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gremlingottoosilly · 2 years ago

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I met a guy in the Summer (dilf!Konig x fem!Reader)

Your boyfriend is an asshole. Luckily, his hot dad just returned from deployment. CW and Tags: Cheating, dub-con, size kink, daddy kink, age gap(reader in 20s, Konig is early 40s), Konig is a pervert, slightly obsessive Konig, love(and lust) at first sight, fingering, dom!Konig Word count: 3713 AO3

“Just one more game, babe, don’t be a buzzkill. I don’t want to end at a loss.” You didn’t want to be a buzzkill, of course. You simply wanted to be a good girlfriend, have some domestically cozy date, and for your boyfriend to at least try to put an effort into being with you. It wasn’t much to ask for, really. You hoped so, at least. You didn’t want to be an annoying, nagging girlfriend who only ever waits for another reason to yell at him, but your patience started to run thin.

You spend the past three hours either listening to his apathetic rambling about the shows he watched – really, you wanted to invest in stuff he liked, but an abnormally large amount of animes he talked about had 1000-year-old girls who looked like they were 10, wearing inappropriate outfits, and you started to raise the alarm.

You also watched him play – and also listened to his rage quitting and angry voice messages to his team that, honestly, made you slightly anxious. You never liked loud people, people who were so easy to rage about something as silly as some colorful video game with too many characters to look after.

So, like a good girlfriend would – you wanted to be a good girlfriend, he was such a nice guy before you started dating, and you need something to think about besides the tremendous amount of study work you are doing for college – you decided to go and look for snacks. Maybe bring something for him as well.

— I’ll find something to eat, alright?

He didn’t respond at first, so you shook his shoulder. Your boyfriend took off his headphones with annoying look on his face, half-turning to look at you. You gulped, suddenly feeling like a child in front of the principal – not a feeling that you were supposed to feel around your partner, but with him, you somehow constantly felt like you were being judged.

— Nah, stay here. I don’t want my father to see you.

— Ah…your father is at home?

You never heard anyone else being at the house – big house, you must admit, and it’s embarrassing almost how you never thought about his family. He lives with his dad, apparently, and the depth of your relationships can only be judged by the fact you literally didn’t know what his father’s name was.

— Returned from his fucking deployment. He’d ask too many questions about you.

— You didn’t tell him about me?

Ah, now you’re hurt a little bit. You knew it wasn’t anything serious or too committed yet, but you intended to make this work. To try and fix all the problems you can without ending things abruptly.

— He never asked. Not like he cares too much, but…

An apathetic dad, huh.

You started to slowly piece together the puzzle that was your boyfriend’s horrible boyfriend skills. Now, you want to meet the man who conceived him and kick him in the nuts for creating such an unlovable human being who somehow captivated your chronically lonely heart.

— If you don’t want me to come and meet him, I can go home.

He doesn’t answer because his queue is finally coming to another match – you simply nod, knowing everything you need to. You can grab a little snack for yourself, fuck off to your dorm and rethink your life choices while your roommate is getting pounded by some gruss British bloke with an accent that makes your ears bleed.

You have dignity, and right now, it has asked you to get some snacks from the kitchen.

*** Now, the only thing König wanted after returning from deployment was to take as many hot showers as he could, shut his bastard of a son up, and get some delicious food waiting for him in the freezer. He was already home for a few days, but adjusting is always hard when you basically fucking hate living at your own house. Of-fucking-course, his son was watching the house while he was away – and now he can’t even think of a good excuse to set him off to his mother. Too old to do this, and split custody never really worked when not even one part of the relationship wanted to take care of the kid.

König closes the door of the refrigerator – of course, his son took every good thing that he stashed for himself. With a groan, the colonel fights the urge to finally throw him out of the house – a thing he needed to do a few years ago, just when he celebrated his 18th, but some sentimental part of his heart instead promised to help with finding a place close to the college. No good deed goes unpunished.

With a groan, he takes a few steps from the fridge – and then he almost stumbles across an angel.

Scheisse

Now, König never thought of himself as a predator who prefers running after college girls who might as well be his daughters. He never thought of himself as a gut who liked them young – his wife, god forsake her name, was his age when they started dating, and he hardly had any sexual encounters with a person under 25 in the past few years. Well, not like he had any sexual encounters in the past years, but…

The thing is – he never thought he liked girls with wide eyes, pouty faces, and trembling hands who were holding a bag of his cookies that he carefully stashed away from his son.

You are wearing something cute, a nice skirt and an adorable pink cardigan that looks so cozy and warm and soft, and he fights the urge to grab your skirt and simply lift it, You’re dressed up for a cute coffee date, and König has to double check if he isn’t dreaming and no one has decided to play a prank on him and send him a cute callgirl.

— Oh! Sorry. It’s yours, isn’t it?

You give him his cookies back – but not before your fingers fished another salty caramel goodness out of the bag, and you bit it. He looks at your teeth, at your lips, and glimpses of your tongue – god, he is an old, dirty bastard because even his baggy pants aren’t enough to hide his boner. You have no right to look this pretty for a man who hasn’t seen a woman in three months and hasn’t had sex in the past few years.

You lick the crumbs from your fingers – it’s such a deliberate action that he can’t believe he actually sees it, and it’s not even something from porn he used to like.

— Ja. You can have it.

He would give you the code to his bank account if you asked for it.

— Thank you, sir. I’m…well, I assume if Paul didn’t introduce me to you…I’m his girlfriend. Nice to meet you.

You lick your lips and take a step back, pressed against the counter. He looks at the sway of your hips, a bit of crumbs on your shirt, and almost brushes it away with his hands. It would be a good excuse to touch your chest – but he can’t be like this, he has to keep his urges under control, or else his son will never forgive him.

Yeah, like he needs a better reason to throw his useless son from his home.

— Girlfriend? He never spoke about you.

You look sad, and he immediately curses under his breath. For a moment, you look too fragile – too real. He can’t handle this look on a woman, especially as pretty and young as you are. You bat your eyelashes, even involuntarily, and he already prepares to give you the keys to his home just so you’d stop with such miserable expressions. He has a spare bedroom.

He has his bedroom with a bed that would be enough for both of you.

— Ah. Um. We’re…I guess we’re not at this stage yet.

— Knowing him, you’ll never be, Schatz.

You look at him immediately – you’re offended, angry, and sad at the same time. There is a certain stubbornness in your eyes that immediately makes him want to simply scoop you in his arms, lift you, and drag you straight to the altar – and here he thought that his impulses over getting married would be over after his first divorce.

— What do you mean by this, sir?

You look uncertain now, he can see this in your eyes – and really, knowing his asshole of a child, he is almost sure that Paul never once got you off, either physically or emotionally.

Now, König never once considered himself to be a good man. He has killed countless people, overthrown many governments, and made shitty jobs for shitty people way more than saving hostages to help the good guys – and in the romantic field, it’s even worse. Wife, unsatisfied with his controlling tendencies and inability to feel normal love for a human being – and a son who hates him because, in fact, he never once wanted to have a kid.

He looks at you and sees a pretty young thing, still in college or freshly out of, probably without a stable job and normal social standing – a good girl won’t be with his son if she isn’t stupid or extremely desperate for a relationship.

The thing is, König is also extremely desperate for another warm body next to his, to feel a woman beside him, to love and obsess over someone – he looks at your pouty lips and shaky hands, at the way you bite the corner of your glossy mouth, and he almost wants to drop you on this very table and fuck you until you’re crying under him. He can’t do just that, of course. It would probably make you extremely uncomfortable and scared, but…well, quite frankly, his son doesn’t deserve you.

König is.

— I won’t sugarcoat it, Schatz. My son is a Scheiß Arschloch…fucking asshole, that is. I’m surprised he brought home someone as cute as you.

You feel embarrassment collecting in your body. Paul’s dad is a…interesting man.

Tall, broad, very muscular – even his baggy house clothes aren’t really concealing his extremely interesting physique from your eyes. He looks yummy and tasty, and you fight the urge to eye the bulge in his pants because you’re a good girl, you don’t look at your boyfriend’s dad like this.

König has greying ginger hair, locks already curling slightly at the lack of cutting, and you fight the urge to sit on the counter and get your palm in his scalp, massage his head gently, and pull him closer for a kiss. You feel like a dirty, horrible woman – your boyfriend is in his room, probably enjoying his time on your “date” while you’re lusting over his father.

Then again, this date already felt like a disaster. This relationship, too.

— Paul isn’t all that bad, sir.

“He at least has a nice dick,” you wanted to add but stopped yourself. Paul is tall and somewhat strong – if he weren’t sitting at his computer all day, you would call him even muscular. And he has a nice dick, yes, even though he had no idea how to use it. You liked the idea of laying with him, of spraying your jaw trying to fit all of this in your mouth, but his kinks and his sex skills being directly taken from porn…not really your thing.

You look at König and wonder if they are similar in all of the places. He is his father, after all.

König catches your gaze locked on his bulge and smirks.

God, if he knew his son had such a cute girl, he would ask her to come earlier. He is two weeks off deployment and probably won’t take another long contract for a few months because they just upped his retirement payings, and he can afford to slack off a little bit, only visiting the home base for some training and instructions for rookies.

He can afford to retire and never worry about money again – but he needs someone to make his days less boring, right?

You look like a good candidate.

— I’m sure my son was convincing, but I know him better than anyone. He doesn’t deserve you, Schatz.

He is shitty at flirting, it’s not his forte – he can flaunt his money, maybe, show you in his wallet and bank account face first. He can just straight up ask you to be his sugar baby and suck his cock instead of doing your studies, but he can’t flirt and manipulate to save his life. Lying isn’t something he is good for, this is why his wife has left.

— I…not sure we should be having this conversation here.

You’re a good girl, and it’s infuriating. He knows that having someone in his bed shouldn’t be the end goal for his leave, but he wants you, and by the look on your face, you aren’t opposed to the idea. König doesn’t understand if he likes that you’re so reserved about it or if he wants you to be a bit more slutty – but he captures you in the space between the kitchen counter and presses you with his body.

— You want to see the bedroom then?

Pushes you so close his knee gets between your legs – it might look involuntary like he didn’t exactly want for it to be placed here, but you aren’t dumb, you know what he wants from you. Like a good fucking girl, you’re too shy to give it to him right about now. God, sometimes he hates being so nice to people around him.

— Sir, this is very…

He got you caged in his hands, body trapped in his embrace – you jerk your head upwards a little bit, staring at him like a small bird in the hands of a predator. He isn’t a strong man in regard of morals, he doesn’t see anything wrong with fucking his son’s girlfriend – if the girl is up to it. And if she isn’t…well, he better make sure she is.

— What is it, Schatz? Paul won’t hear us in his headphones.

You know just how wrong it is, and you almost want to escape – his dick grinds on your pelvis through his pants, and you’re horrified to see how big it is. Excited too, of course, he is bigger than your boyfriend ever could be, and you don’t want to be a slut, but, oh well, not like you were in a committed and serious relationship anyway.

Paul was seeing your friends more than you ever saw them – it’s probably a sign that you should settle for someone older. You did enjoy Lana Del Rey's songs, after all.

— I don’t want to break his heart.

— He doesn’t have one.

You’re lost when he pushes his lips to kiss you over and over again – a surprisingly good kisser, and you give in because it was the first time in forever a kiss made you feel this good. His lips are sending electricity down your spine, you want to moan just from his knee, pushing on the softness of your cunt through that adorable skirt you liked so much – you feel so small like this, so tiny in his hands, you…

God, you feel like a slut, and you like it.

Soon enough, you answered the kiss, your lips meeting his in a dance that made you feel hot, that made you feel like your boyfriend never could. Never thinking of yourself as someone who can fall so easily into the hands of an older man, now you know that he got you right where he wanted.

You push your hand on his pants, trying to get the control back – but he stops you, a giant hand enveloping your wrist and pushing you back. With a surprise on your face, König just wants to kiss you all over. God, you’re adorable, and he knows that you deserve way more than being fucked on the rough kitchen counter while your so-called boyfriend is too busy dickriding his friends in some useless online game.

— Not now, princess. You deserve better than being fucked on the kitchen counter, ja? It can come later.

“Later” sounds like a promise, and you bite back your moan when he keeps pushing his knee against your cunt, making you throb and clench on nothing. He is such a gentleman, you can’t help but compare him to his son – and his fabulous ability to make you feel dirty after fucking you in the backseat of his car and tossing you to your dorm with your pussy still wet and messy after you didn’t cum.

You sob, not from sadness, but from pleasure mixed with some weird, unnatural for you emotions – you feel weird, strained here like this, but you hug his neck and whisper something in his ear. Something, dangerously sounding just like “daddy, please”

König is blushing, and he looks fucking adorable.

— Daddy, ja? God, you’re dangerous, liebling. Going to get me in trouble with my son later.

