TrashCan

[obsessivesmind]

Dawg im so desperate this is not funny anymore

[obsessivesmind]

My teeth are small and spaced, my stomach is bloated and feels put of place, my face is covered in scars and acne, with sharpe features, my skin feels rough and iches, my fingers bleed and rip, my pants never fit, every shirt is built for a slim lower and heavy upper, my back is bent and tired.

[springtyme]

Okay but imagine reader and Dennis who had a one night stand and then like a month later she ends up in the er and he gets assigned as her doctor. she needs to take a pregnancy test for some medical reason and turns out she is preggo

𝐒𝐮𝐫𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐞, 𝐒𝐮𝐫𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐞 ♡

Uh, such a cute (and juicy!!) idea! Thank you for the request, hun <3

Dennis Whitaker x f!reader || Masterlist || Spotify

summary: After fainting in a grocery store, you end up in the ER. Turns out your stay comes with a couple surprises. Not only who your doctor turns out to be, but what you thought was just stress also turns out to be something more.

word count: 9.9k

note/tags: Afab!reader. No use of y/n. One night stand. Unplanned pregnancy. Fluff/tiny bit of angst? May contain medical inaccuracies. Dennis is a sweetheart.

You sit yourself down on the side of the hospital bed with a mix of self-pity and embarrassment, hunched slightly forward with your elbows on your knees. The fluorescent lights overhead make everything feel harsher than it should be, and the faint smell of disinfectant only makes the nausea rolling in your stomach worse.

You swallow hard, pressing the back of your hand against your mouth. This is ridiculous. People go to the ER for actual emergencies. Broken bones, car accidents, things that bleed or stop working. Not because they passed out in the middle of a grocery store. The nurse who brought you in gives you a sympathetic smile as she logs something into the computer in the corner of the room. 

You like her, she seems nice, and you have the feeling that she’s rooting for you, like she is on your team. It’s not often you feel that when you’re in places like this.

Usually, it’s the opposite. Usually, it feels like you’re being evaluated, quietly measured against some invisible standard you’ve already failed to meet. But she doesn’t look at you like that. There’s no impatience in the way she moves, no thinly veiled skepticism when she glances in your direction. Just calm, steady attention.

You drop your hand back into your lap, fingers curling together. The nausea ebbs slightly, replaced by a dull, lingering shakiness that makes your limbs feel like they don’t quite belong to you.

“Your doctor will be with you in just a minute,” she says kindly. “In the meantime, I’m gonna start taking your vitals, alright?” 

You nod, shifting slightly on the bed as another small wave of nausea rolls through you. “Yeah, okay,” you mumble.

She gives you a small, reassuring nod before reaching for a blood pressure cuff and wrapping it around your arm. Quietly explaining while she does so.  

“Just relax,” she says softly.

You try. The cuff tightens, squeezing your arm, and you focus on the steady hum of the machine instead of the lingering unease in your stomach and now your arm, before it slowly loosens again. 

She glances at the numbers on the monitor. “Well, your blood pressure is on the lower side,” she says. “That could definitely explain the dizziness.”

You just nod, not really trusting yourself to say anything without your voice giving you away.

“Did you eat today?”

“Yeah, some toast,” you admit. “That’s about it.”

She nods again before reaching for your arm to remove the cuff, her touch light and careful as she slides it off. “Alright,” she says softly, setting it aside. “And have you been eating normally lately?” she asks.

“No… not really,” you admit. “I’ve been feeling kinda sick the past few days.”

“Nauseous?”

You nod again. 

“Okay. Have you experienced any stomach pain?”

You shake your head. “Not really.”

“Any vomiting?”

“No…” you hesitate, glancing down at your hands. “But there have been a few times I’ve felt like I might,” you admit, your voice quieter now.

Then, in that same neutral, routine tone, she asks, “Any chance you could be pregnant?”

The question lands heavier than it should. You’re just about to blurt out no, out of pure instinct, something automatic, easy and safe. But the word catches in your throat. Your love life hasn’t exactly been active the last year or two. And that’s why your brain wants to say no without thinking. 

But there was that one night about a month ago. 

It was the kind of night out that wasn’t supposed to turn into anything. Just a way to get out of your own head for a few hours, to feel normal again. You hadn’t expected anything from it. You had just met up with some of your friends, some of your friends’ friends. And a few people who turned out to be friends of friends of friends –people you didn’t know, names you didn’t catch, faces that blurred together after a while.

You hadn’t planned on staying long. Just a drink or two, a laugh and a light conversation, then leave. But then you noticed him. He looked even more out of place than you felt. Leaning against the wall, drink in hand, like he wasn’t sure where he belonged. His eyes roamed the room but didn’t settle on anyone, not until they landed on you.

You smiled first, almost without thinking. He looked surprised, a little caught off guard, and then he smiled back, awkwardly, nervously, but genuine. And somehow, that was enough. It was awkward, sure, but real in a way that made you want to stay a little longer than you first intended. 

You started talking. He was one of those friends of friends of friends. The kind of person you could’ve missed entirely if things had gone just a little differently that night. At first, just small talk to fill the time, but then it wasn’t just small talk anymore. It was laughter and shared glances, a kind of ease that felt like it had slipped through the cracks of the night. He was charming in a quiet, unassuming way. Sweet, earnest, a little clumsy, completely unlike anyone you’d met in a long time.

And it was so nice. Someone kind, nervous, and a little awkward. Someone who had made you feel lighter than usual. One drink became two, two turned into standing a little closer than before, conversations dipping softer, quieter. There had been a moment, just a small one, where neither of you were really talking anymore, just looking at each other like you were both trying to decide something at the same time. And then you had.,. 

You swallow. Your fingers curl tighter in your lap, nails pressing lightly into your skin 

“There might be a little chance.”  

The nurse doesn’t flinch, doesn’t look at you differently. She just nods, like it’s the most ordinary thing in the world. 

“Alright. We’ll have you take a pregnancy test just to rule it out.”

Your stomach twists again, though this time it’s not entirely because of the nausea. Because technically, there is a chance.

The thought settles heavy, sinking somewhere deep in your chest. The nurse gives you a small, reassuring smile, like nothing about this is unusual, like this is just another step in a routine process.

“I’ll see if your doctor is ready now,” she says gently.

“Okay,” you manage, your voice quieter than you intend. “Thank you.” 

The curtain shifts as she steps out, leaving you alone with the low hum of the machines and the faint buzz of fluorescent lights overhead. You exhale slowly, leaning forward again, elbows resting on your knees, trying to ground yourself.

It’s probably nothing. It has to be nothing. Low blood pressure. Not eating enough. Stress. Your fingers tighten together, then loosen again as you force yourself to breathe.

After a while the curtain rustles. You glance up, and everything in you stills. You are met by a friendly smile from your nurse, kind brown eyes, soft and familiar. But it is not her who makes your breath catch. It’s the person stepping in behind her. 

He is looking down at the ipad in his hands, brows slightly furrowed in concentration, like he’s trying to finish reading something before stepping fully into the room. It gives you a second, just one, to see him without being seen.

The familiar slope of his shoulders. The way he holds himself, a little unsure, like he’s still getting used to being here. Light brown hair falling over his forehead, and curling up at the nap of his neck. 

Then he looks up, and his eyes meet yours. Those wide, blue eyes, you remember all too well. 

“This is Dr. Whitaker,” the nurse says softly, her tone carrying the gentle authority of routine, but your gaze doesn’t leave him. She tells Dennis your name, not knowing that he already knows it. “We already took her blood pressure, and you ordered a pregnancy test.”

His gaze flickers briefly toward the nurse, then back to you. “Thank you, Perlah,” he says, voice small. 

There’s a pause, the kind that makes the air between you feel thicker. She gives him a quick look, a brow slightly raised, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Then she gazes back to you, smiling softly, as if nothing unusual has happened. 

“If you need anything, you can call on the button and I’ll be back. But in the meantime, you’re in good hands with Dr. Whitaker.”

You give a small nod, your throat tight, words catching somewhere between nervousness and surprise. She steps out, the curtain swishing closed behind her, and the door closes, and suddenly the room feels impossibly quiet, the fluorescent lights buzzing a little louder, your heartbeat suddenly loud in your ears. 

“Hi,” he says, an awkward smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, just enough to make it feel human, approachable.

“Hi,” you manage, your voice smaller than you would like, uneven, caught somewhere between nerves and surprise. 

“So, uh, you fainted…” he continues, voice careful, like he’s stepping lightly around fragile ground. His fingers tap lightly on the edge of the ipad, a subtle rhythm that seems to mirror your racing heartbeat.

You glance down at your hands, twisting them together in your lap. “Yeah… I guess,” you mutter, voice barely above a whisper. 

“Uhm.. If you would prefer another doctor, I can call them in,” he says, voice gentle, careful not to push. His gaze flickers to your face, giving you space, but holding just enough attention to make it clear he’s listening.

You shake your head quickly, almost automatically. “No… no, it’s fine,” you murmur. “You’re… you’re fine.” Your voice catches, tight and shaky.

He nods, a small, understanding smile tugging at his lips. “Alright,” he says softly. 

There’s a pause as he studies you, and even in the sterile, buzzing hospital room, there’s a strange sense of understanding between you. The way he leans slightly, careful not to crowd your space, makes it clear he’s not in a rush.

“I could understand from Perlah that you have been feeling nauseous… Can you tell me when it started? And if it’s been constant, or comes and goes?”

You hesitate, twisting your fingers tighter in your lap, and then let out a quiet breath. “A few days… maybe longer,” you mumble. “It… comes and goes. Mostly in the mornings, but sometimes I feel it all day.” 

He nods slowly, laying the ipad gently on the counter beside the computer, before sitting down on the stool near the bed. The movement is careful, deliberate, as if he’s trying to make the space feel less clinical and more… manageable.

Neither of you say anything for a moment. “This was not something I had expected today” he then says softly, his tone low and careful, like he’s aware of how fragile the moment feels.

You glance up, caught somewhere between nerves and disbelief. “Yeah… me neither,” you manage, your voice barely above a whisper.

He gives a small, awkward smile, rubbing the back of his neck as if to ease the tension.

“I, uhm… I regretted not asking for your number that night,” he admits softly, voice low, careful, like he’s letting you in without forcing anything. There’s a vulnerability there, subtle but impossible to miss.

You feel your chest tighten, words catching in your throat. “Me too…” you hear your own voice, small and fragile, but it somehow feels like the only honest thing you can say. The silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable, it’s heavy, yes, but also intimate, like the room has shrunk around just the two of you.

He nods slowly, as if letting your words sink in, the awkward smile lingering just a moment longer before he shifts slightly on the stool, just enough to lean a little closer without closing the space between you.

“I… I kept thinking about it,” he admits quietly, voice almost swallowed by the hum of the fluorescent lights. “I mean not in a weird way! Just… I don’t know, wondering if I’d get another chance to actually talk to you.” 

Your heart tightens, and your fingers curl in your lap again. “We did a little more than just talking that night…” 

He blinks, a faint flush creeping up his neck. “Right.” His eyes flicker away for a moment, like he’s gathering courage, before returning to yours. 

The quiet stretches, heavy but intimate, as if the room itself has shrunk to hold just the two of you in this suspended, fragile moment. 

“A lot of things can make someone feel nauseous, or make them faint” he continues softly, like he’s searching for the right words, careful not to overstep, not to make you feel any more exposed than you already do. His voice, low and careful, like he’s trying to build a bridge across the nervous tension in the room. “Low blood pressure, stress, anxiety, not eating enough… but we’ll get to the bottom of it.”

You nod, your throat tight, the simple act of acknowledging him feeling heavier than it should. Your fingers fidget in your lap. 

He pauses, letting the words settle. “The first thing we’ll do is a urine pregnancy test. It’s quick and easy, just to rule it out before we look at other causes. Pregnancy can lead to low blood pressure and nausea, so it’s a standard step,” he explains gently, keeping his tone calm and steady, though there’s a subtle hesitancy in his voice, like he’s aware of how loaded the moment feels. He meets your eyes, letting the weight of the words hang without pressing you, giving you space to react.

“And what if it is positive?” you say, though it’s closer to a whisper, your voice catching, trailing off as your fingers twist in your lap. The words feel heavier than you expect, like stepping over an invisible line.

He looks at you for a long moment, eyes steady, patient, giving you space to let the words settle without rushing in. His lips press into a thin line before he finally speaks, slow and careful.

“Then, uhm… Then we’ll figure it out,” he answers softly, like the word takes a second to find its way out. His voice is gentle, a little unsteady, but sincere in a way that makes it land. 

His words make something in your chest tighten, then loosen all at once. It’s something warm, unfamiliar in a moment that should feel cold and clinical. You swallow, your fingers stilling in your lap for the first time since he walked in. It doesn’t fix anything. It doesn’t answer the question hanging between you. But it softens it, just enough to breathe around.

Your eyes stay on him, searching, like you’re trying to understand how he can feel so steadying, while looking so nervous at the same time. 

He clears his throat softly, like he’s grounding himself back into the role he’s supposed to be playing here. Professional, steady, your doctor. But there’s something in his eyes that doesn’t quite let him be just that.

His hand shifts against his knee, fingers curling slightly, like he’s grounding himself the same way you’ve been trying to. His gaze flickers briefly away, then back to you, and there’s still that same openness there, uncertain, but real.

