summary : the world has fallen, but in the walls of jackson, a new life grows. you remember before the outbreak, mothers used to play music for their children. or, the guilt of bringing a baby into this world, and joel miller plays guitar for his two girls <3
warnings: fluff…fluff and angst. so much fluff and angst. god your teeth will ROT so bad you’ll need to call the dentist. seriously like fluff ALERT. age gap undefined, using game logic i guess here, joel is like 55 and reader is younger (undefined) but in my head she’s in her 30s <3 (but can be anything.) joel calls himself an old man like once. no use of y/n, you and joel are expecting a baby girl. AAAA but there’s so much guilt and pain from like. bringing a child into this world. joel miller is possessive and eeeeeeeveryone knows it. also warning pregnancy. of course as usual no reader description except ur…pregnant.
authors note: yeah guys idk. i’m ovulating. i NEED to be pregnant with joel miller’s baby it’s not even a want anymore it’s a NEED. a requirement. i just got possessed writing it in the middle of the day. it’s been a long few days of jet lag, so much jet lag. and also uni pre reading came in and it’s destroying me so bad…electrical engineering is not my friend 😭😭😭this is…not my usual, ive also never been pregnant before so like. help. constructive criticism is 100% welcomed. AAAAAH im thinking of making this a series like a cherry pie universe where joel + reader raise a baby in jackson (OF CORUSE AN AU WHERE HE SURVIVES. WHAT THE HELL IM NOT EVIL.) so please like comment if u want to be tagged!!! i love reblogs and comments so much <3333 joel is a girldad a girl father pedro pascal please never stop playing dads <3 you give me joy and hope. as im posting this im stuck on this long ass drive and there’s barely any internet pls free me. like this sucks idek when it’s going to be posted, hopefully harry castillo pt 2 will b out soon this week !!!
it’s as if the world fell to pieces yesterday, when had been a mess for years. you barely remember the before, before when the world was sunnier.
there’s the guilt, guilt in carrying the life in your stomach. guilt that you’re bringing her into this world, full of hate and death. guilt you bring her into such a broken life, with the infected crawling outside jackson’s walls. but it takes a village — maria and tommy were always here to help, so was the rest of the townsfolk.
and there was joel, sweet sweet joel. your husband, the father of your child. he’d always place a hand over your swollen stomach, proud that he’d marked you as his. proud that you were carrying his baby, his very blood in you. he was so gentle with how he stroked your stomach, how he laid a big hand where you guided it, to feel your daughter kick.
you’re sitting next to him now, on his couch. he’s so warm, and in the last month of your pregnancy, you’ve been feeling all too cold. your hands feel frozen, and he holds them in his own big ones, rubbing them between his own, lacing fingers, pressing palms. it’s good, warm. it feels like life and sun, and not like the cold that you know lies behind jackson’s walls.
“joel?” you look up at him, and he can never refuse those big doe eyes of yours, so wide, looking at him like he hangs the moon and the stars. you’re younger than him, seen less violence than him, he’d been a raider, killed. and you…?
you haven’t. you’re like the sun, luminous. you shine brighter than anyone else in the room, shine even brighter with the glow pregnancy brought out in you. he likes that you’re heavy with his seed, likes that he’s claimed you and everyone in jackson can see that. his star, that he caught whilst hanging the moon. his star, he chose to keep for himself.
“mm?” he grunts back in a reply, his hand gently stroking your knuckles, he likes the dips of the skin there, from the days spent working in the farm. yet soft from all the creams he’d found for you on patrol.
he’s handsome, the years haven’t been kind to the world, to him. but they’ve been kind to his face. his eyes are big and brown. and they look down at you with such care.
“nevermind.” you blush, after a second, ducking your head, turning your face away so he can’t see the expression on your face. he loves it when you smile like that, it turns him into mush inside. all shy and ridiculous, like a startled deer.
“go on darlin’?” he asks, keeping his hand on yours, keeping his warmth with you.
“it’s silly joel.” you sigh, before turning back to him, there’s a fondness in your eyes that he sees as they flick down to your stomach. you slip away a hand from him, and press it to your stomach.
“i just.” you pause, something lodged in your throat, “i just…”
he frowns, his hand covering yours on your stomach. fall is colder now, and you’re wearing a knit cardigan to keep you and the baby warm. she isn’t kicking or anything, but you seem so sad, his heart aches.
“you jus’ what, peach?” he asks, his voice all low and gravelly, dripping with worry, his eyes are wide as he looks into your face. he’s always scared with you, scared that something will happen, scared that he’ll loose you too. scared that you’ll slip away like tess did, like sarah did, like everything good was taken from him.
scared. scared that you would go, and so would his daughter with you. somewhere where he couldn’t find you, orpheus, he would make a deal with hades to bring you back.
“you don’t…” you lick your lips, and take a deep breath. he’s worried, possessive, doesn’t let you out of the house in the last month. he has a hand hovering over you, your stomach, like he tethers you to earth. “don’t worry joel, nothing’s wrong with me.”
“or baby?” he asks, voice rough. of course nothing’s wrong with her, or you’d say something.
“or the baby.” you exhale, and he feels your cool breath on his fingers, comforting, you are alive. alive and in his arms.
“then what is it, sweetheart.” he traces circles on your stomach, it’s an odd feeling, but you like it. “c’mon, you can tell me, promise, this old man won’t laugh.”
“not that old.” you sigh, your hand finds his chin, and you rub the stubble lovingly. he needs to shave, and soon. “it’s just, i don’t even know if people do it that often these days, but god. i want my baby to listen to music, heard it helped with development and all that.”
he sees the tip of your nose twitch, and the tears mist your big eyes. the guilt, the guilt of bringing a child into a world like this.
“peach…” he sighs, and tucks a stray strand away from your face. “peach, you ain’t doing anything wrong by her, by bringing her here.”
“feels like i am.” you choke out, and she has a loving father and mother, a sister in ellie, an uncle, aunt. a village behind her. it takes a village. and yet. your heart halts, because she will never have the ordinary joys of what a baby would have had before. toys, stupid dancing fruits on the phone, cartoons. small things.
“how about i play some music, ‘kay?” he lets out a breath, and when he gets up, the chill seeps into your bones. the empty space beside you, once with his warmth, now with the cool pooling around you.
he comes back a few seconds later, the guitar in his hands. he props up a little further away from you on the sofa, but close enough so that you and the baby can hear him well.
he sets it up properly, tuning the strings with ear memory. each pluck of the string is gentle, like he is with you, his fingers big and thick and playing each note perfectly.
“you are my sunshine.” he starts, his fingers playing the chords perfectly, and you swear you’ll start crying this very second. the hormones, no, his love for you is choking you.
the song is so sweet, wrapped up in his rough cadence, like he always has wrapped his love in. he plays it carefully, plays it without tearing up — failing that when he sees you cry. some words get caught in his throat as he continues singing.
you can feel your daughter kick, and you rest your hand over your stomach as he plays, sunshine — you both are his sunshine. he hasn’t even seen her, and he knows that she’d be like the sun incarnate, just like you. his two stars that he will always orbit, always have their warmth light up their world.
“she kicked!” you call out to him, and he stops playing immediately to cover your stomach with his hand, feel the little feet kick against his hand. his heart thuds in his chest as he feels them, feels your hand grasp his.
he’d never realised he could get something like this — deserved something like this. ever had the chance to get something like this, after everything, after the world falling to shit.
you’re going to say something, but it gets caught in the kiss he gives you, all so soft and sweet, his chapped lips against your own soft ones. you’re heavy with his child, you’re completely his, and you love it so much.
he holds you a little tighter at night, kisses you slow, like eating his favourite cherry pie you make. it’s nice, knowing someone like you carries his daughter, someone like you makes his life worth living, every day.
summary: Ted Garcia has something you want. And you? Well, let's just say, you have something to offer.
|| smut MDNI 18+, ted garcia x reader, assistant!reader (the sheriff's assistant, and you hate it), mentions of masks / covid, pussy inspection, light pussy slapping, lil bit of spanking, power imbalance, power dynamics, this for that, reader uses what god gave her to get a job, pinv, dirty talk, implied age gap, reader has a pet, drug use (recreational, brief), light use of punishment (spanking, gripping, orgasm denial), praise kink!!!, pet names like honey / sweetheart / baby / good girl, I swear to god I might be goin to hell for this she nasty, canon compliant (just timeline wise, no spoilers) ||
a/n: I know nothing about working as a government employee or for a sheriff, so please don't take this as true to any manner of work in that sort of field. and also if your employer or recruiter ever does this plz report them I do not condone the actions of these characters. ok enjoy!!!
wc: 10k sorry it kinda got away from me!!!
You wondered if Joe would ever shut the fuck up.
He’d just come back to the office and was ranting about Toni from the supermarket forcing his Radical Left Agenda onto him and Fred, apparently ‘screaming’ at them that they needed masks, when you knew perfectly well Toni barely raised his voice at all, wouldn’t even snap at a fly buzzing by.
You kept your head down at your desk, the one furthest from your boss’s, your shoulders curled slightly inward like you could make yourself smaller by will alone, eyes flicking between emails and open tabs without absorbing a word, your body present but your mind already somewhere else, anywhere else. Joe still had you working in-person, like the scab of a human he was. The type of man who treated public health like a threat to his masculinity. Fucker.
Michael and Guy were in there too, shaking their heads while they watched through YouTube videos, scoffing at the mayor’s re-election videos and how the town had gone to hell. You’d stopped trying to argue with them ages ago. You’d needed this job more than you needed to be right, unfortunately.
Just a few more years of this shithole, you told yourself, the mantra worn smooth with repetition. A few more trips around the sun trapped in this backwater office with this bigoted excuse for a sheriff. Maybe, by then…maybe, if Joe retired, or died, or choked on a menthol in his sleep, you could finally make a move. You had ideas and hopes for your small town. A sustainability initiative you’d written up in your own time, a vision for a future that didn’t involve draining the entire aqueduct for SolidGoldMagikarp. If you could just get onto the city planning board, even as an assistant, you could finally start pushing it, making your dreams of sustainability as county commissioner a reality. You dreamed of drafting your own legislation, of turning this city around before the data center would wipe it clean. Something greener, smarter, not some sun bleached, drought ridden dump full of men like Joe fucking Cross.
Better yet, you thought, if Garcia won the next mayoral race, that might open up some board seats in the city planning office. Maybe Joe would get so tired of the man who’d fucked his wife (allegedly, whatever) always stepping over him and succeeding, he’d just pick up his agoraphobic wife and lunatic mother in law and just…leave.
Wouldn’t that be something.
A google alert pinged on your email, taking you from your day dreams of greener pastures with a notification.
Position Opening: Junior Planning Consultant — City of Eddington Office of Public Works
Your pulse kicked into high gear as you glanced over your shoulder first. Joe, Guy, and Michael were still clustered together, now huffing about the small group of BLM protesters down the road like they were a personal inconvenience instead of people, before turning back to your screen.
The Office of Public Works is seeking an entry-level consultant to assist with ongoing urban development initiatives. This position will support research, public engagement, and administrative coordination related to municipal zoning, transportation planning, and community infrastructure. Applicants should demonstrate strong organizational skills, familiarity with local government operations, and a commitment to civic growth.
You blinked at the screen, then reread it.
Oh.
Oh, this was perfect.
And then, your shoulders dropped as you kept reading.
Candidates must provide a letter of recommendation from a senior government official with direct oversight of their current position.
Not likely.
But…but if you somehow managed it, this could be the next step to your future, the next step to getting out of this fucking office and into making real change for your town. The only problem was… Joe would have a god damn field day if you’d ask for a letter of recommendation from him to go work for the local government, because it would mean working with said man who’d fucked his wife all those years ago (allegedly!!!). And to get this job, you’d need his blessing in ink. A glowing, beautiful letter explaining how much you’d worked for the position. Even though you felt like the last woman standing now, the only one left with her head screwed on straight after the deputies who actually made a difference fled to Rio Rancho, and the others were fired in quiet disgrace for excessive force, for misconduct, for things everyone pretended were isolated incidents instead of patterns.
You closed your laptop quickly, shooting up from the swiveling office chair and heading for the door.
Joe looked up. “Where you off to at this hour?”
You straightened your spine, smoothed your face into something pleasant and harmless. “Lunch,” you said, too sweet, already halfway to the door. He checked his watch like he had to think about it while Michael and Guy both gave you a slow once over with their lingering eyes. And once Joe gave a nod, you headed out. Fuckers.
You pulled your mask from your bag, tucking it around your ears and snug over your nose with your shoulders tight, and headed through the spring heat towards the coffee shop two blocks down, the one where the espresso was always burnt but the wi-fi wasn’t half bad. You sat outside by the window after mobile-ordering your latte, and opened up your laptop. For the next hour, you poured your heart into a new resume, fine tuned a cover letter, and searched for your college essays on public engagement and community trust building.
It wasn’t a glowing recommendation letter, but it would have to do for now. And when you were done and the application had been sent, you shut your laptop and headed back to the hellhole to finish out the day pretending it all still mattered.
Three days passed with no response.
You refreshed your inbox until the motion felt automatic, compulsive, like blinking. You checked spam obsessively, looked over the job board again in case the listing had vanished. You even checked LinkedIn, knowing full well hardly anyone in Eddington bothered with it, scrolling through the same stale profiles until your eyes burned.
The longer the silence stretched, the more ridiculous you started to feel for letting yourself hope. That this place—this dusty, underfunded, God-fearing town—would ever take someone like you seriously without a sheriff’s badge or a family name or a church attendance record.
By the fourth day of waiting, the pit in your stomach had settled into something worse than dread—utter resignation.
You weren’t even pretending to work anymore. You were sitting at your desk, thumb jammed into your cheek, staring down at a blurry Facebook upload of Joe’s latest video, filmed from his truck.
"Is it worth it," he was saying with more punch to each word, “to combat a virus that isn’t even here, if it means bein’ at war with your neighbors? And your family? That’s what community is, isn’t it? A family. Because you can ruin a man’s day, or you can do the right thing, and be kind. And you can free his heart.”
Free his heart? Jesus fucking Christ. This was coming from a man who’d once told a room full of veterans that masks were ‘just another way to keep good people afraid’ and who blamed Antifa for every broken window or tagged wall in town, who believed if you wore a mask in office you were one of them.
And of course the comments were full of people calling him a hero. Someone had added a bald eagle emoji. You wanted to throw your phone across the room. You even thought you might vomit.
And above the video, suddenly, was a notification. An email to Joe. Your name had been CC’d automatically, since he never bothered to look at them himself. You saw everything that came through to him these days. Ever since the pandemic started, ever since his wife had taken a turn for the worse, you’d been quietly looped into the communications day in and day out.
From: Ted Garcia
To: Sheriff Joe Cross
Subject: Congratulations
You clicked before you could think better of it.
Joe,
Heard the news. Let’s talk.
– Ted Garcia
Eddington Mayoral Office
235 Las Cruces Rd, Eddington, NM
Paving the Way for a Tech-Forward Future!
You scanned the words again, then again, heart kicking hard into your ribs. Every instinct in you was screaming that what you were about to do was stupid, dangerous, career-ending if anyone found out.
But your fingers were typing before you could think better of it.
See you at 3. Library lot, side entrance. – Joe Cross
You hovered for half a second, breath held tight in your chest, and clicked send.
The spinning loader circled a few times before pinging with bright confirmation: sent!
Whether it was stupid or smart or something far worse, you didn’t know yet. But you did know this: you needed a way out.
One way or another.
The park beside the library wasn’t much of a park at all. Just a strip of dried-up grass and a hot iron bench bolted into the ground, an inscription carved into the backrest honoring the family that founded the town, names worn smooth by years of sun and neglect. You sat there beneath a desert willow, fingers interlocked so tightly your knuckles strained, sweat gathering between your spine and the metal slats pressing into your back. You’d chosen the corner closest to the maintenance shed by the side entrance, half in shadow, tucked just out of view unless someone already knew where to look.
You weren’t sure if he’d come, though…you weren’t sure what you’d say if he did.
But then you heard footsteps, and you jumped towards the sound—not the boots you were used to hearing shuffling around the station or running out the door for a call, but loafers, soft on the sole as they hit the dry, yellow grass at his feet.