He laughs when he kisses you again, his hand slipping in your panties only to find them completely soaked – he knows you deserve a nice pillow and soft sheets under your body, and he pushes you up so you can hug his waist with your legs. You rely on him like a cute pet, and you’re so perfect in his hands he curses himself for not seeing you before.

He is going to ruin you for anyone but him. Put so much cum in you, it will make your tummy bulge – make you his precious sugar baby, pay for your dumb college and make you move to his bedroom instead of some shitty dorm you probably share with four other people.

He can be good for you – but he will ruin you for anyone else, anyone appropriate, every guy your age who clearly doesn’t know how to treat a lady right.

— So wet for me…such a filthy thing, I didn’t know my son dated a whore.

— N…not a whore, please…

He kisses you on your forehead, silently apologizing. You feel his crooked, scarred smile, and you push your face up to kiss him – you want to touch him so badly it makes you feel stupid.

— Sorry, Schatzen. Not a whore, a good girl for her daddy, ja? So nice for me, too fucking young…

— W…we really shouldn’t… — Tshhh, don’t think about it. Thinking will only hurt your pretty dumb head. — I’m not…

— Quiet, little one. Let daddy handle everything.

He kisses you over and over, his fingers playing with your pussy – meaty digits digging in your hole, making you whimper from sudden intrusion. He is big, bigger than anyone else, just two of his fingers are enough to spread you as much as normal cock would, and even though you’re used to taking Paul’s size, you just know that his dad would be much, much bigger. He is going to split you open, and you will love every fucking second.

It feels so wrong, you still aren’t sure if you want him to touch you like this.

It feels so right, he is experienced and eager, pushing every button to make you squirm in his grasp. Your orgasm comes embarrassingly quick – maybe because you haven’t gotten off in ages, only miserable masturbation sessions and poor attempts at faking your orgasm made it feel real. Paul never cared enough to actually get you off – but now…

You aren’t ready for him. You squirm in his grasp when the pressure becomes too much, and he soothes you, two fingers still buried in your soaked cunt. You feel so dirty, so wrong right now – you are cumming on the fingers of your boyfriend’s absent father, and you love every second of it.

Post-orgasm clarity makes you whiny and sobby, and you whimper in his shoulder when he gently lifts you in his hands. God, you’re adorable, and he knows that he just scrambled your brain with that orgasm – it’s good, really, he might just want to keep your pretty head nice and empty for him. Not like you would ever need to think in his presence, the colonel can handle everything in- and out- of bed.

König holds you close, not allowing you to scramble away no matter how embarrassed you are. You are his precious thing, with a pouty face, and he will do everything in his power to make you squirm on his fingers again and again before he makes you his wife for good.

So impulsive, maybe this is why his son is such an asshole – taking the worst traits of his father.

— Don’t cry, Schatzen. You’re okay, it felt good, didn’t it?

— W…we shouldn’t have. Shit. I’m sorry, it was a m…god, I need to tell Paul.

— I’ll tell him.

— No! — I will tell my asshole of a son that you’re my girl now, ja? And then I will take you to the bedroom, so we can fuck.

— I need to return to my dorm.

— And then I will dine you properly, okay? Sorry, Liebling, I know I should court you before all of this…but we can afford to go a bit off board, ja?

He is smiling, so smitten and obsessed over just having you cum on his fingers once – you don’t have the heart to say no. Never did. You’re a good, proper girl, and Paul was never treating you right anyway. You feel dirty, yes, but somehow, it is almost right.

He peppers your face with kisses, like a dog lapping its tongue all over your skin – you’re so concentrated on the warmth of his strong, seasoned body that you don’t even look in the direction of the doorway to the kitchen.

Paul, however, looks straight at you, disheartened and shocked.

— W…what the fuck, dad?! König laughs, kissing you once again – deep, hot, with tongue and loud, sloppy sounds of your mouth pressing into one another. You’re stuck in place, still caged in his arms like a precious little pet you are.

— She’ll make a good step mom, ja?

You don’t even register his hands slowly caressing your fingers as if he already tries to check the ring sizes.

#cod #konig x reader #yandere konig #konig #cod x reader #call of duty #cod x you #yandere cod #konig mw2 #reader insert #yandere x reader

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lovelytsunoda · 9 months ago

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you've got me under your spell | eddie brock and venom

summary: the then's and now's of halloween in the brock household

pairing: eddie brock x wife!reader (and their son!) x venom

warnings: i've turned eddie brock from a swagless loser to a dilf, venom is loaned to a child as a halloween costume, venom is almost like a second child tbh, implied smut, brief mentions of mental illness and pregnancy-related mental health issues. not to spoil anything at the end but the final section is pretty fucking funny if i do say so myself.

author's note: i have a very delayed last minute addition to my halloween fics for 2024! after flying through all three venom movies in about two days (as someone who doesn't watch marvel movies, might i add), i am pleased (and a little concerned) to annoucne that eddie brock is now my favourite marvel character.

yes, dylan brock is a canon character in the venom comics (or so i have been told) but all this dylan had in common with the canon version is his name.

2010.

she watched fondly from the doorway as eddie picked up the infant, who was currently trying to crawl towards the white pumpkin in the bay window. dylan laughed in his father's arms as eddie spun around before cradling the infant against his chest. he caught his wife's eyes from the doorway, a cheeky grin on his face as he looked down at dylan.

"hey kiddo, i think mommy's looking at us."

dylan smiled, wide and toothless, letting out the baby equivalent of a cheer as he looked over at his mother.

"are you guys ready to make the rounds? i promised mrs. chen some baby time." y/n laughed, reaching out to hold her son's small hand in hers.

the streets outside were lit up with fog machines and smiling skeletons, filled with the sounds of kids milling about. it was baby brock's first halloween, and he was dressed appropriately for it in his little pumpkin costume. after attempting to suck on y/n's finger, dylan dropped her hand and busied himself with attempting to trace the tattoos visible on eddie's forearm.

eddie beamed, kissing his wife softly before answering. "we're ready if you are. lead the way, mamas."

y/n had never pictured herself as a mother. in her twenties, when it seemed like settling down was the only thing people her age wanted to do, she was paralyzed with fear, insecurity and a little bit of self-loathing. being inside of her head was a nightmare, and she wasn't even sure she'd make it to thirty.

things had started to change when she met eddie brock.

slowly, she came alive again. she started to want things that she had thought were out of reach. she wanted to get married, have that house and that family and the white picket fence. to know that everything she had done had added up to this moment, and that everything had been worth it.

but she hated being pregnant. for her, growing another human being had been an arduous, terrifying experience. the eight hours of labour she had gone through on the day dylan was born was enough for her to decide that she didn't want more kids, and that she could still have the family she dreamed of with only one child.

she kissed dylan's forehead softly, brushing back his thin baby hair before tucking the small pumpkin hat onto his little head, and over his small ears.

the couple walked down the front steps of their bungalow, one of eddies arms around his wife, and the other holding his son (which was quite the feat, considering that the infant so desperately wanted out of his father's arms. dylan was an active baby, but he was allowed to crawl down the residential street, he would do so at such a pace that the brocks would never get him back.)

at every house they went to there was someone to coo over the littlest brock. eventually, eddie had to drop that arm around his wife so that he could use both hands to hold his son. dylan smiled that wide, gummy smile and laughed and babbled at all of the people that they passed, y/n clutching an almost-full orange bag of candy (she was convinced that some of their neighbours gave out extra candy to the couple, simply to reward them with the hit of caffeine found in chocolate that the new parents would so crave).

as they walked towards mrs. chen's house, dylan finally settled in his fathers arms, eddie looked over at his wife with nothing but reverence and love in his eyes. even carrying a little bit of extra weight around her hips and stomach, her breasts a little fuller and her arms a little chubbier, she was as radiant as she was the day that they got married. he would do anything for her, for his son. his little family.

"eddie, darling." she laughed, turning to face him. "you're staring."

eddie blushed, the rose in his cheeks barely visible in the dark. "uh, no i'm not."

"yes you are." she giggled. "i love you, eddie brock."

"i love you more." eddie beamed, leaning over to kiss her. "i think the little guy is worn out." he spoke softly, nodding towards the baby in his arms. "he's asleep."

"awe." y/n cooed, gently stroking her son's arm with her pointer finger. the sight of eddie holding their son in his arms would never grow old. she was starting a folder of pictures on her laptop of this very thing, as she knew dylan would soon be too big for his father to hold. "he's just like his father. he can go to sleep any time, any where and in any condition."

eddie laughed. "i feel like there was an insult buried in there somewhere."

"i still married you, didn't i?"

2024.

"dylan, if you want to get to eric's on time, you've gotta get going now! his mom's on the way!"

y/n knocked on her son's door, waiting until she heard the disgruntled teenage groan from the other side. satisfied that dylan had been served enough warning, she headed back out into the living room.

she had put eddie in charge of moving the halloween candy from the massive carboard costco boxes to the festive plastic bowls, and he was doing a surprisingly okay job at it.

their life had changed drastically in the years since her husband had begun to share his body with a symbiote. the symbiote had once given dylan nightmares, and she had fielded one too many concerned calls from the school after he had gone around and told all of the other kids that his father was an alien and would eat anybody who was mean to him (although, once eddie and venom had bonded, venom was steadfast in his commitment to eating any bullies that dylan may face) it had taken time, and a lot of home repairs to get used to, but alas, venom now felt like one of the family.

well, more like the cousin you don't want any of your friends to meet. or the alien that your husband is in a strangely homeorotic relationship with.

"i thought venom would have eaten half of those by now." she remarked, leaning over the back of the sofa to rest her head on her husband's shoulder, hands on his chest.

"i made him promise to behave today. i don't want him scaring the little kids." eddie shrugged, turning his had to kiss his wife softly.

"what did you have to give him?"

eddie paused, waiting a beat in order to formulate an answer that wouldn't send his wife into a spiral. in the distance, he heard dylan's bedroom door open and close, and then the fourteen-year-old came bounding into the living room.

"eric's mom is like five minutes away. is it okay if i wait outside?"

keeping her hands on eddie shoulders, y/n straightened, looking over at her son. "no costume?'

she didn't miss the way that eddie's muscles tensed up under her hands, or the way dylan's pinkie finger twitched. neither of them said a word, and when her eyes zeroed in on the full boxes of nestle chocolates, she got her answer.

"edward brock, please tell me that you did not lend your symbiote to our son as a halloween costume!"

dylan's shoulder rippled black over the top of his hunter-green sweatshirt, venom's inky head materializing next to a defeated looking dylan.

"okay, we won't tell you." the symbiote said , turning to face eddie. "you told me that this was okay with mrs. b."

eddie got up from the couch, pointing a finger at the symbiote. "i said no such thing. i said we were never supposed to tell y/n under any circumstances."

"mom, it's only for the night. you let dad have venom year-round!" dylan protested, stuffing his hands in his sweater pockets. "how is this any different?"

y/n stopped and counted to twenty, eyes closed before she breathed deeply and opened them again.

"that's because your father is the one who brought venom into this house in the first place, and i didn't get a say in the matter. also, your father is an adult, and venom actually listens to him."

"i listen to nobody!"

eddie coughed. "actually, he doesn't listen to me at all. he does what he wants half of the time."

"not the point, eddie! hosting venom almost killed you."

"actually- "

"not now vee!" eddie and y/n shouted together.

eddie reached for his wife's hand, knowing that she needed something to ground her, something tangible that she could hold on to. his hand was warm and calloused, comforting. she ran her thumb over eddie's knuckles as he stepped closer, dropping his voice in the hopes that dylan and venom wouldn't be able to eavesdrop.

"y/n, you know that i wouldn't let dylan take venom out if i didn't think he could handle it. its just one night."

"eddie, venom eats people. i don't want to get calls from parents stating that their sons hung out with my son, and then they came back headless."

"he has sworn to be on his best behavior tonight." eddie insisted. "and besides, when was the last time we had a night that was just the two of us? no dylan, no venom."

she paused, trying to think, the calm was starting to ease back into her body, the initial panic subsiding. her husband was right, she knew. while nights without dylan had become more common the older he got, with the boy staying over at friend's houses or going out late with his buddies, having a husband who hosted an alien sometimes put a damper on date night.

for the past five years, she had felt like she was in a never-ending threesome. don't get her wrong, the sex was absolutely phenomenal, but she missed her husband. she missed the days when it was just the two of them, curled up in bed on a sunday afternoon, with reruns of a bad sitcom playing in the background as they made love without a care in the world.

she realized that she was excited at the idea of having sex with her husband without an alien tentacle trying to slip into her ass (which felt absolutely incredible, by the way. after the first time venom did that, she downloaded all the monsterfucking books she could find on kindle unlimited. trying to explain the plot of ice planet barbarians to eddie had been quite the spectacle).

a honk in the front driveway snapped her out of her thoughts. dylan was looking at her expectantly, venom's head still hovering in the air next to him. if it were possible for symbiotes to give puppy dog eyes, she was sure that venom would be doing so. she looked at eddie, and then back at dylan, weighing her options.

