Jul 14
Still with these puppy eyes?!?! Really?!
I can't survive this anymore.
seen from Malaysia
seen from China
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from Singapore
seen from China
seen from Belgium
seen from United States
seen from Lithuania
seen from China
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Germany
seen from Lithuania
seen from China
seen from China
seen from Lithuania
seen from China
seen from China
seen from China
Still with these puppy eyes?!?! Really?!
I can't survive this anymore.
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."
was just thinking about how old as fuck bf Joel would have you in bed by 9pm and had to write it 😭😭 all fluff xx
It’s 8:42 when he flicks off the living room lamp with a sigh, the whole house dipping into that familiar, sleepy hush. You’re already brushing your teeth, barefoot in his flannel that hangs loose and low, the sleeves swallowing your hands as you lean over the sink. He watches you from the hallway like he always does, arms crossed, eyes soft, like he still can’t believe you’re here—his—night after night.
By 8:56, you’re both under the covers. Clean sheets. Fresh pajamas. His arm is warm around your waist and the windows are cracked just enough to let the breeze in. The town outside is quiet. Your limbs are tangled, skin on skin, and he smells like cedarwood and peppermint toothpaste and the kind of comfort you never thought you’d get to keep.
You glance at the clock. 8:59.
“You made me boring,” you whisper, smiling into his chest. “I used to be wild. Fun. The last one to leave the party.”
Joel’s voice is low, sleep-soft. “You’re still fun. You’re just tired now.”
“Because I’m in bed at nine. You’ve aged me.”
He snorts, the sound muffled by your hair. “You’re the one who yawned through dinner.”
“You were the one talking about home insulation and firewood like it was the highlight of your week.”
He chuckles again, hand smoothing down your back beneath the blanket. “That’s ‘cause it was.”
You bite back a laugh, snuggling closer, cheek pressed to his chest. You can hear his heartbeat—steady, warm, yours. His other hand cups the back of your head like he needs to keep you there, needs to hold on even in sleep.
“You like our little life?” he asks suddenly, voice quieter now, almost shy.
You blink up at him, and the look on his face is so open, so tender, it makes your breath catch. That furrow between his brows, the one he always wears like a shield, is gone. He looks… safe. Happy. Home.
“I love our little life,” you whisper. “I’d go to bed at 7 if it meant doing it with you.”
He smiles. Really smiles. The kind that starts in his eyes, slow and crooked and completely devastating.
And then he leans in, presses the softest kiss to your lips, like a thank-you. Like a goodnight. Like a promise.
By 9:01, you’re both asleep.
Wrapped in each other.
Wrapped in peace.
｡°✩. After Super Bowl ｡°✩.
Summary: Pedro is all yours after the Super Bowl ends. Pairing: Pedro Pascal x F!Reader Tags: bf!pedro; drabble; established relationship; oneshot Warnings: +18 content; MDNI; smut; cum; nudity; inappropriate language A/n: first of all: LATINO POWER! second: I LOVE MY BOYFRIEND, HE LOOKED SO HANDSOME AND HOT IN THAT WHITE OUTFIT. Im happy that Pedro participated in this show that's so important for the Latino people, it means so much to us! I'm so proud of my roots and it's so good to have someone like Bad Bunny and Pedro using their influence to speak out in such dark times as this. I couldn't be more proud and grateful for the greatest halftime show ever! I love you Benito and I fucking love you Pedro! About this little fanfic, it's just a passionate rambling of mine. This man deserves all the love in the world and as long as I'm alive he will be loved and desired in all my stories! And last but not least: ICE OUT! AND FUCK YOU TRUMP! Word count: 689
Bad Bunny’s Super Bowl performance had been historic, featuring some of the biggest Latin celebrities of the moment.
And of course, Pedro Pascal was there.
Your man looks radiant: his curls loose and moisturized by Coco, his eyes shining with emotion, the first buttons of his shirt undone, revealing the skin you had left flushed the night before. Pedro is so shy that you can tell exactly how nervous he is, and at the same time how happy he is to be there. He films and takes pictures of everything, thinking about how much you’ll love seeing it all once he gets home. And when he does arrive, he’s still buzzing with adrenaline from having taken part in something so important.
You wrap your arms tightly around him and scatter kisses across his face, so proud of the man you chose to spend the rest of your life with. He is one of a kind in every sense: the most loving, the kindest, the most empathetic. You met at a political protest, and from that day on, you never let go of each other.
It felt like a meeting of souls.
Even though he is famous and you are just an anonymous person, Pedro has never made you feel less important. There was nothing you didn’t know, nothing that ever made you feel absent from his life. Even when you couldn’t be with him in moments like that, he always made a point of returning to you as soon as possible. Like now, in his bedroom, city lights reflecting over his bare chest. You trace invisible lines with your fingers along the small marks on his neck left by time.
He is entirely beautiful from head to toe.
His hands rest slowly on your hips, a crooked smile forming the familiar dimples on his lightly shaved skin. You smile back and brush a curl away from his forehead before he leans down to kiss you. His kiss is unhurried, his warm tongue exploring your mouth as the two of you roll naked across the bed, him leaving you on top. His slightly calloused hands slide along your back as you straddle him and feel him fit inside you.
Bracing yourself against his chest, you take control, moving exactly the way he likes. Pedro is completely submissive to you, letting you do whatever you want and placing your pleasure above everything else. Watching your body overtaken by desire is his greatest pleasure, listening to your breaths, your moans, the furrow of your brow when you’re getting close. His loving gaze admires your body, sculpted perfectly for him, your hips moving in a constant rhythm, your long hair—his favorite—falling in layers down your back.
He loves the rosy hue that spreads across the apples of your cheeks and your lips, left damp from their shared kisses, as the sexual act goes on.
When you open your eyes, he knows, telepathically, that you’re close, and sensing your exhaustion, he switches positions.
Pedro sinks into you, gripping your hips firmly with one hand while the other cups your cheek, keeping your eyes locked on his. He likes fucking you while looking into your eyes, diving into the deep glow of your dilated irises. It excites him even more; his cock feels heavier between his legs, and he nearly cries out when you wrap your legs around his hips and tighten around him in response to his movements.
That’s enough for him. Pedro rushes to kiss you, and you both cum at the same time, the kiss breaking as a rough moan spills from his mouth against yours. You smile, breathing hard, your fingers tangling in the curls at the nape of his neck while he drags his nose along your cheek and buries his face in your neck.
Pedro feels undone and lets out a nasal laugh. He wishes he had lasted longer, if it weren’t for how overstimulated he was.
He breathes hot and heavy against your skin, then lifts his face again, meeting your satisfied smile.
“I got you.” you murmur. He smiles and presses a languid kiss to your mouth.
the babysitter
pairing: clint flood x f! reader
summary: You’ve been babysitting Clint's daughter for months. You didn’t expect Clint to want you. But when your boyfriend doesn’t show, Clint makes his move and makes sure you’ll never waste your time on little boys again.
word count - ~3.2k
rating - E
content - age gap (mid twenties to early thirties reader, clint is in his 50s), story is set in the 80s like the movie, possessive clint, mild violence, explicit smut, p in v sex, fingering, creampie
author's note - I watched Freaky Tales and got horny. Shocking I know. I wrote this super quick and wasn't beta'd, I just needed to get it out lolllllll
The Goonies plays low on the TV, the hum of the VCR mixing with the chirp of cicadas through the cracked windows of an East Oakland summer. The heat is thick, clinging to your skin like honey, curling around your bare legs where your sundress rides up as you sit cross-legged on the carpet. You shift a little, tugging the fabric down instinctively, but it doesn’t help much. The dress is thin, soft, pale. No bra — it’s too damn hot for that — and you can feel every movement, every sway, every time the fan shifts direction.
Mae hums beside you, tongue poked out as she concentrates on the last few pieces of the puzzle. She’s sweet, bright, easy company and you adore her. Babysitting started as a way to fill your nights, but somewhere along the way, it became something else. Familiar. Steady. Important.
Your fingers move absentmindedly across the puzzle pieces, but your mind isn’t fully there.
You keep glancing at the phone.
Jason said he’d pick you up after Clint got back. Some burger place he liked across town, nothing fancy. You’d worn the dress because he said you looked good in it once. He’s not a bad guy, not really. Just… scattered. Fast car, fast words, slow follow-through.
You never asked for much. You figured that made it easier.
But you’ve been sitting here a while now, and the phone’s still quiet. Your chest tugs. You hate that you feel like this, embarrassed and exposed before the night’s even started.
And then you feel it.
That presence. That warmth behind you.
You turn slightly and see Clint in the doorway.
You didn’t hear him come in.
He’s standing there with a beer in one hand, the other crossed over his chest, watching you in that quiet way he does, eyes dark, unreadable. You offer him a small smile, one that’s more breath than joy, but it’s something.
“Hey,” you say softly.
Clint nods once. “You headin’ out after?”
“Yeah. Kind of a date.”
You brush your palms along your thighs, smoothing down fabric that won’t stay where it’s supposed to. Glance at the phone again like that might make it ring.
“Jason’s picking me up after you get back. Supposed to go get something to eat.”
You try to keep it casual, but it lands like an apology. Even you hear it.
Clint doesn’t respond right away. Just keeps watching you with that same quiet intensity. You always thought he was handsome, in a gruff, unapproachable way. Broad shoulders, strong jaw, hands that always look like they’ve been busy doing something that matters. There’s something about the way he moves, economical, restrained, that makes you feel small and seen all at once.
He intimidates you. And maybe that’s part of why you keep coming back.
Clint leans in the doorway, beer in hand, trying not to let his face show what his chest is doing.
Jason Delaney.
Of all the cocky little pricks to get her attention.
Clint’s jaw ticks as he watches her, all bare legs and glossed lips, in that soft dress that clings every time she shifts. No bra. He knows. He noticed the moment she sat down. And now she’s waiting around for a kid who sells dime bags out of his Camaro and forgets birthdays unless they come with head.
And she’s dressed up for him.
If that dumbass leaves her waitin’...
Clint’s eyes flick to Mae, still humming softly, placing the last piece of the puzzle. She’s happy. Relaxed. Unbothered by the tension quietly humming through the room.
But he sees the way you rub her back, gentle, instinctive, maternal. Like she’s yours. Like this house is yours.
She doesn’t just watch my kid. She cares for her. Like I would. Better than I ever could.
His chest tightens with it, not jealousy, not exactly. Just something close. Something primal.
He sets the beer in the sink. Grabs his keys. Shrugs into his leather jacket, fingers catching briefly on the cuff before he turns back.
“You good with her till 9?”
“Always,” you say with a smile. “We’re gonna finish the puzzle and maybe throw The Little Mermaid back on.”
Your laugh is soft. Clint feels it somewhere low in his stomach.
“She likes what she likes,” he says.
You tilt your head, that glint in your eye returning. “So do I.”
He freezes for a beat too long.
She’s flirting and don’t even realize it. Or maybe she does.
His eyes drag from your mouth down to the hem of your dress, where it’s bunched up around the top of your thigh. And then back to the kitchen phone. Still quiet. Still nothing.
She’s not just sweet. She knows what she’s doin’. Maybe not all the way. But enough. Enough to make me wanna keep her from every punk who thinks she’s just something to waste time on.
She’s not.
She’s made for slow mornings. For a hand resting on her leg while the coffee brews. For nights that end with someone staying.
And he wants that. Wants her.
But tonight, tonight he’s got one job.
His voice is low when it comes. Measured. Rough.
“Don’t wait outside alone. And don’t wait too long if he don’t show.”
He leaves without waiting for a reply.
And when the door shuts, she’s still sitting there, same soft dress, same sweet smile dimmed a little at the edges.
Mae hums. The puzzle’s finished. The movie rolls on.
And Clint drives into the night, already thinking about whether he’ll see that rusted-out Camaro in the driveway when he gets back, and what he’s going to do if he doesn’t.
The truck rumbles to life, but Clint doesn’t turn the radio on.
Doesn’t need the noise.
He drives in silence, the kind that settles low in his chest like smoke, thick and waiting. He turns down 35th to meet a client, tires crunching over loose gravel as the street narrows. The sun’s dipping low now, making the liquor store glow burnt orange at the edges. He pulls into the side lot slow, deliberate, parking just far enough to watch.
But instead of his client, he sees someone else.
Jason Delaney, leaning on the hood of that rust-red Camaro like he’s posing for a fuckin’ magazine. Cigarette in hand, one boot kicked up behind him, laughing like the world owes him something. He’s not alone. That girl from the gas station, tight jeans, big earrings, is all over him. Twirling her hair, giggling, running a hand over his chest.
