issue. You moan in irritation, peeling the fabric forward so the spillage didn’t seep through onto your skin. “This is gonna stain.”

“Jesus,” Joel mutters under his breath, focusing his attention back onto driving.

You glare sidelong at him. “Shut up, Joel. I really like this shirt.” You frown, looking down at the brown stain already appearing. “Do you have a spare shirt I can change into? I don’t really wanna have to get out.” You ask conveniently.

Joel freezes for a second, the thought of you in his shirt.. fuck. He’d seen you in them countless times now. He almost always allowed you to wear them after one of your little sessions together. But slowly he turns back to you, clearing his throat to attempt to act natural. “Should be one in the backseat.” He nods behind the two of you.

Bingo.

You immediately twist in your seat and remove your seatbelt again, leaning into the back to grab the shirt and reaching down to slowly lift your top up. Joel stops you with a hand on top of yours.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he blurts as you turn to him in confusion. “Shouldn’t you wait until I find somewhere to pull over? Or.. I don’t know, do it in the back?” He suggests awkwardly, glancing between you and the road.

You tilt your head to the side, a “are you kidding me?” expression on your face. You pick up his large hand and set it back onto his lap, resuming your movements and beginning to tug the top up, until it exposed your stomach. “Oh, come on. It’s not like you haven’t seen me naked before. And I’m literally just taking off my shirt.”

True. He couldn’t argue with that. So he didn’t. He just swallows thickly and tried to keep his eyes on the road. Tried to think of anything other than you removing your shirt, exposing your white.. fuck… your white, lacy bra. He could see it from the corner of his eye, he wondered if that white lace matched whatever your were wearing downst —

No. He couldn’t think like that. And fuck, now he was getting hard.

Not right now, he begged his cock internally. It would be a matter of seconds until you had that t-shirt on. Until you would turn to him and see a tent beginning to grow in his pants. Jesus, he felt pathetic. Like a fucking teenager unable to control himself.

He was so ashamed. Of how far he’d let this go between the two of you. He should’ve been the bigger person, should’ve told you that he —

“Are you hard?”

Your voice cuts through his thoughts, making him snap his head toward you, his cheeks already reddening. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, unable to reach down and adjust himself in his pants without seeming too obvious. You were now dressed in his shirt, the fabric loose around your arms.

Your mouth was twisted in a shit-eating grin and he already knew that he was done for.

“Just.. stop.” He mutters, clenching his jaw enough to hurt. He forces his eyes away from you, praying that the ground would just come and swallow him up. How was he even supposed to respond to this? Get himself out of it?

“Oh my god, you are,” you giggle, twisting in your seat to face him and propping your feet up onto your seat. “Fuck, Joel.” You say, your voice dropping an octave.

The sound of your tone getting quieter, a little more intimate, had him throbbing in his pants. He’s heard this tone of voice more than once by now. The sound of your moans and soft, sweet whimpers and pleas when he fucked you started to float around his head. The way you’d babble, trying to keep that menacing, teasing demeanour but failing miserably every single time.

“Was a nice little trick ya did there.” he gritted, and you could have swore the car picked up the speed. Not enough to be dangerous, but to show just how you were affecting him.

You turned your head to the side, your smile only growing. “Mhm? It worked, didn’t it?”

He didn’t respond to that particular question, just took a deep breath and adjusted in his seat once again, bringing a hand that wasn’t on the wheel to run through his slightly greying hair. “We cant do this.” He said firmly, but it seemed like it took everything within him to.

You bit down on your lip, slowly, ever so slowly, bringing your hand down onto his lap. Your trail your finger tips in a circle on his inner thigh. Testing. Teasing. “Can’t do what?” You ask innocently, as your hand finally lands on the spot between his legs. Palming his cock through his jeans. That thick, heavy, beautiful cock.

You manoeuvred yourself on the seat until you were sitting on your knees, and then, you leaned across the centre panel, until you were eye level with his lap, resting your cheek there as you slowly began to undo his belt.

Joel moans softly, uncontrollably. He couldn’t stop the sound from coming out when you worked on his belt with record time, tossing it aside and starting on his buttons. “This. It’s not — fuck.”

And then his cock was out of jeans and in your hand. His tip was flushed a shade darker than usual, beading with a pearl of pre-cum. “It’s wrong.” He finished with a sigh, both hands now gripping the wheel hard enough to turn his knuckles white.

You held back the urge to smile when you dipped your tongue out and lapped up the pre-jack there, humming at the salty flavour. “Why is it wrong?” You question him again, your voice oozing with false innocence. You ran your thumb along his shaft, looking up at him and waiting for an answer.

“You know why. Stop playing games.” He grits, his face pleading.

“That didn’t stop you before,” you muse thoughtfully, starting to consistently kitten lick the underside of his head. “Didn’t stop you from fucking me that night. Right here, in this car.”

Joel felt his reason snap. Fuck it then. Fuck it. You wanted to play this game? Then fine. He’d give you what you wanted. But then it was over.

Famous last words.

His hand drops down to tangle in your hair, forcing your parted mouth to take in his cock. He couldn’t take it anymore. The teasing. It was rich coming from him considering he’d given you the same shit numerous times. Waiting until you’d beg. Plead. You make a surprised sound at the action but welcome his tip into your mouth, sucking hard enough to make Joel hiss, his grip tightening.

“Fuck, Angel. Is this what you wanted? Wanted to rile me up? Test my fuckin’ patience?” He demands, scratching softly at your scalp. He hears you hum a sound of confirmation around him and the vibrations send him dangerously close to closing his eyes and taking his focus off the road completely.

At least he’d die a happy man.

You hollow your cheeks, the suction of your hot, wet mouth making a soft moan fall from Joel’s lips. You feel yourself grow needy between your legs, the spot at the apex of your thighs swelling and pulsing in time with your thundering heartbeat. You clench your thighs together in an attempt to diffuse some of the tension there.

You feel your pulse thrum in your head, the adrenaline and wrongness of the situation only heightening your arousal and, seemingly, Joel’s. The thought of someone passing in their car, seeing you here with your head between your fathers best friends thighs sent a thrill down your spine.

You pull off his cock and gasp for a breath, a string of spit connecting you to Joel. Joel peeks down at you for longer than was probably considered safe, the sight of you drooling and messy for him, fucking your mouth on his dick.. fuck it made his balls tighten.

Joel’s hand comes down to cup your chin, tilting your face up for your eyes to meet his. “Gonna get me in trouble, you know that?” He asks a little rhetorically. His voice is husky, a little guttural.

You give him a wrecked look in return, rutting your hips downward to emphasise what you wanted from him. “Please.” You say softly, your eyes doing the talking.

Immediately, Joel understands what it is that you want and makes quick work on using his free hand to unbutton your denim shorts, shoving his hand down your underwear and finding you slick and warm. The thought of what he could have his cock inside rather than your mouth, made him groan. Not that he didn’t love your mouth, but fuck, that pussy..

You gasp involuntarily as his thumb connects with your clit. Honestly, you weren’t really looking for any penetration, just some rubbing to ease the tension you were feeling. And it was as if Joel understood just that. He always did.

You moan softly and part your mouth once again, grinding your hips into his hand as you bob your mouth up and down on his cock. You bring a hand up to his shaft, wrapping around the part of him you couldn’t fit in your mouth. Your other hand rests on his inner thigh, the solid muscles beneath your hand making you even more aroused.

You can hear Joel struggling above you, his head thumps back against the headrest, his fingers getting sloppy on your clit as pleasure started to cloud his mind. You smile as best you could with his girth stretching your mouth when you feel him start to tremble. “Good?” Your garble around him, your voice muffled and ridiculous.

And you could’ve sworn you heard him growl at the sound of your voice. He nods, grinding his teeth hard enough to hurt. “Gonna cum — fuck,” he swears. “That’s good, sweetheart. Real good, use your tongue under my head, just like that.” He blurts, his hips bucking up slightly, as if he couldn’t control it.

Which, he probably couldn’t.

And then he was cumming.

His tip begins to spurt rope after rope of his hot, creamy cum into your mouth, the quantity of his seed telling you just how long it’s been since he’s found release in the time you’ve both been apart.

You whimper at the sensation of him filling your mouth, the scent and taste of him on your tongue. Without thinking twice, you swallow him down in one, a feeling of relief settling deep in your stomach despite not having a release yourself.

Joel pants above you, his hand that was in your pants now shoved into his mouth. You hadn’t even realised he’d been sucking the taste of you off his fingers until now when you looked up.

And the expression on his face? It was pure bliss.

Okay I know this is really short and I actually kinda hate it because I got super lazy toward the end but…. I love this dynamic!! Pls consider dropping a comment or reblog if you enjoyed, it’s very much appreciated!!

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[littledes1re]

Yummy yum yum

[itspapillonnoir]

RED DEAD REDEMPTION II ᨖ

[littledes1re]

Deep

Cw: +18, mean!joel, really desperate/needy reader, sub!reader, deep throat, crying, oral m!receiving, degradation, unspecified age gap, cum swallowing, lot's of saliva, slapping, hair pulling/yanking

A/N: today is my birthday, so yall are getting fed!!! It's very short, but yummy and i just couldn't get these pics out of my head, like he looks so huge and dada...sooo enjoy pookies <33

The floorboards are cold under your knees, but you don't care about that right now.

Your eyes are too wide, too wet, too desperate, looking up at him with an unbearable ache between your legs and saliva watering inside your mouth. 

Joel towers over you, hands planted on his hips, his jaw tight, eyebrows furrowed. He's looking down at you like you're something he scraped off of his boot. Unimpressed. Bordering on disgusted.

And you know it. You know how much he hates you. 

His jeans strain across his thighs, and there—right fucking there—that thick swell of him, rock hard already, pressing against the denim, swollen in need. Above it, that soft pudge of his belly, that little curve you've pressed your face into a hundred times only when he lets you. Only when he's feeling generous. 

Your eyes drift to that spot you love so much, picturing his cock already leaking for you. 

He tsks sharply, the sound cutting through the tense air like a whip. 

Your gaze snaps back up, but it's already too late. His eyes have gone dark, narrowed down at you with something sharp and cold. Annoyance. Disdain.

"Too god damn desperate," he growls, his voice low and gravelly. "For your own good."

You can't help but nod frantically, your mouth already watering at the thought of him, saliva pooling under your tongue. "Please," you whisper, your voice trembling with raw need. "I need it. In my mouth."

You lean forwards then, nuzzling against the rigid outline of his erection, inhaling the musky scent of him through the denim, your desperation making your hands twitch at your sides, itching to touch but knowing better than to try.

His hand moves fast.

He grabs a fistful of your hair at the scalp and yanks, wrenching your head back so hard your neck cracks. Your gasp cuts through the quiet.

Then his palm comes against your face.

A slap lands across your cheek with a sharp crack, the sting blooming hot and immediate, leaving your skin tingling and your breath catching in your throat. 

You freeze, eyes wide and pleading, the slap only fueling the fire of your need rather than dousing it. Your cheek burns, but you don't pull away; instead, you stay perfectly still, gazing up at him with utter submission, your body trembling with how badly you crave more.

He holds your gaze for a long, heavy moment. 

A small "pathetic" leaves his lips. 

And then, something flickers in his expression—not softening, never that. But a decision. 

"Alright," he says, calm. "You want it that bad? Open the zipper. With your mouth. Only your mouth."

You don't hesitate.

You lean in, your lips brushing against the cold metal tab of his jeans zipper. Your tongue darts out, fumbling, clumsy, desperate to please. You catch the tab between your teeth and tug. The teeth of the zipper part slowly, and you work your way down, your jaw aching, drool already starting to slip from the corner of your lips.

Inch by inch, the fabric parts, and then his cock springs free through the open slit in his boxers—thick and heavy, veins bulging along the shaft, the swollen head already glistening with a bead of pre-cum that drools from the tip. It bobs right in front of your face, so close you can feel the heat radiating off it, the salty scent filling your senses.

You drool again; a fat string of saliva that drips from your lower lip and lands on your own thigh. You don't even notice. All you see is him.

"Jesus Christ," Joel mutters, but there's no tenderness in it. Just exasperation. "Look at you. Droolin' like a bitch in heat."

You don't care. You can't care. You're already leaning forward, lips parting—

His hand clamps onto your hair again, stopping you. The pull hurts on your scalp already. 

"I ain't done talkin'."

You freeze, a whimper leaving your lips.

"I'm gonna fuck your throat," he says, each word deliberate. "Deep. Slow. And you're not gonna gag. Ya hear me?"

You nod as much as his grip allows, a jerky, desperate motion.

"No gaggin'," he repeats, making sure you understand. "Not a sound. You take it. That's what you're made for."

He doesn't wait for an answer.

He guides the head of his cock right between your lips, and you open for him—greedy, hungry, your tongue already stretching out to taste him. He pushes past your lips, past your tongue, and keeps going. 

He's thick. So thick that your jaw aches instantly. You taste every vein, every inch stretched wide around him. He fills your mouth completely, and he keeps pushing, deeper, until his tip nudges the back of your throat. 

You feel your body already rebel—a reflexive clench, a spasm from the back of your throat. But you force yourself to relax, to open, to take.

And then he's past the barrier, sliding into your throat in one smooth, burning slide.

Your eyes start to water. 

Tears spill over, falling one by one down your cheeks. Your nose is pressed against the hair at his groin, and the world has narrowed to the taste of him, the stretch of him, the smell and the sound of his breathing.

He holds there. Just for a moment. Just to let you feel it.

"Good girl," he says, and the praise is so unexpected, so incongruous with everything else, that a sob of relief catches in your chest. But he doesn't let you savor it. "Now we're gonna move. Slow. And you're gonna keep that mouth open."

He pulls back, almost all the way out, leaving just the tip resting on your tongue. 

Then he pushes in again. 

Slow. 

All the way in until his fat head drags against your palate, your tongue and then lands against the back of your throat. 

He sets a rhythm with slow, agonising thrusts that bury him deep, hold for a heartbeat, then retreat. Every time he sinks in, your throat convulses around him, trying to accommodate, and every time he pulls back, you drool—a mess of spit and pre-cum that strings from his cock to your lips. 

You try to breathe through your nose, keep your jaw unclenched and throat relaxed while tears still spill from your eyes. 

Joel watches. His eyes are half-lidded, focused entirely on where he disappears into your mouth, and on your tears. His free hand then comes up, and you feel his rough fingers on your throat—right over the place where his cock is sliding in and out.

He presses down lightly, rubbing the skin.

"You can feel it, can't you?" His voice is a low murmur, almost lazy. "Feel me right here, movin' in you."

You can. The sensation is foreign and intimate, his fingers tracing the bulge of his own cock moving inside your throat. It makes you moan, a muffled sound that vibrates around him.

"Quiet," he says, calm, there's no heat in it. Just a reminder.

He keeps going. Slow, Relentless. Making your throat memorise the veins of his cock. 

Your jaw aches. Your throat burns. Tears and drool mix together, soaking your chin, your neck, the collar of your shirt. 

But you don't care. You'd stay like this forever, if he'd let you.

He thrusts a little deeper, then. Turning a little harder. His rhythm suddenly changes, becoming more urgent, his hips rocking forward with a rougher snap. You can feel his cock throbbing inside your throat while his breathing thickens, the grip on your hair tightening to the point of pain.

"Fuck," he grunts. "That's what you're only good for. Gonna fill that throat of yours. Gonna pump you so full."

Your eyes roll up, meeting his for a brief moment. He's watching you; gaze dark, possessive, hungry.

Then he groans, a low, guttural sound from deep in his chest and his cock swells against your tongue. He thrusts deep one last time, burying himself to the root, and you feel the hot pulse of his release hitting the back of your throat.

There's a lot. Wave after wave, thick and bitter, flooding your mouth. You swallow instinctively, your throat working around him as he keeps twitching, keeps coming.

He holds you there, pressed against him, until he's empty. 

Then he pulls out slowly, his cock sliding wet and spent across your tongue, slowly softening. 

You're a mess. 

Sobbing and sniffling quietly. Spit and cum and tears all over your face. But you keep your mouth closed, holding everything down.

Joel takes a step back. His hands drop to his sides again. He looks down at you, breathing hard.

"Open," he says.

You do. You part your lips, tilt your head back, showing him the inside of your mouth. Clean. Empty. You swallowed every drop like a Good girl. 

He looks at you for a long moment. His expression doesn't soften. 

But he nods. Once.

And that for you, is everything.

Guess who is ovulating again lmao

Taglist: @vickie5446 @thatgirlmendo @ihearttdilfs @pickyeater13 @sweetiegirl16 @afyreinjuly @shivispunk @kyloispunk @marisemonteiroo @meetmeatyourworst @joelmillerswife9 @iveseenstrangerthings50 @idrkman @blueberryfruittart @vanishintoyoubby @dlwrish @brittmb115 @xcallmetaniax @umadirectioner @millersweetheart @wildthyng @armandispunk @chick66i @bratty-spicee @am1a-niigo @hopelessromantic727 @styleslfreak @psclcain @susieqorion24 @rxsemarinusx @jandtmillersgirl @fertilise-me @mitskilover88 @lostboys1987girl @begginforthread @pinkangelglitterdusttt @facethepascal @ddiana111 @twilightblogss @cheeseizts @pedrosgirl03 @swimmingnightcolor @gabfromgreedycity @bartzabel4 @blueflowerstranger @madnessofadaydreamer @sadie6sinks6slut @hopelessromantic727 @miramindlesslywriting

[millersweetheart]

Legit my favorite writer ever! You always write Joel soo good!! Happy belated birthday!! 🎈🫶🏻🎉

[littledes1re]

Half a Sandwich

| Sleazy Joel the beginning

ᯓ Series Masterlist: Ache Beneath the Sleaze ᥫ᭡.

Pairing: sleazy!joel miller x female!reader

Summary: If you’d known that half a sandwich behind a dumpster was gonna be the start of… whatever the hell this turned into, you’d’ve probably stayed home that day. He wasn’t lookin’ for trouble—hell, he talks to everybody, that’s just how Joel is. But every damn time he saw you sittin’ there, quiet as a ghost, lookin’ like you’d rather be anywhere else, he couldn’t help it. ’Cause life’s funny like that. It throws people at you when you least expect it—usually when you’re already havin’ a goddamn terrible week.

Warnings: +18, smut, fluff, angst, sleazy!joel, fuckbuddy!joel, unspecified age gap, protected sex, oral f!receiving, slight size kink, unhinged dirty talk, fingering, making out, talks about divorce, friends with benefits, talk about child loss, no outbreak

A/N: OMG FINALLY. I've rewritten this chapter like fifty times trying to make it something I don't hate, and I think I finally like this version. It's long, itms messy, it's smutty, and it goes way deeper into readers backstory than I had originally planned. Joels backstory is still lurking in the background, but trust me it's coming in the next chapters. Enjoy pookies!!! <333

Before Strawberry Creampie. Before Sit on it. There was...Half a Sandwich.

And you remembered it like it was yesterday...

You sat in the back of your office, clutching a halfly eaten salad like it was the last chore on a long, long fucking list of things you no longer had the energy to finish. The plastic fork felt flimsy in your hand, the lettuce wilted, the dressing too sour—everything just tasted like too much obligation. 

A window with dull concrete around and dry bushes stared back at you, a perfect reflection of the life you were dragging behind you.

Empty apartment, tangled sheets with an unmade bed, mind drifting through fog with no direction or desire. 

No one to share this pathetic lunch with, no one to come home to, no soft words to chase away the ache of isolation. 

You chewed mechanically, staring at the same patch of wall you stared at yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that. The world kept moving around you; cars passing, coworkers laughing, life happening—but only you  had felt stuck, suspended in a moment you just couldn’t climb out of.

"Oi, Jerry! Tell that fucker to hurry up!" 

And of course, it was once again him, interrupting your thoughts. 

Joel Miller, the delivery guy who rolled in every Tuesday with stacks of office supplies, had been part of the background noise in your life long before he became your fuck buddy. 

You couldn't ignore him if you tried to anyways; he owned every room he entered with that brash, take-no-shit swagger. 

Pushing late forties, hair slicked back with whatever cheap gel he had, a solid gut from beers that he wore like a trophy, not giving a damn. 

He smelled like cigarettes and gas stations, a scent that clung to the office air and sparked whispers amongs your coworkers—not out of dread, but that eye-rolling tolerance for the loudmouth who never knew when or how to shut up.

Joel was all noise, no substance: complaining about bullshit traffic, picking fights over nothing just to hear his own voice win, his gaze sliding over everyone—guys, gals, whoever sparked a glance. 

Heck, he sees ass, he looking. He finds a face pretty, he flirtin' no matter the gender. 

But with you back then? He kept it clean, no sleazy lines or winks, even if his eyes hung a beat too long. He'd spot you, acknowledge, then bounce, like some unspoken rule held him back. 

What flipped the switch that day? Maybe that bare finger where your ring used to sit, or the way your stares locked, or just dumb luck kicking in.

Maybe even fate.

"Well, hello beautiful—thought I was the only fool smart enough to sneak off from all that hustle out front." You can still remember the exact words. "What's a pretty thing like you doin' hidin' with your lunch on a day like this? You work inside, right? Must be nice. I'm out here breakin' my back while you're in there enjoyin' the air-conditionin'."

His words were annoying, your fuse already short from the weight of your own misery. 

"You're real chatty, huh?" He asked, laughing deep and unbothered, pressing on: "Most people say hi back. Or at least blink. You're like talkin' to a statue." 

You stabbed at your greens, sighing loudly.

"That's alright. I talk enough for both of us."

He flashed a grin, propping his clipboard like a throne, eyes lighting with that devilish spark. "If I'd known there was someone this cute hidin' back here, I'd've started takin' my breaks here weeks ago." 

You didn't lift your head at that point.

"Ah, playin' hard to get. Classic." He teased. "Name's Joel. And you are?"

Head down, fork scraping plastic, you shot back cold: "Not interested." 

He let out a low whistle, more entertained than stung. "That's an interestin' name, sweetheart." Chuckle rolling out thick. "Bet it's real hard to fit on a driver's license."

Annoyance flickered hot, mixed with the dull throb of your solitude—you wanted him gone, but he stuck, a loud intrusion in your quiet hell, dragging the outside world into your numb bubble. 

"Alright, miss not-interested. Try not to miss me too much." He called out, and finally left with that.

-

"Lord almighty, I swear this job's tryin' to put me in an early grave," he announced to absolutely no one, wiping sweat off of his forehead with the back of his hand. "Ain't even noon and I already wanna go home, crack a beer, and pretend today never happened."

The second week, he didn't just stand in front of you and yapped about everything and nothing—no. 

He sat down right next to you. 

He dropped onto the concrete with a grunt so dramatic it almost echoed off the wall. 

And you didn't look up. You just prayed that he will get up and leave. 

But of course, he didn't. 

"First thing this mornin', some jackass parked his truck sideways in the loadin' zone. Sideways. Like he spun the god damn wheel, said 'Jesus take the wheel,' and Jesus said 'nah.'"

You stabbed your salad.

"And them warehouse men today? Useless. Every last one of 'em. 'Joel, can you lift this?' 'Joel, can you sign that?' 'Joel, can you fix the forklift?' 'Joel, can you suck my dick?'" You almost chocked on your salad, looking at him in disgust. He chuckled. "Nah, just kiddin'—I'll yap 'bout my route instead." 

At some point Joels vulgar language became the standard. At some point. But unfortunately not that day. 

"Drove through three counties this mornin', dodgin' puddles bigger than ponds. Tell ya what, darlin', days like this make a fella appreciate findin' a pretty face to break the monotony. You just sit pretty; I've got stories for days."

You inhaled slowly through your nose and closed your eyes for a second, and that was enough for him to make another dumb joke. 

"Oh, look at that—she's alive," he said, chuckling.

You glared at him, only earning a grin from him. 

"But...you're real good at this, y'know."

"At what?" you muttered.

"Listenin'," he said, smug. "Most folks interrupt me halfway through my first rant. But you? You just sit there takin' it like a champ."

Then he winked obnoxious.

"Guess you're built different, sugar."

You stabbed at your salad again, trying to ignore the twist in your stomach after that pet name. Joel finally pushed himself to his feet, scratching at his belly as he dug a pack of Marlboros out of his pocket.

"Alright, not-intrested. Same time next week."

-

By the third week, you hated to admit it—even to yourself—but you could remember a flicker of anticipation that waited for his presence. A tiny, unexpected part of you sparked with oh, he'll probably show up again. 

Because how many days had you been sitting alone on this concrete, telling your coworkers it was "nothing," that the divorce was just a "mutual decision"? 

How much you hated their whispers and the way their eyes kept drifting to your bare finger—all of them inventing their own version of your own story, none of them stopping to think, even for a god damn second, 'maybe we should just leave her alone'. 

"Lord above, if this mornin' gets any worse, I'm throwin' myself in front of a forklift."

You didn't look up, because you knew exactly what was about to happen. 

He plopped down besides you with a grunt, holding a lunch bag and groaning: "Shoot, sugar, you're quieter than a church mouse on sunday, again. but that's fine—means I get to unload without interruption." 

So you sat there, clutching on a sad little muesli bar, not even having the slightest energy to open it and listening to his ramblings. 

You were exhausted. Exhausted from waking up each day and pretending that everything is okey. Exhausted about battling thoughts on going sick for the day, or even leaving work. 

"Warehouse's a damn zoo," he muttered, digging inside his launch. "Boss got me waitin' around 'cause some idiot mislabeled the shipment. Again. I swear, I'm surrounded by fuckin' morons."

He pulled out a sandwich; thick, messy, wrapped in crinkled foil and was about to take a bite when he finally glanced sideways.

His chewing stopped.

He stared at your muesli bar.

Then at you.

Then back at the bar.

"…What in God's name is that."

You blinked. "Lunch."

He snorted. "That ain't lunch, hon. That's a god damn cry for help."

You rolled your eyes at him, ignoring his glance. 

Then, without warning, he tore his sandwich clean in half—one loud, irritated rip and shoved the bigger piece toward you.

You recoiled. "No."

"Take it."

"I said no."

He grabbed your wrist then, not rough, just stubborn, and slapped the sandwich half into your palm.

"Gonna starve yourself to death with that lil' piece of shit," he grumbled, already unwrapping his remaining half. "Ain't lettin' you pass out on my watch. I ain't fillin' out paperwork for that."

You stared at the sandwich in your hand. It was warm, heavy, smelling like cheap deli meat and something spicy. 

Your throat tightened.

Your husband used to make you sandwiches.

Every morning. Even on the days you didn't speak. Even when the marriage was already cracking down the middle.

You swallowed hard.

Joel didn't notice because of course, he was already back to complaining.

"And another thing...traffic was a damn nightmare..."

You didn't know then how much he'd matter. -

You couldn't exactly remember why you ended up in a bar that night.

You hated alcohol. The taste. The warmth in your throat. 

But it was one of those evenings where the past clawed its way back, uninvited, wrapping around your thoughts like fog and making your heart ache. And as much as you tried to drown it with liquor, a Coke zero did the job better that night.

His hand used to fit perfectly in yours, pulling you through days that blurred into moments of happiness and quiet joys; lazy Sundays with coffee steaming in the kitchen, his laughter rumbling low as he teased you about burning the toast again, the way he looked at you as if you were the only one in his life. 

And now? 

It was all gone, evaporated like morning mist under the harsh sun, leaving you lost in this unfamiliar city, this bar that hummed with the low murmur of conversations you didn't want to join. 

Who did you blame?

Him, for letting the spark die out in a series of unspoken silences? 

Yourself, for not fighting harder, for not seeing the cracks sooner? 

Had you changed too much, bent too far for his expectations, until you were a shape you no longer recognized? 

The questions swirled in your mind, unanswered, as you stared into the bubbles of your drink, the ice melting slowly. 

And there you saw him again. 

Joel. 

He was perched on his stool like he owned that place, nursing a pint of beer that sloshed slightly as he scratched at his big belly, the fabric of his faded flannel shirt straining against the motion. 

You sighed, and rolled your eyes painfully. 

His gaze lingered too long on a woman's ass as she leaned over the pool table. 

Years later you would hear whispers about him, from the regulars who nursed their own sorrows at the bar; how he was a fixture here, always chasing the next warm body, stumbling home with someone on his arm, the scent of whiskey heavy on his breath. 

They even said he had a daughter once, lost her young to some tragedy that hung over him like a shadow, but in that night, you didn't know about any of that. 

That night, you just wished this god forsaken dim light would swallow him whole before he noticed you.

But as if the universe conspired against your solitude, Joel caught your eye across the room. 

His lips curled into a smug smirk, the one you already know all too well. 

He shifted on his stool, the wood creaking under his weight, and without a second hesitation, he pushed off and headed your way, his boots thudding softly against the floorboards. 

"Well, well, well," he drawled, his voice thick with that southern twang.

He stopped just close enough that you caught the faint whiff of his cologne—cheap and musky, mixed with the sharpness of the beer.

"Didn't expect to see my lunch buddy here, lookin' all lonesome and pretty under these sorry lights. What brings a fine thing like you to a dive like this on a night that's beggin' for trouble?"

You rolled your eyes again.

"Still playin' hard to get, hm?" Joel persisted, leaning one elbow on the counter besides you. 

He chuckled low, a rumble that vibrated through his chest, and took a step closer.

"Darlin', you know you can't fool ol' Joel. I see that fire in your eyes, even if you're tryin' to hide it behind that soda. Come on now, what's a man gotta do to get a smile outta you tonight?" 

"Joel, please," you said, your voice flat, edged with the irritation. "Ain't in the mood."  

He didn't take the hint—never did. Instead, he grinned wider.

"Oh lord almighty," he drawled, dragging out the words exaggerated. "The statue can talk, eh?" 

He set his beer down right next to your soda with a clunk, and slid onto the stool besides you, his knee bumping yours under the counter—accidental, or so he'd claim. 

The foam from his last sip still clung to the edge of his mustache, a white froth that made him look even more unkempt, more insistent.

"You look like you could use somethin' stronger than that coke, sweetheart. What's got you all twisted up? Some fool broke your heart, or this city just grindin' you down? C'mon now ol' Joel's got an ear and a shoulder, 'specially for a gal who looks like she needs a little…distraction."

"None of your business, Joel. Go bother someone else." 

But Joel just leaned in closer, unbothered, his breath warm and beery against your ear as he launched into another rambling.

"Aw, don't be like that, Honey. I'm just tryin' to help a lady in distress. Let me buy you somethin' stronger…or we could slip outta here, find somewhere quiet where a southern gentleman can take care of you proper."

He took a long pull from his beer then, the liquid going down his throat, and when he set it back down, a fresh bit of foam clung to his mustache, dangling there for a second before he swiped it away with the back of his hand, smearing it across his stubbled chin. 

You felt the weight of Joel's words settling over you like the bar's humid air.

"Look, I ain't tryin' to go where I'm not wanted. Just sayin' you look like someone life's been gnawin' on. I've been there. Lost a marriage once. Hurts like cheap whiskey goin' down."

His flannel sleeve rode up slightly, revealing a faded tattoo on his forearm, a blurry horse that spoke of younger, wilder days, and you couldn't help but wonder, fleetingly, what stories it hid or if it hid anything at all.

The blunt honesty surprised you, slipping past your annoyance and stirring a thin thread of curiosity.

"Yeah, well," you muttered, your voice barely rising above the hum of the room. "Doesn't mean I need your pity party or whatever this is."

But the words lacked their earlier bite, softened by the way his story mirrored fragments of your own unraveling.

Joel chuckled, his mustache twitching as he scratched at his jaw, stubble rasping against his nails. 

"Pity? Hell nah, darlin', that ain't my style. See, after my own shit fell apart, I figured out the best way to forget is with a little company that don't ask too many questions, just shows up warm and willin', lets ya lose yourself in the moment till the sun comes up and chases the shadows away."

You swallowed hard, the tightness in your throat eased just a touch as his words wormed their way in, distracting from the echo of your ex husband's words.

"Company that doesn't ask questions," you echoed softly, the phrase tasting foreign on your tongue, your gaze dropping to the melting ice in your soda. 

There was uncertainty in your tone, but a flicker of interest sparking, even if you didn't want to admit it. 

"Exactly right," Joel drawled. "No drama—just see where the night takes us, you and me, darlin'. If you say stop, I stop. I promise, by the time we're done, them troubles'll be nothin' but echoes."

His implication clear as day, without shame and respect. The kind of blunt talk that should have repulsed you outright. 

And it did, in part; disgust curled in your stomach, at the sleaziness of it all, this old man yapping nonsense like it was gospel. 

Yet beneath it all, as your world of careful plans and shattered stability cracked wider, a strange pull tugged at you—an attraction born from desperation, the want of something to numb your thoughts.

"You're disgusting," you shot back, the words tumbling out sharper than intended, your cheeks flushing. 

Joel didn't flinch; instead, his lips quirked into that infuriating smile.

"And you're beautiful, honey." he replied, his drawl softening. 

The compliment landed unexpectedly, stirring warmth in your chest you hadn't felt in ages.

Overcome by the rush of it all; you acted on impulse, leaning forwards to press your lips to his in a kiss that was quick and fleeting, tasting the bitterness of beer and the rough scratch of his beard against your skin. It was a moment of raw need, but as quickly as it happened, you pulled back, confusion flooding your features, heart pounding.

Joel's eyes widened for a split second, surprise flashing across his weathered face, before that smirk returned, smug and knowing. 

"Well now, ain't that a surprise," he drawled, voice thick with teasing triumph. "Looks like all that neediness was just bubblin' under the surface, waitin' for a little nudge." 

You froze, the vulnerability crashing over you in waves, embarrassed.

Joel's expression shifted then, the smirk softening just a tad bit. 

"Easy there, honey," he murmured, drawl low and coaxing. "No need to bolt like a spooked filly. I get it—world's been rough, leavin' ya all tangled up inside. But how 'bout we take this outta here, head to my van? It's got space, privacy, and I can help chase them tormentin' thoughts right outta your pretty head, least till mornin' comes callin'."

He nodded towards the door.

You breathed deeply, steadying the whirlwind within. 

What the hell was wrong with you? 

Your eyes met his, searching in those crinkled depths for something real amid the sleaze, and after a long moment, you nodded, accepting the uncertain path ahead. 

Joel grinned, wide, sliding off of his stool with a grunt. He fished a crumpled wad of bills from his pocket, tossing them onto the counter, the bartender nodding absently as change clinked back. 

Then he stood, extending his hand towarsd you beckoning you into the night, the beginning of something tangled and unexpected.

-

His van was...if you'd put it nicely...very compact. 

Boxy, and worn down to its bones. The paint had faded into a chalky blue, chipped along the edges like old nail polish. Rust bloomed around the walls in stubborn freckles, and the back door had a dent big enough to suggest a story he'd never bother telling. A tiny row of potted plants sat on a narrow wooden shelf outside the window, their green leaves pressed against the glass like they were desperate for some water.

Joel's hand settled on your waist as he guided you forwards, fingers splayed just enough to steer you through the puddles without a word. 

Who were you in that moment? 

The woman who'd once ironed her husband's shirts on Sunday mornings, planned grocery lists with precision, traded her drafting table for community meetings and minivan keys? 

And now this—trailing after a stranger's touch into the night, not knowing how it'd end. 

"Y'know, darlin'," he drawled, "this ain't exactly the Ritz, but it'll do for keepin' the wolves at bay. Got a little garden out back of the park where I park most nights. Pretty flowers on summer and stuff. Ain't much of a flower guy though." He chuckled at his own nonsense.

You tried to school your features, to keep that flicker of disgust from showing: the way the van's interior peeked through the grimy windows, cluttered with stuff and a tangle of extension cords, a far cry from the crisp lines of your old house with its polished counters and linen curtains. 

It almost repulsed you, that glimpse of transience, the life pieced together from scraps and stubborn will, but you bit back the words, swallowing them away.

Joel noticed it anyway; his hand tightened fractionally on your waist before loosening. He cleared his throat, the sleaze turning into something almost shy, almost like shame as he fumbled for his keys. 

"Yeah... I know it ain't the best place," he admitted, the drawl softening, "Folks look at it and see a mess. But hell, it gets me through the day, y'know? Keeps the roof—such as it is—over my head and the road under my wheels. No mortgage chasin' me down, no fancy lawn to mow into submission. Just me and this old stubborn ass." 

He shot you a sidelong glance, eyes crinkling with a forced grin, trying to lighten your mood with that rambling charm of his. 

The door slid open with a metallic groan, releasing a puff of warmth laced with the faint, musty scent of unwashed blankets and motor oil. 

And inside—much to your surprise—it was actually cozy and put‑together.

 Sure, there were empty cans and bottles scattered around, and it clearly hadn't been cleaned in a long time. But somehow, it still felt warm.

There was a narrow space lined with built‑in cabinets, a real bed raised against the back wall with a worn quilt folded neatly on top and a compact kitchen with a proper stove and a tiny sink squeezed beneath a window. Soft fairy lights hung along the ceiling, casting a warm glow over the wood. 

"C'mon, darlin', don't stand there catchin' your death," he said. "You can lay down on the bed if ya want—ain't no palace, but it's clean enough, or as clean as a man livin' solo gets. I'll crank up the heat." 

He fiddled with the controls until the vent rattled awake, warm air stirring inside the van. 

Uncertainty started to coil in your gut, as you sat down his mattress—a tangle of doubt and fleeting desire, the perfect wife you'd been fracturing further with each passing second. 

Joel sank down besides you with a grunt.

"Look, I ain't gonna rush ya," he murmured, "We can just sit here, listen to the rain play its tune on the roof, talk 'bout nothin' if that's what you need. Or...whatever feels right. Your call, beautiful—no pressure from this side of the van." 

