V • she/her • bi • millennial • this is my writing blog & it’s a side blog, my main is @/future-sobright-itsburning • English is not my first language • blog rules and guidelines • mostly writing for Pedro pascal characters • Jackson!Joel lover, sub!PPCU boys connoisseur.
MDNI
this whole blog is +18
Please mind the tags!
REQUESTS ARE CLOSED
❥ V Recs - a monthly list of all I’ve read and loved.
❥ 2026 kinky challenge
❥ 2026 Kinky Challenge Masterlist - in progress, there's more to come!
❣️ NEW EVENT ALERT!!! - Drabble for V’s Birthday
❥ Drabble for V’s Birthday Masterlist - in progress, there’s more to come!
Masterlist under the cut ♥️
Joel Miller
Masterlist
Javier Peña
How can you love somebody like me? - Javier Peña x f!reader
Summary: “So you’re trying to say that it’s my fault? Is that what you want to say? It’s my fault that as soon as I turn my back you go and stick your cock in someone else's pussy?” You don’t even have the strength to scream right now. Your voice comes out rancorous but low, hoarse, like a blown growl.
Oh, you’re not going to accept being lectured by him, fuck no.
“No, I’m just saying -” he tries to explain and you glare at him, making the words die in his mouth.
"What?"
“Fuck, I'll never change,”
Aka
Javier is cheating on you and you can’t take it anymore.
Clint Flood
Deal - Clint x f!reader
Summary: Your neighbor has a complicated past. You show him that he's worth much more than he thinks he is.
Be My Valentine - Husband!Clint Flood x f!reader
Summary: Clint would like to go out with you on Valentine's Day, but you tell him you'd rather stay home. What he doesn't know is that you've planned a surprise for him.
Frankie Morales
Give me more - Frankie Morales x f!reader
Summary: When you ask for more, Frankie provides. Aka Frankie being the 😺🍽️👑 we all love.
Dave York
Been Caught Stealing - museum guard!Dave York x thief! F!reader
Summary: You have a plan. Break into a museum, steal a painting, sell it on the black market, and leave the country in search of a better life. Dave York, the museum guard, isn't going to make things easy for you.
Dangerous Liaisons - Dave York x f!reader
Summary: You're the Yorks' nanny. You live with them, Carol respects you, and you adore Molly and Alice. Everything's going well until Dave starts showing a little too much interest in you.
Ted Garcia
It's confidential - Ted Garcia x f!reader
Summary: Ted is your perfect boyfriend. But he might have a secret that will make things even hotter. Or wetter. (cw: watersports)
Reed Richards
Young!Reed Richards X female!uni teacher - Drabble
Harry Castillo
Bunny - Younger!Harry Castillo x curvy mistress!f!reader
Summary: Harry has always been subjugated. In life, at work, with his family. When he meets you, he discovers the only realm where being submissive brings him the most exquisite form of pleasure and pain.
Safe - Younger!Harry Castillo x curvy mistress!f!reader (part 2 of Bunny)
Summary: Harry brings you to the company party and finally gets a revenge on his asshole dad. You give him the best reward for finally being brave.
Miscellaneous
Clitwarming - Sub!Pedro boy of your choice x f!reader - Drabble
Vi (Arcane)
The night you met her - Vi x f!reader
Tess Servopoulos (TLOU)
Fantasy made real - Tess Servopoulos x f!reader Drabble
thank you to @time-for-my-weekly-spanking and @mcthsman for the tag. the only thing i'm actively writing for at the moment is want you back which has been pure angst.
here's a non-angsty snippet that I just wrote like 45 minutes ago that we won't see until a later part.
“Happy birthday, old man,” you say with a grin, throwing your arms around his neck and kissing him on the cheek. Lucien closes his eyes, relishing in the way your lips feel against his skin, and he aches to tilt your chin towards him and claim your mouth in a searing kiss.
“Oh, c’mon. Is forty five really that old?” he asks, his hands wrapping around your middle, toying with the hem of your shirt as if testing to see if he could get away with his fingers skating over the strip of exposed skin at your back.
“Yes,” you respond matter of factly. “In fact, I made our dinner reservation for 4:30 because I know how much you love an early bird special.” You finally pull away and set your bag down on his kitchen counter.
“Ha ha,” he says dryly, rolling his eyes, already missing your embrace. “Very funny. What time is our actual reservation at?”
“9:30.”
“You’re a pain in the ass, you know that?” he asks teasingly.
You break out into a smile and Lucien swears his heart skips a beat. You’re stunning. “You love me, birthday boy,” you jest, poking him in the chest.
Lucien looks down at your finger and then back up at you, nodding. He wishes he could tell you the truth – how you make him feel and how you’ve made his life better in every way. “Of course I do,” he admits. Lucien licks his lips and lets his gaze flit down to your mouth, his brain screaming at him to close the distance and just kiss you already. He finds himself unconsciously leaning in but then you’re gone, moving towards your bag and removing a silver party hat that you place precariously on top of his head.
npt: @peepawmiller @ess-evo @baronessvonglitter @milla-frenchy @joelsgoodgirl @kokoluwie and whomever else. my apologies if you've already been tagged for this 🙃
thanks for the tag babes 💋 sooo excited for your works! @time-for-my-weekly-spanking @kokoluwie @orcasoul It’s been a while since I did one of these, but soon I’m finally planning to write a LOT more fics!
As you probably know, I’ve been working on this one for the past two months and it’s finally almost done!! It’s very smut-heavy, and apparently writing a poly fic with three people is way harder than I anticipated 😂😭 I’ve gotten so many lovely comments and reactions from some of you along the way, so thank you so much for all the love and patience 🥹
It’ll be here very soon, I promise! 👀
⚠️ CW: There’s a smut scene under the cut! MDNI +18!!!!!
BF!Joel Miller x TwinBrother!Clint x F!Reader 👇
"But, first..." He leaned closer, beard brushing your skin. “...got somethin’ I wanna hear you admit.”
Your pulse jumped.
“All this from Clint kissin’ you?”
Clint’s name alone made you swallow hard. Fuck. Your body had answered before your mouth ever got the chance.
“Joel—”
“Don’t fuckin’ ‘Joel’ me.”
He leaned lower, his heavy, burning bare chest flattening straight against your spine. Before you could breathe, his massive, calloused hand snaked up to hook ruthlessly around your jaw, forcing your head back. You rarely ever saw him this unhinged—his raw dominance turned your blood to fire.
Joel shifted his weight, driving his hips forward until the heavy bulge in his jeans pressed hard right between your ass cheeks. You let out a loud, helpless moan at the thick pressure of him.
“Quit squirmin’ and answer me,” he growled, his thick fingers digging into your chin as his breath burned your ear.
“My brother got you drippin' like this?”
******
You pulled your hand away before your common sense followed it out the door. “Why’d Grace really leave you?”
That wiped the grin off his face. Clint blinked. “Where the hell’d that come from?”
“You said it was the job.” You closed the first-aid kit. “She stayed when you nearly got killed. Hell, she nearly got killed and still stayed. So what changed?”
“Caught that, huh?”
“So you lied.”
“Selective editing.”
“You’re full of shit.”
“Been told.”
You folded your arms. “You gonna tell me?”
Instead of answering, Clint glanced through the window. Joel was half-buried beneath the trucks hood, apparently losing a personal argument with something inside the engine.
When Clint looked back, there was trouble in his eyes.
He stepped closer.
You didn’t move.
His fingers caught a loose strand of hair and tucked it behind your ear, slow enough to make your pulse immediately betray you. “I said another woman’s name.”
Your fingers tightened against the counter. “Wha—what?” Clint leaned closer. “When?”
A low laugh brushed your ear. “While I was fuckin’ her.”
Heat shot straight through you. You forced yourself to look at him. “Whose?”
The bastard grinned.
“If playin’ dumb was a competition, sweetheart, you’d have a whole fuckin’ trophy case.”
You tried to hold his gaze like your heart wasn’t beating somewhere in your throat.
“You still didn’t answer.”
“Haven’t I?”
*******
If you’re hearing about this fic for the first time and want to catch up on the previous posts, click here and here
npt: @arcane-fox @aurorawritestoescape @mcthsman @milla-frenchy @baronessvonglitter @tateypots @rosharanfiction @reedispunk @shadowqueen2024 @stylesispunk @peepawmiller @broad-shouldrs @ess-evo @bergamote-catsandbooks @hanahleah @divaofmads @queenofslowburn @madpanda75 @604to647 @petalsinblood and anyone else who wants to share their wips!
*SINS OF THE FLESH: a joel miller x reader story. (part one, the lie.)
Your grandmother warned you about men like him. Beautiful men, sent by Lucifer, to deviate well-behaved women— She’d told you, on her few and far between moments of lucidity, how the Devil would come knocking at your door one day, with soulful eyes and easy smiles, and how he’d charm you into Hell if you were not careful enough.
You think Joel Miller might be the Devil himself.
join the TAGLIST. / SERIES masterlist. / MAIN masterlist.
warnings: mdni, the basics (big age gap, dd:dne, 90s au, serial killer!joel), toxic dynamics, parental abuse (physical and emotional), cult-like religious themes (baptist church vibes), medical malpractice/gynecological violence, movie references, daddy issues galore, religion-based misogyny, reader may or may not have been roofied, smut (f masturbation).
word count: 7.5k.
fox says: hello friends! here it is, the first part of this little series. the movie joel and reader watch together is called i tre volti della paura (which was translated to black sabbath when they released in the us) and you can watch it for free right here! (it's in italian, but you can turn on subtitles. i highly recommend watching this one instead of the us version bc the orders of the stories were changed up for the us release!!); as always, please let me know what we think of this part!
also available on archiveofourown.
He comes in late July, when Alabama is at its hottest and most humid— The sort of days you spend sitting on your family’s home back porch with a fan that mostly blasts hot air and an endless pitcher of lemonade; it’s Sunday, a holy day, but the man is there just after mass, with his tool belt and pick up truck— The roof of the barn caved in after a particularly bad storm and although that sort of thing is usually fixed by your father, he’s still recovering from the last time he fell down the old ladder and your mother will not have him climbing that ricketing thing again.
So she offers Joel Miller to the gravity deities instead, on a holy day so hot and humid your dress sticks to your back and your thighs no matter how much water you splash on your face. Your younger siblings manage to refresh themselves a little more by hosing each other down; you’re half tempted to join in but, at twenty-two, your mother makes sure that you know your place. You’re a young woman now, no longer a child that can run and giggle underneath a spray of water on the hottest day of the summer— You must learn how to cook and how to clean, how to serve others rather than tempt them with your wet clothes.
That demand to serve is how you end up inside the barn when the sun is still high in the sky, balancing a tray with a sandwich and a pitcher of water. Mr. Miller has been slowly but surely making progress on the roof for hours without food and your father scolds you for the lack of christianity at not thinking about thy neighbor’s needs.
“Mr. Miller?” You call out, setting the tray on a bench. He’s sitting in one of the beams, at least twelve feet from the ground, and all you can see is the dark wash denim of his pant legs and the mud-covered work boots. “I got you a sandwich.”
“I’ll be right there, sweetheart.” He says, his voice strained as if he had something between his teeth.
You should go back to the house. His food is served, and he knows it’s there— You have no reason to linger but you do, hands smoothing an inexistent crease on your pale pink dress. You’re just… Curious. You saw Mr. Miller from afar, his broad frame towering over your father’s lithe one, and you want to get a peek up close to the mysterious man that has just moved into town. Nothing else, really. So you wait, hands wringing and smoothing your clothes and then tugging at the golden cross on your neck as he slowly climbs down the ladder, grunting when his boots hit the dirt.