Clint watches, unmoving. Blank.
His jaw tightens when Jason leans in and says something low in her ear, probably some bullshit pickup line that he thinks sounds cool. Clint’s heard his type too many times. Bragging when he should be grateful.
By the time Jason slips behind the store to light another smoke, Clint’s already out of the truck.
He moves fast. Controlled. Steps crunch over broken glass and cigarette butts as he rounds the corner.
Jason doesn’t hear him coming, not until Clint grabs him by the collar and slams him hard against the wall. Brick to shoulder. His head snaps back, eyes wide, breath caught.
Clint leans in, voice low. Cold.
“That girl you left sittin’ on my couch tonight?” he says, calm as a gun cocking. “She ain’t yours to fuck with.”
Jason chokes on the air. “What the—who the fuck—”
Clint doesn’t give him the chance.
SNAP.
Two fingers. Fast. Clean. The sound echoes like a firecracker in the alley.
Jason howls, folding forward instinctively, clutching his hand like it might fall off.
Clint doesn’t blink.
“Next time,” he murmurs, leaning in just close enough that the kid can smell the Marlboro on his breath, “I won’t leave your hands intact.”
He lets him drop, a crumpled heap against the bricks, bleeding, whimpering, gasping between curses. Clint turns without another word. Doesn’t look back.
Some men think sweetness makes a girl small. Disposable.
Clint knows better.
You don’t leave a girl like her waiting. You don’t make her doubt herself.
Not while he’s breathing.
The side door creaks open at exactly 8:56 PM.
You barely register it at first. Just the sound of boots on cracked tile, steady and familiar. The smell of wood polish, faint cigarette smoke, and something else, maybe shampoo from Mae’s bubble bath or the air freshener Clint keeps meaning to replace. It all blends into the background, the way it always does here. Safe. Familiar.
You keep your eyes on the TV, even though you’re not really watching it anymore.
The Little Mermaid is replaying again. Ariel’s silhouette washes over your bare shoulder in flickers of blue and purple light. Your sundress sticks slightly to your thighs where the heat and the waiting have soaked in. You hadn’t planned on staying this long. You hadn’t planned on crying either.
But here you are.
Mascara smudged. Lipstick faded. Shoes kicked off and tucked under the couch hours ago.
You feel stupid.
Stupid for the dress. For the soft perfume you picked out. For brushing your hair and glossing your lips like any of it mattered. No bra. A little hope. And a lot of waiting. Stupid for believing Jason when he said he’d come. For thinking this time he’d show up when he said he would. That he’d see you sitting here and actually feel something.
Your chest tightens again. Not a fresh wave of sadness, just the quiet ache of realizing you let yourself hope and hope betrayed you.
Again.
You almost don’t notice Clint until you hear the sharp clink of keys on the counter.
He moves through the house like gravity. Controlled. Certain. Heavy in a way that makes your heart stutter.
You look up, startled, like you’d forgotten anyone else existed in the world.
He’s standing by the doorway now, pulling off that worn black leather jacket he always throws on like armor. His jaw is tight, the muscles in his arms flexing subtly beneath the sleeves of his gray tee. His knuckles are scraped. His shoulders look even broader than usual, like something’s still sitting on them.
Clint Flood is not a soft man. He’s not delicate or particularly gentle, but there’s something about the way he moves, the way he sees you, that makes you feel like maybe you’re not completely invisible.
Your voice cracks before it even forms fully.
“Guess I overdressed for disappointment.”
You try to laugh. It comes out thin and watery. You wipe under one eye with your knuckle before he can look too long.
“He didn’t show,” you say, barely above a whisper. “Probably forgot.”
You say it like it doesn’t matter. Like it doesn’t sting. But it does.
Clint walks toward you, slow and deliberate. Each step like a question he’s already answered for himself. He lowers himself onto the couch beside you, not too close, just enough to make the cushion dip beneath his weight.
You glance sideways at him.
He’s too composed. Quiet in a way that makes your pulse pick up. His thighs are wide apart, forearms resting heavy on his knees. His hand is loose, relaxed, but you notice the tension in it anyway.
There’s blood on the edge of one knuckle.
And then he says it, voice low, calm, but firm enough that it still makes your spine straighten.
“He’s not gonna bother you again.”
Your head snaps toward him.
You study his face, that hardened brow, the set of his mouth, the storm in his eyes. Your heart stutters.
“What do you mean?”
He doesn’t look at you right away. Just shrugs, like it’s nothing. Like he didn’t just shake your entire world loose with six words.
“Saw him,” he says. “He was busy.”
A pause. Barely a breath.
“I made sure he got the message.”
You go completely still.
Not because you don’t know what that means, you do, but because of how easy he says it.
“Clint…” Your voice barely makes it past your lips. “What did you do?”
He turns his head now. Meets your eyes without flinching.
“What needed doing.”
You stare at him. There’s heat rising in your chest now, not panic, not fear, but something else entirely.
“Why?” you ask, and your voice shakes. “Why would you… why would you even care?”
He exhales through his nose. His fingers rub slowly over his palm, like he’s grounding himself.
“Because I care.”
The words land heavy between you, heavier than anything Jason ever said. He doesn’t say it like he’s trying to earn anything from you. Doesn’t say it to be sweet.
He says it because it’s true.
Clint leans forward, elbows on his knees, eyes straight ahead.
“Because I see the way you get treated, and it makes me fucking sick.”
You don’t speak. Can’t.
“You walk in here week after week,” he continues, voice lower now but no less steady. “Taking care of my kid like she’s yours. Laughing like you don’t got pain in you. Being good. Good to people who don’t see what they’ve got.”
Your throat tightens. Your chest aches.
“And that bastard, that boy, gets your time like he earned it.”
You blink quickly. Your bottom lip trembles. You want to say something, but your breath is caught in your chest.
Because he’s right.
And somehow, he saw you when the person you were waiting on didn’t even bother to try.
You swallow hard.
Your voice is barely a whisper when you ask:
“You think you could give me more?”
The air in the room shifts. Grows thicker.
Clint turns to look at you, really look.
His gaze drops to your mouth. The curve of your cheek. Your bare shoulders. The soft cotton of your sundress where it’s still bunched high on your thighs. Your feet tucked up beneath you, vulnerable, curled in like you’re trying to disappear.
Something passes behind his eyes. Something quiet and unspoken.
And in that moment, you realize it.
You’ve been wanting him this whole time.
Not in some loud, dramatic way. But in the quiet way your eyes always flicked toward him when he walked through the door. The way you noticed the veins in his hands when he wiped down the counter. The way your heart picked up when he smiled at Mae like she was the only thing that mattered.
You’ve been wanting someone steady. Someone who shows up.
And Clint Flood, scraped knuckles, leather jacket, rough voice, and all, just did.
You don’t know who moves first.
But suddenly, everything’s changed.
The line between you and him, whatever it was, no longer exists.
It starts with the kiss.
Clint leans in slow, like he’s giving you every chance to stop him.
You don’t.
Your lips meet his, and it’s heat right away. His mouth is rough and warm, kissing you deep and steady. One of his hands cups the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, the other gripping your thigh tight enough that you feel it in your bones. You let him pull you closer, knees to either side of his leg, your sundress bunched high on your hips. The friction makes you gasp.
His tongue licks into your mouth with a low sound in his throat, and you moan, hips shifting, grinding just barely against his thigh.
You’ve never wanted anyone like this. Never felt wanted like this.
Your fingers curl around his wrist and guide his hand beneath your dress.
“Touch me.”
He groans like it physically hurts him not to have done it sooner.
His fingers slide up, finding the edge of your panties, dragging them to the side with practiced ease. His middle finger runs through your folds, slow and slick, and his jaw clenches when he feels how wet you already are.
“Jesus Christ,” he murmurs. “You were sittin’ on my couch like this?”
You gasp when he slides two fingers into you without warning, thick and steady, pushing deep. He curls them just right and your hips jerk forward. The wet sounds fill the room, obscene and desperate.
“Listen to that,” Clint whispers. “You’re soaked.”
He fingers you slowly, deliberately, drawing it out while his thumb circles your clit, coaxing soft gasps from your lips. The stretch of his fingers is intense, thick knuckles dragging in and out, his palm heavy against your cunt. You can feel yourself clench around him, the buildup already tight in your gut.
“You gonna come like this?” he asks, voice hot in your ear. “Just from my fingers?”
You nod, breath caught.
“That's right. Let me feel it.”
You break with a soft cry, thighs trembling around his hand. He doesn’t stop until you’re breathless and twitching, and even then he keeps them inside you for a moment, like he doesn’t want to leave just yet.
When he finally pulls his fingers free, he brings them to his mouth and sucks them clean, eyes locked on yours the whole time.
“Bedroom,” you breathe.
He lifts you up without hesitation, arms strong around your waist, and carries you down the hall. You cling to him, thighs still slick and trembling.
He lays you down gently on the bed. You reach for the hem of your dress, but he stops you with a shake of his head.
“I’m takin’ this off,” Clint says. “I want to see you.”
You sit up slowly as he kneels in front of you, hands dragging up your thighs. He pushes the fabric of your dress up and over your head, tossing it to the side. His eyes move over your body like he’s trying to memorize every inch.
He pulls your panties off slowly, watching the way the wet cotton clings before slipping free. His voice is quiet, but thick with something rougher.
“Been dreamin’ about this.”
He moves closer, mouth brushing your knee, your thigh, your hip. When you reach for him, pulling him in by the collar of his shirt, he finally strips it off. His chest is solid, thick with muscle, hair dusting down to his waistband.
You palm over the bulge in his jeans and he groans into your skin.
You look up at him, flushed and needy.
“Clint. Please.”
He unbuckles his belt with slow, deliberate movements, and when his cock springs free, your breath catches.
He’s big. Thick. Long. Heavy against his hand as he strokes himself once, then twice, just to see the way you look at it.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “You like that?”
You nod, biting your lip.
“Gonna stretch you real good, sweetheart.”
He kisses you again as he settles between your thighs, not hurried, not fumbling. He lines himself up, dragging the tip through your slick before pressing in slow. Inch by inch. You gasp at the stretch, your walls tightening around him.
“Fuck,” he grits out, eyes fluttering shut. “So tight.”
You wrap your arms around his shoulders as he bottoms out, buried to the hilt.
Clint doesn’t move at first. He holds himself there, letting you feel all of him, letting you catch your breath.
When he does start to thrust, it’s slow at first, deep and measured, each one pressing right against that spot inside that makes you moan into his mouth. He cups your thigh and pushes it higher, opening you wider.
“This is mine now,” he whispers. “You understand me?”
You nod, nails dragging lightly down his back.
“Say it.”
“I’m yours,” you breathe. “All yours.”
That flips something in him.
He groans low, thrusts harder, his hand sliding down to rub your clit as he fucks into you.
You come again with a cry, clenching hard around him, and he doesn’t stop. His hips keep driving into you, deeper, rougher, chasing his own edge now.
“Gonna fill you up,” he pants. “Wanna come so deep you feel it all night.”
You pull him in tighter, wrapping your legs around him.
“Do it,” you whisper. “Please.”
Clint grunts, low and guttural, and pushes deep one last time as he spills into you, thick and hot, hips jerking with each pulse. You feel it flood you, the warmth between your thighs unmistakable.
He collapses against you, chest heaving, one hand cradling your jaw as he presses a soft kiss to your cheek.
Neither of you speak for a moment. Just the sound of your breathing, the creak of the mattress, the fan in the hallway spinning slow.
Eventually, Clint pulls out gently and reaches for the towel on the dresser, wiping between your legs with soft care. He doesn't rush. Doesn’t say a word about it. Just takes care of you like it’s something he’s always meant to do.
He tosses the towel aside, then pulls the blanket up and lifts you against his chest.
You settle there, warm and exhausted, your head on his shoulder, one arm draped across his chest.
His fingers trace slow circles into your hip.
“You stayin’ tonight?” he murmurs.
You nod without opening your eyes.
“Good,” he says. “That’s real good.”
He doesn’t move away.
Doesn’t leave space between you.
And as sleep starts to settle in, you realize it’s the first time in a long time someone followed through.
You feel safe. Seen. Wanted.
And Clint Flood holds you like he’s not letting go.
Not now. Not ever.
