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joelscurls · 7 months

Text

to the ends of the earth

pt ii of feel it in your bones | epilogue

pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

words: 12k

summary: You spend the week of Spring Break in Austin with your long-distance-boyfriend Joel. As you settle into a comfortable routine together, questions regarding your future arise.

warnings: 18+, minors dni, no outbreak, age gap (reader is in her late 20s, Joel is in his late 40s), fluff, angst (ik ik i’m sorry), smut, phone sex, masturbation (f, m), semi-public touching, unprotected p in v, squirting, creampie, soft dom!Joel, hair pulling, tiniest bit of nipple play, implied oral (f receiving), brief mention of shower sex, use of pet names (darlin’, baby, etc.)

a/n: i’m honestly so overwhelmed with all the positive feedback I got on part 1 - thank you all so much! there will be a part 3 in the form of a lil epilogue, so stay tuned for more of these two! as always, ty to @caffeinated-validation for giving this your eyes <3

Long distance sucks.

It’s been six months to the day since Homecoming Weekend, five since you and Joel put a label on things: “exclusive”. Not like you’d been talking to anyone else. Since Joel left Vermont that first time, he’d occupied your mind, made a home there, nestled deep between grooves of soft brain matter.

He’s been back a couple of times since. Quick weekend trips — much like the first one — just without the bad art and couch surfing. And each time he’s come and gone has been more painful than the last. More memories to reminisce on when you lay in bed alone. More words exchanged to drown in. You feel as if your heart has been ripped apart and stitched haphazardly back together every time he slips from your embrace.

The last time you’d seen him in person was New Year’s, when you’d rented a cabin in the Green Mountains, watched Joel react to his first snow, exchanged I love yous for the first time under falling flurries.

It feels now as if it were a lifetime ago.

It’s never enough — time, kisses, touches. It’s all so fleeting. You want, more than anything, to burrow into Joel’s chest and make a permanent residence there. To go with him where he goes, be with him where he is, always.

But you know you can’t — it’s not realistic. You have your life here, and Joel has his there. You remind yourself of this fact more times a day than you’d like to admit.

You will be with him again soon enough, though, and for the longest stint of time yet. An entire week in Texas, you and Joel.

The thought of it keeps you going in the leadup to spring break.

It’s the night before your flight, an early-morning departure from Burlington International Airport. You’ve waited until the last minute to pack, so here you are, hovering above your suitcase — which lays sprawled out on your bed — aimlessly throwing pairs of underwear and t-shirts into the main compartment.

Your phone buzzes on the nightstand. A much welcomed distraction.

And then you notice that it’s Joel calling.

Your heart skips a beat. You answer. Put it on speaker-phone.

“Hello?,” you purr, flopping down on the small empty space on the bed.

“Hi baby,” he drawls, his voice so sweet and saccharine it makes you melt. “All packed?”

“Yeah,” you lie. “I’m ready.”

“Me too,” he says. “So ready. I miss you.”

“I miss you,” you parrot. “How was your day?”

He sighs. “Fine, I guess. Had a bunch’a loose ends to tie up at this site before Tommy takes over for the week. A lot’a back and forth on the phone, orderin’ shit.”

“I’m sorry,” you say, “I hope you won’t be stressed all week thinking about it.”

He hums, so deep it vibrates through the phone. It goes straight to your core. “Impossible, babygirl. Once I have you here, ‘m not gonna be thinkin’ ‘bout anything else.”

Your face heats. An unignorable pang of desire swells in your chest.

“Joel,” you say, desperation already coloring your voice.

“Yeah?”

“I need you.”

Phone sex has become somewhat of a norm for you and Joel, that overwhelming need to be close to one another manifesting as desperate touches of your own fingers and half-coherent pleas through the speaker. It’s rare that a bedtime conversation between the two of you doesn’t end in panting down the line, telling each other goodnight through labored, satiated breaths.

Tonight, your need for him is bordering on carnal, carving into your skin like a sharp blade. You know you’ll have him tomorrow, and a number of days after that, but still, it feels so intangible, unreal. Like you can’t let yourself fully believe it until he’s in your arms.

And so you need him — right now — in any way you can have him.

“You wanna touch yourself?”

“Yes Joel — please.”

“Fuck babygirl,” he breathes. “Okay. Lemme take care’a you.”

You slip your fingers under the waistband of your sweatpants impatiently. You feel yourself through the thin fabric of your panties and, unsurprisingly, you’re soaked. It’s like you’ve been pavloved — like all you need is the sound of Joel’s voice, soft and deep like crushed velvet, and you’re gone — every single time.

“I’m so wet,” you mewl.

Joel groans on the other end. He sounds almost pained, like not being there to feel you, to taste you, is physically hurting him. If it is though, he covers it up well, snapping his attention back to you like a reflex.

“You still got your pants on?,” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Take ‘em off for me. And your panties.”

You do as he says, pulling your sweatpants and underwear down in one tug, letting them bunch at your ankles.

“They’re off,” you say.

“Good. Now touch yourself baby, go ahead.”

You shallowly dip two fingers into the pool of arousal that’s formed between your thighs. Then you glide slick digits over your aching clit, back and forth, a quiet whimper slipping from your mouth.

“‘ts it, darlin’,” he coos, “rub that pretty pussy for me.”

You pretend your fingers are his — bigger, rougher — as you increase the pressure you’re applying and begin to rub tight circles against your clit. The thought of your touches being his, instead, leaves you failing to swallow back a moan.

“Joel – ngh – it feels good.”

“‘Good, baby,” he says. “Doin’ so good for me.”

You keep going, your breaths becoming increasingly uneven, your hips inadvertently canting off the bed in an attempt to create more friction. You can sense that you’re dripping onto the duvet below you, staining it with your arousal. You’re way past caring at this point — you just need to cum.

You bring your other hand between your thighs, teasing your entrance. You sigh when you find how much wetter you’ve gotten in just a few minutes. You’re sure Joel must be able to hear the lewd slickslickslick of your fingers swirling against your sopping cunt — which he confirms when he curses under his breath.

“Fuck; that all for me, darlin’?”

“Mhm,” you moan.

“Gonna fuck yourself with your fingers for me? Cum all over ‘em, imaginin’ it’s my cock, instead?”

“Yes,” you cry. “Please, Joel, need your cock so bad.”

“I know babygirl, I know.”

You push two fingers inside as deep as you can get them, crooking them against your walls until you find that spongy spot. You fuck yourself in time with the fingers rubbing your clit, your pace reflexively increasing when you start to feel that familiar warmth growing in your abdomen.

You feel it build, up up up — and then it falls, fading completely.

“Fuck,” you murmur.

You don’t relent. But again and again, even with the perfect amount of pressure applied to your clit and the fingers in your pussy curved just right, you find your orgasm just out of reach. You let out a frustrated whine, your movements stalling completely. You can’t get there, not like this, not alone.

“Joel,” you punch out, “need you to touch yourself. Need you to cum with me.”