For a second, it feels like he might say something else. But instead, he exhales quietly and gives a small nod, almost to himself. 

“Okay,” he says, softly, like he’s settling into something steadier. “I’ll go get you something to drink, so uh…” he trails off, glancing briefly toward the door before looking back at you. “So you can take the test,” he finishes, voice quiet, the words coming out a little uneven. 

The words hang there, simple and clinical on the surface, but they don’t land that way between you.

His gaze lingers on you for a second longer than it needs, like he’s checking something unspoken. Making sure you’re okay. Or maybe trying to make himself believe that you are.

You nod, even though your throat feels tight again. “Okay.” 

He gives a small nod back, almost mirroring you, like that’s enough to anchor him. 

“Okay,” he echoes. But he doesn’t move right away.

There’s a hesitation, subtle, but there. His fingers press lightly against his knee, then release, like he’s debating something he doesn’t quite let himself say.

“Hey,” he adds softly, drawing your attention back up to him. Your eyes meet his again. “If you start to feel lightheaded again… just lay down, and use the call button, alright?” he says, slipping gently back into that steady, professional tone, but it’s warmer now. More personal.

You nod, even though your throat feels tight again. “Okay,” you whisper.

He watches you for a moment longer, like he’s making sure you really mean it. Like he’s trying to memorize something. Your expression, maybe, or just the fact that you’re still sitting there, still steady.

“Alright,” he says softly. “I’ll be right back.” 

You nod again, a little more firmly this time, like you’re trying to hold onto that steadiness he’s offering you.

“Okay,” you repeat, barely above a whisper.

He gives you one last look, longer than necessary, softer than it should be, and then finally turns, pulling the curtain aside. The hallway noise spills in again, distant and impersonal. Voices, footsteps, the faint clatter of something metal against tile. It all feels far away. 

And then he’s gone. The curtain falls back into place with a quiet swish, and the room settles into stillness again. You sit there for a moment, unmoving. Your hands rest in your lap, fingers loosely intertwined now instead of clenched. Your breathing is a little uneven, but not as tight as before.

· · · · · 

Dennis leans back against the cool wall just outside the exam room, exhaling slowly through his nose like he’s been holding his breath for the past ten minutes without realizing it. His heart is still beating a little too fast, faster than it should for a routine case. For any case, really.

So for a moment, he just stands there, staring down at the floor, trying to put himself back together into something useful, something professional.

Because the second he walked into that room and saw you he was brought back to that night he met you, and that night wasn’t supposed to follow him here. It had been… simple, surprisingly so. Unexpected, but simple. A rare kind of ease he didn’t often get. 

You had felt easy, talking to you had felt easy. Being around you had all felt easy, and nice, but also kind of terrifying in a way he hadn’t really let himself sit with until now. Dennis lets out a quiet breath, dragging a hand down over his face. Yeah. That’s the word. Terrifying. Not because of what happened, but because of how easily it had happened. 

Trinity had dragged him along to the bar, and he hadn’t even wanted to go. Pittsburg hadn’t felt like home yet, not really. It still isn’t really, but that night had felt like something close to it. Or at least like a break from everything that didn’t.

Everything still feels slightly unfamiliar, like he is walking half a step out of sync with the rest of the world, but with you, he hadn’t felt so out of sync. It was as if something real had slipped in where it wasn’t supposed to. No expectations, no pressure, no weight. Just someone sweet, someone pretty and kind, who laughed at his awkward jokes like they were actually funny. Smiled at him like you meant it.

He shifts, the back of his head resting briefly against the wall as he now stares up at the fluorescent lights. They buzz faintly, steady and indifferent, like none of this matters outside of that room.

But it does. Because you’re in there. And there’s a chance that… He cuts the thought off before it can fully form, jaw tightening. This must be scary enough for you, he can’t let himself spiral. Because right now, your health, the test, the possibility… it’s about you. Not him 

He technically doesn’t even know if he is the father if it turns out that you are pregnant. You could have had other sexual partners within the period of a possible pregnancy. And you would be totally justified in that. 

The thought lands quietly this time, without resistance. And he lets it, because it’s true. You would be justified. It’s your life, your choices, your body. One night, no matter how real it felt to him, doesn’t give him any kind of claim or expectation. 

Dana is standing by the nursestarion, watching him with that same calm, observant expression she always has, but there’s something a little more knowing in it now. Subtle, but enough to make him straighten instinctively when he notices that she’s looking at him.

“You okay, kid?” she asks, tone light, but not casual enough to ignore.

He nods a little too quickly. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.”

Dana doesn’t push. She just tilts her head slightly, letting the silence hang long enough for him to notice he’s holding himself too rigidly. Then she turns, returning her focus to the computer in front of her, fingers moving over the keyboard with practiced ease.

He closes his eyes, squeezing them shut for a second before opening them again, blinking a few times, to get himself back together. You need fluids. Ideally something with sugar. That’s an easy task, something manageable he can do right now. Fluids and a pregnancy test, he can get you that. 

· · · · · 

You sit in the quiet for a moment, the hum of the fluorescent lights filling the space between your thoughts. Your fingers fidget in your lap, twisting together, letting the tension work itself out in small, unconscious movements. 

The shock of seeing him, of him being the one stepping into the room, of being told that he was the doctor that should help you, curls around your chest, tightening in a way that makes your breath catch even though you’re trying to calm yourself.   

Your gaze drifts toward the door, half-expecting it to open again, for the curtain to rustle, for him to step back in like this is all some strange, suspended moment that hasn’t quite decided what it is yet. 

Out of all of the ER’s in Pittsburgh and all the doctors, it had to be him. The thought doesn’t even feel real when it settles in your mind. It just… sits there, heavy and impossible, like something that belongs to a different version of your life. 

A month ago, he was just a stranger. Someone you weren’t supposed to see again, at least not under these circumstances. But somehow, here he is. And here you are. It’s not like you wouldn’t have wanted to see him again but not like this.

The thought settles heavy in your chest, quieter than the others, but somehow almost sharper. Because you had thought about it. Seeing him again. Not in any serious way. Not something you let yourself linger on too long, but it had crossed your mind in those quiet moments afterward. A passing what if. A soft, almost embarrassing curiosity about whether you’d ever run into him again.

Maybe at another bar, or at a house party Trin would drag him along to. Somewhere casual, somewhere easy. Somewhere you could’ve just smiled when you saw him, maybe teased him a little about that awkward first conversation, and about what followed, asked for his number this time without overthinking it. Something simple. 

Your chest tightens faintly. Because that version of it doesn’t exist anymore, and it never will, no matter what that test says.

Your stomach shifts again, a low, uneasy roll that makes you press your lips together. You swallow it down, one hand coming to rest lightly against your abdomen, as if that might steady something deeper than just the nausea.

A pregnancy test. The words echo faintly in your head, softer now, but the words aren’t feeling any less heavy. You exhale shakily, dropping your hand back into your lap.

It’s probably nothing. You cling to it again, even as doubt presses in at the edges. Low blood pressure, not eating enough, stress. All things that make sense. All things that don’t change your life in an instant.

Unlike the alternative. 

Your foot taps lightly against the side of the bed, a quiet, restless rhythm. And then, without meaning to, your thoughts drift back to that night. The way everything had felt so easy. Like you hadn’t been trying so hard to be okay for once. Like you hadn’t been overthinking every word, every movement.

He was different. Not in any obvious, overwhelming way. Not in the kind of way that demands attention the second someone walks into a room. No, he was much quieter than that. Softer. He hadn’t tried too hard. Hadn’t filled every silence or pushed every conversation forward like he needed it to go somewhere. There had been pauses, small ones, where neither of you spoke, and somehow they hadn’t felt awkward. 

Or actually, they had, a little at least, but not in a bad way. Not the kind of awkward that makes your skin itch or your mind scramble for something to fill the space. It was just a little unsure. Like both of you were still figuring each other out in real time, neither quite knowing what to say next, but not wanting to walk away either.

You remember noticing that. The way he looked at you like he was actually listening. Like he wasn’t just waiting for his turn to talk. Your chest tightens faintly. And the way he smiled. A little unsure, a little crooked, like he wasn’t entirely used to it landing somewhere it was truly wanted. It had made something in you soften. 

You shift a little on the bed, the paper cover beneath you crinkling softly. The sound feels too loud in the quiet room, making you pause for a second before exhaling slowly. Time feels strange in here, stretched thin. You have no idea if it’s been a minute or five since he left the room–maybe even ten.

Your gaze drifts back to the curtain again, like it might give you some kind of answer. It doesn’t. It just hangs there, still and closed, separating you from everything outside this room.

You exhale slowly, shoulders rising and falling in a measured attempt to stay grounded. But without anything to distract you, your thoughts keep circling back to the same place. The test, him, that night.

Because if it’s negative… Your chest lifts slightly with the thought, something almost like relief brushing against the edges of your ribs. Then this can just stay what it was. A strange coincidence, an almost, something soft and unfinished that you can tuck away and maybe, maybe, come back to later, under different circumstances.

Your throat tightens faintly. Maybe you would actually get that second chance. Maybe you could  both laugh about this someday. The absurdity of it, running into each other here, of all places. 

But if it turns out to be positive… Your lips press together. The thought doesn’t finish forming before your stomach twists again, sharper this time. Your hand instinctively comes back to rest against your abdomen, fingers pressing lightly like you’re trying to steady the unease from the outside. 

If it is positive, everything changes. Not just tonight, not just this moment. Everything.

Your breath comes out a little uneven, and you force yourself to inhale slowly through your nose, exhale through your mouth, like you’ve done a hundred times before when things start to feel like too much. 

It wouldn’t just be yours to figure out. Your eyes flicker toward the door again, something uncertain settling in your chest. It would be his, too. Not in the same way, of course. Not in the way it would live in your body, change your body, ask things of you every single day. But it would still be his as well as yours. Shared.

And that thought, that’s the one that lingers the longest. Not fear, exactly. Surprisingly, not even panic. Just a heavy, unsure weight. Because you don’t really know him. Not beyond a single night and a handful of soft, unfinished moments. And yet, you know enough to remember the way he looked at you. The way he touched you. The way he held you as you both caught your breath afterward. He didn’t rush you, didn’t push, didn’t make anything feel like it had to be more than it was.

Your chest tightens again, quieter this time. Would that change? Would this, whatever this is, turn him into someone else? Or would he still be that same person, just in a situation neither of you had asked for? 

The thought lingers, unanswered as a soft knock breaks through the quiet before the door opens again, the curtain shifts, not waiting long enough for you to respond to your own questions. 

Your head lifts instinctively. Dennis steps back in, the back of one hand pushing the curtain aside, in his arms he’s holding five different small sealed cups, a bottle of water, a can of La Crox. And in his right hand he’s holding another type of cup wrapped in sterile plastic and a packet of test strips. 

His eyes find yours immediately. And for a second he hesitates. Like he’s checking the temperature of the room. 

“Hey,” he says softly, stepping inside as the curtain falls closed behind him again. His voice is gentler this time, steadier, like he’s had a moment to pull himself back together. But there’s still something there under the surface. “I, uhm, I didn’t know what you like, so I brought a few options,” he finishes a little awkwardly, lifting his arms slightly like it might explain itself, as if he’s only just now realizing how much he’s carrying

Your lips part slightly, a quiet breath slipping out before you can stop it. “Thank you,” you say softly. 

The cups shift a little in his hold, and he lets out a small, self-conscious breath before stepping closer to the table beside your bed. “I might’ve… overestimated how many choices you’d need,” he adds quietly.

There’s something almost endearing in the way he says it. Like he’s aware of it, but not enough to undo it. You can’t help it, the faintest hint of a smile tugs at your lips, soft and brief, but real.

“It’s okay,” you murmur.

He gives a small nod, like your approval matters more than it maybe should, like it settles something in him. He put the cups down on the little table next to the bed beside you, a little more carefully than necessary, like even that small action requires focus.

“The apple juice is, uh… probably better,” he adds, almost as an afterthought, gesturing lightly toward it. “You need some sugar.”

“Okay.” You nod, meeting his eyes with a sudden feeling of shyness. “I like apple juice.” 

“Yeah?” he says, a little too quickly, like he didn’t expect an actual answer. Then he lets out a small, almost sheepish breath, the corner of his mouth lifting in a sweet, shy smile, like he is happy to learn even the smallest thing about you.

You nod again, a little more certain this time, though the warmth creeping up your neck gives you away.

“Yeah,” you murmur, almost like you’re confirming it for both of you.

His smile lingers for a moment longer than necessary. He removes the lid before handing you the juice cup. You take a sip, the sweetness hitting your tongue a little sharper than you expect, but not unpleasant. It settles something small in your stomach, even if the unease doesn’t fully go away.

You lower the cup slightly, your fingers still wrapped around it. “Good?” he asks, a little tentative, like he’s not entirely sure why it matters so much, but it does.

You nod. “Yeah… it helps.”

Something in his shoulders eases at that, just a fraction. “That’s good,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

There’s a quiet pause, the kind that feels softer now, less strained. Like the edges of the moment have smoothed just a little.

“I know this is… a lot,” he says finally, voice lower now, less clinical, more honest. “The fainting, and feeling sick, and then… this on top of it.” He gestures vaguely, like the words possible pregnancy is too heavy to just drop into the space between you again.

You let out a small breath, eyes dropping to the cup in your hands. “Yeah… it is,” you admit quietly.