His words washed over you, annoying in their length and sleaziness, yet oddly soothing, smoothing the jagged edges of your thoughts. 

You nodded, barely, your fingers twisting in the hem of your shirt. 

This wasn't you—climbing into a van with a stranger, a loudmouthed guy who lived like this, all nomadic and unapologetic. 

But his promise echoed in your mind, that he'd fuck all your problems away, and part of you, buried deep, wanted to believe it.

Before your brain could catch up, you leaned in, smashing your lips against his in a rush of impulse again. Joel's smirked against you, that smug curve pulling him back just enough to break the kiss. His rough hands cupped your face, thumbs brushing your jaw. 

"Well now, ain't you just warmin' up quicker than a skillet on the stove, eh?" he murmured, eyes sparkling like he'd won some unspoken bet.

You ducked your gaze, staring at the frayed edge of the blanket, your pulse racing under his touch. 

"How long's it been since somebody touched this beautiful body of yours, huh?" He asked, one hand sliding down to trace the curve of your shoulder. "I mean, look at you—curves like a backroad at midnight, all soft and invitin'. Bet it's been a spell, baby, leavin' you all pent up and achin' without even knowin' it."

Too long. 

It had been too damn long since anyone had looked at you like that, let alone touched you with intent. 

You squirmed under his touch, that directness was disrespectful, disgusting in its bluntness, the way he talked to you like you were a prize he'd earned. 

But god, the arousal twisted deeper, heat pooling between your thighs, making your breath hitch. 

He didn't wait for words; his lips found your neck, pressing open mouthed kisses along the sensitive skin, stubble scraping in a way that sent shivers racing down your spine. He nibbled at your earlobe, teeth grazing just enough to earn a soft gasp from you, his free hand roaming over the swell of your breast, thumb circling through your shirt until your nipple hardened under the attention.

"Hey now," he whispered, "this still alright with you, sugar? I ain't pushin' if you ain't ready—though damn if you don't taste like trouble I been cravin'."

You nodded, words already failing as your body betrayed your caution, arching slightly into his touch. 

Joel's grin widened, pleased, before he captured your mouth again, deeper this time, tongue sliding against yours in a slow, claiming dance. 

He shifted, guiding you back onto the mattress with a gentle push, his weight settling over you. That big belly of his pressed down, soft and heavy against your stomach, pinning you.

He broke the kiss with a chuckle. "If you can't breathe under all this, darlin', just holler—though I reckon you'd rather I smother you a lil' more, keep you pinned like the pretty thing you are."

You rolled your eyes and pulled him back down. 

Your kisses grew hungrier as Joel's hand wandered lower, tracing the dip of your waist, the curve of your hip, before dipping between your legs. His fingers brushed the edge of your panties, and you startled, thighs clenching instinctively, a jolt of uncertainty spiking through the haze of desire.

"Whoa there, easy now," Joel soothed, not pulling away but pausing, palm resting on your thigh. "Ain't no need to jump like a cat on a hot tin roof, beautiful. I got you—gonna take it slow as molasses in January, make sure every touch feels like heaven. Been doin' this dance longer than you think, and I promise, by the time I'm through, you'll be beggin' for more of this big ol' belly pressin' down on ya."

His words tumbled out, long and filthy, uttering nonsense half of you didn't even understand. But it distracted you from that uncertainty and replaced it with a fresh wave of want. 

He slipped his hand under the waistband of your panties, fingers finding your slick folds. 

You were soaked already, embarrassingly so, and he groaned low in his throat as he traced your clit in slow, deliberate circles. 

"Goddamn, honey," he muttered, "you're drippin' like a summer storm out there."

He slid one thick finger inside you, then two, curling them just right to hit that spot that made stars burst behind your eyes. The stretch was big, his movements steady and unhurried, pumping in and out with a rhythm. 

You moaned, the sound escaping raw and needy, your hips bucking up to meet his hand.

"Listen to you, moanin' like a siren callin' me home," Joel teased, thumb pressing firmer on your clit as he worked you deeper. "Sounds filthy as hell, sugar—got me harder than a fence post just hearin' it. Keep makin' those pretty noises; I could listen to 'em all damn night while I finger this sweet pussy of yours."

"Shut up," you gasped, half-annoyed, half-breathless, but the words unfortunately lacked any bite, dissolving into another whimper as he quickened his pace, the wet sounds of his fingers filling the van.

The coil in your belly tightened quicky, pleasure building quick, the months without touch, the sleepless nights, every stroke of his fingers pushed you closer. 

And when the orgasm hit, it crashed over you in waves—your walls fluttered around his fingers, body arching off the mattress as you cried out, the release washing away all the insecurities in a flood of bliss.

"That's it, beautiful, come for me," Joel praised. "I got you, honey, ride it out...yeah, just like that."

As you calmed, Joel shifted slightly, his free hand drifting down to his lap, fumbling with the zipper of his jeans. 

He pulled out his cock then; thick, heavy, already hard and swelling under his grip as he gave it a slow stroke. 

Your eyes widened, locking onto the sight—veined and girthy, curving upward with a heft you'd never encountered, the head flushed and glistening faintly in the low light. 

It was bigger than anything you known.

He chuckled, low and smug. "Like what ya see there, beautiful? Ol' Joel's packin' a bit more than most fellas, ain't he? Been told it makes a gal's eyes pop just like yours are doin' now—wide as saucers, wonderin' how it'll all fit. Don't worry, sugar; this big boy's got a mind of its own, but it'll treat ya right if ya let it."

"I want it." You whispered before you could even stop yourself. 

What was wrong with you? 

Joel's smirk widened, knowing, as he kept stroking, his thumb circling the tip to spread the bead of pre-cum.

"Oh, I know ya do, baby. Finally breakin' down for me, huh? Good girl—ain't no shame in cravin' what ya need. This pussy's beggin' for it already, I can tell."

You sighed, the annoyance flaring even as arousal pooled low in your belly, but there was a smile tugging at your lips. 

He paused then. "Condom?"

You nodded quickly—you hadn't been on birth control since the divorce. 

Joel rummaged in a drawer besides the bed, pulling out a foil packet with a grin, tearing it open and rolling the latex down his length with practiced ease, the material stretching over his size. 

He smirked at you the whole time, eyes gleaming. "I'll promise ya some lovin' and care, baby. All these thoughts will be gone—poof, like smoke in the wind. Gonna fuck 'em right outta ya, leave ya floatin' on a cloud of nothin' but good feels."

You rolled your eyes, a mix of exasperation and excitement bubbling up as you didn't know what the hell you were doing, but in that moment, it felt right enough. 

He shrugged off his shirt fully now, revealing the full expanse of his belly, soft and heavy, before nudging your legs apart and settling between them, his weight dipping the mattress further. 

"Look at this pretty pussy, all pink and swollen from comin' on my fingers," he murmured.  "Shinin' like a damn pearl in the moonlight filterin' through that window there."

He pushed in then, the blunt head breaching you inch by agonizing inch, your walls fluttering around the intrusion. It burned at first, a delicious ache as he filled you, his girth forcing you open. 

You winced, discomfort flickering across your face, and he paused, one hand stroking your thigh, the other braced besides your head.

"Easy now, honey, breathe through it," he cooed, though his tone was laced with triumph. "I know it's big, but you're takin' it like a real champ."

"Shut up, oh my god," you hissed, embarrassment washing over you, but the words broke into a moan as he bottomed out. 

Joel grinned, sweat beading on his brow, and shifted his weight onto you completely, pinning you beneath his bulk as he began to thrust—slow at first, deep rolls of his hips that dragged his cock along your inner walls.

"That's it, beautiful, feel me fuckin' ya deep, chasin' away every damn worry in that head of yours."

His pace quickened, thrusts turning rougher, the bed cracking in time with the slap of skin on skin, his belly rubbing against you with each drive. 

He kept yapping, filthy stream of consciousness pouring out between grunts, his drawl turning breathless but no less annoying unfortunately. 

"Fuck, darlin', this tight hole's milkin' me good—gonna fill this rubber up with my cum soon, mark ya as mine even if it's just for tonight. You love it, don't ya? Takin' every inch like a pro, moanin' for more."

The words blurred into sensation, your body responding despite the sleaze, hips rising to meet his as pleasure rebuilt, coiling tighter. 

You clenched around him, cries spilling from your lips as it crested, waves of ecstasy crashing through you, your nails raking his back.

Joel followed soon after, groaning loud and guttural, his thrusts stuttering as he came, hips grinding hard against you while he filled the latex with hot spurts. 

He collapsed then, breathing ragged.

After a moment, he pulled out carefully, disposing of the condom with a quick tie and tossed into a nearby trash can. He cleaned himself up with a towel from the floor, wiping away the sweat and stickiness, before turning back to you. 

You laid there all breathless, chest heaving, skin flushed and damp, the emotional high crashing into a wave of shame that made you curl inward. 

You rolled your eyes at his gaze and turned away, burying your head into the pillow, the scent of him overwhelming as regret whispered in your ear:

What had you done, giving in like this?

Joel noticed immediately, his voice softening as he reached out, hand resting on your shoulder. 

"Hey...did I hurt ya? What happened, honey? You were all lit up like fireworks a minute ago, and now you're hidin' like a scared kitten."

You mumbled something into the pillow, the words muffled. He pulled you back gently, wrapping you in his arms again, that unexpected tenderness cutting through the post-climax haze like a balm. 

You didn't cry, but you let out a big sigh, looking at a corner of the van. 

The empty apartment, the signed papers, the life unraveling like frayed thread. It all came crashing down on you. 

What had you done to deserve this?

You muttered against his shirt, voice muffled and broken, "I got divorced." 

The words hung there, exposed, the rain seeming to pause in sympathy.

Joel pulled back just enough to look at you, his thumb stroking your cheek with surprising care, though his grin crept in, sleazy but laced with a sweetness that caught you off guard. 

His eyes softened, just a fraction, and he murmured, "Oh, baby."

"God dammit, that mother fucker was sure as hell a dumbass to let you go like that," he said. "I mean, look at ya—pretty as a peach in July, all soft curves and fire in them eyes. He'd have to be blind and stupid to toss away a woman like you." 

You couldn't help it—a laugh bubbled up.

His words were filthy in their bluntness, annoying in their endless sprawl, but they lightened the mood, pulling you from the edge. 

So, you two stayed like that for a while, wrapped in his arms, the van's heater humming as the rain drummed on, his hand stroking your back in lazy circles until your breaths evened out.  -

The next day, he slipped his phone number into your palm while you were still asleep, pressed a quick kiss into your hair, muttered something about needing to get moving before his boss 'chewed him out like a dog with a bone,' and then left the van quietly so you could keep sleeping.

And when you came home again, disgust started to coil in your gut, sharp and unrelenting. 

Was this who you were now? 

Divorced once, the ink barely dry on those papers, and already fucking strangers in the back of a van just to numb the ache? 

The shame washed over you in waves, hot and suffocating, but tangled in that was something far worse—the admission that it had felt good. 

Too good.

Joel chased away those shadows in your mind, his kisses, sleazy as they were, had landed soft, pulling you under until the pain dulled to a distant hum. The way he pleasured you, something you haven't felt in years. 

You didn't cry. 

You never let yourself. Crying felt like a crack in the armor, and you couldn't afford to fall apart—not now, not ever. Not even as you got fired the next day.

Your boss's voice droned through the office like white noise—too many sick days, too little output, pack your things and leave. 

You only nodded numbly, the words sliding off of you like rain on glass, and drove home in silence, the radio off, the engine's hum your only companion in that moment. 

And there you sat in your apartment:

Divorced. Fucked by a random man in his rusty van. And now, fired.

Where was the perfect wife from years ago, the one with the husband who kissed her goodnight in their beautiful house, the one with plans and stability woven into every corner? 

Still, no tears came. 

You could remember how hard it had been, those days stretching like no end in near, each one heavier than the last, the weight of unraveling pressing down until breathing felt like a chore.

And in that moment all your eyes could see Joel's number on the coffee table, staring up at you like a dare. 

You thought about it for two full days, fingers hovering over your phone in the quiet hours, the what ifs swirling in your head. 

What would happen if you called? 

He would say some sleazy, stupid shit. Tease you in that obnoxious tone until you rolled your eyes. And then? He would ask to fuck. 

You felt so fucking stupid even considering it—chasing distraction from a man who probably saw you as just another notch—but god, he numbed the pain, turned the sharp edges soft, if only for a night.

"Now, who the hell is this callin' me up? I swear to the good Lord above, if this is one of them scam artists tryin' to fleece old folks outta their hard earned cash, you're barkin' up the wrong damn tree, buddy—ain't got nothin' but cigarettes in my pockets and a van that leaks worse than a sieve."

You swore you didn't want to call. 

But a soft smile tugged at your lips despite the knot in your throat, the sound of him so vividly alive in that sterile quiet of your space. 

"Joel," you said softly.

There was a beat of silence, then a low chuckle, lazy and smug. "Well, I'll be damned, if it ain't my favorite troublemaker callin' me up outta the blue. Here I was, sweatin' bullets thinkin' I'd scared you off for good with all my big talk and bigger belly." He said. "Hell, I been thinkin' 'bout you non-stop, beautiful, wonderin' if you'd come to your senses and give ol' Joel a ring. What's the word? You need a laugh? A ride? Somethin' more...interestin'?"

He talked and talked, words tumbling out in that endless, annoying stream, painting pictures with his charm.

Suddenly, the words spilled from you, unbidden. 

"I got fired."

"Lord have mercy," Joel growled, the playfulness dipping into something almost genuine. "Fired? Shit, darlin', that's a raw deal if I ever heard one. You holdin' up alright? Tell me what happened, or hell, don't—ain't gotta spill it all if you don't want. But listen here, you sound like you could use a pick-me-up, and I know just the thing. You need me to swing by and scoop you up?"

He'd been thinking about that one thing again, the heat of bodies and the escape it promised, 

but in the ache echoing through your chest, maybe that's exactly what you needed—a distraction. 

So you whispered into the phone, "Yes."

-

"Goddamn, darlin'," he drawled, voice muffled against your wetness. "You taste like honey straight from the hive—sweet and sticky, makin' a man forget his own damn name. Let it go now, yeah? Tell ol' Joel what's eatin' at you 'bout that job. What'd they do to my girl, huh?"

It ached once inside your stomach when he said 'my girl' but it was quickly overshadowed by his tongue diving over your clit. 

Joel's broad shoulders were wedged between your thighs, his calloused hands gripping the soft flesh there, thumbs pressing into your skin that sent shivers up your spine. 

Tongue flat and broad, he licked a slow, deliberate stripe up your pussy, savoring the slick folds with a groan that vibrated through your core. 

No words were said from the drive over—just his knowing grin as he manoeuvred his truck in front of his van. 

And what happened next, didn't surprise you. 

"C'mon, tell ol' joel what's bothering you."

You exhaled a shaky breath, fingers threading into his salt-and-pepoer hair, the strands coarse under your palms as the first waves of pleasure loosened the knots in your chest. 

"The...the endless meetings," you murmured, hips twitching upwards into his face, the words fracturing on a gasp as he hummed approval, the vibration sending sparks along your nerves. "Talking in circles, nothing ever changing..."

He didn't stop, couldn't—tongue thrusting shallowly now, lips sealing around your clit to suck with rhythmic pulls that made your thighs quiver against his ears.

"That's it, beautiful, keep talkin'. What else? Gimme the dirt—bet they had you runnin' ragged like a dog chasin' its tail."

His free hand slid up your belly, palm warm and heavy, thumb brushing the underside of your breast in lazy strokes, grounding you even as he unraveled you. 

"Boss...always breathing down my neck," you continued. "Criticising everything, like I was invisible until I screwed up. And the hours—god, the hours bleeding into nothing."

Joel growled low, the sound feral and approving, doubling his efforts: tongue flicking rapidly over your clit while two thick fingers eased into you, curling to stroke that sweet spot inside you. 

Confessions started spilling freer now: "Colleagues whispering, promotions going to the loudest liars, feeling like I was drowning in paperwork that meant jack shit"—until the dam broke.

Orgasm crashed over you like a sudden storm, thighs clamping around his head as you came on his face, pulsing waves of release soaking his beard and lips. 

You cried out, back bowing off of the mattress. 

Joel pulled back slowly, chin glistening, eyes  triumphant. "Fuck me, beautiful, that was a sight—comin' apart like Fourth of July, all fireworks and no holdin' back." He drawled. 

He stood up then, the mattress dipping under his weight and rummaged in a nearby drawer, pulling out a towel, and dabbed gently at your thighs, cleaning your release with care, his touch lingering just enough to tease without pushing.

You sat up slowly, limbs heavy with afterglow, watching him through half lidded eyes; his belly strained against his shirt, the faint sheen of sweat on his brow catching the dim light filtering through the curtains. He caught your gaze and grinned, tossing the towel aside. 

"Well, hell, I'm gonna miss ya as my lunch buddy now that you're footloose and free."

You smirked, a playful spark cutting through the haze, even as surprise flickered at your own words tumbling out.

"You got my number now."

Why did it sound like that?

Like you two were something official...

"Yeah," he drawled simply. "Gimme a sec—gonna wash up."

He walked towards the tiny bathroom, the door clicking shut behind him, leaving you alone with the hush.

Your eyes wandered and wandered then, tracing the faded photos pinned to a corkboard above the sink—mementos amid the chaos of tools and takeout wrappers. 

One caught your eye: a faded snapshot of a blonde girl, no more than eight, gap-toothed smile besides a younger Joel, his arm slung around her shoulders, both squinting into  the sun at what looked like a county fair. 

"Is that your daughter?" you asked when he emerged, towel slung over his shoulder, voice light and curious, no weight behind it—you didn't know him and you didn't want to push it. 

Joel froze mid-step, the easy smirk fading, his face hardening into lines etched deep by time and loss. 

The air thickened, a sudden stretch of silence between you. 

"Yeah," he said finally, voice low. "Lost her a long time ago."

You went silent then, nodding once, gaze dropping to the rumpled sheets.

This was the only time you ever heard about Joel's daughter. The rest was whispers and rumours from the bar. Even today, Joel never wanted to talk about it. And you didn't push him. 

Joel cleared his throat after a beat and headed toward the narrow kitchen at the front.

"Hell, this bastard's hungry now—mouth's all worked up, but I ain't got nothin' but some sad ass lookin' tomatoes, a hunk of cheese that's probably seen better days, and fuckin' bread that's more hole than loaf." His sleaze returned, trying to lighten the mood. 

You rose quietly, padding after him on bare feet, and leaned against the counter's edge. "Let me make you something. I don't need more than that."

He stared at you for a beat, something unguarded flickering in his eyes before he shoved it down. But you caught the way his features grew soft. 

-

By the third time it happened, you stopped pretending it was an accident. 

Joel had spent the days between calling you nonstop to complain about anything he could think of— payments, deliveries, the guys in the warehouse—just rambling into your ear until you fell asleep from sheer boredom.

You remember being deep in your job search—hours of scrolling through listings that blurred together into rejection and possibility—when your thoughts started to distract you again.

The phone buzzed on the coffee table, jolting you from the haze, Joel's name lighting up the screen like an uninvited spark.

"Honey, you ain't gonna believe the bullshit I dealt with today—had this asshole at the site yappin' about permits like he owns the damn place, breathin' down my neck while I'm tryin' to weld a frame that won't hold up to a stiff breeze. Swear to God, if I had to listen to one more word 'bout codes and inspections, I'd have shoved that clipboard where the sun don't shine. Anyway, enough of my griping—how's that fancy job hunt goin'?"

Bla bla bla and more bla. 

You rolled your eyes.

But there was a pause then, his breath catching just a fraction, the bravado softening into something almost shy.

"Listen, uh... you wanna come over tonight? Or I could swing by and pick ya up? Ain't pushin', just...thought maybe we could unwind, y'know?"

You sighed, the sound heavy in the quiet room, the promise you'd made to yourself after the last time—no more distractions, no more surrendering to the pull of his rough warmth—cracked under the strain of solitude. 

"Yeah," you said finally, voice steadier than you felt. "Pick me up."

So...you landed in his van again. 

His lips met yours with a hunger tempered by familiarity.

You melted into it, hands finding his neck, fingers tangling into his strands as the kiss deepened—tongues brushing in lazy exploration, breaths mingling hot and ragged in the small space.

You pressed closer, the scratch of his beard against your skin a grounding rasp, the make-out stretching slowly, bodies shifting on the bed until you were half in his lap. 

Breathless, Joel pulled back first, forehead resting against yours, his eyes searching yours. 

"I was thinkin'...we could make this somehow official. Nothin' serious, mind you—just fuckin' around and stuff when we need it, y'know? Keep the loneliness at bay without all the messy strings." He grinned, but there was a flicker of uncertainty in it.

You laughed, the sound light and disbelieving, echoing softly in the van's cocoon. 

"Are you serious? You want me to be your fuck buddy?" 

The term hung absurd in the air, but it pulled a chuckle from him too, his eyes crinkling further.

"Yeah... why not? If we're gonna keep doin' this, we might as well call it what it is. Ain't promisin' the world, but hell, I could be your go-to when the night's too damn quiet."

You looked at him then, really looked—the way he held his gaze steady despite the sleaze, while you remembered the care in his hands after that first unraveling, how he wiped away the evidence of your surrender with a tenderness no one else had offered. The way his presence drowned out that hollow ache, letting you forget the spin of your life for stolen hours.

How were you able to numb those thoughts otherwise?

How could you deal with this loneliness eating you from the inside? 

"Yeah," you said, the word simple and sure, sealing the pact with another kiss.

You remember that you were left wondering, even then, if this was just how Joel was—if he took care of everyone like that, if he softened for anyone who crossed his path. You told yourself not to read into it, not to mistake kindness for anything else. You assumed he was like this with all the people he let close.

You didn't know he'd cut them all off the same week he met you. All women, all men he hooked up with. 

You didn't know you were the exception.

You didn't know he'd never been gentle for anyone else.

And you...you saw or still see him as temporary.

A placeholder.

Someone you'll leave behind once you finally get your life back.

You downloaded a dating app that same evening you agreed to the arrangement with Joel. 

Two people agreeing to keep things simple, and only one of them caring too much.

-> If you'd like to be tagged for this series, please let me know!!!

i'm sooooo bad at past tense stuff so i hope this isn't super confusing and just somewhat understandable. I also hope this met yall's expectations on how Joel and reader met. This is how i always had it in my mind and well...it'll get angsty🤭🤭

Taglist: @vickie5446 @thatgirlmendo @ihearttdilfs @pickyeater13 @sweetiegirl16 @afyreinjuly @shivispunk @kyloispunk @marisemonteiroo @meetmeatyourworst @joelmillerswife9 @iveseenstrangerthings50 @idrkman @blueberryfruittart @vanishintoyoubby @dlwrish @brittmb115 @xcallmetaniax @umadirectioner @millersweetheart @wildthyng @armandispunk @chick66i @bratty-spicee @am1a-niigo @hopelessromantic727 @styleslfreak @psclcain @susieqorion24 @rxsemarinusx @jandtmillersgirl @fertilise-me @mitskilover88 @lostboys1987girl @begginforthread @pinkangelglitterdusttt @facethepascal @ddiana111 @twilightblogss @cheeseizts @pedrosgirl03 @swimmingnightcolor @gabfromgreedycity @bartzabel4 @blueflowerstranger @Madnessofadaydreamer @sadie6sinks6slut t @hopelessromantic727 @miramindlesslywriting

[millersweetheart]

You are sooo talented I finally got around to reading this!! Love your sleazy Joel series!!! 😛😝

[itspapillonnoir]

RED DEAD REDEMPTION II ᨖ

[xhoneypleasex]

love a man who says "yes ma'am" when you tell him to shut the fuck up

[littledes1re]

Easy Fix

Pairing: Daddy's best friend + mean!joel miller x f!reader

Summary: It was just supposed to be an easy fix. On the stuffed animal, thighs gripping it and in your mind your daddy's best friend. Surely, you hadn't planned for him to catch you. Or to bend you over his knee. Or to be balls deep into you the next moment, right?

Warnings: 18+, Smut, Mean!joel (he is back!!), huge age gap (20s and 60s), grinding on stuffed bear, orgasm denial, spanking, size kink, pet names, praise kink, slight degradation, pinv, clit rubbing, unprotected sex, crying, slight dub-con, darcyphilia, slight fauxcest (Joel calls himself uncle), dbf!joel, stern but also sweet joel, slight hair pulling, no outbreak

A/N: ummm my ADHD has been doing parkour in my brain so Sleazy!joel is taking his sweet time 😭 BUT I did write this little filler based on the mean!joel idea I had a few days ago, so enjoy this filthy mess pookies <333

Being home again is…unusual, to say the least.

Memories, emotions, things you thought you’d outgrown. You kneel besides an open box, sorting through old notebooks and trinkets, but your mind keeps wandering.

When you straighten up, your eyes catch the stuffed animal sitting in the corner of your bed, its fur a little worn, its button eye slightly crooked.

It looks like its been already waiting for you.

But you know that your dad mentioned that Joel was gonna stop by and pick up some tools he wants to borrow for a weekend project and—that could be nothing unusual, since Joel has been like an uncle to you while growing up but right now with the house so empty and your thoughts running, you find yourself giving in to that secret itch, straddling your old stuffed bear on the bed.

That plush toy, with its threadbare fur and button eyes, has been your guilty escape for years, especially with thoughts of Joel creeping into your fantasies back then—his broad shoulders, that deep voice, the way he handles everything around the house while having that strict, authoritative way about him—the same tone your dad uses, only sharper, meaner, and somehow aimed always right at you.

Your skirt is bunched around your waist, panties tugged aside, and you're rocking slowly, the soft seam of the bear's belly pressing juuuust right against your aching clit.

But lost in the rhythm...you do not hear the front door opening downstairs.

Heavy footsteps echo up the stairs, pausing outside your door. A knock—light, hesitant.

"Hey, kiddo? Your dad around? He said he'd leave them tools in the kitchen, but I figured I'd check up here too." Joel's voice; that thick, rough, southern drawl wrapping around the words like warm gravel. 

Before you can even respond, the door creaks open, and there he is...tall and big, flannel shirt sleeves rolled up over forearms corded with muscle, jeans hugging his solid thighs. 

His eyes widen as he takes in the scene: you frozen mid-grind, thighs spread over the bear, your face flushing hot with embarrassment.

"Jesus fuckin' Christ," he growls, "What in the hell are you doin', girl? Humpin' away on some goddamn stuffed bear like a bitch in heat? Your daddy'd skin you alive if he saw this shit." 

He doesn't yell. Yet. But there's an edge to it, stern, like he's caught you sneaking cookies, not this. 

His jaw tightens, and he averts his eyes for a beat, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck, the picture of a man wrestling with himself. 

'Shouldn't even be in here. This ain't right. Girl's barely outta her teens, and here I am, starin' at... fuck.' Guilt flashes across his weathered face, creasing those lines around his eyes, but his boots stay rooted to the floorboards. 

He doesn't back out. Instead, his gaze flicks back to you, conflicted, a flicker of something darker stirring beneath the disapproval—his jeans tensing slightly at the crotch, betraying him.

You scramble to pull your skirt down, heart pounding, but the words stick in your throat. 

"Joel, I—it's not what it—" 

He steps closer, slow, like he's approaching a skittish animal, his big frame making the room feel small. 

"Save the excuses, honey. What would your daddy think, huh? Me walkin' in on his little girl like this, all desperate and spread out on a damn toy? He trusts me to look after you when he's out, not to...hell, this is a mess." His tone's firm, paternal almost, laced with that sternness, but there's a coo in the way he says 'honey,' softening the rebuke just a touch. 

He reaches out, his large hand gentle as he grips your upper arm, pulling you off the bear with ease. 

The toy tumbles to the side, fur matted with your slickness, and you stand there on shaky legs, panties still to the side, feeling tiny next to him.

"Now, you listen here," he says, guiding you to sit on the edge of the bed besides him as he lowers his weight onto the mattress. 

His thigh presses against yours, warm and solid, and you can feel the heat radiating from him—the hard line of his cock straining against his jeans, impossible to ignore. 

"You're better than this, sweetheart. Rubbin' yourself raw on some childhood relic 'cause those boys at school ain't cuttin' it? That's no way to learn about your body." He pauses, hand resting on your knee, thumb traicng slow circles. "But actin' like your uncle, I gotta teach you right. Can't have you hurtin' yourself on nothin' but fluff."

Your breath hitches at the contact, arousal pooling hotter despite the embarrassment. 

"Joel, please...I didn't mean for you to see," you whisper, but your eyes drop to the bulge in his pants, betraying your thoughts.

He chuckles low, a rumble in his chest, but it's not cruel—more like a man who's seen too much and knows how to handle it. 

"Oh, I see plenty, girl. And that pretty face all flushed? Makes a man wanna help." His hand slides up your thigh, calluses rough but careful, pushing your skirt higher, taking a peek of your pussy. "But first, a little reminder of what happens when you get into trouble. Over my knee—c'mon now."

He pats his lap sternly, but his eyes soften. "It'll sting, but you'll thank me later, honey."

Trembling, you drape yourself across his lap, ass up, the position exposing you fully as your skirt flips over. He's so, so big—your small frame fits perfectly over his thick thigh and you feel his hardness press against your belly, a promise of what's to come. 

"Good girl, takin' this like you should," he murmurs, praise slipping in before the first smack lands—firm but measured, the crack echoing softly. It stings, heat blooming, and you yelp, tears pricking your eyes.

"Easy now," he coos, hand rubbing the spot immediately after. "That's for bein' sneaky in your daddy's house. He raised you all good—don't need you ruinin' it on toys."

Another spank, a bit harder, on the other cheek, and you squirm, the friction against his cock making him groan quietly. 

"There you go, your skin's turnin' pink so pretty."

He alternates, five or six measured swats, each followed by a stroke or a soft word—"Breathe through it, baby, you're doin' fine" building the burn without overwhelming.  

Tears well up, spilling hot down your cheeks, and he notices, thumb brushing one away when you turn your head. 

"Cryin' already, huh?" He chuckles. 

By the end, your ass throbs, red and sensitive, panties soaked through. 

He helps you up gently, but his eyes darken as he tugs the fabric aside, exposing your dripping folds, middle finger touching your lips. 

"So wet from a spankin'. Pussy's all shiny and swollen—too sweet for what those boys got, I bet. But I can fix that, teach you how a real man handles it."

His middle finger stays between your folds as he stands, unzipping his jeans, his cock jumping free—massive, thick and veined, easily bigger than anything you've ever had. 

"Back on that bear, c'mon" he orders, guiding you with a hand on your waist. "Gonna show you the difference, but you grind nice and slow—learn to build it just right." 

You straddle the toy again, the fur already damp and sticky from before, a yucky reminder as it clings to your slick skin. 

Lowering yourself, you begin to rub tentatively, the plush dragging against your clit in messy slides—gross, the way it mats further with your arousal, but thrilling under his watch.

Joel positions himself behind you on the bed, his weight making it dip, hands spanning your hips easily. 

"That's it, babygirl, move those hips," he praises, voice gravelly as his cockhead nudges your entrance, hot and blunt. But he doesn't thrust yet—teases, sliding along your folds. "Feel how big I am? Your little hole's flutterin' so scared but wantin'. Your daddy would have my hide for this, but you need teachin'—can't let you settle for less."

Guilt flickers in his tone, but he presses forward, just the tip nudging you, stretching your tight walls with a burn that makes you gasp.

"Oh—Joel, it's too much," you whimper, tears starting again, body tensing as you grind on the bear, the fur chafing wetly, adding to the overstimulation.

"Shh, easy, sweetheart," he coos, one hand stroking your back tenderly while the other fists your hair lightly, not yanking hard—just guiding your head back to arch you. "Breathe, honey. You're so tight, squeezin' like you were made for this fat cock. Just the head—feel it? Push back slow now."

He inches deeper on your movement, talking you through each bit: "There, darlin', another inch. Your pussy's openin' up so good, even if it hurts a lil'. Cry if you need to; those tears tell me you're feelin' it right." 

He groans when you sob, his hips twitching, but he keeps it paternal, praising: "Good girl, takin' your lesson."

One hand grips your hips, his cock entering your walls. "Going deeper now—yeah, juuuust like that."

You rock on the bear, the wetness intensifying—the plush soaked, strands sticking to your thighs and folds, a filthy grind that makes squelching sounds with each roll. It's degrading, the childhood toy turned lewd, but his voice anchors you. 

"Grind harder on that thing," he instructs, meaner now. "but don't you dare to cum yet. Earn it by lettin' me fill you proper." 

He sinks halfway, the stretch agonizingly full, your small hole straining around his girth. 

"What would your daddy say? Hm? His girl stretched on her uncle's dick."

Tears stream freely now, mixing pain and pleasure as he bottoms out finally, balls resting against the bear's fur. 

"All in—feel me in your belly? Hold still, darlin', adjust to it." He holds, stroking your sides, cooing praises: "Proud of you, takin' every inch like a champ." 

Then, after a while, thrusts start—slow drags out, then pushes in, talking through them: "Out easy...easy. Now in...deep. That's it." 

You cry harder, the dual sensations overwhelming—the bear's damp fur rubbing your clit in sticky, gross friction, his massive length pounding relentlessly. 

"That's it...real deep." He whispers. 

"Joel—please, it hurts so good," you sob, grinding down.

"Yeah? Tell me more, honey," he urges, hand leaving your hair to cup your breast, thumbing your nipple. "How's that big cock feel compared to your toy? Deeper than any boy could go—gonna make you forget 'em all." 

His pace builds, hips snapping, but he denies you—slowing when you clench. 

"Not yet, babygirl. Hold it for me. Cry those pretty tears but don't cum." 

Minutes drag, drawn out with his mix: harsh commands like 'Take it harder—learn it, that's it.' and tender coos like 'Almost there, baby, you're perfect.'

Your tears straining your cheeks, your cunt clenching down, as you try to hold the orgasm.

"Milking me so well. Pussy is eager to cum, huh?" He asks, stroking your sides. His thrusts quicken, head pressing right into sweet spot in you.

Finally, as your body quakes, he growls approval. 

"Alright, cum now, honey. Real slow. Let go around my cock and on that bear." His thumb presses your clit against the plush, rubbing through the mess, while he pushes his cock deep into your cunt. You shatter—screaming, tears flooding, grinding wildly as waves crash, his thumb amplifying the release. 

Joel follows, burying even deeper, cock releasing hot spurts and filling you up slowly. "That's it, here it comes. Take it real deep into that small pussy."

He collapses over you briefly then, breath hot on your neck, cock still releasing the smallest amounts of cum into you. He pulls out slightly, watching everything drip down onto the bear. 

"Your dad's gonna kill me," he mutters, his hand strokes your back almost tenderly. "But you needed that lesson. Don't let me catch you on that toy again—unless I'm here to fix it."

I feel like i could've made him a bit meaner...but idk.

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Extra: @ashleyfilm @sworqfelins @cinamqnr0ll

[millersweetheart]

I loveeeee mean Joel it’s one of my favorites that you write!! I need that.

[littledes1re]

I’m just going to leave this here… I wanted to share this with you 😛 so, basically I was listening to music the other week and a recommended song came on called “Drive” by The Cars and it reminded me soooo much of Joel. I genuinely could imagine his voice speaking the lyrics. It feels like you try to break up with dbf Joel and the song feels like his responses please give it a listen and tell me I’m not just crazy and delusional 🙏

OKEY YOU GOT ME THINKING WAIT—

"Joel…" you whisper, because saying his name is the only thing that doesn't hurt.

He lifts his eyes to you, slow, like he already knows what's coming. "If you walk away… who's gonna be the one makin' sure you get home safe at night?"

You don't answer. You just can't.

He exhales. "And when things fall apart for you—when you stumble—who's gonna be there to pick you back up?" His voice cracks, just barely. "Who's gonna drop everything when you call? Who's gonna take care of the mess when you can't?"

Your throat tightens, but he keeps going, softer now.

"You got dreams bigger than you admit. Who's gonna pay attention to 'em? Who's gonna listen when you're scared? Who's gonna stand there and take it when you're angry and screamin' at the world?"

You shake your head, because this is exactly why you're trying to leave—because he's your dad's friend, because it's too much, because he makes it impossible.

"Joel… please don't do this."

He swallows hard. "I just need to know someone's lookin' out for you. And I wanted that someone to be me."

[millersweetheart]

OH MY GOSH. This is exactly what I was thinking about 😭 I LOVEE THIS SONGGG !!

[honey-moon-13]

Mirror, mirror on the wall...

.⋆♱ summary: After a long week of work, all Joel wants is to relax in the arms of his sweet little wife. At least until you give him a haul of your new makeup purchases, and one small product stirs up trouble because of its name. .⋆♱ a/n: This idea was born while I was going through my Sephora cart… So, yeah, that’s my excuse! By the way, I can’t believe I’ve already reached 238 followers... I’m gonna cry. This one is for my baby @pattwtf <𝟑 .ᐟ .⋆♱ warnings: Smut at the very end, Obsessive! Joel (kinda…?), Soft Dom/Sub Elements, Makeup Kink, Mirror Sex, Repeated Orgasm Denial, Spanking, Pussy Slapping, Hand on Throat, Unprotected Sex, Creampie… And a lot of love! First time writing a complete sex scene btw (I'm scared) .⋆♱ wc: 15.230 k

Friday had a way of loosening men up in all the worst ways.

By noon, the air smelled like cut lumber, diesel, sweat, and sawdust, the kind of smell that clung to skin long after the day was over. Hammers rang out in uneven bursts, a nail gun snapped somewhere near the back, and country music crackled low from a radio somebody had balanced on an upside down bucket by the porch steps.

