Summary: The construction company your neighbors hire to do work on their house are loud, inconsiderate, and quickly get under your skin. One man in particular seems hellbent on driving you crazy until one day, all that tension comes to a head.
Warnings: language, smut (piv sex), dirty talk, praise kink, light spanking, reader being kind of pissy and Joel fucks it out of her (but he's not mean), Joel gets turned on by bossy women
Masterlist
It's your day off. You had a long month, working extra late to meet deadlines and skipping plans with friends and family to perform at your fullest and get the promotion you so badly deserved, and now that the project was done and you impressed all right people, you rewarded yourself with a singular day off. But your neighbors had other plans.
It started before eight in the morning. Power tools, yelling, laughing, car doors slamming. It ruined the peace and tranquility of the post-school bus and rush hour lull. At first, you turned over and tried to fall back asleep. When that didn't work, you grabbed your extra pillow and pressed it against your ear. But after thirty minutes of chasing sleep with the sounds outside only growing louder, you gave up, blood boiling.
Maybe you should have coffee first, but unfortunately, your rage wins out. It's way too early. They're being far too noisy. And it's your goddamn day off!
You're seeing red when you tighten your robe around your waist, not even bothering to tie it but instead you hold it closed with your fist as you storm towards the front door. Your pajamas are just a tank top and sleep shorts, it's not anything scandalous anyway, especially given how hot Texas gets in the summer, but the last thing you want is a whole construction crew gawking at you while you give them a piece of your mind.
Music had just been turned on somewhere amongst the site. Tom Petty, you think, as you make your way over. Your flip flops snap angrily against the blacktop as you cross your driveway into your neighbor's front yard to survey the scene.
There's at least eight workers getting set up. Their trucks are parked all up and down the street, taking up every open spot. None of them glance your way as they unload tools, coolers, and supplies from their flatbeds. Your arms cross tightly and your brows furrow but the noise only gets louder.
"Excuse me?" you call out to no one in particular, but they don't hear you. Your jaw tightens. "Hey! Excuse me?"
"Can I help you?"
You swivel around, taken off guard by the deep voice behind you.
"Yes! I—"
Your words falter when you lay eyes on the man who snuck up on you. He's setting a ladder down by his feet, giving you time to take in his strong arms and broad shoulders underneath the stretch of his black short sleeved shirt, which still allows you a generous view of his tanned forearms. His jeans look lived in in the best kind of way. He wears them like a man who doesn't care what they look like, so long as they're comfortable. You push down the heat crawling up your neck by the time he straightens up, but when you see his face, you lose your train of thought once again.
Deep brown eyes, sharp nose, a chiseled jawline dusted with a short, somewhat patchy beard. Then he offers a soft, crooked smile that knocks the wind out of you to the point where you nearly forget your earlier anger.
Focus, you scold yourself.
"I live right over there—" You point behind him and he slowly turns, eyes scanning your modest home. "And my bedroom window is right there," you add. His eyes flicker to your open window towards the back of the house before he gives you his full attention again, something that makes your stomach flip. "I'd appreciate it if you guys could keep it down this early in the morning. It's disruptive to the whole neighborhood."
His devastatingly dark eyes glimmer with humor and even though he's not smiling, you can sense he's not taking you seriously. He makes a show of checking his watch—a beat up old thing with a green fabric band—before looking back at you. "It's eight fifteen," he tells you, tone flat.
"Yeah, now," you say, rolling your eyes, "but this noise started earlier. It woke me up."
Now the corner of his mouth lifts and he slowly crosses his arms, which simultaneously irritates and excites the hell out of you.
"Sorry 'bout that, miss," he tells you, "but we're abidin' by city ordinance."
"I'm sure you are, but you have to admit it's disturbing the peace."
He regards you silently for a moment, his heavy gaze drifting up and down your frame. Suddenly, the thin robe you're wearing is too much and doesn't seem like enough all at once. An amused look flits across his face at one point before his eyes drop to the dirt.
"Could start at seven, technically," he finally says, "we're doin' you a favor by startin' at half past."
Your hackles raise at that. "Would you like me to thank you?"
He chuckles and shakes his head before meeting your gaze again. "Never said that. Just sayin' we're followin' the law, is all."
"I know you are," you huff, "all I'm suggesting is maybe keeping your voices a little lower."
He smirks and uncrosses his arms in favor of propping his hands on his hips, giving you a spectacular view of his wide chest.
"We could," he muses, pretending to think about your request while staring off at a fixed point somewhere over your shoulder, "if you ask real nice."
Your jaw drops at the same time your knees go weak. "Excuse me?"
He shrugs, still staring somewhere behind you in order to keep his shit eating grin from stretching across his face. "Just sayin', you came over here all hot under the collar. Had you asked nice, I mighta been able to help you out."
Your throat tightens. He's not trying to sound suggestive but your brain doesn't care. It's sending a wave of arousal right through you, causing your heart to slam against your ribs the more it builds.
"What's your name?" you demand with a clipped tone.
"Joel," he says without missing a beat.
"Joel," you repeat, "I'd like to speak with your boss."
"Ah, that'd be me."
He stretches out his hand with a grin. You ignore it and look back at the trucks until you spot a logo on the side and squint.
"Miller?" you guess. He nods. "Great. I'll be filing a complaint with the better business bureau."
You shoulder past him and try not to fixate on how good he smells, a mixture of motor oil, fresh soap, and coffee.
"Yeah? And what's your complaint gonna be for?" Joel calls after you. You ignore him and keep walking. You hear his deep chuckle before he picks up the ladder and it pisses you off even more, but you don't allow your rage to show until you're safely inside your house where you can seethe to yourself while making some coffee.
***
The rest of the week is uneventful. You have meetings downtown all week, a disruption to your usual remote work schedule, but a necessary evil you try your best to organize all at once every month. When you leave in the morning, the workers are just arriving. When you get home, they're already packed up or gone entirely. You nearly forget all about your intriguing run in with the mysterious Joel Miller until the following Monday, when you're back to working remotely.
You're an hour into emails and onto your second cup of coffee when you first hear the familiar ruckus next door. It starts with amused banter. Then truck doors slamming. Then the music kicks on. You shake your head, close your windows, and keep working.
With your television playing in the background, it's easier to block out some of the construction noise, but at around one in the afternoon you hear a repetitive, ear piercing beep, beep, beep during a work call that sets your teeth on edge.
Stones are pouring from the back of a metal flatbed. Shovels are scraping and banging loudly. And you do your best to stay focused, but when the call ends and you can't recall half the topics discussed, you can't hold back any more.
You spot Joel with his back to you, holding a shovel and shouting instructions to his crew while you approach. As if he can sense it, he turns when you're about ten feet away. His eyes sweep up and down your body and he grins before leaning on his shovel, amused by the anger currently forcing your feet forward.
"Don't tell me we woke you up again," he teases before you can even open your mouth. "It's after lunch. What's the matter now?"
You scowl at him, ignoring the way his crew sends you curious looks as they work.
"No," you snap, "I'm working. Or, at least, trying to! I have all my windows closed and I still can hardly hear myself think."
He looks at you like he's sizing you up, like he's trying to figure something out. "Thought you worked in an office somewhere."
You frown, slightly alarmed. "How would you know that?"
"Saw you couple times last week," he says hurriedly, as if he just realized how his comment sounded. "When I was gettin' here in the mornin', sometimes I'd see you gettin' in your car and drive off."
The silence that followed made Joel nervous. He shifted his weight and awkwardly scratched his beard while you tried to sort through what he just said without giving away your feelings. He noticed you? Was he looking for you, or did he just happen to see you?
"Uh, based on your spiffy clothes, just figured you worked somewhere fancy," he finished, rubbing the back of his neck before looking away.
You look down at the clothes you currently have on—denim shorts and an old, oversized shirt... far from spiffy today—before looking back up at him. To your surprise, you notice some red creeping up his neck and staining the apples of his cheeks. You have to bite your lower lip to keep yourself from smiling because despite how pleased it makes you to see the big, annoying, sexy construction guy next door all embarrassed because of you, you're here for a reason.
"Sometimes I work in an office, but most of the time I work at home," you explain, waving toward your house, "and right now, it's pretty much impossible to get anything done."
"Well, m'sorry 'bout that, but we gotta work, too."
You sigh and pinch the bridge of your nose. "I know. How much longer is this going to take?"
Joel clicked his tongue, making you lift your chin to look back up at him. The way he looks at you like you're something worth studying makes your heart skip a beat. Traitor.
"I'm offended you wanna get rid of us." His tone is back to teasing, and that glint in his eye confirms it. He likes pushing your buttons.
"I just want my quiet back! My—your customers are elderly! They can't hear for shit, they keep to themselves, they're the perfect neighbors! They aren't bothered by all this noise, but everyone else is!" Your voice is getting louder than you thought. People are beginning to notice, but you don't care.
"Everyone?" Joel repeats, narrowing his eyes now. "Strange, 'cause you're the only one cryin' 'bout it."
"I am not crying about it, I'm attempting to come to some sort of agreement, but you're being too... too..." Your hands flail in the air as you struggle to think of the right word.
"Too what?" Joel presses, stepping closer. You catch a whiff of his sweat mixed with sawdust and it makes your head swim. Focus.
You glare at him, blood on fire in your veins the longer he stands there looking all cocky.
"Misogynistic!" you exclaim triumphantly. Joel just blinks at you.
"What?"
You roll your eyes. "Means if a man were out here asking you to keep it down, you probably would, but instead you're giving a woman a hard time."
That seems to piss him off. His jaw sets into a tight line and he leans forward, voice low and dangerous. "Now you listen here," he says, and the way his demeanor suddenly shifted makes your spine straighten. "I'll allow for alotta shit, but I ain't gonna stand here and let you spin some wild story when you don't even know me or my crew. That's disrespectful and untrue."
You swallow tightly, unable to tear your gaze away from his eyes. They're so dark and stormy when he's legitimately mad that it's hard to look away.
"Sorry," you mumble, "but you're not taking me seriously, what else am I gonna think?"
His gaze softens then. His shoulders loosen. And the clouds clear from his eyes. The playful glimmer returns and you swear you see a ghost of a smile tug at his lips before he casually says, "I'll prove it to you. Bring out your husband or boyfriend or whoever and I'll tell him the same things I've been tellin' you."
"I don't have a husband or boyfriend," you answer before you even realize the trap you stepped in. His face lights up but he plays it off with ease.
"That's a relief." Your eyes widen and he grins. "'Cause if you had some guy hidin' in there all this time, lettin' his woman handle all the dirty work, gripin' to me while wearin' short shorts or a see-through robe? That wouldn't be much of a man."
Then he turned on his heel to join his crew, leaving you to weave through the rollercoaster of emotions he just dumped on you for the rest of the afternoon.
***
Over the next few days, something slightly changed. You found yourself going outside more, lingering around your car or taking a while to get your mail just to catch a glimpse of Joel. Usually, he'd catch your eye and give you a small smile, but that was the extent of it. Nothing overtly friendly and nothing mean, either. He was very good at being polite and cordial, which infuriated you. It made it impossible to figure out exactly what he was thinking. You replayed so many looks and conversations in your head to the point where you were paralyzed trying to pick apart every inflection and glance.
Why do you care anyway? you kept asking yourself. You never provided an answer.
It's the combination of your frustration with yourself as well as Joel's confusing signals that cause you to find more things to complain about, although you never admit it. But every interaction with Joel leaves you more aggravated and pent up than the last.
"That's not the property line. This is the property line," you had argued with him on Tuesday.
"It's just four inches."
"That's nine inches, easy."
Joel had tsked sympathetically under his breath. "Oh, darlin', if someone out there's tellin' you that's nine inches, I'm so sorry."
On Thursday morning, he had parked his truck in your driveway.
"I need to have my driveway clear!"
"I know, I know, it was only for a minute til the concrete truck comes—"
"I don't care! Park on the street!" you had yelled, but the angrier you got, the more pleased Joel looked.
"No parkin' left on the street."
"Then park on the lawn," you said, crossing your arms and jutting out your hip. His eyes had drifted down, noting you chose to wear a shirt that showed a little more cleavage than usual.
"Careful, sweetheart. Keep yellin' at me like this and I'll fall in love with you."
Every time he said something flirty like that, it sent you back to your house to obsess over whether or not he was serious or just trying to get you off his back.
The cherry on the sundae was the incident on Friday when someone accidentally dug in the wrong spot and severed your internet cable, completely derailing the latest project you had been tasked with at work. Joel had anticipated your anger before you stormed out of the house, screen door smacking loudly against the siding as you stomped down the old wood stairs of your porch, making a beeline right for Joel next door.
"Tell me it wasn't your guys who did that."
He sighed before slowly turning around to face you. He looked tired, no doubt drained from the long, hot week, but he still managed to brighten up a little when he laid eyes on you.
"Sorry, darlin'. They're comin' to fix it."
"When?" you snapped. Joel narrowed his eyes as if to silently warn you about your tone. Who the hell does he think he is?
"An hour," he said flatly.
"An hour?" you exclaimed, clearly devastated.
"Yeah. An hour. Ain't you got a lunch break or somethin' you can take til it's fixed?"
You snorted and tossed your hair over your shoulder. "I haven't taken a lunch break that didn't involve a client in more than five years."
"Well, today's the day you break that streak," he told you before turning back to the hole in the ground. "Damn inspector didn't flag the property right. Ain't our fault, it's the town's."
You bury your face in your hands with a groan. "I can't believe this," you mutter to yourself.
"If it helps, I ain't happy 'bout it either," Joel says, crouching down to inspect the spot closer. "This just set me back a couple days."
"Days?!" you exclaim, letting your hands fall back to your sides in disbelief. Joel nods, still not looking at you.
"Yeah. Gotta redo the plans now. Old plans were built 'round the cables bein' two feet west—"
"So this insanity is going to last even longer?" you ask, cutting him off. Joel sighs and drops his head between his shoulders briefly before standing with a grunt. He's tall—his shadow blocks the sun when he towers over you, a fact that never went unnoticed.
"What's the matter, sweetheart? Thought you'd be happy to know you ain't gettin' rid of me just yet." The smirk he gives you is devastating. Your gaze falls to his throat, where beads of sweat have been trickling down and soaking his collar. It's not fair this man is so fucking handsome yet so irritating.
"I'll survive," you mutter, crossing your arms tightly and looking away to clear your head.
"Yeah? Who you gonna yell at when I'm gone, hm?"
"Believe it or not, I'm actually not a yeller," you shoot back with a glare. "Guess you just bring it out of me."
His gaze darkened for a moment like he was considering how to reply. You could almost see the silent back and forth behind his eyes, the words locked and loaded on the tip of his tongue but a small sliver of logic fought to hold onto them and pull them back down.
He says it anyway.
"That right?" His voice dips lower than you've heard it before, but not out of anger. Something else. Something far more heated and dangerous. "Wonder what else I could bring outta you."
The implication falls between you like an anvil. The weight of it keeps you both still, oblivious to what's going on around you entirely. Somehow, you manage to hold his gaze, but you're swallowing hard and breathing even harder and he can see it. He tracks the movement with those dark eyes, waiting for you to come up with a retort or storm off.
Normally, you'd do the latter, but today, you're fired up. It's always Joel who gets the last flirty word in. It's always Joel who leaves you spinning while he happily carries on with his day. So this time, you close the distance between you and crane your neck up. He doesn't break eye contact but you can tell he didn't expect this. He didn't expect you to get inches away and hold the silence like a knife to his throat. His lip curls into a smile, breathlessly anticipating some flustered, snappy comeback paired with an angry look. Instead, what you say shocks him.
"You couldn't handle it, Miller."
The confidence in your voice is what makes him falter. You clock it and grin, very satisfied with yourself, before turning and heading back to your house. The world begins to wake up around him again. Sounds begin to crescendo slowly in the air: power tools, his crew's voices, cars rumbling down the street. But his eyes are fixed on you. On the way you carry yourself back up your porch and into your house without the courtesy of a single glance back.
When your screen door snaps shut, he blinks. Clears his throat. Then forces his feet to move.
After that, Joel spends the rest of the afternoon praying he doesn't get distracted enough to lose a finger.
***
The weekend is thankfully quiet, but long. You pace around trying to keep busy, but you miss it. You hate it, but you miss peeking out your window to see what Joel is up to. You miss whatever has been brewing between you over the last two weeks. You miss the excitement and electricity that crackles between you when you stomp over there for one reason or another.
By Sunday night, you decide it isn't healthy to be so fixated on this. You're not even sure what's gotten into you. Usually, your life is mundane and quiet, yet this man has burrowed his way in and found a piece of you to bring to life you didn't know existed.
He pisses you off, you remind yourself. It's not good. He's not good. Let this go, the sooner the better.
So on Monday, you force yourself to stay in your house all day. It's hard, but you know it's the right thing to do. You need to focus on work and Joel is just a distraction. A big, annoying, sexy distraction.
On Tuesday, you do the same thing. It's a littler easier this time. You get a decent amount of work done with your earbuds solidly in place. You only look up from your computer to check your window a handful of times. Once or twice you swear you catch Joel glancing expectantly towards your house, but you push down the butterflies in your belly and focus back on the project in front of you.
Wednesday is more difficult because on that day, there's a legitimate reason to be annoyed. Joel's crew is using a portion of your lawn to toss old pieces of wood from the porch next door. When you first notice, you find yourself rising to your feet, propelled by anger. But then you catch yourself and slowly sit back down.
It's fine. They'll clean it up. Don't worry about it.
You finish your workday without stepping foot outside, although you had to close your curtains so you'd stop looking at the mess.
Thursday is loud. Drills pierce the air earlier than usual. You assume it has to do with the rain clouds forming on the horizon, but it still grates your every nerve to hear metal grinding into solid wood first thing in the morning. You pop your earbuds in and turn the volume up. It works, until the rain starts. The water streaking suddenly down your windowpane catches your attention, so you pull your earbuds out and look up.
Across your driveway, Joel's crew is packing up early. They're running, getting absolutely soaked in the rain while trying to get everything valuable back into their trucks as quickly as possible.
Good, you think. Peace and quiet a little earlier today.
Then you see him. Joel. With his dark curls plastered against his forehead and his white shirt sticking to his torso like he had just jumped into a pool. Your brain buffers and your lips part at the sight. You could tell before he's strong, but now his shirt is leaving very little to the imagination.
"Shit," you whisper as you watch, unblinking, while Joel packs up his truck and then turns to help his crew. His muscles flex under his rain soaked skin, water drips furiously down the sides of his head, and you forget how to breathe.
Fuck him for being so irritating and goddamn good looking at the same time.
The image is seared into your brain for the rest of the night. It has you tossing and turning in bed until you can't stand it anymore and you give in, sliding one hand down the front of your shorts in search of relief. It's fleeting and not as good as you hoped, but at least you're able to fall asleep.
Friday is when everything comes to a head.
You're tired from a restless nights sleep and on your third cup of coffee when you notice the end of your driveway is blocked. Your jaw clenches as you push a curtain aside to get a better view and of course, it's Joel's truck.
"Son of a bitch," you mutter, narrowing your eyes like you could destroy the car with your mind if you tried hard enough.
It's fine. He'll move it. He's probably waiting on some delivery, like last time.
But this time, his truck remains parked haphazardly at the end of your driveway all day. When you manage to spot him working next door, he's all smiles, completely unbothered. At last around three you see him walk to his truck, but it's just to get something from the console. The way he strolls back to his crew like he had every right in the world to encroach on your property makes your blood boil.
That's it. You've had enough. You've kept to yourself all week long, it's almost the weekend, you did pretty good. And this isn't unreasonable. He's in your fucking driveway! He's had multiple chances to move and he didn't!
Before you could stop yourself, you reach forward, lift open your window, and lean out.
"Joel Miller!"
He stops dead in his tracks, along with half his crew, to track your voice from your office window. When he spots you, he lifts his hand to his eyes to shield himself from the sun and he grins.
"Yeah?"
"Move your goddamn truck out of my driveway or else I'm havin' it towed!"
His crew chuckles and goes back to wrapping things up for the day. Joel tilts his head at you like he's amused.
"Thought you moved," he says, "haven't heard that smart mouth all week."
"Unfortunately for me, I'm still here," you snap, "now move that hunk of junk right now!"
"She ain't no hunk of junk," Joel says with mock offense. "She's the only lady in my life that never let me down, don't talk 'bout her like that."
"Stop talking about your car like it's a woman, that's gross."
Joel whistles low and comes closer so he doesn't have to shout. "Jealous?"
"Of a car? Give me a break," you snort.
He tsks and inches closer. By now, he's halfway across your driveway. "Why don't you try askin' me real nice, then maybe I'll move it."
"Why don't you get a little closer and I'll make you do it."
The deep groan that rumbled from his chest made your thighs clench.
"Don't tease a fella now," he warns with a playful look, "'cause if you talk like that I'm gonna make you follow through."
You roll your eyes, grateful you have an entire wall between you to hide the way you're practically squirming in place.
"Will you please shut up and move the truck?"
"Don't love the shut up part, but y'did say please, so I will."
"Thank you," you reply, overly sweet with a fake smile. Still, Joel stifles a laugh, entirely enthralled with how riled up he manages to make you.
"No problem. I'll be done in an hour, then I'll get outta your hair."
The smile falls from your face to be replaced with a scowl. "An hour?"
"Yeah. An hour," he confirms, turning back to his job site. "Don't worry. Won't get in the way of your Friday night plans."
"Joel—"
"It'll be longer if you keep flirtin' with me," he says loudly over his shoulder so his entire crew can hear. Your cheeks instantly heat up but you slam your window shut before you can give him the satisfaction of witnessing your embarrassment.
You sit back down and try to focus on work, but it's impossible. Why does this man get under your skin so easily? And why do you find him so irresistible at the same time? It must be because it's been a while since the last time you've been with someone. You've been so focused on work the last several months, you can't even remember the last time you went on a date, let alone took a man home.
Your gaze drifts up against your will. Most of Joel's crew has cleared out next door. There's two guys left plus Joel, cleaning up the rest of the lawn before the weekend. You can see the relaxed smiles on their faces as they chat, probably discussing weekend plans. It makes you wonder what Joel does on the weekends. You have a feeling he's single based on his earlier comment about his truck. So what does a single man do with their spare time?
Probably pick up girls. The thought makes your stomach twist into a knot. You shake your head and focus back on your computer. That's none of your business. Who cares if he's getting laid? It doesn't matter.
Your lips press together when your eyes lift to find Joel through the window again, but now you realize the yard is empty. The remaining trucks are gone. The supplies are picked up. It's quiet.
For some reason, you're relieved when you stand and hurry to your window to find Joel's truck still idle in your driveway. You stand there staring at it while you weigh your options in your head.
It's a bad idea, you think. Joel isn't good for you. He drives you crazy. Yet you have to admit, you can't remember the last time you've felt such a spark with someone before. He's certainly not boring, you'll give him that. And he's funny, in his own way. Would it really be so bad?
Fuck it. You rush to your bedroom to change your shirt for a simple light dress and freshen up as fast as you can, all the while straining to hear for the telltale sound of his motor turning over, then you slow down.
You decide to leave it up to fate. If he's still there by the time you're ready, then you'll go for it. If he's gone, then he's gone, no big deal.
After tapping on some subtle, fruity flavored lip balm and spritzing just a tiny bit of perfume in your hair, you step out of your bedroom, mustering up as much confidence as possible as you walk to your front door. You decide not to practice what to say, that you'll just let it happen organically if it feels right. But when you swing your door open only to be met face to face with Joel, who has one fist raised in the air as if he were about to knock, all that confidence goes straight out the window.
Shit.
"Hey," he says with a crooked grin. His arm lowers to his side and your heart kicks in your chest when you notice his eyes sweep up and down your body before meeting your gaze.
"What can I do for you?" you ask, leaning against the doorframe with a small smile. His grin widens and you feel like you've stepped into yet another trap.
"That's a loaded question, sweetheart," he says, voice low. You suppress a shudder. "Wanted to tell you I'm headin' out. Looks like I got good timin', too." He gestures to your appearance and you look down.
"I'm not going anywhere."
He quirks up an eyebrow. "You got someone comin' over?"
You shake your head and try to bite back the smile that threatens to stretch across your face.
Joel makes a soft noise and casually lifts his arm to rest against the frame, right above your head. He's towering over you like this and you think it's on purpose.
"Just gettin' all dolled up to sit home alone?" he asks. You shrug and cross your arms, hoping your breasts lift when you do. His gaze flickers down quickly, confirming you're successful.
"You think this is dolled up?"
Slowly, he lets himself take in your appearance again, this time making sure you saw.
"Just used to seein' you in shorts or that little robe of yours."
"You don't like my shorts or robe?"
"Never said that."
You have to stifle a laugh and his eyes practically glitter with amusement.
"Do you have any big plans this weekend?" you ask, hoping to come across casual.
"Nothin' too crazy," he tells you, leaning in a little further. "Watch the game. Mow the lawn. Come up with new ways to get you yellin' at me."
You laugh and shake your head. "You've been doing a great job so far."
"Not so sure 'bout that," he says, swiping his palm over his chin. "Been tryin' all week. Didn't get your attention til I parked in your driveway."
The expression on your face instantly melts into one of annoyance. "You did all of that on purpose?"
His enjoyment couldn't be contained. With a huge grin, he replies, "Yes, ma'am."
"The mess on my lawn? The extra early noise?" You could feel your anger rising, flooding your chest with heat.
"That's right," Joel replies. "Parkin' in your driveway was a last resort."
Your jaw tenses as you stare him down in disbelief. "What is your goddamn problem?" you seethe. Your earlier plans to ask if he wanted to come in for a drink vanish. Screw this guy.
"Thought you were dead or somethin'. Consider it my version of a wellness check."
"I don't need you to do a wellness check on me!" you yell, throwing your hands in the air to stop yourself from pushing him. "I've put in the shittiest work this week because of you! Why are you hellbent on bothering me so much?"
"'Cause it's fun and you're cute when you're all pissed off."
"I'm cu—"
The words die in your throat as your brain formally processes what he just said. You're still angry and red in the face, your chest is still heaving from adrenaline, and yet you're frozen solid, blinking up at him like an idiot. A slow smile spreads across his face, revealing that dreadfully adorable dimple.
"Probably the only woman on earth who looks prettier when she's readin' me the riot act," he adds just to watch your mouth open and shut like a fish.
"You—"
You're at a loss for words. The emotional whiplash has you reeling. He's into you, but he's showing it like an elementary school boy. It's kind of endearing but mostly immature, so you stand your ground.
"How old are you? Because you act like you're no older than twelve."
"I'm definitely older than twelve," he chuckles without missing a beat. "But listen... I really am sorry if your work suffered 'cause of me. Lemme make it up to you."
"How could you possibly—"
"Lemme take you out to dinner tonight."
The floor practically gives out from under you. What the hell is going on? The last ten minutes has your brain scrambling and your heart racing faster than any workout. How does this man manage to drive you to the brink of insanity only to pull you back at the last second with something sweet?
"You can yell at me the whole time, if you want," he says once too much time has passed without an answer. If you could see through your rage, you'd be able to pick up on his nervousness: his hand flexes at his side and his weight shifts from foot to foot with anxious energy.
"How about I just yell at you right here?" you snap. Joel laughs.
"If that's what you want, darlin', then sure."
Frustration bubbles up with a growl. You push away from the door to pace up and down your small hallway, raking your fingers through your hair while you attempt to calm down. All the while, Joel remains where he is, planted just outside your door, watching you spiral.
"You seem tense."
"I am tense! Because of you!"
"I can help with that."
You freeze and stare at him, long and hard. All those thoughts you've had about him, those images of him working in the rain, his way of turning a phrase to just barely imply he could ruin you... all of those moments crash down over you like a tidal wave and you decide that maybe he could help, after all.
In the blink of an eye, you close the distance keeping you apart. Your hand fists his sweaty, dirty shirt and you yank him forward. He stumbles a few feet into your house with surprised huff. You see the way his eyes widen right before your mouth crashes over his and finally, for a few blissful minutes, you get your coveted silence.
Joel only needs a moment before he catches up. His lips soften against yours as you pull him deeper into your house. He kicks back one foot and it collides with your door, slamming it closed behind him, then his hands are on you, pushing you gently against the wall so he can take control.
His teeth greedily graze your lower lip and your mouth parts for him with a soft moan. Driven by the sound, his tongue eagerly slips past your lips and his hands drop to cup the backs of your thighs. He hauls you up and your legs circle his waist while your tongues tangle together, hot and angry. It's desperate and messy and exactly what you need. The broad heft of his body pressed up against yours, the heady scent of the outdoors and sweat and him invading your senses, the faint taste of coffee on his tongue... it's utterly perfect.
"Where'd this come from, hm?" he asks, voice low and rough as his lips skim the edge of your jaw. Your head tilts back and your eyelids remain closed, offering your throat up to him without a fight.
"You said you could help," you murmur, craning your neck to give him better access. He finds a spot below your ear and sucks, leaving the beginnings of a mark that will take days to disappear.
"I did," he mumbles against your skin. "Meant a drink or somethin', but I ain't complainin'."
Your chin drops, hunting for his mouth, but then his hand is there tipping your head back, cupping your cheek with his thumb pressed on the underside of your jaw.
"Ain't done," he grumbles before continuing his assault on your throat. You pull your bottom lip between your teeth and let him move your head this way and that, enjoying the way he's taken control. You get the sense he's wanted this as badly as you because he seems determined to taste every inch of your skin. When his mouth travels lower to ghost over your shoulder, you shrug, allowing the strap of your dress to fall and expose more skin. Joel makes a pleased grunt before his lips explore the newly revealed territory.
"Christ, you're soft." It almost sounds like he's talking to himself, the way his voice is full of quiet wonder. A shiver rolls down your spine and you tug impatiently at his hair.
"Joel," you whine, but your thought is cut off with a gasp when he presses himself firmly against the cradle of your hips. You can feel him there, hot and hard behind his zipper. One of your hands drops to his belt and you slip your fingers past his waistband, but just as you're about to reach your target, his body jolts and he swats your hand away with a chuckle.
"Eager thing," he grins before sealing his lips over yours again.
"Bedroom," you manage to mumble when he takes half a second to breathe. "Behind you."
"Bossy," he scolds. His mouth covers yours with a deep groan before he tightens his grip around your legs. He pulls you from the wall and swings around to carry you in the general direction of your bedroom, all while never breaking the kiss.
It's kind of comical the way you stumble into your room. The door swings open too fast and knocks back against Joel's shoulder but it doesn't slow him down. He refuses to pull away to look where he's going, but when his boot collides with a half empty laundry basket on the floor, he curses under his breath and finally tears himself away.
You take the opportunity to squirm out of his grip. When your feet hit the floor, you instantly rise to your tiptoes, lips seeking out the warm skin of his throat. You moan a little when your tongue drags over his pebbled skin, tasting salt and sun that remains there. It's addicting to taste the product of his day's hard work, so you do it again and relish in the way he shudders from your attention.
"Shoulda just told me from the start what you wanted." His fingers fumble with his belt buckle after he hears the quiet sound of your zipper coming undone. "Would've saved us both alotta time, darlin'."
"Shut up," you grumble before your teeth pinch a spot next to his Adam's apple. Your dress falls into a pool at your feet, hands free to help him lift his shirt over his head.
"I need a shower," Joel says after his shirt is discarded. You just shake your head and press your mouth over his collarbone, then his sternum, mapping his body while he works on kicking off his boots and jeans.
"I like you like this," you whisper. He smirks, stepping out of his clothes as best he can with your mostly naked body pressed against his own. "You smell good," you add after a minute, and he seems pleased with that.
"Get on the bed, sweetheart. Lemme see you."
You pull away from the faint red marks you left littering his chest and look up at him through your lashes. "You first."
Joel frowns. "Wha—"
With a grin, you give him a gentle push. His back hits the bedding and he barely has a chance to register it until you're climbing on top of him, legs bracketing his hips with a giggle. He smiles so big that his eyes squint, revealing those damn dimples again beneath his beard. Then his gaze drops to your bare breasts and his eyes darken.
"Fuck, you're pretty," he mumbles, palming them greedily. When his rough thumb grazes your nipple, you lunge down and capture his mouth with a searing kiss.
"You want me like this?" he asks, words tumbling against your swollen lips. "Wanna ride me, baby?"
"Yes," you whine while tugging down his boxers with one hand. His palms glide over your thighs, squeezing and pulling you back and forth so your hips begin to grind down on his lap.
"Take these off 'fore I ruin 'em," he warns you, fingers hooking into the band of your panties. You suppress the shiver of arousal at his tone before you do exactly as he says.
When your bare cunt comes in contact with the underside of his cock, you suck in a deep breath. He's so hot and throbbing against your soaked folds, making every slide of your hips steal your breath away.
Joel watches you move with heavy lidded eyes, seemingly just as lost in the feeling as you. His chest rises and falls a little faster when the tip of his cock presses against your clit and your whole body shudders with a moan he will end up dreaming about for weeks.
Reality hits when a streak of his arousal leaks and smears across your skin, bringing him back down to earth for one second.
"Wait, my wallet—"
He extends one hand towards the floor and your eyes follow, connecting the dots and sliding off him to grab his pants. You find it tucked into his back pocket and toss it his way. He catches it and fishes out a little foil packet from its depths while you resume your spot in his lap, lips parted and heart racing with anticipation as he rolls the condom on with care.
"Alright honey, I'm all yours," he announces, smirking as he folds his arms behind his head. You roll your eyes but still shimmy forward and raise your hips, using one hand against his chest to prop yourself up and the other to guide him to your entrance. The moment you sink down, however, his lips melt into a soft circle and his eyelids flutter shut, filling your chest with pride before caving into the pleasure yourself.
You sigh and tilt your head back when you finally take all of him. The stretch is exquisite, or maybe it's just been a while, but it doesn't matter. All the static that's been electrifying your brain lately, all that stress from work, from pushing yourself too far every single day dissolves away.
"Oh, shit," he whispers, voice cracking. His fingers dig into the meat of your hips. "Feel so goddamn good."
You drop your head forward to look at him, chest and neck all flushed underneath you. Your eyes trace his body as you begin to move, just slow rolls of your hips while you take in every detail: strong arms built from work, not weights. Skin slightly sweaty and a shade lighter where his shirts protect him from the sun. Broad shoulders and a firm stomach, but not too lean. One of your hands drifts over the planes of his chest and the curves of his muscles, humming with admiration as you continue to slowly ride him. His eyes light up and you swear you can see the pleasure in his expression when he clocks your appreciation for him.
"Make yourself feel good, honey," he says, voice low. Your gaze flickers up to his and you share a smile. "Wanna see what you like. Wanna watch you fall apart on it."
Your hips lift and drop a little faster, skin slapping against skin. "Should've known you never stop talking, even when you're getting laid," you tease, and Joel chuckles.
"Bark and bite, I like that."
"Yeah, I figured that out." You gasp when he thrusts upwards, hitting a spot deep inside you can't reach on your own. He notices and files it away for later.
"Takin' notes on me?" he asks, ghosting his palms over your ribs before landing on your breasts, watching in a daze while they bounce in his hands.
"You wish," you pant. He tsks, eyes still fixed on your chest.
"I got a few things figured out 'bout you, too."
You stop moving to glare down at him and catch your breath. His dark eyes dance with amusement at your annoyed look.
"Like what?"
He shrugs but the smile still tugs at the corners of his mouth. "You work hard but don't ever blow off any steam. Don't know yet if it's cause you're too tired or you feel like you don't deserve it."
That stuns you. Even though you're naked and he's currently buried inside you, you suddenly feel very exposed. He sees he might have overstepped, so he backtracks with a joke.
"You can call me anytime and I'll be happy to help you unwind."
You snort and begin moving again, shaking off the unexpected flash of vulnerability. "Why don't you focus on making this memorable enough for me to call you again?"
Joel laughed then, loud. And despite yourself, you giggle.
"Baby, when you're done playin' cowgirl, I'm gonna flip you over and fuck you so hard, you'll feel it on Monday when you're watchin' me through that office window of yours."
Your pussy clenches involuntarily and you begin working faster, fucking yourself on his lap now like you mean it.
"That's a-a lot of big talk, Miller," you reply, breathless from the exertion. You circle your hips and moan loudly when you find an angle you like.
"Ain't just talk," he says, big hands back on your hips, helping you move. His gaze is fixed on where you're connected, on the slick smearing between your bodies, and his stomach tightens. "Been thinkin' 'bout fuckin' you every which way to Sunday, got a head full'a ideas."
"You've been thinking about fucking me?" you repeat almost shyly.
"Don't be coy, now," he tells you, grunting softly when you plant both hands on his chest for leverage. "You know you came over there that first day with these perfect fucking tits pokin' through that little robe on purpose."
"Did not," you breathe, but all the fight has left your body. You're getting close and it's all you can focus on now.
"Uh-huh," Joel says, clearly not believing you. He swallows hard and his cock twitches impatiently inside you. He could come like this, with you riding him, getting yourself off, but he doesn't want to. He doesn't want it to be over just yet, especially if you expect this to be a one time thing.
Shit, he hopes it's not just a one time thing.
