#Pushin Forward Back | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

toxicanonymity · 9 months ago

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3.6k, Joel x virgin f!reader x Uncle Tommy SUMMARY: You lose your virginity to Joel with Tommy’s emotional and physical support and his horny, reassuring presence. WARNINGS: I8+ ONE SHOT PWP, mild dubcon (coaxing) virginity loss, very soft, unsafe piv, creampie, dirty talk, light degradation, self-pleasure, daddy kink, MFM-ish but no holes for Tommy, unspecified legal age gap, innocence kink, use of she/her for vag, happy reader but not a healthy relationship w/ clear boundaries. A/N: happy valentine's day! 🖤 FIC RECS at the end.

Miller bros. sharing masterlist

Joel was out for the day, and you were taking a nap with Tommy. He was spooning you under a soft blanket on top of the bed. When you woke up, you felt it again–the hardness pressed against you, through his boxers. His massive belt buckle had been hurting you, so he took his jeans off altogether. He took yours off while he was at it.

When you began to stir awake, Tommy sighed as he pulled you back against him with a subtle push of his hips, which sent a rush of blood to your loins. When you fully woke up, Tommy’s hand was resting on your hip, and your panties were dripping wet. That’s supposed to be for Joel. You scooched your hips forward a little, and Tommy propped himself up with an elbow.

“What’s wrong, beautiful?” His fingers drew light, aimless circles on your shirt, over your tummy.

“Nothing,” you mumbled with your body tense.

“Relax, baby,” He murmured, and dipped his head. He pressed a slow kiss onto your cheek.

You tried to relax. “Sometimes, when you get really close, I feel like I feel with Daddy”

“How’s that, baby?”

“Don’t make me say it,” you whined.

“Nothin’ to be ashamed of.”

You sighed. “Wet. Tingly. Like I want him to get home.”

“Mmm hmm,” Tommy nodded.

“That’s s’posed to be for him," you whispered.

“It’s natural, baby. Don’t you worry ‘bout that.”

He gently rested a hand on your panties. "How ya feel down here. . ." his fingers trailed up your tummy, up your sternum, between your breasts. “Got nothin’ to do with how ya feel here,” he whispered and tapped his fingers on your chest. “Just how our bodies work, sugar.” He caressed your chest, and his breath was humid on your ear. “That sweet lil pussy don’t care whose cock this is.” The stiff shape nudged your back side. “She knows it’s big, and hard, and ready for her. ‘S’all she cares about.” His hand slid up and gently cupped your breast. His crude words made you twitch.

“He’s gonna put it in soon,” you told Tommy.

“Yeah,” he whispered and rested his head, nestling your head under his chin. “Think you’re ready for it?”

“I think so,” you answered, “but I’m nervous.”

“'bout what, baby doll?”

“Is it gonna hurt?”

Tommy scooted back and nudged you so your back was flat on the bed. He propped up his head, read your face, and wet his lips. “Prolly a little, yeah.”

“What’s it gonna be like?”

“Oh, baby. You're gonna love it. You're gonna want it all the time."

"What's the hurt gonna be like?"

Tommy hesitated, then asked, "Gave ya the tip already?”

You nodded.

He lightly dangled his hand over your hip so his fingertips grazed your panties. He let his fingers wander down the cotton until you opened your thighs.

“Good girl,” he whispered with a smile as two fingers slid over your clit, making you throb. His middle finger reached the damp crotch of your panties. “Mmm, baby. You’re gonna be just fine.” He prodded at the wettest spot and inhaled sharply as the fabric dipped into you. “Well, he’s gonna put it here again.”

His two fingers slid up, pausing to ghost your clit for a few seconds, making you whimper. “Shhh, I’ll come back for ya,” he cooed, and pressed a light kiss to your temple. Then his hand continued up your mound. “But this time,” Tommy said, “He’s gonna keep pushin’.” His fingers slowly trailed up, nudging under the hem of your worn, cotton shirt, until his middle finger dipped into your belly button. “He’s gonna be all the way up here, baby.”

You squirmed under his light touch. “And it’s gonna hurt?”

“Not too bad,” he reassured you. “Know why?”

“Why.”

“Cause ya want it real bad. Makes your pussy get real wet.”

Your face burned.

“She’ll burn a little. She’s gotta stretch for Daddy Joel.”

“How much?”

“Oh, baby,” Tommy’s voice dropped, and his hard cock grazed your thigh. “She’ll stretch real good. She’s gotta.”

"How do you know I can do it?"

"Trust me, sweet girl." You looked at him skeptically.

"Tell ya what. . .if I'm wrong, you can braid my hair, how's that?"

You silently laughed and nodded.

"Don't get too excited about my hair, now," he smiled. "Cause you're gonna take that cock real good."

Tommy slid his hand down, out from under your top, and made a loose fist. “One day, she’ll prolly fit this.” Your heart skipped a beat. No way. He looked at his fist and wet his lips, then glanced at your face and a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Whatcha think, baby?” he brought his fist down to your panties and began to graze your most sensitive place with his knuckles, taking slow, heavy breaths. His eyes were hazy with desire. His wouldn't even fit between your legs unless you were spread wide.

“Too big,” you answered with your heart rate picking up.

“Shhh, it’s okay,” Tommy whispered. “One day. . . not yet. Daddy Joel ain’t that big. You can take him.”

“But he’s big,” you protested.

“Yeah, baby. He’s big. But you’ll be alright.” He uncurled his fist and laid his massive hand on your mound. “I’ll be right there with ya.”

“You will?” you perked up. You loved Joel, wouldn't change a thing about him. No one compared to Joel -- his presence, his touch. But Tommy had a way with words, and Joel wasn't much of a talker.

“Sure, baby. We’ll be real careful. Alright?”

“Okay,” you answered with a hint of hesitation. Tommy ghosted your clit through your panties again, then slid down and tapped the soaked fabric. “Know what this hole’s made for?”

“What?”

He brought his lips to the shell of your ear and whispered, “Takin’ dick and pushin’ out babies." You twitched and bit your lip.

You squirmed and throbbed.

“Want me to take care’a this?” He asked and ran two fingers up and down the wet cotton covering your seam, making you ache with need. “Mmm,” he thrust against your hip.

You shook your head no. But feeling like you could burst, you slid your own hand down your panties. Tommy pulled his hand out of the way, watching in wonder. He adjusted himself and you moaned softly at the push of his cotton-clad arousal.

“Fuck,” he whispered as you closed your eyes.

You felt your breast with your other hand. “Mmm,” you moaned. You squeezed your thighs together and touched yourself. It took less than a minute for your whole body to flex as you came undone, with Tommy breathing heavily and slowly rutting against your hip. You opened your eyes as you finished coming and his face was spellbound.

“Do me a favor, baby,” he breathed. “Lemme borrow some’a that juice.”

Your face burned, but you slid your hand down your panties compliantly, making Tommy groan. He took his stiff cock out, and your upper body heated up. He held his erection for you, and you wiped your slick on it as unsexy as you could.

“Good girl,” he whispered.

“I don’t wanna-”

“Don’t gotta do nothin’, baby. Don’t gotta look.”

You closed your eyes and listened to his hand squishing around his cock under his grunts and sighs until he came with a shudder. You kept your eyes closed, but you could smell his cum and it made your mouth water.

—----

In the following days, whenever Joel touched you, you wanted him inside. But when he fucked your thighs and you felt the heft of his cock sliding against your folds, the girth of him scared you. you remembered Tommy's fist, and somehow, that made you tingle and relax.

Joel told you he was going to make a special day for you to show you how much he loved you. He said Tommy would be there, too, and you knew that would be the day. Throughout the week, Tommy kept checking in and reassuring you, “You’re gonna take it so good, baby.” If you had any doubts, he’d say, “I’m gonna be right there,” affectionately stroking your cheek. You talked more about what to expect. "Prolly won't come the first few times. That's okay, that's normal."

When the day came, they woke you up with a special breakfast and a bouquet of wildflowers. Joel helped you put on a dress you didn’t have before. It was comfy, with elbow-length sleeves and a sweetheart neckline. It was a little tight on your breasts, but he and Tommy liked it that way. You could tell by the way their eyes lingered.

Tommy made dinner while Joel set the table with flowers and candles. You ate a light meal in the candlelight and took half a glass of wine. While you and Joel finished your wine, Tommy retired to the bedroom. At the table, Joel looked at you adoringly and held your hand. His eyes were soft, and his beard sparkled in the candlelight. “No one like you, baby.” He kissed your hand, your lips, and pulled you into his lap.

Tommy returned and gave Joel a nod. Joel blew out the candles.

“Ready, princess?” Joel asked. You nodded and asked to use the restroom. He took your hand and led you into the bedroom. There were candles and flowers--so much lavendar. When it filled your nostrils, you felt soothed.

When you were ready, you came out from the bathroom and sat down on the bed. Joel knelt before you and kissed his way down your body before removing your dress, leaving you in your bra and panties. Tommy propped up some pillows and took off his jeans and shirt before reclining on the pillows and spreading his legs.

“Go ‘head, baby,” Joel coaxed, caressing your thigh. “Uncle Tommy’s got ya.”

You laid back against Tommy’s bare, barrel chest, and his skin was warm against yours. “Let’s get comfortable,” Tommy murmured and put your hands on his thighs. He lightly rubbed your arms as you laid your head back against him, your head resting in the crook of his neck. You leaned your temple against his jaw, and he kissed your head.

Joel undressed, and the bulge in his boxer briefs made your breath hitch. You pulled your eyes up to where the waistband dug into his soft tummy. He palmed himself, slowly rubbing the outline as he knelt on the bed and looked at you like he could swallow you whole.

“So gorgeous,” Joel whispered, eyes traveling up and down your body between Tommy’s knees. Joel started at your feet. He gently massaged your calves as he laid soft kisses onto the delicate skin of your feet, then your ankles. He gently spread your legs.

“Little more, baby,” Tommy whispered, and you spread them wider, knees up in the air. “Good girl."

Joel was on all fours between your legs. He slowly made his way up your body, leaving open-mouthed kisses up your legs until he reached your inner thighs. He sat up and palmed his growing bulge, looking at you hungrily. Joel hooked his fingers into the waistband of your panties and backed his way down the bed as he pulled them off. Tommy’s chest nudged you forward so he could unclasp your bra. You let it fall off, and Tommy put it aside. You relaxed back into him, and he kissed you on the crown of your head.

Joel returned between your legs, lowered his body, and gave your thighs some attention. He kissed them with tongue, lightly sucking, barely nibbling. He breathed through his nose, and you could see him growing hungrier as he approached your cunt.

“Gonna make ya come first,” Tommy whispered. He held one of your hands and stroked your other arm, which had a calming effect. "It'll help ya stretch."

Joel got down on his elbows and hooked his hands under your legs to rest atop your thighs. His pinkies rested in the creases where your thighs met your hips. “Love you, baby,” Joel’s eyes sparkled as he looked up at you.

He took a few deep breaths and lowered his hips flat against the bed. You tilted your hips, and he dragged his nose up your dripping cunt, inhaling through his nose. “Oh, baby,” he breathed. He lapped at your cunt, and you moaned. He brought one hand to your entrance and rested his other hand on your lower abdomen. He slid a thick finger inside, then, after a few, slow pumps in and out, he carefully added a second digit, making you gasp softly.

You watched Joel's ass flex, his hips pressing into the mattress as he devoured your pussy, lapping up every drop. Tommy whispered in your ear, "Feelin' good, sugar? Feel her gettin' ready?" He circled your bare nipples with his light touch while Joel’s mouth stayed on your throbbing clit with his fingers inside. Joel added a third digit, and you felt so full. "Mm," you moaned, and Tommy gave a low whistle. "Look at you takin' all those fingers. Hungry, ain't she?"

Joel groaned into you as you took his three fat fingers. This time it was easier than ever. Tommy cupped your bare breasts, and Joel worked your clit with his tongue, leaving his fingers inside. Joel's massive hand on your mound held you steady when you began to squirm.

You whimpered, and Tommy said, “Let it happen, sugar.”

Joel moaned deeper, louder into the apex of your folds, and his hips dug deeper into the mattress.

“Squeeze his fingers,” Tommy urged you.

You closed your eyes, took a deep breath, and let the climax seize you. You whimpered, "daddy," and clenched around Joel’s fingers. As your orgasm waned, Tommy slid his hands off your breasts to lightly rub your arms again.

When your eyes fluttered open, Joel cupped your cheek, his beard shiny with your slick. “That was good, baby." He kissed you deeply, and you tasted yourself. When your lips broke apart, he whispered, “you’re gonna do so good." He kissed down your cheek, to your chin, then your neck. He dragged his lips down your chest to your breasts. He swirled his tongue around your nipple, then sucked, humming “Mmm,” as it further sharpened under his tongue. He did the same with the other nipple, then kissed you on the mouth again. He leaned his forehead against yours for a moment, then pulled back and asked, “You ready, baby?”

You nodded. Joel pulled down his boxer briefs, and his cock sprang free, stiff and commanding. "Look at that," Tommy whispered, his lips brushing the top of your ear. "She's gonna swallow it up, baby."

Even with Joel's boxer briefs off, a slight indentation remained where they were, just below the tanner, pudgier skin of his lower tummy. He idly ran his fingers through the trail of hair below his belly button. Then he lined himself up.

"Gonna be just fine," Tommy reassured you. Your heart was racing as Joel's leaking tip grazed your wet, needy hole. You flinched and Joel pulled back, making his cock spring up. He leaned over you and kissed you one more time. You reached for his chest and smoothed his chest hair. “Love you so much,” he whispered. "You okay?" You nodded.

Joel’s hand returned to his stiff, veiny cock. The swollen tip dragged against your clit as he brought it down to your tight, wet hole and notched it just inside. Tommy was getting hard against your back, and you had hardly noticed until it twitched at the sight of Joel ready for entry.

Joel pushed slightly forward. The stretch was already starting, with just the tip. You took a deep breath and held onto Tommy’s knees, petting his soft leg hair with your thumbs. Your breaths became shallow as Joel began to slowly push into you.

“Breathe, baby,” Tommy reminded you. You breathed in the lavender and felt yourself relax. "Yeah." Tommy shifted under you, and his erection pressed harder against your back.

“Good girl,” Joel murmured and looked you in the eyes.

“Daddy,” you whispered.

“Yeah, babydoll.”

“I love you.”

“Love you too, baby.”

With less than two inches inside, Joel's chest was heaving like he was holding back.

He moved his hips slightly forward. It burned, and your eyes burned a little. You pinched Tommy's knee hair and he flinched. You remembered to blink.

"Shhh, it's okay, baby. The burn ain't forever," Tommy reminded you. "She needs a second," he told Joel.

Joel paused for your body to catch up, until the burn began to fade. You relaxed against Tommy again.

“You good?” Tommy whispered in your ear. You nodded. "Look at her stretchin' 'round daddy's fat cock." You kicked your lips and braced for more. "Loves it, don't she?" Tommy whispered. "That pussy looooves cock."

Joel pushed a smidgen further, and you felt his girth dividing your soft, wet walls as he went deeper.

“She’s doin’ so good,” Tommy gushed.

“Mmmm,” you sighed as Joel pushed further, splitting you apart. The stretch burned again, and you flinched.

Joel paused, and you nodded, “It’s okay.” Tommy brought his hand between his body and yours, and when you were flush against him again, Tommy's warm, naked cock was pressed against your back.

Joel pushed forward again. He was biting his lip, and his face was getting red as he inched into you.

“Almost there,” Joel breathed. “Takin’ it so good, baby.”

Knowing you were good at taking his cock made you beam with pride.

“You gonna take all of me, baby?" Joel looked down at your stomach and muttered, "Oh, God."

"I can do it," you nodded.

“I think you’re gonna do it," Joel nodded back. He made one final push, taking up all the space you had, then his body was flush with yours. “Oh, ffuu--Oh, God." Joel pinched his eyes shut. "Ohhh,” he moaned with his cock fully sheathed in your tight little hole. Your walls twitched and you felt your core getting even wetter as it settled around his girth.

"Baby, you feel--ohh, so good, baby-" It looked like Joel was shaking with pleasure. A sweat had broken out on his brow.

"Both gotta breathe," Tommy reminded you.

Joel took a deep breath, then dipped his head to kiss you. Tommy was rock hard against your lower back.

“I love you inside me,” you whispered.

"Most beautiful place I ever been," Joel said.

Tommy stroked your arms, and you lifted a hand to tangle your fingers in Joel’s hair. Joel kissed your neck, then began to rock into you. Tommy’s hips subtly lifted in rhythm, grinding against your back. His breaths became heavy.

Joel's face bore a look you'd never seen. “Oh, God, you feel good, baby–Ohh–so good.” Joel rocked in short pulses, and each passing moment, you felt a little more relaxed. His cock was huge inside you. It felt even bigger than you thought it could be.

“So wet for me,” Joel breathed. “Such a good girl.” He kissed you again, his lips pulling on yours. His cock stayed inside, gently rocking, keeping you full. Your insides felt snug around him.

“Fu—oh, baby–oh, shit,” Joel panted, agony spreading across his face.

“You can do it,” you whispered. “I want it.”

Joel nodded. “Ok, baby.” He let his hips rock a little faster, short little pushes, all the way inside. Then he took a deep breath and so did you. Tommy held onto your sides.

“Ohh God, baby. Ohh–Unnggghhh,” Joel began to pulse inside, filling you with warmth.

You moaned and sighed, and Tommy rutted against your lower back.

As Joel finished emptying himself, he gave you one last kiss, long, deep, and slow, moaning into your mouth as the last of his seed topped off the rest.

Joel was panting, and so were you. Tommy’s hips stilled against your back.

"I'm gonna pull out now, okay? Gonna make sure you're alright," Joel said. As Joel pulled out, Tommy reached between you to adjust himself, tucking his massive hard-on back into his boxers.

Joel's cock retreated, dragging between your walls, then it fell out with a heavy bob. You felt empty for a moment. "Good girl," Joel whispered as your body drew itself back together. He backed down the bed. You began to close your legs, not wanting to feel so empty, but Tommy said, "Keep'em open" and nudged your knees outward again.

Joel lowered his head to look at your cunt. "So pretty, baby. Just gorgeous." He spread you open with his thumbs. "Oh, baby, you did so good." He thumbed your clit and when you twitched, you felt some cum trickle out. "Oh, yeah," he whispered, and thumbed it back into you. "Wanna come again?" He began to lower his mouth.

"Mmm," you thought about it, and he paused. "Maybe later. I feel sticky."

"Ok, baby." He gave your cunt a kiss and let you close your legs.

---

Joel took you to the bathroom to get cleaned up, and he smiled to himself when you both heard Tommy moaning. Your face heated up, and Joel whispered, “Uncle Tommy’s gotta come, too.”

After cleaning you up, Joel sat down on the lid of the toilet seat, and you stood between his knees. He helped you onto his knee. Your gaze went down his body, over his strong chest and its salt and pepper hair, down his soft stomach, and the other hair, to his softer, but still chubby cock. Joel’s eyes sparkled as he looked at you. He kissed you again. Then Tommy groaned, and Joel broke the kiss with a chuckle.

You went to bed nestled between the two of them.

Thank you for reading and tysm for your support 🖤

This was born when I got to thinking, what if uncle tommy was a virginity loss doula?

Same trio/AU:

Stuffing

Sweet little mess

Uncle Tommy Breeding fantasy drabble

There's a virgin section on my master list.

