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lokischocolatefountain · 2 months

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Warning || Men Like Me

Masterlist

Fandom: The Last of Us Pairing: Joel Miller x Virgin!Reader Rating: 18+ Warnings: girth age gap, virgin!reader, eventual loss of virginity (not in this chapter), gratuitous descriptions of Joel Miller's body, somewhat creepy!Joel, fetishization of youth, dom!Joel, breaking and entering, playboy magazine, objectification, fingering, sexual discoveries. Word count: 6.2k Summary: Joel's warnings about what men like him would do to girls like you only makes you want him more. A/N: Back in the depths of hell again, you guys. Now this isn't the most depraved thing I've written by any means but it's up there. Come say hi in my chat or inbox, I'd love to talk. Keep a look out for follow up parts and pleeeeease give me comments. I am very very desperate.

Joel Miller was a bad man. That much he knew.

Even as he fixed taps and renovated houses that were falling apart, he could see the blood on his hands. The very hands that packed lunches for Ellie snapped necks, pistol whipped men, stole from a starving child so he could feed his grown brother. But there were lows even he didn’t stoop down to.

Not that he didn’t have the opportunity. Men always did. And in this world, opportunities had only tripled. Even the Boston QZ, as strict as it was, had an underground brothel. He knew Tess to frequent it and never asked questions. Sometimes she needed to bury her face between a good pair of thighs and wrap her lips around a pretty pussy, and this wasn’t something he could give her. There was a lot he couldn’t give her.

Being in Jackson should’ve civilized him. It did in many ways. He’d reverted to the southern gentleman with table manners. ‘Yes, Ma’am’ spilled out of his lips effortlessly when he spoke to women. He held the door for anyone walking in after him. He even went to Church– sorry, the multifaith house of worship–to help renovate.

That was where his troubles began.

There was no point in him going where people prayed. Being back in civilization did not erase his decades of disbelief in a cruel God who would take his baby and keep him on this accursed Earth. But he did because he was back to being a contractor and Tommy asked him to go fix up the pews instead of him. He didn’t have much time, being a new dad and all.

He was on his knees checking out the rotting wood and evaluating how much wood he’d need for building new ones when he was confronted by a pair of legs and a sweet voice. Yours.

“Lemonade, Mister Miller?”

He looked up, his eyes traveling up your legs, bare until he got to your knees where the hem of your flowery skirt sat. Pure, unblemished knees, never taken a fall, didn’t fucking creak, and never knelt before anyone but God. You looked down sweetly, eyes wide and innocent like a newborn cow. Everyone had a kind of darkness about them in this world. Everyone except the kids who didn’t know a world outside the insular walls of Jackson. And you, it turned out, even though you weren’t a kid.

He wiped his sweat off with the greasy rag he carried and looked up at you once again. You had a pitcher and an empty glass in your hands. A sweet smile on your lips and hair falling down your shoulders and reaching your breasts. A yellow ribbon sat in a bow where your neckline dipped between your breasts, adding to the innocence of your look.

“Yes please, Ma’am. Thank you,” he said, giving you a nod. Your pretty plush lips curled up, a giggle escaping them as you poured him a glass of lemonade.

His hand brushed against yours as he accepted the glass, his hand too large to curl around it without making contact with you. You giggled again before retracting your hand and occupying it with adjusting your hair.

“I’m younger than you, you know? Don’t have to call me Ma’am.”

“Just being polite. Ma’am.” He took the glass to his lips, mindful to take only a small sip instead of downing it in desperation. Another adjustment to make when food was no longer a scarcity. Sweet, sour, and salty danced on his tongue before it glided down his throat. Just a sip refreshed him. And the sight of a nice girl didn’t hurt the cause either.

It’d been so long since he had a nice refreshing glass of lemonade. Summers meant worse infestations of infected, not the barbecues, lemonades, and swimming of past. When surviving each hour was under threat, small luxuries like this became out of reach of even one’s dreams.

“Well, guess I should call you Sir then,” you said, leaning against the wall. You held the pitcher up to your chest and the tails of the ribbon on your chest dipped into it, the soft shiny yellow turning dark, tainted.

His mouth watered and fucking hell, it wasn’t the lemonade you just gave him. He took a sip of the drink and licked his lips, imagining how you’d taste if he wrapped his large hand around your neck and pressed his chapped lips to your plush ones. Better yet, if he held your legs apart and devoured you other pair of lips until you were leaking down his mouth. Would you call him Sir then? His cock twitched in his jeans as he pictured you bent over one of these pews, your skirt pushed up and his hand in your hair as he slid his cock in your hole.

Jesus fucking Christ! What the fuck was wrong with him?

“Made the lemonade yourself?” He asked, groaning as he managed to get himself back up on his feet. His knees creaked like the floorboards of the houses he renovated, but ultimately supported him as he stood. He towered over you, making you appear smaller, more fragile.

“Depends. Do you like it?”

“It’s wonderful, of course. Hot summer day like this…I really needed it,” he said, raising the glass up a little before taking another sip.

“Well then yes, I did make it.”

He chuckled, feeling himself pulled in by your easy charisma. It was nice to have normal conversations like this once again. No agenda, no need for establishing himself as someone who wouldn’t hesitate to beat someone up if even mildly threatened. It was just…normal.

“It’s very sweet, Ma’am. Like you I assume,” he added, mentally dusting off the part of his brain where he stored skills for conversing with pretty girls.

You laughed, holding your free hand up to your mouth to cover your lips that widened and revealed your teeth.

“Is that the southern charm that I hear our townspeople talk about?”

“They talk about my charm? I didn’t hear.”

“Oh yes, they do… Joel Miller, charming pants off of everyone in town.”

“Pants? Well that’s disappointing. I was hoping I’d charmed some pretty skirts off.”

“Lots of experience with that, Mister Miller?” you asked, sliding your hand over the soft fabric of the skirt of your dress. Such delicate fabric. He could fist the hem and give it one tug and it’d rip right off.

“More ‘n what you got for sure,” he said, loath to hint at how infrequent his encounters had become in the recent past. Tess died, he did a cross country hike with an annoying kid, he needed to maintain a good reputation in his new town. One buried after the other. Enough to leave a man with nothing but his fist and his imagination. He would kill for a fucking Playboy magazine. Literally. He’d killed for less.

“What do you know about how experienced I am?”

“Been experiencing longer than you’ve been alive, Ma’am.”

“Oh well. Nothing I can’t learn.”

He laughed nervously and stuck his hand in his jeans pocket. Surely you couldn’t be flirting… Why would a young thing like this flirt with him? He was in his late fifties looking like mid sixties and you were… He didn’t know. Young.

“If you could teach me, Mister Miller. Give a girl some experience?”

“I’m sure you can find someone else.”

“Oh. Not your type, am I?” you asked, and he deluded himself thinking you sounded disappointed. No chance.

He didn’t have a type. Long time since he thought of frivolous shit like that. But you shouldn’t be his type.

“There’s much more eligible men in town is what I’m saying,” he said, suddenly hesitant to lie. Lying had never been an issue for him. The right thing was to lie, say you weren’t his type so he wouldn’t cross lines. It’d been a long time since he did the right thing.

“I’ll be the decider of that,” you said with a shrug of your shoulder before taking the empty glass from him. “Have a good rest of the work day, Mister Miller.”

Later that night, he wrapped his fist around his cock in the privacy of his room. His mind flooded with images of you spread out for him, sweet lips and a sweeter pussy milking him. He couldn’t even recall the last time he was with a woman. It was Tess, of course. Sometime before she got thrown in FEDRA jail for the last time. Too fucking long ago.

Surely it was only because it’d been a long time since he got his dick wet. He’d never, in his entire life, pictured a woman so much younger spreading her legs for him. Sucking his cock. Crying out his name. How old was she even? Not past mid twenties for sure.

It was wrong, he knew, as white hot spend spurted out of his cock and covered his hand. A sour tang took over his mouth as the fog of unadulterated lust cleared up to reveal the ugliness in his head. He shuddered, feeling like something had crawled under his flesh. He hadn’t felt guilt like this in so long.

Wrong, wrong, wrong.

You weren’t even as old as his kid would be had she been alive.

He’d known men like that back in the day. Grays in their hair and skin like old leather, but pretty young things old enough to be their daughter hanging off their arm. It was obvious that none of them kept these girls around for love or for their personality. It was always sex and the feeling of self-importance when a sweet young thing paid attention to balding heads, beer bellies and limp dicks that needed a blue pill to get up.

Fucking disgusting.

He began avoiding you whenever you happened to be in the same space. At the house of worship, the town clinic where you interned, trading days when people exchanged what they had for what they wanted. His eyes never met yours and he always quickly looked away when they stared too long at your uh…feminine features– pretty legs, cute ass, round tits. Where the fuck did you get sundresses anyway? Who kept that shit around in this world?

He didn’t know that when he avoided you, you took note of him. When he took glances of your features, you memorized his for later in the night when you buried your head in your pillow and pushed your fingers inside your pussy to simulate what it must be like to be with a man.

He was older. That much you knew from his grey hair, sun-damaged skin, and gait that exuded bone-deep weariness. You knew Tommy had just turned fifty. Hard to miss occasions that meant a free slice of cake from the canteen. Joel had to be in his mid-fifties at the very least. At first glance, he wasn’t what you’d consider handsome. There were younger men in town. Fit and muscular. Didn’t groan and scrunch up their faces when they got up. Didn’t have lines on their foreheads. No bags under their eyes.

Yet there was something about Joel that was more entrancing.

After your first meeting when you offered him lemonade, you made sure to visit under the guise of worship. You didn’t know much about religion and were conflicted about embracing a god. The only faith you had rested in your medical instruments and the medicines the town’s chemist concocted. But it was a nice place to meet people, to check on healing patients.

The visits were worth it for a glimpse of Joel’s large hands wrapped around his carpentry tools. When the sun was the hottest, he sometimes stripped down to his tank top, giving you a show better than any film played in the community theater. His broad back looked masculine enough in his flannel shirts. But you didn’t know desire like the first time you saw him in a white tank, showing off his muscular arms as sweat dripped down his tan skin.

When you pleasured yourself in your room, it took time, imagination, your fingers, and a lot of effort to make slick pool in your pussy. That day, all it took was the sight of Joel Miller working. You sat with your thighs pressed together, rubbing them against each other in the most inconspicuous little movements.

Could it be blasphemy if the God who was supposedly orchestrating everything made this man take his shirt off in front of you?

It made no fucking sense. Joel was old. He looked like he woke up on the wrong side of the bed every goddamn day. He had been chewed up and spat out by whatever the fuck was outside Jackson these days. Hardened expressions, graying patchy beard, hands calloused from carpentry and decades of using weaponry. Features that only indicated a long life lived, not attractiveness.

You were supposed to be attracted to the soft, sweet ones like the guys in the worn out copies of romance stories that the previous inhabitant of your house stashed in the basement. Even his little brother would be a more reasonable target for your lust. Younger, taller, softer, head full of dark, silky hair with few grays. But you wanted Joel Miller with his rough graying beard that would prick your skin were you to cup his cheek like the women on the novel covers.

Something about him just screamed Man. Something that none of the other guys in town had. There was nothing wrong with any of the other Jackson men, but none of them made you want to take the plunge and lose your virginity. It wasn’t the lack of offers, per se. You’d gotten looks from many eligible Jackson bachelors. You had drinks with a few of them. Dinner with fewer and shared a kiss with more than one. Alright, two. But anything beyond that had you trembling in anxiety.

It wasn’t anything precious to you, virginity. But you’d waited so long. Focused so long only on survival and then helping to build this town and now training to become a doctor. Whatever passed for doctor these days. With all your life dedicated to everything but your love life, you simply had no experience. What if you messed up and they laughed? You knew anatomy, but that didn’t translate to practical stuff. What if you couldn’t make them feel good? You’d have to see the guy all the damn time in the small town. There would be no escaping the awkwardness.

Sure it was counterintuitive to keep pushing away sexual encounters because you had no experience. But you didn’t know what else to do. You were too old already to not have done anything. But each day that passed with you rejecting perfectly nice men meant you were getting even older for your first time.

You didn’t know where Joel fit into your need for exploring your sexuality, but it didn’t hurt to stare. God knew everyone else in Jackson did.

So you stared. Work with his carpentry tools. Riding on horseback into Jackson after patrol. Helping with the fucking sheep. Walking around with Tommy. Carrying his nephew around town. It should be inappropriate to be fantasizing about a man when he was doing something as innocent as carrying a baby. But seeing his large hand cradling the baby’s little head made you want to scream into your pillow and kick your legs.

“You alright, sweetheart?”

Your heart fluttered and you let out a nervous laugh at being caught. You smoothed out the wrinkles on your clothes just to make it look like you were alright. Unfortunately you were wearing a pair of fucking jeans. You didn’t even want to know how awkward you looked.

“‘m alright, Mister Miller.”

“Joel’s fine,” he said, rocking his nephew in his arms.

Oh fuck, his fucking arms!

“Oh I don’t know,” you said, fidgeting with a belt loop on your jeans. “Wouldn’t want to be impolite addressing you by your first name like that.”

He smiled, recalling your conversation from the house of worship when you called him Sir and had him fucking himself in the shower to the memory. “Ah. ‘cause I’m an old man,” he said, more as a reminder to himself to fucking behave.

“You’re not that old…” you trailed, looking him over in a way that set fire to every inch of skin that you laid eyes on.

Behave, Miller. You’re out with your nephew.

“That so?” he asked, eyebrow raised.

“Mhmm. You don’t look a day over seventy.”

He snorted, making Miles stir in his arms just a little. That stung a little. It shouldn’t. Your estimation of his age, whether you were serious or not, was reminder enough that he was too old to be lusting after you.

“Thanks. I’m actually eighty-two.”

You giggled your pretty little giggle, lowering your gaze to the ground and looking back up only when it had turned into a wide grin. “How old are you actually?”

“Old. Fifty six.”

“Fifty-six isn’t that old…” you trailed as you brought a hand up to his bicep. Joel gulped, praying to the non-existent God that you would stop before praying to the same God that you would keep your hand right there. God answered his second prayer. You squeezed, licked your lips and looked up at him with your doe eyes.

“Checking if the hardware is still working, Doctor?”

“I’m not a doctor yet.”

“When do you become one then? Ain’t no Harvard handing out medical degrees in this town.”

“Howard?” you asked, squinting at him. Ah, of course you didn’t know. Harvard didn’t mean the same thing to you. Now it was just like every other building in Boston. Run over by infected. These ones were just the nerdy kind with glasses on.

“That was a thing, too. But I said Harvard. They were big universities back then.”

“Ah. Did you go there?” You asked, with no malice or bite. Oh, bless your heart. No one expected a dummy like him to have gone to university at all, much less Harvard. No one in his family had gone. Sarah was meant to be the first.

“Yeah. Traded some oxy and threw molotovs at clickers in the campus.”

You rewarded him with a giggle and that was incentive enough for him to keep going. “Guys like me didn’t get into Harvard. Or Howard. Didn’t even go to community college. I finished high school and got a job in construction.”

“You didn’t go to uh…construction college?” You asked, cocking your head and raising an eyebrow as though testing out the term.

“No such thing. Well, there were civil engineering programs, but I just learned on the job.”

“Like me.”

“Guess so. I see you reading from all those fat medical books. But there’s no need to study any books in construction. ‘cept if you wanna be an engineer or architect or something, which I’m not.”

“Maybe you should write one. We could all do with some knowledge from before. It’s important to document it, pass it on to Ellie and little Miles over there.”

“I ain’t writing books, sweetheart. Don’t think I even remember how to write much. I’ll just keep to fixing things up in this town. So, if you need some help with your place…I’m happy to help.” It was the least he could do. Maybe as some kind of penance for having impure thoughts about you. Or as a fucked up trade for starring in the mental images he conjured to jack off in the shower.

“There is something, actually. But I don’t have anything to trade for, so I’ll wait until I do,” you said, clasping your hands behind your back and swaying in place in an endearing manner.

“Nonsense. You patched me up just last week. You’ve done enough for the town’s health to not have to trade for anything ever again.”

“Well, no. That’s not how it should be… It’s people’s health. Can’t put a price on that.”

“Believe it or not, health had a steep price back in the day. Cost four thousand something just to give birth. Double that if they had to cut you open.” And that was just how much it cost when Sarah was born. He was sure it had only gone up by 2003. If he hadn’t worked his ass off, there was no way he could’ve escaped debt. It helped that his Ma and his then wife’s parents helped with childcare. Would’ve been even more expensive without that.

“Damn. I don’t know how much that is, since…y’know we don’t have money now. But that sounds like a big number. It shouldn’t cost anything just to be born.”

“Tell me about it,” he said, shaking his head. “But listen. Anything you want fixed, I’ll help out. You can give me something later if you’re worried. I know Ellie’s always on the look for new books to read and you seem to have a lot of them.”

“Nothing Ellie would like. Not like the special limited edition of Savage Starlight or anything. Just medical textbooks and romance novels.”

“We could trade for the lemonade from that afternoon,” he insisted, desperate to do something for you. Take care of you as you took care of everyone who walked into the clinic be it papercuts or a fucking knife in their abdomen.

“Alright. Trade for the lemonade it is then,” you said, giving in to his pressure.

“Now tell me. What d’ya need fixed?”

⌘⌘⌘

It had been a few days since Joel promised to fix your shower for you. Each time he came by and rang your doorbell, you hid somewhere away from your windows. When he caught sight of you in public, you quickly walked away or engaged in conversation with someone else. You didn’t need shit fixed. Everything in your house was perfectly alright. Tommy and his guys had given the place a complete makeover just a couple months before Joel and Ellie arrived.

You were no paragon of honesty, but you didn’t make lying a habit. There were a few white lies here and there and this was meant to be one of them. It just didn’t fucking hit you that if you lied to a contractor that your shower was broken, he would eventually come over to fucking fix it. All your desperate sex starved brain wanted that day was for Joel Miller to come use his tools in your room and flex those muscles while at it.

So invested were you in that particular fantasy that as you unwound after a long shift at the clinic, it was with Joel’s beefy arms in mind. You stood in front of your mirror, taking in your reflection. One of the magazines you’d found in a box under your bed laid open on the dressing table. Playboy. Entertainment for Men. Each had a scantily clad woman on the cover. And many more inside.

You made comparisons to yourself and the woman in the center page of the issue.

