welcome to my 2nd masterlist! here i will post fanfictions regarding characters and people from outside the marvel fandom. please read my rules before you proceed reading, and note that my blog is restricted for minors. some of my works may contain dark themes such as murder, dub-con, violence, traumatic experiences etc. so please read the warnings carefully from each individual fic. your media consumption is your own choice— therefore if you find anything which troubles you, please stop reading and consider finding something else you’d probably like more.
do NOT repost, reupload, translate or plagiarize my work.
╰┈➤ about the blog (basic info, requests, important tags, rules)
╰┈➤ last update ➝ may 22, 2025
╰┈➤ the marvel cinematic universe masterlist
joel miller.
caged in silk series (x javier peña x marcus acacius) | kidnapped by three brothers, you have no choice but to accept your new reality. even if it takes a while... SMUT, DARK, 18+
chapter 1: introduction
chapter 2: escape attempt
chapter 3: picnic date
chapter 4: false alarm
chapter 5: one month anniversary
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
the bratty chronicles series | some moments between joel and his little troublemaker who makes his blood boil. SMUT, 18+
chapter 1: how my swollen ankle earned me a spanking
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
wet & willing | a "stranger" uses you in the shower and makes sure to record it as a memory... SMUT, DARK, 18+
andy barber.
beauty and the beast | every man has two sides of himself; the one he shows to the world, and the other which he hides. you really didn’t want to know the second one… SMUT, DARK, 18+
ari levinson.
breakfast | ari wakes you up early to eat his breakfast. SMUT, 18+
ransom drysdale.
positions | boy, i’m tryna meet your mama on a sunday. then make a lotta love on a monday. SMUT, 18+
miscellaneous works.
╰┈➤ paul diskant.
undercover | you and paul take your frustrations out on each other after a successful mission. SMUT, 18+
╰┈➤ mr. freezy.
wicked obsession | robert takes what is rightfully his. SMUT, SOFT!DARK, 18+
╰┈➤ mike weiss.
against my will | you have to pay them in a different type of way. SMUT, DARK, 18+
╰┈➤ bryce langley.
against my will | you have to pay them in a different type of way. SMUT, DARK, 18+
╰┈➤ sebastian stan.
attitude adjustment | you’ve had a bad day because of him, so he fixes it. SMUT, 18+
A DECENT THIEF, A SMITTEN BILLIONAIRE, ONE EMERALD RING, A SIMPLE CON JOB, ONE VERY INCONVENIENT ATTRACTION. SEX, LIES, LARCENY—ALL BEFORE THE SUN COMES UP. EASY PEASY... RIGHT?
A.N. -> NO SPOILERS TO MATERIALISTS. This is a ROM-COM done right. Inspired by 'Desperado' by Rihanna. And also, a completely different take on Harry's character than the bullshit he had to deal with, he just has so much potential. I had so much fun writing this 🌻 (as in, 18 straight hours of staring at a word doc, burning my corneas and rubbing my hands like an evil fly. haha I'm actually dyingggg)
W.C -> 13k+
C.W -> 18+ MDNI, third person POV, fem reader, thief reader and she's a bad bitch, harry is fucking rich with a big dick that's what, sexual themes, smuuuuuut baby but make it fun :), luxury brand and pop culture references, witty repartee, cat-and-mouse dynamics, romcom everything.
If you think all thieves lurk in shadows wearing black, bless your pedestrian heart—you’ve never seen her steal a thing. And besides, subtlety is overrated. Also, spoiler: she actually preferred furs. Fur, red-bottoms, a little harmless cleavage, and a crimson-lipped grin that says, ‘catch me if you can.’
Now, these businessmen, no matter how adorned from their broad shoulders to their straight cuffs, are exactly what they seem: easy pickings. That is—if you’re content with playing in the minor leagues.
Rookie mistake. You aim for the big leagues, reap the financial rewards, and set your sights on those wearing rings.
The ring is the tell. A man who wears his wealth and dignity on his finger is either married, vain, or a dumbass. Often enough, he’s all three. And a man who wears a ring worth more than your apartment building—and the one next to it? That’s not bait, that’s a goddamn challenge.
And this probably married, definitely vain dumbass made her want to stomp her heels through the marble.
She was supposed to be walking out the door right about now—a smoky, smirking, forgotten memory—with her latest spoils: Tateossian cufflinks, a Chopard Happy Sport, and two crisp hundreds tucked into a Balmain wallet.
She’d earned it. Eeny, meeny, miney, more than endured a full hour and a half of sucky—literally—sloppy neck-kissing and thigh-groping from a receding-hairline gentleman who fancied himself the face of a major hotel chain. Now that face was lying sideways on a lounge table, mouth open, snoring softly into a puddle of $600 Scotch. And she hadn’t even made it past the lobby. Cash on arrival, you could say. Astral forces or coincidence—either way, it had been a full year since Dame Fortune had dropped by her door.
A few touches here, a brush of her wrist there, a shoulder-check, a pat on the cheek—bada-bing-bada-boom—two months’ rent. A dent in the student loans. And a little extra, just for her trouble.
She should’ve called it a night. Then there was this fucking guy.
Mr. Premium-cocktail-without-a-care, lounging like temptation in a custom-cut Ralph Lauren and Zegna shoes. You want to know how much money follows a single glimpse of this man? You start punching in zeroes, and line those fuckers up.
She didn’t lose sight of him even for a second as she quieted her Louboutin soles on the carpet past the velvet curtains into the lobby bar. Here, the ice clinked softer, and the elite laughed quieter. No one poured their own champagne. It was all expensive colognes, curated modesty, and vintage timepieces ticking loud enough to remind her she’d never belong.
And tonight—him.
Seated alone (aw, poor little rich boy), fingers curved around a lowball glass dribbled with condensation. Judging by the burnt orange peel and the blood-toned glint: Negroni. Bold, bitter… how predictable. Almost medieval in its masculinity.
He looked like a statue someone forgot to rope off—half-lit under the frozen-firework chandelier, carved jaw tense, eyes cool and unreadable. His suit, charcoal black, cut so sharp it could split an atom. No tie, studded cufflinks, clean-shaven, but not enough to suggest he was expecting company.
And in a sea of glitz and fakeassery, where every other guest was a fresh Rolex or a hollow trust fund playing dress-up, this one? This man was none of that. There were minnows, jellyfish, the occasional shark... but this motherfucking blue whale was a silent, drifting monolith that out-riched half the Atlantic. And she was ready to cast a wide enough net, even if stitching it for days on end was all it took.
The bartender called him Mister Castillo, the name curling off his tongue, veritable old money dipped in Cuban honey.
She blinked once, then twice.
Castillo. Cast-ee-yo.
Huh. Exciting. Exotic. Never heard of him. And she was very good at knowing people she was supposed to know, which made him even more of a tricky mark.
But then that fucking ring had just made itself her next prize.
Thick, unapologetically gold, crowned with an obscene emerald—the colour of envy, of desire, of high-stakes possession. It whispered legacy, old money, old blood, an item a loving father might hand down to his son. Worn on his right hand, not left—because commitment to women was optional, but commitment to the image was unbreakable.
She hung fire at first, took the long way round the lounge, steps a punctuation for her thoughts, an extra lap through velvet shadows, watching him. Reading him.
Right off the bat, her target was a gorgeous, sun-kissed Grecian god. Late thirties, if she had to guess. Sexiest physique—broad-shouldered, lean in the hips, tall enough to make other men glance sideways. Sinful dark curls, waiting for a manicured hand to tug on them and mess up. A restless ankle tapping to some invisible metronome, presenting an internal tempo she’d kill to sync with. Not a sliver of a smile, just those full, distracted lips, tucked over a neat row of pearl-white teeth.
And what lay between his legs better be a stack of fresh greenbacks or his entire goddamn offshore account, because oy vey—she’d seen her share of oversized Hollywood ego and whispered big dick myths, but she never thought they existed. Jesus, they were real. Sometimes, they walked amongst us, anonymous, brooding solo in a gilded hotel bar.
The results were in: another tired, beautiful, well-endowed man. Bullseye. So what did this one deserve?
A moneyed ingénue? Pass. A spoiled heiress dripping charm? Overdone. A chic art dealer with one too many anecdotes about Venice? Closer, but no.
No, tonight she wanted to be... unmissable. Impenetrable. She would be the dazzling chess piece dropped mid-game, daunted into taking a closer look.
That hadn’t been the case for the last woman who’d approached him in the past three minutes—swiftly intercepted, spun around, and escorted back to her table with stunned, indignant scoffs by a bodyguard stationed less than a yard away, built like a marble column, an earpiece coiled into his collar.
So. Castillo was important. Hot damn.
Maybe a politician or maybe even a crimelord. Honestly, who cared when he looked like that? And for all that—how had she never heard of him? Either way she weighed it, those sons of bitches spilled out of headlines like loose pearls. If he were one of them, she’d have seen the profile, the scandal, the fourth wife in Chanel.
She realised, somewhere between her fifth glance at the back of his neck and the slow burn of hour-old-white-wine in her gut, that she was only dragging this out. For what? A better angle? A cleaner exit?
She wanted him to see her, and not in the metaphorical way poets meant—she wanted his eyes. She wanted the recognition.
And the truth was that the sight of him was turning her into smoke. Thick, ribboning, deliciously absurd smoke. So, she might as well put the fire out herself. Or at least throw more gasoline on it. Whichever worked.
She straightened, traipsing past low-lit booths and lower morals, the air around her reeking of rumoured secrets and the spice of Creed Aventus. Her fur coat dragged the dusk with her, the black silk slip beneath flirted with every bulb overhead, while the slit at her thigh played hide-and-seek with lace and sharp intentions. She was the whole damn production. Flash of leg. Flash of steel.
Upon reaching the bar, she slid into a seat one down from him—close enough to be noticed, distant enough to play disinterest. That sweet spot that begged curiosity without costing power.
The coat slipped off, one less layer between her and the moment, and it had been trained—trained to fall, trained to seduce. But then—
Everything moved in a single blink.
Two shadows, flanking, closing in from either side, en route to check. Earpieces. Fast, trained, and quiet, that always came before a very loud takedown. Her instincts tensed, reflexes flickering: eyes on the back exit, how she could make it there in four seconds flat—
But before she even had to brace, before her pulse spiked, the man—Castillo—lifted a hand. Just a flick. Barely even a gesture.
And the shadows fell back, evaporated, melting into the gold-trimmed corners like good little dogs trained to obey.
She let out a breath she hadn’t meant to hold. Phew, she thought. She really didn’t feel like ending up zip-tied in a body bag tonight.
The good news was, she’d just passed her first test, and he hadn’t even looked at her yet.
Her lips curled minutely. She set her elbows on the bar, angling her body in that curated way, just enough to show off the right curves, the lune of her spine, the shape of her ass—all half-bored, half-bored-with-a-purpose. Every molecule of her screaming, I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be, and isn’t that unfortunate for you.
Now here came the fun part. Playtime.
She flagged the bartender with two fingers and a smile that had gotten her out of far worse.
“Rusty Nail and two shots of tequila, please.” The freshly stolen hundred-dollar bill skimmed across the bar with the grace of a ballerina and the indifference of a bribe.
She smiled at him, lashes batting like the wings of an expensive butterfly. “Keep the change. Thanks, sweetie.”
The bartender blinked. People didn’t usually tip like that unless they were drunk or trying to impress. She was neither.
To her, life was about redistributing wealth—ideally while looking this hot doing it. It didn’t always have to be her wealth, not technically. From the rich, to the clever, to the ones who just seemed like they could use a little extra—she played the part, took the cut, passed it along. Redistribution with flair.
“Ma’am,” the bartender said, voice barely concealing his awe. “Coming right up.”
And then—finally—she turned to her enigma.
He had thawed because now, the gorgeous ice sculpture wore the suggestion of a smirk. A mouth made for terrible decisions curled at the edge as though he knew all her secrets and wasn’t judging. Yet.
Her first instinct? Run. Her second? Double the fuck down. This man, who’d probably grown an empire on poker faces, read hers in under thirty seconds.
“Feeling generous?” he asked.
His voice—good lord—it got under her skin like velvet poured over sandpaper. A silken drawl soaked in wet, hot caramel. The goosebumps on her skin were an obvious giveaway, and her legs crossed unintentionally.
She forced herself to play it casual, leaning her chin into her palm as if she were a woman who had nowhere better to be. “Especially tonight.”
Her drinks arrived, lined up like loyal foot soldiers, and the tequila hit the bar with a theatrical flourish and a pricey wink from the bartender. She dragged her cocktail glass toward her lips, not breaking eye contact, not giving him the pleasure of her full attention, ready to take the first sip when he hit her with—
“Or did old Billings not deserve the hundred as much as the bartender?”
She nearly inhaled the drink. Her brain split in two—half processing the drink’s cost, the other shouting what the actual fuck. But because her reflexes screamed to defend, she swallowed, industriously, the way one would swallow a really sharp insult. Well, she wasn't new to that.
She faced him, properly now, eyes narrowed in amused disbelief.
Oh, he was sharp. Old, but sharp.
Then, as if she weren’t even a threat worth standing for, he rose, unhurried, shoulders rolled beneath his jacket in one fluid ripple. He did the thing men do when they don’t button their coat—deliberately, arrogantly—and walked the three steps to the seat beside her. The shortening distance only crescendoed the goosebumps on her skin.
His knee grazed hers as he sat down beside her, and she felt the contact echo up her spine like a bassline.
He leaned back, turning to her fully, claiming space without apology. She was certain this man had been worshipped before. He obviously wanted to make no fuss with that when he gestured lazily to the nearest shot.
“That for me?”
Goddamn it, he caught her drift. All too familiar with it. Oh, this guy didn’t just play, he collected gilded fucking trophies.
She tilted her head, thoughtful, not giving him the win. “Two hundred.”
His hand paused, brows lifting. “For a shot? Pretty steep ask.”
“Billings didn’t deserve the two hundred bucks.”
His mouth twitched again. “Who are you to decide?”
“You know how it is,” she said airily, fingers brushing her cocktail. “He fumbled the bag. I picked it up. Capitalism, heard of it?”
That earned her a laugh. Deep. Rough. Stupidly attractive. A laugh she would accidentally rote-learn and dream about later when she was in bed with someone else.
He scratched his temple with one slow finger—enough to flash the ring again. That exquisite, infuriating ring. She was no kleptomaniac, but she was reading some signs tonight.
“So,” he said. “You won’t even deny it.”
She smiled with her teeth. Catlike. “What can I say? Sometimes the universe makes executive decisions—and I just follow orders.”
“And who’s pulling your strings?”
“I’m more of a free agent, though I have my own reasons for playing along,” she drawled, popping her lips.
His eyes searched hers for a long moment—more clinical than flirtatious. Then he leaned in, his voice dropping half an octave.
“Now, you’ve got me lined up—what’s your play? Charm me, crush me, or cut me loose?”
Oh. Well. Shit. But what irked her more was that he was expecting her to fold and kneel like some desperate fool. Not a chance in emerald heaven.
The smile slipped from her lips—but only to reassemble, sharper, colder, with twice the wickedness and indifference. She leaned in, just enough for their chests to brush, breathing in the scent that clung to him: bergamot, crisp, fresh like banknotes, tangled with heat and velvet. Maison Francis? Jean Paul Le Castillo?
She couldn't give two shits anymore. What mattered was the truth in his words—he was a mark. Just another mark. You know what would be funny? If his name was ‘Mark.’ Talk about aligned stars.
Rather, her sharp finger traced a soft line down the strong ridge of his nose.
“Oh, honey, all three,” she purred. “You’re my retirement plan.”
If that line rattled him, tipped his balance, he didn’t show it. He just tilted his head a fraction, chewing the inside of his cheek to fight a smirk like she’d just said something cute. Cute, for fuck's sake. That was new. And slightly offensive. If anything, he leaned in a breath closer—her red lips now a whisper from the tip of his nose.
Well. She did always have a thing for brave men with stupid impulses.
“In that case,” he murmured, low enough to be indecent, “you’ll want to give that watch back. I’m not exactly hurting for time.”
Her mental playbook skipped a beat. These moves? These flirtations, the very presence of her? They’d killed with a 99.9% success rate. And yet—
He was the 0.01%. In her life, and in the flesh.
His breath danced against her mouth—warm, spiced, all sin. His eyes, dark as midnight ink, watched her with that unreadable calm that meant he already had an answer to a question she hadn’t asked yet.
She offered her most innocent smile. “Which watch?”
Now that was bait, and she was proud of it. She knew how to pick a mark—but he was starting to feel like a match.
Before she could finish a sip, his hand lifted. First to her chin—just a touch, a direction, a swish of the stunning emerald—then lower, big, soft fingertips drifting along the curve of her neck like he had all the time in the world. It was intimate, yes, but worse—it was confident. A languor that predators used just before they pounced.
And then the other hand moved to her waist. Ah, so that was the game. No sudden grabs or cheap tells. Just proximity, pressure—and gravity pulling her into a choice.
To anyone watching, they probably looked like lovers. Or worse: like a husband and mistress on a regular date night. Which, in this city, was practically tradition.
While her pulse tried to find its way back to a normal rhythm, the smug bastard reached deeper in. Her lips parted, his brows sloped in amusement. He slipped his hand into the folds of her... faux mink—and surfaced with a familiar glint of gold, his knuckles grazing her waist like he’d paid for the privilege.
“This watch,” he murmured, all victorious and amused, lifting the Chopard into view like a magician pulling a rabbit from her cleavage.
Okay, that was a mindless attempt on his part. She didn't show it—she was too experienced for that.
She stuck out her bottom lip, a perfect little faux-pout. “Oh.”
“Didn’t deserve that either?”
She gave a light shrug, eyes flicking to his working jaw. Probably with the restraint of not dragging her to a more private conversation.
“Old Billings spent most of our evening convincing me his Cadillac had reclining seats, that he had a penthouse if I preferred vertical real estate, and—my personal favourite—that his artificial hip could rotate 180 degrees. Figured I need added compensation.”
He wrinkled his nose.
“Yeah,” she said. “I thought so, too.”
There was a beat of loaded silence between them, just long enough for her to decide to play a little dirtier.
“I really, really need you to understand that I…”
And with that, she slipped her ankle up the inside of his pant leg—delicate, methodical, just suggestive enough to distract without giving anything away. She watched it register in his body, the stillness, the knowledge she was still in control. The way his breath faltered for a fraction of a second. The tiniest tension in his thigh.
Then—while he was preoccupied with the very important inches of him she wasn’t touching—she gently pried his hand off her neck and placed a second watch into his palm.
“I thought you meant this watch,” she finished.
He blinked, eyes flicking down to his hand—and then to the beloved watch nestled there. Audemars Piguet. He hiked his sleeve up to reveal his bare wrist. No Audemars Piguet.
His expression flashed. For a heartbeat, genuine surprise cracked the perfect glass mask he wore. And oh, how delicious that was.
Zero fucking clue when she’d taken it. But she had, and it had been laughably too easy.
She turned away before he could collect his scattered little wits, spun back on her stool with feline grace, and plucked up her cocktail. The sip-stirrer spun between her teeth as she smiled into the clinking glass like she hadn’t just pickpocketed a man worth enough to fund a coup.
He exhaled behind her. A low, almost breathless laugh. “Jesus, you keep me on my toes.”
And she kept her eyes on her drink, swirling her glass, smugness curled into her spine. Her heart, however, was thudding. A pleasure so sharp she hadn't felt in months.
He fastened his watch back on with effortless precision, as if the stolen moment hadn’t unnerved him at all. But she’d seen it in his pupils, dilated for just a flicker too long, and in the slight drag of his liquor breath.
“That won’t be the last time tonight, will it?” he asked.
And now, finally, she turned—the game levelling up—letting the full consequence of her grin land like a challenge.
“Depends on whether you plan to undress me. Or just negotiate a better security team.”
A single brow arched. “You really think I’d sleep with a thief?”
She spoke into her straw, “And here I thought you were desperate.”
He angled his head, eyeing her as if she were a puzzle that might explode if solved too quickly. “Hm. Charming.”
“Oh, please,” she said, shaking her head, eyes glittering with mischief. “I’m persuasive. Charming is for people who wear pearls and apologise for orgasming first.”
That startled a laugh out of him, just a soft breath—barely there. But she caught it.
He leaned forward slightly. “So this is your play. You cosy up to men in designer, sweet-talk your way into their wallets, leave them with crushed egos and significantly lighter pockets?”
She traced the rim of her glass with a manicured nail, her gaze not leaving his. “If you’re lucky, that’s all I leave you with.”
He studied her. “And if I’m unlucky?”
She smirked. “You’ll never forget me.”
His tongue pressed into his cheek again. “You’re so certain I won’t turn you in.”
She rolled her eyes. “If you were going to do that, you wouldn’t be sitting this close. You’d be signing forms, talking to Officer Hardass Number Forty-Two, and making a statement about your poor, ravaged emotional trauma.”
He smiled. It was dangerous on him—sharp at the corners. “Oh, I am emotionally traumatised. That watch you nicked off me was one out of the three ever made.”
Be still, my traitorous, beating vagina, she thought. And that magically enhanced third leg of his—was it a limited edition, too? If so, she needed to bring out the big guns.
She tilted her head, slow and feline. “Well, I’d have to console you. Probably by sitting on your face.”
He blinked once. Visibly.
She stirred her drink once, then leaned in, her voice dropping to a whisper like it was just between them and the velvet dark. “Let’s be honest. If you really wanted Billings’ watch back, you would’ve demanded it the second I sat down. Instead, you tested me and played.”
She let that hang.
“Which tells me,” she added, “you’re not here for justice.”
“Definitely not,” he murmured, his voice suddenly hoarser than before.
“Mhm. You’re bored. You want me for the kicks.”
The way she said it, he knew he was already too deep. Her words moved like smoke: evocative, listless, curling around the edges of his constraint. His eyes dipped to her collarbone, her shoulder, her motionless thigh as it crossed over the other, the little peekaboo of the lace stocking catching the amber lights.
“Are we going upstairs,” she asked simply, “or are we having this entire conversation without your hands on my tits?”
Silence. A beat. Then two. She only grinned at him, teeth set on her straw suggestively.
He hung his head for just a moment—as though he needed a second to recalibrate. Or maybe to hide the smirk whittling its way across his mouth. When he looked up again, his dark eyes flashed, a little less amused.
Wordless, he slid one of the shot glasses toward her with two fingers, then reached for the other himself. Deciphering his inclination, they knocked the rims together in a soft clink.
“To boredom,” she cheered.
“And not-so-cheap thrills,” he triumphed.
