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sweetonsin · 3 days ago

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HEARTBREAK RED

inspired by ethel cains 'fuck me eyes'.

pairings: gentle!joel miller x ruined!reader

summary: you’re all red nails and tiny shorts, bruised up and bored, asking for trouble outside a liquor store. looking just like your momma did before the drugs. joel doesn’t fuck you, not at first. he feeds you, holds you, watches you fall asleep in his bed with your nail polish still wet. he fixes you slow, soft, careful. gives you what you need. including himself.

warnings: nsfw, 18+, fluffy!joel, protective!joel, large age gap implied, unprotected piv, slow burnish?, porn w/ little plot, mentions of domestic violence, reader copes using alcohol, mentions of drugs, deadbeatparents, finger fucking, orgasms, creampies, swearing, female anatomy.

WC: 5.3K

You're posted up on the curb, legs stretched long and lazy in cutoff denim that barely counts as shorts. You twirl a piece of hair around your red-stained finger—cheap polish, heartbreak red— bitten and chipped—and catch your reflection in the glass door. Lip gloss smeared. Tank top see-through in the heat.

Good.

Men come and go. Most don’t look twice. Some stare. You like when they stare.

You catch him in the corner of your eye—rough, broad, beard catching the light like salt and pepper under the sun. He’s weathered. Heavy hands. Sad eyes. One of those quiet, steady men who could break your neck or cradle it just the same.

Perfect.

“Hey,” you call, casual, like you’re not soaked in heat and sin, like your heart isn't rotten under your ribs. “You mind grabbing me a bottle? Forgot my ID.”

You flutter your lashes. Bite your lip. Tilt your head just enough to look harmless.

He doesn’t stop walking, just glances at you—slow, from the bottom of your thighs to the tops of your lashes. There’s something sharp behind his eyes. Not lust. Not yet.

“How old are you?”

You shrug, lazy. “Old enough.”

“Yeah? Old enough for what?”

You grin. “Whatever you’re thinkin’.”

He exhales like he’s already tired of the game. “Not happenin’, sweetheart.”

You watch him disappear inside, chewing your lip until the taste of blood cuts through the gloss. You’re used to yes. But no? That’s rare. That stings.

You roll your eyes, light a cigarette with shaking fingers. Your mom’s off somewhere with a needle in her arm and your daddy’s bones are long gone to dust. It’s just you now. You, and the buzz, and the boys too stupid to look deeper.

Except him.

He comes back out, bag in hand. Doesn’t say a word. Just unlocks his truck and throws the bag in the back seat. As he starts to climb in, his eyes flick to yours. Long. Hesitant. Like he’s not sure if he’s about to make a mistake or fix one.

“You want a beer?” he asks. “I got a few in the cooler.” He pauses before adding— “Names Joel.”

You blink. Joel.

He opens the passenger door.

“C’mon. I’ll drive you home.”

You smirk. “What makes you think I��ve got one?”

He doesn’t answer. Just waits.

So you climb in.

The truck smells like sweat and smoke and pine tree air freshener. You kick your bare feet up onto the dashboard, window down, toes catching the warm wind as it rolls through the darkening fields.

You nurse a cold beer, sipped slow, and let the silence stretch.

He drives like a man who’s lived long enough to know better. One hand on the wheel. Jaw clenched. Eyes ahead.

But he keeps looking at you out of the corner of his eye.

Your legs. Your mouth. Your hair piled up halfway to God, strands stuck to your neck from the heat.

And then—your eyes. That’s what does it. Not the body. Not the laugh. The eyes.

His mouth hardens.

“You Jane’s daughter?” he asks, voice like gravel.

You glance at him, lazy. “Mhm.”

He scoffs under his breath. Shakes his head.

“You look just like your momma,” he mutters. “Before the drugs.”

You laugh. It’s bitter. “I know.”

“She used to wear her hair like that,” he says. “You even got that same damn freckle under your eye.”

You run a thumb under it, pretending to wipe away invisible mascara. “Guess I’m just the ghost of her fucked up past.”

“Don’t talk like that.”

You raise a brow. “Like what?”

He shifts in his seat, irritated. Not at you—at himself.

“At least she used to be sweet,” he mutters.

You roll your eyes, taking another sip of your beer. It burns going down this time.

He drops you off outside a trailer with one busted window and a porch light swinging loose. You half expect him to peel off and disappear, like the rest.

But he doesn’t.

He kills the engine and sits back, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel.

You finish the beer. Swing your legs back inside. The heat sticks to your thighs, sweat in the bend of your knees.

“I know what you want,” you say softly. “You wouldn’t have offered me that ride if you didn’t.”

His eyes snap to you. Hard. Unreadable.

“I offered because I figured you’d be better off in my truck than out here flirtin’ with every drunk asshole who walks by.”

You lean closer, lips parting. “But you’re not just any asshole, are you?”

His jaw tics. He stares at your mouth like it’s poison.

Then he exhales, long and tired. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

He looks at you fully now—like he sees you, really sees you. Not the mouth. Not the legs. Just the wreckage underneath.

“This ain’t what you need,” he says. “A man twice your age who knew your mama back when she still had a future.”

You stare at him, heartbeat ticking in your throat. “Maybe I don’t want what I need.”

He shakes his head. Looks away.

“You’re just a kid,” he mutters.

You reach out. Press your hand to his thigh. Just enough to test. To tempt.

He catches your wrist, firm. Not rough. “Don’t.”

Silence.

You don’t pull away. You want him to want you. You want something to burn.

He lets go of your wrist and sighs again. “You don’t gotta act like this.”

“Like what?”

“Like love’s a thing you gotta earn with your body.”

You blink. It’s quiet. You hate how kind he sounds when he says that.

“Get inside,” he murmurs. “Before I forget how fucked up this is.”

You linger one second longer—just long enough to see the want in his eyes. That flicker of something dark and wrong and aching.

