#but i can do it without guilt now <3 | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

borathae · 4 months

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"Jungkook is always plagued with guilt when he has to leave you for a business trip. His anxiety that you might be angry at him for not being present is especially high this time around and only your safe embrace can help him calm down."

Pairing: CEO!Jungkook x f.Reader

Genre: married life!AU, mild Hurt & Comfort, Smut

Warnings: Jungkook is anxious, stressed & guilty, he cries, she is so comforting, hugs and kisses, needy sex, sloppy mutual masturbation, handjob, pussy fingering, penetrative sex facing each other, until he pushes her to her back and fucks her missionary, strength & muscle kink, he is so passionate and rough in missionary, I don't think that there are distinctive roles in this, I guess you can call it Top!Jungkook with a Mommy kink, she calls him Bunny at first before he fucks her to the state where she can only call him by his name, dirty talk, sensory deprivation in the sense that they fuck in complete darkness, they're so so desperate for each other, tears because it's so good, multiple orgasms for her, creampies, cockwarming as aftercare, with cuddles and kisses <3, they're fucking soulmates

Wordcount: 5.3k

a/n: i wrote this after kook's solo concert because he did it to me. i also reread THE angst chapter of aaol and i think this influenced me as well. i really want my kookie back

The plane wasn’t supposed to land this late. The plans were all ruined.

Jungkook scans his eyes over the kitchen. Empty. Clean. He abandons his suitcase by the stairs leading up and walks to the fridge. He opens it. His heart stings. The plans were all ruined. He wasn’t supposed to come home this late. You made dinner for him. The prettily plated food is still on its original plate for him. You put a glass bowl over it to keep it fresh.

“Fuck”, Jungkook presses out and closes the fridge. He feels so fucking guilty that he wants to throw up. He should have been there. He should have eaten your food and talked to you during dinner. He should have fucking been there.

You knew that he wouldn’t come home. He was aware that his text came way too late, but he still had hoped that you hadn’t started cooking yet. Of course you had.

It has been longer than a month since he last was in Seoul and you always cook the grandest things as a welcome home surprise. Jungkook doesn’t expect you to cook, you do it because you want to. Which makes him feel all the shittier right now. He wasn’t there to appreciate it. He had one job - the most important job of all - and he fucking failed you.

Jungkook walks back to his suitcase and lifts it. He will carry it upstairs and then do the laundry tomorrow. He can’t be bothered tonight. It’s already too late. He already wasted too much time being his shitty CEO self.

The dressing room is empty and clean. It faintly smells like lavender in here. He knows it’s because you cleaned this room recently. Jungkook discards the suitcase by the dresser and leaves the room.

He takes a shower in the upstairs bathroom. He didn’t want to go downstairs yet. He is a little scared to do so. He shouldn’t have arrived so late. He is scared of your reaction. He gets so sad when you are disappointed in him. He hasn’t decided yet whether it’s his anxiety disorder talking or the truth, but he thinks that you will be angry at him.

He is angry at himself. He’s a fucking shithead of a husband. That’s what he fucking is.

Jungkook manages not to cry in the shower even if he really wanted to. His feelings are eating him up alive. He feels so stressed. So tired. So exhausted. Work has been hell. And the fact that it was in a country he barely knew the language of and he had to be without you made it even worse. He feels so drained.

The shower doesn’t help. It cleans him, nothing more. Jungkook doesn’t put on clothes and leaves for downstairs. He uses the never ending city lights as his guidance. The wind carries the distant purring of the traffic to the windows. The slightly higher pitched pitter patter of his naked feet on marble floor is loud in comparison. The sound stops in sync with Jungkook stopping in front of the bedroom door.

His hand is shaking. He has to hold it to calm down. He is so scared. You will be so disappointed with him. He wouldn’t even be surprised if you told him to sleep on the couch tonight. You never did so before, but things can change. One month is awfully long and he left you hanging today. He wouldn’t blame you if you sent him away.

Jungkook takes a shaky breath for courage and steps inside. The room smells like home. Jungkook feels his throat tighten in emotion. This is what home smells like. And he was too late for it. He swallows down his tears and tries to walk it off.

The electric blinds are closed all the way, putting the room into complete darkness. Jungkook uses the light of his phone screen to tiptoe to the bathroom. He still needs to brush his teeth. He does so using his phone’s flashlight as the only light source. He didn’t want to turn on the big lights and risk waking you. Or maybe he didn’t want to look into his own eyes. He can’t bear to face himself tonight.

Jungkook leaves the bathroom door open and tiptoes to the bed. His phone screen gives off enough light that he can see you once he arrives by the bedside.

You are turned to his side, resting your hand on his blanket. Your cheek is squished as you are sleeping halfway on your stomach. Your lips are parted as soft breaths leave you. Jungkook looks back at your hand resting on his side and gulps down the painful lump in his throat. You shouldn’t have had to fall asleep alone tonight. You shouldn’t have had only his memory to hold.

Jungkook picks up your hand so he could slip under the covers. You react to the gentle nudge with a hum.

“Mhm”, you let out and roll over, now showing off your back.

Jungkook is aware that you didn’t do it on purpose, but it feels like it. You turned your back to him and it’s his own fault.

Jungkook tugs the blanket under his arm and touches your back. Up and down. Up and down. He feels you breathe. Your warmth is so familiar to him. He missed it so much.

He missed you so much.

His eyes start burning.

“I’m sorry”, he whispers shakily and turns his back to you. He can’t face you anymore. It hurts so much. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries not to cry.

The sheets ruffle as you move around again. Jungkook doesn’t feel the movement because you and he have separate mattresses and separate blankets to get the best sleep ever. You shared a mattress and blanket at first, but decided to upgrade your bed a year ago. Jungkook likes his mattress firm and his blanket thin, while you love to have a softer mattress and your blanket to be thick. And the little mattress movements as one of you rolled around or the blanket wars which once managed to wake you are gone as well. Changing one mattress and blanket for two was the best decision ever. You and he sleep like royalty these days.

Jungkook hears the sheets ruffle as you move around and then the sound of a hand sliding over soft sheets. Warmth touches his back. He tenses up, stays silent. You draw paths along his back, feeling him up. Seeing him. Just like he did all those years ago when you were still masked soulmates aching to be together. It became a little thing between you and him to trace the other in darkness as to make out if it was your other half. You became so good at it these days.

Your touch dances up to the nape of his neck after exploring his upper back. Jungkook shivers and aches to lean into your touch. He is scared to do so now. He already waited for too long to speak up. You’ll know that he is intentionally acting asleep to avoid talking to you.

You close the distance, taking him into your arms to pull him against your chest. You are propped up on your elbow, using the position to nuzzle your face into the crook of his neck so you could kiss him.

Jungkook exhales shakily, releasing all of his tension with a tremble. This just broke him. To be cradled and kissed. It broke him.

“Are you awake?” you whisper softly. The words swirl against his neck.

He nods his head.

“Sorry, did I wake you?”

He hesitates. Should he be truthful? Will you be hurt if he was?

He shakes his head. He can’t lie to you. Not like this. Not when you hold him so safely. Not when you have broken him with your embrace.

“Why didn’t you say something?”

“I’m sorry”, he presses out and sobs softly.

“Hey”, you gasp, straightening up, “hey, are you crying? What’s wrong?” you babble and roll him to his back so you could cradle his cheeks. You wipe his tears away, keeping close by resting your chest against his’, “what’s wrong, Bunny?”

“I’m sorry for tonight. I’m so sorry for being late and, and not showing up. I’m so fucking sorry.”

“It’s okay, hey it’s okay. It wasn’t your fault. The flight was delayed. You couldn’t have known.”

“I saw the food”, he confesses and squeaks sadly, “I didn’t show up, I’m so sorry. I should have texted sooner, I should have-”

“How could you have texted me sooner if you didn’t even know that the flight would be delayed?”

Jungkook falters. He sniffles repeatedly, taking sharp gasps for air to regulate his breathing. What you say makes sense to him. He didn’t even think of it yet, despite it being the most logical explanation. So it was his anxiety disorder kicking in.

You caress his left cheek while your right hand guides your pointer finger up and down along the bridge of his nose. You call this touch your magic touch because there is some sort of magic in it to calm down any sort of anxiety Jungkook experiences. Jungkook flutters his eyes closed and sighs as comfort overtakes him.

“Now tell me how you should have texted me sooner, mhm?” you ask in a soft, comforting voice.

“I don’t know”, Jungkook whispers.

“Of course you don’t, it’s impossible. The flight was delayed. It was an unfortunate series of events and not your fault”, you assure him, “unless you intentionally stayed away. Mhm is that it? Did you not wanna see me already, you sneaky Bunny?” you add in a joking tone, making Jungkook giggle.

He shakes his head, “no Mommy, I wanted to see you.”

“Good”, you say in a fond voice and claim his lips in a smooch.

Jungkook gasps because he hadn’t expected it. The feeling finally seeps into his consciousness. He is kissing you. After thirty three days without you, he is finally kissing you again. Jungkook whimpers and hooks his fingers behind your head, deepening the kiss with trembling lips. He is kissing you again. He is finally realizing that this is happening, that he is back with you. He hooks his arms behind your head and pulls you closer, asking for your taste. You part your lips and meet his begging tongue, while your fingers explore the softness of his hair.

You feel a little dizzy from sleep. You didn’t have the deepest sleep tonight because you knew that Jungkook would come home and you subconsciously refused to find deep sleep. So when Jungkook got into bed, the rustling of his blanket woke you. The pull was instant. You needed to feel him, make sure that he was finally with you again. Your body didn’t expect to be in the current position for such a long time. Your arms are weak and your head is dizzy.

You break the kiss because exhaustion makes you do it.

Jungkook chases you, rolling you and him over so he was the one on top. His right arm rests around you just a little under your breasts, his left hand is cradling your cheek while his right hand is deepening in your hair as best as your texture allows it. He claims your lips in a kiss again, whimpering into it as his body seeks your closeness. Two layers of blanket are keeping you apart. Jungkook doesn’t think, he merely acts and pulls his blanket off of him. Next your blanket. He opens it and slides his arm under it. He takes you softly in his hand and presses you against him at the same time as his body sinks under your blanket. He trembles. It is so warm under your covers and from what he can feel, you are wearing one of his sleep shirts. He grabs a bundle of it and twists, needing you to be so much closer than you already are.

“Please”, he begs in a shaky voice, tugging at your shirt.

You sit up far enough that you can take off your shirt. You throw it to the side and fall back down.

“Thank you”, Jungkook whimpers and cradles you against his chest. He buries his face in the crook of your neck and places his right hand on the back of your head to support it for you.

You wrap your arms around him, letting out a sigh you didn’t even know you were holding in. You have him back. This is how your Jungkook hugs. Thirty three days without him are unbearably long. So long in fact that your skin started to unwillingly forget the warmth and softness of him. It comes rushing back again now that you are hugging without barriers.

“___”, Jungkook croaks and presses you closer, “oh god.”

“I missed you too”, you whisper, burying your hand deep in his hair. You pull him closer. Your breasts squish against his chest, the pressure feels like heaven. It gets easier to breathe and releases you of tension you didn’t even know you possessed. You have your Jungkook back.

Jungkook feels overwhelmed. He ached for your hug ever since he left. Thirty three days without you were hell. You are his constant in his life. When he comes home from work, you are there, hugging him and talking to him and falling asleep with him. When he leaves for work, you are right by his side, talking to him and kissing his cheek as he drops you off at university. When he has free time, he knows he can spend it with you. You are always there. You are his constant. The person who will always be by his side. The warmth he can always return to. So to go without you for more than a month was hell.

“I missed you so much”, he confesses.

“Me too, Bunny. Me too.”

You felt just as lonely without him. Years ago, you wouldn’t have batted an eye at the thought of being along for a month, but Jungkook changed you in the most wonderful of ways. He is your person, the comfort you most look forward to, the home you never want to leave. You have him by your side in the morning and have him back again by the evening. You share the last second of consciousness with him before sleep and share the first right after. And for the last month, you didn’t. You had to live without him and it was agony.

“Closer”, Jungkook begs, “I wanna be closer.”

“Closer?”

“Closer please.”

“Lie down on your side.”

Jungkook obeys, keeping his arms around you. You seek him and slide your hand to his length. You brush your fingers over his tip, eliciting a trembling gasp from him. A small whimper follows.

“This kind of closer?”

“Yes”, he squeaks and grabs whatever he can of your upper back.

“I missed this feeling. You’re so soft.”

“I missed you too. Ah please.”

“Kook…”

“Can I-”

“Yes.”

His left hand naturally dances down your body, trying to locate your clit. You drape your leg around him, giving him access. He connects his fingers with your heat, sending electricity through you.

“Holy fuck, I’m sensitive”, you get out and moan. You take his cock and begin jerking it. He grows hard rapidly. Just as you soak his fingers at a rapid speed. You want him. He wants you. Too long you had to go without each other.

“Me too. Ah mhm”, he gets out and buries two of his fingers inside you.

“Bunny….”

“Mommy…”

You cradle his cheek, rub your thumb over his face and stub his nose with your own. Your hands work desperately between your bodies, the tension is growing embarrassingly fast.

“Bunny, I missed you so much”, you keen and squeeze your eyes shut. It feels so good. His long fingers are filling you up while his thumb is rubbing circles on your clit. He is so sloppy and needy in his touch, which makes it all the better.

“Me too, Mommy”, Jungkook gets out and whimpers, “oh god.”

Your hand is fast around his cock. You are calculated on normal days, but not tonight. There is no coordination in how you touch him, just pure and honest desperation.

“I don’t wanna cum like this”, you croak.

“Close?”

“Yeah, it’s fucking stupid. Fuck”, you slide your hand to his hair so you could twist.

Jungkook moans, tilting his head back all on his own while his pouty lips brush against yours. You kiss without really kissing. Just featherlight touches, tickling moans and traces of your tongues. The tension between you and him becomes unbearable. You clench down on his fingers, feeling his cock throb in your hold.

“Bunny, I need your cock.”

“I need your pussy too, Mommy.”

“Good. Take out your fingers.”

Jungkook obeys, touching your hip instead. Neither of you care about the wet mess he leaves on your skin. It’s just another proof that you and he are finally reconnected again.

“Good boy”, you praise and shimmy down just a little so you can take his cock inside. There is no friction, no struggle, no pain. Just warmth and overwhelming pleasure.

“Holy fuck”, you whisper and push him in deeper. Past your entrance. Your warm walls engulf him.

Jungkook grabs you and accidentally scratches you. He couldn’t help it. He is with you again. No one feels like you. No one does.

“Ah!” the sound bounces off the walls. He trembles and pulls you closer, “Mommy.”

“Bunny.”

“Oh god, I’m home”, he whimpers and starts chasing you.

Your leg is still around him, his thrusts go so deep like this. You are so filled up with him, so stuffed. You are eye to eye even if the complete darkness prevents you from seeing each other. But you don’t need light to see each other. Not you and not Jungkook. You have your hands and fingertips to see. You started it back in the stuffy sex club room you met in and perfected it over the years in your loving home. You know exactly how he looks right now and in return he knows as well.

“Bunny, oh god, my Jungkookie”, you get out and shake, pulling him closer by his hair. The darkness makes it feel all the more intense as you claim his lips in a passionate tongue kiss. The sounds of it mix with the desperate rutting your hips are doing. The rustling of the sheets is audible as well, as are the needy moans both of you choke out constantly.

You are hot under the covers. Sweat has formed on the parts where you are pressed together. You pull each other closer regardless, basking in the heat because you had to live without it for far too long. This is the only way to melt with each other.

“I love you”, Jungkook gets out and kisses you again.

“-love- too”, is all you get out between your hungry kisses, but Jungkook knows regardless. Even without words he would know. From your kisses, your embrace and the way your pussy is convulsing around him. Jungkook knows every ridge, every bump, every inch of how you feel inside and being allowed to experience it right now is the only proof of love he needs. He is the man who you allowed to go in raw, even back when you pretended not to care. You claimed him and sealed his sweetest fate. You loved him enough that you wanted to be without barriers and you love him enough that you welcome him home right now.

“You feel so good”, you moan and rut against him before your lips suck on his lower lip needily.

Jungkook whimpers, spilling tears of ecstasy. He fucks into you, feeling his legs shake. He is so high on you.

This is fucking for the sake of reconnecting. This is emotional. Deeply, soul-consumingly emotional. Is it kinky? No. Will either of you last long? No. Will it stay in your minds as one of the most intense nights ever? Yes. Yes it fucking will. This is the kind of desperate, needy, passionate sex you can only have after you have been without each other for a long time. It is dumb. It is raw. It is carnal and it is the only good thing which comes out of having to be without the other. Because no amount of foreplay, kink or fetish will ever get you to the level of starvation than forced distance does.

And you are starving. Oh, you are parched and aching for each other. Jungkook fucks you as hard as he can, while you rut against him as roughly as you can. It results in these deep, fiery thrusts, which fills you with all his cock and in return makes him experience every inch of your pussy.

You are burning up today. You are hot around him, as if you had a fever. Jungkook can barely breathe because of it, gasping for air between his desperate moaning. And you are soaking wet. Soft too. So soft. Jungkook scratches down your back and pulls you closer. His left hand cups your buttock and stills your hips this way. He pushes. The kiss breaks with your needy moan. You roll to your back just enough that Jungkook can prop himself up on his right elbow and use the angle to finally bottom out. Truly bottom out because the position finally gives him a chance to do so. Your leg is still around him, while the other is under his weight. You can feel his sculpted thigh shift and tense as he fucks you. His thrusts are sloppy and so perfectly uncoordinated that they seem coordinated. The mattress shakes because of it.

You barely feel it because he is currently fucking the senses out of you. This is the kind of fuck which reminds you why he managed to steal your heart and the proof of why you could never want to leave him. It genuinely fucks every sense of control out of you and turns you into the neediest, wettest pillow princess in existence. Tonight it impacts you especially deeply, leaving you to arch your back and curl your toes.

“Bunny”, you moan embarrassingly high pitched, throwing your head back as best as possible while Jungkook shows off the strength of his hips, “Bunny, oh god. Ah Bunny.”

“Mommy. So good, ah Mommy”, Jungkook moans and drops his head into the crook of your neck. He pulls you closer until your head rests on his right lower arm and you have his biceps brushing against your nose. The gentle headlock he has you in heals you from aches you didn’t even possess before. You are so safe like this. He smells hot. As if he is burning up.

“Bunny…”

You are burning up yourself, grasping his broad, muscular back as your only connection to sanity. He is making you cum and it’s happening soon.

“Don’t stop, please”, you beg.

“Mommy”, he moans and continues because he won’t ever ignore one of your begs. You don’t beg often, so when you do, Jungkook is overtaken with the need to fulfill your every wish. Which means a lot because he always wants to fulfill your every wish.

“You’re making me cum”, you choke out and sob softly as you hug him against you.

“Holy fuck”, Jungkook gets out and squeezes you strongly as your body falls into the high. You are so tight around him, burning up and throbbing. No wonder you are sobbing. Jungkook has to grit his teeth from how intense your orgasm feels to him and he isn’t even the one experiencing it. And there is one problem right now. He still needs it longer. He doesn’t know if he is holding back because he is greedy for more or if his body is just working this way right now, but he isn’t done even when you are already coming down. He needs more. He wants you longer.

You are soaking his cock, pulsating around him as you slowly recover and it’s fucking messing with him. He needs you. He needs you so bad.

