Summary: You bring Joel as your date to a wedding where your past rears its ugly head.
Warnings: explicit language, reader has anxiety (there's some panic attacks in this one), reader has an abusive ex that is mentioned but no details, smut (piv sex, some oral), verrrryy slight dom/sub dynamic where reader is the dom 🤭 but seriously it's very tame, alcohol consumption, hurt/comfort, angst
other parts found here
We cordially invite you to celebrate the union of Carly and James...
The thick, expensive cardstock stuck to your cork board next to your desk stares you down on this particular day. The date in big, cursive letters in the center of the invitation are screaming at you. Honestly, they have been getting louder and louder with each passing week because the closer you get to the date of their wedding, the more you're reminded you already rsvp'd months ago. With a plus one.
A plus one you didn't want to include. But you had no choice. It was either include him, or skip the wedding entirely. And you know deep down he would have preferred you skip it entirely because that would have destroyed yet another friendship—one that had the potential to save you from the misery of your relationship with him.
So now you're stuck going to this wedding and sitting next to an empty chair with his fucking name in front of the plate while everyone gives you pitying looks all night, or...
Your fingers dial his number before you have time to doubt yourself.
"What's up, honey?"
Joel's deep drawl answers in the middle of the second ring. The familiar way he speaks to you stretches a smile across your face, but then you hear the power tools in the background and your smile falls.
"Oh, shit, you're on a site."
"Yeah, but—"
"I'll call you later—"
"I'm here now," he insists.
"But you're bu—"
Then Joel says your name in the way that makes your eyelids flutter and you stop talking.
"I wouldn't've answered if I couldn't talk."
You inhale slowly and nod, even though he can't see you.
"Right," you breathe, "sorry."
There's a pause on the other end, like Joel is trying to understand your tone through what little you've said so far. It's hard to read, but he picks up pretty quickly that something is troubling you simply because you're not playfully tossing witty remarks at him like you usually would.
"Everythin' okay?" he finally asks. The worry in his voice makes you feel bad.
"Yeah, no, everything's fine," you say quickly, "I just wanted to see if you're free next weekend?"
"For you? 'Course I am."
"Okay," you exhale, "but, like... would you be cool with coming to a wedding with me? As my date?"
You squeeze your eyes shut, bracing for an awkward pause while he thinks of a lame excuse, but then—
"Yeah, I'd love to."
Your eyes open.
"Really?"
"You thought I'd say no?"
"Well, no, not really. But we're just, you know... and I didn't..."
Okay, now you're making an idiot of yourself even more. You sound completely stupid. Warmth burns your cheeks as you stammer over your words, but finally Joel chuckles through the phone and you pinch your lips shut.
"I know you don't wanna label this," he says, "and that's fine. Y'know it doesn't bother me. I'll wear you down one day."
You giggle and the nerves that have been twisting around in your stomach begin to settle.
"You're ridiculous."
"I'm ridiculous? You thought I wouldn't want you on my arm at a wedding and I'm ridiculous?"
You lean back in your chair and tilt your head, grinning up at the ceiling. "Alright, I gotta go."
"Wait!"
"What?" you sigh, still smiling.
"What are you wearin'?"
"Good bye!"
"I meant to the wedding!" Joel laughs.
"Oh, yeah, I'm sure," you answer dryly.
You can hear the smile in his voice over the heavy machinery in the background. "C'mon. Gimme a hint."
"Something... I don't know. I might need to go shopping."
There's a pause, then Joel replies. "And what 'bout now?"
You roll your eyes. You knew it. "Something slutty."
"Really?"
"No, I'm wearing a shirt with a coffee stain on it and old jean shorts. Do you really think I'm working from home in lingerie?"
"Well, would it kill you to do it just once?"
You think about it for a second. "It might, yeah."
"My birthday's in September," he says, and you can hear the crunch of gravel under his boots as he walks back to his crew, "now you know what you can get me."
"For your birthday you want me to work from home in something slutty? That's it?"
"No, never said that's it," he corrects. "Wouldn't mind a few pictures throughout the day and an unlocked front door at five on the dot so I can let myself in. Wanna play CEO and overworked secretary—"
"Good bye! For real this time!" you laugh.
"Yeah, okay, okay," he smiles, "can I call you tonight?"
"Sure," you say, ignoring the flutter in your belly.
"Don't work too hard, honey," Joel says before hanging up.
"I'll try," you reply, then a moment later, the phone goes dead.
You set it down on your desk and take a deep breath. When your gaze settles on the wedding invitation, you feel a little better. It'll be fun with Joel. He knows how to charm a room.
You just hope you can avoid the topic of your ex for the night.
***
You're in your bathroom, hair still damp, robe cinched tightly around your waist, and a whole mess of makeup spread out in front of you when you hear the knock on your front door.
"It's open!"
Joel's heavy footsteps echo from down the hallway when he enters, then your door clicks shut and you hear a rustling of his pants where he's presumably slipping off his shoes before meandering down to your bedroom, a familiar path for him at this point.
"Hey—"
His greeting gets cut short when he sees you very much not ready in your bathroom.
"Ain't we leavin' in an hour?" he asks.
"Yeah," you reply without glancing up from your makeup bag.
"Well, as much as I love your robe, think you might be a little underdressed."
You sigh and turn your head only to find that Joel isn't ready either—not unless he plans on wearing a beat up shirt and jeans to the wedding.
"You should talk," you say. Then he smirks and pulls his wardrobe bag into view, where it had been held just outside your doorframe.
"Knew you wouldn't be ready and I didn't want the damn suit gettin' wrinkled."
"Oh, ha ha," you answer dryly before turning back to your mirror. You're more nervous than you anticipated and your indecisiveness proves it. Why are you agonizing over which eyeshadow to use?
You decide to work on your hair instead, combing it out and readying your curling iron and various products on the sink. At this rate, there's hardly a glimpse of your countertop to be seen, but there's a method to your madness.
Meanwhile, Joel is making himself comfortable in your bedroom. The television is on and you hear the mattress shift under his weight, leaving you to your devices for a while, which you appreciate. It isn't until your hair is done just the way you want it and pinned back away from your face so you can work on your makeup does Joel appear in your doorway again.
He's quiet for a bit but you can feel him there, leaning against the frame, watching you blend in your foundation and blush. It's when you lean forward on your tiptoes to apply your mascara, lips slightly parted and robe hanging loosely from your breasts do you hear the telltale sound of a camera shutter. You blink and turn your head in his direction and sure enough, Joel is leaning casually against your wall, ankles crossed and hands holding up his phone, snapping pictures.
"What are you doing?" you ask, knowing you must look crazy with one eye done and the other still bare. Joel grins and takes another picture.
"Don't got any pictures of you," he murmurs, slowly dropping his phone to his side. "And you just look so... beautiful. Like this."
"Oh, please," you exhale sarcastically, but your heart flips in your chest and heat instantly rises to your face, betraying the annoyance in your tone.
"I mean it," he chuckles, then he pockets his phone into his black pants and it's at that point you realize he's changed and he looks... really fucking hot. Your brain stutters when you take in the perfect fit of his pants, the crisp lines in his bright white button down, and the beautifully laid champagne satin tie around his neck.
Your gaze must linger too long on the way his waist looks in those pants because he has to say your name to get your attention back up to his face.
"I know that look," he teases with a wag of his finger, "gotta take me out on a date first 'fore I put out, little lady."
"History has proven that's a big, fat lie," you scoff, dragging your eyes back to the mirror. You can't stop the smirk when you hear Joel's laughter—it's always so genuine and deep. You really like that about him—he's not fake. He's just... him.
Eventually, his laughter dies down to a comfortable silence as he watches you work on your right eye, then line your lips before tapping on some lipstick and gloss. When you lightly blot and press them together to properly distribute the coverage, he groans loudly from the door, tearing your eyes away from the mirror once again.
"What?"
"Should've kissed you before you did all that."
You grin and shrug as you pack your makeup back into your bag. "Oh, well. Now you'll have to wait til later."
When you move to slide past him, his arm whips out to wrap tightly around your waist, tugging you into his side.
"Or... you'll just have to do it all again."
"Joel—don't you fucking—"
But then his mouth is pressed firmly against yours with a pleased moan, stopping your threat right in its tracks. He doesn't try to deepen the kiss, he just massages his lips against yours, savoring the small bit of intimacy before having to be reserved in public the rest of the night.
"I can't believe you," you whisper when he pulls away. Your lipgloss is smeared all over his mouth and it makes you smile before you gently work to wipe it away with your thumb.
"Sorry," he mumbles, nipping playfully at the pad of your finger.
"No you're not."
Joel chuckles. "You're right. I'm not."
It's fine. You were going to touch up your lips before getting to the event anyway. So you leave it be for now and go into your room to get your dress, which is the easiest move of your whole process. It takes literally minutes for you to slip it on and once you get a look at yourself in the mirror you think you look pretty damn good.
The dress you chose is a nude color with thin straps and square neckline. There's subtle rhinestones sewn into the sheer outer layer. They catch the light just right when you turn to look at yourself in the mirror, but the best and most fatal feature is the long slit up your left leg. It ends at a reasonable spot on your upper thigh but you make a mental note to be careful the more you drink throughout the night.
Is it a risky dress to wear to someone else's wedding? Maybe. But the look on Joel's face when he returns from fixing his hair in your bathroom makes it totally worth it.
"You like it?" you ask innocently, turning around to flash him a little leg with your hands propped on your hips.
"Jesus fuckin'—" The words fall out of his mouth as his gaze burns your skin. He isn't even close to touching you but you feel him, the tension behind his stare, as he takes in every single inch of you. Then his hand dramatically grabs onto your doorframe right before his knees buckle and you giggle.
"You—you can't—"
"What?" you grin as you begin to pack your clutch with essentials for the night.
"You can't wear that," he spits out, "I'm gonna get arrested. You're gonna get me thrown in jail."
You roll your eyes but can't stop smiling. God, he's so cute and always knows the right things to say. It's almost infuriating.
"You'll live," you assure him, tapping his cheek gently before slipping out of your room. "C'mon, we're gonna be late."
"Honey, Jesus, I-I can't—"
You laugh lightly over your shoulder. "Joel! I appreciate what you're trying to do but I'm serious! We have to get on the road."
"I'm not fuckin' around," he insists, trailing after you, eyes still big as saucers. "You tryin' to kill me?"
"Just think about how good it'll feel to take this off me at the end of the night," you tease while slipping on your heels. Joel swallows tight and it's just now that you notice his neck is flushed bright red. Shit, maybe he isn't exaggerating.
"You think I'm gonna make it the whole night, then you don't know me at all," he mutters before forcing himself to take a few deep breaths to clear his head. You laugh again at the theatrics and grab your keys.
"Guess we'll find out."
***
The venue is beautiful, at least.
It's a winery you've heard of but never been to called Wimberley Valley. It's just outside of Austin, located in the admittedly beautiful hill country. Miles of open land surround the estate, allowing you a spectacular view. It's a nice change of pace, even if it's just for one night.
"Jesus," Joel murmurs once he parks your car and looks around at the sprawling venue. The area's natural beauty blends perfectly with the upscale resort and surrounding vineyards. "This place is fancy. How you know them, again?"
"I know Carly from college," you say, unbuckling your seatbelt.
Joel whistled low before slipping out of the car and rounding the back to open your door. He's fiddling with his suit coat before he comes to his senses and offers you his hand.
"Hope I didn't wrinkle anything," you say under your breath. You're adjusting your dress while Joel shuts the car door, but when he is about to lead you towards the building, you stop him.
"Wait—my bag—"
He frowns when he spots you holding your clutch. "Wha—"
Then you open your backseat, revealing a duffel bag, and he looks even more confused until you explain.
"I got a room," you tell him, suddenly feeling a little shy. Why didn't you ask him first? "I—I packed some clothes for you. The shirt I took and, um, sweats you left behind that, uh... that one time. It's so we can both drink and, you know, not worry about driving, or... whatever."
A slow smirk stretches across his face, giving you a glimpse of those dimples under his trimmed beard. "Or whatever, huh?"
You roll your eyes. "Joel..." you begin to say in a threatening tone, but it's too late.
"Don't think you'd make it the drive home without jumpin' my bones, I get it, it's okay."
"That is not—"
"I ain't judgin' you, it's responsible, actually," he continues, offering you the crook of his arm with a cocky smile. You loop your hand through with an exasperated sigh and allow him to lead you through the parking lot, towards the venue. "Can't blame you, either. This suit fits me like a goddamn glove."
"Yeah, yeah," you mutter as your short lived embarrassment disappears.
It's warm today, but not sweltering. You attribute that to the hilly terrain and wide open grounds that allow for cool, gentle breezes to keep all the guests comfortable. It will be the perfect day for an outdoor wedding. But even if it does get too hot, it will be easy to just slip inside the refreshingly crisp air conditioned lobby for a break since the courtyard is attached just beyond. You can see it through the floor to ceiling windows when you step up to the front desk.
"Welcome," a bubbly young girl behind the counter greets with a practiced smile. "Are you here for the ceremony, or checking in?"
"Both," you reply, then offer her your name so she can look up your reservation. As she taps away on her keyboard, Joel leans in so he can whisper in your ear.
"How much did this place cost?"
"Don't worry about it."
There's a gentle press of his hand against your lower back and you find yourself shifting your weight towards him.
"Can I pay you back?"
"You already are," you say quietly, "you're my date, remember?"
"So you want me to pay you with my body, that it?"
You playfully jab him in the shoulder as your cheeks flush with heat, mentally praying the receptionist didn't just hear his dumb joke. It doesn't appear like she did, but you never know.
"Shut up or you're walking home," you grin, and he chuckles before giving you a quick kiss on the cheek. He turns from the desk, hand slipping from your back to hold your duffle while his gaze slowly roams over the ornate chandeliers, twinkling string lights, gorgeous floral arrangements, and expensive looking velvet couches scattered throughout the lobby, leaving you with the stupid looking smile on your face that he left after kissing your cheek like it was the most natural thing in the world.
"Here you are, fifth floor," the receptionist chirps brightly after you've signed the appropriate paperwork. You take the keycards with a grateful smile while she offers you directions to your room.
"I'll go up and drop off the bag," Joel says once you hand him his key, "meet you down here in a minute."
"Are you sure?"
"'Course. Grab us good seats," he tells you while jutting his chin towards the courtyard lined with pristine white chairs.
Once he disappears into an elevator, you wander towards the crystal clear glass doors that lead outside. You can see people already mingling with programs clutched in their hands, sharing smiles and pleasantries amongst the other guests. You quickly scan the crowds searching for any familiar faces as you find a table with programs adorned with pictures of the happy couple. There are a few photos with friends and family and you smile wistfully at the frozen moments in time. Life seemed so much simpler back then.
After picking up a program just for something to hold, you turn back to the beautifully decorated courtyard. A mix of roses, peonies, baby's breath and hydrangeas in differing shades of white and dusty pink adorn the aisle and arch. It's classy. Elegant. Very Carly. It makes you smile a little to yourself while you pick a row near the back, seats on the aisle so you can still get a good view. You set your clutch down on the chair next to you to save Joel's seat, cross your legs, and begin to peruse the program in your lap.
When you eyes land on the list of bridesmaids, your heart stops.
You forgot. How could you forget she was part of the wedding party?
Suddenly, the air feels stifling. Your face burns as the panic swells in your chest. Squeezing your eyes shut, you take a deep breath and count backwards from ten.
It's a big wedding. There's probably almost two hundred people.
You probably won't even run into her.
She'll be sitting at the front with Carly most of the night.
Maybe you can convince Joel to go back to the room early, pretend to have a headache or something.
Fuck. Fuck. Your usual calming techniques aren't working. Your hands are shaking, you can hear the program crinkling in your grip. Your mind is spiraling as you envision every single worst case scenario until—
"Hey."
His voice alone brings fresh air into your lungs. You open your eyes to find Joel sliding into his seat, holding your clutch on his lap and looking at you curiously. "You alright?"
You swallow and nod but he sees through it.
"Yeah. No. I mean—"
You must look as frantic as you feel because Joel glances around quickly before shifting in his seat to block the courtyard's view of you in your chair.
"You need to go to the restroom or the car?" he offers gently. A reassuring hand squeezes your shoulder and you take another deep breath, already feeling your pulse begin to slow.
"No, I'm good. I'm okay," you breathe. Your face feels warm but no longer hot. Your hands are still. It's passing.
"Okay," Joel says slowly, scanning your face with concern. It pulls at your chest the way his brows knit together with worry. "You wanna tell me what happened?"
You swallow again and drop your gaze. Your instinct is to dodge the question, but something about the way he's looking at you makes you speak the words before you have a chance to choke them back down.
"My ex's twin sister is a bridesmaid. I—I forgot."
Joel looks surprised you're so forthright but he has the decency to keep the moment from feeling too vulnerable.
"Is it a problem? Are you... will she bother you?"
You shake your head and shrug. You feel normal again. The blood has drained from your face and you skin doesn't feel as hot as before.
"Maybe. I don't know. Probably not. But... you remember the girl with the pool table?"
Joel frowns for a second before he remembers the story, the one about you and a friend who got kicked out of a bar in a prior life one too many times. One who you used to trust with your entire life. One who turned on you the moment the truth came out about her brother.
"Yeah."
"It's her. We were—we used to be... super close."
Joel nods. "Lemme guess," he says, "her brother's the same ex that was gonna come with you today?"
"Yeah," you sigh.
Joel thinks about it for a few minutes, watching as the rows begin to fill with guests. Laughter and mindless chatter surrounds you, ignoring your crisis in favor of small talk about the weather and sports. Then his arm drapes around the top of your chair and he sits back with a loud sigh. He fixes his tie with his other hand and you notice with a little smile he still has your clutch in his lap.
"You stick with me, honey," Joel finally says, "you'll be okay. Anyone starts bringin' up the past and I'll whisk you away for a dance or somethin'. Don't worry. Just have fun, alright?"
It's so fucking sweet. He probably has so many questions but he's not prying. His only concern is making sure you're comfortable and honestly it's... hard to get used to. But dammit if you don't really like it.
"Yeah," you say softly. Joel glances your direction and smiles. "Thank you."
He doesn't say anything back. Just settles in and watches the pianist warm up, entirely unbothered and relaxed. So you sit back and try to do the same.
***
The ceremony was flawless. Exactly the type of wedding you'd expect from Carly, who always was the preppy one. The one who got her first small designer handbag way too young. The one who grew up going to country clubs and literally summered in the Hamptons at least twice that you knew of. But she was always kind, she never allowed her family's wealth change her. She never thought she was better than anyone and was always welcoming. Carly is the girl who proved you shouldn't judge a book by its cover because when you first met her and saw her perfect bleach blonde hair, brand new Ralph Lauren polo, and denim miniskirt with a chic Louis Vuitton purse, you definitely judged. But it only took a few days for you to realize you were wrong, then you ended up being close friends with her and a handful of other girls for the remainder of your college career.
During the wedding, you avoided looking in her direction. You kept your gaze locked on Carly's stunning smile. When the bridal party exited after the vows, you chickened out and ducked your head so she wouldn't see you.
If Joel noticed, he didn't say anything.
The glass of wine you have during the cocktail hour before the reception helped ease those nerves a bit. You notice a few familiar faces amongst the crowd of guests mingling around fancy hors d'oeuvres but you keep to yourselves, tucked away on the edge of the courtyard pressed against a tall table meant for two.
Joel follows your lead. He doesn't pressure you. He talks about the ceremony and makes jokes about the impossible to pronounce appetizers. He smoothes down his satin tie and nods politely when he makes eye contact with a guest or worker. He offers to get you food so you don't put yourself at risk of bumping into anyone you're not ready to speak to yet.
Everything's going well until the ballroom opens to allow guests to find their tables. When you wander up to search for your name card, you feel sick when you find his name along with yours.
You know it wasn't done to hurt you. The RSVP was sent back months ago. Carly's wedding planner likely sent all the names to the printer long before everything came to light, but still... seeing his name with yours causes your body to lock up. You take note of the table number and crumple the card in your fist until it's unrecognizable, but Joel already saw. He caught a glimpse of the name paired with yours and his lips press together tightly before planting a comforting hand on your back to lead you away.
"What table?" he asks softly.
"Ten."
Your voice sounds tight and foreign. His palm rubs over your lower back, a gentle reminder to stay present, to not let the fear and panic win, that it's going to be okay. So you take a deep breath and let him lead you to your table, where you choose your seats and refuse to put your name card in front of your plates.
"I hope steak is okay," you say weakly. It's the only hint of acknowledgment you want to give around the fact that these decisions were made long before Joel.
"Better than okay," he grins, then squeezes your knee under the table. The tightness in your chest loosens, your body picking up on Joel's relaxed energy and trying to match it. It's going to take a long time for your body to stop reacting to every minor situation with fight or flight mode, but Joel is making it easier.
You settle once your table fills. Some names you recognize, others you don't, but after introductions you realize everyone at table ten are all friends of Carly. Three you remember from school, the rest are a mix of her coworkers or friends growing up. It's perfect, actually. No one knows you well enough to remember your past but not distantly enough where it's awkward for you to exchange comfortable conversation. You manage to loosen up and enjoy yourself for a while, even after the bridal party does their entrance, you manage to keep the anxiety in check. It's after dinner when you're a couple drinks in and your walls have come down that you're met with the next challenge of the night.
The tone of the evening has shifted from swanky classical music to more bass heavy dance music and some ballads. The sun is almost set, the lighting is dim, the conversations around the room have gotten louder and more jovial, no doubt fueled by the open bar. With drinks in hand from the bar—you with some type of sparkling wine that sounded good, Joel with a neat glass of whiskey—you eye up the courtyard through the windows. The ballroom is growing a little stuffy so you decide to wander outside together, get some fresh air, and enjoy the last of the sun's rays.
"This place must've set them back," Joel says once you've found a quiet bench overlooking an impressive garden. Nearby is a large fire pit area with several seating options, but there's already a small crowd and you feel like taking a break from people.
"Her family is loaded," you explain, "I think her dad did something with investments? Or he was a stock broker? I can't remember."
Joel hums, stretches his arm across the back of the bench, and takes a sip from his glass. "Glad we finally found a quiet spot for ourselves."
"Me, too." You relax into the bench, angling your body in Joel's direction just a bit. His dark gaze flickers down at your dress. "Thanks for coming with me. I couldn't have done it alone."
Joel just smiles. "Yeah, you could've. But I'm more than happy to be here."
Some laughter spilling out from the ballroom draws your attention when the French doors swing open. Heels clicking against stone and giggling melt with the sounds from those at the fire pit, but you don't pay it much mind because Joel is suddenly in your ear.
"You look beautiful, y'know that?" he whispers. You grin and tilt your head back in his direction. His deep brown eyes sparkle with warmth under the string lights, filling you with delight because despite there being very beautiful women in every direction, his focus is entirely on you.
"You don't look too bad yourself," you tease, tugging gently on his tie. He smirks and leans forward a bit more, closing the space between you by a few more inches.
"Nothin' compared to you. Anyone ever tell you not to show up the bride on her own wedding day?" You laugh and he tuts under his breath. "Just ain't right is what that is. Oughta take you somewhere and mess up that hair 'n makeup a bit. Maybe wrinkle the dress."
His whiskey is set on the bench next to him, freeing his hand to wander slowly from your bare knee up your thigh where the slit in your dress has exposed your leg. Already there's a pang of arousal that simmers low in your belly and it's probably the alcohol that's made you forget the setting because instead of stopping him, you lean in.
"You lasted longer than I thought," you murmur so only he can hear. He smirks.
"Tryin' to be good f'you," he says quietly, lips only an inch or two away from brushing against yours, "but you make it so goddamn hard."
"Oh, I know," you joke, stepping into the double entendre with both feet. He groans a laugh and is half a second from kissing you when you hear your name and your heart plummets to your stomach.
You know that voice. Your muscles go rigid and before Joel can even read your face, he knows. He feels you tense under his palm but regardless, he doesn't guiltily jump away. He eases back slowly, keeps his eyes locked on you, then eventually lets his wandering hand fall to his lap with a heavy sigh before following your gaze to the young woman and her partner standing just a few feet away.
