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macfrog · 5 months

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little aphrodite sex on fire chapter nine

the amount i had to write jean-marc in this chapter makes me nauseous. anywho. these two heal my soul and make me weep. please enjoy a little look back at the ceo's experience of paris.

pairing: ceo!joel x fem!reader

summary: we're going back to paris. this time, through joel's eyes.

warnings: age gap (reader is late 20s, joel late 40s), workplace relationship, imbalance of power dynamic, alcohol consumption, ostentatious flaunting of wealth (eat the rich i say), sugardaddy!joel, softdom!joel, oral (f and m receiving), daddy kink, praise kink, cursing, angst & pining, and...well. the ceo falls in love.

word count: 7.5k

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He wasn’t even sure you’d say yes when he asked. Thought you’d find it a bit much, flying halfway across the world just for one lousy meeting. He had what he’d say when you turned him down in mind, already: Sure, yeah, no problem. No, I just thought – Yeah. ‘s alright. I’ll bring you back som’ as a souvenir.

But you didn’t.

Oh, yeah? you’d said. Your face seemed to light – humored, impressed even. It made Joel feel braver. Reassured. You’ve a habit of doing that to him.

Mhm, he replied, chewing on the sub you’d ordered him after his conference call. He can’t remember what he promised Human Resources he’d have done within the hour. You walked in as he was saying it, and – well. Two days, he said, swallowing, Saturday Sunday.

And are you gonna make me take minutes while you meet with this Jean-Marc? You wiggled your fingers as you said it, letting the name drip through your lips in some kind of dreamy song. I don’t make the flight back unless they’re typed up by the time we leave? That the catch?

No catch. You don’t even gotta come to the meetin’.

I don’t have to –? Wow, Miller. You’re spoiling me, no? You kicked your leg, one knee hooked over the other. Your skirt shrinking up your thigh.

You were sat in the chair on the right, opposite his desk. You always sit in that one – and Joel’s still trying to figure out why. The working theory so far is that it’s at a good angle to watch the city below, and at the same time, see exactly who comes and goes in and out of the office during lunch.

But there has to be more to it, he thinks. He suspects. Martha’s desk is, like, five feet from yours. She spends her lunches in the conference room with Deb, shaking salads doused in balsamic vinegar and sharing cross-floor gossip. They invite you every day, and almost every day, you turn them down in favor of his shuttered office, the muted swish of cars on the street, the mock gasps and clutch of invisible pearls when you share that same fifth-floor gossip with him over the desk.

You’d been talking while he’d been thinking about the damn chair. He hadn’t heard a word of it. Huh? he asked, and you rolled your eyes.

Ain’t never listenin’, you muttered, peeling the damp paper back from your own sub.

Say it again, Joel said. Was just making a mental note to book dinner for us over there.

You scoffed, licking mayo from the corner of your lips. Why you making mental notes for anything? That’s what you pay me for.

And you were right – it is what he pays you for. Pays you to be his shadow, his right-hand man, his eyes and his ears and his entire brain, some days.

But lately – he doesn’t know. It’s different.

Truth be told, he has no idea what’s gotten into him. Looking at you the way he is. You’ve fucked around twice, now, and both times have been…nothing short of fucking amazing. Both times, Joel’s thought he might come within the first two minutes. Pushing inside your velvet walls, watching the way you roll forward, hearing the lewd moans pour across your lips.

He’s always thought you were attractive. It’s pretty fucking hard to ignore. Physically, sure – the look of your body, the way you know how to dress it. And the prettiest, softest face he’s ever seen. You can win him over in any discussion without a word, just by fluttering your eyelashes at him.

But you’re more than that. He thinks of you both as friends, maybe something more. Something deeper. It’s in the glances you steal, the silent lines tossed between one another. The way you read one another like an open book. Sometimes, he wonders if you actually can read his mind.

You’re intelligent, you’re funny, and you’re a hard fucking worker. Always on time, always seemingly juggling thirty things at once, and never letting him down. Nothing is too much, it seems; everything just is as it is. And he likes that about you. Simple. No baggage.

The morning of the flight, you send him a voice note telling him you’re downstairs. “And I ain’t lugging two cases up to the top floor only to bring ‘em back down when we’re leaving, Mr. CEO.”

He’s striding past Martha for the elevator before he’s even done listening to the message.

“Uh-uh!” she chirps, dashing over to slip between the brass doors behind him.

Joel sighs under his breath.

“I know better than to rely on you to remember all this stuff,” she says, holding up a file he’d asked her to put together for the trip.

She’s right not to – he’d probably leave that file in the car, or put it down somewhere and walk off without it. You’re the only one who can be trusted with it – with anything. You’re good at your job. And yet, he resents the fact that Martha’s about to lump you with even a fraction of responsibility for the next four days.

So when the Rolls pulls off and Martha is nothing but a pin-sized silhouette through the back window, still waving from the sidewalk, he pinches the folder in two fingers and tosses it to his left hip. Out of your grasp. You smile, eyes rolling, and pop your earbuds in. Joel breathes a laugh, eyes dipping again to skim read some contract on his phone. His hand is locked around your thigh. He likes that you just let him do it now.

Likes a lot of things about you. Likes that you put your music on shuffle, and then skip eleven tracks until you find one you actually want to listen to. Likes that your fingers twirl around the light chain of your necklace – the way they do anytime you’re nervous – and when he asks if you’re alright, you bareface lie to him and squeak, Yep.

Likes the glow the morning sun casts on you when you emerge from the car on the tarmac, pooling in the dimples on your cheeks, bright gold. The way you tug on the loose cotton of your sweatpants, bashful. Shy. And he likes that, when he follows you up the steps to the plane cabin, your awestruck expression lasts all of five seconds before that quick wit kicks straight back in.

“Feelin’ pretty guilty about all the air pollution,” you tell him, and Joel silently says his fifth thankful prayer this morning that he thought to ask you and not Martha.

He watches you settle into a seat by the window, watches you crane your neck to survey the view from the tiny circle of thick glass. He thinks about what he’d do if you were alone right now, if there weren’t crew slowly filing into the jet behind him.

He floats the idea. Tells you about the bedroom up back, tells you it’s cozy. You read between the lines just like he wants you to. And when the plane’s in the air, you follow after him.

You fall into bed together the same way you do when you arrive at the hotel. A tangle of limbs, of sweat and stuffy plane air. He sleeps the soundest he has in months – years, maybe. Pushed off by the sound of your breathing, the dip in the mattress by his side. The warmth which radiates from your body, the soft brush of your hand against his.

He puts it down to the travelling – the eight-hour flight, the plushy super king waiting on the other side. He puts it down to the way the world feels different, this side of the Atlantic. The privacy he feels come over the two of you, like sneaking into the next room: your voices muffled through the wall, your movements reduced to vague shadows beneath the door.

He watches you through sleepy eyes as you prance around the suite in the morning, twirling in and out of the bathroom while you get ready for the day. He wonders if this is what you’re like every day – if you spend your Monday mornings beaming like a little kid, toothbrush hanging lopsided from the corner of your mouth, white bubbles lining your gums. He wonders why he’s wondering. Why a part of him wants to see that version of you, too.

This version – now following his lead down Avenue Montaigne, doe-eyed and wonderstruck – is over all too soon. He’s dragged from her, from you, before he’s ready to leave.

His phone vibrates in his pocket right as he’s leading you out of some ridiculously overpriced jewelers – an irritating reminder of his meeting in an hour’s time.

“Fuck,” he whispers, holding you steady as you spin around to glimpse at the baroque building. “Hey, pretty girl,” he squeezes your hand, “I got some bad news.”

Your bottom lip pouts, eyes gleaming. It’s enough, he thinks, to convince him to stick around. If you asked him to, he’d text Jean-Marc right now and tell him to fuck off. But you tell him to go, tell him you’ll meet him back at the hotel once he’s done and you’re tired. With a teasing smirk and a tiny wave, you see him off down the cobbled street. He watches from the back window as you set off again, heading towards another iron-gated store.

Denis pulls up alongside the towering hotel, totters around the car to meet Joel as he stretches out of the Maybach. The square-jawed man stands with his hands linked, and nods enthusiastically when Joel thanks him.

“The shopping – I will take it back to the hotel,” he assures his boss, a wide smile on his lips.

He’s a good guy, Denis. He’s chauffeured Joel to five of these meetings over as many years – he knows the drill by now. Knows it’ll be a couple hours and a few whiskeys before he gets another call to pick him up.

His nodding doubles, more obedient when Joel asks him to make sure he listens for your call. “You mind stayin’ nearby that part of town?” he asks. “Just so – when she’s done, y’know…”

“Not at all,” Denis says, flapping two palms to the ground. Swatting away Joel’s concern, his worrying, his missing you.

He replies, a little absentmindedly, passing by the head of gray hair with a distant smile. “Thanks, Denis. See you later.”

Five meetings, five trips over here to be pestered by some obnoxious little man in an obnoxious little robe and obnoxious little loafers, and still, Joel never knows what to expect. He strides beneath the golden archway entrance into a domed lobby, every surface spotless and shining; marble counter in the center with a symmetrically-suited clerk sat behind.