He nods, like he understands that in a way that goes beyond just the medical side of things. His fingers shift against the edge of the table, restless for a second before stilling again. There’s something else sitting with him now. You can see it. He glances at you, then away, then back again, like he’s circling something he’s not sure he’s allowed to touch.

“I, uh…” he starts, then stops, a faint crease forming between his brows. He lets out a small breath through his nose, almost a quiet laugh at himself, like he’s aware of how awkward this is about to sound. “I’m trying to figure out how to ask this without making it weird…” he admits softly.

Your grip on the cup tightens just slightly.

“I don’t want to assume anything,” he starts, the words slow, deliberate. “And you don’t have to answer if you’re not comfortable, I just…” he exhales softly, like he’s trying to steady himself. “Timing-wise…” He trails off, glancing at you briefly, then back down, then back up again. Then, more carefully. “That night was, what… about a month ago?”

You nod slowly. “Yeah.”

He nods too, like he expected that, but hearing it still makes something in him settle—and tighten at the same time.

“Okay,” he murmurs. Then another pause. “You don’t have to tell me anything you’re not comfortable with,” he says. “Really. I mean that.” His hand comes up briefly, rubbing the back of his neck again before dropping back down. “It’s just… medically, it helps to know, and…” he hesitates, then corrects himself, more honest now, “and not just medically,” he admits, quieter now.

That lands a little heavier. The way he says it, so careful, so indirect, makes your chest ache a little. He’s not pushing. Not claiming anything. Just asking for a place in something that maybe don’t een exist, but already feels bigger than either of you can name.

“There hasn’t been anyone else,” you say softly.

His eyes widen just the slightest fraction, a flicker of relief passing through them before he smooths it down into calm attentiveness. He doesn’t smile or anything, but you can see the tension in his shoulders ease, just a little.

“Okay,” he says softly. His voice low, steady and careful. “That… helps, a lot. Thank you for telling me.” He lets the words hang for a moment, letting them settle between you both.

“Dennis?”

He blinks at your voice, a faint pause filling the space as if the single word pulled him up from a careful orbit around himself. His eyes flick to yours, wide, attentive, the weight of that moment settling on him too. “Yeah?” His voice is soft, still careful, like he’s bracing himself for whatever comes next but ready to meet it.

“Can I get your number?” 

You don’t even know why you are asking him right now, the timing is weird, but it suddenly feels very important.

His eyebrows lift just the slightest fraction, like the question took a second to land. “Yeah,” says finally, voice low, almost shy. “Of course.”

You pull out your phone, swiping your thumb across the screen and unlocking it with quiet, deliberate motion, trying not to let your hands shake. You open up your contacts, fingers hovering over the ‘+’ button for a new entry. Your thumb hesitates just above the name field for a moment, and then, with a quiet breath, you type in Dennis. You tap the number field and carefully hand the phone toward him, your fingers brushing briefly against his as he takes it. 

His hand is warm, steady, and there’s a soft, almost shy smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he glances down at the screen. He types in his number slowly, deliberately, like he’s memorizing the motion as much as the digits. Then he hands the phone back to you. 

“Thank you,” you say softly as you press the button to save the contact. You tuck the phone back into your pocket. 

He hesitates for a second, like he is weighing something, then finally lifts his phone. “Uh… can I get your number too?” His voice is quiet, careful, almost shy, as if he’s afraid of breaking the fragile rhythm between you.

You feel a small warmth rise in your chest at the request. “Of course.”

It’s his turn to pull out his phone, fingers fumbling just slightly as he unlocks it. You watch him for a moment, the soft concentration on his face, the way his eyebrows draw together just a little, and it makes your chest tighten in a good, nervous way.

You hold out your hand, and he hands over the phone, your fingers typing again, warm and familiar before handing it back to him again. His eyes meet yours with that shy little smile before pressing save. 

He glances down at the small collection of cups on the table beside your bed, then back up at you, eyes soft and careful. “Do you need some more to drink?” 

You shake your head just slightly, still feeling the warmth from the phone exchange linger in your chest. “Maybe just a little,” you murmur, your voice quieter than you intend, like the words are tentative, testing the space between you. You have to be able to pee to take the test, but you don’t feel ready, even though you know you should. 

The thought of standing up, moving, letting go of control for even a moment, of taking a test that could change everything, twists your stomach in a way that has nothing to do with nausea.

“What would you like?” he asks, eyes soft, giving you room to choose without pressure.

“Just some water.” 

He nods right away, like the answer really matters “Yeah, okay,” he says softly, reaching for the bottle. He screws the bottle open before handing it to you, the sound of the plastic breaking softly in the quiet as the seal of the bottle cap breaks.

You take a small sip, then another, your throat easing as the water settles. He stays where he is, close but not too close, his weight shifting slightly from one foot to the other. His hands hover like he’s not entirely sure what to do with them, before one comes up to rub the back of his neck again. 

“So, uhm, Perlah will come back in a few minutes,” he says, voice a little uneven at first before he steadies it. “She’ll, uh… take you to the bathroom. And she will explain what to do, she is definitely a lot better at that than me.” He clears his throat softly, a small, sheepish smile tugging at his lips. He shifts his weight again, glancing briefly at the door before looking back at you, softer this time. “And then it only takes a few minutes,” he adds. “For the result, I mean.”

A few minutes. It sounds so short, but it doesn’t feel that way at all. You swallow, taking another sip of water, letting the coolness settle. “Right.” 

There’s a soft knock at the door before either of you can say anything else. The curtain shifts a second later, and Perlah steps in, her presence gentle but efficient, like she’s done this a hundred times before.

“Hi,” she says with a small, reassuring smile, glancing between you and Dennis before focusing on you. “How are you feeling?”

You hesitate. “A little better,” you manage.

“Alright.” She nods, like that’s enough for now. “When you’re ready, we’ll have you give us a urine sample so we can run the test, okay?” 

“I, uhm, I think I’m ready,” you say, your voice small, almost swallowed by the quiet room. You take a last sip from the water bottle before setting it down on the table

“Okay.” Perlah nods, her smile steady and patient. You’re glad you know her name now, you had been too nauseous and out of it to catch it when she first introduced herself and you were too embarrassed to ask again. “We’ll take it one step at a time.”

Dennis hands her the specimen cup, sealed in clear wrapping, along with the small box of testing strips. His movements are careful, almost tentative, as if he’s afraid to break the fragile rhythm of the room. Perlah accepts them with a nod, her hands steady and practiced.

“Follow me, hun,” Perlah says gently, her voice warm but professional. She steps toward the door, holding it open for you with a soft, encouraging smile. Dennis shifts slightly, giving you a reassuring glance before staying where he is, letting you move forward. 

When you reach the bathroom, she gestures toward it. “Alright, just like I said. You can use the cup here. When you’re done you can just leave the cup on the counter and I will take it to testing.”

“Okay, thank you,” you say quietly, your fingers tightening just slightly around the cup.

Perlah gives you one last reassuring nod. “I’ll be right outside, but you can take all the time you need,” she says softly, before stepping back and letting the door close behind you. 

The small click of it feels louder than it should. For a moment, you just stand there. The bathroom is simple, clean, thank god. The cup in your hand feels light, but your chest doesn’t. You let out a slow breath, your shoulders rising and falling as you try to steady yourself.

When you’re done, you set the cup carefully on the counter before washing your hands. You catch your own gaze in the mirror, and for a second, you don’t quite recognize yourself.

You let out a sigh before looking away. You dry your hands slowly, buying yourself an extra second before reaching for the door. When you open it, Perlah is right where she said she’d be. She looks up immediately, her expression soft and steady.

“All set?” she asks.

You nod. “Yeah.”

“Perfect.” She steps inside, her movements easy and practiced as she picks up the cup from the counter. “I’ll take this to testing now. It won’t take long.”

You nod again, even though your chest tightens at that.

She pauses for just a second before stepping back out, her voice gentler now. “You can head back. I’ll come find you as soon as we have something.”

“Okay,” you murmur. “Thank you.”

The walk back feels quieter than before, like the air has thickened somehow. When you step through the curtain, Dennis looks up immediately, like he’s been listening for your steps. His shoulders ease the second he sees you.

“Hey,” he says softly.

“Hey.”

There’s a small pause as you move back toward the bed, sitting down carefully. Your hands come together in your lap, fingers beginning fidgeting before you even notice that you’re doing it. It’s starting to become a bad habit. 

Your eyes drift to his hand for a second, then back up to his face. He notices, just barely, and something in his expression softens even more. 

For a second, neither of you says anything. Then, slowly, carefully, he steps closer. You scoot just slightly, making space for him without thinking about it. He notices. Of course he does. He sits down beside you, careful with the distance, close, but not crowding. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, the quiet steadiness he carries with him.

Your hands are still fidgeting in your lap, fingers twisting together, and after a moment, his gaze drops to them. But it’s not in a way that makes you self-conscious. 

Then his hand shifts. Slowly, deliberately, he rests it on the bed beside yours. It’s tentative, like a question, an option. 

You hesitate, your breath catching just slightly. Your fingers still for a moment, like they’re deciding something before you are. Then, almost without thinking, they drift, just enough to brush against his.

The contact is light. Barely there. But it’s enough. His shoulders drop a fraction, like something in him settles.

“Sorry,” he murmurs softly, though he doesn’t pull away. “I just…”

“It’s okay,” you say quickly, your voice quieter than you expect. You glance down at your hands for a second, then back up at him. “It’s… nice.”

That earns the smallest, most relieved smile from him. “Okay,” he says, almost to himself.

The silence that follows feels different again. Still quiet, still heavy with waiting—but softer around the edges now. Less alone.

Your thumb shifts slightly against his without you realizing it, a small, grounding motion. His hand responds instinctively, just barely tightening, like he’s anchoring himself there too.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” he asks after a moment, voice gentle. “Or… not talk about it,” he adds quickly, a hint of nervousness slipping back in. “Either’s okay.”

You let out a small breath, your gaze drifting somewhere past him for a second. “I don’t even know what there is to say yet,” you admit.

“Yeah,” he nods. “That’s fair.”

“I think I’m just scared of knowing,” you add, quieter now.

He doesn’t hesitate this time. “Yeah,” he says softly. “Me too.”

The honesty of it sits between you, simple and unguarded. And somehow, that makes it easier to breathe. But it doesn’t stop your heart from skipping a beat as the sound of soft, but firm knock lands against the door. It cuts clean through the quiet and both of you still. 

Your hand tightens just a fraction before you even realize it, and he responds immediately, steady, present.

“Hey,” Perlah’s voice comes gently from the other side before she steps in, her expression changing for a split second when she sees the two of you sitting on the bed. Not judgment, just a slight surprise. Like she’s clocking the moment and choosing, very deliberately, to handle it gently.

Your heart jumps into your throat. She steps fully inside, glancing between the two of you, briefly, not intrusive, before her attention settles on you. 

“The results are ready to be confirmed, so I need Dr. Whitaker for a moment,” Perlah finishes gently. The words land softly, but they shift something in the room immediately. 

Dennis stills beside you. There’s a small pause, like he’s switching something inside himself, stepping back into a role he can stand on. His hand slips from yours this time, slower, more deliberate. “Yeah,” he says, voice quiet but steady. “Of course.” He says to Perlah before he glances at you, and for a second the doctor is still there, but there’s something else underneath it. Softer. More personal. “I’ll be right back, okay?”

You nod, even though your chest feels tight. “Okay,” you echo, your voice barely above a breath.

He hesitates, just for a fraction of a second, like he wants to say something more. Then he doesn’t. Instead, he gives you a small, reassuring nod before standing.

Perlah steps back slightly to give him space as he moves toward her. There’s a quiet efficiency in the way they fall into step with each other, like this is familiar ground for her and something he’s trying very hard to navigate correctly.

The curtain shifts closed behind them. And just like that, you’re alone. The room feels different without him in it. Quieter. And now bigger, somehow.

You stare down at your hands, still curled slightly like they’re remembering the shape of his. Outside, their voices are low. Too low to make out clearly, it’s just the soft murmur of conversation, the faint rustle of something, the clinical rhythm of confirmation.

Minutes stretch. Or maybe it’s seconds. Yeah, it probably is just second, but you have a hard time telling. Every second in here feels like a minute. Your knee starts bouncing before you notice it, a restless energy you can’t quite contain. You press your hands against them to make them still, but the movement doesn’t fully stop. 

But then the curtain moves. Dennis steps back in, and you know. You don’t know how, but you just know. It’s in his face, not panicked, nor cold, but very careful. Grounded in a way that feels intentional, like he’s choosing how to hold this moment before he gives it to you, but there is still a small hint of both nervousness and shock that he can’t really hide.

“Hey,” he says softly.

Your throat feels tight. “Hey.”

He doesn’t come all the way in right away. There’s a brief pause, like he’s giving you a second to breathe, to brace, like he understands that once he says it, there’s no taking it back. Then he steps closer.

“Can I sit?” he asks gently.

You nod. He sits beside you again, leaving just a little space this time, professional and careful, but still close enough that you don’t feel alone.

A breath passes. Then another. And then, quietly. “So… as your doctor I needed to confirm the result.” He glances at you, just briefly, like he’s making sure you’re with him. “And, uh… It did come back positive.”

The words settle into the room slowly, like they don’t quite know where to land. Positive. For a second, everything feels very still. Your ears ring faintly, like the world has stepped just half a pace away from you. Your gaze drops somewhere between your hands and the floor, unfocused.