He’s just as handsome as you thought he would be. Older, rugged, his face marred with the passage of time and salt and pepper in his beard— Nothing like the boys from your church, all bare faced and chubby cheeked. Mr. Miller is a man in the best sense of the word, broad and thick and tall. His hands are dirty with sawdust, clothes stained with dust and mud, sweat glistening on his face and the hollow of his throat. You can see just a peak of chest hair poking from the opening of his flannel and it’s an incredibly difficult task to look away.
Most importantly, and perhaps the thing that distinguishes him from everyone else the most, is the fact that he doesn’t look away from you. Not when he fills a water glass to the brim, drinking it down in just a couple of swallows. Not when he sits down on a stack of hay and motions for you to do the same, his brown eyes watching you with intent. You’re used to being ignored, glanced over. You’re not sure what to do when someone refuses to look away. You sit down, tugging the hem of your dress down even if it doesn’t slide up, playing with the simple gold ring you wear on your middle finger — the only inheritance you got from your late grandmother — and keep your eyes averted from his face.
“Is the sandwich any good?” You ask when he doesn’t offer any subject of conversation. You know it’s good, you know your cooking skills are better than your mother’s and you can make something special out of even a simple sandwich, but pride is a sin, so you try to remain humble. “I make the mustard myself.”
Joel chews slowly, his eyes raking up from your roper boots all the way up to the cross hanging from your neck.
“Delicious.”
Heat creeps up your neck and you bite down on your bottom lip, his praise getting to you more than anyone else’s ever did.
“I uh—” You all but jump up from your seat, unable to keep still. You want to sit back down, to talk to this enigma of a man, to learn anything else about him other than the fire in his eyes and the gravel in his voice but you simply can’t phantom the idea of standing under his gaze anymore. “I have some clothes to wash. I’ll be back later for the plates. If uh— If you need anything else, Mr. Miller, just let me know.”
Joel smirks as if he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.
“Don’t worry, pretty girl, I will. Thank you for the sandwich.”
As much as you tell yourself that you don’t care, you spend the rest of the afternoon waiting with baited breath— You want him to need you, want to see his strong shoulders come through the kitchen backdoor with a request on his lips. You do your chores dutifully, with the same care as always, but Joel’s presence is like a beacon; even if you can’t see or hear him, you know he’s out there, in the barn, and it burns in the back of your brain all day.
You can’t stop thinking about how he called you pretty girl. You’ve never been the pretty one. You’re sweet, and kind, and good, but never pretty. It stays on the back of your mind, trying to burn into the forefront of it. Vanity is sin. Your body is a temple and you must care for it, yes, but anything further than that is a slippery slope into temptation, and temptation leads to damnation— You’re not supposed to care about such frivolous things, because they will take away the Lord’s place in your heart.
Still, between loads of laundry and the biscuits you knead by hand, you stop to fix your hair more than once.
It’s almost dusk by the time you see Joel again. Your mother is upstairs bathing the baby, your younger siblings are trying to catch fireflies in the front lawn, your father is somewhere out in the field and you sit in the kitchen, scriptures in hand, not reading a single line— You stare out the window instead, the sun turning bright orange and pink in the horizon. You notice him before he gets to the porch and there’s a good ten seconds during which you don’t know what to do with yourself, fixing your hair and your dress and smoothing the pages of the Bible that you hold more as a prop than a holy book.
“Hey sweetheart.” Joel calls out as he makes his way through the door, holding the empty tray. You jump from your seat, plucking it carefully from his hands and setting it to soak in the sink; there’s nothing in it that requires soaking, but you can’t help but make yourself available to him, not wanting any other tasks to get in your way. “Think I could use your phone for a minute?”
You can only pray that your face doesn’t reflect the disappointment you feel.
“Hm… You’d have to ask my father for that. The landline is in his office, and we’re not— He doesn’t like when anyone else goes in there.” You bite down on your bottom lip. “I think he’s out by the orchards.”
Joel tsks, switching from one foot to the other. “Can’t you just let me in real quick? I don’t want to upset your old man, but it’s a little urgent. I should’a been home by now, my daughter will start to worry.”
“Oh.”
You feel foolish, your eyes immediately falling to his hands; you hadn’t considered the possibility of Mr. Miller being a married man, but it makes sense— He’s charming, handsome, hard-working. Of course he would have a wife and a daughter at home. He doesn’t wear a wedding ring, there’s no tan line as if he removes it for work, but you figure that doesn’t mean much anymore; couples are getting more modern, marriages a little less sacred, and well… He’s a man that works with his hands. Maybe a wedding band would simply get in his way.
“It’s just the two of us, you see.” He tells you, head tilting to the side so he can catch your wandering eyes. “Her mama passed when she was real young, and I’m all she’s got. We wouldn’t want her worryin’, would we?”
“No, of course not.” You have to bite the inside of your cheek to keep yourself from smiling, knowing you’ll be praying for hours to repent for feeling so elated at the death of a woman you don’t even know. “Just… Just don’t tell my father, okay?”
“It’ll be our lil’ secret.” Joel winks.
You can count on one hand the amount of times you’ve been inside your father’s office; all of them when you were young, too young to know better— When the physical punishments were more constant, when you kept messing up the rules you weren’t familiar with just yet.
You haven’t been inside the office since you were twelve. Your siblings come here more often: Joseph specifically, at just ten years old, who is brought to the office for some sort of punishment at least once a month. The black sheep, your mother says. The child that needs a firmer hand and more prayers if they want to remain a family once Jesus returns in all of His glory.
The room, much like the rest of your childhood home, seems to be frozen in time. There’s a decaying bookshelf on one side, filled with evangelical books that your mother keeps bringing home even though the only book she ever reads is the Bible, the wallpaper yellowed and stained— There’s a square where the wallpaper is lighter and, while you can’t remember what the picture used to look like, you know once upon a time there was a picture frame with a photo of your grandparents in it; the only memory your mother had of her family, which your father took down because it was too close to veneration of idols in his opinion.
It was one of the few times you’ve ever seen your mother cry outside of the church’s walls.
The landline sits on top of your father’s carved wooden desk, brown and beige with a thick layer of dust between the buttons— The phone is older than your siblings and younger than you, but not by much. You know your father uses it, you’ve heard him talking through the walls, but it looks so old and worn that you’re surprised it even works.
“Please be quick.” You tell Joel; you don’t want to bring up the phone bill, it’s rude to talk about money like that, but the last thing you need is your father noticing the strange call when the bill finally comes.
“Don’t worry, I will.” Joel gives your shoulder a squeeze as he walks past you towards the phone. “Why don’t you stand outside, as my lookout? Just tap the door if you hear anyone else.”
You shouldn’t listen in. It’s rude, unnecessary, and reminds you of the old ladies at church that always know everyone’s business— And you hate them for it, the way they look down on everyone else and use other people’s wrongs to feel good about their rights. You shouldn’t, you should love them just like Jesus does, but it’s hard when you can feel their eyes and hear their whispers whenever you walk past them.
You can’t hear anything, no matter how hard you press your ear to the door. Joel isn’t the sort of man that speaks loudly from what you’ve seen, but the silence that comes from the room is odd. Your father is quite soft spoken but the walls are thin enough that even he can be heard, even if it’s impossible to make out what words are being said. The first thing that crosses your mind is that, maybe, his daughter isn’t picking up. Maybe she’s not home, or maybe she’s busy with something else and Joel is in there, receiver to his ear, listening as it rings and rings. But then he steps out of the room not even five minutes later, thanking you for helping him. He tells you that his daughter is fine, that she’s going out with some friends and he can stay for a little longer, just until it gets too dark to work. Joel squeezes your arm as he walks back out, the pads of his fingers rough against the soft skin of your bicep, leaving you puzzled and warm all over.
Later that night, when the house has quieted down and you’re alone in your bed, you can’t erase Mr. Miller from your mind. The way he smiled at you, his smell of sawdust and his deep brown eyes— His voice alone had been able to shake you to your core, butterflies flipping around your stomach and sending you into sinful thoughts with a single praise.
Your grandmother warned you about men like him. Beautiful men, sent by Lucifer himself, to deviate well-behaved women— She’d told you, on her few and far between moments of lucidity, how the Devil would come knocking at your door one day, with soulful eyes and easy smiles, and how he’d charm you into Hell if you were not careful enough.
Your snakes between your thighs before you can second guess yourself, staring intently at the sliver of darkness that you can see from your half-open door — no closed beddoors are allowed in your house, but you’ve set it shut just enough to pretend it was the wind if your parents complained about it. At first you’re just trying to make sure the hall is empty but, as your fingers run slow circles over your clit, you can’t help but picture Joel on the threshold, hair mussed from a hard day of work, his flannel stretched thin over his shoulders. You think back to his gravely voice, how he’d called you pretty girl and sweetheart, and you wonder if he’d say it again with your naked body underneath his. You think of his full lips on yours, soft and warm where they lay scorching hot kisses, his cock pushing into you.
You come with one hand on your pussy and the other over your mouth, swallowing down the name that threatens to spill from your lips.
You think Joel Miller might be the Devil himself.
And Hell doesn’t seem like such a bad idea if you get to feel his big hands between your thighs.
You hear about the movie from the teenagers at the youth group that weekend. You’re too old to partake in the group but you’re always lending a helping hand, setting up meetings and baking goods for them, giving advice to the younger girls and helping the pastor with whatever he needs that weekend. You’re busy refilling their cups of soda while they chat after the sermon and it’s the word hunk that catches your attention— You stall, just a little, taking more time than necessary with stacking the napkins. The ‘hunk’, it seems, is a cute actor from a horror movie that is screening at the local movie theater. One of the girls says she wants to watch it because she just loves Drew Berrymore, while the other says she wants to see it because of the dreamy main actor. One of the boys nods, says he’s seen it already and that it’s the best horror movie he’s ever seen.
You have a soft spot for the horror genre. Always had, since you were a little girl and you found a forgotten VHS tape of Carrie. It’s strictly forbidden in your household, of course, because those sorts of media are the devil’s work and only serve to weave immorality into society and you know that, you know that, but…
Well, you still think about Carrie’s blood soaked prom dress and the murderous look in her crazed eyes and just how much you rooted for her in those moments. How much you’d seen yourself in her shoes in the years to come, during those harsh teenage years and how you thought that being forgotten and neglected by your peers was certainly better than having tampons thrown at you.
And, even though you try with all your might, you can’t help but see a little bit of your own parents in Margaret White.
On Monday evening you walk past the movie theater on your way home from one of the babysitting jobs you take here and there. Your parents aren’t expecting you home just yet — You’d been babysitting for the Mortons that night and your mother knows their date nights tend to run late — and you find yourself standing in front of the movie poster, unwilling to walk away.
Scream.
Your stomach is tied into a hundred tiny little knots as you move to the counter, purchasing your ticket and then a small bag of popcorn. It’s wrong and exciting at the same time, your knees trembling as you find your seat at the back of the movie, shoulders hunched; you pray that you don’t run into anyone you know, pray that the rumor mill doesn’t run off and it feels like you’re committing the absolute worst of crimes but, at the same time, it feels like an invisible noose has been removed from your neck.