RECS: If you like these brothers sharing, a few of my faves include

I can be your pretty girl part 4 and part 5 (but the whole series) by @walkintotheriveranddisappear

Liquid Gold and its prequel Two Hands to Hold by @gasolinerainbowpuddles MY ROMAN EMPIRE

Smack my b*tch up a raider AU by @milla-frenchy.

To freeze or thaw, a raider AU by joelscruff.

Bad Blood, Step Uncle Joel and Stepdad Tommy by @not-a-unique-snowflake-blog

tag list - : @silkiers @eiviea @evyiione @queerly-anxious @chernayawidow @ambassadortotrilliusprime @fandomsfallnomore @djarinxore @blackvelveteen1339 @manazo @taeslarityy @str84pedro @lokanda @kyloispunk @filthfairy @fieryglutenfreechickennoodles @harriedandharassed @moonlightdivine @worhols @fan-fiction-floozy @cutesyscreenname @weddingfairy @pedropascal-whore @spideysimpossiblegirl @feministfanboi @prettypartyfavor @am-3-thyst @babeincolor @switchbladedreamz @within-the-depths @may-machin @sloanexx @paleidiot @yourmistysecret @bean-is-reading @rainstorms-library

#joel miller x reader #tommy miller x reader #joel miller x reader x tommy miller #female reader #loss of virginity #cw dubcon #uncle tommy #toxicanonymity ☠️#cw degradation #virginity loss doula uncle tommy #joel miller smut #miller bros x reader #tommy miller smut

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netherfeildren · 6 months ago

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FABLE OF THE DOG : 2. Sugar, Not so Sweet

Series Masterlist; Chapter: 1,

Pairing: Joel Miller x FMC

Rating: Explicit 18+

Content Warnings: Cowboy/Heiress AU; Slowburn(ish); Original Characters; Alcohol Use; Allusions to Attempted Suicide; Discussions of Grief; Daddy Issues; Parental Neglect; Angst and Fluff; Older Man/Younger Woman; Jealousy; Possessive Behavior; Brat Taming; Extremely Bossy Old Man; Past Teenage Crush; Yearning and Longing Galore; A Home is a Place but ALSO a Person!; Found Family

A/N: This is a deeply, deeply unserious chapter, and I make no apologies—I was taken away by whimsy!!!!

Apologies however, for the French people slander, I went on a truly heinous date with a oui oui baguette loser last month. I’m still working through my anger.

Word Count: 13.4K

Read on AO3

2. Sugar, Not so Sweet

They appear at the break of dawn, the young man and the boy.

“How many heads’ve you got total?”

Joel appraises him, the fresh-faced look, a boy just crossed over into the cusp of manhood—though he’s large and strong and earnest in the eyes. He’d be a good hire, if not for—

He glances over at the young boy sitting on the bunk’s couch, snickering quietly with Ellie as his brother tries to barter a place for the two of them.

“Near to thirty large about now. We’re fixin’ to breed, but we’re pushin’ our limitations.”

“So you need hands,” he says eagerly.

“We do,” Joel returns slowly, chewing on the mint he’d plucked from out front. His stomach is in knots, has been since—days and days and days ago, last night, and so much worse now. There’s a sick heat settled deep that he doesn’t know how he’ll scourge out and quick.

“Listen, I know it’s unconventional, but—”

“Where’s his parents?” He tips his chin at the boy, and Ellie peers slyly over her shoulder at him. He’ll get hell for this later, he knows, she knows.

“Our momma’s down south—by way of Odessa. She cowboys during the summer too, and—”

Joel sits up in his seat. “Texas?”

“Come on, Texas,” Tommy slinks behind him, sneaking an arm over his shoulder to thump Joel roughly on the chest. “Just say yes.” He lets out a gruff sound masking a cough, fucking Tommy, and leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Ellie rise from the sofa and leave the bunk quietly with a parting pat on the boy's head.

“You’re from Texas, too?” The young man asks brightly, that look of hope in his eyes that Joel’s about to quash.

“We’re from Austin,” Tommy says from the coffee pot, his mustache spreading wide over a shit-eating grin. “Southerners way up here, we gotta stay united amongst all these Yanks’,” his brother puts on the drawl heavy, and Joel rolls his eyes. Clown.

“Listen, Henry,” he says, trying to turn the conversation back to business. He looks at the boy again, the back of the small head bent and silent and something that could, perhaps, be thought of as guilt pulses through him, but to be honest, there’s so much of that moving about Joel’s system right about now, that it’s just one more drop of poison filling his cup. It doesn’t matter. He needs to do what’s right.

For who? He can’t very well tell yet.

“I’m sure you’re a hard worker, son, and I’d not hesitate to give you a place were we in different circumstances, but I just don’t see how this would work—”

Henry leans forward in his chair too, ready to plead his case, fight for his brother and the generously paying jobs the Kelly’s are famous for. There’s something about the boy newly turned man that reminds Joel of himself. Perhaps during that young and fragile youth of his twenties, when he’d been alone with a newborn baby, trying to figure out the whole world and himself.

“I know it’s unconventional, but he’s a good kid. He’s quiet and keeps to himself, and it’d only be for the summer, sir. We head back down for the start of the school year. It’s difficult, but it’s harder for my momma to get work with a kid than it is for me.” He trips over his words with the speed at which he’s spitting them at Joel, trying to convince him, and he knows that the fair thing would be to take them in. To give this man a chance the way Joel had been given one so many years ago, the mercy of safe harbor. But he’s got a finite amount of goodness in him now, he’s got to save it all for only one person. There’s none left for anyone else. And Joel doesn't want trouble, he’s got enough of that around here right about now. “He’s got his books and his summer worksheets, and he knows how to manage on his own while I work. I swear, he won’t be in any sort of way. You can—”

And then, amidst the young strangers' rambling plea, Joel's heart falls through his stomach. Here comes that trouble anyways.

“What’s going on here?” In that soft, lovely voice that haunted his dreams last night.

All the cowboys rise from their seats at the sound of your presence.

From over your shoulder, Joel sees Ellie’s face twisted in a grimace at him, the flash of her middle finger and then her tongue.

“Goddamnit, Ellie,” he growls low.

You look exhausted, eyes red rimmed and swollen—as if you’d been crying all night, and Joel’s tongue is a swollen, poisoned thing in his mouth—a husk of guilt is all he is. He swallows convulsively, trying to find his words, trying to not scream at the thought of being what’s made you cry, trying not to look down the length of you and failing. Silky sleep shorts end way too high up on the long length of those too pretty thighs, an oversized pullover with Yale emblazoned across the front, a little hole at the neck and a large dark stain marr the front of it. You’ve got on a too big robe, dark and plaid, draped over your shoulders with your hair all a mess. He can see Ellie’s trying to pull it into some semblance of a braid behind your back discreetly while you stare at him with those eyes that, and he’s being damn honest now, fucking terrify him. Those puffy, ridiculous tan boots women wear, the impractical ones that become a sogging mess in the snow or wet despite the fact he understands they’re supposed to be worn in winter, are on your feet, two mismatched socks peek out above the tops.

He’s pretty sure one of them has bombs with a capital ‘F’ in the tiny centers printed over it. The other, some sort of Easter bunny carrot print. Absolutely ridiculous, and he can’t help it, he notices it all.

And worst of all, in your grip is that World’s Best Dad mug you’d sent the old fucker for Christmas several years ago, a little holiday fuck you from his best daughter. It’d been one of the years he hadn’t let you come home for the winter break, forced you to spend the holiday alone at that boarding school of yours. The whole ranch had known and whispered about it, and he’d felt embarrassed and offended on your behalf, that they’d all gossiped about the girl you were behind your back when they should’ve respected you for the woman you’d become one day, the one that’d eventually pay all of their earnings.

And the jackass had the audacity to use the mug all the time afterwards. Joel was pretty sure it’d been his favorite.

“We were just wrapping up,” Joel says, clearing his throat, finally finding his voice. It’s almost physically painful to look at you directly in the eyes, and the heat of shame and regret claws its way up his throat at the hollow look he sees there. You’re so angry at him, and he deserves it.

“This is the new Kelly,” Ellie tells Henry, cutting him off, pressing you forward with her hands wrapped around your shoulders. Your shorts are way too short to be in here right now, and Joel feels something else, even hotter than shame, stirring inside him. “If you want work here, this is who you need to talk to. The big boss.”

“Miss Kelly,” Henry says reverently, pulling his cap off to press against his chest. “It’s a mighty fine honor gettin’ to meet you. I was just telling your foreman here,” he motions the cap towards Joel, and he feels like a bear who’s about to rip it out of his grip and stuff it down his throat. Fucking Ellie going and snitching on him. “How me and my brother Henry travel for the summer. I’ve got letters here, I’ve worked at the King before, and have a number your man can call if he needs more references. I’ve got lots of experience and—”

“What will you do with him?” Your gaze is on the little boy, has been the entire time. Joel steps forward and over the back of the couch he sees the kid, Sam, has a comic book in his lap he’s been reading this whole time, while adults who should have no bearing on his life decide what will and will not be for him. “While you work—”

Joel looks back at you, and he knows already what it’ll be.

Henry’s smile is wide and gleaming, putting on the charm. What he doesn’t see, what Joel does, is that bleak sadness in your gaze that he’d put there himself last night. He needs to speak with you, to explain, to make it right between the two of you.

“He’s good at entertaining himself. I promise he won’t be in the way or nothin’. He’s got books and summer work, and he’s learning to play the guitar. He won’t be in the way,” Henry says again.

“What about school?”

“We only travel during the summer. We’re back in Texas for the school year.” And at that, you finally look back at Joel, and his heart shoots from his belly to his throat, ready to be spit up at your feet.

You watch him for a long searing moment, and there's such sadness there. He doesn’t know what would have been better, what would have been the correct recourse, how to make that look go away. To give you what you want? To do what he thinks is right or what should be right? He’d never thought, never considered anything like this. It’s all too much too fast, and he feels suddenly lost and childlike in the face of you and all you stand for.

“They stay,” you say only for Joel.

Henry lets out a whoop of victory, rushing forward to thank you profusely, but Jesse, who’s standing by the door, blocks his rush forward with a hand to his chest before he can get too close to the new boss. You’re for protecting now, above all else, it’s the unspoken word they all suddenly understand keenly.

You stare solemnly at Joel for only a second longer, those sleep sloped doe eyes, before you’re turning without another word.

“He never did a very good job of hiding the way he treated you, sweetheart. I couldn’t ever respect a man like that.”

The cricket song is a symphony of sound around the two of you, and you’re suspended for a second, he sees it come on—a rose hued haze, and then blink-of-an-eye donning a look that spells nothing but disaster. He’s thrown off course by it for a single second, that girl fantasy glow, before you’re launching yourself at him, and then it’s nothing but a soft wet mouth, smoked fruit and fired oak, the slick of your tongue against his bottom lip as you kiss him.

You’re kissing him.

He’s a frozen solid husk, eyes wide open as he stares down at the look on your face—something like agony. The tiny frown between your eyebrows, concentration, and a single diamond tear caught in the web of your lashes, and he can’t help but notice the soft press of your breasts against his chest, you’re not wearing a bra, before he’s shoving you back by the shoulders, scrambling to get as far away from you as quickly as he can.

His back hits the railing before he can get far enough. “What the fuck are you doing?” He spits, but can’t help but lick his tongue along his bottom lip, tasting where you’ve just been.

His stomach is suddenly hot.

You swallow convulsively, bleary eyed look turning to hurt, pressing your palm to your belly, twisting your fingers in the fabric of your sweater there. “I don’t— I didn’t—” Your eyelashes flutter shut, closing the hurt, confused look away from him for one blessed second. You press your other palm to your forehead, gripping yourself as if you’re trying to hold your very skin together.

What do you think you’re doing? He enunciates each word like the lash of a whip, and then licks his lips again to soften those same blows for himself.

Something is about to go inexplicably wrong here. Something already has. A tragedy worse than the death of a father

“I just thought that—” You blink your eyes open and they’re wet, and he’s about to bark at you to not fucking cry or he’ll lose it completely, but he swallows it or loses the thought to madness. He feels incomprehensibly insane, inconceivably triggered.

This is like nothing he’d ever imagined, and it tilts him on his axis, skews his vision, headlights blinding you in a dead-on collision.

What are you doing—thinking?

“I— I watched you grow up. I watched you—” You take an anxious step towards him, some word on your lips he can’t even make out because his hearing has gone out, and now he’s all of a sudden deaf in both ears instead of just one. He hardens his voice further. He makes sure you understand. “This is fucking wrong, and you need to get away from me right now,” reversing his movements, taking a threatening step forward, stomping his heavy boot against the floorboards beneath so that you’re jumping, skittering backwards like a frightened little rabbit.

And Joel, the beast, crushing her beneath his foot.

You wrap both of your hands around the delicate column of your throat; he imagines you’re holding in your hurt sounds, and it makes him even angrier.

“Listen to me—” he starts again.

But you cut him off, shaking your head, the confused sleep-look being blinked away so that now it’s spitting fire that is awake and angry in your gaze. “But you didn’t,” you say. “You barely know me. We’re almost strangers.” A scoff, and then switching again to soft, to girl-like, to hurt: “And I’m all grown up now, Joel.”

“I don’t know what you reckon is happenin’ here between us. Or what you think— what you—” He looks away, can’t bear the sight of it, you, fuck, he spits, again, fuck. “If I gave you the wrong impression, I’m sorry, but—”

Then in a broken little voice grasping for straws, “But we were born on the same day,” and you say it like a question. Like it should mean more. Like, and he realizes it now, like it means the world.

He turns back to look at you, and he feels full of everything but mercy—too much regret. “And what? What do you think that means? That we’re connected—meant to be?” His voice sounds full of cruelty. “Don’t be delusional. It’s also the day my daughter died. D’you know that?”

A blink. “What?”

“She died on my thirty-fourth birthday.”

Again. “But… Wh—at?” Broken up word, and your chin does a little wobbling dance, jutting this way and that, and you have a dimple in your cheek that comes out when you’re happy, but also when you’re sad. When you’re about to cry. He sees it now, and starkly.

He’s ruining something sacred.

Joel steels himself. “Whatever it is you’ve made up in your mind about us, it’s a fantasy. Something not real that you need to let go of. Are you hearin’ me?”

“I— I think…” You won’t stop blinking, your hands look like they’re about to strangle you, and he steps forward as if to stop you or save you from yourself. “Why didn’t you ever say?”

But instead of saving, “Why would I? Why would I ever tell you that?” He does not want to hurt you, and yet he cannot help it, and Joel wonders if this is how your father felt every time he failed you—like a lesser man. “Wasn’t for you to know—it doesn’t mean the same thing to us.” That day. He makes himself clear: “Whatever child’s fantasy you’re still holding onto, you need to let it go.”

He rushes out of the bunk after you, a growled, you little shit, at Ellie as he passes her.

“Man, what’d you fuckin’ do?” She calls after him in that tone that tells him that of course she knows what’s happened. You two’ve never been able to keep a single thing from each other. Asshole! She shouts at his back as he catches up to your slowly retreating form. Your movements are sluggish, exhausted.

He calls your name and tries to moderate his tone from being as aggressive as he feels right now. “We gotta talk.” He follows after you, hot on your heels and then jumping back like a scared mut when you spin around on your ridiculous boot to face him.

“Speak.” It’s a high-handed tone, that one. One that says he’s the grunt here, and you the queen, that you’d both forgotten it last night, but the battlelines are clearly drawn now. There’ll be no more forgetting.

And it’s all his fault.

“You can’t—” His heart thumps and thumps and thumps like a pitiful thing. “You can’t undermine me in front of the boys like that. There’s a reason I was saying no.”

“Which is?”

“That the kid’ll be in the way.”

And you flinch and Joel prays for a gun to the back of the skull. Fucking Christ, but this is difficult.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he gruffs. “You know what I mean. This is hard work we do here. I don’t want the kid gettin’ hurt, I don’t want to be responsible for that. What goes on here is on me. The people who get hurt, it’s all on me, and I take that responsibility damn serious.”

You tilt your head at him in that queer, inspecting way of yours. The one he’d watched you pull like a weapon against your father so many times. He finds he hates it now, detests it, being wielded against himself. You ignore his words, “What was your arrangement here—with him? How did this work with the ranch?”

There has been that thought always, and obviously, of you as something higher, that symbol of the family or the safe haven this place has been for Joel. The not-respect he had for your father, but surely the understanding—you've always been all wrapped up in that. He's at times felt grateful for your existence, perhaps, in ways. That something as good, as better, as you could exist in the same world Joel exists in. Perhaps he’d admired you in ways, even as a young girl, for your goodness, your sincerity. But he finds now, at this look of disdain you’re wearing against him, that he hates the feeling of being less than you, of not being good enough to even stand in your presence.

He’s done wrong, marred it all in ugliness. He’s put himself in this position somehow, by hurting you, by confusing you, by wanting—

“I do what I need to, what the ranch needs. Whatever decision I need to make, I call it and it’s on me. Monthly reports to him and that was it. He understood that what happens out here is different to what can be told and sometimes you can’t plan for certain shit. He focused on the business, I focus on the ranch.”

By wanting what?

Bringing the mug to your lips, you take a long sip, humming. It’s all a taunt. Joel realizes, suddenly, and with painful clarity, that this has all been a grave miscalculation on his part.

As uncomfortable as it is for even him to admit, you are, and undeservedly, a person used to not being wanted, used to rejection. Joel understands this with the quick fire blink of an eye. And he has, in his shock, or— or… he doesn't know—instantaneous awakening—unintentionally alienated you, made an enemy.

I see, you murmur quietly coupled with a bitter cough of laughter that doesn’t sound anything like the sweet sound he’s used to hearing from you. Yes, a very bad mistake has been made indeed. “Well, you’re practically king here, aren’t you then? Quite the partnership the two of you had.” You smile wide, all bright teeth.

The coffee sloshes in the mug held in your unsteady hand, and he worries there’s something stronger in there too.

“Not at all. I’m just good at what I do.” He shoves fisted hands into his pockets, trying to keep patient. Trying not to throttle you, check your drink for himself.

“And is this how you’d like to continue going forward? I mind my own business, and you do as you please?”

He shakes his head slow, grinds the pulverized mint between his molars, “I want whatever you think’s best. You’re the Kelly now, after all.” You get a look on your face like you don’t like the sound of that at all, and he turns to spit the greens between his teeth, coughing roughly.

“Yeah, I’m sure of that,” you say with teeth bared, and then whipping your head away from him as if you can’t bear the sight of him a second longer. The coffee sloshes the other way, splashing against your wrist. He hopes it’s not burning you. “You know, you’ve got some fucking nerve, Joel. You—”

The robe—all of a sudden, saturated by the dark liquid, it grabs his attention. It’s in a plaid print, expensive looking, like something you’d see an older man wearing. A man’s robe? He cocks his head, “Whose robe is that?” Cutting your tirade short.

What? You spit, all sass, his stomach burns, turning to look back at him as if he’s gone idiotic, grown a second head. He feels a little bit like he’s in the process of doing so—wracked with growing pains. “It’s my ex-boyfriend’s. Can you focus, please? I’m trying to have a fight with you right now.” And you scrunch your nose too adorably for him to find anything besides endearing. Certainly not intimidating.

He grunts, displeased.

“I know you don’t want to hear it—”

“Then keep it to yourself.” You turn, continuing on your way up to the house, coffee flies with your spin, boyfriend’s robe whipping out in your wake as he follows like a dog with its tail tucked between its legs.

