#Of Halos and Heats

[fandomstuckportal]

((WHO PUT PONIES IN MY SERIOUS GMOD RP!!!!

2 fallout equestrians, a spartans brain worm (ai), and a normal mundane g5 pony. they are hell.

redraws of @punkitt-is-here's comics!!))

[tonydaddingham]

LWA: Regarding the halo: we see a variant in the Job minisode. When Aziraphale does his "avaunt" speech, he has a full-body aureole, which unlike the halo around the head is /not/ an angelic attribute in religious painting and sculpture. The design of Aziraphale's aureole, with golden rays emanating from his body, looks like it was modeled on Marian iconography, as in the case of the Virgin of Guadalupe (https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/635401). There are a bunch of other examples, like the Madonna of Humility at the Getty Museum, where both the Virgin and God have ray aureoles. I am not sure where the design team thought they were going with this, although it fits with the Madonna pose they used for that promotional photo of Aziraphale in his Job robes.

ahhhhh this is so interesting!!!✨ i had no idea before this that there was such a nuance between aureole and halo, and their individual meanings in iconography (and thats not even taking into account different individual depictions like mandorla etc!). given the - as ive now learnt - very subtle but definite distinction between the two, and their individual meanings in religious contexts, it seems reasonable that the design team might have gone to some lengths to research it similarly!!!

(and now i shall spam you all with research because i am excited and Must Share)

so as LWA, the oracle of all truth, has said - ep2 where aziraphale appears to crawley shows him with an aureole surrounding him, much like the multiple depictions of Our Lady of Guadalupe (above is the Virgin of Guadalupe, by Salcedo, 1779). other depictions/notable copies of the original however include:

(L-R: de Arellano, 1691, Gonzalez, c. 1698, and the original from cy/16th, upon which they're based which, as far as i can find, has no confirmed artist?).

and coming back to italian renaissance (which im slightly more familiar with), the following works show the same:

(L-R: Madonna and Child with Two Saints, Pisanello, c. 1445, The Last Judgement, Michelangelo, f. 1541, and Baptism of Christ, Verrocchio and da Vinci, c. 1475)

it is especially prevalent in christian religious art, but as LWA said it does appear to be mostly used for religious figures, and not necessarily angels or saints (most of those are depicted with halos instead). most examples, like the ones above, that ive found seem to be used exclusively for jesus and mary. in other religions such as buddhism, aureola appear to be shown in the form of a mandorla (an almond-shaped field) that surround enlightened beings, such as Buddha.

let's move onto halos; ep6 shows our funky angel removing his, and is shown in the form of a ring, emitting the same kind of light as the aureole. disks have been depicted in art from well before the time of christ, including in ancient egypt (ra) and in iran (mithra).

funnily enough, finding depictions of ring halos rather than disk/plate ones was actually quite difficult? either way - above shows Virgin of the Rocks by da Vinci, f. 1486, shows a subtle but clear ring halo over Mary's head. keeping with the cy/15-16th onwards for fair comparison, showing a combination of disk and ring halos:

(L-R: Branchini Madonna, di Paolo, 1427, Madonna of the Book, Botticelli, c. 1481, and Deposition of Christ, Raphael, 1507)

these all again are examples depicting christ and mary, so what about angels? i found the best example to look at is the annunciation to mary, as this was the subject of a number of notable pieces in the same time period:

(L-R: da Vinci, f. 1476, Fra Angelico, 1450, and Botticelli c. 1490)

all show gabriel with a halo around their head, as opposed to an aureole. the one that fascinated me though is botticelli; there is relatively little known about his depictions of the annunciation, but there are multiple - the above is in glasgow, there is another in new york, and the last is the Cestello Annunciation). however, in the first two, glasgow and new york, there is a clear feature of an aureole-type shaft of light coming from behind gabriel, and shining upon mary.

i certainly think that it's mostly representative of god's gift being bestowed on her, ("The Holy Ghost shall come upon thee, and the power of the Highest shall overshadow thee.", Luke 1:35) but the perspective of the glasgow painting almost shows like the light comes from a crack in the wall, and would suggest that aziraphale stepping out from the aureole as some sort of glorified portal is a mirror of this.

anyway, because ive rambled on long enough about nothing truly insightful; what is the point in these two different displays? well, from my research, it seems to be that aureola are used to surround the head or the body, and iconographically represent divinity, glory and, depending on the subject/context, enlightenment.

but given that it has largely been reserved in art for the depictions of the holy trinity as well as mary, to outright use it in connection with aziraphale seems... strange. in this particular scene, or part of his story, why has he been purposefully elevated to the same level of importance and power? we have no reason to suspect from the ensuing dialogue that god sent aziraphale deliberately in her name to thwart crowley, carrying her power... or did she?

the halo however appears to be specifically used for instances of depicting angels or saints (in the case of gabriel and various apostles in multiple artworks), as well as jesus and mary. so that to me would suggest that halos are somewhat specifically meant to represent innate saintliness and holiness, inherent divine nature. were specifically touched by god's grace and love, and were embodiments of god's will.

what this necessarily means in relation to aziraphale though, beyond him obviously being an angel, a representative of the heavenly host, and a messenger of god's will etc... im not entirely sure.

there is presumably no reason for him to be depicted with an aureole unless, as LWA suggests, it's to draw parallels to artwork where mary is especially shown as having one. but in the context of s2 (and the job minisode), isn't this a little out of field?

another thing - aziraphale does seem to be able to turn it on and off like a tap, suggesting that it's there in the narrative for sheer Impressiveness, to Look The Part, in front of a demon... so, is it only for design purposes, because cinematically it's bloody cool to look at? or is it meant to give insight into aziraphale's thoughts and beliefs?

with it, would he (in aziraphale's mind, bless) look intimating enough to thwart crawley's 'nefarious plan' with minimal effort? possibly, but i doubt it; im a pretty firm believer in Reasons for certain design choices, especially ones that would take a lot of post-production work to animate. so, could aziraphale have chosen to appear with the aureole, to be suitably intimidating, but after having his faith in god's will shaken after the events of job, chose not to manifest it again, because its symbolism no longer rings true for him?

[terry-the-insane]

My favorite g/t trope is when T is scared of falling off high places even though being really small means your terminal velocity (maximum speed at which you can fall) is greatly decreased and T could probably fall off the roof of a 5 story building and only get scratched.

[doom-dreaming]

god the library sucks so bad. the halo level. not the actual library

[tronform]

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[sixeyesonathiel]

satoru gets personally offended when you compliment someone else’s eyes. like dramatically. operatically. even if it’s a celebrity on the tv in passing—you say, “he’s got nice eyes,” and suddenly you hear an exaggerated gasp from the other side of the couch.

he’s sitting up now, spine rigid with disbelief, and when you turn, you catch him blinking at you like he’s just been betrayed by the universe itself. those lashes—long, white, feathery—flutter with full theatrical intent as he slowly leans forward, elbows on his knees, chin tipped down. but his gaze stays locked on yours, pale lashes casting soft shadows over piercing, luminous cerulean eyes that could put entire galaxies to shame.

“these eyes,” he says, voice low and wounded, “these eyes don’t do it for you anymore?”

you try to hold steady. really, you do. arms crossed, brows raised, lips pressed into a flat line. but you’re trembling with the effort not to laugh. you’re married. you should be used to this. but somehow, you’re not. not when he’s gazing up at you with those glittering blue eyes like you just ran his dog over. not when he’s pouting so hard his lower lip has its own gravitational pull.

he scoots closer, knees knocking against yours, expression nothing short of tragic. his fingers crawl up to your hand like a guilty dog begging for forgiveness he shouldn't even need. “you didn’t even mention the flecks of silver,” he adds in a whisper, tilting his head so the afternoon light cuts across his face just right. “or how they go all icy in sunlight. or how my lashes are, like, objectively longer than yours. everyone says that. you used to say that.”

“satoru,” you groan, though your lips are already twitching. you flick his forehead, and he recoils with a wounded gasp, clasping his head like you clocked him with a brick.

“no, no, don’t try to take it back now,” he grumbles, and collapses backward onto the couch like he’s been fatally wounded. one arm flung over his eyes, shirt riding up to expose a sliver of toned stomach, like that’s supposed to help his case. his hair fans out messily against the cushion, those snowy strands a halo of overdramatic despair. “i’ll just be here. unloved. unadmired. blue eyes out of commission.”

it lasts all of three minutes. because eventually, predictably, you crawl over with a sigh and plop into his lap, hands cupping his pouty cheeks as you squish them together until his lips pucker like a fish.

your fingers brush the curve of his jaw, tracing the heat that blooms along his skin. you narrow your eyes at him, your own expression somewhere between fond and exasperated. “you,” you say, leaning close so your nose brushes his, “have the prettiest eyes i’ve ever seen.”

immediate shift. his whole body lights up like you just whispered the secrets of the universe in his ear. his pout melts into a grin, eyes crinkling with delight, those lashes fluttering like he’s trying to weaponize them again.

“i know,” he hums, practically vibrating. “say it again. but slower. and like, with trembling hands. maybe a tear or two.”

you roll your eyes, but you kiss him on the nose anyway, and he goes limp underneath you, arms wrapping around your waist as he lets out a happy little sigh that puffs against your cheek. he buries his face in the crook of your neck like it’s a reflex, nuzzling with the smug satisfaction of a man who has won something he never lost.

he spends the rest of the night trailing after you like a lovesick puppy, peeking at you with wide, hopeful eyes whenever you glance his way.

(two days later, you compliment a dog on tv and satoru doesn’t miss a beat: “his eyes are literally just brown. mine sparkle like the ocean at dawn. tell me i’m right.”)

[kissandtellus]

‘Into the Slick of It’ LADS Omegaverse

Synopsis: The LI’s are deep into their Ruts. Oh no! Whatever shall our brave MC do to satiate their hunger?

Warnings: Omegaverse, Whining, Submissive Sylus and Caleb, Slight pew pew play, Lemurian’s are double slinging in this, Drooling, Slobbering, Caleb’s mechanical arm malfunctions in the best way, its dirty ya’ll fair warning.

Authors Note: I’m going to try and make full-length versions for each! Rafayel’s can be found here! Zayne’s can be found here! You can also find the ‘Heat’ version HERE.

⋆˚🐾˖° Xavier

Xavier was usually a dignified Alpha. He held open doors for you, bought you anything under the sun, even left his much needed naps (hibernation) to spend time with you.

But when his rut hit him like a freight train, you tried to ignore the scent of him literally leaking from his apartment above. He had locked his doors, curled up in his bedroom with only his fist and one of your sweatshirts.

He’d forgotten to lock his balcony door.

You managed to pull yourself to the railing and slide open the door. His scent enveloped you, as if seeping into your very pores.

The sight the greeted you when you managed to shimmy the lock out of his bedroom door was nearly pathetic.

He was fucking his fist, face flush and balls drawn up so tight to his body in need, they looked like they were aching. Your scent hit him before the sight of you did.

He had no more fight in him.

His pre-cum had completely soaked his fingers. When he pulled his hand away, long, sticky strings of cum connected his palm to his cock.

“M-mm fuck-fuck I can’t stop it. Please,” he was fast, nimble. He was upon you in a second, face buried into your pulse point. From behind his back as he nipped and lapped on your covered scent gland, you spotted the rabbit plush you sprayed perfume on for him.