Jungkook uses his strength and rolls you onto your back completely. His cock leaves you for a second, but you barely feel the disconnection as the darkness and your passed high leave you disoriented. Your legs are spread open, giving Jungkook a chance to take his cock and push it inside again.

Now you feel it. Now you’re whole again. You whimper, tensing up around him.

“Not done yet”, he rasps with his hand twisting the pillow next to your head. He bottoms out and chases you instantly. Fast and hard. He fucks the juices out of you, filling the air with the sounds of it just as he fills it with the sinful sounds of his naked body impacting with yours. The bed is sturdy and yet still croaks. His throaty grunts and guttural growls fill your ears as well. You know for a fact that he is frowning right now, gritting his teeth because he always does so when he fucks hard.

“Ju-Ju-Jungkook”, he fucks his name out of you. He is fucking his cock right against the spots which steal your sanity. You can’t stop getting wetter because of it. Every second with him feels fucking orgasmic, “Jungkook! Ah! Jungkook!”

You grip his arm. His muscles are so tense, bulging under your fingers as he drills you like an animal.

“Jun-Ju-Jungkoo-ook.”

“Yeah, keep moaning my name Mommy”, he growls deeply and curses, “fuck, this is…fuck.”

“Jungkook, ah god Jungkook.”

“That’s it, Mommy. That’s it, keep moaning my name”, he encourages you and rewards you with harsher thrusts. Of course this wasn’t his final form yet. Not Jungkook. Not your husband. He will make you believe that the sex couldn’t get any better before showing you not to underestimate him. He fucks you deep into the mattress just as he fucks you deep into a blurred state of ecstasy.

You are utterly and entirely his right now. And you fucking like it, moaning his name as he rewrites your definition of pleasure one harsh thrust at a time.

“I missed you”, he is using his deep voice to talk, “I thought of you, urgh, of you being mhm being cockstuffed with me, ah mhm I’m going crazy, Mommy. Fuck.”

He could tell you everything right now and you would barely take it in. Your brain doesn’t work. You are so dumb right now. So utterly stupid. If you weren’t on your back, you would have drooled. Instead you sob his name and writhe desperately.

“Fuck”, Jungkook spits and growls. His hips stutter for only a second. This is how long he needs to find his composure again and then he is already drilling you again, pushing your body closer and closer to your orgasms, “have to go again?”

“Ye-yeah”, you keen, arching your back.

“Let go Mommy, I’m right here”, he tells you and cradles your cheek.

The touch is all that was missing. You break apart with a loud moan of his name and your fingers desperately twisting his hair. He fucked it out of you from the deepest parts of you, which makes it all the more intense. You can’t even moan as it happens. His name was all you managed to produce before your voice gave up on you. You can’t breathe either, lying there with your lips parted and your back arched as Jungkook drags heaven out of you.

Your second high gives him a hard time. The needy fucking he did brought him to the point where he has to let go even if he wanted to hold back longer. His cock aches, his balls feel tight and the tension in his stomach has reached a painful level. While your lungs aren’t working right now, his’ are working overtime, producing the neediest, quickest pants for air. He takes a deep breath and exhales it through his mouth, dropping his head into the crook of your neck.

“I’m gonna cum inside”, he moans in a pitched voice. His hips stutter, but don’t lose speed, “gonna creampie your pussy so hard. Holy fuck, Mommy.”

You wrap your legs around him, closing your arms around him as well while your left hand buries itself deep in his hair and your right grabs his tense ass. You are barely present yet, but the need to feel him paint your walls gives you enough strength to pull him close.

“I love you”, he chokes out and lets go. He isn’t silent like you were. He is loud. Oh so loud that after a few seconds he needs to muffle himself by sucking on your neck.

“I love you too”, you whimper, “my loving counterpart.”

“Oh”, he sobs and pulls you closer, “my soulmate”, he squeaks and tenses up again, “no-not done. Ah!”

“Let it all out, fill me up Bunny. Please don’t hold back.”

Jungkook paints you white until it drips out of you and his body’s strength forsakes him. The comedown is intense. Because Jungkook never stopped fucking you even after your high stopped, you never got to calm down and because Jungkook fucked himself to the point of ruin he feels just as needing for your embrace.

“Are you okay?” he whimpers.

“Yeah. You?” you get out.

“Yeah.”

He shivers and twitches on top of you, blanketing you in under his body weight and the real covers. They slipped off his back in the rough fucking so that now, they are only covering your lower bodies. You don’t feel cold because you have him keeping you warm.

Neither you nor him can talk for the first few minutes, sharing forced silence as your brains try to relearn how to speak. His ears are ringing, you can feel your pulse in your head. You are both sweaty, the heat grows in your bodies now that you are so melted together. His cock softens slowly, still filling you up and keeping most of his seed inside. Good. You don’t want him to leave yet.

You finally have him back after more than a month and you would be a fool to break the connection sooner than necessary. You know that sooner or later you will have to stop this. Not only because of your important post-sex pee, but also because Jungkook can’t fall asleep like this.

At least this is what you believe. Jungkook is in the midst of drifting off to sleep. Jetlag, stress and exhaustion are finally catching up with him. Now that his mind is cleared of that initial dulling desire for you, it is finally truly sinking in that he is back home. And being back home means comfort and sleep. Still being inside and having you cockwarm him while your fingers are drawing hearts on his back forces even more sleepiness to the surface. He is home. Sleep can finally come.

“Bunny?” you whisper, scratching up his back gently. Goosebumps follow your touch. He shudders as you drag shivers out of him.

“Hm”, the sound barely wants to leave him. It tickles your neck.

“Are you falling asleep?”

He nods his head slowly.

“Don’t”, you chuckle softly, shaking him by his back gently, “the post sex pee.”

“I’m tired”, he breathes and sighs, “so tired. Work…hell.”

“I know, Bunnybaby I know. But spending your break from it having an UTI is gonna suck.”

“Not yet. Please.”

You give up fighting him, exhaling deeply through your nose. He sounds so needing of what you currently have. You need it as well.

“Fine”, you say and fish for the blanket to pull it over your bodies, “a few more minutes.”

You hug him against you, cradling the back of his head. Jungkook sighs and relaxes on top of you.

“I fucking missed you, Kook.”

“I missed you too.”

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astrxealis · 1 year

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tbh i kinda think ffxiv is worth playing even for drk quests alone. but no bcs the whole game is amazing ofc yes and i love shb/enw/everything so damn much but also bcs drk quests are really good esp bcs of all that the story of ffxiv is

^^ or rather, the ffxiv free trial! ffxiv really is so huge after all >___< (and i love all of it. most of it. but a lot of it yes)

#⋯ ꒰ა starry thoughts ໒꒱ *·˚#⋯ ꒰ა ffxiv ໒꒱ *·˚#the way drk quests connect to the main story is literally the best. it is so good #i've talked about this before but the way it builds the character of someone who is essentially played by all players #bcs. you don't have defined backstories. outside of your starter city state which barely has an impact on anything other than the first #few hours or so tbh! and ofc if you give your character/s backstories that's a whole other thing but. basically. yeah #the main story is pretty much That by which i mean it'll go a certain way. without a doubt #and you can have your own headcanons but often in cutscenes your dislike/like of a character is made obvious #and in early game you don't have that much dialogue choices. or any choice at all. drk expands on that #who do you fight for? what would you do if (insert)? it really is just so. ehgbah. i think philosophical is a right word #it gives so much character to someone who is essentially supposed to be like. say. link. or byleth. but unique to each player #bcs it is an mmo! and idk but FR. drk quests are just so good i love them so much even if tanking is my least fav role #i especially love the ones for stormblood bcs everything with myste is just. so good. so deep. but it makes so much sense #idk man i ehbshjbgbdhbghs drk quests my beloved ....................#it's all about love and forgiveness! self-love. guilt. morality. those kinda stuff.#i joked around a bit and sang that line from the song yeah? 'and that's the power of love' or. smth really like that #but fr it is just. so beautiful. so full of love. and the way drk's don't use shields... the lore behind it #i think hw quests were great bcs it was so drk fitting but in the context of heavensward? yeah? also LOVE the moogles <3 #i think sid's character development is really lovely and also reminds me of thancred if he and ryne were more uh. aggressive?#i forgot what is the max tags but this is now 20 and i took 15 minutes writing all this. GOOD NIGHT (maybe. idk anymore)

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xiaours · 16 days

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hi! can I request genshin men realizing that their s/o isn't eating (or either being fed by their boss or whatever), and losing their initial cheerfulness bcs of it? thank you in advance!

'WHY AREN'T YOU EATING?'

— genshin men being concerned when they find out you haven't been eating

pairing. genshin men x gn!reader (seperate)

cw. comfort, words of admiration, pet names, mentions of fat shaming/not eating, overthinking

note. you are all perfect the way you are ! don't let anyone tell you otherwise <3

You sat there, picking at your food. You and your boyfriend were out at dinner, his idea. Since the two of you couldn't spend much time together due to the duties he had to fulfill. You were glad that he took you out, but brought to guilt once you realized he was taking you out to a restaurant. You continued to pick at your food, which he had noticed, giving you a curious eye.

"[name]? Is there something on your mind..?"

You looked up, meeting his gaze. "Mhm, just a bit stressed lately.."

You shifted in your seat as he continued to look at you. He has set down his silverware, neglecting this dinner as he pulled his attention to you. "Is there a reason why?"

"Work. My boss. They said.. some things."

"Mm. What 'things'?"

He knew your work field. You worked hard for your job, an admirable person to say the least. He had never expected you to be too stressed by how well you dealt with changes.

He picked up the fact that you were uncomfortable. He let out a small sigh, "What did they say, [name]."

"They made fun of how I looked, following my weight.. saying that I shouldn't eat as much as I am now." You felt sick to your stomach remembering their exact words. Insulting you, and you couldn't stop it. You didn't want to get fired.

You picked at your nails. He looked at you, his eyes softening at your state. He reached his arm out, grabbing your hand.

"You're perfect the way you are, [name]. I didn't fall in love with your looks, I fell in love with your personality. And it hurts to see you stressed over someone's words."

"Eat as much as you like. Don't listen to other's unneeded words."

You smile, he has always made you feel better mentally. You give him a nod. "Alright, thank you."

"Of course, my love. Now eat, it's your favorite."

He would deal with your boss sooner or later, but at this moment, he wanted to be there for you.

— neuvillette, ayato, kazuha, zhongli, diluc, cyno, albedo + your favs

It was a movie night, one that you have every Saturday night. Your boyfriend has made some popcorn and sat down with you as you both picked a movie. Throughout the movie, he noticed that you hadn't eaten any of the snacks that were currently displayed on the coffee table in front of the two of you.

He wouldn't think anything odd about this, but it also seemed like you weren't present, mentally. You looked spaced out. He reached for the remote, pausing the movie.

"[name], something on your mind?"

You spanned out of your thoughts, shifting into a more comfortable position, and looking at him swiftly before looking back at the television. "Yeah, I'm fine."

He sighed, "Don't lie to me, something is bothering you. Is it the movie?"

"No, no. It's just.."

He looked at you, setting the popcorn down on the table as he moved his body in your direction. "Did someone do something to you, I'll get rid of them."

"Babe. I'm just overthinking, it happens all the time, let's just watch the movie."

"I'm not unpausing it until you tell me what's going on. You can talk to me."

You took a swallow, "My friends, y'know. The ones that I hung out with last weekend."

He crossed his arms. So it was your friends? He didn't seem to like them very much. They seemed rude and fake, and maybe he was right.

"They made fun of me about how I looked, my weight exactly. They told me how it was practically impossible that I'd be dating you without bribing you with money." He was shocked, to say the least. How could they say such a thing?

"Listen hear, don't listen to what they have to say. I love you. Looks aside. You're a wonderful person and you make me happy. If they don't know a great person when they see one, stop being friends with them." His hands met yours, holding them softly.

"Thank you." You looked down, smiling. "Can we continue to watch the movie?"

"Of course." He had unpaused the movie. Pulling you closer to him as the two of you proceeded to eat the snacks.

And for your friends, they'd be dealt with.

— kaveh, childe, heizou, thoma, wanderer, wriothesley + your favs

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mountainsandmayhem · 1 month

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Shhh...Just A Little Bit More

DBF!Joel x Fem!Reader

18+ MDNI

Masterlist || Part Two || Part Three (Soft Version) || Part Three (Spicy Version)

Summary: Joel catches you somewhere you shouldn't be, twice. CW: all p no plot! age gap, spanking, dirty talk, parental guilt, brat and brat tamer, sub/dom dynamics, edging and degradation kinks if you squint AN: I found the bottom right photo on Pinterest and @mermaidgirl30 said it screamed DBF!Joel. I have never written for DBF before so please be kind. Dividers by @saradika-graphics - thank you for all your amazing graphics and dividers, I'd be lost without your page.

“Let go of me, you fucking psycho!” You’re practically yelling over the music of the club, wrenching your arm from Joel’s strong grasp. The security guard approaches and Joel shoots him a glare so dark that he holds his hands up and steps back. “What the fuck, Joel?”

“What are ya doin’ here, sweetheart” he demands, one eyebrow raised.

“I’m working!” You stomp your foot and then get right up in his face, pointing a finger at him. Joel Miller, your dad’s best friend, hanging out in a strip club one town over. “The real question is, what are YOU doin here?”

You’re only a bottle girl, you don’t get on the stage and have no intentions of stripping. It’s good money, great money actually. At 22 you’re already well on your way to having a down payment on a condo, it’s just too bad you’re having to lie to your parents.

“With my crew, they picked the place. I’m takin’ you home. Go get your coat.” He crosses his arms over his chest, staring at you sternly. The music is pounding in your ears, the air thick with smoke. Even in the dimly lit hallway you can see the way Joel’s eyes rake over your body, taking in the very tiny Jean shorts and bralette you’re wearing.

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” you spin and flip him the bird as you walk away. You know he’s staring so you give a little extra wiggle of your ass as you walk away. Joel Miller, staring at your ass. The fourteen year old inside you does a happy dance - that version of yourself had a tiny crush on him. Too bad he’s a stuffy, grumpy asshole now. You miss the fun, young Joel. He used to do cannonballs in the pool with you and his daughter Sarah. She was a few years older than you, but he was much more fun than your father. But now? Now he’s a certified prick. Thinking he can drag you away like some sort of barbaric caveman. He’s not your dad, even if he was, you’re an adult.

When you finish your shift you head outside and pull up your Uber app, men often want to do shots with you so even though you never get drunk at work you also don’t drive there.

See, Joel. I’m responsible.

“Let’s go,” his voice is deep, still angry with you. You didn’t see him waiting by the door so you jump.

“Jesus. You fucking scared me.”

“Watch your language. Get in the truck.”

You grumble under your breath that he should kiss your ass as he holds the door open for you. He stalks around to his side of the truck while furrowing his brow and shaking his head.

“Got somethin’ to say young lady?”

“Ya,” you say, slumping in the seat and putting your white vans on his dashboard, “kiss my ass.”

He presses his lips in a thin line, you can see him eyeing your long toned legs from your peripheral vision before the engine roars to life and he speeds off down the gravel highway.

When you pull up to the house he hops out of the truck and is right on your heels as you open the door.

“I’m fine, Mister Miller.” You say with a sneer. You know he hates that, he has told everyone he’s ever been introduced to to call him Joel.

Joel steps into your parents house and calls your dad’s name. “What the fuck! Joel! Shut up!”

He calls for him again and your dad comes stumbling from his room, tying his robe around his sleeping attire. “Joel? What’s going on?” He flicks on the light, squinting against the brightness. “It’s 3 in the morning.”

“Just thought I’d let you now know that the guys at work wanted to go to The Skin tonight. Caught your daughter working there.”

“Are you fucking kidding me, Joel?!” You yell, pushing at his broad chest. Your dad stands there stunned. Eyes wide and mouth agape. He thought you were working as a nurses aide overnight at the hospital on weekends. He’s even seen you leave the house in scrubs. All a part of the web of lies you have weaved.

“Don’t speak to Joel that way,” your dad snaps. “Go to your room young lady. We’ll talk about this later.”

“Kiss my ass, cowboy.” You practically spit at him as you stomp to your room. As you round the corner your mom is standing in the hallway clutching her crucifix necklace. You have a sudden urge to hiss at her with the way she’s looking at you, like you’re a disappointment. A sinner, the worst kind of person in her eyes.

The next morning was the fight of all fights with your parents. Your dad tried to ground you, your mom started shoving church pamphlets at you. They wouldn’t even fucking listen.

“IM NOT A STRIPPER,” you yelled at them over and over again.

Finally, when the yelling ceased, your dad said in a very quiet anger, “young lady. I FORBID you from going there again. Is that clear? I don’t care if you’re 22 or 42, if you live under my roof, you live by my rules. You’re going to go to continue going to your university classes during the week, and on weekends you will be home. Studying. Helping your mother with the chores. You will go to bed at respectable hour. If you need money, you ask us. Is that clear?”

You blink back tears and head to your room, slamming the door behind you. You are NOT quitting that job.

When the next weekend rolls around you say goodnight to your parents at 10pm and head to your room. You worked it out with your boss to work the midnight to 4 am shift. So you wait - ear pressed to your door until you finally hear your parents go to bed. You sneak out the same way you’ve been sneaking out for years and run down the street with your newly embroidered denim shorts in hand to meet your Uber.

You peel yourself away from the men and the booze around 2am to get some fresh air, exiting through the back to the dimly lit alley. You take a big inhale through your nose before you see it. The truck. Joel’s truck. And Joel. Leaning against the truck box, arms crossed, one foot up on the tire.

You flip him off and then turn back towards the back entrance to the club. He’s on you so fast, grabbing the back of your bicep in his large hand. “You little brat. You aren’t supposed to be here.”

“Read the shorts, MISTER Miller.” You say it as much venom as you can muster.

His eyes rake down your body and you can almost feel them burning into you. It feels so good, you never want him to stop. Your pussy throbbed when he called you a brat and you wouldn’t be surprised if your light jean shorts hadn’t been soaked through already. When his eyes reach the pocket he sees ‘Kiss My Ass, Cowboy’ stitched in baby pink lettering and his grip tightens.

He’s fucking furious with you. Furious that you’re here. Furious that other men get to see you dressed like this. Furious that he wants you so fucking badly. But mostly, furious because he knows you want him too and he’s a weak weak man when it comes to pretty little things like you. He yanks you back against his body and you let out a pained moan.

“Don’t make me punish you,” he says coldly in your ear and you fight to stop your knees from buckling.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” you say breathlessly.

Joel’s lips graze against the shell of your ear, hand gripping so tightly that you’re sure you’ll have bruises tomorrow. “So that’s what you want? You want me to punish you? Put you in your place? Huh?”

You grind your ass back against him, “you would dare, Joel.”

His other hand clamps down on your hip as he steers you to his truck, walking you around so no one can see the two of you. He opens the back door and pushes you forward until your legs are against the cold steel frame of the vehicle. “You don’t get to call me that. You call me Mr Miller from now on. Understood?”

“Go fuck yourself, Joel,” you emphasize every vowel of his name, digging deeper. Pushing him. Pushing to see how far he’ll go. You get off on being a brat, and by the way his hard cock is pressing into your ass, he does too.

He unbottons your shorts then lifts you slightly and pushes your upper body down onto the seat, the truck is high enough that your feet are dangling, ass stuck out for him. “Look at these slutty little shorts.” He tugs on the hem, your shorts now sitting just above your knees. Your pert ass is exposed to Joel and the night air. He tuts at the sight of you, “No panties. Little fuckin’ tease.”