"fine. dylan, you can take venom with you."

venom and dylan gave a cheer, the teen high-fiving one of venom's slinky tentacles.

"i promise not to eat any of the children, mrs. b. only gourmet chocolate. dylan says tonight is the best night for it."

"go on." y/n laughed. "don't keep eric waiting. and be careful!"

eddie and y/n stood by the front window, eddie's hand in her back pocket as they watched dylan run down the driveway and jump into the back of eric's mom's nissan. he had grown up so fast. it felt like just yesterday he was an infant in a pumpkin costume, cradled in eddie's strong arms. now he was almost as tall as his father.

y/n let out a small yelp as she felt herself become weightless, her husband's strong, beefy arms wrapped around her thighs.

"baby, be careful! you aren't as strong without venom! i don't want you to hurt your back!"

"i'll be fine! we have a heating pad for a reason!"

the headed down the hallway in a cloud of giggles, eddie kicking the bedroom door closed behind them with a cheeky grin on his face.

oh yeah, they were going to enjoy every second of having the house to themselves.

____

it was nearing midnight when dylan brock came home, shocked to find his father in the living room, sitting on the sofa in the dark and wincing every time he moved.

"dad? what are you doing? where's mom?"

eddie groaned, trying not to move too much. the heating pad rested against his lower back, and any movement sent a sharp pain up his spine. "she's asleep. tired out."

dylan made a face, dropping his backpack next to the couch. "god damn it, dad! i don't need to know that!"

eddie chuckled. "not like that." well, sort of like that. "this week has been hard on her. between you, me and venom, she's got her hands full."

"what's the heating pad for?" dylan crossed his arms over his chest, staring his father down.

"i hurt my back. it's nothing, not important."

"oh my god! you hurt your back banging mom!"

"dylan, keep your voice down! your mother is sleeping!" eddie scolded, screwing his eyes shut. "and she doesn't know. there is nothing less sexy than pinching something in your back while-"

"stop. please. i don't want to know."

"anyways, i waited until she fell asleep to put some muscle spray on it, and that didn't help, so here i am with the heating pad. how was your night?"

"it was good. venom's fun. we went trick-or-treating around eric's neigbourhood, where all the fancy houses are. also, i think i know what possum brain tastes like." dylan scrunched up his face. "venom decided he'd eaten enough snickers bars."

"snickers are for the weak." venom grunted. "real men eat brains."

eddie laughed. "now you know what the inside of my head is like. at least venom didn't try to eat any people. i wish i never knew what grey matter tasted like."

dylan extended his hand. "it's been fun, but i think he wants his host back."

eddie took dylan's hand in his, inhaling as he felt venom fill his veins once more, the familiar voice he'd come to tolerate returning to the back of his mind. slowly, the stinging pain in his lower back started to subside, the symbiote healing him from the inside out.

"thanks buddy. i needed that." he sighed. "and thanks for looking after dylan."

"no problem, eddie. you know, you'd get hurt less around the house if you stopped doing silly things when i'm not here."

"hey dylan, do you want the symbiote back?"

dylan laughed, heading to his room. "not a chance, dad. you're the only person in the world who could handle him."

#the cozy collection 2024 #eddie brock x reader #venom x reader #mcu fanfiction #venom fanfiction #venom imagine #eddie brock imagine #tom hardy x reader

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mayullla · 8 months ago

Text

Title: His Dream Wife

Character(s): Richard (Original character / Original work)

Synopsis: He always wanted a perfect family, but life never gave him what he wanted. Instead, he was blackmailed into marrying a gold digger. But after seeing you for the first time the wife of his friend all he could think of was you. So don't mind him when he was given the option to swap his wife's consciousness with yours he took that chance immediately.

Warnings/tags: Yandere Dilf x meek reader, yandere pov, general yandere themes, body swap between reader and Yandere's wife, cheating (not done by reader), arranged, baby trapping, Yandere wants that traditional wife and lifestyle. Word count: 4.2k (Please tell me if I miss anything!)

Note: I just finished reading the webtoon "Marry My Husband," so you can probably see many small ideas taken from it in this story!

Ever since he was young, Richard had fantasies and dreams of a perfect family. He always loved the idea of someone relying on him just as much as he would on them, and someone who would love him exclusively and trust him completely. Maybe that was why he liked wolves, having been told back then that those animals would mate for life. He liked that. He wanted that. Friends were nice there is nothing wrong with that. But there is something about a family that he wanted. Maybe it was because he was jealous back then of how affectionate his grandparents were between each other, while his parents were far from that.

That was what he wanted and well maybe he started to want a little more the older he got. He wanted what his grandparents had, he wanted what the movies had… he wanted what his fantasies had. He loved the idea of a family, coming back from work to an affectionate housewife with her tummy big inside a second or third child while holding the first. The idea of kisses between each other, while his lover irrupts in giggles, playfully pushing him back telling him that he should not let the food turn cold or let the kids see them.

Someone he could spoil and give everything to while she relied on him and his money. He would work hard every day just for her and the kids, to give them the home they deserve. She would give back by cooking and cleaning the house, anybody knows that those things are hard work and everything takes time. But she would do it for the both of them, for him.

Yet he wasn't able to attain that dream. He wasn't allowed to have it. He attracted the attention of a viel woman, who had used any and every blackmail to tie him down to her. He was a manager at a big company already quickly climbing up but also came from a rich family, he unwantedly got the attention of a woman who was greedy for money and something handsome.

And her own manager was ripe for the picking.

She did many things but somehow he was able to avoid many of them however that could only go on for so long. She was cunning, too smart for her own good. He didn't know how she did it, it made him furious at what she did waking up in a hotel with her right beside him. He had no memories of the night yet she did when she told everyone that she had his baby a month later.

Everyone was frantic, his parents especially who cared so much about their appearance and reputation than anything else. While he hated them for the lack of love or care only forcing him to their whims to get a word above their acquaintances and rivals. The idea of him their own son mudding their name with the fact that he got someone pregnant without marriage made them furious. They wanted him to marry her immediately and he had no choice not when they held his job, reputation, and life above him not when that woman too did the same with her connections and people behind the scenes. It was idiotic that he fell into her hands like this, no matter what he did she did not let go and sank her claws deep into his skin.

Richard wanted to know if this child was his, but there was no time when everybody demanded his and that woman didn't give him a chance to check. Only to cry after the marriage that the child from miscarriage due to stress from his selfishness. Many blamed him even though he knew that she was lying this whole time but no matter what he said her crocodile tears worked far better than any explanation.

He was furious, angered by everything that happened but he wasn't allowed to do anything he wasn't allowed to break up with her. His life, everything that he worked for had turned to nothing by this woman. She could care less about love or something genuine and only cared about his money, demanding that he give her money to go shopping to buy expensive brand items and clothing while also going to parties and bars with her friends coming back home late leaving only a mess with how drunk she was.

Some days she would not come home at all and he assumed that she was with another man, as he didn't give in to her sexual demands even if they were husband and wife. At this point, the idea of touching her body even her hand disgusted him.

He thought he lost everything, he felt hopeless when he could not break up with that woman who made sure that he could not have a divorce without destroying his reputation and paying her a huge amount of cash. She was insane.

Rather than be with her he would rather drown in his work in his office. The house smelled like her strong perfume that could only make his head hurt the moment he took one whiff of it even though that woman wasn't even in the house having already left to head to the next new bar that opened up in the city.

That was his life, he genuinely thought that this was his ending, a story that didn't end so well, yet unable to change anything with knives around his neck daring him to move. But in the end, nothing is concrete, sometimes all it takes is helping an old lady who just so happens to be a fortune teller.

Typing away at his computer late at night in his office as he looked at the time, his thoughts could not help but let his thoughts drift for a moment. Richard closed his eyes slightly burning from looking at the laptop for too long. Leaning his chair, he pulled his tie down a little as he thought about this afternoon when he helped out a poor fortune teller the old woman after picking some stuff up at the market, who looked to be in her 80s stuck outside homeless and struggling to open her shop. As she had dropped something that had rolled towards him he picked it up and gave it to the old lady. He didn't know what moved him to help her. But as a present, he had gotten a small viel.

"Thank you for your help. You are quite the hard worker." The old woman said, sitting on the chair when everything was finally set up. She looked at him with a sly smile on her face. The old woman he later realized had a way of speaking, that wasn't normal. Weird yet at the same time sharp... too sharp. “Too bad you are stuck with such a mean spirit woman. How you handle such a woman for so long now… I am impressed.” Sharp as in she knew too much than he would have liked for a stranger to know.

"Buahahaha, don't worry boy this would be the last you would ever hear from me after this." The old woman laughed at his stiff glare. He didn't know how she did it but she seemed to know a lot about his relationship with his wife and the trouble that he was in yet at the same time she had a knack for poking at his sore spots.

Before Richard could think about calling the police she suddenly pulled out a vial inside containing a blue liquid, "You help me with my little trouble so I want to give you a little something, that could help you with your own little trouble. Besides, I couldn't resist helping someone in need.”

“A little swap potion, let your wife and your sweetheart drink it and they will swap at the start of the next day. The lil spell would wear off in a month but if there is nothing to return to… well then that means nothing could even happen. Dont yah think so boy? Haha!” He took the vial from the lady, thinking about throwing it when she was nowhere in sight. The creepy grin didn't match her so-called kind action, but she was not finished with talking.

“You better move fast my boy, that woman will make sure you will be dead before a year. It is very easy to hide evidence with a car crash.”

After that, it was difficult to throw the thin vial. Part of him could not drop the liquid into the bin, so he stored it on his office desk, locked but with a key, along with other important documents and such.

"Richard!! Why did you not show up at the dinner party?! Do you know how much embarrassment you have caused me?" his wife screamed. He couldn't help but groan in annoyance the moment he walked through the entrance. It was too early in the morning for such screaming, but she just continued on and on: "And why are you here now?!! It is the next day!? Explain yourself!"

"I don't need to explain myself to you at all." Walking past his wife who was glaring daggers at him. The more he learned about his wife the more he realized that she was similar to his parents, cared only about reputation, and was selfish putting themselves first before anything else. Hypocrites. "I had to finish up some work so I stayed at my office. I needed to finish all the file work before the meeting." Unlike a certain someone who would come home the next day afternoon after being in someone else's arms.

Walking into his own home, he could not recognize it... everything was thrown about and trashed everywhere. Expensive decorations on the floor and shattered. Sofa and pillows ripped letting cotton spill from them. Walls wet and dirty with glass cups, and pots of plants shattered on the floor. Looking at everything he kept his anger internally holding everything in as he continued to walk towards his office and bedroom locked with a key.

This wasn't the first time this happened, he had found out that there was no use to teaching someone who saw no reason to change her ways. He just needs to call in some cleaners, replace the things that broke and that was it.

Heading to his home office to place his bag on the table he suddenly received a text on his phone. Pulling out the device to check who it was while the woman continued to scream at him.

"That doesn't explain why you didn't tell me you couldn't join the dinner!" It was because she wouldn't listen, no matter what. If he had told her, she would have either demanded that he come or screamed at him—first on the phone, then again when he got home. "Answer your phone when I call! Are you even listening to me?!"

He knew of the calls and messages. She had been calling non-stop and texting for an hour since he didn't come to her friends' dinner. He just didn't care to answer and left it on mute to let him focus on his work. Looking at the sender he couldn't help but sigh.

"Hey, I am talking to you!" Her shrill screaming was mind-numbing as he got his clothes unable to stand her voice and would rather change elsewhere. "RICHARD!!!"

He quickly left the house and got into his car, ignoring the high-heeled shoe that was thrown at him—missing as it landed. Starting the engine, he drove off, tuning out her shouts.

It was past midnight, and he was alone on the road. No one else was in sight. As he waited at a red light, he pulled out his phone to check a message. It was from a "friend" he had made at university, inviting him to dinner the next day. The guy had always been friendly—or at least tried to be. He had the personality of a know-it-all, and while he didn’t care for him much, it seemed the guy had once considered them friends. That was until money and popularity got to his head.

The guy knew a lot and had multiple connections and friends, he was the one who helped him find a cleaner will to keep silent about everything that happened in the house after the housemaid quit due to his wife assuming that he and the maid had done something sexual in the bedroom. The woman was crying as her hair had been pulled and her face slapped by his wife.

He also had seen the lust in that friend's eyes whenever he looked at her. Even after the guy was married for over a year he still looked at another wife with lust, it was disgusting to Richard that his friend would do such a thing but as the guy had helped him with a few of his troubles he didn't just cut him away.

The message was an invite for a double date. Having just left his house and his furious wife behind (not that he would ever take her anywhere unless absolutely forced), he tried to decline, saying that his wife was a bit "busy."

[Dude, dont worry about it and just come then.]

[Won't it be awkward for your wife?]

[It doesn't matter she would just say that it is fine either way.]