Then you slide out of the truck and disappear into the trailer.

He doesn’t leave right away.

—

It’s a week later. Friday again. The sky’s sick with heat and smog, the kind of Texas summer that makes the air feel mean.

Joel’s not planning to stop at the liquor store. He tells himself he’s just passing through, just needs gas, just wants to get home and not think for once.

But he sees you before he even pulls into the lot.

Same goddamn spot.

Same tiny shorts, legs stretched out long, red fingernails tapping a lazy rhythm against your thigh. Hair teased up like a crown of sin. A half-drained beer sweating in your hand.

But this time—

This time you’ve got a bruise blooming on your cheekbone. Dark purple. Ugly. Raw.

Joel kills the engine before he knows what he’s doing. He’s out of the truck, storming across the lot like something’s dragging him by the spine.

And there you are.

Still wearing that wicked little smirk, but your eyes look tired. Dull.

“Jesus Christ,” he growls. “You serious right now?”

You glance at him, bored. “What, no 'hi'? Not even a beer to offer this time?”

He stops in front of you. Stares at the bruise. At your lip, a little split on the corner.

“Who did that to you?” His voice is sharp. No patience.

You take a swig of the warm beer and roll your eyes. “What does it matter?”

“It matters.”

“No it don’t.” You smile again, teeth all spite. “S’just how it goes sometimes.”

He steps in closer. Towering. Looming. Not touching you, but you feel the heat of him anyway.

“Tell me who touched you.”

You snort. “Why are you even worried, huh? Ain’t you the one who said this was all ‘fucked up’?”

“That don’t mean I don’t care.” His voice breaks at the end. Rough with guilt, or something worse.

You blink at that. It almost sounds like the truth.

You lean back against the wall, beer dangling from your fingers. “Well, don’t. You’ll just be disappointed.”

He runs a hand through his hair, pacing a few steps like he’s trying not to punch a hole in the fucking sky.

“Goddammit,” he mutters. “Get in the truck.”

“What for?”

“I’m takin’ you home.”

“I don’t have one. Not no more.”

“Then you’re coming to mine.”

You don’t fight him on it.

You climb in barefoot, curl your legs up in the seat, and let the wind whip through the cab. You watch him out of the corner of your eye while he drives—jaw clenched, knuckles white on the wheel.

He doesn’t look at you at first.

But when he does—when his eyes flick down and catch the bruising on your neck, faint fingerprints just beginning to blossom beneath your collarbone—something breaks.

“Fuck.” He slams a hand against the steering wheel. “Fucking hell.”

You don’t flinch. You just take another sip and murmur, “Not like it’s the first time.”

He pulls over. Hard. Tires screech a little against gravel as the truck jerks to a stop.

Then silence. Thick. Boiling.

“Who was it?” he demands, turning toward you now, eyes wide, wild. “Tell me their name. Tell me what they drive. I swear to god—”

You sigh. “You ain’t my dad, Joel.”

His mouth tightens. He turns away, breathing hard, like he's trying to shove all that rage back down his throat.

“I know that,” he says finally. Quiet. Bitter. “But someone should’ve been.”

That makes your throat go tight. You stare out the window.

After a minute, his voice comes again. Lower this time.

“You don’t gotta live like this, baby.”

You blink. Hard.

“Don’t call me that,” you whisper. “Not if you’re gonna leave me here anyway.”

His hand twitches like he wants to reach for you. But he doesn’t.

Not yet.

“You drunk?” he asks.

You shrug. “Little. Not enough.”

He watches you. So long and deep it starts to hurt.

You don’t say anything else for the rest of the drive. Neither does he.

His hand stays white-knuckled on the gearshift. The silence sits thick between you, hot like blood. Your head rests against the window glass, the wind tugging at your hair, cooling the beer-sweat on your thighs.

You’re not used to men who don’t want something.

You're not used to silence that doesn’t scream what did you expect?

Joel’s house is outside of town—quiet, tucked behind rows of pecan trees and dying grass. It’s nothing fancy. Just a porch, some shade, a battered fence that doesn’t keep anything out.

He kills the engine, then turns to you.

“C’mon.”

You blink slowly. “What, no lecture?”

“No. Just a bed.”

You expect him to touch you. A hand to the small of your back, a palm on your thigh, something. But he doesn’t. He leads you inside like you’re made of glass.

Or like he’s afraid to break himself.

The house smells like cedar and old coffee. It’s warm. Lived-in. You stand in the entryway, swaying just a little, letting your eyes adjust to the dim light.

Joel toes his boots off and says, “You can sleep in the guest room. Sheets are clean. You hungry?”

You shrug.

He disappears into the kitchen, and you wander down the hall, fingers dragging along the faded wallpaper. You find the room. Bed made. Lamp glowing soft gold.

You sit on the edge and stare at your bruised knees.

There’s a knock.

Joel’s voice, low through the cracked door. “Brought you somethin’.”

You don’t answer. He comes in anyway—holding a glass of water and a pill bottle.

“Tylenol,” he says. “You’ll feel it all worse come mornin’.”

You reach for the water, your fingers brushing his. His eyes drop again—to your neck. Your jaw.

He sets the bottle on the nightstand, and just as he turns to go, you say it:

“I didn’t ask him to hit me.”

Joel stops. Shoulders tense.

“I believe you,” he says.

You nod. “My mom used to say the same thing. Every time.”

A pause.

You look up. Your throat feels raw.

“I don’t know why you care.”

His jaw works. “’Cause someone should.”

You fall asleep in his guest bed wearing one of his shirts—faded gray, soft from years of washing. It smells like pine and smoke. It swallows your frame whole.

Your hair’s loose now, falling across the pillow like a halo. Your cheek bruised. Lips parted. So small in that bed, you barely look real.

Joel watches from the doorway.

He watches too long.

It’s barely light when you wake. You’re thirsty. Confused. Quiet.

And there’s Joel—on the couch, still in his jeans and boots, arms crossed, head tilted back.