She stood in front of a dressing table too, but much different from how you stood. Her legs were on either side of her dressing table chair and her hands on the top of it. Between her arms were breasts, big and round and with smooth skin. They didn’t have any marks on them like yours. No moles, no stretch marks. Just plain. And she just stood there, soft brown hair down, tickling the top of her breasts and her lips parted as she gazed at you. No, at the men she was meant to entertain in this men’s entertainment magazine. All she had on was panties that went high up to her flat belly that connected to high transparent socks.

You reached behind your back and unclasped your bra, wishing that you had something nicer like the woman on the cover of another one of the magazines. Bright red and showing off her breasts wonderfully, but pulled down to reveal almost everything. What was the point of a bra then if it didn’t cover or support anything? Entertainment, you decided. Men seemed to be very entertained by breasts.

Many a man had stared at yours even though you had them behind layers of fabric unlike the naked women of the magazines. Many had conversations with them instead of your face. Some brushed up against them ‘accidentally’. Joel thought he was being covert, but you felt his brown eyes rove all over them. You thought maybe that he too would brush up against it sometime, but he never did. Maybe entertainment stopped at just looking, as in the magazines.

You wondered if Joel sought out men’s entertainment magazines like this. He was from before everything went to shit, so it was very possible that he did. Did he like the women in these pages, sticking their asses out and looking through the pages at him? Would he be entertained if he saw you like this?

You didn’t know that if you turned your head to your bedroom door, you would have your answer. Joel’s cock strained against his already tight jeans as he stood awestruck by your figure. He swallowed as you held on to the top of the chair and lifted your knees, one after the other and placed them on the plush seat. You arched your back, a little too much at first before reducing the curve. Your ass stuck out enticingly and he didn’t know whether to grab, squeeze, slap, or spread your cheeks apart and fuck your ass.

He should leave.

It was stupid of him to walk into your house with a box of plumbing tools to fix your shower when you hadn’t yet given him a date or time for it. Plus you were avoiding him. Running away with your little friends and picking up stuff to hide your face from his view. He was plenty sure that when he’d rung your doorbell, you weren’t always away from home.

He should leave.

Fixing the shower could wait. He could confront you some other day.

But you were putting on such a pretty little show in nothing but your panties and he was only a man. A bad one.

His boots stayed put on your hardwood floors as you enjoyed yourself in front of the mirror. You spread your knees and let your fingers between your thighs, eyes closed, lips parted and low whines escaping your lips in just a few minutes. He palmed his growing erection over his jeans, consequences of being caught be damned. He was a foul beast already. What bad was another sin on the list? Besides, you were the one who’d left the fucking door open.

Your soft whimpers grew into moans as you brought yourself closer and he forced his feet to stay put despite their urge to walk up to you and give you something to really moan about.

“Fuu– mmm Joel, pleeease.”

He let out a gasp, all his restraint flying out the window as soon as he heard his name from your lips. You couldn’t actually be doing this… There had to be another Joel in town. Younger, better looking, smarter.

Your voice grew needy and the pitch higher as you kept at it. “Fuck, fuck, fuck! Gimme it, Sir.”

No, it couldn’t be anyone else.

Joel toed his boots off and took quiet steps towards you, emboldened by the filth that spilled from your lips. If this old man was what you wanted, he wouldn’t stop himself from reaping the benefits. He wasn’t a goddamn saint. Never was.

He stopped in front of you, surprised you still hadn’t sensed his presence. As though the universe heard his thoughts, it had you open your eyes. You gasped as soon as you saw him and buckled off the chair, but Joel caught you. You shuddered, unable to cope with the sudden touch.

“J-Joel?”

“Yeah, sweetheart,” he said, touching your cheek with the back of his hand. You whined, your body molding itself against his chest. You brought a hand to his arm, feeling the rock hard muscles underneath his sleeves and your other hand worked between your legs.

Your fingers no longer felt adequate as you felt his large fingers on your cheek. “Want you, please,” you whined, desperate to return to the edge where you had been right before you saw him.

“You don’t know what you’re asking of me…” he spoke dangerously, soft brown eyes clouded with a kind of desire you had longed to see in him for weeks.

“Want you…want you to be with me,” you repeated stupidly, your desperation clouding your senses too much for you to say anything else. While in the past you only wanted to get rid of your virginity, your goals had become more specific with his arrival. You wanted him. You wanted his big hands and broad shoulders, to hold on to them as you rode him. To watch his grumpy expressions turn to ecstasy under you.

“Tell me not to touch you,” he said, his tone low and almost threatening. Any other threat from him, you would’ve heeded. But not this one.

“Touch me!”

It was as though something in him snapped at your words. While darkness only loomed over him before, it now completely took over.The hand that previously only caressed your cheek now wrapped itself around your neck. Before you could completely process the move, his other hand slapped yours away. He replaced two of your puny fingers with his middle finger, eliciting a strained moan from you.

“Touching yourself to a Playboy magazine, huh?”

You only nodded, unable to form words now that a fantasy of yours had finally come to life.

“Dirty little thing…Thought you were a nice girl and all. Helpin’ out at the clinic, head buried in books all the time. Turns out you actually got your head in dirty magazines.”

You whined, your pussy clenching and gushing around his finger at the way he was speaking to you. The same man who insisted on calling you Ma’am despite your protests was calling you a dirty girl now. The veil of respectability seemed to have floated away at the sight of you naked and pleasuring yourself. Had you known that this was all you needed to get Joel Miller to touch you, you would’ve done it much sooner.

He added another finger, the girth of him enough to stretch you more than you had done for yourself. You brought a hand up to his shoulder and fisted his shirt, needing something to anchor yourself to.

“You ever been taken by a man, sweetheart?” He asked, his tone too cool and casual for what he was doing to you. You shuddered, partly from his phrasing– taken, he said. Taken. Like you were a thing. Like the women in the magazines positioned so uncomfortably just so their breasts could look a certain way for the picture. Printed on the cover page with the words Entertainment for Men written on top. You shook your head, feeling small as you confessed it for the first time.

“Any man?”

“N-no,” you managed to breathe out, whimpering at the way the bulge beneath his jeans twitched at your simple answer. He took a step to position himself behind you, letting you lean your back against his chest. The angle at which he touched your pussy changed, opening your world up to a wonderful new kind of pleasure.

“A virgin. Pretty young things like you ain’t for men like me,” he whispered in your neck, making you shiver. His thumb roamed between your legs as far as they could reach, caressed you gently, his softness with you contradicting his warning about men like him. The hand around your neck slithered down your torso, cold air forcing you to face your new desire of having your breath kept hostage.

He took your left breast in hand, squeezing the flesh like someone starved would hold on to a piece of bread. It felt more like a punctuation to the warning he issued than a part of sex. Just then, his thumb between your legs stopped its search, stopping a little above the fingers inside you.

A moan you didn’t recognize as yours at first filled the room and you buckled forward. Blunt nails sunk into the flesh of your breast as he saved you before you could fall. He hauled you back up, making you collide against his chest.

You gasped and quickly grabbed the hand between your legs, the sensation too intense for you to know what to do with. His thumb kept on, rolling over something there that set your person on fire.

“Fuuuck! Joel– I– I– hnnng–”

“I know, sweetheart,” he crooned, keeping at whatever the hell he was doing to make you feel this way.

“Please… I don’t– what was that?”

You felt his chest rumble before you heard his laughter. Heat rose to your face and your throat felt strained though there was no hand around it anymore.

“Never touched your clit? Do you even know what that is?” He mocked, the cruelty somehow not repelling you from him. He forced you to look up at him. Your heart lurched at how close you were to his face. You could see every gray hair, every minute blemish and line.

“Don’t know your own fucking body but you want a man? You don’t know what you’re handing me on a silver platter. I ain’t like the other guys in town. I walked across the fucking country and lemme tell ya, there’s no pretty things like you out there. I’m starved.”

“Take me, then,” you begged, using his own words from earlier. “Please. Whatever you– a-aaah!”

He ramped up the pressure on that spot– your clit– and with it, took your ability to speak coherently. It was as though he’d done it on purpose. You hated it. To be so bereft of control. To be a puppet in someone’s hand. For someone to acquaint themselves with parts of you that you didn’t know of. But it was too much to fight, so you let go. Let him play with you. Take you. Like a thing.

You renounced control of your lips too, his name slipping out effortlessly like it did when he caught you. Then you renounced what was left of your dignity and began begging relentlessly. For what, you didn’t know. In his hand, you’d gone from woman to pupper, your strings pulled by a man, your voice now his. Sounds that would be indiscernible from that of a wounded animal emanated from somewhere deep within you.

Perhaps none of this was real. Why else did your own voice grow so distant from you? Why did your vision become blurry? Your thighs shook uncontrollably and your heart felt like it was beating out of your chest. Your eyes clenched shut, depriving you of your blurred vision. Your toes curled. You wanted to shrink into yourself, shrink away from all this goodness. You went higher and higher, soaring like a bird. Every nerve ending in your body felt electrified, awoken like one switch turned on every light on last winter’s Christmas tree.

You let out a loud cry, the soaring bird in you reaching its peak before beginning its fall to the ground. You could hear your breaths again, labored but doing everything to stabilize itself. Your thighs still shook. Your chest rose and fell. A hand caressed your hand. Behind you, something strong supported your back. Kept you from falling backward.

“Joel…”

“I know, I know…” he whispered into your head. You opened your eyes and looked up at him, surprised to see a softer visage. He picked you up off the chair like you’d seen him lift giant logs before. With ease. You didn’t protest as he carried you. Didn’t protest when he laid you out on your bed.

He bent down and picked something up. No questions, no instructions. He simply spread your leg away from the other. Cold air touched the gushing mess dripping out of you and you shivered, feeling a sudden need to cover yourself but unable to defy him. His hand was on your pussy again. His hardened, calloused fingers behind a soft fabric this time. He wiped upwards, collecting the mess he made out of you. When he lifted the fabric up, you realized it was your panties.

He tucked it into the pocket of his jeans and then looked back at your face, the intensity of his gaze making you want to run. Problem was your weak legs wouldn’t take you anywhere. You didn’t screw your eyes shut. You didn’t pull your blanket to conceal yourself. You looked back at him, defiant. Like you were trying to prove something. I can handle a man like you.

“Be a good girl from now.”

That and a condescending pat on your pussy and he was gone.

⌘

Part 2

#joel miller #joel tlou #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x y/n #joel miller x oc #joel miller x original character #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller fic #joel miller smut #joel miller age gap #joel miller fanfiction #tlou fanfiction #tlou smut #pedro pascal #pedro pascal character fanfic #all that i've inflicted on the world

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macfrog · 3 months

Text

sweet child o' mine | pt. iii

now taking name suggestions for my joel's duck doodle. must rhyme with a curse word. most creative wins.

pairing: neighbor!joel x fem!reader

summary: as your pregnancy progresses, you and joel are getting closer. dangerously closer.

warnings: reader is literally pregnant so typical pregnancy symptoms & descriptions of stuff like extreme nausea and gagging (reader throws up off-page, no graphic description past sore throat/esophagus afterward), body changing, nerves around birth/becoming mom, another sonogram (gender reveal...?), baby kicks felt, labor pains shhh, age gap (late 20s reader, late 40s joel), joel is dating someone who isn't reader, our girl hates nye (she's valid), tommy uses colors to represent gender (he is Wrong), joel is for sure emotionally cheating at this point and reader knows it, joel kisses someone who is not his partner again, f masturbation, memories of the hot dirty sex they had whew, a SPRINKLING of breeding kink, praise kink, size kink, another parent dies (i love parents i promise ????), jealous!reader, protective!joel, alcohol consumption, cursing, a LOT of angst, lots of fluff, lil bit of smut, and duckie has the best comedic timing of any character in this entire series. :) DISCLAIMER: this series covers some issues which i know may be sensitive and possibly triggering to some. warnings will always be as thorough as possible, but if there’s ever anything you feel i’ve missed, please let me know. feel free to drop by my inbox anytime.

word count: 11.4k (sorry. lots to cover lots to do.)

pt. i / series masterlist | main masterlist | playlist | follow @macfroglets w notifs on to be the first to hear when i post 🩵

December.

The days are funneled by a quick pinch of dark, the breeze heavy in its sail. Houses lined with twinkling lights and windows pierced by pointed trees. Crooning from every radio station, teary-eyed movies on TV, and spiced apple everything.

You hate every fucking minute of it.

“Wait a second,” Tommy sits forward, leaning in, “you never do nothin’ for New Years?”

You shrug, lifting your eyebrows. “Nope. Just don’t like it much. That a crime?”

He considers it as he hands his empty tumbler up to Joel, his head lolling some. He’s on his…fourth drink of the night, right? Though, if you take into account his earlier argument – I’m eatin’ as I go. It don’t count. – it’s probably more like two. But it’s whiskey, so –

Never mind.

“Yeah,” Tommy finally decides, “kinda. The hell’s wrong with you, girl?”

“Tommy.”

Joel’s voice is a warning, edged by the sharp clink of three glasses pinched in his fingers.

His brother laughs amiably in response, though, nodding to your mock-offended expression. “At least you’re spendin’ it right this year. Last one before lil’ Dickie comes along, huh?”

Maria slaps his shoulder, rolling her eyes. “It’s Duckie,” she hisses, glancing over to you.

“Shoot,” he says, chuckling. “I knew that. My mistake.” And then, hand out towards you in an apology which makes your shoulders jerk with laughter, “I did know that, I swear.”

Tommy and Maria flew in a few days ago; the younger Miller adamant that he’d spend one last New Years with his big brother before he became a father. The night they arrived, they showed up on your doorstep – a hamper filled with diapers and muslins and baby socks hanging from Maria’s arm. They’ve asked to hang out with you every day since.

They’re good fun. Tommy likes you, at least, enough to tease you as much as you figure a brother might. He’s definitely the louder of the two – sometimes you swear you notice Joel cringing at him, something caught between a laugh and a frown on his face. And Maria’s sweet; she’s asked probably six times every hour since she first saw you if you’re feeling okay, if you’re tired, if you’re hungry.

Joel text you yesterday morning. Tommy and Maria wondering if you feel like coming over for NYE. No pressure, he added, I lie pretty good.

A smile snuck its way across your lips before you had the chance to tame it. Sure, you typed, I’ll bring the newspaper.

What Joel’s told them, about the wedding and the baby and everything since, you’ve no idea. You guys almost talked about it when he told you they were flying down after Christmas, but before you got the chance to ask him, Vanessa pulled up out front.

Not exactly a conversation you felt like having with the dude’s girlfriend hooked around his right arm.

She smiles at you, now, as you shuffle to the edge of the armchair you’re curled up in. Joel’s armchair – the plaid blanket cradling you, the leather soft and crinkled beneath. Your eyes quickly drop from hers when his hand reaches for your mug, your fingers crossing as you pass it up. “Let me come help,” you say, pushing from the chair.

He holds up a palm, shaking his head once. “Stay. I got it.”

“Thanks,” you murmur, settling back. Vanessa resumes smiling. You wish she’d fucking quit it. You wish you’d fucking quit focusing on her.

Joel knocks the mug gently against your shoulder with a small, almost sympathetic smile, and heads for the kitchen – leaving you sat between Tommy and Maria on one couch, and Vanessa on the other. You tuck your heels under your thighs, picking at a hangnail as you wait for the conversation to thaw.

Maria makes some comment about Austin in the winter: how different it is to Jackson, and the three of you nod and hum in agreement before the chatter fizzles to nothing again. You glance over to the clock, watching the hands chase one another to twelve.

This isn’t what you imagined a get-together with Joel’s family would feel like. Tight, tense. So tense that you can feel the weight on your chest, closing your lungs. Talking about the weather and the holiday traffic, talking about nothing to avoid talking about everything.

Tommy’s chin lifts, after a second too long of silence. “Hey, Joel!” he barks. “You ain’t shown me this nursery yet!”

Joel leans around the doorframe, half-distracted. “Barely even started it, little brother. Crib only got delivered yesterday.”

“Sheesh,” Maria’s eyes widen, “you sure are prepared.”

Vanessa laughs when Joel rolls his eyes and vanishes again. “You got no idea,” she says, “I have never seen him so…pedantic, right?” She looks to you, still smiling. So sweet, you worry your lips are pursing at the sight of it. Your neck tensing. Your eyes watering.

“Yeah,” you reply, nodding shyly and swallowing back the saccharine. “I think he’s more nervous than he’s letting on.”

Joel’s voice calls from the kitchen again: your name. When you answer, he says, “Why don’t you take Tommy up, show ‘im what we got so far?” and then, leaning back around the door, “She picked the color ‘n whatnot.”

“Ah,” Tommy says, palms pushing down on his knees, “so you’re the brains, then?”

You mirror him, accepting Joel’s request. As though you had any choice in the first place. Standing beside the younger Miller, you mutter, “Sure. Let’s go with that.”

He holds a hand out to usher you ahead, following you upstairs. Past the tousle-haired boy in grayscale, past the German shepherd, past the Christmas Day portrait. Wandering like you know the house inside out, like you might’ve picked the exact coordinates of each nail the picture frames hang on yourself.

Like the photographs pinned to the walls aren’t still as alien to you as they’d been that day you first set foot in here, the dress Joel would come to tear from your body slung over your arm.

You twist the gold handle and unveil a homely little room, painted by you and Joel just last week. The soft blue drying into his knuckles, random splatters on your palms and your jeans. The giggles drawn from your chest; the thief either the chemicals from the paint, or the man rolling it over the walls – and you’ve a pretty good idea of which.

Tommy sniffs roughly, nodding. Taps the toe of his boot against one of the two bulky boxes leant against the wall, a crib printed on one and a rocking chair on the other. His tipsy head bob bob bobbing. “Alright. ‘s nice, ain’t it?”

You settle against the window, the glass cold at your back. “Real nice, yeah. Be even better once it’s done.”

“What’s yours look like?”

“Mine?”

“Nursery at your place. Your one pink, ‘case it’s a girl?”

You snort. “Mine is a little greener. More…I guess it’s duck egg. Had some leftover paint.”

He clicks his fingers and points to you. “See what you did there. Duck egg. Duckie.”

“Hm. Wish I were that poetic. I just like the color.”

Tommy stuffs his hands in his pockets, wanders around the bare room. The faint lingering of whiskey putting up its best fight against the clean bite of fresh paint, the sweet scent shaking from him when he nods some more at the blank walls and naked windows. He clicks his teeth and asks, “How you holdin’ up, anyways?”

“How am I holding up?”

“Yep. With, uh…” he nods to the door, eyes wide, “…Vanessa,” he whispers. Louder than he must think – probably echoed, if anything, by the palm he curves around his mouth.