He inhales a sharp breath through his teeth. “Fuck, sweetheart — okay.”

You hear a faint clink of his belt on the other side of the phone, followed by the telltale whir of a zipper. There’s rustling over the line. When you hear him sigh, you know his cock is in his hand. And then there’s a shift in his breathing, subtle, but enough that you pick up on it. Evidence that he’s started stroking himself.

“Shit,” he hisses. “Miss that perfect little cunt so bad, baby. Can’t wait to fuck you again. Gonna ruin you.”

You love when he talks to you like this — when he loses himself in it and his tongue works faster than his brain. You’d never imagined when you first met him, reserved, quiet Joel, that he could be so filthy.

“Tell me —“ you plead — “tell me how you’re gonna fuck me, Joel.”

“Fuck, gonna get you in my bed, burry my face between your legs until you’re beggin’ me to stop…”

“Shit,” you gasp, your fingers stuttering at his words.

“‘N then ’m gonna fill you up with this cock, make you go dumb on it, fuck you so good your eyes roll back in your head.”

You whimper. You know he’s not just all talk from experience, and the thought of him fulfilling all these promises so soon has you plummeting toward the brink. As long as he keeps going, keeps talking, you’re not going to last another minute.

“Gonna make you soak it, make you cum all over my fuckin’ cock. Fuck — swear ’m gonna make you feel so good, baby.”

You feel your orgasm approaching again. But it’s not waning, not this time. You chase it, letting Joel’s words run on a loop in your head: gonna fill you up with this cock, gonna make you feel so good, bury my face between your legs until you’re beggin’, gonna make you go dumb on it, gonna make you feel so good, so good, so good…

“So close Joel,” you breathe. “So fucking close.”

“‘ts it, darlin’”, he says, his voice strained. “‘m right behind you — shit — let me hear you cum. Wanna — ahh — wanna hear you.”

That’s all it takes, just his encouragement, and you’re cumming so hard the room spins.

You can faintly register Joel talking you through it, able to make out a string of good girls through ringing ears. When you finally start to come down, you can tell he’s nearing his own climax, panting down the line as your own breaths begin to even.

“Please Joel,” you beg. “Please cum for me.”

He lets out a low growl, and then your name is spilling from the tip of his tongue, over and over again, in between strangled moans.

The line is quiet for a moment, apart from you and Joel’s shallow breathing.

“Fuck,” he says when he’s recovered from his orgasm, “how many hours til you get here?

You laugh. “I don’t know — too many.”

“Yeah, too many,” he agrees.

There’s another lull. You yawn exasperatedly, only now realizing how exhausted you are. An earth shattering orgasm will do that to you, you guess.

Joel chuckles on the other end.

“Go to bed, baby. It’ll make the time go faster.”

You sigh. You don’t want to hang up. Don’t want to be without him again. But he’s right. He usually is — though you’d never admit it out loud.

“Yeah, okay,” you acquiesce after a moment.

“I love you,” he hums.

“I love you too, Joel.”

“Can’t wait to see you,” he adds.

You smile. You’re glad he can’t see you right now, can’t see how ridiculously giddy he makes you.

“Me either,” you say. “Goodnight.”

“Night, darlin’.”

You’re still grinning like an idiot when you hang up the phone. You lay there for a few minutes, just staring at the ceiling, willing time to move faster.

Eventually you peel yourself off the bed and finish packing. You throw in some lacy bras you know Joel will love — if you end up wearing any real clothes this week, that is. Then you zip your suitcase shut, toss it onto the floor somewhere, and slip under the covers.

You flick your bedside lamp off with a sigh, and begin your attempt to coax sleep. You are tired, but you’re more excited.

When you finally do drift off — at some ungodly hour of the morning — you dream of Joel, of his large arms wrapped around you, his honeyed voice in your ear. Tomorrow, he whispers, again and again. Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow.

You wake up the next morning with butterflies the size of baseballs in your stomach. You get to the airport unnecessarily early, make it through security in record time, and plant yourself down at your gate with a coffee in hand two hours before your scheduled departure.

Your body is practically vibrating in your seat, only partially due to the caffeine. Joel will no doubt still be asleep at this hour, so you shoot him a text to wake up to:

at the airport, all checked in. can’t wait to see you, cowboy <3

And then you send one to Sarah, who you know will be awake, her study-abroad trip to Cambodia meaning she’s probably studying or eating dinner right now.

On my way to see your dad; miss you! Can’t wait to hear all about your studies sometime soon :)

She almost immediately responds:

Yay! Miss you both so much! Yes, talk soon pls - lots to catch you up on. The professors here want me to stay forever (I won’t, dw, need to be able to bother you and my dad on a more regular basis).

You laugh to yourself.

Sarah had been thrilled when she’d found out about your relationship. Had been way too proud of herself for setting you up. When you’d learned she’d faked sick the night you met Joel at the art exhibition, you’d found yourself unable to feign disapproval. How could you care, really, when you’d ended the night straddling him, kissing him?

Not that you’d told her that, of course. She didn’t need to know every detail of that weekend.

It had been…interesting, to say the least, navigating a long-distance-something with the father of one of your students. But Sarah hadn’t pried, even when you’d suspected she wanted to. She’d let it bloom into something more, something real, before beginning to pester you with the questions: isn’t he the worst cook? do you think you guys will get married? can I be your maid of honor if you do?

To which you’d responded: yes (affectionately), I don’t know, and of course you can.

You’ll miss her this week, but another part of you — a more selfish part — is thrilled to have a week alone with Joel, without any distractions.

So thrilled, you can barely steady your shaking hands enough to plug your phone into the outlet under your seat.

You scroll mindlessly on social media as it charges until it’s time to board. Then you’re shuffling single-file down the aisle of the plane to your row, hauling your suitcase into the overhead, and taking your seat next to the window.

It’s your first flight of two, separated by a three-hour layover. You make it to Philadelphia in just over an hour, halfway through the cheesy 2000s rom-com you’d selected on the inflight entertainment screen. You make a mental note to finish it on the next leg.

You get lunch once you’ve tracked down your new gate — pay seventeen bucks for a soggy airport sandwich and a bag of chips that, upon opening, is mostly air. When you sit down to eat, you notice that Joel texted you back.

Got one foot out the front door already. Can’t wait to see you babygirl.

You can’t help the embarrassing smile that pulls across your face.

You re-read the text no less than ten times before you board your next flight — then once more for good measure just before you put your phone on airplane-mode and shove it in your sweatshirt pocket.

This is it, you think as the wheels lift off the ground and the clouds come closer into view. No more countdown. It’s here.

You have to refrain from sprinting off of the plane as soon as it’s landed in Austin.

You grab your suitcase from the overhead with reckless abandon, nearly knocking another piece of luggage out of the compartment and onto a passing flight attendant.

“Shit, sorry,” you curse.

She glares at you, unamused.

“I’m just…I’m meeting someone here,” you ramble. “I guess I wasn’t paying attention. Too excited.”