He rounded the bend with his hands in his vest pockets, wearing faded jeans and a button up beneath. His hair was tamed, blowing in a welcome breeze, sunglasses and a mask hiding his expression when he stopped short.
He looked around, looking for his intended meeting partner, and looked back at you, because you were staring despite trying to seem very calm and collected. You saw how his brow pinched over the rim of his glasses as he took one more look around him.
“You’re not Joe.” he said uneasily as he approached.
He didn’t sit quite yet, and you watched him, hands still tight in your lap, “Nope.”
There was a strained silence.
“I saw your email,” you said then, “I was the one who responded. I work at the station,” your voice was starting to get higher, your words tumbling out, “just the office stuff, answering phones and taking his emails and—”
“I know who you are.”
Okay… noted.
He still hadn’t sat, but you gestured to the bench anyway, careful not to sound too eager. “Can I talk to you?”
He waited a beat longer than necessary, then eased down at the opposite end. Not close, but not perched at the edge either, occupying the space with quiet confidence. “Mask?” he said.
You nodded, pulling yours from your pocket and placing it over your nose, and then taking a deep breath, you looked out at the brittle grass.
“There’s a job opening,” you said. “In Public Works. Entry-level consultant for development planning. I applied.”
He didn’t react.
“But I need a letter of recommendation,” you went on. “From a government official. Someone with seniority. It’s part of the requirements.”
Still nothing. You felt the silence stretch between you, starting to sting.
“I know you’re not exactly thrilled with anyone connected to Joe,” you said carefully, “but this isn’t about him. I’m trying to get out, I hate it there. I have a background in environmental policy. I’m not—” You stopped. “I wouldn’t embarrass you. If you were to…write it for me.”
That did it. Just a slight tilt of his head, a brief glance in your direction.
“You’re sure about that?” you heard him say, muffled under his mask.
Your mouth went dry. “Yes.”
“Because a letter from me carries weight around here,” he said. “And if I vouch for someone who turns out to be unqualified, careless, unstable—”
“I’m not any of those things.”
“How would I know that?”
You stared at him. “You just said you know who I am. And I know for a fact you know my mom and dad.”
This time he met your gaze fully.
“I do.”
And that was it. No warmth, no advantage, nothing to be proud of, clearly.
You exhaled once, sharply and tried to recover.
“Okay….I could…” you were looking around, as if the blades of dried shrubbery could give you an answer, “I could pay you.”
He actually laughed at that, short and amused. “Bribing a public official. Great pitch for your career.”
You closed your eyes for a second, rubbed your temple. “It was worth a shot.”
He stood, smoothing the front of his shirt. “If that’s all—”
“It’s not.” You rose quickly after him. “Just… One more thing.”
He didn’t walk away. That was something, at least.
“Don’t laugh,” you said.
“I’ll try.”
You swallowed. You looked at the grass, the shadows of the bench moving as the seconds ticked by, anywhere but his face. To say you were spiraling might be an exaggeration, your brain was whirring around, lungs heaving in shallow breaths, trying to steady yourself. He waited, and you realized then how tall he was. You hadn’t ever been in front of him like this, so close, and some kind of cologne was wafting off of him in the breeze, warm and mixed with some oud wood and tobacco.
But he didn’t move. He wouldn’t push or fill the silence for you, and you couldn’t leave empty handed, not after everything you’d risked just to be here. Because what would happen if you let this slip through your fingers? If you trudged back into the office with nothing to show for it but a nasty sunburn?
The thought made your stomach twist, because you could already see it so clearly. No letter of recommendation = no chance at that job. No foothold into city planning, or any path forward, no future that looked anything like the one you’d imagined for yourself on those long. There were so many sleepless nights spent lying awake and furious, cataloguing all the ways this town was rotting from the inside out and how you’d fix it, if only someone would let you try.
You looked at Ted then. He was still watching you, expression hidden behind those dark sunglasses, posture easy and unmoved, like none of this touched him at all. Like he didn’t owe you a single thing. Because, in truth, he didn’t.
You wet your lips and told yourself not to flinch.
“There’s one other thing,” you said.
And finally, finally, that got his attention. His head tilted, just slightly, waiting.
You felt the blood roar in your ears.
“I could…I could pay you. In other ways.”
He was watching you silently, and God, you hated those sunglasses. You wished you could reach out and snatch them from his face, just to see what this was doing to him, if anything at all.
“I could…I could send you photos.” you said meekly, quietly.
“Of?” he asked, head tipping down slightly, as if genuinely puzzled.
“Myself,” you whispered. Then you straightened, spine stiffening as something stubborn took hold of you. If you were going to say it, you were going to say it with your chest. “Naked.”
For a moment, he didn’t move. You wondered if he’d even heard you through the mask, through the noise in your own head.
And then, as stern and business-like as ever, he said: “Get back to work,” already turning away from you, shaking his head like he found it all so damn ridiculous.
“Is that a no?” you called to him.
He didn’t bother answering you, nor did he glance back your way as he walked off.
A few hours later, your phone rang.
An unmarked number. Local, but not saved. Your stomach tightened before you even picked it up, a quiet, anticipatory pull low in your spine, as if some part of you already knew exactly who it was.
“Hello?”
“Send them to this number,” he said, no greeting, no preamble. “Tonight. After work. I want one tonight, and one in the morning. After you shower.”
“I shower at night.”
The words came out before you could stop them, clipped and absurdly practical, like that was the sticking point here. Not the fact that the mayor of Eddington was calling you before your shift had even ended. Not that he was asking for something that could dismantle your life if it slipped even slightly out of your control.
There was a pause on the line. Long enough to feel deliberate. Long enough for your mind to race—was he reconsidering? Had he already decided this was a mistake? Had reality finally caught up to how reckless this all was?
“Then I’d advise that you start showering in the morning,” he said before the line went dead.
You stared at your phone for a second too long before lowering it, heat blooming beneath your skin. Fucker.
And yet, when your shift ended and you stepped out into the evening, there was a lightness in your stride you couldn’t quite tamp down. You told yourself not to analyze it, not to interrogate whether it came from the faint outline of an exit finally appearing, flickering uncertainly ahead, more warning sign than promise. Or whether it came from something smaller and darker and more thrilling.
There was something intoxicating about being naughty.
By the time you reached your apartment above a local restaurant, you were climbing the stairs to your door as your nerves hummed. You fumbled with your keys, hands clumsy, pulse loud in your ears. Inside, you greeted your four-legged shadow at the door, forced yourself through the familiar motions—food, water, routine—letting the normalcy steady you, anchoring yourself to the fact that the world had not yet tipped off its axis.
Only once you were alone again did it catch up to you.
In the bathroom, you braced both hands on the sink and stared at your reflection, your face flushed, eyes a little too bright. Your breathing felt shallow, like you’d just come in from running.
It’s just pictures, you told yourself.
And then, immediately: What if he shares them?
What if he uses them as proof, as leverage, as a weapon—not just against you, but against Joe?
He wouldn’t do that. The thought came fast, instinctive.
But how could you be sure? You’d barely spoken to him before today. Yes, your families knew each other—your mother and him in the same classrooms as kids, your father beside him through years of a high school debate club—but that was history, not trust. And if he told your parents?
There was too much at stake, too many ways this could end badly.
So you pivoted.
In your bedroom, you went to the back of your closet and started digging, pushing aside clothes you hadn’t touched in years. Your fingers closed around something soft and unfamiliar, and when you pulled it free, you almost laughed.
Lacey and delicate, barely considered clothing with how little there was to it. Just something you’d bought for an ex a lifetime ago, meant as a Valentine’s surprise that never happened because he’d left you the night before, leaving this small, ridiculous relic behind.
It had never been worn.
It was perfect.
An hour later, you were stretched out on your bed, pillows stacked behind you, the room lit warm and low. Your makeup was done with more care than you’d given it in years, lashes dark and thick, mouth soft and glossy. Your hair spilled loose across the sheets, catching in the fabric as you shifted, every movement hyper aware. You took photo after photo, adjusting angles, discarding most of them immediately, but you felt… good. Confident, even. Excited. Yes, still, beneath it all, there was a faint tremor you couldn’t quite shake, a tight awareness in your chest that kept you alert, careful. You took photo after photo, not frantic or rushing, just adjusting, refining, discarding the ones that didn’t feel right, like you were weighing something valuable before deciding to let it go.
Eventually, one stopped you, and you stared and edited it a bit for the lighting and contrast, before mustering up your courage and hitting the send button.
And now there was nothing to do but wait.
And wait, you did.
No response, nothing the entire night. The evening stretched on, the silence pressing heavier with every passing minute. You paced your apartment, checked your phone, set it down, picked it up again. You checked the number at least twenty times just to be sure you had the right one. You hovered over the text field more than once, fingers itching to ask if he’d received it, to say something casual, something safe, but you stopped yourself every time. You refused to beg. Refused to show need where it hadn’t been invited.
By the time you crawled into bed, your thoughts were looping, chest buzzing with too much awareness and too many imagined outcomes. You dry swallowed a Xanax just to quiet it as you lay staring at the ceiling until the night finally softened enough for sleep to take you.
By the time you were back at your desk the next morning, you were vibrating.
Too much coffee, for one thing, but also the undercurrent of exhaustion that made everything feel a half second off, like the world was lagging behind your thoughts. You hadn’t slept worth a damn. Even with the Xanax, even with the ceiling fan spinning slow and steady overhead, your mind had kept circling back to the same questions, the same what-ifs, the same imagined outcomes you couldn’t quite shove away.
You kept waiting for someone to look at you differently.
Joe was already in a mood, pacing near his desk, muttering under his breath about the march downtown, about streets being closed, about “lawlessness,” like inconvenience and injustice were interchangeable things. Every time he spoke to you, your shoulders jumped, a jolt of adrenaline sparking before you could stop it. You tried to keep your face neutral, eyes on your screen, posture loose, like nothing was wrong, like you hadn’t handed over something fragile and dangerous in the form of you, scantily dressed in only your towel this morning.
Your leg bounced under the desk. You kept checking your phone, then forcing yourself to stop, then checking again.
You took another sip of coffee and immediately regretted it.
Maybe you should call Eric later, you thought dimly—Garcia’s kid, once the march wrapped up, once he was done being visible and brave and good in ways that felt impossibly far away right now. You could use more Xanax, or just anything to take this edge off.
The phone on your desk rang, blaringly loud, taking you out of your looping thoughts. You jumped nearly out of your seat, and stared at it like it might bite you.
A local number from a government office. Not unknown, but not one you recognized either. Your stomach dropped hard and fast, the blood rushing loud in your ears as your mind leapt ahead, already assembling the worst possible version of events. He told them. Ted told them everything. Someone put it together. Someone decided to make an example out of you.
Joe glanced over. “You gonna get that?”
You nodded, fingers feeling numb as you picked up the receiver. “Sheriff’s office,” you said, voice miraculously steady.
“Hi,” a woman said on the other end, brisk but pleasant, and then asked if you could connect her with your name.
“Yes,” you said, throat tight. “This is she.”
“This is the County Administration Office,” she continued, and your heart slammed so hard it stole your breath. Fuck, Ted snitched, this was it. Career ending. You squeezed your eyes shut until she went on. “I’m calling regarding your application for the Junior Planning Consultant position.
“We’d like to invite you to interview,” she said, smoothly. “Given current COVID restrictions, our offices remain closed to the public, but we are conducting socially distanced interviews offsite. We can also arrange a Zoom interview, if you prefer.”
Your hand tightened around the receiver.
“In person is fine,” you said, too quickly, then forced yourself to slow down. “In person would be great.”
She took you through the next steps, asked the preemptive lockdown procedural questions in a voice that sounded practiced and distant, like she’d already done this a hundred times that morning. You answered automatically, head nodding even though she couldn’t see you, your pen tracing aimless shapes on the corner of a notepad while your heart beat far too loudly for such a mundane exchange.
When you hung up after a polite goodbye, you sat there for a second, unmoving, staring at absolutely nothing. The office sounds filtered back in slowly with Joe’s voice somewhere behind you, the low hum of the lights, a chair scraping across the floor, but they felt far away, like they were happening on the other side of glass. Your body lagged behind the moment, like it hadn’t caught up yet to what had just happened.
You did it.
You got the interview.
The realization landed unevenly, not as a rush but as a strange, suspended quiet, your chest tight with it, your breath shallow like you were afraid to inhale too deeply and scare it off. You’d been so certain this would end in disaster, so sure that hope was something you’d overreached for again, something that would punish you for daring to want more, and yet Ted hadn’t burned you or panicked or turned you into collateral damage in his quiet war with Joe. He hadn’t exposed you or made a show of it or let this become another small-town spectacle. Instead, he’d done whatever he’d needed to do quietly, without warning you or asking for anything further, keeping his end of a bargain you hadn’t even fully spoken out loud.
It worked. The thought made your stomach flip, relief braided in with a more complicated twist. You still felt exposed, vulnerable, lying in wait for the phone to ring with some nasty truth.
But still.
For the first time in days, the future didn’t feel like it was closing in on you. It felt, impossibly, like it had cracked open just enough to let you see through.
Pulling into the dusty driveway of the address the receptionist had sent you, a flicker of confusion crept in as you took in the stucco walls and unmistakably residential sprawl of the place. Tan plaster warmed by the sun, thick dark-brown edges framing the structure, low and wide in that mesa style that made houses look like they’d grown straight out of the land instead of being built on it. This was not an office. This was not anything you’d pictured when you’d said in person is fine without thinking too hard about what that might actually mean.
The gravel bit under your heels as you stepped out of the car, sharp and uneven, and you cursed yourself immediately for choosing shoes that had only ever been meant for short, flat walks between parking lots and buildings. You tugged your pencil skirt down as you straightened, gathering yourself, reaching for your portfolio from the passenger seat, the weight of it familiar and grounding in your hands. Essays, résumés, clippings—proof and evidence of your competence.
Your heart dropped for a half second.
An SUV sat parked off to the side, dusted with yellow pollen and road grit, a bright campaign sticker slapped on the bumper: Ted Garcia for Mayor! It oddly felt accusatory somehow, like it was staring you down, as if it knew. You forced yourself to breathe as you passed it, it didn’t mean anything. No one knew. You’d only done what you’d had to do, after all.
Your nerves buzzed as you started toward the front door, each step making you more aware of how quiet it was out here, how far removed from the town center, tucked down along the hills near the edge of pueblo county. You wondered what kind of local government official lived this far out, whether the distance was intentional, just far enough to keep prying eyes away, just far enough to let things happen without being noticed.
You lifted your hand and knocked, the sound firm despite the way your pulse had started to stutter, and immediately wished you’d given yourself one more second, one more breath, anything to slow the momentum you’d already set in motion. The door was flanked by tall panes of glass, reflective enough that for a moment all you saw was yourself: interview ready, portfolio hugged to your chest, expression carefully neutral, and then a shape moved behind it.
A figure crossing the house toward you. The glass distorted them at first, bending light and shadow, but as they drew nearer the outline sharpened, broad shoulders filling the frame, the tilt of a head unmistakable even before…oh fuck— his face came into focus.
No.
No, no no no no.
Your hand clenched reflexively around your portfolio, fingers slick with sweat, and then it slipped from you entirely, the folder hitting the stone at your feet with a dull, graceless sound that seemed far too loud in the quiet.
The door opened.
Ted Garcia stood over the threshold of his own house, sunlight spilling in behind him, no mask now, no sunglasses, his expression calm and unreadable as his dark eyes moved over you in a slow, assessing sweep, head to toe, toe to head.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
Your stomach was dropping through the ground, your brain hazy and dizzy with a hollow, nauseating plunge that made the tiled entrance feel unsteady beneath your heels. This wasn’t just an interview held somewhere unusual. This wasn’t a workaround for closed offices or social distancing. You were standing on his doorstep, your entire morning suddenly rearranging itself around that fact, the implications unfolding faster than you could stop them.
His house.
You felt absurdly exposed, like the walls themselves could see you, could read the last twenty-four hours written plainly across your skin. Every nerve in your body lit up at once, equal parts embarrassment and alarm and something darker that had your thighs trembling you didn’t want to think about.