[Don't leave me here with her. You have already talked with her either way it is not a problem anymore. ]

From what he remembered it seemed that it was an arranged marriage between the two. Something that was decided by their parents for the benefit of their companies. The guy absolutely hated the fact that he was pushed into this marriage and had nothing good to say about his wife but that was a goody two shoes and boring. "She lacks the wildness that I am looking for." The guy said he was drinking in a bar one time having called him to express his frustrations after an official meeting with her. "She probably doesn't know anything except how to clean dishes.”

"I would not leave the house with a babe like yours. How do you keep everything in your pants?" The guy asked too drunk from all the alcohol to be careful with his words. "You might like my fiance a lot with your uptight attitude and lack of fun. Maybe we should switch wives later. Hey, wanna wife swap one time? It would be fun~~."

He had ignored the very obvious lust in the guy’s eyes, choosing not to address it and instead steer the conversation elsewhere. In the end, between hiccups, the guy told him he’d introduce him to his future wife and insisted that he should come to the wedding.

A few days later, with the invitation in hand, he attended the wedding. There, he saw the guy’s wife—and he was absolutely floored.

It was just a moment. A fleeting glimpse. He caught sight of her for only a second, walking toward his friend across the hall. Through the open door of the bride's room, he saw her, and he froze.

She was stunning.

He could not believe that a woman like you would become the wife of the guy. He wanted to take a step back to see you again, yet when his wife called him he was forced to start walking again not wanting to cause a scene due to her fickle pride.

After all, he could see you again on the walkway when the wedding starts.

But he didn't want to leave either way.

Seated on the husband's side as the music stopped hinting to the guest that it was about to start soon. He watched as his friend walked the aisle, knowing but not commenting on the dirty slutish look his wife was giving to the guy looking at him up and down and waiting for you to show up.

You arrived soon after, dressed elegantly and sophisticated holding bouquets of flowers. He noticed how pretty you were, your walk and movements were elegant and soft, a far cry to his wife who walked to call the men's attention dressed a little too revealing for the formal occasion.

Would he have married a woman like you if this wench hadn’t come to destroy his life? Would he have married you if your parents and your friend’s family hadn’t forced the two of you into it? If this wasn’t some kind of mask, and this really was you, he wouldn’t have any complaints about being stuck with you. In fact, he would have demanded it—forced it, if he could. But that wasn’t how life turned out... You were not his.

The wedding soon came to an end and that was it. Legally you were tied to his friend while he was already stuck with his own problems. It wasn't fair. He just couldn't let it go as he stayed in his seat even after the end of the wedding speech as everybody started to leave to eat and dance. While his wife went to meet up with the groom he stayed where he was just thinking.

How surprised he was that he ended up meeting you so soon.

The guy had invited him to dinner a few times and he quickly understood that it was to have someone else in the group after the guy was forced by his parents to take you out a few times. But that didn't matter to him when he was finally able to talk to you, to chat with you.

When he reached the restaurant, the guy stood up after a small conversation, stating that he needed to run to the bathroom, take a call, or use some other excuse he had up his sleeve. He left the table for as long as possible only to come back near the end with maybe a lipstick on his shirt or something. And if Richard’s wife was there, the guy would start subtlety flirting with his wife, uncaring if he or his own wife was there, not that the woman herself cared.

He pitied you, as you kept on your smile even when your eyes swirled with an understanding of your place, yet at the same time, you were still so hurt. You were silent for the most part keeping to yourself.

You and he become rather close but not really, it was a kind of comradery of your situations or that was what he would like to think. Whenever you and him were left alone, rather than keep the awkward air around he would start to talk to you.

You were a little flustered at first but slowly you started to get used to talking with him. Chatting amicably as if enjoying the conversation between you and him. He also did enjoy conversing with you. No heavy topics, it wasn't business or anything to do with work but stuff like traveling, hobbies, and favorite food. The things that you would like to do if you only had the time or chance to do them.

You weren't loud but you were delicate, gentle, and easy to fluster too. You were polite and careful with your words but also curious asking him many questions when he talks about his own stories. You would keep all your attention on him, even if he noticed you didn't seem maybe that interested in a topic or two.

There was one time he went to your apartment, an invitation from your husband who invited him and his wife. Your place was in a high-end apartment probably paid by the family, with decorations that were chic and modern but there was also a homely feeling to the place, cleaned and cared for with love, unlike his messed up house. The smell of the house was similar to that of a fragrant laundry detergent instead of strong perfume. Just for a moment, he realized that you were the one who did all this when he saw you coming out from the kitchen unwrapping the apron you were wearing.

Just for a moment you gave him an actual vision of a home, a vision of what he wanted so much and could have had yet was taken away from him. You gave him a vision of what it would be like to have a wife who cares so much.

He could not help but crumble and fall.

He started to crave for you, the more he chatted with you the more he fell every night he fantasized about you in his arms. He wished... he craved for you so much that he thought he started having delusions that you were his. At night, he couldn’t close his eyes without seeing you clearly in the darkness.

But you just had to break everything, you just had to slam a hammer to his dreams and fantasies just like everyone else.

"I'm sorry," you said, a sorrowful smile on your lips. "I know my husband is using you to get out of our date. I apologize for taking up your time when you're so busy. Please, I’ll make sure this doesn't happen again. You don’t have to come every time he asks you to. I’m sure you’re busy too."

Why...? Why did you say that? He thought you knew that he already understood. He thought you knew that it didn’t bother him at all—especially when you both always had such enjoyable conversations. Why did you apologize? Why would you tell him to stop coming? Why were you pushing him away?

Your eyes looked at him in sorry and guilt and it clicked you were scared you were so scared that something wrong might happen. Because in the end, you were loyal, loyal to a man who didn't even love you.

It made him livid.

Even if you thought you knew more than he did, he was the one who knew more. He knew well what your husband does on nights that he isn't home, where he goes, and what he does there. In Richard’s own house, he could hear the sounds of two people with familiar voices thinking they were alone.

His wife and your husband.

You didn't know that, while you probably knew that he partied every day you seemed to have hope that he didn't have the audacity to lay in bed with another married woman much less the wife of his own friend. He didn't care who that guy lay with, but it made him irritated that a guy like him had you.

That appointment ended up awkward. Too awkward as both of you waited for your husband to arrive. The guy knew something was up the moment he arrived but seemed to choose not to say anything having enough tack not to right at that moment when he usually didn't.

Looking at the message again he sighed declining the invite again even when the guy tried to put up a fuss. It was just that he could not face you right now, not when you made it clear that all you felt towards him was guilt.

If only it was you... if only he had found you first if that woman didn't chain herself to him using blackmail and connections.

If he could just swap his wife with you he would have been happier... he would have the life he wished he had and he would spoil you with all his love and time. While you would wait oh so lovingly for him while cooking and cleaning while he worked to bring the money to keep you happy materially. He would be a better husband than your own and he already knew that you would be a far more better wife than his own.

But you just had to draw that line. That line of law and morality.

Watching the road as he drove, he could not help but let annoyance fester him at this whole situation till he saw a poster pass by him. Purple with a familiar design that he saw just this morning. Something to do with a certain fortune teller who knew a little too much and who gave him a small vial.

Truthfully he didn't believe in such things, but part of him had become so desperate that he just could not think straight. He was desperate and he knew that the old woman knew that and was laughing at him for it.

"Here yah go. This is a little something that would have cost a shit ton but I am gonna give it to you for free." The old woman cackled, she was having way too much fun knowing his situation. "If you plan to add this to a drink don't worry about the colour at all."

He didn't believe in such things. But there was a whisper in his mind a little spell in his brain that told him that this would work. That there was something different about that mad woman who probably lived only in entertainment.

His hand moved before he could even think about it, accepting the dinner invitation as he finally reached his office. It was supposed to be closed, but a few employees were pulling an all-nighter, so the building wasn't locked. In his mind, all he could think about was the life he once dreamed of—the life that had been taken away from him. All he wanted was a life with you, and that thing—that vial—would be the answer to all his problems.

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psycholuvrgirl · 13 days ago

Text

that's just how i talk

featuring... megumi!

summary: megumi doesn't like that you flirt with everyone you meet, you have to make it up to him

warnings: NSFW content; oral (m!receiving) (all characters are aged up)

a/n: bimbo!reader is just me i fear

“thank you so much sweetheart,” you beam, lashes fluttering at the barista as they hand over your iced drink. “you have the nicest hands. like you could totally be a hand model.”

the barista blinks, then smiles a flustered sort of smile. “oh, thanks!”

you wink. “don’t let anyone tell you otherwise, cute stuff.”

and just like that, megumi is clenching his jaw and nearly breaking through his own cup of coffee.

you turn back to him, all sunshine and lip gloss. you smile when you spot him and make your way back to where he’s waiting stiffly by the wall. you offer him a sip with a grin. “want some, baby?”

“did you just flirt with the barista?”

“what? no.” you look genuinely confused. “i was just being nice.”

“you complimented his hands.”

“they were good hands, baby. did you see ‘em? should i go get him?”

megumi inhales slowly, counting to ten under his breath. you sip your drink, unaware and unbothered by the faint twitch in his jaw.

“being nice is fun. you should try it sometime, gumi.”

“i am nice.”

you look him up and down. “you scowled at a puppy this morning.”

“it bit me.”

“it licked you.”

“same thing.”

you giggle, linking your arm with his as you leave the café. “you’re so dramatic, baby.”

(says the girl in the rhinestone-covered miniskirt and knee-high pink boots.)

megumi sighs. “can you maybe not flirt with everyone who breathes? especially when i’m standing right there.”

your glossy lips part. “you thought i was flirting?”

he gives you a flat look.

“that’s just how i talk,” you insist, laughing. “baby, i call the mailman ‘cutie patootie.’ it doesn’t mean anything.”

“another request: please stop saying ‘cutie patootie.’”

“no promises.”

he shakes his head. “you do it with everyone! waiters, clerks, gojo—”

“oh, come on. i’m not flirting with gojo.”

“you told him his eyelashes were longer than your patience.”

“they are! and i have very little patience, so that’s impressive.”

megumi pinches the bridge of his nose. “that doesn’t even make sense. that’s not impressive if you have a little— whatever. i’m just wondering, do you not see how that sounds?”

you lean in close, voice soft. “aww, baby. are you jealous?”

his ears go pink instantly. “no. i’m annoyed.”

“mmhm.”

you pout at him playfully, tugging on his sleeve. “you know you’re the only one i actually flirt with, right?”

he looks skeptical. “are you sure?”

“duh.” you reach up and tap your finger against his chest. “i don’t say anyone else looks hot when they’re mad.”

“you said that last week when i yelled at that curse.”

“exactly,” you say, bouncing up to smack a glossy kiss on his cheek. “and you’re the only one i cover in my gloss!”

megumi pauses and you smirk. he hates that you have a point.

***

later that evening, you’re curled up in his bed, freshly showered and smelling like vanilla, wearing one of his hoodies that hangs off your shoulder. megumi’s reading, or at least trying to. you’re draped across his chest like a weighted blanket, chin propped on your hands, watching him.

“are you mad at me?” you ask sweetly.

“no.”

“then why do you look like that?”

“like what?”

“like you’re debating whether to kiss me or murder me.”

he closes his book. “i’m just wondering how someone with that much lip gloss gets away with flirting with half the city and calls it ‘being nice.’”

you gasp dramatically. “half the city?! i would never.”

“name three people you didn’t flirt with today.”

you pause to think, a long and painful pause. “yuuji?”

“he wasn’t even with us. doesn’t count if you didn’t even see them today.”

“oh.” you blink. then you gasp and smile. “i didn’t flirt with nanami!”

“you called him a dilf.”

“oh. right.” you slump. “but he didn’t even know what that meant, so it’s not really flirting.”

“yes it is,” he says, rolling his eyes.

you shrug. “well, i flirt with you the most. so that counts for something, right?”

megumi stares at you.

“tell me you don’t love it. go on. lie to my face.”

he opens his mouth, then closes it. you beam.

“it’s just hard sometimes,” he says. “everyone always looks at you and you talk to them like they’re special. it’s like i’m not even standing there.”

you blink. “oh.”

megumi doesn’t look at you.

you sit up on your knees, cupping his jaw with both hands so he has to.

“baby,” you say, voice suddenly quieter, “sure, i talk to them like they’re cute, but i talk to you like you hung the damn moon.”

he blinks.

“and when i flirt with you, i actually mean it.”

“so you admit you flirt with them?” he asks, raising a brow.

you let out a giggle. “sure, if it makes you happy, grumpy-pants.”

he narrows his eyes. “you’re exhausting.”

“you love it,” you say, kissing his cheek.

“i love when you don’t flirt with people.”

“oh, come on,” you whine, rolling your eyes. “i already told you it’s different! i only mean to flirt with you. i love you the most.”

he continues to give you a flat look.

your eyes twinkle with mischief. you push him gently so that he leans back, crawling over to straddle him. you get close to his ear. “need me to prove it?”

his breath hitches the second you say it, eyes flickering up to meet yours like he isn’t sure if you’re serious. but you’re already sliding off his lap.