You leave just as the credits roll, head down and shoulders up, trying to sneak out before the lights turn on. There’s a light mist pouring down, enough to frizz up your hair but not enough to get you wet, the streets empty this time of night. Your watch says it’s 8:39, which means you have about ten minutes to get home before your mother starts to complain that is getting too late and might decide to tell the Mortons to pay you more the next time— You’re almost jogging on the sidewalk, clutching your bag to your chest, cold finally starting to seep in when Joel pulls up next to you, his old truck lulling on the sidewalk.
“Get in.” He says, pushing the passenger door open. “I’ll drive you.”
You should say no. You should smile, and thank him politely, and then go on your way; proper young women don’t climb into strange men’s cars— You’ve heard the stories, know it ends in pregnancy or death or something worse, and you know that your father would most likely take you into his office if he found out his oldest daughter had been driving around alone in a car with a man that isn’t him or the pastor but after a night of reckless behavior, accepting a ride from a man you technically know doesn’t seem like the worst transgression.
And it’ll get you home in time.
“Thank you.” You smile, rubbing your hands together. “I didn’t plan for the rain.”
Joel turns the heat on and you can hear your mother in the back of your mind, berating you that you’ll get sick; it feels like just another tiny rebellion when you put your palms up to the hot blowing air, relaxing as it warms your clammy skin.
“How was the movie?”
“I wasn’t at the movies.” Your tongue feels twice as big when you chuckle. “That’s— Unbecoming. I babysit every so often, and the Mortons were running late from their date night. I’m uh— I’m usually home earlier.”
“You need to learn to lie better, pretty girl.” Joel’s eyes dart from the road to you. “I caught you just as you walked out.”
You bite down on your bottom lip, heart thundering so fast inside your chest you think it might crawl out of your throat. “It— It was a scary movie. I didn’t know. I— I wouldn’t have gone if I knew it would be so… Sinful.”
Joel hums and you can tell he doesn’t believe you. You wouldn’t believe it either, really, and you’re ashamed of getting caught in such a terrible lie.
“Please don’t tell my parents.” You say, turning to face him. “They’re… They can get real strict about this sort of thing.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-two.” You’re just a little put off by the switch in conversation but also incredibly glad to steer away from focusing on your wrongdoings.
“Then there’s nothin’ to tell ‘em. You’re a grown woman.”
Your face burns with embarrassment and you finally look away from him, letting your eyes fall down to his arms, dusted with dark hair and prominent veins.
“You seem to be the only one that thinks so. I don’t think my father will see me as a grown woman until I’m married off.” You hate how bitter, how petulant you sound, but you can’t stop yourself, the words slipping out of your mouth like a confession. “He only sees me as an adult when it’s convenient for him.”
“I reckon that’s a dad thing.” Joel says, his fingers thrumming on the steering wheel. “I still see my Sarah as my baby. You just gotta show ‘im you’re not a kid anymore, he’ll get used to it eventually.”
“How old is Sarah?”
Joel is silent for so long you wonder if maybe he’s one of those absent fathers that don’t even know how old their own child is, even if he hasn’t shown himself to be the type.
“She’ll always be thirteen to me.”
It’s such a specific answer that it makes you even more curious, your head cocking to the side; you open your mouth to press for more but Joel reaches for the radio, turning the volume up and drowning the cabin with the classic rock and pitter-patter of the soft rain.
The silence makes you realize you never answered his question in the first place.
“The movie was incredible.” You say, trying to shake off the mortifying feeling of being rude to this man that has been nothing but kind to you. “It’s called Scream.”
“Horror flick, right?” Joel smiles and, if you didn’t know any better, you’d say he’s proud. “Didn’t think you’d be the type to be into slasher movies.”
You wring your fingers on your lap, unsure of how to answer him— He says it like it’s a compliment, even if you’d never take those words for something good.
“Have you ever seen Black Sabbath?” Joel asks when you don’t answer. He doesn’t seem mad at your silence, but you still feel bad. “It’s an older one, but it’s good, a buncha different horror stories together. The first one is very similar to Scream, I think you’d like it.”
You’ve never heard of that movie before and, for a moment, you consider lying and pretending you have just to save face— But Joel doesn’t seem to judge you, he doesn’t ask with the same tone most people do, as if not knowing something popular was a moral failing on your part; you’re used to it, really. It had been even worse in school, where the girls would act as if you were an alien for not knowing the name of a cool actress or a new band.
“I— No, I haven’t.” It’s what you settle for, in the end. Not a lie, but not the whole truth either. “It sounds fun.”
“We can watch it together sometime.” Joel licks his lips and your eyes can’t look away from the way his bottom lip shines. “I gotta put my Blockbuster card to use.”
“Oh.” His offer makes your chest warm up and your heart explode into a wild gallop inside your chest. You’ve never been to a boy’s house before, even if classifying a man like Joel as a boy is laughable. “Won’t your daughter mind?”
Joel’s fingers tighten around the steering wheel, his eyes glued to the road in front of him.
“No, she won’t.”
Two weeks later, on a Friday afternoon, you lie to your mother. You go with the least inconspicuous lie, which is that you’re babysitting for Joel. You doubt his daughter is at babysitting-age but your mother doesn’t seem to care much, just waving you goodbye as one of your siblings tugs at the hem of her dress, demanding attention. Joel is still at the farm, still slowly repairing the roof, and he gives you a ride; you have the perfect excuse on the tip of your tongue, the argument of him needing to shower and fix himself before whatever it is that he has to do and needs you to babysit, which you don’t know what it is because Mr. Miller’s personal life is none of your business and all you know is that he’ll be home late but, again, your mother doesn’t seem to bat an eye. Your father in fact clasps Joel’s shoulder, thanking him for his kindness— Joel makes a little joke about ‘headin’ in that direction anyway’, to which your father laughs harder than you find necessary.
It’s only then that it dawns on you just how much they trust him— How much your parents like him, for some reason. It’s confusing, and off-putting, but you decide not to look a gifted horse in the mouth: If it means less questions, you’ll gladly accept it.
Joel’s home is a small, one story house in one of the shadier neighborhoods; it looks stuck in the past, the outside looking more like a cheap 60s house than the newer McMansions you’d see in the nicer neighborhoods— Not that there were many around town, anyways. Most of your town felt like Joel’s home, everything with some degree of decaying, stuck in the past as if the new millenia wasn’t just a few years away.
The house is dark and empty when you walk in, and you remove your shoes by the door even if it doesn’t seem like something Joel and Sarah practice— There’s no shoe rack, just a rickety table where Joel throws the key of his truck without a second thought.
The house barely looks hospitable. You think it’s probably because of how recently they’ve moved in, empty in a way that lacks furniture, no personal touches anywhere yet. In the carpeted living room there’s a green plaid couch, a stained coffee table and a small yet bulky television, the VHS player balancing on top of it. The walls are bare apart from a loopy wallpaper that is probably older than you, not a single potted pant or throw pillow or indications anyone lives there.
The only personal touch is a picture on the coffee table. It’s not framed, thrown loose on top of the dark wood next to a used coffee cup; you sit on the couch, knees drawn together, and look at the photograph carefully while Joel busies himself in the kitchen with soda and snacks— The photo is at least a few years old, a younger Joel smiling with his arm thrown over the shoulders of a teenage girl, her curly hair poking out at the sides of a pale pink french bonnet. They don’t really look alike, the girl’s skin darker and her smile fuller, but you recognize her as Sarah immediately— For all of their differences, her sweet eyes are a carbon copy of Joel’s. She can’t be older than thirteen in the picture and, when you turn the photo around, it reads ‘Dad and I — winter 1989’ in loopy, purple ink.
There’s a heart in the ‘i’ of winter, and you think it’s the cutest thing you’ve ever seen. You look up when Joel’s frame shadows the entrance to the living room, holding two Dr. Pepper glasses; he looks stricken, his face a little pale as he stares down at you even if you can’t understand why.
“Sarah’s really pretty.” You say, placing the picture back where you found it. “She’s not home tonight?”
Joel clears his throat, frozen for a second longer before he finally comes close. “Sleepover at a friend’s house.”
“I can’t wait to meet her. She seems like a sweet girl.”
“You will.” Joel nods, his voice a lot more somber than you think the conversation requires. “Soon enough.”
The movie is beautiful. It’s an Italian film from what has to be the sixties, but it pulls you in from the very first scene: A beautiful woman, alone in her house, her undressing ritual of the night cut short by a menacing voice on the telephone saying she’ll be dead before morning comes.
The movie is tense, claustrophobic even, but you have a hard time focusing on anything other than the woman— She’s gorgeous, even in despair, and there’s something so utterly sensual about her that it has you squirming in your seat.
“She’s really pretty.” You say eventually, sipping your Dr. Pepper. Joel sits next to you, close enough that you have trouble breathing; his legs are sprawled in front of him, arm draped over the back of the couch. You’re not touching, but barely. The last time you sat this close to a man you’re attracted to was while you still attended youth group, sitting next to the twenty-something year old pastor that only had eyes for the prettier girls— Still, you’d been sweaty and nervous then, just as you feel now.
“She is.” Joel agrees, and there’s something in his voice that makes you unstick your eyes from the screen and turn to him.
He’s staring directly at you. The intensity of his gaze makes your stomach flutter and you can’t hold his gaze for more than a moment before you look away, busying yourself with the straw of your Dr. Pepper; it tastes a little funky but you down it anyway, not wanting to offend Joel— He doesn’t seem like the type to be drinking diet sodas, but you figure that maybe the soft drink belongs to Sarah and he doesn’t want to drink alcohol in front of you.
Joel seems like a beer drinker, you think. There’s a very strict no alcohol policy in your home, but you can see Joel coming home after a long day of manual labor, kicking his work boots by the door and throwing himself on the ratty couch; in this fantasy you’re right there, in a pretty dress, bringing him a can of ice cold beer before settling next to him.
You try to settle next to him the same way you’re imagining, staring at the screen without properly watching it, far too aware of the man sitting next to you, radiating warmth and Old Spice towards you. You miss a chunk of the movie and then suddenly there’s another lady there, just as beautiful, though not nearly as innocent. By the time the first story ends, you’re a little drowsy, your eyelids taking longer and longer to open with each blink.
Still, even in your sleepy state, you don’t miss how the final kill has no blood on screen. It seems like such an oversight it has to be on purpose and you frown, unable to name the discomfort you feel.
“He didn’t bleed.” You say, the sentence cut off by a small yawn. “I really wanted to see ‘im bleed.”
The words don’t strike you as odd until after you’ve already said them and you tense, waiting for the joke or the odd look but Joel doesn’t give you any. He just hums, nodding. You yawn again before he can respond, and Joel cracks a smile at that.
“Tired, sweetheart?”
“A little.” And then, because you don’t want Joel to feel like he might’ve chosen the wrong programming, you say: “I’m liking the movie, though.”
“That’s good.” He says, his voice just a little flat— Almost as if he isn’t listening to you at all. You frown, turning to look at him; out of all the people in your life, Joel has been the only one that shows a proper interest when you speak.
Joel is staring at the half-drunk soda in your hands. His face is clouded by something that you’re fairly certain to be annoyance, brow furrowed and lips downturned underneath his mustache. And then he catches you looking and it’s gone, his face melting into a pleasant smile when he taps his thigh.
“C’mon, finish your drink and lay down.”
“Uh— What?” You’re not sure you get his order, heat and embarrassment exploding through your belly; he taps his thick denim-clad thigh again, mirth shining in his eyes.
“ ‘S fine, sweetheart. Sarah falls asleep on my lap all the time, we ain’t got nice pillows for the couch yet. Drink up ‘n’ lay down.”