You bent automatically, instinct taking over before pride could catch up, knees dipping as you reached for the portfolio where it had spilled open at your feet, papers skewed and peeking out like they’d betrayed you on purpose. Your fingers shook as you gathered it, the motion suddenly clumsy, ungraceful, the kind of awkwardness you could feel all the way up your spine.
Why hadn’t he said anything? Not a hello, not even moving an inch from where he loomed. You couldn’t help it, some itch in your brain to look up, to watch him watch you.
He stood exactly where he had been, one hand resting lightly against the doorframe, the other loose at his side, watching you with that same infuriatingly neutral expression, his face giving nothing away as you crouched there below him, kneeling on his front step like this was where you belonged. His gaze didn’t hurry or soften or flick away out of politeness. It stayed on you, steady and unblinking, tracking the small, exposed motions of your body as you gathered yourself back together.
Heat crawled up your neck as you straightened quickly, pulling all your papers and dustied binder into the crook of your elbow while you reached out your hand to shake his.
“Hi, sorry—I’m…” you shook your head, pulling in a deep breath, “I’m here for the interview?”
“Did you take a test?.” he asked.
You nodded quickly, “Negative, a–all good to go,”
His mouth twitched into almost a smile, and then: “Come in,” he said, voice calm and polite.
Ted stepped back just enough to clear the threshold, though not enough to give you much room, and when you moved forward your shoulder brushed lightly against his chest, the contact brief but enough to make you shiver as you stepped into the house. The smell of his aftershave wafted over you, something clean and understated, the awareness of it lingering longer than the touch itself as the door closed behind you.
The space opened up immediately, airier than you’d expected, ceilings rising high above thick plaster walls that softened the light instead of bouncing it back. Terracata underfoot, worn smooth in places, and archways breaking up the rooms without closing them off. The windows along the walls were set deep enough into the walls that the sun never felt harsh. There were signs of care, too. A touch that screamed this was no bachelor pad of a single father, a woman’s touch in places like the woven blanket folded neatly over the couch, the paintings that echoed a western life and local art. The colors, the balance of the rooms….This was a home softened by someone else’s presence, even if you’d known the truth. That his wife left him and Eric earlier that year.
You realized you’d stopped walking.
Ted stood just behind you, close enough that you could feel him without turning around, letting you look, letting the quiet stretch. It felt intentional, the way he gave you just enough time to take it all in before he moved, stepping past you smoothly, decisively, his shoulder passing close again as he gestured toward a hallway branching off to the side.
“This way,” he said, already leading, assuming you’d follow.
You did, adjusting your grip on the portfolio as you went, the sound of your heels clacking on the stone flooring, your nerves still buzzing but threaded now with something else…curiosity, maybe.
His office was the same as the house, though cluttered with papers around his open laptop, notes strewn around in haphazard messes, government files spread across a large, mahogany desk and nearby surfaces in a kind of organized chaos you couldn’t quite decode, the evidence of a mind that didn’t shut off just because the workday was supposed to end.
He stood leaning back against the edge of the desk, a solid emissary, and gestured toward the chair near the door, a leather armchair worn just enough to look comfortable rather than ceremonial. You moved toward it without really deciding to, body obeying before your thoughts could catch up, settling into the seat and immediately feeling too aware of yourself, of the way you crossed and uncrossed your legs, adjusted your skirt, tried and failed to still the nervous energy skittering through you.
You took him in as he took you in, watching each other for a long moment. His curls seemed more unruly than you’d expected, and without the mask or sunglasses there was nothing to soften the lines of his face: the pretty arch of his nose, the purse of his mouth, the kind of handsome that felt unfair to encounter when you were already this on edge.
“Comfortable?” he asked, gesturing vaguely at the chair you were already perched in, voice neutral enough that you couldn’t tell if it was a genuine check-in or a test.
“Yes,” you said, too quickly, then corrected yourself by crossing and uncrossing your legs again, the leather faintly squeaking beneath you. You folded your portfolio onto your lap like a shield, fingers gripping the edge harder than necessary.
“This isn’t how we usually do interviews,” he said, not quite apologetic, just stating a fact. “But with the offices closed and most staff remote, this was the best option.”
You nodded. “That makes sense. I figured it was… a workaround.”
“A lot of things are right now.” His gaze lingered on you, steady, unreadable. “You’d most likely be working remotely to start. Research, drafting, coordination. Once restrictions lift, we transition back into the office. Does that work for you?”
“Yes,” you said. “Absolutely. I’m organized, I keep my own deadlines.”
“I’m sure you do,” he said mildly, and something about it made your stomach flutter in a way you didn’t like.
He reached behind him and picked up one of the papers from his desk, glancing at it briefly before setting it aside again. “You’d be moving from the sheriff’s office into county planning. That’s not nothing, especially with how things are right now. What do you think that’s going to mean for you?”
You hesitated, then answered honestly. “It… probably means tension. Maybe some fallout. But I can manage it.”
“And for your boss?” he asked.
Your jaw tightened. “With respect, what it means for Joe isn’t really my responsibility.”
His brow lifted just a fraction. “Isn’t it?”
You met his gaze, heart hammering now. “Why? Are you nervous about what it’s going to mean for you?”
The question hung there between you, heavier than you’d intended. Maybe it was too prodding or rude, but it was the giant elephant in the room. His political rival, an unruly sheriff who took the law into his own hands and didn’t care about policy or state mandates.
“I suppose we’ll see,” he said.
Your pulse thudded loud in your ears. You wondered, not for the first time, what he really saw when his eyes lingered on you like that…Did he see a stupid girl that worked with the fascist asshole in town? Maybe your résumé and things you’d achieved? Or your carefully put-together outfit? What if it was something else entirely? Or maybe…maybe, the image in his mind was the one you’d sent two nights ago, lace barely covering anything at all, or the one from the next morning, your body wrapped in nothing but a towel, skin still damp from the shower.
You shifted in the chair, suddenly hyper-aware of your posture, your breathing.
He watched you for a moment longer, then said, almost conversationally, “I’m worried about the fact you don’t follow instructions very well.”
Your head snapped up. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“I—” heat was flooding your face, “Yes, I do. I’m very thorough.”
“I’m not so sure” He tilted his head slightly, studying you. “Because I was very clear.”
What the hell was he getting at? Your mouth opened, then closed.
“You've barely said anything to me, Mr. Garcia.” you said cordially as possible as your stomach threatened to throw your lunch all over his lap. Your voice was low, as if you should be worried of any intruders privy to your conversation, “I offered something and you accepted.”
He pushed off the desk and took one slow step toward you, stopping just close enough that you had to tilt your chin up to look at him. His voice stayed even and low.
“I asked for naked,” he said. “You sent yourself in some lace get up. And a towel.”
The room felt smaller suddenly, air thick and close around you.
You swallowed. “That—those were—”
“Covered,” he finished for you.
Your fingers curled into the edge of the chair. “I didn’t think—”
“No,” he agreed. “You didn’t.”
He held your gaze, calm as ever, letting the silence stretch as your nerves buzzed painfully under your skin.
“This position requires attention to detail,” he said finally. “And the ability to follow through exactly as instructed.”
Your heart was racing now, not only with embarrassment but with something sharper, something electric and terrifying all at once.
“I can do that,” you said, just a whisper, barely a breath.
He studied you for another long moment, expression still so god damn unreadable, before straightening again, taking that half step back that returned the balance of the room. You let out a breath you hadn’t even realized you’d been holding before he went on.
“Over the desk, Miss,” he said, using your last name, his voice calm and even and threaded through with a kind of authority that made it sound less like a suggestion than an expectation.
Your heart leapt into your chest, “What?”
He stared from beside the desk, hand flat against it, a tan where a wedding ring might’ve been, while his other hand lifted slightly, the first two fingers curling inward toward his palm in a slow beckoning that made your stomach drop.
You stared at him, eyes wide, mouth parted, thoughts scattering all at once, your body registering the moment faster than your mind could make sense of it. You felt unmoored, caught between disbelief and a sudden, humiliating pull to comply, and before you could talk yourself out of it you were rising from the chair, legs unsteady as you crossed the small distance to the desk.
His hand came to your lower back, gentle, “Say the word,” he said quietly. “And I will stop.”
“Stop…what?” you whispered.
“You’re trembling, Miss,” he said, using your last name again like it was something official, something clinical, though it did nothing to soothe the knot twisting in your stomach.
“No, I’m not,” you protested, brows knitting as you tried to regain control of yourself. “I’m—I’m just confused.”
“We’re assessing whether you’re right for the job,” he said, tone unchanged, like this explanation made perfect sense to him.
“And what job is that, Mr. Garcia?” you said, quiet as a mouse, your gaze landing and somehow unable to leave his lips.
A small smile tugged his lips, his mustache twitching with the movement, and for the first time, you could see every naughty thought behind those dark eyes as they lit up with amusement.
“Coordinator, of course,” he said gently, and the hand on the lower back was very still, not pushing, though you felt his thumb inching under the hem of your shirt to rub at the warm skin there, making your stomach flutter, “I’m going to make sure you know how to listen to direction, assess you’d be the right…fit for me.”
You swallowed. The taste in your mouth had gone thick and strange, and your skin felt tight across your shoulders.
“Are you going to tell anyone?” The words came smaller than you meant them to, your hands now resting on the desk, fingers splayed against the wood as if for balance. Your body had already begun to tip forward, some part of you answering him before your sluggish mind could catch up.
“No.” he said very seriously, “this stays between you and me.”
You let out a breath of relief, and laid yourself across his desk, warm cheek to cool wood, arms tucked at your sides, palms flat.
“Now,” he said, voice deeper. “First things first. I need to assess you. Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
A light slap landed where your thigh curved into your ass, the juncture where your skirt had started to ride up. You yelped a little, though the sting felt…welcome. Like a confession. A truth. Like the feeling inside of you suddenly had a name.
“Yes, sir,” he corrected, “You will call me Mr. Garcia, or sir,”
“Yes, Mr. Garcia.” you murmured.
His wide hand soothed over the spot where he’d slapped, fingers dipping too close to your panty line, making you tremble. Your stomach was doing flips, pussy already throbbing with a humiliating need for him to be closer.
Then his hands were at your skirt, dragging it up your thighs, bunching it high at your waist. He let out a light groan of approval as he gripped the globes of your cheeks, massaging them, pulling them apart before pushing them together. He was sort of bent over you, you could feel his body leaning over your lower back from beside you at the desk, eyes looking down over your backside.
“Yes,” he said, barely a breath. And you realized, where he was leaning against the desk and his jeans dug into your arm, was incredibly thick and hard and…and pulsing, “Yes, this will do just fine,” he kept using your last name, kept saying it.
“Mr. Garcia?” you asked quietly.
“Yes?” he stopped, taking his hands away, standing beside you upright.
You shifted, skin flushed hot, mouth dry. “Would you mind… not calling me that? I hear it all the time at work and—” your voice shook a little, “—I’d rather not... If that’s okay with you.” You swallowed. “Sir.”
“Of course,” he nodded, “What would you like me to call you? A little slut?” his eyes were watching you now, waiting for a reaction, maybe, as he went on, “Or maybe baby? Sweetheart?” His voice softened, teasing the edge of something too warm, too indulgent. “You really are sweet, aren’t you, honey?”
It was like his voice had been dipped in honey, the way the pet names rolled off his tongue, and he must’ve seen what it did to you, because he was smiling, and suddenly, a cooing expression pinched his brows, pursed his lips, “Awww, what a sweet little thing, just wants to be a good girl, doesn’t she?” and as you watched him in silence, his hand came up again to your ass, squeezing it hard, “Answer me.”
“Yes,” you gasped, his fingers pulling at the trim of your panties. And you could both hear the light squelch of your pussy being pulled, the slick that was already gathered there, “Yes, sir, yes Mr. Garcia, I want to be your good girl.”
“Good job, that’s it,” he nodded, “are you okay with continuing, baby?”
Your knees knocked against the edge of the desk as you shifted, seeking relief that didn’t come, your body already aching for more contact. Your center pulsed with want, feeling neglected between your thighs, gushing thick slick as your breath trembled out of you.
“Yes, sir,” you said quietly, your voice steadying as you spoke. “I’d like to continue.”
He moved around the desk, and the space he left behind felt strangely empty, the loss of his proximity sending a chill across your skin. A moment later, you sensed him behind you. You couldn’t see him, not clearly, but his presence was an unmistakable warmth radiating toward you like a furnace opening.
You tried to look back just as he bent to his knees. His hands returned to your ass with a different kind of touch, careful this time, spreading you open with slow patience, making your whole body hum. His breath drifted over the back of your thighs, warm and intimate, and you shivered.
“Ohhhh,” he sighed, pleased in his tone, “Look at you, already so wet and ready for me.” His fingers pressed more firmly into your flesh as he pulled you apart again, the cotton of your panties stuck to your thick, viscous need, the humiliating sound of the lips soaked in honey. You thought you heard him mutter a quiet fuck under his breath, like he couldn’t help himself.
“You’re a naughty girl, you know that?” Ted said, his tone dipping lower as his fingers hooked into the band of your panties and began to ease them down, inch by aching inch. “Only bad girls show up to a government official to offer their naked little body for a job. Only a really bad girl bends herself over her mayor’s desk like this.”
You were whimpering, thighs pressing together in hopes of any kind of friction, though once your panties were off he was pushing them apart again.
“I’d have never known better,” he went on softly, almost in wonder, pussy stretching with his fingers as he pulled it apart to watch it gush and clench for him. “With you working for that asshole all this time, a little minx with…” his breath stuttered, his voice falling rough, “with the prettiest little pussy just waiting to be taken. Tell me, sweetheart, are you a bad girl?”
“No, sir,” you whispered, heat sparking beneath your skin as you said it. “I’m a good girl. I want to be a good girl for you, Mr. Garcia.”
He clicked his tongue, a slow sound of pity or pleasure, it was hard to tell which, before cooing low and warm, “Ain’t that just sweet.”
You felt the tickle of his mustache first, coarse and warm against your most sensitive skin, and then his tongue followed, flat and wide, cupped like a basin made for collecting, for holding everything you gave him. And as he licked you from clit to asshole in one slow, devastating sweep, the groan that left his throat was long and low, vibrating up through the muscle of his tongue and into his lips where they pressed against you, open and hungry.
“Fuck,” he growled, pulling back just enough to spit, the warm glob landing right at your entrance, slick meeting slick. You moaned at the sensation, at the filth of it, at the way his spit joined the obscene wetness already dripping between your thighs. You could only imagine what you looked like, bent over his desk with your cunt drooling and thighs trembling, the floor beneath you surely catching every drop of what he’d coaxed out of you.
His tongue found your clit again with an unrelenting precision, lips sealing over it with a greedy hunger. His teeth grazed, just barely, sending your hips jerking forward before he soothed the sting with an open mouthed kiss, tongue plunging into your cunt like he could taste your obedience there. The sounds were nasty in their clear disdain for anything sweet—wet and messy, echoing against the terracotta tile as he devoured you. He wasn’t gentle. He was eating and taking and devouring every drop you gave, as if you were a little lamb finally caught in his jaw.
“Oh fuck, Ted—oh god—” your voice cracked as you pushed back against his mouth, your thighs quivering with effort, with desperation. His hands gripped your ass so hard you swore you’d bruise, spreading you wide, holding you open while his tongue fucked into you like he could unmake you from the inside out.
And just as you felt it that sharp, rising crest curling hot in your belly, tight in your thighs, the pressure so sharp it was almost painful, just as you bit down on your lip to keep from screaming his name, tasting the metallic rush of blood—
He stopped.
Before you could pull in a breath, he was on top of you, leaning over your body, pressing you into the desk so the breath was knocked from your lungs.
“You’re not going to come,” he growled near your ear, voice rough with authority, “until you learn how to fucking listen, little girl.”
“I’m sorry—please—I didn’t mean to—” The words came out panicked, broken as you began grinding back against his thick length blooming beneath his slacks, your slick soaking through the thick fabric in a shameless, shining smear. “I was so close, please, please, please—”
He chuckled, a sound that vibrated against your back, dark and indulgent.
“Oh, that’s it,” he purred, voice dripping with cruel affection. “Grind that needy little cunt on me, baby. Go on. Show your fucking mayor how bad you want this job.”
