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camels-pen · 6 months

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can't sleep so have vampire Usopp drabble with sanuso~

Just imagine Usopp showing up after exploring some island on his own, bloodied, limping, leaving streaks of blood all over the place

Sanji left on ship watching duty, is cooking in the kitchen, idly checking with Haki every once in a while to make sure no one unfamiliar shows up

He notices Usopp coming but is right in the middle of something- making food for lunch when everyone returns, but also hashing out food supplies he'll need to buy once it's his turn to leave the ship

So when Usopp shows up, Sanji's distracted, maybe looking at his list, and maybe there's something like this:

"San...ji." There was some odd dragging sound. "Blood."

"Blood?" Sanji looked up from his list and nearly jumped out of his skin. "What the hell happened?!" He jumped the railing to land in front of Usopp, hands uselessly fluttering about his bloodied and broken body. He had to be standing just through pure willpower alone.

"Hun...gry."

Food. Right, yes, Sanji could do food. He could take Usopp up to the infirmary and bring him a plate.

Sanji settled on putting his hands on Usopp's shoulders. His skin was freezing through his shirt. "I've already made heaps for lunch, but I need to patch you up first. Just tell me what you want and I'll bring it to the infirmary."

"Wa...nt."

"Yeah,"-Sanji nodded, starting to get more concerned with the slow responses-"anything you want, Usopp."

"Any... thing?"

"Anything."

With a strength and speed Sanji wasn't expecting, Usopp slammed both of Sanji's wrists against the wall.

"Blood."

Before Sanji could say anything, before he could even take another breath, Usopp surged down to his neck and bit him.

Sanji was about ready to kick him away, regardless of Usopp's current state, and fuming about being caught up in some stupid prank, when he felt the first suck.

"H-Hey Usopp, are you..." serious? Conscious? Under some weird devil fruit power? Sanji didnt know what to ask first.

He never got the chance to figure it out either, as a wave of pure, toe-curling pleasure washed through him. In his surprise, he didn't have time to tone down the full blown moan that slipped his lips.

Usopp continued sucking, though his grip on Sanji's wrists had slackened. His own pleased groans were loud as he drank, the noises right next to Sanji's ear and making it burn with a growing heat.

Whatever this was, Sanji needed to stop it. As a man who needed to defend his love of women, and only women, he couldn't get worked up just by some stupid-

Hun... gry. Usopp had said. Blood.

That- there's no way. Sanji was far past not believing in legends and myths, and his old man was never one to pull his leg on that kind of stuff.

But even Sanji had thought, or maybe hoped, that vampires weren't real.

And for it to be Usopp- Usopp of all people. Sanji knocked his head back against the wall, tears falling freely as his lip wobbled.

"Fuck, fuck!"

The sucking stopped.

Usopp pulled away just enough to look up at Sanji. The way his head was angled, Sanji could see horrific looking bite marks all along his neck, shoulders, under his jaw, down his collar, and disappearing under his shirt.

He had to pause a moment, imagining Usopp having stumbled into a coven's territory. Alone. Probably looking for cool bugs or something else inconsequential, unknowing that he would die within moments.

Sanji hoped it was quick, at least. He hoped this coven wasn't like the one in his books; the ones who would draw it out for as long as possible. Usopp had been gone only a few hours and he must've hobbled to the ship on his own, which could've taken a while, and-

And Usopp was still staring at him, silent, eyes blank, and lips stained red with blood. Sanji's blood.

It hadn't been long since breakfast, but being killed and having all of the blood sucked out of him would probably work up a big appetite.

And, well, Sanji would never let a crewmate go hungry.

So, he put one hand to the back of Usopp's hair- his hair, not his hat, free of it's usual ponytail and covered in leaves and dirt and blood- and guided him back to his neck. Usopp made a questioning noise.

Sanji closed his eyes, let a shaky smile show on his face. He brought his other hand up to press Usopp closer.

"I did say anything, didn't I?"

Usopp didn't respond. After a moment, Sanji felt him lick at the bite marks he left behind- pinpricks compared to the wounds littering his own dark skin- and then, carefully, fit his mouth into those same marks. Once again, he began to drink, this time at a much slower pace.

Regardless of the speed or the gentleness, Sanji still had to fight not to give away how much he was truly enjoying this.

