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[hauntedbymiller]

Joel Miller Masterlist(s)

A collection of series, one shots and drabbles of Mr Miller.

Grandpa!Joel • Oldman!Joel

Jackson!Joel

QZ!Joel • Raider!Joel

No-Outbreak!Joel • au!Joel

Joel Photo Drabbles

[speaktothehandpeasants]

Wonderful series and one shots! ☺️Hoping for more so, we can't lose another good writer 😭😭😭

[queenofslowburn]

Turn The Other Cheek

Pairing: dark!Priest!Joel x college student!reader Part 4 of Lessons in Sin (Masterpost)

Summary: Father Joel has his own idea of how to make you remember the seven deadly sins. And he makes sure the punishment stays with you.

Warnings: 18+, MDNI, mild dubcon still, spanking with a belt, possessive!Joel, mention of somnophilia, fingering, oral (m!receiving a la deep throating, f!receiving a la teasing for a very short amount), swallowing cum, dom!Joel that turns soft here and there, stalking somehow?, f!masturbation, all kind of petnames (Darlin’, angel, dove, baby girl, babydoll, sweetheart…), unprotected pinv (because they are stupid and you are not!)

A/N: Okay, i might have said it is only three parts. Well... here we are, i was inspired by this ask. You made me do it. But i don't complain...

wc: 9.6k (You asked for longer punishment...)

“You know why I called you in, dove?”

Joel closes the door behind you with a quiet click, as though it were nothing out of the ordinary. As though this - late evenings, closed doors, the two of you alone - were simply part of college routine.

It isn’t.

You both know it.

Not since that first time, months ago, when you stood exactly where you are now - nervous, caught, exposed - after he had found what you’d hidden away in your nightstand. What should have been a reprimand had shifted into something else entirely. Something that blurred lines you hadn’t even realized could be crossed.

Since then, every visit to his office has carried that same undercurrent.

Not that you mind.

There has been hesitation, in the beginning. Guilt, too. The weight of it sitting heavy in your chest, whispering that this was wrong, that this was not what a man like him should offer, nor what you should accept.

But Father Joel Miller has a way of reshaping things. Of turning wrong into something that feels earned. Of making indulgence feel like correction, like guidance.

Like devotion.

So no - you don’t know why exactly he called you in tonight.

But you know what it usually leads to.

“Have I done wrong, Father?”

Your voice is soft, careful, as you lift your gaze and follow him further into the room. The office is dimly lit, shadows stretching long across polished wood and worn bookshelves. Outside, the last traces of daylight have faded, leaving only the quiet stillness of evening behind the windows.

He isn’t dressed fully for ceremony anymore. The black shirt remains, sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows, exposing strong forearms that move with quiet purpose. The white collar - the sharp, unmistakable symbol of his role - is gone though.

A small disappointment tugs at you.

You’ve come to associate that collar with something far less sacred than it should be. Something that makes your pulse quicken in ways you’ve long since stopped questioning.

But it’s been a week.

A full week since he last called you in after hours, since his attention has been solely yours. And since he has fucked you until you nearly collapsed.

Right now, you’d let him take you however he stands before you and teach you new experiences. Training you to his needs.

And he trained you well.

You don’t shy away from the word anymore. Training. It fits too neatly to ignore - the way he guides, corrects, rewards. The way he watches you with quiet scrutiny, offering praise in measured doses that feel far more valuable than they should.

Your mind drifts, unbidden, to a memory from a few weeks ago, where you have stayed so very still with his cock buried in your throat. The way he had held you there, his hands on the back of your head, fingers curled in your hair, demanding stillness and patience. The intensity of his gaze as he observed you - not unkind, but expectant - had given you all the obedience it needed.

You had endured it. Every second. Even when he had pushed himself a fraction deeper, having it made harder to breathe as tears spilled from your eyes.

Because afterward - his voice, low and warm with approval, had made everything worth it.

It always does.

Joel comes to a stop by the window now, his back half-turned to you as he looks out over the quiet campus below. The world beyond the glass feels distant, detached from the charged stillness inside the room.

“Can you recall the seven deadly sins for me, Darlin’?”

His tone is casual. As if he’s asking about coursework, about something simple and expected.

The shift catches you off guard, but you straighten instinctively, hands clasping lightly in front of you as you gather your thoughts.

“Of course, Father. We have greed, gluttony, en-”

“Don’t need you to name them all.”

He cuts you off easily, his voice still calm, but edged now with something more deliberate. “I’d be more interested in whether you understand what they mean.”

He turns then, and the full weight of his attention settles on you.

It’s always like this. No matter how often you’ve stood here, how many times he’s looked at you like he does now - it never fails to send something sharp and electric down your spine.

Because he becomes unreadable.

Stern. Controlled. Every inch the man he is supposed to be.

The anticipation coils low in your stomach, tangled with something that feels dangerously close to fear. Not fear of him - not truly - but of what he might decide. Of where he might lead you next.

Because while Joel teaches you pleasure - guides you through it with a patience that borders on reverent - he also teaches you restraint. Consequence.

Discipline.

And you don’t always know what form that will take.

“I cannot say I study them intensely,” you admit, your voice quieter now, edged with apology. “But I try to refrain from them.”

One of his brows lifts slightly. There’s the faintest hint of movement at the corner of his mouth.

“Is that so?”

You nod, almost imperceptibly.

“Well,” he says, pushing off from the window and stepping toward you, “I beg to differ, Darlin’.”

He stops just close enough to unsettle you, but not enough to break the fragile illusion of propriety that still lingers between you.

Then his hand lifts.

His fingers find your chin, guiding your face upward until your eyes meet his fully. There’s no avoiding him now.

“No,” he murmurs, studying you with a quiet intensity that makes your breath hitch, “I’ve been payin’ attention these past few weeks.”

His thumb brushes lightly over your lower lip. The touch is fleeting, but it lingers in its effect. You have to fight the instinct to lean into it, to chase it.

“And it seems like,” he continues, voice dropping just slightly, “you’ve been ignorin’ every single one of ‘em.”

“I -”

The protest barely leaves your lips before his index finger presses against them, silencing you instantly.

“Mm.” A soft, disapproving sound. “No need to argue what’s already been seen.”

His gaze flicks upward for a brief moment, a subtle gesture, before returning to you.

“Under His eyes,” he adds quietly. “And mine.”

He steps closer.

Now the distance is gone. The air between you feels thinner.

His grip on your chin tightens just enough to keep you still as he leans in. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath, the faint brush of it against your lips.

For a second you think he might kiss you.

You want him to.

God, you want him to because it is so very rare that he does.

But he stops just short, holding you there in that suspended moment, where anticipation stretches tight and unbearable.

“Only thing left now,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough at the edges, “is for you to take your punishment like the good girl I know you can be.”

The words send a shiver through you.

You nod before you can stop yourself.

His lips meet yours then, the kiss brief but possessive, leaving no room for doubt about the shift that has just taken place.

When he pulls back, his hand falls away from your face.

“Good,” he says quietly. A beat passes.

Then, calm as ever:

“Undress. And get in front of the bed.”

You wait.

By now, you know better than to expect him to follow immediately. He never does. He makes you wait - lets anticipation settle deep into your bones, stretch thin across your nerves until even the smallest sound feels amplified.

It doesn’t make it easier.

The air in his bedroom is cooler than in the office, the dim lighting casting soft shadows across walls you’ve come to know far too well. The space is familiar now - not just in layout, but in feeling. There’s something almost contradictory about it. A place where you’ve been reduced, corrected, pushed - yet also a place where everything else falls away.

Here, there is no noise from the outside world. No expectations beyond the ones he sets. No confusion about who you are or what you’re meant to be.

Here, you have a purpose.

And when he’s pleased - when you’ve done well - there is something else, too. A softness, rare and fleeting, but enough to keep you coming back. Enough to make you crave it.

So you wait like you always do.

Naked. Kneeling in the center of the bed. Hands folded neatly in your lap, spine straight, gaze lowered.

The quiet stretches.

Then - the click of the door.

Your heart reacts before you can stop it, a heavy, sudden jump in your chest. A warmth follows, threatening to pull a smile to your lips. You have to force it down, schooling your expression, lowering your gaze further instead.

You’ve learned what he likes.

Silence. Obedience. Anticipation.

Footsteps cross the room, slow, measured.

“What are you doing?”

The irritation in his voice is slight - but it hits instantly, sharp enough to make your head lift in reflex.

“I… you said…” The words stumble over themselves, uncertainty creeping in as you shift slightly where you kneel. You replay his instruction in your mind, searching for where you went wrong.

His gaze hardens just a fraction.

“In front of the bed,” he says, tone even but edged now. “Not on it.”

A pause.

“Need to teach you to listen better, I suppose.”

He moves closer, unhurried, stopping just short of the foot of the bed. He doesn’t reach for you. Doesn’t correct you physically.

He doesn’t need to.

Because the moment the words settle, you’re already moving - scrambling off the bed in a rush, the sudden motion clumsy in your haste. Your feet barely find the floor before you drop again, knees hitting the ground as you reposition yourself where he meant you to be.

In front of the foot end.

You settle quickly, returning to stillness, hands folding back into your lap as if they had never moved. Your gaze fixes on his shoes now, unable to risk looking higher without permission.

There’s a beat of silence.

“You know I do all of this to save you, right?”

The question is calm. Like a truth that doesn’t need defending.

You nod immediately, the motion small and careful.

“Words, dove.”

Your throat tightens slightly. “Yes, Father,” you answer, swallowing before continuing, “and I am grateful for every lesson.”

A low chuckle leaves him.

“We’ll see after today.”

There’s a shift then. The faint rustle of fabric, the subtle sound of movement that immediately pulls your attention tighter, your body reacting before your mind fully catches up.

You know this part.

You’ve learned to anticipate it - the way he takes his time, the way he builds tension before giving you anything at all. He likes to start with you taking him with your mouth, making your head dizzy from oxygen deprivation before pushing you any further. Your breath slows instinctively, your body stilling further as expectation coils in your belly and you feel first wetness flooding between your legs.

When he steps closer, stopping directly in front of you, your focus sharpens.

His hands move to his belt.

The motion alone is enough to make something stir deep in your chest, a conditioned response you don’t bother questioning anymore. You’ve seen it so many times before - felt what follows, the way he guides you, the way he takes control.

Your lips part slightly, breath catching.

But then - 

Something shifts.

The belt slides free from its loops with a firm pull. Not loosened. Not undone as before.

Removed entirely.

Your gaze flickers upward before you can stop it, catching the way he holds it - gripped at the buckle, the length of leather hanging loose at his side.

“Here’s what we’re gonna do, love.”

The word lands softly, but it carries weight. It always does. It shouldn’t matter as much - but it does. It softens the edges, even now, even as something uncertain begins to build beneath your ribs.

“We’re gonna go through each of your missteps,” he continues, voice steady. “One by one.”

He lifts the belt then, folding it once in his hand.

“…and for every one,” he adds, “you get this.”

The sharp snap of leather cutting through the air makes you flinch before you can stop yourself. The sound echoes in the quiet room.

Your breath catches.

“You’ll take each one properly,” he goes on, his tone shifting - firmer now, leaving no space for misinterpretation. “And you’ll keep quiet unless I tell you otherwise.”

The end of the belt tilts upward, the leather brushing lightly beneath your chin, guiding your face higher.

Your gaze lifts fully this time, unable to help it. There’s something in your expression - hesitation, uncertainty - that he catches immediately.

“You listenin’ now, Darlin’?”

There’s no room to look away.

You nod, even as a small knot forms in your throat, tightening just enough to make swallowing difficult. Your thoughts flicker but they don’t settle.

He wouldn’t go too far.

He never has.

There’s always a line. Even if you don’t see it beforehand - he does.

“Yes, Father,” you manage, your voice even quieter now.

His gaze lingers for a moment longer, searching, measuring.

Then - 

You move immediately, rising from your knees and turning as instructed. The edge of the bed meets your hands as you brace yourself, leaning forward into position.

“Good girl. Now lean over the bed,” he instructs, stepping back just enough to give you space. “Go on. Let me see you.”

There’s a pause behind you.

“Don’t fret.”

You still, just slightly, the words catching you mid-motion. You wait - because you’ve learned to.

“I know your limits better than you do by now,” he continues. “I know exactly how far I can take you.”

You nod, even if he can’t fully see it.

And despite the hesitation still lingering at the edges of your thoughts - you believe him.

Because he’s never let you fall before.

And somehow, you trust that he won’t start now.

You bend over the foot of the bed as instructed, chest lowering onto the mattress, arms stretched out in front of you until your fingers curl slightly into the fabric. The position pulls at your body in a way that isn’t immediately comfortable - your knees barely reach the floor, forcing you to balance with a subtle strain through your thighs and hips.

You shift, just slightly, trying to settle.

It doesn’t help much.

But you don’t complain. You’ve learned that much already - discomfort, on its own, earns you nothing. It’s not where his attention lies.

Still, the tension lingers in your body as you hold yourself in place, waiting.

Joel steps away, circling the bed with quiet purpose. You can’t fully see him from where you are, only catch the shift of his shadow along the edge of your vision - until he returns.

“Come here, Darlin’.”

His voice is softer now, almost coaxing as he crouches beside you.

You feel his hand before you see him - warm, steady, settling at the small of your back to keep you balanced. The contrast is immediate: the heat of his palm against your skin, grounded and firm, while the leather brushes faintly against you.

It sends a shiver through you before you can stop it.

You respond without needing further instruction, lifting your knees just enough for him to slide the pillow beneath you. It settles under your weight, and he gives you the time to adjust - no rush, no pressure, just the quiet expectation that you’ll find your place again.

It’s easier now. More stable.

“Thank you,” you murmur, turning your head slightly, offering him a small, genuine smile.

For a moment, something softer passes between you.

“Wouldn’t want you hurtin’ where I don’t intend it,” he replies, almost matter-of-fact.

His hand lifts from your back, but not entirely - his fingers brush upward instead, tracing a slow path until they reach your cheek. The touch is brief, his knuckles grazing your skin as the loop of the belt follows the same path, cool leather whispering over your face.

For a fleeting second, a thought crosses your mind. He would not strike you in the face, would he?

But you push it aside just as quickly.

This position implies another part of your body on where he would focus on tonight.

You know what it means.

Bent forward, chest and arms spread across the mattress, knees anchored close to the bed - you’re left open, exposed in a way that leaves no room for misinterpretation.

His focus won’t be on your face.

Joel rises again, and though you can’t see him fully, you feel it - the shift in the room, the weight of his attention settling over you.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs.

The word lands low, almost absentminded, but it curls through you all the same.

Suddenly the leather finds your back.

Just a touch, placed between your shoulder blades before it begins to move. He drags it down along the line of your spine, the sensation drawn out until it becomes almost unbearable in its restraint.

You hear the faint shift of his breath behind you, controlled but heavier now.

The belt continues its path, slipping lower, tracing the curve where your back gives way to your hips before coming to rest there.

“We’ll go through all seven,” he says, voice steady again, slipping back into that calm authority. “Startin’ with the least severe.”

A pause.

“Remind me, Darlin’ - what is it?”

Your thoughts scatter for a moment, distracted by the sensation still lingering along your spine, the presence of him behind you, the awareness of how exposed you are like this.

You squeeze your eyes shut, forcing yourself to focus, to pull something - anything - coherent from memory.

“Pride,” you manage finally, your voice a little breathless.

“Mm.” There’s something approving in the sound. “Good to know some lessons stuck.”

You can hear it now - the faint smirk in his tone, even without seeing it.

“Remember that lecture we had on accountability?” he adds.

It takes a second.

Your mind lags behind, as the leather grazes between your cheeks, resting at the wetness that build between your legs - but then it clicks.

Yes.

You remember.

“I highly doubt that.”

Your voice cuts through the room more steadily than it ever does in private. There’s no breathlessness, no strain pulling at your composure - just clarity. Of course, that has everything to do with where you are now. Seated among other students, not alone behind closed doors with his cock buried until the hilt inside you.

Here, you are composed.

Here, you speak.

“I don’t remember giving you the word.”

Father Joel Miller’s gaze finds you immediately. It stills the room faster than your interruption ever could. The quiet that follows is heavy - every student aware of the shift, of the line you’ve just crossed.

“But,” he continues, tone even, “since you seem eager to finish my lesson… go ahead.”

For a moment, you hesitate.

He sees it - the flicker of uncertainty, the instinct to retreat, to fall back into the obedience he’s taught you so well. It washes briefly over your expression.

And then - it passes.

Something else replaces it.

“I…” You gather yourself, drawing in a breath before straightening your shoulders just slightly. “You frame Eve as the origin of sin,” you begin, choosing your words carefully, “but she only sought knowledge. She didn’t intend to sin - her lack of understanding made her reach for more.”

There’s a shift in him then.

A hint of a smile curling at the edge of his mouth.

“That so?”

He sets the chalk down with quiet precision, stepping away from the board. His movements are unhurried as he circles slightly, coming to lean back against the desk instead, arms relaxed but his presence anything but.

“So you’d argue,” he continues, watching you closely now, “that a lack of knowledge lessens accountability.”

“It doesn’t erase it,” you counter, your voice holding steady. “But it changes it.”

It’s rare - this. That you don’t immediately fold under his scrutiny. That you don’t soften the moment he pushes back.

“Why,” you continue to ask, tilting your head just slightly, “don’t we judge Adam the same way? He took the apple just as willingly.”

The room remains silent, but it feels smaller now. Tighter.

You hold his gaze.

A second too long, perhaps. Longer than what would be considered comfortable. Or appropriate.

And for just a fraction of that moment - he sees it.

Pride.

He could dismantle it right then. Strip it down with a single remark, pull you back into place without effort.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he lets it sit. Lets you have that fleeting sense of standing your ground, of holding something over him - even if only in appearance.

He notes it.

Stores it away.

Then, just as smoothly, he breaks the moment himself. His gaze shifts from you, moving back to the rest of the class as if nothing had happened at all.

“Anyone else?” he asks, voice returning to its earlier rhythm. “Where do we draw the line between curiosity… and accountability?”

“So, sweetheart… where do you draw the line today?”

Joel’s voice lowers as he speaks, calm but threaded with something that settles heavy in the air behind you. The loop of the belt drifts over the skin of your ass. The leather is cool, almost cold, a stark contrast to the warmth of his hand when it follows, settling against you with a firm, grounding touch.

“You choose accountability?” he continues. His hand lifts slightly before coming down in a light tap - not enough to hurt, but enough to remind. Enough to echo memory of times when his hands have slapped you on multiple occasions already.

Then the leather returns, brushing over you again.

“Or are you chasing curiosity?”

You know the question isn’t really a choice. Not in the way it’s framed. Not with him.

Still - you answer.

“I trust you… Father.” Your voice is quieter now. “With whatever you think is right.”

A soft chuckle follows, low and approving.

“Smart girl.”

There’s no further warning. No drawn-out pause.

One moment, the air is still - the next, the sharp sound cuts through it as the belt comes down. The impact makes you jolt forward, a startled sound slipping from you before you can catch it, half-lost against the fabric beneath your face.

It’s not as bad as you expected.

There’s a sting, yes - a sudden warmth blooming where it landed - but it doesn’t linger in any overwhelming way. Not yet anyway.

Joel exhales quietly behind you.

“That one was just a tester,” he says, as if reading the tension still held in your body. “Wouldn’t do to push you too far too fast.”

The implication settles deeper than the strike itself.

This is only the beginning.

“So, Darlin’…” His voice shifts again, expectant now. “What comes next?”

You swallow, adjusting slightly where you are, trying to steady both your breath and your thoughts. Your mind reaches back to the structure he set.

The sins.

“Envy…” you answer and with it already with an idea to which situation he might refer to.

“Very well.”

There’s approval in it - but no softness.

And you hear it before you feel it:

The belt lifting again.

At first, Joel thinks he imagines it.

Your attention has always lingered on him during class - he’s grown used to that, to the weight of your focus, the way it sharpens whenever he speaks. It’s expected now.

But this - this is different.

He notices it the second, third time it happens. Subtle, but not enough to escape him. Your gaze shifting. Pulling away from him, only to lock onto someone else.

Her.

He can’t even recall her name. Just another student, another face in the room. And yet, every time she raises her hand, every time she opens her mouth to ask something barely worth the interruption - your attention snaps to her instantly.

He watches the way your posture changes. The tension in your shoulders. The way your eyes narrow just slightly, tracking every movement she makes.

And she performs. He sees it clearly - the practiced tilt of her head, the deliberate flutter of her lashes, the way she shifts in her seat as if she’s aware of being watched. It’s all too polished. Too manufactured and intentional.

Nothing like you.

With you, there’s no pretense. No performance. What you give him - your submission, your obedience - it’s raw. Unfiltered. Devoted in a way that doesn’t need embellishment.

And yet - 

He indulges her.

Just enough.

Because the effect it has on you is… telling.

Delicious, even.

So when the lecture ends, he makes his choice.

“As for you - stay a moment,” he tells her, almost absentmindedly, as if it’s nothing more than a passing request.

And you - 

You hesitate.

He sees it immediately. The way you linger longer than necessary, books clutched tightly to your chest like something solid to hold onto. Your gaze flickers between them, uncertain, unwilling to leave just yet.

But you do eventually. Because you have to.

Joel lets the door close behind you before turning his attention back to the girl in front of him. He asks about her work, guides her through something unnecessarily detailed, stretching the conversation far beyond what it requires.

Through the milky glass of the door, he can make out the faint outline of your figure. Still there. Still watching.

Not because she needs it but because of what waits just outside.

Still waiting.

And that tightness in your posture - he knows exactly what it is.

Envy.

It settles something dark and satisfied in his chest.

Oh, he thinks, letting his voice carry on calmly as he continues the pointless discussion - 

This one might be worth lingering on a little longer.

The second strike comes without warning.

No buildup - just the sharp crack of leather meeting skin, louder this time. It lands with more intent, enough to make your body jerk forward against the bedframe again, a small, helpless sound slipping from your lips before you can stop it.

The sting lingers now.

“Would you rather I don’t care for my other students?” Joel’s voice cuts through the haze. “You think what I give her is the same as what I give you?”

Your lips press together instinctively, heat rising to your face.

“I was scared,” you admit quietly.

“Scared?” he repeats, and this time his hand follows the path of the belt, settling over the place it struck. His touch is slow, his palm warm as it moves over sensitive skin. “Scared of what, sweet girl?”

You close your eyes.

You don’t want him to see it - not fully. Not the part of it that actually aches.

“That you…” You hesitate, swallowing past the tightness in your throat. “That you might take more interest in her. That you might… cast me aside.”

For a second, there’s silence.

Then a low, genuine laugh escapes him, unexpected enough that it makes your eyes flutter open again. His hand stills where it rests against you.

“Oh, sweetheart…” There’s something almost amused in his tone, something warmer beneath it. “How could I abandon… this?”

From the corner of your vision, you catch the motion of his hand as he gestures toward you - your position, your body, all of it laid bare for him.

“You’re made for me,” he continues, quieter now. “Exactly as you are. I don’t need distractions.”

The words settle into you quickly, relief following close behind. It loosens something tight in your chest, softens the lingering edge of jealousy.

Until his hand withdraws.

For a moment, you almost forget why you’re here.

“That said,” he adds, tone shifting again - grounding you back into place, “that only holds true when you behave. So - what’s next?”

You turn your head slightly, already knowing. The memory rises before you can stop it, sharp and unwelcome.

“Wrath…” you whisper.

It’s the only time he can recall where you didn’t meet him with quiet obedience or that familiar submission - but with something that pushed back.

You have been with him for over a day by then. Your body has grown heavy with exhaustion - but none of it has taken away your willingness. If anything, it has made you more pliant, more eager to follow wherever he led.

And still - when he tells you to leave, it shifts.

He has work to do. Real work. Papers scattered across his desk, responsibilities that cannot be postponed any longer.

You don’t take it well.

At first, it’s subtle. A small pout, a lingering hesitation as you remain where you are, asking softly if you can stay a little longer. Just a bit.

But when he doesn’t give in - when his answer stays firm and unchanged - that’s when it breaks.

You slip from his bed, not with the quiet compliance he’s used to, but with abrupt, sharp movements. Fabric rustles louder than necessary as you gather yourself, tension evident in every motion.

“What is it, dove?” Joel asks, his attention remains on the papers he’s collecting from the nightstand. “Did I not make good use of our time?”

There’s a bite beneath the words.

“You just take me when it pleases you,” you shoot back, the words coming quicker now, edged with something he hasn’t heard from you before. “Not when I need you.”

That makes him look at you.

You’re pulling your blouse back on, fingers working faster than usual, your expression caught somewhere between restraint and something much closer to anger. There’s still that flicker of hesitation - of knowing who you’re speaking to - but it doesn’t stop you.

“As I intend to continue doing,” he replies calmly, though there’s the faintest hint of irritation threading through his voice now.

You let out a small, disbelieving scoff, pushing your hair back with a sharp motion.

“Well, what if I don’t come when you call?”

“Then you have every right to do so,” he answers simply.

It’s not what you wanted to hear.

He knows that.

“Does this -” You stop yourself briefly, swallowing, but it doesn’t hold. “Does any of this even matter to you?”

Your voice wavers at the edges now, emotion catching up too quickly.

But not like this.

For a second, he considers softening. Giving you something to hold onto.

Not when the lesson hasn’t settled yet.

“You should go,” he says instead, his tone firm, leaving little room for argument. “Come back when you’ve cooled off.”

He sees it - the way something in you tightens, the way you almost push back again. The impulse is there, clear as day.

But training holds.

So you turn, gathering what you need, and you leave.

The door closes behind you with more force than necessary.

And the silence that follows doesn’t sit well with him either.

Still - 

He doesn’t have to wait long.

Twelve hours later, you’re back.

And this time, he makes sure you understand exactly what you’re allowed to ask for.

And what you are not.

“You feel bold now, baby girl?”

His voice carries a low edge as he lifts the belt again - you hear the shift of it in the air before anything else, your body tensing instinctively in anticipation.

“Wanna tell me to stop?”

You shake your head quickly, the answer immediate - reflex more than thought.

It lands with enough force to pull a broken breath from you, your body jolting forward as the sting spreads fast and hot. There’s something different in it - less measured, more weighted.

The strike follows without delay, even sharper this time.

“I’m sorry,” you breathe, the words slipping out before you can even think to hold them back.

“I know, dove.”

The shift in him is immediate. The tension doesn’t disappear, but it softens as he lowers himself beside you again. His hand returns to you, moving over the warmed and reddened skin with a gentler touch, though it makes you flinch all the same - the contrast is too sharp against the lingering sting.

“I can see you’re tryin’ to make it right,” he murmurs.