A little desperately, like a dog, too. A begging for scraps imitation game he hadn’t intended to play but feels obligated to now, and by his own doing.

“But I want to say—about last night…”

You turn on your heel out of nowhere again, and he stumbles to not rush head first into you, to not touch you.

The look on your face is all heartbreak. “Do you remember—when I was away at school—and I fell off the horse? When I came home with that broken arm and couldn’t get back on and you helped me? Do you remember that, Joel? How you reminded me how I was supposed to do it—”

He coughs, uncomfortable, shifting like that same scared dog. “You remember these things different than I do.” The words feel cowardly spilling from his tongue, but he should be honest. Shouldn’t he?

This is what he should be doing, isn’t it?

“I remember that you were kind. That you cared. That’s what I remember.” Your eyes are glossed again, and now it’s Joel that has to look away.

“I didn’t care. It was my job to serve your father. To do as he’d want me to. It was a responsibility.”

It’s happening again. A tale like any other you’ve too often heard. You know he’s not lying, and yet everything he says feels precariously close to it.

“Why are you being like this?” And you ask it very practically, like you really want to know, like you’ve asked the same sort of question to the same sort of figure before, and so now you’re extremely well practiced, an expert even.

“You remember these things differently. Wrong—That’s not how I meant any of it—whatever you’re thinkin’. It was just a kindness.”

“No, but I— but you…” That’s the point, you want to say, a kindness, but the words stick. You look away again, colored in shame, can’t bear the sight of him. “Maybe you’re right,” you whisper with that very remembered kindness of your lonely childhood thrown back in your face now. “Maybe I do.”

“Listen to me—I’d like for things between us to be— I’m not… I don’t now what to fuckin’ say to you.”

“Honey—” Dina calls from the porch, your father’s assistant, now yours by inheritance, you suppose. “We gotta go soon—gotta get you ready.”

“I have things to do with Dina. I don’t have time for you—for this. Do what you want, run it how you like,” the ranch, “But the kid stays. That’s final.”

You won’t look at him again, you decide. You’ll learn to want a new thing. You’ll learn to love a new thing.

If you had it in you, you’d laugh in his face.

Have you been in love with him? Probably not in any way that could’ve been called mature, it was the girl-fantasy of a neglected child latching on to a man who’d always seemed nothing but steady and kind.

So you’ll learn to grow up now, no choice left in the matter, let the fantasy go.

Despite your desire for debauchery and the three days of bad behavior you’d promised yourself, you’ve got shit to do.

An hour after your ridiculous non-conversation with the ridiculous man, you and Dina are stepping back out into the summer sunshine when your phone rings with a call from another ridiculous man for what promises to surely be another even more ridiculous conversation.

Jacopo.

You’d met through the friend of a friend at the party of someone or another in Monaco. Come from an Italian mother and a French father, you should’ve known he was going to be an arrogant asshole from the get go, but he’d been beautiful and momentarily distracting—things you knew you didn’t really want but told yourself would suffice. Really, all he was, was boring, the same as everyone else, wanting something from you without having to truly return anything in full.

Jacopo the jockey—sounds like a goddamn cartoon.

You liked to call him Jack, like he were the same sort of plebeian he saw all Americans as, and which he absolutely loathed with the sort of passion only an uppity French man could possess.

In the distance, you can see Joel, Frank and Bill propped up against the corral watching as Jesse runs Ellie atop a gorgeous chestnut Quarter. Sometimes she likes to compete, when she can get Joel to stop complaining about it for a second.

Dina makes her way towards them, “Tell them we’ll take the Ghibli,” you call after her to which she throws a thumbs up. At the sound of your voice he peers over his shoulder, finding your eyes immediately, catching there—fish on a burning hook. And then turns full around, leaning back to rest his elbows on the iron grate as you take French boys call, settling in to watch you.

“Hi, Jack, sweetie. How’s it hangin’?”

“I do not know what this means.”

Bore. “What do you want, Jacopo? I’m busy.”

“My love, we must speak. I have heard of your father. You should have call me, I will come to be with you now. Tell me where you are.”

“Why the hell would I want you to come be with me? We broke up. Remember?”

Joel watches you as the French idiot prattles on about how he loves you and how you need him and how the two of you belong together, blah blah. Odious man, you don’t know how you ever let him inside of you.

Across the lawn, he isn’t looking away, and his gaze burns where it touches. You feel—humiliated, hurt, rejected, so angry it’s a physical ache.

Not surprised.

Perhaps in some way, his rejection was what you’d wanted, had been looking for. Perhaps, it was your subconscious search for the easy way out. Because, and really, what else had you thought would happen when you’d thrown yourself at him half drunk? That he’d suddenly stop seeing you as the child he’d known you for always, take you as a woman, want you, fuck you right there on your newly dead father’s front deck?

Ridiculous.

You can’t even think about the birthday—about her. It’s a snipped lifeline, a crushed tether.

“Cherie, I must tell you I am feeling very neglected now by you. You don’t call. You do not love me no longer, or what is the problem?” More nonsense and really, this fuckin’ guy needs a boot in his ass pronto.

And the one still watching you—something even worse. He’s got his mangy brown cowboy hat pulled low over his brow, the one for the ranch, not the lovely dark one for escorting orphans to the funerals of dead fathers, and his jaw works the mint leaves you know he’s got between his teeth, slow and steady. You should hiss at him. Instead, your tummy smolders with heat and butterflies.

Stop looking at me, you horrible man, you want to shout.

Humming and hawing at the annoying voice coming through the phone, you smooth your palm over the silk of your dress. You’d wanted to look nice today, your first Kelly meeting. You wanted to look better than you feel, which is like shit, quite frankly.

There are tiny green paisleys patterned over the deep blue of the dress, a shock of dark red maroon for the cashmere knit of the cardigan tied over your shoulders, and a little silken kerchief wrapped around your throat, something from your mother’s things you’d gone through last night after Joel had ordered you to bed with your tail tucked between your legs and tears in your throat.

Twenty four years later, and your father still had all her things preserved in their bedroom as if she’d only stepped out for the afternoon. A veritable mausoleum right there in your house-not-home.

You’d never even stood a chance.

He watches you begin to pace across the deck, but the look on your face tells him you aren’t quite listening to whatever it is the person on the phone��s saying to you.

The gold and silver bangles that slide around your fine boned wrists jingle a song of temptation. Siren song, bird song, death march, something he’d follow with blind eyes, recognize deaf. And heavy gold and jeweled rings along your fingers that shine almost as bright as the spilled silk of your hair. Swathed in shades of jewel, you’re all woman, done up and ready to go out and devastate.

He doesn’t know how any man could ever look at you and not want you.

He doesn’t know how he’ll ever be the same from here on out.

“Who’s she talkin’ to?” He asks Dina, tipping his chin over at you. He can hear you raising your voice, something about you fucking French moron, and he doesn’t like the hunch he’s got about who it is.

“Boyfriend,” Dina says while she watches Ellie work the horse with hearts in her eyes.

“Thought he was an ex.”

She peers up at him suspiciously at that, a queer little smile tipping the corners of her mouth upwards. “Well maybe now that he knows how much she’s worth he’ll be coming back, huh?”

Joel swears all these fuckin’ women are conspiring against him, trying to send him to an early grave. “He steps foot on this ranch, and I’ll shoot him in the goddamn ass.”

She laughs, throwing her head back which inevitably draws Ellie’s attention. “You are literally so dramatic.”

“What’s he bein’ dramatic about now?” Ellie calls from behind, trotting up to the corral edge.

“Ohhh, nothin’. Just Joel being Joel. Right, old man?” Dina bumps her hip against his and he grunts, refusing to be goaded. He’s not being dramatic, it’s his responsibility to take care of you now, to watch over you.

That’s all.

“I’m never dramatic,” he tells them very seriously.

On the porch, the spat reaches a crescendo and they all turn to watch the show.

Why don’t you shove the whole Eiffel Tower up your ass, you fucking dipshit. And don’t you ever call me again!

“Little girl’s got a mouth on her,” Bill murmurs.

Ellie lets out a long whistle. Deserved, Dina adds. On the porch, you let out a strangled little screech, stomping the high heel of your boot as if you’ve got half a mind to throw a fit.

Joel feels hypnotized, speared through the gut.

He wants to know what the ex-boyfriend said. What his name is. Where he’s from and who he is and what he does and how he is and every single thing about him and how it was between the two of you.

He is suddenly desperate to know everything there is to know about you in a way that makes his throat feel swollen with guilt. In a way he didn’t ever think he’d want from you.

All the things you keep close, all the small intimacies that make you this person you are now, that’s what he wants.

You stomp down the steps, making your way towards them, eyes directly on his, and you’re too fucking beautiful for his own good, watching you feels like a sin.

Makes him feel in danger, like prey.

“All men should die,” you yell over.

See.

“I agree,” Dina says cheerfully.

“You know you can have a baby with the junk in your bones from another woman now,” Ellie adds helpfully.

“The junk in your bones?” Joel says.

“I don’t think that’s true.”

“Yeah, like really we don’t even need you for shit anymore.”

“They should all be put in a hole in the ground in the middle of Nebraska and only be let out when a girl wants to bone.”

“To bone—Jesus fuckin’ Christ, Ellie.”

“I love that idea,” you say, finally coming to stand right before Joel. He swallows hard, stays silent—feels like the cat’s finally caught his tongue.

“Why Nebraska?” Franks asks, puzzled.

He’s got to stop looking at you, he’s got to get away from the sight of your eyes, feels like the colors of you seem to pulse brighter, and he feels it all like a touch against his skin. He turns to look at Ellie over his shoulder and with a huge, shit-eating grin she says, “Cause who the fuck knows where fuckin’ Nebraska is, huh?” Her eyes flash to you and then quickly back to Joel, winking, cheeky, knowing. He feels the noose tighten.

They’re definitely conspiring against him.

The three of you cackle—at his expense.

“Where’re you two headed?” Bill asks with a frown when the three little hyenas settle.

“She’s got a meeting in Jackson,” Dina tells him. “First part’ll be quick—she’s just gotta kick some pushy jackass to the curb and tell him we’re not leasing mineral rights to him no matter how hard he begs or how much money he throws at us. Then…” she trails off, throwing you a worried glance, but your eyes are on the far off mountains now, and Joel watches a shaky swallow pass through your throat.

“Then we’ve got the will reading,” you say.

A sharp ache starts up behind Joel’s left eye, all the easygoing laughter of a few moments ago sucked away with a few words and a single reminder. That you’re not the girl you used to be, laughing and playing with Ellie, that your father is dead, that you have a world of responsibility to face now.

“You shouldn’t have to go all the way into town. They should be comin’ to you here.”

“I want to get out—see his office.”

“S’only been a few days, honey,” Frank says gently. “You should take it easy.”

“Thanks, Frank,” you reach out to squeeze his arm, flush of emotion across the bridge of your nose. “I’m okay, promise.”

Joel takes you in, in full. You’ve got something shimmery swept across the highs of your cheekbones and glossy lips, the fine grain of your skin—pristine like you're made of sugar and everything good in the world. The silky wisps of baby hair at your temples that look softer than anything he’s probably ever touched in his whole life. And you’re so beautiful it almost hurts the eye to look at you, beautiful in a way that makes men cower at the sight, like you’d be the strongest thing in the whole world. But he sees all the rest too. The delicate curves of your shoulders, the fine swoop of your collarbone and the quick-fire beat of your pulse beneath the fragile skin of your throat. There’s fear all around you in a way, a desperate sort of sadness.

He wishes there was more he could do for you, that he could bear the burden of all this entirely in your stead, that he could be all you need and want him to be without having to sacrifice his soul to give it to you.

Your eyes flash back to his, and he worries for a second that you can read his mind.

Behind you, Jesse pulls up with the sleek black of your father’s favorite car. Of course you’d choose this for today, bets you’ll find a way to turn it into a pretzel before the days end.

“Take Jesse with you,” he says low at your back as you turn for the car.

You look over your shoulder at him and his spine throbs. “No.”

Following you around the front of the car, he pulls the door open for you. “You’re not moving around alone anymore. He’s going. Jesse—” he whistles, “You’re going into town with Miss Kelly.”

“Yezzir,” he smiles with the sunny easiness only he possesses.

“Excuse me,” you turn to frown up at him, stomping your foot again, and you’re a little bit of a brat, he’s realizing. “There’s no room in the car for him. He can’t come.”

“He’ll take a truck,” he says, leaving no room for discussion, but then gentles his voice again, “Things are gonna be different now. You’re the Kelly, you can’t go on all gung ho about your new reality. You need taking care of. Can you not fight me on this, please?”

“What I need—”

“Is to be protected.”

You give a delicate little huff through your nose that he finds to be just about the cutest damn thing he’s ever seen in his whole life. “Then it’ll be my choice how and who.”

“It’s easier if you just do as I say.” Grasping, grasping, praying for patience.

“You overbearing d—”

“You’ll be okay meeting this jackoff? Don’t need me to come with you?”

You glower at him.

“I’m bein’ serious with you. I know you’re capable,” he puts his hands out, palms up in a conceding gesture, “But this is new, and there’s no shame in asking for support.”

At that, you get a confused little pinch between your brows, softest rose shaped mouth he’s ever seen—felt—all pursed up, and he thinks it’s wrong now, trying to be sweet to you after last night, looking at you this way and seeing the things he’s seeing. He should stay away, go away forever, find a hole in the ground in the middle of nowhere to bury himself in like you’d said, but he worries now, and quite desperately really, that he won’t ever be able to leave your side again after all this.

“I have Dina.”

“I know, but—”

“Can you please just… not. I think— I think it’s better if we just steer clear of each other. If I need something,” you look away now, hazy look from last night back in your gaze again, like you’re remembering, like you’re wanting something else he’s not willing, not capable of giving, “I’ll ask for it. Otherwise you can focus on what’s important to you.”

Gut punch.

He soldiers on, can’t help it.

“You feelin’ alright?”

Your eyes flit back to him for a fleeting second and there’s honesty in your gaze now, maybe something extremely vulnerable too, and then shuttering again, looking away again. He’d demand your gaze if he had the right, insist you tell him everything there is to know with just your eyes if you were his.

But really, he’s got no right to ask anything.

So instead, “Tell me what’s wrong,” he begs, praying you don’t say him.

What’s wrong? A laugh and—nothing. Like your father isn’t dead, like he hadn’t hurt you as he had last night, like you’re looking for answers etched into the mountains or the sky. You bring your thumb to your right temple and his own aches in response, digging there for some unseen pain to be gouged out. “Tired—was having bad dreams.” Your voice sounds full of air, and you’ve got a huge emerald on your ring finger, an even larger turquoise stone beside it, other hand is covered in a row of opals—you’re a treasure of a girl, all the way inside and out, and it’s like he’s staring at a work of art, knowing that if he were to touch, it’d all be ruined. Your voice full of air floats in his bad ear and booms out the good one full of forlorn want.

It feels like you’re the only two people left in the whole of Wyoming, standing here together under the sweet sun, maybe the whole world, and he’s ridden in guilt, wants to tell you he’s sorry again, beg or something, and thinks that God should give you the chance to rewind time when you’ve made someone feel this bad without meaning to.

You whisper at the Tetons, and he’s all but forgotten, “I feel a little bit like I’m the real nightmare.”

“You couldn’t ever be, sweetheart,” he tells you and means it with his whole heart.

It’s all agony swimming in your eyes, and if you don’t stop him, he’s going to take you into his arms right here in front of everyone. You need more than protecting, it’s clear, you need caring for, you need loving—the sort of something he can tell you’ve never had in your whole life.

“Ready to go, honey?” Dina calls from the other side of the car, her canoodling with Ellie finally come to a pause.

You’re snapped out of your reverie, looking down at your feet, impractical boots again, these ones sexy and tall and not for his admiring, blinking away the wash of heat that’s bloomed across the bridge of your freckled little nose.

“Did she eat?” He asks Dina over your head.

“Ehhhhh, but I brought a smoothie,” she pulls out a thermos from her large bag and smiles all beaming and large.

“A smoothie ain’t food. Get something else in town.”

“You're so prepared,” Ellie sighs dreamily beside her.

“You’re annoying me,” you grouch at him, tossing your bag into the backseat, sliding into the luxuriously leathered interior as he shuts the door gently behind you, bending down to brace his palms against the open window.

“Drive careful. Call me if you need anything.”

“You’re kinda a helicopter mom. You know that, Joel?” Dina tells him with that sweet smile of hers.

“Do not entertain his nonsense,” you snap.

“She’s just grumpy because Vogue France posted a piece on her and the funeral—the heiress to watch, they’ve called her.”

“I don’t know who they think I am—Kendall fucking Roy? This isn’t HBO, it’s my goddamn life.”

“It’s fine, drink your smoothie, here,” Dina soothes.

“I don’t got a clue what any of that means,” Joel says. “And do up your belt,” frowning at you and pulling away just in time when you speed off with half the admonishment still on his tongue

The bar is loud and sweaty and crowded enough there’s room for your spite, which he knows, is all this night out is.

The day had gone from terrible to horrible to heinous, and he’s officially reached his limit now. You’d returned from your late morning in Jackson toting a gray cloud that’d settled over the entire ranch and everyone in it. All work had come to a slow and grinding halt, the mood morose, knowing that the lady of the manor was grieving and angry.

And then a few hours into the evening, you, Ellie, and Dina had spun into the bunk, already giggling on drinks he was certain were too sugary and way too strong to end in anything good. Looking to rile up the boys into heading back to Jackson and finding a bar to terrorize.

And so here he now finds himself, stepping through the door of The Mushroom, ridiculous name for a bar if anyone asked him, eyes searching for the gleam of your hair, that tiny fucking outfit you’d draped yourself in. You were hunting for trouble, to aggravate him, trying to hurt him with your, you’re not invited, Joel—no one wants you to come.

Angry, angry as a spitting fire.

He’d felt like shit about himself and your upset for a second, and then had thought: Well, are you going to cowboy up, Joel? Or just lay here and bleed?

Now, there’s something sick in him that wants more of it, to take everything you’ve got to give, to see how far you can go, to push you just a little bit further too.

A masochist, is what he reckons he might actually be.

He finds Ellie’s bent head whispering into Dina’s ear, giggling and dragging her fingertips up the other girls bare arm, and he feels a thump of fondness for the two—happier than he can say that they’ve finally worked it all out after months of their will-they-won’t-they struggle.

Making his way over to them, he catches Frank in the distance, dancing to the countryfied Abba cover of Chiquitita the local band’s currently playing while Bill stands nearby, serious and menacing, keeping anyone from getting too close to his partner.

No sign of you, and the backs of his knees itch and burn.

“Where is she?” He demands when he reaches Ellie at their place against the bar.

“Oh, dude. She’s gonna be soooo pissed.”

“Where, Ellie?”

Get you anything to drink, sugar? The bartender calls and Joel shakes her away, panic thumping in his gut the longer he doesn’t have eyes on you.

Dina knocks her head towards the end of the L-shaped bar, closest to the throng of dancing patrons, and there in the last seat and partially obscured by someone’s shoulder and ridiculously feathered hat, you sit.

“Who the fuck is that?”

“Can you please just leave her alone. She needs to blow some steam off.”

“Yeah, Joel, we’re watching her,” Dina adds, always the peacekeeper.

Or blow someone, Ellie adds in a snicker, and he gives her a death glare. “You need to quit the asshole act,” she tells him, purposefully thunking her beer hard enough on the bartop that some of it sloshes over the lip of the bottle onto his hand braced against the edge.

