Warnings: smut, minors DNI, pussy eating (obviously) in multiple variations.
༺♡༻Joel Miller, who remembers the first time he snuck off to watch a porn tape he’d stolen from his dad’s stash. A VHS with grainy picture, the scene opened on a man going down on a woman. Joel could only focus on the way her thighs trembled, her face twisted in pleasure, the way she grabbed the guy’s hair, like she couldn’t help it, and all Joel could think was: “I wanna do that to a girl.”
༺♡༻Joel Miller, who’d always gone down on every woman he’d ever been with, even if it was just a casual one-night stand. For him, eating pussy wasn’t optional, it was mandatory. He wanted his partner to feel good, to help her open up (and god knows he needed her open wide enough to take that massive cock of his). But he had never loved it as much as he did with you… you had awakened a hunger in him he never knew he had.
༺♡༻Joel Miller, who knew he was good at eating pussy from the first time he ever did it, back when he was a teenanger in the backseat of his old man’s pickup at a movie drive-in, with his girlfriend at the time. His first time, her first time, but when he got his mouth on her, he just knew he was meant for it… built for it. He’d her screaming louder than the horror movie playing in the background, fisting his hair, cumming so hard she hit her head on the window glass, and he hadn’t even gotten his pants off yet. Joel never bragged about it, he just knew how to do it, it was all about that quiet confidence of his.
༺♡༻Joel Miller, who loves the taste and scent of pussy, but the first time he tried yours, his mind exploded, he didn’t know it could be this sweet, this intoxicating. There have only been a few times he’s fucked you without eating you out first, because even during quickies in the shower, he still drops to his knees, licking you from behind (he absolutely loves it that way). He knows your body so deeply now that making you cum within minutes feels effortless.
༺♡༻Joel Miller, who kneads and squeezes your breasts while his face is buried deep in your cunt, flicking his tongue over your puffy clit, or tonguing your entrance, fucking you with slow strokes. Sometimes his hands are at your thighs, holding your legs apart when you try to close them, feeling overstimulated after multiple orgasms. Other times, he grips your waist, yanking you closer so he can bury himself even deeper.
༺♡༻Joel Miller, who gets filthy when eating you, like a starving man with something to prove. He spits on your pussy, and slurps your slick mixing with his saliva, dripping down to your butthole (another hole he loves licking just as much). He’ll spread your cheeks wide, open your pussy lips with his thumbs and spit on it again just to devour you some more. He grunts and moans like he’s the one being pleasured, sometimes humming into your clit just to make you squirm. He loves switching between licks and sucks, while pumping two thick fingers into your entrance. He’ll slap your pussy too, right against your clit, just to watch the way you jolt.
༺♡༻Joel Miller, who loves it when you ride his face. You’d told him the first time you were afraid to cut off his air, but loves it so much he’ll actually grab your hips and pull you down harder. He doesn’t care if he can’t breathe, he enjoys seeing his girl getting all her pleasure from him, tonguing you while you bump your clit against his nose. That view… you on top of him, is fucking sacred.
༺♡༻Joel Miller, who ruts against the bed while he eats you, grinding his hips into the soft mattress as his cock strains in his briefs, the front of them already stained with pre-cum. He can’t help it, every whimper you make, every twitch of your thighs around his head makes him move his hips almost autonomously, searching for some kind of friction, some kind of relief. But he doesn’t care how long he has to wait for his orgasm, you always come first (literally and metaphorically).
༺♡༻Joel Miller, whose beard get soaked, his chin dripping, his nose and cheeks slick with your arousal. You can see it glistening whenever he pulls back for air, catching his breath and murmuring filthy praises to you, “Swear to god, baby… never seen a pussy so pretty.” “Tastes so fuckin’ good, darlin’. This pussy was made f’me.” “Look’a her, look how wet she is. Creamin’, baby. This pussy’s fuckin’ creamin’.” “You gonna cum in my face? Hm? Gonna fuckin’ soak me?”
༺♡༻Joel Miller, who’s been told his whole damn life he’s good at eating cunt, feels something different when he’s eating YOU, the woman he loves. Making you cum on his tongue fills him with pride, he knows what he’s doing, he has always known, but hearing you moan and praise him still drives him mental. “Ohhh, Joooel, mmm, just like that.”“Yesyesyes, right there, love. Right fucking there.” “Shit! You’re so good, Joel. I swear, never felt like this.”
༺♡༻Joel Miller, who swears he could live in between your legs, says he has all he needs there, he’d feed from your pussy, slurp your wetness like it’s holy water, breathe the air between your legs to keep him alive. And he’s there for hours, fucking you with his tongue, sucking your clit between his lips, giving you orgasm after orgasm, until you can’t feel your throat from crying and screaming out his name. And still he doesn’t stop, you have to push at his head, shove at his shoulders, kick him away, and only then will he pull back. Only then, after he’s sure you’re utterly destroyed, he’d fuck you, sliding into you so fucking easily, because you’re dripping from everything he’s done to you. You suck him in like you were made for him, like your body knows it’s Joel inside you.
👆🏻That’s the way he looks at you when you’re about to climb on top of that face
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A/N: WRRAAH this got way longer than I planned but I physically cannot shut up when it comes to Joel Miller and his pussy eating skills. Hope you enjoyed this little something while I’m working on some longer fics!
𝜗ৎ You love Joel, and he loves you back. But the moment his brother Tommy steps into your lives, everything starts to shift.
𝜗ৎ a/n: For fellow greedy girls like me who love the Miller brothers equally, especially for you @mrsnanamiller 💕
A special thank you to the lovely and incredibly patient @pearlessance 🧡 and @pattwtf 💜 for letting me ramble in their DMs about this fic and for always being so kind.
𝜗ৎ warnings: throuple (joel x female!reader x tommy), dirty talk, soft jealousy, emotional intensity / intimacy, anxious!joel, tommy trying not to disappoint his brother, it’s more than just sexual tension okay, lots and lots of kissing, light dom/sub elements, possessive language, brother/brother dynamics (no incest, shared partner), greedy-but-in-love joel, golden retriever energy tommy, oral sex (male receiving), blowjob, ball sucking, cum eating, reader with a massive praise kink.
𝜗ৎ wc: 9.810
Tommy had never believed the saying that all’s fair in love and war; not until Maria left him.
They had been trying for their first baby together.
Doctor visits and specialists that seemed endless.
Lifestyle changes. Diets.
Calendars packed with strict routines.
Negative pregnancy tests and the blame that always came with them.
All that effort. All that hope. All of it for nothing.
Only for her to wake up one day and decide she wanted to go back to Kevin’s biological father, her little boy’s dad.
So when the lawyers for his ex-wife demanded the house they’d lived in, Tommy didn’t argue; there was no point.
Why keep a place that had become a graveyard full of ghosts that would mock him the second he walked back through the door?
He didn’t tell his brother what had happened, or what he planned to do, until the paperwork was done.
He wanted out of state, a clean break; anything that would let his lungs fill again.
Joel thought it was the dumbest damn thing he’d ever heard because his little brother wasn’t a pariah, he didn’t need to be running.
So he told him to move in with him and his girlfriend.
Tommy tried to refuse at first.
Didn’t want to barge into their lives like he still belonged there.
But Joel kept pushing.
And Tommy was so fucking tired, empty in a way sleep didn’t fix; aching for something that felt like home.
He still remembered the way Joel met him at the door the day he arrived; pulling him into a hard hug that made it impossible to miss how damn happy he was to have him back.
The way Joel walked him through the house, like he was showing him a place that was supposed to be home now, too.
And Tommy looked. Really looked.
Photos of you and Joel everywhere, bringing every wall to life. Dark, heavy wood furniture, solid as a promise, softened by vases of bright, delicate flowers. Like the whole place was built on that balance the two of you seemed to have; steady and sweet, rough edges smoothed out without losing what made it real.
When they reached the guest room you were already there, oblivious to both of them. Humming to the radio, cheerful and unaware, while you smoothed a clean quilt over the bed—his future bed—like it was the most natural thing in the world.