You’re fully aware that you shouldn’t— This is a stranger, an older man that is asking you to lay your head on his lap and you know you should know better but… Nobody has ever looked at you the way he does, the soft lighting from the television reflecting on his face. And, well— The mention of his daughter shifts the situation a little bit.
You’d never fallen asleep on your own father like that, but he wasn’t exactly known for being a warm person, let alone a comforting one. Maybe this is what your relationship with your father is supposed to be, you tell yourself, downing the last of the funky Dr. Pepper before scooting down on the couch, gingerly placing your head on his thigh. It’s comfortable despite the rough denim, Joel’s leg warm and strong underneath your cheek.
“Good girl.” Joel whispers, the words settling somewhere deep into your chest. He brushes the hair away from your face, already staring back at the tv when you look up, his body entirely at ease, as if having a young girl’s head on his lap was the most normal thing in the world.
And you tell yourself again: Maybe this is what it’s supposed to be.
You wake up on Joel’s bed the next morning, and you feel like death. Your head pounds, and your body feels like you’re trapped in Jell-O as you drag yourself to the bathroom; you don’t vomit but it’s a close call, washing your face with cold water before Joel pops in on the bathroom door.
“Mornin’. I made breakfast.” He says, leaning against the threshold. He’s changed clothes, his salt and pepper hair still wet and slicked back, a dark blue flannel stretching over his chest. “You okay? Yer not lookin’ so good.”
Your stomach rumbles, half hungry, half nauseated. He frowns, coming close and pressing the back of his hand to your forehead. Your body recoils, hip bumping painfully against the corner of the sink— You don’t even notice until after you’ve done it, your body pulling away on instinct.
“I feel sick.” You tell him, using that as an excuse as to why you’re suddenly pulling away.
Truth is, you’re scared. Your head is foggy, feeling too heavy on your neck— You’ve only been drunk once, when you were twelve and had stolen a bottle of Jim Beam with your best friend; the beating you’d gotten had left you feeling worse than the hangover, your body black and blue for days afterwards.
You feel as hungover as you did back then, except this time you didn’t drink. You think back to the odd taste of your soda, the way Joel had been pushy to get you to drink, how he barely drank his. You don’t want to accuse him of anything, you really don’t, but you’ve heard enough stories of silly girls who get too drunk and put themselves in danger to not consider it. He cocks his head to the side, just a little.
“You’ll feel better after you eat.” He says, giving you a small smile. Joel steps back, not crowding you inside the small bathroom anymore. “You fell asleep halfway through the movie, I brought you to my bed and then slept on the couch. Maybe you were already feeling a little sick yesterday?”
“Yeah.” You run a hand over your forehead. “Maybe.”
“C’mon sweetheart, let’s eat and get you home.”
You arrive home a little after nine am, and the farm is already bustling. Joel drops you off with a well-prepared lie, apologizing profusely to your mother for not letting her know you’d be gone for so long, telling her about how he didn’t have a phone line yet, with being so new to town, and then singing a thousand prayers about how you’d been so kind to Sarah and how much she loved you— He spews a story of you falling asleep on the couch after a movie marathon to which your mother twists her nose — all movies belong to the devil, for all she cares — but she accepts gracefully the exorbitant amount of money he gives her “for her troubles”. He talks for so long and smiles so sweetly that your mother swoons, even giving him a slice of pie for the road while you run inside your house two steps at a time, ready to wash off last night from your skin.
All hell breaks loose after Joel leaves. Your mother berates you, talking in hushed, sharp whispers about what the church would think if they saw you leave a man’s house in last night’s clothes, how she had to lie to your father and how she might as well go to hell because of you— She calls you a whore, her face purple from lack of proper breathing and anger as she spits the word at you even after you swear to her that nothing happened; you almost tell her the truth then, you almost say you’re scared and that you can’t remember a single thing that happened after Joel had you laying on his lap and how you woke up in his bed but you don’t. You know she’d spin it, know she’d blame it on you and then she’d tell your father and most likely your pastor and the consequences of your confession might be worse than living with such a terrible secret.
After so many years, you hate that you’re still surprised by your mother’s antics. She doesn’t tell your father about what happened, and she still treats Joel with kindness whenever he comes over to work on the roof, but her attitude towards you change— She doubles your chores and triples her affection with your siblings, the gap of the coldness she has towards you only becoming even more blatant. She barely speaks to you unless it is to bark orders, and she keeps a close eye on whether you’ve been doing your devotional and your prayers as if you’re ten years old again.
By the time she brings up the doctor’s appointment, you’re so relieved that she’s back to addressing you as a human being that you don’t even question it. You’re not sick, but if it means your mother is talking to you again, you’ll go to as many doctors as she’d like.
You should’ve known better than that.
The two of you take the bus — your mother doesn’t drive, because women shouldn’t have to drive — two towns over, and you’re extremely anxious by the time you stop at the clinic: The only reason your mother would take you to a doctor so far away is to make sure nobody in your town hears about it, which can only means it’s going to be bad.
It’s a women’s clinic, which you quickly learns it means a gynecologist; your mother had never allowed you to visit one before, saying those clinics incentivise sins like pre-marital sex and abortions, but she drags you inside with her head held high and hawk-like fingers clutching both your arm and her cardigan, almost as if the dirtiness of sin might rub off on the both of you just by sitting in the waiting room.
“The doctor” she says, putting enough judgement in the title that it makes you want to curl in on yourself. “is going to make sure you haven’t done anything you’re not supposed to. And so help me God, girl, if I find out you’ve laid with that man—”
“I didn’t.” You say, hissing through your teeth. She’s clearly taken aback by your tone, but your heart is beating so fast you barely have time to control your anger. “I told you already.”
“I don’t believe you.” Your mother’s nails dig into the skin of your forearm, her tone sharp and hushed. “You’ve always been a liar.”
The exam is every bit as invasive and painful as you expect it to be, your eyes full of unshed tears as you lay on the table, a man between your bare thighs for the first time in your life. You’re thoroughly humiliated by the time you finally leave, after your mother has made the doctor reassure her three times that your hymen was still in place, as if he was as much of a liar as you.
You’d never admit to her or anyone else but, in the end, you’re relieved to know that Joel had been telling the truth all along.
Alyssa Brown’s murder is the first one your town had in over fifteen years. She’s a nineteen year old supermarket clerk that went to school with you, engaged to her high school sweetheart and a faithful member of your church; the entire town is devastated, setting up a memorial that spreads through fifteen feet in front of her home, flowers and pictures and letters from almost every citizen adorning the white picket fence. They find her the morning after you’ve slept over at Joel’s house, drowned in her bathtub, a gash on her forehead that was done by a lampshade the police finds broken in her bedroom, arms tied behind her back and the only part of her body that is underwater is her head and shoulders— No forced entry, no fingerprints or DNA left behind to identify who had so violently killed her and you sit through dinner while you hear your father rant about how the police force was woefully unprepared to handle such a terrible tragedy; your mother prays and cooks for her family, and then gives you a snark remark on how Alyssa, ‘unlike some girls’, had certainly gone to Heaven.
Alyssa’s funeral is the second you ever attend, following your grandmother’s funeral when you were a child, and it is every bit as uncomfortable as you expect it to be. You sit with your family, dressed in black pressed clothing, and offer her family condolences you don’t really mean: Alyssa had been a stranger, just a name you heard in passing, and you truly don’t feel the grief the rest of the town seems to feel.
Her funeral is also the first time you’re alone with Joel ever since your little movie night— You’ve seen him around the farm, but your mother doesn’t allow you to be in the same room as him, always sending you into the fields or the cowshed whenever he’s on the property. But she’s busy that day, holding Alyssa’s mother in her arms and singing comforting hymns, and doesn’t notice when Joel saddles up next to you after the ceremony.
“What a tragedy.” He tusks, taking a swig from a metal canteen whenever nobody is looking. You can smell the whiskey on his breath when he leans in, way too close to your face. “Such a beautiful girl, taken from her family like that.”
Jealousy blooms deep in your stomach, bitter and overwhelming. You twist your nose, turning your face away from him to hide how much his words affect you; Joel isn’t looking at you anyway, his eyes glued to the coffin at the center of the room.
“She looks just like you, don’t you think?” He takes another drink from his canteen before shoving it back in his pocket. “Same eyes, same hair color. Could’a been your sister.”
You hate how right he is. You’d never noticed it before but, standing in the back and staring at the poster of a dead girl’s face, all you can see is your own. It’s not just the eyes or the hair— Her smile is just like yours, the same thickness of your lips and the same slope of your nose. Her skin is a little darker but not enough to wash away the similarities, her hair texture the exact same as yours.
You feel like you might be sick. Joel waits a beat, and then another, before he adds:
This was great! I love the setting, I'm practically a child of that era, and gosh, I remember Blockbuster perfectly and also how I used to go to the movies so often, and the smell of popcorn would fill the whole lobby. It was so nice.
And I love that you ended up using the movie you told me about! I didn’t watch the movie yet, but in the meantime I found out that Mario Bava—the director; I know he used a pseudonym, but that’s his real name—was super famous back then in the horror genre, as far as I can tell just like Dario Argento. He’s probably going to have a new wave of success now 😌
Other than that, I loved everything—the way you describe her, the reference to Carrie (I rewatched it recently), the religious themes, her obnoxious parents who actually work really well, and Joel! Oh, he’s truly impeccable—charming, kind, almost an old-fashioned gentleman if it weren’t for that creepy vibe that lingers around him, almost hard to notice but always there. Like when he gives her a ride home from the movies, and at first you don’t wonder why the heck he was there—you just think, “Oh, how nice of him”…. um, no. 😅
And I’m dying to know what happened to Sarah!
He definitely killed Alyssa, no doubt about it. That was so scary, the way he kept repeating, “It could be you” 💀
I'm so curious to find out what happens next, t's a truly amazing start and I'm so hooked already!!! ❤️
🐝 ⇢ tag your biggest supporter(s) and say one nice thing about them
i have so many people who support me like crazy on this website!!!! and i will be forever grateful to all of you. i could never list all of them in a single post so if i didn't add someone here i'm sorry but pls know that i love you so much and i really wouldn't be writing without all of you
@svspirias / gotta put my baby first. the one person that has been supporting my writing and endulging and enabling me for over ten years now. i love u bitch i aint ever gonna stop loving u bitch
@time-for-my-weekly-spanking / v was the first friend i made here!! she's so kind and so supportive and always so much fun to chat with!!
@pearlessance / the only reason my blog ever took off was because of pearla's support right from the get-go. she's like... the cool girl with a heart of gold and exactly who i want to be when i grow up. i love u and appreciate u so much!!!!!!
@peepawmiller / mal came into my life sorta out of nowhere but she's been SUCH a huge supporter and always makes me giggle with her commentary!! i love interacting with her and her fics are always just 🥵 on fucking point.
@mytearsricochetm / my baby valen!!! i feel like we've become such good friends in the past couple of months, she's the one that dragged me into the shawn hatosy fandom even as i dug my heels but i'll be forever grateful for it! i love u and i love talking to u and i think about u all the time <3
@honey-moon-13 / not gonna lie, honey is one of the people i was the most intimidated to talk to because she's just such a cool person and such a talented writer but also she's so fucking funny and i'm so glad we get to talk!!!!