You whimper at his words, slick starting to coat your thighs. “You’re the one standing back there doing nothing.” You taunt.

The cool night air spreads goosebumps across your skin, your clit twitches in anticipation of his touch. Other men have fucked you hard to get you to shut your mouth. And finally, FINALLY, you’re going to get fucked by Joel Miller. However, you grossly underestimated the different between the boys were with before and the man behind you now.

His hand strikes your cheek hard and you let out a loud pained yell. “What the fuck, Joel!”

“If you’re gonna be a brat,” his hand lands on your ass again, “you’re going to get a spanking.” His voice is harsh and rough as he hits you a third time. The sound of his skin on yours echoing through the cab of his truck. He hits you again, not caring about your cries of protest.

You’ve never been spanked before and you’re thrown by your bodies reaction to it. At first you were shocked, then humiliated and then the pain and heat travelled to the base of your spine and you found yourself starting to get turned on. Arousal pools in your belly with each strike of his palm and when your pussy throbs the humiliation starts to creep back in. Are you supposed to be enjoying this so much, is this what Joel wants?

You bend your knees up, trying to make space between your bodies. One of his strong hands wraps around your ankles, pinning them to the back of your thighs as he spanks you again.

“Stop! I’m sorry. I’ll - “ he strikes you again, harder than the last few times and there’s no more pain, every slap is full of pleasure. You let out a deep moan, your pussy practically gushing onto the leather seats. “Oh fuuuuck.”

Now that it’s turning you on it almost eggs Joel on. “Put your hands out in front of you,” he commands. Your arms shoot out, stretching them across the seat above your head. “Such a needy little slut. You’re drippin’ all over my fucking seat, baby girl.” He strikes you again and your arms flinch. “Keep them there.”

Your ass is starting to get pink, his splotchy handprints covering it. The world around him starts to fade, all that he can see is you and your ass - and he wants to make it hurt. Then he wants to make it good. So very good.

His strikes keep coming, he’s like a man possessed. “Stop, Joel. Please.”

He drops your ankles, then uses his hand to spread your thighs apart, the denim biting into your knees. “Shhh…just a little bit more. Look at this messy pussy. You don’t want me to stop.”

He hits you again and you start to hate how much he’s right. You don’t want him to stop, you’re on the verge of coming and he hasn’t even touched you yet. You’re sure the second he’s near your clit you’ll explode.

Both of your cheeks are glowing red and Joel finally stops. You’ve both lost track of how many times he’s hit you. His large palm rubs the marks. You know you should keep your mouth shut, but fuck do you love to rile him up.

“Are you done now? I have work to get back to.”

Joel growls behind you. You hear the sound of his belt undoing, the leather whipping out from the demin loops. “I’m sick of your goddamn mouth, baby girl.”

Your eyes widen in fear, stomach twisting up over the thought of him striking your sore ass with his thick leather belt. Your pussy, however, flutters in excitement. Slut, you think to yourself.

You hear his buckle clinking, he grabs you by the hair and jerks your head back. “Open you mouth,” he says with a snarl. You obey him and he slides the folded up leather between your teeth. “Bite down on this. You can speak to me again once you’ve learned your lesson.”

You press your teeth into the rough leather, waiting for his next move. His hand comes across the back of your thigh and it’s a whole different sensation. The pain shoots straight to your core, the walls of your pussy clenching harder than your teeth do as you whine out a high pitched squeal. On instinct your hands shoot back, knees bending to protect yourself from him. He steps back from you, without his heat you’re left in the cold air.

“Arms up and legs down,” he says in an eerily calm voice.

You whimper again, grinding your teeth against the leather of his belt before slowly peeling your arms and legs away from your body, returning to Joel’s desired position. You’re so wet that it’s staring pool along the leather seat of Joel’s truck, your hips slipping slightly.

“Dirty little thing. I’m tryin to punish you and you’re sopping wet.” He steps forward and lays a loud sharp slap with perfect precision right across your sore thigh.

You yelp again, whining as your lash line fills with tears. This is not what you thought would happen when Joel threatened to punish you. And you definitely didn’t expect to fucking love it. You’re so turned on that you feel dizzy.

Joel’s lips come to your thigh. Light kisses and his scratchy facial hair peppering along your red hot skin. “Fuck me,” you say around the leather clamped between your teeth.

Joel laughs into your skin, kissing along the handprints he’s left on your ass. You’re squirming underneath him, pushing your ass towards his face, desperate for him to make you come. His hands grip around your shorts and your whole body relaxes at the thought of him finally fucking you. “I need you to listen to me now, ok?”

You nod fervently and he lets out an amused laugh. You arch your back at him invitingly, but instead of removing your shorts he yanks them back up. You moan out in protest as he lifts you down from the truck. His strong fingers work to do up your shorts before he spins you. You look like a wreck; mascara smudged under your eyes, cheeks pink, eyes glazed and dopey looking. Cock drunk and he hasn’t even given it to you. He grabs the belt and you release it for him. It’s killing him not to fuck you right here and now.

His hand cups your chin, squeezing your cheeks and locking eyes with you. “Do you want me to fuck you?”

You try to nod but he’s gripping you so tightly. “Yea? Then you need to do what I say. Ok?”

“Mm-hmm”

“Go in there and quit. Then come back out here and I will fuck you so hard that you’ll feel it in your throat.”

Taglist:

@corazondebeskar @hiddenbabynyc @rainstorms-library @smutsmutslut @sullyrocky44 @keylimebeag @pimosworld @casa-boiardi @pedritoferg @paleidiot @lorilane33 @pansexual-potatoes @baar-ur @jessthebaker @jasminedragoon @koshkaj-blog @pedroswife69 @strawberri-blonde @none-of-this-makes-any-sense @iloveenya @javierpena-inatacvest @blazeflays @mermaidgirl30

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slut4sugu · 8 months

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YOU HARDLY EVER SAW YOUR BOYFRIEND GET SCARED, LET ALONE CRY INFRONT OF YOU; so when you felt miles grip tighten on you in the middle of the night, your neck wet from tears and slight mumbling you quickly shook miles a little to wake him up. “What’s wrong amor?” You asked softly, wiping away tears with your thumb. Your heart almost broke when you saw miles look at you with such sadness and guilt in his eyes. “ ‘had a nightmare about you.” Miles’s voice was low and his eyes started to water again without him even noticing it, you quickly calmed him down and pulled him close to your chest. Pressing a kiss to the top of his head, before drawing circles in his back. “We don’t have to talk about this if you don’t want to guapo, We can save that for tomorrow, just know that I’ll always be here for you miles.” Your nail then wrote out the words ‘I love you on his back’, before rubbing it up and down softly. “I love you too Mami.” It was faint but you heard it, a small smile tugged at your lips as you saw miles pull away from your chest to kiss your cheek. “So damn much.”

♡

You kissed Miles’s face relentlessly for 3 minutes until you saw that handsome smile again, “Do you think you can go to sleep now amor?” He hummed in response, burying his face in your chest as his arm wrapped once more around your waist. You had always loved the fact that you and his mother were the only people to have seen miles morales this soft, you especially loved that at the end of every day you’d both be tangled in each others arms. Laughing, crying, or judging other niggas in your shared classes. It didn’t matter, as long as it was with him. “Thank you princesa.”

“Always niño bonito.” <33

Back to masterlist

#🌸. 𝐀 𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐈𝐆𝐍 𝐁𝐘 𝐊𝐀𝐌 #atsv fluff #atsv x you #atsv x black reader #atsv miles #42 miles morales #42 miles x fem!reader #earth 42 miles morales x reader #earth 42 miles x reader #miles morales prowler #earth 42 miles morales x you #earth 42 miles morales x female reader #earth 42 miles x you #earth 42 miles x black reader #earth 42 miles morales x black!reader #earth 42 miles fluff #atsv angst #miles angst

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ncttytrack · 3 months

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hello! My God, I heard you read this. What would it be like if the reader were small and thin? Would they feel sorry for screwing her up? I'm curious. I love your content :3

OMG THIS ONE IS MY FAV

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨ ʚɞ ୧⋆ ˚｡⋆ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨ ʚɞ ୧⋆ ˚｡⋆ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨ ʚ

ꕤ In the moment while fucking you, Heeseung does not care. He would use the fact that he is much bigger and stronger than you - manhandling you how he pleases, to his advantage. What are you even gonna do? Fight back? The more he watch you struggle, the harder his cock gets, and by the time he is done with you, your body is so weak from the way he fucked you. It's finally then Heeseung feels bad. "Oh I'm so sorry baby, I didn't mean to be so rough with you". He always takes care of you afterwards, making sure you get the rest you need. Would be as rough with you the next time you have sex though. You are so cute he can't help it.

ꕤ Jay would be so careful. When he sees you, the only thing he can think about is the word: "fragile", and therefore he would handle you like a porcelain doll. However, because Jay is so strong, he would probably accidentally hurt you even though he tries to be careful. Holding your waist while ramming into your small hole, accidentally causing bruises by his strong grip. Right after he would feel like shit, masssing the places that he made red and blue.

ꕤ Jake loves to throw you around, and finds it cute how easy it is for him to do so. You are just so tiny, his hands almost fitting around your waist, making the grip extra secure for when he pushes himself into you from behind. When he sees the way he screws you up, tears running down your face from the way he fucks into you, he would feel guilty. Wouldn't stop him from roughly fucking you though, but now praising you while doing it. "Aw, little baby, don't cry, I know you can take it"

ꕤ I think Sunghoon would feel the least guilt out of hyung-line, and would probably get turned on by how much he can screw you up. Without even trying, he pins you down, groaning when he sees the way you struggle under his grip. And when he can see his cock in your stomach, not even fully inside your pussy, he tries so hard to not rip you apart. "Fuck do you see that baby? And I'm not even half in" Until he can't wait, and pushes all of him inside of you. The messier it gets, the more you struggle and cry, the better. He would even get turned on afterwards when cuddling you, loving how your tiny frame presses against his large chest.

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joelscurls · 7 months

Text

feel it in your bones

next part

pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

words: 12.5k

summary: Two years ago, you finished your PhD and moved to Vermont. In the time since, you’ve gotten a job as a college professor, had your heart broken, and sworn off relationships entirely. Enter Joel, the father of one of your students, here for Homecoming Weekend – and too attractive to resist.

warnings: 18+, minors dni, no outbreak, age gap (reader is in her late 20s, Joel is in his late 40s), alcohol consumption, fluff, smut, masturbation (f), mutual pining(?), sexual tension, grinding, oral (f receiving), fingering, unprotected p in v, creampie, cumplay / cum eating, some light biting, use of pet names (darlin’, sweetheart, baby, etc.), reader has an asshole ex, no use of y/n

a/n: my first Joel fic! This is honestly a bit self-indulgent but I love fall and academia and Joel Miller so sue me okay. ty to my bby @caffeinated-validation for reading through this and offering your insight -- get you a partner who will beta your filthy Joel Miller smut for you lmao <3

You’ve gotten used to being alone.

You don’t mind it as much as you had a few months ago, the breakup still fresh, every touch of your own fingers seering into your skin when you’d remembered the way he’d touched you, the sound of your voice almost unrecognizable as you’d convince yourself each day to get out of bed and go to work, where you’d inevitably run into him. It was painful then, having to come home to the quiet, always far too aware of the sound of your own thoughts drumming against the inside of your skull.

Now though, you revel in that quiet. Sip your coffee in silence each morning. You’ve learned how to stay lost in your work, bringing home stacks of papers to grade and eating through texts to support your research while your dinner gets cold on the table in front of you. You’re well aware that this isn’t the healthiest way to cope, to just avoid it all, but it’s better than feeling.

You’ve sworn off relationships entirely. It’s a silent promise to yourself – that you’ll remain married to your work. You will devote all of your energy to making sure your students excel and that your research is strong. That is your life’s purpose, to make use of the PhD you worked so hard to get – not to be someone’s girlfriend or wife. And you’re fine with that, really. You’ve become immune to loneliness – or numb, maybe.

Regardless, you welcome the independence. You don’t have to worry about anyone else’s thoughts or feelings when it comes to the way you spend your own time. You’re free to do whatever you want. You can draw yourself a bath, fill it with bubbles, sit in it while you drain a bottle of wine into your mouth until the water runs cold. You can eat an entire box of dry cereal in one sitting while you re-watch your favorite show for the twentieth time. You can make yourself cum at any hour of the night with your vibrator or your shower head or your hand – and then go to work the next morning without a semblance of guilt.

Really, you like being alone.

Until you don’t.

It’s Homecoming Weekend at Sarah’s school.

She had insisted that Joel didn’t have to come, that it was mostly an opportunity for the college to milk donations out of sentimental alumni. But he’d missed her for the month she’d been gone, the house far too quiet with just him in it. In previous years, Joel had busied himself following Sarah’s departure with home projects. Three years in, though, he’s updated just about every room in the house, re-done the floors, built a brand new back deck.

In other words, he’s fresh out of distractions.

So, he’d made the trek to Vermont, with the excuse that he’d always wanted to experience a New England fall. It’s a lie, one that Sarah can probably read right through, considering he vocalizes his discomfort whenever the temperature drops below 70 degrees in Texas, but she goes along with it.

Besides, he wants to see what his tuition money is paying for.

In truth, Joel had been nervous when Sarah announced what major she’d decided to pursue. She had just finished her freshman year, prerequisite courses all completed. When she’d said the word – anthropology – Joel hadn’t even been sure what it meant. Since then, she’s explained it to him many times and in truth, he’s still none the wiser. Really, he’s just happy that she’s happy. Her passion for it is evident on her face any time she talks to him about the courses she’s taking, how great her professors are.

Especially you – she talks about you all the time – her mentor.

You’re supervising her on her thesis project – a qualitative assessment on students’ views on feminism and gender politics in the classroom. This past summer, Joel swears Sarah had mentioned your name more than her own friends’. She’d told him what courses you teach, what research you’ve conducted, all the countries you’ve traveled to for fieldwork. And she gives the best advice – Sarah had said one night over dinner – she’s like, my lifeline at school.

Joel doesn’t know you, but he’s thankful for you – for the guidance you so clearly provide Sarah.

There’s an Open House today for the Social Sciences college, which Joel tags along with Sarah to. He’s hopeful that he’ll learn something, come to understand the field and why Sarah loves it.

A buffet table stocked with refreshments sits on one side of the lecture hall. Sarah grabs them both cups of water infused with cucumber while Joel saves them seats at the back. There’s a slideshow projected onto the white board at the front, the current slide reading: An Introduction to the Social Sciences College & Our Current Research Efforts. A group of professors gathers at the front, name tags stuck to their button-downs and blazers. Sarah spots you as she sits down, pointing you out as she hands Joel his water.

“There – that one’s my mentor – the one in the plaid pants.”

Joel’s eyes follow her finger to the group at the front, scanning down the line. There’s a man, short and stocky with noticeably small hands hooked by the thumbs in the belt loops of his pants. Next to him, is a woman, taller than him, wearing a bright turquoise silk shirt, gold bangles decorating both of her wrists. And next to her is you, in the plaid pants.

Sarah had told him a lot of things about you, but she’d never mentioned that you’re fucking gorgeous. You’re smiling at something Turquoise Shirt has just said to you, and it’s like your entire face is glowing. Joel has to take a sip of water to collect himself.

He doesn’t take his eyes off you for the entirety of the presentation.

The dean of the college starts by briefly covering each department and what research efforts they have planned for the semester. Joel should be listening, he came here to listen – but he can’t get himself to focus on anything other than you.

You’re mostly focused on the presenter. Every so often, though, you distractedly toy with the buttons on your cardigan or twirl a strand of your hair between delicate fingers. And Joel is suddenly realizing how touch-starved he is after years of refusing to date – because just watching you, your hands – is about to send him into orbit.

You’re well-spoken too, he learns, when you take the microphone to discuss your current research project.

“This semester, I’ll be delving into the presence of food deserts in Vermont, and the effects these are having on the overall health of youth in the state,” you say. “We have received a sizable grant for this research, and I am thrilled to get started in a matter of weeks. This project will span the better part of the academic year as I speak to locals and craft surveys that will provide qualitative data to support my findings from the field.”

You press down on the clicker in your hand. A new slide projects onto the whiteboard. It’s a photo of you against the backdrop of a jungle, lush, green trees stretching past the top of the frame. The wide-brimmed hat you’re wearing covers most of your face – but that damn smile radiates through the makeshift screen.

“This is me last summer, in Peru. My research here was much more self-indulgent – I studied the important role that food plays in the average family there – and ate wayyyy too many sweets.”

The crowd laughs. It’s the first reaction they’ve expressed this entire time.

It’s entrancing, the way you command the room. You have such a calm confidence about you as you speak, words never once faltering as you stride back and forth across the front of the lecture hall. Joel isn’t much of a talker – maybe that’s why he feels like he could listen to you for hours on end. He thinks that you could read the damn phone book and his focus would remain unwavering. That your voice, velvet-soft, could spellbind him without much effort.

When your portion of the presentation ends, he’s more than a bit disappointed.

Students and their families filter out of the lecture hall. You situate yourself in a corner of the room for the actual Open House portion of the event, at the ready to answer any questions or, more likely, offer directions to another part of campus.

You smile as familiar faces and strangers alike pass you, reach for your to-go mug on the table behind you, and take a sip. The coffee is pretty much ice-cold now, but you still gulp it down, only after the caffeine anyway.

You place the mug back down with a light thud against the tabletop. Suddenly, a voice you’ve come to know well rings in your ear.

“Professor!”

When you look up, Sarah Miller is bounding down the aisle, signature smile plastered across her face. And there’s a man behind her, you notice, moving much slower.

He’s tall, broad shoulders pulling taut against the green flannel he’s wearing. He cradles a beige workwear jacket in the crook of his bicep,corded muscle visibly bulging against fabric. His other hand rubs at the scruff along his jaw, pointedly sharp in the patches where hair doesn’t grow.

He has a distinguishable nose, you notice as he gets closer, strong – large and hooked at the center of his tan face. It’s complemented perfectly by his plush, pink lips that seem to be set in a permanent pout.

In other words, he’s handsome – almost distractingly so, as he stands next to Sarah in front of you.

“I’m so happy to see you,” she beams – turns to the man next to her.

“Dad, this is my mentor,” She says your name.

He nods. His eyes meet yours. They’re deep brown, almost black – and undeniably entrancing.

“‘‘ts nice to meet you, Ma’am. I’m Joel.”

Ma’am.

It’s not like the word is foreign to you, given your profession. There’s something about the way he says it, though, that makes your head spin, his southern drawl dripping in honey-butter and bourbon.

Joel outstretches a hand. You shake it – try to ignore the way it dwarfs yours.

“Joel,” you repeat, eyes locked firmly on the space between his eyes. “Nice to meet you, too.”

“That was a great presentation you gave up there. You’re a good, uh – talker.” His expression is unreadable. His hands fidget at his sides.

You offer him a smile. “Thank you – I think? My students probably wish I would shut up sometimes. Right, Sarah?”

“Oh please,” she scoffs, “as if you’ve never seen your rating on Rate My Professor.”

She’s not wrong – you pride yourself on having pretty stellar reviews – but you also try your hardest not to let them get to your head. Sarah isn’t helping that, right now.

“Anyways,” she exaggerates the word, “what are you up to tonight, Professor? They’re holding an exhibition at the art center later, all student work – d’you wanna come with us?”

Your reflex is to say no. After all, he’ll probably be there. Your ex, Quentin, works in the art history department. And even though you’re over him, you’re not exactly looking for an excuse to be in the same room as him. But you technically don’t have plans tonight, and you can’t even think of a good lie right now with Sarah staring you down.