"Leah," you say, voice sounding like it's being dragged over gravel. You stand and awkwardly tug at the skirt of your dress. "H-Hey, it's uh. It's nice to, um, see you."
You sound pathetic. Before you can curl in on yourself and die, Joel stands. He buttons his coat and plants himself firmly at your side. Leah's gaze flits from you to him and you can see the gears in her head turn.
"Yeah. Hey." She sounds confused. Or amused, maybe? It's hard to tell. But then you spot the lipstick stained highball glass in her hand and figure she's on a tape delay, same as you. Her eyes find you again after she took a little too long analyzing Joel and she cocks her head. "I didn't know if you would be able to make it," she says. You swallow.
"I mean, how could I miss it?" you shrug, hoping to come off unbothered. You don't. Joel's hand rests gently on the middle of your back, steadying you. It helps.
Too much time lapses between your last words. You both know she didn't expect you to come without her brother, but Carly's your friend. Of course you'd come. Still, it makes you feel small, like coming without your original date is somehow considered poor taste or something.
Your gaze flickers to Leah's husband and you offer him a small smile, ignoring the way your heart sits like a stone in your chest when you remember you stood up in their own wedding just two years ago. These people, who you've known for so long, now feel like strangers, and you hate it.
Then, like you're hit over the head with the manners hammer, you snap out of it and remember Joel silently standing guard by your side.
"I'm s-sorry, uh, this is Joel—"
You look up at him next to you and feel a moment of relief. His left hand remains on your back and his right extends to politely shake both their hands while murmuring a good to meet you in his deep, southern drawl.
"Uh, yeah..." Leah says slowly, her eyes sticking on Joel too long once again. You can read her face like a book. She's trying to recall if she's ever met him before, or perhaps heard his name, wondering where on earth he came from. When she can't place it, impatience gets the best of her and she laughs awkwardly before piercing you with an incredulous look.
"I'm sorry, is this—is he your boyfriend?"
Jesus, like it can't get any worse, now you're being confronted with this? What do you call Joel? A friend? A fuck buddy? How did you not have the foresight to anticipate having to explain your relationship all evening?
Then like magic, Joel swoops in and saves you.
"Nah, she just hired me for the evenin'."
He says the joke so smoothly that both you and Leah's husband chuckle. Leah herself manages a tight smile but you can sense she's not done.
"Right..." she says, then studies you once again. She can clock your discomfort and it's making her smug. "You moved on pretty fast," she adds casually before sipping from her glass. Your cheeks burn and your chest starts to tighten again, but Joel's steady hand on your back grounds you enough to remain in control.
"She's allowed to move on, hun," Leah's husband murmurs good-naturedly.
"No, yeah, of course!" Leah chirps with a fake smile. You force one of your own and take a long sip from your wine glass just for something to do. "It's just, you know... weird. Seeing you with someone else. I mean, you were with Liam for so long, it's hard to, like, wrap my head around it, I guess."
Hearing his name spoken out loud makes your throat close up. You cough a little into your hand and murmur your apologies while her husband subtly tries to rein her in with a stern look and a hand on her elbow.
"Yeah, well, it was—it was unexpected, r-really," you stammer, "we kind of just m-met and, you know... hit it off."
"Sure, isn't that how it always goes?" Leah says, tone overly sweet. Then there's a lull where you both awkwardly sip on your drinks and the men glance around the courtyard until the tension grows too thick for Leah to stand and she speaks up again.
"I'm sorry, I just gotta say something here," she begins with a smile. "Not for nothin', I'm happy you're doing good, but do you even give a shit about Liam?"
Your vision narrows.
"Hun—"
"No, I mean it," Leah continues, brushing off her husband's attempts at calming her. The smile falls. "Do you even care how he's doing? You remember he's in prison, right? You remember you're the one who put him there, right?"
"Alright, that's enough—" Joel suddenly says, voice harder than you've ever heard it. It stuns the group of you momentarily. "This is a happy occasion. Let's not start anythin' here, yeah? We're here to celebrate the happy couple, so why don't we just—"
"I agree with Joel," Leah's husband says while proverbial smoke pours from her ears. "We don't gotta do all this tonight."
"He's up for parole in three months, did you know that?" she sneers, ignoring both men. The fear that grips you now is impossible to ignore. It's hard to breathe, your chest is heaving and you can feel your knees starting to buckle. Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck.
"The whole family will be at his hearing," she continues, "we even asked your mom and dad, too. Would be nice if you showed up, maybe tried to undo some of the damage you caused—"
"Hey, would you listen to that," Joel says, "my favorite song. Darlin', let's go back in and dance."
Without waiting for an answer, Joel takes both your shoulders and turns you towards the ballroom, leaving his glass on the bench where Leah stands, fuming.
"Oh, Christ," you gasp as you force yourself to walk. Tears are beginning to blur your vision but you quickly blink them away. You do not cry. Especially over that man.
"It's alright. You're okay," he murmurs gently, leading you through the crowd. Fortunately, no one seems to notice or care about your state since you don't feel the heavy gaze of judgement as you walk. "Stay with me, honey. Don't let it get to you. Just focus on me."
"He-He's gonna get out, Joel," you whisper frantically. And although he has no clue what Liam did, he still blindly supports you.
"And you'll be fine. I promise. Ain't nothin' bad gonna happen."
"You d-don't understand—"
"Hey, look at me." Joel stops and turns you around so you're forced to face him. You must look crazy: watery eyes, panicked breaths, windswept hair, shaking like a leaf. But he sees past all of it. He takes your wine, sets it down on a table, pulls you close, and puts one of your arms around his ribs. You instinctively curl your hand up, cupping his shoulder, and you take a deep breath. His own falls to your waist and he starts to slowly sway to the music while plucking your other trembling hand from your side and resting it over his chest.
"Feel that?" he asks as he slowly and gently leads you around the dance floor. Your feet shuffle on autopilot and you nod when you feel the strong thump thump of his heart under your palm. "Focus on that. Feel how slow it is? Feel how I'm breathin'? Do what I do. Breathe when I breathe."
You lock eyes and inhale slowly, together. The ringing in your ears gets a little softer with each shared breath. The numbness in your fingers subsides the longer you stare into his eyes. Even though you know deep down Joel has no way of keeping the type of promises he made—that Liam can't hurt you, that everything will be okay—you believe him anyway. At least for tonight.
"Better?" he asks when the song ends. You nod but still keep your hand planted over his heart. He holds your hand there as long as you want, even after you drop your head forward to rest on his shoulder. He protectively tucks his chin downwards, stubbled cheek brushing carefully over the top of your head, and you close your eyes, giving in to the gentle way he holds you close, comforting you.
By the third song, you feel mostly like yourself again. You swallow thickly and lift your heavy head to look up at him. He smiles down at you when he sees the light has returned to your eyes. "There she is," he says quietly.
"Sorry I'm a little more complicated than you probably thought," you laugh dryly, but Joel just shakes his head.
"Ain't nothin' I can't handle."
You quirk an eyebrow at him suspiciously. "Don't start lying, now," you tease. Joel just chuckles and tilts his head up to scan the crowd.
"Wouldn't dream of it."
And just because you want to, you dance with him for one more song. He's so calming and strong, it makes you wonder how he grew to be this way. Is it just his nature, or was it something else that forced him to be the anchor in a storm?
"Joel?" you finally ask when the ballad ends. The lights are dimming lower and a fast song begins to pump from the speakers. Around you, guests are cheering and laughing, throwing their hands in the air and twirling around the dance floor, but you and Joel remain locked together, moving slow.
"Hm?" he hums. His thumb rubs soothingly over the back of your hand.
"Can we go back to the room?"
Joel grins. "Havin' too much fun down here, that it?" he jokes. And despite the heaviness of the evening, you manage a genuine laugh.
"Yeah, I guess so."
His hand slips from your waist and you step apart.
"Alright by me," he says. You scan the room, spotting table ten near the hallway that leads to the restrooms.
"I'm gonna use the bathroom first. Can you grab my purse from the table?"
Joel nods and you walk, hand in hand, towards the side of the room, only letting go when you absolutely had to. When you disappear down the corridor leading to the bathrooms, Joel finds his abandoned seat from earlier and sits down with a loud sigh. Your clutch is right where you left it, on the table next to your napkin. Joel stares at it, lost in thought now that he has a moment to himself.
What happened to you? What did this Liam do?
Obviously whatever it was must have been serious if he ended up in prison. For a moment, his eyelids flutter closed, and dark memories of his own flicker unwillingly through his mind.
"Hey, man."
Joel's eyes open when he hears Leah's husband's voice.
"Hey," Joel answers wearily, "sorry. I didn't catch your name."
"Zach," he says, "mind if I sit?"
Joel nods and watches Zach sink into a chair two seats over. He sighs and unbuttons his suit coat.
"Sorry about all that," he begins, "they got a history."
"Yeah, I figured," Joel replies, "she'll be alright."
There's a comfortable silence for a moment where both men watch the guests and the newlyweds dance away to some song Joel vaguely recognizes. There's a lot left unspoken. It hangs heavy in the air, neither one really sure how to tactfully approach the sensitive topic consuming the space until Zach finally clears his throat and props his elbows on the table, drawing Joel's attention.
"For the record," he says, "I can see it from both sides. Leah's loyal to her family so I gotta give her grace for it, but what Liam did was... it was messed up. And I think they all have a hard time believin' he could be like that, you know?"
Joel didn't know, but he nods anyway.
"They all practically grew up together," Zach continues, staring down blankly at the white linen tablecloth, "I'm the outsider. Always been. So maybe it's easier for me to see it, but I told Leah... there were signs. I—I want you to know, I tried. I really did. But—"
Then Leah's voice cut through the air, stopping the small crumbs of information Joel was gathering from her husband.
"I thought you said we weren't gonna talk about this for the rest of the night?" she snaps, walking up behind them. Both turn to look, easily reading the clear anger and annoyance across her face.
"I was just havin' a calm conversat—"
"I heard you. You're over here talking shit about my brother. My blood. To some—some guy that won't last the rest of the month!"
Leah's hands are waving wildly in the air as she rants while Joel does his best to stay out of it. He glances in the direction of the corridor but there's still no sign of you.
"I'm just tryin' to explain what's going on, lower your voice," Zach hisses under his breath as he stands to reach for his wife. She angrily swats his hand away.
"Well did you explain she's a fucking liar, then?" Leah argues. Her eyes are filled with blind rage. Her cheeks are pink and her bejeweled fingers are clutched tightly at her sides. "Because if you're telling him what happened, then you should start there." Leah suddenly turns her attention all on Joel, startling him. She points one perfectly manicured finger in his direction and his jaw clenches. "Your girlfriend ruined my brother's life, and if you're not careful, she'll do the same to you. She is a manipulator. She blows things way out of proportion and twists things around. All for attention!" Leah half laughs, half scoffs while Zach tries and fails to direct her away from the table. "She painted my brother out to be some kind of abusive, controlling psychopath all because she lost her job and frien—"
"That's enough," Joel says sharply while rising to his feet. His height makes Leah stumble backwards in surprise but she shakes it off.
"My brother did the same thing as you. He defended her—"
"Lemme tell you somethin'," Joel snaps, making her fall silent. The anger painted across his face and fire held behind his eyes makes them both pause. It's so distracting that none of them notice you quietly turning the corner from the bathroom, then stumbling to an abrupt halt when you see the scene playing out before you.
Gone is the smiley, relaxed, aloof jokester you're used to. The energy radiating off Joel now is cold and dark. You can't even blink, let alone move. This is a side of him you've never seen before and it has you paralyzed.
Joel shifts forward a few inches, planting his weight firmly on the floor. "I've seen the look in her eyes before and it's clear you ain't ever had the misfortune of bein' close with someone who's suffered from the hands of a monster, but I have. I know what it looks like." Your eyes widen with shock. Even from where you stand, you can feel the heat of his anger. "I know what it looks like," he repeats, softer now, "I've had to watch a woman rebuild her life while always lookin' over her shoulder. I've seen the fear, the terror, more times than I can count." Joel takes a deep breath and even though his voice isn't any louder than normal, the tone has the three of you hanging on his every word. "I promise you, whatever your brother did was real. 'Cause ain't no way a woman can fake the type'a pain 'n dread she lives with. And so help me, if I ever see you or that motherfucker cause her that kinda grief, I ain't gonna stand by and do nothin' this time. I—"
"Joel!"
He spins around when he hears the sharp crack in your voice. Instantly, his face melts from anger back to the softness you're used to.
"Hey," he whispers. Then he swallows tightly, blinks a few times, and seems to collect his emotions. You can practically see him gathering up every shred of anger and resentment and packing it away into a little box, locking it up, and shoving it back into a corner. "S-sorry, honey. I didn't—"
"Let's go."
Your tone is flat and indecipherable. It has Joel hanging his head, deflated, before reaching for your purse and handing it to you. You take it and walk between both parties without a word, weaving through the drunken crowd and skipping your well wishes for Carly and Jim in favor of fleeing to the hotel lobby.
The click of your heels echo loudly across the empty vestibule as you charge towards the elevators. You have tunnel vision, the only target in sight is the escape to your room where you can get some desperately needed privacy.
Joel joins you just after you jab the call button. You feel him by your side, strong and steady, but he doesn't say a word and neither do you. The air is stifling until the doors finally slide open and you step in.
He thinks there may be a moment to explain himself once you're inside the safety of the elevator, but then you hear a stranger's voice ring out, asking for you to hold it, so you do. It's an older couple who step inside looking like they just had dinner or drinks at the restaurant attached to the hotel. They murmur their thanks and tap floor seven, leaving the four of you to stand in silence as the car crawls painstakingly slow past each floor.
Every passing moment feels like an eternity. Joel's hands fidget anxiously at his sides and his mind races as he tries to come up with something to say that will explain how and why he overstepped so badly, but he's not sure what you want to hear. Should he tell you how sick it makes him feel? How fucked up it has him to think and wonder about what you went through? That some part of him wants to protect you the way he couldn't before, back when the victim was different but the fear was the same?
He wants to, but you're so guarded that he's afraid it'll push you away. But what if he already did? What if his outburst frightened you and he'll never hear from you again after tonight? The thought makes his heart drop.
When the doors open, he barely gets a glance at your face before you hurry out into the air conditioned hallway. He thinks the older couple bids them goodnight, but he can't be sure because he's rushing to keep in step with you.
"Listen—"
A housekeeper exits a room with her cleaning cart, stopping the excuse right in its tracks. You're giving him nothing to work with, absolutely no inkling as to how pissed or upset you might be, and it's beginning to freak him out.
After what feels like miles, you finally approach your room. Joel watches as you fish around for the key, tap it against the lock, and push the door open. You're moving as if someone's chasing you and it has his mind reeling with regret.
The light flicks on. Your purse gets tossed haphazardly to the floor. Joel is woefully slipping off his shoes, entirely unaware until his back hits the door from the force of your shove. He blinks in shock and hardly has the time to register the look on your face before your mouth is pressed firmly over his with a moan.
Stunned, Joel forgets to respond. His hands are still raised halfway up, hovering in the air as you claw and tug at his shirt, untucking it from his slacks before you remember his jacket. Trembling with adrenaline, you shove the coat past his shoulders. He handles the rest when his brain finally catches up and he shakes his arms loose. It collapses softly to the floor and then his fingers curl around your shoulders. He manages to break the spell and gently pull you back so he can search your face.
Your ragged, shallow breaths fill the space as you stare at one another, just inches apart. Your heavy gaze wildly darts back and forth, still panting for air, before you whisper his name like a question.
"You ain't mad?" he finally asks.
"Mad?" you repeat with a confused frown.
"Yeah. What I said down there, I thought—"
"No," you breathe, gently clutching the sides of his face with both hands, "no, not mad. I'm... grateful."
But Joel shakes his head. "I lost my cool. Wasn't my place to—to say what I said. It just sorta... I don't know. Couldn't stop myself, I guess." He carefully tucks a stray piece of hair behind your ear as you stare up at him, all wide eyed. "Brought some of my own shit into it, too. Got the best of me, it wasn't right."
"I don't care." You stretch up on your tiptoes so you can plant small kisses along his prickly jaw. "You said all the things I couldn't. You stood up for me without even knowing what happened." Your mouth meets his and you hover there a moment, exchanging shared breaths in the quiet of the hotel room. "You have no idea... no idea what—"
Joel hears your voice get tight and he releases his grip on your shoulders. He pulls you in by the waist and presses his mouth firmly over yours.
You don't need to say it. He knows.
Your nails drag down softly over his cheeks as he walks you backwards into the room. Then your hands drop. The way you pull at his clothes is messy and frantic, like you're desperate to feel his skin against yours, like you need it. You nearly trip over your own heels trying to hurry to the bed, but before you can fall back, Joel stops you.
"Nuh-uh," he tells you, tightening one strong arm around your waist, "you said I could take this off you." His other hand fists the delicate fabric of your dress, reminding you of your earlier promise, and who are you to deny him when his eyes look so bright and eager?
You spread your arms out at your sides. "I'm all yours," you grin, then giggle when he pretends to stumble backwards and faint.
"Gonna kill me, talkin' like that," he warns after moving closer again. Gentle fingers slip both thin straps down your shoulders and you wiggle out of them. One hand sneaks around to the back of your dress and finds your zipper. He starts to pull it down slowly, all with a devilish grin because with every inch your dress loosens, the more cleavage gets exposed, and he seems to really enjoy taking his time with it.
You circle your arms around his neck, steadily holding his gaze. "I've been known to say much worse than that."
Joel groans, eyes flickering down to your chest briefly when the zipper along your back opens all the way, leaving the front of the dress just barely covering your breasts. "Don't I know it, dirty fuckin' girl," he growls, then suddenly tugs harshly on the back of your dress. You gasp when your chest is exposed to the icy air conditioned room, but before you have a chance to even blink, Joel is bending down to suck one of your nipples into his mouth. The warmth of his tongue over your chilled skin makes you shiver in his hold. Your head tips back and eyes slide shut as he mouths at your breast, laving his tongue across your nipple until it's a tight peak, then he moves to the other one. Your hands get lost in his hair while he works, encouraging him to keep going with gentle scrapes of your nails against his scalp.
To your dismay, he releases your breast with a satisfied hum, leaving your aching nipples hard and stiff as he lowers himself to his knees in front of you. Slowly, he begins to peel down your dress, watching with bated breath as more and more of your body gets revealed to him. Only when your dress is left in a pathetic little pile around your feet do you squirm from the heaviness of his gaze.
"Jesus," he whispers to himself. His fingers skim your ankle, right above where the strap of your heel is still buckled. He slowly drags his fingertips up the back of your leg, his gaze following at the same pace. Goosebumps flash across your skin from anticipation but you manage to stay still until he reaches the band of your panties.
They match the color of your dress. The material is smooth and barely there. It was a practical choice so they couldn't be seen through your dress, but now that you're standing here in just your underwear and heels, they feel so much sexier than before.
The damp patch of arousal that's leaking through doesn't go unnoticed. Joel locks in on it and he inches closer, breathing heavier until his lips land on your hip with a moan. Thick fingers curl around the elastic and slowly tug the scrap of material down your legs until they uselessly sit on the pressed carpet, alongside your dress.
He hovers there a minute. Leaving you entirely exposed with him on his knees and his mouth inches away from your pussy, he lets you take a moment. There's no pressure but he's letting the opportunity hang in the air, giving you the chance to ask for it or nudge him between your legs. Your heart hammers wildly in your chest. You feel the heat of his breath, you feel the press of his fingers against the softness of your hips, and he waits. He leaves a few gentle kisses against your stomach while you wrestle with the unspoken—do you let him use his mouth? Do you lay back and just take without any shame?
You almost let him, simply because he looks so fucking gorgeous on his knees like this, satin tie loose around his neck, dress shirt messy and disheveled, just like his hair. But you just can't. You're not ready. Instead, you murmur something softly about needing to feel him and begging him to stand. He does without hesitation and kisses you deeply with both hands clutching your face.
You don't feel an ounce of guilt because you finally are starting to believe all the things he's said to you over the last few weeks—he wants you to be comfortable first.
"Take your clothes off," you murmur against his lips. Your hands are working on his belt but you're getting very little help here and your patience is growing thin.
"So fuckin'—bossy," he rasps before finally releasing your face so he can work on the buttons of his shirt. You yank the belt from his waist and throw it on the floor.
"You said you'd repay me with your body," you remind him, "I'm just looking to collect."
Joel's hands pause on his tie. "Is this some kinda roleplay thing? 'Cause for the record, I'm into it."
You roll your eyes and start to unbutton his pants. "This is the second time in a week you've mentioned roleplay, I got the hint."
"Oh, like you didn't get all hot over me with a tool belt." His pants fall to his feet right as he's shrugging off his shirt.
"That's your job, it's not roleplay." Then your gaze snags on the sight of his bare, stiff cock aching for attention and warmth spreads between your hips.
"Didn't stop you from lookin' at me like some bored, lonely housewife who hired a handyman to fix her bed before askin' him to rail her—"
"You've put a lot of thought into these fantasies," you say, dragging your eyes up and cutting him off. Joel lifts his undershirt over his head with a grin.
"What else'm I supposed to do all day at work? Listen to those knuckleheads talk 'bout their favorite shitty bands?"
You're in the middle of kicking off your heels when you pause and look up at him, blinking softly.
"You think about me... at work?"
Joel snorts and slides his palms around your waist. "'Course I do, honey. Fuckin'—look at you." The bashful smile on your face is undeniable as you melt into his touch. "Think 'bout you more than I probably should. Gonna lose a finger one'a these days."
"Mm, just make sure it's not these fingers," you reach behind you and grab the first two fingers and thumb on his right hand, "they're my favorite."
A slow, devious smile stretches across Joel's face.
"Oh, yeah?"
You bite your lip and nod, then gasp when one of those fingers glides slowly through your slit. Your thighs tense when he does it again, only this time the tip of his finger prods gently at your opening, causing your knees to wobble. Joel feels it and makes a soft noise under his breath.
"Need me, huh?" he murmurs. Your lips part and you tip your head up and down, fingers grabbing onto his biceps for support while he continues to pet agonizingly slow at your entrance. "Yeah, I can tell, honey. I'll give you what you need. In fact—"
Joel removes his hand from between your legs and you bite back a whine, but then he's stepping away from you entirely so he can fall backwards onto the bed with a low oof.
"C'mere," he says, curling two fingers forward with a sexy half smirk. Your heart flips a little and you quickly do as he says, dipping low to crawl on your hands and knees up the length of his long, naked body. You pause at his waist and glance down to admire his hard, thick cock resting heavy against his stomach. When it twitches under your gaze, you hum to yourself, then quickly lean down to lick a slow line up the underside of his erection. Joel's breath catches in his throat just when his fingers slide through your hair, curling tightly around the strands but not harsh enough to hurt you.
"Fuck," he grumbles when you wrap your lips around his leaking tip. Your tongue laps gently there, soaking up the salty taste with your eyes closed. When you hum a little, his body trembles and the fist in your hair tightens.
"Careful," he warns. Your eyes flutter open and you look up at him through your lashes, mouth still wrapped around his cock. You can see his throat bob and it gives you a burst of confidence. Slowly, you release him from your mouth, but you don't look away. You arch your back so your ass is up in the air and you tilt your head to the side.
"Or what?" you murmur with your lips hovering right where he wants you the most. His jaw clenches and he exhales slowly through his nose before responding.
"Or I'm gonna come all over that pretty face of yours."
A wide smile tugs at your cheeks.
"That's a very weak threat."
Joel groans and grabs you by the shoulders before you can lower yourself back down.
"This ain't about me," he reminds you after tugging your body up so your thighs are braced on either side of his hips. Your palms flatten against his chest for leverage and you giggle down at him.
"What if I want to make it about you?" you grin.
"'Nother time," he says without a trace of humor in his voice, "Want—" Joel takes a handful of your ass and gives it a firm shake before lightly smacking it, "—want you to take what you need. Fuckin'—use me, baby."
You open your mouth to protest but before you can speak, he's sliding you off to the side so he can stand. He hurries to fish out a condom from the same place he always keeps them in his wallet and you watch him roll it on while you think over what he said.