𝒄𝒂𝒔𝒖𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒚 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒔
pairing: harry castillo x f!reader
summary: you and harry fuck in the shower. you later realize that something has changed.
warnings: 4.8k wc. explicit content. pre-established fwb. handjob. fingering. unprotected p-in-v shower sex. fluffy aftercare. feelings get involved. contains a minor spoiler. no physical description of the reader other than she has hair.
a/n: full disclosure, i haven’t seen materialists (& idk if i ever will bc from what i heard about what happens, watching it will just make me mad lmao). anyway, after seeing this gif and harry edits, something possessed me to write this.
as always, hope you enjoy and feedback would be much appreciated!
Fuck, you need him.
Again.
Badly.
You had stirred awake at the sound of the shower turning on in the private en-suite, your hand brushing across the silk sheets beside you that are still warm. Then, comes the tender, pulsing ache between your thighs, one that sharpens when your memory starts drifting back;
His mouth, his fingers, his hands. Skin on skin, your breaths and moans intertwined like your bodies were, moving as one.
It has only been two, three hours since Harry's cock was buried deep inside you, his voice low and sinful as he whispered the filthiest things into your ear. He made you cum for a third time right there that night, much harder than the previous two (or ever)— and god, it was so intense that you passed out in his arms immediately after.
Now, you lie in an empty bed that’s too big for one person, craving Harry again as if you weren’t satisfied the last time. The truth is, he’s ruined you. He has from the very first moment you started sleeping together. Three months ago, to be precise, when this arrangement—pure hot sex, no strings attached— was agreed upon. You never expected it to leave you this wrecked and wanting more and more.
Harry is charming, handsome. Irresistible, addicting. Like he’s the only thing in the world that could pull you apart and piece you back together under the same touch.
And he’s in the other room. Standing alone, naked under a spray of water. Just several strides away.
Without a second thought, you throw back the covers and roll out of bed. Your bare skin prickles from the chill in the air; your body throbs from the earlier activities, and you almost couldn’t walk a straight path. But you don’t seem to care. Your feet carry you towards the bathroom door left ajar, not wasting any more time.
The warm, humid fog greets you at first. The water pattering softly against the pale white tile masks the noise of your movements as you approach the misted-glass shower stall.
Harry doesn’t notice you immediately, allowing you a few seconds to admire the sight of his broad back and shoulders. The way beads of water glisten and slide across taut muscles that ripple under his skin as he lathers soap unhurriedly all over his body.
Not only does he fuck like a god, but he looks like one, too.
He hums an unfamiliar tune to himself, quiet but rich; smooth and warm like whiskey. It echoes off the walls, the rumbling sound close to a touch you somehow feel even if it didn't land.
Your breath catches somewhere between your lungs and your lips. It's sweet, slow torture— you standing there and not saying a word, not reaching out. You can't tear your eyes away, not that you wanted to. Fuck, no. You're going to savor every second of this, commit each detail of Harry to memory, and tuck it away with all the other dirty ones.
And when you've finally had enough— when the blooming heat in your belly has melted down your restraint— you slip into the shower stall behind Harry, pressing your body gently into his solid back. He doesn't tense up at your unexpected presence. If anything, he relaxes more with you there. Steam envelops you as your hands glide over his slick chest, feeling the thrumming beneath your palm when he chuckles.
"Didn't mean to wake you, baby. You should've stayed in bed, I wasn't going to take too long," Harry says, his hand catching one of yours to bring up to his lips.
In return, you softly kiss the hollow between his shoulder blades. "And lose out on an opportunity to watch you in the shower? No, thank you. Besides, m'not really tired anymore."
"Sure about that?" He wonders, and you can practically hear the smirk in his tone. "Thought I wore you out pretty good earlier."
"Mhmm, you did," you murmur against Harry's back, your hands beginning to drift down his chest, fingers slowly caressing his soft belly, and the thatch of hair there. You almost miss the subtle stutter of his breath, drowned out by the steady cascade above your heads. "But I missed you and this..."
Harry lets out a soft groan when your hand lightly brushes against his cock, which has been stirring with interest from the moment your touch landed upon him. You grin at that, unseen by him, of course. You relish knowing how fast he gets worked up by you, from not doing too much at that either.
"Needy, needy girl," he cooes, thinking he’s in complete control here, just like always. Harry tries to turn around and face you, but you gently push forward, pinning him to the wall.
You keep your body flush against Harry’s to give him no room to move. He doesn’t fight it, though, which is more surprising to you than not. Perhaps he doesn’t make an attempt because your fingers are now wrapped around the girth of his cock, choosing to surrender to baser urges rather than delay relief.
But then again, you know Harry. You know he likes it when you show him what you want. When that bold confidence of yours doesn't shy away from him, acting as though you're worth more than his wealth and yours combined. It's what drew him to you when you first met at some glitzy gala in Manhattan neither of you wanted to attend in the first place. Maybe you taking the lead for a change is turning him on more than he anticipated.
“Fu-uck, baby. That’s it,” Harry grunts, rough and ragged. He leans forward, bracing an arm against the shower tile as you continue pumping his length with long, steady strokes from behind. His hand finds your other resting low at his hip, and he laces his fingers with yours, his grip tightening, grounding— you’re not entirely sure if he was holding back or barely holding on.
Slick from the coated mix of water, soap, and his own arousal, your hand moves up and down Harry’s shaft, hot and heavy, effortlessly. You see the way his head dips down to watch you work him over with such practiced and devastating ease. Every drag of your closed palm, every twist and tug and squeeze, unravels him in a way that he can’t and won’t stop.
Harry’s close. You’re well acquainted with his body at this point to be sure of that. You can feel it with each broken breath pushing past his lips, in the slight shiver beneath his skin, the tight rise and fall of his chest. How his hips jerk into your fist with small, shallow, desperate thrusts, a string of curses and praises muttered low along with your name.
There's something thrilling about having Harry like this, teetering over the edge. You could draw it out, tease him helplessly. Leave him aching, begging, and trembling like he often does to you.
But you didn't come here for that. As much as it lit a hot, dangerous fire within you, you wanted Harry to fuck you. You wanted the throbbing cock in your hand back inside you, to quell the ache that no fingers, mouth, or toys could ever do.
Your rhythm falters, then eventually stills. Harry is quick to react, a sound caught in his throat— half-protest, half plea. He inhales sharply, body tensing when he’s pulled back from the very brink. His head lifts from the tile where he’d rested it, and he glances over his shoulder to meet your hazy eyes.
The heat in his gaze is dark, searing, and hungry, as if he doesn’t at all appreciate the fact that you’ve stopped so abruptly.
“Not gonna finish what you started, baby?” Harry pants, his hand reaching down to drape over your fingers that remain loosely curled around the base of him. He twitches against the softness of your palm. “Didn’t think you could be cruel.”
“Cruel? Never. Well, at least not now anyway,” you reply, placing a kiss on the center of his spine. “I was hoping that you would finish inside me instead.”
“That can be arranged.”
You wring Harry’s cock with one last slow pull, just enough to make him shudder, before letting him slip from your grasp. It’s only then that you take a step back, allowing him space to turn to you.
And when he does, you feel the power shift back to Harry. Something low in your belly coils so tight that it almost hurts. Your eyes drag over him without an ounce of shame— flushed, gorgeous, and hard.
Fuck, Harry is so hard, his tip swollen and a shade or two darker. Just one look at him and your pussy clenches around nothing, begging to be filled. He notices this, notices how your thighs press firmly together from the mere anticipation, your eyes locked in a silent, electric exchange.
Then all at once, Harry’s mouth crashes onto yours, fierce, bruising, and urgent. The force of which nearly causes you to stumble if it hadn’t been for his steady grip settling on your waist. His other hand slides behind your head, angling you perfectly for him to deepen the kiss, his tongue insistent and greedy as it dives past your lips in a hungry sweep.
He doesn’t slow down, not even as he backs you against the cool tile of the wall. The shower stream hits only Harry now, his body shielding you from it, the heat of him replacing the warmth of the water on you.
Harry’s lips break away from yours, dragging them across your cheek, along the line of your jaw. He continues down onto your neck, his mouth moving with a purpose; teeth grazing lightly, nipping and sucking against your tender flesh until it undoubtedly leaves a bloom of color— you feel it, even if you can’t see it.
“So fucking beautiful… and all mine,” Harry rasps, the words meant for you, but just as much for himself.
You see his throat work as he swallows, his large hand skimming up the curve of your waist, thumb brushing gently under the swell of your breast. His heavy-lidded eyes take in every inch of you before him, as if this is the first time he’s ever seen you bare, wet, and wanting— like he’s looking at something so sinfully holy.
“Yours,” you whisper, and hearing it hits Harry like a live wire.
Because suddenly he’s surging forward, his mouth claiming yours again with kisses that are all messy and consuming, that leave you with no room to breathe.
Your head starts to spin, and your knees buckle from the intensity. But Harry's there, trapping you between his chest and the shower wall, keeping you upright, fully flushed against him.
Harry only breaks away from your lips when you arch your back slightly, rolling your hips against his. He lets out a groan, rough and guttural, his breath hot and uneven as it fans over your face. You rock against him once more, and he hisses at the sensation— at the sweet friction he gets from each grind against your pelvis. His warm, glistening precum smears across wherever it can reach.
“Feel that, baby?” Harry husks as your eyes drop to where the rigid line of his cock ruts between the two of you. “That’s all you. You did that. Made me so hard…fuck I can’t even think anymore. I need you— gotta have you."
A hand then comes into view, trailing from your waist to your hip, and then dipping lower and lower until he’s palming your sex, groaning low when he finds the slick mess pooling down there.
“God, you’re soaking wet. Haven't even touched you properly yet. All this from jacking me off, hmm?”
You answer with a breathless whimper when Harry leisurely drags two digits through your slit, gathering your arousal onto his fingers. Your gaze follows as he lifts his hand to his mouth, sliding those fingers covered in a thin sheen of desire between his lips, sucking and savoring the essence that is purely you.
He hums in satisfaction. "You taste so sweet, darling. Wish my legs weren't shot, ‘cause I'd go down on you right here, right now."
A renewed rush of heat spreads under your skin as you’re reminded of how unbelievably good Harry is at eating pussy. It’s earth-shattering each and every time. He listens to your body, knows exactly what to do and when to give it to make you come undone easily. You love it mainly because he’s not just going through the motions like your exes used to. No, not him. Harry will happily bury his face between your legs as if he’s a starved man.
Any and all thoughts in your head dissolve the instant the pad of Harry’s thumb brushes over your clit, sending a jolt straight to you. He holds your gaze, watching the pleasure ripple through your expression. His tongue flicks over his bottom lip to chase the lingering taste of you as he continues the tender assault on your sensitive bundle of nerves that soon has you writhing beneath his touch.
It’s almost embarrassing how quickly he’s gotten you to this point. How he’s not even inside of you yet, and if you let him, you could cum just like this. But you’re so wound up, so desperate to be filled more than anything that you don’t want that. You don’t want to prolong this. You couldn’t wait any longer.
“Want—want more, Harry, shit… fuck me. Please, fuck me,” you plead to him, and he stops, his fingers immediately pulling away, and damn it, is this how it felt for him when you took your hand off his cock just like that?
Harry flashes you a knowing smirk, but he doesn’t leave you hanging for long, though. He kisses you once more, this time unhurried. Softer. Much, much softer now, like he's kissing you simply because he wants to feel your lips on him again, to get his fill of it before his hands rest on your hips, gently coaxing you to turn and face the tiled walls behind you.
“Bend over a little for me, sweetheart. Hands on the wall— good, just like that. That’s my girl.” Harry guides you into a comfortable enough position, his voice thick as he speaks, nearly strained as though it bears the weight of his own arousal. He smooths his hand down the length of your spine, coasting along the curve of your ass where he squeezes the soft skin of it.
You hold your breath believing it might keep you from falling apart due to impatience, waiting for the heavy press of him against your entrance, the raw slide of hard flesh that makes you squirm at the intrusion. And it does. You feel the familiar flare of pressure as something sinks into you— a finger.
Then, another.
Harry couldn’t help himself. How could he when your dripping pussy is staring straight at him? Two of his fingers don’t fill you the same way his cock would, but at least your wishes have been granted somewhat.
Selfishly, you want more. Not this. More.
But when those two, thick digits delve in as far as they would go, it shuts you up long enough to get lost in the sensation. Harry doesn’t rush, and you’re too distracted by his skilled fingers working inside of you to protest. He crooks them just right, just enough that he’s pushing up against that spongy spot of yours that has you keening.
“Wanna make you come on my hand, my darling. Love the way you squeeze my fingers when you do.”
You shake your head deliriously. “On your cock, baby. I need your cock, been needing it so bad ever since I woke up.”