She stands and smiles politely to Joel as he approaches, recognizing him with a flutter of her eyelashes. He feels the absence of your arm on his, an ache at his elbow.

“Monsieur,” she croons, pale fingers reaching for the telephone. She whispers something softly into the receiver and then nods, folding her painted lips together as she places the handset back into its cradle. With a floating hand aimed at the elevator behind her, she says, sultry and dreamlike, “He is ready for you.”

Joel fights an eyeroll with every fiber of his being. He wanders round the circular desk, bunches his shoulders into the tight elevator, and jams his thumb into the button marked P.

The doors shudder open when he reaches the top floor. He steps out slowly, waiting for the Frenchman to pounce on him like some kind of wild cat. Wouldn’t put it past him, Joel thinks. As he’s scanning the room, counting the six bouquets dotted around, there’s a single clap from behind the veiled curtains. A silhouette out on the terrace.

Jean-Marc swings between the sheer white, calling out to the lonely figure in his entryway. “If it isn’t my favorite American,” he sings, taking Joel by the arms and squeezing roughly. “How lovely to see you again, Joelie. Please, come.”

The sunlight blinds Joel when he steps out into it, peering over the city skyline under low brows. Jean-Marc is already sat at the top of a thin, glass table, pouring golden whiskey into a square glass and scooping two bulky ice cubes in. The nectar swirls around when the glass is held out to Joel, the ice tittering as he accepts it.

The table, a rocky terrain of pain au chocolat and brioche, pools of citrus spreads and dishes of butter. Joel keeps his hands to himself as Jean-Marc slaps jam onto a croissant, bronze flakes fluttering all over the table as he attempts to regale Joel with some investment into a casino.

“Riccardo says it is too much; I told him to go to hell. We will double the cost of the place, I know it, Joel. We have the eye for things like these, men like you and I, hm?”

Men like you and I, Joel thinks, lips tilting. He balances the glass on his thigh, watches the ice cubes turn over themselves. He thinks of you, thinks of the man you see him as. Thinks how tall he stands against the man Jean-Marc must see sat opposite him right now.

Thinks how rotten, and ugly, and how small the latter is. How easily you and your words could crumble him. All show, all sitting on perfect terraces with pretentious dickbags disguised as friends, drinking pissy whiskey with a plastered smile on his lips.

How comical it all is – the sound of yapping across the tabletop, These idiots would pay millions for manure if you painted it golden, the sprawling sheets of green-leafed plants, the headache-inducing flowers, the buckled loafers and the signet ring catching the sun.

How much he misses the weight of you on his hips, forearms flat on his chest, ear against his heart. The sound of your laughter lilting in his ear. The rosy smell of your skin and the feel of your eyelashes, featherlight on his cheek. He feels the distance between the two of you like elastic strung apart, stretching thinner and thinner, weaker and frailer, ready to snap into two halves at any moment.

“Anyways,” Jean-Marc says, lifting the wine bottle shakily. It clinks brashly against the lip of his glass, a painful scrape. Joel wonders if he’s already halfway to hammered. “Tell me how you’ve been, Joelie.”

Joel tells him he’s been fine. Business is fine. Money is fine. Company’s doing fine. Everything’s fucking fine. Easiest answer to avoid further questioning, to satiate Jean-Marc’s constant thirst for news, or intel, or just plain gossip.

He slips up, though. Makes the one colossal mistake he spent all morning hoping and praying and drilling directly into his brain that he wouldn’t.

Jean-Marc asks how his flight was, sticking the damp end of a cigarette to his bottom lip.

Joel says, “Good, yeah. We got here, maybe, ten o’clock last night.”

And Jean-Marc’s eyebrows arch. His hands freeze, match held against the striker strip. “We?” he asks, white stick flapping between his teeth.

“Uh,” Joel shifts in his seat. Your gentle wave, the corners of your lips, the toss of hair over your shoulder. It’s as though Jean-Marc can see his thoughts played on a reel before him, the haste with which Joel attempts to wipe you from his own mind. “Yeah,” he clears his throat, “Jerry ‘n Lisa. Len and Pol.”

The Frenchman’s eyes narrow, a grin pulling on his pink lips. “We,” he says again, whipping the match roughly against the strip. Speaking into cupped hands, a cloud of white billowing from his leathery fingers, he murmurs, “Joel brought company with him to Paris, yes? Who is the lucky tourist? Une petite amie?”

Joel’s tongue dabs at the sickly wash of whiskey on his lips. He thinks to grab the fucker by the throat, throttle him until the idea of you rattles from his skull, spilling back into Joel’s safe hands where you belong.

He almost fucking lies. Almost says it’s just Martha, or Drew, or his fucking mother. But Jean-Marc is like a rat, scurrying along after a source of water. He’ll find it in the end. They always do.

He breathes your name, reluctant to let it go. Jean-Marc cocks his head, leans in, a swirling snake of silky smoke lifting from the cigarette between his fingers. Joel repeats it, voice louder, but flatter. Breaks it into too many syllables. Lets his host hear every bite of annoyance.

“She’s my assistant,” he says, and Jean-Marc claps again.

“Your assistant! How wonderful. And where is she today? She is not…” his fingers circle the air, disturbing the trail of smoke, “…assisting you?”

“Gave her the afternoon off.” Joel lifts his glass to his lips. The geometric shape amplifies his voice, bass like the growl of a bear. “Busy couple days. She deserves some downtime.”

He hates the sound of your name as it peels from Jean-Marc’s tongue. Like a hangnail, the residue a gorge of bloody, torn skin. Your name is Joel’s favorite sound, he realizes now, and the way this little asshole keeps butchering it boils an anger so hot and so quick under his skin that he’s not sure he can hold it at bay.

It’s not as if he owns you or your name – far from it. He has no desire to be anything more than a placeholder: somewhere for you to slot your hand, rest your head, curl your body against. Still, he feels a direct protectiveness over you right now. An impulse to stand in front of Jean-Marc’s tiny figure, arms wide, stopping him from picturing you or learning about you or meeting you.

Which is, of course, exactly what the little fucker suggests.

A wet pff sound as he rids his mouth of bitter smoke, and he offers to host breakfast in the morning.

“No, no, we, uh –” Joel’s hands are up, like pleading with the man, whiskey kissing the lip of its glass, “– you don’t have to – Look, Jean-Marc, I’m sure you’re busy enough with all –”

“Nonsense!” Jean-Marc waves a hand. Ash sprinkles down the cuff of his robe. “It would be my pleasure. Shall we say, ten?”

Joel grumbles, eye following the flight of a bird in the distance. What are you doing right now? Are you back in the suite, trying on the outfit you picked out together? Are you still wandering down the streets, drinking up the lavish city like a perfect little cocktail of bliss and wonder?

And what the fuck does he have to do to excuse himself, to come find you, to wrap his arms around you and never let you leave his side again?

He feels idiotic. Juvenile. Like a stupid little teenager, pining for his junior year girlfriend. The feelings all sharp and brittle, prodding his heart roughly anytime he thinks too hard on them.

When he looks back to Jean-Marc – the cigarette tearing closer and closer to his fingers, an expectant smile on his lips – he concedes.

“Ten is fine,” he says, and suddenly, the sky casts over.

You’re on the terrace when he finally returns to the hotel room. Head aching from the alcohol and forced conversation, he drags himself over to you.

The sight of you, hair lifting in the breeze, the sweet smell and soft touch under his hands feels like the pouring of honey on a raw throat, like cool water lapping at his waist on a scorching day. And he needs more, and he feels the saliva pool beneath his tongue, and you’re touching him and talking to him and all he can think about is replacing his saliva with you – with every drop of you that you’ll lend him.

You follow his every request – parting your legs, making room for him between them, opening yourself to him like coming home after work, like sinking deep into your shared bed, like pushing your salt-slicked fingers on his tongue and chanting taste me taste me love me need me.

Petals opening, shards of orange separating. His cock throbs in his pants when he feels the circle of your hips against his jaw, the taste of sweet, sweet nectar spilling from your center. His clothes still smell of the smoke from Jean-Marc’s weedy lips; the sweat on his skin borne from three hours sat in the sun, dehydrated by whiskey, discussing money and gold and then money again.

He doesn’t want to fuck you here, like this. As that puny, pompous prick he’s felt like since the second he wandered through the Frenchman’s hotel doors. He can’t. You deserve him clean, new. You deserve the Joel you think he is – yours. Affected by your touch alone, moved by the gleam in your eye. You deserve him, Joel decides, on your terms.

And that same night, stood in the same spot, dregs of sunlight replaced by molten moonlight, staring at the dazzling Eiffel Tower against the deep blue sky – that same night, when he turns and clocks the silhouette of your body just feet from him, he realizes that this is it.

He’s sure he thinks you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever laid eyes on, standing in the dim light, your fingers playing with the bust of the silk robe draped over your body. The jewelry on your neck catching the light like his own private attraction, his own little spectacle. Just for him.