You cross your arms protectively, shoulders bunching. “She’s fine,” you say, voice deliberately low. You both ignore the crack in it when you add, “I like her. She’s – she’s taken this all like a champ.”

Tommy leans on the window ledge, a rugged hand you reckon you’d know was a Miller’s just by looking at it. Same rough-cut quality as Joel’s, like they’re torn from the same sheet of sandpaper. He props the other on his hip. “But, boy – it’s gotta be complicated, right?”

“I guess. But she’s real sweet about it. And Joel’s been great, too.” You sniff, the memory of your kiss flashing behind your eyes. The steady drum of Duck’s heartbeat, the gleam in Joel’s eye when he looked down at you. The guilt seeping from your skin like beads of sweat, prickling along your spine and fizzling against the cold windowpane.

Tommy blinks at you, liquor-glazed eyes scanning. His shoulders jerk, a loud huh propelling from his throat. When your head cocks in confusion, startled from your daydream, he spills. “He ‘n I had a mighty long talk when he told me.”

You feel yourself leaning in, magnetized to him – body hunched as though you’re gossiping in the corner of a house party. Inhaling secrets with the tinge of alcohol on Tommy’s breath. “Oh, yeah?”

Tommy hums. “Just wanted to make sure he’d thought it all through. Not you – I always knew he’d take care a’ you and Duck. But…involving Vanessa,” he lowers his voice again, glancing over to the warm light spilling in from the hallway, “I just wanted him to be sure.”

Your blood begins to warm, heat flooding through your body as you step closer, murmuring, “What’d he say?”

He flicks his head, seeming to toss his initial response to the wind. “You know Joel. He is his own man.”

Your face screws, head jerking back. “What’s that mean? He is his own man?”

A voice from the doorway interrupts. A shadow swimming in the golden light. “Who is?”

Tommy steps away from you, loosening his arms as his big brother drifts into the shadowy room. Dusting the conversation under the rug. The smell of whiskey backs off. “Speak of the devil. Nice paint job, Joel. Missed a couple spots, but – I’ll let you off.”

“Uhuh.” Joel’s eyes thin, his body slanted against the wall. Arms crossed, bottle of beer hanging from his fingers.

Tommy swaggers forward when Joel holds the bottle out, taking it with a wary glance at the tall figure. A dog meandering back to his owner, tail between his legs and ears flat. It takes his gritty voice to jolt you back to the room, splintering your gaze from Joel’s toned arms and huge chest. “Looks real good, you two. ‘s one lucky kid.”

Joel’s jaw lifts, his eyes landing on you. Dogs are terrible liars. “He talkin’ your ear off?”

You smile; recognizing the softer Joel you’ve grown used to over the last three months replacing the stern, cold version you once knew so well. “Only a little.”

“Tommy,” he says then, “Maria needs you for somethin’.”

The denim-donned Miller nods knowingly and heads out of the room, thud of his boots receding downstairs.

“Maria okay?” you ask, making space for Joel as he settles beside you.

He shrugs. “Only said that to get him outta your hair.”

You frown. “You sent me up here with him in the first place.”

“So I could come up ‘n check on you. Know this must be a lot – the two of them, tonight.”

“I’m fine. Promise. I’m a big girl.”

You both sigh, turning to look out at the dark street. Your arms cross, sitting somewhere above the tiny slope of your bump – a new development you’re still getting used to. Your stomach feels tighter, a little more solid than usual when you touch it. A little more…real. There’s someone in there, right? Like, actually there. They’re changing the way you look, the way you feel.

“This is it, right?” you say, staring at the white lanterns illuminating Alice Brown’s rose bushes. “This is the year.”

“The year,” Joel agrees.

“Mhm. Become a mom. Become a dad.”

He purses his lips. “Yeah, I don’t know. I’ve had bigger years, kid.”

“Let’s hear it, old man. Let’s hear about your biggest year. God knows you’ve had plenty to choose from.”

He sucks a deep breath in, eyes tracing the silhouette of the houses across the street as he thinks. “Senior year, nineteen ninety-three. Asked Stacy Moore as my date to the prom ‘n she said yes. I was so nervous that I forgot my bow tie. Was a pretty good year.”

You hum, agreeing, and then, “I see your ninety-three, and I raise you: two thousand and one. There was this bike I wanted for-fucking-ever; it had, like, little beads on the spokes – would make this ratatatat sound whenever it moved. Tassels hanging from the handlebars, all iridescent. I begged my mom the entire year for it, and on Christmas morning I woke up, and…” You lift your hands, air puffing from between your lips. “Santa Claus delivered that year, dude.”

“Well,” Joel clicks his teeth, shell hardening only a little, “thanks for making me feel old as hell.”

“You’re welcome.” You beam back at him, breaking into a laugh when he does.

The two of you stand a little distance apart, denying yourselves the innocent brushing of shoulder against shoulder, the nudging of elbows and swaying of hips. Admiring the empty sky and emptier street, bathing between the cold moonlight of outside and the warm lamplight in.

And from somewhere deep in your belly, somewhere tucked behind your ribs, beneath your slow-growing womb: an urge to ask about her. To bring her up. To tend to the curiosity that Tommy poked a clumsy, drunken finger straight into, tearing it apart at the seams.

Like pressing on a new bruise, satiating the hungry need to know where you were hurt, how you were hurt, when you were hurt. A bent fingertip, pushing heavily into a sensitive splatter of dark purple; the burst blood vessels hissing in response, whispering, You don’t know, and you don’t want to know.

But you defy them. You do want to know. Want to satisfy the disturbed thrill you felt, leaning into Joel’s brother. Hands turning over one another, wet bottom lip trembling as he rounded the corner on some sort of…what was it, a secret? Some sort of truth, a long-buried revelation about the other woman. She’s a witch, have you spotted her crooked nose? She’s plotting something, I swear. She’s up to no good.

Your eyes lift again, focusing back on the dull color of the outside world. The bland canvas of reality. She’s not a witch, nor some genius mastermind. She’s a boring, relatively normal woman. Kind, thoughtful. Naïve and a little too eager to please; too willing to forgive a situation which warrants no such kindness or empathy.

She’s just…fine. Lukewarm. And you’ve no idea why that pisses you off so much.

Which, incidentally, makes the bruise sting all the more.

“Maria, Maria,” Tommy’s voice claws its way upstairs, “turn it on, turn it – Joel? Joel! It’s midnight, Joel, you two better come on down, now! Have we missed it –? Have we –?”

The sound of cheering slowly bubbles to life behind his drawl as the TV volume picks up, the tittering of Maria and Vanessa chiming in.

“…five, four, three, two, one…Happy New Year!”

Joel’s looking over his shoulder, waiting for footsteps or voices or a girlfriend who never shows. And he ignores his brother, for he is his own man, and turns to you instead. Bracing himself on the ledge, he blinks down with a plain grin on his lips. “Happy New Year, Mom,” he whispers.

You return his smile, taking his hand when he reaches out to you. “Happy New Year, Dad,” you reply, squeezing his palm.

He pulls you in for a hug, kissing your cheek briskly as you hook your arms over his shoulders. His beard scratches your cheek, grazes the curve of your shoulder, and you don’t mind. Your small, swollen belly presses against his; the tiny curve safe in the midst of your embrace.

Outside, the sky crackles to life with the distant spatter of fireworks, color shattering across the black canvas – red, blue, green and gold, dissolving as quickly as they explode into the now-January night. A burst of purple light washes between the two of you, and you turn your head on Joel’s shoulder to watch as the sparks rain over your neighbors’ roofs.

“I should get goin’,” you whisper, feeling his heartbeat a little too strongly against your own. Becoming suddenly aware of the weight of your frames locked together.

“Glad you came,” he says as he leans away. “I know this ain’t…I know we’re all tryin’, but you’re tryin’ the most, and I appreciate it. I hope you know that.”

“I know it,” you tell him, rolling your eyes. “Now, go. Go kiss your girlfriend.”

He chuckles, making for the door. “You want me to walk you home?”

Your eyes close serenely, the image of him doused in flickers of gold burning behind your eyelids. “I’ll survive the walk across the hedgerow, Miller.”

Joel nods once and leaves, plodding downstairs to be greeted by his open-armed girlfriend, a peck between them, arms crossed behind his neck. The lyrics of Auld Lang Syne slurred against his lips.

And you think – You know what? If it’ll rip you apart from her, if it’ll keep her bright red lips and her shining curtain of hair away from you, if it’ll stop her sucking in your air and your smell and your attention for thirty fucking seconds –

Then, yeah. Walk me home. Stay for a drink. Sleep in the goddamn guestroom.

Walk me home.

You slip out of the front door when the two couples are in the kitchen, missing Joel’s calling your name – or perhaps just ignoring it altogether.

“Spread the love at St. David’s this Valentine’s Day…”

Joel slows alongside a wall of cerise hearts, each one fluttering like wings whenever the hospital doors slide open and the breeze sneaks inside. Slips scrawled with names and messages: Love you M! and J + A, crude drawings of stick figures holding hands. Your lips curl into a smirk, watching him flick through each one as you palm your round stomach.

You just saw Duck for the second time. The last time, Freya was kind enough to mention, before they’re tearing you in two. Sorry, she mouthed when your expression dropped, and went back to twisting the probe over your stomach. Silently.

You’re getting better at it, you think. Playing Mom. Like some little game of make-believe, which is only real for as long as you’re looking it square in the eye – attending doctor’s appointments, updating the neighbors on your newest list of symptoms en route to your mailbox.

A little surer on your feet, now that you’ve found a balance to it: taking it as seriously as it warrants, a dry little pill stuck on the cliff of your throat, and making it easier to swallow with humor like water, a huge gulp anytime the fear claws its way up your spine.

And no more panic, since at least before Christmas. Only a little flustered this afternoon when Freya asked if you wanted to know the sex.

It felt too big a thing to hear, too real. You’re only just getting used to the backache and the bleeding gums. (And why didn’t you know that your gums would bleed? Isn’t that something they should fucking warn you about? Congrats, you’re pregnant: prepare for blood seeping from your jaw.)

No. No, thanks. Your head shot around to Joel. No, right?

He shrugged. Makes no difference to me.

Are you sure?

I’m sure, kid. Promise.

‘cause we can find out. I mean – if you want to.

He rocked forward on the balls of his feet, tapping you amiably on the shoulder. I don’t. You’re good.

You don’t?

No, I – He sighed, a hand dragging through his hair. If you want to, I want to. If you don’t, I don’t. Alright?

Freya bit back a laugh, the closed fist over her lips doing little to hide it. You guys should write a book on co-parenting.

But then she left the room again, closed the door on that same old little bubble – the three of you perched on the bed, you and Joel blinking up at the grains of your child onscreen – and you cried. Again. More.

Everything clearer, everything even more human than before: the globe of their skull, the tiny slope of their nose. All glowing in the dark waves of your womb, twinkling like the most beautiful constellation you could ever come across. Their ankles were crossed, feet forming a tiny heart shape in the top corner of the sonogram. Your hand lifted to point it out to Joel, and before the words found voice, you choked and broke down again.

He held you, lips to your hair, body solid as a rock as you melted into him in waves of salty tears. Smiled that honey-glazed smile and said he was so proud of you, said, look what your body’s doin’, darlin’, look what you’re growin’ – which only made you weep more.

And you pretended not to wait for it – for the moment when you might tilt your head up and your lips might line with his, and he might close the achy space between you again, might shush your cries by stealing the air from your lungs and the beat from your heart.

But he didn’t.

Which is fine.

Right?

“Somethin’ on your mind, kid?” he asks now, eyes still glued to the sea of hearts.

Your stare snaps from him instantly, unaware it was even held there. You tug on the hem of your sweater and pull the sleeves over your hands, mumbling, “Fine, I’m – I’m just…Come on, man. I’m hungry. I didn’t eat lunch today.”

“’n whose fault is that?”

You glower at him. “How considerate,” you seethe, “Vanessa’s a fucking lucky woman, you know that?”

He ignores you, a dumb smile on his face. The usual. “Let’s leave one for ‘em.”

A hot temper begins to boil below the surface of your skin, squeezing between your teeth in a fist-swinging breath. Also the usual these days, apparently. “For who?”

“Duckie. Somethin’ to mark the second scan. Last time we see them, before –”

Your hand flies up, eyes closing with a wince. Shut the fuck up. “Enough. I know.”

Joel hms, still smiling to himself. His beard has grown out a little: thicker, darker, gray sewn through like little whip stitches lining his jaw. He fishes a heart shape from the tub along with a pen, which he twirls annoyingly around his fingers as he thinks.

You sink back against the clinical white wall, an offensively bright color, holding your cheeks up in something of a smile when a nurse wanders past, nodding to both of you. Your face drops back to a scowl as soon as she’s over Joel’s shoulder, and your eyes meet his again – his brows raised, expectant.

“What?” you ask, chewing on the inside of your cheek.

He holds the slip up. “What we gonna write?”

And whatever charm the moment may have held, withers instantly. You throw your arms up petulantly. “You wanted to do it! Pick something. See you soon, or something, I don’t fucking know.”

“I don’t fucking know,” Joel muses, creases by his eyes when he smirks. “Poignant.”

“That’s what you should write,” you step closer, shoving your shoulder into his as you study the trembling hearts on the board, “if you can spell poignant, write that.”

“Hilarious,” he mutters, bending to scribble onto the shape, shielding his work from your view when you hang around his shoulder to pry. Cupping over the message until he’s straightening up, tossing the pen back to the desk, stealing a pin from the tub.

“Let me read,” you protest, tugging on his flannel sleeve.

“I will,” he says, shaking you off. “Patience, darlin’.”

Joel turns to the wall and pins the heart higher than the rest, in a spot clear of its own on the corkboard – thick arms stretching higher higher higher and pulling your gaze with them. As he steps back, he takes you gently by the waist and positions you in front of his body, your shoulders brushing against his chest. Your ribs hold your heart back from hammering into his.

You push up onto your tiptoes and squint at the note, which quivers when the hospital doors pull open again. “Mom and…Mom and Dad f…You fucking…”

Joel dodges your batting arm, snickering with you as he turns to make for the exit. “You don’t like it?” he tosses over his shoulder.

The heart stares down at you, black ink carved into the paper, watching as you turn and hurry after him, giggling. “Mom and Dad fuckin love you? So much for my potty mouth. And the –” another wheezing laugh you’d otherwise be ashamed to let him hear, “– the drawing? It looks – it looks more like a giraffe than a duck. Or, like, you know those long-necked dinosaurs?”

Joel’s head tips back, his own laughter caught up by the breeze when you wander outside, slipping your wrist around the crook of his elbow. Something infectious about it, something which stirs your own laughter until you’re walking arm in arm to the truck with a man who, six months ago, you’d barely look at twice over the fence.

The blind rage bubbling from your empty stomach seems to dissipate, dwindled to nothing in the face of that same man – his swollen cheeks and crows-feet eyes. And you say, “You’re disgustingly sentimental, you know that? Like, sickening.”

And Joel smirks, the way he always fucking does, and says, “You love it. Can’t lie to me.”

“I love it,” you concede, nudging into him as he opens the door for you.

The drive home is quiet, but not uncomfortable. There’s another thing you’re getting good at: being around Joel without need for snide remarks, without feeling your tongue curl under the weight of some snappy quip, loaded and aimed. Being around him and talking about Duck, asking how Tommy and Maria are. Forcing your teeth and tongue to carve out words which ask how Vanessa is, what she’s up to, when he’s seeing her next.

None of this is ideal, that’s for sure. Joel’s girlfriend aside, you’ve spent the last five months cohabiting your body with a stranger who lives most peacefully in the eye of a raging tornado of hormones – flitting between fits of giggles and pulsating joy in your veins, to waves of tears and an anger so hot beneath your skin that you wonder if your emotions might dry up completely by the time this is all through.

It's tough. It’s scary. And some nights you lie in bed, alone, wet eyes fixed on nothing, waiting for someone to burst into the room and announce that it’s all a prank. Just a silly joke. You and Joel can go back to tossing newspapers and casting glowers.

But for now, sat in the passenger seat of his truck – the seatbelt warped around the curve of your belly, the Eagles lilting softly from the radio – it feels like you’re making a home out of that tornado, too. Feeling the swirling walls of wind toss your hair like the breeze through the truck window; the chilled caress of the evening around your outstretched arm, soaring down the highway.

Yeah, you think. I can make something outta this.

“You know what I’m craving?”

Joel’s watching the light, waiting for green. “What’s that?”

“A fucking bagel. Cream cheese, pastrami,” you groan.

He snorts, cringing when he adds, “Pickles?”

A moan tears from the base of your throat, head lolling against your seat. “I could orgasm just thinking about it.”

The light turns, and Joel swings right. “I’d rather you didn’t,” he mutters, turning the wheel with one palm. “I got bagels back at the house, if you want one.”

You stare at him, jaw loose, saliva pooling behind your bottom lip. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

He smiles, shaking his head. “Let me make you one, ‘fore you go home. Big day, ‘n all.”

And you hate it – hate the way your cheeks fill with a genuine happiness, something swollen and achy, impossible to ignore when it lifts your eyes and hurts your teeth. Appreciation, or admiration, perhaps, that you figure you’ll only ever have for him. You don’t know what the fuck to call it.

So you sum it up into three words. “That’d be nice,” you whisper, and Joel places his hand over your knee, shaking it lightly as he drives on.

It stays there, until he’s pulling into his driveway.

He pushes the front door open and steps back, an arm extended to let you by first. An after you, ma’am, between his lips. And you turn to make some mocking joke, the beginnings of some comment about how gentlemanly he is, when you’re socked square on the nose by a heavy-fisted, bitter scent.

“Oh, fuck,” you gasp, stumbling backwards across the threshold and onto the porch again. Your throat constricting around nothing, your tongue twisting, your stomach lurching.

Joel catches you just in time to stop you from falling on your ass. “The hell’s the m–? Oh.”

“Hi!” Vanessa calls from the kitchen, leaning around the doorframe to wave you both in. “Almost ready! Take a seat.”

“V–? Hey, sweetheart?” Joel calls back, one hand around your wrist and the other between your shoulders. “What – what’s cookin’?”

She pauses, glancing back at the stove. Pulls the dish towel between her hands taut. “I…I made pasta.”

“Yeah, what kind, sweet?”

“…Bolognese.”

He can’t cover his own sigh quick enough. Thick with something which feels like anger. “Shit,” he turns back to you, “I am so sorry.”