It was absolutely soaked in his pre-cum. The once pristine black pearl eyes coated his drooling cum.

“Xavier-!”

“M-mm sorry, so sorry, couldn’t help it.” His fingers tear off the scent patches and his nearly busts right against your clothes stomach.

“Just a taste baby, please.”

That taste turned into his rutting into you in the meanest mating press known to man. He was so careful not to let his knot slip inside. Even lacking the few inches of his knot, his nearly purple cockhead drilled into the wall of your cervix like a prayer.

“Haa-X-Xava-ahhhh!” You drooled his name out like a curse. Your hair was splayed everywhere like a halo. You were the most beautiful creature he had ever seen.

“Good Omega, good girl-take it-take it! I know you can. Gonna give you this knot. Gonna have you begging for more,” he growled, his canines graving your pulse point.

“Accept this gift from your Alpha.”

⋆˚🐾˖° Rafayel (Full Version)

You ran a washcloth down Rafayel chest. The one pale, milky skin covered with scales. Lemurian rut was different than that of humans. It was more primal, more unhinged. His long tail hung out over the edge of his massive bathtub still.

A fan was sat on high intensity, blowing back his purple locks and the gills behind his ears. “Cutie, can’t I just have a nibble? You are killing me here.” His multi-chrome eyes flashed with a hunger that sent a shiver up your spine.

“That’s the Rut talking Raf, you told me not to listen to you when you’re like this.” The statement was true, but your resistance was wavering.

He was like a pretty siren luring you to your death. He couldn’t control his shifting, nor the way his tail splashed water out of the tub and into the floor.

An hour ago, the slit in his tail had separated, a gush of liquid making way for not his one-but two cocks. The length on top was longer, thicker, angrier.

Rafayel reached with a clawed, webbed hand and locked eyes with you as you tried to cool his off with the water. “My Muse, let me take care of you. I’ll take you back to Lemuria, make you my Queen. You’ll give us so many strong children. I want them to have your eyes.”

It was as if he was dirty talking himself. Whimpers of need spilled from those soft pink lips.

Perhaps Rafayel was the siren from those sailor tales.

Because why else would you have been dragged into the water, fully clothed? Why else would you have let him rip clear through your shorts with his claws?

Why else would you let him not only imaple you with one length, but let him try to coherse you into taking his second one?

“Just once baby-c’mon Pretty, you can take it.” He hushes your blubbering about being way too full. His cocks felt like they could impale your lungs at any second. “I know her so well. She’s strong, just like-oh, ah, fuck!”

Your tight walls gave way just enough for his second cock to snugly stretch out your organs. The rock of his thrust sent the bath water flooding the bathroom floor. His tail nearly had a mind of its own, flopping like a fish out of water while he used you as a means of breeding.

“F-fuck! Rafayel I-I can’t-“

“You can, how else will you be a powerful ruler, if you cannot worship your God correctly?”

⋆˚🐾˖° Zayne

Zayne took all of the necessary precautions to keep his interest during his rut. So much lube, suppressants and less than flattering toys. He always kept this locked away in a trunks. You didn’t need to worry your pretty head about such things.

He bought you an extended stay hotel room until his Rut had passed but you were stubborn. So stubborn that you used the passcode for his house gate and welcomed yourself in.

When you entered, the normally pristine state of his house was destroyed. Your dirty clothes were thrown everywhere, there were scratch marks on corners of the wall as if something-or someone-had to basically drag themselves to the bedroom.

When you finally gained the courage to investigate the feral sounds from the bedroom, your knees went weak.

Zayne had his tie stuffed in his mouth, his button up shirt had been torn open and the shreds hung around his bulging biceps.

The poor toy-oh god, it was molded after your insides, was completely destroyed. The gooey silicone was barely holding together. His thick cock has literally torn the toy into nothing but mush.

Plap. Plap. Plap.

“Are you going to stand there, or are you going to help me?” He growled through the black tie, his eyes never tearing away from the toy disintegrating in his hand.

Zayne promised himself he’d patch you up as soon as his Rut passed, as soon as he finished pummeling your ruined pussy over the back of his couch.

He had defiled every corner of his home with his cum and your slick.

You had tried to crawl away from the mean ‘ole doctor twice now, but each time he just pounced, keeping you pinned beneath his body weight, chasing you like a mutt who couldn’t get his fill.

“Are you refusing your Doctor? Are you refusing the best medicine I can give you, my seed?”

Your vision danced with black spots. He was insatiable. You never quite realized how massive he was, how easily he manipulated you with both his words and his strong grip. He finally gave a warning growl, pinning your hands to the small of your back.

“You wanted to play Doctor so bad, wanted to heal me of my woes. So take it.”

⋆˚🐾˖°Sylus

Sylus was a dragon at the end of the day. A great beast who hoarded his treasure.

That hadn’t changed when he was trapped in the body of a man.

It hadn’t changed how during his Rut’s, he ordered the Twins to keep you away as he hoarded everything precious to him in his room for the next few days.

But unfortunately the two goofballs were not the best at keeping you away. Not that you think they actually tried. Kieran had locked eyes with you when you tiptoed around the corner, before winking and going back to his card game with his twin.

When you pushed open the double doors or his chambers, he was meticulously cleaning the muzzle of one of his guns. But what caught your eye was his cock, flagging and twitching to leave a sticky mess over his belly button.

His eyes snapped up and a low growl escaped his throat before he tried to reign himself in. “Kitten, I told you to stay away.”

He stood from the bed with a grace not befitting his size, his swinging cock, nor the gun still in his hand. He tipped your chin back with the point of hiss and gave your face a deep whiff.

You swear you felt him spurt just the tiniest bit of precum on your sweater.

“Maybe I should let you help me. Let you realize what happens when Prey tempts the Predator.”

But oh-ho, it did not turn out his Sylus had expected.

You were straddling his massive length, his knot resting just outside of your stretched entrance. But his gun was now pressed against his parted, whimper filled lips by yours truly. You were a mean Mistress, watching him beg to pop his knot in.

“Gods above woman, I’ll do anything I-i just-“

You squeezed your fluttering walls around his cock like a vice. “What did I say, big boy?” Your voice was so sweet he might bust at just the thought.

The white haired man bowed his back so beautifully it appeared he might snap in half. His nature was screaming at him to bend this disobedient Omega over and use her like a dirty flashlight. But not her, never her.

Sylus gritted his teeth, that suddenly looked a lot sharper. But his fearsome look was interrupted by his pathetic groveling.

“My Love, My Heart, My Cruel Temptress,” he mumbled, red eyes rolled back to his skull. “Give me the grace of knotting you and I’ll give you any Empire you desire. Just for the chance at breeding this treasure of a cunt.”

⋆˚🐾˖° Caleb

Caleb threw the empty bottle of suppressants so hard against the wall, the flimsy bottle had made an indention in his apartment.

This couldn’t be happening, he could be hitting his Rut on the day you were visiting Skyhaven. His mechanical arm whirred, a loud noise that broke him from his contemplating.

Yeah, of course this thing would act up when his hormones were bouncing all over the place.

When you rang his doorbell three times without an answer, you decided letting yourself in was the best option.

Caleb now regretted giving you a key to his apartment, but not really.

His left hand, the cold one connected to his arm, had short circuited. To the point he could control it. He had growled, tried to push the piece of junk away from his throbbing cock but to no avail.

It was trained to protect him, to relieve any stress or danger he might be in. In that moment it had decided his aching cock and swollen knot were his enemy.

When he looked up at you from the couch, man-spread with his hand pumping his cock, his eyes were filled with tears.

“Pips, Pips don’t look, please-a-ah oh F-“ his but his lips to stifle the noise as a third orgasm ripped through him. The dark gray mechanical hand was coated with white cum, his thighs twitching and knot throbbing with unspent need.

“Oh Caleb-“ you took a step forward, and that was the only permission Caleb needed. His Alpha instincts were in a full rage. He had you pinned down to the living room floor by his fangs digging into the back of your neck. His mechabical bicep was cold against your throat as he drilled into you.

The wet noises were a symphony of just how much he needed you. “Here comes the knot baby-no-no, be a Good Girl. Open her up for me, don’t fight it, oh yeah-oh Good-Good fuckin�� Girl!” His praises sounded jumbled when his knot popped through.

Nothing could beat the way his knot stretched you to the point of tears.

“T-Too big Caleb! Take it-take it outttt!” He would stop in a split second if he knew it wasn’t just your instincts pleading with you to at least give this Alpha a run for his money. He hushed your over-sensitive cries and bottomed out in your warm and very welcoming pussy.

“Nu uh, Sweetpea. You were born to take my cock. Go on, take it baby! Oh, Good Girllll, That’s My Girl!”

[atlantes96]

Timothy Chance, Heath Halo & Mateo Tomas 🌶🌶🌶 13.5.25

✅ 2131

Timothy Chance, Heath Halo & Mateo Tomas 🇷‌🇦‌🇬‌🇮‌🇳‌🇬‌ 🇸‌🇹‌🇦‌🇱‌🇱‌🇮‌🇴‌🇳‌ - Aggro

[impossibletrashcrown]

Japan imported tungsten filament, high quality quartz tube, long time in 1100 degrees Celsius high temperature use

[honeyblackberries]

In the back seat (18+)

caleb x fem reader/mc smut

minors dni | inspired by diet pepsi by addison rae | cross-posted to ao3

word count: 1466

cw: simp caleb, soft dom caleb, he also likes to bite, pantie freak caleb, reader enables him, praise, oral (fem receiving), p in v, responsible car sex <333 (don't get freaky in a rental car irl), irresponsible intercourse (caleb doesn’t wrap it before he taps it), porn with feelings, porn no plot because idk how to write plot but i also can’t really write porn so maybe this is a secret third thing, no set pov.

names used: pips (pipsqueak but cuter), good girl, pretty girl, my girl

If Caleb is being honest with himself this moment is something straight out of his teenage fantasies. Driving along the coast with you in the passenger's seat, listening as you sing along to a song that’s been on repeat for the past half hour. Hair softly blowing in the wind as the late afternoon sun glows behind you like a halo.

You’re an angel he thinks, how else could you bless him with such a gift on one of his rare days off. The keys to his dream car—with the disclaimer that it was only a rental during his visit to Linkon—and that short sundress… His gaze unconsciously drifts from the road and onto you.

Maybe wet dreams are a better description for this. The way the hem of your dress rides up your thighs while you shift to find a more comfortable position, cotton panties peeking out underneath it.

Your eyes meet his and Caleb feels his pants tighten.

Today was supposed to be a well deserved break from all the demands that come with being the Farspace Fleet’s Colonel. Something relaxing. Yet he can’t help but feel inclined to the complete opposite. Back ramrod straight and hand, previously loose and confident on the wheel, now gripping it so tight that his knuckles strain.

“I'm happy you’re here,” you say sweetly and he has to stop himself from acting like a horny dog. “Is there anything you wanna do before we head home?”

“Eat you out,” he thinks dreamily.

“..What?”

Shit. Shit. How could he say that out loud!? He’s an idiot, a depraved fool—

“Well, okay.”

He almost crashes the car.

“Are you sure? We don’t have to—I mean—I didn’t mean to say it out loud,” you laugh at him and he isn’t sure whether to be mortified or turned on.

“Pull over.” He does.

