I Know It When I See It - Part 7

i know it when i see it - part 7

series masterlist | ao3

pairing: pornstar!joel miller x fem!reader

rating: explicit 18+ minors dni

word count: 8.4k

warnings: attempted rape/non-con, non-consensual drug use, main character is roofied, hurt/comfort, descriptions of vomiting, finally some feelings talk, victim-blaming by the victim

summary: a bad night brings you and joel closer than expected.

a/n: this chapter contains the graphic description of an attempted assault against the main character. if you believe this content may be triggering for you, there is an abridged version of the chapter posted here. please be responsible and protect your peace. resources are included at the end of the chapter.

The sunlight is brutal the next morning.

Slipping through the half-drawn blinds, burning red behind your eyelids. The sheets are warm and smell heavily of your roommate’s perfume, the lavender oil she puts on her wrists to fall asleep. Your head is heavy with hangover, mouth cottoned and dry. You’re achy and sore and so fucking embarrassed you want to die.

God, Joel must think you’re pathetic. Trailing after him like that, picking a fight when it was clear he wanted to leave. Grabbing his dick through his jeans — fucking hell, basically begging him to fuck you.

You bury your face in the pillow to muffle a groan, trying to cringe away from the memory.

What the hell is wrong with you? What is it about him that makes it impossible for you to keep your shit together? You told Tess that you were a big girl, that you could handle this. A fucking lie, clearly, since you can’t keep your cool for a single evening in his presence. 

You are so soft for him, so easy. Just some cock-addled idiot willing to take whatever crumb he’ll give you, and then somehow hurt when that’s all you get. Of course he left. He always leaves. It’s like getting surprised when the sun starts to set.

Even if, for a second, you felt like things were different this time. That quiet moment when you were caught together, the way you felt him laugh, the scrape of his smile against your cheek. When your heart stilled and you were sure, so fucking sure that he felt it too. 

Fuck.

You groan again, cringing away from the memory, the oil-slick shame of it that clings to your skin.

A gentle hand rests on the crown of your head, stroking your hair. Your roommate shifts in the sheets beside you.

“Baby, you’re spiraling,” she says, “Go take a shower.”

You do, because you are a little bit disgusting. The stale sweat from the club, from the sex. Glitter and mascara smudged around your eyes. Joel’s dry semen flaking between your thighs. You let the hot water scald your skin and think, unwillingly, of baptism. At this point, you doubt even the holiest of water could wash away your sins.

You stare at the grout, the little specks of mold that live there.

It’s just sex.

That’s what you had said to him, the lie that spilled out of you when you realized he was leaving. 

Because that’s how it is with everyone else, the revolving door of co-stars that spend a few hours with your cunt. You fuck strangers the same way that you file taxes or wait in line at the bank. Efficiently, without anything resembling real want, no jagged edge of feeling. Sweaty and soulless, all gaping mouths and shuddering gasps. Checking your nail beds and chatting about the weather between takes, coming so hard you can’t see straight and never speaking to them again.

It’s just always just sex. 

It shouldn't be different just because it’s Joel. 

You’re tired of smoking until your fingers burn, tired of staring at the scrawl of his phone number, tired of waiting for the other shoe to fucking drop.

You’ve survived bigger disappointments. You won’t let yourself be wasted by it, won’t shrink into some softer shape, cannibalized by your own bastard affection. You tell the gnawing ache in your belly to fuck off, let it go, maybe chew on your ribs for a while. 

The phone rings just as you’re stepping out of the shower, the sound muffled through the walls. You wrap a towel around your waist and crack open the small window to let out a spill of steam. The mirror is too fogged to see your own reflection, and it feels like a small mercy. You’re not sure you can look yourself in the eye right now.

Silly, shameless girl. 

The voice in your head sounds like your mother’s.

You’re slightly more human when you shuffle out into the kitchen. Your roommate is at the stove, nudging a pat of butter around a sizzling pan. 

“Someone called for you,” she says, nodding at the phone.

Only one of the other girls has resurrected, sitting cross-legged on one of the mismatched dining chairs, staring bleary-eyed into a soggy bowl of cereal. You ruffle her hair as you make a bee-line for the coffee pot, and she preens like a cat.

You see Tess’s number scrawled on the pad of paper by the phone, and wince at the idea of talking to her right now. You’ll need to ask her not to book another scene with Joel, explain some version of what happened last night. That was a conversation for later, once you had some food lining your stomach, a steady drip of caffeine in your veins. 

The Hustlers cover is taped to the fridge, and your own face stares at you as you take out the cream. 

Well, not your face, really. 

It’s all Lucky, her heavy-lidded eyes, her please come fuck me smile. The girl in the magazines, the thing you came here to become. A better version of yourself in so many ways. Radiant and unrepentant. 

She watches you take a sip of your coffee. Hair still dripping around your shoulders, so hungover you can barely stand upright. The lovesick, wet rat version of the nation’s newest sex symbol.

It’s just sex.

That’s all it was. A cruel biological trick, the inconvenient compatibility of your bodies. Some fucked up animal magnetism making you think any of it meant more than it did.

You’re not heartbroken. 

Obviously.

Porn stars don’t put their heads in the oven. 

x x x x x

When you tell Tess that you don’t want to work with Joel again, she doesn’t argue. 

She gives you a long look, her gray eyes searching. And for a second it looks like she’s going to say something else, raise some other, elusive point. But then she just shrugs.

“Whatever you want, kid.”

And you’re grateful that she doesn’t ask you to explain, that you don’t have to fess up to your stupid feelings. You’re desperate to feel less in general, to tamp down on that part of you that wants so many things you can’t have.

So instead, you focus on the shit you can control. 

The work, the sex — the tangle of the two together. Business meetings and gang bangs, contract negotiations and nipple clamps. The most lurid moments of your life parsed out in frank, unfeeling conversations. Signing on the dotted line to spread your legs and smile pretty for the camera. 

You sink into it, let yourself be submerged in the endless stream of smut. Every day a new set, a new scene. You’re a waitress, a dancer, a nanny, a prison warden. The ever-changing, eternally fuckable girl. So many skins you can slip into and shed the messy, inconvenient parts of yourself, just for a little while. 

You avoid anything with even a whiff of cowboy in it. No more beard scruff or calloused hands, no low rolling voice, no Texas twang. Instead, only smooth-bodied bull types, oiled and hairless, who greet you with broad, dopey grins. Beautiful, lithe-limbed women, all coy smiles and conspiratory laughter, a breathless whisper in your ear before each take.

You’re not as picky when it comes to the projects. You do the rougher stuff, the longer days. Resetting over and over so the camera can get a better angle, catch the edge of a cock in your throat. Take after take after take. You leave sets sore, but usually satisfied, and so exhausted that you can't do much more than climb into bed.

Less time for thinking. For pining, God forbid.

You’re a pledge, the oh-so-reluctant prey of an older girl in some sorority flick. Knees chafing against plush carpet, your skirt hiked high on your hips as you recite the Greek alphabet. You get a playful spank for every mistaken letter, tripping over the tau and upsilon, forgetting chi altogether. 

You bring your co-star off once with your hand, once with your mouth, and then again with the handle of a hairbrush. It’s a little crass, a porn cliche infecting the girlish room, but the cameras love it. After, she presses you back against the flowery bedsheets to return the favor. It’s not scripted but she coos in your ear that you’ve earned it. 

When the director calls cut, you lay there for a long moment, staring up at the high rafters of the soundstage. Settling back into yourself, feeling out your body. The burn of your knees, the slight ache in your neck. But there’s a warmth low in your belly, the slow-burning embers of your arousal, a sleepy sort of satisfaction in your limbs.

Your co-star’s face appears over yours. Cheeks still flushed, eyes shining. Her hair a golden halo, blocking the too-bright light of the overheads.

“You good?” she asks.

The sheets stick to the sweat of your back, the drip of release still cooling on your thighs. You huff out a sigh. 

“You fucked my brains out.”

She rolls her eyes.

“Please, that was nothing,” she says, “Imagine what I could do with a few hours.”

She winks and you laugh, finally forcing yourself up off the damp bed. 

Around you, the crew has already started striking the set: taking down the frames with their posed pictures, the stray textbooks and candy bars, the pennant for a college that doesn’t exist. Echoes of a life so obviously un-lived, the man-spun fantasy of a dorm room.

The dressing room is cramped, tucked in the back corner of the sound stage and wallpapered pink to disguise its past life as a storage closet.

The mirror is fogged over with hairspray, your reflection cloudy at the edges. You look well-fucked. The blur of mascara beneath your eyes, hair frizzed from her fingers. The tacky shine of her arousal is still damp on your hairline, and you wipe it away with the edge of your robe. 

Your co-star is still mostly naked, the robe draped open around her shoulders. Her breasts sway as she leans closer to the mirror, dabbing at a smudge of lipstick with her pinky finger. 

“Scoot over,” she teases, bumping your elbow as she reaches for the crumpled heap of her carpet bag.

There’s an easy familiarity in your movements, your comfortable closeness. The kind of de-facto friendship you earn after an hour between her legs.

She cuts a neat line of coke on the vanity, nudging aside the bottles of cheap perfume and for her pleasure lube left out by production. She sweeps her hair to the back of her neck, gathering it at the base of her skull as she lowers her head. It’s gone on a long inhale, the excess caught on a fingertip and tucked into her gums.

She straightens and meets your gaze in the mirror.

“Come out with us tonight.”

You raise an eyebrow at her reflection, “Out?”

“There’s a party in the hills,” she says with a shrug, “A bunch of us are going.”

It takes only another half a second of hesitation to decide fuck it. The quiet ache in your hips, the tired pinch behind your eyes, the dizzying cost of the taxi you’ll have to take home at the end of the night. 

It’ll be good to get out. Healthy, probably. 

Lately your brain has started to eat itself if you spend too much time in the empty apartment. Something to do with the weather, probably. Or your diet, the long days of black coffees and crafty croissants. Or maybe it’s guilt, so many Catholic ghosts catching up with you.

You smile at her in the mirror and catch a glimpse of your shiny, shimmering self.  

x x x x x

The taxi crawls through the winding roads towards Mulholland, the windows rolled down so your breath, that blur of backseat conversation, doesn’t fog the windshield. 

There are four of you crammed together, a flask passed between you, an elbow digging into your ribs at every sharp turn. You don’t know the others well — another actress and one of the girls from wardrobe — but your co-star’s arms are wrapped around your waist in lieu of a seatbelt, and you can feel her laughter in your ribs. It’s easy to melt, lean into the warmth, listen eagerly to a story about people you’ve never met. 

One of the other girls pulls out a little baggie, digs into it with the edge of her house key. She notices your gaze and offers it out to you.

“Want some?”

It’s only a little bump, but it burns at the back of your throat, that awful chemical drip.

The taxi turns into the driveway of some sprawling behemoth of a house, perched high at the top of the valley. The windows glow, all glass, and you watch the shift of silhouettes against the dark sky. 

You feel light, giddy, as you make your way up the drive. Gravel crunching underneath your heels, the other girls bumping into you, their laughter carried away on the cool night air.

Someone presses a glass of champagne into your hand the second you step over the threshold, and the bubbles fizz down your throat as you take it all in. The crowd, the dizzying masses, all sequin and leather and lace. A chandelier glitters above it all, concentric circles that seem to spin if you stare at it for too long.

Your co-star keeps her elbow locked with yours, tugging you through the house, pausing occasionally to accept an air kiss or make a vague promise to catch up soon. As soon as you move on, she leans in to whisper some scrap of gossip in your ear. 

Terrible flirt, never keeps his hands to himself. 

Worst actress I’ve ever seen, chews the scenery like you wouldn’t believe.

Shame about the divorce, but he should have seen it coming.

You melt from one circle to the next, an endless tide of introductions. You call yourself Lucky before you have a chance to correct it, to rethink the nickname, the endless blur of brand and body. But it doesn’t matter, not really. 

You can be Lucky tonight. 

These days, you’re her more often than you are you.

You wander through the house, taking it all in. The ugly, expensive art. Little statues tucked away on high shelves. No family photos, no shoes by the door. Only the icy veneer of impressive, impersonal wealth. There’s music playing, but it’s shapeless, meant to be heard rather than listened to. Just sounds, really. A bloated bassline, some sluggish synth. 

You think that you prefer the kinds of parties that your friends throw. Casual, comfortable. People sprawled out on the carpet, passing around a joint, or crowded together in the kitchen, trying to dance without bumping elbows. You’d kill for a night that was just dancing.

Here, it was hard not to feel watched. Observed.

Industry types lean in doorways and against railings, cool and impassive, polished in a sheen of self-importance. Around them: the aspirational drift moonish and eager, desperate to be swept into someone’s orbit. An artful hand on the hip, a precisely positioned chin. Hoping desperately to be seen, scouted.

You turn a corner and collide with someone. Champagne jumps from your glass, spilling over your fingers. A soft hand closes over your elbow, catching you before you can stumble.

“Shit, sorry about that.”

You blink up at the man attached to the hand, the apology written across his expression.

And you recognize him. At least, you think you do. 

He has a face like so many men in this city. Handsome enough, half-sculpted. The better-looking boys in their high schools, bolstered by some small-town ego, buoyed by visions of distant stardom. Inevitably disappointed when their egg whites and lean cuts of protein did not grant them entry into some secret world. Chiseled but unfinished. Forgotten marble. They pour coffee, they wait tables. Their good looks became window-dressing for someone else’s story.

He offers his hand with a warm, friendly smile and says, “It’s good to see you again.”

And you think maybe you do remember him. Standing at the edge of a set, a forgettable face from some past project. A producer, you think, like most of the men here. 

You smile up at him the way that you’re good at and say you too.

It’s mostly a lie. You’re trying very hard to remember his name, conjure it up from the blank spaces of your memory. Patrick, maybe. No, Patrick was the AD on the last film you shot. He must be Richard. Robert? You can’t figure out how to ask without insulting him.