His fingers move upward, brushing along your butt, grounding you for a brief moment before his hand drifts to your center and over your exposed pussy. The touch is brief, but enough to make your breath hitch, to pull a quiet reaction from you that you can’t quite contain.

A low sound of amusement follows.

“Already eager again,” he notes as he notices the wetness that has built up. “But you’ll have to wait. We are not done yet.”

You barely manage to steady yourself as he continues.

“Four left,” he reminds you. “What comes next?”

Your voice is strained as you answer, “S-sloth.”

There’s the faintest pause - then he dips his index finger at your entrance - before it’s gone just as quickly as it came.

He straightens behind you.

“Not one I see in you often,” he says, almost thoughtfully.

To your defense, the night before has taken more out of you than usual.

He hasn’t given you much rest. Not really. Kept you close, kept you with him, his hunger consuming in a way that left little room for recovery. So finding you like this - slumped over your books in the quiet of the library, fast asleep - comes as a surprise, yes.

But not without reason.

Joel pauses a few steps away, watching you for a moment longer than necessary. The room is empty at this hour, the silence thick, undisturbed. You haven’t noticed him.

And his mind wanders.

The setting lends itself too easily to it. The isolation, the vulnerability of the moment. The way you’re there, unguarded, unaware.

He imagines stepping closer. Standing just behind you. Waking you not with words, but with presence - pressing one hand over your mouth, the other gliding under your skirt, pushing the panties aside to dip into your pussy with two fingers, pulling you from sleep before you can fully understand what’s happening.

In his mind, you respond the way you always do - soft, yielding, instinctively attuned to him even in that blurred space between dreaming and waking as his digits pump in and out of you. 

The image lingers longer than it should.

But that’s all it remains.

A passing thought.

You needed the rest.

Still - 

As he turns to leave, adjusting his sleeve with a subtle exhale, he feels his cock hardening.

Tonight, he decides, you’ll be seeing him again.

No question about it.

The fourth strike lands - and you feel the difference immediately.

There’s still force behind it, still enough to make your breath catch and your body tense, but it’s tempered. Which is good, because the sharp edge from the hits before slowly dulls into a more lingering pain. The sting spreads, settling deep into your skin, no longer fleeting but persistent.

You exhale slowly, grateful for the shift even as the ache builds.

“Can’t rightly punish you for that one,” Joel admits behind you, his voice thoughtful and less severe. “You’re far from lazy.”

You hear him move, feel the shift of his presence as he steps closer again. His gaze travels over you - you don’t need to see it to know. It’s there in the way the air changes, in the quiet pause that follows as he takes you in fully.

“If anything…” he continues, slower now, his attention lingering, “you’re a little too eager.”

The words catch you off guard. More so his movement.

Your breath hitches, a soft sound nearly slipping free before you can stop it.

He lowers himself behind you, knees pressing into the floor, caging your own legs and hands settling firmly at your hips. The belt remains in his grasp.

You barely have time to process the change before th next sensation steals all your remaining breath. Joel presses his face between your legs, hungry mouth to your wet center and with a deliberately slow stroke he licks only once from your clit to your entrance, circling there only a moment.

Your moan echoes through the silent room as he reluctantly pulls away again.

“Seems like we’re both guilty of the next one,” he murmurs, the vibration of his voice sending shivers through your body. Unconsciously you push your hips back only a little, chasing his touch once more. 

“G-greed…” you manage, your voice barely above a whisper.

A quiet, approving sound follows.

“Yeah,” he mutters, his grip tightening slightly as he pulls you back into place and lifts himself up again. “Greed.”

It’s rare - almost unheard of - that you come to him uninvited.

There’s a rhythm to this, one you’ve both settled into without ever truly naming it. He calls, you come.

So when he opens the door and finds you already standing there, he can hardly hide his surprise.

And Joel’s initial instinct is to send you away.

He should.

But then he looks at you properly.

“Father, I… just wanted… needed…”

Your words falter before they even fully form, your voice soft, uncertain in a way that doesn’t match what he can already read in your expression. It’s almost amusing to him - how easily you come undone like this when it comes to asking. When it comes to admitting what you want.

He’s seen you with nothing left to hide, bare before him, spread open just for him, ready to be used to his liking - and yet this simple act of putting it into words, is where you struggle.

Joel leans casually against the doorframe, one shoulder resting against it as he watches you.

“Can’t help you if you don’t use your words, dove,” he says, his tone light on the surface - but there’s a darker amusement beneath it.

Your gaze locks onto his, more desperate now.

“Please…”

Your hands curl at your sides, fingers tightening just slightly, and he notices how your thighs flex in an ambition to press your legs together subtly.

“What is it, Darlin’?” he drawls, folding his arms loosely across his chest. “Need got so bad you couldn’t even wait a day?”

You’d only left him that morning.

And yet - here you are.

The corner of his mouth twitches faintly.

“Can I… come in again?” you ask, quieter now, your hesitation clear even as the question leaves you.

There’s a beat.

“I don’t know…” he hums, tilting his head slightly, letting the moment stretch just enough. “Can you?”

Then, just as easily, he steps aside and the door closes behind you soon after.

The fifth strike lands with a sharp, resounding snap.

This time, he positions himself just enough in your line of sight that you can see him through the blur of tears gathering in your eyes. Your vision wavers, edges softened by the sting that now refuses to fade, layering over the earlier strikes until it becomes something constant - present in every breath, every shift of your body.

It’s overwhelming.

And yet - 

Your gaze catches on him.

His free hand rests on his crotch, pressing lightly, almost absently, but the sight alone sends a strange, conflicting warmth through you - something that curls deep despite the ache.

Pride.

That this - your endurance, your obedience, the way you hold yourself steady through every strike - affects him.

That it matters.

The feeling barely has time to settle before the sting pulls you back under, sharper and more insistent.

Joel notices.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, edged with something almost approving. “Still holdin’ yourself together. Beautiful like this.”

His hand presses just slightly more, to remind you that this isn’t one-sided. That he’s just as caught in it.

“Think you can take the rest, babydoll?”

The new name lands with surprise, sending a small, steadying warmth through you.

You nod quickly, turning your head a little more so you can still see him. 

“I will,” you manage, breath uneven. “I have to.”

A small sound escapes you, somewhere between strain and determination.

“Yeah,” he says, stepping closer again. “You do.”

The belt drifts over your spine as he watches the marks already left behind.

“Only two left,” he adds, voice steadying again. “But you know those are the ones that count.”

A pause.

“So tell me - what’s next?”

You blink through the tears, lifting a hand quickly to wipe one away before it can fall. You search for him again, for that look you’ve learned to crave.

“Gluttony… I think.”

A quiet click of his tongue follows.

“Oh, I know that one,” he says, almost amused. “Seen it on you more than once.”

It is a sight that resists comparison.

For a fleeting moment, Joel feels the pull to let himself fall into it completely - to tilt his head back, close his eyes, and simply surrender to the warm feeling around his cock. But he doesn’t.

He can’t.

Not when the view in front of him is this.

You are stretched out across his bed, entirely exposed, your body aligned with the mattress while your head dips just over the edge of the footboard. The angle is unforgiving, your throat working visibly, the movement strained, uneven - caught somewhere between the need to breathe and the instinct to swallow.

But he doesn’t allow you the ease of either.

He stands above you, composed, cock buried deep in your mouth and hands clasped behind his back as though observing something carefully curated rather than something unfolding under his control. His gaze moves over you, taking in every detail - the tension in your body, the way you hold yourself steady despite the clear strain.

He’s lost track of time.

Doesn’t know how long you’ve held like this.

Long enough that it should show more. Long enough that anyone else would have faltered.

But you don’t.

And that - that unwavering willingness, that quiet determination to please him, to do it right - that’s what gets him close more than anything else. It always does.

“You ready, sweetheart?”

His hand moves before you can react, a firm tap against your cheek - not harsh, but grounding, pulling your attention back to him fully.

“Don’t want you wastin’ a single bit, you hear me?”

You manage the smallest nod, the motion limited, your response trapped in the confines of the position he’s put you in.

It’s enough.

He shifts his hip forward slightly, the subtle tension in him finally breaking as he exhales, the sound slipping free without resistance.

You do what you can as he spills into your throat, white ropes coating the back of it. You try to follow through exactly as instructed despite the disadvantage you’re in. Your breathing stutters when he finally withdraws his cock from you, slowly gliding over your swollen lips.

A faint droplet escapes the corner of your mouth - barely there, but noticeable.

The moment you’re free, you pull in air sharply, your chest rising as you try to recover, the relief immediate and overwhelming.

“Well done, dove.”

Joel moves without hesitation this time, stepping in close, one hand coming up to steady you as he helps lift you upright. His touch is firm but careful, guiding you back from the edge of strain.

His thumb brushes lightly at the corner of your mouth, collecting what you missed, his gaze fixed on you as he brings it back to you. His digit pushes against your lips and you let him in, tongue circling the last bit of his seed.

“Can’t have you slackin’ now.” A quiet hum follows. “Almost perfect,” he murmurs. “But we will get there.”

“Cannot say I completely condone that little sin of yours,” you hear him murmur behind you, an indulgent grin in his tone. “But for the completion of today’s lesson…”

Before you can brace yourself, you hear the leather whistle through the air, a sharp promise of the impact to come. It lands hard against your already tender skin, and a cry escapes you, fingers digging into the sheets, desperate to anchor yourself. The sting shoots through you, more insistent than anything so far. For a heartbeat, you wonder if you can endure another strike - this one has tipped the scale.

“You’re nearly done, Darlin’. I promise,” he murmurs, as if reading your mind once more. 

You nod quickly, sniffing and pressing your face into the linen to wipe away the hot tears, trying to convince yourself his words are truth.

“Look at me, sweetheart,” Joel crouches beside you, steadying presence at your side. “The last one… it will be the harshest. You understand why, don’t you?”

Your lips press together, swallowing hard, brow furrowed.

“Because… because it weighs the heaviest.”

Joel’s lips curve into that unmistakable, approving smile. “Exactly right. But then… you’re done. Every single one atoned.” His fingers tuck a damp strand of hair behind your ear, brushing gently over your cheek, still glistening with tears. “And then I can take care of you, okay?”

Your brow furrows in doubt. “But… isn’t that lust all over again?”

His fingers trail lightly across your shoulder blade as you speak, lingering as though to reassure you. “Oh, you think this,” he gestures between you and him, “is the last sin’s misstep?”

You hesitate, unsure. “Is it… not?”

Joel chuckles, hand drifting along your side until it lands lightly on your reddened buttocks, tracing over the marks. “Oh angel, no. What we do here? That’s salvation. No sin in that.”

“Then what do you…?” you murmur, voice barely audible. He was the only one you explored lust with. What else could he mean then?

He lifts himself, folding the belt in front of your eyes once more, letting it snap taut between his hands. 

“It’s about what you do,” he says softly, eyes locking with yours, “when you think no one’s looking, Darlin’.”

He isn’t entirely sure when it started.

At first, it has always been you - finding reasons to linger, to cross his path, to remain just within reach of his attention. You have been the one orbiting him.

But lately… the shift was his.

Joel finds himself watching you even when you don’t know he is there.

There is a strange satisfaction in it - observing you without that immediate awareness in your posture, without the subtle tension that always accompanies his presence.

Unobserved, you are… different.

Lighter.

He has noticed it first on campus. From his office window, catching glimpses of you crossing the grounds. In the great hall, your laughter carrying just a little too far, your gestures more animated, your words more freely given.

You are open.

Engaged. Confident, even.

And for a moment, it strikes him as a contradiction - until he realizes it isn’t.

You aren’t pretending here, just as you aren’t pretending with him. They are simply two sides of the same person. One turned outward, easy and bright. The other reserved for him - quieter, more focused, more… yielding.

Both equally compelling.

At first, he kept his distance. Observed from afar, unseen.

But Joel is not a man used to restraint when he believes himself justified.

And here - there are no consequences to fear. Not truly in his position. And not with you, who has never once shown any sign of resistance to him.

So the line shifted.

Gradually at first.

Then all at once.

He enters your quarters.

The first time, you aren’t there. He moves through the space with a careful quiet, his gaze taking in the details - your belongings, the subtle traces of your presence in every corner. He touches nothing at first.

Then, eventually… he does.

Soon, he finds himself returning even when you are inside - when the door is unlocked, when the room is still. Most often, when you are asleep.

He knows how to move without sound. The door opens just enough for him to slip inside unnoticed. And he just stands there, at your bedside, watching.

There is something different in the way you sleep alone.

Not curled in toward him, not softened by exhaustion and the quiet aftermath of his attention.

Just… still.

He finds himself thinking - more than once - that you rest better beside him.

That you belong there.

But the moment that lingered most came later.

One night, when you aren’t asleep.

You have just returned late from a late night jog. He follows not long after.

The sound of running water greets him as he steps inside.

Joel pauses just beyond the slightly open bathroom door, the space filling with steam, the mirror already beginning to fog. He can picture your body perfectly under the hot water.

Still, he shifts slightly, just enough to catch the faintest reflection, all while imagining to join you unannounced, pin you against the cold tiles and fuck you raw until you screamed his name.

Then - he hears it.

Soft. Barely there.

But unmistakable.

A quiet moan that didn’t belong to thoughtless routine.

His jaw tightens slightly as he leans just a fraction closer, gaze fixed on the blurred outline in the mirror. There is enough there to confirm it - you touch yourself, hand between your legs and fingers working intensely.

Something he recognized all too well.

His hand moves without thought, resting on his slowly growing erection, his breath slower now as he watches.

He just knows you imagine his touch instead of your own more fragile one.

There is a moment where he considers stepping in. Finishing what you started.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he stays where he is until your climax takes you.

There is something in that, too. In letting it play out. In seeing you like this without his direct influence - yet knowing, with quiet certainty, where your thoughts likely wander.

By the time he steps back out into the hallway, the air feels colder.

And as he makes his way back to his office, the emptiness of the late hour is something he finds himself unexpectedly grateful for, the outlines of his hardened cock clearly visible.

You don’t know how to process it.

The knowledge that Joel has been in your room sits heavy in your chest. More than that. That he has seen you without your awareness, has watched you in moments that were never meant to be shared.

You’ve touched yourself with him, yes. Open, guided, shaped under his direction. He has shown you how to navigate your own body, has taken your uncertainty and turned it into knowledge for yourself.

But this - 

This feels more intrusive.

A line crossed that you haven’t even realized was there until now.

“You can scold me for it later if you like,” Joel says behind you, almost casually, his wrist rolling as he adjusts his grip for what’s to come. “Doesn’t change what you did.”

You swallow, unsure what to make of the strange mix of emotions rising in you. There’s hesitation, yes - but something else too. Something softer, more confusing.

Because part of you doesn’t recoil.

Part of you feels… seen.

“I’ll stop,” you say anyway, your voice unsteady but determined. “I won’t… I won’t do it unless you allow me to.”

The words hang in the air.

And for a moment he pauses.

The belt lowers slightly, and something close to surprise flickers across his face.

“You really do think the way I like,” he murmurs, a small nod following. “We’ll come back to that.”

Then his tone shifts again.

“But for now…” His arm lifts once more. “Brace yourself, Darlin’. This one’s gonna stay with you.”

You grip the sheets tighter, pressing your face into the mattress, breath held as you prepare.

The final strike comes down hard.

Hard enough to tear a cry from you before you can contain it, the sound muffled into the fabric beneath you. The pain is immediate and overwhelming - blooming across already sensitive skin until it becomes almost too much to separate from everything else.

Your body trembles, strength slipping from you as the sensation lingers, refusing to fade.

“P-please…” The word breaks from you, though you’re not even sure what you’re asking for.

You turn your head slightly, vision blurred, just in time to see him toss the belt aside.

“Well done, baby girl,” Joel says, his voice steadier again. He steps closer, his gaze trailing over you, assessing. “Look at you… took every bit of it.”

He kneels behind you once more, positioning himself close, his presence surrounding you.

This time, he does not bury his face between your legs though.

His fingers trace lightly over the marks he’s left behind, following each line with a careful touch that makes you flinch despite the gentleness - your body too sensitive now, every sensation heightened.

You barely register how he dips between your folds first, still caught in the pain, your breathing uneven. Your body reacts before your mind catches up as Joel’s fingers dive into you and your wet walls clench around him.

“Too good to waste,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

He pulls the fingers from you again, then there’s movement behind you - fabric shifting, a zipper, the sound of him adjusting - but your focus is fractured, your body heavy, responsive in ways you can’t quite control.

When he pulls you closer, guiding the tip of his cock to your entrance, there’s no resistance left in you. He thrusts into you in one swift, unceremonious motion, setting into rhythm at once. You give only a soft, unsteady reaction as you try to steady yourself against the bed, your body moving with the tempo he sets.

Your strength is gone, reduced to following, to feeling.

At some point, you sense him reaching for something again - the faint sound of leather shifting - but it doesn’t come down this time. Instead, he loops the belt around your throat, pulling tight and shortly after making you lightheaded. You feel your walls clench around his hard cock as he fucks you relentlessly. He is far beyond the point to adjust to your pace, only chasing his own high. But it works for you nonetheless.

“J-Joel…” you manage, your voice breaking.

“I’ve got you, dove,” he answers immediately. “Let go… I’ve got you.”

And you do.

Whatever tension still lingered unravels all at once, your body giving in completely, your breath catching as the orgasm overtakes you.

Behind you, he doesn’t falter. His grip holds, his pace steady, controlled, carrying you through it.

Just to follow you seconds later as your muscles still clench around his twitching cock.

And for the first time he spills into you, not pulling out, not shooting ropes of cum over your back.

You nearly whimper at the sensation, your body still caught in the aftershocks of everything that has just passed through you.

Joel buries himself even deeper with the last spill, his presence firm and grounding as the intensity ebbs. The belt that had held you so tightly eases, his grip loosening. Your head drops forward, a shaky gasp finally breaking free from your chest as air fills your lungs again.

The leather slips away, his hands gentler now as he frees you from it entirely, discarding it somewhere out of sight. One arm moves around you, steady and supportive as he lifts you just enough to keep you from collapsing completely.

To your surprise his lips brush against your shoulder, then along the line of your spine, grounding you in a different way than before.

“My beautiful, beautiful girl,” he murmurs, his voice stripped of its earlier edge. “You went beyond what I asked of you.”

The words settle deep, and something in you gives way.

Tears slip free, quiet and unrestrained.

Not from the lingering ache in your body, nor from the intensity of what he put you through but from something lighter, and overwhelming in its release.

A strange sense of freedom.

Of having endured, of having been seen through it all.

“Th-thank you… Joel,” you manage, barely holding together.

He pulls out, guiding your chest carefully back down onto the bed, but he doesn’t leave you there alone.

Instead, he crouches beside you, one arm slipping beneath you as he lifts you effortlessly, drawing you against his chest. You curl into Joel without thinking, your body folding naturally into the warmth he offers, your cheek resting against him, still damp with tears.

“I should be the one thanking you, doll,” he says softly. You feel the brush of his lips against your forehead. “Ain’t never felt closer to somethin’ holy than I do with you.”

The words blur at the edges of your awareness, exhaustion pulling at you now. You barely register the shift as he lowers you fully onto the bed, easing you down with care.

“There’s no way I’m ever gonna tire of you,” Joel continues as he sits beside you. You can feel his gaze on you even through the fatigue.

“And we’re just gettin’ started,” he adds, almost to himself.

You don’t have the strength to answer. You don’t have to. He already knows that you will not take issue with it.

Confess your thoughts to me or indulge in further stuff:

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[speaktothehandpeasants]

Don't miss this hot as sin chapter 🥵

[sprigsofhazel]

guard dogs - ch. 5 - welcome to the jungle

coupling: joel miller x female reader x tommy miller

wc: 7.6k

summary: you find a safe place to put your physical want. lets see what your step-brothers think about that.

warnings: no explicit content in this chapter but full story is 18+ MDNI ~ coming of age, characters are minors ~ step-sibling attraction ~ possessive/protective step-brothers ~ jealousy ~ emotional manipulation ~ coercive control/controlling behavior ~ subtle gaslighting ~ implied domestic abuse ~ class differences/wealth disparity ~ threats of violence ~ NEW WARNINGS WILL BE ADDED TO EACH CHAPTER.

authors notes: BABES! I know this be slow burning like a mofo right now, but stick with me, I promise I will make it up to you later! Also! Thank you all for the continued love and support you have shown this fic! It literally makes my day when one of you likes, comments and/or reblogs it. Enjoy!<3

spotify playlist for this fic -Chapter title from guns 'n roses song, welcome to the jungle-

previous chapter ~ AO3 ~ series masterlist ~ main masterlist

~ if you got a hunger for what you see, you’ll take it eventually… you can have anything you want, but you better not take it from me ~

Anna has dragged you to a party in her town –Palomino Hills– about 20 minutes from yours. It’s some senior’s house, parents gone and a keg on the back lawn. It's not a rager by any means, 30… 40 people at most. Drinking. Dancing. Talking. You know, the same old shit people have been doing at parties since the dawn of time. Except the house is the size of your old apartment building, and the driveway's got cars in it that cost more than your mom makes in a year – little foreign things, shiny and low to the ground, parked at angles that make them look more relaxed here than you. Inside, the girls have the kind of hair that is on a strict, 4 to 6 week schedule for touch ups, and the boys love wearing their daddies wealth on their wrists. Seriously, you haven’t seen a dude up in here that isn’t wearing a big shiny watch. Some of the scrawnier boys can barely fill them out, and you can’t help but chuckle to yourself, watching one slide up a kid's forearm every time he lifts his cup. But you have no room to laugh, no doubt sticking out like a sore thumb here. 

You're standing in the kitchen holding a Solo cup, mostly using as a prop when a voice beside you says, "You look like you're plotting your escape." 

You turn and look up. Finding a tall fella with slicked back, shoulder length sandy blonde hair and blue-gray eyes. Very much resembling Brad Pitt in Legends of the Fall. 

Ay Caramba.  

His style suggests a mix of preppy and effortlessly cool. That doesn’t surprise you, knowing Palomino Hills contains a heft of wealthier families. He looks nothing like the boys at your school and nothing like the boys in your basement. 

"That obvious?" you say.

"Little bit." He smiles, purely whites on full display. “I’m Tate.”

He's a senior at the high school here which gives him a sheen of mystery. He asks you questions and then actually listens to the answers. Doesn't look over your shoulder for someone better the way boys have done with you at other parties. By the end of the night he's asked for your number, and Anna is mouthing OH MY GOD at you from across the crowded living room. 

2 days later you stand in the kitchen swinging the long coiled phone cord around and around, then wrap it around your finger as you talk with Tate. He called you when he told you he would. That becomes one of the things you really like about him. He does what he says he's going to do and shows up when he says he'll show up. The complete opposite of your dad. So he gets an A+ for that. When you tell him early on that you want to take things slow physically –you brace for the face boys have made at you in the past, the one that clues you in they aren’t too pleased with your request– he just nods and says, "Whatever you need, I want you to feel comfortable, I'm not like other guys." 

It’s not that you want to take all physical things slow, just the full monty, if you catch my drift. So far he seems to be quite alright with all the other things you’re doing together. Plus you feel like you can finally breathe, having a safe place for all your physical wants that you can’t aim at either of your step-brothers without ruining it all. 

You keep Tate to yourself for close to a month. Just wanting to see how things play out between you. But you notice how the secret starts to make you feel. You come in from a date still tasting Tate’s chapstick on your lips and slide into Tommy's or Joel’s bed 20 minutes later, and you lie there feeling like you’re doing something wrong. It's not cheating. Tommy's your friend. Joel's your friend. And you and Tate aren’t even official, so there is no line anywhere for you to be on the wrong side of. 

So why does it feel like there is?

~~

You know it's kinda soon. You haven't been seeing Tate that long — you're not even his girlfriend. But when he invited you to dinner with his parents, there was something in the way he looked at you that made saying no feel impossible.  So you’ve spent the last 3 days losing your mind on what the hell you’re gonna wear. Since the dinner is at their country club. 

Well la-tee-fuckin-da.

You don't have country club clothes. Closest thing is a church dress from two Easters ago, and that just won’t do. But you have Anna, thank God. You go to her place where she has a shit-ton of options waiting for you. You settle on a simple dress and her lowest pair of wedges – so you have a fighting chance of not falling or rolling an ankle. 

Standing in front of the mirror and tugging at the hem, you try to see what a rich woman would see. 

Horse shit. 

That's what you keep thinking. That his mother is going to take one look at you and see the horse shit under her overpriced equestrian riding boots. People like that can smell an apartment kid from a mile away. Can smell the sad existence of hamburger helper and secondhand everything from across a dining room, you're sure of it. 

You're still tugging at the dress when Anna appears behind you in the mirror, arms crossed, head tilted. 

"Okay, staaaahp." She smacks your hand away from the hem. “You look perfect!”

"I look like I'm playing dress-up." Even though you’ve gained copious amounts of confidence in your body since coming back from camp, you’ve never felt comfortable in a dress. They've just never been your thing. The tom-boy inside you is kicking and screaming. 

"Don’t be such a turd in the punch bowl! You look like a total knockout!” She spins you by the shoulders to face her, hands staying there, giving you the serious Anna eyes. “Walk in there like you own the place. Fake it till you make it – that's what most rich people do anyhow.” She reaches up, fixing a piece of your hair. "You survived moving into a basement with two feral teenage boys. A country club is nothing." 

You chuckle with a wary smile. 

The rumble of Tate's car comes up the street right on time. Anna's eyebrows shoot up. "That's your ride, Cinderella!" 

You mumble something about turning back into a pumpkin at midnight, she just scoffs at you and walks you to the door. Tate steps out of the car, making his way up her driveway. When he looks up and sees you, he stops dead in his tracks. Continuing to make your way towards him.

"Wow… look at you, babycakes."

"Don't be weird about it,” you tell him, feeling more self-conscious now that you’re out in the light of the late afternoon. 

"I'm being nice about it. You look really pretty." He takes your hand in his and leads you to his car, opening the door for you. "Relax. They're gonna love you." 

"Have her home by a reasonable hour!" Anna calls from the doorway, with a big smile on her face. 

"No promises," Tate shouts back, grinning.

You slide into the seat, smooth the dress over your knees one more time, and off you go.

~~

The car pulls around the circle drive up to the clubhouse. Coming to a stop under an awning held up by giant white columns. A man other than Tate opens your door for you. “Miss,” he offers you his hand, and you oblige. Tate makes his way around the car, just in time to take you off the man's hand. “Thank you, Reginald.”

Reginald… Jesus. You really aren’t in Kansas anymore. 