@broad-shouldrs / while valen was the one to drag me into the shawn hatosy fandom, jax was the one responsible to put him in my line of sight at all with that joel x jack fic (which i still think about all the time and need a thousand more instalments). i love all of their stuff so much and think they're such a talented, interesting person and i'm so so so glad jax came into my orbit!!!!
i have so many more people i could talk about!!! @that-antler-queen @hanahleah @violatedvibrators @cozymochaa @opal-sunshi @millermouth @ess-evo @petalsinblood @rosharanfiction @barnesdreamcatcher @inept-the-magnificent @lillydrabbles @gunnersaurusrex @daniel-bruhhl @baronessvonglitter are some other folks who have also been so incredibly kind and supportive and athough i didn't write a thing exclusively for each one of you (mainly because this post would get way too big) i need u all to know that i love all of you and appreciate always the support and the kind messages/comments!
🎨 ⇢ link your favourite piece of fanart and explain why you like it
i mean... it has to be this one!! soph ( @soph-illustrates ) made it for my feral series and i just love it so much, i was giggling and kicking my feet when she told me about it! it's the first (and only lol) piece of fanart anyone has ever done for something i made and it makes me weepy to think about how she took the time and care to make it!!
❄️ ⇢ what's your dream theme/plot for a fic, and who would write it best?
oh my god i cannot for the life of me think of something??? i mean the ones that come to mind the most are powerful men in sub roles that @time-for-my-weekly-spanking keeps writing and the joel x jack abo fic that @broad-shouldrs is cooking but i feel like that's cheating because both of those have already written something in that genre and/or pairing??? idfk
Thanks for your kind words and for the shoutout about my fics 🥹
I know how hard can be when you start writing and you know like zero people in the fandom you’re writing for and I’m more than glad to have been the first one 😌
Funnily enough, @baronessvonglitter told me the same thing so as someone said… if I had a nickel for every time I was someone's first friend in the PPCU fandom I'd have two nickels, which isn't much but it's weird that it happened twice 😂
And I love both of you and your fics so much, so I can say I’m very good at finding gems 😌♥️
Anyway, If you ever want to bring to my attention a plot that you would like to read with one of our dear PPCU boys as submissive I’ll be ready to listen 👂🤭
when they don't pull your panties aside but instead eat you out through the soaking wet fabric... kissing and licking and sucking and spitting, tracing with their fingers and their tongue, just the tip through it too......... especially when it's a pair of old cotton panties with your bush peaking out on the sides
Thanks for the lovely tags!💗 @bergamote-catsandbooks @vodkaandpizza @cozymochaa @time-for-my-weekly-spanking @baronessvonglitter @queenofslowburn Here’s a glimpse of the next chapter of Frankie and Ben!
…
“I don’t know what’s wrong with you," Frankie pushes Ben, needing to know the truth. "But it has been going on for way too long. I thought that giving you space was the right choice, that you’d come to me when you were ready, that you'd trust me. I was willing to wait because Lucia has been with her mom since this started," Frankie continues. Bringing forward the only thing he's sure could break Ben's resolve to maintain his problem to himself if Frankie is not enough, their little girl, who is currently spending some extra time with her mom before Gabriella goes away to take care of her mother. "But I can’t anymore. What you did was reckless and selfish. We both knew the roof was slippery, that it was better to do it together and be careful. You could have died.”
Ben remains silent. Observing. Quiet in a way that feels wrong. Not withdrawn or cold. But reserved. Remorseful. As if Frankie would dare to say, ashamed. The kind of quiet that cleaved Frankie in two and made him agonise over what he had done to not be trusted anymore.
Warnings/tags: infidelity, smut, dry humping, manipulation, dark!Joel, Father in Law!Joel, naive!reader, some nipple play, AU, not canon compliant, Joel has a son in this, implied legal age gap (not spicified so you can imagine whatever you want)
A/N: old drabble I wrote like ages ago, today I felt like bringing this back cause I’m quite proud of it. I really hope you like this little filth! English is not my first language, if you find any mistakes: I’m sorry.
It’s not related to my other FIL!Joel fics, this one is pretty manipulative and he feels nothing like the romantic version of him I previously posted on this account.
dividers: @/saradika-graphics
MASTERLIST | JOEL MILLER MASTERLIST
You're straddling Joel with your panties on.
Grinding your pussy along his length flat on his tummy.
Whining, rocking your hips back and forth, your panties drenched in his and your essence.
Your hands cup your tits, your fingers pinch your nipples.
He’s hard against your core, hot, his velvety skin slides easily on the fabric, your clit more puffy and swollen with each stroke.
Warm waves make your body vibrate, rising from your tummy to your chest, setting your face on fire.
Again and again.
You can't stop, it's a vertigo that blinds your mind, it doesn't let you think about anything else.
“Just like that, baby, go on, take what you need,” he groans.
His big, calloused hands rest on the curve of your soft thighs, grasping and squeezing, pulling you down on his groin, his gaze moving from your half-open lips moaning his name and your tits bouncing before his eyes.
You want more.
You need more.
You move your panties to one side, you can't be bothered to take them off.
Your pussy aches and cries and screams for him.
His cock is cocooned in your folds, stiff and leaking precum, the veins of his shaft pulsing against your centre.
You anchor yourself to his legs to bend your back slightly and find an angle that stimulates your clit even more.
Your hips continue their lewd dance, your juices mixing, merging, dripping onto his balls and your thighs. The tight, thin skin on his uncut cock retracts and covers his engorged, angry tip in rhythm with your thrusts.
Your muffled moans bounce off the walls as he urges you on with a broken, hoarse voice that seems to come from deep within him.
You come, throwing your head back, eyes shut.
His name dies on your lips, strangled by your wails.
“It's nothing,” he had told you, ”it's not the real deal unless I put it in you.”
You let yourself be convinced by his words, naive and willing.
You undressed for him.
“You can leave your panties on, baby, it's okay.”
It may not be real sex, but this is real orgasm.
Wet, desperate, annihilating.
Your boyfriend will be home any minute now.
Yeah, your boyfriend.
The son of the man who is still between your thighs.
thank you so much @time-for-my-weekly-spanking and @shadowqueen2024 for tagging me in this!! i didn't write nearly as much as i wanted to this past month (first month since the beginning of the year where i didn't hit my monthly word goals) but i have some stuff cooking up!!
since ill be posting the first part for sins of the flesh tomorrow i'm gonna keep that one close to the chest right now but below the cut you'll find a snippet of old man knees, a smutty one shot i'm writing for jack abbot and also a little something for baby fever, the joel miller one shot i promised for the couple from feral.
old man knees.
Joanna squeals, breaking the bubble you find yourself in, when one of her favorite songs comes on. Jack laughs, raspy and low, before he steps back. Your friend tugs you closer to her, jumping and swaying her hips to the beat. And, just like that, what could’ve been a nice moment plummets back to hell. You try, you really do. You dance and you twirl and you sing along to the words until your throat feels raw— Jack is right there with you, holding you steady whenever anyone bumps into you, chuckling at your antics and trying to move to the beat, which seems to be the one single thing he cannot do.
By the third song, you’re beat. Your feet hurt from your heels, your rib is throbbing from where another drunk girl elbowed you during her weird chicken dance, you’re sweaty and stuffy and overwhelmed. Jack seems to be enjoying himself, though, a smile permanently stuck to his mouth even if his face is bright red, his more salt than pepper curls sticking to his forehead. You lick your lips, trying to find a way of letting him know you’re ready to go home whenever he is— But he just seems so happy, swaying from side to side, shoulders bumping against others that you simply cannot do that to him.
So, instead, you try to think of something that might tire him out enough to drive you home.
“I wanna suck you off!” You yell, leaning forward enough that he can hear you. His eyebrows hike all the way up to his hairline, but the smile on his lips broadens.
“What?”
“Bathroom! Now.”
baby fever.
Joel Miller has an enemy.
Her name is Zofia, she’s eighty-seven and blind in one eye. The entire town of Jackson calls her Babushka which grates him even further because she’s not even Russian— She’s just old and mean, and he doesn’t get the affection she feels for you.
And he really doesn’t get why in the hell you seem to feel the same for her.
The two of you click instantly when Zofia’s family wheels her in during one harsh winter, when half of the roof of your farmhouse caved in and the two of you had to seek shelter in Jackson for a couple of days until the snowstorm passed. You’ve been climbing up the walls, scared for how your bunnies would fare — the calf wasn’t yours yet by that point — and, no matter how much Joel tried to tell you that they were wild animals and that they knew how to care for themselves, it was Zofia’s story about how her own pet rabbit had escaped one winter and hid inside a tree for three days before she found him that calmed you down.
Joel told you several times that the animals were smart, but you only believed it when Zofia said it.
He fucking hates her.
It’s also Zofia that brings up marriage. She’s constantly eyeing Joel with disdain as if she knows his disaffection for her, always making little quips on how such a beautiful young woman shouldn’t be hidden away in a farm and how you deserved to be treated— And even though Joel could tell she meant he wasn’t treating you right, he had to agree with her in some parts. You deserved the world, and Joel just wished the woman could see how happy you get when you’re home.
You’re both at the Tipsy Bison one evening, celebrating Tommy’s birthday; it’s rare for you to stay in Jackson past sundown and you spent over a week fussing over everything to make sure the farm could run during the night you’d be gone— You’re sitting on Joel’s lap, which seems to be your favorite seating choice even when there’s plenty of room; not that he minds holding you, of course. If it was up to him, your pretty little feet would never touch the ground.
Zofia’s hand takes yours, her thick fingernails a stark contrast against her thinned skin. She turns your hand this and that way before setting it on the table and giving you a small pat.
“Still no ring.” Her nose twists, watery eyes settling on Joel with the sort of disdain that would make a weaker man shrivel. “My Ronan would’ve given you a ring by now.”
Ronan. Zofia’s son that has been dead for God knows how long but that she still holds above Joel’s head as if the dead man was the epitome of masculinity— She’d even gone as far as showing you a picture of him once, with his squared jaw and light colored eyes, completely disregarding the fact that your soul is the same as Joel’s.
You laugh, waving her off. “Joel gets me jewelry all the time.”
Zofia gives him another hateful look that Joel pretends not to see—
They both know that’s not what she means, even if you don’t.
no pressure tag: @cozymochaa @honey-moon-13 @amourflores @broad-shouldrs @peepawmiller @inkandstardusts @barnesdreamcatcher @mytearsricochetm @hanahleah & anyone else that wants to join!!
Warnings/tags: infidelity, smut, dry humping, manipulation, dark!Joel, Father in Law!Joel, naive!reader, some nipple play, AU, not canon compliant, Joel has a son in this, implied legal age gap (not spicified so you can imagine whatever you want)
A/N: old drabble I wrote like ages ago, today I felt like bringing this back cause I’m quite proud of it. I really hope you like this little filth! English is not my first language, if you find any mistakes: I’m sorry.
It’s not related to my other FIL!Joel fics, this one is pretty manipulative and he feels nothing like the romantic version of him I previously posted on this account.
dividers: @/saradika-graphics
MASTERLIST | JOEL MILLER MASTERLIST
You're straddling Joel with your panties on.
Grinding your pussy along his length flat on his tummy.
Whining, rocking your hips back and forth, your panties drenched in his and your essence.
Your hands cup your tits, your fingers pinch your nipples.
He’s hard against your core, hot, his velvety skin slides easily on the fabric, your clit more puffy and swollen with each stroke.
Warm waves make your body vibrate, rising from your tummy to your chest, setting your face on fire.
Again and again.
You can't stop, it's a vertigo that blinds your mind, it doesn't let you think about anything else.