He could’ve sworn he’d heard that same song when he stopped for gas on the drive from Wyoming to Texas.
Too soft, too damn sentimental for a man in his position, heartbroken. The kind of song that made him feel old and miserable.
Tommy didn’t know if it was Joel calling your name that made you look up, or the soft knock he tapped against the doorframe letting you know you weren’t alone anymore.
All he knew was that when your eyes met and you rushed over to him, arms tight around his neck, saying you couldn’t believe he was finally here, that song stopped being a joke.
It somehow became his favorite.
Because right then, Tommy couldn’t stop thinking that if all the hurt, all the wrong turns he’d taken in his life had led him to this exact moment… then maybe everything he’d been through had been worth it.
Completely.
One year later.
Tommy Miller was going straight to hell.
Or at least, he was sure that every single step leading down into the inferno had his fucking name carved into it.
Joel had asked him, last minute, to pick you up from work. No big deal. No problem at all, right? Except it was.
Because he’d stayed long enough to see the end of your pilates class and it nearly killed him but the moment you started teaching the yoga class, every indecent thought he’d been trying to keep out of his head stopped feeling like his, they ran wild and slipped free from his guilty mind.
You in those poses. Open. Unaware.
Stretching slow, easy.
Skin shining with sweat.
Cheeks pink from the burn.
That damn outfit.
The way the leggings hugged the curve of your hips. Your ass.
The way your mound showed when you moved just right.
And when his gaze slipped higher—it just kept getting worse.
That long-sleeve top, crossed at the chest and tied at your waist, was a damn problem. It framed your breasts, made them look heavy. Soft. Impossible to ignore.
“Fuck,” he breathed, close enough to the glass to cloud it.
And just like that, Tommy was imagining his hands there—imagining how it would feel to take that shirt off you.
Would he drag it up over your head, desperate to get to what was beneath?
He could with anyone else but not with you.
With you, he’d dip his head first.
Right to your neck.
Kiss you there. Once.
Then again.
And then lower. Unhurried.
His tongue tracing your skin, taking his time.
And by the time his mouth reached your chest, he’d be tasting the salt of your sweat while his fingers worked patiently at the knot at your waist, loosening it so he could—
“Alright, guys, the class is over—see you next week!” Suddenly, your sweet voice broke through it, followed by loud applause that killed his fantasy instantly.
And thank fuck for that because he was about one second away from his erection propping the door open and saying goodbye to your trainees as they started filing out of the room.
Pilates and advanced yoga classes always left you wiped out and starving.
It didn’t help that one of your students—Sharon, sixty-seven—made you run through everything more than five times. You’d tried to nudge her toward the beginner classes for her own good and for her hip but she always brushed it off, telling you that you were the only instructor at the gym she liked; that you reminded her of one of her granddaughters.
Her kind words, along with the cinnamon cookies she faithfully brought you every week, were enough to secure her a permanent place in your classes.
I’m softer than I thought, you whispered to yourself, breathing out a slow, overdone sigh as you began to roll up your mat.
When it was neatly done, you grabbed one of the elastic bands from the box on the desk. You were halfway through sliding it into place when a pair of hands suddenly cut into your line of sight.
Anyone else would’ve tensed up on instinct but instead, a laugh bubbled up from your chest, soft and uncontrolled because you knew those hands; they belonged to the person who’d quietly filled your life with warmth this past year.
“Should I be scared?” you said through a laugh, placing your hands over his, trying to pry his fingers away.
He didn’t budge.
Kept them right there, steady against your face.
“You could fake a little fear for me, couldn’t ya?” he murmured at your ear, voice low and conspiratorial. “Takes all the magic outta it.”
“We’re literally in a gym,” you answered, reaching back—your fingers brushing his lips without meaning to.
“And that’s meant to stop me how…?” Tommy said softly, nipping at one of your fingers.
You gasped, exaggerated on purpose and he knew it.
“Because the bodybuilders are right down the hall,” you said, reminding him. “And the deadlift crowd’s in the next room. So if you scare me for real, I don’t think you’re gonna enjoy who comes running.”
Tommy’s body went a little stiff behind you and that alone made you laugh again.
“You’re a real buzzkill, y’know that?” he said, letting his hands drop—not before his fingers brushed your face, slow and fond.
When you turned, you found only him; a flicker of disappointment passed over your eyes. Seeing Tommy still made you smile—but the lack of Joel settled heavier than you expected but he caught it. All of it.
“He asked me to come get you,” he said gently. “Said he’d texted.”
“Oh,” you breathed, fishing your phone out of your gym bag, fingers impatient.
You had two messages from him you hadn’t seen until now.
[Joel]: Sorry, sweetheart. Still showing the new guys the ropes.
[Joel]: I’ll make it up to you tonight. Promise.
You smiled again, but it didn’t quite land.
When you looked back at Tommy, it was already fading.
“C’mon,” he told you softly. “Don’t look like that.”
“It’s just… Fridays are our day.”
The word our sounded holy when you said it. Like it wasn’t meant to bend.
“Your day?” he echoed, eyebrows lifting with interest.
“Fridays. When Joel comes to pick me up, we always have a date,” you explained, slinging your gym bag over your shoulder—deliberately skipping your favorite part of the routine; the part where Joel promises to behave while you change in the locker room, only to break that vow and end up fucking you stupid in one of the showers. “There’s a mall right across the street, so we make a thing out of it. Snack. Shops. A movie. You know. Couple things.”
“Well… that makes sense,” Tommy murmured, finally understanding the weight of your disappointment.
“Whatever. Let’s go home,” you breathed, already deflating.
“Hey—easy, sweetheart.” He couldn’t stand seeing you like that. “What d’you say we do all that you mentioned? Just you and me,” he said, easing the gym bag off your shoulder like it was nothing.
Your expression changed on the spot.
“You’d really do that?” you asked, caught somewhere between hope and accepting a quiet, dull Friday night.
“An afternoon with my favorite girl? Can’t think of a better way to spend it,” he said, like the decision had been made the second he saw your face.
You didn’t even let him finish. You rose onto your toes, cupping his cheeks. His arms wrapped around you without hesitation, pulling you in while you covered his face in small, affectionate kisses.
“Thank you,” you kept murmuring. “Thank you. You’re the best.” Again and again.
The way you accepted it without hesitation—that you were his favorite girl, like some quiet, universal truth—made his heart feel light again.
You.
His sweet girl; his brother’s girlfriend.
Spending the afternoon with Tommy ended up being one of the nicest times you’d had in ages—though it would’ve been perfect if Joel had been there too.
You dragged him through every store you’d been dying to check out. Tommy waited it all out, patient as ever, his arms piling up with bags from each of your little purchases.
By the end, his poor wrists were dusted with at least a dozen different perfumes, all mixed together.
And his hands? Full of lip liner swatches from your failed attempts to find a brown that didn’t lean too orange on you.
Tommy really sealed his fate when he said—out loud—that all browns looked the same to him, only to be overheard by a Sephora employee who, much to his suffering, decided it was her civic duty to walk him through warm, neutral, and cool undertones.
He kept glancing at you, eyes pleading for rescue, while you bit the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing.
After that chaotic, hilarious moment, the two of you shared a brownie with vanilla ice cream for a late-afternoon treat—then he took you to the movies, because they were showing a rom-com you absolutely adored: The Proposal.
But the best part of the afternoon was when you dragged him into a tiny photo booth.
“How’re we doin’ this?” he asked, dropping the coins one by one.
“Tongues out,” you said instantly.
The booth echoed with laughter, your shoulders brushing as you squeezed into the cramped space together; when the options came up on the screen, you stopped Tommy before he could choose the plain, classic photo strip.
“The keychain’s cuter,” you said, as the screen reminded you to grab your souvenir.
You grabbed it as soon as you stepped out, checking that the photo looked right before placing it carefully in Tommy’s hand.
“You don’t want it?” he asked, a little confused, looking down at the small pink butterfly keychain.
“No, idiot,” you said fondly, smiling up at him. “It’s for your keys.”