(and then the crew shows up lmao)

#one piece #sanuso #sanji #usopp #vampire usopp #nemo the writing ho #nemotime #zoro will be ruthlessly making fun of Sanji btw #bc hes so obvious about how much he liked it lmfao #tho i suppose the question is: is this a sanji thing or a consequence of the bite itself?#dunno if ill continue this but twas a fun 3am thought that wouldnt leave my brain #thus here we are #also added in his majesty's internalized homophobia for spice. which like. would probably be addressed at some point #idk its 4am now om going to bed #feel free to send asks if u wan #i shoulda had sanji lament more about usopp experiencing death via vampire coven but im startin to get tired i think #if i do a folllow up or smth then ill do it there #and thattt would probably lead to an initial hint of 'hmm maybe i like usopp a little bit more than the other guys'#or some other queer baby step for him

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livingemkayde · 9 months

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ch iii. diced

joel miller x f!reader x unrequited!tommy miller (no outbreak AU)

chapter three of chaser

warnings: 18+ minors please dni. phone sex?? yeah…phone sex. graphic depictions of male and female masturbation. dom!joel makes a reappearance. too much tension for one story. love triangle forming formed. mild allusions to physical fighting but only verbal fighting with the brothers LOL. age gap, reader is 23 and joel is 35. Tommy is 30. (ages of all characters and plot do not follow canon strictly for the story’s sake). reader in her girl boss era (not sexually tho lol).

a/n: ooooooooo i love you guys and im glad youre liking the story. im really happy with the way this chapter came out. WIG. please enjoy!!

summary: tensions run high at a family dinner at the miller's house. tommy drops you off at home, but its joel who ends up being the one talking to you until you fall asleep.

if you would like to read more of mine: masterlist!

“Fighting at the table. Thought you were a gentleman,” you chuckle, nervously. That right? Your breath hitches. “Yeah.” Not anymore? “Not too sure anymore.” ‘M sure I can convince you. “You can try.”

You like cooking.

You like the meticulous steps involved in following a recipe.

You like how when it’s done, you can share it with the people you love.

You stand at the kitchen counter, dicing an onion. Joel’s silent words ring in your mind as you stare down at the small little squares.

You find your cheeks reddening more with each tick of the minute hand. The boys will be home later from their long day with the electrician. You asked one of Sarah’s teammates to drop her off at the house since your car was out of commission.

The hours pass by, the chicken gets golden brown in the heat of the oven, salad gets tossed, potatoes get mashed.

The Millers file in, Sarah first — she slumps down on the couch as you try to get her to wash up and put on a fresh set of clothes before setting up camp in front of the TV.

She grumbles, but ultimately gives in, too tired to complain. You send her back to the couch after she’s done with a bowl of grapes and a cookie.

Tommy is next, surprisingly sans his brother at his side.

“Hey…” you greet him with confusion laced in your tone.

“Hey,” he gives you a hug, like always, and shuffles into the kitchen. He doesn’t say anything about Joel which seems weird.

“Smells fuckin’ amazing ‘n here,” Tommy grumbles to himself, giving you a teasing squeeze on your hip while you pass to check on the chicken.

He sits down at the table, his hand rubbing over his forehead.

“Where’s Joel?” you inquire. Trying to keep your tone from sounding too interested.

“Dunno, dropped me off and said he needed to check on something,” he grovels.

You nod your head.

Strange.

“How was your day?” he asks, you just shrug.

“Tire’s fuck. ‘S alright though.”

He nods, his head comes back to his hands.

“Long day?” you ask, looking at him sympathetically.

“Yeah,” he groans, standing to sneak a taste at the potatoes with a small spoon in hand.

“Hey! Wait—” you attempt to stop his tricks, but he just laughs when you try to bat his hand away.

“Electrican was a fuckin’ dick ‘n the drywall shipment is late so…” he huffs out, leaning back against the kitchen counter. You settle against the other counter, across the kitchen — the two of you facing each other.

“‘M sorry,” you say and try to smile. These things happen with the brothers. The day's work seeping into dinner. You usually try to cheer up Tommy before he sits down with Sarah, but Joel is a different story. “Can you do anything about the guy?”

“Not really, he’s supposed to be the best,” he shrugs. You stalk over near him, moving to stir the potatoes again, but he plays with the tail ends of your apron, and surprisingly, pulls you into a hug.

You know it’s what he needs right now. A hug from a friend, and when the front door opens, you

hope everyone in the room understands it's nothing more than that.

Joel stands in the entryway. You can see him out of the corner of your eye. You can also see him hesitate in shrugging off his boots and flannel, taking in the scene unfolding before his eyes.

Tommy Miller slumped against the counter with you in his arms.

You pull away quickly.