He didn’t sleep.

You pad into the room, your legs bare, the hem of his shirt hanging just under your ass.

He opens his eyes.

“Can’t sleep in your own bed?” you murmur.

He runs a hand over his face. “Didn’t wanna leave you alone.”

You step closer. Knees brushing his.

“Still worried I’m gonna break?”

He looks up at you. Tired. Torn.

“You already look broken.”

You crawl into his lap before he can say another word.

He tenses under you. “Don’t—”

But you’re not kissing him. Not grinding. You just curl into him, resting your head against his shoulder. Breathing slow.

His arms come around you—stiff at first, then tight. Tight like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

“I don’t know how to be good,” you whisper.

He presses his mouth to your hair.

“I’ll take care of you anyway.”

His shirt swallows your frame. Your thighs stretch warm and bare over his jeans, your cheek resting on his chest. Every rise and fall of his breath rocks you gently, like the sea.

And then you say it.

Quiet. Measured. Meant.

“I ain’t got nothin’ to give you.”

Joel blinks.

“I didn’t ask for anything,” he says.

You wrap your arms around your knees and stare down at the fraying hem of his shirt.

“You’re bein’ nice,” you say. “Gentle. Feels like a trick.”

“It ain’t.”

You chew on your thumbnail, voice soft. “I don’t know what to do with that.”

He shifts toward you, his voice calm but deep, solid like the ground. “Then don’t do anything. Just stay.”

You look at him through your lashes. Raw. “I’m used to bein’ wanted. Not… taken care of.”

His jaw tics. He says your name low, like it hurts.

“I ain’t gonna touch you unless you ask me to. And even then—only if I believe you mean it.”

You blink slow.

“That ain’t what this is,” he adds. “I’m not tryin’ to sleep with you. I just want to keep you safe.”

You scoff a little. “Safe’s just a word. Doesn’t mean anything to me.”

Joel nods. “Then I’ll show you.”

And he does.

He starts small.

Feeds you—warm cornbread with honey butter, eggs over easy, cold peaches straight from the fridge. He doesn’t hover. Just sets the plate down, gives you that look, and walks away.

You start staying. One night turns to three. Then a week.

You clean a little. Wipe down his counters. Fold a blanket he left tossed over the couch. One day, you sweep the back porch barefoot, humming something low under your breath, and Joel forgets how to breathe for a second.

He brings you things.

A pair of fuzzy socks from the gas station.

A bottle of cherry red nail polish.

A tiny black comb for your lashes.

You sit on the couch with your legs across his lap, painting your nails slow, the sharp scent of acetone curling into the room like a warning. Joel watches the curve of your hand, the way your tongue peeks out as you focus.

“You always stare this much?” you tease, not looking up.

He doesn’t answer.

You grin. “That a yes?”

Still doesn’t answer.

But you feel it. The tension. Like a wire pulled taut between you.

Later that night, you find a new toothbrush in the bathroom. Still in the package. Waiting for you.

You sit on the edge of his bed that night—his, not the guest one—while he changes out of his flannel. You wear one of his old shirts again, your legs bare and tucked beneath you.

“Why are you doin’ all this?” you ask.

Joel looks over his shoulder. His voice is low. Worn.

“’Cause I care about you.”

You swallow. “You don’t even know me.”

“I know enough.”

You don’t answer. Your throat’s too full.

He walks over, crouches in front of you. Takes your hand.

“You don’t owe me anything,” he says. “I just want you alive, sweetheart.”

You blink fast. “That’s all?”

“That’s everything.”

Your voice is soft. Almost scared.

“I want you.”

He stills.

You look at him, eyes wide and unguarded. No teasing. No mask.

“I want you to touch me,” you say. “I know what I’m sayin’. I mean it.”

Joel breathes in through his nose, long and heavy. His jaw flexes, gaze locked on you like he’s bracing for something.

“Sweetheart,” he says quietly. “Don’t do that unless you’re sure.”

“I am sure.”

“I know you want to be,” he says. “But wantin’ someone and needin’ to feel wanted—they’re different things.”

You blink. Your throat is tight. “I know the difference, Joel.”

He searches your face. Hard.

You let him.

Finally, he lifts a hand. Brushes his thumb across your cheekbone—where the bruise has faded, soft now, a shadow of what it was.

His voice is hoarse. “You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

He kisses you.

It’s slow. Careful. Not hungry or rough—nothing like the boys in back seats, the strangers in shadows. Joel kisses like he’s terrified of breaking you, hurting you.

You melt into it. Hands fisting in his shirt, mouth parting for his tongue.

You kiss him deeper. Press closer. Try to pull him down on top of you—

But he pulls away.

Gentle hands. Soft sigh.

“Not yet,” he whispers.

You freeze.

He touches your face again. Holds your jaw with his palm like you’re something fragile and warm.

“I want you, baby,” he says. “But not tonight.”

Your eyes flick away, embarrassed, afraid you did something wrong.

“I’m not sayin’ no,” he adds. “I’m sayin' I care. And I’m not gonna take you like this—tired and still piecin’ yourself together.”

You stare at him, breath held tight in your chest.

“I want you whole when I have you,” he says.

“If you’ll let me, I wanna be the man who waits.”

And something inside you breaks open.

That night, you sleep in his bed.

No sex. No rush.

Just his arms around you. Your head on his chest. His breath in your hair, steady and slow.

He holds you like he’s never going to let you go.

And for the first time in a long, long while—

You believe a man.

———

The mornings are your favorite.

You wake up warm, skin tangled in old cotton sheets and the soft press of Joel’s body at your back. His arm slung heavy over your waist. Sometimes he’s already awake, rubbing slow circles against your hipbone, breath steady at the nape of your neck.

He kisses your shoulder before you speak.

You brew the coffee. He makes the eggs. You sit on the counter in one of his shirts, bare legs swinging, red polish chipped and faded. He watches you like you hung the goddamn moon.