Caleb doesn’t realise it but despite the less than innocent circumstances his silly reaction makes you smile. Happy at the expression that settles on his handsome face. How his eyes light up in a way you never really see anymore, giddy and unrestrained.

‘Cute,’ you want to tease, but he’s already rolling the tinted windows up. Undoing his seatbelt and moving into the back seat. Oh how could you keep him waiting when he’s just so eager? You undo your own seatbelt and amusedly follow along. Moving to get on top of him.

“Don’t hover pips,” he instructs—in that know-it-all voice he’s used since you were kids—and you don’t get the chance to consider it. Not when his hands trail under your skirt to grab your thighs and impatiently bring you down onto his face.

“Fuck you smell so good,” his nose presses right against your clothed heat. He inhales deeply. “I could get off just from smelling you, just from smelling these,” his lips part to let teeth graze the thin fabric of your panties.

“I can keep 'em when we're done, yeah?” His hot breath makes a shiver run through you in anticipation. His tongue licks down the centre where a wet patch starts to form. “I’ll cook dinner in return.”

You want to argue that he always cooks dinner. But you want what he’s currently offering more.

Your small hum of agreement is all he needs.

Safe to say, Caleb does mouth at you like a dog. Desperate, hungry, tongue heavy and slobbering. You have to push yourself against his chest to keep steady. The toned muscles there flexing as he eats like he’s been starved.

“Good girl, sittin’ so pretty for me,” his praise is barely understandable. Voice muffled and lower than a moment ago.

One of his hands leaves your thighs, his fingers moving to the fabric separating you. He teasingly pulls it back and lets go, a light snap against your skin. You flinch and he chuckles in response. He then pushes it to the side to expose you bare to him. Continuing to lick, this time with the addition of his thumb rubbing directly against your sensitive bud.

“Delicious,” he moans at the taste and sucks at your clit for more.

You’re not sure how long you last before everything crashes down all at once. Your orgasm racking your body and leaving you trembling. Dripping right into his open mouth.

The way your breath hitches and small whines you make when you cum always remind him how he could spend the rest of his life between your thighs. Forever wanting you pliant in his hold like this.

As you start to feel yourself coming down from the high, Caleb lightly bites at your tender flesh, making you yelp. He places a soft kiss in apology, even though you both know he isn’t sorry in the slightest.

In an act of revenge you start to reach for where he needs it. Fingertips barely brushing the large tent in his pants before he grabs your wrist to stop you.

“Next time pips, I’ll go crazy if I’m not inside you soon.” At that you’re suddenly flipped around, back pressed against the leather seat. Wedged in the cramped space afforded to you between the car and his large body.

Caleb looks down at you with a wide grin. The lower half of his face damp with your arousal and his own saliva.

“Let me put it in?”

Even when he’s like this the words come out as a question. He’ll only do it if you let him, only if you want it half as much as he does. His silver necklace dangles in front of you and reflected in it is your lips, curled up into an affirmative.

Caleb wastes no time. Hurriedly undoing his pants and freeing his hard leaking cock. Leaning over you with one hand beside your head as the other grasps his reddened tip and nudges you panties to the side with it. Lining himself up he sinks into you slowly.

“You’re heaven,” he yaps, already pussy drunk. "You feel like heaven, ugh—like you were made for me. Weren’t you?”

He shakes his head at his own words, as if a better explanation came to him. Then he resolutely bottoms out inside you.

“No, I was the one made for you.”

“Caleb—” you whine at the feeling of being so full. Arms moving to wrap around his torso, not sure if to hold him closer or push him away.

He groans, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment to fight off the orgasm that would have had him cumming from the way you say his name. Testingly, he pulls out slightly just to push back in. Repeating shallow thrusts to get you comfortable.

“More,” you beg.

“Of course,” he kisses you and you can taste yourself on him. “I aim to please.” His pace quickens, becoming rough. You can’t help but clench at the immediate change.

“Oh shit—loosen up pretty girl.” You try to.

Over and over you feel his cock try to make your cunt give in to him, and when he feels the grip of your walls ease up slightly he angles his hips to hit deeper.

You claw at his back, the fabric of his shirt catching under your fingers. The feeling of him too much.

“You like that huh?”

The car windows are fogging at the spike in body heat, neither of you letting up until you both get your fill. The sounds of shallow breathing and skin against skin the only thing that can be heard.

Caleb bites your lip when he kisses you in between thrusts. Like he wants to devour you in every way possible.

“I’m—close,” you bury your face into his neck, trying to ground yourself.

He nearly slips entirely out of you. Hips starting to lose their rhythm, a sign that he is too.

“I know—fuck—cum with me.”

Your release comes first, and he doesn’t last long after.

“That's my girl.”

His movements slow as he spills into you. A white ring forming around the base of him as a mix of both your cum tries to leak out. He grinds a few times to make sure it stays then collapses on top of you.

The two of you remain like that for a few minutes, relishing in the feeling of your chests pressed together as you cool down. Caleb’s cock slowly going limp inside you.

His hands move to cradle your face, gently stroking your cheeks as he kisses all over with cherishing lightness.

“I love you.”

“Love you too Caleb.”

Then he has to go and ruin the moment.

“Panties please,” he holds out his hand. Asking for a treat.

You sigh, the post-nut clarity kicking in. “I’ll give it to you after I wash it.”

“Don’t wash it.”

“...”

a/n: rip need everyone to know this was initially supposed to be a sylus fic. also what do we think do we like me actually trying to make the layout nice/not write in all lowercase??

[luvether]

HOW AMPHOREUS MEN WAKE YOU UP IN THE MORNING۫ ꣑ৎ .

amphoreus men x gn!reader (separate) heavy with tender touching, innocent skinship, mild angst, sensual & fluff with plot. established relationship. not canon-compliant to the current amphoreus story, this is meant as my writing practice, but do enjoy reading!! [2.7k wc]

PHAINON

The mattress dips and you stir to the feeling of soft lips pecking you all over your face. The action remains gentle and innocently endearing. Mid morning’s breath is akin to a crooning lady, whispering secrets through the curtains and you stir again, cannot help but let out a faint noise in return,

“Phainon.”

You mutter, but he never ceases his endeavors. The softest touch of lips smear your face with traces of bouncy morning fondness and he noses the apple of your cheek affectionately, chuckling.

“Phainon,” you try again, scrunching your face so. “Release me.”

He pecks another kiss to your cheek, his big body hovering over you to peck another one to your lips, then another. You sigh after his fourth attempt, your cheeks heating due to his ministrations. When he leans down again, you press the palms of your hand on his mouth, this ceases his attention finally,

“Phainon, Lady Aglaea summons my presence and duties beckon for me—“

“Duties can wait for a little bit longer.” Phainon’s rasps stop you short.

Between the soft layer of Kephale’s dawn, you finally break from your sleepy stupor, staring languidly at the way the golden light from the open window carves a halo around his half-naked figure, his eyes crinkle when he notices you staring up at him.

“Hey, you.” He gently takes your hand into his rougher ones, pressing a tender kiss on your pulse in greeting. His mused-up white hair lay astray and bent in different directions all over his forehead.

“Stay for a moment, here with me.” he looks at you again. “Please?”

Titans, those big blue eyes of his…

“You know I can’t.” Your eyes drag towards the open window. “It’s already Lucid hour.”

Phainon’s face fell a little. “It’s been quite awhile since I had you in my arms like this. Can’t you spare my greed even just for a mere moment?”

It has been a long time since you were like this with him. Being Okhema’s destined deliverer and a prophesied hero does not spare him any free time for casual leisure, and even if he was granted with it—you wouldn’t be available, with the rising threat of the Black tide, you were busy tending to the citizens. If not, you were patrolling the Eternal City till Curtain-fall hour.

You reach out to hold his cheek, before slowly tugging him down so you can peck his forehead. You admit that you had missed Phainon just as much as he had to you. Your mattress—the smell of mint and cleanly-washed fabrics has long forgotten his scent of sunbaked and woodsy aroma that seems to accompany his very person. You’d reminisce and yearn for the familiar sheets to smell just like the sun, so you can at least pitifully imagine Phainon’s presence beside you whenever he would embark on another mission outside of Okhema.

When you pull away you playfully poke his cheek. “You’re pouting.”

His face does not lift at all. “Do you truly insist on leaving?”

You pondered and while you did, Phainon traced his hand up your wrist to your palms, interlacing both your fingers together. His rough-hewn palms feel so warm against your own, comforting almost, like a blanket.

“I suppose I can be late…” Phainon’s wide blue eyes perk up. “But, if I get an earful from my superiors, I trust that Okhema’s deliverer will come to my aid?”

Phainon laughs, a honey-like and sweet kind. “You needn’t ask a second time, however I'd appreciate it if you reward me with a kiss on the lips, perhaps?”

You sigh heavy, though it sounded more like a playful huff of air. “You greedy man.” despite your outward mutter, you wasted no time to curl your fingers behind his neck and pull him into your embrace, slotting your lips with his like a perfect puzzle piece and the white-haired hero hums a pleasant sound, one hand cradling your torso and the other crawling to your caress the bareness of your thighs.

This is certainly gonna be a very long day for the two of you, wrapped around in each other’s embraces like this. But for once you simply enjoyed the company of his presence.

MYDEIMOS

When you realize the warmth of his slumbering chest against the bare of your cheek, your eyes flutter, his quiet breaths stirring you.

You paid no heed to your bird’s nest of a hair, instead when you lift your head, your eyes immediately hang over Mydeimos, quietly watching as his roughened face with a scrunched brow sleeps heavy, his melted peachy hair muse like a lion’s mane. You let out a quiet breath, at least for the most part, he seems to be at ease…

A brush of sound tickles your ears, and at the edge of the tent—you feel a presence approaching.

“My lor—“

You pinned your gaze with the person and lifted a finger to your lips, signaling him to hush. Hephaestion blinks, before realizing that Mydei is fast asleep. The man nods his head, finally understanding what you meant and slowly ducks under the tent, making himself comfortable in the open space beside you, and you let him.

You hear a relieved sigh beside you, “I was worried the events of yesternight would deter his slumber.” Hephaestion spares you a kind look, “I’m glad you are around to help him.”

You shake your head. “You praise me too much.” Then, you gather your legs to your chest. “It seems like you lacked sleep, Hephaestion. If you feel any pain, I could perhaps conjure up a remedy for you…”

“I’m doing alright, please do not worry about my health.” He gazes back at Mydeimos, this time his eyes fill with the subtle of blues.

“No one…” he starts, hesitates, then swallows. “No one would be sleeping at peace knowing that Perdikkas—“ though his rasp stops there, he needn’t continue further for you to understand what he meant, the surrounding air hangs heavy after his statement.

Since Perdikkas died yesterday, no one in the Kremnoan Detachment was resting properly, everyone was brimming with grief and you can still remember the warmth of his blood staining your palms, trying your very best to stop how he continued to bleed all over the ground despite your efforts to heal him like how he had taught you.

He’s shot with a poison arrow, you can only do so much at that time.

You lift a hand and cradle Mydeimos’ cheek.

“Our prince should not have to witness such a thing.” You murmur and the man beside you hums in agreement.

“But you are aware that he would face even tougher battles in the future, especially against King Eurypon.” Hephaestion says, “if that day arrives, i want you to support him like how you always have.”

You look at him over your shoulder, “what about you?”