Inside the place smells like lemon furniture polish and whatevers on the menu they’re whippin’ up for dinner. Dark green carpet, gold brass fixtures, oil paintings of men who look like they've never once laughed. Ah the lap of luxury. Not a lap you’d ever want to sit in – too uptight, too cold, too stiff. And not in the good way. You keep your elbows close to your body, afraid you might knock over something worth more than your mom's car. 

You make your way through the dining room, weaving through the tables of other snooty patrons. His parents are already at the table. His mother rises first – slim, ash blonde with a touch of silver that blends in well, dainty gold jewelry, the exact woman you feared – you brace for the up-and-down look, the polite frost. Instead she reaches out, taking both your hands. "Oh, there she is! Tate, you didn't tell me she was this lovely – sit by me, honey, come sit by me!" 

Well fuck. 

Now you're more nervous, for a completely different reason. You actually want her to like you now. You didn’t care so much before when you thought she’d be a cold-hearted bitch. 

His father stands next, and the first word that comes to mind is gigantor. This dudes frickin’ huge! Muscular and broad. He reaches out to shake your hand, squeezing your delicate phalanges a little too hard – gigantor doesn’t know his own strength it seems. He orders you a Shirley Temple without making it feel like a kid's drink. Then tells you to get what you want, but gives you his opinion that the filet mignon is the only thing worth eating here, ever since they hired a new head chef and changed the menu. 

Orders are placed and the conversation starts ramping up. You're waiting for the, what do your parents do? So they can discuss and laugh about it together later tonight when they're alone, but it never comes. His mother asks about you, about school and she listens, hand on your arm, smiling kindly at you. When you mention the animal shelter you volunteer at sometimes, she gets all the more excited. Telling you about all the charity work she does, one even being with a different animal shelter. Isn't that something, the two of you have to compare notes. 

Somewhere between the main course and dessert, you realize you've stopped faking it, till you make it, and you're just… talking freely. Tate's got his arm across the back of your chair and his father is telling stories about his Polo playing days. Not the most riveting, but it doesn’t bore you to tears. 

You excuse yourself to the bathroom at one point just to take a breath and stand at the marble sink to look at yourself. These people, who have every reason to look down their noses at you, don't. And you've spent so long feeling like the odd one out. The girl who doesn't quite fit even at her own dinner table, that you figured tonight was going to be a carbon copy of that – except 100 times worse. But tonight, here, surrounded by old money and the upper crust of society, you just slid into place. How fucking bizarre… It shouldn’t mean so much to you but it does. 

Goodbyes happen out front under the awning, valet pulling the cars around. His mother hugs you. It’s warm and comforting, and she smells like gardenias. When she pulls back, her hands slide down your arms and her sleeve rides up. There's a bruise on her forearm. A big one. 

You almost ask, Are you okay? But you swallow it down. Because it's none of your business, and this night has gone too perfectly to go making it weird at the finish line. She's a thin woman – thin women bruise easily, right? Probably caught her arm on a car door. A cabinet corner. Something of that nature. Her sleeve slips back down, and from the bright smile on her face you don’t think she noticed that you saw it. She says she hopes to see more of you soon. You return the smile and pleasantries, saying you hope the same. 

Tate’s parents are the first to drive off. But before leaving the manicured grounds of the country club, he pulls his car to a side parking lot and kills the engine. Then turns to look at you. 

Shifting to meet his gaze you ask, “What’s going on?” 

“You know what my mom said to me when you went to the bathroom?” He’s smiling, clearly delighted at whatever he’s about to tell you, as you answer by shaking your head at him. “She said, don’t you mess this up Tate.” 

Unable to speak, all you feel is shock. His mom likes you… and you weren’t anyone but yourself. 

"So I'm not gonna," Tate puts his hands out for you to take. When you do, his face turns serious. "I want you to be my girlfriend. No more keeping it quiet.” His thumbs brush over your hands. "And I wanna meet your family. Since you met mine.”

"Yeah," you say, smiling before you can stop it. "Okay." 

It's only later, lying in bed that night in Anna’s guest room, staring at a bare ceiling with no glowing stars on it, that the nerves show up. All your mind can think about are the 2 boys back in the basement, and what happens when they find out.

~~

Your mom, upon hearing the word boyfriend, reacts like you've cured cancer. There is squealing and a hand pressed to her chest. And okay, it's not like he's your first boyfriend. It's that you've never brought one home – never handed one over to her to be fed and fussed at. Dinner is proposed, planned, and by Saturday she's got Ric's favorite going on the stove, carne guisada that's been simmering half the day, homemade flour tortillas, rice, the whole spread. She's trying so hard, and you feel grateful for it. The house smells incredible. 

Tate shows up at six on the dot. You hear the loud exhaust announcing his arrival. When you open the door he's standing there in a Ralph Lauren button-down with flowers for you and your mom.

Your mom melts. "Come in, come in! Oh, aren't you just so sweet,” She says, taking both bouquets of flowers from him. His hands now empty, she gets a good look at him. “Myyyyy goodness, look at you!" Might you say it seems like your mom is surprised that you lassoed this strapping young man.

Ric rolls his eyes at your mother with a smile on his face. He moves to greet Tate, one hand settling on your mom's shoulder as he leans past her, the other extended. "Tate. Heard a lot about you." Which is a generous framing of the 48 hours he's known you had a boyfriend.

"All good things, I hope, sir."

Sir. Well, well he seems to be pulling out all the stops. You watch Ric's face but you can’t tell if he’s impressed or suspish. 

You all shuffle your way to the dining room and you hear the boys coming up from the basement. “What’s all the commotion?” Tommy asks, rounding the corner, Joel behind him. 

Sooooo, here’s the thing. As far as you know, nobody’s told them you had a guest coming over. Let alone that the guest just so happens to be your new boyfriend. You had your chance to tell them both last night when you were all chillin’, and you chickened out. Could have told Tommy when you fell asleep next to him. But guess what… bockkkkk bock bock bock. Told yourself you’d do it in the morning. Then morning came and went. So here you are now staring down the barrel of the gun, wishing you’d done it sooner. 

"Boys, this is Tate," your mom chirps. "Your sister’s new boyfriend."

You squeeze your eyes closed for a moment. Please don't be mad, you think at both of them, uselessly. Please. To your astonishment, their faces don’t give much away. They seem fine with it. Odd. They both introduce themselves to Tate. Tommy giving a grin you know all too well, the performance one. 

"Great to meet you guys," Tate says warmly. "She talks about you all the time."

She does? You don't remember doing that.

Everyone moves towards the table to sit and that's when you catch Tommy’s eyes. His face, now giving everything away. He’s no longer grinning. He’s just looking at you – hurt, plain as day, and betrayed. You were in my bed last night… and I'm finding out like this? 

You hold his gaze hoping the look your face says, I’m so sorry. 

Then you look at Joel. He won’t meet your eyes at all. His are fixed on the middle of the table, and he looks upset. Not mad, upset. Sad, upset. And you just want to hug him, tell him you’re sorry too. It's like you can see the gears turning behind all his stillness. How long? Why didn’t she tell me?

You take your seat next to Tate with your stomach in a knot. Counting down the minutes till you get to speak with them alone later tonight.

~~

Dinner, honestly, goes well.

Tate is good at this. He compliments your moms cooking and asks for the story behind the recipe. She tells him it’s Ric’s mom’s recipe, so she can’t take all the credit and Ric reaches over squeezing her hand at some point as she babbles on. Tate watches them with an expression of such warmth that you feel proud of him. Another A+ on the books.

Tate asks Ric about himself, while he keeps a light hand on the back of your chair, not on you – respectful, claiming adjacent. 

"So how'd you two meet, exactly?" Tommy asks, tearing a piece of tortilla. His tone is friendly. His eyes… not so much. 

"A little get-together at my buddy's place. She was standing in the kitchen looking like she wanted to leave." Tate smiles at you. "Figured I'd give her a reason to stay."

"Hm, how thoughtful of you." Tommy says, unimpressed, words laced with sarcasm. 

You try to give Tommy the stink eye, but he won’t look at you, so you let it go.

A little later, Tate's telling a story about his car – the Cobra, how his dad helped him get into cars – and you happen to look at Joel then. He isn't eating. The fork in his hand rests against his plate while Tate talks. He's watching him, studying him.

"You should hear this thing run," Tate says, pulling your eyes away from Joel. "’93 SVT Cobra. Nothing like it."

"Boys are building a Mustang too out in the garage actually," Ric offers, with a note of pride in it. "'67 Fastback. Been at it a few years now."

"No kidding." Tate turns to the brothers, showing interest. "That's awesome. Old ones are cool!”

By dessert, your mom's telling the story about you falling in the toilet at 2 am your first month here. “She never checked the seat, these 2 heathens never put it down." Tate is laughing, and Tommy pipes in, “In our defense, we never had to worry about putting the lid down.” And for a moment the whole table is laughing together. You look around at all of them mid-laugh and think, maybe this will all be just fine.

~~

You walk him out after dinner. The Mustang sittin’ pretty at the curb under the streetlight. Tate takes your hand on the way down the driveway, swinging it a little. 

"Well," you say. "I think that went really good! My mom likes you. Like, really likes you. Ric'll come around more, think he just doesn’t really know how to handle all this." You laugh, bumping his shoulder. "But I'm really glad you met them. All of them."

"Me too." He stops at the car, turns, takes both your hands. "Your mom's great! Ric seems solid, but I get what you're saying, him never having a daughter before you." Tate pauses for a moment, then continues. "Your step-brothers, though...."

"What about them?" You quickly respond, a little defensive.

"Nothing, nothing. They just seemed kind of… cold, I guess? To me." He shrugs. "The younger one with the little comments, and the older one barely said two words the whole night. I don't know." He looks at you, blue eyes a little wounded. "Do they always act like that with you? Or is it just me?"

"They're—" You laugh a little, wanting to set the record straight. "That's just them. Tommy's got a smart mouth and Joel's quiet with everybody. That's not – they weren't being cold."

"Okay." He says it fast, hands up, retreating smoothly from the conversation. "Forget I said anything. You know them better than I do." He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear and smiles. For a second the act of Joel doing the same that first night in his room flashes in your mind, before Tate speaks again. "I just care about you. I notice stuff, that's all."

He kisses you goodnight, soft and unhurried. The Cobra roars away down the street. You stand in the driveway a minute after he's gone.

Do they always act like that with you?

Not any more they don’t. Sure, when you first moved in. But they weren't cold to him. Were they? Tommy asked questions. Joel's always quiet. That's just them, you know them, you live with them.

When you come in, you have a feeling the boys are gonna be waiting on you. And you should be walking down there annoyed. You didn't do anything wrong. You didn't lie. You just… didn't tell them. Therein lies the problem, because they know you pretty much tell them everything, and you chose to omit this and say nada. Then drop the bomb on them in front of everyone, where they couldn’t do or say anything about it, aside from smile and take it. You did do something wrong, and you can’t feel annoyed. All you feel is upset with yourself, for treating them this way. 

You stand at the bottom of the stairs and take a deep breath, not knowing how this will go. You haven't given yourself a moment to play it out, aware your brain will only concoct up the worst outcomes. Rounding the corner, there they sit on the couch, waiting up for you as you anticipated – Tommy at one end, Joel at the other, the middle cushion empty. Your cushion. You don't sit. You stand in front of the couch with the coffee table behind you, hands clasped, eyes on the floor. Ready for your scolding like a kid in the principal's office. 

Tommy finally breaks the silence. “So,” he says, stretching the word out. “Tate.” He says the name like someone just handed him a baby he didn't ask to hold – arms straight out, wanting no part of it, waiting for somebody to come take it back. "Real nice car." 

"Tommy—" you start, looking over at him.

He cuts you off, putting his hand up. "No, no. Cobra. ‘93. Nothing like it, I hear.”

Your eyes start to burn, feeling the pain you caused them. “I’m sorry,” you drop to your knees in front of them, head hanging with shame while the tears build. 

They could let you sit in it. They could make you feel it, could return an ounce of what got dealt to them at the table, and it'd be fair. But as they look down at you like this – small and wrecked, kneeling at their feet – neither one of them has it in them. Because there is nothing you could do that would make them want to watch you hurt. Not one thing. They'd take the ambush a 100 times over before they'd take this. 

"Hey. Hey, c'mon, don’t do that.” Tommy's voice has lost all its bite from before. "Come up here with us.” You don't get up. You just shake your head, the first tear falling, hitting the carpet, and you watch as it darkens the fibers. You're about to say sorry again, but there is a hand on your jaw. Joel’s. Two fingers under your chin, gently tipping your face up until you have no choice but to meet his eyes. He's leaned all the way forward off the couch to reach you, forearm on his knee, and his face isn't cold or closed off. It's just Joel, but he’s looking at you the way he looked at you the night he said you’ve got a place here with us.

"Stop," he says, quietly. His thumb catches the tear on your cheek before it can get far. "None of this." 

"I should've told you," you get out, wobbly. "I should've told both of you and I didn't and then you had to find out like that…”

“Yeah, you should’ve.” Joel says, not letting you off the hook.

“But hey—” Tommy says, and you turn to look at him, Joel’s hand dropping from your face. "You didn't do it to hurt us. You did it 'cause you were scared of how we'd take it. Right?” He shrugs, mouth tugging sideways. 

You nod.

Joel extends his arm out to you, hand open, palm up. “C’mere. Get up here with us.” You take his hand and he pulls you up off your knees, and Tommy pats the middle cushion. You fold down into the space between them. They both scooch in close to you, not giving you the difficult choice of who to lean towards. All 3 of your heads leaning back against the couch. 

There is a little bit of comfortable silence before Joel says, "You know we don’t want you to be afraid of us… you can always come to us, tell us anything. No matter what it is.” Tommy finishes his brother's thought. “And will always be here for you.”

Oh great, here comes the water works again.

What have you done to deserve these sweet boys? You shut your eyes tight, a tear or two escaping down your cheek. You clear your throat before speaking, “I know, and I will from now on. I promise.”

On either side of you, the brothers are thinking the same thing. That you're not the problem. The problem drives a cherry red Mustang. And the problem, they both suspect, is just getting started.

For the next couple weeks you can tell their disdain for Tate is growing by the day, though you're unsure as to why, all their short interactions that you’ve seen between them have been friendly. You still end up in one of their rooms most nights. Even on the nights you've been out with Tate, even when his cologne is still on your neck and in your hair. You come home and slip out of the new version of yourself you wore for him, and let yourself be held by boys who still know you better than your boyfriend does, and they continue to hold you like nothing has changed, thankfully. Because you don't know what you'd do if they stopped.

You keep this from Tate, having a feeling he wouldn't be too keen on the whole set up – his girlfriend sleeping in another guy's bed, two other guys' beds actually, step-brothers or not. ‘Cause you don't know the right words to say to explain it in a way that sounds innocent. Because it is innocent. 

Isn’t it?

~~

You're not ready. You're supposed to be ready. Tate said seven and it's seven when you hear the Cobra rumble up the street. You’ve been running behind more and more recently. Always trying to make sure you’re at your most presentable for Tate. 

You hustle through the kitchen and pop your head out the door to the garage. The big door's rolled up, both brothers puttsing around – Tommy bending over the engine bay of the Fastback, Joel sitting at the workbench with a part in his hand – and beyond them, Tate coming up the driveway, looking like a guy straight outta the Polo Ralph Lauren catalogue. 

"Hey! I'm almost ready, just a few more minutes, I swear." You shout, waving him toward the garage. "Just hang out here, talk cars with the guys." You know he hates when you're late, hates waiting on you. So when you see his smile fall, you know you have to get your ass in gear. 

“Sure thing, babycakes.” Tate says with a flat tone.

You glance at your step-brothers. Who are still focused on their tasks. “Be nice,” you whisper to them with Tate still out of ear shot. Then duck back inside.

Joel hears the door shut, sets the carburetor down, and takes a deep breath before he swivels around on the stool. He really doesn’t wanna interact with this jackwagon, but knows it’ll make you happy.

Tate stands at the edge of the garage. Joel figures it ‘cause he doesn’t wanna get his ritzy outfit dirty. 

Privileged little cocksucker.

Be nice. That’s what you asked of him. So fine. Joel can do a few minutes of nice. 

"So this is the project, huh?" Tate asks, finally taking a few steps into the garage. Both boys know he’s looking at the car like it's a hunk-of-junk, their poverty hobby.

"Yep." Tommy straightens up out of the engine bay, and pats the fender. “Pulled the motor over the winter, rebuilding her top to bottom." 

"Cool, cool." Tate nods along. "What's it got in it?" 

"Right now? A 289. Might stroke it though, we haven't decided." Tommy tosses out. "You know, might just keep it period-correct. How ‘bout ‘ur?" 

"Nice. Yeah, mine's got the – it's the Cobra motor." Tate hooks a thumb back toward the street where the red car sits. "Two-forty horse. You should hear it open up." 

Joel leans back against the bench, arms crossing. He’s got a suspicion that his car has never seen a wrench that wasn’t wearing a dealership shirt. "Pushrod or dual overhead cam?" 

Tate’s eyes widen. "It's the… I mean, it's the SVT setup. They only make so many of 'em a year." 

"Huh," Joel says. Tommy's got a rag going through his hands, and Joel can feel his brother arriving at the same place he just arrived at without either of them looking at each other. 

Bought. Not built. 

This trust fund Ken doll doesn’t know a thing about that car aside from what he read off the brochure. He knows the badge, the number the salesman told his daddy, but he’s never had that hood up a day in his life. He’s the kind of guy who’ll rev that Cobra at every stoplight in town and never know all the small details that go into making that noise. 

Just then your laugh comes though the other side of the door. Loud and spilling out from somewhere in the house. All 3 of the boys look at the door. A smile finding both Joel and Tommy’s face – a reflex your laugh now pulls out of them. 

"She laughs really loud sometimes." Tate says. "You guys ever noticed that? Can hear it clear across a restaurant." He shakes his head, a little indulgent. "Told her we gotta work on her inside-voice. Now I just give her a little look and she stops." 

And just like that the smile dies on Joel's face.

A little look.

Joel thinks about the thrift store. How loud your laugh was when you doubled over in that aisle when he stepped out from the dressing room, asking him to give you a little twirl in those ridiculous JNCOs. Never once has Joel heard that sound and wanted to silence it or wished it quieter. Your laugh has always made him want to laugh right along with you. And the idea that Tate has trained a look that shuts it off –that there's a signal you’re already obeying– makes him feel ill.

Tate stands there and checks his watch. "She always run late like this? Seems like I'm always waiting on her." 

Agitated as hell now with this entire conversation, Tommy chucks the rag onto the fender. "You know what, maybe she's just tryin' to look nice for you." 

Tate huffs a laugh. “Yeah, I guess. I do have her wearing her hair down more – she looks way better like that." 

Joel can feel his few minutes of nice coming to a close. At first he was just annoyed by this silver-spoon-sucking little shit. Spent this whole conversation deciding Tate’s just a harmless idiot. But after both remarks about you, Joel’s starting to see red. Tommy pipes up, trying to keep his cool, searching through the tools next to his brother. "Funny. I’ve always thought she looked nice, however she wants to wear it.” 

“We all have our preferences. I just voiced mine to her.” Tate says, before plastering a devious grin on his face. “She’s so eager to please.”

In that moment, Joel thinks back to you kneeling before him and his brother. And the restraint Joel typically holds is nowhere to be found, when the stool screeches back across the concrete as he flies off of it. Two steps of bad intentions already in motion. He’s gonna strangle this polo wearing prick. But Tommy's hand clamps around his brother's upper arm. Hard. He doesn't yank, doesn't make a scene of it – just locks on and holds, planting himself half a step in front of his big brother. Not here. Not now. Joel feels from his brother's action, as the door to the house flies open.

"Okay, okay, I'm ready!" You come out in a rush of vanilla and flowing hair, grabbing Tate's hand and hauling him down the driveway before anybody can say another word. “Bye guys!” You toss over your shoulder, bright and happy and completely clueless as to what all was just said and what was about to happen. 

Tommy lets go of Joel's arm. The Cobra fires up at the curb, Tate revs the engine like a deliberate middle finger he couldn’t resist throwing, and pulls away with the sound of his car echoing off every house on the street. The taillights swing around the corner, and everything goes quiet except the radio on the workbench, where Axl's opening scream is just starting in Welcome to the Jungle.

Neither of them says anything. Joel stands there staring out at the road, hands flex at his sides. This country club cum stain has no idea who territory he’s stumbled into. If he keeps fuckin’ around, he’s gonna find out real fast what kind of animals he’s messed with. They both know the version of you Tate gets, a polished up princess, who has an apology on her lips because she’s already been trained to think making him wait is some kinda unforgivable sin. But they know the real you.

They know this preppy parasite has spent his whole life taking, taking, taking. He probably sees you as nothing more than another object to add to his collection of pretty things. A girl he’ll try to shape and mold into what he wants, a girl he’ll teach to obey him. Tate can have the Cobra. The trust fund. The country-club future where he can continue to take everything that’s handed to him – where his mommy still, pretty much, wipes his ass and coddles him. He can have the whole fucking world if he wants it.

But he can’t have you. Not your laugh. Not your messy hair when you can’t be bothered. Not your soft skin. Not your happiness or your sadness. Those things don’t belong to Tate, he doesn’t appreciate them like your step brothers do. 

Joel & Tommy know the world is full of men who’d love to hurt you –not just Tate– and having you in their lives has given them a reason to stand guard again. Has given something back to both of them that they lost the morning their mother was wheeled out of the house – someone to look after, someone to keep safe. They couldn't save their mom. They were kids, they were too small, they didn't have the power or the knowledge. But they aren't kids anymore. 

Guys like Tate always trip over their own act eventually. The mask will slip where you can see it. And until then if he frightens you, hurts you, puts his hands on you in a way you haven't asked for, or makes you feel any other way than good.

They’ll kill him.

~~

Couple nights later, Tate pulls up in front of the driveway, exhaust rumbling. He gets out and leans his back on the car next to the passenger door, waiting for you there. Tate sees Joel and Tommy in the garage once again, fiddling with the project car. You open the front door, stepping out of the house even more dolled up than normal. As you reach the car Tate gives you a grin. He grabs your face and pulls you in for a kiss. “Damn babycakes,” he says, pulling out of the kiss to look down at you. “Looking so fine and on time.”

Your brothers don’t even try to hide the way they watch. Stepping out, around the car, walking towards the opening of the garage. Both of them with a heavy wrench in their hands. Joel slaps one end of his against the palm of his opposite hand as they come to a stop. Tommy’s wrench loose in his hand at his side, mirrors Joel’s stance half a second later – the way he often mirrors Joel. Two boys who learned the same body language growing up in the same den.

Tate glances over at them, then back at you with a small, dismissive laugh. “Your guard dogs on duty tonight?”

Stealing a look over your shoulder at the pair of them, and yeah, they do look defensive standing there, squared up, shoulder to shoulder, every line of their bodies communicating something protective. But even with their rigid posture you swear you see a flash of dismay in their eyes. You’ve been so busy lately with school, friends and now Tate, that you haven’t had much time to hang out or talk with them. You push down the panicked feeling threatening to overwhelm you. The feeling of this new person in your life is going to really start to change things between you and them. That every step you take toward Tate is a step you take away from them. You give Joel and Tommy a worried smile, hoping it conveys, please don't let this change us and slide into the passenger seat.

It’s gotta be just classic territorial step-brother shit, right? Instinctive. Just brothers not wanting to see their sister get hurt. The kind of thing Ric would be proud of if he saw. That's all this is. You repeat this to yourself on the drive, while Tate’s hand finds your thigh.

~~

Joel crosses the basement to your room. Finding the door open and bed empty, he heads towards Tommy's room. Some part of him hoping to find you already curled up in his brother's sheets, back from wherever Tate took you, safe and done with the night. But when he knocks and opens the door, the only person in Tommy's bed is Tommy, sitting up against the headboard with a magazine.

He looks up when Joel comes in, the question already answered by the lack of your presents, but he asks anyway. "She's not back?" 

"No." Tommy tosses the magazine aside. 

Joel stays standing, one hand braced on the doorframe. The clock on Tommy's nightstand reads 11:47. You left at 7:00.

"Where the hell did he take her?" Tommy asks.

"I don't know."

"It's almost midnight, Joel."

"I'm aware." Joel pushes off the frame, shuts the door and starts pacing – 2 steps toward the desk, 2 steps back, the room too small for the restlessness running through him. 

Tommy swings his legs off the bed, plants both feet on the floor, his leg bouncing with nervous energy. "That guy's phoney as fuck,” he says looking towards his big brother. “I really don't fuckin' like him.”

“I don’t either, Tommy.”

"And the way he talked about us tonight. Guard dogs… fuckin’ guard dogs, Joel. Can you believe that shit?!”

“I heard him.” Joel stops pacing. “He's tryin' to make her think we're the problem. So when we do say somethin', she's already been primed to brush it off."

Tommy's quiet for a second, processing. “So manipulative."

Joel doesn't argue. Tommy's right, and the fact that Tommy can see it so clearly when Tommy usually charges through life headfirst without pausing to read the room tells Joel everything he needs to know about how wrong this feels. 

Joel drops into the desk chair, elbows coming to rest on his knees, hands holding the side of his face. "Somethin's really off about him. I feel it in my gut. Somethin' ain't right – aside from the things he says about her."

Tommy leans forward, picking at the fraying knee of his jeans. "I feel it too. Thought maybe I was just bein'—" He waves a hand. "I dunno. Jealous or whatever."

"Are you?" Joel’s head quickly lifts to see his brother.

Tommy looks at him, and in his face Joel can see the honesty Tommy has never been good at hiding. "Yeah. I am. But that's not what this is. This is somethin' else."

Joel nods. Because he's jealous too – in a way that has nothing to do with Tate's Mustang or his looks and everything to do with the fact that you chose someone else's passenger seat and Joel had to stand in a garage and watch you go. But Tommy's right. The jealousy is just an overtone. What's underneath the jealousy is a gut feeling. 

"We need to talk to her," Joel says. “We sit her down and we tell her what we see." 

"You think she’s gonna get upset with us?”

"Maybe."

"What if she pulls away from us even more than she already has..." Tommy shakes his head and falls back on the bed. "What if she stops comin' to our rooms? We just lose her to this sweater vest wearing twat?"

"No." Joel says it hard enough that Tommy lifts his head from the bed. "Listen to me. We’re gonna be nice, just tell her what we see. We say our piece and regardless of how that goes – whether she listens or tells us to go to hell – we treat her the exact same as we have been. No pulling back. We don't get cold with her. If she still wants to come into one of our rooms at night, we let her. We don't shut her out."

Tommy stares at his brother with uncertainty. He was already halfway to considering exactly what Joel just forbade. Because pulling back is what he does when something scares him.