Later, you and Tommy left the mall together, walking toward his bike as the night closed in around you.
“So what happens if one day I land a date and some girl sees your picture?” he teased, helping you slip the helmet on.
You shrugged. “Then she gets to see how pretty her sister-in-law is.”
Tommy chuckled, shaking his head. “Hold on tight, will ya?” he said.
You did, wrapping your arms around his waist as he fired up the engine.
But on the ride back home, you couldn’t stop a small, unwelcome stab of jealousy from creeping in at the thought of Tommy with someone else.
When you got back, Joel was easing his truck into the garage.
Tommy barely had time to help you down, to take the helmet off, before you were already rushing toward Joel.
“Hi, babe,” you breathed, arms sliding around his neck as you kissed him.
“Hey, baby,” Joel said into your mouth, pulling back just enough to see your face. “You mad at me?” The guilt was written all over him but it didn’t last long, not with the way you were looking at him.
You tipped forward, stealing another quick kiss. “It’s okay,” you assured him. “Your replacement behaved pretty well,” you added, just to needle Tommy.
He gasped behind you, clutching his chest, deeply offended on principle.
“The things I’ve endured,” he said to Joel. “I was made to watch a Julia Roberts–Ben Affleck movie. Against my will.”
“That is not who they were,” you laughed as you corrected him. “It was Sandra Bullock and Ryan Reynolds.”
“Did she make you watch The Proposal?” Joel asked, clearly entertained.
Tommy nodded. “Awful. Zero outta ten.”
“Wait till she makes you sit through a Bridget Jones marathon,” Joel said, mock-sympathetic. “Then you can talk to me about torture.”
“Lord, no,” Tommy muttered, already heading toward the house.
“Thanks, Tommy,” Joel said, tipping his chin toward you.
Tommy’s eyes landed on you and lingered longer than they should’ve.
“Anytime,” he smiled, and then he was gone.
The second you were alone, Joel turned all of himself toward you.
“We brought dinner,” you said softly, fingers sliding into his hair, brushing off gently some construction dust.
“Did ya now?” His hands settled on your ass, firm, possessive. A slow squeeze. “Too bad what I’m hungry for ain’t on the table.” His voice scraped low, thick with want. He’d spent the entire day thinking about you and the heaven waiting between your thighs.
You tilted your head up, flashing him that smile—the one that always got him.
“Good thing I still need a shower,” you murmured, letting him press you closer before you pulled back, sweet and cruel all at once.
“Are you coming or not?” you tempted, pausing by the door into the house; thumbs resting at the edge of your leggings, teasing the promise of movement.
Joel’s honey-colored eyes darkened as he started toward you. “Don’t think we’re makin’ it to the shower, sweetheart,” he drawled.
You giggled and bolted up the stairs anyway—only to be caught halfway, hauled back into his strong arms, making you gasp.
“Gotcha,” he purred right by your ear.
“So… what now, huh?” he asked, dangerously calm as hell.
Meanwhile, in the living room, Tommy heard the shower turn on.
The sound of running water started to blend with your voice—your laugh—as he clipped the keychain with your photo onto his set of keys.
His thumb brushed over your face.
A small, absent gesture as he did something he had no right to do; wanting and desiring those forbidden moments of intimacy with you.
Ever since you were little, you’ve had trouble choosing just one thing.
If someone asks about your favorite color, you can’t say pink without adding blue.
Same goes for food.
If you’re gonna snack, it has to be a mix of something salty and something sweet or you’re never really satisfied.
Music works the same way.
Why pick a song with just one singer when collaborations exist? No matter how much you love Somebody to Love, you’ll always choose Under Pressure instead because David Bowie’s there too, sharing the space.
One day at school, they told everyone to bring their favorite toy.
The rule was simple: only one allowed.
That was a nightmare for you.
You lay awake the night before, quietly miserable in the way only a little girl can be, trying to choose between two Barbies: Erika from The Princess and the Pauper or your Cali Girl Horseback Riding Barbie.
You ended up picking the second one—she smelled nice, after all—but Erika went into your backpack too because leaving her behind felt wrong.
The next day, the most smug, prim little girl in class: Cindy Palmer, talked everyone into playing weddings.
The mission sounded easy: pair your doll with another doll.
Everything was going fine until you saw a boy who’d somehow managed to bring a Wolverine figure and a Cyclops from the X-Men.
You remembered that a while back—without permission—you’d read the comics your uncle kept in his bedroom.
In them, it was pretty clear Jean was involved with both of them; they were together free and happy.
So the decision was made.
If Jean Grey could have Logan Howlett and Scott Summers, your Barbie wasn’t settling for just one either.
You lined up like everyone else, anxious and unsettled about your beloved doll’s future marriage; the ribbon your mom had used to try and tame your hair kept bouncing, restless, like it couldn’t sit still either.
When it was your turn, Cindy looked you up and down and told you that you couldn’t marry your Barbie to two dolls.
You had to choose one but you refused, stubbornly.
You said you didn’t see the point of God making hearts with a left side and a right if there was only space for one person anyway and naturally, she tattled to the teacher and since it was a Catholic school, you ended up being lectured by the Mother Superior for committing such a blasphemy.
She told you that you had to be stronger than temptation. Resist it. That what was expected of you was long-suffering propriety because whoever loves two, loves no one.
You cried through the entire scolding, feeling your small heart shatter into pieces but the nun, far from showing you any mercy, assigned you a sin: greed; and you felt the sentence draw tight around your neck, like a noose.
That small story stayed with you until graduation. Thanks to Cindy—of course—who made sure it was printed in the yearbook so no one would ever forget it.
Now, in the present, you found yourself staring at something uncomfortably similar.
You’d done a bit of channel-surfing before sitting down to paint your nails and between True Blood and The Vampire Diaries, the choice had been obvious.
You were biting your lower lip, completely focused. Carefully trying to paint a tiny flower on your big toenail when Katherine Pierce said something to Elena Gilbert that made you freeze mid-stroke:
It’s okay to love them both. I did.
You didn’t like Katherine, not at all; if anything, you flat-out hated her.
But for the first time, you recognized yourself in her. Just without the manipulative, vicious edge.
You loved Joel, there was no arguing that. You’d marry him tomorrow, even if it meant paper rings or an onion ring.
And yet, somewhere along the way, Tommy had slipped in your heart too.
He’d always been charming. Attractive. A Miller—what did you expect?
But it was the shared space, the closeness, that did you in; the moment you realized you wanted him the same way you wanted Joel.
Maybe the nun hadn’t been wrong; maybe you were just greedy at the core.
That same night, Joel walked in already on edge; short-tempered and wound tight.
They were up against a major job—the hospital build—and the deadline was breathing down his neck.
He snapped that he wasn’t hungry and didn't want company.
You gave him time. You always did.
Then, quietly, you tried to get him to eat anyway.
But his only response was snapping at you, stepping away the second you touched his back, brushing you off when you murmured, Don’t do this, baby—please.
It shattered something in you every time he went like that; so distant, so silent.
You don’t know who started yelling or who said the thing that cut deepest just that you left the kitchen with your eyes stinging, refusing to cry where he could see with your hands trembling and your breath hitching.
And somehow you ended up in the guest room, aching and craving for Tommy’s sweetness.
You came undone the moment Tommy opened the door and asked what was wrong; you just shook your head and pressed your face into the curve of his neck, tears soaking into his pajama shirt.
“Hey… shh,” Tommy whispered, fingers combing through your hair, his other hand rubbing slow, steady circles into your back. “You’re alright, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”
When you finally settled enough to talk, you told him what happened and asked him not to say a word to Joel. You didn’t want to pile more on him.
You tried to convince yourself it wasn’t as bad as it felt; maybe you were just hormonal or maybe it was the tangle of feelings sitting heavy in your chest.
Tommy promised he wouldn’t say anything. And he meant it. But after he gave you an aspirin for the headache he knew was coming—because it always did after you cried like that—and walked you to your bedroom, he headed straight for the kitchen, jaw set, ready to have a few words with his brother.
“What the hell’s gotten into you, man?” he said, voice low but edged.
