#pedro pascal smut
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reading routine and seeing javi and wife watching kids tv after the kids are in bed made me chuckle so much but it’s so them!
I imagine they’re often sitting cuddled together looking at toys in catalogues trying to pick presents for kids birthdays or Christmas together.
In my head they genuinely enjoy this part of parenthood and getting to know they’re kids and their interests to be able to give them the best life !
Anything, a husband!Javier Christmas fic
Series Masterpost | Main Masterpost | Support a disabled creator
A/N: Will you be upset that this is just pure smut? It definitely could have been more Christmassy but I promise it is a treat.
Summary: Someone interrupts picking out Christmas presents for your kids…
Pairing: Javier Peña x f!reader/you (no y/n)
Tags: +18 smut, domestic life, BANTER, couch sex, dry humping, thigh riding, multiple orgasms, dirty talk, praises and pet names, rough sex, doggy, spanking, PHAT breeding kink, slightest dubcon, the messiest creampie in hubby history, comeplay, they are gross and in love, absolutely married to each other
Word count: 5.7k
Link to this work on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/61468969
Anything
“Are you ready yet?” Javier calls from the living room. He has finally gotten comfortable on the couch but you’re nowhere to be seen, and it makes him call out your name.
“Sorry! I’m here!” You rush into the living room from the kitchen, gaze fixed in concentration on a steaming mug of hot chocolate in your hand. Javier admires you in one of his shirts, the hem sitting around your mid-thigh and letting him have a peek at your bare legs. He glances at his coffee on the table in front of the couch, then fondly at the bobbing marshmallows on top of your drink. You always have a sweet tooth during December, not able to resist the temptation of indulging in the many treats that Christmas brings. You gain too much weight, you always say, but Javier thinks you’re the sexiest thing in the world and it has little to do with what the scale in the bathroom says.
He watches you place the hot chocolate next to his coffee and crawl onto the seat next to him, legs tucked underneath yourself so you can lean into his side properly. The ritual has yet to begin, but you sigh a soft sigh to let him know you’re ready.
“Right,” Javier holds up the catalog in front of you both. He takes one last look at the two mugs on the coffee table, heart soft and content in his chest when he notices how well your respective drink fits you. You’re sweet and warm, a nice contrast to the unforgiving taste of coffee that’s hardly suitable for everyone’s palates.
“Something they want, something they need, something to wear and something to read,” you remind and recite to him, resting your cheek on his shoulder. He feels his skin warm up there under his shirt, feels like he is lucky to have you seek subtle affection like this even though he is married to you.
“And 100 dollars each top, the spoiled brats,” he bites around the marker in order to take the cap off with his teeth, securing it at the base afterward. He flips the first page and the hunt has begun.
“Hey, those are my kids you’re talking about,” you nudge him playfully while scanning the page and it pulls a little chuckle from him, his heart fluttering at the way you pretend-scold him. It is like being teenagers who tease one another as a way of letting each other know that they like-like each other.
“You won’t be happy with our budget when we have a third,” he shrugs so the pages jump in front of your eyes. You pinch at the bottom of the page to hold it steady.
“This one,” you say and point to a Magic Tracks set, deliberately ignoring the words he has just dared to speak.
It makes him laugh properly now but he still circles the racetrack set in bright red Sharpie, “Ignoring that on purpose, huh?”
“After saying you want a whole soccer team, I think it’s only proof of my sanity that I ignore you, Peña,” you say and flip a few pages, a little smile playing on your lips despite acting nonchalant.
He scans the pages with you and circles a tea set made of plastic, “Your husband has Christmas wishes too.”
“Oh, this one’s perfect for Inés’ farm animals,” you tap the page, and he murmurs something about how his daughter will love it. You raise a brow when he lays the catalog out across your laps, moving the free hand to rest on your thigh. You tut, “Well, my husband should let Santa know of these wishes then.”
“Santa doesn’t know me like you do,” Javier squeezes the plumpness of your thigh. He leans in to brush his lips across the spot just behind your ear. God, you smell so good that his cock twitches, “Besides, Santa already agrees I don’t need a fucking thing under the tree. Solo tú (just you).”
You yank the Sharpie out of his hand with an exaggerated sigh of disapproval yet you tilt your head so he can drown in your perfume, “Swearing now? You’ll end up on the naughty list.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” he is the one to put his head on your shoulder now, “And you should know; you’re usually the one who puts me there.”
You pull back so he has to sit up straight again. He doesn’t acknowledge your glare even when it doesn’t have any malice in it, just reaches for his coffee to have a sip.
You use the same sternness with him as you do with your children but from the way your breath shifts slightly, he knows you’re trying to hide how close you are to giving him what he wants, “I don’t know what you’re implying but you’re not getting it.”
“Oh, I’m getting it,” he says in a raspy murmur, a smirk on his face as he watches your flustered face over the rim of his coffee mug. You flip through a few more pages with forced concentration, but eventually, even you have to admit that you’re getting distracted.
You look up at him with exasperation, the Sharpie pointing at him, “Javi.”
“Sí, mi amor (yes, my love)?” He takes another sip of coffee.
“I need to finish this. I want Christmas to be perfect…” You pout a little and he yearns to kiss you until you giggle, “So I need you to focus.”
“Lo siento (I’m sorry), your husband’s gonna behave now,” he reaches out with his free hand and rubs your back gently. This means a lot to you, he realizes and feels a little bad for how he is ruining it. He sets his coffee back on the table and takes your mug of hot chocolate, exchanging it for the Sharpie once more. You take a small sip but decide that it’s still too hot for your tongue.
“Right,” he says in the same manner as when the both of you started this, setting aside his excitement to make you happy. He talks while you place your mug beside his again, “Inés has an obsession with those horse toys. My Little Ponies? We should get something a little more expensive for those and the tea set.”
You light up at his engagement. He knows this is when you love him the most, and you turn back a few pages to point to a miniature stable, “She’ll adore this.”
“She’ll lose her little mind,” he agrees and circles the horse stable. Out of the corner of his eye, he can feel your gaze lingering on him just long enough to let him know that your own concentration is fading.
“Concentration, baby, I need it from you,” he taunts playfully when you’re halfway through the toy catalog together but you have gone quiet despite your thoughts being very loud. Javier smiles to himself, unable to not feel flattered by how his fatherhood is turning you on.
“I am concentrating. Luke wants a scooter but I need him to have a helmet and pads,” you shift a little bit in your spot, pausing briefly and sighing to gain his attention, “I was just thinking—“
“Don’t brag,” he interrupts cockily to make you stick out your tongue.
“Can I finish my sentence, Peña?” You click your tongue at him in disapproval afterward, “I was thinking that if you finish this - no shenanigans - you could get a little reward.”
That piques his interest, “What are we talking here? Enlighten your husband.”
“I thought that maybe,” you trail off, flicking through the next few pages to nearly make him toss the catalog aside and claim you right now. You pick the Sharpie from his hand and circle a remote-controlled dinosaur, “Maybe when we finish this, I’ll let you do whatever you want.”
Blood rushes south so fast in Javier’s body that his head starts to spin. He can feel his cock come to life at the thought of the endless possibilities that the words whatever you want bring, and a thousand ideas come to him at once.
“Anything?” He asks as if he is unaffected but his cock has gone hard for you in an instant, straining uncomfortably against the seam of his jeans and begging for relief.
“Mhm, yup, anything,” you hum softly, sitting there calmly and flipping through the catalog as if you didn’t just drop the most dangerous line. He shifts subtly in his seat to adjust his erection, hoping that you don’t notice anything but out of the corner of his eye, he spots the way your mouth curls into a knowing smirk.
“Careful, baby,” you tease without looking up from the BABY Born doll on the page, “You might lose focus.”
“I’m focused,” he only just manages without letting the strain on his voice reveal him. He gives an exasperated chuckle, “Just not on the toys.”
“I said only when we finish this,” you glance at his lap and he throbs even more at being found out. Then you count the pages with quick fingers, “And we’ve got ten more pages to go.”
It takes a moment for him to regain his composure but eventually, he yanks the Sharpie out of your hand, his voice still sounds like a plea, “Let’s finish this then.”
By the time you reach the last page, Javier has been a good boy for the eternity it has taken for you to go through the entire catalog together. You even decided to go back and reevaluate a few of your choices just to taunt him, and by now he feels on the brink, can barely contain himself.
“Good boy,” you grin after he snaps the cap back onto the marker and tosses it onto the coffee table with a relieved sigh. You sit on your knees to lean in for a kiss that is way too sweet, “Wasn’t so hard, was it?”
You’re too cute for what is happening inside his head but then you confidently place a hand right on top of his clothed cock and whisper, and he knows you’re right there with him in his depravity, “Although this might be.”
He moans quietly and grabs your wrist the second you start to teasingly stroke him. All he can do is hear those three words - whatever you want - and when he starts to shift on the couch, your confidence wavers slightly.
Javier moves until he has you caged beneath his body but you don’t protest it, has allowed loads of raunchy make-out sessions like this. However, he has more in mind because he has already decided what he wants, has thought about it the whole time since you gave him a free pass to your body, but you don’t allow it anymore. Ever since Lucas - and Inés now too - started walking around the house unsupervised and thus into rooms unannounced, you have stressed that sex is to be kept within the four walls of your bedroom. It’s perfectly fine… if he didn’t have to pretend he doesn’t want you every time he looks at you.
Holding himself up with one hand and cupping your face with the other, he captures your mouth in a desperate kiss. It doesn’t take long for you to realize that this is so much more than just making out before you retire to your bedroom.
“Aquí no (not here),” you gasp into his mouth yet still hold onto him, mind and body working against each other.
“Aquí sí (yes here),” he murmurs against your lips, “And don’t pretend for a second that your panties aren’t soaked through at the idea. I want you right here, bent over the arm of the couch.”
“Javi, we can’t,” you shake your head with an eye on the path to the staircase where children could come stumbling down any moment, however still tipping your head back to allow his mouth to descend on your neck. He nibbles along your pulse point, inhaling deeply to breathe you in as he reaches where you’ve applied your sweet perfume in the morning.
“You smell so good. Merry Christmas to me,” he says instead of acknowledging your protest, the tip of his nose skimming along the column of your throat to reach the other side too. He grins, breathlessly chuckles, and grinds his hard and clothed cock into your thigh, “Oh fuck.”
“We should go to the bedroom,” you moan softly as he puts his thigh between your legs, forcing your t-shirt to crawl up along your thighs until your lace panties are exposed. He finds your gaze, smiling at the reveal of the hardly appropriate choice of underwear and the way your mouth falls open when he moves his leg slowly. He teases your covered clit with the fabric of his pant leg and sends electricity up your spine.
He watches your resolve crumble with every slow grind of his thigh between your legs. A tiny moan from your mouth sends his heart rate soaring and soon, both of your breaths are coming out faster.
“We’re not making it to the bedroom with how fast you’re coming right now,” he mumbles through concentrated breathing. You seem to know this already, your thighs tightening around his leg and your arms linking around his neck. He can feel your nails dig into his skin, and suddenly your hips are moving on their own accord. He presses more firmly against you to earn friction to his cock too, the rough denim of his jeans sitting tightly around his length. The fabric catches just right on your sensitive clit, and you try to be quiet about it but he can see how good it feels to you with how your brows furrow as you gasp his name.
He hasn’t had you like a fumbling teenager in so long but this - the urgency and clumsiness of acting like a dog in a rut on his couch - makes him feel alive in a way that his sex life hasn’t in a while. Parental responsibility has come (no pun intended) in the way of how he really wants you all the time, and where he used to have you on every surface in the house he paid for, he’s had to be good for too long. He is done being good.
Beneath him, your confidence has started to grow along with each roll of your hips, your orgasm is building. You look beyond stunning with your eyes fluttering closed, your body deep in pleasure, and your bottom lip between your teeth as you concentrate on how it feels.
He kisses underneath your jaw and tastes salty sweat, his hand going up under your t-shirt to grab your breast. He palms it at first but then skims his thumb around your already-hardened nipple, surprising you with a pinch. It has you hurtling toward an intense orgasm filled with exciting risks.
“Fuck, baby, I’m gonna come,” you say just when you’ve moaned in unison. You reach down to grab his thigh, now rutting against him shamelessly as you chase pleasure.
“God, you’re stunning, my beautiful wife,” his voice has dropped an octave, coated with desire. His dick pulses, dancing on the edge of release that he can’t have yet. Your hips falter but he is right there to save you, bouncing you on his thigh until you unravel.
Your eyes fly open to stare up at him as it happens, your face sporting a pained expression until you suddenly smile in relief, and he swears loudly at how much restraint he has to show because he wants to finish in his jeans at the sight. You moan obscenely and roll your hips through it, trembling beneath him as you come, and he just knows you’re throbbing against the width of his thigh as wetness spreads across it.
You pant in the aftermath and giggle in your haze, looking unsure of exactly what just happened while you reach into your panties to cup your cunt in its aftershocks. You even dare rub your sensitive clit only to whimper and nearly make Javier unleash something beastly.
One thing is for sure though and it is that the fact that fucked-out you don’t protest his advances anymore. Instead, you welcome them and a look in your eye makes it seem like you are desperate to be filled up with his cock. He is more than happy to indulge you in your delirious state.
Although you also look like a baby giraffe, your legs unable to hold you up, it doesn’t stop him from getting whatever he wants. He grabs your knee to get your attention.
“Turn around,” he orders in the same voice he uses on his inferiors at work but with you, there’s an underlying desire, affection even, in the way he growls.
You follow orders so fast that he feels his cock move underneath his jeans, and without hesitation, he pulls down the zipper and shoves them down to get out of the confinements of the denim as quickly as possible. He takes a quick breath when the air of the living room hits the sensitive skin of his dick, it standing right into the air with how hard and touch-starved it is.
In front of him, you’ve spread your legs and braced yourself against the arm of the couch by resting on your forearms. In the cozy, warm lighting of the room, he can see your lace panties have started sticking to your slit.
“You get this wet from the idea of fucking on the couch? Breaking your little rules?” He knows you can hear the smirk in his voice and it only grows wider when you shake your head. It’s a game by now, acting like he isn’t the owner of what is between your legs.
“That’s not—“ you try but his fingers hook into the waistband of your underwear, only pulling them as far down as he has to. He leaves them tangled around your thighs, touches you where they’ve stuck to you and you jerk forwards, “Fuck.”
“Don’t think I’ve been so hard in forever. We needed this, baby,” he admits and scoots closer to you on the couch. He presses the head of his cock between your folds, feeling how you’re already trying to suck him in. and your head hangs between your shoulders while you release a trembling breath.
With a hand on the small of your back and a hand around his cock, he sheathes himself fully inside of you in a steady motion and oh fuck, his balls are aching for release already. You make an impatient sound, rocking your hips back against him to grind on his cock.
“Please,” you whimper at the aching stretch. You have already collapsed against the armrest and with his hands finding your gorgeous hips - the ones who have borne his child - he lets his cock fill you over and over again.
“You feel so fucking good, mi amor (my love), so tight around me,” he moans with a heavy breath, savoring the way you clench softly around him already. Your walls are warm and wet, squelching lewdly with each thrust from how much your body has prepared itself for him.
“You’re in me so deep, Javi. I can feel you everywhere,” you gasp shakily even when he knows he could go deeper. He roughly switches between dragging you harshly down on his throbbing cock and snapping his hips forward so they crash into your ass with a filthy smack. It makes you whimper with each thrust, whining like a wounded animal.
One of his hands slides up your spine to tangle itself in the hair at the back of your neck while the other rests flat on the dip of the small of your back. He arches your body by tugging your head back slightly and pushing down just above your jiggling ass. It switches up the angle at which he fucks you, and it is almost too much to listen to how wanton you get when he repeatedly stabs your front wall.
“Who’s fucking you, baby?” He demands.
“You!” You choke out on the verge of tears, “Fuck, it’s you!”
“And who am I?” He smacks your ass to the point where your body tenses up and he nearly doubles over from how you squeeze his dick.
“My husband,” you moan loudly, “Spank me again.”
“That’s my girl,” he growls while his head swims and his heartbeat races. God, his cock is living for the moment as he hits you again and hears you croak in delicious pain, “My wife takes me so fucking well. You like that?”
You make a guttural sound and try to nod with him holding your head in place by your hair. There’s a slow shift in the way you are tightening around him. You’ll come again soon, he can feel it, so worked up that your cunt flutters around him in that familiar way but it doesn’t seem to be enough for you. You cross your ankles, narrowing the space between your jiggling thighs and making Javier fit even more snugly inside your wet heat. He groans loudly, hoping Inés and Lucas are fast asleep, his eyes nearly rolling back into his skull and his pace faltering for a moment.
“What are you doing to me, baby? You’re so tight, I can barely fucking move,” he hisses, struggling to keep up until you gasp out that you’re close. He knows it is going to be his undoing, knows that if this is fucking fantastic already around his dick, he won’t last through your cunt squeezing him during your release.
He decides to slam into you to get you there, watching you arch your back even further to welcome him right into that sweet spot inside of you. The added pressure makes you cry out and look back at him, gasping for air as he aims to push you over the edge, “Fuck, I’m… Javi— fuck, I’m gonna come!”
“Yeah? You fucking love this. Gets you going, huh? Being this full of me,” he taunts through gritted teeth, feeling sweat on his brow threatening to drip down.
“Sí (yes),” you agree weakly, your air forced out of your lungs at his power.
“Wait till I fill this pussy up, till you’re round with another baby. Then everyone will know how much she loves being stuffed,” he moans, his mouth faster than his brain.
You look at him with wide eyes, already scolding him despite teetering on the edge, “Javier Peña. Don’t you dare— fuck, we can barely keep up with the two kids we have ah–lready. Oh God, that feels–”
“I want to get you pregnant again,” he confesses recklessly, knowing it’s far from your plans, murmuring it amid his brain fog, “I can keep up, I can give you everything, baby. I’ll take care of you, of the kids, of everything. Please. Just let me– fuck, let me come inside.”
“No,” you whimper with a shake of your head but your body betrays you. You push back against him one last time, “I—“
You come in the next moment. If he thinks you’ve been loud before, it is nowhere near the sounds you let out at the first spasm of your release. You shove your face into the armrest so as to not wake up the rest of the house, clamping down so tightly around him that he swears he’ll see God.
“Liar,” he drags his hands down your body again to hold tightly onto your hips and his head swims with how you still have your back dipped, your ass so inviting in this position that he wants to smack it again, “Dime que lo quieres (say you want it). Say you want me to fill you up.”
“Please, Javi, I want it,” you give in during the aftermath of your orgasm, sensitive and high on dopamine, your forehead resting on your hands as they grip the armrest tight enough to make your knuckles whiten, “Please, I need it. Give it to me.”
Your begging tips him over the edge, his rhythm staggering. A few more thrusts deep into your still-squeezing cunt and he is done for, overwhelmed by the sight and feel of you. You are his wife, the mother of his children, and you look so goddamn beautiful speared on his cock that he cannot hold back anymore.
He spills into you more than he ever has before. His come just doesn’t stop, keeps coming and fills you to the brim in pulses that send electricity to the very ends of his nerves.
“Jesus, you weren’t lying when you said you needed it,” you half-laugh and half-gasp at the fullness, looking back at him with furrowed brows and a moan as another thick rope spills into you. He watches your open mouth with a little groan and he slides his hands beneath you to hold you in place, pinning you while another wave of warmth enters you.
“You’re— baby, you’re still coming,” you whimper softly and your body starts shaking as you take it all. He knows it must be overwhelming, knows that you are probably aching from the pressure building inside you.
“Fuck, I know, mi amor (my love)” he mutters with unsteady breaths, your walls fluttering weakly around him, resulting in your pussy squeezing the last few drops from his cock, “I… It’s so much.”
You’re not laughing anymore. Instead, you have become a shuddering and pathetic mess from how intense it feels to be claimed so fully. Javier dares look down at where the two of you are still connected, the sight sparking something beastly and primal in him. A milky white ring has formed around his girth, his generous release threatening to spill down his length before he has even removed himself from you.
Despite not even trying for a third baby - and therefore knowing that losing himself in you was foolish of him - he just knows that this might’ve been the time that did it, this is where he’d look at you proudly and say ay, that did it, huh?
You whine feebly from below him and it pulls him from his trance. He drags his cock out of your mess of a pussy with a wet pop, covered in his and your come, and he can feel the way your body becomes heavier in his grip, your legs ready to give out on you when the pressure inside you shifts.
“Ah,” you moan the moment he pulls out and turn your head away from him again. A thick gush of his come follows, spilling from you in a thick, glistening dollop and his fingers tighten on your waist and hips at the obscene picture.
“Look at you. You’re so full, mamá, taking all of me,” he praises, watching the drops of release slide down the inside of your thigh, some of it dripping onto your underwear and some of it onto the couch below. He should be more concerned with the couch’s fabric but he finds that he is too mesmerized by your body working against his load.
"I can feel it," your voice trembles and you slump even more against the armrest, “It’s so messy, Javi.”
“Let me take a look at you,” he almost feels like he has tunnel vision, and can see nothing but you as your cunt weeps with a mix between the both of you. He spreads your thighs wider with his hands, causing your hips to jerk and another dollop to hit the couch. Its surface is a mess by now, translucent stains spreading across the fabric where the slick warmth is still pooling. Somehow, the sight is enough to make his cock stir and his balls tighten again.
“You’re dripping all over the place. It is perfect. I want you like this all the time. His words make you moan and nod. You tilt your hips slightly, biting back a soft sound as the provocative movement sends another slow gush slipping free. Javier laughs quietly, just knows you’re smirking like the dirty girl you are, “Now you’re just showing off.”
You snicker, however you are struggling to hold yourself up. He can see your head dipping to glance below yourself. You make a noise of complaint and he can hear the faux-exasperation in your voice, “Javi, it’s everywhere.”
“I can see that,” he says simply, amused. He smacks your ass. The seemingly last drops of his seed are forced out of your overstimulated body by the impact, the amount enough for this to be irresponsible towards your traumatized furniture.
“You’re making it worse!” You laugh helplessly, reaching underneath yourself to swat at his hand, but your giggle is cut short by a moan as his fingers suddenly brush against what still clings to your folds.
“I don’t think it can get any worse, I mean, look at you, such a messy pussy you’ve got,” he teases playfully as he leans over you briefly to kiss your back. His free hand slides around you to your stomach, pressing down gently, and he watches in awe as well as surprise as even more of his warm and sticky come slips out. You make a noise, and he concludes that it must be the last of his load, “Besides, it’s not me… You’re the one with a pussy that’s drooling all over the place.”
“The couch is ruined,” you declare instead of answering his little taunt. Carefully, you push yourself back to crawl over the pool of naughty evidence and Javier instinctively grabs your waist to guide you in case your legs are too wobbly. He is itching to get close to you, and kiss you well and properly.
"If this couch couldn’t handle us, it wasn’t worth keeping anyway,” he says when you finally fall into his arms with a little huff, naked and messy. God, how are you his? He feels so sated and happy as he pulls you into a lingering kiss, wiping his hand on the couch - it needs a scrub anyway - so he can rest his broad hand on the back of your neck. He grabs onto you there, a little possessively, “Eres mía (you’re mine).”
“Yours,” you hum and drag your tongue against his. He is so fucking into you.
“Maybe a new couch is my present this year,” you say when you part again and shift slightly to melt into his chest. The both of you look at the messy stains on the fabric, “Although I am gonna miss it. We made Luke on it.”
Javier lights up slightly, cannot quite believe that he’s forgotten, “Shit, that’s right, we did.”
“You don’t remember the conception of your own son?” You tease him, resting your head on his shoulder and looking up at him. You rest your palm on his warm chest, the crispness of his shirt having been substituted with slightly damp warmth.
“Forgive me but we were like goddamn rabbits, my wife,” he cups your cheek and pecks your lips a few times, making you slump even further. He watches you think loud enough for him to imagine the cogs turning in your mind.
“You’re really proud of yourself, aren’t you?” You tut with a small smile, subtly trying to hide your uncertainty.
“You have no idea,” he rubs your back soothingly while your eyes droop. He tests the waters by asking you a simple question, “Tired?”
You sigh softly, “Yeah, but I don’t think I can move after that.”
He is quick, trying to make you giggle, “Bién (good), means I did my job.”
You huff a soft laugh and he grins because he cannot help it. The sound makes him feel like someone is running around inside his chest, his pulse racing from even the softest chuckle that escapes your lips.
“It will become a problem if I can’t take Lucas to school tomorrow,” you note with closed eyes.
“You don’t have to do anything but sit here and look beautiful,” he squeezes you, nosing along your neck, and you hum in satisfaction.
After a short while, a silence falls over you in the afterglow. It is nice but he cannot help but feel there’s something on your mind, something that troubles you. He gently touches you where he knows you like it, and meanwhile, you look shy.
“Thank you,” you eventually say.
“What for?” He asks despite how he might already know, peppering your neck with kisses, pressing a hot kiss to your jawline.
“Opening up the opportunity to do this again… the spontaneity. I know I haven’t— I suppose it’s been hard to feel sexy when you have a kid on your hip all the time.“
“Ay, mi amor (my love),” he shakes his head. He shifts you slightly, caring very little about how you smear his naked thighs with your soaked underwear. He reaches around your back to cradle you and reaches for your hand as it lays in your lap, “You’re sexy all the time.”
“You have no idea how much I needed to hear that,” you press your nose into his cheek, “I keep forgetting how good it can be when we let go. I just worry.”
“You overthink it and that’s okay. We can start slow,” he coos but he has never been more sincere. You have been covered in spit up from Inés and he still wanted you.
“This wasn’t slow,” you say and turn your head to rest your forehead against his.
“Yeah, I’ve never— fuck, I’ve never come like that before.”
“Yeah, you were insatia—“ your gaze flickers to the coffee table, and suddenly, a tiny gasp leaves you. Javier tenses.
“Oh no,” you mutter, sitting up quickly.
“What?” Javier asks, his brows knitting together as he watches you reach for the Christmas mug on the table, “What’s wrong?”
“My hot chocolate!” You exclaim, lifting it up to your lips and taking a testing sip. You grimace immediately, “It’s cold!”
“Christ, woman, I thought something was actually wrong,” he chuckles.
“Something is wrong. It was perfect and now it’s ruined,” you retort, pouting, “Next time, I’m finishing my drink first.”He takes the mug from you and sets it aside again so he can wrap you in a tight hug, “Next time, I’ll make you forget all about it again.”
.
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#pedro pascal characters#javier pena smut#javier pena fanfiction#javier pena fluff#javier pena imagine#javier pena fic#javier pena narcos#javi p#javi peña#javi pena#javier peña#javier pena one shot#javier pena x you#javier pena x reader#javi p x reader#javier pena x y/n#javi pena x reader#javi pena x you#pedro pascal fanfic#pedro pascal smut#my writing#husband!javi#narcos fanfiction#narcos#siggy replies#siggy talks
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Warm me up
Joel miller x fem reader
Joel wakes to you coming into his room. You tell him how cold you are and he gives into his needs.
Warnings! Porn no plot! Age gap! (Reader is my age) oral fem receiving, unprotected sex, cum play, (?) degrading, praise and talk of male oral.
Written for my love @starkeysprincess I love you!!
“Joel? It’s so cold. Can I sleep in here with you?” He stirred from sleep, his shirtless body exposed from the messy blankets. He grunted a yes and you climbed underneath.
You were wearing an oversized tshirt, pair of black panties and knee socks. Joel felt his dick twitch. A pretty girl in his bed, something he hadn’t experienced in a long time. Your supple skin exposed as you moved closer to him, your arms looped around his waist, legs wrapped around his own.
Joel made a small noise and instinctively pressed you against him. His large hand splayed on the small of your back. His thick fingers feeling your cool skin.
“Better?”
“Still cold. Need you to warm me up.” Your soft voice caused Joel to groan. How could he refuse such a plea?
“C’mere.” He pulled you on top of him, your thighs caging his middle. Joel’s palms kneaded your legs, moving up to your hips and gently squeezed. “Is that helping?”
He felt a little guilt, the age gap between you both was large. Especially as you started rocking your pelvis, your pussy underneath your panties rubbing against his stomach.
“Mmmm, thank you, Joel.” He could see your smile even in the darkness. Joel broke, leaning up on his arm, he caught your lips in a searing kiss. Yours were soft, his tongue licked yours and he moaned deeply when you cupped his jaw.
You sloppily kissed each other and Joel put his whole body into it. He rocked his dick against your ass that pressed against it, his hand reaching to bury in your hair. He growled against your mouth and flipped you on your back.
“God, I don’t know if you know what you’ve done, little one. Rubbing your pussy on me.” He snarled and yanked your shirt up. Exposing your panties.
He dragged his fingers against your slit, feeling your arousal and smearing it on your clit. “Fuck, you’re wet. I bet you’re sweet,” He brought his fingers to his lips, sucking softly. Joel felt something unlock in him, an animalistic urge taking over and he pushed you back. You landed in a heap with your head on the pillow and he hauled your legs apart. He shoved your panties to the side, pressing his nose to your inner thigh and inhaled deeply.
“You smell so good.”
He shoved his face in your cunt, very gently nipping your clit before sucking it between his lips. You threw your head back, clutching his hair as Joel spit on your pussy and licked it up with his tongue. Whines and whimpers escaped you as he fucked your entrance with his mouth.
He was aggressive, moaning and palmed himself as he kept you against his face with his free hand. Your pussy was fluttering and leaking all over him. You were wailing, reaching your peak and finally it broke. You cried out and trembled.
“J-Joel!” You squeaked as he climbed up. Joel’s thick hands gripped your knees and pushed them up. He brought them over his shoulders and you noticed his boxers were gone.
His thick dick, throbbing between his legs was noticeable even in the haze. Joel slapped his tip against your clit, merging his precum with yours and then he pushed into you. The bulbous head straining and you mewled. Your nails dug into his shoulders as Joel thrusted into you.
“Atta girl, that’s a good little slut. Taking my dick like you have nothing else to live for.” He huffed and pounded into you harder. “Bet you’ll never be fucking cold again.”
Drool slipped from your mouth and Joel reached down to grip your jaw.
“Stay with me, baby girl. Need you awake so you can take it. Fuck, your pussy’s squeezin me. That’s it, yeah?” His vocal appreciation made you impossibly wetter and your eyes rolled back in your head.
Your second orgasm came embarrassingly fast and Joel grunted. He fucked you through it, still lasting as his hand wrapped around your throat. “Tightest pussy I’ve ever had. I know, I know, there you go.” He smirked as you jerked with aftershock.
“Gonna cum in you. Watch it spill out from that pathetic little hole then cover you with it.” He promised and amped up his depth. His balls slapped against your ass as he fucked you deeper.
Seconds went by and Joel let out a sigh. His cock twitched inside you and his cum coated your insides. You let out a shudder as he pulled out, jerking his dick and more cum sprayed on your stomach.
“Messy girl,” He chuckled and ran his hand through his hair. He let go of your legs but didn’t remove contact. Joel lifted you by underneath your arms and set you on his lap.
“Give me five minutes, doll and I’m gonna train your throat.”
“Who said I need training?” You giggled as he smacked your ass.
“Training for a man’s dick, sweetheart. And you’re gonna be a good girl and suck it clean.”
Tagging: @bloodibambiidoll @cxrrodedcoffin @userchai @stillwjk-channie-lixie
#joel miller x reader#joel miller smut#joel miller x you#joel miller x y/n#joel miller the last of us#the last of us#the last of us smut#pedro pascal#pedro pascal smut
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I…literally…have no words…
I think this just re-wired something or like…changed my brain chemistry.
I literally held my breath at the end because I did not know how that was going to go.
Fuck. Ok. 😮💨💀
That’s my review. 😅
𝐈𝐈𝐈 | Marcus Acacius x Fem!Reader x Lucius Verus Aurelius | ~13k wc (woops) | Explicit. Minors DNI.
Summary: Lucius Aurelius, the stepson of wealthy and renowned architect Marcus Acacius, falls in love with you, Marcus's personal assistant. However, you're already in the midst of a tangled affair with his stepfather. (based on)
Tags: modern!au, family drama, they're both arrogant architects with egos out of this world, reasonable age gap between marcus and reader, infidelity (sorry lucilla), porn with plot, dirty talk, degradation (slut, whore), spanking, oral (f&m receiving), facial, unprotected p in v sex (this is fiction be smart irl), anal, spit as lube, cum eating, creampie kink, baby's first mmf threesome, double penetration, jealousy!, possessiveness!, but the boys are learning how to share, everyone is kind of shitty, some latin (carissime/dear, praecantrix/enchantress, dulcissima/sweetest), no use of y/n, reader has long hair, any typos/grammar mistakes are of my own doing and i apologize in advance, if i missed any other tags pls let me know okay, thanks!
A/N: i sense a pattern occurring with this specific pairing and i ain't mad at it! ridley scott knew what he was doing when casting these two hunks. this is for my love @almostempty, always on the frontlines of the threesome fic movement 🫡 okay, i hope you all enjoy reading and let ya girl know what you think 🖤
Marcus’s lips curl into a slow, smug smile as he watches you. “Come on, my carissime,” he murmurs, a gravelly caress against your heated skin. “You can do better than that. I know you can.” His large hand cups the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair, tugging just enough to make your scalp tingle.
He brushes the stray strands from your face, his touch tender despite the edge of authority in his tone. He wants to see you—wants to savor the way your lips stretch around the thick girth of his cock, the way your cheeks hollow as you struggle to take more of him.
Drool drips from the corner of your mouth, and your eyes flutter upward, catching his smoldering gaze. His golden flecked eyes darken as he drinks you in, and you can’t help but admire him from your position between his powerful thighs.
The streaks of silver weaving through his dark brown curls and beard catch the light, a testament to his age and masculinity.
His chiseled features, strong and weathered, are the kind you’ve explored endlessly—memorizing every dip and ridge with your lips and fingertips.
Marcus is more than handsome; he’s devastating, a man aging like fine wine—complex, intoxicating, and wholly addictive.
He’s right, of course. You can do better. You’ve done better. But Marcus’s cock always demands a moment of adjustment, a slow surrender to its sheer size and delicious thickness. It’s a challenge you relish, evidence of your enthusiasm to satisfy.
Pulling off him with a gasp, you let your hand slide up his spit slick shaft, jerking him with gentle pressure. A web of saliva bridges your lips to his flushed, throbbing cock, and you purse your lips, spitting onto him, the sound obscenely loud in the quiet room.
Marcus watches you, his lips quirking into a crooked smirk, pride and desire flickering across his sharp features.
“Look at you,” he praises, his thumb brushing along the corner of your mouth, wiping away a strand of drool that’s smudged your lipstick, dragging it across your cheek.
The adoration of the gesture is at odds with the thirst in his eyes, his pupils blown wide with lust as he takes in the way you work for him. “Messy little thing. You love this, don’t you?”
Your answer comes in the form of a teasing smirk, your tongue darting out to swipe at his head. The salty tang of his precum dances on your taste buds, and you slap his cock against the pink muscle, the soft thud making you dizzy.
Your lips then glide over the pulsating, veined flesh of his cock and the weight of him on your tongue sends a deep pulse of heat straight to your cunt. It has you shifting slightly on your knees, your own arousal dampening the thin fabric of your panties, making you crave friction, relief—anything.
But you know better than to touch yourself without his permission. Marcus thrives on control, his mastery over your pleasure woven into every fiber of his devotion to you.
So though the temptation to sneak a hand down to your needy clit is overwhelming, you revel in the sweet agony of denial, knowing he’ll make the eventual release all the more shattering.
His fingers tighten in your hair, tugging just enough to elicit a muffled moan. The sound vibrates around him, making his cock twitch as you hollow your cheeks again and draw a deep breath through your nose.
Inch by inch, you let him slide deeper, the bulbous tip nudging your uvula, tears pooling in your eyes, the tip of your nose brushing against the coarse hairs at his base.
“Such a praecantrix,” Marcus growls, the Latin rolling off his tongue with an edge of mockery. You love when he speaks to you in the dead language, a relic of his fascination with ancient Roman culture. It feels intimate, and you savor the way he wields it like a weapon meant only for you.
He’s told you as much—that this language, with all its history, is yours alone.
“So eager to fall to your knees and please a married man. That’s my favorite thing about you, sweetheart. Such a dirty fucking slut.”
The degradation spills over you like molten heat, pooling low in your belly. It’s cruel and intoxicating, and it makes your pussy ache with a mix of shame and desire.
You choke on him, the stretch of his cock testing the limits of your throat, but you don’t pull back. He loves the power, the control, the sight of you struggling yet determined to take everything he gives.
Whether it’s your mouth, your cunt, or on those nights when he’s feeling particularly depraved, your ass—he relishes pushing you to the brink and watching you rise to meet him.
And so what if he’s married? You’ve justified it a hundred times over in your head. His wife should’ve done a better job keeping him satisfied. She shouldn’t have let a man like him go hungry, his appetite desires more than what’s waiting for him at home, which left him roaming, seeking out someone—you—to feed his ravenous needs.
If she couldn’t keep him, that’s not your problem. You didn’t steal him; he came willingly, like a moth to your flame.
You know your role as the other woman. You play it well. During the day, you’re his personal assistant: poised, professional, efficient. You keep his schedule flawless, his coffee perfect, and your interactions just cool enough to deflect suspicion.
But here, in moments like this—when his cock fills your greedy mouth and his filthy words drip into your ears—you’re anything but restrained. You’re his, entirely, bending to his every whim, doing whatever it takes to please him.
No love bites are left where she might see. No lingering perfume to betray you, no smudged lipstick to stain his crisp, tailored shirts. You stay in your lane, as he expects of you, and in return, Marcus makes you feel like an empress—his empress, even if it’s only in secret.
The thrill of being his secret indulgence, his escape, burns hotter than any guilt you once felt. The wrongness of it, the illicit danger of fucking another woman’s husband, only fuels the lustful fire.
You know you shouldn’t. You’ve tried to stop.
The one and only time you tried to end it, it lasted a pathetic seven days. This so-called breakup was spurred on by a friend’s misguided advice.
So, you’d sat him down over a quiet dinner in one of your usual haunts, a restaurant miles away where no one could recognize you, your stomach twisting as you broke the news.
Marcus’s reaction had been icy, his fury masked by a veneer of composure that was somehow worse than an outburst.
The wrinkles on his handsome face deepend before he stood abruptly, throwing down enough cash to cover the bill without a word, leaving you alone to call an Uber, tears dampening your cheeks as you wondered if you’d just lost your job, your lover—or both.
The following days were a cold war. At work, he was stoic and distant, his orders sharp, his reprimands cutting. He barely looked at you, and when he did, his gaze was devoid of the heat you’d grown addicted to. The sting of it was worse than you’d anticipated.
You hated it. You hated yourself for hating it, for craving the attention of a man who wasn’t yours to begin with.
Then, on the eighth day, Marcus snapped. It was late, the floor empty except for you, hunched over your computer. He appeared without warning, dragging you into his office, closing the door with a sharp click.
Before you could speak, he was on you, his hands gripping your hips, his body pinning yours against the cool glass window that overlooked the city.
“You thought you could walk away from me?” His voice was a low growl, his breath hot against your ear. “You’re fucking stupid if you think I’d let my favorite pussy go without putting up a fight.”
That night, he took you hard and fast, his words filthier than ever, his grip bruising and possessive. He made it clear that you weren’t going anywhere—not unless he said so.
And no, he wouldn’t leave her for you. He’d told you as much, his tone unapologetic, almost cruel. But that didn’t matter, not when he was deliciously buried inside your pussy, making you scream his name against the glass.
Now, here you are again—on your knees, his cock filling your throat, his hands tangled in your hair as he reminds you, with every vulgar word, exactly where you belong.
You bring your hand up to cup his balls, rolling them gently in your palm as you keep up your rhythm, your other hand gripping the base of his cock to keep him steady.
The combination draws a sharp hiss from him, and his grip in your hair tightens, holding you in place when his hips start to move in earnest thrusts that force him deeper into your throat as he uses you for his pleasure.
You surrender completely, your body alive with need and your heart racing in sync with his labored breaths.
“Fuck, you’re going to make me come,” he warns, his head tipping back against the leather of his chair. The deep timbre of his voice resonates through you. “You want it, don’t you? My good girl wants every fucking drop.”
Your answer comes in the form of a pornographic moan, your nails digging into his meaty thigh as you nod.
A dull ache spreads across your jaw as you work over his cock, bobbing eagerly, losing yourself in the head you’re giving.
You feel the familiar tightening of his balls, the telltale sign that he’s close, and it spurs you on. Your rhythm grows more frantic, more desperate, sloppy; your lips glossy with saliva as you pop him out of your mouth to lavish attention on his cockhead. You tease the sensitive ridge of his frenulum with slow, deliberate licks, kissing and sucking, worshipping this unit of a man above you.
The muscles of his thighs flex beneath your hands, his body trembling with restrained power.
Marcus’s growl deepens and he quickly pulls you off his cock. The sharp tug makes you moan, your neck arching gracefully, putting you on display for him like a prized possession.
He stands, towering over you, his broad shoulders and commanding presence casting a shadow that feels consuming. His dark brown eyes bore into yours, appetence and dominance swirling within them.
You stare at him from your position on your knees, swollen lips parted, spit and precum gleaming on your mouth and chin.
Your breaths come shallow and quick; you know what he wants, so you begin to jerk his cock with both of your fists, twisting your wrists with a skill honed from all the times you’ve gotten him off like this, the wet and lewd sounds of your action having you moan slightly and his grip on your hair tightens.
“Just like that, carissima, milk my cock.”
He comes with a guttural groan, his head thrown back, Adam’s apple bobbing, and you gasp as thick ropes of his release paint your face, splattering across your cheeks, your lips, even your lashes.
You instinctively dart your tongue out, catching the salty taste of him, savoring his essence as though it were nectar from your favorite fruit, giggling softly.
The sight of you, defiled and glowing with satisfaction, makes his hips jerk forward involuntarily, a man undone.
You stroke him through the aftershocks, his cock softening in your hands as you lean into his touch. His grip on your hair loosens, his large fingers threading through it more gently now, brushing it away from your face as he admires his work.
“What a sight, so beautiful on your knees like this, covered in my cum.” Marcus muses, his voice hoarse as his chest heaves. He swipes through the mess on your face, collecting his spend before pressing his fingers into your mouth. You hum, sucking them clean with the same devotion you’ve given his cock.
The taste of him, warm and heady, sends a thrill down your spine.
When he offers you his hand to help you up, you accept it, your knees stiff and aching from kneeling on the rug beneath his desk.
“Your son will be here—” you start, your tone shifting back to professional, delivering the message you initially came in here for before getting… distracted.
“He is not my son,” Marcus snaps, the venom in his voice cutting through the room. He’s buckling his belt with sharp motions, his jaw clenched so tight you can practically hear his teeth grinding.
You don’t flinch—it’s not the first time you’ve seen his temper flare when his stepson is mentioned, and it won’t be the last. Instead, you adjust your tone, correcting yourself smoothly. “Lucius will be here within the hour to discuss the Anderson project.”
You smooth down your work pants, fingers brushing against the creases, and glance into the reflective surface of the nearby cabinet. You already know a trip to the restroom is in order to fix the telltale signs of his rough affection—your swollen lips, disheveled hair, the smudge of mascara beneath your eyes.
Marcus doesn’t respond right away, but the scowl on his face deepens, his broad shoulders rigid as he adjusts the cuffs of his shirt.
The tension between Marcus and Lucius is legendary, an animosity born out of years of neglect, betrayal, and a battle for control over the Aurelius family legacy.
Marcus makes no effort to mask his disdain for his stepson, and Lucius returns the sentiment with equal fervor. Their interactions are charged, each conversation laced with thinly veiled insults and simmering resentment.
Lucius’s childhood, from what you’ve gathered, had been a mess of abandonment and rebellion. Shipped off to boarding schools before he hit puberty, a move orchestrated by his mother, who, by all accounts, seemed eager to rid herself of the burden of raising a troublesome son.
The expulsions came next, one after the other, as Lucius acted out, a desperate bid for his mother’s attention. It never worked. She was too preoccupied with the luxuries of high society to care. Especially not after she married Marcus and skipped her son’s college graduation altogether, solidifying a wedge between them that even time couldn’t mend.
Years later, Lucius had returned with a vengeance, polished and poised, armed with degrees and accolades in both architecture and engineering.
He was ready to reclaim what his grandfather left behind—what Marcus had taken over when he married into the family.
Lucius wasn’t content to sit on the sidelines. He had marched in and demanded his rightful place—a share in the architectural firm that had been in his family for generations.
You remember that day vividly, the drama unfolding like a soap opera in real-time in the conference room as lawyers from both sides tried to hammer out the details.
Lucius had made it clear that he wasn’t asking for permission—he was taking what was his. Marcus, in contrast, was a picture of barely restrained fury, his fists clenched on the table, his voice cold as he tried to shut his stepson down.
But the younger man didn’t retract, and by the end of the meeting, he had secured his position as a partner.
For you, the spectacle was captivating, a battleground of egos and legal jargon. Sitting at the edge of the room, your notepad in hand, you watched it all unfold with barely concealed amusement.
If anything, you’d felt a buzz of anticipation, knowing the tension would wind Marcus so tight he’d take it out on you later. The thought had made you giddy, your pen sliding between your lips as you nibbled on it, your tongue swirling absentmindedly.
You couldn’t help but fantasize about what was to come—the sharp crack of Marcus’ palm against your ass, the growl in his voice as he delivered brutal backshots.
What you hadn’t noticed at the time was Lucius’s gaze on you. Those icy eyes of his watching every flick of your tongue, every scrape of your teeth against the pen.
“Very well,” Marcus says finally, dismissing the topic with a wave of his hand. “Send him in when he arrives.”
As you turn to leave, his hand shoots out, catching you by the elbow. He pulls you close, his body radiating heat against yours. His thumb swipes over your swollen bottom lip before pressing into your mouth, forcing it open.
“Don’t think I’ve forgotten what I owe you, dulcissima,” he murmurs, all dark and seductive. “I’ll take good care of you later tonight. Midnight. Our room.”
The promise in his tone sends excitement through your veins, your thighs pressing together instinctively.
As you start to nod, your mind remembers one tiny detail from his schedule. “You have dinner reservations with Lucil—” you begin, her name barely leaving your lips before his thumb presses down harder, silencing you with a whimper.
“Don’t say her name,” his eyes narrow, daring you to defy him, “and don’t you worry about that. I’ll be with you. Midnight.”
Midnight. Our room—a luxury suite in one of the hotels he designed, cloaked in opulence and secrecy. It’s where he comes to you after being with her, and sometimes, where he leaves you to go back to her.
The sting of it is subtle now, dulled by repetition. You’ve taught yourself not to dwell on the fact that his hands on you tonight might still carry the scent of her.
You try not to wonder if he kisses her the way he kisses you, if he whispers sweet nothings in her ear the same way he does when he’s buried inside you.
You don’t want to know. It’s easier to exist in this bubble of ignorance where you can pretend you’re the only one who matters.
Instead, you nod obediently, giving in to the charade you’ve chosen. The playful edge returns, and you bite down lightly on his thumb, your teeth grazing the skin in a way that has his lips twitching into a smirk.
Marcus leans in to press his lips against yours passionately, how you like it, lingering just long enough to make your heart ache. It’s maddening how he kisses you—like he means it, like he loves you.
And maybe, in his own twisted way, he does.
You sit behind your desk, eyes averted as she lounges in the small sitting area, waiting for him to finish his meeting.
She’s here to capture Marcus’s attention. It’s a game you’ve grown accustomed to—her attempts to reclaim parts of him she craves—the passion, the primal connection—all things he reserves for you.
And as petty as it is, part of you revels in knowing how little he gives her. What’s left of his affection after he’s spent it all on you is scraps at best.
She may have his last name, his ring, the sprawling mansion he designed and built for her, but none of it holds a candle to the way he devours you in the secrecy of your shared nights.
The door to his office creaks open, and Marcus steps out, his brow furrowed in the perpetual scowl he wears like armor.
She rises from the loveseat, moving to him as though pulled by an invisible string. Their embrace is brief but intimate enough to make your stomach churn. You keep your focus on the glowing screen of your computer, scrolling through emails that blur together as you strain to block out their presence.
Smug satisfaction only goes so far, and the familiar pang of jealousy gnaws at the edges of your confidence.
Their conversation floats toward you: lunch at the country club, a round of golf, insular activities that reek of old money and class—worlds you’ve only glimpsed from behind the scenes, arranging his reservations, managing his calendar, ensuring his whims are catered to.
You expect him to brush her off, as he often does, leaving her deflated while he buries himself in work—or in you.
But he doesn’t.
“Clear my schedule for the day and remain on standby in case anything should arise.”
His indifference lands like a slap. You glance up briefly, meeting his gaze, and catch the slight twitch of amusement tugging at his lips before leaning in to kiss her.
He’s enjoying this, you realize. Playing you, toying with your jealousy, rubbing it in just enough to sting.
He knows you can see the way he openly parades her, the casual ease with which he can show her off to the world while you’re relegated to the shadows. Lavish gifts and extravagant outings are hers for the taking, while your rewards are delivered in hushed whispers and midnight rendezvous.
Your smile is syrupy sweet, the kind of false cheer that could rot teeth. “Of course, sir. Enjoy your day together,” you chirp, each word coated in venom he’ll detect, even if she doesn’t.
Marcus doesn’t spare you another glance as he guides her toward the elevator, his arm snug around her waist.
The pang in your chest tightens, sharper than usual. He’s not usually like this with her—so overt, so public. This new display of affection unsettles you, sends your thoughts spiraling down dark avenues.
Are they mending things? Rekindling their marriage?
A cold panic begins to rise, but you quash it down, clinging to the task at hand. You bury yourself in clearing his schedule, canceling meetings, rearranging appointments.
It’s easier to focus on the practical than to confront the gnawing fear that you might no longer hold the place in his life you once did.
Some time later, the sound of footsteps approaching pulls you from your task, and when you glance up, it’s none other than Lucius stepping into view.
He breezes in like he owns the place—well, technically, part of it is his—and you pause the music playing through your earbuds, slipping one out as he approaches your desk.
“He’s not in,” you inform him, polite but curt. “Won’t be until tomorrow. If it’s urgent, I’m sure you have his personal number.”
He doesn’t reply immediately, instead perching himself on the edge of your desk. His fingers idly play with one of the trinkets decorating your workspace, a polished glass paperweight that catches the light and casts fractured rainbows across his dexterous hands.
You narrow your eyes at his intrusion, taking a moment to really look at him. Where Marcus is the epitome of old-school refinement, pressed suits in muted tones and custom leather shoes, Lucius is his foil.
He’s all rich silken shirts in bold colors, stylish sneakers, and enough jewelry to make him gleam under the office lighting.
Rings adorn on his fingers, chains glint at his neck, and his pierced ears and tattoos add that touch of rebellion he’s infamously known for.
He’s hot, undeniably so, and you’d be lying if you said you hadn’t noticed before.
There’s always been a charge between the two of you, a flirtatious undercurrent in the way he looks at you, the subtle innuendos in his words.
You’ve never acted on it—how could you, not with a man like Marcus whispering promises of ruin and rapture. Your secret lover waiting behind closed doors.
But today… after the way he flaunted her in front of you, the bitterness curdling in your chest craves a taste of some sort of retaliation. It’s irrational, you know, but something inside you itches.
And maybe, just maybe, Lucius is exactly what you need to scratch that itch.
“Then why are you still here?” He finally speaks, partially amused, as those piercing blue eyes lock onto yours. They’re sharp, assessing, and your cheeks warm slightly under the weight of his gaze.
“A busy man like him has a busy schedule that precedes him,” you reply, keeping your tone professional. “It doesn’t organize itself.”
His lips curve into a slow, knowing smile, one that makes your body hum. “Ah, ever the dutiful assistant. He’s lucky to have someone like you keeping his chaos in check.”
You shrug, forcing a nonchalant air, though his attention feels like a spotlight. “It’s what I’m being paid to do.”
He tilts his head, the movement almost predatory, gaze giving you a not so subtle once over. “It must be exhausting, though. All work and no play makes for a dull life. When’s the last time you took a break?”
Your brows pinch together. “Why do you care?”
“Because,” he drawls, leaning closer, his cologne—a mix of citrus and something spicier—hitting your senses, “I don’t think someone as pretty as you should spend her days buried in schedules and emails.”
“Flattery doesn’t work on me.” A damn lie.
“Oh, I’m not trying to flatter you.” He smirks, his confidence maddening. “I’m simply stating a fact.”
Before you can form a retort, he straightens, brushing invisible lint off his shirt. “Join me for lunch,” he says, and it’s not quite a question. “You look like you could use a little indulgence.”
Your brain immediately shouts no, warning you of all the ways this is a terrible idea, but your pride, bruised and still licking its wounds from earlier, nudges you forward.
“Lunch?” you ask, raising a skeptical brow. “You and me?”
“Why not?” he replies, his grin boyish but undeniably charming. “Unless you’ve got a better offer.”
You know agreeing to this is risky, a slippery slope, but thinking of Marcus coming back to find out you’ve been out with his stepson stokes a spark of defiance you can’t quite ignore.
“I don’t. And if you’re paying, there’s this new place I’ve been dying to try,” you’re playful with it, standing and grabbing your bag, ignoring the little voice in your head screaming at you for potentially girlbossing a little too close to the sun. “If this ends up being a waste of time, I’m billing you for the hour.”
Lucius gives you a smug smile, his satisfaction evident as he steps aside to let you pass. “Don’t worry, beautiful. I promise it’ll be worth it.”
“Oh fuck, just like that,” you moan, your breath hitching as your orgasm crests, fingers gripping the edge of the counter tightly.
Between your spread thighs, Lucius works you with his mouth, his tongue sliding through your folds with obscene skill. His strong nose nudges your clit, each brush sparking jolts of pleasure that leave you trembling.
The cold mirror at your back is a sharp contrast to the heat that’s overtaken your entire being, a reminder of where you are—some ritzy bar’s fancy men’s restroom, the door locked behind you.
Lunch had been harmless enough—until it wasn’t. A few drinks at the bar loosened both of your tongues, flirtatious words became heated looks, and before you knew it, Lucius leaned in close, his lips brushing your ear as he murmured, “I think we both know how this is going to end.”
You hadn’t argued when he tugged you toward the restroom, your body tingling with the thrill of doing something so reckless, so delectably wrong. But that’s kind of what you’re into, isn’t it?
The moment the door clicked shut, his mouth had been on yours, kissing you with a fervor that made you forget about everything.
“Been wanting this for so long,” Lucius mutters now as he pulls back, licking his lips, glistening with your sweet slick. His hands grip your thighs, spreading you wider as his darkened blue eyes flick up to meet yours. “Not fuckin’ fair that he gets everything.”
You’re too far gone to care about his words, your head lolling back against the mirror as his lips press a trail of kisses up your inner thigh. “Fuck, Lucius,” you pant, your hands reaching for him, needing more. Your fingers find his dark curls, tugging lightly as he stands, his mouth capturing yours in a kiss that’s all heat and desperation.
His tongue slips past your lips, and you moan at the lingering taste of yourself there. Your hand slides down between you, palming the thick length of him through his pants, and he groans into your mouth, his fingers returning to your pussy, teasing your puffy clit until you’re a whimpering mess.
“Are you going to fuck me right here?” you ask breathlessly, biting your lip as you look up at him through heavy lashes.
He groans, his large hand cradling your jaw, tilting your face up to look at him. “What do you think? Turn around.”
He relinquishes his hold on you, stepping back just enough to give you room, and you obey, spinning to face the mirror, your reflection staring back at you. Your cheeks are flushed, lips swollen, and eyes hazy with lust. Behind you, Lucius’s hands are already lifting your skirt, one you’d chosen specifically for Marcus this morning, knowing how much he loves you in pretty, feminine things.
But he had barely spared you a glance before he left with her, and now the thought of him feels distant, unimportant.
He lets out a low whistle, his hands kneading the soft flesh of your ass, admiring the sight of you bent over for him.
You shut your eyes, willing away any lingering thoughts of Marcus as his fingers trace the slick seam of your pussy before dipping inside, his touch confident and practiced.
“Look at yourself,” he commands, his free hand pressing firmly on the small of your back, arching you further. “Eyes on the mirror.”
Your lashes flutter as you meet your own reflection again. His fingers pick up their pace, his chest brushing against your back as he frees himself from his pants. Your breath catches when you feel the thick head of his cock glide through your folds, replacing his digits at your entrance.
You wag your hips playfully, earning a sharp smack to your ass, the sting blooming with heat, and it makes you giggle, the sound light and sultry.
“Are you always this giddy to get fucked?” Lucius teases, his tone dripping with amusement as he lines himself up.
“Only when it’s someone who knows what they’re doing.”
He laughs, a deep, wicked sound, before gripping your hip with one hand and guiding himself inside you with the other. The stretch is exquisite, stealing the air from your lungs as he sinks into you inch by inch, his girth filling you completely.
He’s not as thick or as large as Marcus, but the way he feels inside you is undeniably satisfying, and judging by the expert way he used his mouth, you’re eager to explore the rest of his talents.
“Fuck, you’re tight,” he groans, his head falling forward, his nose nuzzling into your hair. “So fuckin’ perfect.”
You cry out, eyes rolling to the back of your head, your fingers scrambling for purchase on the marbled counter as he starts to move with pure vehemence.
Every thrust sends a jolt of pleasure through you, his pace building until you’re nothing but a mess of moans and desperate gasps.