“Hey Joel,” you say, your hand coming to rub the back of your neck.

“You makin’ dinner?” He asks, nodding his head at your greeting. You figure he’s pissed off about the day too, and seeing you with Tommy first thing when he opens the door certainly can’t help.

“Yeah, just some chicken,” you say to him as he moves to kiss Sarah’s head and makes his way towards you and Tommy.

“It’ll be ready soon,” you follow up with, he gives you a grunt in response, opening the fridge to get a beer.

Joel passes you, and just when you think he’s too pissed to save it, he gives you a look. The one that leaves you breathless, the same look he always does — but only for a fleeting second with Tommy still close to your side.

He leans down to your ear in passing, putting a steady hand on your low back that sends chills up your spine and whispers in a husky voice —

“Thanks for cookin’ darlin’.”

Jesus.

You try to hide your flush but a smile falls on your face — Tommy notices. You know he notices, he’s not stupid. He runs a hand through his hair and lets out a ragged breath.

You can’t think of anything besides, get the attention off you.

“Sarah?” you call from the kitchen, you see her eyes peek out from over the couch.

“Help me set the table, will you, doll?”

“Sure,” she calls back.

You move to grab the napkins and cutlery, but Tommy’s hands stop your movements. You look up to him at your side, he smiles at you.

“Let me help,” he says, taking the cloth out of your hand.

“Oh — okay. Thanks,” you say, brushing your hands off, setting up Sarah’s utensils instead.

You shrug off your apron. Joel watches you the whole time while leaning against the sink. When you meet his eye, he just raises his eyebrows at you, taking another sip of his beer.

You pull the chicken out of the oven, setting everything on the table.

“Come get it, guys,” you say, pulling out Sarah’s chair. She sits by Tommy, he ruffles her hair — her giggling echoing through the kitchen like always.

You sit across from them, Joel at the head of the small table. It's funny. Most days you have dinner at the house, it doesn’t feel as formal as this. Tommy and Joel sit on the couch sometimes, watching whatever is on the TV, you help Sarah with her food at the table.

But most days you have takeout or leftovers — not a meal you cooked.

“How was soccer today?” you ask Sarah as she spoons mashed potatoes into her mouth.

“It was so fun, Katie even got us matching bracelets,” she says, holding out her wrist, a clunky beaded bracelet hangs off it.

“Very cool,” you admire the colorful charms, the brothers pretend to be interested.

“Sorry I couldn’t pick you up, my tire popped,” you say to her. She gives you a confused look.

“How does that even happen?”

“You’re telling me, kid,” you smile at her, shaking your head. She laughs back.

“Speakin’ of that,” Joel cuts in, “Went by the shop to get a tire but they were closed. I'll take you tomorrow.”

“Oh — thanks, Joel,” you say, sipping on some water to hide your blush.

Tommy grumbles from across the table.

“What was that?” you ask, he looks at you, then Joel, a certain uneasiness falls over the table.

Some silence. He keeps looking at Joel with an emotion you can’t place.

“Told Joel I would take you,” he says after some time.

Fuck.

You sneak a glance at Joel. He looks at Tommy with a stiff stare. The room feels tense, other than Sarah picking at her salad.

“Oh — it’s,” you nervously chuckle. “It’s okay. Actually I can probably —”

“I gave her the tow,” Joel cuts you off. But he’s not talking to you, he’s talking to Tommy.

You watch the wordless scene unfolding in front of you in awe. Your brows push together in a silent plea to stop. But the boys don’t look at you. They don’t break from looking at each other.

“She called me,” Tommy says, the dinner in front of them abandoned.

“You didn't go.”

Fuck.

“It's really not a problem, I can—”

“I’ll help you change it,” Tommy cuts you off, glancing in your direction, then back to Joel.

“I can change a tire,” Joel snaps, his voice raising slightly.

You give them both a look, hoping to shut them up, but they don’t even glance your way.

“Once your car is fixed can you take me to the library again after soccer?” Sarah says over the silence.

You look back at her and try to make it seem like everything is okay.

“Of course!” you say, cringing at your nervous intonation, but she giggles and thanks you nonetheless.

“I know how to change a tire, but thanks for the offer,” you say, a nervous laugh breezing through your words. “Tommy, it’s okay that you couldn’t come —”

You’re cut off again. It seems like you’re not really in this conversation. And they’re not really arguing about the tire.

“I couldn’t go because you fucked it with the electrician,” Tommy bites back.

“Tommy,” you say in a stern voice, looking at Sarah, and back to Tommy, a scowl across your face. But he doesn’t look back.