You pull in a deep, unsteady breath, your lungs struggling to separate night air from tomato juice. A weight rolling at the bottom of your stomach, your entire body beginning to tremble with it. “I feel like I’m gonna – Joel, I’m gonna –”

“Breathe,” he whispers, voice urgent, palm slipping to cup your jaw. “Just breathe for me.”

But your throat’s tightening, swallowing hard around gags which come stronger and quicker the more you try to fight them down. “I can still fucking smell it –”

Her shadow blocks the stretch of light from the house. A nervous little thing, a timid creature’s shadow stretched wide across the porch floor. “Is…everything okay?”

“It’s – it’s fine,” Joel sighs again, torn between comforting you and letting Vanessa down gently, “it’s just – tomato is one of her…her aversions.” He’s unable to pull his eyes from you, privately asking, “Are you okay?” when Vanessa turns back to the kitchen.

“I didn’t – I didn’t know,” she mumbles, thumbnail between her teeth. “I am so sorry.”

Suddenly, your will not to throw up is overpowered by your will to tell her, “It’s fine,” sucking in a deep, sickly breath before adding, “I’m just gonna – I should go.”

“I don’t want you to go,” Joel says, his teeth guarding the words from his girlfriend.

“I’m gonna clean up in here,” Vanessa points over her shoulder, and you think she must’ve heard him, “get outta your hair. I’m so sorry, again. I would’ve never…”

Joel lets go of you as you stagger backwards, the cold air tearing down your throat to meet the burning acid tickling up your esophagus. “Please don’t apologize,” you lift a weak hand, “how could you have known? I’ll –” another sharp gasp, “– I’ll see you guys around.”

He must say your name, must try once more to pull you back to his side, but the blood’s rushing through your ears, and your heart’s pounding at the back of your tongue, and your stomach’s notching its way up your spine. You make it to your kitchen sink just in time.

He keeps you waiting all of one hour before he’s calling you. Your arm reaches over to your nightstand, fumbling in the dark for your heavy phone, the screen cold against your cheek.

“Mhm?”

“Are you okay?”

Your lungs pull a deep, slow breath. The acid painted across your throat tickles as the air passes by it, an uncomfortable, scratchy feeling.“Mhm.”

“That a lie?”

“Only a little. Is Vanessa okay?”

He takes a second to answer. Lets go of whatever he was going to say with a sigh, replacing it with, “She just left.”

“Is she mad at us?”

Another second. “Just me. Not you.”

You massage the slope below your breasts, the ache in your esophagus throbbing when you move. “Why just you?”

Ruffling, like he’s settling back into his couch. Sinking into the cushion, his body as heavy as yours feels on your mattress. “I should’ve told her you didn’t like tomatoes. ‘cause now I’m a goddamn mind reader. I mean, why the hell wouldn’t my girlfriend be in my house cookin’ a damn pasta dish while I’m out, y’know? Jesus Christ.”

“Joel,” you turn slowly onto your back, bravely waiting for the waves of nausea still lapping around your stomach to turn with you, “it was a nice thing, what she did. She didn’t mean to…She probably thought she was helping.”

“Naw, I know,” he replies, the sharp bite of his words softening again, shrinking under yours. “I don’t care about her and her helping, though, darlin’, I care about y –” He barely catches it in time. “I care about you carrying my child, and I care about making sure you don’t spend your nights fuckin’…throwing up tomato sauce.”

You gulp, neck convulsing. The backwash of bile swallowed back. Your chest floods with a heat of quick panic. “Can we…maybe…not use the word? I just –”

“Sorry, baby. Sorry. This is just – it’s a lot easier if she would just…”

Your eyes close over, a salty sting sweeping behind them. If she would just lay off. Back off. Fuck off. “…but she won’t, Joel. She loves you. ‘n you…”

The words drift off, taken by the tide, swept off into silence. And neither of you bother with trying to retrieve them – you just watch, stood safe on the shoreline, as they fold under the waves of something too big for either of you to acknowledge. Too dark, too dangerous.

So, you say, “I get it,” instead; say, “I get why you’re mad. Just – let’s forget about it, okay? Sorry for…ruining dinner.”

Joel scoffs, that old, pissed-off Joel scoff. You can see his deadened expression on the back of your eyelids. You may as well have just thrown his newspaper to the end of the earth. “You know damn well that you didn’t ruin anything. How you feelin’?”

“Tired. Throat kinda hurts.”

“Still feel like that pastrami bagel?”

“Not really. Sorry. Appetite’s gone.”

“How about a water?”

“I got some here. Thanks.”

“Okay,” Joel sniffs, “how about: you take the hint and let me come over there to see you?”

You giggle, hand over your eyes to mask your expression from the dark. “I hate you. Yeah, come over. Door’s unlocked.”

Date night – six month anniversary or whatever. Call me if you need anything.

And I mean anything. OK?

Your thumbs hover over the two gray messages, an awkward jig as your brain scrambles to offer words back. Where are you guys going? Too interested. Too weird. OK, what if I’m bored? Delete delete delete. Trying too hard. Sure, have a good n–

The ellipsis pops up and you freeze. A stupidly polite swish delivers Joel’s third text.

Boredom counts as anything, by the way.

And the fucker steals another smile from you. You notice it when you look up, clocking yourself in the mirror. Accompanied by a warmth which drips down your spine, swirls around your tummy; a fluttering you’re not sure is Duckie or something else.

Have a good night, Dad, you type back, tossing the phone to the end of your bed when you hit send. Swiping for a pillow, holding it firm to your face. Pressing so deep into the plush that even the linen won’t be able to see your grin.

Joel told you about this six-month anniversary last week. He wasn’t too thrilled about it then, either. Dinner to celebrate six months? A year, fair enough. But six months?

You swallowed your pride, swallowed the same throttling ecstasy which seeped through your pores on New Year’s Eve, on that February evening she cooked– never mind; a desperate desire to tear apart the very notion of Vanessa and her cutesy little date nights and candlelit dinners. I think it’s a fun idea, you said. Y’all should do it.

And Joel listened. Because he always fucking listens to you, these days. Listens when you tell him that you like the watermelon Sour Patch Kids best, and picks them up anytime he’s at the store. Listens to you when you tell him he should move the crib away from the window, in case the streetlights shine on Duck while they sleep.

Listens when you ramble about how sore your feet are, how heavy your belly feels, how there’s a clammy heat lingering under your skin at all times, bubbling and bubbling and never rising to anything more than steam collecting on the underside of your flesh.

Listens when you tell him to go spend time with his girlfriend. And neither of you pay attention to the jealous shadow behind your words, the hesitant quiver behind his.

He replies almost instantly, the ping like a gunshot at the beginning of a race. Pillow slammed into the mattress, body lunging forward.

You too, Mom. Don’t have too much fun without me.

You lock the phone and slide it back under your covers, smiling dumbly.

There’s still a small part of you waiting for the big reveal: none of this is really happening. A dream, maybe, something you’ll wake from with a tiny throbbing headache, a dry mouth and a new reason to avoid your neighbor at all costs.

But it seems that, each time that thought crosses your mind, you’re quicker and quicker to quash it. Realizing each time that what lies ahead – Joel, your baby, this future version of yourself that you’re yet to meet, still just a little out of reach – fills you with more excitement and wonder, than it does fear.

Mom.

It’s not something you ever imagined for yourself. Not someone you ever thought you’d be. And yet, each time you say it out loud, each time you look in the mirror and picture a baby in the crook of your arm, a toddler perched on your hip, a kid stood by your side, tugging on the hem of your shirt – she feels a little closer. A little clearer. She just has to look over her shoulder, notice you waiting. I’m right here, she says. Come find me.

Mom. Mom and Dad.

You imagine Joel right now, sat in some ritzy restaurant with jazz music and stained-glass lamps on every table, ordering Vanessa some glorified lentil soup and slapping his card over the bill before the waiter has a chance to reveal the damage to him. Your lips twist at the thought – her jewels and her long hair and her sweet little smile laced with a smug possession.

And then you slap your own wrists, hissing to yourself to shut the fuck up.

“She’s nice,” you argue out loud, thin air holding no debate. “She’s kind, and I like her. She’s good for him.”

And then the air replies. Good for him, it swirls, but you could do it better.

Your arm lifts, lingering for a beat before batting the thought away.

Three weeks. Three fucking weeks, between pushing yourself out of his embrace in bed, and pulling yourself back into it – armed with a pregnancy test and a chest full of fear. Three weeks of dodging him, of your cheeks bubbling with embarrassment and regret anytime you thought of it; of hoping to God that Alice or Diane or Steve and Kris across the street wouldn’t clairvoyantly know what had transpired that night and corner you on your own front lawn.

A one-night stand. That’s all it was. Two lonely bodies, excitement enough to convince you both that it was a good idea; a fitted suit and a backless dress crumpled together on the floor. Liquid courage lacing it all together.

Three weeks, then, of reminding yourself how it felt: how amazing you were together. Your hand between your legs and Joel’s name between your teeth.

Fuck. If only he knew. Goodforhimgoodforhim she’s so good for him but I’m better.

You did it better. You know you did. The sun was cresting the horizon by the time the two of you stopped. You hauled yourselves down to breakfast and sat at least three people apart, made forced conversation with Maria about the DJ stumbling off with one of her cousins, while the ghostly ache of Joel’s body churned somewhere deep inside you.

It travels through your veins the way that everything does right now: urgent and unforgiving. A need to be dealt with, immediately. Coursing through your body, an arrowhead pointing somewhere you know it shouldn’t. But your hands lift anyway – following it, loosening the waist of your sweatpants and skimming beneath your underwear.

Your body lights at the first touch. The first dip of your middle finger against the plush over your clit. Knees bend, thighs part. You push your underwear down your hips, settling your bottoms loose on your legs. You’re already wet. You’re already there.

Good fucking girl. She’s good but I’m better, right? Take it, baby. Does she take it like I take it? Take it. Can she take you like I did?

Quicker and quicker and quicker, your fingers heavy on your clit. The other hand sifting between your folds, dipping to collect a glimmer of wet. Yeah. Just like that. Do you fuck her like you fucked me? You feel what you do to me? Fuck no, you don’t. You’ve never fucked anyone like you fucked me.

Head back, eyes fluttering closed, lips parting to breathe answers to a man who isn’t here. To a man who, as he dips sourdough into an overpriced soup, sure as hell isn’t thinking about that time he fucked you so good he got you fucking pregnant.

Well. Maybe he is. You are, right?

Voice without body, drawl etched in your memory. Think she can take it all? You hum in amusement, waiting for him to answer his own question. Yeah, she can.

Attagirl. Your legs spread further, knee lifting as you insert two slick-coated fingers. His hands are on your thighs, following the dip of your hips, holding your waist as you guide him back inside. Attagirl. That’s my – Fuck, Joel, you’re so b– That’s my fuckin’ girl. Take it. Touch it. His thumb on your clit – his, not yours. You like that? Yeah, that’s nice, ain’t it?

The flesh of your breasts filling his palms, squeezing and nipping and rolling between. The warmth leaking between your legs: his and yours and fuck, he’s so deep and he’s filling you again and he’s groaning as more dribbles from where he splits your body around his own, holding you still until he’s done. Until he’s empty.

“Joel,” you whine, a third finger pushing in.

Between your hips. Headboard hammering against the wall. The sun hanging loose at the bottom of the sky. Gonna make me come again, baby. Do it. Do something irreversible. Change me forever. Fuck me fuck me fill me and then pull out, push back in with the wet squelch of your come mixing with mine and changing me forever. Making me brand new. Making me yours.

Another moan. Louder. Sharper.

Yours yours yours. All mine? All yours. We’re good at this. I know we are. Who fucks you like this? No one – No one – just you – just me. It’s so big, fuck, but I can take it. Been thinkin’ about this all fuckin’ day, baby. All I do is think about you. All I fucking do – You gonna come for me? – is think about you.

Know you need it. Let ‘em hear you, downstairs.

Fuck, I’m thinking about you. Come home. I need you to come home, need you to –

Fuck me, Joel, I’m –

Good girl.

– fuck me.

Atta fuckin’ girl.

She’s good but I do it so much better.

We’re good at this. ‘s do it again.

She’s not as good as me.

Again? Again.

She’s not as good. She’s no fucking good.

Your walls clamp around your fist, entire body shuddering to a stop. Breath held by something shaped like the hook of his accent, two fingers either side of your throat. The same smirk on his lips that convinced you in the first place. Fuck, baby, fuck me.

“Joel,” you cry out, the sound ripping between your vocal cords, punching against the ceiling and reverberating in your ears. Your body convulses on the mattress, back arching and slackening again. “Fuck, I’m – oh, my –”

Just feel it, baby. Feel me. You got it.

Let go.

Your lungs lurch open again, breath flooding in like waves spilling over the gunwale and rushing down to pool at your feet. A lulling rock to your movements, chest rising and falling like the steady tide. Soothing, coming down. Foam and salt carrying the flotsam away, the jagged glass of his name disappearing to sea again.

And then he’s gone.

And you’re just alone in your bedroom.

Last you checked your phone, now face-down on the carpet at your hip, it was eight p.m. Streetlights on, the sky painted by the pale dregs of daytime.

Now, you lie in near-darkness, blinking up at the ceiling. Hand sifting through a bag of glow-in-the-dark stars, comparing the different sizes, considering where to stick them, and then tossing them back in frustration.

Your front door clicks open, a pause between the sound and his voice.

“Anyone home?” Joel calls, and you lift your wrist as though he can see it from the bottom of the fucking stairs.

“Up here,” you eventually announce, knuckles rubbing your tired eyes until Catherine wheels spatter across your eyelids.

His shadow splits the light from the hallway, the long rectangle crossing over your swollen belly. “The hell are you doin’?” he asks, wandering in.

You lift the bag. “Decorating. The hell are you doin’?”

He pulls your nursing pillow from its temporary home in the crib and tosses it down on the carpet, bending to lift your shoulders and slot it underneath. “Scooch,” he says, groaning as he lays back beside you. He smells like whiskey and cologne. All woody, pine and spice.

“You got a bad back,” you warn him. “You shouldn’t be all the way down here.”

“You’re seven months pregnant,” Joel clicks his teeth, “neither should you.”

“What if you get stuck ‘n can’t get back up?”

Offense pulls his brows together. “What if you do?”

You smile in response, feeling the heat of his shoulder against yours. Sucking the scent of him through your nose. The pair of you exchanging smirks and batting eyelashes, wrapped in the cool darkness of the room. It’s juvenile and intimate.

You’re trying not to think too much about it.

“I can’t fucking figure this out. I put two of the big stars over there,” you point to the far corner of the room, streetlight splintered by the shades on the ceiling, “but it looks stupid having two so close. So, then I thought,” moving your arm to the right, “a cluster of smaller ones, right over the crib. But I couldn’t move the damn thing to climb up, so…I’ve been down here ever since.”

Joel lifts his hand, stopping your train of thought. “Please do not climb on anything, bein’ that you are…with child.” And then, when your eyes roll to meet his, he grins, adding, “Nesting got you good, huh?”

“You should see my kitchen cupboards. Never been tidier.” Your expression dissolves, voice quietens – your most desperate plea since that morning you shook hands on his doorstep. Your broken wardrobes and his lonely wedding invite. “Will you help me?” you ask.

He thinks it over less than once, dragging his gaze from the twirling star in your fingers. A quick shake of his head, like it’s obvious. “’course I will. ‘s what I’m here for.” And then he yawns, lowering a hand absentmindedly to settle on the curve of your stomach; a gentle pat in greeting to Duck.

“How was dinner?”

“Good,” Joel lies.

“Vanessa okay?”

“Good,” again.

“Sorry.”

Joel’s eyes roll, fingers pausing. “Why do you always gotta be sorry for som’?”

You shrug when you realize it’s not a rhetorical question. He’s genuinely asking. “I don’t know. Just tryna be polite. I know you’d probably rather be at home right now, not…deciding where some plastic fuckin’ stars should go.”

“For my kid’s bedroom? For you?” He huffs something shaped like disapproval. “Do me a favor – stop with the sorrys, alright?”

“I’m not even done with the last fucking favor I said I’d do you.” Your eyes flit down to your bump.

He stares blankly. You know there’s a laugh gathering like hot air on a windowpane behind his eyes, threatening to shatter the glass.

“Fine,” you concede, “dickhead.”

“Better.”

You sigh, looking back down at the phosphorescent shape in your hands. Turning it over and over and over, matching the rhythm of his fingers tensing and then untensing on your belly. His fingers, matching the rhythm of your chest rising and falling with breath. The room quiet. The night’s eyes averted, even just for this moment.

“If it’s anything,” Joel says, “I think the stars look alright.”

Another stolen smile. Another defiant show of teeth. You place your hand on top of his: a thankful gesture, an invitation. Something in between.

Joel blinks back at you, his eyes flitting from yours to your lips. The dim light in the room swallowing the two of you whole, secluded in the upstairs of your home. And you think, Kiss me, kiss me kiss me kiss me, and you will the words over your tongue in a ragged breath – hoping that Joel might breathe them in and feel their sharp edges as they absorb into his bloodstream, each cell flipping like the star in your hand and whispering the same two words to him: Kiss her kiss her kiss her.

But right then –

There’s a burst of movement. Under your fingertips. A fluttering, like bubbles popping right below the surface of your skin.

Your eyes snap down at the same time Joel’s do; your fingers separating and hovering over your tummy.

“Did you – did you feel –?”

“Yeah. Did you?”

“Uhuh. Was that –?”

“I don’t know. Was it?”

He takes your hand, pressing it back against your stomach with his on top. Your knuckles safe in the canopy of his palm. Both staring into space as you hold your breath.

“They’re not…they’re not doin’ it, now…”

“Maybe it was just –”

“Wait! Did you feel that?”

A second burst on your womb, a tiny beat on the other side of your bump. A wide grin breaks across your cheeks, a disbelieving laugh escaping.

Joel laughs, too. “Is that – is that the first time they’ve ever –?”

“Yeah,” you sniff, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes, “that’s the first I’ve ever felt ‘em, anyways.”

“Wait,” Joel says, lifting his hand and holding a finger up. Just yours on your belly. “They doin’ it?”

Your head shakes.

When he lowers his hand, Duckie kicks again. The two of you lean in to one another, exchanging laughter. You lift your own hand, watching his expression as he waits patiently.

But then his head shakes, too. “Nothing. They’re only doin’ it when it’s both of us.”

“What the fuck?” you laugh, replacing your hand and waiting for the baby drum. “How can they even tell? What the f–?”