They tipped them back in sync, the tequila burning down her throat, fast and sharp. She swallowed, licked her lip slowly, watching the way his throat bobbed, the way he adjusted his cufflinks with the grace of someone preparing for battle—not sex.
Then he stood, straightened his already-perfect jacket, tugged once at the hem, and offered his kingly hand to her.
She stood of her own accord, shoulder brushing his as she leaned in to murmur near his ear, breath tracing the line of his jaw. “You better have a penthouse suite waiting,” she murmured. “It’s the least I deserve if I promise not to do anything stupid tonight.”
He gave the barest tilt of his head, eyes burning. “You’re just the prettiest little liar, aren’t you?” A pause. A half-smile. A yearned release. “I was hoping for a more insightful breakfast later.”
Her lip caught between her teeth—just briefly, reflexively. Delightful. Penthouse suite. Hotel breakfast. Her weekend was off to a great start.
His suave grin or lethal gaze didn't break even as he flicked his wrist to gesture to someone behind her.
From the shadows, security materialised once more—clinical gazes, efficient, precise. Two of them, lean and suited, eyes scanning her from habit rather than hostility.
He rifled through the inner pocket of his jacket and snagged a sleek black card—no numbers, just the embedded insignia of something far more exclusive than a Visa. He handed it to the taller guard with a calm, “Her pick. Thanks.”
“Sir,” the guard nodded and spoke into a mic clipped inside his lapel.
The moment flew into surreality—muted commands, invisible systems moving around her. She watched the transaction unfold, the way reality seemed to bend to his will. There was no front desk, no credit hold, and no keycard handed over. Ching, ching, ching—the dollar signs rolled up within the imaginary slot machines in her head.
A final nod from his lackey crew, and it was done. Her eyes twinkled with the beginnings of a grin.
Well, then. That was too damn easy.
Only now did she take his hand, the one with the inordinate emerald ring, feeling the curve of the metal, folding her fingers in, as though it had been her idea all along.
“You always carry that much power on you?” she asked, stepping in beside him as they turned toward the elevators.
“Only when I plan to be stripped of it later,” and he shot her a wink.
Her laugh came, unexpected and soft. And this time, she didn't hide her grin.
As they entered the elevator, the doors whispered shut, and for a brief moment, she knew—this was a checkmate.
Here’s what you really needed to know about first-name-still-unknown Castillo: boy, can he kiss.
The man could kiss as if he were meant to wreck religion. It wasn’t sweet, or even aggressive—it was hunger, six-foot-all-male arched and soldered to her lips with intention, with certainty that he was going to fuck hard tonight. One hand fastened in her hair, the other fumbling behind him for the bedroom door handle as if the whole city were plotting to interrupt them. She barely registered the luxuriant flash of the penthouse behind his broad shoulders: the wet bar gleaming like something out of a Bond set, the marble floors glowing under dimmed designer lighting, the magnanimous kitchen, the terrace doors flung open to reveal Manhattan glittering like an unfurled circuit board.
All of it—opulence, skyline, good sense—blurred at the edges as her resolve melted beneath his wicked mouth. She’d come for a ring and a job, and somehow ended up consumed. And probably... coming, too. Let's see how it goes.
She vaguely recalled thinking, Well, at least security’s off tonight, before he kicked the door shut behind him, and she surged up into him like she’d been waiting all year, tearing that blazer off his shoulders.
At some point—maybe while his hand mapped the grooves of her spine, maybe while his mouth drifted lower in slow worship—he broke the rhythm long enough to mumble against her skin.
“You gotta... tell me... something first.”
“Clean bill of health. IUD’s locked and loaded,” she hummed knowingly, arching into his mouth as it brushed her clavicle.
He spoke through a mouthful of a kiss. “Appreciate the intel, but I meant to ask if you’re past eighteen.”
She tossed her head back to giggle as his lips moved over her collarbone. “That’s your cutoff? I should be the one calling the cops.”
“It’s called chivalry, sweetheart. A gentleman doesn’t ask a lady her age.”
“Checking ID is where you draw the line, not bringing a potential criminal into your bed.”
“Your words, not mine.”
“And names?” she shot back, lips brushing his jaw.
He smirked against her throat, voice molten. “I like not knowing anything.”
And it struck her—unexpectedly—of course he did. It was great for her, too. Not knowing her made this cleaner. She was all curves, sex, and invitation, faceless by design. No backstory or entanglement. No real name to trace or recall in the morning—just a woman who walked out of a fur coat and into his bed like a loaded question.
She didn’t move as he kissed lower, slower, charting his route down her sternum. Her eyes drifted to the gold trim of the ceiling above them, but her mind was sprinting elsewhere. Letting sex overrule a job? Not her usual MO. It was too messy, came bearing vulnerability. Intimacy, or really world-shattering sex, in her experience, shattered deceit like glassware, and she needed the lie to keep him seeing her as the sleek, unbothered woman who stole his watch and then made him laugh about it.
She didn’t need his guard down. She needed hers up.
And still, she arched into his mouth as though he were the one writing her name in cursive across her skin, still let herself ache for this brief, hot moment she earned with cleverness.
“For the record,” she whispered, breath catching as his hand skimmed beneath the hem of her thigh-high, “I’m well past twenty-one.”
He lifted his head just enough to glance at her, shadows tucked beneath his lashes, and gave a dry, approving smile. “For the record, I believe that.”
There was a joke in there about experience and knowing better, but her throat closed around it. She did know better, and she was still about to make this mistake with goddamn choreography.
Then, without another word, he ducked low, scooped her up in a single agile motion, and threw her over his shoulder like a victorious hunter returning home with his spoils. She shrieked only to be defeated by a laugh in half-lust.
“Down, boy!”
His big hand came down on her ass for a sound slap. “Behave.”
“Oh, hey, kinda loving my view right now,” she called out, swaying upside-down, giving his admittedly perfect ass a firm squeeze.
He didn’t miss a beat. “More than the skyline?”
“More than the view from the Ritz bathtub, baby.”
“High praise. I like that.”
She landed on the bed with a soft, lavish oof, her hair splayed like a halo, silk dress skating up her thighs. Before she could even prop herself on her elbows, he was over her again—mouth returning to hers, fingertips under her hem, tracing the garter, teasing the edge of her panties with that kind of reverence that made her almost forget her exit strategy.
Then, just as he lowered his head between her thighs, her Louboutin heel planted right between his pecs. A gentle nudge of a reminder.
He paused, blinked, looked up from her foot to her suspecting face—brows raised like a schoolboy caught halfway through a particularly delicious crime.
“What’re you doing?”
“I’m...” he tilted his head with exaggerated innocence, “going to make you come on my tongue?”
She pressed her pointed heel in deeper, just to make a point. “Yeah, let’s not skip to the part where I forget your name and my standards.”
His grin spread wider, unfazed, overjoyed even. Smug fucker.
She leaned up on her elbows, her voice syruped with challenge. “I’d rather have you come inside me. With me.”
He let out a low laugh, shaking his head. “Jesus. What is this, male-finagling 101?”
“Call it negotiation. You want a headliner? Play by house rules.”
He crawled forward with a surrendered sigh, mouth brushing her knee on the way up. Rather, he took her ankle—gently—and began to guide it upward, eyes never leaving hers. The slide of her calf along his shoulder was idle, confident, and territorial.
“Something tells me you are the house.”
“Damn right I am,” she muttered, yanking him in by the collar. “And you’re already losing chips.”
By the time her heel rested behind his neck, he was already smiling again. “Trust me, sweetheart, I can afford it.”
His words sent a short-circuit of dysfunctions sparking through her system. Lust, amusement, danger, maybe a little bit of deranged curiosity. Her body felt like a pressure cooker wrapped in silk. She watched him lean in again, kiss slow and deft, like he was tasting victory already.
She curled her fingers in his hair—his freaking curls—and angled him deeper into the lazy kiss. The way it gave under her touch, thick and dark and sinfully plush, felt like the luxury version of every shitty knockoff she’d tolerated before. This was a rich man’s hair. This was what money bought, not the thinning, brittle kind that came with executives and artificial virility—those were all coconut-head kisses: stiff, unyielding, mildly tragic. This was investment-grade.
Her hands flew to his shirt buttons with greedy precision, undoing, untucking, peeling away the crisp cotton. He shrugged the shirt off and let it fall somewhere past the horizon of the room. She couldn’t look anywhere but at him.
This goddamn man was all ridged muscle and splendid heat, a living sculpture carved by a person deeply horny and well-compensated. Her eyes wandered without apology, drinking him in. Shoulders broad enough to make furniture obsolete, that weathered tan etched into skin like he’d been born in a Marlboro ad, and that V-cut—the infamous, fabled V muscle that you would only acquire with months on a BowFlex—was practically rude. It announced, with a golden arrow from Olympus saying, ‘Please direct your gaze below,’ and that was until he reached down, opened his fly and—
“Holy fuck.”
His face dropped to honest concern, searching her from head to toe. “Something wrong?”
She looked back at his eyes and tried, sincerely, to find shame and failed. “Sorry. No, really. Wow, congrats.”
His brow rose, faintly amused. “Thanks.”
She squinted back at the enormity between his legs. That was no big dick. For every twig, there was a trunk. For every soft peach, there was a firm cucumber. And finally, for every tight space that she had in her body, that was the perfect fit.
“Hang on, I’m just... recalibrating my entire worldview,” she breathed.
“Take your time. He is a shower.” He curved his arms around her thighs and dragged her closer, amused. “Now, should I be flattered or concerned?”
She pointed, unabashed. “You’re breaking zoning laws. That should be registered as a private landmark.”
He couldn’t hold back the smirk. “My penis is a landmark?”
She shook her head solemnly. “Seriously, dude, if you try shoving that in my mouth, I’m gonna need a neck brace and dental insurance. It’s not that subtle.”
He huffed, mock-exasperated, dipping back toward her as she bit her lip to contain a laugh. “Well, neither are you. Seriously, dude, why don’t you just walk beside me with a bullhorn tomorrow?”
She grinned. “Touché.”
And she wanted it all.
She wanted him to wreck her perpetually laid-out life in the shape of whorish moans. She wanted the kind of orgasm that felt like a cathedral collapsing, that made her forget what city she was in, what she was wearing, even what she’d meant to acquire tonight—because who gave a shit about emerald rings when your thighs were trembling like this?
He sank to his knees at the edge of the bed, his rough hands oh-so-warm as he found her ankles, coasting upward, willful. Her heels came off one by one with a reverent slide and dropped somewhere with two clicks. He raised a brow at the stockings—black, sheer, goddamn expensive—and made a face like, ‘those stay.’ Smart man.
While his mouth claimed hers again—wide, possessive, coaxing more of her soul out with each pass of tongue—his fingers found the zipper at the base of her spine. He worked it off her like he’d earned the right; he wasn’t just removing fabric, but unveiling a scripture.
The dress fell away, the only flimsy fabric separating them now. Bared, exposed before him.
“Look at you,” he murmured, and then tilted his head skyward, like the ceiling might offer some divine explanation. “Where’ve you been hiding this?”
The smile that bloomed on her lips was ridiculous. “Right where no one bothered to look.”
He was just… devotion, that made her forget every well-earned cynicism she’d armed herself with. That look he gave her—it was like someone seeing the night sky for the first time.
Every woman deserved this at least once, to be gazed at like a divine revelation. Especially by this man.
And when he came down between her breasts and buried his face there—kissing, biting, mouthing, trailing warmth over the softness—and she catalogued.
Every graze of his mouth on the swell of her breast became a snapshot, every drag of his stubble a burn she’d wear like jewellery. His lips ghosted along her skin in an obedience, and that made it worse—better. She kept her eyes on the ceiling, needing somewhere to focus on before she melted into goo.
It was becoming harder to separate pleasure from power, and harder still to remember which one she usually wielded.
Her fingers found his cheekbones, traced the topography of him like a blind woman trying to remember a face she wasn’t supposed to fall for. His thin stubble, coarse, dark, scratched and scalded her in the best way.
She’d despised facial hair on men. Always. Until she decided that his goddamn moustache deserved its own novella. Every time it flicked across her nipple, her body jolted like a live wire. It was filthy what that thing's pornographic implications were. Filthy, what she wanted from it.
She stroked the curve of his upper lip with a fingertip, and he caught her hand in his, kissed the pad of her finger, drew it slowly into his mouth. His tongue curled around it, wet and obscene, eyes on hers the entire time. Then he let it go with a pop so lewd, she had to bite her lip to stop a moan.
“You gotta let me taste you, baby,” he rasped. “If your tits taste this good...” His breath ghosted over her skin. “I can’t imagine your sweet pussy.”
She burst into laughter, spirited, ruined. “I did say I’d sit on your face,” she replied, lifting a brow.
He grinned. “Look at me, I’m a man grieving.”
“Hm. Not in the mood anymore.”
His groan was practically theatrical—but his fingers didn’t wait for applause. They slipped between her thighs, bypassing preamble entirely, right past silk and into soaked, desperate heat.
Conversation stopped.
All her clever little barbs, her glib charm, her velvet one-liners lay dead. Obliterated by the first stroke of his fingers inside her. Her brain went static. White-noise pleasure. A hiss of disbelief.
All the sharpness and swagger she’d carried into the suite dimmed under the slow, deliberate pressure of his hand. Precision. Intention. Like he already knew exactly how she’d fall apart.
She tried to say something, anything. Tried to land one last jab. But all she could do was breathe around his long, fantastic fingers—wide-eyed, hands fisted into the pillow behind her, lips parted, staring up at the gold-leaf ceiling like it might explain her undoing. In, out, in, out... then came the thumb.
And then—the fucking ring.
She felt the metal graze her inner thigh, the cool edge of the gold where it pressed to her skin. Sharp contrast to his heat. And then—Jesus fucking Christ—it dragged. Subtle, sluggish, just enough to remind her her prize was there.
That gorgeous, thick emerald, gold band, tasteful, heavy and fuck, so out of place between her legs.
Or maybe not.
Because when he curled his fingers just right and his thumb pressed in deeper—when he let the gold nudge her, roll slightly against her wetness—her whole body arched like a drawn bow.
He felt her react. Any dumbass would've known, he wasn't that special.
His thumb stayed at the ready, steady pressure circling her clit—but the gem, that fucking gem, shifted again. Cool gold and the sharp cut of emerald dragged leisurely through the slick between her folds, catching where she was wettest, where she throbbed for friction. It was intentional. Calculated. A little cruel, to be honest.
Her body jerked, hips twitching, a powerless gasp yanked straight from the base of her spine—high-pitched, fractured. That ring shouldn’t have turned her on or feel owned. But could a material girl help it?
He looked down at her, mouth curved just enough to betray pleasure, but not enough to give her satisfaction.
“Oh, you like that?” he murmured—just wicked enough to feel intimate. “Huh, you like the way my ring feels on you?”
She wanted to say no. Wanted to sneer, to roll her eyes, to make a joke about being allergic to sentiment or emeralds or anything that felt vaguely like trust. Instead, she bit her bottom lip like it might keep her dignity in place, but it really did not, and—
She nodded. Tiny. Shaking. Needy.
So he rewarded her.
He slowed his strokes, so infuriating, so obscene, and let the ring do the work. Rolled the emerald flat against her clit, then angled it up, letting one of the faceted edges skim across her slit, grazing nerves that had no business being teased like that. Precise. Punishing.
And it lit her the fuck up.
She should’ve hated what it meant—that she wanted something so material, so glittering and male. That this thing—a token of wealth, probably from a wife or a mistress long since discarded—was turning her slick and pliant and desperate beneath him.
God, she craved it.
That ring was everything she didn’t get to have. Status. Opulence. Being touched like treasure.
It was proof of power. And right now, she clearly wanted to be fucked by it.
She wanted it pressed deeper. She wanted it shoved into her mouth next, to taste the gold and the salt of her own arousal and watch his eyes go dark with the knowledge that she liked it. That it wasn’t just sex—it was starvation. It was his want and hers.
Tension spiralled hard and fast, gathering in her abdomen. One wrong stroke, one more whisper, and she'd shatter with her slick clinging to it like a goddamn offering.
And still, he was watching her—all darkly pleased. Reading her confession in real time. Every moan, a comma. Every shiver, a pause in the syntax of her unravelling.
This wasn’t a play for the upper hand or a con. It was relinquishing. And maybe, the part that terrified her most—being known.
That, in itself, was a wake-up call.
So she cudgeled the horny out, pushed him off her with her purpose, let him fall back into the pillows, trousers still hanging indecently low on his hips, cock straining upward like it had its own agenda. For a second, he just looked at her—half-dazed, wholly starstruck.
She climbed on top with a panther's grace and rolled her hips. Just once. Just to feel the obscene friction of silk against her bare, wet slit. The contact made her gasp—all unmasked—and his answering groan was deep, surprised, like she’d just given him the ultimate divulgence.
Then, like the devil himself, he brought his fingers—her slick still coating them—to his mouth. Sucked them in with a hum, as if tasting a rare libation, expensive and exclusively his.
“Christ,” he murmured. “You taste like a dream.”
She didn't have it in her to rejoinder. He was distractingly hard beneath her, so hard it was criminal. Big, big, big man. The feel of him even contained through the barrier of his boxers had her knees nearly give out.
“Gonna kill me,” he muttered, voice hoarse, stunned.
Funny, that was her line.
“Good,” she whispered, leaning in until her mouth brushed his. “Then I won’t need to fake my name.”
He laughed, dazed, ravenous, eyes drinking her in. “Ah, what the hell,” he breathed. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”
For half a second, her mind blanked. What was her name? What was any name? She had to have a name ready for him. How was she so unprepared?
Then, she made up her mind: “Eve,” she said, because one, it was cool, two, sweet biblical references, and three, what a fun little palindrome.
He tested the word on that naughty tongue. “Eve. The first woman.”
She tilted her head, gave him a wicked little smile. “Gotta start somewhere,” she murmured—still perched above him, all wit and velvet, more dangerous than that: ease.
She reached between them. Even after staring for three more moments, the sheer size of him—thick, heavy, curved just enough to ruin. Her mouth opened slightly, involuntarily, but she didn’t make a sound. She absorbed it.
She gripped him, slowly, trifling—more an assessment than a stroke. His cock kicked in her palm, already leaking, and his jaw went slack.
“You got a license for this thing, sir?” she purred in a tease, still staring down like she was reading a classified document.
“I was grandfathered in,” he said through gritted teeth. “Now be a good girl and fuck me.”
And for a breath, a single heartbeat, she let herself feel it. Just once.
His hands, strong and solid at her hips, slid up the line of her torso as if to memorise the arch there. He waited for her, no rushing, no seizing the moment to flip her over and take control.
She leaned forward, kissed him at her leisure. And again, just to be sure it wasn’t a fluke. That made her forget where her body ended and his began. Her fingers curled against his chest, dragging over the soft smattering of dark hair there, nails teasing. His breath hitched.
It was ridiculous how good this felt. Big dick or not, he was fucking fantastic.
And that was the thing. She’d never trusted fantastic feelings; they were distractions. Weak spots. She’d spent ages compartmentalizing pleasure like it came with a damn invoice. Oh, this wasn't that. There were no transactions left (except, er, maybe one) or power plays she had to look out for.
This was two people choosing to fuck like they’d never see each other again. And for once, that felt like a relief, not a regret.
She lined him up with a maddening delay, hips angling just right, and when she sank down—Jesus, it was a stretch. Her breath faltered, lips parted. Head tilted back. Hands braced on his chest as she took him—the world churning to liquid around her.
She took him inch by gentle, conscious inch, and the fullness knocked the wind out of her. She paused halfway, chest heaving, stretched to her capacity.
“You okay, beautiful?” he asked, hands steadying her thigh.
“Yeah,” she breathed. “Just… Christ.”
He gave a strained laugh. “I’ve been called worse.”
She braced herself, inhaled, levelled her knees on either side of his hips, and took the rest of him.
All the way down.
The shock of it punched through her, and the moan that followed was nothing like the others—it was scraping, involuntary, from the deepest part of her.
“Omigodomigodomigod,” she chanted, barely.
“Shit,” he growled, “you’re gonna make me come just watching you do that.”
“Baby, you have got to last longer than that,” she managed.
It can't have been a concurrency. It was vulgar, how flawless he fit inside her. How her body opened for him, swallowed him like it had been waiting for this.
The nasty fucking sounds he made—soft curses, a low-throated groan, the broken “Jesus fucking Christ” against her neck—they conducted volts of electricity down her spine.
She rolled her hips once, testing the weight of him, the stretch, the slick pressure as he filled up that fragment of space so deep within her she didn't know needed to be freed.
Their eyes held for a glorious moment, engraved an intrigue between the lines, as their breaths fused in the intensifying silence.
Finally, she moved again—tentatively at first, recalibrating, learning the shape of this body, its responsiveness, its heat. Then purposeful. Hips circling in uneven figure-eights, savouring every drag of him along her walls. The friction, the angle—it was unmistakable. Her clit brushed the hard plane of his pubic bone with each motion, and the sensation throbbed through her with the symphony of the dirtiest choir of angels.
Her hair clung to her skin, damp with sweat. Her thighs trembled. She adjusted again, finely tuned the roll of her hips as though she were a safecracker aligning the final dial. Listening, calculating, cracking open something far more intimate than a vault.
And in those strokes, she realized: man, this fucking was nice.
Disarming enough to take her off guard. Not flowers-and-pillow-talk nice—but it was strange how his eyes never left hers. In the way he breathed through his teeth when she clenched around him.
Nice, for someone like her, felt impossible. She didn’t get this. She got fancy hotel rooms with poor lighting and overpriced minibars. She got transactional glances, pickpocketed her forgettable flings, and sex that didn’t leave bruises but didn’t leave memories either. She got mornings when she slipped out before the sheets cooled, before they could question what her name was.
This gorgeous man under her, with his big wallet and his even bigger cock, sweat-slicked and broad-chested, dark curls matted against the pillow, hands reverent on her hips—this was selfish memory-making. A reward, maybe. A cosmic oversight in her favour. A divine fuck-up.
And god, what a man. She loathed giving him that vestige of power, but really—wow.
She slowed just to look.
There was heat in his gaze, sure—but also awe. He looked at her like she was the miracle, not the other way around. Chest heaving, abs taut, thighs twitching. There was a line of sweat down his temple that she wanted to lick. Insane, disgusting, but wild.
She leaned forward to do just that, and he kissed her sternum like it was instinct, then moved up—mouthing her breast, sucking just hard enough to draw a gasp from her. She ground down in response, shivering as her clit caught again, the rhythm quickening. She was so wet now, slick, soaked, that it felt inevitable, elemental.