The sight of him fucking you from behind, his mouth agape, brows furrowed, has your pussy clenching around him. His strokes are deep and hard, each one making the edge of the countertop dig into the front your thighs, but you don’t care. It feels too damn good.
The universe has an impeccable way of fucking with you, and it does so spectacularly when your phone buzzes in your purse.
The ringtone you’ve assigned to Marcus echoes through the luxurious restroom, shattering the moment and flooding your veins with icy dread.
“L-Lucius, stop,” you whine, your voice betraying how little you actually mean it. His thrusts are hitting just the right spot, and you can barely think straight, let alone care about the consequences of missing Marcus’s call.
Lucius pauses, though not in the way you hoped—or feared. He slows, grinding himself against you, his length pressing deliciously into your g-spot.
Leaning over your bent form, he rummages through your purse until he retrieves the still-ringing phone. “Go ahead,” he holds the device out to you with a cocky grin. “Answer it. Wouldn’t want to upset the boss, now would we?”
You hesitate, staring at the phone like it’s a ticking bomb.
The position you’re in—physically and metaphorically—feels impossible to navigate. When the ringing threatens to stop, instinct gives way, and you snatch the phone from his hand and answer, pressing it to your ear.
“Hello?” Your voice is shaky, breathless, and you pray he doesn’t notice.
“Where the hell are you?” Marcus’s tone is sharp, tinged with irritation.
Your breath hitches. He’s back at the office? He said he’d be gone all day. Panic bubbles in your chest as Lucius’s hips roll lazily, burying himself deep inside you as if to prove a point, and you fight not to moan.
“I-I went out for lunch and to run a few errands,” you stammer, gripping the counter for dear life. In the mirror, Lucius’s smirk deepens. His hands slide up your body, cupping your breasts over your blouse as he pulls you upright against his chest.
He moves your hair aside and starts placing soft, teasing kisses along your neck, his facial hair grazing your skin and adding to the maddening sensations.
“How long are you going to be?”
“Not much longer,” you manage, biting your lip as Lucius’s fingers find your clit. “Do you… need something?” The slow, torturous circles make your knees buckle, and you have to mute the phone to let out a strangled moan.
“Yes,” Marcus replies, oblivious to your plight. “I need you back here. I ran into a client while I was out, and…”
Whatever else he says fades into static as Lucius speeds up his ministrations, his fingers and cock working in perfect harmony to unravel you. Your free hand flies to his wrist, a silent plea for mercy, but he just grins against your neck.
“Just let me finish this call,” you whisper, your voice desperate and pleading.
“No,” he growls through gritted teeth. “You’re going to come all over my dick while you’re on the phone with him.”
Before you can protest, he presses you back down against the counter, resuming the relentless rhythm that slips a film of haze over your vision. Your hand trembles as you unmute the call, your brain scrambling to form coherent words while Lucius fucks you like he owns you.
“...so get back here to pull the prints,” Marcus finishes.
“Okay,” you rasp, gripping the edge of the sink for dear life, the sound of skin meeting skin threatening to echo over the line. “I-I’ll be there soon.”
There’s a long pause, and your heart pounds in your chest, more from the overwhelming sensation between your legs than Marcus’s impending suspicion. “Are you alright?”
“I’m fine,” you blurt out, squeezing your eyes shut as his fingers press harder against your clit, tipping you dangerously close to the edge. “I—I have to go. I’ll see you at the office.”
Without waiting for a response, you hang up and toss the phone onto the counter.
Finally, you let go, your high pitched moans spilling freely as your orgasm crashes over you. Your walls clamp down around Lucius’s cock, and you throw your hips back to meet his thrusts, chasing every last bit of pleasure.
“Oh fuck me, I’m coming!” you cry out, your voice echoing through the restroom.
He groans, his hands gripping your hips as he delivers a few final, punishing thrusts. “There we go,” he practically purrs, satisfied.
He pulls out at the last second, stroking himself until his release coats the supple skin of your ass. He exhales sharply, a triumphant grin spreading across his face as he watches you shudder beneath him.
For a moment, the room is filled with nothing but the sound of your heavy breathing. Then, he chuckles, stepping back to grab a few tissues. “You’re a fucking masterpiece,” he murmurs, gently cleaning you up.
You let out a weak laugh, your legs still trembling as you brace yourself against the counter. “That was way too close.”
He shrugs, tucking himself back into his pants and leaning against the sink, watching you fix your skirt and smooth your hair in the mirror. “I don’t really give a shit,” he replies, his tone so nonchalant it borders on arrogance.
“Yeah,” you give him a sidelong glance. “I figured as much.” You straighten your appearance, making sure to fix every little imperfection and evidence of what just transpired.
“When can we do this again?”
You hadn’t thought this far ahead, too caught up in the heat of the moment to consider what might come next. His proposition is tempting, dangerously so, and you hesitate, weighing the risks.
Marcus is married after all, and while he’s never outright told you not to see anyone else (not that you wanted to, either), the possessiveness in the way he fucks you and how he treats you when it was just the two of you makes it clear he wouldn’t be thrilled.
It’s not necessarily the smartest move to hookup with his stepson, considering the messy family history, but that’s really none of your business.
And the alternative? What, meeting some awkward Tinder match with a small cock who can’t get over his ex? No, thanks. You’d pick Lucius any day of the week.
“You tell me,” you concede. What Marcus doesn’t know won’t kill him. “I don’t want Marcus to know about us. He’d pop his lid—and as fun as that would be for you, I don’t need that drama in my life right now.”
He reaches for you, his hand curling around your waist to pull you closer until you’re standing between his legs. His hands rest lightly on your hips, his thumbs brushing the fabric of your skirt. “It shouldn’t be any of his business who you fuck.”
You bite down on your tongue, gently pushing his hair back, running your fingers through the soft curls. “I know, but that man is complicated. You, of all people should know that.”
“Right,” he takes in your features, noting how beautiful you are, getting lost in your eyes. “Doesn’t matter much to me, but for you, we can keep this low-key.”
“I’d appreciate that,” you give him a small smile, leaning forward and brushing your lips softly against his in a kiss that lingers just long enough to make your pulse quicken again.
He grins boastfully as he pulls back, his thumb brushing against your jaw in a small, teasing motion. “Come on, I’ll take you back. We’ve probably hogged the washroom long enough.”
You nod, letting him guide you toward the door, though the weight of your choices lingers. For now, though, you push it all aside. One mess at a time.
Juggling these two men feels like a balancing act you’ve somehow mastered. Each fills a different part of your life, balancing out the deficiencies of the other like two halves of a very complicated equation.
Marcus is raw power, the kind of dominance that leaves your soul humming and your heart racing. He’s harsh, unapologetically entitled, and he takes what he wants with a certainty that has you willingly offering yourself up.
You crave his intensity, the way he makes you feel like you’re teetering on the edge of something dangerously exhilarating.
Lucius, though, is the warmth you never knew you needed. He’s attentive in ways Marcus never could be, the type of lover you’d believed only existed in fiction.
He doesn’t just fuck you—he worships you, like you’re the only person in the world when he’s with you. He makes you laugh, makes you feel seen. He treats you like you’re the prize, not some stolen treasure.
And yet, you’re the one hiding him. He’s eager to show you off, to take you to lavish galas with his Ivy League crowd, or whisk you away to some foreign paradise.
But a stubborn part of you clings to Marcus, to the ridiculous fantasy that one day he might wake up and finally choose you.
That he’ll leave her and realize you were what he wanted all along.
It’s an illusion, of course. And you know it—especially when Marcus mentions that he and his wife are starting couples counseling.
His tone is so nonchalant. It’s like he doesn’t even register what that means for you. But you do. It’s a dagger to the heart, a confirmation of the insecurities that have been simmering on your side of the affair for as long as it’s been happening.
The beginning of the end. If he’s putting in the effort to save his marriage, you’re the obvious sacrifice.
You tell yourself you don’t care. That it’s good he’s fixing things because it means you can finally walk away.
That night, you cry—gut-wrenching sobs that wrack your body as you curl up on your couch.
The tears aren’t just for him. They’re for you, for the mess you let yourself fall into, for the heartbreak you practically handed to yourself on a silver platter.
You didn’t realize how much of yourself you’d given to him until it was too late.
In what world does the mistress ever get a happy ending?
Determined, you decide that your time together is up. For real this time.
The sessions with his wife have already put distance between you—less frequent rendezvous, fewer late-night texts. And when you are together, the connection feels fractured.
Sure, he still fucks you like he always has, still uses that ancient, sweet language that once made you feel special.
But now, everything he does cuts like glass because you know it’s just an act, a hollow currency to keep you around, to keep you looking at him like he’s your moon and stars.
Tonight is supposed to be the last time. You’ve planned it out—how you’ll say it, how you’ll walk away. The usual hotel room feels like the right setting for closure, neutral and familiar enough to weather whatever fallout may come.
You arrive early, as always. The room is pristine, the bed’s crisp linens beckoning. But it’s the item sitting in the center that draws your attention.
A white box tied with a vibrant red bow, your name written elegantly on a card tucked into the ribbon.
Knew these would look divine on you the moment I saw them, my carissime. I haven’t been the most attentive lover as of late, and for that, I apologize. - M
Your heart stutters as you slip the bow free and open the box. Inside lies the most exquisite set of lingerie you’ve ever seen, delicate lace and fine silk in a shade that complements your skin tone perfectly.
It looks so luxurious, you’re almost afraid to touch it. Two smaller boxes rest alongside it. Curious, you open them to reveal earrings and a matching necklace, adorned with your favorite gemstones.
Damn him. He’s making this so hard. The rational part of you knows better, but the temptation is too strong.
What’s the harm in one final night of indulgence? One last chance to revel in his attention, to let him taste you and remember exactly what he’s losing?
You slip out of your clothes, carefully donning the lingerie. The way it hugs your curves, accentuating every dip and swell of your body, makes you feel like a goddess.
You glance at your heels from earlier, slipping them back on—they match perfectly, adding the final touch to your look.
A small, knowing smile graces your lips. If this is goodbye, you’ll make sure it’s a goodbye he’ll never forget.
The door clicks open, and Marcus steps inside, the heavy weight of his presence commanding the room.
He pauses, taking in the sight of you sprawled across the bed, legs kicking up lazily, your chin propped on your palm. The thin strap of your bra slips down your shoulder, revealing more than enough to stoke the embers of desire in his eyes.
His gaze rakes over you with the intensity of a predator. “Dulcissima…” he breathes, the word oozes like molasses, thick and sweet, curling in your ear and making you wet.
You tilt your head, giving him your best doe-eyed expression, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Hi, Marcus,” you sing-song, your tone sweet, teasing, knowing exactly what it does to him.
He steps closer, his eyes lingering on the curves accentuated by the expensive lingerie he gifted you. “I was right to assume you’d look fucking sexy in this,” he says, his voice lower now, his fingertips grazing up your spine.
The faint touch sends a delicious shiver across your skin. His eyes devour you, the glint of the necklace he’d bought you sparkling against your throat like a declaration of ownership.
You turn slowly onto your back, stretching out lazily like a kitten, letting him take in the full view, and he exhales sharply through his nose, his control visibly fraying.
His gaze dips to the way the bra pushes your breasts together, the soft curve of your stomach, the jewelry catching the light.
“Did you like your gifts?” he asks, leaning down to press his lips against your bare midriff.
The kiss is hot, possessive, and you can feel his breath ghosting over your skin. Your stomach flips under his touch.
“Mhm…” you hum softly, keeping your tone light and coy.
His kisses trail higher, his mouth brushing over the swell of your breasts, the faint scrape of his teeth and beard sending a tremor through your body. When he bites down gently, your shaky exhale gives you away, and he chuckles, pleased with himself.
“Good,” he murmurs, lips brushing against your skin. “Couldn’t let my favorite girl forget how much I care about her.”
The word “favorite” grates against something inside you, even as the heat of his mouth distracts you. You let him keep talking, let him spin his meaningless webs.
You know this will be the last time, but you’ll let him play his game a little longer—for now.
Your fingers slip into his salt and peppered hair, pulling him up to you. His lips crash against yours in a fiery kiss, all teeth and tongue, his need barely contained. Your hands slide down his shoulders, body arching against him.
His hands move below you, skillfully undoing the clasp of your bra, the fabric slipping down your arms—when a sudden, sharp knock at the door splits the air.
Both of you freeze. Your breath catches in your throat, and you pull back, looking at Marcus in confusion.
His expression mirrors yours, his brow furrowing in annoyance as he glances toward the door.
The knock comes again, louder this time, more insistent. Then, a voice—deep, familiar, furious.
“Open the door. I know you’re in there.” A pause, your name spoken with quiet venom. “Don’t make me say it again.”
Lucius.
Panic flares in your chest. Your stomach twists as the full weight of what’s about to happen sinks in. You scramble off the bed, your hands shaking as you grab your bra and hurriedly fasten it, your mind racing.
Marcus straightens, his countenance hardening as recognition dawns. His entire demeanor shifts, his shoulders squaring, his jaw tightening.
Everything is going to come to a head now, and you’re not ready for the chaos about to unfold. Marcus is seconds away from finding out about you and Lucius, Lucius uncovering your affair—and there’s no way to stop the inevitable collision.
He stalks to the door, throwing it open with a force that rattles the frame.
There stands Lucius, his expression a storm of anger and betrayal.
His sharp gaze cuts past Marcus immediately, landing on you. He matches the stance of the other man as he takes in the scene: your disheveled state, the lingerie, the necklace glinting on your chest.
“So it’s true.” He storms into the room, “I knew you were sleeping around. My mother did too—just not with who. I should have fucking known it was her.” His words strike like daggers. “It’s always the gold-digging, whorish assistant.”
The insult lands hard, but you refuse to flinch.
Marcus steps forward, spitting out his name. His lips curl into a snarl, his broad body taut with controlled aggression. “What is it that you want? And don’t bullshit me.”
Lucius doesn’t back down. “To see you fall.”
The room goes deadly quiet, the tension is a living thing now, crackling with the threat of violence. You stand frozen, both men squaring off like animals about to tear each other apart.
“Once my mother hears about this, she’s going to divorce you. She’ll take everything. The firm will be mine. She,” his gaze shifts to you, and it’s like being pierced with ice. “Will be mine.”
Marcus lets out a laugh—dark, guttural, dangerous.
“You are an entitled little shit,” the insult makes his disdain clear. “You think you can waltz in here, throw a tantrum, and get what you want? You think I give a damn about your threats?”
“I don’t need threats,” Lucius snaps. “I have the truth.”
“What truth?”
Lucius fucking smirks, stepping away from him and closer to you, rounding your body until he’s right behind you, his words melting into your skin. “She’s not just your dirty little secret. She’s been fucking me too.”
The words drop like a bomb, shattering the fragile facade of control in the room.
Marcus’s body stiffens, gaze snapping toward you with a look you can’t quite decipher—shock, anger, betrayal all dancing in his dark brown eyes.
“Is that true?” He demands, his eyes bore into you, demanding an answer.
Your throat goes dry, panic rising like an avalanche threatening to drown you. “Marcus, I—”
“It’s true,” Lucius interrupts, his tone triumphant and venomous, wrapping his arms around your body, pulling you flush against him. “She’s been playing both sides. Isn’t that right?” His lips trail over your neck, and you hate the way the throbbing at your pussy begins to pulse. “Tell him. Tell him how you’d come running to me every time he wasn’t enough for you. How you let me fuck you while he was on the phone.”
“That’s enough,” Marcus growls, stepping closer, his larger frame looming over the both of you. His anger is palpable, but there’s something else simmering beneath it—arousal.
Lucius laughs, the sound bitter and taunting. “What’s the matter, Acacius? Is the truth too much for you? Or is it the thought of this pussy creaming all over my cock that’s got you so worked up?”
His hand presses against you, his fingers teasing through the damp fabric of your panties, and a soft whimper escapes your lips despite yourself. You bite down on it too late, and Marcus’s gaze sharpens, locking onto you like a predator.
“She’s a liar,” Lucius continues, his voice a deadly purr. “And a cheat. Just like you.”
The accusation tantalizes a reaction out of Marcus, but he doesn’t take the bait. Instead, his eyes fall to where Lucius’s hand moves between your legs, then back to your face.
Slowly, deliberately, he steps closer until the barest inch separates the two of you.
“You’re dripping,” Lucius observes with a smirk, his tone triumphant. “She likes it when we talk to her like this.”
“I know she does,” Marcus replies, razor-sharp. His hand comes up to cup your jaw, his fingers digging just enough to make you gasp. “She always gets off on being called out for what she is—a filthy, nasty little slut.”
“Oh my god,” you breathe, the words slipping out unbidden as Lucius begins to circle your clit. Your head falls back against his shoulder, your body betraying you with every twitch and moan.
“No, darling,” Marcus commands, tightening his grip on your face and forcing you to meet his eyes. “Look at me. Keep those pretty eyes open.”
You blink up at him, your lashes damp with unshed tears of humiliation and need. His gaze is scorching, consuming every inch of your face.
“Why?” Marcus demands, his voice steady but deadly. “Why both of us? What’s in it for you?”
Your lips part, the truth clawing its way to the surface. “Because I can,” you finally admit, your voice trembling but defiant.
The confession hits the air like a spark to kindling. Marcus’s lips morph into a cold smirk, and Lucius lets out a low chuckle behind you.
“Say that again,” Marcus orders, leaning in until his forehead almost touches yours.
“I had two powerful men doing everything for me,” your admission is louder this time, emboldened by the heat of their attention. “Showering me with gifts, meals, and good cock. Why the fuck would I give that up?”
Marcus’s grip on your jaw shifting to trail down your throat, gripping it just enough to make your pulse race beneath his fingertips.
“You’re perfect, my carissime.” There’s this softness to his tone that surprises you, and it only amplifies the pleasure you feel as Lucius slips two fingers inside of you, your mouth falling open as you let out a breathy moan. “So beautiful.” He’s not furious—he’s consumed by the same fire threatening to burn all three of you alive.
“Tell us,” Lucius demands, his voice a smooth drawl as his digits curl just right, pressing onto the spongy, sensitive spot that makes your desire flare. “Tell us what you really want, or we’ll stop. Maybe leave you here all wet and needy.”
Marcus can feel the way you harshly swallow against his palm, brows twitching with amusement as he watches you intently, anticipating your answer. “I want both of you,” you confess. “I want you to ruin me, together.”
The air between you is laced with shared lust and hostility. Marcus shakes his head, a bitter, haughty laugh escaping him. “You really are a whore,” he says, his free hand gripping your chin again to force you to look at him. “And you’ll take whatever we give you. Isn’t that right?”
“Yes,” you whisper, the word a plea as Lucius withdraws his fingers only to bring them to your lips. He smirks when you part them willingly, sucking his fingers clean with a moan that makes Marcus’s eyes darken further.
“You’ve got her trained well,” He taunts, his gaze locking with Marcus’s over your shoulder.
“Enough talking,” Marcus snaps, his patience finally snapping, “Get her on the bed.”
Lucius doesn’t hesitate. He guides you backwards, sitting at the edge of the bed with you on his lap, undoing your bra and slipping it off your shoulders.
Your legs spread instinctively, your body already responding to the charged dominance of the two men using you.
Lucius’s lips claim yours in a kiss that’s as punishing as it is passionate. His hands roam freely over your body, kneading your breasts, pinching at your nipples while Marcus watches, his belt undone and his pants unbuttoned but still on.
He strokes himself slowly, his gaze fixed on the way Lucius toys with you.
When Lucius pulls back, a string of saliva connects your lips. He smirks, attention turning to Marcus. “She’s all yours. For now,” his tone drips with challenge.
Marcus steps forward, gripping your thighs. “Been thinking about tasting her all day. You’re not about to fuck that up for me.”
Then, with a confidence that makes your heart stutter, he drops to his fucking knees.
The motion is almost reverent, but the hunger in his eyes tells a different story. He hooks his fingers into the delicate lace of your panties, dragging them down your legs until they hang precariously from the sharp tip of your heels. His breath ghosts over your sticky, swollen folds, making your thighs quiver in anticipation.
“Fuck,” Marcus mutters under his breath, the words guttural, as if the sight alone is enough to wreck him. His mouth descends, and the moment his tongue laves over your folds, devouring you with reckless abandon, you cry out, your back arching instinctively against Lucius.
“Oh!” The exclamation is ripped from your throat, and Lucius grunts in response, his hands tugging at your sensitive nipples while his lips and teeth nip at your neck, leaving stinging kisses.
It’s overwhelming, the sensation of being worshipped and claimed by both of them.
The heat, the hands, the mouths—everything converges until you’re dizzy with pleasure. Your trembling fingers fumble behind you, reaching for Lucius’s pants, desperate for more.
It makes him chuckle low in your ear, the sound both amused and darkly approving.
“Impatient,” Lucius murmurs, helping you by undoing his pants and freeing his thick cock. You wrap your shaky hand around him, earning a hiss of pleasure as he hardens further under your touch.
Meanwhile, Marcus’s lips wrap around your fleshy pearl, sucking it into the hot, wet cavern of his mouth. His tongue flicks against the sensitive nub, your hips grinding against his face.
He doesn’t stop you—if anything, he encourages it, absolutely pussy drunk, groaning against your cunt as if your taste alone could sustain him.
Your juices smear across his lips and beard, the rough bristle of it adding another layer of sensation that makes your vision blur. The heat coils tighter in your core, your thighs trembling as Lucius’s cock twitches in your hand.
You have a devious idea. With a soft call of Marcus’s name, you draw his attention, your voice breathless and needy.
His dark eyes flick up to yours, his lips glistening with your slick. Without a word, you extend your hand, palm up, quirking a brow in silent request.
Marcus smirks, his smugness dripping with sinful intent, and spits into your hand. The obscene mixture of his saliva and your syrupy arousal pools in your palm, and you return to stroking Lucius’s cock with it. His sharp intake of breath tells you he appreciates the added slickness.
“Fuck,” Lucius curses, his hips jerking forward into your grip as your lips reconnect with his. Marcus, undeterred, dives back between your legs, his tongue and lips working in perfect rhythm.
The wet, lewd sounds of your hand on Lucius’s cock and Marcus devouring you echo through the room, an indecent symphony pushing you closer to the edge.
Your breaths grow ragged, your body taut like a bowstring. “I—I’m close,” you manage to stammer, your voice barely audible against Lucius’s mouth.
“Then come,” Marcus commands, his voice muffled against your heat but no less authoritative. “Come all over my tongue, darling. Take it.”
His teeth graze your clit just right, and the sharp sensation sends you careening over the edge. You scream his name, your body convulsing as your orgasm crashes over you, your release drenching Marcus’s face.
He doesn’t falter, drinking you greedily as though you’re the sweetest ambrosia. The fountain of fucking youth.
You collapse against Lucius, your body trembling and spent, but the men aren’t done with you. Not even close.
Marcus rises to his feet, his shirt already discarded, his chest heaving as he toes off his shoes and sheds the rest of his clothing. Lucius holds you close, his hands gentle as they trail over your skin, his lips pressing soft, almost tender kisses to your shoulder.
Then you’re maneuvered, heels taken off and bent over the edge of the bed.
Lucius scoots back just enough to rid himself of his remaining garments, his cock standing proud and throbbing as it brushes against your cheek. He cups your face, his thumb stroking your flushed skin as he guides the bulbous head to your lips.
Marcus leans down to kiss the back of your shoulder, his lips hot against your skin. “Show him what that pretty little mouth can do.”
You moan softly, your lips parting to take Lucius in. “I know exactly what she can do,” he says cockily, his voice dark with jealousy. “Don’t I, baby?”
Marcus growls from behind, envious, his large hands sliding over your ass, squeezing possessively as he lines himself up with your dripping, fluttering entrance.
You whimper, nodding weakly, but any response is cut off as Marcus thrusts forward, burying himself to the hilt in one unrelenting stroke.
You cry out, the stretch of him almost too much. He doesn’t pause, doesn’t give you a moment to adjust, his hands gripping your hips as he sets a punishing pace.
Lucius gathers your hair into a makeshift ponytail, holding you steady as he begins to rock his hips, driving himself deeper down your throat. “Goddamn,” he rasps, his face contorting in bliss.
The intensity of it all—the exhilarating roughness of Marcus inside you, the weight of Lucius on your tongue, the heat and dominance radiating from both of them—sends your mind spiraling.
Your body is a conduit for their pleasure, and the way they claim you, together, makes the ache in your core unbearable.
“She’s so fucking tight,” Marcus growls, his nails digging into your skin. “Even with two cocks, she could take more. Couldn’t you, carissima?”
Lucius pulls you back with his firm grip on your hair as he forces you to answer. “Y-Yes,” you stutter, tears pricking your eyes from the sheer intensity. “Both of you—however you want me.”
The words spark something feral in them both. Marcus spanks you hard, the sharp sting making you cry out, while Lucius smirks, his gaze burning with approval.
“She’s about to come again,” Marcus announces, his thrusts growing erratic. “I can feel it. Shit, I shouldn’t let her, but she looks so goddamn beautiful when she does.”
Lucius chuckles darkly, his hand stroking his cock as he watches you fall apart. “She really is something when she’s like this.”
Marcus’s hand cracks against your ass repeatedly in a rhythmic cadence, heightening the pressure building deep within you. Each spank forces a moan from your throat, your body yielding completely to him as he drives you closer to the edge.
When your orgasm hits, it’s shattering. Your muscles lock, trembling as you cry out his name, the intensity leaving you utterly spent. Your release coats Marcus’s thick cock, the mess dripping down between your thighs.
Lucius, ever the observer, watches with an almost languid fascination, his lips curling into a sly smirk.
He doesn’t try to reclaim your mouth, instead captivated by the way your features twist in pleasure.
The sounds leaving you are primal—animalistic—and you’re too far gone to care. Your body screams for respite, muscles quivering from the relentless pace Marcus set, but your desire eclipses your exhaustion.
You don’t want it to stop; you crave more, as if their touch is the only thing keeping you tethered to this earth.
Your pussy flutters around Marcus as if unwilling to let him go, and for a moment, he hesitates, groaning at the way you cling to him.
“Could die in your sweet cunt,” he sighs, pulling out reluctantly. His cock, glistening with your combined juices, twitches at the loss of your warmth. “But I want to see you bounce on his cock now. Go on—show me how well you can follow instructions.”
The command is firm and your body responds before your mind can catch up.
Lucius shifts back against the headboard, his expression one of lazy satisfaction as he pulls you onto his lap. His hands guide you with surprising gentleness, his fingers tracing soothing patterns along your hips as your lips meet his.
The kiss is slow, a stark contrast to the brutal pace Marcus had set, but it’s no less intense.
You feel Lucius’s cock slide through your swollen and used folds, the head teasing your oversensitive entrance before he thrusts inside.
You gasp into his mouth, wincing at the overwhelming sensation, but the pleasure quickly drowns out the ache as you adjust to him.
“Lucius,” you whimper, your voice high and pleading as your hips begin to rock. The friction makes you shudder, your body melting against his as he matches your rhythm.
“Just like that,” he groans, his head falling back against the headboard. His praise is genuine, his tone dripping with admiration. “Fuck, you’re amazing. Keep going—ride me, baby.”
You obey, rolling your hips with increasing determination before bouncing on him, the sound of your bodies meeting filling the room. You cling to him for support, your sweat slick tits pressing against his as he moves with you.
The bed dips, the shift pulling your attention away just as Marcus reappears, his towering figure imposing. His cock, messy with your release, bobs enticingly in front of you, making your mouth water.
You don’t hesitate. Leaning forward, you press a teasing kiss to the base of his shaft before dragging your tongue up the length of him, from his heavy balls to the sensitive tip.
You repeat the action, savoring the salty taste of yourself on him before finally taking him into your mouth.
The room is a haze of sweat, lust, and the raw, carnal need radiating between the three of you.
Marcus curses above you as your mouth devours him, your lips dragging from his throbbing, veined shaft down to the soft weight of his balls.
You let your tongue explore, slurping and licking, his sparse pubic hairs tickling your cheeks.
“Shit,” he groans, his large hand resting at the back of your head, letting you work at your own pace. “You’re so good at this, you know that? Worshipping me like you’re fucking made for it.”
Your throat is hoarse from the cries you’ve let out and the sheer volume of cock you’ve taken, but you press on, sucking and tonguing at him.
Lucius’ nails dig into the soft flesh of your ass cheeks, leaving faint crescents in their wake as he thrusts upward into your drenched pussy, the force of his movements making your entire body jolt.
“Keep bouncing on it,” He spreads your ass cheeks wider, his fingers teasing your other hole, brushing lightly against the tight ring.
The sensation makes you gasp against Marcus, your pussy clenching hard around the cock inside of you.
Marcus lets out a low laugh, his thumb swiping over the sheen of sweat on your temple.
“You’ve been in this tight little ass before?” Lucius asks, his tone laced with curiosity and lust.
“Plenty of times,” Marcus replies smoothly, gripping your face to guide your mouth back onto him. “She takes it so well. Always does. Don’t you, dulcissima?”
You gurgle around his length, your throat convulsing as he pushes deep, cutting off your air supply.
The world starts to dim, stars dancing at the edges of your vision, but the dizzying combination of Marcus’s cock down your throat and Lucius’s relentless thrusts makes you shudder with pleasure.
Marcus finally releases you, pulling out with a slick pop, and a mess of saliva drips down your chin, your chest, mixing with the sweat already coating your skin.
You cough, your body trembling as you try to catch your breath, and when you look up, your face is a wreck—puffy lips, smeared makeup, eyes glassy.
“Please,” you manage to whisper, your voice broken but no less keen.
Marcus tilts your chin up, his thumb brushing your spit-slick lips. “So fucking dirty,” he murmurs, leaning down to kiss you sloppily, uncaring of the mess between you.
His lips are selfish, his tongue curling against yours, his large hand cradling your face as if you’re his salacious treasure.
Lucius slows his thrusts, letting Marcus take over once he’s finished kissing you.
You’re pliant, boneless, too fucked-out to do anything but submit as Marcus positions himself behind you.
Your body is sandwiched between them, the heat of their skin against yours making your head swim. The room reeks of sex, their natural musk mingling with the sticky-sweet scent of your arousal.
“You got what you wanted, huh?” Lucius whispers against your ear, his lips brushing your neck.
“Both of us at the same time,” Marcus answers for you, his tone dripping with amusement as he strokes himself, the other hand spreading your ass.
His thumb circles your puckered hole, pressing just enough to make you moan.
“Fuck yes,” you pant, a smirk pulling at the corners of your swollen lips despite how utterly wrecked you feel.
The two men exchange a look—a silent agreement passing between them.
Marcus spits, the warm glob of saliva landing perfectly on your tight hole. His cock, wet with your earlier attention, glistens as he smears the spit across himself, preparing you.
“Relax,” Lucius coos, his hand brushing your hair back. His lips press against your jaw then the corner of your mouth. “Take it like you always do.”
Marcus pushes in slowly, the stretch almost unbearable, and your breath hitches, eyes rolling back as your body adjusts to the intrusion.
The sensation of being completely filled—Lucius’s cock buried in your pussy, Marcus’s girthy length breaching your ass—is overwhelming.
“Oh my god,” you gasp, your nails digging into Lucius’s shoulders as Marcus inches deeper, his pace agonizingly deliberate.
“Always so tight, and ready” Marcus growls, his voice thick with restraint.
Lucius lets out a low chuckle, his hands roaming your body, one moving to your breast to tweak a sensitive nipple. “She always is. And she loves it, don’t you, sweetheart?”
“Yes,” you cry out, your voice trembling, desperate. “I love it.”
They move in tandem, their cocks filling you, stretching you, driving you mad with pleasure as they fuck you mercilessly.
You’re lost in it all; the pain, the rhapsody, the sound of their grunts and groans mingling with your cries as your body is pushed to its limit.
It’s all a blur of sin. Both men push you closer and closer to the brink of oblivion.
Marcus drives into your ass, his fingers leaving bruises on the meat of your hips, while Lucius pistons upward from beneath you, his cock dragging against that sweet spot inside your pussy that makes your vision white out.
The thin barrier of flesh separating their cocks as they thrust into you sends jolts of ecstasy coursing through your body, your nerves raw and exposed.
You feel alive—every touch, every degrading word, every deserving thrust driving you closer to the precipice.
Their voices are a cacophony in your ears, their sharp remarks intertwining with your own ragged moans.
“Look at her,” Marcus sneers from behind you, his hand coming down in a sharp slap against your ass, forcing a yelp from your lips. “She’s fucking loving this. Such a filthy little thing, taking both our cocks like it’s the only thing she’s good for.”
You can’t form words, your head lolling between them as their bodies claim yours. Every stroke blurs the line between pain and pleasure, their belittling words fanning the flames in your gut.
“Slut,” Marcus taunts, his voice dripping with mockery as his hand slides up your back, pushing you further down against Lucius’s chest.
Lucius’s hand snakes between your legs, his fingers finding your swollen clit.
The added stimulation is too much. With a strangled cry, your final orgasm explodes through you, ripping a scream from your throat as you convulse around them.
“Fuck!” you shout, your voice cracking as your body arches and you reach blindly for the both of them to anchor yourself. “Marcus! Lucius!”
“That’s it, scream for us,” Marcus mocks, his voice rough as he continues pounding into your ass.
Lucius grips your waist, holding you flush against him, his teeth grazing your shoulder as he murmurs darkly, “Gonna fill this pussy up, and you’re not going to waste a single drop, you hear me?”
You nod weakly, your body limp against him as both men drive into you, their relentless rhythm dragging you through the haze of overstimulation.
“Poor girl is out of it,” Marcus taunts, slapping your sore ass again. “Come on, hang on a little longer.”
Tears prick at the corners of your eyes from the intensity of it all. It is almost too much, and for a fleeting moment, you consider tapping out. But the way their bodies command yours, the sound of their growls, and the sheer force of their presence keep you in the game.
Marcus’s breathing grows labored, his hands clutching your hips right above where Lucius is holding you as he thrusts into you wildly a few more times before he freezes, his cock pulsing deep inside you.
“Fucking. Take. It,” he snarls as his release floods your ass in hot, thick ribbons.
Your body twitches against Lucius’s as Marcus lets out a satisfied grunt, and he is the last to follow, as he forces you down onto his cock entirely, holding you there while he empties himself into your pussy.
You’re spent, your body trembling and boneless as they finally slow, their brawny hands roaming over your skin as if soothing the raw, frenzied mess they’ve made of you.
The exhaustion finally catches up, an almost unbearable heaviness dragging at your limbs as Marcus and Lucius pull out of you.
You barely register their murmured words or the gentle way they clean you up, your body too drained to offer anything more than faint whimpers.
When your head hits the pillow, lying on your back beneath the linens, sleep claims you almost instantly, as though your body has surrendered entirely.
You don’t know how much time passes before you stir again. The room is still dark, save for the soft glow of moonlight filtering through the curtains.
Everything is quiet—no voices, no sounds of movement— and you blink, fully groggy and disoriented.
Every inch of you is sore, your legs leaden, your pussy and ass throbbing with the aftermath of their brutal attentions. Shifting slightly, you wince, and the movement stirs a dull, lingering heat in your core.
“Carissime,” the familiar endearment pulls you fully from the fog of sleep, your heart skipping as you feel large hands seeking you out, pulling you into a broad chest that you recognize all too well.
“Marcus,” you croak, your throat burning with the effort, the rough sounds of earlier cries and screams still lingering in your vocal cords.
Your words devolve into a coughing fit, and Marcus shifts immediately, reaching over to flick on the lamp beside the bed.
Warm light floods part of the room, making you squint and illuminating his strong features, softened with concern as he hands you a glass of water he must have prepared.
“Drink.”
You gulp the water down greedily, the coolness soothing your parched throat. When the glass is empty, you lower it shakily, only for Marcus to take it from your hands and set it aside.
His hand slides to your back, stroking it in slow, deliberate circles.
“What…” you start, your thoughts tangled, unsure where to begin.
Marcus hushes you, tipping your chin up with his thumb and forefinger, his dark eyes boring into yours. “You made a mess of things, you know that, right?”
You can only stare at him, your lips parting in confusion as he holds your gaze captive.
“You know I don’t like sharing,” he continues, his voice deceptively gentle. “And you still went out and found some other dick to hop on... Not just with anyone, either, but with Lucius.” His lips curl into a wry smile, almost amused at the irony.
The mention of your other lover makes your heart race.
“My sweet girl,” Marcus goes on, stroking your thigh beneath the sheets with his free hand. “This is my fault, really. For not prioritizing you the way I should have.”
There’s a flicker of guilt in his expression, but it vanishes as quickly as it appears. “But it could never be that way. You know this. I told you from the start I’d never put you at the forefront. And I meant it.”
His words sting, soft though they are, and tears prick at the corners of your eyes. You don’t know where he’s leading this conversation, but it feels like he’s holding your heart right in the palm of his hand.
“I convinced the boy to keep our secret,” Marcus continues, his thumb brushing against your lower lip as he watches you intently. “But you’re too much of a temptation to keep around. I should fire you. Let you go.”
Your breath catches, panic surging momentarily until his hand moves higher, cupping your cheek.
“But I’m a selfish man that craves your cunt,” he admits, his lips curling in a predatory smirk. “Your mouth. Your body.”
His hand presses firmer against your thigh, as if to emphasize his claim, while his thumb continues its tantalizing stroke over your lip.
“So I’m—we’re—keeping you around,” Marcus declares, the weight of his decision settling heavily in the space between you.
You should feel insulted, degraded even. But instead, the ache between your legs throbs with want, remembering how he and Lucius took you apart.
“It’s the only way I can make this work without losing you. It’ll kill me to know you’ll roll around in bed with him, but it’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make to keep seeing your beautiful face every day. To keep my share of the firm.”
So this is what it’s all about—it isn’t about love, it’s about men and their entitlement, their rivalry, their need to possess and control.
Marcus tilts his head, studying you as if waiting for your response. “That is, if you want it,” he adds. “I have no interest in keeping you here against your will.”
The opening is there—the chance to leave this mess behind. To reclaim some shred of dignity and walk away from the entanglement of lust and rivalry these men represent.
But then the delicious ache in your body pulls at you, reminding you of how good it felt to have both of them claim you, how intoxicating it is to be the center of their desire, their depravity.
You don’t ask about his wife or any of that other bullshit. Instead, your lips curve into a saccharine smile, and you nod, your voice steady despite the chaos in your mind.
“I want this,” you say simply.
Marcus’s eyes darken with satisfaction, his smirk growing as he cups your face and kisses you—messy and bruising, claiming you once more.
If you’re a bad person for choosing this, then so be it. Bad people always find their place, and yours is right here, tangled in their dangerous games.
#pedro pascal#pedro pascal fanfiction#pedro pascal smut#pedro pascal characters#marcus acacius#general acacius#marcus acacius fic rec#marcus acacius one shot fic rec#lucius verus#lucius verus fic rec#lucius verus one shot fic rec
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First Date? Part 4
it's finally here!!! she's a long one pookies i apologise so grab your popcorn!! also warnings !! no explicit smut, but contains very sexually implicit context so 18+ only!
Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3
All my work here :)
❅.⊹₊ ⋆❆‧⋆☃︎❅.⊹₊ ⋆❆‧⋆☃︎❅.⊹₊ ⋆❆‧⋆☃︎
Since your fight with Joel—though calling it that didn’t feel right, not with all the unspoken weight hanging between you—it seemed like an uneasy truce had settled. It wasn’t something you talked about, and it wasn’t something either of you dared name. But there was something different now, something that felt like slow, careful mending, like stitching a torn seam with hands that weren’t sure they could hold steady. The mess with Tiffany and Toby felt distant now, like a shadow cast by someone else’s life.
But even still—today was different. You felt it in your bones, a tension that twisted sharp and restless in your chest as you stood in the stables, readying Winnie. Your hands moved out of habit—tightening straps, adjusting saddlebags—but your mind was somewhere else, stuck on the way Joel had stood silently beside you, checking his rifle with that same quiet intensity.
This patrol wasn’t routine. You weren’t headed to the outskirts of town or to some half-cleared route. This was farther—farther than you’d ever gone. The task was simple enough on paper: sweep a remote lodge and its surrounding area, catalog supplies, bring back anything Jackson could use. Tools, medicine, ammo. It didn’t matter. If it could help, you took it.
But nothing about today felt simple.
You could handle the infected—there was something almost methodical about their terror. A pattern to their madness. A predictability to their hunger. You’d learned how to read them, how to anticipate the movement of their broken bodies like reading the lines on a map. That small sliver of control made it easier to push through the fear.
But men? Men were different. Men could be quiet in their cruelty, their malice deliberate and personal. There was no pattern to their violence. No way to predict what they might do or who they might become when the world showed them it no longer held consequences. You’d seen it before—too many times to count—and the thought of it made something curl tight in your stomach.
The water crisis was worsening, stretching everyone dangerously thin. Resources were depleted, manpower spread too far, and urgency growing like a storm cloud on the horizon. Normally, a task like this would demand at least four, maybe five people—more hands, more eyes, more safety in numbers. But now, it was just you two.. Joel hadn’t said it outright, but you knew—he wouldn’t be taking you out this far unless there was no other choice.
Now, he stood across from you, his presence filling the quiet of the stable like a shadow that had always been there, steady and immovable. The faint light leaking through the wooden slats fell unevenly across him, catching on the lines of his face and the tousled disarray of his hair—soft in a way that clashed with the sharp edge of his gaze.
His arms were crossed tight over his chest, a tension in his posture that told you everything you needed to know: this wasn’t routine. This mattered.
“Alright,” Joel started, his voice low, the rough timbre of it carrying the weight of every unspoken warning. “This ain’t a normal sweep. It’s an overnight run—further out than we’ve gone. We can’t afford to mess around.”
His words landed heavy, final, cutting through the stale air of the stable. The rhythmic rasp of the brush in your hand was the only answer at first, the quiet sweep against Winnie’s coat grounding you more than you cared to admit. You paused mid-stroke, the bristles hovering just above her flank as your gaze drifted back to Joel, lingering longer than it should have.
“I understand,” you said finally, breaking the silence. You gestured toward the modest bag slung over your shoulder, forcing your voice to sound even. “I packed light. Just extra clothes, some rations. Not much else.”
Joel’s gaze flickered down to the bag, his brow furrowing slightly as though he were running calculations in his head—weight, distance, the chances you’d both make it back in one piece. He nodded, short and curt, but didn’t look away, his eyes lingering like he was searching for something he hadn’t quite found.
“Good,” he said at last, his tone clipped and matter-of-fact. “You don’t want more than you can run with.”
It sounded practical enough on the surface—just another piece of advice, one of the many Joel had given you over the years. But something about the way he said it made the words land differently, like they carried more than just instruction. No more than you can run with.
Joel took the brush from your hand with a movement that was firm but not rough, his calloused fingers grazing yours for the briefest moment before he set it aside. There was no room for softness now, not with what lay ahead. He stepped closer, close enough that the space between you felt tight, close enough that the faint scent of him—leather, woodsmoke, something unmistakably Joel—crowded your senses. His voice cut through the quiet, low and clipped, each word carved out with purpose. “Say it back.” His arms crossed tightly over his chest, his stance unyielding.
The demand hung in the air, sharp and immovable.
You exhaled sharply, the weight of his voice pressing down like a hand on your chest. The words were bitter on your tongue, a promise he’d drilled into you too many times this morning. Your gaze flicked to Winnie, as if the horse might somehow pull you out of this moment, but her dark eyes watched you, unbothered and unmoved, a silent witness to the tension that hung between you.
Still, Joel waited. His stare was relentless, pinning you in place like a blade to a board.
“I listen to what you say,” you murmured finally, the words quiet but clear. You swallowed hard, your throat tight. “If we’re in danger, I…” The rest of it caught, refusing to come. Your chest ached with the effort of holding onto it, of refusing to let the final piece fall, but Joel didn’t waver.
“Go on.”
His voice was gentler now, but that only made it worse—like it cost him something to say it, too.
You forced yourself to look at him, meeting those dark, unrelenting eyes. The words slipped out like splinters, each one sharper than the last. “I leave you and go get help.”
The silence that followed was suffocating, broken only by the soft sound of Joel’s boots shifting against the straw. He stepped even closer, the crunch of it grounding and disorienting all at once. When he stopped, there wasn’t much space left between you, and the line of his jaw was tight, like he was holding back more than he wanted to say.
“And?”
It was one word, soft but unyielding, heavy with the weight of everything unsaid.
Your shoulders stiffened, rebellion sparking somewhere deep inside you. You hated this—you hated him for making you say it, for forcing you to promise something you weren’t sure you could give. But Joel was staring at you with that steady intensity of his, like he could see right through you to the parts you tried to bury.
“And I don’t argue,” you bit out, the resistance lacing your voice clear despite your best efforts to hide it. The words tasted bitter, your jaw clenching so tightly you thought it might snap.
Joel’s gaze stayed on you, unwavering. For a moment, neither of you spoke, the tension in the air coiling tighter and tighter. “That last part’s not negotiable,” he said, his voice low but razor-sharp. “Out there, you listen. You don’t think twice. You don’t second-guess. Not if it’s between your life and mine.”
“I know, Joel,” you murmured, your voice small and subdued.
“Do you?” he pressed, his voice rough and edged with something that wasn’t just frustration. It was sharper, heavier, laced with the kind of urgency that came from experience—from loss.
“Do you really get it? Because this ain’t just somethin’ I’m sayin’ to piss you off.” He stopped, just shy of touching you, his eyes burning into yours as though the sheer force of his stare could make you understand. “If somethin’ happens out there, you don’t get to argue. You don’t get to waste time thinkin’ you know better.” His voice dipped lower, softer, but no less intense. “You leave. You get help. You survive. That’s the deal.”
The bluntness of it hit like a blow, scraping against every fragile edge you’d been trying to hold together. Your throat tightened, your pulse stuttering beneath the weight of his words. You looked away, the floor suddenly far more interesting than Joel’s face, his eyes too sharp, too knowing. “I get it,” you whispered, the words barely audible, the tremor in your voice betraying you.
Joel’s silence was heavy, stretching like a thin wire between you, so taut it felt ready to snap. You braced yourself for more, for another sharp command or a biting remark, but when he spoke again, it was quieter. Gentler.
“I’m not sayin’ it to be mean,” he murmured, his voice steady now, stripped of its earlier edge. “I’m sayin’ it because I need to know you’ll make it back. That’s all.”
The quiet plea in his words was enough to make you look up, your gaze meeting his again despite yourself. Joel didn’t beg. He didn’t plead. Hell, he barely asked for anything. But here he was, asking—with words, with that rawness he rarely allowed to show.
Your chest ached with something unnameable as you swallowed hard, steadying your voice. “I’ll make it back,” you said, stronger this time, every word laced with quiet resolve. “I promise.”
For a long, tense moment, Joel held your gaze. His eyes searched yours, looking for cracks, for hesitation, for anything that might betray you.
Finally, he nodded, slow and gruff, the tension in his shoulders easing—just enough to make you breathe a little easier. “Alright,” he muttered, stepping back and motioning toward Winnie. “Let’s get movin’.”
The spell broke, but something lingered in the space between you as you climbed into the saddle. Joel mounted his own horse without another word, and the two of you rode out into the chill of the early morning, the sky painted pale with dawn.
The cold bit at your skin, sharp and merciless, but it wasn’t the wind that made your hands tremble around the reins. It was the fear that burrowed deep and refused to let go.
Fear of what might happen out there.
Fear of what it would mean to live in a world where Joel didn’t come back.
─── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ───
The hours stretched endlessly as you and Joel rode through the dense, untamed woods. The silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable, but it carried a certain gravity—a weight that seemed to echo in the hushed whispers of the forest. No one from Jackson had ventured this far in years, and the wildness of the terrain felt as much a challenge as it did a threat.
He rode ahead, his shoulders broad and sturdy beneath the leather of his jacket, his frame bent slightly forward with the kind of quiet focus that only came from years of surviving. His sharp eyes never stopped moving—darting between the overgrown trail and the treeline, watching, waiting, always searching for something he’d never let take him by surprise.
Occasionally, his voice broke the stillness—gravelly and low, delivering a curt instruction or muttering an observation. Each word, clipped and measured, was so distinctly Joel that it filled the silence in a way that steadied you, though you couldn’t explain why.
“We’ll stop here,” Joel said abruptly, reining in his horse. “They’re tired.”
You glanced down at Winnie, her steps sluggish and uneven, her breaths heavier now, her coat dark with sweat. Concern flickered through you, and you leaned forward to press a soft kiss against the side of her neck. “Good job girl,” you whispered gently, your voice low and soothing.
When you looked up, Joel was watching. His gaze lingered, flickering with something that disappeared too quickly for you to catch, before he dismounted in one fluid motion. His boots hit the dirt with a thud that seemed louder than it should have been in the stillness, and he reached for his pack, already untying supplies from the saddle.
Sliding off your horse, your legs hit the ground stiff and aching from hours in the saddle. You stretched briefly, then sank down against the nearest tree, your back pressing into its rough bark. As you settled, a soft groan slipped free, the ache in your muscles easing just slightly. The earth beneath your boots felt unfamiliar, solid and strange after so long riding, but the air here—cooler, gentler beneath the shade of towering oaks—was a quiet relief. You closed your eyes, leaning fully into the tree, letting the hush of the woods settle over you.
When you opened them, Joel was close by as he sorted through supplies.
“Water.” His voice broke the quiet, low and rough as he held a canteen out toward you without looking up. The canteen was cool against your fingers as you took it, your throat burning with relief as you drank. “Thanks,” you murmured, handing it back. You had your own water in your pack—he knew that—but still, he offered you his, as if yours were somehow too precious to waste, as if the effort to keep you going outweighed his own needs.
Joel didn’t answer right away. He capped the canteen and stood, his gaze moving over the clearing with that practiced vigilance you’d come to rely on. And then, just for a moment, his eyes landed on you.
“You cold?” he asked suddenly, his tone flat but edged with something softer. “Too hot?”
You shook your head lightly, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “I’m fine,” you replied softly, though your chest felt tight at the way he was watching you, like he needed to see the answer, not just hear it.
He’s sweet, you thought, the words catching on something tender and fragile inside you, something you couldn’t quite name. It was the way his care came without flourish, without asking for anything in return, that made it linger—made it ache. It wasn’t fair, the way he did this, leaving pieces of himself in small gestures that stayed with you long after.
Joel’s gaze lingered a moment longer, his brow furrowing slightly like he wasn’t entirely convinced. “Alright,” he muttered, more to himself than to you.
─── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ───
The woods were quieter here, almost serene. You stood, brushing the dirt and stray leaves from your pants, and let your gaze wander. The afternoon light filtered through the dense canopy, painting the forest floor in patches of gold and green. It was breathtaking in a way that made your chest ache—a fleeting moment of untouched wilderness, fragile and rare. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d seen something so still, so utterly removed from the chaos of survival.
Joel was nearby, crouched low, fussing with his rifle. His brow was furrowed in that familiar look of concentration, the kind of focus that made the rest of the world fall away. He hadn’t spoken in a while, his attention entirely consumed by the task at hand, and for a moment, you let yourself watch him—drawn to the way his hands moved, precise and practiced, the lines of his face set in a look of quiet determination that you knew well.
Your attention drifted, though, drawn to something else—a cluster of dark, plump berries growing just a few feet away. They stood out against the underbrush, rich and inviting. Curiosity tugged at you, pulling you closer. You wandered over, crouching down and plucking a small handful, the berries cool and smooth as you rolled them between your fingers.
“Hmm,” you murmured, holding them up to the light. A smile tugged at your lips, you raised one halfway to your mouth, your tone light as you added, “Yummy.”
“Stop.”
Joel’s voice cut through the stillness like a gunshot—sharp, commanding.
You froze, the berry hovering inches from your lips. His head snapped toward you, his rifle abandoned as he stood, moving toward you with a purposeful stride that made the leaves crunch like brittle glass beneath his boots.
“What?” you asked, blinking up at him, startled by the intensity etched into his features.
“Show me.” His tone left no room for argument.
You sighed, shooting him an exasperated look before opening your palm, the berries resting innocently there. Joel crouched slightly, his shadow falling over you as he inspected them, his sharp gaze narrowing like they were a threat to be neutralized.
“Open your mouth,” he said suddenly, his voice low but firm.
You pulled back slightly, incredulous. “Seriously?”
His glare flicked to yours, and you realized he was serious.
“Fine,” you muttered, sticking your tongue out in a dramatic show of obedience. “Ahh,” you said, exaggerating it, hoping it might earn you some amusement.
It didn’t. Joel just stared at you, his jaw tight, the muscle there ticking as though he was fighting to keep a lid on something darker, something far less restrained. His gaze lingered a beat too long on your tongue, the way you’d held it out for him without hesitation, obedient to his command. The air between you seemed to thicken, charged with a tension that left his thoughts wandering where they shouldn’t—where they couldn’t—imagining that same mouth, soft and ready, offering him something far more intimate. His hand twitched at his side, as if warring with the urge to reach for you, to feel the warmth of your skin beneath his touch.
“Good. Now throw ’em out,” he said, the gruffness in his voice doing little to disguise the way he avoided looking at you as he turned away.
“What?” You gawked at him, utterly indignant. “Joel, they’re blueberries. They’re not gonna kill me.”
His arms crossed over his chest, his stare harder than stone. “Could be poison berries. They look the same. You don’t know the difference, so don’t pretend you do. Toss ’em.”
You held his glare for a moment, your fingers curling defensively around the berries, but there was no arguing with Joel when he looked at you like that. With a dramatic sigh, you dropped the berries, watching them tumble unceremoniously to the ground.
“Happy?” you muttered, brushing your hands off against your pants.
Joel didn’t answer right away. He adjusted the strap of his rifle over his shoulder, his gaze flicking briefly to the trees before landing back on you. “Stay close,” he said, his voice gruff, tinged with that familiar note of exasperation. Then, quieter, muttering more to himself than you, “Do I gotta put a leash on ya or somethin’ to keep you outta trouble?”
The words were barely out of his mouth before you snorted, the laughter escaping before you could stop it. A grin tugged at your lips as you leaned against a nearby tree, playful mischief alight in your eyes. “You’d love that, wouldn’t you?” you teased, your voice dipping low, your tone laced with challenge. The insinuation hung there, bold and undeniable, a spark igniting the air between you.
Joel froze, his body going rigid. For a heartbeat, he didn’t move, didn’t breathe, his expression stuck somewhere between surprise and frustration. His jaw worked, his teeth grinding faintly as he glanced at you, then away, then back again—like he was trying to find words that refused to come.
And then, it happened. The faintest flush crept up his neck, blooming at the collar of his shirt and spreading up to the tips of his ears. He swallowed thickly, his gaze dropping to the forest floor like the answer might be buried there.
“Christ,” he muttered, his voice low and rough, almost a growl.
You watched him turn sharply, shoulders squared as he moved back to his things, muttering something under his breath that you couldn’t quite catch. The corners of your mouth curled up as you pushed off the tree, following after him with a bounce in your step that hadn’t been there before.
Joel didn’t look back, but his ears were still red.
─── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ───
The sound of the horses’ hooves echoed steadily beneath you, a rhythmic cadence that seemed to sync with the pounding of your heartbeat. The trail had narrowed as the hours dragged on, with Joel riding ahead of you, his broad shoulders cutting an imposing figure against the dimming light. The trees on either side stood like silent sentinels, their shadows stretching longer and darker as the sun dipped lower. The sunlight, once warm and golden, now barely pierced through the dense canopy, casting everything in muted shades of green and gray.
Every rustle of leaves or sudden snap of a branch had your hand twitching instinctively toward your weapon, your gaze darting into the underbrush as if the trees might shift and reveal something waiting there. Unease clung to you, winding tight in your chest and mingling with the steady rhythm of the ride.
“You’re quiet,” Joel’s voice cut through the oppressive silence, low and rough, like gravel against steel.
The sound startled you, yanking you sharply out of your thoughts. You blinked, your grip on the reins tightening for just a moment before your gaze lifted to his back. He sat tall in the saddle, his movements steady and sure as he guided his horse down the narrow path.
“So are you,” you shot back, your tone light but edged with something defensive. It was easier to focus on the banter than to acknowledge the gnawing knot of anxiety that had been building in your chest.
Joel huffed out a sound that was almost a chuckle, low and dry, the faintest tug of a smirk visible as he glanced back over his shoulder. “Yeah, well,” he said, his voice carrying just enough warmth to soften the bite, “I’m not the chatterbox.”
Any other day, you might’ve rolled your eyes. Maybe tossed a sharp quip back at him—something to tease out that rare flicker of dry humor.
But today, the woods felt heavier.
The isolation pressed too close, the silence too vast. Laughter felt out of place. Even the air seemed thinner, harder to pull into your lungs. You didn’t smile. Didn’t even try.
Joel noticed. Of course, he noticed.
Without a word, he tugged gently on his reins, slowing his horse until it fell into step beside yours. The sound of their hooves merged into one rhythm, steady and constant, but the quiet between you was anything but still.
He looked over at you then—really looked—his gaze dark and probing. Joel had a way of watching people that made it feel like he was peeling them apart, pulling back layers you’d much rather keep to yourself. His eyes flicked to your face, studying every shadow, every line of tension, and for a long moment, he didn’t say a word.
His voice broke through the suffocating quiet, softer now, gentler in a way that made your breath catch. “Hey.”
You hesitated, fingers tightening around the reins until your knuckles turned white, the leather biting into your palms. You didn’t want to look. Didn’t want him to see whatever it was clawing at the edges of your composure, threatening to spill over. But Joel’s voice—steady, unrelenting—left no room for refusal.