And he simply smiles, but you understand him even with just a single glance. He knew he wouldn’t be able to make it till the end of this journey, especially with Perdikkas gone and his illness seems to be catching up with him…

“Hephaestion…” at your reluctant tone, he reaches out to pat your head, it was to reassure you but you feel nothing but the crushing weight of sadness in your chest.

“I’ll still be here. Anyways for now, I will tend to other matters.” He proceeds to stand. “Are you gonna remain here?”

You spare Mydeimos a look, your gaze softening like crushed herbs on mortar and pestle. No one, not even Hephaestion knew what had happened yesterday when you had reluctantly announced Perdikkas to be dead, his chest no longer moving. At that moment, Mydeimos, the exiled prince had his back pinned straight and a crown of halo settling behind the pinks of his hair shading the campfire.

He was immediate with his commands, he had told Leonnius to tell the others of what had transpired, leaving some of the aftermath to Hephaestion as he softly touched your shoulders and told you to leave Perdikkas’ corpse to Ptolemy and Peucesta. Your hands had a slight tremor when they hoisted his body from your arms and Mydeimos had slotted in the space beside you, his rough-hewn palms gathered into yours as he brought it to his lips and kissed each bloodied fingers so tenderly.

“I…Perdikkas, he…”

“Shh.” Mydeimos hushes you, softly cradling the back of your head and lets you lean on his shoulder. He’d consoled you as you softly weeped, and sure enough the entire night bleeds over and the quiet campfire has been extinguished as everyone somberly heads to their own tent.

You, however, could not sleep after feeling your friend die in your arms. Just when you were about to take a stroll, you heard the softest of weeps coming from the main tent—Mydeimos’ tent.

You would have given him the privacy, but when you hear the crumbled sobbing of Perdikkas’ name leaving his lips you cannot help the sorrow from bursting from your chest. When you reach his tent and softly call out his name, he doesn’t not hide his suffering. Nor does he pull away when you enter and immediately pull Mydeimos in your embrace like how he had a few hours ago, his tears felt hot on your shoulder and you held your own anguish.

“Shhh, hush now. Mydeimos.” You were the one reciting words to him now, and Mydei lets his hands fall on your torso until he fell asleep on your lap and you continued whispering words to him until daybreak.

Hephaestion calls out your name and you break from your revery. He looks at you with quiet concern and you simply give him the sweetest smile you can muster, “yes, i’ll remain here until he wakes.”

The man does not question you any further, but the smile he sent your way was that of relief. He bids you a short farewell and leaves you with Mydeimos where you softly caress his bangs and press a soft kiss to his forehead. I’ll remain here till my last breath if I must, so you have a shoulder to cry on, Mydeimos.

ANAXAGORAS

There’s a strong scent in the room along with the soft rustles of pen against paper. Your first instinct was to utter his name, a drunken slur and a yearning’s call.

“Anaxa?”

Despite such a whispered breath, the sound of writing ceases, and if you were more conscious, you would have realized your mistake of not calling him by his full name like how he usually preferred it to be, except what touched your ears was his deep voice, a little monotonous but gentle nonetheless.

“Did I wake you?” Anaxagoras asks and you merely stir in the sheets, his side of the mattress is still warm and smelled just like him—the soft aroma of something fruity. You settle your gaze on him, who never left the comfort of his chair and messy desk, after such a sight you cannot help but be petulant.

“…you promised me you wouldn’t meddle with your research.”

“Did I now?” He asks but his eyes remain plastered on his books and research.

“Anaxagoras.”

“Fine, fine. I heard you the first time, no need to call me again.”

He finally closes his books and turns to your direction, for a moment your anger almost concludes, for the confident and spiteful sage that everyone was used to seeing was now wearing nothing but a loose, white dress shirt and pants, his dark cape and embellishments, tight corset and gloves had forgo and a button or two from his dress shirt is open, showing the bareness of his pale chest, the one where a deep scar in the shape of a star could be seen. It's something that he rarely shows others, others but you, you remember him telling you one time.

You turn away and exhale in frustration, more to yourself than him for ogling, but Anaxa seems to take it a different way.

“Are you mad at me?”

You ponder softly. “A little, but if you truly need to finish what you need to do, then I won’t stop you.”

Then he’d sigh like he had lost a debate, finally standing from his seat, his footsteps a sharp resound. “If you word it like that, how can I focus knowing you are indeed mad at me?”

You cannot help but poke him a little. “Oh? The famous, strict professor from the Grove, worried about how I would feel?”

Anaxa gives you nothing but a deadpan, when he finally closes the distance, he reaches out and squishes both your cheeks with his hand. “Consider yourself lucky that I gave you the liberty to do as you please.”

Then, you were caught surprised when he unclasps his metal tie, letting the softest strands of sugarcane hair fall over his shoulder.

“What…what are you doing?”

Anaxagoras stands there in front of you for a moment, as if asking himself the same question. Another sigh from him, then he spins around and plops at the end of the mattress with crossed arms.

“Go on, play with it.”

You stayed there, awestruck. “With your…hair?”

The chains of his eyepatch jingle when he spares you a look over his shoulder, his pretty eyes of boysenberry and mint casting you a look. “You wish to play with it, no? Don’t think I never noticed how you constantly look at it with itching fingers, now go on before I change my mind.”

You try to hide the grin from your expression, but despite having only one functioning eye, it does not go unnoticed by the professor—you smile, and it’s the type that lingers as an aftertaste in his mind.

You smile at him with such sweetness, and for a mere moment, he wishes to covet such an expression. Your musings and reactions had always fascinated him to such a degree and now he cannot stop thinking of how your fingers feel, combing through the loose silks of his green hair.

The last time he let anyone touch his hair was when he was a young boy, at that time he was no professor nor was he a conversationalist, underneath the tree of his home city-state where he tinkered with the mechanical bird, his older sister would fashion his short hair, picking at the leaves that dare to fall on his head and comb through his soft locks.

Anaxagoras reminisced this moment briefly, he hums and unconsciously finds his hand wandering behind to touch your knees, where his fingers gently caressed the skin there as you quietly worked on his hair into complex knots.

The room hangs with a comforting silence, where you both drink in each other’s presence without the usual snarky words thrown at one another. It doesn't take long before your mood has been lifted and Anaxagoras’ hair is set into two pigtails interlaced with magenta ribbons.

He sighs quietly for the umpteenth time amidst your soft giggles.

“Feeling better?” He finally breaks the silence, but despite such a loose question, there’s a tone of endearment hidden between those words. In response, you’d press a gentle kiss at the back of his neck, sending soft shivers down his spine as you softly wrapped your arms around his shoulders, laying your head behind his neck.

“Better, sorry if I sounded demanding and pulled you away from work.” You try to peek at him but he has already turned his head over his shoulder, aware of how close both your faces are.

Looking at him like this, you could’ve sworn there was a smile…

“Well, it’s not like it’s important work.”

“Then, do you wanna lay back down with me?” You pat the empty spot of the mattress, Anaxagoras raises a brow.

“What?” You asked.

“I would ruin what you made.” He points towards his two pigtails. “Are you fine with that?”

“I can always redo them.” This made Anaxa’s face sour. But he’d comply with your wishes, again and again he does, at first it was because he wishes to see those cute expressions from you—but now, he wishes more of you than ever before. When you both lay on the bed again and you seemed to drift to sleep first, Anaxagoras raised his hand to slowly caress your cheek.

And for once in his life, he’d sleep at ease, knowing that when he awakens, you’d be there to greet him with a smile.

[ranafamily7]

Appeal to humanity 🫂

I beg you read that 🥺

vetted by gazavetters

vetted by dlxxv

I am writing this post with tears in my eyes, me and my mother.

We are living the most difficult suffering here in northern Gaza.

I will tell you some of our suffering

1.We do not find daily food as there is only bread due to the closure of the crossings in Gaza

2.There are some canned foods like beans that are expensive due to scarcity.

3.They are trying to displace us from Gaza every day. I have left my house several times and it is badly damaged.

4.My father cannot reach us, he is besieged in southern Gaza, and my sisters and I have no one to support us except my mother, and she cannot.

5.My father is sitting in a torn tent, suffering from the cold of winter and the lack of winter clothes.

6.We need more than $100 a day to buy a little food. And a little firewood for heating and cooking. And charging the lighting battery as there has been no electricity for more than a year

7. My mother needs treatment for her feet on a weekly basis for $70.

She has osteoporosis, cartilage fragility and salt deposition.

This is a small part of our suffering. Please plant hope in our hearts and give us a chance by donating to us to alleviate our suffering.

Donation Link

✅️Vetted by @gazavetters, my number verified on the list is ( #250 )✅️

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[stareiiez]

jason todd and actually fucking you on his motorcycle.

the warm leather thats been warmed by both of your combined body heats, sinks into the tight top you wore for him. the hem has been pushed up enough to let your breasts be exposed and bounce in your red bralet. he thrusts hard enough to let one of fatty mounds bounce free. perky nipple only stiffens further under the rough leather of his glove when he catches it between thumb and forefinger.

your fucked out expression reflects in the black plastic visor of his helmet. your hair spilled out around you like a sinful halo. both of your hands are grasping the handle bars of the bike overhead, he's instructed you to not let go. if you let go? he stops and pulls out, god forbid he slows down enough to a teasing grind that slows your ascent to a wonderful orgasm.

you dont remember how it started, what sparked the sudden change of jason's mind to take a detour and not drop you off at your apartment like he promised. maybe it was your perfume that lingered in your hair and in his nose when he dipped his head down to kiss at your jaw and cheek. he was too handsy for his own good, too overly affectionate when he brought you to wayne manor that night to visit. maybe he was just pissed that your face glowed slightly brighter when being dragged off by damien to go visit batcow, and his other pets.

whatever it was? it didn't matter. your pussy fitting like a glove around his cock is enough to make him forget everything. his head rolls back on his shoulders, adam's apple bobbing. he groans deep in his throat as your pussy spasms around his dick, attempting to milk him for what he's worth. the engine of his bike revs when you're orgasming, your voice crying out his name. its the greatest fucking song he's ever heard. it'll be worth it to waste a tank of gas to make you cum again just like that all for him.

[blueberrisdove-sideblog]

☆ : part two of thinking about filthy and rough sèx with phainon’s second form but with breeding kink.

Your legs are jelly, trembling as Phainon presses your ruined body against the wall again, his cock still pulsing, glistening with your slick. You’re already dripping, ruined, stretched beyond belief—but he isn’t done. Not even close.

“Still twitching,” he growls, voice molten and dark. “Still fucking greedy.”

His hand slides down between your legs, pressing against the mess he made, then dragging his fingers up to your mouth. “Taste how badly you need me. You’re soaked, Angel. You’re starving for it.”

You whimper as his fingers press past your lips, coated in both your slick and his thick pre. You suck them down eagerly, and that makes him snarl, wings flaring wide with golden fire, his body gleaming like a war god ready to claim what’s his.

“You want me to breed you?” His voice is a rasp, low and violent. “Want me to fill this tight little cunt ‘til you’re dripping for days?”

You nod, helpless, your voice cracking, “Yes—yes, please, Phainon, fill me, breed me, I want it—want you—”

That’s all it takes.

He lifts you again like you weigh nothing, arms bulging as he slams you back down on his cock, burying himself all the way to the hilt. You scream—choked, high-pitched, ruined—and he roars, pressing his chest to your back, fucking you with wild, punishing thrusts that drive your breath from your lungs.

