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getitoutofmymindwrites · 1 day ago

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the quiet | five

wc: 3,7k | rating: 18+ for eventual smut | Boston QZ to Jackson Joel Miller x reader

summary: you don’t speak. not since outbreak day stole your voice and everything that mattered. when a smuggling job gone sideways leaves you in the care of Joel Miller and Tess, you don’t ask for help, you don’t want it from the powerful woman and intimidating man. but Tess sees something in you, pulling you close, showing you warmth. her partner Joel keeps his distance and you prefer it that way, you’ve learned not to trust men. Joel doesn’t want to get involved with you, not when his loyalty already belongs to Tess. but feelings don’t listen to reason and as tension builds between the three of you, so does the quiet pull between you and Joel; dangerous, unwanted, impossible to ignore.

the OC female character is YOU. she is not named and barely physically described aside from being able bodied and having hair long enough to grab. she has a back story.

tags/warnings: family trauma/abuse, alcoholism, slow burn, sexual tension, descriptions of violence, enemies to lovers-ish, love triangle, boston to jackson joel, mentions of violence. i will add more tags as they become relevant.

the quiet | five

Then

When you and Maggie arrive at the cabin that first day you're exhausted. You haven't bathed in a week, your hair is greasy, and you have cat fur all over you.

But you're alive.

The cabin is a patchwork of old timber and reclaimed metal, solar panels barely clinging to the roof under a mat of pine needles. A rusted Volkswagen van sits half-sunken near the tree line, now a greenhouse.

Maggie tells you to wait in the car. You watch her take out the gun from the glovebox, holding it at her side as she exits the vehicle, closing the door quickly behind her. Raven mewls for her, tiny nose pressed against the window.

You've never seen Maggie with a gun and it seems incongruous with what you know of her. After your sandwich you’d listened to her speaking, trying to make sense of what was happening around you.

She came from a commune, she loved nature and animals. She couldn’t have children of her own. She always thought of herself as a hippie.

She made you feel calm and safe. She shared her food and she didn’t mind when you sometimes cried in the backseat. Raven would rub her head against your shoulder when you did. Like she knew you needed the extra love.

You watch Maggie knock on the front door, her eyes scanning the surrounding area. The door opens a creak and you see a tall, scrawny man. Like Maggie he wears his long, flowy hair back with a bandana and his beard is streaked white and tied in several spots with elastic.

He looks at the gun, speaking lowly to Maggie. She points at the car and the man nods emphatically, following her to the car. You shrink from him when he taps on the window and waves.

He doesn’t push it. He and Maggie unload the car quickly, sure to tell you to stay put until its emptied. Then you’re ushered inside, Maggie’s gun drawn. You hold Bitsy in one arm, Raven in the other. She squirms a bit in your hold but allows it.

Inside the cabin is dark and smells of cedar. The floorboards creak, cracked records, faded maps, a stack of worn-out National Geographics, and bundles of dried herbs hanging from ceiling. You gaze around, hiding behind Maggie’s legs when the tall man looks down at you.

“I’m Bruce.”

You listen while he and Maggie talk. He lives out of the city on large acreage, isolated but not immune to what was happening. No neighbours for miles, no noise to draw ‘the creatures’ as they call them.

Bruce shows you around, pointing at a large room to the side. “That’s for you two.”

You glanced inside to see two narrow beds and sleeping bags.

“Water for cooking comes from the rain just like back on the farm,” He says with a smile at Maggie when she laughs.

“The sand and charcoal system?”

“The very same.”

You’ll come to learn in time that The Farm is the commune they lived on with a group of other similarly minded folks. That they used to travel after bands together when they were teens before finding The Farm. The Grateful Dead you think the band was called.

His pantry is a chaotic stash of canned beans, rice, lentils, and old mason jars filled with dried mushrooms and questionable preserves.

“Help yourself,” he tells you both. “Same as always.”

You follow with Bitsy in your arm. Raven is off scouting the house on her own. You hold Maggie’s hand, terrified of being left behind.

“I’ve started building some traps around,” Bruce says. “Working on a moat of sorts if you want to help tomorrow.”

“We can start now,” Maggie insists.

“No Mags, tonight you eat, bathe and sleep because you both need it,” he said with the authority of a father and the teasing edge of a brother. “Now go scrub up while I fix dinner.”

The bathroom is rustic, a large barrel to one side. There’s no plumbing, just a gravity-fed system from a nearby spring that fills a steel drum perched above the barrel. Thankfully the sun’s been out all day and the water’s lukewarm.

There’s a bottle you assume is shampoo and Maggie uses it, bathing you like your mother used to do. She tells you to close your eyes when she rinses it from your hair, sure not to get it in your eyes. Back home you have your Care Bears shampoo and it smells so good like strawberries. This one smells like baking soda and maybe lavender. It makes you cringe.

You change into clothes Maggie has brought for you. Taken from the bag in the crashed car. You’re thankful for it. You feel better being clean, your hair braided with gentle fingers by Maggie.

You wait on the bed as Maggie bathes and the both of you dressed and exhausted arrive at the circular wood table just in time for Bruce to set down an old pot, bubbling and smelling delicious.

“Dig in.”

Maggie serves you first, pausing only to see if you have allergies. You shrug. You don’t know.

“I don’t know what the hell those creatures are,” Maggie says as she places a biscuit onto your plate. “But I have a feeling they aren’t going away anytime soon.”

You eat the meal, thankful for the food but wishing it was McDonalds. You like the toys that come with a happy meal. So does Bitsy. You squeeze her extra tight.

"I'm sorry to come knocking out of the blue," Maggie adds. "It's just you told me to come visit one day and you're just the first place i thought of."

"You stay here as long as you need to," Bruce says through a spoonful, his voice full of sincerity. "Stay forever as far as I'm concerned."

Now

Joel wakes early the next morning, jaw cracking as he yawns. He considers pouring some whiskey into the shitty coffee they ration out here but decides against it. He needs to be level headed for the day ahead.

He's tired these days, more tired than he expected. Yeah, he's getting older but it's something more than that. A weight on his chest that won't let up. He's also angrier than usual. The kind of quiet fury that lives just under his skin, red, hot and pulsing.

He attributes it to Tommy's disappearance. Knowing his little brother is out there against the elements makes Joel anxious. And when he's anxious he's more than a little irritable.

As he pulls on clean clothes and readies himself for the day he finds himself thinking about your first night in zone five.He thinks of the lost look you wore as he and Tess left. He can imagine you curled into yourself as the door closed.

Would you insist on being taken home today? He'd almost prefer that to having to watch over you this first little bit. He doesn't like to have someone else dependent on him.

Besides you're dangerous. You vacillate between quiet subservience to all out fury at the drop of a hat.

As he walks to Tess' he thinks about how he'd had real trouble pulling you off that guy yesterday.

"Hey Miller. Saw you with a new girl yesterday."

Joel's eyes glance left towards the reedy voice. Ghoul, also known as Sam. He's tall and slender with a nose that takes up half his face. He's got gaunt features and a scar over his lower lip. Someone called him Ghoul and it just stuck.

Joel ignores the man, continuing with his long strides and grimace. But Ghoul continues at his side, chatting away like a useless parrot.

"She your new girl then? You gettin' tired of Tess?"

Joel's gaze is piercing, shot over his shoulder and Ghoul falters slightly though he keeps strides with Joel.

"You don't have many friends so people are talkin'. You expanding the gang? I'd like to throw my hat in the ring."

Ghoul is the last person Joel would ever have join his group. "Fuck off, Ghoul."

"Hey, I'm just tryin’ to offer my services." Ghoul hold up his hands like he's trying to ward of Joel's ire. "Your loss."

Joel gives a scoff before heading down a narrowed ally. He was worried about something like this - drawing attention to him with your presence. Joel and Tess prefer subtlety, to live in the shadows. You're a beacon- new, attractive, shiny.

Joel arrives at Tess' shortly after, attitude cool as she invites him inside, digging into her cupboard for another mug. "Ran into Ghoul on my way over."

"What did that fucker want?"

"Thinks there's an opening in the gang as he put it." Joel sighed wearily. "You're little visitor is stirring up trouble for us already."

"Speaking of which, you're gonna need to take her today," Tess says over her shoulder. "I got pulled for sanitation."

Joel is immediately on edge, body puffing in irritation. "We'll do it tomorrow then."

Joel watches Tess move around her kitchen, body sluggish. She's tired, more tired than he is. He sees it in her face when she frowns at him.

"She needs to get food and a job, Joel."

"I'm not a babysitter."

"Last time I checked she wasn't a baby."

Joel sighs when she pushes a cup of coffee his way. Hers is always better but he can't explain why. He sits wearily in the wooden chair, ignoring the creak as Tess sits across from him.

"Why not just pay FEDRA off and get out of sanitation for today? You've done it before."

"I tried to buy my way out of it but no luck. Apparently they need all hands today and I was just unlucky enough to be passing through." She rubs at her left temple. "So now I'm out a bag of weed for nothing."

Joel's eyes narrow, dark brow raised. They do practically everything together, they smuggle side by side. He doesn't remember any weed coming through lately.

"Weed?"

Tess motions to her bed after a beat. "Under there."

Joel moves from the table to crouch next to the bed, hand dimpling where it rests on the mattress. His back twinges as he glances under the bed, pulling out your backpack. "What's this?"

Tess says your name. "The one she brought with her."

Joel peers inside, noticing the tobacco, the weed, the pills, the alcohol all snuggled into the space tightly.

A smugglers wet dream.

He pauses, a bit confused. "Isn't this what she needs to barter in here, Tess?"

Tess rolls her eyes, long legs unfolding as she brings herself to a stand. She walks over to him, eyes stuck on the bag.

"She has so much she won't even miss it. Plus we'll just tell Maggie she ran out."

Joel isn't one for doing the right thing. Not now, after decades of fighting for survival. But at this he hesitates, looking at her from under thick brows.

When she sees Joel's disapproval she continues, "Just don't take too much."

It doesn’t seem right to take from you. But he isn't a good man, so why should he start now? And so despite his previous judgment, Joel doesn't stop himself from reaching inside and pocketing a baggie of painkillers.

When the door rumbles with a knock you answer it immediately. You've been awake for hours, waiting for today's guidance.

The door is opened a crack, just in case the loud noises you heard all night were from asshole neighbours that have come to introduce themselves. You half expect Tess to be standing there so you're surprised when it's Joel that greets you. You don't move, the door still open just a crack.

You look tired with circles under your eyes and hair frizzed at you temples. You glance around Joel's broad frame, looking for Tess.

"She got put on sanitation," he says, answering a question you didn't bother asking.

You look him up and down, confused as to why he agreed to help. He doesn't like you, that much is clear and the feeling is mutual. At least Tess is vocal in her frustrations, Joel just stares.

Still you open the door to him and step back, allowing him into your home, if you can call this matchbox a home.

He exhales slowly, as if just being near you is a strong exercise in patience. He takes a step in, glancing, around your apartment, confused to see it changed.

Your floors and walls are scrubbed free of grime, the sink no longer dripping. It smells strongly of bleach, as if you disinfected every single inch. Your bed is still threadbare but you brought a blanket in your bag.

The table has been propped up in the centre of the room. You found an old paint bucket in the large trash bin last night.

You fished it out, disinfected it the best you could, and then set it up next to the makeshift table.

You've taken a piece of shit hovel and made it livable. He's curious if you slept at all. You're hair falls into your eyes; face always slightly tilted away from him so he can't tell.

"Tess sent this along," Joel mutters, laying his backpack down on the floor. He opens it, pulling a few of your contraband items. You shove them into your own bag, watching the way his broad frame eats up the room.

"S'go," Joel murmurs as you hoist your bag onto your shoulders. "I got shit to do today."

Joel doesn’t look back. He doesn’t need to. You’re too afraid of losing him in the maze of the zone. This part of the city looks worse than the last. Burned-out shells of buildings lean against each other like drunks. Razor wire fences and posted warnings cut the streets into jagged blocks.

Joel feels your eyes on him as he weaves through the crowded line of figures in zone Three.

"You get your rations on Thursdays," Joel murmurs pointing at your vouchers. "Every Thursday you're gonna line up here, hand em a voucher and get your meals for the week."

Eventually, when the crowd thickens near the checkpoint, he speaks over his shoulder. “Stay close.”

His tone isn’t kind, but it’s not cruel either. Just clipped.

The line crawls forward. People shift and cough and avoid each other’s eyes. Ahead, you glimpse the tall, grey walls of Zone Three’s ration station. Armed FEDRA soldiers stand like statues at the gate, rifles slung casually across their chests. Your heart kicks up. You clutch the crumpled voucher tighter in your fist.

“You’ll hand that to the officer at the desk,” Joel mutters. “They’ll mark it. You get a weekly issue. Not much, but it's enough.”

You glance sideways, but Joel’s eyes are locked forward, jaw tense.

"But you need to pay Perry once a week with tobacco or a ration card." He sees your confusion. "If you have the energy for extra shifts you can earn extra ration cards."

His arm brushes yours when the line shifts, and you feel how solid he is beneath his flannel and jacket. It makes you nervous.

When you finally reach the front, the guard at the gate waves Joel through without question. You trail him, eyes on your shoes, feeling their stares rake over you. Inside the station, the air is worse. Hot, thick with body odor and old water. Rows of rusted folding tables snake through the old building, people waiting their turn like cattle. Joel stops near the front.

“Wait here,” he says, jerking his chin at a cracked section of wall.

You slide into the spot, hugging yourself. Joel moves off to speak with a man behind the counter. You can’t hear what he’s saying, but his body language is tight.

You feel the stare before you see it.

To your right, near the checkpoint table, a FEDRA officer stands watching you. He’s younger than Joel, clean-shaven, handsome in a sharp, hard way. His uniform is crisp. His rifle slung idle but close.

You feel like his eyes are on you and at first, you think you’re imagining it out of paranoia. But when you risk a glance, his gaze holds steady.

It's not hostile, just curious. It takes you a moment before you recognize his rakish smile. He's the officer from yesterday.Your stomach twists and you look away quickly. You stare at the floor, hoping me didn't recognize you. A beat later, boots approach, caught in your gaze.

“You must be a recent transfer."

The voice is low and smooth, but far too close. You flinch before you can help it. When you glance up, the officer’s smile is measured.

“I'm good with faces and I haven't seen you around."

You open your mouth. Nothing comes out.

His brow arches. “Cat got your tongue?”

You shake your head. That’s all you can manage and then like a dark angel, Joel is there. He steps between you and the officer like he belongs there, solid as a wall, broad shoulders blocking the man’s view of you entirely.

"Everything okay here?"

The officer’s easy manner shifts. He clearly recognizes Joel and all warmth is gone from his features. "Miller."

Around you, the station hums with the shuffling of lines and murmurs of people trying not to watch. But you feel it: tension threading the air like wire.

"She's my cousin," Joel says as he leans in a fraction. “I'm showing her the ropes.”

The officer nods and his smile tightens as the officer’s gaze flicks to you again, over Joel’s shoulder, something colder in it now. Then he steps back.

“I see,” he says a little too light. “Keep moving, then.”

The officer turns and walks away and it’s only then that Joel lets out a slow, deliberate breath. You stand frozen, all muscles tense. Joel turns toward you, and for once, his face isn’t closed off. He’s angry.

“Goddamn it,” he mutters, scanning you, scanning the room, as if gauging risk.

You grip your voucher so tightly your knuckles ache.

“He’s gonna remember you now,” Joel snaps quietly. Not yelling, but close. His jaw flexes. You can’t tell if it’s regret or something heavier.

He stares at you and thinks about how much stress this day has already been thanks do you.

He swears under his breath and shakes his head. “Goddamn it, Tess.”

Joel sweeps you away, his wide hand on your tailbone, pushing you towards the exit.

“Get your shit and let's go,” he says. Quiet now. "Still gotta find you work detail."

He guides you forward, keeping himself between you and anyone else. His hand never touches you, but you can feel the weight of him, the heat of him and his presence like a shield.

At the front table you stand silent, useless, as the rations are slid across the metal counter: two sacks marked with faded stencils. Flour, dried lentils and a packet of vitamins.You grab the bags and follow him back through the checkpoint. Out past the FEDRA guards who barely glance up and onto the cracked street where the air feels cooler.

Joel doesn’t speak until the station is blocks behind you.“Don’t look at anyone next time.”

His voice isn’t angry now. Just tired. You're frustrated, wishing you could tell him you hadn't meant to talk to him. That you hadn’t even been looking for attention. But what would be the point? Joel doesn’t seem like someone who cares about any point of view but his own.

"When you come home you go right to your place. Don't stop to look at anyone, don't talk to anyone. They're gonna a see your bag and they're gonna ask for your shit. They may try to bully you into it. Just ignore em."

Joel keeps walking past the streets you recognize. Past the burned-out church where you first arrived. You trail behind him, legs aching, throat dry, but he doesn’t slow or speak.

Eventually, he turns sharply into a smaller building marked by a hand-painted sign: Zone Employment Office. You catch the faintest whiff of bleach, paper and heavy sweat. Inside, it’s even worse. The air is hot and stale and makes you wince.

A long counter divides the room, manned by two FEDRA clerks behind wire mesh. Lines of people shuffle forward, papers in hand, eyes down. The scratch of pens, the mutter of orders, the clatter of a typewriter.

Joel strides past them all, straight to the front. Someone protests but Joel cuts him off without a word, just a dark stare. The man looks away.

Joel plants a hand on the scarred wooden counter, voice low but firm. “My cousin needs a detail starting tomorrow.”

One of the clerks, a woman with a pinched face and nicotine-yellow fingers, doesn’t even glance up. “She can get in line like everyone else.”

“She doesn't speak.” Joel’s tone darkens. “You want to waste your time trying to pull it outta her?”

That gets her attention. The woman lifts her gaze, squints past Joel at you. “That true?”

Not really. You just choose not to talk. But she won't understand that so you tilt your eyes down and nod once. Her sigh is long and bordering on theatrical. Then she flips through a thick folder, fingers smudged with ink.

“We'll put her on sanitation."

You stand there while the papers are filled. You don’t move. You don’t breathe. From the corner of your eyes you watch Joel staring stonily ahead of him.

Finally, the woman pushes a card across the counter. “Zone Three sanitation on the West end. You'll start at dawn and report to Officer Lang. He signs your hours and gives you your ration cards.”

Joel snatches the card up without thanks, turning and starting to leave without waiting for you.

“Let’s go.”

He doesn’t speak for a while. The card disappears into his jacket pocket. You watch the tightness in his shoulders. You can tell he’s angry, but you’re not sure why.

When he finally slows, it’s outside a crumbling warehouse near the border wall. You recognize it now; it's the building where he and Tess brought you after that first night. The place you’re supposed to think of as home.

He took you a different way and you make a mental note of the varied route. You want to familiarize yourself the best you can for when Maggie gets here.

Joel stops at the door of the building but doesn’t go in. He just looks over at you with your rations.

“You do the work and you keep your head down.” His voice is quiet now. “You miss a shift, you lose your ration card and you won't get any from us. Understand?”

You nod. Yes.

"After this you're Tess' problem and she ain't patient either. I suggest you get used to figuring life out here on your own and quick."

Joel doesn’t wait for a reply. He just disappears down the street and you watch him until you’re alone again.

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getitoutofmymindwrites · 1 day ago

Text

Swept Away: Season Two

Epilogue: Wild and Free

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

Chapter Summary: It's honeymoon time!

Chapter Warnings: language, fluff, tw: mentions of prior miscarriage, smut (18+ MDNI), fingering, breeding kink, unprotected piv sex (duh, see prior tag), (a little?) rough sex, oral (f! and m!receiving), pussy pronouns, food and alcohol consumption, Joel can pick reader up, reader has hair, reader wears lingerie, light spanking

WC: 11.3K

A/N: Thank you to everyone who showed me so much enthusiasm and support for this story! I hope you enjoy their final chapter!

Series Masterlist

Congratulations, Mr. & Mrs. Miller!

It's the first thing you saw when you walked into the sprawling estate in Santorini. Joel was behind you, directing the driver on where to put your bags. You had the stupidest grin on your face when you stepped closer to the banner, your eyes drifting over each letter time and time again.

Joel thanked the driver and handed him a folded bill before lifting his sunglasses from the bridge of his nose and looking around.

"Pretty nice," he said, smiling as you twirled around the massive foyer surrounded by two staircases that hugged each wall.

"Pretty nice?" you echoed, stopping in your tracks to face him with a frown. "This place is incredible."

Joel shrugged, shoved his hands in his pockets, and gave the place another once over. "Got a great view," he finally said.

You spun around and looked through the kitchen, where a glass wall gave way to a spectacular view of the Mediterranean Sea.

"Oh, my god," you breathed before running across the house so you could press your face against the window. It was unlike anything you'd ever seen before: endless, gorgeous blue water, dotted with pristine white sails from boats bobbing in the waves. The steep red cliffs bordering the sea were filled with bright white buildings, built stacked on top of each other as the landscape allowed. Some buildings were accented with royal blue roofs, others were flat and square, just like sugar cubes.

It felt like you were visiting an entirely different world.

"I don't think ten days is enough," you breathed, gaze still bouncing around excitedly. Then Joel's arm wrapped around your waist. His fingers splayed wide over your stomach as he pulled you back against his chest. He buried his face into the crook of your neck, breathing in deep the scent of your skin before puckering his lips to gently suck a spot on your throat.

"No, it ain't," he replied softly. His lips slowly dragged across your shoulder and you heard the bag he had been carrying drop to the floor so he could circle both arms protectively around your waist.

Your eyes fluttered closed and you tipped your head back.

"I'm getting the feeling we have two very different reasons for wanting to stay longer," you whispered. You reached behind you, sifting your fingers through his mussed curls with a sigh.

"Yeah? How so?"

At the same time, his left hand dropped to tug on the skirt of your dress, inching it up until your entire leg was exposed. You giggled but before you could come up with a witty reply, two thick fingers pressed firmly against your clit through your underwear, making you gasp back the words.

"Hm?" he teased, adoring the way your body obediently melted against him.

You swallowed and tightened your hold on his hair.

"I'm talking about— about seeing the city," you panted, hips rolling forward to match the slow pace of Joel's fingers over your panties. "An— And you're talking about— oh!"

You cried out, unable to finish your sentence as he slipped his middle finger inside of you.

"I'm talkin' 'bout what?" he goaded in your ear. His finger curled every time he pushed back inside, making your knees weak and your eyes roll. "Talkin' 'bout fuckin' my wife? Baby, if you thought I wasn't gonna spend every wakin' moment tryin' to get you pregnant, y'don't know me at all."

A second finger joined the first — his ring finger. You could feel the cool metal of his wedding band tapping against your opening every time he snapped his wrist. Your nails roughly dug into his scalp, the tension in your lower belly growing too hot and fast for you to consider if you were hurting him. He hissed under his breath but kept going, pumping his fingers in and out of you with one hand and holding you up with the other.

You brokenly whimpered his name and arched your back, desperate for release. Your ass pushed against the front of his pants and he groaned into your neck.

"Fuck," you whined when you felt how hard he was. "Fuck, Joel, just — just fuck me," you begged, but your eyes were screwed shut and your jaw hung open in bliss.

"Come for me first," he said, slapping the heel of his hand firmly against your clit every time his fingers entered you. Your whole body practically jumped whenever he made contact — you were close. "Open those pretty eyes, honey. Look out there — yeah, there you go." He sounded pleased when your eyes cracked open and you looked back out into the water. "Get a good look, 'cause I ain't lettin' you outta this house for long. Gonna — shit, you're so — gonna make sure we make a baby this time. Gonna be so full of my cum, you ain't gonna be able to walk right."

You gasped and yanked on his hair. He felt your stomach tighten beneath his arm and he smirked against your skin.

"Yeah, don't worry, darlin'. Ain't gotta do nothin' the whole time we're here 'cept lemme take care of you. Okay?"

You nodded dumbly, body jolting in his grip every time the loud smack of his palm against your clit echoed through the room.

"O-Okay," you slurred softly.

He growled and scraped his teeth against the side of your throat. There were fewer things in life Joel loved more than hearing you be so compliant and eager for him.

"Come f'me, baby," he told you between little bites to your neck. "C'mon, make your husband proud 'n let go."