Some days, he brings you things—nothing big.

A peach from the roadside stand, warm from the sun.

A paperback he thought you’d like. You pretend to read it just so you can press the spine open and leave it on the table where he’ll see.

A little bottle of lavender nail oil.

You clean when you’re nervous. Rearranging the kitchen drawers, rewashing clean mugs, reorganizing his bookshelf alphabetically until he teases you for it. You paint your nails at the kitchen table while he tunes his guitar. Sometimes you hum along.

He looks at you like he wants things. Long things. Good things. Forever things.

And for a while, it’s easy.

Until it isn’t.

The argument starts over nothing.

Joel’s working late in the garage, shoulders tense, grease on his hands. You ask if he wants dinner. He mutters something distracted. Doesn’t really answer.

You try again.

He exhales sharp. Doesn’t look at you.

“You don’t gotta take care of everything all the time.”

You freeze.

Your heart drops into your stomach like a stone.

And then your voice goes quiet. Cold. “Right.”

Joel doesn’t look up.

So you keep going. “Didn’t realize I was being such a burden.”

He frowns. “That’s not what I said.”

“No, but you meant it.”

“For fuck’s sake, girl—”

“Don’t call me that,” you snap. “I’m not some stray dog you took in off the road. If you’re tired of me, just say it.”

Joel turns, eyes wide, expression wounded. “Tired of you?”

You scoff, blinking fast. “You didn’t even want me here in the first place.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it,” he says, firm but calm.

“I don’t know anything, Joel! I don’t know what this is, I don’t know how to be here. I’m waiting for the day you wake up and realize I was just—just—something to fix.”

He walks over.

Slow.

No raised voice. No slammed doors. Just him, his steady hands, and his soft, heartbreak eyes.

You try to back away, but he catches your wrist—lightly. Warm.

“Hey,” he says. “Look at me.”

You don’t want to. But you do.

“I ain’t tired of you,” he murmurs. “I need you. I love havin’ you here.”

Your chin wobbles.

“I’m scared,” you whisper. “I don’t wanna be left again.”

“I know, baby.”

And then—your whole body crumples. Right there against his chest.

The sob hits you so hard it folds you in half. Joel wraps his arms around you tight and holds you like he’s the only thing keeping you from falling through the floor.

You cry for everything. For your mother. For the bruises. For all the nights you begged someone to see you. For all the ways Joel does.

He doesn’t shush you. Doesn’t rush it.

Just breathes with you. Anchors you.

And when the tears finally stop, and your face is hot and sticky against his shirt, he tilts your chin up and kisses your forehead.

“I’m here.” he says. “And i'll still be here in the morning.”

And he is.

He always is.

The days go slower now. Sweeter. You laugh more. You touch him without flinching. He kisses your wrist sometimes, like he’s grateful it still exists. You trace the silver in his beard and he lets you.

It happens on a quiet night.

There’s no lightning. No storm. Just the sound of the cicadas outside and the slow hum of the ceiling fan above the bed. Joel’s lying beside you, shirtless, reading something he keeps forgetting to turn the page on. You’re curled against him, one leg draped over his hip, fingers tracing circles on his chest, where the hair’s gone soft and silver at the edges.

You’re not thinking about your mother.

Not about the bruise that’s finally faded from your cheek.

Not even about how long you’ve waited for someone to hold you like this and mean it.

You’re thinking about him.

You tilt your head. Press your mouth to the side of his throat. He stiffens slightly beneath you, but doesn’t pull away.

“You can touch me now,” you whisper. “I want you to.”

He sets the book down.

“You sure?”

You nod. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

Joel turns toward you, propping himself up on one elbow. His eyes search your face— like he’s trying to memorize you.

“I don’t wanna hurt you,” he says softly. “Don’t wanna make you feel like you owe me this.”

He exhales—slow. Like he’s been holding his breath for days.

Then he leans in and kisses you. Not rushed. Not hungry. Just… full. Full of every long, aching thing he’s never said out loud.

You sigh against his mouth. Climb into his lap. He cradles your hips, hands steady, callused palms sliding up the backs of your thighs beneath his shirt.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs. “So fuckin’ soft, baby.”

His voice makes you shiver. He peels the shirt from your body with careful hands, his eyes never leaving yours. When you’re bare in front of him, you almost flinch—almost cover yourself.

But he stops you.

“Don’t,” he says gently, cupping your jaw. “You don’t have to hide from me. You’re perfect.”

You don’t cry. But your throat tightens.

Joel lays you down slow. Presses kisses to your collarbone, the slope of your stomach, the inside of your wrist. He worships you. Like you’re the first soft thing he’s ever been allowed to keep.

You swallow hard. Your voice trembles. “Touch me, please.”

He groans softly at the sound of your voice—soft and needy—and kisses down your throat, slow and lingering. His stubble scrapes your skin in the best way. His mouth moves lower, teeth grazing your collarbone, lips warm over your sternum.

When his tongue flicks over your nipple, your back arches. He hums against it, suckling slow, his hand massaging the other breast.

“So good,” he murmurs. “Jesus, baby…”

He kisses down your belly next. Pauses to mouth at your hip, teeth scraping lightly. He hooks his hands under your thighs and spreads them—slow, giving you every chance to stop him.

You don’t.

You want this. You want him.

Joel settles between your legs like it’s where he was meant to be.

He pauses. “You okay?”

You nod, biting your lip. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

He doesn’t.

His mouth meets your center like a vow. Warm and wet and patient. He licks you slow, gentle, teasing—like he’s trying to savor every sound, every twitch of your hips. One thick finger slides into you—then another. He curves them up just right, and when your thighs tremble, he praises you for it.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Let me feel you, baby. So fuckin’ sweet.”

You’re gasping now, nails digging into the sheets, your hips rocking against his mouth.

He hums like he’s devouring you.

Your body tightens. That warmth building, coiling.