“Do you know many people here?” he asks, maybe mistaking your expression for interest, romantic or otherwise. 

“Only a few,” you shrug, “It’s not really my scene.”

His smile widens as he shakes his head. 

“I don’t believe that,” he says, “I bet you fit in anywhere.”

He’s flirting. Leaning in the way that men tend to, like he might catch a bit of your shine if he stands close enough. 

Your co-star reappears, breathless and grinning.

“Everyone is jumping in the pool!” she says, taking your hand in hers and pulling you towards the back of the house.

The man watches you go with a wistful sort of look on his face.

“Maybe I’ll see you later,” he calls after you.

It’s hopeful, almost charming. 

You let your gaze linger for a moment. Let him indulge in the fantasy, however briefly. And maybe you will find him later, circle back as the night ebbs and make good on the promise of your smile. 

But probably not. 

It’s been less than an hour, and you already want to leave. You miss Joan Baez. You miss your bottle of wine. You miss the sound of your own name, the way it’s said without any innuendo or smirk. 

But the night has barely been worth the price of a taxi, so you swallow down the rest of your champagne and try to find the fun in it. The excitement. People would kill for an invitation to a party like this, to be in a beautiful house surrounded by such beautiful things. You search for any of that in yourself, some wide-eyed awe that could gloss over the evening. 

Instead, you only find the beginnings of a headache, a low throb in the base of your skull.

There’s a crowd gathering at the edge of the enormous pool, watching amused as a group of drunken guests splash around in the shallow end. Clothes on, still holding cocktails that must be half-chlorine. Lost in their own revelry, trying to playfully drown each other as the rest of the party watches.

You sip your champagne, waiting for the buzz to take hold, to soften the cold and the ache of your heels. 

Guest after guest kicks off their shoes and jumps in the pool to a giddy wave of oohs and aahs. The occasional cannonball or backflip earns a scattering of applause. Suit jackets are stripped away, abandoned on deck chairs. Women’s dresses billow underwater, strange jellyfish that float up above their waists.

There’s a shout as a young actress is scooped into someone’s arms and thrown into the pool. The splash arcs high, water raining down on the skirts and shoes of those standing closest. The actress emerges after a beat, drenched and beaming, swiping her hair back from her pretty face.

That starts something. Men grabbing their dates, their girlfriends, and tossing them into the water. There are indignant cries, playful laughter. A few of them get pulled in, toppled over by their own gravity.

A hand reaches from out of nowhere, grazes along your lower back, and you shrink away instinctively. 

You’re not going in the fucking pool.

Actually, you think that maybe you need to go home. The headache is getting worse, and you’re starting to feel a little dizzy. Something in the music is setting your teeth on edge, the occasional shrieks striking an uneasy nerve.

A girl standing too close to the edge loses her balance and falls in. She comes up spluttering and scared, floundering for the edge. There’s a cheer when she finds it, a few glasses raised. Her white dress has gone sheer, exposing the pink pebble of her breast to the onlookers. When she smiles, her teeth are chattering.

Your stomach twinges uncomfortably.

Shit.

You might actually be sick.

Not here. Not in front of all these people. 

“I’ll be right back.”

Your co-star catches your eye, raises an eyebrow. Need company? But you shake your head and lift your glass. Just getting another drink.

You slip back into the main house, away from the noise and bodies, down a quiet hallway that stretches into the rest of the house. More terrible art lines the walls. Brutalist and obscure, void of any warmth. You pause between paintings, waiting for your stomach to settle, for the headache to recede.

But it doesn’t.

You’re not drunk — you can’t be drunk. 

You’re only a few sips into your second drink. And sure, maybe you’re a bit of a lightweight, but never like this. Maybe the hit in the car was laced with something, or it’s reacting badly with the wine, or there was something —

Your gaze slides to the champagne flute in your hand, the soft ripples on the surface. 

Did you set it down? Just for a second? To shake a hand, maybe, or refasten the strap on your heel. You didn’t notice, you weren’t paying attention. 

But you can feel it now.

The slow creeping fog in your head, a haze of dilution. The lights a little too bright, the music a little too loud. Your skin feels heated and buzzing, something boiling beneath.

There was something in your drink. 

The realization sinks through you like a stone, a buzz of panic rising in your veins. You press your fingertips to your throat and feel your fluttering, unsteady pulse. Slower than it should be. 

Not good. Probably very bad, but you try not to panic. 

You double back to the pool area, the mess of bodies, so many strangers. The music is so fucking loud, God, how does anyone think? You search for your co-star, or any of the girls from the car, but they could be any one of the many wet heads in the pool. It’s impossible to tell, impossible to get anyone’s attention amidst the chaos. 

Someone bumps into you and your heel slips against the wet cement. You manage to catch yourself, but only just. Your balance is all wrong, off-center, some new gravity taking hold.

Whatever this is, it’s working fast.

And you can’t keep looking for the others, can’t wait for this to get any worse. 

You turn back to the house, but find a man in front of you, his broad face twisted in a leer. The front of his shirt is soaked through, clinging to the stretch of his stomach.

“Want to go for a swim?” 

You force a smile, even as your insides revolt, as your skin stretches too tight. 

“Not right now, thanks.”

You try to step around him, but he moves with you, blocking your way. His pupils are blown wide, expression hungry as he takes in your dress, the bare skin of your legs. 

“C’mon,” he coaxes, “The water’s warm.”

You don’t have time for this, for him. You let the mask drop, Lucky sliding away to leave only you. Angry, frightened, slightly feral you. No more smiling, teeth bared in a snarl.

“Fuck off,” you snap.

His expression sours, curdling like milk.

“Bitch,” he mutters, but doesn’t try to stop you again as you shoulder past.

You try to keep your breathing steady, weaving through the crowd gathered at the window, watching the spectacle outside. The house has half-emptied, everyone else spilling out into the night air. There’s a couple tangled together on one of the sofas, all legs and arms, apparently oblivious to their surroundings.

It takes a few wrong turns, a few locked doors, before you find a phone down one of the empty hallways.

Your hand is shaking as you dial Tess’s number, the receiver held so tightly you can hear the plastic creaking against your ear. 

It rings. 

And rings.

And goes straight to Tess's voicemail.

Fuck.

You try the apartment next, but it rings right through. And of course it does. It’s a Saturday night, the girls are almost never home on the weekend. And they’re too far anyways, all the way on the west side. You’re not sure you could even stay conscious for the hour it would take them to get here. 

You’re halfway gone already. The slow creep of fever along your spine, the fuzzing edges of your vision. It’s an effort to stay upright, to stay focused. You can’t stay here, in this house full of strangers. 

There’s only one other number that you know.

One you memorized, girlish and hopeful, but never called. The numbers scrawled on a receipt, tucked into a book by your bed, read over and over until they burned on the back of your eyelids. 

Your hands are shaking as you dial, slipping twice so you have to start over. And you realize it’s late, too late to call, and he doesn’t even like you very much. But there’s no one else.

Joel answers on the second ring. 

“Hello?”

His voice is low, scratched up with sleep. 

“Joel?”

He says your name, and you think, inanely, how much you like the way he says it. The deep gravel of his voice, all the things you’ve been trying to forget. 

“Everything okay?” he asks. He sounds — surprised, maybe. Confused. But not annoyed, not angry that you called. At least he hasn’t hung up on you yet.

“I’m sorry, it’s so late. I tried to call Tess. First, I called her first. And my friends. But no one’s answering and — and —”

You shake your head as a wave of dizziness threatens to overtake you. 

“Hey, slow down,” Joel says, “What’s going on?”

“I think —” you swallow, “I think there was something in my drink.”

You hear his sharp intake of breath. 

“Where are you?”

There’s a hard edge to his voice. An urgency.

You try to scrape through the fog of your memory. You can’t keep your thoughts straight, they keep spilling and tripping together. Someone had said, had told the driver the name as you slid into the back of the car. 

“In the hills. At a house. Some producer guy’s — Rich something?”

“Matthews?”

Fuck. Maybe. Names really are not your strong suit tonight.

“I think so?”

“I’m coming to get you.”

Relief surges through you, though with it comes another wave of dizziness, the black-blue blur at the edge of your vision. It takes a second to realize that you haven’t answered, that Joel is still talking to you.

“Just stay put, alright? I’ll get there as fast as I can.”

“Okay,” you tell him.

“Twenty minutes,” he says, and the line goes dead.

You let the phone slip from your hand, skittering back against the wall as the coil contracts. 

He’s coming. Joel is coming. Twenty minutes. 

You’re not sure how much time you have, how much further you have to fall. You dig your nails into the skin of your arm, focusing on the bite of pain, the sharp sting. Something to keep you awake. Present.

There’s a burst of laughter, the dance of footsteps, and a couple stumbles into the hall. Faces flushed, hands entwined. They stop short when they see you, their shameless apology tripping out through laughter.

You force something like a smile onto your face, straightening as they make their way past you, disappearing through a doorway down the hall. 

Shit. Your head aches. You need quiet, need to be alone. You really need to not fall apart in the middle of this party, where anyone could see you and shape your current state into some seedy tabloid story.

You press your hands over your eyes, digging the heel into your socket, trying to relieve some of the pressure there.

“Lucky?”

You look up. 

It's him again. The producer, the one whose name you can’t fucking remember. Patrick-Richard-whatever.

You try to straighten, but your knees buckle and you fall back against the wall. Stars burst in front of your vision, obscuring his face, distorting his mostly handsome features. 

“Woah, hey,” he frowns, “You okay?”

“Not feeling great,” you mutter, swallowing down the bile at the back of your throat. 

He chuckles, “The bartender’s a pretty stiff pour.”

You smile weakly. You really don’t want to throw up on him. But his shoes don’t look that expensive. You could probably replace them. 

You must be a little green, because he asks, “Want to get some air?” 

Yeah. Yeah, air might be good. Might clear some of the fever in your head, defibrillate you back into sobriety. At the very least, there will probably be fewer witnesses if you puke. 

You nod, and he offers his arm out for you to take. Which is good, because it’s starting to feel like the ground is slipping out from beneath you. 

“There’s a great balcony,” he’s saying, “You can see the whole valley.”

You’re staring at the floor, focusing on every step as you take it. The rich brocade of the hall carpet, the threshold of the room, the dark hardwood of wherever the fuck you are now. You blink up at the dark room, the French doors and the balcony beyond. 

Then you hear the soft click of the lock behind you.

And your stomach drops.

Hands reach out from behind you, sliding around your waist, pulling you close. A sweaty grip at the back of your dress, a gin-soaked breath at your ear. 

“Thought we could use a little more privacy.”

You freeze. Breath catching in your throat, every joint and muscle locking in place. A fear like poison, like disease, slithers through your veins. 

He put something in your drink.

Somewhere between shaking your hand and making you smile, he slipped something in your fucking champagne. You hadn’t noticed, hadn’t registered him as a threat. His banal, lukewarm smile. His easy flirtation. Not asking too much, barely even pushing.

Because he didn’t need to push.

He planned this.

Nausea twists in your stomach and now you wish you would puke. Ruin the moment, spoil whatever fucked up fantasy he wants to play out. But you can’t even think against the ache in your head, the thrum of your own pulse.

He presses his face into your neck, tongue darting out to taste your skin. His hand slides over your hip, down to the hem of your dress. He gathers it in a fist, the fabric bunching beneath his grip.

“Such a tease,” he murmurs, “This dress was driving me crazy.”

His grip is tight, holding you firmly to his chest. Every touch is hungry, consuming. You can feel him hard against you, pressing against your ass, threatening every awful thing that he wants to do to you. 

You feel surrounded, smothered. The heavy spice of his cologne, the bitter taint of sour sweat beneath. He’s everywhere, hands moving over your body, scraping across your skin.

“Stop,” you try to say, but your voice is a weak, shattered thing. 

It’s taking everything in you to cling to that last scrap of consciousness. Even if you weren’t drugged, you doubt you could fight him off. He’s twice your size, all lean muscle. The hand that flexes at your waist is a threat, a warning.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he murmurs, “Don’t be like that.”

And maybe you should just give in. 

Let go, slip into the waiting black. Submit to sharper teeth, let yourself become easy prey. It might be less painful that way. You probably wouldn’t even feel anything. You would wake up tomorrow, sore and aching, with the shadow of this awful thing, but no real memory of it. 

Lips brush your cheek, searching for your mouth. Tasting of smoke and gin and the worst night of your life. 

He’s too close, his grip too tight. The hand at your waist slides down, finding your bare thighs beneath the hem of your dress. Your breath hitches, catching on a sob, as his fingers brush against your center.

“Let me in.”

Something base and animal comes to life inside you. A clawing, gnashing fear that rips through you.

You twist in his grasp. Twist and writhe and wrench away from his hands, the suffocating press of his body against yours. His hands scrape against you, nails breaking skin, but you break free. 

Just for a second. Just for a breath.

Long enough to turn to face him on your shaky legs, to stare into the eyes of this man whose name you don’t even fucking know. The warmth is gone from his gaze. His friendly, forgettable face is now twisted, turned ugly with frustration. His hands twitch at his side — the hands he put on you, the fingers he tried to press inside.

“So that’s how it’s going to be?” he sneers.

And then lunges for you.

You see him coming, the hands reaching out for you, and try to move out of the way. 

But your legs don’t work. Your reactions are slow, stuck in the mind-numbing molasses of whatever was in your drink. You take a single, stumbling step and your heel snags on the carpet.

Your head hits something on the way down. The sharp edge of a table. You didn’t see it, didn’t realize it was there. 

You land hard, wrong. All the air punches out of your lungs from the force of the fall, the pain splitting through your skull. You can taste blood in your mouth, the bite of metal behind your teeth. It’s thick and bitter when you try to swallow.