She nods. Pops her gum. “Mhm. Have a good day, ma’am. Thanks for flying with us.”

You keep your head down as you disembark.

It’d been a packed flight, and so you find yourself weaving through the crowd that’s gathered at the gate as you exit, around parents who have stopped to tie their kids’ shoes and solo travelers pausing to book their ride shares.

You check your phone as you walk, unwilling to waste even a fraction of a second. Find the directions buried in the text thread between you and Joel detailing how to get from your terminal to the passenger pickup area.

You follow them, suitcase rolling behind you as you trudge along, down a couple escalators and through a corridor.

You round one last corner — and then you see him, standing with his back to a pillar, hands anxiously fiddling at his sides.

Now you are sprinting.

Your suitcase is abandoned somewhere behind you as you run toward Joel. He doesn’t see you at first. You make it a few feet, shoes squeaking on tile, before his head snaps up and his eyes catch yours. And then he’s bounding forward, meeting you in the middle, your bodies colliding, hard.

He throws both arms around you, squeezes you so tightly you think your blood vessels may burst. You accept your fate willingly, breathing him in, letting your hands rove along his broad back.

He smells like pine and worn leather and Joel.

He feels like home.

He bruises a kiss in your hair, whispering against your scalp in disbelief: baby, you’re here.

You stand wrapped up together for a long moment, Joel rocking you back and forth as you catch your breath. Then you pull apart to look at each other.

Only then does it begin to sink in — Joel is right in front of you, touching you — and you’re about to spend a whole week together.

“C’mere,” he drawls, grabbing both sides of your face and crashing his lips into yours. It’s a slow kiss, punctuated by gentle strokes of his fingertips along your jaw. Your tongue rolls against his and your fingers anchor into his shirt collar. It simultaneously feels like it lasts forever and not nearly long enough.

“C’mon,” he whispers against your lips when you part. “Let’s go home, darlin.”

You grab your forgotten suitcase and pull it behind you with one hand, the other in Joel’s as you walk to his truck. It’s parked just outside, at the curb, hazard lights blinking.

“Was supposed to wait here for you,” he explains as he opens the passenger door, helping you in. He takes your suitcase, throws it onto the backseat like it weighs nothing.

“I’m glad you didn’t,” you smile as he gets into the driver’s seat. “Felt like a rom-com — I liked it.”

“Yeah,” he says, turning his key in the ignition. His cheeks flush. “I liked it too.”

You stop for fast food on the way to Joel’s — Whataburger, naturally. They don’t have these in Vermont, so you try to savor your burger, but your long day of travel has you ravenous, so you wolf it down, ketchup smearing on the corners of your mouth between bites. Joel just laughs at you from the driver’s seat, piece of lettuce lodged between his front teeth.

You get it for him — fingernails prodding at his gums, but he lets you. Even sighs at the contact. When you flick the leaf off your fingertip, he pulls you in for a kiss, much softer than the one you shared in the airport, but dizzying, nonetheless. “Better?,” he whispers, and you’re not sure if he’s asking about his teeth or you, but both are true, so you hum affirmingly.

You sink back into your seat, adjusting your seatbelt where it’s tightened around your neck.

You feel full and drowsy as you throw your trash into the paper bag the food came in, tucking it by your feet.

You let your head rest against the window. The glass rattles against your skull as the truck begins to move, but you ignore it, too tired to care. And then you let your eyes shut — just to rest them — that’s all.

You don’t remember falling asleep.

You come to when you feel Joel at your side, trying to move you from the passenger seat.

“Baby,” you hear him say. Your eyes flutter open. He brings a hand up to your face, peeling stray strands of hair from where they’re stuck to your forehead and pushing them behind your ear.

“We’re home,” he drawls. “Let’s go inside, yeah?”

You nod groggily, still letting your eyes adjust to the daylight. You take in your surroundings: you’re parked in his driveway, his house right in front of you. Somehow, it’s just as you’d imagined it to be — big, sprawling porch at the front, meticulously kempt yard ornamented with a beautiful red oak tree. It’s so Texan, you think, so Joel.

He grabs your luggage from the truck. Then he helps you out, walks you with a large hand wrapped around your middle to the front door and into the house. Once inside, he sets your suitcase down.

And then he hugs you again, like he’s afraid to let you out of his embrace, lest you vaporize into thin air.

“Still tired? Wanna take a nap?,” he asks.

You yawn, right in his ear. He laughs; that’s enough of an answer.

“Alright,” he says. You follow him to his bedroom, too sleepy to argue. You pass through the kitchen and living room on the way. Through drooping eyes, you notice scattered pieces of Joel — the guitar leaning against its stand next to the couch, the pictures of him and Sarah lining the staircase. It makes your chest tighten, being here in his house, seeing the parts of him that he can’t bring with him when he visits you.

His room is the most him though — masculine and minimalist. A canvas with a ram painted on it hangs above his bed — a gift from someone, you assume. You can’t exactly imagine Joel strolling the aisles of Target, picking out artwork to hang in his house. There’s another photo of him and Sarah on his bedside table that must’ve been taken at her highschool graduation, cap adorning her head full of curls.

It makes you smile — all of it.

You lope over to the bed, climbing in when Joel pulls back the covers for you. He tucks you in with a kiss to your forehead. His duvet wafts his scent, when you pull it up to your face. You inhale it deeply. Commit it to memory.

“Wait,” you say as he turns to leave the room. “Aren’t you going to stay with me?”

He leans against the doorframe, wood creaking under his weight. “Well I don’t really nap, darlin’,” he admits. “You get some rest, I’ll just be doin’ some stuff around the house.”

“Please,” you say, sticking out your bottom lip at him. You watch as he thinks on it for a minute, then sighs in defeat.

“Okay, I’ll nap with you baby.”

He climbs in next to you. “Only for a little bit, though,” he mumbles, like he’s trying to convince himself.

His broad chest presses into your back. He drapes an arm over your side as you nuzzle into his embrace, so warm, so safe. He noses at your neck, leaving gentle kisses along your exposed shoulder. This, you think, is what heaven must feel like.

The sound of Joel’s breathing lulls you to sleep.

When you wake up, the room is cast in shadows. It’s dusk, you realize, wiping the sleep out of your eyes. You roll over. Find that Joel is no longer next to you.

His side of the bed is still warm, you notice, so he must not have gotten up too long ago.

You clamber to your feet, ignoring the blood rushing to your head as you stumble out of his room. You make your way down the stairs, hand braced against the wall as you descend. The lights are on in the living room — a sign of life. But Joel isn’t there.

You wander into the kitchen. He’s not here either. Did he leave the house? You look around for a note, fish your phone out of your pocket to see if he texted you. But you have zero notifications and the dining table is empty, apart from a pair of salt & pepper shakers and a napkin holder.

You call out for him, to no avail. Stumped, you make your way to the door that leads to the garage, the only room you haven’t checked yet, and wedge it open.

To your surprise, you find Joel standing at the back of his truck, loading something into the bed. Upon further inspection, you see that it’s blankets.