A broken moan fell from your lips as you did what you were told. Your body jerked in his hold and you held onto his hair and arm for dear life as you rode out your climax. All the while, he murmured praise in your ear so the only thing you could hear were his sweet words and the sound of your pussy gushing around his fingers.

"Joel," you breathed, gasping pathetically for air in his arms. But he didn't answer. Instead, he withdrew his fingers rather abruptly, making you wince, but you soon forgot all about it when he scooped you up in his arms and carried you to the nearest piece of furniture he could fuck you on, which happened to be the dining room table.

"Spread 'em," he commanded after he laid you on top of the cherry tabletop. Afterwards, you would take note that the set looked extremely expensive and one of a kind — probably not something you should fuck on — but in the moment, neither of you cared. You widened your legs and hiked up your dress as Joel hastily tugged at his belt. His eyes were fixed on you in a way that sent a shiver down your spine — he looked crazed. His lips were parted, face flushed, eyes dark with need as his gaze flickered hungrily between your eyes and your glistening cunt.

"I ain't gonna be gentle," he warned when he finally pushed his pants and boxers down enough to free his cock. You wiggled your hips closer to the edge.

"Good."

Something flashed across his face for a second — a mix of adoration and animalistic need — before he grabbed your hip and lined himself up.

When he slammed into you, it stole every ounce of breath from your lungs. Your back arched off the table and your mouth hung open in a silent scream. Your fingers curled into tight fists at your sides but you fought through the sudden and rough intrusion so you could focus on Joel.

He was breathing heavily, like he had just ran a marathon. The veins in his neck bulged and his face looked hot — he blinked repeatedly as a strangled groan slithered up his throat and past his lips.

"So tight," he whined through clenched teeth. Then he withdrew his hips just to ram back into you with a grunt. You cursed and threw your head back, knocking it against the hard tabletop. He gave you a few more thrusts just like that — a slow withdraw followed by a deep plunge back inside your aching cunt — until he felt he gave you enough time to adjust. Then he started pounding into you at a steady clip so fast that he needed to press your hips down to keep your body from sliding up the table.

The discomfort was temporary and well worth it. It thrilled you to see him so desperate and filled with raw desire. He could tell, too. He could feel it in the way you fluttered around him, so warm and inviting, just fucking begging for him to fill you up.

You whimpered his name and spread your legs wider. It was almost too much to bear, watching him hunched over you like an animal, panting and sweating and cursing like his only purpose in life was to fuck you senseless. Heat coursed through your veins and made your face burn, or maybe it was the embarrassment you felt hearing the noises coming from your mouth with every violent jolt of his hips.

"God, look at you," he groaned. His grip on your waist tightened. "Takin' it so well, baby. Y'still with me?"

You could hear the smirk in his voice. You must have looked wrecked for him to sound so cocky, but you could hardly blame him. All you could offer up was a broken moan in response. Sweat had been collecting at your temples as your muscles began to seize up underneath him.

"Joel—" you gasped, but every harsh drag of his cock in and out of you left you breathless. It knocked your world sideways and had your legs quivering uncontrollably around his waist.

"You're so perfect, darlin'," he panted, "perfect little wife. Gonna make a perfect little mama next."

Tears burned your eyes, and it wasn't just from the rough snap of his hips against yours.

"Please," you begged, "please, Joel. I— I want it."

"I know y'do, baby, I know. Almost there... just— shit—"

A ragged groan ripped from his throat as he drove into you harder. Your hands clawed at his arms, desperate for something to hold onto.

"—Need you to come first," he growled. He watched the way your face twisted underneath him, fighting the flames burning inside you.

"It— it's so much, I... I can't," you cried with one tear trickling down to get lost in your hair. You forced your eyes open to plead with him, but his hand was already there, thumb rubbing firm circles over your clit without losing rhythm in his hips.

"You can," he rasped, but it wasn't until he saw that familiar look on your face — the one where your eyebrows raised up and your lips parted in a silent gasp — that he actually believed his own words.

You shattered around him a second later, your orgasm slamming into you just as hard as he had been. The blunt edge of your nails dug into his forearms, sending a sharp bolt of pain across his skin, but he didn't stop. He dutifully fucked you through it, watching your body convulse and fighting back his own release as you moaned his name so beautifully.

"So pretty," he muttered. You looked up at him, eyes heavy, unable to look away from the loose, sweaty curls bouncing against his forehead with every deep thrust. "S-So, so pretty when you come."

His chin dropped to watch the way his cock disappeared inside you, coated in your release. He bit his lower lip to stifle a groan at the sight, but then you whispered his name and his gaze snapped back up to you.

"You promised," you whimpered. He could hear the tension in your voice — you were too sensitive but you were trying to fight through it. "Give me what you promised, Joel," you added, eyebrows pinching together as his cock continued to split you open.

He nodded. "I will," he breathed, hips faltering their rhythm. He swallowed thickly and started to shift your tired body up and down on his cock. "I will. I'll— I'll give y— oh, fu-uck—"

A choked noise fell from his lips and a moment later, his body stilled. You sighed and closed your eyes when you felt his tell-tale warmth flooding your pussy. Your legs trembled against his sides, exhausted from being spread open wide and fucked within an inch of your life. He released your hips so he could grab ahold of each of your ankles, then slowly ground against you with a deep moan. You gasped at his coarse hairs rubbing against your clit, but you were too weak to push him away.

His mouth was on yours a moment later, pressing soft and tender kisses to your lips, bringing you back to life.

"Do you think it worked this time?" you mumbled.

"Maybe," he sighed, resting his forehead against your shoulder. With a soft noise, he pulled out of you, then quickly closed your legs. "Keep it all in there f'me."

You nodded, then winced when you shifted your sweaty back to unstick yourself from the table.

"Please tell me the bedroom is downstairs," you said. Joel chuckled and pushed himself up to stand with a grunt.

"I'll carry you."

You shook your head and tucked your knees to your chest.

"I'll walk. Just... gimme a minute."

Of course, the bedroom was upstairs. But you waited ten minutes to give his swimmers a fighting chance until you stood with Joel's help. Once you made it to the master bed, you just collapsed on top, still clad in your now wrinkled dress.

"I might sleep the rest of the day," you mumbled into the comforter. Your eyes were closed, but you could hear Joel moving around the room.

"Good. That's all you gotta do is exactly what you're doin'. Lemme take care of the rest."

You grinned and rolled onto your side just as he slipped through the doorway to go retrieve your things. You knew what he was really doing — he had said it countless times before you arrived. You were unable to wait til your honeymoon to start, and your failed attempts at trying for a baby for the last couple months since your beach wedding bothered you more than it should, so he was making it his mission to keep you as relaxed as possible after he read that stress could cause complications with conception.

When he returned with your bags, you were already chewing on your lower lip while studying the fertility app on your phone.

"Quit it," he scolded gently after putting your things in the closet.

"I know, I know," you sighed, closing the app and tossing your phone into the bedding.

"It's only been two months," he reminded you, sliding into bed.

"I know," you repeated, suddenly growing extremely interested in your nails. "I'm just worried after what happened."

What happened, meaning the miscarriage you ended up having after you returned from your first trip to Fiji. You didn't even know you were pregnant. Hell, you weren't even technically dating Joel back then. At the time, it didn't bother you too much. But it still managed to leave its mark on you, especially now that you were actively trying to have a baby.

"That was ages ago," he said softly. "And your doc said everythin' looks good. You're puttin' too much stress on yourself."

He was right. When you got your birth control removed after you returned from Fiji, your doctor had assured you once again that plenty of women have miscarriages and go on to have healthy babies.

"But it happened so fast the first time," you pouted, curling into his side for comfort.

"Last few months have been so crazy," he murmured into your hair. His knuckles dragged slowly up and down your arm, soothing you. "It'll happen when it's right."

You sighed and closed your eyes, having no choice but to believe him.

Contrary to what Joel had said on the day you arrived, he did actually allow you to get out of the house and explore the city. Obviously, you had never been to Greece before, so you wanted to see everything. Joel had said he had been once before many years prior, but it was for business so he didn't get to enjoy the country very much. You liked the idea of experiencing something new together, so you picked a few tourist-y things.

Liam had rustled up some plans for you before you left, leaving everything up to you for when you arrived. On his list, he had suggested checking out a charming little area called Megalochori. It wasn't very far from the house you were renting. Once you got down to the village itself and looked up, you could see the perimeter was dotted with mansions nestled in the red cliffs. While exploring the narrow streets, you came to find out the mansions, including the one where you were staying, used to be owned by wealthy wine merchants hundreds of years ago, although obviously updated several times over.

Vinsanto wine was what the town was known for, so you made sure to stop at one of the wineries to try it.

"Mm!" you exclaimed when the sweet wine coated your tongue. You raised your eyebrows at Joel, who looked rather impressed, as well.

"Not bad," he admitted, setting down his glass on the table. "Remind me to buy a case 'n have it sent back home 'fore we go."

You had been ushered out to a spot on the patio, overlooking the breathtaking mountains and sea below. The sun was beginning to dip around that time, taking with it the heat that had sweat dotting the back of your neck all afternoon.

"What time is it?" you asked. Joel raised his left arm to glance at his watch, then cursed.

"Shit. Never changed it from L.A. time," he muttered before searching for his phone. You smiled to yourself, eyes still stuck on the rather out of place accessory on his wrist. It wasn't exactly a Rolex, what with the dark green fabric band and black face, but Sarah had gifted it to him as a wedding present and he hadn't taken it off since.

"Almost seven," he announced after fishing out his phone. He placed it gently on the table and leaned back with a relaxed sigh. He draped one arm around the back of your chair, gaze still glued to the horizon, looking completely at ease.

"Not checking work?" you asked, hiding your smile behind your glass of wine.

"Nope. I'm on my honeymoon, baby." He dragged his eyes off the sea to look at you with a glimmer of mischief. "You're the only thing I'm gonna be focused on for the next week."

"Lucky me," you mused with a playful smile. A delicious looking charcuterie board was placed between you before Joel had a chance to respond with something undoubtably filthy and you suddenly realized how hungry you were.

"So," he began while drizzling some honey over a wedge of brie. "What else are we doin' tonight?"

"I thought we could check out the bell tower before the sun sets," you said, covering your mouth while you chewed.

"What 'bout the Oia Castle?"

"I wanted to visit that around sundown," you told him, "we can go a different day. It's supposed to have the best sunset in the entire world."

"Means there'll be a lot of people there." Joel spread a bit of soft cheese over some fresh bread and then held it out to feed you. You took it between your lips, eyelids fluttering at the richness on your tongue while Joel casually crossed his arm over his lap to hide his reaction.

"Is that a problem?" you asked once you swallowed. Joel shrugged and popped a date into his mouth.

"Just like to have you all to myself."

"You've had me all to yourself several times since we got here," you said, wiggling your eyebrows, making him laugh.

"Still ain't enough," he grinned.

"Good thing we have the rest of our lives, then." Your eyes dropped to look at the gold band wrapped around his finger, a sight that still thrilled you.

By the time you left the winery, it was dusk. The streets were quiet except for the occasional faint hum of music and laughter coming from open windows above you. Joel's hand never left yours as you strolled in silence, breathing in the salty night air. It was so peaceful and serene, you just wanted to keep walking. So, you did. You let Joel lead you through the winding roads, past small businesses that were dark with crooked signs on the door stating their hours, and underneath quaint stone bridges until you paused in front of a brick wall overlooking the sea.

"Wow," you breathed, dropping his hand so you could lean forward onto the wall. The sun had just set. The sky was painted with deep purples, oranges and pinks, the stunning colors reflecting over the water as the moon began to show brighter and brighter above you.

"We gotta come back here again one day," you murmured when Joel positioned himself behind you. His arms bracketed yours and his chin hooked around your shoulder, like he was trying to see the landscape through your eyes.

"Maybe I'll open a hotel here," he replied with a tender kiss behind your ear. His beard tickled and sent a wave of goosebumps across your skin.

"You just can't help but mix business with pleasure," you giggled when his tongue traced the shell of your ear.

"Ain't let me down yet," he replied with one more playful nip to your neck. He pushed off the wall and took a step back, leaving you craving his body heat. When you turned around, a tipsy smile stretching across your face, he had an arm outstretched. His fingers wiggled impatiently, searching for your own. You laced them together and let him tug you forward.

"C'mon. I'm tired," he murmured into your hair. You sighed, lingering for a moment with your face and your free hand pressed against his chest, then forced your heavy feet to move through the darkened streets, back towards the main road that led to the house.

You awoke later than usual the next morning. The time change hadn't quite caught up with you yet, but Joel always seemed to rise with the sun, no matter where he was because when you reached an arm out, hunting for his warmth, his side of the bed was disappointingly empty.

You blinked lazily a few times and yawned before rolling over and looking at the time. A dull ache between your thighs when you moved reminded you of all the ways Joel had taken you over the last few days, the memories filling you with a mix of pain and arousal. Somewhere on the other side of your bedroom door, you could hear Joel's voice talking on the phone. Curious, you slipped out of bed, pulling on Joel's undershirt from the day before, then made you way to the steps.

The two-story foyer made it so you could hear him much clearer before you even descended the stairs.

"...run some numbers, see what it'll look like... yeah. Just keep it between us. No need to get Ross all worked up over nothin'."

You frowned as you followed his voice, wondering why Joel was talking about the CFO of his company. When you found him, he was in the kitchen, phone pressed to his ear and leaning one hip against the counter with his back to you. He didn't hear you enter the room. As you padded softly across the floor, you could hear another man's tinny voice through the phone, but it was hard to make out what he was saying.

"Ain't no rush. When we get back, I'll set up a mee—"

You wrapped your arms around him from behind and his voice dropped before swirling around in surprise.

"Hey, I gotta go," he said suddenly into the phone. His dark eyes raked you up and down, ignoring the hard look you were giving him. "We'll talk when I'm back in the office."

He tore the phone from his ear like it burned him, then he placed it face down on the counter before circling his arms around you with a guilty smile.

"You promised no work," you scolded immediately.

"Sorry, darlin'. It was just one quick call 'n I thought you were sleepin'."

"I woke up all alone," you pouted. His brows pitched together, giving you a mock look of sympathy.

"Poor baby. You lookin' for some attention?"

His hands roamed down your sides to the hem of his shirt resting just beneath your ass.

"Need me to take care of you again?" he asked, only that time, his voice sounded deeper. It had warmth spreading between your legs, like your goddamn body was just hardwired to respond only to him. "You come out here wearin' only my shirt, knowin' how fuckin' hard that makes me?"

Your giggle was cut short when his big hands grabbed roughly at your ass.

"Joel—" you gasped when his lips latched onto your throat and he pushed you up against the counter. For a second, your brain went fuzzy as he ground his hips against you, making it crystal clear that he hadn't been joking when you felt him through his gym shorts. "Joel, w-wait, seriously. I... I think I need a break."

He pulled away from you immediately, giving you a look of concern.

"What's wrong?"

The mood shifted in the blink of an eye. His greedy touch changed to one much softer as he examined you.

"Nothing! God, nothing, sorry," you laughed, feeling embarrassed when you admitted, "I'm just... I'm a little sore."

Your face burned at the confession, but Joel only looked at you with a tenderness that made your chest clench.

"Shit," he cursed, dragging a hand through his already sleep mussed hair. You could tell by the look on his face that he felt terrible.

"No, it's fine," you assured him, cupping his jaw with both hands. You gave him a crooked grin and shrugged. "I guess I underestimated your stamina, Mr. Miller."

Joel chuckled and leaned forward, resting your foreheads together. "I ain't messin' 'round when it comes to makin' a baby with you, sweetheart."

You scratched gently at his beard, smiling when he closed the gap between you and pressed your lips together.

"Tell you what," he said softly, only pulling back a few inches. "Why don't we stay here today. Let's relax by the pool, order some food from that place nearby, and rest. Maybe later, we can take a little walk. Want you to get your strength back up 'cause I ain't nowhere near done with you yet."

"I sure hope not," you laughed, "we're still here five more days."

"And I wanna keep you so full'a me in those five days that there ain't no way it don't stick."

As sore as you were, you still had wetness collecting between your legs. It didn't matter. Your body wanted him so badly, especially when he spoke like that, it seemed to go against all logic.

He must have noticed the way you pressed your thighs together because a mischievous smile stretched across his face.

A second later, Joel fell to his knees. He was pushing his shirt up your hips, exposing your panties, when you gasped and grabbed his hair.

"W-What are you doing?"

He glanced up at you like you were crazy for asking. "Kissin' it better."

You whispered his name with a laugh, about to insist he didn't need to, but your panties were tugged to the floor and your left leg was slung over his shoulder before you had a chance to formulate a thought.

The first wet lick through your pussy felt like balm on a wound and all your protests were quickly forgotten. Your head tipped back with a shudder and you succumbed to his unyielding adoration because he was right — it did feel better. You moaned and grabbed onto his hair a little tighter, relishing in the way his tongue slid through you, so effortless and smooth.

"She's hurtin', but she's so goddamn wet f'me," he grumbled against you. You whimpered and rocked your hips forward, searching for some relief. He gave you what you wanted without hesitation — mouth sucking messily against your cunt, spreading your arousal with each wet kiss. The sound had your face burning and your nipples tightening underneath his shirt.

"Fu-uck, Joel," you whined through clenched teeth. His tongue flicked sharply over your clit and you cried out, body jolting violently. You hissed at the bruise no doubt blooming on your spine from the edge of the counter, but Joel kept going, flattening his tongue with a moan and slowly licking up the entire length of your slit.

"Feel good?" he gasped, mouth slick and shoulders rising and falling in rhythm with his short breaths. Before you could answer, he was on you again, dragging his strong tongue through your swollen cunt. Your face twisted up, the pleasure too intense but too fucking good to resist.

"Yes," you panted. "Yes, p-please... don't stop."

He chuckled darkly at the pathetic whine to your voice and out of the corner of your eye, you spotted him drop an arm between his legs to palm his erection. He groaned and rolled his eyes, still lapping greedily at your center while rubbing the outside of his shorts.

The sight nearly sent you right over the edge.

With his free hand, Joel spread your legs a little wider. You were standing on one shaky leg, already on your tiptoes. He felt the tremble in your thighs and pressed his face harder against your core. It was to help brace you, but the harsh friction from his beard and the messy licks of his tongue had you shouting curses and rutting weakly against his face.

He muffled encouragement between your thighs then your gaze fell just in time to watch him slip his hand inside his gym shorts to pull at his cock. You couldn't look away — and the wrecked look on his soaked face while he furiously stroked himself did you in.

You nearly folded over from the force of your orgasm, but luckily you gripped the counter behind you for dear life. Through heavy lidded eyes, you rode out your climax while watching the way he jerked himself off on his knees with his lips still tightly suctioned to your cunt. It was hypnotic and powerful and you fucking prayed he would do it again just like that one day because once wasn't enough.

"Get up here," you panted, throat raw. He obeyed, abandoning his post to stand and seal his lips hungrily over yours. Between your bodies, you could feel his movements, still working himself over while plunging his tongue into your mouth, giving you a taste of your own release.

You tore yourself away, stomach clenching at the desperate noise that came from his throat, and hurriedly pushed down his shorts. When his cock sprung free, leaking and heavy over the elastic band, you began to lower yourself to your knees.

"N-No," he stammered, "up here, baby."

You didn't feel like arguing. So instead, you replaced his hand with your own and began to slide your fist up and down his smooth, hard cock while he groaned into your mouth.

"I'm gonna come," he whimpered, hips chasing the snap of your wrist. You nodded, breathing heavy, and began to gently squeeze the head of his cock every time your hand slid up. But just when you thought you would be cleaning up a mess all over your hand, he ripped your arm away and flipped you around so your palms smacked loudly against the marble countertops.

"Hips, c'mon," he urged, desperation dripping from his voice. You didn't even think, you just did as you were told — you lifted your hips and spread your legs. "I'm just gonna give you the tip, baby," he assured you breathlessly while one hand held your waist and the other lined himself up with your entrance. "Can't let — shit—" He gasped when he slipped into your pussy, your wetness and warmth welcoming him despite the burn that still lingered deep inside. "Can't let it go to — go to waste," he managed to grit out while giving you very weak, shallow thrusts. It was just the head of his cock, but it still had your eyes watering and your forehead dropping to the cool counter between your hands.

A moment later, he grabbed your hips with both hands and let out a ragged groan, spilling his seed inside you while fighting the urge to slam his entire length into your wet heat.

"Fuckfuckfuck," he chanted behind you. You whimpered and tilted your head to the side, pressing your cheek to the marble as you waited for him to finish. With one final gasp, he fell forward and wrapped his arms around your middle. Your muscles relaxed and you closed your eyes, listening to the way your breaths synchronized in silence.

One of Joel's hands dipped below the shirt you were wearing and spread wide over your stomach, wordlessly saying what you were thinking: please work.

"Did good, baby," he finally said, voice cracking a bit. His fingers drifted gently over the skin below your belly button and lingered for a moment more before he sighed and forced himself to stand. "You ready?"

"Mhm," you hummed, then winced when he withdrew his cock from between your legs. With your eyes still closed, you felt him crouch to the ground and slip your panties back on, one leg at a time, before pressing a sweet kiss to your sweaty temple.

"Let's clean up, then spend the rest of the day by the pool."

You nodded and pushed yourself off the counter. Joel tucked you under his arm and led you slowly back to the stairs so you could shower and get ready for the day, with the promise of a hot breakfast and coffee when you were done.

You had to hand it to him — he really stuck to his promise of taking care of your every need while you were there.

"Where are we?" you asked, scrunching up your nose as you looked around after stepping out of the car.

"Still in Megalochori. Just further south," Joel told you. He took your hand, tipped the driver, and began to lead you down a street filled with vendors.

"Are we just going for a walk?"

Joel shrugged but he had a sly look on his face he was trying to hide. You raised an eyebrow and tugged on his hand, making him skid to a halt.

"Where are you taking me, Miller?"

He sighed and rolled his eyes. "Alright. Don't be pissed," he began, making you instantly narrow your eyes. "I just wanted to walk by this one property up for sale."

"Joel!" you scolded, dropping his hand to cross your arms tightly over your chest. The call he took earlier that morning suddenly made sense. "You said no working!"

"I — it's just —"

He groaned and tossed his arms in the air.

"I just wanna walk by it. That's it. I won't talk 'bout it the rest of the time we're here, I promise."

"Why do we need to walk by it?" you pressed, still feeling slightly dejected that he was thinking about work on your honeymoon. However, deep down, you knew the man you married. He loved his work. And the look he was giving you in the middle of the street in that moment looked so much like the way he looked when he told you about Fiji for the first time.

"I wanna just see if there's somethin' wrong with it," he told you innocently. "If the location is good, if it's accessible and has a nice view. Tryin' to figure out why it's been vacant for two years."

You tapped your foot and sighed dramatically. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth but he held it back, waiting for your permission to break his promise.

"Fine," you huffed, dropping your arms to your sides. "But after this, we don't talk about it for the rest of the trip. No phone calls, no emails... nothing. Got it?"

"Yes ma'am," he grinned.

"And I want ice cream."

"Anythin' else?"

You thought about it for a moment, gaze drifting around the bustling street. Then you spotted a vendor in the distance selling what appeared to be wind chimes, but it was what they were made of that had you gasping and pointing.

"And one of those!"

Joel followed your finger, brows furrowed as he tried to figure out what you were looking at to no avail.

"What?" he asked, but you already snatched up his hand and dragged him halfway down the street. When you got a little closer and he saw the wind chimes made of colorful seashells, it clicked.

"Baby, those are fake," he murmured in your ear so the merchant couldn't overhear. You just grinned and continued to browse until you found one you liked and picked it up.

"But they're pink," you said with a pout, turning so he could look it over. He picked up one of the shells between two fingers and made a face.

"They painted 'em pink. It's tacky."

"Still cute," you insisted. He stared you down for a moment but couldn't resist the way you were bouncing excitedly from foot to foot.

"Fine," he grumbled, pulling out his wallet. You squealed and gave the wind chime to the older man behind the counter so he could wrap it up. While you were waiting, you spotted a gorgeous sapphire necklace on a thick black string that you decided at the last minute to get for Sarah.