"C'mon, baby, let go," he says before mouthing at your breasts. His tongue glides over one nipple then grazes it with his teeth before moving to the other one. You jolt and whine and push your chest even closer to his face.
"Joel..." you whisper. Your muscles are tired, you're slowing down. Sweat dots your forehead, collects behind your knees, and you're gasping for air.
He sits up suddenly, understanding right away what you need, and wraps one arm around your waist while the other braces himself against the mattress. He's able to fuck up into you like this and instantly your legs relax and your body slumps forward, causing him to relinquish the attention to your chest.
"That's it," he coos, "lemme help you."
You rarely accept help. The thought flickers across your mind for a moment before you push it away. This is different. This is just sex.
"M'close," you mumble shakily, fingers digging into the thick muscle of his shoulders, forehead pressed intimately against his.
"I know," he breathes, "give it to me, darlin'."
A few more harsh snaps of his hips has you falling, whimpering his name as white hot heat rolls through your limbs and soaking your brain with a drunken haze. He's murmuring to you the whole time: how tight you feel, how beautiful you look, what a good job you did, how perfectly you fit on his cock. The praise goes straight to your head and fills a much needed void somewhere inside you. Some piece of you that is always pushing you to do more, try harder, work faster... efforts that rarely give you desired results. Or, at least, the results you're after. But this—this man—he's giving you something you desperately crave without even realizing it.
Your breath stutters like you've been knocked off kilter, and maybe you have. Joel thinks it's an aftershock of your orgasm and doesn't think anything of it.
He lifts you off his lap and you gasp, eyes flying open in shock. You have about half a second before you're tossed face down onto the bed next to him, then he's climbing behind you, rough hands gentle on your hips as they pull you back up to your hands and knees.
"That's it," he grunts when you obediently spread your legs and arch your back. He smirks to himself before pushing back inside you with a heavy sigh. "Goddamn, you're warm," he says after sliding slowly all the way in, giving you a chance to adjust to the new position. You bite your lip and breathe through it, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of knowing just how deep he feels like this. How good he feels.
"Fuck me, Joel," you moan, pushing your ass back, encouraging him to move. He rolls his hips forward, slow and deep.
"I know," he pants, "I know what you need."
He moves a little faster. Your ass bounces with every push. He grabs it with one big hand and squeezes before giving you a playful smack and doing it again.
"No, you don't. You barely—barely know me," you remind him. Your words stumble over each other as you feel yourself losing focus again. He feels so good, it's impossible not to.
"Know you better than you think," he shoots back. He smoothes over the spot on your ass he had spanked, soothing the area before sliding his palm up and over your spine. He can feel every knot and twist, every stress point you keep locked away deep inside. His fingers seek them out with ease, like maybe he really can see more than you think.
Still, you're stubborn.
"You only know what I want you to know." Your jaw is clenched, the words escape through your teeth but your point is made. You swallow down a moan and close your eyes, giving in to the way he expertly takes you apart.
"I knew you needed this from the first time we met," he tells you, "could've fucked this out of you back then and saved us both the trouble."
"You like it," you hiss over your shoulder. His pace is relentless now, hips swinging roughly against your ass, burying his thick cock as deep as it'll go. He wants to split you open and make you scream his name. He wants your mind blank and your body satiated. "You like—ohh... f-fuck—"
"What's that?" he goads. Joel drops forward so both his arms bracket yours. His chest presses against your spine and his breath is hot in your ear. You shiver and your jaw falls open.
"You..." Your throat is dry. Heat is building behind your navel and your legs are starting to shake. You swallow and keep talking. "You like trouble. You like it... when I yell at you. Whe—when I—"
"Yeah, I know," he admits, "somethin' real sexy 'bout you when you get all pissed off."
"—Like when I tell you... tell you what to do."
He's silent for a moment but his pace never falters. The wet sound of skin on skin is deafening, addicting. Your face warms as he punches the air from your lungs with every devastating thrust.
"Yeah. Maybe I do."
You hum and breathe deep through your nose. Fuck, he's right. You're going to be sore. You can already feel it.
"So tell me what to do now," he adds. It takes you a second to process it, but when you do, you force your eyes open.
What does he want to hear?
Don't overthink it.
"Touch me," you demand, firm and clear despite how your heart is racing.
Joel doesn't hesitate.
He leans back, leaving your sweaty back exposed to the cool air, and he reaches around to play with your clit. Instantly, you gasp and buck under him.
"Like that?"
If you had any clarity at all you would have shot him back some sarcastic remark because of course the answer is yes. Your entire body is shaking, you can barely speak and he knows it.
"Mhm," you manage, "ye—yeah, just like that. Fuck, keep going—"
"Jesus Christ," he mutters when your body begins to work in tandem with his, meeting him thrust for thrust. "Shit honey, you're gonna make me come like this."
You whine and throw your head back. His fingers don't stop circling your clit. Sweat coats your skin now. Gasping breaths and the sound of his hips meeting your ass over and over are filling the room, punctuated by Joel's deep grunts and your breathy moans.
"Joel—" you whisper as your body locks up. Your muscles ache, your cunt aches even more, but you continue to take it all. Your hand feverishly finds his between your legs and you leave it there, loving the way his fingers feel while they play you like a guitar.
"Sweetheart, I'm gonna—"
But you cut him off before he could finish his thought with a sharp cry. Your orgasm washes over you, harsh and unforgiving. A moment later Joel follows you over the edge with a loud curse, then a rough, deep grunt you can feel in your bones as he empties himself into the condom.
"Oh, holy fuck," he gasps, removing his hand from between your legs. He still thrusts weakly into you as the last of his orgasm streaks through his veins. It's cut short when he feels your body shaking violently under him and just like that, his focus is back on you.
"You okay?"
"I'm—" You're out of breath. Your vision is spotty and your muscles are weak. You swallow hard and try again. "I'm good, just need to—"
You fall onto your elbows and Joel takes the hint. He eases out of you, ignoring the way his chest pangs at the loss of your body, before he collapses into bed and hauls you down next to him.
Now you can rest. You close your eyes and breathe, deep and heavy. He does the same while the sweat cools on both your bodies and slowly, your brain begins to come back online. When it does, you realize his body is loosely curled around yours, keeping you warm and grounding you. It's strangely intimate but you don't pull away. Not yet.
"How 'bout I take you for that dinner now?" he mumbles before carefully pressing a soft kiss against your neck. His sweaty chest is pressed against your back, sealing you together.
"Let's just order something instead," you sigh with your eyes closed.
"Did I tire you out, darlin'?"
"Didn't sleep well," you say, unwilling to give him any credit just yet, "the damn construction crew next door woke me up way too early."
"Uh-huh," he teases before tightening his arm around your middle. It feels nice, so you lean into him just a bit. And for a while it's quiet and peaceful. Your breath steadies, your head clears, but your muscles stay soft and relaxed. Joel doesn't say anything. His thumb rubs idly over your stomach, lips occasionally graze over your back or shoulder, and it feels good until that defensive part of your brain wakes up, right on schedule.
This isn't serious. This didn't mean anything. It was just stress relief. Don't get attached.
"So," you say, voice a little hoarse when you gently slip out of his grip. He rolls onto his back with a soft, reluctant noise and he watches you stand to pick up your clothes. "This is what it takes to finally shut you up, huh?"
You grin at your joke as you press your clothes to your front, hiding your bare body from him like he hadn't just touched every inch of it minutes ago. When he doesn't answer right away with some smart remark, you pause and meet his eye.
He's stretched out on your bed, looking at you like he's seeing something not meant for him. You swallow nervously and try not to let yourself enjoy how good he looks in your space, amongst your things, in your life.
"Yeah," he finally says, "guess that'll do it."
His voice sounds flat and you begin to feel bad, so you clear your throat and inch towards your bathroom. "Let's order something to eat before you go."
Before you go. Joel heard it and got the message. He didn't know what to expect but for some reason, it stings.
"Yeah, what are you thinkin'?" He sits up and reaches for his jeans, where his phone is still tucked into his pocket.
"I don't care. Whatever you like." Then the door to the bathroom quietly snaps shut. Joel sighs once's he's alone and rubs his face before looking around your room. It's neat and organized, nothing like his own. He chews the inside of his cheek while he thinks, but before he lets himself get too lost, he snaps out of it and looks at his phone.
Chinese is a safe bet, so he orders that before standing to rid himself of the condom and get dressed. Suddenly he feels out of place. He's rough and dirty and you're... not. And that's fine. This was fun, it doesn't have to be anything more. Yet when he wanders into your kitchen for water, he can't help but feel an empty pull in his chest at the thought of leaving.
Unknown to him, hidden inside your bathroom, you're struggling with the very same thing.
Edit: this story ended up continuing, you can find additional parts here
summary: joel comes home late again from a patrol run he didn't let you know about. for weeks now he has been going on a bunch of patrols and you felt like you barely see him. you understand he has responsibilities and this town is one of the most precious things it could ever have, but tonight, your feelings take over. but he quickly reminds you how well he does take care of you.
trigger warnings: age!gap (joel in his 50s, readers in her 20s), rough sex, some spanking, missionary, doggy style, a lot of swearing, degradation kink, pet names (like darling or sweet girl), breeding kink, quite rough and strict joel, but after a softer joel, indications of aftercare, maybe some little angst?
words: 2,2k
a/n: will try to publish a longer smut chapter the next time either! keep in mind, english is not my first language! have fun reading!
hour by hour. minute by minute. second by second.
here you were waiting for joel again.
sitting in front of the fire place on the couch, wrapped around your blanket.
you don't know how many times you still have to tell him. you get he has responsibilities. you understand he's the head of the patrol runs. you know he's keeping the fucking town safe.
but the amount of times he has been on patrol runs now..
it's winter. rations are running out quicker than expected and the town has just recently been attacked by a small group of infected. you get it, you truly do.
but it's always him. him who volunteers to go on a patrol run even on his one free evening. him who always has to go on the most dangerous routes.
a month ago he was missing with his group for three days during a winter storm. you thought he fucking died.
you know he always promised you to come back—come back to you. but this was fucking torture.
and now. here you are. sitting in front of the fire place again. waiting.
you didn't even know he took the evening shift for today. you found out through maria when you randomly saw her after you finished your shift in the clinic.
and now you were planning to fucking kill him when he comes home.
besides that it was already bad weather outside and it started to snow heavily again, you started to worry. again.
they were late. he was late. by fucking three hours already. he was supposed to come home from a normal evening shift at 11pm. now it's 1am in the morning.
you were fidgeting with your hands as the wood was softly cracking inside the fire.
another thirty minutes passed by. you got up to grab yourself a glass of water, leaning against the counter as you take a sip. you slowly felt a headache creeping in, but then—
a click. the door.
you immediately put your glass down and walk out of the kitchen. as you look towards the front door, it was joel.
in one piece.
thank god.
you quickly scan him up and down.
no wounds. no black eye or anything. just some snowflakes which immediately melt in his hair.
you breath out in relief.
not noticing that some tears escaped your eyes. he was just about to open his mouth to say something, but you already run towards him, pull him down by his jacket to your height and slamming your lips onto his.
he was surprised. but obviously didn't pull back. he places his hands on your waist, pulling you closer to him.
your heart was speeding up. you felt getting hot. a well known sensation started to creep up between your thighs.
but no, you were fucking mad at him. at least you're supposed to be.
"someone missed me?“, he mumbles into the kiss, but then you push him away.
"fuck you", you swear. your cheeks were hot. a light pink. of course from the sudden kiss but also because you were getting upset. real upset.
"you know what time it is-- fuck joel, i was worried about you.", you breath out as you run your hand through your hair.
"y-you just take every fucking shift after another- and i know we've had this conversation before. and yes i know you have fucking responsibilities- but you're not here. like at all.", you take a deep breath.
"you're out there. where you could fucking die.— and then, you even take another fucking shift, yea- another shift- without telling me- and come home late again- and every time. i fucking sit here, counting the minutes until you finally come home— just praying you didn't die or something happened to you.“, you keep ranting as you walk up and down. not even looking at him.
“i know you have a town to care for alright— but you have— have me too. and you don't fucking care for me– even the infected outside see you more than me", you notice he was silent.
you finally turn around to look at him. he was just watching you. his hands on his hips.
"just fucking say something!"
you don't know how many times you just said fuck.
but he just keeps standing there. until he just turns around to take off his jacket and shoes. just like nothing happend.
"are you fucking kidding me right now", you scoff and shake your head.
as you look up, he walks towards you.
"ya' sayin' that i don't take care of you enough, hm?", he says in his thick southern accent.
you gulp. then you blush.
how can someone be so intimidating and being so hot while doing that?—
whatever. stay strong.
"yea. that's exactly what i was saying", you say confidently and cross your arms in front of your chest, raising an eyebrow.
silence.
"look— i-", you try to say but got cut off by him.
"upstairs.", he just commands in a clear voice.
"what- no—", you try to argue but he cuts you off again.
"i said. upstairs", he repeats again and his voice drops a octave.
you already feel getting soaked. but no- you gotta stay strong—
"you know, i-", you don't even get to finish your sentence as he hauls you up and throws you over his shoulder. you let out a gasp and try to squirm out of his grip, but it was too tight.
god, this guy was way too strong.
"joel— put me down", you whine as you start hitting him onto the back.
but, your protests don't help.
he walks into your shared bedroom, throwing you onto the bed and leaning over you. his knee positions itself right between your legs, pressing right against your pajama pants, against your covered clit.
you gasp softly.
"my girl's been thinking i haven't been takin' proper care of her, hm..", he whispers into your ear before pressing some very light kisses onto your neck.
"joel-", you breath out.
"forgot how i woke you up this mornin'?", he says while putting some more pressure between your thighs. you moan softly.
"eating you out.. burrying my face between your thighs..— but no, still not taking proper care of you?", his one hand runs up over your rips to your breast, rubbing your nipple through the thin material of his shirt you were wearing with his fingers.
"joel— please"
he cuts you off.
"ya think i wanna be outside all day? takin' care of everything?", he keeps whispering into your ear as he starts rubbing his knee against you.
you bite your lower lip, starting to moan at the friction.
"leavin' you all here worried at home? ya think i like that?", he asks again.
"no—", you whimper out. your hands digging into the sheets.
"no, i don't wanna keep my girl up waitin' the whole night— and i didn't want to take that shift tonight either. but had to, because nobody jumped in and there were a lot of runners to take care of, and we just have a bunch of fuckin' newbies either. so someone had to do the fuckin' job, darlin'", he growls as he sees your breath hitch.
fuck, you're already close.
"but my girl tellin' me i haven't been taking proper care of her—", he breaths out as he sees youre close. but as you were just about to cum, he stops.
"joel!", you whine out in frustration. you're trying so hard to be mad at him, but you already failed.
failed the minute he walked through that door.
"stop whining. take of your panties and spread your fuckin' legs for me", he growls.
you immediately obey. you're not thinking straight anymore. you quickly slide down your panties, and he already rips them off your feet, letting them fall on the floor.
"lemme remind you how well i take care of you", he breaths out as he opens his belt.
god, as you watch him take out his already thick and hard cock, you were practically drooling.
he strokes it one of two times as he leanes over you, rubbing it against your wetness.
"look at you— just had a hell of a mouth a minute ago, and now just fucking drooling at the sight of my cock, huh", he chuckles.
then, without hesitation, he just shoves himself right into you. you yelp as the stretch burns slightly. he lets you adjust to his size for a short moment.
"atta' girl.. always so fucking tight for me", he groans as he starts moving immediately, grabbing your hands and pinning them next to your head.
the echos of your skin slapping together is heard throughout the whole room, with your loud moans. you roll your eyes backwards while arching your back either.
"you like that hm— so desperate to get fucked?", he groans as he thrusts into you roughly. he leans down, catching your nipple between his lips, sucking on it before giving it a light bite.
you gasp in a pleasurable pain.
"look at you— already clenching around my dick", he growls as he kisses up your neck.
"joel— please— im close", you moan loudly, but he suddenly pulls out of you, throwing you onto your stomach.
he pulls you up at your hips so you're on all fours. he delivers a sharp spank onto your ass before he thrusts right back into you. you gasp, lowering your upper back and grabbing the pillow to moan into it, but joel grabs you by your hair, hauling your head up.
"oh no, you were complainin' i don't take good care of you, girl, now you gotta let me fuckin' hear how well i do indeed take care of you now", he commands as he holds your read up, keeping your back arched while thrusting into you from behind.
you were fitting around him perfectly. like you were just made for him.
"you think im takin' good enough care of you now—? You like that?—", he groans. his one hand wraps around your hip, slides between your legs and starts to circle your clit while thrusting into you.
you were not capable of responding in between your moans.
you whine as you feel another sharp spank against your ass.
"i asked you a question, love. gotta teach you some fuckin' manners again", he breaths out as he pulls out of you, just to slam back into you again.
"y-yes—", you whimper while the bed even started to shake.
"yes what? use your words, darlin'", he groans as he feels you tightening around him again. "fuck, clenchin' around me again like that‘", he murmurs under his breath right after.
"yes i like it—", you moan even louder as you started to breath uncontrollably, feeling his dick twitch inside of you either. you start to tear up at the overbearing pleasure.
"you like that— fuck yes you do—", he circles your clit faster while his thrusts got rouger either.
"want you to come on my dick, baby— come on", he talks you through it. always does.
you do. immediately.
you tense up, moaning loudly as you clench around him, feeling him release his cum right inside you, filling you up with it.
he groans, his breath unsteady either but pulling out a moment after. his cum leaking out of you a bit.
he turns you around and you fall right back onto your back, trying to catch your breath. as you feel the emptiness inside of you as he pulled out, you didn't even notice some tears were suddenly leaving your eyes. and not only because of the pleasure.
what if one day he is just not coming back home and you will not get to feel him like that. in any form. ever?
he noticed. he always did.
"hey, hey", his look changes immediately as he leans over to you, kissing away your tears. "no cryin', baby", he whispers.
you wrap your arms around his neck immediately, burying your face into his shoulder.
"oh, my sweet girl...", he sighs softly, as he caresses your head softly.
"shh.. it's okay, darlin'.. i know, i know-", he keeps whispering. "im here. and i will always be okay?", he pulls away, holding onto your face with his hands softly so you were looking at him.
"i will always come back to you, my love. i know it's tough.. and i will try to get these newbies as tough as possible anytime soon, so i can stay here more often with you, alright?", he says, raising his eyebrows. his face slightly concerned.
you nod. "okay..", you breath out, wiping away your tears before he catches your lips in a soft kiss. "i love you...", you whisper quietly.
he smiles softly. "i love you too, darlin'— now, let's get you cleaned up, come on'"
he places a soft kiss onto your forehead and picks you up, before takin' his time with you, properly doing his aftercare like he always does.
Summary: When a mission goes a bit sideways, you suddenly find yourself stuck with Din in a hideout that allows little to no movement, leaving you in a precarious situation - between his legs.
Warnings: +18, MDNI, took the locked room trope to its farthest edge, oral (m receiving), praising, the helmet stays on, forced orgasm if you squint?
A/N: this is the result of a trope survey I did, Din Djarin & locked room came in second. If you are interested in the others just follow the link.
wc: 4.8k
My Pedro-Character-Masterlist
This was… a predicament, to put it mildly.
You crouched inside a storage cavity that clearly had not been designed with a human occupant in mind - certainly not two of them. The narrow compartment smelled faintly of machine oil and old dust, the metal walls pressing close on every side as if the space itself resented your presence.
One person would have been uncomfortable.
Two was a logistical nightmare.
Especially when one of those people insisted on wearing an entire arsenal of beskar plates that stole what little room existed.
Every minor adjustment from Din Djarin produced the faint scrape of metal against durasteel.
You clenched your jaw.
“Would you hold still?” you hissed under your breath, trying to shift your position for the tenth time and failing just as miserably as before.
The helmet tilted slightly toward you.
“Quiet,” he shot back immediately, voice low and edged with the same irritation while looking down.
Very much down.
Because while the two of you had been sprinting through corridors trying to shake the men chasing you, this tiny hiding place had appeared during a frantic scan of the hallway. Without pausing to debate the idea, Din had grabbed you by the arm and shoved you inside.
He followed a heartbeat later.
The security panel had slid shut with a quiet thunk.
Only then had the reality of the situation become clear.
The space was barely large enough for one adult standing upright. With both of you inside, it became an exercise in awkward geometry.
Din stood with his back pressed firmly against the sealed panel. One armored arm braced against the wall in front of him, creating a makeshift support so he wouldn’t lose his balance in the cramped quarters.
At least he was standing.
You, on the other hand…
You lifted your gaze slowly.
From the floor.
From where you were kneeling.
Directly between his legs.
“Oh, don’t you dare tell me to be quiet,” you muttered sharply, craning your neck to glare up at the visor. “You’re the one who got us into this mess in the first place.”
Technically speaking, you were right.
Months of working together had built enough trust that when Din proposed the job, you hadn’t questioned it much.
An easy contract, he had said.
Quick entry. Quick exit. Minimal guards.
Simple.
Every single part of that description had turned out to be spectacularly wrong.
The artifact storage facility had recently made local news - something neither of you had learned about until far too late. Apparently publicity had inspired the owners to double their security.
What should have been a short operation had turned into a crawling nightmare.
Air vents.
Abandoned wastewater tunnels.
Forgotten maintenance corridors that hadn’t seen maintenance in decades.
The two of you had spent hours creeping through the guts of the building just to reach the prize.
Still, the effort hadn’t been wasted.
Your hand instinctively brushed your pocket.
Inside rested the object you’d come for: a Kyber Resonance Shard, a fractured piece of crystal rumored to hum faintly with residual energy when exposed to certain frequencies. Collectors paid absurd amounts for relics tied even distantly to the old Jedi traditions.
You had managed to lift it cleanly from its display.
Unfortunately, the display had also triggered a silent alarm.
Minutes later the corridors behind you had filled with guards.
Not just a few.
Dozens.
The careful stealth of the mission had evaporated instantly. Instead of sneaking out quietly, you had been forced to fight your way through the first wave and run before reinforcements sealed the building entirely.
That was when the plan changed.
Getting out immediately had become impossible.
But hiding?
Hiding might buy time.
Eventually the guards would assume you had escaped the facility entirely. Once the search widened outside, slipping away would be far easier.
At least, that had been the theory.
Which was how you ended up here.
Wedged inside a maintenance cavity barely wider than a locker.
Kneeling awkwardly on the floor.
Directly between the legs of a fully armored Mandalorian bounty hunter who filled most of the remaining space.
You tilted your head again to glare up at the dark visor hovering above you.
“Yes,” you muttered under your breath, “this was definitely your brilliant plan.”
“Maybe you should’ve listened when I told you the alarm might trigger,” Din Djarin muttered sharply above you, the words low and tight through the helmet’s modulator.
You snorted quietly.
“Helpful warning,” you whispered back. “Shame it arrived after I had already pocketed the shard.”
You shifted slightly on your heels, trying for the third time to relieve the pressure building in your legs. The cramped position forced your weight awkwardly onto your calves, and the metal floor beneath you was doing nothing to improve the situation.
Your muscles protested.
“Next time a meteor storm smashes into the Razor Crest,” you added dryly, “I’ll be sure to warn you afterward too.”
Din’s right foot nudged lightly against your leg.
You couldn’t tell whether the movement was meant as a quiet command to shut up - or simply an attempt for him to adjust his own balance in the ridiculous configuration the two of you had been forced into.
“If we get out of here,” you continued under your breath, shifting your weight again, “remind me to avoid any future jobs that involve stealing.”
The response came immediately.
“That from the master thief?” he said. Even without seeing his face, you could hear the faint crooked humor in his tone.
Months of working together had trained your ears well. You had learned to read the small inflections beneath the helmet’s mechanical filter. The subtle changes that meant he was smirking, even if the visor hid it completely.
You had seen that smirk before though.
More than once.
Because you have seen his face many times now.
The first time had been an accident - an unexpected glimpse of his face during a moment neither of you had planned.
The second had been necessity, when he’d taken a nasty hit and removing the helmet had been the only way to patch him up properly.
The third…
Well.
That had happened in the narrow bunk aboard the Razor Crest, sometime after both of you decided that surviving too many dangerous jobs together had earned you a more… relaxed way of blowing off steam.
Originally, the partnership had been strictly professional.
Lately, things had become a little more complicated.
“I wouldn’t mind switching back to bounty work,” you murmured, glancing up toward the dark visor. “You know I’m better at luring targets out than you are.”
A faint pause followed.
Then he replied quietly, “A little too good at it.” The final word slipped out in the soft cadence of Mando’a. “Mesh’la.”
Thankfully the darkness inside the cramped storage compartment hid the warmth that crept across your face.
You had never asked him exactly what the word meant.
Something affectionate, you suspected.
Something he said with an ease that made it feel… oddly intimate.
Even filtered through the helmet, the sound carried a certain weight.
“Don’t tell me you’re jealous, Din,” you whispered, voice tilting playfully. “Is that why you picked this miserable job? So I wouldn’t be flirting with half the galaxy while we worked?”
Your hand lifted almost absentmindedly, sliding along the side of his leg. The motion was half reassuring, half teasing as your fingers traced lightly over the armored plating before settling there.
“Focus,” he said quietly. But the word lacked its usual bite.
“Not much focusing I can do down here,” you replied softly. “We’re stuck waiting. Let me keep my sarcasm - it helps pass the time.”
Outside the sealed panel, the facility remained silent for the moment. No footsteps. No voices.
Still, both of you kept your voices low.
Better safe than discovered.
“You could start thinking about buyers,” Din said after a moment. “Once word spreads that the artifact disappeared from a secure facility, the list of interested collectors will shrink fast.”
You shrugged lightly, the movement barely noticeable in the cramped space.
“Let that be my headache.” He knew you would handle it. You always did. “You,” you added, glancing up again, “just focus on choosing our next job with a little more care.” A faint smirk crept into your voice. “I don’t mind spending time alone in a room with you,” you murmured. “But this setup? Less appealing.”
Your gaze lifted.
The visor angled down toward you.
“Think so? I can’t say the view is terrible.” There it was again - that invisible grin you had come to recognize.
Your hand, still resting on his shin, slid a little higher along his thigh. Your fingers tightened briefly in a light squeeze.
“Careful,” you murmured. “You know I like pushing my luck.”
“Focus,” he repeated again, though the command sounded slightly rougher now. “We need to be ready to move the second an opening appears.”
His tone still carried its usual seriousness. But there was something else hiding beneath it. A quiet thread of tension.
“I can focus just fine,” you said softly. “I’m practically meditating down here. Feeling like a damn Jedi.”
You shifted again, trying to relieve the ache building in your legs.
As you moved, you rolled your neck slightly -
- and accidentally brushed your head against his crotch.
The reaction was immediate.
Din shifted abruptly, a quiet hum escaping him through the modulator as he instinctively pulled back where little to no space was left.
You blinked, then slowly looked up. A wicked grin spread across your face.
“Well now,” you murmured, lips parting slightly. “Don’t tell me…” Your voice dropped to a playful whisper. “Din Djarin,” you teased, “are you actually getting turned on by this?”
You didn’t wait for an answer.
Instead your hand moved higher along his thigh, slipping beneath the edge of the segmented armor until your fingers found the softer resistance of the flight suit beneath. The fabric was warm from his body heat, taut where it stretched across muscle. You let your palm settle there for a moment - just long enough to confirm what your instincts had already guessed.
And there it was.
A slow, unmistakable firmness growing beneath your touch.
Your mouth curved slightly.
Well. That answered that.
“Cyar’ika…” Din’s voice dropped into a low rumble, the word dragged through the helmet’s modulator like a warning trying very hard to sound stern.
Except the tone betrayed him.
Half caution. Half something else entirely.
“What?” you murmured softly, fingers tightening through the fabric in a deliberate squeeze that completely contradicted the innocence of your question. “Should I stop?”
His breath caught.
“This is not the place,” he said, words slightly uneven now, “and definitely not the time.”
A faint inhale followed, sharp enough that he nearly stumbled over the last part of the sentence.
“Seems to me we’ve got plenty of time to kill,” you whispered.
Your hand didn’t slow.
If anything, the motion became more deliberate - testing, exploring his length through the layers of fabric while your eyes stayed locked on the dark visor above you.
Whatever sharp retort had been forming died instantly when your curious squeeze shifted into a slow, teasing stroke.
Din’s helmet tipped back against the wall behind him with a muted klonk. The hand braced against the opposite surface tightened, his fingers curling slowly into a fist as if he needed the pressure to steady himself.
“You really shouldn’t…” he muttered.
But the growl beneath the words lacked conviction.
It sounded less like a warning directed at you and more like something he was trying to remind himself.
Meanwhile your hand had already found the seam of the flight suit.
You slipped beneath it.
The moment your fingers brushed bare skin, Din’s hips shifted instinctively against your touch. A quiet roll forward.
A reaction he clearly hadn’t intended.
“You keep watch,” you suggested lightly, your voice barely louder than a breath, “I’ll keep you entertained.”
Your fingers wrapped fully around his cock now.
The muffled sound that escaped the helmet in response sent a small thrill down your spine.
You had seen Din without the helmet before. You knew the expressions he tried so carefully to hide from the rest of the galaxy - the tightening of his jaw, the way his eyes darkened when you touched him just right.
But this?
This was different.
With the helmet still firmly in place, you couldn’t rely on facial cues at all.
Instead you found yourself reading the language of his body.
Every small shift of muscle.
Every subtle change in the way he held himself above you.
The signals were clearer than he probably realized.
And right now they were telling you that you were very much on the right track.
His length twitched faintly in your grasp.
Yes.
Definitely the right track.
“You’re being reckless,” Din whispered after a moment, his head tilting slightly as if he was still trying to listen for sounds in the hallway beyond the hidden compartment.
“This entire mission has been reckless,” you replied with a quiet smirk. “I’m just staying consistent.”
Your hand moved again.
With a practiced motion you eased him free from the remaining fabric, the flight suit sliding aside just enough to reveal his length completely.
Especially from your low position you couldn’t help the brief flicker of appreciation that crossed your mind as he stood towering above you.
Your legs had been aching moments ago from the cramped kneeling position.
Now the discomfort barely registered.
You shifted slightly, adjusting your posture so you were better aligned with his cock in front of your face. Your gaze traveled upward for a moment before settling again on the task at hand.
Almost unconsciously, you wet your lips.
Your hand gave him a few slow strokes, deliberate and unhurried.
“You should stop,” he hissed quietly.
You smiled faintly.
“I haven’t even started yet.”
Leaning forward, you pressed a soft, almost reverent kiss against the soft skin of his tip.
The thing was, you had never been particularly patient. The teasing kisses you had started with didn’t stay gentle for long. As you closed your lips around his tip you could feel a tension coiling through Din’s entire body and you could hear the change in his breathing.
The quiet restraint he usually carried with such discipline began to slip. A low sound escaped him - muted by the helmet but unmistakable.
Above you, his free hand found your hair. Just threading through the strands in slow strokes that felt almost absentminded, as if he was grounding himself in the sensation. The movement sent a clear enough signal on its own.
You were doing exactly what he wanted, that he did not want you to stop at all.
Encouraged, you took him in deeper, the tight space forcing you to adjust carefully as your tongue circled his soft skin. Din’s hand moved from the side of your head to the back of it as you leaned in further, the grip tightening just slightly as instinct took over.
For a moment the two of you went completely still.
The closeness of the compartment left almost no room for movement anyway. The faint hum of machinery somewhere inside the walls vibrated through the metal around you while you both adjusted to the new position.
Din’s breath hitched again.
“Mesh’la…” The word slipped out rougher this time, dragged low through the modulator as he looked down at you. The dark visor tilted slightly, studying you in the dim light filtering through the vent.
“You look… perfect like this.”
The praise landed like a spark and a shiver ran through you.
Your hand slid higher along his thigh to steady yourself while the other braced against the wall behind you. Slowly you began to move your head, careful in the cramped space, finding a rhythm that worked despite the awkward positioning.
You slowly started to move your head, taking him in just an inch more before rolling back, catching a breath. Spit glistened on your lips and his soft skin, even in the shady dark light of this makeshift hideout, the air inside the compartment growing thick and humid as the seconds stretched.
Your own pulse had begun to race now and heat coiled low in your stomach. You could feel the wetness between your legs growing although he did not even touch you fully.
It was almost frustrating to realize there would be no space for him to return the favor here - not with the two of you wedged together in a compartment barely big enough to breathe in. Not to speak of the lurking danger outside.
But you had no doubt, the moment you made it back to the Crest, he would remember exactly how to repay you. And different to now he would take his time with you.
For now though, the focus was entirely on him.
Din’s grip tightened slightly in your hair as you relaxed your jaw just a bit more, to take him up to the hilt. Before you could settle fully into your pace, he guided you forward with a firm pressure at the back of your head, pulling you closer with a sudden urgency that stole your breath for a moment.
“You take me so well,” he murmured. The words vibrated through the helmet’s modulator, sending another shiver down your spine. Your lungs protested briefly at the fullness, but your mind was far too focused on the effect you were having on him to care much about that.
Just before the pressure became too much he eased the hold, letting you pull back enough to breathe again.
You inhaled deeply before leaning in once more, eyes slipping closed as you focused on the rhythm he gave you. Your fingers curled into the fabric of his flight suit for balance as you let your tongue explore his full length, feeling every vein and twitch. He felt impossibly hard now and you longed for the moment back on the ship when he would bury himself in you, hips rolling in that infuriating slowness he always used to bring you closer and closer to the edge.
Above you, Din’s movements became less controlled now. The subtle tension running through his body and the twitching of his cock told you everything you needed to know.
“I’m almost there, cyar’ika,” he breathed quietly. Then his helmet tilted downward again. “Look at me.”
You obeyed immediately, lifting your gaze to the dark visor looming above you. Your jaw softened slightly, preparing yourself for the moment -
- but suddenly he froze.
Every muscle in his body went rigid.
A sound echoed faintly from the hallway beyond the hidden compartment.
Footsteps, distant enough but approaching.
The situation became instantly absurd.
You were kneeling in a cramped maintenance cavity, his cock buried deep in your throat, both of you frozen in complete silence while someone walked somewhere nearby beyond the sealed panel.
Din held himself perfectly still, his grip tightening in your hair in a silent command to stop. To wait.
You felt it.
You understood it.
You ignored it. Your tongue moved again in a teasing flick against his underside and his throb told you how he ached for the sweet release. A strangled hiss slipped through the modulator.
The footsteps grew slightly louder as they passed somewhere down the corridor.
Din’s fingers clenched in warning. Not yet pulling you away, but very clearly telling you to behave.
You didn’t.
Your hands slid around the backs of his thighs instead, gripping firmly just beneath the curve of his backside. Then you pulled him closer, deeper, stealing your own breath, all while keeping your gaze fixed on him.
That was all it took.
Din’s head fell back against the wall with a silent thud as the tension snapped.
The insulation of the compartment and the distant machinery thankfully swallowed most of the sound. Outside, the footsteps continued past without slowing.
Inside, you had no choice but to hold steady as the wave finally broke and he spilled into your mouth, his warm cum coating the back of your throat and dripping down.
True to his earlier command, you kept your eyes lifted to the visor above you as you swallowed around his cock, taking every drop of him.
His fingers dug sharply into your hair now, the pressure almost painful as he fought to stay quiet through the release that rolled through him.
The footsteps faded down the corridor.
Only once the silence returned did Din finally exhale.
The breath came out slow and shaky.
After a moment he carefully pulled his still hardened length away, the movement making his tip bump lightly against your lips as he straightened.
“You…” he muttered, voice still rough. “…are an absolute menace.”
You leaned back slightly, licking the corners of your mouth before flashing him a satisfied grin.
“Happy to be of service.” You gave him a small, mocking nod.
With practiced hands you helped Din straighten himself back into the flight suit, smoothing the fabric into place before giving the front of it a light, almost condescending pat.
“Good as new,” you murmured under your breath.
The grip he had held in your hair finally loosened. Instead of the sharp hold from moments ago, his fingers slid through the strands in slow strokes, brushing your scalp before drifting down along the side of your face, tilting your face upwards by the chin. The gesture carried none of the urgency from earlier - just quiet warmth.
“We’re going to have a conversation about your sense of risk assessment once we’re back on the ship,” he said after a moment. Even through the helmet you could hear the grin in his voice. “Can’t take you anywhere.”
“Speaking of taking me places,” you said, nodding toward the sealed panel behind him, “you think things have cooled down out there yet?”
“I certainly have,” he replied dryly. The helmet tilted slightly as he listened for a moment, the faint sounds of the facility humming through the walls around you. “Seems quiet enough. Might be our best window.”
He glanced down toward you.
“Can you get it open again?”
Your lockpicking kit was still tucked safely in your pocket. After all, the panel had sealed itself automatically once you had picked it the first time and Din had shoved you inside. Your part of the job hadn’t exactly ended when the door closed.
You pulled the tools free with a quiet clink.
“What exactly are you contributing to this mission again?” you asked with a crooked grin.
Din awkwardly stepped over you in the tight compartment so you could shift forward, bracing yourself on your knees while you reached the panel controls.
“Because as far as I remember,” you continued, sliding the picks into place, “I handled the theft, the lockpicking, and the tension relief.”