“This doesn't concern you, Tommy,” Joel replied, eyes fixed anywhere but him.
“It damn well does if she’s cryin’,” Tommy snapped back.
Joel finally looked up like he’d just been hit.
“She cried?”
Tommy crossed his arms with his jaw tight. “You made her cry,” he said. “That ain’t the same fuckin’ thing.”
“Fuck,” Joel exhaled, rubbing his face. “I wasn’t tryin’ to take it out on her—”
But Tommy didn’t let him finish—he just opened the fridge. “Look at what you messed up with that damn attitude of yours,” he chided.
Salmon in garlic sauce with roasted potatoes, his favorite.
“Lower,” Tommy demanded.
And Joel looked.
A big dish of tiramisu.
Fuck, he’d really screwed this one up.
“She cooked all damn afternoon for you, and you couldn’t even appreciate it,” Tommy spat. “And for the record, she soaked every single cookie in your favorite coffee, you dumb son of a bitch.”
That did it.
Joel moved in front of him, all solid presence and clenched teeth. “Don’t forget you’re a guest in this house,” he warned, voice low, dangerous.
But Tommy stood firm, shoulders set, refusing to give even a single inch. “We ain’t kids anymore, Joel,” Tommy said firmly. “So don’t expect me to roll over for you now.”
They stared at each other down; the tension around them was thick enough to choke on.
They’d been here before. Once, it had ended with fists and years of silence between them.
Tommy leaned in just enough that their chests nearly brushed. “You keep this shit up,” he said low and deliberate, making sure every word landed, “and she’s gonna walk.”
And with that, he walked out, leaving Joel standing there alone.
Things between you and Joel were finally improving. He was making an effort not to close himself off; not to shut you out when things got overwhelming.
But Tommy’s words kept echoing in his head, slow and relentless, stirring up something he hadn’t felt before.
The fear of losing you.
It had never even crossed Joel’s mind until now and the realization made him feel like a damn fool for ever assuming you’d always be there.
And yet—there was more.
The way Tommy had stood up for you, protective and wounded all at once, like you already belonged to him too, made Joel start looking at everything a little more carefully.
It started with little things he’d never paid attention to before: The way Tommy watched you, the way he lingered whenever you hugged him; like pulling away took effort.
And then there was the one thing he couldn’t ignore anymore; Tommy hadn’t dated anyone since his divorce from Maria. He didn't even flirt when they went out for drinks after work.
Had he really been that blind? Or had he just refused to see what had been in front of him the whole damn time?
But the cherry on top was when he found his brother finishing the vanity he had left half-done for you in the garage.
“What the hell are you doin’?” Joel asked, staring at him in disbelief.
Tommy startled at the sound of his voice, nearly spilling the can of varnish he was holding onto the concrete floor. “Jesus, Joel,” Tommy blurted. “You tryin’ to give me a damn heart attack or what?”
“I don’t know, Tommy. You’re the one lookin’ like you just saw a ghost.” He folded his arms, eyes fixed on him, while Tommy stood there with the brush still in his hand—caught and guilty— like he’d been spray-painting someone else’s name where it didn’t belong.
“I was just puttin’ a coat of varnish on it, okay?” Tommy explained. His voice hadn’t quite settled yet. “She mentioned earlier she’d been lookin’ at vanities online, and I thought helpin’ you finish it faster made sense. That’s it.”
And then there was you.
Showing it to him with bright eyes, walking him through every little detail of how you’d arranged your makeup after he surprised you with the vanity.
“It’s perfect, baby. I even still have room to put more things away.”
Joel hummed a quiet mmmmm under his breath as he checked every drawer, making sure they slid open and closed just right.
“I put a picture of us on the shelves above the table,” you said, pointing to a white, heart-shaped frame holding a photo of you and Joel at the beach.
You kissed him then, telling him you still couldn’t believe he’d taken the time to make something like this for you from scratch but right at that moment his eyes drifted to the other side of the vanity.
There was another identical frame there.
A picture Joel remembered taking of you and Tommy not long after his move.
Everything about it felt ironic.
On the right side was his photo.
On the left, Tommy’s.
Like the vanity itself was a reflection of your own heart and each of them held one half; a quiet unintentional confession.
Joel would be lying if he said he didn’t feel jealous after that. Because he did.
And then, hand in hand with that jealousy, came a twisted thought born from his anxiety.
What if one day you got tired of how complicated loving him could be sometimes? Would you look for that closeness—that sweetness—somewhere else, just like Tommy had warned him?
No, you wouldn’t do that; he knew you never would but the idea stayed with him anyway.
But his greedy, hopelessly in-love heart couldn’t stay quiet, sinking deeper into the anxious thoughts that were gnawing at him from the inside out.
What if the sweetness you craved didn’t have to come from outside these walls? Just right here, at home.
As crazy as it sounded, he’d sleep better knowing you had everything you craved; everything you needed.
And if something ever happened to him, he knew Tommy would take care of you.
That thought alone steadied him.
He only wanted you to be happy, he lived for that; lived for you.
So maybe—just maybe—he’d finally figured out the key to keeping you by his side always.
One afternoon, while you were gone, he sat down with his brother to tell him what he’d decided about you.
Tommy kept pacing like standing still might kill him. “I think that hit you took when we were kids finally did its job,” he said flatly. “’Cause you’ve lost your damn mind.”
“Tommy, just hear me—”
He turned fast. Too fast. “Hear you—You want me to hear you?” he said, staring at him like he didn’t recognize him. “You just said you wanna share her with me, Joel.” Hand gesturing between them.
Joel understood the confusion. Hell, he did. But the frustration was setting in now, tight in his jaw, because Tommy wasn’t being honest; not with him, not even with himself.
Joel peeled slowly at the sticker on his beer bottle, anything to keep his hands busy; anything to steady himself while he said the thing he’d fought accepting.
“I’m plenty of things, Tommy,” he said quietly. “But I ain’t stupid.” His eyes stayed on him now. “I’ve seen how you look at her. How she looks back at you. Same way she looks at me—like we’re her whole damn world.”
Tommy opened his mouth, but Joel raised a hand—Stopped him dead.
“I know I get closed off,” Joel went on. “Always have.” A beat. “You’re the opposite of me.”
“What’re you tryin’ to say?” Tommy asked, bracing himself against the counter.
“That what I can’t give her,” Joel said, steady and certain, eyes locked on him, “she could get it from you.”
Tommy laughed, sharp and wrecked all at once. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “You’ve lost your damn mind. You really have.”
Joel didn’t flinch; didn’t look away. “Are you in love with her?”
Not attraction. Not want. Love.
Tommy shook his head. “I wouldn’t ever do somethin’ like that to you.”
“Jesus, Tommy,” Joel said sharply. “Quit skirtin’ it. Say it plain.”
Tommy’s throat bobbed. Worked like it hurt. “Yeah,” he admitted quietly.
Joel turned away, just for a beat. Breathed in through his nose. “She’s my girl, Tommy.”
Tommy nodded, his jaw locked in place, ready for whatever came next.
A yell. A hit. The look that said you’re a traitor and I’m disappointed in you; anything sharp enough to tear him apart.
“But she could be yours too.”
The sentence stayed suspended between them; dense and unavoidable.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Tommy barked, spiraling fast. “Is this a joke or somethin’?” He shook his head, furious. “This isn’t funny, Joel. Not at all.”
He searched for his big brother’s face but all he found there was sincerity and acceptance. “Fuck,” Tommy breathed, fists clenched tight at his sides. “You serious right now?”
“I ain’t scared of sharin’ love, Tommy,” Joel admitted with his voice strained. “I’m scared of losin’ it.” Saying it out loud loosened something in his chest; like the claws of his anxiety finally eased their grip from his throat.
“Joel—” Tommy faltered, thrown completely off balance. “She’s not—damn it, she’s not somethin’ we can trade around like she don’t matter,” he snapped, voice cracking as he sat down hard, hands gripping his hair.
Joel laughed under his breath, nervously. “That ain’t what I’m sayin’,” he replied. “I’m not just talkin’ about sex here.”