It’s too much. The ache in your head, the heavy weight in your limbs. You want to sleep, to stop fighting, to sink into the soft darkness waiting just at the edge of your vision.

There are hands on you again. Dragging you back, turning you over. A weight settles over your legs, pinning you down.

“You like it rough, huh?” he hisses. 

You can barely see, vision spotting and smeared with color. His face is a blur above you. Your dress is shoved up over your stomach. You hear the clink of his belt coming undone.

Things are slipping, gone hazy and hard to understand. You can’t think over the pounding in your head. 

Or maybe it’s not in your head.

There’s a heavy thud, a muffled shout, and then the crack of splintering wood as the door is forced open.

You can’t see, can’t breathe. It’s all colors and sounds, shuffling and swearing, until suddenly the weight is off you. 

You twitch away, curling in on yourself, knees tucking up to your chest. A black film swims over your vision, threatening to overwhelm you. Your nails bite into your legs, and the sharp sting brings you back, keeps you teetering on the edge of consciousness. 

Blinking hard, the blackness ebbs away. The room settles into soft-focus.

The man is crumpled on the floor a few feet away from you, clutching at his nose. Blood seeps between his fingers, dribbles down his chin. You didn’t hear bone but you hope to fuck it’s broken. His expression is stained with fear, eyes wide as he watches —

Joel.

It’s Joel.

He’s here. He came for you. He’s here.

His steps are heavy as he crosses the room and drags the other man up by the collar of his shirt, lifting him so they’re eye level. His expression is stony, severe. Ice-cold fury.

“What the fuck did you give her?” Joel demands.

The other man struggles against him, but it doesn’t matter. Joel is bigger, stronger. When the answer doesn’t come immediately, he tightens his grip.

“Ow, shit, man,” the guy winces, “Fucking rohypnol. It’s just supposed to loosen them up.”

Joel’s jaw tenses, and you think maybe he’s going to hit him again. Break some more bones. Damage some vital organs, if you’re lucky.

Instead, he lets go. Shoves him back towards the door, sniffling and still bleeding.

“Get out,” Joel snarls.

The guy doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t spare you so much as a glance before he stumbles out of the door.

When Joel turns to you, all the anger is gone from his expression. His brow drawn, concern etched in every line on his face. He approaches you slowly, warily. Easing down to crouch beside you.

You swallow hard, trying to find words in the slur of your head, the blood in your mouth.

“He — he —”

You realize you’re shaking, the cold of shock settling in. 

“Hey,” Joel says gently, “You’re okay.”

He smooths his hand over your skirt, pulling your dress back down to cover your legs. You ease a little under his familiar touch, the careful way he pieces you back together. Sliding the strap back onto your shoulder. Thumbing the blood on your chin.

“Can you walk?” he asks.

“I think so.”

You just want to go, to get out of this house. You’ll crawl if you have to.

He lifts you up carefully, helps you settle on shaky legs. You try to straighten, to stand on your own stupid heels, but the world tips sideways, a sudden lurch that has stars dancing across your vision again.

But Joel is there. His hand at your hip, his arm wrapping around your waist. Steadying you. 

“Easy,” he murmurs, tucking you into his side, “I’ve got you.”

It’s a blur, mostly. The hardwood, then back onto the carpet of the hall. Joel supporting most of your weight, his voice low in your ear. Doing good. Just a little further. Through the crowd downstairs, the eyes that slide over you, drunk and disinterested.

When you finally reach the front door and step out into the night, you stop short. You close your eyes, inhaling deeply, hoping the fresh air might settle something in you. 

It doesn’t. 

“Almost there, baby,” Joel says.

You force yourself to nod, to keep moving.

His truck is a reddish blur at the end of the driveway. He keeps you balanced as he unlocks the door and helps you inside, closing it carefully behind you. Your body sags into the worn leather seat, aching and exhausted, eyes already fluttering shut.

You’re distantly aware of the engine roaring to life beneath you, the crunch of gravel as Joel pulls out of the drive. The dark, twisting hills that sink into city streets. Asphalt and lilacs, the air cool on your feverish skin.

You come-to a few seconds before you realize that you’re going to be sick.

“Shit,” you mutter, “Joel, pull over.”

He does, easing the truck over to the side of the road.

The second it rolls to a stop, you’re fumbling for the door handle and throwing it open. You barely manage to lean over the side before you’re vomiting, spilling sour champagne into the street below. 

You feel hands scraping up your hair. Soothing strokes down the length of your spine.

“You’re okay,” Joel says, “Get it all out.”

It takes a second. Shuddering and retching, your body finally revolting against the poison inside it. When you’re finally empty, you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand and lean back into the seat. Sweating. Shaking. The acid taste of bile sharp on your tongue.

Joel watches you. Wary. Worried. Waiting for your go-ahead. 

“You good?”

No. Definitely not. But you think you’re done puking, so you nod.

“Alright,” he says, “Not much longer now.”

X x x x x

You come back to your body in a quiet, unfamiliar place – bathed in a deep blue darkness, the muddy warmth of a streetlight. Soft carpet beneath your bare feet, a blanket around your shoulders. Someone moving nearby, a low voice. Gentle, coaxing.

“Can you look at me?”

It takes a second to focus on Joel’s face in front of you.  Everything is a little melty, the colors soft and smudged, blurring at the edges. Your head feels so impossibly heavy, an anvil on your shoulders.

“Where are we?” you ask, and the words come out slurred, the consonants gone soft and lazy.

Joel raises his hand to stroke your hair back from your face. His fingers feel warm and dry against your cheek.

“My place,” he tells you.

His place. The idea of it sits strange, doesn’t settle. You figured he would take you home, or to Tess. Leave you for someone else to deal with. You’re not his mess, not his problem.

You frown.

“Why?”

“You’re sick,” he says simply, “Someone’s gotta keep an eye on you.”

You blink again, trying to bring the blurred outline of him into focus. He’s crouched in front of the sofa, face level with yours. The tense set of his jaw, his brows drawn together in concern. He’s holding a glass of water, and he presses it carefully into your palm, curling your fingers for you.

“Can you drink this for me?” he asks, voice as gentle as his hands. 

Your arm shakes as you bring the glass up to your lips, and it’s an effort to make your throat work the way it’s supposed to. It feels raw, wrong. But you manage, swallowing down a few mouthfuls, the water soothing some of the burn inside of you, washing away the metallic taint of vomit and blood.

“Good girl,” Joel murmurs, “Let’s get you cleaned up, alright?”

You hum your assent, though your head is still too hazy to follow from one thought to the next. It snags on the good girl, the warmth in his voice that makes you want to cry. 

But then Joel's arms are around you, lifting you easily and tucking you against his chest. You sink into the warmth of him, the sway of his step as he carries you upstairs. Eyes closed, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. You wish your own would settle, even out. It’s still too slow, your blood too thick in your veins.

He eases you down onto the bathroom counter, cool granite under the bare skin of your thighs. His hand holds steady at your hip as he leans over to flip a switch. Soft light spills into the small room, and you wince against the brightness. Your head is still sore. Every inch of you aches.

Joel's gaze flickers over you. Steady, assessing. You think, absently, that you must be a mess. Mascara smudged from crying and puking, sick still clinging to your skin. Dress stained from the same, ripped in places you don’t want to think about, not when your stomach still feels so tender.

“Can we take this off, darlin’?” Joel asks.

You nod, lifting your arms. You want it off, gone. Burned, maybe. You doubt you could ever wear it again without feeling the grip of those hands, the snag and tear when he tried to take it off you. 

Joel's hands are careful as he eases the dress over your head.

You shiver, goosebumps on your bare skin. But you don’t bother covering your breasts. It’s not like there’s anything to hide. Joel's seen it all before, knows every inch of your body better than anyone else.

There’s no heat in his gaze when he looks at you now, no hunger as he wipes a damp rag over your skin. Skin that he’s kissed and bit and come over. That he now strokes gently, carefully. Cleaning away the remnants of the night.

You should really shower, but you’d probably drown.

He tugs a worn t-shirt over your head. Pulls your hair free from the collar, smooths it over your skin. You blink up at him, and his brow furrows in concern. Dark eyes lingering on your split lip, all the places you’ll probably bruise. 

“That hurt?” he asks.

You shake your head.

“S’not bad.”

He hums, but still looks. Tilting your head towards the light, touching the swollen skin.

He’s being so — soft. The tenderness in his touch, in the way he’s looking at you. It makes you ache in a way that has nothing to do with the drugs.

You lean forward, tucking your face against his neck, breathing in the whiskey and oak smell of him. His hand rubs along your back, over the knobs of your spine. You feel the pinch of tears behind your eyes.

“I was really scared,” you whisper.

Joel tenses, his hold on you tightening a fraction. 

And it strikes you how easy this is, how well you know each other's bodies. There’s familiarity in every touch, every inch of skin. You’re half-drugged, half-naked. And still you feel safe, despite his bigness, his rough edges.

His hand comes up to cup the back of your head, cradling the bowl of your skull in his heavy palm. His nose brushes against your temple, breath warm against your cheek. You’re alright, he murmurs. 

You twist your fingers into the fabric of his shirt, nuzzling your face into his neck. Hoping he can feel the thank you, the gratitude fluttering at the base of your throat. He strokes your hair, and you think he understands.

“Come on,” he says, “Let’s get you to bed.”

He steps back, and you try to slide off the counter. 

Your knees give out the second your feet touch the floor, and stumble. Catching yourself on the edge of the counter, wincing as the room spins.

“Fuck,” you mutter. The pounding behind your eyes resumes, a steady throb.

“Careful,” Joel says, “That shit’s still in your system. Can't do any cartwheels.”

You mumble something about just trying to fucking walk, but then Joel’s arms are around you again, scooping you off the floor. And that’s fine too. Better, probably.

He deposits you gently onto a bed. His bed, you realize, dimly. The smell of him on soft gray sheets. Your bare legs slide beneath the blankets, the same space he sleeps every night. It twists inside you, a funny feeling blooming in your stomach.

The mattress shifts as he sits beside you, holding out the refilled glass.

“Drink some more for me.”

You do, and you don’t shake as much this time. You feel only slightly more human when you finish. Still drugged, but the room stops spinning. You can blink without seeing stars.

You grimace, setting the glass aside. 

“I think men are bad.”

Joel chuckles softly, his hand smoothing over your hair.

“Real bad.”

You meet his gaze, the warmth in the deep brown of his eyes.

“Not you,” you murmur, “You’re okay.”

Even as you say it, you feel the weight of what’s happened hanging between you. The ugly way you’d left things. The anger, the uncertainty. There’s still so much shit you don’t understand, can’t make sense of. The way he is with you now — where was that when he left you standing in that fucking closet, hurt and confused.

Joel’s brow furrows, and he drops his gaze.

“‘M sorry about the other night,” he says, “I shouldn’t’ve left like that.”

Something nervous and vulnerable flutters in your stomach, but you figure you’ve done plenty to embarrass yourself tonight. It can’t get any worse, really.

“Did I —” you swallow, “Did I do something wrong?”

Joel looks up sharply, shaking his head.

“No. No, ‘course not,” he frowns, “It ain’t that. It’s, well — it’s complicated.”

You tilt your head, studying him in the half-light. There’s that nerve that ticks in his jaw. You used to think it meant he was angry, annoyed. Now you think it’s something else. All the things he won’t let himself say, swallowed down like glass.

“I’ve got time,” you say softly.

Joel looks up, lips twitching.

“What you’ve got is a bunch of fucking benzos messin’ with your head.” 

You bite back a smile.

“Might as well tell me then,” you shrug, “I probably won’t remember in the morning.”

Joel huffs out a sigh, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, staring down at a blank stretch of carpet. His profile silhouetted by the bedroom window, bathed in soft blue light.

“I, uh, kept tellin’ myself I’d keep my distance,” he says.

You blink.

“From me?”

He nods, still not meeting your eye.

“Why?”

He scrubs a hand over his face, frustration evident in every hard line of his body.

“Told you, lines get blurred,” he says, “Figured it’d be easier if I stayed away.”

You think of that first scene, the way he walked away without looking back, how it settled like lead in your stomach. The anger in his face when you’d shown up at the bar, the livewire of tension between you. How much it hurt every time he pulled away, shut you out. 

You frown.

“I don’t want you to stay away.”

“I know, darlin’,” he sighs, gaze flicking up to meet yours, “And that makes it a helluva lot harder.”

Something warm pools in the pit of your stomach. 

Stupid, infuriating man. You want to hit him. You want to kiss him, actually, but you’re pretty sure you still taste like puke. Still, you should try to argue. Plead your case. Explain all the reasons why staying away from you is a terrible idea.

You try to push yourself up, and spots immediately cloud your vision. A fresh wave of nausea threatens to overtake you and you wince, squeezing your eyes shut. 

“Woah, easy,” Joel catches your arm before you can topple off the edge of the bed and eases you back down. 

You can’t even argue as he tucks the blankets in around you, pulling the comforter up to your chin.

“Just gotta sleep it off, baby,” he says.

“What if — what if I — asphyxiate, or whatever,” you mumble. 

You hear Joel’s low chuckle somewhere nearby, the shift of the mattress beneath him as he settles in.

“Not gonna let you,” he says, “I'll be right here.”

The darkness seeps in at the edges of your vision, and finally, you give in.

x x x x x x x x 

author’s note: There is no situation, context, or flirtation that ever excuses sexual assault. It is never the victim’s fault.

If you need support, the resources below may be helpful: 

RAINN National Sexual Assault Hotline 800-656-4673 | Online Chat

Find a sexual assault service provider near you here. For international readers, you can find local providers here.