Huh?

“Hey,” you announce, making your way down the small set of stairs. He whips around at the sound of your voice. The color in his face drains, like he’s just been caught in the act of something.

“Darlin’,” he says, eyes wide. “You’re up.”

You join him by the truck. Let him rest a heavy arm on your shoulder. You peer up at him with a quirked brow. “What are you doing out here?”

“Well, I uh, I had planned somethin’ for you. Not sure if you’re up for it?”

You look back at the blankets in the truck bed. It’s not just blankets, you discover. There are pillows too, big ones, like the kinds you put on patio furniture, plus a small radio situated in the corner. And there’s a bag of chips leaned up against one of the pillows, next to a box of your favorite candy.

“A picnic… in your truck?”

He laughs. “Not quite. There’s a drive-in movie theater down the road. Thought we could go.”

Those butterflies from this morning suddenly return, swarming your insides at the realization — Joel planned a date for you.

It’s not that he isn’t normally romantic, because he is.

You recall one particular weekend he’d visited — he’d insisted on cooking dinner for you at your apartment, determined to make it perfect for you. He’d ended up burning the chicken and oversalting his sauce, but you hadn’t cared one bit — not when he’d gazed at you so adoringly across the candlelit table, one of your hands in his as he’d peppered each of your knuckles with kisses.

On another visit, he’d scouted one of the only nearby mountains you hadn’t hiked yet and climbed to the top with you — because the internet said this was the best spot to catch the sunset. You’d stood at the lookout, hand in hand, and shared your greatest dreams — yours to have your research published in a major publication, his to leave contracting behind and buy a sheep ranch. And when the sun had dipped behind the horizon, the sky bleeding vibrant pinks and oranges, he’d just looked at you.

So you know he’s romantic. Still though, you’re practically swooning at the scene in front of you.

“So, you wanna go?,” he asks. He scuffs his boot along the concrete floor, awkwardly. “It’s okay if you d-“

“Joel,” you say. “I wanna go.”

He smiles. Rolls the cover over the truck bed. Presses a kiss to your temple.

“Alright. Let’s go.”

The sky is dark by the time you get to the drive-in. There are already quite a few cars in the dirt lot, parked in neat rows facing the giant movie screen that sits at the edge of a treeline. There’s a person directing traffic, a teenage boy, you guess, based on his stature, and he twirls his light-up batons in the rearview as Joel rounds the corner to the back row.

He backs into a spot at the far-left, car to your right parked a good ten feet away. And then he cuts the ignition with a quiet grunt, steps out, and makes his way over to your door to open it for you and help you down.

The pillows in the truck bed had jostled around a bit on the drive over, Joel finds when he unfurls the cover. So he adjusts them, making sure everything is just right. Then he unlatches the tailgate and helps you hoist yourself up, following closely behind you as you crawl toward the back.

Once he’s set the radio to the right channel, Joel sits with his back flush to the truck cab and spreads his legs, patting one of his thighs in invitation. He doesn’t need to ask twice — you immediately crawl between them, letting your head fall back against his chest as he wraps his arms around you, enveloping you in him.

A satisfied hum escapes your lips. The realization hits you then that you hadn’t even asked what movie you were seeing. Not that you care much — it could be a documentary about grass, and you’d still have a good time, thanks to the company.

It’s some dystopian sci-fi thriller, you find, as the opening credits begin to roll, with a title you vaguely remember hearing in passing at some point.

And it’s good. You’re invested in the story by the end of the first act, curious to find out how the main character is going to save her love interest.

But then you lose interest, quickly, when you feel the white-hot touch of Joel’s fingers against your skin as he slips them under your shirt, inching down your stomach.

He halts when he gets to the waistband of your jeans, and your breath hitches, lodged somewhere in your throat when he dips one finger under the denim. Your hips lift reflexively and he laughs lowly in your ear, prompting a shaky exhale to sputter out of you.

“Stay still, darlin,” he whispers, slipping another finger into your pants.

You try, you really try not to move, but he’s teasing you, his fingers moving the pace of molasses toward your core, where he hasn’t touched you in months. You feel like your entire body is going to combust if he doesn’t make contact with your clit in the next five seconds.

You whine, quiet enough that it’s muffled by the sounds of the movie echoing from the radio, but still too loud for Joel, apparently. He reaches his free hand out to turn the volume up, pushing the nob a few decibels higher.

He returns his attention to you. “You want this, babygirl?,” he asks, fingers reaching the hem of your underwear.

“Yes,” you whisper pleadingly. “Please touch me, Joel.” You feel his cock stiffen behind you, prodding your back.

“Okay,” he says. He pulls his hand out completely to unbutton your pants and unzip them halfway. Then he’s cupping your sex through your panties, letting his fingers brush over the wet spot that has already formed.

“Gotta be quiet then,” he purrs. “Can ya do that for me?”

You’re not sure you can, to be honest. He’s barely touching you and you already feel like you’ve lost all control over your body. Whatever it does, however you react — you have no say in the matter. Still, you’re not about to tell him that, risk him stopping, so you nod, furiously, your desperate face illuminated by the flashing light of an action sequence playing out on screen.

He dips two fingers into your underwear, immediately pressing them to your seam. He curses under his breath behind you, clearly pleased with how wet you are for him, with how easily he breaks you down. He brings them up to your clit, then, swiping back and forth, back and forth, his calloused touch forcing you to suppress a yelp. His fingers feel so rough compared to yours, so good. Breaths are pouring out of you in quick succession, your chest heaving with pleasure.

You’re briefly paranoid as Joel continues his ministrations that someone might see — but as you glance around the parking lot, you realize that you can’t see anyone else, just shadows in cars and on folding chairs, all focused on the movie in front of them. Slouched within the walls of Joel’s truck bed, it’s impossible for anyone to clock what’s happening.

So you let your body relax, melting into Joel behind you, your hands clinging onto his thighs to hold yourself steady. “‘ts it baby,” he says, your pliancy encouraging him to press his fingers down harder. “Always so good for me, huh?”

“Y-yes,” you stutter, your voice still hushed.

“Yeah, you are” he agrees, rubbing your clit faster, more deliberately. He knows by now just how to touch you — exactly how to bring you straight to the edge and send you toppling over. And it’s clear that time apart hasn’t affected this in the slightest, your abdomen already tensing, familiar coil tightening threateningly in your core.

You warn Joel with a squeal. His free hand flies up to your face, covering your mouth in an instant. Your eyes roll back instinctively at the lewdness of it, of him muffling you with his palm. You moan freely against it, teeth scraping the skin there as your orgasm grows nearer and nearer and nearer.

It hits you hard. You have to bite down on Joel’s hand to keep from screaming out as it scorches through you, heating every inch of your skin as it does. Your fingernails are digging into Joel’s legs so hard you think you may be drawing blood even through thick denim. He talks you through it, quietly, his utters of atta girl, look at you, ya cum so pretty for me baby keeping you tethered to reality.