You shift your hands around the globe of your bump, pausing every so often to feel for Duck’s movements. A tiny fist punching, or a heel kicking, or an elbow shoving right above your navel in a way that’s bordering on painful, but numbed by the sheer thrill of it.

And for a while, it’s all you do: play tag with your unborn baby, giggling when they respond to your tapping fingers and cooing voices.

Joel sits up, leaning on his elbow to talk to his kid; runs two fingers across your shirt like a pair of legs scaling a cotton covered hill. And he laughs, and you laugh at his laugh, as if he’s a kid himself again – tearing apart gifts on his birthday, gasping and throwing his head back with glee at whatever he uncovers.

“It feel weird?” he asks, glancing up at you.

“So fucking weird,” you tell him.

“Does it hurt?”

“More…ticklish, if anything. Might get kinda annoying, if they start doing it when I’m tryna sleep, or somethin’…”

Joel lowers his jaw to your stomach, whispering, “You know what to do, Duckie. Make your daddy proud.”

You slap his shoulder, muttering, “Asshole.”

“Alright,” he says, splintered by a laugh. He pushes himself to his feet, swiping the bag of stars from your side. “Let’s get these up so you two can get some sleep.”

You groan as he pulls you upright, one last pat on your stomach, looking at you a second too long and a touch too meaningful. Too warm, too inviting.

It’s the calm before the storm, though you’re still stood motionless. Still trying to work out whether the tornado is moving away, or headed directly for you.

At five in the morning, Vanessa’s sister calls her.

“Heart attack,” Joel tells you a few hours later, the rustle of paper crinkling in your ear. The truck hums in the background. He speaks through a mouthful of sandwich. “Her dad always had a condition, but they thought they were managin’ it with medication,” another crinkle, and then, voice even more obscured, “but he got rushed to hospital durin’ the night, and…”

“Poor Vanessa,” you reply, nail drawing shapes on the curve of your bump in attempt to lull Duck into a more relaxed state than the sharp kicks they’re throwing at your ribs. Now big and strong enough to do considerable damage, your voice falters each time they swing. “Is she – son of a bitch – is she okay?”

“Shaken up,” he says, turn signal ticking over his voice. “She’ll be alright. She’s pragmatic like that. Problem is – they’re in Houston. Her whole family. So I guess that’s where the funeral’s gonna be.”

You swing your legs off the couch, heaving your awkward, nine-months-pregnant body to your feet – the irritating scratch of hunger suddenly gnawing at your stomach. “Yeah?” you say, waddling through to the kitchen. “So?”

“So,” Joel takes another bite of sandwich, “she has to – I mean, we have to…go. To Houston.”

“We?” You slot the phone between your cheek and shoulder as you fish out a couple slices of bread.

“Me ‘n Vanessa.”

“Uhuh,” you carve a knife around a jar of peanut butter, “you gotta be there for her.”

Joel sounds a little defensive. “I know. And I am. I’m goin’ to be. ‘s just – I gotta be there for you, too. For – for Duck.”

Your stomach swirls, a fire catching which lights your chest in a trickle of flame.

“You are. You will be. Houston’s only, like, three hours away.”

He sighs.

The turn signal fills the silence between you, between Joel and an appropriate answer. Clicking like the sound of a tennis match, his head spinning between his grief-stricken girlfriend, and the third-trimester mother of his child.

“I’m here,” he says, and you hear the squeal of brakes out front. “Give me a sec.”

The door pushes open as you sink back into the couch, balancing the plate on the planet beneath your breasts. Joel crumples his sandwich paper in his fist and lowers his hand over the back of the couch, scrunching his fingers over your belly as he passes.

“Thought you hated that stuff,” he calls over his shoulder, disappearing into your kitchen.

“I had a craving,” you say, ripping the first bite from your sandwich. “You made me hungry.”

He returns a minute later with a glass of water which he sets down on the coffee table in front of you. He lifts your legs, letting them fall gently in his lap when he collapses into the opposite end of the couch, heels of his palms pressing against his eyes.

You tap his thigh with the ball of your foot and he turns to you, placing a hand over your ankles. A sticky paste of peanut butter and bread between your molars, you ask, “What’shup?”

Joel holds back a smirk at your chipmunk cheeks. “Just – just worried that you…you know, while I’m gone, is all.”

You scoff, gulping. “Come on. I am not gonna go into labor in the, what – two days? How long would you even be gone?”

He seems to wince at the thought, fingers sifting through his hair – a gray sweep sat casually over his left eyebrow; flicks following the curve of his ear towards the hinge of his jaw. “Less than that, if I can help it.”

“Joel.”

He turns to you, saying your name just as deflated in response.

“You have to go.”

He rolls his eyes, thumb and middle finger massaging his temples. Crosses his arms and huffs like a teenager. “Well, I ain’t happy about it.”

You snort, unable to hold it in as you take another bite. “I ‘on’t think Vanesha’sh too happy about it, either, to be honesh wih ya.”

Joel’s jaw slackens, a choked laugh bursting from the back of his throat. He lifts a cushion and swings it in your direction. “Heartless. That’s heartless, you know that? Jesus, baby.”

He leaves on Saturday morning.

You stand on your porch, watching him shove a suitcase into the backseat of his truck, squinting in the sunlight as he stalks across your front yard. Joining you in the shade, he leans into you, shoving you lightly.

“Quit it.” Your hand locking with his, steadying yourself. Something in the back of your mind begging him not to let go.

And as if he can hear the thought: “I can stay. You know I can stay, right?”

“I don’t want you to stay,” you tell him, sweeping the hair from his forehead. “We will be fine. We’ll stay up late, eat junk food and watch TV; I’ll do audio description for Duck…”

He scoffs, glancing across the street.

“…and then you’ll be back home, back to buggin’ the hell out of us. It’ll be Monday before you know it.”

Joel’s jaw tightens. “And what if…?”

“You really think that’s gonna happen? You think your kid’s that much of an asshole?”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “Yeah,” he shrugs, tongue in his cheek, “they’re half you.”

“Alright,” you click your teeth, turning away from the simper on his lips, “why don’t you just fuck off to Houston now, asshole?”

“I’ll fuck off, that’s what I’ll do.”

“Uhuh. Here’s hoping you don’t break down, or get a flat, or get struck by lightning, or anything.”

“You’re so funny,” he whispers, leaning closer.

“Hm. Now go.”

His jaw turns, beard grazing your skin. And then his lips; soft and warm, damp when he kisses your cheek. A moment too long. And he doesn’t pull away, doesn’t lean back the way you both know he should. No, he lingers – his lips by your ear, eyes flitting up to the street to make sure nobody sees.

“Joel –”

“I know.”

“We shouldn’t –”

“I know.”

But your arm is hooking around his neck, asking him to do it anyway, and his lips are lowering to yours, submitting to your request, and what’s supposed to be a goodbye kiss lasts at least a few seconds too long for it to mean anything less than a don’t go kiss.

You pull away when you feel the wet dab of his tongue against yours, realizing with an ice-cold shock where you are, and who he is, and what’s happening. Realizing how fucking stupid it’d be for both of you, how catastrophic and terrible the outcome.

A one-night stand.

A one-night –

He leans his forehead against yours, nose nuzzling your cheek. “I’ll call you when we get there.”

Your arm loosens, letting him go.

Just – letting him go.

Saturday Night Live ends just after midnight.

You arch your back into the couch, your swollen belly pushing forward. It’s an effort to get to your feet, what with the steady ache in your back all day, the weight on your front, and the fucking human being smushed into every vital organ inside you.

A deep breath feels like it inflates your lungs only halfway, Duck using the bottom half as a fucking ass cushion, and scaling the stairs takes another ten minutes – by the end of which, you’re slumped against the handrail, pausing before making off for your room.

You sink into the mattress, creasing the cool, smooth sheets. Duck stirs inside you, stretches out and throws a right hook against your bladder. You curse under your breath, hoisting yourself back to your feet.

“We gotta sleep, baby,” you hum, swaying back and forth with a hand under your belly. “Shh, ‘s okay. Take your fuckin’ fist outta my bladder, you little asshole.”

Whichever traits of yours and Joel’s have blended into the human cocktail growing in your uterus, you know one thing for certain: this kid has your stubbornness. The weight remains on your bladder, regardless of how much swaying, or pacing, or rubbing, or threatening you do.

You growl, wandering through the upper floor of your house in attempt to shift Duckie, or distract yourself, or, at the very least, tire the two of you out enough to fall asleep.

From the nursery door handle hangs a little wooden star, a tauntingly sleepy smile painted on it. You push the door open with two hesitant fingers, stepping into the still bedroom, the weak wash of streetlight meeting moonlight on the greenish walls.

You suck in a deep breath, floorboards squealing as you take your first step. Over the crib hangs a plastic mobile, soft plush shapes twirling slowly. The matching changing table slotted alongside it, a rocking chair over by the window.

You pad across a fluffy rug and lower yourself into the chair, tilting back and forth on your toes as you glance around one of the two rooms you and Joel have spent the most time in since that October morning bonded you forever. A baby duck ornament perched on a shelf above the dresser, its orange legs dangling. A multi-photo frame Joel’s mom bought you, both scans in the first two slots and the third empty, lying in wait.

Your breathing fragments, struggles, eyes slipping over to the baby clothes hanging in the closet. “You know, little Duckie,” you whisper, rubbing your bump and thinking back to Tommy’s words six months ago, “you are a pretty lucky kid.”

The hooded towel robe on the back of the door, the perfect size for a newborn. The framed prints sat atop the chest of drawers, waiting to be nailed to the wall: a rainbow, a frog, a starry sky.

“You got two houses. Two bedrooms, all to yourself. You got two parents who already love you more ‘n the whole world. And,” you gulp, “you got Vanessa. And she loves you, too.”

You glance down, watching the tiny pulse of movement when the baby stretches in your womb. Your hands scoop them up, as if holding them closer than they already are. As if already cradling them, forcing yourself to feel less alone.

Duck seems to quieten, to still; seems to consider what you’re avoiding. Reads between the lines, hears the words you’re not speaking.

Two of everything, you think, and I barely even had one.

The most evidence you have of being loved by anyone in your life is the house you live in. Four brick walls and three decades’ worth of belongings, more inheritance than memories. But they roll around like marbles – they echo against the walls when they hit them. There’s nothing binding them, no thread of love, or family, or anything real enough to hold it all together.

You’re the only living organ inside a skeleton’s cage. A lonely little heartbeat, making noise for no one to hear.

And that’s the way it has been, at least since you were eight. The absence of warmth and safety isn’t anything new to you – it left the second your parents did. The last scrunch of your mom’s nails on your head, the last kiss of her lips to your plump little cheeks. The passing over to your grandma, like you were cargo, like you were a box to be checked.

Maybe you found some distant flicker of heat in the way Joel looked at you, the day you told him you were pregnant. Maybe you saw the same glimmer of a flame that you used to see in your mom’s eye. The rosy smell of her perfume, the feel of her finger inside five of yours. Maybe, for the first time since you were a kid, you felt safe.

We’re gonna work it out, he said. I’m here. We’re in this together, alright? I am not running out on you.

Together. And yet, now, sat in your child’s nursery – a room built from scratch by Joel’s two hands and strung together by every beat of your heart – you’ve never felt more alone. The same two hands that are wrapped around Vanessa right now, consoling her, wiping her tears away, massaging her shoulders and sweeping her hair from her eyes.

And the same heartbeat which quickens now, fueled by an angry desire, an impulse scratching deep into your flesh to march all the damn way to Houston and tear the pair of them apart. Like he’s yours; like the way he touches you and looks at you and talks to you means anything more than his child growing inside you.

Like it’s you he’s touching and looking at and talking to, and not Duck. Like his attention won’t cease to shine on you, the second this little baby leaves your body.

And then, washing over the scorching hot sand of anger: a foam-lined wave of guilt. Of shame, for wishing for the breakdown of something that clearly makes the two of them happy. That makes Joel…happy.

He doesn’t owe you anything – he was never yours to begin with. Just one drunken night, a mistake until you noticed the two pale lines on the pregnancy test. And by that point, he was already hers again. You had missed him without even knowing it.

You sigh, pushing up from the rocking chair and reaching for a tissue from the changing table. Turning back, giving the room one last teary glance before closing the door, you sniff.

“You’re just…the luckiest little kid who’s ever gonna live.”

At one twenty a.m., cicadas chirping and trees rustling, the low breeze carrying the sounds through your half-open window – your back begins to ache. A blunt, gnawing pain. Feels like your period, and in your doze, you stuff a pillow between your legs and pray you don’t stain the sheets with a show of blood.

The realization comes over you as if that stifling breeze flips to freezing. You slowly come around, eyes peeling open as you think it over twice, then three times, then four. Duck shifts somewhere deep inside you, somewhere you’ve never felt them shift before.

“…No. Not right now, Duck. You gotta give me, like, twenty-four hours. Just – wait until your dad gets ho–”

A blinding pain interrupts you, the moonlit-blue room fading out of focus for half a second before you’re wide awake, clutching the bottom of your spine where you’re sure the kid just tore a fucking hole straight through your uterus.

“You’re a fucking dick,” you whimper, fingers clenching in tight fists around the bedsheets. “You’re a fucking – dick.”

One twenty-three. You go into labor.

#i think duckie is my favorite character i've ever written. that fetus has more personality than vanessa icl #joel miller #joel miller fic #joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #the last of us #tlou #macfrog #neighbor!joel #neighbor!joel miller #babydaddy!joel #tw pregnancy

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violentdelightsandviolentends · 9 months

Text

Pity Party.

Synopsis - Carmy just wants to see you treated the way he thinks you deserve. He decides to take matters into his own hands.

Pairing - Carmen Berzatto x Female Roommate Reader

Word Count - 3k

Warnings - smut. cursing. alcohol mention. carmys filthy mouth.

Age Rating - 18+

Author's Note - hello hello hello!! i am back!! i had a wonderful vacation soaking up the sun, and i am feeling refreshed and ready to go. i have had so many ideas over the past few weeks, so i'm excited to get some of them written asap!! this was a fic that came to me randomly, as i was thinking about roommate!carmen and how much of a menace he'd be if you ever talked about other guys. this was written as a part of my carmen roommates collection. it doesn't follow on from Finders, Keepers or Sweet Dreams, but it does exist in the same universe - so you can decide if this takes place before or after!! as always, feel free to send me any ideas or thoughts or burning desires you have. so much love <3

as always, reblogs, comments and feedback (even anonymous feedback) are immensely appreciated!! your reblogs are the only way to circulate my fics, which keeps me going <3

Series Masterlist. Masterlist. Inbox.

"You're back early."

Carmy had swung the door open, expecting to come home to an empty apartment. Instead, he's met with the sight of you, sitting on the couch, undoing the straps of your shoes.

"Fuckin' disaster," you mutter, loud enough for him to hear.

He breathes out a chuckle at the stormy look on your face. Carmy thinks you're cutest when you're angry. He aches to smooth the crease between your brows with his thumb.

"That bad?" he asks, taking a seat next you and kicking off his sneakers.

"You wouldn't even believe."

He rises and makes his way to the kitchen, filling the tea kettle and placing it on the stove top. Grabbing two mugs, he casts a glance over his shoulder at you, frowning at your body language. You look defeated.

Carmy steeps two cups of tea, placing one of them carefully into your waiting hands. He resumes his seat on the sofa, pressing his thigh against yours and turning to face you.

"You wanna talk about it?"

You think for a moment before replying.

"You're gonna laugh at me."

His face instantly crumples, confusion written all over it.

"I'll never laugh at you. I'll laugh with you, sure. But never at you."

He nudges your shoulder with his, urging you to go on.

"Okay, fine. The actual date was pretty good. He took me to that Italian place downtown-"

"Dolce Vita? Did you get the truffle pasta I told you about?" Carmy interrupts you before you can continue.

"Yes, oh my God. It was incredible. Do you think you can recreate it sometime?"

"Fuck yeah. They're pretty secretive with their recipes, but I think I can figure it out. You can help me if you want - I'm gonna need a sous chef."

He pulls a reluctant laugh from you, the sound echoing off the ceramic of your mugs. You both know that being the sous chef involves you sitting on the counter drinking wine while Carmy does all the work.

"Of course. I'll always be your sous chef."

"I'll hold you to that."

You smile at him gently, a little taken aback by the sincerity in his voice.

"Anyway. The dinner went great. He seemed super interested in me, asked me questions, told me about his job, his hobbies, his dog. He was hot, and good to talk to. I thought I'd hit the jackpot."

"And then?"

"And then we went back to his apartment. And it all went to shit."

He chuckles, blue eyes glinting in the moonlight.

"Tell me more."

"You really want to hear about all of this?"

It's not like you and Carmy aren't close. You absolutely are. It's just that there's always been this unspoken connection between the two of you. A bubbling, fiery attraction that you both shut down repeatedly, screwing the lid on tight whenever it rears its head. So, you tend to avoid talking to Carmy about dating. You're scared you'll accidentally blurt out the truth - you compare every single date to him.

"Of course I do."

His answer is so genuine it makes you ache. You continue, hesitantly.

"Well... things got a little... heavy. He wasn't a bad kisser, I guess... he just wasn't... a good one? He kept biting my lip super hard and it kinda hurt. Then he pulled my clothes off like a high schooler, and he's on top of me, and I'm waiting for him to sort of... do... anything? And then he's finished. Like, completely done. And then he has the nerve to ask me if I finished."

Carmy's mouth has fallen open, shock etched across his face. After a long, heavy pause, he speaks.

"What the fuck?"

You look at him for moment, before bursting into contagious laughter. He joins you, both of you with your heads thrown back, giggles reverberating around the lowlit room.

"I mean, seriously," he pants, still laughing. "What the fuck?"

"I didn't even answer him. I just put my clothes on, grabbed my bag and left without saying a word."

Every time you try to stifle your laughter, a giggle escapes. The situation wasn't funny at the time, but looking back, it's hilarious.

All of a sudden, you both go silent. You're deep in thought, reflecting on the seemingly never ending stream of bad dates that you've endured. Carmy is watching you intently, ocean blue eyes glued to your face.

"Fuck," you breathe. "This is kinda pathetic."

Carmy inhales deeply, and turns his body so it's facing yours on the couch.

"The way I see it," he begins, "you have two options."

You quirk a brow in confusion and stay quiet, waiting for him to explain.

"You can sit here feeling sorry for yourself, or, you can let me fuck you the way you deserve."

Your mouth falls open in shock at the exact same moment your brain seems to shut down. You can't think. You can't process his words. All you can focus on is the way he's staring at you. You suddenly feel hot under his gaze, the hairs on the back of your neck standing up. A shiver runs down your spine, and you have to remind yourself to breathe.