Real mature.

“Changed my mind,” he tells the bartender when she heads back their way, “Shot of Jameson.”

Beside him, Jesse appears, beer in hand as he leans against the bar to watch you also. “That might just be the most beautiful girl I’ve seen in my whole life, honest to God,” he sighs wistfully.

Joel sees red—this is just too much. “Quit fuckin’ lookin’ at her,” he snaps.

Ellie snickers knowingly, and Frank and Bill join the group, picking up on the topic of conversation.

“That little girl can drink a grown man under the goddamn table,” Bill says.

“And looks good as hell doing it too—”

“Eyes off, you little shit,” Joel sends a threatening glance at Jesse again.

Ellie ignores them both. “He’s a finance bro or some shit—from New York—here to play cowboy dress up with the group he’s with. Nothing I can’t handle, and you need to cool it and leave or have a drink and let her have fun.”

“She’s vulnerable right now, Ellie—”

“Yeah, you would know.”

Joel’s turn to do the ignoring, “And she needs someone to watch her back.”

“I’m fuckin’ watching it, man. You’re so annoying, and I’ll have you know that—” The fucker’s got a thick lock of your long hair trapped between his probably manicured fucking fingers, smoothing it between his thumb and index and then looping it around and around, drawing you in closer.

Joel’s about to start howling.

You’ve done something to him, knocked something askew inside him, and he needs you to set it back to rights. Let him out of this saw trap he’s been caught in.

The man says something that has you throwing your head back in an overly eager laugh, loud and melodic in the most hypnotizing sort of way, meant to draw the eye or seduce or send his gut to twisting and aching.

Ellie’s saying something about how you need to have fun, how you need to find yourself, and all Joel can think is that he can be the one to give you that, to help you do all that while still making sure you’re alright, taken care of.

Over the wannabe cowboy’s shoulder, he sees your eyes land on him, and you give him one of those serenely beautiful smiles he knows means he’s about to lose his fucking mind and cause a scene.

A provocation of a smile is what it is.

You cross one long leg over the other, a flash of hot pink his eyes can’t help but flash to beneath the obscene hem of your skirt and lean in to whisper something, glossy lips right at his ear, and a tick starts up below Joel’s left eye. The fuckwit pulls you in closer, and you tip into him, hand on his shoulder—your eyes never leave Joel’s, and then you’re pulling him off the barstool and leading him into the throng of dancing people. He’s desperate to know what the back of your hot pink underwear looks like—string of lace wedged between the cleft of your ass, or silk wrapping around the full cheek like a perfect present? The man pulls you into himself, spinning you around, and you’re made up of blues and purples and pinks, shimmering like something that shouldn’t exist here amongst all the rest of them. Slinky little top made of silk like water and sparkles, your cheeks, flushed with drink or heat, but he’ll tell himself it’s because of him, because you’re still angry at him, thinking of him, and it soothes the tempest that’s brewing in his gut.

He spins you towards himself, the man Joel’s about to beat senseless, shooting the Jameson without really tasting anything but the insane jealousy souring to irrational fury on his tongue, it pulses in his throat once, twice, and the fucker tugs you into himself again by a handful of your ass in that too short skirt and sticks his tongue in your mouth. Joel slams the glass on the bartop, not seeing red anymore, something like dark spots now, he’s so fucking pissed off.

Ellie yelps his name, her and Jesse scrambling after him, but they’re too late and he’s there already, pulling you away, and gently because he might be feeling a little bit like a demon right now, but he knows what you are and how to handle you no matter what—and slams his fist into the fuckers nose, the satisfying crunch of broken bone and a pathetic cry sounds as he hits the sticky bar floor. The people around peer over in nothing more than mild curiosity, this is a cowboy bar after all.

He watches the man for a second, making sure he stays down, and then turns to look at you and isn’t at all surprised when he finds that look of victory on your face.

“Ready to go?” Voice all sweet innocence.

You’re going to kill him.

Spinning around on the toe of your boot, the hem of your little skirt flutters with your movements and he catches a flash of cheek, mystery of your panties still unsolved.

“You’re a real dumbass, you know that?” Ellie snarks as they pass the group of them.

He chooses to ignore that observation. “Don’t stay out too late. And let Bill drive back.”

Following you out into the night, he tries to take control of himself, to lie away the heat he feels sitting heavy in his stomach.

He wishes he had a mint leaf to pulverize between his molars, he wishes he could pull you over his knee and spank your ass for being such a bad girl. And looming behind you, he knows you’re not even a little bit intimidated by his size as you dance and prance across the parking lot towards his truck.

“I know you’re ticked off because of last night and today, but you can’t lash out just because you’re angry with me.”

All he gets in response is that head-thrown-back wind chime laughter—the real one, which is something.

“You need to stop misbehaving,” he breathes down your neck.

“Hmm, I don’t think I will,” you singsong.

“Are you drunk?” Refusing to be distracted, he’s going to stand strictly on business, he promises himself.

You spin around again—always catching him off guard and pissing him off—hooking yourself on his shirtfront, pulling yourself into him like you’re trying to dance some fucked up dance he doesn’t know the steps to.

“Not at all.”

“You need to not be touching me right now,” he warns, the threads of his control dangerously close to snapping, walking you backwards without putting his hands on you. Chest to chest, he feels like he could breathe fire if he really set his mind to it.

“Yes, sir,” you say sweetly, dragging your palms down his chest and belly before letting him go, skipping ahead of him, humming an off-key rendition of whatever kitschy, poor excuse for a country song they’d been playing at the end in there.

The even poorer excuse for a skirt bounces along the curve of your ass, driving him fucking mad—he’s goig to have a heart attack, he’s middle aged, he can’t handle this shit anymore—you.

Stop that, he growls.

“God, you don’t like anything—you’re no fun,” you pout.

Coming to the truck, he yanks the door open for you. “Get in the damn truck.” And he makes sure to turn away and not ogle your ass as you hop in, his palm hovering in the vicinity of your elbow if you need him.

The prospect of an hour and a half of the dark drive and the scent of your musky sweet perfume and sweat soaked skin has his heart pounding. When he pulls his door open, you’re turned in your seat expectantly waiting for him, folded knees up on the seat and pink triangle right there to taunt him.

“Sit right—put on your seatbelt.”

“You’re so bossy.” An exaggerated sigh and your voice is so fucking sassy, a tiny bit of a needy whine threaded through it, he feels his patience snap.

Grabbing hold of your damp cheeks he squeezes hard enough to force your full mouth into a pout and giving your head a little shake he says, “And you need managing, little girl. Put your fucking belt on, or I’ll put it on for you.”

Eyes all pupil and gone blurry, you lick your lips and he can smell the sweet fruit scent of your breath. He groans, pushing you back—mistake, mistake, putting his hands on you at all—and peels out of the parking lot, and he is not hard in his jeans for you.

“Are you mad at me?” You ask after several moments of forced silence.

“No.”

“Not even for last night?”

“I don’t want to talk about that.”

“Why not?”

“I thought you didn’t want to talk about it either.”

“Well, now I’ve changed my mind.”

Jesus, he mutters. “There’s nothing to discuss—already told you what I think and how it’s going to be and that’s final. You need to let it go, you hear me?”

You give a little groaning screech through your clenched teeth, turning away from him, still not wearing your goddamn seatbelt, never doing as he says.

Toeing your boots off roughly, the little skirt hitches high enough on your thighs he catches a glimpse of the smooth glowing skin of your hip, eyes trying to watch the road and your thighs at the same time.

“You’re horrible,” you say through a grimace, but your voice cracks a little bit at the end, and you’ve still got your face turned away so that he can’t tell if he’s made you cry or not now.

“Are you cryin’?” He demands.

“No,” you sniffle, wiping your cheek on a lifted shoulder

“Yes you are, liar.” Fuck—fuck, fuck.

“Well you’re bein’ mean,” you whine, finally turning to look at him again, and you’re all rose glow, cheeks flushed and eyes glossy, lips red as a cherry.

No man should be tested like this. It’s wrong—unnatural.

He tries to gentle his voice and steady the pounding of his heart, pressing down on the gas, wishing the road would disappear from beneath the tires of the truck and that he could have you home and away from him already. “Not bein’ mean, sweetheart. Just—just…” He sighs, “Goddamnit, just don’t how how to handle you,” he curses, losing the grasp on his gentleness.

“See—you are angry with me!” A tear slips down your cheek, and Joel’s mouth waters.

His heart kicks up another notch, hypnotized, “You make me fuckin’ crazy—is that what you wanna hear?”

“Yes.” You turn full in the seat to face him, bent knees against the center console block his view of the apex of your thighs. Fucking Christ.

“Sit right. You’re flashing your bits,” he tries and fails to focus on the road.

“Yeah, that’s ‘cause I want you to see them, stupid.”

Jesus. “How much did you have to drink?”

“Only one High Noon.”

“The hell is that? And quit lookin’ at me like that.”

“Like what?” Your knees shift against each other, and he’s gripping the steering wheel so tight he feels like he could rip it out of the dash.

“You fuckin’ know like what.”

“Well if you hadn’t been such a cock block earlier, I’d be looking at someone else like this right now.”

And the teasing is too much. The bare legs and the tiny skirt and the hair and the lips and the sound of your voice, the kiss last night replaying in his mind over and over and over again like some lovesick taunt, the look of hurt he’d put on your face and the idea of you bare and slick, taking some other man that isn’t him. It’s too much.

He jerks the truck roughly onto the road shoulder and into the grass, wheels spinning and gravel flying. Joel—you squeal, being jostled in your seat so that all he can see are soft thighs and pretty tits bouncing in his peripheral. He puts the truck in park, ripping his seat belt off, reaching over to tug you roughly forward by the nape, his fingers twisting in your hair in a hold he knows is too hard for something so delicate, his other hand grips below the bend of one knee squeezing hard.

“If you think I’m gonna let you spread your legs for anyone fucking else—” he growls.

“Anyone else?” You laugh in his face, eyes spinning with something a little maniacal.

He thought he’d been worried for his soul, that taking you would be the undoing of everything he’d tried so hard to mend back together after Sarah. And really, he had tried so hard—to be good, to be better, to atone for all he’d not done before her, all he’d done after her. He’d tried to make himself into something that was respectful of her memory and the second chance Kelly had given him.

But right here, and again because anytime he looks at you, is within a mile of your vicinity, it feels like you’re the only two people on the whole goddamn planet, he doesn’t think he really gives a fuck for being good or atoning or souls at all. Not even a little bit.

He follows your lead from last night and kisses you, is sure to take your tongue this time. Forcing his thumb and forefinger between the line of your molars, he presses down hard enough to hurt the baby soft skin, spreading your jaw open wide so that he can lick into your mouth deep and wet. He wants to scare you, cow you, intimidate you into behaving with this hunger that seems to swallow him whole—remind you that he’s let you have your fun thus far, but the both of you know who’s playing games and who’s not.

You let out a shocked little gasp onto his tongue, fingers twisting in the fabric over his shoulder, and he tightens his grip under your knee, tugging you just that little bit further forward, and when he pulls back to look at you, spit slick, swollen mouth and wide eyes, tits about to spill out of your top, you push his face away roughly, dragging your nails down the skin of his cheek with a tiny snarling growl.

Spoiled little brat.

“Don’t be fuckin’ childish,” he snarls back, and pulls you roughly over the console and into his lap.

“I can’t stand you,” you pant, settling above him, coming in to kiss him again, and he can’t deny it anymore. He’s hard as fuck for you.

You moan into his mouth, high and throaty at the same time, girlish little sigh at the end that has him gripping your hip tightly, trying to stop himself from thrusting up against you.

“Can you taste him?” You lick his tongue. “He kinda looked like you, didn’t he? That’s why I chose him.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

He’s going to stop this now, at any moment. He’s going to push you away and tell you this is wrong and that the two of you can’t do this.

Instead, you wrap your arms around his neck, pressing your tits high against his chest and grinding your lace covered little cunt against his cock.

He groans into your mouth, pushed straight over the edge and free falling, cupping your ass to lift you off of himself a little bit, he just needs a second, before he takes a breath and presses you back down harder, rolling your hips against his lap. Little animal sounds, an ah, ah, ah and an oh, coupled with his mewled name. Cupping the soft of your ass in the palms of his hands, his calluses scrape against silken skin, and you fit him as if he’d dreamt you up just for himself; perfectly lush curves he can squeeze as hard as he wants because you’re not getting away from him now that he’s caught you in his snare. He drags his fingertips up the roundness of your asscheeks, and the mystery’s solved, it’s a thong. Catching the lace between his fingers he pulls the flimsy string upwards and tight against your pussy, a pained moan when he pulls even harder, making sure the fabric digs against your skin.

He knows if he cups you there you’ll be wet for him, for him, no one else but him. Knows he could bend you face first over the console, pull the soaked lace aside and suck on your wet little clit, make you come in his mouth.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans.

Joel, Joel, Joel, you hum in a dream voice.

He can feel two little dimples at the low of your back, imagines what they’d look like with his thumbs gripped there as your ass takes his cock.

He can’t say it enough—he feels fucking insane.

“Touch me,” you beg, sliding and pressing against him, long hair like water slipping all over and against him too.

Oh my God, he whisper moans when you spread your knees as wide as the seat allows, rocking your hips in short little hitches against the ridge of his cockhead. He knows your little clit is right there, cunt a knot of indescribable heat against him, and you pull your mouth away from his, letting your head fall back, hair a tangled curtain. He drags his nails back down your ass hard enough he hopes he’s leaving marks, leaning forward to lick along the salt tracks of your tears, watching you use him.

“Do not fucking come,” he orders. He can’t—he can’t watch you do it and not be inside you when it happens, and the two of you absolutely cannot take this that far.

He pulls your hips up again, forcing your movements still and you huff at him, whining.

“We gotta stop.”

Noooo. “No, Joel. Please,” you cry, trying to pull yourself towards him—your mouth is so swollen—trying to escape his hold and get what you want for yourself.

Grasping at the last vestiges of his sanity, “Fuck— No. No more.” He lifts you off his lap and back into your seat, sitting back to press himself against the door and adjusting the throbbing erection in his jeans, so hard it’s making him a little nauseous. If he doesn’t stop, he’s going to stuff his cock inside of you right here and now. He tucks the thick head up under his waistband, trying to find any sort of momentary relief.

There isn’t enough oxygen in this truck. He needs air, space, to taste you.

“Fine,” prim little nose in the air. You stretch one leg out across the console to dangle over his groin and let the other drop to the cab floor. “That’s fine—I’ll just take care of it myself then,” you tease provocatively, fingertips dragging up the inside of your thigh.

He shoots forward to stop your movement, gripping your wrist in a vice—baby bird bones beneath his fist, and you moan at his touch like the little wanton he’s coming to realize you are, writhing in your seat. “Don’t you fucking dare. I swear to God I’ll put you over my knee.”

“Jokes on you, I’d like that shit,” you sass back, ripping your wrist out of his hold, little socked foot kicking towards his face. He catches it, holding it in his grip and squeezing. “And I don’t really care if you’re not mad at me because I’m mad at you.”

“I know you are, sweetheart,” and the mood changes, smolders into something more serious, more honest.

“Why didn’t you go today? The lawyer asked you to—” You’d wanted to find him as soon as you’d gotten home earlier, demand he give you an explanation. Cowardice had won over that desire, and going out to find a drink and a replacement man had seemed the easier alternative.

“Wasn’t my place.” Spreading his thighs wider in his seat to accommodate himself, he presses his hips forward, and you can make out the heft of his cock beneath his jeans—your belly twists all full of heat and bubbles.

“Did you know he was leaving you something?”

He laughs a bitter bark of a laugh. “No—never thought—” the words die in his throat and he stares out the window, lost to the memory of your father. “No, I didn’t think he was leaving me anything before I got the call.”

“It’ll make a good nest egg.”

“Don’t want it.”

He won’t turn to look at you now, and you know that this conversation in the aftermath of touching you shames him.

“You’re taking it. You don’t have a choice.” His eyes flash fire at you and then flit away. “He had all your banking information, it’s probably already there.”

Fucking Christ, he spits the murmured curse, bracing his elbow against the curve of the steering wheel, cupping his palm over his mouth as if to keep his anger and frustration in. The bulge of his bicep beneath his dark hoodie distracts you for a moment.

You’d spent enough time watching him over the years that you’d learned all the things you knew he tried to hide in plain sight. That gentleness, that patience, that heart—that he is an inconceivably good and honest man. Things that are ultimately impossible to hide.

Your eyes flash to the temple where a gristle of scar tissues is slashed across his skin. The meaning behind a scar like that, coupled with his bad ear and his green eyed photograph—it’s hard to hide. People can always tell when you’ve tried to kill yourself, you know.

Which all goes to say—and you’re quite certain of this—that yes, the two of you are strangers, in ways, but in others, or in your own way, you know this man. You understand his nature. You know he wouldn’t have ever wanted it—that he does not want it and never will. He isn’t the sort of man who’d ever look a million dollars in the eye and feel moved by them.

His humanity means more to him than his life, you’d heard Tommy say about him once to your father when you’d been an eavesdropping little girl. You hadn’t understood at the time, but now you do.

The dark pullover and jeans, incongruously boyish, the scuffed boots—he’s so himself and so fucking hot and you want him so, so badly, and looking at him sitting here now, gorgeous, hair mused by your fingers, and your slick smeared across his jeans—you look down at your own twisted fingers in your lap, a little ashamed now too—and you can’t fathom why or how he’d ever look at you and feel moved by the likes of you either.

You’re ashamed that you’re even angry at him for it at all, resentful of this gift your father has given him when really it is not only resentment, maybe not even truly that at all. More so, it’s a complicated mixing pot of feelings that these two men seem to have always been twisted up into knots together inside of you. Resentful, not because you don’t want him to have it. You want him to have everything he deserves or could ever think to want and more, but perhaps, because this was the final nail in the coffin scrap of proof that your father had cared about him in a very real way that you’d never experienced—in a way that was entirely Oswald Kelly’s own choice and not because of dead mothers or obligation or legacy.

“It’s good he left it for you,” you say gently and mean it.

He looks at you out of the corner of his eyes, looks away, from under the cover of his palm says, “S’not fair to you.”

“It doesn’t have anything to do with me. This is about you and you deserving this, and I’m glad he gave you your due. He should’ve left more.”

His eyes flutter shut, sighing deeply and shakes his head. “You’ve made me into something I’m not. You need to see that.”

“You’re not some sort of cautionary tale, Joel.”

“You don’t know a thing about it,” voice like he could he angry but is being very careful to remain not. “You don’t know the things I’ve done, the reasons why I came here. You should look at me and see nothin’ worthwhile.”

“My father saw something,” you argue. “You let my father see that something. And I do too, no matter what you say, no matter what you do or how hard you push me away; I’m used to it, and you won’t change my mind.”

He gives you a look like you’re hurting him, like your truths hurt him. “We’re goin’ home. This is enough,” he gruffs, pulling the truck into drive again and peeling out of the grassy knoll.

Fight dying in your throat, you feel suddenly exhausted, shivering coldly, belly an ember of unsated lust, your orgasm is tight and wet between your legs and you don’t want to argue or impose yourself on him anymore. You don’t want to feel like you’re imposing yourself now when he’d never made you feel like that before.

The night is a pitch dark blur falling away behind your glazed over eyes, and huddling into yourself against the door, you hide your face away in your shoulder, belly swooping with nausea.

“You drive too fast, I’m dizzy,” you mumble, and he immediately slows, foot easing off the gas.