“wait,” megumi’s voice is a rasp, but your fingers are already hooking in the waistband of his sweats. “you don’t have to—”

“i know.” you look up at him, lips plush and already parting, pupils blown wide with heat and sincerity. “i want to.”

your hands are sure as you tug his pants down enough to free him, fingers grazing the soft skin of his hips as he hisses under his breath. he’s already half-hard, and your eyes gleam at the sight.

“all that brooding,” you murmur, wrapping your hand around the base and giving a slow stroke, “you just need some attention. yeah, baby?”

megumi tips his head back against the pillows, jaw clenched.

“and you think i’m the dramatic one,” he mutters, breathless.

you just giggle, then lean in and press an open-mouthed kiss to the tip of his cock. it’s featherlight and sweet, tongue flicking just enough to make his thighs tense. his fingers dig into the blanket.

you look up through your lashes, voice syrupy and soft. “let me take care of you, baby.”

he doesn’t answer. just nods once.

you wrap your lips around him slowly, sinking down inch by inch, feeling him twitch against your tongue as he curses under his breath.

he always forgets just how good your mouth feels until it’s back on him. he knows it’s good, but imagining it never lives up to you doing the real thing.

you’re not just soft, but you’re eager. like you love having him in your mouth, like it’s your favorite thing in the world.

and maybe it is.

you moan a little around him, just enough to make his hips jerk. one of his hands finds your hair, gentle at first, fingers threading through the strands as you take him deeper.

you pull back with a wet pop, spit glistening on your lips. “you always get like this when i flirt with other people,” you tease, stroking him slowly. “so serious. so jealous. it’s kinda hot.”

“not jealous,” he growls, eyes hazy. “just hate sharing.”

“mmm.” you lean in again, dragging your tongue up the underside of his cock. “you’re not sharing. you have me.”

and then you take him in again. deeper this time, one hand stroking what you can’t fit, the other gripping his thigh as you hollow your cheeks and suck hard.

megumi curses softly, raggedly and lets his head fall back.

“fuck, baby.”

you hum around him, letting the vibration roll through your throat. his hips buck. the hand in your hair tightens instinctively.

you bob your head, setting a rhythm fast enough to make his breathing hitch, slow enough to make it last. you love watching him like this. love how wild he looks when he loses control. the way his eyes fliutter shut, the muscles in his stomach tightening.

this isn’t about teasing anymore. this is about proving your point.

you don’t flirt with anyone like this. you don’t kneel for anyone like this. only him. always him.

you pull back again, spit dripping from your lips as you catch your breath, eyes sparkling. “still think i don’t mean it?”

megumi stares down at you, flushed and panting. “you’re ridiculous.”

“say you like it.”

“i love it.”

you grin, then sink down again, this time taking him all the way until your nose brushes the base. he groans, deep and guttural, both hands gripping your hair now, eyes wide like he still can’t believe how good your mouth feels.

you gag once, then pull back just enough to breathe, your lips swollen and slick.

“you gonna cum for me?” you whisper, stroking him faster now, tongue flicking over the tip. “wanna taste it, baby. wanna know you believe me.”

“jesus—” megumi’s voice cracks, hips jerking once before he gasps, “fuck, i’m—”

it’s hot and sudden on your tongue, thick and heavy as his whole body shudders beneath you. you take it all, swallowing around him as he comes down in sharp breaths, body twitching with every aftershock. you stay there for a second, resting your cheek against his thigh, letting him catch his breath.

he looks dazed. completely destroyed.

“still mad at me?” you ask sweetly.

he drags a hand over his face without responding. you giggle, crawling back up to kiss him. it’s slow, open-mouthed, and filthy.

when you pull back, your eyes sparkle again.

“i’m still gonna flirt with the barista tomorrow.”

megumi groans.

#jujutsu kaisen #jjk #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x reader #jjk x you #megumi fushiguro #megumi fushiguro x reader #megumi fushiguro x you #megumi x reader #jjk megumi #fushiguro megumi #fushiguro megumi x reader #megumi fushiguro smut

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rivalsispunk · 2 months ago

Text

20 Cigarettes pt. II (DBF!Joel Miller x reader)

pt. I here

summary: you and Joel both war with the aftermath of your night in his truck, and it isn't long until the real world comes knocking and leaves you questioning everything.

tags/warning: +18, mdni. Joel is in his 40s, reader is in her 20s. age gap. f!reader. unprotected piv. creampie. SMUTT. angst. slow burn. jealous Joel. jealous reader. drinking, swearing. bondage if you squint, (if I've missed anything let me know and I'll amend),. no outbreak, non canon, mention of TLOU characters but nothing is in line with the show/game aside from the fact Joel is the dilf to end all dilfs

w/c: 9.7k

a/n: not edited really, just wanted to get it out! so if any mistakes, my apologies x

It’s been a week.

Seven full days since Dina’s bachelorette party. Since the storm. Since Joel’s mouth was on your throat, his hands on your hips, and his voice in your ear telling you to come for him. A week since his weight pressed you into the worn leather of his truck’s bench seat like he was trying to carve himself into your skin.

And then he drove you home.

The ride was quiet. Awkward. Joel tried to make it normal. Failed.

“Storm cleared up nice,” he said as he turned into your neighborhood. It might’ve sounded casual—if not for the fact that you’d had your hands all over each other less than ten minutes earlier. If not for the way his come was still warm between your thighs.

You didn’t respond. Just gave a tight-lipped nod, even though Joel hadn’t looked at you since he merged back onto the highway, not even to check for oncoming traffic when it was time to pull off it. He didn’t say anything else until the truck rolled to a stop in the middle of the street—parked between your dad’s house and his, the engine ticking in the quiet.

“That was—” he started, then broke off, scrubbing a hand over his face with a ragged sigh. “We shouldn’t have… Sorry. That was—”

You cut in before he could unravel it further. “It’s fine. Really.” Then, with a strained chuckle: “You never had a one-night stand before?”

He finally looked at you. Briefly. He’d had his fair share. Wanted this thing between you two to be just that—just two people getting their fix and moving on.

He nodded slowly. Hit unlock on the door.

“Right,” he said. “See you around, kid.”

Kid.

Not darlin', like in the truck when his voice sank as low as his hands on your body. Not your name. Just kid.

The moniker hit hard. Lodged behind your ribs painfully. You smiled halfheartedly like it was fine—just like you’d told him. Like you hadn’t been waiting, stupidly, for something. A look. A word. Anything that hinted at him knowing this wasn’t as simple as a one night stand.

But he just watched you go, shoulders tense, hands still on the wheel like they had nowhere else to be—no apology. No wait. No darlin’.

The morning after, Dina called. Too early, too chipper considering her state when she left The Rusty Antler—wanting to know every messy detail.

“So, you fucked him, right? Please tell me you fucked him,” she probed down the line.

You lied to her. Maybe for the first time in your whole friendship. Said Joel just dropped you off. That nothing happened.

“He’s my dad’s best friend,” you reiterated. “That would be…weird.”

She bought it. Or let you have it, at least. And still, through everything else—through final bridesmaid dress fittings, venue walkthroughs, and seating chart hell—you’ve been spiraling quietly, secretly.

You’ve tried to shove it down. But your body still remembers, more than you’d like. Your thoughts keep circling back to him without permission at the most inconvenient of moments—at the checkout at the grocery store, when you’re sitting down for breakfast with your dad, while you’re showering. When you see the bruises on your thigh when he hooked you around him as he pummelled into you. The marks are fading now, from dark purple fingerprints to yellow smudges you keep hidden under jeans or sports leggings. You can’t help but relive the rasp of his voice, the look on his face when you came apart in his hands. The guilt and wonder that warred behind his eyes like you were something he never should’ve toyed with.

Maybe that’s why you haven’t seen him since. No appearance for Sunday football. No midweek drop-ins for an after-work beer. Just…nothing. You’d half expected your father to be suspicious—he and Joel are each other’s lifelines, even more so since Sarah headed off to college—but he didn’t seem phased. Passed it off as Joel being busy with construction jobs or seeing Tess. The latter made your gut churn.

***

Joel’s been keeping to himself.

Outside of work—which, as the director of a contracting business, keeps his days full enough—he doesn’t usually do much but hang out with your dad, drink a couple beers, shoot the shit. But now he’s avoiding that routine like it’s laced with tripwires. Avoiding your dad’s calls, replying only by text. Busy this week. Catch you soon. Which isn’t a total lie. Work’s been steady, there’s a leaky pipe in the basement he’s been meaning to fix. But mostly, he’s been doing everything he can to stay out of sight, to keep temptation at arm’s length.

He’s been heating up microwave dinners he barely tastes. Spoke on the phone with his younger brother Tommy longer than he usually would, pretending the catch-up wasn’t just a way to fill the silence. One night he even rearranged the den furniture, despite the fact he almost never goes in there—always prefers the kitchen counter for his paperwork, within reach of the fridge and the back door light.

He tells himself it’s temporary. Just until Dina’s wedding is over. Just until you pack up and head back to Charlotte. Then he can go back to being your dad’s best friend, the guy who’s always around, always reliable. Not the guy who had you spread out in his truck with your panties shoved halfway down your thighs. He keeps hearing your voice telling him that you don’t care.

Want you.Your legs bracketing his hips. Your breath in his ear. And God help him—he wants more. Which is exactly why he’s staying away.

He almost gets away with it, too. But then your dad calls again. A longer ring this time. Joel lets it go to voicemail, but the message that pings through a minute later hits harder than it should.

Hey, jackass. Don’t wanna hang out with me anymore? You find yourself a new best buddy or somethin’?

The message is left with a chuckle, but Joel knows him too well. There’s a note of something else underneath. Hurt, maybe. Confusion. That unspoken what did I do wrong?.

Joel swears under his breath. Guilt rises like bile, up his chest, stings at the back of his throat.

So he gives in. Which is why he’s standing at your dad’s front door—your front door—on a Friday night, two six-packs in one hand, sweat prickling at the back of his neck even though there’s a crisp breeze rifling through the fallen leaves along the street.

His heart thunders. Rakes a hand through his hair, trying to steel himself. This isn’t just dinner. Not really.

Not when all he can think about is how you looked half-naked in his truck, tits illuminated by sporadic cracks of lightning.

Not when all he wants to see if that fire’s still burning.

Not when he’s terrified that it is.

Joel pitches a hand up and raps his knuckles on the sage green wood, sucking in a shaky breath. You’re probably not even in. Probably out with your friends. Maybe back at The Rusty Antler. Or perhaps holed up at Dina’s while you help out with final wedding preparations.

But then the door swings open—and you’re standing there. Barefoot, hair tied up in a messy knot, wearing an oversized Volunteers t-shirt and black leggings. He hates that he thinks you look just as good entirely covered up as you did with your skirt around your waist and your tank pulled down.

You freeze when you see him. Thought it was the delivery driver bringing over the Thai food your dad had ordered. Joel shifts his weight, muttering a hey while holding up the six-packs like they’re peace offering.

You almost laugh. Yeah, alcohol would be good right about now.

“Your dad—he invited me for dinner.”

“Right,” you say, blinking. “I just... I didn’t think—”

“Since when do you knock?” your dad interrupts, voice teasing as he appears behind you. Then, to you: “You gonna stand there and let all the heat out, or you gonna let the man in?”

You step aside, shrinking away from the threshold to give Joel the room to enter. His large frame fills out the doorway, broad shoulders nearly brushing the frame as he passes you, almost sheepish. He's in his Carhartt jacket again. The one he loaned to you that night outside the bar. The one you left in the footwell of his truck. The sight of it has your body wracking with a shiver, one your dad catches as he takes the beers from Joel, sliding two bottles out for the pair of them.

"You cold, sweetheart?"

You shake your head and hold your hand out to him. "Nope, all good. Let me put those in the fridge." Anything to put some space between you and Joel—let your nervous system calm down after the shock of his arrival. You can't seem to shake him though, feeling his gaze hot through the material of your t-shirt while him and your dad trail you to the kitchen, his boots heavy against the floorboards.

"So, where the hell have you been?" your dad wants to know as the three of you walk into the open-plan living area—a renovation Joel and your dad had carried out a few years back.

Joel gives a noncommittal grunt, scratches as his beard. “Like I said, busy week. Spent half the week waitin’ on drywall that never showed, and the other half explainin’ to a twenty-year-old apprentice why you don’t use a nail gun like a damn paintbrush. Y’know it is.”

He sounds normal—too normal—and it grates. The easy rhythm of his voice, the way he jokes with your dad. It’s infuriating, even though you’re doing the exact same thing—plastering on a smile, acting like nothing happened. But the more effortless he makes it seem, the more it needles under your skin. Because if he can brush it off that easily, what does that say about you? That you’re festering in the details—replaying every sound, every touch—while he probably went home, took a shower, and let the night rinse off him without a second thought. Didn’t even look back as it all sluiced down the drain.