“Look at me.”
So you did.
And it hit you like a punch to the gut.
His eyes weren’t just steady—they were heavy with something raw, something stripped bare and unguarded that settled deep in your chest, stealing the air from your lungs. There was no mask this time, no shadow of distance in his expression. It was just Joel—staring at you, open and unhidden, and for once, you saw everything he wasn’t saying. Worry. Frustration. Something deeper, sharper, that you couldn’t name.
“Nothing’s gonna happen,” he said, the words slow and deliberate, carrying a weight that wrapped around you like armor. “You hear me? We’re fine. You’re fine.”
You wanted to believe him—God, you wanted to—but the creeping shadows in the trees, the silence that stretched too long, whispered otherwise. They sank their claws into your chest, cold and unshakable. “You don’t know that,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper.
Joel’s jaw flexed, his gaze hardening, though not at you. The muscle in his cheek ticked as he looked past you, scanning the treeline like he might fight off the invisible threat himself.
“I promise,” he said finally, his voice quieter but no less steady, each word deliberate, like he was forcing them out against his better judgment. His eyes met yours, unrelenting in their certainty, and for a moment, it felt like the whole world had narrowed to that look—like nothing else mattered but the weight of what he was saying.
Joel Miller didn’t make promises. Not like this. He knew better than anyone that the world didn’t care about promises, that it didn’t hesitate to tear them apart, leaving nothing but regret in their place. He’d learned that lesson too many times, carried the scars of it. Promises were dangerous—they were traps, liabilities in a world where survival demanded detachment.
But this wasn’t about logic, and it wasn’t about the world’s cruelty. It was about you. About the way fear clung to you, raw and unspoken, written in the tightness of your shoulders and the way your hands trembled just enough to make him notice. He couldn’t bear to let you sit in that fear alone, to let it eat away at you when he could say something—do something—to make it stop, even for a moment.
So he broke his rule. For you. Because you needed to hear it, even if he couldn’t control what came next. “Nothin’s gonna happen to you,” he said again, the quiet steel in his voice daring the world to prove him wrong, daring himself to make it true.
Your head shook instinctively, the words a hollow comfort, because the truth—the real, aching truth—had already slipped past your lips before you could stop it.
“I’m not worried about myself, Joel.”
His expression shifted, like you’d reached inside and knocked the breath out of him. The words sat heavy between you, tangled with everything you hadn’t said before now. Joel stilled, his fingers flexing against the reins as though he didn’t know what to do with them.
And for a moment, the silence stretched out again, but it wasn’t empty. It was thick—with fear, with understanding, with something else.
“Hey.” Joel’s voice softened, a quiet plea that pulled your eyes back to his. He leaned forward just slightly, his presence grounding you as he held your gaze like it was the only thing keeping you both steady. “Nothin’s gonna happen to me either. You hear me?” He let the words settle, his brow furrowing like he was daring you to disagree. “Neither of us.”
The quiet stretched again, but it felt different this time.
Safer.
Joel watched you, his eyes searching, patient, waiting until you gave him even the smallest nod, until the tension in your grip loosened just enough for him to see the edges of your fear start to soften.
“I’ll make you dinner when we’re back,” he said suddenly, his tone quieter now, almost teasing, the rough edges smoothed by something gentler. He leaned back slightly in his saddle, the faintest twitch of a smile tugging at his mouth—small, but real. “How’s that sound? I’ll even let you pick what I make. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
You nodded, the movement small but feeling monumental, like handing over a piece of yourself. Joel didn’t look away, his gaze holding yours, dark and steady. It wasn’t just a look—it was a promise, a quiet reassurance that he wasn’t going anywhere.
“Good girl,” he murmured, so soft it was almost lost to the stillness.
The words hit you like a spark catching fire, sudden and uncontainable. Your breath faltered, catching in your throat as heat flooded your cheeks, spreading like a slow, uncontrollable burn.
You felt it down to your bones, something raw and visceral that left you stunned, reeling. Joel must’ve noticed—how could he not?—but he didn’t say anything. Instead, his gaze lingered for one beat longer, the corner of his mouth twitching faintly before he nudged his horse forward.
“C’mon,” he said, his voice low, rough in that familiar way that grounded you, even now. His horse moved ahead, the steady rhythm of hooves against the earth filling the quiet he left behind.
You nudged Winnie forward, falling in line just behind him, your gaze lingering on the back of his broad shoulders, the steady rise and fall of his frame as he rode. The woods stretched endlessly ahead, the shadows still thick, the danger still lurking unseen—but for the first time, it didn’t feel so close.
You couldn’t explain it, not even to yourself, but it was there. The safety. The trust.
The quiet understanding that as long as Joel was there—this close—you would be ok.
─── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ───
The dense forest finally opened into a clearing, the trees pulling back to reveal a lodge at the edge of the horizon. The last rays of daylight stretched thin and golden across the landscape, pooling in the long shadows that crept toward the building. The lodge loomed, weathered and tired, its sagging wooden frame darkened by years of rain and neglect. It stood like a forgotten relic, its emptiness heavy, as if waiting for something—or someone—to disturb its silence.
Joel pulled his horse to a halt first. The shift in him was subtle but clear—the way his shoulders squared, his spine went ramrod straight, his jaw set in that way you’d come to know so well. He said nothing at first, his sharp eyes sweeping the clearing in a calculated rhythm, scanning for threats like he could feel something lurking just beyond the edge of sight. The air around you seemed to thicken, every rustling branch and distant creak amplified by the stillness.
“We’ll walk the rest,” Joel said finally, his voice low, the gruff edge leaving no room for discussion. Without waiting for your response, he swung off his horse, landing in a crouch with a practiced grace that belied his size.
You followed suit, sliding down from Winnie’s saddle. Your legs wobbled slightly, stiff and sore from the hours of riding, but you steadied yourself quickly, reaching for the straps of your pack. Before you slung it over your shoulder, your hand lingered on Winnie’s mane, your fingers brushing through the rough strands in slow, absent motions. There was something soothing about it—the rhythm, the warmth, the small bit of comfort she offered without knowing it.
“Bye, girl,” you whispered, the words hushed and raw, like you were leaving more behind than just your horse. Winnie let out a soft whinny, her dark eyes meeting yours with a quiet patience that settled somewhere deep in your chest, even as it made your throat tighten.
When you turned back, Joel was watching you. He stood a few steps ahead, the rifle slung across his back, his pack heavy over one shoulder. But it wasn’t the readiness of him that stopped you. It wasn’t the rifle or the sharp lines of his posture or even the way his fingers flexed restlessly at his side. It was his eyes.
There was something in them—something unspoken, unreadable, but unmistakably there. Worry, maybe. Or caution. Or something deeper. The amber light caught in their depths, softening the edges, but his gaze remained locked on you, unmoving.
Joel stepped closer, closing the space between you in an instant. The shift was so deliberate, so him, it made your breath catch. His hands came up to settle on your shoulders, grounding you with a steadiness that you didn’t know you needed until it was there. His grip was firm but not harsh, his palms rough against the fabric of your jacket, calloused from years of work and survival.
But it was the way his thumbs brushed the material—soft, fleeting, almost unconscious—that sent a shiver through you. A gesture so small, you might’ve missed it if you weren’t so attuned to him.
“Yes, Joel,” you said quickly, the frustration already seeping into your voice before he could even open his mouth. “I’ll do what you say.”
It wasn’t enough to satisfy him. His lips pressed into a hard line, the muscle in his jaw jumping as he studied you. He didn’t speak right away, and the silence between you became heavy, dense. His shoulders shifted just slightly, like he was bracing himself, and his eyes narrowed—not with anger, but with something closer to disbelief.
Like he didn’t trust you to listen. Like he couldn’t bear it if you didn’t.
He shook his head, the smallest motion, full of resignation. “Listen to me,” he said finally, his voice low and gravelly, a steady edge that made it clear he wasn’t giving you room to argue. “You follow me. You stay quiet. If I say run, you run. You take Winnie, and you leave. You don’t look back. Got it?”
You blinked, unable to speak, the weight of them clawing tight at your chest. Run. Leave.
The very thought of it felt like ice splintering through your veins. You couldn’t picture it—couldn’t imagine a world where you turned your back on him, where you left Joel behind in the dark while you ran ahead.
Your throat tightened painfully, and you shook your head, your voice cracking as you whispered, “Joel, I—”
“Got it?” he pressed, his voice soft but edged with steel. He stepped closer, close enough that the fire in his eyes became undeniable, that the space between you disappeared entirely. Joel had always been unyielding, but this? This was something more. A desperation failing to hide beneath the surface.
You swallowed hard, the words scraping against your throat like they didn’t belong there. “I’ll run,” you said finally, though it felt like a betrayal to even admit it aloud. “I’ll take Winnie. I’ll… leave.”
Joel didn’t respond right away. He just stood there, his eyes locked on yours with a searing intensity that made it hard to breathe. His gaze wasn’t just searching—it was prying, deliberate and unrelenting, peeling back the walls you’d built to keep yourself steady. And under it, you felt seen—exposed in a way you didn’t quite know how to protect yourself from.
Because he wasn’t looking at the stubborn mask you wore, the one you threw on when the world demanded you be strong. No, Joel was looking deeper, into that part of you that screamed a truth you refused to say aloud: You wouldn’t leave him. Not really. Not ever.
“Promise me,” Joel murmured, his voice rough but quiet, threaded with something you weren’t used to hearing from him. Not anger. Not frustration. Something worse. Something that cracked at the edges, barely holding together.
“Joel…” you started, your voice faltering, thin and soft like you might shatter right there.
“Promise me,” he said again, firmer this time, though it trembled just faintly at the edges. Like he was holding himself together by sheer force of will.
The ache in your chest deepened, spreading through every inch of you like a poison. He was breaking his own rules, showing too much, and it was undoing you piece by piece. Joel didn’t let his guard down. He didn’t falter. But here he was, standing in front of you like this—raw, exposed, and asking for something he needed.
Joel nodded slowly, his expression unreadable as he pulled his hands from your shoulders, the warmth of his touch lingering long after he adjusted the rifle slung over his shoulder. But his eyes—steady and unrelenting—gave him away. He didn’t believe you, not fully. You could see it in the way his gaze lingered, searching your face like he was trying to etch your promise into something solid, something he could hold onto when the time came.
You stayed rooted in place, frozen as you watched him move toward the lodge. Every step he took was deliberate, every turn of his head precise as he scanned the tree line, his hand hovering near his rifle. Ready for anything. Always ready.
And that’s what gutted you—truly gutted you—because you knew, with a clarity that scraped against your ribs like glass, that Joel wouldn’t hesitate. If it came down to you or him, he’d throw himself into the fire, step in front of the bullet, let his body be torn apart before he’d ever let harm come to you. And he’d do it without question. Without pause.
As you began following him, the words echoed in your head, unspoken but deafening. Don’t ask me to run, Joel. Don’t ask me to leave you behind. Each step felt heavier, the thought pressing against your chest like a weight you couldn’t shake. Because I won’t. I can’t.
You knew he felt it, even if neither of you said it aloud. He felt it in the way your pace never strayed, your steps falling in line just behind his, close enough that he could hear the faint crunch of leaves beneath your boots. He felt it in the way your breaths synced with his, steady but strained, like you were holding something back. He felt it in the moments you lingered too long when his gaze flicked over his shoulder to check on you, your eyes locking with his for a beat too long before darting away.
He felt it in the way your fingers clenched the strap of your pack, white-knuckled and trembling, as if anchoring yourself to the promise you hadn’t meant to make. In the way you hovered just behind his shadow, always there, always ready, like you were silently daring the world to try and take him from you.
And maybe that’s why he didn’t look back to meet your gaze.
Because he knew. Knew what you couldn’t bring yourself to say.
Knew the truth that tore at you with every step closer to the lodge—that no promise, no command, no amount of pleading would ever change it.
You’d rather die than leave him.
─── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ───
The lodge emerged from the shadows of the trees like a ghost, its silhouette jagged against the fading sky. Joel crouched low, signaling for you to do the same, his movements fluid and deliberate as he wove through the underbrush with the quiet confidence of someone who’d done this a hundred times before. You mirrored him without question, your weapon clutched tightly in your hands, though the prickling sensation crawling up your spine refused to settle.
The building was a monument to ruin—ivy clawed greedily at its sides, creeping through splintered boards and shattered windowpanes. The roof sagged under the weight of neglect, and its walls seemed to lean in on themselves, like they couldn’t bear the burden of holding anything upright anymore. Every creak of the structure, every shift of the wind, sent your pulse hammering against your ribs.
Joel moved closer, crouching low to inspect the ground near the lodge’s entrance. His fingers brushed over the dirt, scanning for prints or disturbances, but there was nothing—just layers of leaves and twigs undisturbed by anything more threatening than the wind. He glanced back at you, his expression unreadable but wary, before tilting his head toward the lodge.
You both edged forward, your eyes darting to the windows for movement, though the shattered panes reflected only the fading light. Joel stopped by a section of the wall, brushing aside ivy to check for signs of tampering or recent use, but the wood was damp and untouched.
He raised a hand, the gesture sharp and commanding, and you froze mid-step, holding your breath as his gaze swept the clearing with hawk-like precision.
Nothing stirred—not in the shadows, not in the lodge, not in the quiet woods that stretched around you like a living trap. Still, Joel’s hand hovered near his weapon, his muscles taut as he nodded for you to follow.
“Stay close,” he murmured, his voice low and deliberate, just loud enough for you to hear.
You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak, your breath shallow as you fell into step behind him.
The front door hung crookedly on rusted hinges, groaning in protest as Joel nudged it open with the barrel of his rifle. The sound scraped through the silence like a knife, too loud, too exposed, and you couldn’t stop the way your fingers tightened around your weapon.
Joel stepped inside first, his silhouette a wall of quiet strength against the dim light leaking through the cracks in the boards. You followed, forcing yourself to move with the same care, though your heart thundered loud enough that you swore he could hear it.
Inside, the lodge was a shell of its former self. Dust blanketed the warped floorboards, and the air hung heavy with mildew and rot. Furniture lay upturned and broken, a chair leg splintered like a bone. The stillness was oppressive, a silence so deep it felt wrong.
Joel stopped, raising his hand again—split up, the flick of his fingers said. Be careful.
You hesitated, your chest tightening as your eyes locked with his. You didn’t want to split up—he could see it, clear as day, in the way your gaze lingered, pleading silently even as your jaw set with determination. But you were a big girl. That’s why you were here. You were his partner, and partners pulled their weight, even if the fear inside you threatened to tear you apart.
Joel’s expression shifted, his own hesitation flickering just beneath the surface. For a moment, it looked like he might say it—that you could stick together, that he’d shoulder this for both of you. But before he could, you forced yourself to speak.
Joel held your stare for a second longer, his eyes sharp and searching, as if making sure you were ok. Finally, he gave a short nod and disappeared down the far hallway, his boots making the faintest creak against the wood.
Then he was gone, and you were alone.
You turned toward what looked like the kitchen, your steps slow, deliberate. Every movement felt amplified, the sound of your boots on the floorboards bouncing off the walls like a warning. The cabinets hung open, their hinges rusted and warped, shelves stripped bare save for a few unidentifiable cans buried under layers of dust. Drawers yawned empty, their contents long since ransacked, and the grime clinging to the countertops filled the air with a damp, sour tang that made your nose wrinkle.
You pressed on, your breathing shallow as you opened door after door, each creak of the hinges slicing through the silence like a threat. Each room you entered felt like it was holding its breath, waiting for something to pounce the moment you let your guard down. But all you found were shadows and decay.
When you stepped back into the main room, your heart thudded as Joel appeared from the opposite hallway, his rifle still raised, his shoulders squared and tense. His sharp gaze swept the room first, scanning every corner, lingering a second too long as if he expected something to emerge from the shadows. Finally, his eyes found yours.
“Clear,” you whispered, your voice tight but steady, the tension in your chest easing just slightly under the weight of his presence.
Joel nodded once, his reply a low murmur. “Same here. No signs of infected or raiders.”
The stiffness in his shoulders loosened—just a fraction—but it was enough for you to catch. He lowered his rifle, the grip of his hand softening, though his gaze stayed sharp, cutting through the dim light as he glanced toward the darker corners of the lodge. The faint furrow in his brow lingered, betraying the quiet calculations still turning behind his eyes.
“Alright,” he said finally, his voice quieter but no less commanding. “Grab what you can. Then we move.”
You didn’t argue. There was no room for debate, just the quiet understanding that lingered between the two of you. With a sharp nod, you turned back toward the shadowed remnants of the lodge, splitting up again, each step deliberate as you scoured opposite sides for anything that might help you survive.
The finds were sparse but not useless. In the back of a closet, buried beneath a heap of moth-eaten fabric, your fingers brushed over something cool and familiar. You pulled out a small, dusty box of bandages—the edges frayed, but the contents inside still sealed and intact. “Bingo,” you murmured, though the sound barely broke the silence. In a drawer, you found a small box of ammo, the label faded but legible, and a pair of rusted scissors, their edges dulled but still functional with some effort.
Across the room, Joel worked with practiced efficiency. He knelt, his hand closing around something tucked behind a fallen shelf. Holding it up to the faint light filtering through the shattered windows, he revealed a hunting knife, its blade dulled with age but still capable of damage. Joel turned it over once in his hands, inspecting it with his sharp, calculating eye before tucking it into his pack without a word.
You met back in the main room, the eerie silence of the lodge pressing in around you.
“Not bad,” Joel said when he found you again, his voice steady and grounding, cutting through the quiet like a steady anchor. He turned a wrench over in his hands, the faint light glinting off the tarnished metal as he inspected it, then stowed it with the tools he’d collected. “Could’ve been worse.”
His eyes flicked to your pack. “What’d you find?” he asked, nodding toward it.
“Bandages, some ammo, scissors,” you shrugged, shifting the weight of your pack slightly. “Not a lot, but…”
“Good job,” Joel interrupted, his tone gruff but sincere. The simple words settled something in your chest, the heaviness easing just slightly as he gave a brief nod.
“Alright,” he said, his gaze shifting to the staircase that loomed ahead, its warped wood groaning faintly under the weight of the silence. “I’m gonna check upstairs quickly. You stay here—I’ll be ten minutes tops.”
“Okay,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.
His eyes landed on you then, steady and searching, and you felt yourself stand a little straighter without realizing it. It wasn’t a look that checked for injuries or exhaustion—it went deeper, something quieter, something anchoring. His gaze carried a weight that pressed against you gently, like he was grounding you in a way words never could. It made the world seem to pause, holding its breath for just a moment.
“You alright?” he asked, his voice dropping lower, the gravel softened by a note of concern he didn’t manage to hide in time. It wasn’t forced, wasn’t just protocol—it was real, slipping through the cracks of his usual guarded demeanor.
You hesitated. “Yeah,” you said quickly, nodding. It wasn’t a full lie—you were fine enough. But there was something about the lodge, the way the air felt wrong, like it wasn’t meant to be this quiet. It stayed with you, tugging at the edges of your nerves. Still, the steadiness in Joel’s gaze was enough to hold you upright, to keep the words from cracking. “Yeah. I’m alright.”
Joel’s eyes lingered on you a moment longer, his brow furrowing just slightly, like he didn’t quite believe you but didn’t see the use in pressing further. He gave a small, tight nod. “I’m here,” he said simply, like it was a promise—because it was. It always was.
Before you could answer, Joel turned toward the stairs, his boots creaking softly against the worn wood as he began to ascend, his figure fading into the dim shadows above. You stood there, rooted in place, your fingers tightening instinctively around your weapon.
The lodge still felt wrong.
The air still felt thick.
The room too quiet.
─── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ───
You stood planted for a few minutes, your ears straining to track the faint sound of Joel’s footsteps overhead as he maneuvered through the rooms. The steady rhythm of his movements was oddly comforting, a reminder that you weren’t completely alone in this place. Still, the unease gnawed at you, curling tighter in your chest with every creak of the old wood.
You sighed, turning reluctantly. If you were waiting, you might as well keep looking for something useful.
As you moved deeper into the lodge, the air seemed heavier, like the walls themselves were pressing in. Your boots crunched softly over the debris littering the floor, your eyes scanning each corner with wary precision. A collapsed shelf caught your attention, leaning crookedly against the far wall, its splintered remains scattered like an afterthought. But it wasn’t the mess that made you pause—it was what was behind it.
A door.
Half-hidden, almost like it didn’t want to be found. The frame was warped, its paint chipped and peeling, the edge barely visible against the shadows.
You froze for a heartbeat, instincts tugging at you, warning you to wait for Joel. To call him. To let him take point, like he always did. But something—curiosity, stubbornness, or maybe just the restless hum of adrenaline in your veins—made you step closer instead. Your hand brushed the debris aside, and the door groaned faintly as it gave way under your touch.
A rush of stale, frigid air met you, sharp and sudden, crawling against your skin like unseen fingers. You swallowed hard as your gaze fell to the narrow staircase leading down into the basement. It was steep, shrouded in darkness, the light from above barely brushing the first few steps. Something about it felt wrong, ancient in its silence, like the lodge itself had buried it for a reason.
You lingered there, the weight of uncertainty pinning you in place. You could turn back. Go find Joel.
Just a look, you thought, forcing yourself to believe it.
Your fingers curled around the grip of your weapon, the metal cold and grounding against your palm. You took the first step down. The wood creaked under your weight, loud enough that you winced. Quiet, you told yourself. Be quiet.
The silence was unbearable, so thick and oppressive it almost buzzed in your ears. Without realizing it, you began to hum softly under your breath—a faint, wavering melody that meant nothing and everything, a trick to steady your pulse and force the tension back into something manageable.
Then you heard it.
Voices.
They slipped through the darkness, muffled and low, with an edge to them that turned your blood to ice. You stopped cold, your breath catching in your throat as your heart slammed hard against your ribs. You couldn’t make out the words, but they were unmistakably human. Not infected—humans. That realization did nothing to settle the nausea twisting in your gut. If anything, it made it worse.
You strained to hear, your head tilting slightly, every muscle in your body coiled tight. The voices were distorted by the walls and distance, but they were close. Too close. Your grip on your weapon tightened until your knuckles ached, sweat slicking your palms.
Turn back.
The warning flashed through your mind like a flare in the dark, but you didn’t move. Couldn’t. You flattened yourself against the wall, your breath shallow, your pulse thudding like a war drum in your chest. Slowly, carefully, you peered around the edge of the doorway, and there they were.
Three men stood clustered near a ring of dim lanterns, their shadows stretching long and jagged against the crumbling basement walls. The tallest of the three—a wiry figure with gaunt cheeks and a scar bisecting his right brow—commanded the space, his voice cutting through the stillness like the scrape of a blade against bone.
“She was a fuckin’ bitch,” he spat, his knife twirling restlessly between his fingers. The blade caught the flickering light, winking like a predator’s eye. His movements were sharp, erratic, as though violence lingered just beneath his skin, waiting for an excuse to break free. “Got what was comin’ to her.”
“Jesus, Tom,” the broad one muttered, his voice a low, gravelly drawl. He leaned against the wall with a forced laziness, one hand brushing the edge of the handgun strapped at his hip. Everything about him—his stretched vest, his patchy beard, the sneer that seemed permanently carved into his face—radiated menace. Even his stillness felt dangerous, like the coiled pause before a snake strikes. “That was your girlfriend.”
“Ex,” Tom snapped, his voice dripping venom, the scar over his brow twisting with his sneer. “Skank.”
The youngest of the group lingered just outside the lantern’s glow, his presence twitchy and uncertain. His rifle was clutched tightly to his chest, the whites of his knuckles visible against the stock, his eyes darting constantly toward the shadows as though they might swallow him whole. He wasn’t built for this. You could see it in the slump of his shoulders, in the way he flinched every time Tom’s knife flashed.
“How far’s the settlement?” the kid asked finally, his voice thin and hesitant, as if he already feared the answer.
Your stomach dropped like a stone. Jackson.
“A few hours,” Tom said, flicking his knife toward some vague point in the distance, his tone dismissive, almost bored. “If we don’t hit any patrols.”
The broad man scratched his beard, considering. His sneer deepened into something uglier, the edges curling with grim satisfaction. “They’ve got guards,” he said, the words slow and deliberate, as though he were savoring them. “Ain’t no easy pickings. We wait. Arm the rest of the crew first. Then we hit ‘em.”
The floor felt like it shifted under your feet. Ice pooled in your veins, spreading outward until you couldn’t feel your fingertips wrapped white-knuckled around your weapon. They weren’t scavengers. They weren’t drifters looking for a warm corner or forgotten scraps. These men were here for blood.
Jackson—your home —was in their sights.
The kid shifted uncomfortably, his boots scuffing against the concrete. “You sure this is a good idea?” he muttered. “We don’t know what they’ve got. What if it’s more than we can—”
Tom rounded on him in an instant, the knife snapping to a stop in his hand. The kid flinched as Tom stepped close, his scar twisting with his sneer. “What, you scared?” he hissed. “Gonna piss your pants, kid? You signed up for this, remember? Or you wanna end up like the bitch we left back there?”
The kid’s throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, his knuckles somehow tightening even more on his rifle. “No,” he murmured. “I’m good.”
Tom turned away, a sharp, bitter laugh escaping his lips. “That’s what I thought.”
Your heart hammered so loudly you swore they could hear it. You couldn’t stay here—couldn’t listen to another second. The world around you narrowed to the single, desperate thought pounding through your mind.
Get out. Find Joel.
You moved, forcing yourself back a step, slow and deliberate. Another step. The floor beneath your boots creaked—loud, impossibly loud—and your breath caught in your throat.
The kid’s head snapped up. “Did you hear that?”
Shit.
You froze, pressing yourself hard into the shadows, your pulse so frantic it was a miracle you didn’t pass out right then.
The broad man sighed, disinterested. “Probably rats. Place like this, I’m surprised we ain’t wading through ‘em.”
Tom grunted, but his gaze lingered on the dark edges of the room for a beat too long before he turned back to his knife, twirling it once more. “We move at first light,” he said flatly, his voice sharp as flint. “Get some sleep. You’ll need it.”
They didn’t notice you. Somehow, they didn’t notice.
You exhaled shakily, forcing yourself up another step. And then another. Every nerve screamed at you to run, but you couldn’t risk it—not yet. You climbed the stairs, each step a slow, deliberate fight against panic.
When you reached the top, the cold air of the lodge hit you like a slap. You pushed the door closed with trembling hands, the sound of your breathing ragged in the stillness. For one long moment, you stood there, chest heaving, eyes wide as you fought to push down the panic clawing at your throat.
Find Joel.
That thought broke through the haze, sharp and clear. You exhaled slowly, steadying yourself, and turned back toward the main room. Each step felt deliberate, your movements careful as you attempted to stay as quiet as possible.
Joel. You needed to find Joel. Now.
─── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ───
Joel appeared out of the shadows like a ghost, his presence so sudden and silent that you didn’t register him until he was right there. “Hey,” he whispered, his voice low and startling in the suffocating quiet, his concern clear though he had no idea what you’d just witnessed.
You reacted instinctively—without thinking. Your hand shot out, fisting the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer with a force you didn’t know you possessed. The other hand pressed firmly over his mouth before he could say another word. Wide-eyed, trembling, you stared up at him, your silent plea screaming louder than any sound ever could.
Joel stilled. Completely. His body went rigid beneath your touch, but his gaze—sharp as ever—locked onto yours. His expression shifted as he took you in, reading you the way only Joel could: the panic in your eyes, the tremble in your shoulders, the urgency of your grip. Then, as if following some invisible thread, his eyes flickered over your shoulder, narrowing on the dark, half-open basement door.
The change in him was instant. His entire frame tensed, his jaw tightening until you swore you heard his teeth grind. The flicker of soft concern vanished, replaced by something colder, harder—Joel the protector, Joel with the sharp edges and the deadly calm.
“How many?” he mouthed, his lips barely moving, his eyes locked on yours.
You swallowed hard, your breath catching as your trembling hand rose slowly. Three fingers. Three.
He nodded once, sharp and precise. They see you? his expression asked, his brow lifting just enough to push the question.
You shook your head, the words stuck somewhere in your throat, fear silencing you.
Joel’s eyes sharpened, calculating. His hand shifted slowly toward his rifle, every movement deliberate, measured, a man preparing for war.
He didn’t need to speak—his body said it all. Calm. Controlled. Lethal.
He gestured sharply, flicking his hand toward the wall behind you—a command, clear as day. Get out of sight. His eyes pinned you, unyielding, daring you to argue. Let me handle this.
But your body didn’t move. You couldn’t move.
Your feet felt glued to the floor, your fingers twitching against the grip of your weapon, your chest so tight it hurt to breathe. The idea of Joel walking toward that basement alone—that black hole of danger—sent ice shooting through your veins.
Joel turned back just in time to see you still standing there, your eyes flicking between him and the door. His expression darkened like a storm cloud. He adjusted the strap of his rifle, the motion sharp, almost angry, before his voice cut through the quiet like a whip.
“No,” he said flatly, his tone brooking no argument. “You’re not coming.”
“Joel—” You didn’t mean for it to sound so small, so pleading.
His head snapped toward you, his glare pinning you in place like a physical force. “No,” he repeated, harsher now, his voice a low growl that reverberated in the small space. “You said you’d do what I told you. You promised.”
Your lip trembled as you looked at him, your fear laid bare in a way you couldn’t hide. It wasn’t for yourself—you knew that. It was him. The idea of Joel walking down there alone, of you standing helpless while something happened to him—it gutted you. You couldn’t let that happen.
Joel saw it. Of course, he saw it. His eyes flickered to the whiteness of your knuckles around your weapon, to the way your chest rose and fell in uneven breaths, the tears brimming but refusing to fall. His jaw tightened, his shoulders coiled like a wire pulled too tight, but when he exhaled, it wasn’t anger that bled through. It was something quieter, rawer—something meant for you alone.
“Stay here,” he said again, but this time, his voice had gentled, as though he knew he was asking for too much. He paused, and then—just as you thought he might turn and leave—he stepped closer.
Before you could process it, his hands were on your face—broad and calloused, cradling you as though you were made of glass but still the only thing keeping him steady.
His thumbs hovered, the faintest pressure brushing your cheeks, anchoring you, grounding you. His presence overwhelmed everything, the lodge, the danger—it all faded away until there was only Joel.
“No matter what you hear,” he murmured, his voice low and thick with something so desperate, it made your stomach turn. “You do not come down. You hear me?”
His eyes bored into yours, dark and unyielding, as if he could carve the command straight into your soul. It wasn’t just a warning—it was an order, sharp and desperate.
You nodded, small and mechanical, because your throat was too tight to speak. Your eyes burned, blurring the lines of his face, but you couldn’t look away.
Joel didn’t move. His fingers stayed where they were, his palms warm against your skin, and his brow furrowed like he was trying to memorize you. Like some part of him was begging for more time. Then his thumb traced your cheek—so soft, so fleeting that it almost didn’t feel real.
His next words fell like a blow.
“If I don’t come back…” Joel hesitated, his voice breaking like he hated every syllable he was forcing himself to say. His grip on you tightened—barely, but enough to steady himself. “You take Winnie. You leave.”
“Joel—” you choked out, the crack in your voice making him flinch, but he didn’t let you finish.
“You leave,” he repeated, the word a command, a plea, everything in between.
“You get back to Jackson, and you don’t stop. You don’t look back.”
He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he wrestled with something unspoken. “You don’t wait for me.”
You shook your head, the tears finally spilling over, hot and silent as they ran down your cheeks. “Don’t talk like that,” you whispered, the words trembling out of you.
Joel’s jaw clenched, his eyes squeezing shut for the briefest moment like he couldn’t bear the weight of you breaking right in front of him.
“Promise me,” he rasped, his voice like gravel, his words breaking apart with the effort it took to say them. “Promise me you’ll go.”
Your chest ached, torn apart by the desperation in his voice, by the way he held you like you were the only thing left in the world. You couldn’t breathe past the tightness in your throat, but somehow, you found the words. Barely.
“I promise,” you whispered, the lie slicing through you like a blade.
Joel stilled, his gaze lingering on you—memorizing you, you realized—until you thought the weight of it might crush you. His eyes were dark, burning with everything he couldn’t say, everything he wouldn’t allow himself to feel. It was more than care. More than duty. It was him, all of him, tangled up in that look like a confession carved into silence.
He pulled back just enough to let you go, his hands dropping away with a slowness that made your heart seize. It felt wrong, like he’d taken something with him when he stepped back.
And then, without another word, he turned. His shoulders squared, his rifle steady, every step deliberate and heavy as he moved toward the basement door. He looked invincible, unshakable, a fortress built to protect—but you saw it. You saw the way his steps faltered, just slightly, right before he disappeared from view.
It was so small, so fleeting, but you caught it—the hesitation. The doubt.
And when he was gone, swallowed by the dark, you were left with nothing but the sound of your pulse pounding in your ears, the echo of his voice, and the truth you couldn’t ignore
You’d made him a promise.
But you already knew you’d break it.
─── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ───
You stood frozen, your weapon clutched so tightly your knuckles ached, staring at the empty space where Joel had been just moments ago. Your breath hitched as your chest caved inward, a frustrated whisper escaping you before you could stop it. “Fuck,” you murmured, wiping the tear that streaked down your cheek.
The silence that followed was suffocating—thick, heavy, pressing against your skin until you felt like it might crush you.
You strained to hear something—anything—beyond the shallow rhythm of your breathing. A voice, the creak of a floorboard, the sharp crack of a rifle.
But there was nothing.
You trusted him. God, you trusted him. Joel was the sharpest, most capable man you’d ever known, his movements precise, his instincts lethal. If anyone could handle this—three men, armed, their voices dripping with cruelty—it was him. But trust didn’t stop the fear.
Your mind spiraled, unbidden. Joel alone in that basement, the shadows creeping too close. Joel outnumbered, surrounded. The scarred man’s knife glinting in the flickering lantern light. Joel going down, because you—because you—
No. You shook your head sharply, forcing the thought back. Joel had told you to stay. Had made you promise. You clung to the memory of his hands on your face, his words—steady, pleading—cutting through the fear like a tether.
“Stay here.”
And then it began.
The first shot shattered the silence like glass, the sound so sharp it felt like it had punched straight through your chest. You sucked in a ragged breath, squeezing your eyes shut as your mind filled in the image: Joel, calm, unflinching, taking the first man out with lethal precision.
Then came the shouting, frantic and chaotic, movement as they realized they weren’t alone. The second shot cracked through the air, echoing with brutal finality, followed by the clang of metal hitting concrete. A rifle? A knife? You didn’t know. Another one down.
Joel was fast. He was sharp. He was—
But then the rhythm changed.
The sounds turned messier, louder. Boots scraping. A grunt—low, pained. The thud of bodies colliding, struggling. Your blood ran cold. Every nerve in your body tensed as you heard it: Joel’s voice. A noise that was undeniably him—guttural, strained, torn from somewhere deep.
Stay here. Joel’s voice echoed in your head, the quiet plea from earlier ringing like a hammer against your skull. You owed him this. He’d trusted you with this. You’d promised.
But that sound—his sound—kept replaying in your head, pulling tighter around your throat, suffocating you. Joel was down there. Fighting. Alone. And you were here. Frozen.
No. Your feet moved before your mind could catch up, instinct screaming louder than any promise you’d made.
You couldn’t. You wouldn’t stay here while he fought for his life. If something happened to him—if you let something happen to him—you wouldn’t survive it.
The old stairs creaked under your weight as you descended, slow at first, your boots deliberate against the wood. But then your pace quickened, reckless and raw, urgency pushing you faster than reason could hold you back. Each sound below sharpened with terrifying clarity as you drew closer: the crash of something breaking, the thud of heavy footsteps, the ragged cadence of Joel’s breathing.
When you reached the bottom of the stairs, you flattened yourself against the wall, your breath coming in shallow, uneven bursts. The cold concrete pressed hard against your back, grounding you even as your mind screamed at you to move, to act. Slowly, you edged around the corner, just enough to see—and the sight that met you stopped your heart cold.
Joel was locked in a brutal, desperate struggle with Tom, the leader. The raider’s knife gleamed wickedly in the dim lantern light, a wicked arc of steel that seemed to catch the room’s shadows and pull them with it. Tom lunged, his aim sharp and merciless, the blade slicing toward Joel’s ribs. Joel twisted at the last second, his hand snapping out like a vice to clamp around Tom’s wrist, halting the strike before it could land.
The two of them slammed into the wall with a thud that reverberated through the basement, bodies straining, muscles coiled like springs ready to snap. Joel deflected the knife again, his forearm cracking hard against Tom’s, the impact loud and jarring. But Tom was quick—too quick—and he broke free with a snarl, his lip curled into something vicious and ugly.
“Come on, old man,” Tom taunted, his voice drenched in mockery, his grin sharp and mean. “What’s the matter? Can’t keep up?”
Joel didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.
His focus was absolute, his movements deliberate, honed by years of surviving men just like this. But you could see the wear creeping in—the slight falter in his step, the way his breath came shorter, sharper. The next swing of the knife was too quick, too cruel. It slashed across Joel’s side, the tear of fabric punctuated by a sickening bloom of red that spread dark and fast against his jacket.
Your breath caught in your throat, the sound choked and ragged as you saw him stumble back a step. Joel grunted, the pain flashing across his face before he swallowed it down, straightening with that same unrelenting resolve. But the blood—his blood—dripping onto the floor sent a bolt of panic through you, sharp enough to shatter any instinct to stay hidden.
“Joel!” The word tore from your lips, loud and unrestrained, a burst of desperation you couldn’t hold back.
Joel’s head snapped toward you, his eyes widening in shock—“No!” he barked, his voice hoarse—but the warning came too late.
Tom’s grin twisted into something crueler, something darker, as his gaze swung to you. “Well, look at this,” he sneered, his knife glinting as he straightened. “Didn’t know you brought a partner. Real sweet.”
He moved fast—too fast. Before you could blink, he was closing the distance, the blade flashing as he lunged. You fired, the crack of the shot splitting the air like a whip, but it was too close, too rushed. The bullet skidded off the concrete near his feet, sending up a burst of dust but leaving him unharmed.
“Too slow,” Tom hissed, and then the knife was slashing toward you.
Pain ripped through you, hot and searing as the blade bit into your thigh. You gasped, stumbling back, your vision blurring slightly at the edges.
But you didn’t let go. Your grip on your rifle tightened, and with every ounce of strength you had left, you swung it hard. The butt of the weapon crashed into his shoulder with a dull, heavy thud, the force of it making him stagger to the side.
But he recovered too quickly, his movements fueled by something feral and unrelenting. His eyes found yours again, narrowed with ruthless intent. He came at you once more, his steps predatory, the knife gleaming red.
You didn’t hesitate this time.
You steadied your breath, your hands trembling but sure as you raised the rifle again. Time slowed as you lined up the shot, Joel’s warning, the chaos, the fear—all of it fading into the steady pull of your finger on the trigger.
The shot rang out, louder than thunder in the small space, and Tom jerked back, the force of it ripping through him. The knife slipped from his fingers, clattering uselessly to the floor as his body crumpled. His eyes were still open, vacant and unseeing, as he slumped against the concrete.
The silence that followed was deafening.
─── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ───
Silence stretched thin, broken only by the ragged, uneven gasps tearing from your chest, the weapon still trembling in your hands. The sharp sting of the cut on your thigh barely registered, drowned out by the aftershocks of adrenaline flooding your veins. You sank against the wall, its cold, unyielding surface pressing into your back like an anchor, keeping you upright when your body felt like it might fall apart.
Across the room, Joel cursed—a low, guttural sound, tight with pain and something darker. When he moved, his steps were heavy, deliberate, like he was holding himself back, like he didn’t trust himself to close the distance without breaking something.
When he finally stopped in front of you, the air itself seemed to coil tighter, pressing down on your chest until it was impossible to breathe.
You looked up, your stomach twisting as his dark eyes locked onto yours. The weight of his gaze hit you like a physical blow, heavy and unrelenting, and you couldn’t stop the small flinch that followed.
“What did I tell you?” he bit out, his voice rough, his chest rising and falling as though he couldn’t quite catch his breath. “What did I make you promise me?”
Your back hit the wall as he stepped closer, his presence overwhelming. “Joel—”
“No,” he snapped, cutting you off. His palm slammed against the wall behind you, the sharp crack ringing out and making you flinch. “You don’t get to talk right now.”
The anger in his voice was volcanic, but there was something else beneath it—a crack, a tremor, something raw that made it hit twice as hard. He bent down so he was eye-level, his face inches from yours. His jaw was clenched so tight it looked like it might break, his dark eyes burning into yours with an intensity that sent a chill down your spine.
“You promised me,” he ground out, his voice shaking now. “I said don’t come down here. I said no matter what you heard—no matter what, you stay put.” His voice cracked on the last word, his brow furrowing like it was taking everything in him not to lose control. “Why is that so goddamn hard for you to understand?""
Your jaw tightened, the tears that had been burning in your eyes threatening to spill over. The knot of fear and frustration that had been choking you since this all started finally snapped, the words tearing out of you before you could stop them. “Joel, he would’ve killed you!”
“I don’t care!” Joel roared, the sound like thunder in the small, suffocating room, shaking the air between you. His voice wasn’t just loud—it was broken, raw, splintered with something too jagged to contain.
The sheer force of it made you flinch, but not because it scared you. It was what you heard in it—his anguish, his desperation, all of it bleeding through the cracks of his resolve. His chest rose and fell in uneven bursts, his breaths ragged and hard, like the words had been ripped from someplace deep and untouchable. “Do you hear me? I don’t care!”
“Well, I care!” you screamed back, your voice cracking under the weight of it all as the tears finally spilled free, hot and relentless. The floodgates had opened, and there was no stopping what poured out now, no holding back what had clawed its way to the surface.
“I care, Joel! You think no one does? You think no one gives a damn what happens to you? I fucking care!”
The last words hit like a gunshot, reverberating through the space, leaving the air thick and choking.
Joel stilled, like you’d physically struck him, his shoulders sagging beneath the weight of what you’d said. The fire in his eyes dimmed—just a little—but something else flickered there, something darker and heavier. Guilt. Regret. Maybe even shame.
His hands flexed at his sides, restless and uncertain, like he didn’t know what to do with the emotions you’d unleashed in him. His lips parted slightly, like he was searching for something to say, something to give back to you, but nothing came. His face softened in the slightest way, his fury tempered by the truth you’d thrown at him, but it was still too raw—you were still too raw—for either of you to move past it.
The silence between you pulsed like a heartbeat, heavy and unrelenting, until you swallowed hard, forcing down the sob lodged in your throat. Your voice trembled but carried a quiet, cutting edge as you pressed on. “And you—you—promised me.”
Before he could stop you—before you could stop yourself—you reached for him, your fingers curling around the edge of his coat. “You promised me nothing would happen to you,” you said, quieter now but no less fierce, no less shattering.
The torn fabric gave way easily as you pushed it aside, revealing the steady seep of blood from the shallow cut along his side. Your hands trembled as you let the coat drop, the image of the blood burned into you.
“So let’s just call it even,” you said finally, your voice small but heavy with the kind of exhaustion that only came after fear. You sank back against the wall, your head falling back to rest against the rough wood as you squeezed your eyes shut, like shutting out the world might hold you together for just a moment longer.
Joel’s gaze flicked down to the blood staining your jeans, the dark patch spreading too quickly for his liking. His jaw tightened, a muscle twitching in his cheek, and he let out a sharp, uneven breath through his nose—like he was trying to hold something back, something he didn’t trust himself to let out.
His hands hovered near your thigh, close but not quite touching, his fingers twitching at his sides. They curled and uncurled, restless and aching, as if he were caught in some invisible war with himself.
“You’re hurt,” he said finally, his voice low and hoarse, quieter now, like speaking it out loud might make the wound worse. He wasn’t looking at you—he was staring at the blood, his expression so tight it looked painful.
“I didn’t want you to get hurt.” The last part was barely above a whisper, more to himself than to you, as though he couldn’t reconcile it—like the fact that you were bleeding was something he couldn’t forgive.
“It’s just a graze,” you replied quickly, your tone sharper than you intended. It wasn’t just dismissive—it was defensive, a knee-jerk reaction to the way he was looking at you. Like the blood on your leg was his fault, like it was a wound he’d put there himself. “Joel, I’m fine. I’ve had worse.”
But Joel didn’t look fine.
His dark eyes stayed locked on the stain spreading across your jeans, heavy and unrelenting, as though he couldn’t look away. It wasn’t anger in his gaze now—it was something else. Guilt.
“That don’t matter,” he muttered, his voice low, gruff, but you could hear it—feel it—just beneath the surface. He wasn’t angry at you. He was blaming himself. “It don’t matter if it’s a graze or worse. I shouldn’t’ve let it happen.”
Joel crouched, pulling his knife free and slicing through the hem of his shirt without hesitation. “Hold still,” he said, pressing the clean fabric to your leg, his hands firm but careful.
He wrapped the strip tightly around the wound, securing it with a knot. His fingers lingered briefly, checking the tension before he leaned back, his sharp eyes scanning your leg.
“This’ll hold for now,” he murmured, quieter this time. “We’re goin’ to the safe house,” his voice dropping into that tone that left no room for argument. Commanding, but not unkind.
You tried to push yourself upright, to stand on your own, but your legs betrayed you, shaky from adrenaline and exhaustion. Joel was there immediately, his arms slipping around you with the kind of ease that made you think he hadn’t even considered letting you fall. One arm looped around your waist, steady and unyielding, while his other hand hovered near your shoulder, ready to catch you if you wavered.
“Easy,” Joel murmured, his voice softer now, though the crease between his brows stayed etched deep, carved by worry so heavy it made your chest tighten.
You let your eyes drift around the room then, your breath hitching as the scene unfolded in jagged snapshots: the lifeless bodies, the chaos Joel had waded through alone. Your heart clenched, a surge of guilt and helplessness rising in your throat.
“Don’t look,” he said, his voice a quiet command, his tone gruff but layered with something protective. It wasn’t just the violence he was shielding you from—it was the truth of it all, the weight of what survival demanded.
Your knees wavered, and before you could stop yourself, you leaned into him—more than you wanted to, more than you meant to. But Joel didn’t stiffen, didn’t flinch. You turned to him, burying your face against his shoulder, your sobs spilling out in jagged waves you couldn’t control.
“It’s okay. You’re okay. I’m right here,” Joel murmured, his voice rough but low, steady, the kind of sound that wrapped around you like a shield. His hand slid up to the back of your head, his fingers threading gently through your hair, grounding you with every careful touch.
You pulled back reluctantly, tears streaking your cheeks, your chest tight with the vulnerability you hated showing. You looked up at him, your eyes red and swollen, voice breaking as you asked, “Are you mad at me?”
Joel froze. It was barely a second—a hesitation so fleeting you might’ve missed it if you weren’t watching so closely. But his hands betrayed him, his grip on you tightening just a fraction, grounding himself as much as you. He didn’t answer immediately, his jaw working, chest rising and falling with an uneven rhythm. The question had shaken him; you could see it in the way his eyes flickered away for just a moment, like he needed time to collect himself.
“You’re mad,” you said again, your voice trembling, words spilling out unbidden, raw and unsteady. “Aren’t you?”
That pulled his gaze back to yours. His eyes—sharp, searching—locked onto you, and you braced for it. The anger. The storm. The hard words that would push you away.
But they didn’t come.
“No,” he said, his voice low and rough. “I ain’t mad at you.” The words hung in the air, weighted with a sincerity that made your heart squeeze. He hesitated again, his thumb brushing the edge of your jacket, the touch so light you weren’t sure it was real. “Could never be mad at you.”
Joel’s hand lingered a moment longer, his fingers twitching like he might reach up, like he might cup your face and hold you still, make you look at him, make you understand. But instead, he pulled back, his hand curling briefly into a fist at his side, as if he had to physically stop himself from touching you.
Joel nodded once, a sharp, subtle motion, like he was giving himself permission to believe you.
With a quiet sigh, Joel shifted, pulling you closer against his side, his movements gentle but decisive as he helped you toward the stairs.
You let him, your body too tired and your heart too heavy to argue.
─── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ───
The ride to the safe house was quiet, the kind of quiet that felt heavy—thick with all the words neither of you could bring yourselves to say. The rhythmic crunch of hooves against the dirt road was the only sound that filled the space between you, broken only by the occasional rustle of wind through the trees.
Every few minutes, Joel glanced back over his shoulder, his brow furrowed deep, his expression hard to read but unmistakably Joel. Protective. Unrelenting.
Finally, you couldn’t take it anymore. “Joel, you’re gonna break your damn neck,” you called out, your voice cutting through the stillness, sharp enough to make him slow.
“Ride beside me,” he said, his voice gruff but steady. It was a command, sure, but you heard the care threaded beneath it.
You sighed, nudging Winnie forward until you were riding alongside him. Joel’s horse matched your pace easily, the two of you falling into a quiet rhythm together. He didn’t say anything right away, but his eyes drifted over you again, scanning you from head to toe with that maddening focus of his—like he was trying to convince himself you were still in one piece, like he could find a hidden injury just by looking hard enough.
“How’s your leg?” Joel asked after a long beat, his voice softer this time, the edge of his usual gruffness dulled by something heavier—something tender.
“Fine,” you replied quickly, maybe too quickly. You sat straighter in the saddle, biting back the wince that wanted to pull at your features. The throbbing beneath the bandage hadn’t eased, but you weren’t about to let him see it.
Joel’s jaw worked tight, his fingers flexing briefly around the reins, knuckles pale. He didn’t look convinced, though he held himself back, his voice dipping low as he muttered, “Should’ve stayed put.” The words came out soft, almost defeated, like he was speaking more to himself than to you. “You didn’t need to come down there.”
“Joel,” you said softly, your voice cutting through the quiet. “Are we really gonna do this again?”
The silence stretched between you, thick and heavy with the weight of unspoken things. His eyes lingered on yours, then followed your gaze as it drifted to the dark stain where his blood had seeped into the fabric of his jacket.
“I’m fine,” he said when he caught you looking. The words were clipped, dismissive, like brushing it off might make it disappear entirely.
“Sure,” you replied, raising a brow, the disbelief clear in your voice. “You’re bleeding, but you’re fine.”
Joel let out a quiet sound, somewhere between a sigh and a growl, frustration mingled with something else—resignation, maybe.
“I’ve had worse,” he muttered.
“So have I,” you said quietly, the words slipping out before you could stop them.
─── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ───
The safe house was as bleak as you expected: four walls, a fireplace barely clinging to life, and a draft that made your skin prickle.
It didn’t matter. It was shelter. It would keep you alive tonight.
Joel gritted his teeth as he shrugged off his jacket, tossing it over the back of a wobbly chair. His rifle clattered softly onto the worn table nearby, within arm’s reach, always within reach.
The room seemed smaller with him in it, his broad frame commanding the space even as he knelt by the fireplace. You could hear the low rumble of his voice—soft, agitated muttering—lost beneath the crackle of kindling catching flame.
You sank onto the faded couch, its springs groaning beneath you as your body gave way to exhaustion. The pull of sleep was strong, the ache in your leg reduced to a dull throb—manageable, but not forgotten.
You let your head tilt back against the threadbare cushions, your eyes slipping closed for what felt like the first time in hours. The warmth of the fire began to spread, chasing the cold from the air and unraveling some of the tension from your limbs.
“Let me see that leg.”
You blinked, the haze of near-sleep lifting as you tilted your head toward him. He was standing there, bottle of alcohol in one hand, a roll of bandages in the other.
“It’s fine,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.
He lowered himself onto the couch beside you, a groan escaping him as he set the supplies on the dusty coffee table with a deliberate thud, the sound cutting through the silence. He didn’t look at you, his attention fixed on unrolling the bandages, his movements methodical.
“Didn’t ask if it was fine,” he muttered.
His hands were steady and deliberate as he reached for your leg, lifting it with a care that felt almost out of place against his usual rough exterior. He settled it across his lap, his touch firm but gentle.
Joel didn’t say anything as he began peeling back the bloodied makeshift bandage he'd tied earlier. The fabric clung stubbornly to the dried blood, and when the wound was finally revealed, he let out a low, rough sound in the back of his throat—a noise caught somewhere between relief and disapproval.
“Could’ve been worse,” he muttered, shaking his head, his fingers hovering near the edge of the gash but never quite touching. His voice dropped lower, as though he were speaking more to himself. “You’re lucky it wasn’t worse.”
“It’s not a big deal,” you said softly, your voice catching as you tried to wave him off.
“Don’t.” His voice was low, rough, but not unkind. “Don’t act like this ain’t a big deal.”
Joel shifted, pouring alcohol onto a scrap of cloth, and the sharp scent of it filled the small room. When he pressed it to your leg, the sting came quick, searing and unforgiving. You sucked in a breath through your teeth, your fingers curling tightly into the worn fabric of the couch.
“Shit,” you hissed, the curse slipping out before you could stop it.
“Easy,” Joel muttered, his voice dipping softer, gentler now in a way that made something catch in your chest. “I know it stings. Just—” He paused, his hands steadying your leg, his thumb brushing absently against your skin. “Just stay still. I’ve got it.”
It was such a small thing—his touch. Thoughtless and unintentional, but it lingered, warm against the ache spreading through you, grounding you in a way that made your breath hitch. Joel didn’t notice; he was too focused, his brow furrowed with that familiar look of concentration, like the world could burn down around him and he’d still finish what he started. But that only made it worse. Or maybe it made it better. You weren’t sure which.
“You don’t have to fuss, Joel,” you said finally.
“Yeah, I do,” he said simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “S’my job.”
“Your job?” you echoed, raising a brow in faint disbelief. “Don’t remember signing a contract for that.”
That earned you a huff from Joel—a sound that might’ve been a laugh if it wasn’t buried beneath layers of frustration and weariness.
He shook his head, the corner of his mouth twitching, just barely. “You’re a fuckin' smart-ass,” he muttered, the words gruff but not unkind, and there was something almost fond threaded through the irritation, like he couldn’t help himself.
Joel’s hands slowed as he secured the bandage, his touch careful, deliberate, but heavy with exhaustion. When he finished, he leaned back with a quiet sigh, the sound deep and tired, like it carried the weight of more than just today.
He didn’t move your leg from where it rested across his lap. He didn’t push you away. So you left it there. His thumb traced slow, absent-minded patterns against the fabric of your jeans, like he didn’t even realize he was doing it.
“Even though you didn’t listen to me…” he muttered, his voice low and gravelly, trailing off into a sigh. His hand scrubbed over his face, and when he dropped it, the lines of his features seemed deeper, etched with something too raw to name. “Never fuckin’ listen,” he added under his breath, but the edge in his tone was missing.
He turned his head to look at you then, “You did good back there,” he said, “Real good.”
Your throat tightened, and you dropped your gaze, your hands fumbling aimlessly at the hem of your shirt. “That was…” you started, but the words faltered, catching in your throat before you could finish.
“What?” Joel asked, his voice soft but firm, laced with that quiet insistence of his—the one that made it impossible to hide. His brow furrowed as he studied you, his sharp gaze narrowing like he could see right through you. “What is it?”
“Nothing,” you lied, the words slipping out too quickly, too softly to sound convincing. You didn’t dare meet his eyes, instead leaning forward, focusing on the task at hand.
Your fingers busied themselves with his jacket, brushing aside the torn fabric and smudges of dried blood as you dabbed gently at the wound. The quiet scrape of the cloth against his skin filled the silence, and you hoped—foolishly—that the distraction might be enough to make him drop it. But the weight of his gaze lingered, steady and unyielding, like he could see right through you.
It wasn’t.
“Hey.” Joel’s voice broke through the silence, low and steady, the sound grounding in a way that made your heart stutter. His hands moved to your wrist, his grip firm but careful, stilling your movements with the gentlest pressure.
The warmth of his skin against yours made your breath catch, and you froze, your eyes locked on where his fingers wrapped around your own. He didn’t let go. He didn’t move. “Look at me,” he said softly.
“What’s on your mind?” he asked, his voice impossibly gentle.
“That was really fucking scary,” you whispered, barely able to force the admission past your lips.
Your eyes dropped immediately, your hands twisting nervously in your lap as you added, quieter still, “I thought… I thought I was going to lose you.”
You braced yourself for the gruff dismissal that always seemed to follow moments like this—Joel waving off fear like it wasn’t worth the air it took to name it. But instead, he stayed quiet, so quiet you thought for a moment he hadn’t heard you.
“Yeah,” Joel said softly, “It was scary.”
Your head snapped up at the admission, your breath catching in your chest. You weren’t sure what you’d expected—an argument, a dismissal, maybe even some clipped comment about how it was all fine now. But there was none of that. Joel’s expression was open in a way that made your heart ache, his eyes softer than you’d ever seen, the firelight painting the lines of his face with hues of gold and shadow.
He dragged a hand slowly over his face, the gesture weighted, as if trying to erase the tension coiling in his jaw. When he finally spoke again, it was quieter, rougher. “Ain’t no shame in bein’ scared.” He paused, his gaze flickering to yours, dark and steady, like he was trying to hold you there with just his eyes. “That kinda thing…” His voice dipped lower, softer, as if the admission was meant just for you. “It should scare you.”
You nodded faintly, unable to form words, though your lips parted like you wanted to say something—anything. But Joel wasn’t done.