"Where're you gonna put that thing?" Joel asked once you had paid and walked a safe distance down the street, out of earshot.

You shrugged. "I'll find a spot."

He tossed an arm around your shoulders and kissed the top of your head, unable to deny the way you always managed to make him smile, even if it was over some cheap plastic decoration that happened to remind you of something you shared together.

"C'mon. Hotel ain't that far, 'bout a ten minute walk."

Joel carried the bag for you as you walked side by side down the narrow street filled with vendors. When the road came to an end, he steered you left, passing by a café and a lively looking restaurant that appeared to be kicking into high gear for the nighttime crowd.

"It's cute here," you admitted, mentally clocking the various designer stores lining the streets the more south you walked.

"Great view, too," Joel said right when you finally stepped out of the main cluster of town and into the open air. You gasped at the sudden sea breeze that hit you now that there weren't any buildings to block it, and turned to admire the sparkling water and beach below.

"Wow," you breathed, still taken aback by how stunning the entire country was.

"It's right up here," Joel told you, pointing to a bend in the road. When you rounded the corner, you were met with a dark, run-down building sitting amongst an unkept landscape. It sat all alone, no other businesses were built around it and it didn't seem to be a very busy road — there were hardly any cars that passed when you stopped to take a good look.

"So, this is what you were on the phone about this morning," you mused, looking around at the overgrown gardens and broken windows.

"Yep," Joel said, eyes scanning the building like he had sonar. "Roof's cavin' in. Gotta have extensive water damage in there. Been vacant for almost two years, guess it got hit by some bad storm and the owner didn't have the funds to repair it."

"It's small," you pointed out.

Joel nodded.

"It is."

"It would be a much smaller lot than any of your other hotels."

"It would."

You sighed and looked back towards the street, back where you had just came.

"It's a good area, though," you continued. Joel turned to look at you. "There's a bunch of really nice stores and restaurants within walking distance. Coffee, too. Probably more if we had walked the other way."

Joel smirked proudly. "You got a good eye."

"Well, I learned from the best." You gave him a teasing look and he laughed.

A beat of silence passed between you as you each considered all the factors that went into opening a new hotel.

"I got a vision," Joel said, cutting into your thoughts. Your gaze drifted from the dilapidated building to his sparkling brown eyes. He had that look he always got whenever he had a good idea. "It'll only be maybe three stories. Not too many rooms. Exclusive. Designed for extremely special occasions. Beyond five star service. White glove, black tie... every single person who steps through the door will have every need tended to 'fore they can even think it."

"So, it'll be a new brand," you supplied. Joel thought it over for half a second.

"Yeah. I like that. An off-shoot of the main hotel chain. It's got the potential to spread to other locations. A... romantic flair."

"Like a line of hotels and service catered exclusively to honeymooners?" you questioned, tilting your head playfully to the side. "Wherever did you get that idea?"

Joel grinned and pulled you closer. "What can I say? This trip's been inspiring."

You tipped your chin up so he could brush his lips delicately over yours.

"Alright," you whispered. His arm slinked around your middle, hand resting innocently enough on your ass.

"Alright, what?"

"Alright... it's a good idea," you conceded. Joel's smile grew so wide that you found yourself matching it. Then you held up a singular finger in warning. "But we'll talk about it when we get back. No more work talk for the next few days. It's been vacant for two years, it'll still be vacant in a week."

"Agreed," he said immediately, releasing you so he could take your hand and lead you back toward town. The sun was setting and the area was growing dark.

"You'll have to figure out how we can get street lights here," you told him, wagging a finger at the dark street behind you. "And proper signage for the intersection. No one's gonna know where this place is if it's hidden."

"Thought you said no more work talk?" Joel teased. You pinched him in the side and he gasped in pain, giving you a feigned look of distress that had you giggling.

"You inspired me. You tend to have that effect."

His expression softened a bit before he said, "So do you. You inspire me every single day."

And the way he was looking at you didn't have you doubting him for a second.

Downstairs, you could hear Joel pacing around the great room while he spoke on the phone with Sarah. It was the first time both of you had been out of town while Sarah was in school, and it had him a little concerned. You knew she was a good kid and wouldn't do anything stupid, but Joel was adjusting to being a father at his own pace, and sometimes that meant he worried about things he probably didn't need to worry about.

Still, you found it endearing. You liked that he cared so much. It was a good quality to have, especially considering Sarah's mother lacked that particular skill. It was good practice for him too, since you were trying exceptionally hard to have a baby of your own.

Which lead you to where you were hiding: in the massive walk-in closet, anxiously fiddling with the straps of the very intricate and very expensive bridal lingerie you had bought and snuck into your suitcase without Joel's knowledge. You saved it for your last day in Greece, because, why not?

At the time, the outfit seemed like a fun idea, but now that you were staring at your reflection in the floor length mirror, you were wondering if you could really pull it off. The pure white, thigh-high stockings were what pulled you in when you saw it displayed in the store, and you did really love them: the silk lace trim sat perfectly on your legs, right at the halfway point between your knees and hips. But the satin bodice that cinched your waist and pushed up your breasts until they looked like they were overflowing made you hesitate.

It was unlike anything you had ever worn before. You hardly recognized yourself as you did a slow turn, eyes widening when you caught a good glimpse at your backside — the matching white lace thong hardly covered anything at all. When you bent forward to slip on a pair of white heels, you winced. The corset was tight and impossible to do much in other than stand.

Maybe it was too much.

Just as you were considering changing entirely, you heard Joel wrapping up his conversation with Sarah on the floor below. We'll be home late tomorrow. Love you, stay outta trouble.

You panicked and shoved your feet blindly into your shoes with your heart thundering in your chest. The sudden rush made you dizzy and you tried to take a deep breath, but the goddamn corset was too constricting.

Joel called your name from the stairs, causing you to freeze like a deer in headlights.

"You gonna be ready to leave in an hour?" he asked from what you guessed was halfway up the steps.

You frowned. "Wh-what's in an hour?"

"That dinner reservation. Remember? The one up on the hill so we can watch the sun set over the city?"

Fuck. You forgot.

His voice was clearer. He was in the bedroom. You glanced down once more, making sure you didn't look completely ridiculous.

"Where—"

You looked up and your eyes locked with Joel, who was frozen in place at the mouth of the closet, just staring.

You swallowed tightly.

"I forgot about dinner," you whispered, fidgeting nervously with the edge of your bodice. But the way his gaze roamed so slowly over your body, taking in every inch of your skin like he was committing it to memory, like he was afraid to even blink, had all those nerves receding. His gaze was heavy. You felt its weight, like it was pulling you under. And the longer he stared, the darker his eyes became.

"Baby..."

His voice broke. His throat bobbed. One hand quickly came up to grasp the doorframe, like he was about to fall over.

"You like it?" you asked with a grin. That was when you noticed the redness creeping up past his collar.

His eyes flickered up to yours briefly before drifting back down and lingering on your chest. Then, his hand rose from his side. He lifted one finger in the air and he drew a little circle, wordlessly asking you to turn, so you did.

A deep groan rumbled in his chest and before you could make a full circle, his hands were on you. With a gasp followed by a giggle, you reached out to grab the mirror and steady yourself.

"Y'look so fuckin' good," he rasped, voice thick and rough behind your shoulder. But when you titled your chin to look at him, he was gone. A second later, his mouth was dragging fast, messy kisses up the back of your thigh until he reached the curve of your ass. His teeth sunk into your flesh with just the right amount of pressure to make your hips jump, but his hands were there to keep you firmly in place.

"Jesus Christ," he practically whined. You could see him in the mirror behind you, on his knees. His hands skirted down each leg, marveling at the softness of your sheer stockings before he focused back on the apex of your thighs, where your thong was just barely covering your pulsing cunt.

"I take it you like it?"

You watched his gaze dart up your back, jaw slack.

"Smart idea, keepin' this from me til now," he said darkly. Your skin began to prickle at the tone of his voice. "Never woulda let you step foot outta this house if I knew."

He stood quickly and spun you around. He went to pick you up, but you had to stop him with a firm hand to his chest.

"There's just one problem."

The face he gave you looked like he was in physical pain, but he slowed down and forced his hands back to his sides. You grinned sheepishly up at him and said, "I can't bend in this thing."

With a lopsided smirk, Joel cupped your face.

"Is that all?"

You nodded and he gave you a little sympathetic pout.

"Was plannin' on rippin' this off you, anyway," he mumbled right before his mouth crashed with yours in a heated kiss.

Instead of picking you up, he began to walk you backwards, towards the bedroom, with one hand on your cheek and the other on your lower back. When your thighs hit the edge of the bed, he tore himself away, leaving you breathless.

If you felt awkward for the way you stiffly flopped backwards onto the bed, it was only for a moment because the way Joel was looking at you while he began to tear off his shirt and pants had you feeling like a goddamn supermodel.

"I had a whole thing I was gonna do," you giggled when the last of his clothes fell to the floor with the exception of his boxers, which were doing absolutely nothing to hide his erection.

"Oh, baby," he breathed, palming himself once before resting both hands on your calves and slowly dragging them up, over your stockings and past your hips. "You're so fuckin' beautiful. I'm the luckiest son'a bitch alive."

Your face warmed from the compliment but he didn't notice because Joel lunged forward, resting all his weight on both his forearms, and began to mouth hungrily at your tits spilling over the top of your lingerie.

Your eyelids fluttered closed and your hands raised to grab onto his shoulders, soaking up the heat of his body and the love he was pouring over you with every passing second.

His mouth ghosted over every inch of skin he could find as you melted into the mattress. There were a thousand reasons why you knew Joel was the man you wanted to spend your life with, one of them being no other person on earth has ever made you feel so loved and cherished the way he had, and that day was no exception.

"I love this, but you mind if I take it off now?" His fingers toyed restlessly with the satin strings that laced up the back. "'Cause I really want you to ride me, baby, 'n I don't want you feelin' uncomfortable."

You nodded, still lost in the way he breathed you in while his hands grabbed and squeezed every part of you he could. It wasn't until the strings loosened up and the corset opened that you realized how tight it really was. You dragged in a deep breath and squirmed around a bit in relief, letting Joel remove the top part of your lingerie so you could finally move freely again.

"These stay on," he told you, gliding his hand down your silky stockings. He smirked and looked at your heels. "Those, too."

"Whatever you want," you said, grinning when his eyes flashed hungrily down at you.

"Whatever I want?" he repeated. His voice dropped so low it sounded like a growl. You sunk your teeth into your bottom lip and nodded. A heartbeat later, Joel scooped you up and rolled you both over so you were straddling his hips. You let out a breathless giggle and yelped when he swatted sharply at your ass.

"Go on, then," he said, tucking his arms behind his head with a cocky smile. "You want it so bad? Take it."

You didn't need to be told twice.

You got to work tugging his boxers down his legs while he watched you, bare breasts swaying as you moved. When you finished, you slowly crawled back up his body, smiling devilishly as you went. When you reached his hips, your eyes dropped to his cock, laying rock hard and leaking against his stomach. It was too irresistible — you leaned down and licked a broad stripe up the length of him, moaning softly when your tongue collected a bead of precum.

"Fuck," he whispered, dark eyes pinned to your every move. His arms still remained behind his head but you could see his biceps twitching, showing his restraint. The idea of him struggling to hold himself back had a jolt of arousal shooting through you, so you did it again, only that time you wrapped your lips around his tip and swirled your tongue around his girth.

You glanced up at him through your lashes, still sucking gently on the head of his cock. His jaw dropped and his eyes squeezed shut until finally one arm reached out and stopped you. His cock slid from your lips and you gasped.

"Quit fuckin' 'round 'fore I come down your throat."

You batted your lashes at him. "But you taste so good."

He groaned and yanked you up so he could plunge his tongue into your mouth for a taste. You didn't want to rush, but you were so wet that the pinch between your legs almost hurt. It seemed Joel needed it just as badly as you because a moment later, his hand snuck down to cup your ass and lift you up while his mouth continued to pry your jaw open wide. With one finger, he pulled the lace thong to the side, grunting his approval into your mouth when he swiped through the wet fabric.

"Joel—" you whimpered when the blunt tip of his cock nudged at your opening. He bit at your lower lip and gave your ass another harsh smack.

"Sit on it."

You dropped your hips at his command, taking just a few inches inside you with a wet gasp. Your head rolled back with a low moan at the stretch. Joel's mouth dragged down your cheek, then his nose nudged at your jaw, forcing you to tilt your head so he could have full access to your throat. You bit down on your lip with a whine as you lowered yourself further, taking more and more of him inside your aching cunt until your hips grew flush.

You sighed with relief and let your body sag against his for a second: chest to chest, with his soft lips ghosting over your neck, then collarbone, then shoulder, like he couldn't decide where to kiss first.

His teeth grazed your skin when you began to move. Slowly, at first. Just shallow lifts of your hips. But then it felt too good, so you chased after the feeling with faster bounces until your arms were draped loosely around his neck and his face was buried between your tits.

He murmured how beautiful you were, how much he loved you, how — if he could — he would marry you all over again, only much sooner. His arms circled your waist and held you close while you continued to bounce on his lap, chasing your high with each exquisite drag of his cock. It was hard to remember a time when you felt as safe and loved and cherished as you did when you were with him. There were no walls, no safeguards, nothing. You both were just laid bare to one another. It was probably why you were able to come so quickly, with a sharp little moan and a stutter of your hips while Joel left love bites all across your chest. His big hands dropped to your ass, helping you move up and down while you rode out your climax and didn't let go until you slumped forward with a sigh.

He didn't let you rest for long. In the blink of an eye, he had you flipped onto your back, cock still buried deep inside you. Your eyes flew open just as he was tossing one leg over his shoulder. He spread out your other one across the comforter, widening your hips so he could start to fuck you harder, just the way he wanted.

"Oh, fu-uck baby, y'look so good like this," he stammered. His glassy eyes were glued to your bare chest, tits bouncing with every one of his thrusts, then his gaze dropped between your legs, where your now ruined white thong was still pushed off to the side as he railed into you, over and over. His palm drifted up the silken stocking covering your leg. He mouthed at the inside of your knee before he pushed your leg closer to your chest, then kissed your ankle. Your foot still dangled over his shoulder, white heel bouncing wildly just behind his head as he fucked you like his life depended on it.

"Need you to come f'me again," he told you before dropping your leg and falling forward, caging you in. You shook your head and writhed under him. You were so sensitive that it almost hurt, but then he nipped at your chin, forcing your attention back onto his face.

"You gotta come, baby. Gotta — shit — gotta come, o-okay? N-Need this pretty little pussy to s-suck me dry."

He was falling over his words. He was close, you knew that. He was minutes away from his own orgasm. He didn't need you to come to get there, but he liked it. He preferred it. And so did you. So you rocked your hips forward in rhythm with his, ground your clit against the coarse hairs at the base of his cock, and mumbled in his ear that you wanted his baby, that you wanted it to stick, that you wanted to be full of him so everyone would see how good he took care of you.

Everyone would see how much he loved you.

Your own words lit a fire inside you. Every groan and whispered fantasy had pressure building fast and hot between your legs until Joel stopped slamming into you and started rolling his hips, deep and hard so he could reach that spot that had your vision blurring with tears and your throat going raw.

Like clockwork, you fell apart for him, body spasming and voice breaking over his name intertwined with curses and whines. A few more rough thrusts later had him grabbing onto your hip and going still, spilling himself deep inside you with a ragged groan.

"Look how good you did," he panted while shallowly thrusting in and out of your soaked pussy. You tiredly looked down between your bodies, where his cum was leaking out around his cock and staining your panties. He laughed when you rolled your eyes and let your head fall backwards onto the bed, completely spent.

He eased out of you with a grunt, then helped close your trembling legs before flopping onto the bed beside you. He rolled onto his side and his eyes slid shut while you both quietly caught your breath, but then his hand came to wordlessly rest on your lower stomach, fingers spread wide and protective, and your throat tightened.

"What about dinner?" you asked sleepily. Joel inhaled slow and deep, then curled his body around yours with his hand still stretched across your stomach.

"We'll figure somethin' else out," was all he said.

You hummed and rolled to face him. Your leg slotted naturally between his and he tucked you under his chin, like your bodies have done countless times before. As you laid there in silence, you realized it was the first time you weren't thinking about whether or not it worked. You knew no matter what — whether you got pregnant one day or not — you would be happy, because you would always have Joel, and he was enough.

What started out as a hypothetical idea quickly turned into reality when you returned home from your honeymoon. Joel managed to purchase the abandoned hotel in Greece much faster than expected, and at an outrageously good price. With how quickly things were moving, a company wide meeting was called that morning to announce the new acquisition and the plans to expand into a new line of hotels, just like you had discussed. It had the whole place buzzing with excitement everywhere you turned. The Parador: Premier was the tentative name, just a way to refer to the new project in meetings, but it was beginning to really stick.

Needless to say, work was insane. For the past week you found yourself waiting for Joel outside his office for over an hour at the end of each day, and even when he finished up and you drove home, he tended to work in his study until well after you fell asleep.

It was hard to get any time alone with him, but you actually had a legitimate meeting on the books for once, so you knew you would finally have his undivided attention for an hour.

Well. Technically the meeting was between Joel and your boss, Caroline. But she ended up having a meeting go over and asked you to take her place, instead.

Something told you Joel wouldn't mind.

Even if it was an hour of work, you were still looking forward to spending some time with your very busy and very focused husband as you rode the elevator up to the top floor, where all the executive offices and biggest conference rooms were kept.

You felt a little rush of excitement as you walked across the floor, past the executive conference room, towards Joel's corner office. Chrissy, Joel's receptionist, and Liam, his personal assistant, sat at their respective desks on either side of his door looking bored. When Liam noticed you heading their way, he brightened up and stood to give you a hug.

"His schedule is stacked today," Liam warned you, stepping back to glance at his computer screen.

"I'm taking Caroline's place," you explained, leaning against the edge of his desk and giving Chrissy a friendly wave.

"Oh, thank god," she breathed, "I thought you were going to ask us to find time, and..." her eyes flickered to her own monitor and she scrolled down with a heavy exhale. "Yeah. You get it."

Liam nodded to the pile of folders in your arms. "Is that the ad feedback?"

"Yep," you said proudly, tapping the top folder. "He'll be happy, don't worry."

Just then, Joel's door swung open and Ross, the CFO, walked out mid-chuckle.

"Alright, Joel. We'll see you at four," he said, reaching just past the doorframe where Joel must have been standing to shake his hand. When Ross walked out and saw you, he gave you a wink. "How're you doing, sweetheart?"

"Good, Ross, thanks," you smiled as he walked by. Joel must have heard your voice because a moment later, he appeared in the door with a look of surprise.

"Hey, sorry..." He looked down at the watch Sarah gifted him and grimaced. "I got a meeting—"

"With me," you finished for him. You pushed off Liam's desk and waltzed past him, into his office. "Caroline couldn't make it. I have the focus group feedback you wanted," you added over your shoulder as you made your way to the chair opposite his desk. You heard the door close as you fixed your skirt, then giggled when you felt the tickle of his beard against your neck when he gave you a kiss on the cheek from behind.

"What a nice surprise," he said softly before flattening his tie and rounding his desk. He crossed his legs and gave you a tired smile. "Can we rush the work shit so I can just admire my wife for the rest of the hour?"

"Deal," you said with a grin before handing him the first folder. He opened it up and scanned the pages while you gave him the bullet points of the first ad. By the time you got to the fifth and final one, there was a soft knock on the door.

"Yeah?" Joel called without looking up. Liam opened the door with a heavy looking box in his arms.

"Sorry to disturb you both," he said, walking towards the bar in the back of the room. "But I thought since you were both here it would be good timing — the case of wine you bought from Greece just arrived."

"Oh, I almost forgot about that," you murmured.

"That's great, you can leave it right there," he told Liam with a wave of his hand. "We'll take most of it home."

You pressed your lips together as Joel continued to review the final folder. Behind you, Liam excused himself and the door clicked shut.

"This is good," Joel finally said. Then he closed the folder and looked up at you. "What're you thinkin'?"

"I like the first and fourth ones the most," you shrugged. "One heartfelt, one funny. They both resonated with all age groups, too."

Joel nodded and pushed the pile of folders back in your direction. "I agree. Let's pull the trigger and start casting."

"Great," you said, glancing at the clock behind him. Now that work was done, you could feel the butterflies begin to stir up in your stomach.

"Should we open one of those later tonight? Celebrate?" he asked, chin jutting in the direction of the wine Liam left on top of the bar. You glanced behind you and bit your lip.

"Uh, maybe."

Joel heard the hesitance in your voice and when you didn't meet his eye, he sighed and stood up. "Listen. I'm sorry it's been crazy lately, but it'll quiet down soon, I promise."

"I know, it's okay—" You began to assure him, but he cut you off, perching on the edge of his desk directly in front of you.

"No, it ain't. We've hardly spent any time together the past month since we've been home 'n I'm gonna make it up to you. Hell," he chuckled, crossing his ankles one over the other. "We'll probably end up spendin' alotta time in Greece over the next year. Y'know, to oversee Tommy and the crew while they knock down the old place—"

"Joel—"

"And I know what you're gonna say," he said, not catching the way you had to hide your smirk behind your hand.

"I can almost promise you, you don't."

"—and I ain't gonna work the whole ti— wait, what?"

He gave you a confused look, hand paused mid-air as he stared at you curiously. Slowly, you stood up and took both his hands.

"I finally figured out where we can put that pink seashell wind chime you hate."

His eyebrows furrowed and he blinked. "What?" he asked again. You squeezed his hands and swallowed the lump in your throat before reaching for the last folder you had kept hidden on your lap.

"Open it."

Joel took it from your hands, eyes flickering back and forth between the file and you before slowly opening it up. You watched his face morph from utter confusion to complete disbelief in a matter of seconds.

"Is— Is this...?"

"Yeah," you nodded with tears in your eyes. With shaky hands, he lowered the folder so you could both look at the black and white ultrasound pictures. "I'm pregnant."

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getitoutofmymindwrites · 1 day ago

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Professor Joel Miller x f!reader

Good Girl extra || can be read alone

Tw: 18+ mdni, smut, fluff, big age gap (reader’s in her early 20s, Joel’s in his late 40s), soft!Joel, praise, f!oral, mention of piv, Professor kink, power imbalance.

Word count: 700 words

A/n: I saw those new pics and got horny/inspired. Not beta-ed. Dividers by @/saradika-graphics

MASTERLIST || Good Girl

You’re talking to your aunt at your mom’s birthday party when you feel his eyes on you. Trying to be discreet, you throw a glance at the sofa and your heart skips a beat when you meet his gaze. The voices around get muffled as if you’re under water, the people around you disappear, and you see only him - Professor Miller, your mom’s friend, your tutor, your Joel, a man you’ve been sleeping with for a month now. Hot, unforgettable, perfect month.

There’s a deep crease between his furrowed brows, but you recognize a playful tingle in his eyes, when he pats the spot on the sofa next to him. Not waiting for your aunt to finish her sentence, you walk to Professor Miller, give him a polite nod and take a seat, not too close, but enough to hear his low velvet voice,

“You look beautiful, sweetheart.”

A little smile tugs at your lips as you’re staring down at your hands on your lap rather than at him. The secrecy of your relationship makes your heart pound in your ears and your pussy tingle.

“Thank you. You, too,” you whisper barely audible. “Have you done the homework I gave you?” Joel asks a little louder, his question being appropriate for the other guests to eavesdrop.

“Almost finished that book,” you nod, glancing at him for the first time since you sat down. This feels like a mistake right away - his broad torso straining the white shirt, his kissable lips, his dark eyes focused on you behind his glasses — everything about him immediately turns you into a puddle. He’s too hot to handle, especially in a room full of people, with your parents only a couple feet away from you two.

Trying to calm down you take a deep breath, but his next question shatters your restraint into tiny pieces.

“What about the other task?”

You turn your face to him in confusion.

“What task?”

A corner of his lips rises up as he lowers his voice so only you could hear and whispers,

“Not to play with your little pussy thinking of me until our next lesson.”