Additional resources:

The Sexual Trauma and Abuse Care Center

LGBTQ National Hotline

Mental Health Support for BIPOC Survivors

National Organization of Asian and Pacific Islanders Ending Sexual Violence

no angel

chiro!joel x f!reader | part two

pairing: chiro!dom!joel miller x fem!reader

summary: after your chiropractor, joel miller, goes down on you, you can’t help but come back for more

*If you want to read your best friend’s experience with Joel, you can find that here by @chloeangelic (we had a little joel universe crossover)

word count: 3.5k

warnings: joel is slutty, this is pure porn (probably the filthiest thing i’ve ever written), sharing is caring in this one, age gap, joel is your doctor, oral sex (f + m receiving), unprotected PIV, choking, hair pulling, slight degradation, come eating, possibly more.

a/n: IM SORRY i’ve been gone for so long. i was feeling insecure abt my writing and so blocked. this is a wild one so i hope you enjoy. also it is my birthday tomorrow hehe so i’m planning to write a lil joel birthday sex one shot. okay, love you.

—

part two

You’re leaning your back against the kitchen counter, a glass of wine in your hand, and your other holding your phone up to your ear. You’re having your daily catch up with your best friend, laughing at stories of her clients she’s had throughout the day. It’s been about five days since you’ve seen Dr. Miller, but for some reason you don’t mention it to her. It feels almost too insane to say out loud that you let your chiropractor eat you out. She’s persisted these past few days because she knows you well enough to know when something’s up. Then you can’t hold it in anymore.

“Just tell me.”

“My chiropractor went down on me.”

There’s silence for a brief moment.

“…Dude, my client fingered me. He overheard me calling him a DILF when we were on the phone that day.”

“Holy shit, seriously?” You laugh, an amused grin on your face.

“Yeah…” Her voice is laced with confusion as she trails off. “He’s a chiro too, come to think of it.” She laughs then. “Maybe they have like a weird club for slutty chiros.”

You chuckle, taking another sip of your wine. “Maybe they’re friends.” You’re both laughing hysterically at this point. “You should ask him if he knows Joel Miller.”

Silence.

“Are you there?” You ask, pulling your phone from your ear with your eyebrows knitted to see if the call dropped. Then your face drops in realization, and you slowly set your glass of wine down.

“I—”

“Are you telling me we’re talking about the same man?” You say monotonously.

“Dude…”

“You think he’d fuck us both?” You ask, face contorted in confusion at this new information.

“We could find out,” she suggests.

After the phone call ends, your fingers hover over the keyboard, trying to think of the perfect excuse to see Joel again. You’re not jealous, no, actually it turns you on when you think about how Joel isn’t as nice as you originally thought. If anything, it makes you wanna fuck him even more.

Hi Joel! Do you think you could fit me in for an appt tonight? It’s just my hips are killing me and I think we got distracted before you could fully adjust them.

J: Of course I can see you tonight.

An hour later, you’re walking up to the front door of the building and entering the waiting room. You notice someone new sitting at the front desk; a young woman, cherry red lips, pretty brown eyes, a shirt that dips a little too low— Fuck, I have to stop. Is being attractive a requirement to work here or something?

“Hi.” You smile. “I have an appointment with Dr. Miller for 7:30.”

She asks for your name, scrolls through her computer for a moment with her eyebrows knitted in concentration. “Hm, I don’t see anything…”

“Last minute appointment,” you add with a smile.

“Oh, yes! I remember he mentioned you. Okay, you’re all checked in then, love.”

You give a polite thank you, taking a few steps away towards the chairs that were lined up against the wall. It’s only a few moments later when Joel is walking through the front door of the office himself, looking quite flustered. You’re amused as he shuts the door behind him, slightly out of breath. Even disheveled, he manages to look fucking good.

“Good evening, Dr. Miller,” you hear the receptionist say. You look up to see her head resting her hand, lip caught between her teeth with a dazed looking smile on her face.

Seriously?

He greets her with a nod, then looks towards you. “You can come back with me.”

You feel the receptionist’s eyes on your back as you follow behind him, heart beginning to race. He holds the door open as you walk into the room, setting your purse down onto the chair. You get on the table carefully as he washes his hands with his back turned to you. Your fingertips press into the cushion, remembering how it felt to be spread wide for him.

“So, your hips are bothering you, huh?” Joel asks, head turning back for a moment to give you a slight smirk.

“Yes, actually,” you tease.

He turns around, drying his hands off and looking at you sympathetically. “Don’t worry, I’ll fix you right up. Lean back, sweetheart,” Joel says, coming to the side of you. He holds his large hand to your lower back, guiding you down until you’re laying against the cushion.

You’re in a comfortable silence as Joel grabs you by the waist, adjusting your weight to your side. Your eyes soften, noticing the small details of his face while he crosses your arms over your chest. He doesn’t explain what he’s doing much this time, just turns your body to the position he needs and adjusts.

He pushes his weight into you, contorting your spine in a way that makes your back pop loudly, pulling a giggle from you. Joel chuckles as well, releasing you. “Oh, that was good,” he teases. He mostly seems relaxed, so you don’t suspect he’s on to you in any way.

You watch him carefully as his concentrated facial expression softens, not bothering to hide the fact that you’re shamelessly staring at him. Despite the extreme physical attraction, you both managed to be on your best behaviors while Joel’s hands work your body magically. It isn’t until he’s setting your leg down gently that he looks up to see you admiring him.

“What?” He taunts, raising his eyebrows at you.

“I was just thinking…” you trail off, sighing innocently. You’re leaning up on your elbows and he reaches his hand to brush the hair off your face, thumb gently stroking your cheek.

“What were you thinking, baby girl?”

You get up, thighs clenched, sitting on the edge of the table with both of his hands on either side of your thighs; his mouth dangerously close to yours now. “That I could finally return that favor,” you say timidly, feeling small under his intense eye contact. “Been thinking about you.”

Joel uses his middle and index finger to tilt your head up to get a better view of your eyes. “You have, huh? You think about me while you play with that pussy?”

You nod, a confident grin on your face as you look up at him. “Been thinking about your cock, too.”

“Fuck, you can’t say things like that, baby,” Joel says, his forehead resting against yours, breath ghosting on your lips. He grabs your inner thigh, pushing your legs further apart in your seated position. “What am I supposed to do with you?”

“I really want you to fuck me,” you nearly whine, watching his cock grow harder in his pants.

He sighs. “Gonna get me in trouble, talking like that, baby,” Joel mutters, grabbing you by your hair and pulling you down to the floor. You’re on your knees, quickly reaching to undo his belt. You can feel yourself getting wet just at the thought of finally seeing it. When he pulls it out, you bite your lip in desire, not at all surprised by how big it is.

“Fuck,” you whimper, watching the tip drip with precum as you wrap your hand around the base.

“Don’t tease,” he warns, already guiding it towards your mouth while your hand pumps up and down. You flick your tongue over the thick head, savoring the salty flavor of him. “Ah, shit, baby.”

You lift up slightly, opening your mouth and allowing yourself to drool on his dick. “Yeah, make it messy,” he sighs, tilting his head back as you rub your spit over him, loud squelching noises echoing in the room as you pump faster. You lean back a bit, finally taking him into your mouth.

Joel’s grip on your hair tightens, his teeth clenched and his eyes screwed shut as he does his best to be quiet. You can’t help but moan into him while you allow him to push further into your mouth. You’re still in control, using your hand to pump at the base while you suck. He glances down at you, taking in the way you look— the spit dripping from your chin down onto your chest.

“You look so goddamn pretty on your knees for me.” He lets out a gush of air while you remove your hand and let his cock hit the back of your throat. You gag around him, tears filling your eyes as he grips you with both hands. You relax your jaw while he thrusts into your mouth, picking up the pace as he gets more comfortable.

“Such a good fucking girl, letting me use your fucking mouth this.” He curses, his thrusts getting stronger. Your hands hold onto the front of his thighs, knees aching as you do your best to stay stabilized.

You love the way he takes control— how fast he could shift from gentle to rough. You can feel your cunt throbbing, your nose hitting his skin while his hips pound into you. He can’t help but groan now, the sound making you want to cry out in bliss.

“Stroke it,” he demands, making you gasp for air as he yanks you off of him. You quickly wrap your small hand around his hard cock, jerking it and rubbing your thumb over the head. You’re out of breath, looking up to meet his eyes. His eyes are dark with his bottom lip between his teeth, watching you with satisfaction.

You take the opportunity to shake your head at him softly and say. “I know what you did.”

His body stiffens at your words, but his cock gets harder in your hand at your admission. “You do, huh? I’m assuming you’re not upset with me, then.” Joel chuckles breathlessly, stroking your hair as your hand moves at a steady pace.

“Maybe a little jealous.” You sigh, watching him shiver as you rub the head with your thumb. “I saw the way that the receptionist looked at you earlier, too.”

Joel shrugs his shoulders, a cocky expression written over his face. “Don’t be jealous, baby. Got enough of me for everyone.”

“Aren’t you gonna fuck me too?” you pout.

“Oh, fuck,” Joel grunts, reaching forward to rub the spit over your lips. “You want me to fuck you the way I fucked your best friend? The way I fucked that pretty girl at the front desk?”

You lean into his touch, eyes fluttering shut at the contact. “Please, I can’t take it,” you whine, the heat in your belly growing.

“Don’t worry, I’ll give you what you need,” Joel promises. “So dirty for me, baby.” He can’t give you any more of a break, letting the tip of his cock hit against your lips. You let out a whine, tilting your head back and sticking your tongue forward with your jaw dropped. He hums, pushing himself in until you’re gagging again.

He holds you there, your eyes screwed shut as you try to breathe with his dick down your throat. As soon as he pulls out, he’s hitting your throat again at a rapid pace. You’re so turned on, the ache between your legs becoming too intense at the way he relentlessly fucks your mouth.

“Good girl,” Joel moans, eyes rolling back as he jerks his hips forward. You can’t stop whining, doing your best to breathe, to stay open for him. He’s still watching you closely, making sure he’s not hurting you as he rocks forward. “So good, just a little bit more.”

After a few more hard thrusts inside your mouth, he backs off, fisting his cock over your face. You open your mouth for him, whimpering as you feel his cum shoot out on your tongue and over your face. “Yeah, fucking swallow it,” he groans, watching you lick your lips.

“Tastes so good.” You breathe, sitting back on your heels and wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. He smirks, grabbing your arm and pulling you to your feet. Joel’s dropping to his knees in front of you, dragging down your shorts and panties. He uses a hand to push your legs apart and you grip onto his shoulders to steady yourself. Joel uses both thumbs to spread your lips apart, cursing under his breath when he sees how wet you are.

His cock is semi hard again and he’s dragging two thick fingers to your needy hole. “You’re so fucking wet,” he says and pushes both of them in, sighing in relief at the feeling of your wet and warm pussy. You’re breathing heavily, watching him fuck his fingers into you, curling up in all the right places. Your legs feel weak, your heart is pounding, and you feel like you could cum right there on him.

“Is all this just for me, baby girl?” He teases, his fingers scissoring inside you.

“Yes, Joel, fuck,” you cry out as he stretches you, opening you up and getting you ready for his cock. He’s fully hard again and he pulls out, rubbing your arousal over the head of his cock and then pushing his fingers back in. “Please, I need you to fuck me now, please.”

“Yeah, you need it?” He chuckles breathlessly, looking up at your expression as he slides his fingers out to rub your clit. “Want me to fuck you like the little slut you are?”

“Fuck,” you groan, his fingers pinching at your clit.

His hand pulls away and then slaps against your pussy, making you jolt. “Answer me.”

“Yes,” you whimper. “Please, Joel.”

Your brain can barely register it when he gets up and grabs you harshly by the arm. You’re whining as he bends you over the table, his large hand rubbing over the small of your back while the other rests on your ass. You hear him hum behind you, taking in the way you look in this position— bent over in his fucking office.

He guides his throbbing cock to your entrance, nudging the tip over your slick heat. “Oh, fuck, this pussy’s fucking wet, baby.”

“For you,” you tell him, looking over your shoulder at him innocently.

“Fuck, yeah, it’s for me,” Joel gloats, pushing his cock into you. You’re gasping, hands gripping the table as he fits more of himself inside you. “So fucking tight.”

“So big,” you moan, your eyes rolling back as you feel him splitting your pussy open, welcoming the ache of his large cock.

“Can’t take it?” He pulls out a little only to push further into you. “Your best friend took it pretty well. Do I have to call her up so she can show you how it’s done?”

“I can take it, fuck,” you mutter, feeling him finally push all the way in and his tip hit against your cervix. “She could barely walk when you were done with her.”

His hips snap against your ass, cock filling you so deeply, the wall in front of you starts to blur. He leans forward to wrap his hand around your mouth, muffling the sound of your cries as he wrecks you. You can’t think of anything better than being used by him.

“And that’s exactly what you want, isn’t it?” He mocks.

You nod rapidly, huffing as he uses both hands now to grab your ass and spread your cheeks apart, watching himself slide in and out of you. You hear him grunt, the sound of spitting, and then his saliva hitting your pussy, the slick sound of his cock getting louder.

“I— fuck, Joel. So fucking good.”

“Yeah, you fucking love this cock,” he chuckles behind you, slapping your ass harshly while he thrusts. “Tell me, baby.”

“Love your cock, Joel,” you manage to say breathlessly, feeling your belly tightening up again. “Want it all for myself.”

“Too fucking bad.”

“So mean,” you whine, a complete fucked out mess.

“Oh, you haven’t seen mean yet. I can feel that pussy squeezing me, baby girl, fuck.” Joel can’t keep still, his hands knead your ass, slapping against the soft skin. “You’re about to cum, aren’t you?”

“Fuck, yes,” you moan obscenely, head tilted back in pleasure while your body jerks against the table.

“Cum on my dick like the little slut you are,” Joel spits, and you can’t hold it in anymore. You feel your orgasm release with a gush, drenching his cock and the cushion beneath you. Your eyes are rolled back, body pulsing with pleasure as he slides in and out with long, deep strokes.