Positive. It echoes again, quieter this time, heavier. Your breath comes in, but it’s shallow. Not enough. You swallow, your throat tight, like there’s something lodged there that won’t move.

“Hey.” His voice is soft. Careful.

You don’t look up right away.

“I know this is… a lot,” Dennis adds gently, and there’s something in the way he says it, like he’s holding the weight of it with you instead of just handing it over.

You let out a small breath, but it shakes on the way out. “Yeah…” you manage, though it barely sounds like you.

Silence stretches again, but it’s different now, thicker, more real.

Your hand drifts, almost without thinking, back to your abdomen. It rests there lightly, like before, but now the gesture feels different. Your chest tightens.

“I…” you start, then stop. Your voice doesn’t want to cooperate. You shake your head slightly, a small, almost helpless motion. “I don’t know what to say. I thought it was just stress.”

“That’s okay,” he says immediately. Too quickly, almost, like he doesn’t want you to feel like you have to say anything. “You don’t have to say anything right now.”

You nod faintly, even though your thoughts are anything but still. Everything is moving too fast and not at all at the same time. 

“Would you hate me if I kept it?” You can’t stop the words before they leave your mouth, you don’t even know why the thought feels so important to you, but in this moment it’s a question every fiber in your body needs an answer to. You don’t look at him, you can’t. It’s like something in you is bracing for impact.

Dennis stills. “Hate you?” he repeats softly, like he needs to hear it again to believe it.

You don’t look at him. Your gaze stays fixed somewhere low. “I don’t know…” you murmur, your voice small, fragile in a way you can’t quite hide. “I don’t even know what I want.” Your voice barely holds together by the end of it.

“No,” he says. His voice cuts in softly, but not sharply. Just catching you before you spiral too far ahead of yourself.

You still. You don’t look at him.

There’s a small pause. You can feel him shift beside you. not away, just adjusting, like he’s trying to meet you where you are without crowding you.

“No, I wouldn’t hate you for that,” he repeats, quieter now, but no less steady. “ Not for anything.”

Your throat tightens. You swallow hard. “I just,” you shake your head slightly, your voice barely holding together. “I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know what I’m allowed to feel about it. It’s like…” your breath stutters, “like if I even think about wanting it, I’m already messing everything up.”

That lands deeper than you expect it to. There’s a shift beside you again, closer this time, but still careful. Always careful. “You’re not messing anything up,” he says gently.

You let out a quiet, shaky breath, but it doesn’t quite steady you.

“I don’t even know what you’d want,” you admit, finally glancing at him, your eyes searching his like you’re bracing for something you’re not sure you can handle.

That’s what this is really about. Not just the question. Him. You don’t even know what you want, but not knowing what he wants somehow feels worse. Not knowing what you want is overwhelming, but not knowing where he stands? That feels like standing on something that might give out beneath you at any second.

“I want you to be okay,” he says first. It’s not a deflection. It’s just the most honest place he can start. Then, after a small breath. “And yeah,” he adds, quieter, more personal now, “I care about what happens. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t.”

Your chest tightens again, and you gather all your courage to look up and meet his eyes again. There’s something so rawly vulnerable in his expression now. 

“But that doesn’t turn into pressure on you,” he continues quickly, gently. “It doesn’t get to.” His hand shifts slightly on the bed, closer again, still not assuming, still leaving the choice with you. “This is your decision,” he says softly. “Not mine to make for you, or mine to judge.”

You swallow, your throat still tight, but something in your chest has shifted, just enough that you can breathe a little deeper than before. “I know,” you say quietly, and you mean it. You can feel how careful he’s being, how hard he’s trying not to tip the balance one way or the other.

A small pause. Then, more carefully. “If you kept it, I wouldn’t hate you.” His voice softens even more. “And I’d… want to be there. If you wanted me to be.” That last part is quieter, almost tentative.  “Honestly, I would want to be there even if you wouldn’t want me to.” 

He stops himself. Like he hears it as he’s saying it and realizes how it might sound too much, too fast, crossing a line he’s been so careful not to cross.

A small breath leaves him, and he shakes his head slightly, softer now, correcting, not taking it back, just placing it better.

“I mean,” he says quietly, “I wouldn’t force that. I wouldn’t show up where I’m not wanted.” His eyes meet yours again, steady, open. “But I wouldn’t just stop caring either.”

That lands differently. No pressure, just truth. 

“But we don’t have to figure everything out right now,” he continues, voice steady but soft. “This is just… information right now. Okay? Just one step.”

“Just one step,” you repeat, like you’re testing the shape of it.

His thumb shifts lightly against your hand, careful, reassuring. “Yeah.” The words sit between you, quieter now. You both let the silence settle. Your breathing evens out a little more, your shoulders lowering inch by inch, like your body is finally catching up to what your mind is trying to process.

His hand is still there, steady against yours. Not holding tight, not claiming, just present. Close enough that you can feel it if you need to. And you do.

 “You need to stay for monitoring,” he says gently, voice slipping a little more into something professional, but still soft, still him. “Just for a couple of hours. Given the fainting earlier, we need to make sure everything stays stable. And we have to check a few other things, just to be sure,” he finishes gently, smoothing the sentence as it comes together.

He glances at you, like he’s checking how it lands before continuing. You nod, a small, quiet motion, your eyes still on him. “Okay,” you say softly.

“It’s just routine things,” he adds, softer again. “Blood pressure, heart rate, maybe some blood work. Nothing invasive unless we have a reason,” he adds quickly. “And we’ll talk you through everything before we do it.”

You nod again, a little more firmly this time.

“Okay…” A small breath leaves you. “That sounds… manageable,” you admit. 

There’s the faintest hint of relief in his expression, not because the situation is easier, but because he seems to care a lot about your reaction.. “Yeah,” he says softly. “That’s the goal.” 

“Thank you for being so nice to me,” you say quietly. The words come out softer than you expect, but they feel important to say. 

He stills for just a second, not surprised exactly, but like he wasn’t expecting you to say that. “You don’t have to thank me for that,” he says gently.

You shake your head a little, your fingers shifting faintly against his. “I know,” you murmur. “But still.” Your eyes meet his again, steadier now. “Thanbk you for not making this feel worse,” you finish softly.

The words hang there for a second, fragile but honest. He doesn’t answer right away.

You can see the moment it lands, really lands, in the way his expression shifts. Something quieter, more affected than he’s been letting himself show. 

“I’m really glad to hear it didn’t,” he says finally, voice low, but a sheepish smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, small and a little self-conscious, like he’s not entirely sure what to do with being seen like that. His gaze dips for a second before coming back to you, even softer now.

Your fingers move slightly against his again, a small, unconscious motion, but you don’t pull back at all. There’s a pause. Then, more quietly. 

“If everything looks good, you should get discharged around the time my shift ends, so if you… I don’t know, uhm… maybe we could go grab something to eat after,” he says quietly, almost as if testing the idea out, letting it hover between you. “If you want to.”

You blink, caught off guard, but the thought warms your chest in a way nothing else has in hours. “Yeah,” you manage, voice small but steady, “I’d like that.”

A small, genuine smile spreads across his face, softening the tension you didn’t realize had been holding you so tight. “Okay,” he says, letting the word linger, careful not to rush it.

Your fingers brush against his again, just slightly, and he doesn’t pull away, instead of that ,his thumb brushes lightly over yours in a small, steadying motion. The room feels a little softer, the air a little warmer, and for the first time in hours, the tight coil in your chest loosens just enough for a small, real breath to escape. And for now, in this little moment of time, that’s enough. He’s on your team. 

[obsessivesmind]

Curse Nature

A Story In Progress By TrashCan

I grew up in the Texas countryside. My parents owned a small ranch, with a garden and a few farm animals, all fenced in with white pickets. Near the edge of the property stood a large willow tree.

My older brother, Mathew, and I spent our childhood playing beneath that tree. We’d play cops and robbers, using fallen twigs as makeshift guns. When we got older, our father built us a treehouse within its branches. Climbing up into it, you could see the dark, weathered bark and the long, drooping limbs. The wind creaked through the nailed planks, making the whole structure groan. Inside, it was nearly empty—just some old art supplies and dirt.

The summer of 1979 was the last time either of us stepped inside that treehouse.

My brother was up there when I ran to tell him that Mother had made dinner. I saw him stand eagerly—but then the wood gave way beneath him.

My screams echoed across the fields toward the house. Time seemed to freeze as I stared at his body, crumpled beside snapped branches and splintered wood.

———————

1980

The house is quiet now. It’s always quiet.

I make my way to Mathew’s room, the floorboards creaking beneath each step. I open the door slowly.

“Hi, Matty…”

All I’m met with is the steady whir of the oxygen tank—a reminder of last year.

Mathew looks at me, but only his eyes move. I can never tell what he’s thinking.

I sit beside him on the bed.

“Mom and Dad are gone again… Last time, they were away for a week.”

I look at him, my chest tightening, tears welling in my eyes.

“Matty… please… I pray every night that you’ll heal. I’m scared. I’m scared of being alone.”

My breath shakes as I exhale.

Mathew doesn’t react.

Of course he doesn’t.

Why do I even bother?

[joelsrose]

In Jackson, you’re the town’s accidental matchmaker—known for fixing hearts you’ve never held. But when Joel Miller becomes your next project, you realize you might’ve been saving all your love for him.

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

You weren’t a matchmaker.

Not by profession, not by study, not by any title that held weight in the world before it broke. There were no business cards tucked in your coat pocket, no laminated flyers advertising your services. Just a heart that loved love, a habit of noticing, and a hopeful little instinct that pulsed like a secret in your chest.

Still—ask around Jackson, and you’d find a different story. A soft one. Told with a smile, the shake of a head, and always some variation of, “That girl? She’s got stardust in her blood. Wild little thing. Got a sixth sense for soulmates.”

It had all begun one slow golden afternoon, the kind that drifted like a lullaby, sunlight spilling lazy and low through the windows of the dining hall. You were curled into your usual spot by the window—wrapped in a knitted cardigan, fingers curled around a chipped pink mug that smelled faintly of cinnamon tea. The world outside felt momentarily calm, like even the chaos had stopped to stretch its limbs and rest awhile.

Next to you sat your best friend—June, darling June—soft-eyed and sharp-tongued, with a mind like a fox and a heart like spun sugar. She was poking listlessly at something on her tray when you nudged her elbow, your voice low and dreamy.

“What about him?” you asked, your chin tilted ever-so-slightly toward the food line.

June blinked, then followed your gaze. “Who?”

“Him,” you murmured again.

Third in line. Holding a tin plate, standing quiet and unassuming. Broad shoulders tucked inward like he’d forgotten how to carry himself wide. A shadow of dark curls kissed the nape of his neck, tousled in the way that made your chest ache. His skin was sun-warmed and golden-brown from patrols, and there was a delicate old scar slicing through the upper curve of his lip—just enough to make him look like someone who'd lived, someone who’d earned softness. You’d heard his name once—Nick, maybe. Or something close. It didn’t matter.

You shrugged, a little smirk playing at the corners of your mouth. “He’s thirty-four. Single. Tommy says he’s reliable. Good with his hands.”

June blinked. “And?”

You took a sip of your lukewarm tea, savoring the quiet sweetness. “And he’s hot.”

June let out a laugh so genuine it made her shoulders shake and her tray clatter just slightly. “You’re impossible.”

But she looked again.

And she didn’t stop.

Three months later, they were married under a tangle of twinkling lights strung haphazardly between the greenhouse beams—fragile and glowing, like stars tangled in vines. Prairie flowers had been scattered at their feet, the petals soft and fragrant beneath June’s boots. There was no priest, no altar, no pews—just the people they loved, a sky the color of lavender milk, and the hush of evening air curling through the willows.

You’d sat in the front row, dressed in something pale and floaty, your lap full of rose petals and your lashes sticky with tears. You looked like a girl in a fairytale, and for once, you felt like one too.

When June kissed her husband, you tossed petals into the air like confetti, laughing through your weeping, glowing like a lantern lit from within.

And after that, the name stuck. Maybe it was Tommy who said it first. Maybe it was that old woman with the stubborn chickens and a soft spot for gossip. Whoever it was, the nickname clung to you with the sweetness of spun sugar and a hint of mischief: “The Cupid of Wyoming.”

Cheesy? Sure.

But it felt like glitter in the air. Like a compliment dipped in honey. Like something real and soft and quietly magical.

Like something earned.

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

After June and Nick, it was as if something inside you had been quietly set into motion—some hidden, unspoken gift you’d never reached for, now fluttering awake like the soft flicker of candlelight in your chest.

You hadn’t planned it. Hadn’t studied it. You simply felt it, the way one might feel the weather shift or the hush before snow. A new tenderness unfolding—sudden, sure, and full of light.

Soon, people began to find you.

They came with shy grins and hearts held like offerings, turning to you with something raw in their eyes. In the stables, while you were brushing down a chestnut mare. In the infirmary, during slow afternoons spent organizing bandages. In the dining hall, interrupting your spoonful of stew with nervous laughter and the same quiet hope: “Do you think maybe… you could help me find someone?”

And each time, you smiled. Beamed, really.

Because no matter who they were—men, women, young, old, guarded, grieving—it always came down to the same fragile thing. No matter the bruises the world had left behind, no matter the losses or the loneliness, they all still wanted love.