Behind you he shifted his weight against the opposite wall.
“I’m making sure no one stands between us and the ship so I can repay you,” he replied calmly.
The panel hissed softly as the locking mechanism disengaged beneath your tools.
He leaned closer.
“Now hurry up,” he added quietly, “before I make you.”
You didn’t need further encouragement. You scrambled to your feet quickly - only to wobble immediately as your legs protested the long minutes spent kneeling.
Pins and needles shot through your calves.
“Stars,” you muttered, shaking them out. “Did the Jedi deal with this kind of thing all the time?”
Din didn’t slow.
“Less talking,” he said simply. His hand closed around your wrist and pulled you forward down the corridor. “More moving.”
Waiting had been the right call.
The frantic security sweep from earlier had thinned considerably. Most of the guards had clearly moved their search elsewhere by now, likely assuming you had already slipped off the premises.
Still, the path back to the exit wasn’t completely empty.
Twice you had to flatten yourselves against shadowed corners as patrols passed nearby.
Twice Din handled the problem when stealth alone wasn’t enough.
Before long the familiar shape of the Razor Crest appeared waiting at the edge of the landing platform like an old friend.
You sprinted the final stretch. By the time the ramp lowered you were already breathing hard.
Din reached the cockpit first, vaulting into the pilot’s seat as the startup sequence flared to life across the control panels.
You stumbled up into the cockpit seconds later and dropped into the copilot chair beside him, chest still rising and falling as you tried to catch your breath.
But the grin on your face refused to fade.
From your pocket you produced the prize.
The Kyber Resonance Shard caught the cockpit lights as you tossed it lightly into the air and caught it again.
“Well,” you said, leaning back slightly as the engines hummed louder beneath your feet, “that was an experience.”
You flipped the shard once more.
Din said nothing. His gloved hands moved across the controls with steady precision, initiating the final departure sequence.
The ship lifted smoothly from the platform.
You glanced sideways at him.
“What do you think this thing will sell for?” you asked, turning the crystal between your fingers.
Still nothing.
A small flicker of unease crept into your thoughts. Had you pushed too far earlier?
You cleared your throat. “Maybe we should take more breaking-and-entering jobs,” you added casually.
You tossed the shard again -
- but this time Din’s hand shot out and caught it midair before you could.
The motion was so quick it left you blinking.
Without looking at you, he engaged the hyperdrive controls with his other hand. The Crest lurched gently as it entered hyperspace, the blue tunnel of stars stretching across the viewport.
Din turned the crystal over once in his hand. Then set it on the console. Only after that did he rise from the pilot’s seat. His broad silhouette loomed over you.
“Bunk,” he said.
Just one word.
No humor left in it.
The tone wasn’t angry.
But it was unmistakably an order.
And stars help you - you obeyed it eagerly.
You were out of the copilot seat in a heartbeat, heading down the narrow corridor toward the sleeping quarters.
Behind you, heavy footsteps followed.
You reached the bunk and climbed inside just as the familiar sound echoed through the small cabin -
The quiet hiss of a helmet seal disengaging.
Your grin widened.
Propping yourself up on your elbows, you stretched out on the mattress and looked toward the doorway with open anticipation.
You had worked with Din long enough to know exactly how this was going to end.
Rating: Explicit, MDNI
WC: 6,6k
Summary: Joel gets a batch of pills with strange side effects. He decides that it would be a shame to waste them. After all, he can use them to get something: you.
Tags: non-con/dub-con, Joel’s pov, smut, masturbation, manipulation, kinda love bombing, drugging, brief dry humping, unprotected p in v, nipple play, fingering, introverted reader, slightly naive reader, she's a grown ass woman but there's still non specified age gap between them, she's not described besides having hair long enough to be tied up in a bun, she's described wearing jeans and t-shirt, liar!Joel, mean!Joel, dark!Joel, he acts kindly but he has no good intentions, sex pollen vibes but slightly different, orgasm denial, praising, dirty talking, pet names, a little bit of somno, oral (f receiving), Sarah, Tess and Tommy mentioned but they’re either dead or went away, I’m sorry. I changed the dynamic and the tl a little bit, sorry, we're like 10 years into the outbreak but Tess is already gone, mention of morning-after pill.
A/N: The idea sparked reading a Reddit post and a conversation with @aurorawritestoescape helped me figuring out what I wanted to write 🤭
Thanks honey for your help and for being the best beta-reader, I couldn’t have done it without you♥️ I haven't written Qz!Joel and non-con / dub-con in a long time and I'm a little nervous to share this. He's probably not as gruff as you'd expect. He's mean though. Please be kind, I really hope you like it! English is not my first language, any mistake is still on me!
“Hey Miller!” the guard approaches him.
Joel turns and, to his surprise, finds a rifle pointed at him. Taking the usual shortcut home, a narrow back road that smells of piss and remorse, wasn’t the best idea today.
Joel clenches his jaw as he looks at the guard and then hisses, “Get this rifle out of my face.”
“Those shitty pills you sold me yesterday don’t work”.
Joel shrugs “What the hell do you mean?”
The guard slams the barrel of the rifle into his cheek. “They didn’t get me high and when I tried to fuck my woman I couldn’t cum!”
Joel turns up his nose at the unsolicited information. “It’s not the pills’ fault your dick doesn’t work”
The guard is furious, holding the rifle an inch from Joel’s nose. “My cock is good, you asshole, I know for sure it was those nasty pills. I want a refund.”
“No refunds, it’s your business,” Joel gruffs, but the guard doesn’t seem persuaded at all to let it go.
“Listen, do you want me to report you? I’m sure my boss would love to know how you sneak out of the QZ to get the fucking drugs, don’t you think?” he barks, shoving the rifle into the other man’s flesh. “What do you say, Miller, I have to put a stop to your nice black market, huh?”
Joel shifts the rifle, holding the barrel with two fingers.
“What the fuck do you want? I don't have any more pills.”
He'll break his jaw, a moment's distraction is enough to disarm him. These spineless guards don't scare him.
“I know you have more. Give them to me,” the guard orders. Joel weighs his options. He doesn't feel like breaking his knuckles and disfiguring this guy's face, and after all, he's one of his best customers. And he can't lose his cards. He needs them to get anything in this godforsaken place until he manages to slip back out into the outside world.
Joel has just returned so he should have waited at least a month to avoid drawing too much attention.
He snorts, pulling a plastic bag full of amphetamines out of his pocket - pills he would have preferred to keep for himself.
The guard catches them and threatens Joel, “Try to screw me over one more time and I’ll break your fucking bones. You can keep this crap.”
He tosses the bag of pills at Joel, spits on the ground and walks away.
Joel looks at the pills. They seem fine. The guy who sold them to him is new, he’d never done business with him before. He met him outside Bill’s house after picking up some ammo. Long, curly, graying hair, big round glasses. He looked a bit like a mad scientist, spouting big words and formulas that Joel couldn’t make heads or tails of, but at some point he mentioned Bill’s name, and Joel trusted him. Bill never talked to anyone; if he knew him, he must have some credibility. At least that’s what Joel thought, so he agreed to sell the product the guy was offering. But clearly, he was wrong.
Joel heads home, weighing the packet in the palm of his hand. He thinks back to what the guard told him—that he hadn’t been able to come all evening. He didn’t mention any other problems, so probably everything else had worked, it was just the climax that was missing. Was it some kind of edging? Joel comes to his apartment and sits in the kitchen, wondering what on earth he could do with them and whether he could make use of them in some way.
Joel pours himself a glass of whiskey and sips it while watching the sky grow dark.
What if the guard had told him a lie just to get the amphetamines? He can't stand the thought of being scammed.
So Joel takes one, swallowing it with a sip of whiskey, just to see if that idiot tried to rip him off.
He hops in the shower and goes to sleep.
After tossing and turning in bed for a couple of minutes, he starts to feel strange.
A sudden wave of heat washes over him, his blood seems to be racing through his veins, his cock stirs beneath his boxers and grows hard, without him even touching it, stimulated by nothing more than that stupid pill he swallowed earlier.
His hand slides down into his underwear, trying to jerk off, but after several minutes, all he’s managed to do is get even harder, with no happy ending.
It feels like hell, just like that dude said.
He pulls down his boxers and tries to hump the mattress, rubbing his cock against the crumpled sheet.
No matter how much effort Joel puts into it, no matter how much precum he’s dripping onto the sheets, climax never comes.
Joel is in disbelief, frustrated, and drenched in sweat, his painfully hard cock shows no sign of softening.
He stays awake almost all night, in agony, lying on the mattress and hoping that the drug’s effects will eventually wear off.
By the time dawn breaks, his cock finally begins to soften.
When Joel gets up, he still hasn’t decided what to do with the pills. He hides them under a floorboard where he keeps his contraband, gets dressed, and leaves the house. He is tired, but insomnia often haunts him and he is now used to it, even though he shouldn't be.
A full day of work in the dining hall awaits him. Ever since word got out that you could get extra ration cards by shoveling out the sewers, everyone wanted to do it. The stench didn’t matter, what mattered was the gnawing hunger that gripped everyone.
As soon as he walks into the kitchen, he sees you peeling potatoes in a corner of the long metal counter.
He says hello to you, and you reply in a whisper, barely looking him in the face.
You seem very shy, reserved, and not very talkative. Joel likes that, he has no desire to listen to anyone’s chatter.
You’re gorgeous, and Joel likes that too.
He puts on one of the aprons left on the counter and grabs a knife.
He stands next to you, starting to help you peel the huge pile of potatoes in front of you.
Your hands move quickly, the sharp knife glides effortlessly between the flesh and the skin, your gaze is focused and attentive.
Every time you drop a peeled potato into the large plastic container filled with cold water, you let out a small sigh, so faint it’s barely audible.
The more Joel looks at you, the more delightful you seem to him—your eyes, your lips curled into a slight pout, your hair tied back in a bun, the scent of vanilla filling his nostrils, likely emanating from your skin.
You look exhausted, like everyone else in the QZ, but there is something ethereal and sweet about you that captivates Joel’s gaze and slows him down at work.
The surreal silence in which you are immersed is broken by a rough, boisterous man who bursts into the kitchen introducing himself as the head cook.
Joel doesn’t even listen to what he’s saying, he nods while the man’s mouth moves, babbling about stews and soups—the only bland and utterly unappetizing dishes that have always been served in the QZ dining hall.
For the rest of the day, his eyes are all over you. Kitchen isn’t so bad after all, if it means he can spend his time looking at someone as pretty as you.
He doesn’t care about other people working around him, the heat from the stoves that’s making his face flush, the smell of onions and meat that’s soaking into his shirt, or the rough-mannered man barking orders at everyone. As he’s standing next to you, as you stir the giant pot of soup with a ladle, a thought grows stronger in his mind.
________________________
Joel needs to be careful. He has to earn your trust first, and to do that, he starts showing up in the kitchen more and more often, peeling potatoes, doing the dishes, serving food. Anything to be near you. He greets you as soon as he walks in, when he finds you already there working, and throws a few jokes to which you sometimes answer shyly and other times simply giggle so softly that your laughter sounds like a symphony in his ears.
Day after day, watching you work with your head down as if you were afraid to look people in the eye, so inexperienced and vulnerable, he feels increasingly compelled to win you over.
He starts with simple questions that seem innocent, like how you ended up in the QZ, if you have any living relatives, if you live with anyone. You reply that you ended up there when you were just turned 19, and this explains to Joel your vulnerability and fragility—you didn’t have much experience of the world before, and in this one you realized it’s much better for someone like you not to draw attention.
Abuse by the guards is a daily occurrence, the fireflies are portrayed by the government as subversives and criminals, people are desperate and hungry, and on every street corner you can be robbed of the few ration cards you managed to scrape together—or worse. Much worse.
Your parents died on the day of the outbreak in a car accident while you were trying to escape, you and your brother managed to reach the QZ before he became seriously ill and died due to the lack of medicine and medical care available.
You were left alone in the world, moving like a ghost through the dirty, foul-smelling streets, trying to survive as best you could in a bare, dilapidated apartment that had been assigned to you.
Living there alone was tough, you missed your relatives and had no one who could help. But you grew accustomed to the silence broken only by alarm sirens and the screams of people in the streets.
You're a rare find, and Joel knows it.
He pretends to be genuinely sorry about your loss, praises your strength, and showers you with compliments that seem to make you melt a little more with every passing minute.
You probably haven’t really spoken in depth to anyone in years, and Joel is the first person who’s taken an interest in you in this hell.
It’s easy. He acts like a perfect gentleman, taking the heavy lifting off your hands, helping you get a few extra cards from the gruff head cook, and offering to walk you home after work to keep you safe.
“QZ sucks, I’m glad to help a friend any way I can,” he says and your face brightens so delightfully.
Every now and then he touches you, making it seem casual, a hand brushing against your hip as he passes behind you to pick up a potato peeler, your fingers casually touching as you talk, walking side by side in the street. Just a hint, but it shakes you every time. Joel is amused to see you unconsciously trembling as your lower lip disappears behind your teeth.
Day after day, he notices how you open up to him, how your smile spreads across your face when you see him, how you start the conversation yourself to find out more about him.
One morning, while peeling yet another sack of potatoes, you even venture a joke about how incompetent the head cook is.
Joel smiles smugly, watching your every reaction, metaphorically rubbing his hands together at each of your genuine attempts to get closer to him.
You're so grateful for everything he does, so amazed that he goes out of his way to protect you.
One afternoon, as he’s walking you home, he suggests you go to his place.
Just to chat, he says.
“I’ve got CDs, some tea, and I managed to snag some chocolate I found in the pantry. We could eat it together.”
“I haven't eaten chocolate since... all this started,” you say shyly, your sad eyes dropping, and Joel can't help but notice once again just how attractive you are, without even realizing it.
“Well, you work so hard, you deserve it,” he says, winking at you, and when you reply with a smile, he knows he's got you wrapped around his finger.
“Okay, thanks. I'll come by someday after work.”
When he gets home and steps into the shower, thinking about your breasts nestled in your worn-out T-shirt—which barely manages to hide your bra—about the beads of sweat he sees trickling down between them as you sweat over the stove, how they glisten on your skin, and the delicious scent you give off despite everything, his cock stirs and demands attention.
He can’t wait to have you all to himself, to feel just how tight your inexperienced pussy is, to see how wet he can make you and how you will moan beneath him as he thrusts deep inside you, your completely naked body a toy he can use for his pleasure.
Before Joel can stop himself, his cock is already in his hand, he’s jerking off hard, until he comes against the chipped tiles of his shower.
He has to make his move on you as soon as possible, he won't be able to hold out much longer.
He collapses onto the bed, exhausted, with your smile and your innocent eyes burned into his mind, and falls asleep only after coming one more time, soiling his pajamas and the sheet, losing consciousness covered in his own semen.
He doesn’t even care to acknowledge just how depraved he’s become, now that life has stripped him of the last shred of humanity he had left. He must have you, whatever the cost.
Sarah, then Tommy, then Tess. Everyone he cared about was either dead or miles and miles away from him.
He tried to protect them and he failed, every single time.
He tried to be good but life kicked his ass so hard he thought about ending it all.
He's cried enough, he's suffered enough, there are no more tears left to shed.
He’s alone in this filthy world, thoughts screaming in his head, pounding against his temples. They can be dulled with alcohol, sometimes with pills, but the only thing that guaranteed him a full night’s sleep lately was you.
Planning how to play with you is the only thing that stops him from thinking about what he’s lost, what he’s become, and how doomed his fate is.
_____________________
“Are you tired?” he asks you as you two are leaving the dining hall.
“Not much. I slept well last night.”
“Good,” he smiles softly.
As you’re walking, a man approaches you.
He’s dirty, smelly, visibly drunk, his greasy, matted hair hangs around his face.
“Hey, sweetheart, how about giving me some of your honey? Hmm?” he mumbles, his saliva flying in all directions, his arms stretched dangerously forward, reaching out to touch you. He gropes your breast and tries to pull you closer, almost touching your ass.
You pull back, instinctively clinging to Joel’s arm.
At this moment Joel can’t believe his luck, it’s the perfect opportunity to prove you can trust him.
“Get the hell out of here!” Joel growls at the man. “You better stay away!” He backs up the threat with a hard shove that sends the man staggering.
The guy raises his hands in surrender. “Hey, calm down, man. I didn't know she was your wife.”
He walks away, muttering to himself.
When Joel turns to you, your eyes are filled with gratitude, as if he was a knight in shining armor who came to save your life.
“Thanks,” you whisper, and Joel shrugs. “No problem, we’re friends, aren't we?”
You nod, struggling to hold back the wide smile spreading across your face. Your eyes sparkle, your arms are still wrapped around his, your tits pressing against his shirt.
He’s been so smooth with you that by now you’re hanging on his every word.
“Want to come over to my place and try some of that chocolate?”
You agree enthusiastically.
The rest of the walk to his house is fairly quiet. The sun is setting, the streets are slowly emptying, and the soldiers on patrol are urging everyone to go home before curfew.
When you arrive in his apartment, Joel invites you to sit on the couch.
“I'll be right back,” he smiles at you. “I'll make you a cup of tea.”
He goes into the kitchen, grabs an old kettle from the pantry and a few tea bags he picked up at Bill’s house.
Once he’s filled your cup, he dissolves one of the pills he’s been saving in the drink.
_____________________
While you’re drinking tea, he lets you pick the music, flipping through the CDs he’s collected over the years. “I don’t know,” you say, “I’m not really a music expert.” You laugh nervously as you read the names on the spines.
“Okay, let me see... this is perfect.”
He pops it into the dusty CD player, and trip-hop fills the thick air of the room.
“Oh, I know this song.” A smile lingers on your lips as you sit down on Joel’s couch reaching for your cup of tea on the coffee table.
“Yeah? You like it?” Joel is methodically lurking you in, trying to ease your nerves. He can see the tension in your shoulders melt away and your whole body relax.
Just what he always wanted.
“Yeah, I do.”
"I can lend you this CD whenever you want. Massive Attack is a great band,” Joel suggests, sitting down on the couch next to you.
“Unfortunately…,” you look at the mug in your hands, “I don't have anything to listen to it on. Actually, I don't know how long it's been since I listened to music, to be honest.”
“Oh, sweetie, I’m sorry,” he touches your arm lightly. “Well, then... you can come over here whenever you want to listen to it.”
And once again, you give him that look. Grateful, almost moved by his thoughtfulness toward you.
“Thanks, Joel, you're the first real friend I've made here.” You smile and he’s quick to respond, “no problem, dear, it’s my pleasure. You should drink up, it’ll get cold.”
You take a long sip, finish the cup, and set it back down on the table in front of you.
Joel waits. He lets you talk, asking you more about your past life, your education, and what career you wanted to pursue, as well as what you liked to do in your free time.
You don’t seem to notice the time passing as you’re talking. You’re spellbound, completely captivated by him—so much so that your hands brush against his forearm more than once as you tell him about your dreams and hopes.
Dreams and hopes that no longer exist.
When Joel tries to kiss you, you pull back for a moment, confused.
“Are you sure? Me?”
And that’s when he pulls out his final move, confessing that he’s always liked you and was just hoping for you to like him back. He tells you he was afraid of ruining your friendship, but at the same time, you’re so beautiful and sweet that he couldn’t help himself.
And you believe him. You fall right into his trap.
You’re the one who kisses him first right after, your hand sliding behind his neck, your fingers playing with his curls.
He reciprocates with a sense of victory spreading in his chest, feeling your body melt for him, all pliant and needy, like he was the man of your dreams.
“Oh baby, you don't know what you're doing to me,” Joel whispers as he moves down your neck, planting little kisses on your soft skin.
And you moan, timidly, as if you can’t believe it.
“Can I keep going?” he asks, looking into your hazy eyes.
“Yes, please.”
“Come here,” he invites you, taking your hands and pulling you to straddle him.
He grabs your hips, pushing you against him, kissing you again, patiently, delicately, without forcing you.
You start to move your hips, likely driven more by drugs than by your own reasoning.
Your clothed pussy brushes against his bulge and you gasps, surprise all over your face.
“It’s so good…,” you whisper and Joel strokes your cheek, so gently.
“I know, baby. Take more…”
He adjusts his position on the couch so that you get more friction. You nod, rolling your hips again, your arms around his neck, Joel’s hands holding you tightly while you’re seeking your pleasure, grinding against him, the seam of your jeans stroking your clit just right.
You're so beautiful like this, completely captivated by him and by your newly awakened desire.
Mouth agape, your body hot, hitting the tent beneath his jeans over and over again until you squeeze your eyes in pleasure so hard Joel thinks you’re about to burst.
But you can’t. You’re on the edge and can't break through it.
Your eyes flutter open, uncertain and burning, and Joel hurries to reassure you. “It's okay, honey. Do you want to go to bed? We'll be more comfortable there.”
You follow him without hesitation.
Joel undresses you, crouches to take off your shoes, lets your clothes fall to the floor—careful, gentle, slow, as if it were truly an important moment for him.
And it is, but not in the way you think.
“I’ve never seen anything so beautiful,” Joel whispers to you, his husky, seductive voice runs into your ears and down your spine, your nipples hardening instantly as he drinks in your figure, his eyes gliding over your curves, your breasts, down your hips, until they reach between your legs.
Your tight, delicious pussy throbs for him, and the urge to fuck you hard until he can’t catch his breath hits him like a bolt of lightning.
But no, he has to be careful, you mustn’t notice, you mustn’t know how badly he wants to break your will forever.
He takes your hand, helping you lie down on his bed, and undresses in front of you. He sees longing in your eyes, your desire growing as he reveals every part of his body to you. Your body writhes on the mattress, eager, impatient. “Please, Joel,” your voice pleads, nervously, as if all you feel right now is pure want.
Your mouth twitches as his semi hard cock finally springs free, a loud gasp roaring in the back of your throat.
Joel struggles to hold back a smirk as he lies down next to you, impossibly close but not yet towering over you.
His hand cups one of your breasts, testing its softness and weight, feeling your nipple press against his palm.
You arch your back as if struck by an electric shock, moaning loudly under his touch.
“I’ll go slow, baby,” he promises you.
But you don’t want him to go slow. He can see it in your eyes, in your desperately tense muscles, in your lower lip trembling like a leaf in the wind.
“I...” you try to say, but his fingers twist your nipple and all you can do is let out another helpless moan.
Oh, the drug is working so fine.
“What, sweetie? Use your words, I know you can,” he coos, gently caressing you, his fingers sliding down the valley between your breasts.
“I... I never do things like this. I don't know what's happening to me. I... I need you, Joel, so badly.” Your voice is almost a sob, hoarse and broken.
He reassures you. Of course.
“There's nothing wrong with you, sweetheart.” he says as his hand moves up to your face, cupping your cheek, his thumb tracing the line of your cheekbone. “That’s completely normal, you know.”
“It burns under my skin, it’s so heavy and hot it actually hurts…oh my God, Joel, please, help me!” Your voice is a cry, your eyes are filled with tears, your pupils dilated, you seem to be in turmoil just from a little touch.
Joel stops himself from breaking into yet another wicked grin while his fingers wander over your jaw, down to your neck, whispering, “I’m going to make you feel better, honey.”
Joel kisses you, and the moment your lips meet his, you cling to him as if he were your only salvation, your arms wrapped around his shoulders as tightly as you can pull him toward you with an urgency that makes Joel’s chest swell with pride.
Your tongue immediately seeks his, swirling and chasing his taste and his touch.
You moan into his mouth so eagerly Joel thinks you're about to lose your goddamn mind.
It’s carnal, messy, sloppy and it makes his head spin a little.
He moves on top of you, his hands sliding over your torso and hips, gripping you there, holding you steady as you tremble beneath him and your body arches to seek friction.
Pulling away from his lips, you start begging him again—to touch you, to kiss you, to lick you...again and again.
Joel doesn’t even know how certain things are coming out of your mouth, but he doesn’t need to be told twice. You’re making him rock hard. His lips trail down your neck, pausing at your breasts, eliciting goosebumps all over your skin. He sticks out his tongue and gently licks one of your nipples. To his great surprise, you push it into his mouth so hard that he almost bites you.
“Fuck, honey, I could’ve hurt you,” he warns you but you're as wild as an animal right now, and you cry out, “Bite me, Joel, suck it, please, I need it!”
And he does.
His lips close around your nipple, his teeth gently tug at it before he begins to suck greedily.
Your body trembles, covered in sweat, naked and vulnerable beneath his weight. Joel almost struggles to keep his composure at the stubborn way you demand to be used.
How lucky he was to have discovered that drug—he must remember to thank and give that guard a discount for this revelation.
Your skin is hot, it smells wonderfully, it feels so good under his palms, so soft as he plays with your nipple, making it hard and swell.
“Fuck, you’re so damn sweet,” Joel grumbles against your skin and all you can do is whimper.
His fingers trace a path down your thigh, brushing against it, moving upward toward your center.
He locks eyes with yours—adoring, desperate, pleading,
“May I?” He asks and lingers with just his fingertips on your mound, waiting for your all-too-obvious answer.
“Yes. Please.”
That’s all he needs.
His fingers descend to meet the mess between your legs.
It’s hot, wet, completely enveloping his fingers as he sinks them between your lips, up and down along your slit.
You writhe like a woman in heat at the sensation, your hips bucking, one hand clenching his forearm while the other clutches the sheet.
“Yes! ohmygod just like that!” You cry and it sounds like honey in his ears.
He moves up toward your clit, tracing circles slowly, applying pressure now and then, using your sweet juices as lubrication. It’s swollen and throbbing beneath his fingers, deliciously stiff and demanding attention.
His mouth focuses on your other breast, nipping at the soft skin there, his tongue swirling around your nipple.
“I need more..,” you breathe and he looks into your eyes, searching for a confirmation as he prods, “do you want my fingers, hun?”
You eagerly nod, mouthing a yes, your voice broken and trapped in the back of your throat.
“I’m gonna give you that,” he smiles, as softly as he can because he needs you to think he’s doing it all exclusively for you. He's just fulfilling your wishes.
He lingers on your slit with two fingers, while his thumb keeps working on your clit.
You take his wrist and press his fingers against your opening.
Joel chuckles, feigning surprise. “Easy, baby.”
“It feels so empty, please…I need…”
He doesn't let you finish your sentence, he slips a finger inside and feels your pussy clamp down on it like a vice, before it adjusts to his intrusion and lets him thrust deep inside you. “That's it, good girl...”
He curves the tip of his finger toward your sensitive spot, testing it, pressing there briefly before asking, “think you could take another one?”
Your “please” is barely audible but the grimace of need painted all over your mouth is eloquent enough for him to add his ring finger.
The more he pushes you, the more you beg for it, crying, without realizing there’s no way for you to cross that line.
And Joel relishes it. He relishes seeing you desperate, he relishes hearing your voice break, he relishes watching you strive for that pleasure with all your might while knowing it will never come—and that, at the same time, you’ll never stop asking for it.
“I can't... I can't, Joel,” and he knows exactly what you mean.
He caresses your sweaty face, trying to make his voice as sweet as he can, whispering, “Hey, it's okay, it's all okay, baby.”
You close your eyes, letting out a frustrated moan, and look at him as if asking for help. “No, you… you’re so… God… and I can’t…”
“You’re perfect. You’re perfect, sweetheart, you’ll make it.”
You’re convinced it’s your fault that you can’t come, you can’t even look at him anymore, your gaze drifts to the ceiling, to the bare walls, anywhere but Joel’s face.
He takes your chin between two fingers and draws your gaze back to him.
“Hey, look at me, baby.”
Your pout speaks volumes: discomfort and mortification.
“Maybe it’s me…” he says, working his fingers gently inside your pussy, “maybe I’m not filling you up enough like this… do you want to try with my cock?”
“Yes, please, yes... I... can't”
“Shhhh, it's okay, baby, don't worry, I'll take care of it,” he lies.
Joel pulls his fingers out of your pussy and bites his lip at your protests, he’d burst out laughing if he could. They’re soaking wet with your juices. He uses them to lubricate his cock, mixing your essence with his precum in a few lewd, squelching strokes, before lining up with your opening.
Your eyes are fixed on his cock as you exhale, “God, it’s huge”
Warm tears stream down your cheeks, trailing across your face and glistening on your skin.
“Yeah, baby, I know. It will take some time,” he tells you through this, “you know?”
You shake your head, your hands clinging to his back as you press him against you, “I can’t wait…fill me, Joel, fill me now.”
“Are you sure?”
Holding back this much isn't easy for him either. He just wants to shove his cock into your tight little pussy, ruin your hole, pump his cum inside you, but he doesn't want you to notice. He doesn't want you to think it's his fault or that he's taking advantage of you.
So he plays innocent, praising you,
“You're so good, honey, so good to me. I love that you want me so much, but I need to be careful. I can’t risk hurting this perfect pussy, babe, I want to keep sinking into her for a long, long time, yeah? And to do that, I need her to be okay.”
You give in, a faint, pleased smile playing on your lips as you agree, sobbing, “okay”
He pushes the tip inside—just the tip—while trying with all his might not to come right there, and at that moment, your pussy tightens around him, sucking him in, dripping more juices down his shaft.
“Fuck, you're so tight,” he murmurs, and you look at him with hopeful eyes, hazy with tears, so sweet that for a moment he almost feels bad about what he's doing. But he can't tell you the truth. Not yet.
The deeper he thrusts into you, the more his cock throbs against your walls, its length stretching you out, inch by inch, your body tenses and relaxes, your hips writhe, and your breath grows shorter. And yet, you’re still teetering on the edge, in that limbo he’s put you in, unable to say “enough” and with no hope for a climax.
When he reaches the bottom, your face is distraught, your lips swollen from all the biting you’ve been doing, your body twitching with lust and craving.
And that’s when Joel feels you’re about to break completely, just babbling “please” and “need you to move” and his name like a chant over and over again.
“Damn, baby, m’not gonna last if you keep doin’ this.”
“Just… fuck me, Joel. Fuck me hard.”
And with that, he starts to move, well aware it won’t change a single thing for you.
His cock is sliding in and out of you, pounding harder as you adjust more around him. You’re so wet it’s a fucking river between your legs at this point and he’s able to feel every single flutter of your cunt, sucking him in like you’d like to swallow him whole.
Your hard nipples brush against his chest with every thrust and you whine, you whine so incessantly Joel thinks it’s almost too much. He loves it though, the way you never stop asking for him to split you open.
Two of his fingers move back to your clit, circling and applying pressure over your swollen bundle of nerves.
“Fuck,” he growls. “it’s been a million year since I had a pussy this good, honey. I swear you’re fucking incredible.”
You’re convulsing underneath him, incoherently, sweat drenching your hair, glistening on your eyebrows, running down your neck where his tongue savors it, salt, vanilla and the inherently unique taste of you dancing on his tastebud.
He’s near, he can feel it in his every fiber, his chest burning, his back tensing, his cock pulsing.
His load paints you a few thrusts later, filling your warm wet cunt, sticking to your walls like you asked him to.
Joel collapses down next to you on the bed to catch his breath and hears you moaning softly, now so desperately confused about what’s wrong with you.
He props himself up, resting his cheek on one hand, the other stroking your belly up and down, trying to comfort you.
“You make me feel so good, Joel. No one has ever made me feel this way, but I...”
“Can't you cum?”
Your eyes fixate on a crease in the sheet, your hand trying to smooth it out as a coping mechanism, as if fixing that could fix you.
“I just don't get it...” you say, feeling down, while his hand plays with a strand of your hair.
“You’ve done this before, right?”
“Yeah, a couple of times, with my high school boyfriend, before it all went downhill…he was nothing like you but he made me… you know”
“No need to be worried, babe. We can try again tomorrow,” he suggests “Maybe we should get some sleep.”
“Do you still want me?” you ask hesitantly, meeting his eyes again.
“Of course, I want you, baby.”
Your eyes glisten with tears, and your hand unconsciously clings to his wrist. “Oh, Joel, I'm broken,” you whisper, as if you can't believe it.
“You're not broken, sweetheart. You'll see that you can do it, and I'll help you.”
He takes you in his arms, stroking your back, comforting you, hiding a sly smile as he kisses your forehead. “Sleep, honey, I'm here.”
He can feel your pussy throbbing against his leg, dripping with his cum and your unrelenting arousal, your whole body is still tense and shaken by that limit you’ve never managed to break through.
Finally, you fall asleep, exhausted.
__________________
The next morning, you wake up with Joel’s face pressed against your pussy, his broad shoulders holding your legs apart, his large hands clinging to your thighs.
During the night he thought long and hard, as he struggled to fall asleep, lulled by your breathing finally returning to normal. He looked at your face, finally relaxed, and thought that maybe it was better to make you come once. To give you a little treat before making you swallow another pill.
Wake you up with an orgasm, make you believe you were just nervous, let you reach the peak as you desired, and then deny it to you again without your knowledge.
It could work.
So at the first light of dawn, he moves between your thighs, his legs dangling off the mattress as he looks at your sweet pussy.
It’s still wet, irresistibly swollen, and worn out from the sex the night before.
He starts slowly, using just the tip of his tongue, testing your sensitivity. You stir in your sleep, letting out a moan, a small smile on your lips.
He tries a longer lick and you seem to take it well, so he picks up the pace, tasting you on his tongue, drinking from you greedily, your juices beginning to drip down onto his lips, chin, and beard.
There’s nothing better than going about his day with your taste and scent on him.
When his nose brushes against your clit, you open your eyes.
He looks up at you, smiling, “Good morning, sweetheart.”
Your expression quickly shifts from surprise to delight.
“Is this okay?”
“Yes,” you reply, running a hand through his dark curls, your eyes fixed on his mouth, wet with you.
You’re not annoyed that he’s started touching you while you sleep, quite the opposite. You seem relieved.
The fear of being rejected by him probably overshadows everything else, and that’s exactly what Joel wants.
Bringing you to orgasm this time is very easy, as soon as he closes his lips around your clit and sucks it, your body tenses, your legs wrap around his head, and you moan.
“Oh my God, Joel, I’m so close.”
“Yeah, baby,” he murmurs against your skin, sending shivers down your spine. “Come for me”
And you do. After a few laps he closes his lips on your clit and that's when you explode, wetting his chin, his neck and the sheets beneath you.
The room is filled with your moans, you convulse on the bed, pressing your hips against his face, your hands clenching the sheets, your head back on the pillow and your eyes squeezed shut.
Joel licks eagerly, feeling your pussy clamp around nothing, his fingers dig into the tender flesh of your ass as he holds you in place for him.
“I knew you could do it, you did so good for me, baby,” he whispers, resting his cheek on your thigh.
You two stay in bed a little longer before heading to the kitchen, where Joel offers you a cup of coffee. “Don’t worry about yesterday, I have plenty of pills I can give you.”
You nod, smiling gently, probably thinking about how much he cares and worries about you.
“Thanks, Joel.”
“No problem, sweetie, I’ll get them for you right away.”
He reaches into his stash, pulling out a morning-after pill that he usually sells.
“I’ll give you another one tonight. That’s how this pill works,” he lies. “Go take a shower while I make breakfast, okay?”
You thank him again as you head to the modest bathroom, closing the door behind you.
Joel smirks, putting the morning-after pills back in their place and counting his supply of orgasm-blockers.
A full bag, at least a month’s worth of sex. Just enough to turn you into what he wants. His little pet.
"You saved his life. I'm asking you to help him keep it."
Joel Miller x Doctor Reader
Rating: Explicit. 18+ (Minors DNI)
Summary: After Joel's suffering at the hands of Abby, he survives. You, a new resident of Jackson, are tasked with healing him, bringing him back to life in more ways than one.
Warnings: alternating pov, injury, eventual smut, mutual pining, fluff, domesticity in the apocalypse, joel survives, medical jargon, blood, sponge baths
Chapters will have individual warnings.
Dark fic — please mind the warnings and skip if it’s not your thing!
Warnings and Tags: Explicit, +18, MDNI, heavy-explicit language, fake identity trope, DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, mixed-dubcon-noncon-ish, canon-typical violence, obsessive!Acacius, possessive!Acacius, Empress!Reader (we can say reader is kinda dark too), pussy slap, thigh slap, lots of slapping (Marcus is hot af when he's angry), creampie, dark themes, overstimulation, unspecified age gap, choking, dirty-dark thoughts, rough sex, forced orgasms (many), squirting, threats, ancient rome, oral sex -m- receiving-, deep-throating, size kink (the general is glorious!), hand job, fingering, rough oral sex -f- receiving, hair-pulling, internal angst, roman-era, power-play, rough nipple play, dominance, descriptions and mentions of battle wounds/blood, food and alcohol consumption, forbidden-desire, cheating, breeding kink, cum eating, shameless smut (sorry not sorry), degradation, unprotected piv sex, multiple orgasms, denial of feelings, brothel, sex workers, blood, mention of death, cursing, swearing, angst, mention of gladiators.
W.C: 13,5k (thick plot, worth it) latin terms appear with translations for clarity.
Summary: Your husband couldn’t give you an heir, but the general-the one who’s watched, wanted, and would burn the Empire to put one in you, calls you peccatum dulce, the sweetest sin he’d damn himself for… and tonight, he will taste every drop.