Joel stood near the stack of framing lumber with a pencil tucked behind one ear and a tape measure hanging from his belt, scanning over the plans in his hand with the kind of focus that made most men think twice before interrupting him.

“Hey, I’m just sayin’,” one of the younger guys called from the far side of the site, loud enough for half the crew to hear. “If I’m takin’ her somewhere expensive, least she can do is not make me sit in the damn car for forty-five minutes waitin’ on her.”

A couple of snorts of laughter answered him.

Joel didn’t look up right away. He kept his eyes on the plans, jaw set, trying to decide whether the floor joists were gonna be a bigger problem than the mouths on his crew.

“She ain’t even late in a normal way,” another guy said, dragging a gloved hand across his forehead. “Nah, it’s always some little emergency. ‘Babe, I gotta redo my eyeliner.’ ‘Babe, I don’t like my hair.’” He pitched his voice higher in a cruel imitation. “I’m starvin’ by the time we leave the house.”

That got more laughter.

Tommy, who was up on the temporary decking checking measurements, sighed loud enough for Joel to hear. “Here we go.”

Joel still didn’t say anything.

He should have. He knew that. He knew the shape of this kind of conversation and exactly where it usually went. But sometimes, if you cut in too early, it only encourages idiots to perform for each other. Men like that got louder when they thought they had an audience.

“Mine puts on lipstick to go buy milk,” another one said. “Milk. From the damn grocery store. I told her, sweetheart, the dairy aisle is gonna fall in love with you.”

The laugh that followed was uglier than the last one.

Joel’s eyes lifted.

He knew these boys. That was the thing. Boys, most of them. Old enough to swing a hammer, young enough to still mistake being dismissive for being funny. He’d worked with all kinds over the years: good workers, lazy workers, drunks, hotheads, quiet ones, fools. The loudest were usually the least sure of themselves. Had to fill the air with something before anybody noticed there wasn’t much beneath it.

Still, that didn’t mean he had to listen to it.

“Hell,” the first one went on, encouraged now, “I don’t even get it. They complain they ain’t got enough time, then they spend two damn hours in the bathroom paintin’ themselves like they’re headed to some red carpet thing.”

Joel folded the plans once.

Another voice chimed in. “And then you gotta tell ’em they look pretty like you ain’t been lookin’ at the same face for three years.”

Tommy winced and muttered, “Jesus Christ.”

That was enough.

Joel started walking before he even fully decided to. He stopped a few feet from the group gathered around the sawhorses—three of the younger subcontractors and one laborer with more confidence than sense—and looked at each of them in turn.

Nobody spoke.

Joel nodded once. “Y’all done?”

The guy in the baseball cap gave a half shrug, half grin that died fast under Joel’s stare. “We’re just talkin’, man.”

Joel’s face didn’t change. “Ain’t what I asked.”

Silence.

He slipped the folded plans under one arm. “I said, are y’all done.”

“Yeah,” one of them muttered.

Joel took another step closer. “Then maybe y’all can get back to work and quit runnin’ your mouths long enough to remember I’m payin’ you to build a house, not stand around bitchin’ about women who apparently still choose to go home with you.”

Tommy turned away, rubbing a hand over his mouth to hide a grin.

One of the younger guys, John maybe, ducked his head. “We were kiddin’.”

Joel fixed him with a look. “That so?”

“Yes, sir.”

Joel hated being called sir. Normally he’d say so. Right now he let it stand.

He hooked his thumbs through his belt and looked between them. “Tell me somethin’. You got a woman at home who takes time gettin’ ready to go out with you, and your first thought is to complain?”

Nobody answered.

“That woman picked out a dress, did her hair, stood in front of a mirror decidin’ she wanted to look nice, and you somehow made that an inconvenience to you.” His voice stayed level, but the disappointment in it landed harder than if he’d shouted. “That what we’re doin’ now?”

The laborer with the red bandana shifted on his feet. “Didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”

Joel’s eyes cut to him. “That’s usually when a man oughta think a little harder about what’s comin’ outta his mouth.”

Tommy climbed down from the decking, landing beside them with a thud. He didn’t interrupt. Didn’t need to. He knew Joel well enough to hear the line in his voice that meant this wasn’t just irritation anymore.

Joel went on, “You wanna know what I hear?” He tapped two fingers against the rolled plans. “I hear a bunch of fools complainin’ that somebody gives enough of a damn to wanna look good standin’ next to ’em.”

That got their attention.

One of them tried to laugh it off. “It ain’t that deep, Joel.”

Joel turned his head slowly. “No?”

“No, I just mean—”

“I know what you mean.” He took a breath through his nose. “You mean you’re too young and too selfish to understand that not everything a woman does is for your convenience.”

The site has gone quiet now.

Even the men who hadn’t been part of the conversation were listening, pretending not to.

Joel looked down at the open toolbox on the sawhorse, then back at them. “Some of you got girlfriends. Some of you got wives. And near as I can tell, not one of you sounds near grateful enough for the women keepin’ your lives stitched together when you go home actin’ like this.”

Nobody met his eyes.

“Maybe she takes too long in the bathroom,” Joel said. “Maybe she changes clothes three times before dinner because she wants to feel pretty. That ain’t foolishness. That ain’t vanity. That’s her wantin’ to feel good in her own skin, and if your reaction to that is to stand around mockin’ her with other men, then you’re a bigger idiot than I thought.”

Caleb swallowed. “We weren’t mockin’ them.”

Joel gave him a look so dry it bordered on pity. “Son, if you’re gonna lie, at least do it convincingly.”

Tommy barked a laugh and turned it into a cough.

A few of the older workers smirked into their sleeves.

Joel kept going, because now that he’d started, he knew exactly what was bothering him. It wasn’t just the words. It was the casualness of them. The way men could take something tender and make it small just because they didn’t know how to hold it properly.

“My wife,” he said, and that alone changed the air, made everybody listen closer, “can take as long as she damn well pleases gettin’ ready for anything she wants. Grocery store. Dinner. A walk down the block. I don’t care if she’s puttin’ on lipstick to sit in the livin’ room and watch television. If it matters to her, it matters. End of story.”

That landed.

Because when Joel spoke about you didn’t sound like a man making a point for the sake of winning. He sounded like a man stating a universal truth.

The laborer scratched the back of his neck. “Yeah, but women don’t do all that for us anyway.”

Joel’s brow lifted. “Well, congratulations. That’s the first smart thing anybody’s said in five minutes.”

A few snickers broke the tension.

Joel didn’t smile. “No, they don’t do it all for you. That’s exactly the point. Maybe she does some of it for herself. Maybe it’s fun. Maybe it makes her feel confident. Maybe it’s the one damn thing in a day that’s just hers. And maybe instead of complainin’, you oughta learn enough respect to keep your mouth shut and tell her she looks beautiful.”

The man in the cap looked down at his boots. “Alright.”

Joel’s expression hardened. “That ‘alright’ better means somethin’.”

“It does.”

“Good.” He glanced between all of them. “Now pick up your tools and get back to work. We’re behind, and I’ve had about enough of hearin’ how burdensome it is that women continue to exist as full human beings.”

That actually got a real laugh, even from a couple of the guilty ones, though they had the decency to look embarrassed about it.

Joel let the silence sit a beat longer, then pointed at the framing on the east wall. “John, if you’ve got enough energy to complain, you’ve got enough to finish bracin’ that corner.”

“Yes, sir.”

Joel’s stare sharpened.

Caleb sighed. “Yes, Joel.”

“Better.”

The group broke apart at last, muttering to each other in lower voices now, heads down, hands moving quicker than before. Tommy stepped up beside Joel and watched them scatter back into usefulness.

For a second neither brother said anything.

Then Tommy glanced at him. “You feel better?”

Joel bent to grab the level off the sawhorse. “Not especially.”

Tommy’s mouth twitched. “You know they’re all scared of you now.”

“They oughta be scared of bein’ stupid in public.”

Tommy laughed under his breath. “That speech about your wife?” He nudged Joel with an elbow. “Bit dramatic.”

Joel shot him a look. “Wasn’t dramatic.”

“No?” Tommy grinned.

Joel set the level against the brace and adjusted it with one hand. “You got somethin’ useful to do, or you plannin’ on botherin’ me the rest of the afternoon?”

Tommy leaned against a stud, folding his arms. “I am doin’ somethin’ useful. I’m watchin’ you pretend that wasn’t personal.”

Joel didn’t bother looking at him. “Go measure somethin’.”

Tommy ignored that completely. “You thought about her, didn’t you?”

Joel checked the bubble on the level, shifted the brace half an inch. “I’m workin’.”

Tommy rocked back on his heels, pleased with himself now. “So when those idiots were yappin’ about women takin’ forever in the bathroom, you were thinkin’ about her sittin’ at the mirror?”

Joel let out a quiet breath and straightened. He should’ve known better than to engage. Tommy had the kind of nosiness only a younger brother could get away with, half affection and half appetite for trouble.

Joel grabbed the drill. “Tommy.”

His brother laughed. “Alright, alright.”

But he didn’t move away yet, and after a moment he said, softer this time, “You know, you were right.”

Joel glanced up and Tommy shrugged one shoulder. 

Joel shook his head, but there was no real heat in it now. “You’re annoyin’.”

“Runs in the family.”

Joel drove the screw in with more force than necessary. “Go to hell.”

Tommy laughed and pushed off the wall at last. “Can’t. I work for my brother.”

Joel watched him go, then looked back out across the site.

Work picked up again in the wake of the interruption. The radio came back into focus. Men shouted measurements, wood scraped against wood, someone swore after dropping a box of nails. The day moved on the way it always did, one task into the next, one hour bleeding into another until the sun shifted.

But Tommy was right.

Of course he’d thought about you.

He had the moment those boys started talking.

He could picture you too easily.

Standing in the bathroom in one of his old shirts, hair pinned back, leaning close to the mirror with that concentrated little crease between your brows. Sitting at your vanity—your vanity, the one he’d built with his own hands after seeing your face fall when the one you wanted sold out before he could order it—surrounded by brushes and powders and little bottles that all looked nearly identical to him and yet somehow never were. Looking over your shoulder to ask him which earring. Holding up two lipsticks and asking if one looked too dark. Smiling when he got the answer wrong but tried anyway.

He never mocked any of it. Never would.

Half the time he didn’t understand what half those products were for, but that had never seemed like a reason to dismiss them. They mattered because they were yours. Because they brought something bright into your face. Because he had learned, over the course of loving you, that attention was a kind of devotion all its own.

That was the part those boys didn’t get.

Loving somebody meant noticing. It meant learning the shape of their rituals, even the ones that didn’t belong to you. It meant understanding that intimacy wasn’t just the big things like the hospital visits, funerals, marriage vows, bad nights or worse mornings.

Sometimes it was remembering the exact height she liked a table because she tended to hunch if it sat too low. Sometimes it was sanding the edge of a drawer three extra times so it wouldn’t catch on her dress. Sometimes it was building something beautiful out of wood and patience because she had looked disappointed for all of two seconds and that had been enough to undo him.

Joel drove another screw into place and exhaled slowly.

He hadn’t meant to build the vanity quite as elaborate as he did.

At first, he’d only intended to make something simple. Clean lines, sturdy legs, decent storage. Then he’d remembered the way your face had lit up describing the one you’d wanted, the little details you liked, the mirror shape, the drawers, the finish. By the end of it, he’d spent nearly three weeks in the garage after work, pretending he wasn’t enjoying himself every time you wandered in and tried to peek beneath the tarp he kept throwing over it.

When he finally brought it inside, you’d looked at him like he’d hung the moon in the bedroom with his bare hands.

That expression had stayed with him. It still did.

“Joel!”

He turned at the shout.

One of the crew was waving him over near the back of the house. Something about the window framing looked off. He tucked the level under his arm and headed that way, slipping back into the rhythm of the job because there was always another problem to solve, another correction to make, another young man to stop from ruining good lumber with bad math.

The afternoon wore down by inches, the light changed and the heat eased. By the time they started packing up, Joel’s shirt was stuck to his back, his shoulders ached, and there was sawdust worked so deep into the lines of his hands it would take a brush to get it out.

He signed off on the delivery order for Monday, checked the lock on the storage trailer, and made sure the site was squared away before anybody left. Tommy came up beside him with a clipboard tucked under one arm and a half finished bottle of water in the other.

Tommy studied him for a moment. “You tell her about this?”

Joel frowned. “About what.”

“The little feminist awakening you had in front of the crew.”

Joel shot him a flat look. “That what you’re callin’ it?”

Tommy grinned. “I’m callin’ it funny as hell. And yeah. You should tell her. She’ll eat that up.”

Joel shook his head and started toward his truck. Tommy followed for a few steps before peeling off toward his own, still smiling to himself like he’d been handed some private joke he planned on keeping.

Joel climbed into the driver’s seat, shut the door, and let the quiet settle around him for a second. He dropped his head back against the seat and closed his eyes just long enough to feel the day in his bones. Then he started the engine and pulled out onto the road.

The drive home wasn’t long, but it was long enough for his thoughts to drift where they usually did at the end of the week.

To you.

Maybe you’d be on the couch with a blanket over your legs and an episode of the Gilmore Girls half watched because you’d been waiting for the sound of his truck.

God, he could picture it so clearly it almost made his chest ache.

He thought, not for the first time that day, that the men back on that site had no idea how lucky they were if there was somebody waiting for them at all. They have no idea what a privilege it was to be known that intimately by another person. To have your favorite plate set out before you asked. To be greeted by the sound of their voice from the next room.

Joel flexed one hand on the steering wheel.

He thought of you in front of a mirror again.

Of your careful hands. Your patience. The little pleasure you took in things most men would dismiss because they had never learned how to look properly. He thought of how easy it was, in a world this ugly, to sneer at softness just because you didn’t know what to do with it.

He also thought, with a private heaviness he never quite voiced, of how much of your life lived in those little rituals. The tender ordinary things. The things he catalogued without meaning to. The products lined up on the vanity. The order you used them in. The brushes you reached for first. The colors you favored when you were happy, or when you were quiet, or when you wanted him to notice.

Joel always noticed.

And somewhere deep beneath that noticing lived the old anxiety he carried like a second spine, the one that made him prepare for loss even in the middle of joy. It came uninvited, as it always did, whispering its ugly what ifs into the back of his mind. What if one day you were too tired. What if one day your hands hurt. What if one day life turned cruel in some new and inventive way and you couldn’t do these things for yourself anymore.

He hated those thoughts. Hated the shape of them. Hated that fear had taught his mind to brace for impact even when nothing was wrong.

But still he learned.

The names of things. The purpose of things. The order of them. Not because he expected praise for it, and not because he ever intended to say any of this aloud. Only because if the world ever tried to take some small comfort from you, Joel wanted his hands ready, wanted to know enough to step in gently and give it back.

His throat tightened a little, and he swallowed it down.

By the time he turned onto your street, the sun was lower, the sky softening into streaks of amber and pale blue. Home came into view steady and familiar, porch light not yet on, the windows warm with the first signs of evening.

Joel eased the truck into the driveway and killed the engine.

For a second he stayed where he was, one hand still on the wheel, looking at the house like he did every now and then when the day had been long enough to make him feel the full weight of what waited inside it.

His true home.

Then he got out, shut the truck door, and headed for the front porch with sawdust on his boots, tiredness in his shoulders, and the faintest trace of a smile pulling at one corner of his mouth for no reason other than the simple fact that he was almost home.

You.

He pushed the front door open with one hand, already loosening up a little at the simple fact of stepping inside, and was met at once by warmth, soft lamplight, and the unmistakable smell of something good waiting in the kitchen. Then, Joel set his keys in the bowl by the door and shrugged out of his jacket.

“Honey?” he called, voice carrying low through the quiet.

“In here!”

Something in your tone made him pause.

A kind of carefully held excitement you were trying, and failing, to disguise as casual. Joel’s mouth pulled almost into a smile before he even saw you. He followed your voice into the kitchen and found you standing near the stove.

There you are, he thought, with that immediate, quiet hit of relief he never quite got used to.

You turned when he appeared in the doorway, and your face lit in a way that still undid him a little, no matter how many times he came home to it. “Hi.”

Joel leaned one shoulder against the frame for a second, just looking at you. “Hi, baby.”

He heard the roughness in his own voice and saw the way your eyes softened at it.

You crossed to him without hesitation, and he opened an arm automatically, catching you against him with all the ease of a long habit. Your hands slid around his middle carefully, as though you knew exactly where the day tended to settle in him, and his palm spread over your back. He bent to kiss the top of your head first, breathing you in, then your temple, then finally your mouth, the kind of kiss that means that he was finally at home now, and home meant you.

“You smell good,” you murmured against his mouth.

Joel huffed a tired laugh. “Smell like sawdust.”

“But it's sexy,” you said, pulling back just enough to look at him.

That did make him smile. His thumb brushed once at your waist. “That so?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

He let his gaze move over your face, lingering a beat too long because something about you felt gently charged tonight.“You been waitin’ on me?”

You widened your eyes with exaggerated innocence. “Maybe.”

Joel studied you. “That look usually means you’re hidin’ somethin’.”

You gasped softly. “I’m offended.”

“No, you ain’t.”

You tried not to grin and failed. Joel watched the smile break across your face and had the strange, familiar thought that if he died tomorrow, this would be the shape of heaven in his head. You in the kitchen, looking pleased with yourself. The light warm on your skin. The house quiet around you both. Something cooking. The weekend beginning at the edges of the room like a blessing neither of you had earned but both of you needed.

He brushed his knuckles along your cheek. “What’s for dinner?”

Your whole expression brightened. “Sit down and I’ll show you.”

That got a low chuckle out of him. “Bossy.”

“Just tonight.”

“That’d be a first.”

You swatted lightly at his arm, laughing, and he caught your wrist before you could move away, tugging you in just enough to kiss you once more, this time with a little more intent, enough to make your breath catch and your fingers curl against his shirt. Then he let you go before either of you leaned too far into it, because there was still dinner on the stove and because he knew that if he stood there kissing you too long after a week like this one, he might never make it to the table.

He washed up at the sink while you moved around the kitchen putting the last things together, and Joel watched you in the window reflection while the water ran over his hands. You kept glancing at him like you had something else to say. Something you were sitting on. He knew you well enough to spot the tells now; the little smile you bit back for no reason, the extra care you took with the plates, the way your body seemed almost too still whenever you were trying not to blurt something out too soon.

“You gonna tell me what’s got you lookin’ like that?” he asked, drying his hands on the dish towel.

You set a plate down. “Like what?”

“Like you’re about two seconds from spoilin’ your own surprise.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Joel pulled out his chair and sat, eyes never leaving you. “Baby.”

You laughed, soft and guilty, and finally brought the plates over. “Fine. Maybe I’m just happy it’s Friday.”

He accepted that with a slight tilt of his head, though they both knew that wasn’t all of it. “That much, I believe.”

Joel took the first bite of the tender meat you've cooked for him and closed his eyes for half a second before he meant to.

You noticed, of course.

“That good?” you asked, trying not to sound too pleased.

He opened his eyes and looked at you over the table. “You fishin’?”

“Yes.”

Joel leaned back slightly in his chair, chewing, making a deliberate show of considering it. “Might be the best thing I’ve eaten all week.”

You laughed, and the sound of it loosened something in him he hadn’t realized was still tight.

That was the thing about Friday nights with you. The workweek wore him down and you gathered him back together. Not all at once. Just piece by piece. A hot meal. Your voice across the table. Your foot brushing his under it. The look on your face when he reached for a second helping like he hadn’t spent the whole drive home pretending he wasn’t hungry.

He told you a little about work. Not too much. Just enough for you to follow the shape of his day. A delivery that came late. A measurement that had to be redone because somebody hadn’t listened the first time. Tommy nearly stepping backward off the decking because he’d turned around too fast while arguing with one of the electricians.

You laughed at that. “Was he hurt?”

“No.”

“Then I can laugh.”

“You already were.”

“I know.”

Joel watched you talk, watched your hands move when you got animated, watched the way you leaned in when you were interested in something he’d said as though there might still be new things to learn about him after all this time. It made something warm and almost painful spread low in his chest. He’d never been very good at making speeches about love. But if anybody had asked him where most of his peace lived, he would’ve had to point right here. To this table. To your voice. To your company at the end of the day.

At some point your foot slid against his calf beneath the table and stayed there.

Joel’s eyes flicked up.

You were smiling down at your plate, pretending not to notice what you’d done.

His mouth twitched. “You bein’ sweet, or are you up to somethin’?”

You looked up, all innocence again. “Can’t it be both?”

He held your gaze for a beat, then reached for his glass. “That answer concerns me.”

“It should.”

He laughed under his breath.

When the plates were nearly empty you rose to clear the table but when Joel started to stand with you out of instinct, you pointed at him.

“Sit.”

He blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I mean it. You worked all day. Sit there.”

Joel settled back slowly, one brow raised. “You order me around awfully easy for somebody this small.”

You gathered up the dishes with a smile. “And yet you listen.”

“Sometimes.”

“Most times.”

He gave you a dry look. “Don’t push it.”

You disappeared into the kitchen with the plates, and he sat there listening to the music of you moving around… water running, cabinets opening, cutlery clinking softly against ceramic. Domestics sounds. He loved them with a ferocity he kept mostly to himself.

When you came back, you weren’t empty handed.

Joel’s eyes dropped to the plate you set in front of him, and he went still for half a second.

Not just any pie. Apple pie. His favorite. Still slightly warm, the crust golden, the scent of cinnamon and butter rising up before it had even properly touched the table.

You folded back into your seat trying and failing to look casual. “There’s ice cream too, if you want it.”

Joel looked from the plate to you. “You made pie?”

Your expression softened. “I did.”

“For me.”

The corners of your mouth lifted. “Well, I don’t know many people who get this emotional about apple pie, so yes. For you.”

Something in his face must have shifted, because your own expression gentled further.

Joel glanced back down at the dessert and let out a quiet breath through his nose, almost a laugh, almost not. “Christ.”

“What?”

He looked at you again. “Nothin’.” His voice came out lower than before. “Just… thank you, baby.”

You leaned your chin into your hand. “You’re welcome.”

He took a bite, closed his eyes and opened them again. “That’s real good.”

Your smile went luminous. “Yeah?”

“Mm.” Another bite. “Dangerously good.”

You watched him with such open fondness it made him shake his head a little and look back at the plate, because being adored that plainly still makes him blush some days. 

“There’s more,” you said after a moment, like you couldn’t possibly hold it in any longer.

Joel looked up, chewing slowly. “More pie?”

You laughed. “No. Although yes, there’s more pie. But that’s not what I meant.”

He set his fork down. “Alright. Go on.”

Your eyes brightened immediately. “I restocked everything.”

He frowned mildly, trying to follow. “Everything.”

“For the weekend.” You started counting off on your fingers. “Coffee. The good kind you like.”

Joel felt an involuntary little stab of gratitude so strong it was almost ridiculous. “You got coffee.”

“I got coffee,” you confirmed. “And beer.”

His brow lifted. “Beer too, huh?”

“And your barbecue chips. And the pretzels you pretend you don’t like that much but somehow always eat. And those peanuts Tommy keeps stealing every time he comes over.”

Joel stared at you for a second, then leaned back in his chair with a quiet exhale, one hand coming up to scrub over his beard. “You’ve been busy.”

Your face softened into something tender. “I wanted you to have a nice weekend.”

There it was again, that precise, deadly thing you did to him without even trying. You said simple sentences that landed somewhere deep because they carried more than the words themselves. I wanted you to have a nice weekend. As if his comfort was something worth planning for. As if the shape of his rest mattered enough for you to think ahead about coffee and snacks and the exact beer he reached for first.

Joel looked at you for a long moment. Then he said, quieter, “C’mere.”

You got up at once and crossed the space between you, and he drew you gently between his knees, one hand settling at your hip while the other curved around the back of your thigh. He tipped his head back to look at you properly. Your hair had fallen forward a little, your expression open and sweet and expectant, and the simple sight of you there, taking such obvious pleasure in taking care of him, nearly undid him.

“You didn’t have to do all that,” he said.

“I know.”

His thumb rubbed once over the fabric at your side. “Then why’d you?”

You looked at him like the answer was the easiest thing in the world. “Because I love you.”

Joel’s throat moved.

He knew better than most men how dangerous those words could be when spoken carelessly. How people used them as decoration. As habit. As currency. But you never did. When you said them, you meant them all the way through.

He rested his forehead briefly against your stomach and let the quiet sit. Then he leaned back enough to press a kiss there through your shirt, right above your navel, and felt the little shiver that ran through you.

“You keep this up,” he murmured, “I’m gonna start thinkin’ again that you’re after somethin’.”

You smiled down at him, fingers slipping into his hair. “Maybe I just missed you.”

That, too, he believed.

Joel turned his face and pressed another kiss to the heel of your palm before letting you go. “Alright,” he said, clearing his throat a little as you stepped back. “Now I’m definitely suspicious.”

You laughed, gathered the pie plate, and turned away before he could see too much of whatever was passing over your face. Joel watched you go, watched the sway of your body as you moved around the kitchen, watched the little lightness in you that had only grown since he came through the door.

He knew now with certainty that you had something planned, he just didn’t yet know what shape it would take.

Once everything was cleaned up and the kitchen restored to order, the evening softened around the two of you. Joel checked the locks out of habit, turned off the extra lights, and came back to find you already collecting his towel from the linen closet before he could ask for it. He took it from your hands with a low, amused noise.

“Baby, I can get my own towel.”

“I know you can.”

“Then why am I bein’ supervised?”

You stepped closer and smoothed a hand over the front of his work shirt, over the dust and wrinkles and the tiredness still hanging off him. “Because you’ve had a long week.”

Joel looked down at you. “And?”

“And because I like taking care of you.”

His expression shifted into something softer, more serious. “I know you do.”

You held his gaze for a moment too long, and once again that same curious charge moved through the room. Not enough to name yet. Just enough to feel.

Joel tipped your chin up with two fingers and kissed you slowly, until your body leaned into his and the hem of his shirt bunched a little in your fists. When he pulled back, he lingered close enough that your breath still crossed his mouth.

“I’m gonna shower,” he said.

You nodded. “Okay.”

He narrowed his eyes slightly. “You say that like you’re plannin’ somethin’ while I’m gone.”

You widened your eyes. “Maybe I’m just going to… fold laundry.”

Joel let out a short laugh. “That lie was insultin’.”

“Go shower, Miller.”

The way you said it, bossy and faintly pleased with yourself, made him shake his head as he turned toward the hallway. “Yes, ma’am.”

He heard your little triumphant laugh behind him all the way to the bathroom.

The shower was hot enough to ache pleasantly over his sore body. Joel stood under it longer than usual, one hand braced on the tile, letting the day rinse off him in layers. The dust fell away first, then sweat, then whatever lingering irritation had stayed with him from the workplace. By the time he stepped out, the mirror had fogged over, and the house beyond the bathroom door had gone quiet in that particular evening way that meant you were no longer puttering around downstairs.

He dried off, wrapped the towel low around his waist, and dragged one hand through his damp hair before stepping into the bedroom.

And stopped.

You were waiting for him.

Not in bed, not curled up under the covers with a Jane Austen book or half asleep with the lamp on. You were seated at the bedroom vanity with your back mostly to the door, posture straight, legs crossed at the ankle, like you’d been there long enough to settle into the moment. The vanity itself caught the warm glow from the bedside lamp making you look almost ethereal. He looked at the whole scene at once and felt something inside him go very still.

You’d changed into a nightgown while he was in the shower, your hair arranged just so, your expression reflected in the mirror as you looked at him through it with a smile too small to be innocent.

Joel stayed by the bathroom door for a second, towel slung low, water still cooling on his shoulders. “There it is.”

You turned slightly in the chair. “There what is?”

“The surprise.”

You tried to look confused. “I don’t know what you mean.”

He huffed a laugh, already moving toward the bed. “Sure you don’t.”

Joel sat down at the edge of the mattress, elbows resting loosely on his knees for a second as he took you in. Then his gaze dropped to the box in your lap—black and white stripes, tissue paper peeking out the top—and his mouth twitched.

“Sephora,” he said.

Your face brightened at once. “I went today.”

“I can see that.”

“You said I should get myself something nice.”

“I did.”

“And I listened.”

That made him smile properly now. “I’m learnin’ that can be dangerous.”

You angled the box toward yourself protectively. “No take backs now, Miller.”

“Ain’t askin’ for any.”

He leaned back slightly, one hand braced on the bedspread, and watched as your fingers slipped beneath the tissue paper with excitement. He recognized that look on you too. The one that made you seem younger and softer all at once.

You glanced at him over your shoulder. “Do you want to see?”

Joel’s eyes moved from your face to the box and back again. “Baby, you know I got no earthly clue what half that stuff is.”

“I know,” you said sweetly. “That’s why I’m going to explain it to you.”

He laughed under his breath and settled in, already knowing he was done for. “Alright, then.”

And because it was you asking, because it mattered to you, because he loved the sound of your voice when you got excited about something, Joel gave you his full attention.You shifted in the chair until you were facing him a little more fully, one leg tucking beneath you, the Sephora box still balanced carefully in your lap like something precious. Joel stayed where he was at the edge of the bed, damp hair curling slightly at the ends, towel slung low around his waist, watching you with attention.

You dipped a hand into the box and pulled out the first item. “Okay. We’re starting easy.”

Joel’s mouth twitched. “That suggests we ain’t stayin’ easy.”

“We are not.”

He nodded once, resigned already. “Go on, then.”

You held up a sleek bottle. “This is primer.”

Joel frowned faintly. “Primer.”

“Yes.”

He leaned forward slightly, forearms braced on his thighs. “Like paint.”

You stared at him for a beat, then sighed. “I knew you were going to say that.”

“Well, it’s called primer.”

“It is not a paint primer.”

Joel tipped his head. “How do I know that?”

“Because this one costs thirty eight dollars and if I ever put it on a wall, you’d have me committed.”

That earned a low laugh out of him.

He reached for the bottle, and you handed it over. Joel turned it in his hand, studying the label with the seriousness of a man trying very hard not to look like he was reading another language. “So what’s it do?”

“It goes on before makeup.”

“Hence the name.”

You squinted at him. “You can either be respectful during my presentation, or I can pack everything up and go to bed.”

“Presentation?” he repeated, eyes warm now. “Baby, are you givin’ me a seminar?”

“Yes.” You folded your arms. “And if you’re lucky there’ll be a practical demonstration.”

Joel’s gaze flickered over your face for half a second, before he handed the bottle back. “Now that sounds promisin’.”

You ignored the way your stomach fluttered and went on. “Primer makes everything sit better on the skin. It helps smooth things out, helps makeup last longer, and sometimes it gives you a certain finish.”

He blinked. “A finish.”

“Yes. Glowy. Matte. Blurring. Hydrating.”

Joel was quiet for a second. “That all different from just… face?”

You laughed. “Yes, Joel, that is different from just face.”

He gave a solemn nod. “Alright. Good to know.”

You placed the primer on the vanity and reached into the box again. “Next: concealer.”

Joel watched the little tube appear in your hand. “Lemme guess. Covers somethin’.”

You pointed at him. “See? This is good. You’re learning.”

He leaned back a little, smug enough to annoy you. “I ain’t dumb, darlin’.”

“I didn’t say you were dumb.”

“Your tone did.”

“My tone is educational.”

“That so?”

“Yes.”

Joel’s smile deepened, but he let you continue.

“Concealer can be for dark circles, redness, blemishes, whatever.”

His brow furrowed almost immediately. “You don’t have any of those things on your pretty face, baby.”

You stared at him, then softened a little despite yourself. “That’s sweet, but that’s not the point.”

He looked genuinely unconvinced. “Seems like the point exactly.”

“No.” You set the concealer down with a small huff. “The point is not fixing some horrible flaw. It’s just… enhancement. Evening things out. Playing around. Feeling put together.”

Joel nodded slowly, eyes still on your face. “Alright.”

You narrowed yours. “You still look like you disagree.”

He shrugged one shoulder. “I can disagree privately.”

“You are not disagreeing privately. Your whole face is disagreeing.”

A laugh escaped him then. “You know my face too well.”

“I do.”

That landed softly between you.

Joel’s gaze stayed on you and you had the strange feeling that he was not just watching you talk… he was memorizing you. The way your fingers handled each item. The way your voice changed when you were explaining something you liked. The way you lit up when he listened properly.

He did listen properly. That was the thing.

You cleared your throat and reached for the next item before the moment got too soft to bear. “Okay. This one is blush.”

Joel nodded. “I know blush.”

“Oh?”

He gestured vaguely toward his own cheekbones. “Pink.”

You blinked at him. “That is both offensively simple and, unfortunately, correct.”

He looked pleased with himself.

You held up a compact and opened it, letting him see the soft rosy color inside. “Blush goes on the cheeks. Sometimes a little on the nose too. Depends on the look.”

“The look,” he repeated.

“Yes.”

“You got multiple looks?”

You gave him a flat stare. “Joel.”

“What? I’m askin’ questions.”

“Of course I have multiple looks.”

He held up both hands in surrender. “Alright, alright.”

You turned slightly toward the mirror and tapped your cheek. “Blush can make you look healthy, fresh, sweet, sunkissed, romantic—”

Joel interrupted. “Sweet.”

You glanced back. “Yes.”

He tilted his head. “You already look sweet.”

Your expression betrayed you then, a little smile creeping in despite your best efforts. “You can’t just say things like that in the middle of my explanation.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m trying to be serious.”

Joel looked at you for a beat, taking in your face, your excitement, the slight pink that had risen in your cheeks before you’d even put any actual blush on. “That may be the problem right there, baby.”

You laughed softly and reached into the box again. “Fine. No more compliments until the end.”

“That doesn't sound natural.”

“It’s a rule now.”

“Seems harsh.”

“You’ll survive.”

He considered that. “Debatable.”

You had to look away for a second because the sight of him sitting there barely dressed, all broad shoulders and damp hair and sleepy amusement, making himself the world’s most attentive audience for a makeup breakdown, was almost too lovely to process in one go.

You pulled out a small palette next.

Joel squinted. “That one looks expensive.”

Your face changed instantly. “It was a little expensive.”

“A little.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

He extended a hand. “Lemme see.”

You passed it over carefully, and Joel turned the compact in his fingers. The palette was heavier than he expected, the case clicking softly when he opened it. Inside were shades of brown, gold, rose, and deep muted plum, each one arranged so prettily it almost did make sense that you’d looked delighted pulling it out of the bag earlier.

He studied it in silence for a moment.

Then, very seriously: “These are all nearly the same color.”

Your mouth fell open. “Joel!”

“What?”

“They are not.”

He looked at the palette again, then back at you. “Baby, I’m lookin’ at seven versions of brown.”

You snatched it from him with exaggerated offense. “This is taupe. This is a soft rose. This is bronze. This is a champagne shimmer. This one is mauve.”

Joel blinked slowly. “That last one was definitely still brown.”

“It was not.”

“Looked brown from here.”

“You are impossible.”

He grinned then. “Maybe. But I’m listenin’.”

You held the palette protectively against your chest. “Eyeshadow,” you informed him, in the tone of someone recovering from a great insult, “is what you put on your eyelids.”

“I gathered.”

“It can change the whole mood of a look.”

He raised a brow. “Can it?”

“Yes. Soft. Smoky. Dramatic. Fresh. Sultry.”

Joel’s expression altered at that last word, barely. “Sultry, huh?”

You pretended not to notice. “Yes.”

“And you’re sayin’ that like it’s a normal thing to tell me while sittin’ there lookin’ like that.”

“Like what?”

He looked you over once, slowly enough to make your pulse jump, then brought his eyes back to your face. “Like you know exactly what you’re doin’.”

The silence that followed lasted a beat too long.

Then you cleared your throat again. “Anyway. Moving on.”

Joel let out a quiet laugh but didn’t argue.

You pulled out a fluffy brush, and his brow furrowed. “That one for paint too?”

You gasped. “Joel!”

“I’m kiddin’.”

“No, you’re not. You think all of this is construction supplies in disguise.”

He looked at the brush. “You gotta admit there’s some overlap.”

“There is absolutely no overlap.”

“That primer still sounds suspicious.”

You shook your head, smiling helplessly now. “This is an eyeshadow brush.”

He gave the brush a dubious look. “Seems too soft to do much.”

“It’s not supposed to do much. It’s supposed to blend.”

“Blend what?”

“The eyeshadow.”

Joel leaned back and rubbed a hand over his jaw. “Alright, hold on. So first you put color on your eyelid.”

“Yes.”

“Then you use another tool to sort of… smear it around.”

“It is not smearing. It is blending.”

He nodded gravely. “My mistake.”

You pointed the brush at him. “Mock me again and I’ll use this against you.”

Joel looked at the brush, then at you. “Sweetheart, I am not afraid of a tiny fluffy weapon.”

You fought a smile and lost badly. “You should be.”

“What, you gonna do my makeup in my sleep?”

That image hit you so suddenly and vividly that you nearly laughed. “Honestly? You’d look gorgeous.”

“Would I?”

“Yes. Maybe a nice neutral eye to enhance your hazel eyes or something soft and romantic with berry tones.”

Joel gave you a long look. “You flirtin’ with me or threatenin’ me?”

“Bit of both.”

“Mm.”

His voice dropped on that little hum in a way you very deliberately chose not to think about too hard.

Instead, you kept digging through the box and grabbed a lipstick. “Okay. This one you know.”

Joel’s gaze landed on the tube and warmed immediately with recognition. “Now that one I know.”

You looked pleased. “You do?”

“Yeah.” He pointed lazily. “That’s similar to the color you wear when we go out somewhere nice.”

You paused.

Then slowly: “What?”

Joel shrugged, like this was obvious. “The darker one.”