His hands tensed. Thighs twitched. His cock gave a small, telling pulse inside her. He was close, no rush, no push, ticking within her, feeling everything.
And still, he watched her. If he blinked, he’d miss it. This version of her—sweating, gasping, taking him deep—was the most honest one yet.
She’d never been seen like this. Not without masks. Not mid-lie. Not mid-fuck. Not without shame, licking at her spine. She liked it, just a little.
“You feel so good,” he groaned. “Fuck, Eve…”
She almost laughed aloud.
Even now, even as her orgasm climbed her spine like a fuse about to spark, she wanted to correct him. Not my name. Yet, there was a naked poetry in it.
Eve. The first woman. The original sin. Fitting, wasn’t it? Sometimes, she couldn't comprehend her own genius.
She leaned in, dragged his lip between her teeth, bit gently, then rolled her hips harder, faster. She could feel herself starting to fall apart—release coiling tight in her belly like a loaded spring, every thrust building the tension sharper, sharper. It was happening—her body catching fire from the inside, everything spiralling, tightening.
Then—snap. She went splintering apart.
She came with a sound that drained all the colour from her world. A broken gasp, mouth frozen in a silent scream, stifled into his throat as she folded over him. Her body trembled, thighs clamped in, and she clung so tightly around him like she refused to let go. Riding out her waves.
He wasn’t far behind. As if the very sight of her had nudged him forward. A growl—deep, ragged—tore from his chest, face rigid, power intense, eyes hazed over, and with one sharp, helpless thrust, he came too. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he panted, buried deep, twitching inside her as his nails digging into her waist like she was the only thing keeping him tethered to earth.
And then—quietude in the afterglow.
No lies, no scams, no exit plan. Two strangers wrapped around each other in the thick fog of sex, sweat, and softening breath.
Eventually, she lifted her head, curls clinging to her cheek. She looked down at him, and despite everything—the ache in her thighs and the sharp echo of release still ringing in her—she smiled a real one.
He reached up, tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, and gave her a smile so goddamn comforting it shouldn’t have existed in this room.
She huffed a little laugh, diverting her weight to graze his softening cock still buried inside her, she leaned in closer—lips ghosting his ear.
“Nice to meet you, Castillo.”
He let out a sound—half laugh, half groan—as his hand slid down to squeeze her ass.
“Pleasure’s mine, Eve.”
‘Eve’ was luxuriating.
There was no better word for it. Luxuriation at its finest. Stretching every nerve and bone in the wake of that mind-blowing orgasm at three in the goddamn morning, she lay draped in hotel linen like it had been tailored for her personally.
She was starving, of course. Ravenous. But not just for food.
She slid out of bed while the stranger—Mr. Big Wallet, Mr. Bigger Cock, Mr. Goddamn Castillo—was still draped across the mattress like a Renaissance nude. Sprawled and golden under the lamplight, limbs askew, a lean hand tucked under his head, a man who knew no one would ever dare disturb him. The picture of leisure. Post-coital smugness facsimiled into art.
Yeah, she would definitely overlook every stinging pain in her demolished muscles to ride him again, why do you ask?
Eventually, she found the lacquered room service menu on the desk and squinted at it, blinking through the haze of sex and triumph. Her instinct was to scan for the cheapest option—buttered toast, maybe, or the $25 fruit bowl. Years of living in the margins didn’t go away with one good fuck.
A wolfish grin crept onto her face. Or maybe it did.
Soon after, she ordered everything she ever denied herself, engaging in a little harmless flirting to get her way. Pancakes with clotted cream. French-style omelettes, salmon on brioche, truffle hash browns, a mimosa and champagne, because why the fuck not? She threw in a side of bacon and a whole carafe of coffee for good measure. Let her fake name live a little.
While she waited, she made herself at home—because that’s what you do when you’ve stolen a beautiful artefact, and no one’s caught you yet. She slipped into the plush hotel robe (absurdly soft, felt like being hugged by a cloud of money), then padded into the marbled bathroom where Bulgari-branded amenities waited like her personal butler’s blessing.
She washed her hair. Twice. Slathered herself in conditioner that smelled like a yacht moored in Monaco, under a majestic shower that almost aerosol-misted water right into her eyes. Then she filled the bottomless, claw-foot porcelain tub to the brim, lemon scented bubbles spilling over. She slipped in with a sigh that reached down to her childhood.
This was the end of the line. This was the life.
The ease of wealth. The promise of solitary comfort. The luxury of not having to think about consequences for once. People who came from nothing—real nothing—didn’t dream in moderation. They didn’t require stability or modest success.
They wanted everything.
Every millionth thread count, every miniature jam jar, every long-legged man with a wallet fat enough to make the world shut up.
And as she soaked in her expensive bath for the night, legs stretched wide and one arm hung lazily over the tub’s edge, breakfast arrived. She insisted on it being wheeled straight into the bathroom in the other guest room, champagne flutes and silver trays and all, so as to not wake Big Dick Castillo slumbering in the master.
Breakfast in the bath. Her version of communion.
She took one bite of pancake, one sip of mimosa, then paused.
Hang on. She didn’t even know his first name. Who was the rich stranger footing the bill?
The thought struck with the odd gravity of a joke that turns into a riddle. She reached for her phone—miraculously still charged—and typed with wet fingers:
🔎 Castillo New York
Top suggestion: Harry Castillo New York
She chewed her pancake thoughtfully. “Harry Cast-ee-yo.” Then pushed her lips up into a prideful smirk. “Found you.”
As easy as that. A few vague words and his whole history spilled out of the phone. She clicked the first, most recent result:
WMAG Exclusive: The Silent Rise of Harry Castillo, Manhattan’s Phantom Power Player
The layout was glossy and over-designed—grayscale cityscapes, oversized type, the whole corporate-chic fantasy. His photo sat dead center, sat in his corner office, hand templed: tall, broad-shouldered, dark eyes infinite, hair tousled, and that fucking smirk. He looked good enough to eat, sure—but there was something off about the Savile Row suit clinging to that lean, lethal frame. The armour didn’t quite fit the man.
And in the profile, no bold title crowned him. No CEO and/or founder. Nothing that screamed self-made grit or startup savant.
Just: Private Equities. Flat. Unapologetic. Take it or leave it.
She snorted into her mimosa. Finance guy. Not what she had in mind.
Private equity—the burgeoning art of buying dying things and gutting them for sport. She was certain he wasn’t a shark. You see, sharks had a purpose. This man was a collector of leverage. He bought struggling companies, debt, political favours, and maybe the occasional dumb woman who lied and pilfered for a living.
Still, she kept reading. Because curiosity, like appetite, always demanded payment.
“I’m not interested in visibility,” Castillo had told WMAG. “The people who talk loudest are usually the least important. Influence is quieter. And I am always thinking about the long game.”
She rolled her eyes. “Prick.”
Yet, the article hilariously went on and this interviewer did not back down:
“And what is the best thing about being this wealthy?”
She half-expected some PR-friendly answer. Time with his big, affluent family in Antibes. Philanthropy. The freedom to pursue passions, blah blah yacht. But Harry, naturally, said this:
“I now own WMAG.”
“Seriously?”
He grinned. “I could.”
A full-bodied, white-collar mic drop. She giggled into a layer of bubbles. Smug bastard.
That was Harry Castillo's real currency—believability. He didn’t have to lie; the proposition would suffice. He let people fill in the blanks, and by the time they realised they’d handed him everything, their signatures were already on the dotted line.
Hard to ignore how he sounded like every other wealthy nihilist out there on Wall Street. That tone he took—unshakable, a little too polished—dripped with discretion. She could hear it in her head now, could imagine him saying it between sips of twelve-year-old scotch at a table only lit by a Baccarat lamp.
“I don’t believe in risk for risk’s sake,” he had continued. “Every move should be precise. You don’t bet on fire. You buy the match factory.”
Wow, bravo. She almost clapped. Amusing poetry, Harvard grad, big dick. The man was god's favourite creation in triplicate. She could hardly wait for the leather-bound memoir.
The more she read, the more outlandish it became. Nothing she was new to. He had holdings in everything—media conglomerates, boutique aerospace startups, a vineyard in France that sold wine exclusively to Michelin-starred chefs. Oh, and a minority stake in a European football club, which was probably just code for laundering money through ticket sales.
She scrolled further down and hit a quote from someone unnamed but very impressed:
“Castillo’s power is that you don’t see him coming. He is the storm with no centre. By the time you realise he’s at the table, he already owns the room.”
She tapped her glass against the tub, grinning. “No shit.”
The man outside, Harry Castillo, resupine on his bed like a Greco-Roman mural, the one she’d just ridden to death into the mattress, wasn’t just a rich man.
He was a whole mechanism. A muted weapon clothed in desire. And suddenly she wasn’t sure if she’d seduced him or if she’d walked directly into a carefully placed snare.
Which, of course, was all the more arousing, interesting, tempting, than alarming.
She set the phone by the ledge, reached for a slice of brioche, and thought idly about what her fake, biblical name had said the night before. Eve. The first woman. The fall of Man.
Well, was that not just perfect, she thought and dunked her bread in hollandaise.
At least she picked the right apple.
Later, she watched the sun rise over Manhattan like it was hers.
Legs curled beneath the robe she hadn’t paid for, mimosa in one hand, toast crumbs on the other. Coi Leray murmured through one AirPod, girl-code gospel about how players wear heels now. She bobbed her head to the beat, eyes closed, face tilted toward the morning light. The breeze off the terrace kissed her bare collarbone. Below, the city stirred, unaware that one of its daughters had momentarily won.
“What you know ‛bout livin’ on the top?” her favourite singer chirped. Damn right, people had no damn clue.
The sky was daubed with watercolour—soft roses and scintillating golds bleeding into the steel blue silhouette of the city. She was soaking in every second of it like heat through her bones, feeling a little more than fortunate that she’d stolen this morning. Or maybe rented it by the hour. Either way, it felt like trespassing in heaven.
It was going to be very, very hard to leave.
She heard the thud-thud-thud of his footsteps before she saw him. Padding out from the bedroom, across the polished floors, through the quiet hush of money well-spent. She didn’t open her eyes.
“Did you pig out on the whole menu without me?”
Not a trace of annoyance in that freshly-fucked voice. Not even mockery. It was a soft exhale of disappointment, as if he’d actually been looking forward to an insightful breakfast of champagne and eggs with her.
She grinned, head turned toward the sun. “Oops.”
A soft, amused chuckle. “Are there leftovers at least?”
“Might be toast,” she hummed, “or a fruit bowl.”
You know, the stuff you could score from a lobby continental if you smiled just right.
Then came the shadow, a dawdling eclipse, as he blocked the sun with his body. She sighed out her blunt nuisance, popped one earbud free, and opened her eyes—
Oh, my fuck.
How exactly was a girl supposed to leave when the man she was meant to swindle was standing there like some water-dappled fantasy come to life?
Shower-warm water trickled from his curls like holy beads, trailing down his throat, over that sickeningly perfect chest. The towel around his hips hung low and loose—threatening virtue, daring gravity. In daylight, he looked even more expensive. Someone had carved him out of dark gold and complacency. Was the sun doing that on purpose, playing him out in slow motion and amber hues of a porn film?
Her eyes dragged over him like fingers. Simply put on this Earth to be appreciated, wasn't he?
The worst part was that he knew exactly what he looked like.
He leaned in, bracing one hand by her head, the other hooking a finger into the delicate strap of her black slip. “Leaving without a kiss?”
She tilted her chin. “I gave you plenty last night.”
“Too bad I’m insatiable,” he murmured—and claimed her.
This special kiss was slower, curled around her throat like silk. Luxurious. Marvis toothpaste and vices. He had nothing left to prove now, just him to taste again. His hand cradled her jaw, thumb brushing just under her lip as if establishing her identity. Ha, good luck with that. While she let herself melt into it, one last time, and her fingers found his damp curls, twining. Tugging. Greedy.
When he finally let go, it was with a kiss to her nose—infuriatingly domestic. Tucking affection between stolen moments.
She patted his chest—twice, lightly, how one might close a book—and moved to slip her stilettos back on from where they waited obediently by the lounger.
“I better hoof it before the cops show up,” she muttered, bending to fasten them back on with still-shaky fingers.
He placed his hands on his hips, the towel still miraculously hitched there with Popeye's knot. “Inexpedient. You know I have security, right?”
“That needs replacing, yes.”
His mouth twitched, but his eyes stayed trained on her. Calculating. Curious. “You don’t do this often.”
She arched a brow, slipping on a heel. “Sex? Or talking to billionaires in towels?”
“You don’t get caught. But you’re not greedy either, you take just enough.”
She gave him her best grin—sharp, blameless. “I’m light-fingered with taste.”
“I know your play now.”
She paused mid-buckle, scoffing. “From a single fuck? Please, you do not.”
He said it, simple and unambiguous—“You’re acting out of necessity.”
The words dropped like a pin in a vault.
And her stomach did that thing again—flipped traitorously, like it forgot what team she was playing for. Even if it showed on her face, she masked it by standing too quickly, balancing all that tension in her calves and those goddamn heels. One foot out the door was always her secret weapon.
“A pretty big tangent, don’t you think?” he said casually. “From lifting watches to swiping shampoo bottles from the bathroom.”
But her hand, buried in the folds of her coat, curled tighter around the little Bulgari amenity kit she’d palmed like a lifeline. Conditioner, soap, even the shower cap—luxuries she didn’t demand, but had taken anyway. A permission to remember.
She kept her eyes forward, chin tilted, expression carved from cool marble. Still, her fingers gripped that miniature bottle like it might explain her—or what she refused to say out loud.
The guilt was feather-light. The habit was heavier.
Behind her, he shifted. She could feel the heat of him before she turned—wet curls, water beading off his collarbones, barefoot and beautiful, and still half a head taller.
She pivoted smoothly, letting the smile break across her lips. Blinding, forged in the alleyways of survival.
With a theatrical grace, she reached into her coat and produced the bag, and set it down on the nearest lounger like an offering at a goddamn altar.
“I’m sentimental,” she said airily, flipping her hair over the coat. “Didn’t want to take anything I couldn’t fence.”
He raised a brow. “I would’ve bought you a crate full if you said it.”
She snorted. “Then you’d expect a thank-you note. Maybe a handwritten apology for bruising your ego.”
“You think this is about ego?”
She was already walking, all legs and larceny, her heels clicking a decisive farewell toward the suite’s door. “It’s always about ego, honey. Yours, mine, New York’s.”
He let her go, for only a beat before: “So that’s it? You’re leaving me here?”
She didn’t answer.
“Empty-handed?” he added, trying for levity. But there was an edge in it. Uncertain, almost hurt.
That stopped her.
She turned slowly, heel catching the light. Her gaze roamed down his body—shoulders to smirk at the towel and his hands. She let her lips curl with the final review of her appraisal. A pause, then:
“No, Harry. You are.”
He blinked, stunned. Then laughed that deep, throaty laugh—quick, surprised, maybe even impressed.
“Wait... you stalked me?”
She was already halfway through the door, but her voice reached him in a whiff of perfume—soft, sweet, a last kiss goodbye. “I did. I'm largely underwhelmed.”
“Offence largely taken—!”
But the door snapped shut with the crisp punctuation of a woman who’d just stolen back her power.
The hallway waited, quiet and cooled by central air and generational wealth. The marble underfoot gleamed. Her heels made the kind of sound that said: I finally belong here. Or at least—I dare you to say I don’t.
She walked with no urgency, each step a slow, delicious exhale. No alarms or shouting, chock-full with expensive silence that forgave indulgence.
At the elevator, she pressed the button. Waited. Tucked her hands into the silk-lined pockets of the fur coat, not out of cold, but because she liked the feel of the significance of it in her palm. That familiar shape—warm now against her skin.
The fucking emerald ring.
It was there. A flicker of green fire between her fingers. She wasn’t even sure when she'd slipped it off him. Maybe when he trusted her enough to fall asleep or when he was deep inside her, and her mind had gone static. Maybe it had just… found her. It was fate.
The elevator dinged.
Without missing a beat, she stepped inside. Her reflection caught in the gold-trimmed mirror: hair wild and haloed, eyes glowing with triumph from an utterly bare face. The hotel robe had vanished; now it was the satin slip, the coat, the heels. Chaos in elegance.
And there it was—on her finger.
A perfect, vulgar gleam. Standing there like a question mark that didn’t need answering.
The doors started to close.
But a hand blocked them. Big, firm, wet. A horny reminder of last night.
They hurtled open again—and there her once target was.
Still in the goddamn towel. Dripping. Curls unruly. A single drop of water slid down his chest like it was tracing a signature. Harry’s hand braced the elevator door open, wide and planted, and his breath came just a little too fast for a man who pretended he never chased.
They just stared at each other.
She raised a brow. “Forgot your goodbye monologue?”
His lips curled lazily. “Forgot to ask if you’re free tonight.”
That stopped her. Not the inquiry—he asked as if this were a boardroom, and she was a merger he didn’t want to lose.
Her grin betrayed itself gloriously—and she had to bite her lip to contain the whole thing. The emerald was warm between her fingers now, hidden in the fur lining of her coat. Poor little rich boy didn’t know she’d swiped the emerald off his finger while he was too busy trying to memorise the shape of her name on his tongue. It was already cooling against her skin like a private joke.
“I don’t do second showings,” she said, tilting her head. “I believe in leaving them wanting.”
“No sex,” he replied smoothly. “Just dinner. A civilised meal. Wine optional. Clothes preferred.”
She took a step forward. Her heels whispered across the carpet like a signature. Her palm landed gently on his cheek, thumb trailing down the line of his jaw like she was testing for flaws in the marble.
“Dinner,” she repeated. “While you stare at the cutlery to see what I pocket?”
His mouth twitched, not quite a smile. Those wondrous gears in his head turned where she could see them. “If it makes you feel better, sweetheart, I’ll buy the whole restaurant for one night. Want the chef? You can have them. Kitchen, too.”
She gave a soft snort. “Are you always this desperate to feed your dates?”
He smiled, unapologetic. “I like investing in volatile assets.”
Her eyes narrowed—amused. “And I like playing with over-leveraged men.”
He leaned in slightly, water glinting off his collarbone like jewellery. “Then this should be fun.”
She let her hand drop like a curtain call, but there was a hum beneath the restraint. “I’m not a return on investment.”
“Didn’t say I expected one.”
The elevator pinged—doors trying to slide shut again. He caught it reflexively, fingers splayed, blocking the sensors. He tilted his head knowingly, waiting for her.
She let a soft, exhilarated breath leave her. “Jesus, you’re persistent.”
“I’m intrigued.”
“Dangerous word.”
“Only if you’re worth the damage.” He thinned his eyes. “C'mon, try your luck a little more.”
That made her laugh—head tipped back, shoulders relaxed.
As the impatient elevator doors began to close again, she tapped the emerald glinting between her fingers against the rail once, a sharp clink, like a period at the end of a sentence. She let the metal sing.
A signature. A thief’s version of a calling card.
There was a fascination about them that felt depraved. Poetical. He knew the danger, and that she wasn’t just sharp around the edges—she was serrated. Unreliable. She was halfway to detonation, and still he lingered—like a man who’d light her twice, just to watch the world go up with her.
That was the thing about men like Harry Castillo. Chaos was their muse, especially when it walked like sin and smirked like it knew them.
The doors finally began to slide again with no interference.
“I'll find you, Eve,” Harry promised.
She blew him a kiss with two fingers, let her tongue click in pity. “Poor guy,” she whispered, turning her head the second before the elevator doors kissed closed.
QZ!Joel x Female Reader
7.6K Words/ 3rd POV
One-Shot
Masterpost
Summary: She was used to being invisible but being seen was nice. And Joel saw her. But he also belonged to Tess.
Warnings: Language. 18+ Minors DNI. Angst, Jealousy, Longing, Smut, PiV, Pull Out, Being a little rough, No use of Y/N
A/N: Part of my 1200 Follower prompts. A new reader for once! And who doesn't love deep yearning and jealousy.
Tommy had been the one to bring her on.
She had a knack for getting information and getting into hard places, dexterous and fast and quiet, and he thought she would be a good help to their group. She was able to overhear and get info without being noticed, in and out and hiding in the darkness. Tess the planner, Tommy the charmer, Joel the brawn, and her the shadow.
It had taken a while to ease into an already formed group, years honing their dynamic and leaving her on the outside. She was quiet, kept to herself, watched, very much the shadow they had brought her in to be. Observant but separate. It’s how she had survived for so long in the QZ.
Tommy tried to ease her in, get her to relax in that easy way he was able to. Made jokes, an arm slung around her shoulder, pulling her away from the corners of the room and smack in the middle with them with a, “C’mon, little ghost, you’re off duty.” It helped but Tess never quite had the same rapport as with the others, looking at her only for what she could bring to the table and not who she was as a person. The woman was logistical by nature. She weighed her worth and found her wanting.
And Joel…he was Joel. Gruff, blunt, looking at her under furrowed brows and crossed arms and communicating more in grunts than words. He was a guard dog, distrustful and quick to bite at whoever Tess pointed him to, half the time under the influence of whatever alcohol and pills they had smuggled. He didn’t play around and wanted things done his way, a stone splitting the stream and refusing to change ways.
She’d always been good at reading people and didn’t bother trying to win them over.
But there were perks to working with them. Ration cards became a little less scarce, the predatory gleam of eyes on her switched more to caution and wariness, and life got a little easier. She became known by association and that came with protection.
The ones that didn’t learn, that made comments or grabbed her arm when she ignored them, figured it out quickly. Tommy was fast to make it clear she was with them, ready to throw fists at the slightest comment and at her side like an angry older brother. She didn’t ask him to defend her, was used to scraping by with a knife she sharpened often and staying quick on her feet. But it was nice to have the support.
It was Joel that surprised her.
She had considered herself little priority in his mind, a stray his brother had brought home that he had to deal with. Inconsequential. But more often than not he would be there before she could blink, large hands pushing her behind him or those fists brutally squeezing the arm of whoever grabbed her. She was a shadow but he was a storm cloud, coming in swift and angry and growling at whoever bothered her that if they so much as looked at her again he would break their teeth in. Tommy was loud and sharp, but in those moments she could see why Joel was the guard dog.
He was terrifying.
It made it more baffling that he was guarding her.
His eyes, dark and angry, would flicker to her and look her over before grunting and guiding her wherever she needed to go with a hand on her lower back. Most of the time it was back to their apartment, even if she hadn’t meant to go there or was intending to go to her own place. Like he needed to keep an eye on her a little while longer.
Maybe it was just part of being in their group.