“You’re gonna take every drop,” he growls into your ear, biting down on your shoulder, his voice nothing but pure possession. “You’ll feel me for days, Angel. My cock—my cum—my fucking claim.”

Your stomach knots, your insides flutter, your pussy clenches around him so tight it’s like your body’s begging to be bred, needing to be marked from the inside out.

His hand wraps around your waist, and the other slides down to rub your clit in rough, unrelenting circles.

“Gonna fill this womb,” he groans, voice ragged, lost in the rhythm of your bodies slamming together. “Wanna see you swollen with my seed, fucked full, dripping down your thighs every time you walk—so everyone knows you’re mine.”

Your body breaks—mind shattering as the orgasm crashes through you like holy fire, your legs giving out as your cunt clamps down on him like a vice.

And then—with a final, brutal thrust, he roars, wings flaring in a blast of golden fire, halo blazing above him as he cums deep inside you. Hot, thick, endless—you feel it gush into your womb, coating your insides in liquid heat.

It doesn’t stop.

Spurt after spurt floods you until your belly feels tight, every twitch of his cock pumping more of him inside you. His body trembles against yours, muscles like iron, his breath ragged as he holds you there, impaled on his cock, his cum locked deep.

“Fuck,” he pants, pressing his forehead against the back of your neck. “You’re bred, Angel. Mine. I own this cunt.”

When he finally pulls out, slow and aching, his cum spills out of you in thick, hot ropes—dripping down your thighs, marking the floor. You collapse, dazed, shaking, your body still trembling from the aftershocks.

Phainon crouches beside you, his hand sliding over your lower belly, pressing against it possessively.

“You’ll keep every drop,” he growls, golden eyes devouring you. “I’ll breed you again if I have to. Again and again—until it takes.”

He leans down, biting your lip, then licking into your mouth like he’s tasting your ruin.

“And when you’re full with my child,” he whispers, voice molten with sin and reverence, “you’ll know what it means to belong to me.”

You’re lying there, breathless and fucked dumb, drooling into the golden firelight, his cum still sliding out of you in hot, sticky waves. Your belly’s tight, your thighs trembling—but he doesn’t care. He kneels between your legs like a beast returning to its feast, eyes locked on the mess he made.

“You think I’m done?” Phainon hisses, voice dark and dangerous, his fingers spreading your sore, slick pussy open to watch the cum dribble from your hole. His wings pulse with heat, casting a glow across your ruined body. “No, Angel. You think I’d stop at one?”

His golden eyes flash with something unholy, and you try to crawl away on instinct—overwhelmed, oversensitive—but he grabs your hips and drags you back like you’re his prize, his plaything, his breeding hole and nothing else.

“I said I’d make it take,” he growls. “And I meant it.”

Then he slams back into you—no warning, no mercy, cock still hard, still twitching as he forces his way past the flood of his own seed. You scream, high and raw, body jolting as your slick walls stretch to take him all over again.

The sound of your ruined, soaked pussy squelching around his cock is filthy, obscene—and it drives him mad. His grip on your hips tightens until bruises bloom beneath his fingers.

“You’re gonna take it again,” he pants, fucking you harder, your ass bouncing against his thighs with every savage thrust.

You’re sobbing—yes, yes, yes—your voice cracking as he bullies his cock deeper, kissing your cervix with every rough thrust, like he’s knocking at the gates of your soul and demanding entry.

He leans down, biting your ear, his breath hot and ragged. “You feel that, Angel? You’re milking me. This tight cunt wants it. You’re already addicted.”

You’re not sure where you end and he begins—everything’s fire, heat, pain, need. Your body spasms again, another orgasm crashing over you, your pussy clamping around him so tight he grunts, low and brutal.

You’re babbling, broken, “Yes—yes, please, Phainon, make me yours, fill me again, fill me until it’s dripping out of me forever—”

He loses it.

One final, brutal thrust buries him deep, balls pressed to your ass, and he cums again—a roar tearing from his throat as his wings flare wide, golden fire flooding the room. His cock pulses inside you, pumping more hot, thick seed straight into your womb, your body shaking from the pressure of it all.

“Take it,” he hisses, hips grinding against you. “Take every fucking drop.”

You’re full—beyond full. His cum floods your womb, your pussy overflowing, the hot mess splashing down your thighs, sticky and obscene.

He collapses over you, panting, pressing kisses down your spine, his body still trembling with aftershocks.

“You’re mine now,” he breathes against your skin, voice soft and rough all at once. “My Angel. I’ll keep filling you until the stars go dark.”

[pascalissmoked]

Sweeter Than Summer

Summary: It starts with helping Sarah. It ends with her dad looking at you like he can’t breathe without you. Soft smiles, stolen glances—until it’s not so soft anymore. Word Count: 8K Warnings: fluff, age gap (reader is 22 and joel is in his mid 30s), joel being the hot neighbor and a frienc od your dad's, tommy being a little shit to his older brother, team plotting from sarah and her uncle, blood (not gory though), joel not knowing how to take care of Sarah becoming a woman, food consumption, nervous!joel, texas!joel, no outbreak!joel, unprotected sex, A/N: I kinda let myself go with this one. But you can never have too much of dilf!joel anyway. I hope you enjoy xx

Sweat clung to your skin like a second layer, tracing hot trails from your neck to the hollow of your collarbone. Texas, in the dead of summer, had become less of a state and more of a furnace—an open-mouthed oven blasting dry, merciless heat at everything that dared to live in it. No breeze, no shade, not even the patchy ceiling fans in your father’s house could fight it off.

So you escaped to the only place with the illusion of relief: your old man’s rust-bitten Ford truck. The air conditioning groaned like an old man with bad knees, struggling to push out even a whisper of cold. Mostly, it just wheezed in competition with the faint melody of Avril Lavigne’s Complicated playing from a scratched-up CD.

That CD had been a gift from Sarah—the wild-hearted twelve-year-old next door with a halo of curls and a grin full of mischief. She’d handed it to you like it was treasure, wrapped in a scrap of pink paper with your name spelled in glitter pen. Babysitting her had started off as a favor, a quick yes when your father mentioned that Joel Miller—Sarah’s dad—needed someone to help out now and then. You’d barely met Joel, only knew that he worked with his hands, often gone at odd hours, and that he carried the kind of quiet sadness you didn’t ask questions about.

You were a high school senior back then, just counting days until freedom. But somehow, that little girl made you want to stay.

Your evenings slowly stitched themselves into a patchwork of Disney marathons, popcorn burned in the microwave, Sarah’s giggles echoing through the halls of the Miller house. She’d curl up beside you, head resting on your shoulder like a sleepy kitten, cookies half-eaten and forgotten on the table. She became something sacred—a bond, a heartbeat, the closest thing to a sister you’d ever have.

Even after you left for college, you kept coming back. Not out of duty, but because her tiny arms still wrapped around your waist when you walked through the door. Because her eyes still lit up like fireworks when you pressed play on The Little Mermaid. Because somehow, she had become your person.

You leaned back in the cracked leather seat, your legs sticking to it, the AC making a sad attempt at survival. You shut your eyes and let Avril’s voice carry you, half-lost in memory and heat-induced haze, until a sharp knock on the passenger window startled you.

Sarah.

She was grinning, as usual—her curls pulled into a wild ponytail, a Popsicle in one hand, and a look that said she was up to something.

You rolled the window down. “What’s up, bug?”

She climbed in before you could stop her, dragging a wave of hot air in with her. “Dad said we could go get ice cream if you’re up for driving.”

“Did he now?”

“Okay, I might’ve said you were bored and needed to get out. Same thing.”

You shook your head, biting back a smile. She shoved the melting Popsicle into your hand and snapped on her seatbelt with dramatic flair. “Let’s go. Before it gets hotter. I think I saw a squirrel burst into flames on the sidewalk.”

You laughed and turned the key in the ignition. The engine coughed to life, the truck rumbling beneath you like an old beast waking from a nap. You caught sight of Joel on the porch as you pulled away—arms crossed, watching with that unreadable expression he always wore. You gave him a two-fingered wave. He nodded once, and that was enough.

Sarah chattered all the way to the ice cream place, asking about college, about whether you had a boyfriend yet (she asked this every time), and whether she’d be tall enough to ride the big coasters at the state fair this year. You let her talk, let her words fill the space like music.

When you finally parked in front of the ice cream shop, the sun had started dipping low, turning the sky into a hazy peach-orange watercolor.

Inside, the cool air hit like salvation. Sarah ran to the counter, already debating between cotton candy and cookie dough. You trailed behind more slowly, letting the change in temperature settle over your skin like a blessing.

As you waited, your phone buzzed in your pocket. A message from your dad:

“Joel asked if you’ll be home later. Said he could use help with something at the house.”

You stared at the screen for a second longer than you needed to. Joel didn’t ask for help. Not unless he meant it.

“What’s wrong?” Sarah looked up from her ice cream conquest.

You smiled. “Nothing. Just your dad being mysterious.”

She rolled her eyes. “He’s always mysterious. He builds things all day and listens to music no one understands.”

“Sounds like someone I know,” you teased.

“I’m not mysterious,” she said, scooping her choice—cookie dough, of course—into a bowl. “I’m an open book.”

You paid for the treats and led her outside to a metal bench half in the shade. The breeze had picked up slightly. It carried the scent of pavement, crepe myrtles, and something else—something you couldn’t quite name. Something shifting.

The sun was beginning to slip behind the rooftops by the time you and Sarah returned to the Miller house, both of you sticky from melted ice cream and heat. The air had that golden hue of a Texas evening—dust motes glowing in the sunlight, cicadas beginning their slow song. The drive back from the ice cream shop had been quiet, but not in a bad way. Sarah had rolled the window down and was humming absently to herself between licks of her cone. You stole glances at her in the rearview mirror. She looked tired but content, her face a little flushed, her curls sticking to her temples.

You knew something had shifted. She’d been quieter than usual on the ride back, a little distracted. Not sad, just somewhere far off in her head. You didn’t push it. You’d learned a long time ago that Sarah always circled back in her own time.

When you pulled into the driveway, Joel was out front, leaning against the porch rail with his arms folded, like he’d been waiting. He looked up as the truck came to a stop, one brow lifting slightly in a kind of wordless check-in. You gave him a nod, just enough to say she’s okay.

Sarah climbed out of the truck slowly and stretched. “I’m gonna shower,” she mumbled, already heading toward the front door.

“You eat dinner?” Joel called after her.

“Ice cream counts!” she shouted back, disappearing into the house.

Joel huffed something like a laugh, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He scratched the back of his neck, eyes still on the screen door even after it swung shut behind her.

You shut the truck door and walked over to him. “Everything alright?”

He looked at you then, really looked. Not with panic, exactly, but something close. Hesitation. Worry. Maybe a little guilt.

“You got a minute?” he asked. “Need to run something by you.”

You nodded. “Yeah, sure.”

Joel gestured toward the backyard with a jerk of his chin. The porch boards creaked beneath his boots as you followed him through the kitchen and out the back door, into the thick, humid air. The sun was low now, bleeding orange across the fence line. Crickets had started up in the grass, and you could hear a neighbor’s sprinkler ticking faintly in the distance.

Joel didn’t speak for a while. He stood with his hands on his hips, staring out across the yard like it might offer him a script to read from. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and a little rough around the edges.