You blinked at him. “You know this shade?”

“Could pick it out in a lineup.”

You stared.

His expression shifted, a little wary now. “What?”

“Joel.”

“What.”

You turned fully toward him on the stool, lipstick in hand. “Are you telling me you can identify my lipstick shades?”

He frowned as if the question itself were strange. “Some of ’em.”

“Some of them?”

“Well, not by all the names,” he said. “Those names are ridiculous.”

You narrowed your eyes. “What do you mean, ridiculous?”

He held out a hand, and when you passed him the tube he read the label aloud with a face like he was being personally offended by it. “‘Rosewood Whisper.’” He looked up. “That’s not a lipstick shade. That’s some fancy car freshener scent.”

You laughed so hard you had to grab the edge of the vanity.

Joel kept going, encouraged now. “Y’all never just call somethin’ red. No. It’s ‘midnight garnet seduction’ or ‘velvet sin’ or ‘spiced fig dream.’ Sounds like a fancy cocktail menu.”

You were laughing openly now, shoulders shaking.

He pointed the lipstick at you. “And I’m right.”

“You are a menace.”

“I’m observant.”

“That is not the word I would’ve used.”

Joel smiled and handed it back. “It’s the one I’m usin’.”

You twisted the lipstick up and held it near your mouth. “So which one is this, then?”

He squinted. “That’s not the darker dinner one.”

“No.”

“And it’s not the peachy one you wear with that cream sweater.”

Your eyes widened. “Excuse me?”

Joel blinked once. “What.”

“You know the peachy one?”

He shifted slightly on the bed, suddenly looking like a man who had stumbled into revealing more than intended. “Baby, I got eyes.”

“No, no. That’s not just eyes. That’s data collection.”

A reluctant smile pulled at his mouth. “You say that like it’s criminal.”

“It is deeply suspicious.”

Joel looked down, then back up at you. “You want me not to notice?”

It got you in the chest a little.

Your voice softened without permission. “No.”

He nodded once. “Then I'll keep noticing.”

You looked at him for a moment, then turned back toward the mirror before he could see too much on your face. “Well,” you said, trying for lightness and getting only halfway there, “for the record, this one is newer.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. And it’s not for every day.”

Joel watched your reflection. “Special occasion?”

You glanced at him in the mirror. “Maybe.”

His eyes held yours there for one quiet second before you broke the look and set the lipstick down.

You reached for another item. “Okay, next: highlighter.”

Joel exhaled. “That one also sounds like office supplies.”

“It does not.”

“It absolutely does.”

“It makes the high points of the face catch the light.”

He nodded slowly. “Now that, I understand.”

You blinked. “Really?”

“Sure.” He pointed gently toward you. “Bit on the cheekbone. Maybe here.” He gestured near the inner corners of his own eyes with shocking accuracy. “Makes things brighter.”

You stared at him, deadpan.

Joel’s mouth twitched. “Why’re you lookin’ at me like that?”

“How do you know that?”

He shifted one shoulder. “Seen you do it.”

“When?”

His expression was almost offended now. “What d’you mean, when?”

You let out a breathy laugh. “No, I just—I don’t know. I didn’t realize you were paying that much attention.”

Joel went quiet.

Then he said as a matter of fact, “I pay attention to you all the time.”

The words settled over the room.

There was no vanity in the way he said it. He sounded like a man stating something as ordinary and unremarkable as the weather, when to you it felt like being handed his heart in the simplest possible form.

You swallowed. “I know.”

His gaze lingered on your reflection. “Do you?”

The question was gentle enough to hurt.

You looked down at the highlighter in your hand, then set it beside the rest. “Yeah,” you said softly. “I do.”

Joel didn’t answer right away. He just watched you, something tender moving beneath the calm of his face, and then the moment loosened because he cleared his throat and tipped his chin toward the clutter spreading over the vanity.

“So how much of that did you buy?”

You laughed, grateful for the release. “Rude.”

“I’m serious.”

“You told me to treat myself.”

“I did not expect to finance a full cosmetic expansion.”

“Expansion,” you repeated, grinning. 

“Looks expensive enough to be one.”

You picked up two little containers. “These were mini sizes.”

Joel narrowed his eyes. “That means they’re small.”

“Yes.”

“Not cheap.”

You sighed. “No.”

He nodded like a man whose suspicions had been confirmed. “Thought so.”

You held up another gloss tube. “This one was on sale.”

He gave you a long look.

“It was!”

“That phrase’s dangerous in your mouth.”

“It’s not dangerous.”

“Darlin, every time you say somethin’ was on sale, somehow three bags appear.”

You put a hand to your chest. “I can’t believe you’d stereotype me like this in my own bedroom.”

Joel laughed and the sound of it curled around you like a warm blanket.

He rubbed his hand over his beard and nodded toward the products. “Alright. So what else we got.”

You brightened immediately and began lining them up in order like you were preparing to teach a masterclass. “Skincare.”

Joel made a face.

You caught it instantly. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say nothin’.”

“Your face said enough.”

He leaned back on one arm. “How many steps?”

You looked away. “That depends.”

Joel groaned quietly. “Baby.”

“It depends on the night.”

“That means too many.”

“It does not mean too many.”

“How many.”

You started counting under your breath. “Cleanser. Serum. Moisturizer. Eye cream if I feel like it. Sometimes an exfoliant, but not every night, obviously. And then if my skin is dry, maybe—”

Joel held up a hand. “I blacked out halfway through that.”

You laughed. “No, you didn’t.”

“Felt like I did.”

“Skincare is important.”

He gave you a skeptical look. “You’re twenty seven, not ninety.”

“That has nothing to do with it.”

He watched you for a second, then asked with suspicious sincerity, “Is that why there are so many tiny bottles in the bathroom that all look exactly the same?”

You gasped. “They do not look exactly the same.”

“They absolutely do.”

“That one has niacinamide.”

He stared.

You lifted another. “This one has hyaluronic acid.”

He kept staring.

You held up a third. “And this one is peptides.”

Joel blinked once, then slowly dragged a hand down his face. “You just cast a spell at me.”

You burst out laughing.

“I’m serious,” he said, though he was smiling too now. “That sounded illegal… like drugs and that stuff.”

“It’s not illegal, it’s skincare.”

“Same difference.”

You shook your head, still smiling, and then your fingers dipped back into the box one more time.

Joel watched your expression change before the product even cleared the tissue paper.

His brows lifted. “What’s that look for?”

You bit back a grin. “Nothing.”

“Sweetheart.”

You looked over your shoulder at him with eyes far too innocent. “This one’s just… funny.”

Joel straightened a little. “Funny how?”

You held the tube in your hand but didn’t show him yet.

He narrowed his gaze. “Why’re you hidin’ it?”

“Because you’re going to be immature.”

Joel actually looked offended. “I am never immature.”

You stared at him.

He waited.

Then one corner of your mouth lifted. “That was embarrassing for both of us.”

A laugh escaped him. “Alright, fine. Little bit.”

“Little bit,” you echoed, unconvinced.

You turned the tube in your fingers, smiling to yourself now, and Joel could already tell from the expression on your face that whatever came next was going to amuse you entirely too much.

He shifted closer to the edge of the bed without even meaning to, curiosity plain on his face now. “C’mon, then. Lemme see.”

You looked at him, still grinning. “Promise you’ll behave?”

Joel met your eyes. “No.”

That made you laugh again and you lifted the last item slowly, ready to show him the thing you already knew was going to make him lose it.You held it up between two fingers with a grin you were making absolutely no effort to hide now, the little metallic pink tube catching the warm bedroom light as you turned it toward him.

Joel squinted at the label.

Then he went very still.

His eyes moved across the words once. Twice.

And then, exactly as predicted, he barked out a laugh so sudden and unguarded it startled even him.

You pointed at him immediately. “Don’t.”

That only made it worse.

Joel bent forward, one hand over his mouth now, shoulders shaking as the laugh hit him again, deeper this time, rough and helpless and impossible to stop. He looked up at you with tears of amusement practically threatening in the corners of his eyes and repeated, disbelieving, “Better Than Sex?”

You stared at him, trying very hard to look stern and getting nowhere. “Joel.”

“Baby.” He shook his head and laughed again. “No. I’m sorry. I know I’m supposed to be respectful, I do, but that is the dumbest damn name I ever heard in my life.”

“It is not dumb.”

“It is ridiculous.”

“It’s marketing!”

“Marketing by a thirteen year old boy, maybe.”

You slapped a hand over your mouth to stop your own smile and failed miserably. “You said you were going to behave.”

“I very specifically did not promise that.”

“That doesn’t mean you get to be mean.”

Joel sat up a little straighter, still grinning, and held out a hand. “Lemme see it.”

You hesitated just long enough to make a point, then passed it over. He took the tube carefully, turning it in his fingers like maybe the name would somehow become less absurd if he looked at it from another angle but it did not.

He read it aloud again, slower, like he was trying to understand how a real company with a real boardroom and real adult employees had come to this decision. “‘Better Than Sex.’” He looked up at you. “There was nobody in that office brave enough to stop this?”

You laughed despite yourself. “Apparently not.”

Joel stared down at the tube. “Who approved that?”

“People smarter than us, probably.”

“No, ma’am.” He handed it back with quiet authority. “Ain’t no smart person names a mascara after sex.”

You took it from him, smiling now. “That’s because you don’t understand branding.”

He leaned back on the bed again, one hand braced behind him, expression dry. “Then explain it to me.”

You drew in a dramatic breath and straightened in the chair like you were about to defend a thesis. “Alright. The point is not that the mascara is literally better than sex.”

Joel immediately cut in. “Well, that’s disappointin’, because that is very much what they printed on the tube.”

You glared at him. “Would you let me finish?”

He made a little go ahead gesture with his fingers, though the smile was still pulling at one corner of his mouth.

“The point,” you repeated, “is that it promises drama.”

Joel’s expression remained skeptical. “Drama.”

“Yes. Big lashes. Volume. Length. Impact.” You held the tube up between you both like a piece of courtroom evidence. “It’s not subtle. It wants attention.”

He looked from the mascara to you. “So the mascara is flirtin’.”

You narrowed your eyes. “I hate that you made that sound logical.”

Joel’s mouth twitched. “Ain’t wrong.”

You rolled your eyes and unscrewed the tube, pulling the wand out with a soft wet click. “Look.”

He leaned forward instinctively, curious despite himself now, watching as you angled the wand so he could see the brush.

Joel frowned. “That’s it?”

You looked at him. “What do you mean, that’s it?”

“It’s just a little spiky stick.”

“It is not a spiky stick.”

He pointed. “That’s absolutely a spiky stick.”

“It’s a mascara wand.”

Joel nodded once, solemn again. “That’s what I said.”

You shook your head, smiling in spite of yourself, and turned toward the mirror. “You are impossible to educate.”

“Yet you persist.”

“Because I’m committed.”

“To what, exactly.”

“Improving you.”

Joel’s low laugh followed you into the mirror. “Good luck with that.”

You angled closer to the glass and lifted the wand to your lashes. “Okay. So mascara darkens them, lengthens them, thickens them—ideally.”

“‘Ideally’ don’t sound confident.”

“Because some mascaras clump.”

Joel frowned. “Clump.”

“Yes.”

“That bad?”

“It can be.”

He was quiet for a second. “How many problems y’all got in that industry?”

You laughed under your breath. “More than you could possibly understand.”

He watched your reflection carefully as you started applying the mascara with slow, practiced movements, the brush catching at the roots and pulling upward. Joel had seen you do this before, of course. More than once. But there was something different about being invited into it this closely, being talked through the steps like he belonged there in the middle of the ritual instead of merely passing by the doorway while it happened.

He found himself following every little motion.The steadiness of your hand. The slight concentration in your face. The way your eyes widened a touch as the lashes separated and darkened.

“Waterproof,” you reminded him, glancing at him through the mirror.

Joel nodded. “That part I understand.”

“Do you.”

“Sure. Means it won’t run if it gets wet.”

“Exactly.”

He folded one arm across his chest. “Good for rain.”

You smiled. “Yes.”

“Cryin’.”

“Yes.”

“Humid weather.”

“Yes.”

Joel considered that, then squinted at the tube as if he could extract more information from sheer suspicion. “And that’s it?”

You took your time with the other eye, far too aware now of the way he was watching. “Not exactly.”

His voice changed a little. “No?”

You kept your gaze on the mirror because looking at him directly would’ve been too much too soon. “No.”

Joel waited.

He had that patience when he wanted to. He could make silence feel like a gentle and guiding hand at the small of your back. You felt him watching as clearly as if he’d touched you, and it made your skin go warm in places you were trying very hard not to think about yet.

You cleared your throat softly. “It also says it holds up against sweat.”

Joel made a small thoughtful sound. “Alright.”

“And…” You adjusted the wand, pretending great interest in the angle of your lashes. “Other… things.”

Joel didn’t move right away, didn’t speak either. The quiet between you lengthened until it had weight, and when he finally did say something, his voice came out rougher than before.

“What kind of things.”

You looked at him in the mirror then.

There was the answer.

You turned back to the mirror and gave your lashes one more slow coat. “Fluids.”

Joel let out a breath through his nose that might have been a laugh if it hadn’t sounded so much like restraint. “Darlin'.”

“What?” you asked, all false innocence.

He looked at the back of your shoulder, then up to your eyes in the mirror again. “You know exactly what.”

You capped the mascara with careful fingers, buying yourself a second. “I’m explaining the product.”

“That's what this is.”

“Yes.”

He nodded once, but his eyes stayed on you. “Seems awfully selective.”

You smiled faintly. “It’s an important feature.”

“Is it now.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

Joel leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, gaze intent enough to make the room feel smaller. “So let me get this straight. Some genius came up with a mascara named ‘Better Than Sex,’ and then another genius decided to advertise that it survives…” His eyes moved over your face, dipped to your mouth, then back up. “Fluids.”

You swallowed, trying not to show it. “That seems to be the implication.”

He sat with that for a second. Then, very dryly, “That may be the most committed sales pitch I’ve heard all year.”

You laughed, but it came out weaker than before.

Joel watched you set the tube down on the vanity, watched the way your fingers lingered on it for a fraction too long. “And you bought this because…”

“Because it had good reviews.”

“Mm.”

“And because it’s supposed to make lashes look dramatic.”

His gaze flicked up to the mirror again. “Mission accomplished.”

Your breath caught a little at how simply he said it.

You looked at yourself then, partly to avoid looking at him. The mascara had done what it always promised to do: your lashes looked darker, longer, fuller, framing your eyes in a way that made your whole face read differently. Less soft. Less sleepy. Sharper somehow. More deliberate. Your eyes looked bigger, yes, but definitely not innocent.

You turned on the stool, one hand settling in your lap. “Well?”

Joel didn’t answer immediately.

He just looked.

His gaze moved slowly over your face, taking in what had changed. The lashes now casting longer shadows against your skin. But he was not just looking at the makeup. He was looking at you inside it. At the way you wore it. At the confidence that had crept quietly into your posture because you knew you looked good and you wanted him to know you knew.

It made his heat tighten behind his ribs.

“You’re pretty,” he said at last.

You made a face immediately. “Joel.”

“What.”

“That is not a serious review.”

His mouth twitched. “Didn’t say it was.”

“I’m asking about the mascara.”

“Mm.” His eyes stayed on yours. “And I’m answerin’ honestly.”

You tried not to smile and failed. “Be specific.”

Joel let out a quiet breath, like he was indulging you, but there was no impatience in him. Only attention. “Alright.”

He stood then.

Joel crossed the small distance between the bed and the vanity until he stood just behind your chair, close enough that the warmth of him slid over your bare shoulders before he even touched you. In the mirror you watched him lift one hand and rest it lightly on the top edge of the vanity, caging you in without quite meaning to. His other hand came to your jaw, fingers rough and warm as they tilted your face very slightly toward the light.

Now you could barely breathe.

Joel studied your reflection and yours alone, his eyes narrowed in concentration as if he were trying to get this right. “They do look longer.”

His thumb brushed once, barely there, near your chin. “Darker, too.”

You kept still.

His gaze lingered. “Makes your eyes look…” He trailed off.

You looked up at him in the mirror. “Look what?”

Joel’s eyes met yours there. For one suspended second he seemed to debate with himself. Then he gave in, just a little.

“Like trouble,” he said quietly.

Your heart stumbled.

He looked down at you then and whatever he saw on your face must have reached him, because something in his expression softened even as the heat stayed.

You tried for lightness. “That’s not very technical.”

Joel’s mouth curved. “You want technical?”

“Yes.”

He leaned down just enough that his voice brushed near your ear. “Alright, then. They make it hard to look anywhere else.”

You exhaled shakily.

He stayed there a moment, close enough that your whole body had gone aware of him in pieces. The smell of soap from his shower. The quiet scrape of his thumb when it moved once more against your skin.

Then, because you needed the thread picked back up before it snapped entirely, you looked at the mascara on the table and said, with a little too much brightness, “And it’s waterproof.”

Joel laughed softly, the sound low in your ear. “You already sold me on that part, darlin’.”

You swallowed. “Did I?”

“Yeah.”

He straightened just enough to look at you again in the mirror, one hand still resting beside you on the vanity. “Only thing I’m still unclear on—”

You turned your head slightly. “What’s that?”

His eyes dropped to your mouth, then lifted again, maddeningly calm. “Whether all that advertising’s true.”

The words landed between you dangerously.

You stared at him.

Then his hand slipped from your jaw, slow enough to feel deliberate, and he stepped back just one pace, enough to give you air without really undoing what he’d started.

His voice, when it came, was gentler. “Though I should probably mention”—his eyes moved over your face once more—“you didn’t need it.”

Your expression softened despite yourself. “Need what?”

“Any of it.” He nodded toward the products scattered over the vanity. “The primer, the blush, the dramatic flirtin’ mascara with the terrible name.” One corner of his mouth lifted. “You’re beautiful without all that.”

You looked down for a second, smiling helplessly. “You always say that.”

“Because it’s true.”

“I know.” You glanced back up at him. “But that’s not the point.”

Joel nodded slowly. “No. I know it ain’t.”

There it was again. The understanding, the quiet way he met you where you actually were instead of simplifying you.

His gaze moved to the mascara one last time, then back to your eyes, still darkened and dangerous in the vanity light. “Still,” he murmured, voice gone rough at the edges again, “I gotta admit.”

You waited.

Joel’s eyes held yours.

“It does look real good on you.”

You looked at him through the mirror.

He looked back.

And then his gaze drifted over the products scattered across the vanity and he said, low and thoughtful, “Seems a shame, though.”

Your brows lifted. “What does?”

“All that effort.” His eyes came back to your face, to the lashes you’d darkened on purpose, to the mouth that had been trying not to smile for the last thirty seconds. “All that makeup.”

You turned a little more in the chair. “What about it?”

Joel’s mouth twitched faintly. “Gonna go to waste.”

You stared at him for half a beat, then let out a tiny laugh. “Waste?”

He gave one slow nod, like this was the most reasonable point in the world.

“How exactly is it going to waste?”

Joel shifted his weight, one hand catching the knot of the towel at his hip for the briefest second before falling away again. The motion was absentminded, but your eyes dropped there anyway, and when they lifted back to his face he had already noticed.

That did not help.

His voice dipped lower. “Well, darlin’… unless I’ve badly misunderstood the shape of this evening, I figured we’d be goin’ to bed before too long.”

The words themselves were almost innocent.

Almost.

You felt the silence that followed settle over the room, and for one suspended second you didn’t answer.

Joel noticed that too.

His eyes narrowed just slightly as he watched your face, watched the way your fingers tightened in your lap, watched the little shift in your breathing. He knew that look by now. Knew the exact moment a thought took hold in you and turned from playful to dangerous. It was always there first, in your eyes. That glint. That pause. That split second where he could practically see the idea forming before you ever said a word.

And judging by the way his chest rose on a slow inhale, he knew this one was going to be trouble. The kind of trouble he never once tried very hard to avoid.

“You’re awfully quiet,” he murmured.

You stood from the vanity slowly, turning fully to face him now. The height difference between you always felt more pronounced when he was like this, with his eyes fixed on you with that patient, dangerous attention that never rushed and never missed a thing.

You stepped closer.

Joel’s gaze dropped briefly to your mouth, then lifted again.

“How do you mean, waste?” you asked softly.

His expression shifted, something amused and warmer than amused flickering through it. “Darlin'.”

“No, tell me.” You tilted your head just slightly. “Because from where I’m standing, nothing’s being wasted.”

Joel let out a quiet breath through his nose, almost a laugh, except there was too much heat in it now to really be one. “That so?”

“That so.”

You could see him trying to read you, trying to decide whether this was still teasing or whether the ground had shifted under his feet without him noticing.

Then his eyes moved over your face again, slower this time, taking in the lashes, the mouth, the expression you were making no attempt to soften.

When he spoke, his voice had gone gravel deep. “Baby.”

That one word should not have felt like a hand sliding over bare skin. And yet you took the last half step in, close enough now to feel the heat coming off him, close enough that if you lifted your hand it would land on the center of his chest. The towel sat careless and unfair around his waist, his hair still damp, his whole body loose with the kind of comfort that only existed in private, in the quiet safety of home, in the hour when the rest of the world stopped mattering and there was only this room and this man and the way he was looking at you now.

You smiled teasingly.

“It’s not going to waste,” you said.

Joel held very still.

“No?”

You shook your head once, eyes never leaving his. “No.”

He swallowed.

That was it. Just a tiny movement in his throat, but you caught it, and the satisfaction of being able to do that to him with so little nearly made you bolder than you already were.

Joel’s hands remained at his sides, though you could tell by the tension in them that it cost him something now. “Alright,” he said carefully. “Then I’m listenin’.”

You let your gaze flick down his chest and back up, deliberately mirroring the way he’d looked at you before. “I’ve been thinking about this mascara all day.”

That got his attention in full.

“All day,” he repeated.

You nodded.

Joel’s mouth curved, but it was thin now, held back by effort. “Should I be worried?”

“Probably.”

He laughed once under his breath, but the sound came out uneven. “You say that awful casually.”

You took another inch of space, enough that the edge of your nightgown nearly brushed the towel at his hip. Joel didn’t move away. If anything, he seemed to brace without meaning to, like his whole body had recognized the shift before his mind could catch up.

And still you made him wait.

“I’ve been waiting,” you said, voice softening, “to see if it’s actually as good as it claims.”

Joel stared at you.

His eyes searched yours, and when he spoke, his voice was so low it barely seemed to cross the space between you. “Baby…”

You smiled wider.

“So no,” you said gently. “Nothing’s going to waste.”

He exhaled slowly, chest rising under the warm lamplight, and there it was again, that look. That exact look. The one you knew got under his skin every single time. Part disbelief, part desire, part the dawning realization that he was no longer in control of the direction this night was taking and that, worse, he did not want to be.

Your fingers lifted at last, just enough to rest lightly against his chest.

Joel’s eyes dropped to the touch.

Then back to your face.

And you gave him the line like a gift.

“I’ve been waiting all day,” you said softly, “to test with my husband whether this mascara really holds up to everything it promises.”

Joel went completely still.

His jaw tightened just slightly. His hand flexed once at his side. His eyes dragged over your face as though he were seeing you and the trouble in you with punishing new clarity.

Then he laughed, just once.

And when he looked at you again, whatever amusement had been there before had burned down into something darker.

“Jesus,” he muttered, almost to himself.

Joel’s hand came up then, rough fingers finding your waist with slow intention, like he was giving himself one last chance to be careful and already knew it was too late. 

“Baby,” he said, and this time it sounded like a warning aimed at both of you.

His hand tightened slightly at your waist, thumb pressing in just enough to ground himself, or maybe to make sure you were real and not something his tired brain had invented after a long week and a hot shower and too much time thinking about you.

You tilted your head, lashes dark and deliberate, exactly like you’d intended. “What?”

Joel let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh, except there was no real humor left in it now. Just pure heat turned into desperate need. “You’re gonna be the death of me, you know that?”

You smiled. “That’s not very reassuring, you know.”

“Ain’t meant to be.”

His eyes dropped to your mouth, lingered there just a second too long, then dragged back up like it cost him something. 

He shifted his weight slightly, like he was bracing for something he’d already decided not to stop.

“Say that again,” he murmured.

Your breath caught. “What part?”

“All of it.”

You held his gaze, fully aware now of how close you were, how little space there was left to hide behind anything safe. “I said,” you began softly, fingers still resting against his chest, “that I don’t think anything’s going to waste.”

Joel’s jaw tightened.

“And,” you continued, quieter now, stepping just a fraction closer, “that I’ve been waiting all day…”

His hand slid from your waist to your hip, like he was mapping out the line of you again just to be sure.

“…to test it with my husband,” you finished.

The silence that followed was thick.

His control was still there, you could see it in the tension of his shoulders, in the way his grip hadn’t tightened too much, in the way he was still choosing every movement instead of letting instinct take over completely.

But it was slipping.

And you could feel that too.

Your hand moved slightly against his chest again—just enough to tempting him—and that was all it took.

Joel closed his eyes for half a second, like he was giving himself one last moment of control.

Then he opened them again.

And whatever had been holding him back was gone.

“Alright,” he said, voice low and dangerous in that quiet way that meant he was done pretending this wasn’t happening. “You wanna test it?”

Your pulse jumped.

He leaned in just enough that his breath brushed warm against your cheek, close enough to make your thoughts scatter without even touching you yet.

“Let’s see how well it holds up,” he murmured.

That was the moment everything tipped.

His thumb dragged slowly along the curve of your hip. “All day, huh? Thinkin’ about me ruinin’ it?”

“Every hour.”

A low, dangerous sound rumbled out of his chest. He spun you around so fast your breath caught, pressing your front against the vanity edge until the cool wood bit into your hips. The mirror reflected everything: your flushed face, the new mascara, Joel towering behind you like a man who’d just been handed permission to lose control.

“Look at yourself,” he ordered, voice right against your ear. One big hand slid up your sternum, fingers spreading wide over your throat, not squeezing, not yet, just resting there like a heavy reminder. “You’re gonna watch every second while I fuck that pretty makeup right off you.”

Your eyes met his in the glass. His were dark, pupils blown, jaw tight with restraint he was already losing.

“Yes, Joel.”

He hummed approval, free hand shoving the towel away. It dropped to the floor with a soft thud. His cock was already hard, thick, flushed dark at the tip and curving up against your clothed ass. He dragged it slowly between your cheeks, teasing, letting you feel exactly how much he meant every word.

“Gonna start slow,” he murmured, mouth brushing the shell of your ear. “Deep. So you feel every inch stretchin’ that tight little pussy while you keep those eyes on the mirror. Then I’m gonna fuck you stupid. And every single time you’re about to come…” His fingers flexed around your throat. “I stop. You’re not comin’ till that mascara’s runnin’ down your cheeks like you’ve been cryin’ for me. Understand?”

You whimpered, nodding frantically. “Yes—please—”

He kicked your feet apart wider, one hand still collared around your throat, the other sliding down to pull your panties aside. No patience left for taking them off. The blunt head of his cock nudged at your entrance, already slick from how long you’d been teasing each other.

“Eyes on the mirror, darlin’,” he growled. “Don’t you fuckin’ look away.”

Then he pushed in. One long, slow, relentless inch at a time until he was buried to the hilt and your mouth fell open on a broken moan. The stretch burned so good your lashes fluttered, but you kept your eyes open, locked on the reflection like he’d commanded.

“Fuck,” Joel breathed, forehead dropping to your shoulder for a second. “So goddamn tight. Always so perfect for me.” He rolled his hips once, grinding deep, letting you feel him throb inside you. “Look how pretty you look takin’ me. Those lashes still all nice and dark… for now.”

He started moving then. Slow, deep drags that pulled almost all the way out before sliding back into your dripping cunt. Every thrust dragged against that spot inside you that made your toes curl. His hand stayed firm around your throat, thumb stroking the side like he was petting you while he ruined you.

“That’s it, baby. Watch yourself get fucked.” His voice was pure filth now. “See how your tits bounce every time I bottom out? See how your mouth opens like you can’t even breathe right? That’s my cock doin’ that to you.”

You moaned, the sound loud in the quiet bedroom. Your hands gripped the edge of the vanity so hard your knuckles went white. The mirror showed everything: the way your eyes were already glassy, the faint sheen of sweat starting on your collarbones, Joel’s broad body behind you, muscles flexing with every controlled thrust.

“Gonna take my time,” he rasped. “Gonna fuck you so deep you forget your own name before I even let you come.” He snapped his hips a little harder on the next thrust, making your breath hitch. “But not yet. Not till I say.”

He kept the pace torturously slow for what felt like forever. Long, rolling strokes that had you whimpering and pushing back against him, chasing more. Every time your moans pitched higher, every time your walls started fluttering around him, Joel would still completely, buried deep, and just hold you there.

“Not yet, baby, not a chance,” he murmured against your neck, biting down lightly. “Feel that? Feel how full you are? That’s where you belong, baby. Stuffed full of my cock while you watch yourself fall apart.”

“Joel—please—”

“Please what?” He flexed inside you, grinding slow circles. “Use your words. Tell me what you want while you’re lookin’ me in the eyes.”

“I need to come,” you gasped, voice shaking. “Please let me come—”

His hand tightened just enough around your throat to make your pulse jump. “No, sweetheart,” He pulled out almost completely, then sank back in so deep your knees buckled. “Not till those lashes are ruined. I want black streaks down your pretty cheeks. I want you lookin’ like you’ve been cryin’ and chockin’ on my dick.”

He started fucking you harder then, still controlled, but deeper, faster, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the room. Your mascara was already starting to smudge at the corners from the tears of frustration gathering in your eyes.

“Look at that,” he groaned, eyes locked on the mirror. “Already runnin’. My pretty little wife’s mascara can’t even handle a little foreplay. What’s it gonna do when I really start wreckin’ you, huh?”

He picked up the pace, hips snapping forward harder, the hand on your throat keeping you upright and forced to watch. Every thrust jolted you forward against the vanity. Your lashes were definitely smearing now, faint black tracks forming under your eyes.

“Fuck, baby, you’re squeezin’ me so tight,” he growled. “Pussy’s greedy tonight. You love to watch while I ruin you, don’t you?”

“Yes—yes, Joel—”

He reached around with his free hand and found your clit, giving it a light, stinging little tap with two fingers. You cried out, hips jerking.

“Uh-uh,” he scolded, tapping again, harder this time. “No comin’. Not yet.” Another sharp little slap right over your swollen clit. “This pretty pussy’s gonna wait till I’ve got black tears runnin’ down your face.”

Joel kept fucking you hard and deep, hips snapping forward with that relentless rhythm that had the vanity creaking under your hands. He leaned in close again to whisper in your ear.

“Who’s the most beautiful woman in the world, baby?”

You laughed. A broken, desperate sound that turned into a moan halfway through because he chose that exact second to grind against your spongy spot. Joel’s hand cracked down on your ass in a sharp, stinging spank that made you jolt forward. He didn’t miss a beat, cock still buried to the hilt.

“I asked you a question,” he growled. Another hard thrust. Another spank, this one right on the same ass cheek, making your skin bloom hot. “Who’s the most beautiful woman in the world?”

Your voice came out wrecked and breathless.

“Me—fuck, Joel— it’s me.”

He was grinning in the mirror. He rewarded you with a deep, punishing stroke that made your eyes roll back.

“That’s right,” he rasped, spanking you again. “My beautiful girl. Say it again while I fuck you.”

“It’s me,” you sobbed, voice cracking as an orgasm threatened to rip through you. “I’m the most beautiful woman in the world.”

Joel groaned low in his chest, hips snapping harder.

“Damn right you are,” he muttered almost tenderly while he kept pounding into you. “And don’t you ever fuckin’ forget it.”

He fucked you like that for what felt like hours with hard, deep thrusts interspersed with those cruel little clit slaps every time you got too close. Your mascara was a mess now, dark smudges under your eyes, streaks starting to run down your cheeks every time a tear slipped free.

“Goddamn,” Joel muttered, voice wrecked. “Look at you. So fuckin’ pretty when you cry for me.” He slammed in harder, grinding against your spongy spot again. “Almost there, baby. Almost got you lookin’ exactly how I want.”

Your legs were shaking. You were babbling —please, Joel, please, I can’t, I need— but he just kept going, relentless, edging you right to the brink and then stopping or slapping your clit until the orgasm retreated.

One final hard thrust and he stilled again, buried to the hilt, hand flexing around your throat.

“Look at yourself,” he ordered, voice rough. “Look how ruined you are.”

In the mirror your reflection was wrecked: You were shaking, tears spilling faster, mascara dripping off your chin onto the vanity. Joel looked feral behind you with his hair damp with sweat.

“That’s it,” he growled. “That’s the face I wanted. Now you can come, baby. Come all over my cock while I watch those tears run.”

He didn’t give you time to answer. He fucked you with brutal, perfect strokes that hit exactly where you needed every single time. His hand left your throat only to slide down and rub tight, fast circles over your clit, no more teasing, no more denial.

“Come on, baby. Let go. Soak my dick while I ruin the rest of that mascara.”

The orgasm crashed into you like a freight train. You screamed his name, walls clamping down around him, body shaking so hard he had to hold you up. Black tears spilled freely down your cheeks now, mascara running in messy streaks all the way to your jaw.

“Fuck—yes—that’s my girl,” Joel groaned, voice breaking. “Look at you. So fuckin’ beautiful when you fall apart for me.”

He fucked you through it, hips stuttering, chasing his own release. “Gonna fill you up, baby.”

One more thrust and he buried himself to the hilt, coming with a low, guttural moan, cock pulsing hot inside you. He kept grinding through it, milking every last drop while you trembled and cried in his arms.

For a long moment the only sound was both of you panting, the mirror fogged slightly at the edges from heat and breath.

Joel stayed inside you, arms wrapped around your middle now, gentler. He pressed a slow, open mouthed kiss to the side of your neck, then another to your tear streaked cheek.

“Jesus Christ, baby,” he murmured, voice soft and wrecked. “You look like a goddamn dream.”

He reached over to the vanity without pulling out, grabbed the pack of makeup remover wipes you always kept there, and tugged one free with his teeth. Then, still buried deep inside you, he turned you in his arms, lifted you clean off the floor, and carried you the few steps to the bed.

He sat down on the edge, keeping you straddling his lap, cock still snug and warm inside you. Your legs wrapped around his waist automatically. He cradled the back of your head with one hand and brought the wipe to your face with the other.

“Hold still, darlin’,” he said gently, voice full of that quiet affection that always undid you. “Let me clean my pretty girl up.”

He wiped your cheeks with slow, careful movements, thumb brushing tenderly under your eyes as the black streaks disappeared. Every few seconds he’d lean in and kiss you with soft, lingering kisses on your lips, your forehead, the tip of your nose.

“That mascara didn’t stand a chance, did it?” he teased between kisses, a crooked smile on his face. “Promised it was better than sex… and here you are with black rivers down your face after one round with your husband.”

You laughed, watery and breathless, and he kissed the sound right off your lips.

“Shh, I got you,” he whispered, wiping the last smudge away. “All clean now. My beautiful girl.”

He tossed the wipe aside and wrapped both arms around you, pulling you flush against his chest. His cock twitched inside you, still half hard, like he wasn’t quite ready to leave yet.

“Love you,” he murmured against your hair, voice low and reverent. “Love you so fuckin’ much it hurts sometimes.”

You buried your face in his neck and smiled against his skin.

“Love you more.”

Joel huffed a soft laugh, hand stroking slow circles up and down your back.

“Nah, baby. Not possible.”

He stayed like that for a long time, still inside you, holding you close, kissing your temple every few seconds while the bedroom lamp cast a warm glow over both of you. The vanity mirror behind you reflected the two of you tangled together.

“Next time you buy somethin’ similar to ‘Better Than Sex,’” he murmured, lips brushing your ear, “I’m makin’ you wear it so I can prove it wrong all over again.”

You laughed into his neck, and he tightened his arms around you, heart beating steady against yours.

“Deal?” he asked, smiling.

“Deal,” you whispered.

⋆♱ Beautiful dividers from @saradika-graphics and @thecutestgrotto

[millermouth]

Bound and Unbound

summary: You weren't denying that what you had done was wrong, that it was the one taboo your kind had. But you chose it anyway. Chose them. And now, you paid the price for it. (Don’t fall for my poetics, this shit horny as hell)

|| smut MDNI 18+, jackson!joel, jackson!tommy, omegaverse, alpha!joel, alpha!tommy, omega!reader, a/b/o dynamics, no threesome, no incest, taking turns, mating, biting, possessiveness, territorial, pinv, knotting, lumberjack!tommy vibes, grinding, doggy style, topping from the bottom, f!recieving oral, fingering, kisssssinggggg, lil bit of dirty talk, praise kink, breeding kink, reader doesn't have much personality as she's in heat and is just pure instinct to get knocked up || wc: 11.5k a/n: thank you to my love @pearlessance for your tommy expertise and looking over his section to make sure I got him right!! ilysm

Joel

There were two bedrooms.

For a lonely cabin in the woods, it wasn’t half bad. It wasn’t Jackson, that cozy community with its electricity and neighborly kindred spirit, but it was something. It was home. The walls smelled of pine sap and old smoke from the wood stove in the corner, and the floors creaked in a way that reminded Joel of winters where sound traveled differently. It always seemed quieter, slower, full of memories of a time before.

They'd been given the resources they'd needed and still traded regularly with the town, only being a couple miles away since people knew they were useful despite what had happened. Hunting, fishing, hauling. Useful was something a man could still be, even after everything else had been stripped away.

Jackson wouldn't have them back, not after the taboo they'd committed. And of course everyone knew right away. Besides the way word traveled at the speed of light in such a small community, it was also a curse of their kind. Others were able to smell that something had changed, it clung to every breath, to the skin, to clothes. It stuck in the fibers of their very being.