Joel keeps his mouth on you the whole time, tongue flicking soft and fast, fingers pressing deep and steady until you break for him. Crying out, breath catching, back arching.

He doesn’t stop. Not until you push gently at his shoulder, thighs twitching with oversensitivity.

When he pulls away, his beard is wet, and his eyes are wild. Soft.

You’re trembling, dazed and glowing, your body still fluttering with the aftershocks. He kisses your collarbone, your throat, your jaw—pressing soft murmurs into your skin.

He crawls back up over you, presses his forehead to yours.

“You okay?” he whispers.

You nod, dazed.

He brushes your hair from your face. Kisses your nose.

You reach for him. Wrap your legs around his waist, fingers tugging at the hem of his boxers.

He catches your wrists gently. Kisses your knuckles.

“I ain’t gonna rush you,” he murmurs. “Not tonight.”

You blink at him. Still breathless. “You’re not gonna—?”

He shakes his head. “I wanted to give you somethin’. Not take.”

“Joel,” you whisper. “Please.”

His eyes find yours, and fuck—he almost folds right there.

“You don’t gotta beg me for anything, darlin’.”

You sit up a little. Cradle his face in your hands.

“I want to beg you,” you say. “I want you inside me. I want to feel you.”

He lets out a low, strangled sound. Like you’ve knocked the air out of his lungs.

“Need you to know,” he says hoarsely, “I ain’t gonna fuck you just to get off. If I do this—it’s me lovin’ you, alright?”

You nod, eyes wide. “That’s all I want.”

You guide his hand to your chest. Your heartbeat pounds under his palm.

“This is yours,” you whisper. “I’m yours.”

That does it.

He groans, low and wrecked, and kisses you hard. No more hesitation, no more restraint. His hands roam your body like he’s trying to memorize it all, his mouth devouring yours with every ounce of the want he’s kept bottled for weeks.

He strips slowly. You help him. Kiss every new patch of skin you uncover—his chest, the thick line of his stomach, the scar near his hipbone.

When he’s bare above you, your breath catches.

He’s beautiful.

Strong, solid, real.

You reach between your bodies and wrap your hand around him. He hisses, his eyes fluttering shut.

“Jesus,” he mutters. “You keep doin’ that and I’m not gonna last long.”

You grin.

He leans over you, one hand braced beside your head, the other gently guiding himself to your entrance.

“You tell me if you need to stop,” he whispers. “At any point, you hear me?”

You nod.

But it’s not enough.

He cups your jaw. Makes you look at him.

“Say it.”

“I’ll tell you,” you whisper. “I promise.”

And then—he pushes in.

It’s slow. Deep. Your body stretches to take him, and Joel swears under his breath as your walls flutter around him.

“Fuck—you feel so good.”

You cling to him, gasping, overwhelmed but full. So full.

He stills once he’s seated all the way inside you. Lets you adjust. His forehead rests against yours, both of you breathing hard, trying not to come apart too fast.

“You okay?” he murmurs.

“Yes,” you gasp. “More than okay. Please move.”

He does.

Slow at first. Just the gentle rock of his hips against yours, his mouth moving along your skin—kissing your throat, your cheek, your shoulder.

“So tight, baby. So fuckin’ good for me.”

You moan. Dig your nails into his back. He rolls his hips deeper, dragging along that perfect spot inside you.

The pace stays slow. Worshipful. He takes his time, like he wants to feel all of you, like he’s terrified of missing something. He keeps one hand cradling your jaw, the other pressed flat against your belly.

“Let me hear you,” he murmurs. “Let me hear what I do to you.”

You do.

You say his name like a prayer. Like it’s the only word you know.

When you come again—hard and sudden—he groans, dropping his head to your shoulder. You pulse around him and he chokes out a curse.

He kisses you then—soft and slow, tongue teasing, lips worshipping yours like you’re a goddamn miracle. When he pulls back, he murmurs:

“I want you to tell me what you want. Every little thing.”

You catch your breath. “I want you.”

His hips pick up the pace again—slow but steady, worshipful. His hands roam over your body, memorizing every curve and dip. His mouth traces kisses down your neck, to your collarbone, whispering praise.

“You’re so fuckin’ perfect. So soft for me.”

You cry out softly, nails digging into his back, heart pounding.

“Joel,” you gasp, “Don’t stop.”

He growls low, like you’ve undone something deep inside him.

You tremble with need, words catching in your throat.

“I love you,” you whisper between breaths.

The words hit him like a shot through the heart.

His body freezes inside you. His breath catches. His eyes snap open, wild and raw, searching yours as if to make sure it’s real.

“God,” he chokes out, voice thick.

He buries his face in your neck, hands gripping your hips like you’re all he has left.

“Jesus, baby,” he groans. “I love you too. So goddamn much.”

His hips shudder, moving faster, harder. You gasp as he pulls you closer, skin pressing to skin.

You come for a third time—tight, overwhelming, tearing through you like fire.

Joel follows—his body trembling, voice breaking with a guttural growl as he spills inside you.

He holds you through the waves, breathing ragged against your hair, lips tracing soft, desperate kisses along your shoulder.

When it’s over, you’re both still, wrapped up in each other’s warmth, hearts pounding in the quiet dark.

He murmurs, “You’re mine, sweetheart. Don’t ever forget that.”

And you don’t.

#joel miller #joel miller x reader smut #joel miller x reader #joel tlou #fanfic #joel x reader #fanfiction #joel miller x you #tlou fanfic #joel miller smut #joel the last of us #joel miller fanfiction #smutty smut smut #smut

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theaftersundown · 6 months ago

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the holy grail types of fanfic

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rafecameronssl4t · 1 day ago

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Mrs. Cameron || CEO!Rafe Cameron x wife!reader

Summary: Rafe’s assistant denying you entry into his office because not knowing who you are until Rafe steps in and sets her straight.

Warnings: none!!