They still believed in it.

And that—that—made your heart bloom with something holy. Not just because they trusted you with something so intimate. But because you understood that ache in its entirety. You knew what it meant to want someone’s name to be the first thing you whispered in the morning. You had once known love deeply, fully, sweetly—before the world had fallen apart and taken him with it.

You had worn a ring. Gold and simple. Promised to a man whose laughter still echoed in your memory like wind chimes on a summer porch. You’d tasted a forever once, had your hands warmed by it, your future shaped by it.

And then it was gone.

So now, when they came to you wide-eyed and soft-spoken, asking for something beautiful in the middle of all this ruin, you said yes. You always said yes.

Because you believed they deserved it, all of them. Because once upon a time, so did you.

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

Maria’s voice drifted beside you, gentle and rhythmic, like the clinking of teacups or the way wind rustles through linen curtains. She was recounting something about greenhouse repairs—something to do with a busted water pipe and a nosy hen that wouldn’t leave her tomatoes alone—but your focus had shifted, utterly and irreversibly, to the bundle curled in your arms.

Benji.

Only six months old, but already a perfect symphony of his parents—Maria’s honey-brown eyes, Tommy’s sleepy smile, a patch of hair that refused to settle no matter how often Maria tried to smooth it. His cheeks were impossibly soft, like clouds that had decided to stay earthbound, and his laughter—light and sudden—poured from him like music whenever you made a silly face.

So you kept doing it. Wriggling your nose. Puffing out your cheeks. Whispering little nonsense stories into the shell of his ear just to hear that laugh again. It was pure, high, and joy-soaked. It made your chest feel warm and floaty, like rosewater fizzing in your lungs.

Across the room, Tommy dropped into the armchair with a tired grunt and an easy smirk curling at his mouth. He leaned forward, forearms resting on his knees, his gaze soft but mischievous.

“So,” Tommy drawled, his voice rich with amusement, a lazy smirk tugging at his mouth, “how’s it going, Dr. Love?”

Maria laughed softly beside you, that warm, tinkling kind of laugh that said she’d heard this joke before and still found it charming.

You didn’t lift your gaze—just kept your arms gently cradled around Benji’s warm little body, thumb moving in lazy circles over the embroidered moon stitched into his onesie. He was drifting, lids heavy, cheeks rosy with that particular kind of peace only babies seem to know. You smiled, small and sleepy. “It’s going alright.”

“That so?” Tommy asked, leaning back into the couch with a low sigh, boots scuffed and arms folded. There was mischief dancing at the edges of his voice. “What’s the count now—how many babies named after you? Three? Four?”

“Tommy,” Maria chided gently, the warning softened by amusement as she reached over to adjust Benji’s sock, her hand brushing against yours.

He raised both palms in mock surrender, that same crooked grin pulling at his mouth. “What? I think it’s sweet. Little tribute to Jackson’s patron saint of matchmaking.”

You shot him a look, head tilting with a knowing smirk. “You don’t believe in any of it.”

“I do,” he said easily, stretching out one leg and resting his boot on the rug. “I’m just not a hopeless romantic like you.”

You raised a brow—slow, pointed—before glancing at Maria, then back at Benji, tucked against your chest like something sacred. The look said it all: And what do you call this, then?

Tommy caught it, his grin faltering just slightly as he let out a breath, scratching the back of his neck. “I mean… I think love’s beautiful. I do. Same as you. I just don’t think it shows up for everyone.”

Tommy went on, voice lower now. “I know that’s a little bleak. But not everyone gets a perfect fit. Sometimes it don’t work. And I guess I just… don’t want you thinkin’ it’s your job to make it happen every time.”

You watched him closely, the weight in his tone landing soft but true.

“I’ve seen the way you look at people,” Tommy said, his voice quiet now, steady, softened at the edges like something worn smooth by time. “Like you see somethin’ more than the rest of us do. Like you already know what they need before they do.”

He paused, watching you with a gaze that felt heavier than before—gentle, but full of truth.

“But you ain’t a miracle worker, sweetheart. And the first time it don’t go the way you hoped…” His words trailed off, then came back quieter. “I just don’t wanna see you lose that light you’ve got.”

You exhaled, a little laugh pressed into your chest, though it didn’t quite reach your lips. “Thanks, Tommy.”

He nodded, offering a half-smile full of worn-in affection. “That’s alright, darlin’. Just sayin’. Not everyone gets a happy ending.”

The words hung in the air like dust in sunlight—quiet, suspended, and somehow… wrong. Not cruel. Not careless. But wrong in the way that makes your pulse thrum and your spine stiffen, like something in your bones rising up to argue.

Because sure, you weren’t naïve. You knew people lost the ones they loved. You knew some waited forever, and others lived lifetimes without that soft place to land. You knew grief. You weren’t foolish.

But you also believed—deep in that wild little heart of yours—that if someone tried, if they were brave, if they had a little help, then love could be found. Even after all this. Even here.

Tommy must’ve seen the flicker on your face, because he barked out a sudden laugh. “Shit. What’d I say now?”

You shook your head, trying to tamp down the heat rising in your chest. “Nothing,” you muttered, gaze dropping back to Benji, who was beginning to stir, one tiny fist curling near your heart.

Tommy chuckled again, leaned forward, elbows on knees. “Nah, I know that look. You’re plottin’ somethin’. That little fire’s startin’ to burn.”

You gave him a half-hearted glare, your lips twitching despite yourself. “Am not.”

“Sure you’re not,” he teased, then softened. “Tell you what,” he said, his tone dipping low, like he was offering something important. “I’ll make you a deal.”

You raised a brow, cautious and curious all at once. “A deal?”

He nodded once. “You really believe in all this love-for-everyone business? That there’s somebody for anyone?”

“I do.”

“Alright then,” he said, sitting back like he’d just laid a card on the table. “You find him someone—and I’ll believe it, too.”

Your breath caught just slightly. “Him?”

Tommy jerked his chin toward the hallway—toward the sound of heavy boots and that familiar slow gait.

You didn’t have to ask.

Joel.

Of course.

You blinked, heart skipping in that strange, traitorous way it sometimes did when he was near but hadn’t spoken yet. “You want me to find Joel Miller a soulmate?”

Tommy grinned. “Yep. Find that man a good woman, and I’ll admit I was wrong.”

Maria, who had been silent for a while now, gave you a look over her tea—half warning, half wonder.

And you?

You looked toward the hallway, toward the man who didn’t believe in soft things but moved like he carried the weight of every love he’d ever lost.

And suddenly, you weren’t sure if you’d just accepted a challenge…

…or opened a door you wouldn’t know how to close.

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

Eeeekkk this was so much fun to write!!! I was fully possessed by the spirit of The Materialists and had to get this out of my system IMMEDIATELY 😭💘 I really hope you all enjoyed reading it as much as I adored writing it!! Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist—I'd love to keep you in the loop for more soft chaos and yearning 😚💌🌸

[whoevenisjavier]

EROTICA

part 1 | part 2

pairing: no outbreak!joel x reader

summary: Your thesis said, “analyze male behavior.” Joel said, “come sit on it.”

a/n: this is the 2nd part, which can't be read alone. i mean, you can read it without going through the first part (read it here), but you won't understand shit

additional tags/warnings: 18+, mdni. reader is 26, joel is 50ish. no outbreak. joel is a dad. conversations about porn. porn actor joel miller/javier peña. dirty talk. car sex. fingering. oral sex f! receiving.

wc: 6.5k

Out of shame, you avoid Joel the following week.

You dodge aisles when you see him at the supermarket, time your exits minute by minute to avoid running into him, and lock yourself in your bedroom like an emo teenager when your parents invite him over for dinner.

Because now, whenever you see him, all you can remember is his voice saying obscenities, his hands on women’s skin — and some men’s too. You remember yourself, in the privacy of your room, doing what you swore you would never do.

You even look up if there’s such a thing as a permanent fertile period, because none of this feels normal.

And of course, Joel confronts you about it.

On your father’s birthday night, he invites a few close friends over for a small cocktail party, followed by dinner. When you walk down the stairs, Joel is there, sitting in the living room armchair with a glass of whiskey in his right hand.

He’s listening to something your father is saying but glances at you. You immediately turn your back and head into the kitchen to see if your mother needs help.

Yesterday, you found a movie where Joel played a DEA agent rescuing a drug lord’s wife. He said so many filthy things to her while fucking her inside a police car that the words stuck in your head like Play-Doh in hair.

And maybe the area between your legs feels a little more sensitive too, which only makes you feel worse.

After the cocktail and dinner, spent tensely avoiding Joel’s gaze, you slip out into the backyard with a glass of wine in one hand and your Kindle in the other.

Inside, the party goes on, your father having opened another bottle of whiskey, and you can hear them from here. You need to stay out of your bedroom to keep yourself from typing "Javier Peña" into that damn search bar again, so for the next few minutes, you sip your wine and read.

“Finally, a place where you can’t hide behind the toilet paper aisle.”

Joel sits down on the chair next to you, holding his own whiskey glass. You lose your words because, yes, you actually did hide in the personal hygiene aisle yesterday when you saw him.

You play dumb.

“What are you talking about?”

“You know. You went all puritanical after you found out what you found out.”

“I told you it’s weird.”

“Sweetheart, I don’t want to be rude, but I don’t need your approval. My life and career are my own. I said I would help you with your thesis, and I will, but if you keep running from me, someone’s going to think there’s something wrong between us.”

You take another sip of wine in silence, staring at the lawn like it’s salvation. Joel’s gaze burns into the side of your face before he asks:

“Have you watched any more?”

“For the thesis.” A lie.

“May I ask which one?”

“The DEA one.”

“Hmm.”

He finds your eyes as he sips his whiskey. He’s sitting with his legs spread, making his jeans stretch tight over his groin and thick thighs. And you know exactly what’s under those jeans.

You can’t resist your curiosity:

“Do you miss acting?”

“My ego does,” he says, like he’s thought about it a thousand times. “Not gonna lie, there’s a certain masculine pride in being a porn actor. It’s easier for men. But personally? No. Especially because of Sarah.”

“She knows?”

He shakes his head.

“She does. I told her when she turned fifteen because I’d rather she hear it from me than stumble across it online.”

“How did she react?”

“Well, I guess.”

You shake your head and cover your face with your free hand, groaning a little.

“I can’t stop wondering if my mom knows about you.”

“I hate to break it to you—”

You cut him off. “Shhh.”

His laugh is low but genuine. Your eyes meet again, and this time, you could swear his gaze dips a little lower, to the neckline of your dress, where a bit of flushed skin is showing thanks to the wine.

But he disguises it and gestures toward your Kindle:

“What are you reading?”

“Some articles to help with my research.”

“Have my films led you to any conclusions?”

“Um, definitely,” you say, staring at the lawn. “You cussed a lot. And you seem very interested in my opinion of your movies.”

“I'm curious.”

You internally roll your eyes. Men.

“You want a performance review? Aren’t the comments on XVideos enough?”

“I want yours.”

You ignore him, because your evaluation of his performance was made perfectly clear when you got yourself off twice in a row thinking about his voice.

Instead, you ask:

“Did the DEA girl really come? Because it looked real.”

Joel stays quiet for a while. When you glance at him, you notice a small smirk playing on his lips as he taps his fingers against his glass. His whiskey’s almost gone.

“Do you really want to get into that?”

“Why not?”

A few more seconds of silence. Then he seems to say "fuck it" internally and answers:

“I liked making the other actresses come. Some directors didn’t like it because it took longer, and ‘who cares if they actually orgasm if they can fake it,’” he says, making air quotes. “But I liked it. Not all of them, of course, and sometimes they’d tell me they were fine without it, but it was a preference of mine.”

“And the DEA girl?” you press.

“Was that your favorite?”

You shake your head.

“Which one was?”

You shake your head again, indicating you won’t tell him.

“The DEA girl was my ex-girlfriend,” he says.

“So it was real.”

Joel shrugs, and that's all the answer you need. The porch light behind you highlights his graying beard and the glint of whiskey on his lips. Your throat goes dry.

“How did you get into the industry?”

Joel clicks his tongue.

“Very personal question.”

“Okay, what made you leave?”

He glances at your wine glass and ignores the question, asking another instead:

“What wine is that?”

You consider not answering out of petty revenge, but your parents raised you better.

“Barefoot. I know it’s cheap, but I like it,” you swirl the red wine in your glass. “Even though I know I’ll wake up with a headache tomorrow.”

Joel rolls his eyes and stands, leaving his whiskey glass behind.

“Come on, bring your glass. I’ll give you some real wine.”

He starts walking toward the gate between your houses, and you have no choice but to follow, leaving your Kindle and the party behind. Joel’s broad shoulders guide you around the side of his house and into the kitchen.

It’s silent and dark, except for a single hallway light. Quietly, because Sarah is probably asleep, you pass through the kitchen and head to a door leading to the garage, where the lighting is dim at best. His truck takes up almost all the space.

Unsure of what to do, you hover at the door, watching as he enters a small room off the garage. It’s a little wine cellar, concrete walls lined with slanted mahogany shelves.

Joel comes back out with a bottle in hand. You recognize the label and freeze.

“You’re not about to open a Rockford Flaxman.”

“I am,” he says, brushing past you just enough to close the door behind you, locking the two of you in the garage. His scent hits you, and you fight the urge to bury your face in the crook of his neck. “Just closing the door so Sarah doesn’t wake up. Hand me your glass.”