Author's Note: Hey everyone! You probably know my love for the general... I have to admit, even I surprised myself writing this; been working on it for weeks! This is my very first one-shot & dark fic attempt, written for the lovely @tateypots’ Naughty or Nice challenge, I had Marcus Acacius x fake identity (naughty). Hope you enjoy!
Also, huge thanks to @arcane-fox for beta-ing and for all the support and kind feedbacks 💋 If you haven’t checked out her fics yet, you’re missing out, go check them!
ao3 link - angel's masterlist
some sins are sweeter when they’re stolen
He knew it was a sin long before it ever felt sweet.
Rome had rules for everything; bloodlines, marriages, women like her. Rules Marcus Acacius had enforced with an iron hand. He had watched men die for breaking lesser ones. He had never questioned them.
Until her.
She belonged to Rome.
That was the problem. Rome took what it wanted the same way it always had — without asking, without mercy. Her father had bled for the empire. The empire had answered by claiming his daughter, crowning her, binding her to a throne that did not love her back.
Marcus understood that kind of cruelty. He had lived by it. He had survived it.
He did not begin wanting her the way men were taught to want women.
It began as a fracture.
A quiet disruption in discipline — the kind that lingered long after battles were won and orders obeyed. She would enter the hall draped in gold and restraint, crowned and beyond his reach, and something in him would harden with the unbearable certainty that she was misplaced.
An Empress bound to a man who could not see what stood before him.
Marcus told himself it was loyalty that kept his gaze steady, his expression carved from stone. He told himself it was duty that tightened his jaw when her husband failed to claim her as he should have—failed to give Rome what it demanded. The whispers came anyway.
They crept through the streets, through the barracks, through the mouths of men who bled for a ruler they no longer respected. Fools with wine on their breath and laughter too loud, speaking of a marriage left cold, of an emperor young in years but broken where it mattered most.
Rome was patient with madness.
It was not patient with weakness.
Marcus heard the rumors and felt something dark coil in his chest — not because they spoke of her with vulgar curiosity, but because the truth beneath the words rang too clear. She was left unfulfilled. Unmarked. A womb denied its purpose by a man unfit to claim it.
And of all the places those whispers took root, the barracks were the most dangerous.
Men who lived with blood on their hands and wine on their tongues did not temper their words. They sharpened them. What began as murmurs in the streets turned into laughter among soldiers — crude, fearless, spoken by men who believed steel and loyalty placed them beyond consequence.
It was there, among armor and stone and the stink of sweat, that Rome’s ugliest truths were spoken aloud.
“They say she sleeps alone,” one of the legionaries snorted, leaning back against the stone wall.
“What kind of emperor leaves his own bed cold?”
“They say he doesn’t share his chamber with her at all.”
“Then who does?” another snorted.
A pause. A look exchanged.
“Not women,” someone muttered.
Laughter followed; uneasy, sharp-edged.
“Funny how his concubines see more of him than his own wife.”
“Gods above. Imagine that. An Empress untouched.”
Another scoffed.
“Untouched by her husband, you mean.”
A third voice chimed in, uglier, louder.
“If she were mine,” he said with a grin, “I’d never leave the space between her legs.”
The laughter came first — then the sighs, slow and hungry.
“Maybe he cannot,” someone else scoffed. “All that power, all that gold… and still not man enough.”
“Seems like our Empress deserves a true man’s cock,” he said, grabbing his own balls in a joking gesture.
They laughed harder at that.
Another legionary chimed in, mockingly thoughtful. “You ever see a fruit kept too long out of reach?” He chuckled. “Makes you wonder how sweet she must taste.”
More laughter — low, ugly, unchecked.
That was when the air changed.
Marcus had not spoken.
The men noticed too late — the sudden silence, the way the sound seemed to die in their throats.
“General—” one of them started.
Marcus crossed the space between them in two strides.
His fist struck without warning.
The legionary hit the ground hard, teeth clattering against stone. Someone shouted. Someone tried to pull Marcus back.
It did not help.
He hit him again. And again. And again.
Not in rage.
In correction.
The laughter was gone now. Replaced by screams, by pleading, by the sickening sound of flesh meeting stone.
When Marcus finally stood, his knuckles were red. His breath was steady.
The man on the ground did not move.
Months ago, that same legionary had bled on a battlefield at his general’s command — for Rome, for glory, for discipline.
Now he bled again, not for war, but for forgetting what should never have been spoken aloud.
No one spoke.
Marcus looked at the rest of them — eyes cold, voice low.
“Speak of her again,” he said, calm as a drawn blade, “and I will bury you beside him.”
No one doubted him.
YOU
The palace was quiet, but the quiet offered no comfort.
It only gave your thoughts room to breathe — and they were merciless.
They called you Empress, but the word felt hollow when you were alone. A title did not warm the bed. It did not silence the questions. It did not stop the way people looked at you when they thought you weren’t paying attention. You had learned how to read those looks. You knew what they meant.
No one ever said it aloud, but you felt it anyway.
No child. No heir.
You had begun counting time differently. Not in days or seasons, but in glances. In how long silence stretched after certain conversations. In how often your name was spoken with careful restraint. You wondered when concern would turn to calculation. When patience would give way to necessity.
You told yourself not to think about it but the thought lived under your skin. It hummed there, constant and low. What if this was enough to make you disposable? What if love, vows, loyalty, none of it mattered without proof?
The shame was the worst part. It crept in quietly, uninvited. It asked questions you didn’t know how to answer. Is it you? Is your body the failure? You hated yourself for thinking it, but you thought it anyway. Because no one else would ask the question for you. Because if they did, the answer would destroy everything.
You sat in silk and gold, surrounded by guards and slaves, and had never felt more alone. You were not afraid of death, not really. You were afraid of being erased. Of being remembered only as a mistake that didn’t produce a future.
That was why the thought came to you at night. The one you tried to push away. The one that made your chest tighten with guilt and relief all at once. A wrong solution. A dangerous one. But a solution nonetheless.
You told yourself it was survival.
You told yourself it was not desire.
You told yourself you had no choice.
And the most terrifying part was this: somewhere deep down, you were no longer sure that was a lie.
They had told you duty first.
Your father had said it without softness, without pause. Rome’s future rested on your shoulders. Becoming Empress was an honor few women were ever given.
Do not forget what you owe the city. Do not shame me. Do not stain our name.
He had been a legatus once — a man who understood command. He gave you to the Emperor the same way he had given soldiers to war. No counsel. No comfort. Only orders.
Stand straight. Obey. Endure.
He never told you how to survive.
Now the one thing he feared most was unfolding.
Your husband could not touch you. Not in any way that mattered. He had taken your virginity on your wedding night with the care of a man fulfilling a task he did not want. Minutes. No tenderness. No heat. Nothing that lingered. Since then, two imperial years had passed — and there was no heir.
The Senate’s concern had become Rome’s favorite whisper. At festivals, eyes lingered too long. Smiles sharpened. Fertility was questioned openly, because in Rome it always was. Men were never at fault.
Women bore the shame.
You bore it in silence.
The concubines came and went from his chambers at night. Quietly. Frequently. Everyone knew. No one called it betrayal. You were expected to accept it as part of the crown.
You felt like something set aside. An object waiting to fail.
And you were done waiting.
You decided to do the thing you had never imagined yourself capable of. Not out of desire — not at first — but necessity. You needed an heir. Immediately. Each passing month tightened the noose. You would not be discarded because of his weakness. You had given everything to this marriage. You had earned that title. And if he could not secure your future, you would.
There was nothing wrong with that. You told yourself so until the words felt solid.
You were not like him. Prostitutes and slaves were not an option. You would have to see them again. Remember them. Risk recognition. You needed someone who would disappear the moment it was done.
Gladiators.
Not merely slaves of war, but men forged in blood and survival. Their names did not matter—where they came from mattered even less. What drew you was their strength, their presence, the hunger that lived beneath scarred skin. It unsettled you in ways your husband never had.
You were tired of indifference.
Tired of being touched like an obligation, a duty performed for appearances alone. Your body wanted proof it was still alive—that it mattered, that it could still answer to something fierce and undeniable.
If it took one, or many, it would not matter. You would continue until life took hold within you. That was the only measure that counted. It was reckless—perhaps even suicidal—but you knew the truth: to remain as you were was a slower kind of death.
You prepared carefully.
Loyal slaves. Silent men and women who owed you more than their lives. You trusted them to guard this secret until the grave, because in Rome, silence was often the most valuable currency of all.
You moved quickly because you had to. Every delay brought you closer to ruin.
You told yourself you deserved this. That there was no sin in protecting what was yours. That Rome had taken enough from you already.
And so, in the darkest hour of the night, you came willingly.
The villa had always been a refuge.
Long before the crown. Before the marriage. Before Rome decided what you were worth. It stood beyond the city’s reach — not abandoned, not forgotten, simply untouched by the noise of power. Stone walls warmed by the sun. Olive trees old enough to remember silence.
It belonged to the only person you had ever trusted without reservation.
Agrippa.
A friend chosen, not assigned. Someone who had never asked anything of you except honesty. Over the years, it had become the one place where you were not watched. Where you could breathe without measuring every word.
The slaves there were not strangers. They had known you since you were younger, softer, unnamed by titles. They did not call you Empress when no one was listening. They called you by your name. They guarded your secrets with the same loyalty they guarded the house itself.
You trusted them with your life.
That trust was not blind. It had been earned. Years of silence. Years of discretion. They had seen you arrive shaken, leave steadier. Had learned when to ask nothing at all.
This was why you chose this place.
No corridors filled with echoes.
No guards who belonged to him.
No eyes trained to report every movement.
Here, nothing was expected of you.
The villa did not judge. It did not whisper. It simply opened its doors the way it always had — like it understood why you were here.
Your most-trusted slave, the one who had dressed you since before the crown, who knew when to ask nothing, watched you in the lamplight and did not flinch. Her voice stayed low. Practical. Loyal.
“This is not recklessness, Your Highness,” she said, fastening the last pin with steady hands. “It is survival.”
You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. She had seen Rome sharpen its knives around you for months. Heard the whispers grow bold. Watched concubines pass your door at night while you learned to breathe quietly.
“A gladiator is the cleanest choice,” she continued, as if weighing grain or silver. “His body is not his own. It never was.” A pause. “And the arena will take him soon enough. There will be no witness left to trouble you.”
She met your eyes then — unafraid, certain.
“For a man like that, being chosen by a noblewoman is not shame,” she said softly. “It is reward. A memory he will carry like armor.” Her mouth curved, just barely. “If he survives long enough to remember it.”
Your throat tightened.
“He will not refuse,” she added. “Why would he? One night in a woman’s bed is more than most of them are ever given.” She adjusted your tunic, reverent now. “He will not know who you are,” she said quietly, as if this were the simplest thing in the world. “Only that you are a matron of rank. Nothing more.”
A memory he will carry like armor…
For him, perhaps.
But for you? Would it be regret, or the first narrow opening toward something long denied?
You drew a slow breath, the weight of the choice settling not on your shoulders, but deep in your bones. “Very well,” you said at last; the words leaving your lips like an order that would shape the rest of your life. “Bring the gladiator to the chamber at once..”
The slave inclined her head and withdrew in silence.
With that small motion, what had been contemplated became inevitable.
MARCUS
The Lupanaria (the roman brothel) was alive with noise, warm and heavy with incense and oil, the faint echo of harp strings winding through the corridors—music reserved only for the victorious General of Rome and his closest commanders. Torches flickered along the walls, casting gold and shadow over the polished floors, over men laughing too loudly, leaning too close to the women who moved with practiced grace — the best courtesans, the youngest and most beautiful, each one a temptation perfectly honed for eyes that lingered.
Some of Marcus’ legates indulged in these women, entwined in fleeting embraces, hands wandering where they ought not, celebrating victory in the indulgent ways Rome allowed. Soft moans and gasps floated through the hall, punctuated by the sharp slap of skin on skin, the subtle catch of breath, the occasional clink of wine cups forgotten in hands that were busy elsewhere.
Marcus observed it all with detached precision. Every glance, every touch, every sly smile noted and catalogued and yet none of it reached him. A goblet of wine rested in his hand, raised and lowered more out of habit than desire. He drank, felt the burn slide down his throat, welcomed it for a moment — anything to quiet the unrest coiled beneath his ribs. Platters were brought, rich with meat and fruit, and he ate just enough to satisfy appearances, chewing without tasting.
But the hunger remained.
Not the kind that gnawed at the stomach.
This one lived deeper, sharp, insistent, impossible to feed.
He was not here. Not in this chaos. Not in the fleeting pleasures of men too easily satisfied. His body sat among them, armored and whole, but his mind was elsewhere.
Because all around him, bodies writhed and cried out in delight, but his attention — the sharp, relentless edge of it; rested on: one thought. One memory. One obsession.
You.
Victory had brought him back to Rome in white, gold and blood. The city had roared his name as if it belonged to it. The legions had marched. The Senate had watched. Jupiter’s temple had waited.
And the Emperor, drunk, as he so often was, had fumbled.
The laurel crown slipped from his grasp, clattering against marble in a sound far too loud for something so sacred. A careless fracture in ceremony. Murmurs rippled through the senators. Courtiers stilled. Rome itself seemed to hold its breath.
And then you moved.
The Empress.
Disapproval had flickered across your face — quick, restrained, unmistakable — before grace took over. You bent without hesitation, silk and gold folding around you as you retrieved the fallen wreath as if correcting a minor inconvenience rather than saving an Emperor from humiliation.
Marcus remembered how he had dropped to one knee at once, bowing his head toward you. Not in submission—never that—but in recognition.
You stepped closer. Too close.
Your fingers brushed the white of his armor as you lifted the laurel, your breath quickening despite yourself. When you placed the crown upon his head without meeting his eyes, a flicker of irritation crossed his features—brief, instinctive. Without thinking, he reached up and caught your hand, stopping you before you could withdraw.
Behind you, the emperor was stirring, being steadied by slaves but neither of you noticed. In that moment, the world had narrowed. There was no crowd, no court, no throne, no witnesses. There was only you.
He leaned down—just enough. Barely. Deliberately.
His lips met your knuckles in the shadow between ceremony and transgression, the kiss lingering longer than protocol demanded, tracing your skin with intent rather than reverence.
He remembered the way you stiffened.
The almost imperceptible shiver that betrayed you.
The quick swallow of breath.
A soft, startled gasp.
Your reaction was written plainly across your face, and that alone drew a dark, knowing smile from him.
He had let his mouth linger a fraction longer, savoring the heat of your reaction, the way your composure fractured beneath the smallest touch. For one suspended instant — amid cheers, laughter, and the thunder of Rome’s approval — there had been nothing but you.
Only the way your body answered him.
Only the way your eyes flickered up before snapping away.
The memory curved his mouth now, slow and private.
And then something ugly coiled in his chest.
Because in all the years you had stood within arm’s reach of one another — banquets, ceremonies, the Colosseum, victory feasts — there had never been contact. Not once. No accidental brush. No stolen closeness. Nothing that could be claimed.
That moment had been the first.
And after it, nothing else had ever truly left his mind.
The war had lasted three months. Three months of marching, killing, bleeding. He had been wounded more than once — cut, torn, soaked through — but none of it had tested him the way distance from you had.
Pain had never frightened him.
Death had never tempted him to stop.
What had kept him moving was not Rome.
Not glory.
It was you.
The thought of your face.
Of your figure moving through silk and light.
Of your smile — restrained, careful — and the soft sound of your jewelry when you inclined your head.
Of standing close enough to feel your presence.
Of knowing that when the laurel was placed upon his head, it would be you before him — close enough to feel, real, breathing — even if you stood beside the Emperor, even if you were never truly his.
That certainty had carried him through fire and steel. It had sharpened his blade, steadied his hand. He had cut down enemies with your image fixed behind his eyes, every strike a promise to return victorious.
And the truth had been better than anything he had dared to imagine. You had placed the laurel upon his head with your own hands. He had wished it had never happened.
Wished he had bled out on some distant battlefield, lungs filling with blood, vision darkening — anything but that single moment of your touch. Because it had not soothed him. It had not passed.
It had fed the fire.
What already burned inside him had been given breath, and now it raged — uncontrollable, merciless.
He feared himself after that.
Feared the way his thoughts returned to you without permission. Feared how nothing could contain the hunger once it had taken root. Not discipline. Not war. Not distance. Every night since, he had come here, drowning himself in noise and bodies, trying to smother you beneath sensation.
He had taken women — dozens of them. Touched, tasted, indulged. Skin against skin. Heat and sound and need.
And none of it mattered.
Because not one of them felt the way you had.
Not one mouth, one hand, one body had ever carried the same feeling. None of them made his blood tighten the way it had when your fingers brushed his armor, when your breath had stuttered beneath his mouth.
They were distractions. Empty vessels.
He wanted you alone.
There was a dark, unquenchable flame coiled in him now — something ancient and violent, something that could not be reasoned with. No woman in Rome could douse it. No indulgence could blunt its edge.
Only you could.
And that was impossible.
The realization made his jaw tighten.
He was lost in it when a hand brushed against his thigh.
One of the girls leaned closer, eyes bright with practiced hunger, lips curved in a knowing smile. “Allow me to pleasure you, General,” she murmured, fingers teasing at the edge of his tunic, brushing the straps of his armor as if they were an invitation.
His reaction was immediate.
Marcus’s hand shot up, fingers tangling in her hair, yanking her back with brutal efficiency. Not cruel — controlled. Final.
“No,” he growled. “Not tonight.”
His voice cut through the music, sharper than he intended. Movement stilled around them. Some of the dancers froze. Others glanced over, startled, surprised. He did not look at them.
He was already on his feet, rising to his full height, armor still secured to his body. Only then did he realize he had never bothered to remove it. Had come here armored like a man expecting battle.
Instinct had brought him here — not desire. The part of him that sought control. To neutralize the threat.
And it had failed.
Logic had no hold on him now. Only the dark fire dictated his movement.
He crossed the room and pulled aside the curtain, letting the cool night air strike his face. He drew in a breath that did nothing to steady him.
“General, sir.”
He did not turn. “Leave me.”
“Sir — it concerns the Empress.”
He spun so fast the man flinched, stumbling back a step.
Marcus’s gaze was a blade. Cold. Focused. Lethal.
The legionary swallowed hard and leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper. The words reached Marcus’s ear; and the world seemed to stop.
His eyes widened.
His heartbeat slammed against his ribs.
Blood no longer coursed through his veins — it roared.
Rage flooded him, pure and absolute, burning away restraint, drowning reason in its wake.
Not the kind of anger that shouted.
The kind that decided.
Anger did not arrive alone.
It came layered — rage, fury, something older and sharper than either. The kind that did not shout. The kind that moved.
Anger makes men do brutal things.
Most men break under it. They lose control.
Marcus had never been most men.
When he was angry, bodies fell. Hundreds of them. Sometimes for strategy. Sometimes simply to feel the tension leave his hands. He had never feared what anger could turn him into. Anyone who did was a fool.
They had called him many things over the years — a bull of a man, a monster, a butcher, a lion-slayer, a merciless warrior. All of it true. His name alone silenced rooms, made legions hesitate, forced even senators to measure their words.
Even the Emperor.
The one man Marcus had killed a thousand times in fantasy and never once in reality.
The only man he truly wanted dead — and could not touch.
It had not always been this way.
Once, Marcus had been loyal. After victories, he rested. He drank. He took women without attachment and left them without regret. Slaves, courtesans, noble daughters — even his wives. None of them stayed with him, and none were meant to. Desire had been simple then. As easy as breathing. Meaningless.
After becoming a widower for the second time, even pleasure had lost its pull. Women became tools. Distractions. Nothing reached him anymore.
Then the old Emperor died.
Then his son ascended the throne.
And as if that insult were not enough, the young, inexperienced ruler decided to marry.
The day his bride -you- was brought into Rome, carried in ceremony, displayed in the Colosseum like spoils: Marcus felt something unfamiliar bloom in his chest.
He had seen beauty before. Many times. Women of every station, every nation. Had possessed it. Had forgotten it. Some were prettier. Softer. Easier.
None of them mattered.
You did.
And it had nothing to do with beauty.
It was the way you smiled without knowing who was watching. The way silk moved with you, the way your hair caught the light. Your hands. Your expressions. Your lashes. Your eyes. Your voice. The quiet weight of your presence when you stood still.
Gods help him — it was as if you had been shaped to undo him. A siren placed in his path to dull his reason and sharpen his hunger.
From the moment he truly looked at you, everything in him burned. Not gently. Not slowly.
He imagined you stripped of the gold-embroidered imperial stola, the heavy layers of silk and status peeled away. Not out of tenderness — out of need. Out of obsession. He wanted to know what was beneath the crown, beneath the restraint. Wanted to know what you would do if you understood who stood before you.
If you would reject him.
Or obey.
More than once, he had imagined cutting the Emperor down where he stood — spilling him across the marble, taking you while your husband’s blood was still warm on his hands. The thought had almost made him smile.
But it was not the Emperor this time. Not the distant enemy. Not even the wounds of battle that had stirred him like this.
He had not felt this fury when the Emperor touched you with ceremony but no care.
Not when he gripped your arm too tightly.
Not even on your wedding night, when duty had forced Marcus to look away.
Not on the Field of Mars. Not when his sword cut men down.
This was different.
This was tonight.
Because of what had been whispered into his ear.
Because of what you had chosen.
Tonight, you had decided. One night. One stranger man. Not for pleasure — but for an heir.
How dare you.
Not because you wanted someone else.
But because you were willing to turn yourself into a function.
Marcus did not yell.
He did not strike.
He did not shatter anything.
He mounted his horse.
Hooves rang against stone as he tore through the sleeping streets, iron striking marble, the sound echoing through the dark like a warning. The city blurred around him — torches, walls, shadows — as he drove the animal harder, faster, as if speed itself could outrun the fury boiling in his blood.
The night wind cut against his face. It did nothing to cool him. He rode like a man racing fate. Like a man already too late.
The anger did not consume him.
It focused him.
He turned it into opportunity.
The fire that had burned in him for months, years. The hunger no woman, no conquest, no victory had ever quieted…
Tonight, it had purpose.
And that purpose was you.
With that single, reckless choice, you had dared to decide the fate of both yourself and him.
The villa gates burst open to the sound of hooves.
Four riders cut through the dark, cloaks snapping, armor catching torchlight in sharp flashes of bronze and steel. The courtyard froze — breath held, instincts flaring all at once.
Agrippa Varro, the villa’s owner, stepped forward before sense could stop him. His wife’s fingers clenched around his arm, nails biting through fabric. Panic flickered across both their faces.
Then recognition struck.
Marcus dismounted in a single, fluid motion.
He struck the stone like a verdict, his caligae (sandal) ringing against marble, cloak snapping behind him — rage held in check by iron discipline.
“General,” Agrippa said hoarsely.
So did everyone else.
Marcus did not acknowledge the greeting.
His gaze swept the courtyard with open contempt, as if their very presence offended him. Slaves lowered their eyes. Guards stiffened, unsure whether to move or disappear.
“Where is she?” he asked.
Nothing more.
They knew who he meant.
They did not know how he knew — and none of them dared ask.
Marcus turned slightly, his voice cold and precise. “Seal the villa,” he said. “No one leaves. No one enters. If I see a single unfamiliar face after this moment, I will assume it is an enemy.”
That was enough.
Agrippa stiffened. He exchanged a stunned glance with his wife — a silent, frantic question passing between them. This was not what they had expected. They had thought Marcus would demand explanations, invoke the Emperor’s name, perhaps even insist the Empress be escorted away at once. That he would stop this. That he would restore order.
Instead, he had sealed the villa.
At his signal, a slave stepped forward — the one Marcus chose with a glance alone. The man bowed deeply, fear etched into every movement, and turned to lead the way inside. Through the atrium (the central open area of a villa). Past marble columns and flickering shadows. Toward the inner chambers.
Marcus followed, his dark cloak cutting through the space behind him, his stride sharp, restless, violent in its restraint.
He understood the moment he crossed the threshold.
The preparation.
The hush.
And the man being brought toward the inner rooms.
The gladiator was bare-chested beneath his cloak, skin scarred, muscles tight with readiness. A mask already covered his face — bronze and leather shaped into the visage of Mars, god of war. Not waiting. Being delivered.
Marcus moved. Three steps.That was all it took.
He seized the man by the shoulder and drove him backward, shoving him hard enough to send him staggering out of the passage. Marcus’s hand closed around the mask — not ripping it away, but gripping it firmly, deliberately, asserting ownership with the smallest motion.
“Take him,” Marcus said, voice low and absolute. “Return him to his cell.”
The slaves hesitated, caught between their loyalty to their empress and the fear of the man - the general - standing before them.
Marcus lifted his gaze. That was it.
Just as they had brought him, they seized the gladiator and pulled him away in silence. Sandals scraped against the stone, the sound thinning as it vanished into the corridors.
Seconds later, he was gone.
Marcus stayed where he was a moment longer than necessary. The mask still rested in his hand—heavy and cold.
He turned it slowly, then slipped it onto his face with ease. The straps tightened, and the world around him grew narrow. His breath echoed inside the bronze mask, louder than he had anticipated.
Only then did he focus on the slaves lingering at the edges of the room.
“You,” he said calmly, lifting his hand, waving in a gesture. “Come here. Help me take off my armor.”
YOU
The cup tasted like punishment.
Your slave said it was necessary. The medicus nodded beside her, solemn and useless, murmuring about warmth and balance, about coaxing life where Rome insisted it should exist. You drank because they told you it might help. Because for two years now, everyone had been trying to help you conceive.
As if the problem were that simple.
As if herbs and whispered prayers could make up for the truth — that nothing had ever truly been planted there.
You swallowed and winced. Bitter. Sharp. You tipped wine into the cup without hesitation, watching the dark red soften the brew’s sickly color, then drank again. Better. Warmer. Almost convincing.
You set the cup aside and reached for the mask.
Venus.
The choice had made you laugh earlier — quietly, without humor. Love. Fertility. Desire. The goddess Rome pretended ruled women’s bodies. You allowed your slave to tie it carefully, as if silk could hide more than your face. As if you could tuck your unease behind it and borrow courage for one night.
You wore a simple tunic — thin silk that caught the light and gave more than it took. No excess. No titles. No imperial weight. Only a necklace at your throat, earrings brushing your neck when you moved. The back of the tunic lay open, skin exposed down your spine, held together by a delicate chain that traced your waist like a promise.
You looked deliberate. Not innocent. Not ashamed.
Achingly, dangerously compelling — the kind of beauty that demanded attention without begging for it.
With the Venus mask and your bare, unguarded form, you were dizzying. As if the world were witnessing the birth of the goddess all over again. Any man would have gone to his knees.
That was the point.
The mask erased your name. The man who came would not know who you were — only that you were noble, that you had chosen him. To him, you would be no different from the other patrician women who sought a night of secrecy and indulgence. Rome was full of them. Their intentions were usually simple.
Yours were not.
This was not lust. It was necessity. You were the Empress. You commanded armies, bent senators to your will, ruled without question. As long as your husband never learned of this night, what crime was there? What fault?
You could live with that.
You had to.
You drew in a breath — and froze.
Voices. Footsteps.
Too soon.
You hadn’t given the signal.
Your slave’s head snapped toward the door, tension rippling through her body. The room felt suddenly smaller, the air too tight. You hesitated — just long enough to almost stop this. Almost.
Then you lifted your hand and nodded.
It was done.
You turned your back to the door. You did not want to see him enter. Not yet. You wrapped your fingers around the wine cup, grounding yourself in its weight, its cold edge biting into your palm.
The door opened.
Silence followed.
Not the heavy, anticipatory hush you had expected — but something sharper. Wrong. Your slaves shifted behind you. One of them stiffened, breath catching audibly.
That was strange.
You put the cup aside and turned.
The man stood alone.
No escort. No guards. No ceremony. Just him — filling the chamber as if it had been built for his presence. The mask hid his face, but his gaze found you immediately, unflinching, intent.
For a heartbeat, neither of you moved. Silk. Shadow. Breath.
He wore the mask of Mars, fierce and unyielding, its sharp edges hiding his face but not the fire in his gaze. You met him through your Venus mask, delicate and ethereal, yet your eyes betrayed no hesitation.
Then he stepped forward.
Unhurried. Certain.
Your slave moved at once, placing herself between you, chin lifted in practiced authority.
“You will not approach the lady unless she permits it.”
He did not even look at her.
He shoved her aside with one efficient motion — not violent, not gentle. As if she were simply in the way.
Your breath caught, sharp and instinctive.
“Stop,” you commanded, voice firm despite the tremor beneath it.
He didn’t.
His eyes never left you.
Your slave rushed forward again — and this time, he caught her by the throat. Not crushing. Just enough. Enough to make the room lock in place.
Shock hit you. “Enough!” Your voice cut through the room. “Do you even know what you do? Who you presume yourself to be?” you demanded, anger flaring.
He released her with a shove and straightened.
“Leave,” he said.
The voice came from behind the mask — low, controlled.
Something in it struck you like a memory you hadn’t known you were keeping. You had heard that voice before. Across marble halls. Over the roar of crowds. Calm amid blood and ceremony alike.
“All of you. Leave us. Now.”
Your heart stuttered. “That’s not possible,” you whispered.
He reached up and removed the mask. For a heartbeat, your world narrowed to the sharp outline of his face, suddenly revealed by the flickering torchlight. His brown eyes caught the glow — familiar, burning, unmistakable.
Shock slammed through you, and you instinctively stumbled back, heart hammering. “General Acacius,” you breathed, voice trembling.
The room tilted.
Without taking his eyes off you, he barked, “Out! Now!”
No one argued.
They fled as if chased, sandals slapping stone, silk whispering panic. The door shut with a final, echoing thud.
You were alone with him.
Your pulse thundered. Shame crawled up your spine, tangled with fear, fury — and something far worse. You stood frozen, unable to decide what you felt.
He crossed the remaining distance and stopped. Bare-chested. Powerful. Built like the statues that lined the atrium — only warmer. Breathing. Real. You had never seen him without armor before.
The sight stole the air from your lungs.
His gaze followed yours. Lingered.
“H-how? You shouldn’t be here,” you said hoarsely.
“I could say the same of you, your highness,” he replied evenly.
He reached up and removed your mask, fingers deft as the ties came undone. Your hair fell loose, and you dropped your gaze without thinking, embarrassment burning across your cheeks.
His hand didn’t withdraw.
Instead, his thumb slipped beneath your chin and lifted it, slow and insistent, until you had no choice but to look at him.
He paused there, unmoving. Just for a moment.
Not surprise.
Not softness.
His eyes locked onto yours, dark and unblinking, as if he were stripping you bare with nothing but his gaze. As if he were seeing past flesh and silk and title, down to something exposed and dangerous beneath.
Something tighter settled into his expression.
Like a man realizing the blade he’d been circling was sharper than he remembered.
His jaw locked. His eyes darkened further, tracking every breath, every flicker of hesitation on your face with an intensity that made your skin prickle. As if seeing you fully — unmasked, unguarded — had cost him something he hadn’t meant to give.
Instinctively, he leaned closer.
Not enough to touch.
Enough to threaten it.
His attention dipped — briefly, deliberately — to your mouth. The space between you shrank, heavy with intention. Panic flared in your chest, and you tried to turn your face away, the hunger in his eyes suddenly too much, too ruinous to meet.
“This was a mistake,” you said, the words tight, fragile.
His thumb remained beneath your chin, unyielding.
“It would have been,” he replied quietly, eyes never leaving yours, “if I hadn’t come.”
You tried to pull away. He didn’t let you. “What- Let go of me.”
“You’re tired of being treated like an object,” he growled. “And yet… here you are. Playing with fire, little Empress… do you not understand what you risk?”
How dare he.
“You wouldn’t understand,” you snapped. “If you’re here to lecture me on honor—”
“I understand perfectly,” he said. “I didn’t come here to lecture you or protect your husband’s honor. Or your father’s.”
“Then why?” you demanded.
He released you.
“Because what you desire,” he said slowly, eyes fixed on your face, unblinking, “you shall never receive from one unworthy of you.”
Your breath caught. You could scarcely believe your ears — that he would suggest such a thing.
“I am not letting you give yourself to a man who will forget you before dawn.”
The words landed like a blow.
“Acacius—” Your hand rose to your chest as you stepped back. “How— why—no.”
He surged forward, presence overwhelming, breath warm against your skin.
Not kind. Not gentle. Predatory.
“You still don’t see it,” he said, voice dark with fury and something far more dangerous beneath it.
“I have burned for you,” he continued, each word forged tight with restraint. “For years. In my thoughts. In my sleep. In every battle, it was your face that kept me standing.” Your eyes widened, disbelief clawing at your mind, your ears betraying you. “And you dare think,” he went on, quiet but vicious, voice like steel coiled around fire, “that I would stand aside while you reduce yourself to a mere vessel? While you let some nameless body be used to bear an heir? As if that were all you were made for?” Your breath shuddered. “And gods help me,” he added, jaw clenched, “as if I would ever allow that.”
Something twisted low in your body at the words. Heat flared where there should have been only fear. Only shame.
You hated yourself for it.
Because beneath the humiliation, beneath the danger of him standing there, claiming space and certainty alike, your body betrayed you — answering his fury with a treacherous spark of want.
And that frightened you more than anything else.
His hands came to your shoulders — firm, unyielding — halting you where you stood. He forced you to look at him.
“How could you lower yourself so?” he asked quietly. Not shouting. Judgment was colder than fury. “How could you make yourself lesser than what you are?”
“What is this insolence—” you began.
“Insolence?” His mouth twisted, humorless. “And what of your audacity?”
Your heart thundered. “You speak as though—” Your voice wavered. “Do you claim an attachment to me beyond duty?” Your eyes searched his. “Is this love, then… General?”
A sound escaped him, not laughter, but close enough to mock it. “Love?” he echoed softly. “A small word. A thin one.”
His grip shifted. One hand rose, pushing your hair back to bare your throat. His palm settled there — possessive, overwhelming by its sheer weight alone. “Do not profane what I bear by naming it love,” he murmured.
You shivered.
His thumb brushed the pulse at your neck, deliberate. He felt its frantic beat. A faint, dangerous curve touched his mouth.
“I have imagined this,” he confessed quietly. “My hands upon you. Your composure breaking. Your will bending.”
“Stop,” you whispered. “Please."
“You tremble,” he observed calmly. “Good.”
His large hand closed around your throat—not in haste, but with intent. Beneath his palm, the fragile give of your neck was unmistakable, a reminder of how easily you could be broken if he wished. The awareness made his clothed manhood twitch.
“Acacius,” you gasped. “You’re hurting me.”
His head tilted, eyes intent, studying you like a creature caught between fear and the instinct to run.
“This,” he said quietly, tightening just enough to make his meaning clear, “is restraint.”
Then — slowly, deliberately — he released you.
“This ends here.” The instant his hold loosened, you turned and moved for the door — swift, desperate, unthinking.
He caught you with ease from behind. “We haven’t even begun.” He growled, pulling you hard against him, his arms locking around you from the back. You struggled, twisting, trying to break free — but it was impossible.
Gods, this was wrong.
All of it was wrong.
“Y–You…” Your voice faltered. “I… we can’t. my husband trusts you. If this is ever heard—”
He cut you off without raising his voice.
“Curse your husband,” he said. “Abi in infernum. (Let him burn.)"
The vulgarity of his words shocked you — the sheer irreverence of it — and yet, beneath the fear, something else flared, sharp and unwelcome. Through the layers of cloth, you felt his hardness pressing insistently against your arse. Your breath hitched, heart racing, caught between alarm and a thrill you did not want to name.
He buried his face into your hair, pressing his nose along the curve of your ear, nudging the soft lobe aside as he inhaled you like a man tasting something forbidden. His tongue traced your warm, soft skin, slow and deliberate, tasting the faint essence of jasmine that lingered there.
The scrape of his beard brushed your neck — rough, unmistakably male — and the sensation sent an involuntary shiver through you. Your pulse leapt beneath his mouth, traitorous, loud. The heat of him so close made your chest tighten, made your knees feel unsteady, as if your body were responding before your mind could catch up.
A low sound escaped him — not laughter, not quite. Something closer to satisfaction. The kind that lingered beneath the surface, like the hum of a predator savoring its prey.
You struggled again, twisting in his arms, trying to break free.
Again, his arms caught you like iron traps, locking around your waist, pulling you back against him. You struggled, but he didn’t even flinch.
“Let go — Acacius, please—”
His breath grazed your ear, low and steady, but with a sharp edge hidden underneath.
“Resist me once more," he whispered, his voice low and edged with steel,
“and I will drag you into the atrium. I will have you there. Before my men, before Agrippa and his wife, before the slaves.”
You froze completely. “Don’t,” you breathed, the word barely more than air. “Please… do not.”
“Then be still,” he said simply.
Not a plea. Not a warning.
A command.
He pressed closer. You could feel the weight of his threat in every inch of his control.
“This can be something we both enjoy…” he said, voice velvet and venom, “...or it can be just for me. But either way — you’re not getting away. Decide.”
His hand found the back of your tunic, fisting the fabric without hesitation.