Word count: 1,390

MASTERLIST (CEO!Rafe au masterlist)

You didn’t normally come to Rafe’s office unannounced. It wasn’t that you weren’t welcome—far from it. You had full access: your own keycard, your own car space in the underground garage, and even your name subtly engraved on the leather lounge in his office—a quiet little anniversary surprise he’d arranged months ago. But today, you just wanted to see your husband.

No planning, no calls. Just drop by with his favourite green smoothie and maybe sit on his lap while he went over a quarterly report. A simple surprise. You stepped into the sleek, marbled lobby of Cameron Development , nodded at the security guard who gave you a warm “Mrs. Cameron” and made your way to the private elevator that led straight to the executive floor.

You even texted him: “Coming up. Missed you.”

But when the elevator doors dinged open to the 52nd floor, and you stepped out into the minimalist, glass-walled space, something felt off. Your arrival wasn’t met with the usual warmth. Instead, it was met wit hesitation. A woman stood from behind the sleek reception desk—polished and pretty, with a high-neck blouse and perfectly curled hair that hadn’t moved all day.

“Excuse me,” she said crisply. “This floor is for senior executive staff only. If you’re lost, I can escort you back downstairs.” You blinked. “I’m not lost. I’m just here to see Rafe.” Her lips thinned. “Mr. Cameron is in a meeting. I can take your name and number and have his assistant reach out to you.”

Your brow furrowed. “You are his assistant.” She tilted her head slightly. “I’m Mr. Cameron’s executive assistant.” The emphasis was hard to miss—clipped, cold, and entirely unapologetic. You held your smoothie a little tighter, a little annoyed now, but still calm. “Right. I’m his wife.” There was a pause.

The woman gave you a once-over—your low heels, the silk blouse you’d knotted at your waist, the expensive-but-soft curls, and the bare face you hadn’t bothered to dress up. Clearly, she hadn’t gotten the memo. She folded her arms. “I don’t see your name on his calendar.” You smiled tightly. “I don’t need to be on his calendar to kiss my husband. Kindly move.”

Before she could respond, the familiar click of a glass door echoed through the hallway—and then there he was. Rafe. Suit jacket unbuttoned, sleeves rolled to the forearms, his white shirt crisp against sun-kissed skin. A Rolex flashed at his wrist with every step he took, confident and direct, like the whole damn floor belonged to him. Which, of course, it did.

“Hey baby.” Your whole body softened at the sight of him. But the warmth in his eyes vanished the second he registered the tension in the room. His strides were long, purposeful, as he crossed the floor to you. “What’s going on?” “I was just explaining to this woman—” the assistant began, but Rafe cut her off with a glance so sharp it could split wood.

He turned fully to you, stepping into your space, hands resting low on your hips. “You okay?” You nodded, suddenly self-conscious. “She wouldn’t let me through. Didn’t know who I was.” Rafe’s jaw ticked. His eyes flicked back to the assistant. “You didn’t know who my wife was?”

“I haven’t met her before,” the assistant said defensively, straightening her blouse like she was still trying to salvage her authority. “She didn’t have an appointment—” “She doesn’t need an appointment.” Rafe’s voice cut through the hallway like ice, low and controlled, the kind of calm that only meant a storm was about to hit.

You felt the air change around you, the heaviness of his presence anchoring you where you stood. “She’s my wife.” He stepped closer, eyes locked on the assistant like she’d just committed corporate treason. “It doesn’t matter if you’ve met her or not. You’re my assistant—you should know what my wife looks like.”

Then, with a sharper edge, he added, “Her picture is everywhere in my office. Framed on my desk. In the bookcase. Hell, it’s the lock screen on my phone. So what exactly are you not seeing?” The woman visibly faltered. “You don’t stop her. Ever,” Rafe added, voice like steel now, his hand sliding gently around your waist as contrast, possessive and steady. “Clear?”

The woman could only nod, lips pressed into a tight line, her earlier confidence vanishing under Rafe’s glare. He looked down at you. “Come on, sweetheart.” You followed him into his office, letting the doors shut behind you. The tension slipped off your shoulders the moment they did.

He pressed a kiss to your temple and helped you out of your coat, smoothing your hair with his fingers like he was grounding himself. “You good?” he murmured, thumb brushing your cheek. “I’m fine,” you said softly. “She just had a bit of an attitude.” Rafe’s lips curled in irritation. “Not anymore, she doesn’t.”

The next day you returned around noon, invited this time with a quick text from Rafe: “Come up when you’re free.”

But when the elevator doors opened again, the desk outside his office was empty. Not a trace of his assistant. No coffee mug left behind. No expensive perfume clouding the air. Just silence and the distant sound of Rafe’s voice on a call behind the smoked-glass doors.

You stepped in and waited a minute before he saw you through the glass and hung up quickly. “Hey, baby.” He tugged you inside again, arms around your waist before you even had a chance to sit. “You fired her?” you asked. “Damn right, I did.” You blinked. “Rafe—wasn’t that a bit extreme?” He pulled back slightly, eyes sharp and unwavering.

“No. My assistant has one job—manage my time, run point. But above all? She should know who the hell my wife is.” Your lips parted in protest but he shook his head. “No excuses. You’ve been on the cover of Forbes with me. Your photo’s in every investor deck, not to mention framed on my damn desk. If she didn’t know you, it means she didn’t care to do her job properly.”

You exhaled, still half-smiling. “You’re dramatic.” “I’m married,” he said simply, leaning down to kiss the corner of your mouth. “And I don’t tolerate people disrespecting my girl.” “So who’s your new assistant?” He grinned. “Haven’t hired one yet. Might just promote you.”

You scoffed. “No thanks. I like kissing you without scheduling it three days in advance.” “Mmm.” He nuzzled into your neck, breath hot against your skin. “I’ll pencil you in for a desk appointment anyway.” And just like that, your husband had you pressed into the edge of his billion-dollar desk, your name still engraved on the leather lounge behind you.