Your breath hitches and a hot flash licks at your core. You’re blinking at him speechless while the flames of arousal are burning you alive. Your pussy aches so much for him, you’re probably failing to hide the need in your expression, and Joel curses under his breath and mutters,

“Go to your room, baby. Give me five minutes.”

You’ve never done it. Never fucked Joel in your bedroom. His place is much more suitable for your clandestine affair. Definitely more suitable than your house today, full of your relatives and family friends.

Yet nothing can stop you two. The desire is too strong to contain, too overwhelming to ignore. That’s why Professor Miller’s eating you out right now, kneeling by your bed, holding your thighs apart with his big hands. He’s showering you with praise between fucking your hole with his tongue and lapping at your folds, slurping loudly.

“delicious— give it to me— sweetest pussy—oh, baby…”

Your back arches when he sucks your clit between his lips, and you come so hard, you have to bite on your hand to stop a cry from flying out of your mouth.

“Yeah, like that, my good girl,” Joel pants, gently kissing your pussy and caressing your trembling thighs with his palms.

When your body relaxes, you lie on the bed completely spent, until Joel carefully takes you in his arms and puts you on his lap. You flutter your eyes open and look into his handsome, kind face.

“Here she is,” he smiles, his voice laced with honey. “You ok, sweetheart?”

“Yeah, it was amazing, Joel. Just a little tired. And anxious.”

“Anxious? Why?” he asks, running his fingers over your arm, and you rest your head on his broad shoulder, hiding the worry in your eyes.

“What if someone finds out? About us.”

Joel sighs and hugs you, enveloping you in his tight embrace, calming your nerves with the warmth of his body.

“Well,.. I’m ready to fight for you, my love. Until then…,” he chuckles softly, “— I think our cover is solid. As far as your mother’s concerned you’re getting some extra exercises from me right now.”

“I’m about to,” you giggle against his neck, and elated by his reassurance, start unbuckling his belt with impatient hands. You’ve been ignoring this big hard cock under your ass for way too long.

Thank you for reading! Please comment and reblog if you enjoyed the fic!

MASTERLIST || Good Girl

Tag list: @milla-frenchy @harriedandharassed @iamasaddie @nervousmumbling @bbyanarchist @stevie75 @puduvallee @auteurdelabre @mountainsandmayhem @senoratess @flamingochick55 @theoraekenslover @schnarfer @mermaidgirl30 @staywildflowahchild @yesjazzywazzylove-blog @evolnoomym @keylimebeag @thedilfdiaries @pascaltesaye @meetmeatyourworst @callmebyyournick-name @tateypots @pedrofan / @twiztedlaces @thejoywillburnoutthepain

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getitoutofmymindwrites · 2 days ago

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PEDRO PASCAL for The Fantastic Four: First Steps press ph. John Russo

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getitoutofmymindwrites · 2 days ago

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How can you not love him?

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getitoutofmymindwrites · 2 days ago

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explicit content will be found on this blog. pls don’t interact unless you’re 18+

i'm cordelia, cora for short.

i love to write fiction, romance, comedy and mystery

i am pedro pascal fan

i love graphic design

i write in both 1st and 2nd POV

my dream is to have a library like belle from batb

my asks are OPEN

my library | last updated July 26, 2025

the art of the deal < harry castillo x you | fake relationship> moodboard

in progress

the way he cares <joel miller x you | joel helps you get pregnant>

complete

the quiet < joel miller x you | boston era - jackson era joel > moodboard

in progress

my a03 account

all my story graphics are by @saradika-graphics

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getitoutofmymindwrites · 2 days ago

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the quiet | part six

wc: 5,5k | rating: 18+ for eventual smut | Boston QZ to Jackson Joel Miller x reader

the OC female character is YOU. she is not named and barely physically described aside from being able bodied and having hair long enough to grab. she has a back story.

the quiet | part six

You are assaulted by vicious nightmares, of the officer’s lingering stare as he announces you're an illegal here in the QZ. You're taken to the centre of town, neck strung up in a noose as Joel and Tess watch you impassively from the crowd.

You wake up with a jerk, breathing heavily, tears in your eyes. When you blink, it’s the ceiling above your cot that stares back. Cracked plaster. Rust on the sprinkler head. You sit up slowly and rub at your eyes. Your back aches from the too-short cot, and your legs feel leaden from standing in line yesterday for so long.

You’re lacing your boots when the knock comes and you freeze. No one knocks here. You've been here not that long but manners don't exist. Your breath lodges in your throat as you glance toward the door, already calculating. Can you reach the window if you have to escape?

Maybe its Tess?

You stand up, quietly as you can, and cross the room. You unlatch the deadbolt but keep the chain in place, then open the door a crack.

It’s a woman, slender, dark-eyed, with long sandy hair pulled into a fraying braid. She’s bundled in a worn cardigan over a patched dress, and in her arms, she cradles a baby swaddled in a thin blanket. The child looks up at you with huge, blinking eyes and lets out a soft, cooing hiccup.

The woman smiles, tentative but kind. “Hi,” she says in a low voice. “Sorry to bother you. I live next door.”

You don’t answer. Just watch her, lips pressed together.

She nods like she expected it. “I just… wanted to introduce myself. My name is Lucía. This is Alma.”

The baby makes a snuffling sound and presses her face to Lucía’s collarbone. You shift your weight still not moving to open the door further.

Lucía keeps talking, soft and slow, like she’s used to being gentle with people. “We were brought here a few months ago by my brother-in-law, Mateo. After my husband was killed…” She trails off.

"The walls are thin.” She adds. “I heard you move in. I thought we should meet. What’s your name?”

She doesn’t ask for your name. Just gives you the option. You hesitate for a long beat, then shake your head once. Not yet. You don't know the people here. You don't trust them.

To your surprise, she doesn’t flinch or look offended. She nods again. “Okay. No problem.”

A breeze stirs the edge of her cardigan. Alma kicks once in her wrap, and Lucía bounces her absently. She gestures over her shoulder. “We’re in 204, next door if you ever want company.” She gives you a tired look. "It's hard to make friends in five. The people here are... Rough."

You nod. Yes, you know.

You glance down at the baby, who has fallen back asleep. Lucía follows your gaze. “She’s a good baby,” she murmurs. “She won’t cry much. I promise.”

You shake your head again, but this time it means its okay. You don’t mind the baby. To show this you raise a hand, forefinger trailing across her downy cheek.

Lucía’s smile shifts, more real this time. “Okay. Well… nice meeting you.”

She waits one second longer, like she’s leaving a small door open. Then she turns and walks away down the hall, her boots soft on the concrete, her child curled close to her chest.

You watch until she disappears through her own door then you close yours again, the chain rattling gently as you slide it back into place. You stand there for a moment, heartbeat slowly returning to normal, and look around your empty room.

You scrub and dress, fighting back a yawn. You hope that today's work isn't too laborious. That you'll have energy to pull an extra shift for an extra ration card.

You keep your identification in your back pocket along with your key. You carry a small piece of metal you found while scrubbing the place. It helps to lock your place from the outside.

Your eyes fly up when you exit the building. A tall man with is looking at you intensely. He's faking a smile which makes him seem all the more insincere.

"You know Tess and Joel huh?"

You ignore him, attempting to go around him but he blocks your path.

"C'mon. I saw you with them."

You continue to ignore him just like Tess and Joel told you to. You clench your fists when he steps on front of you to tell you that he's a good guy.

“Me and Joel go way back. I used to work with them and Tommy.”

You have no idea who Tommy is. You slip around him, ignoring how he tries to crowd you. He calls you a bitch but he doesn't follow you.

At the west side gate of Zone Three, workers gather. A mix of hollow-eyed men and sunburned women, their faces gaunt from hunger and months of this labor. Most don’t speak. The ones who do, don’t speak to you.

Officer Lang is easy to spot. Stocky, square-shouldered, with a clipboard and an impatient scowl. He just points when workers approach him and calls orders.When he gets to you, his eyes flick over your face. You hand him your identification before tilting your head down.

Don't stand out.

“Trash line, north sector.” He jabs a thumb. “Move.”

Sanitation duty is exactly what it sounds like; carting bags of waste down damp corridors, scrubbing out broken-tile bathrooms with half a brush, sorting through piles of rotting fabric that were once uniforms or sheets.

The work is just as brutal as you thought it would be. Your hands scraped raw through thin gloves. Rusted cans and rotting cloth everywhere. Plastic that crumbles when touched. You almost choke on the stink of it. Your arms burn from the weight but you swallow down the ache.

Hours crawl by as you let your mind go back to the cabin with Maggie. Lazy mornings with tea and homemade biscuits smothered with strawberries.

The sun climbs, and then falls. You let your brain take you away from this filth and more. You disassociate so well that when the whistle finally blows, you stand there in the dirt, shaking with your fingers numb.

Officer Lang signs your hours on the card and doesn’t look at you twice.

The gingham cloth remains in your pocket next to your ID. A tiny talisman that reminds you of what you’re doing this for.

But… is this worth it?

Is living in this place worth the stress, the horror? No, the cabin won't do anymore with its rotting floorboards and open elements. But isn't there an alternative? A way to survive that still makes you feel human? You go home and think about a place like that. Somewhere with acres you can venture in safely.

A place where you don't feel so alone.

The agreement between Tess and Maggie is a weekly meet at the grove. A trade off of tobacco and now, weed for information on you. This lets Maggie know how you're doing as well as letting Tess know that Maggie is still alive.

At the end of the first week Maggie is anxious, her body fidgety when Tess approaches, body half hidden in the trees.

"How is she doing? How is the apartment? You found her somewhere safe, right?"

Tess knows the truth will only hurt Maggie and it won't change anything, so she forces a smile and a nod.

"Found her a cute little spot in zone Three. Safest one in the whole QZ."

"Good good." Maggie takes her bag and motions to a fallen log. "Take a load off."

Tess is about to refuse when she watches Maggie bring out a joint from her pocket, lighting it with a matchstick. She takes a long inhale before smiling at Tess as she exhales.

"Might as well enjoy it while I can.”

They sit on a nearby log and pass it between them like sorority sisters, smiling and giggling.

"I can't believe you never told me you had weed," Tess says exhaling smoke. "And that it's really good shit."

"Tobacco is a lengthy process," Maggie says smiling serenely. "But the weed? You could have come to take it for yourself."

"I wouldn't have."

"Not now,' Maggie agrees. "But that wasn't always the case, now was it?"'

She's right. If Tess knew about all the shit Maggie had stockpiled in her place a decade ago, odds are Maggie and you would have already been dead.

"You're getting soft in your old age," Maggie grins before turning serious.

Tess gives a half laugh. She's always been hard, always had that quality about her even when she was a nurse. Back in her life before the outbreak. Tess muses that this is a strange sort of meeting. A morbid one, and that's saying something considering the world they live in.

It's colder tonight and for a moment the weed makes Tess feel more emotional, more inclined to feel something cozy like flannel. She thinks of Joel's broad back, how warm he is when she snuggles against him during naps.

Would he really be upset if she spent the night?

"Is she making friends, Tess?"

Tess is dragged from this reverie, looking at Maggie with bleary eyes. She hands the joint back to Maggie, she's had too much.

"How would I know?"

Maggie is irritated, stubbing the butt against the bark of the log. She fixes Tess with a dark, serious look. "We had an agreement."

Tess doesn't know if it's the weed or the night or the fact that watching over you makes her feels like she wants to crawl out of her skin. Whatever it is propels her to an angry stand, glaring down at the old woman.

"I got her an apartment; I got her ID and a job. What else do you want from me? Should I tuck her in? Read her to sleep?" She takes a few steps back, pacing in front of the old woman. “I mean for Christs’ sake, Mags, she’s a grown woman.”

Maggie continues to watch her shrewdly. "You are supposed to look out for her. Help her navigate the QZ for the first little bit. There are rules there that we've never had to deal with. I don't want her hurt or scared. Lord knows that'll come when she learns I'm not joining her."

Tess wants to bite back that putting you in the QZ was a crueler fate than letting you die at the mercy of a clicker. At least then you'd be with Maggie. But then Tess' eyes fall on the patchwork bag of tobacco at Maggie's feet. Her weekly payment.

She has to play along.

"You're right," Tess says with a deep exhale, like she's just realizing her mistake.

"I'll take better care of her. I promise."

THEN

A week ago you were playing tea party with Bitsy on the cracked linoleum of your RV.

Now you’re in a cabin that smells like wood smoke and pickled vegetables. There’s a rough wool blanket over your shoulders and a mug of warm oat milk in your hands. Maggie said it’s good for your stomach and even though you don't like it you drink it anyway. You don't want her to give you up.

You don't really understand what's happening on the world but you do know that it's bad.

Bruce is sitting at his desk, fiddling with the dials of a dusty old ham radio. He hums when he works, low, tuneless sounds that make you think of bees trapped in jars.

He talks to the radio like it’s a person. Says names you don’t recognize. “Truman? You out there?” or “Almanac, this is Sierra-Two. Anybody copy?”

Outside, the wind carries the smell of pine needles and something sour. The woods around the cabin are dark and endless. Sometimes, when you look too long into the trees, you think you see shapes shifting. Maggie says you’re safe here, but she also keeps a shotgun by the door.

You sit at the window most mornings as instructed with Bitsy, watching Bruce and Maggie work. She and Bruce have started building things. Dragging sheets of rusty metal across the yard. At first, it looks like they’re just stacking junk, metal sheets, rusted fencing, broken pallets and stuff like that.

Bruce says it’s “a perimeter.” Maggie calls it a fence, but it looks more like a wall.

“Doing good Mags,” Bruce muttered once, his sleeves rolled up, hands blistered from work.

“Damn right,” Maggie said, hauling a log twice her size onto her shoulder. “We’ll keep them out or die trying.”

You don’t know what “them” is.

Maggie drives wooden posts into the ground with a sledgehammer, her face clenched tight, sweat soaking the collar of her flannel. Bruce weaves chicken wire between the beams, winding it tight with thick, callused fingers. There are spikes now. Nails hammered through old planks. Glass bottles broken and glued along the tops like teeth.

They dig l big holes, too. Covered with dead leaves, sharp rocks inside. Those are outside the perimeter. A first line of defence.

Maggie builds a tripwire trap with tin cans strung on fishing line. When the wind shakes them, they rattle like ghosts. She sets them across the entry trail and down by the creek. “Not to stop them,” she says, not looking at you. “Just to hear them coming.”

They move the chickens inside a wooden pen, reinforce it with wire and plywood. “Don’t want them drawing attention,” Bruce mutters, hammering in another plank. “Clickers go toward sound.”

It's like a monster from a scary book. Them.

You've been at Bruce's place for a month before you learn what they are.�� It’s storming outside soft thunder and steady rain tapping the windows. The radio crackles with static and a voice comes through.

“Delta Delta. Potential clicker sighting down Belmont. Be sure to keep locked and loaded. Over and out.”

You listen intently before Bruce turns it down.Maggie’s knitting something, or pretending to. She glances at Bruce and then back at you. Her mouth is tight.

“You need to know what's out there,” she says, “and you need to know how to keep yourself safe."

You don’t say anything. You just pull your knees up to your chest.

"You know the night your mama and you were driving away?"

You nod.

"You were driving away like I was to go somewhere safe. That's because there's these... Infected things out there."

Bruce leans forward and taps his temple. “They sorta look like people or so they say. But they're not right in the head.”

Maggie frowns, not appreciating Bruce input when she sees how confused you are.

"You know mushrooms, honey?”

You nod not you stick out your tongue. You hate mushrooms.

"Well these are mushrooms the get into people's brains. Only is not like regular mushrooms."

“Exactly,” Bruce says. “These ones, they take over. People stop being people. They don’t think and they don’t feel. They just listen to the fungus and it tells them to bite healthy people like us.That's why we're working hard to make sure this place stays safe.”

Maggie’s hands have gone still in her lap. “Some of them are fast. Others are blind, but they… click. To see. Like bats.”

That part sticks. Click. It sounds almost funny. But Maggie’s voice is flat, heavy.

“They’re the ones you have to be quiet for,” she says. “Real quiet.”

You don’t understand all of it. But you understand enough. There are monsters out there, people who aren’t people anymore. Your tiny body shakes with both anxiety and fear.

Bruce nudges a piece of chocolate toward you, just a square, saved from somewhere. You take it, chewing slowly, even though your stomach hurts. Maggie’s watching the window.

“The wall and holes all keep us safe,” Bruce says.

Sometimes Maggie watches you too closely, like she’s checking to see if you’re still whole. She and Bruce are gentle with you, they voices soft and entreating. At night, when Maggie thinks you’re asleep, she tucks your hair behind your ear and whispers the same thing.

"You're safe, little one."

Bruce gave you a box of crayons he found in a drawer. Most are broken and the red is worn to a nub. You draw on scrap paper when no one’s looking; trees, a dog you used to have, the outline of a woman with long hair holding your hand. You don’t know if it’s your mom or Maggie anymore.

One morning you feel bold and ask Maggie when you’re going back home. She crouches in front of you, her hands on your knees, her face worn soft from sun and grief.

“This is home now,” she says.

You don’t understand what that means. Not yet. But in the coming years you come to know what she meant. Home was where they cared.

At the end of your second week you return home from your shift with aching feet and the stink of bleach still clinging to your hands, your whole body hums with exhaustion.

You turn the corner toward your door and see something waiting: a small container on the floor. Still warm when you crouch to pick it up.

Inside are lentils, a few bits of root vegetable, something green and wilted. It smells… good. Your stomach growls loudly. There's no note but you know where it came from. You smile to yourself, bringing it inside.

You eat it slowly, sitting on your cot with your back against the cold wall, letting yourself chew instead of rush.

There's a quiet knock on your door shortly after and you rise, wincing. Your back is so sore. You open it faster than you did this morning.

Lucía stands there with a scarf looped around her neck and Alma bundled up against her chest in a sling. She has a blanket over both of them, tucked in like she’s done it a thousand times.

"Did you like the soup?"

You nod, smiling brightly. You hand her back the empty bowl. You wish you could do something for her. You hold up a finger. One second.

You return moments later with your ration of lentils. You extend them her way but she shakes her head, refusing.

"I have my own ration cards and Mateo drops by food every week. You keep it."

She doesn't want anything from you. She just wanted you to have something. She wanted you to feel welcome. It makes you uneasy. You’ve always been taught that nothing comes for free in this world. But the kind way Lucía looks at you makes you think otherwise.

"Thank you," you offer in a rough whisper. You don't speak often, but in this moment you need her to understand the depths of your appreciation.

She blinks, a little surprised before she smiles widely.

“Come with me after work tomorrow,” she says.

She notices your hesitation, the way you back up a step. You're like a cat, not afraid but cautious, on high alert.

“Just for a little while,” she adds. “You’ve seen the worst of this place. You should see something better. Mateo is coming to see Alma. He can babysit for a while."

And so after another hard day on sanitation and with the sun still in the sky you head home and knock on her door, a bit anxiously. She throws it open, already expecting you. You notice a small man with a moustache holding Alma by the window. He gives you a once over and a sharp nod.

"Let's go!"

She’s already turning, already heading down the hall before giving you any more information and so you grab your jacket and you follow.

"I saw you with that big man the other day," Lucía says as the two of you walk out of the building. "He's always with that tall woman."

You nod, shifting uncomfortably.

"Are you friends with them?"

You shake your head. Not really.

As the two of you walk you notice the air always smells like rust here. Even now, with the sun still up and the wind cutting through the alleys, there’s that ever-present tang in your nose like metal and dust.

You pull your jacket tighter and follow Lucía through the maze of back paths and broken fencing that line the QZ.

She walks like she’s done this route a hundred times; braid swinging lightly across her back. There’s no map in her hand, no weapon at her side. Just confidence and the unspoken understanding that no one really bothers a woman with that kind of walk.

You trail half a step behind. Not because you’re nervous but because you don’t know where she’s taking you. And because people stare less when you don’t walk side by side. Lucía glances back at you once, her expression lit by something gentle. “You okay?”

You nod.

She doesn't know what you're capable of, otherwise she'd never ask. She doesn't know what you've had to do to survive. Much like most of the despots you pass as you follow at her heels.

The QZ looks different at this hour. Not welcoming but a little less like a cage. The streets aren’t as full, the shouting has died down, and the soldiers at the main post look half-asleep behind their sandbags.

A kid bikes past with a squeaky wheel. Someone’s hung laundry between two collapsed balconies, flapping against the skyline like threadbare flags. You pass an alley where someone tried to paint a mural of a landscape but it’s faded, half-covered with dirt and cracks. Still, Lucía slows down for it and touches the chipped edge with her fingertips.

“This way,” she says and then turns sharply through a rusted gate. She moves purposefully and with confidence.

You hesitate just a second before following her.

What she’s brought you to isn’t a secret but it’s hidden well enough that it feels like it belongs to someone. A courtyard surrounded by old brick buildings, patched with tarps and wire. A garden used to live here, you can tell from the sun-bleached planters and the dry fountain in the middle, but now it’s something else.

There’s music, faint but real. A beat-up old speaker rests on a ledge above the fountain, hooked up to what looks like a solar battery. People mill around, not many, maybe a dozen, sharing bread, passing cups of something that smells like fruit gone slightly off.

There's no uniforms, no barked orders, just low conversation. A woman dances barefoot on the concrete, her eyes closed. Lucía smiles like she’s proud of it.

“It’s just a gathering spot. It’s not much. But the music’s nice.”

You glance around. One man is playing cards with his boots off. Someone else is sketching in a notebook with careful strokes, tongue pressed to their lip. No one’s watching you and you love it.

Lucía doesn’t pressure you. She takes a seat beside the dry fountain, adjusting her skirt, and gestures for you to join her. You sit cross-legged beside her, careful not to let your knees touch. She offers you a smile and for a while, neither of you speak.

Just music. Murmured voices. Wind in the buildings. You tilt your head back and feel the light on your face. It’s almost warm. It's like you can imagine yourself back home.

“This place’s not all bad,” Lucía says eventually. “It’s hard, yeah and it been be cruel sometimes. But there are still little pieces, things they can’t ruin.”

You know who they are.

She leans back on her elbows, watching the sky. “I used to sing. Before.”

You glance over, eyebrows lifted.

Lucía chuckles. “Don’t get too excited. But sometimes Alma falls asleep better when I hum something. I think she likes the vibrations in my chest.”

You smile, faint, but real. You blink away a sheen to your eyes.

Lucía catches it and her eyes soften. "I knew you had emotions.”

You roll your eyes as a laugh escapes her. The two of you remain there as the sun dips and the music continues. Despite the hour fires are made in cans, cards played by firelight. A couple dances nearby, eyes closed.

"I was really scared my first week here,” Lucía murmurs when she sees you gazing at them. “There was so much to learn, so much to avoid. Immigrants aren't exactly welcome here. But I promise it's gonna get better. We have our own sort of community. We look out for each other."

You don’t answer. All you can think of is Maggie. Lucía watches your face for a beat too long.

"Is there someone out there waiting for you?"

The moment is shattered. You stiffen and then stand abruptly. You don't like the questioning, the way she speaks like the two of you are friends. You’re only neighbours, people who are thrown together because of circumstance. That isn’t trust.

Lucía blinks up at you.

“Sorry,” she says quickly. “I didn’t mean to pry."

But it’s too late. You shake your head and turn on your heel. She calls your name once, but you don’t stop. You leave the merriment and the music at your back, hurrying away from the questions and the attention.

You think you hear her calling out after you, scrambling to put her shoes on. But you're already out of the square and down the street, your hands shoved deep in your pockets, your jaw locked tight.

You don’t hear anything but the pounding of your own heart because the sun is gone and you can’t see much. You aren’t sure where you are. At first you think you’re circling back toward the laundry hub, but none of the buildings look familiar.

A barbed fence rises to your left, and a row of boarded-up apartments sits slumped and empty on your right. You glance behind you to see the street is deserted. Within moments you realize with a stone in your belly, that you're lost. The maze of back routes and connecting alleys that Lucía took you through are now twisted and confusing.

You spot a sign you think you recognize and dart toward it but it’s rusted through, unreadable. And now you’re deeper into the maze of back alleys, where the street lamps don’t reach.You curse under your breath, panic beginning to flutter in your ribs. You've never been great with directions, that was always Maggie's thing.