“Fuck, I’m fucking cumming,” you choke out in a sob, the feeling overtaking you as your body slumps against the table. He doesn’t stop, his pace doesn’t slow down in the slightest.

“Yeah, that’s so good, baby,” He says, finally pulling out of you. You’re trying to catch your breath when he pulls you up by your hair and then turns your body around. “I’m not fucking done with you,” Joel speaks sternly, positioning you so you’re laying on your back. He pulls your hips close to him, putting your legs over either side of his shoulders and slapping his cock over your cunt. “I’ll tell you when you’ve had enough.”

“Oh, fuck,” you moan, looking to watch him push himself into your tight, wet hole again. Your pussy is already sore, so stretched out as his cock drags against your aching walls. “It’s so much, Joel.”

“I know you can take it, baby,” he sighs, grabbing you by the hips. The angle makes his cock fuck into you a bit deeper than it was before, and the feeling makes you almost want to scoot away from him.

“Stop fucking moving,” Joel says, glaring at you as he watches you squirm. “Breathe for me, let me make you cum again.”

You’re so overwhelmed by him, his hands on your body and his thick cock filling you up. The table creaks underneath you with how hard he’s pounding you, his grunts getting louder above you. Joel wraps one hand around your neck to keep you steady, restricting your airflow slightly. He takes the other hand up to your mouth and shoves his fingers in until you’re gagging.

“Get ‘em nice and wet, baby girl, come on,” he coaxes as you suck on his fingers, making them slick. When he slips his fingers down to your clit and begins to rub gentle circles, your entire body relaxes into the cushion as the pleasure overcomes you. “That’s it, let me give it to you.”

“Oh, god, I’m gonna cum,” you sob, holding onto his bicep as your body jolts with every thrust that pushes you closer to your orgasm.

“Why don’t you ask me politely?”

“Please,” you drag out the word, your voice wavering as he pummels you. “Please, doctor, let me cum.”

His fingers tighten around your throat and his eyes shut as your pussy begins to throb uncontrollably, clenching around his cock and making it hard for him to hold back. His thumb pushes into your clit with a bit more pressure, and you feel your orgasm burn in your core, spreading throughout your entire body.

“This is my pussy, you hear me?” He tells you, continuing to fuck you through it. You nod, lip caught between your teeth. “Repeat it.”

“Yes, sir, all yours,” you manage.

“Gonna fuck this pussy full of my cum, baby,” his voice shakes, grip on you even tighter once he stills inside of you. He’s breathing heavily, holding his cock as deep in you as it’ll go while his hot cum shoots inside you. “Oh, fuck, baby, that’s good.”

He pulls out and you whimper at how empty you feel. Joel gets on his knees in front of you once more and spreads your swollen lips apart, humming as he takes in your current state.

“Fucking wrecked this cunt,” he mutters, pushing his fingers into you and gathering his cum before reaching his hand up to your mouth. You suck willingly, holding onto his wrist and moaning at the taste of him. “Such a good girl, aren’t you?”

You nod. “For you.”

“Hold on, let me clean you up,” Joel says, reaching for some wipes. “Can’t have you leaving like this.” He wipes softly over your skin, cleaning up all the cum that dripped out of you before reaching for your panties. You’re both quiet as he helps you get dressed again.

“So…um,” Joel clears his throat as he adjusts his belt. “I’m sorry about… I didn’t know you guys knew each other… and I’m sorry about the receptionist.”

You chuckle awkwardly, pulling a piece of hair behind your ear. “It’s fine, Joel, really. I get it— you’re an attractive man. Can’t blame you.”

He shakes his head, his lips forming a smirk. “Well, I’d like to see you again… if you’d like.”

“I would like that,” you affirm. “Maybe you could come over next time?”

You swear you see his face turn a light shade of pink as he nods happily. “We could arrange that.”

“Okay, well… I’ll text you then.” You smile, doing your best to push down that giddy feeling.

“Looking forward to it… Send your friend my regards.”

“Joel.”

“Too soon?”

◁ Meet Me in the Back Masterlist ▷

{Moodboard by the head "sleazy gas station joel" slut herself @chloeangelic}

Status: Ongoing (sporadic) Pairing: sleazy gas station clerk!joel x fem!reader Series Summary: When you stumble into your local gas station one night and the sleazy clerk refuses to sell you alcohol, you have to get creative. What should have just been a one time bribe winds up being more than you bargained for. Rating: Explicit 18+ for all chapters [Minors Do Not Interact] Series Warnings/Tags: Age gap, daddy!kink, size!kink, breeding!kink, mentions of cigarettes/weed/alcohol, minor degradation!kink, VERY light dubcon for first part, really cringey dirty talk courtesy of joel but it's hot. Please see individual chapters for more indepth warnings/tags. a/n: this series has such a special place in my heart, and i'm so humbled and grateful for all of the love (and reluctant attraction) y'all have expressed for my little slimeball Joel I've crafted. if you're new, i hope you enjoy and please feel free to hop into my inbox with thoughts/headcanons/requests and i'll see what i can do :) 💘

Main Series:

Part 1: Meet Me in the Back  summary: When the gas station clerk refuses to sell you alcohol after a shitty day, you need to get creative word count: 3.8K

Part 2: The Night Is Dark Enough We’re Only Seeing Stars summary: You can’t resist another visit to Joel in all his pervy glory. word count: 4.7K

Part 3: Hard to Break the Habit summary: When you need some air in your tires, Joel does some filling  word count: ~5k

Headcanons/Drabbles:

-> Thanksgiving/Black Friday Headcanon (~290 words)

-> A Day in the Life Headcanon (~500 words)

-> First Text Exchange Headcanon (~200 Words)

-> Schtupping the Soccer Mom Headcanon

-> Our Man’s Kinks

Extras

Steal His Look!!! by the effervescent chloeangelic once again

closer, part one | joel x reader

chapter one | masterlist |  ao3

pairing: joel x f!reader (no use of y/n) (no apocalypse au)

rating: 18+

word count: 4.9k

warnings: 18+, smut (in most later chapters), age difference (joel is 42 and reader is 25), porn with some plot, soft!dom joel, rough sex, spanking, piv, oral (m + f receiving), dirty talk, praise kink, overstimulation

story summary: you are staying with your parents, helping them move into their new house in austin. what happens when joel miller, the attractive neighbor you’ve been eyeing obsessively starts to show you some much wanted attention?

a/n: been posting this mostly on ao3 for a while but thought the tumblr audience might also enjoy my self indulgent joel smut story <3

Keep reading

Just Friends (Javier Peña x Female Reader)

Part 2

Summary: You’re planning to have sex for the first time and you’re nervous—Javi offers to show you a thing or two, but just as friends of course.

Pairing: Javier Peña x Female Reader

Warnings/Tags 🏷 18+ only, minors dni. reader is in late 20’s; reader is an agent for the DEA; established friendship, idiots in love lust, overprotective/slightly jealous Javi; Javi is his canon manwhore self, reader is a virgin, talks of virginity loss and her desire for no strings attached sex, a bit of pining and yearning, lots of pet names, a couple insults, friendship fluff; touching, groping, dry humping, reader gets off, Javi does not. I know, I know. I will make it up to him in part dos. this does not follow the timeline of the show accurately, Messina is in the picture, Connie is still around. reader is bilingual, no descriptions of her race or ethnicity mentioned though.

Word Count: 7.9k

A/N: This took me forever to edit and post because I’m scared lmao. I included a sneak peek at the next part at the end, along with a couple translations. 🤍

thank you to @cutesyscreenname for encouraging me to write this idea. I owe you cherry gansitos!

You observed your own reflection in the full length mirror in front of you and let out a curious little hum as you lifted the short, scarlet red minidress, holding it right up against the length of your body. You then held up the second dress that you had clutched in your opposite hand, a stunning, satin black midi number whose length was a lot longer than the first option, the hem of it falling down to your calves.

It appeared rather innocent, modest enough while it was still on the plastic hanger, but it fit you beautifully, just like a fucking glove. The bodice of the garment cinched at your waist and it was tightly fitted, hugging the curves of your upper body so closely that it looked and even felt like something of a second skin whenever you wore it. The billowy skirt of the dress flowed out around you, darling and sweet at first glance, however it came with a borderline dangerous slit in the side of it that stopped about two or three inches above the middle of your thigh near the hinge of your hip. It exposed the entire length of your leg whenever you walked, danced, or moved around in it—Murphy had once referred to it as the infamous femme fatale dress, telling you that it was a far, far more dangerous weapon than your gun could ever be. 

You were fairly certain his remarks had something to do with the fact that you’d worn the dress on a number of different occasions while you were out on the job, going undercover in Bogotá for the US Drug Enforcement Administration. 

As the only female agent on her team in Colombia and a younger, very beautiful female agent at that, Messina found herself using you to her advantage quite often these days. She would send you out all over Bogotá in that very same black dress with the hope that it would aid you in luring in members of the Medellín drug cartel in efforts to capture their leader, Pablo Escobar.

Tonight, however, you weren’t going undercover.

You were doing something much more frightening than mingling among some of Colombia’s most dangerous men. 

Far, far more daunting than that.

You were going out on a date. 

“I like the red dress the best,” Javier’s deep voice came from behind you, startling you slightly. He had mentioned to you earlier that day that he was going to some lounge with Murphy for a smoke and some drinks after work hours since it had been a long, draining week for him at the office; Messina had stuck him with an endless amount of tedious paperwork to do and it had just about driven him insane, but nothing a pack of cigarettes and some bourbon couldn’t fix. With the soft, Latin cumbias playing from the old stereo perched on top of the white oak dresser beside you, you had completely missed the sound of the front door opening and closing when he’d gotten home.

You glanced over your shoulder to see him standing there in the open doorway with his arms crossed over his chest. Javier’s dark brown eyes were fixed intently on you, a small, devilish smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth as he casually leaned up against the door frame of your bedroom. Well, technically, it was actually the guest bedroom of his apartment unit that he’d let you take over several months ago. The housing department of the agency had placed you into a unit in the building across the street from his, right next door to Murphy and his wife, Connie. It had been a special arrangement requested by your diligent supervisor in an effort to make sure that no one found themselves in a compromising situation—she trusted you enough not to get any dumb ideas, but she didn’t trust Peña as far as she could throw him. It wasn’t very far.

While it had certainly been quite nice, and even kind of comforting at times to have Steve and Connie as your neighbors, you’d expressed to Javier one night over dinner at his place that you weren’t all too fond of having to live alone. Without an ounce of hesitation on his part, Javi offered to have you move into his spare bedroom that very same evening after you were both done eating, but only on the condition that Messina didn’t find out about the new living arrangement. She would wring Javier’s neck with her bare hands if knew that you two had been sharing his apartment this entire time. 

Hell, she would wring yours too. And you were the favorite child of sorts. Less annoying than Murphy and certainly a lot less problematic than Peña. 

She only liked you because she never had to worry about you. On or off the job.

But even though you were Messina’s number one, her star player, that would do absolutely nothing to spare you from her wrath if she ever came to find out that you were living with Javier Peña. She wasn’t a fan of just how close the two of you had become over the last several months; she’d told you herself that she much preferred it if you kept your distance from him while you were off duty. One wrong move on your part or Javi’s and it was game fucking over. Messina wouldn’t hesitate to send one of your asses packing, back home to be assigned somewhere else, somewhere far away from the other.

Pursing your lips together lightly, you turned your attention back over to the mirror. Raising an eyebrow, you lifted the red minidress up against your body once more to get another good look at it, as if you hadn’t just been staring at it for the last five minutes before he’d appeared. “I don’t know, Javi. I don’t like this one all that much to be honest. I’m not even sure why the hell I let Connie talk me into buying it in the first place. She said it was cute,” You remarked, tilting your head slightly to the side. You wrinkled your nose at the diamond cut out design in the sides of it. Whoever designed it must have not had enough money to spring for more a teensy bit more fabric. “But it’s kind of tacky. And it makes me look like a whore.”

“Mm yes, but a very beautiful whore,” Javi stated, his smirk widening as he drank in the gorgeous sight of you before him. He licked his lips, openly admiring the way you were clad in nothing but one of his shirts, his pink button up with short sleeves that you had once told him you loved so much because it was your favorite color; you’d sneakily stolen it out of his closet on laundry day a couple weeks back while all of your clothes had been in the washing machine and had never given it back to him. Not that Javier even really wanted it back at this point—his shirt looked a million times better on you than ever it did on him. Seeing you in it did inexplicable things to him and he fucking loved it when you padded around your now shared apartment in nothing but a pair of panties and his pink shirt. He took another glimpse at you, nearly foaming at the mouth at how it fit your frame, how the hem of it fell to the tops of your smooth thighs, the material hardly doing anything to cover up the tantalizing curves of your hips and your perfect ass. “Hermosura. The most beautiful whore in all of Colombia.”

You narrowed your eyes at him through the mirror, wishing you had a free hand you could flip him off with. “Gee, thanks for the compliment, Peña. You are always such a fucking charmer, aren’t you?”

“Oh, come on. Solo es una bromita, muñeca. No tienes por qué ofenderte. I’m just messing around with you. You know I don’t think you actually look like a whore—and trust me, I know what a whore looks like,” he responded with a deep and hearty laugh. He uncrossed his arms, allowing them to fall down to his sides as he pushed himself away from the door frame. He sauntered his way further into your bedroom, uninvited. “I’m being serious about the dress, though. Go with the red one. El vestido rojo. It’s perfect. Besides, that color would look gorgeous on you, cariño. I bet it would look almost as good on you as pink does.” He laughed again as he added, “Nice shirt, by the way.”