Even out here, miles from the gates, Joel could still feel the weight of that knowing on his back, like the eyes of god that never stopped watching.

Claiming one omega between two alphas wasn't only frowned upon…it was downright blasphemous.

But Joel had made his choice, and so had his brother. They were exiled for it and ended up here, in this small cabin in the woods, where one bed lay bare with only a sheet and a quilted blanket, no pillows or fuss until it was time. When you would shape it into what you needed—a little nest, your safest space.

The other bedroom was for sleeping, though Joel hadn't always welcomed the idea of sharing a bed with his brother while you slept between their two warm bodies. But when they'd tried separating in the beginning, giving you choice of which brother's bed you wanted, it had turned ugly fast. Possessive. Two grown men with their hackles high as you'd make your choice of one bedroom or the other.

So this was the way. One bed for sleeping, one for mating. A truce.

He was making the bed now, the one for mating, knowing any day now you might start your heat and be needing a clean, safe place. The linens were fresh from where they'd hung overnight to dry, cold beneath his touch as he tucked the corners, fabric stiff and flat. His palms worked slowly across the seams, your scent living within them even now, even in the quilt he laid across the mattress. It stirred something in his chest, memories, of you face down, ass up, presenting yourself to him. Memories of your sweet, blissed out face as he knotted you again and again. It made his loins tighten, his jaw clench and unclench, a small smile flitting his features as he hung your clothes up in the closet. Sweaters and jeans that smelled even stronger of you as he brushed his knuckles along the fabric once it hung in neat lines.

Your coat was gone with you into the snow, having asked Tommy to take you with him to check traps. You always wanted to help, wanted to prove you were part of the team, eager to carry your own weight out there instead of sitting by the wood stove while the men worked. Joel never asked you to do anything—he wanted you warm, fed and rested, your hands wrapped around a steaming mug instead of rope or freezing in the snow. But you were stubborn and bright and Tommy had said yes, and that was that.

His brother liked to show you things. How to track, how to tell poisonous berries from friendlies, the way animals could be hunted humanely. Tommy's voice always had a little easy hum in it when he talked to you. About anything. Like a wolf pleased with something soft and gentle and open. He still went back to Jackson for trades, the one people greeted and spoke to, the one they hadn't fully turned their backs on.

When Joel went, folks didn't look him in the eye for long. They gave him what was necessary and no more. He came home with medicine, salt, fruit, freshly baked bread. Tommy came home with that plus a little barrette someone thought you'd like, or a knitted beanie one of your old friends wanted you to have. Sometimes you'd even have letters to exchange, Tommy always bringing home answers in stacks of papers from the people you left behind. Joel felt the jealousy in the titch of his jaw sometimes, sharp and animal, the same way a dog might bristle when another was offered something he was not. But he swallowed it down, would rather bite his own tail off than say it out loud.

He wondered if you missed them—your people. When he'd asked, you'd said you wanted to see everyone once spring came, once the roads thawed and travel wasn't so much of a risk. For now, you were content and happy to be with them in a warm cabin. The life you'd chosen with them had felt right to you. Except… Joel knew that you still believed that this might not be forever. That in time, the people of Jackson might look at the three of you and see more than what you had done.

He wasn't sure that would ever happen with him in the picture. But he wouldn't take that hope away from you, the belief in a future you wanted.

And just as he was walking across the threshold of the second bedroom into the hallway, pulling the door closed behind him, the sound of the front door opening carried into the cabin, letting in a breath of cold air that brought your laughter with it. Low and content, it was a sound that often softened Joel's hardest thoughts, his shoulders dropping a fraction at the image of you now in the doorway, smiling. You were grinning at his brother when the two of you stepped inside, your fingers pulling your gloves from your hand finger by finger, Tommy easing your heavy winter coat from your shoulders. He just watched, watched how the snow darkened the floor by your boots, how you pushed your unruly hair back from where it had hidden under your hat.

When you finally looked up and saw Joel, your expression brightened in wattage, something warm and glittering rising beneath a dazed softness, and you moved towards him without hesitation. Lifting onto your toes, you looped your arms around his neck to greet him.

"Hi," you said, smile wide and toothy, voice carrying a kind of breathless glee.

You smelled like the woods, like the frost of cold breath and iron from the traps.

And you smelled like Tommy.

"Hi, baby," Joel replied, wrapping thick arms around your warm body (he'd traded an entire elk for Jackson's thickest jacket for you). He lifted you from the floor and planted a fat, long kiss on your lips, his scent enveloping you now. He’d gotten used to the overlap of scents: yours, so velvety and vanilla and cashmere; Tommy’s, gunpowder and mint from the sprigs he’d crush and chew; and Joel’s, a musk with the tang and warmth of good whiskey.

"How'd it go?" he called over as he set you back down to your feet, hands lingering at your hips, reluctant to let go.

"As good as it could," Tommy answered from the closed doorway while he tugged off his boots with a low groan, his toes flexing in his socks as he shook the cold from his feet. He pulled the rope of animals tied to his bag up for Joel to see, and Joel gave a short nod of acknowledgement before his eyes returned to you. He took in the way your body relaxed into him, thought your brows were lightly pinched, arms now wrapped around your own belly as you laid your head on his chest.

"Let me make ya some tea, baby," Joel offered, cupping your hands in his, bringing them to his mouth, "you're freezin'," he breathed, huffing warm air into the hollow of his hands where he held your little fingers in his. You hummed dreamily, eyes fluttering shut, welcoming the feeling of him so close.

"I've got it," Tommy said as he meandered into the kitchen with renewed purpose, though his voice came out short. He reached for your favorite mug with the little owl stamped on it, filling it from the canteen of safe water.

"It's fine," Joel said, spine tightening then easing again, "Pass it here, I'll warm it up. Can't make tea with cold water, leaves won't steep right."

"I know how to make a cup of tea," Tommy shot back.

Joel clenched his jaw but swallowed his pride, softening his face as he looked at you once again. Your cheeks were blazed with chill, nose frost bitten and lashes damp where snow had melted. Your eyes, though sleepy, moved between the two of them. You always had such a quiet attention on the two of them, aware of their moods and mannerisms more than they were of their own.

"Come lay down with me," Joel offered softly, his hand settling against the small of his back, guiding rather than pulling. His voice soothing itself out for you, "Tommy can finish up."

You followed him to the couch and eased into it with a long, tired breath, letting him draw you between his legs and over him, laying on your side, your head against the solid rise and fall of his chest. Close. Where you belonged. Your fingers curled around the edge of the wool blanket that Joel wrapped around the two of you, settling into one another as you breathed him in, a thicker, warmer musk beginning to lift from your skin as you pressed yourself closer, as if your body was seeking his heat without thought.

Joel held you there, his arms circled around your waist, hands resting against your ribs while your breathing slowed and drifted, the two of you slipping into something that felt like a contact nap, skin and fabric and warmth layered together while the cabin went quiet around you. He felt every small shift you made, every soft sigh that left your mouth, the heaviness in your body that told him you were giving in to rest after your long trek in the wilderness.

He listened as his brother moved through the kitchen, half aware of every movement: the scrape of the iron kettle, the rattling of tin against wood, and the smell of chamomile and cinnamon rising as his brother added the leaves and sprigs to the now steaming water. Joel watched all of it from the corner of his eye, aware of his brother's presence the way an animal remains aware of another.

You reached out when Tommy brought the mug toward you, your fingers loosening from the blanket so you could take it gently from him, your smile soft and hazy. Tommy smiled back at you and leaned down, his face close, his lips brushing your nose in a gesture that might've been sweet if Joel's body hadn't reacted out of instinct: a rumbling growl starting in his chest and thrumming in his throat in warning.

"Stop," you sighed, not startled, only tired, leaning back into Joel as he shifted upright so you wouldn't spill, your back to his chest now, his weight and warmth hopefully soothing to you.

And when your tea was gone and your eyes finally grew too heavy to fight against, Joel gathered you up in his arms and carried you to the sleeping bed. He settled beside you and drew you in close, the two of you tucking into each other the way you always did, limbs threaded together, breath shared, the room dim and quiet around you.

The day closed its weary eyes around you, dark settling gently over the cabin in a blanket of stars, the world shrinking to the sound of a branch that kept sliding along the roof, the wind in the trees, the quiet of winter. By the time Tommy came in and lay down at your other side, Joel only half noticed the long, tired sigh that left his brother's chest, the weight of an arm finding your body in the dark, all of you gathered there in the quiet, unaware of what was kindling beneath.

Tommy

He woke to heat the next morning. It was heavy, syrupy in a way that made his brain claggy, unable to put thought to anything for a long while, as if a furnace had been opened beside him, embers blasting hot air on a winter morning. He blinked his eyes half open, lids stiff with the thickness of sleep. The first thing he registered was your smell, your hair, your skin. That heady sweetness he always associated with you, the familiar vanilla deepening into something richer, thicker, like molasses warming in the sun, his nostrils flaring as he dragged more of it into his lungs.

He buried his nose into your hair and stayed there, breathing you in, only dimly aware that the blanket had been shoved down toward the foot of the bed in the night, your sleep pants thrown off somewhere with it, both tangled together at your feet. You were curled up into him, bum tucked tight against his lap, your body so small in comparison to his massive breadth, like a river of life in a valley of two mountains. You were so god damn warm in the cradle of his lap, skin blazing against his, legs drawn in and your breath still steady and deep and trusting.

Tommy's arm slid further around your waist without thought, only pure instinct. His nose stayed buried in your hair for a long moment, then lower into the warm hollow of your neck where your scent filled his mouth, making it fill with saliva, making him yearn to open his teeth and lick and wrap his jaw around you. It was sweet and dizzying, his cock twitching where it pressed into your little ass, your soft heat nestled back onto him.

You sighed dreamily, pushing back into him, a small, almost helpless movement, your body seeking his warmth even in sleep. The sound you made…it made Tommy's jaw clench, made him sort of purr to soothe you, pressing into the clutch of your perfectly outlined core with his thick member. He fit so perfectly against you, thicker and harder as he dragged up against you slowly, his breath growing heavier, his hands more insistent as they pulled you in. His minds eye was full of memory of the last time he'd taken you like this, laid out for him on the other bed and stuffed you full.

Across you, Joel slept deep, your arms still wrapped around his middle, face tucked into the crook of his armpit, his chest rising and falling beside your cheek. Even so, you pushed back into Tommy, nestled your perfect little warm center into his lap, hips snug against him. Like it had been made to fit him, the line of his cock through his briefs fit between your soft and puffy crux while your heat closed in on you. You weren't quite ready yet, though it was blooming, softening you, ripening.

He reached to splay a wide hand over your belly, pressing down on your womb, making you whimper as he brought you closer. You garbled something viscous in your dream state, perching your ass even higher, so he could feel it blaze against him, clit pulsing like a heartbeat for him. He could feel how slick you were through your panties, rubbing against the hardness of him until he was really aching, heat meeting heat, your scent turning richer and heavier in the space between breaths.

He understood now, all of it settling into his mind with a certainty he'd come to recognize.

Why you had wanted so badly to join him yesterday, why you'd let him push you up against the trees between checking traps. He'd kissed you so soft and sweet, though you'd been the one to hike your legs around his hips and grind against him, moaning for the world to hear. It had been your little omega whines that had him grabbing a fistful of your coat, turning you around and pushing into the layers that covered your ass, much like he was now. He'd heeded every lupine instinct, to calm you into submission, with his thickening cock between your ass. He told you to not be so greedy, that he'd fuck you proper if you could stay awake long enough that night, but not out in the wilderness where infected could hear your crying. You'd pouted, but obeyed like a good little thing.

Tommy knew what would happen—that by the time you got back, you'd be sleepy and dazed, though he hadn't realized this had been why. A heat beginning to bloom. No wonder he was so close to taking you then and there in the snow. No wonder you were so god damn happy to see Joel, no wonder the men had been at each other's throats over a cup of fucking tea. And yet, even though he knew it would happen, the beast inside of him had wanted to rip his own brother's throat out for taking you, comforting you, kissing you like that. A curse of his kind.

The past twenty four hours had been drawing them towards this… like always.

Every few months it caught them off guard all the same, always creeping in slow and almost patient. Until it wasn't. Until it demanded the three of you heed an instinct as old as time. It was like a hunter circling its prey through tall grass, unseen until it was already upon you, warping the mind, bodies running on smell and heat and need more than logic. Tension would always coil between the three of you, tight and unavoidable and jaw snapping. It always was stupid things too, small things that made them possessive in nature, over their right to claim your sweet ripe cunt when it was ready.

It was how they had lost Jackson, too.

Tommy had already been there when you arrived with your family, skin and bone and unmated, still learning how to belong to a place that was so civilized at the end of the world. He had helped you acclimate, maybe drawn to you in ways he hadn’t yet understood, something quiet and patient in the way he watched you take to the town. You befriended him easily, trusted him slowly. You always said it was because he looked you in the eye when he spoke, because he kept his promises, because he was a good man in a world that had almost forgotten what that meant. He never asked you to trust him outright. He built it with you through that first winter, and then into the bright, trembling promise of spring. It wasn’t lightning or fire. It was brick by brick, laid steady and true.

And when your first heat struck, you came to him and let him take you, as natural as anything, as if the world had always meant for it to happen that way. You had been so soft for him, so open, so perfectly attuned to the bond that settled between you afterward.

And then Joel came back.

He walked into Jackson with Ellie at his side, wearier than he had been the time before, as if the road had carved deeper into him. The air around him felt different. He was unmated too, and he met the onslaught of attention of other omegas with a sourness that kept most of them at arm’s length. But Tommy saw the way you reacted to him, and the way Joel took to you in return. It was as if you had been the only one able to draw the sword from that stone-bound heart, different in the way Ellie had chipped away at it.

And you looked at Joel with a softness Tommy had never seen Joel receive from any woman, from any omega. It confused you, it confused the brothers. But you never hid it, not once did you pretend or lie or cover it up. You would ask Tommy if Joel might join for dinner, if he’d come along on patrol even when he didn’t have to, if he needed anything, if Ellie needed a hand with the garage. You just wanted him near.

Tommy had never been blind to it, he had never been the kind of man to turn his cheek to the way you and his brother looked at one another. It wasn't hungry or wandering, not disloyal. It reminded him of those early days with you, when you'd first learned how to trust and didn't yet know the feeling of being a mate.

Joel fought it longer than either of you.

He stayed closed off, denied your requests of spending so much time with him, as if he knew it was wrong, what a sin it was to be so close to another man's omega. Tommy knew that look on his brother all too well, from the years of surviving together, of the ruptures and sutures between them. The way they'd chosen different roads to meet again, losing each other, coming back to each other. He wouldn't lose his brother again, not to something as good as this. It was hard for all of you to go against your ingrained pack dynamics, that a mated omega could and should ever be interested in another alpha. But you kept reaching for Joel anyway, and Tommy watched silently as his brother started to give in, inch by inch, a man who didn't quite understand the ground he was standing on. His brother was scared, he'd come to realize. Maybe afraid of the sin he would be committing by giving into you, maybe afraid of what Tommy would do or think of him. Joel never cared about anything else. Family always came first, brother loyal to brother, a blood bond nothing could change.

And then your next heat came.

It was the moment everything tipped into truth. You'd cried and cried and cried, wailing that you didn't want to hurt Tommy, that you wanted to be with him, but something was changing in you, like your heart was branching off to make room for Joel in this , that you'd needed both. You refused to be split apart, as if being asked to cut off your own limb.

And Tommy…Tommy somehow heard you. Yes, there was the natural jealousy, of wondering what his brother had that he didn't. He felt the wolf in his lungs snarling at the idea of sharing his mate. But there was something else, beneath it all. A pack, a brother, a history. He thought of all the ways he'd lost Joel before, how long it had taken to mend what had been broken. And you were here, bringing them together in an entirely new way, remaking them in flesh and bone and heart.

Nothing had been lost or stolen, it had only grown and changed shape. And so, giving into it all on one cloudless night, Joel had taken that heat, knotted you, bit into your neck and took you. And you'd cried, but not tears of grief but of relief, of something deep and new finally being allowed to exist.

Tommy came to you the next night, his claim alive and steady and unwavering, and the three of you wove together in a way that could no longer be undone. It did not fracture or break any of you, neither brother ripped into one another's throats, but instead, a pack was created. One that should not exist and yet…did. Bound by something that wouldn't be taken or shred.

But Jackson was not as understanding.

The wind carried the smell of the three of you through the streets, layered thick with thrice the scent from that little house now shared by you, a bond braided between two alphas and one omega, saturated and unmistakable. To the town it was wrong, blasphemous, the scent of it making other alphas restless and sharpened with territory, omegas nervous and withdrawn and betas uneasy and alarmed. There was pacing and low snarling whenever any one of you drew too near, as if the very order of things had cracked and some ancient law had been broken in the marrow of the pack.

Arguments began to flare more often, fists flying and shoulders colliding, alphas clashing with teeth bared and voices raised too close to violence. Patrol schedules had to be changed when tempers snapped at the gates from nothing more than the trace of your scent drifting through, men who had worked side by side for years suddenly standing at each other’s throats. People threatened Joel and Tommy openly, first with warning growls and then with rough hands, cornering and spitting and hurling insults, while unmated alphas started circling you in uneasy orbit, unwilling to touch yet unable to understand how an omega could have more than one mate. Bonds everywhere felt more fragile than they ever had, a social structure that had endured for years now straining beneath the proof of you — because if big bad Joel Miller could claim you while you were already claimed by another, then what was stopping anyone else, and why shouldn’t other alphas do the same?

So the three of you left. Or maybe the town made the choice for you, it didn’t matter in the end. Jackson no longer wanted you, and Tommy couldn’t bear to watch the place he helped build turn cruel around you. Joel grew overprotective and violent to anyone who came close, and was happy to get away, to be alone with you and his brother, though Tommy knew better. He knew he missed Ellie. She came to visit when she could, Dina at her side, the two of them carrying their own kind of forbidden bond—alpha with alpha.

You flipped in your sleep suddenly, jostling Tommy from his memories. He thought he might've fallen back asleep, because Joel was out of bed, though he could hear his bare feet padding around the house turning then to a soled scuffles of boots. The house stunk to high hell now, too many scents mixing together in the wake of your beginning heat. Tommy buried his nose into your hair once more to inhale more of your sweet scent. The gland at his neck pulsed, his cock throbbed. He slid his hand down your back and over your ass where you'd flipped around in his arms, and hiked your leg over his hip. He let you grind on him the way he knew you liked.

"Mornin'," he murmured in your ear.

You hummed, chin tilting to lick at the salt of his beard, where his skin was leathery and thick from years of sunlight. You mouthed openly past his ear, finding that succulent little spongy patch of pheromones, and began to lick at it in earnest. Tommy rumbled a deep, pleasured growl in his chest, pulling you even closer, shunting his cock up against your weeping covered cunt, letting you have your way, if only for a little bit.

"What a good little omega," he purred, "but you know we can't do this here, don't you, baby?"

"Don't care," you garbled, moaning again as you dragged your perfect cunt against the thick outline of his cock. If he wasn’t careful, he’d lose control too fast like this, his body ready to tip into rut before you were anywhere near prepared, especially with Joel still in the house.

And as if summoned by the thought, Joel appeared in the doorway, backpack slung over one shoulder, rifle resting against the other, his revolver tucked into its holster at his side.

“I’ll be back,” he said, jaw set tight.

Tommy’s eyes were half-lidded, lost in the way you kept grinding against him, hardly able to make his brain work outside of the thought of your ripeness, “M’kay,” he muttered.

“There’s stew in the kitchen for 'er,” Joel said, gaze lingering on you. “She ought to eat, then she should go nest.”

Tommy glared up at his brother, "Don't you got somewhere to be, Joel?"

Your lips unlatched from Tommy’s neck, your hips pausing. You lifted your head, feverish and dazed, eyes glassy as they blinked open.

“Joel?”

"Yeah, baby?" he said from the door. Tommy's lip was curling, baring his teeth.

“You’re leaving?” you asked meekly, turning your head toward him.

“Yeah, hun." he said, his arms crossed, "I’m gonna check if that deer herd came back by the ridge, let you settle in with Tommy before I come back, alright?”

“Don’t go" you whined, "… not before—you promised you’d always—” You began to fuss in Tommy’s arms, voice shaking, and both brothers looked at one another. Tommy felt his temper spark, while Joel’s eyes warmed with a small, knowing smile.

“I didn’t forget, baby. You just seemed a little preoccupied,” he chuckled, leaning against the frame.

You shook your head, arm slipping from Tommy’s neck as you reached a hand toward Joel.

This was always the worst part, the hardest part—watching you want both.

Joel hesitated, watching his brother for half a moment, and then moved through the room. He carefully approached the bed, a fist dipping to hold his weight against the mattress, almost forcing your body to turn with it, as he bent down and kissed you goodbye.

What was supposed to be a short little peck, however, grew longer and longer, your hand now gripping at the back of Joel's head as you moaned into him. Tommy saw how your tongue dipped out to trace the seal of Joel's mouth, which he opened for you, unable to contain himself.

Tommy let out a thick, blood curdling snarl as your pussy pulsed against his cock.

Joel finally broke the kiss, a thin strand of spit still connecting your mouths. He pressed one last, heavy peck to your parted lips and grumbled, “Bye, sweetheart. Be good.”

You sighed contentedly, letting him go with one little scratch to his ear, and closed your eyes as he pulled away.

Even as Tommy listened for his brother's receding footsteps, waited for the front door to open and close, for the house to settle into quiet once more, his nose was invaded by his brother's scent. You settled back into his arms with another simpering sigh, pressing your warm body up into him.

But Tommy's temper was already short, reacting to another being so close to what was his, his brain losing its wiring for logic already.

The muscles in his jaw were tight as something low and mean rose from deep in his chest. He was never angry at you, but instinct made him ugly telling him to bare his teeth, to reclaim, to crowd every inch of Joel's scent from the room.

You whimpered softly, your glazed eyes watching the shift in him, your body going tight, a faint, small keening slipping from your throat.

You tipped your head back without hesitation, craning, baring yourself to him. Your pulse fluttering beneath your skin with compulsion, submission offered, acceptance sought. You didn’t say a word, you only yielded, soft and obedient in his lap, as if you knew exactly what part of him you were soothing.

For a long moment he hovered there, breathing hard through his nose, fighting against the urge to snap, teeth lowering to your neck to only press there to your gland, not biting or licking, though he was bullish with his breath against you. You opened your legs around him, letting him grind harder into you, and he took that as enough.

He began to give in, not to the jealousy and protective nature, but the instinct him to soothe his omega. He closed his mouth and it found your chin, your jaw, then down to your neck, a firm press just shy of a bite. You gasped and shuddered in his arms, fingers curling into his shirt, your breasts, soft with hardening nipples pressed up into him. He softened as you softened, now fully kissing along your neck, licking and inhaling you until your scent melded with his.

"Okay, okay," he murmured, quieter now, his heads spreading over your back, your rump, pulling you closer, guiding you, "You're alright, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I've got you."

You keened, body going soft and pliant again, a sweet little mewling for him to take and take, but logic was still a part of him, his rut not fully in charge of his brain yet. He would be a good alpha, he would take care of his own before himself now that his brain was back in his control.

"Let's get you fed first, baby," he said, tutting when you began to whine and squirm again, "you need food in you, and we'll get your room set up, you like your nest, don't you?"

His thumb brushed your cheek as he looked at you fully, mouth pressing softly against yours, both of you humming into the warmth.

"Yes, alpha," you said softly, your voice not entirely your own, but still you. You were still there, also not entirely taken by heat.

"Come on then," he said, sitting you up, "heard there's stew."

By the time you’d been fed and watered, Tommy had taken himself outside to busy his hands with the woodpile while you made your nest. The air was colder out there, crisp, easier to count his breaths, each cold lungful after the next, shocking the heat from his system. He told himself that was why he stayed a while, splitting log after log until his shoulders ached.

And yet, he could hear you through the cabin walls, attuned to every move you made.

There was a bit of shuffling, a drag of blankets and movement, thumping of a mattress as you rearranged and tucked and burrowed, no doubt rubbing your smell all over that second bedroom. Every now and then you'd made a soft keening of pain that hit him so hard he nearly drove the axe clean through the stump instead of the log perched on it. His hands tightened around the handle, knuckles white as the snow beneath him, his world narrowing to that sound alone. And after finishing the pile of wood, he stood silent for a minute, waiting, ears straining to hear your next movement. But you'd gone so quiet, so still, there was nothing.

And then there was a hand on his arm.

He jolted at the touch, nearly jumping out of his skin, his ears trained on the cabin behind him, not realizing your footsteps in the snow had crept up silently as a mouse. You were already beside him, already shivering, and he turned to see your face, fevered, glassy-eyed, your cheeks aflame and your hair a mess from all your rubbing and rutting into the pillows.

“Honey, what in the hell are ya—” he started, already reaching for you, hands finding your arms, trying to pull you close. Your whole body was trembling, your skin like burning ice. You looked miserable.

“You’re taking too long,” you whined, fists clenched under your chin, spine bent against the cold, burning and trembling all at one, body blazing under frozen skin. “I’m hurtin’, Tommy. Please.”

He nodded, okay, okay, he was whispering, pulling you in as he unzipped his coat and wrapped you in it, hoisting your legs around his hips like instinct, like he didn’t even need to think. Your arms clung to him, your face buried in the sherpa of his collar, bare toes pressed against his back under the coat. You rubbed up against his belly, slick already soaking through to his shirt.

"You stink," you murmured, petting his gland behind his ear with the one at your wrist. His eyesight blurred, brain scrambling—he needed you in your bed now before he took you right here in the god damn snow. The softness of your skin, the sweet heady scent you invaded him with, it was giving him a full body ache, setting his cock into overdrive, the knot at the base pulsing with need. His gut was churning for it, his mind monopolized by it.

He pushed the door open with his shoulder and stepped into the heat of the cabin, barely noticing the fire, barely noticing the ache in his arms, every sense tuned to the way your slick had started trailing lower, soaking into the waistband of his jeans, sliding against his skin like a brand.

In the bedroom, your nest had been made up of belongings—his old sweater tucked near the pillows, the one you’d stolen to sleep in before, still faint with his scent. Joel’s shirt was there too, and all three pillows from the bed stacked just so. It looked cozy. It looked like you. Like how your mind must’ve worked in that heat-fog, reaching for comfort, for home, for him.

"Aw, this looks real sweet, honey,” he said as he laid you down gently, easing you into the middle, your back against the pillows, your hair splayed wild, "how are ya feelin', hm?"

"Itchy," you said, crossing your arms around your chest, clutching opposite shoulders, your knees knocked together and rubbing for friction, "warm—s'like…" you were dreamier, a little delirious maybe, eyes searching the ceiling as if searching the sky, "it's like summer inside my belly—it's an ember, like I've swallowed the sun and I'm burning and glowing and ohhh, Tommy,” you whined, hands moving to clutch your womb, "I need you, please please please,"

He was already on top of you, your murmured pleading silenced by his lips on yours, both of you moaning. You opened your legs for him without hesitation: submissive, baring yourself, belly up, giving and wanting so badly for him to take you.

"You make me fuckin' crazy," he rasped, brain gone claggy with this vision of you, "pretty little thing with a sweet little pussy, hm? Gonna let me knot you, honey?"

You were nodding before he even finished, making him chuckle as you clutched at him with little kitten paws, beginning to cry out as he palmed at your covered mound.

“Oh, yeah,” he sighed, leaning down to look, dragging his hand gently between your thighs. You hadn’t put your pants back on. Just those soaked-through panties clinging to your cunt like a second skin. “Yeah, she’s almost ready, baby. Can feel it.”

"Ready now," you whined, petulant as ever, kicking your feet uselessly.

He tutted back, "not quite, let me take a look," he said gently.

You nodded, stuffing your fist into your mouth to keep from crying out as he peeled the last of your layers away, stripping you bare, revealing the heat you’d been hiding. Your legs fell open wider than before, pliant and wet, your body desperate to be touched.

Tommy hummed, low in his chest, something like pleasure or gratitude or hunger. He stripped himself quickly all while keeping his eyes on you. His coat, his undershirt, his jeans. His gaze never left you. Your cunt was flushed and puffy, practically begging, not quite swollen to peak, but near enough to drive him out of his mind. He didn’t even try to slow himself down, dropping between your thighs once he was bare, hooking his hands beneath to yank you closer and licked a slow, greedy stripe through the slick you’d made, catching the taste of you on his tongue like it was the only thing he’d ever need again.

Your moans reached him as if from underwater— warped, distant, warbled with need— and when he glanced up, your head had tipped back, your mouth open, your hands fisting the blankets as you rocked against his mouth. But all he could think about was the way your body was preparing for him, giving him everything he’d need to take you, to knot you, to keep you.

He was obsessed.

He devoured you like you were his last chance at breath, licking and sucking and slurping up every ounce of nectar you made. He buried his mouth deeper, until you were thrashing above him, gasping for more, your voice cracking as you begged him again and again—more, more, Tommy, please, not enough, it’s not enough—

He quieted you with two fingers shoved deep inside, fucking them into you hard and steady, scissoring them open to stretch you, curling until he found that spot, the one that made you seize and cry out like you’d been touched by flame. He watched your body clench and pulse around him as he hooked them tighter, yanking your climax that belonged to him.

He had you turned over in an instant, flattened against the bed, belly to the blanket and cheek buried into the pillows you'd so sweetly made your nest in. His weight pressed over you, his teeth to the back of your neck. There was no part of him left that could be called human, his rut taking over his body, flooding his veins with the need to breed his sweet little omega, your scent invading his head. You cried out, but pushed your little cunt against his heavy cock, spreading your slick against it as he pulled his remaining layers away, bare to you as you were bare to him. Mirrors of greed, of this animal instinct rooted so deep in each other's bones that all logic and civilized manner had gone from the room.

He inhaled your molasses-sweet scent as he pushed your knees wider with his own, pulling your ass up to present to him, and pressed his cock into you without preamble. He began to rumble, a soft little noise to soothe your cries until they turned only to sweet sighs of pleasure, seating himself deep to the knot. The head of his cock was pressed to your cervix, as if your womb suckled him in, pulled him all the way home.

"You can take it, baby, it's alright," he rumbled into your neck, kissing your jaw, "tell me how that is, tell your alpha how you're feelin', sugar,"

You couldn’t form the words. Just a breathless cry, a moan that broke open into a sob, your mouth slack with pleasure, lips parted and wet. Spit started to pool at the corner of your mouth, a glossy trail running down your cheek, and he was there immediately, licking into it, tasting you. Your tongue met his, a kiss sloppy and slow and open.

He began to move, thrusting deep inside, grinding harder, pushing forward into your soft, velvet channel with a need so sharp it bordered on pain as his knot began to thicken. The squelch of your pussy taking him was obscene, feeding his rut-drunk head as it swelled with a hunger that had him baring his teeth at you, biting at your shoulder, almost ready to bite your gland.

"Gonna fill you up," he said, tongue thick and panting, "Gonna breed you real good, baby, give it to me, open up, honey, sweet pretty omega,"

His praise did exactly as he intended. You pushed your ass back into him, presenting, yielding, your cunt softening fully around him as his knot swelled to meet you, his cock held tight, gripped like a clutch with you at its center, sealing the two of you together as he sank his teeth into your neck and broke through, pheromones flooding his mouth at the same time his cock spilled into you, filling you with his come.

He was shaking with how good it was, how you tasted, how delirious the bond and the heat and the release made him. His brain went white and quiet with it, the raw thrill of doing what his body had been made to do, of filling his omega, of giving and taking in the same breath. You moaned as you locked together, your body accepting the seal, and when sensation slowly began to thread its way back into him, he reached under you and pressed his fingers to your clit.

“Come on my knot, sweet thing… come on, there you go… come on alpha’s knot, it’ll be so, so good,” he murmured into your neck, voice shaking with pleasure as he coaxed you through it.

It didn’t take long, what with both of you caught in that same bliss‑heavy state, your cunt tightening and fluttering around him as you came, your body pulsing against his knot while his vision swam and his breath stuttered in your hair, the world narrowing to nothing but the lock of the two of you together.

You

Once, when you were only a few years old, your mother had offered you a spoonful of honey to take with your medicine. You’d been wretchedly sick, unable to stomach a single thing, but somehow the honey stayed down. Thick and golden and too sweet, but you let it slide across your tongue and pretended it made you feel better. Your mother always chastised your sweet tooth. Said you'd never survive the world the way it was now if you kept turning your nose at anything that didn’t taste like sugar. Said you'd starve before you learned to be grateful.

You thought of honey now, feeling like you were made of the golden syrup: slow to move, heavy and warm, your thoughts thick and barely dripping. You thought, maybe when you could walk again, when your brain came back to you, you’d write a letter and ask for goat’s cheese. Goat’s cheese and honey. Oh, that would be something.

You could feel Tommy, the press of his chest to your back, the lock of his knot still thick inside you. He was so warm, the weight of his praise like sugar on the tongue, so soft and endless in your ear, calling you good girl, sweet thing, pretty omega, his. His voice soaked through your skin like syrup, made you pliant, quiet, sunk. You didn’t move, you didn't want to. The biological need to just stay, so open and wet, to let your alpha hold you and knot you for as long as he needed had saturated your mind.

You weren't sure how long it had been—you, spread out, rump up for Tommy, your body was so warm and your mind so quiet, blissful. Tommy's voice had started to fade, or maybe he'd stopped speaking, you weren't entirely sure. His words still floated in your head, and you could feel his lips against your neck, suckling, licking, soothing.

But there was a shift beginning.

Tommy was grinding up into the seal of the two of you, harder now, pushing up against a place already full and locked. His weight shifted forward into you, forcing your back to bend further, a roll of his hips like he was trying to push his cock further into you. The knot tightened and clenched against your slicked entrance in a way that made your breath hitch, your face pinch.

He was growling now. Face still close to your neck, and you whimpered, your brain coming back to you, worried you'd upset your alpha somehow. Had you done something in your haze to make him like this? You were trying so hard to be good, to stay melted and open, but the friction of his knot began to hurt a little, enough to bring you to your senses, opening your eyes.

And then you saw why Tommy was acting so.

Joel was in the doorway.

Joel

The hunt had steadied him for a while, the crack of frost beneath his thick soled boots and the clean bite of winter air along with the rhythm of breath, inhaling cold air to scrape the sweetness of his throat from that morning. It had taken everything in him to not bite his own brother's head off, to keep his mind straight when he bent to kiss you. To not kill his own kin when he'd been growled at.

He brought the deer he'd caught hanging in the cold outside the cabin now, where Tommy would take over the rest of the work, cleaning it by the brook nearby that was still running in the dead of winter. It was a system they built for themselves so no one bled into the other's time with you.

He thought it would be soon enough.

But the moment the cabin came into view over the ridge, the smell of you invaded him. It rose up, wrapped its syrupy weight around him, cloying and sweet. And though it was clouded by another alpha’s claiming scent, he could still smell your velvet richness underneath. By the time he crossed the threshold into inside, it was laying on the back of his tongue, making him pant and drool for it. For you. The parts he'd leashed into obedience were thrashing around his ribcage now, his vision narrowing, rough air dragging into his lungs as he heaved in your scent.

He braced himself against the doorway and tried to breathe like a thinking man.

The house was so warm and alive with you, the smell coming from the bedroom door was not something a man could outrun.

He could see the curve of the bed as he opened the bedroom door, the second bedroom, the one meant for fucking and knotting and taking and then he made out the vision of your nest. A tangled spill of blankets, clothes, linen smothered in your scent. You were there at the center of it, body scorching and glistening with sweat and slick. And your eyes…heavy, gaze unfocused and dazed, your breath hitching as he came nearer.

Tommy was laid over you, shoulders wound tight as his eyes found his brother in the doorway. Joel recognized the aggression of a rut, the way he was being threatened with bare teeth and a low growl from the bed. He felt the same thing rise in him like a tide.

But he swallowed against it, hard, though it didn’t go anywhere. It just settled deeper, coiling low inside him, hot and insistent, begging him to step forward, to close the distance, to drag you out of that sound and into his arms, to do something, anything, that would stop that fragile tremor in your voice as you whimpered against Tommy's rough grinding.

Joel's rut hadn't taken him fully yet. But it was there, glinting like a knife edge in the dark, waiting for one wrong breath to tip him over. As he watched your brow pinch as Tommy's weight shifted and the way your fingers curled against the sheets, Joel thought he might break his own brother's neck in half.

"Get out," Tommy snarled, nothing like his usual voice, this one was thick and mean and teeth-baring as he pushed his hips harder against you, making you wince, “Don’t want her smellin’ like you.”

Joel couldn't help the way his lip pulled over his teeth, but he did his best to tame it, only looking at you, your sweet face turning from bliss to grimace, "You okay, sweetheart?" he asked.

You whimpered, and he thought it could've been in the shape of his name.

Tommy's lips went to your ear, shushing you, cooing at you. Everythin's alright, darlin', Tommy's here, your alpha is here, baby.

Joel’s jaw clenched. The room felt too small, the air too thick, heat clawing up his spine. He rubbed the back of his neck like he could work the fever out of his bones, trying to hold on to the last of his reason. "When you're done, get her in the bath, right?" he couldn't bear to look any longer, watching his brother felt like knives to his own chest, "gonna go heat the water,"

Tommy didn’t answer, but Joel knew he’d heard. He stepped out of the room, crossed the main space, and made himself busy.

Before it would be a bloodbath.