“Just like that, baby, go on, take what you need,” he groans.
His big, calloused hands rest on the curve of your soft thighs, grasping and squeezing, pulling you down on his groin, his gaze moving from your half-open lips moaning his name and your tits bouncing before his eyes.
You want more.
You need more.
You move your panties to one side, you can't be bothered to take them off.
Your pussy aches and cries and screams for him.
His cock is cocooned in your folds, stiff and leaking precum, the veins of his shaft pulsing against your centre.
You anchor yourself to his legs to bend your back slightly and find an angle that stimulates your clit even more.
Your hips continue their lewd dance, your juices mixing, merging, dripping onto his balls and your thighs. The tight, thin skin on his uncut cock retracts and covers his engorged, angry tip in rhythm with your thrusts.
Your muffled moans bounce off the walls as he urges you on with a broken, hoarse voice that seems to come from deep within him.
You come, throwing your head back, eyes shut.
His name dies on your lips, strangled by your wails.
“It's nothing,” he had told you, ”it's not the real deal unless I put it in you.”
You let yourself be convinced by his words, naive and willing.
You undressed for him.
“You can leave your panties on, baby, it's okay.”
It may not be real sex, but this is real orgasm.
Wet, desperate, annihilating.
Your boyfriend will be home any minute now.
Yeah, your boyfriend.
The son of the man who is still between your thighs.
Thank you for the lovely tag @time-for-my-weekly-spanking 🥰
It's been a hot minute since I've done one of these. I've definitely missed sharing what's been going through my mind and onto my drafts.
I've been working on a few fics that have been in my drafts for forever, and I'm excited to share them with you. And for those interested, I also added new headers I made for my series at the very bottom. They're kind of a WIP in the designing perspective 😂
Hope you enjoy these, and if you'd like to be tagged in any of these, please let me know which ones. Nothing is proofread so apologies for any mistakes. Enjoy 💜
What Grows From Goodbye: Chapter One
12:42 PM.
That’s what time it is.
Joel was supposed to be here almost fifteen minutes ago. The here you’re talking about is a building labelled MASON & HART FAMILY LAW. The sign was mounted against a brick building that looked like it was renovated sometime in the eighties, but the interior is much more modern with narrow windows and a glass doorway that showed the parking lot back to you.
You’ve been staring at the doorway for the better part of fifteen minutes.
Not because you found anything interesting about it. There really wasn’t. But because you were waiting for Joel to show up. Inside, your gaze settles on a woman in a cream blouse sitting on one of the chairs beside a man dressed in a suit, the two of them barely talking, if at all. The tension between them was palpable and familiar. Because you experienced some form of it too. Soon, a lawyer walks over; she’s on the younger side but escorts them to her office.
People are getting divorced. And you hate that you’re one of them.
You always believed that when you married, it'd be for good.
Granted, you know that there'll be arguments, misunderstandings, and bargaining to settle things between you and your significant other.
With you and Joel, the beginning was easy.
You had just started working as a waitress in a local diner in the town. Willow's Café. You know the customers, their usuals, and get along with the staff.
That's how you met Joel.
He was a usual when you started working at the café, along with his brother Tommy and daughter Sarah. You knew their order before you properly knew their names. You let out a sigh before your eyes dropped to your watch again.
Fire in My Lungs -SMUT
“On the bed,” you said. “On your back.”
He obeyed. That little flicker again—the way his pupils dilated when you ordered him. He stretched out, one arm behind his head, watching you strip the rest of the way. When you crawled up between his legs he exhaled like he’d been holding his breath.
You kissed the inside of his thigh first. Then higher. Nuzzled the soft skin of his balls, breathing him in—salt and musk and pure Joel. Your tongue dragged up the length of his cock in one long, wet stripe. He cursed.
“Gonna put that pretty mouth on me?” His hand found your hair, not pushing yet, just resting. “Been waitin’ all day to feel that throat.”
You licked the head, tasting the bead of precum, then took him in. Slow at first—just the tip, lips stretching around the thickness. Then deeper. You worked him with tongue and suction, bobbing until saliva slicked the shaft and dripped down onto his balls. Joel’s thighs tensed. His breathing went ragged.
“That’s it… fuck, look at you. Suckin’ me like you were made for it.” His fingers tightened in your hair. “Take more. C’mon, baby. Open up for me.”
You did. Relaxed your throat and pushed down until your nose brushed the dark hair at the base. Joel groaned, low and wrecked. He held you there for a second—not forcing, just feeling the way your throat fluttered around him—then let you pull back for air. Strings of spit connected your lips to his cock.
“Again,” he said, voice rough. “Wanna feel you choke on it.”
You took him deeper this time. He helped—gentle pressure on the back of your head, guiding you down until your eyes watered and your throat worked around the thick intrusion. He didn’t slam; just held you there while you struggled to breathe through your nose, then eased up so you could gasp. The second you recovered, he pushed back in, a little firmer, fucking your mouth in shallow, controlled thrusts.
Ghosts of a Past: Chapter Two
The two of you walk down the front steps and down the road that leads to Valaries school. You’re quiet. Quieter than normal, and Joel was concerned about you. But after the other day, your father storming down the street, Val in hand, he didn’t have to think much of what was going on with you.
He bumps his shoulder with yours, drawing your attention to him, “Think you can hang out with Tommy ‘n I think weekend?”
“Can’t,” you sigh, adjusting the strap of your backpack that didn’t need to be fixed. “Someone’s gotta watch Val and I don’t want her home alone with him.”
“How bad is it Vic?”
“What?”
“Your old man,” he specifies, gently taking your wrists into his hands, stopping you both in your steps.
“You can’t do anything ‘bout it,” you say, shaking your head before looking at him. “An’ you have enough to deal with at home too.”
He falls quiet, slightly nodding once you point that out. He never told you outright that he has a complicated relationship with his own father. That’s how you ended up being close with him. You were surrounded by friends who didn’t really pay attention to what was going on with you. Not that you can blame them. Everyone’s going through their own pain that they tend to ignore the pain others go through.
But not with Joel. He let you talk about your pain, and you let him talk about his.
“I wish I could save you from it,” he finally says, his voice quiet.
“You are.”
Dancing the Pain Away
"You don't have to go, you know," you remind him. Which earns you a scoff, and you roll your eyes.
You know what he's thinking.
Being as well known as he is, his presence was basically a necessity. He'd hear the talk if he didn't attend, and he'd hear the talk if he went alone. Either way, he was bound to be the subject of conversation one way or the other.
"I'd rather deal with all that crap with you around," he finally says. With how long you've known Harry, he wasn't the type to lay out what he feels on a silver platter for all to see.
He found love and feeling difficult.
Which is why his relationship with Lucy surprised you. But, despite what you felt, you were happy for him. That is, until you heard about the engagement being broken off.
"Why do you only call me when there's no other option?" You asked, and right now, you're pretty thankful he didn't choose to do a video call. "There's plenty of other women who'd go with you the second you ask."
"Because I need you."
The line went quiet on both sides, the silence filling the space between you two where normally it would be filled with easy-going conversation. You take a minute longer, biting your lip before letting out a reluctant sigh.
"Fine," you concede, shaking your head the second the words leave your lips.
"Thanks," he says, the relief making his tone sound lighter than it did just a few minutes ago. "I'll pick you up at seven."
New Headers
Npt (sorry if you've already done this!): @cozymochaa, @aurorawritestoescape, @mcthsman, @ess-evo @petalsinblood, @rosharanfiction, @missangel, @peepawmiller, @daltoncharm, @dreamedaboutitinthedark, @vodkaandpizza, @pascalispunkczechia, @baronessvonglitter & anyone else who'd like to join.
thanks for the tags @bergamote-catsandbooks and @vodkaandpizza 🌼
Remember the handsome, burly private investigator from Law of Attraction? Well he's getting a spinoff 😊 set in the same universe, here's a snippet of the first chapter of "Nights in Neon"
Timothy J. Rockford has made concealment an art form.
He's a master at blending in, making himself part of the background while his own senses stay finely attuned to whatever target he's pursuing. A newspaper, a cup of coffee, an expression of disinterest in everything around him.
But it's pretty hard to maintain that illusion when Sunny's in his sights, walking around the small diner, pouring coffee and taking orders with a smile. He peeks over the crossword puzzle he's doing, a pretense of impassivity, to watch her, and unbeknownst to him, his usually jaded countenance softens.
She's in yellow today. Tim can tell the days of the week by what color she's wearing: light blue on Mondays, pale green on Tuesday, lavender on Wednesday, yellow on Thursday, and Fridays are for pink - the color she looks best in, in his own opinion. He notices she's painted her nails to match her uniform, a buttery yellow that he stares at while she drums her nails on the counter, gossiping with her coworker, or jotting down the order of the elderly couple who just walked in, and now she's headed to his table with a fresh pot of coffee.
It's a neo-noir romance, and I couldn't be more excited to write more for the "Starlight Motel" universe 🩷 (are there two more planned series/miniseries for this universe? yes. I am insane.)
no-pressure-tagging some ppl I hope will be interested: @time-for-my-weekly-spanking @604to647 @inept-the-magnificent @madpanda75 @sawymredfox and anyone else who wants to post what they have
I’m working on the absolutely delightful request that @missadangel sent me for my birthday event, thanks again so much Angel 🥰 It’s such a great idea and I really hope to do it justice!
I finished writing it today, I just need to polish up some things a little bit and fix some others but it’s coming soon 👀
Litte sneak peek under the cut, like I said it’s unedited so please don’t mind my mistakes! It’s going to be filthy and for once it has a more dominant Jackson!Joel, I love writing him as a sub but I was craving some soft dom!Joel these days 🙂↕️
Dividers by @/saradika-graphics
Gnawing jealousy doesn’t leave you, though. It keeps fogging your brain as you think of the way Patricia dares to put her hands on your man.
“It’s just…the way you don’t see that, it baffles me. I’m sorry, but she couldn’t be any cheekier,” you whine.
“Aw, jealous bunny…” he coos, his lips softly curved into that crooked smile that always makes your knees buckle.
“I’m not jealous…” you try to say, but he chuckles, “Oh yes, you are. Which is cute…but I’m still pretty sure she’s not into me. It’s just her personality, you know. She’s like that with Tommy as well.”
“Yeah, she would love to fuck him too,” you spit out, and his jaw drops.
“Baby…” he starts, but a thought suddenly runs through your mind, and you smirk, interrupting him, “Wanna bet?”
“What?” Eyebrows raised, he looks at you puzzled.
“Yeah, let’s bet. Go over there and ask her out.” Patricia is sitting at the counter, sipping her drink, casually shooting very lustful looks at Joel, biting her lower lip.
“I would never do that!” He protests.
“Aw, you’re scared to lose, aren’t you?” You tease him, happy to have finally found a safe method to open his eyes.
“‘M not scared, it’s ridiculous. Honey, we don’t need to do that.”
He tries to put some reason back into you, but to no avail.
Npt: @aurorawritestoescape @milla-frenchy @sawymredfox @peepawmiller @reedispunk @hanahleah @broad-shouldrs @hauntedinkk @mcthsman @ess-evo @shadowqueen2024 @isabellaboo2025 @dreamedaboutitinthedark @cozymochaa @petalsinblood and anyone who wants to share something, consider yourself tagged by me!