It looks like Sarah is almost done with dinner anyways, her eyes trained towards the TV in the living room.

“You done kiddo?” you whisper to her. She snaps out of it and nods, you tell her to put her plates in the sink and slip her another cookie.

“Go pick out a book to read before bed.”

She leaves. The tension doesn’t.

“‘N why was the electrician mad?” Joel bites back when you join the table again.

“Jesus,” Tommy says, he pulls back from their staring first, running a rough hand through his hair.

“No, why was he mad?” Joel scowls. “Was it because you forgot to confirm for the drywall?”

“Joel,” you say, confused why he’s still letting this go on. Of course, he doesn’t look at you.

Tommy just scoffs, avoiding everyone’s gaze while staring down at the floor. You see his shoulders puffing.

A few more moments of unbearably tense silence. You don’t want to step in, this is obviously some stupid argument and you have no idea what you could possibly say to make it better. You’re partially scared, and halfway pissed because they’re fighting and cursing in front of Sarah — ruining the meal you spent the afternoon making.

“‘S what I thought,” Joel announces to the table.

Your eyes widen more if that’s possible.

Oh, fuck.

Tommy slams his fist on the table, standing, Joel gets to his feet too. You stand, moving around the table before any blows are actually thrown, adrenaline coursing through your veins.

“What the hell are you guys doing?” you say, your voice is a little hushed because of Sarah.

“I dunno,” Joel whispers, still looking at Tommy. “What are we doin’.” It's a question, but it doesn’t sound like one.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“You guys will figure it out with the electrician,” you say, hesitant, you’re not sure if that will make the situation any better, but you’re trying your best.

“And I can take care of my own tire,” you let out a breathless laugh, trying to diffuse the tension.

Joel looks over to you at that, and his brows slightly unfurrow.

You look at Tommy, but he looks furious.

“Guys,” you say, looking between them, pleading with your voice.

The clock continues counting — seemingly without the three of you — suspended, or maybe frozen in time. It feels like hours, you all stand there. You can see Joel’s hand ball into a first. Even when the chicken goes cold, and the drinks get lukewarm, they stand. You’re beginning to worry nothing you can say will fix this. Their competitive nature has always been apparent, but this is something different. Like they’re talking to each other without words, and you won’t ever be able to understand their unspoken language.

“I’m gonna head out,” Tommy finally says, breaking first. You let out a sign, stepping back, holding a hand to your forehead.

“Thanks for cooking. I — do you need a ride?” Tommy says, grabbing his coat.

Fuck. It never stops, does it?

You look over at Joel for a split second when Tommy looks down to get his shoes.

Go.

He says with his eyes.

You wonder how many infinite laters can be braced on his silent eyes before it all spills out and buries you alive.

But he says it.

Later.

You nod, still a bit shaken up by the stalemate.

“Okay. Let me just clean up,” you say, grabbing at some dishes.

“I got it,” Joel cuts in, taking the dishes from your hands, nodding his head towards Tommy.

You mumble a quiet thanks and follow Tommy out the door.

It's silent when you get in the car, and when you pull out onto the street. You pick at the skin on your fingernails, a nervous sweat breaks out in your palms. Tommy is tense beside you. His knuckles on the steering wheel show white.

“I —” he huffs out a breath, already nearing your house. “‘M sorry.”

He sounds actually genuine. And you know he’s had a shit day.

“What was all that, Tommy?” you ask in a quiet voice.

“I don't know.” He shakes his head, rearing your house, and pulling up, putting the car in park.

“Work and then I —” he laughs a bit. “I fuckin’ told Joel I would take you so, I don't even know what he was —” he drops his head.

“I don't know. I'm sorry.”

You feel a bit bad.

“I appreciate the offers but I can do things on my own, T. You know that,” you say, bracing a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“I know. I — I just wanted to help,” he grovels.

“I know,” you echo, giving him a smile.

He smiles back.

“Haven't seen Joel that worked up in a while,” he says, shaking his head.

“Work’s getting to him, maybe. Just like it's getting to you,” you tease, poking his shoulder. You're a bit breathless from his brainless comment about Joel.

“Maybe. I dunno —” he huffs. “Anyways. Let me make it up to you.”

You raise your brows at his words.

“We'll take you out on friday? Bar?”

Your eyes widen.

As in — you and Joel in a bar again. Together.

And Tommy.

“Oh, um —” your phone buzzes in your hand, Joel’s name pops up and you try to hide it quickly. “Okay. Sure.”