“Joel, that bottle’s expensive.”

“Hand me your glass,” he repeats.

You give it to him. Joel pulls a corkscrew from a drawer you hadn’t noticed and pops the bottle open effortlessly. He fills your glass halfway and, as he hands it back to you, asks:

“Mind if we share the glass?”

You shake your head.

From another drawer, he grabs his truck keys, disables the alarm, and turns on a tiny, terrible-quality radio. Duran Duran starts playing.

Joel gestures toward the truck:

“Come on. We can sit inside.”

Heart pounding a little faster, palms sweating, you climb into the passenger side. You settle into the leather seat and finally take a sip of the good wine.

It tastes fruity and oaky, almost sweet on your tongue. You let out a long, contented hum.

“Really good,” you say after swallowing. “Best way to end the night.”

His fingers brush yours as he takes the glass. You watch him savor a sip before handing it back.

He speaks as he does:

“I left the industry because the doubts about real consent started eating at me,” he says, answering the question you asked earlier. Joel leans back in the seat, legs spread, head resting against the headrest, eyes closed. “And I’m not just talking about explicit consent. I mean about the people who were there because they had no other choice.”

“I can’t imagine anyone doing porn unless they had to,” you murmur.

“I get it, but some people genuinely like it,” he meets your gaze as you sip more wine. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m serious.”

“Maybe for men...”

“It’s more common among men, true.”

You offer him the glass. He drinks and gives it back.

“The agency that managed my films didn’t like it when I started giving interviews about that stuff. They gave me fewer scenes or scripts I’d never agree to do, and I had to start turning them down. When they began sabotaging me, I left.”

“Scripts you wouldn’t accept?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay,” you accept the short answer. “No other agency made you an offer?”

“They did, but when I left, I didn’t want to go back.”

“And yet, you defend the industry.”

“I don’t defend the industry—I defend the work I did, because I know how it was done. I don’t like when you generalize.”

“You know that sounds like ‘not all men,’ right? Of course not everyone was bad, but the industry itself is terrible. So when I criticize it, it’s the majority I’m talking about. And you were exploited too.”

He exhales deeply. There’s more you want to say, but you sense it’s a sensitive topic, so you change the subject:

“Can I ask what you do now?”

“I invest,” he says simply. “I made a lot of money back then and wasn’t stupid enough to blow it on parties and drugs. I invested in public and private construction companies, and now they pay me back.”

“Didn’t expect that.”

Joel gives you a look.

“Male privilege. I got into a lot of good deals just because I was Javier Peña.”

“That wouldn’t happen to an actress,” you guess, and he nods. “So now you just live off your investments.”

“Pretty much.”

The wine in your glass runs out. Joel notices, grabs the bottle, and this time drinks straight from it. You mimic him, putting the glass in the back seat.

“How was it, being an actor?”

“Fun. Lots of parties, admiration, glamor, L.A., and sex all the time,” he says. “The downside was the strict diet, weekly waxing, and almost daily health tests. I probably have a permanent hole in my vein.”

“Did you only date people in the industry?”

“Not a rule, but it was easier, so mostly.”

“Sarah’s mom—”

“No, she wasn’t in it. She was a friend.”

You figure she’s not around anymore, considering you’ve never heard Sarah mention her.

“If someone offered you two million dollars today,” you start, trying to lighten the mood, and his face softens, “for a solo film. Just you, just masturbation. Would you do it?”

“No, because of Sarah. Okay, my old films are still out there, but they existed before she was born. It’s different.” Another sip of wine. Joel continues: “I don’t think I’d even know how to behave in front of a camera anymore.”

“That’s not the spirit of the Longest Cumshot Award winner.”

Joel’s eyes widen in shock, and you burst out laughing at yourself, raising both of your hands.

“I didn’t look it up, I swear. It’s just one of the first pictures that comes up when you search your name.”

“Tell me your favorite film,” he insists.

You think about refusing again, but the wine is warming your face and your throat, and the atmosphere is too cozy.

“The title is ridiculous,” you start, and he grunts for you to hurry up. “Something like ‘Lust Lives Next Door.’”

He raises an eyebrow.

“Where he’s the neighbor?”

Keeping a neutral expression, you sip more wine, feeling his gaze fixed on you.

“Why?” Joel asks.

“It felt so real. You looked so...”

You lose the words. He prompts you:

“So...?”

“I don’t know. You looked like you really wanted her. Sure, you always looked like that—you were an actor—but with her, it was different. At least to me.”

Joel studies you a moment longer. Then asks, seriously:

“Did you touch yourself watching it?”

Your cheeks burn.

“It’s normal,” you defend. “Inevitable.”

“Only with that one?”

“Joel.”

He exhales long and slow.

“If you’re uncomfortable, we’ll stop. I’ll walk you home.”

You open your mouth to joke about how ridiculous it is for him to walk you home when you’re literally neighbors, but the seriousness of his question leaves you speechless.

“I’m not a porn actress. I’m not used to this,” you murmur.

“Then just nod,” he suggests seriously. Your silence is taken as agreement.

He asks:

“Did you touch yourself to any other of my films?”

A pause, then...

You nod.

He breathes deeply.

“Did you watch my films only because of the thesis?”

You shake your head no.

“Do you imagine me doing those things to you?”

You feel like you’re standing on the edge of a cliff. One step back, and you’ll be safe, intact but with a pounding heart. One step forward, and you’ll fall, jump, dive into whatever awaits below.

The blood in your ears almost drowns out the start of “Glory Box” by Portishead playing from that shitty little radio.

You take a step forward.

You nod.

Before he can ask anything else, you’re the one who speaks:

“Do you want to see?” you ask, fueled by all the liquid courage from the wine. You clarify, “How I touched myself.”

The answer comes immediately:

“Of course I do.”

You glance at the garage door, then at him, hardly believing you’re about to do this. Before shyness can take over, you close the passenger door, slip off your sandals, and adjust yourself on the seat so your back rests against the door and your legs stretch across the console. You place your feet in Joel’s lap, and you can’t help but notice the hard bulge pressing against his jeans—you have to fight the urge to abandon everything and just beg him to take you to his room and do whatever he wants with you.

Okay. You take a slow, steadying breath to calm your racing heart. Joel’s hand settles around your ankle, his thumb brushing the bone there, and that small point of contact anchors you.

The dress you’re wearing is short, so it only takes a small tug for the fabric to bunch around your waist. With bare legs, goosebumped skin, and heavy breaths, you hand him the wine bottle.

Joel accepts it without taking his eyes off you.

“I’m not as confident as your porn actresses,” you say, but to your own ears your voice sounds pathetically breathless.

His touch trails up to your shin and back down, his hand wrapping around your left foot. He says:

“If you knew how many times I imagined myself between your legs, you wouldn’t feel insecure right now.”

Your breasts ache against the thin fabric of your dress as you spread your legs. You slide your hand into your panties, and Joel doesn’t look directly at it—he watches your face instead. He studies your reaction when your lips part at the feeling of your fingers touching the sensitive, wet spot between your thighs.

The knowledge that he’s wanted this just as badly as you makes you bolder.

You tilt your head back, resting it against the car window, and look at the ceiling while you speed up your fingers. Everything feels so sensitive that you have to bite your lower lip to keep any sound from escaping.

“Fuck...” Joel murmurs, his touch sliding up your thigh. “I can hear how wet you are.”

“Give me your hand.”

Joel takes one last sip of wine and sets the bottle on the ground outside the truck before offering his hand to you. You barely manage to meet his eyes as you pull your panties aside and guide his rough fingers between your legs.

His fingers glide easily over your clit, so wet that it’s almost slippery, and the feeling is so good—his fingers are larger, different textured than your own—and he lets you use them like a toy.

Joel’s gaze finally drops to where your bodies meet. With his free hand, he palms himself through his jeans, starting to rub.

It’s too much for your mind to process.

You squeeze your eyes shut again, using both your hands to guide his and spreading your legs wider. You have to breathe through parted lips to stop yourself from moaning as he rubs that almost painfully sensitive spot over and over.

“Does it feel good using my fingers like that?” he asks, voice hoarse. You nod. “Then let me fuck you with them.”

You whisper your agreement, guiding his fingers lower after making sure they’re slick enough. You press down gently, and his middle finger sinks inside you with a wet sound.

“Joel…”

“Hearing you moan like that and it’s not even my cock yet,” he mutters, fucking you slowly with his middle finger. “Let me add another one.”

You nod. He adds another finger, and you barely manage to hold in the moan, especially when he starts moving them in a slow, delicious rhythm, dragging the strokes out rather than speeding up.

It all happens so fast. One second Joel is pulling you lower, sliding your ass almost onto the console, and the next, he’s bending down and putting his mouth on you—his tongue tracing a quick, hot path from your entrance to your clit.

You clap a hand over your mouth and grab his hair with the other, the graying strands slipping through your fingers. The position can’t be comfortable for him, half off the driver’s seat and bent over you, but he doesn’t seem to care. His lips close over your clit, sucking and licking, while his fingers keep fucking you. His beard scrapes the sensitive skin of your thighs and the slick heat between your legs—and somehow, that only makes you hotter.

You tug his hair harder, pulling him closer into you, and you swear he’s smiling against you, his mouth opening over your clit.

The third finger teases your entrance, and just that promise is enough—you come with a muffled gasp, both hands buried in Joel’s hair as you ride his face. His beard will definitely leave marks on your skin.

Joel waits patiently until your body stops pulsing around his fingers, even though his occasional licks don’t exactly help. Then he pulls his mouth away and sits back in the driver’s seat, wiping his beard with his hand to clear the mess you left behind.

You barely have time to catch your breath before he grabs you with one hand and, steadying your hips with both, pulls you straight onto his lap.

“Hi,” you whisper, still breathless.

“Hi,” he says back.

“You kiss?”

“What?” He smiles, brushing a lock of hair off your forehead. “You asking if I know how to kiss?”

“I’m asking if you have any rules against it, because I really, really want to kiss you.”

“You do?” His thumb brushes over your lower lip, the crease between his brows soft and nearly invisible. “I’m all yours.”

With that permission, you wrap your arms around his neck and move closer, trying to control your ragged breathing. You keep your eyes locked on his as you kiss his bottom lip, then his top, tracing them with the tip of your tongue, pressing your thumbs under his jaw to coax his mouth open.

You run your tongue across the opening, and Joel fists your hair at the nape of your neck, finally taking the lead and kissing you back.

You’re consumed by the taste of expensive wine, a kiss you’d only ever imagined through a computer screen—and you realize the actresses hadn’t been faking their moans, because when Joel sucks your tongue into his mouth for the first time, the sensation ripples right through the core of you, and you whimper softly into his mouth.

“Take off your panties,” he murmurs against your lips as he trails kisses along your chin, your jaw, and down your neck. You move with him, adapting to the pace and hunger of his kisses.

As he reaches your collarbones, Joel tugs the thin straps of your dress down and pushes the fabric until it bunches at your waist. Your breasts are exposed to the cool garage air—and to his hungry mouth.

“Joel…”

His tongue laps at your nipple, and he grows impatient. He slides a hand between your thighs and yanks your panties down with little care. You hear the lace tear but you can’t bring yourself to care, not when seconds later Joel is maneuvering you onto your knees so he can pull the ruined panties off completely.

Then he balls the fabric in his left hand and brings it to his nose.

It should feel ridiculous—like some cheap porno move—but it doesn’t.

He isn’t doing it for show.

He’s doing it because—

Joel grabs your hair again, keeping you firmly in place, and lifts the panties to your own nose. His mouth hovers at your ear as he says:

“See?” Joel’s lips skim down your neck. You catch the unmistakable scent of your own arousal, and your cheeks burn. “You’ve been dripping wet since the moment you walked into this garage.”

“You’re wrong,” you say, pressing his arm to press the panties harder against your nose. You inhale loud enough for him to hear and murmur, “I’ve been wet since the moment you sat next to me in the backyard.”

Joel looks at you, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He stuffs the panties into the front pocket of his worn jeans before unbuttoning and pushing them down along with his boxers.

You probably stare at his cock like an idiot, because seeing it on a screen was one thing, but seeing it now—right in front of you, the subtle changes from age only making it better—hits you hard.

“You’re smiling. What, is my dick funny?” Joel asks.

You shake your head.

“Your dick is practically a shrine to me.”

Joel rolls his eyes, wiping the corner of your mouth with his thumb.

“I’m real fucking close to come just looking at you,” he mutters, and you feel a flicker of disappointment, but it seems to be true, especially given how hard he is.

Joel shifts you into place on his lap, adjusting you like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

He leans back against the seat, partially reclining, and grips his cock with one hand.

“Come here,” he says lowly, pulling you by your thighs. When his thick cock nestles between your legs, you realize what he wants.

You brace yourself on his shoulders, biting your lip to keep any sounds from escaping as you lift onto your knees just enough to start sliding yourself against him.

The slickness between your legs makes it easy—wet and slippery—and Joel groans, tipping his head back against the seat.

God.

He looks huge beneath you, between your thighs, in the way his hands grip your hips and travel along your waist and back up. The rigid heat of him rubs directly over your clit with every glide, and you wrap your hand around the base of his cock to press him even harder against you as you move.

Joel’s hands grip your hips so hard you wonder if you’ll have bruises tomorrow. He glances down between you, where your wetness has coated him, and mutters a filthy curse between his clenched teeth.