Shame crawled up your spine like heat, but your body wouldn’t stop. Your brain was too far gone, thick with need, pleasure mingling with humiliation until you couldn’t tell the difference anymore.
“You want me to fuck you?” he asked, not teasing anymore. “You want to come on my cock, little lamb? Is that what you’re begging for?”
As filthy and deranged as it was, yes. Yes, that's all you wanted.
“Yes, yes sir, yes Mr. Garcia, please,”
“There she is.” His fingers slid up your jaw, cupping your face until you turned toward him, lips parted as he squeezed your cheeks with his thumb and forefinger, “now listen close, baby.”
His lips brushed yours with every syllable, every word as he went on:
“I’m going to fuck you, and then you’re going to call your swine of a boss and resign. And you’re going to tell him its because Ted Garcia stole you from him. That I’m better than that shit piss of a man. That you’re my girl now. ”
“Ted!” you chastised.
He had a little wicked grin, and kissed you fully on the mouth, “You know it’s true. But you will resign, and you will come work for me. Do you understand?”
You nodded fervently as he kissed you again, open and wet and possessive, moaning into your mouth. His tongue plunged past your pursed lips and licked behind your teeth, sliding against the wet muscle of your own mouth, taking you, making you taste the honey and musk of yourself.
One of his hands had descended between your bodies, and you heard the sound of his belt buckle clattering, a sound that sent a pavlovian shiver through you, making your legs part without another thought. You sighed into his mouth as he wrapped a hand around his cock, spreading the weight of it through your weeping entrance. He was so wide and heavy and—Jesus, how thick was he? He notched himself at your entrance, just barely, and the stretch had you gasping before he’d even moved.
“Gentle—please—gentle, Mr. Garcia,” you breathed, throat tight and shaking, “I’m—I haven’t… oh god, at least not in a long time.”
His breath stuttered, a low groan dragged from deep in his chest as he pushed in another few inches, his other hand now gently laying around your throat.
“Ohhh,” Ted moaned, leaning his forehead into your shoulder, “but fuck, you feel so—” he pushed in a little further again, the sound of his pleasure nearly a whimper as you clutched the desk. He was stretching you obscenely, thick from tip to the middle of his shaft, feeling never ending as he kept pushing and pushing into you, both of your moans a harmony of pleasure.
Deeply seated inside, he pushed your back down to arch your ass up a bit more, adjusting his angle to hit just right, the air was rented with only breath—heaving chest against your back. You became aware, all at once, of how poorly dressed you were for this. With your blouse twisted and damp, your bra still on, the lace clinging to your skin. As if reading the thought, his hand slid and tugged at your collar, dragging it down to expose you. He chuckled softly when he saw the lace, then pressed his mouth to the back of your neck.
“You always wear such lacey things to job interviews?” he asked.
You exhaled a shaky laugh, grateful for the flicker of levity. “Only when it involves the mayor of Eddington.”
He hummed like that pleased him as his hand moved from your neck to push your hair to the side to continue his assault on your neck, kissing and licking and biting, grinding his cock up into you again, up and up and up, making you whimper, your brow pinching. And as he pulled out only a few inches, you hissed through your teeth.
He barely gave you a moment’s reprieve from then, and you let out a little yelp as he slammed his hips into your ass.
He set a relentless pace, the contrast stark in the way he fucked into you hard, over and over, while his hands stayed gentle, cradling your breast, holding your body close. He had you laid flat on the desk again, arms wrapped around you now, keeping you steady as you turned your head toward him, mouths meeting in a gasping kiss.
Open mouth on open mouth, panting, moaning, your skin slick with sweat, the heat and friction and everything blurring together. It was euphoric. It was everything.
“This isn’t going to last very long,” he said into your mouth, “You feel like fucking heaven, sweetheart.”
The praise went straight to your lower belly, where your lost orgasm had been quietly rebuilding, a bramble of nerves now tumbling fast toward the cliff’s edge, making your legs shake as they did their best to stay standing.
“Mr. Garcia—” you moaned, “please, let me come, I wanna come all over your cock, sir,”
His lip curled back into a growl as his head stayed beside yours before he kissed you again, his entire body eclipsing yours from behind. The room was full of the slap of skin and your moans as the sun shifted across the tile floor, unnoticed.
“Tell me who you belong to now,” he commanded, “whose pussy is this, baby? Who are you gonna work for from now on, hm?”
“Y–you, Ted—fuck, fuck, fuck—!”
He’d suddenly hooked his palm beneath your knee, dragging your leg up onto the desk, opening you wider, and somehow he fucked you—unbelievably—deeper. His balls slapped snugly against your clit with each thrust, and the pressure made you wail.
“Yeahhhh,” he growled, pace never faltering. “Yeah, who’s fuckin’ you this good, huh? Say it. Say my fuckin’ name, baby girl. Takin’ my cock so goddamn good—c’mon, say it and I’ll let you come.”
“Ted! Fuck, Mr. Garcia! You are!” you were wailing, past the point of caring at how humiliating it all was. You’d never felt like this, so fucked out and drunk on a cock so perfect it felt like it had been made to split you open. It filled every inch of you, kissed your womb, made your pussy clench tight around him as you held the orgasm back, your stomach aching, your thighs trembling.
“What a good listener you are." he said in your ear, "Come for me, sweet angel girl. Let me feel her.”
Your eyes rolled back into your head, sparks of galaxies being born and rebuilt bursting as your cunt squeezed him like a fist, fluttering and locking down around him, your leg that still held you up suddenly turning to jelly. Only he held you upright now, thick, banded arms around you, pushing you into the desk so you wouldn’t fall as your body broke open.
He was grunting his praise into your hair before he seized up, body taut and hips punctuating every groan, and you could feel his come pooling into you in thick ropes, each twitch of his hips pushing him deeper into you, sealing the two of you together.
And once again, the room was full of nothing but breathing. Heavy sighs and thick inhales, the hissing of teeth when he finally pulled his spent cock from your velvet walls after a few long moments. You heard him adjusting himself, letting your leg down from the desk gently, smoothing your skirt back into place.
You felt his spend already dripping from your fucked cunt, oozing down over your clit, still sensitive and twitching from your climax. Hardly able to stand, you just watched him from where you lay face down on the desk, boneless, dazed, neither of you saying anything for a moment.
“You all right?” he asked, voice low like his throat felt thick.
You nodded. Or maybe you made a sound, you weren’t sure which in the hazy cloud of post coitus.
He went around his desk and pulled some papers out of a drawer, suddenly so professional it felt taboo to be thinking of his cock just splitting you in half. The image of him inside you was still blooming warm between your legs, that euphoric, syrupy high of it still glowing behind your ribs like an ember.
He laid down a paper in front of you.
Employment Agreement: Junior Planning Consultant
City of Eddington – Office of Public Works
“Is this…” you asked, eyes squinting sleepily as you sat up on your elbows.
“I was serious.” he said, serious indeed. “If you have any questions, you can—”
You hummed dreamily, interrupting, “I do have a question, as a matter of fact. For you.”
He paused mid-motion, buckling the metal clasp of his belt, adjusting the waist of his trousers. “Oh?”
“Is fucking on the job a one-time thing,” you said, a little more confident and sly, “or a regular perk?”
His shoulders dropped, a real smile finally pulling his mouth, molasses eyes crinkling at the corners, “I believe we can make something like that work. On one condition.”
“And what’s that?” you asked, looking around and picking up a nearby pen, clicking it so the ballpoint became visible. When he didn’t say anything, you looked up again at him.
The sun had shifted, haloing behind him in the narrow pane of the stucco arched glass window. The light caught the pollen dusted on the glass, diffusing into a soft glow that backlit him completely. His hair damp and tousled, sweat still catching in the hollow of his throat, his hands braced in fists against the desk as he leaned forward, close enough to exchange air.
“I don’t share.”
Your breath hitched.
“If you take this position, you’re mine while you’re in it.” He didn’t look away from you, holding your gaze, making your throat tighten. “And that means no one else can fuck you.”
There was no smile on his face anymore.
“Understand?”
“Yes, Mr. Garcia.” you whispered.
The words tasted like submission, like something permanent, and yet…You could feel yourself softening where you lay, spine bending under the weight of his command, and there was no fear in it. Only a warm ache of surrender, slow and… and welcome, like something inside you had been waiting for this exact moment. It made you feel secure, wanted…valuable.
His eyes softened, his left hand coming up to drag his knuckles gently over your cheek before he stood straight and pulled away. And as if suddenly remembering, he reached into his back pocket, pulled out his cell phone, and tossed it onto the desk in front of you.
content: ted garcia x afb/f! reader / unprotected sex (p in v) / non-consensual undertones / power dynamic / mention of anal / established relationship / degradation and humiliation / dirty talk / MDNI (+18)
summary: you're sick of fighting with ted, so you try to fuck with him and wear something that'll make his head messy and his cock hard. 💋
wc: 1.4k
notes: this is from an ask i received from the lovely @mustachepascal, requesting that i write a fic for this tweet. don't forget to let it run wild over on pp twitter ya'll. thanks to my bb @sad-bitch-disorder for always being my go-to beta reader. it feels soooo fucking good writing ted again. enjoy x
Ted slumps into his recliner, exhaustion etching across his face. He’s sick of the endless battles. Every night, you two clash, the air between you both, thick with resentment. He imagined that once Eric left for college, you’d rediscover each other, maybe reignite the passion that you both spoke about so fondly. Instead, the distance grows, emptiness taking root.
He lets out a dramatic sigh, broadcasting his frustration as your footsteps thunder upstairs. Tonight’s spat erupted over garlic bread — burnt beyond redemption, his fault, naturally. But his mind is preoccupied, tangled in the demands of his campaign, barely registering the over-toasted slices. The weight of it all presses him deeper into the chair.
You, too, are teetering at the edges, unable to bear the constant friction. Sprawled across the bed, you stare up at the ceiling, the same song and dance every night now. Downstairs, the television roars to life, Ted’s infuriating tactic to burrow under your skin. The news blares at full volume, each word a deliberate jab, a challenge to your patience.
You roll your eyes, pressing a pillow over your face to muffle the noise, but his persistence tonight is relentless. Your frustration grows, and you hurl the pillow across the room, letting out a groan loud enough to pierce the den below. When the television’s volume spikes even higher, you bolt upright, fury propelling you toward the door. You’re ready to slam it shut, to seal yourself off from him — but no. Not tonight. You refuse to let him win this round.
Ted notices the absence of your retaliation, the silence unusual. He’s grown accustomed to your fiery comebacks, not this eerie quiet. He finally decides to dial down the television, sitting there a moment, waiting for your stomping to return. Before he can call out, you appear, descending the stairs in the sheer babydoll lingerie he gifted you for your birthday. The sight steals his breath almost instantly. You glide past, the delicate fabric clinging to your curves, your bare skin teasingly visible underneath, the fabric barely covering the underside of your ass cheeks.
“What are you doing?” he growls, brows knitting together, his grip tightening on the remote. “Why are you wearing that?” His voice climbs, laced with tension.
You ignore him, sauntering into the kitchen, your movements deliberately provocative. You rummage through the cabinets, searching for a snack… or nothing at all. The act is really just secondary to your true intent, which is to make him ache, to torture him.
“Just looking…” you mumble, your tone coy.
“Liar,” he snaps, striding from the living room to the kitchen in a heartbeat. His eyes don’t leave you, like a predator stalking its prey. His knuckles blanch as he grips the counter. “Why are you wearing that?”
You turn to face him, a slow grin curling on your lips. The sheer fabric reveals the hardened peaks of your nipples, your body a tantalizing photograph of curves and shadows. “To fuck with you,” you say, your voice sharp with aggravation.
Ted steps closer, towering over you, his gaze locked on the way the lingerie molds to every dip and curve of your beautiful body. His eyes linger on your nipples, his desire for you now almost palpable.
“Is that so?” His response is low and rough as his thumb grazes one of your hardened peaks.
“It’s working…” he confesses, his breath warm against your skin as he dips in closer.
A soft sound escapes your lips, evidence that he’s making a mess of you between your thighs. But you steel yourself, keeping your back straight, refusing to let him see how his touch fucks with you.
Just when you think you have it under control, his massive hands grab your breasts, squeezing them, pushing them together so he fans his hot breath through the fabric. “You wanted to fuck with me, yeah? Win our little argument?” he teases, kissing down your breasts, pulling a nipple between his lips as he sucks on it through the fabric.
“How about I just fuck you…” he mumbles, a promise as he sinks his teeth into your skin, a teasing nip that sends shivers racing down your spine. He pulls back, eyes much darker with hunger and spins you around, pressing you forward until your hips meet the edge of the kitchen counter, your heart pounding with anticipation of what's to come next.
“I’ve been wondering when you were gonna wear this,” he groans, while his hands undo the drawstrings of his sweats. “Strutting around, teasing me, getting me so damn hard I can’t think straight — ready to fuck you senseless in it.” His sweatpants hit the floor with a soft thud, then his briefs follow. “Why do we even fight, baby? Why don’t we just… lose ourselves in this… fuck our problems away…?”
His hand slips beneath the delicate hem of your babydoll lingerie, fingers seeking your eager cunt between your thighs. He plunges two fingers into you, mapping the walls of your slick warmth. Each slow, deliberate pump draws a gasp from your lips and his satisfied hum vibrates through you. He pulls his fingers free, licking them clean with a wicked gleam in his eye, before aligning his cock at your entrance.
“Don’t hold back, baby. Scream for me.”
With those words, he thrusts deep, shoving his cock deep in one fluid motion. The shared moan that erupts is electric, a current that binds you together in the bubbling ecstasy. Ted’s hips move with relentless precision, rocking into you as he grips your waist for leverage, anchoring you to him. Each thrust sends waves of pleasure through you, your body trying to match his rhythm.
Your eyes flutter, threatening to roll back as he drives into you harder, each stroke a testament to his need and… love, for you. The moans you release — sharp, desperate, echoing with every plunge into your wet mess of a pussy — are raw and unfiltered. You just wanted to provoke him, to stoke his anger with your teasing, but those plans dissolved quickly. You knew it would end this way, that the petty arguments over dishes would be forgotten, replaced by Ted’s fiery love-making.
His hand slides up to encircle your throat, firm but careful, pulling your head back just enough for his lips to graze the sensitive spot beneath your ear. His cock glides in and out with devastating accuracy, his balls slapping against your ass, the rhythmic sound of skin on skin filling the open kitchen. The air feels alive, you feel like you’re on cloud nine.
“Did you really think you… fuck— could wear this and not drive me crazy?” he growls, his voice a mix of frustration and lust, each word punctuated by a hard thrust. “That I wouldn’t take you like this, right here, right now? Goddamn, you drive me wild, you crazy fucking woman. I should fuck you in the ass just for attempting to tease me...” His filthy words cut through you, making you crave him more, making your pussy even wetter.
Ted tugs your head back further, his fingers tightening around your throat, feeling the pulse of your carotid throbbing beneath your straining neck. His gaze is wild, loving the way your heartbeat betrays your obvious surrender.
“I’m gonna cum all over your pretty little outfit, baby,” he hisses, a final wicked punishment for your attempt to win the argument with your teasing lingerie. Backfired, leaving you a trembling, aching mess, and your pussy thoroughly fucked.
With a low groan, Ted pulls out of your drenched cunt, his hand stroking himself swiftly. His grip on your neck remains firm, tilting your head back even further as he lets out a loud moan, his cum spilling hot and messy across your babydoll lingerie, staining the delicate fabric.
“B-But, I wanna cum too…” you whimper, your voice a desperate plea. But your words are ignored as Ted gazes down at you, his half-lidded eyes glinting with a mix of triumph and adoration. He leans in, pressing a teasing kiss to the tip of your nose, enjoying how miserable you look.
“Oh, you wanna cum, huh?” he laughs, his breath hot against your lips, while he wallows in mock pity. “Sorry, baby girl, you lost this round.” You nod, frantic, your body aching for his cock, his fingers — anything. But he denies you, cleaning the tip of his cock along the hem of your sheer lingerie, smearing the fabric with the last of his release.
“Now be a good girl and change out of this,” he says, commanding, “so Daddy can fuck you right.”