And then there’s Joel, standing in front of you, all broad shoulders and chiseled jaw – and you think, what a great opportunity to get to know him, you know, as the parent of your student. Definitely not as anything else, anything more. It is Homecoming, after all.

So, you say yes.

“Cool!” Sarah smiles, “Meet you there at 7?”

You nod, tell Sarah that sounds perfect, and that you’ll see them tonight.

Sarah starts toward the door. But Joel stands there for a moment longer. His eyes linger on yours, his wordless stare threatening to burn a hole in your head. You can feel the heat of it, beads of sweat beginning to form at the base of your neck. You tug at the collar of your shirt, trying your hardest to conceal them.

A beat passes. It looks like he might say something, his mouth opening then closing again.

He gives you a courteous nod, turns on his heels, and follows after Sarah.

Joel hadn’t remembered the food being this bad when he’d visited for orientation. He struggles to keep down a particularly rubbery bite of chicken and reaches for his water bottle, eyebrows furrowed in concentration as he focuses on not vomiting.

Sarah laughs next to him. “Hey man, at least you don’t have to eat this shit year-round.”

He grunts in agreement. “Gonna cancel your meal plan next semester and jus’ give you the money to buy groceries.”

She hums. Cocks her head. “That means I’m gonna have to learn how to cook – do you think Student Housing has fire insurance?”

Joel wants to roll his eyes, but it’s definitely his fault – after all, he can barely fry an egg without setting off the fire alarm. Their freezer has always been well-stocked with TV dinners and tater tots. So instead, he just shrugs.

“So what’s this art thing tonight?” He moves on to the salad on his plate, decidedly much safer.

“I don’t really know – my roommate asked me to go, she has some pieces in it, I guess.”

He nods. “And your professor – that was nice ‘a you to invite her.”

Sarah nods, smiles. “Yeah – you like her, right? I mean, you’re sure you’re cool with me asking her to come?” She asks, a mouthful of lettuce.

“‘Course,” he says, attempting to keep his voice level, nonchalant.

“I know you’re not really one for meeting new people,” she teases.

He mock-glares at her. It quickly softens into a smile. “Nah – she seems cool.” It’s an understatement, but Sarah doesn’t need to know that.

She doesn’t need to know that her dad is attracted to her professor.

Joel thinks that he might not have been so great at hiding it, though, when a few hours later, in the middle of watching an unarguably bad student production of Macbeth, Sarah turns to him and whispers that she’s not feeling well.

“Hm, is that right?,” he whispers back, unconvinced.

“Yeah, must’ve been the food.”

“We ate the same thing, Sarah.”

There’s a shout on stage. The actor’s voice cracks.

“Well I dunno,” she continues, “My stomach just doesn’t feel good.”

“Yeah, and what about that thing with your professor?”

He can see her smirk even in the dim lighting.

“Shit, you’re right. And I don’t have her phone number, so it’s not like I can text her...”

She groans. Joel thinks she should be on that stage right now.

“We can’t just ghost her.” Joel has no idea what that means. He doesn’t bother asking.

“Sarah-” he starts.

“Please. She’s such a nice lady, she doesn’t deserve to be stood up.”

He could say no. It’s not like he knows you, owes you anything. But in truth, Joel does want to see you again. And he’s well aware that Sarah might be trying to set the two of you up – ever-perceptive and hell-bent on her dad being happy – but he tries not to think about how embarrassing that feels, his daughter playing matchmaker for him. Because he wants to spend more time with you, get to know more about you, if you’ll let him.

He’s barred himself from forming any kind of real relationship with a woman since Sarah’s mother left. Not because she’d broken his heart, but because he’d needed all of his energy to go to Sarah. As a single father, he had always feared that he wouldn’t be enough for his daughter – wouldn’t give enough – that growing up in a broken home would leave her half of a person. That fear had fueled him to be the best dad possible – to work overtime so that he could provide for them, to never miss one of her soccer games or dance recitals. And so, he had never even considered dating, not seriously, anyway. It would take attention away from Sarah, and he couldn’t risk that.

He’s found it difficult to shake this principle, now that Sarah has grown up. He often grapples with the fact that Sarah doesn’t need him as much anymore – that she’s her own person living her own life. He knows he could date now, could meet someone new, open his heart to them. But he’s so used to fighting that human need for companionship, that it feels almost unnatural to let his guard down.

But now there’s you – your megawatt smile and your impressive intelligence and your care for his daughter – and suddenly he’s forgotten his own rules.

“Okay; I’ll go.” It comes out entirely too enthusiastic.

He can practically feel Sarah’s accomplished, shit-eating grin burning into the side of his head.

You leave campus around four pm, once the last of the Open House participants have gone.

You take a shower when you get home. Then you order sushi – stuff rolls of yellowfin and salmon into your mouth as you sit at the dining table still wrapped up in your towel, trying your best not to spill soy sauce on the half-graded essays that litter the tabletop. When you’re done, you retreat to your closet, treading on damp feet across the waxy hardwood floor.

And you definitely don’t think about Joel – not when you debate what to wear to the art exhibition, not when your fingers accidentally graze one of your nipples as you put your bra on, not when you get distracted while pulling your panties on by the pool of wetness that has formed between your thighs.

You definitely don’t think about him – because he’s Sarah’s dad, and that would be wrong.

So it’s accidental when his name falls from your mouth, fingers pressed against your clit, visions of large, calloused hands flashing behind your closed eyelids.

You cover your mouth with the curve of your palm to prevent it from slipping out again. Sink back into the mattress.

Then you press your fingers down harder.

Joel feels like a first-year student, wandering aimlessly across campus in search of the art center. Sarah’s directions had been, well, brief. She’d insisted he’d be able to find it no problem. Now though, in the limited light of dusk, all the structures look the same, bleeding together like watercolors against the evening sky.

He does find it, eventually, a three-story brick building tucked between the library and what looks to be a dormitory. Bright, artificial light seeps through the windows that line the bottom floor. The double doors at the front are propped open, people slipping in and out of them as he approaches.

He looks for you outside, searching for a familiar head of hair, the brown cardigan you’d been wearing earlier. When he doesn’t see you, he reluctantly makes his way up the stairs and into the building.

He spots you almost immediately affixed in front of a painting, studying it intently.

You’re wearing a different outfit than the one you had on this afternoon – a merlot-colored slip dress and a cropped leather jacket. He struggles to ignore the way the satin clings to you, the curves of your body excruciatingly accentuated. He has to remind himself that he shouldn’t get his hopes up, shouldn't expect you to stick around for long once he lets you know Sarah isn’t coming. You’ll probably make an excuse to leave shortly after, and he’ll be back on Sarah’s couch within the hour.

After all, why would you stick around just to talk to him?

You don’t see him when he sidles up next to you. He clears his throat and you startle.

“Sorry,” he brings a hand to the back of his neck. “Didn’t mean to spook ya.”

You take a step back to face him and put a hand to your chest, your breath beginning to even. His eyes wander, for a moment, to where your fingers rest against your collarbone.

“Shit – it’s okay. Where’s Sarah?”

“She wasn’t feeling well, but she said I should still come. Is that – uh – is that okay?” He’s suddenly worried that this was dumb, that he shouldn’t have come, should’ve just let Sarah explain to you on Monday.

But your features soften then, a small smile forming between rosy cheeks.

“Joel, it’s fine; I appreciate you not ditching me.”

“‘Course,” he manages. He’s waiting for you to say something else – that you need to leave. But you don’t, and you both stand enveloped in the pregnant pause that lingers, bright overhead lighting and nerves giving Joel the start of a migraine he’ll have to ignore for the rest of the night.

He clears his throat. Turns to the painting in front of you. “So what’s this one, then?”

The painting in question is a mish-mash of shapes and colors. Joel can’t distinguish any one thing on the canvas. It’s all just a lot of…nothing. He knows it’s not for him when he thinks a preschooler with finger paints could’ve done this.

You bring your hand up to cradle your jaw, brows furrowed in contemplation. It looks like you’ll offer an actual, intellectual interpretation. So Joel isn’t prepared when instead, you say:

“Looks like a bad trip.”

A laugh bubbles out of him, the corners of his eyes creasing.

“Sorry,” you say, between giggles. “That was stupid.”

“No,” he says, swiping a hand over his jaw, trying to physically rub the embarrassing smile off his face. “You’re funny.”

He means it. He’s not sure how it’s possible that you’re funny, when you’re also so smart and interesting and gorgeous. It’s almost unfair. He thinks, fleetingly, that you’re way out of his league – a boring, old man like him.

You continue to the next piece, Joel following closely behind. It looks like it must be by the same artist. The same variation of shapes fill the canvas, just in different colors.

“Alright Cowboy, what’s your take on this one?”

Joel studies it for a moment – tries to find something he can pull out. Something tangible. Something funny, even.

He comes up empty.

“‘ts interesting f’sure. Lots of…colors,” he tries. He realizes how ridiculous he sounds. Laughs. “Shit…art ain’t really my thing,” he admits, arm stretched behind his head.

“So what is your thing?” Your voice is tinged with something – Joel tries his hardest not to let himself believe that it’s flirtation.

Your eyes are still fixed on the canvas in front of you. And Joel is thankful, because he thinks if you looked at him, let those eyes meet his, he’d break – tell you that right now, you’re his thing.

He doesn’t get a chance to answer either way, though, because he’s interrupted by a man’s voice behind the two of you.

“Wow. Didn’t expect to see you here!”

You whip around to face him. Joel turns too. The man is taller than you, but shorter than him. He’s wearing round, wire-frame glasses that sit like a suggestion on his nose, and a full suit, with a tie that has some god-awful, ugly pattern all over it. It looks like the art here, Joel thinks.

Joel’s eyes flit back to you, and he watches as your hackles go up. You back up, bumping into the canvas behind you. You curse under your breath.

“Quentin. Hey.”

“Glad you could make it,” the man, Quentin, says. He swirls a cup of what appears to be red wine in one hand. He leans in closer, brings the other hand up at the side of his mouth to conceal his words. “I know this isn’t really your scene.”

You shift uncomfortably. “Yeah,” you say. “I’m uh, venturing out, I guess. Trying new things.”

He laughs. It’s an asshole laugh, Joel notes. Everything about this guy screams asshole.

“About time!” The asshole puts a hand on your shoulder. You flinch. Joel’s hands instinctively bunch into fists at his side.

“So proud of you,” Quentin says. “Finally letting yourself be a little cultured.”

This guy can’t be serious.

You scoff. Grab his hand and flick it off your shoulder. He looks wounded. Good, Joel thinks.

“Yeah, because traveling the world has left me so very uncultured, Quentin.”

“Hey,” he puts his hands up. “Don’t take offense, baby. I know your little field trips are important, too.”

It’s the last straw.

In one movement, you’re pushing off the wall, shoving past Quentin, and making your way to the exit. Joel doesn’t say a word, doesn’t even look at the asshole, just follows after you out the door.

It’s gotten colder in the short time he’d been inside, he notices. A gust of wind nips at the exposed skin on his hands. He stuffs them haphazardly in the pockets of his jacket.

He finds you perched on the front steps, arms wrapped around your body protectively. He takes a few cautious strides forward. When you look up at him, you’re visibly distraught.

You groan as he sits down next to you. “Sorry. That was embarrassing.”

Joel wants to touch you, put a reassuring hand on your shoulder, but he knows he probably shouldn’t – not right now.

“‘ts not embarrassin’,” he says, instead. His warm breath materializes in the cold air. “Not for you, anyway. That guy was clearly an asshole.”

“Yeah,” you nod. “That was my ex-boyfriend.” You’re both quiet, then. The two of you sit there, side by side on the stairs, in comfortable silence. A few minutes pass. Joel notices you chewing on your bottom lip, like you’re considering something. When you speak again, your voice wavers.

“Would you want to go for a drink or something? It’s just, I really don’t want to be here anymore.”

For a moment, he can’t believe what he’s hearing – you’re asking him out? He takes a second to respond. You start to backtrack. “It’s okay if you don’t wan-”

“Hey,” he stops you. Makes sure you’re looking at him.

“I thought you’d never ask, darlin’.”

You breathe out a laugh. “Great.” Your hand drops to your side, brushing against his. He expects you to move it. He’s thankful when you don’t.

“I know a place–” you continue – “one that won’t be full of drunk college kids.”

“Great,” Joel parrots you. He stands, extends a hand to help you up. You take it, letting your palm rest against his for a moment longer than necessary when you’re upright.

“Cool,” you say, clearing your throat. You pull up the Uber app on your phone. Joel watches you book a driver. Then you turn back to him with a smile. It’s different from the one he’s seen before. It’s smaller, shyer.

“Larry will be here in 4 minutes,” you say.

The bar is a twenty minutes’ drive from campus – fifteen with Larry’s lead foot.

It’s more of a lounge than a bar, really – leather armchairs accompanied by low cocktail tables arranged throughout the single large, open room. A brick fireplace sits on the back wall, currently roaring with warm orange flames.

On either side of the fireplace are floor-to-ceiling shelves stacked with vintage books, their illegible titles etched in gold along weathered spines. You can imagine that their pages are yellowed and dusty, and it’s so tempting to swipe one off the shelf to see, to smell.

The light in here is warm, a stark contrast from the bright white of the art gallery. It’s comforting, and you feel your body immediately relax when you walk through the entrance next to Joel.

The bar at the front is busy (it is Saturday night, after all), so you and Joel stand at the back of the crowd for a few moments, waiting for the people in front of you to get their drinks. When a group of men start forcing their way through right next to you, Joel immediately puts a large hand on your shoulder, turning your body towards his. He’s just being chivalrous, making sure you don’t get shoved, but it still sends a shockwave up your spine.

When a spot clears in front of the bar, Joel steps forward, bringing you with him. He orders a whiskey neat, then turns to you, asking what you want.

It’s difficult to think with his hand still on you, so you go with the first words that come to mind.

“Same as you.”

He stares at you for a moment, amused, like he can see right through you and the fact that you’ve never had whiskey in your life. But you hold his gaze, challenging him with your eyes, and he drops it. “Make that two,” he tells the bartender.

Once you have your drinks, Joel slaps a few bills down on the bar. You can tell he won’t let you do so much as offer to pay him back, so you don’t. You lead him through the lounge to a couple of chairs tucked away in the back corner, partially hidden behind an antique wooden partition – far enough from the main seating area, but still close enough to the fireplace that you can feel its warmth.

This is where you always sit when you come, usually with coworkers, once or twice with him. Quentin had been pretty critical of this place, like he is with everything. He’d complained that the wine selection could be larger – that they could have more French options. When you’d explained that most of their wines come from local vineyards, he’d just rolled his eyes.

You’re still reeling a bit from your interaction with him at the gallery, even as you settle into soft leather and feel a burst of warmth against your cheek. He was such an asshole, you think, taking a cautious sip of whiskey. You’re immediately repulsed by the taste of it, and you do a poor job of hiding the grimace that automatically spreads across your face in the crook of your arm.

Joe laughs across from you. “Not your thing? I can go grab ya somethin’ else,” he offers.

“No,” you insist, “this is fine. Just need to get used to it.” It’s a lie – you both know it – but he doesn’t push it.

Instead he leans back, swirls his own glass – which looks comically tiny in his grip – and lets out an exaggerated sigh.

“So, your ex is a real dick, huh?”

“You can say that again,” you mumble.

He quirks a brow at you. “Why’d you even date him?”

It’s a fair question. Why had you dated him? Loneliness, maybe? You’d like to blame it on that, but it’s not the truth – not entirely. Quentin had been kind, at first. He had seemed so interested in you and where you came from and what you were passionate about. He was a relatively good boyfriend, all things considered – until he’d grown tired of hiding who he really was.

You’d gotten a substantial pay raise at the end of your second year at the university. When you’d told Quentin, he’d gone quiet – practically gave you the silent treatment for days on end. When you’d finally worn him down, gotten him to talk, the most he could utter was that he was happy for you; he just wasn’t sure why he hadn’t gotten a raise like that yet.

It’s not like you were in competition – you worked for two entirely different departments, in different colleges. But it had been a constant losing battle nevertheless, to get him to stop comparing your successes. And when he’d found out you actually made more money than him – that had pretty much been the nail in the coffin.

You tell Joel all of this. You’re not sure why you do – it’s not like you can blame the alcohol after one half-sip of whiskey. You feel comfortable with him though, here, like this. He’s a good listener, too, attentively nodding every so often as you ramble.

When you’re done, he’s quiet. He stares at his drink, pursing his lips.

After a beat, he looks up at you.

“You deserve better than that, darlin’.”

You almost crumble under his gaze. His eyes are at least two shades darker than they had been a moment ago – and there’s something lingering behind them that you can’t quite place. Whatever it is has you feeling weak.

“You barely know me,” you joke.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “I know enough, though. Could do much better than him, I reckon.”

You want to ask him if he has anyone in mind, if he would be better for you, but you can’t – not yet – not this sober. You take another sip of your drink, breathing through your nose as it burns its way down your throat.

You talk for hours. He asks about your family; you tell him how you moved out here two years ago on your own after you finished your doctorate program. He’s impressed by that, says you’re brave. You tell him you’ve never felt very brave.

It’s all so easy, talking to Joel in the dimly-lit bar you’ve been to so many times before. Sipping on whiskey as if you actually enjoy it. It’s never felt so much like home — not the bar, not this town. The thought is dizzying.

He asks about Sarah, too, how she’s doing in school. He insists that she doesn’t tell him much, and if she does, it’s about you and how great your classes are.

“I had never even heard of anthropology before she decided to study it,” he admits. “But I’m glad she did. It’s her thing, f’sure.”

You smile, knowingly. “Yeah, it is. She’s a great kid, Joel. You raised her well.”

He shakes his head humbly, but you don’t relent. You want him to hear this, really hear this. Because you get the feeling he hasn’t been told enough.

“She’s not just smart, Joel. She’s good. She’s a good person. That’s kind of rare nowadays — especially among her generation.”

Joel chuckles, his head hanging between his shoulders.

“I mean, shit,” you continue, “she brings me pancakes from the diner just off campus whenever she knows I’m stuck in my office working late. My other students barely even ask how I’m doing most days.”

Joel hums in amusement. His eyes are locked on a wrinkle in the leather of the arm of his chair.

“Joel,” you say, pointedly. You wait for him to look at you. When he does, his gaze is uncertain. “She’s a good person —“ you repeat — “and that’s because you raised her to be.”

“‘ts just southern hospitality, is all,” he mumbles.

“No Joel – it’s you.”

He stares for a moment, his dark eyes narrowing. His jaw twitches. And then he breaks, finally, a smile pulling at his lips.

“Thank you.”

His voice is so soft suddenly. It throws you off. It also turns you on – like, a lot, the gravellyness of it scratching your brain and your loins. You dig your nails into leather in an attempt to steady your quickening heart rate.

“No problem,” you mutter sheepishly.

Suddenly, there’s a buzz on the table – Joel’s phone. He picks it up, squinting at the bright screen.

“Sarah?,” you ask.

“Nah, ‘ts just my brother, Tommy.”

He types out a quick response and re-locks the phone, placing it back down on the table.

“Everything alright?”

“Yeah, jus’ asking if I think hookin’ up with a client is a bad idea,” he laughs, shaking his head in disbelief.

You don’t know Tommy, but you like him already – seems like a fun guy. And clearly values his brother’s opinions. It’s telling, you think.

“That’s right – you’re a contractor. You and your brother work together?”

“Yeah, we got our own business back home.”