Tommy finally looked at him then, relief cutting through the panic. “You mean… everything?”
Joel met his gaze and nodded once. “Everything, Tommy.”
“So… does that mean she’d be…?” Tommy asked softly, hope trembling in his voice.
“Our girl,” Joel avowed. “I just want her to have what she needs. Everything she deserves. And if that means she’s got the both of us, Tommy—then that’s how it’s gonna be.”
February 3rd, 2013
The Super Bowl dominated the room, loud and impossible to ignore; the biggest event in American football was the undisputed star of the evening.
“I’m tellin’ you, the 49ers are gonna win,” Joel hollered toward the living room while he helped you bring out all the food you’d spent the afternoon making.
“You’re wrong, old man. Ravens all the way,” Tommy answered back, already sounding way too confident.
You shook your head, smiling to yourself as you lined up the bowls and plates on the counter. “Baby,” you said sweetly, tilting your head up at Joel, “can you grab the wooden board from the top shelf so I can cut the cold cuts and cheese?”
“Course I can.” He reached up easily, muscles flexing under his shirt, then set the board down in front of you with a soft thunk.
“You spoilin’ us tonight,” he said, pride thick in his voice. “Ain’t nobody got it better than you.”
You laughed, nudging his hip with yours. “You say that every time I make a charcuterie board.”
“And I mean it every damn time.”
You were slicing the cheese when you spotted a hand sneaking a handful of deli meats . “Hey—don’t even think about it, Tommy!” you warned, giving his hand a gentle smack. “No picking at anything until kickoff.”
“C’mon, have some compassion,” he groaned, all drama. “I’m starving over here, sweetheart,” he murmured against your ear, pulling a laugh out of you.
His hands settled at your sides, fingers poised like a warning. “Hand over the cheese,” he teased, chin dropping onto your shoulder, “and we can all walk away from this unharmed.”
“Oh, yeah?” You cleared your throat and called for Joel. “Honey,” you said in that syrupy-sweet, bratty voice. “Your brother is blackmailing me with tickles if I don’t give him something to eat.”
Joel shook his head, lips pressed tight as he tried not to laugh.
“Traitor,” Tommy said under his breath, fingers digging into your sides before he snatched a piece of cheese and popped it into his mouth, ignoring your complaints.
His touch had stopped feeling accidental weeks ago like there was intention there now; even Joel’s expression had changed—the tightness he used to wear every time Tommy came near you was gone.
Thirty minutes later, everything was set for the game.
Joel and Tommy picked at the food, arguing over plays, while you lay comfortably between them on the couch.
Your head rested in Joel’s lap; your legs stretched across Tommy’s.
Your eyes were fixed on your iPad, lost in daydreams—imagining how you’d design your own yoga and Pilates studio; something you hadn’t stopped thinking about since they told you they could renovate the old guesthouse out back for you.
A single floor.
A small kitchen.
A spacious living room.
One bedroom.
Two bathrooms.
It was perfect, like it made for it.
The kitchen would turn into a cozy sitting area, somewhere to chat and have a drink before and after sessions.
The living room would be where the classes happened. You’d even set up a little corner with toys, a place where kids could play while their moms took some time for themselves.
And the small bedroom? That would be your office.
The whole place would be filled with pastel colors and plants. So many plants.
You’d add two speakers in the living room too, mostly to torment your students with your eccentric playlists; jumping from unapologetic pop hits straight into music that felt way more appropriate for a man surviving his second divorce.
“See?” Tommy ribbed Joel. “Flacco’s makin’ a mess of the 49ers.” His fingers hooked into your sock, pulling it aside so he could start rubbing your foot.
“You feel like bettin’, Tommy?” Joel taunted, fingers combing lazily through your hair.
You peeked over your iPad, biting back a laugh.
“Got an opinion?” they asked at the same time, amused.
“I’m here for Kelly Rowland,” you said, unfazed.
“Sweetheart, it’s Beyoncé doing the halftime show,” Joel chuckled.
“And Kelly Rowland is still the better artist,” you replied calmly. “The world’s just not prepared for my truth.”
“Uh-huh. We’re just gonna ignore how you tried slippin’ past our question by bad-mouthin’ the queen of pop,” Tommy teased, puttin’ extra emphasis on queen.
“C’mon now—who you got?”
“I honestly don’t know, Tommy,” you admitted. “I don’t know a thing about football.”
“You know the thing is, sweetheart,” Joel said, stretching his arm along the back of the couch,“Tommy and I always make a bet on Super Bowl night. Just us.”
“Like a tradition?” you queried.
“Yeah. Somethin’ like that,” he commented, taking a pull from his beer, licking a bit of foam off his lip. “And now he wants to rope you into it.”
“Into the bet?”
“Caught red-handed,” Tommy barked out a laugh. “Why don’t you let her put her money on you this time?” he knowing-looked at his brother; his hand never left your foot, thumb moving in slow circles. “But if I win,” Tommy said, turning his attention fully to you, “you’re gonna owe me.” The grin in his blue eyes was all trouble.
“I don’t really like betting money.”
“Ohhh, so that’s the problem?” Tommy smirked, thinking it over as he reached for a handful of nuts. “Alright then—the winner picks the prize.”
You looked at Joel, unsure.
“Up to you, sweetheart,” he said with a grin. “But if you’re in, you better bet on the 49ers.”
“So… deal?” Tommy coaxed, cocking a brow as he offered you his hand.
What’s the worst that could happen? you thought to yourself.
“Deal,” you announced solemnly, shaking his hand like the two of you were finalizing a business contract.
“Good,” he whispered under his breath, lifting your hand to his mouth for a quick kiss before the game pulled their focus again.
At some point, you half-dozed off while they kept talking over the game. You vaguely registered that the coaches—John Harbaugh for the Ravens and Jim Harbaugh for the 49ers—were brothers before sleep fully took over.
They nudged you awake just in time for the halftime show.
“How in the hell do they move like that?” Joel muttered, staring at the screen.
The three of you watched, completely absorbed, as the dancers moved through Single Ladies.
“I don’t know, but I love their heels,” you whispered. You were absolutely buying a pair like that next time you went shopping.
“Baby… no.”
You shot Joel a look. “Why not?”
“’Cause the last time you tried wearin’ heels that tall, you ate concrete,” he deadpanned, and Tommy cracked up.
“Everybody knows you’re the clumsiest person on earth,” Tommy added, poking the bear. “Don’t get mad.”
“That is not what happened!” you protested offended, getting up from the couch to head to the bathroom. “I slipped. And I’m not clumsy—I have flat feet. Big difference.”
You were in the bathroom, wiping your makeup off, when loud, dramatic boos erupted from the TV and you almost ignored it until Joel and Tommy chimed in with a few very clear fuck and what a load of crap.
“What?” you asked from the bathroom as you patted your face dry.
“The stadium lost power,” Joel answered.
“Whole place went dark,” Tommy added.
Thirty-four minutes later, after keeping everyone in suspense and right when it felt like it might not come back at all, the lights returned and the second half finally began.
Joel walked you through every near-miracle Kaepernick pulled for the 49ers, while Tommy shifted anxiously as the Ravens started running into trouble.
They were both acting like little boys again and pulled in by their excitement and by the way they both went so still, you found yourself actually focusing on the game.
The commentator’s voice lowered as Kaepernick broke into a run, the noise of the stadium blurring into the background.
He called his name, the distance; the five-yard line—like naming it might hold everything in place.
First and goal; an incomplete pass.
Another try that went nowhere.
A third that never connected.
Then came the pause before fourth down, when even the voice on TV admitted this was it but the play collapsed as soon as it began; the ball hit the turf—incomplete.
“The Baltimore Ravens are champions!” The stadium erupted.
“Oh, come on—don’t fuckin’ do this to me,” Joel muttered, clearly pissed.
“Told you,” Tommy chirped, smug and thrilled. “Ravens had it. Flacco was always gonna pull it off.”
You leaned in and kissed Joel gently. “I’m sorry, baby,” you pouted. “Maybe next year?”