When she was too busy, she would come back to him being there, shoving food into her hands with the complaint that she was getting too skinny. If she hadn’t come by the apartment in a few days, Tommy would show up to check on her with a passing comment that Joel had made him. Any injury Joel was quick to push pain medication into her hands or ration cards would mysteriously get added to her wallet and he would grunt at her to take a few days off.
It was hard not to get attached to the Miller brothers. Their protectiveness, the way they cared out loud and secretly. How they didn’t downplay her strength and skills and trusted her to do what she could, but not without worry.
She was used to being invisible but being seen was nice.
But Joel belonged to Tess. It wasn’t ever said outright but it was in the way they moved around each other. A dance neither of them had to think about, the way their eyes found each other, Joel going to check on her first during scrapes and anytime they ran into infected outside the QZ. Sometimes when curfew was late and she couldn’t make it back to her place, she would crash at their apartment. Tommy would be passed out on the cot, having given her the couch, and she would try to ignore the pang when she noticed Tess and Joel go into the same room together.
It made sense, but left an ache of longing she thought she had pushed away.
Then Tommy joined the Fireflies and started to pull away.
She kept an eye on him, listened to the whispers and kept track of the Fireflies and FEDRA and made sure he was okay. When they were in the apartment, Joel and him would get into it, Tess chiming in but mostly silent as they argued about purpose and a better world. He tried to convince her once to join but she couldn’t make herself pretend that she cared about the grander scheme of things. FEDRA was a shitshow but it was more firm than the pipe dream the Fireflies believed in. Better the devil you know.
Tommy would show up at her door more often than not, sleeping on her couch if only because the fights with Joel were increasing. She didn’t argue with him, didn’t berate him for his choices, just became a silent comfort while he sulked. He went on runs less, the absence of him large in their four person dynamic.
And then he was gone.
She tried not to take his leaving personally, but it was hard not to. He was the tether between her and Tess and Joel, the one that made her feel like she wasn’t only an asset but that there was a bond between them. And he’d left, leaving her unmoored.
Joel withdrew more, Tess became sharper and more critical, snappier. Her work increased but never felt lonelier.
She couldn’t quite figure out her place anymore. The loss of Tommy almost felt like an end to her work with them, but there were still strings keeping her attached no matter how tight she tried to pull them loose. Joel became more protective somehow. Would find her on rooftops and tell her to go home and rest. Almost broke the jaw of a man at the bar who had grabbed her ass. Snapped at one of Robert’s men when he condescended to her during negotiations.
He had practically carried her and forced her to sit down when she slightly sprained her ankle navigating some of the city ruins during a run. The rain had made everything slick and she had lost her footing while scouting a pathway. It hadn’t even been a big deal but he’d notice the slight limp and picked her up before she could protest. Tess had rolled her eyes and went to look over their supplies while Joel had taken off her shoe, checking the limb meticulously while berating her under his breath for not being careful enough. He had even ripped the bottom of his shirt to use as a makeshift compression wrap, thumb rubbing soothing circles into her skin as he wrapped it around her.
“Don’t know what I’m gonna do with you,” he had muttered, the tone softer than she was expecting.
He’d forced her to stay back on the next run and she had felt useless, wondering if they saw her as a burden if she couldn’t do her one job.
Tess would stare at her sometimes, lips pressed together as if trying to decide if she was worth the help. It was never out of malice or hatred, but calculation. Like she was weighing the pros and cons of her presence now that Tommy wasn’t around to tip the scales. She was almost sure that Joel’s growing protectiveness weighed in, her guard dog getting distracted.
She doubted it. Joel was Tess’ first and foremost.
Yet more often, she was getting left behind. The excuse of her skills not being needed or that it was a quick job came about. Sometimes there wasn’t any excuse and they’d just be gone for days at a time.
She’d still get her split, still find ration cards in her wallet when left unattended or would feel Joel’s presence when she’d walk through the alleys where business was done. The echo of him everywhere.
She avoided staying over at what was now Joel and Tess’ apartment but couldn’t always. When she had no choice, she would lay there late at night on the couch and tried to ignore the rustling of fabric in the other room, the murmured voices and breaths. The apartment walls were paper thin and she could practically feel the low tenor of Joel’s whispers.
But they weren’t for her.
She wasn’t an idiot. She knew that somehow she had developed a crush on Joel no matter how rough and dangerous he was or the logic that he wasn’t interested. Some nights she wished it had been Tommy, how much easier it would have been with him instead of the unavailable older Miller. But she hadn’t felt that way with him. His touch didn’t burn every time he brushed her skin or breath shake when they were close together in the darkness, his hand pressed along her back as they waited for paths to clear.
Tommy had been cheerful and boyish even during dark times, but Joel had drawn her in with his salt and paper hair, furrowed eyes, and that look that screamed experience and being able to take care of her. She had never even cared about that before, being taken care of. Joel had a way of making you want his attention.
Maybe it was why Tess held onto him so tight. It must be intoxicating to have all that focus on you, lips brushing your skin and tilted in something other than a frown while calloused, worn hands held you. It was hard not to want that. To be seen. Years of quiet, of sticking to shadows and scrounging and surviving alone. No family, no friends, living on the outside.
It was safer that way. She couldn’t lose what she didn’t have.
Now she had lost that comfort. Tommy had left and she had never felt more alone even with Tess and Joel. Because they had each other and she was the outsider.
She was back to being a ghost. Maybe it was for the best.
It made sense then when another group asked her for help on a run. It was business, nothing more. She had a skillset that was in demand and it wouldn’t step on Tess’ interests, especially as she could see the woman still weighing her value and how often she was left behind. A simple run to supplement the work she was already doing.
The group was inexperienced and more than once one of the guys, Jason or Jared or something, tried to proposition her. But it wasn’t an awful couple of days and she felt a little more assured in her skill compared to them. Especially when she was the one that had to direct them when they almost got caught sneaking back into the QZ.
She got a break from Boston, a good share of the loot, and the feeling of being needed warm in her belly.
But she hadn’t made it more than halfway to her quiet lonely apartment before a large hand wrapped around her arm and dragged her to a different set of buildings. Fear didn’t flare as she knew exactly whose hands they were, could see the shape of him outlined in the cast off of the spotlights even as they traveled in the darkness to avoid FEDRA.
Joel had never handled her like that though. Anger and frustration radiated off of him with every step and when they got to his place he practically tossed her inside, locked the door, and stood there with his leg cocked and both hands on his hips, “Where the fuck have you been?”
“What the fuck, Joel?” she hissed back, teeth clenched as she looked at him with wide eyes, “You can’t just drag me here-”
“I’ve been looking all over the goddamn QZ for you only to hear you went on a job with fucking Carter?” he snarled, taking a step toward her.
She scoffed and shrugged, voice still raspy from being quiet though she had always been soft spoken, “Okay? Yes, I was on a job. What’s the big deal?”
He looked down like he was trying to collect himself, taking slow breaths though his jaw ticked and nostrils flared, “Carter is a fucking moron who is gonna get you killed. You didn’t even tell me, you simply took off-”
“I’m sorry, I wasn’t aware you were my keeper?” she snapped back, “Besides you and Tess take off plenty of times without telling me, but I guess it’s only okay when she says, right? God forbid I do anything without her approval.”
Joel frowned, eyes darkening with anger and a tinge of confusion, “The fuck you getting at?”
She was tired, dirty, and didn’t want to be arguing with him but couldn’t help the way her body tingled under his gaze. But there was so much bitterness under the surface, her mind on repeat reminding her that he wasn’t hers and was only mad because it would mean losing her as an asset, “Nothing, Miller, I’m going home.”
His hand gripped her arm when she tried to move passed him to the door, “The hell you are-”
“Why do you care?” she tried to shake her arm out of his hold but he held on tight, not letting her go so easily, “You both have made it perfectly clear you’re more than capable without me so I found a group that actually wants my help. What’s it matter to you?”
“It matters because I don’t trust them with you,” he snarled, stepping in so close they were almost chest to chest, “I don’t trust them to have your back or make sure you’re okay or not to fucking get you killed out there where I can’t fucking reach you.”
The air thickened as she looked up at him. She could almost count the growing number of silver hairs in his beard and trace the deepening wrinkles in his skin. Maybe once upon a time they had been laugh lines but life had worn him down, his lips more prone to frowning. And his eyes were burrowing into her, almost like he was tracing out the features of her own face in return.
It was the closest she had been to him in weeks. She forgot how big he was, how consuming his presence could be.
“So what?” she whispered shakily. So what if she went out alone, if she survived alone, if she got killed alone. It had no bearing on him.
Both of them were tightly wound with tension, waiting for the other to snap. Words behind clenched teeth and his fingers involuntarily rubbing into her skin, her heart pounding in her ears.
But instead a knock sounded at the door.
It sounded so far away in her mind but she could see the way he flinched at the sound, the tick in his jaw as he continued to stare until another round of knocks reverberated louder. Frustrated, he turned away with a snarl and dropped her arm, hastily unlocking the door and jerking it open with a hissed, “What?”
It was Margie from the first floor. They paid her occasionally to keep an eye on FEDRA, run to them with tips and make sure certain people weren’t snooping around. Eyes tired and wary, she glanced behind Joel then nervously stuttered, “It’s Tess. She needs you in the basement.” No further info. She whispered the words and scuttled away, disappearing into the dim hallway and down the stairs.
Joel huffed, shoulders slumped and fist clenched on the knob of the open door. The silence was oppressive, hot with anger and things left unsaid. Without turning around though, he grunted a rough, “We’re not done.”
Then he was out the door. Gone without further comment, racing to Tess the second she called him.
She tried not to let that bitterness spread, but it coated her mouth and beat along her skin as she stood in their apartment, traces of both of them everywhere she looked. He was at Tess’ beck and call and had left without even a look back.
Never had she felt more alone and unwanted.
She was gone by the time they came back.
Some days she regretted not going with Tommy. She missed the days of all of them in the living room, going over maps and Tess’ careful inventory, joking and passing a bottle of homebrewed whiskey around. Those days it was easier to not want to be wanted, to ignore the tingles when Joel would look at her and accept it wasn’t in the cards. She hated that ache of wanting him to want her in the same way he had Tess.
Want left you weak.
She couldn’t even hate the woman. Tess was Tess. Smart, capable, ruthless, both of them birds of a feather with years of history between them. They clicked, simple as that. Tess was cold, calculated fire and she was a shadow, unobtrusive and hidden away.
A ghost, Tommy liked to call her sometimes jokingly, a nickname that had stuck. Their little ghost.
Ghosts don’t get hurt, just existed on the edges of your peripheral. Held to the earth by want and longing. It fit. A ghost of a person with no ties, unnoticed and living in darkness. Invisible.
She kept to the roofs most nights, skittering from one to the next and listening to the sounds below. Navigating fire escapes, broken balconies, above but not a part of the workings of the city. Voices whispered secrets, yells behind walls, the rhythmic pattering of feet on patrol. She traded secrets for check-ins with the radio tower controller, info on Tommy and if he was safe. Traded hints of new FEDRA patrols to Fireflies and passed along info to barter for ammo or alcohol or stupid things like chocolate.
She didn’t see Joel or Tess for a while. They still went on runs, now without her entirely. Figured Tess’ list of cons now outweighed the pros. She knew because she followed them from up high, watching the quiet motion of Joel’s shoulders and the tension there. Sometimes he looked up and around as if scanning for her, but she folded that away as yearning and not fact. The reality was they had moved on without her like they had only been entertaining her presence because of Tommy.
It had been a silly crush, nothing more. A moment in time that was over.
The world shifted and she tried to go back to how it was before, but it wasn’t as easy as she had hoped. Like trying to fit back into a puzzle piece sized hole when she was no longer the right shape. And people around her were noticing the lack of a Miller sized shadow behind her.
Exchanges were tenser, more often than not taking more work or worse, a knife. More than once she had been jumped as if she was weaker on the ground than the rooftops. They were wrong but fighting multiple people wasn’t her strong suit. She was made to be fast, hard to catch. Strength wasn’t her job, it had been Joel’s, but she managed. Didn’t have a choice but to manage, nursing bruised fists and sore ribs alone in her apartment.
So she went back to runs. Sometimes with Carter’s group, sometimes with Lin across town, sometimes solo.
Every now and then she wondered if she should bother going back. If life outside the QZ would be easier for a ghost. But it would only be a thought before she’d go back to the walls and harsh reality of life post-Outbreak. A pity party. Her life was information and the infected didn’t have any use for that.
Then one day Carter fucked up and pissed off the wrong patrolmen.
Instead of looking away, they had been waiting at the wall. Most of them got caught on re-entry, Jared shot immediately and Carter hit so hard with the butt of a gun his teeth scattered across the ground. She had managed to slip away with two of the others, all of them taking off, but FEDRA was searching and it was taking everything to lose them.
Rain had started to pour, covering the pants of her breath but making scrabbling onto perches dangerous when tired. She was backtracking around the alley, trying to lose her tail when a hand wrapped around her mouth and dragged her into the shadows.
Nails digging in, she bucked and thrashed to try to break free even as she was easily picked up and pulled down a set of stairs and a door she hadn’t noticed. Once they were inside, the arm let her go and she spun with her blade out, angry and wet and calculating getting out of the new situation she had found herself in.
But even in the darkness of the room, she could tell it was Joel.
Joel angrily standing there in soaked flannel and dark curls plastered to his forehead and breathing hard in the damp basement they were in. His eyes were daggers as he moved, barricading the door with a dresser and turning on a small lamp on a slapped together end table.
It’d been weeks but the sight of him sent her heart into her throat, despite her anger and the adrenaline coursing through her from running.
“Sit down and take off your coat before you freeze to death. You’re soaked,” he ordered, pulling off his backpack and taking his own flannel off, leaving him in a worn gray shirt underneath.
“What is this, Joel?” She stayed standing, muscles locked and brow furrowed, knife gripped in her hand.
He turned to her with a glare, the dim light casting his face in harsh shadows, “It’s me saving your ass because you don’t listen to a goddamn thing I say. I told you not to work with him-”
“-if this is a lecture, I don’t need it,” she growled.
Joel stomped forward and before she could react, yanked the knife away and tossed it before pulling her backpack off roughly followed by her coat, “You almost got fucking killed back there, darling, so you don’t have any room to backtalk right now. Is that what you want? To get caught then hung up in the fucking square.” He jerked the fabric away with the last words, balling up the jacket and throwing it down angrily.
“Who fucking cares?” she shoved at him, hands pressed to his chest, needing room to breathe. His presence was suffocating, pressing in all around her and she needed air. Because it hurt to have him this close after weeks away and all the distance. “If I get caught it has nothing to do with you!”
He refused to back up, to concede ground, only gripping her wrists and yanking her closer despite how she tried to pull away, “That what you think? That no one gives a shit what happens to you?”
The word yes was on her tongue but wouldn’t leave her mouth as she fought against him. Because speaking it out loud was too much, a confirmation that yeah, she was alone. And it hurt.
But the smallest part of her, that hope she’d tried to snuff out, whispered from the darkness, “Then why was Joel in front of her and so angry?”
One of his hands brushed her cheek, so tender despite the anger radiating from him, before twisting through the damp strands of her hair. Joel pressed his lips together and shook his head, eyes almost black in the darkness, “What do I have to do to knock some sense into you? I dunno how someone can be so brilliant and so fucking dumb at the same time.”
She scoffed, flinching in indignation, but couldn’t get the biting words out before his lips were on hers devouring the sound.
A whimper left her unbidden, heart exploding, feeling the rough feel of his beard against her skin and the way his chapped lips sought hers out desperately. The hand in her hair was tugging her towards him, cradling her head, and she could only try to keep herself above the tide of him as he drowned her.
Joel was kissing her.
Had kissed her first, clawing at her and pulling her body tight against his. Her fingers flexed, gripping the fabric of his shirt as her mind struggled to catch up. But her body was moving before she could process what was happening, kissing him back like she was starving. His tongue licked at her lips and she gave in, letting him devour her whole.
They were moving, his feet maneuvering and guiding them until they sunk onto the dilapidated couch against the wall. He was above her and all around, small noises groaning into her mouth and fingers gripping her like she was his lifeline. It was feeling him pressed against her, hard even through jeans and his body between her thighs, that made her brain finally catch up.
She stopped, pulling away and breathing hard, looking at him like he had turned the whole world on its axis, “Wait.”
Joel stopped immediately, pulling back and checking on her, fingers pushing strands of her hair back behind her ear. His brow was furrowed but he seemed more worried about why she had stopped and the panic coating that one word, “You okay? What is it?”
All she could do was shake her head, breath starting to become almost frantic because what was this? An hour ago she had written Joel off, ready to let him go, then a few minutes ago he was dragging her and angry beyond belief, and now he was on top of her kissing her like she had dreamed. It was too fast, too much.
“I don't- you- what about Tess?” The words were clumsy, breathless, tumbling out incoherently.
He frowned and sat back, hand resting on her neck to stay touching her, “What? What about Tess?” She wanted to scream because what do you mean? Tess, who had been by his side every day. Who shared an apartment, a bed, with him. Who made it clear through actions that she held his leash and could direct him where she wanted.
Tess who she knew he fucked sometimes and had been with him for years.
“I- I can’t,” she was starting to back away, sitting up fully and looking around everywhere but him. Because it felt like getting everything she wanted but at the realization of how little she mattered in comparison. This was a moment of release to him, nothing more. She was stepping on someone else’s territory because Joel wasn’t hers, he wasn’t hers, he wasn’t hers.
Joel’s other hand came up though and held her cheek, keeping her from running, shushing her softly and trying to get her to look back at him, “Hey, hey, what’s going on? You’re fine, settle down.”
She was babbling, composure gone and everything she kept bottled up pouring over. It felt like being teased, a mouse on a string dangling in front of her and going to be ripped away at any second, “You…we can’t- You’re with Tess and I can’t-”
“Sh, sh, slow down,” he rubbed her arms up and down, working to get the chill out of the still damp skin, “I need you to breathe, baby.” He furrowed his brow and adjusted onto the couch, tugging her closer easily. He watched, taking in the way her eyes darted around the room and how even though she was half heartedly pulling away, her fingers clung to his shirt.
The patchwork of her words filled the silence and he shook his head, trying to piece it all together, “You think me and Tess are together? That what this is about?”
Sanity was slowly coming back and a scoff left her lips, bouncing in the space between them, “I’m not an idiot, Joel. You two- I’ve heard…the walls of the apartment are thin.”
At that he did wince, chewing on his lip and looking away.
Her throat felt tight, heart hammering, but she shrugged as if she hadn’t dreamed of having his hands on her and this wasn’t killing her, “I don’t know what’s going on between you two, but I’m not getting between it. I’m not just a quick fuck. I can’t do that.”
He turned back to her then, eyes hard, “Stop. Just…stop. I need you to sit there and listen.” Joel leaned an elbow onto the back of the couch and leaned in, fingers grasping her chin hard, “First things first, you are not a quick fuck. That ain’t what this is. It ain’t what I want.”
She tried to control the look on her face, shove everything behind walls and disappear, but he refused to let her, “Second, yeah, me and Tess have had sex. But that’s it.” It wasn’t new information but hearing him say it so bluntly twisted her stomach and made her want to back away, crawl into the shadows, get away from the way his eyes bore into her and watched every little reaction.
“Tess and I have been around each other for a long time. She knows me and I know her, but I don’t feel that way about her,” Joel tightened his grip on her chin, words brusque and laid out like fact, “We had needs, we took care of it. Either way, that’s in the past.”
Frowning, she looked at him in confusion, “What does that mean?”
“If you had stopped avoiding me,” he commented pointedly with a raised brow, “You would know Tess moved out a while back. We’d stopped having sex and she was seeing someone so she moved out to her own space.”
The words were a tanged mess in her brain. Tess had moved out, it had only been sex, she was seeing someone, “if you had stopped avoiding me.”
“I-” she swallowed, mouth dry, “I wasn’t avoiding you-”
“Darling,” he chuckled half from frustration, “You watch everything and everyone but sometimes you’re clueless. Cause you think that no one notices you. But I see you, no matter how much you try to disappear and act like no one can, just like a fucking ghost. I’ve always seen you though and I saw the moment you started pulling away.
“For a while I thought that maybe it was cause of Tommy. Maybe there was something going on there, but even before he left he was pushy about you and me. Would tease me about how I watched you. I tried to be there for you, deny whatever this is, but you hadn’t ever looked at Tommy the way you looked at me.”
I see you. And he had. He had always noticed the little things so she wasn’t sure why she was surprised he noticed the big ones. Like the fact he was right, she hadn’t ever looked at Tommy in the same way.
“I thought letting you go was the right move when you started to distance yourself, but hearing you do runs again, being reckless,” Joel grit his teeth and shut his eyes tight, “Drove me fucking insane. Would have killed Carter myself if you got hurt. Almost ripped into those FEDRA fucks when I saw yall get caught.”
“I can take care of myself,” she whispered, the smallest of protests as her fingers tightened on his shirt. A small act of defiance if only to keep her feet on the ground as he shook everything apart.
He chuckled and his hand left her chin to dive back into her hair, pulling her forward a bit, “I know you can. But you don’t have to. I’ll feel a whole lot better if I can be there to keep you safe myself cause you drive me up the goddamn wall.”
She wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry or try to wake up because Joel Miller was sitting in front of her and seeing her, choosing her.
So she kissed him, gripping him tightly and practically crawling into his lap to get as close as possible. His hands were equally tight in her hair, the delicious tug of the strands making her groan into his mouth as he yanked her close. They were fervent, pouring every tense moment into each other like the flood gates had been opened between them.
Joel wasn’t gentle and that was fine with her. Too many late nights had been spent imagining how he would feel, the way he liked to fuck and kiss and touch. Joel was not a soft person and she wanted to feel that directed at her. She didn’t want soft. So she took every bit he gave, letting him take over and his tongue explore every bit of her mouth, teeth biting on her lips and his hands bringing her down to grind onto him.
She could feel how big he was, slightly damp jeans doing nothing to disguise the hard press of him against her covered center. He held her like his touch was the only thing keeping her from disappearing back in the shadows, one hand constantly moving and squeezing, guiding her backwards until her back hit the cushions of the couch.
“You tell me to stop, I stop,” he whispered into her lips, hand finding its way under her shirt and exploring the soft expanse of her stomach. She wanted to tell him that stopping would destroy her, would break her into a thousand tiny bits, but she only raked her nails down his back and pulled him closer.
Her hands trembled at being able to explore him to her heart’s content. The warmth of his back and the way his muscles flexed under her fingertips, the trail of hair along his soft belly leading to his waistband, the strength of his biceps as he held himself above her. His calloused fingers found her breasts, flexing and squeezing and rolling her nipples causing her to almost whimper in return. Every touch was electricity and fire, endless and overwhelming.