Warnings/tags: infidelity, smut, dry humping, manipulation, dark!Joel, Father in Law!Joel, naive!reader, some nipple play, AU, not canon compliant, Joel has a son in this, implied legal age gap (not specified so you can imagine whatever you want)
A/N: old drabble I wrote like ages ago, today I felt like bringing this back cause I’m quite proud of it. I really hope you like this little filth! English is not my first language, if you find any mistakes: I’m sorry.
It’s not related to my other FIL!Joel fics, this one is pretty manipulative and he feels nothing like the romantic version of him I previously posted on this account.
dividers: @/saradika-graphics
MASTERLIST | JOEL MILLER MASTERLIST
You're straddling Joel with your panties on.
Grinding your pussy along his length flat on his tummy.
Whining, rocking your hips back and forth, your panties drenched in his and your essence.
Your hands cup your tits, your fingers pinch your nipples.
He’s hard against your core, hot, his velvety skin slides easily on the fabric, your clit more puffy and swollen with each stroke.
Warm waves make your body vibrate, rising from your tummy to your chest, setting your face on fire.
Again and again.
You can't stop, it's a vertigo that blinds your mind, it doesn't let you think about anything else.
“Just like that, baby, go on, take what you need,” he groans.
His big, calloused hands rest on the curve of your soft thighs, grasping and squeezing, pulling you down on his groin, his gaze moving from your half-open lips moaning his name and your tits bouncing before his eyes.
You want more.
You need more.
You move your panties to one side, you can't be bothered to take them off.
Your pussy aches and cries and screams for him.
His cock is cocooned in your folds, stiff and leaking precum, the veins of his shaft pulsing against your centre.
You anchor yourself to his legs to bend your back slightly and find an angle that stimulates your clit even more.
Your hips continue their lewd dance, your juices mixing, merging, dripping onto his balls and your thighs. The tight, thin skin on his uncut cock retracts and covers his engorged, angry tip in rhythm with your thrusts.
Your muffled moans bounce off the walls as he urges you on with a broken, hoarse voice that seems to come from deep within him.
You come, throwing your head back, eyes shut.
His name dies on your lips, strangled by your wails.
“It's nothing,” he had told you, ”it's not the real deal unless I put it in you.”
You let yourself be convinced by his words, naive and willing.
You undressed for him.
“You can leave your panties on, baby, it's okay.”
It may not be real sex, but this is real orgasm.
Wet, desperate, annihilating.
Your boyfriend will be home any minute now.
Yeah, your boyfriend.
The son of the man who is still between your thighs.
6 screenshots / Detective Tim Rockford x fem!reader
Summary: Tim falls victim to another TikTok trend.
Warnings: None! All fluff, established relationship, nicknames.
A/N: GUYS. I'm experiencing writers' block on my Pero fic 😭😭😭 so to try and get past it, I'm falling back on two of my favourite things to write: Our The Rockford Portfolio couple + epistolary fics 😊 This one is just silly and short, Shutterbug tries out another couples trend on Tim (see Wrong Number and Macarons for some of her other pranks 🤭), and as always, can be read standalone. This trend is all over my fyp but kind of hard to describe? If you're curious, just search 'Isopod' on Tiktok - I feel like it's the sequel to "Would you still love me if I were a worm?" 🤣🤣
Dividers by @saradika-graphics / Series Masterlist
<Tip for reading: click on the first screenshot, and swipe/tap to go to the next 🥰>
I’m not sure I exactly understood the trend (I feel so old, Jesus 💀😂) but I perfectly understood how cute they are, Tim is such a great boyfriend and I need him so badly 🫠
That “good girl” did things to me 🤭
This was adorable and so funny, thanks for sharing this with us, they warm my heart🥰♥️
Clitwarming - Sub!Pedro boy of your choice x afab!reader - Drabble
Rating: +18
Summary: Just a little thought that crossed my mind this morning, I hope you like it 😏
tags: smutty filthy Drabble I just needed to get out of my system, title is pretty self explanatory, right? pussy pronouns used once, Pedro boy of your choice is your perfect sub, reader is afab and not described besides having pussy.
I've decided to leave it up to you to imagine this with your favorite Pedro Boy (I love to imagine Joel, but any choice is valid and satisfying, so why not?).
English is not my first language. Not edited so if you find any mistake: I'm very sorry 🙏🏻
Soooo cockwarming is a big thing, right?
Now imagine clitwarming instead. Cause you need to have good things too.
You need someone who is so enthralled with your pussy that would kneel down between your legs and just stay there while you’re watching a movie or your favorite show, rubbing his cheek like a kitten on your leg, kissing you inner thigh, softly whispering “please.”
Preferably a big broad man, pleading and needy.
Like a Pedro boy.
Like sub!Pedro boy.
And who are you to deny him when he looks at you with those sweet brown eyes?
So you just move your hips on the sofa to allow him to take off your panties.
And his breath is already short just at the sight of your pussy exposed for him.
But you gently scold him, “Keep her warm until this is over.”
He parts your pussy lips with two fingers and opens his mouth, welcoming your clit between his lips.
They’re warm and enveloping around you, his saliva coating your button.
But you don't give him any satisfaction, you stay still, focused on your favorite show, while he remains there, silent, his lips closed around your most private part.
When he senses that you are beginning to throb and drip into his mouth, he gives a gentle lick.
He closes his eyes, relishing you, your juices oozing onto his tongue.
And he's already content just like that, admiring you, pleasing you, worshipping you.
You've given it to him, and that's enough.
He moans on your bundle of nerves, sending a vibration through your whole body.
And he is not impatient, he is not nervous, his cheek is resting on your thigh, his lips are relaxed, his tongue wraps around you and laps lazily.
You've granted him the honor of doting over your wet, warm clit, his tongue exploring, flicking, caressing, his nose pressing into you as well, giving you that extra stimulation as he slowly moves up and down from time to time.
He just stays there, your clit in his mouth, as you get wetter and wetter, squirming on the couch but trying to hold on cause it's just the finest shit you've ever had, him wrapped all over you like that, his mustache glistening, his chin wet, his lips swollen.
He growls at your scent and licks every drop and you can see the growing bulge in his pants.
He doesn't complain, though, because it's not about him, it's about you. This is just for you; you're the center of attention.
During the closing credits, you bury your hand in his dark curls, pulling and twirling them between your fingers.
He looks up, his eyes veiled, full of lust and desire, so dark that you can't distinguish his pupils from his irises.
“Suck,” you whisper, your voice firm, commanding.
And he smiles, a broad, grateful, ecstatic smile.
And he loosens his reins, starts sucking harder, his tongue moves frantically over you, his greedy mouth drinks every drop and wants more and more and more.
His fingertips tease your entrance, as if in a silent request, waiting for your permission to fill you up.
You nod.
And you feel his knuckles slowly making their way inside you, curving in just the right way, reaching that soft spot.
He taps rhythmically as he continues to lick and swirl and flick and slurp until he feels you twitching and pulsing so hard he just knows you're about to give in.
When you explode into his mouth he's the happiest to clean all the mess, drank on your pussy, mesmerized by your scent, eyes locked on you as you throw your head back and close your eyes, your back arches, your legs tremble uncontrollably, and you squirt into his mouth, moaning his name like a prayer.
When you come to your senses, you glance at his wet pants, a large dark stain spreading across the front.
You caress his cheek, feeling his beard prickle your palm deliciously.
He smiles, a little self conscious and oh, so sweet, so gentle and just content with what he just provided for you.
Summary: your relationship with Javi has never been easy, but tonight, his behavior forces you into the hardest dilemma you have ever faced
Warnings: 18+ mdni. angst, infidelity, smut, petnames (cariño, baby), Javi is bad at feelings, reader wears a dress, piv, creampie
a/n: well, I guess I’m back in my angsty javi era? Thank you so much, if you take the time to read it ❤️
Thank you @aurorawritestoescape for beta-ing 😘💕 @/saradika-graphics for the dividers 🙏
When Javi came back home, you were sitting at the kitchen table, a cigarette in your hand, an ashtray full of butts that you’d smoked in the last hour in front of you. The blend of scents emanating from him hit your nostrils. Tobacco and alcohol, first.
Then the second wave hit you: heavy perfume and sex. It made you nauseous.
Probably expecting you to be asleep, Javi stopped in his tracks when he saw you and lowered his head, setting his keys, badge, and gun on the sideboard. You looked at him, heart full of anger and venom, but it turned into sorrow and pain when you noticed his gaunt features and the bags under his eyes, more pronounced than ever.
He didn’t say a word, just sat next to you, and dragged his fingers over his forehead, the gesture making his leather jacket creak.
You used to love that jacket, Javi was wearing it when you met for the first time in that bar. But now it was a witness to his encounters with other women, and you hated it.
It was easier to hate the jacket than him.
You cut him off just as he was about to speak.
“Don't lie to me, Javi,” you warned, your eyes fixed on an invisible point on the table.
He stood up, his chair sliding so loudly on the floor that it made your ears ring and your heart bleed, then he grabbed a whiskey bottle and filled two glasses. He placed them on the table, one in front of you. You still weren’t looking at him when he took off his jacket and draped it over the back of his seat. He sat down and began swirling the glass between his fingers as you downed yours in one gulp and took a drag.
“You swore to me it would never happen again. You swore to me, Javi. Why do you keep doing this?” you asked and he lit a cigarette, probably buying himself some time, thinking about the right words to use, the ones that would calm you down.
But those which slipped through his gritted teeth after he drank his whisky only pushed the blade in your heart deeper.
“Doing what?” he grumbled, his eyebrow shooting up, then took a drag and exhaled the smoke, thumb brushing at his lower lip. He was fully closed off, playing an asshole as usual when he didn’t know how to handle something, or didn’t want to.
But he was unable to even look at you. The soft Javi, the one you were so in love with, hidden behind his thick shell.
“Are you fucking serious?” you replied, anger back in full swing. His Adam apple bobbed heavily when he swallowed his saliva.
Seconds passed as none of you talked. You considered leaving him there, alone in the kitchen, and going out to get some fresh air.
You didn’t really know what else to do. You were lost, your heart in shambles.
“I don't know why,” he finally said, voice softer, tinted with a hint of regret as if he wanted to erase his previous words and tone.
“You can talk to me, you can use me to forget.” Your trembling voice was coated with despair. “Why don't you use me if it’s the only thing that makes you forget about your job?”
“It's not the same. I care about you.”
His words felt like a slap and hurt you more than he could imagine.
Or maybe Javi knew, used them consciously as self protection, as a shield or a weapon depending on his inner tournament.
“Fuck you,” you spat. “You care about me but not enough to be faithful.”
“It’s not like that. It doesn’t mean a thing to me,” he said, as if he was talking about something meaningless.
“Really? It doesn’t mean a thing to you? Well thank you for caring about me so much, because it means something to me, Javi,” you replied, voice breaking and tears about to fall, the cigarette shaking in your fingers.
The furrow between Javi’s eyebrows deepened, as he seemed to realize how fucked up his answer was.
“I know. I'm sorry, cariño,” he apologized, sliding his hand towards yours. But you couldn’t bear the idea of letting him touch you. Not when his hands were on someone else an hour ago.
“Don't fucking touch me. Her smell’s still all over you. Go take a fucking shower, at least I won’t smell her cunt on your fingers anymore.”
Shame lingered in his eyes, and he disappeared in the bathroom while tears drowned yours.
You went to bed and turned your back to his side, your pillow quickly wet with tears.
Javi slipped under the sheets after the shower and laid on his back. You imagined him staring at the ceiling, thinking about getting dressed and leaving the apartment to lick his wounds like a stray cat that had just been in a fight and didn’t want to be seen.