When your breathing begins to even and the trembling in your thighs subsides, he removes his hand from your mouth and the other from your pants.

You gaze up at him through bleary eyes just as he brings the fingers that were pressed against your pussy straight to his mouth, sucking on them through a satisfied hum. He pulls them out slowly, and your body nearly buckles at the sight.

“Taste so sweet,” he whispers in your ear. “Always taste so goddamn sweet.”

Your head swims.

“Joel,” you say, pointedly.

“Yeah, darlin’?”

“We need to leave. Right now.”

He cocks his head at you, confused. “Are you alr-”

“I’m fine,” you cut him off. “But I need you to fuck me right now, and I don’t think we can do that here.”

You see his eyes darken, his jaw twitch.

“Yeah,” he says after a few seconds. “Let’s get out of here.”

Joel speeds the entire way home.

The hand he doesn’t have on the wheel grips your thigh, making you dizzy with desire by the time he pulls into the driveway. He lodges the passenger side door open so hard you’d think there was an emergency (maybe needing to fuck your significant other after months of not seeing them in person does constitute as an emergency, though — who’s to say?).

He unbuckles your seatbelt for you, barely letting your feet hit the pavement before his lips are on you and he’s slamming the truck door shut, caging you against it. It feels like he’s everywhere all at once, his tongue sliding along your jaw, down your neck, across your collarbone. You’re panting by the time he pulls back, begging him in not so many words to bring you inside and pound you into the mattress.

It must take you five whole minutes to get from the front door to his room. Joel’s hand is splayed across the globe of your ass as you walk. He stops you every ten feet to spin your around and kiss you again, sucking on your tongue, needy moans slipping from his parted lips. His shirt has been discarded by the time you get to the stairs, and your hands greedily take in every inch of skin they can reach as you make your way up step by agonizing step.

When you finally make it upstairs, he backs you through the threshold, straight to his bed. You tumble down onto the mattress in a heap, mouths melding together in desperation as he reaches a hand behind you, under your shirt, and unclasps your bra. You help him out, reaching up your sleeve to tug down one strap, then shifting your weight to pull down the other. When you move, he follows you, not letting his mouth part from yours a second sooner than it needs to.

He tugs the bra the rest of the way off your body and pulls your shirt up over your chest, revealing your bare breasts. Only then does he unlatch his lips from yours so that he can admire you.

“More gorgeous every time I see you,” he mutters, rolling one of your nipples between two fingers until it hardens under his touch. Your mouth falls open in a silent gasp. He leans down, lathing his flat tongue over the sensitive peak, eliciting a heady moan from you.

“Joel,” you cry beneath him, a hand coming up to his shoulder. You push against him lightly.

And he gets it — as much as he loves teasing, now is not the time. You’ve been teased enough by the miles between you and him. So he pulls back. Lets you roll him over. You straddle him, bracing your hands on his chest and experimentally roll your hips. You immediately feel his hard cock straining against his jeans underneath you.

You reach between your bodies then, prying open his button and yanking the zipper down. Then your hand is in his pants, tracing the outline of his heavy cock where it bulges under cotton.

You lean down and press a kiss to his clothed length. He hisses through his teeth.

“Baby,” he groans, hand coming down to tilt your chin up towards his face. “Another time. I need to be inside you. Right now.”

You don’t argue. He sits up. Shuffles back to the headboard, bringing you with him. He pulls your shirt the rest of the way off, over your head. And then he’s helping you slip out of your jeans and panties so that you’re completely naked atop him.

He pulls you in for another bruising kiss as he tugs his pants and boxers down, just enough to free his leaking cock. He strokes it languidly, smearing pre-cum from the tip down his length. You’re already impatient by the time he’s lining himself up with your entrance, so much so that you have to refrain from taking him all the way down in one go. You use your better judgment, sinking onto him slowly, until you’re flush with his pelvis, the hair at his base tickling your inner thighs.

His eyes are squeezed shut, his breathing labored as you adjust to the size of him. You’ve missed the sweet, burning stretch of him, the fullness you feel when he’s inside you, like you’re complete, whole. You’re pretty sure you could stay like this forever, make a home here on his throbbing cock.

When the sting dissipates, you begin to move, rocking on top of him. He grabs onto your hips, steadying you, his eyes blinking half-open to take you in.

“Fuck,” he rasps as you set a steady pace, his cock disappearing from you, then filling you to the brim again and again. “‘ts it baby, take my fuckin’ cock; ridin’ it so good.”

His hips snap up, nearly knocking the air out of your lungs. You wrap your hands around his neck reflexively, digging your nails into his shoulders, indenting crescent moons in the muscle there as he ruts against your g-spot. Your face falls against his chest, your muffled pleas for Joel to fuck you harder, harder, right there barely coherent.

He gets the message regardless.

He pulls you down onto his cock, essentially spearing you on it. You think he must be bruising your cervix, the way his thick head is repeatedly bumping it, but you don’t care. You need every inch of him, need to take everything he has to give you; it feels as essential as the air being punched out of your chest right now.

He’s fucking up into you so brutally that you find yourself delirious, eyes rolling back in your head for the second time tonight. You can’t even find the strength to warn him of your rapidly approaching orgasm, your body going limp in his grasp. He doesn’t need you to, though — he can tell just by the way you squeeze him that you’re close.

“Gonna cum for me, baby?,” he growls, hitting that spongy spot over and over and over.

“Uh — ahhh — uh-huh,” you moan weakly into his skin. Your fingers loosen at his neck, too weak to hold onto him any longer.

Suddenly, he grabs a fistful of your hair, pulling your head off of his chest and holding it up so that you’re looking him in the eye.

His gaze is lascivious, almost carnal, like going without you for so long has him ready to swallow you whole.

“Look at me,” he spits, “look at me when you cum.”

You nod wearily. You want to give him that, want to give him anything he asks of you. But you’re not sure if you can, not when your eyelids feel like boulders on your face.

“C-can’t Joel,” you manage through moans as they fall shut again.

“Nuh-uh,” he snaps, yanking at your roots. Your eyes fly open at the intrusion.

“You can do it baby, c’mon. Missed these pretty eyes so much — wanna see ‘em.”

You can only imagine how absolutely fucked-out you must look, using every last ounce of energy in your body to keep from slipping again. Your eyes glaze over slightly as he gives a particularly rough thrust, and you feel yourself skyrocket to the edge.

You feel like putty in his hands — and maybe you are. You’d let him mold you to whatever shape he pleased right about now, when he’s making you feel this good.

“There ya go,” Joel coos, bringing his thumb to your clit. He lazily swipes it once — twice — and you begin to fall apart in his arms.

It’s almost violent, your second orgasm of the night. It rips through you, your body thrashing on top of Joel’s, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes as he continues pounding into you. It feels different too, something more intense lingering, the threat of it just behind your walls.

And then he hits that spot again, the one that makes you see stars, and you’re gushing around him. Your release splatters out onto the duvet below you, soaking it. If Joel notices, he doesn’t care.

“Fuck, darlin’,” he groans.