“You scared the hell outta me,” he said, the bluntness of it landing like a blow. It was unpolished, unfiltered, and so distinctly him that it made your throat tighten. He shook his head, his mouth twitching into something that wasn’t quite a smile—more of a grimace. “When I saw your dumb ass comin’ down those stairs…”
You let out a shaky laugh—small, unsteady, but real. “My dumb ass?” you repeated, the words trembling on the edge of humor but not quite making it there. “That’s how you’re gonna put it?”
“Seriously,” he murmured, and the laughter fell away completely. . “You scared me.”
The words hit harder the second time, because you could hear everything he wasn’t saying in the way his voice cracked, just barely, on the last syllable. And when you looked at him, really looked at him, you saw it—the exhaustion, the vulnerability, the unspoken weight of how close you’d come to losing each other. It wasn’t just his usual guardedness—it was fear. Real, bone-deep fear.
“I’m not scared for myself,” Joel admitted, his voice so low it was almost a whisper. His hands curled into loose fists, his knuckles pale, like he needed to hold on to something solid just to say it out loud. “I’m scared for you.”
Your breath hitched, the confession sinking into you like a stone. “Scared one day I won’t be there,” he continued, his voice rougher now, like the words were being dragged out of him. “Or I’ll be too slow. Or someone’ll slip past my bad ear.”
“And as much as I’m still pissed off that you didn’t listen to me…” he started, the gruff edge of his voice undercut by the quiet, worn-out softness beneath it.
“…you saved my life back there.”
“Joel—” you whispered, your voice cracking, but he shook his head, cutting you off with a small, quiet movement.
“No,” he said softly, his voice low and rough but impossibly steady. “Don’t.” He swallowed, his jaw clenching faintly before he spoke again. “Not right now.”
His gaze stayed on you, unwavering, searching, like he was trying to commit you to memory, as if even blinking might make you disappear.
“You scared the hell outta me,” he murmured, his tone dropping even lower, the rasp of it pulling at something deep inside you. “You don’t even know.”
Joel wasn’t a man who admitted his fear. He buried it, pushed it down, locked it away behind walls of steel and silence. But right now, he wasn’t hiding anything. Not from you. Not in this moment.
Joel didn’t move, didn’t speak, and for a long moment, the world outside the safe house ceased to exist. There was no fire crackling softly behind him, no distant wind howling against the windows—there was only him, his hand on your leg, his eyes on yours, and the quiet, unspoken truth settling between you like a promise.
The tension was too much—thick and heavy, pulling at your resolve until a teasing grin tugged at your lips, breaking the silence like a spark cutting through the dark. “So,” you started, “since I saved your life, you kinda owe me, huh?”
Joel’s lips twitched, and for a moment, you thought he might brush it off, might retreat behind that stoic wall he wore like armor. But then it happened—a soft chuckle, low and warm, rolling through the room like a balm against the weight lingering between you. He shook his head faintly, his hand still resting on your leg as he squeezed it slightly. “That so?” he drawled, his voice rough around the edges, but tinged with something lighter, softer.
You nodded, settling back against the couch with mock seriousness, exaggerating the lift of your chin as you pressed on. “Mm-hmm. Now you’ve gotta do whatever I ask,” you said, letting the teasing lilt in your voice linger just a little longer than necessary. “You know, since I saved your life and all.”
Joel huffed softly, shaking his head again, but there it was—the faintest tug at the corner of his mouth, a shadow of a grin. It was barely there, so fleeting you almost missed it, but it made something flutter low in your chest all the same. When his dark eyes flicked up to meet yours, the firelight catching just enough to make them gleam, the teasing warmth you’d tried to ignite wavered. His gaze softened, though it didn’t lose its intensity, and you felt yourself sink under it, your breath hitching without permission.
“Thing is,” Joel said finally, his voice dipping low—low enough to send heat curling through your ribs, low enough that it felt like a secret meant just for you—“I’d already do whatever you asked.”
The words landed like a fist to your chest, knocking the air clean out of you. Your teasing smile faltered, disappearing entirely as the meaning of what he’d just said settled in. He wasn’t joking. He wasn’t playing along. He meant it.
“You don’t get it, do you?” he murmured, the words barely more than a breath, like they’d escaped before he could stop them. He shook his head, his voice low and rough, cutting through the quiet with the sharp precision of a blade.
Before you could respond, Joel exhaled hard, the sound tight, his chest lifting as if the next words were being torn from somewhere deep inside him.
“I’d die for you.”
The words sat there, heavy and unshakable, like they couldn’t be taken back. Joel wasn’t flippant—he never was—but this? This was something else entirely. It wasn’t said for comfort, wasn’t offered as reassurance. It was fact. Truth. Something that lived in him, unspoken until now, but so deeply woven into who he was that you couldn’t tear it out if you tried.
Your breath left you, a shaky exhale as you stared at him, unmoored and speechless. Your throat felt tight, the weight of his confession pressing against your chest until it ached.
Joel watched you, his dark eyes softening, as though he could see the effect of what he’d said written plain as day on your face. The flicker of vulnerability in his expression knocked you off balance all over again—like he wasn’t just offering the truth but handing it to you, placing it in your trembling hands, hoping you wouldn’t drop it.
Joel straightened slightly, breaking just enough of the tension to let you breathe. His gaze dropped to the floor as he gently moved your leg from his lap and stood, his movements slow and deliberate.
“Alright,” he said, the word clipped, as if he’d said too much, come too close to showing what he really felt. His tone dipped back into practicality, trying to mask the faint, unsteady edge that lingered, betraying him.
“You need rest,” he added, his voice quieter but firm. “I’ll take watch. We leave first thing.”
You frowned faintly, the heaviness still wrapped around you like a second skin. “You’re tired,” you said softly, trying to thread some sense of concern through the tension. Your voice barely rose above a whisper, like the fire’s quiet crackle might drown it out. “You need sleep too, Joel. I’ll take watch.”
He was already shaking his head, firm and unyielding, before you’d finished speaking. “No,” he said, the word final, resolute in a way that told you arguing was pointless.
“Sleep,” he murmured, the word gentler this time, almost like a plea.
“I need you to rest.”
─── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ───
The next day, you stayed home, cocooned in your little room. Normally, on your days off, you’d wander around Jackson, soak in the closest thing to normal life you might ever get again—listen to the kids laughing on the street, visit the stables, maybe stop by the tipsy bison and sit in the comforting buzz of other people’s voices. But after your yesterday, the thought of stepping outside felt overwhelming.
The weight of what could’ve gone wrong sat heavy in your chest. One misstep, one second slower, and Joel might not be here. You might not be here. That thought had rooted itself somewhere deep, growing heavier with every passing hour until it felt impossible to leave the bed.
So you didn’t. The hours passed in a haze of restless sleep, your aching muscles sinking deeper into the mattress every time you tried to drift off.
It wasn’t until a sharp, abrupt knock at your door broke through the fog that you stirred, groaning softly as you forced yourself to sit up.
You shuffled around the room, pulling on a pair of pants and the cleanest top you could find before dragging your hair back into something that vaguely resembled order. Anything to look a little less like you’d spent the day wallowing.
“Coming,” you muttered, your voice hoarse as you padded toward the door. You caught a glance at the clock in the hallway. 7:30 p.m. What the hell?
When you opened the door, you blinked in surprise. Joel stood there, his broad frame filling, he was holding a neat pile of firewood, the lines of his face unreadable as ever but his presence unmistakable, grounding.
“Joel?” you said, your voice caught somewhere between confusion and something you didn’t want to name. “What are you doing here?”
Joel tilted his head toward the firewood. “Brought you some extra,” he said simply, his tone casual, like he’d just happened to pass by. Then his eyes flicked back to you, lingering a beat too long as they swept over you, taking in the slump of your shoulders, the faint tiredness in your face. “Was gonna leave it, but…” He shifted slightly, his boots scuffing against the wood floor. “Figured I’d check up on ya.”
You forced a small smile, hugging your arms around yourself as you leaned against the doorframe. “That’s… sweet. I’m fine, Joel. Just tired, I guess.”
He nodded once, though his expression stayed skeptical, like he wasn’t quite convinced. “You eat yet?” he asked abruptly, his tone clipped but not unkind.
You blinked, thrown off by the question. “No,” you admitted, maybe too quickly.
Joel’s frown deepened, his eyes narrowing just slightly. “You plannin’ on it, or just gonna starve?”
“Joel,” you groaned, exasperated, but before you could finish, he was already stepping inside, brushing past you and heading straight for the kitchen.
“Hey!” you called after him, your voice rising in disbelief as you turned to follow. “What are you doing?”
“Making dinner,” he muttered, the words gruff and final, like they left no room for argument. He rolled up his sleeves as he opened one of your cabinets, pulling out pots and pans with an ease that suggested he’d done it a hundred times before.
“Why?” you asked, baffled, hovering uselessly near the door as you watched him root around your kitchen.
Joel paused, his hand braced on the counter, turning just enough to glance at you over his shoulder. His gaze was sharp, a little too knowing, and it pinned you in place. “Because you don’t eat,” he said plainly, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Then, quieter, with a subtle edge of irritation he didn’t bother masking, “And you wonder why you’re tired all the time.”
He turned back to the counter, resuming his task, but not before adding, almost as an afterthought, “And I promised you yesterday I’d make you dinner.”
You blinked at him, caught off guard by the bluntness. “Fine,” you said, your tone clipped as you turned toward the stairs. “I’m going to go shower.”
But as you reached the bottom step, an idea sprung to mind, and before you could think twice, the words tumbled out. “Can you make pancakes?” you blurted, your grin already forming.
Joel’s brows lifted, his expression somewhere between exasperation and disbelief. “Pancakes? For dinner?”
“Yeah,” you said, unfazed, the prospect of pancakes more exciting than his skepticism. You didn’t catch the way his eyes darted toward the pantry or how he muttered under his breath, “Baby, I don’t think you even got the stuff for pancakes.”
“What?” you called, already halfway up the stairs, a skip in your step like you’d already decided it was happening.
Joel shook his head, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like “God help me” as he crossed to the fridge, pulling it open with a sigh. You could almost hear him grumbling, counting the odds that there’d be eggs or flour or anything remotely pancake-adjacent in your kitchen.
From the landing, you glanced down, catching the faint clink of bowls being moved around, the shuffle of Joel’s boots against the floor. “So?” you called, leaning over the railing with a teasing lilt in your voice. “What d’ya say?”
He didn’t look up, but you could hear the smirk in his reply. “Go shower. You’re stalling.”
You sighed dramatically, “Fine,” you said, gesturing vaguely toward the kitchen. “You… figure it out or whatever.”
Joel chuckled low, the sound curling warm in the space between you. “Go on,” he said, flicking his wrist to shoo you off, his voice laced with that familiar gruffness that somehow always felt like home. “Ain’t gonna burn the place down.”
You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop the small smile that tugged at your lips as you turned away. His voice followed you upstairs, the faint sounds of the kitchen already coming alive—clattering pots, the scrape of a knife on a cutting board, all as if he belonged there.
And maybe he did.
─── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ───
The bathroom was a quiet refuge, the steady rush of the shower drowning out the noise in your head. You tilted your face up to the water, letting it pour through your hair, down your back, washing away the ache in your muscles and the lingering tension you hadn’t been able to shake.
By the time you’d dried off and tugged on an old sweatshirt and soft, worn sweats, the scents drifting from the kitchen had completely chased away the last of the day’s haze.
Padding downstairs, you were greeted by the faint clink of a spoon against a pot, Joel standing with his back to you at the counter. His sleeves were pushed up, his broad shoulders hunched slightly as he worked—familiar, steady, like he’d done this a thousand times.
“Smells good,” you said softly, your voice cutting through the quiet as you pulled out a chair at the table.
Joel turned slightly, his gaze flicking over you—first the clothes, then the damp strands of hair sticking to your cheeks. His lips twitched in something that wasn’t quite a smile, but it softened him all the same. He didn’t say anything at first, just picked up a steaming dish and set it in front of you.
“Eat,” he said simply, like it wasn’t up for debate.
You smiled despite yourself, your lips quirking up as you reached for your spoon. “Yes, sir,” you teased, a playful lilt in your voice as you tilted your head, your eyes flicking to the plate. The corners of your mouth tugged higher as you raised an amused brow. “This doesn’t look like pancakes.”
Joel scoffed, his brow raising just enough to make the gesture feel pointed. “If you’re gonna complain, I can take it back,” he said, his hand moving to grab your plate with mock seriousness.
“Hey!” you yelped, smacking his hand lightly, your grin widening despite the way you tried to keep it in check. “I’m joking, geez. Don’t you dare.”
Satisfied, Joel settled back into his chair, his own plate sat untouched in front of him, but his focus wasn’t on the food. His gaze lingered, steady and intent, watching you as you took another bite.
“You’re like…” You paused, swallowing down a bite before gesturing vaguely at your plate. “The stew king.”
Joel’s spoon froze midair, his brows knitting together as he shot you a skeptical look. “What now?”
You grinned, shrugging one shoulder like it was obvious. “The stew king. This is the best stew I’ve had since—well, probably forever. Better than the shit they serve in the dining hall, that’s for damn sure.”
Joel let out a low, exasperated huff, shaking his head. “Didn’t know I was competin’.”
“You’re not,” you said, all matter-of-fact as you shoveled another bite into your mouth. “It’s an uncontested victory.”
He muttered something under his breath that you couldn’t quite catch, but you heard the word ridiculous and couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up from your chest.
Joel stilled. He didn’t look at you—not at first. His hand tightened around his spoon for just a moment, like he was trying to keep himself steady. But then you saw it: the corners of his mouth twitched, a small, quiet smile breaking through despite his best efforts to hide it.
He ducked his head, pretending to focus on his plate, but you didn’t miss the way his shoulders eased, the way his usual guarded edges softened just a little.
─── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ───
After dinner, you settled on the living room floor, the cool wood grounding you as you leaned back against the edge of the couch. You thought he might leave after dinner, but he didn’t, and that spoke louder than anything he could’ve said. A glass of whiskey sat in your hands, the amber liquid catching the flicker of the fire Joel had just lit.
He sank onto the couch above you with a low groan, the kind of sound that came from tired muscles and too many years spent carrying the weight of the world. Without a word, you passed him his glass, your fingers brushing his as he took it.
Joel nodded in thanks, his grip firm on the glass.
“You full?” he asked after a moment, leaning back into the worn cushions with a sigh, his eyes half-lidded and fixed on the flames licking up from the hearth.
“Stuffed,” you replied, satisfaction curling your lips into a small smile.
“Good.” His voice was low, almost content, a deep hum that vibrated through the quiet. “So… pancakes, huh?”
You turned your head to look at him, caught off guard. A small smile tugged at your lips. “They used to be your favorite or something?” he asked, his tone lighter than usual, almost teasing.
“One of my favorites,” you admitted, resting your glass on the floor beside you. “Pancakes, sushi, pizza—oh, my God, pizza. I miss pizza.”
A low chuckle escaped him, rough but genuine, and the sound caught you by surprise. “You’re easy to please, huh?”
“What was your favorite food?” you countered, curious now, leaning in just slightly.
Joel shrugged, the movement casual but somehow carrying a weight you couldn’t quite name. “Didn’t really have one.”
“Jesus, Joel,” you scoffed, fully turning to face him, an incredulous smile breaking across your face. “Surely there was something.”
He paused, his eyes distant, lingering somewhere in a memory you couldn’t see. “Maybe…” A faint smile curved his lips, faint enough you almost missed it. “Barbecue. Tommy used to drag me to some hole-in-the-wall joint. Meat so good it’d fall off the bone.”
You smiled softly. “That sounds good.”
“It was,” he said, a note of nostalgia creeping into his voice. His expression softened, his gaze warming, but behind it was something heavier, a shadow of loss that never quite left him. “I remember Sarah…”
You froze. He’d mentioned her only once before, and even then, it had felt like he was handing you something delicate, something fragile and sacred. Hearing her name now felt the same—a glimpse into a part of him he kept locked away.
“I remember Sarah,” he repeated, quieter this time. “Tommy and I’d go, and she’d…” He paused, his lips twitching with a faint, bittersweet smile. “She’d have sauce all over her face. Every damn time. Couldn’t eat a rib without wearin’ half of it.”
A smile tugged at your lips, though your chest felt tight. “Sounds like she had good taste.”
“She did,” Joel said, his voice steadier now, though his eyes glimmered with something the firelight couldn’t explain. “Always wanted the biggest plate. Thought she could finish it all.” He shook his head, the smile lingering but faint. “Never could.”
You didn’t know what to say, so you said nothing, letting the moment hang between you. It wasn’t a silence that demanded words; it felt sacred, like it would break if you spoke too soon.
Joel glanced at you then, his gaze meeting yours with a flicker of vulnerability you hadn’t expected. “She’d have liked you,” he murmured, so quiet it was almost lost in the crackle of the fire.
The most cherished person in Joel’s life, and he believed she would’ve liked you—it was a thought that wrapped around you, warm and profound, settling in a place you didn’t even realize needed it.
“I think I would have liked her too,” you offered, a small smile tugging at your lips.
Joel nodded, his expression softening in a way that made your chest ache, before you turned back to the fire, letting its flickering warmth fill the quiet that lingered between you.
You sipped your whiskey, the burn familiar, grounding, as the silence stretched between you. It wasn’t heavy, not at first, just there—the kind of quiet that only existed between two people comfortable enough to not fill the space with words. But then, as if the fire itself drew it out of you, you broke it, your voice soft and thoughtful, eyes still fixed on the shifting orange glow. “I was in bed all day.”
Joel tilted his head slightly, a subtle movement but enough to catch your eye. His gaze shifted down to you, a faint glimmer of teasing in the way his lips almost quirked. “Really? Couldn’t tell,” he said, the dryness of his tone laced with just enough warmth to make it feel light. You knew exactly what he meant—the half-tangled hair, the tired eyes, the oversized sweater that swallowed you whole when you opened the door earlier.
“Ha, ha,” you deadpanned, rolling your eyes as you took another sip. The corner of your mouth twitched, threatening a smile that you quickly tucked away. “I just… didn’t feel like leaving. Seeing people. Couldn’t do it.”
Joel’s expression shifted, that guarded softness breaking through for just a moment. He didn’t rush to fill the space this time, letting your words hang in the air, safe and untouched. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter, steadier, like he’d weighed each word before giving it. “I get it,” he said, the rough edges of his tone smoothed by understanding. “Sometimes you just… need to sit in it.”
He leaned forward slightly, the glass in his hand catching the light as his fingers tightened around it. “I’m sorry if me comin’ by was—”
“No,” you interrupted, the word escaping you with a firmness that surprised even yourself. His brows pulled together slightly, his gaze sharp and searching, but you pushed through, needing him to hear this. “You’re…”
The words caught in your throat, and for a moment, you hated how vulnerable they felt. You hated how much it mattered that he understood, but you couldn’t let it sit there, unsaid.
“You’re the only one who could’ve come by,” you admitted, softer now, but no less certain. Your eyes flicked to his, the weight of his attention steadying you. “I didn’t mind. I needed…”
A pause, the lump in your throat making it hard to breathe, but you swallowed past it, your voice quiet but resolute. “I’m glad you did.”
Joel’s gaze lingered on you before returning to the fire, the flames reflected in his dark eyes as he spoke, his tone low and deliberate. “You gotta take care of yourself.”
You turned to face him now, drawn by the weight in his voice. He glanced at you, his brow furrowed just slightly. “First thing,” he said, leaning back against the worn cushions, “you gotta start with eatin’ some damn food.”
“I just ate dinner,” you protested, setting your whiskey glass down with an exaggerated huff.
Joel’s gaze slid to you then, steady and unrelenting. “And if I hadn’t come by?” he asked, his voice quieter but no less firm. “Would you have?”
You blinked, your retort catching in your throat. Damn. He’d clocked you there, and you both knew it. A flicker of something soft and self-deprecating crossed your face as you looked away, your lips twitching. “Well,” you said finally, your voice quieter, “I’ll just have to hope you always come by then.”
Joel shook his head, a small, rueful smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He leaned forward before meeting your gaze again, this time holding it with a seriousness that made your chest ache. “I’m not always gonna be around to check in on you,” he said, his voice steady but laced with something that felt like regret. “You gotta promise me you’ll take care of yourself.”
The words hung between you, not a demand but a plea, simple and raw. You swallowed, the lump rising again, and nodded. “I’ll try,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper.
“Not try,” Joel pressed gently. “Promise.”
A weak smile tugged at your lips. “I think we both know we’re not great at keeping promises,” you teased, your voice wavering slightly.
His eyes didn’t leave yours, sharp and unyielding, ignoring the deflection. He searched your face, his gaze cutting through your hesitation until you felt it crack. Without thinking, you nodded again, this time with more conviction.
“Okay,” you said finally, your voice firmer now. “I promise.”
Joel nodded, his movements slow and deliberate, before leaning forward to set his whiskey glass on the coffee table. “Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, the curse slipping out low and rough.
His other hand moved to the nape of his neck, his fingers digging into the tight muscle there with practiced ease. His jaw tightened as he twisted his head faintly to one side, a quiet grimace flickering across his face.
“You alright?” The question came instinctively, concern threading through your voice before you could stop it. You set your whiskey aside, shifting onto your knees as you turned to face him more fully.
“Yeah,” Joel muttered, the word clipped but gruff around the edges. He leaned back against the couch again, exhaling a breath long and slow. His hand stayed at the back of his neck, rubbing absently like the ache had been there for days. “Just gettin’ old.”
“Joel,” you pressed gently.
He froze mid-motion, fingers still kneading the back of his neck, his brow furrowing as his dark eyes flicked to yours. For a moment, he just looked at you—like he was trying to decide whether to give you the truth or deflect it like he so often did.
“Just my back,” he said finally, the words slipping out reluctantly, rough and low as though admitting it made it worse. His fingers stilled for just a second before rubbing over the spot again, his gaze drifting toward the fire. “Probably from pullin’ that damn horse outta the mud the other day… and, well, yesterday.”
Yesterday.
The word landed like a blow, heavier than he intended. Your breath hitched, the memory flashing unbidden across your mind—Joel, pinned and struggling, his face pale with strain, the sound of his ragged breaths tearing through the air. The raw desperation in his eyes as you’d fought to pull him free. You swallowed hard against the ache in your throat, forcing the image back down.
“Hm,” you murmured softly, as though the quiet sound could soothe him as much as yourself. Your eyes drifted over him—the tight line of his shoulders, the way his hand lingered over his neck.
You hesitated, the idea flickering faintly in your mind, tentative and uncertain. The fire popped in the silence, embers snapping softly, but the moment stretched, and before you could stop yourself, the words were already tumbling free.
“Well,” you started, fumbling as you sat up straighter, suddenly hyperaware of how close you were to him. “I could, um…” You hesitated, heat blooming in your cheeks as you met his gaze. “I mean… I could maybe… give you a massage?”
Joel’s head snapped toward you, his brows lifting slightly, the expression on his face caught somewhere between surprise and disbelief. “A massage?” he echoed, like the word itself was foreign to him.
Your cheeks burned under his stare, but you pushed forward, trying to keep your voice steady even as your hands twisted nervously in your lap. “Yeah,” you said, quieter now but no less resolute. “To help. With your back. Since you’re so…” You paused just long enough to let a teasing smile pull at your lips, hoping it might soften the moment. “Old.”
For a split second, he didn’t react. Then, Joel let out a deep, rumbling chuckle that broke through the tension like a wave crashing onshore. “You’re a piece of work, you know that?” he muttered, shaking his head as though he couldn’t believe you, though there was the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.
“Just offering my services,” you quipped back softly, trying to keep the teasing light, but the truth of it sat heavy in your chest. You wanted to help. You wanted to ease some of the burden he carried, even if it was something as small as this.
The humor faded quickly, though, replaced by something quieter, thicker, as Joel’s expression settled. His gaze lingered on you for a moment longer than it should have, dark and searching, like he was trying to find the catch in your words—like he didn’t quite believe you could mean it.
Finally, he broke the silence, his voice quieter now, rougher. “You don’t gotta do that for me,” he said, almost gruff, but there was no bite to it. His hand flexed faintly on his thigh, the tension in his shoulders pulling tighter. “I’m fine.”
“Joel,” you said again, softer this time. You leaned forward just slightly, closing the space between you, your hand slipping to rest on his thigh. The fabric beneath your palm was worn and rough, but his warmth bled through it, steady and grounding. You squeezed gently, almost instinctively, your touch a silent plea.
“Something’s better than nothing,” you murmured, your voice soft but certain, coaxing. “And I want to. I want to make you feel good.”
The words hung in the air, You could see the fight in his eyes as he stilled, his jaw tightening, his gaze narrowing as though he was fighting a mental battle. The warmth of your palm on his thigh, your fingers curling ever so slightly, made his skin hum with a longing he hadn’t let himself feel in years.
His thoughts dipped lower, filthier, no matter how hard he tried to push them away. He imagined those fingers trailing higher, your lips murmuring words he shouldn’t want to hear, your touch unraveling him completely. His breathing hitched, a low, uneven rhythm he couldn’t quite control, and he clenched his jaw, forcing himself to look away before he let the fantasy swallow him whole.
If Joel was a good man—if he was honest, whole, and decent—he’d stand up right now. Put some distance between you. Tell you that this couldn’t happen, that it wasn’t right, that you deserved better than what he had to give.
His eyes betrayed him, sweeping back to you almost involuntarily—quiet, considering—lingering just a moment too long. You were sitting so still, your damp hair framing your face in soft, loose strands that shimmered in the firelight like something out of a dream. The glow caught on your skin, kissed your cheeks, and made you look like you didn’t belong in this world, like you were something holy, something untouchable.
God, you looked like an angel.
And he wanted to ruin you.
“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, his voice thick and rough, like he was cursing himself for even considering it, for teetering on the edge of something he couldn’t take back. But he’d be lying if he said he didn’t crave it—didn’t crave you. And now, you were offering it to him, your touch, your care, your everything, on a silver platter.
Who the hell was he to deny you? To deny himself?
“Alright,” he said finally, the word escaping with an exhale, low and reluctant. He cleared his throat, refusing to meet your eyes again. “But only if you’re sure.”
The corner of your mouth lifted into the smallest, most unassuming smile, the kind that made Joel’s heart stumble in his chest before he could pull himself together. “I’m positive,” you said softly.
He sighed again, muttering something about “pushy” under his breath, but there wasn’t any real heat to it. Slowly, with the careful stiffness of someone who didn’t trust their own body, Joel lowered himself onto the couch, bracing his weight on his arms before settling with his stomach against the cushions.
His broad shoulders shifted as he adjusted, arms folding beneath his head. The soft creak of the couch was the only sound for a moment, punctuated by the faint hiss of Joel’s breath as his body sank into the cushions.
You stood up and hovered for a second, nerves buzzing beneath your skin as you watched him settle in. Then, without meaning to, you spoke—your voice cutting through the quiet. “Wait.”
Joel’s head lifted slightly, his face half-turned into the cushion. “What?” he asked, his voice muffled but carrying that familiar edge of impatience.
You froze under his gaze, your hands twisting nervously in front of you, your courage faltering under the weight of what you wanted to say. “Would you… can you… if you don’t mind—” The words tangled on your tongue, awkward and shaky, and you cursed yourself for not just spitting it out.
Joel shifted, turning his head enough to look at you with a mixture of confusion and exasperation. “What’re you mumblin’ about?” he grumbled, his brows furrowed as his dark eyes scanned your face.
You exhaled sharply, steeling yourself. Just say it.
“Can you… take off your shirt?”
Joel froze.
For a moment, neither of you moved. The space between you—already too small—felt suffocating now. Joel’s back, which had just begun to relax under the promise of your touch, went rigid again.
Slowly, he turned, his shoulders tense as his head tilted just enough for his dark eyes to find yours. His hair was tousled, falling forward in a way that made him look softer, but his expression was anything but. It was unreadable—his brow furrowed, his gaze sharp and searching, as though he was trying to make sense of what he’d just heard.
“What for?” he asked finally, his voice low and rough, cutting through the stillness like gravel underfoot.
Your cheeks burned under the weight of it, of him. “I just—” You swallowed hard, hating how shaky you sounded. “It’s harder with the shirt. I mean, it’d be easier if—” Your hands gestured vaguely toward him, helpless as the words tangled and fell apart.
“Forget it,” you blurted, your voice flimsier than you intended, a weak attempt to recover some semblance of dignity. “It’s fine. You don’t have to.” The words tumbled out too quickly, and you winced internally, wishing desperately you could rewind time. Erase the last thirty seconds, undo the heat climbing up your neck, and take back the way you’d all but unraveled in front of him.
Joel didn’t respond at first, just looked at you. Then he exhaled, a long, quiet breath that sounded both frustrated and resigned. His head dipped slightly, his eyes falling shut for a beat before he muttered, “Christ.”
Without another word, Joel shifted. He pushed himself up just enough to reach for the hem of his shirt. His movements were slow, deliberate, like he was giving you time—giving you a chance to stop him. To tell him it wasn’t worth it. To look away.
But you didn’t. You couldn’t.
The fabric rasped softly as it peeled away from his skin, loud in the stillness of the room. He tugged the shirt over his head in one smooth motion, his broad shoulders flexing beneath the firelight before he stilled, holding the shirt in his hands like he wasn’t sure what to do with it. For a moment, you thought he might change his mind—might pull it back on—but then he tossed it aside, letting it fall to the floor without ceremony.
He settled back onto the couch, folding his arms beneath his head and turning his face into the crook of his elbow.
You didn’t see the flush that crept up his neck and into his cheeks, the way his jaw tightened with something close to self-consciousness. Joel hadn’t bared himself like this in years—not to anyone, and certainly not to you. He wasn’t sure what possessed him to do it now. Maybe it was the way you’d looked at him when you asked—so open, so earnest. Or maybe it was something deeper, something he didn’t want to name—the way you’d quietly carved out space for yourself in parts of him he thought had long gone numb.
But even as he lay there, back bare and unguarded, he couldn’t stop the worry gnawing at the edges of his thoughts. What if you saw him differently now? What if you looked at the scars, the weathered skin, the way his body—so strong once—now bore the weight of a lifetime? What if it was too much, and you turned away?
But you weren’t thinking any of that.
You were staring.
Helplessly, shamelessly staring, your breath caught somewhere in your throat as your eyes moved over him, taking in every inch, every detail, every moment of him completely bare before you.
The firelight danced across his skin, casting flickering shadows that seemed to embrace the planes and ridges of his back. It was like watching something sacred, something meant to be admired but never touched—broad, powerful shoulders tapering into the graceful curve of his spine. That line, so achingly perfect, made your stomach twist tight, heat curling low and deep inside you.
Your gaze caught on the scars scattered across his back, each one like a whisper of a story he hadn’t told you. Then your eyes drifted lower, and everything shifted.
There, at the small of his back, where his skin softened, the faint dimples just above the waistband of his jeans made your breath hitch. They were so unexpected, so disarmingly tender, that they hit you like a fist to the chest. Your lips parted as your gaze lingered there, following the curve of his body where denim clung to his hips in a way that made your pulse hammer.
And then you saw it—the faint glimpse of his side where the firelight caught the gentle slope of his stomach, the soft trail of hair that disappeared beneath the waistband of his jeans.
It wasn’t just the sight of him; it was the intimacy of it, the way he seemed so unaware of how devastatingly beautiful he looked in that moment. That single glimpse struck you like a match to gasoline, the heat rushing through your veins so fast it left you lightheaded.
You wanted him. God, you wanted him.
You wanted to press your lips to the curve of his spine, to trace the path of those scars with your tongue, to kiss your way down his chest, his stomach, lower—until there was nowhere left to go.
You wanted to feel the weight of him beneath your hands, the heat of his skin, the way his breath might hitch if you let your lips linger in all the places that were his undoing.
Him. You wanted him. All of him, in every possible way, until nothing else existed.
You wondered what he was like when he came undone— was he loud, or did he keep it all locked inside, biting back every sound, every moan, like he was too proud to let go completely? Did his hands grip the sheets like they might anchor him, or would he let himself give in, surrender to the feeling? The thought made your pulse quicken, your panties growing damp as your imagination ran wild, unrestrained.
You wondered when the last time was that he let himself feel good—really good. When was the last time someone touched him with care, with reverence? Had it been years? Decades?
And then, unbidden, the thought came: Does he think of me?
The question burned through you, igniting something reckless, something needy, that you couldn’t quite smother. Late at night, when the world fell silent and the weight of the day pressed heavy, did his thoughts drift to you? Did he let himself imagine you in those moments when he chased the edge—your hands, your lips, your body guiding him there?
The thought left you breathless, heat flushing through your body as your heart raced. You could almost picture it—his head tipped back, jaw clenched, the firelight catching the sharp lines of his face, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths as he gave in to thoughts of you.
Your cheeks burned as the images flooded your mind, vivid and unrelenting, but you couldn’t stop. You didn’t want to stop. Because the truth was, you didn’t just want him to think of you—you wanted to be there. You wanted to touch him, to make him feel things he hadn’t let himself feel in years. To make him forget everything else, even if it was only for a moment.
God, you wanted him. And you wanted him to want you just as badly.
You wondered if he’d make you wait, if he’d tease you until your breath hitched and your body ached with the need for him. If he’d draw it out on purpose, his voice low and rough as he asked you to say it, to tell him just how much you wanted him. And you knew you’d beg if he wanted you to. You’d let the words fall from your lips, trembling and raw, if it meant he’d touch you the way you craved.
And God, how would he taste? Would his skin taste of salt and heat and Joel, the flavor of him lingering on your tongue like something you could never get enough of? Would his hands tighten in your hair, his breath hitching against your mouth as you kissed him deeper, harder–
“Hope you’re not charging by the minute,” Joel muttered suddenly, his voice muffled against the cushion.
The comment jolted you back to reality, snapping you out of the haze you hadn’t even realized you’d fallen into. You’d been standing there, still as a statue, lost in the illicit fantasy of Joel Miller—of him touching you, holding you, taking you. A rush of heat climbed up your neck, settling in your cheeks as your thoughts scattered into disarray. “Oh,” you stammered, voice higher than you intended. “Right. Sorry.”
Joel huffed softly, the sound more of a low, gravelly exhale than a laugh. He didn’t lift his head, but you noticed it—the faintest movement in his shoulders, the ripple of tension that suggested he wasn’t entirely unaffected by your hesitation.
He stayed there, though. Waiting. Trusting.
Swallowing hard, you forced yourself to focus, to gather your frayed thoughts and channel them into steadying your hands. You hovered for a moment, brushing lightly over his shoulders, your fingertips barely skimming his skin as you fought to steady your pulse.
God, he was warm. Almost too warm, the faint heat of him seeping into your palms. Your hands began to move again, pressing carefully into the firm muscles beneath your touch. You could feel him—really feel him—the tautness of the knots woven into his shoulders, the quiet strength beneath the surface.
But you weren’t doing a very good job—you could feel it, your hands faltering as you tried to work against the unyielding knots in his shoulders. Your stance was off, your angle awkward, and Joel’s frame was just too much—too solid, too broad, his muscles stubborn beneath your touch like they’d been built for this kind of tension.
You pressed harder, determined, your lower lip caught between your teeth as you focused, but your movements still felt clumsy, too light, like you were trying to push against a wall that wouldn’t budge.
And then Joel’s voice, rough and gruff, snapped you back to reality. “Let me know when you start,” he said, the faint teasing lilt in his tone sending a jolt through you like a live wire.
Your gaze snapped to the back of his head. The nerve of him.
You exhaled sharply through your nose, narrowing your eyes even as your cheeks burned. Your hands pressed back down, firmer this time, your movements more deliberate. “Shut up, Joel.”
Joel chuckled low in his throat, a rumbling sound that vibrated through your hands where they touched him, and damn if it didn’t do something to you.
“Just sayin’,” Joel drawled, voice rough and faintly teasing, but there was something beneath it—something that made your pulse skip. “Feels like you’re petting me, not fixin’ me.”
“I know that,” you muttered, frustration threading into your voice as you shifted awkwardly on your feet. You hesitated, your fingers curling into your palms as if anchoring yourself against the words caught on your tongue. “It’s just… the angle. It’s awkward. It’d be easier if…”
Joel shifted, a subtle movement that made your breath catch.
God, why did he have to look so handsome? His face, so rugged and worn by time, somehow managed to soften in the light. His brown eyes, deep and warm, carried a tenderness that cut through the tension like a knife. Puppy-like, almost, but still so distinctly him. And his lips, pink and full, slightly parted like he might say something else—or like he was just waiting for you to close the gap.
“If what, darlin’?” he asked, his voice low and slow, the word rolling off his tongue with a warmth that sank straight into your chest.
Darlin’.
Joel Miller didn’t say things like that—not to you, not like this. You were used to the exasperated “kid” when you annoyed him, or maybe the clipped “missy” when you pushed his limits. But this?
The way he said it was enough to make your knees feel weak, enough to send a shiver up your spine that you couldn’t control. Was he trying to kill you? Because it sure as hell felt like it. You could’ve let out a whimper if you weren’t fighting so hard to keep it together, to stop yourself from falling apart under the weight of his gaze and the slow, deliberate cadence of his voice.
Oh God. Now a new wave of thoughts flooded your mind, unbidden and unstoppable. Would he say that again? Would he call you something softer, something sweeter, if you were beneath him, breathless and trembling? Would he murmur baby, sweetheart, darlin’ in that same low, gravelly drawl, his lips brushing against your skin, his hands gripping your hips as he made you his?
The thought sent a flush of heat racing through your body, pooling low in your stomach as your heart pounded in your ears. You couldn’t stop it now, couldn’t stop picturing the way his voice might hitch, rough and wrecked, as he whispered your name like it belonged to him.
Joel’s gaze flickered, and for a moment, you swore he saw right through you. That twitch at the corner of his mouth—barely there but unmistakable—felt like something he was trying to hide. Like he knew exactly what he was doing. Like he’d slipped on purpose, just enough to let you catch a glimpse of what he was keeping locked away.
His voice broke through the haze of your spiraling thoughts, cutting clean and sharp. “You alright there? Look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Oh, yeah, I’m fine,” you lied, but your voice wavered, too quick, too thin. Your cheeks burned hot, and you cursed yourself for letting your mind wander there again. Were you really that wound up? Had it been so long since you’d felt someone else’s touch that the smallest bit of attention from Joel Miller had you unraveling at the seams?
He tilted his head slightly, studying you, the weight of his stare making your stomach twist. He wasn’t buying it. “What were you sayin’?” he asked, his tone low, steady, but threaded with that edge of authority that left no room for escape. “Finish your sentence.”
You looked away quickly, heat climbing up your neck as your voice stumbled out. “If I could, um… maybe… get on your back?”
The words tumbled into the room, rushed and awkward, like you were trying to rip off a bandage.
Joel stilled. Completely.
His body didn’t move, not even the rise and fall of his chest, like he was processing what you’d just said—every syllable replaying in slow motion. His head turned slightly, enough to catch you in his gaze, one brow lifting so slowly it sent a thrill through you. His face was unreadable, but his eyes—steady and intense—made you feel like he was peeling you apart, word by word.
“You wanna…” he started, his voice low, disbelieving, “…straddle me?”
The way he said it—rough, incredulous, and yet tinged with something dangerously close to amusement—made your heart stutter.
“Yes—I mean—it’d just be easier!” you blurted, the words spilling out in a rushed, frantic tumble. “You’re too big for me to—” You flailed a hand at his back, gesturing vaguely, as if it could explain the absurdity of the situation. “It’s just practical, Joel. That’s all.”
Joel blinked at you, deadpan, his face impossibly still except for the faintest twitch of his mouth. “Practical,” he repeated, the word rolling off his tongue slow and deliberate, like he was testing it out.
And then, he chuckled.
It was low and brief, more of a quiet rumble than a laugh, but it sent a shock straight through you—warm and dangerous, curling low in your stomach like smoke. He turned his head back into the cushion, shaking it faintly like he couldn’t quite believe this conversation.
Your face burned, and you crossed your arms defensively. “Joel,” you groaned, the sound of your exasperation only making him huff out another low, gravelly laugh. “If it’s weird, we don’t have to—”
“It’s fine,” he interrupted, his voice gruff but steady. “Just go on. Get it over with.”
“Are you sure?” you asked softly, quieter now, your voice uncertain, like you were afraid of pushing him too far.
“I said it’s fine,” Joel muttered, the words clipped and rough, but the faint flush creeping up the back of his neck betrayed him. His face turned further away, burying against the shelter of his folded arms, as if retreating might somehow shield him—from what, you didn’t know. From the moment? From you? But the tips of his ears, dusted pink in the firelight, gave him away, whispering the truth that his gruff exterior wouldn’t allow.
Slowly, carefully, you climbed onto the couch, your knees sinking into the cushions on either side of him, bracing your hands on his shoulders for balance. The motion was awkward and clumsy.
Joel tensed instantly, every muscle in his broad back coiling tight beneath your hands, like his body couldn’t decide whether to fight or flee. It wasn’t resistance, not exactly—it was more like instinct, like even now, with you above him, his guard refused to drop completely.
“You alright? I’m not too heavy, am I?” you murmured, your voice barely above a breath, the quiet intimacy of the moment making you afraid to speak louder.
“Heavy?” Joel grunted, his voice rough and low, though his hands flexed briefly against the couch, his grip tightening just enough to make the leather creak faintly beneath him. “Don’t be fuckin’ ridiculous.”
“Okay,” you whispered, your voice faltering slightly as your fingers hovered uncertainly above his back. “Just… let me know if I hurt you.”
Joel let out a low, humorless chuckle. “Ain’t likely,” he muttered.
You started slow, cautious, your fingers pressing into the firm muscles knotted beneath his skin. Joel didn’t relax—not yet—but as you worked, your touch finding a rhythm, you felt his breaths shift beneath you, deepening just slightly, like he was letting out something he hadn’t realized he was holding.
You pressed your thumbs along the edges of his shoulder blades, tracing the lines of tension there. The silence stretched around you, warm and heavy, the crackle of the fire filling the space where words might’ve been. You let it linger, let it be, your hands working lower along his spine, kneading the hard knots hidden there.
It was intimate, so intimate. The kind of closeness that shouldn’t feel this profound but did. You wanted to press down and kiss his skin, tan and golden from years in the sun, warmed now by the flicker of the firelight.
Slowly, deliberately, Joel was letting go, loosening piece by piece, as if surrendering was a language he’d forgotten how to speak. And maybe it was.
“Christ,” Joel muttered, his voice rough, muffled against the couch cushions. “You’re good at that.”
The compliment hit you like a physical thing, stealing the breath from your lungs. He sounded wrecked already, and you weren’t sure how to handle the way it made you feel—how it set your nerves alight and sent heat pooling low in your belly.
“Yeah?” you whispered, your voice trembling slightly, breathless with the weight of his words. “That feel good?” The question was soft, almost tentative, but there was something else there too—something daring. Like you wanted to see just how far you could take him, how much you could unravel him under your hands.
Joel didn’t answer with words—just a low, drawn-out hum, deep and gravelly, vibrating through his chest and into your hands. The sound felt intimate in a way that made your cheeks burn, your thighs pressing together instinctively as something heavy curled low in your stomach.
Tension coiled in him—not the kind you were kneading away, but something else, something darker, more primal. He shifted subtly, his hips pressing into the cushion as if to ease the ache building there, but you weren’t naïve. You couldn’t stop the flush creeping up your neck, your lip caught between your teeth as you dared to imagine it. Joel Miller, gruff and unshakable, hard under your touch—and it was you who had done that to him.
You imagined how he’d react if your hands dared to drift lower, past the curve of his belly, your fingers slipping beneath the barrier of his waistband to explore the heat waiting there. Would he gasp, sharp and guttural, as your touch made contact? Would his hips lift instinctively, pressing into your hand, his body betraying just how much he wanted this—how much he wanted you?
Your fingers moved carefully, deliberately, tracing the tension along his shoulders and finding a particularly stubborn knot beneath your palms. You pressed deeper, slower, and Joel shifted under you. “Fuck,” he muttered, his voice wrecked, the word rough and guttural, unfiltered in a way that made your stomach twist with want, the ache in your chest spreading like wildfire.
God, you wanted more of that. You wanted to pull more of those sounds from him, to know what they’d feel like when they weren’t muffled against the couch, but pressed against your skin.
Your hands trembled as you pressed into the knot again, harder this time, like you couldn’t stop yourself from testing his limits. Joel groaned, the sound deep and rough, and it sent a ripple of electricity through you, hot and consuming. Your body screamed for relief, the ache so deep it nearly pushed you to grind against his back, consequences be damned. Your breaths were ragged, your chest rising and falling, and the slick heat pooling between your thighs had already soaked through.
“Right there,” he murmured, his voice softer now, but no less wrecked. The way he said it—low and thick, like the words had been dragged from somewhere deep inside him—made your breath hitch. “Yeah, just like that,” he added, the rasp in his voice laced with something almost dangerous.
“Jesus, Joel,” you murmured under your breath, barely loud enough for him to hear. But even as the words left your lips, you wondered if it was more a prayer or a curse.
What would his voice sound like if you leaned down and kissed the scar along his shoulder blade, your lips dragging slowly across his skin? If your hands slipped lower, teasing, inviting him to lose control? Would he moan your name, low and ruined, the sound breaking apart as your touch consumed him? Would he groan against your mouth, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise as he thrust into you, his words filthy and breathless, begging you to take everything he had to give?
And then you heard it.
“Good girl,” Joel muttered, the words barely audible, low and gravelly, like they’d slipped out unguarded—rough, raw, and utterly devastating.
You froze. Completely.
Your hands stilled where they rested on his back, trembling slightly, and you felt the heat rush up your cheeks, down your neck, down to your aching core in a way that made it impossible to focus.
You couldn’t stop yourself from imagining what it would sound like if he said it again—what it would feel like if he growled it against your ear, his hands gripping your tits, his breath hot against your skin.
Finally, when you were satisfied with your work—or maybe just too overwhelmed to keep going—you eased off Joel carefully, your hands trembling slightly as you pushed yourself to stand beside the couch.
Joel let out a low, deliberate grunt, his shoulders rolling as he pushed himself upright, his hands gripping the cushions like he needed a moment to steady himself. H
He reached for his shirt, tugging it back on in one swift motion. The fabric stretched over his broad shoulders as he avoided your gaze. His focus stayed fixed somewhere just past you, as though he couldn’t trust himself to look at you directly.
But little did he know, you weren’t meeting his eyes either. Against your better judgment, your eyes betrayed you. They drifted down, hesitant but hungry, until they landed exactly where you knew they shouldn’t.
Your breath caught in your throat.
The worn denim of his jeans was taut, straining against the undeniable evidence of his arousal. There was no mistaking it—the hard outline pressing against the fabric, the way he shifted slightly like he was trying to find relief but didn’t want to make it obvious. Your stomach flipped, heat flooding your cheeks and slick pooling between your thighs as you realized what you’d done to him.
He wanted you.
That knowledge hit you like a freight train—overwhelming, intoxicating, impossible to ignore. You couldn’t look away, no matter how much you tried to convince yourself to. The sight of him, hard and straining against his jeans, burned itself into your mind, your heart thundering so loudly in your ears that you almost didn’t hear him clear his throat.
Your breath came faster, your chest heaving as the thought consumed you. You wanted to help him. God, you wanted to. Wanted to take away that tension, to make him feel good in a way you knew he hadn’t let himself in far too long. The idea of his release—of you being the one to give it to him—had your thighs clenching, a needy heat coursing through you.
What would he do if you sank to your knees right now, positioning yourself between his thighs? Would his body tense in shock, his breath catching as he looked down at you, torn between pushing you away and pulling you closer? Would he mutter something low and strained, about how this couldn’t happen, how it shouldn’t?
Or would he give in? Would his breath hitch as he whispered your name, rough and almost reverent, his hands tangling in your hair, guiding you with a quiet desperation? Would he let you take control, let you explore him at your own pace, or would he seize it, the tension breaking as he pressed you deeper, showing you exactly what he wanted, exactly how he needed you?
Joel must have noticed the faraway, dazed look in your eyes, the way you lingered in the heavy silence between you both. “Well,” he said finally, his voice quiet and rough, almost hesitant, as though he was testing the waters. “Thanks. That was… that was good.” His hand dragged through his hair, mussing the curls even further.
You forced a small smile, your chest tight and aching as you tucked your hands behind your back, hoping it might steady you somehow. “No problem,” you murmured, your voice quieter than you meant it to be. Your eyes flicked to his, and then, almost without thinking, you added, “I like making you feel good.”
The words hung in the air, soft but deliberate, their weight landing squarely between you. Joel froze for a moment, his breath catching audibly as his Adam’s apple bobbed with a sharp gulp.
Fuck, Joel thought. You were making a damn mess of him. He should leave—really leave—go home, take care of the growing ache in his pants, and swear off ever talking to you again. It would be the right thing to do. The smart thing. But, of course, he didn’t.
How could he, when you looked like that? Wide-eyed, red-cheeked, lips slightly parted like you were holding back something that could ruin him completely.
“Did you…” He trailed off, his voice rough and hesitant, his fingers rubbing the back of his neck in that way he always did when he was unsure.
“Did I what?” you asked softly, your tone careful, coaxing, almost gentle.
Joel sighed heavily, shaking his head like he regretted even starting. His hand dropped back to his knee, his jaw tightening as though he was debating just walking out. For a moment, you thought he might.
But then, finally, he said it.
“Did you want me to… y’know, help you out?” His voice was quieter now, gruff and uneven. His eyes darted to you briefly, then away, like he couldn’t quite face whatever was stirring between you.
“Your back,” he clarified after a beat, clearing his throat. “I remember you said somethin’ about it the other day, when you were ridin’ Winnie. Twinge, or somethin’.”
Joel cleared his throat again, the faintest pink creeping up the sides of his neck as his gaze flicked to you and then away. “But, uh, no big deal,” he added gruffly, his voice rough and low, like he was backpedaling, trying to give you an easy out. “I can just head out.”
He was trying to play it off—acting like it didn’t matter, like he hadn’t just offered to touch you, to take care of you in a way that mirrored what you’d just done for him. But the way his voice faltered, rough and quiet, told you everything. He cared—more than he wanted to admit.
Finally, you managed a small smile, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’d like that.”
Joel stilled for a moment, his hand dropping away from his neck to rest in his lap. He hesitated, his dark eyes flicking back to yours. “You sure? I can leave if you—”
“I don’t want you to leave,” you interrupted, your voice soft but steady.
Joel inhaled deeply, the sound heavy and deliberate, before slowly pushing himself to his feet. The movement made him seem taller, broader, as if he took up all the space in the room at once.
“Uh… can’t promise it’ll be any good,” he muttered, a faint vulnerability beneath his words that made your chest ache.
“That’s okay,” you replied quickly, too quickly, your voice rushing out as you offered him a small, nervous smile. You hesitated for half a second, biting the inside of your cheek as your heart hammered in your chest. Then, finally, you asked, “How do you want me?”
The words left your lips before you could stop them.
How do you want me?
God - If only you knew. If only you understood the way those four words hit him—hard and unrelenting.
Joel’s chest tightened, his cock hardening as his thoughts spiraled, unbidden and entirely indecent, leaving him gripping for control. He pictured you asking that question with a different tone, a different look in your eyes, and it wrecked him. On your back, your legs tangled with his. On your knees, your hands gripping his thighs as you gazed up at him with those wide, innocent eyes. Bent over the arm of the couch, his name tumbling from your lips like a prayer.
He swallowed hard, his throat working against the heat rising in him, and his hands curled into fists at his sides, nails biting into his palms in a desperate attempt to stay grounded. Christ, what the fuck is wrong with me?
“I, uh…” His voice was rough, strained, his words catching as though they didn’t want to leave. “Just, uh… wherever you’re comfortable. On the couch, or… wherever.”
You nodded, though you couldn’t ignore the way his eyes darkened, his lips parting as he muttered a low, almost inaudible fuck under his breath. The sound sent a ripple through you, your body buzzing as you followed his direction, sinking slowly into the cushions with your back to him. You angled your body slightly away to give him space, though the air between you felt anything but distant.
“Uh… keep your shirt on,” he mumbled, his voice rough and uneven, like he was struggling to get the words out.
“Oh,” you replied, the disappointment creeping into your tone before you could stop it. Your fingers fidgeted with the hem of your shirt, suddenly feeling a little self-conscious. Maybe he didn’t want to see you like that. Maybe this wasn’t what you thought it was.
But God, were you wrong.
Joel knew the truth—knew it with every ounce of restraint he was clinging to. If he saw you topless, in nothing but your bra, he’d lose it. Completely. If he saw your breasts, the curve of them rising and falling with each unsteady breath, if his eyes traced the slope of your bare shoulders, your bare back, he’d be done for. His control would snap like a thread pulled too tight, and he’d ruin everything—you.
So, for now, you had to keep your shirt on. Not because he didn’t want you, but because he wanted you too much.
“I, uh…” Joel started, his voice low and faltering, his hands hovering awkwardly at his sides, twitching slightly with hesitation, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch you.
Without thinking, you reached up, gathering your hair and sweeping it over one shoulder, baring the curve of your neck to him. The movement was small, simple, but it felt intimate—like offering something unspoken. Your skin prickled with anticipation, the charged air between you thickening as you turned your head slightly, glancing back at him with wide, steady eyes.
“It’s okay,” you murmured, the words threading through the heavy stillness between you. “You can touch me.”
Fuck. Joel’s chest tightened, his mind spiraling as the words echoed between you. Touch you. God, he wanted to. More than he should. More than he could admit to himself.
He stared at his hands—rough and calloused, worn by years of work and hardship—and for a moment, he faltered. These weren’t hands meant for softness. Not for you.
Finally, slowly, Joel lifted his hands, each movement deliberate, as if he was crossing a line he couldn’t uncross. The hesitation was written in every breath, every twitch of his fingers, a quiet war waging inside him even as he reached for you.
When his hands settled on your shoulders, they were tentative at first, his palms warm against your skin, rough but somehow gentle. Joel’s thumbs pressed carefully into the tight muscles of your shoulders, moving in slow, deliberate circles.
A soft, unbidden sound escaped your lips, barely audible, but enough to make his hands falter mid-motion. His grip loosened slightly, and his breath hitched audibly, like the sound had caught him off guard.
“Am I hurting you?” he asked, his voice low and gravelly, every word dragged out as though speaking them took effort. His hands hovered, poised to pull away if you gave even the slightest indication of discomfort.
“No,” you breathed, your voice barely above a whisper as your eyes fluttered shut. The tension in your shoulders began to melt under his touch, leaving you pliant beneath him. “You feel good.”
Joel exhaled then, a quiet, shaky sound that carried the weight of something unspoken—something he didn’t know how to put into words. His hands settled back into their rhythm, more assured now, his thumbs sliding down the line of your shoulder blades with purpose before gliding back up, tracing the curve of your neck with a reverence that sent your pulse skittering.
It was steady, methodical, almost too careful, but there was something else beneath it—something deeper, darker, like he was learning you, memorizing you with every pass of his hands. His jaw tightened, his thoughts spiraling as the weight of your words replayed in his head—you feel good.
You let your head tilt forward as Joel’s hands found a tight spot at the base of your neck, your body instinctively yielding under his touch. Relief washed over you, a soft sigh slipping from your lips before you could stop it. Joel froze, his hands hesitating, until you murmured hazily, “Fuck, Joel…”
His hands slid lower, kneading the muscles along your upper back with careful precision. “Feels good,” you murmured, the words slipping out, soft and dreamlike, unbidden. You melted further into the couch, into him, your body pliant under his touch, like you were made for it.
Joel clenched his jaw, his hands faltering for the briefest moment before finding their rhythm again. He wanted to tell you to quit it. To stop saying all these things to him—these words that wrapped around him like a vice, squeezing until he could barely breathe. To stop making those noises that made his resolve waver, that made him ache in ways he hadn’t allowed himself to in years.
But how could he?
How could he tell you to stop when the sound of your voice, soft and wrecked, was the sweetest thing he’d ever heard? When the way your body leaned into his touch, so trusting, so vulnerable, felt like the closest thing to heaven he’d ever known?
You held your breath, heart pounding wildly as Joel’s thumbs pressed—just slightly—into the tight muscles near your lower back. The pressure was perfect, and before you could stop yourself, a soft, unbidden moan escaped your lips.
Joel froze instantly, every muscle in his body going taut, coiling like a live wire as that sound echoed in his head. It hit him hard, sharp and visceral, sinking deep into his chest and sparking a fire he couldn’t control.
That moan—soft, breathless, and so fucking sweet—was seared into his memory now, unraveling every thread of restraint he’d been clinging to. Would you whimper for him? The thought tightened his chest, his jaw clenching hard as his hands faltered against you, his grip tightening briefly before he forced himself to ease up.
Would you gasp his name, needy and wrecked, if his lips pressed to the curve of your neck? If his hands slid lower, over the gentle slope of your hips, past the thin fabric separating him from you? Would you beg for him? For him?
If he touched you now—if his fingers dipped beneath the waistband of your pants, sliding lower to feel the heat of you—would you be wet?
God, would you be ready for him? The question burned through his mind, relentless and vivid. He could almost feel it—the way your body might arch into him, the way your breath would hitch when he touched you there. Would you moan again, that same soft, wrecked sound, but this time louder, fuller, edged with need?
The images came faster now, vivid and impossible to suppress. He could see it so clearly: your body trembling beneath him, your lips parted in a breathless plea, your eyes half-lidded, hazy with the kind of need he didn’t deserve but craved all the same.