“You sure? We got all the time in the world for that—”
“Fuck me with your cock, Castillo,” you cut Harry off with a near growl, drawing an amused chuckle out of him. “Fuck me right now, or I swear I’ll just find somebody else—”
Your unserious threat is swallowed by the whine escaping you when Harry withdraws his fingers. Before you could recover from the loss, he’s gliding his length between your wet folds, the very tip of his cock nudging your swollen clit. The sudden contact makes you gasp and sway, your footing slips for a second, but his hands on your waist keep you firmly in place.
“Harry, please. Enough—no more teasing.”
“Shhh, it’s alright,” Harry croons, his hips shifting back the slightest, and you know what’s coming next. You’re sure of it this time. “Gonna take care of you now. Need you just as bad. Relax for me, baby.”
You suck in sharp breath, fingers flexing against the wall as the thick head of Harry's length breaches your cunt at last. He eases himself inside of you, inch by inch, so agonizingly slow that it drives you mad. He doesn't do this out of cruelty, but rather with a tenderness, making sure that he doesn't hurt you even if it feels like he's splitting you in half.
“F-Fuck honey, this pussy’s so tight for me,” Harry mutters through gritted teeth when he finally bottoms out, his fingers digging into your hip, allowing a few moments for you to adjust.
The stretch of him, the fullness Harry brings— fuck, it’s everything you’ve been aching for and more. You can’t explain how it’s possible, but somehow he feels even better right now. Maybe it’s from the build-up, the angle he’s got you in, or the way the warm air clings to your damp skin, amplifying every touch, every spark he sets alight within you.
Whatever it is, it has the nerves in your body pulsing to life, like a hot electric current running through your veins.
Harry holds onto your shoulder with one hand, the other splayed across your waist, and he starts to move inside of you. His thrusts are slow at first, deep and deliberate, reaching a depth that has your walls helplessly fluttering around him.
And he feels it, too. You know he does, because his pace picks up, knocking the air out of your lungs. His grip clamps down on you, not so much to maintain your balance this time, but to pull you back onto his cock as he pushes in, as if he couldn't get close enough.
"Fuck—don't stop. Just like that. Please, don't you dare fucking stop," you cry out, voice frayed at the edges. Your mind scatters with each snap of Harry's hips, which seemingly have grown much harder at your words, hitting the sweet spot that he had teased earlier over and over again.
“Never, baby,” he chokes out. “Never gonna stop. Feels too fucking good.”
The noises trapped within the walls are filthy and obscene. There's the wet, rhythmic squelch of Harry's cock driving into; the frantic slap of the front of his thighs against the back of yours. The lewd symphony of your strung-out whines and his deep, throaty groans.
If Harry had neighbors, they would have certainly loathed him. And you. Mostly you, with your loud, unabashed moans from being fucked into oblivion in every room, on every surface of his home.
“M’close, Harry,” you tell him as the burning warmth in your core begins to crescendo towards your peak.
Harry lets out a hiss when your cunt tightens its walls around him, like it's warning him of your fast-approaching climax in case he hadn't heard you the first time. "Keep squeezing me like that darling, and you're gonna make me cum too."
Your legs shake as Harry pounds into you with reckless abandon, his control slipping away as he chases his own release. But he won’t allow himself to fall before you do. He makes sure of that once his fingers land on your delicate clit, rubbing in tight circles, trying to time with his increasingly sloppy thrusts.
Glancing over your shoulder, you arch your spine as much as you can until his chest brushes against your back. Harry nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck, his scruff on his lower jaw scraping roughly against your skin.
“Need you to cum for me—fuck, baby cum now,” he urges, his tone wrecked, his restraint obvious. He’s right there with you on the edge, not letting go. Not yet. He couldn’t, wouldn’t.
But you do. You cum for Harry, the tension in your body snapping and unraveling all at once. You couldn't speak, not that any coherent thoughts were forming in your head. Not when the waves of pleasure come crashing down on you one after another, after another.
You barely hear the strangled groan behind you, nor register the way Harry’s hips stutter against you. Your pussy gushes around his shaft, clenching down on him hard, and that’s all it took. He buries himself to the hilt with a broken sigh of your name, his throbbing cock spilling deep inside of you, filling you up to the very brim.
Stillness passes over you and Harry. The shower is still running overhead, now the only sound in the room along with your tangled, labored breaths. He doesn’t pull out right away, and you’re glad he didn’t.
You allow this connection to remain for a minute or two more, before his softening length slips out without truly meaning to. A warm trickle of his seed slides down the inside of your leg, mixing with the rivulets of water on your skin, and you both share a hum at the sight.
Carefully, you shift your weight and turn, feeling the fresh new ache between your thighs. Harry’s heady eyes are already on you when you face him. His arms move instantly, pulling you flush against him, chest to chest, two hearts slowing down together to a calmer beat.
He kisses you tenderly, sweetly. The heat between you has now softened, like the burn of a fire that has settled into embers. It's moments like this where you look at Harry differently, as if he's not just a man you befriended after crossing paths one night, who, after finishing a bottle of Château Margaux, later became someone you seek out for relief.
Here, he’s… more. You don’t know how much more or why that is, and honestly, you’re terrified that this is currently crossing your mind.
“You okay there?” Harry asks quietly.
Pushing the confusing thought away, you're quick to nod and smile, brushing his wet hair back when it clings to his forehead. "Never better. Although, may I suggest investing in a shower bench? Could be helpful whenever we decide to fool around here."
He laughs lightheartedly. “Don’t worry, it’s already on my to-do list.”
“Good. It baffles me that your bathroom doesn’t already come with it, considering this penthouse cost you $12 million.”
“Why? Does your modest $5 million condo have one?”
“Duh, of course. It’s one of my non-negotiables. Makes shaving a lot easier, among other things.”
Harry shakes his head, eyes crinkling with amusement. “Guess that means we’re showering next at your place then.”
“I wouldn’t say no to that,” you reply with a soft chuckle. “You can see the benefits for yourself. Especially with your uh…”
You trail off, motioning to the healed scars running down the length of each of Harry's legs. He'd hidden them from you at first, choosing to have sex under the sheets, never letting you close enough to notice. But you did by accident some time ago, though you never asked where they were from. He's hesitant to share, still is, but you don't force him. You figure he’ll tell you once he’s ready, if and whenever that may be.
A gentle smile tugs at the corner of Harry’s mouth. “I’ll call up a contractor tomorrow. But for now, why don’t I wash you up before we head to bed?”
“You calling me dirty, Castillo?” You tease as he directs you closer under the spray of water. Undeniably, though, there’s something about the affection in his tone and his offer that has your heart stumbling.
“You are,” Harry smirks, taking his shampoo bottle from the nook and squeezing a generous amount of it into his hand. “You crashed my shower because you woke up horny. Almost got me off with just one hand, then you were begging to get fucked by my cock.”
You moan softly from both his retelling of events and the feeling of his hands in your hair, fingers lathering the shampoo into your scalp. Your eyes flutter shut as he massages your head, swaying just slightly from the motion of his hands.
The scent of cedar wood floods your senses—god, you’re not sure how you’ll make it through the entire day tomorrow smelling like Harry, feeling like you’re still wrapped in him completely.
“You always do this?” You question low, eyes peeking open after thoroughly rinsing the suds out of your hair. “Wreck a girl’s pussy then bathe her gently after?”
Harry reaches for the body wash. “Only you.”
You had half-expected him to give you a witty remark, but what came out of him instead carried a certain tenderness that’s becoming more and more familiar. It leads you to speculate whether he notices that, too.
A new kind of shiver sweeps down your spine as Harry glides his now soapy hands over you. He starts at your shoulders, moving down to your arms, then across your chest. There’s so much care when he circles your breasts, touching them not out of lust, but with something very sincere. Intimate. He later bends down a bit to reach the inside of your thighs, brushing clean the remnants of your mixed release there.
By the time Harry rinses you one last time, your chest aches in a way that has nothing to do with sex, but everything to do with him.
“This feels… oddly domestic.” The words tumble out unintentionally as Harry switches the shower off. You wait too long to take it back, and you can’t explain what you mean by that either.
You might have offended Harry when he doesn't respond right away, just pushes the shower door, and grabs a towel hanging nearby. He spends the stretch of silence drying you off before he bundles the cotton fabric around your body, tucking it at your chest.
Afterwards, he steps out of the stall, reaching for a second towel to quickly pat himself dry. He wraps it low around his hips and shifts back to you, extending a hand out, palm up. His fingers close gently around yours, guiding you forward— out of the warmth and into the cool air that raises goosebumps on your skin.
Then came his voice, much softer than you’re used to. The sound of it twists in your gut. “You didn’t like it?”
“No, I mean— yes. Yeah, I liked it. It was really… nice,” you ramble, struggling to find the right words to say here. But your answer was the truth. “Sorry, just not used to it, that's all.”
“Me neither,” Harry whispers. There’s a flicker of understanding in his warm gaze, and it swirls with something that you couldn’t quite pin a name to, or perhaps you’re simply not ready to. “It felt… nice. Doing that—for you.”
You fall into silence once more, though this time it rests lighter on your shoulders. A smile blossoms across your lips when you notice Harry still staring at you, looking as if you’re not a luxury, but a rarity—the one thing in this world his money can’t buy.
The lines between the two of you are blurred now. At least to you, they were. You wonder at what point it all changed. Or maybe it had been a slow, gradual shift, and it's only begun to catch up to you.
Either way, you and Harry were never meant to be this close. Purely sex, that was the deal. But now…
Now, he’s kissing you again, each brush of his lips demanding nothing more than you can give. You can taste the faintest trace of you on his tongue when he weaves it into your mouth, coaxing a pleased sigh from you that he drinks in without pause.
Then, Harry pulls away for a breath, his forehead resting against yours. You couldn’t remember what you’d been thinking or why it even mattered. Your mind, so noisy several moments ago, has gone blissfully blank.
You know without a doubt that it’s all because of him.
“Is this too much?” Harry asks, the weight of the question hanging in the air.
"No," comes your answer. You say the following words almost as if they hold something fragile. "It's perfectly enough for me."
Soft and slow, you press your lips to Harry’s again—and it would make you the richest woman on earth if you could just stay this way for as long as he’ll keep you close.
—
➥ MASTERLIST
Safe With You
18+ account - minors do not interact
qz!joel x f!reader Word Count: 7.3K Rating: E
Summary: After your friend is violently assaulted in the Boston QZ, fear grips you—and you turn to Joel, seeking his help to protect yourself.
Warnings: acquaintances to lovers, reader is a widow, language, mentions of violence, angst, mutual pining, competency kink, mentions of sex in exchange for safety (spoiler: joel is horrified you think you have to do this), consent king joel, alcohol, mentions of death, jealousy (both reader and joel), pet names, sexual tension, dirty talk, praise, oral sex (f receiving), cockblocking (it will make sense once you read it), some joel miller humor during a chaotic moment
A/N: Writing QZ-era Joel absolutely terrifies me; that stretch of his life is so layered and brutal and fascinating, and I can’t tell how this landed. I’ll be honest, I felt pretty rusty writing a Joel story, so I just hope it resonates. Part 2.
Your shower had been busted for over a week, and the grime clung to you like a second skin. There was a public wash station near the outer fence, but you hadn’t dared to use it—not since what happened to Maryanne.
She’d gone out there alone a couple weeks ago, just after curfew lifted. Left her clothes and backpack outside the stall like everyone did. But when she stepped out, they were gone. That’s when she saw them—two men lurking, one of them rifling through her bag, the other going through the pockets in her pants.
She shouted.
Tried to run.
The first punch knocked her to the ground. The second came before she could even scream. By the time someone found her, she was barely conscious. Broken ribs. Swollen eye. She spent a week in the infirmary.
You told her to report it. Begged her, really. But she was too scared. Said it wouldn’t matter. Said they’d come back for her if she talked. She never told you who it was, but you had a feeling. Robert’s crew had been getting bolder lately—shaking down traders, skimming rations, making people disappear.
You were scared.
You’d come to the Boston QZ a couple years ago, alone and desperate, clinging to the hope that things here might be better. Safer. Structured. But that illusion had long since rotted away. The walls kept the infected out, sure—but they did nothing to stop the rot inside.
Every day felt heavier. The streets were meaner. The soldiers more twitchy. The people more desperate. You kept your head down, made quiet trades—ammo for meds, meds for food, food for favors. You were building something. A stash. A way out. You didn’t know where you’d go, just that it had to be somewhere else. Somewhere that didn’t feel like a slow death.