"Use you?" you repeat when he returns. He falls back onto the bed with a nod, then his hands find your hips again. You help him this time, tossing a leg over him and getting comfortable in his lap.
"Yeah. Just—do what you want. Wanna watch you just... lose yourself on me, okay?"
You gently roll your hips over his cock while you think.
"That sounds a little selfish," you start to say, then it dawns on you.
"Ain't selfish. I get to watch you bounce on it til you can't see straight, how's that selfish?" he says easily, but you've already figured it out. That's what he wants. He wants you to be selfish. Hell, maybe he also likes being told what to do. He's said as much before. But you know tonight he wants you to feel comfortable enough with him to let your walls down, he's just framing it in a different way.
And this... this you most certainly can do.
"Okay," you breathe, shifting your hips forward. Reaching down, you line him up at your entrance. The blunt, firm pressure there already sends a shiver down your spine. Then you begin to sink down, slow, savoring the stretch until your jaw drops and your eyelids slide shut.
You can feel the tension in his hands. He wants to yank you down, bury himself inside you as deep as he can, but he lets you take your time.
"Like this?" you whisper, still working yourself open on his cock.
"Yeah—yes," he grunts. Then he curses when you stop about halfway down and begin to lift your hips back up. Your head tips back and a weak moan slips out when you start to sit, only to stop halfway again.
"You like that?" Joel asks, voice sounding pained. You hum and nod but keep your eyes closed.
"Feels good," you mumble, "like how it feels at first. Like—like it hurts, but in a good way."
"What else?" he rasps. You lower yourself a little more and your brows pinch together at the temporary sting.
"Fuck—like h-how... how heavy you feel. Inside."
He groans in response and slides his hands up your sides. "You're so soft," he says quietly, "'n warm. So pretty, too. So, so pretty."
The praise makes you whimper as you rise back up, leaving just the tip before slowly taking him back inside, only this time, you don't stop. You take him all, every aching inch, until he's pressing up against a spot that makes fire run hot in your veins.
"I like that," you murmur. Then your eyes finally open, allowing Joel to see the heat of your gaze.
"Like what?" he asks. You roll your hips slowly, just barely lifting up so your clit can drag across the coarse hairs at the base of his cock. "Tell me, darlin'. I wanna know what you like."
"Like w-when you—when you... say I'm pretty."
"You are pretty."
"Like when yo-you say I'm good."
"Oh, sweetheart, you are good," he moans. It hurts a little to have your heart so open like this, to admit things that make you feel shame. What a conceited person you must be to chase praise like this, but it's only because you spent so many years hardly hearing anything nice at all. Is it really so bad if you like hearing a compliment every now and again? Is that such a crime?
No, of course not. So why bother feeling ashamed for it?
Suddenly, you understand. You see what he's been trying to do, and something just... clicks.
"I like how much you w-want me," you continue to babble. You move with a little more purpose now, cunt sliding slick and tight up and down his shaft with each roll of your hips. "Like how you—you don't hide it. You're—shit—just so... so..."
"So what?" Joel urges before holding his breath. Delirium has made you loose lipped, or maybe it's just a burst of bravery from being in charge right now, but either way, he loves it. Every time you offer a glimmer of insight into what's going on in that busy head of yours, he eagerly gobbles it up.
"—so good to me," you finish.
It's music to his ears.
Joel surges upwards, thumbs brushing delicately under your breasts. He nips at your collarbone with a smile, far too consumed with what you just said to remember the rules until your fingers wrap around his wrists and you pin him back into the mattress. He lands with a soft grunt and looks up at you with surprise.
"I thought I was in charge?" you smirk. His fingers flex in your grip, chasing the ghost of your soft skin, when a slow smile stretches across his face.
"You're right," he says breathlessly, "you're right. Keep—keep goin'. Doin' so good."
"Tell me wha—what you like," you pant with your fingers still pressing his arms into the mattress. You can feel him throb every time you thrust down and it takes all your power not to moan over his answer.
"Like when you let me be good to you," he responds instantly. "You deserve that, y'know. Someone w-who's good t'you."
You continue to rock back and forth, humming softly under your breath. The way your clit drags across his lower belly is stoking a fire between your legs with each pass. It can't be doing much for him but you wouldn't know it based on the sounds he's making underneath you.
"You can be honest," you tell him, "you don't have—have to—"
"I am," he groans. You huff and your fingers dig into his wrists a little harder when you start to drop down on his cock with short little strokes. "I—fuck... I am. I like wh-when you're like this. Like—fuckin'—holdin' me down like this." His fingers flex but he hasn't tried to pull out of your grasp yet. "Like when you're b-bossy, too. Like that smart fuckin'—ohhh..."
His eyes roll back when you start to bounce faster in his lap and you grin.
"You like being submissive?" you ask softly after leaning down to purr in his ear. He shudders under you, you can feel it in your thighs.
"Not always," he admits truthfully, "but today—y-yeah. Yes."
You curse before feverishly finding his mouth and pressing yours against it to muffle your moans. Fuck, you like that for some reason. It's not something you thought you'd be into but it's... it's really working for you right now.
"Do you know what else I like?" you whisper seductively against his lips. Little puffs of air fan across your face every time your hips drop. Joel's mouth remains open, eyes closed in bliss, and he just nods. "I like how hard you get for me—" you tell him, and his eyebrows furrow just the slightest bit, "—I like how you can't keep your hands to yourself."
"Can't help it," he gasps with his eyes still closed. His neck is growing flush now and you have the sudden urge to taste it, so you dip your chin down and trace your tongue along the prominent vein along the left side. Your cunt pulses around him as you pick up the pace, squeezing and gripping him perfectly every time you bounce. A strangled groan gets caught in his throat so you bear down on him even harder.
"F-Fuck, honey—" he stammers. Your nipples graze against his bare chest every time you move and for the first time, you feel him try to lift his arms. "Lem—lemme touch you. Please, l-lemme—"
Sweat collects behind your knees. Your thighs burn. Your brain buzzes with electrifying need. Joel's arms flinch again and you push them deeper into the mattress.
"Not yet," you gasp, and he whines behind clenched teeth. You ache for his touch but you like hearing him beg more.
You shift so his cock drags along a spot that makes you see stars. Soft noises from your throat and ragged breaths from his begin to mingle with the lewd sound of skin slapping against skin. It's such a power trip, being with him like this. It's liberating in a way you never thought possible and building an intense pressure deep between your legs.
"O-Oh, god, Joel—" Your voice breaks over your plea as heat slowly begins to lick up your spine. Your fingers tighten around his wrists as you glide effortlessly on his cock, chasing your own release while Joel struggles to keep a clear head.
"I can—can feel it," he groans, and when he finally opens his eyes, you can see the intensity he's been hiding. He looks crazed: hairline damp, neck red, jaw clenched tight, and a fire behind his eyes that reminds you how strong he is, that he could easily flip you over and fuck you senseless, but he's yielding to you. Not just because he wants you to have some control back after a shitty night, but because he gets off on it, too.
"I-I—" you stammer before licking your lips and trying again, "I think I'm gonna—shit, Joel, I'm gonna c-come—"
"Please," he rasps, "let go. Let—let go, baby, I fuckin'—need it—"
Desperate sounds get trapped in your throat, behind clenched teeth as you grind down on him. Short, disjointed breaths curled around words of encouragement come from Joel's mouth, pushing you higher and higher every time he says you're pretty or perfect or sweet or soft.
There's a moment where your hips stutter and your cunt clenches down when Joel has to bite down hard on his lip to control himself, and then some semblance of his name rips from your mouth and you come, gushing around him as your whole body convulses. His jaw tightens and his vision narrows, so fucking close to coming himself, but holding on by a thread. He watches as your back arches and your head tips backwards with relief, moaning a mixture of his name and curses until your hips eventually slow.
When your head rolls tiredly forward and your eyes crack open, you see the pained look on Joel's face.
"Did—did you—"
Your throat is raw. You feel like jelly yet somehow you're still holding onto his wrists.
"You d-didn't tell m-me to—" he whispers, then you feel his cock pulse inside you, begging for release.
Electricity shoots down your spine.
"Fuck," you murmur, then bring his hands up to cup your breasts. Instantly, his fingers curl and squeeze them, just like they've been aching to. His thumbs graze your soft skin before gliding over your sensitive nipples and you find your hips rocking in his lap once again. "Come for me," you finally say, "come for me, Joel, please, can you—"
He throws his head back into a pillow with a snarl and then he's coming, muscles going rigid as you gently ride him, all the while sliding your palms up and down his strong arms, wide chest, and broad shoulders. His thick cock continually spasms inside you, an endless release of pleasure that wrings him dry and depleted.
"Christ—" he gasps, his hands falling limply to your thighs. When his eyelids flutter shut, you bend to rest your upper body across his heaving chest until you catch your breath. His arms wrap around you and your chin tilts up to nuzzle against his sticky neck. His pulse flickers fast and steady in his throat, you can feel it against the tip of your nose.
You're a mess. You're covered in sweat, you're exhausted, you can hardly keep your eyes open, but you try your damndest because this feeling is too good—this feeling he's given you, this warmth and adoration and understanding, it's what you've always craved, and you don't want to sleep through it when it's the most heightened. You want to savor the feeling of his arms around you, of his chest lifting you up and down, of the soft strokes of his fingers down your spine.
"Did so good," he eventually whispers, lips brushing your forehead. "How'd that feel? Did you like that?"
You hum and burrow deeper into the crook of his neck. "Yeah," you murmur as your fingers drift mindlessly over his ribs.
"Enough to wanna do it again?"
One eye pops open. "...Now?"
He laughs, chest jolting under your cheek. "No. Jesus. I mean, another time."
"Uh—" It's hard to think. You're still in your post orgasm haze. Everything is still rosy and warm and a little sluggish. "—Yeah, but..."
The fingers dancing along your spine pause.
"What?"
You sigh and gently kiss his throat. "Not every time. Maybe just... sometimes."
"No, 'course not," he assures you, "wouldn't exactly work with my secretary and CEO fantasy."
You frown before tilting your chin up. "Women can be CEOs."
"Is this you agreein' to roleplay?" he asks with a lopsided grin.
"How'd I know this subject wasn't over?"
Joel barks a laugh and pulls his arms tighter around you. "Alright, alright. No pressure. Think on it."
His laughter subsides and his fingers brushing over your back resumes. You let the comfortable silence fill the space and your mind wanders until words that have been begging to be spoken press too heavy on your tongue.
"Joel?"
"Hm?"
You swallow tightly and start to draw circles over his skin with your fingertip. "How would... okay, so—I've been thinking, and..."
Joel waits patiently under you as you stare at your hand making patterns over his chest.
"This is so embarrassing," you grumble, "nevermind."
"No, c'mon," he grins, "say it."
You sigh heavily and roll your eyes at yourself.
"Would you be cool with me calling you my boyfriend?"
The words tumble out fast before you have a chance to make it worse, but your cheeks still burn anyway.
"Oh, shit," Joel chuckles, "am I gettin' a promotion?"
You close your eyes and giggle. "Yeah. You could call it that, sure."
"Then I accept," he says, lifting his arm so he can offer you his hand. You stare at it a moment before it clicks and you shake it.
"It doesn't come with a raise," you warn him, "title only."
"S'alright. Ain't in it for the money." He drops your hand so he can happily resume rubbing your back with a proud grin stretched across his face.
"What are you in it for?"
With a grunt, Joel suddenly rolls you onto your back. You blink up stupidly at him as you try to adjust to the sudden shift, but he just grins down at you before thrusting his hips forward. You gasp at the not so subtle reminder of his cock still buried deep between your legs.
"The perks, obviously."
You smack his shoulder. "Gross," you mumble before tugging him down by the back of the neck for a kiss. Before he has a chance to slip his tongue past your lips, you pull back, but only enough to press your forehead to his with a smile.
"Told you I'd wear you down," he says, noses nudging together gently.
"Yeah, yeah," you relent. You play with the hairs at the base of his neck for a minute while Joel softly leaves a trail of kisses down your jaw. "Sorry it took me a while," you say, "it's just... obviously, I don't have a good track record..."
"You been burned," Joel mumbles against your throat, "I get it."
"Yeah," you sigh, relaxing under him and closing your eyes. "And... I want to tell you about it. One day."
Joel freezes but doesn't lift his head. Just takes a second to process your words before he resumes leaving marks along the column of your throat.
"I'm ready whenever you are, honey."
You breathe deep and smile because for once, no panic is filling your chest and squeezing your throat. No intrusive thoughts are clouding your mind, because you're actually beginning to believe that maybe things really can be this simple. You were just looking in all the wrong places before.
Take my hand where you want it - boss!Joel Miller x married!f!reader
Rating: Explicit, MDNI
WC: 2,6k
Summary: After you discover that your husband is cheating on you with Joel's secretary, Joel becomes your confidant.
One night, after your husband comes home late yet again, you rush to Joel for comfort. And Joel makes sure you get everything you deserve.
Tags: no outbreak, smut with a little plot, infidelity, reader is the wife of one of Joel's employees, kissing, reader gives instructions to Joel, consent king!Joel, soft!Joel, unprotected p in v, cream pie, nipple play, tits biting, sex on a table, hubby cheated first so fuck him, dirty talking, praising, Joel and his huge cock (heheheh), Joel keeps reader panties, pussy pronouns,mention of a vibe and masturbation, no description of reader besides having pussy and breasts and wearing a dress.
A/N: This one won the poll I made for the latest WIP Wednesday. I don't know why infidelity has become a recurring trope for me, I would never do that in real life, but here we are 😂 (I'm also single af sooo). English is not my first language, I apologize for any mistakes. I hope you like it, comments and reblogs are deeply appreciated.
dividers by: @/saradika-graphics
You don’t know what drove you to do it. Or rather, you do know. All too well.
You snuck out at night, like a thief, leaving your husband in bed.
How ironic. Until recently, you were responsible, a devoted wife, someone who tried her best to make the relationship work.
Of course, that was before you found out your husband was systematically cheating on you. Every sudden meeting, every urgent deadline, every project he had to work on late into the night—it was actually his boss secretary riding his cock in a seedy motel.
So what was the point of struggling to hold together the shards of something that was shattering right before your eyes?
What was the point of settling for your vibrator, masturbating silently in the bathroom, biting your lips and stifling your desperate need for someone to make you come the way your husband hadn’t even dreamed of doing for so long—far too long—while he had no qualms about shoving his cock into another woman’s pussy?
One day you stopped by the construction site where you thought you’d find your husband to bring him his favorite sandwich.
You didn’t find him. But you found Joel, his boss.
He was nice. He told you your husband was out to lunch. “Actually, he’s running late—he was supposed to be back half an hour ago.”
You looked at him. You looked at the desk next to his, and then back at him.
“Where’s Joanne?”
“At lunch,” he told you.
“They always disappear at the same time, right?”
You saw the exact moment when something clicked in his brain, when he connected the dots and his eyebrows furrowed, his lower lip trembling.
“Shit,” he whispered, his hands on his hips.
He didn’t dare look at you anymore, his eyes fixed on Joanne’s empty chair.
You didn’t want to cry, but you felt your cheeks streaked and wet.
Joel looked embarrassed, sorry, still confused as to how something like that had slipped his mind.
“I had no idea, I’m sorry,” he tried to explain.
“It’s not your fault, you know. A wife notices that kind of thing…” you said, quickly wiping your cheeks with the back of your hand.
Joel hugged you.
Driving home, you spent the whole time thinking about why you’d chosen a man like your husband instead of someone like Joel.
Why did you always fall in love with jerks? Why did you always let them treat you that way?
Your husband was late again. By now, you’d given up hope that he’d change. You pretended to be asleep, waited for him to get into bed and hear him snoring, and then you slipped out from under the covers.
Fuck it. Fuck him and the way he never knew how to satisfy you. Or take you into consideration. He’d been taking you for granted for at least a year.
At that point, you’d had enough of having dinner ready for him, the house clean, and his clothes washed and perfectly ironed.
Fuck it.
You threw on a dress in a hurry, fixed your hair, grabbed your bike, and started pedaling into the night. You weren’t even thinking about where you were going as the wind whipped against your face and your bike’s light cut through the darkness.
You arrived in front of Joel’s house. You left your bike in his driveway and knocked on the door.
The light was on in his bedroom. You heard his footsteps approaching as you waited under his porch in total silence.
The neighborhood was asleep.
“What are you doing here? Did something happen?” Joel asked you. He seemed surprised but stepped aside to let you in.
“Sorry for showing up here at this hour,” you mumbled, suddenly feeling the weight of what you were doing. “Joel, he…”
“Did he do it again?” he interrupted, looking at you with concern.
You instinctively buried your face in his chest. Joel didn’t touch you, but he let you do it.
“I’m so tired, so tired,” you cried, soaking his shirt.
You looked at him through your tears, asking the one question you were truly afraid to ask.
“I have to file for divorce, don’t I?”
“I mean…not my business but he’s a jerk. He doesn’t deserve you,” Joel nodded.
You knew that.
Joel had become your confidant by chance, but he’d been a good friend.
You’d been talking for a few weeks, ever since the first time he’d comforted you.
It was nice. He was nice.
You didn't have the courage, and you'd never been the vengeful type, but a few times you were on the verge of asking him to fire your husband.
Joel’s hands rested on your shoulders, then on your back, holding you close. “Cry,” he said simply, in a gentle voice, “let it all out.”
Joel was warm. He was gentle, reassuring, affectionate. And you needed that.
Your tear-filled eyes met his again, his knuckles brushed your cheek in a barely perceptible caress.
You took his hand. Clasping it tightly in yours, you pressed your lips to the back of his hand, whispering, “Thank you, Joel.”
“Don’t worry,” he replied, smiling at you “You can stay here for a while if you want. I'll go to my room, but call me if you need anything.”
“No, please, don’t leave me alone…” you begged him, unable to let go of his hand.
You hadn’t held a man’s hand in a long time, and Joel’s fingers intertwined with yours felt wonderful.
A feeling you’d been missing.
“What can I do for you?” he asked you. No one had asked you anything like that in years.
No one had paid you any attention in months.
Your husband fucked you lazily a couple of times recently, just quick thrusts, without any care or feeling, just out of marital duty. It was as if he were having sex with an inflatable doll.
It made you feel stupid and inadequate, without any charm or allure.
You didn’t know what to say.
“I…” You were afraid. Afraid to express what you were feeling, to say what you were going through, to put a name to what Joel was making you feel.
You realized you were trembling in his arms. It wasn’t cold, it wasn’t fear—it was desire.
And when your brain registered it, sending the message to the lower part of your body, you felt a warmth rising from your stomach. A sensation similar to when you let yourself go in the privacy of your bathroom, slipping the vibrator into your panties.
So screw it.
“I just want to feel alive again, I want passion… I want…”
“Sex?” He interrupted you. Straight to the point.
“I…yeah” you lowered your gaze, looking at the tips of your shoes.
“With me?” He asked, gently taking your chin with two fingers and bringing your gaze back to his.
“P-Please…” you muttered.
You couldn't have thought of anyone else. No one who made you feel as safe as Joel.
“Take my hand where you want it,” he invited you. He was calm, reading your eyes, sensing your need.
“Take my hand where you want it”
Holding him by the wrist, you lifted your dress with your other hand, placing Joel’s hand on your hip, just above the waistband of your panties. Joel’s hand was relaxed; he let you guide it.
That was all it took.
You were standing in his living room, and the way Joel’s eyes were looking at you made you think you deserved more. You deserved someone who would look at you as intensely as he was. You deserved him.
Joel held you gently, respectfully; his fingers lingered at the hem of your panties, waiting for your consent. He didn’t go any further, letting you enjoy the weight of his hand on you, his warmth, and his long, calloused fingers resting on your bare skin.
You basked in that sensation, feeling your body come back to life, ignite, and burn.
Joel had never allowed himself to cross the line; he’d always acted like a friend up until that moment—never an inappropriate joke, never a mean remark, never trying to dominate you or force you to do anything you weren’t ready for.
But now, this unexpected closeness was telling you everything you needed to know. His gaze spoke for him, as did his hands and his hips, which moved involuntarily against yours, like a reflex he couldn’t control. He lowered his gaze, you even thought you saw him blush.
You were ready to allow yourself to think about yourself—and only yourself—as you hadn't done in far too long.
You let his hand slide down onto your panties.
His fingers moved cautiously, sliding down at the side, as if he were afraid to get too close to your center.
“Joel…”
“What do you want, baby?”
“I want you” you hesitated for a second before adding, “I want you to remind me what it feels like… touch me, Joel.” Your voice was shaky as you looked into his eyes. But you were certain, more certain than you’d ever been about anything.
“Guide me, then. Use your words, sweetheart, tell me exactly how you want me to touch you.”
And you did.
His hand slid down over your mound, while his mouth was on your neck, kissing and sucking on you tender skin.
His index and middle fingers found your wetness, plunging into it, gathering it up, and guiding it toward your clit.
You moaned, and when he began to trace tight concentric circles on your nerve bundle, you praised him, “Like that… just like that, don’t stop.”
Joel tried to take it slow and steady; whenever he applied too much pressure, you gently corrected him, and he caught on immediately, learning to read your body’s reactions.
His other hand clasped your breast again, and you found enough strength to whisper, “Play with my nipples.”
Two of his fingers closed around it, twisting it, pulling gently, making it harden. A shiver ran down your spine, and a guttural sound escaped your throat: “God… yes.”
He was completely focused on you; his clothed erection was pressing against your thigh, but he didn't seem bothered by it.
Your dress slipped over your head shortly after, he pulled down your bra, and his fingers were around your button again.
He leaned down, his fingers still tracing circles over your clit as your nipple slipped between his lips. He began to suck slowly, his tongue darting over the tip, his hand cupping the underside of your breast, testing your softness.
“Bite it…” you moaned, your hand tugging his hair at the base of his neck.
He did it, softly, holding his bite ever so gently but squeezing enough to make your knees buckle.
He smiled on your skin, watching you slowly fall apart for him.
“You like that, huh? Want more?”
“Yes” you replied under your breath, clutching your other hand on his bicep.
“This pussy’s been neglected for too long, babe, you want me to take care of her?” He whispered.
“Please…that’s all I want” you whined.
“Table, couch, bed… choose” he growled.
“Table” You didn't know how long it had been since your husband had slammed you onto your kitchen table to fuck you. He'd done it when you were newlyweds. Now it was a faint memory.
God, you missed that type of passion so badly.
Joel took you in his arms, your legs around his waist. He pushed you on the table, took off your shoes and slid your panties down.
“Taking this a little souvenir, okay?” He said, pushed them down the pocket of his jeans.
You giggled “yeah, why not”
He looked at you, all spread and open for him.
“You look amazing like that”
You felt your cheeks heat up as you begged him, “Fuck me, Joel, please.”
“How do you want it?” he asked. He was calm and composed, waiting for your instructions, despite the bulge growing in his pants.
“Rough,” you replied, “and raw.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, Joel.” You smiled at him. You had a IUD and you trusted him more than any man you knew.
Joel wasn’t a womanizer. He raised his daughter on his own, built a company from scratch, he didn't have time to screw around.
But boy, he fucked you like crazy that night.
He leaned down over you, kissed a trail down your neck, along your collarbone, and down your arm until he took your fingers into his mouth.
He coated them with his saliva, his tongue gliding skillfully over them. He released them, smirking.
“Do me a favor, okay? Use them on your clit while I fuck you. I'd really love to see it”
You nodded, feeling your whole body aching for him..
He took off his shirt, revealing his freckled, tanned chest. Your mouth watered at the sight. He was so handsome. Muscular, but not too much. Your eyes took in his broad shoulders, his biceps, and drifted down to the happy trail that disappeared into his jeans. He pulled them down, kicking them off. When his boxers joined his jeans on the floor, you were left breathless.
He was huge. He wrapped one hand around it, moving closer.
“I know what you’re thinking. It’s okay, it’ll fit.”
You were soaking wet. With every centimeter he entered you, you felt his veins sliding against your walls, his girth stretching you, as you eagerly sucked his cocked in.
Joel was praising you, whispering in your ear, “Good girl. All nice and wet for me. You’re taking it so well.”