You pass a narrow opening between buildings and pause, trying to decide if you should backtrack when you hear a hiss.

“What the fuck are you doing out here?”

You freeze. You know that voice.

Your eyes widen as you turn, chest heaving as you come face to face with Tess. She’s there in the dark, looming over you, face hard with disbelief. Moving beside her Joel is already checking over your shoulder, keeping watch.

The darkness of the alley swallows you whole as she grabs your shoulder, forcing you between the buildings. You’re caged by she and Joel, trapped between darkness and fear.

“What the hell were you thinking?” she snaps, her voice vicious. "The curfew was twenty minutes ago."

You stare at them, breathing hard. Curfew?

The two exchange a look. The fear is still leaving your system, burning in your throat like bile.

"You didn't tell her?"

"Last time I checked she wasn't my problem," Joel mutters. "I was doin' you a favour gettin' her a job."

He looks you up and down like he’s making sure you’re still in one piece. Your eyes connect briefly before you glance down the alley behind them. You hadn’t even seen them; they must’ve been cutting through after a job, something quiet and under the radar. And they must know every shortcut in this place.

Joel exhales sharply, muttering a curse. Then he jerks his chin. “Come on.”

They don’t speak much on the way back. Joel walks ahead with long, purposeful strides, keeping to the shadows, slipping behind dumpsters and burned-out husks of cars like he was born into this place. Tess moves at your side, glancing behind you every so often.

You know you’re slowing them down and you also know you’d never make it back without them. As the three of you move through the maze of alleys, it becomes clear that Tess is the one who calls the shots. She's quick, sharp, and confident in every step she takes. Joel follows without question, the silent muscle behind her, always watching the shadows.

His shoulders are broad beneath his worn jacket, his stride heavy and deliberate, and his hands, large and rough, curl instinctively toward his weapon at every sound. You take it all in without emotion, cataloguing him the way you would any other threat or tool, something useful but not personal.

Joel throws an arm out suddenly, pressing you back against the brick wall with a firm hand to your shoulder, his body angled in front of yours as flashlight beams sweep past the alley mouth. You barely breathe, his palm steady and warm through your coat, holding you there until the danger passes.

It takes twenty minutes to circle around the closed sectors and past a checkpoint where two FEDRA soldiers are already lighting cigarettes, clearly done for the night.

Tess signals ahead with two fingers and vanishes around the corner, silent as smoke. You and Joel hang back, tucked into a wedge of shadow between a dumpster and the alley wall. His hand tightens slightly on your arm just before a flashlight beam cuts across the far end of the alley. It's an officer, lingering too long, boots scraping the pavement in a slow patrol.

You don’t dare breathe. Joel shifts closer, his front pressed fully to yours now, every inch of him is solid and warm, the bulk of his coat enveloping you like a shield. The rough fabric of his flannel brushes your jaw and the side of his face nearly touches yours, close enough that you can feel the heat of his breath through the cold.

His chest rises evenly against yours, and there’s something steadying about it, like anchoring yourself to a heartbeat. You keep your eyes forward, locked on the puddle-glinting pavement but you’re hyper-aware of the wide fingers curled just above your elbow, the faint exhale that stirs your hair when he lowers his head slightly, listening.

The moment stretches on too quiet and too close, and then when you think you might scream from the stress, the officer moves on.

As soon as the beam of the flashlight disappears, Joel eases back like he’d only just remembered he was touching you. He doesn’t look at you right away, just gives a short jerk of his chin in a silent lets go, before stepping out into the alley, his strides purposeful.

You follow without a word and by the time you round the corner, Tess is waiting with her arms crossed and an annoyed tilt to her head. Joel says nothing as she starts walking again, and you fall into step behind them both, the tension from the alley still buzzing in your fingertips.

No one speaks for the rest of the walk. The QZ is quieter now, the kind of quiet that feels like bait. At your door, Tess stops first and folds her arms.

"Curfew is every night at ten. To be safe be in the apartment at 9:30. Do not go wandering around like you were tonight."

There's no point telling her you went with Lucía. You just nod.

"We got you a place and we got you a job. You're set up with rations and so you're on your own from now on, got it?"

You nod again. You figured as much. But there's something that she hasn't brought up and it concerns you. The backpack under Tess' bed. The one left for safety.

"My bag," you say quietly.

Joel's eyes dart to your face, clearly curious by the sound of your voice. You feel his gaze but you're focused on Tess who licks her lip in a way that only be described as irritated.

"I'll bring it by later this week."

You nod and she takes off as if your request has personally offended her. You hear her boots crunch on the gravel.

Joel hesitates and for a second it seems like he might say something. You eyes meet his now, your face impassive. But then he just blinks at you before he lumbers after Tess.

You stand there a moment longer, hand on the doorknob, heart still thudding from the near-miss. Then you slip inside, locking the bolt behind you, already dreading the grey dawn of another miserable day.

You let yourself into your apartment, your hands still shaking. The air inside is cold. You throw the bolt and lean back against the door, pressing your forehead to the peeling paint.

How is this preferable to life in the cabin with Maggie? How is this worth the stress and the fear? Surely Maggie won't prefer this. She needs to know what awaits her.

You drag yourself to the cot, collapse into the blanket, and stare at the ceiling. Tomorrow morning you’ll wake up and scrub out shit-stained holding tanks and clogged drains. But tomorrow night?

Tomorrow night you're going home

authors notes:

there is going to be more joel and reader interaction in the coming chapters but i am a firm believer that a good build up for a story makes a satisfying climax

i have a question should i mark this a joel miller au because there will be slight changes to the cannon story?

💋💋💋

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getitoutofmymindwrites · 2 days ago

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Mercy for Those Seeking :

Four - Current

"He was like a storm that had rolled into her life without any warning, no thunder in the distance, not a light sprinkle to mark the incoming downpour, it was sudden— solitary lightning— the flash so bright that everything else seemed to darken in comparison."

pairing: joel miller x ofc rating: 18+ mdni word count: 8.0k a.n. another monday, another chapter of me edging ya'll. thank you very much for reading, appreciate your lovely comments <3

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getitoutofmymindwrites · 2 days ago

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delicacy

Joel Miller x f!reader tags: pussy eating, pussy worship, pussy fingering, pussy pronouns, pussy everything; 670 words

“Fuck, I missed eating pussy.” He was growling in you, the eyes half closed like he wanted to fully give into the taste, but also couldn’t miss a moment of your body trembling under him. The sweat slicked skin of your belly rising and falling erratically as he sucked on your clit, and teased the slick bud with the tip of his tongue.

Sweat dripped down your face, the salty evidence of your tension stinging your eye as you tried to make eye contact with the man. He had that same hungry look on him in the bar. He tipped the glass of whiskey down his throat without breaking eye contact with you and you knew you’d be taking him home before you even knew his name. ‘Joel,’ he introduced himself, ‘what do I have to do to make you leave with me?’

Less that forty minutes and a car ride with his massive hand in your panties later, he was spread eagle-ing you on your bed. His knees dug into the plush of your carpet and you hoped he didn’t notice the pair of socks you threw under the bed yesterday. He dove right into you, being so impatient with ripping your thighs apart it almost hurt. His death grip didn’t let you budge, and he tore your panties off before you could yelp a single objection.

Never had a man been so desperate to give you head. You could swear you had seen his wet tongue peeking out before he even made contact with your skin. His nostrils flared as he inhaled your smell, grazing his teeth over the tender spot where your inner thigh met your pussy.

“Fuck,” Joel sounded as if he was shaking, his voice rippling against your swollen folds. His thumbs spread you apart, opening every slick part of you to his greedy eyes. “The prettiest sight a man’s eyes can see. So soft,” his tongue licked up from your hole and he placed a little kiss on your clit, “so delicious.”

Honesty in Joel’s voice drove you to the edge faster than his tongue did. Gently, he pushed two fingers in your hole and curled them, rubbing against the sweet spot. He wanted to keep telling you how much he wanted that unique taste running down his throat, how the twitches of your clit against his tongue got him painfully hard in his jeans. But he was too busy rubbing your sensitive nub with all the loyalty he had for a sweet pussy like yours.

“I– I’m close,” you stuttered, your hands finding Joel’s hair and pressing him firmer into you. He just moaned, allowing you this power over him, letting you all but rut your pussy over his face. The coarse bristles of his beard felt like needles on your raw flesh but you couldn’t stop. He stuck his tongue out, letting you slide your clit over it while still having his fingers deep in your pussy. Joel softly guided you with those two fingers, feeling your walls flutter as you came. He took his fingers out replacing it with his tongue to get the most of your taste. When the man looked up from between your thighs, his lips were glistening wet and your legs were shaking.

“Good God,” you breathed out with a jittery laugh, “you gotta give me a minute if you want me to ride you, big boy.”

Joel smiled, wiping the remnants of your wetness off his chin and licking his finger. “I’m not moving until I drink you up whole, baby, so don’t rush to sit up. The most you can do is turn around so I can eat her from behind.”

A loud wet clap made your breath hitch and you felt a nice sting where he slapped your thigh. It was going to be a deliciously long night.

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getitoutofmymindwrites · 3 days ago

Text

𝙭𝙤𝙭𝙤

Masterlist || Harry Castillo x Reader || Part VI: The Devil Wears Prada

Summary: Meeting Harry’s mother was as intimidating as expected, with her cool poise and targeted questions. But you hadn’t expected her to reveal something about him that lodged itself in your mind and refused to leave, a quiet revelation that’s been wriggling there ever since. || fake dating, tabloids, Gossip Girl AU, socialite!reader, richgirl!reader, NYC, reader is in her mid 20s, old money lifestyle, trust fund babies, age gap, rich people problems || a/n: I literally have like so many chapters lined up and ready to go for this and it's killing me keeping them from you </3 so yesss 2 in one week, baby!! enjoy!!

By the time Margot had finished all her poking and prodding, her tucking and smoothing and stepping back to assess, you were made entirely new, dressed like a diplomatic gesture. A polished little gift box tied up in celadon silk, stepping out of the grand building at half past the hour and headed for Fifth Avenue.

The dress moved like water when the breeze caught it, the hem brushing soft around your calves as you slid into the idling black car. The sheer green gloves were comforting in a strange way. Cool against your skin, whisper-light, embroidered in tiny loops that itched when you settled yourself inside the car.

Harry’s driver, George, you’d come to learn, closed the door behind you, the soft shutting silencing the city around you. Inside, the car was quiet and dim, the leather cool against your back. You glanced down at your shoes—pale taupe slingbacks, the kitten heel just high enough to be formal. The leather still held a faint gloss from where Margot had wiped them down before you left.

And as the car drove away from the curb, you watched the city go by. Buildings blurred, people hustled and you watched, distantly, wondering what was going on in each of their little lives. You still weren’t entirely sure of the point of all this. Meeting someone’s mother when you weren’t even dating felt a little silly. Besides, family made things complicated, more permanent. This, for all intents and purposes, was only a temporary agreement with an end date already in sight. June twentieth would come and go and things would…go back to normal. You’d return from your home in the Hamptons single and hopefully off the headlines for a while, and Harry would go back to his life with his niece safely tucked away at home.

Still, you thought, if Harry didn’t think it mattered, he wouldn’t have asked you. That had to mean something.

And you wondered, briefly, how many girls had made this same trip. How many had stepped out of a car, taken a deep breath, and prayed they’d be the one to impress Evelyn Castillo. Maybe none of them had. Maybe that was the point. Maybe no one was ever good enough for her son.

But before you could spiral further, the car slowed in front of a gray stone building. George came around to open your door.

“Good luck, Miss Montclair,” he said with a polite smile. You nodded in thanks, but your voice caught in your throat.

Before you could lift your hand to the buzzer—engraved in discreet serif: Evelyn and Harold Castillo—the door opened on its own. A man in a black tuxedo stepped forward.

“Miss Montclair,” he greeted, tone smooth, practiced. “Please, come in.”

Your kitten heels clicked lightly over polished cream marble as you followed him inside. The entryway was quiet, cathedral-high and filled with soft light. Molding curled across the ceiling like ribbon, and an arched staircase swept upward in graceful stone curves. Everything smelled faintly of peonies and linen and wealth.

You were led into a sitting room just off the entry—smaller, but no less grand. Ivory and pale green walls, antique gold filigree on the mirrors, a vase of white tulips in bloom. A woman sat beneath the window, her legs crossed, a small brown dog curled like a mink laid in her lap.

“Ah, thank you Edward, you may leave us,” she called.

The man who had led you in bowed his head and slipped from the room with the same noiseless grace he'd arrived with, the door sighing closed behind him.

She stood, lifting the dog with one arm, and extended the other toward you, palm down. You stepped forward, sliding your gloved hand into hers. Her grip was dry and faintly cool, like porcelain before the fire.

“Mrs. Castillo,” you said. “It’s lovely to meet you.”

“Evelyn, please,” she replied, smiling without warmth. “And likewise. You look older than your photos.”

Your stomach dropped slightly, but returned the smile anyway, polite and practiced.

“Must’ve been good lighting,” you said.

She blinked at that, the corner of her mouth twitching.

“Tea?” she asked, already drifting toward the lacquered table set with bone china and silver spoons.

“Yes,” you replied, smoothing your dress beneath you as you sat in the opposite armchair. “That sounds nice.”

She poured with a practiced hand, not bothering to ask how you took it. A twist of lemon slipped into your cup without fanfare.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” she said after a pause. “Most girls would’ve declined. Or sent a polite excuse through my son.”

“Why’s that?” you asked, reaching for your teacup without looking away from her.

She studied you back: your face, the line of your shoulders, the arch of your brow, the way your fingers didn’t tremble as they lifted the cup. She liked puzzles, you could tell. And you were one she was eager to crack.

“Oh, I suppose I can come off a bit… discerning,” she said, saccharine enough to sour the air as she sipped her tea.

You smiled again, sharper now. “All the times I’ve seen you at events, I wouldn’t say that’s such a bad thing.”

She chuckled a dry, elegant little laugh, like stones tapping against crystal, “You were the one in Givenchy at the Camford Gala last year. I seem to recall you correcting the ambassador’s French?”

Your fingers wrapped tighter around the delicate porcelain, though you kept your posture unchanged. “He misquoted Voltaire if I recall.”

“He did,” she agreed, her lips pursed. “Though most people wouldn’t have noticed. Or dared to mention it.”

You took a sip of your tea. “I suppose I’m not most people.”

Her smile lingered as she glanced out the tall window beside her, where afternoon light began to stretch across the floor in softened bands. The dog yawned in her lap.

“No, I don’t think so.” She set down her tea, her tongue licking the remnants before patting the side of her mouth with a linen napkin, “So tell me about this recent fiasco, this…late night debauchery.”

Your throat went dry, “I…I, well–”

There was a split-second moment where your heart started hammering against your ribs as you tried to remember what face you were wearing. You did not let your hands tremble, though the tea had suddenly lost its flavor.

You could feel her gaze bearing down on you, not aggressive, but pointed and deliberate, the kind of look that peeled back the silk of your dress and reached straight through to the scaffolding underneath.

And maybe that was what did it.

Your spine straightened, your gaze found hers. Because no, you wouldn’t fall apart like some silly, shaken thing in pearls and heels. You weren’t a girl anymore, and you weren’t stupid, and you sure as hell weren’t going to let this woman see you shrink.

“I hardly think a little partying ever did a girl wrong,” you said finally, the words smooth and evenly paced, your tone pleasant but not pliant, poised but entirely unmoved.

That earned a reaction. She tilted her head with the curiosity of a hound catching a scent. She studied you more closely now, her expression unreadable.

“I’m not sure I know what you mean,” she said, her voice light, but careful.

You looked her directly in the eye, the corners of your mouth lifting into a smile that wasn’t quite pretty and wasn’t quite friendly, but steady and sharp enough to hold its own.

“I mean,” you said slowly, “that I don’t believe I’m the first woman to drink too much champagne on her best friend’s birthday. I don’t think I’m the first person to stay out too late. And I certainly don’t think I’m the first woman to be photographed in an outfit like that, caught in a whirlwind of pervy paparazzi who will do quite literally anything for a high paying photo.”

Evelyn didn’t answer right away. She simply stared, her tea cup still raised, held just before her lips with both hands, her fingers contrasted against the fine porcelain. The dog in her lap shifted, sighing softly, but she did not move. Her eyes narrowed slightly with the quiet consideration of someone who had not expected to be challenged so directly, and perhaps, not so skillfully.

Something passed between you in the quiet that followed. You weren’t sure if it was understanding or maybe just recognition.

“Well,” she said, and though she tried to keep her voice measured, there was the faintest curl of amusement beneath it, like steam rising from the china she set down, “at least I can say you’re not boring like that last girl, the–oh, what was it? The matchmaker.”

“Being called boring might be even worse than being photographed topless on a night out.”

“I worried you might cry,” she said after a pause she poured another cup of tea for herself, her voice quiet, but not quite gentle. “Most girls do, when they are asked hard questions.”

“I’ve cried plenty,” you answered, lifting your tea for a sip, trying to sound casual now, “But not because someone is trying to make me. I cry on my own terms.”

“Good,” she murmured, mostly to herself. “Good.”

She glanced toward the window again, where the light was beginning to move toward the west skyline, casting the mid afternoon light across the trim of the furniture, gilding the edge of her profile. For a moment, she said nothing at all.

A long breath followed, so faint it hardly moved her chest, and then, to your quiet surprise, Evelyn Castillo let out a soft, unmistakable laugh. It was not cruel or theatrical, but something close to genuine. She looked at you again, and this time, the edge had dulled ever so slightly.

“My son told me not to ask about it,” she said, as if the thought had just drifted in on the breeze. “Which, of course, only made me want to.”

“Understandable.”

Her eyes met yours and held. The laughter faded from them as she took you in again, not just your face but the way you sat, the posture you kept, the stupid little outfit Margot put you in. Something unreadable passed through her gaze, something cooler than her smile, and you felt her studying you harder now, as if remembering herself.

“I want to know what you want from him.”

The words didn’t come out accusatory, but they held you like the edge of a knife to your throat.

“Excuse me?”

“Is it his money? His name?”

You straightened, your fingers tightening slightly on the edge of the teacup as you set it down.

“My family has more than enough of both. I’m not looking for any sort of—”

“Then what is it?” she asked, “Because forgive me, but I find it difficult to believe a woman your age is interested in my son for any reason other than what he can offer.”

“Harry is a good man, Evelyn. There’s more to him than—”

“Yes,” she interrupted, and for once, her voice softened. “I know.”

There was something brewing between the two of you as you stared at each other for a long, long moment. You could see it behind her eyes, something turning over in her thoughts, deciding whether or not to say whatever hovered at the tip of her tongue. Her gaze didn’t waver as she kept looking at you, still scrutinizing every inch of your face, every flicker of expression.

But eventually, her eyes dropped, breaking your stare. Her hands fell to the dog in her lap, manicured fingers grazing over its ears, absent and careful, like touching something familiar might help settle whatever had stirred in her chest.

“Forgive me,” she sighed, “my son is what we’d call a… a hopeless romantic. A mother can't help but want the best."

She returned to her tea, stirring it, and when she spoke, looking up at you again, the softness in her voice was so subtle it almost didn’t register.

“He’s always been, since he was a boy. The first time he ever had a crush, he was seven. He wrote the little girl poems, drew her pictures. She ignored him for days afterward, and he simply stopped eating. Wouldn’t come down for dinner, barely said a word, just sat in his room, thinking he'd done something wrong."

She glanced out the window, adjusting the sleeve of her blouse.

“He doesn’t know how to temper affection. When he falls for someone, it becomes his entire focus. And if it doesn’t work out, he assumes it’s a flaw in himself. That he miscalculated. That he failed.”

Your heart snagged on the image, held fast by it. Of Harry as a boy, tender and foolish and too full of hope.

Evelyn glanced up at you then, catching the way your expression had shifted, the way your fingers had stilled around the stem of your glass.

“You seem surprised.”

You opened your mouth, but no words came. You were, of course you were. You had seen Harry be his usual charming, distant, calculating, flirtatious self, but never…. Never vulnerable. Never wide-eyed and giving.

Well. Maybe just that one night. He’d given you a glimpse in as you shared cold Chinese food on his leather couch, when it was just the two of you. No gossip columns, no contract. Just the quiet warmth of his presence, the surprising softness in the curve of his smile. He had been real then. Earnest. Gentle in a way that had caught you off guard.

He’s always so quick to forgive. So endlessly patient, so disarmingly kind in ways you hadn’t expected from a man like him. And now…now this.

She gave a slow, careful nod as if watching your wheels turning in your head. “He’s never known how to do it halfway. That’s always been the problem. And when he gets hurt — which he always does — it ruins him.”

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy, but it settled over your shoulders just the same. You looked down at your tea, the pale swirl of lemon tracing lazy circles near the rim.

It felt like something like a little seed was placed in the soil of your brain, digging deep and rooting itself there.

Harry is a hopeless romantic.

And you weren’t sure if it was supposed to be a comfort or a warning.

Evelyn gathered herself and stood in a clear dismissal, her movements precise, her elegance untarnished, though her expression had shifted. There was steel beneath the silk now, cool and commanding.

“And that is why, Miss Montclair,” she said, offering her hand once more, her voice smooth as crystal, “I ask that you only carry this on with my son if you’re serious about him. About all of this.”

The heat rose behind your collar as you reached for her hand and stood. Her grip was light but final, a gesture that felt like it was sealing something invisible between the two of you.

“I understand, Mrs. Castillo.”

And when she dropped your hand, you turned on your heel, and you didn’t just walk — you escaped, your heels echoing against the marble as you pushed out the doors and into the foyer.

“Miss Montclair?”

You turned back, pulse kicking, throat tight. The sunlight slanted through the windows behind her, catching the edge of her cheekbone, the glint in her eye.

“Tell Harry to fire that stylist of his,” she said, already turning away. “She should know by now how much I detest celadon green.”

“Hey, you.”

“Hi,” you breathed, letting him lean in to kiss your cheek, the warmth of his lips brushing against your skin with simple familiarity.

The restaurant shimmered behind you like something out of a dream, all soft amber lighting and the low hum of conversation, the scent of fresh basil and salt and butter drifting in from an open kitchen where chefs moved like dancers behind frosted glass. There were candlelit tables tucked beneath pale archways, orchids floating in slender vases, and the faintest glint of silver catching candlelight like stars twinkling underwater. It was beautiful, inviting and luxurious in the simplicity of it all.

Harry guided you through the door with an easy hand at your back, following the hostess in a silk blouse, past the gold-leaf menus and velvet banquettes, until the two of you were seated in a quiet corner where the lights were low and the linen napkins had been folded into perfect thirds. Everything felt warm, and almost like it was waiting for something.

“So,” Harry said, unfolding the wine list with one hand and exhaling like he already knew the answer would amuse him, “how was tea with my mother yesterday?”

You stared at your menu, though the words blurred slightly.

You thought about how she watched you, how she poked and prodded, waiting for you to show your cracks. How she nearly saw the very edge of you — the place where your poise began to falter and your shame began to bloom, right before your spine built itself back up from the base, vertebrae by vertebrae, until you were sitting upright again with a smile on your face. You thought about the things she said about him. More than he let on, more than you were ready for. And how, by the end of it, you’d come to some sort of quiet truce.

“Fine,” you said, glancing downward as you turned a page in the menu.

Harry tilted his head slightly, peeking up at you from his reading, the corner of his mouth twitching with quiet delight. “Fine?”

You shrugged, still scanning entrées. “Fine.”

He chuckled under his breath and closed the wine list. “Well, she didn’t call to have me disowned, so I’ll take that as a promising sign. For her, I’d say that’s dangerously close to approval. How do you feel about Sauvignon Blanc?”

You lifted the menu to cover your smile. “How’s the lobster here?”

“Perfect,” he said easily, “And before you accuse me of ulterior motives, I do have something for you.”

“Buttering me up after sending me into the lion’s den?” you asked, finally peering over the top edge of the menu to look at him.

“Something like that.”

“No complaints from me,” you replied, setting the menu aside.

He reached into his coat and pulled out a small black box, the kind lined in velvet and weighted just enough to make your pulse flutter. Your eyes widened, and Harry laughed — a full, unguarded sound that lit up his whole face and made the candlelight flicker like it was in on the joke.