Thank you so much for taking time to read. Likes and comments are appreciated as always but reblogging is the best way to support my work as well as fellow creators.
Pairing: Ted Garcia x f!Reader
Warnings: (MDNI) explicit sexual content, including graphic descriptions of consensual (protected) sex (p in v), a power dynamic between a public figure and a younger professional (slight age gap [mid 40s, early 30s]), alcohol consumption, emotional isolation stemming from the pandemic and includes a light parental reference during a sex scene, dirty talk, fluff and angst!!, mild dubcon, HE'S THE MAYOR, and some sweet talk.
Word Count: 5.3k
Summary: After a long week and one too many drinks, an unexpected encounter with Eddington’s enigmatic mayor, Ted Garcia, turns into something far more intimate than small talk. What begins as innocent flirting at a quiet bar unravels into a night of raw honesty, physical hunger, and surprising emotional connection. Behind his polished charm and political title lies a man longing for something real and just a little more.
Notes: This is chapter one of this series! You can find the master list here to read the rest of the series as its posted. There are NO SPOILERS for the movie Eddington in this fic.
♡ MASTERLIST ♡
“Excuse me?”
His voice was low and smooth, almost velvety. The kind of voice that didn’t need to rise to command attention. It slipped beneath your skin, raising the hairs at the back of your neck. Your hand paused mid-air, fingers slowly lowering your glass to the bar top with a faint clink.
Ted Garcia.
The Mayor.
His face was impossible to miss — plastered on billboards, news articles, and the side of city buses ever since the pandemic. He was the man who’d saved Eddington, the golden boy who revived its dwindling population and breathed clean, green life back into its weary bones.
You cleared your throat, swiping your thumb across your lips to catch the last bit of gloss from your third drink. The stress of the week still sat heavy behind your eyes. New boss, more responsibilities, endless paperwork — and now a conversation with him.
“Yes?” you managed, batting your lashes with an effort that felt part instinct, part performance.
His smile came easily, comfortably, as if the bar were his living room. He took the barstool beside you without hesitation, like he’d already decided he belonged there.
“Sorry, couldn’t help but notice the pin on your bag — Clean Source Energy, right? You work for them?”
Your eyes dropped to the small enamel pin, fingertips brushing over it without thinking. It was rare you carried your work bag around after hours, but tonight you’d come straight from the office. Your hair was still pulled into a high ponytail, flyaways curling around your temples and ears, the remnants of a long shift clinging to you like static.
“Yes,” you said with a small nod. “I’m a data analyst there.”
He nodded at your words and then extended his hand. “Ted, Ted Garcia.”
You took it and shook slowly, introducing yourself.
A beat of quiet passed — just long enough to be comfortable, not long enough to escape the feeling that he was assessing you.
Then Ted lifted a hand, gave a casual wave, and as if summoned by magic, two more drinks appeared in front of you. Another for you and beer for him.
“Y’know,” he began, picking up his glass, “I was the major voice that pushed to get that center built here. Along with a few others, of course.”
He took a sip, his eyes never quite leaving yours — though they dipped, briefly, to the neckline of your blouse. The white fabric hugged your figure in a way that suddenly felt more noticeable under his gaze.
“I see a lot of promise in Eddington,” he added, his smile shifting just slightly, as the foam from the beer clung to his mustache. Something more personal began to curl at the edges. “I’d even say I’m pretty good at judging things in a general setting. Especially character.”
Was he flirting?
Surely…
You took a slow sip of your drink, the glass cool against your lips as you leaned into your elbow on the bar top. Maybe you’d entertain this just for the hell of it, or maybe out of curiosity. Ted Garcia wasn’t known for being social. He kept mostly to himself, especially after what happened with his wife. He was always juggling the impossible: running the town, raising a teenage son, keeping Eddington afloat. But still… he was the mayor. Influential. Wealthy. And, undeniably, stupidly handsome.
You let your voice dip, your tone playful. “And what does my character say, hm?”
As you spoke, your fingertip traced the rim of your glass slowly, deliberately. You saw his eyes catch the motion and then came that smile. The smile. The one splashed across campaign posters, on town hall murals, on local news segments. His signature. Practiced. Perfect.
Then his hand drifted, soft and slow, until just his fingertips brushed your thigh. Barely there. Almost polite. But you knew better. He wanted more.
“I see a woman with ambition,” he said, voice warm, confident. “A woman who keeps her cards close. Strong. Self-contained. And quite frankly…” He let out a breathless chuckle, leaning in, “…the type who wouldn’t care if I walked out of here right now.”
He paused, smirking as if reading the thoughts flickering behind your eyes.
“Hell, something tells me you kind of wish I would. Just… kind of.”
You wet your bottom lip, smoothing away the dryness as your gaze held his. You were reading him now. Every word. Every flick of tone. Every subtle challenge.
“Seems a bit unprofessional,” you mused, lifting your glass again, “to hit on a local woman in a very local bar… where anyone could see. Could be scandalous, no?”
The edge of your voice curled around the fire you were stoking, just to see how hot it could burn.
Ted finished the rest of his beer in a long, slow swallow and set the empty glass down with finality. His eyes never left yours.
“I’m a very transparent man,” he said, voice lower now, closer. “I’m a go-getter. I see something I want — and I don’t hesitate.”
He leaned in, slow and deliberate, until his face was only inches from yours. His eyes, a deep, soft brown, and entirely focused — locked with yours like he was trying to memorize every detail.
“And I don’t give a damn who spins what story,” he continued. “Right now, I’m having a conversation with a beautiful woman.”
A pause.
“That’s all they need to know.”
The jukebox hummed softly in the background, Katy Perry’s voice spilling into the corners of the dim bar like a memory half-remembered. You swirled your tongue behind your teeth, tasting the last of your drink as the tension between you and Ted thickened — taut, unspoken, electric.
Your glass hit the bar with a soft clink and your hand reached for your bag, fingers curling around the strap with casual intention.
“So… what is this, exactly?” you asked, eyes flicking to his. “You’re not really planning to take a stranger to your home, are you?”
Ted watched your every movement and just as you began to rise, his hand reached for your wrist — not forcefully, but gently, like he didn’t want to stop you so much as slow you down.
“Is that what you want?” he asked.
The question hit harder than it should have.
Your eyes widened, blinking. Was this not just a one-night thing? His intentions had seemed obvious or maybe… maybe you’d misread him completely.
“I don’t think I’m a three-star motel girl, if that’s what you’re implying,” you said, half-defensive, half-teasing. You couldn’t help but notice how warm his fingers felt against your skin, how careful he was with his touch.
Ted chuckled — a real laugh, low and warm and stood alongside you.
“Then I’ll get us a cab,” he said, his eyes never leaving yours. “And you can see where the Mayor lives.”
He took charge with ease, but never with arrogance. You watched the way he dialed, the way he guided you out of the bar with a hand at your back, the way he opened the cab door for you like it was second nature. Every gesture was controlled, deliberate. Gentleman-like.
The ride was quiet, but not awkward. Intimate in its restraint. He didn’t boast. Didn’t fill the silence with tales of his accolades or power. Instead, he asked about you; your job, your life, your dreams. The small things that too often got overlooked.
You could tell he wasn’t just chasing pleasure, he was chasing connection and that realization tugged at something deep in you. Something soft.
The pandemic had broken people in ways no one liked to admit. All that isolation. The loss. The quiet grief of being alone. Why deny him, deny yourself something that had been taken from so many? Something human.
The cab turned up a long dirt road, tires crunching over gravel as the landscape opened around you. Rolling desert fields stretched out beneath a lavender sky, cacti scattered like sentries across the land, and distant ridges of mountains catching the last gold of dusk. You’d forgotten how beautiful New Mexico could be when the world slowed down.
Ted stepped out first, then offered you his hand as he waved the cab off into the dark.
His home was modern, with rustic bones. Steel lines softened by weathered wood, leather furniture worn in all the right places. Campaign signs and papers were scattered across surfaces like leaves in the wind, but the mess was lived-in, purposeful. Not careless.
It felt like someone’s real home. Not a staged house for a man in power.
Not just the Mayor’s house. His.
You noticed the photos first. Frames perched along the mantle, scattered across bookshelves and side tables. Ted and his son, Eric. Smiling at baseball games, standing in front of a freshly cut Christmas tree, riding bikes on some dusty trail. It made you smile, involuntarily. There was a warmth to them. A tenderness you hadn’t expected. Even if some of them were staged.
Eric wasn’t home. Off with friends, apparently, visiting colleges out west. Ted had his own quiet reservations about it — he’d chosen a school for himself, carefully, lovingly, for his only son. But still, he let Eric go. Let him be. Maybe that was love, in its hardest form: loosening your grip even when it hurts.
He offered you a drink. You accepted.
The two of you made your way to the couch, and he settled in beside you, one arm draped easily over the back, his body turned slightly toward you. You felt his gaze, felt him taking you in.
The lighting was softer here — golden, steady so unlike the pulsing bar lights you'd just left behind. The contrast made everything feel slower, more intimate.
Ted parted his lips like he was about to speak but you beat him to it. You leaned forward, setting your beer carefully on a coaster on the coffee table, then turned to face him fully. Shoulders squared. Hands on your knees, firm.
“Okay,” you said bluntly, eyes locking with his. “So what exactly is happening here?”
Your voice was steady. Clear. This was Ted fucking Garcia — the mayor of Eddington. You were in his house. Drinking his beer. Letting him charm you like you were just another evening distraction. Surely, he wanted something. Anything.
Ted let out a soft chuckle, the sound rumbling from somewhere deep in his chest. He placed his beer beside yours, the bottles clinking gently as they touched and leaned back into the couch with a casual shrug.
“Is just having a conversation really so bad?”
Your eyes trailed over his outfit — the brown blazer, the bolo tie, the shirt patterned with tiny horses, tucked neatly into a pair of faded white-washed jeans. Scuffed Nikes on his feet. He looked like someone’s dad trying to dress up, but refusing to let go of comfort.
Fuck, you thought, biting back a smirk.
He radiates Dad energy.
And somehow… that made him more dangerous. More… enticing.
You pressed your lips to the side, curious. His words echoed in your head, turning over like slow wheels on wet pavement. Maybe this was all he wanted — an empty house, a quiet evening, a little warmth to chase away the stillness. Maybe.
“Fine,” you said at last, the word slipping out with a quiet sigh as you sank deeper into the couch.
Ted nodded, mirroring your movement, his posture easing as he leaned back beside you but his gaze never strayed. He kept his eyes on you, studying you in the soft hush between sentences.
His fingers moved idly along the back cushion, slow and searching, until they found a lock of your hair spread out against the fabric. He touched it gently, his thumb brushing the strands with just enough pressure to be noticed, but not enough to cross a line. A deliberate restraint.
You crossed your arms over your chest, the motion subtle, but purposeful. The swell of your bust lifted beneath the curve of your arms, and his eyes — God, his eyes, they noticed.
Of course he did.
“It’s been a while,” Ted said finally, his voice lower now, more intimate. “Since another woman’s been here. Since I let myself…” His gaze dropped to the lock of hair he was still toying with, wrapping it slowly around his thumb, his fingers brushing it like it was something fragile.
“I’ve been so focused… on the job, on Eric. On keeping everything moving.” He paused, thumb dragging gently over the strand before letting it fall. “I think somewhere along the way… I forgot about my own happiness.”
You furrowed your brows and turned your shoulder into the cushion of the back of the couch, as if trying to hide from the truth of his words. You related a bit too much. Work had consumed you completely. These days, your life was a pattern of coming home, trading your work clothes for something soft, curling up with your cat, and binging crime shows until sleep overtook you. Love was a language you'd long forgotten how to speak. Too easily abandoned.
“Sounds like me,” you murmured, your voice low, almost ashamed of the admission.
Ted noticed the shift immediately. His hand moved from the back of the couch to your shoulder, his thumb pressing into it with quiet pressure — firm, grounding. You felt the heat of it bloom through the thin fabric of your blouse, your breath hitching ever so slightly.
“I don’t want to be that guy,” he said, voice softened, “but I think that’s why I noticed you… back at the bar. Why I couldn’t look away.”
Your pulse picked up beneath his touch and your eyes dropped to your hands folded neatly on your knees. Without thinking, you moved one to his — fingers brushing over his jean clad knee like a quiet invitation.
Ted's brows lifted, caught off guard. This was the first time you’d touched him all night, and for once, the calculated mayor — the man who always had a plan seemed to forget what came next.
You could tell.
So you took control.
You shifted, slipping off your flats beneath the coffee table. Tucking your legs beneath you, you turned toward him, elbow resting on the back of the couch as you leaned in closer — close enough to feel the warmth of his breath.
“So… just conversation, huh?” you whispered, your voice velvet-smooth. Your lashes dipped low, fluttering like a spell meant to unravel him.
Ted’s hand slid from your shoulder to the curve of your jaw, thumb grazing your skin with a kind of reverence.
“I’m letting you lead this,” he said, his voice quiet, with a breath of something like need in it.
And just like that, you climbed into his lap — slow, deliberate. Straddling him, your knees sank into the couch on either side of his thighs. Ted kept his hands hovering at first, hesitant, waiting for your permission. So you guided them to your hips, settling them there, grounding him in this moment.
Neither of you broke eye contact.
“You’re even prettier up close,” he breathed, eyes fixed on yours like he was looking at something he hadn’t let himself want in a long time.
Then your lips found his.
The kiss was urgent. Starved. Like two people chasing salvation in each other’s mouths. A collision of loneliness and heat.
His hands slid beneath your blouse, fingers trembling slightly as his thumbs grazed the bare skin of your waist. The touch was tender, but desperate like he was afraid you'd vanish if he didn’t feel you properly, if he didn’t hold on.
Soon, he lifted you into his arms, the couch forgotten entirely as he held you tightly against him, lips still locked with yours — hungry, insistent, guiding you both through the quiet corridors of his home like he was following instinct alone.
In the soft hush of his bedroom, he kicked the door just barely ajar and laid you down on his perfectly made bed. For a fleeting second, you took in your surroundings — simple decor, western accents, and subtle touches of warmth that revealed more than he ever could in words.
He hovered over you, his breath warm against your neck as he found the fevered beat of your pulse and pressed his lips there, tender.
“Tell me,” he murmured, a request.
“Keep going,” you breathed, giving him permission with just those two words.
And he did.
There was no hesitation. His body molded to yours like it had been waiting — aching, for this moment. His thoughts tangled between disbelief and desire. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d let himself be soft with someone. Or the last time someone as striking as you had found their way into his bed.
He pulled back just enough to shrug off his blazer, tossing it carelessly aside. Then came the bolo tie, slipped loose from the collar of his shirt with practiced ease. He returned to you almost instantly, his hands greedy now as they pushed your blouse up, fumbling slightly at the buttons until the lace of your bra came into view — white and delicate, the faint contrast of your areolas just barely visible at the edges.
A low, guttural sound left him — raw, unfiltered. It wasn't lust. It was awe.
His thumb traced along your exposed skin, pushing the padding of your bra aside to fully uncover your breast. But instead of diving in, he paused.
You watched him, the moment suspended between you both. His eyes lingered on you like he was seeing something sacred. Something he'd convinced himself he'd never deserve again.
His lips parted, trembling slightly like he was whispering something just for himself.
“Ted?” you said softly, trying to pull him back from whatever thought had taken him so far away.
His gaze snapped up, locking with yours. A slow smile spread across his face, and then he lowered his forehead to yours, breathing you in.
“I want to do…” he paused, a shiver in his tone, “...completely and utterly obscene things to you.”
His confession cut through the air like heat lightning. It was dirty, yes — but not careless. It was filled with longing, with desperation, with an ache.
Your breath caught.
Goosebumps chased across your skin like a ripple of electricity, and suddenly you were trembling not from fear, but from the magnitude of being wanted that deeply.
“Please.”
The word fell from your lips like a whispered prayer and it was all he needed.
Your clothes were gone in moments, stripped with aching urgency, leaving your bare body exposed to the heat of his rough, capable hands. He touched you everywhere he could — grazing, gripping, palming every inch of you, his touch alternating between reverence and hunger. His fingers mapped the curve of your hips, the softness of your thighs, the dip of your waist as if trying to make up for some kind of lost time.