Every word that slipped into your ears sounded like honey—or perhaps like a poison that was hypnotizing you. You liked it. You wanted more. Moans rose from your throat uncontrollably.
“All the w-way in,” you managed to stammer, “give it to m-me. . . all of it, Joel.”
When he reached the bottom, you felt his balls press against your butt.
“Are you okay?”
“I'm fine.” You were filled to the brim. Craig, your husband, couldn't even come close to competing. He had a nice cock, sure, but Joel...
He grabbed your legs, holding them slightly raised with his arms, and started moving.
You were bouncing on the table as if you weighed nothing, while he thrust into you.
One of his hands reached for your breast, the other held you by the hips.
“That's what you needed, right? For me to stuff you like this? To stretch out this pretty little pussy, huh?” He grunted.
“Yes. Yes Joel”
He lifted you up to sit on the table, sliding you along the edge—still inside you—while holding one of your legs.
The change in position allowed him to reach that special spot inside you.
You slid your hand down between the two of you, reaching your clit.
“Yeah, baby, touch yourself.”
It was intoxicating. As soon as you started drawing circles on your bundle of nerves, you started moaning his name, over and over. So loud that you thought the whole neighborhood would hear you.
Your breasts were pressed against his sweat-beaded chest, your nipples rubbing against it with every thrust.
Your other hand slid through his hair, tugging at his curls.
“That’s it, gorgeous, Don’t stop stroking that pretty clit for me”
That idiot Craig never let you do it, every time you tried, he complained that he wasn't enough for you.
Joel was urging you on, “Come on, baby, I know you’re close, I can feel the way you’re clenching around me” speeding up the pace.
You did, your cunt was literally spasming around the huge thickness of his cock, crying all over, juices dripping on your inner thighs.
You came, quivering in his arms, your whole body shaking, overstimulated and exhausted.
He came right after you with a convulsive thrust of his hips, unloading his cum inside you in long, thick spurts.
“Everything okay?” he asked you, as soon as he caught his breath.
He gently kissed your lips, cupping your cheek.
You smiled. You hadn't smiled like that in so long you couldn't even remember when.
“It was amazing. Everything I could have wanted, and more.” You returned his kiss, lingering on the taste of him.
Craig was no longer even in the back of your mind. He and his lover could have a happy life—you didn't care.
Summary: You, Joel and Sarah are spending the day at a waterpark. She wants her dad to go on a slide with her. You just want her dad.
Warnings: 18+only for smut 😛
A/N: Written on a phone and inspired by a day at a waterpark (although sadly no Joel and no cabana lovin’) 😂
Joel Masterlist
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The slide is called the Viper.
The sign at the base features a cartoon snake and a near-vertical drop, and the line coils through three switchbacks before disappearing around a concrete wall painted to look like a jungle.
Sarah has read the statistics off the sign twice, out loud, and is currently chewing the skin of her thumbnail in a way you know as her pre-courage ritual.
"It's literally almost straight down," she says, not really to you, rather more to the universe, as though negotiating terms.
"Yep."
"Thirty miles per hour. The sign says thirty miles per hour."
Two men in neon yellow go screaming over the lip of the drop on an inflatable, vanish, then reappear as a distant splash and a whoop. Sarah watches this with the expression of someone reconsidering a life decision.
"I think," you say carefully, "that this one has your dad's name on it."
The relief that moves across her face is immediate and total and you don’t even feel offended because fuck that.
“Yeah, he'd love this. He's always saying he likes stuff like this."
Joel has expressed no such thing in your presence, ever. You know his water-park priorities down to the geometry of where he sits to catch the most shade and where the nearest water fountain is.
But you say none of this.
"I'll go get him. Hold our spot."
She nods as you slip away from her, heat coiling low in your belly that has nothing to do with the fierce Texas sun and everything to do with pure, unadulterated want.
You've been watching him all day.
That's the honest version of how you got here - not Sarah needs her dad, though she does, but also the accumulated weight of six hours in the sun watching Joel Miller exist in board shorts and not nearly enough shirt.
The way his back looks when he reaches up to adjust the curtains around the rented cabana. The specific flex of his forearms when he carries three bottles of water and a tray of food from the concession stand without asking for help. The smattering of dark hair tracing down from his naval and catching the light. The scar along his ribs that you know the feel of in the dark. The way his hand spread across the small of your back this morning when you were paying for parking, automatic, not for anyone's benefit, just there - proprietary and easy all at once.
You've been wanting his hands on you since approximately nine this morning when you pulled up outside his house and it's now past four.
The cabana curtain is half-drawn. Through the gap you see him in pieces - bare feet, one heel dropped off the lounger, the long stretch of his legs, the faded board shorts, the knot of the drawstring - then all of him, arms folded back behind his head, pulling the muscles of his chest and shoulders into long, clean lines, chest slick with a mix of sunscreen and sweat, jaw loose with sleep, sunglasses half-slid down his nose.
You stand there for a moment that you don't justify to yourself.
He is genuinely, stupidly beautiful and he has no idea, or pretends not to, and the combination of those things has been a problem for you since the first time you saw him at the auto shop eighteen months ago.
You step inside and pull the curtain closed, muffling the noise of the park.
"Joel."
“Mm.”
"Joel." You crouch beside the lounger and lay your hand on his forearm, skin sun-hot to the touch. "Wake up."
He makes a low sound in his chest, and one hand drops and finds yours without a single second of conscious effort.
His palm is rough, warm and large and it swallows the back of your hand entirely. The ache that's been sitting at the base of your spine all day sharpens itself into something with an edge.
"Sarah wants you for a slide," you say, keeping your voice completely reasonable.
"Mm,” he murmurs again.
"Big one. Scary. She wants her dad."
One eye opens and finds you, blurry with sleep, and his expression does that soft private thing it does when you're the first face he processes.
His thumb moves slowly across your knuckles, back and forth.
"Tell her I died," he says.
"Joel."
"I'm serious. Tell her it was peaceful."
You push his sunglasses back up with your free hand, and he catches your wrist - not tight, just certain, the way he holds things he means to keep. Both eyes open all the way, and he looks at you the way he's been looking at you all day in a lower register, the same look made louder now that you're close and it's just the two of you behind a canvas curtain.
His gaze drops.
You're in a multi coloured bikini that ties at both hips, the one you bought knowing what it would do to him. He looks at you the way he always does - a single thorough pass that starts at your face and doesn't rush anywhere, takes in the curve of your shoulders, the neckline, the flare of your hips, the ties at either side - and then comes back to your mouth, his jaw tightening faintly.
"Come here," he says in a tone that indicates it’s not a request.
You lean in and he meets you halfway, his hand at your wrist guiding you in. Then his mouth is on yours and he tastes like the Coke he finished an hour ago and sleep and him.
His other hand comes off the back of his head and finds your face, his thumb against your cheekbone tilting you where he wants you. He kisses you like he's been waiting, slow and deliberate, taking his time with your bottom lip in a way that makes your toes curl into the warm concrete.
"We have maybe ten minutes," you say into his mouth.
"We have twenty. You know what these lines are like.”
He's already sitting up, and suddenly you're inside the bracket of him, his knees on either side of yours, his hands dropping from your face to your hips. He squeezes once, both hands, his fingers digging into the soft flesh there with a low, satisfied sound that goes directly to the base of your spine.
“God, I've been thinkin’ about this all damn day."
"You've been thinking…”
"You've been walkin’ around in this thing since this mornin’. Tits swayin’, ass jigglin’…fuck I love your ass.”
His hands move to curve around the swell of your ass, fingers kneading gently, then they slide back up your sides, thumbing over your ribs, tracing the line of the bikini’s edge up to where it sits snugly under your breasts.
“Near drove me outta my mind."
"You’ve been too busy organising stuff, and sleeping, to notice,” you reply with a faux pout.
"I saw you, baby."
His mouth finds the side of your neck and you tilt your head back and just let it happen, your fingers curling into the hair at the back of his head.
He drags his lips along the column of your throat, open-mouthed, and you feel the scrape of his stubble on sensitive skin and shiver. His hands are moving - palming up over your hips, his thumbs tracing the hollows at the fronts of them, appreciating you with his hands the way he always does, like he's cataloguing.
“You're so goddamn…” he starts, low, against your throat.
"Don't," you say, because when he does this, talks low in your ear about what you do to him, you completely lose the ability to be a functional person.
He makes a low, amused sound and works the tie at your left hip loose. The knot at your right follows, unhurried, the material tossed to one side, and then his hands are on bare skin. He makes a sound that is not amusement anymore - rough, involuntary - as his palms curve over you. He pulls back to look at you in the stripped-down way he has when it's just the two of you, no pretense in it, just want laid plain on his face.
"Lie back," he says.
“Joel…” you say warningly, even though you’re already doing exactly as he’s asked.
He comes with you, one forearm bracing beside your head, the other hand spanning across your stomach. He's looking down at you like he always does - taking his time, reading you - and his hand is warm and large against your belly, and you feel the muscle there jump under his touch.
"Joel," you say again, this time not meaning it as anything except his name.
"I got you." He drops his head and drags his mouth from your throat, over your collarbone, nosing the straps of your bikini top aside one after the other before finally taking the fabrics between his teeth and pulling it down hard, making you gasp. The wet heat of his mouth closing over one hardened nipple causes you to arch up into him with a groan you swallow fast.
His hand slides slow down your stomach, over the jut of your hip, fingers curving inward. You’re already wound tight from the day and the accumulated want and the specific knowledge of his hands, and when he finally touches you where you need it most you make a sound that isn’t quiet enough and have to bury it in the meat of his shoulder.
Outside, a speaker plays something loud and bass-heavy. Children shriek as they run past, the water park absolutely continuing to exist whilst your boyfriend prepares to fuck you.
And you couldn’t give a damn.
Joel doesn't rush. He never rushes this part, which is its own particular torture - those thick fingers reading you with complete attention, learning what makes your breath hitch, pressing precisely where it makes your hips roll up. You feel heat building in long, deep waves and you press your face into his shoulder as your fingers dig into his back.
"You're so wet," he says near your ear, rough and quiet, and you want to die a little. "That water from the slides baby, or…?”
“What do you think?” You breathe, not waiting for the rest. "All day, Joel…” His fingers curl and you have to clamp a hand over your own mouth.
“All day what?”
“All day I’ve been thinking about this,” you confess.
“Really? Fuckin’ in a cabana with little old me?” He teases pushing one digit then another through your slick folds and into your heat.
“Fuck!” You gasp. “Oh my God…”
“Joel’ll do.”
You snicker a laugh that quickly becomes a moan.
“Asshole.”
“Mm…let’s keep your asshole for an occasion when we got more time,” he murmurs into the skin of your throat and your whole body shakes.
He works you apart with his hand until your thighs are trembling, your free hand fisted in the lounger cushion, his name a broken thing you keep pressing into his shoulder every time the sound tries to get away from you.
He watches your face through it with that focused, dark-eyed attention fixed on you like there's nothing else worth looking at in the world. Like you’re the most interesting thing that has ever happened in his life.
When you finally breathe out his name as a please he gets his shorts dealt with, and you reach down to feel the full, hard length of him, tip already oozing.
“Eager, Mr Miller?”
“Fuck,” he hisses in response. “Don’t tease me like that baby.”
“Like what?” You purr, stroking him firmly, thumb sweeping over his precum.
“Goddamn devil,” he growls, mouth covering yours, tongue sweeping inside and meeting your own.
Without further preamble, you hook your ankle behind his thigh and pull him in.
The moment he pushes into you, you both stop.
The stretch of him, the heat, the fullness…your whole body sighs around him. His jaw tightens, his eyes closing for a moment, and then he opens them and looks at you.
"Christ," he says, very quietly, like it's not meant for you.
"Move," you tell him.
He rolls his hips in a long, slow pull that makes your back bow, and the sound you make is absolutely not quiet, no possible way to make it quiet, and you have to turn your face hard into his shoulder and bite down.
“You feel so good, baby, so perfect. Like this pussy was just made for me.”
“Maybe it was,” you whisper. “No man’s cock makes me feel like yours does.”
He groans against your temple, low and controlled, and his pace builds from the slow deliberate warmup into something that is using his whole body - his hips snapping, the lounger rocking faintly, one of his hands gripping your waist and the other braced by your head, slick bodies sliding against one another.
You can feel every inch of him. You've wanted every inch of him since his hand was on the small of your back in the parking lot this morning and here you are with his body driving the breath out of you in a water park cabana while his daughter is nervously waiting in a slide queue.
“You like that, baby?” He mutters. “You like feelin’ my cock inside you?”
“Yes,” you whimper, ‘yes, Joel, yes…”
He palms over your breast, his thumb dragging across the nipple, and you dig your nails into his shoulder.
"Right there," you breathe, because your hips have taken on a direction of their own, angling up to take more of him, desperate and shameless. "Don't…don't stop…”
"Wasn't gonna."
His hand slides down your side, over the flare of your hip, then he squeezes again and you feel his pace stutter, like he physically can't help himself, like the curve of you in his palm short-circuits something.
"You have no idea," he starts, rough and half-finished, and his hand finds where your bodies join, his thumb pressing your clit in exactly the right place, and that's the end of your ability to track any conversation.
You come in a wave that starts low and breaks hard, and what comes out of you is almost nothing - a sharp, swallowed exhale, his name losing all its syllables, your whole body clenching around him and your fingers leaving marks in his shoulder.
He fucks you through it without mercy, reading you with his hands and his eyes and his body, and when the pleasure finally crests and rolls you feel entirely wrung out and still wanting more.
He chases it a minute later, his rhythm going deep and uneven, his face buried in the curve of your neck, a harsh breath of your name against your skin.
“You want me inside, baby?” He groans. “Want me to fill you up? Want me so deep?”
“Yes,” you beg, “please Joel,” because you haven’t failed to notice all the cute little kids in their bathing suits and hats, splashing in the shallow waters of the park, nor failed to consider what it might be like to have one of your own with his eyes and mop of dark hair.
“Fuck…” he grunts, then he shudders once, full-body, and the weight of him settles on you like something solid and right as he floods you.
Neither of you moves for a moment as his cock twitches, pushing the last remnants of him deeper.
Outside, the speaker switches songs and a child screams in total delight.
Joel lifts his head and looks at you. His eyes are still dark, still warm, and he brushes your hair back from your face with his thumb like it's the obvious next thing to do with his hand.
He looks at you for a long, quiet moment as you both begin to breathe steadily again, and you see the settled thing in him - the specific stillness that comes over him sometimes when he has your face in front of him, like this is where things make sense.
"Okay," he says.
"Okay," you agree.
He pulls out, the loss of him making you whimper, and sits up. Ever the gentleman, he reaches for your bag and pulls out a pack of baby wipes, carefully running one over your swollen centre and the inside of your thighs before sweeping it over his wilting cock.
Then he retrieves your bikini briefs and reties both hip knots with careful, practiced hands, smoothing the fabric back into place, and helping you fix your top. He presses his lips once to the tip of your nose - that small, private Joel Miller period mark, there, good, done - and stands.
You check your phone camera. Your hair is a disaster, but you've been in the sun for five hours so that's entirely explicable. Your lips are swollen and there’s a flush in your cheeks. But it’s hot out so…
Joel pulls up his shorts, runs a hand back through his own hair, finds his sunglasses, and somehow looks composed except for the colour across his throat and the way his eyes are still dark when they find yours.
"Ready?" you say.
"Mm." He rolls his shoulders, clears his throat and becomes a man who was simply napping in a cabana. "She better still be in that line."
"She's fine, Joel."
"I'm just sayin'. Don’t think I ain’t seen the way she’s been lookin’ at some of the boys round here in their shorts, showin’ off their six packs.”
“She’s fourteen.”
“I’m aware.”
He holds the curtain open for you, and his hand drops to the small of your back as you step out into the full light - automatic, easy, there and then not there - and the afternoon hits you both like a wall.
Sarah is five people from the front, and the moment she spots Joel she lights up, that quick unguarded happiness she never quite succeeds in playing cool.
"Finally," she calls.
"Yeah, yeah." He steps into line beside her and she immediately begins presenting the slide's statistics to him with the energy of someone who has had too long alone with their anxiety and is ready to share the burden.
Joel looks up at the near-vertical drop, at the cartoon snake, at the sign that says thirty miles an hour, and his expression goes carefully neutral.
"You wanna do that?”
"Together. It'll be less scary with you."
He looks at the drop then looks at his daughter.
"Fine," he says.
Sarah's face splits open. "Yes…”
"I'm makin' no promises about what noises come out of me."
"You're definitely going to scream.”
"I am not gonna scream babygirl…”
They bicker warmly up the line, Sarah gesturing at the drop with both hands, Joel studying it with the face of a man calculating his dignity against thirty miles per hour. He glances back at you once - quick, a single beat - and there it is. Everything underneath, all of it, warm and dark and not for anyone else.
You lean on the railing with your water bottle and watch them. His hand on her shoulder, loose and automatic, her talking with her whole body at him, him listening like there's nothing worth hearing in the world except this.
Your chest is full of something you've stopped trying to name.
Up above, the Viper drops its near-vertical line against the bright sky. Another pair of strangers take the plunge and emerge from the splash at the bottom howling in triumph.
Tags: minors DNI, alcohol use, marijuana use, overpriced hotel, female masturbation, male masturbation, mutual masturbation, dirty talk, cum eating, tummy grinding, multiple orgasms, tit sucking, one night stand
WC: 5.4k
Summary: A bad storm hits California, causing you to pull off into the nearest hotel. The cost of the room at the luxury resort is shocking, but what's even more shocking is who you end up sharing it with.
A/N: This is my first time writing Dieter and I had so much fun with it! I hope you all enjoy this smutty lil one shot. 😘
Divider: @/saradika-graphics
AO3 | masterlist
It was the worst storm in years. Living in California, you were used to some of the extreme heat and wildfires, but true thunderstorms were less common. You hadn’t been prepared as you were making the trek back home to the Los Angeles area from your friend’s place in San Diego. The rain was coming down so hard that you had your windshield wipers on full blast and still could hardly see the road ahead of you.
When changing lanes almost caused you to slide right off the highway, you decided the drive just wasn’t going to work and followed the exit signs to a hotel nearby - Fairmont Grand Del Mar. The Mediterranean-style resort that you pulled up to felt way more luxurious than you had been looking for. You wondered briefly about driving back out on the road and going to another hotel, but the storm was worse than ever and you figured it wouldn’t hurt to at least see how much a room would run you.
As you pulled up further to the circle drive, you could see the lush gardens and sweeping estates. A valet hurried out from the large palatial doors and walked around to your driver’s side window. You rolled it down, relieved to be under an awning.
“Hello, ma’am. Welcome to Fairmont Grand Del Mar. I’d be happy to take your keys for you... May I?” He glanced down at the door handle, his hand hovering while he awaited your confirmation.
Not sure how to explain that you just wanted to check the price of a room, you simply nodded your head and stepped out of the car when he opened the door. After handing him your keys, you stepped through the large doors, smiling briefly at the bellmen as they ushered you in.
The hotel receptionist smiled at you as you crossed the expanse of the ornate lobby. You walked underneath the concave ceiling with golden chandeliers hanging above you. Your wet shoes squeaked against the black and white tiled floor as you passed by a series of sleek couches and armchairs. Other guests sat in some of them, snacking on warm nuts or sipping a fancy cocktail. A fireplace burned off to the side and you were relieved when you finally stepped onto the rug leading up to the large check-in desk.
The receptionist didn’t greet you until you moved closer, an animated smile plastered on her face. “Welcome! Do you have a reservation with us?”
“No, I was hoping you might have a room left.” You had your bag slung over your shoulder, only containing your clothes from the previous day and some of your toiletries.
You hadn’t heard another guest step up behind you as you waited for the receptionist to check on the availability of a room. Her nails clicked against the keyboard and she looked up at you with that same smile on her face. “Looks like our only room left is the paseo suite with two queen beds.”
“Okay, and…how much is that?” You tried to not sound apprehensive, but you figured a suite in a place like this would be a pretty penny.
“$2,900, ma’am.”
“A night?!” An involuntary gasp left your mouth and you heard the snicker of a man behind you. You turned to look at him, ready to tell whoever it was off, but there was something strangely familiar about the man in front of you.
He was wearing a loose flannel that was only half-buttoned, revealing his bare chest. His hair was wild, as though he had run his fingers through it without taming it at all. He wore jeans that hung low on his hips, his round tummy pronounced overtop. He had a playful smirk as he acknowledged you.
“Split the cost?” His playful smirk almost turned more smug as he cocked his head to the side and spoke with a slight slur.
“What?” You furrowed your brow, trying to understand what he was getting at.
“The room.” He nodded his head toward the receptionist then looked back at you. “I need one. Seems you do, too. We could share.”
“Share?” Your voice conveyed your surprise as you held back a scoff. You shook your head. “No, I-”
“Raining even harder than before,” he cut you off. “Everyone’s gonna be filling up every hotel in the area.” He shrugged his shoulders, stepping in front of you and pulling his credit card out from his back pocket. “You wanna take your chances, be my guest. But I’m staying here.” He held out his card to the woman who was nervously looking back and forth between the two of you.
There was no point in arguing it, even though it came across as completely entitled. You had no intention of paying for that room yourself, so you simply shrugged at the receptionist as she took his card and ran the payment for the suite. She confirmed your suspicion as she asked the man for his information and he gave his name - Dieter Bravo. She pulled out two room keys, handing them to the man. “Here you are, Mr. Bravo. Please don’t hesitate to let the concierge know anything you might need.” Her eyes were apologetic, but she still wore a professional smile as she looked at you.
You were about to give up on the whole ordeal as you readjusted your backpack over your shoulder and turned around, not at all surprised that yet another Hollywood A-list actor was haughty and chauvinistic. You’d only taken a couple steps in the other direction when you heard his voice again.
“Don’t wanna share?” When you turned around, he was holding a room key out towards you. His posture was casual, almost slumped, as though he was truly indifferent as to whether you accepted his invitation or not. There was something about his ambivalence that allowed you to feel a little more safe, so you sighed, reaching out and taking the room key from him.
“I uh…don’t think I can pay you quite half, though. Or, I could, it would just need to be in install-”
He interrupted you again, this time with a shake of his head as well as his hand raised in the air to signal you to stop. The audacity caught you off guard and you froze, your eyes wide as you watched him.
“It’s on me. Just don’t clear out the mini bar, and we’ll call it even.” He picked up his duffle bag and headed in the direction of the luxe elevators. You walked after him.
“Even? What is that I’m giving you?” Your stomach knotted at the idea that he might expect sexual favors from you. Dieter wasn’t unattractive. On the contrary, you’d seen him in a movie last year with one of your girlfriends and had giggled most of the time about how cute he was. You’d always had a thing for dad bods and even now found yourself averting your eyes to keep yourself from checking him out. But you were not into one night stands, even with celebrities. And the idea that he might expect that from you gave you the ick.
“Company,” he said with a shrug, stepping onto the elevator as the doors opened. He held his hand out, keeping the doors ajar for you to follow him in.
You only hesitated for the briefest of moments before following suit, standing on the opposite side of the elevator as you responded, “Company?”
“Yeah.” He pressed the button for the second floor. “I’m between gigs right now, been traveling solo for the past couple weeks.” He looked in your direction, an unassuming expression on his face. “It’s been nice, but I wouldn't mind the company of a pretty lady like yourself.” He smiled as he finished his sentence.
Your mouth opened, but the words didn’t come readily, and before you could figure out what to say, Dieter’s expression shifted into one of concern.
“Oh, not like that. Not like that. We don’t have to have sex.” The way he just said it so bluntly had you surprised, but he sounded truthful. “We could just watch a movie or something. Not one of mine, though,” his voice became dry and serious, “I don’t watch my own shit. Just wipe, flush, and move on.”
“O-okay.” You exhaled and stepped off the elevator when the doors opened. You glanced down at the room key to see the number. 211. Dieter walked behind you as you moved toward the room and used your key to enter. He reached out, propping the door open as you walked in. Your jaw dropped, astonished at the size and opulence of the room.