You stay quiet as you slide the packs of Bud into the fridge, trying to keep your face neutral. When you turn back, your brow furrows at the number of settings your dad’s placed on the table.

“Four bowls?” You cock your head. “I know you’re getting older but you’re still a few years short of going senile.”

“Ha-a. You think you’re so clever,” he replies, reaching over to pinch the back of your neck like he used to when you were ten. “No, we’ve got another one joining us.”

You narrow your eyes. “You invite yourself a date over?”

“Not a date for me—a date for Joel.”

That stopped everything cold.

“What?” you and Joel say at the same time.

Your dad grins, oblivious, takes a sip of his drink. “I invited Tess. Figured it was time she came by for a proper family dinner.”

You blink, hard, like maybe you misheard him. “Tess?” you repeat. “As in Tess Tess?”

Your dad nods like it’s nothing. You run your tongue along the inside of your lower lip.

Tess. A proper family dinner.

That didn’t sound casual. That sounded like a step. A step well on the way to relationship territory.

Your stomach flips. Was that all you’d been? Something Joel needed to get out of his system before going all in with Tess? Maybe it was never about you at all. Maybe it was just because you were there.

Was he lying when he said it wasn’t serious? Was he lying when he kissed you like that?

The doorbell echoes through the house and you feel Joel’s eyes on you as your dad ambles towards the front door, whistling like he didn’t just drop a bomb. When you dare to glance his way, his mouth is parted like he wants to say something. To object. To explain.

But you shake your head, once—firm. Don’t.

Then you’re turning your back, focusing on the fridge as if it’s the most interesting thing in the house. A breath shudders out of you just as the front door swings open and Tess’s voice floats in as she tells your dad she intercepted the delivery driver at the letterbox. Her voice is bright, familiar. Like she belongs here.

And so, you steel your spine and paste on a smile that feels like splinters.

***

Dinner is…dinner.

Your dad and Tess hold up most of the conversation: chit-chatting about work—Tess owned the florist beside the local grocer—rehashing some rumour that was doing the rounds among the neighbours. You add your two cents when necessary—try not to roll your eyes when your dad compliments Tess’s blouse and she tells him she chose it because green’s Joel’s favourite colour—but mainly stick to sipping your drink and picking at your food. Joel isn’t much better. He gives the occasional grunt or dry one-liner. Sometimes he goes all in with a chuckle that doesn’t quite sink into the lines at the corners of his eyes.

Tess, in all honesty, is perfectly lovely. You haven’t spent much time with her outside the occasional neighbourhood barbecue over the years, but she’s easygoing, certainly not hard to get along with. The kind of woman who laughs with her whole chest and doesn’t take herself too seriously. You can see why your dad likes her for Joel. Why Joel might like her for Joel.

She fills the silence naturally, poking fun at Joel’s quietness with a nudge of her elbow. “This one,” Tess grins, eyes sparkly as she peers up at him. “Man of few words. So very Joel.”

You observe quietly as she leans in a little too close when she laughs, and rests her hand on Joel’s forearm whenever she made a point. You notice that Joel doesn’t respond, not really. No touches returned. No lingering looks to match her’s.

But then again, that was just Joel. A little rigid. Not touchy-feely. Except for—

“So, anyone special back in Charlotte?” Tess is asking you now, smiling over her wine glass.

You blink, caught off guard. “I just got out of a relationship, actually.”

“Oh,” she says, her voice soft with sympathy. She means it, too. “Well, I’m sure you’ll be back on the horse in no time. Gorgeous thing like you. Right, Joel?”

Joel looks up from his empty plate like he wasn’t listening. “Hm, what’s that?”

Tess lets out a small laugh, rolling her eyes with endearment before nudging her chin towards you. “I’m just saying she won’t have any trouble dating again.”

Joel’s eyes flick to yours for the first time since you all sat down. The glance licks fire at the base of your belly. He shifts in his seat, scratches his thick fingers behind his ear. “Oh, right. Yeah.”

And you take that as your cure.

You slide your chair back with a soft scrape on the timber floors. “I think I’m going to head up to my room. Lie down. Headache’s starting to kick in.

“That’s not good,” Tess says. “You know what I swear by? Peppermint oil, right at the base of your neck. Should clear it right up!”

You nod, already moving away from the table. “Yeah, I’ll, uh… give it a try.”

As if I just have peppermint oil just laying about, you think as you walk out of the room, but you stop under the archway that leads to the stairs when Tess trills, light and airy, “See you tomorrow!”

You turn back to face your guests. “What’s tomorrow?”

“The barbeque, sweetheart,” your dad clarifies. “Remember? Like old times. Sarah’s even coming down from UT to see you.”

Shit.

You’d totally forgotten. Your dad had mentioned it when you first got in from Charlotte, but with everything going on—with Joel—it had completely slipped your mind.

Your stomach twists. One look at Joel, eyes now back on his plate, and you know it’s going to be one fucking long weekend.

***

The dinner at your dad’s hung over Joel’s head like a bad hangover—pressing, hard to shake. Not to mention, it made him feel a little sick—you sitting across from him with a tight smile. Tess, beside him, chatting like she knew him better than she did, filling in the silences he was more than comfortable sharing with just your dad. The air between you both felt like a live wire as soon as Tess was drawn into the situation, and he hadn’t known what the hell to say.

He still didn’t.

Now, he pulls his front door closed with a soft click and steps out onto the porch, ready—well, not ready, but willing—to head across the street. Afternoon sun illuminates his face, a warm welcome among the crisp fall air. Wind chimes clink lazily in the distance, oak leaves swirl by on a breeze that carries the smoke already curling from your dad’s backyard grill. It was a perfect October day for a barbecue.

He trudges down his front steps, six-pack swinging in one hand, the other shoved deep in the pocket of his Carhartt.

It’s gonna be fine, he repeats to himself like a mantra, as if churning it over will somehow make it true.

Then came the “Hey, Joel!” Tess. “Good timing.”

She’s walking up from the end of the block, a grin breaking across her face so fiercely her eyes devolve into slits. Joel hesitates for half a second, then nods with a smile a fraction of the size of her’s.

“I brought dessert,” she says cheerfully, holding up a paper bag adorned with the logo of a local bakery. “You boys always have the meat sorted but never anything to satisfy a sweet tooth.”

“Great,” Joel mumbles, then stiffens, when Tess loops her arm through his like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His heart lurches when he realises what this looks like.

Something.

He felt a cold prickle at the base of his neck as he and Tess crossed the street, her wound around his bicep like it was nothing out of the ordinary. He wanted to pull away when he approached your dad’s side gate. Didn’t know how without offending Tess.

Shit. What if you saw? Hopefully you were inside. Hopefully you didn’t see. But gate’s rusted hinge screeched loud and sharp like it always did, announcing their arrival like a fucking parade float to the already bustling party.

Joel winced.

You were already outside, standing near the cooler, mid-laugh with Sarah who’d headed over about an hour earlier. Your head snapped around at the noise, but you didn’t feel like you had whiplash until your eyes locked straight on Joel, then Tess, hanging off him like an accessory.

Your smile faded, and Joel felt the loss of it like a blow to the chest. He dropped Tess’s arm as casually as he could manage, stepping a few feet ahead like that might somehow make it clear that they’re not together. Didn’t matter though. Not when you’d turned back to Sarah a bit too quickly, telling her something that’s swallowed by the music pumping through your dad’s old stereo setup. Then you’re off, crossing the yard to the house, green sundress swaying at your thighs, hair catching in the breeze that was nearing on being too chilly for you to be in such an outfit.

Joel’s gaze locks on you, on the dress that has no business clinging to you like that. Soft cotton stretches across your back, dipping low enough to show off the fading tan line from a summer bikini, the bow of it cinched tight at your waist, accentuating your curves. Every step you take has the hem flicking higher over the back of your thighs, just enough to make his mouth dry. And those legs—Christ. They’d been locked around his hips just over a week ago.

Fucking hell, he thinks, shaking his head like that might unlodge the image from his head. It doesn’t. Not even close. Which might be why he’s suddenly possessed to go after you, before the sense seeps back into his bones.

“Joel,” Tess calls before he’s stepped too far away, drifting over from where she’d been greeting some friends to press the bakery bag into his chest. “Can you pop this in the fridge? Don’t want the cream to melt.”

He misses the sickly smile she tosses up at him when he mutters back a distracted yeah, eyes still locked on the screen door you’d just slipped through. Then, bag in hand, heart somewhere near his throat, he followed you like gravity made the rules.

You’re in the kitchen, back to the party with your hands pitched against the lip of the farm-style sink, telling yourself to get your shit together after the sight of Joel and Tess walking into your yard like a long-term couple drained the colour out of your face. Sarah didn’t notice your sudden change in demeanour, thankfully, too engrossed in a story about a messy love triangle that’s unfolding on the floor of her dorm. Behind you, the screen door shuddered quietly before the floorboards groaned under the weight of someone—him—the static of his presence like a current riding just under your skin.

“Bit cool out for a dress like that, don’t you think?”

You don’t turn around, but Joel can see your shoulders wrack with a huff. “Bit out of your jurisdiction, telling me what I should or shouldn’t be wearing, don’t you think?” You pause, then: “Y’know… especially since you’re here with your girlfriend.”

“Tess ain’t my girlfriend.”

“That’s not what it looks like.” “I know what it looks like. I’m telling you it’s not that.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” you mutter, yanking the fridge door open with more force than it’s made for, the seal breaking with a loud hiss. Bottles rattle on the shelves from the impact, a carton of juice sloshing from left to right.

Joel exhales, the sound harsh, tired—partially frustration at you, part at himself. Because your bratiness, your sharp tongue and narrowed eyes, have a way of stirring something up in him that makes his pulse gallop just that little bit faster. Makes him feel wired and restless in a way he hasn’t felt in a long fucking time.

So he bites. “You always get this pissed off after a one night stand?”

You freeze, knuckles whitening around the necks of two beers—one for you, one for Sarah. One night stand. He throws it back at you like a weapon. It stings. Maybe because you’d said it first when you were trying to play it cool. Now it just feels like a slap.

You straighten, shut the drudge with your hip and finally come to face Joel with your chin tipped high. “Nope. But I usually don’t have to sit across from my one night stands at the dinner table with their—” your eyes slice to Tess in the backyard, laughing with your dad while he flips burgers on the grill, “—whatever-you-want-to-call-her, and play happy families.”

Joel crosses the room until you’re both standing behind the kitchen counter, his voice low, urgent, when he tells you, “I didn’t know she was gonna be there. I swear.”

“Yeah, well.” You stare up at him, already feeling a little weak at the knees when the haze of his cologne hits you. “You sure know how to pick your surprises.”

His eyes dip slow, shamelessly, taking in the swell of your breasts where they rise over the fitted cups of your sundress. He doesn’t even try to disguise it. Just looks, jaw fluttering faintly under his scruff of facial hair before reaching past you for the bottle opener. Joel takes the two beers from your hands and pops them open with an effortless flick. Slides one of them onto the counter and takes a long pull from the other like you’d got it out for him.

You don’t say anything, just watch as he licks a drop of Bud from his bottom lip, leaning a hip against the counter, gaze sweeping lazily over you again.

“”S a nice dress, though,” he tells you, voice low. “I like the colour.”

You’d like to say it wasn’t intentional, that it was just the first thing you’d grabbed out of your wardrobe and thrown on, but it wouldn’t be the truth. You’d sat on your bed that morning in a towel, freshly-washed hair dropping onto your shoulders, starting at your open wardrobe. The doors were ajar, only just, enough to see the familiar chaos of reds and blacks, a hint of soft blue. But no green. Nothing in Joel’s favourite colour. Your stomach coiled. Out of nowhere came this pathetic, sharp urge to donate everything you owned. Burn it all down and start again. Build your closet back up in nothing but shades of moss and sage and pine.

It was stupid. You knew it was stupid, but the memory had surfaced anyway—Tess at the dinner table, laughing, casually mentioning how she’d started wearing more green because it was his favourite.

And now here you were, doing the same damn thing. Or wanting to. You never felt like that with Jesse. Never once thought about buying out the denim aisle to appease him, to drown yourself in blue to match him like some second skin.

You look down at your dress, the one you’d yanked out of donation bags that sat in your dad’s spare room, the garment just a smidge too tight on you compared to when you last wore it, probably back in high school.

I like the colour, Joel had said.

I know you do, you think—at least, you think you think it—but the words form aloud. The space between Joel’s eyebrows pinch and a shadow of a smile is gone before he reaches its full potential. The silence in the room sucks the walls inward, so instead of a kitchen, it feels like the pair of you have been shoved into a cardboard box. You watch as he drains the beer until there’s barely two mouthfuls left, throat working in quick swallows like whatever he’s about to do next needs a lick of liquid courage, his other hand hooking a thumb through the loop on his jeans. He takes one last swig, the weight of his arm tugging the faded blue waist down a notch so it exposes the waistband of his grey underwear.