It wasn’t long before Joel heard the murmur of voices again — yours light and sweet, brightening at the edges, while Tommy’s came out low and strained, the sound of a man trying to bring himself back down to earth. A few breaths later you appeared in the bathroom doorway, warm and cheeks aflame, Tommy at your back with his hands resting firm at your hips. Joel’s eyes went there first, fixed on the place where his brother held you, and he knew why it caught him, even if he didn’t want to say it to himself.

“I’m gonna go dress the buck,” Tommy muttered, his voice rough around the words. He bent to press his mouth to your neck, lingering there longer than necessary before letting you go.

You turned into Tommy then, looping your arms around his shoulders, kissing him full and soft, as if you didn’t know what that did to the room. Joel had to look away. His brain felt loose and molten, control stretched thin inside him, and another second of watching might have snapped the rubber band of his mind.

“Love you. I'll be back, alright? Go on, now.” Tommy said against your lips, his hand patting your hip one last time before he looked past you at Joel, offering a steady, warning look.

“I’ve got her,” Joel answered, a low sound in his throat as he stood and took you into his arms. You smiled as you were passed from warm hands to warm hands, letting Joel guide you toward the bath.

“You stink too,” you murmured as you folded into his chest once the door had closed and Tommy's footsteps receded. Joel had stripped down to thin cotton boxers before you'd come in, and he knew you'd be like this—pressing your face into the thick hair across his chest. He welcomed it, holding the back of your head as you smothered yourself in his scent.

"You do too," Joel teased, smelling your hair. He could smell the pheromones, the thickness of gun smoke still smothering your velvet vanilla scent.

“No,” you said, almost sulking, “I smell… I smell so good.” You hummed against him as you began to kiss his chest, open mouthed, your arms wrapped around the solid line of his body. “And now I’m gonna smell even better.”

Joel walked you to the bath, a quiet chuckle in his chest as he pulled you away so he could bring his hand to rest over your belly, feeling it protruding a bit, “All full, hm?”

You nodded with a soft, content sound.

“Gonna need to fix that,” he said, voice going low as his tongue felt thick in his mouth. “Get in. Let me clean you.”

You let him ease you into the tub, hissing at the heat before settling down into the water while Joel moved behind you, pulling your hair back and working it into a neat plait that lay down your back. The two of you stayed there in the quiet, your body loosening as the warmth sank in.

Joel knelt at the side of the tub with a bar of soap in his palm and began to wash you, slow and careful. Your arms, the spaces between your fingers, over your breasts and your belly, washing you of his brother's scent. And then between your legs.

You hummed again and let them fall open as his hand abandoned the bar of soap. He pressed his fingers gently around your swollen folds, slick and come already like honey in the sudsy water.

"Oh, this just won't do, sweetheart," he chided.

You opened your eyes, furrowing your brow at him.

“Look at this mess he left in you,” he said, shaking his head while he pushed two fingers inside. He gloried in the way your mouth parted on a gasp, watching the way your face fell and how well you took his thick fingers as he worked them inside you, scooping the spend from your wet heat in slow, measured motions.

His lips pulled back to show his teeth, hungry, he was fucking starved, his gaze fixed on you while your hands wrapped around his bicep and he pressed further into the tight hold of your body, relentless in his need to have you clean and marked by him and only him.

"That's it," he cooed, kissing your open mouth, licking inside, finally, finally tasting you. You crooned, whimpering as his thumb found your clit, a pearl that had swelled with his touch, "you've been a good girl, haven't you? Gonna be a good little baby for me too?"

You nodded, whining, so desperate for him you'd hitched your knees over the sides of the tub, the water sloshing around as you rocked your hips with his fingers. He scooped out the last of his brother's spend he could reach inside of you, and began fucking you with his fingers in earnest, "How's that, baby?"

"Moreeee!" you cried, nubby nails digging into his skin.

"Greedy," he tsk'd.

You stuck your bottom lip out, "Please."

Joel smiled, something that often felt so foreign in his cheeks, but with you— with you, out here, in the middle of nowhere, and his rut finally burning his mind into thick molten lava at the sound of you begging for him so god damn adorably—it was easy.

He kissed you again, harder, growling low against your cries, blood thick with heat, instincts guiding his every move. His mind was gone. His rut had taken over completely. He stuffed a third finger inside, and you wailed his name.

“Alpha — oh Joel — Joel, Joel, Joel—”

A symphony orchestrated for him alone.

You gushed around his fingers, head thrown back on the lip of the tub as he kissed your jaw, nipped at your chin. And as you trembled through the aftershocks, he withdrew his hand from your slick cunt and hauled you from the water, hands under your arms, lifting you to the floor with a towel that barely made it between you. He pawed at you more than dried you, his hands everywhere. You yelped when he pinched your ass, pushing weakly at his chest and out of his hold.

Something sparked in his chest.

Your smile slowly grew, knowing, mischievous.

"Don't even think about it." Joel growled.

You turned and ran.

Joel’s brain snapped into predator-mode instantly. He knew you loved this part, that was the only reason he let you get as far as you did. You bolted through the door, breath quick and high, weaving around the furniture in the living room. At one point, Joel shoved a chair clean across the room, making you freeze with a startled gasp in the corner.

Naked little thing, chest rising and falling, your back pressed to the wall. Your nipples were peaked, hard and eager, adrenaline only fueling your heat, thrusting Joel into his rut. He thought he might lose what little mind he had left, the shadow of himself completely gone at the sight of you like this: cornered, panting, glistening, wanting.

“Don’t be scared now, little omega. This is what you wanted, wasn’t it?”

You shook your head, eyes widening.

He tilted his head at you like a predator watching a rabbit twitch.

"Yes," you admitted, quiet as a mouse, "yes alpha, I did."

"Tell me why."

You were silent, scared, but he knew better.

“Say it,” he breathed. “Tell me who you belong to.”

"You, alpha, I like when you chase me." you whispered as he came closer and closer. He approached slowly, an animal closing in on prey, and then lunged. His arms slammed to either side of you, caging you against the wall, making you cry out.

“S’okay,” he murmured, inhaling deep, catching the clean scent of your freshly bathed body beneath the reawakening haze of your heat. “Don’t be scared now. I’ve got you. Look at me.” He nuzzled into you, nose finding your jaw, your ear, the little pieces of hair that began to fall from your braid.

You turned your sweet little face toward him, eyes glossy and relieved. He kissed down your neck, across your chest, licking and mouthing at your breasts, giving each nipple attention before continuing lower. His tongue dipped into your navel. His hands were rough on your thighs, groping, massaging, stroking your skin like it soothed his own.

"Oh," he breathed, inhaling you at your core. He laid his nose over your mound as he knelt in front of you, taking his fill of ambrosia.

You smelled so fucking incredible, his mouth watering, opening for you without command, only animal now, as he licked and ate at your slick, wanting cunt. Your cries were so pretty for him, he'd stay there forever, worshiping you, eating you, the only place he wanted to be. He ate and ate and ate, licking, inhaling, his brain on a high nothing would compare to. His chin, his nose, his cheeks were covered in your slick, and he was so greedy, open mouthed and taking more.

And then you were coming again, shaking and trembling and barely able to stand on two feet, and he was scooping you into his arms. He kissed you as he walked, both of you slick and hot, his cock aching. He didn’t give a damn that the second bedroom still smelled faintly like his brother anymore. He was going to fuck you there and make it smell like himself instead. He was going to mate you there. You were his omega. You wanted him.

He laid down on the bed, his back to the pillows and sat you on top.

“Come on now,” he said, voice graveled and thick, tongue heavy in his mouth, gums prickling with the urge to bitebitebite, “Be a good little thing and ride me, honey.”

You rocked your hips against his boxers, the fabric soaked through with your nectar and his dribbling pre arousal, the lips of your core so perfectly shaped around the thickness of him. You scrambled to pull them away, letting his cock bob freely, both of you sighing in relief. You were already wrapping your delicate little hand around it, fingers not even able to touch, and positioned him at your center. He brought his hand down to cover yours, helping you, letting you sit yourself on him. He watched, enrapt by the way you breathed heavily, a gushing, beautiful wash of slick shining against your thighs, darkening the hair around the base of him.

And as you notched the head of him, the thick ridge of it inside of you, Joel knew he was done for. He was no longer Joel, but only an alpha with his perfect little omega. His omega that took him in when he was nothing but a lone wolf, belonging nowhere and to no one. And you'd committed a taboo just to have him, to show him how good life could be.

You cried out as he pushed up into you, and his thick hands gripped your hips, guiding you, rocking you. Skin to skin, cock to cunt.

"Joel—you're so…oh god," you sighed, hands flat on his chest, your eyes twisted, brows furrowing. Neither of you moved except for that gentle rocking, and he could just barely see the bulge of himself in your tummy.

“Yeahhh, still so fuckin’ tight, baby,” he growled, pushing his hand down where he saw your belly protruding. “Made for my cock, huh? Can you feel it? Right there? My brother didn’t even fuck you right—couldn’t’ve. You feel too fuckin’ tight. He get in at all? Bet he didn’t. Bet you were savin’ this sweet little cunt for me.”

“Don’t be mean,” you whined, petulant again. He didn’t want to upset you, you just made him so fucking insane.

“I love you both, you’re my—ohhh fuck—” your voice broke as your brain seemed to melt mid sentence, your body jerking when he thrust up hard, hips grinding deeper. You pawed at his chest, nails dragging through the thick, wiry hair there. “Please, please, knot me, Joel. I need it. Need it so bad I’m burning up inside. It's like a galaxy in my tummy and you're—I’m—oh, oh, please—I love you so much, I love you, I love you…”

His heart may have soared if he wasn't so lost to his instincts. His hand flew to the back of your neck, bringing you down onto him, and he wrapped his arms around you so tightly as he began fucking you in earnest.

“I love you too, baby,” he snarled, lips at your ear. “Love bein’ your alpha. Love fuckin’ you. Gonna knock you up, make you all round and swollen with my pups—fuck fuck fuck.”

You were wailing in his ear as he thrusted mercilessly into you, skin slapping skin as you held onto him. You were crushed to him, your breasts pressing into his chest, bellies sliding against one another.

“My favorite girl,” he panted, “Takin’ my cock so good now. What if it took this time, huh? We wouldn’t even know whose the pups were, would we, baby?”

You hiccuped against him, burying your face in his neck, suckling at his mating gland.

He gasped, as if coming up from drowning at the feeling of your lips, his pheromones filling the air. One of his hands came up from its crushing weight against your back to pet at your hair, his hips still thrusting, but slowing, keeping a steady rhythm as you garbled against his neck, your mouth wrapped around his most sensitive gland.

“That's it,” he whispered into your hair, “That's it. Bite down now, baby. Take your alpha. I'm yours. My sweet little omega. The most perfect girl. Prettiest girl. Only goddamn thing I got left in this world. Bite me, honey. That’s it—ohhh…”

Your teeth closed in on his gland, his blood and pheromones filling your mouth so delightfully Joel was only half aware of your moaning as your cunt squeezed around him for your third orgasm. His cock pulsed deep, thick spurts of come filling you, his knot swelling at once, sealing you both with a brutal ache.

Joel growled into your neck, teeth bared, sinking into the soft place he’d been kissing for days, for weeks, maybe forever. He bit down, hard, marking you, bonding you, everything in him breaking apart and knitting back together around this one truth—you were part of him, and he was part of you.

You mouthed at the wound you'd left, suckling instinctively, still panting through the aftershocks. His hands didn’t stop moving, one arm tight across your back, the other petting your head, soothing and possessive all at once as he kept you pressed to him, knotted and full and trembling.

Joel nuzzled you, feeling his mind coming back to himself piece by piece as he breathed warmly into your skin, his beard rasping gently along your cheek. He felt like he was waking from a fever dream, murmuring sweet nothings in your ear as you both lay there together. He thought he'd never have the words, the thoughts, the right way to tell you how much this all meant to him. But you felt the same, whispering your secrets back as you stayed lock together, floating in the sweet, golden haze of after. Of love, of something holy and like nothing else.

You

It was only a few hours later that Tommy returned, the low creak of the front door stirring you from sleep where you lay in Joel's arms, both of you nestled in the bed he'd carried you to in the sleeping room. Your body was spent, marked, sore in the sweetest ways. He had dressed you in your sleep clothes, and he'd put on his own. Your heat had softened to a lull, a temporary hush between storms. You weren't burning for it anymore, though the embers still kindled in your belly, just under the skin. It wasn't over, and you'd be taken again tomorrow when you woke with a fire again.

But this was the time to breathe, to wake and break bread and be together.

Joel stirred behind you, lifting his head like a wolf catching the scent of his brother, but there was no fight in him now. Only the steady, bone deep understanding of what you were—what all three of you were to each other. You reached for Tommy as he stepped into the room, watched the lines of tension ease from his face as his eyes landed on you. He looked tired, like he’d run miles to come back to you. Maybe he had.

You opened your arms and he came.

There were no words at first, just the shifting of bodies finding each other, the quiet breath of relief when you pressed your cheek to his chest and felt Joel’s hand stay at your hip. You held them both. They held you back.

You knew you'd wake with heat in your belly again tomorrow, your cycle something that wasn't tempered in a day. But that would wait for now. It would let you have this.

You wondered if you'd ever make it back to Jackson. If the world could accept you as you were, But here, in this borrowed house at the edge of the world, you had something no one could name or take.

You let your eyes drift shut again. You were so warm and full, it was easy to slip into sleep like this. You were home.

[millersweetheart]

Why am I just reading this now??? Omg. I have been missing out…

[littledes1re]

Heyyy love ur works 🩷 I saw ur request are open now (yay) I would love to request maybe some things that come after fourth times a charm or sweet stuffed mess of reader being pregnant and Joel being a dotting father before she gives birth more breeding kink stuff and reader being insatiable with pregnancy??? 😛

Keepin' it full 

Fourth time's the Charm (pt.1)

Warnings:  18+, Smut, pinv, unprotected sex, pregnancy, breeding kink, praise kink, car sex, toxic!joel, slight mean!joel, you and Joel are divorced, unspecified Age gap, no outbreak

A/N: oo, I missed doing some breeding kink heheh. Also I'm almost done with the new sleazy!joel fic and i'm so excited to show it to you guys. Thank you for this request anon! I hope you enjoy!

The doctor's office lingered in the back of your mind like a bad aftertaste as you waddled into the parking lot, one hand supporting the heavy swell of your belly.

At six months, movement was an effort, each step a reminder of the life Joel had planted in you during that impulsive sink repair visit. The ultrasound images were tucked in your bag—baby healthy, active, everything perfect except the father who couldn't be bothered to show. 

You only called him because necessity is a bit hard: kids at school, no husband in hand, and no family that supports. He agreed to the pickup with all the enthusiasm of a man dodging child support.

His red truck sat idling at the park, engine rumbling and windows open.

Joel is slouched in the driver's seat, broad shoulders filling the space, his faded flannel shirt clinging to the solid lines of his dad bod—muscle earned from manual labor, softened just enough by years and beer to make him dangerously handsome.

He didn't look up as you hauled yourself into the passenger seat, the door groaning in protest as you slammed it. The car smelled of him: wood, sweat, and that faint, masculine musk that always twisted your gut despite everything.

Silence hung heavy as he pulled onto the road, the Texas sun beating down through the windshield. 

Finally, he broke the silence with a grunt. "S'a girl, again?"

You rubbed circles over your belly. "No, I don't know. Wanted it to be a surprise this time."

"Hell of a surprise." He snorted, eyes fixated on the road.

The words lit a fuse.

Months of resentment—skipping visits, dodging calls and responsibilities about the older kids, acting like fatherhood was a part-time gig—flared hot. 

"Weren't you the one who fucked a fourth one into me? Pounding away like it was your life's work to breed me, and now you can't even drag your ass to an appointment?" You asked, your eyebrows lifting up. 

Joel's jaw tightened, knuckles whitening on the wheel. "We ain't married no more, woman. What you expect?"

You twisted towards him, ignoring the twinge in your back.

"Responsibility, Joel. Maybe a little?" 

He shot you a sidelong glance then, dark eyes analysing you: the flush on your cheeks, the way your tits heaved with each breath, nipples pebbling against the thin cotton of your dress from the chill. Your belly dominated, round and taut, but his gaze dipped lower to where the hem of your dress hiked up, exposing that creamy expanse of your thighs. 

A slow, cocky smirk curled on his lips. Without warning, his rough hand landed on your leg, calluses scraping deliciously as his thumb stroked inward.

"What if I fill that pretty pussy up again?"

Heat slammed through you, equal parts fury and forbidden want. "You can't be fuckin' serious, Joel. I'm pregnant with your kid, and you're talking about filling me up again?" 

He chuckles low. "Dead serious, hun. Been thinkin' 'bout it since I saw you waddlin' out. Look at you—all ripe and glowin', tits full, belly swollen with what I put there. Makes my cock ache just watchin'."

Your breath hitched, pussy clenching despite the anger boiling in your veins.

He was such an asshole—irresponsible, selfish, the kind of man who fucked first and forgot later—but God, that voice, that possessive grip. 

Hormones raged, leaving you slick and needy, body betraying the sharp words on your tongue. 

"How the hell would that even work? I'm too big."

"You're what? On your 4th, 5th month?" He asks. "Not even that much of a belly yet." He didn't even know the exact month—classic Joel, all instinct, no details. "C'mon, quit whining. Say thank you for the ride. Good girls get rewards."

The truck lurched off the highway onto a rutted dirt path, tires crunching over gravel toward a secluded clearing ringed by dense trees. 

He cut the engine then, the sudden quiet amplifying your racing pulse. Joel unbuckled with a deliberate clink, eyes never leaving yours.

"Wait. We're really gonna do this? Here?"

"Mhm. Been hard since you climbed in, smellin' all sweet" He yanked his belt open, zipper rasping down. 

You watched, fixed, as he shoved his jeans low enough to free his cock—thick, veined, curving up stiff against his belly, that fat head already weeping pre-cum in shiny beads.

A traitorous throb pulsed between your legs. 

So you smirked. "That all for me?"

"Fuck yeah. You kill me like this. Makes me wanna knock you up over and over, keep that belly round with my seed." His voice dropping filthy promise lacing every word.

You unbuckled, heart hammering, and awkwardly maneuvered over the console, belly leading the way. 

Joel's strong hands caught your waist, steadying you as he twisted you around. Your back pressed to his chest, the swell of your stomach facing the wheel, his heat seeping through your dress.

"Careful now," he murmured, breath hot against your neck, one palm cupping your belly protectively. "Don't hurt my baby."

"Our baby," you corrected, voice breathy.

"Yes ma'am," he rumbled, compliant in the moment, the words sending a shiver down your spine.

His fingers dove under your dress, hooking your soaked panties and yanking them aside with zero edfort. The cool air kissed your dripping folds but then the head of his cock nudged your against your entrance. "Gonna slide you down nice and slow. Y'want that?"

"Mhm." You nodded, biting your lip as he guided you, the stretch burning oh so sweetly against your walls. 

Inch by thick inch, he lowered you, your cunt yielding to his girth, fluttering around the invasion.

Then, a sigh escaped you, full and aching, as he bottomed out—cock kissing your cervix, trapped deep in the vice of your pussy.

"Oh, there you go," Joel groaned, arm banding around you, hand splaying wide over your belly in slow, soothing strokes. His other hand gripped your hip, holding you. "So goddamn full now aren't you? And I'm gonna make it even worse. Missed this sweet cunt clenching down on me."

You had missed it too—his raw claim, the way he filled every empty space. 

The conception fuck had been frantic, him bending you over the kitchen aisle, rutting deep until he flooded in you, but this? This was...slower, more intimate for some reason. Your body was hypersensitive from pregnancy. Your pussy clenched around nothing no more; now it gripped him greedily, hormones turning every nerve into fire.

Joel shifted beneath you, hips canting up in a shallow thrust that dragged his cock along your walls. You whined, the sound high and needy, as pleasure sparked low. 

"That's it, baby. Ride my dick like you need it. You're soaking me already, don't you?"

He started moving then, controlled snaps of his hips driving up into you, the angle perfect—hitting that sweet spot inside that made stars burst behind your eyes. 

His hand on your belly pressed firmer, thumb tracing the curve as if memorizing it. 

"Look at this. So swollen." He murmurs. "I'm gonna pump you so full of cum it'll leak out for days."

You moaned, grinding down to meet him, annoyance melting into a raw want. "Joel—fuck, you're such a bastard."

"Yeah, and you love it. Love how I breed this pussy, make it mine."

His free hand roamed up, shoving your dress down to expose one breast, heavy and leaking a drop of colostrum. He pinched the nipple hard, rolling it until you gasped. 

"These tits—gonna be drippin' milk soon. Fuck, I wanna suck 'em dry while I fill you."

His thrusts picked up, wet slaps echoing in the cab as his balls smacked your ass, cock pistoning deep. Sweat slicked your skin, the truck rocking faintly with his rhythm. 

"Gonna knock you up again, hun. Flood that womb till it's overflowin'. Imagine it—your belly gettin' bigger, tits leakin', all 'cause I couldn't keep my cock outta you."

The dirty talk hit like lightning, that toxic breeding obsession you hated but craved, twisting in your core. It was wrong—him irresponsible, you vulnerable—but it made you clench harder, walls rippling around his thickness.

"Shut up—oh God."

He laughed darkly, nipping your earlobe, pace brutal now. "Can't help it. Y'make me feral. Wanna tie you down, fuck load after load into this greedy hole till you're bred proper. No more surprises—just my cum takin' root, stretchin' you out more."

His hand slipped between your thighs, rough fingers finding your clit, circling with just enough pressure to shatter you. 

You bucked, belly bouncing slightly, the fullness overwhelming as his cock dragged in and out, veins pulsing against your sensitive spots. 

"C'mon, baby. Milk my dick. Squeeze out every drop so I can stuff you full."

Pressure built, coiling tight, your moans turning desperate. "Joeljoeljoel."

Joel's breaths came ragged, hips slamming up harder, the head of his cock battering your cervix with each plunge. 

"M'right here. That's my girl. Takin' it so good." He murmurs. "Pussy suckin' me in like it wants my seed. Gonna give it to you, right into that cunt of yours."

You shattered, orgasm ripping through you like a storm, walls convulsing around him, gushing slick that soaked his balls and thighs. "Joel—fuck, yes!"

He growled, thrusts erratic, burying deep one last time. 

"Here it comes—fuck, take it all, honey."

Hot spurts erupted, flooding your pussy, pulse after pulse coating your womb in sticky warmth. 

He held you down, grinding to push it deeper, cum overflowing to drip down your thighs in messy rivulets. 

"Good girl. Ohhh—so fuckin' good. Bred full, just like you deserve."

You panted, slumped against him, his cock still twitching inside as he stroked your belly tenderly. 

The car reeked of sex—musky, filthy, cum and sweat mingling in the humid air. His hand stayed possessive, a temporary peace in the chaos, but you knew the spell would break. For now, though, with his seed leaking sticky from your stuffed pussy and his warmth enveloping you, it felt dangerously like belonging.

Taglist: @vickie5446 @thatgirlmendo @ihearttdilfs @pickyeater13 @sweetiegirl16 @afyreinjuly @shivispunk @kyloispunk @marisemonteiroo @meetmeatyourworst @joelmillerswife9 @iveseenstrangerthings50 @idrkman @blueberryfruittart @vanishintoyoubby @dlwrish @brittmb115 @xcallmetaniax @umadirectioner @millersweetheart @wildthyng @armandispunk @chick66i @bratty-spicee @am1a-niigo @hopelessromantic727 @styleslfreak @psclcain @susieqorion24 @rxsemarinusx @jandtmillersgirl @fertilise-me @mitskilover88 @lostboys1987girl @begginforthread @pinkangelglitterdusttt @facethepascal @ddiana111 @twilightblogss @cheeseizts @pedrosgirl03 @swimmingnightcolor @gabfromgreedycity @bartzabel4 @blueflowerstranger @madnessofadaydreamer @sadie6sinks6slut @hopelessromantic727 @miramindlesslywriting

Divider: @fae-and-wolf

[littledes1re]

Little Fawn

Pairing: Old!joel miller x female!reader

Summary: In a camp where survival depends on silence and obedience, you hide in the supplies tent, trying to outrun the shadow of the man who once pulled you out of the woods and claimed you as his own. But when a cruel voice cuts too deep and old wounds split open, you retreat to the only place you can fall apart unseen—only to find Joel stepping into the dark after you, his presence a reminder of the bond you shouldn’t want, and the one you can’t seem to break.

Warnings: 18+, smut, fluff, fauxcest, taboo dynamics, daddy kink, reader calls Joel dad, ddlg themes, age gap (20s and 60s), dom!daddy!joel, praise kink, pinv, nipple pinching/rubbing, clit rubbing, fingering, creampie, unprotected sex, squirting (once), finger sucking, pet names, joel calls reader bambi, little fawn and little one, kinda icky, insecure!reader, sub!reader, outbreak

A/N: Okey… if you don’t like things like this, I gently encourage you to just scroll or block me. This isn’t even the most taboo or ‘icky’ thing out there, but fandoms are really falling apart right now because of censorship and people’s inability to differentiate fiction from reality. So many writers are deactivating or taking their fics down, and it’s honestly really sad. If you enjoy this, the best way to support fic writers is by leaving a comment or a reblog—it helps to keep the fandom alive while everything feels like it’s crumbling. Anyways...I really hope yall enjoy this pookies!! <3

It was all a big, fucking mess.

Missing clothes darped haphazardly over boxes like ghosts of forgotten wardrobes—socks unpaired and with holes in them, jackets with messy hems spilling from open bags, and shirts crumpled into balls that might have once shielded someone from the biting chill.

You searched through the mess, fingers numb where the cold slipped through your thin gloves, trying to bring some order to it.

Across the tent, weapons laid scattered in a mockery of readiness—a rifle slumped against a stack of boxes, knives strewn like fallen leaves over the workbench, a pistol halfly buried under belts, its grip worn smooth from fear‑tightened hands. 

The supplies tent was a tangled symphony of neglect that you inherited by your own choice. 

You, were the one to volunteer for this job, the endless counting, packing, arranging and preparing that no one else dared to even touch. 

And all because it kept you hidden, buried in the grit and grime, far from the piercing gaze of the man who had become your unwilling anchor. 

Joel, the leader of this ragged group of survivors, was the one who had stumbled upon you in the frozen wasteland, your body curled in a fragile knot against the merciless cold, breath shallow as a whisper on the wind. He had pulled you from death's numb embrace, wrapped you in his coat that smelled of earth, and carried you back to this fragile resemblance of life. From that moment on, he treated you like the daughter fate had stolen from him, his rough hands gentle in their guidance, his voice a low rumble that insisted purpose where despair already has taken root. 

But purpose came laced with something deeper, rumours that twisted in your chest like vines overtaking a crumbling wall, and so you fled into the shadows of this tent, avoiding the warmth of his presence that both soothed and cared.

The canned goods were cluttered in the lower shelves, their labels peeling, revealing dents and bulges that spoke about expiration dates long past. You lifted one after another, the weight heavy in your palms, peering at the faded ink that marked them as relics of a world that no longer existed. 

A voice sliced through the quiet like a blade through fog then.

"This place is a disaster," he snarled, "No wonder we can't find anything. Look at this—half the ammo's scattered like fuckin' confetti, and these cans? Christ, they're older than the damn outbreak."

It belonged to Leon, one of the newer men of the group, his face weathered by the apocalypse but twisted now with frustration as he stormed into your space, boots kicking aside a stray boot in his haste. 

You opened your mouth, but only a stutter escaped—a soft, halting: "I-I'm... trying to—" before it died on your lips. 

Defense was a foreign language to you, vulnerability had been your shield and your curse, for a long, long time.  

You shrank back, eyes dropping to the floor as if dirt could swallow you whole.

And he didn't stop, his anger swelling on. "Only reason you're still here is 'cause Joel dragged you in like some stray," he growled, the words dripping with disdain, painting you as a burden. "Half frozen mutt he pitied. Without him, you'd be buzzard food by now. So maybe stop fuckin' up and earn your keep." 

The insult hit you deep, twisting the knife of your insecurities, and you just stood there, silent and small, your throat tight with the unshed tears and the weight of his judgment. 

But Leon didn't notice the shift in the air, the subtle thickening as a presence entered the room. He didn't see Joel standing by the tent flap, entered silently, drawn by some instinct that always seemed to pull him towards you, his girl. 

He watched, his jaw set and tight, eyes narrowing as the man's tirade unfolded, each word fuelling the quiet storm brewing within him.

When Leon turned around, his confidence evaporated like mist under the sun. There was no mistaking the aura that radiated from Joel: stern, unyielding, a force that filled the tent like smoke from a fire. 

He was the leader, the authority etched into every survivor's bone in this group; the man whose word was law in this godforsaken lawless world.

Cross him, especially on his girl, and you were cast out into the wilds, where mercy was nonexistent.

 Joel's gaze pinned Leon in place, dark and unblinking, the lines of his face carved deeper by the weight of command and the raw possessiveness that surged for you.

"What the hell do'ya think you doin'?" Joels voice was low at first, that gradually became a loud roar. "You don't talk to her like that. Not ever. She's worth ten of you and if you forget that again, you're gone—out there with the infected and the dead."

The yell was possessive, a statement that echoed his claim on you, the daughter he had taken from ice and hopelessness, the one whose every stutter, every tremble, multiplied his protective fury. His chest heaved quickly, veins standing out on his neck, the air crackling with the intensity of a father defending his own—or something dangerously close to even more?

Joel turned to you then, his expression softening just for a tiny moment: "Go on to your tent, honey'," he said. 

You nodded quickly, legs unsteady as you gathered your coat, slipping past him with a brush of shoulders that sent a forbidden spark through you, his scent drifting into your awareness before you can stop it.

As you vanished, Joel came closer to Leon, his voice dropping to a whisper that cut deeper than any shout. "If you even dare to raise your voice against her again, it'll be the last damn time you ever speak."

He nodded jerkily, face pale as snow, and backed out of the tent without another word, the flap swinging shut behind him loudly.

Alone now, Joel exhaled a long, deep sigh, his shoulders slumping as the tension bled from his frame. He never wanted to raise his voice like that, ever. Not with you nearby, not when every yell took away this fragile peace he tried to build just for you, his girl, the new-found light he had pulled from the frozen dark. 

But that's who Joel was...for you, he would roar down the heavens if it kept the shadows at bay.

The rain already eased into a small drizzles as Joel stepped out of the supplies tent, his camp sprawled before him: a cluster of weathered tents, wet by the rain and surrounded by leafless trees. Smoke curled lazily from a central fire pit, where a few survivors stirred a pot of thin stew, their faces marked by the things they had endured. 

Joel's boots sank into the mud with each stride, the cold seeping through the leather, but he paid it no mind; the chill in his bones was nothing compared to the one gnawing at his heart.

"Tim!" he barked, his voice cutting through the murmur of the camp. "Patrol's leavin' in ten. You, Leon, and Livia—check the perimeter east of the ridge. Infected tracks reported last night; don't get sloppy." 

The younger scavenger poked his head out from behind a stack of firewood, his hair damp and clinging to his neck. 

Leon, still pale from the earlier confrontation, nodded mutely, avoiding Joel's gaze as he slunk towards the armory tent to gear up. Joel watched him go, a flicker of satisfaction run through him—no one touched his girl, not with words, not with anything else. 

Turning to the others, Joel continued his demands, calloused hands resting on his hips. 

"Billy, you reinforce the watchtower—those boards are rotted through. And Clint, you and the kid handle the traps; reset 'em along the water. We need fresh meat if this rain don't let up."

His hands moved with practiced efficiency—clapping a shoulder here, pointing emphatically there—his presence a stronghold against the spreading despair that threatened to swallow them all once. The group responded to him instinctively, their movements quickening under his check, the camp starting to awake again. 

Yet beneath it all, in the shadowed place of his mind, you lingered like a faint melody, pulling at him with an ache that no amount of barked commands could drown.

His girl. 

The thought of you wrapped around him, warm but tormenting, as he walked towards the map tent to plot the next supply raid. He had sent you to your tent like some kind of mutt, dismissed with a gruff exterior that masked the tenderness he yearned to unleash. 'Honey', he called you, the word slipping out like a confession, but you slipped away just as quickly, your eyes downcast, body tense with that avoidance that you wore like your armor. 

If you weren't dodging him at every turn, at every god damned path, he would have followed you right then—pushed aside the flap of your shelter, knelt besides you, and pulled you into his arms until the world's cruelties melted away. 

But you were a ghost to him now, haunting the edges of his vision, and the distance you enforced carved deeper than any infected could bite.

The memory tugged at him then, pulling him back through the veil of time to that frozen eve when he'd first claimed you from winters ruthless grips.  

It was a night etched in ice and desperation, the world blanketed in snow, muffling the distant howls of the infected nearby.

Joel had been scavenging alone, his back-pack light, but his rifle heavy across his back, when he spotted you—a huddled form against the base of a snow-laden cliff, your body curled into itself like a wild fawn seeking safety and shelter. 

Half-frozen to death; your lips blue tinted, breath a faint mist that barely stirred in the air, clothes ragged and already crusted with frost. You were a vision of fragility in this unforgiving realm, and in that moment something primal stirred in Joels chest—a fierce, paternal urge to shield what the apocalypse had nearly shattered.

He dropped to his knees besides you, gloved hands gentle as they brushed snow from your face, the touch coaxing a shiver from your chilled frame. 

"Hey, hey now," he murmured, his voice sweet and coaxing like honey laced with gravel. "Ain't leavin' you out here to freeze. C'mon, let's get you all warm."

With effortless strength, he scooped you up, arms strong, protected around you and carried you to a sheltered hollow where he quickly set up a small, but efficient camp—a trap strung between trees, a fire pit in the middle, and something soft to sleep on. 

The flames he coaxed to life danced shadows across your almost colourless skin as he stripped away your sodden layers with careful hands, wrapping you in his own coat, thick and smelling of pine smoke and his warmth. You trembled in his arms, teeth chattering and Joel drew you close, his body a furnace against yours, you cuddled into the curve of his chest until the shivers turned into quiet breaths. 

One hand stroked your hair in rhythmic passes, the other rubbed slow circles on your back.

"That's it," he whispered, his breath warm against your ear, calming as a lullaby in the storm. "I've got you. Just breathe, sweetheart. Where you come from? Lost out here all alone, hm?'"

Your voice was a fragile thread when it once came, stuttering and faint, spilling the fragments of a shattered past, settling the last pieces of hope you have on this gruff stranger.

You talked, and talked. A family torn by the outbreak, days of wandering through blizzards alone and at one point the days blurred in line between living and surrender. 

Joel listened without judgment, his nods steady, eyes full of empathy that held your gaze without flinching. And when hunger clawed at you, he didn't hand you the rations; instead, he broke off pieces of jerky with his fingers, feeding you gently from his hand, one by one, the salt melting on your lips. 

"Open up," he coaxed, his thumb brushing your chin, the intimacy of the act weaving an invisible bond. 

Then water followed from his old bottle, tilted carefully so you could sip without spilling, his free hand supporting your head, murmuring encouragements until color returned to your cheeks.

Winter days started to blur into an each one another of shared survival and comfort. The two of you holed up in that makeshift haven as snow piled high outside. Joel hunted in the mean time, strengthened the shelter around you, and tended to you with a devotion that surprised even him...a man only hollowed by loss, now filling the void with your quiet, genlte presence. 

He watched you closely, noting in his head the way overwhelm shadowed in your eyes when the wind howled too fiercely, how viulnerability clung to you. You were a delicate bloom in this hopeless wasteland, oh how easily you were  crushed by the weight of existence. It steered something deep in Joel, a need to be your shelter; your steady hand. 

One evening, as the sun set, you sat by the fire, knees drawn to your chest, and admitted something: "I can't do this by myself. Everything's just too big, too much. I need...I need someone to look after me." And "Like the cold out there, it grabbed me and wouldn't let go, and now even this warmth feels overwhelming, like I might melt away or something...I need...I need someone to look after me. Someone to tell me it's okay when my head spins and I can't breathe right. What if I freeze again? Or what if the noises outside get louder? I just...I don't know how to make it stop being so much."

The words hung between you that day, raw and revealing, and when you looked up at him, eyes wide with unspoken plea, you whispered, 'Dad.' The title landed like match on dry grass, but catching Joels attention more than ever. 

He couldn't resist; pulling you into his lap, he cradled you close, his chin resting on your head, promising silently to be that for you—the father fate had denied him once over, your guardian against the dark.

But the nights deepened the bond into something more tangled, more forbidden. 

One such evening, in the closeness of the small tent, the air thick with the scent of damp wood and the chill, you turned to him in the shared bedroll. 

Bodies pressed together for warmth, your form molding to his like clay on the potter's wheel, and in that quiet intimacy, you kissed him—a small brush of lips that slowly but surely  bloomed into hunger. 

"Daddy," you breathed against his mouth, the word a velvet plea, followed by 'Dad' laced with sweet longing. 

Joel's restraint fractured like thin ice; his hands roamed your curves with hunger, he hadn't felt for years—peeling away layers until skin met skin, his cock hardening against your thigh as desire overrode the lines of propriety.

He entered you slowly, inch by deliberate inch, his thick, girthy length stretching your warmth with a gentleness that calmed the storm within you. 

"Shh, baby girl," he cooed, voice husky and commanding, hips rocking in a measured rhythm that built slowly over time. You clung to him, nails digging into his back, moans spilling as he fucked you deep and thorough, each thrust an erasure of the shadows haunting your mind: the infected, the losses, the loneliness and the cold.

His pace quickened, possessive and unrelenting, pounding into your sticky pussy until your cries echoed his name in variations of devotion, cum flooding you in hot pulses as ecstasy shattered every bad thought. 