“You gonna puke?”

“Yes, all over your face.”

“I’m serious, darlin’. Need me to stop?”

“No. I just want to be home,” said in as small a voice as you can manage, hoping he won’t catch your words, and soon he’s turning off into the long drive to the house.

When he pulls to a stop, you scramble to grab your boots before he can say anything else, but he’s unnaturally quick for such a large man, out the door and around the nose of the truck, pulling your own door open before you can even get a single boot on. He pulls them from your grasp, and then tugs you bodily out of your seat, slinging you over his shoulder as if you were some sack of nuisance prone potatoes. You screech, flailing, trying to knee him in the gut, but he bands a strong arm across the backs of your thighs, pinning you in obedient place. “Quit.”

“What the fuck are you doing?” You howl, hitting him repeatedly on the ass, trying to wriggle and make his life as difficult as you possibly can.

This man has absolutely no consideration or respect or sense of personal space!

Technically, neither do you—but that’s neither here nor there.

You scream like a hyena, shrill and long and he pinches your ass hard, right at the inner crease of your thigh and ass cheek, too close to your still wet pussy for comfort. “I said quit.”

“Everything alright out here?” You hear Jesse’s voice call from the direction of the bunk, they must’ve beat you two here while you’d been trying to seduce Joel into making you come.

The snap of Joel’s fingers and then, “Mind your own fucking business.”

“You are so rude.”

He bumps you on his shoulder, jostling you on the soft of your belly and making your cunt go even tighter. You hate him. “Quiet, you.”

Letting himself in the dark of your house, he makes his way up the stairs while you hang quietly upside down now, a little astounded, a lot turned on by how strong he is, lugging you all the way upstairs without even a change in his breathing.

But as soon as he steps foot into your bedroom, now set to rights from yesterday’s disaster, you feel the change come on him. The shift and deepening of his breaths, the expanse of his ribs going wide and winglike as he sucks in a big gulp of air. You press your palm flat to the center of his back, feeling the whistle of his breath go in and out of him until he’s slipping you off his shoulder to bounce gently backwards onto your soft bed.

He stands above you for a quiet moment, and you take in the broad shape of him backlit by the moonlight of your open drapes. He’s huge and imposing cast in this darkness, something out of a dream.

Literally—out of your own teenage fantasy dreams.

Has anyone in all the world ever wanted someone as badly as you want him?

You can feel the press of his left knee against the inside of your right one, and you wish he’d put it between your thighs, join you on the bed.

“Can I ask you something?” You reach your fingers out and he tangles his hand with yours and it’s a small victory.

“Yeah.”

“Would you come to my funeral?”

His fingers jolt— “What?”

“If I died.”

“Don’t say shit like that.”

“Tell me that you would—” You tug him forward and he lets himself come, bending over your prone form, braced on one arm and still holding onto your fingers with the other. “—That I wouldn't be alone even there.”

“You’re not alone.”

“Would you?”

“Makes me angry when you say shit like this—as if you don’t believe I’m going to take care of you.”

“Please tell me, Joel. Promise me—” and you reach up to gently touch the scar across his temple.

He goes frozen and understanding. “I’d come,” and you know it costs him something to give in to such an imagining and it makes you all the more grateful for it.

Fingers sliding back into the curls at his temple, silver speckled, you know, you pull him further towards you until he’s close enough to press a softly hot kiss to his mouth. The two of you hold there for a moment, another, another, you can feel the wash of his heavy breathing through his nose, the flutter of his long lashes tangling with yours—you hope he’s searching for you in the dark—and you lift your knee up onto the bed, bending to open yourself to him.

He pulls back, hand shooting to your jaw to grip you tightly in place, breath ragged, animal being hunted.

You smile.

“Not gonna fuck you,” he says low.

“Why not?” It’s what you want, you deserve to have what you want. He squeezes your face once, presses another hard, too quick kiss to your mouth and then flips you over onto your belly, turning your skirt up over your ass to expose you. He tugs once on the string of your thong, drawing his finger along the lace wedged between your ass cheeks and then pulls his hand away for a moment before he’s spanking you hard and quick.

Owwww, you whine, hitching your rump towards him, wanting more despite the sting. He bends his head and bites you even harder at the inner corner of your asscheek, teeth digging hard and long enough to leave a mark. You whine again, high and mewling, trying to escape his meanness and he smacks you again on the other cheek.

“Go to bed, little girl. I’ll see you in the mornin’.”

And he’s leaving you, broad shouldered form slipping out your bedroom door and leaving you aching and angry to scream into your pillow.

You’re pretty sure you hear his deep laugh before the slam of the door sounds below, and you’re slipping your greedy fingers into the ruined wet of your panties, petting away the ache he’s left.

The late May night is cool, despite the daytime heat, and Ellie shivers in her Carhartt, watching as Joel slips out the back kitchen door of the big house.

“The hell is going on with those two?” Jesse says beside her, pulling long on his beer. The litter of yellow cans around them speaks to his mullish whining that he’d not been able to pull tonight. Sometimes he annoys her, but in that sort of endearing little brother way that makes her want to kick his ass and protect him at the same time.

“Nothin’, they’re fine—just gotta fuck it out.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“Naw—just smarter than you, man.”

“They like each other?”

“God, Jesse, you wouldn’t see an obvious thing if it were a tipsy bison barrelin’ towards you full speed in the middle of the day.”

“I don’t know what that means,” he says a little pathetically. Moping men—Ellie really can’t be assed to deal with them all.

“It’s fine. You don’t need to understand. I do—I see all, I know all. You mere mortals wouldn’t understand.”

“S’kinda weird, no? Them two—him bein’ so much older, her bein’…well, you know— her.”

“Nope. Makes perfect sense—they need each other, you see.”

He shrugs, I guess—“You’re fuckin’ weird, too. You know that?”

She takes a swig of her beer now also, hoping the two idiots she loves most in the world, after Dina of course, figure each other out before the whole ranch has to suffer for it too.

“Wrong again, Jesse. Wrong again.”

Chapter 3; Little Freak

Netherfeildren’s Masterlist

Updates Blog

#fable of the dog fic #vic fic #joel miller x FMC #joel miller #joel miller smut #the last of us au #joel miller fanfiction

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wolvietxt · 12 days ago

Text

𝓭ay 𝓼eventeen.

daryl dixon and protective.

it was supposed to be a routine supply run. the group needed food, water, and a few extra supplies, so you, daryl, and shane headed out to a nearby town to see what you could scavenge. things had gone sideways fast when a horde of walkers had emerged from an alley, forcing everyone to split up. you’d managed to find cover and fire off a few shots to keep them at bay while daryl and shane took out the rest.

by the time the three of you regrouped, you were shaken and exhausted, but you’d made it out alive. however, it was clear from the second shane’s eyes landed on you that he was far from happy.

“what the hell were you doin’ back there?” shane’s voice cut through the air, loud and furious. he stalked towards you, his eyes blazing with anger. “you were supposed to cover our flank, not go runnin’ off on your own!”

“i didn’t - ” you started, but he cut you off before you could explain.

“yeah, you did!” he snapped, jabbing a finger in your direction. “if daryl and i hadn’t been there to pick up the slack, you’d be walker bait right now. you put us all in danger, runnin’ around like a damn headless chicken!”

“shane, i was trying to help,” you protested, your voice breaking as you took a step back. “the walkers came outta nowhere, and i thought - ”

“thought what? that you’d play hero?” shane’s words dripped with venom as he took a step closer, his chest almost bumping into yours. “you ain’t got the skills to be out there tryin’ to save anyone’s ass, includin’ your own. all you did was get in the way.”

your breath hitched, and you felt your throat tighten as tears stung your eyes. you blinked rapidly, trying to keep them at bay, but the pressure kept building. “i was doing my best, shane,” you said quietly, struggling to keep your voice steady. “i didn’t mean for - ”

“oh, here we go,” shane scoffed, rolling his eyes. “gonna start cryin’ now? what are you, a damn crybaby?” his voice rose again, echoing across the deserted street. “grow up. you wanna be out here with the rest of us, you better toughen up and stop actin’ like some scared little girl.”

the harshness of his words felt like a slap, and you couldn’t hold back the tears anymore. they spilled over, trailing down your cheeks as you stood there, frozen and humiliated. shane’s anger didn’t waver; if anything, it seemed to flare hotter at the sight of your tears. he shook his head in disgust, his voice a low growl. “unbelievable,” he muttered, stepping even closer so that you had no choice but to back up again.

daryl’s presence was suddenly there between you and shane, pushing shane back with a firm shove to the chest. his expression was deadly calm, but there was a fire in his eyes that you’d rarely seen before. he turned his back slightly to shield you, his broad shoulders blocking shane’s line of sight.

“what’s your problem, man?” shane barked, shoving daryl right back, his jaw tightening. “this ain’t got nothin’ to do with you.”

“it does when you’re standin’ here screamin’ in her face and pushin’ her around,” daryl shot back, his voice a low growl. “she did what she could out there, same as the rest of us. don’t make it her fault ‘cause shit went sideways.”

shane’s face twisted in anger, and he took a step forward, pointing an accusing finger at daryl. “you think you’re some kinda hero now, huh? stickin’ up for her ‘cause she’s cryin’? she’s a damn liability, and you know it. coulda gotten us all killed out there!”

“bullshit,” daryl snapped, his voice rising as he moved closer to shane, not backing down an inch. “we all took risks, and it coulda happened to any of us. but you don’t get to stand here and blame her just ‘cause you’re pissed. now, get the hell back.”

shane’s gaze flickered between you and daryl, and for a second, it looked like he might actually swing at him. but something in daryl’s stance, the unflinching intensity in his eyes, seemed to give shane pause. he took a step back, though his expression stayed hard. “whatever,” he muttered, turning away and spitting on the ground. “just don’t come cryin’ to me when she screws up again.”

as shane stalked off, daryl turned back to you, his expression softening as he saw the tears still on your cheeks. “you alright?” he asked, his voice gentler now, but the tension in his jaw remained, his hand twitching like he was fighting the urge to go after shane again.

you nodded, but a fresh wave of tears escaped, and you quickly wiped them away with the back of your hand. “i’m fine,” you whispered, though your voice was shaky. “just didn’t expect him to… i don’t know, freak out like that.”

“ain’t your fault,” daryl said firmly, his voice steady as he took a step closer. “he’s just lookin’ for someone to blame ‘cause he’s got his own shit he don’t wanna deal with.” his gaze flicked over your face, taking in the redness around your eyes, the way you were still trembling slightly. “c’mon,” he murmured, his hand reaching out to rest on your shoulder, his thumb brushing against your collarbone in a comforting gesture. “let’s get outta here. ain’t no point stickin’ around when he’s all riled up.”

you nodded again, still processing the fact that daryl had jumped to your defense so quickly, so fiercely. “thanks,” you said, your voice small as you glanced up at him. “for stepping in like that. you didn’t have to.”

he grunted, his gaze flicking away like he was uncomfortable with the gratitude. “didn’t do it for you to thank me,” he mumbled, his hand slipping from your shoulder as he turned to lead you away. “just don’t like seein’ him treatin’ you like that.”

his protectiveness left a warm, confusing feeling in your chest. it wasn’t often daryl showed that side of himself - he usually kept his emotions locked down tight, rarely letting anyone get a glimpse of what was going on behind those stormy eyes. but in that moment, he’d been so unwavering, like there was no question that he would put himself between you and shane’s anger.

“still,” you murmured as you fell into step beside him, “it means a lot. i don’t know what i would’ve done if you hadn’t been there.”

he huffed, a faint smirk pulling at his lips. “woulda been just fine,” he said, glancing over at you. “you’re tougher than you think.”

“well, guess you’re my knight in shining armor now,” you teased, trying to lighten the mood.

daryl shook his head with a gruff chuckle. “don’t start with that shit,” he grumbled, but the small, rare smile on his lips took the edge off his words. “just lookin’ out for ya, that’s all.”

“well, whatever the reason, i’m glad you did,” you replied, reaching out to squeeze his arm. “because i sure wasn’t winning that argument.”

he glanced down at your hand on his arm, then back up to meet your gaze. “don’t worry ‘bout him,” he said, his voice low and reassuring. “he’ll get over it. and if he don’t, i’ll make sure he does.”

the quiet promise in his words sent a shiver down your spine, but not from fear. it was a different kind of feeling entirely, a mix of gratitude and something deeper, something you hadn’t quite let yourself acknowledge before now.

as you continued walking together, you realized that shane’s words, harsh as they’d been, were fading into the background. all that mattered was the man beside you. the one who had stood up for you without hesitation, who had shown you a side of himself you hadn’t expected but were grateful for all the same.

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boop-le-snoot · 2 years ago

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masterlist

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I just had this vivid scene play out in my brain. Dropped to my knees in a local chain grocery store, had to pretend I was grabbin the bootleg brand chips from the bottom shelf. I'm definitely normal about this. Yea, I'm so abso-fucking-lutely normal about this.

So what if I'm ovulatin'? It ain't me sittin' here clenching my fuckin' thighs, no ma'am, nu-uh. Even my predictive text talks like Daryl now- okay, I may have a tiny little problem. I hope I never, never ever get the chance to look Norman Reedus in the eye.

4.5k words. VERY VERY NSFW. Just sweet and a little rough monkey lovin' where Daryl enjoys something for the simple sake of it feeling good. A little undercooked plot-wise but the smut has been grilled to a perfect medium-rare, slightly juicy, collard greens and mashed potatoes on the side with the mushroom sauce. Two packs of cigarettes later (he owes my lungs an apology),

Imagine you and Daryl going out on a - run, scouting mission, whatever - and hunkering down in a secure cabin for the night. It's summer, it's hot and stuffy inside, but luckily, the cabin has running water, even if it's ice-cold. So you wash up and apply some of the essential-oils-homemade-perfume-thing that someone at the community made for you.

You change into your PJs and come downstairs to amuse yourself til the sun sets completely.

He's smoking next to a crack in the boarded up windows and you, being on friendly terms, banter a bit and bum a cigarette off him. He doesn't mind when you use one of his knees to sit down. As you two joke, you ruffle his hair slightly, not missing the way his eyes narrow in pleasure.

That sparks a conversation about letting oneself to feel good things.

You say that it's different for women because they get judged for wanting to experience pleasure just for the sake of it and Daryl says he always thought it to be stupid. You say that he's not exactly the resident expert on that, which briefly makes his natural competitiveness overshadow his shyness and self-loathing.

Petulantly, he places your hand back in his hair and stresses the purring growl of pleasure as your scratch his scalp and let his moist tresses glide through tour fingers.

You laugh and say you're gonna braid his hair one day, in jest, and he growls back "yer pushin' yer luck, pretty girl," but his smile is hidden rather badly.

In revenge, you stomp out the cigarette and straddle his lap fully, attacking his head with a massage worthy of a spa parlour professional.

He grips your waist as his head hangs forward, a low rumble coming from his mouth as his nose comes that much closer to your neck.

Daryl takes a deep breath, and sensing you unbothered by it, says "ya smell good. like apple pie."

"Oh," he doesn't miss the slight hitch in your breath, "'member when I fixed up the 'lectric in number twelve? they paid me in some essential oil perfume they made. feels nice to... not smell death all day, every day. 's a nice change."

He nods, agreeing, remembering your strong feelings about doing some things just because they feel good. Not because it's useful or to survive, but just for a surge of happy hormones in your bloodstream.

Despite his best efforts to distract his body, one wiggle from you is all it takes for his excitement to be obvious. He freezes, but you adjust simply, politely, keeping your weight off his boner. Confused by your chill attitude, he lifts his head, forcing you to brush all of his hair out of his face.

Daryl feels vulnerable and exposed.

Your eyes slide down to his lips, once, twice, but you - just as stubborn as him - pick them back up. As he parts them to run the tip of his tongue over them in hopes of finding something to say, he notices it fully.

He notices the flush of your skin. His hands move on your waist, provoking another blink-and-youll-miss-it twitch of your fingertips and toes.

Gathering his ducks in a row, Daryl leans into you - your neck, not your lips, not yet - softly running the tip of his nose along your collarbone and up to your jaw.

"That feel good?" Voice gravelly low, it sends reverb through your chest.

"Yeah," you breathe quietly, your fingers in his hair shaking slightly. You lean more into him and that is all the encouragement he needs for the time being.

"Wanna make ya feel good," he admits, dry lips and scratchy stubble gliding along the length of your jaw. His breath is hot on the shell of your ear. "Can I do that, suga'-pie?"

"Mhm," you respond, his cheek now against yours - you rub into him gently, like a cat. The affectionate headbutt makes him chuckle quietly in his throat.

He continues nosing around your neck, feeling the muscles in your back and your thighs unclench one by one. You're practically on top of him, almost right there, over the throbbing erection in his pants, and he feels your control slip away bit by bit.

The flimsy wooden chair you two are sitting on creaks; Daryl doesn't place much trust in it. Planting his feet wide, securing his position, he inadvertently lands your cunt right over his cock. Both of you shudder and hiss at the contact.

The damn chair creaks again.

He curses under his breath, hands sliding down to your ass, hoisting you up and urging you to wrap your legs around his waist as he stands up, sending the raggedy chair clattering to the floor.

Your breath catches in your throat, your hands grab at his shoulders, kneading into the meat there. A few steps later, both of you land on the couch heavily; it creaks, too, but your legs have room and your body can finally relax against Daryl as you stabilise yourself on the surface.

He's panting, open-mouthed, looking at you with those stormy blue eyes, searching for something in your earnest, open face.

The corners of your mouth tug up.

He runs his palm over your back, settling on your nape to pull you into him. Your mouths connect; the kiss is slow and unhurried as you take the time to explore each other's mouths. There is no need to rush, no risk of being caught or ambushed; it really feels good. Following someone's advice for once, Daryl lets himself become utterly lost in the sweet kiss.

Your hands are in his hair, tugging softly every now and then, tipping the cup of him ever-so-slightly for short groans to spill into the kiss. Sometimes, you let your hands traverse the hills of his shoulders, the plains of his chest, fingertips poking around the collar of it.

It's overstimulating but at the same time, it's not enough. To give you a hint, Daryl timidly strokes the single bare inch of skin between your shirt and your pants, feeling the goosebumps even through the thick, calloused skin of his working hands.

The way your hips respond: restless and fluid, pressing into him just that much closer, prompts him to slide his hands further under your shirt, mapping the bony ridges of your spine. The skin along it is sensitive on any mammal, that much he knows, so he expects the twitch, expects the breathy moan leaving your lips; he revels in it, the kiss growing humid and sloppy.

Your hands slip into his shirt, finally, your warm palms on his hot skin. He's burning up inside out and you're- you're diligently adding fuel and accelerant to the fire. Blunt nails scratching over his uneven skin, you snag his bottom lip on your teeth as moisture gathers in the corners of your mouths.

The need for oxygen is strong.

Daryl inhales deep as he rests his forehead against yours.

Both of you are panting. Necking like horny teenagers, not a care in the world, no worry for tomorrow; it's near impossible to focus on anything else but the pulsating need at the spots where your bodies are pressed together.

It's all too much but neither of you want it to stop.

"Holy shit," your awed mumble causes Daryl to smirk lightly; as you shift in place, he swears he can smell how wet you are. His jeans must've gotten ruined by now, if not by you then by the weeping of his own cock.

It feels almost regretful to proceed. This exact feeling, if someone could figure out how to bottle it, would have people sellin' their soul for it, Daryl is damn sure.