Your eyes adjust as you come to. You take in Joel’s, charcoal black and blown-out with lust. You feel shy, almost, which you know is ridiculous given he’s still inside you. But even so, the way he looks at you, like you’re the most desirable thing he’s ever seen — it makes your cheeks heat.

He flips you over onto your back in one swift movement, slipping from you momentarily as he helps you to wrap your shaky legs around him. Presses a gentle kiss to your trembling ankle as he does. And then he’s burying himself in you again, right to the hilt, his pace slowing as he nears the edge.

“Please baby,” you cry. “Please cum inside. Need to feel you.”

Your body feels boneless under Joel’s weight, like he’s fucked near everything out of you. And now you need him to feel good, to take whatever he needs from you, whatever you have left to give.

“Fuck,” he grunts. His hips stall abruptly. He spills into you, deep moans pulling from the back of his throat. You dig your heels into the meat of his ass, dragging him closer, forcing him so deep he paints your cervix.

He pulls out with a hiss, his length softening against your mound as he lifts himself up on his elbows to kiss you. It’s a meager kiss, both of you still too out of breath to deepen it, but it soothes you, along with the soft graze of his thumb over your ribs.

You hold each other for a while, in no rush to move from this moment. You’re pretty sure you drift off more than once, awoken each time by the vibration of his gentle hums against your neck. When you finally do move, it’s not far, just up the bed and under the covers. And then his arms are right back where they were, around you, pulling you tightly to him.

He falls asleep before you, snoring quietly at the crown of your head. You try to wiggle from his grasp, move to the other side of the bed, but even in his sleep, he’s acutely aware of your presence. He just grips you harder, nuzzles his head deeper into your hair. You’ve never felt more content being stuck somewhere.

You slip under again eventually. You’re pretty sure you dream of nothing — no need for your brain to conjure up anything more than what you already have.

The following morning, you wake up with Joel’s tongue between your legs. He nibbles at your inner thigh, waiting for you to give him the go ahead to continue. And then he makes you cum twice on his mouth before you even eat breakfast.

He doesn’t let you get up for that, either. He brings you hot coffee in a Texas Longhorns mug and a plate of toast, slathered with butter and grape jelly, and doesn’t complain when you get crumbs on the sheets.

You’re satiated and caffeinated before you even start your day — which Joel has planned out to a t.

He brings you to his favorite spot for lunch, a BBQ place by the river, and acts smug when you tell him these are the best ribs I’ve ever had in my life. Then you go home, take a shower — together, of course — and you rinse shampoo out of your hair with his cock nestled comfortably inside you.

He fucks you with your hands braced against the shower wall until you’re screaming, the echoes bouncing off of tile, and then you get back in bed, laze around in your towels until dinnertime.

Joel orders takeout — sushi for you, lo mein and teriyaki beef for him. You sprawl out on the couch as you eat, your feet in his lap and the calming buzz of the tv on in the background.

It’s the best day you’ve had in a long time.

You easily fall into a routine over the course of the week: wake up, fuck, eat breakfast in bed, fuck, get up around noon, shower, eat lunch, grade papers while Joel cleans up or does yardwork, eat dinner, fuck, go to sleep.

You almost forget that this isn’t permanent, that you’re going to have to get on a plane and go home soon, that this isn’t your home, here with Joel. That is, until Friday night, over dinner — when Joel abruptly pulls you back down to earth.

You’re finishing your pasta, spooning the last remnants of sauce into your mouth. Some western flashes across the tv — Joel’s choice, and as you put your bowl down on the coffee table and snuggle up to him, he sighs.

“This has gotta be the best vacation of my life — or, staycation, I guess.” He says it innocently enough. Still, you feel jolted. Vacation, you repeat in your head until your brain catches up with reality. You feel smothered, suddenly, warm, like your whole body is an ore about to be smelted. You extricate yourself from Joel’s arms and settle on the other side of the couch.

“Just hot,” you lie. “Sorry.”

“‘ts alright,” he murmurs, unphased, eyes glued to the tv.

He doesn’t notice the way you tense, the way your breathing picks up when you excuse yourself to the bathroom. But why should he? There’s no reason for you to be freaking out.

Except there is.

Because the thought of leaving in a couple days, leaving behind Joel and this routine, not seeing him again for several more months, and even then, only having a weekend, or if you’re lucky, a week with him – it’s making you spiral.

You lock yourself in the bathroom. Close the lid to the toilet. When you sit down, your head falls into your hands, heaving breaths warming the skin of your palms uncomfortably. I can’t do this, you think. I can’t keep doing this.

You love Joel — you do, more than anything. And you can’t begin to imagine living without him. But you also can’t help but wonder, elbows digging into your knees, how this has become your life — all the leaving.

Something heavy settles in the pit of your stomach. You feel nauseous.

You get up. Splash cold water on your face. Curse your reflection, all sunken eyes and tear-stained cheeks. So stupid. This is why you didn’t want to get into another relationship. The pain, the pain, the unbearable pain.

Why did you have to fall in love with him?

There’s a clanging on the other side of the door — Joel clearing your dishes from dinner — an act of domesticity that plunges the dagger deeper into your bleeding heart.

You wipe your cheeks with your shirt sleeve. Huff at how pathetic you feel.

It’s so stupid, so silly, crying in Joel’s bathroom when he’s right outside, right there waiting for you. Even still, you can’t seem to shake the dread that hangs over you like a storm cloud when you make your way back into the living room with dried eyes, back into his arms.

You hope, silently, that it’ll go away with a good night’s sleep. That this is just a minor breakdown, a hormonal thing, maybe, and you’ll feel better in the morning.

It doesn’t, it’s not — and you don’t.

Joel can tell something is wrong the moment he hands you your morning coffee. You’d slept in today, legs tangled under the sheets, trepidation still clawing its way up your throat. You’d been quiet, had only hummed in response when he’d told you good morning.

That, he hadn’t noticed. But when he passes you the mug, steam billowing from the mouth, he detects the way you won’t look at him, your mumbled thank you.

You catch the way he steps back with a dejected hmph, and rounds the bed to climb in next to you.

You feel awful.

The mattress springs creak as he settles, balancing his full mug in one hand, laying the other over yours where it sits on top of the duvet, resting on your covered leg.

“Y’alright?,” he asks, even though you know he knows the answer. It’s why you don’t lie, shake your head. Your eyes flick up to his as a frown sets under his nose.

You downplay it. “I’m fine, really. It’s just — I — I’m sad that today’s our last full day. I don’t wanna go home yet.”

“Don’t have to go,” he drawls, drawing light circles over your skin with his index finger.

And you know he means it — know he’d let you move in with him in a heartbeat. But you also know you can’t. Can’t leave behind the life you worked so hard to make in Vermont.

“I wish,” you sigh, taking a cautious sip of your coffee.

“Well…d’you wanna do somethin’ today? Go into the city? I know we haven’t done much’a anything this week.” He smirks. And just for a moment, the look on his face — that dopey smile and those sweet cinnamon eyes — makes you forget about the darkness fogging your mind.