“Found somethin’ earlier,” he said. “In the bathroom. A, uh… towel. One of hers. Had blood on it…”

“Oh,” you said, gently. “Her period.”

He nodded, cheeks reddening, clearly trying to keep his voice level. “Yeah. That. She didn’t say a damn word to me. Just shoved a towel in the laundry like nothin’ happened and then asked if she could go out for ice cream. And I remembered… her mom used to—well, she always wanted something sweet on her bad days, so…”

You felt your chest warm. Not from the heat. From him. From this big, quiet man who looked like he could wrestle a bear but stood there now like a deer in headlights, wringing his hands over his little girl.

“She’s twelve,” he added, like that somehow made it more tragic. “I don’t… I didn’t grow up with sisters. Only Tommy. We were a disaster even on good days. I don’t know what to say, or how to—hell, I don’t even know what kind of… supplies she’s supposed to use.”

He fell quiet again, then sighed, long and slow. “I didn’t know who to call. I almost called Tommy, but you know, he’s as useless as I am when it comes to this kinda thing. So… I figured, maybe you’d know.”

There was something in the way he said it—maybe you’d know—that felt less like a request and more like a quiet surrender. Like this was his way of admitting he was scared, and he didn’t know how to say it out loud.

You stepped closer, your voice soft. “You did the right thing, Joel. Giving her space, getting her out of the house. That was smart.”

“She didn’t even tell me,” he muttered. “That’s what kills me. She used to come to me for everything. Now she’s just—dealing with it by herself. Like she had to.”

“She’s twelve,” you said gently. “She’s embarrassed. Doesn’t know how to talk about it. Maybe she’s scared you’ll think she’s different now.”

Joel blinked at that. “Why the hell would I think that?”

“Because that’s what girls worry about when they start this. That people will treat them differently. That their body’s changing and it makes things weird.”

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes were on the fence again. “Her mom used to say stuff like that. About how she hated how people treated her like she was fragile just ’cause she was bleeding.”

There was a rawness in his voice that hadn’t been there before. Not just nervousness—grief, too. That quiet, familiar ache of someone trying to parent without the other half of the puzzle.

“I’ll take her to the store tomorrow,” you said. “We’ll get her what she needs—pads, whatever she’s comfortable with. Maybe some tea. And chocolate. That always helps.”

Joel nodded slowly, like each word you said was another burden taken off his shoulders. “Thank you.”

You hesitated, then placed your hand lightly on his arm. “She’s not trying to shut you out. She’s just figuring it out in the only way she knows how.”

He looked at you then, really looked—tired, grateful, full of a quiet kind of worry that had nowhere to go.

“I feel like I’m messin’ it all up,” he admitted, so low you barely heard it.

“You’re not.”

“You sure?”

“I’ve never been more sure.”

A long silence settled between you. The kind that wasn’t awkward, just full. Full of the things left unsaid, of the weight of love and responsibility and the kind of fear that comes with being someone’s whole world.

Joel rubbed a hand over his face and huffed a short laugh. “You must think I’m pathetic.”

“I think you’re doing your best,” you said. “And that’s more than a lot of kids get.”

He let out a breath, slow and steady. Then, after a pause: “You’re good with her.”

“I love her,” you said. “She’s like a little sister to me.”

Joel looked at you again—something unreadable in his expression. Maybe surprise. Maybe something else.

“I’m real glad you’re still around,” he said quietly.

You smiled. “Me too.”

From inside the house, Sarah called out, “Are we watching a movie or what?”

Joel didn’t take his eyes off you, but there was something softer in them now. Something unguarded.

“I guess we’d better get in there,” he said.

“Yeah,” you said, letting your hand fall from his arm. ��Before she starts without us.”

It was the first time you'd stayed this late at the Miller house. Usually, your evenings with Sarah ended around sunset—movie paused, cookies half-eaten, Joel pulling into the driveway with dust on his jeans and tired thanks in his eyes. But this time, things were different.

Sarah had asked you to stay. She’d clung to your arm, eyes wide and wheedling, and Joel, surprisingly, had said yes.

“I mean… if it’s no trouble,” he’d added, rubbing the back of his neck, trying not to meet your eyes.

You’d said it wasn’t. And you meant it.

Now, the three of you were gathered in the living room. The lights were dimmed, the TV humming with the opening credits of Holes. Sarah had insisted on it—“It’s a classic, don’t even argue”—and had spread every pillow and blanket she could find across the floor like a DIY fort.

She was nestled into the middle of it, legs tucked under her, one of Joel’s flannels hanging off her shoulders. You sat on the edge of the couch, nursing a soda, while Joel took the armchair, one ankle propped lazily over his knee.

The movie started, and for a while, it was all popcorn rustles and Sarah quoting her favorite lines before they even happened. Joel chuckled at her enthusiasm, and you found yourself watching them more than the movie—how Joel’s eyes softened every time Sarah laughed, how she leaned toward you like this was the most natural thing in the world.

Somewhere around the third lizard sighting, Sarah moved to sit on the couch between you and the armrest, leaning against your side like a sleepy cat. You didn’t even notice when her breathing evened out and her head rested on your arm.

Joel noticed though.

His voice came low, amused. “She out?”

You glanced down. “Dead to the world.”

“She’s like her mom that way. Could sleep through a tornado.”

It was the second time he’d mentioned her. His voice was gentle, a little distant, but not painful. Just remembering.

You both sat quietly for a while after that. The soft flicker of the movie lit his face in blues and golds. He looked… peaceful. More relaxed than you’d seen him at those neighborhood barbecues, where he always kept a beer in his hand and one eye on Sarah like he didn’t trust the world not to fall apart.

Now, she was here, asleep beside you. And you were here, beside her.

When the credits finally rolled, Joel stood up slowly, stretching with a soft groan.

“I’ll carry her,” he said, and you nodded.

He moved carefully, gently scooping her up in his arms. She stirred just enough to murmur your name and Joel’s, then went limp again against his chest.

You watched them disappear down the hallway, the quiet creak of her bedroom door closing like the final note in a lullaby.

When he returned, he found you curled up on the couch, clearly half-asleep yourself.

Joel stood there for a moment, just watching you.

He thought about waking you. He really did.

But then he sighed, rubbed a hand over his jaw, and muttered, “Alright then.”

A few minutes later, he was spreading a clean blanket over you in his room and stacking an extra pillow beside your head. He lingered there, eyes soft, before turning off the light and closing the door behind him.

The smell of coffee nudged you awake before sunlight did. For a few seconds, you lay still, half-dreaming, until the stiff cotton sheets and unfamiliar quiet reminded you—this wasn’t your bed. It was Joel's.

You blinked at the wooden beams above you, the smell of frying bacon drifting in through a barely-cracked door. Joel's room was neat but lived-in. The flannel shirt hanging off the bedpost, the guitar case by the closet, the worn boots by the door—it all felt very him.

You sat up slowly, pushing hair out of your face, squinting toward the hallway. It felt intimate in here. Like you were somewhere you weren't quite supposed to be. And yet, the warmth in your chest told a different story.

The floorboards creaked softly as you padded toward the kitchen, feet bare and cautious. Joel stood at the stove, t-shirt wrinkled, hair a little messier than usual. He was flipping bacon, one hand holding a spatula, the other nursing a coffee cup.

He turned when he heard you, and for just a second, there was something caught in his expression. Not surprise. Something softer.

"Mornin'," he said, voice low and a little scratchy.

"You gave me your bed?"

Joel shrugged, turning back to the stove. "You were out cold. Didn’t wanna wake you. Couch ain’t so bad."

You glanced over at the couch, then back at him. "That couch is shaped like a capital 'L'. No way your back's okay."

He smirked, sliding bacon onto a paper towel. "I'm tougher than I look."

You raised an eyebrow, settling onto a stool by the counter. "You mean grumpier."

Before Joel could reply, Sarah wandered in like a hurricane with the battery drained. She wore a hoodie zipped halfway and socks slipping down her heels. Her face was twisted in dramatic agony.

"It feels like a war zone in my gut," she moaned.

Joel tensed. "You need Tylenol? Heating pad?"

"I need ice cream," Sarah said. Then her eyes landed on you. "You're still here?"

You smiled. "Yep. Joel gave me his bed."

Sarah blinked. Then grinned like she’d just won a prize at the fair. "Ooooh."

Joel, behind her, quietly muttered, "Sarah."

She leaned in close to you like you were co-conspirators. "Did you sleep in, like, his bed? Like with the plaid sheets and the pillow that smells like sawdust and... man soap?"

You tried not to laugh. "That very one."

Sarah's eyes glittered. "I knew it! Dad always acts weird around you."

Joel nearly choked on his coffee. "Alright, that's enough. Go sit down."

Sarah plopped onto the couch, cradling a heating pad Joel must have already warmed up for her. Despite her cramps, she looked content. Radiant, even. You noticed her eyes drifting shut, the tiniest smile playing at her lips.

"We should probably go grab her a few things," you murmured to Joel.

He gave a quiet nod. "She said she used the last pad yesterday. I just... didn’t wanna get the wrong thing. Didn’t know there were fifty types."

You touched his arm lightly. "We’ll take care of it."

Just then, the back door creaked open with that familiar screech that only old hinges and a Miller brother could make.

"Hope I’m not too late for bacon," Tommy called, strolling in like he owned the place. He wore his Sunday-best version of casual: jeans, a button-up rolled to the elbows, and a grin that could get him out of any ticket.

Sarah brightened at the sound. "Uncle Tommy!"

"Hey, sweetheart," he beamed, ruffling her curls gently. "Heard you had a bit of a rough morning."

She held up a thumbs-up from under her blanket. "I’m surviving. Thanks to the ice cream and the guest star who stayed overnight."

Tommy's eyebrows shot up, and he turned to look at you, then Joel. "Guest star, huh?"

Joel stiffened where he stood. "She crashed after the movie. I gave her the bed."

Tommy leaned on the counter, eyes twinkling. "Your bed?"

Sarah giggled. "With the plaid sheets and the soap smell and everything!"

Joel let out a breath like he was trying not to combust. "Can y’all stop announcin' that to the whole neighborhood?"

Tommy laughed, clearly enjoying himself. "I’m just sayin’—breakfast smells like affection, and you’ve got your flannel lookin’ a little less grumpy today."

"She’s good with Sarah," Joel said gruffly, pouring another cup of coffee. "That’s all."

"Sure," Tommy said, nodding slowly. "And the way you’re hovering near her like a guard dog in flannel, that’s also ‘just good with Sarah’?" he whispered.

Joel shot him a warning glance, but Tommy only grinned wider.

"Uncle Tommy," Sarah said sweetly, suddenly conspiratorial, "do you think Dad has a crush?"

Joel nearly dropped his mug. You buried your face in your hands, laughing helplessly.

Tommy gasped theatrically. "Sarah! I think you might be right. Look at that blush—he’s turning redder than my truck!"

Joel groaned. "Jesus Christ, I should’ve stayed in bed."

"Too bad someone else was in it," Tommy teased.

Joel turned to you, his voice dry. "You wanna take her to the store now? Might be safer."

You, still laughing, nodded. "Before Sarah starts handing out wedding invitations."

Sarah waved a hand from the couch. "Too late, I already made a vision board."

Tommy threw his head back, howling. Joel just stared at the ceiling like it might open up and swallow him whole.