Joel took a deep breath, sharp and ragged, before abruptly pulling his hands away from you, dropping them into his lap like they’d burned him. “That’s all I got,” he said finally, his voice low and strained, the edge to his words making it sound almost like he was angry—at himself, at you, at the fragile control he was barely holding onto.
Your eyes fluttered open slowly, as if waking from a dream you weren’t quite ready to leave. Turning just enough, you caught sight of him leaning back against the couch, a pillow now strategically draped over his lap, his hand covering his eyes as though shielding himself from the sight of you—maybe from the way you made him feel.
“Thanks,” you murmured, your voice soft, still tinged with the haze of his touch, the weight of his hands lingering on your skin like a memory. “It was good. Really good.”
Joel’s only response was a single nod, curt and clipped, his jaw tight as though he didn’t trust himself to say more. “Yeah,” he muttered, the word rough, almost bitten out, as though forcing it past his lips was a battle. “Glad it helped.”
The silence stretched between you, heavy and tense, the crackle of the fire the only sound in the room. Finally, Joel cleared his throat, shifting as if to stand, his voice low and hesitant. “Look,” he said, his words slow and deliberate, like he was trying to steady himself. “I should… I should really get going. I—”
“Wait,” you interrupted, turning fully toward him now, your voice soft but insistent.
Joel turned to you slowly, his movements deliberate, like he was fighting every instinct telling him to stay right where he was. His eyes met yours, and for a moment, everything in him seemed to fray at the edges. Please don’t ask me to stay, his mind begged, the words unspoken but screaming in his head. Because I don’t know if I can control myself any longer.
You faltered, suddenly shy, your gaze dipping for a moment before finding his again. “I wanted to ask you something I noticed earlier… when your shirt was off.”
Joel’s brow twitched, the lines on his forehead deepening as his eyes sharpened. His shoulders tensed ever so slightly, the weight of your words settling over him.
What was she gonna say?
Was it about the way his stomach wasn’t as flat as it used to be, softened by the years and the hardships he carried? Or maybe the way his body groaned with every movement, the weight of too many fights, too many scars etched into his bones? Or was it the silver streaking through his hair, glinting in the firelight, betraying just how much time had carved itself into him?
The look he gave you was cautious, expectant—like he was waiting for you to confirm the insecurities he worked so hard to bury. His voice, when it came, was quieter than usual, softer but guarded. “Yeah?”
Your fingers moved before you could stop them, trembling slightly as they reached out, grazing the edge of his shirt near the collar. Joel went utterly still, his breath slowing, like he was waiting—letting you. You hesitated, your heart pounding, before gently tugging the fabric down just an inch, revealing a little more of his skin.
Your gaze caught on it immediately: the scar.
It was jagged and pale, stark against the warmth of his skin, carved into his collarbone like a brand from another life. Your breath hitched, a shaky exhale escaping as your eyes lingered on the mark. Your fingers hovered close, just near enough to feel the heat of him, but you didn’t dare touch.
“What… what happened?” you asked finally, your voice soft, trembling.
Joel’s gaze followed yours, his face unreadable. He expected the worst—a comment about his body, about the way time and hardship had worn him down. But how could he expect that from you? You, the sweetest woman he’d ever met. This was almost worse, though. Because you cared. And that care, that softness, felt like it would undo him completely.
Slowly, he leaned back, putting a sliver of distance between you as if he needed the space to steel himself. “Knife,” he muttered, his voice rough and clipped.
Your eyes flicked to his face, searching for something in his expression—a trace of the story written into that scar, an emotion he didn’t want to reveal. But Joel didn’t look at you.
“Some guy,” he continued after a beat, his tone measured but guarded. “Long time ago. Tried attackin’ me.”
You hummed softly, the sound filled with a quiet empathy you didn’t know how to put into words. For a moment, you pictured him—Joel, younger but still so unmistakably him. Less gray in his hair, more fire in his eyes. Sharper around the edges, all raw survival and steady hands that had learned how to do what was necessary.
“Had to stitch myself up,” Joel added after a long pause, his voice low, each word deliberate, like it cost him something to say.
Your chest ached with the weight of it, and when you spoke, your voice was barely more than a whisper. “Ouch.”
He huffed a quiet, humorless sound, his lips twitching for the briefest second before settling back into a thin line. Without thinking, you shifted closer, the space between you narrowing until your knees brushed his. Joel stilled at the contact, but he didn’t pull away.
And then, quietly, carefully, your hand reached out.
Your fingertips grazed the edge of his temple, tracing the faint curve of a scar that rested just above the bone. It was subtle, easy to miss if you weren’t looking closely, but now that you’d seen it, you couldn’t look away.
Joel didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. His eyes, dark and unreadable, flicked to yours, his jaw tightening as though he wasn’t sure if he could let himself breathe. But you saw him—really saw him. You always did.
“And this one?” you asked softly, your voice low, reverent, as if afraid to shatter the fragile stillness of the moment.
He didn’t move, didn’t pull away, but when he spoke, his voice was rough and uneven, your name slipping from his lips like a plea. “Don’t.”
The word was soft, almost broken, and the way he said it sent a pang of something deep and aching through you. There was no bite to it, no command—just Joel, asking for something unspoken.
“What?” you whispered, your hand stilling but refusing to pull away. Your eyes searched his face, lingering on the tight line of his jaw, the way his lashes brushed his cheekbones as he closed his eyes.
“It’s nothin’,” Joel muttered gruffly.
“I want to know,” you urged gently, your voice steady but soft, carrying the kind of quiet insistence that could slip past defenses. “Please.”
“Took a hit to the head,” he muttered finally, the words clipped and bitter. “Made a dumb mistake. Should’ve seen it comin’.”
Slowly, you pulled your hand back, the motion deliberate, leaving a trail of phantom heat in its absence. Joel’s hand twitched, halfway between you, like it wanted to reach for you but couldn’t quite make it.
“Why d’you care ‘bout this?” Joel asked finally, his voice low and rough. It wasn’t an accusation. It was confusion, like he genuinely couldn’t comprehend why anyone would care enough to notice, let alone ask.
His dark eyes flickered over your face, searching for something he wasn’t sure he wanted to find.
You stared at him, your lips parting as you tried to find the words, but nothing came at first. How could you explain it? How could you tell him that every time he let his guard slip, even just a fraction, it felt like he was handing you something sacred, something no one else had been allowed to see?
How could you tell him that you cared because he mattered.
How could you tell him that you cared because you loved him?
“Because it’s you,” you said softly, the words slipping free before you could stop them.
His expression faltered—just for a second. His eyes flickered, dark and searching, like he couldn’t quite believe what he’d heard. Like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to believe it. His chest rose and fell in slow, deliberate breaths, like he was holding something back—something too big, too fragile to name. Then he shook his head, the motion slow, deliberate, like he was trying to will the moment away.
“Don’t say somethin’ you don’t mean,” he muttered, the words rough and low, swallowing against the literal pain that burned in his throat as he forced them out.
Your brows furrowed, your chest tightening as you shifted closer to him, the air between you thick and charged. “Joel you told me a while ago,” you began, your voice steady despite the thrum of your heartbeat pounding in your ears, “that you cared about me.”
Joel’s gaze snapped up at that, his dark eyes locking onto yours with a sharp, almost wary intensity. He looked like a man cornered, searching for an angle, a way out of a conversation he hadn’t realized he’d walked straight into. But there wasn’t one. You both knew it.
Finally, after a long, loaded silence, he nodded once. It was curt but deliberate, his jaw tightening as his Adam’s apple bobbed in a reluctant swallow. “I do,” he said, his voice gravelly, like the words dragged themselves out of him against his will. “Course I do.”
"Then why can't you believe me when I say I care about you too?" The words spilled from you before you could stop them, your voice softer now, trembling with the mix of pleading and frustration that had been building inside you. Vulnerability bled through, and your chest ached as you forced yourself to hold his gaze. Don’t look away.
"Why is that so hard for you to accept?"
Joel's jaw clenched, and his lips pressed into a thin, pale line. His eyes flicked down, unable to meet yours. His hand moved absently, rubbing the worn denim of his thigh, the restless motion betraying the storm brewing just beneath his skin.
"It ain't..." he started, his voice faltering, so low it felt like a confession. "It's not the same."
"Not the same how?" you pressed, leaning forward. Your voice was steady now, firm, as if the calmness might coax him into staying—into answering. "I don’t get it, Joel. I don’t understand why it’s so hard for you to just… let me care about you."
He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. His gaze stayed fixed on the ground, unwilling to face you.
You couldn’t take it any longer. Slowly, you reached out, your hand finding his face, gently tilting it toward you. The contact was soft, tentative, but the gesture felt like an unspoken plea, like you were begging him to let you in.
"I don’t think I’ve ever trusted anyone like I trust you." Your voice cracked, just barely, as you took a breath, searching for the courage to say what you hadn’t said aloud. "You make me feel safe. Joel... I don’t know what I’d do without you."
Joel’s head snapped up at that.
“Look,” you began softly, leaning forward, your voice threading through the heavy quiet between you. “I’m not fighting you on this. It’s not a battle, Joel. It’s just the truth. Whether you believe it or not, I care.”
“And I know you’re stubborn,” you added, your lips quirking in a small, fleeting smile, an attempt to lighten the moment before it swallowed you both whole. “Maybe even more stubborn than me.”
That earned you something—a tilt of his head, just barely, his brow furrowing as his eyes flickered to you, guarded but curious. “I’m the stubborn one?” he asked gruffly, his voice rough and low, though the faintest thread of incredulity cut through it.
“Yeah,” you replied, letting the smile tug a little wider as you leaned back, arms crossing loosely over your chest. “You can be just as bad as me. Maybe worse.”
“But it’s true,” you pressed gently, the teasing giving way to something deeper, something unshakable. Your gaze caught his, steady and unyielding, holding him there even as you saw the flicker of resistance in his eyes. “I care, Joel. I really do. And it’s not gonna change just because you’re too damn stubborn to believe it.”
Joel’s head lifted fully then, his dark eyes locking onto yours with a focus so intense it made your breath catch. The walls he’d fortified so carefully, so stubbornly, seemed to waver, crumbling at the edges. And for the first time, you didn’t just feel like you were talking to Joel—you felt like you saw him.
The space between you felt smaller, sharper, like gravity was pulling you together. You became acutely aware of how close you were, your knees brushing his as the firelight flickered against his face. And then, his gaze dipped—to your lips.
Oh my god. Is he going to kiss me?
The thought slammed into you, leaving your heart racing in your chest. Time seemed to slow, his gaze lingering there just a beat too long. The air felt charged, thick with something unspoken. Your breath hitched, and for a split second, you thought he might.
But then Joel’s throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, his gaze dropping abruptly to his hands. He shifted against the couch, the movement slow and deliberate, like he was forcing himself to break the spell. “Well,” he said finally, his voice rough and uneven, cutting through the fragile quiet. He cleared his throat, his hands smoothing over his jeans in a nervous, practiced gesture. “I should probably get goin’.”
The words hit harder than they should’ve, a sharp pang settling in your chest. “Oh,” you murmured softly, the sound escaping before you could stop it.
“Yeah, okay.” Your lips curved into a small, fleeting smile, the best you could manage. “Thanks for, uh…” You gestured vaguely toward the kitchen, your voice light but thin. “…the dinner. And the firewood.”
Joel nodded once, his eyes flickering anywhere but you—the door, the fire, his boots—like looking at you might undo him entirely. “Yeah,” he muttered, his voice low and strained. “No problem.”
He hesitated, the pause stretching longer than it should’ve. His hand came up to rub the back of his neck, the familiar, disarming motion drawing your attention to the tension still coiled in his frame. His bicep flexed subtly, and you hated how that flicker of movement sent heat curling in your stomach even now, when all you wanted was for him to stay.
“And… thanks for, uh… the back thing,” he added gruffly, his voice a shade quieter, more uncertain.
The words caught you off guard, and a soft, unsteady laugh escaped you before you could stop it. “The back thing?” you echoed, arching a brow at him, the teasing edge in your voice betraying the weight pressing on your chest. “That’s what we’re calling it?”
Joel’s lips twitched—just barely—a flicker of something lighter that tugged at the corners of his mouth before disappearing as quickly as it came. His gaze finally lifted to meet yours, warmer now but still guarded, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to let it linger. “You know what I mean,” he muttered, the words rough but softer this time.
“You’re welcome,” you said gently, the teasing fading from your voice as you watched him.
When he stood, you followed him toward the door, the sound of his boots against the floor punctuating the silence between you. Every step felt heavy, the space around you thickening with all the things neither of you could bring yourselves to say. He reached the door and paused, his hand resting on the knob, his broad shoulders shifting just slightly like he was caught between leaving and staying.
For a beat, he didn’t move. And then, slowly, he turned back to you, his dark eyes flickering to yours with an uncertainty that made your heart stutter. “Good night,” he said finally, his voice low and rough, but there was something in it—something more—that he didn’t let himself say. His fingers curled tighter around the knob, knuckles pale from the tension. “Lock up after me, yeah?”
You nodded, your voice steadier than you felt. “Good night, Joel.”
But you wanted to say more.
Don’t leave.
Don’t walk out that door. Stay. Stay here with me.
Let me show you that I care.
Let me show you that I love you.
For a moment, you held your breath, your pulse pounding so loudly you were sure he could hear it. Please. Just say something. Stay.
But he didn’t.
He gave you a small, almost imperceptible nod, his face shadowed in the soft glow of the firelight, and turned away.
The door creaked softly as it opened, the cold night air rushing in, biting against your skin, a sharp contrast to the warmth of the room. For a heartbeat, you saw the stars outside—endless, distant, uncaring—before the door clicked shut behind him, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the sudden stillness.
You exhaled shakily, the sound unsteady as you pressed your forehead lightly against the door, your eyes fluttering shut. The house felt too big without him, the fire behind you too quiet to chase away the chill that crept into your bones now that he was gone.
“Don’t go,” you whispered, the words breaking like a secret in the empty room—soft and fragile, meant for him but swallowed by the night.
Outside, the stars stretched on forever, distant and silent, but you stayed there, rooted to the spot, the ache of all the words you hadn’t said pressing heavy against your chest.
And you let them linger.
─── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ───
The next day, you found yourself trudging toward the dining hall with Maria, trying—and failing—to suppress a yawn. Sleep hadn’t come easy after last night. The weight of Joel’s touch, the sound of his voice murmuring your name, lingered stubbornly in the quiet of your mind, replaying like a song you couldn’t shake.
“Late night?” Maria asked, her tone teasing but curious as she nudged you gently.
“Something like that,” you murmured, rolling your shoulders in a vain attempt to shake the ache that still clung to them.
Stepping into the dining hall, the low hum of conversation and the clatter of trays greeted you, a comforting sort of chaos that momentarily distracted you from the exhaustion curling behind your eyes. Maria stopped short and turned to you, motioning vaguely.
“I’m gonna hit the bathroom,” she said, jerking her thumb toward the back. “The boys are over there.”
At her words, your gaze followed her subtle nod—and your heart stilled.
As you made your way toward them, it was Tommy who spotted you first. His face split into a wide grin, his arms already opening before you reached him. “Hey, darlin’,” he drawled warmly, his Southern lilt wrapping around the word like it belonged there, soft and easy. “Joel was just tellin’ me how you saved his old ass the other day. You’re somethin’ else, you know that? A damn badass.”
Your heart gave a sharp skip at the mention of Joel, your gaze flicking instinctively to him. He stood just a step behind Tommy, his tray in one hand, the other tucked loosely into his pocket. He was watching you—quiet, steady—but there was a softness in his eyes, the kind he reserved only for you. Without a word, Joel reached for an extra tray and handed it to you, his movements deliberate but natural, like it wasn’t even a question.
“Thanks,” you murmured, your voice quiet and shaky, betraying you. The faintest blush crept into your cheeks, and you watched Joel’s jaw tighten as he gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. His gaze dropped, flicking away shyly—a softness so uncharacteristic of him that it pulled at something deep in your chest.
“You sleep alright?” he asked, his voice low, quiet enough that it felt like it was meant only for you.
You nodded quickly, gripping the tray a little tighter as you found your words. “Yeah. Your, uh… back thing helped, I think.”
Joel hummed, the sound deep in his chest, approving but subdued. “Good,” he said, his voice warm, his eyes flickering up to meet yours again—and then lower, to your lips. It was brief, almost imperceptible, but enough to make your breath catch.
Tommy’s brow furrowed, his tray hovering in mid-air as he looked between you both, confusion clear on his face. What the hell are they talkin’ about? he wondered, his lips twitching as if he might interrupt.
Before you could even process it, the moment shattered.
“Hey, lady,” a sharp, abrasive voice cut through the air behind you.
Startled, you turned sharply, the tray wobbling slightly in your hands as you found yourself face-to-face with someone you didn’t recognize. He was large—towering, broad-shouldered, with a head shaved so close it gleamed under the lights. His scowl was deep, a permanent mark etched into his face, and the way his eyes raked over you felt dismissive, hostile.
“Oh,” you stammered, caught off guard as your pulse quickened. “Hi.” Did you know this guy? No, you decided, swallowing hard. He was new—one of the recent arrivals who hadn’t yet settled into Jackson’s quiet rhythm.
You felt it before you saw it. Joel.
He hadn’t moved, not yet, but you could feel the change in him—subtle but unmistakable. The air between you shifted as if the temperature had dropped, the warmth of his earlier softness disappearing in a heartbeat. His posture stiffened, shoulders squaring, and Tommy turned too, his expression darkening as he registered the tension.
“Not sure what you think you’re doin’, cuttin’ in line like that,” the man sneered, his voice rough, laced with something sharp and ugly. His eyes flicked over you again, dismissive in a way that made your stomach twist. “Think you’re special or somethin’?”
“I’m—” you started, flustered, the words sticking in your throat. “I didn’t realize—”
You felt Joel move before you saw him.
“Hey,” Joel’s voice cut through the hum of the dining hall like the edge of a blade—low, deliberate, and unyielding. It wasn’t loud, but it didn’t need to be.
Joel stepped forward, his broad frame eclipsing yours completely as he inserted himself between you and the stranger, shielding you with a movement so instinctive, so deliberate, it made your chest tighten. Without turning his head, his hand found your waist—firm but gentle—as he nudged you back toward Tommy.
Tommy let out a quiet, resigned “Oh boy,” under his breath, his grip on your arm steady, like he already knew where this was headed. Around you, the energy shifted. Conversations dimmed to nervous murmurs, trays clinked against the tables, and chairs scraped as people turned to watch.
Everyone in Jackson knew better. They knew Joel Miller. His name carried weight—a reputation forged in blood and grit, etched into every line on his hardened face. He didn’t need to bark orders or shout threats; his presence alone did the talking. Joel was a man who didn’t bluff, and everyone who’d lived here long enough understood that much.
But this man didn’t. Or he was too new—too reckless—to realize what kind of line he’d just crossed.
“She’s with me,” Joel said, his voice quiet and cold.
The stranger scoffed, his lip curling as he stepped forward, puffing out his chest in a challenge that only made him look smaller next to Joel’s unflinching presence. “Does it look like I care?” he spat, his tone dripping with mockery.
You flinched instinctively, but Joel didn’t react—not at first. He stood stock-still, his profile unreadable except for the faint tick in his jaw, the slow curl of his fingers into a fist at his side. His stillness was terrifying, the kind that signaled restraint—restraint that could snap at any moment.
When Joel spoke again, his voice dropped lower—deadly and cold, each word a warning wrapped in a promise. “It does,” he said, and his eyes sharpened like twin shards of glass. “If you wanna keep breathing.”
The newcomer didn’t take the hint—or worse, he did and chose to shove it aside with all the grace of a bull in a china shop. He rolled his eyes, his scowl twisting into something cruel and sharp, a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah, whatever, man. Tell your brat of a girlfriend she can’t just go around cutting in line. That’s not how things work.”
Brat.
The word struck like the crack of a whip, each syllable biting deeper than the last. A flare of heat surged through you—anger, humiliation, a wild tangle of words clawing their way up your throat. Who does this guy think he is? Brat? Your mouth moved on instinct, the retort already forming, sharp and searing: “Who do you think you’re—”
But the words never landed. Tommy’s hand found your arm, firm and grounding. His grip wasn’t harsh, but it carried weight, his presence a tether against the storm building inside you. His voice was low, a quiet murmur meant only for you, but the warning in it was unmistakable.
“Don’t,” he said, his tone a weary drawl laced with a hint of something heavier. Experience. Resignation. “Trust me. Don’t.”
It happened in a flash—so fast you could barely process it. One moment, Joel stood beside you, his presence solid and unyielding like a dam holding back a flood. The next, that flood broke.
Joel surged forward with a force that was all precision, controlled fury, and raw intent. His hand shot out, gripping the man’s collar with a strength that sent him stumbling back. The motion was seamless, deliberate, like the inevitable force of a storm bearing down on its target. The man’s back slammed against the nearest wall, the impact reverberating through the dining hall like a clap of thunder.
“What,” Joel growled, his voice low, dangerous, and deadly, “did you just say?”
It wasn’t a yell. Joel didn’t need to raise his voice. The menace in his tone—the quiet, simmering fury—was far more terrifying. His grip on the man’s collar was ironclad, his knuckles white against the fabric.
The man squirmed, his bravado already cracking like thin ice. “Get the fuck off me!” he barked, shoving weakly at Joel’s chest. His hands trembled with effort, but it was like trying to move a mountain. Joel didn’t budge—not even a flicker of motion.
“Say it again,” Joel snarled, his voice dropping to a whisper that coiled through the room like smoke, suffocating and inescapable. He yanked the man closer, their faces level now, his grip tightening like a vice. “Go ahead. Say it again. And see what happens.”
“I didn’t—” the man started, his voice hitching, but Joel slammed him harder against the wall, the sound louder this time, sharp enough to make a few people in the crowd flinch.
“You don’t talk to her like that,” Joel snarled, his voice low and venomous, each word laced with a fury that could melt steel. “Hell,” he growled, his breath steady but deliberate, like he was holding back a storm, “you don’t talk to her ever. You don’t look at her like that.” His grip tightened on the man’s collar, knuckles white, and with a sharp shove, he slammed him against the wall again. The dull thud of the man’s head meeting the surface reverberated in the tense silence.
Joel leaned in, his face inches from the man’s now paling one, his voice breaking through the quiet like a crack of thunder. “And you sure as hell don’t get to call her—” His voice cracked, raw and seething, but he pushed through it, his hand jerking the man forward only to slam him back again, harder this time, the impact leaving no room for argument.
“Anything but her goddamn name.”
The man’s bravado shattered completely. His eyes widened in panic, his breath coming in short, frantic gasps. “I—I didn’t mean it, okay? I didn’t mean—”
“That doesn’t sound like an apology,” Joel cut him off, his voice quieter now but no less menacing. His gaze burned into the man, and his grip didn’t falter. “Try again.” He yanked him closer, the venom in his words unrelenting. “And look her in the eye while you do it.”
The man’s head jerked toward you, his movements jerky and frantic, his voice trembling. “I’m sorry!” he blurted out, the words spilling over themselves in his panic. “I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry!”
The dining hall felt like it had frozen in time. Conversations had ceased, forks hung mid-air, the faint crackle of the fire in the corner the only sound to break the silence. Joel was unyielding, a pillar of unrelenting fury. You could see the man squirm beneath his grip, his panic rising with every second that passed.
And then Joel’s gaze shifted.
His head turned slightly, just enough to look at you, and it was like the air shifted entirely. That sharp, cutting edge in his expression softened—not fully, but enough that you felt it like a physical thing. His dark eyes searched yours, asking a silent question, his brow lifting just slightly in that way only you knew meant he was waiting. Not for the man’s apology. Not for Tommy to intervene.
For you.
The vulnerability in that look was enough to unravel you. Joel wasn’t questioning whether he should let go, wasn’t trying to justify the raw, unyielding force behind his actions. He was asking you—quietly, silently—trusting you to decide if the apology was enough, if you were satisfied.
It was such an intimate thing, so deeply personal, completely at odds with the way his knuckles had gone white from the force of his grip, his forearm trembling with restrained fury. The contrast was stark—his quiet deference to you and the raw, unrelenting protectiveness that radiated off him, daring the world to push him further.
You swallowed hard, your heart pounding as you held his gaze. “Joel,” you said softly, your voice steady but laced with something tender. “It’s okay. Let him go.”
For a moment, he didn’t move. His eyes stayed locked on yours, like he needed to be absolutely certain. His shoulders rose and fell with a sharp, deliberate breath, the tension rolling through him in waves before he exhaled slowly through his nose.
Then, finally, his hand loosened. It wasn’t abrupt—it was deliberate, controlled, as though every motion carried weight. Joel released the man with enough force to send him stumbling forward, his knees nearly buckling beneath him.
The man’s breath came in quick, panicked bursts as he scrambled to steady himself, his trembling hands clutching at his shirt like it might protect him. But Joel didn’t even look at him now. His gaze stayed on you, his eyes still softer, still yours.
“Go,” Joel said simply, his voice low, quiet, but no less commanding. The word carried the same weight as if it had been shouted, and the man didn’t hesitate. He muttered something incomprehensible under his breath, his steps hurried as he all but fled the dining hall. The door swung shut behind him with a sharp creak, the sound punctuating his retreat.
Joel turned fully to you now, his broad shoulders relaxing by degrees, though you could still see the tension coiled beneath his skin. His gaze softened further as it met yours, and for a moment, the rest of the room faded away. There was a question there, unspoken but loud enough to feel in the air between you: Did I do right? Are you okay?
Joel’s voice broke through the hum of the dining hall, rough but quieter now, carrying an edge of concern so sharp it sent a pang straight to your chest. “You good?” he asked, his gaze fixed on you in a way that felt like the rest of the room had disappeared. There was something about the way he stepped closer, his body angled toward you as though nothing else mattered—like the entire world could crumble around him, and he’d still be here, making sure you were okay.
You nodded, swallowing against the lump forming in your throat. “Yeah,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’m fine.”
Joel didn’t look convinced. His dark eyes scanned your face, his jaw tightening as if he could will the truth out of you, even if you didn’t want to give it. His chest rose and fell in steady, deliberate breaths, but his hands flexed at his sides like they were still fighting the urge to reach for you, to pull you behind him and keep you safe.
Behind him, Tommy let out a low whistle, the sound breaking through the suffocating quiet like a crack of thunder. “Damn, Joel,” he muttered, shaking his head as a faint smirk tugged at his lips. “Didn’t know you still had that in you. Hell, remind me not to get on your bad side.”
But Joel didn’t react. He didn’t turn. Didn’t even flinch. His focus remained on you, unwavering, like he couldn’t spare even a second to acknowledge anything else. And when he spoke again, his voice was softer, quieter, almost tender in its roughness. “You should sit,” he said, nodding toward a table in the far corner of the hall. “I’ll get you somethin’ to eat.”
“Joel” you started, your voice trailing off as you searched for the right words. “You didn’t have to—”
“Yes, I did,” he interrupted firmly, his tone leaving no room for doubt. He motioned toward the table again, his hand brushing lightly against your arm as if to guide you. “Sit.”
Joel turned back to the line without another word, his broad shoulders tense and Tommy’s chuckle following him like a low rumble of thunder. You noticed the way the people behind Joel in line stood a few paces back now, their movements cautious, like they were navigating the aftermath of a storm.
You exhaled slowly, forcing your shoulders to relax as you glanced around the dining hall. The noise had returned to its usual rhythm—a soft din of clinking trays and overlapping conversations—but the weight of what had just happened still lingered in the air. Without waiting, you slipped toward the back of the hall, seeking the solace of a quiet corner where you could collect yourself.
Sliding into the farthest seat, you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. The tension in your chest eased, though the moment was short-lived. Maria appeared almost out of nowhere, her movements fluid as she took the chair beside you. She crossed her arms, her sharp gaze sweeping the room before landing on you. Her brows arched in silent curiosity, but her expression carried an edge of amusement.
“What did I miss?” she asked, “Why’s everyone looking at you like you just threw the first punch?”
You couldn’t help it—a laugh escaped you, bubbling out unexpectedly, light and tinged with disbelief. Maria’s brow furrowed deeper, though her lips twitched as if fighting back a smile. “What?” she pressed. “What’s so funny?”
“Joel,” you said, shaking your head and gesturing vaguely toward the front of the hall where the line stretched out. “He… handled a situation.”
Maria’s brow arched higher, her interest visibly piqued. “Handled a situation?” she echoed, leaning forward like a cat ready to pounce on juicy gossip. “Do tell. What kind of situation are we talking about here?”
You hesitated, the memory of Joel’s fury still fresh in your mind. Your fingers traced idle patterns on the wood grain of the table as you searched for the right words. “There was this guy. New, I think. He said something, and Joel—” You paused, the image of Joel pinning the man against the wall flashing in your mind. “Joel made sure he regretted it.”
Maria tilted her head, her lips quirking into a knowing smirk. “Made sure, huh?” she said, her tone teasing. “Let me guess—intimidation, maybe a little bit of his special brand of physical persuasion?”
You smiled despite yourself, the corners of your lips tugging upward. “Something like that,” you admitted quietly. “He grabbed the guy, slammed him against the wall… scared the hell out of everyone watching.”
Maria’s eyes widened slightly before a grin spread across her face. “Classic Joel,” she said with a laugh, shaking her head. But her expression softened as she watched you, her gaze turning pointed. “And I’m guessing it wasn’t just for show.”
Before you could respond, movement caught your attention. Joel was weaving through the dining hall, two trays balanced carefully in his hands. His face was set in that familiar stoic expression, his jaw tight and his steps deliberate. But then his eyes found yours, and for the briefest moment, they softened.
“Here,” Joel said simply, setting the tray down in front of you with the kind of care that felt oddly out of place in the bustling, noisy dining hall. “They didn’t have any more of that cornbread you liked, so I grabbed you this instead.” He slid a warm muffin onto your tray, its golden top glistening faintly, the scent of honey and cinnamon wafting up.
“Oh,” you breathed, your fingers brushing the edge of the tray, feeling the lingering warmth of the muffin. You glanced up at him, the words catching in your throat before finally tumbling out. “Thanks, Joel.”
He didn’t respond right away, just gave you a slight nod. Joel lowered himself into the chair beside you, the scrape of wood against the floor loud in the quiet corner you’d tucked yourselves into. His knee brushed yours briefly under the table as he adjusted his seat, but he didn’t move away. Neither did you.
Tommy arrived seconds later, sliding into the chair next to Maria with his tray in tow, his face lit up with a grin that was equal parts amused and mischievous. He stabbed a fork into the potatoes on his plate, leaning back with an exaggerated sigh.
“Well,” Tommy drawled, glancing between you and Joel, “guess we’re sittin’ at the safest table in Jackson now.”
Joel’s head snapped toward his brother, his brow furrowing in that familiar way that signaled his patience was wearing thin. “Knock it off,” he muttered, shoving a spoonful of stew into his mouth like he could end the conversation by sheer force of will.
Tommy chuckled, undeterred. “Can’t help it,” he said, leaning back in his chair with an unapologetic grin. “I mean, I’ve seen you get protective, Joel, but that back there?” He gestured vaguely toward the line where the earlier incident had unfolded. “That was somethin’ else.”
“Tommy,” Joel growled, his voice dropping into a warning. But instead of snapping, he glanced at you, his expression softening just slightly before his gaze darted back to his tray.
Maria finally chimed in, her voice carrying that same sharp amusement. “Well, Joel, if nothing else, you’ve definitely set the tone for how new arrivals should behave.”
Joel let out a soft huff, his head dipping as he dragged a hand over his face. “For the last time, I don’t wanna hear about it,” he muttered, though his tone lacked any real bite.
Then you felt it—his hand, warm and solid, squeezing your knee under the table.
You didn’t look at him. You didn’t need to. The weight of his hand, the silent reassurance in the way his fingers pressed gently but firmly against you, said everything he couldn’t. It wasn’t just a touch—it was a message. I’m here. I’ll always be here. I’m yours.
─── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ───
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a warm escape | joel miller x reader
summary: joel comforts you when you're having a hard time back home during winter break.
pairing: joel miller x reader
warnings: age gap (25/35), mentions of smoking, mentions of a dysfunctional family & family conflict, fluff, pet names, mentions of reader having long hair
wc: 1.2k
note: This is a personal one, and its my first time writing in first person!!!! 🫶🏼 i hope u enjoy and let me know if u want a part two
The chilly december air bit into my cheeks, my heavy breathing coming out like smoke. My nose was red and stinging, but it wasn't like I could spend another second in that house. Not with the yelling. I had to go for a walk for the sake of my mental health. I needed air, space - anything to gather my thoughts, and I was too angry to journal.
As I turned the corner, Joel Miller, my neighbor, was sitting on his porch with a cigarette glowing faintly in hand. He noticed me before I could pretend that I hadn't seen him.
"Cold out," he said, his voice a low rumble that somehow felt warm compared to the freezing air.
I nodded, pulling my coat tighter.
"You walkin' or runnin'?" he asked, tilting his head towards my childhood house.
I blinked. "Bit of both."
I wanted to go sit next to him. I didn't want to talk about what happened, but there has always been something fatherly about him, almost as if his presence would instantly make you feel better.
I hesitated for a second, the cold biting at my hands as I stuffed them into my pockets.
Then, without saying a word, I walked up to his front porch, and sat next to him. Joel glanced at me, he wasn't surprised at all. Didn't make me feel like I was bothering him, or intruding. He just held the cigarette out in my direction without a word.
I took the cigarette from his hand, the warmth of it was comforting against my numb fingers. Raising it to my lips, I took a small puff, and handed it back to him. It's been a while since I smoked last, but I needed it.
As if reading my mind, he mumbles, "You can keep it." Joel shook his head. "You doin' alright, sweetheart?" he said, his voice low and calm.
I glanced at him then, properly, really looking at him. The soft glow of the porch highlighted the crow's feet at the corner of his eyes. His hair was ruffled, dark brown and shiny, almost making me want to run my hands through it.
He didn't say anything else, just leaned back slightly, waiting for me to take the cigarette again.
Lost in thought, I wasn't sure what I was doing here, sitting on Joel's porch. Or, even better, I wasn't sure what I was doing here, visiting my family for the holidays, when I know things would never change. The same fights, the same bitter words ... It was hard to ignore the ache in my chest.
Joel must have sensed the shift in me, the way my gaze had turned distant, like I was in a place he couldn't quite reach. He didn't push it. The quiet attention he gave me was enough.
At that moment, his presence was enough. Breaking the fog of my thoughts, he placed a hand on my thigh, the weight of it grounding me, pulling me back to the present moment.
His touch was demanding, firm - but not aggressive. He was letting me know he was there.
Joel's voice cut through the air again. "You want to come inside for a cup of coffee?" he asked, his gaze steady on me. I liked the way he looked at me. Like he was seeing me. It was the first time that evening that I felt like someone was actually hearing me, like all the noise in my head faded away.
I nodded, the idea of a warm cup of coffee sounding like exactly what I needed. "That would be nice" I replied softly, my voice coming out really small.
Joel put out his cigarette on the ground, stepping on it with a quick motion before rubbing his hands together to warm them. Then, without a word, he reached for mine, his fingers warm against the cold. He pulled me inside, and as soon as the door clicked shut behind us, he wrapped his arms around me in a warm embrace.
The moment his arms enveloped me, my brain went quiet - like the world had stopped spinning for just a second. It felt safe. Secure. And for the first time in what felt like forever, I didn’t have to think.
He pulled away, his hands still resting on my shoulders, eyes steady. "You can stay here for as long as you’d like," his voice was soft. "You know that, right? You know Sarah wouldn’t mind. I wouldn't mind."
I smiled softly at him, and nodded. "Thank you," I whispered.
As we made our way into the living room, I found myself missing the feel of his hand around mine. It was strange, an unusual emptiness that I couldn't quite understand.
The house was quiet. Sarah was probably out with her friends. It felt strange knowing we had the house to ourselves. Most of the time, Joel and I had always hung out in group settings before, rarely meeting one-on-one like this. He had always been the protective, friendly neighbor, the kind who made sure I was alright- while keeping a respectable distance, never pushing.
When I had told everyone I was moving to London for my masters degree, Joel was the one who went out of his way to make sure I had everything I needed. He cared more than my own family had, making sure I was prepared, asking if I needed anything before I left. And even after I’d moved, he’d called me a couple of times—just to check in, to see if I needed anything from back home, or if I needed help with my apartment.
It made me feel… tingly, in a way I couldn’t explain, like someone actually cared beyond the usual pleasantries. I often wondered how he felt about me. I was young - ten years younger than him - but he never treated me like a child.
Joel made two cups of coffee, one for him, and one for me. He grabbed the mugs and started heading towards the living room. He glanced over his shoulder when he realized I hadn't moved, giving me that familiar smile. "C'mon, darlin'."
As I followed him into the room, my eyes caught sight of the guitar tucked in the corner. I wondered if he played often, or if it was just there for the rare moments when he has some time to himself. The fire crackled in the fireplace facing us, casting a warm, golden glow on the room. It was so peaceful.
Joel turned on the TV with a casual motion, then grabbed a blanket from the back of the couch and draped it around me, the warmth settling over my shoulders as I sank into the comfort of his brown leather couch. It smelled like him. I wondered if he needed this company the same way I did. Knowing he was usually by himself, ever since Sarah grew up - spending more time with her friends, leaving him by himself most evenings.
I leaned against him, quietly, as we both drank our coffees. After a few minutes, I felt his fingers gently brush through my hair. At first, I didn't notice it, or maybe it just didn't register it as anything more than a casual touch. But then, it became more intentional - his fingers slowly running through the strands, almost like he was testing the waters, unsure of how I would react.
I didn't pull away. My body was trying to communicate that I didn't want him to stop. His touch was so soothing, and before long, my eyelids started to grow heavy. My eyes fluttered closed, and before I knew it, I was resting against him, my breathing slow, as I dozed off.
#joel miller#pedro pascal#pedro pascal smut#joel miller angst#joel miller fanfic#pedro pascal x reader#joel miller smut#joel miller x reader#marcus acacius
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- Amor vincit omnia
Marcus Acacius x Fem!reader
Summary: Marcus returns from her another military campaign and finds you tense with the unrest building in Rome, thanks to your brothers blood thirsty wats. And so he helps take your mind off it.
A/N- this purely self indulgent. Marcus has me by the throat. He has done since trailer 1. Tough men who melt for their woman!!! I am so here for that. Watching the movie and seeing how he was with Lucilla? I was a goner. So. Here’s this.
Warnings- 18+ | likely inaccurate/ooc Marcus as this is my first time writing for him. And writing for this time period. Not mentioned but kind of implied age gap. Smut: unprotected p in v, slight fingering( wc-4.5k )
Being born into royalty guaranteed you a life of luxury. Stability. No need to worry or want for anything. But that didn’t mean you were happy.
Your brothers had all the power the empire had to offer. And you? Very little.
They kept you hidden away for the most part. Even your quarters in the palace were on the complete opposite side to your brothers. Like a prisoner in your own home. Kept away. Out of sight. You couldn’t leave unless they allowed it, and even in that rare occurrence you were not to be let out of sight.
They brought you out for appearances sakes. Let the people of Rome see you at the colosseum from time to time. Let your face been seen to greet people at their frequent feasts, eat with them but remain silent. And then be sent away before they indulged in their hedonistic pleasures for the evening.
But your appearances being at only prestigious events, meant you mingled with the nobility at times. And along with that, had come to know Romes beloved General.
You’d been enamoured from day one. The first time you’d gotten to actually talk to him, the way he had looked at you like you were one the goddesses before him. The way he wanted to know about you. Listen. Had sat with you for what felt like hours as you gushed over how much you adored Virgil and Catullus. And though your brothers desire to hide you away kept you lonely for the most part, it also meant they rarely had their eye on you when you were inside palace walls. Which allowed for many a secret rendezvous.
Like the one you were presently waiting on.
Stood in the large arched window of your chambers, looking at the gardens below, the only place you could really roam freely. The flora bright and lush even in the twilight. Flowers that you couldn’t even name, buds and seeds brought back amongst the many stolen items from the Generals travels. His conquests under command of your brothers.
One of those conquests that was being celebrated presently. Past the gardens you could see the city alight with celebrations still. The rich throwing parties in their homes and gardens, whilst Romes lesser subjects suffered. The fires in the streets there to keep warm, not to light up lavish parties and celebrations. Celebrations like the ones presently in the palace. Which you cared very little for, but it did allow for a much easier meeting with your lover, as he was already inside palace walls. Eating. Drinking. Dancing maybe. Making himself seen for appearances sake when really all he was really waiting for was to get to you.
All he’d have to do is slip through the crowds and disappear from sight. Take the well practiced walk to your chambers. And hide away with you for the night.
And so. Eventually you heard a knock on your door. Firm and short. Then the sound of someone entering without being given vocal permission.
You didn’t need to turn around to know it was him. No one else entered your room without asking first. Your staff wouldn’t dare, even though you were always kind to them. Considerate. Far gentler than most nobles would deem necessary. They still knew their place. And they knew to obey you.
But Marcus knew he could enter without permission. He had done it often enough. Though he would always wait by the door once inside for you to speak. Acknowledge him. Wait to be fully welcomed into your space.
You were silent for a few short moments. Eyes still transfixed on the lights in the distance past the palace gates.
“ Rome is alight with joy at your return “ you finally spoke up, eyes still watching the glow of the lights in the city. Listening to the sounds of the happy crowds as they danced and cheered. Chanted and sang in drunken joy. Mingling with the cry’s of those that begged for food.
Events like this could distract them from the utter misery most of them were suffering each day. But not completely.
The tensions in Rome were rising. And it made you uneasy.
“ unnecessary celebrations “ Marcus murmured. He never had liked the fanfare. The attention. He was a soldier to his bones, not a fancy nobleman who liked to flash his privilege around and indulge in such festivities.
“ my brothers don’t seem to agree “ you responded. If you focussed enough you could hear the music somewhere in the palace “ through they will take any possibility to throw a party “
You heard Marcus stepping a little closer but he didn’t say anything for a few moments.
“ I was expecting them to bring you out “
“ I told them I was unwell and not up to it “ it had been a lie. But you didn’t want to go down there and force a smile onto your face. Sit still and pretty, when your mind was elsewhere. And had been for weeks “ I sense unrest in the near future “ you said quietly. Eyes still fixed on the celebrations “ it makes me uneasy “
“ you say that as if there is not always a lingering unrest in the empire. Men will always want to be gods. Emperors will always want more. More. More my darling “ Marcus said. His voice low and collected. It made you turn your head a little to the side to glance his way.
“ maybe so. But it is different this time Marcus “ you spoke, voice a little firmer as if to make him listen. Understand your lingering fears for what was beginning to boil under the surface of Romes imperial strength.
He stood there in a state of silence for a moment, a hand twisting one of the rings on his fingers as he seemed to take in what you said. Then, he let out another short exhale before speaking once more.
“ I am not sure of what’s about to transpire.” He admitted a little bluntly “ But I’m starting to sense it too. Like a storm, just waiting to happen. The people are starving. They sleep with empty bellies whilst emperors gorge themselves.”
He looked over at you, a concerned look apparent in his expression. He stepped in closer once again. He was within touching distance now. And he spoke again, his voice becoming more hushed like there was someone else there with you. Always scared someone may be listening in. The walls would always have ears “ It worries me. Greatly ”
“ me too “ you admitted quietly. If it came down to it and the people revolted. Or the senate conspired… you would be defenceless. Not only were you a woman. But the sister of the emperors. The emperors that more and more people in Rome were starting to despise. Would you be used as an example? Sent to the colosseum? Beheaded and your head staked outside the palace doors? There was a never ending list of how it would end for you. And none of the outcomes were particularly pretty.
Rome enjoyed punishing those it felt deserved it. Whether they truly did or not.
“ but it does no good to dwell on such thoughts “ you said after another few moments of silence. Fidgeting slightly with the fine material of your stola.
Marcus was behind you now. If you thought hard enough you could swear you could feel his body heat through the gold of his ceremonial armour.
“ so you do not think of the possibilities?”
“ no “ you said maybe a little too fast. It made a soft chuckle escape his lips and his hands landed on your shoulders. His touch was like magic. Like it has shattered the tense feeling not only in the air around you but in your limbs.
“ I know you too well my lady “ that made you smile. Just a little. A small twitch in your lips
“ that you do “ you smiled softly, turning your head to brush your cheek softly to his fingers. He squeezed your shoulders softly, a silent request for you to turn around. And you did, tilting your head slightly to the side as you looked up at him. Your hand coming up to scratch softly at his beard.
“ and you must know if things should collapse in the city… if I should- “ he sighed and cut himself off for a moment. You got the idea he was planning something. Something he wouldn’t, or couldn’t, tell you. But you trusted him implicitly. And you knew that if he wasn’t telling you it was for good reason. That when the time came he would tell you what you needed to know “ just know my lady, my loyalty does not lie with your brothers “ he said after a few beats of silence “ my loyalty, as it always has, lies with you “
You would’ve known that without him having to say it. But it was always nice to hear. Especially in a time where you felt so utterly and completely helpless. Alone.
But it also made you realise how much your time may be precious. Your time with Marcus specifically. If he was planning something, something big. It would be risky. Worse than any barbarian filled, untamed part of the empire. If he were to try conspire-
“ I do not wish to discuss it anymore “ you said and ran your fingertips over the cool gold of the laurels on his head “ war and death. What is morally right and wrong… it makes my head ache so deeply “
Marcus was a good distraction. He always was. He kept you sane.
“ and such a pretty head. What a crime for it to come to any pain “ his fingers skimmed some of your hair behind your ear, that gorgeous smile of his on his face that only you really got to see. It made you so weak in the knees. The way his eyes crinkled, those beautiful little lines that formed in the corners. You laughed softly at his words, always so appreciative. Complimentary.
You didn’t know what was going on with the tensions building in rome. You didn’t know how much longer Geta and Caracalla could keep their tentative grasp on things. But one thing you did know. Was that Marcus Acacius was devoted to you entirely.
And you to him.
“ I did miss you greatly “ you whispered after a few moments, realising you hadn’t mentioned it “ each time you are away… I… I am sure I spend the majority of my day on my knees praying to the gods “
Marcus’ large hands moved then to gently cup your face, his calloused palms rough against your perfectly smooth skin in a way that shouldn’t have felt as nice as it did.
“ you know I will always come back to you my lady. Always “ he murmured, his thumbs brushing against your cheeks “ never, and I mean never think I would leave you willingly. The gods themselves would have to rip me from your side, and even then I wouldn't stop fighting to come back to you."
You smiled softly and let your eyes close for a moment, your hands sliding up his arms to gently wrap your fingers around his wrists. Like he may vanish any second
“ oh how I missed you “ you whispered.
Marcus looked down at you with a mix of fondness and sorrow in his eyes. His sweet, lonely, girl.
As his head dipped down you instantly tipped your head up to meet him, his angular nose brushing against yours for a moment like he was waiting for permission to kiss you. He didn’t need it. But he always wanted it
“ kiss me my darling “ you whispered, lips so close to his they brushed as you spoke. And in a beat he granted your request. His lips capturing yours. It was like every drop of tension immediately vanished from your body, stepping closer to him so that your chest pressed to the solid force that was his.
He always kissed you like you were delicate. And he’d confessed such thoughts too. Like he was too brutish and strong. That he didn’t have a place kissing someone as gentle as you.
But it never took much convincing to urge him on.
You let yourself melt into it, let him hold your face so tenderly as he kissed away your fears and your stress. Even if just for tonight.
You had missed him. Missed this. The familiar tickly, scratchy feel of his moustache and beard against your soft skin. The way his large hands that were so stained in blood, used to such violence and anger, being soft. Gentle. Tender as they slipped into your hair. Twisting the strands around his fingers to anchor himself to you.
“ take me to bed “ you whispered against his lips when you both had no choice but to pull back slightly, breaths mingling in short soft pants “ give me the tender affections i so deeply crave “
“ you know I could never deny you my lady “ he murmured with a smile that made a small, soft laugh bubble past your lips. It was true. He never would. You were the only woman, only person period, who could make this man weak in the knees. He’d drop to the floor and kiss your feet in utter submission if you asked it of him.
He scooped you up into his arms with a smile, carrying you across the room to gently deposit you on your bed. You looked up at him with a coy smile as you lay amongst the plush linens.
From your spot you watched as he made swift work of removing the outer layers of his ceremonial armour. Watching a man who was conditioned to need to be protected at all times, need to be strong and prepared, remove the precious clothes… it always felt like a privilege.
You giggled softly when he climbed onto the bed with you, moving over your body in just his tunic now, propping himself above you on his elbows.
“ my beautiful one, like a goddess laying in wait for me here “ he murmured, brushing the backs of his fingers to your cheek “ as tempting as Venus herself “
“ I am no goddess my darling “ you whispered, leaning slightly into his touch as your eyes locked onto his.
He kissed you again. Like you were a source of air. And his large hands wandered, the fine fabric of your stola being pushed up your body, then over your head. His hands and lips everywhere. Mapping out every inch of your skin as if he didn’t already have it committed to memory.
“ always so soft “ he murmured as his lips descended between the valley of your breasts, your back arching up as if to chase the feeling even more.
“ let me feel your skin on mine “ you whispered. Hands weakly tugging on his tunic. He didn’t need to be told twice. And it soon had joined your stola on the floor, a blissful sigh leaving your lips as he pressed his body to yours. It felt like being reawakened. Like the shackles keeping your mind so locked in a sense of fear and unrest… shattered. The feel of his war ravaged body against yours. So soft and pristine. Never having done a days hardship in your life. It felt… right. So unbearably right.
“ my little dove. So perfect and all mine “ he whispered as he kissed at your neck, his hand sliding down your body. Following the curves and the lines, the soft feminine dip of your waist and curve of your hip. Tracing a gentle path down until it settled between your thighs, fingers brushing through the soft thatch of curls and then along your slit.
“ your body is already preparing itself for me “ he murmured next to your ear, his thick fingers gliding through the slippery slickness between your thighs. It was a little embarrassing. All you’d done was kiss, feel his hands running over your body. And yet you were soaked.
“ you see how much I have missed you?” You whispered, your eyes locked onto his as he lifted his face from your neck.
“ I missed you too my darling “ he whispered, and you whined softly as one of his fingers gently pushed into your welcoming warmth “ every night I lay sleeping on that ship I dreamt of being inside you once again “ his words made your cheeks flush, the thought of him on his way to a brutal battle. But thinking of you. Wanting to be home with you.
His fingers that were usually covered in blood or dust or sweat. Now dripping with the essence of you. The metallic scent of ichor nowhere to be found, just the heady scent of your arousal clinging to his fingers instead.
“ Marcus “ you whimpered softly as his fingers slowly pumped in and out of you, the soft wet sounds mingling with your breathy pants. So weak from something as simple as his hand.
“ shh I know little dove “ he murmured and kissed your forehead. Your cheek “ your body always welcomes me so warmly. So readily. How I dreamed of being in this moment again with you “ his words were like honey, your body melting into the bed with their combination of his touch. He pleasured you as naturally as he held his sword. A man able to kill and give pleasure as if they were one and the same. A rigid dichotomy you didn’t wish to think too much about in that moment.
“ I dreamed of you too “ you whimpered “ every night I wished you were laying beside me “ he smiled and curled his fingers up, making a gasp escape your lips and your hips buck.
“ such filthy thoughts for a princess “
When he deemed you prepared enough, he withdrew his fingers. Sucking your essence from them in a way that never failed to make your cheeks burn.
“ the filthy one here is you my love “ you whispered, making him chuckle as he settled between your legs, using his knee to nudge your thighs apart, you let out a steady exhale. You could feel the heavy weight of his hard length against your leg and it made you chew on your bottom lip.
“ are you ready for me little dove?” He whispered, gently brushing some hair back from your face. He always gazed upon you like you were the most beautiful creature.
“ yes. Yes I am ready “ you replied and turned your head to kiss the palm of his hand that had settled against your cheek “ please Marcus. I have waited so long. So patiently. Do not make me wait a moment longer “
His eyes lingered a little longer. Just to be sure. Always wanting to be sure. Before wrapping his hand around his throbbing length and notching it at your weeping entrance.
You whined and arched your back when he pushed forward. Your body had missed him, missed the stretch. The weight. The fullness. And it welcomed him home with a practiced familiarity. Like the space inside of you was carved out specifically for him and him alone.
You watched his face intently, a hand on his cheek to take in every single emotion. The way his brow furrowed as soon as he felt your body envelope him, slowly sliding into you and stretching your walls so perfectly around him. A deep moan falling past his lips.
“ you feel so good. Always so good my flower " He whispered, his tone deep and husky. He knew you took no other lovers. Unlike your brothers that seemed to be making their way through every single concubine in Rome. Your body was his. For him. His eyes his hands. And so it had been a while since you’d last taken him. Since before he’d left for Numidia. And he knew this. So he was even more gentle than usual "Just a bit more. You can take all of me, I know you can." He gently encouraged you, his hand moving to gently push at your thigh. Opening you up just that little bit more to him, his eyes drifting down briefly to watch the way your body eagerly accepted him in.
“ I’m okay “ you whispered, a shaky exhale leaving your lips “ I can take it “ you agreed, urging him to pepper your face in soft gentle kisses. He never wanted your discomfort.
“ that’s my sweet girl “ he murmured and kept pushing on until his pelvis was flush to yours, the soft curls at his base tickling your skin in the most delicious way “ there we go. That’s it”
He remained still for a few moments, your eyes locked on his as you took deep and slow breaths. Adjusting. Your body reacquainting itself with his.
“ ready my flower?” He whispered and kissed your cheek. You simply gave him a nod, your hand sliding over his strong bicep and squeezing softly.
He remained still a moment longer, then gently began to move within you. Every thrust was slow and deep, almost teasing in nature. Slow, long, drags. Pulling out almost completely before sliding back in at an agonisingly slow speed "Good, little dove... That's my girl..." he whispered, his voice still reassuring and gentle. One large hand shifting to gently knead at your chest, trying to relax you as much as humanly possible " you take me so well “
Soft, sweet moans escaped your lips as he settled into a steady but oh so deep pace. Your hips already beginning to ache at having to stretch so wide to accommodate his broad body, but it was a welcomed ache. It made you feel alive in a way you only felt with him.
“ oh Marcus “ you gasped your hand slipping to grasp the back of his neck, fingers tangling in the curls there that were already damp with with a sheen of sweat that was glowing on his skin.
"Oh gods..." He groaned, closing his eyes at the blissful sensations you offered him . The tight heat, the sound of your breathy little moans. He knew and you knew that they didn't always have time for slow, passionate lovemaking, but he was enjoying every single moment of it. He didn't want it to end. The general wanted it to last forever. As did you.
But there was also an underlying desperation lingering between the two of you. Of how much you had missed each other. How desperately you needed each other.
And his hand moved away from your chest to grasp your free hand, interlocking his fingers with yours and pinning it down against your bed sheets.
“ Marcus “ you whimpered in some pathetic kind of way. A plea. For more. More. Always more. More of him. More of the two of you. Just. More.
“ I know my darling. I know. I’ve got you sweet one “ he whispered and readjusted his position, thrusting into you with a little more urgency. Harder. Deeper.
He began groaning louder, letting himself go in a way he had once confessed he never had with previous lovers. Always wanting it done quick. Emotionless. But not with you, never like that with you. He let his walls down. It was more than just a means to an end with you. It was special. Passionate. It was love.
His hips continued to push hard against yours, your body jostling with each deep thrust he granted you "There you go, my love. Look at you taking all of me." He praised, holding onto your hand tightly like he was scared you’d vanish "You don't know how divine you look right now..." he murmured into her ear, dropping his head to pepper your neck with kisses. Careful not to mark you, gods forbid your brothers should pay attention long enough to see “ the most ethereal creature “
“ I missed you so “ you whimpered, your arms tight around his neck to hold him close “ I missed you “
“ and I you my love… you feel so perfect… so tight. So wet. Perfect for me my flower “ he murmured against your ear, his teeth playfully nipping at your soft skin " I missed you my dove..." he breathed your familiar pet name like a prayer as he made love to you, every movement of his hips bringing you both closer to ecstasy. And ecstasy you knew would be more earth shattering than ever after so long without his touch.
He whispered softly in your ear , his lips grazing your skin. Praising you. Loving you. Over and over "I've missed this, my love. I've missed being inside you, feeling your body against mine. I promise to never to leave you again" you knew it was a empty promise. That he would leave again. That the emperors would call him away.
But you didn’t call him out on the fact. Too lost in him. The feelings he gave you.
“ I love you my darling “ you whimpered as the familiar tension started to grow deep in your body, with every thrust hitting the most incredible spot inside you. It made tears spring in your eyes. But not out of sadness or pain. Out of utter joy and happiness at having him back in your arms even for a short period.
“ and I… you little dove “ he panted softly, his head lifting as his eyes locked on yours. He knew your body well. Knew the signs of your impending climax and he kissed your lips before speaking again “ you’re close sweet one “
You nodded and grasped at his face to keep his eyes locked with yours “ finish with me?” You pleaded “ please “ he nodded and kissed you again, picking up his pace ever so slightly, one hand pushing your thigh up as if to let him get impossibly deeper.
And a few more deep strokes had you stumbling head first over the edge. Your orgasm so blinding you were certain it made your vision blur. Every nerve in your body sparking like hot coals. And the way your walls spasmed and clenched down around Marcus was clearly his undoing too. Delivering one final, deep thrust before he groaned loudly, spilling his seed into you in a way that you would never tire of. No matter how risky the situation was.