“We can do touristy stuff,” he continues. “Do anythin’ you want. To take your mind off things. Make the most of the day, ya know?”

His brows are raised as he anticipates your response. He’s so eager to do whatever it takes for you to be happy, and that makes your chest clench. More than you want to protect your own heart, you want to appease him. He deserves that, at the very least.

So you say yes, let’s do it; show me around Austin.

The cracks in your heart deepen when he nearly jumps out of bed in excitement.

Joel is a great tour guide, for what it’s worth.

He brings you to his favorite hiking trail in the city. It runs along a lake, the water busy with kayakers and paddle boarders.

The sky above is overcast. A sliver of sun cuts through the clouds, casting your forehead in a light sheen of sweat as you walk.

Every single passerby waves at you or says hello, all in the same singsong twang. Joel waves back, grunts a greeting. It throws you off, how nice everyone is here. You’ve grown used to New England, with its temperamental weather and even more temperamental people.

“Busy,” you note when another group passes you.

“Mhm,” Joel hums. Wraps a sweaty arm around you, pulling you into his side. It’s awkward to walk like this, but he doesn’t seem to mind. “Sarah used to love this place. We’d come all the time when she was little.”

You lean into his embrace. Nuzzle your face into the fabric of his T-shirt.

“I know you must’ve missed her this week. Is this the first spring break she hasn’t been home?”

“Yeah,” Joel’s other hand rests at the back of his neck, fingers absently working at a knot in the muscle there. “Gotta get used to it though, I guess, with her stayin’ north after school is over and all.”

“She didn’t tell me that,” you admit. “When did she decide?”

He sighs so deep you can almost feel it in your own chest.

“Couple weeks ago,” he says. “Guess she got some unofficial job offer for after she graduates, from this research institute in Boston. She’s all excited about it.”

You know Joel is proud. He’s always proud of Sarah. How could he not be? But you also know his heart is breaking right now, the long-established plans for Sarah to come home to Texas, to come home to him after finishing undergrad, suddenly squashed.

And then there’s you — leaving too — again.

The thought of hurting Joel is overbearing, more so than the thought of hurting yourself. He doesn’t deserve to be so far away from the woman he’s in a relationship with when his own daughter is already out of reach.

You feel selfish, suddenly.

It plagues your mind for the rest of the day — when you go to a diner after the hike and split a strawberry milkshake the size of your head with Joel — and still, later, when you wander hand-in-hand into a tacky gift shop.

You try your best to ignore the ache in your chest as you scan the store.

The back wall is stacked top to bottom with cowboy boots of varying colors and styles. There are cowboy hats too, displayed on a long table.

Joel picks up an oversized straw hat, resting it on the top of his head with a laugh. “Looks ridiculous, right?”

“Somehow, no,” you say. And it’s the truth. You think he’s the only person who could put that thing on and look hot in it.

He grabs another hat off of the table, a more traditional one — brown leather with a braided band wrapped around the base of the crown. You let him affix it on your head. He steps back to get a good look at you and nods.

“Looks good. Looks sexy,” he amends.

“Yeah?” You dip your head in faux greeting, fingers pressed into the front corner of the brim.

He scans over you then, his eyes darkening. It looks like he’s pondering something, the corner of his mouth curving.

“What?”

He steps closer. Leans down to whisper in your ear. “Think we should get ‘em. Wear ‘em later.”

Your breath pulls. The thought of Joel wearing that and nothing but that underneath you is enough to make you forget your quandaries, temporarily.

“Yeah,” you respond way too quickly. “Let’s get them, Cowboy.”

You watch his entire body tense at the nickname. And then he’s yanking the hat off of you, bringing both to the register in a hurry.

The house is dark when you get home, bag of Greek takeout in hand.

Joel flicks a light on in the entrance. You squint reflexively, your eyes adjusting as you set the food down on the coffee table in the living room. Joel brings your new hats upstairs, then joins you on the couch. You pull out two styrofoam containers, passing the one with Joel’s name scribbled on it to him and leaning back with yours in your lap.

“‘m starvin,” he mumbles as he cracks his open, squeezes a wedge of lemon over his rice.

You eat quickly, something else clearly on both of your minds as you shovel falafel into your mouths. You even forget to turn the tv on.

When you’re done, you insist you’ll clean up, bringing the trash into the kitchen as Joel disappears upstairs. Once everything is tidied, you re-situate yourself on the couch.

He returns a few minutes later — shirtless, that ridiculous cowboy hat fastened on his head, dark jeans sitting low on his hips. He’s holding your hat in his left hand.

There’s a dull throbbing between your legs. He starts across the room, toward you.

“Joel-”

He cuts you off with a kiss, bracketing you against the cushions, his hat bumping into your head. He pulls it off immediately, like if it’s going to interfere in any way, it’s not worth it. It falls onto the floor somewhere behind him.

Joel pulls at the fabric of your shirt. Your back arches, allowing him to pull it up and off before tossing it aside. His mouth moves from yours, trailing lower, lower, and settling at the column of your throat. He sucks a bruise there, the contact sending your hips bucking off the couch, the need for him to touch you already borderline painful.

And then that voice returns, the one that’s been screaming in your head since last night.

This’ll be the last time for a while. Maybe forever. Last time he touches you like this, kisses you like this. Don’t think about it — don’t. Just enjoy it. Just-

“Joel,” you pant. He stops immediately. Pulls back.

“What? What’s wrong? Did I hurt you?”

Tears well in your eyes, blur your vision. You can barely make out the look of concern plastered across Joel’s face as he kneels down in front of you and grips both of your shoulders.

When you speak, your voice comes out shaky. “No, it’s not — I just.” Your breath catches in your throat.

“What? What is it darlin’?,” he tries, massaging tense muscle under his palms.

You hadn’t wanted him to see you like this. You feel embarrassed that he has to comfort you like you’re a child who’s just had a nightmare, and not a grown woman with a PhD. You groan. Catch your breath.

“Fuck. I’m fine,” you try. Joel clearly isn’t buying it. He quirks a brow at you.

“C’mon baby, talk to me. I wanna help, whatever it is. Let me in — please”

And you want to, you do, it’s just — you don’t know how to even explain how you’re feeling.

“This is all so hard,” you start. Joel nods. He wants you to continue. “This whole — situation,” you try. “Being long-distance. It’s just — being here for a whole week and waking up together every morning, having coffee, watching tv at night, like a — fuck — like a real couple — and now I have to go back to normal?”

His face falls.

“Real couple? Is this not real to you?”

“It is real,” you sob. “It’s too real. That’s why it hurts so fucking much. I just, I can’t —”

“Can’t what?” His voice is quiet. Low.

“Can’t do this. Can’t handle the pain. And it must be hurting you too, Joel. Between me and Sarah—”

“I’m fine,” he barks, suddenly jumping to his feet. He takes a deep breath. “This isn’t about Sarah. This is about us. Do you not want this? Me?”