The cloth tore from your shoulders in one brutal motion—the gold-chained garment draped across your back giving way all at once. Something snapped—a delicate chain, perhaps—and a rain of jeweled ornaments scattered across the floor, clattering sharply.
“I’ve wanted you for a long time,” he said, his voice thick, deliberate. “You have lived in my thoughts,” he admitted. “In ways the gods would condemn.”
A breath.
“Now... you're mine to cherish.”
Another pause.
“And to ruin, if I choose.”
He pulled the silk from your shivering body slowly — not to savor, but to claim.
The fabric slipped to the floor like a secret undone. He stared.
Not just at your body.
At your skin.
The way it caught the lamplight. The way it rose and fell with every panicked breath. The way it wasn’t meant for anyone else but him.
His hands — calloused from war, scarred from blade and bone — hovered for a moment before finally landing on your waist.
You inhaled sharply.
Not pain.
Not fear.
The sheer weight of his presence.
You still hadn’t turned to face him.
You stood rooted where you were, breath shallow, afraid of what you might see if you did. Afraid of what it would confirm.
His hands moved over your hips, along your sides — slow, deliberate, not wandering but learning, as if committing the shape of you to memory.
“Soft,” he murmured, almost to himself. “As I imagined.”
His touch rose, restrained yet inevitable — tracing your back, your shoulders, his fingers brushing the line of your collarbones with a strange reverence, like a prayer unwrapped rather than spoken.
“He does not deserve this,” he whispered.
He leaned closer, his breath warming your jaw, close enough that you felt it without daring to turn.
“You were never his.”
His fingers went to the knot at his hip.
Unhurried. Deliberate.
The subligaculum (a kind of underwear) loosened with a soft sound, linen slipping free of its tension. The fabric fell, forgotten, at his feet.
Your breath caught You felt it then — the shift.
Not in the room.
In him.
When he straightened, the space he occupied felt suddenly dangerous, as though the air itself bent around his will. He stood with the stillness of a statue before motion — all potential, all threat.
You turned your face away instinctively, shame and something far worse tightening your chest.
He noticed.
The corner of his mouth curved — not in amusement, but in something colder.
“Tell me,” he said, almost idly, “the man you call husband… does he even touch you now? He can’t give you what you need, can he?”
You stiffened, spine straightening despite yourself.
“Do not speak of him with such disrespect,” you said sharply.
He gave a short, incredulous laugh, sharp as a blade.
“How loyal. So dutiful,” he added, voice dark with contempt. “So Roman.”
His eyes flicked toward you, catching your movement — a glance heavy with anger, with disbelief. You looked away instinctively, heat and shame twisting with a dangerous curiosity deep in your chest.
He noticed.
His mouth curled — not a smile, but something sharper, crueler, predatory.
“Yet here you are,” he continued, voice low, dripping with scorn. “Sneaking off to a borrowed villa. Choosing a gladiator to do what your precious… husband cannot.”
Your chest tightened. “That’s not—”
His tone snapped. “You wanted him to put an heir in you.”
Silence slammed between you.
In a single motion, his hand fisted in your hair and yanked you around to face him. Enough to make your breath catch.
You were too close now.
Too exposed.
Your gaze dropped before you could stop yourself — and your throat went dry.
“Like what you see, my Empress?”
He leaned in, forcing your chin up with two fingers.
“I’m willing to bet,” he said, voice rough with satisfaction, “that whatever you endured in that cold bed of yours never came close to this.”
You swallowed. Hard.
He smiled then — slow, predatory.
“That’s what I thought.”
His grip in your hair tightened just enough to sting.
“Turn not your eyes,” he growled. “There is no retreat now — not that you would want one.”
Your eyes dropped again — and this time, you couldn’t stop the sound that escaped.
“Oh gods…”
Marcus stilled. Then, slowly, deliberately, he tilted your chin up.
His mouth was a breath away from yours when he whispered:
“Forget your gods. They can’t hear you now.”
He caught you by the shoulders again, firm, cruel, and pressed you down so that you sank onto your knees before him.
Your breath left you in a sharp gasp, your eyes widened, your entire body stunned from his hot, throbbing manhood resting against your face.
It stole your vision. Your thoughts.
You barely registered the general’s face above you, only the way his mouth curved; slow, knowing as he took in your stunned silence.
Dear gods.
He was a lot bigger than you had expected. And the raw scent, that was out in full force, made your head swim from how much it was overwhelming your nostrils. This wasn’t the first time you’d seen a man’s penis…
But this?
Even believing it was real strained the limits of your mind.
Marcus stood before you without shame, without hesitation — a figure carved for war rather than worship. Solid. Towering. Dangerous.
Both his presence and his scent roused something primordial within you, awakening your womanhood as though answering an unspoken mating call, older than reason, deeper than will.
Your husband had never looked like this, and his manhood had never stirred you the way this did.
Marcus was twice his age, and yet somehow felt carved from something far older — something primal. Thick muscle shaped his frame, not the ornamental strength of noblemen, but the hardened body of a man who had fought, bled, and survived.
Scars traced him like history written into flesh.
This body did not ask.
It took.
The comparison came unbidden; cruel and undeniable. Your husband could not stand beside this. Would not dare.
You hated the way your insides clenched at the thought, nipples drewing tight.
Hated the way your mouth went dry.
Hated how something deep and traitorous inside you whispered, slow and reverent:
This is what a true man looks like.
Marcus watched you with something darker than satisfaction. Amusement, maybe. Possession. Victory.
You hadn’t even touched him yet, but your breath had already gone shallow, your lips parting without permission.
You were an Empress.
And yet here you were, kneeling, breath shaky, mouth parted, stunned by the sight in front of you… and even more so by the fact that you wanted it.
A flicker of shame curled in your stomach.
Then—
Fingers in your hair.
Firm.
Unforgiving.
“You’ve made me wait long enough,” Marcus growled. He tilted your face up, the heat in his eyes enough to scorch you from the inside out. “Don’t pretend you don’t want this now.”
Your heart pounded. You should’ve pulled back. Should’ve spoken. Should’ve run.
Instead, you just stared, breath hitched, mind blank, pride forgotten.
And Marcus, with a dark, crooked smile, leaned in just close enough to whisper: “Be a good girl now, regina mea.(my queen)”
His grip turned unforgiving as he guided you forward, stealing your breath as he forced you to take him — relentless, claiming, leaving no room for hesitation.
Your pupils shrank to the size of mere dots at the abrupt action. Your gag reflex was suddenly suppressed as you found yourself in the middle of deepthroating the man’s cock out of nowhere.
Your entire body trembled, instinctively trying to pull back, desperate to get some air. But the firm grip on your head held you in place. All you could do was focus on steadying your breathing, drawing in air through your nostrils. Hoping that you would be able to satisfy him with your tongue.
Gods, the taste was even stronger than the smell. Yet not once you get the feeling of wanting to gag or wretch from it. As a matter of fact, a small part of you found the thing to be… actually quite pleasant.
A low, guttural sound tore from Marcus’s chest; something feral, raw and you didn’t know why it made your own chest tighten the way it did. But it did.
The sound went straight through you, settling somewhere deep, igniting something you had spent far too long denying. Fervently licking the underside of his shaft to the best of your abilities while he drilled and slammed his massive length to the very back of your throat. Even with all of that, you couldn’t stop yourself from bringing a hand to between your thighs. Slipping two of your fingers into your burning, soaked core, plunging them, knuckles deep, into your wet cunt like a shameless whore.
This was unreal.
You — the illustrious, proud Empress of Rome. A woman raised on silk and ceremony. A woman who had built her entire existence around dignity, status, and control.
And yet here you were.
Kneeling.
Fingering yourself while the general of Rome used your mouth like it was some type of sexual relief toy.
And the gods help you — you didn’t care.
Not about titles.
Not about appearances.
Not even about the husband who hadn’t touched you in months.
All you could feel was the heat curling low in your belly. The ache. The burning awareness of how long you’d gone without being wanted like this.
You were shaking — not from shame, but from need. From the way your body responded despite everything your mind screamed you should remember.
His fingers loosened suddenly.
Not in kindness — in choice.
He let go of your hair with the same calm a beast might show just before pouncing again.
And just like that, he slipped free from your mouth with a wet sound.
You gasped — at the absence, the shock, the unbearable heat still coiled low in your belly.
Saliva clung to your lips — slick, messy, warm with the unmistakable blend of your spit and his precum — trailing down the corner of your mouth in a slow, shameful line. Your chest heaved, rapid and uneven, rising with every shallow breath you couldn’t quite catch.
“This wet,” he murmured, reaching for your hand, observing your soaked fingers. “Just from sucking my cock?” His thumb circled over the mess, slow and cruel. “So eager,” he mused darkly, “and yet so unfulfilled.” He leaned in, voice brushing your ear like a blade.
“Is this how royalty trembles? From the taste of a man made of war?”
A low chuckle rumbled in his chest. “You needy little whore.” You opened your mouth to speak — maybe to deny, maybe to beg — but he brought your fingers to his lips first. And sucked. A low growl rumbled in his chest.
“Sweeter than honey,” he muttered against your skin — but there was no reverence in it. Only hunger.
His hand tightened suddenly around your waist, and before you could speak — even breathe — he hoisted you into his arms like you weighed nothing.
Not gentle. Not loving.
Like you were something stolen. You gasped, instinctively grabbing at his shoulders. He didn’t even glance at you.
His voice, when it came, was lower than before. Rougher.
“I’ll carve my legacy into your womb, seed by seed, until there is no part of you untouched by me.”
Then he leaned in, lips brushing your ear, voice a slow venom.
“But first… I want the source.”
A pause. A breath. A cruel smile.
“You think I’d be satisfied with a little taste?”
Another growl — deeper now.
“I want to drown in it.”
And with that, he threw you onto the bed — hard enough to make the mattress protest, the silks twist beneath you.
You barely had time to blink before he was already on top of you, eyes burning like a man gone feral.
“Let’s see,” he rasped, his hungry eyes trailing down your body. “If the rest of you tastes as good as your shame, regina mea.”
It wasn’t just a word — it was a growl, raw.
Your throat grew dry under his ravenous gaze. Your whole body shivered under the weight of it. Every hair on your arms stood on end, your throat went dry, and your pulse raced.
His large, rough hands gripped your thighs, yanking you closer with a force that made your heart pound. The sheer power behind his pull sent your head spinning, every part of your body instantly alert to his dominance. You struggled instinctively, but the iron‑tight grip left you rooted in place, your legs locking in tension.
He smacked the side of your thigh, hard and sudden. “Would you have me drag you to the atrium?” he thundered, his voice low and commanding, vibrating with fury. You swallowed hard, shaking your head. “Then be still, and resist me not,” he growled, teeth clenched, and you obeyed.
With his strong hands, he spread your knees like splitting a fig in two and buried his head between them. His heated breath reached your wet folds before his mouth did and you bit your lower lip at the sensation. A sound came from his nose, Gods, he was… inhaling the scent of your arousal, a low, satisfied sound escaped him. Looking at him through your spread legs was terrifying, yet strangely intriguing. Your heart was pounding wildly as you thought about what he would do next.
His hands hungrily grabbed at your arse leaving red marks on them while his warm tongue fiddled around inside you. He licked, tasting your juices, nudging your clit with the tip of his tongue. You were wet, but not wet enough to his liking. Marcus wanted you swollen and dripping. Shock and pleasure fused and swept through your entire body, you clawed frantically for something to hold onto, something you could sink your fingers into. But with his grip tight around your hips, his head was just out of reach—far for you to grasp—so you dug your fingers into the sheets instead, your back arching. His hungry mouth found your clitoris and he sucked on it till it grew bigger. You felt your body heating up and your cunt getting even more wet at this forceful stimulation. Relentlessly, his tongue went deeper inside, licking over you with the wide, flat surface of his tongue, exulting in your strangled moan that he felt vibrating against his tongue, lips, and ears.
You hadn’t known that such pleasure-such a sensation-could even be real. You felt as though you were losing your mind from it. You clapped both hands over your mouth, pressing hard, not to stifle a scream, but to keep what remained of your sanity intact. Marcus heard your muffled scream and lifted his head. His tongue, coated with your wetness, traced his lips in a measured, deliberate motion, eyes never leaving you. Then he slapped, struck your hand aside and seized your wrists, yanking your hands away from your mouth.. “Do not dare to silence yourself,” he growled. “Find your voice,” he said. “Let me hear you."
Then he parted you with his thick fingers, swirled his tongue over and over, and you jerked and shook, thighs falling open shamelessly, wantonly, your hips moving instinctively, desperately to urge him closer and deeper. “Ooooohhhh! Please!” You screamed, “Oh gods, oh gods!”
He growled, pulling your hips closer to his mouth so he could go deeper, his mouth devouring you as you felt curls of his hair brushing against your thighs, his lapping and sucking producing slick, sinful sounds that only served to drive you further wild.
"Gods, please," You reached and yanked his head closer sharply, fingers tangled in his partly gray curls, nails scraping against his scalp. Your thighs were shaking, you felt hot and cold all over. He loved the way you scratched at him, how you shivered against him. His hard cock was dripping, straining so painfully.
Marcus’s grip tightened, followed by a sharp blow on your arse that tore a cry from you, digging his thick fingers deep into your core.
His beard prickled your folds so deliciously, his nose rubbed against your clit. He pushed his tongue deep into you again and sucked while fucking you with his fingers. You cried out, sobbing, and he felt more slickness leaking from you, felt your swollen flesh pulse under his tongue. He gripped your thigh with one hand and your arse with the other, holding you fast as he lapped up your juices greedily, groaning and growling in pleasure at the taste of your sweet honey. A broken sound slipped from you, caught somewhere between a sob and a cry, and it only seemed to drive him on. He hummed, sucked ruthlessly, the pleasure wasn’t only yours at the sweet violence of your response, your body bucking and your wetness on his lips and chin. “Rather sweet,” he said against you as he licked and sucked, punctuating his words with the curl of his tongue, with its flicks and flutters. He spoke no more for a long while, dedicating his tongue only to worshiping you and ruining you. It’s enchanting how you squirmed and wriggled, losing all grace and propriety, letting the façade you wore fall away completely in the face of you need for him. Never before had he wanted to ruin a woman the way he wanted you.
No other woman had ever drawn such a response from him, never stirred this depth of feeling or hunger—and the realization unsettled him. It made him wonder how it was possible that you alone could provoke something so fierce, so consuming, that even he had not known it existed.
The wet sounds of his tongue gliding over you filled the chamber now, faintly echoing beyond the door. Anyone outside, if listening carefully, might catch the echoes. Your moans intertwined with his low, throaty grunts and the sharp, wet smacks of his movements, merging into a dark, intoxicating rhythm—a melody of sin, fierce and unbridled, wild and consuming, each sound deliberate, like a man savoring a feast.
You didn't know how many times you came.
After a while, too much pleasure clouded your brain, and you forgot to count. Your heart beat wildly and you gasped for breath as if your whole body were melting in his arms. But all this time, his hands never loosened its grip, his mouth never left your folds. When he said he wanted to drown, he wasn’t jesting, he really seemed like he wanted to drown in your juices. You felt the sweat trailing down your back, it was as if you were slowly coming back to yourself, drifting down from some distant height. The world settled into focus again. Then you lifted your head and looked at him. But he was not yet finished with you.
Twice you peeked, and twice he drank your pleasure from you, dipping his tongue in to lap at you, avoiding your sensitive spots until you were ready for him again.
Once again, you peaked, suddenly this time, heat flaring in your belly and rushing under your skin, your cunt fluttering around his tongue and your thighs trembling against his face, your core is pulsing. Your brain had gone numb, your senses had gone numb, you only later noticed the tears streaming down your cheeks. You did not know whether you were crying from rapture, or because another man had given you this incredible intensity, or because such pleasure existed at all and you had been denied it for so long—deprived of it by your husband. You did not know which of these truths had broken you open. All you knew was that what had just been done to you—forced though it was—had filled you with an overwhelming, undeniable delight.
Marcus sit up on the bed and lifted his hand, crooking two fingers in a silent summons. “Rise,” he said. “Come closer.”
You obeyed, even as your knees trembled beneath you, crawling across the bed toward him. Drawn forward against your own will, compelled by the unspoken certainty of his command, you moved on—each measured inch an unacknowledged surrender, felt not in thought but in bone and blood.
His beard and jaw still bore the trace of your arousal, catching the light in a way that made your throat tighten. His lips were swollen now, darkened with heat and breath—and for the first time in your life, a man’s mouth held you spellbound.
You swallowed hard as your eyes lingered on his lips. The desire to kiss him rose sudden and unbidden, startling in its intensity. How had you never seen it before—how dangerously compelling they were, how they promised not tenderness, but conquest?
“Clean it,” he said, fixing you with a piercing stare. You blinked, meeting his gaze. When you hesitated, his hand reached behind your head, fingers closing in your hair. “Use that pretty tongue of yours,” he murmured darkly. “Taste yourself on me."
With a firm pull, he drew you closer, guiding you toward him.
You leaned closer, drawn by something you could no longer name. Slowly, tentatively, you traced the line of his jaw with your tongue, tasting the salt of him there, and your heady essence, then brushed your lips against his mouth. Your breath caught. You wanted to kiss him—no, you needed to—and the realization unfurled inside you, inescapable, undoing you far more than his touch ever had.
“Acacius,” you murmured, the plea barely a sound.
You wanted to know the taste of him, to feel his breath mingle with yours, to dream of his tongue—eloquent and dangerous, as if it had always known how to take what it desired.
For a heartbeat, he did not move. Then his hand came up, firm, stopping you just short of his lips. His fingers closed around your chin, tilting your face up, not unkindly—but decisively.
“No,” he said quietly, eyes dark and intent. He held you there a moment longer, close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath, before easing you back—control reasserted without another word.
You fell back against the bed, breath uneven, while he rose to his feet. He crossed the room and poured himself a measure of wine from the decanter. You watched him as he drank, his back to you. The way he had denied you—that single, deliberate refusal—had left a sharp edge of anger beneath your skin. Still, you would not look desperate. You would not look like a supplicant.
“You taste better with wine,” he said, dismissing your situation entirely. "Your husband never gave you this kind of pleasure it seems. I can see it in your pretty face.”
You lowered your gaze at once.
“Damn fool,” he snarled. “Such a crime to leave such ambrosia untasted. Ah, regina mea, I could drink of your cunt forever and never be thirsty,” he said, lifting his cup to you.
He took another slow, deliberate sip, savoring it, while you studied him, trying to pierce the reason behind the refusal of his lips.
You bit your lower lip. “Does the general,” you asked, voice cold, measured, “never kiss the whores he fucks?”
For a single heartbeat, your question struck its mark. The man who had been all hunger and shadow faltered, something unreadable flashing across his face—cornered, exposed. You had reached him where it mattered. But the moment was brief. He mastered himself just as quickly, the mask sliding back into place, control reclaimed as if it had never slipped at all.
“You presume too much.” He laughed—low, unbothered, almost amused. His eyes slid over you slowly before lifting to meet yours, draining the cup in one swallow. “Besides, I haven’t fucked you yet.” As he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes never left you—still sprawled on the bed, exposed to his gaze. There was nothing hidden in the hunger there. He set the cup aside and began to walk back toward you.
Your heart leapt into your throat. Under the weight of his wolfish-stare alone, your pulse betrayed you, every step he took tightening the air between you.
Your eyes betrayed you, lingering where they should not—on his manhood, veins raised like living marble beneath the skin, carrying a promise of strength that needed no name to be understood, mirroring the same restrained power that defined the rest of his body.
There was an ease to him that had nothing to do with innocence—an assurance born of familiarity, of having learned bodies as thoroughly as battlefields. You wondered if it was merely the discipline of a soldier, or something more intimate. Not strength alone, but experience—the kind earned in shadows and silence, in nights that left their mark. The way he held himself suggested a man who had known desire well, and had never been ruled by it.
Your walls clenched around nothing.
By that time, you were blushing deeply as you watched the him positioned himself before you. Spreading your legs as his erection was looking full and firm with lust and arousal, precum leaking from his tip. If you didn’t know any better, you could’ve sworn that the length actually grew in size from a few mere moments ago. As he looked at you darkly, a sharp mix of excitement and unease tightened in your chest. You knew that in mere moments, you would be fucked by the general of Rome.
You had to admit—you had never imagined that the man who would take you, who would claim you like this, would be him. And yet… perhaps this was better than some nameless gladiator you had never known. Wasn’t it?
“So,” Marcus asked, a slow, taunting curve to his mouth, “you wish to be kissed, do you?” His gaze held yours, dark and knowing. “By the very man you were trying to flee from only moments ago?”
You felt the tip start to poke at your entrance. You bit your bottom lip as you watched the fat bulbous tip, followed by his thick inches slowly slide their way inside of you. A moan slipped from your lips as your eyes fluttered shut, your breath betraying you before words could. Marcus’s hand came up, slapped your cunt, drawing a sharp squeak from you before you could stop it. “Answer me,” he growled.
“Yes—” you cried, the word tearing free before you could stop it. “Yes, I wish you to kiss me,” you breathed, your body arching beneath him, caught between need and surrender.
He grinned, a slow, predatory curve to his lips. “Then,” he said, voice low and sharp, “you’ll have to earn it.”
Your mind swirled, trying to grasp the meaning behind his words. Before you could decide, his hands grabbed at your waist, you glanced up at him and was met with him giving you a playful smile— right before slamming the rest of his length in with one vicious thrust.
“Oh GODS!” You cried as your whole world went white. Your mind exploded from intense pain, pleasure and fullness, crashing against your entire body. Your mouth agape in a choked cry, nothing coming out at that very moment.
A sharp, surprised grunt left him, taken aback by just how tight you were. Your grip on him was like a python’s, quivering and quaking all around. Were he a lesser man, he would have likely reached his climax almost immediately, all because of you beneath him. Not even the virgin courtesan from the lupanaria could match the level of tightness you were exuding. It was both impressive and intoxicating—you felt divine. His eyes darkened, pupils dilating, every fiber of him alive with sensation. He had never felt this way with any woman before—not even close.
For a heartbeat, the predator faltered, undone by the inevitability of your hold. Yet almost instantly, he recovered—lips curling into a dangerous, possessive smile, muscles taut with restrained hunger. Even as he regained his composure, the knowledge lingered: you had claimed him, and it thrilled him in ways no other had.
His first thrust was sudden and merciless, sharp as a tearing bandage. You cried out at the shocking fullness, your body jolting into a haze of overwhelming, mind-numbing pleasure. “Ahhhh...oohhh...Gods!"
His big hand wrapped around your throat, slapping your arse with the other, “Not your gods… you’ll scream my name,” He grunted as he began to move inside you, his grip on your throat not lessening for a second. The slaps on your arse and cunt kept coming, over and over, raw and relentless, as he fucked you too hard, too deep, with no intention of slowing down. Your screams weren’t enough to stop him—if anything, they only seemed to please him, driving him to thrust deeper and deeper until you felt his balls slamming against your arse cheeks.
By the time he found a steady rhythm, you were reduced to breathless moans and sharp cries, the kind that belonged to a woman utterly claimed. Your hands clutched at his shoulders, nails digging into his skin, while your legs jerked and bucked helplessly at his sides under the relentless force of him.
The heavy, rhythmic impact of your bodies colliding echoed through the room, mingling with the sounds spilling from your lips—noises you had never imagined yourself capable of making. Each slam, each gasp, carried a wild, almost shameful intensity, and still, you found yourself utterly unable to stop it.
The more he slammed himself into you, the more your mind fried and your insides churned from his glorious length.
Marcus treated you more like a shameless filthy whore than a woman—or, hell, even a human at that. Yet the very idea of being fucked this way didn’t feel as shocking or unappealing as you had first imagined.
For a moment, the pleasure threatened to overwhelm you, and you squeezed your eyes shut—but his hand on your neck shook you insistently.
“Look at me,” he commanded, and you obeyed, meeting his dark, unyielding gaze as your bodies moved together.
“Now… scream my name.”
He thrust again, harder, more brutal this time. You gasped, trying to resist, but the sound escaped anyway, “Marcus!”
Every soul in the atrium—and likely throughout the villa—must have heard you. In that instant, you understood exactly what he had meant when he said “earn it.”
He thrust once more. “Louder. Declare me… in full..”
Slapping your arse with both hands, he kept you in place as he pumped into you with great speed. You screamed, almost sobbing, each name rising higher than the last, “Marcus! Justus! Acacius!”
A dark, satisfied laugh escaped him, thick with possession and hunger.
“Well done… let everyone know who claims you. Let them hear who fucks you,” he growled, eyes blazing, every muscle in his body taut with the knowledge that you were his—claimed, shattered, and entirely under his control.
His large hand moved over your bouncing breasts, squeezing with rough insistence, fingers pinching your nipples sharply. The other slid down your stomach, teasing the cleft between your thighs in perfect rhythm with each thrust.
Before you realized it, you found yourself cumming, your body was overtaken, a shattering wave of pleasure ripping through you. A high, desperate cry escaped your lips as your body shuddered, your juices spilled, slicking both of you, toes curling against his back in the intensity of it all.
Marcus grunted, caught off guard by the tightness of your folds gripping him. Squeezing him down as if you were attempting to wring his cock out for his seed. There was something almost… old in it, a dark thrill he hadn’t known he’d missed.
Yet he did not slow, did not relent. Every movement drove deeper, claiming you fully, and still he drew endless satisfaction from your body, unyielding, relentless, and wholly possessed by the sensation of you.
“Marcus! W-Wait!” you cried, eyes wide at his resumed thrusting. “I-I'm still—have mercy, please!”
You couldn’t even finish the sentence. A cry of pleasure tore from your throat as your body shook through another climax, Marcus deliberately dragging it out with long, deep strokes. His hands found your bouncing breasts once more, taking one into his mouth while teasing the other, his tongue hungry and brutal as he suckled, before letting go of your nipple with a loud, wet pop that echoed briefly through the chamber. You could not tell whether he meant to rouse you further, or if he was simply indulging in the pleasure of it himself.
Somehow, your legs had slid up onto the bed without you even noticing; Marcus’s strong arms lifted them higher, wrapping them around his waist, guiding you instinctively while you clutched his head close to him with what little willpower you could muster.
Your screams grew louder, more urgent, every second feeding his predatory hunger.
It didn’t take long before another wave overtook you, leaving your legs trembling, breath broken, the world narrowing to sensation alone.
Then he paused.
For a fleeting moment, you thought it was mercy.
It wasn’t.
You were still trembling, utterly sated and almost dazed, struggling to open your eyes. You felt him lift you slightly, and beneath your hips he placed something soft—perhaps a pillow—so that your hips were raised, your rear arched. Ah… you realized, even in the haze of pleasure, that this was the method used to increase the chance of conception, a knowledge that sent a shiver through you in spite of yourself.
After adjusting your position, he resumed his relentless thrusting, one arm sliding under you to wrap firmly around your waist. His movements grew harder, faster, each stroke a brutal claim on your body.
You were utterly lost in your storm of delight, unable to notice how deeply trapped you were in his dominating mating press. His chest pressed flush against your voluptuous frame, every motion scorching, possessive, unyielding.
His hips began to snap faster, a clear, primal signal that he was nearing his own climax, and you could feel the heat radiating from him through every curve of your body. The intensity was overwhelming, your senses consumed by him—by the force, the control, and the fierce, inescapable pleasure he was giving you.
By the gods.
Your form was exquisite, a decadence beyond reckoning. He had not foreseen this, not even in himself — the way desire sank its hooks so deep it threatened to consume him whole. You knew nothing of the divinity of your own flesh, nor of how completely it ensnared him, he simply couldn’t get enough of you.
Marcus pressed his lips fiercely against your neck, lingering there with brutal intent. You felt the force of his mouth, the demanding pull, then the sharp pressure of his teeth sinking just enough to make you gasp. A raw moan tore from your throat, unbidden, as his hold on you tightened. You were crushed under the weight of his thick form—yet you did not care in the slightest.
With a sudden, powerful downward thrust, he poured every ounce of force into his hips, movements primal and unrelenting. A seasoned military man, far older than your husband yet giving you pleasures he never could, he grunted low in satisfaction, each sound vibrating against your neck as he reached his climax in one brutal sweep. You felt every guttural murmur, every shiver of release, his essence filling you so well. Your eyes rolled back, and a shameless cry of pure bliss tore from your lips as you were filled with the general’s thick seed. He pressed your body down against the pillow beneath your hips, lifting your rear high, angling you perfectly—as if to ensure every last drop of his breeding was swallowed by your womb.
You both remained still, his lingering warmth and the last aftershocks of ecstasy circulating within you. Your eyes met as Marcus inclined his face toward yours; his features were damp with sweat, dark curls clinging to his brow and catching the lamplight with a faint sheen. His brown eyes glinted like polished bronze in the low glow of the chamber, steady and intent. You were locked there together, wrapped in the haze of post-climax heat, and even now he remained hard, filling you completely—an exquisite fullness.
“I know why you didn’t want to kiss me,” you breathed, chest rising and falling beneath his arms as he held you tightly. His eyes, still misted from climax, sharpened on you. “Because there’s a saying,” you breathed, voice trembling, “that the bond of love is sealed on the lips—osculum vinculum amoris est. You fear realizing you’re in love with me, and prefer to surrender to desire instead… don’t you, General?"
He smirked. “Ah… clever little empress. Speaking of lips and love—daring to have me confess to something that does not exist, testing me, even while you lie beneath me.”
As if to prove his own words true, as if to demonstrate that no such feeling held power over him, his finger traced the line of your jaw. His eyes burned as his lips brushed yours, barely there, a calculated tease rather than a claim. His thumb followed, skimming your lower lip, coaxing it apart in silent invitation, controlled and measured.
For a fleeting moment, hesitation crossed his face. You felt it—knew it instinctively—as though a single kiss would cost him something he was not yet willing to surrender. And gods, how you wanted it. You wanted his mouth on yours, wanted to taste him, craved his lips with a hunger sharper than anything you had ever known.
But he did not give in. His jaw tightened, that familiar hard line returning as his posture straightened, discipline snapping back into place. He withdrew, composure intact, leaving the space between you charged and aching—while your lips still burned with the memory of what he had almost allowed.
You remained pressed together, the heat between you slowly ebbing as he finally softened within you. He held you steady as he withdrew, still warm, leaving behind only the faintest trace of his seed as it slid down your arse and soaked into the sheets below.
His grip stayed firm beneath your hips as he pressed you back against the bed, his palm settling briefly between your breasts, grounding you there. “Do not move,” he said, already rising.
You could not have moved even if you wished to—your legs and pelvis numb, every muscle aching, as though the great columns of the temple of Jupiter had collapsed upon you and left you buried beneath their weight. And yet… you were happy. Grateful. Still, as his body lifted away, a quiet ache settled in your chest. You already missed the crushing warmth of him, the way his solid, muscled body, had held you down.
Marcus adjusted you with practiced ease, one arm steady at your hips while his gaze lingered on the marks already blooming across your skin—faint now, darker by morning. His fingers brushed your lips, slow and deliberate, tracing them as if committing their shape to memory… and then, just as slowly, he withdrew his hand. Your eyes met.
He turned away first. Whatever thought had crossed his mind, he abandoned it.
You gathered yourself on one elbow, breath unsteady. “If you do not kiss me now,” you said quietly, unable to hide the hope in your voice, “you may never have another chance, General.”
He was already reaching for his garment, the distance returning with every movement. The moment he left the chamber, he would be unreachable again—so you pressed on, hopeful and daring all at once.
Despite your exhaustion, you smiled, a quiet challenge in your eyes. “Even if you were to seize the chance,” you said softly, testing him, “do not imagine I would make it easy for you.”
He paused at the door, glancing back with a slow, knowing smile. As if you weren’t already mine,” he drawled. “Tell me, my lady. Where does this confidence come from? Or is it simply defiance you wear so prettily? If I choose to take what I desire, there is no wall in Rome, no name, no vow that could bar my way."
He turned and left the chamber, the door closing behind him and sealing you in silence. Alone at last, you drew a slow, unsteady breath, his seed floating deep within your insides, his scent clinging to your skin—while his final words seemed to echo in the quiet, lingering as insistently as he did.
You knew you would see him again—at every ceremony, every banquet, every festival where Rome displayed its splendor. From across marble halls and torchlit courts, your gazes would meet, a silent acknowledgment, a greeting meant for no one else. At each triumphant return from war, he would stand before the city as its conqueror, and you would stand beside another man as his wife—an ornament of Rome, a symbol, a possession.
Yet your body, your longing, even your heart, belonged elsewhere. They belonged to him—quietly, secretly, like a truth spoken only in whispers. And they would remain so, hidden beneath silk and ceremony, until the seeds he had sown within you took root and blossomed into a son, an heir growing silently in the shadows of empire.
please please PLEASE more hyperspermia with joel. maybe a longer fic where he just keeps filling reader over and over and over and talking sooo filthy. maybe sprinkle in some mean joel… 😔
(need this man #raw)
One more
Parings: mean!joel miller x fem!reader
Content warnings: explicit content 18+, overstimulation, breeding kink, hyperspermia, degradation (calling reader 'milkslut', 'cumdump'), praise kink, cock bulge/belly bulge, cum inflation/swollen belly, hair pulling and slapping, possessive and mean!joel, choking (consensual), dirty talk, use of pet names 'babygirl' and 'sweetheart, excessive cum play, potential physical exhaustion/weakness of reader.
Word count: 1000
Your body's already trembling neath him, the sheets ruined, soaked with sweat and slick and cum, but dosent stop.
He can't.
He needs it.
Needs you. Like this.
He mutters something under his breath, something low and filthy and before gripping your hip, hauling you up onto your side. You're pliant, twitching, a gasp trapped in your throat as he rolls you, presses his chest to your back and sinks back inside your slick, aching cunt.
Slow. Deep. Possessive.
"Fuck- joel-"
"Shh. Shh, baby. I know."
His voice is all gravel and heat, right at your ear as he presses his palmdown over your belly. "Just one. Just need one."
But it's never just one with him.
He drives in again. And again.
Thick and hard and dripping wet, dragging the mess of himself lit of you, only to bury it back in with a bruising slap of skin. You're so full, streched wide and trembling as he fucks his cum deeper and deeper inside. "So fuckin' tight," Joel grits out, sweat dripping from his jaw onto your shouler. "You feel that, sweetheart? That's all me. All that mess dripping down your thighs. Fuckin- look at you." He fists your hair and makes you lift your head just enough to see the bulge in your stomach, his cock, thick and swollen, pushing up against the swell in your belly as he pistons inside you.
"Milkslut," He growls.
"That what you wanted? That why you were beggin' earlier, grindin' all needy on meoke some dumb little bitch in heat?"
You whimper, tears spilling. It's too much- but you crave every second of it. "Uh-huh," He smirks, breathing hot filth into your skin.
"You like being red, don't you? Like gettin' filled up, leaking all over the fuckin' sheets like a messy little whore." His voice drops, darker now. The pace is brutal. The sound of your soaked pussy clapping against his hips is loud in the room,arched only by your stuttering moans.
"Mine"
A hard thrust.
"Mine"
Another.
"Say it."
You can't even form the word, not when he's gripping your throat, not when your brain's short circuited from the pleasure, your cunt spasming around him from the fourth orgasm he's wrung our of you in the last hour.
He doesn't care.
"Say it."
"Y-Yours, Joel- oh fuck, I'm yours-"
"That's right, baby."
He slaps your ass, watching it jiggle. Watching you take it.
"Good fuckin' girl, such a good little cum dump for me. Gonna fuck a baby into you, keep you swollen all the fuckin' time."
You clench.
That breaks him.
His thrusts go sloppy as he empties into you again, groaning loud, hips grinding into the mess between your thighs, making sure mome of it leaks out. "Goddamn - take it, sweetheart. Don't spill a drop. You hear me?" Your thighs are shaking. His seed is leaking. And Joel just laughs, low and mean.
"Better get used to this, darlin'. 'Cause I ain't pullin' out ever again."
~~~
You've already lost count.
Maybe it was the third time he came- maybe the fifth. It's impossible to know anymore with how long he's kept you pinned, stuffed full of his cock, held there like a ragdoll while he fucks you into the mattress. His chest is slick with sweat, body heavy and burning against your back as he thrusts up into you, rutting slow and deep. Every movement makes your cunt squelch loud, messy, soaked in his cum and slick and spit and who the fuck knows what else.
"You hear that?"
Joel bites your earlobe as he pushes in to the hilt.
"You fucking hear that, baby? That's me pourin' into you again"
And he is.
You feel it.
Another thick gush floods you as he groans, hips grinding in tight, desperate circles, pumping rope after rope of heat so deep it makes your eyes flutter back. The pressure builds in your belly, a warmth that spreads slow, growing fuller, heavier, deeper.
"Shit- fuck," You whimper, voice shaking. "Its- joel- it's too much, I can't-"
"You can, sweetheart. You will."
He smirks into your neck, teeth grazing skin. "This cunt's made to take it. My messy little milkslut."
Your belly's swollen now, soft and rounded where his cock bulges up through your skin. His hand spreads wide over it, pressing down just enough to feel himself from the inside. "Fuckin' look at this," Be growls, voice dropping filth.