But you felt it. The way people looked at you. Like they could smell the solitude on you. Like they knew you didn’t have anyone watching your back.
No partner.
No crew.
No one to come looking if you vanished.
You started walking faster. Sleeping lighter. Keeping a blade tucked in your boot even inside your own apartment. You didn’t trust the guards. You didn’t trust the traders. You didn’t even trust the neighbors who smiled too easily.
It was only a matter of time. You knew it. You could feel it in your bones.
One wrong step, one bad deal, one late night—and you’d end up like Maryanne.
Or worse.
But, there was one person whose presence still managed to carve out a sliver of safety in your mind.
Joel Miller.
You knocked on Joel’s door, the cold metal biting into your knuckles. After a moment, it creaked open, revealing his weathered face, eyes narrowed in suspicion. He didn’t speak, just lifted an eyebrow, and for a brief second, you wondered if he’d let you in. You had traded with him before—not enough to call it friendship, but enough to hopefully keep the door from slamming shut.
"Hey," you whispered, voice tentative. "My shower’s shot. I was hoping… maybe I could use yours,"
Joel didn’t answer immediately. His gaze flicked over you, cautious and calculating. He shifted, and for a moment you thought he might step aside—until he suddenly reached inside his back pocket and pulled out a gun, pointing it directly at your chest.
Your heart pounded in your chest, sweat prickling at your brow.
"Why the fuck are you pointing a gun at me, Joel?" you demanded.
"Why the fuck are you here?"
"I just told you why," you repeated. "My shower’s fucking not working. I need to use yours—just for a few minutes. That’s all."
"No," he said coldly.
"Joel—"
"I fuckin’ said no," he hissed.
Slowly, you reached into your pack, pulling out a handful of pills. You held them out.
"I’ll trade you," you said quietly. "Whatever you want. Just… I need to clean up. I’m not here to cause trouble."
Joel kept the gun trained on you, eyes dark and unyielding. His expression was unreadable.
"Come on, Joel," you said, voice rough with exhaustion. "Look at me. I look like shit, and I smell like shit."
"The last time Tess let someone in her space, she got her ass beat half to death,"
Your eyes widened slightly. Tess was his smuggling partner—you’d heard stories, but never knew the full details. You weren’t sure if they’d ever been anything more than comrades-in-rough, but it didn’t matter now. She’d recently moved in with another man in the QZ, though she still worked with Joel heavily.
"Last I heard, the public wash station’s still standin’ so fuckin’ use that,"
"You remember what happened to Maryanne," you said, voice cracking. "Two guys jumped her. She’s still recovering. If I go out there, I might not come back."
He hesitated, the gun still steady. You could see the flicker of consideration in his eyes. But then, he tightened his grip on the firearm.
"It’s not personal. Turn round’ and get lost,"
You glared at Joel, frustration boiling over in your eyes. Without a word, you lifted your middle finger sharply, flipping him off with a clenched jaw and a burning look. You turned sharply on your heel, and started to tremble. The tears came suddenly—hot and uncontrolled—dripping down your face as you walked away from him.
It was about a ten-minute walk from Joel’s place to your apartment, but to you, it felt like ten miles of walking through a nightmare.
As you navigated through the street, a pair of familiar figures caught your eye. Robert and his goons were loitering a little further down the street, leaning against a battered storefront, their eyes flicking over you as you passed. They noticed you, of course—they always did. But instead of the usual threats or intimidation, they only exchanged a few kissy faces, puckering their lips and winking at you like a couple of idiots.
Robert raised a hand in a sloppy salute, grinning wide. "Hey there, gorgeous! Looking fine this evening," One of his crew members mimicked him and winked exaggeratedly.
Another nudged Robert and added, "You know you wanna come hang out with us, beautiful…"
Their antics made your stomach turn, but you kept your head down and kept walking, refusing to give them the satisfaction of a reaction.
You didn’t look back. Your focus was solely on getting home. You fished out your key, fumbling slightly in your trembling hands, and finally turned the lock. The door creaked open with a groan, and you stepped inside, shutting it tight behind you. You double-locked it, clicking the bolt into place.
Inside, the apartment was small and battered, but it was yours. You made your way to your kitchen. The only thing available was a can of beans—shitty, canned beans that you cracked open and ate straight from the can, the salty, bland taste barely registering anymore. Hunger gnawed at you, but it was mostly the exhaustion that weighed down your limbs. After dinner, you shuffled to the sink, which barely dripped out a weak stream of water. You brushed your teeth, the bristles scraping over your teeth as the tap sputtered and stopped. The water was barely enough to rinse, but you did what you could. Finally, you crawled into bed and picked up the book you had been reading—you had been meaning to finish it, though you were only halfway through after six months. With everything going on, you barely had time to read, and every time you managed a few pages, sleep would catch up to you before you could see what happened next. The story was about a cowboy who met a city girl. Part of you wondered if that cowboy would really fall for her, despite their differences. Honestly, it all felt kind of silly—being so attached to a story and still feeling so far from it, so unreachable.
You flipped to the next page, the paper soft and worn at the edges. The cowboy had just returned from a long ride—dust-covered, bruised, but still standing. The city girl had been waiting, arms crossed, unsure if he’d ever come back. And then he said it:
"I ain't good at soft words, but I know this—when the world turns mean, you’re the only thing that makes it feel less cruel."
You closed your eyes, the book resting on your chest, and suddenly you imagined Joel standing in the doorway saying those very same words to you.
Sleep took you before you could finish the chapter.
You woke to the sound of metal clinking and water sputtering. Groggy, heart thudding, you reached instinctively for the knife tucked in your boot and crept toward the bathroom, every step slow and deliberate.
The door was ajar.
You pushed it open with the blade raised—ready to strike.
Joel was crouched by the shower, sleeves rolled up, fiddling with the rusted plumbing. The showerhead dangled in his hand, half-disassembled. He glanced over his shoulder, completely unfazed.
"Mornin'…" he said, like he hadn’t pointed a gun at you the night before.
"What the fuck, Joel?" you snapped, lowering the knife but not the fury in your voice. "I could’ve stabbed you."
"Not likely," He gave you that half-smile—barely a twitch at the corner of his mouth.
"How did you even get in?"
Joel didn’t look up.
"Your locks are shit. Took me bout’ ten seconds."
You blinked, jaw clenched. "So let me get this straight—you can break into my home, but I can’t go to yours to take a damn shower?"
"Sounds bout’ right."
He tightened a valve, tested the water pressure with a flick of his wrist, then glanced back at you with that same unreadable expression.
"You were right. You do smell like shit," he said flatly. "When you left my place last night, it stunk up the whole damn room. Had to light a fuckin' candle."
You blinked, stunned into silence for a moment.
What a fucking asshole.
He stood, wiped his hands on a rag, and tossed it onto the edge of the sink. "Figured if I didn’t fix this, you’d be back again tonight. Reekin’ even more."
There was no malice in his voice—just that dry, brutal honesty.
"You’re welcome," he added, almost as an afterthought.
"Yeah, well, next time you decide to 'fix' my shit, maybe ask first, huh? I don’t need you sneaking in and playing handyman."
"You want it fixed or not?"
You wanted to scream. But you needed a working shower.
"Yes," you snapped.
Joel didn’t say anything else. He just turned back to the shower, crouching low again. You watched as he worked—the wrench in his hand moved with precision, tightening bolts, adjusting pressure, testing the flow. The water sputtered, hissed, then finally ran in a steady stream.
You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, trying not to let your guard down. "Anythin’ else not workin’ in this place?" he asked without looking up.
You snorted. "Everything."
His hands moved with confidence, veins visible beneath the worn skin, knuckles scarred from years of use. You’d seen him with a gun, seen him trade, seen him shut people down with a single look.
But this was different.
You hated admitting it, but he looked good doing something like this… something domestic. He was so competent. You caught yourself staring at the curve of his forearm, the way his shirt clung to his back when he leaned forward.
And it made your chest ache in a way you didn’t want to name.
He glanced up, catching you staring, and you quickly looked away, pretending to inspect the tile on the wall.
"Hot water should hold for a while," he said, standing and wiping his hands again.
You hadn’t had hot water in over a year.
"Thanks," you said quietly, the word feeling heavier than it should.
Joel paused, eyes flicking toward you. He gave a small nod, but didn’t say anything. His jaw tightened, like the word made him itch.
You watched him step out of your bathroom and toward your front door, his movements stiff, like he couldn’t get out fast enough. "Don’t mention it," he muttered, and then he was gone.
You stared at the closed door for a moment, then turned toward the bathroom. The steam was already curling into the air, and when you took off your clothes to step under the spray, it felt like heaven. The grime, the fear, the exhaustion—it all melted away, rinsed down the drain in waves of warmth. You stood there longer than you should’ve.
For the first time in a long time, you felt human.
Later, you met up with Maryanne at one of your usual spots—a half-collapsed building tucked behind a car dealership. The roof was mostly gone, but the second floor still held enough shelter to sit and talk. You brought a couple of cans of food, and she had a half-loaf of stale bread. Between the two of you, it felt like a feast.
She winced as she sat down, and you instinctively reached for the bandages tucked in your bag. Her bruises were still fresh. You dabbed at one near her collarbone, careful not to press too hard.
"How are you feeling?" you asked.
Maryanne shrugged. "Better. Still hurts to breathe, but I’m not seeing double anymore."
"That’s something."
There was a pause. The kind that hung in the air when you both knew there was more to say but didn’t want to say it.
"Joel Miller fixed my shower," you said abruptly.
"Joel Miller? Seriously?"
You nodded.
"And…did you… thank him?" Maryanne raised an eyebrow. She smirked, then gave you a look—one of those long, knowing glances that said more than words ever could.
"What?" Your cheeks heated instantly, the warmth crawling up your neck before you could stop it. You turned your face slightly, pretending to focus on the bandage you were smoothing over Maryanne’s shoulder.
"No, Maryanne," you muttered, trying to sound firm. "Nothing like that happened."
"I wouldn’t judge you if it had. It’s a hard world out there. Having a strong man in your corner sometimes comes at a price."
You looked at her then, really looked. Her face was still bruised, her lip healing, but her eyes were sharp.
The idea Maryanne had just floated—trading 'comfort' for protection—settled in your chest like a stone. You’d never considered it before. Not seriously.
"I did it once," she said. "There was a guy in the last QZ I was in… he’d keep me safe, and I’d keep him… company."
Her voice didn’t waver, but her eyes drifted away from yours, settling on a crack in the wall like she didn’t want to see your reaction. You felt your stomach twist—not in judgment, but in imagining what that must’ve been like for her. Knowing that safety came with a price tag, and sometimes that price was your body.
You didn’t know what to say. You just nodded slowly, the silence between you thick with understanding. Maybe survival wasn’t always clean. Maybe it never had been.
"I’m sorry," you finally whispered.
"I’m not," she replied, eyes locked on yours. "I’m alive because of it."
She didn’t say it with shame. She said it like a fact. Like a choice she’d made and stood by.
"So…" you said slowly, "should I thank Joel?"
Maryanne didn’t answer right away. She reached for the half-loaf of bread beside her, tore off a piece, and popped it into her mouth like you’d just asked her what time it was—not whether you should sleep with a man for protection.
"It’s not the worst thing to consider," she said finally, chewing slowly. "Everyone’s terrified of Joel. Robert, his crew… even the guards give him space."
You watched her, unsure if she was joking or dead serious.
She swallowed, then gave you a sideways glance. "And let’s be honest—he’s easy on the eyes."
You scoffed, but the heat crept back into your cheeks before you could stop it.
"Don’t act like you haven’t noticed… and who knows…maybe he’s a good fuck," she sing-songed.
You rolled your eyes.
But you had to admit… you were intrigued.
You knocked once.
Joel opened his front door faster than you expected, like he’d been waiting. His mouth parted, ready to speak, but you didn’t give him the chance.
You pushed past him, brushing against his shoulder as you stepped inside like you belonged there.
Joel turned, brow furrowed, but you were already pulling the bottle from your pack—a heavy flask of whiskey, the kind that burned going down and numbed everything else.
"Thought that would shut you up," you said, setting it down on the nearest table with a thud.
Joel stared at the bottle, then at you.
You dropped your pack, and leaned against the wall like you’d done this a hundred times before. Like you weren’t still figuring out what the hell you were doing.
Joel didn’t speak. He just walked over, picked up the bottle, and turned it slowly in his hands.
"You came here to drink?" he said finally.
You met his gaze. "I came here to thank you."