Your annoyed expression immediately softened into one of guilt. “I’ve been meaning to give you your shirt back,” You told him, sheepishly. “Te lo juro, Javi.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you have,” Javier snorted, waving off the little white lie. He finally forced himself to tear his attention away from you and glanced around, observing the current state of your room instead. It looked like a tornado had hit the inside of your closet; dresses, jackets, and high heeled shoes were strewn all over the place. He wasn’t all too surprised by the mess. He knew you like he knew the back of his own hand by now, and this was typical of you when you were searching for the perfect outfit to wear on a free night out in the city. “I don’t remember you telling me you had any plans tonight, bonita. What’s the occasion? Going out for drinks with the chismosas of the office? Or are you going out for a girl’s night with Connie?”

You momentarily hesitated.

“Actually, I have a date.”

Through the mirror, you saw the smile fade from Javier’s face almost instantly.

Here we go, You thought inwardly to yourself.

“You have a date? With who?” he demanded. 

Reluctantly, you turned around to face him. “You know Valeria, don’t you?”

The color drained from his face.

“That’s the translator who works up on the third floor, right?” He touched his hand to the back of his neck, shrugging his shoulders. “I don’t know her, but I’ve seen her around a couple of times.”

You almost laughed at the manner in which Javier tried playing dumb. 

Of course he knew Valeria. 

He had fucked her three weeks ago.

Javi had tried to keep it on the down low, but loud mouthed Valeria would brag to anyone who would listen all about how Agent Peña had fucked her in her office one evening while they’d been working late together and everyone else had gone home. Not that Javier even needed her services as a translator, he’d just needed an excuse to find himself in her office after hours so he could get his dick wet.

For some strange reason, you felt oddly fucking generous and decided to let Javier have this one, playing along with him and his sheer stupidity. “Yeah, her. She has an older brother who’s visiting the city for a few days. His name is Diego. He’s an immigration attorney who is here on business in Bogotá. She offered to set me up with him,” You explained, keeping everything as brief as possible. “I’m meeting him for drinks tonight.”

Javier frowned. “Have you met him in person?”

“Well no, but Valeria showed me his picture and she told me all about him. It’s not like he’s just some random ass guy I met on the street, Javi. He’s her brother, she advocated for him,” You tried to reason with him, knowing all too well where this conversation was heading. Sure, it was nice to know that Javier cared about you enough to be concerned about you meeting up with someone who was essentially a complete stranger, but it wasn’t like you couldn’t handle yourself. You’d spent many evenings sitting right in the laps of the violent criminals who worked for Escobar—a blind date with a coworker’s brother was nothing for him to make a fuss over. “I really don’t think that I have anything to worry about with him.”

He rigidly shook his head. “Look, no offense to Valeria, but I don’t like the idea of you running around this city at night with some fucking prick that you’ve never even met before. And before you throw all that undercover bullshit at me, just know that it’s not the same thing. You aren’t going out on the job tonight. You’re not going out with your team on standby to watch your back, you’re not going out with me and Murphy armed and ready to jump into action if things head south. What if something happens to you?”

You scoffed and rolled your eyes at the complete and utter ridiculousness of his drama king antics. “Oh, give me a fucking break, Peña. Diego’s not a member of the fucking cartel, he’s a lawyer. And besides that, you’re acting like I can’t take care of myself.”

“Listen, I know damn good and well that you can take care of yourself just fine, muñeca. But still, that doesn’t make me feel any better about this whole arrangement.” Javier’s hands went to his waist and he let out a heavy sigh, shaking his head once again. “I’m going to need to meet this guy before you go out with him. I don’t care whose fucking brother he is—whichever way you try to spin it, the bottom line is that he’s a still a fucking stranger and I want to check him out for myself before I let you go out with him.” He saw the mischievous twinkle in your eyes and peered at you suspiciously. “Please tell me he’s coming to pick you up here at the apartment.”

You laughed. “Of course not, Javi. I’m not stupid. I already knew you would behave like this. I knew you would go straight into overprotective mode, just like you always do. I didn’t want you scaring him off, so I’m taking a taxi cab and we’re meeting up at the bar instead.” You easily clocked the all too familiar glint in his eye and smiled sweetly at him. “And don’t even think about trying to guess which one it is so that you can show up and keep tabs on me the whole night. There are thousands of bars in this damn city and I can promise you that you’re not smart enough to figure out which one we’re going to, Agent Peña.”

Annoyed by the smugness in your tone and the way it was starting to get under his skin, Javier’s lips pressed into a thin, tight line. He watched you walk over to your closet, subtly swaying your hips to the music as you pulled out yet another dress to add to your rapidly growing list of options.

He could feel the envy prickling at each and every last single nerve ending in his entire body, his frustrations stewing at the mere thought of you going out with another man. His jaw clenched and he forced himself to shove the feeling down knowing damn well that he didn’t have the right to be jealous. Not when you two weren’t anything more than just friends.

If you’d just been a coworker, it would be different. 

Javier would gladly, happily, risk mixing business with pleasure as he had so often done in the past with several secretaries—and a translator or two—in his time. But no matter how hard he’d tried over and over again to place you into that box, into that category, he simply couldn’t bring himself to do it.

You weren’t just his coworker, you were his friend.

His best friend.

For as much shit as he gave you, you mattered to him. You were important to him, way too important to ever risk fucking up your friendship by fucking you. 

Still. Javier would be lying if he said he didn’t think about it. He thought about it all the damn time. When he discovered that fucking himself into the palm of his hand and moaning your name quietly over and over again under his breath didn’t quite do the job for him anymore, he would find himself standing outside of your bedroom prepared to say fuck it all and make his move on you. But then it happened every single fucking time without fail—as soon as he lifted his curled fist to knock on your door, he started to remember things. 

He’d remember the way you could so easily make him laugh with your clever and quick witted sense of humor. He remembered all those late nights you two would spend together lounging on his brown leather couch in your pajamas watching old, poorly made slasher films while indulging in the greasiest, unhealthiest takeout Bogotá had to offer. He remembered how you could read him just like a fucking magazine, how you always knew when something was wrong—and how you would always somehow know exactly what to say and do to comfort him whenever he needed it the most.

He would remember how you’d come to feel like his home away from home. 

And then he would drop his hand right back down to his side, whirl around on his heel, and march straight back into his bedroom where he had little choice but to go back to fantasizing about what could never be between you and him.

Snapping himself out of his own train of thought, Javier carefully stepped over the mountains of clothing and shoes on the floor and made his way over to another pile of dresses that were draped over the foot of your bed. He caught a glimpse of the lingerie set on top of them, brand new with the price tag still attached to the fabric; the set was black, made of delicate, see through lace that would leave very little to the imagination when you put it on. He picked up the thong, hooking the thin elastic of it around his index finger. “Something tells me that you’re not planning on coming back home tonight.”

“What are you talking about?” Confused, you turned around and gasped, dropping the dresses in your hands. “Javier!”

“Are these even going to cover anything up?” he teased you with a laugh, his eyes gleaming with pure amusement as they darted between the thong and the lower half of your body. “Falta mucha tela, cariño.”

You rushed up to him and made a dive for the underwear. “Give me those!”

“How come you don’t ever wear anything like this around the apartment, hermosa?” Javi dangled them above your head and out of your reach. “All I ever get to see you in are those cotton panties, the ones with polka dots on them.” He glanced down, getting an eyeful of you and the aforementioned polka dot panties. “Kind of like the ones you’re wearing now—”

“Javier, cut it out!” You placed a hand on his shoulder as the other continued grabbing for the lingerie. “Come on, stop being such a fucking asshole!”

Although he could have easily enjoyed taunting you for hours and hours on end, Javier knew you wouldn’t hesitate to have your knee meet his balls. Not wanting to risk ending up on your floor curled up in pain, he eased up and handed them over to you. 

“Idiota!” You hissed at him, furiously snatching the underwear out of his hand. You stomped over to your dresser and shoved them into the middle drawer, slamming it closed so hard the old stereo nearly went crashing to the floor. “You can be a real fucking douchebag, Peña.”

Javier wasn’t bothered by the insults; he’d grown used to those—however any trace of playfulness vanished as the reality began to set in for him. The reality of you sleeping with another a man tonight. “Wait a minute, are you really planning to fuck the guy?” He didn’t even make the attempt to mask the disappointment that laced his tone. “I mean, you haven’t even met him yet. I didn’t think you were that kind of girl, querida.”

“You sound awful judgmental for someone who brings home a different escort every other fucking week,” You snapped at him, placing your hands on your hips. “Oh, and speaking of escorts, I had the pleasure of meeting Alessandra in the bathroom this morning. She asked if I had a tank top that she could borrow since apparently you got too eager and ripped her shirt off last night.” You tilted your head, squinting at him as he started shuffling uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “If you happen to go back to her for a second round, tell her that I want it back. Washed.”

Javier grimaced, looking down at the floor. “Shit. I thought she would be gone by the time you woke up,” he mumbled, shaking his head. “Lo siento, bonita. I’m sorry.”

You blinked. “Sorry for what?”

He opened his mouth, then clamped it shut.

Javier wasn’t all too sure, actually.

He didn’t have anything to apologize for, not really.

He was a single man who could do as, and who, he pleased.

Yet he still felt like a pile of dog shit knowing you’d encountered Alessandra while he had still been asleep.

You would never admit it, but Javier knew that to some extent, it hurt you to run into the women he would bring home. As if having to hear him railing them on the other side of your bedroom wall for hours wasn’t bad enough, having to meet them the following morning and seeing them half naked with their smeared makeup and disheveled hair from the previous night’s activities only made it so much fucking worse. 

Having read his mind, you sighed and offered him some reassurance. “It’s fine, Javi. We both know that you don’t have anything to be sorry for,” You said, prompting him to look back up at you. You pointed a finger at him. “I do want my shirt back, though. And then maybe I’ll be nice and give you back yours.” 

You expected Javi to scamper off to his room with his tail between his legs in shame. It was what he usually did—he’d avoid you for about a few hours until the dust settled, and then everything would go back to normal. Instead of running off, he stood there and spoke again. 

“Are you really going to have sex with this guy?”

You tried to ignore how disheartened he sounded.

“I don’t know,” You confessed, quietly. “I want to have sex with him, but I don’t know if I’ll actually have the fucking balls to go through with it.”

“Por qué? Estas nerviosa?”

Though Javier hadn’t been poking fun at you, you couldn’t help but feel irritated with him for asking you if you were nervous; because you actually were nervous, and him asking you only made you even more fucking nervous. “And so what if I am a little nervous?” You challenged him, lightly. “Sorry that we’re not all just confidently fucking our way through this city like you are, Peña.”

“When’s the last time you had sex, anyway?”

“None of your fucking business, that’s when,” You quipped.

“That’s not fair.” Javi pouted at you. “You know when the last time I had sex was.”

“Not by choice,” You retorted. “You’re right on the other side of my paper thin wall and I left my Walkman in the office.”

Javi waited expectantly for an answer. He wasn’t going to drop the subject, and you knew that.

“You’re such a stubborn son of a bitch, you know that?” You muttered. Feeling a burning heat flood to your face, you decided to give him just about the most generic answer there was in order to get him off your back. “It was a long, long time ago.”

“Okay, but how long ago?” He pressed, curiously. “Are we talking weeks? Months?”

Your stomach began to churn violently, the hidden secret you’d kept to yourself for your entire adult life now at risk of being exposed. 

“I-I really don’t remember,” You stammered out in response, averting your gaze away from his. “Can we not talk about my sex life, please? Besides, it’s getting late and I still need to take a shower and get ready for my date tonight. So if you would just kindly fuck all the way off, that would be great.”

Javier took a step back and there was a very brief moment where you had been certain you’d just narrowly avoided what could have been a painful, humiliating conversation. However, just as he was about to turn to leave, Javi’s eyes widened as it slowly clicked into place for him. 

“Wait a minute—are you fucking serious?”

You groaned. “Javier, please don’t. For the sake of what’s left of my sanity, please don’t,” You nearly pleaded him, wishing that a large, Twilight Zone style swirling vortex would open up in the middle of your floor and swallow you whole. 

“You’ve never had sex before,” he realized. “Have you?”

Your face felt like it had caught on fire.

Not knowing what to say or even do, you clasped your hands together and wrung them anxiously in front of you. 

Of all the people to find out your secret, it just had to be Peña.

“Cariño, are you really a virgin?”

Surprised, you looked up at him. 

Javi wasn’t teasing you or being a dick about it.

He seemed genuinely perplexed by the fact that you’d never had sex before. Not that it made it any less mortifying.

“Yes,” You admitted, exhaling the breath that you hadn’t even realized you’d been holding in. “I’m a virgin, alright? There, are you satisfied?”

“But how? Going undercover? And informants—”

Despite the circumstances, you couldn’t help but laugh. “I know this might come as a shock to you, but you don’t always have to fuck your informants to get what you need out of them, Peña. It’s not a requirement. I use my brains, not my body.” 

“You’re shaming me for using my body?” he joked lightly, hoping it would further ease the awkward nature of the conversation—for your sake, not his.

“Just a little bit.” You offered him a small, crooked smile and felt your tense shoulders finally begin to relax. “You’re probably going to think it’s stupid or maybe even crazy, but the truth is that I’ve always wanted to wait and give it to the right man. Maybe even to a man that I’m in love with. But with the way my romantic life has been going, it just seems like that’s never going to happen for me.” You shrugged. “I just want to lose it already, Javi. I’m almost in my fucking thirties—either I lose it now, or I may as well throw in the damn towel and join a convent.”

“You would look kind of cute in a nun’s habit,” Javi mused, thoughtfully.

You shot him a glare, but felt the corners of your mouth threatening to turn up into another smile. 

After a long minute, Javier broke the silence that had fallen over the both of you. “So then, Valeria’s older brother is the man you’re going to lose your virginity to? Tonight?”

“That’s the plan. He’s only here until the end of the week. It’d be no strings attached, so it works out perfectly.” You anxiously chewed on the inside of your cheek. “But only if I can find the courage to actually go through with it.”

“What are you afraid of?”