Soft, breathy sounds escaped you, tiny cries that built in intensity as he revealed more of himself. His body wasn’t sculpted — he was average, but grounding. A comforting fullness to his stomach, real and warm, with a dark patch of hair just above his hardened cock. A trail of it meandered up toward his navel like a quiet invitation.
Ted paused, his chest rising and falling with restraint, his eyes clouded with lust as he looked down at you.
“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” he murmured, almost bashful, “but I think I need to get a condom… from my son’s room.”
You blinked, then burst out laughing — genuine, unexpected. It made him snort, and with a chuckle, he buried his face between your breasts, letting the sound of your joy vibrate against your skin.
“This is either going to be the most humiliating thing or the most materializing thing from tonight, because if I go in there and he has none, that means my son is having unprotected sex and I need to have a serious talk with him… thus leading to the conversation of how his Dad needed to borrow one.” He mumbled into your sweet skin.
The tension between you broke, replaced by something looser, more intimate. The heat lingered, but now it was threaded with laughter.
You watched him pull back, his expression sheepish, as pressed his palms together in a mock-apology before slipping out of the room.
Propped up on your elbows, you took in the space around you — his bedroom, warm and masculine. Earthy tones, aged furniture, and just enough detail to say this is who I am.
Simple. Quiet. Lived-in.
He didn’t keep you waiting long.
When he returned, the condom wrapper was already torn, dangling between his lips as he moved quickly toward you with a familiar spark in his eyes.
“Thank God I raised him right,” he mumbled through the foil, grinning as you laughed again.
He hovered over you, the tension mounting once more. With practiced ease, he stroked himself a few times, and your gaze followed the movement — mesmerized by the sight of his flushed, uncut cock, a bead of precum glistening at the tip like a drop of anticipation.
Ted let out a low moan as he rolled the condom down over his length, careful and slow. Once it was snug, he looked down at you, drinking in every detail — your tousled hair, parted lips, the look of need in your eyes.
“Can I try something?” he asked, voice barely a whisper, tremulous with need and hopefulness.
You bit your bottom lip and nodded, breath shaky.
"Yes."
That single word — soft but certain — was all the permission he needed.
With a quiet groan, he shifted onto the bed and reached for you, his large hands wrapping around your arms. Gently, he tugged you down with him until he was lying flat on his back, guiding you to straddle him — not facing him, but in reverse.
“Get on top of me… backwards, baby. Backwards.”
Your brows moved in confusion, but you obeyed, shimmying your hips as you turned around. His hands were already on you, guiding you down until your back rested against his chest. You stared up at the ceiling, heart pounding, unsure of what he had in mind — until his arms slid beneath your knees.
With a sudden, skilled motion, he curled you backward, pulling your legs up and over, folding you into a full nelson.
“Ted!” you gasped, your voice part shock, part thrill. Your body arched unnaturally, your thighs parted and lifted high, your feet pointed up.
“Shh… trust me,” he whispered beside your ear, his breath warm as he blew a few strands of your hair out of his face.
He held you there, perfectly positioned — your head cradled in the flat of his palms, your legs stretched wide and drawn back. You felt the strength in his hold, the intensity in his breath, the sheer intimacy of being so utterly exposed and claimed.
All you could do was breathe and watch — while his thick cock aligned with your aching, wet pussy.
“It’s gonna feel… f-fuck, it’s gonna feel so good,” he murmured against your skin, voice trembling with anticipation. “Just trust me.”
Then, with one slow, deliberate thrust, he angled his hips upward — his tip parting you, gliding in with a precision that made your body jolt.
You jolted as he entered you fully, but Ted didn’t let you go. He kept you bent, folded tight in his hold, completely at his mercy.
A deep groan spilled from his lips as his head pressed back into the pillow. He angled his hips again, digging his heels into the mattress, and drove himself to the hilt.
“God… tight — shit, you’re so tight,” he whimpered, his voice low and ragged with awe.
The praise burned through you like wildfire. You flushed, warmth rising to your cheeks, and moaned long and deep — your voice trembling with the sudden, overwhelming fullness. It had been so long since someone had filled you like this.
The bed started to creak beneath you both, the headboard tapping rhythmically against the wall. Ted held your body locked in place, his arms strong around your bent frame, while his hips moved with force and purpose, thrusting up into you again and again.
You sobbed out soft cries, your voice catching as pleasure built and your limbs trembled. Every thrust made your body jolt, and in this position, you couldn’t look away — you were forced to watch as his thick cock disappeared inside you over and over again, stretching you, owning you.
He groaned louder now, the sound guttural, primal. The veins in his neck pulsed as sweat gathered along his temple. His hips slammed upward with growing urgency, the force of each thrust making your ass ripple against him.
You gasped, struggling to speak, your voice trembling with pleasure.
“W-What is this… this position — I’ve never…”
Your eyes threatened to roll back as he drove deeper still, his cock reaching spots that made your toes curl. Each push felt impossibly deeper than the last, your back beginning to ache from the tension but your body helplessly clinging to the pleasure.
Ted didn’t stop. He fucked you with reverence and ruin in equal measure, like he was trying to imprint himself into your memory forever.
One of his arms slid out from beneath your knee, letting your leg fall open at an angle. He snaked the same hand down your stomach, pressing it flat against your belly before it dipped lower, finding your clit with practiced precision.
You cried out, “Ted!” — your voice strained, overwhelmed. Every nerve in your body sparked alive, already overstimulated, but that was exactly what he wanted.
His hips kept a brutal, unwavering rhythm as his fingers began to work tight circles over your sensitive nub. The contrast between his thick thrusts and the focused, maddening pressure on your clit made you shake.
“C’mon,” he groaned, his voice cracking with need. “Need to feel you squeeze around me… please, baby.”
The plea in his tone bordered on desperation, but it still carried a raw authority.
“Come for me,” he begged, breathless. “Please. Right now.”
You whimpered, trying not to throw your head back for fear of colliding with his — but it was impossible to stay still. The sensations clawed at your insides, made you writhe and squirm against him. Your toes curled so tight they cramped, and your hips bucked against the hold of his arm.
“I’m gonna… I’m gonna —” you stammered, the words tumbling out between hitched gasps, each syllable broken by his thrusts and the relentless roll of his fingers against you.
And then it hit. Your orgasm crashed into you like a tidal wave, blinding and hot and earth-shaking. Your body locked tight, your breath caught in your throat, and your walls clenched down hard around him.
But Ted didn’t stop.
Even as you cried out and trembled through it, he kept moving — kept fucking you through your release like he wanted to feel every ripple of it echo inside you. His pace unrelenting, your pleasure stretched until it bordered on unbearable, and still he held you in place, moaning into your skin like he never wanted the moment to end.
With a swift, fluid motion, he rolled you onto your stomach, easing you down into the mattress. Your cheek pressed into the sheets, warm and damp from your breath, as his rhythm never faltered. Now behind you, he hovered — his body blanketing yours with heat. His thrusts came fast, rough, the slap of skin echoing off the walls like a steady drumbeat.
His hands gripped your ass, fingers sinking into the flesh as if trying to anchor himself to the moment. “F-fuck... I — oh god, I’m gonna…” he choked out, his voice a tangled mess of restraint and the raw need of release.
Sweat dripped from the ends of his curls, falling onto your spine in slow, burning trails, each drop branding you with the intensity of his need.
You gasped, eyes fluttering shut as you felt him drive deeper. So deep it felt like he was reaching places untouched, the pressure blooming in your belly. Your body, pinned beneath his, could do nothing but take it — accept every desperate, final thrust as he chased his release.
And then, with one hard thrust — then another, shorter, tighter… he let go. His body shuddered violently as he emptied into the condom, filling it to the brim. His moan was guttural, trembling with the weight of everything he’d held back until now.
A shared cry tore from your lips, the air between you charged with heat and breath and something near feral. He slumped forward, collapsing against your back with a soft, breathless grunt, his heart hammering into your ribs like a second heartbeat.
For a moment, the room was filled with nothing but the soft rhythm of quickened breaths, the occasional awkward giggle, and gentle kisses pressed to your back. The atmosphere pulsed with something tender, almost shy, as Ted finally pulled away.
He stood, his movements a little unsteady, knees trembling slightly from exertion. Carefully, he removed the condom, holding it gingerly as he shuffled toward the bathroom. You heard the quiet sound of the trash can lid, the flush of water running. When he returned, he carried a warm, damp cloth and wore a boyish smile — loose curls clinging to his flushed forehead, eyes soft with something close to adoration.
“You okay?” he asked gently, his voice a low murmur as he began to clean you. The cloth was warm and soothing as he ran it along your back, across your ass, and between your legs with slow, deliberate care.
You turned your head slightly, cheek still pressed to the sheets, and gave him a small nod. Your expression was hazy with equal parts exhaustion and a deep, humming satisfaction.
“More than okay,” you whispered, a soft hum escaping as he wiped away every trace of discomfort, his touch lingering in places that made you shiver.
That made him beam. Not just smile — beam. He looked at you like you were the most precious thing he’d ever had the pleasure of tending to.
“Will you stay the night?” he asked, gently setting the cloth aside.
“Or should I call you a cab?”
You glanced toward the digital clock on the nightstand. It read nearly midnight. Technically, you had work in the morning, but the idea of leaving — stepping out of this moment, hadn’t even crossed your mind until now.
“And if I stay?” you asked, eyes flicking back to meet his.
That same warm smile stretched across his face, unshaken.
“Then if you do stay… we can shower. I can make you the best damn late-night bologna sandwich you’ve ever had. And…” he turned toward his dresser, pulling out a large t-shirt, holding it up with a flourish, “...you can tell me if you’re a New Mexico United fan.”
He waggled the oversized t-shirt in your direction, and you couldn’t help the small laugh that bubbled from your throat. A grin tugged at your lips as you nodded, heart fluttering. There was something disarmingly tender about the idea of wearing his shirt to bed — like being claimed not by possession, but by comfort. By trust. By something unspoken but deeply felt.
“Then I’ll stay,” you said, voice quiet but sure.
His features softened instantly, the playful grin melting into something gentler — slight relief. He clutched the shirt loosely in his hands as he returned to the bed, sitting beside you with a slight sigh, as if the weight between you was finally settling into place. Something had shifted. Something real. Maybe this was what you both had unknowingly been reaching for all along.
“We could also start with just… conversation,” he murmured, voice low, a touch of vulnerability threading through it.
You swallowed, the moment delicate and full.
“Yeah,” you whispered, nodding slowly. “Let’s start there.”
------
Ugh thank you so much for reading! I can't wait to start on the other chapter already. This idea came to me randomly and I am so excited to share it with you all.
Tagging requested: @iamasaddie @pokayyto @perotovar @cassiuspascal @berryispunk @chasingthepoguelife @madpanda75 @lady-artemis27 @elvenhymntoelbereth @shivispunk @cosmickid-inmotion @beezusvreeland @eviispunk @glitterspark @crumbs-from-the-algonquin @decadent-hag1 @worhols @picketniffler @la-vie-est-une-fleur29
Pairing: Mayor Ted Garcia x Female Reader
Rating: Explicit. 18+ (Minors DNI)
Summary: Mayor Ted Garcia asks you to join him on the ferris wheel.
Warnings: smut, public-ish fingering, secret relationship, boss/worker dynamics, ted's kinda skeezy but also sweet, state fair vibes, bolo tie
Words: 3,300
A/N: No spoilers! I haven’t even seen Eddington. 💞
Masterlist
Your hometown isn’t what you’d call the best town, but it’s a good town. Friendly-for-the-most-part people, a vibrant culture, a storied history, and enough quirks to keep things interesting enough. Sure, there’s poverty, crime, and nothing to do at night. But it’s your town and you love it.
In fact, you love it so much, you’re willing to get your hands dirty for it. Literally dirty. Like, right now, as you stand at the edge of the recreational lake by the reservoir, wearing rubber boots and gloves, holding a trash bag.
“I promise to clean up our waterways,” Ted Garcia says, smiling his perfect politician smile at the camera. “I remember when I was a kid, and this lake was pristine. With some hard work and care, we can make it that way again.”
He gives a thumbs up to the camera before he bends down and picks up a flattened milk carton you had laid there just a few minutes ago.
“Annnd cut!” the director calls.
Ted’s smile instantly disappears, he holds the milk carton, pinching it with two fingers before he deposits it in the trash bag you’re holding.
“Eugh, sanitizer?” he asks, holding his hand out. You quickly tie up the bag filled with only one milk carton, reach into your messenger bag, going directly to the pocket that holds Ted’s sanitizer, breath mints, and Tide Stick, and pull out the bottle, squirting two drops on each hand.
“Thanks, babe,” he says low enough for only you to hear as the commercial crew begins disassembling the set.
He can’t help himself. He never can. What Ted Garcia wants, he gets. And usually what he wants is you, the young political phenom who's been his chief of staff for the past two years. You do it all… social media, event planning, speech writing, and apparently, planting trash.
“You have your appearance at the state fair at 6. Just enough time to head to the office and acquaint you with more talking points,” you say, looking down at your phone and punching in the directions to Garcia HQ.
—-
The headquarters always feels so different when it's just the two of you, as if the walls know it’s your secret place to meet, that the couch in his office isn’t just for him to catch a quick nap between events. Fluorescent lights buzz from the drop panel ceiling, framed campaign posters from previous years, and strategy boards hang all over the bright yellow walls you’ve been begging to repaint. Ted’s small office is to the side, hidden behind a glass panel door that he decided to install a curtain on the first day you started.
You’re straightening a stack of flyers when you hear Ted mutter “Damn it” from the other side of the room. He grabs the handkerchief from his back pocket and wipes at the coffee stain on his white shirt.
“Dab it softly,” you say, hurrying over and taking the handkerchief from his hand. “Don’t wipe, it moves the stain.”
You dab at the now larger coffee spot gently, feeling Ted’s eyes on you.
It’s hopeless.
“This isn’t going to do it,” you say, beginning to mindlessly unbutton his shirt. “I keep telling you to be careful when you wear white.”
He doesn’t respond, nor does he help you take his shirt off. He just stands there, a confident smile on his face, knowing he got exactly what he wanted… your hands on his body.
You take the shirt off his broad shoulders, working it down his strong arms before you remove it, revealing his worn, almost threadbare white undershirt that stretches thin across his chest and belly. You swallow at the sight of him, his deep brown eyes staring at you, the cocky look on his face replaced with a look of something sweeter. His hands plant on your hips, you flutter your eyes close and step forward–until you glance behind him at the bright red digits of the digital clock and silently curse at the time.
“Drew needs you there in thirty,” you say, pulling away, “and you haven’t even gone over the new info we compiled for you.”
He grumbles an annoyed sound, picking up the note cards your assistant wrote out this afternoon. "Got anything in the closet for me?"
"I think so." You move toward the small storage closet where you keep extra clothes for emergencies, just like this. Politics 101—the politician always has to look good and polished. No stains, no wrinkles, no blemishes.
Ted's spare shirts hang neatly in the closet: a formal white button-up, a light blue, more casual printed one, and a plaid short-sleeved button-up. You think of the fair and what type of constituents will be there tonight for the demolition derby being held in the rodeo stands.
You choose the casual shirt.
"This should work," you say. "Blue always photographs well on you."
"That's why I keep you around," he says with a wink. "You know what looks good on me."
He takes the shirt from you, buttoning and righting the collar.
He looks good, presentable even, but not hometown enough. You go back to the closet and grab a box from the upper shelf full of various flag lapel pins, backup watches, and bolo ties.
You grab a silver bolo tie accented with a turquoise bighorn sheep, one of your favorites of his.
“You need this,” you say, walking over to Ted, the bolo tie dangling from your hand.
"The tie,” he nods.
He bows his head down, allowing you to slip it on. You lean in as you tighten the silver clasp, adjusting it at his throat.
"Perfect," you whisper. Your hands remain on his collar long after you’ve adjusted it.
You’re so close now, you can smell the scent of his cologne: wood, leather, and a slight hint of smoke. You know the smell well, it’s on your skin after sneaking out of his house in the middle of the night through the back door, and you’ve watched him spray the bottle of it you hold in your messenger bag to hide the smell of your perfume.