"Wh-... what?" you choke out.

"You heard me, honey. You can wallow in your little pity party, or you can let me show you what it's like to be with someone who can actually make you come. Your choice."

His voice has dropped an octave lower than usual, the tone warm and honeyed. He's still staring at you, blue gaze unrelenting.

"Is this gonna fuck everything up between us?" you whisper hesitantly.

Carmy reaches out and places a gentle hand on your cheek, thumb stroking careful circles into your skin.

"I don't think anything can fuck up what we have," he murmurs. "You're the only thing in my life that makes sense."

His confession seems to sober you up, the honesty in his words snapping you back to your senses.

"Okay."

He almost does a double take at the sureness in your voice.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Put your money where your mouth is, Carmen."

"There she is," he chuckles. "You scared me when you went quiet for a second there."

"Well, if what you say is true, you're not gonna be able to shut me up for the night."

He laughs darkly, and slides closer to you slightly.

"Oh, honey. You're gonna wish you hadn't said that."

He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, tracing the journey of your neck with his fingertips. He rests his hand lightly at the base of your throat, the heavy weight of it making you pant.

"If there's any point where you don't like something, or you want me to slow down, just say so. Okay?"

You nod your head, entranced by the sudden dominance he's displaying. You've never seen this side of him before. You can't believe he's been hiding it this whole time.

"Words, pretty. Need to hear you say it."

"Yes. I understand. I'll tell you, I promise."

He doesn't say anything in reply, just smirks. He lets you sit in the silence for a moment too long, the anticipation slowly killing you.

"Please, Carmen," you breathe. "Please."

"Fuck," he groans, shuffling closer to you. "You sound so pretty when you beg."

Carmy leans in and kisses your cheek gently, testing the waters. He presses a kiss to your other cheek, and pulls back to watch for your reaction. When he's happy, he tilts forward and leaves a careful kiss on your chin, then your forehead, then both of your closed eyes, before kissing you on the side of your mouth. His closeness makes you whine, desperate for him to give you what you want.

Finally, he connects his lips to yours, starting off slow and tender. When you tangle your fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck and try to pull him even closer, his resolve snaps. His tongue sweeps into your mouth, exploring eagerly. You clamber over him and climb into his lap, straddling his hips and pressing yourself into his body.

Carmy can't decide where to put his hands. He's grabbing at your waist, running his fingers up your back, pulling you into him by your ass. You're both groaning into each others mouths, enraptured by the other person and the all consuming way they kiss.

"Can I take this off?" he asks lowly, pulling at the hem of your dress.

Instead of answering, you pull it over your head, throwing it onto the floor in front of you.

"Fuck," he murmurs. "Most beautiful girl I've ever seen."

His hands are roaming all of your exposed skin, as if he can't get enough. He's terrified he won't ever get to see you like this again, so he's not going to waste a second.

You grind your hips down into his, eliciting a groan from the both of you. His hands tighten their grip on your waist, as he leans up to press open mouthed kisses to your jaw. Your fingers fly to the hem of his t shirt, pulling it off swiftly. You manage to shove his jeans down and off, before attempting to pull off his underwear. Carmy stops you in your tracks.

"Nuh uh," he tuts. "This is about you. Not me."

He pulls you off his lap gently and shuffles so his back is resting against the couch cushions. He spreads his legs wide, and gestures for you to sit between them. When you don't move, he looks at you carefully.

"Give me a color, pretty girl."

You take a deep breath, and smile at him softly.

"Green, Carmen. Promise."

You manoeuvre sideways, so you can place yourself with your back to his chest. He wraps his arms around you for a moment and holds you tightly, as if he's scared you'll disappear any second. You relax into his embrace, all the tension leaving your body. You have nothing to worry about. It's just you and Carmen, in the place you call home.

You drop your head back into Carmy's shoulder, and allow yourself to get lost in the feeling of his hands on your skin. He's begun tracing patterns down your arms, your sides, your stomach, until he reaches your underwear. He plays with the band, dipping his finger underneath in a feather light touch. Goose bumps rise across your body and you shiver, practically vibrating with need.

"Carmen," you whisper. "Don't tease."

"But that's half the fun," he murmurs into your ear, and you can hear the smile in his voice.

You can picture it perfectly, too. The way his eyes crinkle, the way his mouth curves, the way he bites his lip to stifle it. The image in your mind makes you melt into him further. You want to be as close to him as you physically can be. You'd completely disappear into him if you could.

He brings you back to reality by cupping you over your underwear, groaning when he feels the saturated material.

"Oh, pretty girl. Is this all for me? Fuck."

Suddenly, his game of teasing has lost all its fun. Carmy twists his fingers into your underwear and pulls them off in one swift movement, throwing them in the general direction of your dress on the floor. He places a hand on each of your thighs and spreads them apart, hooking them over his legs.

Carmy starts off slow, careful. He caresses over your skin, gentle and almost apprehensive. When he gets to your core, he swipes a finger through, testing the waters. When you buck your hips into his hand, he knows you're both on the same page.

"Just relax, okay? Gonna make you feel good."

His deep, smooth, whiskey like voice is doing nothing to help the heat bubbling in your stomach. You only whine in response, wiggling your hips to urge him to keep going.

Carmy throws one arm around your stomach, keeping you plastered to his body. You can feel him hot and hard against your back, and you so desperately want to feel him that your mouth is watering. You grind back into him, and he reads your mind.

"Not yet," he whispers. "This is about you, remember? Need to show you what you've been missing."

With that, he circles your clit with two fingers, slowly but surely. He revels in the noises you elicit. They're making him dizzy, disorientated. He never thought he'd be the one to pull a sound like that from you. He's quite convinced he's dreaming.

"Let me hear you. Don't hold back on me, okay?"

You nod your head frantically, willing to give him whatever he asks if you get what you want.

Carmy slips a finger into you slowly, moaning under his breath at your warmth. When he thinks you're ready, he adds a second finger, and sets a steady rhythm, trying to figure out what you like.

After he's set his pace, he starts to curl his fingers on the up stroke, grinning to himself when he finds the spot.

"Yeah? Right there? That's it, isn't it?"

You're nodding and shaking and pawing at his forearms, trying to tether yourself to reality in any way you can. You think you might be floating, on cloud 9, in some sort of euphoric trance. You can't believe no one's ever made you feel like this before. You're convinced no one ever will again.

Carmy quickens his pace and basks in the glory of your moans. He thinks this might be the most beautiful you've ever looked, spread out completely for him. Every inch of your skin is touching his, and it makes his heart skip a beat for a second.

He presses a kiss into your hair and keeps his mouth there, murmuring honeyed praises into your ear.

"Doin' so good for me."

"You got it, honey, that's it."

"Atta girl. Keep going. Almost there."

"You look so fuckin' pretty like this. Fuck. Gonna be thinking about this forever."

"I'll ruin you, baby. Nothing's ever gonna compare to this, to what we have."

All you can do is moan in response, his filthy words pushing you closer and closer to the edge. You're almost there, but something is stopping you. You whine in frustration, tears welling in your eyes. Carmy feels the tension suddenly grasp your muscles, and leans down to mutter to you softly.

"What is it, sweet girl? What do you need? Just tell me. Anything, and I'll give it to you."

You're not sure how much you trust your voice right now, so you decide to show him instead. You take the hand that he's using to hold you to him and move it up your body until it's resting against your throat. You tighten your fingers around his, and moan in response to the pressure.

"Oh, baby," he coos. "Filthy fuckin' girl. Here I thought you were so innocent, and this whole time you wanted to be choked like a whore?"

The way he degrades you so lovingly makes you mewl. You'd never ever trust anyone else to speak to you this way in such an intimate moment - but with Carmen, there's no hesitation. You know he's just telling you what you need to hear in the heat of the moment. And you love him for it.

"Fuck, Carmen," you manage to choke out. "Keep going. Don't stop, please."

"I'll do anything you want if you keep saying my name like that," he whispers.

"Carmen," you moan in response. "Carmy Carmy Carmy Carmy Carmy."

You're chanting his name like a prayer. He's rutting into your back, hips grinding and circling in time with his fingers that are maintaining their steady rhythm. His fingers tighten around your throat as he crooks his digits just right, and the result is a devastating moan from you that Carmy wishes to have on repeat for the rest of his life.

"So close," you whisper hoarsely. "Harder."

Carmy uses his thumb to circle your clit with one hand, other hand pulling you by your neck back into him tightly. He grinds his hips dirtily into you, and the feeling of him so silky and warm against you is what sends you over the edge. The corners of your vision go white as you arch into him, head thrown backwards into his chest. The sounds you're making are so melodic, so borderline angelic that Carmy almost cries. Heaven, he thinks. This is salvation.

Carmy finishes with you, climaxing onto the soft skin of your back. You both relax simultaneously, chests heaving and panting. He removes his fingers gently and wraps both arms around you, pulling you into him tightly despite the mess. He reaches to brush the hair out of your face, and the gesture is so tender it makes your lip quiver.

"Thank you," you whisper after what feels like hours of comfortable silence.

"Sorry I called you a whore," he murmurs back.

You let out a surprised laugh, vibrating with amusement in his arms.

"I know you didn't mean it."

"I mean I did give you the best orgasm of your life, so... call it even?"

"You're forgiven," you chuckle. "Completely forgiven."

You trace gentle patterns over his forearms with your fingertips, following the black ink of his tattoos. He sighs in contentment and places a kiss into your hair, relaxing further into the couch.

You sit together like that for a while, neither of you too concerned with the time. It's not often you see Carmy so relaxed, so serene. You're enjoying it for as long as you can.

"We should clean up," he says quietly, eventually. "Sorry about the mess."

"It's okay. Worth it," you tease, pinching his thigh. He pinches your side in retaliation, which makes you jump.

"Come on, trouble."

He stands from the couch, never letting go of the grip he has on you. You have no choice but to stand with him, yelping as he half carries you through the apartment towards the shower.

The sounds of both of your laughter bounce off of the abandoned mugs of tea still sat on the coffee table, melodic and joyous. The moonlight seeps through the windows, illuminating the beginning of something special in the living room of your shared apartment.

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aphroditessaturn · 9 months

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miguel’s biggest kinks?

OKAY, we gotta start with the biggest – which should come as no surprise...

breeding — I know this one's hella obviously but it is what it is. this man has the biggest breeding kink in the whole marvel world and you can't tell me otherwise. Miguel will have his thick arms wrapped around your waist, you sitting on his cock and pressed against his chest while your head is nuzzled into the crook of his neck. He's gonna hold you in place and whisper the filthiest things into your ear while he fucks into you at a brutal pace, "mhm, cariño, gonna make you a mami, make sure you're round and full with my load," like that man is living for you be pregnant, "you like that huh, cariño? all swollen with my child...don't worry I will fuck you again, and again, and again until it takes," that's a promise like "I will pump you full with my cum until all you can remember is my cock."

creampie — is that even a kink? anyway. After fucking you for several hours to make sure you're pregnant he will sit in front of your legs. have them spread wide open as you twitch and Miguel? yeah he's watching his cum drip, literally drip from your red, swollen and fucked out cunt. you? Well you're a blabbering mess, can't even string a normal thought, "look at you, filthy girl...you're all messy cariño. you're head is just empty, nothing up there huh?" he taps his finger against your forehead which you barley register.

size — I know this one was obvious, but god how could that man not have one? his broad shoulders, thick thighs, big hands – huge everything. And yeah, he's gonna mock for it, "think I'm not gonna fit in your tight cunt cariño?" "look how tiny you are," Miguel will have his hand on your cheek, thumb tracing along your bottom lip while he thrusts into you at a brutal pace. "you look so pretty, stuffed with my fat cock."

lacations — idk I see this happening after you had your first child together and your breasts are just so fucking full. You're complaining about it all day, the baby is sleeping and you don't wanna wake it. That's where our Miguel comes in, he's watching you with hungry eyes that never leave your breast. And finally when you're in bed, short discarded somewhere and in a heated makeout session. Miguel trails kisses down your throat to your sensitive breast, you whine out his name. Then his lips are closing around your nipple, sucking the milk from you, tasting you on a while different level. "Cariño, you taste delicious," this will be a mix with his cock buried inside you and desperately drinking from your breasts

biting — how can we not talk about biting? hellooo that man will always, always has his mouth on you. can't even stand the thought of not kissing you, biting you – sinking his teeth into your skin. He will leave marks, make sure everyone knows you're his. Miguel also makes a lot of noise, especially when he's head deep in your neck. It doesn't matter if you're bouncing in his cock, he's fucking you from behind, splitting you open on your back or have his mouth devour your cunt. He will find a moment to bite your ass, thigh, back, neck, breast, belly – anywhere he can get.

these are the main kinks, I have more if anyone is interested!

remember my inbox is always open for any thots, ideas, news – literally anything – give me the filth!

reblogs or comments are welcomed!

#miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara smut #miguel o'hara headcanons

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javiscigarette · 7 months

Text

For You, I Would

Joel Miller x f!reader

Summary: Joel catches you doing something you definitely shouldn't be doing and teaches you you lesson (or a prequel to Push and Pull aka the first time he sends you to subspace)

Warnings: no use of y/n, let's see, PWP, established relationship, dom Joel (daddy Joel near the end) fingering, crying, subspace, degradation, cum play, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, oral (f receiving), spitting, spanking, ass play, creampies, wet, messy, filthy smut

w/c: 9k of pwp oops

a/n: Sooo there are multiple requests that have been sitting in my inbox collecting dust for months so this is long overdue. And ummm I think I was possessed or something while writing this bc Whoa!!! it's a lot. Anyway, it was fun revisiting push and pull, hope this lives up to those standards lmao

my masterlist

"Yours" you pant, hands clawing at the blankets beneath you. "Always yours" "Mhm" he hums against your neck, the vibrations sending shivers down your spine. "And that's why you like when it's too much. When I'm in charge and you have to do what I tell you, when you have to take what I give you and not complain about it. Because you like being mine"

It happens on a late, rainy Saturday morning.

The bedroom is dark when you wake up, the rain pounding against the windowpane with a soft rumble of thunder in the distance. The spot next to you is empty but the smell of food cooking wafting upstairs and through the slightly cracked bedroom door lets you know where he is.

You roll over to the empty side of the bed, the soft sheets still slightly warm. You bury your face into his pillow, the smell of his cologne and shampoo overriding your senses. And that's when you feel it, wetness seeping out of you down your inner thigh. You glance over to the alarm clock, which read 10:12am, 3 hours after Joel woke up with his raging hardon pressed firmly into the back of your thigh. 3 hours after he fucked you into the bed and how he made you cum around his cock twice before he unloaded inside of you, then slowly fucked his cum in as deep as he could get it.

He got a wet rag to clean you up, but you were too sleepy and tried to actually get up and do something about the liquid slowly seeping out of you. But you kind of liked it, falling back asleep to the feeling of being full of his hot release, drops of it dribbling out of you even though you tried your best to keep it in.

And now, your cunt is already aching at the thought of his cum still deep inside of you so much of it right where it should be. You inhale a deep breath with your face squished against the pillow, the scent of him going straight to your core and adding to the building pressure. You wish he was here; wish he would just fuck another load into you right now. But if he's making breakfast, then you can't complain.

So, you take matters into your own hand. With a deep breath, you slip a hand between your bare thighs and press the heel of your palm to your clit, the friction immediately making you moan quietly into the pillow. You rock your hips slowly, lighting grinding against your hand before dipping your fingers into the mess leaking from your hole. You don't even think, you just do. You smear his cum on your cunt, coating it thickly and slipping two fingers into yourself with ease. It's almost embarrassing how easy you open up for them, how slick and wet you are, both from a couple hours ago and now. Your chest feels warm and tight as you slowly pump your fingers in and out of your swollen hole, letting soft moans tumble past your lips as you do so. You're so consumed in what you're doing that you don't hear the bedroom door creak open.

"What are you doing, baby?"

You gasp and yank your hand away like you've been burnt, rolling over onto your back and staring wide-eyed at him.

He's standing in the doorway, red and plaid pj pants hanging low on his hips. His arms are crossed over his bare chest, his face set in a deep frown.

He caught you red fucking handed.

"N-nothing, I swear. I was just..." You're not sure how to finish that sentence. Your heart was already kicking in your chest from both arousal and the expectancy of Joel's next course of action. You knew you were in for it. You know you broke his rules.

You cower under his icy glare, wishing you could just disappear into the mattress. But you can still feel a gush of slick seeping out of you, adding to the mess in between your legs. Your heart beats even faster as he silently crosses the room to the side of the bed where you're lying. He sits on the edge, one leg tucked under him so he can face you.

"Do you remember our rule?” His tone is sickeningly sweet and gentle.

"I-I'm not allowed to touch myself unless you say."

"Mhm" he nods, his hand falling to your thigh. You can feel his grip through the comforter. "Was comin' up here to tell you breakfast is ready, and this is what I find. A bad little girl breaking the rules"

"I-I'm sorry, sir."

He's rubbing your thigh now, the soft fabric of the blanket separating his hand from your skin. "That's alright. It's okay to make mistakes."

The heaviness in your chest lightens at that, a soft smile curling on your lips. You thought you were really in for it.

"But you know what I have to do now, right?"

Your heart leaps back into your throat, a wave of nerves hitting you again, undercut with the wave of arousal causing more slick to leak out of your sore hole. You whine and squirm under the blankets, giving him the most remorseful look you can.

"I'm sorry, sir" you whisper again, pleading with wide wet eyes. "Just wanted to feel you. Wanted more." Your voice wavers and trails off to a quiet whisper as you cast your eyes down in shame.

Joel hums, his hand traveling further up your leg, pushing the blanket off your thigh in the process. His hand is warm and big, almost completely engulfing the flesh of your upper thigh.

"I know, baby" he murmurs, his eyes glued to where your thighs are pressed together. "Poor little thing is always so desperate to be filled, huh?"

You bite your lip and nod your head but keep your body perfectly still. You know better than to move right now after the stunt you just pulled. He moves his hand between your legs, his thumb swiping against the slick leaking out of you.

"My little slut is still all wet" he mumbles. The words make you shiver.

He wipes the pad of his thumb over your clit, causing you to gasp and jolt. He shushes you, his other hand coming to grip the underside of your thigh, slowly spreading your legs apart. A low groan, almost a growl, comes from deep in his chest at the sight of your swollen, sopping wet cunt on full display for him, his cum mixed with your sticky arousal leaking steady from your fluttering hole, dripping down, and sliding over your asshole onto the sheets below you.