"I'm serious. Her fuckin’ dad walked away from her, Tommy. You think I'm gonna be the next guy who makes her feel like she's not wanted? You think I'm gonna let you be that? We're not gonna be the guys who disappear because she's doing somethin' we don't like or who make her feel like she’s only worth keepin' around when she does what we want."

The frustration drains out of Tommy’s face, understanding taking its place as Joel continues.

“She needs to know she can always come to us. No matter what. Like we told her. Because she's gonna need us. Maybe not tonight. Maybe not tomorrow. But something is up with that guy, we both know it, and sooner or later, she’s gonna know it too and we gotta be there for her when she does. Got it?"

"Yeah." Tommy sits back up, nodding. "Yeah, I got it."

"Good."

At 12:14, headlights sweep across the basement window and they hear the all too familiar sound dipshit’s exhaust. Then a car door, followed by the basement side door opening and closing, carefully and quietly. Tommy lets out a long breath, Joel stands up from the chair.  

“We talk to her soon.” Joel says in a hushed voice.

Tommy nods in agreement as they listen to you move through the basement, getting ready for bed – shoes off, bathroom, water running. Your footsteps come towards their bedrooms. You pause outside of the younger brother's door. Then they hear a soft knock on Joel's.

Joel looks at Tommy. Tommy lifts his chin. Go.

Joel opens Tommy’s door, closing it behind him, to see you standing there in front of his door waiting. Your makeup washed off, your eyes tired, and one of his t-shirts gracing your frame. 

"Oh hey," you say, looking at him surprised and nervous. "Can I—"

"Get in there," Joel says, with a small smile and the tilt of his head towards his room. 

You smile back, big and grateful. You climb into his bed, tucking your face into his neck, right where it belongs. He pulls you close and whispers c’mere estrellita, there you go – he feels your whole body relax and part of him lets go too. But the worry and vigilance. Those stay. Those stay as long as Tate is in your life. 

No. 

Those stay as long as you are alive and breathing.

I'd love to hear your thoughts! They truly help keep us writers motivated and writing for you babes! Also consider re-blogging so others can find and enjoy the fic as well! <3

If you're tagged it's cause you showed interest in at least one of the posts for this story or cause I thought you might be interested, if you don't want to be tagged just let me know. If your not tagged and you would like to be just ask and I'll add you to the list. <3

Tag list #1:

@mrsnanamiller @joelismyserotonin @mcthsman @maxtimiii @jothenurse91 @thelastoftays @fadedvioletwrites @harriedandharassed @mabelmiller @peepawmiller @xkyxkyxxlylcylulucuflfluclu @pedrosprisonbitch @milla-frenchy @imjustaprettyprincess @mystickittytaco @aurorawritestoescape @kokoluwie @ess-evo @fauxmiller @pascalland @whannahbeyourss @copperhalfcent @isabellaboo2025 @mimi-miller @simpingforjoel @dugiioh @broad-shouldrs @goonersquad101 @time-for-my-weekly-spanking @din-cognito

[time-for-my-weekly-spanking]

Another great chapter, I’m so amazed by this fic! 😍😍😍

First of all I love your humor and I love the way you handled Tate, making us discover his character little by little, at the beginning he even seems nice and then as the chapter went on I started to hate him more and more, what a fake, little bitch, snobbish and judgmental guy 😤

He doesn't want a girlfriend, he wants a doll to show off and shape as he pleases, how disgusting!

I hope reader will realize this soon, although I can understand why she fell for it, the glam, the fake gallantry and politeness and the love bombing… UGH.

I have a feeling his poor mother got caught up in this pattern before she realized what she was getting herself into, giving the bruise… I feel so sorry for her.

And oh my god, the boys! I loved the way they handled themselves, with great emotional intelligence, knowing how to wait and see how the situation unfolded without directly opposing him. And I'm happy they're ready to face whatever comes next with her, because that's what she needs. Sometimes mistakes are only visible when they're thrown in your face, but it's only right that people who truly care about you know how to help you without holding anything back and being truly there for you. They’re so precious, I want to cry 🥹

Thanks for sharing this beauty with us 🫂💗

[time-for-my-weekly-spanking]

Take my hand where you want it - boss!Joel Miller x married!f!reader

Rating: Explicit, MDNI

WC: 2,6k

Summary: After you discover that your husband is cheating on you with Joel's secretary, Joel becomes your confidant. One night, after your husband comes home late yet again, you rush to Joel for comfort. And Joel makes sure you get everything you deserve. Tags: no outbreak, smut with a little plot, infidelity, reader is the wife of one of Joel's employees, kissing, reader gives instructions to Joel, consent king!Joel, soft!Joel, unprotected p in v, cream pie, nipple play, tits biting, sex on a table, hubby cheated first so fuck him, dirty talking, praising, Joel and his huge cock (heheheh), Joel keeps reader panties, pussy pronouns,mention of a vibe and masturbation, no description of reader besides having pussy and breasts and wearing a dress.

A/N: This one won the poll I made for the latest WIP Wednesday. I don't know why infidelity has become a recurring trope for me, I would never do that in real life, but here we are 😂 (I'm also single af sooo). English is not my first language, I apologize for any mistakes. I hope you like it, comments and reblogs are deeply appreciated.

dividers by: @/saradika-graphics

You don’t know what drove you to do it. Or rather, you do know. All too well.

You snuck out at night, like a thief, leaving your husband in bed.

How ironic. Until recently, you were responsible, a devoted wife, someone who tried her best to make the relationship work.

Of course, that was before you found out your husband was systematically cheating on you. Every sudden meeting, every urgent deadline, every project he had to work on late into the night—it was actually his boss secretary riding his cock in a seedy motel.

So what was the point of struggling to hold together the shards of something that was shattering right before your eyes?

What was the point of settling for your vibrator, masturbating silently in the bathroom, biting your lips and stifling your desperate need for someone to make you come the way your husband hadn’t even dreamed of doing for so long—far too long—while he had no qualms about shoving his cock into another woman’s pussy?

One day you stopped by the construction site where you thought you’d find your husband to bring him his favorite sandwich.

You didn’t find him. But you found Joel, his boss.

He was nice. He told you your husband was out to lunch. “Actually, he’s running late—he was supposed to be back half an hour ago.”

You looked at him. You looked at the desk next to his, and then back at him.

“Where’s Joanne?”

“At lunch,” he told you.

“They always disappear at the same time, right?”

You saw the exact moment when something clicked in his brain, when he connected the dots and his eyebrows furrowed, his lower lip trembling.

“Shit,” he whispered, his hands on his hips.

He didn’t dare look at you anymore, his eyes fixed on Joanne’s empty chair.

You didn’t want to cry, but you felt your cheeks streaked and wet.

Joel looked embarrassed, sorry, still confused as to how something like that had slipped his mind.

“I had no idea, I’m sorry,” he tried to explain.

“It’s not your fault, you know. A wife notices that kind of thing…” you said, quickly wiping your cheeks with the back of your hand.

Joel hugged you.

Driving home, you spent the whole time thinking about why you’d chosen a man like your husband instead of someone like Joel.

Why did you always fall in love with jerks? Why did you always let them treat you that way?

Your husband was late again. By now, you’d given up hope that he’d change. You pretended to be asleep, waited for him to get into bed and hear him snoring, and then you slipped out from under the covers.

Fuck it. Fuck him and the way he never knew how to satisfy you. Or take you into consideration. He’d been taking you for granted for at least a year.

At that point, you’d had enough of having dinner ready for him, the house clean, and his clothes washed and perfectly ironed.

Fuck it.

You threw on a dress in a hurry, fixed your hair, grabbed your bike, and started pedaling into the night. You weren’t even thinking about where you were going as the wind whipped against your face and your bike’s light cut through the darkness.

You arrived in front of Joel’s house. You left your bike in his driveway and knocked on the door.

The light was on in his bedroom. You heard his footsteps approaching as you waited under his porch in total silence.

The neighborhood was asleep.

“What are you doing here? Did something happen?” Joel asked you. He seemed surprised but stepped aside to let you in.

“Sorry for showing up here at this hour,” you mumbled, suddenly feeling the weight of what you were doing. “Joel, he…”

“Did he do it again?” he interrupted, looking at you with concern.

You instinctively buried your face in his chest. Joel didn’t touch you, but he let you do it.

“I’m so tired, so tired,” you cried, soaking his shirt.

You looked at him through your tears, asking the one question you were truly afraid to ask.

“I have to file for divorce, don’t I?”

“I mean…not my business but he’s a jerk. He doesn’t deserve you,” Joel nodded.

You knew that.

Joel had become your confidant by chance, but he’d been a good friend.

You’d been talking for a few weeks, ever since the first time he’d comforted you.

It was nice. He was nice. 

You didn't have the courage, and you'd never been the vengeful type, but a few times you were on the verge of asking him to fire your husband.

Joel’s hands rested on your shoulders, then on your back, holding you close. “Cry,” he said simply, in a gentle voice, “let it all out.”

Joel was warm. He was gentle, reassuring, affectionate. And you needed that.

Your tear-filled eyes met his again, his knuckles brushed your cheek in a barely perceptible caress.

You took his hand. Clasping it tightly in yours, you pressed your lips to the back of his hand, whispering, “Thank you, Joel.”

“Don’t worry,” he replied, smiling at you “You can stay here for a while if you want. I'll go to my room, but call me if you need anything.”

“No, please, don’t leave me alone…” you begged him, unable to let go of his hand.

You hadn’t held a man’s hand in a long time, and Joel’s fingers intertwined with yours felt wonderful.

A feeling you’d been missing.

“What can I do for you?” he asked you. No one had asked you anything like that in years.

No one had paid you any attention in months. 

Your husband fucked you lazily a couple of times recently, just quick thrusts, without any care or feeling, just out of marital duty. It was as if he were having sex with an inflatable doll. 

It made you feel stupid and inadequate, without any charm or allure.

You didn’t know what to say.

“I…” You were afraid. Afraid to express what you were feeling, to say what you were going through, to put a name to what Joel was making you feel.

You realized you were trembling in his arms. It wasn’t cold, it wasn’t fear—it was desire.

And when your brain registered it, sending the message to the lower part of your body, you felt a warmth rising from your stomach. A sensation similar to when you let yourself go in the privacy of your bathroom, slipping the vibrator into your panties.

So screw it.

“I just want to feel alive again, I want passion… I want…”

“Sex?” He interrupted you. Straight to the point.

“I…yeah” you lowered your gaze, looking at the tips of your shoes.

“With me?” He asked, gently taking your chin with two fingers and bringing your gaze back to his.

“P-Please…” you muttered.

You couldn't have thought of anyone else. No one who made you feel as safe as Joel.

“Take my hand where you want it,” he invited you. He was calm, reading your eyes, sensing your need.

“Take my hand where you want it”

Holding him by the wrist, you lifted your dress with your other hand, placing Joel’s hand on your hip, just above the waistband of your panties. Joel’s hand was relaxed; he let you guide it.

That was all it took.

You were standing in his living room, and the way Joel’s eyes were looking at you made you think you deserved more. You deserved someone who would look at you as intensely as he was. You deserved him.

Joel held you gently, respectfully; his fingers lingered at the hem of your panties, waiting for your consent. He didn’t go any further, letting you enjoy the weight of his hand on you, his warmth, and his long, calloused fingers resting on your bare skin.

You basked in that sensation, feeling your body come back to life, ignite, and burn.

Joel had never allowed himself to cross the line; he’d always acted like a friend up until that moment—never an inappropriate joke, never a mean remark, never trying to dominate you or force you to do anything you weren’t ready for.

But now, this unexpected closeness was telling you everything you needed to know. His gaze spoke for him, as did his hands and his hips, which moved involuntarily against yours, like a reflex he couldn’t control. He lowered his gaze, you even thought you saw him blush.

You were ready to allow yourself to think about yourself—and only yourself—as you hadn't done in far too long.

You let his hand slide down onto your panties.

His fingers moved cautiously, sliding down at the side, as if he were afraid to get too close to your center.

“Joel…”

“What do you want, baby?”

“I want you” you hesitated for a second before adding, “I want you to remind me what it feels like… touch me, Joel.” Your voice was shaky as you looked into his eyes. But you were certain, more certain than you’d ever been about anything.

“Guide me, then. Use your words, sweetheart, tell me exactly how you want me to touch you.”

And you did. 

His hand slid down over your mound, while his mouth was on your neck, kissing and sucking on you tender skin. 

His index and middle fingers found your wetness, plunging into it, gathering it up, and guiding it toward your clit.

You moaned, and when he began to trace tight concentric circles on your nerve bundle, you praised him, “Like that… just like that, don’t stop.”

Joel tried to take it slow and steady; whenever he applied too much pressure, you gently corrected him, and he caught on immediately, learning to read your body’s reactions.

His other hand clasped your breast again, and you found enough strength to whisper, “Play with my nipples.”

Two of his fingers closed around it, twisting it, pulling gently, making it harden. A shiver ran down your spine, and a guttural sound escaped your throat: “God… yes.”

He was completely focused on you; his clothed erection was pressing against your thigh, but he didn't seem bothered by it. 

Your dress slipped over your head shortly after, he pulled down your bra, and his fingers were around your button again.

He leaned down, his fingers still tracing circles over your clit as your nipple slipped between his lips. He began to suck slowly, his tongue darting over the tip, his hand cupping the underside of your breast, testing your softness.

“Bite it…” you moaned, your hand tugging his hair at the base of his neck. 

He did it, softly, holding his bite ever so gently but squeezing enough to make your knees buckle.

He smiled on your skin, watching you slowly fall apart for him. 

“You like that, huh? Want more?” 

“Yes” you replied under your breath, clutching your other hand on his bicep. 

“This pussy’s been neglected for too long, babe, you want me to take care of her?” He whispered.

“Please…that’s all I want” you whined.

“Table, couch, bed… choose” he growled. 

“Table” You didn't know how long it had been since your husband had slammed you onto your kitchen table to fuck you. He'd done it when you were newlyweds. Now it was a faint memory.

God, you missed that type of passion so badly. 

Joel took you in his arms, your legs around his waist. He pushed you on the table, took off your shoes and slid your panties down. 

“Taking this a little souvenir, okay?” He said, pushed them down the pocket of his jeans. 

You giggled “yeah, why not” 

He looked at you, all spread and open for him. 

“You look amazing like that” 

You felt your cheeks heat up as you begged him, “Fuck me, Joel, please.”

“How do you want it?” he asked. He was calm and composed, waiting for your instructions, despite the bulge growing in his pants. 

“Rough,” you replied, “and raw.”

“Are you sure?” 

“Yes, Joel.” You smiled at him. You had a IUD and you trusted him more than any man you knew.

Joel wasn’t a womanizer. He raised his daughter on his own, built a company from scratch, he didn't have time to screw around. 

But boy, he fucked you like crazy that night. 

He leaned down over you, kissed a trail down your neck, along your collarbone, and down your arm until he took your fingers into his mouth. 

He coated them with his saliva, his tongue gliding skillfully over them. He released them, smirking. 

“Do me a favor, okay? Use them on your clit while I fuck you. I'd really love to see it”

You nodded, feeling your whole body aching for him..

He took off his shirt, revealing his freckled, tanned chest. Your mouth watered at the sight. He was so handsome. Muscular, but not too much. Your eyes took in his broad shoulders, his biceps, and drifted down to the happy trail that disappeared into his jeans. He pulled them down, kicking them off.  When his boxers joined his jeans on the floor, you were left breathless. 

He was huge. He wrapped one hand around it, moving closer. 

“I know what you’re thinking. It’s okay, it’ll fit.”

You were soaking wet. With every centimeter he entered you, you felt his veins sliding against your walls, his girth stretching you, as you eagerly sucked his cocked in. 

Joel was praising you, whispering in your ear, “Good girl. All nice and wet for me. You’re taking it so well.”

Every word that slipped into your ears sounded like honey—or perhaps like a poison that was hypnotizing you. You liked it. You wanted more. Moans rose from your throat uncontrollably. 

“All the w-way in,” you managed to stammer, “give it to m-me. . . all of it, Joel.”

When he reached the bottom, you felt his balls press against your butt. 

“Are you okay?”

“I'm fine.” You were filled to the brim. Craig, your husband, couldn't even come close to competing. He had a nice cock, sure, but Joel...

He grabbed your legs, holding them slightly raised with his arms, and started moving.

You were bouncing on the table as if you weighed nothing, while he thrust into you. 

One of his hands reached for your breast, the other held you by the hips.

“That's what you needed, right? For me to stuff you like this? To stretch out this pretty little pussy, huh?” He grunted. 

“Yes. Yes Joel”

He lifted you up to sit on the table, sliding you along the edge—still inside you—while holding one of your legs. 

The change in position allowed him to reach that special spot inside you. 

You slid your hand down between the two of you, reaching your clit.

“Yeah, baby, touch yourself.”

It was intoxicating. As soon as you started drawing circles on your bundle of nerves, you started moaning his name, over and over. So loud that you thought the whole neighborhood would hear you. 

Your breasts were pressed against his sweat-beaded chest, your nipples rubbing against it with every thrust.

Your other hand slid through his hair, tugging at his curls. 

“That’s it, gorgeous, Don’t stop stroking that pretty clit for me”

That idiot Craig never let you do it, every time you tried, he complained that he wasn't enough for you.

Joel was urging you on, “Come on, baby, I know you’re close, I can feel the way you’re clenching around me” speeding up the pace.

You did, your cunt was literally spasming around the huge thickness of his cock, crying all over, juices dripping on your inner thighs. 

You came, quivering in his arms, your whole body shaking, overstimulated and exhausted. 

He came right after you with a convulsive thrust of his hips, unloading his cum inside you in long, thick spurts. 

“Everything okay?” he asked you, as soon as he caught his breath. 

He gently kissed your lips, cupping your cheek. 

You smiled. You hadn't smiled like that in so long you couldn't even remember when.

“It was amazing. Everything I could have wanted, and more.” You returned his kiss, lingering on the taste of him. 

Craig was no longer even in the back of your mind. He and his lover could have a happy life—you didn't care.

Npt: @milla-frenchy , @aurorawritestoescape, @baronessvonglitter @peepawmiller

[sawymredfox]

This was so hot!!😮‍💨😮‍💨 The way Joel talks to her and touches her and puts her boundaries and pleasure first made me sigh. She’s definitely found someone that’s worth of her. I have the feeling he’s ruined her for anyone else!🤭 Thanks for sharing this lovely treat!❤️❤️

[time-for-my-weekly-spanking]

Thank you so much for reading and sharing, my dear, I’m so glad you enjoyed this 💗

Joel is definitely the best option ever and she deserves to be taken care of by someone who is truly invested, screw her shitty husband 🙂‍↕️

[speaktothehandpeasants]

An absolute treat to read 😁

[capuccinodoll]

Welcome to my fictional world, I'm Augustine—your typical literature student˙⋆✮

About me: She/her. I'm 26 years old and I live in Argentina. I've been writing my whole life, from journals to novels and fanfics. Die hard rom com lover and ocassional horror enjoyer.

— socials: ˙⋆✮ X | INSTAGRAM | KO-FI

— BOOK CLUB: ˙⋆✮ VANDSPELL BOOK CLUB (Goodreads)

Inbox always open!

˙MDNI! - MASTERLIST BELOW THE CUT ⋆✮

— ˙⋆✮ HONEY LOVE, DARK EYES — Joel Miller has been your best friend for years. But one night after a heated argument, everything changes; in the blink of an eye, you're in a place you never thought you'd be: naked, beneath him, and with his eyes burning into you. Nothing will ever be the same. Tags: no cordyceps outbreak, best friends to lovers, angst HLDE MASTERLIST | AO3 | RE EDITING

— ˙⋆✮ A HAUNTED BODY — You should've died that day. Instead, Joel Miller found you. After the Millers saved your life, you become something of a miracle. Now, you've been given a second chance, but the sweetness of your new home is overshadowed by the coldness of one of them: Joel. Unfortunately for him, Tommy assigns you to work by his side, as the assistant he claims he doesn't need. Tags: Angst, so much angst, enemies to lovers (kinda?), joel has a big secret, smut, mental health!!!!, grief, explicit violence AHB MASTERLIST | AO3 | ON GOING

— ˙⋆✮ THE MILLER METHOD — Freshly thirty one, you've checked off almost every box on your dream-life list: a thriving career in publishing, loyal friends, and the apartment of your dreams. What you don't have? The family you thought you'd start with the man who just dumped you after seven years together. Fed up and determined to take matters into your own hands, you start mapping out every possible path to single motherhood. That is, until one too many drinks and one wildly ill-advised hookup with stranger Joel Miller send all your carefully laid plans spiraling down the drain. Now you're not just pregnant, but Joel has zero interest in staying out of the picture, dragging you into a relationship full of sparks, complications, and more drama than you ever imagined. Tags: unexpected pregnancy, so much yearning, smut, joel is a good dad, alternative universe TMM MASTERLIST | AO3 | ON GOING

— ˙⋆✮ONE SHOTS

LUCKY

— PART I: After a long, stressful week at the station, firefighter Joel Miller turns to the most natural form of stress relief: hitting the bar in search of a one-night stand. And as luck would have it, he finds you. wc: 8.3k

— PART II, "So lucky": Halloween has arrived, and for some reason, you feel lucky. Oh, so lucky. wc: 7.4k

AO3

— ˙⋆✮ THE BOYFRIEND ACT — All you wanted was to get to Austin, but instead of your brother, it's Frankie (Santi's best friend, the one you can barely stand) who shows up in Dallas. He's just doing your brother a favor, but the trip takes an unexpected turn when a stop puts you face to face with your ex; the guy who broke your heart three months ago and is now about to get married. Out of the blue, you blurt out a lie: Frankie is your boyfried. Tags: fake dating, enemies to lovers, brother's best friend, angst, smut, mental health!!!, grief TBA MASTERLIST | AO3 | ON GOING

Thanks for reading 🖤

[speaktothehandpeasants]

We are so blessed to have so many fantastic writers on Tumblr, and all these stories will have you enraptured 😍

[berryispunk]

the long way home

⟡ bestfriend!Frankie Morales x f!reader

tags: friends to???, (mutual) pining, idiots in love, fluff, hurt/comfort, protective!Frankie summary: The only thing worse than a terrible first date is realizing you'd rather have spent the evening with your best friend. word count: ~ 1,6k read on ao3 ⟡

It had been a horrible date.

You should’ve known the second the guy, Mark, only talked about crypto and how his parents had inherited money from some fucking oil empire. It became painfully obvious within the first ten minutes that he'd never had to worry about paying rent for his absurdly overpriced downtown apartment with its skyline view.

Unlike you.

Some months you stretched every single penny until it practically begged for mercy, just to make sure you made it to the next paycheck without surviving on instant noodles. There was no trust fund waiting in the wings. No wealthy parents. No safety net.

So it was safe to say your realities couldn't have been more different.

You tried to be polite, carrying the conversation where you could, but when he started talking about tennis lessons and the private coach he'd hired to improve his serve, your mind quietly checked out.

Instead, it wandered somewhere infinitely more familiar.

To Frankie.

You could picture him so vividly it almost hurt. His strong arm draped over the back of your chair, rolling those warm brown eyes so dramatically they'd practically disappear into his skull while muttering something about rich dudes being all talk and no action.

"Bet I could beat him at arm wrestling."

You'd ugly-snort into laughter, hiding your face against the broad shoulder straining beneath his well-worn denim shirt.

Frankie would grin. That crooked, impossibly boyish grin you loved so much. The one that somehow made you forget the man pushing forty. The one that softened the hard edges years of war, grief, and bad decisions had carved into him.

With terrifying clarity, it hit you just how much you missed him. He'd been away for weeks on another flying contract, and his absence had lodged itself somewhere uncomfortable between your ribs.

While Mark rambled on about God knew what, you reached for your phone beneath the table. Your last message still sat there.

You: Text me when you're back on homeland. Take care. ❤️

—

At least Mark paid.

Outside the restaurant, you exchanged an awkward hug before climbing into your ancient Honda Civic.

The second the driver's door shut, you sent him a polite text thanking him for the evening, telling him you didn't think you were compatible and blocked his number.

With a tired sigh, you pulled onto the road. Taylor Swift filled the car as The Prophecy echoed through the speakers. You really didn't know how you kept picking the wrong men. None of them ever sparked the kindling you kept hoping for. Most of them only managed to light every warning sign imaginable.

Your thoughts drifted aimlessly until your car answered with a horrible metallic groan.

"...No."

A plume of white smoke burst from beneath the hood.

"No, no, no—"

The engine sputtered violently as you barely managed to wrestle the Civic onto the gravel shoulder before it gave one final, pitiful cough and died.

"Shit!"

Your palm slammed against the steering wheel before the horn blared into the empty night and your head fell back against the seat.

Perfect.

It was pitch black. Nothing but distant city lights behind you. No road signs. No passing traffic. No anything.

Your eyes drifted toward the dashboard.

11:57 p.m.

Great.

Tow services weren't exactly eager to rescue people in the middle of nowhere after midnight. Even if they were you couldn't afford one. Your mind raced through every person you could possibly call when your phone suddenly lit up.

Francisco 💙 calling...

A laugh escaped you before you even answered.

"Heyyy, preciosa."

God, you'd missed that voice.

"How are you doing?"

Despite everything, you smiled. The real smile. The one that only ever seemed to belong to him.

"Hi, how was your flight back?"

He exhaled dramatically. "Had some turbulence. Sucked. But I landed in one piece, so..."

"Thank God."

A comfortable silence settled between you.

Then—

"You home?"

You shook your head before remembering he couldn't see it. "No, sir."

A sheepish pause. "Actually... I was on a date."

"...A date?" His voice flattened immediately. "With who?"

"His name's Mark. Rich crypto guy."

A sharp inhale crackled through the speaker. "Damn."

You couldn't help laughing.

"One of those again?"

"Don't get me started. It was horrible. You would've hated him. He even smelled expensive."

Frankie let out a low whistle. "One of those, huh? I really gotta start questioning your taste in men, preciosa."

You snorted. "Fair."

Silence lingered another moment.

"I..." You sighed. "Actually, my car broke down on the way home. I'm stranded."

Another beat.

"...You are what?"

"My Honda died somewhere off Highway 65."

"I managed to get onto the shoulder, but it just…quit."

"You in the car?"

"Yeah. But it won't start. And there's no point in calling a tow truck now."

"Why the hell would you call a tow truck?"

His answer came so quickly it almost overlapped yours.

"You call me."

"You literally just got home, Frankie."

"So what ?"

You heard keys jangling. A door opening. His footsteps already moving.

"Send me your location."

"Frankie...it's almost midnight."

"Exactly. And you're sitting alone on the side of a highway. I'll come get you and tomorrow morning Will and I'll come back for your Honda."

"No, it's okay. I don't want to cause any—"

"—unpleasantness?" Frankie actually scoffed. "The only unpleasant thing right now is you sitting alone in the dark."