Your body trembled as your climax finally dissipated. Going weak and boneless as you sunk into the linens below you, panting softly as you still clung to Marcus. Who was fighting the urge to just drop down against you too.
But he carefully rolled off you, pulling you against his side immediately. A soft kiss to your forehead and a large hand stroking down your spine. You were certain this was what pure bliss felt like. Maybe you’d died and fallen into the elysian fields. Peace and bliss and love.
“ I love you “ he whispered and kissed your head again as you lay composing yourself against his chest “ and I meant what I said little dove…. My loyalties lie with you. And if- “
“ shh “ you said softly and lifted your head, placing a finger to his lips “ not now. Let us just enjoy this moment together “ you didn’t know how many of these moments you would get now. They had always been special and each moment was to be cherished. But even more so now.
You didn’t know what the future held for Rome. Or for you. But you knew Marcus would be at your side. And that was enough for now.
#first Marcus fic let’s go!#marcus acacius#gladiator 2#gladiator ii#Marcus Acacius x reader#Marcus Acacius smut#gladiator 2 smut#Pedro pascal#pedro pascal x reader#pedro pascal smut#x you#Geta#Caracalla#lucius verus
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Welcome to the ride @freakrenaissance! I hope you enjoy it. 😏
I do hope you get some sleep though. You kind of need that. 😅
Thanks for jumping in!
Closed Position Masterlist
Last Updated 11/25/2024 ||| Dieter Bravo x OFC
Series Summary: Dieter Bravo, now sober, was looking to change his bad boy image after hitting rock bottom. His team hoped that having him join the nationally televised family friendly dance competition, Dancing with the Stars, would be a good first step, if they can keep him out of trouble.
Katarina Stamos expected her last season as a professional dancer on the show to go the same as it had for the past thirteen seasons. That all changed when she was partnered with the infamous Dieter Bravo.
Dieter and Katarina are reluctantly thrown into their partnership and must learn to work together to succeed in the competition. In the process they form a deeper connection beyond the dance floor that neither anticipated.
👉 Warnings: Themes dealing with intimate partner violence (not by Dieter), past alcohol abuse, and past drug abuse. There will be fluff, tears, spicy language, and smut. This will be a slow burn. Read at your own risk. Cat dad / plant dad Dieter comes with his own warnings.
EXTRAS | TEASERS | VIBES | PLAYLIST | MASTERLIST
DIETER'S INSTAGRAM | KAT'S INSTAGRAM
Prologue
Week 1 - Introductions
Week 2 - Foxtrot
Week 3 - Cha Cha (Part 1)
Week 3 - Cha Cha (Part 2)
Week 4 - Jive (Part 1)
Week 4 - Jive (Part 2)
Week 5 - Rumba (Part 1)
Week 5 - Rumba (Part 2)
Week 5 - Rumba (Part 3)
Week 5 - Rumba (Part 4)
Week 6 - Argentine Tango
Week 7 - Paso Doble
Week 8 - Viennese Waltz
Week 9 - Jazz
Week 10 - Quickstep
Week 11 - Samba
Week 12 - Finale
Epilogue
If you would like to be added to the tag list, let me know in the comments or shoot me a DM.
Credits: Star divider courtesy of @saradika Sparkle chapter dividers courtesy of @deadbranch Support dividers/MDNI courtesy of @cafekitsune
#pedro pascal#pedro pascal fanfiction#pedro pascal smut#pedro pascal characters#dieter bravo#dancing dieter#slow burn#reblog love
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Chapter 8- Something to Believe In
Summary: Frankie makes good on his promise to pick you up from work.
Word count: 3.7K
Pairing: Frankie Morales x f!reader (reader has a name/nickname, no use of y/n)
Warnings: Having a panic attack (cue Frankie to the rescue), mentions of death and grieving, angst, yearning, could we perhaps be ✨making progress✨?
A/N: Hi friends!! Thanks for bearing with me after no new chapter last week! This one's also on the shorter side, but that's not to say there aren't some BIG things happening 👀 My hope is to have another chapter done by next week, but with holiday business, it may have to be two weeks between chapters again (sorry sorry sorry!!) Thank you as always for your lovely and kind words, ily all so much MWAH
All The Things We Never Said Masterlist
Previous Chapter Next Chapter
Frankie, Present
“I’m done at ten.”
By the time he gets back home at 6:43, he’s already counting down the hours until you’re finished with your shift.
Three hours and seventeen minutes, to be exact.
For as much as Frankie could easily spend the next three hours and seventeen minutes doing nothing but staring at the clock hanging adjacent to the TV in the living room, he knows he’ll drive himself out of his goddamn mind. He needs something to do.
If he keeps himself busy, he can’t fester on the million and one ways he could manage to fuck this up.
Frankie forces himself to eat some sort of half-assed dinner, despite his nervous nausea that’s got the best of him. He purposely uses as many dishes and utensils to make a sandwich as humanly possible- if he does, it gives him something to do after.
He cleans out his entire truck, down to vacuuming every last crumb crunched between the driver’s seat and center console. He debates washing the car himself in the driveway, but if he drives it to the carwash three blocks down the road, it’ll kill more time.
On his way home, he stops at Auto Zone to get you a new car battery and exchanges it for your old one, dead, under the hood of your car.
Frankie takes a shower so long, he can feel in real time the water shift from boiling hot, to luke warm, to ice cold. He washes his hair twice. His body, three times.
He unpacks just about every item of clothing from his suitcase, laying them out on his bed in multiple combinations of pants and shirts, debating whether you'll think he’s a psychopath for showing up in a different outfit only a few hours after dropping you off. Frankie settles on shorts and a t-shirt- nice enough he doesn’t look like a fool, but casual enough for you not to suspect he’s been staring at every article of clothes he owns for the past thirty minutes.
And somehow, after all of that, he still ends up in the Parrot’s Nest parking lot at 9:23.
Thirty-seven minutes worth of waiting is a lot more manageable than the better part of three hours.
Unfortunately, the last thirty-seven minutes he spends sitting in the parking lot are the most agonizing of his whole endeavor.
He throws the last few innings of the Tampa Bay Rays game on the radio in the background, unable to stand the sound of silence that haunts him when he’s alone with his thoughts.
Frankie tries not to panic at the fact that it seems like he’s forgotten how to engage in basic human conversation, praying that no one can see the way he’s rehearsing his greeting to you upon your arrival into the passenger seat.
“Hey, what’s up? No, fuck, that’s stupid.” Frankie mutters to himself, running his palm over his face, “Hey, MacKenzie, how was work? No, ‘cause what if work was fucking awful and I’m just gonna piss her off more. Jesus.”
He takes a few more long, deep breaths, staring at the roof of his truck while he tries to concoct the perfect set of words to string together.
“Hey, Kenz. Kenzie? MacKenzie? Does she even fucking go by Kenz anymore? Fuck. Hey, miss me?” He jokes by his lonesome, his fake smile quickly fading at the anticipation of your response, “She obviously didn’t miss you, idiot. You’re lucky you can barley get her to fucking talk to you. Fuck me.”
His pained groan and scrunched shut face are enough cut off the awareness to his surroundings just long enough to leave him oblivious to the fact you’ve not only exited the Parrot’s Nest, but have made your way across the parking lot and have your hand wrapped around the passenger door, rattling the handle.
“Jesus fucking Christ!” Frankie shouts, nearly jumping out of his own skin at the way you’ve announced yourself by shaking at the locked door.
So much for rehearsing.
“F-fuck-” He stammers, taking a moment to catch his breath from your scare, praying he hasn’t managed to shit his pants from how badly you’ve startled him. Once his pulse settles to rate low enough he’s convinced he hasn’t died of a heart attack, he leans over to unlock your door, unable to make eye contact with you as he grimaces his face in embarrassment.
“S-sorry.” you murmur, sheepishly climbing into the seat next to him, quietly clicking in your seatbelt.
“Jesus Kenz, you scared the shit outta me.” Frankie gulps, still trying to compose himself. He runs his hand through the curls of his hair, taking one last slow inhale and exhale with his eyes peeled to the floor, hoping the pink drains from his cheeks before he looks over at you.
“Sorry, I- I didn’t mean to. I thought maybe you fell asleep, or something. You shrug, trying to defend your reasoning.
“I wouldn’t offer to come pick you up and then fall asleep on you, I’m not that big of an assho-”
Frankie cuts himself off before he can finish the rest of his thought, feeling the “L” and “E” of “asshole” die off somewhere in the back of his throat, killed by the death glare you give in proclamation of his own self-righteousness.
He starts the car without another word, pulling out of the parking lot and hoping that his silence begs enough forgiveness.
The crackling static of the car radio fills the void between you, Andy Freed’s ecstatic voice capturing both of your attentions enough to let the current state of the Tampa Bay Rays game shift your focus.
“What’s the score?” You ask, nonchalant, eyes wandering anywhere but Frankie’s direction.
“Oh- uh, I- I think it was 1-3 last time I checked, but it sounds like someone on the Rays just hit a sac fly, so I’m guessing it’s 2-3, now.”
There’s a moment of silence, Frankie assuming you’ve got it in you to at least make one question’s worth of small talk. You seem just as surprised as him that you don’t let the conversation die there.
“Did you um- you watched the game when you got home?”
Your gaze won’t lock with his, but now, it’ll at least travel in his general direction.
“N-no, I just uh- I just turned it on while I was waiting in the car.”
“How long were you waiting for?”
“N-not that long.” He barely gives you enough time to breathe, let alone call him out on his bullshit before he’s changing the subject, “How uh- how was work?”
“Oh- It was uh- it was fine. Went by really slow. B-because it wasn’t um, it wasn’t that busy.”
Frankie’s no code breaker, but he hopes the way you’re so quick to give him a reason why your shift had dragged on is a secret way of saying you spent just as long thinking about him as he did about you.
“Sorry it was so slow.”
Frankie knows his apology doesn’t do anything for you, but the way he’s picking each word that comes out of his mouth has him feeling like he’s tiptoeing through a minefield, too scared to make any move besides the one that seems the safest.
“It’s okay, not your fault. That’s honestly part of the reason I took this job- was to give myself something to do, so I don’t spend every last second that my dad is alive dwelling on the fact that pretty soon, he’s not gonna be alive. It’s stupid, but I guess if being preoccupied with serving middle aged couples mozzarella sticks and over-cooked steak tacos for a few hours helps, then so be it.”
He knows better than anyone that your attempt at humor is your shield, but it’s not hard to see how weathered and worn it’s become, barely hanging on by a thread to protect you from the worst battle you still have yet to face.
“N-no, it makes sense. Distractions help. I-It’s been hard, having to see him like this. I get it.”
His last sentence makes your head snap up from the ground. Out of the corner of his eye, Frankie hopes that maybe your attentiveness means he’s had a breakthrough, showing enough genuine empathy that you’ll cut him a little slack.
When he turns enough to see the scowl plastered across your face, he realizes he’s stepped on a bomb, and he’s moments away from explosion.
“Oh, you ‘get it’, huh?” You scoff, sadistic smile curling in the corner of your cheeks.
Frankie can see the way your blood is beginning to boil, trying to backtrack as quickly as possible to find any way to save himself.
“N-no- I mean, shit- no, Kenz, you know what I mean.” Frankie pleads.
“No, I don’t know what you mean, Frankie. Please, explain.”
The way your arms are crossed and head is cocked tells him everything he needs to know. Against his better judgement, Frankie decides not to take cover. He goes headfirst into the warzone.
“C’mon, Kenz, don’t be like this.” Frankie sighs, preemptively kicking himself that this is the route he’s chosen to take.
“Like what?” You snap back, sharp and sarcastic.
“Like it’s not hard for me, too. Like I can’t be sad about it. You’re not the only person who cares about him, MacKenzie. He was the closest thing I had to a dad, too.”
“But he’s not your dad, is he? And if you were, that’d make you a pretty shitty son, wouldn’t it?”
It hits him like a cold, hard slap to the face, the way you don’t dare to show him even an ounce of mercy. There’s something about the bitterness in the way you ask it that hurts even more than if you would have just screamed at him, cursed him out, punched and pushed him until he bruised.
A stark silence falls over the car, tension so thick, it’s like a bag of bricks has been dropped from the sky, drowning him in a useless pile of cement. There’s no use in crying for help. He doesn’t dare to speak, simply out of fear that if he does, this won’t be the worst of what’s yet to come.
Frankie stays trapped for what feels like hours, each second passing by more painfully slow than the last as you stare out your window, watching the shadows of street lights dance across your body, illuminating you just enough to see the way your chest trembles with short, frantic breaths as you unravel. Your sobs can’t hide behind the silence in the way your tears can in the darkness.
“Do you know how fucking lonely it is, Frankie? How lonely it is when everyone you’ve ever cared about leaves you? It’s like I’m fucking Midas, but everything I touch, eventually, I lose. A life before cancer, my soccer career, an engagement, a future, my dad, you? You don’t get to tell me how hard it is for you, because you get to let go of what you want on your terms, when it’s convenient for you, don’t you? I’m so sick of losing, Frankie. I’m so sick of it.”
He watches in real time how something inside you snaps, like a bottle of soda that’s erupted after someone’s violently shaken shaken it, the twist of the cap releasing all the pressure and tension that’s been stored up and compounded upon with each rattle of their wrist.
Frankie knows he’s not responsible for all of it, but he's the last bump you can take before you have no other choice but to overflow, leaving every ounce of you to seep out, vulnerable and exposed.
What starts off as softs sobs, quickly shifts to heart wrenching heaves of your chest, every word you’re trying to get out lodged in your throat. He sees how your eyes fill with fear at the way you suddenly can’t catch your breath, body shaking as you shrink into your seat, fingers wrapping around your seatbelt with an iron grip around the worn fabric.
“Kenz? Kenzie, are you okay?” It only seems fair he’s completely disregarded everything you’d had to say, beginning to panic at your tremoring figure crumpled next to him, speaking in nothing but violent wails you can’t control.
“I- I- f-fuck, f-f- Frankie, fuck, n- no, no, I-”
He won’t let you finish your thought- he only lets you stammer out the few words you can manage before he’s pulled off on the nearest neighborhood side street he can find. He blames it on military habit, how quick he is to react in the face of your panic, but he knows damn well it’s nothing but instinct the way he’s all but throwing off his seatbelt so he can reach across the center console and wrap you in his arms.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay. You’re okay. I’m here. Just try and breathe, okay?” Frankie whispers, squeezing you so tightly in his arms you just might break.
“I c-can’t, I can’t, fuck, i-it- it, it f-feels like I can’t breathe.” You sob, feeling your tear stains pool in the fabric of his shirt covering, face buried against his chest.
“I know. I know it’s scary. I promise you’re okay, it’ll pass. Just try and breathe with me, okay?”
He hopes you don’t notice how shaky his own breaths are, trying his best to stay calm with each long inhale and exhale he takes. The wave of grief that washes over him is different than the one you’re drowning in, the kind that makes his heart break at the type of panic he’s known all too well- he’d give every bone in his body to absorb your pain and make it his, but the best he can do is hold you until it subsides. He’ll hold you all night, if that’s what it takes.
It’s a few minutes before he can finally feel your heart rate starting to slow, the stiffness of your muscles beginning to ease in his grasp as you come back down to earth with him. Your tears haven’t stopped, but at least your chest starts to rise and fall with his. It’s a baby step, but he’ll take any steps he can get in the right direction.
“There ya go. Just like that. It’s okay. Worst of it’s over, I promise.”
With the way one thumb is gently stroking your back and the other is carefully brushing the back of your head, it’s safe to say every inhibition Frankie could have has flown out the window. He hates how there’s a selfish part of him that can’t describe the way it feels to hold you again, even if it’s like this, but that’s a battle of his own he’s not willing to face today. For now, he’ll accept the sweet bliss of his self-indulgence while you’re curled against him.
“You’re okay, Kenz. I’m here. I promise, you’re okay.”
Enough time passes that his t-shirt isn’t getting any wetter, finally brave enough to peek your head up from the crook of his neck to wipe your tear stained cheeks with the back of your hand. Frankie’s grip only loosens enough to let you sit up, arms still engulfing your frame, tight enough to make sure you don’t float away on him again.
“I- I’m s-sorry.”
It’s so soft as it leaves your lips, if he wasn’t waiting on your every word, Frankie just might have missed it. Little do you know, he’s hanging on your every breath.
“Hey,” he pauses, your eyes locking with his, softly pouting at the way your panic has made your face red and puffy, carefully swiping his thumb across your cheek to catch the wetness still streaming down the corners of your eyes, “you have nothing to apologize about, okay?”
He waits in the silence again, letting you softly nod your head in agreement, watching the gears turn in your head as you process everything that’s just happened. You’ve come to enough to notice the way his hand still sits on the small of your back- he’s just as surprised as you when you let him keep it there for another moment before subtly shifting back in your seat.
Your face scrunches shut, wincing with the last few deep breaths you take, like you're trying to push the rest of it out of your system for good. Frankie runs his hand through his messy hair and down the nape of his neck as he takes you in, still riding his melancholy high of the weight of your body pressed into his.
“Thank you. For um- just, t-thank you.” You mutter, too sheepish to look him in the eye again now that full blown embarrassment has set in.
“Yeah. Yeah, of course.”
Frankie nods, trying his best to let you know that he means it- really, truly means it. It’s the way he won’t take his eyes off you that must let you know he understands, watching you shift just enough in your seat for him to notice how your body turns ever so slightly to face him.
“They’ve uh- fuck, it just comes out of nowhere sometimes. It’s um- it’s happened before, but these past few weeks, it just- it’s been a lot, I guess.”
“It’s been a while since I’ve had one, but I um- I got ‘em all the time after I came home. Feels like you’re dying. It sucks.”
It’s not graceful, but it’s genuine. Vulnerable. Honest. Frankie knows it’s the most truth he’s given you in more years than he’d like to admit. It’s not much, but it’s enough to see you scale the top of the wall you’ve built between you and him and kick down one of the bricks that’s holding it together. It’s not much, but it’s one less brick than that wall has had for a very, very long time.
“What are you talking about? That was so much fun.”
In the shared moment of soft, sympathetic laughter, it’s that he realizes the softest smile that’s stretched in the corner of your lips. Frankie tries not to stare, but when he sees it, he remembers how much he’s hated living without it. He takes it in for as long as he can, memorizing every crease and crinkle in your face, no matter how subtle. He’ll soak in every second he can. He’s thankful he does, because it’s only a matter of time before it starts to shift, corners of your cheeks shifting as you pick at the skin around your nails.
“I- um- I’m sorry- a-about what I said earlier. I- I didn’t mean it.”
Frankie lets out a huff of confusion, convinced you must be playing a joke on him with your unprompted apology. He’s almost tempted to laugh again, but the way your jaw shifts back and forth, anxiously grinding on your teeth while your eyes stay peeled to the fingers working away at your skin reminds him of every other apology you’ve ever offered. The same look when you accidentally popped the brand new basketball he got for his 13th birthday, the same fidgeting of your fingers when overreacted to the dent you thought he put in your brand new car backing out of your driveway, the same tick of your jaw when you had told him why you hadn’t written him more while he overseas on his last tour of duty.
You really do mean it.
“It’s okay. I deserve it.” Frankie admits. As hurtful as it was, he knows you weren’t completely unjustified in what you said. He also knows if you’re offering him an olive branch, he’ll offer you nothing short of a whole olive tree back.
“No- well, I mean, maybe a little-” your sarcastic self correction makes him laugh again, something long forgotten warming in his heart at the way your hidden grin reappears in the corners of your cheeks, “No- I just- that was shitty of me to say. I’m sorry. It’s- it’s just a lot right now. Not totally fair to take it all out on you.”
“I know. It’s okay.” Frankie pauses, captivated by the way your eyes flicker up to meet his, still wet and sparkling from the last of your tears, shimmering in the warm glow of the streetlights. He wants to reach out, to grab you, hold you, press you against his chest again and tell you that everything will be okay, but he won’t risk burning the bridge of the progress he’s built. Not yet. The best he can do is keep building, nail by nail, plank by plank.
“If you um- if you ever need someone to- to talk to, or whatever, I’m always-”
“I know.”
There’s a different kind of silence that fills the empty spaces of his truck the last ten minutes of the ride home. It’s no longer heavy, burdened by pain and fear with every breath that enters its void. It’s the quiet kind of reassurance that doesn’t need any words. The kind that says everything it needs to from stolen glances back and forth, accompanied by the warmth of pink cheeks hidden in the black of the night sky.
The last thing that’s said after he’s pulled into your driveway is a simple “thank you”. It’s only two words, but something about those 8 letters put together seems like enough to fill a book with how much it says.
The only thing that says more is the way you look over your shoulder when you make it to your porch, so brief that if he wasn’t looking for it, he surely would have missed it.
Because in that moment you look back at him, he swears there’s a smile straining against the line of your lips that you’re trying desperately to fight.
Maybe he’s imagining it. Maybe he’s truly lost his mind. Maybe he’s crazy. Whatever he may be, Frankie Morales knows he won’t sleep a wink tonight at the thought that he’s finally the reason for the smile on your face again.
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Between Duty & Desire
Dbf!Joel Miller x babysitter f!Reader
word count: 5.7k
A continuation of this post
Warnings: smut, hair pulling, unprotected piv, I’m too lazy to add anymore lel
-
“You shouldn’t be doing that,” you say softly, though your voice betrays how much you don’t want him to stop. Your words are barely a whisper, but he hears them
Joel leans closer, the warmth of his breath brushing against your ear. “You’re too tense, sweetheart,” he murmurs. His voice is deep, velvet smooth, laced with exhaustion from the day but undeniably tender. His thumbs work against the knots in your shoulders, and you feel your resolve crumbling with every stroke.
“Joel,” you start, his name falling off your tongue before you can stop yourself. His hands still for a moment, and you swear you feel him tense behind you. It’s a line crossed—one you both acknowledge in the stillness of the room.
But then his hands resume their motion, slower this time, his touch more deliberate. “There you go,” he murmurs, almost like he’s soothing himself as much as you. “That’s better.”
You tilt your head to glance up at him, your eyes meeting his. The way he looks at you—soft, yet intense—makes your heart race. “You don’t have to take care of me,” you manage, though the words feel hollow.
“Don’t I?” His voice is soft, but his tone holds weight. He leans down, just enough so that you catch the faint scent of sawdust and soap clinging to him. “You’ve been lookin’ after Sarah all night. Least I can do is look after you.”
The air between you feels charged, heavy with unspoken words and desires. You should step away, remind yourself why this is a terrible idea. But instead, you let his hands linger, his touch grounding you in a way you didn’t realize you needed.
“Joel…” you whisper again, his name trembling on your lips. This time, it’s not a warning—it’s a plea.
He leans down further, his voice low and full of something you can’t quite name. “Tell me to stop,” he says, his fingers grazing the curve of your jaw. “And I will.”
You don’t. Instead, you turn slightly toward him, your breath hitching as his thumb brushes the corner of your mouth. The world narrows to just the two of you—the quiet hum of the house fading into nothingness as his eyes search yours.
“Sweetheart…” he starts, his voice barely above a whisper, but the sound of it sends a shiver down your spine.
And then, as if the pull is too strong to resist, his lips ghost over yours, hesitant but full of promise. It’s tentative, a question, waiting for an answer you’re too far gone to deny.
Your breath catches, and for a moment, the world feels like it’s standing still. Joel’s lips hover so close to yours that you can feel the heat radiating from him, but something in you snaps back to reality. You pull back abruptly, standing so quickly that the chair scrapes against the floor, breaking the quiet tension of the room.
“I—uh—should go,” you stammer, your heart hammering in your chest as you gather your books and shove them into your bag, your movements frantic and clumsy.
Joel straightens, his brow furrowing in confusion and something else—maybe regret. “Sweetheart—wait,” he says softly, his voice laced with concern.
You don’t look at him as you zip your bag shut, slinging it over your shoulder. “It’s late. I shouldn’t be keeping you up,” you say, trying to sound casual, but your voice betrays the swirl of emotions inside you. “Sarah’s asleep, so… my job’s done.”
“Darlin’, you don’t have to rush out,” Joel says, his voice gentler now, but you can hear the tension beneath it. He steps closer, his hands twitching like he wants to reach out but knows better.
You finally glance at him, forcing a polite smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. “Have a good night, Mr. Miller,” you say, your voice steady but distant, like you’re building a wall between you.
His jaw tenses at the formality, but he doesn’t stop you as you move toward the door. You can feel his eyes on you, heavy and searching, but you don’t look back.
“Drive safe,” he murmurs as you step outside, his voice barely audible over the quiet click of the door closing behind you.
As you make your way to your car, the cool night air bites at your skin, grounding you. Your hands shake as you start the engine, and as you pull out of the driveway, you can’t help but glance at the house one last time. The lights in the kitchen window glow softly, and you wonder if he’s still standing there, watching you leave.
Your chest aches, and you grip the steering wheel tighter, willing yourself to push the memory of his touch, his voice, and the almost-kiss out of your mind. This is for the best, you tell yourself, over and over, like a mantra.
But as you drive away, you know deep down that this moment will haunt you—his presence lingering like a shadow you can’t shake.
•
The next time you’re at Joel’s house, you feel different. Stronger. The fresh haircut and perfectly polished nails you decided to get are just surface changes—they symbolize a shift inside you, a decision to stop running and face things head-on. If Joel wants something from you, he’s going to have to show it. You won’t back down this time.
Sarah is asleep, tucked into her bed after a fun evening of games and giggles. Now, you’re sitting at the dining table again, but this time, you aren’t hiding behind your books or keeping your head down. Your posture is relaxed, your chin lifted. You’re ready.
When the door finally opens, you hear the familiar sounds of Joel’s return—the keys hitting the dish, the heavy thud of his boots. You don’t flinch, don’t rush to look busy. Instead, you wait, your heartbeat steady but your anticipation building.
Joel walks into the room, and the second he sees you, his steps falter just slightly. His eyes flicker over you—your hair, your nails, the way you’re sitting so calmly, waiting for him. His gaze lingers for a beat too long, and you see something flicker in his expression, something he’s trying to hold back.
“Evenin’,” he says, his voice low and familiar, but there’s a roughness to it, like he’s caught off guard.
“Evening, Mr. Miller,” you reply smoothly, your tone steady but with just enough of a challenge to make his brow twitch. You know he hates when you call him that now, and it’s exactly why you said it.
He exhales sharply, shaking his head as he sets his bag down on the counter. “Didn’t we talk about that?”
“We did,” you reply, leaning back slightly, your eyes meeting his with a calm confidence. “But you didn’t exactly say much about anything else, did you?”
That catches him off guard. He pauses, his hand still resting on the counter, his eyes narrowing slightly as he processes your words. “What’re you tryin’ to say, sweetheart?”
“I’m saying,” you start, standing up slowly and stepping around the table, closing some of the distance between you, “that I’m done pretending nothing’s going on here.”
Joel’s jaw tightens, his eyes searching yours. “And what exactly do you think’s goin’ on?” he asks, his voice softer now, like he’s afraid of the answer but can’t stop himself from asking.
You take another step closer, tilting your head slightly as you look up at him. “That’s up to you to tell me, Joel,” you say, your voice steady but your heart racing. “You keep looking at me like this, saying things that make me think you want something. But I’m not gonna sit here wondering anymore. You want me? Prove it.”
The room feels electric, the air thick with the weight of your words. Joel stares at you, his expression unreadable, but you can see the battle playing out behind his eyes—the push and pull of what he wants versus what he thinks is right.
Finally, he takes a slow step toward you, his eyes locked on yours. “You sure you’re ready for that?” he asks, his voice a low rumble, filled with both caution and desire.
You don’t look away, don’t falter. “I’m standing right here, aren’t I?”
For a moment, it’s like the whole world has stopped, the only sound in the room the quiet hum of the fridge in the kitchen. Then, Joel reaches out, his hand brushing lightly against yours, his touch tentative but charged with meaning.
“Alright,” he murmurs, his voice almost a whisper. “You want me to prove it? I will.”
“I’m waiting” you bat your eyelashes innocently at him
Joel's lips twitch into a faint smirk at your words, but there's a flicker of something deeper in his eyes— hesitation, caution, desire all tangled together.
He takes another slow step toward you, closing the distance until you can feel the heat radiating off him.
His gaze drops to your lips, lingering for a moment before locking onto your eyes.
"You're somethin' else, you know that?" he mutters, his voice low and rough, like he's struggling to hold himself back.
You tilt your head, a teasing smile playing on your lips as you bat your eyelashes again. "Maybe," you say softly. "But you're still stalling, Joel."
His jaw tightens, and you can see the internal battle raging within him. He's not a man who rushes into things, but there's something about the way you're looking at him-challenging him, daring him-that's unraveling every ounce of his restraint.
"I don't think you know what you're askin' for, sweetheart," he murmurs, his voice dropping even lower, almost a growl. "This ain't somethin' we can just take back."
You take a small step forward, your confidence unwavering. "Maybe I don't want to take it back."
That's all it takes. In an instant, Joel's resolve shatters. He closes the remaining space between you, his hand coming up to cup your jaw with a tenderness that makes your breath hitch. His thumb brushes against your cheek, and his eyes search yours one last time, as if giving you a chance to stop him.
But you don't. You're done hesitating, done running.
"I'm waiting," you whisper again, your voice steady but laced with anticipation.
And then his lips are on yours, firm yet gentle, like he's been holding back for far too long.
The kiss is slow at first, tentative, as if he's testing the waters.
But when you lean into him, your hands resting against his chest, he deepens it, his other hand sliding to your waist to pull you closer.
It's overwhelming-the way he smells, the way he tastes, the way his touch sets every nerve in your body alight.
You've imagined this moment, but nothing could have prepared you for how real, how intense it feels.
When he finally pulls back, his forehead resting against yours, you're both breathless.
His thumb strokes your cheek again as he whispers, "There. That enough proof for you?"
You let out a shaky breath, a smile tugging at your lips. "It's a start."
Joel chuckles softly, the sound vibrating against your chest. "Careful, darlin'" he murmurs, his voice warm and teasing.
"You might just get more than you bargained for."
You meet his gaze, your confidence never wavering. "I'm counting on it."
-
You don't wait for him to make the next move. Instead, you close the small gap between you, pressing your lips against his once more. This time, there's no hesitation. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt as you slide your tongue along the seam of his lips, teasing him, challenging him to let you in.
Joel groans softly, a low, rough sound that sends a shiver down your spine. He opens his mouth to you, his tongue meeting yours in a slow, deliberate dance that makes your head spin. His hands tighten on your waist, pulling you even closer, like he can't stand the thought of any space between you.
The kiss deepens, becomes hungrier, more urgent. His lips are warm and soft, his stubble scratching against your skin in a way that's intoxicating. You feel his hand slide up your back, fingers brushing lightly against the nape of your neck as he tilts your head to deepen the kiss even further.
You pour every ounce of your frustration, your desire, your longing into the kiss, and he matches you beat for beat. It's raw and electric, a fire that's been simmering for far too long finally igniting.
When you finally pull back for air, your chest heaves as you struggle to catch your breath. Joel's forehead rests against yours, his dark eyes searching yours with a mix of desire and something softer, something deeper.
"Sweetheart..." he murmurs, his voice hoarse and filled with something you can't quite name. "You really are somethin' else."
You smirk, your confidence burning bright.
"Told you I was waiting."
He chuckles, low and warm, his thumb brushing along your jaw. "You sure you're ready for everything that comes with this?" he asks, his tone serious despite the teasing edge.
You nod, your resolve unshaken. "I'm not backing down, Joel. Not anymore."
His grip on you tightens slightly, his gaze holding yours. "Alright," he murmurs, his voice steady.
"Then let's see where this goes."
-
Your heart pounds as you look up at Joel, his grip firm but not controlling, his dark eyes studying you. Something inside you flares—a mix of confidence and curiosity. You want to see if you can take charge, see how far he's willing to let you lead.
You press your hands against his chest, pushing him gently but firmly back until the edge of the table catches him. He raises an eyebrow at you, a faint smirk playing on his lips, but he doesn't resist.
"What are you doin', sweetheart?" he asks, his voice low and rough, laced with curiosity and amusement.
You tilt your head, your eyes sparkling with mischief as you climb onto his lap, straddling him, your hands gripping his shoulders. "Showing you I'm not afraid,"
you say, your voice bold, unwavering.
"I'm not just gonna let you call the shots, Joel."
His smirk widens, his hands instinctively settling on your hips, fingers pressing into the fabric of your jeans. "That right?" he drawls, his tone teasing but edged with something darker, something thrilling. "You think you're in charge now?"
You lean in, your lips brushing against his ear as you whisper, "For now."
Without waiting for a reply, you kiss him again, this time with more force, more determination. Your tongue slides into his mouth, tangling with his, and you hear a low growl rumble from his chest. His hands tighten on your hips, pulling you closer, but he lets you set the pace, lets you take the lead.
You trail your hands up his chest, feeling the solid muscle beneath your fingertips, and his breath hitches when your nails scrape lightly against his skin through his shirt. You kiss him harder, your teeth nipping at his bottom lip before soothing the spot with your tongue. He lets out a soft curse, his grip on you momentarily tightening before he reins himself in.
His eyes darken, and for a moment, you think he might flip the script on you, take back control. But he doesn't-at least not yet. Instead, he lets you continue, his hands roaming your sides, his lips parting for you every time you claim him.
You feel powerful, exhilarated, but there's an undercurrent of tension, a silent promise in the way his fingers grip your waist. Joel might be letting you take charge for now, but you know it's only because he's allowing it. There's a storm brewing in his restraint, and you can't help but wonder what will happen when it finally breaks.
Joel pulls back from the kiss, his breathing uneven, his forehead resting against yours. His grip on your waist tightens just enough for you to feel the quiet power in his hands—a reminder that while he's let you take the lead, he hasn't truly surrendered.
His eyes lock onto yours, smoldering with an intensity that makes your breath catch. There's heat there, yes, but also something deeper, something unspoken that makes the air between you crackle.
"You're somethin' else," he mutters, his voice low and rough, the Texan drawl thick enough to send a shiver down your spine. "Pushin' me like this... You sure you know what you're gettin' into?"
His words hang in the air, a challenge and a warning all wrapped in one. But you're not backing down. Not now. You lift your chin slightly, your eyes never leaving his as you tighten your grip on his shoulders.
"I know exactly what I'm doing," you say, your voice steady but laced with a teasing edge. "The question is-do you?"
Joel chuckles softly, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. "You've got a sharp tongue, darlin'" he says, his hands sliding up your sides, slow and deliberate. "But let me tell you somethin!"
His grip shifts, his hands settling firmly on your hips as he leans in, his lips brushing against your ear. His voice drops even lower, a whisper that sends heat pooling in your stomach.
"There's only so much of this I'm gonna let you get away with," he murmurs, the warning clear in his tone. "You keep pushin, and I'm gonna remind you who's really in charge here."
The words send a thrill through you, but you're not ready to give in yet. You lean back just enough to meet his gaze, your lips curling into a defiant smile.
"Maybe I want you to remind me," you say, your voice soft but daring.
Joel's eyes darken further, his grip on you tightening just enough to make your heart race. For a moment, he just stares at you, his expression unreadable, as though he's deciding whether to rise to your challenge or let you keep playing this dangerous game.
Then, with a suddenness that leaves you breathless, he flips the dynamic entirely. His hands grip your waist firmly, lifting you effortlessly off his lap and setting you on the edge of the table. He steps between your knees, his hands braced on either side of you, caging you in.
"You've had your fun, sweetheart," he drawls, his voice low and commanding, his eyes burning into yours. "Now it's my turn."
Joel's lips trail down your neck, the warmth of his breath sending a shiver down your spine as he nips and sucks at the sensitive skin just below your ear.
Each touch is deliberate, possessive, as though he's staking his claim. You tilt your head back slightly, letting him have his way, the sensation overwhelming and intoxicating.
His hands slide up your thighs, the roughness of his palms a stark contrast to the softness of your skin. His grip tightens as he pulls you closer to the edge of the table, his strength undeniable as he presses his body flush against yours. The solid heat of him grounds you, even as your heart races.
"You're mine, princess," he growls against your neck, his voice low and rough, sending a jolt of electricity straight through you. "And don't you ever forget it."
His words make your breath hitch, the possessiveness in his tone igniting something deep within you. You want to challenge him, to push back against his dominance, but the way he holds you, the way he speaks to you, makes it impossible to do anything but surrender—for now.
Your hands slide up his chest, gripping the fabric of his shirt as you pull him closer. "Is that so?" you whisper, your voice daring but breathless. "Then maybe you should show me, Joel."
His eyes darken at your words, his gaze locking onto yours with a fire that takes your breath away. "You keep askin' for it," he mutters, his voice low and dangerous, "and I'm gonna give it to you. But you better be ready for what comes next, sweetheart."
The challenge in his words makes your pulse quicken, but you nod, your confidence unwavering. "I can handle it."
Joel smirks, a wicked, knowing grin that sends heat flooding through you. "We'll see about that." His lips crash against yours again, his kiss searing and unapologetic, leaving no room for doubt about who's in charge now.
Joel's kiss is overwhelming, consuming, leaving no space for thought or hesitation. His lips are firm against yours, his tongue demanding as it tangles with yours. He's not holding back anymore-every touch, every movement speaks of a man who's been pushed past his limits.
His hands grip your thighs tighter as he presses you more firmly against the edge of the table, his body flush against yours. The way he moves, the way he holds you, leaves no doubt in your mind—he's in control now, and he's making sure you know it.
"You've got no idea what you've started, darlin'" he growls against your lips, his voice thick with a mix of frustration and desire. "But you're gonna find out real quick."
You gasp as his lips return to your neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin before he sucks just hard enough to leave a mark. The sensation sends a shiver down your spine, and you can't help the soft moan that escapes your lips. His hands slide up further, his thumbs brushing against your hips, teasing you, testing your resolve.
"Still think you're the one in charge?" he murmurs against your skin, his voice dripping with smug amusement.
You tilt your head slightly, your breath hitching as you try to regain some of your earlier confidence. "Maybe I just wanted to see if you could keep up."
Joel chuckles, a low, rumbling sound that vibrates against your neck. "Keep up?" he repeats, pulling back just enough to meet your gaze, his eyes dark and piercing.
"Sweetheart, you've got no idea what you've gotten yourself into."
His words are a promise, a warning, and a challenge all at once. He presses his forehead against yours, his breath warm against your lips.
"You think you can push me like this and come out on top?" His hand slides up, cupping the side of your face, his thumb brushing against your cheek with a gentleness that contrasts sharply with the intensity in his eyes. "Let me make somethin' real clear."
His lips crash against yours again, this time even more commanding, more consuming. His kiss leaves you breathless, his hands gripping you like he's afraid to let go. It's a battle of wills, but one you're losing-and you're not even sure you mind.
Joel's kiss grows fiercer, more demanding, as he takes full control. His tongue delves deeper, exploring your mouth with a hunger that leaves you breathless. His teeth catch your bottom lip, nipping just enough to send a jolt through you before soothing it with his tongue, as if he's both punishing and rewarding you for pushing him this far.
His hands grip your hips firmly, pulling you even closer, until there's no space left between you. His body pins you against the table, his weight pressing you down as his hips grind against yours. The friction is electrifying, sending heat surging through you, and you can't help the soft gasp that escapes your lips.
"You feel that?" he murmurs against your lips, his voice rough and low, dripping with desire. "That's what you do to me, sweetheart. You've been teasin' me, pushin' me-and now, you're gonna take all of it."
The evidence of his arousal presses firmly against you, a stark, undeniable reminder of just how much power he has in this moment. But it's not just physical-it's the way he looks at you, the way he touches you, the way he speaks to you. Every word, every movement is calculated, deliberate, meant to show you exactly who's in control.
Your breath catches as his lips trail down your neck again, his teeth grazing your skin before he sucks hard enough to leave another mark. His hands roam your body, possessive and firm, as if he's memorizing every curve, every reaction. He's relentless, and you can feel yourself surrendering completely to him, letting him take whatever he wants.
"You wanted this, didn't you?" Joel growls, his voice a mixture of amusement and raw desire. "You wanted me to take control, to show you who you belong to."
You can barely form a coherent thought, let alone a response. All you can do is nod, your hands gripping his shoulders as you cling to him, completely at his mercy.
Joel then lifts you up and carries you to the living room. He lays you down on the couch, positioning you so that you're bent over the arm. He stands behind you, his hands quickly unbuttoning and removing your pants.
He lets out a low growl as he takes in the sight of you, completely at his mercy and vulnerable to his touch.
“God, look at you,” he murmurs, his voice rough with desire. “Bent over like a good girl for me.”
He groans as you push your ass against him, the feeling of your body against his making him even harder. He grabs your hips, holding you still as he leans over you.
“Needy little thing, aren’t you?” he murmurs, his breath hot against your ear. “Can’t get enough of me, can you?”
Joel grabs a fistful of your hair and pulls “tell me how much you need me darlin’”
You gasp as he grabs your hair, the sting of his grip sending a jolt of pleasure through you.
“I need you so much,” you whimper, your voice shaky with desire. “Please, Joel.. I need you to touch me.”
He circles his fingers around your clit, applying just enough pressure to make you moan. He knows your body well, knows exactly how to touch you to make you squirm and beg for more.
He continues to tease you, his lips moving up to your ear as he whispers in a low, husky voice.
“That feel good, princess?”
You nod frantically, your body arching against his touch as you let out a needy whimper.
“Y-yes, Joel.. please.. more..”
He smirks against your skin, pleased with your response. He loves the way you beg for him, the way you give yourself over to him completely.
He continues to circle your clit with his fingers, his touch growing firmer as he increases the pressure.
“Such a good girl,” he murmurs, his voice low and filled with satisfaction. “Begging for me like that..”
He leans down, his lips moving to your ear once again as he whispers in a low, commanding tone.
“Say it again,” he growls. “Tell me how much you need me to make you feel good.”
You shiver at the command in his voice, your body trembling with need.
“I need you so badly,” you whimper, your voice shaking with desire. “Please, Joel.. I need you to make me cum. I need you to make me feel good..”
You whimper in response, unable to do anything but let out a series of desperate, needy sounds as his fingers continue to work their magic against your clit. You're completely at his mercy, your body trembling and your mind filled with a haze of pleasure.
He knows he has you exactly where he wants you, completely surrendered to his touch and his control.
He moves quickly, unable to wait any longer to be inside you. He grabs your hips, positioning himself at your entrance as he looks down at you with a mixture of hunger and desire.
“I can’t hold back anymore,” he growls, his voice rough with need.
Joel pushes into you in one swift, powerful thrust, filling you completely in one movement. He lets out a low groan, his fingers digging into your hips as he struggles to control himself.
“God, you feel so good..” he murmurs, his voice ragged with pleasure. “So tight and perfect around me..”
He begins to move, his thrusts slow and deep at first, savoring the feeling of being inside you. But as his control starts to slip, his pace quickens, each thrust becoming more and more forceful.
“You like this don’t you darlin,” he growls, his voice possessive and dominant.
You nod desperately, your mind consumed by the pleasure he’s giving you. Every thrust sends waves of ecstasy through your body, making it hard to think or speak.
“Yes.. I love it,” you manage to gasp out, your voice hoarse with pleasure. “I love feeling you inside me..”
He grins, pleased by your response. He can feel your body trembling beneath him, can feel you clenching around him as he drives deeper and deeper into you.
“That’s it, princess,” he murmurs, his voice filled with possessive satisfaction. “Let me hear you say it.. tell me how much you need me to claim you..”
You just let out a loud moan as you come undone.
He groans as you come around him, your body clenching tightly around his cock. He continues to thrust into you, struggling to hold back his own release as he looks over at Sarah's door, making sure it's still shut.
He doesn't want her to see or hear any of this.. he doesn't want anyone to know how he's claiming you, how he's making you his in every way possible..
He grabs your hips, pulling you back onto him as he thrusts harder and faster, chasing his own release. He's close, so close to the edge, and the sight of you coming undone beneath him only pushes him further.
“Fuck.. I’m gonna fill you up,” he growls, his voice strained
His grip on your hips tightens as he continues to pound into you, his pace becoming erratic and desperate. He can feel his orgasm building, the pleasure building up until it’s almost unbearable.
“Take it.. take all of it,” he grunts, his voice hoarse with need. “I’m gonna fill you up so good, princess..”
His hips stutter and his grip on you tightens even more as he reaches his peak. With one final, deep thrust, he buries himself inside you and cums with a guttural groan, his release spilling into you in hot, pulsing waves.
He leans over you, his body trembling as he rides out his orgasm, his face buried in your neck as he tries to catch his breath.
Joel leans over you, his strong arms braced on either side of you, his body trembling as he lets the intensity of the moment consume him. His forehead presses against the back of your neck, his warm breath ghosting over your skin as he tries to steady himself, both of you still caught in the aftershocks of everything you’ve shared.
For a long moment, the room is filled with nothing but the sound of his labored breathing and the faint hum of the world outside. His face remains buried against your neck, his stubble scraping lightly against your skin in a way that feels both grounding and intimate. You can feel the weight of him, his warmth pressing into you, a tangible reminder of the connection you’ve just forged.
“Sweetheart…” he finally murmurs, his voice low and gravelly, tinged with both exhaustion and something softer. His hand slides down to rest on your hip, his touch gentler now, almost reverent.
You turn your head slightly, your breathing still uneven as you meet his gaze over your shoulder. His dark eyes are softer now, the fiery intensity replaced with a quiet tenderness that makes your chest tighten.
“I told you,” he says softly, his lips brushing against your ear. “You’ve got no idea what you do to me.”
You let out a breathless laugh, your body still tingling from the overwhelming sensations. “I think I might have an idea now,” you reply, your voice teasing but filled with warmth.
Joel chuckles softly, the sound low and rumbling as he shifts slightly, wrapping an arm around your waist to pull you upright against his chest. He holds you there, his grip firm but comforting, as if he’s afraid to let go.
-
Joel steps back, his hands lingering on your waist for a moment before he finally lets go, his touch warm and steady despite the nervous laugh that escapes him. He rubs the back of his neck, his expression softening as he looks at you, a mixture of concern and tenderness in his eyes.
“I got a little carried away there,” he admits, his voice low, the faintest hint of guilt creeping in. “Are you alright?”
You turn to face him, brushing your hair back from your face as you meet his gaze. There’s no hesitation in your voice when you reply. “Yes, I’m fine.” You offer him a small, reassuring smile before adding, “But… would it be okay if I took, like… a bath? Maybe?”
Joel blinks, his lips twitching into a faint smile as he lets out a soft chuckle. “’Course it’s okay,” he says, his voice warm and genuine. “You don’t even have to ask, sweetheart. Go on—I’ll make sure Sarah stays asleep.”
You nod, your smile growing as the tension in the room begins to ease. “Thanks, Joel.”
He gestures toward the hallway. “Bathroom’s down the hall. I’ll grab you some towels.”
As you head toward the bathroom, you hear him rummaging through a closet, his quiet movements a comforting presence even as you step away. When you reach the door, he appears a moment later with a neatly folded towel in one hand and a soft smile on his face.
“Here,” he says, handing it to you. His fingers brush against yours briefly, and for a moment, his gaze lingers, his eyes searching yours as if to make sure you’re really okay.
“Thank you,” you say softly, your voice steady but laced with sincerity.
Joel nods, stepping back to give you space. “Take your time,” he says. “I’ll be here if you need anything.”
You close the door behind you, the warmth of his presence still lingering as you turn on the faucet and let the sound of running water fill the room. As the tub begins to fill, you take a deep breath, letting the events of the evening wash over you. Whatever happens next, you know one thing for sure: Joel cares, and that thought alone makes you feel a little more grounded.
A/N: \(//∇//)\ i seriously can’t get enough of dbf!joel…send me to horny jail now
#joel miller#joel miller angst#joel miller game#joel miller x reader#joel miller x you#the last of us#joel miller show#tlou fanfiction#joel miller pedro pascal#joel x female reader#joel miller one shot#joel miller smut#dbf!joel#dbf joel miller#dbf!joel x babysitter reader#Joel miller x babysitter#pedro pascal smut#smut
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that christmas tree isn't the only thing that's going to have an angel on top of it
#pedro pascal x reader#pedro pascal#joel miller x reader#marcus acacius x reader#the mandalorian x reader#pedro pascal smut#pedro pascal fanfiction
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OMG @beefrobeefcal…this was…I don’t know where to start. I’m stuck between laughing at Dieter and saying a big aww for Din. This was such a nice mix of feels and I fucking loved it!
I’m a Dieter girl though…I would have said fuck it and gone full throuple with those two. Dieter’s bruised…ego needs some love too. 😅
Gary was a nice touch too. Bless him, he deserves an award for putting up with them. lol
Colosseum Capers feat. Din Djarin & Dieter Bravo
Summary: Din is a virgin and Dieter teaches him some things.
Pairing: Dieter x Din x f!reader | Rating: 18+ MDNI | Word Count: 6,787
Content Warnings: couch sex, din is a virgin, dieter teaches din how to make thick in the warm, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex, p in the v, cum touching, jerking off, bruised willy, busted wrist, gary has had it up to here, everyone is consenting gleefully, jerking off to a live show, cum play (ish), talk of cum, weed is smoked, mention of religious trauma, premature ejaculation YEEHAW!
Author's Notes: for my very own november prompt challenge THE GLANDOLORIAN of course being dropped right at the buzzer.
Thanks to @strang3lov3, @noxturnalnymph & @bitchesuntitled for their eyes, minds, thots and love - i would have let my utter defiance take over and not done this without your encouragement. Thanks also to @saradika-graphics for the dividers.
No more tag lists - follow @beefnotes + turn on notifications for fic updates!
You stood behind the ticket desk, supposed to be counting the float and getting ready for the evening’s show but instead you were bored out of your mind and sweating in your polyester toga. Once again, the owners decided to not fix the AC to cut costs, and the humidity plus the sweltering heat was giving you a horrible case of swamp ass and a foul mood.
Colosseum Capers (aka ‘Capers’) was a Medieval Times knock off, started in 1979 by two brothers who had a shitty idea fueled by a night out at a shitty bar. They had sold it to a corporate group in the late 80’s who had developed a mall on the plot next door and had changed hands many times over since. It was some real estate investment trust that was letting it run into the ground now. It wasn’t glamorous, but it paid the bills and got you up close and personal with B and C list celebrities, and free concessions, keeping your monthly grocery bill lower than average. That, and if you batted your lashes at Gary, the manager, you could get your gas paid for every now and then.
There were a lot of perks in this dump, but the one thing that made Capers almost not worth it was the star - Dieter Bravo. He was a washed up 1990’s soap actor who hadn’t actually done anything of note since he showed up to the Emmys drunk, high, or both in 2003, then allegedly passed out backstage and pissed his pants. You have to say allegedly because at the time, Dieter had enough money to have a team that gave enough of a shit to scrub the media, stopping the release of the details. But now? Now he was ‘Marcus Acacius, Gladiator of Rome’ five to seven nights a week in a shitty dinner show theatre two blocks from the Las Vegas strip. No one gave a shit about him except those who recognized him from his days on The Young & The Restless.
You couldn’t stand him. Despite how far he had fallen, it still wasn’t enough to knock his ego down; he was arrogant and obnoxious, slept with the majority of the female staff - and a few of the male staff, too. He’d tried to bed you once, his gravelly, sleep deprived, booze fueled voice cawing at you to come to his dressing room one evening. You’d rolled your eyes in disgust, never once being fooled by him, declining him just as rudely as he had offered. In response, from then on in, Dieter pretended you either didn’t exist or antagonized you, giving you orders or interfering if someone was speaking to you to let them know you were a ‘celibate bitch’, landing you with the nickname ‘CeeBee’.
The only good thing about Dieter was the one thing his drunk, out-of-shape ass needed to play gladiator - Din. When Dieter couldn’t take to the stage, Din stepped in. He took no credit and played Dieter playing a Gladiator well enough for only die-hard Dieter fans to notice and those seemed to be dwindling in numbers season by season.
If Din had asked you to his dressing room (if he had one), nothing could have stopped you from going to it. He was everything Dieter was not. He was quiet, polite, sweet, sober, and while he looked like a younger, less bloated version of Dieter, you found him far more handsome and attractive. The only problem was that Din was never anything but polite in the most standoffish way to you and anyone else who he interacted with - no joke pulled a smile on his face, you had never heard him laugh once, and he was insanely private. Beyond his name and his age - which you had to suss out from the badly stored employment records - you knew nothing about him.
Din Djarin, 36 years old, male was what you knew to be a fact. Great body, patience of a saint, likes plain soda water, potentially hung, gorgeous brown eyes, soft-looking brown hair were based solely on your observational skills. Everything else about him was a mystery.
“Ceebee!”
You groaned outwardly and rolled your eyes when you heard Gary’s voice. It was too hot and you felt too gross to want to deal with his bullshit.
“I know you heard me ‘cause I heard that attitude!”
Sucking in a deep breath, you stood up from leaning on the counter and yelled back. “What, Gary?!”
“Bravo. Get him. Need to know if we gotta call Din for tonight.”
“No, Gary, you do it! It’s too hot for me to deal with his bullshi-”
“CeeBee, goddamnit! Now!”
You could hear the final threads of Gary’s triple bypass fraying in his voice. You knew he hated Dieter more than you did and if he had the power, Dieter would have been fired years ago and Din would be the gladiator full time. And you knew that if you were hot, the overweight, balding 67-year-old Gary was feeling it worse, and despite what an aggravating human he could be, he was also the closest thing to a friend you had in this city. Today was not the day to give him a hard time.
Huffing, you stepped out from behind the ticket counter and stomped down the ramp to the ‘Staff Only’ door, and pushed through. As soon as you opened the door, the acrid smell of weed from a bong hit you and you grimaced. You didn’t want to go any closer to his dressing room, so you called out, not attempting to hide your irritation.
“Bravo! Gary wants to know if you’re-”
“Ceebee! Baby! Come on in - don’t be shy!”, Dieter interrupted in a lazy, rough but loud voice.
“No. Gary wants to know if you’re g-”
“Fuck Gary and get in here. Not gonna pull anything!”, he barked, then sang out, “‘less you wan’ me to...”
You scowled as you heard the smug grin in his voice. Against your better judgement, you let out a harsh huff and stepped into his open doorway. There he was, the bastard, laid back on a couch not even fit for a second hand store, in his green robe and boxers. His face was pulled into a large, stupid smile and his eyes were red and heavy lidded.
“Hey pretty lady…”
The way he looked at you and spoke made you want to shave your head with a cheese grater, but you’d promised Gary last week that you’d try and be more cordial with Dieter, so you slapped a tight smile on your face and crossed your arms.
“Bravo. Ga-”
“CeeBee… honey, you look tense.” He patted the couch next to him. “Come on, baby, take a hoot. Chill out.”
“Gary wants to know if he’s gotta call Din in.”
The lazy smile on his face dropped slightly, and the small bit of his eyes you could see seemed to grow darker. Until that moment, the insecurity Dieter had over Din being better suited for this job had never occurred to you, but you could see it clear as day now. “Fuckin’ Din…”, he growled as he stood up and moved towards you.
Trying to not let him see how intimidated you were as he stood far closer than you thought necessary as he glowered down at you, you held that tight smile and looked him up in the face.
“Tell Gary to call Din so he can watch me-”, he snarls lowly, poking his finger into your collarbone, “-an’ see how this show is ‘sposed to be done.”
After you’d relayed the message to Gary and watched his face go even redder, you went back to the ticket desk and tried to look busy. Gary was going to be in a mood tonight, having to pay both Dieter and Din to be there, and given how hot it was, he already knew that attendees would complain about the lack of AC so admission would be 50% instead of having to issue refunds. It was going to be a long, rough night.
For the next hour, you handled the small crowd of attendees coming in, then hit a lull, allowing you a moment to pull out your phone and scroll through your socials mindlessly.
“Hey.”
Din’s voice cut through the ambient crowd chatter from the lobby and theatre and you clumsily tucked your phone in your bra and looked up, trying to give him as sweet and soft of a smile you could muster.
“Hey yourself.” You cringed internally at the saccharine, soft tone of your voice, but you couldn’t help but fall into this coquettish nightmare version of yourself when he was around.
Din swallowed and nodded, eyes darting over you nervously. He cleared his throat and tapped the desk a few times and nodded again.
“Let Gary know I’m here, yeah?”, he murmured, taking one last look at you before heading down the ramp to Dieter’s dressing room.
You watched him walk away, his tight little ass hugged beautifully in his dark, faded jeans, and you let out a hopelessly desperate breath. Din, despite being an enigma to you, had you in a chokehold and he didn’t even know it.
That routine carried on for the next week: Gary would send you to Dieter to see if he needed to call Din; Dieter would make a vague pass at you and when rejected, he would tell you Din needed to come in; Gary would look like he was going to have an aneurysm; Din would come in and shyly say hello.
Capers was closed on Sundays and this particular Saturday felt like it was dragging. Before Gary could call out and send you to Dieter’s room, you were already at his office door asking if he needed to know if Din was coming in. Opening the ‘Staff Only’ door and being hit in the sinuses with weed haze didn’t have the same impact as it had before and you didn’t bother announcing yourself before you walked into Dieter’s dressing room.
“Din?”, you asked flatly, giving him a bored look.
He looked up at you, noting your lack of enthusiasm and his interest was piqued. “Awe, CeeBee. Take a seat and a hoot with me, sweetheart.”