She tugged at the bottom of his shirt and he practically ripped it off so he could resume kissing her, lips moving to bite and suck at the underside of her jaw. Her skin had been cold from the rain and he was like a heated blanket on top of her, warmth sinking in and leaving her panting.
They were frantic and clumsy, all teeth and moans as they struggled to unbutton jeans and discard shirts. She was usually so quiet but when his mouth wrapped around her nipple hard he had to cover her own with his hand as she cried out loudly, lifting her chest to press it closer to him. He kissed and sucked one then the other while his free hand slipped under the waistband of her underwear, finding her completely soaked for him.
“Fuck,” he whispered into her skin, forehead pressed to her sternum as his hand explored her slick folds and the way her hips chased his touch, “Fucking so wet for me already.”
“Joel,” she gasped as his thumb rubbed at her clit, the tip of a finger dipping into her slowly. It was almost embarrassing how good it felt, how easily she could topple over the edge already simply from the fact it was him touching her. He let out soft pants, curls ticking her chest as he looked down and concentrated on exploring her. They had kept their jeans mostly on, a reminder that this wasn’t their apartments and it wasn’t safe to be completely naked, the only thing keeping him from stripping her bare.
“I’ve got you, sweetheart,” he moaned, slowly pumping a single finger in and out of her, stretching her out, “Fuck, I can’t wait to take you back and have you fall apart on my tongue. Wanna taste you so bad.”
Her hips jerked at the thought, feeling him sink in deeper while his thumb kept up slow circles on her clit. “Yeah, you’d like that wouldn’t you,” Joel chuckled into her skin, teasingly biting at the underside of her breasts, “Gonna have that pretty little cunt cumming all over my mouth so hard you’ll listen to what I say for once.”
Her orgasm was a quickly rising wave, the sound of his voice whispering filth leaving her trembling as he added a second finger inside of her. They moved in and out, curling and stretching and hitting a spot her own fingers could never reach. She felt simultaneously full and like it wasn’t enough.
“Fuck fuck,” she gasped, squirming and holding onto his bare back as her legs trembled.
“That’s it, baby, give it to me,” Joel growled, speeding up and dragging her over the edge as her orgasm hit her so hard it left her breathless.
Stars were exploding behind her eyelids and sensation was overwhelming. The feel of his beard dragging deliciously as he kissed a trail up her neck, the callouses of his hands a contrast to the soft skin of her cunt, the way his belt dug into her thighs.
He was everywhere and yet it wasn’t enough. She wanted him inside of her, hot and filling. The feel of his naked torso against her own was intoxicating and even though he had said it wasn’t a quick fuck, one and done, she couldn’t imagine what it would be like to have him fully naked over her.
“I need you,” she mumbled against his lips and tugged at his hair, pushing him to sit back. He easily sat up, pulling her with him like she weighed nothing to settle with her knees on either side of him. Both were panting, breathing heavily between kisses, as she scrambled to shove her pants down and he did the same. It wasn’t graceful, the wet denim fighting and Joel getting distracted by the slick painting her inner thighs.
He let out a hiss and his head fell back against the couch as his cock was pulled free between them, thick and hard and weeping at the tip. Joel jerked when her thumb trailed through the bead of precum and slid along the underside to touch the pulsing vein there.
“Fuck,” he growled and ripped her hand away, pulling her close to hover above, “Later, baby. Right now I need to feel your pussy on it or it’s gonna be over too damn quick.”
She didn’t think she was one for dirty talk but his southern drawl and the gravel in his voice hit her low and hard. She wrapped her hand around him and slid his cock through the arousal pouring from her before slowly easing down onto him. He was fucking big, so big, and it burned to be stretched out after being alone for so long.
Joel let her take control, let her impale herself and go at her own pace, whispering, “Good girl, good fucking girl,” over and over again. His arm fully stretched along her back, bracing her and able to grip the back of her neck tightly. She had never whimpered or begged in her life, but feeling him holding onto her, groaning with muscles taut with restraint as he let her have control, made her want to beg him to fuck her so hard the memory of him would be imprinted on her skin.
The angle was breathtaking as she fully sank down, the patch of curls at his base rubbing against her clit and his cock so deep she wanted to cry at how perfect he was. They both moaned, looking down where they were joined and her stretched around him, as he murmured praise at how good she felt.
She moved slowly at first, rocking a little, hips instinctively canting to rub against him. His grip on the back of her neck was a steady presence, his other hand moving up and down her neck, pressing against the sides of her throat and making her slightly light headed. It was intoxicating, feeling him after wanting him for so long, the dig of his fingertips on her windpipe controlling her breath.
“That’s it, darling, you take what you need,” he grit his teeth, jaw clenched, rolling into the rhythm she was leading. Her nipples moved against the bare skin of his chest, sending twinges of pleasure coursing through her. Her moans were breathy, brow furrowed and she was drowning in how good it all was. It was like being consumed, those eyes in the darkness burning deep down into her. If this was all she got from him, she would die happily.
“Joel,” she cried, nails digging into his broad shoulders and biceps.
Everything she wanted was in the way his name broke from his lips and with it, his control. He kissed her hard enough she could almost taste blood from cracked lips and he pistoned up into her with a growl. It wasn’t slow or soft, almost brutal in the way he drove his cock up, punching the air from her lungs and splitting her open.
He kept her lips against his, tongue tasting the inside of her mouth and swallowing the screams that threatened to rip from her as he thrusted over and over again frantically chasing both of their orgasms. It was pain and pleasure and the sun exploding underneath her skin as he coaxed her release like it was the last thing on earth. It was all she had hoped for, dreamed of late at night, imagining how it would feel to be at his mercy.
Every nerve was set aflame and she clung to him desperately as she went over the edge, arousal coating their thighs as her orgasm barreled through her.
He whispered her through it, fucking into her as pleasure crested through her, and then cursed. His voice was a low rumble that hit deep in her before he easily lifted her off him, cock slapping against his stomach before he wrapped his own giant hand around himself and furiously worked himself to release.
She was slumped against him, dazed and watching as he gripped himself tightly, feeling the deep moan as he cummed over his fist and onto her stomach. Everything felt like it was floating, the warmth of his skin and release all over her and she couldn’t tell if it was sweat or the rain that clung to both of their hair and was dripping down their backs. They were sticky and hot and out of breath, but she had never felt better.
“Holy shit,” he groaned, blowing out a breath and pressing a kiss to her hair while wrapping his arms around her. She couldn’t properly form words yet, boneless and only able to nuzzle her nose into his neck.
She let herself drift in the silence, feeling him run fingers up and down her spine and the way both their breaths started to even out.
He kissed her temple again, whispering almost hesitantly in the calm, “You do runs with me. No more other groups, just me. And no more avoiding me or I’m going to drag all your shit to my place and lock you inside.”
A chuckle left her, putting him slightly at ease as if his command would throw the balance of them into disorder, “Bossy. You wouldn’t.”
Joel only smiled and tightened his hold on her, “Sweetheart, you have no idea what I would do for you. Don’t tempt me. Wouldn’t mind keeping ya all to myself.”
It was said jokingly but her heart sped up, hearing words she had hoped but never thought she would actually hear, “That so?” She pulled away to look at him, eyes connecting even in the dim lamp lighting up the darkness of the room they were stashed away in.
He didn’t say anything at first, cupping her face and thumb tracing over her bottom lip. His eyes swept over every bit of her face like he also couldn’t believe she was there with him. Slowly, he kissed her, breathing in her sigh and whispering almost with reverence back at her, “I see you. You’re not going to be able to get rid of me, baby.”
pairing: no outbreak!joel miller x college student f! reader
you fuck joel miller, austin’s fire chief, in your old room while your parents sleep down the hall.
tags/content warning: +18, mdni. f! reader. age gap. joel is 52, reader is 25. battalion chief joel miller. brief scene of attempted forced kissing (not by joel). reader wants that old man so bad. unprotected piv. creampie. wear protection please. dry humping. thigh riding. mouth covering during sex. oral f!receiving.
w/c: 9k
Hold the wide end of the cue stick with your dominant hand, palm facing up. Find the point where the stick balances, then shift your hand two or three centimeters back.
Form a circle with the thumb and index finger of your other hand.
You raise an eyebrow as you sip the espresso martini through a straw. Who knew pool could be this interesting?
Slide the cue stick through the circle and rest it over your middle finger. Set the outer edge of your hand on the pool table and—
Someone calls your name and you glance away from your phone, which is still open on a page titled “Pool for Dummies: First Steps,” just in time to catch the wide smile of one of your friends.
“Another round?” she asks, tilting her head toward your espresso martini. “Some guy just bought us drinks.”
Your glass is still half full, but you nod and agree, adding that the next one better come with a straw too. Free drinks are a no-brainer.
Once the waiter walks off with the order, your eyes drift again to the corner of the bar, to the pool tables surrounded by loud men downing tall mugs of frothy beer.
But you’re only watching one of them.
Your lips close around the straw again, and though your vision is slightly blurred at the edges, you stay locked in on the silver-haired man in his fifties, full beard and all, leaning against the wall with a cue stick in hand as he waits for his turn. He laughs at something his buddy says, and somehow, the drink tastes sweeter while you’re watching those broad shoulders under a plain black T-shirt and those strong thighs in faded dark jeans.
His turn.
He leans over the table, lines up the shot. His biceps flex, looking even bigger as he makes that typical forward-and-back motion before striking. His eyes are fixed on the red ball, until…
Suddenly, they’re on you.
Your stomach drops like you swallowed an ice cube. Still looking your way, brows slightly furrowed, he makes the shot. You don’t even have to follow the ball to know it sank clean.
His friend says something, and just like that, he looks away.
“Oh my God, stop flirting with the geriatrics,” your friend says, placing another espresso martini in front of you. “Adam wants to take you home. You know, the skinny blond guy…”
“The twenty-seven-year-old,” you say. “He’s a baby. And I bet he’s circumcised.”
“You’re twenty-five. What’s your beef with circumcised guys?”
You skip that question because there’s no polite way to explain your preference when it comes to pool cues.
“I like my men the way I like my cheese.”
“Old and stinky?”
“Aged!” you correct. “Y’all can keep your cheddar. I want my Gouda.”
Your table erupts in laughter.
It’s your oldest friend’s birthday tonight, and you all decided to celebrate her twenty-ninth at Miller’s Bar, run by Tommy, an old friend of your dad’s, and his wife, Maria. Luckily, your summer break from grad school lined up with her birthday, and coming back to Austin is always worth it for nights like this.
And it’s not hard to imagine the kind of attention a group of girls in short skirts, high boots, and crop tops draws inside a traditional Texas bar.
You’re halfway through your espresso martini on your next sip, and for some reason, that reminds your bladder it needs attention. You excuse yourself and get up, though no one really hears you, and head straight for the bathrooms in the back of the bar, tucked at the end of a dim, nicotine-reeking hallway, where the air clings to your skin and the walls are hung with fading paintings of bulls, cows and longhorns.
Your bathroom mission is quick, mostly because it’s way too dirty to linger. Pee, quick reflection while perched on the toilet seat (layered in toilet paper), a bit of lipstick, a quick hair touch-up.
The music from outside, a Dolly Parton classic, fills the bathroom as you open the door, and it only takes one step into the dark hallway for you to slam into a wall of concrete.
“Shit,” says the wall.
Strong hands catch your shoulders and push you back, and suddenly your face is being tilted up by firm fingers.
“You alright?”
Black T-shirt. Gray beard. You blink, looking up, and your stomach flips again. He’s even bigger up close.
“Oww,” you whisper dramatically, touching your temple. Showtime. Anything to keep his hands on you a little longer. “I think I’ve got a concussion.”
“Doubt it. Looks to me like you’ve had a few too many.”
“You sure? Here,” you grab his hand and place it on your forehead. “Do I have a fever? What if you gave me a concussion?”
“Your fault for not lookin’ where you were going.”
You squint up at him again. He pulls his hand away and only now do you realize just how big it is and how thick his fingers are.
He’s raising an eyebrow, but there’s a hint of amusement on his lips that pushes you to blurt your name, offer a handshake, and say:
“How about I buy you a drink as an apology?”
The smile dies. He ignores your hand, pats the top of your head twice, like you would a puppy, and sidesteps you, saying:
“Go find someone your age, kiddo. Plenty of boys in there’ll want you.”
“I don’t want someone my age!” you call out after his retreating back.
“Too damn bad.”
He steps into the men’s room, and you feel your shoulders slump with disappointment. Would a lower-cut top have helped?
“When you think like that, feminism goes back twenty years,” your friend says when you repeat that exact thought to her. “He’s supposed to like you for your personality.”
“I don’t want him to eat out my personality.”
He walks past your booth and heads back to the pool area, and your eyes eat him up again, but then Adam, the allegedly circumcised boy, and his crew show up, cramming into your booth and blocking your view.
It’s hard, but you resist the urge to roll your eyes and order another espresso martini instead.
At some point in the night, you get fed up with the boys and their dumb incel-tier jokes, so you decide to leave. Your friends ask if you want company walking home, but you decline, even though your legs feel a little wobbly as you stand. You pay your part of the bill, grab your thin wool jacket, and make your way to the bar’s exit while slipping it on.
There’s a chilly breeze outside that raises goosebumps on your arms, and you shift your weight from foot to foot, leaning slightly against the wall as you dial your dad’s number.
It rings ten times and goes to voicemail.
You try again.
Voicemail.
“I don’t sleep until you’re home,” you mutter mockingly, repeating what they always say. “Bet they’re deep in REM by now.”
You’re typing your home address into the Uber app when the bar door opens again. Your eyes meet his.
“Changed your mind?” you ask, trying to sound alluring.
He closes the door behind him and looks both ways down the empty sidewalk before turning back to you with indignation.
“What the hell are you doing out here alone? Where’re your friends?”
“They stayed.”
“And they just let you stand out here by yourself?”
You ignore him, already over this conversation, and hit enter on the app. The fare loads. Shit. Twenty bucks to get home? That’s ridiculous. And the nearest driver’s twenty minutes away.
“Where do you live?” he asks.
“I’m not telling you where I live, stalker,” you mutter, eyes still on your phone.
“Five minutes ago, you were trying to buy me a drink.”
“So? Telling you where I live is crossing a line.”
“I ain’t leaving you out here alone.”
“Hey,” you spin to face him and point a slightly shaky finger in his direction. “You’re not responsible for me. I can take care of myself.”
He stares at your red-polished finger, then at your face, then raises his hands in surrender and walks past you toward the bar’s parking lot in silence.
Fine. Gotta love a hot guy who thinks he owns the damn world. Most exhausting type.
Alone again, you refresh the app a few times, and on the third, the price jumps from twenty to twenty-five dollars.
“Noooo,” you groan, leaning your head back against the wall to stare at the stars. Could you walk home? No… way too dangerous. And your high-heeled boots were not made for that.
The bar door opens again. You don’t look up to see who it is, and you don’t need to, because ten seconds later, there’s a hand on your waist. You jerk away, startled, trying to shake off the touch, but the grip is strong.
“Hey there, baby girl,” Adam says, way too close. You can feel his booze-soaked breath. “I got your message.”
His blown pupils freak you out, but it’s the fact that you can’t break his grip that makes your heart spike. You’re trying, but your espresso martini-filled body is sluggish. His hands feel like steel clamps against your dull reflexes.
“What message?”
“You wanted me to follow you out.”
“No, I didn’t. I just wanna go home. Let go.”
You try again. He holds tighter. Now he’s pressing his hips against yours. You push him, but every one of those espresso martinis slows you down.
“No need to make this so hard, baby girl. I saw the way you were lookin’ at me.”
“Let me go!”
Bile creeps up your throat and you swallow it down just to gather enough air to scream—
“Hey, kid,” a deep voice growls to your left, and your body nearly buckles with relief when he, Mr. Difficult, steps into view. He looks pissed.
“You back off her or you’re heading back to college five teeth short.”
Adam stumbles backward immediately, fear plain on his face. Mr. Difficult gives you a short nod, and you rush to him in quick steps, heart racing, tucking yourself beneath his broad frame like it’s shelter from the storm.
“These cameras,” he says, pointing to the ones mounted on the bar’s exterior, “I’ll have those tomorrow. Sexual harassment? I hope you don’t have a scholarship.”
Adam starts to say something, probably begging not to be exposed, but you don’t hear it. You’re gripping the man’s forearm, and he’s guiding you toward a black pickup parked between the shiny little cars of the boys still inside the bar.
In silence, he opens the passenger door and waits for you to climb in: slow, one foot on the step, the other in, legs together, finally settled. Then he shuts it and walks around to the driver’s side. For a moment, you feel like Bella Swan hopping onto the back of that weird guy’s bike in New Moon.
He gets in, shuts the door, and takes a deep breath before saying so firmly you don’t even think to argue:
“Give me your address. I’m taking you home.”
Defeated, you tell him. Only then does he start the truck and pull out of the bar’s lot.
“You know that guy?”
“I know his name’s Adam, but I don’t know him. Don’t even know his last name. He’s a friend of a friend.”
“Goddamn criminal little punks,” he mutters, rolling up the windows and turning on the heat when he notices you’re trembling, even though the cold has little to do with it. “You alright?”
“I’m… yeah. I think so. Thanks for stepping in.”
He keeps driving, and you use the quiet moment to steady your breath and your hands. The streets of Austin are empty, ghostly, barely any cars out, and your mind wanders for a second. Maybe it’s time to finally sign up for that self-defense class your dad kept telling you to take back in Houston.
You wedge your hands between your thighs to warm them and settle into the seat. You pretend not to hear when Mr. Difficult’s phone rings and he answers:
“Miller,” he says flatly. Someone talks on the other end. “What the hell happened to Jesse? Tonight’s his shift, not mine.” More silence. Then Miller, his newly revealed last name, curses under his breath and snaps, “I’m on my way.”
He hangs up and makes a sudden, hard right, jostling your body and making your eyes go wide.
“Are you kidnapping me?!”
His frustrated sigh fills the cab.
“You’re way too damn annoying to be kept in captivity,” he grumbles, accelerating. “They need me at work and I can’t drop you off first. It’s urgent. You’ll wait for me.”
“I can call another Uber.”
“You ain’t calling an Uber drunk like that.”
“Why do you care?”
“Because,” Miller says through gritted teeth, eyes on the road, “it’s literally my job to protect dumbass civilians who walk themselves into danger. I swore an oath. Now zip it.”
Civilians? Swore an oath?
Five minutes later, you get your answer as the wide property of the Austin Fire Department fills your vision, the U.S. and Texas flags flapping hard in the night wind. Miller drives through the open gate and parks beside the building.
“Come with me.”
You follow, still dazed, clacking behind him in your high-heeled boots. He doesn’t check if you’re keeping up, just walks with long, fast strides, and when he reaches the covered part of the station, three mustached men in full gear look at him like he’s the second coming.
The rest of the crew is further back, checking one of the trucks. They’re all huge.
“Chief,” one of them says. Chief?
“We need you. We got a call on—”
“Where the hell is Jesse?!” Miller practically growls. The three of them look at each other, shrinking a bit despite all standing well over six feet. “He think he’s back in school? What if I’d been drinking tonight? You’d go on a call short-handed? Hell of a teammate, that one.”
You’re only noticed when Miller turns his head toward you and calls out again:
“Come on.”
You do, still quiet. The firefighters tear their eyes off him and look at you, and yep… there it is. Raised brows, head-to-toe glance, lingering a bit too long on your skirt, and an open flirt-ready expression.
Miller shuts that down real fast:
“Eyes off, punks. I’ll be down in two.”
You give them a sheepish smile, but what you really want to say is: Yeah! That’s right, punks! Eyes off!
With a little bounce in your step, like a kid who just got praised by the teacher for their stick-figure drawing, you follow Miller up the stairs, metal steps creaking beneath you both.
Upstairs, you find the firefighters’ break room: a big dining table, a flat-screen TV, leather couches, and a kitchen tucked in an attached nook. You glance away from the wall of photos just in time to catch Miller stepping into his bunker pants, still over his jeans, and pulling the suspenders over his shoulders.
Shameless, you watch the whole thing while having a revelation. Yeah, now you get why firefighters are in every cliché fantasy ever. If Miller climbed into your window wearing that gear, you’d one hundred percent say something ridiculous like, “Here to put out my fire, officer?”
Next comes the heavy coat, and you can already see the sweat forming along his hairline as he zips and buttons everything up.
“Wait here for me. There’s coffee, water…” he gestures vaguely around the room, clearly in a rush. “Bathroom, running water, all that. Won’t be long.”
Before you can say anything else, he grabs his helmet and gloves and jogs down the stairs, pulling the Nomex hood over his head as he goes.
Moments later, the siren roars through the station, and as it fades into the night, it becomes nothing more than a ghostly hum at the back of your mind.
You sit on the couch, staring at the white wall with your hands tucked between your thighs. A firefighter. The chief.
Have you accidentally wandered into one of those steamy books you secretly read before bed? Or are you still sitting on the toilet in that grimy bar bathroom, hallucinating on espresso martinis?
The TV’s on. The news is covering a convenience store fire, result of an electrical short. Flames rage against the dark Austin sky, the interior swallowed by orange heat, yellow police tape keeping the crowd away. Thankfully, the store was empty when it caught fire.
Firefighters are en route, the reporter says, visibly relieved, and you curl onto your side on the couch, hands folded beneath your cheek, watching the broadcast.
You blink a little slower this time, and then everything goes dark.
“Were you trying to flash your panties to everyone in here? Damn short skirt.”
That’s the first thing you hear when you come to, groggy, as something is gently draped over your legs. You crack one eye open to find Miller carefully placing a leather jacket that smells like men’s cologne across your thighs. Only then do you realize just how comfortable you’d been lying there, considering the length of your skirt.
He keeps adjusting the jacket until everything’s covered. There’s no judgment in it. No irritation that you passed out like that. Just care, obvious in the way he pulls and tugs at the edges without ever letting his fingers brush your skin. And that, somehow, disorients you more than if he’d called you a name or scolded you outright.
“You’re back,” you mumble.
He shoots you a sidelong glance. His cheeks are smudged with soot and ash, his hair sweaty and tousled. The jacket’s gone, his suspenders hanging loose by his hips.
“Yeah. Didn’t die.”
“Thank God,” you murmur, eyes falling shut again. “What a waste that would’ve been.”
He clicks his tongue, exasperated.
You hear footsteps moving away, and peek through one eye to see him heading toward one of the adjoining rooms, tugging off his soaked black T-shirt in the process. The sight of his broad back makes your mouth go dry, especially with the reminder of what that body does for a living. All that strength. All that control.