He growled into the kiss and it pulled a giggle out of you.
Then Tommy cleared his throat, eyes on Joel, and he finally let you go. “You lost the bet,” Joel reminded you, thumb brushing your cheek.
You turned to Tommy, trying for pitiful. “Are you serious? You’re going to make me pay?”
Tommy lifted a shoulder. “A bet’s a bet… right?” And the way he said it—drawling it out while he traded that quick, knowing look with Joel—told you they had something planned.
Something you didn’t know about.
“Besides,” he went on, “I ain’t gonna make you do much.”
You raised a brow, unconvinced. “Oh, you aren't?”
“Nope,” he promised; still not reassuring you even a little.
You laughed again, but it sounded thin. “So what do you want, then?”
Tommy went quiet pretending he was thinking, and then Joel cut in. “Why don’t you give him a kiss?”
Your mind went empty and you tittered, thinking it was harmless and leaned in to kiss Tommy’s cheek making sure it sounded ridiculously loud and dramatic.
“There.” You pulled back with a grin. “Prize for the winner.”
Then Joel was behind you, warm and solid, arms banding around your waist.
“Not that kind, baby,” he purred, teeth catching your earlobe just enough to make you inhale sharply. “The kind you give me.”
Your laugh stopped dead at his words and as you watched Tommy edged closer; the space between you disappearing.
“Right here, princess.” he beamed, pointing at his mouth with that teasing little smile.
“Okay—this isn’t funny,” you grumbled, nerves creeping into your voice as you tried to get up, Joel’s arms holding you in place. “Can you please stop messing with me?” Your heart was racing, loud in your ears.
“Sweetheart,” Joel shoothed, calmly, “I swear this isn’t a joke. We’re not messing with you.”
Tommy raised his hands, palms out. “Scout’s honor.”
You turned to Joel, searching his face. “You’re really okay with this?”
“Only if you want to be.”
You knew Joel didn’t say things like that without meaning them, so you found yourself leaning toward Tommy because you’d wanted this for longer than you cared to admit.
Eyes fluttered shut as your lips brushed his; you intended it to be brief, gentle and innocent but then Tommy’s teeth caught your lower lip, wordlessly asking for more and your eyes snapped open. Breath catched in your throat.
Joel felt you go rigid against him. “It’s alright, sweetheart,” he cooed, voice steady and warm against the skin of your neck. “You can let it happen.”
And the quiet certainty in his words—the love threaded through them—was what finally did it, what made you give in and let Tommy take the kiss deeper.
The sound Tommy made, low and pleased, told you everything.
When his tongue finally found yours, you got your first real taste of him; sweet in a way that felt almost dangerous, sending the butterflies in your stomach into a frenzy. His hand curls into your hair, angling you just right, deepening the kiss like he’s been allowed to take his time.
“Tommy,” you murmured, breath warm against his mouth.
“I know, baby,” he whispered softly. “I know.”
Hearing the word baby leave his lips nearly undid you, right there in Joel’s arms. You loved them both, and the kiss with Tommy only made real what you’d been refusing to admit for months.
It took everything Tommy had to pull away, his forehead pressing to yours; you were both breathing like you’d just finished a race.
“Best damn bet I’ve ever won,” Tommy grinned, voice strained—because he’d felt it too. The love; the feeling of finally finding its way home.
“I don’t think you’ve got much to complain about, brother,” Then Joel’s hand came up fast, fingers curling at your throat, his thumb lifting your chin so you had no choice but to look at him.
“Joel—” his name faded against his mouth as he kissed you, stealing the rest of the word.
His mouth found yours, hungry and urgent, knocking the breath clean out of you.
He needed to know; needed to feel that nothing had changed, that your love for him was still the same after kissing Tommy. And he felt it. God knows he did. In the way you kissed him back; In the soft, broken sounds you made—half sighs, half I love yous breathed into his mouth—like you were giving yourself to him all over again.
When he felt you smiling against his lips, he did the same and pulled back just enough to look at you, because he knew that smile; the one you only ever wore in moments of intimacy with him.
“Can I give the winner another prize, baby?” you asked softly.
His grip at your throat tightened—still gentle, still affectionate.
“You know I like it when you use your words, sweetheart,” he encouraged, nudging you to be clear.
Your eyes flicked between both of them nervously.
“I want to make Tommy feel good,”
“More?” Tommy asked with a laugh, trying not to look too affected by what had just happened.
You gave him a light smack on the shoulder and he gasped dramatically.
“Well?” Joel pressed, waiting.
“I want to put my mouth on him,” you confessed, your throat tightening as heat began to rush through your veins. “Please,” you added, as if good manners could soften how dirty the request really was.
Joel had known this would happen the second that invisible boundary between you and Tommy started to soften. And now, knowing that he—and only he—was allowing you to finally do what you’d always longed for, to love two people openly and freely, without shame, without blame… who was he to deny you what you craved?
After all he knew that all you wanted was to show Tommy how much you loved him; how much you desired him and Joel wasn’t going to deny his brother an experience that felt nearly sacred; not when he was finally about to learn how good it felt to share you.
“Is that what you wanna do, baby?” Joel asked, his voice low and heated, your pulse fluttering beneath his hand.
You nodded, all but begging him with your eyes. “Please. Let me.”
He used his hold on your neck to draw you back into a kiss. “Be a good girl for both of us,” he murmured into your mouth. “Do it right.” Then he released you, letting himself fall back against the couch.
You looked at them again and felt that familiar warmth blooming deep in your belly.
“So… you gonna take care of me, princess?” Tommy asked, his hand settling over the hard shape in his jeans.
You nodded, and he took your hand, pulling you close enough to steal another kiss. “C’mon,” he coaxed, that easy Southern drawl wrapping around every word. “Show me how pretty you look on your knees for me.”
You were on your knees in an instant; the carpet was thick beneath you, brushing your skin.
Your hands shook as you worked at his belt, undoing it—unbuttoning the buttons, lowering the zipper.
Tommy lifted his hips slightly, helping you slide his jeans and underwear down together.
His cock slipped free, heavy against his stomach; the tip was dark, already wet with precum.
He was just as thick as Joel—and for a split second, the thought of both of them at once crossed your mind before you could stop it. Filling you; fucking you.
You tried to laugh it off, not wanting to sound too eager. “One kiss and you’re already like that?” you teased.
Tommy blinked, caught off guard.
Joel laughed outright. “Looks like she got under your skin,” he said. “Told you—she’s cheeky.”
“Fuck me,” Tommy breathed, rolling with it. “You’re not the one starin’ like you’re about to drool, sweetheart.” His hand slid around his length, slow and deliberate, letting you see exactly how hard he was because of you. He’d never admit out loud how many nights he’d spent thinking about you—never thinking this would actually happen.
And the worst part was that he wasn’t wrong because you were practically salivating.
You chewed on your cheek, caught between teasing him more or giving in.
But Tommy didn’t wait, making the decision for you. “Get closer.”
You shifted in until his cock hovered right in front of your face; your hands resting on his thighs, thumbs circling absently.
“You want it?” he tempted—just to see if you’d bite, dragging the head of his cock along your lips, mapping them out—only making you more flustered and needy; leaving his mark on you.
“Yes,” you breathed; lips salty and tacky with anticipation.
“Then open up, baby,” he said softly, amused. “Closed mouths don’t get fed.”
“Careful,” Joel muttered from the couch, legs fully stretched out, his own hardness obvious; he was hard as stone too—and not doing a thing to hide it. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
Seeing them both desire you, both waiting, made slick heat gather fast between your legs; because even though you were the one on your knees, you could feel that quiet power. Knowing that even as they looked at you like they wanted to devour you, you were the one holding the control.
Tommy guided your hands to his cock, knowing you couldn’t wait anymore. “Go on,” he murmured. “Show me how you’re payin’ the winner back.”
You didn’t hesitate; you started pressing small kisses along his length, slow and deliberate, until you reached the head; keeping eye contact as you placed your lips there.
Licking over the surface, letting your tongue greedily collect every drop of precum because you wanted all of him.