“These tits…” he growls, lowering his mouth back to your breasts, drawing you even closer. “Can you come like this?”

You nod, tugging his curls at the nape of his neck, moving faster when he sucks a nipple into his mouth, leaving a trail of wet heat on your skin.

“Turn around,” Joel orders, licking the corner of your mouth. “I want to come on your ass.”

You obey instantly.

He helps you twist around so your knees stay on the seat but your back is pressed against his chest.

Joel runs his cock through your soaked folds, nudging your clit with the head.

He gathers your hair in one hand, pulling it aside so he can kiss the sensitive skin at the base of your neck.

“Rub yourself on it,” he says, voice rough. Your only support is the steering wheel in front of you, which you cling to as you rock your hips back and forth, grinding down along his shaft.

“You’re gonna fucking kill me doing exactly what I tell you,” he mutters against your ear.

“I like when you tell me what to do,” you whisper, barely able to form the words with the way that familiar tension is building fast in your stomach.

“Yeah, baby, I can tell by how soaked you are.”

You don’t answer, focusing only on your own pleasure now, shifting so the thick length of him is perfectly aligned against your clit.

Your leg trembles, your mind blanking with the focus on your orgasm, and you have to bite down on your sweaty arm to keep from crying out his name.

“Feels good?” you ask, panting.

“Jesus Christ, sweetheart,” Joel rasps, his hand tightening around your throat just enough to tilt your face toward his so he can kiss your jaw, your cheek. The slick sounds of your bodies are filthy, but it only pushes you closer. “Been holding back this whole time not to fucking come inside that sweet pussy.”

And that’s all it takes.

You come with a silent scream, clinging to the steering wheel, shuddering against him as your orgasm rips through you.

“Get up,” Joel says urgently, and, trembling, you lift yourself on wobbly knees.

He pushes your dress up your back, squeezes your ass—and you know exactly what he wants.

You brace yourself against the steering wheel, arching your back for him, and Joel lets out a rough, desperate sound.

Between heavy breaths, you hear the slick noises of him jerking himself off, and it only takes a few seconds before you feel it—hot spurts of cum hitting your ass, dripping down the backs of your thighs.

After what feels like forever, Joel slaps your ass gently and wraps his arms around you from behind, pulling you against his chest.

You let yourself collapse into him, feeling his heart pounding just as hard as yours.

You stay there for a moment, quiet, your lips dry when you finally whisper:

“Good wine.”

He laughs.

“Knew you’d like it.”

You close your eyes, tangling your fingers with his over your waist.

When you wake up the next morning, it’s to persistent knocking on the door.

Startled, heart racing, you open your eyes. At first, you don’t recognize the room you’re in, but then you feel Joel’s arm draped over your hips and everything from last night comes rushing back.

You two had cleaned up the garage as best you could, wiped down the seats of his truck, and then gone upstairs to his bedroom to shower together. You couldn’t bring yourself to leave, and he asked you to stay, so you texted your parents saying Joel needed you to sleep over (not a lie) because of Sarah, since he had to rush out for an emergency (a complete lie).

“Dad,” Sarah knocks again, and you have to replay last night’s events to make sure Joel actually locked the door before you both passed out. “Daaaad.”

He opens his eyes, still half-asleep, and pulls you closer against him. Sarah knocks again, and Joel grunts softly before calling out:

“Is the house on fire?”

She laughs.

“No, but you must be sick if you’re not up yet. Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Just got in late last night.”

Quietly, you trace your fingers over his beard. He meets your gaze and catches your hand, kissing your knuckles before hugging you closer, and you’re reminded that you’re both still naked under the covers—every inch of his warm body pressed against yours.

“Hangover?” Sarah asks.

“Sort of.”

“I left you breakfast. The school bus is about to get here.”

You watch his expression soften.

“Thanks, baby girl. Have a good day. I’ll see you later.”

“Bye, Dad.”

You hear her footsteps fading down the stairs, and you smile at Joel.

“That was so sweet,” you murmur sincerely. “You call her ‘baby girl’.”

“She used to hate it when she was younger, but she gave up fighting me on it,” he says, his voice raspy from sleep, making something in your stomach flip. “Good morning.”

“Good morning,” you whisper back.

Joel brushes his thumb over your cheek and temple, then asks:

“Do you regret it?” You frown, not understanding right away. He clarifies: “Last night.”

“Of course not. Are you crazy?”

“You fucked a porn actor,” he says conspiratorially.

“An ex–porn actor,” you correct. “And we haven’t even fucked yet. Why would I regret that?”

Joel shrugs.

“Aren’t you the one who hates them?”

“Joooel,” you groan, flopping onto your back. “We already talked about this. I hate the industry. I could never hate you.”

“If you say so.”

You turn your face toward him when you feel his hand sliding over your stomach, your hip, your breast…

“Well, now I have a very subjective perspective for my thesis,” you tease.

Joel smiles, raising an eyebrow.

“Imagine explaining that when someone asks how you gathered your results—you’ll have to say Javier Peña showed you personally.”

You barely manage to suppress the shiver that runs down your spine.

“Our little adventure would make a good movie,” you say, but instantly regret it, shaking your head. “Forget it. Just the thought of any image of me out there makes me sick.”

Joel stays silent, but there’s a stupid little smile on his lips as he props himself up on his elbow, lying sideways. His other hand, which was resting on your belly, slides lower. Past your hip, past your thigh, and back up again.

“What’s with that smirk?” you ask.

He licks his bottom lip.

“Remember when you asked me what my favorite kind of movie was?”

That’s the sentence that leads, twenty minutes later, to you lying on your side, your back pressed against Joel’s chest, the morning light streaming through the thick curtains.

He holds you firmly as you reach between your legs, guiding his cock inside you. You almost melt in his arms, feeling the thick veins pulse against your fingers.

“A little more,” Joel murmurs into your ear, sliding an arm under your thigh and adjusting your position to help you take him. You reach behind you, grabbing his hip. Inch by inch, he fills you.

You look down between your legs, watching the way you stretch around him, and it feels like the bed is dissolving under the weight of it.

“Joel.”

“I’m right here, baby,” he says. You see him licking three fingers before reaching down to your clit, just as he starts moving his hips.

The next few days in Lake Placid pass exactly like that.

Some nights, you sneak across your backyard to Joel’s house, and he usually meets you halfway, catching you on the stairs with a kiss before carrying you to bed.

Other times, he sneaks into your house and fucks you on your bedroom floor, because your bed makes too much noise.

You keep working on your thesis and stop watching Javier Peña’s old movies. You don’t need them anymore—not when Joel Miller is texting you saying he needs you in his bed.

On your last few days at home, your parents throw a barbecue. Among the guests are Joel and Sarah.

It’s Joel who finds you in the kitchen as you’re finishing seasoning the potato salad.

He leans against the counter across from you, holding a can of beer. You glance up from the potatoes to meet his gaze, and flashes of last night hit you—when you two had sex in a ridiculous roadside motel because Sarah was having a sleepover with her friends at home.

“And when you go back to New York?” he asks, and you immediately understand what he means.

You shrug.

“I’m not going to pressure you into a long-distance relationship. We don’t have a relationship anyway. And I don’t want a long-distance thing.”

“But I want you.”

You stab a piece of potato with your fork and bring it to his mouth. He accepts it, chewing slowly while waiting for your answer.

“I want you too,” you confess. “But I know you have other priorities.”

“So do you.”

You nod. “So do I.”

Somehow, it feels like a goodbye.

Two months later, back in New York, you type the final period on the last sentence of your thesis.

You stretch your arms over your head like you just won a marathon and then slowly slide to the floor, lying flat on your back like a starfish.

Your spine cracks, your wrists protest after three straight hours of typing, but you can’t wipe the huge, satisfied smile off your face—you’re free.

You grab your phone and text your friends:

“Thesis done. Beer to celebrate?”

You end up doing a full bar crawl, treating it like a birthday or something equally ridiculous.

All it takes is a low-cut top showing off your cleavage, a sweet voice, and the line “Do I get a prize for finishing my thesis?” to score free drinks all night.

You flirt with a few guys, but none of them make you want to drag them home. None of them have a Texas drawl, a graying beard, and the smirk of a retired porn star.

Actually…

You open your chat with Joel.

The last message from him, sent yesterday, is a photo of the same wine bottle you two opened that night in the garage. You had texted back “wish I was there,” and he’d replied with a kiss emoji.

He’d mentioned he was attending some adult film award ceremony as a presenter or something, but he didn’t say where.

He must have been busy all day.

Tonight, you type:

“went out drinking with some friends to celebrate finishing my thesis and can’t stop thinking about you. swear if you were here, i’d be blowing you under one of the bar tables.”

You put your phone away.

You down a tequila shot and laugh when your friend toasts to the end of grad school.

At three in the morning, you still haven’t gotten a reply from Joel.

You call an Uber after making sure your friends are safe, pulling your leather jacket tight around your body. The ride sobers you up just enough to make you crave a whole bottle of water.

That’s exactly what you do when you get home.

You peel off your pleated skirt and jacket, leaving yourself in just a wool turtleneck sweater, and you’re about to jump into the shower when your intercom buzzes.

You glance at the microwave clock: 3:54 AM.

You answer.

“Hello?”

“Delivery from Javier Peña.”

You gasp and immediately buzz him in.

Your heart is already racing as you open your apartment door, standing half-hidden behind it since you’re not wearing any pants.

You practically bounce with anticipation at the same time you convince yourself you’re not dreaming.

When Joel appears at the top of the stairs, it’s like all the blood in your body rushes to your head. He’s wearing glasses and has that stupid, cocky smile, dressed in a black T-shirt with two simple words printed across the front: adult content.

“I can’t believe you’re actually wearing that shirt.”

“The name of the studio that sponsored the awards ceremony,” he says, stopping in front of you.

He smells so good it makes you a little self-conscious about the sweat clinging to your neck from the night out.

“Heard someone finished their thesis,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “Figured I should congratulate you properly.”

[fic-girlie]

Can you write a fic where reader and Joel and reader are walked in on while having sex? Thought about them being in an established relationship and she goes to visit him when he is working at the office at Tommy and Maria's. It's innocent enough at first, just wanting to hand him some coffee and make sure he's not overworking himself. A few kisses turn into a make out session and soon enough Joel's fucking her on his work desk lol. Stuff is pretty heated when Tommy walks in on them. His reaction is up to you, really, but I think he'd be mad at first, saying how he could be walking in with Benji and see that. But I think afterwards he would never let Joel live that down lol always teasing him and making dirty comments every time he cans

Caught in the act

Pairing: jackson!Joel Miller x f!reader Summary: A surprise visit to Joel’s office turns hot fast—until Tommy walks in. Warnings: established relationship, explicit smut (+18), language, semi-public sex, softdom!Joel, unprotected sex, p in v sex, dirty talk, desperate Joel, breeding kink? (kinda), interruption, teasing, Joel being embarrassed, Tommy being a menace

The air outside is brisk enough to nip at your skin, but inside the small office, it’s warmer—familiar. A little too quiet, the kind of stillness that only comes when someone’s been stuck in their head too long. You don’t knock. Joel told you not to, more than once, said you never needed to announce yourself. And besides, you can already see him through the glass.

He’s seated at the desk, half-shadowed by the slats of late sunlight cutting through the blinds. Shoulders hunched, brow furrowed. A pencil rests in his hand, scribbling something over a worn notebook, while another stack of paperwork looms to the side. You can just make out the twitch of his jaw as he concentrates, the slow tension in his arm.

You hate seeing him like this. Stuck behind numbers, repairs, shifts, rotations—every little thing Jackson leans on him for. You know he’s proud to be useful here, to have a place. But when his name’s not on the rotation list, Joel finds a way to overfill the empty hours.

Your boots are soft against the floorboards as you walk in. He doesn’t notice at first, too absorbed in whatever notes he’s making. You step closer, then lean down and set the still-steaming cup of coffee near his elbow.

"Figured you could use this."

Joel’s head lifts slowly, pencil pausing mid-sentence. That line between his brows softens the second he sees you, like the weight of his thoughts sloughs off in a single glance.

"Well, look at you," he murmurs, lips tugging into a grin that’s lopsided and warm. "Ain’t you the prettiest damn thing I’ve seen all day."

You laugh quietly, nudging his arm. “You say that even when I bring you bad coffee.”

"This ain’t bad." He lifts the mug and takes a long sip, then hums low. “It’s you bringin’ it that makes it good.”

The compliment lands heavier than you expect, settling warm in your chest. His voice is scratchy—he’s been talking too little today, you can tell—and his eyes linger on you longer than they should for someone still technically on the clock.

“You been here long?” you ask, brushing a few stray papers aside to sit on the edge of his desk.

He leans back in the chair, nodding. “Since early. Got caught up in some generator schedules, then Tommy asked me to double-check the patrol rotation list again. Just wanted a quiet space to think.”

You raise a brow. “So naturally you buried yourself in half the town’s logistics.”

His grin returns, smaller this time. “Keeps me outta trouble.”

You hum, letting your fingers trail over the edge of the desk. “Well. I came to make sure you were still breathing. Coffee’s step one.”

His gaze drops, flicks from your lips to your thighs, then slowly back up again.

"And what’s step two, sweetheart?"

Your breath catches slightly. There’s heat behind those words, slow and steady, the kind that creeps up on you until you’re already burning.