“Don’t make such a face,” he said, the grin still tugging at his mouth.

The waitress appeared, her voice soft and practiced. “Do we know what we’re having this evening?”

“Not yet,” he said, not taking his eyes off you, “but we’ll take the bottle of the 2017 Chateau, thank you.”

You reached for the box once she left with a nod, but hesitated.

“Harry Castillo, I swear, if Gossip Girl runs a headline about me being your child bride—”

“You’re in your twenties, Montclair.”

“Still.”

“Just open it.”

You took the box from him, your fingers brushing his for a second longer than necessary. When you opened it, the breath caught in your throat. Nestled inside was a gold Van Cleef bracelet, five delicate motifs gleaming beneath the soft restaurant light, inlaid with small diamonds that shimmered like snow under a winter sun.

“Oh,” you gasped.

“It’s just a thank you,” he told you, his voice softer now. “For not walking away, even though you were well within your rights to do so. For meeting with my mother and.... for still being part of this.”

You looked up at him, searching for something in his face that might explain why the gesture felt heavier than it should. “Put it on for me?”

He smiled at you—not the charming, rehearsed kind, but the one that lifted the corners of his mouth and made his eyes twinkle, the one that felt like it belonged only to these little moments — and reached across the table, carefully taking your wrist and fastening the clasp. His fingers brushed your skin, making your flesh pebble.

You reached for your bag when he let go. “I actually have something for you, too.”

You slid a matching black box across the white tablecloth. His expression flickered with curiosity, and then, as he opened it, shifted into something unreadable.

He frowned, just slightly.

Your stomach dropped. “Too much?”

“How did you—” he began, before shaking his head, pulling the Rolex out of its velvet keep. “How did you even pay for this?”

“I sell my underwear on the black market," you said, and his expression made you bark with laughter, "I'm kidding! My Instagram followers have kinda blown up since this began, thanks to you,” you said, your smile softening as you watched him lay it on his wrist, “It’s just… a thank you. And maybe a small apology. Again.”

“You didn’t need to—”

“I wanted to,” you said quickly, your fingers brushing the base of the empty wine glass. “You’ve been… better than I’ve deserved. A great… business partner. In all of this. Even when I’ve made it difficult.”

Harry reached for your hand, releasing it from the wine glass and lifting it gently to his lips. The warmth of his mouth pressed against your knuckles, his breath soft against your skin, and for a moment the rest of the restaurant seemed to fall away.

“Not difficult,” he said quietly. “We all get our wires crossed sometimes.”

You flushed, not from embarrassment, but from the warmth he left behind when he pulled away. Just as he did, a camera flashed nearby, the sharp sting of light followed by a gasp, the stifling of voices like wind through leaves.

You turned your head instinctively, but Harry just smiled, letting his fingers trail over the back of your hand before releasing it, slow and unhurried.

In the dim light, the bracelet and watch on your wrists caught the glow like twin glimmers, mirror images of gratitude and something quieter, still unnamed.

“So,” he said, picking up the menu again like nothing had happened, “what looks good to you?”

taglist: @ovaryacted, @boscogirlsworld, @or-was-it-just-a-dream, @marisemonteiroo, @obsessedwithjustaboutanything, @umadirectioner, @yslgreen, @blogwagenzmom, @ch0c01atech1p, @vickie5446, @silksepia, @maiamore, @avengersfan25, @indiegirlunited, @tofics, @magicxmiller, @stevie75, @littlcdarlin, @primadonnasdream, @spacelatinos4life, @15christyxoxo,@shivispunk, @brinapedroswife, @evysian, @danzer8705

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getitoutofmymindwrites · 3 days ago

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im writing another seeking AU oneshot pls let me know if u want to be tagged or something when i post it on ao3!!!

sims 2 family bio lookin ass summary

snippet below

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getitoutofmymindwrites · 4 days ago

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Chapter 12: Walls

Pairing: Jackson Joel Miller x Doctor Female Reader Chapter Rating: Explicit. 18+ (Minors DNI) Chapter Summary: Ellie nods, a pensive look across her face, and she looks up at the sky, thinking. “He’s different now. Lighter. Like, he’s not carrying something heavy all the time. I used to think he’d never recover from losing Sar—his daughter. And then with everything that happened with me. But now he like… smiles.” Chapter Warnings: smut, kitchen table sex, joel miller kissing you while he cooks because i can't get that scene from superman outta my head, angst, an argument, joel miller stop needing to control people challenge, hints of a panic attack Words: 6,200

A/N: Whoooooaaaa-oooaaaa. I really struggled with this chapter until it all kinda clicked into place. Uh. Enjoy the angst. It's important. People build walls around themselves for different reasons, and sometimes they need to be broken down with tense conversations, love, and understanding... or sometimes Joel wants control and he can't get it.

Healed Masterlist | Healed Playlist | Healed, The Video Edit | AO3

Masterlist

Previous Chapter

—-

You settle into a familiar and comfortable routine. A simple life such as this, mostly free from fear or danger, was unheard of until you found Jackson. Happiness and love begin and end your days, all thanks to Joel.

Now, you wake up to the sound of his boots against the hardwood floor and the smell of your peppermint tea that he brews for you every morning. He’s always the first up now, rousing you with gentle hands and a low “C’mon baby, you gotta get up. I’m headin’ to work.”

Yes, work. Joel Miller, Jackson’s resident contractor know-it-all, is back at work, helping out on the new houses being renovated near the edge of the walls. It’s only been a week, and he only works for a few hours, nothing too difficult, nothing too strenuous, but still, quite an accomplishment for the man who couldn’t walk just eight months ago. You’re proud of him, and you’re sure he’s proud of himself, his slight, confident smile telling you he’s had a good day at work whenever you ask him.

Thanks to a slow day at the clinic, you get home earlier than expected. Joel isn’t on the porch or inside. You’re confused until you hear the high-pitched squeak of Ellie’s laughter in the backyard. You walk out the back door, squinting from the bright August sun beating down. There’s a half-built structure made out of a thick aspen branch with a flat, wooden platform attached to its side that Joel’s currently putting together.

“Hey,” you greet.

“Shit!” Ellie shouts, trying to block the mystery wooden creation.

Joel turns his head, his shoulders slumping in defeat. “You’re home early.”

“I am,” you say, stepping forward and arching an eyebrow at him. “Is that a bad thing?”

“It is,” Ellie says.

“Ellie,” Joel barks.

“Hey, man, you wanted to surprise her.”

“Surprise me? With what?” you respond, folding your arms over your chest.

“A cat tower,” Joel says, he and Ellie stepping aside. “S’not done yet, but I figured, Jefferson would like it.”

You smile at the shy way he says Jefferson’s name, the way he’s already been planning for the kitten you’ll be bringing home next week.

“Really?” you ask.

“Just have to wrap some twine around the scratching post, then install the joist hangers for the second platform. The base and platform should probably get a chamfer edge for safety in case he bumps into it too hard, and I’ll probably add a cross bracing for some extra suppor—” he glances over at you, a hint of redness in his cheeks when he realizes you have zero clue what he’s saying. “It’s… not done yet, but it will be soon.”

“And then he gets to build another for Jefferson’s sister,” Ellie says, a wide smile lifting her lips. “My kitten, Sally fuckin’ Ride.”

“Ellie,” Joel sighs.

“What? That’s her name,” she responds, shaking her head.

“It’s a great name,” you say. “I love that Jefferson and Sally will get to be neighbors.”

Ellie beams with pride. “Me too. So, ya’ know, since the cat tower is out of its bag, you no longer need my help. I’m going inside out of this heat,” she says, already moving to her front door before Joel even answers.

“Go ahead,” Joel says. “Thanks for the help.”

“Anytime,” she yells back, before she disappears behind her door.

You step closer to what Joel and Ellie have accomplished so far, running your hand along the smooth wood of the platform, imagining a little black and white cat perched on it, looking out the front window.

“It’s beautiful,” you say.

“Really wanted to surprise you with it once it’s done,” he sighs.

“Mm, but now that I know you’re making it, I can start on a small mat for the top. That way it’ll be soft for him.”

Joel wraps his arm around you; he smells of sawdust and sweat, and you fight the urge to nuzzle your head against his chest.

“I like that,” he says, kissing the top of your head before he goes back to working.

You watch him, sanding the platform edges smoother, his large hands working delicately. You’re beginning to see the hint of the old Joel, the Joel you never knew. He’s stronger, more confident, and always focused on the task at hand. He steps back, thumb pressed at his jawline as he studies his work.

“Done for the day?” you ask.

“I could be,” he says, looking over at you. “Why?”

“Because I want a shower,” you say, holding out your hand to him, “and you know I just hate showering alone.”

The sandpaper drops out of Joel’s hand as he stalks towards you, practically pushing you inside and up the steps.

—-

The clatter of plates, the smell of pancakes and bacon, and a cacophony of conversations echoing off the dark wood walls. An almost too-faded memory of his life before. There was once a time when Joel was sitting across a table from his little girl after a soccer game, her jersey speckled with powdered sugar from her Belgian waffle, while he enjoyed the one splurge he’d allow himself, a plate of steak and eggs with extra hash browns and a black coffee.

Now, he sits across from you, clad in one of his flannels, a smile on your pretty face, waiting for your first meal out together… breakfast at the Tipsy Bison. He wasn’t sure if you two were even going to make it in time, especially after you woke up and climbed on top of him this morning. “We’re gonna miss breakfast ‘n we already slept in,” he lazily reasoned, not attempting to stop you from pulling his pants down.

“Can’t believe we almost missed this,” you muse with a smile on your face. He can tell you’re excited by the concept, having someone else tend to both of you, and a glimpse of life before. A restaurant is unheard of in the apocalypse, but Jackson allows such extraordinary things to happen.

Seth sets your plates down with a curt nod and a tiny bottle of syrup, the true luxury of Jackson. Joel acquiesces, with a serious look. That’s the thing about living in a town: he might have to work with a guy, but it doesn’t mean he has to like him.

Seth turns to you, giving you a soft smile Joel’s never seen across his face, thanking you for taking good care of his grandson when he was sick. You’re so well-liked by everyone, even grumpy assholes like Seth seem to soften when they’re around you.

He watches you pour the syrup over your pancakes, slow and methodical, coating the fluffy pancakes in golden syrup. He can’t hide his wide smile.

“What?” you ask, picking up your fork, poised to take a first bite.

“Nothing,” he says, shaking his head. “Just happy.”

You grin. “Me too.”

You give him your slices of bacon, and he foregoes syrup on his pancakes for you to have more. Every so often, you nudge his ankle under the table. This might just be the best plate of pancakes and eggs he’s ever had.

When you’re done, and weaving your way through the tables to leave, you grab his hand in the middle of the crowd. It’s an almost sense of pride he gets when you’re seen with him. Joel’s never been much of a showoff, but there’s something about being in public with your hand in his, and the way people look when they realize that you’re with him.

—-

You’re sitting outside on the back porch, enjoying the cool evening air as you knit Jefferson’s mat for his cat tree, when the familiar slam of Ellie’s door catches your attention. It’s never done in anger or frustration, just… in a “that’s how Ellie shuts doors” way.

“Hey,” she greets, walking over.

“Hey you,” you say, smiling. “Where you headed?”

“Headed to Dina’s for the night.”

“Oh,” you respond, acting nonchalant at the divulgence of Ellie and Dina’s obvious relationship. “That sounds nice. I hope you have a good time.”

“Thanks,” she says, before thinking for a bit. “Does it ever surprise you?”

“Hm?”

“Does it ever surprise you that you found Joel?” she asks, leaning against the stair railing. “That you kinda just showed up one day and then totally saved a dude’s life?”

“Whoa, that’s deep.”

“I know, sorry, just, I don’t know, like, sometimes I think about how easily things could've gone differently. Like, what if you hadn't been here when he got hurt? What if you hadn't come to Jackson at all?"

You smile at Ellie, understanding her thoughts. You think about it all the time, too.

“In this world, we can ask to understand a lot of what-ifs. I like to think that if it’s supposed to happen, it’ll find a way to happen.”

“Yeah?” she asks, tilting her head.

“Look at you and Joel. You also found each other, right?"

She nods, a pensive look across her face, and she looks up at the sky, thinking. “He’s different now. Lighter. Like, he’s not carrying something heavy all the time. I used to think he’d never recover from losing Sar—his daughter. And then with everything that happened with me. But now he like… smiles.”

You nod, understanding the overwhelming weight of what she’s sharing. You place your knitting needles in your lap. “Joel hardly mentions her. Tommy told me about her in the early days. He’d say her name while dreaming a lot.”

Ellie still looks skywards, almost lost in her thoughts. “He was… different before. Like so different. Kind of an asshole.”

“Noooo,” you say, your voice dripping with sarcasm.

“No, but really. He was…yikes. I think you’ve changed him, and I feel like… I should thank you for that.”

You swallow the lump of emotion in your throat. Ellie, the girl you know Joel would move mountains for, is thanking you.

"You don't need to thank me. I'm the lucky one."

“He used to be so closed off and almost miserable all the time. Now he's building cat towers and smiling and shit. It’s really nice to see."

“I’m sure it is,” you smile.

“I should go. Dina’s waiting.”

“Of course, Ellie, have fun.”

When you head back inside, Joel is sitting at the kitchen table, dicing tomatoes for dinner. The familiar site of domesticity that you share with him makes your heart feel full.

“Took you a while,” he says.

“Ellie was leaving to head to Dina’s for the night, I was talking to her for a bit.”

“Oh? ‘Bout what?”

“Hmm,” you ponder, walking towards him. “She was asking me if it ever surprises me how we met…”

“What’d you tell her?” he asks, setting the knife down and scooting his chair back from the table.

“That some things are meant to happen,” you respond, stepping in between his legs. “She then told me she thinks you’re different now. Lighter.”

“Feel different,” he responds, wrapping his arms around you, resting his chin on your stomach to look up at you.

You lean down and press a kiss to his forehead. “And she thanked me for that.”

“You did change me, baby,” he says, staring up at you, with those deep, brown eyes you love so much. “You saved me.”

The sky outside is turning golden as the sun begins to set behind the mountains. Joel looks even more bronzed and gorgeous in this light. Your handsome Joel, the man who has given you his heart… the same heart you restarted.

—-

Joel’s found a new love in cooking for you; he’s no gourmet chef, but he handles the basics well. Most of all, he can tell you love watching him.

Tonight, he's making spaghetti while you sit on the countertop, your legs dangling right next to where he stirs the sauce on the stove.

"How do you always know when I'm craving pasta?" you ask.

He turns towards you, holding the spatula. "I always know you're craving pasta."

"I guess you know me well, don't you?"

He nods with a "Hmm" before moving to stand between your legs, crowding you against the cupboard. "Guess," he kisses you, "I," another kiss, "do," and a third. He leans into this one, kissing you harder, his tongue parting your lips, hands bracketing your waist, running trails up and down your body. Your hands find the dark waves of his hair, the stubble of his jaw, and the lines of his neck as he pushes you against the cupboard.

God, he loves kissing you, feeling your soft lips against his, hearing your breathing tick up when his tongue parts your lips.

"The sauce," you say, pulling away.

"Mm, I got it," he responds, chasing your lips, reaching for the spoon to stir without looking at the pot as he kisses you.

The sauce quietly simmers on the stove, and he breathes in the scent of garlic and tomatoes, mixing with the sweet scent of you, still stirring the pot with one hand as his other slides up your thigh, pushing your dress up.

“Joel,” you try to protest. “Dinner.”

“You’re distracting me, you know that?” he asks, a smirk tugging at his mouth.

He can’t help it. All he really wants is you. He chucks the spoon against the spoon rest before he wraps his arms around you, sinking both palms into the soft curve of your ass and pulls you forward, until you’re flush with him.

You moan when he kisses his way down your neck, your legs wrapping around his hips, laughing as he lifts you from the counter and carries you a few clumsy steps to the kitchen table, pride making him feel stronger that he’s now able to hold you like this. He sets you down on the table gently, admiring the sight of you splayed out, already looking slightly disheveled, your lips parted and pupils wide as you stare up at him.

He leans forward, kissing you again, moving your dress higher up your thighs, his fingers finding you already wet and warm for him. A cocky grin lifts his lips as he takes your underwear off, pulling them down to your ankles before he tosses them to the side.

He grips your ankles, pulling your legs open and pressing your knees back to your chest so he can stare down at your pretty pussy, all wet and ready for him. He’s almost in awe at the sight, you glistening for him on his kitchen table.

The temptation is too much, he bends, licking a slow and greedy stripe up your slit, and you instantly respond to him, arching into him, a desperate sound leaving your lips. He groans in appreciation, sucking your clit before pressing his tongue against it.

“Joooel, the sauce.”

He huffs a laugh against your sensitive skin before he rises, quickly walking to the stove to stir it and flicks the burner off. He stalks back towards you, undoing his jeans and pulling his cock out, already hard and flushed, ready to feel your wet pussy around it. He strokes it once, then twice, staring down at you splayed out on the table for him. You look up at him, lifting your legs into the air without a word. He knows you’re needy to feel him.

He lines himself up at your entrance, pressing the head of him against your soaked hole before he shoves in. Quick and hungry, the table creaking under his power, he has finally found again. He fucks you hard, pace unrelenting. He’s stronger than before, his leg allowing him now to thrust into you like he’s wanted to, to claim you and make you scream his name like you’re doing right now, in between your desperate pleas for him to fuck you harder.

His sweat beads, cheeks flushed, neck strained as he stares down at you, your hands gripping the edges of the table, your face contorted in pleasure when he moves a finger down to flick and press against your clit, edging you towards your orgasm.

“Fuck,” Joel groans. “I love your pussy, baby, I love you so fucking much.”

Your cunt clenches and squeezes his cock hard as you orgasm for him, making his pace falter as you flutter around his cock, screaming his name, your voice echoing across the kitchen.

He’s close, so close, but it’s when you prop yourself up on your elbows, look into his eyes, and command “Cum for me, Joel, cum in my pussy,” he loses it. Shouting your name and pulsing inside you, spilling himself deep before collapsing on you, folding over your body and planting lazy, reverent kisses along your chest and collarbone. You stroke the back of his head, laughing breathlessly.

“You think the sauce is okay?” you ask, still slightly out of breath.

Joel laughs. “M’sure it’s fine.”

“Even if it’s not, I’m so hungry I don’t care.”

—-

You’re only a couple of hours away from heading home for the day when the call comes in.

“Clinic. Come in. Clinic.” Amy’s voice echoes across the small, now empty waiting room.

Dr. V rushes to the radio that sits on the front desk, always present, always waiting for a call.

"This is clinic.”

“Bonnie fell down a ravine outside Elk Creek. Greg can’t get her out. Needs stabilizing.”

Dr. V nods, looking over at you as you set a patient file down. “How many alarms?” he asks.

“Greg says single. He doesn’t want to move her without help; he thinks she may have broken something. Transport is already preparing.”

You don’t even wait for Dr. V to ask you to go; you’re already grabbing the emergency kit without thinking.

You run down Main Street, passing the same spot you first saw Joel’s lifeless body, reminding yourself that just like you healed Joel, you now have all of Jackson depending on you, whether they’re inside or outside the walls. This is what you do: you help, you heal, you revive. This has always been your purpose.

You spot Jesse loading a board into the back of the idling transport truck, the same one you rode in on all those months ago before you found your purpose here, before you knew Joel, before you were known and respected as one of Jackson’s doctors.

“You’re going?” Jesse asks.

“Steven’s in surgery and there’s no way I want Dr. V climbing down anything.”

“Understood,” he says, opening the door for you. “James is driving, we’ll escort you there.”

You slide into the front seat, you can’t even remember the last time you were in an actual car interior. It’s worn, ripped leather patched up with duct tape and fabric scraps, but the truck works, a true luxury in the apocalypse.

The rumble of the engine shocks you slightly as James puts it into gear and pulls forward. He glances over at you and nods. You just delivered his first baby only a couple of weeks ago, and now he’s already out, preparing to help your fellow citizens. This is why you do what you do.

The gates open, and the three of you drive through the barriers that keep you and everyone safe.

Once the walls begin to disappear in the rearview mirror, you realize what you’ve just done. You didn’t even think twice, you just volunteered to leave the safety of Jackson’s walls again, without even telling Joel.

“How far?” you ask.

“About a half hour out,” James answers.

You nod, clutching your bag tightly, the anxiety already beginning to get harder and harder to silence the farther you get from Jackson.

—-

It’s late. Too late. The sun’s already sitting low behind the mountains, and you’re not home yet. Joel tries to be patient, tries to remind himself that you’re safe and probably just held back due to something mundane like an emergency appendectomy. It wouldn’t be the first time.

And yet, he still worries. His foot taps against the worn wood of the porch. He moved out here shortly after he realized you were late, hoping to get a glimpse of you as soon as you turned down the road. Every bit of movement catches his eye, leaving him constantly disappointed.

He’s still waiting for you, almost an hour after he stepped out here. Unease settles in his heart and body, he picks up his cane and stands, heading towards the clinic. He turns the corner from his street when he spots Maria hurriedly walking down the road.

“Joel!” she shouts as she jogs over. “I was just heading to see you. Listen, there was an accident outside. They sent a transport a couple of hours ago.”

His heart drops. He already knows what happened.

“She’s out there?” he growls.

“She is. She volunteered.”

Of course, you went. Of course, you would volunteer without a second thought.

“You couldn’t tell me earlier?” he bites.

“I just found out. I just got done helping with sowing all of the new seeds for the fall harvest. I’m only now going to pick up my child, with Tommy being out on patrol. Don’t pull that on me, Joel.”

Maria’s words stop him from getting angrier, reminding him that everyone here in Jackson has responsibilities.

“When are they coming back?” he asks.

“Should be soon. Jesse and James are with her. It’s Elk Creek, it’s one of the safer routes.”

He nods, though the storm inside him is still raging. Jesse and James are some of the best patrollers, but they’re still not him. But of course, now, he’s a crippled man, leaning on his cane in the middle of the road, worried sick about you. He hates feeling so powerless.

“I’m goin’ to wait for her.”

Maria nods, understanding the fear he must feel. "I’m sure she’s fine, Joel, she’s capable.”

He doesn’t respond; he just walks away, his cane rapping against the broken, cracked cement harder with each step he takes. He’s transported right back to that moment he waited those few weeks ago, worried to all hell about you. He’s almost mad you put him back in this situation. There’s a tightness in his chest, a familiar feeling he’s been good at tamping out, but now, as he reaches the imposing gate, that tightness constricts his heart even harder.

“Any word?" Joel calls up to the guards at the watchtower.

"Transport's about ten minutes out. Radio says everyone's fine."

Everyone's fine. He should be relieved, but the fear that today could have ended much more tragically overwhelms him.

He feels dizzy, his heart thudding against his chest in the worst way, his vision almost blurring around the edges. He tries to breathe deeply, tries to settle the unease that feels like it’s creeping through his brain and heart. He breathes, needing to rest his body against something solid, backing up until it rests against the thick stumps that create Jackson’s walls. He stands there, blinking the fear and anxiety out of his eyes and brain. And then, he hears the guard shout.

“Gates opening!”

Joel’s head snaps up. He can hear the truck’s engine approach as the gates open and it rolls through. You’re sitting in the back with Jesse, kneeling over somebody lying on a bodyboard, your face serious as you check over their vitals.

Joel hurries over, saying your name, a bit of anger escaping with desperation.

But you don’t hear him. You’re speaking with Jesse, reminding him how to pick up the transport board.

He says your name again, this time a bit louder. You look over, surprised to find him there.

“Joel?”

“You didn’t come home an-and I was worr—”

“Joel, I… I have to take care of Bonnie, she fell pretty bad, I’ve gotta get her to the clinic.”

He’s surprised by the stern professional voice you use on him. Speaking to him like he’s a patient, not his.

“Right,” he nods. “Can I help with anything?”

“No. I need Steven,” you respond. His heart drops at your words. “They’re grabbing him now.” You jump down from the truck after asking Bonnie if she’s okay. “Joel, I need you to move. We’re taking her now. I’ll… see you after she’s stabilized.”

He reaches for you, but you don’t even look at him; you just tell him goodbye and begin your journey to the clinic, jogging alongside Greg, as James and Jesse transport Bonnie on top of the board.