It's the moment before lightning spears open the stuffy air of a muggy, stormy day. The millisecond before a heavily pregnant cloud gives birth to a solid wall of ice-cold rain; the blink of skies as they generously cool the overheated earth, filling up its parched cracks with invigorating liquid.

"Fuck," Daryl groans, tossing his head back onto the backrest of the couch, watching you through lidded eyes, "whatchu doin' to me, girl?"

You offer him a shaky, sheepish grin before your lust takes over your senses, pushing you back up to him. Your mouth connects with his neck, suckling, licking, nipping at the caramel skin there.

Daryl tastes of cheap soap and clear sweat, that musky scent of gasoline and leather unfurling into notes of pinewood and smoke as you nose deeper; right next to his ear, tickled by his hair, he smells and tastes like the best dessert at the carnival inside the town fair.

A little greasy and drenched in spices. You can't get enough of him. Opening your mouth, you stick your tongue out flat and lick.

Daryl groans. It's open-mouthed and loud. His hands grab your hips firmly, dragging you over the tent in his pants.

Both of you hiss at the friction.

Your knees wobble as your stance widens in an attempt to cover more surface are, to bring the feeling closer to your clit. There's at least four layers of fabric between your skin and his and it is something that is so sweetly, arduously annoying.

He pushes down again, harder this time, offering another delicious groan that you can't help but swirl in your mouth and recreate. The noise attracts his attention; Daryl watches you, watches your face, the flush on your chest, your heaving breasts. Like many men, he licks his lips utterly unintentionally when his eyes settle on your hard nipples.

Inwardly, you find enough clarity of mind to chuckle. Men and breasts nevel fail to amuse you when placed in close proximity. You push them outwards and his mouth is immediately right there, shirt and all, rolling a stiff nipple gently between his teeth.

The soft, damp cotton adds an edge to it; you feel your underwear slide over your cunt, the fabric absolutely saturated with your arousal.

Daryl's hands knead your ass as he takes in his fill of your breasts.

"That's, fuck," you pant, needing him to know, "that's really fuckin' good."

"Yeah?" He groans wetly before taking in as much of your breast as he can fit in your mouth; there's no finesse to it, just raw, unadulterated need.

"Uh-uh," you nod: his eagerness is what takes the cake.

Daryl tugs your shirt up; up and over your head and fuck knows where it flies, forgotten the moment his lips are back on one nipple, his fingers on the other. He rolls, he bites, he sucks.

Your breasts are wet with spit and sweat.

His breath ghosts over the damp areas, pebbling the tender bud to a state almost frigid.

You moan, loudly, wetly and openly. You gasp, you squirm, anything to quell the restlessness. It's like an army of fire ants trotting their primal, tribal dance under your skin, reducing you to a disoriented mess with a one-track mind. Your fingertips are pale where you hold onto Daryl in a feeble attempt to ground yourself.

He's smirking when he surfaces up. There's spit glistening on his chin, his lips are puffy, the deepest, most delicious shade of maroon. It's obvious the state of your undress and the intensity of your want is echoed by him.

"Feel good?" He has the audacity! to ask.

"Yeah," your response is lackluster in words but the tone and the pleading expression on your face conveys it all: your desire, your desperation.

With you on top of him, the only relief to your aching cunt so far has been provided by his bulge rubbing against your clothed slit. It's not enough, it's not even nearly enough.

Daryl's biceps bulge as he effortlessly lifts you up, "c'mere," placing you back-to-his-chest.

Your legs fall open on your own accord, hanging limply over his muscular thighs. The meat of his cock digs into the cheeks of your ass; you feel it twitch along with you when Daryl's thick palm cups the mound of your pussy in a gesture both tender and possessive.

"Fuckin' shit," his low mumble travels down the shell of your ear, "this all fr'me, sugar?"

"Yes," you breathe out as he slides his middle and ring fingers up and down your slit. There is no hiding it: your cunt had soaked right through your panties and the cotton of your pajama pants.

With some more maneouvering that comes unfairly easy to him (in your opinion), your pants join your t-shirt somewhere in the deepest pits of hell (a far corner of the room). The panties stay on and for that, you're grateful - a little - as the simplest, straightest of touches on the sensitive meat of your cunt feels like clear honey being poured over a-

Daryl taps two fingers at the top of your slit, right where you outer lips part to reveal your swollen clit.

"Fuck!" You yelp.

"So responsive," he mumbles. He sounds fascinated as he spreads his fingers, the rough tips gliding along the skin and the thick meat sliding over the soaked fabric. You quiver and he can't resist running his mouth, "that feel good?" His smirk is a little mocking, a little breathless.

Your resolve hops between strangling Daryl and begging him, the rabbit of your heart leaping in your chest, doing a binky when your lover shows you mercy by moving aside the sticky fabric covering your crotch. It immediately cools and you wince as it touches the hot flesh of your thigh.

Daryl's inhale is sharp, deep and loud as he dips the same two thick fingers inside your slit.

You're swollen and so wet, its practically dripping. Your clit twtiches under his fingers.

"Jesus Christ," he exhales his disbelief, "you like that, huh? This all for me?" The question proves to be rhetoric when the arm that holds you by your waist tightens on you and Daryl grinds his hips up into the small of your back.

The pitch of his voice drops impossibly low, "bet you taste sweet," as he scoops up some of the fluid, fingers snagging on the snug ring of your entrance, before bringing them up to his lips. He noisily sucks your cunt off his fingers, slurping, "fuck yes!"

Your eyes flutter shut as you cunt pitifully clenches around nothing, no doubt making an ever bigger mess between your legs and on his jeans. Your soft whine is an earnest compliment to the man doing his best to clean up your mess.

Daryl repeats the motion several times, scooping up the sticky droplets of your cunt juice, immediately sticking his fingers in his mouth.

You feel a little sad you can't see it, but your imagination supplements that which is lacking. You imagine his brow, furrowed; his eyes, closed; the tight 'o' of his lips around his fingers. Your cunt flexes again, spasming.

Daryl's reward for it is to circle your clit with a featherlight touch of a single finger. His breath is heavy as he reaches lower, same finger sliding to your entrance: not breaching it, just circling, like a predator circles its prey. He must have the patience of a saint.

You, however, do not. Your hips have a mind of their own as they arch into him, your cunt so empty, it practically hurts.

"Tell me whatcha need," Daryl orders, the low of his voice seasoned with a pinch of pride and a pinch of desperation, "tell me, sugar."

"Inside," you keen, out of your mind, "I want you. Inside." There's drool gathering in the corners of your mouth.

Daryl obliges, but not before lubricating the entirety of his thick finger by sliding it over the outside of your cunt, causing another loud keen to fall from your lips.

When he pushes in, you swear you could cry from the sheer relief of finally getting something for your hungry cunt to wrap around.

Experimentally, he drags his finger in and out, slowly, tense as he watches your reaction, before adding in another. To say they're big would be an understatement: long and thick and textured, it's everything your cunt has craved for the past some minutes. Daryl pumps them in and out as you pant through the new sensation, acutely aware of the loud squelches coming from your hole with every plunge.

Your swollen lips and throbbing walls attempt to keep him hostage with every pull.

Daryl curses, something completely unintelligible, his rough voice completely lost to lust. "Gonna cum for me, eh?" He breathes as the contractions of your cunt become quicker, more rhythmic.

Your neglected clit pulses, your nipples are stiff as rocks, your breathing is uneven and shallow. You couldn't find your voice even if you tried; you don't try at all, letting your body do the talking. You fuck back onto his fingers to the best of your limited ability to move as short, loud, primal noises choke their way up your throat.

The throb of his cock against the small of your back is what sends you over the edge.

Daryl's panting, whimpering himself at the unabashed state of your being; you don't think he realises it, even, his eyes set on your cunt gripping onto his fingers.

When it clenches for one last time, you arch, you paint the walls of the room with curses and whimpers that would make even a prostitute blush as more sweet slick drips out your spasming hole and onto his fingers. Your legs tremble as your entire body goes limp in Daryl's hold.

Soft lips rest on the crown of your head, hot, uneven puffs of air frizz your damp hair.

As your brain does a factory reset, you become hyperaware of the hard, thick flesh pressing into you; a stark realization comes over your being, washing your body in a new layer of shivers. Your cunt still tingles, still aches for more.

"Daryl," you mumble, feeling him go stiff and hot, his name like the sweetest honey on your lips, "I want you inside me."

He shudders, he pants, his cock twitches pitifully once again in his pants. The tight denim had provided some relief, enough to focus on you, enough to stretch the time a little bit more. But now, with your body warm and lax and fucked out of your skull, how could he resist?

He didn't want to resist. He wanted to feel good.

In your dazed state, it was easy for him to pick you up, bridal-style, and carry you towards the singular bedroom in the cabin. He grinned at the clumsy way you immediately reached out to him, tangling your fingers in his hair, placing sloppy kisses on the nearest inches of skin you could reach.

The whine you let out when dropped onto the cool comforter?

Daryl's cock twitched demandingly.

The man stood at the foot of the bed, admiring the view: you, blinking up at him, breasts moving with each shallow breath, feet on the comforer and legs bent at the knee, a hint of flushed, swollen pussy peeking out from the crooked gusset of your underwear.

This may not be heaven but it was as close to it as he'll ever get.

The buckle of his belt clinked, denim shuffled as it was left somewhere behind him- Daryl wasted no time dropping to his knees, using two strong hands to bring your cunt up and into his face. The force of his inhale made your sensitive pussy quiver, it was something that made him smile against the fabric of your panties as moved it aside once more - this time with his teeth.

"Oh, fuck!" You yelped as the broad, wide, flat expanse of Daryl's tongue licked messily up your cunt, hole-to-clit.

"Mmm," he groaned, "fuckin' candy apple pussy," taking another taste. And then another, and another until your skin was raw from the stubble of his beard and you were left in a shaking, whimpering, wet mess of a human. His face was drenched. "Messy girl," he chided in a soft mock as your cunt provided him with another gush of arousal, "ya like bein' messy for me, don't cha?"

"Uh-uh," you arched, your usually concise vernacular reduced to whimpers, groans and two-syllable words that barely made any sense to your own ears, much less anyone else's.

Daryl was like a wild animal, lapping up the liquid, uncaring of the mess he made of you and of his own face.

"Please," you fought with your tongue and finally, finally won, "I wanna- uhh," well, maybe not quite.

Momentarily, he withdrew, wiping the side of his face on the inside of your thigh, "you want what? Tell me."

In your state, he could have touched you anywhere and it would have reduced you to a mindless, blabbering mess. So you settled on the next best thing. Your hand, the one that was in his hair, tugged him up - or tried to.

Daryl's responding growl, the shift of his shoulders, the absence of a single hand on your thigh - you knew the tug had him palming himself through his boxers. Another, purposeful tug was given, another growl followed as he stood up.

You weakly pushed yourself up higher on the large bed.

In the dim twilight of the bedroom, Daryl stood, shirt soaked through and through with sweat; his chest heaved as damp strands of hair fell over his face. They were unable to conceal the glistening layer of you on his chin, neither they could hide the blown pupils of his stare. There was almost no blue visible in his eyes.

You licked your dry lips, forcing them to cooperate, "c'mere," your hands stretched out towards him.

Daryl crawled on the bed and over you, sitting between your spread legs. Obedient, he leaned into you, placing sloppy, damp kisses over your face as you wound your arms around his neck. The tent in his boxers hovered less than an inch away from your bare cunt.

"I need ya'," you breathed, tasting yourself as you licked into his mouth, hoping to convey with you body what you couldn't with your words.

"Ya sure, sugar?" Ever the gentleman, Daryl pressed his clothed cock over your bare cunt, ruining his underwear even further; his muscles flexed under your palms.

"Uh-uh," the heat, the feel of his thick cock backtracked any progress you'd made on getting your vocal cords and your brain cooperate. There was nothing but lust and saliva gathered in your mouth now, something that both of you shared during another slow, wet kiss. Your teeth clashed, your tongues ran over each other, all graceless and sloppy.

With one swift, ragged motion of his hand, Daryl shoved his boxers down and over his cock, freeing it from the tight confines; that action alone was enough for him to let out a grunt as the cool air hit his leaking, flushed tip.

The same tip that slapped against your clit, jerking your body and his.

"F-f-fuck," Daryl wheezed, fisting his cock at the base, running the tip slowly over your lips, your clit and down to your hole, "m'not gunna last for shit like this."

Just get inside me!!! You wanted to scream. Instead, you wiggled your hips, you squeezed his shoulders.

The fat head of his cock slipped in, slowly, steadily. More wet, sticky noises got lost in the growl coming from Daryl's gritted teeth.

Your cunt was sucking him in, all wet and hot and snug and constantly flexing, rippling as it adjusted to his size. The roll of your hips that followed was utterly unintentional, driven by the most primitive of instincts.

"Oh, sugar," Daryl grasped your hip tightly, holding it in place, "fuckin' shit. What're you doin' to me, woman?" His speech slurred.

All you could reply was a series of small breaths, 'ah-ah-ah's' with every inch of his cock sliding into you, until you felt his heavy balls pressed against your ass.

If your eyes weren't clenched shut, you would have seen the wild look in Daryl's eyes, the way they darted between the blissed-out look on your face and the root of his cock secured against the entrance of your cunt.

Slowly, he withdrew, hissing at the smooth pleasure of your wet pussy sliding over his cock, and then he slammed back in.

Your body curled, arched; a shriek left your lips at the sudden realization. You held onto him tightly, his shoulders, his arms; the sweet feel of his skin, slick with sweat, bombarded your senses, drowning you in that natural, masculine smell of him.

You babbled some nonsense, something about how good he felt, how he fit just right and so nicely, how he was so good to you-

"You're so good to me," Daryl objected, Daryl stated, "s'fuckin' sweet. My sweet, messy girl."

The words alone brought you closer to the edge as he hammered away inside your oversensitive cunt. In fairness, he could have flicked your clit just once, or even taken his mouth to one of your hard, throbbing nipples-

Daryl's need to feel you come, to clench and gush around his rock-hard cock was at the forefront of his mind, followed closely by awe at the way your body molded perfectly against his. The way your thighs quivered as they attempted to wrap themselves around his hips, the desperation in your grip on his shoulders.

"Fuck!" He cursed, teethering at the very edge of his orgasm, "come for me, pretty girl, c'mon," he urged, swallowing his own moans and gasps.

"I- uh," you, too were almost right there. The coil in your stomach at its most tense, it sent small tremors inside your cunt, shocks of pure, hot, liquid ecstasy-

That traveled down Daryl's cock. Like damn rings during a heated game of muckers, the spasms of your cunt collected at the root of his shaft, one on top of the other, until he could do nothing else but rut roughly, sloppily into the equally sloppy mess of your cunt.

He felt it. It began somewhere at the deepest part of you, squeezin' the head of his cock firmly and traveling all the way down his shaft, until each ring of pleasure popped, releasing his seed into you-

Throbbing, your cunt pushed and gushed, a flash of lightning zapping your clit as Daryl's pubic bone ground into it with force. A hoarse scream tore from your throat, your body curling inward with the force of your orgasm. Strong, heavy spasms of his cock shooting hot ropes into you lulled you into the aftershocks.

It made both of your bodies limp with exhaustion. The cord had snapped and tension finally leaked out, dissolving like smoke and fog into the open air.

Sweaty, sticky and hot, the two of you panted your relief onto each other's cheeks.

Your lips connected with the rough stubble on Daryl's. Hair hung over his face, obscuring your smile.

"Whatchu grinnin' at?"

Boy, did he sound fucked-out. All smoke and gravel and spice and everything nice.

"Feels good."

"Heh," he chuckled, the noise coming from somewhere deep within his chest, "sure does."

#WHEW I NEED TO BE NEUTERED Y'ALL #daryl dixon x you #daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon smut #daryl dixon x female reader #twd smut #fuckin' tiktok editors wirh their fuckin sexy edits #fuckin norman reedus with his stupid fuckin face #ALL OF YOU GET OUT #of my head #please.

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derinthescarletpescatarian · 2 months ago

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I must say: I’m genuinely impressed by how creative all your stories are. I have three questions related to your writing process, if you don’t mind.

1) How do you stay motivated to keep creating?

2) Where do you find inspiration?

3) have you ever had an idea for a scene that you struggled to execute? How did you work through that to write the scene?

I love your stories! I look forward to every chapter of Charlie McNamara.

1) Motivation to create has never been an issue for me -- there's always some new thing to write about! My issue, and the issue faced by a lot of other writers, is the motivation to stick with a project to completion. That's hard. Everyone's got a hundred "works in progress" they'll never touch again because they took a break and when they came back, their attention was on something new and shiny.

My solution to this? Money.

The reason I started Curse Words as a web serial and opened a patreon for it wasn't because I ever expected to be able to make a living as a writer. I'm as surprised as anyone that so many kind people have put their support behind me and let me keep writing these fucked up stories instead of getting a real job. I did it because I wasn't getting my projects finished. I was doing what we all do; getting three quarters of the way through any given project and then finding something more fun to work on instead. And when you risk disappointing readers by doing that, well, that'll get you back in the seat over the little bumps, maybe pull you back to a project a few times. But when people are paying you actual cash in return for consistent output, on time, to story completion? That's a way bigger motivator. Even if it's just one guy. For a long time, I had one patron! It was enough! It worked! It's not about making a lot of money, which is borderline impossible as a writer (again, I still can't believe my supporters are so generous enough that i can make this my career). But it acts as some level of both proof that your work is valued, and an active obligation on your part to keep producing it on a consistent schedule. My readers are giving me something valuable for this. I can't let them down.

Sorry, I'm sure you wanted a more uplifting kind of answer. But that's just what works for me.

2) I've never really been sure how to take this question. This is basically the age-old 'where do you get your ideas?' and it... doesn't have an answer. You think of a thing and you write about it. As you resolve the problems and inconsistencies in the thing, that fills out more and more of the world of the story.

Angel is born of a mediocre Goosebumps book called Chicken, Chicken. There's a part in the book where the protagonist, slowly shapeshifting into a chicken, rips all his feathers out every morning in an attempt to slow the transformation. The book isn't really about that but it stuck with me for a good two decades until, stuck in the house for two months at the beginning of Covid, I wrote Angel.

Void Princess and The princess in the Tower are both me musing on the old 'princess kidnapped by a dragon' trope. I get really fixated on this trope for some reason; I have four or five others swimming about in my head that aren't full stories ready for the page yet. Wasting Time is just the song Pushin' the Speed of Light, World Builder was written in a fever right after watching Jacob Geller's The Shape of Infinity, Copykate was initially going to be a SAYER fanfic but required enough alterations to the setting that it worked better as a story of its own. The inspiration is out there, the ideas are out there. It's just a matter of practice to turn them into stories.

3) I try to avoid scenes that are hard for me to depict, but this isn't always possible. I'm aphantasiac and struggle a lot with scenes that have a lot of heavy visual elements. Scenes where there's a lot going on that needs to be fairly precisely depicted are tricky, too.