“Not knowing what to do.”

Javier quirked an eyebrow.  “It’s not exactly rocket science, querida.”

You resisted the sudden urge to go up to him and backhand the stupid smirk right off of his face.

“Could you please just take me seriously for one second, Peña?” You huffed out in frustration. “I’m just really fucking nervous about it, alright? What if I can’t—what if I’m not good at it?”

Javi’s bottom lip rolled between his teeth and he stifled his laughter. “Preciosa, you’re being kind of…” He trailed off, trying to choose his next word carefully.

You lifted your chin. “Kind of what?”

“Ridiculous. And before you come over here and start pummeling me to death with those little fists of yours...” He stopped and held up his hands in defense. He took a second or two to let eyes glaze over you from head to toe. “I’m only saying that because you’re fucking gorgeous, muñequita. Any man would be lucky to have a night with you. You have nothing to be afraid of.”

“It’s not about how I look, Javier. It’s about how I perform.” You felt your face grow hot for what had to be the umpteenth time in the last ten minutes. Never did you think this would be a conversation you’d be having with him of all fucking people. “I listen to the way those women you bring home—I hear what they do to you. And I hear how much you like it.”

His lips parted slightly. “And you want to do that to him?”

“I want to make him feel good.”

Javier’s jealously simmered in his veins. But what could he do?

Nothing, that’s what. Just like him, you could do as, and who, you pleased. But if he could just get his hands on you first, at least to some extent, it would help ease the blow. He saw nothing wrong with blurring the lines, so long as he didn’t cross them.

Javi hummed. “If you really want to know how to make a man feel good, I can help you.”

“You can help me?” You repeated. “How?”

“By showing you a thing or two.”

You let out something mixed between a scoff and a laugh.

“I am not having sex with you, Peña.”

He tossed you an innocent look. “That’s not what I was suggesting at all.” He crossed the bedroom and walked over to you, reaching for your hands. He took them in his own and then started pulling you towards your bed. “If you’re really that worried about not knowing what to do, I can give you a few pointers. And calmada, querida. Our clothes stay on,” he reassured you before you could open your mouth to protest. “Just think of it as a friend helping out a friend. There’s nothing wrong with that, right?”

You chewed on your lower lip. “I don’t know about this, Javi.”

Javier’s thumbs softly smoothed across the back of your hands. “You trust me, don’t you?”

“Right now, I’m not so sure that I do.” You paused long enough for him to throw you an exasperated, almost offended look. You rolled your eyes at him and nodded your head. “Yes, of course I trust you, Peña. I trust you with my fucking life. Literally, I put my life in your hands at least once or twice a week.”

“Then let me help you, hermosa.”

You inhaled a deep breath, held it for a moment, then exhaled it softly. “Fine. But remember, our clothes stay on—” You were cut off, all the air leaving your lungs as Javi yanked you forward, slamming you against his chest. You looked up at him, ready to give him a piece of your mind for knocking the wind out of you, but as his eyes met yours, words failed you and all you could do was stare at him like a deer caught in the headlights. 

This could not possibly end well.

And yet here you were, going along with it.

He snaked an arm around your waist, holding your body flush against his. Feeling how tense you had become, stiff as a fucking board, Javi gave you a light shake in an effort to get you to loosen up a bit. “First thing is first, you need to relax. There’s no need to overthink this, cariño. Especially not with me.” He reached up with his opposite hand, letting his index finger feather along your jawline. He then slipped it underneath your chin, lifting it ever so slightly and forcing you to look right into his rich pools of espresso. “I mean it. It really wouldn’t take much for a beautiful girl like you to drive me—I mean, drive him wild.”

You tried your hardest to keep your voice from trembling, but between his touch and being in such close proximity, you were finding it a hell of a lot more difficult than you’d imagined. “Show me, Peña. What drives you—I mean, what’s going to drive him wild?”

“Well, it always starts with the right kiss.”

You quickly shook your head. “Javi—”

“Kiss me.”

Had he lost his fucking mind?

“Have you lost your fucking mind?” You echoed your thoughts

“Just a friend helping out a friend,” Javi reminded you in a murmur. “Remember?”

You should have said no. You should have decked him for even suggesting such a thing.

Instead, you gave him a small nod. You rested your hands delicately on his hard, lean chest and tilted your head upwards, lightly pressing your lips to his for a split second before quickly pulling away.

“There.”

“That was fucking pathetic,” Javier laughed softly, his warm breath fanning over the tip of your nose. “You’re not kissing your abuela, you know.”

You smacked his chest. “Javi! Leave my grandma out of this.”

“You have to kiss a man like you actually want him, querida. Here, allow me to demonstrate.”

Your throat went dry as his grip around your waist tightened. He moved his other hand away from your chin and it went to the back of your neck, gingerly tilting your head up towards his. Your heart hammered almost painfully against your ribcage, beating way too hard and way too fast for him not to feel it against his own chest. You had to silently remind yourself to breathe as Javi inched his face closer to yours, slowly. You knew that he was doing it on purpose, moving an agonizingly glacial pace to allow your anticipation to build; all the while his dark eyes were staring deeply into the depths of your very fucking soul, causing a fire to set ablaze deep in your lower belly.

Your thighs clenched together involuntarily as the tip of his nose skimmed a spot near the corner of your mouth, his lips brushing the underside of your jawline.

God, he was fucking good. 

“Javi…” You uttered his name weakly.

You needed to stop this. Javier was your friend—friends didn’t do shit like this.

Javi sensed your reluctance. “It’s alright, mi vida,” he whispered, uttering an affectionate pet name that he’d never used before. He gave you a small grin as he moved in to finally close the small gap of space between your faces. His lips met yours and every ridiculous cliché of sparks flying and fireworks exploding occurred the moment they did. His tongue swept across your bottom lip, gently coaxing its way into your mouth to begin a slow, sensual dance with yours. Cupping the back of your neck, he tilted your head up a bit further, granting himself better access to your mouth so that he could fully explore it inch by inch. 

There was kissing other men.

And then there was kissing Javier. 

Whimpering, your body melted against his as he swelled your lips with a kiss that was slow and sensual, yet somehow still hungry and possessive at the same time. Javier’s hands travelled down to your hips, his fingers skimming the hem of his shirt that you wore. He took the opportunity to sneak them underneath the garment, allowing them to meet the warmth of your skin. 

Gasping, you jerked back and pulled away from him. 

“Javier!” You squeaked out his name breathlessly, furiously swatting his hands away from your sides. You glared at him. “I thought we agreed, our clothes fucking stay on!”

“Funny, I wasn’t aware that I was taking any of your clothes off.” Javier reached up and tucked a lock of hair behind your ear. He then took a step backwards and gestured towards your bed. “Lay down.”

Your mouth fell open at his request.

“W-what?” You sputtered out, your eyes wide. 

“You heard me. Get on the bed and lay down.”

Javi reached down, sweeping your pile of dresses off of the bed and onto the floor. 

“Why? What are you going to do?” You questioned him, shuffling anxiously from one bare foot to the other.

Javier rolled his eyes and let out a small, impatient sigh. “Just do it, hermosa. You can trust me.”

Swallowing harshly, you obeyed him and walked around to the side of your bed, taking a seat. You inhaled another deep breath before bringing your legs up and laying back, your head resting against your decorative pillows. You nervously tugged and pulled at the hem of his stolen pink shirt, trying to cover yourself up as best as you could as you laid there, sprawled out before him; however Javier had other plans. He climbed onto the bed after you, positioning his body so it hovered over yours. He nudged your legs apart with his knee, settling himself right in between your thighs. He grabbed one of your legs and hiked it up around his waist, putting the two of you in a very, very dangerous position. His fingers remained wrapped around your thigh, his touch burning right into your soft flesh as he held your leg in place around him. 

“Don’t be shy, muñequita.” His voice had gone low and husky. He trailed his hand further up your thigh.

He grinned, feeling satisfied with himself when he felt the goosebumps erupt across your skin.

“Shut up, I’m not shy,” You fibbed, prompting him to chuckle.

“Mentirosa.” Javi’s hand abandoned your leg and he brought his hand up to the side of your face to cradle your cheek in his palm. His thumb brushed across your bottom lip. 

“Kiss me,” he commanded, gently. “And this time, kiss me like you mean it.”

You reached up for him with trembling hands and grabbed two fistfuls of his pewter blue, button up shirt. You pulled him down towards you and lifted yourself up slightly off your pillows, crashing your mouth against his. You allowed yourself to finally release any fears that you might have had before and kissed him greedily and with fervor, as if it would be the very last time you’d ever get to kiss Javier Peña—because it very well could be the last time you would ever get to kiss Javier Peña.

You kissed him deeply, going on until your lungs began to burn—you only broke away from him once they started screaming, demanding oxygen. 

Tearing yourself apart from him, you released his shirt and dropped back down onto your pillows, breathlessly asking, “Better?”

“Oh, so much better. Good girl, mi muñequita linda,” he praised, grinning again as he caressed the silkiness of your cheek. He lowered his head and lips ghosted over yours for a moment before he moved them down your neck, feathering kisses to any exposed skin peeking out from underneath his shirt. His hand found your breast and he groaned realizing that you weren’t wearing a bra underneath it. He kneaded the perfect, soft mound of flesh through the thin fabric, rolling your hardened nipple between his fingers. He bucked his hips into yours, causing a loud moan to escape from your lips the second you felt his hardened cock through his tight, light blue jeans. He caught sight of the way you blushed at the sound that he’d elicited from you and his grin widened. “Noises like that? The louder the better. So don’t hold back, preciosa.”

“What else can I do to make you—to make him feel good?”

Javier dipped his face right into the hollow of your neck, thinking it over for a moment. “A woman who takes control can be very sexy. I like it—I bet he’ll like it if you get on top.”

“I think I can do that.” Biting your bottom lip, you placed your hands on his chest and pushed him back, sliding yourself out from underneath him. You guided him to lay back onto your pillows and climbed on top of him, straddling his waist. 

Shit. Javier cursed inwardly.

Maybe he’d been in over his head with this idea.

He knew at some point he’d have to stop it from going too far—but would he be able to?

“How do you like it?” You asked him, shyly. This time, you hadn’t bothered to correct yourself. 

You didn’t want to know how to please another man.

You wanted to know how to please Javi.

Even if you’d never get the chance to do it.

“Depends on the mood,” he replied, shrugging his shoulders in the most nonchalant manner that he could muster under the circumstances—as if his cock wasn’t rock hard, straining against the zipper of his jeans and begging to be inside you.

“Te gusta despacito?” You start to rock your hips back and forth against his, slowly. “Do you like it slow?”

Javier’s breath hitched in the back his throat. At this point, there was no doubt about it—you could feel him underneath you, throbbing. “Sometimes,” he managed to choke out in reply. “Like I said. Just depends on the mood.”

“Or what about like this?” You grinned down at him, gaining a sense of confidence as you started to move faster on top of him, finding your perfect rhythm. You could see and clearly feel what you were doing to him. Knowing that you were having this kind of effect on Peña was nothing short of a fucking dream come true. 

His hands went to your hips, holding on as you picked up the pace, grinding your clothed core down against his bulge. 

You could feel your own arousal pooling between your legs, soaking your panties; you wouldn’t be surprised if you’d leave behind a wet spot on his jeans. “How am I doing?”

“Fucking amazing, muñeca,” he answered, earnestly. His long, thick fingers dug into your sides as he suggested, “It helps if you put on a little show while you’re up there, too.” He then pictured you in that sexy black lingerie set you’d bought; he imagined what it would be like to slip that tiny little thong to the side so you could freely ride his cock. The mere thought had him seeing stars.

“A show, huh?” You smirked and popped the top two buttons of your shirt—his shirt—exposing the smooth valley between your breasts to him. “I think I can do that too,” You giggled, pulling the fabric to the side, just enough to give him the tiniest glimpse of the soft curves of your chest but not enough to expose yourself completely. 

“Hermosa,” he couldn’t help but groan out. It took every ounce of strength he had inside him not to reach up and tear his shirt right off of you so he could see all of you. 

You grabbed his hands from your hips and slowly began guiding them all around your body. You started by placing them on your breasts, giving him permission to cop another feel before moving them slowly down the lengths of your sides and placing them on your bare thighs. From there, you picked up Javi’s hands once more and placed them behind you, allowing him to take two generous handfuls of your ass. Your hands then abandoned his and you placed them on his chest, supporting yourself as you continued to roll your hips against his, riding him through his jeans. You tossed your head back and closed your eyes; the friction of your clit against his pelvis even through all the clothes felt like absolute heaven, and you let out a lustful moan that bounced off of your bedroom walls as you continued to drive your hips harder against his own.

Realizing that this was no longer a lesson and you were actually pleasuring yourself, Javier groaned again. He moved his hands back to your hips and found himself bucking his own hips upwards to meet you halfway—he abandoned any and all worries about taking it too far. He wanted you to come. 

He needed to see you come.

“Javi,” You gasped his name, moaning again.

“That’s it, muñeca,” he rasped out. “Just like that, baby. Keep going. What a good girl, what a good fucking girl.”

Any and all common sense had been washed away by pleasure and by your need to reach that sweet, sweet release. 

It was so close. You felt him right there, right between your clothed folds, and all you could do was imagine what it would be like to have his cock fill you up and stretch you completely. 

His name began to slip from your lips, rolling off of your tongue over and over again with such ease.

Your movements fell in perfect sync with his.

You went down, he went up.

You pulled, he pushed.

No doubt about it, Javier was trying to get you off.

Somehow, you find a voice that speaks in between all your pitiful little pants. 

 “J-Javi, maybe we s-shouldn’t—”

Javier quickly sat up and wrapped one of his arms around your waist. He slammed your mouths together, silencing you mid sentence. He thrusted upwards, and you whined into his kiss, rubbing your clit against his bulge even harder. 