You grabbed your bag, still chuckling, and gestured to Sarah. "C’mon, let’s get you the fancy kind of pain relief. Maybe even a heating pad shaped like a llama."

Sarah sprang up with unexpected energy. "This is why you’re my favorite."

Joel muttered, "You weren’t sayin’ that when I was up at 2 a.m. gettin’ you ice water."

She kissed his cheek and skipped toward the door.

As the two of you left, you heard Tommy say behind you, "You know, I really am happy for you, big brother. But I’m gonna keep messin’ with you just the same."

Joel replied with a grunt, but his voice, softer now, said more than his words ever could.

He was grateful.

And he was in trouble.

The store's fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead as you and Sarah wandered down the aisle lined with shelves full of period products. The “feminine care” section was a riot of pastel colors, cryptic labels, and brands that somehow managed to sound both comforting and clinical.

Sarah stared up at them, arms crossed, mouth slightly open. "Okay, so... what's the difference between ultra-thin and ultra-thin with wings? Is it, like, flying powers?"

You snorted. "No flying powers, sadly. The wings just help keep things in place."

"Disappointing," she said with a sigh. "I was hoping for at least a little magic."

You crouched to scan the lower shelves. "Do you want the same kind you had last time, or do you wanna try something different?"

Sarah shrugged. "Whatever you think’s best. I trust your judgment. You’re clearly a seasoned professional."

You tossed a box into the basket. "The seasoned-est."

Sarah peeked up at you, slyly. "So... speaking of judgment."

You raised an eyebrow. "Uh-huh?"

"Do you like older guys?"

You blinked. "That’s... a jump."

She grinned, clearly proud of herself. "No it’s not. It’s an investigative segue."

You tried to stifle a laugh. "Sarah."

"What? I’m curious! You’re, like, a woman. With... grown-up tastes."

"You’re twelve."

"Exactly! I need mentorship."

You paused, holding a box of heating patches. "Is this about your dad again?"

"I mean, not entirely. But also: yes."

You gave her a look.

"I just think you two would be cute. You both make weirdly good pancakes. And when you were sleeping in his bed, I swear he was, like, standing in the hallway checking if you were still breathing. Like some kind of lumberjack angel."

You put the patches in the basket. "Lumberjack angel?"

"Don’t mock the poetry."

You walked toward the checkout, and she practically skipped after you despite the heating pad she clutched like a teddy bear.

"Okay but seriously—" she continued, lowering her voice dramatically, "—do you think he’s cute? Like, if he didn’t have the whole ‘dad’ thing going on?"

You sighed, amused. "Sarah, I’m not talking about your dad like that."

She smirked. "That means yes."

You gave her a mock glare as the cashier started scanning your items. Sarah, never missing a beat, leaned on the counter like she was discussing secret spy business.

"Also, Uncle Tommy said you could do better. I told him to hush. I think my dad is the best you’re gonna get."

"Wow. Brutal."

"I'm in pain. Let me live."

As you bagged everything up and started walking toward the exit, Sarah looped her arm through yours and leaned against you.

"Thanks for coming with me. It’s way less awkward with you. Dad would’ve had an existential crisis in the tampon aisle."

"I believe it."

"And also... thanks for not making this whole thing a big weird deal. I was really freaked out yesterday. Thought I was dying. You were cool about it."

You softened. "That’s what I’m here for."

She looked up at you, a little more serious now. "And I really hope you end up my stepmom. But, like, the hot kind."

You blinked. "SARAH."

She cackled. "What? Just planting seeds."

Outside, the sun was warm on your face. You shook your head, laughing as you loaded the bags into Joel’s truck.

And somewhere inside that little gremlin of a girl was the biggest heart you’d ever met. Even on her worst day, she was matchmaking and joking and holding your hand.

God help Joel.

He didn’t stand a chance.

The sun was angling low by the time you pulled back into the driveway, the kind of orange Texas glow that made everything look a little too golden and a little too unreal. Sarah was humming to herself in the passenger seat, clutching the drugstore bag like it held state secrets.

You climbed out of the truck, stretching, only to freeze halfway through.

Joel was out front, shirt sticking to his back in the heat, kneeling beside a crooked section of the fence. A small toolbox sat next to him, half-open, nails scattered in neat little rows. His shirt—dark blue and worn—was clinging to his frame in all the right places. Sleeves rolled up past his elbows. Forearms dusted in sawdust.

He looked up as you shut the car door, and for a moment, all you could do was blink.

“Hey,” he called, wiping the back of his hand across his forehead. “Y’all make it okay?”

Sarah jumped out of the truck and held up the bag. “We conquered the period aisle!” she declared, marching proudly inside.

Joel chuckled. “That so?” Then his eyes flicked to you, and something in them softened. “Thanks. For takin’ her.”

You nodded, but your voice caught somewhere in your throat. “Of course.”

He bent back down, hammer in hand, and you stood there a beat too long watching the muscles in his arm flex with each nail he drove in.

It’s just because of what Sarah said, you told yourself. That’s all. She put it in your head.

But that wasn’t entirely true. The man looked like a Calvin Klein ad shot in a lumber yard.

You forced yourself to turn toward the house before your brain made it worse.

Inside, Sarah was already curled up on the couch, heating pad in place, water bottle in hand, victorious and slightly smug.

Joel followed you in not long after, wiping his hands on a rag. He glanced at the clock, then at you.

“You hungry?” he asked. “I was gonna grill a few things for dinner. Nothin’ fancy.”

“Stay!” Sarah added immediately, perking up. “You helped today and you’re, like, family. Dad even makes real food when you’re here. It’s a rare event.”

Joel gave her a look but didn’t argue. His eyes landed on you again. “You’re welcome to. Honestly.”

You smiled. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

Joel grilled something—probably out of guilt for the frozen waffles breakfast. It smelled amazing. Burgers, seasoned fries, sliced watermelon, the works. You sat across from Sarah while Joel set everything out. Just as he was bringing over a dish of pickles, the back door swung open.

“Smells like a cookout for three, but I count four plates,” Tommy drawled, letting himself in like he always did. His jeans were too tight, shirt a little too fitted, like he was contractually obligated to flirt with the universe.

Joel gave him a side glance. “Don’t you have a house?”

“Sure do. But yours has food. And company.”

Tommy’s eyes slid to you, and his grin grew. “Well hey there.”

You smiled. “Hi, Tommy.”

Sarah rolled her eyes dramatically. “Don’t even, Uncle Tommy. She’s my best friend.”

Joel muttered, “God help me,” under his breath and passed you the ketchup.

Halfway through dinner, Tommy was in rare form. He elbowed Joel mid-bite. “So. When’s the last time you cooked like this for anyone?”

Joel didn’t look up. “Don’t start.”

“I’m just sayin’. I visit and get leftover chili. She visits and it’s gourmet.”

You were trying to hide your grin behind your water glass.

Tommy pointed his fork at you. “He always gets like this when you’re around. All tense and upright like he’s bein’ evaluated by the food network. You got the man sweating over burger seasoning.”

Joel groaned. “I swear to God, Tommy.”

Sarah giggled. “He did check the grill temp like, five times.”

You caught Joel’s eye. He looked exasperated, but his ears were red. Very red.

Tommy wasn’t done. “You know, Sarah’s got a good eye. She’s not wrong. This whole thing”—he gestured vaguely between you and Joel—“feels domestic.”

“Tommy,” Joel warned.

Sarah added, “We’re basically a sitcom now. One where the hot dad doesn’t know he’s in love.”

Joel dropped his head into his hands.

Tommy raised his glass. “To sitcoms. And slow burns.”

You didn’t know whether to laugh or run.

Joel caught your eye again. And this time, he didn’t look away.

It wasn’t a big party. That had never been your dad’s style. But the backyard looked sweet under the string lights he’d looped between trees, casting a soft gold hue over the old lawn chairs and the fold-out table covered in mismatched paper plates and bowls of chips. A CD player in the corner hummed the tunes of old country and early 2000s radio hits, the kind your dad thought “young people liked.”

You’d just turned 22. Most of your college friends were scattered across the state—too far to make it for a casual Sunday night cookout. So it was just a few neighbors, your dad manning the grill, and a soft breeze that hinted at the edge of summer’s peak.

Joel showed up just as your dad was tending to the barbeque, Sarah at his side, her curls bouncing in a way that made her look like she was floating toward you. She held out a card like it was a trophy.

“Happy birthday!” she beamed. “I made you a masterpiece.”

You laughed and took it carefully. The card was covered in glitter and tiny doodles: a birthday cake, a sparkly dinosaur wearing sunglasses, and a poorly drawn but heartfelt portrait of you, her, and Joel standing under a rainbow.

“I love it,” you said, genuinely. “I’m framing it.”

“Good,” she grinned. “It took me forty-five minutes and three glitter glue explosions.”

Behind her, Joel gave you a small smile. He was in a dark gray button-down rolled to the elbows and jeans that didn’t look new, but still somehow looked good. Really good. You’d never seen him dressed like this—like he tried, just a little. He was holding a six-pack of Shiner Bock and a small rectangular gift wrapped in brown paper and string.

"Happy birthday," he said, voice quieter. “Didn’t know what to get, so…”

He handed you the gift and scratched at the back of his neck.

You gave him a curious smile as you took it. “Should I open it now?”

He shrugged. “Up to you.”

You peeled back the paper. Inside was a well-worn copy of To Kill a Mockingbird. The corners were softened from age, and the inside cover had a note in Joel’s neat, deliberate handwriting:

“You mentioned this was your favorite once. Figured you should have a version that’s seen a few years too. —J”

For a moment, the backyard went quiet around you—music, chatter, all of it faded. You looked up and met his eyes. Warm. Kind. Embarrassed, maybe. But also something else. Like he saw you in a way that you hadn’t let yourself imagine too much.

“Thank you,” you said, and meant it more than he probably realized.

Sarah was watching the two of you with her arms crossed, smirking. “You two are so obvious.”

Joel cleared his throat and turned toward the food table. “Burgers should be ready soon.”

You followed, your cheeks flushed.

Later, after burgers and sides and Sarah’s overenthusiastic attempts to pin the tail on the inflatable donkey, which your dad found hilarious, the grill was cooling and the sky was a bruised violet. You were inside the kitchen, trying to find a knife that wasn’t dull to slice the birthday cake. Your dad had disappeared, muttering something about “checking the propane line,” which you were 99% sure was code for “giving you space.”

Joel came in behind you with a tray of empty cups. “Need a hand?”

You turned, knife in one hand, cake staring back at you. “Yeah. Unless you wanna watch me murder this thing.”

He smirked, stepping beside you. Close. His shoulder brushed yours as he reached for a stack of plates.

“What kind of cake is this, anyway?” he asked, leaning just enough to read the label on the box.

“Chocolate with strawberry filling. Sarah picked it out. Said it was ‘romantic birthday vibes.’”

Joel laughed softly. “That girl’s gonna run a matchmaking business one day.”

“She already is. We’re just her test subjects.”

You looked up to find him looking down, his eyes flicking to your mouth just for a second. Just a second—but it was enough to knock the air sideways in your lungs.

You turned back to the cake, hoping your hands weren’t shaking. You started to cut, and Joel leaned closer, one hand resting on the counter beside you.

“Need me to steady the plate?” he asked.

Your hands were a little clumsy, distracted by the warmth of him next to you. “Maybe. It’s a two-person job.”