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bebx · 8 days ago

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forever yearning

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un-fwuit-un-fwog · 2 days ago

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Midnight Visits

Part ten of The Rain series

Synopsis: Rook and Che'nya sneak into the infirmary on two separate nights to visit the recovering Prefect.

TW: Broken bone, entering without breaking, Rook Hunt

A/N: Writing block sucks. Sorry it took so long but I was finally able to form words how I wanted to again!

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10 (here), Part 11 (coming soon), . . .

Waking up the next morning you were undoubtedly better rested than you had been in a long time, but you were also a little peeved at a certain fae for spelling you to sleep in order to avoid your topic of discussion.

And boy were you happy you slept so good because the rest of the morning was a blur of tests and Styx staff. A good portion of your bandages had been removed by now. Your stomach, head, and select spots on your arms and legs were now freed from bandages. The staff decided you were far enough along in the treatment and that your body was reacting well enough to magical treatments, despite them being foreign to you, that they could do some more intensive procedures and repair your broken bones. The casts were removed, and while the bones were definitely healed now, the places where the cracks and splinters used to be were unbelievably sore. According to the doctors, this soreness would last about a week. And, over this week, you wouldn't be allowed any visitors.

The first couple days passed unbearably slowly. Nothing to do, nobody to talk to, you couldn't even play the games Idia left you because you were too sore. The TV (a gift from Idia as well) had timed out and so you were left to stare at the ceiling and hallucinate patterns in the grain of the stone.

"That spot looks like Roi du Lions."

You nearly jumped out of your skin. Your body ached in protest and a pained yelp ripped from your throat. You could barely see a mop of blonde hair out of your peripherals. "Rook?" you winced.

"Oui" came his unbothered response. Likely understanding how sore you were at the moment, Rook moved to sit on the edge of your bed so you could properly see him. He looked the same as usual except for some very distinctive leaves in twigs that were tangled in his hair. They were from a tree of which there was only one on campus. That tree was outside the window to the room you were now sickeningly familiar with.

You didn't bother asking how he managed to get inside the room, the slight breeze you felt tickling your cheeks answered that question rather clearly. Instead, you asked: "How long were you in the tree?"

Rook gave you his signature cryptic smile. "Only three days this time. Worry not. I packed myself rations for my stay in the canopy."

You ignored the absurdity of his statement mostly and asked: "This time?"

"Oui!"

You stared at him.

His face remained in a close eyed smile. He looked like a fox.

"Rook-"

"Oh! Do not look at me with such an expression! I simply could not simply allow my beloved Trickster to lay all alone whilst they battled so valiantly!"

You managed to decipher his flowery words ad essentially being him saying he had been in the tree for some duration between the time you first got admitted and now in order to keep an eye on you. You didn't bother asking if it was an occasional thing of if he was up there the whole time. You weren't sure you wanted to hear the answer.

Despite everything, Rook seemed to be at his usual level of weirdness. You were just about to wright him off as being the one who took all of this the best when a phone screen flickered before your face.

"My first stint was for 4 weeks! I was in such a rush to be by your side that I hadn't even brought rations and supplies with me! I had to rely on Monsieur Crabapple and Roi du Poison to bring me food and water in exchange for information on your condition." On his phone screen flickered an image of an unruly and wild looking Rook. His hair was far from its usual neatness, dirt and mud dirtied his clothes and complexion, his usual cleanshaven face was prickly with stubble, and he overall looked like he had just survived a month living like a beast in the forest. "Roi du Poison was quite cross with me when I finally returned, but his heart was not in his scolding."

"Wait. . .were you out there throughout the entire storm?" you croaked, memories of the storm conjured from Malleus' emotion flashed through your mind. How had he survived that?

Rook simply smiled and reached a hand up to brush the hair from your face.

He didn't stay much longer after that. He left declaring you needed rest. As he left you realized. . .his hair was much longer.

The next few nights after Rook's visit were peaceful. Your soreness was now just a dull ache of a memory of its prior intensity. You were absentmindedly staring up at the TV across the room, watching some old cartoon professor Trein had brought over CDs of saying his daughters loved it when they were younger and perhaps you would too. It was the last night of your recovery period. Tomorrow you would get to see another of your friends.

You finally decided to turn off the cartoons and go to bed for the night when you began to see flashes of pink and cartoony looking smiles out of the corners of your eyes.

You flicked off the television and were about to lay down when- "Aww. I liked that one."

You surprised even yourself by not being startled by the voice. Perhaps you'd had a suspicion in the back of your mind that you hadn't been simply hallucinating.

"Well it's no fun if you don't jump" a floating head materialized above the mattress beside you and huffed.

"Hello, Che'nya"

The mattress beside you dipped as a body materialized to go along with the head. "Hello, Little Prefect." Che'nya grinned back. "You really have set the whole island into a uproar, you know."

"I'm sure that's an exaggeration." you sigh. NRC was understandable since it's the school you go to and therefore you knew a lot to the people there and they knew you. RSA was too to an extent since you had a couple friends there. But the whole island? Maybe the press was annoying the townsfolk?

"Oh, but it's not" Che'nya coos. "I don't think you realize it, Little Prefect, but you've wiggled yourself into lives and hearts of many people here." As he spoke, his tail flicked lazily around. "Neige was nearly inconsolable."

Your eyes flick over to the bouquet on your windowsill. You received it pretty soon after the incident and a spell had been cast on it to keep the flowers from wilting.

"And I was hardly in any shape to do any consoling myself." Suddenly his soft tail coils around your leg while his fingers intertwine with yours.

"Che'nya" you sigh. "Stop joking."

The beastman laughs at your blank expression but tucks his head under your chin. "I'm not." he pouts.

You open your mouth to reprimand him once more but stop and close it again when you feel his grip on your hand tighten ever so slightly.

The room falls silent and you soon fall asleep. When you wake up in the morning Che'nya is gone but the side of the bed on which he laid the night before is still warm.