The beginning of your orgasm coiled up tightly in your belly, and you knew it would spring forward any second now.

“Javi, I’m so close—” 

“It’s okay, hermosa. Come for me,” he mumbled into your mouth.  “I’ve got you.”

Your arms found their way around his shoulders and you buried your face into his neck. Squeezing your eyes shut, your loud cries came out muffled against his collarbone as you unraveled, coming undone with one last cry of his name.

You slumped forward, resting your head on his shoulder as you fought to catch your breath, the pleasure still pulsing between your thighs.

Javier’s other arm curled around you and he said nothing as he held you. 

Once you’d finally started coming down from your high, your eyes flew open and a chill went up the length of your spine.

What had you two just done?

Still straddling his lap, you pulled back. “Javi—”

Without warning, Javier flipped you over so you were on your back underneath him once again. He hovered over you, his eyes meeting yours for just a moment before he dipped his head and captured your lips with his one final, deep and sensual kiss. 

“I don’t think you have anything to worry about tonight,” he murmured once he had pulled away. “You’re fucking perfect, mi vida.”

He touched the tip of his nose to yours before climbing off of you.

“I fucking hope this guy realizes what a lucky son of a bitch he is,” Javier said quietly before turning on the heel of his boot and walking out of your bedroom, leaving you laying there with your mouth parted open in complete shock.

Translations

Solo es una bromita, muñeca. No tienes por qué ofenderte. - It’s just a little joke, doll. No need to get offended.

El vestido rojo. - The red dress.

Te lo juro, Javi. - I swear to you, Javi.

Chismosas - Gossipers

Falta mucha tela, cariño. - There is a lot of fabric missing, darling.

Mentirosa. - Liar.

Te gusta despacito? - Do you like it a little slow? 

Part 2 Sneak Peek

“Muñeca,” Javier breathed out in relief the second that he saw you standing there in the aisle with an array of packaged Marinela pastries in your hands. He rushed up to you and took your face gingerly in between his large palms, taking a look at you. Javi managed to keep a calm and collected composure for the sake of not making things any worse, but it would be short lived and he knew that—he felt the anger boiling underneath his skin, bubbling hot in his veins when he realized just how poor of a state you were in; the strap of your dress had been torn, your high heels were missing, and your eyes were bright red and brimming with tears that he could see you were trying your hardest to hold back. He let his hands fall from your face and shrugged out of his tan colored jacket, quickly draping it around your shoulders as he asked, “Estas lastimada?”

You shook your head. “No, I’m not hurt.”

Javier stepped back. “Tell me where he’s staying,” he demanded. “Which hotel is this fucker at?”

“That’s not necessary. I handled him myself.”

“Tell me which fucking hotel so I can kill him—”

Finally, a tear slipped down the side of your face.

“Javi, please,” You pleaded in a whisper. “Please. It isn’t even worth it, alright? I just want to buy these cakes and I want you to take me home so I can take a shower, put on my pajamas, and eat them.”

— looking back

joel miller x f!reader

rated e - 2.2k

tags: jackson-era Joel pov, angst, canon-typical violence/references to death, established relationship, Joel is an ass man, consensual somno elements, posessive!joel, body worship, dirty talk, male masturbation, spitting, touching, come marking

a/n: easing back into writing and started 2 little wips that are sort of "introspective-joel-pov-smut-fics" - here is the first one! 💕

“Fuck. I need you.” He rasps - an edge to his voice, “Would you let me look at you, honey? Just let me look.”

Or - Joel gets off just from the sight of you

He’s strung as tight as a bow. The lingering adrenaline a notched arrow, leaving him about to snap. Blood seeps into his jeans - splattered across his knees, where he had jerked the knife from the man’s neck.

It had been a mercy killing. A stranger, but they had all seen the bite. He had been the only one to do something about it.

He’s told others that you get used to it. The killing - that after a while, survival wins out.

You get over it.

But you don’t. Instead, it clings to him like a shadow, following him home - down the worn, familiar path. Inside the gates, back to Jackson.

Heavier than it’s been before. An itching beneath his skin. If he was over it, he wouldn’t have to turn himself off. Shutting away a part of himself, only to fight to come back - clawing his way out later.

An aching reminder at how short life could be. That yes, things were different - but he was never really safe.

Not really.

His path brings him to you. A beacon, guiding his way back.

His - your - home coming into view, just as the dawn creeps over the fall, wooden fences. The misty grey brightening into gold and pink with the sun, as he’s unlocking the wooden door, shouldering it open.

A look thrown out the window as he scrubs his hand clean in the kitchen - seeing that the garage light is on. That she’s home, that she’s okay. An automatic check, before his weary feet take him upstairs.

Joel sheds the layers, the jacket thrown over the railing at the top of the stairs. Fingers fumbling with his belt, pulling the worn leather through the loops before his stained jeans crumple on the floor, as he pushes the cracked door open.

The light from the hallway stretches across the wooden floor, creeping into the dark room. Where you still lay sleeping, curled on your side within the blankets and sheets. Missing him in your dreams, that space next to you long empty.

Cold - where your fingers reach out, searching for him.

His path diverts, moving to you instead of the attached bathroom. The edge of the bed sinking under his weight, a soft sound as you stir.

“‘Welcome ‘ome.” You murmur, still half-asleep. A little wiggle as your bent knee hitches higher, the oversized shirt you’re wearing bunching up around your hips.

He reaches out, just the ghosting of his fingers against the soft skin near your knee. The fluttering of heavy lashes as you fight sleep, only to be pulled under again.

Joel’s hand shifts. A warm palm pressing against your thigh. Against soft skin, so different than his own calloused touch.

Home.

It is, isn’t it? As close to he’s had in years. Decades. The old apartment in the QZ had never felt that way, not with the faded floral walls. Those small rooms that still held ghosts.

But here, his own touch lingers. Yours, melding with it. It would never be like before - the picking out of furniture, of paint. But it’s his clothes in the closet. His worn guitar that rests against the couch. His wooden carvings lining the top of the mantle, above the fireplace.

And you - you're scattered throughout. Woven blankets and thick sweaters. Books, covering damn near every surface.

A little bottle of found lotion tucked away in the bathroom. He can smell it now, as he leans over you. A bristly kiss pressed against your cheek, the curve of your shoulder.

Amber, vanilla, caramel.

He’s pulled back to the memory, the light shining in your eyes when he handed the beaten bottle over. The minuscule amount you had worked into your knuckles - the soft sigh of contentment.

A bright laugh when he had pulled you close, the murmured “smells good” against your throat, as you had squirmed in his grasp - smiling as you read the fragrance notes out loud.

Something stirs in him, then. The press of his thigh against yours, as he leans over. Eyes dragging down to the bare curve of your ass, his hand tracing cup your thigh to palm your flesh.

His already uneven breath hitching, as you sigh. That little smile - his name - murmured out as you rock instinctively into his touch. Still on the edge of sleep, lulled off into a deep sleep with the cooling of summer.

Waking you up wouldn’t be unusual. Half the time you’re already up after these early-morning patrols. Waiting for him.

How he waits for you, on those few days where it’s you out there, instead of him. His jaw working with irritation until you’re home and back and safe, and he’s stripping your clothes from you himself.

It’s selfish to wake you, on a morning where you sleep so deeply. Even with the stress that’s eating at him, simmering in his veins.

But maybe… maybe he can just-

Joel is leaning, his mouth against your neck. A shift as you stretch, baring your skin to him as your lips curl in a smile. A soft, sleepy hum as you reach for him, fingers curving over the thick muscle of his forearm.

The hand on your ass drifting up - across to the small of your back. Meeting noting but warm, bared skin beneath your shirt.

“Fuck. I need you.” He rasps - an edge to his voice, “Would you let me look at you, honey? Just let me look.”

Heavy-lidded eyes open then at the sound of his voice - his words - as you tilt your head. A slow sweep over the breadth of his shoulders, the curve of his stomach. The spread of his thighs as he kneels behind you. The already half-hard tent of faded boxers.

You had been waiting for him. Anticipating his return, eager for his touch. The cloud of sleep begins to clear as he palms himself, the bed shifting as your hips shift, thighs spreading open for him.

“I can take care of you,” Your voice is scratchy - husky, in the early morning. A hand pressing again on your back as you begin to roll over, holding you in place.

“You already are,” Joel groans, as your hips tilt up, off the bed. Knees pressing into the mattress as he nudges your thighs wider, fitting between them, “Stay just like that, alright?”

The combination feels erotic. His smell on the shirt you wear. The tingling throb between your thighs, the desire in his voice. How much he wants - enough that just the sight of you has him hard, thumbs catching on the waistband of his boxers to free himself.

You relax into the bed, as you watch. The weight of his hand as it moves to squeeze your ass. A pressure as he tugs, opening you up.

“Fuck.”

Joel spits in his palm, before it’s wrapping around his cock. A rough groan as some of that need is eased, with the sharp stroke of his fist.

Just letting himself look. Admire.

A sight that is only his, fingers sinking into soft flesh. The way you trust, how effected you are already - the shallow rock of your hips as the sound of skin-on-skin fills the room.

“You got a pretty little pussy, honey.” He hears himself saying. Watching how you clench at his praise, the little gasp that follows. “Pretty little holes. All for me, right?”

He can feel the weight of your gaze. Darkening, as your hunger grows low in your belly. Darting between his face and the sharp flick of his wrist.

Rarely getting to see him take, like this. Usually he would have been buried in you, by now. There’s the urge to ask, but there’s a power in this - wanting to watch him get off to you. Not having to lift a finger to do so.

“All for you.” You sigh, “Always.”

His jaw grits, teeth clicking together. A bead of precum joins the slick of his spit, that angry fire in his belly transforming.

So different that the little mouse he had taken to bed, all those months ago. Your hands covering your mouth, muffling the moans, until he had pried them away. Pinning them against the pillows, whispering filth in your ear.

Now, he can see the greed in your eyes. The way you glisten, when his own gaze drops. The shift of your thighs as he takes a second to rub himself against the curve of your ass. Dipping down to press against your core.

The tip coming back slick, in a new kind of way - fueling the pressure, building in his belly.

Your moan breaks the early-morning quiet. His name on your lips again - more urgent than before.

The little beg only sends him closer, a rough groan in his throat. His own hand too familiar - used to the quick and precise touch he needs to get off, when he had to.

In the before. In the during - when it was only words that the you of you had exchanged. Heated looks that lingered late into those lonely nights.

Hasn’t felt the urge to, since he’s had you.

He expects you to ask him to fill you, eyes caught on the enticing lift of your hips.

Caught off-guard for the briefest second, a heat flushing over his cheeks, when you shift beneath him instead. Flipping over, onto your back.

Eyes bright, teeth sinking into your lip as you smile.

“Wanna watch.” You admit, and that tension in his shoulders settles in his chest, turning sweet.

His fist tightening around his cock, as your thighs splay over his. Opening yourself up under his gaze, stretching out in front of him.

And fuck, what a sight. There’s a rolling wave deep in his core that he chases with the rock of his hips.

His hand fits perfectly against the curve of your waist, eyes caught on the way your fingers catch on the hem of your shirt.

Pulling it up over your breasts, a path that his eyes follow greedily.

“Christ, darlin’.” The words rumble in his chest.

A rough exhale as your own gaze drops to his fist. The pace that he’s picked up - the peek of the flushed tip when he strokes down to the base.

Already about to burst, like he’s a man half his age. Could say it’s just his own touch, the urge to relieve the weight of his stress.

But he knows it’s more. That warmth in his chest, a tenderness that has only softened the rough stone of his heart since he’s left Boston.

It’s there in the way that he could linger on the slick place between your thighs. But instead he’s watching you watch him. Focusing on the part of your lips, the shine in your eyes.

“‘m close.” Joel breathes, his words low. Rough. “Where do you want it?”

He’ll catch it in his palm if he needs to. If it helps you go back to sleep, after. He hasn’t given up on that wish - to let you drift off for a little longer.

The look you give him, the little smile that turns mischievous, has his stomach twisting into knots. Like butterflies, he thinks.

Your hand drifts down, knuckles brushing over the jerk of his. Soft fingers tracing over hot, swollen flesh. Only to curve over your mound, to spread yourself open for him.

“Fuck.” He breathes, again, “There?”

The answering hum is low, desperate.

“Wanna hear you ask me.” Joel pushes - needing to hear you say it, knowing it will push him over the edge.

You squirm beneath him, affected by the edge to his voice, the soft command.

“Want you to come on me.”

“Where, baby?” The word slides from his lips without thought.

The eye contact breaks, your gaze darting away with embarrassment. But after a moment it’s back - the soft heave of your breasts as you suck in a breath, steeling your nerves.

“Want you to come on my pussy, Joel.”

He can’t help the rough groan, ripped from his chest. The shift of his thighs as he pulls back, as that pressure builds. The pleasure surging instead of ebbing, as he tips his cock downward.

The next stroke of his fist pushes him past the threshold. Relief sings in his veins as he spills across your mound. Painting your abdomen with his release, eyes fluttering closed as his hearing goes fuzzy.

Drowning out his long moan, as you push yourself up. He meets you instinctually, arcing over you as his mouth is drawn to yours.

As his spend drips down the crease of your thigh, so warm against soft skin.

It feels like a weight is lifted, like he’s back in his own skin again. Relaxing into the fingers that scratch into his hair, the tongue that sweeps against his.

But it’s only a few moments before he remembers. Coming back to himself, as he fits his hand between your thighs.

Fingers dragging through his release, bringing his slick fingers to circle against your clit.

Because there’s no way you’re going back to sleep after this. Not if he knows you - which he’s now certain that he does.

"Thank you honey." He murmurs, with lips that press against your cheek.

The smallest smile after, as your own part with a moan - as he croons against your skin.

"Now let me take care of you."

thank you for reading! was excited to explore a little idea I had 💕

(tags: @celestianstars)