In that night, Joel learned your truths: you needed a steady hand to guide you, someone to call 'Dad' that anchored your soul, a cock to fuck you senseless until the world faded to irrelevance, leaving only the pulse of shared release. 

Days turned into a haze, tents pitched in hidden groves where he'd take you against cold walls, caring for you with meals fed from his fingers and nights blurred by sweat-slicked skin and cum filled cunt. 

And when you two finally returned into his small camp after endless miles of this intimate journey—your body marked by his touch, heart entwined with his—he envisioned a life where you did no labor, simply waited in his tent, legs spread in welcome, his to protect and possess. 

"Stay with me, darlin'," he murmured, tracing patterns on your thigh. "Let me handle it all."

But rumours started to spread like wildfire 

on dry bushes, untrue whispers that poisoned this fragile relationship that you have built. 

Someone overheard your breathy 'Dad' in a moment of overwhelm, twisting it into a scandal. 

Another caught the sounds of your shared tent, moans misconstrued as depravity. Whispers evolved: "She's got him wrapped around her finger, that stray he dragged in."

The words reached to you, burrowing like thorns, making you feel small, misunderstood—a weirdo in a world that already judged harshly. 

So...the ache in your heart swelled until it bursted: you ended it, pulling away with tear-streaked face, declaring it over to spare him the shame.

Joel was absolutely heartbroken, the pain in his chest an ache that echoed with your absence, but he didn't let you go. He checked on you regularly—slipping rations to your tent, watching you from afar as you navigated the camp, ensuring your safety with a stubbornness that bordered on obsession. 

Yet he couldn't bear it longer: your avoidance, the careful dance of distance, the sidelong glances from the group, their murmurs like knives, your belief that you are weird, tainted, when to him you were this salvation incarnate.

As his thoughts faded, Joel found himself adrift in the present, his orders trailing off as he stared at the map spread before him. The camp still buzzed around him, patrols forming, tasks underway, but his mind was a whirlwind of you—vulnerable, evasive, his girl who needed him more than she knew. 

He couldn't take the separation anymore; tonight, he'll connect the gap, pull you back into the fold where you belonged, forbidden pull be damned, rumors silenced by the strength of his claim.

-

As the sun dipped low beneath the horizon, painting the camp in bruised purples and fading golds, Joel felt the weight of the day slowly settle into his bones. 

He couldn't bear the silence any longer, the way you'd retreated into your shell after the supplies tent moment, your avoidance a blade twisting deeper and deeper with every passing hour. 

His feet carried him unerringly through the mud slicked paths, past the murmurs of the group settling in for the night, until he stood before your tent—larger than the cramped quarters of the men, a sanctuary he'd insisted on crafting for you, and only you, alone.

He poured his callused hands into making it a haven, didn't he? 

The frame reinforced with scavenged wood, the canvas walls doubled for insulation against the relentless chill. Inside, he built the bed himself—a sturdy frame of rough wood, topped with a mattress stuffed with whatever soft fibers he could forage, layered with blankets pilfered from forgotten homes. 

Cushions and pillows, sewn from scraps of fabric, scattered for your comfort. A small table he made from a fallen log, wobbly but earnest. Shelves cobbled together for your few treasure—an old book, a carved wooden fawn he shaped in quiet moments—all of it born from his desire to wrap you in coziness, to shield your fragile spirit from the world's jagged edges. 

Oh, how grateful you've been once, your eyes lighting with a warmth that melted the ice in his chest. 

Now, as evening deepened, Joel hesitated at the flap, his broad fist hovering, a rare feeling of fear coiling in his gut. 

What if you turned him away? 

What if the chasm you'd carved between you had grown too wide to bridge? 

He was Joel Miller, the unbreakable leader of this ragged band, yet here he was, scared like a little boy before confession. 

Swallowing the knot in his throat, he knocked three times on the wooden part, soft enough not to startle, firm enough to announce his presence.

"Darlin'?" he called out, voice threaded with caution. "It's me. Joel."

The flap parted after a long moment, and there you stood, framed in the warm lantern light that spilled from within, your brows furrowed in a frown that tugged at his heartstrings.

Your eyes—those sweet, doe eyes that had first drawn him in—were rimmed red, lashes clumped with the remains of tears. The sight hit him like a gut punch; rage surged hot and immediate, a visceral urge to hunt down Leon and drive his fist into that sneering face until the man tasted the blood of his own regret. 

How dare anyone reduce you to this—his girl, curled in on herself, wounded by words sharper than any blade in this merciless world?

"Can I come in?" Joel asked, his tone gentle, eyes searching yours with a plea he couldn't voice. 

You nodded, a small, reluctant dip of your chin, stepping aside to let him pass. 

The tent was a cocoon of warmth, cozy and sweet, mirroring the tender heart you hid away from everyone. The lantern light bathed the space in a golden haze, softening the edges of the handmade furniture, the pillows plump and inviting on the bed where you so often curled like a fawn seeking shelter. 

Joel knew your habits intimately—how you drew your knees to your chest, burrowing into the nest of blankets, your form small and vulnerable, evoking those pet names he'd whispered in quieter times: Little Fawn, Bambi, fragments that captured your innocence amid the brutality. 

"You didn't need to defend me there," you said. "I could've just done it myself."

Even as the words left your lips, you knew they were hollow; Leons yelling had left you stammering, small and exposed. 

He turned to you, his dark eyes steady, holding yours with an intensity that peeled away your defenses layer by layer.

"I know," he replied. "But ain't gonna leave you alone like that. Not ever." 

You scoffed, the whispers of the camp echoing in your mind again, their side glances branding you as the weird one, the stray with the leader wrapped around her finger. 

Crossing your arms, you sank onto the bed, curling your frame, knees tucked close, gaze fixated on a spot in the corner. Tears started to well anew, hot and insistent, blurring the edges of the room as vulnerability crashed over you like a relentless wave.

"Oh, little fawn..." Joel murmured, the petname that was meant to soothe the hurt he saw etched in every line of your body.

"Don't," you whispered, voice cracking, turning your face away as the first tears traced down your cheeks. "Don't call me that." 

The plea was raw, laced with the ache of the loss for the intimacy those words once evoked, now tainted by the misunderstanding, by the fear that you were too weird, too needy in a world that devoured the weak.

Undeterred, Joel lowered himself besides you on the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight, while his presence was a grounding force amid your unraveling. You curled up tighter, a defensive coil, but he didn't press...instead, he sat close enough that the heat of him radiated through the space between, a silent promise of shelter.

"You remember the first time you called me Dad?" he asked, his voice a gentle murmur. 

You flinched at the word, an involuntary shiver rippling through you, the title stirring a hollow ache in your chest—an echo of warmth now soured by shame.

"I didn't think much of it," Joel continued softly, his hand rising with slowness to stroke your hair, fingers threading through the strands. Each pass was measured, calming, tracing the curve of your scalp as if it was to unravel the knots of your turmoil. "But I knew that your little heart calmed down after you called me that. Like the world's weight lifted, just a tiny bit." 

His touch was poetry in motion, rough palms gentle by intent, evoking memories of winter nights when his care had been your lifeline.

You sniffled, the sound small, peeking at him through your wet eyelashes. His eyes held no judgment, only a deep, unwavering understanding—of how you needed to be taken care of, how the chaos overwhelmed you until you felt little, drifting into a headspace where distractions pulled you like a dream. 

He saw that now in your hazy gaze, the faraway drift, your mind retreating to that vulnerable place where the world's edges softened into safety.

"I didn't find it weird," he pressed on, voice dropping to a husky whisper. "God—that's the least forsaken thing in this damned world I would find weird. In a place where the dead's walk and trust is a luxury we can't afford anymore, y'callin' me Dad? That's just...you needin' what we all crave deep down. Someone that holsd the pieces together."

"Are you sure?" you whispered, the question fragile as breath itself, seeking absolution in his gaze, your tears slowing to a quiet trickle as his words pierced the fog of self doubt.

"Course, baby," Joel nodded, his affirmation steady. "Nothing weird about wanting to be taken care of. Hell, we've all got our fractures; yours just call for a steady hand, that's all."

He paused, his hand stilling in your hair, thumb brushing a stray tear from your cheek. 

"You think I wouldn't have cared for you if I didn't? I wouldn't have built this bed, poured sweat into these cushions and shelves, made you all these things, hm? Every nail, every stitch—it was for you, darlin'. To give you a corner of peace in this madness."

You shrugged, a small, uncertain lift of your shoulders, the gesture speaking volumes of the doubt that lingered and lingered, but Joel leaned in then, closing the distance with a tenderness. His lips pressed to your forehead, warm, a kiss like sunlight breaking through storm clouds, sealing his words with an unspoken promise.  

"My little fawn," he breathed against your skin, the endearment a balm, wrapping around your heart.

Something in you yielded at last, the walls crumbling under the weight of his care. You snuggled into him, your body unfolding from its curl to press against his chest, burying your head into the crook of his neck where the scent of him enveloped you like a homecoming. A soft sigh escaped you, tears soaking into his flannel as the tension disappeared, replaced by the quiet rhythm of his heartbeat.

"That's right," Joel cooed, his arms encircling you fully now, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other rubbing slow, soothing circles along your back. "Come to Dad. I've got you, little one. Always will." 

His voice was like a lullaby in the dark, where the world's cruelties faded to whispers, leaving only the profound poetry of two souls intertwining once more.

You nestled even deeper into him, the tears slowly drying, but a deeper ache stirred within, a  pull towards that hazy headspace that tugged you into the depths where only his touch could anchor you. 

With a soft, instinctive motion, you reached for one of his hands—those rough, capable hands of his that built your world—and guided it towards your lips, your mouth parting to draw his thumb inside, sucking gently at first, the salt of his skin a familiar comfort blooming on your tongue.

Joel's breath hitched at that, followed by a low rumble vibrating through his chest as he watched you, his dark eyes softening with a mix of adoration and understanding. 

Without hesitation, he shifted his hand, cupping your cheek with his palm, angling his thumb deeper into the wet warmth of your mouth so you could nurse on it more fully, the pad pressing against the soft roof as your lips sealed around it. He leaned down, his lips brushing the crown of your head in a feather-light kiss. 

"There you go, baby," he murmured, his southern drawl a soothing balm, thick and warm like honey drizzled over wounds. "Suck a little deeper if it feels right...yeah, just like that."

His words were a gentle coo, laced with that paternal sweetness that made your heart flutter and your core clench in equal measure, his free arm tightening around your waist to rock you slowly from side to side, a rhythmic sway that mimicked the lullabies of forgotten cradles.

You whimpered around his thumb, the sound muffled and needy, your tongue swirling lazily and lazily as the subspace slowly deepened, pulling you further into that floaty haze where thoughts dissolved like mist under sun. The rocking motion lulled you, his body a cozy cocoon of flannel and muscle, but the whimpers grew insistent, threading with a whine that Joel knew all too well: you were craving the grounding force only he could provide. 

His cock stirred in his jeans, thickening against your thigh, but he focused on you, sensing the urgency in your escalating sounds, the way your hips shifted restlessly. 

He knew this dance like the back of his hand; your subspace made you far gone, adrift in a sea of need, and only the deep, claiming thrust of his cock—followed by the shattering release of orgasms—could reel you back, tethering you to the present with waves of pleasure that washed away the darkness.

"Oh, sweet thing," Joel whispered, his voice a velvet rumble as his hand slipped beneath the hem of your shirt, calloused fingers tracing the soft curve of your belly before finding the swell of your breasts. 

He cupped one gently, thumb and forefinger rolling over your nipple, teasing it to a stiff peak with slow, deliberate circles that sent sparks down your spine. The touch was feather light at first, then firmer, pinching just enough to draw a gasp from you, your mouth releasing his thumb with a wet pop, a glistening string of saliva connecting your lips to his skin like a fragile bridge of intimacy. 

"Shh, babygirl, Daddy's just gonna touch you here...nice and easy." He murmured at your whines. 

You whimpered louder at that, the sound raw and pleading, your hazy eyes locking onto his. 

"Take care of me, Daddy. Please," you breathed out, your voice small and fractured, laced with the desperate ache of your subspace.

Joel's heart swelled at the plea, his little fawn so needy, so beautifully lost in that vulnerable space he cherished and protected. 

He wouldn't dream of denying you—never. 

This was his purpose, to soothe and claim, to fill every hollow part of you with his devotion. 

"Oh, I know, honey," he whispered, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple, his beard scraping softly against your skin as he eased you back onto the bed, the pillows cradling your head like a nest woven for you alone. 

The mattress dipped under your weight, the blankets rumpling invitingly as he positioned you, his body hovering protectively above you. 

With tender care, he tucked his finger back into your mouth—this time his index finger, sliding it past your lips so you could suckle greedily, your tongue laving the length as if it were sustenance for your soul. 

"There, suck on that for Dad, yea? Keeps you nice and calm while I take care of the rest."

His other hand trailed downwards, slipping beneath the waistband of your pants to find the slick heat of your cunt. You were already so soaked, your folds swollen and parting eagerly under his touch, the sticky evidence of your need coating his fingers as he traced your slit. 

"God, look at you, Bambi...all wet and achin' for me," he cooed, his voice dripping with praise. "This for daddy, huh, honey? Dripping, achy pussy."

He pressed two fingers inside you without warning, stuffing your pussy full in one smooth glide, the stretch burning sweetly as your walls clenched around the intrusion, spasming with desperate hunger. You whined against his finger in your mouth, the vibration humming through him, your hips bucking instinctively to take him deeper.

"Biiig stretch, baby, yea?" his tone coaxing and babying, like an old man spinning tales to his most cherished kin. 

"Big stretch..." you repeated messily around his finger. 

Satisfied with your answer, he curled his fingers inside you, stroking that sensitive spot with expert precision, his thumb circling your clit in lazy loops that made your thighs tremble. 

The wet sounds of his movements filled the tent: slick, obscene squelches that mingled with your muffled whimpers whike the air started growing thick with the musky scent of your arousal, sticky and intimate. 

"Y'gonna rub your nipples for me? Pinch 'em, for Dad? Show me how good you can be while I finger this pretty little cunt, c'mon." His words were filthy yet laced with such profound sweetness.

Obediently, lost in the haze, you released his finger just enough to slide your hands under your shirt, fingers finding your nipples and pinching them hard, rolling the peaks between your thumbs and forefingers until they throbbed in time with the thrusts of his hand. 

The dual sensation overwhelmed you—mouth full, pussy stuffed, breasts aching under your own touch—your mind traveling further into that blissful subspace. 

Joel watched, absolutely mesmerised, his eyes full of love. 

"That's it, Bambi." He murmurs. "Pinch a little more if it helps, yeah? make 'em ache like your cunny does for me."

The pace build as your juices start to leak down his knuckles, coating his palm in your sticky essence. 

Overstimulated and lost in the velvet haze of your headspace, Joel's relentless fingers curled inside your gushing pussy one more time; stroking that swollen spot until pressure build like a storm in your core, your cries of "Dad, too much—m'gonna...oh..." fracturing into a needy sob as a sudden, tiny squirt escaped, warm fluid arcing in a delicate spray across his wrist and your quivering belly forming a filthy little puddle.

"Easy now, darlin', let it all out for Dad—juuuust like that, baby." he cooed.

Your mouth stilled around his finger, lips parting in a silent cry as your cunt pulsed wildly around his digits, gushing more slick that soaked the bed beneath you. Your hands fell from your nipples, trembling, as waves of ecstasy rippled through you, pulling a choked sob from your throat. 

Joel slowed his movements then, drawing out the aftershocks with gentle strokes, his gaze drinking in the sight of you splayed out before him—cheeks flushed, lips swollen and glistening, eyes glazed in that beautiful, vulnerable haze. 

Beautiful. Sweet. His little fawn, trembling and spent yet still yearning.

"Please," you whined, voice breathy and broken, rocking your hips against the hard bulge straining his jeans, the friction drawing a deep groan from his chest. "Your cock, Dad. Need it inside me." 

"S'alright, honey," Joel soothed, his voice a tender rumble as he withdrew his fingers from your mouth with a wet pop, then from your pussy, leaving you clenching around emptiness. 

He shifted, unbuckling his belt with practiced ease, shoving his jeans down just enough to free his cock— thick and veined, the head already beaded with pre-cum, curving upward in rigid need. 

"Daddy's gonna give you what you need. Spread those pretty legs for me, darlin'."

You complied, thighs parting wide, exposing your dripping cunt to the cool air, the sticky mess of your release gleaming in the lantern light. 

He knelt between them, gripping his shaft and nudging the blunt tip against your entrance, teasing with shallow dips—in just the head, then out, coating himself in your slick—each withdrawal pulling a breathless whine from you. 

"Dad... please," you begged, hips going up, chasing the fullness.

He played a moment longer, savoring your desperation, the way your pussy fluttered against him, before sinking in fully with one smooth thrust, burying himself to the hilt in your welcoming heat. You moaned loudly, the sound echoing unchecked through the tent flaps, uncaring of the camp beyond—let them hear; you were his, and this was your healing.

Joel groaned low, his forehead pressing to yours, breath sharp as he bottomed out, your walls stretching around his girth, the icky squelch of your combined wetness filling the space.

"Fuck, baby girl...so tight."

He built a comfortable rhythm just for you then—slow, deep rolls of his hips that ground against your clit with every thrust, designed to unravel your thoughts, to flood your mind with nothing but sensation.

"Thaaat's it, honey, feel me stretchin' this sweet pussy," he whispered praises against your ear, "Dad's got you, gonna fuck all those bad thoughts away."

You whined 'Dad' and 'Daddy' endlessly, lips swollen from biting them, eyes rolling back as the pleasure built, your pussy gushing around him in sticky waves, the lewd slap of skin on skin growing wetter, messier with every drive.

"Did you miss me? Hm, baby?" He asked, softly pinching your chin between his fingers. "You're my everything, you know that? Gonna coax another cum outta this pretty hole, make you forget every damn whisper out there."

He babied you through it all, one hand stroking your hair, the other pinning your hip gently, his thrusts never faltering—filthy in their depth, yet so profoundly sweet in intent.

"Daddy...Dad, it's too much." You bucked your hips against him.

"Shh, I know, I know. My sweet little girl." he pressed a gentle kiss on your temple, breathing in your scent.

The pressure coiled tight, and when you shattered again, your cunt clamping down in rhythmic pulses, milking him relentlessly, Joel followed with a guttural groan, burying deep as he came inside you, hot ropes of cum flooding your pussy in a creamy creampie that overflowed, leaking out around his base in thick, icky trails.

"Yea, there we fuckin' go," he panted, still rocking shallowly to prolong the bliss, his voice husky with satisfaction. "All the thoughts fucked away now, huh? Look at you."

You nodded weakly, mind blissfully blank, body limp in the afterglow.

Joel eased his cock out with care, watching as his cum leaked from your well fucked pussy, pearly white mixing with your slick in a messy puddle on the sheets.

The sight stirred him anew, and before you could protest the sensitivity, he plunged two fingers back inside, stirring the creaminess, drawing a sharp whine from your oversensitive walls.

"Shh, hey. Easy now, easy. Just one more, honey," he hushed softly, his tone pure indulgence as he brought the other cum smeared fingers to your mouth. "Suck on 'em for Daddy, c'mon—taste how good we are together, focus on dad."

You latched on in instinctively, tongue swirling around the salty sweet tang of his release mixed with yours, the act so intimately, so cozy in its rawness. His fingers in your pussy worked gently, curling to hit that spot again, thumb rubbing your clit building you towards one final peak until you came with a muffled cry, your body shuddering as fresh slick coated his hand.

Satisfied at that, Joel withdrew his fingers, trailing sweet kisses across your body—forehead, cheeks, the curve of your neck, down to your breasts where he lingered, suckling on your nipple briefly before murmuring against your skin. 

"You're my everything, darlin'. My whole world in this godforsaken place."

He then gathered you close, pulling the blankets over you both, his arms wrapping securely as he rocked you side to side once more, the motion lulling you into peace. 

"I'm gonna take care of you, no matter what they say out there." He whispered. "Sleep now, little fawn. Dad's right here."

And as your eyes drifted shut, the tent a cocoon of sticky warmth and whispered devotion, you slipped into slumber, anchored fully in his love again.

Finally. 

I don’t know if I like this or not… I tried a new writing style, making it a tad bit ‘poetic,’ but I think I failed at a few moments. A lot of paragraphs are translated from German because I didn’t know how else to write them, and I’m sorry if some of it feels a bit weird.

Anyways, I hope it met some expectations, and I’m really excited to see what y’all say. <3

Taglist: @vickie5446 @thatgirlmendo @ihearttdilfs @pickyeater13 @sweetiegirl16 @afyreinjuly @shivispunk @kyloispunk @marisemonteiroo @meetmeatyourworst @joelmillerswife9 @iveseenstrangerthings50 @idrkman @blueberryfruittart @vanishintoyoubby @dlwrish @brittmb115 @xcallmetaniax @umadirectioner @millersweetheart @wildthyng @armandispunk @chick66i @bratty-spicee @am1a-niigo @hopelessromantic727 @styleslfreak @psclcain @susieqorion24 @rxsemarinusx @jandtmillersgirl @fertilise-me @mitskilover88 @lostboys1987girl @begginforthread @pinkangelglitterdusttt @facethepascal @ddiana111 @twilightblogss @cheeseizts @pedrosgirl03 @swimmingnightcolor @gabfromgreedycity @bartzabel4 @blueflowerstranger @Madnessofadaydreamer @sadie6sinks6slut t @hopelessromantic727 @miramindlesslywriting

[millersweetheart]

I love this and thank you for talking about the recent stuff that has been happening in fandoms!!

[dilf-docs]

sucking old man!joel miller (+18) ╱ want to read more? click here

you drag your tongue in a lazy line down towards his waistband, right over the messy trail of curly unkempt hair over his belly before it looses itself under his jeans.

"these need to go off" you murmur, fluttering eyelashes and eyes all innocent. like a show.

"what for? 'm gonna come in this fucking pants 'fore you even get my dick inside that filthy mouth of yours" he chastises, voice low and gravelly, fingers tightening around your hair.

"want me to stop?" you ask sweetly.

joel tugs the fistful of strands on his closed fist harshly to make you look up.

"did i say i do?"

your fingers find the buttons. "no"

through gritted teeth, "then don't"

your chest flutters at his lack of patience and self-restraint.

"i've got you good, haven't i, old man?" you tease without malice, but a lick of your lips might say otherwise.

"shut up and hurry" he says, a breathy sound slipping in between.

one thing about your man is, behind closed doors, inhibitions are gone: never would townsfolk guess that who they feared upon his arrival, stories and blood trailing behind, or the one they've come to respect, he who has put his worn hands into expanding their home, is such a noisy little crying thing in bed.

(be it how touch starved he was or age, you feel blessed)

another thing is, he loves to have your mouth around his cock, not caring how loud and messy he can get when that happens.

"impatient, aren't we?" as you unbutton and get rid of his belt. it lands with a thud in the silent room filled only with your teasing and his gasps for air, lungs getting all worked up.

"quit teasin'" as he helps you bring them down until it hits the floor, "actin' like you don't love to have your pretty lips 'round me"

"never said i didn't. i just love to see you all flustered"

he scoffs, "you're mean"

"i'm yours"

joel chuckles weakly, "how's that supposed to correlate?"

"because you chose me" you pull the soaked sticky underwear down, "means you like me the way i am"

his cock springs free: thick, slapping up against the swell of his soft stomach with a wet smack, its angry red head throbbing with need as it leaks with precum.

"no, 's 'cause i love you"

your thighs press together as your heart beats. he lets out a smug chuckle at your silence, eyes telling.

"this the part where you say i love you, joel back"

he wraps a hand around the base of his cock, giving it one lazy stroke, throat swallowing dry and heavy. you watch the motion in silence.

"you can say i got... distracted"

joel smirks, "like what you see?"

you lean in, hand over his own, laying at the base―thick enough to make your wet walls clench in anticipation.

you feel him tense under your touch as your soft-spoken tone fills the living room. "i could show you better"

he tenses again as a small fluttering kiss is placed over his skin, lips brushing right to the underside.

and then, your favorite part: a whimper. small, barely perceptible.

you smile. "keep that going for me, baby. i wanna know how good i'm making you feel"

you run your tongue over the thick vein that runs from base to tip. he chokes on his spit.

"remember two can play"

another whimper falls past his dry lips. "i said don't tease"

you nod, mischievous grin adorning your mouth.

"let's get to the fun part then, shall we?"

you open your mouth wider and take him in, licking around the slit to take every drop of his leaking girth.

joel groans, head falling back against the couch. "that's right, baby" he whimpers at your flickering tongue, "don't let it go to waste"

your cheeks hollow as you sink down further, lips stretching to the shape of him. you gag when it hits the back of your throat, and joel? well, he's barely holding on.

his knuckles turn white from the tight grip he's balling his fists into and each breath seems to rob him of air, puffs turning into ragged moans.

"goddamn, angel" he rasps, fingers tightening in your hair. "i-i don't think i can hold much longer if you keep on like that. you're gonna suck me dry"

you pull back, a thread of spit connecting your lips to the head of his dick before you dive back down, bobbing your head faster.

he stutters your name, syllables messy and melting into one another as you double down, hand stroking what your mouth can’t reach.

joel can't do anything but become an animal: savage, as when he thrusts up into your mouth, fucking your face just enough to make your eyes water, or submissive like a prey, right at your mercy. he could kill with his bare hands, but under your tongue and mouth? he becomes the shell of a man: nothing but a mess of whimpers and self-control.

"hey, i'm talking to ya'" he growls, voice between strained and tired.

you can imagine his toes curled inside his worn-out boots and the roll of his eyes as his head falls back once again.

"guess you ain't much of a talker, huh?" he lets out a breathy chuckle, eyes lost on the ceiling. "can't speak with my cock shoved up your throat, fuckin' minx"

you glance up through wet lashes. His thumb brushes over your cheekbone. “my pretty girl, my good girl. takin' me so well"

joel is an impatient man: he guides your mouth down further down a little by your hair. you gag a little again.

spit pools at the corners of your lips, dripping messy down your chin. his hips rock a bit, balls throbbing at the view.

"such'a mess. my mess. mine" your core clenches so tight, you whimper against his cock. he groans at the vibrations, whining, hips bucking up in the air. something creaks, probably the furniture; him. "g-goddamn. takin' care of your ol' man, choked up on 'is cock"

you watch him through heavy wet eyelashes, mouth too full to answer. you feel your swollen lips against his glistening tip, each thrust of his another inch to take.

"that's right. eyes on me, doll"

you gaze through his dark hazy eyes, mouth working harder. joel looks down at you, unable to form a sentence. his thumb brushes your cheek instead, hips rocking into your mouth.

joel's voice is wrecked when he speaks again.

"i-i think i'm gonna... p-please stop 'fore i-" he cuts off, pating. you hum around him, the vibrations making joel whine yet again. "let me- fuck. please, let me fill your mouth. gonna come in your mouth, pretty baby. please, let me fill it-"

you enjoy his rambling and panting. now, both hands find your hair, fists tightening in between damp strands.

"'s too much, angel. please, let your ol' man cum. need to- fuck, i need to- need to cum"

you nod. God, that's the signal. he won't wait any longer.

"fuck"

he spills your name as he does in your mouth, hot ropes of his thick cum sliding down your throat. you swallow on instinct, taking every spurt out of his twitching cock.

you remain on your knees, lips swollen and shiny, chin dripping with spit and him.

his thumb traces your bottom lip and then, without a warning, he hauls you up, bones creaking as the couch with your combined weight. he wraps a hand around you, pulling you into his lap.

joel's mouth crashes into yours immediately, tasting himself on your tongue. goddamn, you're going to be the death of him.

he smiles lazily, eyes lovingly drinking in the sight of you. "attagirl"

a/n: everyone say thank u bts for 'cause djdjd four damn years waiting for an album... and it's a masterpiece 🚬 i was inspired *ੈ✩‧₊˚ taglist: @klmr0 @zmbi3gr1 ╱ join here

[bemyluvr]

okay hear me out, but what about fauxcest tommy or joel…?

eg prior reader and miller are already in a relationship but because of the age gap reader accidentally calls him dad or daddy and from then on it starts a whole new dynamic to their relationship 🙈👀👀

╰ tommy or joel? how about both!! sorta diverted course tho, sorry!! my worms be worming

18+ MDNI, young!joel, fem reader, pwp, breeding kink, joel trying to get reader pregnant, multiple rounds, housewife kink, playing house, toddler sarah, mommy/momma names (but not like that), joel overstimulating reader, making sure it sticks // hbo!tommy, daddy kink, dub-con, teasing gone too far, ambiguous age gap, fucking in a bathroom, finger sucking, gagging, choking, rough sex, baby trapping, forced creampie, fingering, drunk!reader, idk-tommy’s mean! (2.3k)

“T-Thank you…mama.” Sarah trails off, voice shy of a whisper as sticky fingertips grip the sides of your dress into a makeshift hug, button nose indenting your patterned skirt.

That’s new.

You swallow the uncomfortable horse-sized lump in your throat, watching as she rolls into the bed with a hum.

Sighing, you’re secretly thankful it was just the two of you in the much awkward-for-you-moment, yet as your eyes flicker over to the opened doorframe, your met with the burning gaze of Joel’s fiery eyes.

It was a spring evening, the sun gently beginning its descent in the blank sky, the rays softly dipping under the flat Texas horizon.

One of those rare perfect nights, the kind where everything worked out perfectly, you had offered to put Sarah to bed, Joel far too busy loading the dishwasher with the leftover plates and messy utensils from dinner.

With a kiss to your lips and a peck to each of Sarah’s blushed cheeks, your tired legs ran up the mahogany staircase to chase her upstairs, giggles erupting from her babbling mouth.

After a messy conundrum trying to find the perfect pajamas and an even more wild goose chase forcing her to brush her barley there teeth, you then guided her to bed, your hands smoothing down her sun kissed golden locks.

“Had so much fun hanging out with you today!” You beam, pushing the delicate follicles behind her ear, fingertips feeling the buzzing warmth on her chubby cheeks.

“You…” She looks up at you with wide irises, bottom lip quivering. “S-Stay the night?”

Bending down to meet her at eye level, you gently take her hands in yours, nodding your head. “Yep! Gonna hang out with you and your daddy allll morning, maybe I can see if he’ll make us a big breakfast.”

“Mmm-pancakes?” She questions, excitement radiating up her eyebrows.

You nod once again, standing up straight. “Oh yes—lots of ‘em. Make sure he makes you a big girl stack.”

With a wink you press a heart shaped thumbprint onto her hand with your own, gently letting go of the preschooler.

“Promise?” She mutters, face hopeful, yet unsure.

You look at her softly, taking every word carefully. “I promise Sarah, I’ll always be here when you need me.”

She takes your answer as the truth, head turning around to start her wobbly trek to her bed, but something stops her, suddenly twisting her arms around your legs.

And that’s when she mutters those three words.

Thank you.

Mama.

Little did you know Joel was watching—and he heard everything.

.

.

.

“Mama? Fuck—want me to knock ya up? Make my pretty girl a mama?” He grunts, cockhead pummeling deep into your velvety walls, girthy shaft swelling against the very surface of your cunt.

You can’t recall how long Joel’s had you pressed into the mattress, pretty mouth wide and babbling, drool drenching into the pillow case with each press of his angry hips into your own, ass rippling into the quiet hum of the bedroom.

“Jo-Joel, I—too much!” You keen, flatting your raised hips deeper into the memory foam to get away from the sharp pressure against your cervix, his pace overwhelming your swollen sex.

Joel’s quick to notice your sad attempt to get away from him, hands gripping each side of your cheeks, holding you flush to his chest. “No it ain’t, q-quit running away from me darlin’.”

He guides you upwards, spine arching up, up, up! off the mattress, your head gently cradled by his hand, fingertips gripping your chin tight.

“Mm-Joellll.” The new angle presses his reddened tip against your g-spot, shaft repeatedly massaging the gummy spot just right. “Love it—love you so much.”

He smiles into your neck, rough stubble sending shivers down your chest, soft nipples hardening. “Knew as soon as I laid my eye on ya I’d have to keep you forever.”

Forever. Fucked long and hard, cunt stuffed with his sticky cum.

His words make you clench, pussy throbbing hard with the idea of him fucking a baby into you, like your body holds a gravitational pole, cunt practically forcing his cock even deeper into your weeping walls.

Yet it’s hard to keep up with the strong man behind you, his pace never faltering even as you choke his cock, the primal urge to breed you taking over any sense of clarity in his dizzy mind.

“You’re so good with her—fuck! Know you’d be even better with two of ‘em.” He admits, flat palm landing down to your belly, pressing the soft flesh.

Joel can feel the probing movements of his cock stretching your walls, the soft thud of his thick shaft filling you full. “Shit baby,” he groans, imagining your belly swollen with something far more important than his cock instead.

“Gonna give ya that baby,” he growls, two fingers dipping down to your squelching lips, finding your clit. “Gonna…Gonna keep you home, lookin’ pretty ‘n taking care of the kids.”

The pleasure only builds, body feeling fluid with sensual electricity as he rubs uneven circles around the bundle of nerves, still so sensitive and achy from your last toe curling orgasm.

“Know how nice ya’d look? Wobblin’ ‘round town with a big ‘ol belly?” He questions, placing a kiss to your neck, tongue tasting the skin. “Darlin’ I can’t wait.”

“P-Please—”

“—Don’t gotta tell me twice, honey.” Joel shakes his head, canines biting down on the sweaty skin of your shoulder. “We-We will need to make sure we get them papers signed, g-go up to that little court house up the road—get you a pretty lil’ dress.” He pauses, before softly muttering. “Make you my pretty little wife.”

You’re so close now, belly swirling ‘n swooning with the taste of Joel’s ideas, imagining yourself being his not only physically, but on paper. “Mhm! ‘n Sarah and I could match.”

“Ahh-Fuck! Jus’ the three of us.” Joel groans, movements faltering. But he quickly corrects himself when he feels your belly shiver against his elbow. “Well-no… the four of us.”

“Want it so bad Joel, wan-want a baby!” You cry out, the waterline of your eyes watering with fat droplets of salty tears; you throw your head back—feeling your neck hit his shoulder.

“Aw fuck darlin’ say it again ‘n cum on my cock.” Joel asks, not as a demand but a firm promise, feeling your cunt sharply tighten around his cock, your mouth falling wide open.

“Wanna make you a daddy!”

The wild pressure is overwhelming, slick rapidly moving between your thighs with a shriek, mouth blubbering nonsense as you attempt to ride the wave of your orgasm, the tides pulling you up to the sky and down to the sea, mind unable to keep track of your fucked out body.

Daddy. Your words make him cum in tandem with you, like a well oiled machine he pushes, you pull, balls emptying inside of you. “Shit!” He curses, cock pumping you full with his seed, white creamy slick swirling up and down your textured walls, supple liquid dipping to your cervix.

His hairy body collapses onto your tired one, sweaty skin sticking together as if you became one, yet suddenly—you can feel Joel’s cock twitch inside of you, his mouth moving against your ear.

“Ain’t sure it stuck yet baby, how ‘bout one more?”

“You can’t tell me what to do Tommy, you’re not my fucking dad.”

Tommy’s bar shift was coming to an end, the last patrons once crowding the cracked seats begin to slowly shuffle out the spinning doors, leaving the two of you alone with the quiet of the stale night.

The drinks were on the house thanks to the quiet relationship you shared with the mustached man, the two of you liking one another far more than you’d want to admit.

Because of said free drinks, one quickly became two, which then snowballed into too many to count, your body buzzing with booze and something more, your cunt heating up inside of your panties.

The warm ambiance coming from the yellowed light above the bar top buzzed even louder than the growing ringing in your eardrums, you were feeling far too overwhelmed and tipsy for a conversation like this.

“Heh, your daddy huh?” He questions with a smirk, cleaning a glass with a rag. “Yeah, I ain’t. But ‘m old enough to be one.” He chuckles, eyes drifting down to your glass. “‘n I already said you’re cut off doll.

Suddenly that same hand reaches out in front of you, pulling the half-empty glass from your wobbly grasp. “Damn. ‘least you can do is promise me when you finally get some chick knocked up you’d try to be a fun dad, no one likes the grumpy ones.”

He felt too close, your knees clenching together on reflex, attempting to relieve the pent up pressure between your thighs, but it was no use, Tommy’s stare practically gazing through you.

“A fun what now?” He asks, and you know exactly what he’s asking for, big brown eyes turning black, pupils dilating.

“D-Dadd—”

.

.

.

Tommy all but threw you into the family bathroom, a rough hand pressing your head flush with the cold porcelain of the bathroom sink as he easily lifted up your skirt, cock plowing into you with one fluid ‘swish’.

“Always saying somethin’ reallll slick ain’t ya girl? Always trying to piss me off while I’m workin’.” Tommy spits, watching his cock slowly balloon inside of you, shaft carving out your soaked canal.

You gasp at the sudden force punching through your chest, inches of pure pent up frustration plowing through you. “N-No! You jus’ can’t take a joke Tommy.”

“Like you can’t take this cock? Keep running that mouth and I’ll make sure I end up bein’ a daddy when I’m done with ya.”

So that’s what pissed him off.

“No! D-Don’t… I-I don’t want that!” You yelp, scared eyes finding his wild ones in the mirror, his deep chestnut curls falling to his temples.

“Shit you don’t.” He laughs, slithery accent coming out, your cunt even boozier than the finest whisky behind the counter “But she does.”

The angle hits the perfect curve of your cunt, sopping wet walls easily sucking him in right where you want him, your cervix a hypothetical bullseye for his seed to shoot at, ready to fill you to the brim.