Before the thought can spiral, other firefighters filter into the room, looking just as worn out as Miller.
“You the chief’s new girl?” one of them asks in a low voice, clearly trying not to be heard by said chief. He looks suspiciously like Bradley Bradshaw from Top Gun.
“No. He doesn’t want me.”
That earns you a burst of chaos. Whistles and chuckles like a group of teenage boys, not grown men who just came back from a fire call. Someone at the back yells, “I do!” and you ignore it, because you don’t kiss babies. Not when there’s a fire chief with a back like that about to drive you home.
You sit up on the couch, keeping Miller’s jacket across your lap, and glance at the coffee carafe they’re passing around.
“Can I have some?” you ask, motioning toward it.
They scramble like it’s a competition: who’ll pour, who’ll carry it over, who’ll get that sweet little “thank you” you sing out.
“Alright, that’s enough,” Miller says as he reappears, now in a fresh T-shirt bearing the Austin Fire Department logo on the chest and a clean face to go with it. His silver hair is damp, slicked back. He points at you. “Up. Let’s go.”
You rush to finish your coffee, burning your tongue in the process, and set the cup down to join him, still holding his jacket.
“I don’t know who’s been in contact with Jesse, but tell him he’s off the rest of the week. Maybe a seven-day suspension will help him get his shit together.”
One of them steps forward. “Chief—”
“That’s not a request, Lieutenant, that’s a decision. You boys need to learn the weight of the oath we swore.”
Silence.
Miller’s voice sharpens. “Are we clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
Miller places a hand on your shoulder and guides you forward. You walk ahead of him, down the stairs and out to his truck in silence.
“Tell me your address again,” he says once you’re both seated, looking worn out.
“You’re the fire chief.”
“Battalion chief,” he corrects, starting the engine. “Address.”
You tell him. He starts to drive. You watch him for a few seconds, then say:
“That was hot. The way you chewed them out? Extremely hot.”
“What’s with your thing for older men?”
“I thought you’d never ask!” you exclaim, and Miller rolls his eyes. Still grinning, you explain, “It’s not a thing. I just prefer older guys because they actually know what they’re doing. It’s not a crime.”
“How old are you?”
“You gonna judge me?”
“Seriously?” Miller stops at a red light even though the streets are deserted. It’s well past three a.m. “You’ve said all kinds of crap tonight, and this is what you’re worried about being judged for?”
“Because then you won’t wanna kiss me.”
“I’m not gonna kiss you either way.”
“See? That’s discrimination.”
“You still drunk?”
You think about it. Your vision’s clear now, no blurs at the edges. That weird rush in your ears is gone. The coffee and the nap did wonders.
“I’m not,” you say, turning in your seat to face him. He glances at you from the corner of his eye, like he’s afraid to admit you’re even in the truck with him. Finally, you say, “Twenty-five.”
“I’m twenty-seven years older than you.”
The light turns green. He drives.
“That just sounds like motivation to me,” you say, watching the way his thumb tightens around the leather steering wheel for half a second, his only reaction. “Are you married? Dating? Secret vow of celibacy?”
He shakes his head. No to all.
“My women need to be at least forty. That’s my cutoff.”
“Totally fair. Women in their forties are delicious,” you say, giving him a thumbs-up. “But there’s always an exception, right?”
“No. Not with you.”
“Am I ugly?”
“You know damn well you’re not. Those boys at the station were practically undressing you with their eyes.”
A Cheshire cat smile spreads across your lips.
“You noticed? Look at you, paying attention,” you tease, but he doesn’t respond, and you know your limit. You stop pushing. “Okay. You don’t want me. Got it. I’ll stop.”
Silence. His forearms have so many veins. You bounce your leg, restless, and because you can’t shut up, you say:
“Thanks for taking care of our city, Chief.”
More silence. Then suddenly, unexpectedly, a deep laugh fills the space between you, and the sound makes you melt right into the seat.
“You’re really somethin’ else, sweetheart.”
“Oh God,” you groan. “You’re gonna make this harder if you call me sweetheart.”
“What’s the difference with older men, anyway?”
“Fishing for an ego boost?”
“Forget I asked.”
“No, no, wait, sorry,” you say quickly, folding one leg under you and straightening like you’re about to give a TED Talk. You’re not wasting this moment. “Okay, listen, I lost my virginity in college—”
Miller rubs a hand over his face. “Too much information.”
“—and it was awful!” you go on, like he didn’t interrupt. “I didn’t finish. I told him that, and he said it was normal. So I slept with another guy, and that sucked too. I tried to settle because I thought that’s just what straight-girl life was.”
Somewhere in the universal rules of womanhood, there’s probably a clause that says never trauma-dump on a man. No man is different. But now that your mouth is open, it won’t stop.
“So I went out with this guy.”
“A guy,” he repeats, leaning slightly to check the passenger-side mirror.
“I think he was forty-two at the time. Miller… was addictive.”
“I can already imagine why.”
“Mhm.”
“But that’s not a rule. Not every older guy knows how to do that.”
You resist the urge to ask if he’s talking about himself.
“Haven’t had any bad experiences yet.”
The car goes quiet for five more minutes. You recognize the avenue you’re on, which means you’re probably only ten minutes from home.
“Have you always been a battalion chief?”
“I transferred here four years ago. Before that, I was a commander in Seattle.”
“So that’s why I didn’t know you. When you came, I was still in college,” you say mostly to yourself. “Got it. You like it here?”
“I’m from here. Tommy’s my brother. I left for Seattle twenty years ago.”
“Tommy from the bar?!”
“Tommy from the bar,” he confirms.
Mouth falling open, you lean back in your seat. Makes sense. His last name is Miller.
“Wow. Tommy’s friends with my parents,” you process the information bit by bit. “You’re Joel.”
“Mhm.”
“Joel Miller.”
“Yes.”
“I remember he used to talk about you all the time when he came over,” you say, because it’s true. Everything was Joel. Apparently, Joel had been his savior when they were kids. “He must be happy you’re back… and as battalion chief, no less.”
It’s subtle, but the line between Joel’s brows eases just a little when you say that last part. Other than that, he doesn’t react much.
“Family’s family,” he replies simply.
You reach your parents’ street and direct him to the house. Joel parks in front of it, and you notice all the lights are off, the windows dark. The porch light is on, and you know the key’s tucked inside the lilac flower pot.
You unbuckle your seatbelt as you say,
“Thank you so much for the ride. I’m sorry if I pushed too much and made you uncomfortable.”
You open the door to get out. Joel says,
“Close that door.”
Your hand freezes on the latch. Joel’s pinching the bridge of his nose, eyes down. After a beat, you shut the door and sit back in your seat.
The console light dims.
You give him a moment because he looks like he’s wrestling half a dozen battles inside his own head.
“You didn’t make me uncomfortable,” he says quietly, rubbing his hands against his jeans. “I just don’t think I’m what you really want.”
“I think I’ve made it pretty damn clear you’re exactly my type.”
“Sweetheart, no offense, but this feels more like some drunk little adventure you’ll laugh about with your girlfriends tomorrow.”
If there was even a drop of alcohol left in your system, that sentence burns it out.
“Just because you’re older?” you ask, trying to keep your voice level. “Come on, Joel. That’s crap. Yeah, we’ve got a big age gap. But I told you what I like and why I like it.”
“Because you wanna be the wild friend?”
Your eyes go wide in disbelief. Your cheeks flare with anger, and you decide you’ve had enough. You reach for the door again, and the next second, a large hand covers yours and pulls it closed.
“Okay,” you murmur, still staring at his hand on top of yours, frozen. “Now I actually think you’re gonna kidnap me.”
“Shit,” he mutters, and he’s way too close. “Sorry. If you wanna get out, you can. I just… I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to offend you.”
“So what’s this whole speech for, then?” you turn your face toward him, and now you’re only inches apart, since he leaned over to shut the door. “You don’t want me. I get it. I’m a big girl. I don’t need a speech.”
Joel looks from you to your house, scanning the darkened façade, probably noting the lights all off. When his eyes return to yours, there’s a new kind of resolve etched into his face.
“It’s gotta stay secret,” he says. No wiggle room.
Your breath starts coming just a little heavier.
“I won’t tell a soul,” you promise immediately.
“Not even your friends.”
“What’s the big fear?” you ask, half-teasing, though there’s a flicker of real curiosity beneath it. “You married?”
“Hell no. I’m just the brother of the guy who’s friends with your dad, and I guarantee he wouldn’t want some fifty-year-old sniffing around his little girl.”
“I’m twenty-five,” you repeat, but your voice wavers a bit as Joel leans closer. “It’s not up to my dad who I get involved with.”
“Good for you,” he says, like he couldn’t care less, his hand coming up to cradle the side of your neck. “Still damn young.”
“And yet, I’m gonna be your exception.”
He squints, confused, until it clicks.
“Oh. Right. The first twenty in my rulebook.”
You lean in, ready to kiss him, but Joel holds you still with his hand at your neck, like he’s waiting for something.
You say what he needs to hear:
“Won’t breathe a word about what you do with a younger girl in front of her house.”
“Good. That stays between me and God.”
He pulls you in, and the second your lips meet, you’re gone, falling into that familiar place you’ve always adored with older men.
Your brain short-circuits and Joel takes the lead in everything. His hand moves from your neck to the base of your skull, tugging you deeper, and he’s the one to part his lips, the one to tilt just right so your mouths fit like it’s a damn movie scene.
Your fingers slide into his hair, thick strands slipping between them, as you sink further into the seat. He follows, body hovering over yours. The moan that escapes your throat when his tongue brushes the seam of your lips is honest. The one that comes when he finally kisses you with tongue, though just as real, is so drawn out it makes your cheeks burn with the fear he might think you’re faking.
God. That kiss.
“It’s a crime to keep that kind of kiss from me,” you whisper breathless, chest rising and falling in quick bursts. Joel kisses your bottom lip, your jaw, drags his mouth down your neck. The ceiling of the truck blurs as he finds your collarbones, and you arch into him to give him more room. “Joel—”
His tongue meets the skin of your chest and you thank every higher power that your neckline’s just deep enough for him to reach the dip between your breasts. The ache between your thighs tightens, that telltale pulse of being soaked hitting you all at once.
“More,” you whisper, tugging his hair, just enough to let him know you want another kiss.
He gives it to you. One hand on your waist, the other on your neck, he kisses you again, and this one’s filthy from the first second, now that you both know exactly how to move together. You press harder into his hands.
“You can’t be this polite,” you murmur. “Aren’t you gonna slip your hand under my skirt?”
“Boundaries,” he whispers, eyes fluttering shut when you trail kisses along his jaw, rough with beard stubble. There’s still a faint trace of sweat and smoke from the earlier call, and you should probably care about that, but you don’t.
“No way you’ve got boundaries still holding steady in that brain,” you say. You watch his face up close as you take his hand and guide it down from your waist to your thigh. He opens his eyes at the heat of your skin and keeps them on you as you lead his hand higher, higher… right to the hem of your skirt. You pause. Ask: “Can I?”
He swallows hard.
He’s the one who moves now, sliding his hand beneath your skirt, grabbing a handful of your ass and squeezing like he means it, hard enough to make you giggle. His fingers find the lace of your panties where it sits snug between your cheeks.
“No one’s out here,” you murmur. Your hand finds the thick bulge in his jeans, and you raise your brows at him. “Can I make you come?” you ask, giving just the faintest stroke, enough pressure to make the denim feel good, not rough. “Please. Want me to take my panties off while I touch you?”
Joel clenches his jaw. Moves his hand from your ass to the front of your panties, cupping your pussy fully, probably feeling the heat radiating for him. You spread your legs as much as the car seat allows, giving him space to explore, all while trying to slip your hand inside his jeans to—
“No,” he breathes, shaking his head like the effort to say it physically hurts. You pull your hand away instantly at his no, but raise an eyebrow, waiting for more. “No. Not here. I’m not about to come in my jeans like a goddamn teenager.”
He pulls his hand back from between your legs, taking a steadying breath.
“Not here,” says again.
God. You could cry.
“Okay,” you say instead because you’re an adult and you respect a no. “Alright. Okay.”
“Go on. Get inside.”
But before you do, you raise a finger.
“Can I suggest something?”
You’re not quite sure how you manage to convince him, though that alone would be something worth bragging about, but somehow, you do. You talk Joel into parking a little farther down the street, just to be safe, and into sneaking in with you through the back door, because the front one’s too damn noisy.
Your fingers wrap around his wrist as you guide him through your dark house. A stop in the kitchen for a glass of water. A pause in the living room to make sure no one’s there. Then the stairs. One step at a time, silent. His brown eyes find yours every time you glance back.
And then Joel Miller is in your bedroom and you’re locking the door.
With his hands on his hips, he looks around: at the old band posters from when you were eighteen and just starting college, at the lilac bedsheets covering your mattress. The curtains are cracked open, letting in the pale glow of the moon and the streetlights outside, casting his silhouette in silver while you kick off your boots and socks and toss them aside.
“Prove to me you’re not drunk,” he says low.
“You want me to do a four?”
He keeps staring. You roll your eyes but do it anyway, lifting your right leg and crossing it over your left thigh, making the shape of a four with your legs.
“You’re so old,” you mutter, reaching ten in the count. “I already told you I’m not drunk. You know that perfect little buzz? That’s all I’ve got.”
“Enough to not regret this in the morning?”
“Regret you? Only if I were out of my mind.”
The plush carpet cushions your sore feet as you walk toward the bed. He just watches you. Watches as you climb onto the mattress, toss the pillows to the floor, and lie back on your elbows, looking straight at him.
One raised brow. A wordless well?
Joel looks up at the ceiling, like he’s saying a silent prayer, then bends down to remove his boots.
“You think you can stay quiet?” he asks, stepping closer. He mutters, “Refuse to come in my jeans like a damn teenager, but here I am sneaking into your house like one.”
Joel stands at the foot of your bed. You smile at him, about to unbutton your skirt, but he’s faster. His hands slip under the fabric, tugging your panties down your legs and tossing them aside.
You realize what he’s about to do when he plants one knee on the bed and starts lowering his head between your legs, but you stop him with your foot against his chest.
“You don’t have to,” you say quickly. You’ve been out all night with your friends. Sure, you showered before leaving, but still… it’s been hours. “It’s okay, I don’t need—”
“I do. I want to,” he murmurs, and the way he brushes your foot aside like it weighs nothing sends a wave of heat down your spine. Now both hands are on your thighs, spreading them gently. “Unless you don’t want me to.”
He waits for a sign to stop. You don’t give it.
A smile curls his lips.
“Yeah. Stay quiet and let me enjoy it.”
The hands that were holding your thighs now push your skirt up, the leather bunching around your hips. Then Joel’s large frame lowers, and his mouth finds you.
Your head falls back as his warm tongue slips between your folds with torturous precision, the sound of his spit mixing with your slick making your stomach tighten, and you have to practically bite down on your bottom lip not to moan. He grabs your hips, pulls you toward his mouth, and my God… he really wanted this.
Joel seems to be patiently gathering every drop of your arousal with his tongue, like he’s not in any rush, not until he’s good and ready to start licking your clit, his lips closing around it and sucking, slow and steady.
A moan nearly slips out, but you manage to turn it into a shaky exhale.
Your leg gives a little and you can’t hold yourself up on your elbows anymore, so you lie all the way back, legs splayed around his broad shoulders.
You glance to the side, clutching the sheets beneath you as you start, slowly, to ride his face. The mirror on your vanity catches everything, still cluttered with makeup you’d used while getting ready, and now it reflects the way Joel’s body covers yours, one foot still on the floor, your skirt bunched up, the outline of him pressing hard inside his jeans. You lower your right leg and catch a glimpse of his jaw working as he eats you out, desperate, beard slick with your arousal.
“Good?” you ask sweetly, fingers threading through his silver-streaked hair as your eyes meet. He can’t answer with words, but his eyes speak volumes, and he definitely grips you harder when you teasingly say: “You fifty-somethings really know how to eat pussy.”
Joel’s no exception.
You only pull him up because you want to kiss him again and because you obviously want him out of that fire department t-shirt. He peels it off, revealing a broad chest covered in dark hair that radiates strength.
Joel helps you slide your skirt off, and your mouths meet as you wrap your legs around his hips.
“I probably smell like smoke,” he murmurs.
“Just a little. More like sweat. And it’s delicious.”
Another smile. He’s on a roll.
“You’re insane,” he mutters, lowering his hips. The friction of his cock, denim-rough, grinding against your clit makes you whimper. He catches it. “Feel good?”
You nod. Joel watches you, then dips his hips again, and the seam of his jeans hits just right. You nearly come undone.
“Again,” you whisper.
He listens. Joel makes sure not to hurt you with the zipper, but grinds down hard enough, at just the right angle, to knock the air from your lungs. Your clit throbs under the pressure, the rough rub of the denim, and the solid heat of his cock beneath it only makes it more intense.
He licks two fingers and drags them between your legs just to give you a little extra slick, enough to keep it from turning raw, and keeps rocking into you. You hadn’t planned to come, but you also can’t stop it, not when that feeling keeps rising, rising, until—
It bursts, a sweet sharp rush that spreads from between your legs through every inch of you, and Joel keeps it going, those slow, steady grinds that don’t overwhelm but won’t let the afterglow slip away either.
You place a hand on the waistband of his jeans, gently stopping him.
“You need to fuck me. Now.”
“Urgent?”
“Mhm. So I can come again.”
“You’re so damn direct,” he mutters, clearly amused. Then he leans over and says, “Arms up.”
You obey. He takes off your top, and it’s you who unhooks your bra, now completely naked. Joel watches as he strips off his jeans and boxers, and when he’s bare, you prop yourself up on your elbows to look.
Thank you, God. Uncut.
You look up at him.
“Come here.”
Joel climbs onto your bed, his knees sinking into the soft lilac sheets, and settles between your thighs. Together, you shift higher up the bed until your head rests on the lone pillow left on the mattress.
“Might come too fast,” he warns, and you believe him by the way his cock is rock hard as he guides it to your entrance.
“I don’t mind.”
“Sure you don’t. You’re an expert in old men.”
The head of his cock pushes in with a wet sound that shuts your mouth. You bring your fingers down between your legs, starting to touch yourself again in slow, careful circles as Joel eases into you. He’s gentle, taking his time, eating you up with his eyes, and once he’s fully inside, his body covers yours.
You feel the soft press of his belly against yours, the hair brushing your skin, the weight of him, and it’s enough to stir you back up. Joel draws his hips back and fucks you, and the sound that escapes your mouth is nearly inhuman. Your eyes fly open, meeting Joel’s startled ones, and before either of you can react, his big hand covers your mouth.
“Quiet,” he says, then thrusts again.
You grip his wrist with both hands and wrap your legs around his hips, taking the rough, perfect rhythm of his thrusts — thankfully quiet, the bed doesn’t creak — as his thick cock drives deep into you, raw and goddamn delicious. Joel presses his hand firmer against your mouth to muffle you and clenches his jaw. The trimmed hair at his groin drags over your clit with every thrust, his balls slapping against your ass, and your eyes squeeze shut. You don’t even have the strength to keep touching yourself.
Joel goes again, once, twice, three times.
“Fuck,” Joel breathes, voice rough and shocked, sweat trickling down his neck. You feel a pulse inside you and then a warm rush spreading. “Fuck, fuck… I was supposed to pull out and—”
“It’s fine. Really,” because it is. You’ve never understood the drama around guys coming too fast. To you, it’s a compliment, as long as you’re properly taken care of. You repeat it, not wanting the afterglow to turn tense for him. “It’s okay.”
You pull him close and press a soft kiss to his lips, your fingers running through the softer strands at the nape of his neck.
“I had a vasectomy,” he confesses suddenly, lips still against yours, like the thought just occurred to him and he needed to reassure you.
“Great. I’ve got an IUD. Though we probably should’ve talked about this before, huh?” your hands slide down his sweaty shoulders. “Think you can get hard again?”
“Give me a minute.”
“Okay. Pull out.”
Joel shifts back, kneeling between your legs and wrapping his hand around the base of his cock as he slips out of you. You watch his softening length, slick with both of you, and wonder for a second why the hell you like that image so much. And even more… why the feeling of him dripping out of you turns you on.
“Sit there,” you tell him, nodding toward the headboard.
Silently, like a good student, he does exactly what you asked, leaning back against the headboard, his cock now fully soft resting on his thigh.
You crawl over on your knees, slipping between his legs to straddle his right thigh that feels solid under you, the thick hair tickling the insides of your thighs.
“How sensitive are you right now?” you ask, dragging a finger slowly along his cock, the head still tucked away. Joel jerks his hips back, pulling away from the touch. You lift your hand and arch a brow. “Okay. Got it. Very. I could try sucking you hard again.”
“Suck a soft dick?”
“Why not? I wouldn’t mind.”
“Alright. But I wouldn’t feel right about it.”
You rest your arms on his shoulders and lean in. “Okay. I respect that.”
Joel gives you that look, the one older people always get when they’re a little impatient with your ideas or mouth, but you know it’s not about you. He seems like the kind of man who grumbles about everything. Besides, the impatience doesn’t match the way his hands move across your back, soft and slow, up and down.
You say, “I was gonna learn pool just so I could play with you tonight.”
“Yeah? You learn anything?”
You pull back just enough to lift your hands. With your left, you pretend to grip a cue, and with your right, your thumb and index finger make a ring.
“Now I know how to hold a pool stick.”
Joel’s lips tug into a half-smile.
“You’re left-handed,” he notes, and you lower your hands again, nodding. His grip returns to your hips. “Well done. You should’ve come, by the way. I might’ve let you win.”
“You’d never let me win.”
“I’m softer than I look. And,” he cuts himself off when he notices your smirk, “if you make a joke about my soft dick, I swear I’ll have your name on a wanted poster by tomorrow.”
“I don’t get why it bugs you so much. Come on.”
You say that just before leaning in to press your lips to the pulse at his neck. Joel tilts his head slightly, giving you space, and you pepper kisses there, then across his shoulder. You press your chest to his, and his hands grip you tighter.
“Bet the single women in this town chase you down,” you murmur, arms around his neck. “And… the married ones too?”
“No comment.”
“Austin’s most wanted bachelor.”
“The divorcé,” he corrects.
Oh? You pull your mouth away from his neck.
“How long?”
“Five years.”
“Good. Tomb’s been sealed.”
He laughs against your mouth when you kiss him, but soon cups your face to kiss you properly, exactly the way you’re asking, even if you’re not saying a word. His kisses are so addictive, it’s strange to you. There’s something about Joel that turns a kiss into full-body contact. He kisses and touches you, strokes your cheek, your back, pays attention to what you need.