He forgets any other version of himself. Shakes them off like seawater flying from his body as he emerges from the ocean. Venus stood before him; hair lifting in the light, palm over her breast. And he doesn’t notice the departure of those old versions; doesn’t feel the way they tear from his skin. His eyes are glued on you, only you, everything around the two of you reducing to dark matter. There is only his awestruck gaze pointed to your radiant form, as though the scene sits alive in the eye of Botticelli or Michelangelo.

Baby, he whispers, and you move forward, dragging him with you under a wave of lust and rebirth.

He stirs the next morning to the feeling of a weight shifting across his body, two divots in the mattress either side of his waist. Something nuzzling, warm and featherlight, into the nook below his earlobe. Wet kisses trailing down his neck.

There’s no weight of you in the crook of his arm anymore. He’s scooping thin air. He lifts it, and his palm meets the baggy cotton of his own T-shirt, draped over your body, draped over him.

A laugh brushes between his lips. “Mornin’, darlin’,” he croaks, voice still low and broken.

“Hi,” you whisper back, voice like silk and sugar and tufts of lustrous clouds.

He opens his eyes and you’re hovering over him. Tip of your nose circling his, hips light as air across his own.

You look so fucking cute, he thinks. He’d take what he had last night – you, dripping in black lace and bound by satin straps – every night for the rest of his life, if he could. If you’d grant him it. But, this. This.

You – in Joel’s clothes and nothing else. You – the curl of your hair now a lazy wave, the smoky afterthought of your half-removed makeup. The smell of sex still lingering on your skin, the taste of Joel still home on your tongue. Each part of you laced with a part of him.

You – holding yourself up over him, less than an inch apart, and all Joel thinks to do is wrap his arms around your back and let you drop onto his body; his strong, solid body, which accepts the weight of you with only so much as a tiny grunt over his lips when you fall on top of him.

You giggle. He swears he feels butterflies in his stomach. He prays you don’t feel them, fluttering purposefully against your ribcage.

“You’re an idiot,” you mumble into his collarbone, words curled by the smile on your lips. You suck a mark into the hot skin, teeth and flesh and sel et sucre, and then push off from his chest, nudging his thighs wider with your knee.

Your tongue drags a wet trail down his chest, from solid sternum to suppler stomach, following the thickening of hair the lower you move. You leave wet kisses along the crests of his hipbones, the gentle slope of skin leading you to the wide base of his cock, already stiff.

Joel’s breath hitches when your tongue sweeps across it. Your eyes lift and lock with his, fingers taking a heavy hold of him. He smiles, tongue sitting patiently behind his teeth.

“Go on, angel,” he nods, “put that pretty little mouth on daddy.”

You obey instantly, as hungry for it as he is, your tongue swiping from the base of him up, curling around as you reach the head. Swollen, gleaming, slit dripping with slick precome that you lick with just the tip of your tongue and send a roll of pleasure across every nerve in Joel’s body.

He falls back, hands searching for the back of your skull as your lips sink further down down down, tightening around the smooth skin, stopping only when they meet the tuft of hair decorating his dick. His tip pushes against the back of your throat. His head begins to spin.

His back arches, hands anchored on your head, holding you steady as you bob up and down. His shoulders push heavy into the mattress, tummy sucks in until the points of his ribcage mold through his skin. And, oh – you’re so soft with it, so wet and so warm and so good with your tongue, kitten licks over his tip, wet fist wrapped tight around the width of him.

You lift your hand and meet his halfway up his stomach, fingers intertwining, Joel’s knuckles instantly whitening.

“Doin’ so good, baby,” he groans, gasping when your throat constricts around him again.

You gag, choking with a wet grunt, but you never pull away. A quick pause, a heavy breath from your nostrils, and your movements resume.

“’s alright,” Joel coos, fingers rubbing against the back of your hand, “you got it. Atta-girl, fuck.”

His hips begin to lift, slowly jerking up into your mouth. He looks down, loosens the grip you have on his hand only to run his thumb delicately across your cheek, dabbing lightly at the tears in the corner of your eye.

You suck hard around him, cheeks hollowing, tongue flattening to his underside to let him fuck your mouth – a rhythm of sopping sounds and heartbeat hums from your throat. He’s close. He’s so fucking close.

“Just like that,” he tells you, and you blink up at him. Moans muffled by the mouthful of cock, saliva and sex slipping from your swollen lips. “Fuck, baby, I’m gonna come. You’re such a good girl – you want daddy to give it to you?”

Mhm, you mumble into the warmth of his cock, the vibration of your throat on the eager skin enough to send Joel over the fucking edge. He throws his head back, lifts his hips up to you, and fills your mouth at the same rate he fills the room with the sound of his orgasm.

You take every last drop. You’re so good for him. Once he stills, once the screaming in his ears subsides, once the room slowly desaturates back to normal, a faded, blurry normal – he sits up and hooks his hands under your arms, pulling you up into him.

You collapse against his chest for the second time this morning, giggling and licking the last of his come from your mouth. Joel guides your jaw towards his, lips meeting in the middle, and licks the salty aftertaste from your tongue.

He rolls you both over, your thighs sitting safe on his hips.

“I know,” you sigh, head rolling against the curve of his arm beneath, “I know. You don’t gotta tell me.”

“Tell you what, angel?” he asks, one eyebrow lifting.

“Best head you ever had. I know.”

He scoffs, lips finding the hinge of your jaw. You giggle into his ear, a sound softer than birds cooing at the break of dawn, sweeter than the first bite of ripe fruit – the sharp taste bursting across his tongue and coating his teeth in sugar, numbed by the holy coaxing of feathered doves.

“You’re good with it, I’ll give you that,” he murmurs, and the giggle erupts into a laugh which fuels him enough to follow your roll out of bed, tear his shirt from your shoulders, and slip into the shower behind you, kneeling before you when you turn to look.

Joel’s second encounter with Jean-Marc in as many days, goes about as well as the first.

He balls his fists as he introduces the pair of you, watches like a caged and bound animal as Jean-Marc’s eyes loop all around your face, your shoulders, the pull of your dress around your waist.

He knows he’s being quiet. The glances you keep stealing at him tell him you know it, too. He wishes there was something he could say, something his lips might be able to carve into a neat little sentence. Tongue sanding the jagged edges of what he’d really like to say into a joke, a quip to ease the tension you so obviously feel.

But he can’t. His tongue isn’t blunt, isn’t defensive. It’s sharp like the kiss of venom, protective and aggressive. He knows he’d do better to hold it tight between his teeth.

The best he finds himself able to do is keep a heavy hand on your thigh, let you wrap your fingers around his own, squeeze you in place of whispering in your ear.

You hold your own, up against Jean-Marc. He knew you would. He learned less than a week into working with you, not to underestimate you. Your quick tongue, the million and one observations hidden behind the flash of a frown. He knows you can read Jean-Marc – probably better than he can, having known the guy ten years.

It doesn’t make it feel any safer, though. Luring you into a lion’s den. He knows you’ll make it out alive, but he can’t stand the thought of the claw marks in your skin.

That feeling washes over him again – that urge scored so deep into his bones that it hits marrow, to put himself between you and anything which might come to harm you. He swallows it down with the acidic sting of orange juice – slots it somewhere safe in his chest until he can assess whatever the fuck it is. Whatever the fuck it means.

His hand tightens around your leg when Jean-Marc mutters something to his assistant. Joel decides against asking you what it means, for fear he’ll tear the Frenchman limb from limb, strips of satin robe strung across the paved patio.

The assistant – tall, thin, looming over you like impending doom on legs – offers to show you the view of the city. And as Jean-Marc settles into your empty chair, the image of that torn satin robe shunts closer towards reality.

“I wonder if you might indulge me,” Jean-Marc slithers, pinching thin air with one hand and resting the other on the back of Joel’s chair.

“I wonder,” Joel mutters, finger tapping angrily on the table.

“She is a wonderful character. Beautiful, and very smart, I can see. I would be crazy not to ask, you must understand, Joel –”

He can’t help himself. He bites before Jean-Marc lays the trap. His head shakes. “She’s – she’s –”

And suddenly there isn’t a single word in the English dictionary worthy of describing you. Not a single combination of letters, of sounds, of syllables and phonetics that would do you justice.

He settles for, “I wouldn’t be anywhere without her.” It feels fucking redundant. It is fucking redundant.

Jean-Marc nods. “And you know that I see the value in things, hm?”

Joel dead-eyes his opponent, gaze narrowing. “What are you sayin’, Jean-Marc?”

“Well,” he shrugs, gesturing to the shadow pointing out the Eiffel Tower, “Paul is fantastic. Dedicated, hardworking. But it is a lot, for one person. I am sure you can understand, being that you have two assistants yourself.”

“And you wanna take one of ‘em out from under me?”

Jean-Marc chuckles, shaking his head. Tutting. Teeth grinding. He senses the bitter tone, hears the distortion of words squeezing through gritted teeth. “Not at all, my dear Joelie, not at all.”

Placating. It pisses Joel off more.

“I simply would like to raise the question of: would she like to be…taken?”