“Drinks on me,” he winks, you pull off your seatbelt, giving him a fake appreciative look.

“$1 beers, wow thank you so much, Tommy,” you say, putting a hand to your chest.

“Shut up, you're lucky I offered,” he teases as you hop out of the truck.

“See you,” you wave.

“Get some sleep, babe.”

You roll your eyes.

“Goodnight,” you say back, closing the car door and walking inside.

Your heart picks up at the thought of going back to the bar you and Joel first met. You know the brothers frequent the place. To say you were nervous was an understatement. And Joel definitely doesn’t know about Tommy’s plans yet.

You haul yourself upstairs to your bedroom, you’re slipping on a big t-shirt from your dresser, and washing up when you hear your phone buzzing from your bed.

Your phone buzzes again, you pull it out from under your pillow, it's Joel.

But he's calling you.

You freeze with the phone in your hand.

Fuck.

Joel has never called you. Even when he gave you his number at the bar it was him asking for you to call him. His name flashing on your screen makes you squirm.

Joel M.

It’s the same from all those weeks ago. You never bothered to change it to his full last name — you remember when he put it in your phone and all his touches prior. You remember everything about that night.

You don't want it to go to voicemail so you take a deep breath, and answer the call. You put the phone up to your ear hesitantly, your breath a bit shaky.

“Hello?”

Where are you?

No preamble. No greeting.

“I’m home. I just got home,” you say, breathless.

‘Preciate you cookin’.

“Sure,” you breathe out, you’re a bit confused why he’s calling you just to say thanks.

He stays silent for a while.

‘M sorry. ‘Bout dinner.

Your long sigh crosses the line.

“Fighting at the table. Thought you were a gentleman,” you chuckle, nervously.

That right?

Your breath hitches.

“Yeah.”

Not anymore?

“Not too sure anymore.”

‘M sure I can convince you.

“You can try.”

You can hear his silken breath echo through the call. The static pierces through the ringing in your ears. You settle on your bed, laying on your back as you desperately try to imagine what he’s doing right now. The white ceiling above you maps out his face.

He clears his throat like he’s scared of continuing down that road.

Get home okay?

You roll your eyes even though he can’t see you.

“Yes, Tommy is capable of things, you know.”

He doesn’t respond. You try to lighten the mood.

“Said you guys are gonna take me out on Friday,” he grunts. “Make it up to me or something.”

Is that what you want?

“Could be fun.”

Could be.

“I haven’t been out in a while.”

Yeah?

“Mhm. You guys are a full time job.”

When was the last time you went out?

You freeze. He knows the last time. You both know the last time you went out to the bar downtown. You’re sure of that fact, and that he hears your breath get heavy through the phone.

You think about being indirect. Beating around the bush. Teasing. Say something snarky like you know the last time but it’s getting a bit old, and there’s no hiding things now.

“When I met you,” you settle for. You hear his own breath through the line.

He stays silent, obviously a bit shocked by your sudden bluntness. You try to keep it lighthearted, even though the notion is anything but.

“Might have to go shopping if we’re goin’ out,” you laugh.

Nah, could just wear the skirt from last time.

Jesus.

“You remember?” you gulp.

‘Course I do.

You try to laugh, but it comes out strangled.

“Didn’t know you thought about me so much, Miller.”

I always think about you.

Jesus, fuck.

So much for being light hearted.

Maybe this is the later he kept telling you, but it doesn’t feel like it. To you, later, meant hey, let's talk about whatever this is, later and not, let's flirt with each other over the phone, later. You keep trying to picture him. There’s no way he’s sitting in the living room or in the kitchen with you on the phone like this. Right?

Your fingers find the soft cotton hidden under your too-big shirt. You play with the hem of your underwear absentmindedly.

You hear him shuffling a bit.

“Where are you?”

My bedroom.

“What are you doing?”

Sittin’ down.

“Where?”

Jesus.

“What?”

What are you tryin’ to get at?

“I just wanna know what you’re doing.”

I’m —

He hesitates for the first time all night.

I’m on my bed. What are you doin’?

“I’m laying in bed.”

He sucks in a breath.

“That all you’re doin’?”

There it is. The point of no return, the final tipping point, the flood gates opening, and never, ever shutting again — at least for tonight. For now, at this moment — whatever happens after this is up in the air. But you don’t think about that right now. All you can think about is how the drawl in his voice somehow compels you to sneak past the hem of your underwear.

“Maybe. Why’d you call me?”

Wanted to apologize.

“That’s it?”

Maybe.