“And you like it?,” you ask.

“Used to,” he laughs, “when I was more limber.”

You laugh too. You can feel the heat of slight intoxication, and something else, in your chest, your inhibitions dissolving in your bloodstream. And suddenly that horrible idea you’d had earlier to flirt with Joel doesn’t seem so bad anymore.

“Still look plenty limber to me, Mr. Miller.” The words leave you before you have the chance to stop them.

Joel’s hands tense on either arm of his chair. Despite your buzz, you still have half a mind to worry that you’ve fucked up, that there’s a chance you’ve misread this whole thing.

But then he sinks back in the chair, the leather groaning under him. He rakes his dark eyes over you. And the way he’s looking at you is unmistakable. He looks hungry. You feel like your entire body has been set ablaze.

Without thinking, you stand up, take a couple of steps toward him. Scan the lounge. Most of the remaining patrons are huddled by the bar, talking boisterously among themselves. Tucked in your little corner, the two of you might as well be in a different zip code.

“Whatcha doin’, darlin’?” Joel smirks up at you as you stand unmoving in front of him. He takes one of your hands in his and traces gentle, reassuring shapes along the back of it with his index finger.

Without a word, you hike your dress up to your thighs and straddle him, knees digging into the leather on either side of his legs. He hums approvingly as you sink onto his lap and cup his face in your hands. He places his own on your lower back, just above your ass. “This okay?,” you ask. It comes out breathy and wrecked.

“C’mere,” he says in that syrupy drawl, and then one of his hands is on the back of your head, pushing you gently against him, your lips slotting to his.

It’s messy and all-encompassing. He kisses you with a fervency that confirms this hasn’t all been in your head –that he’s been wanting this too.

The voices of bar-goers and the clinking of glassware are suddenly muted. All you can focus on is Joel — the way he tastes like whiskey and cinnamon gum, the way one of his large hands comes to rest at the nape of your neck, fingers tangled in the hair there while the other remains on your back, steadying you. The way he licks into your mouth after a few seconds with a groan, causing you to reflexively bare down on his lap.

You feel his cock swell underneath you and you grind against it, laughing low and quiet against his lips when his entire body tenses. He pulls back, blinking up at you with glazed-over eyes. Joel, all six feet of him, looks wrecked.

“Fuck, darlin’,” he pants. He looks down at where you’re hovering over his now fully-hard cock. “Gotta stop. Otherwise you’re gonna make me cum in my pants like a damn teenager.”

You pout at him, lifting your lower half off of his. You don’t stand up, though – not immediately, anyway. Instead, you take his head back in both of your hands. He lets you, blinking up at you wordlessly.

You’d known when you’d first seen him earlier today that he was handsome, but right now, his face so close to yours – you’re seeing all of the little details – the scar indented in his forehead, just above his right eyebrow; the flush that stains his cheeks, which you can guess is partly from the alcohol, but maybe also from you. He’s biblically gorgeous, which makes it difficult to pry yourself off of him.

You do though, after a minute, smoothing down your dress once you’re back on two feet. You feel a bit breathless, suddenly. And exhausted.

What time is it?

You retrieve your phone from where it’s been lodged in the cushion of your chair.

You tap on the screen, waking it up.

12:47?! When had it gotten so late?

Joel stands, adjusting himself in his pants. You can’t help but giggle at him — big, tough man looking positively ruined after just a few minutes of being under you. You feel pretty accomplished. He rolls his eyes at you.

“Shut up — just get us an Uber.” You don’t miss the smile that sprouts between his cheeks when he thinks you aren’t looking.

You wait outside for your driver — John M.

The cold Vermont air is sobering. You feel almost normal by the time the car pulls up, save for the dull, throbbing ache between your legs. You will it away as you crouch into the back of the silver Nissan behind Joel. The sound of the radio playing soft rock hits is a poor distraction on the drive home.

“Wanna come in?,” you ask Joel when the car comes to a halt in front of your building. You watch him ponder it, eyes glued to the roof of the sedan. But ultimately, he shakes his head. “Can’t,” he says. “Gotta check on Sarah.”

You nod, try to hide your disappointment. “Right.”

You open the door. Just as you’re about to get out, Joel stops you.

“Wait,” he says. “Can I see your phone?” You’re confused, but you hand it over. You watch as he pulls up your contacts and clicks the ‘plus’ button in the corner, an understanding smile pulling at your lips.

When he hands the phone back, his contact now in it, you grab his from off the seat next to him and do the same.

“I’ll text you,” he promises as you step out.

You turn back to him. “You better.”

He’s smiling when you shut the door.

You’re smiling when the car pulls away.

It’s only when you’re tucked into bed, phone charging securely on the nightstand that the thought crosses your mind: you’re catching feelings for someone again.

And then you feel sick.

Joel wakes up the next morning feeling giddy. It’s like he’s a teenager all over again – waiting by the phone for a pretty girl to call him back. Only this time, he’s waiting for a text.

He had messaged you almost as soon as he’d gotten back to Sarah’s apartment last night, asking if he could see you again before he goes back to Texas. He has no shame about it, he can’t – not when his entire mind and body are consumed by his overwhelming attraction to you.

He’d found it difficult to sleep last night, and not because the springs in Sarah’s cheap couch were digging into his already-damaged back. It was thoughts of you, and the borderline-painful erection they caused, that had kept him up.

Now, with the sun seeping through the living room windows directly into his eyes, he doesn’t have much of a choice but to be awake. He checks his phone immediately, and tries to ignore the way his heart sinks when he sees you haven’t responded yet. You’re probably still asleep, he tells himself.

He tosses his phone aimlessly back onto the couch and stands with a groan. His legs feel worse than his back, if that’s even possible.

Sarah still isn’t awake, so Joel meanders into her kitchen, in search of something to eat for breakfast. It’s pretty much what you would expect from a college student’s kitchen – bare bones. There are a few suspicious containers of leftovers in the fridge along with a Brita water pitcher and a package of cookie dough. In the freezer, several cartons of ice cream (all chocolate) and half a loaf of bread. And finally, in the cabinets, a few boxes of mac & cheese and an unopened jar of peanut butter.

Toast it is, then.

Sarah appears just as he’s raiding her drawers for a butter knife. “Morning,” she announces sleepily behind him.

“Hey, Kiddo,” he says, turning to face her. “Hungry?”

“Yeah. There’s a diner down the street. Thought we could get pancakes.” She yawns.

Joel grins. That must be the place you’d told him about – the one Sarah brings you leftovers from when you’re working late.

“You buyin’?,” he jokes.

“Only in exchange for the juicy deets from last night.” She pauses. “Okay, maybe not all the deets. There’s some things I don’t need to know – like why you got home so late.”

“Sarah,” Joel warns, but she’s undeterred, smiling like a Cheshire Cat with every one of her unbrushed teeth on display.

“Just get changed,” she says, and skips out of the room.

You’ve been staring at the text for twenty minutes now.

Had a lot of fun tonight. Can I see you again before I leave? Let me know if you’re free tomorrow (today I guess). - Joel

You should say yes – you want to say yes – so why can’t you get your fingers to move?

It’s a stupid question. You know why – it’s Quentin and your inability to shake the fear that someone else will hurt you like he did. If you keep Joel at arm’s length – continue to ignore his message – he can’t do that. You can just take last night for what it was – a fun time, a hookup – and stop this before it goes too far, before feelings get involved.

Because it never ends well, once they do.

You get out of bed without responding, but you leave the text open on your phone. You attempt to busy yourself with housework and grading. Again and again though, you find your fingers hovering over the screen, your mind wandering to the way Joel’s lips had felt on yours, the way the bulge in his jeans had felt against your clothed heat, the sound of his southern drawl when he’d called you darlin’.

Then you snap yourself out of it and place the phone face-down on the table.

This goes on for hours, a vicious cycle. You feel your resolve slipping more and more each time you pick the phone up.

The sun is high in the sky by the time you break, light bathing your kitchen and revealing all of the spots you’d missed when you’d dusted earlier. Your phone is heavy in the palm of your hand like a bomb – like if you don’t hit send right now, you’ll lose the motivation and it’ll detonate, taking any chance of you seeing Joel tonight and not self-sabotaging with it.

You close your eyes when you press the button and toss your phone somewhere across the room.

Well – you think – no going back now.

Joel is sitting on cold, hard bleachers at the Homecoming football game when he sees you’ve responded, the shouts of people in the stands around him not enough to avert his attention.

Hey, yeah, that would be great! Do you want to come to my apartment later? I have a bottle of wine we can crack into if you’d like. And I can order pizza.

The announcer is saying something about player #72 over the loudspeaker. He doesn’t tune in.

Joel types his reply and sends it:

Sounds perfect. I’ll come over around 7?

Sarah groans next to him. “You wanted to come to this game, dad. If you’re bored already, can we leave?”

His eyes shoot up. “No, uh – sorry. Just had to answer one text.”

Sarah narrows her eyes at him. They dart to the phone just as another message rolls in, your name flashing across the screen before Joel can hide it.

“Is that my professor?”

Joel doesn’t answer. His silence confirms enough.

“I knew you guys hit it off last night! See, dad, even though you didn’t wanna tell me at breakfast, I still found out. I always find out. Because Sarah knows all.” She attempts a maniacal, Disney villain-esque laugh.

Joel raises an eyebrow at her.

“You done?”

“So you going out again later? Do I need to make your bed on the couch, or should I just not bother?”

He ignores her. Someone gets a touchdown and half the crowd goes wild. He doesn’t bother to check what team scored.

He opens your latest message, instead.

Perfect. See you then, Cowboy ;)

His breath hitches at the nickname, at the thought of you calling him that again in person. The thought of kissing you again, if you’ll let him.

He doesn’t catch who wins the game.

Joel arrives at your apartment at seven o’clock on the dot.

Punctual, you note.

He’s holding a bottle of wine, gripping the neck with long, calloused fingers.

“Know you said you had some already,” he says as he steps over the threshold. “Just didn’t wanna come empty handed.”

The sentiment takes you aback. You’re not exactly used to dates bringing you gifts, especially ones this expensive, if the minimalist yet fancy label is any indicator.

“Thanks,” you say awkwardly, taking the bottle from him. You can’t quite make out the name – something foreign, etched in cursive.

“‘ts Italian, I think,” he mumbles, as if he can read your mind.

Your eyes shift from the bottle to Joel, standing in front of you in his Carhartt jacket, brows furrowed, gaze trained on the floor at his feet.

“Thank you,” you say more genuinely this time.

Joel smiles appreciatively. You motion to the space behind you.

“Come in.”

You lead Joel to the kitchen, just off the entranceway, and place the bottle down on the counter, gently. You tuck yourself in the corner, leaning back to rest your arms on cool granite. Joel mirrors you against the adjacent island.

“How’s Sarah?” you ask. “Feeling any better?”

“Uh, yeah,” he says, rubbing at his scruff. “She was askin’ about you. Saw me textin’ you.”

“Yeah – guess you couldn’t exactly hide this from her, staying at her apartment and all.”

“Yeah,” he laughs. “Guess not.”

You pop open the bottle of wine. Pour glasses for both of you. Then you order pizza: one cheese, one sausage and pepper. The person on the other end of the line tells you it’ll be thirty to forty minutes.

“Gonna be a bit of a wait,” you tell Joel when you hang up. “Busy night, I guess.”

He nods, takes a sip of wine, and then places the glass down, his eyes unmoving from yours.

You realize then that he’d been staring at you the entire time you were on the phone. The way he’s looking at you – gaze the same as the one from the bar last night when you’d straddled him – has you feeling suddenly nervous.

“What?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Can I kiss you again?” he asks.

Oh.

You breathe out a laugh. It’s not funny – really, the opposite – but you hadn’t been expecting him to ask that. “Joel-” you’re going to say yes – fuck yes – but he interrupts you.

“Been dyin’ to since last night.” He’s so open, so earnest. It’s fucking hot.

“Joel,” you say again, louder this time. He freezes. His eyes widen, like he’s anticipating your answer.

“Please.”

It’s all he needs to hear. In an instant, he crosses the distance between you. He places his hands on the counter behind you, framing your body with his. You peer up at him and, fuck – he looks ravenous.

He kisses you – hard. His teeth crash against yours. It’s messy and hurried, but you don’t care – you want him closer, need him closer.

Your head swims with memories of the feeling of his bulge against your clothed core. The need to feel it again is all-consuming. You’re greedy for it. And with the time constraint, you don’t want to wait another second.

You pull back abruptly. Joel furrows his eyebrows where he looms over you, concerned.

“Joel,” you pant, “I need you.”

It takes him a second to compute what you’re asking. And then he’s nodding furiously.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “Okay, darlin’.”

You pull him back in with a hand at the back of his neck, digging your nails into the skin there. His tongue slips into your mouth with a groan. You’re minutely aware of him shrugging his jacket off, hearing the light thump it makes when it hits the linoleum. And then his hands are on you, wandering up and down your body like he needs to feel every inch of you. He tugs at the base of your t-shirt impatiently.

“Off,” he mumbles against your lips. You pull back only to do as he’s asked, and then you’re right back on him, sucking a bruise into the skin below his ear, your body claiming him subconsciously. His head falls back momentarily, revealing his bobbing throat. You scrape your teeth lightly along the skin there, eliciting a groan from Joel.

Your mouth continues exploring his neck as his fingers find the clasps of your bra, unhooking them quickly and tossing it aside. You don’t see where. You don’t really care – you’ll find it later.

He grabs your now-naked sides and steps back, pulling you with him. Then he turns you and pushes you back against the island.

He slaps the countertop behind you. “Up,” he breathes against your neck. You don’t argue. You don’t want to argue. You’re so used to being the one in charge, the one in control — right now you’re happy to bend to Joel’s will.

You grip the edge of the island with both hands and hoist yourself up so that you’re perched there, legs dangling.

Joel’s fingers immediately go to the button of your jeans, popping it open before moving to tug the zipper down. And then he’s helping you lift your hips so that he can pull them down and off. He adds them to the pile at his feet.

You’re left in nothing but your underwear splayed out on your kitchen counter in front of him. You feel like you should be self conscious, maybe even embarrassed by your depravity. But you can’t find it in you to be either, not when Joel is slotted between your legs, his dark eyes scanning over you hungrily. Showing you he needs you just as bad as you need him.

He rubs his hands over your thighs and up the sides of your body, mapping your curves with great concentration. “God damn,” he whispers, what seems to be, mostly to himself. “Fuckin’ gorgeous.”

You whine pathetically. Your patience is growing thin.

He smirks up at you, likely seeing in your face how desperate you are for him right now.

“‘ts okay baby, I got you,” he coos, suddenly sinking to his knees in front of you. His hands move closer to your clothed pussy, but not quite there, tracing light circles along your inner thighs. Then he replaces his fingers with his mouth, sending your hips bucking off the counter, chasing him.

The coarse hair of his mustache scratches the skin surrounding where he sucks and bites. You don’t care. You just want to feel it lower, against your dripping folds.

“Please,” you breathe, shakily. Through hooded eyes, you catch Joel’s satisfied grin. You realize then that he loves this — making you beg for it, for him. It’s a dizzying contradiction to the way he was practically begging to kiss you just moments ago.

He presses a chaste kiss against your skin, his lips infuriatingly close to where you need them most.

“Whatcha need, darlin’?” he purrs. The vibration of his voice just next to your core has you spiraling.

“Need your mouth,” you cry. “Please.”

“Where?” He nips at you, half an inch closer to your swollen clit. You can feel his breath. Your cunt reactively clenches around nothing.

“On my pussy, Joel” you plead.

He pulls away from you completely, looks up at you with devilish eyes.

“Good girl.”

He dips one finger into the side of your underwear, pulling them aside to reveal your glistening core. “Damn baby, you’re soaked,” he drawls. You catch the hint of pride that tinges his voice.

“Please,” you beg again, your voice wanton and broken.

Joel gently pets your throbbing clit with the pad of his thumb. The pressure he applies is feather-light, barely there. But still, after all the teasing, you can’t help the embarrassingly loud moan that escapes you.

He chuckles darkly. “Alright sweetheart, I know – enough teasin’.”

He hooks both index fingers in the top of your panties, pulling them down and off in one swift movement. And then his tongue is on you, exactly where you need it.

He holds you open with fingers digging deliciously into the meat of your thighs as he licks long, languid stripes from your leaking cunt up to your clit, over and over again until you’re a whimpering mess underneath him. You struggle to hold your weight up on your elbows, watching him as he works you with his mouth.

He’s so good at this – too good at this. You tell him as much, between broken moans.

“Sofuckinggood Joel – holy shit.”

You swear you can feel him smirk against your heat.

He buries his face into your cunt then, nose pressed against your clit, and swivels his head back and forth, coating his mustache and beard in your arousal. He groans against you, like this is getting him off just as much as you. It’s all so obscene, so filthy.

You’ve never had a man go down on you like this – like they actually enjoy it. But then again, it doesn’t come as much of a surprise, not when it’s Joel. You’ve quickly come to learn that he’s attentive in every sense of the word. Knows just what you want, what you need – evident by the way his lips latch back onto your clit when you keen for him.

He keeps his attention there, switching between suckling on it – which is enough to make you see stars on its own – and lapping at it with short, shallow flicks of his tongue. He experiments with different angles, licking at different spots on the bundle of nerves until he finds the one that makes you cry out, your babbles of there Joel, yes, right fucking there, don’t stop, letting him know exactly where to focus.

You feel yourself quickly hurtling toward the edge. You just need a little bit more to get you there.

“Fingers,” you pant. “Need your fingers in me.”

Two of his fingers are at your entrance before you can even blink. You’re so wet that he slides them in easily, curling them against your walls. He expertly finds your G-spot, massaging it as his tongue continues to lap at your clit.

You gasp at the combination. It’s so good – so much. “Oh my god Joel, I’m so close,” you cry.

He doesn’t let up, doesn’t even look at you. His eyes are closed in concentration, fingers and tongue unrelenting. He’s lost in your pussy. You can tell he’s not going to come up for air until he’s given you an orgasm.

And it doesn’t take much longer – one, two, three more strokes of his fingers and you’re cumming hard.

Your vision blurs and your ears ring in your head. You’re vaguely aware that Joel is pinning one of your thighs down with his free hand to hold you in place as you thrash against the countertop.

He fucks you through it, your pussy clenching around his fingers as he continues to curl them against that spot, your clit throbbing against his tongue.

It is – without a doubt – the most intense orgasm you’ve ever had.

He doesn’t stop when you’ve come down, eager to milk every last drop from your weeping cunt. The overstimulation is too much. Your grip tightens in his hair, weakly attempting to pull him off of you as you whimper nonsense above him. You manage to exhale his name, or something close to it, and he finally lifts his face.

His eyes meet yours, dark and hooded. He looks absolutely pussydrunk.

The entire lower half of his face is soaked with your slick. His shiny, pink lips pepper kisses along your inner thighs, smoothing over the spots he’d marked with his teeth just minutes ago. You feel so sensitive – you shiver under his touch.

His smile curves into your skin. He leaves one last light peck and stands up, grunting at the ache in his knees. You laugh, but you can tell by the darkness still looming in his gaze that he’s not done with you yet.

He helps you off the counter, steadying you with hands gripping your sides as you find your footing. Your legs feel like Jell-O, a welcomed side-effect of the earth-shattering orgasm you’ve just had. You lead Joel to your bedroom, leaving your clothes scattered across the kitchen floor.

He backs you toward the bed as soon as you’re in your room, lips latched to the side of your neck. The backs of your legs hit the mattress, and then he’s lowering both of your bodies onto it, cradling your head in his hand as you settle underneath him.