"Such a sloppy little cunt" he murmurs, dragging his fingers through the mess and then pulling them away. Your eyes are glued to his movements, watching with rapt attention as he raises his hand and slips his fingers into his mouth, licking the wetness off them with a pleased hum.

"Gonna teach you a lesson, baby.” He announces after pulling his fingers from his mouth. “Gonna teach you to follow our rules.”

"Please, sir” you plead. “I'll be good, I promise. Just...just wanna feel you."

"Oh, I know you’ll be good. And you're gonna feel me" he purrs, his fingers back on your cunt, spreading the slick around and rubbing against your clit. "Gonna fill you up, sweet girl.”

You whimper at his words, a new wave of arousal hitting you and coating his fingers. He groans and slips his middle finger into you with no resistance.

"But first, m'gonna make you cum"

You're shocked at his promise. He rarely lets you get off the hook this easy. He wastes no time, pumping his thick finger in and out of your cunt. You moan softly, the pleasure rippling through your stomach, your muscles tightening as he works. He wastes no time adding another finger and curls them up, rubbing at the spot that makes you see stars. Your walls flutter around him as electricity crackles down your spine and settles as white heat between your legs. You whimper as he massages your front walls, more slick and cum running down his fingers into his palm.

"Gettin' my hand all messy, baby" he mumbles.

You try to stifle a moan as you watch his fingers slide in and out of your drenched hole, the lewd wet sounds of it all fills the room and causes your cheeks to burn. It doesn't take long for him to bring you to the edge. It never does. He's had too much practice, knows your body and what buttons to press that get you there in no time.

"Close, sir. Please, I'm so close" you breathe, your hands fisted tightly in the sheets beneath you.

"Go on" Joel murmurs, his voice low and gravelly. "Cum all over my fingers, baby"

And then you're coming undone, a cry leaving your lips as your muscles clench and contract, the waves of pleasure hitting you like a ton of bricks. Joel groans, his fingers never slowing, and leans down to kiss and nip at your neck, his tongue running over the damp hallow of your throat while his other hand squeezes the flesh of your thigh.

"That's it, baby. So good for me, so good."

You're a whimpering mess, your hips rocking and chasing the high as he works you through your orgasm. You eventually start to come down, but his fingers are unrelenting. He continues to massage your front wall, his mouth attached to the base of your throat. You feel like jelly, your limbs heavy and boneless, the only thing grounding you being Joel's hot mouth sucking a dark hickey onto the side of your neck and his thick fingers buried in your cunt.

"That's one" he mutters against your skin.

You gasp and whine. You know exactly what he means.

"Joel, fuck I can't-"

"Don't fuckin' lie" he growls, his teeth nipping at your collar bone. "Needed to cum so badly that you had to break the rules and touch yourself and now you're sayin' you can't handle it?"

"Joel, please. I-"

"You'll cum as many times as I tell you to. Greedy girl, should be grateful that I'm lettin' you cum at all"

You bite down hard on your bottom lip, the familiar tension beginning to build back up in the pit of your stomach. You try to squirm out from his grasp, even though you're well aware it's against your best interest to do so, but you can't help it. It's all so overwhelming and you know it's only going to get worse, that this is just the beginning of what he has planned for you. But his free hand quickly finds your hip, pinning you to the bed. You keep squirming, but the only movement you can manage is a slight roll of your hips against his hand.

"Stay still and take what I'm givin' you" he grunts, his hand squeezing the flesh of your hip.

"Can't" you whimper. "Can't, 's too much"

Much to your surprise, Joel immediately retracts his hand and sits up straight again. The pressure of his fingers is gone, which you thought would be a relief, but all you feel is cold and empty. He glares down at you, one eyebrow raised expectantly as the muscles flex in his jaw.

"You want me to stop?"

"No! No, I didn't mean it like that"

"What did you mean, baby? Because I'm not a mind reader. If you need me to stop, then you know what to say, don’t you?"

"I know, I just, I mean-"

"You just what? Just want to be bad still?"

His tone makes you feel small and little, and your cheeks burn. You'd probably cry if it were any other situation, but your cunt just clenches pathetically around absolutely nothing.

"I meant, um, I meant it's too much and I can't handle it and-and"

"And you're being punished," Joel interjects "And you need to fucking deal with it" his gaze icy and dark.

You bite your lip and nod, tears pricking behind your eyes, but you blink them away. "Yes, Sir."

He hums approving, his wet hand sliding further up your thigh, back towards your center.

"What's the safe word?" he asks, his tone slightly gentler. Just slightly.

"Red" you squeak out.

"Do you wanna use it?"

you shake your head vehemently. "No, sir."

He chuckles darkly, his wet fingers tracing over your cunt and teasing your entrance. "Didn't think so. Such a greedy little cockslut."

He's back inside you before you can even respond, pumping his two fingers in and out. You cry out, the sudden fullness and stretch making you writhe under him as his calloused finger pads rubbing against your velvety walls in just the right way. He doesn't bother letting you adjust, just immediately curls his fingertips and pummels against your g-spot. The familiar tension is already building again, but you're so sensitive, and it feels like too much, like a burning ache deep inside of you.

"Oh, god. Oh, fuck" you choke out, voice already watery and wrecked.

"Takin' my fingers so good, baby" Joel groans, his eyes fixed on where he's working in and out of your swollen cunt. "Look so pretty stuffed full of my fingers."

Your thighs shake and your breath gets caught in your throat, and that's how Joel knows.

"That's it. Cum, baby. I wanna feel you squeeze around me again"

You open your mouth, ready to tell him again how it's too much but all that comes out is a loud moan as the tightly wound cord finally snaps. Your walls clamp down around his fingers as your incessantly roll your hips, inadvertently grinding your clit against the heel of his palm. Your hand shoots up to grab his bicep, your fingernails digging into the skin so hard that you're positive you're drawing blood.

"There you go, baby, that’s it. That’s two."

He's not stopping, doesn't even slow down, and the intensity is so great that a few tears slip from your eyes. He finally takes his hand off your hip, allowing you to move your lower body, and instead uses his now free hand to push the thin straps of your camisole off your shoulders, tugging it down and exposing your chest.

"Play with your tits, baby" he growls, his fingers still moving inside of you. His voice is starting to sound a little further away as the blood pumping through your veins roars in your ear. Your hands immediately find your chest, squeezing your soft mounds before tweaking your nipples.

"Oh, god" you choke out, back arching off the mattress and into your own touch. Your legs are shaking uncontrollably, and it feels like your heart is going to beat right out of your chest. The fire in your belly is burning bright again, creeping in before you can even recover from the last one. It's all too much. You feel like you're being lit on fire, the feeling in your core almost too intense. You're so overwhelmed and overstimulated yet so desperate for more all at the same time.

"Gonna cum for me again, baby?" Joel taunts, his lips curved in a devilish smirk.

You can't even respond, you can't do anything but lay there and let him work, a pathetic whining noise leaving your lips. Your hands are still on your breasts, playing with them as best you can, pinching and tugging at your nipples, your back arching off the mattress as pleasure and pain surge through you. You don't register what he's doing with his other hand until it’s pushing down on your stomach, right on top of where he’s stroking your spot with his fingers. And the tension snaps once again.

And that's when the tears fall.

Hot, wet drops stream freely down your cheeks as the dam breaks open. Your entire body tenses as you cum for the third time in less than 10 minutes, the overwhelming pleasure coursing through every cell in your body while you positively writhe underneath him.

Joel notices and his fingers immediately still inside of you. Anxiety and concern replace the hunger in his eyes, his heart now pounding his chest for a completely different reason.

"Color, baby" he says, his voice soft and gentle, doing a good job to mask the worry that's quickly consuming him.

You blink rapidly, trying to clear your vision enough to look at him. You can't make out his features, your eyes bleary with unshed tears, and your body is so wracked with tremors that you're unable to speak, your breath catching in your throat.

You don't answer, and it terrifies him. His hand slips from your core and you whine, feeling empty and cold and sore, more slick dripping down between your cheeks. He moves to lie next you, wrapping his arms around your waist and holding you tight against his chest.

"M'sorry, baby" Joel whispers, his voice trembling slightly as you continue to sob into his chest. His heart pounds and his hands trembling where he's holding you. It takes another minute or two for you to calm down and finally take a deep breath.

"M'okay" you manage to mumble, your lips brushing against his skin. He pulls back at the sound of your voice so he can look at your face. His stomach twists a little at the sight of your raw, tear-stained cheeks.

"Fuck, baby. Are you sure? I shouldn't have pushed, should've listened to you, should've--"

"It's okay" you breathe, cutting him off. "Wasn't too much just.... just felt really good"

Joel frowns and wipes away some of your tears with the pad of his thumb "But you were cryin' honey."

You let out a faint chuckle. "Yeah. But...but it's good. Like, so fucking good"

His face relaxes a bit, relief washing over him as he sighs. "Had me worried, baby. Thought I went too far."

"No, no, you were perfect" you murmur. "Just...didn't expect it, I guess"

Joel hums and places a sweet kiss on your forehead.

"How do you feel now?" he asks, his thumb brushing lightly over your cheek.

"Shaky, sore. Tired."

He nods his head, his gaze dropping from yours for a moment.

"Think we should talk about this" he says after a few moments.

"We are talkin’" you giggle weakly.

"M'bein' serious" he huffs, his gaze returning to yours.

"I know" you sigh. "Talk about what?”

"What happened. That was a lot, baby. Never seen you come undone like that before"

"I told you it felt good” you remind him, snuggling a bit closer. “Better than good, actually"

"Well, I know that. But I need to know if you're okay, right?"

"Of course. You took care of me. Made sure I was alright"

"I mean, yeah, I did. But...but you’ve never cried like that, sweetheart. Scared me a little"

You stare up at him, his brown eyes full of concern but still so much of that familiar warmth.

"I liked it" you say quietly, suddenly very aware of how close his bare chest is to your face. "Like a lot. Liked how...how in control you were. Like being used by you, liked the way it felt to be..."

"To be what, baby?"

"Overstimulated. I...I like it when it's too much."

"Jesus Christ" Joel groans, the sound vibrating in his chest and tickling your cheek. "Didn't know I had such a filthy girl in my bed."

"It's not filthy, it's...it's fun."

"Hmm, and that's the only reason?"

"Why else would I like it?"

"C'mon baby, don't play dumb. We both know why you like it"

"W-what are you talking about?"

He laughs, his chest bouncing, and rolls on top of you, his hands bracketing your face and his lips finding yours. He kisses you deeply, his tongue sliding into your mouth and tasting you, his beard scraping against the smooth skin of your cheeks.

"I think you like it because it makes you feel small." He whispers when he pulls away. "And you like being taken care of and held down and bossed around and fucked."

"Joel" you whimper, his words sending a pulse straight to your already throbbing core.

"You like being a good girl for me" he continues, ghosting his lips along your jaw and down the side of your neck, sucking and nipping as he goes. "But you love being punished, don't you? Like when I use you and take whatever I want, however I want. Ain’t that right, sweetheart?"

"Yes" you moan, your legs falling open wider as he settles his body in between them. "God, yes. Love it when you fuck me and call me names and-- and hold me down and tell me what to do."

"I know, baby. Know you're a filthy little slut who needs to be taken apart. My dirty little girl. Aren't ya?"

"Yours" you pant, hands clawing at the blankets beneath you. "Always yours"

"Mhm" he hums against your neck, the vibrations sending shivers down your spine.

"And that's why you like when it's too much. When I'm in charge and you have to do what I tell you, when you have to take what I give you and not complain about it. Because you like being mine"

His words bring back that floaty feeling, your heart starting to race in your chest again. He's right, he knows as much as you do.

"I love it, Joel” you admit breathlessly. “Love being yours"

“I know, baby” Joel hums, his teeth nipping at the base of your throat. "And you want to keep going, don't you?"

"Please" you beg almost immediately, rolling your hips against his, your clit brushing up against the bulge in his sweatpants.

"Good girl" he growls, his hot tongue lapping at the sweat glistening on the skin of your neck. He trails wet, open-mouthed kisses from the hollow of your throat to your collarbone and down your sternum until he reaches your chest. He takes a nipple in his mouth, his teeth grazing the sensitive nub and making you gasp. He sucks and licks, the tip of his tongue swirling around stiff peak before switching to the other, the flat of his tongue laving over it.

"Love when I tease you like this too, huh honey?" he says, his hot breath fanning over your chest. "Love when I get you all worked up and touch you everywhere except the one place you want it."

"Yes, sir." you whine, threading your fingers through his hair, fingernails scratching lightly at his scalp. He hums as he rolls his tongue around your nipple one last time before pulling back and sitting up.

"Hands and knees" he says firmly, and your stomach flutters at the command as you scramble to sit up and position yourself just like he wants.

"Such a good girl" he croons, his large hand caressing the small of your back. "So eager and ready to please"

You let out a breathy whimper, his praise making you giddy.

"You gonna do what I tell you? Be my good little girl and let me play with that tight cunt until you can't think anymore?"

"Yes, sir" you nod.

"What's the safe word?"

"Red"

"And what are you going to do if you want me to stop?"

"Say red"

"Good girl."

The hand on your back slides lower, his palm cupping your ass.

"Spread your legs wider for me" he instructs, his other hand sliding up your spine and pushing your shoulder forward, encouraging you to lean down and put your face against the mattress. You do as he says, moving your knees apart and bowing your back, giving him a nice view of your ass.

"There ya go. Now, stay."

You wait in anticipation, wondering what's coming next. A few seconds later, he swats your ass cheek, not enough to necessarily hurt, but enough for it to sting a little. He rubs the reddened flesh, squeezing the cheek in his palm.

"So fuckin' pretty" he rasps. "My pretty girl."

He delivers a sharp slap to your opposite cheek, his palm connecting with the plump skin. Your cunt clenches and you moan at the delicious pain. He growls, delivering a couple more smacks, a bit harder this time, before soothing the tender flesh.

He then leans forward, pressing a soft kiss to the small of your back, his beard tickling your skin before moving lower. You feel his hot breath against your slit as his palms slide down and grab handfuls of your ass, his thumbs spreading your cheeks and exposing your cunt and asshole.

"Jesus Christ" he hisses, his warm breath fanning over your pussy. "You're fucking soaked, baby."

Without warning, he drags his tongue through your folds, lapping at your swollen and dripping core. You let out a wet gasp, the sensation immediately rekindling the fire in your belly.

"So goddamn sweet" Joel groans, He buries his face between your legs, his tongue and beard driving you crazy, the scratch of his stubble burning on your inner thigh. He sucks on your clit, his lips closing around the swollen nub and pulling it into his mouth, his tongue flicking expertly at the little bud. You're so oversensitive and can already feel the coil tightening again.

He flattens his tongue and licks from your clit to your aching hole over and over again. He gets higher and higher with each one until his tongue is lapping at your other hole.

"Oh, fuck" you cry out, the unexpected sensation of his tongue probing at your ass throwing you off guard. Your cunt clenches, and Joel feels it, the vibration making him hum, his beard still scraping the sensitive flesh of your inner thighs. He presses his face harder between your cheeks, his tongue swirling around your entrance before pushing in.

The sounds of your strained moan echo through the room as he fucks his tongue in and out of your tight hole. You squirm, desperate for some friction on your aching cunt, but you're unable to move, his large hands holding your hips firmly against his face. He doesn't let up, his tongue pumping in and out, fucking you and driving you absolutely crazy. He groans as you clench around him, the sound vibrating against you and making you shake. The heat is building rapidly, and your vision starts to blur.

"Gonna make you cum again, angel. Wanna see you fall apart with my tongue in this sweet little hole and my fingers in your tight little cunt"

"Please" you whine, not knowing how much more you can take.

He pulls back, but you only have a second of missing the feeling before he spits on your cunt and uses his fingers to spread it around, mixing it with the slick that's still dripping out of you. He slides a finger inside, hissing when he feels the tight heat of your pussy once again. He adds another, and quickly builds up to that devastating pace, thick fingers pumping in and out of your needy cunt.

"So fuckin' tight" he murmurs, curling his fingers and stroking your walls. "Still so fuckin' tight and wet." You squeeze your eyes closed and breathlessly pant as he scissors his fingers, stretching and opening you up. He adds a third this time, the slide slick and easy as your hole graciously takes what he gives you. His thumb presses on your clit, rubbing circles on the sensitive nub while he uses the other t=hand to grab your ass and spread you open again. He spits again this time on your asshole, just adding even more to the mess.

"Joel" you cry, his name falling from your lips in a whisper. He's fucking your pussy with his fingers, his thumb working your clit. He doesn't respond, just leans back in and starts lapping at your asshole again. You feel the tension build again, the heat coiling deep inside your gut, the pleasure so intense and overwhelming. Your legs shake and your hips rock back and forth, your body desperate for relief.

"That's it, honey. Want to feel you cum again. Feel how tight and wet you get when I fuck this ass with my tongue and play with your messy little cunt."

Your toes curl, and your back arches, the pressure becoming unbearable. Your pussy squeezes around his thick fingers, and the coil snaps, the tension releasing and the dam breaking. Your mind goes blank, and you scream and sob, your vision turning white. You cry, convulse, and tremble, your whole body shaking as your 4th orgasm rocks through you. He fucks you through it, his fingers continuing to pump in and out of you and his tongue lapping at the slickness between your cheeks.

"Holy shit, baby" he breathes, pulling away when you finally start to come down. You feel him shift behind you, his fingers sliding out of your pulsing pussy and his body moving away from yours. You're still trembling, and your body is numb. Your head feels heavy, and your eyelids are starting to droop. You feel him moving behind you, but you're too exhausted to turn and look at him.

But that doesn't fly with him.

"Look at me" he commands, and it takes nearly all of your remaining energy to turn your head and look at him over your shoulder. His pupils are blown, his eyes darkening and his jaw clenching. He growls low and deep in his chest, his cock lurching in his pants, and he can't wait any longer. He sits up and fumbles with his drawstring, yanking the knot loose and shoving his plaid pajama pants down his hips. You whimper when his cock springs free, finally relieved of its confines. He hisses as the cold air hits him, but quickly kicks the pants off the rest of the way.

"Can you talk to me, sweetheart?" he asks, his voice strained as he wraps a hand around his stiff length.

"Yes, Sir" you sniffle, blinking tears out of your eyes.

"Tell me how you're feeling, baby"

"Sore, Sir. But I like it. feel...floaty"

"That's alright, baby. Just relax. Daddy's going to take care of you, okay? I'm going to use this sweet little pussy, and you're gonna lay there and take it like a good girl for me, alright?"