Your quiet confession was like silk and barbed wire all at once. He shouldn’t want this. Not here, not like this, not ever, really. But fuck, if the idea didn’t sink its teeth in: you choosing that dress. That fit. That neckline. All of it with him in mind. It lights a slow burn in his chest that works its way lower, heat pooling behind his belt.

The muscles in Joel’s arm flex like an elastic band as he twists to put the empty bottle next to the sink, and your eyes train all the way up his neck to where the tendons pinch there, too.

“Did you wear that dress for me?” His tone dips with the question, thick with something you can’t quite put your finger on.

Your response rouses as a scoff at the back of your throat—yeah right—but it comes out as a strangled sort of whine, giving away that whatever excuse it was preceding would’ve been a blatant lie. “Get over yourself,” you tell him anyway, shoving back towards the fridge to grab a beer to replace the one he’d stolen from you. Joel follows suit to retrieve another, too, rivers of condensation running down its sides. He doesn’t move to clean the droplets that plummet to the floor. The galley in your dad’s kitchen isn’t that wide, so you and Joel are just about flush against each other when he turns back to face you. He doesn’t attempt to dissect your response to his question, just lilts the hem of your sundress with the bottom of his bottle.

A sharp breath shoots past your lips when it hits the inside of your thigh, the path of skin beside your knee igniting despite the bottle’s icy exterior.

“Don’t react. People are watching,” he tells you, eyes catching something over your shoulder. The kitchen counter is high enough to hide anything below the waist, so anyone looking on from the backyard would just see Joel and you in what would appear to be a casual conversation.

The idea that this is casual splits your nerves.

“When I ask you something, I want a simple answer.” He’s slow. Precise. The kind of voice that leaves no room for argument. “Yes or no, got it?”

You nod, your attention stuck on the rivulet of condensation tracking a glistening line down your calf. The room is suffocating, all the walls pressing inward under the weight of his stare.

Joel doesn’t let your silence slide. He lifts the cold bottle just a fraction, pressing it higher on your thigh, and the jolt of sensation is instant—your hips flinch, back hitting the edge of the counter as the bottle skims closer to heat. His voice slices through the static buzzing in your head.

“Yes or no?” It’s not a question anymore. It’s a command.

“I…Yes.” The word breaks out after several aching beats. And like a switch flipped, the tension in his shoulders unwinds. You watch the muscles above his collarbones loosen, the sharp edge of his jaw unclench.

“Good girl.”

The praise slams into you, pumps your chest with something dangerously close to pride, and you’re filled with the urge to please him, succumb to him, whatever him, so long as he’s this close.

Good girl.

His good girl.

A sudden laugh explodes from outside, a burst of normalcy that cuts through the fog. The reminder that you’re mere feet from the gathering—your dad, Tess, Sarah—has you instinctively pulling back, but Joel’s hand is already there, his fingers locking firm around your friend, calloused and warm and unyielding.

“I said,” he growls, voice molten and ragged, “Don’t. Move.”

The barrel of his bottle lands again—harder this time on your opposite thigh with a wet clink. Your legs almost betray you at the shock of the cold glass, but it’s the suggestion of what could come next that undoes you. The backyard fades into background noise again, muffled like you’re submerged underwater. Your heart pounds frantically, the only thing anchoring you now is Joel’s body on yours.

His stare on you like a weight, and the sear of his hand where he holds you.

“I’m going to ask you again,” he says, more frayed this time. “Did you wear this dress for me?”

You both know you did. It’d be easy to admit. But the way his pupils have swallowed the colour from his eyes—wide, dark, hungry—tells you you’ve got him. And you’re not giving that up so easily.

A smirk threatens to crack across your face but you wrangle it down before telling Joel: “Not everything I put on is for your benefit, you know.” The sass has his dick kicking against his thigh, and you catch the flare of his nostrils just before he takes your wrist and guides your hand down, pressing your palm to the heat straining behind his zipper. “That benefit, you mean?”

Your breathing stutters and you swallow thickly at the weight of him, the barely-restrained hardness, how he feels hot and solid and real beneath your fingers. A flush shoots through you, fast and unrelenting, before Joel peels your hand away. The loss of him under your palm feels like a punishment, but for Joel, it’s his only line of defense against blowing his load in his pants like some touch-starved teenager.

A light sweat pricks at your heaving chest and you cast your sight down, inviting Joel to follow. If he does, you don’t notice, because the beat blocking his next movement is almost non-existent as he jerks his beer upwards so it’s pressing against your centre, the thin material of your panties the only thing keeping your last shed of control in.

You both know how wrong this is—family feet away, a house full of noise—but neither of you moves to stop it. The thrill is the point. The push and pull, the control, the loss of it.

Joel dips close, his mouth nearly brushing your cheek. And then, he whispers his trump card, soft and lethal.

“Darlin’. Come on, you can tell me. You wore this dress just for me, hm?”

You press your tongue to the inside of your cheek. Each second that ticks by without a response earns you a fresh surge of pressure between your thighs. The icy bottle finally catches the swollen nub of your clit. You buck your hips forward, chasing the feeling. If Joel were to peel your dress up now, you’re certain he wouldn’t be able to tell where the condensation ended and your arousal began. Your breaths are jagged, fingers curling tight against the edge of the counter to keep you from melting into a heap at his feet. The kitchen stretches quiet and thick with tension as your gazes remained locked, challenging each other.

He wants submission.

You offer defiance.

And he gets off on it.

Joel nudges the bottle up again, insistent. Daring. You dig your heels in, refusing to let up. Until—

“God, I was wondering where you went,” Sarah says from behind you, her voice slicing the moment in half. Joel yanks the bottle back so fast it tinkers against the counter, backing away from you like he’s been shot. Annoyance at Sarah’s interruption flares through you for a brief moment, then it’s chased by shame as you avoid looking at her out of fear that you have your dad just hand his hands up my dress written on your forehead in red ink.

She snags the original beer off the counter and sucks down a sip.

You and Joel don’t speak. Just exchange a tight glance. Relief. Guilt. Something worse.

“Shit, this stuff’s good,” Sarah says with a dramatic lip smack, none the wiser.

A beat passes. Two.

Then she glances at her father with a raised brow. “Hey, what’s going on with you and Tess, anyway? Are you like… together now?”

The words hit you square in the gut. You blink, the haze of heat and touch and Joel’s voice still echoing inside you—Darlin’. But it fades fast. Like a splash of cold water, Sarah’s question brings it all back. The way Tess had walked in with her arm looped through Joel’s. The way she’d touched him like she had every right. Laughed at things only a couple could laugh about. The way you’d let yourself forget. You grind your teeth together.

What the hell are you doing? He’s not yours. And you’re not some girl who loses her sense over a little touching and a good girl. You’re smarter than this. You’ve got better boundaries than this. Or at least, you used to. Now, all you feel is a hot flush of shame—not just at Joel, but at yourself.

For giving him the power. For liking how it felt.

You reach for your own beer with a forced smile and take a long, bracing sip. Joel still hasn’t answered his daughter’s question, so she looks to you, like you have some sort of in on the situation.

“No idea,” you tell her, voice clipped. “Not my business.”

But it is. It was. It shouldn’t be.

***

The fire pit crackles in the dark, casting long shadows across the yard, flames snapping at the logs like hungry mouths. Joel sits in a camping chair, one ankle hooked over his knee, a half-finished beer in hand. Tommy had rocked up a little while ago and dropped into the seat beside him, laughing about something Joel didn’t entirely hear. His thoughts kept drifting.

You.

He hasn’t looked your way since the kitchen. Not properly. Not when Sarah reappeared beside you, not when everyone lined up to serve themselves up for dinner, not even now, when you’re stretched out on a blanket across the yard, head tilted back as you talk quietly with his daughter. Joel’s still half-hard in his jeans. Still feels like a fucking idiot.

“Someone forgot to put these in the fridge,” Tess’s voice chimes from behind him before appearing at his side, holding up the bakery bag he’d completely forgotten on the kitchen counter earlier.

Joel stands automatically, rubs the back of his neck. “Shit. Sorry, Tess.”

“You’re lucky you’re so handsome,” she jokes, nudging his arm lightly, but Joel doesn’t laugh. He stiffens instead, setting his beer in the mesh cup holder in his chair. “Hey,” he says quietly, jerking his chin towards the edge of the yard. “Mind if we talk for a sec?”

Tess studies him, something flashes behind her eyes. Then she nods. “Sure.”

His hands are in his pockets, shoulders set tight by the time they’re standing by the oak tree by the fence. “Look, I ain’t good at this kinda thing,” he tells her. “So, I’ll just say it plain.”

Tess waits, arms crossed. Her brow’s already lifted when Joel tells her, “I think we’re better off as friends.”

You clock it all from across the yard. Joel and Tess are locked in a quiet conversation, voices swallowed by the rest of the noise rousing from the party. Tess isn’t touching him, for a change. She’s touched him in some way every moment she’s been near him tonight. A hand on his arm. A shoulder pressed too close. A whisper with a hand curling around his elbow.

Not that you’d been paying that keen attention. No.

Now Tess is still. Arms folded. Her posture shifts slightly before she lets out an awkward laugh, the kind people use to save face. She reaches out, pulls Joel into a hug. It’s brief. Polite, measured, and when she pulls back, Joel doesn’t follow. You watch him track her retreating figure back into the throng of guests, to where she sits down gingerly to join a conversation with Tommy’s wife, Maria, and a couple of other neighbours. Meanwhile, Joel is unmoving under that tree, like its roots have grown right over his feet, keeping him stuck in the shadows beside the tyre swing.

Then his eyes find you.

Half-lit by the flicker of the fire. Blanket pulled over your legs. Your face giving nothing away while you watch him suck in a deep breath. There’s a slight tilt of his head, the damn furrow in his brow that he gets when he’s working something out. You expect him to look away. But he doesn’t.

For the first time all night, Joel doesn’t look away. And neither do you, until your dad shouts your name from where he’s sat beside Tommy, hand pitched in the air to grab your attention.

“Mind getting some more wood for the fire, sweetheart?” he asks. “We’re gettin’ a little low over ‘ere.”

You throw him a thumbs up back, message received. You flip the blanket off your lap and head around the side of the house, firelight fading behind you.

The shed waits at the back fence line, its grey tin frame pretty much black in the shadows. You make your way down the gravel path, cold nipping at where your bare skin meets the air.

Fucking stupid outfit for this weather, you decide, chastising yourself.

You’re reaching for the she’d latch when you hear the slow crunch of boots behind you. You don’t turn. Don’t need to.

“Fuck off, Joel.”

There’s a pause. Then his voice, that same rough rasp that somehow always manages to find the softest part of your spine. “Just seein’ if you need a hand.”

“Don’t need anything from you.”

You yank the shed door open and pull the dangling chain connected to the old bulb that flickers then hums to life, casting everything in a jaundiced yellow. You step inside and crouch by the woodpile, blowing a sheet of cobwebs off it. Joel lingers in the doorway, one shoulder leaned into the frame. The night breathes between you as you reach for a small shaft of timber at the top of the pile.

“Told Tess we’re better off as friends,” he says. It makes you pause, even though you’d gauged as much from the awkward interaction you’d witnessed just minutes ago.

“Congratulations,” you mutter, grabbing at the log harder than necessary. A sharp sting punches into your forefinger. You his through your teeth and yank your hand back, sucking at the blood already welling around a splinter lodged into the supple skin there.

Joel is on you in two strides.

“Let me see.”

“No.

“Darlin’—”

“I said I’m fine.”

But then his hand wraps around your wrist in a maddingly gentle way, the heat from his palm warm, sure. You try to shake free from his grip but it’s a half-hearted attempt that Joel clocks, but doesn’t make a deal of. “Just gimme a look.” There’s less grit in his voice now. More gravity, and you don’t fight it again.

Joel steps into the shed fully now, easing the door half-closed behind him, shutting out the party, the noise. It’s just you two now, with the hum of the lightbulb and the thud of your heart trilling at your ribcage. He brings your hand up under the light, turning your finger delicately between his own as he inspects the wound. Then—without warning—he brings it to his lips. Your lungs blaze somewhere high in your chest.

Joel’s mouth parts around your fingertip, warm, wet, and he sucks. It’s methodical. Deliberate. A few pulls of his lips and the splinter unlodges from your finger, tongue brushing your skin with a softness that doesn’t match the hungry way he looks at you.

You’re frozen. Breaths shallow. Joel picks the miniscule shard of timber off his tongue, which then darts out to flick the taste of your blood from his lips, eyes steady on yours. He hasn’t let go of your hand. Not yet. Just allow his thumb to drag slowly over the pad of your finger for a moment until he says, just as gravelly as the stones stuck in the tread of his boots: “You gotta do a favour for me now.” You cock your head, suspicious. “Yeah?”