He sits back on his knees, pulling his t-shirt over his head to reveal his broad, tan torso. You’re pretty sure you’re salivating, lost in the slope of his shoulders and the wide expanse of his chest. Your eyes trail lower as he undoes his belt, followed by the button of his jeans. He shimmies them off along with his boxers, his large cock springing free, tip shiny with pre-cum, and hovers back over your eager body.

He dips down and presses his lips to yours, prying your mouth open with his tongue. He’s remarkably patient for how hard he is, his erection pressing into your thigh as he kisses you, slow and wet.

One of his hands grips your jaw, the other pressed firmly against the mattress next to you. Minutes pass like that, you and Joel losing yourselves in each other. Then you remember that you don’t have all the time in the world – that your delivery driver could get here any minute. In truth, you’re not even fucking hungry anymore – not for pizza, anyway.

You snake your hand up to the back of Joel’s head, pulling at his roots lightly. “Joel,” you breathe when he lifts off of you, “please fuck me.”

He doesn’t have to be asked twice.

“How do you want it, baby?” he purrs in your ear, his warm breath skating over your skin. “How do you like it?”

You breathe out a moan. No man has ever asked you how you like it. They usually just give you a few sloppy, ill-timed thrusts, whatever they can muster before cumming and leaving you unsatisfied.

But Joel isn’t just any man.

“Hard,” you whine. “Need you to fuck me hard.”

He growls, low and dark. “‘ts right, sweetheart.”

He lines himself up with your entrance, rutting against your folds a few times to gather some of your wetness with the tip of his cock.

Then he sinks into you, slowly, stretching your walls as he notches further and further in. There’s a sweet, stinging pain, one you hope, fleetingly, that you’ll be able to feel tomorrow – like a keepsake from him.

You sigh when he reaches the hilt, his tip nudging your cervix. He stills, letting you get used to his girth and you have to dig your nails into his back to keep from writhing under him. You don’t mind if it hurts – you just need him to move.

“Please,” you whine, unable to stop your hips from bucking any longer. “I can take it, Joel.”

“Know you can, baby,” he coos, beginning to rock slowly inside of you. The pleasure is immediate, washing over your body like a warm wave.

He picks up the pace when he’s sure it feels good for you, dragging his cock halfway out of you and thrusting back in, over and over again.

He grabs both of your legs, bending them so that you’re spread wide open for him, and grips the backs of your knees tightly as he slams into you. He can get so much deeper like this, his cock hitting a spot you didn’t even know you had. You let out a labored moan, fingers anchored into his delts.

“Talk to me darlin — tell me how it feels,” he pants.

“So – fuck, Joel – so fucking good.”

Joel drops his mouth to your shoulder, nips at the skin there.

His voice is in your ear, a low snarl.

“‘Better than that fuckin ex, I bet.”

You’d be annoyed by his cockiness – if he wasn’t so right.

But he is, and so you parrot, “So much better.” And then, because it’s the truth, you add, “the best.”

“Fuck,” he breathes, his hips stuttering at your words. “Can’t say that angel, you’ll make me cum.”

He pulls out and slams back into you again, setting a new, devastating pace. He fills you up just to leave you empty, over and over again. You’re a babbling mess underneath him, couldn’t string two more words together if you tried. Luckily, Joel is happy to take over and do the talking.

“So fuckin’ pretty, babygirl. Make the most gorgeous noises, too.”

You’re so fucking close, you can only whimper in response. You feel your walls tighten around him.

He presses your foreheads together, his sweaty curls sticking to your skin. His eyes bore into yours.

“C’mon baby, show me – show me how pretty ya are when ya cum on this cock.”

He brings one hand down to your clit, rubbing sloppy circles over it as he continues spearing into you. You hike your newly-freed leg up over his lower back. A white heat licks at your spine. You barely have time to tell Joel you’re about to cum, your warning coming out a single cry of his name. He gets it, though, bringing you over the edge with his words.

“I got you, baby, I got you; you can let go.”

Your orgasm barrels through you, from the tips of your toes all the way up to your ears. Joel doesn’t let up his ministrations, talking you through it as you writhe under him.

“Thaaaats it. Good – ahh – good fuckin’ girl.”

The only word you can think of in your state of euphoria is his name, chants of Joel, Joel, Joel spilling from the back of your throat as you cum.

You’re squeezing his cock through your aftershocks, and you can tell he’s close by the way his thrusts become more and more uneven.

“Fuck – where do you want it?” he braces both palms against the mattress on either side of you.

“Inside – please, Joel,” you beg. “I’m on the pill.”

He curses in ecstasy, cumming seconds later with a series of low grunts. His hips stall as he spills inside of you. There’s so much of it – he’s nearly drowning your cervix, coating your walls with rope after rope of his spend.

He softens inside you, staying there for a long moment as you both come down from your highs. You’re sweaty, panting messes, and you can’t help but giggle at how spent you both sound.

“Good?” he asks, nosing at the space just below your jaw. It’s so soft, so gentle. Your stomach does a backflip.

“Yeah,” you say. “Really fucking good.”

He pulls out of you with a low, guttural noise. You sigh at the loss of him, your hand coming down reflexively to feel where he’s leaking out of you. His fingers graze yours, and he bumps them aside to scoop up some of your combined fluids.

He brings his wet, sticky fingers to your lips, humming when you immediately take them into your mouth and suck them clean, eyes unmoving from his the entire time. You bat your eyelashes at him, innocently as he pulls them out with a wet pop.

“Fuck,” he curses, “gonna get me hard again, angel.”

He lays down next to you, letting his head thump against the pillow, and flexes his biceps behind his head. You kind of hope he does get hard again, despite the fact that your whole body feels like liquid. Like if you were to try and stand, your legs would most definitely give out on you. They’re trembling right now, where you have them half-bent, heels dug into the mattress.

Your phone rings, then, snapping you out of your post-coital bliss. Fuck – the pizza.

You answer, trying your best to hide the undeniably fucked-out lilt of your voice as you tell the delivery person that someone will be right down.

Joel laughs next to you when you hang up. “I’ll get it – hold on.”

He jumps out of bed and dresses quickly. You’re gawking at him as he does. You can’t help it. This man – probably the hottest man you’ve ever seen – was just inside of you. You want to pat yourself on the back. He notices you staring as he’s zipping up his jeans and shoots you a wink.

Joel deadbolts your front door and disappears into the hallway. He returns moments later, shutting and re-locking the door, and strides back into your bedroom with both boxes. You can see the steam coming off of them through the cardboard.

He sets them down by your feet.

“In bed?” you ask, sitting up against the headboard.

“Well I’m not sure you can walk to the kitchen, darlin’.”

Your face heats. He has a point. But he doesn’t have to be so smug about it. You roll your eyes at him and mumble something nonsensical under your breath as you tuck yourself in under your duvet.

“What was that?” He quirks an eyebrow.

Long gone is the shy Joel from earlier this evening. He knows your body now, knows how hard he makes you cum. He’s a whole different man post-coitus – bolder. It makes you damn near melt.

And maybe you’re different now too. Because you’re pretty sure you’d give up your vow of solitude for him, if he asked.

It’s crazy, probably. You’ve only known Joel for two days, after all. But you can’t help the way that he ( and his dick) makes you feel. Like maybe there’s a promise of something down the line, however serious that something may be. You just know you want to give yourself the opportunity to experience it, no matter how it ends.

“Nothing.” You break, grin pulling tight at the corners of your mouth. “Just get me a slice of cheese.”

He lets his gaze linger for a second longer, the faux-threat of it heating you from the inside out. And then he’s vanishing into the kitchen, returning with two plates and a stack of paper towels.

He dishes up slices for the both of you, climbing into bed next to you and handing over yours.

He settles in with a content sigh.

You both eat in happy silence for a few minutes, Joel giving you a satisfied nod when he finishes up his first slice. “‘ts good,” he mumbles through a mouthful of food.

“Right?” you retort. “It’s my favorite pizza around here.”

He hums in agreement. Pulls the box of sausage and pepper onto his lap to grab another slice.

“So,” you start, “you’re heading home tomorrow?” It’s more of a statement than a question. You know he is. But still, part of you wants Joel to say no, tell you that he’s canceled his flight, that he’s decided to stick around for a bit longer.

“Yeah,” he says. You feel your heart sink. You silently curse yourself for being delusional.

“Are you excited?” you try. “To be home?”

He doesn’t respond right away – his forehead wrinkling and his lips falling into a small frown. You watch as he thinks on it.

“Not really,” he admits after a few seconds.

“I know you’ll miss Sarah,” you say, letting your head fall onto his shoulder.

He peers down at you with a heavy sigh. “So much…” His voice trails off, like there’s something else he wants to add, but can’t.

The air feels thick, suddenly – heavy. You try your best to lighten it.

“Can’t stay a bit longer? Let Tommy run things for a while?”

“No,” he laughs. “Pretty sure he’ll just end up screwin’ every client we got.”

“And you’d end up screwing every one of Sarah’s professors,” you tease.

His mouth falls open in mock-offense. He grabs at both your sides, suddenly, letting the open box of pizza slide off of his lap and onto the bed. He tickles relentlessly just under your ribs, causing you to squeal and squirm under his grip.

“Joel,” you cry in between fits of laughter. “Stop!”

“I don’t think so, darlin’,” he tuts. He removes one of hands momentarily, to toss your plate aside, and then he’s hooking one of his legs over your body, straddling you. He looks so big like this, his body hanging over yours. You feel content – safe. His hands release you, finally, coming to settle on either side of your head on your pillow. You blink up at him. He’s staring down at you with narrowed eyes.

“What?”

“Nothin,” he mumbles. “‘ts just, I wouldn’t, ya know. Sleep with anyone else, I mean. If you didn’t want me to.”

Your breath catches in your throat. You know that if you respond, it’ll come out way too eager. So you just blink at him again.

“Would you want to keep talkin’ after I get home?”

Yes, you want to say. Please. I don’t think I could go on without knowing if I’ll get to see you again – fuck you again.

You swallow. Collect yourself.

“Yeah. I would.”

You shimmy under Joel so that you can sit up. He straightens out, shifting his weight onto his knees. Takes both of your hands in his and pulls you up.

His eyes are still locked on yours. “I know we just met this weekend,” he says. “But I had a lot’a fun with you. I like you.”

Your cheeks warm. “I like you too, Joel.”

He smiles. “‘m glad.”

“Doesn’t have to be anythin’ serious,” he continues. Lets his fingers trace aimlessly along the inside of your arm. “We can jus’ see where it goes.”

“Yeah,” you nod, your heart squeezing in your chest. “See where it goes. I like that.”

And it’s the truth. You do. In the stillness, your legs tucked under the covers, Joel caressing you, you feel, for the first time in a long time, happy to not be alone. And you know you will be again, very soon, when Joel leaves to go back home. But then again, you won’t – not really. His voice will be there, a phone call away, and his body will be there, in the divot he’s left in your mattress. And you’ll have the promise of taking this slow, seeing where it goes.

You’ve never been so excited for the future.

end notes: tysm for reading! I may turn this into a series if people want more of these two <3 lmk hehe

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller smut #joel miller fic #joel miller #tlou fic #the last of us fanfiction #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #joel x reader #pedro pascal as joel miller #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x female reader #joel miller fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal smut #fiiyb

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daegall · 7 months

Text

☆ drunk confessions.

➷ in which a drunk person's words is a sober person's thoughts.

pairing: (opla!)zoro x (implied fem!) reader

genre: fluff, slight angst, slight crack, mutual pining, friends to lovers!AU (ish..?)

warnings: lots and lots of alcohol, none after that but if you find one i can add lmk!! (+ lots and love of love for smiley zoro!!!!)

word count: 3.4k words (SHEESH)

a/n: requested by @acupnoodle !! tysm bae for the request, i hope you like it!!!! my inbox is now open for requests for opla (mostly zoro tbh LOL) if anyone would like to request ^^ (make sure its sfw as i am a minor!!!)

This is sick. This is just so sick.

Okay, maybe Zoro could be exaggerating. But what else is supposed to think, when you, the you who he has feelings for, is in the kitchen with Sanji, the annoying cook who he bickers with at least 5 times a day?

And especially since the day Sanji got him to blurt out about his feelings for you while he was drunk?

Zoro never thought he'd say it, but maybe he should lay low with the booze.

The swordsman can only grumble and huff as Luffy goes on and on about something—he hears something about Shanks. But all Zoro can do, is replay the memory of you sitting on the counter, right next to Sanji, who was peeling a few apples, and with a small frown on your face at that.

First, he thought maybe the cook had hurt you in any way. Then he realized it couldn't be, you'd be marching away from him. Then he assumed it could be you, with some personal trouble. But then you would always, without a fail, go to Zoro for help in that case.

Then, Zoro came to his final conclusion.

He had hurt you in some way.

But how could he? He'd never even consider the thought—he'd kill anyone who'd hurt you, because he cares—

No.

There's no way.

Sanji didn't tell you about his feelings... right?

Indeed he didn't. But Zoro doesn't know that.

What he also doesn't know, is the fact that you went to Sanji to talk about your best friend himself.

"He's been avoiding me," You mumble out weakly, picking at a few crumbs left on the counter. Gross, but hey, it's a pirate ship. There could be much worse things than a few specks of food. "I don't remember if I did anything wrong,"

Sanji knows you didn't. In fact, it was all his fault that Zoro was avoiding you. At the moment, having the usually stoic, cold swordsman admit his feelings for you with a dopey smile, the most loving tone as he describes every little thing about you, it seemed like the best thing on Earth. The man who everyone thought would never break, broke, all because of you.

But now, Sanji thinks it's stupid. He thinks it's stupid that Zoro's avoiding you because one person knew about his feelings. How cowardly could he be? But then again, he has absolutely no experience in relationships.

Sanji offers you an apple slice, his voice comforting and soft. "I don't think it's you," He smiles when you take the apple, taking a bite. "you could never wrong him."

"Then what is it?" Your voice is laced with such helplessness, a tone of worry and guilt buried underneath. It breaks Sanji's heart to see you like this. You play with the bracelet on your wrist, something Zoro had bought you when you were at a small town. You hadn't taken it off since, and it's been 3 months.

3 months marks your feelings for him as well.

"Why don't you ask him?"

At this question, your head whips to Sanji's direction, shaking instantly. "No! Hell no, it'd make him hate me even more!"

"Y/N..." Sanji's hands are suddenly on your shoulders, his eyes glistening with genuine care. It shocks you how serious he is about the whole situation. "he doesn't hate you. You might be the only one he genuinely feels safe with, you hear me?"

It's silent for a moment, as you bask in his words, the words in which hit you unexpectedly deeply. Yes, there have been times you've patched him up after a particularly harsh fight, yes, you both have shed tears together, and yes, he lets you touch his swords and lets you use—holy shit, Roronoa Zoro does care about you!

You decide to ask him, just as Sanji had suggested you do.

Zoro, on the other hand, has a different plan.

Despite the wallowing pit in his stomach, occupied by the green monster labeled as jealousy, Zoro knows you wouldn't go for Sanji. He's like an older brother to you.

But alas, he cannot control his emotions. And so, he's come up with possibly the worst plan ever.

Roronoa Zoro is going to flirt with you. The same way Sanji flirts with Nami.

It's stupid, he knows it's stupid, but Zoro is desperate. He's never felt this way towards anyone, ever, and his pride is way too big for him to ask advice from anyone on the crew.

"Zoro!"

Said man's heartrate doubles the moment he realizes it's your voice, your sweet, sweet voice calling out to him. Oh, how special he feels now, to have you by his side, to have you care for him and make him smile, how has he not realized how blessed he was just in your presence?

Okay, maybe Zoro was exaggerating.

He glances over his shoulder, attempting to act cool with a neutral face, as he murmurs. "What is it?"

As cold as ever, his gaze pierces yours. But... there's something different in it. It's colder.

Of course, this wasn't Zoro's intentions, clearly just trying to act cool and not confess his feelings for you right then and there, but the ice in his tone, his gaze, his aura, has your heart sinking.

Maybe he really did hate you now.

"Do you mind if we could talk?"

God, just the thought of having a chat with you has Zoro's heart soaring, his whole mind and being flooding with tenderness knowing that you'd always talk to him.

"What's up?" He sighs, fully turning around to you. His body language is the usual, calm and collected, the usual hand on his swords. Zoro is thankful you can't get a look inside, you'd be seeing a whole zoo and his running thoughts about how pretty you look today.

You step closer to Zoro.

"Did... did I do something wrong?"

This time, Zoro's heart twists in confusion.

Wrong? You? How could you ever think that?

"Because if I have, don't hesitate to tell me—"

"—your face."

What?

Holy shit, Zoro thinks you're ugly?

"...Is this your way of telling someone they're ugly?"

To be frank, you're kind of glad it's not about anything that you did, that would break you.

However, him directly telling you you're ugly? You never really cared if anyone called you ugly, but Roronoa Zoro? The only man you'd every trust? Your own crush?

Your heart twists in pain.

"No! No, that's not what I meant,"

Zoro's heartstrings tug at the sight of your pained face, the frown curling on your lips, he should never open his mouth ever again.

"I-I just meant that... you..."

He feels his cheeks warm up. Is he blushing?!

"you look really pretty today,"

Those were the very last words you would have expected coming out of Zoro's mouth.

A silence envelops the air. It's... awkward, to say the least, but a little endearing, with the both of you shyly looking away.

Zoro thinks you're pretty.

Absolutely stunning with your pursed lips trying to contain a smile, the glint in your eyes known as relief, and a little hint of mischief.

"Thanks," You mumble quietly, shrugging, though you're a far cry from casual.

Zoro mirrors you, leaning his hip onto the ship railing. "Don't mention it."

And you don't. Not for the next few hours, at least.

To say Zoro's plan of flirting with you failed, was quite the understatement. Sure, he finally got to say what he's been holding in for months, but he was expecting Sanji level flattery, the teasing smiles and confidence, not whatever the two of you went through.

Zoro feels like an idiot.

You, on the other hand, quite enjoyed it. it was genuine, and unlike Sanji's flirting, it's left you thinking about the moment for hours after it's passed. It seemed so genuine, carefully thought out (though it wasn't) and soft, something you didn't know Zoro could be.

You like Zoro's flirting much more than Sanji's. Though, that may be due to the fact that you have feelings for the swordsman.

The sun sets, leaving the pirate ship quiet (for once) and calm, just like the ocean, with it's soft waves and tranquil energy.

What isn't tranquil tonight, is you.

Instead of going to sleep, you've decided to have a drink. Yes, you may have stolen from Zoro's hidden stash in which he only showed you. Yes, you may have had more than one drink.

3, to be precise.

Why? Well, how are you supposed to go on the night? Simply thinking over and over about Zoro's words? His words that have left a permanent place in your heart? Your mind and soul?

How are you supposed to spend the night thinking about a man who you were sure hated you, who called you pretty and set your heart on fire, without a drink?

Besides, what's the worst that could happen?

Maybe the fact that Zoro wants a drink tonight as well.

Okay, yeah, he did say he was gonna lay low with the booze. But bad habits die hard. He's bound to drink a little here and there.

The moment he gets to the kitchen, Zoro is shocked at the sight of you, sitting on the counter, with a bottle of his beer in your hands. Your eyes are droopy, almost sleepy, a stupid lopsided smile spreading on your lips. The bottle has Zoro's name on it, written on the tape and pasted lousily over the brand name, and seeing you eye the writing and mumble his name has Zoro's heart pounding, filling with such unexpected fondness for you, ready to burst as such a volcano would.