His voice changed, dropped lower. Got firmer. It was his military tone. The one that left absolutely no room for negotiation.

"Send.Me.Your.Location."

You sank farther into your seat. "...Okay."

Your phone had, naturally, chosen tonight to hover at one percent. You hurriedly shared your location. The screen blinked once and then the call died.

"...Fuck."

The silence that followed somehow felt louder than before.

—

Without the distraction of your phone, the minutes crawled by. You tried not to think about every horror movie you'd ever seen that started with a broken-down car. Nervously, you nibbled at your thumb until finally a pair of familiar headlights cut through the darkness.

The engine had barely fallen silent before Frankie climbed out of his old truck—Betsy, as he lovingly called her.

With far more flourish than necessary, your car door swung open, letting in the cold night air. He leaned one arm against the frame, pointing at you.

"You okay?"

You nodded, only for your eyes to unexpectedly fill with tears of relief that blurred your vision.

"Did somebody stop?"

You shook your head. Only then did he visibly exhale.

"Dios mío... you scared me."

You let out a watery laugh. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"

He immediately shook his head. "None of that."

His voice softened. "C'mon. Let's get you warm, hm?"

He helped you out of your car, walked around to grab your bag from the passenger seat and slung it over his shoulder with zero fucks given before tossing it onto the backseat of his truck.

Without really thinking, you folded into him while he held the passenger door open for you.

He was warm. Smelling faintly of sweat, gasoline, and the aftershave he always wore. His arms came around you without hesitation, secure and intimate, before he pressed a kiss into your hair. Your heart squeezed painfully inside your chest at that.

"Thank you," you could only murmur against his broad chest, the words muffled by his Henley.

"For what exactly?"

"For rescuing me. For..." You smiled to yourself. "Being you. For everything, I guess."

He huffed a quiet laugh. "You're gonna have to be a little more specific than that."

You only shook your head against him, letting his warmth seep into every part of you.

It was the first time all day, honestly, the first time since he'd left that you felt completely at ease.

"Missed you," you admitted. 

You felt him smile against your hair. "That so?"

"Mhm."

A beat passed.

"Missed you too."

His arms tightened just a little, and you could've sworn his heartbeat picked up beneath your cheek.

—

Once you were settled in Betsy and the heater had begun chasing the chill from your bones, Frankie handed you a charging cable.

"So your phone doesn't die on me again."

Then a bottle of water, of course. Frankie the caretaker.

"I brought you something from the trip," he said after a few miles, eyes never leaving the road. "It's in the glove compartment."

You blinked at him. "You... brought me something?"

He shrugged.

"My birthday isn't until summer."

"Oh, I know."

Another shrug. "But I saw it and thought of you."

You smiled despite yourself before opening the compartment. A small bracelet slipped into your palm, decorated with tiny shells and beautiful blue stones that caught the dashboard lights. It was gorgeous.

"Frankie..."

You immediately fastened it around your wrist.

"I love it."

"Really?"

He finally glanced over for half a second.

"I wasn't sure. But the lady in the shop said it'd make a nice gift for someone special."

You looked up. "Someone special?"

He groaned. "Oh, please. Don't start."

A grin tugged at your lips. "Sorry, sorry. I'll behave."

He snorted, shaking his head as he looked back at the road. 

You absentmindedly turned the bracelet around your wrist with your thumb, watching the little blue stones catch the passing streetlights.

He'd seen it. Thought of you. Bought it without needing a reason or an occasion.

Your date hadn't even remembered that you didn’t like coffee. Frankie had crossed half the county in the middle of the night and somehow still found the time to bring you home a piece of the ocean.

thanks for reading 💌

main masterlist • ko-fi

tags: (if you don't wanna be tagged anymore, let me know!): @misstokyo7love @sheepdogchick3 @god-is-an-astronaut @sawymredfox @chasingthepoguelife @librosylove @keylimebeag @diabaroxa @beefrobeefcal @greenwitchfromthewoods @katw474 @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 @whirlwindrider29 @yellowbrickyeti @capuccinodoll @missadangel @cozymochaa @sidelit @simpingforjoel @kirsteng42 @carmillahepburn @peterhollandkait @picketniffler @hotforpedro @thepilatesprincess @perfectpoetrybluebird @theanothersherlockian @inept-the-magnificent @confusedpuffin @rav3n-pascal22 @perpetualharpyresonance @perodjarin @daltoncharm @baronessvonglitter @beezusvreeland @lillaydee @underneath-the-sky-again @whiskeyneat-coffeeblack @angiewatson @wordsbeachandtequila @vickie5446 @titabel @ashleyfilm @finco99 @mariamorales1998 @severedbloodlines

[sawymredfox]

The Small Things of a Whole

Drabble: A Song

Idk where this came from, but as soon as it popped into my mind, I had to write it. It was really fun to imagine this scenario and picture Frankie and Ben. I hope anyone who reads it enjoys it! Happy Pride people!

Thank you, @schnarfer, for always helping me and offering me the best song ever for this, Love Story by Taylor Swift. And to my friends, @milla-frenchy and @bergamote-catsandbooks, for letting me ramble as much as I wanted about these boys. Love you all!♥️

Part IV// Part V// Series Masterlist// Masterlist// AO3

pairing: Frankie Morales x Ben Miller summary: A night at a karaoke bar prompts a show of love word cound: 1200 tags/warnings: fluff, corny vibes, non-sexual intimacy, two boys in love being silly and besotted with each other

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

Coming here, to The Shack, a karaoke bar, wouldn't have been Frankie's first choice, nor his second or third, but the decision hadn't been in his hands. He and Will had found themselves outnumbered, completely and absolutely. Outvoted, two to four, thoroughly defeated, standing alone while Hannah and Yovanna, Will and Santi's girls, easily persuaded Ben and Santi. It hadn't taken them much, just a couple of encouraging words and a promise of a good party- to support their proposal and attend tonight's special Pride karaoke night at the pub owned by a friend of a friend of Hannah. 

Frankie would have been happy to go to their usual bar, be surrounded by its familiar wood-panelled walls and sticky tables. But in the end he had relented, unable to say no to his friends and Ben's excitement, grumbling, for show more than anything else, alongside Will as they drove to the other side of town to the pub.

The bar has filled since they arrived. It's packed now. Full of people; friends and couples, dressed as they pleased, being themselves freely, proud of who they are, ready to enjoy the night, get loose, and sing. This all fills the place with a magnetic energy, a sense of aliveness that thrums, and Frankie can't ignore, he’s imbued in it.

He's sitting with Will at one of the tables in the middle of the bar, still fascinated by the people and the place, the dark walls adorned with band posters, the music filling the space, the disco balls swirling and creating kaleidoscopic dancing rays, and the colourful decorations, the hundreds of rainbow flags sprinkling the walls, ceiling and tables, lighting the place, making everyone feel welcomed and accepted, treasured.

"They are having a blast," Will mutters, smirking, nudging his beer bottle forward, signalling the rest of the gang on the stage, dancing together as they sing.

Frankie gazes at them, endeared by their behaviour, the joy brimming in their expressions as the realisation sinks in. He'd been so focused on his surroundings that his brain hadn't paid attention to the song they had chosen. Taylor Swift's Love Story. It's no longer a nameless sound, but a known piece, one he has a hunch Ben had brought forward, for he has heard him sing it at home enough times to learn some of the lyrics.

Santi's a bit apart from the other three. He's fumbling, trying his best, so concentrated on keeping up with the rhythm of the song that he doesn't notice how out of tune he is. The girls and Ben, though, are a whole different story. They are living the music, eyes closed, beaming faces, arms thrown over each other's shoulders, not needing to look at the screen to remember the song's lyrics, yelling more than singing, with such enthusiasm that the people at the bar are applauding and singing along with them.

“You know…” Will starts, “I was worried when you and Benny told us about your relationship. The selfish part of me feared what would happen to all of us if you two didn't make it. But also-" he sighs, taking a second to gather his thoughts, anxiously tapping his fingers against the table. "You two fit so perfectly. It feels like you are meant to be together. I was terrified of what a break-up could do to either of you,” he confesses, leaving Frankie stunned. He had been so happy for them from the first moment that Frankie hadn't realized he'd harboured such concerns.

"Not anymore?" Frankie asks as his feelings swell and tears gather around his eyes.

“No. If anyone can make it, it's you two. I've never seen a more well-adjusted couple in my life, apart from my parents." Will's admission soothes Frankie, as much as he's ready to fight for his relationship with Ben, their family's acceptance and support means the world to him.

"You and Hanna have something really good going on too," Frankie manages to say, swallowing the wave of emotion Will’s admission has caused.

"I hope so. I want to propose to her," Will sheepishly confesses.

"What! That's big, man! Congratulations!" Frankie clasps Will's shoulder, overjoyed for his brother.  

"Thank you, Fish,” he says, clasping Frankie’s shoulder back. “I might need some help picking up the ring."

"I'll be there," Frankie promises.  

"The thing is, I'm thrilled for you and Benny. And I really want you to know that,” he squeezes his hold on Frankie’s shoulder, wanting Frankie to believe him, before looking back at the stage. “Although, fuck man,” Will chuckles, staring at his brother. “I really hope you’re aware of the doofus you’re going to marry, because he’s on fire right now.” 

Frankie looks forward, in time with Ben, unashamedly pointing at Frankie and yelling his name, making sure everyone knows to whom he’s singing, getting more energetic and keyed up as the bar's hoots of approval get louder and louder.

"Romeo, take me somewhere we can be alone 

I'll be waiting, all there's left to do is run 

You'll be the prince, and I'll be the princess 

It's a love story, baby, just say yes"

“Yeah,” he agrees with Will, staring at Ben as he sings for him, and a blush, deep enough to be seen under the bar's lighting, covers his cheeks.

"This love is difficult, but it's real 

Don't be afraid, we'll make it out of this mess 

It's a love story, baby, just say yes."

Frankie shakes his head in disbelief, gazing at his man, mesmerized and bashful at his performance, as the song reaches its final peak. He will never get tired of watching him, of falling for him over and over again.

Frankie can't stop his lips from curling, sketching a soft besotted smile on his face, aware of how he’s completely and absolutely doomed, smitten beyond salvation, happy to be so, thrilled. It's a smile Frankie doesn't need to hide, doesn't want to; certain that he's reciprocated with the same fervour, in love in a way he had always thought was a myth.

"Marry me, Juliet, you'll never have to be alone 

I love you, and that's all I really know."

Frankie's hand moves instinctively, crossing his index and middle fingers over his heart. It's a coded sign. A silent "I love you" that he and Ben share when the emotion is too big and overwhelming to say the words out loud. Ben returns the gesture instantly, keeping his palm covering his heart, making Frankie shiver with his voice, deep and baritone, undeniably male, and the intensity in his eyes.

"It's a love story, baby, just say yes."

Frankie doesn't need to think. He will always say yes to Ben, desirous of every new day, bad and good and ordinary, with him.

Part IV: A Good Morning

Npt! (because there was interest on my WIPs and people who read the other chapters and asked to be tagged!) @aurorawritestoescape @604to647 @sixhours @baronessvonglitter @simpingforjoel @arcane-fox @whocaresstillthelouvre @beefrobeefcal @tinytinymenace @time-for-my-weekly-spanking @thedilfdiaries @kokoluwie @missadangel @the-blind-assassin-12 @cozymochaa @littlepedrito @sin-djarin @speaktothehandpeasants @jessthebaker @rosharanfiction @maggiemayhemnj @littleredpandanaps @grogusmum @readingiskeepingmegoing @copperhalfcent @pedrit0-pascalit0 @maried01 @just-ashlee @iknowisoundcrazyreads

[bergamote-catsandbooks]

This was absolutely adorable and also so full of emotions.

The whole conversation with Will made me want to tear up, after laughing at imagining how they ganged on Will and Frankie and dragged them to that karaoke evening.

But you already had me moved with this short paragraph « The bar has filled since they arrived. It's packed now. Full of people; friends and couples, dressed as they pleased, being themselves freely, proud of who they are, ready to enjoy the night, get loose, and sing. This all fills the place with a magnetic energy, a sense of aliveness that thrums, and Frankie can't ignore, he’s imbued in it. »

Just imagining a place where everyone can be themselves and be accepted for who they are really moved me.

And then I laughed again with Benny yelling his love, with Santi singing out of tune and when the whole bar cheering.

[sawymredfox]

You’re so kind!!🥹 I’m so glad you liked it! They choose the perfect place to spend their time together and have fun. Ben is a doofus and he’s proud of it!🤭 Especially if he behaves like that for his man! Thank you for your constant support!❤️❤️

[speaktothehandpeasants]

These two beautiful people and their amazing friends 😍

[peepawmiller]

Summary: Joel takes you on a date. And then he takes you home.

Pairing: Contractor!Joel Miller x Married!Reader

Warnings: Porn with some Plot?, unprotected piv (please for the love of god wrap it up), cunnilingus, fingering, dirty talk, Joel works for reader, adultery, but reader's husband cheated first so it doesn't count and i stand by that, divorce, Joel has a big dick, light choking, dom!Joel if you squint, reader is down bad for Joel, shitty marriage, 18+ only, reader is afab,

WC: 6k

A/N: Looks like I'm turning this into a mini series thanks to popular demand (by me, I kept thinking about this). thanks for reading pals :)

Part 1 | Ao3 | Masterlist

The chime of the doorbell makes your heart jump in your chest, the staccato rhythm picking up as you approach the front door.

After Joel had fucked you next to your pool, he gave you a kiss, left you there to sunbathe, and returned to the meticulous task of assembling your kitchen cabinets. You spent the entire time exchanging heated glances with him where you lay, still naked and reeling from being fucked so thoroughly.

This time, he made no attempt to hide his perusal of your body and it heated your skin more completely than the sun ever could.

By the time the sun began to dip behind the towering trees lining your property, he’d finished the cabinets and covered them with a canvas tarp to protect them overnight. You watched as he wiped his forehead with the end of this t-shirt, giving you a peak of his tummy. You licked your lips — something he quickly noticed even from across the yard.

Sauntering back over to you, he sat on the edge of the lounger and ran a hand from your hip, up your tummy and between your breasts before landing at your neck. His thumb circled your pulse point as he leaned over to kiss you.

“M’ gonna go home now, darlin’. Shower. Put something decent on. And then I’m comin’ right back. That sound good?” His voice was like gravel, deep and rough and it made your entire body tingle. It did sound good, but you wanted him to fuck you again.

All you could do was nod as he kissed you again and then helped you up. You wrapped yourself in your towel and took his hand as he guided you through the house. Your stomach fluttered as he brought those soft lips down to you again and kissed you goodbye.

It took you a long time to process everything that happened, and when you finally did, you couldn’t stop smiling. The thrill of dinner with Joel carried you on a cloud of anticipation as you showered, primped, prepped, and dressed in a baby blue sundress that reached the tops of your thighs, thin straps, and a sweetheart neckline. 

You even had time to paint your nails — a matching blue with small white polka dots. 

Now, you bite down on your lower lip to stifle your smile as you open the door to find Joel on your front porch, a bouquet of pink, orange, and white wild flowers clasped in his large hand.

The corner of his lips tick up as you take each other in, his eyes roaming you hungrily, nostrils flaring at the sight of you. He doesn’t say anything yet, and you’re equally as speechless.

He’s swapped his dirty boots for a pair of worn but carefully maintained ones, his jeans black and faded instead of the ones he normally wears that are always covered in dust, paint, and plaster. His green button down brings out the hints of gold shimmering in his eyes, the top few buttons open and providing you a glimpse of his hard chest. 

You don’t even want to go to dinner at this point, and it takes every ounce of self restraint you have to keep yourself from pouncing on him.

“You look gorgeous, darlin’” he rasps, voice quiet and low. It sends ripples of heat straight to your core. He steps forward to hand you the flowers, but something snaps between you and he’s wrapping you in a heated kiss before you even realize that you’re the one who leapt first.

He grunts as he presses you closer, one hand still holding the flowers while the other knots in your dress at your waist. He’s being respectful, not ripping your clothes to shreds or even touching your ass yet. But his tongue is right there, pushing past your lips and pulling a moan right from you.

Joel has the awareness to pull away before you do, breathing heavy, neck flushed with want.

“Gotta treat you to a nice meal before I fuck you again,” he reasons, setting the flowers onto the table by the door.

It’s sweet how he thinks you need that. Sweet that he knows you yearn for a little bit of romance. And even if there wasn’t the promise of him taking you home and fucking you senseless, you think you’d still love the idea of dinner with him. 

Getting to know him. Opening him up and taking a peek at his thoughts. His wants. His needs. Giving him the same. You haven’t dated in years, but the thrill of it is still the same with one exception. You know he’s good and he’ll treat you right. You’re sure of it.

He nods behind him at the open door, the beat to shit red pick up parked on the street, engine sizzling, “After you.”

You can’t resist. You stretch up to kiss his chin, nipping with your teeth and snickering when he growls low in his chest. You snatch your clutch from the hook by the door and saunter out to the truck. He opens the door for you and helps you up to settle on the comfortable seat.

It’s surprisingly clean for a guy who works construction and likely tracks all kinds of debris into his vehicle daily. 

“Cleaned it up real nice, just for you,” he says after climbing in and starting it.

Your skin heats, his thoughtfulness doing unspeakable things to you. 

The drive is quiet, but comfortable. If there’s one person who knows how to exist in easy silence, it’s Joel. You like that about him. He doesn’t feel the need to fill the space with inane chatter. Like Jeremy. Always eager to hear the sound of his own voice.

When Joel parks outside a small Italian bistro, your grin widens. It’s quaint and out of the way, tucked behind a copse of trees that doesn’t make it immediately visible from the busy street if you aren't looking for it. 

He helps you out of the truck and rests a hand at your lower back as he guides you inside. You can’t remember the last time you were treated with such care.

He tells the hostess his name and uses her momentary distraction to drop a kiss to your bare shoulder like it’s a habit he’s been waiting to fulfill. Your cheeks feel hot as you look up at him, his eyes twinkling in the dim candlelight of the restaurant. 

The hostess confirms the reservation and takes you to your table. It’s an intimate place, small tables dispersed throughout the room, white table cloths, a small vase containing a single white rose on each one, warm, flickering candles decorating the room.

There are a handful of other couples already seated, relaxed, enjoying their meals. But you pay them no attention as he helps you take your seat and finally settles in across from you. 

You can’t help but compare each and every one of his behaviors to Jeremy. You don’t want to, but you do. Jeremy would never pull your chair out. He’d never help you into the car. He’d never plan a romantic evening out. He’d never touch you the way Joel touches you.

He offers a tentative smile, tilting his head, “What?”

“Nothing,” you say, trying to fight the urge to beam at him. He may or may not be aware of just how thoroughly he’s romancing you.

He looks down at the menu, “How do you feel about wine?”

“Love it.”

“White?”

“Perfect.”

When your server flits by the table, he orders a bottle of Chardonnay that she quickly returns with to fill your glasses. The moment she steps away, you catch the amused glimmer in his eyes.

“So, you’re married. And I fucked you in your backyard.”

Very direct. Just as he was after he’d done it.

You almost choke on the wine, but are able to carefully arrange your features into a neutral, unbothered expression, “Yes.”

“He’s a piece of shit.”

It’s not a question or an assumption. He knows, heard Jeremy yelling at you the last time he was home, heard the derision in his voice, the malice. You nod.

“He cheated on you?”

Again, you nod, your eyes flashing with the briefest flicker of pain you’re unable to control. Even if your marriage had been failing long before you discovered Jeremy’s infidelity, it still hurts to know how deeply you’ve been betrayed.

“I’m sorry,” he offers, his voice soft and silken. He reaches across the table to thread your fingers together.

You want to climb into his lap and kiss him. His words are sincere, not placating, but genuinely apologetic about your husband’s indiscretions. About how it must make you feel. 

“Don’t make it right – what we did,” he says quietly, “What we’re doin’.”

You take another measured sip of wine while you formulate your response, nodding slowly, “No. It doesn’t. Does that mean you don’t want to do it again?”

“Didn’t say that. Just said it ain’t right.”

The candle flickers across his expression, briefly illuminating the way his eyes have dilated, his lips tightening, his jaw ticks. You stare across at him, admiring the shape of his tension and the intensity of his gaze.

“Don’t know if I can stop myself now,” he admits.

You suppress a laugh, “Why? You seemed perfectly in control before I got naked and told you to touch me.”

That gets a low growl out of him, half grumble, half chuckle, “Tommy was there. Couldn’t very well go around flirtin’ and touchin’ you with him around. Anyway, he told me to stay away from you.”

You suck in a sharp breath, “Why?”

“You’re a client. Wouldn’t be right.”

“I think I can decide what’s right for me and what’s not,” you answer stubbornly, annoyed at Tommy’s intervention. Would Joel have fucked you sooner had Tommy not meddled? Probably not.

“Mm, I know, darlin’,” he says with an appraising nod. He sips his wine and purses his lips, disgruntled.

“We could’ve ordered something else,” you acknowledge, realizing he probably isn’t a wine drinker.

“‘S no trouble. You like it,” he says simply, forcing another sip.

That makes your chest ache, your need for him growing. Drinking something he doesn’t like just because you like it? Another point for Joel.

“So, Tommy is a meddler.”

Joel huffs, “Yeah. Always has been.”

“He told me to stay away from you too. Said you’re a grumpy old bastard,” you tell him.

His smile drops into a scowl, “I don’t care if he’s a brand new daddy, I’m gonna wring his neck.”

“Stop! Your niece or nephew can’t be fatherless!”

“Nephew. Benji. He’ll be alright. Better off, if I’m honest,” he grumbles. You know he doesn’t believe it, which makes it funnier.

You snicker into your glass, hidling your smirk just as the server approaches to take your orders. Joel looks across to you as you recite your selection. He orders the same and hands the menus to her with a gentle thanks.

“Big fan of ravioli?” You ask, resting your chin on your fist. “Would’ve pegged you for a steak kind of guy.”

He shrugs, “Ain’t no harm in tryin’ somethin’ new.”

“Hm, like fucking a client?”

“That’d be new, yes.”

“Is that so?”

His ears turn red at your inquisition, but he quickly settles his features into a calm, severe look as he leans forward to look at you properly, “Swear on my life. This is the first I’ve ever laid a hand on a client. Promise.”

Pressing your lips together to hide your smile, you nod, satisfied with his answer. You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t thought about it. Were you unique? Does he do this with all his clients? He’s single, after all, according to Tommy. 

“‘M I the first tradesman you’ve fucked?” He asks suddenly, making you blanch and laugh louder than what is appropriate in a tiny little restaurant like this. He grins, clearly very pleased with himself.

“Oh my god, yes. Jesus, Joel, don’t do that,” you gasp through your laughter.

Dinner is easy after that, relaxed and smooth with the difficult topic of your ill conceived exploits out of the way. He pours each of you another glass of wine, devours his ravioli, and smirks across at you as you run your heeled foot up his leg to tease him. 

He plays with your fingers, his smile coy and shy despite having already fucked you within an inch of sanity. You finish the bottle of wine together, the alcohol warming your skin, cheeks hot with its effects, and with the way Joel makes you blush with his heated looks and dark eyes.

The candlesticks in the room shrink into nothing and soon, you and Joel are the only people left in the restaurant. When he realizes this, he signals for the check.

He’s a gentleman when he pays for your meal and helps you out of your chair. He’s a gentleman when he guides you out to the parking lot with a tender, warm hand on your lower back, then opens the truck door for you. But as you’re about to climb inside, he yanks you back, spins you around, and kisses you.

You lean up to meet him, wrapping your arms around his neck as he clutches at your dress, tangling his fingers in it like he wants to lift the skirt and fuck you right here in the parking lot. You really wish he would. Don’t really care who sees. You’ve been aching for him since he left you lying naked and trembling by your pool.

“You’re trouble,” he mutters, your back hitting the side of the truck, “Wearin’ this skimpy little dress. Lookin’ prettier than anythin’ I’ve ever seen.”

His beard scrapes against your cheek as he plunders your lips, tongue seeking yours while his hips pin you in place. You can feel the hard outline of him through his jeans and you shudder at the thought of sucking him off as he drives you home.

Despite his fervor, he doesn’t lift you up and fuck you against his truck in the parking lot of a little Italian bistro regardless of how desperately you want it.

Eventually, he tears himself away from you and offers you a heated look before finally helping you into the truck. His hand remains firmly planted on your thigh the entire drive home, his fingers steadily creeping upward each time your hips shift.

”Patience, darlin’,” he chastises, giving you a warning look as he drives toward your home.

The moment he parks in the driveway, you don’t wait for him to open your door like the gentleman he’s been all night. You hear him chuckle as he follows you up to the front door, wiggling your ass a little just for his benefit. 

As you fumble in your purse for your keys, he stands a respectable distance behind you, hands tucked in his pockets so the urge to paw at you doesn’t hinder your hunt. You find the keys, get the door unlocked, and skip inside like the excited little minx you know you are. He chuckles again.

“Someone’s eager,” he rumbles, shutting the door behind him and finally reaching for you.

Your purse gets tossed aside as your arms come up around his neck, his lips finding yours like a homing missile. He shuffles you in the direction of the stairs until your ankles hit the bottom step. Since he’s been working on your house for the better part of three months, he’s become intimately acquainted with its layout, making it easy for him to navigate while he guides you along and turns your legs to jelly.

In a stunning display of brute strength, he lifts you up, hooking your legs around his waist so he can carry you up the stairs. You break apart with a gasp and clutch his strong shoulders to stabilize yourself.

“What’s wrong?” He asks, hands under your ass, powerful legs climbing higher. 

“Nothing,” you squeak, instantly soaked at the ease with which he carries you. What girl doesn’t want to be whisked away and fucked within an inch of her life by the rugged handyman building her house? You’re a simple girl with simple needs that he’s extremely adept at handling.

His lips curve into a smile that tells you he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

He doesn’t set you down until he crosses the threshold to your bedroom, his lips on yours again, this time tender and slow like he’s trying to savor you. It weakens your knees and your fingers curl into his shirt to hang on.

“You understand what this means, don’t you?” He asks, big, strong arms curling around your waist while he backs you toward the bed.

You look up at him with wide, curious eyes, his meaning unclear.

“If I fuck you in this bed. In your house…” he lowers his head, lips brushing your ear, breath hot on your cheek, voice dripping with power, “You’re mine.”

Your entire body shudders at the possessiveness soaking his words. You were a goner the moment he laid his hands on you.

You nod, fingers curling in his shirt, “Yours.”

He lunges then, capturing your lips, sinking his tongue between them, devouring you wholly and completely. His big arms wrap around you, pressing you closer, making you whimper into him as he guides you toward the bed. Before you can fall onto its surface, his fingers find the zipper at your back and tugs.