There was a living area with a fireplace, a couch, and two sofa chairs. A flat-screen television was mounted above the fireplace with an ornate gold frame surrounding it. Built-in bookshelves bracketed the lit, crackling fireplace. Behind the couch was a dining area with a mahogany table and tufted chairs surrounding it. A bowl of fresh fruit sat in the center. Running along the dining area were two large glass doors that opened out onto a private balcony.
You looked back at Dieter, clearly appearing awe-struck. “This is insane. Do you regularly stay in rooms like this?”
Dieter nonchalantly closed the door behind him, dropping his bag onto the floor and stepping into the room to explore it with you. He looked around and shrugged. “Usually, yeah.”
You shook your head at his lack of a reaction and moved toward the glass doors, gently pushing them open to take in the view. It was dark and rainy still, so you couldn’t adequately appreciate the gardens that were down below. The balcony had an awning that covered a firepit and two chairs. The wind and rain still wouldn’t make it suitable for an outside fire, but you were sure that it would be a lovely place to hang out.
Dieter stayed inside while you explored the balcony. He took his bag into the bedroom, and by the time you came back inside, he was exiting the bedroom, now wearing striped pajama pants, a loose grey t-shirt, and a green fluffy robe.
You couldn’t help but laugh at the ridiculous sight. “Those look…comfortable.” You covered your mouth with your hand to fight a second snicker.
Dieter tilted his head to the side and then down, peering up at you over his brow as he remarked, “Since when is being comfortable a crime?”
You chuckled, “It’s not. I just…didn’t expect to see you like this. That’s all.” You shut the doors to the balcony and walked past him into the bedroom.
“I’ll let you get dressed in peace, but I expect some pretty impressive pajamas for how hoity-toity you’re being right now.” He walked over to the couch, plopping down lengthwise and lazily reaching for the remote as you closed the bedroom door.
Of course, the bedroom was just as beautiful as the rest of the room. Two ornamental queen beds were separated by a mahogany nightstand. There was a dresser with another television mounted above it, as well as a work desk. Another set of double glass doors were on the far wall, leading out to the same private balcony.
You shrugged off your backpack, pulling out your pajamas from the night before. They were unremarkable, but at least a matching set. You stepped into the bathroom connected to the bedroom. It had a huge, deep tub with jets, and a variety of bath salts and soaps lined the edge. You stood in front of one of the sinks, checking your makeup and hair. When you walked out to the bedroom to grab your toiletry bag from your backpack to freshen up, you could hear Dieter on the phone in the other room.
“Yeah, she’s cute…I dunno…Nah, she didn’t seem interested…I’m so horny, thank god there’s two beds…”
You couldn't get over how brash he was. Still, part of you felt flattered hearing his lewd statements. Tiptoeing back into the bathroom, you touched up your makeup and brushed through your hair. Part of you felt a little silly for doing your makeup at this hour, knowing you would likely be going to bed soon, but being in the presence of a celebrity felt like an appropriate reason. After brushing through your hair, you put it up in a ponytail and then went back out to where Dieter was.
He was flipping through channels as you emerged from the bedroom. He lifted his head, glancing over the back of the couch at you. “Ohh, fancy with your matching jammies.”
When you walked around, able to see him fully, you saw that he had his pant legs pushed up, revealing his tall grey heather socks as he rubbed at his shin. His back was propped against the armrest and he had a gleam in his eye as he watched you take a seat on one of the sofa chairs. He removed his hand from his leg, instead tucking his arm up and behind his head as he continued leaning back.
“What do you wanna do?” He asked as he lifted his head, looking back toward the bar cart and mini fridge. “You drink?”
“Sometimes,” you responded, glancing over at the bar cart yourself.
“Well,” Dieter sat up on the couch, swinging his legs to the side and jumping up. “Let’s make tonight one of those times.”
You watched as he poured two tequila shots, bringing them over with an eager smile on his face. He set one on the table in front of you, sitting down on the end of the couch nearest you and holding out his own glass.
“To unexpected evenings,” he said, his eyes focused on you.
You smiled with a small huff of a laugh and picked up your glass, clinking it against his as you mirrored his sentiment.
“So,” he said as he set his glass down. “You live around here?”
You playfully responded, “If I did, I don’t think I’d be crashing at an overpriced hotel.”
Dieter laughed, standing up with the glasses and carrying them back over to the bar cart. “I suppose that’s true.”
You elaborated, “I was leaving my friend’s place in San Diego, trying to get back up to Los Angeles. I’m assuming that’s where you live, too?”
“One of the places,” he said as he poured two more shots.
You scoffed, “Oh, right.” Moving your head side-to-side and in a faintly sarcastic voice you continued, “Famous actor and all…I’m sure you have houses all over the place.”
He chuckled as he carried the probably-too-expensive glasses back over. He shook his head, “It’s not like that. Just have a place in my hometown and also on the east coast.” He handed the glass back to you. “And it’s not as glamorous as it seems.”
You laughed at that, really laughed. “I don’t believe that. Celebrities say that, but if I had enough money for a place on both coasts, I think I’d be pretty happy.”
“The money’s nice, sure,” he answered with a shrug, leaning back against the couch as he held his glass propped on his raised knee. “But when you don’t have someone to share it with, shit kinda sucks.”
There was a pause between the two of you. The shared eye contact turned to a downcast look at the floor as you took in what he said. You realized how presumptuous and callous you came across.
“I’m sorry, I just assumed with all the movies and stuff you did, that you were sort of always with people…” You looked back at him. He was tilting his glass back and forth, watching how the clear liquid sloshed.
“When I’m filming, sure. But it’s usually pretty quiet between filming…everyone’s busy, you know? I still manage to find…company…from time to time.” He smiled, and it was obvious what he was hinting at. “But it’s not the same as having a companion or some shit.”
You nodded and gave a slightly nervous laugh, “So uh…is that what I am? Company?”
He didn’t answer you directly. Instead, Dieter sat up, both feet on the floor as he leaned towards you with his glass in hand. “To company.”
“To company.”
After the second shots were drunk, you started to feel the buzz. You put your hand up as you said, “I think that’s it for me. Not looking for a hangover tomorrow.”
“Aww, that’s no fun!” Dieter stood up, walking over to the mini bar and picking up a KitKat. “Want anything?”
You leaned to the side, getting a look at the goodies lined up neatly. “Umm, I’ll take the peanut M&M’s.”
He snatched them up, bringing them over to you then plopping down and ripping into his chocolate bar. “Well,” he said, taking a big bite of the chocolate, “you know what will help the hangover?”
You didn’t respond, just continued watching him apprehensively as you popped a candy into your mouth.
Dieter set his chocolate bar on the table and walked into the bedroom. You heard the zip of his duffle bag and then watched as he returned with a small container, popping it open to show you an array of joints.
“You live in Cali, so I’m assuming you smoke.” He watched for your reaction, and when he saw you smile, he nearly jumped for joy. Pulling out a lighter from his pocket, he nodded toward the double glass doors. “Let’s go!”
The rain had seemed to die down a bit. It felt like more of a sprinkle now, as the wind carried the occasional light mist over the two of you. You stood huddled under the awning, separated by just a couple inches as Dieter lit the joint, taking two large drags, and then handing it to you.
It was good weed. The heat of it warmed your chest and you watched the bubble of smoke drift off as you exhaled. The first hit was already helping to calm some of your leftover nerves as you handed it back to Dieter.
“Waddya think?” He took another puff, blowing the smoke away from you before looking back at you. There was a friendly twinkle in his eyes and it made you feel comfortable around him.
“It’s good,” you remarked, taking it as he handed it to you and inhaling deeply. “My friend had some at her place, but it was kinda shitty.”
Dieter laughed, taking the joint back. “Yeah, well. I don’t waste my time with shitty weed.” He took a drag. “Life’s too short.”
With the rain clearing up, you could see the gardens better. They were beautiful. The two of you enjoyed a moment of silence, just listening to the rain and the burning of the joint with each puff. Nerves started to churn within you again and you looked over at Dieter.
“I, uh, should probably mention that I don’t really do one night stands.” The words hung in the air for a moment. Dieter took the last drag of the joint, stomping it out on the patio.
He shrugged his shoulders, turning to open the door. “Sure.” He walked inside without another word. His response had you hesitating. It seemed so nonchalant that you couldn’t tell if he was annoyed, or truly just did not care.
But when you walked back inside and saw that he was casually eating his KitKat again, it seemed that he had simply moved on from the whole thing. You were grateful to be past the awkward moment.
“Wanna watch a movie?” He was pouring himself another drink. He hardly seemed to be feeling the alcohol or the weed, and it had you wondering for a moment how often he partook in substances.
“Sure, but uh,” you glanced toward the bedroom and back at him. “Could we watch in the bedroom?”
Dieter looked up after pouring his drink with a raised eyebrow.
“Oh! Not-not for…just-” You took a breath, realizing how awkward you sounded. “It just sounds more comfortable and weed makes me sleepy.”
He laughed softly and nodded. “Sounds fine by me.”
The two of you got situated in your separate beds. The table dividing them was fairly narrow, leaving the beds only a couple of feet apart from each other. Dieter had the remote, switching through the different movie options. It was easy for the two of you to agree on a comedy to watch, and you pulled the blanket around you, settling in and noticing how your high made you feel heavy against the mattress.
Your body felt relaxed, including your mind, and it was only about half an hour into the movie before you felt yourself starting to drift. You didn’t hear when Dieter turned the television off, or when he got up to go to the bathroom, turning off all the lights and returning to bed.
You hadn’t even realized you’d fallen asleep until you woke up a couple hours later, sitting up and rubbing your eyes. The room was mostly dark, except for the glow of the moon through the large glass doors as well as a small light emanating from the alarm clock. You looked over at Dieter who seemed to be sleeping. He was turned on his side facing away from you.
Settling back down in bed, you noticed the persistent pull between your legs. When you turned on your side, your thighs closing together, the tingly sensation only worsened. Fuck. It wasn’t uncommon for you to become insatiably horny after smoking weed, but you were hindered by the fact that you were sharing a room with someone who was practically a stranger.
You lowered your hand down your torso, slipping it between your legs and pressing gently. The slight pressure both offered some relief, as well as made you want more. You glanced over at the bed beside you again. He wasn’t moving aside from the gentle rise and fall of the blanket draped over him.
Closing your eyes and moving onto your back, you let your legs fall open as your fingers started to explore. You slid your middle finger through your folds and down to your aching core. You sighed at the continued relief as you used your fingers to gather some of your slick and move it up to your perked clit.
Rubbing small circles, you hadn’t noticed that you were softly whimpering until you heard the bed beside you creak. You froze, afraid to even look over. The seconds dragged on as you waited to see if you heard anything else. Your hand was still between your legs that were now slightly closed. You bit your lip, pressing down again and then gasping at the throbbing that you felt.
Then you heard it again, the sound of fabric moving, as if a blanket was being moved, or an article of clothing. And then, it was quiet, but you were sure you heard it, the sound of a man exhaling.
Your body was frozen again, but you still managed to glance over. Your eyes widened, both in an attempt to see better in the dark, but also because you were shocked at what you did manage to make out.
The blanket was pushed down around Dieter’s thighs and there was a noticeable tent in his pants. You watched the rhythmic movement as his hand moved up and down, restrained from the fabric. Your eyes finally traveled up and you saw that he was looking back at you, also with your blanket pushed down and your hand between your legs, slipped underneath your satin pajama pants. His pupils were blown out, desperation etched into his features as his eyes moved up and down your body, then back to your face, as if seeking permission.
You bit your lip again, rubbing another circle on your clit and this time allowing an audible whimper to slip out. Dieter groaned at your noises, clearly turned on by the scene in front of him. It spurred you on to continue your movements, even using firmer pressure so that your back arched and your legs clamped together.
“Fuck,” you heard Dieter whisper. It looked like he was trying to pick up the pace of his movements, but his pants were preventing him from jerking off in the way that he would like to.
In hopes he would follow suit, you removed your hand so that you could push down your pants and underwear, kicking them off and letting them fall to the ground. You kept the blanket pushed down as well, completely revealing your soaked cunt in the moonlight as you returned to touching yourself.
It took nearly no time at all for Dieter to eagerly shuck off his pants, allowing his thick cock to bounce up and lay erect against his torso. He took it back in his grip, holding it firmly as he twisted his hand up and down. You could see the precum glisten in the ray of moonlight that shone across the room.
His satisfied groan from the feel of his hand wrapped around his cock made you squeeze your thighs even tighter. You didn’t want to come yet, so you slowed the movements of your fingers, just keeping yourself on the brink. You could feel his gaze on you, and you looked over at him again.
The low rumble of his voice cut through the quiet night as he spoke, “Push inside, baby.” His features were soft, but there was still a crease between his brows as he focused on his pleasure. He was watching you tentatively, not sure if he had crossed a line.
You reassured him by whimpering as you pushed your middle finger inside of your tight pussy, feeling the velvet slick of your walls. Closing your eyes and tilting your head back, you began to slowly finger yourself. The silence in the room allowed for the sounds of your wet cunt to travel, and Dieter moaned, stroking his cock quicker.
You watched as he moved the precum around the tip of his cock with his thumb, then resumed his firm strokes. His balls lifted up with every pump of his cock and you could practically feel yourself salivating. His cock was beautiful and you could only imagine what it would feel like inside of you.
“Another one,” Dieter managed to rasp out as he fucked his fist.
Obeying, you slipped a second finger into your pussy. “Oh my god,” you moaned as you fucked yourself quicker. “Dieter…”
“That’s it, baby, say my name. Oh, shit.” His jaw was tense as he squeezed his cock, trying to stave off his own orgasm.
“Dieter, Dieter…” The palm of your hand rubbed against your clit as you fingered yourself. Your hips were grinding up into the air, seeking as much friction and sensation as possible. “Ohh, I’m getting close…”
“You can do it, come on, come on baby, fuck!” You could hear the rhythmic slapping as Dieter fucked his fist. His balls were tightening as he neared his peak. “Let me hear you come, wanna hear all those pretty sounds.”
“Ohhh!” You moaned and whimpered as your orgasm crashed over you. It was a strong one, wave after wave of pleasure coursing through you as your walls clamped around your soaked fingers.
Dieter came with a loud grunt as his cum shot out, coating his chest and stomach and then dribbling over his knuckles. You watched, continuing to pulse and clench at the delicious sight. Your pussy was still throbbing and because of the weed, you still didn’t feel satiated.
He exhaled, looking over at you and noticing your fucked out yet still needy expression. Your chest was rising and falling as you bit your lip, looking at all of the cum decorating his torso.
He didn’t say anything, just nodded with his head, an invitation for you to join him. There was only a split moment of hesitation before you pushed off from the bed, slinking across the floor and crawling up onto his plush mattress. He smiled warmly, his eyes wide and seeking as they traveled across your body and then down between your legs.
Without any more direction, you decided to take matters into your own hands and straddle him. Swinging one leg over his and climbing up his body, your wet cunt pressed down against his tummy. He groaned, feeling just how soaked you were.
“Damn…” he exhaled with a smirk.
Your cheeks reddened just slightly, but then you moved your hips. The sensation was overwhelming as you felt your own arousal combined with his slick. “Oh fuck…” you gasped out as you continued grinding on his stomach. The coarse hairs of his happy trail tickled your clit each time you pulled your hips back, and when you moved them forward, you felt your hole clenching around nothing. Your hands were planted on his chest as you looked down at him desperately.
“Fuck, you’re hot.” His hands came to rest on your hips as he looked at you.
You could feel his spend coating your pussy as you continued to grind against him. The added slickness felt incredible and goosebumps arose across your body, hardening your nipples into two peaks that were now visible underneath your thin satin pajama top.
Dieter’s eyes moved there immediately and his hands traveled up. His fingers gently tugged at the hem of your shirt. “This okay?”
You nodded eagerly and then he gripped the bottom of your top, pulling it up and over your head. He looked at you one more time as he started to lean forward toward your tits. You nodded again, but this time with a whimper as you slowed your movements against his tummy.
He moved his hands to your lower back, supporting you as he sat up slightly so that he could take one of your nipples in his mouth. The warmth of his mouth had you moaning again as your hands moved to the back of his head, running through his curls.
“Mmm…that feels so good…” Your hips were slowly moving in circles against his tummy. Dieter leaned back, pulling you down with him so you could continue grinding as your tits hung in his face. He sucked on them eagerly, switching back and forth as his hands accompanied the movement of your hips.
You finally got the angle just right, tilting your hips and feeling the plush of his lower tummy rubbing repeatedly on your clit. “Ohhh…oh I think..I think I’m-”
You stopped talking, focusing on the overpowering feeling of your second orgasm that was beginning to take shape. Your fingers pressed against his chest as you began to quiver against him. You could feel his half-hard cock nudging your ass as you continued to ride him through your waves of pleasure.
“Oh, just like that…god, you look incredible…” Dieter’s eyes were glued to you, watching your mouth drop open and your eyes squeeze shut as you released your arousal all over his stomach. He reached a hand down, dipping it between your bodies and then bringing his fingers back up. They were shiny with your combined wetness and your mouth stayed open as he slipped his two middle fingers inside of your mouth, wiping them against your tongue.
“Mmm,” you moaned, swallowing down the salty and sweet taste.
When you finally composed yourself enough to slide off of him and look at him, he was giving you a dopey smile, still laying back against the pillow. “Feel good?,” he asked.
You nodded and laid down beside him. He moved his arm out, allowing you to sidle up to him and rest your head on his shoulder. He smelled good, and the warmth he offered had you closing your eyes again already.
He chuckled, “Hey sleepyhead, I think I’m gonna need a shower after all that.” You opened your eyes and looked down at his chest and stomach that were glossy from your combined arousals.
Blushing, you looked up at him and asked, “Can I join you?”
“Hell yeah.” He got out of the bed, taking your hand and walking with you to the luxurious bathroom. His cock was slowly coming back to life and you didn’t miss the mischievous smile on his face as he turned the water on and looked back at you. You decided that maybe you could be flexible about your one night stand rule.
Tag List (usual list as well as those who showed interest): @untamedheart81 @shadowqueen2024 @shrewdreader @m3rdim @milla-frenchy @honey-moon-13 @tateypots @rawndoldersupremacist @david-10ninch-blog @cordycepskiss @whorefordaveyork @time-for-my-weekly-spanking @millermouth @pearlessance
Summary: You need some time away from Din until a moment of panic leads to reunion.
Warnings: 18+only. I promise the smut will be back!
A/N: Greetings from Portugal! 🇵🇹 Good thing I had this written before going away! Enjoy! 🥰
One/Two/Three/Four/Five/Six/Seven/Eight/Nine/Ten
Din Masterlist
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You hear him before you've gone twenty paces.
The footfalls are unmistakable. Beskar boots on cobble have a sound nothing else in the galaxy quite makes – that dense clink under each step, the weight of a man who’s carrying eight kilos of metal on his torso and not bothering to walk quietly about it.
He’s not running because Din has never run after you. But he’s walking, fast, with the long deliberate stride of a man who knows he’s faster than you are and is choosing, very pointedly, not to close the distance entirely.
"Cyar'ika."
You don't turn and walk faster.
"Cyar'ika…. stop."
You don't stop, because if you do, he’ll catch you and if he catches you he’ll put his hands on your shoulders the way he always does and tip the visor down to your face and say something low and careful through the modulator and you will, like an idiot, like a soft, tired pregnant idiot, fold against him and forgive him for things he hasn’t yet apologised for, and you will not, you’ve decided, do that this morning.
So, you walk faster down the uneven lane, past the woman at the pump, past a small cat that scrambles off a low wall in front of you, past a stack of empty crates and a Rodian unloading a hover-pallet who lifts his head as the both of you go by.
"Cyar'ika, please."
"Don't, Din."
The cobbles get worse. Karga's settlement has grown faster than its road crews can keep up with, and there’s a stretch along the lane where the old volcanic-rock paving meets the newer duracrete patch in a small uneven seam, and you don’t see it.
Your toe catches and your hand flies out to break the fall. The world tips and you hear the small involuntary sound of your own breath punching out of you. Somewhere behind you, the modulator say cyar'ika in a voice you’ve never quite heard out of it before, sharp and high and almost cracked.
A hand catches your elbow – a bare hand, broad and weathered and warm. It hooks under your arm and lifts, and an arm goes round your other side at the waist and steadies you upright.
"Easy, ma'am. Easy, I've got you. There you go. You alright?"
You blink up at the man beside you. He’s older, fifty perhaps, with a salt-grey beard, a sun-browned face and a leather work-apron stained with what might be tanner's oil. There's a handcart at his hip and you reason he must have been crossing the lane the other way and stepped neatly into your path the moment your toe caught.
“You need to watch your step,” he says kindly. “These roads…”
He doesn't finish his sentence because Din is there, very suddenly, very fast, and there’s a sound you’ve never heard before, a low metallic snarl coming through the modulator that is barely shaped like a word at all. The older man's eyes go wide and he steps back, both hands going up at once.
"Easy, friend, easy. She tripped and I caught her, that's all."
Din hasn’t drawn his blaster, but his hand is on the grip of it and the grip is half out of the holster and the visor is cantered on the older man's face as he steps back with his hands still high.
"Din," you say.
"Step away from her."
"I’m doing it, friend, doing it."
"Din."
"Step away…"
"He caught me, Din."
"…from her."
"He caught me!"
It comes out of you at full volume and the visor twitches, finally, off the older man's face and toward yours. You round on Din with your face hot, your breath short and the cold sweat of the near-fall still standing on the back of your neck.
"He caught me, Din. I tripped and I would have gone down on my hands and knees on the cobbles, but he caught me. He’s…a stranger on a street who saw a woman fall, and he put his hands out and caught me, and you’re…you’re out here with your blaster half-drawn…!"
"He was…"
"He was catching me! Holster it. Holster it, Din."
His hand doesn’t move, the visor still on you, and you can feel the small private way his shoulders are shaking. Just barely, just at the edge of it.
Adrenaline.
Fear.
The small sound he made when your toe caught is still hanging in the air between you, and you know, you know in some quiet place behind the anger, that the man with his hand on the blaster is a man who just watched the only thing in his life trip on cobbles and you know – you know – that whatever came out of him in the next half second wasn’t aimed at the bearded stranger so much as at the world that put the cobbles there.
You know it, but today, you can’t afford to know it.
"Holster. It. Din."
He does as you ask, slow and careful and you wait to hear the click of the strap going back across the grip.
You turn back to the older man, still standing with his hands raised.
"I'm so sorry," you say, your voice shaking slightly. "I'm so sorry. He…he isn't normally…I tripped, I…thank you. Thank you for catching me. I would have…thank you."
"Nothing to it, ma'am." He lowers his hands, slowly, watching the visor as he does it. "Glad I was there. You take care of yourself, and…" his eyes flick to Din, careful, almost amused now that the blaster is back in its holster, "you take care of her, friend. She's worth it."
"Thank you," you say again, because you don’t trust yourself with any other words.
The older man tips his head to you, picks up the handles of his cart and wheels it past the two of you down the lane. He doesn’t look back, and you watch his salt-grey head go until the cart turns the corner and is gone.
Then you round on Din again.
"What the hell was that?"
"You almost fell."
"I did almost fall. I almost fell, and a nice man caught me, and you came out of nowhere with your hand on your gun…"
"I didn't know him."
"You don't know the baker, Din! You don't know the woman at the pump! You don't know anyone in this entire settlement except Karga! You can’t draw on every person who…"
"I didn't draw."
"You half drew."
"He had hands on you."
"He was holding me up!"
"I didn't…" The modulator clicks. "I didn't see…I saw…I saw you go down and I saw a man on you and I…I didn't…"
"You didn't see because you were too busy reacting, Din, that's the whole… that is the whole problem this morning!"
You stop because your voice has gone high again and your hands are shaking and your knees, very suddenly, are not particularly interested in holding you up. You scrub your hands over your face and breathe, hard, twice, three times as he takes a step towards you.
You hold up your other hand and he stops.
"Don't. Don't come any closer. Don't put your hands on me. Don't say cyar'ika. I can’t…I can’t do this in the middle of the lane, Din. I can’t do this with you with your visor on at me in the middle of the lane fifteen minutes after you let a stranger tell me I have to give up our home."
"Cyar'ika…"
"I said don't."
He stops where he is, three paces off, gloved hands open at his sides now, helmet very slightly tipped.