One particularly difficult scene for me was a fight scene in Time to Orbit: Unknown. There's about six people in a small room fighting over the fate of a bunch of other people who are not present, and the reader needs to be kept up to date on the physical positions/activity/intentions of all the combatants, the villain explaining what he's doing and why (lying), the protagonist figuring out that he's lying, the physical condition (injuries, being restrained, et cetera) of all of the combatants, and the fate of the half of the crew not in the room, all with enough detail that the reader can understand the stakes, consequences, and enough of the moment-to-moment logic of the fight that nobody's decisions are confusing. The whole thing is very fast paced and... it's a lot. It's always a difficult balance in these scenes because you want to be detailed enough to keep the reader following everything they want to follow, but you don't want to dramatically slow down the story by describing every detail. If you're using a limited viewpoint, it's a blessing and a curse; you can avoid narrating the stuff your character can't see or isn't paying attention to, but you also have to find a way to get across information that your character might not be able to see, either by forcing them to see it or by having it conveyed in some other way in the scene. With busy scenes like this, I like to work backwards -- decide what specifically the reader needs to know, decide what is needed to get the characters to the places I want them at the end of the scene, and write a scene with as little as possible in it except for those two things. Sometimes, communicating those two things requires a bit of setup.

In Curse Words, there's an ancient magic spell passed down a family line from parent to child. It's a communication spell that allows people to see through each others' eyes and hear through their ears. Before the existence of long-distance wireless communications, this sort of information transfer was enormously powerful; wars can be turned with that power, trade networks created or conquered. It made its family enormously powerful, to the point where they're the most powerful magical family in the world even in the time of the story, with the spell long buried and its advantage lost to an age of mobile phones and cameras. It's massively influential to the worldbuilding of the story.

I introduced it for one reason and one reason alone -- I knew that eventually, I would be writing a climax to the story where a lot of people were doing a lot of things in a lot of different locations, and the protagonist was only going to be in one of those places. And I knew that I was going to need some way to tell the audience what the fuck was happening while he was running around in caves and shit.

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jammiesjars · 2 months ago

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omggg I love your story, can I request some more soap smut?? Where reader is a brat to soap

Anon, YOU GET ME BRO. YOU GET ME. (Original Post)

Warnings: Spanking, Dacryphilia if you squint, fingering, punishment, Dom!Soap, Sub!Reader, This man is a MENACE, lowkey a drabble so very short!!

Johnny doesn’t seem to… appreciate your lack of appetite.

Johnny's return from battle is something to celebrate, especially when he rides in carrying the heads from a band of thieves that terrorized the village for decades.

So when he's got his pretty little wife, sat in his lap, at the dinner table simply refusing to eat, he can't say he's happy.

"Johnny, seriously. I'm not hungry." You'd mumble, pushing the plate away once again. You're being honest; you're not. But to Soap? His poor wife is going to wither away in his arms and he won't let that happen. "And I'll tell ye again, M'eudail. Yer goin' to eat whether I feed ye or you be a good girl and do it yerself." He croons, his head resting on your shoulder. He reaches an arm out that was previously wrapped around your waist and drags the plate back over. "So which one is it, Lovie?"

That earns a groan from you. "Love, n-" Your protest is cut off by a chunk of meat being shoved into your mouth. Soap cradles the back of your head, the other hand keeping you from spitting the food out.

"Chew."

Christ, that tone. It stirs something warm in you, yet leaves no room for arguement. Demanding and harsh. You shake your head, a part of you wanting to piss him off and see just how far he'll take your out-of-line behaviour. Soaps eyes narrow at that shake of your head; its so unlike you to have to be told twice.

"Pushin' me buttons all damn night, Lassie. You tryin' to be a brat?" Soap asks, tilting your head back which forces you to swallow. "I come back from a month at battle, to a misbehaving wifey, aye? Do I have to keep an eye on you since you want to act so out of line?" His gaze is harsh, and you know you've done it now. He grabs another piece of meat off the plate in front of him.

"Open, woman. Dont make me ask again." He presses the chunk of meat to your lips, to which you reluctantly open. Soap tuts at your obvious disdain. "Last fuckin' chance, Lassie. Chew and swallow, or i'll do it for ye and drag you upstairs to be delt with." His gaze is trained on you; like a stalking predator.

and yet, you defy him again with a simple shake of your head.

He stands up, making you yelp as he slings you over his shoulder. "Swallow what's in yer mouth before we get upstairs, ye brat." He'd scowl, carrying you shamelessly out of the feast with a puffed chest. You swallow.

Soap unceremoniously sets you down, before sitting down on the edge of the bed. He pats one of his muscular thighs, barely covered by his kilt and corded in thick muscle. "C'mere lass." He orders, which has you scrambling to sit on his lap.

He stops you just as you sit down, tutting. 'Nae, lass. bend over my lap."

Suddenly, your attitudes gone. "Johnny, wait-"

"No, no, Lass. Ye wanna give me attitude? Atleast keep it up. Over my lap, now." He pats his thigh again. On shaky legs, you move yourself to bend over his lap. Soap hikes your skirts up over your hips, alongside yanking down the undergarments that thinly covered the rest of you. His hand glides over the supple skin of your ass.

"Ye know what's coming next, don't ye?" He clicks his tongue, his palm coming down and connecting with the flesh of your ass with a loud smack. Your body jolts forward and you dig your nails into his thigh for some feeble stability. He strikes again, hard enough for a slight sting to remain that he does nothing to soothe. "Apologise now and I might go easy on ye." He taunts, smacking you again.

"Mm- I'm sorry-" You're cut off by your own yelp when he strikes again, tears in your lower lash line. "I'm sorry Johnny!" You sniffle, pouting.

That pulls a mean scoff from Soap. "Pouting now, aren't ye? Tryna make me feel bad by callin' me Johnny in that sweet voice, huh?" He smacks again; harder. You whimper, a tear sliding down your cheek.

Soap groans at your sniffle, his hand resting against your ass, rubbing soothing circles.

"...Christ, Lass. Don't cry." Soap grunts, roughly pulling you up to straddle his lap. Calloused hands cup your cheeks as he wipes your tears. "Fuckin' gorgeous when ye cry, love." Soap coos, keeping your skirts hiked up around your hips as he does the same to his kilt. "Ye want me cock, birdie? Ye want to feel good?"

You pitifully nod, tears still trickling. "Please."

"Should've thought about tha' before you started actin' like a brat, then." Soap gives a nasty grin, parting his thighs for enough of a gap to press thick fingers up against your weeping cunt; gliding in with ease.

A pitiful moan passes your lips, ellicting a chuckle from Soap.

“Such a dirty lil slag, ain’t ye?” He coos meanly, leaving you to cling to his broad shoulders for any form of stability.

Despite his degrading words that make you pout and ass still stinging from his rough treatment, your cunt squelches with every harsh thrust of his fingers.

“To- Too much-“ you mindlessly babble, body trembling under his brutal ministrations.

“Ah ah ah, my pretty birdie wanted ta’ feel good, didn’t she?” He coos, scottish brogue heavy with lust. “Knew she was gonna get punished and kept testin’ me.”

“Please-“ you choke out, mind going hazy as your release is approaching quickly.

Then suddenly, nothing. Soap has pulled his fingers from you, chuckling so cruelly at the pitiful sob that passes your lips.

“Went easy on yer spankin’. Now you’ll take what I give ye until I know ye won’t be misbehaving anymore.”

#john soap mctavish smut #john soap mctavish x reader #soap smut #soap x reader #soap call of duty #johnny mctavish x reader #john mctavish x reader #cod smut #smut

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bonesxbows · 5 months ago

Text

Ring of Fire (Cooper Howard x Reader)

Masterlist

You and Cooper are heading to collect a bounty, but it's a lot farther away than you anticipated. He's used to the sun but your pristine and non-irriated skin isn't. Heat stroke is imminent and could end up killing you if Cooper doesn't intervene.

(WARNINGS) - descriptions of heat stroke - descriptions of severe sunburns - descriptions of dehydration

The show reignited my fallout obsession but Cooper's character is so goddamn hard to write in a sorta romantic way since we mostly see him being an ass to everyone after the bombs. I still tried my best so hopefully it comes across okay. I think I also got the hang of his accent the more I wrote for this too

Anyway, I wrote this during a heat wave when I was miserable and needed some comfort lol so if you're reading this I hope it can bring you a little bit of comfort too. Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated :)

Whoever said California was a pleasant heat sure as hell hadn’t walked through the desert after a nuclear fallout. Everything burned; the sand, the sun, the air, your legs, your nose. It was unbearable and if it hadn’t been over the promise of a large stack of caps at the end of the road you would have given up a long time ago.

“If I see one more dried-up lakebed I’m gonna fucking lose it.” You mumbled, rubbing the sand from your eyes again.

“Quit your complainin’, we’re almost there. An’ I told ya to stop doin’ that.” Cooper swatted at your arms, making you put them back down at your sides again. You scoffed but obeyed his directions.

“I’m never gonna make it there if I can’t see where the fuck I’m going.”

“Maybe, but you sure as shit ain’t gonna see nothin’ never again if your eye gets infected. Your body don’ have enough moisture to keep your eyes slick with the way you keep yappin’ your mouth off and wastin’ it.” He retorted back, his face snarled up into his usual scowl. You didn't say anything more for a good long while, not because of his fancy way of telling you to shut up but because talking was starting to become more and more physically taxing on you the farther along you went. There was nothing but more sand, more heat, and more nothingness for as far as you could see across the horizon. Every step added another weight to your head, making it feel like it was stopped up with cotton that weighed a million pounds and banged against the inside of your skull like a war drum. Your body felt like mush and your clothes felt twice as heavy. But you kept going, trudging behind your cowboy, using him as a guide through the pain.

That is until you started to see three of him. And what was that whinnying sound you kept hearing coming from? Plus you swore there was a herd of something chasing the two of you what with all the stomping hooves you were hearing too, but every time you turned around there was nothing but sand dunes and the outline of destroyed L.A. on the horizon.

“Wait. I…I think I need to take a break. In the shade preferably.” you stopped and told him after gunfire was added to the list of sounds you were hearing in the distance. One more step and you were sure you were going to end up with a mouth full of sand.

“We don’ got time for pit stops sweetheart, keep movin’,” he replied back, still keeping his pace forward, not realizing you had stopped completely. Or just not caring. He wouldn’t leave you behind, not for long at least, but he still wasn’t listening.

“Cooper fucking listen to me this time,” you shouted, hoping to catch his attention. You succeeded, as soon as his real name fell from your lips he made a dead stop in his tracks. “Please,” you added in a softer voice. You hadn’t meant to shout at him but your body was so overwhelmed and you were tired of being ignored. He tilted his face towards the sky and let out the most audible annoyed sigh you had ever heard from him before finally turning around to face you.

“Alright, I’m sorry for pushin’ ya, just not so loud next time ‘kay? I don’ need the whole goddamn wasteland knowin’ my name.” he said as he walked back towards you. “Well, you’re still standin’ so that’s a good sign. What’s the matter?” you were used to his gruff exterior by now but you were just grateful he was finally taking you seriously.

“I…I’m not sure? My head hurts so fucking much and I keep hearing things…I think. My skin feels like it's on fire and I-”

“Heat stroke. Goddamnit.” He cut you off, not even listening for you to list any more symptoms out loud. He sounded pissed, but you had learned by now that his angry voice and his overprotective voice were kinda one and the same.

“...Heat what now?” you asked, but he never quelled your confusion. Instead he focused on scanning your surroundings. There wasn't much, there usually never was anyway, but he must've found something in the distance that would work for what he had planned.

“Hm, that’ll do,” he said, more so to himself than to you. You weren’t really listening anyway, that whinnying sound was back and it was taking every ounce of energy you had left just to stay standing upright. He turned back to you and said…something, but you couldn't make out any of it. His lips were moving, sure, but all you could hear was muffled static as if you were underwater. Your face must have had a look of confusion plastered on it because it didn’t take long for him to figure out you were unresponsive, the way you just stared at him and blinked also didn’t help.

He approached you and started to pull the sleeves of your jacket off, peeling the leather from your sticky sweaty skin off entirely. You stood there and let him, you may have been hearing things and had all the energy of a newborn sloth, but you could still recognize Cooper, and you trusted him more than anyone else. If he thought your jacket needed to come off then you trusted he had a good reason for doing so, even if the wind was starting to feel extremely cold on your exposed moist skin.

He tried to talk to you again but you just continued to stare at him, watching his mouth move but none of the words making it to your ears. He shook his head and threw your jacket over his shoulder, grabbing one of your wrists and looping it over his back as he grabbed you under your arms and started to half drag you forward towards whatever makeshift shelter he had found. You tried to help, tried to get your legs to move with his, but it felt impossible. At some point, your head began to droop and your temple bashed into his shoulder, making you cry out in pain. He stopped to assess the damage, no doubt cursing you for being so clumsy even though you still couldn't hear him. He tucked a loose strand of your hair behind your ear and kissed your forehead where it had made impact with him before placing his hat on top of your head and continuing onward. The new barrier between the unforgiving sun and your dried-up eyes was a small relief to your unbearable discomfort, one you cherished every second of before your vision went dark for good this time.

---

When you opened your eyes again you were thankfully in the shade this time, your skin still felt like it was on fire but at least the sun wasn't continuously beating on it now. You were sitting on the ground propped up against the side of a half-destroyed barn and you dug your fingertips into the sand, grasping for the cooler sand that usually lay a layer deeper than the surface, an old trick Cooper had taught you.

The memory of that lesson in your mind had you spring up, frantically trying to find your cowboy again. Your jacket was still missing, and his hat was still on your head, but you couldn’t see him anywhere. You wanted to get up, you even tried to, but your limbs felt like jello and you discovered your toes and fingertips were numb. You tried again anyway, kicking at the sand with your feet to find purchase and clawing at the rotting barn boards to pry yourself upwards.

“Hey, now it took a lotta effort to get you here, don’ tell me you wanna leave already.” You heard his voice and stopped, watching him as he came through one of the broken doorways into the barn, his spurs clicking behind him with every step.

You blinked, making sure it was really him this time and not something else you were imagining again. But there he was; scorpion belt buckle, cowboy boots, saddle bags and all. He dropped what he was carrying next to the doorway, where you saw your jacket lying on the ground, and then came to sit in front of you, grunting as he knelt down and made himself comfortable.

“Feelin' better?” he asked. You went to answer but then immediately felt just how dry your throat was. You coughed and tried to lick your lips, but your tongue felt like sandpaper against the already rough skin. You had never experienced a dried-up tongue before and you never wanted to again, it felt like a worm had crawled into your mouth and nested behind your teeth. Cooper was already prepared through and placed a can of water into your hands, already punctured with his knife.

“Here. Small sips though, ‘kay?” he told you. You nodded, disappointingly understanding him even though you wanted to guzzle the whole can down right then and there. But you did as he told you, taking a slow and small sip, relishing the feeling of the liquid making its way down your throat and easing the pain a little. You tried to lick your lips again, this time succeeding in wetting the crusted-up skin.

“How bad is it?” you croaked out, vaguely remembering what he had said earlier. Heat stroke, whatever that was, felt like one of the worst things to ever happen to you.

“Well, you’re still alive, despite losin’ consciousness and being fried up like an iguana on a stick from that there sun. I don’ think I’ve ever seen you with such a tan.” he smirked, poking fun at the lack of time you spent outside before meeting him. It wasn’t your fault life was safer inside a city and behind four walls of a shack, but still, it amused him to remind you of your sheltered past every chance he got. You rolled your eyes, grateful that you were at least still alive.

“Will it scar? Or peel off like your skin did?” you asked, not sure which possibility you hated most.

“Whaddaya mean?” he tilted his head at your question, confused.

“You know, the burns.” you showed him your bright red and blistered forearms as emphasis to what you were talking about. You could only assume your face looked just as bad. He couldn’t help but laugh a little at your question, which only agitated you. “I’m being serious here!” you barked. You creased your brow, which you realized immediately was a huge mistake as the tension on the freshly raw skin caused fireworks to explode in your head and flames to shoot across your skin. You winced from the pain and that got him to stop chuckling.

“Sorry sweetheart, no, neither is gonna happen. You might lose some skin, but not in the way you're thinkin’. It’s just a sunburn, not like you got attacked with a flamethrower. You’ll be fine.” he explained finally. You couldn’t help but sigh in relief, although you still weren’t sure what this so-called “sunburn” was and how it was different from a regular burn. But you knew he wouldn’t lie to you, so you believed him.

“So what now? We still got at least a day’s walk to town.” with your emergent questions out of the way your mind turned right back to business. Caps were on the line and you were itching to claim them, despite the discomfort traveling imposed on you in your current state. He liked that about you, your desire for caps and the willingness to chase after them with him, though he would rather bite a radroach raw than tell you that to your face.

“Now? Now we stay put for a while, at least til those burns heal up some. Ain’t no bit of leather and an ol’ beat-up hat gonna protect you enough from the sun if we try to continue on. Right now the only thing I need you to worry ‘bout is finishin’ that water that’s still in your hands.” he leaned back against the opposite wall from you, kicking his legs out and propping his head up with his hands.

“But-” you tried to rebuttal his decision but he cut you off again before you could.

“Nah uh, don’ even think about arguin’ here. We even try walkin’ and you’ll collapse again ‘fore we even make it a mile. Best to just stay here and try again once you’re not so dehydrated and redder than a tomato. Few days rest won’t hurt nothin’.”

“Yeah maybe except our profits,” you told him, quicker this time so he couldn’t interrupt you again.

“I ain’t riskin’ you over a pile of caps. We’ll make due either way,” he said before closing his eyes, marking the conversation officially over by him. You didn't have a reply anyway, it was rare for him to mention how he felt about you aloud, and each time he did you were left speechless. You stared down at the water can in your hands, tracing your finger gently over the raw edges of steel where his knife had cut through it for you. The metal had been bent back inside the can a little, almost as if someone had shoved a finger through the hole and pushed it back, smoothing out the outer edges where your lips had touched the can. Something in you had a suspicion that if you checked Cooper’s glove you would find scratch marks that would match the size of the hole perfectly.

Your eyes flicked to him. You weren't sure if he was legitimately asleep or not, but his eyes were still closed and he hadn’t moved an inch. He always talked to you more like an old friend rather than a lover, yet you were pretty sure you were the only person he showed any amount of kindness to. Suddenly his hat felt a little heavier on top of your head as you sat there and pondered where your relationship with him stood.

#my writings #fallout #fallout tv series #fallout tv show #fallout tv #fallout the ghoul #the ghoul #fallout prime #cooper howard #cooper howard fanfiction #cooper howard x reader #the ghoul x reader

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bubbipond · 6 months ago

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The distance between Phum and Peem is so interesting because logically they are the most developed coupling in the show. FangTan got together almost immediately, QToey still getting it together, and they just do the third coupling dirty lol. But, PhumPeem is a lovely couple because neither really seems to know how to close the distance between them. They have comfort in the arrangement they have.

They are also polarising characters: Peem is extroverted and overly friendly while Phum is far more introverted and reclusive, only being friends with his brother & teen friends. That being said, Peem outwardly asks questions and we have seen he isn't one to lie to himself. He knows he has a thing for Phum but that feeling is overwhelming.

While Phum is more of a person who does not reveal much unless asked by someone closest to him. Even then, he still wouldn't admit to his friends or brother he likes Peem until Beer. Despite being quite the introverted person, he isn't necessarily shy, just deals with immense abandonment issues.

So when a third party comes forward, we have Peem, who is just his normal friendly self, and Phum, his insecure self. Peem doesn't understand the extent of Phum's loneliness and Phum doesn't quite understand being so friendly.

But now, they are, in a way, switching roles. Phum is being the overly affectionate and open one. Outwardly admitting he is going through the motions and needs time but also making sure he shows his feelings. While Peem is quietly sitting in the fact that he likes Phum, but never admits it.

To work they need to understand each other, especially Phum's abandonment issues. Because if Phum pulls back, and Peem can't bring himself to move forward (without their ridiculous deal), they won't go anywhere. And Phum needs to work on his feelings because, it is very obvious that Peem treats him differently, not as a friend. But his trauma stops him from seeing that.