He slips the straps off your shoulders and lets the dress fall to your ankles, leaving you bare apart from the scrap of lace covering your pussy. Joel breaks the kiss and takes a step back to admire you.

“Darlin’, you’re the prettiest thing I’ve ever laid eyes on,” he growls, eyes dark and hungry as they take you in. With one, thick finger, he skims a path from your belly button up to your chin, stopping briefly to play with each of your nipples before continuing on. He lifts your chin gently, assessing the way your breathing changes, lips swollen from his kisses, thighs squeezing together, “Your husband fuck you in this bed yet?”

Once Joel and Tommy had completed the renovation of your upstairs, you had opted to redecorate the space with all new furniture, art, accents, everything – mattress included. You’d only slept next to your husband once since then. And he hadn’t touched you. Not a single graze of flesh, or a tender caress. 

Shaking your head, you bite your lip, “No. He hasn’t fucked me in over a year.”

Joel’s eyes flash, something dark and dangerous in them that makes your thighs clench, “That right?”

”Too busy fucking his secretary,” you admit, leaning into his touch, his thumb tracing your plump lower lip. Your tongue darts out for a taste.

He allows it, and then grips your chin between his index finger and thumb, tilting his head, “You usin’ me to get back at him?”

You can tell by the question that he doesn’t like the idea of that. That he’s just some pawn in a battle between you and Jeremy. But it couldn’t be further from the truth. You shake your head, eyes softening.

”No, no, I promise. I want you, Joel,” you whisper, fists still clenched in his shirt as you press yourself against him, “I don’t care about getting back at him. I just want him gone.”

”You send your divorce papers yet?”

“Tomorrow. First thing, my lawyer will serve them.”

”Good girl,” he says lowly, giving you a brief kiss, “You still think fuckin’ me while you’re still married is a good idea?”

You nod, “Yes, I need it, Joel,” you whine, feeling the slick between your legs, the soaked fabric of your panties rubbing against you, “I need you.”

“You need to get fucked?” He nips at your chin, then moves down to your neck, making your legs weaken, “You need your pussy filled to the brim?”

Speechless, you nod frantically, hands flattening on his chest as he takes your waist and turns you to putty with his lips on your throat. “Please…”

”Alright, darlin’, lie back for me,” he grumbles, peeling himself away from you and helping you lie on the bed. When you position yourself in the center, he clicks his tongue and takes you by the thighs to pull your hips to the edge of the bed. Joel drops to his knees, and your stomach does a flip. “Need to taste this sweet little pussy before I fuck you.”

You’re not complaining.

His thumbs hook at the hem of your panties and he drags them down your legs slowly, your entire body lit with anticipation and a fresh wave of desire.

With his wide hands, he spreads your thighs gently, peppering kisses along your skin and inching his way methodically up to your center. The scruff of his beard tickles your skin, hips lifting in search of any sort of contact. It seems Joel isn’t in the mood for teasing today, because after parting your folds with his thumbs, he drags a slow, deliberate stripe up the center of your pussy.

He groans into you, your body overcome with sensation as he does it again. And again, and again, and again.

“Taste so fuckin’ sweet, baby,” he says, moving his hands to your hips to pull you further toward the edge of the mattress. 

He drinks you in like a man possessed, his tongue strumming your clit effortlessly and drawing out the most pathetic noises from the back of your throat. You writhe and arch, his movements slow and precise as he licks you. Your toes curl, fingers digging into his mess of curls. Fuck, he’s good.

He uses his tongue on you like he can’t get enough of the taste of you. Like he’s been desperate to make you cum on his tongue all evening. And maybe he has been. Maybe it’s all he’s thought about, because you know damn well it’s all you’ve thought about.

Before you can even register anything else, two, thick fingers press into you and you have to slap your hand over your mouth to keep from crying out.

Joel lifts his head and scowls, “What are you doing?”

You blink, hips moving to the slow, steady stroke of his fingers, “I — I —“

“Nuh uh, I wanna hear those pretty little sounds you make. You understand?” He asks, voice hard and stern like you’ve made a grave mistake.

You nod, whimpering a little when he crooks his fingers just right.

“Words, baby. Use your words,” he rasps, “Do you understand?”

“Yes, yes, I understand,” you insist, letting loose a sound that would make a porn star blush when he starts pumping his fingers steadily. His tongue is back on you, and in the next instant, you’re careening toward your orgasm.

Your skin is hot and your blood electric in your veins as you cum, a strangled moan puncturing the quiet of your bedroom. Joel grunts into your pussy and licks and laps at your release until you’re sure you can’t take it anymore. You’re still trembling when he pulls his fingers from you and moves up your body to give you a kiss.

Tasting yourself on his lips, you let out a faint sigh, pulling at the buttons on his shirt and pushing it off. His tongue is heaven on your pussy, but infinitely more devious when it slips between your lips. It’s dirty and slow, like he’s building you up just to shatter you again and again. Your entire body still tingles with the aftermath of your climax.

Your hips lift against him, clit scraping against denim. His cock is hard in the confines of his jeans, and all you want is for him to be inside you. 

With searching hands, you map out the contours of his muscles, built slowly over time by his craft. His tummy is soft, but underneath, you feel his muscles clench as your fingers continue their perusal. 

As much as you enjoy kissing him, you need him to fill you up, so you begin the delicate task of undoing his jeans and shoving them down his hips. They’re barely down past his ass when you arch up again, and dig your nails into his lower back to get him closer. His cock is thick and heavy against your pussy, making you both groan.

“So fuckin’ needy,” he growls, pushing his hips against you and creating a friction so overwhelming you swear it’ll make you cum if he does it again.

All you can do is nod, because you are. You need him so bad, you think you’ll die if you don’t get him inside you soon.

He grinds against you again, the underside of his cock stimulating your overworked clit. You squeal, arching into him, both somehow seeking more and less at the same time. Joel takes your hip in his large hand, thumb pressing into you to still your movements.

“Ask nicely, darlin’.”

It takes a few seconds for your brain to catch up with his words. You sound needy when you say it. Desperate and fucked out. “Please, fuck me, Joel. Please, I need it so bad.”

The sentence hasn’t even fully left your lips before he pushes into you with a low growl. Once he’s seated with the coarse hairs at his base nestled against you, he flexes his hips, pushing just a bit deeper until there’s nowhere else to go. You’re so full of him, aching as he settles against you, his girth splitting you wide open. 

Your nails rake down his back, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

“This pussy’s so fuckin’ tight, honey,” he hisses into your ear, withdrawing an inch and pushing back in. “Fuck.”

Under your hands, his muscles tremble with either the effort of holding himself over you, or with the restraint of not fucking into you like you want him to. Either way, you’re flattered and tilt your hips to take him deeper. 

“Don’t fuckin’ do that,” he warns, pushing his hips against you and making you gasp at the intrusion. Your walls flutter around him, practically screaming at him to move, pussy leaking with your arousal, “Ain’t bein’ polite.”

“S-sorry,” you whimper, nails digging into his lower back, “I need –”

“What do you need?”

“Need you to move, Joel, please fuck me,” you beg, sounding so pathetic to your own ears, you almost cringe. But the slow smile and jut of his hips makes you forget in an instant. 

“Yeah? Need me to wreck this pretty little pussy?” He hums, the low vibrato of his voice sending you into another simpering fit as you try to move your hips against him. “Careful.”

He gives you a hard kiss before sitting up to tower over you, knees braced on the edge of the bed as his hands roam your body. The steady shift of his cock inside you has slowly eased the ache, but you need more. He feels so big, your cunt practically drools around him.

“You’ve got such good manners, baby,” he huffs, arms hooking under your thighs to lift you higher, pushing his cock deeper. Your hands fly out to cling to the comforter, eyes hazy as he withdraws and pushes in again, so fucking slowly it’s driving you crazy. It’s the same position he took you on the lounger by the pool, the same heavy stare, the same dark look and powerful body looming over you.

When speech evades you, he simply smiles and adjusts you again before he begins a steady, rhythmic pace that’s both hard and easy all at once. His hips smack into you, before he slowly withdraws, then fucking into you again like he’s trying to make you cum on force alone. And it’s working.

Each push of his hips elicits a little gasp from you and a spark of arousal pulsing through you. Sweat gleams on his forehead with the effort of his control, so you’re not surprised when he abandons his subdued pace in favor of quicker, deeper thrusts. 

“Takin’ my cock so good,” he grunts, pulling you up higher, “You gonna cum on it like a good girl?”

You nod frantically, already on your way to your own undoing. When his thumb circles your clit and his cock hits you just right, your vision goes dark and your back arches. Your moans are obscene and loud, and you’re certain your neighbors can hear the way you scream for him. But you don’t care. The pleasure coursing through you crests while he fucks you through your orgasm, his groans faint and labored.

The moment you come down, he pulls out, making you suck in a sharp breath at the loss. He flips you onto your stomach while he lies prone on top of you and pants into your ear, “This sweet little pussy is gonna be the death of me, baby.”

In one, brutal thrust, he’s back inside you, making your back arch against him. He takes the opportunity to wrap a large hand around your neck, holding you up as he takes his own pleasure and gives you everything in return. Even after two orgasms, the size of him burns through you, fire coiling tight in your belly with each plunge.

Your walls clench around him and he growls into your ear, his breath hard. His lips find your throat and he grunts with each push, “Tryn’ to make me cum before I’m ready to be done with you, darlin’?”

You shake your head, voice broken and barely there, like he’s fucked the will right out of you, “No… no, I swear.”

His fingers squeeze around your neck, not enough to cut off your air supply, but the pressure is there, and it’s exquisite. His pace is relentless, his cock so deep, filling you so completely, all you can do is writhe and cry under him. A large hand lands on your ass as he growls into your ear, “Tell me who this pussy belongs to.”

You don’t even hesitate, not for a second, “You, it’s yours. It belongs to you.”

“What belongs to me?”

“My p-pussy,” you cry out, another crack of his palm against your ass. “Joel…”

“I gotcha, baby,” he breathes into your ear, his beard scraping your cheek, lips and teeth adding sensation to your skin as his cock stretches you out. His restraint snaps then, and he begins pounding into you with a force that makes your eyes roll back into your head and your entire body lock up. “That’s it, honey. I know you’re about to cum. Give it to me.”

It’s remarkable how quickly he’s become attuned to your body and its signals. He adjusts his hips, pushing deeper, harder, faster than what he should be capable of. His breath ragged in your ear, muscles tight against your back, cock dragging in and out of you. When he releases your neck, you slump to the bed, only for him to plant his hand next to you, while the other sneaks underneath you to rub your clit in time with his thrusts.

It undoes you so quickly, you scream into the sheets, hips pushing against him as you cum. Your climax washes over you so completely, you think you lose consciousness for several seconds. You’re nothing but sensation and bliss.

His deep growl reaches your ears, breaths coming in short bursts as he fucks you through it, “Fuck, feels so good. Pussy is grippin’ me nice and tight baby. I’m gonna cum.”

“Cum inside me,” you plead, words muffled by the bedding. You can feel him trembling above you, holding himself back, and then a rush of warmth as he fills you, cumming with a bone shattering groan that makes your entire body tingle. You love the way he sounds, love that you can do this to him. Wreck him just as thoroughly as he wrecks you.

His thrusts slow, then ease to a stop, and he bends over you to kiss along your shoulder and down your back until he’s withdrawing from you completely. A quiet whimper leaves you, devastated at the loss. 

After wiping up the mess you two had made, Joel settles in bed next to you, drawing you against his chest and giving you a tender kiss. It’s slow and thoughtful and lingering. There’s no intent behind it other than to claim and cherish.

“I can’t stay,” he says when he pulls away, “Gotta be up early for a job tomorrow.”

You sigh and nestle deeper, chasing his lips, “I don’t want you to go.”

“Mm, I don’t either. But my client is extremely demanding. Gotta get to the site on time to make her happy,” he mutters, tongue swiping against you. Your heart flutters, cheeks warming as he pulls away with a smile, “I’ll be back in the morning.”

“Stay a little while longer?”

He answers by pulling the sheets around the both of you, his arms cradling you against him despite the sweat you’ve both worked up. Joel kisses you again, his hand sliding up your back to rest at the base of your neck.

He’s warm and solid against you, his breathing heavy and deep, but you know he’s not asleep yet.

“Joel?”

“Mm?”

“Are you gonna tell Tommy?” You ask, not out of fear or hesitancy, but simple curiosity. If he tells his brother, what will that convey about the two of you? 

He lifts his head to peek down at you and arches an eyebrow, “Do you want me to?”

You shrug, truly unsure. You’re still married. He’s still technically working for you, and you’re not sure what this means for either of you. 

“Don’t see that it’s any of his business. But I meant what I said earlier. I don’t do shit half way, darlin’. This ain’t some game to me,” he tells you, resting on his elbow to look down at you. You look up at him with wide, glimmering eyes, “You either want this, or you don’t. But you better tell me soon so I –”

“I like you too,” you blurt, cutting him off so he doesn’t spiral. You’re growing accustomed to his directness. He doesn’t want to play mind games like some men. Doesn’t want to string you along. It’s refreshing. “I – I don’t want to tell Tommy, though. Not until you’re done… working for me.”

A sly smile creeps onto his face, “You don’t want him to know I’m fuckin’ the boss?”

“No!” Your skin heats and you bring the sheet up to hide your embarrassment, “It’ll look like I’m taking advantage of you.”

“Darlin’, if anyone’s takin’ advantage, it’s me,” he chuckles, pulling the sheet down and pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Saw you walkin’ around in those skimpy little outfits and couldn’t help myself.”

“I didn’t exactly give you a choice, Joel. I basically stripped naked and threw myself at you.”

“Still,” he shrugs, “Could’ve said no.”

You look up at him with a slight smile, his eyes warm and gentle, softened in the dull light of the bedroom lamp, “Glad you didn’t.”

He smiles back. “Me too.”

The next morning, you wake to an email from your lawyer telling you that the papers have been delivered to Jeremy. He was confused and pissed off, but it’s done. The weight of it shifts something in you, the relief burning at your eyes. 

Joel left sometime during the night, but you wish you could reach for him, celebrate with him, kiss him. Because of him, your life has changed drastically in the past twenty-four hours. You want to thank him.

You get the chance to do just that over the course of the next few days, kissing him when he arrives to work on your house for the day, sitting in his lap while he eats lunch, begging him to fuck you before he leaves for the evening. It’s pure bliss, and for the first time in years, you feel something dangerously close to happiness. Something Jeremy hasn’t given you in so long, you forgot what it felt like.

You should’ve known, then, that it would all come crashing down.

taglist: @vickie5446 @pedroncigarettes @isabellaboo2025 @milla-frenchy @rosebuds-and-moonlight @dani111 @wildthyng @saralovesjoelmiller @cuteanimalmama @pedrofan @madpanda75 @faceache111

[time-for-my-weekly-spanking]

Oooh YES this is so good 🤤

Him being a gentleman and finally treating her right, not only giving her top notch service between the sheets but also being gallant and romantic and attentive 🥹🥹🥹

I know Joel is the whole package and you wrote it so well my head went all dizzy and now I can’t stop daydreaming 🫠

And the smutty part OH MY GOD I’m so horny for this man and I need him so badly 🥵

Jeremy can go to hell as far as I’m concerned but I’m smelling troubles coming 😭😭 please tell me there’s an happy ending 🥺

Thanks for sharing more about them, I’m so happy you did! 😍

[queenofslowburn]

Hi there, I'm Mina, in my 30s and a dedicated writer - welcome to my slow burn hell fiction blog, for all of you who also crave slow tension building, thrilling plot lines and anticipated salvation (not to forget Pedro in all his forms). Let me introduce myself before we dive into the writing:

✦ she/her, writer of tension, indulging in smut and softness

✦ trope-lover (but only the good ones)

✦ emotional masochist (but a softie at heart)

✦ happy ends and smut as reward (so minors please dni)

I am always open for asks and prompts, love and reblogs! 🤍

Masterlist

❤️ --- fluff

❤️‍🩹 --- light angst / tension

❤️‍🔥 --- smut

❣️ --- indicates dub-con / non-con

Pedro Pascal

Stubborn Hearts & Coffee Debts --- ❤️‍🩹❤️Pedro Pascal x hairstylist!reader, fluff one-shot

The Rules of Chemistry --- ❤️Pedro Pascal x f!reader, fluff one shot

Una hora más --- ❤️❤️‍🔥Pedro Pascal x f!reader

Joel Miller

Lessons in Sin --- ❣️❤️‍🔥 Dark!Priest!Joel x f!reader, smut 3 parts

Tailor-Made --- ❤️ no outbreak!Joel x tailer!reader, fluff 4 parts

Friday I'm in Love --- ❣️❤️‍🔥❤️‍🩹 AU!Joel x hostage!OFC, completed (29k)

Father, Who Art Tempted --- ❤️‍🩹❤️‍🔥 Priest!Joel x artist!OFC, multi-chapter completed (63k)

Stitched into Season --- ❤️ jackson!Joel x f!reader, fluff one-shot

Under his boot --- ❣️❤️‍🔥 raider!Joel x f!reader, smut series

Not so tough now, Darlin'? --- ❣️❤️‍🔥 dark!Joel x f!reader, smut one-shot

Din Djarin

The Forge Key --- ❤️‍🔥❤️‍🩹 Din Djarin x archaeologist!OFC, multi-chapter completed (70k)

Darkness-Trilogy --- ❤️‍🔥 demon!Din Djarin x witch!reader, smut 3 parts

It's getting tight --- ❤️‍🔥 Din Djarin x f!reader, smut one-shot

Oberyn Martell

The Viper's Touch --- ❤️‍🔥 Oberyn Martell x f!reader, smut one-shot

Harry Castillo

Day Dreams --- ❤️‍🔥❤️ AU!Harry Castillo x f!reader, multi-chapter completed (92k)

Javier Peña

Ask nicely, Cariño --- ❤️‍🔥 Javier x f!reader, smut one-shot

Act like you mean it --- ❤️‍🔥 Javier x f!reader, smut one-shot

Fox Hunt --- ❤️‍🔥❣️AU!contract killer Javier x contract killer!reader, coming soon

Max Phillips

Take a Sip --- ❤️‍🔥❣️❤️ AU!vampire Max Phillips (but more so just the name, any Pedro will suffice) x NYPD!reader, multi-chapter completed (86k)

Marcus Acacius

Fluctuat nec mergitur --- ❤️‍🩹❤️‍🔥 General Acacius x bride!OFC, completed (52k)

[speaktothehandpeasants]

Honestly,these are all such amazing reads!

[penvisions]

dev's navigation {hello and welcome!}

dev / pen || 30's || she / they || cat mom || mobility impaired || undergrad student || pastry goddess || pedro lover

i am an adult, writing about adult things even if there is no smut content (there is, don't worry) so my blog and little corner of the internet is strictly 18+ || angst royalty

current wips:

stages of devotion {younger! joel miller x baker! reader}

services requested {older! joel miller x sugar momma! reader} *NEW 06/23

acute adoration {jack abbot x f! reader}

finding your place {din djarin x babysitter! reader} *NEW 06/14

sugar me up {jack abbot x resident! reader}

on hiatus / now complete:

o is for orchard {frankie morales summer one shot} *NEW 07/03

gone to the dogs {qz! joel miller x reader} *complete

black hole sun {joel miller through the ages x f! reader}

upcoming fics:

steel doesn't burn {young dad! joel miller x firefighter! reader}

manners are important {clint flood x reader}

work conduct {dave york x coworker! reader}

-> main masterlist || joel miller masterlist || drabble masterlist || frankie morales masterlist || ao3 link || ko-fi

hopefully you find something that you enjoy and thank you for being here! hope the days are good to you and feel free to reach out to chat, my dms and inbox are always open for anything, loves ♡

dividers by the lovely @cafekitsune and @saradika-graphics

[xoxostarfire]

°❀.ೃ࿔*Purple Rain °❀.ೃ࿔*

spotify | pintrest visuals | masterlist

You and Joel Miller were in a six-year relationship that ended in pure and utter hatred for each other. While your writing career soared, his insecurity spiraled, negatively fueled by drinking and resentment for your success. It all culminated in a brutal car wreck that left you lifeless on the asphalt and him fleeing the scene. You woke from a month-long coma to a new, cruel reality: a brain injury that stole your dexterity and murdered your ability to ever hold a pen again. Joel never looked back.

Years later, you’ve traded your dreams for a quiet teaching gig in Dallas, while trying to manage tremors. Then, a name appears on your first-grade roster: Sarah Miller. You tell yourself it’s a coincidence until the classroom door swings open, and Joel walks in to drop off the daughter you never knew he had. The man who broke your life is back, and this time, he's holding the hand of your student.

tags & plot warnings: no outbreak AU, younger Joel (30), Sarah is 6, lovers to exes to ??, heavy angst, PTSD, chronic disability, smut!, both MC and Joel do questionable things, car accident, severe depression, learning disabilities, Sarah's mom plays a role, past abuse, alcohol and drug use

author notes: I try and make all of my work as accurate as possible by doing heavy amounts of research on the topics at hand before writing (see my fantastic four fic as an example). For this fic, I used my brief experience as a special education TA to bring knowledge to different state testing names, dyslexia policies, etc, but I will be taking creative liberties on what I deem necessary if it does not effect the integrity of the story.

If you feel as if I could add something for more accuracy, I welcome feedback with open arms.

i do not have an updating schedule as I work full time and will be in law school in the next few months. I try and update once a week. I do not consent for my work to be fed into ai.

chapter visuals done by @dilf-docs and myself 💜

beta read by: @suupermoonn and @dilf-docs 💜

dividers by @saradika-graphics 💜

shout out: @followyourfleart beautiful and magnificent story terms & conditions inspired me to write my own Joel x reader fic! Go read it right now or else. GOAT. 💜

lesson one

lesson two

lesson three

lesson four

lesson five

lesson six

lesson seven

[speaktothehandpeasants]

Amazing storyline, can't wait for more chapters 🥰

[aurorawritestoescape]

LET ME TEACH YOU

boyfriend’s dad Joel Miller x fem!reader

Summary: your boyfriend begs you to have anal but knows jack shit about the act. Much to your surprise and pleasure, his dad steps up and teaches him. By example.

Tw: +18, mdni, smut, age gap, soft!Joel, consent king Joel, reader calls him Mr Miller bc she’s respectful and bc it’s hotttt, size kink, competency kink, pussy/ass fingering (different fingers ofc), cuckolding, ass play, rimming, anal, lots of lube, f!masturbation, creampie, praise kink.

Word count: 5,4k

A/n: I think this is the porn-iest story I’ve ever written ahah It’s very depraved but also sweet in some places. I had a blast working on it and I hope you’ll like the result♥️ Soft Joel kisses to @milla-frenchy for beta-ing😘 Dividers by @/saradika-graphics 💞Enjoy, my lovely freaks🍑

MASTERLIST

“Number one rule of anal sex is ‘No rush’,” Mr Miller says to his son. The older man is sitting by your side, his hands gently kneading your naked asscheeks. You hold your breath when he spreads the globes of your flesh and exposes your pussy slit and butthole. Both entrances clench.

You’ve been going out with Jack Miller for almost a year and you know his dad Joel relatively well. He’s single, works as a contractor, loves spending his free time playing the guitar, woodworking, watching old action movies and going to the bar with his brother Tommy. What you haven’t known before tonight is how good his fingers feel when he pushes them into your asshole. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

It all started with an argument. Jack was getting on your nerves, begging you to have anal.

“C’mon, baby,” he said, clinging to you like an annoying lap dog. He had just fingered you as a foreplay so you were sweaty and sleepy, lying naked on his bed. As always it had taken him too long. He had trouble finding the right rhythm and the right angle like he’d never touched your pussy before. While he was fiddling with your lady parts, a slideshow of your favorite porno scenes was playing on a loop behind your tightly closed eyes until finally you reached an underwhelming orgasm.

Probably relying on endorphins clouding your judgement, Jack began his anal pitch. He was promising you heavenly pleasure and an unforgettable experience, mostly turning himself on - a pole was proudly tenting his sweatpants.

Despite the passion in his voice, you were adamant in your decision. You’d never done it with anyone before and doubted that Jack was experienced enough to show you a wonderful world of anal.

“It’s not that simple, Jack! Jerking off to anal porn is not enough! What if you hurt me! You need to educate yourself first. You need to know… stuff.” You pulled the cover over your naked breasts and crossed your arms.

“What stuff?” Jack frowned.

“Exactly!”

You stared at the ceiling, contemplating getting dressed and going home. You were sure he wouldn’t let it go. And he didn’t.

“I’ll be careful, I promise. Just a tip first, you won’t even feel it. I’ll be super slow and then bam! I’m inside.”

BAM! No one in the history of mankind wanted to hear Bam! and their ass in the same sentence. So you shook your head and gave Jack an alternative,

“Why don’t you fuck my pussy?”

Jack palmed his clothed boner with interest but then shook his head, doubling down.

“Baby, pleaseeeeee..”

Nothing extraordinary would have happened if Jack hadn’t kept nagging and whining, pleading you to give him your butt. You kept saying ‘no’, he kept begging. It got so annoying that you decided to leave but before you sat up there was a loud knock on the bedroom door.

“Dad,” Jack grumbled and got up. He adjusted his hard cock and you pulled the bed cover higher, covering your chest.

“What’s up, dad?” Jack said, annoyed by the interruption.

“Can I …?” Mr Miller stepped into the bedroom. You swallowed loudly. It was weird to be completely naked under the sheet in front of your boyfriend’s father.

“Sorry for intrudin’, sweetheart,” he said, turning to you and then to his son. “Jack, I can’t listen to it no more! Don’t you get what she’s sayin’?”

“Dad, what the hell?” Jack’s cheeks grew red, he was shifting on his bare feet, throwing nervous glances at you. And you definitely shared his confusion.

“I wasn’t eavesdroppin’ I swear. These fuckin walls are cardboard thin. You were whinin’ like a little bitch, son. Sorry, sweetheart,” Mr Miller apologized to you again and then said the words that you’d never expected to hear from your boyfriend’s dad.

“Let me teach you anal.”

Jack was shocked and embarrassed. He was gawking at his dad with widened eyes while the older man was standing by the bed, towering over his son, feet planted firmly on the ground. He kept saying that he only wanted to help, gesturing with his big hands. To your surprise you immediately pictured those hands on your naked body.

You wondered how Mr Miller would teach you. Maybe he’d watch Jack and you, guiding you both, giving advice, or maybe he’d take matters (your ass) into his own hands. Those huge veiny hands. The thought made your core pucker and while Jack was asking his dad to leave, saying that he lost his mind, you pressed your thighs together under the cover, trying to alleviate the ache in your pussy.