A soft mmmm slipped from your throat when his taste spread across your tongue; if you thought Joel’s cock had been your favorite thing to suck, you’d just found your second.
“Get it in your mouth, baby,” Joel encouraged, his voice low. The sound of his own belt coming undone only made you wetter; anticipation buzzing under your skin.
You glanced up at Tommy. “Can I?”
He brushed your hair back, his fingers shaking just a little. “Yeah, all yours.”
“Just mine?” you murmured, leaning into his touch.
“Just yours,” he repeated, soft but certain.
“And you?” You needed to hear it—because this was more than sex.
“I’m yours too,” he said, his voice thick with emotion and want.
The words hit deep, sparking a rush of need that finally had you taking him into your mouth, slowly because you wanted, needed, to feel every inch of him filling you.
Tommy’s breath stuttered, his blue-green eyes slipping shut as your mouth closed around him.
“Damn, baby,” he muttered, voice rough and low. “You feel… unreal,” he whispered, stunned.
You smiled around his cock, pleased—and then you started to move, setting a steady rhythm with your head; savoring it like it was your favorite thing in the world, already aching to take him deeper.
After some minutes humming and moaning around him you noticed Joel stroking himself with his eyes fixed on you.
You tilted your head without stopping, sucking and drawing in Tommy's dick deeper, giving Joel a better view—putting on a show just for him; letting him watch as you choked gladly around his brother’s cock.
“Fuck,” Tommy gasped. “She always this eager?” he asked Joel, staring at your pretty face like he couldn’t look away. “Feels like she’s suckin’ the life right outta me.” He pinched your nose teasingly, and you laughed softly against his fat cock.
Joel shook his head, letting out a low laugh. “That ain’t nothin’,” he said, voice deep and rough. “You should see her after a girls’ night—she comes back extra talkative. Extra sweet. Gets real handsy. Real bossy.” He spat into his veiny hand and gripped himself, never taking his eyes off you; his gaze grew darker, wilder, with every passing second.
“You get real bossy, baby?” Tommy asked, amused.
“She gets on top—pushy, needy, like she’s gotta have it,” Joel said, breath rough. “But there’s a rule, ain’t there?”
You pulled off Tommy's dick with a slick pop, the sound loud in the quiet room; your hand kept moving on him, using the excess of your own saliva as lubricant.
“I don’t get to come until he says so,” you murmured, a little shaky; your tongue tracing the thick veins along his length.
“Is that right?” Tommy said, grabbing your hair, firm, guiding your face down to his balls. As much as he loved your mouth, he was dying to touch himself while watching you.
You took one eagerly into your mouth, sucking hard, feeling him tense as he started stroking himself.
“Next time you’re ridin’ me,” he said. Not a question; his eyes never left your face.
You nodded, looking up through damp lashes and behind the lust in your eyes, Tommy saw something else—something close to love; to devotion. The same look he’d seen on your face so many times when you looked at Joel; the sight made his chest tighten, sharp and aching.
“How’m I supposed to last,” Tommy panted, more to himself than anyone else, “when you look like that… and your mouth feels so damn good?”
You shook your head, pulling back just enough to switch your focus to his other heavy ball.
“I don’t want you to hold back,” you whispered against him, soft and needy. “I want you to come for me. In my mouth. I wanna taste you, Tommy.”
Joel exhaled, broken. “Such a good fuckin’ girl,” he said, pride thick in his voice. “Always so eager to please.”
“Fuck—you’re gonna ruin me,” Tommy gasped. “Soundin’ all sweet while sayin’ fil shit like that.” His voice dropped, rough. “Tongue out. Now.”
You released him immediately, sticking your tongue out, waiting—aching—as he started stroking himself faster, breath coming sharp and uneven.
Your hands grabbed his thighs again, nails biting in as you pressed your legs together, desperate for some friction; your cunt throbbed—empty and needy—demanding more than you could give it right now as Tommy came apart with a rough groan, spilling hot and thick ropes of cum over your tongue. “Fuck—fuck,” he whimpered, giving you everything he had.
Afterward, he was left breathless. Still stunned. He bent down and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead, careful and reverent. “My sweet girl,” he whispered.
Just then, a sharp tsk from Joel made you look up.
“Looks like you’re not done yet, princess,” Tommy joked as he started tucking himself back into his jeans. “Think you can handle all that?”
“Oh, she can,” Joel said calmly, curling a finger for you to come closer. “And she will. Won’t you, sweetheart?”
You crawled to him without hesitation, your mouth still full of Tommy's cum.
When you reached him, Joel stood, his imposing frame towering over you. “Don’t you dare swallow a damn thing until I finish too. Understood?”
You nodded, opening your mouth wide so he could see you hadn’t swallowed any of it; you pressed your cheek to his thigh, looking up at him with needy, pleading eyes—silently telling Joel that you wanted to take care of him too.
His hand cupped your face, stroking you softly, possessive. “You gonna let me fuck your throat, huh?” he asked, his voice tight. The words only made the ache worse, the heat nearly unbearable. “Course you are.”
He pushed his aching cock into your mouth and started thrusting— with no rhythm, no restraint—knowing he wouldn’t last long after watching you with Tommy.
“Fuck—baby, I’m right there,” he gasped, completely undone, and then he was coming hard—his release blending with Tommy’s, filling your throat until you choked on it; only when he felt you swallow he pulled back, his cock slipping free from your mouth so you could breathe.
“Show me,” he said firmly, still catching his breath.
You opened your mouth obediently for him, tongue bare and completely empty.
Joel smiled, satisfied, and helped you to your feet. “I’m so proud of you,” he murmured. “You were perfect. So damn good.” He kissed you, groaning softly as he tasted what remained of himself and his brother on your lips.
“I love you,” you professed against his mouth, letting him feel the love—and the gratitude—for understanding you even before you understood yourself, packed into those two small words that meant everything to him.
Joel broke the kiss, resting his forehead against yours, brushing his nose to yours as he breathed your scent, grounding himself in you. “I love you too,” he whispered, eyes glassy, on the verge of tears. “From now on, you’re ours, baby. Ours to take care of. Ours to love.” He had to clear his throat before calling his brother. “Tommy—come here.”
Joel stepped aside, not without taking your hand first, threading his fingers through yours, giving Tommy the space to have his moment too—letting him feel the same certainty, the same warmth Joel felt every time you said those words.
Tommy stood from the couch and took two steps toward you, just as nervous as if he were walking up to an altar.
“Tommy, we need to talk,” you joked as you looked up at his face, making him laugh and loosen up a little.
“That never ends well,” he smiled, voice shaky.
“I love you,” you proclaimed fearlessly—brave enough to say it out loud for the first time.
“Yeah?”
You nodded. “More than I can put into words.”
Tommy let out a shaky breath, silently praying God would have mercy on him in that moment and not let him fall apart in front of you—because after the failure of his marriage with Maria, he’d believed he was broken beyond repair, destined to wander alone… Until you proved him wrong; making him feel alive again.
“I love you too, sweet girl,” he promised, voice trembling, before leaning in to kiss you one more time, needing to seal that vow.
You squeezed Joel’s hand gently as you sighed in relief against Tommy’s lips—because you had finally found where you belonged; with them.