If you had been blindfolded and didn’t already know he was sitting in front of you, you wouldn’t have known it was Dieter speaking; his tone was much softer and almost Din-like. For a moment, your guard was dangerously close to coming down and the way he looked at you through the blue haze from his bong was almost too enticing for you to ignore.
But then he coughed hard and let out a fart, making himself laugh. The illusion was broken and a scowl sat on your bored face.
“Din?” you repeated in a far more firm tone.
Dieter continued to giggle and cough, obviously ignoring your annoyance and once he was settled he nodded before taking another hit off the bong. He sat upright and blew the smoke into the air, coughing again.
“Yeah, baby… you know the drill. He needs to watch the master work.”
“And you really think that’s you? Seriously?”
It came out before you could stop yourself. God, you must be PMS’ing what with your inability to hold back your words or your facial expressions.
Dieter stilled, eyeing you warily. You saw the shift. The annoying stoner had evaporated into the smoke in the room and what was now standing from the couch was a considerably angry looking Dieter.
“What was that?” His voice was solid and low, almost coming out in a dangerous growl.
You opened your mouth to speak but nothing came out as he took a few strides and stood above you, glaring down at you.
“I didn’t catch that, CeeBee. You wanna say that again?”
The low and burning timbre of his voice did something to you that you hated more than anything - it turned you on. You could feel how wet you were getting as his intense puffs of breath from his nose hit you in the face. His brown eyes were dark and narrowed right onto yours and just by shifting his weight he was closer to you, backing you against the wall next to his door. His hand came up beside your head, planting his palm on the wall while the other gripped your chin ever so gently.
His head tilted slightly and his voice was softer, but still held the edge of his temper. “I put up with a lot from you, you know, CeeBee. Don’t think you appreciate what a fuckin’ gentleman I’ve been.”
Despite the position you were in, you couldn’t help but scoff. Dieter shook his head, his grip on your chin becoming a bit firmer.
“I mean it. I’ve been good. You think anyone would hear you scream from down here?”
Your eyes widened slightly at the threat and he smiled.
“There it is.”, he chuckled darkly. “Knew you were a smart girl.”
He leaned forward, mouth far too close to yours and murmured, “Might not be as in shape as the Virgin Din, but I know how to take you down a few pegs, honey…”
God dammit. Fuck. Whatever he was doing was working and the self loathing you had become well acquainted with in all your morning afters was getting itself ready for another bout. But then your mind stopped, going back to what he said about Din.
“Virgin?”
The smug smirk on Dieter’s face grew into a smile as he leaned back and he purred, “Yeah, you think that nerd has ever put his dick in anything that wasn’t made of silicone?”
You could feel yourself getting hotter and wetter by the second. Why was Dieter talking about Din like that so hot? And why did his eyes boring into yours as he spoke make you feel like you were being put in your place? Sure, you’d maintained prolonged eye contact with Dieter in a standoff situation more than once. But this? This was different; he had the upper hand and knew it, and was now toying with you.
His hand on your chin moving down to your neck and barely putting any pressure, like he was testing the waters. His eyes followed suit.
“I can see your pulse…”, he murmured, eyes lidded and fixed on the side of your neck. He brushed his thumb over your pulse point and his eyes snapped back up to yours. He inhaled and in his exhale, he breathed out, “You like this…”
He wet his lips and he had you wound so tightly around his fingers, you could have come from that act alone. Dieter was mesmerizing and his ability to seduce was something you never expected.
“I caught you watching him, you know.” With that low growl of a declaration, you swear you saw a possessive flash in his eyes, and his grip on your throat tightened slightly. “He wouldn’t know what to do with you. But I do…”
“Bra-Bravo… ple-”
He cut you off with a grin. “You wanna break that vow of celibacy you been clingin’ to?”
You scoffed and bit back, “I have not been celibate!”
Dieter laughed lowly and leaned in, pressing a kiss to the tip of your nose. “You just fuckin’ everyone but me, huh?” Then pressed another kiss to your cheek. “Whorin’ it up and not letting me have a bite?” He kissed the other cheek. “So mean, baby.”
He ghosted his mouth over yours, and he pulled back as you tried to catch his lips with your own. You let out a soft whimper and he returned a mock-pout to you in response. “Awe, CeeBee. Don’t tell me that all you needed was a firm hand and I coulda fucked you on this couch years ago…”
“Fuck you…” You spat through gritted teeth.
“I’d love to, honey.” The juxtaposition between the softness of his eyes and voice, and the force of his hand pushing between your thighs made your head spin. His large hand cupped your whole crux and his middle finger pressed the cheap, thin polyester fabric of your toga against your thong-clad slit.
Dieter sucked in a breath between his teeth and looked almost pained and he groaned, “Fuck, you’re soaked…”
It was like he broke character at the hint of a sopping wet pussy and the real Dieter came back out for a split second. “I need her, CeeBee… bet she’s aching for me, too.”
His mouth met yours in a hungry, fevered, desperate kiss, his tongue shoving its way past your teeth and against yours. You gripped onto anywhere you could - neck, shoulders, hair - and he grabbed your ass and hauled you up and over to the couch, letting you fall back onto it unceremoniously. Before you could react, he was down on his knees between your open legs, frantically tossing your toga skirt up, covering your head.
“Bravo! What the fu-ooooooh!” Your confusion turned to pleasure as his mouth kissed your heat through your thong with the same fervor he’d kissed your mouth.
He reached under you as he kept his mouth on you, pulling your thong down. He sat up and brought the small clump of damp fabric to his nose and inhaled.
“I fuckin’ knew it…”, he groaned. “Holdin’ out this sweet of a pussy on me.”
He dove back in.
Unbeknownst to both you and Dieter, Gary got tired of waiting. He’d assumed that you and Dieter were having a blowout argument and that’s why you hadn’t returned yet and he called Din in. Whether Dieter was going on tonight or not, just in case he decided to throw a fit, Din needed to be here.
Twenty-five minutes later, Din walked in the front door and was surprised to see the ticket desk unmanned. He was disappointed; he liked seeing you and seeing that smile and hearing your voice. Even if outwardly he didn’t show it, he had nightly dreams about pulling you apart and making you whimper and whine under him. But he never took the chance; a girl like you probably already knew what a good fuck felt like and Din hadn’t made love to anyone ever. Never even gotten a blowjob, let alone a handjob. What 36 year-old was still a virgin? He knew what kind - him. The loser who grew up in a religious cult, the kid with the only outside influence being kung fu and swashbuckling movies watched in secret in his cousin’s basement. Those were the only taste of the outside world he had and as soon as he turned 18 and escaped, he found a mixed martial arts studio to train him then he found Caper… and then you. It would have all been perfect - if he knew what to do with his dick.
He sighed and dropped his shoulders. Adjusting his backpack, he wandered down the ramp to the ‘Staff Only’ door and pushed in.
The first thing that hit him was the smell of Dieter’s weed, and before he could feel nauseated at the smell again, he heard… Din furrowed his brows. He knew that sound, but only in his late night fantasies. His eyes widened and he sucked in a breath, covering his mouth.
It was you.
Then he heard Dieter, grunting and groaning, and his heart sank. Just from those sounds alone, he knew Dieter had finally sunk his claws into you and he didn’t have a hope in hell in having you to himself. He swallowed back the dejected huff, about to turn away and leave. But he couldn’t; the chance to at least get to see you all laid out and in ecstasy was too great a temptation, even if he wasn’t the one to do it to you.
Cautiously, he took a few steps to Dieter’s dressing room door. It was open halfway and he thought if he could just take a peek, just get a glimpse, he would be set for the next six months at least in his nightly self-loving session.
He crept up to the door, peering around the frame, and almost choked. There you were, naked and on your hands and knees, crying out and gripping the sofa as Dieter had one foot planted on the floor and the other he kneeled on as he pounded into you, his hand digging into the soft flesh of your hips. His mouth went dry and he could feel his jeans getting tighter in the crotchular region, mindlessly rubbing his bulge against the door frame in small motions.
When Dieter reached one of his thick arms around your waist and brought your back up flush with his front and Din got his first look at your bare breasts, bouncing in time with Dieter’s thrusts, he let out an involuntary groan, inadvertently alerting you and Dieter to his presence.
Your eyes, hazy and heavy lidded, snapped to Din’s face watching through the doorway and Dieter chuckled into your ear before sucking your lobe into his mouth. His eyes bore into Din’s and Din couldn’t look away. He couldn’t move, he was frozen in place.
Dieter smiled, his teeth holding on to your ear as he grunted and thrusted up into you.
“Din… her cunt’s perfect. Ripe and ready to snatch your v-card, buddy.”
You watched as Din’s hips involuntarily bucked against the door frame and Dieter felt you flutter and clench around him.
“Mmmm… she wants you, too, my dude.”
You whined as Dieter let you go, shoving you face down on the couch and pulling out. Din watched with eyes wide as Dieter walked tall and proud towards him, his cock bouncing up against his paunch of a belly. Din stumbled back, his back hitting the wall and Dieter stepped out into the hallway and crowded again Din, caging him between his arms and bringing his face right up to his.
“You wanna taste her?” Dieter rasped, his mouth close enough to Din’s that he could smell your tangy musk on his breath.
Din’s mouth was agape and eyes wide as Dieter leaned in and kissed him. It was much softer than Din could have ever expected Dieter to be, but he gasped into Dieter’s grin when the older man’s hand palmed the front of Din’s jeans, feeling just how hard his dip into voyeurism had made him.
“Oh you’re ready, aren’t you, buddy…”, Dieter grunted, pulling back slightly to watch as Din’s eyes rolled back as he applied more pressure and Din bucked his hips against his hand. He smiled as he watched the younger man pant and huff and he kissed him again, this time more aggressively. Dieter then pulled Din away from the wall and dragged him into his dressing room, standing behind him while ensuring Din’s eyes were on you. Dieter wrapped his arms around his slight waist and started undoing his jeans as he kissed his neck.
“Now… Ceebee’s ready… got her all primed up for you.”, he purred, then nodded towards you. “Show him.”
You hesitated, unsure if this is not only what you really wanted but also for Din. But then Din bit his lip looking at you in a way that set your body on fire and Dieter gave you a firm glare, wordlessly taking control of the situation. You tentatively laid back and opened your legs, pussy puffy, pink and glistening. Din whimpered and Dieter smiled darkly at you.
“Good girl…” His tone was low and dark and he kissed Din’s neck again, sliding the zipper fly of his jeans down. “You want that? Wanna feel it wrap around your dick, there, bud?”
Din nodded eagerly, a pained, yearning look on his face as his eyes stayed glued to your exposed core.
“Yeah?”, Dieter breathed out against Din’s neck, lifting his shirt to expose his toned midriff. “I know you’re packin’...”
Din huffed out a whine and closed his eyes, leaning back as Dieter’s hand pushed down his underwear enough that his cock slapped up against his stomach. The top was red and weeping, looking painfully hard. Dieter gently gripped it and you watched as Din’s knees nearly buckled as he let out a loud whine.
“Shhh… I know… new things… overwhelming… Doing so good for me, buddy.”, Dieter cooed softly, his thick arm holding Din up against him while the other gently began to stroke him. “Ceebee, honey… look at him. Fuckin’ hung…”
Your eyes hadn’t left Din’s cock. Even in Dieter’s large hand it looked big, and your cunt ached in need. You sucked in a breath through your nose and your lips parted as you exhaled shakily.
“She likes you, Din… Look at her. All flushed and needy… look how wet she is…”
Din nodded and whimpered, biting his lip hard as Dieter spoke softly as he stroked him. His head lolled back onto Dieter’s shoulder and he panted out, “I… I wan’her… but I-I don’know wha-”
“Shhhh… Dieter Bravo has you covered, buddy. Bet you you’re gonna wanna marry her after this.”
He nipped his neck and released Din’s cock and put his hands on his hips. Din huffed out, a pained look on his face and Dieter nodded to you.
“Look at her, Din… You wanna feel how warm and wet she is?” Dieter’s voice was low and his eyes were menacingly dark. He nudged Din towards you, his shins and knees hitting the edge of the couch between your open legs.
You looked up at him, lips parted and brows furrowed; he looked perfect and so very overwhelmed. His hair was beginning to stick to his forehead and his small, husky whimpers were making it very hard to not just get him away from Dieter.
“Din… if you don’t want thi-”
“N-no!”, he choked out, looking down at you. His pupils had taken over his whole eye and his features were pulled in a way that made him look almost demonic. “No… fuck, no I wan-want this- you. I want you.”
You nodded, your breath hitching at his apparent enthusiastic - and slightly unnerving - need.
“Atta boy, Dinny…”, Dieter praised in a growl. “You wan’her snatch suckin’ you in?”
Din nodded, mouth hung open, panting as his eyes stared at your pussy. Dieter continued to chuckle, gripping Din’s hips as his cocked stayed hard and twitching against his flat stomach.
“You ever touched the winking eye of god, buddy?” Dieter cooed. Din shook his head slightly, still dumbly staring down at you. Dieter nudged Din again, onto his knees between your legs. “Go on… don’t be shy…”
Din brought a shaky hand to your core, a whisper soft touch of his index finger moved slowly around your hole and then up against your clit, making you twitch and let out a gasping whine.
“See? She likes that…” Dieter’s eyes flick to you. “Don’t you, CeeBee?”
You nodded and moaned out an ‘uh-huh’. You let out a whimpering yelp as he pushed two fingers into you suddenly, and Dieter’s hand gripped his wrist.
“Ho, ho, ho, buddy! Easy… gotta be gentle with her…”, he tsk’d softly, his brows furrowed and he pulled Din’s hand back gently.
“S-sorry… I-”
“S’okay, Din… it’s okay…”, you nodded looking up at him. It didn’t hurt, it just surprised you.
Dieter moved his hand up over Din’s and adjusted Din’s thumb over your clit, having him apply just the right amount of pressure in a circular motion. “That’s it… ringin’ the devil’s doorbell…”
Dieter released his hand and Din pushed two fingers back into you slowly, keeping the mobile pressure on your bundle of nerves. Despite the slight jerky motions and the bit of hangnail Din had on one of his fingers, for a first timer, it felt pretty good. Dieter patted Din’s hip and moved around to you, dipping his head down and kissing you.
“You gonna give him a good time, CeeBee?” The softness in his eyes and the direct way he asked told you that he ironically and weirdly had a great deal of respect for the ritual you were about to take part in, the one involving Din losing his virginity.
You nodded, huskily replying, “Yeah, Bravo-ooh fuck! Yes… r-right there!” then panting out moans.
Din’s long fingers had found the spot that had evaded so many men in your life. And he hit it over and over, and his thumb, the way his thumb kept the motion on it…
Dieter got up quickly and moved behind Din, his hands on his shoulders, nodding. “Keep doing that… Yes, yeah, good boy. Yeah… when she makes that sound? You keep doing whatever it is you were doing when she made that sound.”
Din’s breath panted out between his teeth as he bit his lip in time with his fingers in and out of you. Dieter didn’t know where to look: you, knees bent and legs open, whining and arching your back or Din, sweating and hypnotized by your pussy sucking his fingers in. He swallowed hard and put his hands back on Din’s slim waist and almost hoarsely encouraged him as he looked at you over his shoulder.
“Come on, buddy… you got her this close… come on… make her cry… keep - Christ on a cracker - keep going…”
Din’s breath hitched with each inhale and his cock was painfully hard, beading precum on his toned stomach, and you could feel your orgasm slipping with his loss of rhythm. You reached down and gently grabbed his wrist to stop him, looking at his face.
Din was on another level of existence. His eyes were glazed and his bottom lip was wet and reddened from his worrying it between his teeth and his cheeks, neck and the part of his chest you could see were flushed and damp.
“Buddy…”, Dieter whispered as he pressed soft kisses on his neck. “She wants you, baby…”
Din nodded loosely, his brows furrowing, and the only sound that came from him was a low whine as Dieter’s hands pulled his jeans and underwear down further on his hips. You sat up and tugged his t-shirt up and off his body and there he was.
“God, I remember when I looked this good…”, Dieter groaned, reaching around and smearing his hand through the precum on Din’s stomach. Din hissed and groaned as Dieter gripped his cock and rolled his foreskin up and over the tip with a gentle twist a few times, making the younger man shudder and whine and lean back against him.
You watched this severely intimate moment between the two men and you could feel your arousal slick your hole even more than it was. “Din…”, you mewled.
Dieter’s gaze snapped to you and he grinned, his brow flicking. “Hear that, buddy? She’s askin’ for you. You and your big, fuckin’ hog. Wants you to rail her. You think you can?”
“Y-yesgodpleaseyes!”, DIn grunted out, desperation and agony bleeding his words together.
Dieter nodded, a silent, huffed chuckle rippled out of him and over Din’s skin, and you watched the goosebumps raise where it touched. He stopped his movement and held his cock, thumbing the slit gently. “How you gonna take her, huh? You wanna fuck’er from behind, holdin’ on to her tits? She feels so good like th-”
“I… wanna see… her face.”, he stammered out slack jawed, keeping his dazed eyes on yours.
Wordlessly you took his hand and pulled him down to you, and he responded by kissing you. Given that it was only his second time locking lips with another person ever, you excused how wide he had his mouth and how forcefully his tongue jabbed your teeth.
You reached between the two of you and wrapped your hand around Din’s aching member and he whined pitifully into your mouth, bucking his hips. Dieter put his hands on his waist and dug his fingers in as he hotly growled into Din’s ear, “So fuckin’ ready, Dinny-boy!”
You notched Din’s cock at your waiting entrance and he sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth, with Dieter hushing him from behind.
It was then that you heard him - Gary was yelling for you, Dieter or Din as he walked down the ramp towards the ‘Staff Only’ door. Dieter’s head whipped up and at his open dressing room door then back at you, eyes wide with a hesitant grin pulling at one side of his mouth.
“You two… you keep going… I’ll - “, he stated softly, thumbs pointing at the door, and with that, he got up, threw on his robe.
It was almost too late when Dieter bounded towards the door and he ended up slamming it behind him just as Gary walked into the hallway.
“Bravo, I been callin’ for-” “We are meditating.”, Dieter replied, trying to keep his tone as ‘zen’ as possible as he put his palms together and bowed. “We are healing what is fractured.”
Gary stared at him for a beat before narrowing his eyes. “You’re what?” “Meditating. And you are bringing in some real bad energy, there, Gare-bear.”
“What the fuck did you just call me?”, Gary barked back, confusion and nervousness right under the surface.
Dieter smiled, keeping his voice smooth and calm. “Your negative vibes are giving you what we call ‘energy constipation’... so come in, sit on the floor with us and hum your body’s vibration to give yourself a spiritual laxative.”
Gary must have thought that he died and this was his own personal hell. He stared at Dieter for a second too long, trying to find anything to say, but only managed a hoarsely gruff “No.” before he turned and left the hallway.
Dieter watched him leave and when the ‘Staff only’ door closed, he breathed out a sigh of relief and returned to the room.
Din had his eyes clenched shut, hissing curses under his breath as you hushed him. Dieter couldn’t ignore the want apparent in your voice.
“He in yet?”, he asks softly, crawling in behind Din again. He noted you giving him a nodding shrug and he nodded back. “Buddy, come on…”
Dieter gripped Din’s hips and pushed them forward gently enough for his cock to wedge its way into you. You gasped and gripped Din’s shoulders.
“Ohgodohgodohgodohgodohgod!”, Din whined out as his cock moved into you. He tilted his head back, his adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed.
Din was thick and you were torn between feeling honored that you were the first to feel his girth stretch your pussy and what a shame it was that he wasn’t getting his hog sucked or fucked regularily. As his coarse hairs at the base of his pressed up against your clit, your mind went blank. Sure, you’d had dicks of all sizes throughout your trysts and encounters, but Din was the biggest. Even Dieter, with his extensive experience, couldn’t compare to how big Din was and what it was doing for you… apparently, size did matter.
“Jesus fuckin - Din… honey… you’re huge…”
Dieter’s hands on his hips pulled Din back and then pushed him forward. “Keep this pace…”, he murmured, peering over Din’s shoulder. “Look… look down… Jesus, look…”
Din managed to bring his head down and it was almost too much, seeing your tits rise and fall with each breath while his cock went into you and came out, shining with your arousal.
“There’s nothing better, Dinny-boy…”, Dieter cooed before kissing his neck. You watched between slitted eyelids as one of his hands came up to Din’s chest, gently tweaking one of his nipples.
It happened in slow motion: Din’s body jerked and he let out an agonized groan, your eyes widened and you grabbed his arms, and Dieter’s smile dropped and he pulled Din’s hips back.
Din’s cock was already spewing white, pearly cum as it popped up and out of you. His come dribbled out of your pussy and off your mound, lips and the creases where your thighs met your crux, pooling under you. All three of you were breathing heavily, while Din’s brows furrowed above his clenched eyes and you and Dieter exchanged glances.
The quiet of all of your breathing was cut by Dieter scoffing, “Well that was fuckin’ rude.”
You stared at him, completely disgusted by his audacity and snapped, “Bravo, what the fuck??”
Din murmured “I’m sorry.” and you sympathetically rubbed his arm.
“It’s okay… we ca-we can try again?”, you offered softly.
Dieter scoffed again, sounded offended, but you weren’t sure at what. “No! I saw what you did there, Din, and that was NOT the way! You’re cleanin’ up his fuckin’ mess like a gentleman!”
“Dieter - Jesus Christ!”
He roughly grabbed Din around the waist and pulled him back with one arm and his other wrapped under his armpit in a Half Nelson, his hand gripping his hair. His grin was scarily intimidating. “Party’s not over. You’re gonna make her cum, fingers and mouth.”
Din nodded, clearly spooked but fully on board for whatever, and Dieter shoved his face into your pussy and held it there.
If Din was shaky on his first time putting his dick in a pussy, he was a natural born killer with his mouth. He took to it like a fish to water, intuitively going for your clit with tongue then his mouth. You let out a sigh and smiled, feeling like you had to fight your eyes from crossing.
“Yeah…”, Dieter groaned, letting Din go and getting up. He pushed his weed rolling tray off the coffee table and shoved his pants to his ankles before sitting on the table and gripping his cock in his hands while he had a front row seat to Din eating you out.
Din had watched enough porn and read enough about how eating pussy was like using your tongue to get the meat from between the bones on a chicken wing that he felt confident enough about it, and your sighs and soft breathy sounds encouraged him to keep going.
He adjusted his face lower, shoving his tongue into you and ground his nose against your bundle of nerves, sending a wave of pleasure over your body. The only thing that could dampen this was -
“She taste good, buddy?”, Dieter grunted, tugging his cock. His face was red and sweaty and on every downstroke, his fist pushed into his belly.
“Shut the fuck up, Bravo!”, you hissed, arching your back slightly and grabbed your tits,worrying your nipples between your fingers.
Dieter grinned, grunting, “Tell me to shut up again… I wanna cum on your tits while he tongue fucks you.”
You were about to retort, but Din moved his mouth back up to your clit, and shoved a few fingers into you and began pumping them in and out. You pinched your nipples hard and cried out, screeching his name and Din moaned and whined as your arousal squirted up his arm and on his lower face.
Dieter stood up and took a step towards you but tripped over his pants still around his ankles, falling face first on the floor.
Din sat up, his shoulders rising and falling with the biggest grin on his wet face. “You’re so pretty…”
You thought it was such an oddly innocent thing to say to you, given the things that just transpired, but you smiled at him. You both couldn’t hold back the giggles and Din caged you between his elbows as he leaned down and kissed you.
As you made out on the couch, Dieter groaned face down on the floor. “I think I broke my dick.”
That night’s show went down as one of the best Din had ever given, while Dieter went to the hospital for a broken wrist and potentially bruised phallus. You were sure Gary knew exactly what had happened in the dressing room, but he said nothing beyond a quick nod and a maybe half smile.
The doors opened and you looked at the rows of friends and family in rows on either side of the room, then your eyes locked with Din as he stood at the other end of the aisle, next to Dieter. His mouth twitched, showing the emotion he was trying to keep at bay, as you walked towards him. When you finally stood in front of him, he took your hand, and you both faced Dieter.
“Dearly beloved.”, Dieter started with a smile. “You are gathered here to watch me marry these two chucklefucks because I’m the one who brought them together.”
Gary huffed angrily from the front row. “Jesus Christ, Bravo.”
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𝐍𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐥: One Shot
𐙚 Marcus acacius x fem!reader/emperor geta x fem!reader 𐙚 18+
Summary: You are the Empress of Rome in a mundane marriage to Emperor Geta. After a military banquet, you find yourself in the bedroom of his subordinate, Marcus Acacius.
Warnings/Contains: fem reader, smut, teasing, pinning, [slight] dirty talk, unprotected sex, cheating, deny orgm, not proof read,
Word Count: 2.5k
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“I did not think you would remember my name.” Acacius remarked.
“With all you do for this great country…how could I, *Marcus* Acacius?” You smiled in the shade as two servants fanned your tanned skin.
He chuckled with a sly grin while holding the ball in both his hands, tossing it back and forth. “Why did you say that so condescendingly? I would love to hear something genuine coming out of your mouth. After all, you’re the empress.” He laughed before clearing his throat.
“So, I should kiss your ass?”
“In no way, Miss.”
“How about this…” You touch your chin, your [e/c] eyes falling on his chest and strong biceps. “Thank you, Marcus.” You said, touching your thigh. You smiled at his cheeks as they flushed pink.
“I apologize, Miss, in case I disrespected you.”
“It’s water under the bridge, isn’t that right?” He listened to the laughed in your voice as you stood nearly against him now. He inhaled the vanilla and Lily scent off your body. He craved to pull you into his embrace and just taste, a simple taste of your neck. To press his lips on your warm honey skin and suck on your nipples, squeeze and touch you until you could no longer take it
“Your dessert, Miss [].” A server offered you a sweet dessert on a silver platter with a heavy silver spoon. There was a period of silence as the two took in their surroundings and the people who filled that space.
“Lady [y/n], are you and your better half still coming to the Banquet? I know the emperor has not made many appearances.”
You licked a swirl of cream from the spoon. Marcus grew flustered— not that you cared to notice but your eyes fell to his hands. “We will be there.” The sound of her finger leaving her mouth and cream filling on her tongue made his loins ache. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Marcus stayed still. That same small smirk. That same tilt of his head that made his hair shift. That same look of desire and determination to grab and take that seductive woman into his arms, into his rough hands. “Well. I should be going. Enjoy the rest of your day off...” Marcus smiled as he looked away from you.
**That night.**
After a dance, you found yourself on the main balcony. You caught your breath, feeling the cool breeze on your bosom and as it flowed in your dress. “Feeling alright?” Marcus’s melancholy and calm voice touched her ears.
Without turning around to him, you responded. “Yes.” Her tone was that of a question (nearly).
He smiled, moving to your side. “Wine?”
You took the offered glass and smiled, “Thank you, Mister Acacius.”
“Of course, Miss.” You sipped from your glass as the two of you stood together. He threw back the last of the wine in his glass before moving closer. “You seem introverted tonight. What are your days like?”
“Hm? Well, you know, I sit around…and wait for my husband to come to me.” Your body leaned against a pillar, facing him on the balcony as wind whipped your hair around. “Everyday.” You sighed softly; a sad, drunken moan left your lips.
“That doesn’t sound too fun.” He moved closer, his dark hair softly turned and flipped in the night spring breeze. Your looked at his arms, his chest in his white garments. He is a big man, much different from Geta. “Geta does not let you out much?”
“I’m not a dog…but yes, it’s rather hard to convince him to do anything but what he wants.”
“Even with a body like yours?” You said nothing to that, smirking as your eyes settled inside each other. His expression was hard and serious, “I did not mean to offend you. I just cannot believe there’s a man out there that wouldn’t follow your every word.” You touched your own waist and hips, tracing the design on your dress. “Are you happy with…?”
“My husband?”
“Your predicament.”
“…no. How’s things for you and yours?” He smiled softly before breaking into a deep yet empty laughter, “I take it, *Lady* Acacius has a love for the more…” You walked past him and to the other pillar to your left, draping against it as you sipped from the glass, the straps of your dress slipping down your soft shoulders. “Mundane…rather, ‘Vanilla’ things of life. One lover, one child, one home, one position, one bed, same sheets, same plates, same clothes. Isn’t that exhausting?” Your gaze fell onto his slightly pink lips and strong nose.
Your pupils stayed on his lips when they moved, “I don’t think we are close enough for me to tell you the truth.” Your glass was placed on the balcony table.
You took his hands, his rough calluses into your soft ones. He stood close but still, you brought him against your body until you were stuck between him and the pillar. “Is this close enough?”
“Yes.” His warm breath on your ear as his right hand caressed your neck; you look up at him. “You’re drunk.”
“*We’re* tipsy.”
“Doesn’t make it any better.” His deep voice made your thighs spread involuntarily. His palm wondered down the breasts of your dress. Nervous and feeling rather out of himself, Marcus let out shaking breaths. “Let’s go inside.” You looked away from him, letting the wind whip your hair about her face again. He moved hair from your full lips and cheeks. “I can’t stand it when you don’t look at me.” You smiled, turning your gaze back to him. When his hands fell on the hips of your dress, you let out a soft breath. Marcus leaned deeper onto you, enveloping you with his body.
“You are an attention hungry man.” Your fingertips rubbed his pants, gently stroking.
“I only want your attention.”
You thought back to the many times he’d laugh louder at your jokes than others. When he’d move his seat till he was directly across from you at dinner parties. “Poor thing.” You caressed his cheek as his eyes shut. He exhaled on the top of your head, enjoying your touch, and the feel of your curves pressed on him. His hips pushed onto you; his garments felt tight, tighter than ever. His cock needed to breathe. You smiled, turning around so your cheek touched the pillar, and ass pressed on his clothes. As if bucking against you, he held you still, guiding your ass along his boner.
“…damn.” You raised your dress over the curve of your ass. “H- holy shit.” He stared at your bare thighs and ass; such made him groan with pleasure. You felt his warm breath as he pants over your shoulder; he continues working his hips against your ass.
The door to the balcony swung open and the two tore from each other. Marcus stood against the railing, gripping it tightly as he tried to relax his lustful gaze and stiff erection. He gulped, praying his cock wouldn’t bust the seams of his pants as he looked away from anything around him. You fixed your hair, and straightened out your dress before turning to the open door. Geta, drunk and groaning, held onto the door handle for support.
“My, my! Geta.” You helped your husband stand.
“What’s…uh…what…” Geta mumbled, looking at your glossy eyes as he held your cheeks. “What’s goin on? You two…are talking about me, huh?”
“You’re paranoid.”
“It’s my job to be…” He smiled, covering your face with his hot, wine-stained breath. Your lipstick smeared on his face as you messily kissed. Marcus exhaled although shaking, attempting to ignore the erotic sounds that sounded as if it came from a *speaker* behind him. He groaned with no control, letting out a sigh. “Who….right, Marcus. Marcus…Marcus, C’mere. Look at…me.” Marcus cleared his throat, turning to the man. “You look red…”
“You look drunk.” He muttered, watching as the man leaned on his tipsy wife. For a moment, there was silence, then the three laughed.
“Fucker. Haha! I swear…he’d kill me if…I weren’t his emperor.” Geta’s words slurred, and he sighed many times as he spoke.
“Who says I haven’t tried?” Marcus muttered before helping you carrying him.
“You’re funny.” Geta coughed and groaned before trying to fix his posture.
“There are rooms here for guests. Our room is…down the hall.”
“Allow me. I don’t want you to mess up your dress.” You observed Marcus as he sneered, putting Geta in his shoulder. Geta continued to dip out of consciousness, trying to watch his wife’s gaze but it stayed on Marcus.
Later that night, Marcus sat up in bed, glaring at the wall ahead. His wife stayed to her side of the bed, snoring quietly. With his chest rising calmly, he thought of the empress in her dancing dress, leaning forward as she sat at the dinner table. He was beside her at the time with Geta to her left. Although she held her husband’s arm, she leaned to Marcus. Her bosom against his body. Her body was warm, he recalled. Before any time at all, his erection stood beneath the covers. He shut his eyes and mumbled to himself, “Fuck.” As they sat beside each other at the time, he wanted to cup her chest, to rub her ass, maybe even slip his fingers inside of her—
Marcus opened his eyes, not surprised to find his fist around his cock, gently holding himself. With a quick glance to his right, he looked at his wife. His chest heaved as his imagination ran wild about the other woman, about you. He wanted to tie you down to his headboard and make love to you until your body was spent and twitching. Marcus stood, running his fingers through his dark hair before going to the bathroom. He snatched his wife’s lavender body moisturizer from the counter and dipped his hand inside before rubbing it along his shaft with a roughness of a sexually frustrated man. He hadn’t had sex in weeks, not with his wife, a woman who prefers planned sexual activity. On his own, he’s made himself cum more times than her lips have since they’ve met.
He slipped on a robe, and called over a guard, “Send word to the emperor’s suite.” He offered the man a paper. The guard quickly knocked upon the door. You opened the bedroom door. “Marcus?” You read the note. *Come to my room.*
Marcus’s chest heaved and his breath were huffs heavy with lust as he quietly masturbated inside of the bathroom. The man leaned over the counter, and resisted his orgasm. He imagined your perfume scent in his nose beneath him as he huffed, making his hips throb.
His bedroom door was the only one with one flame burning outside, your curiosity grew as the door opened slightly. In the yellow lighting, your pretty body and round face met his gaze. He invited you inside and shut the door. At the nearest wall, he pressed you softly against it, gripping your sheer robe. “Take it off.” You nodded, untying the cloth. He stayed pressed up against your body, breathing deeply… “Fucking hell, you look amazing.”
You looked up at him with glossy [e/c] eyes, hoping and praying he’d make that first move. *No*. You thought. “I- I shouldn’t. Geta. He’s not the best man when he’s angry. Especially over me.”
“Fuck.” He held your throat and brought you closer. His tongue explored your mouth as you softly moaned—you couldn’t help it. His hands rubbing your thighs. He couldn't believe this was happening to him. The slight moans mixed with his words gave away a hint of his excitement. Your leg went to his hip and once again, you felt his erection; this time pressing on your soaked slit.
Marcus let out a soft groan as you scratched around his neck, your actions were getting to him... really getting to him. Your breathing was matching his, your hands were as hungry as his to feel and touch.
He controlled your body, pinning you up on the love seat. “Shhh,” He smiled before he noticed a certain reluctance towards him, “Don’t look away from me. Let me have you.” You agreed, letting your eyes shut. He gently slipped inside of your tight pussy, filling you until those pretty eyes fell back and shut closed.
Marcus's body heated up as your lips moved against his cheek, your tongue tracing the contours of it. He lets out another soft moan as you start to move against him now, grinding your hips deeply against his. Your movement was causing his body to shiver, it seemed as though his hands started trembling now too. “Oh, Marcus,” The sound of your whimpering only excited and riled him up more and more. “You are more of a man than he will ever be.” He gently pushed his hips against yours, making you squeal and scratch his back with your nails. Your words of him being a man had him breathing a bit more heavily. His fingers gently slid up your neck, down to your nipple, gently teasing and rubbing it until your body writhes under his. Moans left your lips, making it hard for you to stay quiet.
The movement and noise they made shook the love seat and the bed his wife lay asleep on, shake. “A- ah~ My empress~” Marcus groaned into your ear, pushing his hips faster with these quick strokes. Your eyes water and spill tears as his thick cock stretched your cunt.
“Hmm-“ His lips met yours, messily smearing your lipstick. “F- fuck, Marcus. Fuck me.” He held you still under him, quickly pounding his hips against yours until you could only tremble, staring in his eyes. “You’re too loud~” You whispered, listening to the squelch of your own wetness and the creak of the furniture.
A few loud knocks on the door echoed in the room, followed by another set of loud bangs. Marcus’s heart pounded as he turned around. “…shit!” His wife slowly rose from bed, wiping her eyes.
“[Y/n]! [Y/n]? Are you in there?!” Marcus pushed you under the bed and put on a robe. He looked at his wife and smiled.
“Go back to bed, honey.” The woman groaned, laying back on the pillows. When Marcus answered the door, he tossed his hair, “Hello?”
“Is [Y/n] in there?” Geta asked roughly, rather hungover. “My wife.”
“Eh, I haven’t seen her all night.” He smiled, leaning on the door. “Would-“
“No.” Geta interrupted gruffly.
End <3 (Thinking of doing a part 2!!) Sorry for any spelling/ grammar mistakes!
More on my Master list!
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#pedro pascal x reader#gladiator 2#pedro pascal#marcus acacius x reader#joel miller x reader#pedro pascal smut#marcus acacius#marcus acacius x you#marcus acacius x female reader#Marcus acacius x f!reader#gladiator 2 fic#gladiator ii#gladiator 2 fanfiction#gladiator 2 fanfic#emperor geta x reader#emperor geta smut#marcus acacius smut#gladiator ll#emperor geta fanfiction#gladiator emperor geta x reader#gladiator x reader#joseph quinn x reader#joseph quinn x you#joseph quinn x y/n
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A Family Beyond War
Pairing: Marcus Acacius x female reader Word Count: 2616
The sun burned high in the sky over Rome, its rays reflecting off the golden armor of General Marcus Acacius as he stood on the training field. His two sons, Cassius and Tiberius, mirrored his stance, their youthful faces determined as they wielded wooden practice swords. Marcus’ wife, Y/N, watched from a shaded pergola nearby, her youngest daughter, Aurelia, seated beside her with a scroll of poetry in her lap. The warm air was filled with the clanging of swords and the occasional barked correction from Marcus.
Cassius, the eldest at 18, struck forward with precision, his blade aiming for Tiberius’ midsection. Tiberius, 17, blocked, his movements slightly more hesitant but determined nonetheless. Marcus stepped forward, his commanding presence evident as he corrected Tiberius’ stance.
“Keep your guard high, Tiberius,” Marcus instructed. “A single mistake in the field could cost you your life.”
“Yes, Father,” Tiberius replied, adjusting his posture under his father’s watchful gaze.
Aurelia looked up from her scroll, her brow furrowed. “Must they always fight? There is more to life than swords and shields.”
Y/N chuckled softly, brushing a strand of Aurelia’s dark hair back. “Your brothers wish to follow in your father’s footsteps. It is their way of honoring him.”
“But I do not wish to honor bloodshed,” Aurelia replied, her voice tinged with disapproval. “What glory is there in taking a life?”
Before Y/N could respond, Marcus’ voice rang out. “Enough for today! Cassius, Tiberius, well done. Your skill improves daily.”
The boys beamed under their father’s praise, their faces flushed from exertion. As they approached, Marcus’ eyes softened as they fell upon Y/N and Aurelia. “And how are my ladies?” he asked, his tone gentle.
“Aurelia was just lamenting the barbarity of your craft,” Y/N teased, a playful smile on her lips.
Marcus knelt beside Aurelia, his hand resting on her shoulder. “You disapprove of our training, little one?”
Aurelia hesitated, then nodded. “It is violent and cruel. Surely there is a better way to resolve conflict.”
Marcus’ expression grew thoughtful. “Perhaps you are right, Aurelia. But until the world embraces peace, men like your brothers and I must be prepared to defend our home and our family.”
Aurelia sighed, her gaze falling to her scroll. “I wish the world could see the beauty in words instead of war.”
Later that evening, the family dressed in their finest attire and made their way to the Colosseum. The massive structure loomed ahead, its arches and columns illuminated by the setting sun. The roar of the crowd grew louder as they entered, the scent of sweat and anticipation thick in the air.
Y/N took her seat beside Marcus in the reserved section, their children flanking them. Aurelia sat stiffly, her discomfort evident as the first fight began. She flinched at the clash of swords and the cheers of the crowd as a gladiator fell to his knees.
“Barbaric,” Aurelia muttered under her breath.
Marcus glanced at her, his brow furrowing. “Aurelia, come with me.”
Surprised, she followed her father out of the stands and into the quieter corridors of the Colosseum. Marcus stopped in a shaded alcove, turning to face her. “Speak your mind, daughter.”
Aurelia took a deep breath, her hands trembling slightly. “I hate it, Father. The blood, the violence, the cheers for death. It’s monstrous. How can you support this?”
Marcus’ jaw tightened, and for a moment, he said nothing. Then, he knelt to her level, his eyes filled with a rare vulnerability. “I do not enjoy it, Aurelia. But it is a part of the world we live in. The Colosseum is not just a place of death; it is a reminder of Rome’s power, of the discipline and strength that built our empire.”
Aurelia’s eyes welled with tears. “Must strength always come at such a cost?”
“No,” Marcus admitted. “Strength can also be found in compassion, in wisdom, in the courage to speak against what you believe is wrong. You have that strength, Aurelia. Do not let the ugliness of this world dim your light.”
She threw her arms around his neck, her voice muffled against his shoulder. “I love you, Father. I just wish things could be different.”
Marcus held her tightly, his heart heavy with the weight of her words. “So do I, my little poet. So do I.”
The weeks that followed saw a shift in the family dynamics. Marcus encouraged Aurelia’s passion for poetry, often asking her to recite verses during family meals. Cassius and Tiberius, inspired by their sister’s bravery in confronting their father, began to view their training with a new perspective, seeking to emulate not just their father’s strength but also his wisdom and compassion.
One evening, as the family sat together in their garden, Aurelia stood and cleared her throat. “I have written something,” she announced, her cheeks pink with nervousness.
Marcus gestured for her to continue, pride evident in his eyes. “Let us hear it, Aurelia.”
She unfolded a parchment and began to read, her voice steady and filled with emotion. Her words painted a picture of a world where swords were beaten into plowshares, where the cries of battle were replaced by songs of peace. As she finished, the family sat in awed silence.
“Beautiful,” Y/N whispered, wiping a tear from her cheek.
Marcus rose and embraced his daughter. “You have a gift, Aurelia. Never stop sharing it.”
In that moment, the general and his poet found common ground, their love for each other bridging the divide between war and peace.
As the seasons passed, Aurelia’s poetry began to gain attention beyond their household. Word of her talent spread, and soon she was invited to recite her work at gatherings and festivals. Marcus and Y/N attended every event, their pride in their daughter evident to all who saw them.
One day, Aurelia returned home with a scroll in hand, her eyes alight with excitement. “Father, Mother, I have been invited to present my work at the Forum!”
Marcus smiled, his heart swelling with pride. “The Forum is a place of great importance. You will be speaking to some of Rome’s most influential minds. Are you ready for such an audience?”
Aurelia nodded confidently. “I am ready. My words will speak of peace and understanding. Perhaps they will inspire change.”
On the day of the event, the family arrived at the Forum, where a large crowd had gathered. Aurelia stood on the raised platform, her presence commanding despite her young age. She began to speak, her voice clear and passionate. Her words wove a tapestry of hope, challenging the audience to envision a Rome where wisdom and compassion reigned supreme.
As she concluded, the crowd erupted into applause. Marcus watched with a mixture of pride and awe as his daughter descended the platform and was surrounded by admirers. He saw in her the potential to shape a better future, one that transcended the violence and bloodshed that had defined his own life.
That evening, as the family gathered in their garden once more, Marcus raised a cup in a toast. “To Aurelia, whose words have the power to change the world. May her light guide us all.”
The family joined in the toast, their bond stronger than ever. In that moment, they were not just a family of warriors and poets but a beacon of hope for a better Rome.
As Aurelia’s influence grew, she began to attract the attention of Rome’s elite. Senators and scholars sought her counsel, and even the emperor himself invited her to speak at the palace. Marcus, though wary of the political implications, supported his daughter’s endeavors, knowing that her voice was a force for good.
Cassius and Tiberius, inspired by their sister’s courage, began to explore their own paths beyond the training field. Cassius developed an interest in engineering, designing structures that could benefit Rome’s citizens. Tiberius, meanwhile, turned his focus to diplomacy, using his father’s teachings to mediate disputes and foster alliances.
One evening, as the family dined together, Tiberius spoke up. “Father, I have been invited to accompany a delegation to Gaul. They believe my skills as a mediator could be of use.”
Marcus regarded his son with a mixture of pride and concern. “Gaul is a land of uncertainty. Are you prepared for the challenges you may face?”
Tiberius nodded. “I am, Father. You have taught me well.”
Marcus placed a hand on his son’s shoulder. “Then go with my blessing. Make me proud.”
As the family’s influence continued to grow, they became a symbol of hope and unity in a fractured empire. Marcus, once known solely as a warrior, found his legacy evolving through the achievements of his children. Together, they forged a new path for Rome, one that balanced strength with compassion, and tradition with progress.
And through it all, Aurelia’s words remained a guiding light, reminding them of the power of hope, love, and understanding in a world often overshadowed by darkness.
As Aurelia’s influence spread, the delicate balance between her poetic pursuits and her family’s military legacy continued to shift. Her poetry, infused with visions of peace and a world beyond war, struck a chord with many in the elite circles of Rome. It wasn't long before high-ranking senators, philosophers, and even foreign dignitaries sought her counsel. Her words, once confined to the walls of their home, were now finding an audience in the halls of power.
Marcus, despite his initial hesitation, couldn't help but feel immense pride in his daughter’s growing stature. He had long been known as the great general, a man of iron and blood, his legacy tied to the battles he fought and the empire he helped to build. But as Aurelia’s influence grew, he realized that his legacy was evolving, shifting into something more than just strength and conquest.
Cassius and Tiberius, too, found their paths diverging from the training fields and the weight of their father’s expectations. Cassius, with his keen mind and inventive spirit, took an interest in engineering. Inspired by the growing need for infrastructure in Rome, he set about designing new aqueducts to carry water to the farthest reaches of the city, improving life for the common people.
Tiberius, always more thoughtful and diplomatic than his brothers, began to consider a future in statecraft. His natural ability to mediate disputes, honed in the small lessons his father had given him over the years, became a vital tool as he began traveling with the diplomatic corps. He was frequently tasked with negotiating with foreign dignitaries, ensuring that Rome’s alliances remained strong, even as the empire stretched its borders farther than ever before.
One day, while Marcus and Y/N enjoyed a quiet evening together, their conversation turned to their children’s futures. Y/N, ever the pragmatic one, voiced her concerns.
“Do you ever wonder, Marcus,” she began, her eyes filled with a mixture of hope and worry, “how our children will fare in the world? Our sons, particularly, are stepping into roles that will shape Rome’s future. I fear the weight of their legacy may be too much for them to bear.”
Marcus, who had always been a man of action rather than reflection, looked at his wife with a rare softness in his eyes. “I fear the same,” he admitted, his voice low. “But they are their own men now. I can only guide them, not live their lives for them.”
Y/N smiled, her hand finding his across the table. “And Aurelia? She is unlike any of us, and yet she is perhaps the most important of all.”
Marcus chuckled softly. “She has a power in her words that no sword can match. I believe she will do more for Rome than any general ever could.”
Weeks passed, and Aurelia’s name became a familiar one in the highest circles of Roman society. One evening, after a particularly well-received performance at the Senate House, Aurelia returned to the family home to find her brothers waiting for her.
“Well, well,” Cassius said with a teasing grin. “The poet returns from conquering the hearts of the Senate.”
Aurelia rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide her smile. “They don’t know what to make of me, but they’re intrigued. It’s a step forward.”
Tiberius, his brow furrowed in thought, placed a hand on her shoulder. “You’ve done more than step forward, Aurelia. You’ve made them listen. Do you realize how many people are talking about you?”
“I don’t want them to talk about me,” Aurelia said, her voice soft but firm. “I want them to hear the message in my words.”
Cassius gave her an appraising look. “You’ve always been the brave one, haven’t you?”
“Bravery has nothing to do with it,” Aurelia replied, her eyes meeting his with quiet intensity. “It’s about doing what’s right, even when it’s difficult.”
Tiberius nodded. “I think you’re right. Maybe there’s something to your vision of a different Rome—a Rome that isn’t built on conquest, but on understanding and strength in other forms.”
Marcus, who had overheard the conversation from the doorway, stepped into the room with a proud smile. “And what would you know of that, Tiberius?” he asked, his voice warm yet teasing.
Tiberius met his father’s gaze with newfound confidence. “I know that Rome cannot grow only through the sword. There must be other ways—ways that preserve the essence of our strength while also allowing for compassion and diplomacy.”
Marcus nodded slowly, impressed by his son’s resolve. “You have learned much, Tiberius. Perhaps the time will come when your role in Rome will be as important as any general’s.”
Cassius chuckled. “Don’t get too comfortable, Father. We still need you in the field. No one can fill your boots just yet.”
Marcus laughed heartily, the sound filling the room with warmth. “Perhaps not, Cassius. But there may come a day when it is you who steps into them.”
One evening, when the family gathered for dinner, the conversation turned to an unexpected subject. A letter had arrived that morning from a foreign delegation in Gaul, requesting Tiberius’ presence for an important negotiation regarding Rome’s borders.
“Father,” Tiberius began, looking up from his plate, “I’ve been invited to represent Rome at the negotiations. It’s a significant step for me.”
Marcus studied his son for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Finally, he spoke. “It is a dangerous path, Tiberius. The politics of Gaul are volatile. But I trust you. If you believe you are ready, then go.”
Tiberius’ eyes shone with a mixture of pride and fear. “I will, Father. I will make you proud.”
Aurelia, always the most thoughtful of the family, placed a hand on his. “You don’t have to prove anything, Tiberius. Just do what you know is right.”
As the family shared a quiet moment of reflection, Aurelia felt the weight of the changes around her. Cassius, Tiberius, and even their father were finding their own paths—paths that had once seemed unimaginable in the shadow of their military heritage. They were forging a new Rome, one that blended the strength of warriors with the wisdom of poets, engineers, and diplomats.
In the days that followed, Tiberius prepared for his journey to Gaul, while Aurelia continued to write and speak of peace. Marcus, ever the watchful father, took pride in the direction his children were taking, knowing that the empire was in capable hands—hands that understood the power of strength and the importance of compassion.
And so, as the seasons changed and the world continued to turn, the Acacius family stood at the crossroads of tradition and progress. Together, they carried the legacy of Rome forward, not with swords and shields alone, but with wisdom, courage, and the power of words.
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your camera roll dating Pedro Pascal
#tumblr fyp#milli yaps#pedro pascal#pedrito#pedro pascal imagine#pedro pascal x reader#pedro pascal x you#pedro pascal fluff#pedro pascal smut#pedro pascal angst#Pedro pascal imagines#joel miller#javier peña#javi gutierrez#marcus acacius#gladiator 2#joel the last of us#the last of us hbo#the mandalorian#din djarin#pedroispunk#papi pascal
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BABYYYY. How did I not reblog this to thank you when you did it? I’m so sorry!!!
You are one of my biggest cheerleaders and the main reason why I kept going writing this! You assuaged my fears, encouraged me, and screamed with me about the snippets I shared. You always give such an in depth analysis and I am SO lucky to call you a friend.
Honestly, this one is dedicated to you. For all the amazing support and friendship you’ve given me. Love you so so soooo much ❤️🥹
Ocean's Gold - An Offering of Frith story
Pairing: Jack Daniels / Agent Whiskey x f!Reader Word Count: 6.4k Rating: Explicit - 18+ ADULTS ONLY, MDNI Frith Challenge god: Ægir
Summary: Jack Daniels, retired from the Statesmen, signs you on as the business partner for his new brewpub. Sparks fly, and you wonder if it could ever be more.
Tags/warnings: Tags/warnings: alcohol (beer) is a major part of the story, consumption of food & alcohol, a sprinkling of angst, fingering (f receiving), oral (f and m receiving), protected PIV, Jack is an absolute consent king & safe sex advocate, semi-public sex (1 scene), absolute tooth-rotting fluff (these two are SO CUTE). Reader has she/her pronouns and identifies as female, has a name (not including it yet to keep it a surprise!) and some backstory but otherwise there are no physical details included - it's you, darling! (psssst: 2 other P boys make a guest appearance!)
a/n: This is my (belated) entry for @perotovar's Offering of Frith Challenge. My P boy/Norse god combo was Jack Daniels & Ægir. This is actually my first time writing Jack! It was such a fun challenge, and although I was honestly initially scared that I bit off more than I could chew, I ended up loving what I've written. I hope you do too! (See the afterword for more details on Ægir and other nods to Norse mythology/traditions that I sprinkled in!) Thank you Erin for hosting this challenge, and @for-a-longlongtime for being my cheerleader, beta reader, and telling me over and over that I could do this! Moodboard by @perotovar, dividers by @saradika-graphics.
Just breathe, you got this.
You straighten out your outfit in the mirror in an attempt to quell your nerves. Dark jeans, espresso leather lace up boots, cropped well-worn Fleetwood Mac graphic tee, and your favorite blood red blazer. You swipe on a matching red lip, nod at yourself in the mirror, and leave your apartment to walk down to the brewery.
The 3 block-long walk gives you time to review what you learned about the business opportunity. Jack was a recently-retired government operative who inherited a large sum of money and wanted to use it to open a brewpub. A smart businessman already, he knew that in order for his brewpub to be successful - regardless of how good his beer was - he needed to have a damn good pub restaurant, too. Which is why you’re swinging open the brewpub’s doors on a mild fall evening, CV in hand: as it turns out, you were looking for your next culinary opportunity. After working in a number of prestigious kitchens, you itched for the opportunity to build something of your own, something homey that you could be proud of. This position is exactly the kind of project you hoped for.
You step into the building, the interior clearly unfinished, but with good structure to it - high vaulted ceilings, good natural lighting, and two levels. Three, if you count the brewery on the floor below you to the left, where you could see the tops of large brewing fermentation vessels.
“Hello?” you call out into the barebones building, looking around for signs of life.
“I’ll be there in a jiffy!” you hear from someone below you, presumably Jack. In a moment, you see him emerge from the staircase leading to the brewing area, and you feel your breath catch in your throat.
Holy hell, you didn’t know he was THIS hot.
Walking towards you was easily one of the most handsome men you’ve ever set eyes on. Tall, incredibly broad-shouldered, and golden-skinned, Jack sauntered up to you wearing a white t-shirt stretched across his chest, dark jeans, black Wellingtons, and a belt with - is that a whiskey flask buckle?
“Rán, I assume?” Jack broke into a wide smile, offering up his hand. You shook it firmly, reveling in the warmth of Jack’s hand and how it dwarfed yours. Keeping your eyes locked to Jack’s amber ones, you returned his smile and nodded.
“It’s so nice to meet you in person, Jack,” you said, taking another glance around the interior. “The place has good bones.”
“That is does,” Jack responds, looking around as well. “I have high hopes for this place. And you seemed like the perfect person to hook up with to get it done.”
Your eyes bug out for a moment before you can school your face, but the heat starts creeping up your neck anyway. I’m sure he didn’t mean it that way…
“Oh, hell,” Jack sputters, “That’s not what I meant! I… dagnabbit, I’m already blowing it…” He runs his hand through his dark brown waves, thoroughly embarrassed. “I meant to partner with. On this business venture.” Jack looked at you, face flushed, eyes pleading. You couldn’t help but let out the giggles coming from your chest.
“Hardly blown, but maybe we can have some of that beer you promised me and start over?” you suggest, tilting your head towards the brewery. Jack looked relieved and nodded in agreement.
“Follow me, darlin’, and I’ll take you to my mad scientist lab,” he says as he motions towards the staircase. Following his broad frame (good god, those shoulders are so wide) down the steps, you emerge in the brewery, the heart of the business. Gleaming stainless steel fermentation tanks tower above, the immaculate floor wet, looking recently sanitized. The smell of malted barley and herbaceous hops permeates the air, and the brewery area is compact yet efficient. Everything looks perfectly kempt, a testament to how much Jack cares about his beer. On a wall hook near the entrance hung a black leather jacket and a black Stetson cowboy hat. You notice a small farmhouse table set up nearby the office area with two glasses set atop.
He set this up just for us?
Your eyes meet Jack’s, your mouth a bit ajar, and he smirks, pulling out a chair for you like a real southern gentleman. “Think I wouldn’t pull out all the stops for my hopefully-soon-to-be business partner?” You sit, and he walks to the carbonation room to fetch his brew of choice. Returning with the deep brown glass growler, Jack raises it towards you in offering. You nod, pushing your glass closer and he pours the liquid within out. A pale golden beer flows into your glass, creamy foam gathering on the surface. He pours himself some, then sits down at the other end of the table.
“This is somethin’ I’ve been workin’ on for the grand openin’,” he explains, motioning to the beer. “It’s a farmhouse ale, what’s usually referred to as a saison. I’m callin’ it Ocean’s Gold. I want it to be the flagship brew. Please, try it and let me know what you think.” Your eyes flick to the glasses, and then with a small smile, you bring it up to your lips and drink. The beer is full-bodied, malty but light, with citrus and peppery notes dancing across your tongue. The finish is dry, resulting in a beer that’s incredibly drinkable and refreshing.
“Holy cow, Jack,” you breathe out, astounded at his skills. “That’s so delicious. You’re one hell of a brewmaster.”
Jack chuckles, grinning warmly. “Why thank you, sugar,” he croons, making the heat rise up the back of your neck again. Damn those Southern nicknames, you think to yourself, willing your nerves to calm. “Hopefully I’m as good of a brewer as you are a chef. I’ve been askin’ around, and word on the street is that you’re one of the best and hardest working chefs people have worked with.”
“Well, that’s high praise,” you reply, “but I’m glad to hear it. I pride myself on my work ethic and food is my first love, as it seems like brewing is for you. What sort of place do you want the brewpub to be?”