"I need…" you start. "I need to not be near you for an hour, Din."
You see – you can’t read the visor, but you can read the shoulders – the small terrible flinch travel through him.
"Cyar'ika…"
"An hour. That's all. I'm not…I'm not going anywhere. I'm not going off-world, I'm just…I need an hour, Din. I need an hour to…to breathe without…”
You don't finish and he nods, slowly.
"An hour," he says. "Where will you…?"
"I don't know."
"Cyar'ika, please. Just…tell me where you'll be. So I know. So I…"
"Karga's, probably."
"Okay. I'll…" The modulator clicks and he shifts his weight. "I'll be at the ship. I'll…I'll be at the ship. I'll be there."
"Thank you."
He doesn't say anything else. He stands a long moment with the wind pulling at his cape and the visor on your face, and then he tips the helmet and he turns, and walks away. You don’t watch him go. You stand with your back to him and your eyes on the cobbles until the sound of the boots has gone around a corner and faded into the general low noise of the settlement waking up around you.
Then you breathe out and start walking again.
You don't get half a block before you hear the first shot.
It comes from somewhere two streets over – a single clean crack of a blaster bolt fired in open air, the kind of sound that, on any other planet in the galaxy, would send people running for cover. On Nevarro, it makes the woman at the pump look up, frown, and go back to filling her jug.
Bounty business – always somebody's. You hear it and you don’t break stride.
The second shot is closer.
The third is closer still and is followed by the dense answering chatter of an automatic carbine, and that, you’ve lived on a gunship long enough to know, is not bounty business. Bounty business is precise. Bounty business is one shot, one body, the careful pop of a hunter who’s been paid to bring a target down. Carbines on full auto are something else. Carbines on full auto are people in a panic.
You stop in the middle of the lane, turn your head and look down the cross-street to your left.
A man is running toward you, full out, his cloak streaming behind him, one hand pressed to his side where the dark of blood has already started to spread through the lighter brown of his shirt. Behind him, perhaps thirty meters back, three more figures spill out of an alley mouth – armoured and mismatched – and one of them brings up a carbine. The next crack of bolts comes down the lane and the running man jerks, mid-stride, and goes down on his face on the cobbles ten paces from you.
You don't think – you move. More than a year on the Crest has done that – has put something in you that doesn’t need permission from your higher brain to act, that gets your feet under you and your body sideways and your hand to the small of your back to where your own blaster is clipped against the waistband of your trousers.
You’re behind the corner of a shuttered stall before the next bolt comes down the lane, your back flat to the rough wood, your hand on the grip. Breathing in, you count and estimate you have perhaps four seconds before the attackers cover the distance and see you.
The shuttered stall at your back is the corner of a dry-goods shop. There’s a closed door two meters to your right which could be locked. If it is, you’ll be standing in a recessed doorway with nowhere to go when they come around the corner. If it’s not locked you may be inside it with the door bolted behind you in three seconds, and that is the play, the only play, the one Din would take if Din were here.
A door opens across the lane, ten meters down and a woman's face appears in the gap, dark-eyed and quick. She sees you, sees what’s coming up the lane, and doesn’t hesitate. She flings the door wide and jerks her head for you to run inside.
You go low and fast, the blaster in your hand low at your hip and you’re halfway across the lane when the first of the attackers rounds the corner and sees you.
"Hey!"
The bolt sings past your ear close enough that you feel the heat of it on your cheekbone.
You turn at the hip, the way Din’s taught you, your weight already moving, and fire twice. One of them drops. You don't see where you hit him because you don't have time. You’re already inside the door and the woman is slamming it behind you and dropping a heavy iron bar across it, and the next bolt that hits the door sounds like a hammer ringing on a bell.
You go down on one knee because your knees, very suddenly, have decided they’re done.
The woman puts her hand on your shoulder. “Are you hit?”
"No."
"Are you sure?"
"I'm…I'm not hit. I'm… Your free hand moves to your belly. The woman's eyes go to it, widen, briefly, then narrow into something fierce.
"Up," she says. “Behind the bar. Now."
The bar is heavy stone. You crouch behind it and the woman grabs a slug-thrower from under the counter, an old long-barrelled thing with a stock worn shiny by the press of many hands. She racks it once with a small dry sound that’s almost reassuring.
The door takes another hit. Then another. Then…silence.
"They're going around," the woman murmurs. "Stay down."
You stay down, your hand shaking around the grip of the blaster. Your other hand is flat to your belly, and you can feel – over the slamming of your own pulse – the wet little drum you heard this morning in the midwife's office. Only it’s yours, doubled and quickened and filling your whole skull.
The kitchen door opens with a kick. You hear the woman fire and a man scream as he goes down. Then you hear the chatter of the carbine and the sound of the woman’s body hitting the floorboards.
"No…"
You're up before you've decided to be up, your back coming off the bar and the blaster coming up in both hands. The second man is coming around the end of the bar with his weapon swinging toward where the woman has fallen, his eyes find you and widen as you fire.
The first shot goes wide. The second catches him in the throat and he goes down sideways into a stack of clay jugs which explode on impact, and he is, abruptly, not a problem anymore.
You drop back down because the third one is still out there. You didn’t see him follow the second one in, so he must be outside, watching the front again. You’re not sure how many shots you have left, and the woman behind the bar is making a thin wet sound that’s not encouraging. Your hands are shaking so hard now you can hear the small metallic chatter of the grip-plate against your thumb.
You crawl to where the woman has gone down. She’s on her side, her hand pressed to her throat where the carbine has caught her along the side of the neck, the dark blood pumping slow but steady between her fingers. Her eyes find yours and she tries unsuccessfully to speak. Then she lifts her other hand and points at the front door.
You hear it. The iron bar across the front door is moving, lifting from the outside. The third man must have something, a tool, a magnetic lifter, something that’s pulling the bar up out of its brackets from the outside, and in perhaps fifteen seconds the bar’s going to come free and the door’s going to swing open and he’s going to walk in and you’re going to be on the floor of a tavern with nowhere left to go.
The iron bar lifts another inch.
You aim for the door, bracing your elbows on the dead woman's hip, and you sight down the barrel and wait. Your hands shake as the bar lifts another inch and the door creaks, very faintly, against the frame.
Stay alive, you think. Stay alive. I love you. Stay alive.
The bar comes free, the door swings open, and the thing that comes through is not the third man.
The thing that comes through is beskar.
He comes through low and fast, cape streaming behind him, visor already locked on the figure to his right at the door's edge. The long blade comes out from under the cape in a single clean arc, and there is a sound, brief and wet and final, and the third man's carbine clatters to the floorboards. His body follows half a second later, and Din is in the doorway with the blade in one hand and the blaster in the other, the visor sweeping the room, finding the second man dead among the clay jugs, finding the woman dead on the floor at your hip, and finally – finally – finding you.
"Cyar'ika…"
You don't speak because you can't, because something in your chest has come unhooked and the wet sound at the back of your throat is too big to be a word. The blaster is still up, your hands are still shaking, and you can’t, for one long stunned moment, make your hands lower it.
He drops both his weapons. The blade hits the floorboards with a clatter, the blaster going down a heartbeat after it, and he’s across the room in three long strides, dropping to his knees on the bloody floorboards in front of you. His hands close carefully over yours and he eases the blaster down out of your hands and sets it on the floor at his knee. Then his hands come back to you, and they’re everywhere at once.
Your face. Your neck. Your shoulders.
The visor sweeps you, his hands running over you like a man checking a casualty in the field, his palms flat to your ribs and then down to your hips and then spreading wide and warm over your belly.
"Are you hit, cyar'ika? Are you hit? Tell me."
"No."
"Cyar'ika…"
"I'm not…I’m not hit.”
"Anywhere, cyar'ika, even a…even a graze, even a… "
"I'm not, I swear. I'm not hit. She is. She's..."
You turn your head and he follows, the visor finding the woman at your hip, the dark spreading slow under her on the boards, the eyes already gone.
"She…she pulled me in here. She got me behind the bar. She shot the first one through the kitchen and the carbine got her and I…Din, I…I had to…there was a third one, he was…he was lifting the bar, he had…"
"Cyar'ika. Cyar'ika, shh. Breathe. Breathe with me. Breathe."
He pulls you against him, one hand spread over the back of your head and the other still on the curve of your belly and you breathe in shakily against him. The cape comes around you and you bury your face into his throat and breathe.
"I've got you," he says, into the crown of your head. “I've got you. I've got you, cyar'ika. I've got you."
"Din…"
"I've got you."
"How did you…how did you know?"
"I heard the shots. I heard the carbine and I…I started running. I started running the second I heard the second shot. I…I came up the lane, and I saw a man on his face on the cobbles, and I saw a door open and I knew. I knew. I knew it was you. I…"
"Din…"
"I almost…I almost didn't get here."
"You got here."
"Cyar'ika…"
"You got here, Din, you got here. Look at me. You got here."
He looks at you and you can’t see his face, can’t see his eyes, can’t see whatever ragged thing is behind the visor right now, and for the first time today you don’t need to. You can read the way the visor is shaking, just barely, on your face. You can read the way the hand on your belly is shaking, just barely, against your tunic. You can read every single thing his shoulders are doing and what they’re doing is coming apart, slow and silent, the way they come apart when there’s nobody to see them, the way they come apart when only you’re in the room.
You lift one shaking hand and press it, flat, to the side of the helmet. "I'm here. I'm okay. We're okay.”
"Mhi solus tome, Mhi solus dar'tome, Mhi me'dinui an, Mhi ba'juri verde,” he says, voice cracking over the words.
You swallow and shake your head, “I…”
“We are one together, we are one when parted, we share all, we will raise warriors.” He nods slowly. “Mandalorian wedding vows. The riduurock.”
His hand on your belly spreads wider, thumb stroking across the small soft curve of you. The visor lowers against your forehead and doesn’t move.
"Are you...are you asking me to marry you? Here...now?"
"Yes," he replies, the helmet nodding fiercely. "You said the answer would be yes so...marry me cyar'ika, please...marry me. Say...say it back, please."
“Mhi solus tome, Mhi solus dar'tome, Mhi me'dinui an, Mhi ba'juri verde,” you repeat as best you can, tripping slightly over some of the pronunciation. “We are one together, we are one when parted, we share all, we will raise warriors.”
“I love you,” he says quietly. “I love you, cyar’ika, you and our baby. Our baby.”
“I love you too,” you sniff. “I love you so much.”
Somewhere outside in the lane you hear the sound of running footsteps, shouting and the rising whoop of Karga's settlement-guard whistles. Inside the tavern there is only the small, ragged breath of him through the modulator and the slow wet pulse of the woman's blood spreading on the boards beside you, and the baby under his palm, still going.
"She's okay," you whisper. "Din, she's okay. I can feel her. She's okay."
“She?”
“It’s a she today.”
"You can't feel her yet."
"I can today."
"Cyar'ika…"
"I can today, Din."
He makes a sound, something low, broken and entirely without language and presses the helmet more firmly against you.
"We’re getting off this floor," he says, finally. "We’re getting off this floor and you’re going straight back to Vesha. She’s going to look at you, look at…at her. She’s going to tell me you’re both…both…”
"Okay."
"Yes."
"Okay."
"And then…"
"And then we go home, Din. To the Crest. Take me home."
"Okay," he says.
The settlement-guard whistles are getting closer. Karga's voice is somewhere out in the lane, bellowing orders. Din slides one arm under your knees and the other under your shoulders and lifts you carefully, like you weigh nothing, like he’s afraid of waking something, and you let him for once, without arguing.
You loop your arms around his neck and press your face into him, closing your eyes. His cape comes around the both of you, and he carries you out of the tavern over the bodies of three men, toward Karga who’s already running up the lane with his coat flapping, mouth open around your name.
Pairing: pervy!oldman!joel Miller x cheater!female!reader
Summary: you bring apple pie to Joel Miller's porch, telling yourself it's nothing; just a visit to your boyfriend's older brother. But uncle Joel has been lingering in your mind since the night you heard him say it. This is a tale about something more than apple pie—the sweet pull of longing, care and the making of cream pie.
Warnings: 18+, Smut, MDNI, huge age gap (20s and 60s), pervy!joel, cheater!reader, FAUXCEST, Joel calls himself uncle, reader cheats on Tommy, sub/needy!reader, pinv, unprotected sex, creampie, fingering, praise kink, slight nipple play, slight degradation, no outbreak
A/N: It’s too hot to function and my brain is mush, so here's a "little" draft while I melt and work on a million other fics. Check the warnings, SCROLL if needed, it's really easy peasy. Drink water, my dear pookies <3
The throbbing started in your belly.
It was a deep, insistent pulse radiating outwards in slow, heavy waves that settled right between your thighs. Heat hummed relentlessly against your center, leaving your skin feeling tight and feverish. Slowly but surely, that dull ache migrated to your lower belly, then to your mound, before finally landing squarely on your clit.
And it was all because of two words:
Uncle Joel.
Your mind hadn't stopped circling those words for the past week—a constant, agonising reminder that echoed in your mind, your belly, your cunt, and even deep in your thighs.
The desire was as stubborn as the man himself; it refused to leave you. But then again...maybe you didn't want it to leave.
"Hell, you should bring her over to Uncle Joel sometime. I'll give her somethin' that satisfies her proper."
You could still remember standing there, just inside the screen door, heart hammering against your ribs and thighs pressing tight together as every filthy word Joel uttered sank straight between your legs.
The heat had pooled low in your gut, your cunt throbbing with every perverted suggestion Joel tossed out oh so casually—completely ignoring the fact that your boyfriend, Tommy, had simply asked him for tips on how to handle your high libido.
You couldn't even bring yourself to care once Joel started talking.
It started with, "Jesus, Tommy. You complainin' about good pussy?" before spiraling into explicit instructions on how to break a woman. "Well, sounds to me like you got yourself a girl who knows what she wants. Ain't nothin' wrong with that. You gotta treat that pretty little thing right, boy. Show her who's in charge. You gotta work that pussy like it's the last one on earth. Fingers, tongue, cock—whatever it takes. And when she starts shakin', don't stop. Push her right over the edge till she's squirting all over your hand, your face, your sheets. That'll settle her down proper."
Heck, you knew he was a pervert.
It was no secret. Even Tommy called him an old, perverted bastard.
But that didn't change the fact that he was older, bolder, and possessed large, rough hands that gestured emphatically as he spoke. Those were the same hands you'd watched grip tools and beer bottles—and the same hands that had, once or twice, brushed against your waist a little too long.
His eyes always lingered on your tits and your ass, looking at you as if he was already imagining exactly what he'd do to you if his pissy little brother didn't exist.
Since that night on the porch, your hand hadn't stopped wandering down to your cunt. Your fingers wouldn't stop rubbing that twitching nub until you came all over yourself, shivering with the forbidden thoughts of your boyfriend's brother—or as you desperately wanted to call him:
Uncle Joel.
And now, three days later, you stand at his door, pie in your hands warm, the heat seeping through the dish into your palms, grounding you, reminding you why you're here—you baked it, you told yourself, because you're a good neighbor, a good sister-in-law, because it's what a good woman does, brings pie to her man's brother, a gesture of kindness, of family, of nothing more than that.
But that lie tasted like bitter ash on your tongue, so you swallow it down, and you knock...
When the door opens, the world already narrows to the shape of him. Big. Board. Frame like a wall of stone, chest rising and falling beneath that old flannel shirt, the buttons straining across his big belly and smelling like musk or something unwashed in the best way.
It makes your nostrils flare and your thighs press together of their own accord, a slow, wet shift of muscle and fabric that you can't control, that you don't want to actually control.
A slow, crooked smile spreads across his lips.
"Well, well, well," he says, and his voice is exactly as you remember it from that night on the porch, from the endless, aching hours when you pressed your fingers into yourself and imagined this moment, this exact moment, here, now, with him looking at you like you're something to eat, something to savor, something to devour slowly, filthy, until there's nothing left but the memory of pleasure. "Look what the cat dragged in."
He leans against the door, arms crossing over his broad chest, letting his gaze wander down your body and back up again, taking his sweet time; savoring every inch of you, from the curve of your hip to the swell of your breasts to the flush on your cheeks. You feel naked under that gaze, stripped bare, even though you're wearing a dress, a simple cotton thing, light blue, that falls just above your knees. Chosen unintentionally, or not?
"Hello there, honey," he says. "Did my brother treat ya so bad you come to uncle Joel?"
Uncle Joel...uncle Joel...
He says it like a joke, a teasing jab, but the word uncle hits you square in the chest, soaks into your belly, and your thighs press together involuntarily. And oh, you know he sees it.
You know he sees everything, because his eyes flick down to your hips, to your thighs, and his smile widens, deepens.
You clutch the pie tighter.
"I...I made pie," you say, and your voice comes out smaller than you intended. "Apple. I thought you might like some."
His grin widens, and he pushes off of the doorframe, stepping aside with a sweep of his arm, a gesture that makes the flannel stretch across his shoulders, and you catch a glimpse of that hair on his chest, thick, dark and curling, and you want to press your face into it, to breathe him in, to taste the salt on his skin.
Jesus Christ, what was wrong with you?
"Apple pie?" he says, voice full of amusement. "Lord, girl, you know the way to a man's heart. C'mon in, c'mon. Don't stand there like a stranger."
You step past him, and the door closes behind you with a soft click. There's no going back now, no pretending you came here for pie, no pretending you're anything but what you are: a hungry woman, a desperate woman, a needy, shameless woman who has come to her man's brother to be filled, to be claimed, to be taken the way she's always wanted to be taken.
A worn sofa the color of dried blood sits against the far wall, the cushions sagging in the middle, shaped by the weight of his body.
He gestures for you to sit, and you do, sinking into the cushions, the pie still warm in your lap.
Joel disappears into his tiny kitchen, and you hear the clatter of plates, the running of water, the soft hum of a man moving through his space. He returns with two plates, two forks, a knife, setting them on the table with a soft clink.
Then he drops onto the sofa besides you.
He doesn't sit far away, doesn't leave a polite distance between you, nah, he sits close, his thigh brushing yours through the fabric of your dress.
"Alright, alright," he says, reaching for the pie. "Let's see what we got here."
He cuts three generous slices, the knife sliding through the crust with a soft crunch, and he slides one slice onto your plate, two onto his, then picks up his fork and digs in like a starving man.
"Oh, fuck me," he groans, closing his eyes, and the sound is raw, almost sexual. He chews, swallows, shakes his head slowly, his eyes still closed, his jaw working, and you watch the muscles in his throat move, watch the way his Adam's apple bobs.
"That's..." he says, opening his eyes. "That's real good, sweetheart. Real good. You got a gift."
You flush, the heat rising up your neck, spreading across your cheeks so you look down at your plate.
"Thank you," you say, your voice is small.
He takes another bite, and another, and you watch him eat, watch the way his lips close around the fork, the way his tongue flicks out to catch a crumb, moaning around the taste.
He sets his fork down and leans back, one arm stretching across the back of the sofa behind you, his fingers brushing your shoulder, tracing the line of your collarbone through the thin cotton of your dress, a featherlight touch that sends shivers down your spine, that makes your breath catch in your throat.
"C'mon," he says, and his voice is lower now, a purr that vibrates in his chest. "Tell me what's botherin' ya. You don't usually come over alone. Not without Tommy."
You look down your plate, pushing a crumb around with your fork.
"Nothing," you say, and the lie is thin. "Just...wanted to bring you something. That's all."
His fingers trail down your arm, featherlight, tracing the curve of your elbow.
"You ain't the type to make a pie and show up for no reason," he says, and his voice is patient, knowing. "I know ya, girl. I've seen you grow into a woman. I've seen the way you look at things." He pauses, and his fingers still, resting on your wrist, his thumb pressing against your pulse point, feeling the rapid beat of your heart. "The way you look at me."
Your heart hammers against your ribs, and before you can even process what he says, you're already trying to escape the situation.
"I should go," you say and you start to rise, but his hand lands on your knee, firm; squeezing once.
With that, magically, your muscles relax, your hips sink back into the cushion, your thighs open slightly, just slightly, an invitation maybe.
"Sit down, honey," he says, and his voice is gentle, but a command wrapped in silk behind it.
So you sit.
He leans in closer, and his breath is warm against your ear, smelling of apple and cinnamon.
"Is it Tommy?" he asks. "He can't take care of you?"
You loved Tommy. God, you loved him.
You shake your head, a tiny, jerky movement, "No. That's not—" your throat tight, your mouth dry, your heart pounding so hard you can hear it in your god damn ears.
"Because he told me something the other night," he says, and his voice drops lower. "Complainin' about how much you need it. How he can't keep up. How he's exhausted. And I gotta say, I felt sorry for you."
You swallow.
"A woman with that kind of hunger," he continues, his thumb tracing slow, deliberate circles on your knee. "All alone in her bed, touchin' herself while her man sleeps. Thinkin' about what she could have. What she deserves."
He pauses, and the silence stretches.
Until—
"Thinkin' about me?"
You can't answer. Your mouth is full of cotton and want, your tongue is tied, your throat is closed, and all you can do is just sit there, trembling, your thighs pressed together, your hands clenched in your lap, your eyes wide and wet and desperate.
"You wanna show uncle Joel?"
A whine bubbles from your throat. You immediately feel yourself nodding like a desperate little puppy excited to get treats, making him chuckle.
"Words," he says, and his voice is patient. "I need words, babygirl."
"Yes," you whisper. "Please."
"Please what?"
"Please...uncle Joel."
He chuckles again, and the sound vibrates through you, settling in your bones, in your blood, in your cunt, and you feel yourself clench.
"That's a good girl," he says. "Now stand up for uncle Joel. Right in front of me. Let me see you."
You rise with shaky legs, thighs trembling, and you stand before him, your hands at your sides, your heart in your throat, your cunt aching wet and ready.
He stays seated, looking up at you, his dark eyes hooded and patient, like a wolf watching a deer wander into the clearing...like a predator who knows his prey is already caught.
"Now pull that dress up," he says, and his voice is soft—a gentle command. "Slow. Let me see what my brother's been wastin'."
Your fingers tremble as you gather the hem of your dress, lifting it inch by slow inch, the fabric sliding up your thighs, revealing the skin of your legs, the soft curve of your hips, and then the oh so wet, slick fabric of your panties. The cotton clinges to your folds, almost translucent with arousal, a dark stain spreading across the pale blue.
Joel exhales slowly, a long, low breath that seems to come from somewhere deep down his chest.
"There you go," he coos. "Keep goin'. Let me see that pretty pussy."
You pull the dress up to your waist, exposing your ruined panties, the glistening outline of your cunt hidden behind the soaked cloth.
He reaches out immediately, hooks his fingers in the waistband, tugs them down, and the fabric slides over your hips, past your thighs, down your legs, and you step out of them, standing before him completely bare from the waist down.
"Well, would you look at that," he murmurs. "Ain't that the prettiest thing I've ever seen. All wet and ready for me. And Tommy, that dumbass, he can't even handle it."
You whimper, the sound escaping your throat before you can stop it. He starts spreading your labia with his thumbs, gentle; exposing your slick, pink flesh, the small nub of your clit, the opening that clenches and releases with your breath.
"Would ya look at that, honey." his voice barely above a whisper, and he leans in, closer, closer, until his breath is warm against your cunt. "Glistening like a goddamn jewel. You're so fuckin' sweet, baby. You know that? You know how fuckin' perfect you look right now?"
He leans in and presses a soft kiss to your inner thigh, just above your knee, then another kiss, higher, on the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, and another, higher still, his beard scraping against your skin.
Your fingers find his hair, tangling in the salt and pepper strands, gripping him, holding him, wanting to feel his mouth on your cunt, but he doesn't go there, he just keeps kissing your thighs, your hips, the soft skin of your belly, until you're trembling, shaking, your knees weak, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps.
"Please," you breathe. "Please, Joel."
"That's uncle Joel to you," he corrects, his voice a gentle growl against your thigh as he looks up at you.
"Now c'mere, sweet pea..." he says, and he pulls you down onto his lap. "That's it, right where this old man wants ya."
You straddle his thighs, your bare cunt pressing against the rough denim of his jeans, without much thinking you grind against him, a slow, desperate movement, a plea of want.