“Taken?”

“Hired. By me.”

The smug grin which pulls over taut lips incites Joel with a desire to punch the luminous veneers from their gummy holders. His fist balls again, nails digging harshly into his palm. He swallows roughly.

“She seems…she seems happy enough where she is to me.” He glances over, catches your eye for a fleeting second before Paul’s ghostly hand perches on your shoulder and turns your attention away again. Resigned, he adds, “You would have to ask her. I ain’t speakin’ for her.”

Jean-Marc’s leer only grows. “Ask her,” he repeats, nodding. “That is an idea.” He pushes out of his chair with a squeal of wood across stone, calling to the party, “Why don’t we take a drive? There is so much of the city I would love to show you – both of you, of course.”

Before he knows it, Joel’s on his feet, too, panic hammering through every muscle in his body. He tosses some half-assed excuse to the breeze; a half-truth, a desperate attempt to pull you away from the beady eyes and sharp claws of Jean-Marc and his assistant, and back over to his side. He takes your arm and scatters, pulling you past four, five, six bursting bouquets, your heels clicking along the polished floor, your head spinning.

He can feel the blood thrashing through his veins as the elevator arrives back in the lobby. Can see the shadow of Paul the assistant still over your shoulder, the place his hand sat like charcoal on white linen. He feels red hot, anger mixed with panic mixed with a word he hasn’t let slip just yet. He covers it by answering your questions shakily, diverting the ones about the conversation on the terrace.

And then you’re back in the safety of Denis’s car. You’re back to being on your own, together. No third set of eyes watching your every move, studying you like you’re some doll to be observed, or worse. You’re touching him again, holding his arm, caressing his cheek. His breathing eases, his body relaxes into the backseat of the Maybach.

You tell him you’d like to see the Louvre. So Joel takes you to see the Louvre.

Joel Miller has never been in love.

He’s said it, sure. Said it plenty to Avery.

G’night, love you.

I’m so proud of you, sweet; I love you so much.

Thanks for makin’ dinner, babe, I love you.

It began to take the form of breath, passing over his tongue with as much ease and instinct as his lungs would push out air. She looked at him a certain way – he’d say he loved her. They’d talk about the future – he’d tell her he loved her. They fought, over his working hours or the interest rates at different banks or whose family to spend Christmas with – and he’d remind her he loved her.

He meant every single one. He did, truly, love her. He loved her auburn hair, the way it’d sweep over her shoulders like a wave of fire. He loved the way she would pause to take thirty photos of the sky at sunset. He loved how homely she was, how simple and warm she could be. Her recipe books lining the shelves in her kitchen. Her pajamas folded neatly at the foot of her bed, waiting for her at the end of the day.

He loved her enough to spend four years with her, a life split nearly down the middle. Never seeping into one another. His side of the bed, and hers. His items in the fridge, and hers. His fucking bathrobe, and hers.

But right now, standing in a jam-packed room, maneuvering awkwardly around museum guides and backpacked tourists, avoiding the knee-height glass barriers and dodging fucking selfie sticks – Joel knows: he has never been in love.

Not until the moment he turns from some headless bust to search the room – the dark marble walls and great, carved arches; the white Parisian sky illuminating everything in a pale glow. Not until he catches a glimpse of you amongst the sea of bodies – stood before the Venus de Milo, staring up in wonder at Aphrodite like she’s the first thing in the world you’ve ever truly seen. The gentle lean of her body, the low sling of marble fabric around her waist, the soft dimple of her navel.

The way your eyes scan every detail of her form – every fold draped over her thigh, ever chisel mark and chip in her torso. The round swell of her breasts and the wavelike swirl of her hair. Barely blinking, afraid to lose sight of her for even a second.

Joel’s never been in love. Not until this very moment.

He only turned to make some quip about…well, now he can’t fucking remember, can he? Something irrelevant. Something so mundane, so meaningless, so dull that he wishes he could take back every word he ever said to you and use the breath more wisely – use the time spent making stupid jokes and work orders, just to look at you. Watch you, like he is right now. Every other thought, every worry and concern drop weightlessly from his mind, with such ease that he doesn’t feel the loss.

Your fixed stare up at the statue’s set face, the slow pacing of your heels, ankles crossing over one another as you pivot around her. And the look of wonder on your face – as if Joel instantly recognizes eight-year-old you, thumbing through the pages of the first art book she was ever gifted, copying the curled hair and round shoulders of the marble goddess in a pencil sketch.

Haloed by the towering windows behind you, arms crossed over your chest. Lips melting from a content smile to agape, and then pinning back in a smile again.

And suddenly – he can’t remember the flame of hair over his ex’s shoulder. Doesn’t remember a single meal she ever cooked for him. In the blink of an eye, he realizes he doesn’t want a life neatly split anywhere.

He realizes that his life, the way he wants it, was always meant to be meshed with yours. Intertwined so tightly that there is no his and hers. Last night at dinner, you couldn’t decide between the bœuf bourguignon and the confit de canard, so Joel ordered both – as well as what he wanted – and the two of you picked at three separate meals. Holding out forkfuls to feed one another, comparing and judging them like professional chefs on a fucking cooking show.

Back at the hotel, you fell asleep in his arms. Your head nestled under his chin; your arms curved around his shoulders. In the center of the bed, laying at an angle. When he got up this morning, the robe he threw around himself smelled like your perfume. The terrycloth on your shoulders, tinged with the weak scent of whiskey.

None of it – not the relationship you had before any of this happened, not the strolling over one boundary to the next, not the blurring of lines between colleague, and friend, and lover – has been neat. None of it has made any sense. And maybe that’s why he fucking trusts it so much.

Joel spent the first two weeks after you fooled around in his office swearing he wasn’t that guy. Staring himself down in the mirror with a balled fist, a pointed finger that said, You don’t sleep with your fucking assistant, you idiot.

And now, standing opposite you in a crowded room and only seeing you – he knows. He finally gets it.

He loves you. He – no, fuck.

He doesn’t just love you.

He’s on his knees, dagger through his heart –

blood spilling all over the pristine floor –

pathetic and adolescent in its nature –

butterflies tearing through his stomach as destructive as a hurricane –

in love with you.

He thinks to say it. To wander over and kiss your shoulder, hook his chin into your collarbone like he did in the Dolce and Gabbana store, and whisper, Hey. I love you. Did you know that?

But he knows that’d be fucking insane. Knows you’d probably unstick yourself from him and back up, tripping in your step. Paris ruined.

He knows he’d probably get so far as curving around your back and then bottle it, anyway. The words would die in his throat. You’d just lean back into him, none the wiser. You’d still make his heart pound.

Pound the way it does when you reach for his wrist and drag him off into the next room, and the next, and the next. And with every piece of art your eyes fall upon, another fragment of your soul is revealed to Joel. The depth of da Vinci, the color of Bruyère. The scale of Veronese and the beauty of Canova.

And with every part revealed, a desire blooms in him to learn the next part. Understand you; know you better than he knows himself. See you, the way he’s seeing you right now.

He takes his ex’s lead, when you’re stood in front of the Mona Lisa. All those fucking sunset photos, like she was afraid to forget what it looked like. The thought becomes urgent, pushing past every other meaningless word in his head.

He taps you on the shoulder, says your name lightly. When you turn, he’s already holding the phone up, watching your delayed motions through the screen. Please don’t let me forget this. Don’t let me forget you, like this.

“Smile,” he says, and you do.

“You’re cheesy,” you tell him, wandering off from the painting.

He’s still staring at the photo. At your dimpled cheeks, your red lips. Staring at your eyes, seeing a new glint in them that wasn’t there before. Like eight-year-old you smiling back at him, trusting him, knowing him.

Joel breathes, “She’s beautiful,” taking your waist in a steady arm to guide you out of the room.

You misunderstand him. He knows it. He doesn’t correct you.

She’s beautiful – the Mona Lisa. But she only became beautiful the second you laid eyes on her. The second she handed you a piece of your soul, the transaction laid bare for Joel to witness. A bucket list item ticked, or simply your childhood self, stood before one of her own seven wonders.

Everything is only beautiful after it comes into contact with you.

There’s a change in you, the morning that you leave. Something low-lying, melancholy and blue. Joel feels it under your skin, in the grip you keep on his hand the entire car ride from the hotel to the airport.

“You good?” he asks, walking up the steps of the jet, shelled around you. Safe, with him, safe with him.

You nod, but you’re watching the Maybach roll off, rounding the corner back to the airport. The same way you watch the city disappear beneath the clouds as the plane takes off.

The same way you glance over to him, your glossy eyes twinkling, pearly tears swimming across your waterline. Joel gets it. Figures he feels much the same.

He leads you slowly back through to the dark cabin bedroom, where you peel the shirt and sweats from your body. He watches from the bed, arm outstretched and inviting you to burrow into his side, curl around his body, loop your legs through his. His own little Aphrodite, the curves and the dimples and all the beauty to go with her.

He sinks his shoulder to let you nuzzle into him, let your slow-closing eyes follow his movements like rocking you back and forth to sleep. You link your arm through his, locking your bodies tight together. Joel slows his typing down, moves gentler, so you can fall asleep without being nudged too much by his arm.