Joel’s grip tightened around the neck of the bottle.
"Listen, sweetheart," he said finally, "I told you—I can’t have you in my space. So, I need you to—"
You didn’t let him finish.
"Outbreak day," you said, stepping forward. “I had to kill my husband.”
Joel’s eyes flicked to yours, but he didn’t interrupt.
"We’d just gotten married. Just came back from our honeymoon. We were gonna start our lives together. Maybe try for a kid." You swallowed hard, the words scraping their way out. "And then that fucking day came. He was infected. Tried to bite me. I didn’t have a gun. I didn’t have anything."
Your voice cracked, but you kept going.
"He came at me—eyes wild, mouth foaming. I locked him in the bathroom. Thought maybe I could wait it out. Thought maybe it wasn’t real. But he kept screaming. Kept throwing himself against the door."
You paused, the memory clawing its way up.
"I found a crowbar in the garage. When the door finally gave way, I didn’t think. I just swung."
The silence that followed was thick. Joel didn’t say a word. Didn’t ask questions. Just stood there, still as a statue.
"Thought I’d break the ice by telling you something personal…Since you’re so good at talking," you said sarcastically.
Joel didn’t respond. He just uncapped the whiskey, took a long, burning gulp, and walked over to the couch.
The silence stretched. Joel sat on the couch, the whiskey bottle resting against his thigh, his gaze fixed somewhere far beyond the walls. You stayed standing, arms crossed, the weight of your confession still lingering in the air.
You cleared your throat, not because you needed to, but because the quiet was starting to feel like punishment.
"So," you said, voice casual, "why did you and Tess break up?"
Joel’s head turned slowly, his brow knitting as if he didn’t hear you right. "What?"
"I told you something personal," you said, shrugging. "Seems fair you share something personal back."
He exhaled sharply, rolled his eyes, and muttered, "We were never together."
"You were never together, but you lived together?"
Joel didn’t answer right away. He just took another swig, jaw tight.
"You chose to stay close to her," you continued. "That’s not nothing."
Joel set the bottle down a little too hard. "We’ve survived together. We work together. That’s it."
"Did you ever sleep together?" you tilted your head, watching him.
His reaction was instant.
"Jesus Christ," he snapped, standing up. "Who the hell d’you think you are askin’ me that?"
You didn’t flinch.
"Just asking,"
"It’s none of your damn business."
“Maybe it’s not,” you said quietly. "But you two were clearly having sex,"
Joel groaned, rubbed a hand down his face. "Sure, fine," he said finally. "We fucked a couple of times over the years. Wasn’t anythin’. It was convenient."
Convenient.
He didn’t move when you pressed a hand to his chest, firm but not forceful, guiding him back down onto the couch. He landed with a grunt, more surprised than angry.
"When’s the last time you had sex, Joel?" you asked.
He stayed silent, and you caught the subtle movement of his throat as he swallowed hard.
"I can’t remember the last time a man touched me… I miss it," you said honestly, starting to unbutton your flannel and then throwing it on the floor. You weren’t wearing an undershirt—or a bra, so your breasts were on display for him.
Joel’s eyes widened.
"What the hell are you doin’, sweetheart?"
The way he said it made your legs feel like jelly. You didn’t answer right away. You just looked at him—really looked at him.
Maryanne was right. He was easy on the eyes.
"What do you think I’m doing?" you tried to ask seductively.
"I think—I think you’re not thinkin’ clearly,"Joel’s eyes darkened as he bit his bottom lip, and you couldn't help but notice the growing bulge in his lap. "Have you been drinkin’?"
"No… I’m dead sober. I told you—I’m here to thank you," you continued, starting to unbutton your pants. "It was really nice of you to fix my shower, and I just want to show my appreciation."
You saying that clearly had the complete opposite effect you were going for because suddenly he pushed himself off the couch. Without a word, he reached out swiftly, grabbing your flannel from the floor. His hand closed around the fabric, and he yanked it upward, pulling the material to cover your chest. The rough motion made you stumble slightly, but he held the flannel firmly in place, his gaze intense and unwavering.
"Stop," he growled. His brow furrowed sharply as he looked at you, "Zip up your pants. You’re embarrassin’ yourself,"
You stood there, stunned, the flannel clutched awkwardly against your chest where Joel had shoved it.
"I’m not gonna say this again. You need to fuckin’ leave."
You had just offered yourself on a shameful platter, and he was kicking you out.
Your mouth opened, but the words tangled in your throat. You clutched the flannel tighter against your chest, fingers trembling.
"I—I just thought…I thought maybe—"
"Yeah. I know what you thought.:
You blinked, eyes stinging, heart thudding against your ribs like it was trying to escape.
"You thought you had to give me somethin’, but I don’t want anythin’ from you," he said, turning away from you, his back rigid.
You tried to speak again, but the words came out broken. "I didn’t mean—I wasn’t trying to—"
"Put your god damn shirt back on,"
You nodded even though he couldn’t see, fumbling with the buttons on your pants and flannel, your fingers clumsy and slow. The silence between you now wasn’t just heavy—it was suffocating.
"You decent?"
You swallowed hard, the flannel finally buttoned, and you didn’t look up when you whispered, "Yeah."
Joel turned slowly, his eyes scanning you, but you kept your gaze locked on the floor. You couldn’t bear to meet his eyes—not after this.
You started toward the door, dragging your feet, and then his voice stopped you.
"I’m sorry," he mumbled. "If I ever did somethin’ that made you feel like you had to…to… do this,” he spat out, sounding completely disgusted.
You froze, hand hovering near the doorknob.
"You didn’t."
"Before the outbreak… I was a contractor. Built things. Fixed things. That was my job."
You turned slightly, just enough to see the edge of his profile.
"So, fixin’ a busted shower? It’s just somethin’ I know how to do. You don’t—you don’t fuckin’ owe me for that. You don’t owe me for anythin’ sweetheart."
You nodded, barely. The words wouldn’t come, but something in your chest loosened—just a little.
Joel, for all his roughness… hadn’t taken advantage. He’d drawn a line.
Mortified didn’t even begin to cover how you were feeling.
The market was loud—you kept your head down up, weaving through the crowd like a ghost.
You spotted Joel before he saw you—standing beside Tess, arms crossed, face unreadable. It had been two weeks, and you had been avoiding Joel as if he were a clicker himself. Tess was talking, animated, and she looked annoyingly fucking beautiful—she leaned in close to Joel, her hand brushing his arm.
Just work partners? Yeah, fucking right.
You froze mid-step, heart lurching. The sight of them together made your blood run hot. You turned sharply, ready to vanish into the nearest alley.
"Hey!" Tess’s voice rang out, cutting through the noise like a blade. She said your name.
You winced, shoulders stiffening. Slowly, reluctantly, you turned around.
Joel’s eyes met yours, and the tension was instant. His jaw clenched. Yours did too. Tess stepped forward, oblivious—or maybe just ignoring the awkwardness radiating between you and Joel.
"I was just talking to Robert," she said, hands on her hips. "He said you’ve got a battery."
"I might have one."
Tess narrowed her eyes, unimpressed. "Don’t play dumb. I’ve been watching you trade for months. You’ve got some serious gear stashed away. You’ve clearly got an exit plan. And if I’m noticing, that means that others are noticing too,"
Joel shifted beside her, his posture stiffening like a wire pulled taut. His eyes didn’t leave yours.
"Tess," he said, the single word laced with warning.
She glanced at him, brows raised, but he didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to. The way he said her name was enough to make her pause. Enough to say back off without saying it outright.
"Well, don’t you wanna get to Tommy?" Tess asked, turning to Joel, her voice sharp with purpose.
The name hit you like a slap.
You’d met him a few years back—briefly, but enough to remember. He used to live here, used to run with Joel. Then he vanished. Rumors swirled afterward, whispers that he’d joined the Fireflies. That part had always unsettled you. The Fireflies were dangerous, unpredictable. No way in hell were you going to help anyone get to Tommy Miller.
Your feet moved before your brain caught up. You turned, started walking away, fast. You didn’t owe them anything. Especially not that.
But Joel was quicker.
You heard the scuff of boots behind you, then felt his hand close around your arm—not rough, but firm enough to stop you. He spun you gently, urgency written all over his face.
"Wait," he said, breath short.
You stared at him, your face contorting with nerves, suspicion crawling up your spine. "Let's talk. I’ll explain everythin’ okay?” he said, voice low, almost pleading. "Just… will you be home tonight?"
"Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?"
"You weren’t home last night."
Your stomach dropped. He was right. You’d passed out at Maryanne’s after too much moonshine and too little sleep. But how the hell did he know that?
"How do you know that?"
Joel hesitated, then shrugged, eyes flicking away for a beat. "I just do." His eyes lingered on you a beat too long, his jaw working like he was chewing on something bitter, "Were you… with Robert?"
The implication of his question curled around your gut like smoke. You cringed, your face twisting before you could stop it.
Joel noticed.
"Why the fuck would I be with Robert?"
"I don’t know. Maybe he did you a favor, and you felt the need to thank him," Joel barked, running a frustrated hand through his hair.
Your breath caught. You stared at him, stunned, his words hanging in the air like poison. Joel’s expression shifted. His eyes widened slightly, regret flashing across his face. He realized it. The second it left his mouth, he knew he’d said the wrong thing.
"I didn’t mean—" he started, but stopped himself, jaw tightening again.
You blinked rapidly, your hands balled into fists at your sides as you felt the unfamiliar vulnerability wrap tightly around you. "Fuck you, Joel,"
You turned on your heel, fury pulsing through your veins, and stormed off without another word. You didn’t care if he followed. You didn’t care if he stood there and watched you disappear into the crowd. You just needed space—distance—from the mess he’d made of your insides.
But the asshole did follow you.
You could hear him. The steady rhythm of his footsteps trailing yours, never too close, never far enough. You didn’t look back. Not once. But you knew he was there. Half an hour passed like that—by the time you reached your apartment door, your nerves were frayed. You fumbled with the key, jaw clenched, and then you felt him behind you—close now.
He was too fucking close.
You spun around, eyes blazing. "I swear to god, Joel, if you don’t leave me alone right now, I’m going to punch you in the fucking face."
He didn’t step back. Just stood there, eyes locked on yours, something raw flickering behind them.
Then he spoke.
"My daughter died on outbreak day. She was just thirteen."
You froze.
"She was injured. A FEDRA soldier thought she was infected—and he shot her."
The silence that followed was deafening. Your breath caught in your throat, the fury draining from your body like a slow leak. Joel wasn’t looking at you anymore—his gaze had dropped to the ground, shoulders hunched, like the weight of that memory had finally crushed him.
You stared at him, the air thick between you, your pulse still hammering. His words echoed in your head—She was just thirteen. You didn’t know what to do with that kind of grief. Didn’t know how to hold it, or respond to it, or even breathe around it.
So, you said the only thing that came to mind.
"Why are you telling me this?"
"You told me bout’ your husband," he said, voice rough. "That night. You didn’t have to, but you did."
He paused, swallowing hard.
"So, I figured… it’s my turn to be personal."
"I’m sorry about your daughter,"
"I’m sorry bout’ your husband,"
You didn’t say anything more. Just turned, unlocked the door, and pushed it open with a quiet creak. You stepped aside, motioning with your head for Joel to come in.
He hesitated for a beat, then crossed the threshold, his boots heavy against the floor. He didn’t speak. Didn’t look around. Just stood there.
"Wait here," you mumbled.
Joel nodded once, staying rooted in place as you disappeared into your bedroom. The door didn’t close all the way behind you, but he didn’t move. Didn’t peek. Just waited.
You came back a minute later, the battery cradled in your arms like something sacred. It was heavy, and fucking valuable. You held it out, but didn’t let go.
"Why do you need this?" you asked.
Joel looked at the battery, then at you. His expression shifted—less guarded now, more worn.
"Tommy," he said. "He’s in Jackson."
"Like…Wyoming?"
Joel nodded.
"There’s this settlement."
You watched him closely, the battery still in your hands, your grip tightening.
"It’s not just some camp or outpost. It’s a real fuckin’ town. They’ve got walls—strong ones. Solar power. Running water. Gardens. Livestock. Kids go to fuckin' school there."
You raised an eyebrow, skeptical. It sounded like a fantasy. Like something someone would make up to keep themselves from falling apart.
Joel saw the doubt flicker across your face.
"I didn’t believe it either," he said. "Not at first. But it’s real. Thought Tommy was just chasin’ some dream. But he sent word. Said it’s safe."
Safe.
The word felt foreign in your mouth. Unreal.