"That's my booze,"

Your eyes blink tiredly, with no energy, as they trail to Zoro, and when you spot him, he can't believe the way your frown completely transforms into a bright grin.

"Zoro! Hey! Yeaahh, it has your name on it,"

He's shocked when you extend your hand with the bottle in it, shaking it side to side lightly. "Wanna sip?"

Your 'p' pops, and Zoro can't help but find it utterly endearing.

"Don't mind if I do," He murmurs with a small smile, wrapping his fingers around the bottle. He doesn't miss the way you maneuver your fingers to brush with his, catching your smile once they've made contact. His fingers are warm, and slightly rough.

Life of a swordsman, you suppose.

When he takes a sip of the bottle, you scooch over on the counter, tapping the space beside you. "Come join me!" Under the low light of the moon shining through the window, you look unexpectedly elegant, despite your tipsiness, the rays settling on your cheek just right.

Zoro complies, but simply leans against the counter. He takes another swig. "Any reason as to why you're here alone? Drinking my booze?"

"Been thinking," you say simply, reaching over to fiddle with a bandage on Zoro's forearm. The action is an abrupt source of serotonin to him.

His voice is laced with care and curiosity, as he asks you, "Thinking about what?"

"You,"

Oh how you never fail to get him shy. His eyes grow wide, but with the little alcohol in his system, he supposes it could work as liquid luck for tonight.

"Yeah? What about me?"

You chuckle, drunkenly, your eyes flitting from the bandage on his arm to his own eyes, no hints of hesitation or doubt. "How pretty you are,"

"You think I'm pretty?"

"Mhm," You nod. A hand is placed on your cheek, as you lean on it and continue to gaze at Zoro, almost dreamily. "your smile is pretty,"

At the mention of his smile, it appears almost instantly, and causes you to swoon even more, if it were possible. "You like my smile?"

You sigh, your own grin joining his. "Always,"

You decide to elaborate even more, deciding your sober self will have to deal with the embarrassment of rejection later.

"And you've got these freckles on your cheeks and nose, from all the hours in the sun, I always tell you to use sunscreen,"

It's true, you do.

Zoro only chuckles lightly, growing fonder and fonder of you every time you speak.

"and I love how ambitious you are to become the worlds greatest swordsman. You're always the best. To me, at least."

God, Zoro might kiss you right then and there.

"And you're so caring for everyone on the crew, don't deny it, I always see the way you do! Helping Usopp clean the ship and tie knots, listening to Luffy's nonsense rambling and storing all the maps for Nami, even for Sanji! Always buying the right ingredients for him," You breathe out a soft laugh. "and you care about me too. I think. I mean, you're always there when I have a problem personally or not, sometimes I think maybe... we could have some connection, you know? And other days... it seems like you despise me."

What?

How could you ever think he could despise you? Sure, there are some instances where you disagree with each other, but he does not hate you. He could never even think about it.

Before Zoro could comment on it, you carry on, voice growing louder and louder.

"Did I mention I love your smile?"

Zoro can't help but chuckle, reaching over to brush a few strands of your hair from your eyes. Wow, that took him more confidence than he thought.

"Yes, you have, Y/N."

"Oh... then let me mention it more," A sheepish smile grazes your lips, as you lean in close to observe his smile once you realize he is.

"And your lips. They're pretty too,"

Your eyes squint as you lean in closer, so close that your noses brush against one another. Zoro doesn't find the will in him to lean in, neither to pull back either. He simply sits there, his heart growing softer and softer when you purse your lips and tilt your head, shaking it.

"they look lonely," you state. "wanna meet mine?"

Oh, you're cute.

With the confident, almost cocky smile on your lips, eyes growing wider and wider as Zoro starts laughing.

Through your drunken eyes, seeing him smile is one thing. One thing enough to set you rambling and rambling about how much you enjoy it. Hearing him laugh? You could talk about it for hours, but you'd have too many things to say at once, you'd be left speechless. And that's exactly what happens at the moment, as you're left gaping at the sweet melody of his laughs, simply keeping your loving gaze on him.

"I'm not kidding, Zoro." You mumble. "I love you, I do."

For months, Roronoa Zoro has been so unsure about himself around you. Is he enough? Will he ever be enough? But now, hearing you state that you love him, he's sure. He loves you too, more than he could ever comprehend, and he won't doubt himself anymore.

He leans in, bumping your foreheads together clumsily. Though it hurts for a moment, it's fond, caring, as he smiles softly at your drunk state.

You could just be drunk right now.

None of this could be true.

Zoro doesn't care. If it's true or not, there has to be a reason you're telling him this. He'll ask you when you're sober.

Speaking of, "I won't kiss you," He says.

Your heart plummets to the ground, you can feel it deep in your chest, crashing through the base of the ship and sinking to the bottom of the sea, buried under such hurt hearing his words.

It lifts a moment later, however, as he places his lips on your cheek lovingly, a kiss to your forehead following.

"not when you're drunk. Don't wanna take advantage of you,"

"But you're not—"

"—I know, but it won't feel the same,"

Really, all Zoro wants to do, is place just one kiss on your lips, your lips that pout as you look up at him, hold you so closely to him, finally accept his feelings and make a move.

But, he'll wait for the morning. He'd wait forever just for you.

And as he leaves, warning you to stop drinking his booze, you're left... with a half heart. Half full with love, knowing Zoro could very much feel the same way for you, half empty, sad to have made so much effort (getting drunk should not be the way to confess to your crush) just for him to leave you hanging.

That's on you, you suppose.

He makes a very good point about the whole 'taking advantage' thing.

You guess you'll be too much of a coward when you wake up sober, too scared to fully confess, too scared to even look at him.

Zoro could not disagree more. He swears, the moment the sun has risen and you're awake, he's going to make you his. All his to hold, all his to take care of and protect, all his to love.

And as the day starts, both your minds are instantly flooded with thoughts of the other. The moment you see him, yawning as he listens to Luffy's rambling, your heart starts racing.

You don't remember that much from last night.

All you remember is the feeling of Zoro's warm lips on your skin, his caring gaze, and the ridiculous amount of alcohol you had drank. Sure, it was a far cry from how much Zoro would usually drink, but it's still a big amount to you.

Zoro has last night's events imprinted in his mind, every lingering glance he sends your way, every shy smile the two of you share, the way you scurry away quickly with an embarrassed scrunch of your nose, it takes him back to the night.

And finally, some alone time.

You find Zoro in the kitchen, checking on his booze stash, the one you had invaded the night before.

"Sorry about that, by the way," You call out, announcing your presence.

Zoro's heart soars just at the sound of your voice, small, almost guilty, and when he turns around, seeing you sit on the counter, just as you had last night, he can't stop the smile from tugging his lips upward. "It's no problem," He shrugs. "you'd never bother me,"

Roronoa Zoro, the lone wolf, the harsh swordsman saying that to you says a lot.

He approaches your figure slowly, growing more and more confident once he's realized that's exactly what you want. It's exactly what he wants too.

Finally, he's stopped right in front of you, your knees brushing slightly against his shirt. You look down at your hands placed on your laps, too shy to say anything, nor even look up at him.

"Hey," A sudden touch at your chin shocks you, and you eventually melt against his hold as he tilts your head up to meet his eyes. Like a magnet, you grow closer collectively, up until Zoro has both his hands sitting by your hips, your noses once again brushing.

This scene seems familiar.

You conclude it's what had been done last night, when he had kissed along the skin of your cheeks.

"I'm not drunk anymore," You whisper out.

Zoro chuckles, causing your entire being to wave with warmth of safety and comfort. "Yeah, I can see that."

"So you gonna give me that kiss or—"

Zoro's lips feel much warmer than you expected. They feel complete, pressed against your softly, almost hesitantly. The moment your fingers graze against his jaw, he relaxes, leaning in deeper to not only kiss your lips, but your entire soul, with love and solace, finally coming to terms with his feelings.

God, does Roronoa Zoro love you so much. He loves the way your hands creep up to mess up his (already disheveled) hair, the sigh you let out against his lips, the way you chase his lips once he's pulled away.

"What exactly did I say last night?" You mumble against his lips once he's pulled away, grabbing at his hand to play lightly with his fingers.

"Well, you mentioned how much you loved my smile," Zoro chuckles. There he goes once again, with his pretty smile and laugh, leaving you speechless and starstruck. "like, a lot."

"Did I mention that I love you?"

Zoro feels a warmth bubble from his stomach, feeling it envelop his chest, his arms and fingers when you finally intertwine your hands in a lock, his cheeks as they redden, and his lips as he finally gives you one last flash of the smile you claim to adore so much.

It's love.

"Yeah," He leans in to press your foreheads together. "I think I love you more,"

#roronoa zoro #roronoa zoro x reader #zoro x reader #zoro #one piece #one piece imagines #one piece x reader #roronoa zoro imagines #zoro imagines #one piece live action #opla #roronoa zoro live action #zoro live action

1K notes · View notes

lovebugism · 1 year

Note

Virgin!Eddie thoughts?

THE CUSTOMER'S ALWAYS RIGHT | quid pro quo

summary: eddie muson is a virgin and doesn't want anyone to know (because being an adult who's never fucked anyone is a total reputation ruiner). but you, his favorite customer, are more than willing to change that. pairing: eddie munson / f!reader word count: 6.5k (holy shit this was supposed to be a blurb) warnings: talks of virginity and masturbation, the word "tit" too many times, a handjob (sorta?) 18+ mdni a/n: you asked for thoughts but i had way too many of them for a single post so i might turn this into a whole virgin!eddie series that will only see the light of day if you guys are into this so... no pressure <3

( MASTERLIST ) | ( NEXT )

You were Eddie’s favorite customer, though that went without saying. It was something both of you were more than aware of. Albeit it, it was a little strange, since he — the supplier of your weed — was essentially paying for your high. He doesn’t mind it, though. He never did. You made it up for him in other ways; and, no, it’s not as perverted as it sounds.

It’s actually much, much weirder.

It was your fourth time meeting with him but your first time without any money to give him in exchange. You’re all pink and fidgeting and feeling like a total loser as you shift on the hard wooden bench across from him.

Your gaze is tilted away from his and down at your hands where you twist the rings on your fingers — “I was supposed to get paid last Friday, but my boss is paying me weekly now instead of every two weeks, so he completely changed my payday on me, and he swears he told me about it, but he totally didn’t— anyway, that’s beside the point. I don’t have any money to give you, or like, at all. Genuinely. I’m gonna be lucky if I get to eat anything other than top ramen for the next few days.”

“Damn,” he laughs, not in amusement at your situation but rather pitying you for it. “That sucks—”

“That sounds like I’m guilt-tripping you, doesn’t it?” you keep rambling. “I’m really not. I’m just trying to be honest. I’m not, like, trying to do you over or anything. I swear. You probably don’t even care. You’re my drug dealer, not my friend, I wouldn't blame you if you didn't— I’m making a total fool out of myself, aren’t I?”

“No, not at all,” Eddie assures sincerely, the hint of a smile curling at the corner of his lips. That’s all he can muster. He feels like the fool right about now because your words sting a little harder than intended.

He always considered you a friend. Or, at least, a whole lot more than just a client. You’re the only customer he has fun with, who he can laugh with, who doesn’t just hang around long enough for him to hand you your drugs like everyone else does, who actually cares enough to make conversation with him.

Maybe that’s why he chose to give it to you for free that day.

Because he’s started to grow fond of you (and because he genuinely believes that you’re in a bad way and that money’s a little too tight for you right now. He knows all too well what that’s like.)

But he asks you for a favor in return when you take the plastic baggie from him. It has him blushing with embarrassment like you’d been just minutes before. He can’t meet your gaze as he says the words, but he can feel the incredulous beam of it piercing holes into him.

“You, Eddie Munson, are willing to give me weed, for free, as long as I… help you pass your next English exam?”

You weren’t repeating it to mock him or to make him feel bad for being a third-year senior. You’re just actually shocked because you know a thing or two about the Munson’s. You know that his Uncle is working two jobs, and his nephew has resorted to drug dealing to compensate for their being strapped for cash. You also know that suppliers giving out anything for free is bad for business, so it’s essentially unheard of.

And aside from all that, Eddie wanting to study — to want to try to be good at something rather than just winging it and hoping for the best — was almost as surprising as him wanting you to be the one to help him. You literally have Gareth, his best friend, in your English class, and he’s way better at it than you are.

You try to find what makes you somehow special but come up short.

“Is that, like, really weird?” he wonders meekly, scrunching his nose and peering at you through his lashes. His eyes are the color of chocolate syrup, you notice then. Like, exactly. And they have a sort of sheen to them beneath the sun, like he's trapped a star inside of them.

“Yes,” you answer with a laugh that's as light as air. “Considering you could’ve offered literally anything else. Like, I don’t know— groping my tits or something.”

It’s what you were half-expecting. Not because you thought Eddie was that kind of guy, but because that’s how it often went down, at least in porn. A busty (broke) blonde orders a pizza, a man with an enormous dick delivers it… It’s a tale as old as time, really.

Your words make him tense for the second time in five minutes.

He almost wants to be offended that you’d think of him that way, but his yearning far overpowers his wounded ego.

He’s got a soft heart. That offer never would’ve crossed his mind, and even if it did, he’d never be stupid enough to say it out loud. But he didn’t realize how much he liked you until right then. It wasn’t just a friend caring for another friend, but a boy with a crush on a girl eons out of his league (with boobs he would happily touch if she’d let him).

He clears his throat and irrationally prays that you aren’t a mind reader.

“I’m down if you are,” he answers with a playful lilt to his voice that makes you giggle again. He’s happy to hear it. Your laugh is like being basked in sunshine. He wants to keep it in his pocket when he gets lost in the shade.

That’s the moment that started it all — the strange friendship that formed out of practically nothing. Who knew what being poor, free weed, an historically low GPA, and a missed opportunity for tit-groping could do to two people?

From then on, all your weed was free. As long as you broke down all the themes in Of Mice and Men for him, of course. And then, when he ultimately aced that paper, he wanted to run his D&D campaign by you — “So, you know, it isn’t totally lame when I show it to the rest of Hellfire.”

“Of course, it’s gonna be lame,” you deadpan from across the rotting bench. “It’s Dungeons and Dragons.”

He goes red at that, a flash of pink blotched around his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. He glows cherry with embarrassment and smiles faintly as he looks down at his hand, fidgeting with his silver skull ring. It’s cute. Too cute. The kind of cute that makes you grin to yourself without even thinking about it.

“I’m kidding, Eds—”

Eds. That was new, the boy remarks to himself. Not the nickname itself, perhaps, but the fact that you were the one calling him by it. You’re getting more comfortable with him. He likes that. It gives him a false hope; that one day he’ll be a friend to you and not just your dealer.

“—It sounds really fun actually,” you assure him with nod and a twinkling gaze that proves you sincere. “As long as you’ll smoke with me during.”

“I don’t really like to use my own product…” That was a lie. Mostly. He didn’t like to smoke his own stuff because that burned a hole into his profits. But that didn’t mean he didn’t do it. It was far too tempting to have a tin full of so much weed never more than just a few inches away.

Now he’s got a pretty girl in front of him, wanting to smoke with him, wanting to spend time with him. Hell’s freezing over as they speak and that certainly calls for a celebratory smoke session.

A smirk pulls at his pink lips and he tilts his head, bringing his ear to his shoulder, as he looks at you with a glimmering umber gaze.

“But I’m willing to make an exception. Just for you.”

Eddie swears you blush at that, but he catches only the shortest glimpse of your crimson cheeks before you duck your gaze to the table. The beam on your face is only half-washed away, however, when you turn up to look at him again. You look shy, almost, as you peer at him through your lashes.

“You’ll basically have to start from scratch too, you know that, right? I don’t know anything about that shit.”

“Well, I’m glad I can be your first,” he quips.

You laugh again. It’s like the pinky-orange of a sunset. He could paint it if he had the right supplies. And a set of hands that were good for things other than rolling die and playing guitar.

It was his first time, really. In every aspect of the phrase.

It was the first time a girl’s ever offered to hang out with him and not the other way around. The first time a customer’s ever offered to share their weed with him. The first time someone’s ever wanted him to explain his favorite hobby and not care that he’s been rambling for the better part of an hour.

He doesn’t even notice that he hasn’t shut up since he started talking, mostly because you aren’t giving him that look of annoyance people usually have when he hasn’t gotten the hint. Most couldn’t care less about goblins and villains and battles and knights and princesses — princess knights.

It’s more interesting than you ever hoped a board game could be, but less so as enchanting as the glow Eddie’s got about him as he rambles on and on about something that makes him so happy.

He’s beaming and he doesn’t even realize it. He has no idea he could light up an entire solar system with the smile on his face. You’d tell him if it didn’t feel totally inappropriate.

It takes two weeks to perfect the campaign, which isn’t at all long if you compare it to the year it took him to build it from scratch. When the Cult of Vecna (you pat yourself on the back for coming up with the name) is polished and Hellfire worthy, Eddie starts giving you weed... just because.

There’s nothing left for him to offer in exchange. And he isn’t going to turn his favorite customer down for anything.

“What? No tutoring? No D&D campaign?” you wonder with furrowed brows and a face contorted in confusion.

Eddie shrugs and swings the baggie full of greenery back and forth with the tip of his pointed finger. “Nope. I’m passing English and the campaign’s all finished — the guys love it, by the way. Thanks to you. You’ve helped me out with enough shit, so… just take it.”

“Well, now I just feel bad,” you reject with a scrunched nose, displeased at the idea of taking something and not doing anything for it in return. He can hardly afford it to begin with, much less without anything in exchange. “You're basically paying for my weed already. I can’t just take it.”

“You could,” the boy lilts with a sardonic nod. “My hand's getting a little tired here, sweetheart.”

You huff and reach across the bench for the plastic baggie. Your face is still twisted with an absentminded annoyance and your gaze still uncertain. “You sure it’s okay?”

“Yeah. Cross my heart.”

“Fine.”

“Unless groping your tits is still on the table, of course,” he squints playfully over at you and then smiles softly at the recollection of the conversation from many moons ago.

It was supposed to be a joke. But you’re not laughing.

And when you nod at him, he isn’t either.

It’s got him nearly choking on air and sputtering for a response. “No, I was— I was just— It was a joke. I was just kidding.”

“I know. But, I don’t know, I’m down if you are,” you shrug. “That’s what you said before, right?”

And Eddie has no idea what to say to that. Of course, he wants to. There are a billion things he wants to do. He wants to graduate, he wants to play a show at the Madison Square Garden with Corroded Coffin, he wants to bend you over this table and fuck you silly.

He could do all those things if he were a different person, but he wasn’t. He’s just some guy who can’t pass an English class he's already taken three times, with a mediocre band that plays in front of about five drunks (if they’re lucky), who has a crush on a girl who’s offering to let him feel her up for a short-lived high.

He repeats that last part to himself in his head a couple times. It sounds like a dream he had once. He pinches the skin of his wrist, just to make sure, and winces when it starts to hurt.

It’s real, you’re real, and that’s the scariest part.

Because he’s never actually seen boobs that weren’t projected from a television screen through the grainy film of a VHS tape, or pictured in a crinkled magazine he stole from a gas station — let alone touched one. And the second he puts his hands on you, and you feel him shaking like a leaf and totally unsure of what to do, you’ll know that.

That is, if he doesn’t come in his pants first.

He’s terrified that when you do realize that he’s a complete and utter, absolute and proper virgin, you’ll think he’s significantly less cool. And he can’t have that.