He stands there, watching as you quickly disappear from his view. This is your specialty, this is what brought you into his life, and yet he can’t help but feel left behind.

—-

You’re exhausted, it’s almost midnight by the time you get Bonnie stabilized and head home.

Joel’s asleep in the recliner when you walk in. Even as he sleeps, there’s something still so commanding about him—his broad shoulders filling the chair, his strong jaw, the seemingly permanent furrow between his brows.

You quietly slip off your boots and clothes, wanting to get rid of any sign of the stressful day you just had, and crawl into Joel’s lap, only clad in your bra and underwear. He stirs, his body tightening before he realizes you’re the new weight on top of him. He lifts his arms, wrapping them around you, and breathes you in.

“You’re back,” he says.

“I am,” you respond, resting your head against his chest.

“Why’d you go?” “Because somebody needed help and I could help them,” you answer simply.

“Yes, but it was outside the walls again.”

You pull away, looking into his eyes. “Because somebody needed help and I could help them,” you repeat, firm this time. “And they just so happened to be outside.”

His jaw ticks, and you can see the conflict warring across him. Understanding your purpose, quarreling with his fear. His protectiveness wrestling with your independence. You know he’s proud of what you do and who you are, but you can still see the fear he holds.

"But what happens if something happens to you?"

"Then something happens, Joel. This world is cruel, but if I can do something, anything to make it a little better and easier for someone, then I will. You should know that more than anyone else."

“I know,” he says quietly, his hand moves to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing back and forth against your skin. “I know that’s who you are. I just… get,” he sighs, his chest rising as he takes a deep breath in, “I get scared.”

“I know you do,” you whisper, covering his hand with yours. “But Joel, this is who I am. This is important. This is what I do. I can’t just… turn that off because it might be dangerous. You used to patrol, right?”

“I did, and I was attacked while on patrol, out there.” You can feel his whole body tense beneath yours. “If anything were to happen to yo—”

“This world is unpredictable; every single day, something awful could happen. I could walk out that door tomorrow and never come back. But I can’t live my life in the fear of what-ifs… and you can’t either.”

“I know you’re right. I know that. But when Maria told me you were out there again…” He swallows hard, his eyes beginning to well with tears, an almost sob leaving his throat. “I can’t lose you. Not now, not ever. I can’t have you going past the gates, I can’t deal with it.” You pull even farther away, your back straightening at his request. “That’s not happening. We’re already discussing our next trip out to collect plants, and the next time a call comes in for help, I will be answering it.” Your voice rises. “You can’t ask that of me.”

“What? Why? I should be able to, if you’re mine.”

You scoff at the implication, rising off his lap, looming over him as he leans forward in the recliner. “I’m not your possession. I’m not something you can control. If you’re scared, you’re scared, but you can’t own me and my decisions.” You feel ridiculous, taking such an authoritative stance in only your bra and panties.

“That’s… not what I meant,” he says, his hand coming up to nervously tousle his hair.

“Okay. So what did you mean?”

“I mean… I don’t think I can handle this happening again. Knowing I can’t help protect you, I can’t be there with you.”

Your heart drops at the shame in his voice, but anger still holds you. “I know, I know, but this is my job. This is my purpose; you can’t take it away from me, you can’t take it from everyone here. I need you to understand that helping people is who I am. You will not stop me from that.”

There’s a flash of anger that sets his face in hard lines, his jaw settling in that stubborn way you can easily recognize. He stands abruptly, forcing you to take a step back.

“So you’re just going to throw yourself into danger for one person outside the gates? People in here need you, I need you. I can’t have you going out there. Do you have any idea what that does to me?”

You throw your hands up in frustration at the audacity of him. “This isn’t about you, Joel! I refuse to abandon what I’ve been doing for almost my whole life because you’re scared.”

"Scared? You think this is just about being scared? This is about you wanting to go out there, where something terrible can happen to you at any moment."

"I've survived out there just fine before I met you, and I can handle myself now."

"Right. Just like how you handled yourself with the infected. The one that could’ve gotten to you if Tommy hadn’t—”

Your heart drops. “You don’t get to throw that in my face. That’s not fair.”

“What’s not fair is you putting yourself in danger and expecting me to just sit here and be okay with it.”

"I'm not asking you to be okay with it. I'm asking you to respect my choices!"

Hot, angry tears well in your eyes. How quickly he’s gone from your sweet, worried Joel to now a bitter, angry Joel you can hardly recognize.

He shakes his head. "I can't do that. Not with this. Not when your 'choice' could get you killed."

"So what am I supposed to do? Just stay inside these walls forever? Give up helping people because Joel Miller can't handle the thought of me being out of his sight? That's bullshit, Joel, and you know it."

"Watch your tone," he warns.

"Or what? You’ll try to control me, because you’re too afraid to lose me?”

His face goes pale. "You have no idea what you're talking about."

“Yes, I do. You're so afraid of losing that you'd rather control me than let me be who I am!"

It’s silent. Joel stands, now looming over you, his eyes dark and roaming across your face. It’s deafening; the tenseness and anger in the air is stifling.

"I'm trying to protect you," he finally says, a slight growl in his voice. His accent dripping with anger.

"No, you're trying to possess me," you spit back. "And I won't let you."

You turn away, grabbing your clothes from the floor and storm upstairs. You’re seconds from falling apart.

You shut yourself in the bathroom next to your old room, turning the shower on and stepping in. The hot water burns your skin, but you want to feel it, want it to wash away all of the hurt and frustration, the fury and pain that’s coursing through your body. This is the first time you’ve showered without Joel in over a month, but right now, your ire towards him sits just as hot as the water. You’re so fucking tired and hurt. Just because Joel loves you does not give him any excuse to try to keep you inside these gates.

You remember the relief washing over Bonnie’s scared face when you told her she was going to be okay, as you checked over her battered body. The way her voice caught as she thanked you. The sight of her husband of twenty years, grabbing her hand with tears in his eyes, once you got her moved to a bed in the hospital, thanking you for all that you do, for getting her back to him safe. You’d do it all over again.

When you get out of the shower, you don’t cross the hall to Joel’s room; you choose your old room, the bed you only spent a few weeks in before Joel’s bed became yours. The sheets feel too cold and unfamiliar, but you try to make the best of it.

You used to never have any trouble falling asleep in here before. You try to will yourself asleep, staring at the blank, white wall. Your body is tired, but your mind won’t stop reeling, caught in a loop of anger and hurt.

The sound of Joel’s uneven steps on the stairs breaks the swirl of your thoughts. You hold your breath, listening as he pauses in his doorway, before you hear his bedroom door close.

You exhale, feeling the confusing mix of relief and disappointment. What did you expect? That he’d come to apologize? That suddenly he’d understand your need to help others, even if it puts you in danger?

Time passes in silence, you try to sleep, wishing it’d be morning already. You’re just about to nod off, finally, when you hear Joel’s door open. The sound of his footsteps approaching makes your heart race. He stops, hesitating outside your door before it slowly creaks open.

You don’t turn, you keep your back to him, willing your body not to tense as much as it does as you hear him walk to the bed. The mattress dips behind you as he slowly lies down next to you. You don’t move or acknowledge him, not even when he rests his arm around your waist, pulling you gently against his chest, his shaky sigh breathing out against your hair.

“M’sorry,” he whispers. “I finally have someone, finally have a future, and I can’t dare to imagine you not in m’life.”

He sounds so broken and so forlorn. You turn to face him, gone is the anger from earlier, it’s replaced by worry, etching the lines of his face deeper. Vulnerable and broken, but still your handsome Joel.

It hits you then. This isn’t just him trying to control you—this is Joel terrified of losing the future he never thought he’d have again.

“Joel,” you whisper, your hand reaching up to touch his face.

His eyes flutter shut for a moment before he opens them, staring into your eyes. "I know I can't keep you from being who you are. And I don't want to. It's just the thought of losing you… I wouldn’t survive it.”

You press your hand firmer against his warm skin, feeling the rough stubble beneath, tracing the lines of worry etched there.

“I’m not going anywhere. I promise”

"You can't promise that," he says, his voice barely audible. "Nobody can."

You move closer, pressing your forehead against his. "No, I can't. But I can promise to be careful. I can promise to always come back to you if I can."

His arms tighten around you. “I just… I love you so much.”

“And I love you,” you say, leaving a soft kiss against his lips. “If you lose me, I lose you, and I can’t have that either.”

“Was thinking maybe we could turn this room into an office for you, so you have a place for plants during the winter. I can make you a desk ‘n maybe figure out some grow lights?”

“But where will I sleep when I’m mad at you?” you ask, nuzzling into his chest.

“Next to me, in our bed.” His arms tighten around you, and you sigh, still needing to make sure the man you love is okay with you being who you need to be.

"Joel," you whisper against his skin. "I need to know you understand. I can't have this fight with you every time I need to go outside.”

“I’ll try… try to be better about it. Ain’t promisin’ I won’t worry, but I’ll try not to stop you.”

“That’s all I ask.”

“M’sorry I get so—”

“You?”

He chuckles, the sounds making you smile as his chest vibrates under you.

“Yeah.”

“It’s okay,” you say, angling your head up to kiss him. “I love you even when you’re stubborn to all hell.”

“And I love you too. More than anything, that’s why you always need to come back to me.”

“I will,” you say against his lips before you settle against him, quickly falling asleep as he holds you close.

—-

A/N: My taglist has grown too large. Please follow @whocaresposted and turn on notifications to be alerted about new chapters!

My perma tags: @forspringcleaning, @schnarfer, @mothandpidgeon

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getitoutofmymindwrites · 5 days ago

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Mercy for Those Seeking :

Three - Tides

"She hadn't told anyone the truth, didn't even want to admit the truth to herself, had spent years trying to bury it, swallow it whole like a too big, too bitter pill."

pairing: joel miller x ofc rating: 18+ mdni word count: 8.7k a.n. "happy" monday! hope you all had a lovely weekend. thanks so much for reading!

Read on AO3

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getitoutofmymindwrites · 5 days ago

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joel miller x reader

silly little drabble for my boob job babes (redux and aug) from this thought || not quite smut but MDNI 18+, lots of titty grabbin' and gropin', no outbreak, little bit of dirty talk, would one call this findom? joel likes spending his money on you, ok im sorry there's 2 times we use daddy I can't help it, joel is a big BOY || a/n: this is so self indulgent but idgaf anyway do you guys remember in middle school how everyone would wear the I ❤️ boobies bracelets lmao wk: under 1k

Chin hooked over your shoulder and thick arms roped tight around your waist, there was something about him that made felt so fucking small. And that was because Joel Miller was just a man in every sense. Broad and solid, hairy and warm, always smelling faintly of sweat and Irish Spring. That clean, masculine musk had you trained like Pavlov’s dog, drooling for him the second he got close.

“Fuckin’ love these,” he murmured, voice graveled with sleep as his hands came up over your Miller Contracting sleep shirt—one of his—squeezing through the soft fabric. Your hips pushed into the counter, hands sudsy from the dishes you’d put off the night before. Not your fault—Joel had gotten home late, and all you’d wanted was to climb him like a damn tree.

His palms were so big he could take up all of you, fingers spanning your chest and pushing your breasts together with a groan. You let your head fall back against his shoulder, exposing your neck to the sunlight spilling through the window. His lips found your throat, tongue flicking before he bit down on your sensitive flesh.

“J-Joel,” you whimpered.

“Remind me,” he said low, dragging your shirt up and holding it in place with one of his forearms across your collar bone, his hands now on your bare skin. All rough, calloused, and greedy as he went on: “how much these cost us again?” His thumbs swept over your peaked flesh, voice dropping even deeper. “How much of daddy's money went into makin’ you even more perfect for me, huh?”

“Ten—oh!” you gasped as he pinched your nipples hard, just how you needed. He knew the nerves weren’t the same after surgery, knew how to twist and tug to make the sensation spike up your spine. “Fuck—ten grand, daddy.”

He groaned, exhaling a bullish breath against your neck, then spun you around in one smooth motion. His hands slid beneath your thighs and lifted you, your legs wrapping around his torso on instinct. He held you there, strong arms locked just under your ass, holding you steady with your chest right at his mouth.

You pulled your shirt up for him, one hand anchoring in his hair as he leaned in, lips already dragging over your skin, tongue lapping between your breasts before his mouth latched on.

“Worth every fuckin’ penny,” he growled, pulling onto one nipple, sucking deep. You gasped, then laughed breathlessly as he kissed them, mouth hot and wet on your skin.

You moaned, voice light and aching as he licked along your scars and closed his mouth around the other. His jaw opened wide, nearly swallowing the whole globe, groaning as he sucked greedily.

“Joel—oh, fuck—” you hiccuped, staring down at him, your jaw slack. His lashes fluttered over high cheekbones, the heavy purple under his eyes from long days and no sleep. The morning light cast a pale halo across his face and you felt like were falling in love all over again. He was just so fucking handsome.

Then you felt him starting to move, making his way across the kitchen. You ducked instinctively as he carried you through the doorway, the ceiling fan just above.

“You’re gonna kill me!” you squealed.

“Quit it,” he chuckled, smacking your ass as he adjusted his grip. Your sleep shirt rode up, cheeky panties on full display, “would never put my baby in danger,”

“Where are you taking me?” you asked, twisting to look behind you.

“To finish what I started. Ain’t leavin’ this house ‘til I’ve had my fill,” he muttered, carrying you toward the bedroom.

His mouth immediately found your chest again as the back of his knees hit the mattress, dropping down onto it with you still wrapped around him. He sealed his lips greedily around one of your breasts, purple and red marks already forming, and you couldn’t help the giggle that spilled out.

He pulled back with a pop, cocking an eyebrow with a cheeky grin, “What’s so funny?”

“You,” you whispered, pressing a kiss to his nose.

He hummed, finally pulling your shirt off and tossing it to the floor. Then he paused, eyes black with lust, but beneath it something was different, suddenly serious.

“You know I loved ‘em before too, right?” he said quietly. “Loved you before. I’d love you either way.”

“I know, big guy,” you murmured, fingers carding through his silver streaked hair. Then you shifted, sitting up and lowering yourself onto his lap, over the thick line of him through his briefs. His breath stuttered.

“But… you like them now, don't you?” you asked softly, running your fingers up your stomach, then over your breasts, teasing as you ground your hips just slightly. You cupped them, one in each hand, letting them jiggle a little.

“You think they’re pretty now, right?”

Joel propped himself up on his elbows, eyes locked on yours like he was seconds from devouring you whole. “So fuckin’ pretty, baby,” he said, voice cracking with lust. “You’re so goddamn beautiful it makes me feel insane,”

He reached up and gently tugged your hands away, replacing them with his own.

“I’ll take it from here.”

You laughed again, wrapping your arms around his neck and leaning into his touch as he lay back again, pulling you down with him.

Im actually so fucking obsessed w this man I need to be put in an institution

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getitoutofmymindwrites · 5 days ago

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Observed Behavior

pairing: Reed Richards x Fem!Mutant Reader

summary: 6.5k words. Dr. Reed Richards doesn’t pay you much attention. You’re just another intern in the lab—quiet, efficient, always taking notes. But you’re also a telepath. And Reed has no idea you can hear every filthy, unspoken thought he has about you.

rating: E. dirty talk. no infidelity, I promise! rough piv sex. oral (fem receiving). mind reading. mutual pining. semi-public sex. come on face.

a/n: omggggggggggggg I loved writing this. I only saw Fantastic Four: First Steps yesterday but I feel like I've been obsessed for months already. I actually wrote this before seeing the movie, but held off until today to post. hope you like it!!!! 💙

You don’t like Reed Richards.

You tell yourself this the moment you meet him. He barely acknowledges your existence. He doesn’t shake your hand. Doesn’t even make eye contact.

You say something polite—something like, "Pleasure to meet you, Dr. Richards."

He says, without glancing up from the display in front of him, "The data’s unstable. Did you notice the gravitic skew in quadrant six?"

Oh.

Okay. That kind of guy.

Later, you categorize him like you’re filing a report: Brilliant. Socially stunted. One of those too-smart-to-be-nice types who treats human interaction like a necessary evil.

It makes your job easier. You’re not here to be liked.

You’re here to assist with the joint-mutant initiative. Quietly. Professionally. Keep your head down, do your work, keep the mental channel muted unless someone explicitly asks for help. Your mutation makes people nervous. Not everyone wants to know what they’re broadcasting.

But Reed Richards?

Reed Richards is broadcasting filth.

The first time it happens, you think you’ve misread. You’re across the lab, checking output from a cracked containment dome, and his thoughts slip past your mental wall like a hot breath on the back of your neck:

God, what those lips would look like around my cock.

How tight she’d be, wet and warm and surprised.

Bet she tastes sweet. Fuck, I’d drag it out. Make her beg.

She wouldn’t beg. She’s too proud. I’d make her anyway.

You jolt. Your pen jerks off the page. A shaky line across your log sheet. You don’t dare look up. You’ve never heard him speak like that. You’ve barely heard him speak at all. Reed is curt. Precise. Dismissive, even. But now you hear it in his head, like it’s on a loop, layered with vivid images — your thighs spread across his desk, his fingers prying you open while he murmurs clinical observations that make your cheeks burn.

She’d be wet already. I’d test her reaction time. Graph her pulse. Hypothesize what makes her shake.

You swallow, shift in your seat, force your hands to stay still. You should block him out. You usually do. No one wants to hear what people are really thinking. It’s invasive, and it’s dangerous, and it’s too much to carry.

But this? This is—

“Is something wrong?” His voice cuts across the room. Crisp. Flat. Like he doesn’t have his hand buried in your imaginary cunt.

You look up. Just once.

He’s watching you. Eyes sharp behind his glasses. No heat in his expression — none of the filth you just heard. He looks the same way he always does. Unreadable. Detached.

“No,” you say. Too quickly. “Nothing’s wrong.”

Reed nods once and returns to typing, but his thoughts don’t stop.

I wonder if she’d moan when I touch her or bite her lip to stay quiet.

Bet I could break her composure. Bet I could ruin her neat little posture.

You grip the edge of the counter until your knuckles ache.

You’ve made a huge mistake.

Because now that you’ve tuned in, you don’t think you can stop.

The worst part isn’t how filthy it is.

It’s the contrast.

Reed Richards — Dr. Richards, to everyone — never even swears in conversation. He refers to the human body like it’s a schematic. He’ll say “pleasure response” instead of orgasm, and you’ve heard him refer to Sue’s divorce attorney as “a challenging presence,” which you think is his version of calling someone a dick.

So the first time you hear him think the word cunt, your brain short-circuits.

Bet it’s tight. Warm. Slick around my fingers. Her cunt would grip me like it knows me.

You grip the edge of the lab table.

Reed hasn’t moved. He’s still typing, back straight, posture annoyingly perfect. A model scientist. The embodiment of control.

But in his head—

I’d stretch her out with my tongue first. Just to taste. Just to make her shiver.

Then I’d fuck her open with two fingers. Maybe three. Just to see how much she could take.

You feel your face flush hot.

His voice in your head is the same one he uses when he’s narrating quantum anomalies. Methodical. Fascinated. Detached.

Like your body is a phenomenon he wants to understand. Just for the data.

She’s got sensitive tits, I think. Would need a gentle mouth. Then a rough one.

I’d chart how many licks until she breaks.

You turn away before he can see the expression on your face. Not that he’d be looking.

Reed doesn’t look at you.

Not unless you speak first. Even then, his gaze usually lands near your shoulder or just past your head — like you’re a part of the room’s architecture. Necessary. Functional. Forgettable.

Which is why you can’t fathom the sudden, overwhelming specificity of his thoughts.

Would she come if I sucked on her nipples and slid my thumb over her clit?

Or would she need to be fucked?

Deep. Slow. Me inside her while she tries not to cry out.

You have to leave.

You mumble something — “back in ten” or “need a break” — and Reed doesn’t respond. He doesn’t glance your way. Just lifts a hand absently in acknowledgment, still facing the board, still immersed in whatever algorithm or image his mind is chewing on.

Except now you know that algorithm is you.

Your wet heat. Your thighs. Your pulse as he imagines pressing his mouth to it and whispering, “Come for me. Let me see.”

You flee to the hallway, breath stuttering in your throat, shame and heat and disbelief running a relay race in your chest.

You’ve heard dirty thoughts before. You’ve had them.

But never from someone so composed. So quiet. So far removed from the possibility of ever touching you.

And that’s what makes it dangerous.

He has no idea you can hear him.

And worse — he’s not trying to stop.

The rest of the day, you try to block him out.

You build mental walls. Steel-plated. Brick-layered. Reinforced with every ounce of discipline you’ve learned since puberty, when people’s thoughts started bleeding into your skull like background noise you couldn’t shut off.

But Reed’s thoughts don’t bleed. They pierce.

They stab through.

You’re elbow-deep in diagnostics when it happens again — no warning, no break in his typing cadence, no shift in posture.

Just a whisper inside your head like a hand between your thighs.

She’d come so pretty if I rubbed her clit just right. Not hard. Just enough to make her beg.

Your knees go weak.

You drop the calibration tool.

It clangs against the lab floor and rolls under a counter.

Reed doesn’t turn around. He never does.

But in your head:

Imagine her on my desk, shaking. Panting. Just a little ruined.

Would her thighs tremble when I pull out, or when I sink in?

Fuck. I’d edge her until she sobs.

You squeeze your eyes shut. Grip the counter. Count backward.

Ten. Nine. Eight.

It’s not enough.

I wouldn’t even fuck her the first time. I’d make her ride my face. Learn how she moves. What makes her lose rhythm.

You suck in a breath and drop to your knees, fumbling under the bench for the runaway tool. Your fingers shake as you grab it.

You’re burning from the inside out.

He’s just standing there — chalk in one hand, the other curled around the lip of the console, muttering numbers under his breath.

As if he doesn’t know what he’s doing to you, like he isn’t narrating how he’d make you come.

You crawl out from under the counter, wiping your palms on your lab coat. Try to focus. Try to breathe.

But the thoughts keep going.

She probably moans softly. Gasps, maybe. One hand on my wrist, the other gripping the sheets.

Would she let me come on her face? Or just in her mouth?

Your hand slips on the console. The system glitches — an alert flashes red on the screen.

“Everything okay?” Reed says, without turning.

His tone is bland. Neutral. The same one he uses when he’s asking about error margins or component failures.

You force your voice to steady. “Fine. Sorry. Just bumped the interface.”

“Run the sequence again,” he says.

You do.

But your fingers tremble the whole time. And every time you glance up, you see the line of his spine, the tension in his forearms, the methodical tap of chalk against board — like he’s not thinking about bending you over the lab bench and pressing his mouth between your thighs.

But he is.

And now you know.

It’s not supposed to be a social thing.

You’re huddled in the lab with Reed, Johnny, and a visiting biophysicist from MIT who talks with his hands and keeps spilling his coffee. It’s late afternoon. The conversation’s circling around particle harmonics and neural feedback delay — nothing you haven’t heard before.

Reed, as usual, is silent. Focused. His back to the room, one hand scrolling equations, the other holding a piece of chalk he hasn’t used in fifteen minutes.

You think maybe you’ll survive the day without hearing anything from him. You’ve built the walls again. Brick by brick. You’re not letting him in.

And then Johnny goes, “I still don’t get why you didn’t just read her.”

You blink. “What?”

Johnny laughs. “Come on, don’t play dumb. You could’ve. You always say that trick comes in handy when people lie.”

Your blood goes cold. You look up slowly. “Johnny…”

“Oh shit. Was that not public knowledge?” He raises both palms in mock defense. “Sorry. I mean, I thought everyone knew.”

They don’t. Not everyone. But Sue, Ben, Johnny — they do. Reed, you’d assumed… maybe. But not definitely.

Until now.

Because Reed goes still.

Not visibly. Not to the average eye. But you see it.

His hand halts mid-scroll. The chalk pauses just before touching the board.

He doesn’t turn around. Of course not. He never does.

But the entire current in the room changes.

The MIT guy, oblivious, whistles low. “Telepathy? That’s incredible.”

“Yeah,” Johnny says, grinning. “She’s like a human lie detector. Except it’s not like she goes digging, you know? She just picks stuff up.”