You mumble something into the sleeve of his tee. He pauses. Looks down at your already closed eyes, your parted lips.

“What’d you say, baby?”

You take a deep, slow breath. Already sleeping, he thinks. And then, in the sigh that escapes from your mouth, you whisper to him.

“Please don’t ever leave.”

#joel miller #joel miller fic #joel miller x reader #ceo!joel miller #ceo!joel #sugardaddy!joel miller #the last of us #the last of us fic #tlou #pedro pascal #joel miller smut #sex on fire

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uselesssomebody · 7 months

Text

𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐲'𝐬 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟑 (18+)

the do's (rules & information):

readers must be over 18 reading these drabbles

all works will be under or roughly a thousand words

thirty-one days of smut drabbles

ten days are open to requests for the kinks

ten days will include dark content (will be properly tagged)

five will include a dominant reader

the don'ts (what i am not interested in writing):

i only write fem!readers, with all involved characters being over 18

the kinks i'd appreciate you don't request are anything to do with anal penetration, bodily fluids (besides blood and cum), and certain dom/sub dynamics like age play or ddlg

otherwise, ask away, and i'll see if i'm comfortable writing your request!

the kinks and the characters

october 1: shower sex w/ frankie morales

october 2: ball worship (dom!reader) w/ eddie munson

october 3: sex pollen (dark) w/ din djarin

october 4: consensual non-consent (dark) w/ miguel o'hara

october 5: threesome (ffm) w/ marc spector & layla el-faouly

october 6: requested kink & character

october 7: breeding kink (dark) w/ duke leto

october 8: somnophilia (dark) w/ eddie munson

october 9: mutual masturbation (dom!reader) w/ steven grant

october 10: threesome (mmf) + double penetration (in one hole) w/ frankie morales and santiago garcia

october 11: titfucking w/ javier peña

october 12: requested kink & character

october 13: exhibitionism w/ poe dameron

october 14: dacryphilia (dark) w/ joel miller

october 15: temperature play (dom!reader) w/ din djarin

october 16: phone sex w/ jack daniels

october 17: corruption kink (dark) w/ dio morrissey

october 18: requested kink & character

october 19: edging (dark!dom!reader) w/ basil stitt

october 20: recording/blackmail (dark) w/ jonathan levy

october 21: mask + glove kink w/ jake lockley

october 22: hate + mirror sex w/ javier peña

october 23: cockwarming (dom!reader) w/ steven grant

october 24: requested kink & character

october 25: overstimulation w/ jake lockley

october 26: size difference w/ miguel o'hara

october 27: knife kink (dark) w/ bucky barnes

october 28: free use (dark) w/ joel miller

october 29: sex toys w/ natasha romanoff

october 30: requested kink & character

october 31: period sex/blood kink w/ santiago garcia

the characters (you guys can request)

from stranger things, i write for eddie munson, robin buckley, billy hargrove or steve harrington

from marvel, i write for bucky barnes, steve rogers, natasha romanoff, jake lockley, marc spector, steven grant, layla el-faouly and miguel o'hara

from star wars, i write for poe dameron, or din djarin (the mandalorian)

from triple frontier, i write for frankie morales and santiago garcia

miscellaneous oscar isaac characters i write for include basil stitt, jonathan levy, duke leto, kane and orestes (agora)

miscellaneous pedro pascal characters i write for include joel miller, javier peña, jack daniels (agent whiskey), dio morrissey

if you want to request another character, don't hesitate! i will see what i can do.

notes

guys i know i haven't written in like 1200 months but i wanna get back into the mood with the short smutty stuff

besides, i've never done kinktober and every other one i've seen bangs so hard i simply couldn't resist

side note - dark fics will be only available on my adjacent dark blog: @darkuselesssomebody, but will be linked on this masterlist. if you wanna read the dark drabbles and future dark work, give it a follow!

i am also willing to take non-kinky & halloween themed requests, so if you have any, let me know!

𝐞𝐧𝐣𝐨𝐲!

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campingwiththecharmings · 8 months

Text

*These weren’t necessarily written and/or posted in June, but that’s when I read them 😊

(thanks for your patience with this y'all, i'm so sorry it took so long to post. working on getting july and august recs out as well ❤️)

🔥 - explicit/mature content

Star Wars

🔥For Your Entertainment (Poe Dameron x F!Reader) - @melodygatesauthor

Gardens of Babylon (Cowboy!Din Djarin x Cowgirl!Reader) - @spacecowboyhotch (yes i'm rec-ing this again)

You Are in Love (Modern!Poe Dameron x Reader) - @alwritey-aphrodite (i will rec this every time i read a new chapter, try and stop meeee)

🔥Clandestine (Poe Dameron x F!Reader) - @the-little-ewok

🔥Good Morning (Poe Dameron x F!Reader) - @whirlybirbs

🔥favor (Poe Dameron x F!Reader) - @eyelessfaces

Rookie Mistake (Poe Dameron x F!Reader) - @groguspicklejar

🔥Never Before (Poe Dameron x F!Reader) - @melodygatesauthor

Moon Knight

🔥Prized Possession (Marc Spector x Steven Grant x F!Reader) - @melodygatesauthor

🔥The Best Kept Secrets - Marc's Story (dbf!Marc Spector x F!Reader) - @melodygatesauthor

🔥Kisses on your lovers lap (Marc Spector x F!Reader) - @sweetly-yours-and-mine

🔥Let Your Fingers to the Talking (Jake Lockley x F!Villain!Reader) - @melodygatesauthor

Spoiled Rotten (Marc Spector x Reader) - @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction

Sprite: Savior (Marc Spector x forest nymph oc Nikini) - @spacecowboyhotch

Bubble Bath (Marc Spector x Reader) - @shewhohangsoutincemeteries

Domestic Fluff (Steven Grant x Housewife!Reader) - @xbellaxcarolinax

Fluff and Kisses with Marc (Marc Spector x Reader) - @sweetly-yours-and-mine

Her Hair Reminds Me of a Warm, Safe Place (Marc Spector x Layla El-Faouly) - @romanarose

🔥Forever Bittersweet (Marc Spector x F!Reader) - @melodygatesauthor

🔥Please (Marc Spector x F!Reader) - @melodygatesauthor

Spiderman: Across the Spiderverse

🔥take it (Miguel O'Hara x F!Reader) - @eyelessfaces

🔥apology (Miguel O'Hara x F!Reader) - @eyelessfaces

🔥willing to give (Miguel O'Hara x F!Reader) - @graysonshaven

🔥take my breath (Miguel O'Hara x F!Reader) - @whatthefishh

🔥burrowed under my skin (Miguel O'Hara x F!Reader) - @dameronscopilot

🔥Cállate (Miguel O'Hara x F!Reader) - @xbellaxcarolinax

🔥Impatient (Miguel O'Hara x F!Reader) - @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction

🔥Little Bug (Yandere!Miguel O'Hara x F!Reader) - @melodygatesauthor

Every You, Every Me (Miguel O'Hara x F!Reader) - @astroboots (i haven't finished this yet but i cannot recommend this fic enough)

🔥Soothe & Sleep (Miguel O'Hara x F!Reader) - @spacecowboyhotch

🔥Wandering Hands (Miguel O'Hara x F!Reader) - @loganlermanstanaccount

tousled, stubbled, tired (Miguel O'Hara x Reader) - @eyelessfaces

🔥Virgin!Miguel w/a huge cock and fucks both of u dumb (Miguel O'Hara x F!Reader) - @xbellaxcarolinax

🔥Take It All (Miguel O'Hara x F!Reader) - @romanarose

🔥Make Me A Liar (Miguel O'Hara x F!Reader) - @groguspicklejar

🔥coming home (Miguel O'Hara x F!Reader) - @eyelessfaces

Triple Frontier

Blurring Out (Santiago Garcia x F!Reader) - @spacecowboyhotch

Being Will's Girl Would Include (Will Miller x F!Reader) - @missdictatorme

🔥Look What the Cat Dragged In (Santiago Garcia x F!Thief!Reader) - @missdictatorme

For Better, For Worse (Santiago Garcia x F!Reader) - @bullet-prooflove

The Last of Us

To the Rescue (Pre-Outbreak!Joel x F!Reader) - @romanarose

Waffle House penance (Joel Miller x F!Reader) - @softlyspector

Sucker Punch

🔥Needy Little Thing (Blue Jones x F!Reader) - @melodygatesauthor

The Two Faces of January

🔥The Oxford Comma Series (Rydal Keener x F!Reader) - @whatthefishh (will never stop rec-ing this fic ❤️)

Ex Machina

🔥heavenly praises (Nathan Bateman x F!Reader) - @leoluved

🔥old fashioned (Nathan Bateman x F!Reader) - @leoluved

🔥chase and pull (Nathan Bateman x F!Reader) - @leoluved

🔥indulge me (Nathan Bateman x F!Reader) - @leoluved

Thank you to all the wonderful writers for sharing their stories with us 🥰❤️

*For more recs, please feel free to check out my fic rec tag.