"Can feel my cock through your tummy. You're so fuckin' full, babygirl. Stuffed to the brim and still takin' it. "
He pulls back just an inch only to ram in again.
A squirt of cum spills from between your thighs. It's not the first time. Wont be the last.
"There it is. Can't even hold it anymore."
He watches it leak down your ass, pooling beneath you on the sheets.
"Made my own little cumdump. Look at that mess. So greedy for it. "
Another thrust. You sob into the pillow, overstimulated and burning. Your thighs are shaking, soaked with slick and sweat and his endless release.
"Gotta keep fuckin' it back in"
He shoves deeper, groaning.
"I ain't done. Not 'till I plug you ful. 'till there's no room left in that little pussy of yours."
You're whimpering, clawing weakly at the sheets.
"Say it," He grits out, slapping your plump red ass.
"Say what you are."
"I'm- I'm your- your milkslut," You gasp, breath hitching.
"Fuck Joel- I'm your filthy little milkslut-"
"Good fuckin' girl."
Another load floods you. Thick, hot, endless. Your belly streches a little more beneath his hand and Joel moans sl deep it rumbles against your back. "That's it. Take it. Take every last fuckin' drop." When he finally stops moving, cock still twitching inside you, you feel it. The sheer weight of him isndid. How soaked you are, how ruined.
But Joel just keeps you there. Plugged full, your cunt fluttering weakly around him.
You're shaking.
He laughs softly and strokes your belly.
"Gonna knock you up real good this time, babygirl."
Joel Miller x fem!reader
part 1 | part 2
summary: When your mother asks you to take Joel to a family wedding, you start opening up to him in ways you haven't with anybody else.
word count: 24k
warnings: dbf!Joel, control kink, decision making kink (?), age gap (20s & 50s), praise kink, asphyxiation, unprotected p in v, Joel calls reader kid or kiddo, edging, orgasm denial, orgasm control, reader works out her family issues on Joel's cock, Joel is very understanding and sweet, Joel is something of a fatherfigure and had a relationship to reader when she was a child, I need to be shot, reader presents herself in a feminine way (wears a dress and makeup), reader has a tattoo (not described), description of reader's family, reader drinks alcohol
note: this is what happens when my cousin announces she's getting married! It's been stewing in my drafts since February, I am very proud of it. Inspired by a scene from Fleabag — you’ll understand why. Enjoy reading, and tell me what you think if you'd like. Keeps me motivated and makes me smile
Your mother should be crowned queen of awkward, bad ideas. And this one surely takes the cake.
"I’m going alone, Mom, it’s not the nineteen-thirties."
"It’s a wedding, darling, who will you dance with?"
You scoff – if you know one thing, it’s that you certainly will not be dancing in front of people, not without the sufficient amount of alcohol.
"Are you gonna ask aunt Ruth the same thing just cause she divorced uncle–."
"You don’t have to be such a smart-ass," she interrupted, "Joel would be going alone otherwise, and this way you both get to have someone there with you! I think he’s been lonely ever since Sarah moved out."
And what’s that got to do with me?, you want to ask, but your mother is right. Your next door neighbor has been sulking all summer, drinking beer on the porch and staring at the driveway as if that will make his daughter magically reappear. Sometimes when you get home in the evening you chat with him for a few minutes. You like Joel – he has the same aversion to smalltalk as you do, so the conversation isn’t superficial. Still, it doesn’t change the fact that he’s pushing his late 50s.
"It wouldn’t be a real date, honey, I’d never set you up with him," you mother starts again, and you sigh. "I just think it’d cheer him up to spend time with someone who isn’t your father."
You almost ask your mother to go with him if it’s so important to her, but of all the guests there he’s probably the easiest to talk to. Not one to make a fuss, Joel Miller. You could just sit quietly next to each other, and if he’s your partner you doubt there’ll be much dancing. Maybe you could convince him to tell any other man who asks you to dance to fuck off. It would make your evening much more enjoyable than pressing your sweating body against the friend of a distant cousin and awkwardly swaying to some romantic pop song from 2009 with your parents watching. It’s a mystery to you why Joel is going at all – it’s not like it’s someone in his family who’s getting married. Your mother mentioned something about the groom and Joel having worked together on a job, but you weren’t paying attention much, as it was before she was trying to pimp you out to a guy basically triple your age.
"I’ll talk to him about it," you concede, and she smiles, clearly taking your answer as success already. You’re not as sure Joel will be thrilled about this idea, can almost hear his grumpy response: you even old enough to stay up past 9 pm? Still, maybe it will get your mother off your back if you at least try to convince him.
***
So you knock on Joel’s door, a tray of cookies your mother made for him in your slightly sweaty hands. You know he’ll find the idea absurd, and you’re not looking forward to being teased for proposing it.
"Hey, kid," Joel drawls when he opens the door, an easy smile tugging on his lips.
"Hi," you answer, pushing the tray towards him, "Mom made these and wanted you to have some."
"Geez, she thinks I don’t eat now that Sarah’s in Boston."
You get the inkling your mother isn’t entirely wrong about that, you haven’t seen Joel do his usual run for groceries in weeks. He probably eats steak every day, no vegetables. The thought almost makes you grin. Joel takes the tray from you and raises an eyebrow.
"You wanna come in?"
"Yeah, I’m definitely eating those," you say, nodding towards his cookies. He scoffs good-naturedly and kicks the door open further with his foot.
"No way, I’m not givin’ these away. Your mother’s bakin’ is sublime."
"Think of it as payment."
He snorts.
"What for?"
"Bringing them over."
Joel shoots you a look that clearly says stop whinin’, you live across the street, but doesn’t answer, just leads you to his kitchen and gets out milk and two glasses. He pushes one over to you, and you dunk one of your mother’s chocolate chip cookies in the milk, watching Joel do the same thing. You eat quietly for a moment, just enjoying the sugar melting into your tongues.
"Mom wants you to take me to my cousin’s wedding," you say once you’ve swallowed your first bite. Joel looks like he has dough stuck in his throat, and when he starts coughing you briefly wonder if you’d be able to perform the Heimlich maneuver on a man of Joel’s size, but he recovers quickly, and gulps down some milk.
"Why?" he asks, voice hoarse. You could lie, but Joel would know – you’ve never been able to hide stuff from him. He knew you were smoking behind his garage when you were seventeen, recognized the boys you snuck in and out of your bedroom window. He never told on you, though.
"She thinks we’re both loners."
Joel scoffs, and takes another bite of his cookie. You shrug.
"I told her it’s a bad idea. She said we needed a dance partner."
You’re grinning, the idea of Joel in a suit and dancing more than absurd. The most you’ve seen him do is tap his foot while listening to his classic rock radio station in his garage.
"I don’t dance," he answers, his brows furrowing.
"Neither do I."
He looks at you inquiringly, and you raise your eyebrows.
"What?"
"You’re what, twenty-one and you don’t dance? Aren’t you supposed to be spendin’ your weekends in clubs, makin’ all sorts of bad choices?"
"Okay, then, let me rephrase that: I don’t dance without at least four shots of tequila in my bloodstream and I doubt my parents would approve of me getting wasted at a family wedding."
Joel hums, as if to say fair point, and looks thoughtful for a second.
"You wanna go with someone else?"
The question is unexpected, you can’t help but answer it honestly.
"No."
Joel holds your eye contact, and you sigh.
"I’m not seeing anyone at the moment and my family is fucking insane, so I’m definitely not taking any of my friends."
That makes Joel chuckle, and for a brief moment you wonder what he thinks of your family.
"So let me take you, then. Wouldn’t have to waltz or nothin’."
No comment about your age, no teasing remarks about the boys Joel knows you see without your parents being aware of it.
"Why?"
Even to your own ears, your voice sounds suspicious. You lean on Joel’s kitchen island and stare up at him inquiringly. He doesn’t look away, not intimidated in the slightest.
"Your Dad’s been tryin’ to get me to ask out Loretta Henderson."
"What, and you’re not interested?"
You know Loretta, a nosy woman who knows all the gossip in the neighborhood. The thought of Joel going out with her makes you frown, he’s so much nicer than her.
"No," Joel just answers, but doesn’t offer much more. You sigh, and he cocks an eyebrow. "What, are you Loretta Henderson’s personal cupid now?"
"It’s not that," you say a little grumbly.
"What, then?"
His voice is uncharacteristically gentle, and you find yourself giving into his question before you can change your mind.
"I don’t wanna go to that stupid fucking wedding at all."
There, it’s out in the open, all your childish and petulant disdain for family events. Now he’ll demand explanations, say you’re silly, to grow up and make your parents happy.
"So don’t go."
You stare at him. He stares back, and after a couple of seconds the corners of his mouth lift in a brief, tentative smile.
"You don’t gotta go, kid, with me or with anyone. You’re an adult."
Sure, but it’s your cousin’s wedding. Who bails on something like that? Joel Miller, maybe. He’s not exactly known to be the life of every party, although you know he can stomach quite a few beers. The thought of him building a tolerance on his own makes your frown reappear.
"It’s not that simple," you answer, staring at the crumbs of cookie in what’s left of your milk. "My parents would kill me. Like, genuinely, they’d put an axe to my neck."
Joel chuckles and the sound feels warm in your ears.
"I highly doubt that. You wanna talk about why you’re skippin’ a free three course meal and unlimited drinks?"
"I’m not skipping anything," you argue, then sigh, and look at your hands. "I’m the second oldest after my cousin, and she’s got this great guy, and a degree, and probably twin babies who won’t ever cry on the way, and I…I just don’t think I can handle every single one of my aunts asking me why I’m still single."
Joel is watching you, and hums as if to say he understands, and before you change your mind, you keep rambling.
"I always gotta justify every decision I make to them, you know? Like when I started my first degree, and when I quit it, and when I cut my hair, and got a tattoo. It’s exhausting. I’m awful at decision-making on the best of days, but my whole extended family scrutinizing me makes it hell."
You know you’re being dramatic, that there’s people with worse problems than a distant family member’s snide comments about a tattoo. But still. Still, you don’t want to spend your precious free day defending the choices you struggled with making in the first place, choices you question yourself, day after day.
Joel looks thoughtful, and he contemplates your words for so long, you think he might not answer at all, but then he pushes the cookies over to you, as if to say you need these more than me.
"I was so young when I had Sarah," Joel says to your surprise, "and everybody had somethin’ to say about it. Kept askin’ me if I was sure about havin’ a kid at that age, while I was holdin’ her in my arms, as if I could’ve just gotten her receipt and returned her like a pair of jeans."
You’re not entirely certain, but you think this might not be the kind of thing Joel tells people easily. He sighs.
"Look, I know it’s exhaustin’ to always have to stand your ground, ’specially when it’s shaky even without people voicing their unwarranted opinions. If peace of mind is what ya want, I’d say definitely avoid them. But if you wanna stand up for yourself and tell them to mind their business, I’ll drive your getaway car."
It’s so very much like Joel to offer something like that – taking you to a wedding just so that you can leave it. You can’t help it, you smile. He smiles back, and it makes the crinkles around his eyes more prominent. It’s a good look on him.
"Alright," you say after a second, thinking that if all else fails, you’ll be able to explain all the family gossip to Joel – maybe the day doesn’t have to be all bad.
"Alright," Joel agrees, "what color dress are you wearin’? So I can match my tie."
You groan – partly because the image of Joel Miller in a suit and tie is, for some reason, devastating, and partly because the idea of picking a dress makes you want to scream.
"Fuck, Joel, they’re gonna hate whatever I wear anyway," you mutter, aware you’re making something big out of something small, that any girl would be happy to get to pick out a pretty dress for a wedding – you can see the judgmental looks already, though: too overdressed, too underdressed, too colorful, too conservative, too this and that.
When you look up, Joel is watching you, brows furrowed while he’s thinking. You kind of wish he’d just tell you to suck it up and stop whining.
"Want me to pick it?"
You stare at him. It’s an odd proposition, and the absurdity of the situation is catching up to you – Joel Miller asking to pick your dress for the wedding he’s taking you to, so that the decision won’t fall onto your shoulders. Flannel-wearing, denim-loving Joel, picking a dress he thinks is best suited for you and for the occasion, perhaps even one he would like to see you in. It makes your head spin. It’s strange, absurd, weird, but the idea is oddly soothing. Would you feel self-conscious under your family’s stares if you knew Joel liked the dress? If the choice wasn’t yours in the first place, would you still find a way to feel guilty about it?
"I do," you answer quietly. You know you’re treading in dangerous waters now. Something feels blurry about this conversation, and although you trust Joel not to have ulterior motives, you’re also aware you both know there’s something happening here beyond a choice of dress.
"Alright," Joel says again, just like that.
"Alright," you say. Just like that.
***
Joel takes you shopping, because in his own words he’s never had to buy a fancy dress for Sarah, so you hop onto the passenger seat of his Bronco and try to find a radio station with songs that aren’t several decades older than you, but Joel doesn’t seem to enjoy anything past the 80s, so you opt for a 60s station – Dusty Springfield coos into your ear as you watch Joel turn on the engine.
"My parents somehow don’t think this is strange," you say, and Joel shoots you a glance – you’re clearly implying they should.
"Do you?"
You hum, then shrug.
"I’ve never met a straight man who went shopping for dresses voluntarily. Is there a specific reason you’re not interested in Mrs. Henderson?"
Joel looks over at you with a raised eyebrow.
"Sarah says it’s not politically correct to joke about bein’ gay," he answers seriously, and you grin.
"Yeah, but it’s funny in this case. Poor Loretta, she’s so blissfully unaware of just how small her shot at going out with you is."
Joel shakes his head, but you can see his mouth twitching under his beard.
"Your teasin’ don’t affect me, sweetheart."
"Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it, Miller."
"I have."
You gape at him, and an involuntary giggle leaves your mouth.
"You’re kidding."
Joel laughs, and runs a broad palm over his beard.
"I’m not. Had a friend called Bill who kissed me once. Hell, I must’ve been your age."
"What happened?" you ask impatiently, a broad smile on your face. Joel shrugs.
"Nothin’. Was a good kiss, but the beard sorta bothered me, so I told him I wasn’t interested like that and that he should ask out Frank. He was another friend of ours, ’n I knew he liked Bill. They’re married now, as far as I know."
It’s oddly sweet instead of funny, and you watch the scenery pass with a smile on your face.
"So why are you spending your Saturday at the mall with me instead of…I don’t know, tinkering with your car? Missing Sarah already?"
Joel looks over and smiles, and in that brief second something in your stomach flutters.
"I’m practically forcin’ you to go to that wedding, the least I can do is spare you the stress and get you your dress myself."
"Technically, you’re not sparing me much if you make me come with you because you don’t know shit about dresses."
Joel scowls and you grin.
"Technically, I could turn this car around right now and make you go in a jeans and t-shirt."
"Can’t make me do anything, Miller."
He doesn’t answer.
***
Turns out Joel’s idea of shopping is getting every single dress in the shop in your size, and making you try them all on. Although his intention was to relieve you of the decision, he’s sort of unhelpful – he tells you it looks real pretty every time you come out of the changing room, and when you can’t stifle a laugh after the fifth time, he clumsily tries to explain why – he likes the purply sort of color.
After around ten dresses, each a different color and style, you feel exhausted – you do like a few, but some have more cleavage than you usually wear, others might be too casual for a wedding, and you sit down on the little bench in the changing room while Joel puts the last dress back on the hanger.
"I changed my mind, Miller, I’m not going to the wedding," you groan. Joel leans against the wall of the changing room, the red dress you tried on last still in his hands.
"I’m no good at this," he says apologetically, "told you I’d help ya pick one and it’s still stressful, sweetheart, I’m sorry."
The nickname makes that flutter in your stomach reappear.
"No, it’s not your fault," you answer and play with the hem of the dark blue dress you’re currently wearing, "I just…I don’t wanna buy a dress cause they’ll like it."
Joel considers you for a couple of seconds.
"Which one would you get if your family wasn’t there?"
You sigh.
"But they are there, Joel–"
"Which one?"
His tone doesn’t allow any arguing, so you look at the dresses, chewing on the inside of your cheek. You liked a baby blue one, a black one, and a light pink one. You lift them up to show Joel, and he smiles.
"So get one of these," he says, as if it’s that easy.
"The blue one has too much cleavage–"
"You’re twenty-one, sweetheart, and you ain’t a nun."
It makes you chuckle, despite yourself.
"I think the baby pink one might be too close to white, you’re not supposed to wear white to somebody else’s wedding."
Joel snorts.
"’S your cousin colorblind?"
You groan, looking between the three dresses.
"Which one would you most like to wear in your own apartment, when you get dressed up just for yourself?"
You stare at Joel, heat rising in your cheeks, as if he caught you doing something you weren’t supposed to be doing.
"I’m a girl-Dad," he reminds you softly, and you have a sudden image of Sarah playing dress-up in front of Joel’s bedroom mirror in your mind. Again, that flutter in your stomach.
"This one," you say quietly, and lift the hanger of the light blue dress. Joel nods, takes the dresses from your hands, drapes the blue one over his forearm, and clutches the curtain of the changing room in his massive fist.
"I’m returnin’ these, you’re changin’ into your jeans again and then we’re gettin’ the blue one."
It’s more expensive than the black one, you want to say, but Joel closes the curtain without giving you the time to argue, and you hear his heavy footsteps as he makes his way out of the changing rooms. All of a sudden you have to smile – relief washes over you now that a decision is made.
When you walk out of the changing rooms in your jeans and t-shirt again, the dress you changed out of long forgotten on its hanger, you can see Joel at the checkout, handing the cashier something, and you practically run over to him.
"Absolutely not, Joel, you’re not payi–"
"Thank you," Joel says to the cashier, putting his card back into his worn leather wallet and looking at you, "It’s done. Quit whinin’ and take your new dress."
He hands you the bag with a smile, and although you feel guilty, there’s also a strange sort of comfort in knowing Joel payed for it. Sure, it’s yours, but in a way you’re giving the weight of your family’s reactions, good or bad, over to him.
"Thank you," you say softly, "you didn’t have to do that."
"I know," Joel just answers, "you got matchin’ shoes?"
***
The wedding is still a week away, when you get a message from Joel.
Are you driving to the wedding with your family, or with your date?
You smile, and consider his question for a second. You’re all spending the weekend in a hotel, arriving a day early, and knowing your parents, the packing and driving won’t be exactly peaceful. You don’t know what they will think if you tell them you’re going with Joel, but then you remember your mom asked you to spend time with him so he isn’t lonely. It’s the perfect excuse, and the idea of spending the hours with Joel in his Bronco rather than in the backseat of your parents’ car, trying hard to keep the peace between them while they’re stressed, makes you feel almost giddy.
With my date, you don’t know him tho ;)
You can practically hear Joel’s huff.
Smartass. I’ll pick you up at nine on Friday, don’t oversleep.
From then on you text Joel from time to time. You’re not sure why, but you like the way he responds to you. It never takes him long, even when he surely must be working, and the idea of him checking his phone at a construction site makes that flutter in your stomach reappear. You know it’s stupid, and although it’s not technically flirting, it’s also not innocent, but you tell yourself you’re only going to the wedding because your mother asked you to, so you might as well have a little fun while doing it. And anyway, Joel sure doesn’t seem to mind.
Picked a suit yet? Or r u going in a flannel?
Funny. Picked one that goes well with your dress.
Pic pls??
I’m working. Sorry, sweetheart.
The nickname feels somehow more solid in text than it does in conversation. It’s not a slip of the tongue, he took his time to type it out on his phone, probably with his forefinger, using his other hand to hold the phone.
When the wedding is a week away, your mother starts stress-baking, and asks you to bring Joel one half of the carrot cake she made. You think about asking her how one person is supposed to eat half a cake, but consider your chances of Joel sharing it with you higher if you keep your mouth shut.
When you knock on his door once again, it takes him a second to open the door. He’s drenched in sweat, his old shirt damp and his curls unruly.
"Oh, hey kid," he says with a surprised smile, his eyes flickering towards the cake. "What’s it this time, an uncle’s funeral?"
You snort, and he opens the door wider.
"Are you working out?"
"No," Joel say in a tone that suggests the idea is absurd, "I’m gardenin’."
You watch him lead the way to his kitchen, his broad back and thick arms making you feel a little squirmy. His answer suggests he doesn’t work out, and you wonder if he got so fit just from his job. You always figured contractors just managed the construction sites, but maybe Joel does the construction himself. You think you enjoy entertaining that thought a little too much.
"Can I see your suit?"
Joel glances at you, and you place the cake on his kitchen isle as he gets out two plates.
"No," he answers, a little gruff.
"It’s a common misconception, but it’s actually just the bride who shouldn’t show her outfit to her date," you tease, "the guests are allowed."
Joel scowls, and shakes his head.
"I don’t know anybody who talks back as much as you do."
"You might not know many smart people. I’m quick."
Despite himself, the corners of Joel’s mouth twitch into an amused smile, and he hands you a piece of cake.
"Come on, Joel, you got to see my dress, too," you try again, almost begging now.
"You’ll see it on Saturday."
"Why?"
Joel clears his throat, but you don’t let him off the hook, just chew your piece of cake in silence while you wait for him to answer.
"Cause it’s…it’s ridiculous. I’m not a suit guy."
He’s shy, you realize, maybe even insecure about it. You wonder if he fished out the last suit he wore from the back of his closet, probably still with 80s shoulder pads.
"Now I’ve got to see it," you decide, and when Joel sighs, you know you’ve won. He glares at you for multiple seconds, not breaking the eye contact. Then he shakes his head again, and leaves to get it.
When he returns, he hasn’t put the suit on like you hoped, but you’re relieved to find a classic black suit jacket and pants draped over his arm. You take it from him, holding the jacket up and nodding appreciatively.
"This is nice," you tell him honestly, "no flared pants or fringes."
Joel laughs, the sound traveling up your spine and settling in your chest.
"I’m not that old."
You grin, and hand him the suit back.
"You’ll look really handsome in it," you say softly, because you can tell the idea of wearing it makes him uncomfortable, and because it’s true. You like the way he looks even in his sweaty old t-shirt, but in a suit he’ll surely turn heads. He looks slightly embarrassed at your comment, and smoothes over a wrinkle in the fabric.
He mutters something under his breath and gently drapes the suit over the back of a dining chair. "Wish I could go in a pair of jeans."
It’s endearing, and you wonder if Joel is unaware of how attractive he is. He’s certainly not one to make a fuss about his looks.
"Well, you’d just embarrass me, cause some crazy guy picked and bought a real fancy dress for me. We have to match, sorry."
Your words have the desired effect, and Joel chuckles.
"It’s not too late to bail, though," you offer, "if you’re just coming cause of me."
Joel’s eyes don’t leave yours.
"Gettin’ cold feet?"
You shrug.
"Mine were never really warm. Yours?"
"Toasty," he says softly, eyes still on yours. All of a sudden is a little harder to swallow you mother’s carrot cake.
"You’re still nervous about goin’," Joel says, and it’s more an assessment than a question. You shrug again.
"Why?" he asks, " ’S not about the dress, I saw how happy you were when I made the decision for you."
Something about that sentences makes your stomach flutter again. Make them all for me, you want to say, and instead shove more cake into your mouth. You chew slowly to give yourself more time to sort out the words in your head.
"I just find these sorts of things exhausting," you explain, "I hate figuring out what’s socially appropriate, you know, how much to drink, what jokes to make, when to laugh, what to say and not say."
"I hope ya don’t take this the wrong way, sweetheart, but your family sounds like a piece of work."
You laugh, and watch Joel’s eyes get all crinkly with amusement at your reaction.
"They’re alright," you say honestly, "they’re normal. I’m just sensitive."
"They put that idea in your head?"
That shuts you up. It’s just a quick remark from Joel, but it hits home, and the smile freezes on your face.
"Sorry," Joel says quietly, "I’m sorry, that wasn’t my place–"
"No, don’t worry," you say quickly, "you’re right. They’re still normal, though. Usual amount of uptight and judgmental, I guess."
Joel watches you, and it seems like he’s thinking about something. When he speaks, his words are almost tentative.
"You can stick to me, if you want to. You can…ask me if you want a second opinion on what’s socially appropriate."
Your stomach swirls. You swallow and nod.
"I think that might be a relief," you say honestly, and try hard to ignore the pull of want in your stomach.
"Alright," Joel says, and as if it’s an inside joke by now, you answer.
"Alright."
***
He does pick you up at nine on Friday. You parents seemed slightly surprised Joel is taking you to the hotel in his car, but when you asked your mother what the point of going with him was if he still spent most of his time alone, she seemed convinced. You aren’t sure why you felt the need to convince her of anything in the first place, but you try not to think about it, when your doorbell rings. You spent the night at your parents’ place for convenience instead of in your apartment, so that Joel doesn’t have to drive the extra couple of miles. Your father opens the door before you can, and pats Joel’s shoulder.
"So, you’re taking my little girl to the wedding," he says, holding up one finger in a mock-scolding. Joel laughs, but you wonder if it sounds slightly strained. He meets your eye and nods in greeting. You nod back.
"Do you have your suitcase?" your father asks.
"Yeah, it’s right here."
You go to grab it, but Joel is quicker.
"I got it," he mutters, and you try hard not to stare at his arms bulging under the weight, not in front of your father.
"Careful, Miller, don’t be too much of a gentleman, or none of her collage boys will stand a chance," your Dad jokes.
"Oh, I won’t be," Joel drawls. You turn towards the door to hide your blush – you’re sure Joel didn’t mean anything by that comment, but that flutter in your stomach is stronger than ever, and you almost clench your thighs together. Joel doesn’t seem to notice anything, just carries your suitcase to the door.
"See you there, Dad," you say, "where’s Mom?"
"Rearranging the snack box," your Dad answers, "I’ll tell her you said bye. See you there kid, don’t let Joel drive like a lunatic."
Joel is about to quip something back, but you practically shove him out the door, your fingers digging into his biceps. He can barely tell your father goodbye before you close the door behind the two of you.
"Rearranging the snack box," you groan, "they’re so…so…so not chill."
Joel chuckles.
"I ain’t got a snack box, I thought we could make a stop at Burger King or somethin’."
"Finally," you answer, and open the trunk of his car so he can put your suitcase inside, "a man with sense."
***
"So, what do I gotta know about your family? Anyone I should avoid?"
You grin and turn up the radio a little.
"Don’t bring up vaccines with aunt Ingrid, in fact, just don’t bring them up at all. Steer clear of politics, unless you’re pro-life and think gay people shouldn’t get too close to kids, but if that is the case, steer clear of me."
Joel laughs.
"Got nothin’ to worry about, sweetheart. No politics or human rights, got it."
"Don’t ask uncle Jules if he has children. He does, but it’s…complicated."
"Who’s uncle Jules again?"
"My Dad’s brother. Bald guy with a beard. Don’t call him uncle, though."
"No callin’ people uncle, no questions about family, or politics. Geez, I’ll have to think of some conversation starter."
You chuckle and suddenly feel ridiculous for making such a fuss about attending a family wedding, when Joel is going to have to navigate dozens of people he’s never met before.
"I think showing up there with me as your date might be the starter for most conversations you’ll have," you say, not quite managing to keep the amusement out of your voice.
Joel clears his throat.
"Right, well, I’m sorta hopin’ they won’t dwell on that too much so as to not make things awkward."
"Oh, they’ll make things awkward," you answer, amusement evident in your voice, "but honestly, I think that’ll be the fun part. I wonder if aunt Susie will hit on you, she hits on everybody’s spouses."
Joel shoots you a glance.
"You were worried enough about a dress to consider not goin’ at all, but showin’ up with your Dad’s friend is the fun part?"
You admit, when he puts it like that, it sounds illogical.
"Those are two different things, though. They’ll judge my dress regardless of what I wear, I guarantee you someone will make a comment about it. If you hadn’t helped me, I’dve spent the night wondering if I should’ve gone with a different one."
"You don’t don’t think you should have gone with a different…date?"
You glance over at him.
"No," you say earnestly, "it was never a question of who to go with. I wasn’t gonna go with anyone else, had you said no."
"Right," Joel says, and changes lanes.
You’re quiet for a while, watching the scenery outside your window, but Joel seems to keep thinking about what you said.
"Why does it bother you so much? Whether they like your dress or not?"
You sigh, and he looks over at you briefly.
"You don’t gotta tell me, sweetheart, I was just wonderin’."
You pick at your fingernail.
"No, it’s alright. I guess I just…dislike not living up to expectations. I can deal with it if things are out of my hands, you know, but if my family is questioning my choices, I start to question them myself. It’s the difference between…being late because my flight was cancelled, and being late because I overslept. If it’s out of my control, it’s fine."
Joel hums, and it’s quiet again in his car. The radio is playing Mother’s Little Helper softly in the background.
"I think you’ve made solid choices," Joel says after a moment, "You don’t gotta…doubt yourself so much. I always got the feelin’ you knew what’s right for you, except for those boys I watched climb up and down your drainpipe at night."
You blush at the mention of your teenage hookups, but Joel chuckles. His words mean something to you, though you’re not sure how to tell him.
"Yeah, well, I’m good at overthinking," you say quietly, and Joel hums.
"Cause you’re smart. Dumb people don’t question themselves."
You smile.
"Thanks, Miller."
Joel switches lanes again, and nods.
"I mean it, kid, you’re doin’ just fine. ’N if you need help at the wedding, you come to me and ask for it."
"Alright," you say softly.
***
When you arrive, there is a blur of hugs and kisses and half-shouted greetings between aunts and nephews, cousins and grandmothers, fathers and sisters. Your family isn’t necessarily big, but they’re loud and restless, so you feel relieved when your parents pull you and Joel to the side right after you step out of the car.
"What took you so long?", you Dad asks, but keeps talking before you can tell him about the Burger King break due to a lack of a snack boxes in Joel’s car. "Anyway, we’ve got a problem. They didn’t know you guys aren’t really dating, so they gave you a double room instead of two single ones. We shouldn’t have put your names down together on the attendance list for the wedding, but I was thinking Joel and I can take one room, and you and your mom the other one!"
He’s clearly pleased with how he solved this dilemma, and it takes everything in you not to grit your teeth. You love your mother very much, but living in a single room with her is sure to drive you completely mad.
"Oh no," Joel says, "I don’t wanna cause any trouble. There’s a motel down the street, I’ll just get a room–"
"No way," you answer immediately, momentarily forgetting your parents, "you’re my support at this thing. You’re like my therapy dog. If anyone sleeps at that crappy motel, it’s me."
Joel actually snorts.
"Right, like I’d let ya. Place looked way too sleazy. You’re sleeping in the hotel your cousin booked, end of discussion."
"Fine," you answer, narrowing your eyes, "but so are you. You’re a guest, and I’m a good fucking host."
You hold his gaze, even when he shakes his head in something close to annoyance.
"You’re not the host, you’re a guest yourself. And anyway, it isn’t socially appropriate to decline someone who’s offerin’."
He’s telling you to give in, let him make the decision for you. In any other situation, that thought would get you all tingly.
"Well, I’m offering to share with you, so don’t decline," you say, crossing your arms in front of your body. It feels a little childish.
"Alright," Joel grumbles, sounding defeated, and looks at your father. "Your kid’s a piece of work."
Your parents watched your discussion quietly, and you can see mild distaste on their faces at how you talked to their friend, but for some reason it makes you want to grin. Usually it stresses you out when your parents aren’t satisfied with your behavior, but in this case it fills you with a strangely giddy feeling – if only they knew the sort of things you tell Joel about your family. It would turn those frowns into shouts.
"I’m sure we’ll find a solu–"
Joel’s quicker than your father, and waves him off with an easy hand.
"Ah it’s alright. Piece of work, but good company."
There’s an amused glint in his eyes and you frown at him, half contemplating kicking his shin.
"I’m a piece of work? You’re the one who–"
Your mother’s eyebrows furrow and you fall quiet. For some reason you don’t want to let on just how close you and Joel are these days. You don’t want your parents to see Joel doesn’t mind your bickering, that he does it, too, that it’s not harshness, but barely disguised tenderness underneath the irony. Joel’s eyes are on your face, but you don’t look at him.
"It’s only two nights anyway," you grumble, and Joel nods.
"That’s settled, then. I’ll get the suitcases."
***
You’re rooming with Joel Miller. For some reason you didn’t fully consider what that entailed while you were arguing about it with him – you’ll share a bathroom, possibly a bed. A blanket. You understand your mother’s frown now, it’s certainly strange for you and Joel to be so fine with this situation. You make a mental note to mention only doing this so Joel isn’t lonely to your mother.
"You sure you don’t mind?" Joel asks you when you step into the elevator – your room is on the third floor.
"Depends. Do you snore?"
Joel doesn’t answer, but after a second he shakes his head, though more to himself than as an answer to your question.
"If you’re uncomfortable with this, I really don’t mind staying at that motel," he continues, and you watch him play with the little button on the handle of his suitcase.
"I’m not uncomfortable," you answer, "are you?"
"No."
You don’t know what else to say, so you fall quiet again. Joel seems oddly conflicted, but you don’t blame him, he surely noticed your mother’s expression when you decided to share the room.
When you get there, Joel opens the door, lets you step in first, and you hoist your suitcase inside. It’s a light room, airy curtains, a big double bed that looks cozy. You’re relieved to see it’s big enough for things not to get awkward between Joel and you, and thankfully, there’s two blankets and pillows.
"Which side do you want?"
Joel’s voice is kind, like he really wants you to pick, and you smile.
"Window," you say, the decision coming easily for once. You didn’t consider which side Joel would prefer and picked the other one, you just chose the one you wanted because you were able to hear in Joel’s voice it’s what he wanted you to do.
"I’m gonna change and then I’ll have to say hi to my family," you say, and don’t manage to keep the annoyed tone out of your voice completely. Joel plops down on his side of the bed with a quiet grunt, and watches you.
"You’re not looking forward to the smalltalk," he says in that way of his that is less question and more statement. It spares you from having to answer, but you still sigh.
"No, not really. They’ll ask a million questions about my degree, it’s like nothing else interests them."
Joel’s eyes are still on you, as you open your suitcase and pull out different shirts and pairs of jeans, suddenly realizing you brought too many options.
"Wear that one," Joel says when you hold up and consider a shortsleeved blouse with a flowery pattern, "looks real pretty."
You take the blouse and grab your favorite jeans to change into, glad to finally change out of your sweatpants after the long drive.
"I’ll deflect the conversation when they start talking about your degree," Joel says, crossing his arms, "I’ll mention my age or somethin’."
It makes you laugh, because the idea is so absurd – that talking about your fifty-something year old date would be more comfortable than talking about university.
"Thanks," you say genuinely, "you’ll be the topic of conversation, by the way. Hope you don’t mind gossip."
Joel smiles an easy smile and shrugs.
"Ah, you heard your mother, I’m a loner. Gossip don’t affect me."
You know he’s not being honest – with his connection to the groom, any gossip about his controversially young date is sure to reach his colleagues’ ears, but you’re grateful for his support in this. He’s risking his own reputation just to make this event less dreadful for you. You smile at him, and slip into the bathroom to change.
***
You can see your family from a distance, sitting on some sort of terrace, and you can tell some of them are looking over at you, assessing yours and Joel’s form already. You groan, and tuck your blouse into your waistband.
"Don’t worry," Joel says quietly, "you look great. ’N I picked the blouse anyway, so it’s on me."
You nod, and Joel nudges your shoulder with his softly.
"Cheer up, kid. Won’t be awkward, I got you."
You believe him. You trust Joel to handle the smalltalk with your own family, which should make you feel pathetic and childish and weak, but it’s so easy to let him take the reins. He leads you over to them with a gentle hand on the small of your back and a polite smile on his lips.
"Hey guys," you say, waving awkwardly when you’ve reached the terrace, "this is Joel."
You’ve got to hand it to your family, they’re being polite. You can see their eyes move over Joel’s crowsfeet, his hand on your waist, his flannel shirt, and for a second you feel nervous, but Joel seems so at ease, the judgement pearling off of him like drops of water.
You hug people, Joel shakes hands, says hello in that gruffly charming manner of his, there’s names being exchanged, and during all of it he doesn’t leave your side. He keeps his left hand on your back, lets you know he’s there for you. It feels like a secret somehow, even though it’s not – but you’re tricking your family, and they have no idea what your relationship to Joel is really rooted in. They look at the two of you and see something intimate, sure, but they’ve got it all wrong. It’s intimate in a different way.
"So what do you do, Joel?" one of your aunts asks him, when you’ve sat down – Joel pulling out your chair for you.
"I’m a contractor," he says, and throws his arm around your shoulders. You want to grin when you watch a dozen pairs of eyes follow the movement. Under the table, you nudge Joel’s foot with your own and you swear the corner of his mouth twitches.
They ask him more questions, the sort of superficial things most people think will conjure up an accurate image of the person they’re asking, and you’re more than amused by how Joel deflects them easily with that southern charm, but without backing down. The entire time, his thumb draws circles on your shoulder. You welcome the touch – you know it’s partly to keep up the show of dating you, but nevertheless it’s soothing, real or not. You wonder what Joel gets out of this charade – you get to fool the people who regularly make you feel inferior, you get to have some sort of entertainment at an otherwise boring event, but Joel doesn’t. He seems at ease, though, talking to your uncle about his business, fingers toying with the collar of your blouse at the nape of your neck.