“I couldn’t hear the TV, Jack! Only your pathetic attempts to put it in her ass. Sorry, baby,” Mr Miller looked at you, his hands raised palms to you.

“Don’t call her that,” Jack grumbled. He looked and sounded like a boy who didn’t want to share his toy truck.

“‘K,” his father nodded and turned at you. “Jus’ wanna help.”

He dropped his hands by his sides, his sad puppy eyes moving from his son and to you and back. Your heart swelled. Your pussy throbbed.

“Ok,” you said, surprising your boyfriend and yourself. Jack gawked at you.

“What do you mean ‘ok’?!”

“You want to have anal, yeah? But you got no clue what to do, don’t even lie, Jack! Let your dad teach us.”

That’s how you ended up in a position you couldn’t imagine being in your wildest dreams — lying naked on your front, your legs spread, your boyfriend's dad playing with your butt.

“Help ‘er relax,” Mr Miller says to his son, his voice soft and soothing, his tone casual as if he’s teaching Jack how to fix a lawn mower. Your boyfriend is seated in a gaming chair a foot away from the bed, his arms crossed, eyes narrowed. When his gaze meets yours, you quickly look away. He doesn’t seem pleased, rather mortified. Whatever. You always thought that Mr Miller was hot, in a rugged and dilf-y way.

Once you had a dream about blowing him in their kitchen, your mouth full of his fat cock, his fingers tight in your hair, no Jack and his cuck gaming chair in sight.

“Draw ‘er a nice bath, give ‘er a massage, somethin’ like that,” Joel says as his calloused palm glides up and down the back of your thigh. You’re one big goosebump, his touch is electrifying.

“No harsh movements.” He carefully pushes on your inner thigh until you bend up your leg. Your hips open and slightly rise off the bed. “She needs to be pliant, ready to take you in her most vulnerable place.”

Jack swallows hard. Your cheek is resting on the pillow, your head turned away from Mr Miller, but you are seeing him perfectly in the wardrobe mirror that stands lengthwise the bed. He’s wearing his usual flannel, sleeves rolled up, and dark blue jeans. It’s not his home clothes and you wonder if he dressed like this for you.

Mr Miller’s salt and pepper locks curl up at the nape, he needs a haircut, but you like his hair longer. You imagine running your fingers through his curls, tugging on them while he’s plowing your wet needy …

“Are you comfortable, sweetie?” Joel interrupts your dirty daydream with a question, his voice soft and raspy. It could have lulled you to sleep if not for a finger that grazes your butthole, making you flinch.

“Uh-huh.” You don’t sound too sure.

“We’ll get there,” he says with a little smile and adds, “Together.”

While you’re slowly melting into the bedsheets from his gentle tone, Mr Miller turns to Jack.

“Another important thing is lubrication. You have some?”

It looks like Jack’s using all his energy to dissociate at the moment thus he misses the question.

“Huh?”

“Lube? You have it or I need to go get mine?”

You widen your eyes, picturing Mr Miller squirt lube on some lucky lady in his master bedroom. And to think you considered him almost celibate!

Your boyfriend blinks a few times, then gets up. You hear him rummaging through a mess in his nightstand drawer, mumbling the word ‘crazy’ before he throws a little bottle on the bed and returns to his chair.

“It should be warm,” Joel says, rolling it between his wide palms.

“May I?” His reflection points at your ass in the mirror and you nod with a quiet ‘yes’. Mr Miller opens the lid with teeth and moves your left asscheek to the side for better access.

“Oh!” You gasp when a slight cold glob of lube lands on your tight ring.

“Bit more.” Joel adds another squirt and then starts spreading the liquid around your ring with a tip of his finger.

“Ahhhh,” you whimper and bite your tongue immediately. Jack’s chair creaks.

“Feels good?” When Joel asks you the question you don’t see a point in lying so you say “yeah.” Wet arousal pools in your core, it’s a matter of minutes before it slides out of your hole and reveals how insanely horny Mr Miller is making you.

“We’re just startin’ and look at her response,” Joel says with pride in his velvet voice while his finger is slowly drawing circles over your asshole. “She’s enjoyin’ it. Even if we stop now she’ll remember the act as something pleasant.”

“Maybe we should,” Jack mutters but neither Joel nor you pay it any attention. Hot flames are licking at your core, the ache in your pussy growing so fast, you roll your hips against the bed, searching for friction.

Adding gasoline to your horny fire is the sight in the mirror in front of you — Joel’s sexy hand moving rhythmically over your ass, his plush lips slightly parted, his dark eyes focused on your puckered hole.

Mr Miller lowers his voice and asks, “Growin’ needy?”

Your eyes lock in the mirror. Fuck! A hot flash burns your lower belly when his black pupils meet yours. Sparks flying, gazes drawn to each other for a few long seconds, promising pleasure and trouble. The intense eye contact does something to you, drowns you in an ocean of lust, pulls you so deep you panic and hastily flick your eyes to your boyfriend who seems very pale.

“Sweetheart,” Joel calls you as if hating to share your attention with his son. You hum but don’t look at him.

“Do you give your permission for the next step? To open you up I need to eat your ass. Is that alright?”

“No!”

“Yes!”

Both you and Jack answer but you are the one calling the shots.

“Yes!” You repeat louder and raise your brows at Jack. Your boyfriend lets out a defeated sigh and drops his head.

“Good,” Joel says and gives your butt a light pat before cupping both asscheeks and spreading them apart. Cold air laps at your holes and you shiver. Joel smiles, probably noticing goosebumps on your skin.

“We’ll start slow.” In the mirror you watch him unhinge his jaw, stick his tongue out and lower his head.

You gasp when Mr Miller slowly licks your tight butthole. “Oh my God!”

Joel chuckles and repeats the depraved action. Soon he’s licking your asshole gingerly, his fingers digging into your flesh with passion. You’re softly moaning, your eyes are rolling to the back of your head. You’ve never had your ass eaten and the sensation is incredible. You wish he’d get lower and take care of your leaking pussy but fuckkk you can come just from Mr Miller’s tongue dancing over your little butthole. So when he parts from your ass, your needy whine rings in the room.

“I’ll be right back, sweetie.”

His wet lips are curled up at the corners, pride sparkling in his blown out eyes, Joel glances back at his son and announces,

“Now we gonna start openin’ her up with a tongue.” Your breathing hitches. You don’t see Jack’s expression because you can’t tear your eyes off Mr Miller in the mirror. “Gently push the tip inside her just so” — Joel leans down and his hot tongue prods at your ring, your mouth forms an O as you moan.

Joel mutters, “Slowly go in,” then his head begins moving up and down while his tongue slides into your ass deeper with every bop. He’s salivating onto your crack, the wetness dripping down to your pussy, covering your folds with the warm spit.

You are losing your mind over how amazing it feels, meanwhile Joel alternates between licking your ring and tongue-fucking it for what seems like hours or so you wish. His lewd slurping fills the room and mixes with your soft noises. You apply all your willpower to stop yourself from moaning like a whore out of respect for your boyfriend who is now sitting with his legs crossed, probably hard but too shocked to accept it.

“How you feelin’, baby?” Joel asks, licking his spit-covered lips.

“S—so good, Mr Miller,” you stutter, staring at him in the mirror with your half lidded eyes.

“See, she’s already gapin’ a little,” Joel says, showing your asshole to Jack.

“Hm-m,” Jack hums, his brows furrowed, his suspicious gaze trained on your ecstatic face.

“Now let’s add a finger.”

You squeak like a little mouse and your holes clench. Joel notices.

“Hey, don’t be scared, babygirl. You’re open nicely now. And I’m gonna be gentle, yeah?”

“Ok,” you reply and hold your breath.

“Nuh-uh. None of that. You should be breathin’, sweetheart.” He puts his warm heavy palm on your back, between your shoulder blades and rubs it up and down, giving you a rhythm.

“In— out—in— out.”

You follow his direction and soon your muscles relax, your eyes flutter close, your jaws unclench. It seems like your body is seeping into the mattress.

“I’m puttin’ one finger in.”

His voice is so quiet you barely register his words, barely notice his finger going inside your ass, miss a slight burn of the stretch, that’s how serene you are feeling.

When you finally open your eyes you see Mr Miller’s reflection thrusting his index finger in and out of your butthole, his eyes on your ring, his lip between his teeth.

“Wow,” you mutter, in awe of the hot sight and the new sensation. All your holes clench again and again, your pussy pushing your generous slick out and you catch yourself wanting Joel to fuck you.

"Another finger? Is that alright, sweetie?" With your heart pounding in your ears, Joel's raspy voice seems both close and far. You nod and mumble a shaky 'yes' before he inserts a second digit into your lubed up asshole. You moan, Joel growls, both at the same time. Your boyfriend curses under his breath.

"Hooooooly hell," you exhale against the pillow, clenching bedsheets with your clammy palms while Joel's scissoring your tight ring open. "This … it's amazing."

Joel pulls his fingers out of you and chuckles yet it comes out strained. You know it takes everything from him not to whip his cock out and fuck you right now. Jack seems to feel it, too.

"Dad, maybe that's enough?"

"No."

"No!"

Your yell drowns out Joel's reply. Your cheeks burning, lust clouding your mind and overtaking your body, you lift your head off the bed and glare at Jack.

"Mr Miller needs to... we need to learn what to do next. Right?"

Jack crosses his arms, his lower lip sticking out.

Completely disregarding his son's suggestion to stop, Joel nods at you and asks Jack as if it's some depraved sex ed class.

"She's nice and ready now. What's next?"

Jack blinks at his dad, a mixture of frustration and confusion plastered on his face. He shrugs. "I fuck her."

"Wrong!" Joel sits up straight and gives him a disappointed look. "Son, the most important thing about anal is consent."

You drop your head back on the pillow and nod with the 'obviously' expression meanwhile Joel continues.

"Even after you did all the necessary prep, you ask her again. And if she says 'no', you stop! Got it?"

You watch Joel in the mirror, his bushy brows furrowed, two obsidian eyes piercing Jack. He's not fucking around.

"Yeah."

"Huh?"

"Yes, sir," Jack mumbles. He looks so pitiful now you get scared of your pussy turning into the Sahara so you hastily move your eyes to the mirror with Joel's reflection in it.

You watch and feel your boyfriend's dad lean down to you. His hot breath fans your naked back, sending chills down your spine, as he asks,

"Can I fuck your ass now, baby?"

Your voice is wanton and needy, you're almost drooling onto the bed, as you reply,

"Yes, Mr Miller. But..?”

“Yes, sweetie?”

“Can I be on my back?”

Joel kisses your shoulder and coos,

“Sure thing.”

Your body buzzing with want, you slowly and awkwardly roll over. Your exposed tits jiggle as you get comfortable and Joel takes you in— your puffy pussy, your heaving belly, your nipples hard as diamonds, desire plastered on your face.

Jack nervously clears his throat and leaves his cuck chair.

“You ain’t really doing it, right?”

You’re not sure if he’s talking to you or his dad but Joel is the one who answers,

“I’m teachin’ you two. And this is the most crucial part. You wanna go in now and ruin all the progress?”

Jack closes and opens his mouth, but when you shake your head at his attempt to intervene, your boyfriend plops back in the chair, looking gobsmacked.

“This is insane,” he murmurs and you have to agree. You’re feeling insanely good.

With a nonchalant expression on his flushed face Joel grabs a pillow.

“Raise your hips for me, baby.”

You do what he asks and he quickly places it under your butt. When your hips are raised Joel hums in approval.

“Grab your knees for me, please.”

Like an obedient student you do it immediately.

“That’s it. Good girl.”

His praise, his scent - manly and dizzying, his warm smile, his obsidian eyes set between your thighs — all of it makes your blooming pussy contract and a drop of clear slick beads at your entrance.

Joel smirks, his dark gaze darts to yours and then back to your leaky hole. He opens his mouth but words die on his lips.

Instead he takes a sharp breath and climbs on the bed, grunting. With your body trembling in anticipation you watch Mr Miller kneel by your propped up butt, unzip his jeans, his back now to his son.

Just for your hungry eyes, he pulls his cock out. Big, veiny, hard as steel fuck machine. Hnggg!

You clench your jaws, killing a moan that rises in your throat from the sight of his manhood. You see a drop of precum on the slit and your mouth waters.

“Need more lube.” Joel squirts a generous amount on his hand and then strokes his cock spreading the liquid.

You squirm on the bed, fear and excitement coursing through your veins. He wants to stick that huge thing where?!

Joel seems to read the worry on your face. With one hand around the base of his stiff shaft, he brings the other to your knee and gives it a light squeeze.

“If you want me to stop I will.”

You don’t reply, just stare up at him, fear and desire playing tug-of-war in your heart.

“See?” Joel gets his son’s attention but doesn’t look away from you. “This sweet thing is unsure but she’s bein’ brave and doesn’t stop me.”

Jack sighs with relief from behind Joel’s broad body. He probably hopes that you’ve changed your mind.

Then the older man addresses you.

“You don’t have to be brave for me or anyone else, ok?” You hum while warmth spreads in your belly, reaches your clit and makes it throb. You open your mouth but words don’t come out. Joel gives you a knowing smile and offers,

“How ‘bout I open you up again with my fingers? Two steps forward, one step back.”

Jack’s chair creaks unhappily when you breathe out, “Yes, please.”

Joel gives you a curt nod and sits on his heels, his cock still hard and waiting. His strong hand circles around the back of your thigh as he keeps it steady for you.

Jack’s view is blocked by Joel so he doesn’t see when his dad traces your pussy hole with his fingers and brings the wetness down to your ring. His eyes dart up to yours just for a second, you see lust and mischief there.

“Alright, here we go,” he mumbles to himself, easing two lubed up fingers inside you. This time you take them easily, dull pain of the stretch is present but also welcomed. You moan.

Mr Miller closely watches your face twisting with pleasure while his fingers are fucking your butt. You watch him back, suddenly swept by a feeling so strong, you forget how to breathe for a second. There's no one else in the room, in the whole world, only you and this big older man, giving you an unforgettable experience, filling the hole that’s never been filled and you don’t want it to end, hate for him to stop. Stop giving, taking, watching you melt for him.

Ahhhh! A scorching heat floods your belly and hits you like a tsunami. Your core walls clench once, twice, your head digs into the pillow underneath, your eyes close and a loud moan slips out of your mouth. You’re shaking and crying ecstatic tears, your ass squeezing Joel’s thick digits, your pussy contracting around nothing.

“D— did you just come? Jack’s cold tone brings you back to reality as if a bucket of icy water was thrown over your head. Still jerking with climax you snap your eyes open, your breathing heavy, and see Joel’s lopsided smile in front of you.

Fuck! Your cheeks and neck burn and you cover your face with your hands, embarrassed by unraveling in front of your boyfriend’s dad. With his fingers in your ass.

Joel comes to your rescue. He gently rubs your thigh with his paddle of a hand and coos,

“She’s one of a kind, Jack. The anal stimulation isn’t as pleasurable for women as it is for men. In the right hands though… you did wonderful, sweetie.”

You bite your lip, hiding a grin that’s about to bloom on your face, and grip your knees tighter.

“We can stop now if…,” Joel starts.

“No!” You cut him off and push your knees to your chest. “I want to be ready. For the real thing.”

“I’ll give you the real thing,” Joel whispers so quietly it’s barely audible but you hear. Your eyes lock as he plants his palm on the bed by your side and hovers over your lower half.

“Ready, sweetheart?”

After you say ‘yes’ Mr Miller glances back in the direction of his son.

“Jus’ the tip at first. Maybe only. Depends on how she takes it.”

He looks down at you with that soft but feral gaze of his and talks to Jack.

“Watch her face closely when you push inside.”

Joel’s hot leaky cockhead kisses your pussy hole and you gasp, your entrance winking at his manhood, inviting it to come in. Joel whispers,

“Only teasin’.” You smile and shake your head at the man. He gives you a wink and drags his tip down along the delicate skin between your pussy and asshole and then nudges your tight ring.

“If she scrunches her pretty nose, stop. Means she’s hurtin’.”

Joel presses his crown against your asshole and applies pressure. Your mouth parts when he starts pushing it into your asshole, the stretch far bigger than with his fingers. You take a few deep breaths, not stopping him, craving to be fucked.

“Yeah, breathe for me, baby. In and out. Like I taught ya.”

In! in! in! your pussy screams and throbs with the rhythm of your heartbeat, your body desperate to be ruined by your boyfriend’s dad.

Mr Miller pauses and closes his eyes, his forearm muscles tense with restraint, the veins of his hand that’s wrapped around his shaft are bulging. He speaks, trying to keep his voice steady.

“The most difficult thing now—is to control yourself — all you wanna do — is shove your dick deep inside her— to the hilt—- she feels so fuckin’ good.”

His arousal and your desire merge together and form an electric cloud around you two, the scent of sex heavy in the air. Mr Miller moves another inch deeper and you whimper.

“But you musn’t,” he grunts to his son or to himself. “You should be in control— think of her first and your pleasure second —Yeahhh?”

The last word sounds like a moan and you smile dizzily, ecstatic to see how much bliss you’re giving him. Joel pushes in some more and then looks into your eyes. “Wanna see?”

You nod eagerly and place another pillow under your head, propping it up to get a better view.

The sight before your eyes takes your breath away. Joel’s big hand wrapped around his girthy cock, the veins on his shaft thumping, glistening with lube. But the best thing is your stretched asshole, hugging Joel’s tip buried inside.

“Wow,” you breathe out. Joel smirks, his smile lopsided and boyish. He drops his head to your butt and asks,

“Wanna stop here? Done so good already.”

You crane your neck and glance at Jack, expecting him to scream ‘Yes! Stop! Now!’ but he’s hunched over in his cuck chair with a blank stare, chewing on the nail of his thumb.

You bring your gaze back up at Joel and purr,

“I want all of it.”

Joel nods and thrusts in.

Mr Miller’s fucking your ass like it’s been made solemnly for this purpose. His hands are gripping your spread thighs, leaving marks on your soft skin, his hips snapping against your asscheeks, drowning the room in the lewd Slap slap slap! Sounds.

By now you’ve lost all the composure and your loud moans are flowing freely from your lips, mixing with Joel’s animalistic growls.

“Yeahhhh.. good girl…she’s a fast learner… takin’ me like a champ.”

“Thanks, Mr Miller,” you mewl with your eyes rolling to the back of your head when you feel a second orgasm building. Hungry for it you lick your fingers, reach for your throbbing clit and start rubbing it while Joel’s steel shaft is massaging your insides.

“Lemme… want some help?” Joel asks, consent king as always.

“Yes, please.”

Not minding his son watching you two from the back, Joel brings his calloused thumb to your puffy clit and starts drawing infinities over it.

You arch your back, losing your mind over how amazing it feels. Your ass is full of Joel’s cock, but your neglected pussy hole is crying desperately. You look for your boyfriend behind Joel’s broad back. He still looks shell shocked, his widened eyes lowered, and you realize that he’s watching his dads heavy balls slap against his girlfriend’s asscheeks.

Opps.

“Mr Miller,” you whisper, staring at the older man again, “Could you..?”

You lift your hand, stick two fingers out and move them up and down, fingering an invisible pussy.

Joel flashes you a knowing smile.

“Gotcha, sweetie.” He glances back at his son and raises his voice, talking to you,

“You strugglin’, baby? Ok if I help you relax?”

You consent loudly so Jack could hear and the next second Mr Miller changes hands and his dry index and middle fingers easily enter your sopping pussy.

Yeahhhh! You whimper, so full of his fat cock and digits, it feels like you’re going to come apart at the seams.

Joel’s massaging your g-spot with two fingers, his thumb working your clit, his cock relentlessly rutting into your ass. You’ve never been fucked this good and you try to hold off your second climax, hating for the sex to end.

But Joel’s too hot, too experienced and soon you come with a wail, arching your sweaty back off the bed and clamping Joel’s hips with your thighs. Blinding ecstasy is coursing through your body, your cunt pulsing around Joel’s fingers, your asshole choking his cock so hard he stills.

“Here— we g—goooHngggg….” he roars, retreats his fingers out of your pussy and covers you with his huge frame. He pushes his face into your sweaty neck but holds his weight over your thrashing body.

“Where?” He chokes, his chest rumbling with groans, and you wrap your arms around his broad back and press your naked tits to him, mumbling into his ear,

“Inside my ass, Mr Miller. Please.”

His whole body tenses up over you and he begins squirting his hot cum deep inside your butt. The warmth of his load fills you more and more, every erratic thrust of his cock pushes the sticky spent back into you and you hold him tight, wishing to be stuffed to the brim. It doesn’t take long with how much he comes and soon his jizz covers your asscheeks and his balls, sticking them together like glue. You feel filthy and sexy, with your boyfriend’s dad busting inside you, the former having a perfect view of your asshole sucking the older man’s cum in. Too abundant it rolls down your crack and onto Jack’s bed.

Both of you are panting when Joel carefully pulls his cock out of your asshole and falls on the bed next to you, still fully clothed except for the pulled down jeans and boxers.

“Dad, put your dick away,” Jack grumbles.

“Yeah yeah.” Joel tucks his cock back in, leaving his jeans open. He sounds exhausted. You cover yourself with a sheet suddenly remembering that you’re naked next to your boyfriend’s dad.

You turn your head to him resting next to you, his forearm covering his closed eyes, his chest rising and falling quickly, his leg dangling off the edge of the bed. He’s so handsome you want to bite him. The man had a full day of work and then rocked your world. You find it incredibly hot but also feel guilty for exhausting him even more.

You watch Mr Miller for a few moments, warmth spreading in your belly and chest, until he takes a deep breath, opens his eyes and turns his head to you.

“Dad?” Jack calls impatiently, hurrying the man to leave but Joel doesn’t spare him a glance and asks you,

“How you feelin’, baby?”

He nods down at your pussy but you know he’s asking about your butt.

“I’m ok.” You squirm on the bed, trying to access your state. “A little sore but good.”

“Good,” Joel repeats with a warm smile. You’re staring at each other silently, his gaze soft and warm, grinning like two fools. You want to kiss him but stop yourself. It’s inappropriate.

Then you remember where his cock was just a few minutes ago and giggle.

“What is it?” Joel asks, his eyes dart between yours and then slide to your lips.

You shake your head, silence thick and loaded between you two.

Jack rips it apart as he clears his throat.

“Thanks, dad. Fucking hell. You can go now.”

He gets up from the chair and crosses his arms, frowning at the two of you. You wonder if he’s going to break up with you after this. Whatever.

Joel sits up with a grunt and gets out of the bed. He sways a little and you smile proudly — you did it to him.

“Thank you, Mr Miller.” You sit up, holding the sheet over your body. He zips up his jeans and winks,

“Don’t mention it, baby.”

Jack scoffs. Joel heads to the door but as he passes his son he pauses.

“Get her a wet towel. And some water,” he commands. “So .. if she took my cock, she wouldn’t even notice yours. You’re welcome.”

With that he pats his son’s shoulder and leaves.

Who needs Jack, amirite? Maybe Joel can teach them something else?🤔 Thank you for reading! Please, leave a comment and reblog if you enjoyed the story💞

MASTERLIST

Story tag list: @hanahleah @iwas19 @thewitchflowcr @classybroad2 @elinaxxxxx @ivoryandflame @mysterialee @604to647 @reddrippysocks @madridisms @suburban-panic-smut @disco-fairy75 @ningaispunk @/time-for-my-weekly-spanking @littlepadika @max--phillips Milla @gutter-noise @hauntedinkk

Tag list: @/milla-frenchy @harriedandharassed @nervousmumbling @bbyanarchist @stevie75 @puduvallee @mountainsandmayhem @senoratess @flamingochick55 @theoraekenslover @schnarfer @mermaidgirl30 @staywildflowahchild @yesjazzywazzylove-blog @keylimebeag @pascaltesaye @meetmeatyourworst @callmebyyournick-name @tateypots @pedrofan @chloeee20 @ess-evo @upintheclouds95 @ashleyfilm @shadowqueen2024 @time-for-my-weekly-spanking @libre-sol @iamladyp @somebody-get-me-rehab

Joel tag @/libre-sol @roserxein

[ess-evo]

wow. anal is not typically my thing but this was soooo hot, jesus. the consent was sexy. joel just focusing on the reader and humiliating/disregarding his son was so good. i really enjoyed this. thank you!!

[speaktothehandpeasants]

Seriously hot stuff 😋

[auteurdelabre]

Holding Pattern: Epilogue

a03 link here

Summary:

You move back to your childhood home in Florida to care for your ailing mother, only to find the past waiting for you in every room. Your always kind older cousin Santiago refuses to let you disappear into the sadness, pulling you into his world without hesitation. But Santi's world involves Frankie Morales; your cousin's best friend and the boy who broke your heart decades earlier. Thrust into each other’s orbit again old memories make their way to the surface, blurring the line between hatred and desire.Because the boy you learned to despise is the man you can't seem to forget.

THIS STORY IS ON A03

tags: Friends to Enemies, First Love, Childhood Friends, Brother's Best Friend trope kinda, Angst, Smut, Flashbacks, First person POV, Protective Frankie, First kiss, parent with terminal illness, HEA.

notes: Its over and something in me feels a bit healed. Hard to describe, but this has been a special work to me. I hope you feel I have honored those with terminal illness, the love story and above all, I hope you feel the gratitude I have for all of you who have left comments, shared your own tough stories and have been overall, incredibly supportive.

You've never ridden in a helicopter before. 

It's much louder than you anticipated and it smells of oil and old coffee. Frankie says if it was his own helicopter it would be spotless. But as this is a work one he borrowed for the day, beggars can't be choosers. 

You can't stop sneaking looks at him as he flies. There's so much that goes into flying - one hand rests on the controls while the other makes precise adjustments. And as he always was in his youth, he does everything with a calm focus.  He isn't showing off for you, he just knows exactly what he he's doing. Every motion is like second nature, and you muse that some people are just meant for certain things. 

Frankie was meant for flying. 

Your stomach is still a little jumpy from the start of the flight, your heart still pattering a bit quicker than normal, even though you trust Frankie with your life. It was still strange to see the world grow smaller and smaller beneath you, to hear the swop wop wop of the blades cutting through the sky. 

Your headset sits comfortably over your ears and you hear a crackle and then Frankie's raspy voice coming through. 

"You doing okay, Pip?" 

You look his way, nodding. You're doing okay; you just wish that Hilary was with you today. 

The entire idea of flying out here was Frankie's idea, a suggestion brought to you and Hilary the day before the official funeral. 

The three of you sat around the kitchen table sharing the brownies Frankie brought. They sat on plates, untouched in front of all of you. 

“I can’t wait until all of this is over,” Hilary sighed, taking a drag of her cigarette.

“Tell me about it,” you mumbled, your eyes red from crying all night.