“I guess that depends on what you need,” you say softly, reaching out to smooth a hand over his shoulder. “You’ve been in here so long, figured you might be getting a little…tense.”

His smile fades into something darker, quieter. His hand comes up, fingers brushing the outside of your knee, dragging slowly upward until he reaches the bare skin where your skirt hitches slightly.

“I’m always tense, darlin’. And you know exactly how to make it worse.”

Your breath hitches again.

Joel pushes back the chair just enough to part your knees, sliding himself between them until your thighs bracket his hips. His hands are warm and rough on your legs, thumbs stroking absently against the soft skin there. The room suddenly feels smaller, the afternoon light slanting over the desk and catching in the flecks of grey in his hair, the sharp line of his jaw, the way his eyes don’t leave yours.

“You wear this skirt for me?” he murmurs.

Your lips part, heartbeat fluttering.

He smirks faintly. “Yeah. I know you did.”

His fingers dig in slightly, tugging your hips forward so you have no choice but to lean into him, your chest brushing his. He tilts his head, nose brushing yours, lips barely grazing yours as he speaks.

“You walk in here all sweet, bringin’ me coffee, sittin’ on my desk like a little temptation…and now you expect me to keep workin’?”

You feel his breath on your mouth, the way his voice rumbles low in his chest.

“Joel…”

“Mm?” His hand glides higher, underneath the hem of your skirt, fingers teasing over the soft lace of your panties.

"You gonna tell me you didn’t come here hopin’ for this?"

You can’t answer. Not when his thumb strokes slowly between your thighs, not when his other hand cradles the back of your neck and pulls your mouth to his. The kiss starts slow, but it doesn’t stay that way. It turns hungry. Desperate. His mouth opens against yours, tongue sliding deep as you clutch the fabric of his flannel shirt in both hands.

He groans into the kiss. “You got no idea what you do to me.”

You gasp as he pulls back just enough to flip you around and push you gently down against the desk, your palms bracing against the wood.

“Joel—” you start, breath catching.

“I got you, baby,” he murmurs. “Gonna make you feel good. Right here. Just like this.”

He pushes your skirt up over your hips, and you hear the soft metallic sound of his belt unbuckling, the low rasp of a zipper. Then his hand smooths over your ass and squeezes, rough and firm.

“Goddamn,” he mutters, voice almost reverent while pulling the lace aside. “Look at this fuckin’ view. Bent over my desk. You know how crazy you make me?”

Your lips part, the heat between your thighs pulsing with anticipation.

He leans over your back, mouth brushing your ear. “You stay quiet now. Wouldn’t wanna get caught…”

His hips press forward in one long, hungry stroke, and your body opens for him like it was made to. You feel the slow drag of him, thick and perfect, and your hands brace against the desk as you exhale a moan that’s half relief, half disbelief at just how good he feels.

Joel groans low behind you, voice all gravel and heat. “Jesus Christ, baby…”

He sinks deeper, hips flush with your ass, one large hand steady on your lower back. The other slides up your spine, palm spreading wide between your shoulder blades, grounding you there. Holding you still. His.

“Been thinkin’ about this all fuckin’ day,” he murmurs, mouth brushing the shell of your ear. “You—bent over my desk, beggin’ for it.”

“I wasn’t begging,” you whisper, breathless.

“Not yet,” he mutters, pulling out slowly—too slowly—then slamming back in, hard enough to jolt your hips against the edge of the desk.

You gasp, nails scraping the wood.

“There it is,” he growls, hips snapping forward again. “That little sound you make when I get you deep.”

Your skirt’s bunched around your waist, his flannel shirt brushing your back with every thrust, the thick heat of his body pressing over you. Every movement drives his cock deeper, fills you more completely than should be possible.

And the sounds—God, the sounds—wet and rhythmic, the slap of skin on skin, the rough breaths against your ear, the low groan he lets out every time you clench around him.

“You feel that?” he pants. “Feel how soaked you are for me? Feel how deep I go?”

You nod against the desk, mouth parted, eyes rolling.

“Fuck, sweetheart, you’re squeezin’ me like you don’t want me to leave.” He fucks you harder, deeper. “You want me to stay right there, huh? Stuff you full?”

“Joel,” you gasp, voice half-broken.

He slows just enough to grind in deep, hips circling with filthy precision. You sob out a moan, knees trembling.

“That’s it,” he whispers, lips against your neck. “Take it. Just like that. Take every goddamn inch.”

Your hands scramble for something to hold onto, anything, but he’s relentless. His hands slide under your blouse, cupping your breasts through the fabric. He pinches your nipples just hard enough to make you whimper.

“Thought I was gonna behave,” he mutters. “Thought I could keep my hands off you for five fuckin’ minutes.”

“You didn’t even last one.”

“’Cause you walked in here like a fuckin’ dream,” he snarls. “You know what you do to me, baby? You know how hard it is to stay good when you look at me with those fuckin’ eyes?”

His teeth graze your shoulder, and his pace quickens, hips pistoning into you with purpose. Each thrust is brutal, delicious, deep enough to knock every coherent thought from your head.

“I’m gonna ruin you,” he growls. “Right here. Right on this desk.”

“Joel,” you cry out again, eyes squeezed shut.

“Yeah, that’s right. Say my name, baby. Let the whole damn building know who’s fuckin’ you this good.”

You’re close. So close it hurts. Your thighs are shaking, body coiled tight, nerve endings screaming.

And Joel knows it.

“You’re gettin’ close, ain’t you?” he pants. “I can feel it. You gonna come for me?”

“Yes,” you gasp.

“You gonna come all over my cock while I fuck you in my office like some dirty little secret?”

Your head nods frantically. “Please—please—Joel—”

He growls again, slamming into you, every inch of him thick and hot and perfect. His hand leaves your breast to slide down between your thighs, fingers finding your clit and rubbing in tight, filthy circles.

“Let go for me,” he whispers. “Come for me, baby. Show me how good I fuck you.”

That’s all it takes.

You shatter around him, crying out into the crook of your elbow, body clenching so hard it pulls a strangled groan from his chest. He doesn’t stop—keeps fucking you through it, chasing his own high while your body trembles beneath him.

“Fuck, baby—fuck, I’m gonna—” His voice breaks. “Where do you want it? Tell me.”

You manage a breathless, “Inside.”

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ—”

Joel drives into you with a deep, guttural sound and spills into you, cock twitching as he presses in to the hilt. His hands grip your hips hard enough to bruise, forehead pressed to your back, his body shaking with the force of it.

For a moment, the only sound is the both of you breathing—heavy, ragged, stunned.

You don’t move. You can’t.

Joel’s hands slide down your sides, gentler now. His lips press a kiss between your shoulder blades. “You okay, darlin’?”

You nod against the desk, body still quaking. “Holy shit, Joel.”

He laughs, low and wrecked, still buried deep inside you.

“Yeah,” he says. “Holy shit is right.”

You shift slightly, and he hisses as you tighten around him.

“Don’t move yet,” he murmurs. “Just—stay there a minute. Let me enjoy this.”

You smile, eyes closed. “This was not what I had in mind when I brought you coffee.”

He kisses your shoulder again. “Best coffee break of my life.”

——

Joel’s still inside you, breathing heavy against your back, hands soft now, skimming your waist with that same reverence he always shows when it’s just the two of you. He presses a slow kiss to your spine, murmuring something warm and low that you’re too blissed-out to register.

And then, the office door swings open with a clang.

You freeze.

Joel goes rigid behind you.

And Tommy’s voice—sharp, casual, too damn close—cuts into the air like a gunshot.

“Hey, Joel, you seen the new—”

He stops.

The silence is deafening.

Your face flames hotter than the summer sun outside Jackson. You’re still bent over Joel’s desk, skirt hitched up around your hips, his body pressed flush behind you, still inside you.

Joel’s hand flies to your waist, yanking you up as fast as he can manage without slipping out. You let out a startled gasp as he drags you back against his chest, his other arm grabbing for a half-folded blanket on the back of his chair and yanking it around you both.

Tommy, eyes wide and mouth already twisting, takes a full two seconds before he spins away, palm up like he can block out the memory.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, Joel!”

You bury your face in your hands, body still shaking—but not from the orgasm anymore.

Joel lets out a grunt that sounds somewhere between panic and misery. He’s still hard inside you, still holding you as if that will somehow hide what Tommy has very, very clearly seen.

You can hear the shuffle of Tommy’s boots as he turns again—just slightly, like he’s tempted to shout more but not quite brave enough to face what he just walked in on.

“Are you serious right now? In the damn office? You couldn’t wait till you got home like a normal person?”

Joel grits his teeth, voice tight with humiliation. “Tommy. Get the fuck out.”

“I am out!” he snaps, though he’s still somewhere in the doorway. “But Jesus, I coulda walked in with Benji. You think I wanna explain to my six-year-old why his uncle’s pants are around his fuckin’ ankles?!”

You peek over Joel’s shoulder, heart pounding in your chest. Tommy’s got his hand shielding his eyes, but his ears are beet red.

Joel lets out a breath like it’s the only thing keeping him from exploding. His voice is a warning growl now. “Close the door.”

Tommy huffs—muttering a string of curses as he finally slams the door shut.

The silence returns. This time, thick with mortification.

Joel lets his head fall against your shoulder, arms still tight around you.

“Goddamn,” he breathes.

You let out a slow, shaky breath. “That… wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“Darlin’, I swear—” Joel leans in, pressing his forehead to the side of your face. “I would’ve rather walked through a horde of clickers buck-naked than have my brother see my bare ass in the office.”

You can’t help it—you laugh. It bubbles out of you suddenly, helpless and wild, like the only possible reaction to something this deeply, painfully awkward.

Joel groans. “Don’t. Don’t you dare laugh.”

“You said clickers,” you giggle, gasping for air. “Oh my God. I’m never showing my face in that house again.”

He groans again, gently pulling out of you at last, guiding you toward the edge of the desk with careful hands. You fumble with your skirt while he tucks himself away with a speed born of pure panic.

“Think he saw—?” you start.

“He saw everything, sweetheart.”

You groan. “I want to die.”

Joel grabs a ragged tissue from his drawer and mutters, “Don’t worry. I’ll die first. He’s never gonna let this go.”

You’re both still fixing yourselves when Joel suddenly straightens, tense again. “Shit. Shit. I think he’s still out there.”

“Joel,” you whisper, wide-eyed. “Don’t open the—”

Too late. Joel pulls open the door.

And Tommy’s right there, arms crossed, a look on his face that says he’s ready.

“Enjoy your ‘paperwork’?” he says with a slow grin.

Joel slams the door again with a grunt, but Tommy’s voice keeps going, loud and unforgiving through the wood.

“I mean, I knew you were settlin’ into your role here, but damn, Joel. Didn’t know Jackson’s new project was breakin’ in the office furniture.”

Joel runs a hand over his face and groans. “I hate him.”

You snort again, biting your lip as you try to smooth your hair down.

“You know I have to tell Maria,” Tommy calls, practically laughing now. “She’ll want to steam clean the desk, probably with holy water.”

Joel groans so loud it echoes.

“Do not tell her,” he shouts back.

“Oh, don’t worry, I won’t tell her. I’ll just hint. ‘Course, she’s smart enough to put it together once she hears who was moanin’ loud enough to echo off the water tower.”

You slap a hand over your mouth to keep from howling.

“Go away, Tommy!” Joel yells, glaring at the door like he could will his brother out of existence.

“Can’t! Got work to do,” Tommy says, chipper now. “Just gimme five minutes to wipe your handprints off the edge of the desk—oh wait, I can’t, because you were balls deep in—”

Joel lunges for the door.

You catch his arm, laughing so hard you’re doubled over, tears in your eyes. “Joel. Joel. It’s not worth the jail time.”

He glares at the door. “He’s dead to me.”

Tommy’s already walking off down the hall, calling out one final jab as his voice fades: “You better Lysol everything!”

The silence settles once more.

You glance at Joel. His face is red, his jaw tight.

But his eyes flick to yours—and slowly, his expression shifts. A reluctant smile curves his mouth.

“You think this is funny?” he asks, stepping closer.

You shrug, still breathless. “A little.”

He grabs your waist, pulling you against him. “You know I’m never gonna live this down, right? Every damn council meeting, he’s gonna bring this up. Every cookout. Every time I sit at my own damn desk.”

“Guess we’ll have to find a new one to christen,” you whisper.

Joel groans again—but this time, there’s heat behind it. He kisses you once, slow and deep.

Then he smirks.

“Next time, door stays locked.”

[blueboyoutside]

why do i feel guilty i did nothing wrong right

[meloetta]

why do they always showcase ‘bullies’ in cartoons as being some punk with a mohawk like

when was the last time you saw a cool guy in a leather jacket not minding his own business it’s usually some basic asshole in a graphic tee that has something to say

[ninjaspiderjuurouta]

Because it’s usually written by a basic asshole in a graphic tee

[thelonelyskeleton]

Bestie, just sit on my chest and jerk off on my face. It’ll be a cute bonding activity.

[akutakillz]

I want to bite into a man like an apple.

[obshuh-deactivated20250522]

Yuri kinnie moment

[bbyyygirl]

[nonknowledge3-deactivated202309]

If i had a penis i’d be hard 24/7 i’d be shunned from society

[yanderboy]

[sandmandaddy69]

[clowngirlbliss]

Love is stored in the clown car