"And how did you two meet?"
Your aunt’s question is sickly sweet, her judgment barely disguised. Her outrage makes you want to laugh and yell at the same time, because it’s not your well-being she’s concerned with, it’s etiquette.
"Oh, I’m friends with her parents," Joel says easily, "known each other ages."
It takes everything in you not to snort at the way your aunts eyes widen, and you’re sure Joel’s cough is really a well disguised laugh.
"Yeah," you say once you’re sure you’ll be able to control your voice, "he taught me how to drive when I was sixteen."
After that, someone hastily changes the topic, and when no one is looking, you throw Joel a grin. He winks at you, and doesn’t take his arm off your shoulder when you lean a little closer to him.
***
"You guys going to the beach, or the city?"
Your father smiles at you, squinting against the sun, backpack already slung over his shoulder – your parents are clearly doing the latter. There’s still time before dinner, and your family decided to split into two groups – you’re not sure which one to join. You look up at Joel, and your eyes meet. He holds your gaze for two seconds, and you don’t need to say anything.
"The beach," Joel decides, looking at your father again. "Could both use a bit of nature after that drive."
You say goodbye to your parents and are grateful for the few moments alone with Joel before joining the others for a walk down the beach. It’s what you would have picked, if you had to, but Joel didn’t need you to pick. Just like with your blouse and dress, he made the decision for you, and even though they’re completely mundane choices, it seems to lift a weight off your shoulders. You can just exist around Joel.
"That okay with you?" he asks you now, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans.
"Yeah," you answer, "anything you pick’s okay with me."
It’s more honest than you necessarily wanted it to be, but you find it hard to care when Joel seems so tuned into you. He watches you, and nods.
"Do you think that’s strange?" you ask, all of a sudden worried he finds your need for a lack of autonomy revolting, or pitiful. Joel’s eyes are glued to yours, when you look up at him.
"No," he says softly, "I think you’ve been made to question yourself way too much. Creates stress and pressure I’ll gladly take away if I can."
There’s no judgement in his voice, just acknowledgement. You look at your shoes, then back at him again. You aren’t sure what to answer – you know it’s a strange conversation to be having with your parents’ friend. Before you can answer, Joel does it for you.
"Look, don’t overthink it. This weekend you don’t gotta worry about anythin’, alright? I’m takin’ the reins."
You probably shouldn’t find it as easy to accept this as you do, but then again you probably shouldn’t have brought a man more than twice your age to a family wedding, so you might as well go all in. Joel’s taking the strain. You can just nod and go along with it. For the first time in a long time, you feel oddly silent. Steady.
***
The beach is beautiful and you and Joel take off your shoes and socks to walk barefoot along the water. The steady sound of the waves and the salt in the air makes you feel calm. Your family is close by, walking in little groups, chatting and laughing. You’re enjoying just walking quietly with Joel, but after your conversation with him, you really wouldn’t mind talking to your family either – Joel understood what you were trying to tell him, and offered to take your worries and doubts away from you. There’s no responsibility weighing heavily on your shoulders, and suddenly it seems easy to show your religious aunts your tattoos, and even defend the degree you chose. Joel’s got your back. He’s got your choices, your decisions.
"You’re quiet," Joel tells you over the sound of the wind. You watch it mess up his hair.
"I feel quiet," you say, "in a good way."
Joel hums, and you’re reminded he’s a man of few words, too.
"What you said," you start, voice uncertain, "about them making me question myself. It’s not…they don’t mean any harm."
You watch your toes dig into the wet sand as you walk, soft, cold waves rolling over them in a steady rhythm.
"Yeah, no-one ever does."
You glance at Joel and back at your feet again.
"It’s just…I know I’ve been talking shit about them a lot, but I don’t want you to think they’re bad people or something."
Joel’s eyes are trained on a seagull landing on the sand close by when he answers.
"I don’t think that, I don’t even know ’em. Your parents are good people, and from what I’ve seen, they’re good parents, too."
You nod.
"Still, even if something is well-intentioned, doesn’t mean it can’t have negative repercussions."
You frown, thinking about his words, and Joel sighs.
"I don’t wanna criticize your folks, God knows I’ve made mistakes with Sarah. But I see you constantly tryin’, you know, always workin’ to please them. Even if it comes from a place of wantin’ the best for their kid, I don’t think it should be like that. Parents should be workin’ to make their kids proud, not the other way around."
His words punch the air from your lungs – his assessment of your relationship to your parents so perplexingly correct, you don’t know what to say. And then his immediate acknowledgment of what you feel in your heart, and don’t have the nerve or guts to voice. You feel your eyes begin to prick, and it’s not the sand or the salt. You swallow hard, feel Joel’s eyes on you.
"Hey now," he mutters, noticing your tears, "I didn’t mean to make that happen, darlin’."
The pet name seems to rip something open inside of you, and your tears start to spill silently, your face unmoving. Joel reaches out for your tentatively – the lines between what’s acceptable have blurred. It’s okay for him to put his arm around you to make fools of your family, but this feels different. You decide you don’t care anymore – you want to feel his warm body against your side, you want him to wipe the tears from your cheeks with his huge palms, you want to hear his voice whisper in your ear. Something about Joel Miller soothes an ache inside of you you didn’t even realize needed soothing at all, but now that you’re aware of it, you can’t help but give in completely.
His gentle palm on your arm is all you need, a clumsy but warm gesture of comfort, and you lean against him, your face against his collarbone. You know your family can see you, they’re close by, walking ahead or behind the two of you. You find you don’t mind – if anything, this will fuel the hoax of the two of you being together even more.
Joel is hesitant at first, but your tears seep into his pullover, and when you inhale shakily, he starts to stroke your back. You hear the sea, Joel’s heartbeat, someone laughing and screaming, possibly your cousins.
"I’m sorry kid," Joel says and rests his chin on the top of your head, "it’s alright. You’re alright."
"S-sorry," you mutter, wiping your eyes with your sleeve.
"Don’t gotta apologize. Did I hit a nerve?"
"Yeah," you answer quietly, not stepping back from Joel, just resting your face against his chest. You’ll take what he’s willing to give you, for as long as he is.
"I like it when you choose for me," you whisper after a minute. Although you’ve talked about it before, it feels different to admit this pressed against Joel’s big, warm body. "I really like it."
You feel Joel inhale and sigh, his hand still patting your back softly.
"I know, darlin’. I know."
"It’s weird."
"It’s unusual."
"You’re not, like…grossed out by me?"
Joel holds you a little more tightly.
"No, of course I’m not. Jesus, no. Why would you think that?"
You shrug, and Joel brushes the back of your head with his hand.
"You want me to make your decisions for you this weekend?"
He has been hinting towards that, inching closer to the realization, but he hadn’t put it quite that way before, and you feel something in your belly stir at the directness of his words.
"Yes," you whisper, "please."
You feel him nod, but he doesn’t say anything for a couple of seconds.
"I gotta know what that entails, kid. We gotta…have a conversation about this."
You don’t want to do that – you haven’t had to explain yourself to Joel this plainly before, he always seemed to just get it, even the things you don’t say.
"Tell me what that means to you," Joel asks you gently. It’s not phrased as a question – already he’s doing it so perfectly, not giving you the choice to decline answering, but deciding you will. It’s easy, this way. You inhale again, and close your eyes for your confession.
"I…I just…I want someone to tell me what to wear every morning. I want someone to tell me what to eat, what to like, what to hate, what to rage about. What to listen to, what band to like. What to buy tickets for. What to joke about, what to not joke about. I want someone to tell me what to believe in. Who to vote for and…and who to love and how to tell them. I think I just want someone to tell me how to live my life, Joel, because so far…I think I've been getting it wrong."
He’s quiet, and you think you’ve said too much, made it too weird, and for a split second you feel like running, but then Joel looks down at you, and brushes one stray tear away with his thumb.
"I want you to put on your socks and shoes, again," he says softly, and you feel relief wash over you in synch with the waves. "Can you do that for me?"
You nod, and bend down to get your socks, all the while feeling Joel’s eyes on you.
"Good," he says when you’re done, and gives you a small smile. Your head feels blissfully empty.
***
You catch up with your parents and the rest of your family before dinner, where they hover awkwardly just outside of the doors to the dining room in an old, renovated stable.
Joel keeps his steady hand on your waist, a sign of belonging to your distant family, inconspicuous to your parents, and a clear gesture of comfort to you. He looks handsome in his dark jeans and dark green knit pullover. You’re used to him wearing flip-flops and a grease-stained black tee, gardenhose in hand, but he cleans up nice. You feel your family’s eyes on the two of you as you approach and lean into Joel’s touch a little more.
"Heya," your Dad says with a smile, and immediately shows Joel a book he got in the city, something about cars you can’t be bothered to look at for longer than two seconds. Joel seems interested, though, and when you move to talk to one of your aunts, the hand on your waist tightens. You could easily go anyway, but his touch makes it clear he doesn’t want you to, so you stay, letting the car-talk wash over you, oddly at peace with everything. Joel throws you one look and his thumb starts tracing circles on your waist. It feels like a reward for doing as he said, and the thought makes you feel light-headed.
Eventually you all make your way to the dinner table, and Joel pulls out your chair for you, not sitting down until you’re seated. It makes your stomach flutter, and you can see your aunt watching him, apparently having noticed his good manners, too.
You flip open a menu, trying to decide on a drink – you’re not sure if it might not be too risky to start drinking alcohol this early in the evening, your tongue might become a little too lose, especially among this group. You look over at Joel, and when he notices, he subtly points to Cherry Coke on his own menu, tapping the word once, and you think he must remember you drinking the sticky-sweet stuff all summer as a teen. You give a small nod, to show him you understand, and flip the pages of your menu to look at the food.
"The salmon is supposed to be delicious," your mother is telling your father. She turns to Joel and you, and smiles.
"What are you two having?"
Before you can open your mouth, Joel closes his menu.
"The lamb chops," he answers simply, and when your eyes meet, it punches the air from your lungs. He looks proud, satisfied, like nothing pleases him more than to see you do as he says.
"Yeah," you say quietly, "lamb chops."
***
Dinner is perfectly nice, the lamb chops and your cherry coke are delicious, though you switch to wine after Joel asks you if you prefer red or white and then orders a glass for each of you. From time to time, he brushes your back with his hand when your parents aren’t looking, and even though you don’t get a minute to talk just between the two of you, you can tell he’s making an effort to be present and attentive.
Your younger cousins leave the table to play outside after a while, and you wish you had a few your own age to raid the bar with, as Joel seems to be stuck in a conversation about contracting with your uncle. You drain the last of your wine, your foot tapping rhythmically against the table leg, and you suddenly feel a hand just above your knee, effectively stopping your movement. Joel’s palm is huge as it burns a warm imprint into your skin, squeezing your leg slightly. It’s like a quiet acknowledgment of your restlessness, and enough for you to feel an odd calm wash over you. Joel seems to have realized you want to go to bed, or at least to leave the table and these boring, useless conversations. He also holds the power to decide whether you will or not, so you don’t have to worry about being rude at all. The ball is entirely in his court. You sigh in strange contentment and Joel’s thumb starts moving as a response, his eyes glued to your uncle’s face, nodding and answering whenever it’s appropriate.
After around a quarter of an hour, their conversation seems to fizzle out, and Joel glances down the table. Half the people have left, either to put the kids to bed, or to rest themselves after a long day of traveling. Joel’s eyes meet yours, warm and piercing, and he gets up from his chair, hand slipping from your thigh. Your uncle is talking to your parents now, and Joel waits a beat so as not to interrupt them.
"We’re goin’ to bed," he says when there’s a pause in their conversation, and you nod, getting up, too.
"Already?"
Your Dad sounds surprised.
"It’s eleven," you say, stifling a yawn, "and God knows Joel could use a bit of beauty sleep."
He scoffs and you grin, which makes your father chuckle and shake his head.
"Don’t let her give you hell, Miller. We can still switch rooms if this little union has turned sour."
It’s clearly a joke, but the idea of sleeping in a different room than Joel is distinctly unpleasant all of a sudden, so you chuckle.
"Don’t worry, Dad, still sickly sweet."
You hug your parents goodnight, and Joel promises your uncle to continue their talk the day after, and then, finally, he’s leading you back outside and towards the actual hotel building. His hand is a ghost on the small of your back, not quite touching, but guiding. You breathe in the cool evening air as you step outside and sigh. The change in temperature is more than welcome after the noise and buzz in your head.
"Alright?" Joel asks, voice quiet.
"Yes," you say, and suddenly feel shy about the decisions he made for you throughout the evening. "Sorry about…you don’t have to…I mean, I can just pick my own drinks and food tomorrow."
Joel is quiet for a second, but his hand doesn’t leave your back.
"Was it too much?"
You don’t answer, don’t know how to tell him it was perfect and not enough at the same time, that his hand seems to be burning a whole into the fabric of your blouse, that you want him to decide to take it off of you.
"Jesus," Joel says, interpreting your silence as confirmation, "I’m sorry, kid, I thought it’s what you asked me to do back at the beach, but if I got that wrong, I’m rea-"
"You didn’t," you say quietly, voice cracking on the last word a little. "Don’t apologize, please. Don’t make this into something…weird or, I don’t know, something to feel guilty about."
Joel falls quiet.
"I hate feeling guilty," you add after a stretch of silence. You can feel Joel looking at you.
"You don’t gotta," he says, shaking his head when you shrug, "no, sweetheart, I mean it. I’m tellin’ ya not to feel guilty."
You shudder, you can’t help it – Joel’s tone has an air of finality you can’t resist. As if Joel pressed a button, you feel the emotion seep out of you. He’s still watching you, and you feel your cheeks burn up. You know it’s a little sick, a little depraved and twisted to want Joel to act like this.
"You know," Joel says suddenly, "when Sarah was ten, you two begged your Dad and me to take you to buy you these headbands you wouldn’t shut up about. They had them in purple and green. Sarah chose the green one, but you just couldn’t decide, you stood in front of that damn shelf for half an hour, until your Dad said he wouldn’t get either if you didn’t pick one."
You don’t remember the shop, but you do remember crying on the way home, Sarah petting your arm and lending you her headband the next day.
"Your Dad didn’t mean bad," Joel continues, "probably thought it was a valuable lesson, but you just needed someone to tell you purple suits you, or green goes with your shoes, or whatever."
You’re still quiet, walking beside Joel in the dark, not quite believing he noticed and cared enough to remember such an innocent incident years later. After a while, you swallow.
"I don’t remember buying that headband," you say softly, "or…not buying it, I guess."
"Why was it so hard for you?" Joel asks, voice sincere "to pick one, I mean."
"I…I’m not sure," you answer, not looking at him, but at your feet moving over the cobblestones. "I think I…I think I learned pretty early on a wrong decision could make people angry or disappointed. By not making one at all I just…disappointed myself, you know? Turning the reaction inward, or something."
Joel hums, and contemplates your words for a while.
"Your Dad, does he…did he…if you’d picked the wrong color, would he have gotten angry?"
You glance up at him, see a slight frown on his face, his muscles pulled tight, and you understand what he’s asking.
"No," you say softly, "no, it’s not like that."
Joel visibly relaxes and nods.
"Sorry," he says with an exhale, "didn’t think it was, but geez, that’d you’d be worried about his reaction to the goddamn color of a headband…"
You sigh.
"I don’t know why I’m like this," you say so quietly, you’re not sure Joel hears, but his hand on your back squeezes slightly, an unconscious gesture of comfort. "I wanna please everyone all of the fucking time. It’s pathetic."
"It’s not pathetic, it’s empathetic," Joel argues, and you frown.
"I got no backbone," you say softly, saying out loud the worst you think about yourself to another person for the first time. "I’m a pushover and a narcissist who can’t handle anyone not liking them, as if I’m the centre of the fucking universe."
Joel stops walking, you sigh almost petulantly, and before you can keep walking, Joel’s hand catches your arm.
"Stop," he says, and without thinking about it, you do. He’s frowning, dark eyebrows pulled tight and casting a harsh shadow over his face.
"I don’t want ya sayin’ shit like that," he tells you, "don’t want ya thinkin’ it either, for that matter."
You don’t know what to answer, except that you do, so you just stare at him.
"Were you a pushover when you argued with me until your parents were pissed, just so I wouldn’t sleep in that shithole motel down the road?"
You look at your hands, and pick at your cuticle.
"Answer me, sweetheart," Joel says, and you can hear the order in his voice.
"That was different, it didn’t have anything to do with me," you say, and Joel shakes his head, as if in exasperation.
"Course it didn’t, it was completely selfless. Just like you don’t want to upset your grandma when she sees that little tattoo of yours, or your parents when you pick a career they don’t like. You’re too goddamn nice for your own good. Too empathetic."
You can feel his gaze glued to your face, but you keep staring at your thumbnail, until Joel sighs again.
"You think a narcissist would have worried about your dress stealin’ your cousin’s show?"
You shrug, aware what Joel wants you to say, but unable to do it.
"You think a narcissist would have sprinted across that shop to stop me buyin’ it for ya?"
"I’m still mad at you because of that," you say softly, and despite himself, Joel’s mouth softens into a smile.
"A narcissist," he repeats, voice dripping with irony, "and I’m the fuckin’ tooth fairy."
"Even if you’re right," you say finally, "I don’t think you can separate concepts like that, you know, egoism and altruism. It’s like, if you donate money, do you ever truly do it to help, or do you do it because you like thinking of yourself as someone who helps?"
"You’re overthinkin’ this, sweetheart. It ain’t philosophy. You had an occasion to buy a pretty dress, and considered your cousins’s feelings – that’s kind. You’re…you’re good."
For some reason that makes you swallow, your throat thick. Good. You don’t think of yourself as a bad person per se, but sometimes being kind does feel like making amends. Joel thinks you’re good. He called you empathetic, nice, got angry when you disagreed. Your chest feels a little warm.
"You can’t see inside my head, Miller," you say, finally meeting his eyes, as he’s towering over you. "You don’t know my intentions."
"You’re not as mysterious as you think, kid," Joel answers gruffly, "why are you so adamant about makin’ yourself into some kind of super villain?"
"I’m not," you answer, cheeks flushing, "I just…"
"Just what?"
You shrug, don’t know yourself what you were going to say, and Joel raises his eyebrows.
"You’re a good girl, a really good person, you always were. So kind to Sarah when you were kids, and now that she’s in Boston, you’re kind to me, just so I’m not lonely."
"Ah," you answer, face heating up, "that. Well, to tell you the truth, Joel, this is one of those times where altruism and egotism are…congruent."
Joel stares at you, and your stomach flutters.
"That so?" he asks quietly, unmoving and still staring at your face. Your neck grows hot, and images of him telling your father what you said rush through your head, of him being uncomfortable, of him seeing you as a substitute daughter and being freaked out by your attachment to him. You swallow, don’t answer, look at your hand again. Suddenly there’s a finger on your chin, and Joel’s lifting your face back up to meet his eyes.
"I’m not makin’ that decision for you, sweetheart," he says, face serious, but a with hint of something in his voice that wasn’t there before. "You ask for it yourself, or you don’t."
His warm hand lingers on your chin for just a second longer, and then he crosses his arms in front of his body. You two continue walking, as if you’re not headed to sleep in the same bed, as if Joel didn’t put his skin to yours in a way that felt new.
***
You’re slightly embarrassed when you’ve changed into your pajamas, which consist of an old pair of pink shorts, and a Micky mouse shirt much too big for you. When you leave the bathroom, Joel is lying on his side of the bed, arms crossed behind his head, a grin spreading across his face when he sees your outfit.
"Nice," he says, and you feel your cheeks heat up.
"Well, I didn’t know I’d be sharing my bed, did I?"
Your voice is close to irritated, but for some reason it makes Joel’s smile widen, and you scoff.
"Unless you’ve got silk pajamas packed, your humor is misplaced."
You walk over to your suitcase and get out your face cream. Joel keeps watching you and seems to have no intention of brushing his teeth any time soon.
"I like it," he says after a beat, and your eyes shoot up to meet his, your knees still pressed into the carpet next to your suitcase. "Suits ya. That blouse is real pretty, but you were tuggin’ on it all evening."
"Yeah, well," you mutter, rubbing the cream into your skin, "I got it for occasions like this one, cause it’s modest."
"Your Micky Mouse shirt is pretty modest," Joel answers, mouth still twitching, "should wear that tomorrow in case you have second thoughts about your dress."
You snort and look down. Micky’s face is all wrinkled, the print faded from how often you’ve washed it.
"I want you to wear something you like tomorrow," Joel says quietly, and you look up. He’s still watching you, voice steady. "Before the ceremony, I mean. Wear somethin’ that feels like you."
It’s a decision he’s making for you, and you swallow.
"Okay," you answer, voice cracking on the last letter. Joel nods.
"Good."
Joel gets up to brush his teeth and change, and you get comfortable with your book while you’re waiting. You know it should feel awkward, being with him like this, but even though your stomach gives a pleasant leap whenever you think about the man in the bathroom, you’re not nervous. Yes, you’re sleeping in the same bed as Joel, but the conversions you’ve had ever since you asked him to take you to this wedding feel much more intimate than this physical closeness.
When he slides under the covers next to you, smelling of three-in-one shower gel and toothpaste, you turn around to face him, one cheek smushed against your pillow, something in your stomach tugging.
Joel turns his head to look at you, and smiles.
"Comfy?"
"Yeah."
"This ain’t too weird for ya?"
"No," you say, "not too weird."
Joel nods, and takes a gulp from the glass of water on his nightstand. You watch him slide his reading glasses away from the edge, so that they won’t fall to the ground during the night, and think of how he got you the dress you wanted, how each nudge and decision he made for you was always in your favor, always meant to give you pleasure or make things easier for you.
"Joel?"
"Hm?"
"Why do you enjoy…I mean why aren’t you you freaked out by…making my decisions for me and, you know, picking my clothes and food and all that?"
Joel is quiet for a moment, and you wonder if you shouldn’t have asked him that, but then he sighs, and looks at you again.
"When I took you dress shoppin’, you looked at those dresses the way you looked at the headbands when you were a kid," he begins to explain, "I don’t care about the dress, sweetheart. But I could tell you’dve gone with one you thought everyone else was gonna like, and it wouldn’t have been the one you wanted. So I helped you pick it, just like I should’ve helped you pick a headband."
Joel’s eyes are warm and understanding when you swallow, and for a second, he lifts his arm as if to reach out to you, but then he drops it onto the covers. You want him to pull you towards him the way he did at the beach, but you know it would mean something else here, alone in a bed.
"I don’t tell people what I told you," you say quietly, "about my family, and my indecisiveness."
Joel watches you with an unreadable expression.
"Whatever you wanna tell me," he says gently, "is safe with me."
You take Joel Miller by his word, when you lean towards him, shuffling close to him, until you can feel the heat of his body through both your blankets, and you can see the hesitation in his warm eyes. You trust he’s telling the truth about keeping your secrets, when you arch your back so your lips reach his, and you brush your mouth against his, his beard tickling your skin. It’s soft, and a little clumsy, until your lips part, the fire in your stomach catching, and Joel lets out a groan right into your mouth.
Finally, he kisses you back, warm lips coaxing yours, his big hands coming to rest on your upper arms, and tugging your body towards his. It’s exhilarating to feel how strong he is, to hear his gruff voice not in words but in little sounds of desire for you. Before you can press your hips to his in a reckless moment of need, Joel breaks the kiss, and your eyes open. His pupils are dilated, his mouth is red and shiny with a mixture of both your saliva.
"Jesus," he says quietly, hands still on your arms, "Jesus, kiddo."
You feel nervous, but as so often, the decision lies with Joel, and that makes everything easier. You were honest with him, stripped yourself bare, right down to the skeleton of your want for him and all of the depraved thoughts you have, and now Joel can do with that what he wants – you’ve offered him all you have to offer and feel your limbs relax at that thought. Joel’s thumb starts drawing its familiar circles, his eyes glued to your face.
"I think we should sleep on this," he says after what feels like a long time, "but, God, I wish I didn’t."
The corners of your lips pull up into a smile.
"It’s your choice," you say, and watch Joel swallow – you think this might be affecting him just as much as you.
"You shouldn’t give me that much power, sweetheart," he breathes, and brushes a strand of hair behind your ear. "Gonna make me go mad with it."
You lean into his palm, which is now cupping your face, and Joel sighs.
"Go to sleep now," he mutters, and the disappointment is dulled by the pleasure of doing as he says. Instead of moving over to your own side of the bed, you rest your head on Joel’s chest, and after a sharp inhale, he drapes his arms over you, pulling you against him and holding you securely.
"Good," he whispers into your ear, making you shudder, and you're almost certain you hear Joel chuckle softly above you.
***
You wake at night, Joel’s arms still wrapped around you, though limp with sleep now. He’s breathing deeply, his chest rising and falling under you as if you weigh nothing, as if you haven’t been lying on top of him for hours. You feel a little bad for crushing him like this, and move away slightly to lay down right next to him, but his arms tighten around you as soon as you pull away, and he keeps you locked in his iron grip, still unconscious, his eyes closed. You can smell his aftershave with your face resting high on his chest, can hear his heartbeat and the air rushing in and out of his lungs. His arms are like a cage around your body, and instead of waking him up, you give in, closing your eyes again, one of your legs sliding between Joel’s. You feel something in your stomach ache pleasantly, but you’re too tired to examine the feeling, just let Joel’s steady breathing and scent lull you into darkness again.
***
The sun pours into the room like honey when you open your eyes again, this time alone in the big bed. You can hear water running in the bathroom, then a quiet cough. Joel Miller is getting ready after holding you all night, even through his deep sleep. It’s a little hard to wrap your head around, so you just press your face into the pillow and inhale, smell his sweat and shower gel, his laundry detergent.
"Mornin’," Joel says quietly, and you turn around to face him. His hair is wet, and he’s wearing a simple black t-shirt and a pair of clean, black jeans. He looks excruciatingly attractive, all solid and masculine and warm.
"Morning."
"Sleep well?"
You nod, unsure of how to address the shift in dynamic between the two of you in the daylight.
"Did…you?"
Joel hums, still leaning against the bathroom door and watching you. Your eyes flicker towards his chest, and you think of the way it felt pressed against your face at night, how his arms wrapped around you so securely. You swallow, and Joel’s eyes track the movement.
"Do you…want to go have breakfast?" you ask timidly, your voice cracking.
Joel shakes his head, and you start picking at your thumb again. You’re not generally awkward around him, but nobody told you how to deal with a situation like this, with you father’s best friend after you kissed him.
"No, I wanna talk about last night," Joel says, and you can’t stop a little groan escaping your mouth.
"Joel, look, I don’t…I didn’t mean to…I was caught up because you understand me so well, and you smell so good, and I just…I acted on instinct, I didn’t think, and if I made you uncomfortable, I’m really really sorry."
Joel is so quiet, you’re afraid he’s going to yell at you, or walk out of the room and tell your father, but the feeling of his arms tightening around you keeps reappearing in your mind, so you push your worries aside. Joel didn’t have to hold you the way he did.
"Instinct, huh?"
You flush, and look at your hand.
"I…yeah."
"’S a hell of an instinct, sweetheart."
You sigh, and nod.
"I know."
"Your father’s goin’ to behead me with a dull axe if he finds out about this."
Despite yourself, a chuckle escapes you, and your stomach flips pleasantly. Joel runs a hand over his beard and walks over towards you, his hair still wet from his shower.
"He’s never been the dull axe type," you argue, "he’ll try to outsmart you with words, though."
Joel snorts, and for a second you feel bad about making fun of your father when Joel so clearly would have the upper hand in a fight, but then Joel cups your face in his massive palm and you stop thinking all together.
He hums thoughtfully, as if contemplating his options, his eyes drifting over your face, and you don’t dare say anything, scared of spooking him when he’s so close to finally giving into this weird tension.
"I’m not doin’ anything while we’re here," he finally says, and you sigh. The disappointment must show on your face, because Joel’s mouth twitches under his beard.
"Not while I’m a guest," he adds, "wouldn’t be right."
"You’re not a guest, you’re my date," you argue, Joel’s hand still cradling your face.
"Yes, the date your mother picked to distract me from the fact that my daughter moved across the country. Who is your age, by the way."
You know he’s saying it to stress the absurdity of the situation, the reason why he can’t kiss you again, but his words make your stomach flutter instead of deterring you.
"I’m not a kid," you mutter, realizing it’s the most childish thing you could have said.
"Jesus," Joel answers quietly, shaking his head. "We’re goin’ to have breakfast now, before I…"
And he lets go of you, steps back, runs his hand over his beard again in that nervous habit of his, and even though it feels like you somehow turned liquid in his hands, you manage to get up.
"You know, we could just skip breakfast," you suggest, "order room service. Nobody would miss us if we –"
"Get dressed," Joel interrupts, watching you with his jaw clenched tight.
***
It feels different, walking with Joel to meet your family for breakfast. He still puts that calming hand on the small of your back, you still tease him the same way you did before, but there is a new tension between you now, as if you’re each holding on to one end of a rubber band. You wonder if it’s going to snap.
"Mornin’," Joel says, smiling at your parents, and you try hard not to let it show on your face that you kissed their 50-something neighbor just last night. When your mother smiles at you, you’re sure it must be visible in your eyes, that any second now she will start yelling. But she just asks you how you slept, tells you how comfortable she finds the beds and that the water pressure of the showers is just perfect. You agree, indulge her in her good mood.
After a couple of minutes, you look towards your father, and find that Joel is staring at you, face carefully neutral in a way nobody else would notice. You give him a tentative smile, and his jaw clenches again, but his expression softens.
During breakfast, he doesn’t put his hand on your thigh like he did the night before, no matter how much you pathetically bounce it just to get his attention. He keeps talking to your uncle again, and you would feel hurt by how clearly he’s trying to maintain distance between the two of you, if you didn’t catch him looking at you whenever there’s a break in the conversation. You wish you were able to read his thoughts, then wonder if he thinks you’re pitiful, and are glad you can’t.
When you’re almost done with your coffee, a waiter comes over and asks everyone to pick something for dinner – meat, fish or a vegetarian option. Your parents start telling a story of the best fresh fish they ate last time they went on a holiday, as you open the little folded menu and read the options.
You can feel Joel’s eyes practically burning a hole in the side of your head, even thought his hands are carefully kept to himself. Then he lifts up his hand just slightly and points to the fish on his own menu, clearing his throat. Your stomach flips again – whatever it is you’re doing, he’s still willing to do it after you kissed him. You close the menu, and smile.
***
The day passes in a blur of playing with your little cousins, talking to various family members, helping with your cousin’s bridal makeup (mostly, you just hold the mirror, which you’re grateful for – too much pressure to actually apply anything on her big day). Joel keeps his distance, charms your family with that twinkle in his eyes, and keeps looking at you wherever you are.
When you’re pushing your little cousin on a set of swings, there he is, sitting on a hotel garden chair with one of your aunts and looking at pictures she’s showing him on her phone. He nods and smiles, seems to answer when appropriate, but you just know it’s boring him to death. Whenever your aunt looks down, his eyes find you, and you grin at him, giving him a thumbs up. He shakes his head just slightly to himself, but you can see his smile even from this distance. It makes you feel warm inside.
In the afternoon, everyone retreats to their rooms to get changed for the ceremony, and you feel your stomach jolt at the thought of finally seeing Joel in the suit he refused to put on for you before. You meet him at the front of the hotel, where he and several of the younger children are kicking a ball back and forth. They laugh when he cleverly dodges their little feet, and then kicks it through their legs. He laughs, too, ruffles their hair, lets them beat their little fists against his legs when he tricks them again.
"You like him."
It’s your aunt, and she caught you watching Joel, a subconscious smile on your face. You glance at her and look at your feet, then shrug.
"I thought it was some rebellious streak to drive your parents up the wall," she admits, and you snort at that, "but I guess you’ve never been the type to do that."
"No," you say softly.
"They don’t mind?"
You don’t want to lie to her directly – a conversation like this, one on one, feels way different than some vague excuses and stories when fifteen people ask where you met.
"I don’t think they know…how close we are."
Your aunt smiles and nods.
"Well, looks like they’ll have to get used to it. He doesn’t take his eyes off of you."
Her last words make your stomach flutter, but it’s the beginning of her sentence that makes you think. Your parents, having to arrange themselves with a choice you made for yourself, one they deem foolish or wrong or even immoral. The idea is almost preposterous – and thrilling. All these years, you were the clay holding your family together, molding yourself until you fit into all the little cracks and rotten cavities. Now it might be their time to soften and adjust, regardless of whether it’s because of Joel or not. You’re tired of being so shapeless.
When Joel spots you, he lets the kids score one more goal, one he could have easily saved, high fives them, and makes his way over to you with a smile on his face.
"Hello, coach," you say, as your aunt makes her way over to the children. "You’d better take a shower before you put on that suit."
He scoffs at you, but there’s that irresistible twinkle in his eyes again.
"You know, my aunt recons my parents could get used to…this."
"Jesus," Joel says and frowns. "I think they’d sooner tell you to join a biker gang."
"Maybe I should," you say, and Joel chuckles. "I’ll save that idea for the next family event. Funeral, maybe. Would be a talking point, wouldn’t it?"
"That what I am? A talking point?"
His voice is teasing, but you immediately regret your words – because he’s not. He got you the dress and he lets you talk about your family, and he doesn’t look at you any different for it.
"No," you say softly, looking up at him, "you’re not."
He doesn’t answer, but you think there is something like relief or satisfaction on his face, though he hides it well.
***
Getting ready with Joel feels weirdly domestic, but comfortable, as if you always share a space like that. He showers, puts on his slacks and a white shirt to wear under his dress shirt, then runs his hand through his hair and leaves it be. You’re glad, you like him best like this anyway.
While you apply your makeup, Joel watches you from the bed, the door to the bathroom wide open to let out the steam. For a moment you let yourself imagine a life in which you always share a bedroom, in which Joel Miller watches you get ready in the mornings, but you ban the thought from your mind, because it’s stupid and reckless and you can’t afford to fall for him.
"Y’look real pretty," he says after you come out of the bathroom in your light blue dress, your hair soft and tamed for once. Your stomach flips, both at the compliment and at how handsome Joel looks in his simple white shirt and black pants. He’s not wearing a tie, but he added light blue cufflinks to his sleeves – a detail that undeniably binds you to him, if only for one evening. He watches your eyes flicker over his form, and crosses his arms in front of his chest, and you remember how self conscious he was about the suit.
"You look…hot", you say honestly, before you can change your mind, and watch Joel’s cheeks flush a bright red.
"Don’t say shit like that," he says, hiding behind his frown, but he uncrosses his arms, and shakes his head. "Hot…"
The first button of his shirt is undone, and you have to force yourself to tear your eyes away from the skin that peeks out, can’t look at his hands either or you’ll see his silver watch on his wrist, and definitely won’t let yourself look at those dress pants, held up by a simple black leather belt.
"Let’s go," Joel mumbles, when you’re done trying and failing not to ogle him, and you grab your purse, slip into your shoes, and find Joel staring at you, when you turn around. He’s waiting by the door, but doesn’t open it when you walk over to him. Instead, he lifts his hand up, strokes the back of his hand once over your cheek, eyes trained on your face, and your skin burns.
"We picked a good dress, sweetheart," he says, you’re pleased that he’s pleased, but more than that, you like how he said we. Not a choice he made for you, but one you made together.
***
The ceremony is beautiful, and although you complained about your family to Joel a lot, you cry as soon as you see your cousin in her dress. Joel puts his arm around your shoulder, stroking your arm in a subconscious, comforting way. You lean into him, let yourself revel in the closeness without wondering what anyone will think – every eye in the room is glued to the bride and groom.
"You want a drink?" Joel asks you when people start to get up, talking in little groups. You hope your makeup isn’t all runny from your tears, but before you get a mirror from your purse, Joel cradles your face and wipes his thumb under your eye gently, just once.
"There," he mutters. The movement was quick and caught you off guard, your stomach fluttering uncontrollably. You’re usually better at keeping the butterflies in check.
"Yeah," you say, a second too late, "I gotta get drunk."
Joel chuckles and together you leave the venue, his hand on your waist, holding you tighter than he did during the day. There are tables set up outside in the sun, decorated with flowers and white tablecloths. People are catching up and laughing, basking in the joy of your cousin and her new husband. Joel leads you to the bar, and before you can look at the different drinks, he orders two Gin Tonics.
"There ya go," he says, handing you a cold glass, and you clink them together, before taking a sip. It’s refreshing, the sun burning your skin just slightly, and you enjoy the bitterness of the drink. It tastes like Joel ordered it, it tastes like him.
"There you are," a voice behind you calls, and Joel steps half a step back from you. "Weren’t those the most beautiful vows you’ve ever heard? I still remember when she was just a baby, and now she’s married."
You mother smiles at you and Joel, then at your father.
"Found the booze already, did you, Miller? Bad influence on my little girl," he just says, laughing and looking younger in the sun. Joel clears his throat, and smiles, but it’s forced.
"Well, anyway, we’d better find grandma," your mother tells you, and off they go. Joel exhales and looks at you. You know the comment about being a bad influence on you threw him off, but you smile at him.