Your eyes stare into his, dark and commanding, seeing through every single professional wall you’re constantly trying to keep up.
“Now,” he says, reaching out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “The talking points.”
You nod, shifting back to business, and retrieve your tablet from the desk. Ted picks up the cards, flipping through each one as you begin.
"The fair's attendance is up twenty percent from last year. You'll want to highlight the local business participation, especially the vendors in the market area."
Ted nods. “Twenty percent. Got it.”
"Hotels are booked, restaurants are packed, tourism is booming thanks to the fair. Adding the second week has been great for the city."
Ted mentally files away every statistic you give him, nodding his head as he listens to you and studies his cards. He repeats key phrases back to you, in the confident cadence he’s so well now for.
"You sound good," you tell him. "Really good."
There's so much potential in him, so much ambition beneath that charming exterior. Mayor is just the beginning. You see state office in his future, maybe even national. Sometimes you wonder if your attraction to him is tangled up in that potential—if you're drawn to his power as much as to his handsome face.
You glance down at your trusty gold, Swarovski watch, a gift from Ted last month, for in his words, “just because.”
“We should head out now.”
“Lead the way,” he says, placing a hand on your ass and squeezing it.
—-
Today is sweltering. It’s one of those late August days that you swear you’re going to melt away as soon as you walk outside. You don’t know how Ted can stand wearing a heavy, beige jacket over his shirt, but here he is, looking perfectly polished under the late afternoon sun. He’s smiling his usual campaign smile, nodding and waving as you weave your way through the crowd. This is his element—the annual showcase of the town he leads.
Ted walks the fair, stopping and shaking hands, laughing at jokes, high-fiving kids, and posing for the numerous photo-ops you want. Holding a baby goat? Done with a smile, even when the goat bleats so loud it scares him. Posing with the winner of the demolition derby? Ted makes sure to mention how good it is “to see Trophy City getting more business” when he helps hold up the trophy. Trying a bowl of award-winning chili from the competition? Ted keeps his cool, even when he has to clear his throat a few times, shocked at the heat of Yucca Blossom’s chili.
Ted’s the star. You watch him shine, as you utilize the small battery-powered fan from your trusty messenger bag, happy that you chose to wear a sensible, light skirt and silk blouse as the middle of the afternoon’s sun beats down on the concrete mercilessly.
Drew, Ted’s campaign manager, greets you when you finally make it to the midway as the sun begins setting. There’s a cacophony of noises and American pride that greet you, the creaks and groans of the brightly lit carnival rides mingling with their riders' screams of glee and terror. Tents full of rigged games line the middle, tricking kids into thinking they’re going to win the giant teddy bear or Minion. While food trucks dot the area, frying candy bars, corn dogs, and various cuts of potatoes.
Ted stops at the lemonade stand, talking with the owners, asking them how business is, smiling widely when they answer it’s booming. You record the interaction on your phone with one hand, while reaching into your pocket to hand him the American Express card for him to buy everyone around him “a round.”
“So, I have an idea…” Drew says, pointing to the tall ferris wheel, the centerpiece of the midway, and the state fair as a whole. “How about a photo op?” He points to the top of the ride, “We’ll get you at the peak, waving down at the crowd.”
Ted nods, his eyes staying on the ride, a look only you can recognize crosses his face—he has an idea.
"I'll do it, but I'm not getting on that thing alone." He turns to you. "You'll have to come with me. I'm… a little afraid of heights."
You know Ted, he’s not afraid of anything, certainly not heights.
“We can do that,” Drew says. “You can sit across from him, balance the cart."
"No," Ted says, too quickly. "Side by side is better. Nobody wants to see the back of a head in a campaign photo.”
Drew frowns, thinking. "But the shot—"
"Will be perfect," Ted interrupts. "Trust me on this one.”
The campaign manager sighs but acquiesces, making a note in his phone. "I'll have the photographer positioned to catch you both from below, then. We want to highlight your approachability, not the back of anyone's head."
Drew looks down at his phone, too busy texting the photographer to see Ted wink quickly towards you.
This is the Ted you know. Arrogant and playing games he knows he can win.
“The photographer’s almost here,” Drew says, directing you both towards the entrance.
"Remember, big smiles at the top," Drew instructs, checking his watch. “Wave to the crowd. When the wheel stops, that’s when we’ll get the pics.”
“Got it,” Ted responds.
He poses for a few photos at the entrance of the ferris wheel, making sure to recite the headline quote you just wrote this morning, "The state fair represents the best of our community, hardworking families coming together to celebrate our shared heritage and build toward our collective future."
When the ride operator leads you to your cart awaiting to take you up, Ted places his hand at the small of your back, guiding you forward, a proprietary and professional touch to anyone watching. To everyone else, it looks like a politician being courteous to his staff, but for you, you can feel the sear of his touch.
As you settle into the cart, you can feel the way the fabric of your skirt rides up, feeling the warm sun-baked plastic of the seat. Ted sits beside you, so close that your thighs touch. He smiles and waves at the small crowd outside as you keep your most polite and neutral face.
Ted lowers the lap bar and nods at the ride attendant. The ferris wheel begins to move, and your cart sways back and forth gently as it takes off.
Ted’s fingers brush against the exposed skin of your thigh during the first pause in rotation. A quick touch that makes heat spread through your body before the cart continues its path skywards.
With each stop, Ted’s hand brushes higher, closer and closer to where you’re already aching for him.
He waits until you're halfway up to finally keep his hand against you, gripping your upper thigh. You jump at the firm contact. "Ted!" you warn quietly, even though nobody else can hear you.
He chuckles. "Calm yourself now, just us in here right now. Nobody has to know." His hand slips underneath your skirt, making you lose your breath.
"Someone could see."
"See what?" Ted asks innocently. "From down there, we're just two people ridin’ a ferris wheel. It’s just the perfect photo op."
His finger begins to trace along the seam of your underwear. "Besides, I'm just a nervous mayor being comforted by his dedicated chief of staff."
You try to protest, but you lose yourself when his fingers slip under your underwear, a low groan leaving between his lips when he finds you already wet for him.
“So glad you wore a skirt today,” he growls with a cocky smile.
He slowly dips a thick finger into your entrance, but he doesn’t move it, instead, he lets the ferris wheel rocking in the breeze guide his soft rhythm. The metal cart tilts back and forth, the town you love shrinking down to look almost like a toy. Ted sits next to you, hand under your skirt, the other hand resting innocently on the bar.
The cart continues to rise, taking you higher as Ted's fingers move deeper. The contradiction is dizzying—his public persona intact from the waist up, waving occasionally to the people below, while beneath the safety bar, beneath your skirt, his fingers are claiming you.
He curves his finger inside you, pressing against your walls, making your vision blur as his thumb presses harder against your clit, circling insistently.
"Mr. Garcia," you breathe through a moan, stuck between chasing your pleasure and propriety. The wheel begins to slow as it approaches the summit of its journey.
"Look at them all down there," he says conversationally, as if his fingers aren't buried inside you, as if he isn't feeling the clench of your cunt around him. "Not a clue what their mayor is really doing up here."
There’s a gentle jerk when the wheel stops, and your cart hangs at the highest point. It’s golden up here, the sunset painting the sky the perfect color for the campaign photo that will likely end up in next year's reelection materials.
Ted's fingers pause inside you, but his thumb continues rubbing against your clit. "Go ahead, baby," he says through his perfect politician smile, "wave at them."
His thumb presses harder, swirling faster, and you have to bite your lip to keep from moaning. You reach up to wave, smiling as well as you can, as the mayor’s fingers are still buried inside you.
"That's it," he whispers, still smiling for the camera below. "Show them what a devoted staff member you are. Cum for me," he commands through his unwavering smile, flicking his thumb sharply against your clit.
Your orgasm consumes you, your cunt tightening around his fingers as your body tries to hide the pleasure radiating out of you. You lean back, letting Ted take the center stage, as he waves and smiles, his fingers deep inside you, working you through your orgasm.
You’re trying to keep your eyes open, trying not to moan loudly as the aftershocks of your orgasm make you feel like you’re on top of the world.
When the ferris wheel lurches back into motion, beginning your trip back to the ground, Ted pulls his fingers out, righting your underwear and skirt with a wink.
“You always did have a knack for political timing," he says. "Our little secret."
He brings his soaked fingers to his lips when he's certain no one can see, tasting you briefly before wiping them on the handkerchief he pulls from his jacket pocket. "Just between the mayor and his most trusted advisor."
As the cart approaches the bottom platform, Ted reaches over to grab your hand and squeezes it quickly before releasing it to wave at the waiting crowd.
The wheel stops at the platform, Ted adjusts his bolo tie, and plasters a look of mayoral dignity across his face. You envy his composure, as your thighs are still trembling, soaked from your orgasm that the mayor just gave you.
"Ready?" he asks, his public voice returned, though there's a knowing glint in his dark eyes.
You nod, he lifts the safety bar and rises smoothly, reaching his hand to help you up.
The cart rocks when you stand, and your knees, weak from your orgasm, buckle immediately. Gravity and Ted’s fingers have taken away your sense of balance. Ted grips your hand tighter, but it's not enough to stabilize you fully, and when you step out of the cart onto the metal platform, your ankle turns.
A gasp escapes your lips when you begin to fall. For a split, terrible moment, you see your definition of hell—sprawled on the platform in front of constituents and campaign staff, your professional dignity shattered as your hometown gets a look at your soaked panties. Ted’s arms save you, though, catching you against his chest in one smooth motion. His warm and solid body that smells of his cologne and a light scent of sweat, saves you.
"I've got you," he says.
It’s so intimate. It’s so romantic. It’s so… public.
But to anyone else watching, it reads as nothing more than a gallant politician saving a plain, ol’ boring staffer from embarrassment. To the onlookers and the photographer whose camera is now rapidly snapping shot after shot, Ted Garcia is the hero.
Only you know that he's the reason you fell in the first place.
The crowd gathered around breaks into applause. Ted, the always politician, offers them a smile and a small wave while his arm is still around you.
"You alright?" he asks, loud enough for those nearby to hear his concern.
"Yes, thank you, Mr. Garcia," you respond, equally as loud.
He releases you, making sure you have balance before stepping back.
Drew appears at Ted's side, practically vibrating with excitement. "That was perfect," he says, glancing at the photographer, who gives a thumbs up. "Couldn't have planned it better myself. The caring mayor, the damsel in mild distress—it's gold."
"Let's not overplay it," Ted modestly says, though you catch the satisfied glint in his eyes. "Just lending a hand to a valued staff member."
When Drew moves to look through the photographer’s camera, already assessing each shot, Ted leans close to you. "Might want to fix your lipstick. You bit it clean off up there."
"Thank you.”
“Just looking out for my most valuable asset."
Yes, your hometown is lucky to have Mayor Garcia, but you’re even luckier to have Ted.
summary: The Hole in the Wall is the best kept secret in New Mexico.. and the mayor of Eddington is its newest guest.
WARNINGS: 18+ Only! Sex work. Use of glory holes. M!oral. Ball play. Dirty talk. Verbal degradation. Lube. Deep throating. Protected piv. Brief reference to C-19. Semi-anonymous sex. Reader is minimally described apart from possessing female anatomy.
a/n: this one is for @time-for-my-weekly-spanking's Kinky Challenge ❤️ I chose "glory hole" and was given Ted Garcia (one of my faves btw). I haven't written any glory hole-type smut, but I wanted to challege myself, and give Ted the chance to be naughty 😈
dividers by @saradika-graphics 👑
TED GARCIA MASTERLIST | FULL MASTERLIST
Hole in the Wall.
There couldn't be a better name for a secret sex place. It's hidden in plain sight, just over an hour's drive south of Eddington, New Mexico. It's a slow day. Usually people come during their lunch breaks, let off some steam, but there's been no business all day.
You really need the money. University costs a fortune, even a shitty state school like the one you're attending. You owe student loans, your rent is only getting higher, and groceries might as well be made of gold the way they're priced these days.
No phones are allowed in the booth you're sitting in, on glory hole duty this week. Otherwise you'd scroll to ease the boredom. A badly-done porn plays on several TV screens throughout the small building, exaggerated gasps and moans, the sloppy echoing of flesh on flesh. Sometimes it's hard to tell which is the TV and which is real. If you listen really well you can differentiate the two. Sometimes you get yourself off to it.
On slow days like today your senses are heightened, awaiting customers, listening for any sound of footsteps coming from the hall. The EXIT signs glow with a slight buzz as you wait, perched on your soft chair. Bottled water and a battered copy of your favorite novel sit on a table beside you.
Suddenly there's footsteps and the sound of the metal door opening. Security is always outside, keeping the trouble out. You know the others in their stalls are sitting up, ears pricked, sitting at the ready or already at the hole, waiting. The footsteps continue, getting closer to your area. You perk up at the noise, your body already establishing a Pavlovian response. Pussy wet, nipples tight and hard.
The customer stops right in front of you. There's the clinking of a belt buckle undone and a zipper pulled down, and right there, a half-hard cock is put in your glory hole.
"Get him nice and ready for you," the stranger grunts, his voice low and raspy, almost sensual. Your mouth is already filled with saliva as you get down on the ground, a soft carpet on your bare knees. You pump him a couple times before licking along his length. A hiss comes from the other side of the wall and you smile.
This cock is isn't too long, but nice and girthy, curving upwards. You wrap your hand around the base as you take him into your mouth, first the dusky pink head, already leaking pearlescent precome, which you lap up greedily. The stranger moans, then it sounds like he muffles it. You smile again. Maybe he's new here, hesitant to make any sounds that show he's enjoying himself.
Your hands cradle his balls, rolling them in your palm while your tongue teases him. He gives a strangled moan, thrusting into the hole. "Someone's eager," you taunt him, and curl your tongue around the shapely curve of his sack, dipping your tongue in the seam and planting open-mouthed kisses, popping one in between your lips.
Your customer groans on the other side of the wall, his cock pulsing in your hand. "Moan for me, baby," you tell him. "I wanna hear how good I'm sucking you off."
With that you take him in deep, the tip hitting the back of your throat, letting him feel you start to gag on him.
"That's it, bitch," he mutters, "take it."
In the midst of your deep-throating him you can't help thinking you've heard his voice somewhere before.. most customers talk to you, praising or degrading. This is the first voice you actually recognize from the other side of the wall.
"Keep talking to me like that," you encourage him, taking your mouth off him to stroke him, giving extra attention to the sensitive crown. He thrusts into your fist, chasing it with his hips. You pour some lube on him to ease the friction, the sloppy sound of him fucking your fist is lewd and only getting you wetter.
"You're doing such a good job you little slut," he moans, swelling under your touch. "C'mon, put that mouth to good use."
Obediently you take him deep in your throat again, your mind still reeling. You know his voice, you've heard it recently..
"You like the way I'm sucking this cock?"
"Fuck yes I do.. gonna turn around and let me ruin this tight little pussy too?"
It dawns on you. The cock currently in your mouth belongs to the Ted Garcia, mayor of Eddington. You've been seeing his re-election ads everywhere. And secretly you've always thought he's kind of hot.
"You wanna fuck me?" you ask, pumping him again. There's an array of condoms at your disposal - some to fit each size, glow in the dark ones, flavored ones.
"You don't know how bad I need to fuck your tight cunt," he growls. From the news you've read that he's neck-and-neck with his opponent in what should have been a landslide win in his favor. He sounds like he needs to fuck his problems away for tonight.
Your eyes land on a couple of white foil packets among your array of rubbers. "If you want to fuck, you have to wear this." You hand him the condom as he steps away momentarily from the hole.
Waiting for your reaction you hold in a giggle.
Unbeknownst to the mayor, his son had set about printing Ted's campaign photos and put them on condoms. You got hold of some at the convenience store, taking them without the intention of actually using them.
Ted's pissed. He's quiet at first. Then, "Where the hell did you get this?"
"Someone was handing them out.. is there a problem?" You're doing your best to hold in your laughter.
"Give me a different one."
"I'm sorry, that's the last one I have," you tell him, looking at the plethora of safety on your table. "You can't fuck without a condom," you remind him.
You hear a muttered, "shit" before he hands the rubber back to you. "Put it on me. But first get him back up."