**If you’d like to have your fic removed from the list, I completely understand, just let me know

#poe dameron x reader #rydal keener x reader #santiago garcia x reader #joel miller x reader #steven grant x reader #jake lockley x reader #marc spector x reader #din djarin x reader #blue jones x reader #nathan bateman x reader #will miller x reader #miguel o'hara x reader #marc spector x layla el faouly #marc spector x oc #fic rec

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netherfeildren · 1 year

Text

FEAR OF GOD : Chapter V : Love humiliates you

Series Masterlist ; Moodboard

Pairing: Joel Miller x OFC

Summary: Consider the moment before you go forward.

Content Warnings: HEAVY !! angst!; Joel is mean in this, like forreal; PTSD; gore

Rating: Explicit 18+

A/N: Reminder that this does have a HEA, I would literally never write a story without one. I promise. The events of this chapter are what spawned this entire story. Enjoy.

Art is Leda by Marc Burckhardt

Word Count: 3.1K

Read on AO3

CHAPTER V: Love humiliates you

I was always ashamed to take.

So I gave. It was not a virtue. It

was a disguise.

-Anaïs Nin, The Diary of Anaïs Nin, Vol. 4; 1944-1947

You reach for a glass as Ellie wrenches the back door open. The look on her face – set to kill. Another person needing something from Joel that he just isn’t capable of giving. Perhaps you’re wrong, to capitulate to his shortcomings, accept the things he can’t or refuses to part with. But in a world like this one, now, where merely staying alive is made so much more painful, so much more of a fight, you feel you have to give him this. If nothing else, understanding. It’s what you would want for yourself. And after everything that’s just happened, you know you won’t let her hurt him more than he already has been tonight. After you’d felt his fear, alive and sentient, brush up against you, overwhelm him. No matter what. You feel the resolve harden within you.

“Ellie.”

“I need to talk to him.”

“I don’t think now’s a good time. He–”

“Fuck that,” she spits. “You know he beat the shit out of Seth the other night? I don’t need him defending me. I can handle those types of things myself, and you can’t protect him from me forever.”

“That’s not what I’m trying to do at all,” you say severely. “Joel doesn’t need me protecting him. And he’d hate hearing you say that. But tonight –”

She pauses to really look at you, takes in the scrapes on your face, the harried look in your eyes, “Did something happen? Are you okay?”

“The kid they found – it was a play – they attacked us out there.”

“What? What are you talking about? Are you okay?”

“I can’t let you do this to him tonight.”

“I’m asking about you.”

“I’m fine. It was nothing.” A terrible lie. “But he– he needs some time…He –”

And then from the shadow of the stairs: “What’re you doin’?” Your heart stops.

Ellie squares her shoulders, she looks a little maniacal, and you have the hysterical urge to laugh.“I came to–”

“Not you–” he holds up a hand towards her. The look he levels at you, you feel afraid in that instant. On the precipice of something very bad. Very frightening. “Joel–” you whisper.

“What d’you think you’re doin’?” You’re not his little bird right now. His face is cast in an angry set he’s never turned towards you before.

“I– I’m…” you feel out of breath, “I just–” You glance back and forth between the two of them. To Ellie for help – and you think you see the same fear for yourself in her own eyes, the realization that something is very wrong.

“What’re you tryin’ to do? You… you what? You think that what goes on between Ellie and myself’s your business as well? How many times do I gotta tell you that whatever goes on between us is not your concern? Whatever issues we have are family issues.” And you flinch as if he’d struck you a blow, fist closed, teeth bared. Nothing worse could’ve been said. You’re jarred into taking a step away from him, and you see his countenance shift, his gaze waver; fear flashing in those warm hazel eyes – now frigid – that you love so much. Perhaps fear of his own self. You clutch the back of the chair to keep upright.

This is the moment of no return for him.

“Y– you think w– what… That just ‘cause we fuck on occasion–” the words like a razor he struggles to spit out.

Birdie, I love you. Birdie, Birdie, my Birdie.

Ellie’s voice, warning and sharp, “Joel–”

You watch him gather his resolution around himself, a wall barricading you from him – he goes in for the kill, “...that just ‘cause we fuck on occasion you’ve got some sort of right to come in here and stick your nose in matters that got nothin’ to do with you?” I was already here, you want to scream, I’ve been here all this time – but the words don’t come.

He looks away as if the very sight of you burns him. His jaw clenched tight, fists curled into knots.

“You need to leave,” he says flatly.

And you nod a shaky jerk. A short breath of a laugh escapes, “Fuck on occasion…” you whisper, almost incredulous, hysterical. Or maybe questioning. Perhaps you should question all you’ve made this into in your head up until now.

Birdie, I love you. Birdie, Birdie, my Birdie.

You look away too, your eyes filled with tears you’d die before spilling in front of them. And you think that nothing has ever, ever hurt as much as this does right here. A sudden blinding flash of Beth in your mind’s eye, torn apart – decimated, a sea of blood as endless and dark as the night sky. A pain, sharp, piercing – as if a bolt of fire had shot straight through the soft of your belly. You wrap an arm around yourself. Nausea sits heavy on your tongue, you could vomit right now.

“You’re right …” your brows hitch high, like you’re surprised to hear yourself say so. “I– I’m s–sorry.” It’s a cracked whisper. You wring your hands together painfully – as if you could break your own bones, distract yourself with a different kind of hurt. You remember they’d ripped her arms from her body first – her screams so guttural. The worst sound you’d ever heard. Too much, too much had happened tonight. Flesh tearing from flesh. And then the rest of her, bit by bit as you watched helpless and useless from above. Tucked away quietly in the tree branches. Her hair, her skin, her bones. Your sister. It replays in your mind like some sick, horrifying montage you’ll never be able to forget.

The moment of no return has passed.

Silently, you make your way upstairs, still bare and dripping him beneath his shirt. Everything is so quiet, and if the end of the world had taught you anything, it was that calamity is never as loud as you assume it will be. You’d always known not to push. Not to pry. To let him be, and exist around him as he saw fit. As he needed you to. And you understood, you understood that it really was what he desperately needed, that he was sensitive, easily hurt, easily scared, despite what he wanted the world to think. That some people needed time and patience to come to terms with their own feelings – how he felt safest. And you were good at pretending you were okay with all that. You could tell yourself you didn’t need anything but what he could give you. For a time. But you’d forgotten, just then – seeing Ellie barge in on a warpath, with only Joel’s hurt in mind, the terror and the violence of the night, and his desperate confession ringing in your ears – you’d forgotten. There’d been nothing in you but a savage need to protect him as he’d protected you earlier. To step between the two of them and shield him from her wrath with your physical body if need be. He’d told you he loved you, and you knew it’d break him after everything else tonight.

You find your jeans blindly. Pulling them on and exchanging his shirt for yours, folding it carefully over the end of the messy bed, still damp from your fucking. A site of catastrophe.

There’s a rushing sound running through your brain. In your quiet, harried haste you forget your bra and underwear, hook your fingers into the backs of your shoes. Down the stairs – quiet, quiet.

And then you’re out. Gone. The way he wanted you. You can’t even look back into the kitchen before fleeing. You feel like a thief. Like you’ve stolen something integral to him with his confession. There is a sweet twisted sort of vindication in the feeling for throughout this painful, desperate, unavoidable thing between the two of you, you’d sometimes wondered if you were never anything more than an easy, desirable, nuisance to him. Yes, he wanted you. To fuck. To find comfort, softness in you. Love? Sometimes, you thought, perhaps. Now, you knew.

The ground is frigid and hard and you left your socks and your jacket behind, and you can feel him leaking out coldly into the rough seam of your jeans. The tears finally fall.

How could he expect you to turn away from the one thing you’ve wanted from him more than anything else? And now that you have it, it is a devastating victory for how alone it makes you feel.

Joel listens to your quick, quiet shuffling as you gather your things upstairs.

You're right. I’m sorry. Nothing you could have said in that moment, cursing him, spitting on him, railing against him, telling him he’s the lowest piece of shit to ever exist, could have made him feel smaller than your quiet acquiescence had. Nothing he could have said could have been worse either. Much less than what he deserves.

His skin flushes hot and cold, vacillating between numbness and panic, and already, he feels a desperate need to go after you. To not let you out of his sight. To run upstairs and get on his knees, beg you to forget the past five minutes. Hell, the past half hour, when he’d pushed so coldly away from you upstairs. To forget how fucking stupid and wrong and broken he is. To beg you to read everything he can’t say in his eyes and touch. To tell him how to go forward. To believe him, to believe him when he says he loves you, but doesn’t know how to not be scared anymore.

That he’d reduced you to an occasional fuck, as if the past few months, intertwined with you, hadn’t saved his life – his heart – in a way he didn’t know needed saving.

There’d been times where he’d look at an infected, right before killing it, and felt an understanding so poignant.

That is what I have become.

He is brought low by the devastation of his own brutality.

He never needed to have been bitten to lose himself.