And he reads you well, because his hand slips between your legs.
“Lift up a little,” he says, and you rise onto your knees, no longer sitting on his thigh. His fingers slide between your folds, gathering the slick there. Joel lets out a low grunt, and you watch the way his cock gives a tiny twitch. “Let me eat you out again.”
Ah. Yes. But actually…
“Can I try something else?” you ask.
That’s how Joel, with lips slightly parted, ends up watching as you settle back down on his thigh, right over the thickest part, your legs spread wide.
You almost feel shy the first time you grind up against his thigh with his eyes on you. Your whole body shivers, breath catching in your throat, and you steady yourself with your hands on him. You’re so wet, from yourself and from him, that the movement is easy. Heavenly. The hair on his thigh adds just the right amount of friction on your clit, and it nearly sends you reeling.
“You like that?” he asks, genuinely curious, and you, dry-mouthed, nod your head. You grind again. Whimper.
“Been neglecting this pussy, huh?”
You shake your head. Joel touches your body, running his hands along your sides, gripping your waist. The next time you grind down, he helps, his biceps flexing, guiding your rhythm. Forward. Back. The muscle of his thigh tensing under you, his skin slick with your wetness.
He watches you, sees how close you are and how hard you’re biting your lip to keep quiet. Immediately, his thumb presses to your bottom lip, freeing it from your teeth, and he slips it into your mouth. You meet his gaze as you suck it in, hands clutching his arm, hips faltering in the next few rolls.
When you come, Joel lays you back on the bed, spreads your legs, and slides back inside. He’s not fully hard, but it doesn’t matter because he fits, thick and slow, and the way he stretches you prolongs your orgasm so sweetly it nearly breaks you apart.
You feel him stiffening more with each thrust, and as he grows harder, he goes deeper.
“Fucking perfect,” he breathes into your ear, biting your neck. “You’re driving me outta my mind.”
Your smile wavers when, after a few more thrusts, he slips out and lies beside you, then shifts you onto your side and pulls you back against his chest. He drapes an arm over your chest, grips your thigh with the other, lifts it over his hip, and slides into you again. His movements pin you, keeping you from doing anything but taking it when his fingers find your clit again, even oversensitive as it is.
Your whole body shakes.
“Joel—”
“Come on, baby. I know you’ve got one more in you.”
You try to jerk your hips away from his fingers as he rubs harder, faster, but there’s nowhere to go, and Joel doesn’t relent. He holds your thigh, keeps you open for him, slowing his thrusts just enough to drag it out. You grab the arm draped over your chest, twist your hips, and it’s almost too much.
Almost.
Because right before it crosses the line, you come. And then you go limp.
“Can I keep going?” he asks. “Want me to pull out?”
“No. Just… stay off my clit.”
The kiss he presses to your damp temple sounds like an “okay.”
You reach back, fingers slipping into the sweat-damp strands of his hair, and feel his ragged breaths against your neck as he keeps moving inside you. His next orgasm takes longer, but somehow it still only lasts a few seconds, and leaves you leaking all over again.
When it’s over, your ears are ringing, his body is hot behind you, and your heart won’t stop pounding.
Goddamn.
Thanks for your service, Chief.
You can’t stop staring at the top-left corner of the peach pie.
It’s not broken, exactly. The crust in that corner just sank a little lower than the rest, and it’s driving you nuts. You rotate the pie dish so the pristine edge faces front, hiding the flaw.
“Pie?” you offer with a smile as sweet as the amarena syrup your mom made, holding out a slice to the father and two sons approaching your stand.
Today is the neighborhood charity fair where your parents live. It happens every six months in the town square and has been around for maybe a decade. The goal is to raise funds for local nonprofits. Neighbors donate pies, sandwiches, roasted meats, inflatable toys for the kids. The whole thing.
When you were fifteen and a painfully annoying teenager, you thought wearing an apron and handing out pie was humiliating. Ugh, mom. Charity is soooo lame.
Ten years later, here you are: uneasy, borderline neurotic because the crust of the pie you helped bake has a deformed corner.
The father and sons leave with their slices in little styrofoam containers and colorful forks. You glance around.
Your mom is helping out at one of the roast beef sandwich booths since someone called in sick last night. Your dad’s at his own stand, trying to sell fishing gear, though bamboo hooks don’t exactly draw crowds.
Farther down the square, you spot the fire truck. Your heart does a little skip, part nerves, part excitement. The fire department’s on site for safety, at least for the first couple hours. But you haven’t seen Joel yet.
“Any pie here sweeter than you?”
You turn toward the front of your booth and find the fireman who looks like a knockoff Bradley Bradshaw. He’s wearing an Austin Fire Department tee, aviator shades, and a grin that’s way too… youthful.
Still, you smile back.
“Definitely. I’m pretty sure the pie also knows the number for the AFD’s misconduct hotline.”
“Kidding.”
“And because of that joke,” you say, grabbing three styrofoam containers, “you’re buying three slices to support the cause.”
He doesn’t even protest. Quietly, he waits as you cut the slices and hands you the money. You thank him with a sugar-sweet smile and a blown kiss.
Once he walks away, your eyes sweep the square again. Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.
And there’s the fire, staring at you from across the plaza, arms crossed under the shade of a tree. Joel’s in the same black Austin Fire Department tee, and you see his eyes dip briefly to read the name stitched onto your pink apron.
The Sweetest Bite.
That barely-there smile curves his lips.
You grab a styrofoam plate, cut a generous slice of pie, and pull five bucks from the back pocket of your denim shorts, dropping the bill into the flower-covered tip jar your mom set up.
Then you toss the apron onto the counter and ask your dad to watch the stand for a few minutes.
Joel doesn’t even see you approaching. He’s surrounded by three women asking what it’s like “to be responsible for a city like Austin.”
“Such a hard-working man,” you say, slipping in between two of them to hold out the pie. “Fresh, warm cream pie. A little thank-you for protecting the city.”
Joel looks from the pie to you. Your smile grows even sweeter. When he takes it, the women scatter.
“You got an endless supply of short shorts like that?” he asks, not even pretending to start eating. His eyes stay on the pie. “Cream pie.”
“My favorite,” you reply. And, about the shorts: “It’s summer in Texas.”
“Right,” he says to both.
You glance around. No one’s near. One of the other firefighters is tossing rings at a carnival booth.
“You should come to the barbecue at my place after the fair. Tommy’s going and I can ask him to invite you.”
“I’m not going’ to your house.”
“Why not?”
“I’m not buddying up to your parents. You’re out of your mind?”
“I don’t want you to be friends with them. I want you to sneak up to my room when no one’s looking.”
“No,” he says flatly, like the conversation’s over.
A few hours later, that victorious little grin creeps across your lips as you see Tommy walk through the back gate of your house.
And right beside him, carrying a cooler of beer, is Joel Miller.
Hi my love! Just wanted to say that I adore your writing soo much, I always refresh your blog hoping for something new! I’m the biggest fan of your caged in silk series and was just wondering if you’re going to continue writing it? If so I was hoping to ask maybe for you to sprinkle some angst and feelings and fluff a little bit in the next chapter, or if there’s anyway feelings are getting involved or something like that?
Anyway, I hope you have an amazing weekend! 💋
hello anon! thank you for your kind words ❤️
i will continue writing more chapters for caged in silk. and right now i don't have any intentions of ending the series anytime soon 🌼 i can't exactly tell the time of an update. could be a few days or even weeks, because i'm busy with college right now. but i'll try and make time!
as for our dear three brothers and their feelings for reader; they do exist and shall make their way out soon 🤗
pairings ➝ dark!joel miller x dark!javier peña x dark!marcus acacius x female!reader
summary ➝ the three men finally use you at the same time.
warnings ➝ dark!fic, explicit smut, stockholm syndrome, gangbang (3 on 1), triple penetration (mouth, pussy, ass), rough sex, unprotected vaginal and anal sex, blowjob, creampie, mean!marcus, submissive!reader, deepthroat, breeding kink, breast and nipple play, praise, degradation, pet names, daddy kink, sir kink, explicit language, dirty talk, 18+, MINORS: DO NOT INTERACT.
word count ➝ 5.207
author's note ➝ hello! finally i wrote an update. i'm sorry for the delay and the awful long time it took me to write this i've just been super busy and also i didn't have much inspiration for this really but i did it. hope you like it! 🥰
do NOT repost, reupload, translate or plagiarize my work.
the bacon sizzles in the cast iron pan, the sound crackling like firewood. a rich, greasy warmth fills the kitchen and mingles with the scent of coffee and something subtly floral; your shampoo, a cheap, powerful mix of chemicals that's so useful you need to wash your hair every two days and makes your hair feel caked up with dirt.
you hum under your breath as you flip a pancake with care, like this is a normal sunday morning in a house that isn't your gilded prison.
javier's already seated at the island, shirtless, hair messy, lean biceps and forearms on full display. he watches you with a lazy suspicion and a cigarette between his fingers. the other hand's spinning a butter knife.
joel walks in, still tying the string of his sweatpants. "the fuck is this?"
"good morning to you too," you reply with a faux-sweet smile.
joel stares at you like you've grown another head. "you... cooked?"
you turn, settling a steaming plate in front of him. "scrambled eggs, bacon, toast. and pancakes for marcus — he likes it sweet in the morning. remembered."
"since when do you care what marcus likes?" joel steps closer. "what's your angle, babygirl?" he touches your waist.
"i'm being good," you answer too quickly. "i mean — i am good. i've been trying. i deserve a reward."
marcus enters, buttoning up a black shirt, hair still damp from the shower. he looks around the kitchen slowly until his gaze lands on you like a blade. that's when joel parts from you and has a seat at the table.
marcus says nothing at first, just picks up his fork and cuts into the pancake. chews. swallows. watches.
you clear you throat, and suddenly you're that girl again — the one who used to scream and claw at locked doors. but not this morning. no. this morning, you're soft, sweet and compliant.
"i want to go out."
marcus tilts his head. "out."
"just for a little while," you say, trying not to rush. "to the store. maybe the bookstore? or the farmer's market. i want to pick my own shampoo. and candy. and maybe a dress. i've been good, haven't i?"
"define good," marcus murmurs.
you step closer, barefoot on the cold tile, looking marcus in the eye. "i haven't run. i haven't even tried. i let joel have his way with me. i listen when you give an order. i don't cry anymore when javier fingerfucks me in the living room."
joel shifts in his seat, jaw flexing. his fingers curl around his mug, knuckles white.
"i cook now," you say softly. "i sleep in joel's bed without being forced. i do the chores around the house. i even say thank you."
"you're not a prisoner anymore?" marcus asks.
you smile just a little. "i don't feel like one. isn't that what you wanted?"
javier leans back, arms crossed behind his head. "so let me get this straight — you wanna play housewife now?"
"i am playing housewife. you're just not giving me all the perks. i've earned a walk around the block. supervised. leashed, if you want," you meet javier's gaze. "i'd look good on your arm, wouldn't i?"
he chuckles darkly. "you're a menace."
"but a pretty one," you twirl, letting joel's shirt ride up your thighs. you pause just long enough to flash the band of lace panties underneath. "you could cuff my ankle if it makes you feel better."
joel scrapes his chair back and stands, moving toward you. you still at the way he stalks close — muscle, heat and heavy presence that makes your belly coil.
he brushes his hand along your jaw, his thumb over your lip. "if you run..."
"i won't."
"if you try..."
"i know what happens. i haven't forgotten," you say softly as flashbacks of marcus' rough hands landing on your ass appear in your head, making you stir slightly uncomfortable where you stand. your butt was sore for days. no numbing cream could wash away the shame and comfort the hurt.
joel looks at marcus. "your call."
marcus watches you, long and cold and assessing.
"javier goes. full escort. gun stays visible."
javier stretches and grabs his leather jacket. "fine by me."
you try not to let your relief show, but joel catches the flicker in your eyes. "you really think this is freedom, sugar?"
you grin. "it's a start."
joel leans down, whispering in your ear. "don't mistake a longer leash for wings."
you shiver. "maybe i just like the leash now."
javier throws you a pair of shorts to put on and grabs the keys. "let's go, muñeca. we'll see how long this good girl act holds up when you smell the street."
you get dressed and grab your coat, stumbling and bouncing lightly on your shoes. "i'm eeexciteed!"
marcus' voice cuts through the room, sharp and final. "if she so much as breathes funny, bring her back. naked. collared. in the trunk."
"understood," javier says coolly.
and just like that, the door opens, and the chance to a normal day playing pretend with the freedom you used to have in your life before them feels unreal; but it's happening. finally happening.
hope and excitement await for you up front.
but behind, three wolves are watching.
and they wonder if you're finally tame.
---
the mall hits like a drug.
bright lights. crowds. the air-conditioned chill of freedom. the scent of burgers and perfume. you blink under the sheer vastness of it — so many people; toddlers and distressed parents, teens, couples, elderly women with huge hats — none of them knowing who you are. who you're with. what's waiting for you if you step out of line.
what took for you to get here.
you throw these thoughts of self pity in the back of your head. you cried for too long feeling wronged and pissed off at the universe for dumping you in these psychos' arms and leaving you to deal with it. screams, curses and fights never got you in a good place. never ended well for you. not when they have so much patience. not when they have already decided that you're theirs and only death will separate you from them.
acceptance is the only way forward. live like a caged animal for the rest of your miserable life or gain control and take advantage of their twisted obsession with you and turn this nightmare into a dream.
so today, instead of trying to lose javier in the crowd and escape only to struggle to figure out how to get off the streets later...
you'll behave. like a princess.
"javi," you breathe, turning in place, eyes wide. "can we go everywhere?"
he grunts, sunglasses low on his nose, watching your hips sway as you dart toward the perfume shop. "don't make me regret this."
"you won't!" you call over your shoulder, already vanishing into the boutique.
you go wild.
you spray perfumes on your wrists, layering sweet vanilla over heady florals, moaning softly as you test each one. "smell this. smell this. tell me it's not fucking delicious."
javier sniffs your wrists, jaw tight at your foul language, thinking about scolding you, but he doesn't. "you're gonna kill me, muñeca."
next stop: books. you grab romance novels, thrillers, some weird indie poetry thing in a pink cover. you shove them in a bag javier's already carrying. one of many.
"reading makes me smart. you like your pets educated, don't you?"
"only if they know how to sit and beg."
you twirl around and drag him into a home decor shop. throw pillows, candles, fairy lights. you run your fingers along soft rugs and say you want the kitchen to smell like cinnamon again. like the night marcus almost kissed you before making you cry.
javier watches, amused and silent. he's not used to seeing you so alive. drenched in stimulation and freedom.
next, you dive into the body care store. new hair care, finally. and lotions, body butters, oils. shimmering, softening, hydrating. you rub a sample over your collarbone and make sure he watches the way it gleams on your skin.
"bet joel would like this one," you say.
"he'll like whatever i tell him to like," he replies.
you blow him a kiss and disappear into the makeup store.
by the time you reach the clothing store, javier's arms are full of bags, and you're bouncing in glee, grabbing sundresses in every shade. baby pink. lemon yellow. white with little embroidered daisies.
"try them on. all of them," he commands, dropping into the changing room bench so exhausted like he ran a marathon.
you do. and every time you step out in a new one, he stares harder. until you slip out in a white cotton sundress, thin and fluttery, hugging your curves just enough, delicate straps threatening to slide off your shoulders.
"fuck me," he mutters under his breath.
"want to?" you tease, twirling. "right here?"
"don't tempt me," he growls. "not unless you want me to bend you over in that cabin and make you scream loud enough for security to show up."
you bite your lip and disappear again, leaving him to groan and press a hand to his thigh, trying not to get hard in public.
you buy everything you like. dresses, tops, shorts, even stupid novelty socks with strawberries on them.
then —
you see it.
across the hall. lit up like a siren.
the lingerie store.
you gasp and break into a light jog, bags swinging from your arms. "JAVIER!!"
he sighs like a man walking into the gallows, trudging behind you with every bag you've bought.
"wait, coño, wait — let me at least — damn it — "
you're already inside, eyes glazed over with lust.
"slow down, princesa. i'm not your damn pack mule."
"you're my sugar daddy today. shut up and be pretty."
lace in soft peach and lavender. silks in emerald and ruby. black mesh, red satin. straps, leather, chains. there's a whole section of barely there things meant for private eyes only.
he watches you glide past thongs, bras, bodysuits, harnesses.
"this one," you say, holding up a red lace set. "and this one — fuck — look at this leather one."
"you want it?" he asks, voice rough now.
you nod eagerly.
"take whatever you want. it's your reward, after all. don't know when you're gon' get another chance like this."
you pause in front of a soft white floral set. so innocent and fragile, the king of thing a girl might wear to her first date for someone real special. not at all for her captors who wouldn't blink twice about shooting you in the damn leg if it meant keeping you where they wanted.
javier sees you zone out. he steps forward and brushes the lace between his fingers. takes the set into his hand with the ones you previously gave him and seemed much more confident about.
he goes to the cashier and pays for them all. in cash. just like everything before. undetectable, untraceable.
he glances behind at you to see you playing with your own fingers, waiting for him to finish. obedient, like a little puppy who's finally learned her lesson.
you behaved well out in society today for your first time. a part of him expected this from you, really. to go wild on their money and live the dream. feel like a spoiled princess while occasionally behaving like a little brat with nasty remarks here and there. with him being younger than his brothers and a little closer to your age, he understands your fire a bit better. maybe because he shares the same fire. wants to see it fuel and explode and melt with his own before he takes it out.
which is why he let you go wild on these innocent sundresses and bold, seductive lingerie.
plenty of options for the boys to choose from.
let's see if you'll keep the same fire, confidence and excitement when they make you try what you picked. in front of them. piece by piece. inch by inch.
god, he feels like he'll burst out any moment. been dreaming of this. for the first time he'll stuff you full with more than just his fingers.
joel had his turn with you. hell, marcus had barely touched you since he spanked your ass raw. and you've been in their care for a month.
exactly a month.
javier's good at keeping track of things. actually, all of them are. especially when it comes to you.
to take you on a shopping spree wasn't exactly what him and the boys had on their bucket list for your one month anniversary.
but hell, if you decided to play obedient little housewife on this exact holy day? who was he to judge? actually, it makes him think it was no coincidence. somehow, it's all become symbolic.
you're not just getting used to them. you're becoming one of them. slowly but surely, they'll corrupt every inch of you and consume the last bit of disgust and resentment you feel for them until all you will feel is their love.
---
the house feels too quiet. too dim. too heavy with expectation.
as soon as you cross the threshold, you feel it. the shift. the giddy blur o shopping fades. the freedom of public space disappears behind the front door.
you're back. back under their roof. their eyes. their rules.
you hesitate. but javier, still behind you and sweating under a mountain of bags, nudges your hip with his. "go on. they're in the living room."
you nod once, tight-lipped. the confidence you wore at the mall starts to slip off your skin like static. it was easy out there. easy to play the spoiled girl, the center of attention, the one calling the shots.
but here?
they're the ones who hold the leash.
you walk into the living room. marcus is the first to lift his head. he's sitting deep in the couch, arms spread across the back. imposing, intimidating, masculine. his dark eyes land on you first, then flick to javier, laden down like a damn beast of burden.
joel is beside him, legs wide with one arms slung over his knee and a beer in his hand. his gaze crawls all over you, slow and patient, like he's counting your heartbeats.
two incredibly gorgerous and infuriating handsome beasts of men who look like they want nothing more than to devour you whole and eat every part of you alive.
"what's all this?" marcus asks.
"she went a little wild," javier says, dumping the bags at your feet with a grunt. "i told her to take whatever she wanted."
joel smirks. "is that right, babygirl?"
you nod, voice soft. "i... i got some things for the house. and sum clothes."
marcus tips his chin. "tell us how today went."
you swallow. "it was... it was nice," you say quietly. "i forgot how loud it is. how crowded. i missed it... really much. but i was good, i didn't talk to anyone. i stayed close to javier. i — i behaved."
"she did," javier says with pride. "she was as sweet as she can be. polite. grateful. obedient."
you expected him to say that you were a bit bratty and mischievous too. but he keeps it a secret, locked with a small wink so his two older brothers can't see.
joel leans forward, elbows on his knees. "what'd you buy, sweetheart?"
you shift on your feet. "clothes, perfume, books. some decorations. candles for the kitchen."
"show us."
your hands shake slightly as you kneel beside the bags, pulling out a few items. a sundress. a tank top. a sheer robe in soft pink. you hold them up one by one.
marcus whistles low. "that dress is gonna be real pretty tangled 'round your waist."
joel nods at the robe. "that one's almost too innocent. didn't know our babygirl had such taste."
javier lets out a laugh as he lights up his cigarette, taking his seat next to joel on the couch. "just you wait."
you blink, a little breathless. not sure whether you should continue or stop.
javier cuts the silence. "tell them what else you got."
you hesitate. you glance at him and he raises a brow. a silent command.
you reach into the glossy bag with the black logo and their attention switches to full focus now. like they're a predator who's just seen their first meal wandering through the woods.
you pull out one set. black lace full of straps. vulgar, trouble, maybe even dominant and bold. used correctly, it could bring these three men to kneel and make them beg for a touch.
another. red mesh, sheer as fog. seductive, provocative, naughty. the kind who yells submission won through conquest.
then, the last one. the one you hesitated to pick. white, soft lace with tiny pink flowers embroidered into the cups. satin ribbons. sweet, almost bridal. an innocent virgin sacrifice to the gods.
you don't dare look up and see their gazes.
"show us," javier says. your fingers twitch on the delicate fabric.
"i — what if you don't like it?" you ask, voice small and unsure.
marcus leans forward. "put. it. on."
you nod. close your eyes for a bit, hoping to regain some of that damn nerve and confidence from earlier you so evidently lack now. where's security, where's control? self-respect, independence, conviction? was it... was it ever there in the first place?
when did the leash become a rope strangling your neck once again?
you don't go upstairs. because they didn't tell you to.
they don't want to see the result. they want to see the full process. the humiliation, obedience, submission. fear.
you reach for the hem of your shirt — joel's shirt — with your breath trembling, and you begin to undress right there, in the middle of the living room. before their very eyes.
eyes who do not look at you like a statue worth worshipping. eyes who do not yearn or know the concept of respecting a woman for her mind, her soul, her being. no. eyes overwhelmed with lust, greed and need. need to control, to overtake, to conquer and to break. to feel a pulse hammer, a hope shatter, a mind break.
your shirt lifts. you hear the faint shift of fabric as one of them adjusts in his seat. your gaze wanders anywhere but over them. anything but them.
your shorts are next. then your bra and panties.
you stand naked before them. nipples perked up from the chill, skinn prickling with nerves, clit throbbing, thighs rubbing.
your hands instinctively go to cover your private parts but you remember what you're here for. the show must continue until they're satisfied.
you start putting the set on. slowly. you hook the white lace bra, the cups soft against your skin and unexpectedly comfortable. the panties are high-cut, thin satin strings sticking to your hips. the garter belt clinches around your waist like a collar for your body. the ribbons dangle, useless without stockings, but you think that's the point.
you finally gather the courage to look up at them. and you see them all frozen — watching, starving.
joel's jaw is tight. marcus is staring like he's already imagining you on your knees. javier's tongue runs over his teeth wondering how that set looks from behind.
you clear your throat. your voice barely holds. "d-does it look okay?"
marcus speaks first. "looks like you need it ripped off of you."