"Get me drunk, then," you say softly, and despite it all, Joel smiles back.
***
In the heat, it doesn’t take long for you to become tipsy at the very least, you really shouldn’t drink gin to get rid of your thirst, but it tastes so good, and Joel watches you so intently. You’re sitting at one of the tables, listening to the music blaring from the speakers, your foot conveniently brushing Joel’s leg every time you move it to the beat of the song.
"We’re gonna dance," Joel says when you’re done with your first drink, and you snort.
"Right," you answer, "we’re gonna dance."
Joel doesn’t break the eye contact, just raises one eyebrow.
"Wasn’t the whole point of going to this thing together not having to dance?"
"It was before you enjoyed the music so much," Joel answers, and you stop moving your foot.
"I don’t dance," you say, frowning now, "and neither do you."
Joel takes a long sip from his own drink, emptying the glass. You watch his throat as he swallows, then sighs and looks at you thoughtfully for a few moments.
"I want you to dance," he says quietly, his gravely voice soft all of a sudden, "with me."
Something in your stomach comes alive – it’s one thing, sitting next to him when he points to a dish on his menu, but his eyes on yours as he practically orders you to dance make you feel all fluttery and hot.
"Okay."
"Good," Joel says softly, and you swallow, try hard not to let it show on your face how much your stomach jolts at his words.
The song is some romantic ballad you remember listening to as a teenager, and you can’t imagine Joel dancing at all, least of all to a song like this, but he gets up and holds out one hand. There are more people on the dance floor, swaying to the music, laughing, some kissing. The idea that Joel and you would join them is so absurd, you almost giggle, but Joel wants you to dance – so you’ll dance. You’re dimly aware he isn’t doing this for himself, but because he noticed your foot, but you pretend not to have made that connection.
His hands find your waist and you wrap yours around his neck a little awkwardly, and he sways you to the music. You’re surprised to find he moves with a certain grace you never would have thought possible, but you give a little sigh of relief when the song changes into something faster and upbeat. Joel notices, and chuckles.
"Havin’ fun?"
You suddenly are, and you didn’t expect that at all. There’s more people joining you now, as you sway your hips and grin up at Joel.
"Yeah," you say over the music and laughter, "think you should get me drunk more often, Miller."
Joel laughs, and gently guides you to your right to let a couple you have never seen before pass. You move easily under Joel’s hands, the insecurity about being seen dancing wiped from your mind by the fact that Joel told you to.
Joel’s forehead is slightly damp by the time the fourth song ends and your feet are starting to hurt in the shoes you’re wearing, so you wrap your arms around his neck again, and pull him towards you.
"I want another drink," you tell him, your mouth close to his ear, and he flinches slightly.
"No need to yell, sweetheart," he says, but turns towards the bar anyway. He takes your hand to pull you through the crowd, and your stomach does a sort of somersault. Joel Miller, holding your hand. Before you can think better of it, before you can worry about your parents seeing you, or Joel becoming angry or distant, you intertwine your fingers with his, and hold on tight. Joel turns his head to look back at you, but he doesn’t let go of your hand. He doesn’t say anything either, not while there’s so many people so close, but he squeezes, just once. Your knees become slightly weak, and your cheeks start to heat up, but the gin was strong enough for you to stop caring about your nervousness.
When you’re at the bar, you grin at the barkeeper, hand still in Joel’s, slightly dizzy from the drink and the heat and all the spinning and swaying.
"One sex on the beach, please," you say, then look directly at Joel with a mischievous smile.
"Jesus," he mutters, then turns to the barkeeper. "She’ll have a beer. Bud. One for me too, please."
"No, she’ll have sex on the beach."
You giggle at your obvious innuendo, and the barkeeper smiles. Joel shakes his head.
"Look, I don’t want her throwin’ up all over her dress, she’ll murder me in the mornin’ if I let that happen."
"Beer it is, then," the bar keeper says with a good natured wink at you. You frown at him.
"I’m an adult and I ordered a–"
Joel squeezes your hand again, and you look at him with a slight pout – his eyes are slightly amused, but there’s a stern expression on his face.
"Okay," you say, "okay okay okay, Miller. Whatever you want."
His eyes stay on yours a second too long, then he lets go of your hand and hands you one of the sweating, ice-cold bottles. You take it, put it to your lips and take a swig, all while looking directly into Joel’s eyes. The way you press your lips against the rim of the bottle is a little too calculated, a little too sensual, and Joel watches your movement with a tense expression on his face.
"Christ, kid, I’m gettin’ you water next," he mumbles, watches you swallow, then smile up sweetly at him.
"Whatever you want," you say again. Joel doesn’t answer.
***
The two of you drink your beers at the end of row of tables, and you’re glad for the moment of quiet – the music isn’t as loud here, and the beer is so cold, you get goosebumps. Neither of you is talking much, but it’s a comfortable sort of silence – as always when you’re with Joel, you’re at ease.
"– why they let her bring him, I really don’t."
Two of your great aunts are sitting at a table close by, completely oblivious to your presence.
"Yes, he’s old enough to be her Daddy."
"And so gruff looking!"
Joel looks away, but you’re sure he must have heard – there is nobody else at this wedding they could be talking about. His expression is unreadable, but his knuckles are white around his beer bottle, and you’re half afraid he’s going to shatter it.
"I don’t understand why she’s interested in him," you aunt continues, "but I was just waiting for her to do something like this, you know. She always was so sensitive, no wonder she has to compensate somehow."
You swallow, your cheeks heating up with embarrassment.
"Come on," Joel suddenly says, a deep frown on his face, and he gets up. You follow him, you don’t want to hear the rest of what your family has to say about you behind your back.
"Excuse me," Joel asks politely, when you pass the two elderly ladies. They scooch, so you can squeeze past them, neither of them saying anything. You don’t look at them, but take Joel’s hand in yours again.
"I’m sorry," you say, when you’re at a safe distance from them, no risk of being overheard, "I’m sorry for what they said about you, Joel–"
"No," he shakes his head. "They ain’t wrong about me. Are about you, though."
His face looks so kind, so sorry for you, you feel like crying. You won’t though, not when you’re on what is practically a date with Joel Miller. You won’t let them ruin this night.
"I wanna dance," you say instead, and finish the last of your beer, before putting it on a table close by. "I wanna dance with you, Joel Miller."
He doesn’t argue, lets you drag him onto the dance floor again, and this time you stand close to him, closer than you should, this time you bury your fingers at the back of his neck in his hair. Joel looks hesitant, his hands on your waist tentative.
"Sweetheart," he starts in an apologetic tone, and you know what’s coming – they were right, your parents are here, you’re drunk, this is reckless. You squeeze closer, until you’re all pressed up against him, your heart hammering right against Joel’s chest. You really are tipsy now, but you don’t care. You lean up, trying to reach Joel’s mouth with yours, but he holds you steady at your waist.
"No," he says softly, "you’re doin’ it to piss of your family."
He’s not entirely wrong, so you let up, but you stay close to him, and after a couple of minutes, his thumb starts drawing circles on your skin, the way he did all throughout the weekend to soothe you, even before you kissed him and turned this into…whatever it is now.
"Let’s do shots after this," you say with a smile, "lets vomit all over their ugly fucking clothes. They want me to fuck up this party so bad, I’ll fuck it up. Gotta compensate somehow."
"I think you’ve had enough, kid," Joel says, his voice just slightly concerned. "You’ll have a headache tomorrow."
"Oh, you’ll pace me," you answer, "given that you’re old enough to be my Daddy."
Joel’s thumb stops moving on your hip, and you smile up at him, which only makes his frown deepen. There’s something else there, too, something you recognize from when you kissed him, from when he saw you in your dress, from when you told him about your family for the first time.
"I wanna kiss you," you admit, "again."
The word tastes delicious in your mouth, your reminder that you have before, that Joel didn’t stop you, that he kissed you back.
"You won’t," Joel answers sternly, and you don’t even think about arguing with him, not when he’s using that tone. The same tone he used to tell you which dress to get.
"Okay," you say softly.
***
Joel does pace you – he doesn’t let you do shots, instead he gets you water, tells you to drink it all, and once again you chug it while looking directly at him, then smile sweetly and watch him shake his head in a mix of exasperation and amusement. After a while you tell Joel you need the bathroom, and when he leads you there you wonder briefly if he thinks you’re too drunk to find it on your own, or if he hates the idea of being alone at this party as much as you do. You’ve sobered up throughout the night, all that water Joel practically poured down your throat seems to have worked.
There is a line in front of the bathroom, and you wait with your grandmother and Joel – an awkward constellation, the silence is thick enough to cut.
"Your dress is awfully low cut, honey," she says after a while, and your eyes meet Joel’s just briefly – told you so. "You’re such a pretty girl, but that just gives the wrong impression."
"And what impression would that be?" you ask, but you don’t want to fight. Their age allows your family to say whatever they want to say, even if it’s not candor, but unprovoked opinions you tell yourself don’t matter anymore.
"I picked that dress," Joel says after a moment, and your grandmother nods.
"Of course men would like it," she says wisely, "but as a woman you have to be above that sort of thing."
You sigh, and Joel puts a gentle hand on your shoulder.
"I like this dress, grandma. It’s not 1850, Joel won’t fall into fits of lust if he sees my ankle."
"He can see a bit more than that, honey."
You make a gesture between a shrug and throwing up your hands, as if to say, well, I tried.
"He’s gonna have to take it off, then, if it’s that awful," you mumble so quietly your grandmother can’t hear, but Joel does. He looks at you with an unreadable expression on his face, and your cheeks go slightly red – you didn’t mean for it to come out the way it did, didn’t mean for it to sound so straightforward.
"Stop harassing her, Mom, this is how kids dress these days," a voice behind you says, and suddenly your mother is right next to you, your father not far behind. Although her words are intended to help you, they sting – that’s all your choices are to them, a product of your youth and the times you live in. God forbid you, an adult, wear a dress because you think you look pretty, it must be because it’s what everyone your age would wear.
Joel’s hand leaves your shoulder, and for a second you’re afraid your parents heard what you said about Joel taking off your dress, but they proceed to talk about the wedding, laughing and joking. You clench your fists, digging the sharp edges of your nails into your palms as hard as you can. It feels like being 12 all over again, their comments that aren’t necessarily ill-intended or mean, so you can’t really be mad about them, the way they don’t even notice they upset you.
You feel a very soft touch on your arm, barely there, just a brush of a finger from just above your elbow, down to your fist. Then it’s gone again, and although you don’t dare look at Joel after he touched your bare skin in front of your parents, you will your muscles to relax, knowing it’s what Joel meant to tell you with his touch. Your fingers unclench, and you feel distantly relieved at the absence of pain in your palms.
You know how reckless it is to be so into Joel, you know nothing good can come of it, but you don’t remember the last time you spent this much time with your whole family and felt so seen by someone at the event. For a second you envision kissing him here, on the dance floor, in front of your parents, and you know for once it would be a choice you wouldn’t question or be made to feel ashamed of.
You tried to, just hours before, and Joel stopped you, because you did it to piss of your family. He was right, in that moment you wanted to give them something worth criticizing, if they must criticize all of the time. But this time it’s different – you want to kiss Joel because he doesn’t think you’re a narcissist, because he sees your anger disguised by politeness and doesn’t think it’s ugly.
You turn to him, steadfast in your decision.
"I’m really tired," you say quietly, "we could just go upstairs, I can use the bathroom there."
Joel studies your face for a second, then nods.
"Alright," he agrees, and you turn around to your parents with a newfound confidence.
"I’m gonna use our bathroom upstairs," you tell them, "we’re going to bed anyways."
"Of course, honey, you go to bed," your mother answers and gives you a quick hug, "but Joel, why don’t you stay? You’re not her chaperone."
It’s a joke, you know it is, but it almost makes your blood boil. After your mother asked you to spend some time with Joel as a favor, after you’ve had to deal with judgmental stares and comments all night, after both you and Joel were insulted by your own family behind your backs, they still have the nerve to talk over you, disregard what you said, pretend you’re a child in need of supervision. You open your mouth, surprised by how ready you are to give them a piece of your mind, but Joel’s fingers brush your waist, squeezing gently, and he smiles at your mother.
"I ain’t the kinda man to stay at a party if my date’s leavin’," he says, and although it’s not particularly rude, there is an edge to his voice, a certain tone that suggests he’s sticking to you out of a kind of loyalty they weren’t aware of, and that he is unhappy with what your mother said. You watch your parents, see your father’s eyes flicker down to Joel’s hand on your waist, and although his expression is unreadable, and he doesn’t say anything, you feel triumphant. There you go, you want to say, someone here is willing to take me seriously.
"Good night, Dad," you say, give him a hug, too, and suppress a smile, when Joel’s hand returns to your side as soon as you step over to him. He smiles down at you, and shrugs out of his suit jacket.
"’S probably cold out, put this on."
You do, all too aware of your parents looking at you, all too aware that for some reason Joel doesn’t seem afraid of them noticing your closeness anymore. You thank him, and he says good night to your parents, ever friendly, but decidedly choosing you. His scent envelops you when you walk away together, the warmth of his body still stored in the fabric of his jacket now warming you.
***
You inhale deeply, push the air from your lungs into your mouth to puff up your cheeks, and sit down on the bed. Your feet hurt from spending all night in your fancy shoes, and your mind won’t stop running circles around the comments your family made. You wiggle your toes, watch them move under the fabric of your tights, then look up at Joel again.
"You look worried," he comments, reaching up to his throat to pop open the first two buttons of his shirt. You can’t help but stare at the skin that it reveals, slightly shiny with sweat.
"That was…a lot."
Joel hums, and slips out of his shoes, too.
"I think you did well."
A glowing feeling builds in your chest, and you can’t help but smile, looking at your fingernails.
"Didn’t throw any drinks into anyone’s faces, so I guess it’s a successful night."
Joel chuckles, the sound a deep rumble in his chest. He sits down on the foot of the bed, still watching you, looking excruciatingly handsome in his button down and slacks.
"That, too, but more so…you didn’t let them talk down to you. Didn’t just agree with your granny, you know? Stood your ground. ’M real prouda you."
There it is again, the pull in your stomach whenever Joel seems to really see you, and before you can think about it, you move over to Joel, until you’re sitting right in front of him, his broad body turned towards you, you kneeling on the white sheets. Joel’s eyes move over your face, down to your dress, your legs in those itchy tights you can’t wait to get out of.
"Did it help?" His voice is soft. "Me tellin’ you what to do?"
You nod, unsure of where this is going, nervous and so content at the same time. This is Joel, the same Joel who held you at the beach and ordered for you, who picked out your dress. He’ll know what to do, he’ll know what’s best.
"I don’t want you to stop," you admit, eyes wide and staring into Joel’s, "when we get back home. I wish we could just…"
You don’t know how to finish that sentence, aware that what you truly wish for isn’t in the cards for you and him, not while he’s your parents’ friend first. Joel sighs, but doesn’t answer. No me too, no we can’t, not even a nod or head shake. A man of few words, Joel Miller.
"You got my number," he says after a few beats, "can…ask for my help, y’know, when you’re pickin’ out headbands."
Without you being aware of it, your face splits into a smile, and you feel tears prick at your eyes. The kindness Joel offers even the sickest parts of you is unmatched, and you’re unsure what to do with it.
"Hey now," he says and puts a soothing hand on your shoulder, "don’t cry, sweetheart. Don’t cry."
You stop, because Joel told you to, your body by now accustomed to answering his command. With a shaky inhale, you calm yourself, and swallow.
"Sorry," you mutter, but Joel shakes his head.
"What’s got you hurtin’?"
The question is so blunt, so heartfelt.
"Nobody else…gets this," you explain, "it’s lonely."
Joel hums, and his fingers start moving on your shoulder, stroking your skin gently, soothingly.
"Don’t have to be anymore, kid. My door’s always open."
He’s close to you, and when you meet his eyes, there is static in the air between you. Something changed, between telling him about your family and him lending you his jacket, something shifted. It’s palpable, real electricity.
"Tell me what you need," Joel says quietly into the silence, because he can feel those unspoken things, because he knows there is something you need in the first place. It’s easy to tell him this time, without embarrassment or shame.
"I need you to tell me what to do," you whisper, scooching closer to him, his hand still lingering on your shoulder. You watch him swallow, aware that with any other man seeing how your words affect him would gross you out, but with Joel it just makes that pull in your stomach stronger. Joel doesn’t answer for a long while as he’s staring into your open, waiting eyes.
"Lie back," he orders quietly, voice gravelly and low. You feel a pang of want in your stomach so intense it’s almost painful, and your mouth goes dry. Joel watches you move, shuffle out of his suit jacket until you’re just in your dress and stockings, then lie back on the pillow, eyes still on him. You’re quiet, waiting for his next instruction, your mind blissfully empty.
"Good," Joel praises you, and your eyes flutter just briefly, giving away how much this is affecting you. Joel chuckles, and gets up from the bed, turning to face you fully, looking broad and handsome and very safe.
"You enjoy that, huh?"
There’s no condescension in his voice, just acknowledgement and warmth. You nod, and Joel smiles.
"Take off your tights."
You do, letting them drop onto the floor next to the bed, Joel still standing in front of you with his hands on his hips. He looks casual, relaxed, not at all like he’s watching his friend’s daughter undress herself because he asked her to. He moves over to you, and puts one broad palm on your bare leg, his fingers slipping under the hem just slightly.
"This will have consequences," he tells you seriously, "you aware of that?"
It’s the adult, responsible thing to have a conversation about what’s happening between you too, but you wish he would just get on with it.
"I am," you answer a little breathlessly, as Joel’s thumb is drawing circles on your skin and driving you crazy.
"You ready to face them?"
The question is laden with all you shared with him before: are you ready to do the thing your family would disapprove of the most, head high and without giving into their judgement? Two months ago, you wouldn’t have been. The idea of their disappointment would have swallowed you, the look on your father’s face as he noticed Joel’s hand on your waist paralyzed you. But it’s almost like a flip switched inside of you through Joel’s consistent understanding, and suddenly your grandmother’s outrage seems almost funny to you. You want this. And you’re ready to stand in for what you want, without shame.
"Yes," you breathe, "I really am, Joel."
You can see on his face he believes you, the way his crowfeet grow more pronounced with something like pride, and pleasure flushes your whole body, seeing how much your answer pleases Joel.
"Come a long way, sweetheart," he says, his hand moving upwards just slightly, pushing the hem of your dress up. You keep yourself from trembling under his touch, hanging onto the last bit of dignity and restraint you have left.
"’M real prouda you," he says again, the muscles in your stomach flexing at his words. "Now why don’t you tell me what you want me to do to ya?"
You’re no good at that. What you want is to take whatever Joel gives you, to follow his every command and let your mind go quiet in the process. But he’s commanding you to think about what you want yourself, so you dig your front teeth into your bottom lip and furrow your eyebrows just slightly.
"I…um…"
Joel waits, his hand patient and gentle on your leg.
"Remember I told you not to feel guilty?"
It’s not guilt, per se, but something distinctly feminine, something taught and learned over years. Just lie back and take it, the first time always hurts, women don’t finish as often as men do. You haven’t thought of sex as something meant to firstly fulfill your desire, as irrational as it sounds. It was a means to satisfying a partner, your own pleasure a nice side effect. Joel is telling you to leave that in the past, to really think about what you want and tell him without shame.
"I want you inside," you whisper, eyes wide and heart hammering against your ribcage with anticipation and the thrill of giving into your need. "And I…I like it when you talk to me."
At those words, Joel’s eyes seem to grow dark, you watch his pupils dilate in real time, and his fingers dig into the meat of your calf.
"Attagirl," he mumbles, and the heat in your stomach peaks. Joel stares at you for a moment. "Turn onto your belly, sweetheart."
You do so without hesitation, without wondering what he’s going to do, and let your cheek sink into the pillow that smells so much like Joel, your calf still enveloped by his massive palm. Joel hums, and then his touch is gone, only to reappear on your back, his hands teasing the satiny, light blue fabric he picked for you to wear. He runs his fingers from the small of your back up to the nape of your neck, and you can’t help but shudder when he grazes your bare skin.
"Let’s get this pretty dress off of ya, hm?"
He pops open the two tiny buttons at the very top, smoothes down the zipper to reveal your bare back. You’re about to be naked in front of a very much dressed Joel Miller, and the thought is exhilarating more than frightening.
"Looked so goddamn beautiful all night," Joel mutters, "wearin’ the clothes I picked. Jesus, you’ve no idea what that does to a man."
You can’t help the whine that escapes your mouth, when Joel’s hands dig into your muscles, kneading them softly and turning your body into liquid.
"So tense, baby, gotta relax f’me."
"I’m trying," you answer softly, and Joel chuckles.
"Know you are, know you are. Doin’ so good."
You close your eyes and let Joel touch you how he pleases, your brain quieter than you can remember it being with a man before him. There’s no fear of what he’ll do if your attention slips, no worry about putting on the right act for him either. Just Joel, his warm hands on your back, and your sore and needy body.
Joel helps you turn around and out of the dress since it doesn’t unzip entirely, moves your arms and legs how he wants so it’s off within a few moments, and you’re lying there on your back in front of him, wearing nothing but your nicest pair of panties and a soft bra to match them.
"Fuckin’ hell," Joel mutters more to himself than to you, eyes raking over your body. You remember the instinct to feel ashamed at his scrutiny, vaguely register you should cover yourself up, but the pride and pleasure triumph. He sees you, and he likes what he sees, in more ways than one. So you shimmy your hips into a sexier position, trail your fingers up your stomach and watch Joel’s eyes follow them. You squirm with need when you notice a very visible tent in Joel’s slacks.
"Alright?" he asks, voice kind and patient, like it would be okay if you weren’t.
You nod, slightly overwhelmed and Joel’s brows furrow just slightly.
"Use your words," he says softly, making your stomach flip.
"I’m alright," you answer softly, your eyes on his. Joel drags his fingertips over your stomach, following your own hand and building the tension and anticipation. You try hard not to visibly clench your thighs together.
"You gonna do as I say?"
He knows the answer. You know he does.
"Yes," you breathe, the feeling of his fingertips trailing over your ribcage bordering on overwhelming. He hums.
"I want you to tell me if it’s too much," he says, voice thoughtful, "will you do that for me?"
"Yes," you say again, your own hand absentmindedly coming up to wrap around his tan forearm, eyes glued to his rolled up sleeve, that silver watch Sarah gave him catching the light with every movement. Joel’s eyes follow yours, and you wonder if he registers how big his palm looks on your skin. If he wanted to, he could touch your bra with his thumb and your panties with his pinkie. The thought makes you squirm.
"I want you to touch yourself," Joel says softly, fingers dipping only just under the waistband of your panties, and you will your hips to stay put, even though you’re one command away from humping his hand like a dog in heat. You flush at his words, the idea of it so lewd and obscene, so intimate. It’s one thing to let him fuck you, to offer him some sort of utility, but to have him watch you get off yourself – it’s everything sex isn’t, not with the people you were with before.
"I…I don’t…"
Your voice trails off, and Joel watches you for a few moments, your pink cheeks, heavy eyelids, the goosebumps on your skin.
"You don’t gotta do anythin’ you don’t want to," he says, voice soft, "but if you do want to, and it’s just your pretty little head tellin’ you not to, I want you to think twice about sayin’ no."
You listen to him, and think about the feeling in your gut. You’re nervous about letting him see something so private, but not because you don’t want him to see, but because he does. He wants to see your pleasure, and so far it’s something you pushed down for other people, not just during sex. It’s easy to give into him when you realize this, and you feel something crack open inside of you, something primal and unashamed.
"Okay," you answer, voice still a little timid, but with a newfound conviction. "Anything you want."
Joel smiles at your words, but you’re aware he’s telling you to do this for your sake more than his. He wants you to feel good about feeling good.
Before you can move your hand to obey, Joel moves closer, leans down and presses his hand right next to your face, his face close to yours. You can feel the heat of his breath on your lips and shudder.
"Good girl," he says softly and presses his lips to yours. You kiss back willingly, eagerly, but he breaks the kiss all too soon, and finally sits down on the bed next to you, facing your half naked body.
"Go ahead, pretty girl," he mutters, "show me what you do when I ain’t around."
You flush, but do as he says, dragging your fingers down to your panties and slipping them in.
"You leave those on when you touch yourself?" Joel asks with a nod towards your underwear, and you shrug and shake your head at the same time. He chuckles.
"Take ’em off, then."
You swallow, and slowly drag them down. A string of your wetness connects the fabric and your pulsing core, and you flush a deeper red, the sight obscene.
"Christ," Joel mumbles, "all that from some pettin’ and a kiss."
"It’s from what you...from hearing you talk," you admit timidly, sitting up slightly to slip off your panties completely. You look at Joel and his dark eyes are glued to your wetness, but when he notices how nervous you are, he strokes your cheek with his knuckle just once.
"Look so pretty," he tells you, "just how I imagined."
That makes your brain short circuit and your eyes flutter closed at the image of Joel imagining you naked, of him wanting you as badly as you want him.
"Keep those eyes on me, sweetheart," Joel orders, and you open them again, the tension somehow doubling as soon as your eyes meet.
"I’ve never done this in front of someone," you admit, your hand awkwardly hovering over your stomach.
"Tell you what, you touch yourself for just three minutes, and then I’ll take over."
It’s absurd. It should not be sexy to have him time you touching yourself as if you’re running a race, but something about it makes you squirm and clench around nothing. When Joel looks at his watch, you almost moan, and tentatively press your middle finger against your aching clit.
"There we go," Joel mumbles, watching your hand move, "doin’ good, sweetheart."
You want to close your eyes, but Joel told you to look at him, so you watch him watch you touch yourself, his gaze flickering to his watch every once in a while. You don’t slip any fingers inside, just tease your clit, but Joel doesn’t seem to mind, and after exactly three minutes, he leans down to reward you with a kiss.
"All done, baby."
You’re lightheaded with want, the embarrassment not quite gone, but distant. When Joel props himself up onto one elbow, his other hand finding your stomach again, you sigh. He’s looking right into your eyes, when he drags his hand lower and lower, until his fingers find the place you just touched yourself, so much bigger than yours. He presses down lightly, teasingly, watching you bite your bottom lip and arch into his touch.
"Hips stay on the bed," he says softly, just to watch you obey, pressing a kiss to your temple. He starts rubbing slow circles, unhurried and practiced, and already you feel the pleasure building and building inside of you. You whine softly, craning your neck for a kiss, and he obliges, his beard scratching your skin and mouth swallowing your sounds. You try hard not to twitch under his touch, which is both so intense and torturously slow.
When the muscles in your stomach start clenching with your impending release, you can’t help yourself and press into his hand, chasing the pleasure, but Joel presses your hips into the mattress with the heel of his palm, never stopping the movement of his fingers. You’re close, so close you feel your jaw slacken against Joel, sigh into his mouth – and suddenly his touch is gone. Instead, his hand starts rubbing your side soothingly, your promise of release fading again.
"Joel," you whine, "what the fuck."
"Language," Joel scolds with a chuckle and kisses the corner of your mouth. "Patience is a virtue."
You nip at his lower lip, not harsh enough to hurt him, just so he registers your discontent, and Joel laughs a quiet laugh right into your mouth. Despite his amusement, his fingers return to your core, gathering wetness and rubbing once again. A whimper escapes your mouth when he finally prods your entrance teasingly, without real pressure, just to make you want it.
"You gonna lie still?"
"Y-yes," you sigh, "yes, I promise."
Joel hums, and pushes in just slightly, just so that his fingernail is barely inside of you.
"Gonna bite me again?"
"No," you answer, "no, Joel."
He pushes his finger inside of you, curling it upwards instantly, and you mewl.
"That’s alright, sweetheart," he mumbles, "I can handle your bitin’. Know it’s frustratin’."
But he makes no attempt to stop his teasing, sliding his finger in and out of you slowly, and curling it just enough to make the pressure inside of you keep building without intending to let it snap. Absentmindedly you move with him, and Joel stills his fingers. You whine, but stop moving, and he presses down on that spot inside of you again.
"Attagirl," he mutters, pressing a kiss to your jaw.
You’re close again embarrassingly soon, and even though you try not to let it show to trick Joel into letting you finish, he notices the way you flutter around him, and stills his hand once again, letting your orgasm drift away.
"Fuck," you whine, frustrated and so turned on you think you might get there if he so much as blew on your swollen clit.
"Shhh," Joel soothes you, adding another finger, the stretch delicious. He gazes into your open eyes, watches you as he makes you feel so good you could cry.
"Easy," he says, when he feels your stomach tense up with effort – whether to come or not to come, you aren’t sure anymore. "Easy, baby. Relax for me."
You close your eyes and this time Joel doesn’t object, as your whole body goes limp and accepts Joel’s power over it.
"Good," Joel mutters, "that’s real good. You come when I tell you to."
And suddenly you don’t fight it anymore, don’t try to race him there, just lie there with Joel’s thick fingers pumping in and out of you almost lazily, pleasure coming and going as Joel chooses, making your brain go all fuzzy.
"Sweet girl," Joel mutters, "just had to give in, huh?"
You don’t bother to answer, just open your mouth for him when he kisses you.
"Think you’re ready for my cock?"
You almost, almost come. He slips his fingers out of you completely when he notices, and your hips chase his hand, but the feeling is gone again, although it was close enough to taste. Joel chuckles, and it’s just a tiny bit mean, but it makes you even wetter.
"Think you are, huh?"
"Yes," you say, and run your hand up his massive arm, "please."
"So polite," Joel mumbles with a smile, but he finally moves to unbutton his shirt and you watch him through heavy eyes. He smiles down at you, no trace of embarrassment as he’s revealing more and more of his skin dusted in age spots and brown hair. He’s strong, soft in all the right places, and you want to worship his belly with your mouth.
"You look…so sexy."
Joel laughs, and shakes his head, deflecting the compliment but looking a little smug, a little proud, as he lets his shirt drop onto the floor and moves to open his pants. You sit up, and reach for his hands, looking up at him questioningly.
"Go right ahead, sweetheart," Joel says, and you pop open the button and slide down the zipper, eyes glued to his bulge. He gets up to slip out of his slacks, the outline of his cock even more pronounced in his boxer shorts. He looks big. You swallow.
"Don’t you worry," Joel mumbles when he notices, and slides down his boxers, too. "We’ll make it fit."
His cock is hard and an angry red, long and thick and slightly curved, and he hasn’t shaved. With anyone else, you would have preferred it if he had, but the graying hair at the base of his cock makes you lightheaded with lust. He looks so manly, in the primal, safe sense of the word.
His fist wraps around himself as he’s climbing on top of you, pumping once, twice, a little groan of pleasure escaping his lips and you reach down to bat his hand away, to return some of the pleasure he has been giving you. He lets you, even though your hand covers much less of his length, and pushes into your hand as you drag it over him.
"Hips stay on the mattress," you tease softly, and Joel laughs, his eyes all crinkly and warm.
"One more comment like that ’n I’ll force you to the edge five more times, sweetheart," he threatens, but the amusement is evident in his voice. Still, it makes you clench and flutter to know he could, to know you’d let him. Joel takes your wrist in his hand gently, and pulls your hand away from his cock, then aligns it with your entrance.
"Breathe in," he says softly, looking right into your eyes, and you do, staring at him unblinkingly and holding the air in your lungs.
"And breathe out."
As the air rushes out of you and you relax, he starts pushing into you. The stretch is painful in the very beginning, but you sigh in relief when the head of his cock is inside and Joel gives you a moment to breathe.
"Look at you," he mutters, nudging your nose with his, "takin’ it like a champ."
You wiggle your hips and Joel keeps pushing into you, the stretch making your eyes fall closed again. It feels like your body is making room for him in a way you didn’t think possible, like your insides are parting for Joel Miller’s cock. He groans, and with a snap of his hips he’s inside of you entirely, his wiry hairs pressing into your mound. The head of his cock is nudging that spot inside of you, pressing against it insistently even though Joel isn’t moving. You mouth at his neck, tongue darting out to taste his sweat and suck on his skin in an almost soothing manner, as your body adjusts and relaxes.
Joel starts moving in and out of you after a few moments, changing angles with every thrust, until a whine escapes your throat. He keeps fucking into you like that, pressing against your spot with every thrust, eyes staring down into yours.
"That it?"
You mewl, when he gives a particularly sharp thrust and Joel chuckles.
"Yeah, that’s it," he coos.
His hands start moving over your skin as you claw at his back and biceps, teasing your sides and ghosting over your nipples still covered by the fabric of your bra. He forces his hands under your body and unclasps it with ease, then pulls it away from your body and drops it. His eyes flicker down and he puts a large palm over your tits, groping and squeezing, then pinching the nipple just short of painful.
"Perfect fuckin’ tits," he mumbles, rolling the pebbled nub between his thumb and forefinger, making you arch your chest and moan freely. Again, the pleasure starts building, and you think Joel might be distracted by his own this time. More than anything you want to please him, though, so instead of chasing your release, you clench around him and focus on not letting go yet.
"Close," you groan, your body rocking with Joel’s deep thrusts, and he stills inside of you, letting you breathe into his mouth.
"Good girl," he mumbles and kisses your lower lip, "so good for me."
Just those few words would be worth not coming at all, you think, though Joel starts moving again when he’s sure it won’t make you come. His hand moves from your tit up to your throat, wrapping around it loosely. You feel so small under his massive palm, your windpipe and major arteries and spine all fitting into his hand like you’re a blade of grass. He squeezes softly, just enough to cut off the blood flow for a second or two, then relaxes his hand again. Your eyes roll upwards, and you bite your lip.
"Yeah?" he asks, waiting for your permission, and you nod.
"Yeah," you sigh, and your eyes widen when he squeezes again, all the while thrusting in and out of you. This time he squeezes for a couple of seconds more, and although it takes a little more effort, air still rushes into your lungs. When he releases your throat and the blood floods your brain, you moan, and feel Joel’s thrusts go slightly more erratic in response.
"Look at you," he mumbles, pressing his hips into yours, his whole weight on top of you. You whine and feel his hand close around your throat once more. This time his grip is unrelenting and stronger, and there is no oxygen rushing into your lungs, just stillness and quiet. You feel yourself go slightly dizzy, watch Joel’s warm eyes glued to your face, and feel your mind go entirely quiet.
"That’s it," Joel praises, "you breathe when I say you breathe."
You’ve never been closer than now, hearing those words, and when Joel releases you to let you suck in air desperately, you almost, almost come. But once again, he stops moving, lets you teeter on the edge and pull back, your brain fuzzy and overwhelmed with the sudden rush of blood and oxygen.
"What do we say?"
You groan into his mouth.
"Thank you."
"Good girl."
Joel’s thrusts start getting sharper, even deeper, and you know it can’t be long now. He keeps squeezing and releasing your throat, keeping you deprived of oxygen and letting it flood your brain again with the smallest movement of his hand.
"Need me to decide that, too?" he asks breathily, his voice rough and slightly broken, "need me to pick out that dress ’n tell you what to eat? Even when to breathe?"
You nod under his hand because he’s once again tightening his grip around you, rendering you incapable of speaking, and you clench around him. He feels it, thrusts harder.
"Yeah," he mutters, "don’t gotta worry about anythin’. I got you, babygirl. I’ll decide."
Your stomach cramps up with the effort of holding off your orgasm until Joel gives you permission, and when he finally lets you breathe again, he brushes the shell of your ear with his lips.
"Come for me, sweetheart."
It feels like your earth shatters, your vision going white, or maybe your brain just can’t register what it’s seeing, as you pulse around Joel, and shake under his broad body, your stomach exploding with pleasure. He fucks you through it, his thrusts so unwaveringly deep he presses into your clit every time. You shudder and whine, suck in air, come completely apart in Joel’s capable hands, and vaguely register him forcing his cock as deep as it will go, and then pumping you full of his hot spend, holding it there as he fills you up.
His thrusts slow after a while, then he slips out of you, and kisses you gently, softly, his fingers stroking your neck soothingly. You’re pliant and fucked out, entirely boneless.
"My sweet girl," Joel mumbles against your lips, "that what you needed?"
You nod, your eyes and limbs heavy as he brushes your cheeks and nose with his lips. He lies down next to you, muscles completely relaxed, and pulls you close against him. You can feel the mess you both made between you legs and distantly think you should clean yourself up, but you’re too tired, too satisfied, too blissfully happy. Your limbs are heavy, and your mind still when you kiss Joel’s chest, his hair tickling your face softly. He hums contentedly, a deep rumble in his chest.
"’M gonna fall asleep," you mumble against Joel, and he strokes your back in response, his arm draped over your side.
"That’s okay, sweetheart," he mutters, and you feel him kiss the top of your head. "Okay if I clean you up?"
You hum in agreement, yawn, and try to scooch even closer to his sweaty body, press yourself against him as if you will fuse with him if you just try hard enough. Joel’s arms around you tighten and you give into your blissful exhaustion.
A very special thanks to my friend @daryltwdixon who was my beta reader and helped me with my English (fuck this language) <3 she also came up with the idea of Joel making reader thank him for letting her breathe again after choking her, so now I’m making you all thank her. Love u, May, thanks for the help <3