His hands slide up your sides, under your dress, palming your breasts through the lace of your bra. He finds the clasp, unhooks it with practiced ease, pulls the straps down your arms, and the bra falls away—your breasts spill free, full and heavy, your nipples peaked and aching.
He cups them quicky, his thumbs circling your nipples, sending sparks of pleasure down your cunt.
A whine escapes from your throat.
"Oh, I know," he murmurs, his mouth against your neck, his lips brushing your skin, his teeth grazing your pulse point. "You're my good girl."
He kisses your neck, your collarbone, the hollow of your throat. You arch into him, pressing your breasts against his chest, grinding your cunt against his thigh.
Then his hand slides down, down your belly, down through the soft nest of hair between your legs. His fingers find your cunt, and he doesn't tease, doesn't play, doesn't dance around the edges—he plunges two fingers deep inside you, making your hips grind at him and your back arch.
"God damn," he groans against your throat. "This pussy's so hot and slick, clenchin' every time I push in deeper."
He pumps his fingers in and out, a steady, rhythmic rhythm.
You hear it: the wet, sucking sound of your own arousal, a rhythmic schlick schlick that fills the quiet room, that echoes off the walls.
"Tommy don't know what he's got," Joel murmurs, curling his fingers, hitting that spot inside you, that spot that makes stars burst behind your eyes, and you feel the pressure building, the heat rising, the pleasure coiling in your belly ready to snap. "He don't know how to take care of a woman like you. But I do. Uncle Joel knows."
He kisses you then, his tongue sliding into your mouth, tasting of apple and cinnamon, and you moan into his mouth, your hips rocking against his hand, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps.
"Christ, you're suckin' 'em in like you don't ever wanna let go. Keep those hips still, baby girl, or I'll have to hold you down while I work 'em deeper." he says, pulling back, his forehead against yours, his breath hot on your lips.
His thumb finds your clit then, circles it, presses down, gently at first, then harder.
"I'm gonna—" you gasp, your nails digging into his shoulders, your legs trembling, your cunt clenching around his fingers, "Joel, I'm gonna—"
"Mhm, let go for me, honey." he commands, soft but firm. "Cum on uncle Joel's fingers. Show me how good I make you feel."
And you do.
You shatter. A cry tears from your throat as your climax rips through you, waves of pleasure crashing through your pelvis, your thighs clamping around his hand, your cunt clenching and fluttering around his fingers, the release slowly going through your body as he works you through it, slowing his rhythm, gentling his touch, murmuring praise after praise.
"There we go," he says, his voice soft, tender. "That's a good girl…let it happen. You're making such a mess on uncle Joel's hand."
You slump against him, boneless, panting, your forehead resting against his. You can feel his smile, feel the satisfaction in his chest.
But before you can catch your breath, before the aftershocks have even faded, he's lifting you, shifting you, laying you back on the sofa, and your head hits a cushion, your legs hang over the edge.
He unbuckles his belt, and unzips his jeans, the sound of the zipper a slow, deliberate rasp, a sound that makes your cunt clench hard around nothing.
He pulls his cock free, and your breath catches in your throat.
It's thick, hard, the head glistening with a bead of pre-cum already, a vein running along the shaft like a river on a map. It's bigger than Tommy's; thicker, fuller.
"Look at that," he says, stroking himself slowly, his hand a rhythmic pump, and you watch his hand move, watch the way his fingers wrap around his shaft, the way his thumb swipes over the head, spreading the pre-cum.
"Cunt clenching around nothing. You hungry, sweetheart? This pussy hungry?" he asks. "You want uncle Joel inside you?"
You spread your legs wider, your pussy still clenching, still dripping, still hungry for more, and you look up at him, your eyes wide, your voice a whisper. "Inside. Please. Please, uncle Joel."
He positions himself at your entrance, and you feel the head of his cock pressing against your slick folds. You hold your breath, waiting until he pushes in, and when he does you gasp at the stretch, the fullness, the way he opens you up.
He is so much bigger than Tommy, thicker, fuller that you feel a moment of panic; can I take this? Can I really take this?
But then he's soothing you, voice soft and gentle.
"Shh, shh, easy now," he says, and his voice is a balm. "Breathe for me. That's it. You can take it. You can take all of uncle Joel. Let it in nice and deep."
He pushes deeper, inch by agonising inch, a slow, but huge invasion, and you feel every ridge, every vein, every inch of him sliding into you, stretching you, filling you in a way you've never been filled before.
"Feel that?" he whispers. "Feel how good we fit together? Tommy never made you feel like this, did he?"
You shake your head, tears sliding down your cheeks, and you can't speak, can't find the words, can't do anything but feel, feel, feel.
"No," you whisper, and your voice is broken, cracked, raw. "No, never."
"Because he's a fool," Joel says, and his voice is tender, loving, even as he pushes deeper, even as he fills you completely, even as he buries himself to the hilt. "A fool who don't know how to handle the treasure he's got. But I ain't a fool. I know a good thing when I see it. I know a hungry woman when I see her."
He is buried to the hilt now, letting you adjust to his grit, letting you feel the weight of him inside you, the stretch, the ache, the pleasure, and you feel your cunt clenching around him, trying to pull him deeper.
"Atta girl…there it is. I'm allll the way in. Gonna keep you pinned nice and deep, grindin' slow so you feel every throb, every pulse." He says softly.
Tears start to prickle in your eyes when he starts to thrust. Slow at first, deep, each thrust a drag against your walls, a wet slide that makes you moan, and his hips meet yours with a soft, wet slap.
"Listen to those messy sounds—Christ, you're drippin' down your thighs already." He murmurs, making a sob erupt from your throat. "Oh, I know, that's my girl. Takin' me so good, aren't you? So fuckin' tight. You like being filled by your uncle, hm?"
"Yes," you moan, your nails digging into his shoulders, the pressure rising, the coil winding tighter, ready to snap again. "Yes, yes, yes."
"Say it again, honey." he demands softly. But his pace quickens, his thrusts becoming harder, deeper, more urgent, and you feel the couch creak beneath you.
"Uncle Joel," you gasp. "Please. Please fuck me."
He groans, his head dropping to your shoulder, teeth grazing your skin, and his pace quickens, his thrusts become harder, deeper, more urgent, and you feel the pleasure building; rising, the coil winding tighter and tighter, ready to snap.
"Goddamn," he grits out. "you're perfect. You're gonna make me cum, sweet pea. You gonna cum with me? Cum with uncle Joel?"
"I don't know—" you gasp, your vision blurring. "I'm close—it's too much—"
"It ain't too much," he says, and his voice is firm. "You can take it. You're a strong girl. A hungry girl. Let go for me. Let me feel you break."
He drives into you harder, faster, and you feel the coil snap, the pleasure explodes and you shatter again. A broken cry tears from your throat as you cum, your inner walls clenching around him, fluttering, pulsing, milking every last drop from him.
A guttural groan leaves his lips and he follows a moment later, spilling inside you in hot, thick drops—filling you up with a warmth that spreads through your belly.
Your cunt still works around him as he collapses on top of you, his breath hot against neck.
After a long moment, he stirs, lifts his head and presses a soft, tender kiss to your lips.
"You did so well, sweet pea," he murmurs. "Took everything right into that cunt of yours."
He pulls out slowly, and you whimper at the loss, the sudden emptiness a hollow ache.
He fetches a damp cloth from the kitchen and cleans you up with gentle hands, wiping between your thighs, pressing soft kisses to your forehead, whispering: "We made some cream pie, didn't we?" and you feel like crying, like laughing, like giggling.
"You gotta go home soon," he says. "Tommy'll be back in an hour."
You nod as you sit up, and reach for your panties, but he stops you, his hand on your wrist, his eyes dark and possessive.
"Leave 'em," he says, and his voice is a firm command.
"What?@
"The panties, hon." he says. "Leave 'em here. I want to know you're walkin' around without 'em. Thinkin' about me. Feel my cum drippin' down your thigh."
You blush, a deep, burning flush that spreads across your cheeks, but you don't argue. You pull your dress on over your bare skin, leaving your soaked panties crumpled on his coffee table like a trophy.
He walks you to the door, and as you step out into the fading light, he calls after you.
"Come back tomorrow," he says, soft. "I'll have the pie warmed up."
You smile, and your thighs are still slick with his spend, and your cunt is still sore and full, and you know, with a certainty that settles into your bones like honey, like syrup, like warm apple pie, that you will.
Summary: You’re a woman of a certain age and things are changing in your body. Fortunately, you have Joel Miller in your corner.
Warnings: Mature, implied sexual contact, discussions of perimenopause.
A/N: This has evolved from this WIP. Enjoy 🥰
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The fire has burned down to amber coals, throwing low light across the bedroom ceiling, and you lie there staring at the familiar map of cracks in the plaster, trying to figure out what’s wrong with you.
Joel's hand rests on your hip, patient and still, like it has been for a while now.
"We don't have to," he says, the same words he's used three times this week alone, delivered in the same careful register – not cold or resentful, but something more exhausted than either of those things. Like a man who’s learned to keep his voice very level around something that spooks easily.
"I know we don't have to."
You hear the snap in your own voice and hate yourself for it. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean…"
"It’s okay."
But it isn’t okay. Not because he’s angry, but because he isn’t and somehow that’s almost worse. You'd prefer anger. Anger would give you something to push against, something to explain yourself to. Instead, there’s just this careful, considered gentleness that makes you feel like a wounded animal being handled by someone who doesn’t want to lose a finger.
You shift onto your side, facing away from him. His hand stays on your hip for a moment longer, then withdraws to his own side of the bed.
The coals tick and outside the wind moves through Jackson in long dark sighs that mirror how you feel.
Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, because you haven’t always been like this.
You can remember – with a vividness that now feels almost cruel – the way it used to be. The hunger and ease of it. Joel’s not a demonstrative man by most measures. He doesn’t talk about his feelings any more than he absolutely has to or offer reassurance or emotional narration. But in bed, in that particular dark, he’s always been completely present with you in a way that feels like its own language.
His hands know you, have learned you with the patient attention of a man who genuinely wants to learn something and who finds the subject endlessly interesting.
You’ve wanted him just as badly, more some weeks. You've been the one reaching across the space between you in the early morning light, when he makes a low pleased sound and pulls you closer, and it’s been easy. Not effortless, but easy in the way that breathing is easy, the way you don't have to think about it.
Now it feels like breathing at altitude. Like your body has quietly, without consulting you, moved somewhere the air’s thinner.
It started, if you had to name a starting point, maybe eight months ago and it was small things at first. Like when you went to bed on a regular Tuesday intending to reach for him and found yourself simply...uninterested.
You weren’t tired, not upset, not distracted by anything specific. You were just blank where the want usually lives. You rolled over, went to sleep and told yourself it was nothing. That it was a phase, or a bad week or, more likely, the cumulative weight of living in this world doing its usual arithmetic on desire.
But the blank Tuesdays became blank weekends, the weeks between stretching. And when you do try – because you love him and don’t want to lose the thread of this thing between you – there’s the dryness.
You've never experienced it like this, that specific discomfort that makes everything feel wrong, that makes you tense when you've always melted, that turns something that’s been pleasure into something you’re simply enduring and hoping he can’t tell.
Of course he can tell.
Joel Miller has spent twenty years before ever laying eyes on you learning to read threat and deception in the smallest tells of human behaviour. He isn’t going to miss the way you go a little still, or the way your breathing shifts from something good to something controlled.
He pulled back the first time, quietly, without making it a thing and kissed you carefully.
But you saw his face in the low light, saw the confusion there, the careful way he smoothed it back to neutral, and you felt a cold shame settle into your chest that hasn’t fully left since.
****
The hot flashes start in October.
That’s what finally makes you go to Dr Vee.
They come at night mostly, though not exclusively – this drenching, furnace-blast heat that wakes you from sleep damp and disoriented, your heart clattering, kicking the blankets off while Joel sleeps beside you oblivious. Sometimes you get up and stand at the window in the cold air until your skin cools and your pulse settles.
Once he wakes, finds you there and asks if you’re all right. You tell him you’re fine, just warm and that he should go back to sleep. And he does, slowly, with that same careful patient stillness he's been wearing like armour for months.
The sleep disruption makes everything worse. You’re tired in a way that sits in your bones. Your moods become unreliable, small things snagging at you. You snap and then feel terrible and then snap about feeling terrible. Your cycle has gone strange too – irregular, showing up when it pleases and sometimes not for two months running.
The brain fog is the worst indignity. You stand in the kitchen trying to remember what you've gone to get and find the word for it has just – slipped.
Like a wet bar of soap.
Gone.
You’re forty-six years old, you’re falling apart and you don’t know why. And you haven’t told Joel any of this properly because you don’t know how to explain something you don’t understand yourself.
Dr Vee is sixty-something and was a family physician before the outbreak, keeping meticulous notes in a series of composition notebooks and has a memory like a steel trap. She stitched your shoulder up two winters ago after a patrol gone sideways and, in some way, you trust her.
You sit on the paper-covered table, whilst she listens to you with the particular quality of attention that good doctors have. The kind that makes you feel like you’re the only person in the world and your problem is the only problem.
You tell her everything. The libido, the dryness, the hot flashes, the fatigue, the mood swings, the irregular cycle, the brain fog. Your voice stays level and clinical because you’re holding it that way with both hands.
When you finish, she’s quiet for a moment, tapping her pen against her notebook.
"How old are you?"
"Forty-six."
She nods slowly. "And these symptoms – all of them, taken together – when did they begin?"
"Eight, nine months ago, I guess. But they’ve come on gradually."
She nods again and sets her pen down. "I'm going to ask you something and I need you to think about whether any of this is new information or whether some part of you has already been thinking it."
You frown.
"Perimenopause," she says. "That’s the transitional phase before menopause. It can last anywhere from a few years to a decade. The hormonal fluctuations account for every symptom you've described – the hot flashes, the night sweats, the sleep disruption etc. The irregular cycle is also textbook." She pauses. "You're not falling apart. Your body is doing something it's been designed to do but just doing it rather loudly."
You sit with that for a moment.
Some part of you has known. Some quiet, careful part that you haven’t wanted to examine too directly because examining it means acknowledging it, and acknowledging it means – what? You’re not entirely sure what it means and that’s the problem.
"The obvious treatment is hormone replacement therapy," Dr Vee says, "which we don't have."
"Right."
"But there are things we can do. I have some dried black cohosh root which helps some women with the symptoms. There are also things you can do in your overall lifestyle things, which in Jackson, mostly amounts to what you're already doing. A cool sleeping environment is essential and help with managing stress which is, of course, not simple in this world.”
She writes something in her notebook.
"The genitourinary symptoms – that’s the dryness, the discomfort during sex – that's a direct effect of declining oestrogen affecting the vaginal tissue. I have some things that can help with that too. Vitamin E oil and coconut oil for example. It’s not the same as actual oestrogen cream, but they can provide some relief and work on lubrication, externally and otherwise."
You nod slowly.
"This is a normal transition,” she says gently. “It’s not a failing. A lot of women go through this without ever talking to anyone about it because it's been treated as something shameful or taboo for most of recorded history, which is frankly absurd, and I won't have that in my practice." She looks at you steadily. "You doing alright?"
"Yes," you say, your voice only wavering slightly. "I just…I didn't know what was wrong with me. I thought I was…"
"Thought you were what?"
"Losing something."
She pauses for a long moment. “Are you still with Joel?”
"Yes."
"Have you talked to him?"
"No."
She looks at you with the particular expression of a woman who’s seen a great many people avoid a great many necessary conversations.
"That might be worth doing."
****
You hold off for four days, telling yourself that you’re waiting for the right moment, the right mood, the right confluence of evening light and privacy and emotional bandwidth. In truth you’re waiting for the courage to arrive, and it’s taking its time.
The morning of the fifth day you wake before dawn from another hot flash, the searing flush cresting up through your chest and neck, and you sit up in bed breathing through it while Joel sleeps beside you.
You watch his face in the dark – the lines of it, the grey at his temples, the slight parting of his lips in sleep – and you think that this man has has watched you cry, has stitched you up, has held you through nightmares, has seen you covered in mud and blood and worse, has loved you through four winters and the particular relentless grinding difficulty of this world, and the idea that you can keep something from him because you’re embarrassed seems, in this predawn hour, genuinely absurd.
You get up and head to the kitchen. Standing at the window, you watch the first pale light come into the sky over the ridge and put the kettle on. When you hear his footsteps come up behind you, you don’t turn around.
"You're up early," he says casually.
"Couldn't sleep."
He comes and stands beside you at the window. You hear him pour himself a mug of coffee and lean against the counter drinking it quietly. If there’s one thing you’ve learned since you hitched your wagon to his it’s that Joel’s good at quiet. Sometimes it’s the thing you love most about him and sometimes it drives you absolutely insane.
"Joel.”
"Yeah."
You turn away from the window to see him watching you with those dark eyes that always seem to be calculating something, reading something or running some private assessment that you stopped trying to decode years ago. He’s in his undershirt and flannel pants, a crease from the pillow on his cheek, and he’s so familiar it aches.
"I need to tell you something," you say, "and I need you to not make it into something it isn't."
He pauses. "Okay."
"And I need you to not try to fix it immediately."
The pause lasts longer this time, and you can see his brain already working through a million different scenarios. "I'll try."
You wrap your hands around your mug and look at the table rather than at him.
"I went to see Dr Vee."
The quality of his silence shifts. You feel him go still in a specific way – the way he goes still when the information arriving requires him to revise something, to quickly run new calculations.
"When?" he asks, carefully.
"A few days ago."
"You didn't tell me you were goin’."
"I know, I'm telling you now."
You make yourself look up and instantly see that his jaw’s tight.
"I'm okay. It's not…it's not that kind of thing. I'm not sick or hurt. I'm..." You exhale. "I'm going through the change of life. It’s called perimenopause."
The word sits in the kitchen between you.
Joel says nothing. He looks at you with that particular expression that means he’s processing and isn’t ready to respond yet. You’ve learned over the years not to rush that expression because rushing it gets you something defensive and half-formed rather than whatever he actually thinks.
"It's the…it's the hormonal transition before menopause," you say, because the silence is getting heavy and you need to keep talking or you’re going to lose your nerve. "The hot flashes I've been having, those are a symptom. The…the sleep stuff, being tired, the moods…"
You swallow.
"The...the not wanting to. The difficulty with…with being dry when we…when we try."
The last part costs you something and you haven’t known how much until you say it, until the warmth hits your face and you realise you’re actually blushing, actually mortified in a way you haven’t been in front of this man in years.
Joel sets his mug on the counter and stays quiet for so long that you’ve started to construct catastrophic narratives – he's disgusted, he's disappointed, he's realising he's stuck with someone whose body is doing something irreversible and unglamorous and…
"Why didn't you tell me?" he says, his voice low.
"Because I didn't know what was wrong," you reply, "not exactly. Not until I saw Dr Vee. And before that I just thought…" You press your lips together. "I thought I was losing something. Or becoming… less. I don't know. It's embarrassing, Joel. It's embarrassing to not want someone you love, and not know why, and not be able to explain it to them. It's embarrassing to…"
Your voice threatens to fracture, and you hold it level.
"To be lying there while someone you love tries and feeling nothing and not knowing if it's ever going to come back."
Joel looks at you for a long moment. Then he crosses the kitchen, takes the mug out of your hands and sets it next to his, his hands coming to rest on either side of your face, large and warm.
"Look at me," he says and you raise your eyes to meet his. "You thought I'd…what, think less of you?"
You don’t answer, because yes – that is precisely what you thought, and saying it out loud to his face feels even more foolish than it seemed in the privacy of your own catastrophising.
"Hey." His thumb moves along your cheekbone. "I've been worried sick for weeks. I didn't know if I'd…if I'd done somethin’ or said somethin' wrong. I didn't know if you were tired of me, I didn't know if there was somethin’ wrong and you weren't tellin’ me…I've been lyin’ next to you not knowin’ what was wrong, watchin’ you pull away and not…not known how to ask without makin’ it worse."
Oh.
You haven’t thought of that. You’ve been so consumed by your own experience of this thing – the confusion of it, the embarrassment, the quietly devastating sense of your own body becoming unreliable – that you haven’t fully reckoned with what it looks like from the other side of the bed.
Joel, who loves you, can’t fix things, can’t explain things and has been waking up next to a wall he doesn’t know how to scale.
"I thought you knew it wasn't you," you say.
"How was I supposed to know that?"
You close your eyes briefly, because he’s being entirely fair.
"I'm sorry," you say. "I should've…I should've said something earlier. I was ashamed and I didn't…"
"Don't." His forehead comes down to rest against yours. "Don't apologise. I'm not…I'm not angry with you, baby, I just." He exhales. "I just needed to know."
You stand there, and something you've been carrying for months loosens in your chest. Not entirely, but enough that you can breathe differently.
"Dr Vee gave me some things," you say. "Botanical stuff, and some…some preparations that are supposed to help with the physical symptoms. She said it's normal. She was very clear about it being a normal process."
"Good."
"It doesn't mean the wanting is gone forever. She said for a lot of women it adjusts and evens out eventually. Just the transition is…a lot.”
"Okay." He pulls back enough to look at you, his eyes moving over your face in the way they do when he’s committing something to memory or making a decision.
"What do you need?"
The simplicity of the question almost undoes you.
What do you need. Not, what should we do about this or how do we fix it. Just, what do you need.
"I need you not to make me feel like something's broken," you say. "I need you to…I need it to be okay when I can't. And I need you to not…not pull away entirely, just because I've been different. I still need you close, Joel. I still need to feel like you…like you still want to be close to me, even when it can't go anywhere."
Joel holds your face in his hands for a moment longer, and you watch him work through something – that interior processing, the careful assembly of a response that’s actually true rather than just immediately comforting.
"I pulled back because I didn't want to push," he says finally, “not because I didn't want you. Those two things ain’t the same."
"I know that now. I think I just needed to hear it."
He makes a low sound that isn’t quite a word and pulls you into him, one hand flat against the back of your head, your face against his shoulder, and you stand there letting him hold you with the particular solidity he has and feel, for the first time in months, like you’re in the right coordinates. Like you've been slightly displaced and have finally found your way back to exactly where you’re supposed to be standing.
"We're gonna figure it out," he says into your hair. Not it'll be fine, not don't worry, but rather the specific practical commitment of we are going to work this problem together, which is the most Joel Miller expression of love you can imagine, and it breaks something loose in your chest that you haven’t realised was still clenched.
****
The first week after the conversation is its own kind of awkward.
You've spent so long not saying things that having said them leaves you both slightly exposed and uncertain how to proceed. The way you feel after finally lancing something – relieved but also raw and tentative about what comes next.
Joel’s careful in a new way now, a way that’s warmer than the previous caution. He touches you more in the small ways – his hand at the small of your back when you pass in the kitchen, the deliberate way he drops a kiss to the top of your head when you’re reading by the fire. Not loaded touches, not leading anywhere, just present. I'm here. You're here. This is still us.
You keep meaning to use the preparations Dr Vee’s given you and keep finding reasons to put it off. They sit in the small box on your side of the dresser, and you regard them each morning with the complex emotional relationship one develops with necessary but humbling things.
On a Thursday evening, almost two weeks after the kitchen conversation, Joel picks the box up off the dresser and you look up from where you’re taking off your boots to see him turning it over in his hands with an expression you can’t immediately read.
"This what she gave you?"
"Yes."
He opens it and looks at the small, stoppered bottle of vitamin E oil, the tin of coconut oil and the cloth packet of dried black cohosh with Dr Vee’s careful handwritten label. He examines each one with the focused attention he gives to anything mechanical or practical, the same way he assesses a weapon's condition or a vehicle's engine problem – with genuine interest and no apparent judgment.
He sets the black cohosh aside and holds up the bottle. "This one?"
"And the tin."
He nods slowly, sets them both on the nightstand and sets the box on the dresser.
"Okay.”
That’s it – okay. No commentary, no visible awkwardness, no performance of being fine with something he’s secretly weird about. It’s such a profoundly Joel response that you find yourself laughing and he glances over at you.
"What?"
"Nothing. Just…you."
The corner of his mouth moves. "Me?"
"The way you just…filed it."