"fuckin' damn right she does," javier says.
joel leans back, spreading his legs wider. "come closer, darlin'. let us see you proper."
you step forward slowly, arms folded over your chest.
"arms down. you don't hide," marcus warns and you immediately obey.
joel lets out a breath when you finally make your way and stop between his thighs, looking down at him. "bought this for us, babygirl? needed us to see how pretty you are? what a beautiful body you got?"
you nod, lips parted. "yes, sir."
he tsks. "no, baby. that's what you call marcus over there. what do you call me?"
"...daddy?"
"yeah, good girl. veery good girl," he drags his fingers up and down your thigh, stroking it gently.
"now, you listen to me carefully, babygirl," joel sits up, his huge frame making you stumble one step back. you don't take your eyes off him, don't break the eye contact, no matter how much it hurts keeping it. "we take you to the bedroom, okay? you be good 'n obedient 'n you let us have our way with you the way we want, alright? whether we take turns fucking your brains out or do it all together, you behave nicely and we'll make you the happiest girl. ever. okay?"
you nod. eyes wide. lips pouty.
may they have mercy on you.
---
the walk to the bedroom is slow. your bare feet move across the hardwood like you're walking towards your death sentence. white lace clings to you with every step.
you feel their presence behind you. three men pacing you like wolves. too patient and too silent.
by the time you reach the doorway, you're trembling.
joel steps in further and smoothes the bed. marcus shuts the door. javier stays right behind you, hands warm on your hips, lips brushing your ear.
"you wanna be ours, hermosa?"
you nod.
"words."
"yes, javi. wanna be y-yours."
he hums, satisfied. "good girl."
joel takes your hand and guides you to the bed. "on your knees, sweetheart. right in the center."
you crawl onto the bed slowly, heart pounding, the garter belt pulling snug against your waist as you move. the lace pantiest cling to your soaked core, and when you settle onto your knees, you know your ass is on full display behind you.
you don't dare look back as you hear the rustle of belts, the heavy sound of booth thudding to the floor. shirts pulled off, pants unzipped. the mere thought of having them rock hard just for you without even touching them feels so unreal it makes you arch your back more.
hands. hands everywhere.
marcus' fingers tilt your chin up and you meet his eyes. "so fuckin' pretty. all soft and obedient. you didn't used to be."
"i know," you whisper.
joel steps behind you. "but look at you now."
you feel him behind you, thick fingers stroking up your thighs, toying with the edge of your panties. he doesn't pull them down yet. just lets his knuckle press against your wet slit, making you jolt.
marcus brushes a kiss against your lips. the gentlest touch you ever got from him. it went by so sudden you didn't even get the chance to slip your tongue past his lips and into his mouth, making you pout slightly. "think you can take all three of us tonight?"
you whimper. "yes, sir."
"good girl."
he parts your lips with his thumb, and just as you open your mouth wider, he slips it in slowly, forcing you to suck and watching the way your tongue curls around it.
"you're gonna open all those holes for us. let us in," marcus murmurs. "just like this, just as sweet."
javier kneels beside you, pushing your hair back from your face. "wanna be used by us, hermosa? wanna be our little plaything?"
you nod desperately. "yes. i want — i wanna be yours. please."
marcus chuckles, low and dark. "hear that, boys? bitch finally knows where she belongs. wants to be ours."
that's the marcus you know.
joel finally pulls your panties down your thighs, slow enough to make you squirm. "then lets give our girl what she's been waitin' for, huh?"
he wastes no time.
his tongue takes a big, long and cruel drag from your clit all the way up to your ass, lapping at the excess of your juices which were on the edge of dripping down the bed. you moan loudly as you close your eyes and feel the men shift their positions around you, choosing their hole like it's a lottery.
you feel hot spit land on top of your pussy and cover your folds and before you know it you feel the blunt head of someone's cock pressing to your vaginal entrance, sliding through the slick with no obstacle. you're already soaked through and throbbing painfully, and when he pushes in slow, long and so enormously thick, your arms buckle and you drop to your elbows with a moan.
this isn't joel. you open your eyes to see it isn't javier either, as he now stands in front of you with a longer, slimmer and slightly curved dick, with a head so red it borders on painful. hard, dripping, and when he presses it to your lips, you open without question, keeping eye contact all the way.
"that's my girl," he growls. "eyes on me. shit — don't look away. show me how grateful you are."
your mouth wraps around him, taking him in deep. his hands tangle in your hair as you suck, your eyes never leaving his.
joel moves. taking his cock in his hand, stroking it slowly at the sight of you being used like a doll by his two brothers, one in the front and the other from the back. "you ready for all of us, babygirl?"
you choke around javier's cock while nodding. "mmhm — yes."
behind you, marcus has already set a delicious rhythm. deep, brutal strokes that drag your body forward into javier's cock with every thrust. the bed creaks. your moans fill the room as he fucks you harder and faster, his fingers digging into your hips like a man who never wants to let go as your body trembles between the two brothers.
marcus groans. "she's already fucked dumb on me, joel. might need help holdin' her up."
"i got her."
joel climbs onto the bed, kneeling next to you on the bed as marcus slowly pulls out of your pussy. joel takes his place under you as marcus helps him mold you to their will, your tits dangling in his face like gems.
joel's thick cock nudges against your wet entrance that's already been stretched out by marcus. he slides home very gentle, way gentler than his older brother. the familiar feel makes him moan in relief as he feels your pussy walls flutter around his shaft, recognizing and accepting him into her.
marcus spits on your asshole, smirking darkly at how your puckered hole tightens up. "gonna stretch that pretty ass next, darlin'. can you take it? yeah, i don't give a fuck if you can't. not a single. fuckin'. fuck. oh, shit," he pushes in, not even giving you enough time to prepare with his fingers or even more spit. you moan loudly around javier's cock as you struggle to take marcus' fat cock that's stretching your ass inch by inch while joel pounds into your cunt and sucks your nipples, easing you into orgasm, helping you relax and accomodate to marcus' dick seeing he doesn't care enough about making you comfortable.
you cry out, muffled, nearly sobbing from the fullness.
"shh," joel soothes, gripping your waist. "you're doing perfect."
javier fucks your mouth gently now, holding a steady rhythm as he holds your jaw open and moans at the way you swirl your tongue around the head as more spit dribbles down your chin.
the rhythm builds.
joel grunts with every thrust up into your cunt, nudging your sensitive cervix each time he slides in too deep. he's made you cum more times than you can count. made you roll your eyes in the back of your head as he pistoned in and out of you while sucking and mouthing greedily at your tits.
javier holds your face with reverence as you choke and gag around his cock. whispers spanish praises and chuckles in awe each time you gag a bit louder when the tip of his dick hits the back of your throat at the same time you cum on joel's cock.
and marcus? marcus is having the time of his life. having both your holes in the same night after waiting for you to come to your senses for a whole month. your pussy is a warm haven but your ass is completely something else. so much tighter and sensitive from the lack of preparation. he doesn't even care. didn't even bother. just uses you for what you were made for. doesn't miss the fact that you've been moaning and screaming a little louder since he started violating your ass. the image of you probably crying because he's so, so rough and mean makes him pound you impossibly harder with no remorse for your feelings.
you're gone. floating. fucked open and split wide and so full you can't think.
you moan, broken and wet. "yours, yours, fuck, i'm yours — fuck, so good, p-please don't stop, please n-never stop..."
"fucking dirty bitch. went dumb on cock she rejected in the first place. feel what you were missing on, hon'? huh? thinkin' bout leaving now? you fuckin' answer me when i talk to you," marcus snaps from behind you, taking a rough grab of your hair as he pulls you off javier's cock.
"no! i'm s-sorry — i'll, i'll never leave again! i promise, i promise, sir. only yours, only yours."
one by one, they finish.
javier fills your mouth. orders you to stick your tongue out as he fists himself and paints your tongue, lips, nose and cheeks with his cum, whispering praises all the way. "that's it, cariño. doing so well for me, bebe. doing incredible. what a good little girl you've become."
joel comes deep in your cunt, shuddering with a growl that rattles your bones. "ohhh, fuck, babygirl, that's it. thaaat's it. let daddy fill you up, put some kids in that womb of yours. want that, baby? wanna be our cute lil mama?"
marcus spills deep in your ass and grips your hips hard enough to bruise, using your hole to its best efforts as he watches his cum drip out of you. "finally did what you were told. see? you can be an obedient little whore when you want to. jus' needed sum training, that's all. sluts like you need a strong, capable hand leading them. show' 'em the right way of things."
they leave you there, trembling, dripping, shaking and gasping for air with a dizzy head, a trembling body and three holes filled to the brim and utterly spent.
joel and javier assist each other in helping you come down from your high and bring you down to earth. stroke your back, brush your hair, wipe you clean before taking you in the bathroom for a nice, well deserved shower.
you never stood a chance against them. it was always gonna end up this way. and now that it finally happened, now that you've finally been consumed by all three of them, you'll never leave.
you're theirs. and they are yours; and that, you'll realise soon.
happy one month anniversary, darling. cheers for the future and the more many months to come.
---
if you enjoyed this chapter please leave your thoughts in the comments down below or even be kind enough to reblog. i have a praise kink and it would make me very much happy 🥰
Girl you have me stalking your page lookn for updates 😭 👏🏽( I beg the tag me when you update cages in silk ilysm ❤️)
hello! thank you for the support!
right now i'm having a lil meal and when i'm finished i'll go over the chapter and write the warnings, the hashtags and post it. less than 30 minutes from now.
the bratty chronicles #1: how my swollen ankle earned me a spanking
pairings ➝ joel miller x female!reader
summary ➝ joel punishes you because you went on patrol with a swollen ankle.
warnings ➝ explicit smut, unprotected vaginal sex, brat taming, edging, manhandling, spanking as a form of punishment, daddy kink, dominant & brat tamer!joel, submissive & brat!reader, begging, rough sex, squirt, creampie, aftercare, praise, a bit of degradation, pet names, dirty talk, explicit language and swearing, 18+, MINORS: DO NOT INTERACT.
word count ➝ 2.339
author's note ➝ hello everyone! i am doing everything but update caged in silk oops. i'm sorry but i'm in my bratty girl era and i really think joel is the best person to put someone in their place so i needed to get this out of my system and on your screens. if you enjoyed then PLEASE leave a comment or a reblog with your opinions!! they motivate me so much 🌸
do NOT repost, reupload, translate or plagiarize my work.
"where the hell you been?"
your boots had barely hit the floor with mud still caked up your calves from the patrol you weren't supposed to be on.
you open your mouth to give some smartass response, but joel's already crossing the room, arms crossed over his broad chest, jaw ticking with that kind of restrained fury that makes your stomach twist with guilt and excitement at the same time.
"i told you no. i told you your ankle ain't ready. and what do you do? sneak off like some reckless little brat, thinkin' you know better than me."
you scoff, trying to hold your ground. "i handled it just fine. you're overreacting."
joel steps closer, towering over you, heat radiating off him like a furnace. "that so? you limpin' says otherwise. you think fine means draggin' yourself back home after dark with a busted ankle and no radio?"
he grabs your chin, but not rough, just firm enough to make you look at him.
"you wanna act like a mouthy brat, fine. but brats get tamed, sweetheart. you wanna play that game with me, i promise you — i'll remind you exactly who you belong to and why you listen when i give you an order."
your breat catches. defiant fire still flickers in your eyes even as your body betrays you: tighs pressing together, mouth watering, pulse racing.
joel's mouth curves into a knowing, dark smirk.
"thought so."
he drags the chair from the table and sits, legs spread. the perfect picture of calm authority.
"come here."
you hesitate. just a flicker. but that's all he needs. his brow lifts.
"now."
you move forward. ankle aching. pride wounded deeper.
he hooks a finger into the waistband of your pants and tugs you over his knee like it's the most natural thing in the world.
like this is routine. like you've earned it.
except — it is routine and you do deserve it. you've been a brat your entire life. joel took you as you are and made it his problem and mission to deal with you. conquer you. cage you.
it never worked.
"you wanna disobey? wanna put yourself in danger like a damn fool? then you take your consequences like a big girl too."
your pants come down humiliatingly slow and cool air hits your skin. you squirm, but joel's gand presses firmly on your back.
"uh-uh. you don't move. you don't speak, unless i tell you to."
the first smack is sharp. nothing soft about it. not with the anger still simmering beneath his skin. each hit lands with purpose. doesn't matter when they start to sting, burn, make your eyes water. you're supposed to take them like a good girl.
"you think it's cute sneakin' off?" smack.
"you could've gotten killed," smack.
"you don't get to scare me like that, baby,"
smack. smack. smack.
an eternity and a couple more brutal hits later, your body has molded into a puddle and your fire dulled. your voice reduced to a soft, breathy mess of apology and guilt.
your thighs are trembling. he slides a hand between them, fingers finding you embarassingly slick.
"told you. brats get tamed."
then he drags you up and makes you straddle his lap, your sore ass pressing against his jeans while he kisses your neck soft and grounding. you don't miss the fact that he is rock hard in his pants. the thought makes you chuckle internally. what a perveted old man.
"you don't do that again," he murmurs, voice so rough against your ear it pulled you out of your naughty thoughts. "you listen to me next time. or else, i won't be this gentle."
he holds you against him, your body squirming in his lap. every breath is a struggle between wanting to truly melt into him and cry out or not give him a moment of peace and tease him until he fucks you so hard you won't sit for a week.
"shh," he murmurs, thumb brushing a tear from your cheek. "you're alright now. gotcha."
his fingers glide through the mess he's already made of your pussy.
"you feel that? how wet you are from gettin' put in your place?"
you whimper, hips rocking instinctively, chasing more.
he stills you with one arm around your waist.
"no," he presses a kiss just below your jaw, slow and maddening. "you wanna act like a grown woman out there, takin' stupid risks? then you're gonna learn what it means to ask for what you need."
his fingers move again — soft, deliberate strokes that stop just when they get too good.
you try everything to make him get the hint. you whimper, shudder, pant.
he shushes you gently.
"tell me, baby, what do you need?"
your voice is thin, wrecked.
"need you, joel... please..."
he groans softly, lips ghosting over your ear.
"yeah? you need me to make you cum? after all that trouble you caused?"
you nod fast, pressing your face into his neck.
but he doesn't give in. not yet. instead, he circles your clit with agonizing care. over and over, just enough pressure to drive you over the edge — then pulls back every time your thighs start to shake and your hole clenches around nothing, desperate for release.
"not yet," he whispers, watching you fall apart. "you don't cum until i say so. you don't take anything from me — you earn it."
you're crying into his shirt by the fourth time he drags you back from the brink.
whimpering, begging, trembling in his grip. like the fool he's made of you just to teach you a lesson. he knows it never gets him anywhere. you just go back to your usual behaviour, never really learning your lesson. so why bother? maybe he enjoys this too. you want warmth and he's here to put the fire down and instead hold you in his arms and give you his jacket.
he tilts your chin up so you're looking at him. his pupils dilate at how dazed, dizzy and desperate you look right now.
"you need me, baby? then prove it. hold on a little longer. take it for me."
your body's gone soft in his arms, with the occasional uncontrollable twitches and turns from the pain of the overstimulation. joel's working you like a goddamn instrument, bringing you up and dragging you back down.
"look at you," he breathes, voice rough with control. "all that attitude gone now, huh? just a needy little thing in my lap."
his fingers are soaked because of you. pressing but never enough, never where you really need him. every time you start to climb again, he pulls back.
you sob, burying your face in his throat, fingers clawing at his shirt.
"please, joel, daddy — p-please, i c-can't..."
he stills completely. one big hand slides into your hair, fisting it to tilt your face up.
he kisses you then. for the first time tonight. slow, possessive, overwhelming. and you melt into it, whimpering against his mouth, letting him take the control he needs and have dominion over you. make love to your mouth and have his sweet velvety tongue dance with your own one full of venom and not have them kill each other but rather live in harmony. build up the butterflies in your belly and the fog in your brain.
his fingers push inside your hole just enough to make your breath catch. you clench around him desperately, afraid to let go.
"you want more?" he asks, low and dangerous. "want me to fuck that brat right outta you?"
"yes!" you whisper enthusiastically, absolutely wrecked. "please, daddy, need you!"
he groans like it physically hurts him to wait any longer and in one swift motion he shifts you, drags his jeans down along with his boxers and lines himself up. slides in deep, slow, heavy. stretching you so good you gasp.
"theeere you go," he rasps, burying himself to the hilt. "that what you needed, baby? hm?"
you can't even speak. just nod and grip his shoulders, whole body shaking from long he's made you wait.
joel stills inside you, chest pressed to yours. "you come when i say. you come without permission? we start all over. understand?"
you nod again. eyes wide, every muscle taut with need.
"good," he growls. and then he starts to move. deep and fucking delicious, every thrust dragging another few desperate moans from your throat as he finally gives your poor pussy what she's been craving. your nails are digging into his shoulders like it's the only thing keeping you tethered to earth.
joel's voice is low and steady even as he drives you towards the edge again.
"that's it, sweetheart. you're takin' me so damn well. didn't think you had it in you to behave."
your body tenses again with that familiar heat flooding through you. you're so, so close.
his hand slips between your bodies, thumb finding your clit, rubbing soft circles. your hips buck on instinct and he catches your chin in the other hand, forcing your eyes to meet his.
"fuckin' look at me. wanna see your pretty face, babygirl."
"please, pleaaaase, joel, i—"
"i know. you've earned it, i know."
his pace picks up deeper and harder, fucking into you like a man with purpose, your pussy walls trying to milk him for all he's worth.
"cum for me, babygirl. let me feel it. let go."
your body breaks — hips jerking, legs trembling, eyes rolling into the back of your skull as you fall apart around him with a strangled cry. the orgasm crashes over you, so overwhelming your vision goes white as your pussy pulses frantically around his cock, clenching tight and soaking him so much your squirt reaches his belly.
joel groans, the sound torn from his chest. "that's it. that's my girl."
he doesn't stop. he fucks you through it to chase his own release now. his thrusts get sloppy, desperate, and then he buries himself deep into your cervix and spills inside you as he holds you so tight it borders on possessive.
for a long moment, there's only the sound of breath and heartbeat thundering in your ears. and the addicting feel of skin on skin contact as your flushed sweaty bodies lay on top of each other.
then joel pulls you close and kisses your forehead with one hand stroking your hair as your body still twitches with aftershocks.
"you're alright," he whispers. "i got you. you're safe now."
you nod against him, boneless and wrecked. held. owned.
your limbs are limp, muscles shaky and brain foggy in that sweet flowty haze he's so good at pulling you into. joel carries you like it's nothing with one arm under your thighs and the other cradling your back, his nose brushing your temple.
he takes you to the bathroom and eases you down onto the closer toiled seat while he runs the water in the tub. you watch him move, still dizzy, barely holding yourself upright. he glances over and smiles.
"you stay with me, baby," he says, kneeling in front of you to tug your ruined clothes off the rest of the way. "you did good. took it real well. just gotta get you cleaned up."
once the tub is ready, he lifts you in. he sits on the edge, rolls up his sleeves and grabs a washcloth.
his hands are on you slow and careful. he doesn't speak for a while and just runs the cloth over your skin, treating you like the precious little spoiled princess you are. rinses away the sweat, slick and mess he made of you.
every now and then, his fingers linger. on your hips, thighs, breasts. not to start anything new, just... grouding you. really feeling you. keep you safe under his touch.
but when he takes your swollen ankle in his hand, the tenderness shifts.
"look at this," he mutters. not angry, just tired, worried and a bit dissapointed. "already swollen again. damn near black and blue."
you mumble a weak apology, but joel shushes you gently.
"nuh-uh. don't you do that. you scared me today, runnin' off like that. coulda twisted it worse, or gotten jumped out there, and no one woulda known where the hell you are."
he props your foot on a folded towel, eyes on your ankle as he presses around it with expert hands.
"you think i like punishin' you like that? think i wanna hurt you? i'd rather you just listen when i tell you somethin's not safe."
"i didn't mean to worry you..."
"i know you didn't," he sighs, pulling a small ice pack from the cabinet nearby. "but i need you to trust me i ain't bossin' you around just for the hell of it. i protect what's mine. and that means you, sweetheart."
those words land heavy in your chest and make your heart throb a little. what might've been a reckless decision made out of hopelessness for you really took a hard hit on him. made him worry real bad and actually try to teach you more than just a lesson and act on a punishment. he was trying to make you understand just how hard it would be for him if you'd gotten seriously hurt or even worse.
"thank you, joel," you say gratefully as you hold his hand a little tighter with a soft smile on your lips and a dangerous tear hanging on by your lower lashline threatening to fall out.
joel wraps the ice pack gently around your ankle and anchors it with a bandage. then he leans in and brushes damp hair from your forehead.
he smiles too. more of a contained smirk, but he can feel how grateful and serious you are. "you're welcome, sweetheart. you're gonna rest. stay off that foot. i'll carry you if i have to."
I have an idea for caged in silk !! I would like to think that marcus is the type that doesnt care even if reader is crying, clawing and begging him to stop. He just degrades reader and keeps telling her that she deserve it for being a slut and a bad girl :(( and then he would continue and say that he will make reader so full of his seed and reader will carry his babies :((
my goddd, caged in silk has me sweating AF TYSM FOR CREATING IT, UR A GIFT SENT FROM THE GODS 🙏🙏🙏🙏
hi anon! thank you for your compliment ❤️
indeed marcus is the worst brother. he is the harshest because the other two have a more obvious soft spot for her so they treat her with a bit more patience 🤏🏻 but marcus is here to remind her there are consequences and that fear still exists!
he definitely fucks her the roughest too. while javier is passionate and kinky and joel is emotional and possessive, marcus treats her like a fuckdoll really.
aftercare is basically non existent as well. the most he'll do is hold her from behind and tell her to go back to sleep and stop crying.