You were already practically begging to be fucked when you walked into the bar, little golden bell on the door ringing around your head like it was a warning for Tommy, but it seems he was just as bad off as you, sweat beading on his hairline.

“Can tell your close already, all that back talk was foreplay for this pretty little pussy wasn’t it sugar?” Tommy questions, but before you can answer his slender fingers cup your jaw, two fingers dipping into your mouth, hooking your cheek.

“S-So mean,” you garble; yet the noises only make him laugh.

“What was that doll? Fingers got ya tongue?”

So cocky. So perfect.

Your cunt tingles, the roughness just the right pressure for your legs to start twitching, body giving in to Tommy’s abuse. “F-Fuck you.” You manage to make out, eyes holding steady eye contact through the finger-print stained mirror.

“Hah I am, but yer the one who started it.” He retorts, slowing his movements into a furiously quiet pace, each ‘slap’ of his hips against your ass pushing you deeper into the sink. “And now you gotta finish it.”

“B-But I—mmfph!” You gag, his movements throwing you forwards into his hooked fingers, choking on the salty fingerprints.

“You taking this cock like you want it reallll bad.” He grunts, feeling his impending orgasm creep up on him, balls heavy and hanging.

“Maybe you’ll be that chick I knock up.” Tommy thinks out loud, his fingers finally dragging out of your slobbering mouth down to your front. “Get ya stuck with me for a long, long time.”

The idea of being stuck with the sleazy man should be one to reconsider, yet in your sloshed mind, it seems perfect.

“Oh can feel ya squeezin’. She likes that idea now don’t she?” He questions, pinching your clit between two fingers, feeling the small flutters of your cunt. “Go on ahead and cum, I know when you’re close.”

“Fuck! You’re so dirty Tommy.” You cry out, ass grinding against him, chasing your orgasm like a bitch in heat.

He leans down to your ear, breath ghosting your ear. “And baby yer fucking filthy.” He laughs and suddenly, you’re cumming.

Stars and galaxies prickle in your eyes, pretty lashes squinted shut as you scream, body nearly falling over onto the sticky ground, your release taking over your nervous system.

You’re so out of it you can’t tell how close Tommy is and how badly he wants to cum right inside of your cunt, forcing his cockhead right next to your cervix.

“Ahh-Shit! Right there doll! Soooo close.” He slurs, ruby red tip gliding around your newly painted slick, his tip choking on the sensation. “Shit yeah, j-just like that-gonna cum! Gonna cum right here.” Tommy growls, his hand coming up to grip your belly, fingertips kneading the skin.

You know exactly what he means, yet something inside of you doesn’t want to stop him just yet.

Rapidly shaking your head you go to speak, but Tommy’s hand comes up to your mouth, cupping your cheeks in his hand. “Come on take it baby.”

“Fuck-Tommy!”

Thick ropes coat your insides, dripping all over the swollen muscles of your sex. The warm sap practically suffocates you as you fully realize what he just did, your heart falling to your now stuffed belly.

Tommy on the other hand watches in awe as his cum oozes down your thighs, milky liquid daring to fall to the floor. “Shit baby, we can’t waste none of that. Come ‘ere.” He ticks, two fingers swiping up your swollen cunt, shoveling his seed back inside of you.

“Gonna really make sure you make me a daddy now.”

a/n: if anyone wondering where the joel and tommy fics have been i swear, IM HEREE!! im just a little bit burnt out on creating any long fics for them and it’s feeling a bit repetitive and exhausting for me. but my requests remain open for the brothers so don’t be afraid to send them okay? especially if they are weird and horny!! ok luv u all also—totally typed both of these out all in the tumblr app like an animal, sorry if there’s any weird errors or mistakes ok luv luv u all!!

[millersweetheart]

How about both 😭 this is why I love your pageeee!!

[mybvalentine]

he’s so fucking big and manly im gonna cum

[llayla0]

Midnight fix

masterlist | ao3

pairing: sleazy!mechanic!joel x fem!reader

summary: Getting lost at midnight in the middle of nowhere doesn't sound too good. Neither does the shitty engine of your beat-up truck that decides to stop working, very conveniently, near an auto shop. Joel, the mechanic, insists on taking a look despite the shop being already closed. But after what you saw in the back room and with no money to pay, trusting him with your truck might be a very bad idea.

warnings: no outbreak AU, unspecified age gap, dirty pervert joel, masturbation, slight voyeurism (as much as she wants to deny it, reader is a freak), trading sex for a service, protected piv, fingering, spanking, choking, cum eating, dirty talk, pussy pronouns, alcohol & smoking, banter, teasing, no descriptions of reader's appearance, no use of y/n (if anything is missing please don't hesitate to tell me!!)

word count: 7.1k

a/n: went down the rabbit hole of sleazy!joel and i just had to write something for this filthy man 🌝 i blame the amazing fics of @littledes1re for the shit i just wrote girl i swear you put cocaine in your writing or smth i'm ADDICTED

No, no, no.

"Fucking piece of shit-"

Yeah, cursing at the damn truck would definitely make it move forward. That's clearly how cars work, throw in some bitchy whining and the engine will magically stop the death rattle it's currently making.

"Come on, come on, come on.." you mutter, gripping the wheel until your fingers go numb. "Don’t do this to me, not now."

Maybe you should call someone for help, ask them to come pick you up.

Sure, great idea. If you actually had cell service. Maybe you could find a phone booth somewhere. Even then… what would you say to anyone?

Sorry for calling in the middle of the night, could you come pick me up, please? Where? Oh, right. I have no fucking clue where the hell I am.

The engine gives a pathetic wheeze, almost as if it's mocking you, then goes silent again. You sit there for a second, debating whether to cry, scream, or just accept your fate.

That’s when you see it: a dim rectangle of light in the distance, a little oasis against the dark.

An auto shop. Closed, almost certainly. But the lights are on. Maybe someone is still there, someone who could at least tell you where you are if they can't fix your truck.

Not that you had any money to pay for it, anyway.

After many frustrated groans and fists slamming on the dashboard, you somehow managed to keep the engine alive just long enough to pull up to the door. The "CLOSED" sign stared back at you, but the dim glow of the shop promised hope, or maybe someone who could help you.

You exhale, gripping the steering wheel as the truck rolls to a stop, grateful it held together for just this long.

Just by looking through the dusty window, you can tell there's no one there, the place is empty. Still, you push the shop door open, the little bell above it giving a tired jingle.

"Hello?" you call out, stepping inside. "Anyone here?"

The front area is completely empty. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, reflecting off tool cabinets and a grease-stained counter. The place smells like oil and metal and stale beer, just what you'd expect from an isolated auto shop. Somewhere deeper in the building, something shifts, the noise drawing your attention.

So someone is here.

"Hello?" you try again, louder this time.

Still nothing, just a muffled sound from the back.

You hesitate for a moment before walking towards it, footsteps echoing softly in the quiet building. The door at the end of the hall is cracked open, light spilling through the gap.

You start hearing sounds that grow louder with every step you take. Muffled groans that lure you closer to the source, heavy breathing, a lewd sound you'd recognize anywhere. The slick, sloppy twap of skin meeting skin in uneven, rapid claps.

You should knock, you know that.

But you don't.

Instead, you glance through the opening, eager to see who's making those wet, obscene sounds.

It's a man, probably in his fifties, if you had to guess. He's leaning back in a worn office chair, the wheels squeaking faintly under his weight. He's wearing a dirty short-sleeved button-down littered with oil and sweat stains. The top buttons are undone, revealing a patch of tanned skin, prickly dark hairs curling across his chest.

There's a name tag pinned under the chest pocket of his shirt, part of what you assume is supposed to be his work uniform. You can't quite make out the letters on it, but right now you don't really care to learn his name.

The sight in front of you is far more interesting.

The dim light casts lines over his arms, highlighting the flex of muscle beneath sweat-streaked skin.

In his left hand he's clutching a Penthouse magazine, the damn thing is probably older than you by the looks of it.

The cover is crumpled, the image of a pretty blonde woman sprawled across the front with her legs spread eagle, staring out with a sultry, inviting gaze. The gloss has worn thin at the folds. Many of the pages are dog-eared and surely stuck together, some edges warped from years of repeated use.

But you're not interested in the pretty lady on the cover either, your gaze is fixed somewhere else. On the source of the sounds you've heard earlier, to be more precise.

His right hand is wrapped around the girthy length of his cock, stroking it leisurely.

You squint, taking in the movement of his calloused palm sliding up and down, from the pinkish tip, slick with small white drops, down along the pulsing vein on the underside, all the way to the base. Coarse hair traces a thin line up to his bulging belly, disappearing beneath that filthy shirt of his, and down over thick thighs left bare by the denim pushed to his knees.

You freeze behind the doorframe, heart hammering in your chest. Every stroke, every slick movement, every pant that leaves his lips makes it impossible to look away.

Your stomach twists and the slick pooling in your daisy dukes doesn't make it any easier to look away.

You shouldn’t be here. You really shouldn’t. What you should do is turn away and go, give the man some privacy.

Okay, go. But where? Last time you checked, your truck is acting up and you have no idea where you are.

Then, suddenly, the frantic movements of his hand stop.

Your heart lurches. Surely he saw you, caught you peeking. When you look up from his twitching cock, bracing to meet his eyes, you're relieved to see that he's not looking at you. His gaze is locked on the magazine in his other hand. He flips a few pages, examining each one with slightly furrowed brows. The crease on his forehead eases when he seems to find something he's satisfied with.

Then, with a small sigh, he leans back against the squeaky chair, spits into his palm and wraps his hand around his dick again. His thumb glides over the tip, gathering the small pearly beads that have formed there, stroking slower now as his eyes remain glued to the pages.

Heat coils low in your belly, spreading outward in a way that makes your thighs tremble. You shift your weight, pressing them together instinctively, but it barely helps with your aching clit not getting the attention it yearns for.

Your nipples prickle through the lightweight fabric of your tight top, straining for notice without the barrier of a bra.

You press your hands to your thighs, gripping the denim to steady yourself, but it’s useless.

You shouldn't be here, shouldn't be peeking, shouldn't be enjoying this as much as you are.

You really shouldn't.

For a moment, you almost forget why you’re even here, why your shitty truck is still waiting outside. Your fingers drift to your pussy, heat radiating even through the denim of your shorts, and your body shivers at the sight of sticky spurts shooting from his twitching length.

Great, you didn't even get to enjoy the view long enough and now he's already cumming all over that damn magazine.

Now you really shouldn't be here, any moment now he'll notice you. So you do the most logical thing you can think of.

Run.

Feet pounding softly against the concrete, you dart back to the front desk, hands braced against the edge to steady yourself.

You freeze just for a second, listening, straining to hear any sound from the man.

Nothing. Just the hum of a fan circling lazily and a distant song on a dusty radio tucked in the corner of a table amongst some dirty tools.

Safe. For now.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

It must’ve been a few minutes later when you finally hear a whistled tune drifting down the hallway, followed by the soft jingle of keys.

The man appears from the back, a cigarette hanging lazily from the corner of his mouth like a toothpick, a ring of keys spinning around his finger carelessly. He strolls out of the hallway unhurried.

In the bright overhead lights you can finally get a proper look at him, far better than in the dim back room where you just saw him jerking off.

He’s exactly the kind of man you’d expect to run a place like this.

Mid-fifties, maybe. He’s broader than you first realized, his body filling out the stained button-down that surely has seen better days. The short sleeves hug thick forearms dusted with dark hair and faint grease smudges. His shoulders are strong and wide, while a soft, pudgy stomach strains faintly against the buttons, the fabric pulling tight across his chest and belly. You can finally read the word on his name tag.

Miller.

His face has that worn, roadside look to it. Weathered skin, a crooked nose that might’ve been broken once, and deep lines around his mouth and eyes like he squints into the sun more often than not. Dark stubble covers his jaw, a little uneven, and there are faint streaks of gray running through his hair at the temples. Not neatly styled, just pushed back like he ran his hands through it a few times and called it good.

The cigarette bobs between his lips as he walks, and when he pulls it out to exhale, you catch the smell of cheap tobacco drifting across the room.

He looks exactly like the kind of sleazy guy you’d run into at a lonely gas station at midnight. The kind who’d lean on the counter, give you a long once-over, and ask where you’re headed with a half-smirk like he already knows the answer.

"I’m sorry, man, we’re closed," he calls out gruffly, not bothering to check who’s standing there. "You’ll have to come back in the morn-"

He finally looks up.

And stops.

He takes you in from head to toe without much effort to hide it, smoke curling from his mouth as he exhales towards the ceiling.

His posture changes almost instantly. Shoulders roll back. Chin tilts slightly. The keys stop spinning on his finger.

His eyes run over you slowly, starting at your legs and taking their time climbing upward, lingering on your tits a moment longer before lifting a brow when he finally sees your face. The cigarette shifts in the corner of his mouth as his expression changes, less annoyed now, more interested.

"Well now," he mutters, his voice dropping into something rougher. "What's a gal like you doin' out here in the middle of the night?"

"I'm sorry, I didn't realize you're closed-"

His eyes flick towards the window where your truck sits outside, then drift back to you again, slower this time.

"Lemme guess…" he says, one corner of his mouth lifting slightly. "You havin' problems with that truck of yours, sweetheart?"

Another slow look up and down, completely shameless. He taps ash from his cigarette onto the concrete floor without breaking eye contact.

"Well, yeah. Damn thing's acting up," you admit, shifting your weight a little under his stare. "But I just need some directions, actually. I don't wanna bother you after closing time."

"Bother?" he scoffs softly, taking a few steps towards you. "Nonsense, sweet cheeks," he gestures lazily towards the garage bay with the cigarette between his fingers. "C'mon, lemme take a look at it. I'm sure I can fix it for ya."

"Are you sure?" you ask quickly. "I mean, you're already closed. I really don't want to-"

He stops a few feet away, smoke curling from the corner of his mouth as he studies you again.

"Wouldn't be right lettin' a lady sit out on the side of the road all night," he adds, voice turning almost mock-chivalrous.

You hesitate, glancing towards the window where the truck waits outside under the dim light.

"I really was just hoping to find the next town," you say.

And I really don't have any money for your greasy ass.

"Next town's a good twenty miles down that highway," he interrupts, jerking his chin towards the road. "And if that thing's already actin' up, you might not make half of it."

He flicks his cigarette aside and crushes it under his boot without looking down.

Then his eyes return to you, that same crooked smile creeping back.

You hesitate, fingers curling into the hem of your shorts.

"I just need to know where I am," you say carefully. "So I can… call someone. Have them pick me up."

His brows lift slightly.

"Call someone," he repeats, tone slow.

"Yeah. I don't have service out there, and I have no clue what road this even is," you offer a small, tight smile. "If you could just tell me the name of the road, that’d help."

He studies you for a second too long, eyes narrowing just slightly before telling you what you want to hear.

You've never even heard of this road. How the hell did you get here?

"Is there a gas station or something nearby?" you ask. "Somewhere I could get signal?"

He huffs a quiet laugh.

"Closest place with decent reception’s back the way you came. ‘Bout thirty minutes," he tilts his head. "You plannin’ on walkin’?"

You glance towards the door, towards the endless dark road stretching in both directions.

"I'll figure something out."

"Mhmm," his eyes drag over you again, slowly this time. "You ain't gonna last ten minutes out there, sugar. Road's full of sketchy guys at this hour. You wouldn't wanna run into the wrong people."

Wrong people? You can’t help the thought that you’re already standing in the presence of one.

You bristle slightly. "I can handle myself."

"I’m sure you can," he replies, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, though it’s clear he’s not entirely convinced.

"So…" he says, hooking his thumbs casually into his belt loops. "You gonna let me help you out, or you plannin' on riskin' it?"

If you go out there, chances are that he's right and you're really fucked if you run into some drunk guy looking to blow some steam off.

But if you stay and let him fix your car, how are you gonna pay?

You reach into your purse, the one you tossed onto the passenger seat after spending your last cash on gas a few hours ago. Except for a few crumpled receipts, a lip gloss and a lighter, it’s empty. Nothing.

"Look, I don't have a lot of money right now."

None at all, actually.

"Don't worry 'bout that, sweetheart. We'll negotiate the price later."

You swallow, heart hammering, and look back at him. His smirk hasn’t faded. He’s leaning against the counter, arms crossed, watching you like he knows exactly what’s going through your head.

Fuck it. You'll figure something out.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

"Hmm, she’s not looking too happy," he mutters, voice low and casual.

By she, he means your truck.

"Could be the battery… starter… hell, the whole engine might be busted."

He crouches by the truck, hands resting on his knees, scanning the engine without even touching a tool.

You’re perched on the edge of a metal worktable, legs swinging lazily, watching him move.

You cross your arms, eyes following every motion. There’s something mesmerizing about him, confident, unhurried. And though he focuses on the truck, you suspect he’s aware of you, too, the way his glance drifts your way every so often.

"Huh," he mutters again, straightening and leaning against the fender, eyes squinting over the engine with a practiced intensity. "She’s been treated like a cheap rental, ain’t she?"

"She’s been treated very well," you snap, rolling your eyes. "Not that it’s any of your business. Can you fix it, or not?"

He chuckles, taking a big gulp from a bottle of beer he took out of a mini fridge earlier. You watch his neck bobbing when he swallows, a small drip of beer running down from the corner of his mouth. He wipes his lips with the back of his hand before speaking.

"Oh, don’t worry. I’m gonna get her running. She just needs a little… lovin’."

He sets the bottle down and crouches again, one hand resting casually on the wheel well as he examines the engine, muttering under his breath. His eyes flick to you, lingering just long enough to remind you that he enjoys having an audience.

You shift slightly on the table, trying to appear casual, but your pulse ticks a little faster at the way he moves and the tone in his voice.

He straightens from the engine, wiping his hands on a dirty rag, and glances up at you when you decide hop off the table and approach him.

You might as well make conversation while you're trying to figure out how the hell you're gonna pay this motherfucker. You realize that your snappy comment from earlier clearly wasn't the best approach. Maybe if you're friendly enough he won't charge you at all.

Highly unlikely, but it won't hurt to try.

After a beat of silence, curiosity gets the better of you. "So… what did you say your name was?"

"Name’s Joel, sweet cheeks. And I don’t think I caught yours either."

He extends a grimy hand towards you. You hesitate for a second, then shake it reluctantly after giving him your name.

Why does he even care? It’s not like he’s going to use it, probably prefers anything else in its stead.

Joel’s grip lingers just a second too long before he lets go, his thumb dragging slightly over your knuckles before he turns back to the engine.

"Pretty name," he mutters after repeating it, like he’s testing how it feels in his mouth.

He leans back under the hood, grabbing a wrench, but not before his eyes flick over you again.

The sharp click of metal fills the space.

"Are you sure you can fix it?"

He huffs under his breath. "Don’t stress your pretty head with that, sugar" he says, voice rough, almost lazy. "I know what I’m doin’."

A beat.

"Been fixin’ things longer than you’ve probably been alive… all kinds of things."

You roll your eyes, but you feel your cheeks burning anyway.

"Don’t get many visitors out here this late," he goes on casually. "’Specially not ones like you."

You shift your weight, crossing your arms again without realizing that you're also squishing your breasts together in the process. "What’s that supposed to mean?"

He lets out a quiet laugh, tightening something with a sharp twist. "Means you stick out. Most folks who come through here got beer bellies, not a nice rack like yours."

Disgusting pig.

His eyes flick up to you again, slower this time, lingering on your chest without a hint of shame.

He crouches lower, one hand braced against the frame while the other works the tool loose. His movements stay unhurried, like he’s got all the time in the world. Like you do too. You can swear that he's doing it on purpose.

"You’re wound up too tight," he says, like it’s a simple observation. "Ain’t gotta be."

"I’m not."

Liar.

He hums, not buying it for a second. A faint smirk pulls at his mouth as he shifts, wiping his hand on the rag before reaching deeper into the engine. His arm flexes with the movement, grease smearing across his skin.

"Relax," he says, tone low, almost amused. "I ain’t gonna bite."

Your throat feels dry, a stark contrast to the damp heat pooling in your panties. Why do you feel like this? How did he manage to get you so wet without even laying a finger on you?

You need something to steady yourself. Your eyes land on the bottle he left sitting nearby, still half full.

Screw it.

You grab it without asking, lifting it to your lips and taking a long swig. The beer’s warm and bitter, but it calms your racing thoughts and eases the tight coil of tension in your chest.

Joel notices immediately. His hand stills for a fraction of a second before he glances up at you, eyes dropping to the bottle, then back to your face.

"Help yourself, sweet cheeks," he mutters, voice rough, edged with amusement.

You lower the bottle, shrugging like it’s no big deal. "You left it there."

He smirks. "Want a smoke too while you’re at it? I'm sure there are some snacks you can eat in the fridge," his tone drips sarcasm.

"Yeah, actually," you reply, shrugging again. "A smoke would be nice."

He's probably gonna keep you here all night or call the cops on your ass when he sees that you've got no money to pay, so you might as well enjoy yourself while he's working.

He huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a pack of Marlboro Reds. The smell of tobacco mingles with motor oil and sweat.

You step closer, inhaling the mix and waiting as he hands you a cigarette. You place it between your lips, waiting for him to light it.

His eyes flick up, slow and knowing while he brings up the lighter to your mouth.

"You always steal people’s drinks, ask for cigarettes… and spy on ’em while they’re havin' a good time?"

Having a good time?

Oh-

Oh.

Goddamn it, so he did see you peeking.

Well, at least there's no point in denying it now.

You take a long drag from the cigarette, lips wrapped tight around the filter, staring him dead in the eyes. His lips twitch under the scruffy mustache, just the faintest smirk tugging at the corner. You can almost see the image forming in his mind while he takes in the view of your mouth sucking on the filter.

Pervert.

Him? Or you? You're thinking the exact same thing, so are you really any better than him?

After pulling the cigarette away you hold the smoke in your lungs for a moment, then blow it straight in his face, letting it envelop his jaw and nostrils. The gesture is bold, almost teasing, and you can see his amused eyes narrow slightly through the haze.

"You always jack off when your clients are waiting?" you ask, voice steady despite the heat pooling low in your belly.

"We were closed, sweet cheeks," he says, voice low and lazy, that crooked smirk reappearing on his face. "There weren’t supposed to be any clients."

He takes a slow step closer, wrench still in hand. The faint smell of motor oil and sweat drifts towards you, mixing with the burning tobacco in your hand, heady and intoxicating.

You instinctively take a step back. Joel moves again, shrinking the distance between you.

Your shoes click against the concrete, and you realize too late you’re being backed towards the metal worktable where you’d been sitting earlier.

One more step, and suddenly your back presses against the cold edge of it. You’re caged, him in front, the table behind.

He leans in slightly, wrench in one hand, the other landing on the surface behind you, eyes glinting with amusement and something darker. 

The space between you shrinks, and the warmth of his body presses into you. Your heart pounds wildly in your chest, every nerve screaming warning. The fluorescent hum of the garage fades around you.

"That’s not the point-" you start, voice sharp, trying to put some authority into it. "You can’t just-"

He cuts you off with a low, lazy chuckle, leaning closer. He sets the wrench down on the table beside you, freeing his hand just long enough to pluck the cigarette from your fingers.

"Oh, I can," he says, wrapping his lips around the filter before pulling a slow drag. He hums when he tastes the faint flavour of your lip gloss left on the cigarette.

"I’m off the clock, sweet cheeks. I can do whatever the hell I want."

You straighten your back, trying to keep your voice steady. "That doesn’t make it right. You can’t just-"

"Right? Nah, don’t worry about right and wrong," he interrupts again, exhaling smoke to the side.

His eyes gleam, scanning you from your legs up to your face. "Tell me, sugar.. is it right to let me fix your truck when you ain’t got a dime to pay me?"

You freeze, heart hammering in your chest like it's ready to explode.

"I-"

He leans just a fraction closer, smirk widening. "Pretty little thing like you, all alone, no money… what am I gonna do with ya?"

Your stomach twists, part dread, part arousal, and you realize there’s no point trying to argue. He’s got the upper hand, and he knows it.

You don’t know what possesses you. Pride, defiance, or the reckless heat simmering under your skin, but instead of shrinking away, you grip the edge of the table and push yourself up onto it. The cool metal bites into the backs of your exposed thighs as you lift yourself.

You hold his gaze as he steps forward until he’s standing between your legs, the cigarette still dangling from his mouth.

Your hand rises slowly. Your fingers brush his lips as you slide the cigarette free and bring it back to your own mouth. Joel’s eyes darken at the touch. His hands come to rest on either side of your waist. 

"You could let me go without paying…" you murmur, voice quieter now.

"And why would I do that?" he asks softly, gaze dropping to your mouth as you take a slow drag.

"Because that's what a decent man would do."

"I think we’re past decency, sweetheart…" His hands trail up from your waist, touching the curve of your chest. Instead of pushing him away, you lean into the touch when his thumb swipes over a hardened nipple through the material of your top.

"I accept other forms of payment, you know."

"That so?"

He nods once. "Mhm.. I’m a flexible man."

One of his hands snakes back down to your waist, further down to your hips until it nestles between your legs and cups your pussy through your jeans.

As much as you want to deny it, you want this, probably more than he does. Oh Lord, you can't even explain how much you crave it. You know it's wrong, you shouldn't be enjoying this as much as you are. You shouldn't be as wet as you already are.

But is it truly that wrong?

Would anyone blame you for simply wanting to be at the mercy of a total stranger?

Probably.

But after the long, exhausting day of driving you've had, you couldn't give a fuck about what anyone would think.

"I thought payment comes after the job’s done," you say, forcing a cool edge into your voice.

"Sugar," he murmurs, leaning in closer, "I like knowin’ what I’m workin’ with before I put in the effort."

You swallow but hold his gaze.

"So this is a down payment?" you ask, raising one eyebrow.

His thumb presses lightly on the denim, right above your puffy nub, testing your reaction.

"Call it whatever the fuck ya want, but I prefer.. exchanging favours."

The forgotten cigarette trembles slightly between your fingers, the slow movements of his thumb over the rough denim making you bite the insides of your cheeks.

Without breaking eye contact, he lets go of your breast, reaches down and plucks it from your hand, taking one last drag. The ember flares bright in the dim garage, but you don't look at it. You can't avert your eyes from his piercing gaze.

Then he drops it.

It hits the concrete with a dull thud and he crushes it under the heel of his boot, grinding it out slowly.

"Come on, sugar. Get your pretty ass off that table."

You hold his gaze for a second longer, then slide off the metal surface. Your feet hit the floor softly. You turn your back to him and lean against the table, palms flat against the cool steel. You tilt your head slightly, glancing at him over your shoulder.

"Better?" you ask.

He hums in response, fingers hooking into the waistband of your jeans, rough knuckles brushing your stomach as he tugs you back an inch, just enough to create space.

He drags the zipper down in one steady motion, the sound loud in the quiet garage. The button pops free under his thumb. His hands slide to your hips again, thumbs slipping just inside the loosened waistband. The denim scrapes against your skin as he pulls your jeans down to your ankles. 

You hear a sharp whistle behind you before his hands land on your ass, kneading the flesh in his palms.

"Well, I’ll be damned," he mutters under his breath.

You feel his finger hook into the waistband of your panties, tugging the fabric away from your skin before letting it snap back into place.

"I was right, sugar," he murmurs, voice low and satisfied. "Look at those sweet cheeks," his palm comes down sharply on your ass.

The impact is sudden enough to make your whole body jolt. A sharp hiss slips past your lips as the sting blooms across your skin. For a second, every muscle in you goes tight. Then his hand smooths over the spot he struck, easing the heat he just created. The contrast makes your breath hitch, the roughness replaced with an almost comforting caress.

"Sensitive, huh?" he mutters, voice thick with amusement.

"Shut up."

You press your palms harder into the table when you hear him chuckle, trying to steady yourself, telling your body not to react.

But it does.

His hand lingers, dragging lightly over your hip before drifting to your front as he leans his body forward against yours.

God, you can just imagine that smug look on his face.

How the hell did you end up like this? Bent over a table, ready to get fucked stupid by a pervert with a filthy mouth, all in exchange for getting your truck fixed.

Speaking of said pervert, his fingers are currently making their way down to your pussy agonizingly slowly.

"I bet this pussy's already wet for me, sugar. Ain't that right? Ain't she soakin'?"

Out of all the seedy men in the world, you had to fuck the one with the biggest mouth, who thinks calling your truck and your pussy by a pronoun is perfectly normal. It might not be normal, but it sure makes your walls flutter. He’s so confident, so sure of himself, and rightfully so. You’re soaked just from him slapping your ass.

You just hope his dick is as big as his ego.

"No, she's not-," you try, and fail, to convince yourself, at least, that Joel's touch has no effect on you, "Fuck.. I'm not-"

You try to distract yourself, looking at the cracks in the wall in front of you as if they’re the most fascinating thing in the room. Your gaze lingers on the wrench he placed on the table earlier, now sitting in the corner of your eye, anything to keep your attention off the man standing behind you.

His fingers slip down the front of your underwear, tracing an experimental circle over the bundle of nerves tucked between your thighs just as you were inspecting the rust on the wrench’s handle. Your hands clench, the bite of your nails digging into your palms forcing your eyes shut.

You’re sopping wet, and he knows it. Feels it.

"Oh, sweet cheeks.. I wish you could see 'er, she’s practically drippin’-"

"Can you please shut the fuck up?" you snap, lowering your head and resting your forehead on the table.

Your body feels like it’s on fire, and the cool metal pressing against your torso does nothing to soothe the sensation. If anything, it only makes it worse. You struggle to breathe, your hardened nipples pressing uncomfortably into the surface with every rise and fall of your squished body.

You can feel the rough calluses of his fingers even through the fabric of your panties, the friction against your clit making your legs tremble.

This man can’t possibly be just a mechanic. This dump of an auto shop has to be some kind of front for a brothel or something. It’s kind of embarrassing, the state he’s got you in from nothing more than the pads of his fingers.

There’s a low groan from his throat when he pushes your underwear to the side and runs a couple of fingers between your damp folds. The feeling and the sound of him has your jaw clenching tight in an attempt to muffle a whimper.

"Why would I shut up, huh? I can see how much you enjoy-"

"I don't-"

"Deny it all you want, sweetheart. This pussy's practically beggin' for me," his other hand grips your hip, fingers digging into your skin.

Oh, how you loathe that filthy mouth of his and everything that comes out of it. You despise every corrupt remark, especially the way they make you feel. Because he's right. You do enjoy every depraved word.

You try to conjure a comeback in your head, but when two thick fingers sink into your cunt with a loud, squelching sound, your mind goes numb.

Your head snaps up from the table, your back arching, hips straining against his grip when he starts moving his digits, curling them inside you to hit that spongy spot that makes you see stars.

Fuck, it's not enough. You want more. You need more of him.

"Please-" you practically whimper, trying to turn your head to catch a glimpse of him.

He takes great pride in hearing your strained voice attempt to beg for him. And you take great pleasure in seeing him hard, straining against the denim of his worn jeans. Scratch that, you don't just see him. He's pressed so closely to you that you can feel him twitching against your ass.

"Please what, sugar?"

You can't take it anymore, without even realizing your mouth parts and a hushed moan slips out. Then another, and another, and another. Each one of them louder than the latter.

You need him. Who cares that it's wrong to do this with a stranger? Who would care when just the stranger's fingers can do that to you?

"Please," you whine, "I need it.. I need you."

That's all he needs to hear.

His hands move, no longer gripping your hip, no longer buried inside your weeping cunt. You nearly pout at the loss of his fingers, feeling the void they left behind.

You hear the faint metallic scrape of his belt buckle coming undone, the soft rasp of leather sliding through loops. Your walls clench around nothing in anticipation.

There's a faint shuffle behind you, him searching for something in his back pocket. For a split second, you think he’s pulling out another cigarette. But the sound is different. A plastic wrapper?

A condom.

At least he's a prepared pervert.

He gets his hands filthy because he refuses to wear gloves when working on cars but draws the line at fucking you raw. Do all of his clients end up like this? How many other girls have been bent down on this exact table before you? Is this a regular thing he does?

So many questions and yet you can't be bothered to find any answers when his jeans slide down to the floor along with his underwear. You bite your lip at the sight of his length springing free, the dark tip glistening with precum. He tears open the condom wrapper with his teeth, rolling it down smoothly to the base.

His left hand returns to your hip, guiding your body back until your calves are pressed to his thighs, while his right hand strokes himself a few times.

You feel him dragging his cock through your folds, the tip grazing your clit with every pass. Then a poke at your entrance, a shallow pressure struggling to enter.

"Fuck- you're so goddamn tight," he mutters under his breath.

His words barely register, all you can do is moan out his name. Your mind is reeling, thoughts swirling around endlessly making you dizzy.

He pushes once and in one swift mood every last inch of himself is sheathed inside you to the brim. You cry out at the pleasurable sting, eyes rolling back into your head.

"Goood girl.. that's it, sweet cheeks. Look at ya, so full of my cock," he praises.

You don't have it in you to answer. All you can do is nod a few times, hoping that he can see the back of your head bobbing up and down.

He drives into you again, falling into a fierce, relentless rhythm with each impossibly deep motion, harsh yet intoxicating, giving and taking. Every gasp that slips from your parted lips seems to fuel his fervor, urging him on with even greater force and intensity.

"Damn, you’re a needy one, ain't ya?" he mutters, gripping your hips tightly, his hands spanning your waist as his fingertips press against your stomach. "You’re pullin' me in so deep, sweetheart- been craving this that bad, huh?"

His hips drive into yours, the softness of your skin shifting under his grip with every rough thrust. You give him every sound he draws out of you: every cry, every breathless moan, every whispered plea, especially when he brushes against that perfect spot.

"You got nothing else to say, sugar? Where's that big mouth of yours, huh?" he taunts, bending over you until his warm breath grazes your neck, his mouth trailing slowly across your shoulder.

His arms cage you in, one hand slipping lower, his practiced fingers circling that sensitive nub in slow, maddening strokes, the other rising to cradle your jaw and throat in a possessive hold.

“Too gone to think straight, huh? I’ve got you that messed up, baby?” he growls, pushing himself deeper, forcing another broken sound from your lips.

Flattened against his chest, he lifts you off the table, hauls you upright and drives up into you with a sharper, more punishing rhythm, a low chuckle rumbling from him when a cry rips free from your strained voice. His hold tightens as if he could press you right into him, every movement claiming more. He doesn’t ease up, his hand keeps working between your legs, his touch rough and insistent, while his mouth leaves heated marks along your neck, teeth grazing and lips sucking slow reminders into your skin.

"I can’t- 's too much, I’m gonna-"

Pleasure surges outward from your core in relentless waves, pulling you closer and closer to the brink. You’re teetering on the edge, barely holding yourself together, clinging to a few more stolen seconds of bliss, just a little longer with him.

His grip tightens around your throat, while his forearm presses hard between your breasts, the pressure hard enough to leave its mark.

"You gonna cum, sugar?"

Yes.

Your head falls back, fitting perfectly into the curve of his shoulder as the same word spills from your lips again and again, breathless and broken. The sound of it, sweet and desperate on your tongue, feels almost as intoxicating as the climax crashing through you, pleasure ripping from your center and flooding every inch of your body.

What happens next is a blur. You're too fucked out of your mind to even remember your name.

You just feel the loss between your legs when he pulls out with a loud groan, his rough hands turning you to face him. The cold floor hits your skin when you sink down to your knees. Did he push you down? Did you just do it on your own? You can't tell.

You see him pulling the condom off, throwing it carelessly on the floor before returning his attention to you. You look up to him with hooded eyes, parting your lips when he starts stroking his throbbing cock.

"That's it, sweet cheeks.. open up for me. Yeah, just like that-"

Before you can even process what’s happening, thick white ropes shoot from his tip, warmth spilling over your skin. You lift a hand to your cheek, brushing your finger through it before bringing it to your lips. A soft, satisfied hum escapes you as you savor the taste of him.

Damp with sweat, vision blurred as if stars are swirling before you, you struggle, gasping, to draw in a full, steady breath, but it won’t come.

Minutes pass in a haze. You're moving on wobbly legs, going back to sit on the metal table. You feel your thighs aching as you watch him pull his jeans back on, getting another cigarette from his back pocket.

Something clicks in your brain. Suddenly, you're too aware of the stickiness clinging to your face, of the loud whistle that echoes off the walls.

"Y'look real pretty with my cum drippin' on your face, sugar," he's sporting that shit eating grin you've grown accustomed to in the last hour.

"Get me something to wipe this off, asshole."

"There she is, thought you were still cock-drunk s-"

"Shut up."

Something is thrown at you, that grimy scrap of material he’d used to wipe his hands of motor oil earlier.

You wrinkle your nose. "Really? That’s all you’ve got? Nothing clean, maybe?"

He chuckles, a low, rough sound. "Just use the damn thing, sweet cheeks. Gimme somethin’ to remember ya by."

Gross.

Your fingers brush against the fabric, and you can feel the grit, the smell. Every nerve in your body bristles at it.

And yet… you do as he says.

You drop the filthy rag, wiping your hands on your thighs, "So… when’s my truck going to be ready?"

He leans back against your car, arms crossed, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Already done, sugar."

You blink, incredulous. "What do you mean… already done?"

He shrugs lazily, eyes roaming over you. "Took me longer to deal with you than the engine. She’s good to go. Start her up and see for yourself."

Cautiously, you hopp off the table, stumbling on unsteady legs toward the truck, glancing back at him. He just watches, that crooked grin never leaving his face, like he’s thoroughly enjoying the whole show.

You slide into the driver’s seat, turn the key, and the engine roars to life. Perfect.

"See?" he calls after you, voice low and teasing. “Told ya I knew what I was doin'."

[millersweetheart]

This was soo gooood oh my goshhhh