The name he uses causes another strong wave arousal to course through your veins before settling between thighs. The two of you rarely use it - it's usually sir for you, and he rarely calls himself that. But it’s perfect for the moment and you can't help the way your heart speeds up at the sound of it.

"Yes, daddy." you moan, loving the way your lips form around the word, the way it effortlessly slides off your tongue. "Whatever you want. Anything."

"God, you're such a sweet girl" he moans. "Such a good girl, baby. Gonna be daddy's good little slut?"

"Yes, please" you nod, desperate for him to touch you. "Wanna be a good girl."

"I know, angel. Daddy knows." He moves, hovering over you as he digs the lube out of the nightstand. "Gotta make sure you're nice and wet first"

There’s absolutely no need for it. You’re drenched with cum and slick and spit, wetter than you’ve probably ever been. But he knows how you like it. How he likes it. Wet, hot, and so, so messy.

He sits back, and you watch him squirt some of the liquid into his palm and rub it up and down his length. It's mesmerizing, watching him stroke his cock, the thick, head disappearing and reappearing through the circle of his fingers, his shaft growing even more flushed and the veins protruding and twitching, precum beading at his slit, some of it dripping over his knuckles. You're not sure how much more teasing you can take.

"Always so fucking wet and ready for me" he murmurs, rubbing his cock up and down your dripping folds, getting himself even wetter with your juices. "Such a sweet little whore for me, hm? Sweet messy little slut, always begging to be fucked and filled up"

You're about to say something, about to beg and tell him yes, you're ready, please, please fuck me, please, sir, when you feel his fingers dip into your pussy again. You moan as he gathers more of your slick and brings his hand to his cock, slathering himself in your juices.

"Messy little thing" he muses. He can't wait any longer. With the tip of his cock against your entrance, he grabs your hip with one hand and your shoulder with the other.

"Tell me you're mine, darlin'" he orders.

"Yours" you immediately whine through tears, arching your back and pushing your hips back. "I'm yours. All yours. Please, Joel, I can't—".

You're cut off by the pressure of his thick cock sliding into your heat. It's a tight fit, a snug squeeze, despite him opening you up on his fingers and tongue. You don’t think you’ll ever be used to his size, his sheer length and girth stretching you out until it burns, no matter how wet and ready you are.

But he goes slow, sinking in inch by inch, allowing your walls to stretch and accommodate his size. His jaw clenches and his teeth grind together, his eyes falling shut. "That's it, sweet girl" he murmurs, slowly pushing further. "Just relax and let daddy in."

"Daddy" you whimper weakly, your cunt clenching and pulsing around him.

"Take my cock, baby. Just like that."

You're shaking and sweating, your is head spinning. The feeling of him pushing inside is like nothing you've ever felt before, even though you’ve taken him countless times. He's hot and hard, filling and stretching you to the point where you can barely breathe.

"So big" you choke out. "So full 'n sore, daddy" you cry, tears starting to stream down your face again.

"I know, honey. I know"

He bottoms out, his hips pressing flush against the cheeks of your ass. You gasp and sob, the feeling of him being fully seated inside of you and the stretch and burn overwhelming you. He gives you a minute to adjust, waiting until your breathing returns to normal and the shaking in your limbs subsides. When he feels you relax a bit, he pulls out, slowly dragging his length out until only the tip is left, before pushing back in.

"You're bein’ so sweet, baby. Lettin’ daddy use your tight little pussy."

You don’t say anything in response, just bury face into the sheets, grabbing handfuls of the fabrics as you sob.

He takes a deep breath and starts to move. Slowly, gently, he pulls out halfway and slides back in, his movements measured and precise. He wants to take his time, doesn't want to hurt you, but the tight squeeze of your cunt, the wetness and the heat and the slick, velvety walls clenching around him are making it difficult.

"More" you gasp. "Please, daddy, more. Need it. Need you."

And how could he deny you that? How could he not give you everything you want, everything you need? So, he sits up and slides his hands back to your hips, gripping them tightly and pulling you back onto him as he rolls his hips forward, the force and the angle making his cock slide over your g-spot. Your vision goes fuzzy, and the air leaves your lungs, and when you finally manage to gasp, his name falls from your lips.

"Fuck" he groans, the sound of his deep, raspy voice sending a rush of fresh wetness around his cock. He can't help but start thrusting into you, snapping his hips against yours, the obscene slapping noise of skin on skin filling the room. “Look at you, poor little baby cryin’ for my cock”

He doesn’t give you a chance to respond, just reaches up and tangles his hand in your hair, his other hand holding on tight to your waist, gripping the soft skin. He yanks, his fingers threaded through your hair and pulling you up, forcing your back to arch. The new angle makes your head spin, his cock dragging against your sensitive spot and his hips grinding against your ass.

"Daddy!" you gasp. You want to tell him how good it feels, how his cock is filling you up, his size stretching you and hitting places that have never been touched. You want to tell him that you're not sure you're ever going to be able to cum again without his thick cock splitting you open. But your mind is clouded, your body overwhelmed and your tongue heavy. The most you can manage is his name, over and over, a breathless, broken, raspy mantra.

"Yeah, baby" he grunts. "Take it just like that. My good girl takes everything I give her"

And you do.

You take and take and take and when you're not taking, you're begging. Begging for him to keep going, begging for more, begging him not to stop. And the more you beg, the faster his pace becomes, his hips stuttering against yours. And the faster he goes, the lighter you feel.

The fog that has settled in your brain is becoming thicker and heavier, and when you start to feel weightless, like you're floating, you realize you can't move. Your limbs are heavy, and all you can do is lay there, limp, useless, and completely at his mercy. Your ears start ringing faintly, and your body feels warm and tingly and the only thing keeping you tethered to reality is Joel.

"My good girl" he grunts "So fuckin' pretty. So beautiful like this. Just lettin' me use you like a goddamn little fuck toy, huh? Lettin' me fuckin' ruin you? You love it, don't you?"

You can't even respond. Can't form a sentence, can't form a single word. You're not even sure if you could make a noise. Your eyelids are fluttering, and your eyes roll back into your head, and the only thing keeping you from floating away is the pressure of Joel's hand around your waist. But soon that's not even enough to keep you grounded. Your entire body starts tingling and the ringing in your ears grows louder, and when Joel's thrusts become harder, his cock drilling into you with abandon, his balls slapping against you, and the obscene, wet noises of his cock pumping in and out of you filling the air, the tingling gets stronger, and your body begins to feel numb.

You start to slip, and with your face still turned to the side, Joel watches in awe as it happens.

The feeling is so intense, and when Joel's other hand grips your other side, holding you in place as he fucks you, it's enough to make you spiral. Your vision goes dark, and you stop hearing the sounds of skin slapping and the dirty things coming out of his mouth and the creaking of the bed and the squeak of the mattress springs. All you can feel is his thick cock filling you, the tip brushing against your cervix with each thrust, his balls hitting your clit, the heat of his body on top of yours, the heat of his skin searing into your back. You can feel the wetness leaking out of you and the tightening coil of desire low in your belly, pleasure so intense, all consuming. You float out of your body, time and space ceasing to exist. Your mind is completely wiped, your vision black with stars dancing across your field of view. You feel weightless, free.

And then there's nothing left. No more thoughts, no more feelings. Just bliss. Peace.

Just Joel.

There is nothing except the weight of Joel's body on top of yours and the pressure of his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your waist, holding you in place while he fucks you. There's nothing else. Nothing. You can't even think anymore. Your mind is blank, empty, and the only thing that remains is the feeling of his body on top of yours, and the heat. God the heat.

He's hot.

You're hot.

So fucking hot.

Everything is white hot and it's too much. It's too much and not enough, and it's not long before your body starts tensing, and your toes curl and the muscles in your legs clench and spasm and the pressure builds, and builds, and builds. And you don't even know what's happening, can't even process it.

It's not until his fingers find your clit again when the orgasm hits, the first wave of pleasure crashing over you, riptides dragging you underneath. It's the strongest orgasm of your life, the strongest you've ever had, and it doesn't even end. It just keeps building and building, the waves continuing, and every time you think it's over, another wave comes crashing down on top of you, stronger than the last, the pleasure ripping through your body and leaving you trembling and twitching and writhing, tears rolling steadily down your cheeks.

"There you go, baby" Joel rasps. " Just let go. Let it take over. Cum all over daddy’s cock."

It's like his words are an instruction manual, and you have no choice but to follow his command. The second he says it, you feel the tight coil inside your belly snap, the pressure releasing and flooding your veins, a tsunami of euphoria washing over you and dragging you deeper and deeper into the ocean.

"I'm gonna fill this greedy little pussy up again, sweetheart" he growls, his thrusts becoming erratic and his rhythm faltering. "Know how much you love it when it's drippin' out of you. Know how much you love the mess, my filthy, desperate, little cockslut"

You can't hear him, the sound of his voice too fuzzy and distant. You can't speak, your body and mind still floating, the world spinning and the darkness threatening to take over, to consume you, and the only thing that grounds you is the feeling of his skin on yours.

"Gonna cum inside you. Gonna pump that pussy full, gonna fuckin’ breed you, sweetheart”

And just like that, he does. He slams his cock into you one last time, bottoming out and burying himself inside you, the tip of his cock pressed right up against your cervix, his thick cockhead kissing the opening of your womb.

"Please, daddy" It's all you can manage to get out, and even though it's quiet, and barely a whisper, it's enough to send him over the edge.

"Fuck" he rasps, his cock throbbing and pulsing, his hips twitching as his cum floods your cunt. "That's it, take it, baby. Take all of it. Let it fill you up nice and good."

He collapses on top of you, his body flush with yours, his face buried in your hair, his breathing shallow and labored. He's panting, the rise and fall of his chest and the beating of his heart the only things that keep you from falling into the darkness. You can feel his warm breath on the back of your neck, the heat of his skin against yours. He's warm and solid and he smells good, and it's comforting and safe and secure.

"Fuck" he breathes, the warmth of his exhale tickling the skin behind your ear. "Are you okay?"

His voice is quiet, concerned, and you can't even nod, let alone answer him, but when his lips find the pulse point in your neck, the light press of his soft lips sending a wave of relief through your body, the darkness receding and the fog clearing, the only thing that passes your lips is a shaky sigh.

"I got you, darlin'" he whispers, nuzzling the side of your face. "I'm here."

"Joel" you mumble, voice weak and watery. It's all you're able to get out, but it's enough.

"I know" he murmurs, his mouth finding the skin just below your ear, pressing a gentle kiss to the sensitive spot. "I know. I'm here, baby. I'm not going anywhere. Not ever. I promise."

He sits up and pulls his softened cock out, watching as his cum leaks from your stretched out pussy. He groans, sliding his hands up and down your thighs, his eyes drinking in the sight.

"Messy girl" he murmurs, swiping his fingers through the pool of wetness dripping from your cunt. "Look at all this. My cum leakin' outta your sloppy little cunt”

You can only whimper softly, your thighs closing around his hand. He takes the hint and removes it, wet fingers smoothing over your hipbone.

He moves to lie next you again, his hand wraps around your waist and pulls you against his body, the feeling of his bare chest pressed to yours and the soft brush of his lips on your hairline is enough to keep you tethered to reality. The two of you stay there for a while and your breathing synchs to the rhythm of his before he talks again.

"You went somewhere, didn't you?" he murmurs. His voice is a little husky, a little raspy, and his accent is a little thicker than usual. "Somewhere far away."

"Yeah" is all you can manage to say. You're not quite sure if it's a question or a statement, and either way, you're not even sure how to explain it.

"Was it a good place?"

"Mhm" you nod, the memories of the feeling coming back to you, the way your body felt like it was floating and the way everything just disappeared and the way everything went black and how you could barely breathe. "So good, Joel"

"Yeah? You liked that?"

Another nod.

"You want that again, honey?"

"Yeah" you say quietly. "Want you to push me. Make me cry, make me feel it."

"Mmm, think I can do that again, sweetheart” Joel assures, squeezing you a bit tighter.

"And tell me I'm yours” you add softly.

"You’re mine, sweet girl. You belong to me, and only me."

"And no one else's."

"No one else's" he repeats.

"Say it."

"You're mine. And no one else's."

"Thank you."

"Anything for you, darlin’. Now let’s get you cleaned up”

You whine in protest, not wanting to move a muscle as he rolls off the bed. But then he scoops you up into his arms, his strong arms under your knees and your back.

"What are you doing?" you giggle, wrapping your arms around his neck.

"Can't have you walkin'" he replies. "You can barely open your eyes, I ain't about to let you fall on your ass."

He's right, of course. Your legs feel weak and shaky, and the second he lets go of you, you're not sure you'd be able to stay standing. But he doesn't let go, not even when you're both in the shower and he sets you down on the bench under the warm stream. His strong hands rub soap into your skin, lathering and washing away the sweat and the stickiness, and by the time the suds have rinsed away, the water is turning cold.

"We're gonna have to fix that" he mutters.

"Fix what?"

"This shit water heater."

You hum, the vibrations buzzing against his chest. He turns the water off and reaches for a big, fluffy towel, wrapping it around you and rubbing the fabric over your skin, drying you off. You brush your teeth together, smiling at each other in the mirror, Joel wrapping an arm around you and pulling you into his side.

"Joel?" you start after setting your toothbrush back in the cup.

"Hm?"

"I love you."

The smile on his face is soft and sweet and his eyes crinkle in the corners.

"I love you too, angel. Now, you stay right here, I'm gonna go strip the bed and I'll be right back, okay?"

You sit on the closed toilet seat lid, wrapped in your fluffy towel. Your eyes are heavy and droopy as you watch him out in your shared bedroom, pulling the soaked sheets off the bed and switching them for fresh ones as fast as he can. He picks out the white ones with the little blue flowers. The ones he knows are your favorite. You're exhausted and spent and satisfied, and the sight of him doing the most domestic task is almost enough to bring more tears to your eyes. You're not sure why, but the emotions are overwhelming, and you have to take a deep breath, steadying yourself.

He carries you back to bed, pulling the comforter over you and propping the pillows up behind you so you can lean back comfortably.

"Gonna go get some food, kay?" he finds the TV remote on the nightstand and hands it to you. "Here. Find something for us to watch. I'll be right back, don't you go anywhere, y'hear?"

"Yes, sir" you mumble, taking the remote and giving him a mock salute.

He shakes his head and laughs, then presses a kiss to your forehead before heading downstairs. The room is quiet when he leaves, the only sound left being the rain still steadily pounding against the window. You take it in, the quiet moment all to yourself. The smell of sex and sweat and his cologne and your body wash still lingers in the air, and you can still feel the tingling of your skin where his mouth and his hands had been, where his fingers and his teeth and his tongue had marked and claimed and branded you. You can still feel him everywhere. His breath on your skin, the ghost of his lips and his tongue. His hands gripping your hips, his fingers digging into the soft flesh, the memory of the pain making your cunt ache.

He returns before your thoughts can wander too far, a plate filled with food in his hands, and a grin taking up over half of his face.

"Reheated your breakfast that you should've been eatin' damn near two hours ago" he teases, handing the plate over. "My special omelet. And toast."

He crawls onto the bed next to you, leaning back against the pillows and stretching his long legs out, then takes the plate back from you. He picks up a piece of the toast and holds it to your lips.

"Open" he orders.

You roll your eyes. "I can feed myself, Joel." But the second you see the look on his face, you open your mouth, letting him place the bread on your tongue.

"I know" he smirks. "But I can feed you, too."

"Thank you" you mumble around the bread, the corner of your mouth turned up.

"Anything for you, darlin'"

You eat the omelet in bites off the fork that he holds and the toast from his hand. He makes sure to place the plate carefully to catch all the crumbs too. And when the plate is empty, he sets it down on the nightstand, trading it for the tall glass of ice water with one of your favorite straws.

"Drink" he instructs. You obey and he watches you the whole time, only taking back the cup when he's satisfied with how much you take.

"That's my good girl" he purrs, reaching over to the nightstand for the bottle of your favorite lotion. "My good, good girl."

He squeezes some of the lotion into his palm, the smell of strawberries filling the air, and he starts rubbing it into your skin. He starts with your hands, massaging each finger, gently pressing down on your knuckles until they pop. He knows you hate it but he loves the noises, and the way your nose scrunches up is adorable. Then he moves to your arms, squeezing your bicep before rubbing his hands over your shoulders, down the slope of your back, and then up the front, working the cream into your neck, your collarbone, the tops of your shoulders, and then over the swell of your breasts. He massages them, kneading the tender flesh, rolling your nipples between his fingers, and when the lotion is rubbed in and your skin is soft and dewy, he leans down and wraps his lips around a nipple, sucking gently and pulling a soft gasp from your lips.

"Joel" you whimper, the feeling of his warm mouth on your sensitive skin and his rough beard scratching at your chest making your sore, aching pussy throb.

"Mmhmm, darlin'?"

"Kiss me"

He does as he’s told, his lips soft and gentle when they meet yours. It's nothing like the rough, frantic kisses from earlier, the bruising press of his lips against yours, the desperate clash of teeth. This time, it's a tender kiss, a brush of lips and a gentle caress. His lips are featherlight on yours, his breath sweet on your tongue, the taste of the peach tea he loves so much flooding your mouth, the flavor reminding you of the fading summer.

He pulls away and looks at you with the dopiest grin

"What?" you laugh.

"Nothin'" he replies, the smile still not fading.

"No, not nothing. What is it? Why are you smiling like that?"

"Just happy, darlin. Now pick somethin’ to watch.'"

Your cheeks heat and turn red, and you can't help the small smile that stretches across your lips or the giggle that escapes when he wraps his arm around your shoulders and pulls you closer. You're nestled into his side, his arm wrapped around you and his chin resting on top of your head. You grab the remote and click through all options. Joel groans from above you when you settle on your final choice.

"Moana? Again? That's like the third time this week."

You just giggle and snuggle up closer to him, your cheek smushed against his warm, bare chest as the opening scene starts to play.

"I love you" you whisper, your warm breath diffusing across his skin.

"Love you, too, baby."

You close your eyes, the warmth of his body and the steady beating of his heart, the rise and fall of his chest, the comforting feeling of being cradled against him lulling you to sleep. This is heaven, and you're sure of it.

sometimes I wonder if there's something seriously wrong with me. Then I realize that I'm just ovulating. Thank you for reading, lemme know if you enjoyed it hehehe I love you all soo much!!

#joel miller smut #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x you #joel miller one shot #joel miller fic #the last of us #tlou fic #joel miller #pedro pascal characters

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