You can't help but remember how the way he clung to you last night felt more. . .desperate than usual.

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#twst #twisted wonderland #fanfiction #fanfic #twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #x reader #twisted wonderland fanfiction #twst fanfiction #rook hunt #rook hunt x reader #che'nya #che'nya x reader #aruchemi aruchemievichi pinka #aruchemi aruchemievichi pinka x reader #un-fwuit-un-fwog #un-fwuit-un-fwog's The Rain series

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notgilderoylockhart · 5 months ago

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subscribing to a fic isn’t enough I need the author to blast a bat signal into the night sky whenever they update

#ao3 fanfic #fanfiction #fanfic #ao3 #ao3 memes #reading #archive of our own

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softvalentines · 3 days ago

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pairing: clark kent x reader cw: smut, afab reader, oral sex (f receiving), overstimulation, possessive/obsessive behavior, panty stealing + masturbation with stolen clothing, cum play, mild dacryphilia (crying), implied somnophilia, power imbalance themes (due to clark's strength), fixation/infatuation kink elements, praise kink

clark kent is a good boy.

that much isn’t up for debate, near feels factual in a way that’s more bone-deep than a simple observation. there’s something about the way he listens to you like your voice is gravity itself, like the earth would stop spinning if you told it to, and he’d simply follow suit. like it physically pains him not to obey. nods his head like a schoolboy, cheeks going warm, glasses slipping down his nose, the dark blue of his eyes going glassy the second you so much as suggest something he could do for you. wide, earnest blue eyes, so soft they almost ache to look at when he glances up from between your thighs. the way his brows pinch when you sigh his name, like it physically hurts him to not be inside you.

he’s careful too — always careful, which seems ridiculous when you think about it. when you’ve got a man with hands big enough to crush coal to diamond and he’s kneeling between your thighs like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do. he eats pussy like it’s an art, like it’s a duty, like it’s his reward for walking around so soft-spoken and sweet all day. you swear the first time you let him taste you, he damn near cried.

clark always starts slow. a long, deliberate stripe from your hole to your clit, tongue broad and hot, so heavy it makes you twitch. every single time, he bucks into the bed beneath him, rutting down against the mattress with a strangled noise in his throat, like he can’t help it. mutters something soft under his breath that you can never quite catch — something in that old kansas drawl, reverent and filthy at the same time.

“god… you taste so fuckin’ good, sweetheart.”

and then it’s like something unravels in him. he pulls away for just a second, dragging the flat of his tongue over his lower lip, eyes glassy, lips shiny. his glasses always fog up — every goddamn time — slipping a little down the bridge of his nose as he stares at your cunt like it’s some ancient relic he’s been lucky enough to find.

he experiments too. brings a thick, testing finger to your soaked entrance, the pad of it teasing around your hole before he sinks it in to the knuckle. he whines. literally fucking whines at the way you clench around him. his breath hitches, his hips stutter against the bed, and he curls his finger just so, pressing against that spot that makes you jerk.

“oh, baby… yeah, that’s it. so good for me. so fuckin’ pretty when you do that.”

and you don’t stand a chance after that. because clark eats pussy because it makes him feel good. it isn’t for show. it’s because the taste of you is the closest thing to heaven he figures he’ll ever be allowed to have. he drinks you down like a man starved, nosing at your clit, humming low in his throat until your thighs tremble. his biceps flex when you try to squirm away — huge and warm and unyielding as they wrap around your hips, pinning you down to the bed like you weigh nothing.

he doesn’t stop when you cum. no, he groans like it’s his own release and keeps his mouth on you, tongue dragging relentless circles over your overstimulated clit, fingers still curling inside you until your voice goes hoarse and your legs spasm.

“c’mon, baby… gimme one more. you can do that for me, right? so good, baby… so good.”

in the end, he pulls back with your arousal glistening on his chin, cheeks, and nose, his hair a mess, eyes glassy, lips swollen. his glasses askew, barely hanging on, like the poor things had given up the fight half an hour ago. he looks wrecked. like a man who’s spent too long drinking from a cup he knows he’s not supposed to touch, but can’t stop himself from going back for more.

but see — with good always comes bad, whatever bad means for a man like clark kent. and for him, it comes in the form of a terrible, aching, ruinous panty-stealing problem.

it started as a one-time thing. you’d been asleep, room smelling like sweat and sex, and your discarded lace panties lay at the edge of the bed. he hadn’t meant to. really. but then his hand brushed the fabric, and it was damp with you, and something in his gut twisted up sharp. he brought them to his face before he could stop himself, nosing against the crotch, dragging his tongue over the soaked patch. pink turning dark where his tongue drags over the crotch.

he came in his fucking pants. just from that.

and it only got worse from there. now it’s a habit, a desperate indulgence he tells himself he’ll quit and never does. pink, expensive lace wrapped around his cock, sticky with pre-cum as he thrusts into it in the dark of his bedroom, biting down hard on the pillow to muffle his groans. panting, cheeks flushed deep, hair clinging to his forehead as he fucks himself stupid with your scent in his lungs.

“fuck… fuck, baby… oh god—”

and when he cums, it’s messy. thick, hot ropes of it, clinging to the fabric, dripping over his knuckles as his hips jerk. his whole body tightens up, a long, broken moan of your name falling from his lips like a prayer.

but clark can’t steal. not from you. no matter how low he sinks, it scratches something raw in him to keep them. so he always gives them back. sometimes it’s hours later, sometimes days — but he does. he’ll slide them back into your drawer when you aren’t looking, or tug them up your thighs when he’s got you in his lap, the fabric still sticky and heavy with the obscene amount he spilled into it. mouth moving in a desperate, pleading whisper. “don’t be mad, please don’t be mad… just needed you so bad, baby, couldn’t help it, couldn’t stop thinkin’ about you…”

and you’ll forgive him. because he’s good.

good boy. but not that good.

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