Frankie’s shoulder touched yours, a silent reminder that he was there for you if you should need him.

“Well, we can take your mom's ashes to Blue Heron like she wanted when you’re ready,” Frankie told you both quietly, fingers absently playing with his fork. “No rush.”

“No we can’t,” Hilary frowned. “It’s condemned plus all that road deterioration means we’d never manage to get up there.”

Your heart sank as you thought of failing in the one thing your mother requested. You found yourself surprised that Frankie didn’t seem deterred.

"I know, Pip told me. But we can get there by helicopter. I talked to my boss and I can rent one for the day. You just tell me when.”

You burst into grateful tears as Hilary just sat there at the table, eyes wide in disbelief. 

It wasn’t until later that night when you and Hilary were alone that she gave you a solemn look.

"Will you do it? I just ... Can't. I don't like heights.”

Hillary had never had issues with heights. But did have issues with drawn out farewells. You knew it was too emotional for her. Too hard to do that final step and say goodbye and for once, you came to her aid. 

"Of course." 

So it's just Frankie and you touching down into Blue Heron with your mother's ashes in a metal urn held securely in your lap. 

Frankie sneaks a glance your way, can see the nerves in you and you knowi this was the truck he'd be reaching over to squeeze your knee, to quickly press a kiss to your cheek at a stop sign. However, behind this beast of a helicopter, his focus needs to remain on the task at hand. 

But that doesn't stop him from shooting you a soft smile before turning his attention back to the console. 

"There it is, baby." 

Through the curved windshield the abandoned camp appears below as a dark patch of collapsed docks and overgrown trails swallowed by green. Isolated and forgotten, many areas patchy from lack of growth. But there is a large section big enough for his chopper.

You glance Frankie's way, eyes meeting briefly before he's focused back on guiding you both down. As the helicopter descends, the lake's surface ripples outward beneath the downdraft. Tall grass begins to bend flat, leaves and pine needles spiraling into the air like mini tornados. 

Even as the winds nudge the helicopter on your descent, Frankie remains completely composed, dark eyes scanning the instruments and horizon with steady focus. The helicopter finally touches down with a soft bump on the earth below you hold your breath. The rotors gradually slow and the blades thundering chops stutter to a stop.  

You remove your headphones and all that's left is the quiet sound of the birdsong and a gentle lapping of the lake against a weathered and collapsed dock. 

You don't move right away, the weight of the urn heavy on your lap. You just stare out the windshield, looking at the still campground. You’re scared of this next step.

“No rush, Pip. We can go when you’re ready.”

You look over to see your boyfriend gazing at you with concern. Of course Frankie knows without you saying a word. 

"I'm ready." 

You climb out, Frankie's hands at your waist, boots sinking briefly into damp moss. It's hard to imagine this place once overrun by happy tourists. He takes the urn from you, carrying it in one arm, the other snaking around your middle.

"You got this, Pip," he tells you. His lips brush yours. "I'm here every step of the way." 

The two of you move through the trails, the green canopies of shivering treetops. The sun is warm on your shoulders but the breeze fragrant from the flowers that grow in wild directions. 

When you come to the lake you suddenly understand your mother's love for it. The sun makes the surface of the water glitter and you can imagine her here, her youthful face tipped to the sun, her shoulders bare.

The dock is rotted away, unable to be tred on. But the shoreline is pristine, welcoming as you move towards it. You wonder if your mother ever jumped off the deck in a cannon ball formation or a sleek dive. 

"I'm gonna give you some space," Frankie murmurs as you take the urn from him. "Unless you need me."

The afternoon light streams through the trees, catching the strong lines of his face and brim of his cap. You fall a little bit more in love with him in that moment.

Yes, you do need Frankie. You need him in your life, in your bed, in your thoughts. But for now, you want time with your mom. 

"I've got it." 

Turning from him you make your way to the water, eyes stuck on the beautiful serenity.  The lake is so beautiful, the day so perfect. The wind is soft it's a caress against your cheek. 

You stare down at the urn you hold and find it strange to think of how a person with all their huge experiences and big feelings can somehow fit into such a small totem. 

You remember the way your mother smiled when you got into college, how her hugs felt when you were sick. You remember the way she rubbed your back and told you she loved you. 

You unscrew the lid of the urn as you think of her. How she too was doing life for the first time. 

Thank you for bringing me into the world.

Thank you for always having open arms. 

Thank you for trying your best. 

"Goodbye, mom," you whisper, gingerly tipping the urn over. You watch as the ashes pour slowly from the lip, carried on the wind and out onto the lake. 

Thank you for being my mom. 

The ashes scatter into the water and wind, a swirl of memory and life and body committed to the earth and water. And there's something so poetic in that, to be returned to the world in this form. 

"I'll take care of Hilary," you promise her. "And she'll take care of me." 

You take a few minutes of quiet, head bowed, hands holding the empty urn at your waist. 

Finally, with tears dried you raise your head. You look over at the trees to where Frankie balances his shoulder against a tree, thick arms crossed, just watching you.  When he sees you look his way, his brows twitch up. You motion for him to join you and he does so quickly, arms outstretched to gather you against him when he approaches. 

"Thank you," you say, breathing in the warmth of the sun on his clothes. "For the flight and for being here and just.... Thank you, Frankie." 

The two of you walk hand in hand back to the helicopter, a strange feeling of bliss found in the quiet of this moment, a comedown. It's a good sensation, you observe.

 Like the end of one book and the start of another. 

“Are you insane?”

You sit with Hilary at the kitchen table with bleary eyes swollen from the tears you two can't seem to stop. Fragrant coffee steam wafts from chipped mugs, but both remain untouched.  

The dividing of your mother's assets was quick and adroit. She didn't have much, a few pieces of jewelry from her own grandparents (A necklace of which was given to Rosalita, despite her initial refusal), your mother's meager savings and a few odds and ends. 

The house however, is mortgage free. A true asset having been bought long before the increasing surge in real estate prices. The manila folder holding the deed to the house, and your ownership stake signed over to your sister. 

"Seriously, have you lost it? I can't accept an entire fucking house," Hilary says with a shake of her head, pushing the folder towards you across the kitchen table. 

"Why not?"

"Because it's not fair to you."

Your folded hands remain unchanged, your temperament serene. You knew the second the deed was in your hand that it would be passed to your sister. 

"It's not fair that you stayed home and took care of Mom for most of your life," you correct. 

Your voices are hushed in the early morning, faces painted amber from the gaps between windows curtains. A stripe of it cuts your sister's concerned expression in half. 

"I didn't do it for that. She was our mom."

"Of course you didn't," you say. "Hilary, for all you did, please take this with my gratitude and my love. No strings." 

She balks, mouth opening, brows pointing before something stops her. It makes her body relax back into the chair. "You don't want me to buy you out or something?" 

You both know she has no money to do that. But having lived here these months you realize the emotional and physical Burtons you placed upon your older sister, assuming she could hold the weight of it all. A house still doesn't seem enough for all she did. 

"No. I just want you to have it."

Her eyes sweep up along the corners of the kitchen, to the faded linoleum and the sink that never quite stopped dripping. It's nowhere near a perfect home, but there's safety in the familiarity for her. 

You can see it in Hilary's face, the sudden realization she will no longer be un-moored. The freedom in this ownership. 

"This whole house just for me?" She says, and when she looks at you for a moment, you see a flicker of the headstrong teenage girl she was. You're taken back to the times when that bravado would fall, like a mask slipping down. 

She gives you a raw, naked look of concern. A girl worried she's going to do the wrong thing because she has always done the wrong thing. 

"Yeah," you nod before reaching across the table. You squeeze her limp palm tightly before retracting. "And Justin, if that's what you want."

Justin is still sleeping in Hilary's old room, and at the mention of him your sister lets a smile twist one side of her mouth. 

"Yeah. I want that if he does." 

Ever since Justin flew in, the two of you have become fast friends. You love the way he looks at your sister, with this constant adoration that Hilary pretends to hate. Maybe she did hate it at one time, considering that kindness was a weakness. You think she sees this differently now.

You hope she does. 

Because in the quiet moments when they think they're being unobserved, you watch as your sister rests her head upon his shoulder, the way he brushes the hair from her eyes and kisses her slowly. 

And you know then that Justin will love your sister with all he has, that he will continue to doggedly pursue her until she understands that love can come quietly, that it can be constant. 

That it's never too late. 

At home the following evening you sit on Frankie's porch swing, the night dark and the stars twinkling. You feel a chill to your upper arm as Frankie presses a chilled glass of lemonade to it. 

You take it with thanks, shifting to get closer to him when he joins you on the porch swing. He puts an arm around you, pulling you close. Every day it seems the two of you want to melt more and more into one another. 

You feel that Frankie's eyes are trained on you and you look up to see he's got those big, brown, puppy dog eyes; the ones that give away every emotion he possesses the second he feels them. 

And right now they look anxious. 

"So, guess you'll be heading back to Seattle soon." 

It's a topic the two of you have been dancing around recently. Between the late nights talking, meeting Justin, the reminiscing of good times, your mom's passing, any thoughts of the future seem to have been put on hold. 

But now as you think of your mother's ashes dancing in the wind, you're affronted with one singular realization. 

Home is wherever Frankie is. 

"I dunno about that," you shrug, snuggling up closer to him. "I can work remote so I don't necessarily have to go back." 

His body is tensed and, you feel his heavy arm band tighter against your middle. 

"But you love Seattle," Frankie says, his chest rumbling as he speaks. "You keep reminding me how crappy our coffee is here. How gators outnumber the humans." 

You giggle softly, cheeks swollen, eyes squinting. "Well, it's true." 

He pulls you closer as he chuckles, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. He's contemplative, you can feel it in how he holds you a little tighter. 

"But, it's not so bad here," you offer, reveling in the light night breeze against your skin. 

"Pip, you hate Florida," Frankie says as he pulls back, eyes casting your way. You stare up at him, eyes limpid. 

"But a lot of people I love are here," you say softly. "One in particular I have no intention of saying goodbye to."

This pleases him, cheeks pink and mouth hitching into a grin. Despite the shield of his hat, you don't miss the dimple in his cheek as he nods. 

"Then you shouldn't have to say goodbye." 

You nod at him before snuggling closer. You inhale the scent of his cologne and fresh sweat, of old spice and the wind. Of Frankie. 

No, you shouldn't have to say goodbye. 

And you won't. 

"About time!" Santi calls over the heads of the bar patrons. Some look your way as you, Hilary and Justin enter. 

Santi is already at the table with Benny and Will, a jug of beer and several glasses waiting for the three of you. Justin and Hilary slide into the booth, Santi giving a good-natured shake of his head. 

"What the hell took you so long? And where's Fish?"

You can't tell him the real reason. That it was because Frankie had his mouth between your legs all afternoon, coaxing pleasure from you for so long that the two of you lost track of time. 

"Had to run some errands and Frankie said he was giving Tom a ride," you shrug. "I'm just gonna grab a drink.”

You weave through the bodies of people until you get to the bar. The man working is distracted by several other patrons so you wait, glancing over at the table. 

Justin is fitting in already. His arm around Hilary as he clicks bottles with the group. He says something and the group laughs uproariously. You smile when you see the way Hilary gazes up at him, a pleased smile on her face. She's so gone for this guy, the sight warms you. 

"No way! Hey babe!"

Fuck. 

Christy is there at your side, drink in hand. She moves with a shuffle, her long legs slightly wobbly. You force a polite smile. 

"Hi Christy." 

She smiles widely when she comes to stand opposite of you. She smells like cigarettes covered by perfume. She's still gorgeous, but her makeup is smudged, hair dishevelled

"You've been back all this time and we still haven't had a catch up!"

“Yeah, been busy.”

She starts to talk about the drinks here, how they’re overpriced and how she misses going to the beach with a six-pack and having a great time.

How are you going to avoid this interaction in the future? You forgot that when you move back here you're moving back into a world of characters you don't particularly enjoy. Into a history you tried to forget.

"There you are." 

Your eyes go over your shoulder to see Frankie approaching with Tom who gives a wave your way before going to join the rest of the table. 

"Hey," you smile, feeling yourself melt when Frankie comes to stand next to you. 

He's wearing that cologne that you love his dark grey t-shirt straining over his shoulders and biceps. His hair curls under his hat and when he smiles that dimple on one side deepens. Basically sex on legs. 

"Hi Frankie," Christy offers with a slur, eyes raking over his body. "S'good to see you." 

"Hey Christy," Frankie says politely, but his gaze never leaves yours. 

Christy watches over her glass as his hand slips around your waist to draw you closer. 

"Sorry I'm late." 

"No problem." 

He gets a heated look on his face before his warm breath on your ear, raspy voice dipped so only you can hear. 

"You look so good right now," he says, hand sliding along the hips of your jeans. "Forget hanging out with the guys. I wanna take you back to bed and ma-" 

You smirk, mouth meeting his in a short peck to stop his dirty thoughts from finishing before you whisper back. 

"Waiting is half the fun, Morales." 

"Not for me it isn't," he growls gently, his beard rasping against your cheek. 

You give him a playful shove before he can start saying more things that turn your insides to jelly.

"I'll be patient," he promises.  

He gives you a wink, patting your ass gently before moving towards the booth where everyone is chatting and drinking. He's halfway there before he turns around, brows raised.

"Coke with a lime," you say before he can speak. "I know." 

He grins from under his cap, teeth a slab of white against the bronze of his skin. 

"Thanks, baby." 

You watch him move to join the group, smiling when they cheer his arrival. You remember that Christy is there when you hear her sharp little gasp. 

"Holy shit! No way! When did that happen?" 

Now you feel your cheeks warming. "The first time?" 

Christy's eyes are blown wide, a grin slicing her face in half. "First time?! Girl, tell me everything!" 

With any other topic you'd skillfully avoid answering. But Frankie is a topic you never tire of. 

"We were pretty quiet about it," you admit with a shy look at the floor. "Back before I left for college."

Christy gives a squeak of delight, fingers finding yours on the bar top. She squeezes gently, her hands warm. "No fucking way!" 

She surprises you, going from looking elated to sobering, her already flushed cheeks pinking further. The man behind the bar takes your order and when he leaves, Christy is looking at you with an anguished expression. 

“What’s wrong?”

"I just remembered how I used to throw myself at him." She surprises you by crooking her slender arms around your neck, pulling you tightly against her for a hug.  "I'm so sorry. You must've thought I was such a bitch!" 

For a minute you stay still, confused at the action before slowly banding your arms around her narrow middle. 

"We were teenagers, Christy," you say with a sincere shrug as she pulls back, eyes wet. 

She places an order for another beer, her empty glass slid onto the bar top. 

"I swear if I'd known I never would have been so... Aggressive. I just thought he was just shy you know?"

"He was," you say, taking your drink from the bartender with a nod. Christy is still staring at you when you turn back. 

"Francisco was one of the few guys that was nice to me," she admits. "And like, not just so he could get in my pants."

Your heart clenches at her vulnerability. 

"Unlike Travis," she adds with a grimace before wincing. "I'm sorry, I know he was your friend-"

"Barely," you say with a disgusted curl of your lip. "Do you ever talk to him?" 

Christy gives a humorless chuckle 

"I saw him on Tindr last week. He's bald and his entire bio is just Taylor Swift lyrics." 

"I thought he was married?"

"Divorce was finalized a while ago," she says before thanking the bartender for her beer. She turns her attention back to you. "According to my Facebook stalking." 

You give a sharp, unexpected laugh at this, flashing a look at Frankie and the rest of the group. You can't wait to tell him this piece of gossip later.   

"I think he cheated on his wife," Christy continues in a stage whisper. "I mean, I'm not shocked...Anyway, I should let you get back to your group," Christy says, observing your attention on the table. "It was nice seeing you."

You look at Christy with her smudged lipstick and glassy eyes. At the outfit far too tight and her hair disheveled.  It would be so easy to hate her. To blame her for everything that happened, but how can you? She was a teenage girl desperate for connection. And it seems she's a grown woman looking for the same. 

You smile warmly, motioning over to the table of your laughing friends. 

"Hey Christy, why don't you join us?" 

You look around at your childhood bedroom, a cardboard box in your arms. There isn't much you're taking with you. A box of mementos, pictures, movie stubs...a keychain with a shell attached to it. 

"Hey, Pip."

Santi strides into your bedroom, his smile muted. He misses your mom, even if it's harder for him to admit out loud. He was the son she never had. 

"How you holding up?" 

You shrug, exhausted and sad and emotional. You lower the box to your dresser, walking over to give your cousin a tight hug. 

"Thank you for everything you did for her," you say into his shoulder. "And for me."

The two of you remain like this for a moment, transported into your childhood bodies. The way he would comfort you when your mom was too drunk. The way you would welcome him into your room after his dad started to beat him regularly. 

"Sometimes I wish we could go back to when it was simple," Santi whispers in a thick voice. "Before we knew our parents weren't perfect. Back when summers were forever and the world was just waiting to be discovered." 

"I know." 

"But I'm happy now too," he amends. "I love my job and my friends and ... Plus now you and Frankie are finally together. Finally." 

You smile against the collar of his jacket, so wide your cheeks hurt. 

"Yeah." 

You squeeze one another before stepping back. For a change, your cousin doesn't look like the confident man you normally see. He looks big-eyed and anxious. 

"Frankie says you're staying in Florida?" 

"Yeah." 

He gives you a hard look, one you've seen before. A look that challenges your answer. It makes you feel nervous, exposed and unsure. The room seems warmer, smaller, tighter. 

"Well, Hilary is here," you say when he remains silent. 

"So?" 

"She's my sister, Santi, and we're getting along." 

He crosses his arms over his chest, a move of bravado. He's getting irritated. 

"She never wanted you to end up here, Pip. You know that."

"Things change," you say as your mind drifts to Frankie. "People change." 

But you think about that conversation with Hilary that night. 

I knew your future wasn't here in the same town we grew up in.

But then as if by magic, the image of your boyfriend's face comes to mind. And with it, a flood of adoration then nearly takes your breath away. 

"And Frankie is here, his house is here," you say, eyes bright. "And that's enough for me. More than enough, actually." 

"Yeah?" 

You nod, eyes limpid. "Yeah." 

He's quiet for a lingering moment, eyes tracing your face as if trying to read your mind before he finally gives a tight smile. 

"I better go. My flight's coming in early tomorrow." 

He kisses your forehead, murmuring that he wants to keep in touch better. Knowing Santi you don't think it'll happen, but it sounds very nice in theory. 

You enter the kitchen, passing Hilary and Justin chatting quietly over the table. They glance up, smiling your way. 

"Boxes are all packed," you announce, giving a dramatic wipe of your brow. “Just need to do the suitcase.”

You move to pour a glass of water, Hilary tracking your moves. 

"You didn't have to rush through that," Hilary insists, mouth thinned. "I hope you didn't feel pressured."

"What? Not at all. I'm just excited to be moving into Frankie's place." 

Hilary doesn't reply, but you think you see a bit of concern there before she turns back to Justin. 

"What're you guys up to?"

"Justin got his managerial job back at the bar," Hilary says proudly nudging him. "The place was falling apart without him."

Justin gives a shy laugh, face pink. He's impossibly humble, and he'd never admit that the place is a dump ever since he left.

"How do your parents feel about you moving back to the US?" 

"They don't love the political situation," Justin admits. 

"That's fair," Hilary says exchanging a knowing look with you. You clink glasses before Justin continues. 

"But they love Hilary and they know I love her so they're happy for us. We might go visit them next summer."  

"That's fantastic," you say, grinning. You take a seat at the table with them, looking at the notes and sketches they've been scribbling. 

"What's all this?"

"We're talking about some renovations we might be able to do this year," Hilary says carefully scanning your face. "Maybe starting in here. What do you think about that?" 

"I think that's awesome," you say before taking a sip of your water.

"Really?" 

"Yeah," you nod, motioning to the far wall. "If that isn't load-bearing, you could knock it out and have a totally open concept main space." 

Hilary still looks troubled. "You're sure about that?"

You turn her way, brows rising. "Why wouldn't I be?" 

"Because we both grew up here," she reasons, blinking quickly. "And because I don't want you to think that this isn't your home anymore-"

"Hilary," you say softly placing a hand over hers. "I don't want it to be my home anymore." 

She looks confused, as does Justin. You feel your heart clenching as you gaze around the kitchen and remember some of the past. The good times, the bad. 

"It hasn’t been my home for a long time," you finally explain to them. "It’s just a house I used to live in. You have memories here I never will. Good ones. You lived here so long; it's a part of you. That's why I want you to have it and that's why I want you to do anything you want to it." 

Her eyes are watery. "But-"

"I mean it, Hil. All I ask is that you make good memories in this place from now on." You stand and extend a hand. "Deal?" 

You see the way she rubs at her eye before she stands as well, shaking your hand briefly as she grins. 

"Deal."

You're packing your suitcase later that day when the bedroom door creaks open behind you. You don't even hear Frankie approach; you just smile when he embraces you from behind, gentle kiss planted behind your ear. 

"Hey baby." 

"You're early," you say as he releases you and takes a seat on the edge of your old bed. "I just have a few more things to pop into my suitcase and then we can go."

"Yeah, it's about that. I wanted to talk you before we head to mine." 

"Why?" You smirk. "Changed your mind about me moving in, Morales?" 

You stop folding a pair of jeans halfway when he doesn't reply. You look up and your stomach plummets when you see the strange look he's wearing. 

"Wait…Are you?"

"It's just, my place isn't very big," he says. 

"I don't need a lot of space." 

"Well, you'll need an office and everything for work."

No no no. 

Didn't you already talk about this? Wasn't Frankie the one so eager for you to move in as soon as you felt ready? What made him change his mind? 

He gives a soft exhale before patting the space on the mattress next to him. You move slowly, lowering yourself without looking away from him. 

"I remember you telling me your apartment in Seattle is pretty nice. Two bedrooms and an office, right?" 

You nod dumbly. "Yeah."

"You haven't put it on the market yet, have you?" 

You shake your head, not trusting your voice to remain even as the truth makes itself apparent. 

He wants you to move back to Seattle. He wants you gone.  

"I don't understand... We agreed on me moving in today." 

"I just don't think it's a good idea moving all your stuff into my place."

Your stomach bottoms out, limbs trembling. He's leaving you. Dumping you. Forgetting you. It's like being thrown back through time into the body of that hurt and confused girl at the party. 

"What made you change your mind?" You force your voice to stay steady.

Frankie looks at his hands. You feel your temper rising when he won't make eye contact. 

"I've been doing a lot of thinking," he says quietly, eyes narrowed on the ground. "Realized it wasn't the best plan." 

You feel your insides quivering as you take in the nervous smoothing of his hair under his baseball cap.

"I thought about it," Frankie says, breath shaky as his eyes finally sail to your face. "And I talked to Tom last week and he thinks he can get me a good price for my place." 

A beat. 

"Huh?"

"Apparently it's a seller's market, whatever that means," Frankie shrugs. "But I need to get it stage ready by next week. So we might have to leave your big stuff here for a bit so I can get the place looking presentable. You think Hilary would mind?" 

A beat passes as you try to make sense of what Frankie is saying. 

“But…Frankie why?”

"Because when I sell it I’ll have the money to start over somewhere else..." Frankie's cheeks flush as he gives you a crooked grin. "Like, with my girlfriend in Seattle." 

Confusion floods your body as he talks.

"... Seattle?"

"Yeah, they have a lot of opportunities for a pilot out there," he says as if he hasn't just dropped a huge bomb on you. "The helicopter academy, places like that. I already talked to them and they want me for an interview in two weeks."  

"You want to move to Seattle with me?" You say, needing it spelled out for you. "Like, to live. Permanently?"

"Unless we decide we want to move somewhere else," he shrugs. "Who knows where we'll be staying in five years. Maybe we'll pick up and fuck off to Italy." 

He chuckles warmly at this, his hand finding your knee and squeezing. 

You can only stare at him.

"Is Hilary making you do this?" 

"Huh?"

"She never wanted me to stay here in Florida," you say, voice rising. “Did she make you do this?”

Frankie almost looks amused. "Pip, you know I think your sister is great, but there's no chance I'd let her tell me what to do."

"So you just came up with this yourself? Uprooting your life to Seattle?" 

"Yeah." 

His eyes are gentle and soft at the edges and you realize you've read this entire situation wrong. 

And suddenly there's this great big adventure in front of you, this world that you never thought possible. A city you love a man you love. 

You think of walking hand in hand with him through Pike Place Market, stopping to look at produce, Frankie buying you flowers when you're not looking.  You think of fresh coffee sipped on your apartment balcony with Frankie behind you, one arm around your waist, chin propped over your shoulder, murmuring about how happy he is. You imagine the light patter of rain on the rooftop as you and Frankie make slow and tender love under the sheets, blanketed in the serene gray blue of an overcast sky. 

Bliss. 

But then this excitement gives way to guilt, something that you can't shake off when you look at him. Because for a minute there's that shy boy with oversized T-shirts, who lost his parents that you remember so well. 

You think of that house he grew up in, how the echoes of his past are in every nook and cranny. The bedroom where he took your virginity, the kitchen where he gave you your first kiss. 

It's asking too much of him. 

He draws closer to you on the mattress, urging you under his arm so you can burrow tightly against his side, but your mind is going everywhere. 

"If that's what you want," he rasps. "I don't want to pressure you." 

You jerk your chin up, eyes wide. 

"Of course I want you and that life, Frankie. But y-you can't give your house up for me," you stammer, guilt and excitement all building within your belly. "You can't- You grew up there. It's the only constant home you've ever known. You're saying you want to give that up? Plus the job you just got back?" 

His dimple deepens, a serene look crossing his face

"You're acting like I'll get nothing in return by doing it," Frankie murmurs. "Baby, I get a future with you. Who gives a shit about an old house?" 

Sometimes Frankie says the most amazing things, things that take your breath away, and this is no exception.

"And I can work anywhere with an airport," he assures you. "Might be nice to go work somewhere that doesn't have staff gossiping about my suspension." 

You're stunned into silence, any response, any refusal completely wiped from your mind. Frankie seems to know this, his dark eyes scanning yours.

"It's time, Pip," he says gently, warm hand squeezing yours. He lifts it to his mouth and you feel the soft plush of his lips kissing the center of your palm sweetly. "I'm done living in the past. I want a future with you full of the good memories we'll make together. A new start." 

"A new start," you echo. 

He shoots you a crooked grin, a bundle of nervous excitement. "So? What do you say?"  

Your heart squeezes with love for him. Love for the boy he was and love for the man he is now. Love for the future he's offering and the sacrifices he makes without question. 

Your glossy gaze is caught in Frankie's, smile mirroring his as you lean in for a kiss. And just as his lips are about to press against yours, your answer is given. 

"Yes." 

I am gonna miss these two HARD.

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