He looks at Ellie – her gaze averted from him, like she can’t even look at him right now – how much she’s grown since the first moment he set eyes on her.

Look back at me, Ellie. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean any of it. Come back to me, Birdie. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean any of it.

He thought he’d grown as much, as well. He hears the soft patter of your feet down the stairs. You hadn’t even taken a moment to put your shoes on, and he takes a step forward as if to follow you. “Birdie– “ he whispers. You need your shoes, it’s cold out, and you need your shoes. It’s what he wants desperately, to go after you, but this fucking fear that makes him so goddamn weak and destructive. He hates himself for it. The sound of the clickers echoes in his mind, the dark taking you away from him, unable to find you as he was caught off guard by your attackers; the violence and depravity of their words as they taunted him with what they’d do to you if he failed. It feels like there are a thousand screaming voices shrieking directly into his ears as he watches you walk out his front door. It snicks shut, whisper silent.

“You know, I came over here wanting to yell at you,” Ellie starts, “To hurt you,” pauses, considers him, her head falling sideways on her neck, looking at him as if she’s only seeing him, really seeing him now, for the first time.

The screaming stops. There is only an impossible silence now. She was so little all those years ago. He wants to smile at the memory of that goofy kid, as wrong as the moment is.

He thinks he might cry, and the thought startles him.

“To say something to really hurt you.” She worries her ring and middle finger in her other hand – fidgeting; finally she releases him from that terrible knowing look in her eyes, deflates as if all the fight she’d stormed in with is suddenly gone. “She saw exactly what I was here for…” The soft space behind his knees burns and itches. He thinks he might be having a panic attack, his chest caving in on itself. What the fuck is going on in your head right now, Joel?

“I had Seth under control, the other night.”

“Yeah, I know.” She goes quiet again, and he can see in her eyes that this is not what she came here for. He is so tired of fighting. How many decades has this interminable battle been raging on around him, within him?

Finally she voices the truth of what she’s here for, the only truth left between them: “I was supposed to die in that hospital… My life would’ve fucking mattered… But you took that from me.” His thoughts are a barrage inside his mind – flipping from the attack earlier, you in his bed beneath him. Birdie, I love you. The hospital. Ellie, Sarah, Ellie, Sarah, you. Every decision made that’s led him here, to this moment.

There is something eternally complex about her words. Had he not intervened, had he not saved her in the hospital that day, yes, yes, she would have died, perhaps the world would have been saved. He remembers Kathleen, all those years ago, children die all the time, and didn’t he fucking know that. His own child was dead. He understood that better than anyone. Is one life worth everything? But he’d decided that day that Ellie would not be one of those children stolen by fate. No matter what he had to do or sacrifice, even of himself, she would not be taken. And so she wasn’t. Yes, he’d lost her in all other ways, but at least she was still alive to hate him. It was all that mattered when it came down to it. Did her life matter more or less now after the fact? The grace of her immunity would always exist. No matter what he did. Was it a miracle, a gift from God, or a burden too terrible to bear? In many ways, he’d turned himself into that great burden; for her, for himself, for the people he’d killed and those that waited for someone who’d never again return to them because of his actions. He’d fucked with fate that day. He’d brutalized and murdered so many people; this was fact. No amount of apology or forgiveness could ever erase that. So yes, he’d taken from her, taken the insurmountable weight of guilt from the small shoulders of a child who should have never carried that burden to begin with. Taken a misplaced sense of guilt at having survived when so many others hadn’t. Given her time to grow, to have a life. Nothing could ever make him regret that. No matter what. If nothing else was true, it was that Ellie going on, Ellie living, would always be the most important thing to him.

“If somehow the Lord gave me a second chance at that moment…I’d do it all over again.” There is no regret in his heart about that.

“That was the one thing, Joel” and she says it with such urgency, it makes his stomach clench tight. She brings her fist violently into her flat, waiting palm, clutches her hands together as if she’s grasping onto all the frustration and resentment she holds against him. As if she could just make him understand, like he’s too dense to do so. But he understands. He always has. “That was the one thing that could’ve made my life matter…”

“Your life matters, kiddo. It always did. It’s always mattered to me.”

She’s quiet then. As if the thought is something too big for her mind and heart to grasp. “Yeah…I just…I don’t know if I can ever forgive you for that…” and then, hesitantly, “But I would like to try…”

His voice hoarse: “I’d like that.”.

She looks towards the door you just quietly left through.

“I want to let go of this fucking anger.” And he thinks: I want that too, to the point of desperation. “To just forget it. You don’t deserve it anymore… I don’t think– and after all this…” she waves her arm dejectedly at the room. “Besides… nothing I could ever say to you, could ever hurt you as much as you hurt yourself.” A devastating blow for the truth it holds.

“I– I ain’t hurtin’ myself,” every word sits tight and reluctant in his throat. “And she’ll get over that,” he points pathetically towards the door, he doesn’t even believe his own words. “She knows well enough what we are and what we aren’t.”

“I know she does,” Ellie says sadly. “It’s you who doesn’t,” she presses, “You who’s blind.” She shakes her head a little, softly, from side to side – retreats, as if she’s considering what to say next. Or how much of his own truth she should share with him. The sad pity in her eyes – it terrifies him.

“You’re in love with her.”

He wishes the screeching in his head would come back now because he does, he does know. He can’t deny it. Not that. Not to Ellie. Probably not to anyone. It would be too great a lie to tell, even for him. After all, he’s already confessed it to the person who matters most. What would be the point of refuting it? Panic rises again, thick and cloying in his throat.

Her eyes move back to the door, she clicks her tongue.

“That might just be the worst thing you’ve ever done,” she tells him softly, and she wants to cry for him. For her protector. Her friend. Her betrayer. She wants to cry for all he won’t let himself have.

The sins of his past hang with startling clarity between them in that indelible moment. He looks around the room as if he can see them plainly, and he is frightened.

She laughs a little. Sadly. Quiet. It breaks his heart.

“Maybe you’ve just lost her for good.” He shakes his head immediately, instinctively, eyes still swinging around the room – watching a blur of past mistakes he’d give anything to erase play out. “See you around, Joel.”

He is, once again, made monstrous in that instant.

The door slams behind her, and then they’re both gone.

The moment is lost forever.

Chapter VI

Netherfeildren Masterlist

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller/reader #joel miller/you #joel miller fic #joel miller smut #joel miller #the last of us fanfiction #the last of us hbo #joel the last of us #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal fanfiction #joel tlou #ellie williams #joel miller imagine

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m00nsbaby · 9 months

Text

Glitter & crimson II.

Marc Spector x F! Reader.

Tags & warnings. + 18, college AU, no mentions of Jake or Steven, cheating, dry humping, suggestive, no use of y/n. (For my Pedrito Pascal / Oscar Isaac girlies I’m so sorry but Joel is indeed based on Joel Miller pre-outbreak lol.)

Part 2 of “Glitter & crimson.” Word count. 2.4k

Summary. The guilt should have been enough to stop Marc. Was it fair what he was doing to you? He had noticed how happy you were with Joel, and despite the many differences in your lifestyles, he had done what was necessary to accommodate with both of you.

It wasn't fair; Joel Miller was worth it, he was aware of that.

But his selfishness had won this battle. After kissing you, he only confirmed that this was the little push he needed to convince himself that he wouldn't rest until you were his and his only.

The subject was never brought up again. As much as it hurt Marc's heart when he realized the kiss didn't mean as much to you as it did to him, he had to silently accept that no words would come from your mouth about it.

That he could handle, but defeat, never.

Even now, as he called your phone repeatedly, knowing you wouldn't answer because you were busy with Joel.

Well, talking to him, because during the week it was difficult for you to see each other spontaneously. "What a shame," Marc thought to himself.

He grabbed both bags of snacks when he confirmed he wouldn't receive a response from you and started the journey back to your apartment. You must have been ready for your impromptu movie afternoon.

As he was about to leave the supermarket, his gaze fixed on the bouquets of flowers displayed near the exit.

“What’s up with that?" you said, frowning as you covered the phone's receiver with your hand for a few seconds. "Wait, Joel, Marc's here."

"It's for you." He put on his best smile as he handed you the bouquet of sunflowers that had cost exactly $23. There went several days of ramen in an attempt to earn points with you.

You always said your standards for guys were so high because of how Marc treated you. Always so chivalrous, affectionate, and caring that no other guy had managed to reach his level. But flowers? That was new.

"Hello, Joel," he said, approaching the phone with that cynical smile of someone who knew things were going just as he wished. The twinkle in your eyes only fed his ego in the way he needed.

"Marc." His charming accent made you smile. Oh, sweet Joel, doing his best to tolerate your best friend. "How are you?"

"Incredible, a bit busy right now. Did she tell you we were having a movie afternoon?" He took the phone from your hands as you grabbed the bouquet of flowers, heading straight to the kitchen with a huge smile.

"Yes, she did." He cleared his throat, trying to decide if he was just teasing him or if he innocently told him about his plans with you as a way to make him feel more secure about it. "Well, I won't interrupt any longer then."