In that quiet moment, your heart was freed of every trace of guilt, allowed to feel whole for the very first time and you knew without a doubt that this night was only the beginning of your story.
short continuation of older!reader x Price age gap
tw : smut, mommy kink, PiV, overstimulation
When people think about dating someone older, they would probably imagine something elegant and old-school, a candle lit dinner or a simple picnic by the lake
What they didn't know is that, older people didn't beat around the bush and would jump in head first because they already knew so well what they wanted in a relationship thanks to their experience, there was barely any need to explore and experiment
John Price was ashamed to say that he was previously one of those people. Because, if only he knew about that, he wouldn't make such an embarrassing sound, wouldn't be surprised when you pushed him onto your bed before climbing on top of him
He remembered the flirting started fairly innocent. You cooed and thought that it was cute of him to be interested in an older woman like you. You leaned closer to him as you teased about the two decades age gap between you two, in which he replied that he didn't care. You were vibrant and beautiful, charming and kind, and still so full of life, he was attracted to you because of it and more
So.. he didn't expect your sweet self to change
"Oh baby.. so good for me, my pretty boy.." you purred as you rode his cock in a way that made his eyes rolled back in his head. He whimpered, still taken aback with your change of personality
You were oozing with confidence, being older had earned you the art of not giving a shit to any insecurities you had. And you showed him what being truly experienced was like
Now, John wouldn't call himself inexperienced, nor young, he knew this
But he was pretty confident himself
Maybe he wasn't as experienced. But he got strength and stamina
So when you stopped bouncing on top of him after another orgasm, he took over. While you laid your face on his hairy chest, his rough hands gripped your hips before he bucked his own as he forced you to keep moving
Using you like a mere cocksleeve
And you'd whine, clinging onto his shoulders as you drooled, too tired and overstimulated to keep up with his comparably youthful stamina and libido
"Come on mommy, i could still go on, didn't you say you wanted to teach me a thing or two about fucking properly?" His gruff voice sent a vibration down your spine, and you embarrassingly clenched as you came again-- so quick even though you said you had none in you left
Though, he didn't stop
"That's it mommy.. come on, one more?" He purred, smirking when he heard you sob. "Yeah.. give your pretty boy another"
You really should've thought twice if you thought you could handle a man at his prime like him
..
And if you two weren't too focused on each other, you'd be able to hear the front door slamming to a shut as Gaz had enough of these damn thin walls
price is shucking on his jacket when the bar erupts into heel clicking and fawning. tracks the sound, as the waitresses flock the entrance of the pub with little grace and all thrill.
curiosity should be bored with an old bastard like him, but the creature paws at his stomach and forces his chin over the tables, peering through the occasional gaps in the crowd of embraces.
it’s not until some of them let the door breathe that he sees you.
a beautiful, sparsely decorated thing. all round edges, baking soda and quilts. flower modest in its blooming. nice smile- nicer eyes, that soften when you embrace the youngest of the girls.
carefully, as to not stir the fat baby on your hip.
you hardly look old enough to have such a thing. maybe the dim bar lights, and their tendency to layer age in flawless yellow ale, hide an older reality.
however he can see the plum beneath your eyes fairly well. absent of wrinkles, or middle age, or…
a husband.
the space behind you is vacant and loud. loud enough that john forces himself to look away before he starts imagining himself there. wonders if he’s a deadbeat. if he passed. if you even know who he is.
looks again, despite better judgement. the girls have begun to dip back into their routine, filling drafts and sliding them to seedy men who keep their gazes below their clavicles.
and he notices, between smiles at your designated post by the door, a flicker.
a fault line in a carefully composed, breathing disguise. the breaking of a window, stripped of velvet curtains- that reveal a deep exhaustion. a loneliness.
an opening.
john stands and strides to the door. makes sure he’s close. close when he adjusts his jacket. when his keys slips out, and he keeps walking. close enough to just barely leaving when he hears,
“excuse me!”
he turns, and sees you with his keys in your hand. the baby on your hip. good god, he breathes through his nose, would you look good on his porch, round with another.
“you dropped these.”
“oh,” he says, making sure he brushes the plush of your fingers when taking them, and not failing to miss how your cheeks flush, “thank you darl-“
addresses the baby, “ah, guess I have you to thank too…”
“Charlie. His name is Charlie.” you draw within yourself, questioning why you told him, but he only smiles wider.
“Good name. Strong. Like his father, I assume.”
a bloat of the lips. a crinkle in your nose and an uncomfortable shift of feet. bingo.
“he’s not…sorry hah…not in the picture.”
john hums, straightening to full height. “shame. must be a daft fool, to leave something so precious.”
you laugh. sounds like wedding bells. a baby rattle. “isn’t he though.”
john tips his head to the side. “wasn’t talkin’ ‘bout the baby, sweet’eart.”
Simon Riley, who discovers (and accepts) that he has a raging Mommy kink on a random Saturday, when he meets you in the supermarket around the corner of his flat, where you click your tongue at him in reprimand, ogling him shamelessly as he checks out the new flavours of Ramen noodle cups.
And his spine goes rigid, when you address him directly.
"Big lad like you needs a proper meal," you remark, pushing your grocery cart full of fresh meats, produce, and other healthy goodies past him. "In my humble opinion." You add, nearly cooing at him as he dares a side glance from behind his balaclava.
Within seconds, his eyes flicker to your left hand on the cart, checking for a wedding band, checking for anything that could help him figure out who you are, really.
His fingers dig into the plastic cup that looks comically tiny in his hands, fingers nearly denting the fabric as he tries to come up with a witty, dry remark to keep you from leaving, to start a bloody conversation for once, but then you hit him with a "Have a good day, love." and his breath catches in his throat like someone punched his solar plexus.
By the time you round the corner to the next aisle over, his cock is so painfully chubbed up in his jeans, Simon fears he might faint from the sudden rush of blood down south.
And he doesn't quite know what he's feeling in this moment, but he puts the Ramen back into the shelf, boots squeaking on the linoleum floor as he turns on his heels to give chase like an abandoned pup who might have just imprinted on his new mommy.
Oh, Simon's going to get that proper meal, one way or another—hoping you'll let him have your sweet cunt for dessert.
What if I can't get up and stand tall?
What if the diamond days are all gone
And who will I be when thе empire falls?
Wake up alonе and I'll be forgotten
holy fuck sorry just thought of something and I had to write it before it flew away.
you work at a men’s department store. unusual, next to the large mannequins and suit sets- dressed in heels and tight skirts with a measuring tape to tie it together in a centimeter marked bow.
but the pay is nice, and for the most part you’re a service for gentleman. heavy wallets. wandering eyes, but hands that stay in the pockets you alter.
it’s summer, a slow season for cotton suit jackets. but on your evening shift, you get an appointment notification. he’s polite over the phone, if not a little curt. normal.
the first thing you register is his size. tank of an individual. swings his shoulders when he walks due to their weight. a height that slouches his neck. wide arms.
the second is his suit is extremely worn.
tattered, ripped seams, thinning fabric. criticism tears it to bits when he reveals the event is a wedding. you send him a gentle look from behind your lashes.
“are you…sure you don’t want to buy a new suit?”
he scoffs, but doesn’t respond. you sigh.
“at least look at some of the options.”
and then you’re measuring him, and bless your soul it’s hard to keep yourself professional. hands following the thick ropes of muscle to get his wing span, around his arms to get his shoulder. realizing when you kneel in front of him to get his thighs, just how fucking large he is.
and then the bastard adjusts his pants.
hands pulling at the trouser waist band, thick fingers in the belt loops. and horrifically, just as you look up, you catch the imprint of his fat cock settling between his legs.
swells behind the fly zipper. you feel light headed when he lets go, and it bounces before disappearing. teased. you swallow thickly.
the corner of his mouth twitches.
“what do you think, sweet’eart. need a different size?”
John Price sleeps naked, and I will not have anyone tell me otherwise.
When the two of you were dating, he toned it down a little and at least kept his boxers on, but the minute he had a ring securely on your finger and your vows in place, he refused to wear even a single thing to bed.
“Too hot,” he’d complain daily, pulling you into his chest and causing your ass to settle on top of his fast-chubbing cock (unintentionally, of course). “S’not comfy. Besides, can’t feel you as well.”
He’d regularly try to get you to join him, too — and you don’t think you’d ever seen him happier than on the one instance you finally gave in, only because you were ovulating and you wanted him even more than he wanted you, which was impressive considering his… general consistent need.
And even on the cold winter nights when you could quite literally hear him shivering from the frigid air, he’d shrug off the temperature and pull you even closer. “Who needs clothes when I have you, huh? Like my own little hot water bottle, you are. You give good kisses, too.” His praise was never-ending, if only to keep you from playfully scolding him about his preference.
You never really meant it, though. How could you, when your husband was always so clearly hot and needy for you?