He surprised you when his low voice broke the silence. “Can I hug you?”
Part of you wanted to scream, to tell him he was an asshole. The other part wanted to feel every ounce of affection he could offer.
“No, you can’t.”
You fell asleep when you had no more silent tears to cry.
When you woke up a couple hours later, the moon was lighting the room and his side of the bed was empty and cold. You looked at his nightstand and at the Polaroid of the two of you that he kept there.
You felt lonely, vulnerable, as if your ribcage was wide open, leaving your heart bare, unprotected with nowhere to hide.
You thought back to the moment you had met, to the certainty you had felt in your deepest core that he would break your heart sooner or later.
The night you met you were unable to resist the temptation, waving aside bright red flags floating around him like the swirls of his cigarette smoke and the smell of neat whisky.
The only thing you could see and focus on was his fragile soul that he kept hidden deep beneath multiple layers of arrogance, sarcasm and black humor, but that called out to you when your eyes met. As if it were waiting for you.
It didn’t feel like an act of a smooth talker who just wanted to get you to bed. With Javi, his vulnerability seemed genuine, waiting for the right person to show off.
Yet you didn’t expect the right person not to be enough to appease him.
You poured your heart and soul into the relationship, telling yourself that you would wash away his pain with all your tears if you had to.
Now you simply didn't know how much longer you could hold on. Joy started vanishing off your face weeks ago, life drained from your veins and your heart.
But each time you considered packing your bags and leaving Javi, his softer side, the real one, always showed up. His gaze, on the verge of tears, ready to release everything that was haunting him since he joined the DEA in Colombia, everything he refused to show to anyone else but you. Crawling into your arms, his heart beating so fast that the only thing calming him down was your hand pressed to it and the other one cradling the back of his neck.
You got up and found Javi sitting on the couch. You thought about the first time he had fucked you here, the day you had met. How you had fallen in love with him, fastly and deeply, and more and more each day.
It felt like a million years ago. It even felt like another life.
You sat down next to him and took a deep breath, before saying, “I can’t go on like this, Javi.”
He looked at you, his sad brown eyes fixed on your face. Tears welled up in his eyes, his index finger pressed against his temple.
“Don’t say that, cariño.”
“Javi, I… I don't know what to do anymore. You’re hurting me, I hate the idea of sharing you with other women. It’s breaking my heart because I know you're so much more than that, but… I can’t be the only one carrying our relationship.”
“I know, baby. I know.”
“Then say something!” you exploded, not caring about the neighbors, what they might hear or say. “Fight for us. For me,” you begged.
He didn't answer, didn’t say a word. He gave you nothing.
So you went back to the bedroom, put on a dress, grabbed your travel bag and placed it on the bed. Tears were blurring your vision as you were packing it with your clothes. You wiped them with a back of your hand when you heard his footsteps in the hallway. He stood by the door, and your smile was cold when he asked you not to leave. He was wearing only shorts, and under other circumstances, you would have admired his beautiful face, walked towards him, cupped his cheeks and kissed him, but now you were resigned, exhausted, and started making peace with the fact that your last reserves of strength had abandoned you.
“What would you feel if I were the one looking for something by fucking other men?”
A mix of emotions passed over his eyes - possessiveness, sadness and regret- and his whole body tensed.
“I’d be devastated. And I'd want to kill them. Hurt them.”
The violence in his words created a reaction in your stomach that you didn’t expect. You always loved him feral and possessive, when he acted in opposition to his usual cold behavior, but you hated the way your body was still aching for him, falling for desire so easily even now, in that moment.
“Then why are you doing this to me?”
“Because I’m an asshole,” he replied coldly, eyebrows shooting up once again.
“Yes, you are. And I’ve endured enough.” You turned your back to him to keep packing.
He watched you put away the rest of your things, staying silent.
When you reached the door, travel bag on your shoulder, you said, “Move, Javi.”
He did.
Your tears were falling when you walked towards the exit. You took a big breath when you grabbed the handle, trying not to sob loudly.
You swallowed a gasp when his hand seized your arm, and he closed the door with the other one, caging you against it.
“It’s over, Javi. Let me go,” you murmured. You were so exhausted that you had no anger in you any more. You just wanted to go and cry alone, again and again, until you drowned yourself.
“Let me tell you what happened. Please.”
“I don't care. It’s too late-”
“We shot a kid,” he cut. “Someone… someone shot a kid. Just like that, in front of me, in the street. They were all kneeling and he killed one of them in cold blood. Shot him in the head.”
You were facing the door, horrified, not knowing what to say.
“And… I don’t know, I disassociated. Didn’t even realize where I was until I… and then I threw up. Came here. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. Please, believe me… I didn’t know what I was doing. Didn’t want it.”
You turned around to confront him and found yourself facing your Javi. The one you loved, the one who couldn’t hurt you, and it broke your heart when he cupped your cheeks with his hands, showing you his soul and flaws, then whipped a rolling tear on your face.
But how could you separate him from his other self? How could you forgive him when you knew that other side of him was still there, in that dark part of his soul, lurking, ready to reveal itself and take over again.
You shook your head and seized his hands to pull them away.
“You will never quit your job and I would never ask you to, anyway. And I’ll never be sure that it won't happen again. I knew I was taking a gamble by getting into this relationship. I thought I was stronger than that, but I’m not. And honestly, the fact that you didn’t come back to me, that your subconscious didn’t choose me last night, is telling. I’m not the right person for you, Javi. And you’re not the right one for me either.”
“It’s not true,” he countered. “I never loved anyone the way I love you, you know it. Give me a chance. One last chance,” he begged.
You shook your head again, but you made one mistake when your eyes dropped to his lips. He immediately moved closer to you, brushing his nose against yours, whispering “one last chance. Please, cariño,” against your lips before kissing you. It was tender and filled with everything he had to offer you.
You let him slide into your mouth, let his tongue brush yours.
You let his hands grip your hips, let him show you how hard he was.
Javi growled when he felt you surrender to his touch, and nudged your cheek with his face to bury it in your neck, while he freed his cock from his shorts.
He growled when your whole body shivered, as he slid his hand under your dress and pushed your panties aside, nestling his tip at your entrance.
He growled when he felt how wet you were, already ready for him. He pushed in slowly and your nails dug into his shoulders when you realized that you were unable to hold back a moan of pleasure when he filled you perfectly.
Javi rolled his hips, giving you the time to welcome his girth, and grabbed your thigh to put it against his waist.
“You always feel so good,” he murmured, and you bit your lip to suppress a sob, trying to deal with your emotions, your sadness and your need for him despite everything.
“Come here, cariño,” he murmured, leading you towards the couch where he made you lie down, pushing on your thighs to open you up for him.
You seized his cock, circled his length and jerked it, then slid it against your wet folds up to your throbbing clit, the sensation making him moan.
His tip was oozing over your bud, covering it with precum, making him move so easily against your slit.
You focused on your sensations, desperate to forget the reality.
Forget where he was last night.
Forget how a part of you hated him.
His eyes were fixed on your hand wrapped around his cock, his tip brushing against your clit.
He was whimpering, a set of moans escaping his throat as you were using him.
“Lemme see you come. Make a mess, baby,” he said as he unbuttoned your dress and exposed your breasts.
He leaned forward, sucking on one nipple then the other before. taking it in his mouth and nibbling at it, licking it, slowly moving his hips back and forth to match your movements until you came, your clit throbbing against his crown.
He kissed your neck, and kept moving slowly until your whimpers subsided.
When he stepped back slightly, he seemed amazed by the sight of his drooling tip and your quivering pussy, but his gaze changed when he met yours, knowing fully well what you couldn’t hide, the thought of stopping right there, denying him the pleasure of filling your cunt. But the fear of never feeling him inside you again made you yield. When he saw it in your gaze, as if you were an open book, his obsidian eyes grew piercing and he pulled off his shorts, letting them drop by the couch.
He dragged the head of his cock along your folds, covering it with your wetness then slid in slowly, just the tip at first, before withdrawing and pushing back in, going deeper with every thrust, each one leaving you breathless.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
“Shut up. Shut up, Javi.”
“Baby,” he said, cupping your cheek, his eyes diving into yours. “It won’t happen again. I promise. I don’t want to lose you.”
He kissed your forehead, pressing himself against you, then let his lips slide down, brushed your nose tenderly with his, before pressing his mouth against yours.
It was sweet and soft, like a warm embrace. You wanted to believe him, but how could you erase the evening before? And the time before that?
“I should fuck two men,” you said defiantly with a desire to hurt him, making him freeze inside you, his eyes searching for yours.
“Do it. If it makes you feel better, do it, I deserve it. But I promise, it won’t happen again.”
“I won’t do it,” you scowled. “It’s not who I am. Make me come before I tell you to fuck off and leave the place.”
He started moving again, grazing your clit with his thumb without taking his eyes off you.
You let yourself get lost in them, in the sensations you were feeling.
You let him kiss you and show you just how much he cared about you. You didn’t doubt it, but it wasn’t enough anymore.
You let him thrust inside you, again and again, and thought about how many times you fucked, how good he was at it. You thought about the good times you had together, how careful he was with you in the intimacy of his apartment. How you loved the way he wrapped his arm around your shoulders when you went out.
“I’m gonna come,” you whimpered and Javi pressed his forehead against yours, brushing your bud gently as you started fluttering around him.
“Cariño… fuck… I’m gonna come too, fuck…”
He exploded, mouth agape, sending hot spurs of cum between your folds, moaning against your mouth.
You both ended up breathless, spent, but he still had some strength to kiss your neck, until you made him stop, sat up and buttoned your dress.
“Let’s go back to bed,” he said.
But you couldn’t.
“Javi.. I can’t. I just can’t. I’m heartbroken. I don’t smile anymore. I don’t eat. I can’t sleep. I’m just…I’m just sad. So I’m gonna leave. And we’ll see if fate makes our paths cross, one day. Maybe you’ll be ready to love me fully. Only be with me.”
You stood up and he put his shorts back on and followed you.
You turned to him and shook your head, then smiled at him. It was a sincere smile, a goodbye, a way of showing him that despite everything, a part of you still loved a part of him.
“I’ll find you,” he said.
A few times Javi went back to the bar where you had met, but you weren’t there.
He threw himself heart and soul into his job, yet you never left his thoughts.
When Escobar killed Carrillo, he wondered if he would have been able to keep his promise while begging for one last chance. He hoped so. He thought so.
He hoped you were happy, that your smile was back.
Three years later, Javi resigned from the DEA. You never crossed paths, but he never stopped thinking about you. The Polaroid was still on his nightstand, and sometimes he would stroke your cheek in the picture, recalling the feel of your skin beneath his fingers.
Javi went back to the bar one last time, as if to say goodbye to your memory, hating the idea that he didn’t find you, despite his promise.
He smiled when he saw you there, sitting on the same stool as the day you had met.
You turned toward him as if you sensed his presence, and you smiled too.
“Fate,” he said.
“Maybe,” you replied, smiling at him, and offered him a seat next to you.
Javi p masterlist
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This was really awesome and I felt everything so deep in my chest 😭 you wrote it so beautifully, baby! I’m in awe of the way you described their feeling and all that little gestures that are so Javi’s ♥️
I love that this has an hopeful ending, even though I’m pretty sure he can’t be fixed 🥲 at that point it’s just a coping mechanism and I’m so sorry for reader cause she really was in love, it’s so palpable! Javi is so deeply wounded though and maybe love is not enough sometimes. But hey, we have faith, am I right?