"Oh, you're never an interruption, Miller." If they had been face to face, he would have winked at him to complete his perfect performance. "Enjoy your work."

He didn't let him respond before ending the call.

"He had to hang up, said he had to get back to work," he shrugged as he entered the kitchen, leaving your phone on the counter.

"Thanks for the flowers, Marc. They're beautiful." You cupped his cheek with your hand to kiss the other, leaving a lipstick mark on him.

"It's nothing. I saw them and immediately thought of you." He felt like a puppy that had been patted on the head and told he was a good boy.

"Did you bring the..."

He lifted the bag in his hand, chocolate pretzels and sea salt flavored potato chips.

"I love you."

"I know." He rolled his eyes as he stepped aside to let you pass and leave the kitchen. "Have you chosen the movies for today?"

"The original Star Wars trilogy."

6 hours of duels and space politics? Was there a love stronger and deeper than his for you? Probably not.

"And how are things with Joel?" The silence was driving him crazy. After one and a half movies, Marc had to find a way not to collapse beside you on the couch.

You looked at him, raising an eyebrow. It was a strange question to ask so suddenly, it actually made you scoff.

"With Joel? Incredible." You shrugged as you ate another pretzel. As if his internal suffering wasn't enough, you decided to lick your lips to clean the chocolate off them.

He was on the verge of going to a psychiatric ward.

"Really? You hardly saw him last week."

"You know he has to work. His brother doesn't give him extra time off just because they're family." You brought the rest of your pretzel closer to him, offering it to him.

"Did you ever imagine dating someone who works in construction? It sounds like the most boring job you can imagine."

"It's actually quite interesting. The other day he was telling me about a house..."

You hit his shoulder when you heard him fake snoring, and laughed.

"Don't be silly! Besides, if we get married, he'll be able to fix any flaws in the house, and our kids would have the last name Miller, it sounds nice, don't you think?"

An expression of disgust appeared on his face. Not because Marc wasn't a hopeless romantic deep down inside, but because the idea of you dreaming about marrying someone other than him caused him tormenting nausea.

"I've heard better last names." He gave your thigh a squeeze as you rested your legs on his.

The only consolation he had was that while Joel could live on illusions and dreams, he was the one who was really with you. He could touch your skin, smell your perfume, and even hold your hand if he wanted. To him, the physical aspect meant so much more than any other nonexistent plan.

"Han and Leia are adorable, don't you think?" You avoided further discussion by resting your cheek on Marc's shoulder.

"Mhm." He leaned his head against yours. "Perfect for each other."

You exhaled heavily as you lazily stretched your arms. Your eyes had been closed for a while as you listened to the nonsense that Marc was watching on his phone.

You finished the marathon after the second movie. You knew your best friend was just about ten minutes away from descending into madness due to all the space discussions, so you chose to have compassion for him.

"Look at this." For the eighth time in about half an hour, you opened one of your eyes to see one of those kitten videos that seemed to enchant him. "It looks like you."

"Really? Like the last 4?" You rolled your eyes with that smile that screams 'I love you, but sometimes you're so dumb.'

Marc had already interrupted your attempt at a nap enough times that you ended up stretching. You turned toward him and pushed your body against his to get a closer look at his phone as he continued scrolling through his million kitten videos.

He prayed internally that you wouldn't notice how his heart was racing now that you were in that position. He had always been aware of his feelings for you, but ever since you didn't reject his first advance just a few days ago, his world had been turned upside down.

He had gone from 'I'll take this secret crush to the grave' to 'I'll get rid of any obstacle that might come between her and me' in such a short time that he couldn't even fully grasp how much he loved you.

"Look, another one." Marc also turned his head to let you see the phone better. His gaze fixed on you in the seconds you watched the video.

When it repeated for the third time, you looked at Marc.

"What?"

"What 'what'?" He was staring at you, his huge brown eyes practically glued to you.

"Marc, you're looking at me."

"I'm not looking at you." His eyes were practically fixated on you.

"Marc, you're looking at me."

"I'm not looking at you." He lowered the phone as if to let you know that all his attention was now focused on the fake argument. You pressed your lips together to keep from laughing.

"I can literally see you doing it right now."

"Who says I'm looking at you?" His hand slowly positioned itself on your abdomen, that part where your shirt didn't cover your skin since you lay down.

"No, no, no! Marc Spector, I swear if you..." Before you could threaten him, his fingers started tickling your sides, causing you to squirm clumsily on the bed, laughing.

"I wasn't looking at you!" Marc's laughter, calmer, accompanied you as you fought against his hands, trying to push him away from you.

It was more than clear that it wasn't going to work, not with Marc's stupidly strong arms. In fact, within seconds, he was on top of you, his hips between your legs, and holding your arms against the bed.

Both of you were breathing heavily, cheeks flushed, and eyes sparkling like that extra detail that always betrays the immense love between two people.

"You were looking at me," you whispered, still smiling.

"I'm looking at you now." Your heart stopped at the change in Marc's voice. It sounded exactly like in the dimly lit kitchen during the party.

You swallowed hard.

"Yes?" You teased. Logic was screaming at you to push him away as hard as you could and, if possible, leave that room, but it was like your brain shut down almost immediately. You could only think about the way Marc was watching your lips.

He almost seemed hungry.

"I always do." It was the last thing he said before leaning closer to you. His lips didn't waste time, finding yours and devouring them with wet and desperate kisses.

Guilt flooded your chest within seconds. Because you loved the taste of his lips, their perfect rhythm, and the way his tongue explored your mouth. Your desire wasn't purely physical; mentally, Marc was beginning to unravel you.

"Marc," you whispered against his mouth, almost like a moan. It was your last shred of sanity trying to call his attention.

His cock twitched against his jeans.

“Mhm?” When he adjusted his body to avoid crushing you with his weight, he realized he was at the perfect angle to move against you, finding some relief in the friction between his growing erection and your clothed cunt

You didn't answer, instead, your hands went to his neck as a way of begging him not to stop.

You sucked his tongue between your lips, making him moan against your mouth and he gave you another fake thrust. Maybe this was his chance to show you how good he could make you feel if you agreed to be his once and for all.

"L-Let me keep going, yes, love?" He whispered between gasps making you tremble. He was almost begging you. "Please please. Hurts."

It was a cheap trick and you both knew it but it was enough to convince you. You weren't explicit with your answer, but letting him continue was clear enough.

His lips left yours when they were sore from the bites. Marc slowly began to lower, kissing your chin and then your jawline at a stormy slow pace.

His hips had already taken a stable rhythm in his movements, and although both of you began to feel pain from the rubbing of the fabric and the way it was getting hot from the friction, there were no complaints about it, only moans and groans from you filling the room.

"M-More, please, Marc, more." He was sure that he had died and gone to heaven because there was no way he had you like this, begging him not to stop.

You heard the bed creak from the force of his movements, which were complemented by the clumsy way in which you raised your hips towards him looking for more.

He was hidden in your neck, you were looking at the ceiling that in your eyes began to fill with stars merely from pleasure. This wasn't at all like the nights with your hand or one of your pillows, and it wasn't like Joel either, as painful as it was to admit it.

This had layers on top, and the fact that it was forbidden was probably the one that fueled the passion the most.

He would have loved to see your face when you reached your orgasm but he was too busy pressing your wrists against the bed and sniffing the perfume on your neck for proof that this was real.

When the spasms started and made your legs shake, Marc gave a moan that was going to stay in your memory for the rest of your days, that sound alone would have been enough to make you cum a second time.

Not only was it visible the way his jeans began to form a darker stain from getting wet from his cum, it was perceptible to you, you could feel the moisture from your panties combined with Marc's fluids beginning to seep through the fabric.

In other circumstances, you might have considered using them to masturbate.

He stayed on top of you for a few more minutes, enjoying the way both of your breaths slowed down and were perfectly synchronized. Both remained silent and you decided to run your fingers over his back a couple of times as you had done many times before to relax your best friend.

"I should go change." He whispered after a while, slowly getting back up.

"Your clothes are in the guest room." You spoke just as low before clearing your throat.

Has Marc always looked this good? This image gave you just enough to fantasize about how perfect his after-sex glow would be. His cheeks were still flushed, his lips swollen and pink from your kisses, his messy hair, his eyes sparkling, and there was something so…attractive about the stain on his pants still being so visible.

You swallowed hard and tried to give him your best smile as he followed your directions with his visit to the guest room.

When the adrenaline of the moment was dying, the oppression in your chest returned. How could you be doing this to Joel?

And, a little worse, how was it possible that you were willing to risk your friendship with Marc for a few minutes of pleasure?

Your stomach turned immediately and you felt your eyes fill with tears the moment you picked up your phone. You took advantage of your moments of solitude to send a stupid goodnight message to Joel, hoping that this would calm the guilt that you felt starting to eat away at you.

Marc, meanwhile, couldn't have hidden his smile even if he wanted to. He wanted to jump, to scream, to raise his arms high in triumph now that he had no doubt of your feelings for him.

You both had reached a point of no return.

This is going to be a 6 part series!! <3 Love y’all.

Tags: @kingtwhiddleston

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