Jack contemplates his answer. You see his face get more serious, but nothing but passion shines from his eyes when they lift to yours. “First and foremost, aside from serving up the best beer this side of the Rockies, I want this place to be ingrained in the community.” You sip your beer as Jack continues. “This place has given me so much, and I want to give back. I want a place where everyone feels welcome, ya know? Whether they want to share a pint with a friend, get a bite to eat with loved ones, or meet new people who share their love of good food and beer, I want them to feel at home.”
A wistful look passes over Jack’s face, and he pauses to meet your eyes again. “Now, I don’t wanna overload you with too many details, but this part is pretty important to me, and I wanna make sure that whatever business partner I end up with is on the same page.” You nod, encouraging him to continue. “Now, when I was growing up, my family didn’t have the most to live on. A lot of times we went hungry, and it was only through the kindness of strangers that we got to eat then. I have this idea for a ‘pay it forward’ type meal program. Folks can come in, pay $5, $10 for a prepaid meal ticket. We’d put those paid vouchers up somewhere and if someone is hungry and doesn’t have the money to pay, they can take one of those vouchers and we’d give ‘em a hearty meal, free of charge.”
Jack takes a breath and closes his eyes for a moment, then looks back over at you. You can feel your heart ache for this man who clearly had to work hard to be where he’s at, now wanting to share his wealth with those less fortunate than him. You try to swallow the lump in your throat.
“Jack, that’s… incredible,” you finally get out. This degree of selflessness wasn’t common in business owners in the circles you existed in. “I’d be honored to help you make that dream a reality.”
“Is that you sayin’ you’ll saddle up with me, sugar?” Jack looks at you with hope in his eyes. Your heart leaps, and you try to calm it down as you nod affirmatively. This is a business deal, your brain warns your heart. It beats fast anyway.
“Well I’ll be damned,” Jack beams, excitement rippling off his body. “Can’t wait to build this place up together.”
You grab the growler and fill your and Jack’s glasses, raising yours to his. “Cheers to a fruitful new partnership.” Your smile reflects Jack’s, and you both drink up.
The next 9 months are a whirlwind of activity. After your official business documents were drawn up and signed, you and Jack worked night and day to get the brewpub ready for the following summer. You designed the interior, fitting the place with warm dark wood and brassy golden fixtures. Chic firepits dotted the outdoor patio in the back. You included subtle oceanic iconography wherever you could – the sea was a huge inspiration for the both of you. Jack worked tirelessly on a signature lineup of beer, as well as a couple of seasonal offerings to add variety. Meanwhile, you toiled in the kitchen, experimenting with flavor profiles and dishes until you’d perfected your menu. You laughed and joked as you worked together, getting to know each other’s backstories as well as each other’s preferred workstyles. You talked and dreamed, debated and sometimes argued - after all, both of you were stubborn - but always worked things out. You kept him on his toes, and he kept you grounded.
Oftentimes, you and Jack used each other as taste testers, knowing the both of you would give honest feedback. On one particular evening in the late winter, you were sitting at the half-finished bar, sipping on a trial seasonal amber ale that Jack fermented in whiskey barrels.
“I never asked you where you got your name from, darlin’,” Jack mused, taking a gulp of his beer afterwards. “It’s quite unusual.”
“Ahh yes,” you responded, a smirk turning up your lips. “That would be thanks to my literary professor grandmother. She specialized in studying mythology texts from around the globe. Rán is the Norse sea goddess of death.” You saw Jack’s eyebrows twitch upwards in surprise, and you chuckled a bit before continuing. “That sounds intense, but she is also seen as the caretaker of those who die at sea. She helps care for them until they are ready to move on to the next realm. My grandmother wanted me to be tough, suffer no fools, but to also be kind and care for those that need it.”
Jack huffs in amusement. “Sounds just like you. She did a good job with that name.”
You smile, swirling your glass in thought. You look up at him, but his warm chocolate eyes are already on you, a flicker of something in them that makes your heart skip a beat.
“Jack?” you start. “There’s something I wanted to ask you about the ‘giving back’ part of the business.” You take a deep breath, your true passion project in your mind. “A long time ago, when I was much younger and just starting my culinary journey, I worked at an assisted living home, specifically for those with Alzheimer’s disease. It paid terribly, but I got a lot of experience in preparing food in a foodservice setting. It also deeply affected me. You don’t realize how important food is to people. Sometimes family members would ask if we could put something special on the menu, a dish their loved one used to make or loved to eat, to see if they would remember. We wouldn’t make any promises, but I’d always remember which request was from which family. When we were able to accommodate those requests, I’d see these people whose minds… for lack of a better term, seemed to be proverbially lost at sea… but they took one bite of their favorite food, and their whole face lit up. Sometimes it was simply enjoying the food, but other times it would trigger fond memories.”
Your eyes began to water, and Jack reached across the table and grabbed your hand, gently stroking his thumb across the top. You swallowed, continuing. “I hated that I had to leave that place, but my career wouldn’t go anywhere if I didn’t, and the money wasn’t nearly enough to pay the bills. I always thought, if I was in a place where I could give back, I would love to donate my time and supplies to cook for people like that again.” You look into Jack’s eyes, a swirl of emotions in yours. “Do you think… we could maybe do that with the brewpub? Take a day off every month or so to cook for an Alzheimer’s assisted living home?”
Jack squeezed your hand. “Of course, sugar. It means a lot to you, and it’s helpin’ the community. I couldn’t think of a more worthy cause.”
A tear slipped down your face as you smiled and mouthed “thank you” at him. But your breath caught in your throat when Jack reached up to tenderly wipe away the tear from your cheek. You stare at each other, a charge running through the air.
Kiss him, your heart whispers.
But instead, you clear your throat, squeeze his hand and throw on a grin. “I’d love some more of that ale if you got any more.”
Jack smiles softly. “For you? No charge.” You both giggle as he goes to grab another pint for you.
He’s just a business partner, your brain reminds you. But he’s become more than that, you realize.
A friend. A partner in dreams.
Maybe more, says your heart.
A few months later, the brewpub is bustling.
With the support of some of your industry friends - and your and Jack’s hard work - The Gilded Wave opens with a bang. Business is booming; the restaurant is constantly busy, and Jack is so swamped with the microbrewery that he had to hire two additional assistant brewmasters to keep up with demand. You are speaking to your front-of-house manager when two very familiar faces burst through the front door.
Your face lights up. “Pero! Ez! What are you guys doing here?” you exclaim as they wrap you up in a bear hug. You squeal as they lift you into the air with ease.
“We heard through the ever-whisperin’ grapevine that our sweet Birdie built her very own nest and we just had to come see for ourselves,” Ezra drawls, his characteristically charismatic smirk alighting his face while he takes in the brewpub. “What a perfectly festooned establishment you got here! I sure do hope the fine provisions match the opulence of the aesthetics!”
You shake your head, giggling at Ezra’s always-fanciful dialogue, as Pero rolls his eyes at his companion. “It’s lovely to see you, hermosa,” he rumbles, kissing your cheek.
“I missed you both so much! Wanna sit at the bar and I can set you two up with some beer & food?” you offer.
“That would be fabulous, Birdie!” Ezra exclaims, clapping his hands together. “I am in need of libations like an earthworm in the midday sun.” The two men plunk themselves down at the bar, and you turn to your bartender.
“Eddie, do you mind sending in an order of garlic fries and crispy artichoke hearts for these two gentlemen?” Eddie nods and starts punching in the order in the system. Out of the corner of your eye, you spot Jack coming up from the brewery stairs, wiping his brow after checking on the brewing. “Jack! Come meet some friends.”
Jack grins, loping up the rest of the stairs. He swaggers up to the bar, looking at you expectantly.
“Jack, this is Ezra and Pero. We worked together in a bunch of restaurants over the last few years.” Jack smiles widely, shaking the hand of each man and exchanging greetings.
“Guys,” you say, “this is my business partner Jack. He’s the brilliant brewmaster keeping this place busy.”
“Aww, shucks, sugar,” Jack guffaws, “this place ain’t what it is without your excellent food. Only so long a man can survive on beer before he needs to eat. And what an incredible menu it is!”
You feel your cheeks heat with the compliment. “Jeez, don’t make me soft in front of these two. I’ll never hear the end of it!” You punch Jack in the shoulder playfully, and your friends snort.
“Rán? Soft? No way, only if she really likes you,” Pero gruffs with a laugh. “She used to make grown men cry when they’d try to start shit with her.”
You turned to Jack with a smirk. “I told you I suffer no fools.”
Jack puts his hands in the air playfully in mock surrender. “Remind me never to get on your bad side.” He turns to Pero and Ezra. “Would you two like to act as my beer guinea pigs for a moment? I have a new winter ale that I’m looking to perfect before the season hits us.” Your friends nod in agreement and thanks, and Jack turns to the bar, pouring from an unmarked tap that he keeps just for his trial brews. He slides the taster glasses to Ezra and Pero, and your friends sip in contemplation.
Ezra immediately starts speaking, as per usual. “Why, Jack, that is one of the finest ales I’ve ever had in my many turns around this here planet! The spice notes, they’re so unique! Is that coriander and ginger I’m picking up?” He sips again before Jack can speak. “Maybe some citrus?”
“Mighty fine palette you have there,” Jack responds. “It’s a white ale I’ve spiked with coriander, ginger, and orange peel. Gives that warm holiday feeling.”
Pero nods, eyebrows raised. “Now that, amigo, is a good beer.” He raises his taster in salute, then downs the rest.
You giggle and slap his hand. “Tovar! You’re supposed to savor it!” Pero only shrugs.
“It’s quite alright,” Jack chuckles. “They can each have a full pint with all the compliments they’ve lathered me up with.” You roll your eyes at your friends, and rub Jack’s shoulder in a “thank you” gesture. Pero clocks the move, and raises his eyebrows in question. You silently beg him to not ask anything.
Jack places two pints of the white ale in front of the men. “Well, fellas, thanks for coming in. I have to go back down to the beer lab now that I know this winter recipe is locked in. It’s been great meeting the two of you, and I hope to see y’all around again!”
Pero and Ezra bade farewell to Jack, who disappeared back down the stairs just as the fries and artichokes arrived to the two of them. Both men dug in, nearly moaning in pleasure at the food.
“Birdie, this is incredible,” Ezra exclaims, dunking a fried artichoke into the aioli. Pero nods in agreement.
“Thanks, guys,” you coo, pleased that two of your longest friends approved of your menu. The three of you are silent for a moment, a rare occurrence when around Ezra.
“So what’s with you and Jack?” Pero asks bluntly. You nearly choke on the garlic fry you swiped from the basket. Ezra giggles into the artichokes.
“Nothing is going on,” you stammer, coughing slightly. “He’s my business partner.”
“Hermosa, I know you well, and you’ve never rubbed my shoulder like that,” Pero levels.
“I will say,” adds Ezra, “I could detect a certain… aura around you when Jack came upstairs. I have also never experienced that around you.”
“Guys, we are business partners,” you assert. “We just got close ‘cause of how intertwined our work is.”
“Yeah, I’m sure there was some intertwining happening…” Pero mutters, and you slap him upside the head. Ezra titters uncontrollably.
“Alright, Birdie,” Ezra relents, “we’ll leave you alone about handsome Mr. Jack for now. But his winter ale did alight some thoughts in my head about a certain gathering…”
You groan. “Ez… we just opened up not that long ago. I can’t in good conscience ask Jack to let our ragtag group of friends take over the brewpub for our yearly winter debauchery.”
“But what if we profusely pledge to be on our most upstanding deportment?” Ezra begs, batting his eyelashes comically while putting on his best puppy face.
Pero snorts. “Fat chance at that. But I do like the idea.” He turns to you, raising an eyebrow.
You stare at them for a few moments more, and then your resolve crumbles. “Alright, you two hooligans, I’ll ask. But NO promises, okay?” Ezra cheers and wraps you in a tight hug, while Pero gruffs in agreement and stuffs a handful of fries in his mouth.
Surprisingly (or not so surprisingly, as he is so sweet and accommodating), Jack is enthusiastic about hosting your friend group’s annual winter party, saying how excited he was to meet your friends. You and Ezra planned for weeks, and Pero came through to help you and Jack decorate the place. The warm wood is hung with pine and holly garlands, twinkling string lights criss-cross along the walls and ceilings, and pine cones are tucked into various corners of the space. A yule tree sparkled in an alcove, decorated in reg, green, and gold. And you made sure to pin up a few sprigs of mistletoe, one of your favorite traditions of the season. Back at your apartment, you slip on a sumptuous golden silk dress that clings in all the right places and flows beautifully to show off your figure, and strap on matching gold heels. Swiping on the same crimson lipstick you wore when you met Jack as a finishing touch, you smooth your outfit and walk back to the pub.
Soon enough, your friends began to pour into the space, bringing with them various foods and drinks. Jack made a special batch of wassail for the occasion, and Ezra dramatically waxes poetic about how good it is while Pero rolls his eyes at him, as usual, in the corner. The space fills with laughter, clinking glasses, and the smell of delicious food. You and Jack act as the gracious hosts, making sure no one’s glasses are empty and all the plates are full. As you’d hoped and prayed, Jack gets along amazingly well with every single one of your friends. He jokes and roasts; listens intently and carefully to people’s stories. He extends a warmth and familiarity to all, and more than once you get nudged suggestively, eyebrows wiggling and giggles whispered into your ear about how wonderfully well you and Jack work together. You flush with heat every time, and it’s hard to deny the chemistry between the two of you. Beyond being fantastic business partners, you admire Jack’s adeptness, his dogged cleverness, and most of all, his heart. Jack’s got one of the biggest hearts you’ve ever come across.
And, even if you fight it, you realize that Jack’s worked his way into your heart, too. All night you’ve been exchanging charged glances, sly smiles, little winks here and there. Jack places a warm hand on the small of your back while passing you. You press your body subconsciously against his while reaching for another glass. Fingertips brush, sparks fly.
By the time your friends trickle out into the night, merry and full, the heat between the two of you is palpable.
You’re cleaning up the bar area when Jack approaches you, two glasses of wassail in his hands. “Outstanding shindig you threw, darlin’,” he observes, passing you a glass. You clink your cup against his and take a sip, savoring the way the ale, sweet honey, and spices swirl across your tongue.
“We threw the party, Jack,” you correct. “You were just as good of a host as me, if not better.”
Jack smirks. “Well, it’s easy when you have such fun friends.”
“They are fun for sure, although I was worried they’d be a bit… much,” you admit.
“Pfft, I’m used to dealing with strong personalities,” he scoffs, nudging you pointedly. You roll your eyes but your grin remains, and you scoot closer to him, pressing the side of your body against his. You both lean against the bar, facing the interior of the brewpub, admiring where your hard work has taken you.
“Can you believe this place is real?” you muse, sipping again. Your eyes roam the space above you, when you stop and smile to yourself.
“Yes, I remember you waltzing into this place when it was nothing but concrete and pipes and my brewing equipment, a pretty thing with red lips and determination,” Jack reminisces, ignorant of what you’ve spotted.
Your heart skips a beat. Pretty.
“Oh yeah, cowboy? ‘A pretty thing’?” you purr, turning slightly to face him, your red lips pursed in amusement. Jack looks slightly hesitant, worried he crossed a line, until you point upwards and his eyes follow.
A sparkling sprig of mistletoe hangs between the two of you, above your heads. He meets your eyes again, all hesitation gone.
“Are you gonna just stare, or are you gonna respect tradition and kiss this ‘pretty thing’?” you whisper, your lips curled flirtatiously.
A smirk spreads across Jack’s face. “I thought you’d never ask, sugar.” And with that, he pulls you into his body and your lips connect.
It’s a slow, sensual kiss when it starts. Jack is gentle, all brushes of the lips, presses and caresses of your body. You lean into him, feeling your nipples press against his dark button up while he cups the back of your head tenderly. A small whimper escapes your lips, and Jack pulls back with concern.
“Is this still okay?” he murmurs, rubbing your cheeks with his thumbs. You don’t answer with words, you just nod and pull him into another kiss, gently biting his plush lower lip. Jack moans gruffly, sliding his hands down the lines of your body, pausing to cup and squeeze your silk-covered ass. You feel wetness start to seep into your panties, your arousal rocketing by the second as your kisses get more and more impassioned. Jack trails wet kisses down your neck, licking at your pulse point and right behind your ear, ripping another whimper from your chest.
“Sugar, I need to taste you so badly,” Jack groans into the junction of your neck and shoulder, biting softly.
“Please, Jack,” you breathe out, and Jack lifts you onto the bar counter, rucking your dress up. You spread your legs, helping to pull the golden silk out of the way. Jack pauses, then another smirk blooms on his lips; he takes his black Stetson off his head and places it onto yours in a quiet act of possession. You pant while you watch Jack pull up a barstool in front of you. Seating himself, he spreads you even wider, his eyes glittering with desire when he sets his eyes on your glistening center. You didn’t wear any panties, and he groans at the realization.
“Fuck, you’re prettier than a picture, honey,” he rumbles, tracing his large warm hands up your inner thighs, triggering more slick to seep out of you. Using his thumb, Jack spreads your wetness around your folds, and you inhale sharply, whimpering again. When Jack spies the pearl of your clit, he runs his thumb across it slowly, encouraging it to harden.
“So fucking pretty,” Jack murmurs to himself, thumbing your clit again and reveling in the twitch of your thighs as he does. He leans down and runs the flat of his tongue across your entire pussy, from bottom to top, swirling around your clit deliciously slowly. Wanton moans snake their way from your throat. You grip Jack’s hair, keeping his face pressed against your most intimate parts. He groans into your folds, devouring you like a man starved, as you whine and whimper and shake for him. He’s observant, noticing when your body twitches and your cries pitch higher, using that information to bring you to the simmering cusp of your orgasm.
“Come for me, darlin’,” Jack pleads, slicking up two fingers and sliding them inside you, your pussy gripping him tightly. You throw your head back, legs shaking from the intensity, when he reaches a spot deep in you.
With a few more pressured strokes of his fingers and a gentle suck of his mouth on your clit, you shatter around him, cunt clenching and dripping onto his fingers.
“That’s it, such a good girl coming for me when I ask,” Jack coos, his fingers continuing to work you through your orgasm, squelching from your release. Your moans are music to his ears, rapidly hardening his cock. Once you recover a bit, Jack slips his fingers into his mouth right before your eyes, growling quietly at the taste.
“Sweeter than honey,” he grits out, swooping in for a kiss, your own taste lingering on his lips and making you moan yet again.
“Jack, I need you inside me,” you beg between fevered kisses. Jack pulls away to meet your eyes.
“I don’t want to fuck you here,” he explains. “Can we go to your place? I want to lay you out, fuck you proper like you deserve.”
“Yes, of course,” you breathe, and he slaps your ass lightly before helping you off of the counter. You giggle, wobbling slightly in the aftermath of your pleasure. Jack helps right you and wraps a steadying arm around your shoulders while the two of you walk the three blocks to your apartment.
As soon as you enter the door, Jack is on you again, grinding his clothed cock into you and kissing you deeply. You walk the two of you backwards to your bedroom, clothing and shoes coming off between lips locking and hands groping, exploring. Both naked, you climb onto your bed, Jack following. Your legs fall open, and Jack can’t help himself from lunging forward to lick at your drenched pussy at the first sight of your slick lips parting. A whine hitches from your lungs, and Jack pulls back, shifting up to kiss you deeply again. Tongues tangle, lips are bitten, breathless moans exchanged. He pulls back again as you chase his lips, but he stops you.
“Hold your horses, sweetheart. Are you sure you want to do this?” he asks, eyes shining with both hope and concern. “I don’t want you to move faster than you’re ready for.”
Your heart clenches at the display of care and consent. A smile lights your face as you respond, “Yes. I’ve been wanting this for ages… I was just too scared to be wrong about you feeling the same way for me and ruining an amazing business partnership. I’ve been dreaming of you in my bed for months, and now that I have you here, I’m not going to let you get away so fast.”
Jack’s eyes light up, and he presses a soft kiss to your forehead before getting off the bed. He rummages through his pants briefly until he pulls a gold foil square from his wallet.
“I’ve got a golden ticket here for you, darlin’, but I want you to know that I get tested regularly and that I’m clean,” Jack informs you, a smile warming his face when you giggle at his corny joke. “Is that okay with you?” He climbs back onto the bed, leaning down to kiss your belly.
You nod affirmatively. “So do I, and I’m on the pill.” Sitting up and holding your hand out for the condom, you ask, “May I?”
Jack hands you the packet. “Be my guest, angel.” You lean forward, pressing your lips once again into his, and he groans in surprise as you flip him onto his back in one fluid motion. Climbing up his legs, you push them apart to make room for yourself in between. His impressive cock is achingly hard, viscous droplets of precum bubbling at the tip. You lap them up eagerly, Jack’s head falling onto your pillows with a muffled thump and a whine of pleasure.
“Fuck, your mouth feels so good,” Jack breathes. You suckle at the head, humming in pleasure as the salty-bitter taste floods your senses. Slowly, you begin bobbing up and down his shaft, swirling your tongue across his silky length, making his moans louder and more ragged as you go. After a couple of minutes and an intense suck later, Jack actually whimpers into the thick air of your bedroom, begging you for more. You tear open the foil packet carefully, then suck his cockhead one more time before settling the condom on top and gingerly rolling it down his thick cock.
You rise to your knees and shuffle upwards, leaning down one more time to kiss him. With your lips locked, Jack presses you back a bit and scooches his body up to sit against the headboard. You settle into his lap and slide yourself down his cock slowly.
The stretch is exquisite. Both of you moan in sync, your hands planted on his tan chest, his hands coming up to grip your hips to keep himself tethered to the moment. You feel as if every empty space in your body is filled; he fits perfectly inside you, like he was meant to be there.
He feels like coming home.
Once he’s bottomed out inside of you, you both take a moment to breathe and be present. Jack’s eyes are closed, forehead resting against yours, breathing each other’s air. His hands slowly and gently knead your hips while you adjust to his thickness stretching your walls deliciously. Bringing one of your hands to his face, you admire his blissed but tense countenance. It seems like the both of you are barely keeping it together; your pussy throbs against his cock, which twitches in response. Your breathing is heavier. And so is the tension and desire.
You kiss Jack’s lips softly, tracing your thumb down the line of his jaw, and his eyes flutter open, utterly melting when they focus on you. “Baby,” you murmur, “can I ride you now?” A groan claws out of Jack’s mouth, and his lips part as he nods his head affirmatively.
“Please,” he begs, and fucks up gently into you. Your center clenches in response, and you begin to work yourself on his shaft, rolling your hips as you grind down and back up. The sensation is intense, intimate, and all-consuming.
You clutch at Jack’s well-muscled shoulders, pressing kisses wherever you can reach and nipping his neck. His groans deepen and lengthen, his cock swelling even harder with the feeling of being buried inside you, surrounded by hot velvet. Hands gripping harder, he thrusts back up into you each time you slide down, punching into a spot deep inside you that makes you see stars. Dizzying ecstasy lights up your veins as your moans and whines pitch higher with your arousal. The slick, obscene squelching of your pussy only serves to intensify the experience for the both of you.
“Oh god, sweetheart, you’re so fucking wet and tight for me,” Jack slurs, lost in his reverence of you. “Could never get enough of you.” All you can respond with is a devout chant of his name, moaned and sighed and whimpered. He reaches down and slicks his thumb with your juices, swirling it gently around your clit. You keen sharply.
“Jack,” you moan, “don’t stop, you’re getting me there.” Jack hushes you as he works your pearl firmer.
“C’mon, sugar, I wanna feel you come all over my cock,” he encourages urgently, massaging that spot deep in your pussy while he swirls, swirls, swirls with his thumb. Your whines sharpen, your body beginning to shake.
“Oh fuck, Jack, you’re gonna make me come,” you yelp desperately, your pussy contracting and squeezing his cock tightly. Jack digs his fingers harder into the meat of your hips, trying to stave off his own orgasm, as he continues his ministrations.
He leans forward, sucking and kissing your neck, up to your ear, and licking the spot right behind it gently before murmuring, “Come for me, beautiful.”
You shatter.
Flames lick along every nerve ending, and you shove Jack as deeply into you as possible when your high hits you. Wailing his name, you grip his hair, your cunt gushing and contracting against his length, and that’s enough to push Jack over the edge with you, your name tumbling off his lips in a whimper as he buries himself deep and empties his seed into the condom.
Waves crashing together, the wheel of fate bringing you two to each other. He is meant for you, and you for him.
You both come back into your bodies, breathing heavily with your faces nuzzled against each other. Jack kisses your lips gently, and you part them to allow a deeper kiss to blossom. Slowly, languidly, your tongues dance, lips press and pull. With the tiniest peck, the two of you separate, and Jack brings his hands to cup your face gently, fingertips stroking your soft skin. His eyes shine like the sea on a sunny day, and you see golden flecks catch the light from your bedside lamp.
“You’re so perfect,” he murmurs, mesmerized.
You huff a laugh. “Hardly,” you reply, “but I feel like we’re perfect for each other, no?” Jack nods.
“Perfectly suited for each other,” he agrees. “You are my fire, and I am your ocean. You motivate me to push myself and our business further, and keep my passions burning.”
“And you go with the flow, move with the tides, helping me get through rough waters,” you mutter sweetly at him, kissing his strong, aquiline nose. You both sit and absorb each other’s presence, soaking in the new stage of your relationship.
“Where do we go from here?” you whisper to Jack. Your lover, your confidante, your partner in business - and now, in life.
“I don’t quite know what our future holds, sugar,” Jack responds, kissing your forehead, “but where your heart is, there I will be also.”
a/n part 2: Thank you for reading! Below I've included the brief that Erin wrote about Ægir, as well as some details/inspo from the fic. Disclaimer: I am not inherently familiar with Norse mythology or traditions, so apologies if there's anything that is off-base!
-- Beers are inspired by Allagash Brewing's saison and seasonal Ski House Wheat.
-- The winter holiday party decorations are inspired by traditional Norse decorations for Yule.
-- The "wheel of fate" and the last line Jack says are a nod to traditional Norse wedding vows.
-- For Erin's Frith Challenge, Thor was assigned to Pero Tovar, and Tyr was assigned to Ezra.
God: Ægir Character: Jack Daniels / Agent Whiskey
God of the sea and brewing ale. A Jotun (which translates to “devour” or “consume”, despite being connected to “giant” more often), suggesting that he would devour or consume the ships that would sink into the sea, and his wife, Rán (the death goddess of the sea), would consume the men upon the ships.
“The brother of air and fire”. Father of 9 daughters, who themselves are the waves. Not only represents the sea, but also personifies it. Symbolizes the strength and power of the ocean, so many view him as a great warrior.
Framed as a terrible and devouring Jotun, he’s also a welcoming host. It’s said that Thor and Tyr would visit to have some of Ægir’s ale, and every winter, the gods would come to feast in his hall. This makes him a great match for Rán, the caretaker of those who died at sea, as his hospitality would be extended to them through Rán. This could be seen one of two ways: that either the dead would reside in their hall, or that they would rest there until they were ready to move on.
The sea was seen as a source of great wealth, since sailors would find treasure through industry, trade or plunder. Gold itself was referred to as “Ægir’s Fire”, because he “lights his hall with gold in his hearth”. He’s wealthy, but he shares that wealth as he entertains his guests.
However, he sort of wanted to get out of being the gods’ host. He said he’d do it on the condition that they find a big enough cauldron to account for the amount of ale he’d have to make, since the gods liked to party so much.
To follow Ægir is to be hospitable to those who enter your hold seeking comfort.
Offerings: Ocean/water iconography. Gold. Fire/flames. Ale/alcohol.
Tags for those who may be interested: @mountainsandmayhem @alltheirdamn @sin-djarin @nerdieforpedro @mermaidgirl30 @missredherring @morallyinept @qveerthe0ry @guiltyasdave @almostfoxglove @almostempty @schnarfer @kedsandtubesocks @djarinmuse @agentmarcuspike @gasolinerainbowpuddles @yopossum
#pedro pascal smut#jack daniels#agent jack whiskey daniels#kingsman the golden circle#jack daniels x reader#norse mythology#frith challenge#fic rec#pedro pascal characters#pedro pascal#reblog reply#nice people saying nice things#she’s gonna make me cry
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✶ ┄ HOLY GRAIL !
part one | part two
summary: in ancient rome, where survival is determined by the whims of a mad ruler, the empire's beloved general gives you – his first and only love – to the crazed emperor to ensure your safety. (6k)
pairing: marcus acacius / fem!reader, emperor geta / fem!reader
contents: established relationship, strangers to lovers, angst, hurt/comfort cw for mentions of war and violence, mentions of sex work, swearing, smut 18+ (dubcon, m receiving oral, unprotected sex, cuckholding, exhibitionism) (this is a pretty dark fic so pls heed the warnings!!!)
Marcus Acacius was the name on the lips of a thousand fallen empires. His ledger ran a deep scarlet color, which dripped like proof from his sword. The war had destroyed the General over the years — had turned the man into an empty thing filled only by untamable ghosts. The relentless battle had wrung his boyhood from his body like a slow, merciless death. Any remaining innocence has since been replaced with violence.
Rome made a legacy of his grotesque evils, turned him into a saint. Marcus Acacius did not want to be a saint. He did not want to be angry; he did not want to be cruel. He only wanted to love and to be left alone with his tenderness. His mouth filled with blood instead.
You loved him like all doomed, grotesque things are meant to be loved. In the dark. In the shadows of war. In the depths of the soul.
“This is me,” he confesses, the great General Acacius, returning to you like a ghost to its haunt. “This is who I am.”
His golden armor is sullied from a victorious battle, tainted now with blotches of soil and dried blood that’s not his own. His dirtied, unholy fists tremble at his sides as he fights the urge to cross the threshold of your quarters to meet you. Marcus knows he doesn’t deserve to be held by you now. Not when he still wreaks of death.
He can still feel the breath of a fist on his bruised cheek, but the way his sword felt plunging through the beating heart of an enemy soldier plagues him most of all.
“Love turned on me long ago— It is not a burden I compel you to carry.”
So, please, do not love me, he doesn’t say. I only know how to destroy you.
You smile at him, eyes soft with sympathy, and cross the threshold of longing with an admirable effortlessness. You cradle his weathered, war-torn face in your palms, willingly staining your delicate hands with the blood stained there.
“I love you despite. So I imagine I’ll carry it anyway,” you coo to him, gentle eyes locked firmly with his heavy ones. “And I’m certain you love me in return, regardless of what you think the siege has made of you.”
“There is naught I can do about it,” Marcus admits, words heavy with choked-back emotion. He melts into your touch but continues to deny himself the want to hold you back. “Not while I still oversee this campaign. Not while there is a war to be won—”
“We love each other, don’t we?” you interject, pleading eyes searching for emotion behind his dark, stoic gaze. Marcus swallows hard. His scruffy chin scrapes your palm as he nods once in response. You grin and say the unforgiving truth out loud. “So fuck the war.”
You pull him down by his face to press a kiss to his unclean lips. Marcus rests his shaking hands over your waist and lets you build cathedrals in his mouth with your tongue. The blood in his teeth turns to holy water.
Marcus long understood that bringing you to the city would be his last act of love.
Keeping you in the heart of Rome was the only way he could ensure your safety, with the surrounding towns still under merciless siege. The people there were docile, and loyal most of all to the General who had won them a thousand wars. They would not hurt you because it was not in their kind too, and because they feared General Acacius’ wrath as much as they respected his mercy.
This was known to everyone in Rome except its Emperors.
Geta and Caracalla ruled together following their father’s untimely demise but shared not a brain between them. They were boys, after all, the oldest being hardly two-and-twenty –– it was in their nature to talk more than they listened, and to pretend as if they knew the world despite never leaving the city walls.
They were as cruel and as stupid as anyone who wished to rule an empire would be.
But the two of them relied heavily on their General to keep the restless public at ease. It made it easier for Marcus to bring you with him, knowing he had the trust of the most powerful men in Rome. He knew Geta kept meticulous care of his most precious gifts — all Marcus had to do was get you there, really, and the Emperors would do the rest for him.
It was simple, but it was not easy; though he imagines no war ever has been or would be. Both of you had survived, yes, but neither of you had been spared. Bringing you here was a testament to that, which you seemingly could not comprehend. You were as soft and green as the countryside he plucked you from, too naive for politics.
Marcus tells himself that this was the merciful decision, anyway, as he gives you a tour of Caracalla’s labyrinthine gardens — the place farthest from the feasting hall where the noblemen dined. Hidden behind climbing leaves, free from prying eyes.
“I can’t imagine why you would be so apprehensive in bringing me here. It’s beautiful,” you marvel aloud as you walk ahead of the man guiding you.
Your sandals pad faintly along the cobbled trail as you skim your palm over the bed of blooming roses. The petals feel like silk against your skin. You pluck one from the soil, careful to avoid its thorns, and hold it up to your nose. You turn to face Marcus with the crimson flower resting on your cupid’s bow.
“And it smells better, too,” you quip softly, tilting your head to your shoulder as you smirk behind the budding rose.
Marcus just barely manages to bite back his own grin until you reach out for him, tapping the delicate flower against the bridge of his strong nose. He exhales hard through his nostrils in place of a laugh.
Your giggling comes carried on the breath of a warm summer breeze — a symphony of salty ocean, dainty florals, and the pretty oils you’d bathed in. The wind billows through your thin, white gown and creates music with rustling leaves. You squint one eye when the setting sun peeks through the swishing tree limbs, bathing you in a golden-hour aura.
You’re as beautiful as sin. Sweeter than death. Smiling at him like this is the beginning of something that died the moment you entered the city walls.
Marcus clears throat and gently guides your hand away. His cautious eyes flit around the vacant garden. He’s constantly looking over his shoulder, you find, despite being the strongest man in all of Rome. You feel safest at his side, so you don’t know why he always looks so frightened.
“I know you are drunk on youth and immortality, petal, but we cannot get ahead of ourselves,” he advises, all stiff and stern, though the term of endearment spills effortlessly from his mouth. “We’re in the city now. So we must play the part. Like we discussed.”
He speaks to you with an unintentional sort of vagueness that makes you bow your head like a scolded child. Your arm falls limp at your side. A scarlet petal slips from its stem and hits the unforgiving stone.
“I know,” you murmur with a poorly hidden frown that conveys otherwise. Your sheepish gaze flits from the ground to Marcus’ unwavering stare and to the ground again. “I just thought— whenever we were alone, that we might—”
“We aren’t alone. We must behave as though the city is full of eyes. Understand?”
“I can’t,” you confess, peering up at the General from beneath your lashes.
Marcus’ chest stings, like the fiery sun blazing his newly-fashioned armor. “What do you mean you can’t?” he bites emotionlessly.
He looks like a corrupt sort of angel in this light, unnaturally handsome and hopelessly wartorn. He was as hard as the earth below your feet — a statue made of clay, iron, and marble — cold to the touch and melting only for you.
His heavy eyes were so brown they looked almost black, and they shone with a perpetual sort of gloom. His gaze swam with the prophetic darkness of a man who’s seen too much, though you often felt like you could drown in its void. For a man so adept at killing, he looked at you with a remarkable softness.
It wasn’t as shallow as physical desire. It was something far more cruel. You wanted Marcus Acacius the same way flesh wanted to knit itself together over a healing wound. It was simply in your nature to love him.
“I mean, it’s impossible,” you ramble with a concerned furrow to your brow. Your grip on the flower’s papery stem tightens until the bulb rattles with the force. “How am I to be here with you but not touch you? That’s like asking the seasons not to change— It’s unnatural, and it’s cruel—”
Marcus swallows hard, adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. His hands begin to ache with the urge to touch you. He balls them into fists instead.
“It’s the only way I know to keep you safe!” he confesses, words sounding heavy in his mouth. His eyes flit across the garden in a paranoid search of something that isn’t there. “Emperor Geta will take care of you. I know he will. And his brother is a half-wit, but he is kind when he wishes. He’ll take a liking to you, I’m sure of it—”
You interject his anxious rambling with a stubborn shake of your head.
“I can’t be someone else’s,” you murmur, voice as wet as the tears glittering in your wide-eyed gaze. “I don’t know how.”
“You will learn,” Marcus tells you with an emotionless stare. Not because he’s sure you will, but because he knows you have to. “For me.”
Your pretty features swirl with anguish. “Marcus…” you whisper his name in a feeble whimper caught in your throat.
He does not soften at your emotion like you’re used to. He’s practiced apathy for so long that it comes naturally to him now. He bites his tongue to keep from kissing you and lets the blood stain his teeth all over again.
“If not for your own sake, then for mine. The Emperors would have my head if they understood the pretenses I brought you under.”
You flinch at his words, perhaps finally understanding the weight of the unforgiving world in which you live. The surest example of such cruelty stands before you now, in the only man you ever loved now using your purest devotion as a means to keep you pliant. But your anger for the merciless arrangement is long eclipsed by your yearning.
“Then I will,” you tell him, rigid with a glacial disposition Marcus hasn’t seen before now.
The choices here were few. Either you were slaughtered outside the city walls by soldiers and pillagers, or you were slaughtered within them — in the metaphorical sense that burns physically in your chest now.
Being without Marcus feels like a fate worse than death, but you want him so desperately to live. So much so that you’ll fall on the sword of your longing and bleed out at his feet. Knowing that you’re under the same sky would have to be enough for you.
You can’t tell which it is — sacrifice or self-slaughter — but Marcus knows it isn’t as poetic as all that.
Death is death.
Emperor Geta staggers drunkenly down the spiral stone steps of the west wing of his castle. The path to his chambers is illuminated by several dwindling torches hung along the brick walls. The subtle squeaking of his leather sandals sounds much louder in the quiet — filled only by crackling flames, a distant dripping noise, and the song he slurs under his breath.
The latter ceases suddenly when he stumbles to a stop at the sight of General Acacius. The man stands like a statue outside his bedroom door — arms crossed behind his back, old spine perfectly straight — like the obedient guard dog he is.
The thought makes the Emperor’s lips curl into a crooked smile. “What are you doing here, dog?” he calls to the General as he approaches him, voice echoing down the soulless corridor.
“Your nameday present, your majesty—” Marcus answers and tries not to make a face when the Emperor stands before him. The bittersweet scent of wine stains his breath, overwhelmingly so. Geta was never one to practice temperance. “—I was told to see that you got it.”
The younger man hesitates. “From my uncle?” he wonders aloud.
Marcus nods wordlessly in response.
Geta pauses for a moment. His wide, glassy eyes flit over the General’s shoulder to the arched doorway behind him. His stomach swirls at the thought of what may lie inside. The last nameday present his uncle sent from overseas was a monkey his younger brother has grown much too attached to.
“Well… What is it?”
Marcus swallows hard and steps aside. “Look inside, your majesty.”
Geta takes a deep breath in and swings the creaking door open. His bedroom is lush with crimson silk and golden candlelight, familiarly fragranced with cinnamon and sweet myrrh. It’s accompanied by something foreignly floral, a feminine rosy-lavender that catches his attention before his eyes ever find you.
He steps through the threshold and finds a strange girl standing by the window, before a platter of fruit and wine — bathed half in the silver beams of a full moon, and half in flickering orange flames.
White silk adorns your frame, so delicate it’s nearly see-through. One of your shoulders is mouthwateringly bare, and there’s a slit in the fabric that rises to your hip. You look as pure as a dove, though you’re so obviously built for sin.
The ground sways beneath Geta’s unsteady feet.
You crunch audibly into an apple before you realize anyone’s there. The juice runs down your chin before you swipe it away with the back of your hand. Only then do your eyes lock with the Emperor’s, who seems equally stunned to see you there. You tense and say nothing as you hide the bitten fruit behind your back.
“It’s a woman,” Geta observes to no one in particular, though his dark eyes have not yet wavered from yours.
Marcus stands behind him and nods — hands still clasped behind his back, heart still pounding against his ribcage. “Yes, your majesty. In plain terms.”
“Well,” the Emperor glances over his shoulder. “What does she do?”
“Whatever you want,” the General answers, though the words taste like vinegar on his tongue. He swallows the bitterness down like bile and leers at you, looking upon his lover as though she were a stranger. “You need only ask.”
Geta, satisfied by his answer, turns back to you. His initial surprise has ebbed into something more pleased, diabolically so. His pink lips curl into a sneer as he walks slowly towards you, eyeing you up and down with curious eyes — a predator stalking its prey.
“Is that true?” he asks you, voice ringing through the quiet room. “Or is he confusing you for a dutiful hound?”
“A dutiful whore, your majesty,” you correct with an acquiescent smile, following the story as Marcus intended.
The half-truth comes easily to you. Not a lie exactly, but not the whole tale either. You’d spent many of your years working in a brothel on the outskirts of Rome. You were a young woman, unmarried, without family or viable prospects — whoring seemed the most obvious decision then, though it feels so long ago now.
You’d waited your whole life for something, for Marcus, though you hadn’t expected it to kill you when you found it. You won’t die a saint if the crazed Emperor decides to take your head, but perhaps you could be a martyr. Perhaps that’ll be enough.
Fear beats through your body like a second heart, but your eyes never waver from the Emperor’s. It’s easiest to meet his gaze. He feels more like a human that way.
There are flecks of gold in his dark eyes, and dark strands in his gold hair. He’s got stubble on his long neck, spots on his broad nose, and wrinkles on his forehead. Not quite as perfect as the pristine white-gold armor would let on.
His eyes flit down your form once more. Something sparks in the deep brown of them, a flicker of silent realization. He spins suddenly on the heel of his sandal to flash Marcus an accusatory glare.
“Is she your whore, General?” he lilts into the heavy silence. His brows raise when he receives no answer from the man across the room. “The question was not rhetorical, Acacius.”
“No, your majesty. She is not mine,” Marcus answers, then clears his throat when the words get stuck there. It’s like he’s plunging a knife through his own heart. He can feel the cold sting of the sharpened blade and the burn of the blood on his skin. “Though, I don’t believe whores belong to anyone.”
A boyish chuckle spills from the Emperor’s mouth. “No. They don’t,” he says with an airy giddiness. “Not before now, anyway—”
Geta spins back again, pleated skirt fanning around his pale thighs. His smile fades with an eerie swiftness. “What are you waiting for? Undress,” he commands with a wave of his ringed hand.
Your wide eyes flit instinctively past him to Marcus, who still idles in the doorway. Only then does he realize how long he’s been staring at you. He forces himself to glance off in another direction, but his gaze keeps finding yours — like a magnet, or a planet with its own gravitational pull.
Your eyes lock, and the only thing you hear is each other, though neither of you has spoken a word. This is the only way, you hear his voice in your head as clearly as your own. This is the only way to stay together. The only way to survive.
Geta mistakes your fear.
“Don’t worry about him, little dove,” he coos, and taps the bottom of your chin with his fingers — as soft and petaled as your own. He smiles when your attention turns to him again, speaking loud enough for the General to hear. “He’s only the guard dog. And good boys get scraps, don’t they, Acacius?”
Marcus’ face screws like he’s tasted something sour. He’s grateful the Emperor isn’t looking at him to see it. “They do, your majesty,” he monotones.
“So you will watch. And report to my uncle how his lovely present fared,” he calls to the older man, though his eyes remain locked with yours. You tense when his pale hand reaches suddenly for your face. He holds your cheeks in his fingers until your lips jut in a soft pout. “Let’s hope I don’t have to send him back your head, little dove.”
He says it with an absentminded effortlessness, as though it’s something he’s done before.
Still, you manage a small smile and blink up at him with innocent eyes. “What good is a dead whore, your majesty?” you quip.
Geta’s grin widens. “Precisely. Now undress.”
You reach for the singular sleeve of your slip with trembling fingers. Your right hand sweeps across your left shoulder, skin blazing with fear and anticipation. The fabric trails down down down your arm before falling to your feet in a puddle of milky white silk. Your bare body glows silver and gold between moonlight and flame.
Goosebumps pebble over your skin despite the humid summer night as Geta circles you like prey. His eyes trail slowly down your form in time with his rhythmic steps. The sound of his sandals scrapping the stone floor, crackling candlelight, and subdued breathing are the only sounds in the quiet room for several long moments.
The Emperor disappears behind you, and you forget how to breathe. Your wide, wet eyes find Marcus once more — pleading, though for what, you cannot say. His face reveals nothing but wrath burns in his gaze.
Geta reappears at your right side. You smell grape wine on his breath when he nears you, breathing heavily through his mouth as he reaches out to touch you. His ringed hands smooth over your collarbone. Your breath catches in your throat. He smiles as though your fright pleases him.
“You’re skittish for a whore,” he muses, playful in a way that makes your stomach wrench. “Are you sure the General didn’t bring me a virgin?”
You swallow hard as his hand trails down your body. Over the swell of your breast, skimming his thumb over your taut nipple, before tracing the expanse of your ribs. His fingers run down your stomach and past the thatch of hair between your legs. They dip finally between your thighs.
Geta hums a faint moan at the velvet feeling of your pussy. The way your lips part for his fingers, silky skin warm and wet to the touch.
“I’m whatever you want me to be, your majesty,” you answer, breathing hard through your nose when he pulls his hand away — a warmth you find yourself begrudgingly grieving.
“I need only ask…” the Emperor coos, running his middle and pointer finger over your bottom lip. They shine with the honey you leak despite yourself. Your mouth parts, and he rests the pads of them on your tongue. “…Do I not?”
You nod wordlessly through the salty fingers in your mouth, trying to imagine their Marcus’.
Geta smiles when he parts from you. “Undress me,” he demands.
You work at his tricky armor with nervous hands and bated breath.
You unclasp his cape first. The white fabric, now free from its chain, falls heavily to the floor behind him. Your fingers have gone noticeably clammy as they struggle with the sleeves of his tunic. It takes you a beat too long to loosen the laces at his shoulders. The cloth falls finally and puddles around his feet, leaving his lean body on display before you.
His torso is lean and mostly hairless, save for splotches of chestnut on his sternum and stomach. His skin is smooth and flushed from the alcohol. His stomach is slim but noticeably full. The Emperor is well-taken care of, though his subjects outside the keep suffer from the consequences of war.
Your trembling fingers curl around the hem of his loincloth. His pale skin is warm to the touch, boiling with desire while you freeze over with fear. You crouch before him as you drag the garment down his scruffy thighs. You hear Geta sigh above you when his half-hard cock meets the cool summer night air.
He’s paler there compared to the rest of his golden body, though the mushroom tip glows a faint strawberry-red color. A vein trails in jagged lines to the base of his heavy cock, fading as it reaches the thatch of dark blonde hair at his pubic bone. He’s not nearly as thick as Marcus, though not many people could hope to be — but he is long and thin and soft like velvet.
“How do I look?” Geta wonders as he steps out of his loincloth. He tilts his chin to his chest to peer down at you, on your knees to untie the intricate laces of his sandals. You blink up at him with wide, uncertain eyes. “Without my armor,” he adds, then repeats. “How do I look?”
You realize, then, that he wants your praise. Though you’re unsure why, you’re not in any position to deny him of it. “You’re a— a very handsome man, your majesty,” you respond cautiously, with a wavering smile.
You hear his breath catch at the compliment. The corner of his mouth flickers upward, and his nostril flares as he takes a deep breath in.
“Well, go on, then,” he insists suddenly, nodding his head to egg you onward. “Good whores don’t keep their masters waiting, do they? You don’t want to see me impatient, little dove.”
You wrap his stiff cock in a tentative fist, averting your gaze as you give an experimental kitten lick to the bulbous, strawberry tip. Your tongue swipes away the pearlescent pre-cum beading there. The salty tang is foreign on your tongue, sweeter and thicker than you’re used to.
You imagine your lover when you take the Emperor’s cock in your mouth. A practiced form of dissociation that comes naturally to you now.
You focus on the way the stone floor digs into your knees as you cup his balls in your hand — a desperate attempt to finish him quickly. Geta shudders when you swallow him whole, burying your nose in the coarse thatch of hair at the base of his cock. His head tips back as he groans at the ceiling.
“You are a proper whore…” the Emperor moans with a delirious smile. He tilts his flushed cheek to his freckled shoulder to sneer at Marcus, then frowns when his eyes meet the back of him. “Are you distracted, General?”
The man keeps his back turned and his eyes trained on the wall, counting the bricks there to distract his racing mind. His mouth snarls at the Emperor’s words. His hands ball into fists as he fights to keep his composure.
“Just giving you your privacy, your majesty.”
“Nonsense!” Geta laughs, loud. “You should watch! You should observe— so you know what to tell my uncle.”
Marcus can hear the mischievous lilt in the younger boy’s voice. Like it’s all just a game to him. Like you’re just a whore to be played with, and like Marcus’ only hope of companionship is warfare. Both might’ve been true once, but not since you find each other.
The general smacks his lips against his teeth. “As you wish,” he deadpans and spins on the heel of his sandal.
He’s strangely grateful to find the Emperor’s body obscuring your own. Geta’s lean, pale form towers over your kneeling one — back muscles flexing, hips thrusting, fingers knitting in your hair.
But Marcus can still hear the sounds of your mouth on the other man’s cock. The room fills with heavy breathing, wet noises, and the Emperor’s unabashed whines. Embers of envy burn in the General’s empty chest. A wildfire of want and wrath rages behind his ribcage.
You swallow with Geta’s cock in your throat and squeeze softly at his balls. You hear his breath hitch just before a lengthy moan spills from his parted mouth. Several loads of salty cum spit down your throat a second later. The man shows you little mercy as he holds you by your hair, keeping your nose pressed to his pubic bone. You take shallow breaths through your nose and try not to choke.
You pull off of him when he lets you go. A string of saliva threatens to keep you connected. You take a deep breath in and swipe at your swollen mouth with the back of your hand, staying on your knees while the Emperor tilts his head back. He exhales a breathy laugh of relief at the ceiling. You peer up at him with wide, wet eyes, still so uncertain of your fate.
“Proper whore, indeed,” Geta muses, almost to himself, as he drops his heavy head once more.
His flushed chest sparkles with a foreign feeling at the sight of you beneath him — eyes teary and fearful, lips swollen and rosy, features flushed with sweat and sex. His cock jerks, still sensitive but threatening to harden again. He grips himself with a loose fist.
“On the bed,” he instructs suddenly, then grins madly at your shock. “You didn’t think I was done with you, surely. Not until I mount you like a mare, anyway— Treat you like the bitch in heat you are…”
Geta cups your warm cheek in his free hand. His touch is strangely gentle as he cradles you there, right before he smacks gently at your jaw to urge you upward.
Your bare feet pad towards the bed, then. Geta swats your ass as you go and laughs when you squeak in response. You fight the urge to look at Marcus, lest you see the rage burning in his eyes — lest he see the heartbreak swimming in yours.
Marcus watches you crawl over the silken sheets, both of you sporting similar far-off gazes. He feels a bit like a ghost now. An empty, invisible thing, doomed to watch the rest of the world go on without ever being able to live in it. It’s dreadfully symbolic of how he’s lived most of his life, and how he’s spent the years loving you. Because even if a ghost is full of love, the only thing it knows to do is haunt.
The silk pillow feels cool under your burning cheek. The mattress dips under the Emperor’s weight when he kneels behind you. His ringed fingers smooth over your ass and down the arch of your back. He treats you with an uncharacteristic sort of tenderness, as though he were molding you out of clay.
“You are a pretty thing, aren’t you?” he whispers under his breath. “And timid, too… I like that…”
Your pussy clenches at his words despite yourself. Geta’s chest swells with pride accordingly. “You don’t have to be scared, little dove. I’m going to take such good care of you.”
Despite his words, he does not bother to ready you for his cock when he positions himself at your pulsing entrance. You hadn’t expected him to, of course — not many men were as kind as Marcus in that way, who often treated your pleasure as if it were his own. But the slick sticking to your thighs has made your pussy more than pliant. Your velvet walls swallow Geta’s cock with a pulsing vigor.
The Emperor groans as he fucks into you, savoring every inch as he buries himself to the hilt. His ringed fingers dig into the plush of your waist, as though you were a toy he didn’t want getting snatched away.
“Look at the hound!” Geta giggles boyishly to himself. “He’s itching for a feel of you— I just know it.”
Marcus remains as still and stoic as the battalion trained him to be. He reveals nothing on his face, though his skin prickles with flames of envy beneath his armor.
Marcus Acacius was not a jealous man. His love for you was a testament to that. He visited the brothel you boarded in and spared the same coins as every man in the establishment did. But it was different now. Because the Emperor does not deserve you, and he forces Marcus to watch as if he knows it, too.
Something within him seethes, like a feral animal trapped behind his ribcage, desperately clawing its way out.
“Look at him,” Geta snaps when he sees you staring at the wall, eyes glassy and glazed over. He’s grinning all over again when your gaze snaps to Marcus’.
The soldier’s weathered eyes burn with tears then. General Acacius has faced death a thousand times over, but it wasn’t quite as heartwrenching as this. His wrath simmers to a boil. He swallows it down like fire.
This is her salvation, he tells himself. This is how she survives.
Your features twist with the anguish of being seen as the Emperor lays himself over your back. His slick chest sits flush with your spine, pinning you to the mattress. “I bet he can taste you now. Smell you,” he murmurs in your ear, chapped mouth brushing the shell of it. “His mouth is salivating at the thought of putting his tongue on you— Isn’t it, dog?”
Marcus swallows through the emotion threatening to strangle him. He blinks away stinging tears and feigns an air of nonchalance. “It would be… impolite to talk so brashly about something that doesn’t belong to me, your majesty,” the General responds. Obedient. Loyal like a hound.
Geta grins wide. “Good answer, Acacius.”
When the Emperor finally fucks into you, it’s with a sloppy sort of precision. There is no rhythm or care to his thrusts. He is led only by his blinding pleasure, like a man who has only ever fucked playthings and his own fist. He props himself on one forearm and curls the other beneath you, holding your breast in his ringed hand.
Geta’s flushed cheek presses against your own while he slides in and out and into you again. You hear his groaning as you feel it rumbling in his chest, still laid against your back. You stare at a framed portrait on the wall across the room and wait for it to be over, even as your body refuses to dismiss its simmering orgasm.
Your swollen clit ruts against the silk sheets with each of the Emperor’s sloppy thrusts. You can feel a wet spot forming beneath you, and your stomach twists at the thought of seeing proof of your own pleasure.
His balls smack your leaking cunt, creating a symphony of lewd noises — moaning, whimpering, clapping, smacking. Marcus thinks the sounds of war were more merciful than this.
“Do you understand what that means, little dove?” Geta croons into your ear, words choppy through his labored breaths and irregular thrusts. “You belong— to me now… So whatever you used to be— whoever’s you used to be— no longer matters.”
He thrusts once, hard, and shudders above you with a choked-back groan. You grit your teeth to swallow down your own noises of pleasure. The assault on your clit, though unintentional, is still yet relentless. You feel the distant white-hot burning feeling begin to swell in the pit of your stomach. A coil about to snap.
“Fucking me— Making me feel good—” the Emperor pants, punctuated by his hips against your ass. “—Is your only duty now. Understand?”
You nod, cheek running over the silk cushion as you grip it in your fists. “Yes, your majesty,” you gasp.
Geta presses his smile to the apple of your cheek. He can feel you leaking around him. You’re enjoying this just as much as he is, to be sure. A proper whore, indeed.
“Now… Take my spend like a good bitch, and thank me for it—”
He fucks you harder, and your face twists with a pleasure you’re too weak to fight away.
Your gaze falls instinctively to Marcus as your orgasm threatens to swallow you whole. Your eyes squeeze shut in a feeble attempt to hide. Your mouth parts with a silent moan as you cum around the Emperor’s cock.
“Thank you, your majesty,” you whimper obediently into the pillow as you tremble beneath him. “Thank you.”
Geta buries a whine in your neck when he cums again. He gives you only two pitiful, warm loads but still possesses more stamina than your Marcus. He stills, then shudders, then rests his unforgiving bodyweight on top of you when pleasure makes a puddle of him. And of you, you assume, as a mixture of your spend leaks out of your cunt and onto the sheets.
“Write to my uncle, Acacius—” Geta slurs into your skin, heavy through labored pants. “—A thank you for my nameday present.”
Marcus forgets, until then, that he can still be seen. He felt more akin to a corpse hidden in the walls, forced to spend his afterlife in a merciless purgatory. His heart has stopped beating, frozen over, and now sits dead in his chest. He will never be as gentle as he was with you. He will be bloodied knuckles and pulsing wounds. Rough and cruel and angry.
“Yes, your majesty,” the General nods, thankful that it’s over now.
Geta rolls off of your body and onto the empty spot beside you — not shy about his nude form or yours. The sudden lack of warmth makes you shiver.
“And tell him to send another— To keep the General’s bed warm, too,” he says, patting your ass with his palm before smoothing tenderly over the skin. “One whore’s as good as any other, I’m sure.”
Marcus flinches at the thought of being with anyone other than you. He couldn’t hide the look of disgust if he tried. It makes the Emperor laugh loudly in response.
“Oh, did you— Did you want to try this one?” Geta muses knowingly, pointing to your limp body, still trembling beside him with the aftershocks of your orgasm.
“No. No, no, no— See, this one’s mine,” he corrects the General as if he were a child. “And it would be impolite to touch something that belongs to me, would it not? It would be treasonous, even.”
“Yes, your majesty,” Marcus nods, lip flickering in a mere hint of a smirk as his plan finally comes to fruition. “It would be.”
The Emperor sees you now as his property, and no one hurts what belongs to him without meeting a certain death. Marcus is comforted only by the thought that nothing can touch you now. Not even him. But perhaps that’s the price he pays for love. Perhaps, in the end, love is grief.
“So best tread lightly, Acacius,” Geta warns with a crooked smile, petting you like a dog. “I’d hate for someone to get hurt.”
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