The scientist nods. “Is it active or passive?”

“Both,” you say, voice light, controlled. “Depends on the day. And the person.”

“Must be fun.”

You shrug. “Sometimes.”

Johnny leans on the console. “Sometimes not, huh?”

Your eyes flick briefly to Reed’s back. His hand is still frozen in midair, like he’s been caught in amber.

You look away.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “Sometimes… not so much.”

The conversation moves on.

Someone cracks a joke about lab gossip being unsafe around you. The MIT guy asks a question about psi-shielding. Johnny starts talking about that one time you ruined a poker night by knowing someone’s cards.

But Reed doesn’t speak, doesn’t move.

For the first time in days, his thoughts are silent.

You feel the absence like a blow.

No whispers. No fantasies. No wondering what your cunt tastes like or how you sound when you come. Just—

Nothing.

A void. You should be relieved. Instead, you feel like you’ve been locked out of something you didn’t know you needed.

Behind Reed’s still frame, you can sense it — the slow, dangerous coiling of tension.

Not shame, not guilt. Only awareness.

He knows, and now he’s thinking about what you’ve heard.

You don’t sleep that night.

You lie in bed with your mind reeling, blankets too heavy, your chest too tight. The silence in Reed’s head echoes louder than any of the filth that came before. You didn’t realize how much you’d come to expect his thoughts. Not want them — not exactly — but… count on them. Like a metronome. Like proof he was human under all that restraint.

Now?

Nothing.

No late-night fantasies. No secret hypotheses about your body. Just a wall — colder and more deliberate than anything you’ve ever put up yourself.

He knows.

And now you’re waiting for the fallout.

You think about packing.

You think about going to Sue and getting ahead of it — telling her you’re sorry, you didn’t mean to listen, you never asked for the thoughts to come in like that, you tried so fucking hard to block them out.

You think about how Sue would tilt her head, lips pressed together in that gentle, unreadable way of hers, and say, “I’ll talk to Reed.”

That thought alone makes you want to crawl out of your skin.

You don’t go to the lab the next morning.

You call in sick — stomach flu, maybe food poisoning.

You spend the day in your apartment, curled on your couch with a half-drunk mug of tea and the soft buzz of muted news. You try to distract yourself with papers, textbooks, even an old simulation of Mars terrain scans.

None of it sticks.

Because the only thought that plays on repeat is this:

You’ve ruined it.

You had one shot. One internship. One thread of hope that could’ve led to something real — something bigger than the lab, bigger than Earth.

You’ve wanted space since you were old enough to name constellations. You were supposed to be part of the next crew rotation. If you did well, if you impressed the right people, if Reed thought you were worth keeping—

But now all he sees is a liability. An intruder. A mind he can’t trust.

Maybe he’s already filed a report. Maybe by Monday you’ll be reassigned to inventory. Or security compliance. Some corner of the building where they can keep you out of people’s heads and off the launch manifest.

You curl tighter. You don’t cry but your throat aches like you might.

You’d rather he shouted. Rather he confronted you. Rather he called you invasive or perverse or unprofessional.

Instead, he just disappeared.

That silence — the absence of his voice in your head — feels like the worst kind of punishment.

You come in early the next day.

Earlier than usual. Earlier than anyone else should be there.

Except he’s already in the lab.

You hear the soft click of the console keys before you see him. The low whir of cooling fans. The faint scratch of chalk across board.

When you step inside, Reed doesn’t turn.

He’s where he always is — back straight, eyes forward, sleeves rolled, a shadow of stubble softening the sharp lines of his jaw. His body is still, but his mind—

His mind is deafening.

F=ma. ΔS = Qrev/T. Entropy is always increasing. Entropy is always increasing. Entropy is always increasing—

You press your hand to the doorframe.

It’s not that he’s shut you out.

It’s that he’s replaced the thoughts. Stuffed the filth back into its cage and barricaded the door with math. With precision. With the cold comfort of numbers.

But it’s loud. So loud.

Equations loop over and over, like static, like punishment, like he’s trying to drown himself in calculus and thermodynamics until there’s no room left for want.

You don’t say anything.

You just take your seat. Log into the console. Pretend the silence is normal. That the walls haven’t shifted. That this isn’t your fault.

But then, after twenty-eight minutes of stillness—

He turns.

Slowly.

His eyes meet yours for the first time in days.

And then, like the flip of a switch, the equations stop.

The noise cuts.

And what follows is even worse.

“I owe you an apology.”

The words land like glass.

You look up — stunned, unsure you heard him right.

Reed continues, voice stiff, almost formal. Like he’s reciting something practiced.

“I was unaware that my thoughts were… accessible. To you.”

He swallows. His gaze doesn’t waver. “If I caused any discomfort, or crossed any boundary—”

“You didn’t,” you say, too fast.

But he doesn’t stop.

“I understand if you wish to leave the internship. I will personally ensure a neutral letter of recommendation and full academic credit, if you—”

“No.” You shake your head, your throat tight. “I don’t want to leave.”

Silence.

Your breath trembles in your chest.

“I’m not upset,” you say, softer. “I never was.”

Reed stares at you.

You’ve never seen him look so unsure.

“I should not have allowed those thoughts to form,” he says, quieter now. “I certainly shouldn’t have repeated them.”

You offer a breath of laughter — too hollow to be real. “You didn’t say them.”

He blinks. “I thought them.”

You nod. “You did.”

A pause.

Then you add, “But I heard more than what you thought.”

His brows draw together. “Meaning?”

“I heard how hard you tried not to.”

“I’m truly so, so sorry,” he says.

The words sound foreign in his mouth — like he doesn’t quite know how to say them aloud. His voice drops as he says it, too, like he wants to bury the sentence somewhere low between you.

“It was unprofessional.”

You blink. It hits different when it’s said that plainly — not just the apology, but the weight of the word.

Unprofessional.

He means it. You can hear it in his thoughts now, the edge softening — shame curling in the quiet corners. He’s not just sorry you heard him. He’s sorry he thought it at all. Sorry he let himself want. Sorry his discipline failed.

“Reed,” you say, gently. “It’s alright.”

He doesn’t move, he doesn’t breathe, for a second.

It’s not the kind of apology that’s waiting for forgiveness. It’s the kind that assumes none is possible.

“I should have—” he begins, but the sentence crumbles.

You step closer before you can think better of it. Not too close. Just enough to catch the tiniest flicker in his eyes — a shift, like he’s bracing for something more than your words.

“I’ve heard worse,” you say, lips twitching in the ghost of a smile. “You just think very… graphically.”

His mouth parts — just slightly. For the first time, you see something almost human flicker behind his usual impassivity.

Embarrassment.

He opens his mouth to speak again, but nothing comes.

You reach for the console behind you, just to give your hands something to do.

“If you’re wondering whether I was offended,” you say, “I wasn’t.”

His gaze lifts to yours slowly. “You weren’t.”

You shake your head. “I didn’t say it wasn’t… surprising.”

Something changes in the set of his shoulders. The faintest drop. Like a gear slipping in a machine.

You can hear it again, too — faint, fainter than before, but real: She’s not angry. She’s not leaving.

You lean back against the edge of the table, arms crossed loosely. “I’ve had these powers my whole life, you know. You hear people think things they’d never say. Half of them wouldn’t even admit it to themselves.”

Reed doesn’t respond. But you feel the shift. The stillness that isn't emptiness anymore — it’s presence. It’s him, fully here, not hiding behind data or circuits or chalk.

“It can be fun sometimes,” you admit. “Other times…” You trail off. “Not so much.”

His fingers flex slightly where they rest at his sides.

You almost expect him to end it there. To nod, turn away, retreat to the board, drown himself in equations again.

But instead, he says, quietly:

“I didn’t mean for you to feel like an object.”

Your chest tightens.

You meet his gaze.

“I didn’t.”

You watch him for a moment, unsure what to say next.

The lab is quiet. Still. The hum of the equipment blends into the background like white noise. Reed hasn’t moved since his last apology — hands loose at his sides, eyes lowered just enough that you can’t quite tell if he’s looking at you or through you.

You shift slightly on the edge of the table.

“Are you okay?” you ask, softly.

It’s the gentlest question in the world. You don’t expect much. A nod, maybe. Or the barest deflection.

Instead, he huffs a laugh.

Short. Quiet. Almost self-deprecating.

And so out of place coming from him that it draws your eyes back to his face immediately.

He still doesn’t smile. Of course he doesn’t. But there’s a flicker at the corner of his mouth, like he might have once, in another life, remembered how.

Your chest eases — just barely — and you smile at him. Tentative. Careful. The kind of smile you give a wounded animal when you’re holding out a hand.

Reed blinks, and this time his gaze meets yours without hesitation.

He doesn’t say yes, or no, or I will be.

But he doesn’t look away.

He doesn’t turn back to the board.

You take that as enough.

The air between you settles, not warm exactly, but less charged. Less sharp.

You glance down at your tablet, then back up. “Do you want to… work on the gamma dispersion scan?”

A pause. Then he nods.

It’s quiet again as you both fall into rhythm — screens blinking softly, files opening, measurements calibrating. For ten minutes, it almost feels normal. Like none of this happened. Like your body hasn’t been the subject of his private curiosity. Like you haven’t heard, in his own voice, the words tits and cunt wrapped in awe like he’s discovering a new element.

But every so often, you catch the stillness in him.

The way he doesn’t quite type as fluidly as before. The way his thoughts — no longer loud, no longer obscene — hover just out of reach. Reined in. Scrubbed clean.

Control, you hear him think, a little later. Keep control.

You bite the inside of your cheek.

Because now that you’ve forgiven him — now that you’ve stayed — he’s afraid he’ll slip again.

He’s afraid of wanting.

Of letting you hear it.

And maybe, more than anything, he’s afraid you won’t look at him the same if you do.

You wait until the next lull. After the data finishes compiling. After you both fall into quiet, careful work, pretending the air isn’t thick with everything unsaid.

Then, without looking up, you ask:

“What are you really thinking?”

The words slip out like a whisper. Not a demand. A coaxing.

You hear him stop breathing.

His fingers freeze on the console.

You look up.

He’s staring down at his hands like they belong to someone else. His brows twitch — the smallest knot of conflict pulling across his forehead.

You don’t press. You wait.

He swallows hard.

“I—” His voice is rougher than you’ve ever heard it. “I don’t think I should say.”

You nod slowly. “I know.”

There’s a pause. The kind that feels like a coin balanced on its edge — waiting to tip.

Then, finally, Reed lifts his gaze to meet yours.

It’s not a sharp glance. Not a command or a calculation. It’s vulnerable. Raw.

“Are you sure?”

You nod before your brain can stop you. “I’m sure.”

Your heart hammers against your ribs.

The silence that follows isn’t heavy. It’s charged.

And then—soft, almost reverent, like he’s saying it for himself more than for you—his thought brushes your mind.

She’s the most astonishing thing I’ve ever seen.

You don’t move.

She’s smart. Composed. And when she smiles at me like that, I want to get on my knees and put my mouth on her cunt until she forgets every name but mine.

Your breath catches.

Reed’s eyes are still on yours. Steady. Honest.

I want to see her fall apart. Hear her. Feel her thighs around my face. I want her to let go with me. Just once. Just to know what it’s like to make someone like her come.

You’re frozen.

Flushed.

His thoughts echo again, softer now, barely there:

I would be gentle. At first. I’d learn her rhythms. I’d listen.

You part your lips, but no sound comes out.

Reed doesn’t look away.

You see the tension in his jaw. The restraint. The ache he’s too careful to name aloud.

But this time, he’s not hiding.

He’s giving you the truth.

And your whole body sings with it.

The silence stretches, but it doesn’t break.

Reed watches you like he’s waiting for you to flinch. For you to run. For you to laugh it off or look away or say no.

You don’t.

Your breath is shallow. Your pulse pounds behind your ribs like a warning, like a promise. But you don’t move.

You stay.

Reed’s fingers flex slightly at his sides. A twitch. A tremor. And then—carefully, like he’s unsure the ground will hold—he takes one slow step forward.

Your heart leaps.

He pauses.

Then another step.

Still watching you.

You straighten, knees brushing the edge of the console. Your hands—useless at your sides—curl instinctively into the hem of your coat. You feel like a held breath. Like one word might shatter you.

And then he’s close enough that you can see it in his face—the nerves he’s trying to hide. The deep ache folded into his silence. The apology still lingering beneath his restraint.

But also the want.

So much want.

You reach out.

Just a little.

And that’s all it takes.

His hand lifts—slow, hesitant—and finds yours midair. The contact is gentle. Barely there. Your fingers brush his palm and his thumb curves awkwardly over your knuckles, like he doesn’t know if he’s allowed.

But you link your fingers with his.

You squeeze.

His breath shudders.

You’re close now. Not quite touching chest to chest. Not yet. But his body radiates heat like a solar flare, and your joined hands hang between you like a thread you’re both afraid to tug.

He doesn’t say anything.

He doesn’t have to.

His thoughts are quiet, but open. Not graphic. Not filthy this time.

She’s here. She’s still here.

You lift your other hand—slowly, carefully—and touch the crook of his elbow. His arm tenses for half a second, then relaxes under your touch.

His hand in yours tightens. Just a little.

You smile at him. Tentative. Like before.

And this time, Reed exhales like it breaks something loose inside him.

You lean in slowly.

No rush. No sharp breath or whispered question. Just instinct. Trust. The press of his fingers wrapped in yours.

Your lips find his.

A soft, fleeting brush.

So light you could pretend it didn’t happen.

But it does.

He stills.

For a heartbeat, maybe two.

Then something inside him snaps.

Reed surges forward—still silent, but no longer hesitant. His free hand lifts to cup your jaw, fingers spanning your cheek with a trembling kind of reverence. His mouth crashes into yours again, firmer this time, open, hungry.

You gasp, and he takes it.

Takes you.

His lips drag over yours like he’s starved. His body leans into yours, chasing heat, chasing breath, chasing something he’s kept buried under equations and silence for too damn long.

You kiss him back, matching his pace, your fingers gripping the front of his shirt just to stay grounded.

It’s not perfect. It’s messy.

Teeth clash once. Your nose bumps his. He exhales sharply against your mouth, and you laugh, surprised and dizzy.

Reed groans low in his throat like it drives him wild.

His grip shifts—hand sliding to the back of your neck, the other pressing firm at your waist, tugging you closer. There’s no more distance now. You’re chest to chest, breath to breath, his mouth working yours like it’s a formula he’s been dying to solve.

You reach blindly for something—anything—to anchor yourself.

Your fingers find the edge of his belt.

Not teasing. Not intentional.

Just need.

A way to keep your feet on the ground while the rest of you unravels.

You clutch the leather and kiss him deeper.

And Reed—God, Reed—moans softly into your mouth like he’s the one overwhelmed.

His thoughts flood through you again, all barriers down now.

So soft. So warm. She kissed me first.

I want to lift her onto the desk. Get my hands under that coat.

I want to taste her. Right now. Right fucking now.

Your knees buckle slightly, and he catches you with both arms, tugging you flush against him, the hard press of his belt against your stomach making your skin spark.

You don’t speak.

Neither does he.

But you kiss like you’re telling secrets. Like you’re breaking rules. Like every second is borrowed time.

Reed drops to his knees.

It happens fast. One second his mouth is pressed to yours, the next he’s sinking down like gravity’s claimed him — like he’s meant to be there. At your feet. Between your legs. Worshipful and wild.

His hands slide up your thighs, warm and unhurried. He lifts your skirt like he’s unfolding a secret he’s only ever dreamed of touching. You brace one hand against the console behind you, the other tangled in his hair, fingers trembling.

He doesn’t speak.

He stares.

Like your thighs are a formula. Like the space between them holds the answer to every question he’s never let himself ask.

Then his hands slide higher, thumbs brushing the crease of your hips, and he leans in.

He kisses the inside of your knee. Then higher.

Your breath catches as his mouth moves up your thigh—soft, open-mouthed kisses dragging heat across your skin. He hums low in his throat, like he’s cataloging every inch, and you feel it all the way to your core.

“Fuck,” you whisper, your head tipping back.

Reed doesn’t stop.

He kisses just beside the place you want him most. Once. Twice. Then his hands shift—firm on your hips—and he nuzzles against your panties, dragging his nose along the damp fabric like he needs to breathe you.

And then—his thoughts, finally, finally back:

She’s soaked. God, she’s so wet. All for me.

Your legs shake.

He pulls your panties aside and exhales softly at the sight.

Perfect.

And then his mouth is on you.

You cry out—sharp and helpless—the sound echoing off the walls of the lab. He licks a slow stripe through your folds, groaning like he’s tasted something he’ll never recover from.

You grip his hair harder.

Reed doesn’t stop. Doesn’t hesitate. He licks you like he needs it, tongue dragging up to circle your clit, then back down to press flat against your entrance. His thoughts are a blur—lust, wonder, obsession—louder now, less composed.

You whimper.

She’s so sweet. Want to keep her like this. Want her coming on my tongue.

He moans against you, the vibration shooting through your whole body. His mouth moves faster, more deliberate, like he’s testing responses, building a pattern. Every flick of his tongue is data. Every gasp from you is a new variable to study.

Your knees threaten to give, and he only grips your thighs tighter, pulling you closer, mouth never leaving you.

“Reed—fuck, I—”

You shatter.

Come for me, he thinks, right as his lips wrap around your clit and suck.

Your cry rips through the air, your body spasming against his mouth. He doesn’t let up. He holds you through it—tongue coaxing, soothing, tasting every twitch and shake as you come undone.

And when it’s over, when your chest is heaving and your thighs are trembling, he looks up at you.

Mouth wet. Eyes dark.

Ravenous.

He stands, slow and steady, hands dragging up your thighs as he rises. When he’s eye level again, you see it—his mouth slick with you, his chest rising hard like he’s been holding his breath the whole time.

He doesn’t say anything at first.

Just pulls you in and wraps both arms around your waist, pressing his face into your neck. He inhales deeply.

And fucking hell, he smells like you.

“Are you alright?” he murmurs, voice low and gritty in your ear.

You let out a breathless laugh, your chest still fluttering. “You’re seriously asking me that?”

He lets out a sound — not quite a laugh, not quite a groan — and you feel it more than hear it, vibrating against your throat. His hips are right against you now, belt biting into your lower stomach. He’s hard. So fucking hard.

You push against him, mouth near his jaw. “Reed.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you. And when he does, your hands come up to frame his face.

Not tender. Hungry.

You drag your thumb across his bottom lip. His eyes flick down to your mouth like he’s about to lose it.

“What are you thinking?” you ask.

A pause.

Then his gaze darkens, and the answer bleeds out of him—wordless but clear.

I want to fuck her right here. I want to bend her over this table and hear what she sounds like when she’s cock-drunk.

Your knees go weak.

And he sees it.

You don’t say a word.

You just drop your hand from his face, trail it down between your bodies, and reach for his belt.

Reed doesn’t stop you.

Doesn’t even blink.

He watches, jaw tight, as you tug the leather loose, then work open the button and drag the zipper down. The metal teeth part with a low rasp, and he exhales sharply when your hand slips inside.

You wrap your fingers around him.

Hot. Heavy. Hard as hell.

“Jesus,” you murmur under your breath, stroking him once, slow and deliberate.

Reed’s head tips back.

His hips jerk forward slightly, chasing the friction, but he still doesn’t touch you. Just lets you have him, your hand moving over his cock like you’ve been thinking about it for weeks.

(You have.)

His thoughts are a mess—fractals of want, raw and unfiltered.

You squeeze a little tighter.

She’s touching me. She’s—fuck—she’s got her hand on my cock. I’m not going to last.

His breath catches.

“You’ve been thinking about this?” you ask, voice low, thumb swiping the head.

“Every goddamn day,” he grits out.

You jerk him faster.

He growls.

And then—too fast to brace for—he grabs your hips and spins you around.

Your palms slam against the console. You gasp, but you don’t stop him—not when you feel him crowding up behind you, not when his hands drag your skirt back up to your waist, not when he rips your panties down your thighs in one fluid motion.

One hand slides up your spine, pushing between your shoulder blades until your chest is flush to the table.

The other guides his cock to your entrance.

“Say you want this,” he breathes out, the head of him nudging against your slick folds.

You push back into him.

“Reed,” you pant, “just fuck me already.”

He groans like it’s ripped out of his throat and then he slams into you hard.

Your gasp turns into a choked moan as your body jolts forward from the force of it. One of his hands clamps tight around your hip, the other braced beside your head on the console. His cock drives into you again, again, again—deep, punishing thrusts that make your breath stutter with each slap of skin on skin.

The sounds echo off the lab walls—your gasps, his ragged breath, the obscene wet suck of your cunt taking him over and over.

“Fuck,” Reed growls, hips snapping, “you feel even better than I thought.”

Your eyes flutter shut.

His mouth is right at your ear now, breath hot and filthy.

“I’ve been thinking about this since the day you walked in,” he pants. “That face. Those sweet thighs. Wanted to bend you over this table and fuck you stupid.”

You cry out—high, breathless—when he grinds into you just right, cock dragging over every swollen nerve inside you.

“I knew you’d be wet for me,” he growls. “But this?”

His fingers slip down, find your clit, and rub fast, hard, cruel.

“You’re soaked. So fucking messy.”

You brace yourself on trembling arms, the pressure building fast—too fast. He’s everywhere, filling you, touching you, whispering things he should never say out loud.

“You gonna come for me, pretty girl?” he grits out, voice tight and close.

You whimper, legs shaking. “I—fuck, I think I—”

“You’re close,” he hisses. “I can feel it.”

His pace goes brutal. He fucks into you like he wants to break you, the slap of his hips against your ass echoing over every surface, every panel and beaker forgotten. Your cunt clamps down, fluttering, and your voice breaks into a cry as your climax rips through you.

You don’t just come. You gush.

A warm burst sprays out of you, splashing down your thighs, hitting the tile with a wet splatter. You cry out, humiliated and wrecked and still twitching, your walls milking his cock in desperate aftershocks.

Reed groans like he’s dying.

“God damn,” he breathes.

You can’t speak. Your cheek is pressed to the console, mouth open, panting, whole body slick and trembling.

He doesn’t stop. He fucks you through it, harder now, more ragged. You feel the way your slick coats his cock, dripping down onto the lab floor with every brutal thrust.

You feel ruined. Your legs give out.

There’s no warning. No graceful slide. Just the quivering collapse of overstimulated muscles, your knees hitting the tile with a soft thud, skirt bunched around your waist, panties still tangled around your thighs.

You don’t care, you don't think you could.

Not with your cunt still twitching from the last orgasm, your thighs sticky, the lab floor glistening with the evidence of just how hard he made you come.

Reed groans above you and you glance up.

He’s flushed and wrecked, shirt untucked, cock still slick with your arousal as he strokes himself, fast and frantic, hand gliding over the mess you left behind.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You look—Jesus.”

You open your mouth, just slightly.

Not coy nor innocent, but ready.

You brace yourself on one arm and tilt your chin up, eyes locked on him. The unspoken invitation hits him like a punch.

His grip falters. He bites down a moan. You see his whole body jerk with restraint.

“Please,” you whisper, voice hoarse and aching. “I want it.”

That does it.

He grunts, cock twitching in his hand. “Fuck—fuck—”

He steps forward, the tip of him flushed and slick and angry-looking, and you hold steady even as your thighs tremble. His breath goes wild, chest heaving as he pumps himself harder, faster, your name breaking on his tongue like a prayer.

“Gonna come,” he pants. “Fuck, I’m gonna—”

Thick, hot ropes paint your cheek, your lips, your chin. One lands across your chest, the rest splashing across your flushed skin. You close your eyes as the first drops hit, lips parted as you gasp at the heat of it.

He moans—deep, guttural, undone.

You feel it drip down your neck, cooling already.

When you blink up at him again, his hand is still wrapped around his cock, his chest still rising like he’s run a mile. His eyes meet yours—dark, dazed, hungry—and the raw possessiveness isn’t there.

There's only you.

His gaze drops to the mess he’s made of your face, and then to your mouth.

You swipe your thumb across your bottom lip, tasting him.

His breath stutters again.

“Holy shit,” he whispers.

You smile, slow and blissful.

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