He echoes your previous statement. You smile. The rising heat between your legs comes to a breaking point. So you bite the bullet.

“Joel,” you say, his breaths are a bit husky. You know he can hear the small whimper in your voice.

What do you need, angel?

“Can I? Please?”

Yes, fuck — yes. Askin’ so nicely f’me.

You let out a puff of air through stiff lips. Your fingers find your swollen clit, sinking down towards your entrance to collect the growing wetness there. You strangle out moans and something sounding like Joel’s name.

You’re about to push two fingers inside yourself, when his voice cuts through the phone.

Only one.

It’s like he can read your mind.

“Joel —” you whisper, a plea, but he cuts you off.

C’mon be good for me, baby.

You grovel, and your cheeks heat at how easily you comply, not really putting up any fight. You can’t. Not when he sounds like that, close to your ear, his words of praise pushing you closer to the edge as you sink your middle finger inside and gasp at the intrusion.

Feel good?

You can hear him shuffling, a small groan sounds from the other side of the line. You know what he’s doing, and it pushes you even further, maybe even becoming more bold.

“Joel — need more,” you whine. You can hear him working himself. Your finger does nothing to stretch yourself out. Not when you think about the night at the bar, and how the sweet sting of his cock made you see stars.

One more — slow.

You groan as you slip another finger inside. The wetness from your entrance ruins your underwear, and threatens to spill out onto your bedding as well.

You whine nonsense to him. You’re worked up, have been too distracted the last few weeks to touch yourself or seek anyone out. You didn’t even want to knowing you would see Joel the next day. He was enough to keep you going. But you’re just a woman. And you have needs.

Feel good, baby? Tell me how it feels.

You pump your wrist faster, your orgasm nearing. You desperately rut against the palm of your hand, your shirt riding up. His words from the other side of the line spur you on further.

“‘S good, Joel. Feels so — good.”

Fuck, say my name again.

Your eyes open slightly at that, the plea mirroring when he had you up against the wall in the bar. His name. He always wants you to say his name.

“Joel —” you whine. “Wish it was you.”

I know, baby, I know.

“Please.”

You know we can’t.

“God — fuck,” you whimper to him. The mixture of your own fingers crooking just right inside you threatens to push you into a white hot orgasm. You don’t know where the next thing you say comes from. Or if you’d ever let another guy do this with you. But it feels right in the moment. And the sound of him working himself faster tells you he’s close too.

“Can I cum? Please?” you whisper.

You swear you can hear his hand stutter. The groan he lets out at your words is closer to a growl.

Jesus, fuck — such an angel. You know that right?

“Joel,” you continue, too blissed out to acknowledge his praise. It shoots right down to the spot you keep working on instead.

Not yet — know you’ll be a good girl and wait f’me.

You do, wait for him. Your fingers slow down a fraction, staving you off your fast approaching orgasm. You can hear him work himself, the thought of him finishing into his palm makes it that much harder for you to hold off.

Fuck baby — goddamn —

“Joel, please?” you whine when he starts to calm down his breathing. You’re teetering right on the edge. The only thing keeping you from falling is the thought of his praise.

Alright — fuck — let me hear you, baby.

You come hard around your fingers, biting into your lip hard in favor of screaming. Your back arches off the bed, the phone threatens to slip from your hand, you can barely hear Joel’s praise in the back of your head. It’s almost like he’s really here, whispering into your neck while you climax.

You expect your post orgasmic haze to send you into a spiral about a certain brother and the fact that technically you just got off on the phone with your boss. But it doesn’t, you fall back into the mattress, spent. Joel’s words ring through your ears, whispering praises.

He tells you to get some rest.

You do.

chapter iv. tacit

taglist! comment or message me if you want to be added. (for this series, i took the liberty of adding you to the taglist if you commented that you wanted more parts on chaser. you can let me know if you want to be taken off) kisses!

@sofiparallel @jasminedragoon @rainbowcosmicchaos @akah565

@going-to-californiaxx @gintheginger @dizzyforyou @defnotashifter @missgurrl @pedropascalissofine @daddy-din @earthtogrogu @rooney-verse @ratoonstown @purplemechanics @suzmagine @skysmiller @untamedheart81 @pedritosdarling @lovely-ateez @pluzo @hellaradd @josephine1837 @spongebobspooploop @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin @noisynightmarepoetry @tsunamistorm123

@awhoreforalotofshows @disassociation-daydreams @anoverwhelmingdin @violinchick @rhoorl @yoongjennie88 @lawh0re

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