It’s bad for clientele. They’ll stop seeing him as the mysterious metalhead from the wrong side of the tracks but rather as some teddy bear who’s never actually been inside a woman.

He could probably handle the potential drop in income and the talks around school. Hell, he could even handle all the shit Jason Carver would spew at him if he knew. But the idea that you’ll stop wanting to hang out with him — he isn’t sure if he could take that.

He doesn’t notice that he hasn’t said a word until you’re speaking again. And even then, it’s all muffled like he’s underwater.

“I can come over tonight, if you want.”

No, he thinks to himself. That’s far too early. I have to lose my virginity and learn everything there is to possibly know about sex first.

“I... I can’t. Hellfire,” he answers, almost slurring, still caught in a stupor.

“Tomorrow, then,” you challenge at his rejection. You cross your arms and lean over the table as you squint at him. The wind rustling through the trees carries the warmth of your floral-vanilla scent over to him, like a lullaby, or a magic spell.

As though he needed something else to make him all stupid.

Suddenly you're ten feet tall. Eddie feels like an ant. You could crush him if you wanted. You have all the power and the look you give him tells him that you know that. He fidgets on the hard wooden seat but can’t seem to break your stare. His voice is tight and a few octaves higher as he answers — “Yeah. Tomorrow sounds good. Great, even.”

“Cool,” you’re suddenly beaming. You stand from the bench and saunter off, tossing a look and a wave over your shoulder as you shout, “See you tomorrow, Eds!”

He has to jerk off after that one. He counts himself lucky that he made it to his van before he exploded completely.

Eddie has to become a sex god in twenty-four hours and he doesn’t know where to start.

So, like any master procrastinator, he doesn’t. He just worries about it all night and the following day. He turns himself into a big ball of anxiety (if you touched him, he'd probably shock you) and it’s left him in the sort of worry that doesn’t let him sit still for too long.

Wayne’s sitting in his recliner, trying to eat his late lunch before he heads off to work the graveyard shift. It’s hard to enjoy his sandwich or the latest episode of Miami Vice playing on the television ahead of him when his nephew keeps bouncing in and out of the room. Making brief conversation, rearranging the knickknacks on the coffee table, coming in just to stand in place for a few minutes before leaving again to rustle in other parts of the small trailer.

At one point, he comes in with the fucking vacuum and nudges at the man’s work boots until he kicks his feet up. Wayne’s never seen him do a chore in his life.

“What the hell has gotten into you today, boy?” the man complains through turkey, cheese, and bread.

“Nothing. What are you talking about? I’m perfectly normal.”

He’s never been normal a day in his life either.

Eddie disappears out of the room a second later with the whirring of the vacuum in tow. Wayne shakes his head to himself. “Boy’s gonna be the death of me,” he mumbles and takes another too large bite.

It’s unlike Eddie not to tell his uncle things, especially things weighing so heavy on his chest that they're starting to feel like pure steel. But his uncle doesn’t ask any questions, and Eddie’s grateful.

How the hell is he supposed to tell Wayne that a cute girl is coming over and that he’s jacked off three times at the thought of her?

Once in his bed, the first thing he did that day when he woke up from a dream about you that felt a little too real; the second in the shower when the cold water wouldn’t kill the boner he’d gotten; and the third in his bedroom, in the shirt he’d peeled off hardly ten minutes beforehand when he got into a bath. It made him feel dirty again though his skin was perfectly clean.

Wayne would think he was joking. At least with the “cute girl” part. He’d probably pat him on the back for the second one — “oh, to be young again,” he'd mumble to himself while simultaneously deciding to leave well enough alone.

Eddie’s so nervous he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

You’ve got him practicing what to do in the mirror, trying to plan the conversation, ironing out the wrinkles of what might happen. “Hi—” he starts but then shakes his head and clears his throat. His voice is deeper as he continues, “Hey, how are you doing? Oh, that’s cool, I’m good too— shit, this is so fucking lame.”

He wonders how you’ll go about it. If you’ll offer first, or if he needs to ask. If you’ll make small talk or if you’ll just straight up take off your shirt. He’d take either, honestly.

He jerks off one more time, just for good measure, after Wayne’s left for work. He’s already tired and his dick is practically raw with how much it’s been tugged at, but he hopes it’ll stop him from getting hard the second you walk through the door. And he figures with the amount he’s come that day, he’s a whole less likely to do it in his pants when he touches you.

You knock on the door at 7 o’clock sharp, like you planned it down to the minute.

He straightens out his leather jacket when he stands abruptly from the couch. He rushes to the door and then hesitates with his hand on the rusted brass handle — because he doesn’t want to seem too eager, right?

He leans to the side to look in the dirty glass mirror hanging by the coat rack, brushing through his curly locks in attempts to tame them. Then he shakes his head so they’re wild again.

He finds you standing on his porch in a tight-black sweater that dips down at your chest; the pendant of your necklace sparkles under the yellow nightlight perched on the outside wall. It’s paired with a white nylon skirt that stops at your thigh.

He’s only seen girls on TV in the suede boots you’re wearing — the kind that’s tight up to your ankle with a short and chunky heel. They match the color of your skirt. He wonders if they were expensive and how much you’ve worn them; they look brand new, like you’ve brought them down from the top of your closet just for him.

You’ve got a stack of thick tapes in one hand and a brown paper bag of snacks in the other.

“What… What’s all this?” he wonders, not displeased at your effort but shocked by it nonetheless.

“Thought we could have a movie night,” you shrug then slide by him and into the trailer. He shuts the door behind you and watches from afar as you set the sack down. It’s not quite flat on the bottom so it topples over and spills some of its content onto the coffee table — red hot chips and sour gummy worms.

“You mentioned that you’d never seen Fast Times a couple weeks ago, so I decided to go rent a copy at Family Video, right? And then I started talking to Robin and she started showing me all the new movies that just came in, so I got a little carried away—”

You're rambling, he notices, almost like you’re nervous.

It makes him feel slightly better, knowing this obviously wasn’t your first time hanging out with a guy (or being touched by one, if he ever got to that part), but that you were nervous nonetheless. Like you wanted this — whatever this was — to go well just as much as he did.

Eddie puts the tape into the VHS player when you’re headed back from the kitchen with a bowl of popcorn in hand. You sit it on the table before plopping yourself in the middle of the couch — the boy across the living room has no idea you spent the two-and-a-half minutes it took to cook the snack debating on where to sit.

You feared sitting too far on one side might spook him from sitting next to you, that he’d think you didn’t want to sit next to him. So you place yourself snuggly in the middle of the decade-old sofa and hope you don’t seem too eager.

Your heart sinks to your ass when Eddie sits so far on the edge he’s practically sitting on the arm of it.

You muster a smile and try to make a joke of it. “I don’t have cooties or anything, Eds.”

“Promise?” he lilts. The way his voice shakes is purely for comedic effect. Obviously.

“Cross my heart.”

He hopes that by playing it off, you won’t notice how anxious he is about sitting next to you. But when he plants himself beside you, just close enough so that the rough fabric of his jeans scratches your knee every time he fidgets, it’s a little like sitting next to a rock. You spend the first half of the movie wondering if he’s nervous too or if he really just didn’t want to sit this close to you.

The film keeps playing and he keeps snacking — eating chips and Oreos and popcorn in a rotation before combining all three and marveling at the taste; “You’ve got to try this!” he exclaims to you with raised brows and wide eyes. He eventually forgets to be nervous.

That is, until Fast Times hits 53 minutes and 5 seconds.

The smooth bass of Moving in Stereo plays lowly in the background as Phoebe Cates rises from the pool water, clad in a small red bikini. The chlorine-laced drops of water glisten off of her tanned skin. “Hi, Brad. You know how cute I always thought you were,” you quote quietly along with her.

Your eyes are as glued to the television as Eddie’s when she starts to unlatch her top, like it’s the first time you’re seeing it too. You joked to Robin once that you couldn't wait until they made this movie in 3D.

Eddie gets hard as a rock, then. In every sense of the phrase.

“She’s hot, right?” you ask him.

“Yeah,” he answers. He clears his throat when the word comes out too tight. “Totally.”

“That’s how I knew Robin was gay, you know? We watched this when I slept over at her house one time and I woke up in the middle of the night and found her playing this scene over and over again,” you confess with a laugh and hope your best friend won’t be too angry you told him this. “She was sitting, like, two inches away from the screen.”

“Really?”

“Mhm. And when we made out afterward, that really sealed the deal—”

“Holy shit—” he sputters before he can stop it. “—Are you joking?”

Please, say yes before I come in my jeans, he thinks to himself.

“Why?” you challenge, shooting him an arched brow over your shoulder. “Does that change anything?”

“What? No! Of— Of course not!” It just makes you, like, ten times fucking hotter, that’s all.

“Good,” you nod and then turn back to the television. You move on quickly, and Eddie’s grateful. You keep telling the story like it’s one you tell all your friends.

“I asked her why she was watching it without me, and she said she got bored, but I already knew why she was watching it, you know? I guess I just wanted to hear her say it. So I just came out with it — ‘If you want to look at a pair of tits, I’m literally right here.’”

Eddie’s so entranced by your words it’s like you're telling him a bedtime story. He’s looking at you so intently, his gaze locked to your profile like he’s trying to commit it to memory. And when you finally turn to look at him again, he can’t seem to turn away, to even pretend like he wasn’t just hopelessly staring at you.

“So, then it became this whole thing, right? Like, I’ll show mine if you show yours. And then she got all awkward and nervous and lost in her head, kinda like you right now, and then I leaned in…” you trail off quietly, doing it in time as the words leave your mouth. So teasingly and breathtakingly slow. Eddie finds himself drifting closer to you, too, like a bayman to a siren’s call. “Just like this… And then I—”

You don’t have a chance to finish your sentence.

Eddie’s already kissing you before he realizes what he’s doing. Your noses knock together, the tip of his crushed against the side of yours. The sweet flavor of your strawberry chapstick evades his mouth when your lips press together.

He’s as shocked as you are.

He’s wanted to kiss many pretty girls in his life, but this was the first time he's actually ever done it.

You feel his face burn red against you when he realizes what he’s just done. He tries to pull away from you, but you keep him there with a hand on the back of his head; deepening the kiss and telling him that you want this — that you’ve always wanted this — without actually saying the words.

Refusing to separate from him, you maneuver yourself to face him more as press yourself against his side and tuck your knees beneath you. You caress the rough pad of his tongue with yours all the while, one hand balled in the shoulder of his t-shirt and the other anchoring itself to his curls.

You wait patiently for him to take action. To grip your waist. To lay you back on the couch. To climb over you and take what’s his.

He never does.

He hardly even touches you. He’s got one palm on your hip, but it’s so featherlight that it’s barely even there. His other hand is clutching the pillow on his lap with a white-knuckled grip, like he’s fighting to contain himself in some way. But you want him to let go. To lose himself with you.

The cushion had been there for most of the movie, something to keep in his absentminded hold and get crumbs all over. You wonder, now, if it’s a shield for something else.

Your lips click wetly when you part from him. A small smile forms on your mouth when you notice a string of spit threatening to connect the both of you. It breaks apart, landing cold below your mouth, and you wipe it away with the back of your hand.

“Are you hard?”’ you wonder through bated breaths, coming right and just saying it.

Eddie’s eyes go somehow wider and his mouth falls agape. “Uh… No?”

Giggling, you ask, “Is that a question?”

“Maybe.”

“So what’s the answer?” you pry.

“Honestly?” he starts with a heavy breath and heavier eyes, still trying to joke. “Whatever makes me sound super cool and mysterious and sexy.”

“I’ve always thought you were all those things,” you confess with a soft laugh, twisting a strand of his hair with the tip of your finger.

“…Really?” he can’t help but wonder. Those words are about the most shocking thing that’s happened so far this evening.

“Yeah,” you nod, then tease: “Because you've never lied to me.”

So tell me the truth, he can hear the words jumbling around in your head. So does. He swallows thickly and then admits, voice cracking halfway through his confession, “I’m so hard that it fucking hurts, sweetheart.”

You’re smiling like the Chesire Cat at that, big and sly and mischievous. You have all the power and you know it.

“Can I make you feel better?” you whisper to him, lilting like you're taunting him. You mean it, though, and he knows that because you’re already tugging at the pillow in his lap. You don’t fight to snatch it away completely. You leave just enough room to allow him to say no. But his grip on the thing relaxes and allows you to slide the cushion slowly from his crotch.

He can’t say the words because his tongue is suddenly heavy in his mouth and his throat is closing on him. So he just nods, peering at you with eyes hooded with ecstasy.

You go back to kissing him, then, unhurriedly this time. You allow yourself to feel all of him, to hold his face in your hands and explore all the bits of him you never got the chance to before now. You do it more so in an effort to get him to relax, to forget to be nervous, but it only half-works.

He gets more comfortable with himself with time. The hand on your waist finds a more confident purchase there and the other climbs up to your face, cradling your jaw while his ringed fingers get lost in the strands of your hair. Then he starts to kiss you back harder, more earnestly than before, like he’s trying to prove something. Trying to tell you everything like this than with words he can’t seem to say out loud.

He forgets to be nervous again when your lips fit together like pieces of a puzzle — the kind with the funky edges, the kind you know goes together because there’s only two in the whole bunch like it. He stops worrying if he’s doing it right.

His breath is warm and heavy as it fans against your cupid’s bow. He’d rather take in small pieces of oxygen like this than stop kissing you now. You feel the same way as you straddle his thigh, careful not to move with too much haste that it knocks your lips apart.

Eddie’s legs part for you on instinct. When you settle more comfortably against him, he can feel the warmth radiating between your thighs through the thick fabric of his jeans. He wishes he was naked right now, more so that you were, so he can feel all of you, bare against his skin.

But he takes what he can get for now. And tries not to burst completely at the thought that the only thing separating you from him was the thin layer of your cotton underwear.

It’s hard not to think about your own pleasure like this. You could so easily move your hips against his thigh, let the rugged fabric of his jeans and your panties do all the work against your clit and bring you to a swift release. You want to. You’re sure Eddie would want you to if you asked him. But it strangely seems less important now.

Because you know you’re minutes away from making Eddie come so hard his legs shake. And you always wanted to know what he looked like when he came.

Your hand worms out of his hair and down his neck. Your fingernails trail lightly over his skin, leaving visible chill bumps in their wake. Your palm falls down his chest and stomach, smooth like drops of summer rain. The print of his Def Leppard tee is rough and cracked with age. You wonder how long he’s had it, how often he’s worn it, as your hand settles again. This time on his belt.

For a split second, he’s anxious about you seeing his dick. What if you think it’s too small? He thinks to himself. What if you think it’s too ugly? But then he realizes you’re not even trying to take off his jeans. You just rest your palm over the rough material of the denim and grip him through it.

A groan crawls up his throat and out of his mouth. His head falls backward and lands against the back of the couch.

He’s bigger than you thought, and warm against the tender skin of your hand, even through his boxers and his pants. It’d be ever warmer if you were feeling the real thing, you discern, but you figure you’ll save that for another time. Because even though it’s not the real thing and there are so many layers separating your fingers from his cock, Eddie’s letting out small and breathy moans that tell you that you’re touching him just right. The more you squeeze, the louder he gets.

“Is this okay?” you whisper to him.

“Are you kidding?” he retorts with a breathless laugh. “I feel like I’m in heaven right now.”

“Just wait until you come,” you giggle. It makes him moan again. His eyes fall shut because he knows he’s moments away from feeling what it’s like — not to come, obviously, but for it to be from your hand and not his.

You massage him through his jeans, feeling him grow somehow harder with each caress of your fingers. Peering down at him, you can see his jaw clenching, the way it moves his temples, and the muscles in his neck straining as he climbs the peak of pleasure.

“If you think this feels good now, just wait until you're inside me,” you purr to him.

“Oh, fuck,” he drawls shakily at your words. He doesn’t know if you’re being serious or not. He wants so much to believe that it’s a promise, though. The idea that he could unbuckle his belt right now, free his cock from its restraints and slip your panties to the side and take you, just like this, with you on top of him and riding him for all he’s worth, that nearly does him in.

But he’s fighting to keep it at bay. To let this moment last as long as he can. Because it’s entirely likely that he’ll come and you’ll never want to do this again. It’s even more likely that he’ll wake up from this way too vivid fantasy he’s concocted in his brain. How good can dreams get until they’re nightmares again?

The hand on your hip darts to wrap around your wrist.

“What’s wrong?” you ask him, gaze sober and sincere.

Eddie breathes out a tremble sigh of relief when you slow your motions against him. “I just…” he breathes heavily. And swallows. “I really don’t want to come in my jeans.”

You’re smiling again at that, pleased at how good you're making him feel. Like the pleasure is foreign to him. He can feel your grin as you lean down to kiss him. It’s a chaste peck, like you're just sprinkling yourself there so it can linger the rest of the night.

Your kiss is far more fervent against his neck, wetter and more passionate. His skin has a faint taste of salt, like he’d been sweating. And he was, for the entire day that he anticipated your arrival, though there was never an ounce of him expecting this. You bite at the strained tendon and marvel as he shudders beneath you.

“It’s okay,” you leave your promise against his skin. “I’ll wash them for you after. Like a good little housewife—”

It was a joke and he knows it because you’re laughing at the absurdity of your words, at the reality of them. You’re probably the only person in the world giving your drug dealer a handjob for free weed and then offering to wash his damp bottoms when he comes in them — calling yourself his fucking housewife. But, for a reason he can’t explain, that’s what gets him.

Not marrying you, perhaps, but the idea that he could have this feeling forever. That you could bring him to complete and utter, blinding bliss and then take care of him while he comes back to earth.

You give him an especially tough squeeze that sends a moan spilling roughly from his throat. His hips jerk up to their own according, his thigh jamming into your clothed pussy — he swears he hears you moan — and his toes curl in his boots.

He doesn’t let go of your hand as he comes. He grasps your wrist and presses you further against him. His grip is almost too tight but you don’t mind it, not when you can feel the denim growing damp with the evidence of his orgasm.

Eddie doesn’t feel anything for a while after that. It’s just pure pleasure for several long moments. The fuzziness of his climax, your hand pressed against him, your warmth still pressed against his thigh.

But then the high fades away like a rolling summer cloud and he starts to feel the wet patch forming in his clothes. The fabric of his thin boxer starts to stick to him and he almost feels gross, like he’s a teenager again who can’t so much as look at a woman with needing to come.

But then he sees the way you look at him, grinning like a cat who got the cream — because, in some ways, you are. You look like you're proud of him. Like you’re secretly wondering how many times you can do that before it’s too much. He wants to find out too.

You plant another kiss to his lips. Just because you can.

“Take your pants off, Munson,” you mumble against his mouth, kissing him one more time for good measure before pulling away again.

“Oh— shit— wait, really?” he sputters. “I thought you were joking about— about me being… I— I don’t know if I have any condoms.”

He totally does, in an unopened box under his bed, collecting dust.

You don’t need to know that, though.

“I meant for washing them so you can change,” you laugh at his embarrassment. The sound somehow makes him feel better even though you’re slightly making fun of him. You shrug and arch a brow at him, lilting, “But… I’m down if you are.”

have any more virgin!eddie thoughts? or just thoughts about my writing/requests in general? leave them here if you want! ꒰◍ᐡᐤᐡ◍꒱

#stranger things imagine #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson smut #eddie munson #stranger things x reader #virgin!eddie munson #virgin!eddie munson x reader #st oneshots <3 #published by bug

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