He chuckled, and you could feel the laugh more than hear it—like it buzzed through the space between your arm and his.

Then—

“You guys are standing really close,” Sarah’s voice rang out behind you, making you jump. She was leaning on the doorframe with a smug little grin.

Joel jerked his hand away like he’d been caught stealing.

“I was helping,” he muttered.

“With cake?” Sarah raised an eyebrow.

“Cutting’s an art,” Joel said, deadpan, making her giggle.

You just shook your head and passed her a plate. She skipped off with her prize, leaving you and Joel blinking in the soft hum of the kitchen.

“Thanks,” you said after a beat. “For everything today.”

Joel nodded, still a little red around the ears. “Wasn’t much.”

“It was,” you said. “And the book… I mean it.”

He smiled, shy but genuine. “Glad you liked it.”

And then neither of you moved. The air hung between you like a stretched-out string.

Until Sarah called from outside, “We need cake now!”

Joel exhaled. “Duty calls.”

You followed him out, but something lingered behind in the kitchen—the warmth of him, the nearness, the feeling that this thing between you wasn’t just in your head anymore.

The backyard had emptied. The last of the neighbors had waved their goodbyes. The string lights were still glowing, bugs dancing lazily in their warmth. Your dad had gone to bed after mumbling something about “too many burgers, not enough bourbon,” and the house was quiet now — quiet in a way that left too much room for your thoughts.

You were in the kitchen rinsing out plates, the hem of your party dress damp from leaning too close to the sink, your hands wrinkled and smelling like lemon soap. There was half a chocolate-strawberry cake left, the one Sarah had insisted on, and somehow you couldn’t just toss it.

She would’ve protested. Loudly.

You dried your hands, boxed the leftover slices neatly, and stared at the little pink-and-brown cake box for longer than you needed to.

Your feet moved before you could talk yourself out of it.

It was pushing 10:30, but Joel’s porch light was still on, casting a dim halo around the faded welcome mat. You knocked lightly, the box balanced on your hip.

A few seconds passed. Then the door creaked open.

Joel stood there barefoot in gray sweatpants and a black T-shirt, looking tired in the way only dads could be — soft around the edges but still solid, still present. His hair was tousled, and he looked like he’d only just sat down for the night.

“Hey,” he said, surprised but not unhappy. “Everything alright?”

You held up the cake box like a peace offering. “Didn’t feel right keeping it. Sarah picked it. Thought she might want it.”

He stepped aside, motioning you in. “She would’ve. She’s at Tommy’s tonight, though. Asked to sleep over.”

You paused on the threshold, your heart thudding a little louder. “Oh.”

“Come on in,” Joel said gently. “You sure you’re okay?”

You nodded, stepping inside. The house smelled like clean laundry and cedar. Familiar and warm. Lived-in. You followed him into the kitchen and set the cake down on the counter.

Joel leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. “Long day?”

You smiled faintly. “Fun day. Weird, too. Turning twenty-two in your childhood backyard while your babysitting kid gives you love advice.”

Joel chuckled, eyes crinkling. “Yeah. She’s... somethin’.”

You leaned back on your elbows against the counter. The room was dim — just the small lamp over the sink on — and the silence was comfortable at first. But then it turned charged. He hadn’t moved. Neither had you.

Your gaze drifted. His jaw was stubbled, his hair slightly damp, like maybe he’d just taken a shower. He looked... good. More than good.

You caught him watching you back, just a second too long.

The moment thickened.

“I, uh,” you started, voice catching slightly. “I meant what I said earlier. About the book. It was... really thoughtful.”

Joel looked at you then — really looked — and whatever wall he’d been holding onto, the one made of age difference and neighborly boundaries and the awkwardness of being Sarah’s dad... it cracked.

He pushed off the doorway slowly, walked toward you, stopping just close enough to make your breath hitch.

“I’m glad you liked it,” he said softly.

The space between you was a livewire.

“I keep trying not to think about you like this,” you whispered, voice barely audible.

His jaw tightened — not in anger, but in restraint.

“Me too.”

You didn’t move. Neither did he.

Then — softly, carefully — Joel reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers brushed your cheek, lingered.

“You’re too young for me,” Joel said, the words barely more than a gravel-edged whisper.

You looked up at him, your chest tight, heart thudding in your throat. “I’m not a kid.”

His eyes darkened, like you’d struck a match in the middle of a dry field. He swallowed hard. “I know.”

The silence between you turned into something electric, something living. The only sound was the quiet hum of the fridge and your own uneven breathing.

Joel took a small step forward, just enough to close the last of the space. He stood so close you could see the flecks of gold in his eyes, the faint crease between his brows like he was warring with himself. His hand came up—slow, hesitant—and hovered near your face before he finally gave in and touched you. His thumb skimmed along your jaw, rough fingertips brushing the soft edge of your cheek.

“Been tryin’ real damn hard not to want this,” he said, voice ragged.

Your breath hitched. “Then stop trying.”

That was all it took.

He kissed you.

But it wasn’t soft. It wasn’t tentative. It was weeks, maybe even months of unspoken glances, quiet admiration, long nights with Sarah between you, laughter over coffee, shared space, and now, finally, just the two of you.

His mouth found yours like he’d already dreamed it. His hands were sure now, cupping your face, sliding into your hair, then down—down to your waist, your hips—pulling you flush against him. You made a quiet sound against his mouth and that undid something in him. He groaned, low in his throat, and kissed you deeper, lips parting, tongue brushing yours, slow and deliberate.

You didn’t realize you’d moved until your back hit the counter behind you. His hands braced on either side of you, caging you in but never pressing too hard. Just close. Just real.

You slid your fingers into his hair, damp from a shower or maybe just the heat of the night, tugging lightly. He leaned into your touch, one hand sliding beneath the hem of your shirt at your back—his palm hot against your skin, callused but careful. The contrast made your knees weaken.

When he finally pulled back, he didn’t move far. His forehead rested against yours, his breathing fast, uneven. You could feel his heart pounding through his chest, matching yours like a drumbeat in sync.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” he said again, but this time it sounded like a confession. A regret that wasn’t real.

“But you did,” you whispered, lips still tingling, hand still curled into his shirt like you couldn’t let him go just yet.

Joel’s eyes searched yours, something stormy flickering in their depths. “If you stay... if we do this... it ain’t casual for me. You understand that?”

You nodded slowly.

A beat passed. Then another.

His hand slid to your cheek again, and he kissed you once more—slower this time, a kind of reverence in it. His lips pressed to yours like he was trying to memorize the feel of you. Like he didn’t quite believe it was real.

When he pulled back again, there was a trace of a smile at the corner of his mouth. Tired. Hopeful. Hungry.

“You wanna stay?” he asked softly.

You looked at him, really looked. His bare feet on the kitchen floor. His hair mussed. That tiny crease between his brows. The way his eyes had gone soft, all guarded affection and barely restrained want.

“Yeah,” you said. “I do.”

Joel’s breath was still shallow when he stepped back just enough to look at you, like he was double-checking that you were still there, still real. You didn’t let go of him. Your fingers were still hooked into the front of his shirt, still pressing against the solid warmth of him.

His voice was quiet, low and careful. “If we go upstairs…”

“I know what I’m saying yes to,” you interrupted softly.

He hesitated, studying you like you were a question he’d never been brave enough to answer until now. But something in your face, in your voice, seemed to break whatever final restraint he was holding onto.

Joel nodded once.

Wordless, he took your hand.

The walk through the house was quiet, heavy with tension—not the awkward kind, but the kind that hummed in the air like a string pulled taut. Each step up the stairs felt like it carried weight. Anticipation. Choice.

His bedroom door creaked softly as he pushed it open.

In the dim lighting, it felt intimate. Lived-in but not messy. Clean but unpretentious. The scent of him lingered in the space—cedar soap and sawdust, fabric softener and something deeper, something unmistakably Joel.

He turned to face you in the doorway, fingers still twined with yours.

“You still okay?” he asked, voice rough, eyes searching yours like he was afraid to blink and miss something.

“Yes,” you whispered, breathless. “More than okay.”

Joel looked at you for a long moment. Then he leaned in and kissed you again — deeper this time, with more certainty, like the last of his resistance had slipped loose.

Your fingers slid into his hair, tugging gently, and he groaned softly against your mouth. He tasted like something rich and dark and slow. His hands roamed, reverent and careful, touching you like he was trying to learn you by feel — every curve, every sound you made under his fingertips.

When you gasped as his hand skimmed lower, he paused. “Tell me if you need me to stop,” he murmured into your skin.

You shook your head. “Don’t stop. Please, Joel.”

He kissed down your throat, down your chest, leaving a trail of warmth wherever his lips touched. Your back arched instinctively, your body aching to be closer. There was nothing rushed in the way he undressed you — every movement was measured, like he was unwrapping something he’d wanted for a long, long time but never thought he’d be allowed to have.

And when you were bare beneath him, laid out in the soft hush of his bedroom, you felt more seen — more wanted — than you ever had before.

“You’re so goddamn beautiful,” Joel murmured, his hand brushing along your waist, your hip, your thigh. “Don’t even know what you’re doin’ to me.”

You reached for him, found the hem of his shirt, and he let you lift it up and over his head. He was solid and warm and real beneath your palms, and when you kissed down his chest, he hissed through his teeth — a sound that made heat curl deep in your stomach.

The rest came off piece by piece — not rushed, but not slow either. Just… inevitable.

And then he was over you again, skin to skin, his weight pressing you into the mattress, grounding you. His nose brushed yours, like a silent request.

You cupped his cheek. “I want this. I want you.”

He kissed you again — not soft this time, but sure, open, claiming. His hand slipped under your thigh, lifted you to him, and you felt him press against you, heavy and warm.

You both gasped as your bodies joined — not all at once, but slowly, carefully, like you were fitting puzzle pieces together. Like your bodies already knew the rhythm even if the rest of you hadn’t caught up yet.

Joel’s breath stuttered as he sank fully into you, and for a moment, he just held there — his forehead against yours, both of you trembling, trying to hold on.

“Jesus,” he whispered. “You feel like heaven.”

You didn’t have the words to answer. Just the way your hands clung to him, the way your body opened for him, welcomed him in.

He moved slowly, deliberately — not just fucking you, but feeling you, like this meant something. Like he was afraid to miss it.

And you met him, movement for movement, every breath shared, every sound caught in the dark like a secret.

There was something tender in the way he whispered your name when you cried out his — something reverent, like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to have you like this. And when your body tightened around him, shuddered beneath him, he caught you through it, kissed your cheek, your mouth, your neck — whispered that you were perfect, that you were his.

He followed soon after, his voice breaking into a groan as he pressed as deep as he could, shaking with the force of it, with everything he’d been holding back.

When it was over, he didn’t move far. Just enough to roll you gently to your side and pull you close, your bodies still tangled together, still warm and slick with each other.

You felt him kiss your shoulder, then your neck. “You okay?” he asked again, voice softer than ever.

“Yeah,” you murmured. “Joel…”

He pulled you tighter. “I got you, baby. I got you.”

You tucked your face into the space between his neck and shoulder, listened to his heartbeat.

And that’s how you stayed — wrapped in warmth, in quiet, in something neither of you were ready to name, but both of you felt all the same.

A/N: Should i make a part two for this? Idk how i would continue it, so if you want drop some ideas in the comments. Thanks for reading hun xx

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