His eyes, looking more amber than brown in the dingy light, stay fixed on yours, voice thick with whatever the result is of defeat and desire combined. “Tell me you wore that dress for me.”

You let his words hang there, let him stew, before your defiant side claws up in a soft whisper. “And what if I did?”

“Then, darlin’—” he shakes his head, jaw flexing in that incredulous way. “Then I’m fucked.” He steps in closer, crowding your space like he had back in the kitchen, your bodies nearly touching. The shed should feel cold, but the air is hot and heavy around you. “You’re drivin’ me outta my damn mind,” Joel mutters. His fingers graze your hip now, fingers trilling the tie at your waist. “Can’t stop thinkin’ about you. Hate how much I want you. It—it feels sick, needin’ you like this. Can’t shake it.”

The confession slops out like it’s been waiting in his throat for days. You don’t even have the time to answer before his mouth is on yours, starved while he pulls you to him like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. The shed door groans on its hinges as Joel reaches back and slams it shut behind him, muting the party completely. You taste blood—yours, from the splinter—and beer, cold and bitter on his tongue, and it makes your knees give out.

Joel doesn’t let you fall.

His hands are everywhere—palming your hips, sliding between your thighs, pawing at your tits—and in one clean, hungry movement, he lifts you up. Your legs wind around his waist like a habit as he carries you to the other side of the shed, never breaking the kiss. Joel sets you down on your dad’s workbench with a thud, and guides himself between your thighs as they hang off the edge. His large hands splay across the tops of your legs as he pulls back just enough to drink you in, pupils blown wide, lips red and raw, the makeup under your nose scrubbed clean off thanks to his facial hair.

“Say it,” he rasps, chest heaving. “Tell me you wore that dress for me.” You nod before the words even form, of course I did, slipping out on a sigh. It’s barely a whisper, barely a confession. But it’s all Joel needs to start kissing you again, rougher now, deeper. One hand buries in your hair, the other grips your thigh where it’s hooked around his waist, fingers digging in like his grounding himself in the feel of you.

“Christ,” he moans into your mouth. “Knew it. Knew it the second I saw you.” Your head tips back as he licks down your throat, beard scraping against the sensitive skin just right, just enough to make you whimper. The bench creaks under your weight, shifting with every movement.

“Joel,” you breathe, hands tangling in his dusty waves as he trails brandishing kisses to your breasts, yanking the cups of your dress down. Free in the air, your nipples draw to impossibly hard peaks, flushed and aching to be taken into Joel’s mouth. Like he can read your mind, he licks at one, then the other, tongue working in circles over the pebbled flesh. His fingers pay attention to whatever one he’s not suckling at, twisting and tugging at them like it’s his expertise. And with the way a strangled moan yanks from your throat, it just might be.

Your fingers tighten in his hair, hips rolling forward for more friction. Joel hums in approval, the buzz of his lips on your breast zipping under your skin there. His mouth trails lower, kissing over the thin material of your dress on your stomach, hands swiping up your thighs to push the fabric of the skirt to your hips as he sinks to his knees in front of you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Your breath catches as his fingers hook into your white panties—lace with a floral pattern—dragging them away from your centre achingly slow. His dark eyes stay locked to yours the entire time like he’s daring you to look away. You don’t.

And then his gaze dips, a growl wracking his body when he finally sees you bare. “Jesus Christ.”

You’re already so wet, slick and aching, residual arousal lingering from the encounter in the kitchen. Your thighs instinctively spread for Joel, allowing him to lean in and press a kiss just above your clit. Then another, lower. His breath is hot. You twitch under it, again when his tongue parts you, slowly, sinful. You press a palm into the benchtop, steading yourself while a strangled moan escapes you. “Fuck.” Joel licks into you with a flat tongue and rapid pace, groaning deep when your thighs clamp around his head. He’s quick to correct that though, gripping your knees without losing tempo, shoving them wide so your calves dangle over his shoulders, your sneakers leaving damp dirt on the back of his jacket. He continues working you open with his mouth, broad strokes turning precise as he zeroes in on your clit. You writhe on the bench, every nerve ending alight, skin flushed, jaw slack.

“Tase so fuckin’ good,” Joel groans into your cunt. “So sweet. Could stay right here all night.

You believe him, and God help you, you want him to.

You sink your teeth into your bottom lip, eyes squeezing shut as you try to keep quiet—but then Joel sucks your clit into his mouth and the cry that leaves you in anything but subtle.

He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even pause, just grins against you and keeps going while sliding a thick finger into your hot, aching center. The stretch makes you jolt, eyes rolling as he curls it just right—then another joins it, pumping in tandem with the slow, deliberate strokes of his tongue over your clit.

“Oh, God,” you whine, holding Joel’s head to you as his tongue drags messy patterns over your swollen bundle of nerves. Very swipe, every thrust, every graze of his scruff against your inner thighs sends sparks licking up your spine. Your breath comes in broken gasps, the heat curling tighter and tighter. Joel pulls back for just a second, lips glistening, to drink in the sight of you—chest heaving, tits bouncing slightly with each sharp pump of his hand, back arched, head tipped back in abandon. But when he doesn’t return his mouth to you right away, you blink down at him all wide-eyed and wrecked, a painful ache in your voice as you grit, “Joel—please—I’m gonna come.”

Your thighs quake around his shoulders while he stares at you a beat longer, eyes burning with hunger and something just shy of worship. “Yeah?” he murmurs, thumb brushing featherlight over your clit. “Then give it to me, darlin’. Show me how much you wanna come on my tongue.”

And just like that, he dives back in with feverish speed, trilling over your clit relentlessly, fingers pulsing deep into your cunt in perfect rhythm—again, again—until you shatter into a million pieces, pleasure crashing through you as you yelp Joel’s name, the sound bouncing off the tin walls of the shed while you come hard against his mouth. Your body trembles uncontrollably, but Joel doesn’t let up, just keeps working at you until the aftershocks roll through you like thunder and your hand pushes lazily through his hair with something between desperation and praise.

Eventually, Joel pushes up from the dusty floor, his middle-aged knees screaming in protest, but he doesn’t care—not when his mouth is still wet with you. The glow of the low-hanging bulb glints off the slick coating his lips and chin. He doesn’t wipe it away. Just leans in and kisses you, your taste between your tongues making you mean into his mouth. Hips shifting like they’re already searching for him again.

You suck in a shaky inhale. You don’t know how long you’ve been gone from the party. Minutes? Longer? The crackle of fire feels a hundred miles away now. You pray it’s still burning, that your dad hasn’t sent Sarah or anyone else to find you. That no one’s wandered down the side of the house, curious or looking to help. There’s a pang in your chest where heat blooms.

The thought of being caught tangled up with Joel Miller should terrify you. But it doesn’t. The idea sends a fresh, dangerous thrill through your body.

He’s all you can think about. All you can feel.

His hands find your waist, grip tight enough to bruise. Fuck, you hope it does.

“That wasn’t enough,” he rasps against your lips. His buckle rattles as he wrestles with it between your bodies. “Need more. Need to fill your hot cunt with my cock again. Been thinkin’ about it every damn day. How tight you are. How good you take me.”

You’re still trying to breathe properly when he hooks his arm around you and lifts you down from the bench like you weigh nothing at all. You hardly have time to find your balance before he turns you, palms heavy at your hips. Then your back. One hand anchors itself at the nape of your neck, folding you down until your bare chest meets the cold, splintered surface of the workbench. You gasp at the sudden change in temperature, in texture—soft skin against worn wood. Blink as your eyes fall in line with scattered tools. A screwdriver. A roll of duct tape. Cracked plastic box of nails. All of it blurs as Joel steps in behind you, and your body flexes to meet him. Rising on your tiptoes, arching, pressing yourself back, desperate and unthinking.

Joel groans low in his chest, the sound almost feral as he watches the bare bulbs of your ass keen towards him. With his jeans and underwear shoved down to his knees, his veiny cock stands flat against his stomach, rock hard and begging to sink inside you. He skims one hand over your ass and down to your thigh, hitching it higher so you slot against him just right while the other hand drags his weeping head through your folds. And you—body flushed, mouth open against the bench, can’t find words anymore. Just want. Just him.

“I know, baby,” he mutters when his tip meets your entrance, already pulsating, trying to grip onto him, onto anything to chase what you’re needing. “Don’t know if I can go slow this time,” he says, hoarse, near your ear. “Need t’ feel you. That okay?”

You nod frantically, offering a choked sound that barely resembles anything but Joel understands. Takes it for what it is: permission.

He hands slaps against your ass once, the sharp sting left in its place already forgotten when Joel pushes into you with such force that your knees nearly buckle. You gasp, half a sob, reaching your arms backwards to anchor yourself at his thighs. But he quickly gathers your hands in one of his own and holds them there at the base of your back, locking you there. The rhythm he sets is punishing and relentless—like he’s making up for every second he couldn’t have you. The shed trembles around you. At least, it feels like it does, the world narrowing to the scrape of wood, the faint swing of a chain overhead, the shudder of breath between you and—

Shouting. Your dad. Distant, but approaching. Joel stills for only a beat, working fast to reach up and yank the light’s chain. The bulb flickers out, plunging you both into darkness.

“Be quiet f’me,” Joel breathes, barely audible even though his lips brush the shell of your ear. You nod again, frozen in place. He doesn’t pull out, try and shove his cock back into his pants. No, he doesn’t even slow, just shifts his grip to your waist, his pace so deep, so steady. All you can hear now is the thud of your heartbeat and the near-silent rasp of Joel’s breath on your cheek.

Your dad’s voice rings out again, closer this time, Gravel crunches under boots on the other side of the tin wall. You bristle. So does Joel. But you still clench around him, unable to help it.

A quiet laugh puffs against your skin. “My filthy girl,” he whispers, affection and wickedness blurring together in his words. “You like the risk, don’t you? Like the idea of bein’ caught.” Your eyes roll back, mouth slack with a soundless plea.

Footsteps pause just outside the shed. You brace for the rattle of the door. For the blinding flood of light and the horror of being caught with his best friend buried deep inside you. But the moment never comes. You hear him mutter something you don’t catch under his breath before the sound of retreating steps. Back down the gravel. Back towards the fire pit.

You’re not sure why he doesn’t open the shed. Why he doesn’t grab the firewood he’d asked for. Maybe he forgot. Maybe he got distracted. But you don’t let yourself question it too much. You’re just thankful. Grateful for the silence. For the reprieve. And Joel, his body pressed against yours, his breath at your neck, takes that silence and fills it with the slap of skin on skin. Continues hammering into you, worshipping you with every motion, like he couldn’t stop now if he tried.

Your hands are back bracing against the bench, palms damp with sweat when Joel leans forward, clothed chest warm at your back when he tells you he’s getting close. “You gonna come with me, darlin’?”

You nod, helpless, leaning into the pressure curling tight inside your belly. Every movement he makes coils it tighter. You gasp his name again, and Joel moans like it wrecks him. Like his name on your tongue undoes him the most. Legs shaking, you’re right there on the edge. The sound of Joel’s breath, the feel of his hands, his body completely too much and not enough at once.

“Almost there, baby,” he whispers, teeth nipping at your skin. “Just give it to me. Let go.”

And you do. The orgasm tears through you in waves, silent at first before a sharp gasp as your body tightens around him. Joel follows, groaning one long low sound, surrendering as he falls apart with you. Hips stuttering, arms wrapped around your waist as he buries himself to the hilt at stills.

For a long moment, there’s only breathing. Your own, sharp and uneven. His, rasping against your skin. Joel’s the first to move. He presses a line of slow, reverent kisses down your spine, gently pulling out with his hands holding your hips steady. Wordlessly, he tugs the light back on and you turn to face him, taking in the lax look on his face, the way sweat gleans in the aging divots of his face. You watch him while he repositions your dress on your torso with care, smoothing the fabric down over your legs. It’s more tender than you were expecting, especially when you consider the cold and distant aftermath when you’d finished up that time in his truck. You’re still catching your breath when Joel bends to retrieve the small scrap of fabric that had been discarded earlier.

Your panties.

He holds them up between two fingers, eyes glimmer in the low light as he meets your gaze.

“Here,” you say, reaching for them, but Joel just shakes his head. Smirks.

“Nah. These are mine now.”

“Is that right?” “Mmhmm,” he hums. Tucks them into his back pocket. “Means you’ll have to come find me if you want ‘em back.”

You shake your head with a snort as you smooth down your hair. “You’re such an asshole.”

Joel grins, grabs your hand before you can push past him, presses a soft kiss to your knuckles like he’s sealing some kind of deal. “Yeah, but I guess that makes me your asshole, right?”

The words hang there—teasing, sweet if you squint—but his eyes are serious when they meet yours. They dance with a promise. A question. A start.

And this time, he doesn’t turn away.

***

a/n: okayyyy so i'm sweatinggggg after writing this one!! it's the last planned part for this fic, but I'm not opposed to jumping in at a later date with a drabble or two for this duo. as always, let me know what you think!!!!!!

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