He paused, eyes flicking to the battery, then back to you.
"I need to get there. And this"—he nodded toward the battery—"this gets me one step closer."
"So, you and Tess are trying to get to Jackson?" you asked.
Joel shook his head slightly. "Not exactly." He shifted his weight, eyes flicking toward the floor before meeting yours again. "Tess and her guy—they’re lookin’ to peel off once we hit Lincoln."
"Lincoln?" you echoed.
"Yeah," Joel said. "It’s this old town on the way we’ve passed through before. Quiet. There’s only one other couple livin’ out there. Half the homes are still standin’, just sittin’ empty. She’s thinkin’ they could settle there, make a life."
You stared at him for a long moment.
"What do I get in exchange for giving you this?"
"You could come with us."
You were caught off guard by the simplicity of his response.
"Figure out if you wanna try out Lincoln," he said. "See if it suits you," he paused, then added, “Or you come with me—to Jackson.”
You could come with us. Just like that. Like it was easy. Like it didn’t crack something open inside you. You felt overwhelmed. You weren’t used to choices. Not real ones. Not ones that sounded like hope.
"And what happens if I don’t give you this battery?" you asked, voice sharp, defensive. "You and Tess gonna hurt me? Take it anyway?"
Joel scoffed, the sound dry and humorless. "No."
You stared at him, waiting.
He shook his head. "You think I’d follow you all the way here just to rough you up for it?"
You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to.
Joel’s eyes flicked to the battery again, then back to you. "But I gotta ask… what’s your plan with it?"
You opened your mouth, then closed it. The truth was, you didn’t have one. Joel saw it. Saw the hesitation. Saw the way your silence gave you away.
"Exactly," he said quietly.
And damn it—he had you there.
You set the battery down on your shitty dining room table.
"Look— I…I shouldn’t have said what I said earlier—about Robert." Joel admitted, his voice lowering as he stepped further into your apartment and set his gun down on your table. "I was worked up, and you know how I can be."
"Yeah, Joel, you’re just a total gem when you’re being an asshole," you responded dryly, "Or should I say when you’re worked up?"
You felt the sting of your own words.
"I deserve that—” he cut himself off, rubbing his hand over his jaw. "but the idea of you and Robert—"
Your eyes narrowed. "What?"
"It drives me fuckin’ crazy" he growled.
You blinked, pulse kicking up again. "Why?"
"You know why."
You didn’t know who moved first—maybe it was him, maybe it was you—but suddenly the space was gone. His hands were on your face, yours gripping his shirt, and then—
His lips were on yours, and he was cradling the back of your neck, slipping his tongue into your mouth. Joel’s tongue was warm, desperate, and you matched it, pouring every ounce of fury and longing into the kiss like it might burn the whole damn apartment down. You stood on your toes, and he used the opportunity to grab a handful of your ass while his mouth moved to your neck. His moustache tickled as he nipped at your throat.
"Oh fuck—Joel," you gasped, making soft noises of pleasure.
Joel pulled back suddenly, breath ragged, his hands now resting on your hips. Your breath caught in your throat as you pondered what he could be thinking. Why the fuck did he stop?
"Wait. I don’t want you to think you have to do anythin’ just cause of this god damn battery situation,"
You blinked, lips still parted, heart thudding against your ribs. Then you smirked, teasing, "I still haven’t told you I’m giving it to you."
Joel huffed a quiet laugh, but his eyes stayed serious, searching yours.
You exhaled slowly, grounding yourself.
"Joel… I didn’t want to sleep with you the other night just because you fixed my shower."
He tilted his head, waiting.
"Okay...I mean, maybe I did. You looked hot doing it," you teased, cupping his cheek with a crooked smile.
That earned a flicker of amusement in his eyes, but you didn’t stop there.
"But I think it’s more than that. You make me feel safe. You’re the only person in this QZ who’s ever made me feel safe."
"Then come with me," he murmured, turning his head to the side and kissing your palm. "Come with me to Jackson," he said again, slower this time. "We don’t have to do anythin’ right now. We don’t have to do anythin’—ever. We can go our separate ways once we get to Jackson. I just want to get you the hell out of here."
"I don’t know how to do this." you said, feeling a lump in your throat and swallowed it thickly as you stared into his beautiful brown eyes.
"You don’t have to know," he said, stepping closer, like he knew you might bolt. "You just have to come." The expression on his face intensified and the tenderness in his eyes made you melt.
"If I promise to come with you, will you please touch me?"
He shook his head.
"Please, Joel," you whined, hating how you sounded. "I want you."
"You do?" he brushed a knuckle across your chin.
"Are you fucking kidding me? You’re a fucking stud. Please—please—touch me," you whimpered, gripping onto his impossibly huge biceps.
"Yes, ma’am," Joel’s lips curled into a grin. You felt it hit you in the chest, that grin. That dimple. Like a snapshot you wanted to trap in your memory and never let go of. Because in a world that had taken so much, this—this—was something you could keep.
He stole a kiss that had you chasing his tongue. Suddenly, his arms were at your back and beneath your knees as he lifted you in his arms, carrying you to your bedroom. He nudged open the door to your room with his foot, not bothering to turn the light on as he crossed over to the bed.
He sat you on the edge of the bed.
"Lay back," he instructed, looming tall over you.
You followed his instructions, settling against your pillows as he removed his shirt and pants, remaining only in his boxers. Your mouth watered at the sight, your slick leaking into your panties. Your thighs pressed together in your pants, searching for some kind of friction.
He noticed.
"Take them off," he growled.
You licked your lips and wiggled out of your sweater, exposing a black bra, and worked to undo the buttons of your jeans to shimmy out of them. Your bra was fine—supportive, even a little flattering. But your panties? Fuck. You felt heat crawl up your neck as you realized they were just plain ugly cotton. No lace, no mesh, no daring little straps. Just practical, really faded, low-key granny panties.
Joel didn’t seem to care.
"F-fuck…baby," Joel’s voice startled you, thick with the unmistakable gravel of want, "Come on, don’t be shy, take everythin’ off."
You hesitated for a beat, suddenly hyper-aware of the way Joel’s eyes were on you. That loose curl falling across his forehead.
"Be good for me and let me see baby," he begged, his hard length begging to be released from the confines of his boxers.
You held your breath when you pulled down your panties, and a low groan vibrated from his chest when he saw you glistening with your arousal in the dim light. He removed his boxers while you made quick work of removing your bra.
You took a moment to admire him—and his cock.
"Good girl," he praised. "See what you fuckin’ do to me?" he said, voice strained while you gawked at his angry red tip.
"Please, please, Joel," you didn’t even recognize your own voice at this point. "Need you."
"You want somethin’, you gotta use your words. Got it? What d’you need?"
"Your mouth," you confessed.
Joel’s hands shot out to grab your ankles, tugging you back to the edge of the bed. He was on his knees in an instant, urging your legs apart to make room for his body. Suddenly, you felt his tongue between your folds, and you let out a pornographic gasp while you threaded your fingers in his hair. He devoured you and guided the roll of your hips against his mouth, showing you how to take what you needed from him and fucking you relentlessly with his tongue. He then brought his fingers into the mix, curling them against that sweet spot of yours, forcing a scream from your throat. You could hardly form a coherent sentence, and so you didn’t have the time to warn him when your orgasm crashed through the surface.
He hummed in satisfaction, continuing to lap at you and work you through it until you pushed weakly at his head. He pulled away, his mouth and mustache wet from your release. Gazing down at him with heavy eyes, you watched as he brought his fingers to his mouth and closed his eyes savoring the taste.
"You’re so fuckin’ perfect," he grunted, crawling over your limp body and kissing the side of your neck. "Did so good for me."
Your heart pounded in your chest as he continued to pepper your neck with kisses, and you felt his thick cock notch at your entrance.
"So beautiful," he murmured, holding your face, hands keeping you firmly in his vision. His warm brown eyes bore into you in a way that felt like they were piercing into your soul.
But then—the moment shattered like glass.
A gunshot cracked through the night—sharp, unmistakable, too close.
You and Joel froze, eyes wide, breath caught. Then came the second sound: the shrill, piercing wail of the QZ alarm. Not the usual curfew warning. This one was different. This one meant intruder.
You bolted.
Joel was already moving, grabbing his clothes off the floor, yanking them over his head and legs. You scrambled for your own clothes, heart hammering.
"Shit," Joel muttered, pulling on his boots in record time. “That’s the breach alarm.”
You nodded, adrenaline surging through your veins as you shoved your arms into your sweater. The siren outside wailed louder now, echoing off the concrete walls of the QZ. You could hear shouting in the distance—guards barking orders, people running.
Joel moved toward your door, his steps quick and deliberate, already reaching for his gun that he had set down earlier. His eyes scanned through the peephole, jaw clenched tight.
"Stay here," he said, voice low but firm.
"Joel, no—don’t. Let’s just stay here."
"I have to check on Tess."
Jealousy flared hot in your chest, tangled with fear. You knew it wasn’t romantic...anymore. You knew they were partners—had been for years. Of course he had to check on her. Of course he did. But still… it stung.
You swallowed, trying to push the feeling down. "Wait."
You darted to the closet, yanked the door open, and reached behind a stack of blankets. Your fingers closed around cold metal. When you turned back, Joel’s eyes widened slightly.
"Take this," you held out a rifle.
Joel stepped forward, took it from your hands, his fingers brushing yours. He looked at you like he hadn’t expected that.
"Okay," he said, clicking his tongue, "we need to have a serious conversation bout’ some of the trades you’ve been doin’ sweetheart,"
You gave him a flat look. Then you saw it—the faint curve of his mouth, the way his brow relaxed just enough to let the tension bleed out. You rolled your eyes, but your lips twitched.
"Now’s really the time for a lecture?"
Joel shrugged, adjusting the rifle on his shoulder. "I mean, if you’re gonna be handin’ out military-grade weapons like they’re candy, I gotta ask what else you’ve got stashed in that closet."
Then he leaned in and kissed you.
"Please come back," you whispered against his mouth.
His eyes focused on your face, and he moved one of his hands down to lace his fingers with yours. Joel kissed you again, harder this time, like he was sealing a promise.
And later that night—he did come back to you.
After Eleven
Alex Serian x Female Reader
Rating: Explicit. 18+ (Minors DNI) Summary: Your neighbor plays his cello way too fucking late, and all you want to do is get off and get to sleep... Warnings: smut, masturbation, cello lessons, grey sweatpants, hot neighbor, voyeurism due to thin walls, bach, i have zero clue about this character but i want to fuck him, riding, unprotected p in v, finger fucking and sucking, like he HAS to be good with his hands right?!, written in a fevered few hours, i feel like that jon hamm gif Words: 3,000
A/N: Did I fuck off and ignore work for a few hours to write this? Yes. Am I going to have to pay for it by working tonight? Yes. Is it worth it? I don't know man, I'm horny af for this new character. Siri, play "Fresh Out The Slammer" because I feel rejuvenated in my delusional porn writing. Gif made by me because I'm that fucking insane.
After Hours Masterlist Masterlist
—-
The notes mock you, mock the catch of your breath, the beat of your heart, the way your fingers move across your clit, pressing and swirling. You’re so close, and yet so far. Your trusty vibrator, rose, and grinder sit discarded on your quilt. The mournful music filtering in through the thin bungalow walls and windows is not helping. So close. So far. Your orgasm drowns again.
You slap your hand down against your stomach, killing the last vestige of your mood and roll off the bed. You just wanted ONE singular orgasm, something to take the edge off. But no, there’s a sad cello playing some sort of depressing, somber thing that just leaves you even more frustrated.
You check your phone and grumble. 11:39. Who fucking needs Vivaldi or Bach this loud after eleven?
Your new neighbor, apparently.
You don’t even bother to close your robe when you stomp out into the damp night. Your bare feet squelch in the wet grass, and you don’t care. The music gets louder when you get to your neighbor’s door. It’s nice? You guess. You don’t even know anymore.
You pound on his door. Three rasps. You give your neighbor time. Nothing. So you pound again. Until the music stops. Footsteps get closer, floorboards creak.
The door opens, just like your jaw drops. Dark hair slicks back from a face that the gods might as well have sculpted. Sharp cheekbones, strong nose, plush lips, big brown eyes. He’s in a black tank top, ridiculously broad shoulders escaping the flimsy fabric. His gray sweatpants hang loose on his hips. His whole look suggests either a strategic carelessness or a total lack of giving a shit. It might be due to how fucking horny you are, but your new neighbor could be the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.