Thankfully though, Pond doesn't accept roles where he isn't violently like, "bffr you want me, I want you, let's keep it pushin'"

#we are #we are the series #phumpeem #pondphuwin #we are series

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gaycragula · 6 months ago

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Go Fuck Yourself, Graves

Pairing: Phillip Graves x Male Reader Warning(s): 18+/NSFW under the cut

Warning(s): multiple orgasms, top reader, bottom graves, semi public sex, mentions of voyeurism, graves gets off to the though, overstimulation, friends to lovers :], confessions at the end Word Count: 4211 AO3 Link Account Navigation I need him on my dick so bad omg

“Come on, Phillip,” you groaned, rubbing at your forehead where a headache had begun to blossom. “You can’t tell me it’s not a good idea.”

“I can and I have, Lieutenant,” your dearest commander retorts back. He’s kicked back in his chair, looking at you with disdain. He had listened to your little idea, waiting for you to finish it before giving you your answer. No. It was all he had said and it irked you.

“Give me a reason,” you say, leaning forward on his desk so you were eye level with him. There was a fire he didn’t see often in your eyes as you glare at him. Were you trying to intimidate him?

You were lucky you were you Graves thought to himself, eyeing you down. You were his right hand man. His best friend even. If you’d been anyone else talking to him like this, even looking at him the way you were, he would’ve executed them on the spot.

Graves hummed, squinting like he was thinking before shaking his head. “I said no. You’re pushin’ your luck,” he says your name with such disdain. You roll your eyes, scratching at your neck as you kick your chair away from his desk.

The huff you let out was nothing short of aggravated and annoyed as you stood straight, pushing your hair out of your face. The sly smirk Graves had on his face was proof enough that he enjoyed what he did to you. “Go fuck yourself, Graves,” you mumbled as you turned to leave,

“Do it yourself,” he had instinctively taunted back. He caught you at a bad time it seems. Pent up with frustration and not having masturbated in almost 2 weeks.

You had stopped where you stood. “Is that a request, sir?” You ask, turning slightly to watch Graves’ reaction.

“What?” He sat up in his chair, eyes narrowing as he looked at you. “Repeat that soldier.”

“Was it a request, commander?” You repeat, turning completely to lean forward on his desk again. “Or was it an order, sir?” You spit out the honorific and it has Graves’ cock jumping in interest.

A red blush spread across his cheeks as he sputtered on whatever he was trying to say. You kept eye contact with him for a moment before standing up. Graves swallowed as you walked around his desk.

His hands came up to grab your arms as you turned his chair around to face you. “Is it?” You ask again, pushing his chair back against his desk.

“If it is?” His voice is barely above a whisper, his words shaky as he tried to maintain some control. He didn’t want you to have the total satisfaction of breaking him down. As if he had a chance.

“I’ve never been one to be insubordinate, sir,” you whisper in his ear. It was a lie, you both knew that. That didn’t stop Graves’ breath from hitching or his hips from jerking in his chair. He almost moaned aloud when your lips ghosted over his jaw. “Do you want me to fuck you, Commander?”

The grip on your arms tightened and the whine Graves gave you was sinful. “Please.”

He arched into you as you tilt his head back, dragging your teeth down the front of his neck. The moan he let out vibrated in his throat and you were eager to feel more. Your tongue lathed over his Adam's apple and you could barely keep in your chuckle as you felt it bob.

You turned his face away from you, following his jawline to the spot where his jaw met his neck. He was letting quiet, breathy moans out as you trailed down his neck.

He slapped a hand over his mouth to muffle himself as you sank your teeth into his neck. You pulled back from his neck, admiring the mark for a moment with a smug smile. A glance to his face had you feeling even more smug. His eyes were lidded, looking at you in his peripheral. His chest heaved with each shaky breath he took.

You turn his face back towards you, ghosting your lips over his before connecting them in a slow kiss. It drove Graves wild. He drowned in your taste, chasing your lips when you pulled back. He couldn’t hold back the whine when you turned your head just enough for him to miss your lips.

His lips pressed against the corner of your mouth before he dipped to your neck. You wrapped a hand around the back of his head, sighing quietly as you let him enjoy the momentary control he had. He nudged your jaw with his nose, pushing your head to the side to get better access before he was nipping at the tender flesh.

You tangled your hand into his hair, almost missing the soft gasp he let out against your skin. Your fingers ran over his scalp, bringing a lovely shudder from your commander. A gentle tug on his hair got him away from your neck long enough for you to tell him to get out of his chair.

He did so without complaint.

You turned him around, clearing off a small area of his desk before pushing him down against it. His chest was flat against the dark wood, arms cushioning his head, his legs spread just wide enough for you to fit between them. That pretty little ass on perfect display for you.

Graves tried to relax as much as he could, trying to ignore the shaking in his legs. He’d been so pent up as of late. Every touch you gave him fueled the fire in his stomach.

You pushed his shirt up, revealing the tanned skin of his back. A shiver racked his body when your hand ran down his spine before it branched across the expanse of his back. He let out a breath as you traced over scars he’d acquired over the years.

Your touches were tickling, simply ghosting over his skin. You admired him, watching his muscles flex under your fingers as you brush over his lower back.

It drove him wild, your gentle touch. He’d known you to be rougher. Your grips on the field just bordering on painful when you help someone, pulling them behind cover, helping them up. Even touching someone in passing, you were more forceful than what was necessary. He’d been on the receiving end many times.

So to have your hands on him in such a gentle manner, almost like you would hurt him if you were anything else, had him keening, his heels digging into the floor to stabilize himself.

Your thumb pressed into his spine, traveling down the length of his back with juuust the right amount of pressure. “You’re tense, sir,” you say. Your voice is just as gentle as your touch and it has Graves jolting from his thoughts. His back twitches in response.

“I’m just pent up,” he lies through gritted teeth. He can tell you don’t believe him but you don’t push for the truth as you wrap your hands around his waist to undo his belt. You drop his belt in his chair behind you, your hands making quick work to get his pants undone and halfway down his thighs. He’s already half hard, his cock twitching as cool air meets his skin.

Graves gasped as he felt your lips press against his spine. Your kisses trailed down his back, stopping right at his tailbone. He expected you to pull away then; what he didn’t expect was the nip to the flesh of one of his ass cheeks.

He gasped your name as he looked over his shoulder. You’d gotten on your knees behind him, your fingers digging into the soft, pliable flesh of his thighs. Your lips drag down his thigh, leaving fire in their wake. The muscles of his thighs flex under your touch, goosebumps rising to his skin as you continue your ministrations. You take a moment to suck a hickey on his inner thigh, pressing kisses over it before you continue.

The prettiest little whimpers fell from Graves as he buried his face back into the crook of his arm. You trail back up his thigh, over his cheek before Graves feels your breath fan right over his hole. You see his back tense at the feeling and you’re running your hands over the back of his thighs.

“Relax,” you whisper, waiting until the commander does so before running your tongue over his hole. The sound that comes from his mouth is absolutely pathetic. A loud, drawn out whine falls from his lips. He feels you smile against him before you’re spreading his cheeks to gain better access.

His boots squeak below you as he tries to steady his shaky legs. You’re of no help as you tongue at his ass, your hands gentle as they continue to run up and down his thighs. He almost shouts as you suddenly dig your nails into his skin, dragging them down his flesh. Marking him, he realized with a moan, burying his face in his arms. You pull away from him momentarily to catch your breath before you’re back on him.

Your tongue presses into him and he moans, the sound muffled by his arm. He’s startled by the way you eat him out- like a man starved. He bites into his arm to further muffle himself, absolutely embarrassed at how good having your tongue in him feels.

One hand cups his balls and you feel him jerk above you. You hum against him, patting his thigh as you fondle his balls. He’s panting into his arm, the stimulation making his mind go blank. All he can think about is your tongue and your hands on him.

He’s embarrassed at the whine that tears from his throat as you pull your tongue away from him, kissing back up his spine as you stand up. “Lube?” You ask.

“Second drawer under the manilla folder,” he responds, glancing back at you over his shoulder as you rummage through said drawer. He hears you let out a triumphant huff and the click of a lid before the bottle comes into view. You douse your fingers with a generous amount, rubbing the stuff between your fingers to warm it up a bit before pressing one digit against Graves’ saliva slicked hole.

Your clean hand caresses his lower back as you spread the cool liquid around his hole. Graves can’t help but to relax at the touch, trying to shift his hips in a way that will get you to dip your finger inside. The chuckle you give has him shivering. “Please,” he whispers, looking at you with those gorgeous eyes of his.

The tip of your finger breaches him and he keens, eyes fluttering shut. You work your finger in slowly, fucking it into him until you’re knuckle deep in him. He reacts so pretty as you crook your finger in search of the little bundle of nerves.

You know you’ve found it when Graves’ body tenses and his breath catches in his chest. “That feel good?” You hum, massaging the spot to see his reaction. He nods eagerly, panting as you bully his poor prostate.

Even with your fingers inside of him, you were gentle. Your brushes against his prostate were soft, just hard enough for him to get a jolt of pleasure with each pass. You have him drooling on his sleeves with just one finger.

The second finger prods at his hole. “Ready?” You ask, smoothing your hand over his lower back. He nods, taking a deep breath as you worm the second inside. The stretch is pleasant, Graves thinks, moving his hips to grind back against your fingers. You allow him to do so, leaning down to litter his still clothed upper back with kisses.

You stretch him open slowly, taking your time so as to not hurt him. Going slow like this lets you hone in on the shaky inhales, quiet hiccups, and muffled moans Graves is gracing your ears with. You take an agonizingly slow pass over his prostate with your fingers. You swear you could’ve come in your pants as Graves draws out your name in a moan, a big glob of precum dribbling from his cock into his boxers.

A third finger was quick to join and you were watching in fascination and Graves’ ass hungrily sucked in your fingers. He stretched so nicely, you smile as you hold him open for a few seconds, simply watching the way he twitched around you.

Soon, Graves was babbling about wanting more, needing more. “Your cock. Please.”

Who were you to deny your commander?

You remove your fingers, biting back a grin as you see him clench down on nothing. Graves is watching you over his shoulder, watching you with those pretty eyes as you undo your belt, setting it with Graves’ in his chair. You undo your pants just enough to pull your cock out.

Graves’ eyes widen in anticipation. You’re going to fill him so nicely. His eyes never leave you as you lube yourself up, letting out quiet sighs as you finally give your neglected cock some stimulation.

You press your tip against him, watching as he gives a whole body shudder at the feeling- the thought of being filled. You tease him just a moment longer, pressing the head of your cock in for just a moment before pulling out again.

He curses you, just loud enough for you to hear. “Bastard.”

You give him an amused chuckle as you begin to slowly push into the blonde. He arches off the desk with a loud moan. He was right. You’re not even all the way in and he feels so full. You can hear him panting below you, hissing in pain when you would push in just a little too fast.

His sounds of discomfort were met with quiet apologies and a pausing of your movements until he gave you to go ahead.

Your breath shook as you finally bottomed out. Your hips pressed against his and the keening whine Graves let out was nothing short of addicting. Your body draped over his, hands planted firmly on the desk on either side of his shoulders. Your lips pressing short kisses behind his ear as you wait for him to adjust.

He’s tight, warm around you. You can’t believe this is happening. You don’t know how long you’d been crushing on the blonde. Years; you know that. You’d been working by his side for close to 6 years. Knew him before that for a few years- long enough for him to trust you to be his right hand man.

Each twitch of your hips has him clenching around you. “Don’t know how long I’ve wanted to do this, sir,” you whisper, your voice low, barely audible over the thrum of his heart in his ears.

If the way he tenses was any indicator, you think he heard you. You continue.

“Can’t get you out of my head.”

His legs shift as he arches his back with a moan of your name. You press your nose into the crook of his neck, taking a deep breath in. He was wearing your favorite cologne, the scent filling your nose before you were letting a shuddering exhale out.

“Smell so fuckin’ good.” Your hips draw out slowly and Graves groans. “Y’know the cologne you’re wearing s’my favorite?”

Graves takes a mental note as he shakes his head. He can’t find the words he wants to say, having to settle on a whine of your name and clenching around you. “Feel so good around me,” you praise, lowering to your forearms to drag your lips across his cheek, right over the scar he has.

You push back in just as slow, choking on your breath as Graves lets out a strangled moan. He stretches perfectly to accommodate your prick and you find yourself biting your lip as you watch yourself disappear into him.

“You take me so well. Look at that,” you praise, not missing the sharp inhale Graves gives in response. His face is bright red, the flush extending to his ears and disappearing into his shirt. You litter kisses along his neck where you can reach as you begin to roll your hips into him. You start slow, letting him get used to the feeling.

His hands clench into fists as he gasps with each draw of your hips. He sounds so pretty. His mouth is open in silent gasps. Gentle. Even in his muddled state, he can hear you whispering to him, your lips pressing soft kisses against his skin. It crossed his mind once. Were you making love to him? Some of the other quick fucks he’s had had been rough, quick. Not you. You were taking your time, making sure he was comfortable- not in pain.

It took him begging for you to speed up for you to do so. You waited for him to give you the go ahead. You were desperate to please, speeding up until the quiet sound of your hips hitting his filled the small office. He could hear you letting out your own desperate, though quiet, moans.

It was a dream come true for you.

Graves raises to his forearms before reaching for one of your hands. He interlocks his fingers with yours and pulls it under him, holding it to his chest. You can feel his heartbeat like this. You flush at the action- imagine that. You’re balls deep in your commander, rutting into him like your life depends on it and this is what flusters you.

You let out a barely audible whine before you’re pressing your face into the back of Graves’ neck. A strangled chuckle rumbles in his chest as you press featherlight kisses against his neck.

“Close,” Graves pants, eyes fluttering shut as his hand squeezes yours. You take your free hand and snake it down his body to fist his cock. He nearly shouts, his hips instinctively shooting forward into your touch.

He fucks himself back onto your cock before his hips shoot forward, caught between the stimulation your hand granted him and the feeling your cock was giving him. “Stay still, Commander,” you whisper.

The use of his title paired with your lovelorn? voice has him doing what you say. He fights the urge to seek his own stimulation and you grant him exactly what he needs. Your hand runs over his cock with vigor, a stark contrast to your hips.

Graves comes in your hand with a hiss, his head lolling forward as you fuck him through his orgasm. You whisper praises against the shell of his ear, slowing the roll of your hips until you’ve stilled in him and he’s gone soft in your hand. “Stop?” You ask, biting back the chuckle as Graves shakes his head almost immediately.

“Please don’t,” he whispers, turning his head in an attempt to catch your lips. You grant them to him, the kiss sloppy as you start moving in him again. His hand squeezes yours hard as he gasps, the overstimulation racking his body with pain. The hand on his dick remains, groping him gently.

You stay slow, watching his body tremble with each draw out. He’s moaning out loud now, the pain bordering pleasure as you brush against his prostate with every other roll of your hips. “Might wanna quiet down. Don’t want everyone to hear you, right sir?” You tease, groaning as Graves tightens around you in response, his own moan giving you your answer.

“Oh? You like that idea?” You pick up the pace a little, enjoying the way Graves hiccups as tears prick at his eyes. “Want one of your shadows to come in? See you like this?”

He can only nod, eyes rolling into the back of his head at the thought. He wants them to know who he belongs to. Your breath is hot against his shoulder and he’s realized you’ve pulled the collar of his shirt away from his neck. “Can I bite you?” You ask.

Graves’ cock jumps in interest and you feel it. You can make out the quietest ‘fuck- please’ between his moans and you don’t waste any time sinking your teeth into the tender flesh of his shoulder. It brings a cry from Graves who does nothing to muffle it. You kiss around the mark apologetically before sucking accompanying marks around it.

He curses lowly, drool pooling in the corner of his mouth. His cock was hard in your grip and you gave it an experimental squeeze. Graves arched away from you, his hips jerking away from your hand, back onto your cock. “Too much?”

He nods and you pull away from his cock. You went to wipe your hand off using a nearby towel, stopping when Graves says your name. “Give me your hand,” he whispers and you do as he says, watching intently as he licks your hand clean of his own spend.

Your hips jerk harshly into his and he gasps. Your now clean hand rests on his hip, holding him as you pound into him. His body shakes with each thrust in, choked moans forced from his mouth.

You groan lowly, your hips stuttering and you know you’re close. “Where do you want it?” You ask, pressing your lips against his cheek in a wet kiss.

“Inside. Fuck fuck please- Inside.”

You give a few more hard thrusts before you’re hunching over him again, burying yourself as deep as possible as you paint his insides white. Graves barely hears the ‘I love you’ you’ve murmured against his neck before he’s adding to the mess in your hands with a shout, legs finally giving out beneath him as he collapses against his desk.

It takes a moment for you to catch your breath and even longer to come back from the muddled state your brain was in. He can feel your forehead pressed against his upper back, hear your heaved breaths. Graves didn’t seem to mind, waiting until you’d gone soft inside of him and a little longer until you finally shift behind him.

You pull your hand from his, using it to hold his waist as you pull yourself out of him, hissing as pain shoots through you from the overstimulation. You reach for the box of tissues, trying your best to get Graves cleaned off before helping him stand upright. He leans into you, looking up at you with lidded eyes. “Think you owe me a shower.”

You weren’t going to say no to that.

—-----

“You don’t tend to be gentle like that,” Graves mentions offhandedly the next morning. You’re sitting in his office again, having brought him a coffee, your own drink sitting in front of you.

You hum in acknowledgement, leaning back in the chair you’re seated in. “”Would you rather I be rough next time, sir?”

It’s a genuine question he realizes. But it doesn’t stop Graves from nearly choking on his coffee, sputtering at the thought of a next time. “No no. I enjoyed it. A lot,” he assures, a faint red hue rising to his cheeks as he looks down at a report in front of him. Anything to avoid eye contact with you. “It’s just- you tend to be rougher out on the field. Surprised me is all.”

You offer him a genuine smile. “Force of habit, I suppose, sir. Never been one to get rough during sex.”

Your answer is as genuine as your smile and it brings a quiet laugh from Graves. The sound was like honey to your ears. You feel your heart jump in your chest and a flush rise to your cheeks.

His chair rolled back from his desk and he got up and walked around to stand in front of you. A reversal of what had happened yesterday. You craned your neck to look up at, tilting your head as he told you to stand up. You did so a moment later.

Hands found the collar of your shirt and you felt him fumble with it as he fixed it. He smoothed your shirt down before wrapping a hand around the back of your neck and pulling you close. You felt his nose brush along your cheek before his lips were on yours.

Graves smiled against you as you returned the kiss, your hands finding purchase on his hips, your fingers looping in his belt loops, to hold him close. You traded chaste kisses, chasing each other's lips every time the other pulled away. You were breathless, laughing and smiling against each other with each kiss.

Your foreheads pressed against his as you finally separated long enough to catch your breath. Graves had a pretty pink tint to his face, a smile worming its way across his face as he looked at you. He was so pretty.

His voice broke the silence his office had fallen into. “I love you too,” he whispers, your name following the confession. You can’t help the smile that spreads on your face as you pull him into another, longer kiss.

#x male reader #x reader #cod x male reader #cod x reader #male reader #reader #phillip graves x male reader #phillip graves x reader #smut #friends to lovers teehee #commander x lieutenant #high ranked character #i need this man so bad #need him on my dick #all the time #PLEASE #cod #phillip graves

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