"What else was I gonna do?"
You don’t have an answer for that, so you finish pulling your boots off, set them on the floor, look at him and feel, quietly and simply, that you love him very much.
****
The hot flashes continue. The black cohosh helps by blunting the worst of them and taking the edge off the frequency. You still wake sometimes in the small hours with that internal furnace blast, but more often now Joel’s awake too, or half-awake, and he simply folds the blanket back without a word, and you lie there in the cool air until it passes. He waits until, eventually, you're cold again and he pulls it back and then settles back into sleep.
He starts leaving the window cracked without being asked. One night you wake up to find it’s cracked, and it always is after that.
The mood swings are harder to navigate cleanly. There are evenings where something small catches at you and becomes enormous without your full participation.
Some hormonal amplifier turning minor friction into something that feels catastrophic. You hear yourself say something sharper than you intend, see his jaw tighten and know he’s choosing to absorb it rather than return it.
Afterward, when the chemical weather has shifted and you feel like yourself again, you apologise and tell him it’s not about him, and he says he knows and means it, you think. Or is at least working on meaning it.
Once he says, almost under his breath: "This what it was like livin' with me for years?"
You look at him.
"The moods," he says. "The not knowin' where it's comin' from."
He’s mapping it onto something he recognises, offering a kind of symmetry that you haven’t expected. A quiet, private acknowledgment that the territory of being difficult and not fully choosing it is not unfamiliar to him.
"Probably something like that," you say carefully.
He nods once, looking at some middle distance. Then he goes back to whatever he’s been doing, the conversation over, and it’s been one of the most unexpectedly intimate exchanges you can remember.
****
It’s a Saturday night in late January, the cold absolute outside, the woodstove doing its best, when things shift.
You haven’t planned it. That’s the thing about desire – when it finally finds its way back through the fog and the flatness, it doesn’t arrive with ceremony. It arrives the way returning feeling arrives in a limb that's been asleep – tingling, slightly shocking and suddenly present.
Joel’s at the table reading one of the battered paperbacks from the community library, and you’re watching him from across the room with a cup of cooling tea and registering, with something like surprised relief, that you want him.
Not a polite wanting, not a decided wanting, not I should try. Just clean simple want, easy as breathing, the old thing returning like a word you've forgotten you know.
He looks up and finds you watching.
"What?”
"Nothing."
He holds your gaze for a moment, and you see him recognise something in your expression, something he hasn’t seen in a while. The particular quality of his attention shifts and he closes the book.
In the bedroom, with the lamp turned low and the cold pressing at the windows, you let him relearn you slowly. Not rushing, not the practiced ease of a routine you can both do without thinking – this is more careful than that, more deliberate, His hands move over you with the genuine attention you remember from the first year and also entirely unlike it because you’re not who you were in the first year, neither is he and the difference isn’t loss.
He finds the oil on the nightstand and uses it without comment or making it a thing, with the same practical and focused care he brings to anything that needs doing right. His hands are warm and unhurried, and you feel the tight-held embarrassment you've been carrying for months release its grip. Because there’s nothing here to be ashamed of, nothing clinical or distancing about it when done like this, in the low light with his eyes on your face and his attention fully and specifically yours.
"Okay?" he asks.
"Yes," you say, genuinely meaning it.
"Tell me if it's not."
"I will."
He believes you. That’s the thing – he believes you now, because you’ve finally told him the truth about what’s happening in your body, have let him into the actual territory instead of leaving him to navigate it blind. The trust moves in both directions, and it makes everything different.
It’s slower than it used to be. Some things are different, some sensations subtly altered, some angles better than others. You tell him what you need as you find it and he adjusts without question, without ego in it, which is its own language, its own kind of devotion.
Afterward you lie with your head on his chest in the dark and his arm around you. The woodstove ticks and outside the wind moves and you feel quiet in a way you haven’t felt in months.
His hand moves up and down your back in a slow unconscious rhythm.
"Still with me?" he says. He sometimes asks that, after. It’s never entirely lost the meaning it acquired in the first year – are you here, are we here, is this still the thing we're building?
"Still with you," you reply.
"Good."
You press your lips to his collarbone and think about what Dr Vee said. You’re not losing but rather becoming – which is harder to hold in the mind but feels, in this moment, truer.
"It might not always…"
"I know."
"Some nights it might still be…"
"I know." His arm tightens slightly. "And some nights you'll wake up at two in the mornin’ like you're on fire and I'll open the window and we'll lie there 'til it passes. And some mornin’s you won't be able to find a word you're lookin’ for, and some days the smallest thing's gonna catch you sideways, and I'll figure out which days those are and give you a wider berth."
He pauses.
"And I'll still be here."
You lift your head to look at him, his eyes finding yours with the ease of long familiarity.
"You rehearse that?"
"Little bit."
You laugh – really laugh, the kind that comes from somewhere warm and involuntary – and feel him smile against the top of your head, that rare private smile he only wears when no one’s watching, which means he’s wearing it for you.
"Joel."
"Mm?"
"Thank you for being…" You stop and try again. "For not making it smaller than it is or bigger than it is. Just…"
"Just what it is," he finishes.
"Yeah."
He pulls you back down against his chest. "Get some sleep while you can."
You close your eyes and realise that you don’t feel like something’s ending. Rather you feel, in the particular stillness of this room and those arms and this quiet dark, like something’s continuing – not unchanged, not unmarked, but continuous.
Still yours. Still his. Complicated and warm and stubbornly, essentially here.
Summary: A visit to the midwife causes angst for you and Din.
Warnings: 18+only.
A/N: So…we get to see what Din’s been thinking about 🫣
One/Two/Three/Four/Five/Six/Seven/Eight/Nine
Din Masterlist
➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰🚀➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰
You wake before he does.
That, in itself, is unusual. Din wakes before everything – before the suns, before the ship, before the small chirping things in whatever atmosphere you've parked in – and you’ve learned to roll over into the warm dent he leaves in the mattress and steal another half hour of sleep in the shape of him. But this morning the dent is not empty. This morning he’s still there at your back, breathing slow and even through the modulator into the nape of your neck, his arm arm heavy across your waist, his hand spread wide, warm and proprietary across your belly.
He’s finally sleeping.
You lie very still a moment and let yourself feel it – the rare luxury of him asleep behind you, the soft hiss of the modulator at the crown of your head, the cool weight of the beskar pressed gentle against the back of your shoulder where his helmet has come to rest. The fire has burned down to embers in the next room, the thin gold seam at the bottom of the shutter has gone pale and silvery and the small stone house is full of the soft grey light of just-before-dawn.
You feel, suddenly and powerfully, wonderful and shift, very slowly, under his arm, testing whether he's truly under. His breath through the modulator doesn't change, his hand on your belly loose and heavy. You turn and face him in the dim grey light and look at the visor a long moment.
Then you lean in and press your mouth soft, against the side of the helmet, just below the cheek-line. The beskar is warm where his skin has heated it from the inside. You let your lips linger there and let your hand come up and lay flat against the side of his throat at the strip of warm, bare skin.
His breath through the modulator hitches and you can imagine his eyes slowly opening.
"Cyar'ika," he murmurs, "what…what time…?"
"It’s early."
"Mm."
You kiss the strip of warm skin at his throat and let your hand slide down the front of him, slow, palm flat, over the warmth of his undershirt and the plane of his stomach, and feel, very distinctly, that his body has caught up with the situation considerably faster than the helmet has.
Then his hand catches yours.
"Wait," he says, low. "Wait, cyar'ika, wait."
You pause, your hand caught in his, your mouth at the warm strip of his throat and your bare leg slid between his under the sheet. You feel that nothing about his body wants you to wait. That every part of him is awake now and answering you in the only language his body knows how to speak to yours.
"What is it?" you ask, lifting your head to look at him.
"It's early."
"Yes."
"The midwife's at the eighth hour."
"That's still two hours away."
"I…" The modulator clicks, the small sound of a swallow caught and amplified. His fingers tighten on yours, then loosen. "Cyar'ika, I want to, you know I want to."
"Do I? I'm looking at a helmet, Din."
You hear it before you can stop it – the small sharp edge of it – and he hears it too. The helmet tips, just slightly, and you feel the flinch of it move through his shoulder. You regret the words instantly, drop your forehead against the curve of his pauldron and close your eyes.
"I'm sorry, I didn’t mean…"
"It's alright."
"I didn't mean it like that."
"I know."
"I just…I just want…"
"I know what you want." His hand cups the base of your skull, his thumb stroking once, slow, behind your ear. "I want it too. I just…I want to know first. I want the midwife to look at you and tell me that everything's where it's supposed to be. And then…then I'm yours. Then I'm entirely yours."
"It’s two hours.”
You don't lift your face from his pauldron because you don’t want him to see the wetness at the corner of your eyes. You’ve given him your face for more than a year now. You’ve given him every twitch, every blush and every small involuntary thing that has crossed it, in exchange for nothing – for the smooth black blank of a visor that you’ve learned to read like a beloved book. And usually, it’s enough – more than enough.
Today it’s not enough. Today you’re pregnant and tired and hungry for him and you want, more than anything, to see his eyes when he says no.
You want to see through the wall.
But you don’t say this. Instead, you smile, crookedly where he can’t see. "Okay. You're probably right."
"I'm…"
"It's fine, Din."
You roll onto your back and out from under his arm, stare up at the rough plastered ceiling and blink, hard, at the prickle at the corners of your eyes. You tell yourself that he’s being careful with you and that careful is a kind of love, and that a kind of love is what you signed on for.
He props himself up on his elbow, the visor finding you, and his hand cups the side of your face and turns it towards him, his thumb brushing across your cheekbone and, of course, finding the dampness at your eyes.
"Hey."
"It's hormones."
"Cyar'ika…"
"It is, I know it is. And I’ve read enough to know that all kinds of things can seem bigger than they are because of them. So…ignore it."
"I'm not going to ignore it."
"Din…"
“Ni kar'tayl gar darasuum,” he says, softly in Mando’a, a phrase you’ve heard him murmur into your hair before but have never asked him to translate, because you’ve always been a little afraid of what it might mean and a little afraid of what it might not. "I love you. You know I love you."
"I know."
"It's not…it's not that I don't want you. It's not that, never that. I…you’re everything I could ever desire and more."
"I know, Din."
"It’s only two hours.”
He bends and presses his helmet to the brow to your forehead, carefully, the way he always does, and holds it there a long moment. You close your eyes and lean up into it because it’s all you know you’re going to get.
But you’re still a little hurt.
You roll out of bed, wash your face at the basin in the next room, then dress, before making him caf that still turns your stomach and ginger tea for yourself while he puts on his armour. Then you sit at the small table by the dying fire and eat the last of the bread with the honey, and smile at him across the table. He reaches across, lays his hand over yours and squeezes once and you squeeze back and the two hours pass and you don’t let yourself think about it again.
Not until you’re sitting on the midwife's examination cot with your tunic pulled up under your breasts and cool gel spreading across your belly. The midwife is smiling at you, and Din is standing at the foot of the cot with his helmet angled at the screen, and there’s a sound – a small, wet rapid sound like a frantic drum – coming out of the speaker on the wall
“There’s the heartbeat,” the midwife, a woman called Vesha says. “It’s strong, right where it should be and right on schedule.”
Instantly, you forget that you were ever hurt about anything.
Vesha is perhaps sixty with a long grey braid coiled at the back of her head and broad, calloused hands. She has the calm voice of a woman who’s helped a great many babies into the world and isn’t worried about yours.
She runs the wand across your belly, watches the screen and makes small thoughtful noises that are not worrying noises, she assures you, just thinking noises.
The wet little drum keeps beating and you look at the swirling shapes on the screen that don’t look like anything recognisable to you.
Din hasn’t moved at the foot of the cot. His helmet is angled at the screen and hasn’t turned away from it for what must be three full minutes. His hand finds your ankle, where it rests on the cot, and wraps around it, holding on with a steady careful pressure that doesn’t let up.
“Cyar’ika…” he says quietly, “it’s…look.”
“I see,” you murmur.
“It’s…a…a baby.” He turns to look at Vesha, as though he needs her to confirm it.
"Yes, it’s a baby,” Vesha says quietly. “Good.”
"Good?" you ask, because you need to hear it twice.
"Very good."
"Oh," you say and realise that you’re crying. You wipe your eyes with the back of your hand and Din's grip on your ankle tightens, briefly, then eases, the visor back on the screen.
Vesha smiles, wipes the gel off your belly with a soft cloth, clicks off the screen and folds her hands across her lap.
"Alright," she says. "Here’s the good news first. Everything is exactly where it should be at seven weeks. The heart is strong and the size and placement are correct. Whatever you've been eating, keep eating it. Whatever you've been doing, keep doing it. Yes?"
"Yes."
"Right, now the less good news. It’s not bad, just…practical." She looks at you, glances at Din, then looks back at you again. "I understand you currently live aboard a gunship."
"Yes…"
"Mm." She nods. "I would like, very strongly, to recommend that you stop."
You blink.
"Stop?"
"Stop living aboard the gunship." She says kindly. "Not entirely and I’m not saying you have to move tomorrow or abandon your life. But I’m asking you to find a base. A real place, a house, a settlement, a room above a friend's tavern – anything with walls that don't move and a floor that doesn't pitch. And I’m asking you to do it for the rest of this pregnancy and, ideally, for the first year of the child's life."
"I…"
"I'm not saying you can’t fly. I’m telling you that you shouldn’t live in the air. The hyperspace transitions at your stage are tolerable. At twenty weeks, they’ll be less tolerable. At thirty weeks, frankly, they’ll be dangerous. The gravity flicker during a jump-out is hard on the placenta. The vibration of sublight burn is hard on the joints, which will be loosening soon, and you’ll feel that. The radiation shielding on a ship that size is adequate for an adult and inadequate for a foetus over long exposure. The…"
"But…"
"…air on a ship is also not good for you and worse for the baby. I’ve seen babies born on ships and they come out small and wheezing. Some of them never quite grow into their lungs, and I’m not willing to…"
She stops suddenly, because she’s seen your face.
"I'm sorry," she says, more gently. "I’m not trying to frighten you, but I’m giving you my professional recommendation. You asked me to be your midwife, and this is what being your midwife looks like.”
She reaches across and takes your hand.
"There’s no emergency. You’re not in danger today and you have time to find a place. There are places here on Nevarro or, indeed, options on other planets. I’m only saying to you to find somewhere before the second trimester. Will you do that for me?"
You don't answer because you’re looking at Din.
You’re looking at Din because Din will, surely, look at you. Din will, surely, tip his helmet to you, and squeeze your ankle and say, we'll think about it. Or we'll discuss it. Or, even, the small soft let me handle this he uses when a stranger has overstepped and he’s about to politely close the conversation down.
He doesn’t do any of those things. His helmet isn’t angled at you, it’s angled at Vesha. And you can see, very clearly, that he’s nodding.
A small, slow, agreeing nod.
"I…" you hear yourself say. "I mean…the ship is…the ship is fine. The ship is…he’s rebuilt the ship from the inside out a number of times. The air scrubbers are the new model, they're…"
"I'm sure they’re excellent scrubbers, my dear."
"…and the radiation shielding…"
"Is adequate for adults, as I said."
"It's our home."
Vesha's eyes are very kind. "I know and I’m not asking you not to love your home. I’m asking you to find another one, just for a little while, until your child is grown enough to travel.
You look at Din again with the small cold thing under your sternum from last night turning over, slow, into something hotter and harder. You look at him and wait for him to look at you, and he does, finally, the helmet turning toward you, the visor finding your face. And what you see in the line of his shoulder, in the way his hand has stayed on your ankle but has gone very still and in the small soft sound that comes out of the modulator that is not quite a sigh but is almost one – is relief.
You see a man who is relieved that someone else has said it.
And you can’t see his face, can’t see his eyes. You can’t see whatever private apology might be sitting in the corner of his mouth right now, because his mouth is behind beskar, the way his mouth is always behind beskar – behind the wall – and all you have to read is the smooth black blank of a visor that for the second time today has gone from beloved to unbearable.
"Din, tell her. Tell her about the new scrubbers. Tell her about the shielding upgrades on the lower deck. Tell her…"
"Cyar'ika."
"Tell her, Din!"
He doesn't. He stays quiet, the visor on you. And then, slow, carefully, in the low voice he uses when he’s choosing his words, he says, “she’s right.”
The cold thing under your sternum cracks open.
"What?"
"She's right, cyar’ika. About the ship, about everything. She's right. I… I've been thinking. I've been…"
"You've been thinking?"
You sit up on the cot, your tunic still rucked under your breasts, and Vesha has the good grace to look very politely away as you yank it down and swing your legs over the side. Your bare feet hit the cold stone floor, Din’s hand lingering a moment in the air where your ankle was.
"Cyar'ika, let's…let's go home and talk about this."
"Home," you say, and the word comes out with an edge you don’t intend.
Vesha quietly steps through the curtain into the front room and pulls it shut behind her, leaving the two of you alone, with the wet drum of your baby's heartbeat still echoing faintly somewhere in the back of your skull.
"You agree with her."
"I…"
"You agree with her. I just watched you agree with her. I just watched your shoulders agree with her. You were…you were relieved, Din, I saw you, I saw…"
"Cyar'ika, please. Sit down, please."
"Don't tell me to sit down."
"You're going to…"
"I’m going to what, Din? I'm going to what, upset myself?! Upset the baby?! Is that what we're doing now? Is that…is that the best line you can come up with?"
"That's not…"
"Is that how this is going to work now?! I get pregnant and suddenly I'm a thing to be…to be managed?!"
"No."
"Suddenly every decision about my life gets made in some quiet room I'm not in…"
"That's not what…"
"Isn't it?!"
Your voice cracks, and you hate it. You can hear yourself getting shrill and you can’t stop.
"Isn't it, Din? When were you going to tell me? When were you going to mention you've been thinking about it? Last night? Was that what you were doing with your hand on my belly half the night, tap tap tap? You think I didn't feel that? Of course I felt that!"
"Cyar'ika…"
"How long?"
"How long what?"
"How long have you been thinking I shouldn't be on the ship?!"
The visor doesn't move. His hand half-raises, like he means to reach for you and has now forgotten what reaching for you is supposed to look like. It hovers in the air between you a moment, then drops, slow, to his side.
"Since Tatooine," he says.
"Since Tatooine?”
It all starts to make sense.
“Peli said something to you, didn’t she? She said something to you in the hangar yesterday and you’ve been walking around inside that helmet ever since with…with a whole plan in your head and you didn't…"
"I didn't have a plan. I don’t have a plan."
"You had enough of a plan to nod at her!"
"I wasn't…"
"Don't tell me you weren't nodding, Din, I was looking at you!"
"I wasn't nodding at…"
"Then look at me and tell me you weren't!"
It comes out of you louder than you mean it and louder than the small stone room can hold. It bounces off the plastered walls and the curtain and, in the front room you hear Vesha, very deliberately, drop something metal into a tray to give you the cover of a sound.
He stands very still, the visor on you.
"I can't look at you," he says, quietly. "You know I can't look at you. Not…not the way you mean.”
It lands like a slap, which it isn't and which he doesn’t mean as one. It’s the truth, plain and old and Creed-bound and not his fault, and which, today, on this morning, you can’t bear to hear.
Your eyes fill, hot, and you let them.
"No," you say. "No, you can't. I know you can't. I’ve known you can't, Din, for over a year. I’ve made my whole life around what you can't. I’ve made my…my body around what you can't ever since this thing between us started. And after you made it clear to me what your boundaries are, I have never again asked you for what you can’t give. Not even this morning Din when I…”
You can't finish that one. You can't say it out loud – when I wanted you and you said no through a visor. You can't say it because you can’t even admit to yourself that this is what's underneath the rest and what's making the rest twice as big as it should be. You bite the inside of your cheek until it hurts and straighten your tunic with both shaking hands.
"I’m not asking for it now. But you do not get to use the helmet as…as a wall, Din. You do not get to hide behind it when I’m asking you a real question. Do you agree with her?"
There’s a very long pause before he replies.
"Yes.”
"And you were going to, what? Wait? Let her say it? Let her be the one to tell me, so you didn't have to?!"
His shoulders move, the smallest dip of beskar in the dim morning light.
"Something like that."
You laugh, wet and high and it surprises you on the way out. Vesha very politely drops another piece of metal in a tray, and you press the heel of your hand to your mouth and breathe through your nose, hard, twice.
"Cyar'ika, please. Let's go home…"
"Don't say home to me right now."
"Then let's go to Karga's house. Let's…let's sit down and talk, properly."
"You should have talked to me on the ship."
"I know."
"You should have talked to me last night."
"I know."
"You told me you loved me whilst you were lying right next to me thinking…thinking I shouldn't be where I was, and you didn't…"
"I wasn't lying about that."
"I know you weren't lying about that."
"Then…"
"I'm saying you were lying about the rest, Din! You were lying about the rest by not telling me, and you let me lie down with you and you let me…you let me put my hand in yours and tell you the answer is yes when you ask me, and you knew…you'd already been…"
"I hadn't decided…"
"You decided this morning, Din!"
"I…"
"You decided this morning in bed! You decided when you said no!"
It comes out of you before you can catch it, and the room goes very still around it. You watch for the unmistakable flinch travel through his shoulder because you said the bed thing.
You meant to leave that one buried under the rest, you meant to never bring it up at all, and now here it is out in the air between you in the midwife's back room.
His hand comes up again. “Cyar'ika…that’s not…that wasn’t…"
"Don't, Din."
"It was just the midwife. I told you. I told you, it was just…I wanted her to look at you first, to make sure that the baby was okay, that's all it was, that's all it was…"
"Was it?"
"Yes."
You look at the visor, your face wet with tears you don’t bother to wipe away. You let him see – let the visor see, let the smooth black blank that has been the closest thing to his face for over a year see – what your face is doing.
"I don't know what you do behind that," you say, quietly. "I never know. I’ve spent more than a year not knowing yet telling myself I do know. That I can read your shoulders, your hands, that I can read the little tilts of you, and I’ve been right enough times that I…that I let myself believe it. I let myself believe I was good at it. I let myself believe it was enough."
"Please…”
"And then this morning you said no to me through it. And then just now you nodded at her through it. And I’m standing here looking at it and I don’t know if you’re sorry. I don’t know if you’re angry. I don’t know if you’re relieved. I don’t know if you’re even here, Din, I don’t."
"I'm here."
"You aren't."
"Cyar'ika. I'm here."
"You aren't, Din. You haven't been here since Tatooine. You’ve been in there, with…with whatever Peli put in your head, and you’ve been deciding things, and you didn't tell me."
He doesn't answer because there’s nothing to answer.
He stands at the foot of the cot with one gloved hand half-raised, the other at his side, the visor on your face and the modulator hissing soft with each careful breath, and he doesn’t defend himself because you’re right.
You wipe your face once, hard, with the back of your wrist and step around him, deliberately staying away from his touch, his hand closing around nothing.
"Cyar'ika…"
"I need a minute."
"Cyar'ika, please…"
"I need a minute, Din."
You push the curtain aside. Vesha is at her steriliser with her back to you, polishing a perfectly clean instrument with the kind of focused intensity of a woman who’s been pretending very hard for several minutes not to hear anything at all.
"There's a side door, my dear, through the herb room.,” she says quietly. “It leads you out onto the lane.”
"Thank you."
You go through the herb room, push the side door open and step out into the cool, volcanic morning, the dark glass face of Nevarro's rising sun hitting you full in the eyes. The wind off the lava plains is sulfurous and clean and the lane is mostly empty at this hour with only a single old man sweeping his stoop two doors down.
You walk without picking a direction, with your arms wrapped around yourself and your hand pressed flat to the small soft curve of your belly under your tunic.
The small wet drum isn’t echoing in your head anymore. It’s been replaced by the dull roaring of your own pulse in your ears, and you walk past the stoop-sweeping old man, past a shuttered baker's and past a woman drawing water at a public pump who merely glances at you as you pass.
Behind you, somewhere, a door opens but you don’t turn around. You can’t bear, right now, to see the visor come out into the morning after you. You don’t turn around because if you do, you’ll either go back to him or you’ll break.
You don’t know which and, right now, you’re not willing to find out.
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