His dark eyes size and assess you. Your robe. The flimsy, light pink tank top sticking to your skin, the short, barely there sleep shorts with tiny, green polka dots. Your hair’s probably a mess, your skin still damp with a sweat of frustration. He looks almost amused at the sight of you, but his eyes linger a little longer than propriety should suggest at your thighs.
“Can I help you?” he asks. Deep, kinda dark, like a freshly poured cup of your favorite coffee.
“It’s la—” your voice squeaks. You clear your throat, square your shoulders. “It’s late. Your music. It’s… loud. Some of us have to, you know. Sleep.”
He leans on the doorframe, folds his arms, and your eyes square in on the way his biceps bulge, the line of his forearms. “Sleep,” he says.
“Yes. That’s right. It’s past 11.”
“Didn’t think it was that loud.”
“Could you turn it down at least?”
A thick eyebrow arches up. “Guess these walls are paper-thin. I suppose I could use a different bow.”
There’s no shame in his voice, no apology, and it just irks you more. You wobble a bit in the way he looks at you, half wanton desire, half boredom.
“I’d… appreciate that.”
“Mm,” he says, and his lip quirks up in a maddeningly handsome smirk… like he knows he’s gorgeous and getting under your skin. “You best get back to… sleep,” he says.
You nod, because you have no other fucking clue how to respond under his heated, cocky gaze and the revelation that the music was being played by him and not a too-loud stereo.
The silk of your robe swishes across your hot skin as you make your way across the grass to your bungalow. You’re sure your neighbor’s watching you the whole way and you don’t dare look back.
He keeps his word, you can barely hear the music when you lie back down in bed. Fuck him for being beautiful. Your whole body is still reverberating from the baritone rasp of his voice. You press a pillow over your face and scream an annoyed sound into it, as the heat of his gaze still blooms across your body.
At least now all you can hear is nothing but the sound of your breathing, picking up when the heel of your hand slinks its way back between your thighs. Jesus Christ, you’re even wetter now. You’re leaking a frustrating hunger, the image of your neighbor’s big shoulders and golden skin playing in your mind. You imagine his biceps pinning you down and his thick fingers hooking against your waist as he pounds into you.
“Fuck,” you whisper, picturing his wide palm against your mouth. You wonder what he sounds like when he cums, is it as sad and tragic sounding as the music he plays?
God, it’s so easy now. Your body’s arching up, desperate to feel how soft his tank-topped chest is when it’s shoved against your chest. You can almost feel him, the weight of him atop you, his dark eyes searing into you as you edge yourself closer and closer. You’re pressing needy circles against your clit, your thighs tensing and toes curling. “Fuck, fuck,” you moan out, too loud for your own good and the silence of your own bungalow. Your hips are moving against your hand harder, faster, and when you think of that damned smirk of his and the way he’d watch you shatter apart for him, you orgasm, hard and hot and loud. “Oh fuck, godddd,” you moan. You don’t even care. You want him to hear it. Maybe he will, with the thin walls. Maybe he won’t, because he’s too busy playing that damned music. Maybe he heard a hint, and now he’s sat, frozen in his chair, bow in one hand, listening to your own symphony between the walls.
—-
Two nights of silence, and then you hear it… a loud cat-like moan around 11 PM. Followed by another high-pitched mew. “Aleeeeex,” the shrill sounds. “Oh god, Alex.”
So, your hot neighbor’s name is Alex.
A rhythmic thumping starts up against your wall, fast, brutal, not sweet. You can’t help yourself as you move towards the wall, listening in for any type of low grunt or groan, but there’s nothing… just a repetitive smack of wood against drywall and the squealing of a woman.
You roll over, turn on your speaker, and pick up your phone. You know the perfect song. You scroll to the B’s in your music, find Cello Suite no. 2 by Bach, and let the sad, melancholy play… loud.
The pace just behind the shared wall picks up, and the wails of the woman speed up, along with the tapping against the wall. Now it’s your time to smirk, take that, Alex, and whoever he’s decided to fuck.
And when the roaring sadness of the music slows and quiets at a point… you hear it. A long, low groan timed perfectly to the song, almost like he was waiting for it.
You feel the angry roar of want in your body at the sound of him and let the song fade out as you reach into your drawer and pull out your vibrator.
—-
The next night, the cello is back, at 11 on the dot. Louder. Like it’s back to mock you. You shake your head and smile, willing it not to bother you as you turn in bed and put a pillow over your ear, but even through the muffled down, you recognize the song. It’s Cello Suite no. 2, just like you played him last night.
Damn, he’s talented. You have to give him that.
By 11:30, he hasn’t stopped, and the cello almost plays like a siren song to you and your sleepy, horny frustrations. You step out into the night air, and you swear the cool air hisses against your heated skin. No robe this time, just you and your light blue silky, short nightdress, complete with the lace trim across your breasts.
You punch at his door again, then stand back, arms crossed. You’re sure your nipples are pressing against the thin fabric, and you don’t care.
He answers almost instantly, and good lord, he’s only in a pair of boxers and a loose, button-up shirt.
“You’re playing on purpose now, aren’t you?” you ask him, no greeting, just attitude.
“I need to practice. Figured you’d like to hear it.”
You snort. “So why that song?”
His hand rests against the doorframe and he looms over you. “Thought I’d return the favor of last night.” You roll your eyes and huff. “Thanks.”
He turns his head back to his living room, then back at you, deep brown eyes searing into you. “Come in. I’ll play you something else.”
“It’s late.”
“It’s not like you were going to sleep anyway.”
You don’t say anything, you just walk past him into his place. It’s neat, in order, vintage furniture with modern touches. His bow is discarded on the floor, the cello leaning against the wall.
He lifts his hand, guides you to his couch, a soft, buttery leather that dips when you settle on it, mindful of just how short your nightdress is. He bends to pick up the bow, and your throat goes dry as you stare at his ass. You blink yourself back to reality as he takes a seat and places his cello between his legs. God, his legs, strong and dusted with hair, he looks to be golden all over.
He begins playing. Something you don’t recognize, but it’s smooth and sultry. Your heart and body answer, heating and beating with each note of music that flows from the instrument.
Alex doesn’t look up, he’s transfixed by the music he plays, and you’re just as spellbound. You’re sure you’re breathing hard, sure your pulse is thrumming along to the song. You don’t know how long you sit like that, mesmerized by the music and the man. If this is how he looks as he plays, then you’ll surely sacrifice the nights of sleep, just to let this beauty out into the world.
His head tips back, neck straining as his head lulls back and forth, caught in the notes, and when he looks at you, dark brown eyes meeting yours, you know he can see the way your chest is rising and falling, the heat of your stare. He gifts you one of those damned smirks, but this time it’s different. It’s heated and full of desire. He watches you watch him, and you can’t look away. Every note he plays flows through you, from your ears to between your thighs.
Alex’s arm slows, the bow stopping, and the last warble of the strings escapes the cello. He sets the cello against the wall with reverence, his loose shirt gapes open as he turns, exposing golden chest and a dark line of hair. You try to adjust how you’re sitting, the leather couch sticking to you with the heat of your thighs.
His eyes roam over you, from your bare legs up to your chest, up, up, finally meeting your eyes again. He licks his lips, pink tongue against his plush bottom lip. He smiles, hot, knowing, painfully cocky. “Did you like it?” he asks.
You answer with a bobble of your head. Any type of words would just fail to be husked out of your dry throat. Goodness, you want him. You want him a way that’s almost embarrassing in the desperate, feral way you do.
"You want to try to play?" he asks.
You’re silent again, just another nod sent to him.
He pats his thighs, beckons you over, and you rise and pad towards him, going to exactly where he wants you. He parts his legs, and you straddle his lap, your back meeting his chest. You’re painfully aware of the silk of your dress clinging to the arch of your ass, the way your thighs bracket his, his skin meeting your skin. You move, hoping he can’t feel how wet you are for him, but you hear the small grunt, and you know he absolutely can.
He picks up the cello and sets it between both of you, the smooth wood is cool against your thigh. He wraps his arms around your waist, enveloping you in his strong arms, his chest flexing against your back.
You’re glitching, absolutely dumbstruck by how gentle and low his voice is as he places your fingers over the strings. “Here,” he whispers, guiding your hand to the cello’s neck. “Thumb here. Not too tight.” His hands are big and hot. His breath fans across your ear, and it makes you shiver.
“Now, try,” he says, handing you the bow. You attempt to make a song, but you’re so heady off the closeness of him that you’re too clumsy to do anything right. The bow draws across the strings, and it’s… like a car crash of a note, but he tightens his arms and chuckles low against your ear.
“Again,” he whispers, and you try. This time, the note is softer, a pleasant hum leaves the cello. “Good,” he says, lips grazing against your earlobe. He rewards you by letting his hand skim against your thigh.
There’s a shared hunger, an almost understanding, guided by the music and want that’s drifted between the walls. You melt and tense at the same time, and you feel the press of his cock against you when you tilt back and press yourself into him.
He slides his hand up, rucking up the hem of your dress. “You still want to play?”
You’re dizzy, barely holding onto the bow. “No.”
“Then set the bow down.”
You obey, letting it clatter to the floor. He takes the cello from between your legs and sets it aside while keeping you still locked against him, hand splayed against your belly. “Spread your legs,” Alex tells you.
You instantly spread, letting him slip his palm between you and trace your soaked pussy through the wispy layer of your lace panties. You almost lose it right there, hips jerking at the thick, callused fingers of his exploring the drenched line of your cunt.
He lets out a low, incredulous growl as he touches you, pressing his mouth to your neck, sucking at the skin. “Feel good?” he rumbles. “Yeah?”
“Fuccck,” you manage.
He smiles into your neck, slides his fingers into your panties, parts you, thick, middle finger slowly exploring before plunging deep into you. You moan, noisy and erupting, louder than any song he can play.
He fucks you with his hand, two fingers, thick and skilled, shallow then deep, giving you a pattern you’ll never guess. His thumb rubs circles on your clit, making you stupid with just how good he is at this. You’re sweating now, shaking, under the control of Alex’s possessive hands against your body.
He’s rutting and hard against you, whispering “that’s it, that’s it,” over and over as his fingers play you like an instrument he’s mastered.
You cum for him, so hard you shudder and squeeze. Head knocking back against his broad chest. He growls, licks up the sweat of you, holding you tighter as you ride and writhe against his fingers.
He pulls his fingers out, yanks your panties to the side, and frees his cock from the thin cotton of his boxers. You don’t know if you’ve ever wanted someone so bad before and when he brushes the fat tip of him against your accepting hole, you gasp at the promise of his size.
It’s one monstrous, behemoth of a thrust that makes your eyes flutter shut and all the air escape you. He fucks up into you hard, and you grab at his big hands, holding on as the old wooden chair frame creaks. He’s so fucking thick, overwhelming and rough, but Christ, the way your slippery cunt swallows him, it’s like he was fit for you. You ride him, back rubbing against his chest as he pumps in and out of you, the noise of your slick and his grunts crescendoing in the sex-heavy air.
He grabs your hips, planting both feet on the floor, and starts railing up into you so deep you let out a sob of his name. He’s rewarding and withholding at the same time, sliding all the way out, holding you above himself, letting you beg for him, until he plants all of himself into you. He slinks a hand up your body, thumb stroking your cheek before he sticks two of his fingers into your mouth.
You taste the sweet tang of your orgasm, tongue licking at the rough and ridges of his fingers. You suck, and he groans, bucking so hard the chair actually scoots back across the floor.
He must want to see you desperate and dumb, his other hand moving between your legs, playing with you there. It only takes a couple strokes of his fingers against your puffy, needy clit for him to orchestrate your orgasm out of you. It’s shocking how fucking hard you cum for him, how white your vision goes, how the pulse of your body pulses a cacophony of beats. Alex fucks straight through your orgasm, cock spearing you as you whimper around his fingers and drip around his cock. But, he’s losing it now, panting into the crook of your neck, hips snapping so loud against you.
He pulls out, and you feel the slide of his cock head against your clit when he cums, thick, white ropes painting against your panties, your belly, the silk of your dress. You’re still floating high like the music notes he plays, a trembling mess in his arms when you lean your head back and can’t help but laugh. Alex chuckles, too. Both of you are sticky and soaked, pressed together, glazed in shared sweat and cum.
The cello sits unused, the bow on the floor. Alex’s forehead rests against your shoulder as he comes down. You think he’s going to say something smart and frustrating, but he just kisses your shoulder blade and tightens his arms around you.
So much for hating your new neighbor.
—-
Yes, I wrote more of them.