You take the condom and he sticks his now half-hard cock back in. Your mouth envelops him again, wet and hot and tight around him, as if to make up for embarrassing him.
You're sucking off the incumbent mayor of Eddington! There's no way anyone would believe you. Ted Garcia of the bolo ties and southwestern print button-ups, the man who wants the data centers and the mask mandates.
And god, he has a filthy mouth!
"Turn that ass around and let me fill up this tight pussy," he drawls.
With haste you open the condom and slip it onto his length, sucking him off a little extra before you turn and bend over, your cunt lining up with his cock. You back up on him slowly, letting him nudge inside. You hear his breath hitch, hips moving forward as much as they can, but you back away, teasing.
"Nuh-uh. My rules," you tell him, waiting for him to be still again. When he is, you press back on him, letting him in just a little at a time. Your walls close in around him, sheathing him tight. You brace yourself on the carpet, leaning down, arching your back as you let him fuck into you. The blood rushes to your head, making the whole thing more intense. He bottoms out, the tip nudging, almost brushing your cervix. "Easy," you grunt out, fingers clenching the carpet beneath you.
Ted doesn't seem to hear you, or more likely chooses not to listen, as his hips chase yours. You just know if there wasn't a wall between you his hands would have an iron grip on your body, leaving marks for all others to see.
You find a comfortable angle, one where he's not pummeling straight to the center of your womb, arching your back, allowing him to brush that spongy spot, making you gasp, eyes fluttering as the sensation shoots sparks along your spine.
"Gettin' tight on me, girl," Ted grunts out. "You like that? Like me stuffing you full of my cock?"
"Yes!" You moan, head dropping down to the carpeted floor again. Your heartbeat pulses in your temples, a perverted tempo that beats in time with the booming bass reverberating throughout the room. Ted fucks you in time with the beat, balls slapping against your clit. Your mouth hangs slack, drool pooling on the rug as you let him do what he wants, fucking into you with abandon. Your fingers find your clit, circling madly, flicking and swiping until your legs shake beneath you. "God!" you wail, "I'm gonna fucking come!!"
"That's right, make yourself come on my cock," he orders, keeping the same tempo. Somewhere deep down you're impressed - most men only think to speed up when a woman is about to come. You work yourself back on him, the wet slap of flesh prevalent in the air, spiced with your scent. When you let go it's a slow burn in the pit of your stomach, growing outward, heating up every limb as you squeeze around him, coming apart hard. With a deep growl he follows after, filling the condom.
When you've both caught your breath you feel him pull out and you slump onto the floor, boneless. He gets rid of the condom and cleans himself off with a moist towelette from his back pocket before tucking himself away back in his jeans.
"Thank you, Mayor," you purr, stretching as you sit up.
"What- what did you say?"
"I said it was nice fucking you, Mr. Garcia. I hope we'll get to do it again someday. Until then, you've definitely got my vote."
You don't even try to stifle a giggle as he huffs, buckling his belt and getting himself in order.
On election night, when he inevitably wins by just a few hundred votes, he returns to the Hole in the Wall, and you're more than ready to congraluate him.
summary: ted garcia fucks the political ideologies out of you.
warnings: +18 (mdni), smut, p. in v., creampie, dirty talking, humiliation kink, praise kink, exhibitionism kink, public sex, brat taming in a way, i love the world atta girl more than my life
wc: 1,8k
the problem with running for mayor in eddington is that, if you're from the other team, it's already a lost battle: unless you're ted garcia, town will never take your side.
(you tried to tell your boss, but he's a stubborn old coot)
he, the one who keeps them under his spell: with his theatricals, face on every corner, poster smile and perfect southern image, all leather and hair. with his honey-ed grave voice and speeches, the ones that come out of the same mouth whispering filth in your ear.
"what would good 'ol joe think about this, hmm?" he taunts, slowly, every word thick and intended. "tell me, baby, what face would he make if he found out his sweet trusted assistant sprawled out like a slut on ted garcia's desk?"
you whimper, half humiliation, half arousal.
"joe would kick you out. he's inflexible like that" he mocks, wicked smile across his handsome face. with a free finger, he caresses your trembling parted lips, a shaky exhale drawn from his touch. you feel the shape of his aching cock brush your inner thigh, "but don't worry, my office is always open for you, sweetheart"
a sound that barely counts as a squeak falls past your lips. it's hard to find your voice if his thick calloused fingers from age and not hard work are deep inside you, pumping in and out; circling in a slow tortuous pace that feels deliberate.
"you're an egocentrical maniac if you think this is all about you" you pant, teeth gritted. "this is about me"
right. it's better lying; you're used to it: anything better than admiting you've stared before, on campaigns and walks on town, when just a glimpse meters away from his bar, the shape of his back hidden behind the glass, brown hair curled at the ends, was enough to make your hands violently twitch with repressed desires of touching him, of pulling it and hearing that voice that enchanted crowds whisper to you only things that you'd never wish for outloud.
why give him a free ego boost? like your moans weren't enough, like having the whole town dickriding him still leaves him wanting more. ted's greed sickens you: winning the election doesn't suffice, he too wants to win whatever this is.
it's a war and you started it, the very first moment you walked into his office determined to make joe win, only to fall into the very thing you said you'd never.
(because one thing was touching yourself to your rival, and another thing is lying to your boss about your whereabouts, saying you're doing this for him when it's about you)
(it's always been about you)
so, technically, it's half a lie: you're the impulse and he's the catalyst for your downfall.
"oh sweetheart" he tuts, fingers curling, dripping in your slick, "tell me why are you in my office, then. for secrets? we both know that's not the truth. but if it's so, you must know it all has a price" you whimper, "are you willing to pay?"
your mother who raised you strong, that diploma hanging above your bed and office even though it's more of a humilliation given your degree and your current job, are dissapointed in you.
may God forgive you: you're so ready to pay the price.
you nod, once.
"no, baby. give me more" he curls his fingers again, inside you, hitting that spot that has you seeing stars. "i know you can"
you nod, twice. vigorously.
"you're smart, baby. degree an' all" his voice turns rougher; raspier. there's some pride there if you're delusional enough. "speak, doll. words, i need words"
your throat feels dry. your pussy clenches around his fingers. a groan falls past his lips.
you choke on your own spit, "p-please, ted. fuck me"
it's like receiving the goddamn keys to the city. his fingers leave your milking pussy, a smirk across his face. "there she is: smart girl"
the sound of the metal of his belt is akin to bells on the collar of a dog. his cock twitches painfully under those pristine pants he's quick to drop to his knees, as if he's done it many times. you don't want to think about it: you'd rather think about how your slick is still on his fingers.
"lick" he orders, voice impossibly low. his fingers extend your way, and you have to prop up in your elbows to reach them. once your mouth is close, lips on his nails, he pushes them forward, making you gag. "show me you're grateful, little slut, 'cuz i made you cum. if you want me to do it again, clean it off. i better not see you waste a drop"
your tongue moves, expert, cheeks hollowing as you suck. you feel the salt of his sweat and the taste of you mixed up in your tongue. you're done, leaving his fingers with a 'pop!' sound. his eyes are dark like burnt caramel as he looks down on you.
"atta girl" he smirks. "can see why joe likes to keep you 'round his office"
you feel his cock tease your entrance, and then, without missing a beat, slam all the way in.
"but how about an offer in mine?"
you gasp, the sound broken, yet ted's quick to swallow it inside his mouth, kissing you. it feels so foreign, so inviting: how he's deep inside, still and heavy, warm as his lips that remain where they shouldn't or as the hands that search yours, intertwined to keep him steady; like every part of him wants to touch every part of you.
"you're so tight" he grumbles more to himself as you let your pussy accomodate him. he might not be lengthy but God, he's thick. it burns, deliciously so.
he breaks the kiss and you hate how you miss it. there's no time to dwell on the implications of that small sting on your chest because he slowly pulls out before pushing all the way in. how could his wife leave a man that could fuck like this?
"look at you, all quiet now. cat got your tongue?" he taunts as your walls suck him, making him grunt.
you gasp again, but this time, it's because his forehead leans against your warm flushed skin, sweat mixing with yours. the closeness has confussing feelings all over you.
"fuck" ted speaks over the silence, "you feel so good, made for me" a beat passes by before his big lousy political-empty-promises foul mouth speaks again, "i'm serious about the position. i'll hire you"
you find your voice again: "to piss joe off or to fuck me whenever you want?"
he laughs, but it's not mocking anymore.
"baby, can't it be both?"
ted picks up his pace, the rhythm steady unlike your heart. you can feel it like his dick: dragging along your wet folds, making them clench as he keeps moving, your soft moans the only sound filling the room.
"not much of a talker, huh?" he speaks. his hand, that hand too big and warm, slaps your pussy. you mewl, tears prickling partly from the sting and partly from embarrasment. "and here i thought you'd try to convince me why poor ol' joe should win instead of me"
"or maybe, you knew he'd already lost" he continues as so his moves, never once faltering, "knew this town's fuckin' obssesed with me" he pants, "ain't you?"
"what? obssesed with you?" you laugh, dry.
he smirks, "i was gonna say right about this whole stupid race, but thank you"
"for what?"
"for letting me fuck you"
your skirt rides up even more than it had by now as ted pounds into you, deep enough to hit the sweetest spot inside of you.
"i still work for joe" you bite back a moan coming from the rawest part of your throat. you pull him even closer by his tie, daringly so. he groans at the sudden tightness on his neck. "i still think he's gonna win"
that's a lie: a clean, political lie. but with ted, especially after this, you're not going down without a fight.
"look at you, little brat, arguin' with me like you aren't a thrust away from cryin' on my cock, you ungrateful slut" he clicks his tongue, sounding rather dissapointed. "well, i might need to change your mind" his teeth dig in his lower plush lip as he fucks you, wet curls falling over the beads of sweat on his temple. that and the white rolled up button skirt, sweat patches all over the fabric, especially on his armpits. "you're in denial, baby. joe's got you brainwashed"
"you'll lose"
the familiar knot ties in your stomach. you wrap your legs tight around him, keeping him close. a hand grabs his hair while the other doesn't let go of the tie.
"i think that's you" he sneers. "don't worry, there's always a first"
the wood of his desk creaks under your combined weight.
"i might have to change your mind" ted switches the rhythm, aiming for harder yet slower, "and if you still refuse, well, i'll have to fuck it out of you"
he keeps slamming into you, determined, and it sort of makes your chest tight at the thought the mayor's fucking you on his office intent on making you change sides. what started as a supposed power move on your side has you now pinned under his weight, the curve of his belly pressing into your stomach as his dick rams into you.
"let go, baby. be a good girl and let go"
ted could probably mean the tie, but it's the command, rough and low, sinfuly spoken, and maybe your moans, or the each time more gentler push of his juice-coated length between your creamy folds, what makes you come. or maybe it's when you look up and meet his gaze.
it's probably the sight of him, lips parted under that neatly trimmed mustache, sweat-dripping face and hair, wicked smirk and dark honey eyes.
you wish you could tell what he's thinking. you wish you didn't cry his name out like a prayer, holding onto a misguided faith, as your eyes roll back, orgasm hitting hard.
you also wish he didn't speak before reaching his own: "i might get addicted to you"
in the landscape of politics, it could mean anything. it could mean nothing at all.
his dick twitches inside of you as you ride your orgams out, walls spasming around his cock.
"atta girl"
it takes you so long to come down from your high that you believe you never will.
you might never get over this.
over his hot breath panting over you. of the closeness and warmth of his body keeping you in place. of how his heartbeat falls behind yours, sound louder than it should as it echoes in the four walls of the office he's just fucked you in.
"and when joe smells me all over you, i hope you come back crawlin' here like the good girl you are" he smirks darkly, ragged breaths caressing your cheek as a kiss. you shiver as he delivers the final blow. "you should start gettin' used to calling me boss"
a.n: shot out to oomf who gave me the idea i never wrote until now taglist: @klmr0 @zmbi3gr1 ╱ join dilftown residency here !
Here’s the Masterlist for my very first challenge, I’m so excited to share this stunning list of fics and I’m grateful so many of you decided to join♥️
Honestly, being a small blog, I thought no one would participate, but I'm so happy to have proved wrong and I don’t know how to thank you all!
The list will be updated as the fanfictions are published, there’s more to come and I’m pretty sure everything will be phenomenal 🔥
I’m having the best time reading these works so please give them all the love, any kind comment and reblog means so much and these writers deserve all the flowers!
Thank you again to everyone who participated!
Dividers by @/saradika-graphics
Joel Miller
'Till it sticks - Joel Miller x f!reader by @shadowqueen2024
Summary: When Joel sees you taking care of Benji, he couldn't help but think what it was like having your own kids. And once he knew it's what you've wanted, he was going to make sure it happens.
Heaven or Hell - Stepdad!Joel Miller x fem!reader by @aurorawritestoescape
Summary: Joel helps you to master self-control - OR - your stepdad makes you cockwarm him.
Just Relax - Joel Miller x f!reader by @ess-evo
Summary: You've been dating Joel for a while and your sex life is great, but you can't stop fantasizing about that one thing that you've always wanted to try and never have. After bringing it up numerous times, Joel caves and you're over the moon about finally getting to edge him.
Overachiever - Joel Miller x f!reader by @hanahleah
Summary: you want to give Joel a birthday gift he won't forget, but desperate to prove you can, you almost hurt yourself in the process. Joel has to remind you of some ground rules.
15 minutes - bffdad!Joel Miller x college!reader by @softly-potter
Summary: You’re in town from college and decide to put all those words to Joel to good use
Marcus Pike
Beauty Sleep - Marcus Pike x f!reader by @peepawmiller
Summary: Marcus loved it when you stole his clothes. Loved it even more when you paraded around in them like an insatiable temptress. It's like you wore his clothes for the specific purpose of letting him unwrap you. To unearth the beauty hidden under his too-large button downs, or the oversized sweats you had to roll three times in order to walk safely around the apartment. But his favorite was the FBI t-shirt. Because it had a very. Specific. Meaning.
Clint Flood
Just a Hand - Clint Flood x reader by @mcthsman
Summary: The sex is great. It really is. Clint makes you come more than any man ever has, is attentive to your needs and makes you feel like a goddess, but… It's so sweet it swerves into the lane of boredom. And while Clint's loving nature is a very welcome change to what you're used to, you still feel like there's something amiss. So, one late night on the phone with your best friend, you concoct a plan to get freaky.
Safety off - Clint Flood x f!reader by @missadangel
Summary: There’s a lotta ways a Friday night can go sideways. For a debt collector, most of them ain’t pretty. But getting robbed by a fine-ass thief? That’s new. Her gun? Safety off. His temper? Already ON.
Ted Garcia
Hole in the wall - Ted Garcia x f!reader by @baronessvonglitter
Summary:The Hole in the Wall is the best kept secret in New Mexico.. and the mayor of Eddington is its newest guest.
Dieter Bravo
It's all Brad's fault - Dieter Bravo x pregnant!reader by @tateypots
Summary: You start using Dieter’s trailer to pump when your breast milk comes in. It drives Dieter wild.
Harry Castillo
Touch of Love - Harry Castillo x OFC by @sawymredfox
Summary: Being together after a week apart brings forward some revelations.
Earned it - Harry Castillo x f!reader by @cozymochaa
Summary: Harry is a man who always needs control. But when you come along, the lines between lust, obsession, and love start to blur, and he gets the urge to let go completely.
Mirror mirror on the wall - Harry Castillo x f!reader by @maroonpascal
Summary: life with Harry is always full of surprises, and the next one is just hanging on the wall, waiting for you.
Jack Daniels
Heat of the moment - Jack Daniels x f!reader by @broad-shouldrs
Summary: you tell jack your darkest sexual fantasy.
Javier Peña
Crosshairs - chapter 3 - Javier Peña x Jackson!Joel Miller by @rosharanfiction
Chapter Summary: In the aftermath of a violent patrol, Jackson goes on high alert. Javi and Joel both struggle to recover, and the pull between them strengthens. But exploring it would be a mistake… right?
Somewhere only we know - Javier Peña x fem reader by @milla-frenchy
Summary: it’s a story about two people who are very dear to each other, but too scared to turn their friendship into something else. They search for each other in other people and places until fate brings them back together at the right time