Your hands tremble in your lap. “Of course I want you, Joel,” you sniff. “I want you more than anything. But-”

“But not like this. This is too hard.”

You nod weakly.

He sighs.

“You know you can move here — stay with me.”

You do know. He’s said it so many times before. But you’ve worked way too hard to pack up and start over, to give up your professorship after only three years with the blind hope that you’ll land a new position in Austin. And now you’re mad — infuriated, almost, that he keeps suggesting it.

You scoff. “You know I can’t just give up my life, Joel.”

“So what, you’re just gonna give up on us, instead?” His voice is strained.

“I’m not giving up,” you clip, defensively.

“Certainly doesn’t sound like you’re tryin’.”

He stares at the ceiling. You watch as his eyes mist, his concentration palpable as he wills the tears not to fall. Your anger dissipates into guilt.

This is exactly what you’d feared — breaking his heart. It’s like you can see it fracturing, chipping at the edges.

“I don’t want to,” you whisper. “I don’t — I don’t know. I just can’t.”

His face contorts. A single tear slips down his cheek, which he wipes away quickly with the back of his hand. “Fuck,” he curses.

You stand from the couch, begin to move cautiously toward him. “Joel, I-”

“Don’t,” he snaps. Throws his hands up defensively. And then he’s turning, heading up the stairs, leaving you standing there in the middle of the living room with a ringing in your ears.

When you climb into bed twenty minutes later, he doesn’t acknowledge you.

You fly home the next day. Joel doesn’t say anything on the drive to the airport.

Once there, he pulls over to the curb at the drop-off and puts the car in park. You’re not sure what to do — should you kiss him? Tell him you love him? Because you do, so fucking much. You’re just — not sure if he wants to hear that right now.

He makes the decision for you, cradling your face as he presses a gentle, lingering kiss to your lips. He lets his forehead fall to yours with a sigh, and then he pulls back.

He doesn’t open your door for you, though. Doesn’t grab your bags from the back when you clamber down from the passenger seat.

It’s as if he’s saying: I love you, but I’m going to give you space.

You pry open the back door. Pull out your suitcase and rest your new cowboy hat over the handle. You almost wish now that he hadn’t gotten it for you. It’ll just serve as another reminder of everything you’ve left behind once your home.

“Text me,” he offers once your things are all gathered on the curb. “Let me know when you board, when you’re home safe.”

“Yeah,” you nod. Search his eyes for something. Some indicator that he’s okay. But he’s stoic, his lips set in a straight line. “I will. Promise.”

His mouth opens, like he wants to add something else. But whatever he’s thinking, he decides against saying out loud. Instead he just tells you safe travels, and then he’s pulling the passenger side door closed from the inside.

You stand unmoving. As his truck disappears down the roadway and out of view, a list of all the things you should’ve said rolls through your brain like the end credits of a film.

You send Joel a message when you get home. Let him know you got in safe. You don’t call, like you normally would, because that’s not what he’d asked of you.

Then you climb straight into bed, still in your clothes, and let the tears consume you. You wallow in them for what feels like hours, the natural light in your bedroom gradually sinking into the floorboards. You welcome the nightfall, the way the darkness soothes the pounding in your head, the way it feels like nothing.

Morning comes before Joel responds. You’re rubbing the sleep out of your eyes, the time on your phone reading 11:09, and the notification from him just below it nearly jolts you:

Okay. Thanks.

No love you, no miss you.

You curse under your breath.

Why did you have to say anything? Why did you have to ruin this?

The pain of possibly losing Joel for good makes the pain of long distance feel like a papercut. All you want is to go back in time, take back everything you said, tell Joel you love him a million-and-one times. Anything to undo this.

You fleetingly consider quitting your job, handing in your resignation letter the second you get to campus tomorrow. You’ll take your unpacked suitcase and head right back to the airport.

You don’t let the temptation win. But it lingers, sits at the top of your chest like a threat. Like if he asks one more time — you’ll do it.

He doesn’t, though. In fact, he doesn’t say much of anything — which you should’ve expected — but it still stings. You hadn’t broken up, not technically, so you’re stuck in this weird limbo, one in which neither of you wants to talk about what happened in Austin.

Instead, you text each other once a day or so — weird, surface-level messages, ones you’d send to an acquaintance, not someone who literally knows you inside and out.

Finally above 60°, you say, on Monday morning, attached to a screenshot of your weather app.

Your walk to campus must’ve been nice today, he replies.

And the next day:

Guy at the job site today was talking about that show you like.

Parks & Rec?!

Yeah, that one.

It’s barely enough to keep you going, to keep you sane. You feel pitiful, looking forward to Joel’s text-of-the-day like it’s a re-up of your drug of choice. Better than heroin, you tell yourself.

Two weeks pass with no phone calls and minimal messages. It’s 5:45 pm on a rainy Tuesday when you sit at your dining room table with a pile of papers to grade in front of you, some low-fi playlist on in the background, unable to focus.

Because Joel hasn’t texted you all day.

Usually he’d send something by now. And it’s not like you hadn’t texted him — in fact, you’d double-texted, one message sent this morning about how you burned your tongue on your coffee, and another after your final class of the day when you’d seen he still hadn’t responded:

Busy day?

Your fingers hover over the keyboard, the gears in your mind whirring as you debate whether or not to send the words punctuated by a flickering cursor on your screen:

Can I call you later?

He’ll probably say no. Or worse, continue to ignore you. Maybe this is it — maybe weeks of dancing around residual tension have driven him to call it quits. He’ll block you, and then you’ll never hear from him again.

The thought has bile rising up your throat.

You close out of the app and put your phone down before stalking over to the living room, letting yourself fall stomach-first onto the couch. You stuff your face into a throw pillow and scream.

You almost don’t hear it over your muffled yells — the rapping at your front door.

You still, lifting your head from the pillow. Listening intently. It comes again — rapraprap.

Ugh, you groan, lifting yourself onto your elbows, then your feet. You pull your cardigan tighter over your front. Drag your feet across the hardwood to the entranceway, wondering who the fuck could be at your door on a Tuesday evening, unannounced.

Is it the property manager?, you speculate as you reach the door. Was there an issue with my rent?

Your fingers wind around the handle apprehensively. You peer through the peephole and your heart plummets into your stomach.

Because Joel is standing right outside your apartment.

You wonder if you’re seeing things. If you’ve gone full-on hysterical. But it’s him, it’s unmistakably him — in his favorite flannel and his workwear jacket, which is smattered in rain spots. His gaze is trained on the floor by his feet and his hands are fidgeting at his sides — just like the first time you met him.

You throw the door open. Joel’s eyes shoot up. For a long moment, you just stare at each other, waiting for the other to say something — do something.

When your breath pulls, he rushes forward and crashes his lips into yours. He backs you into your apartment, letting the door slam shut behind you.

You barely hear it, still registering that Joel is here, he’s here and he’s kissing the hell out of you. And just minutes ago, you’d been sulking on your couch, convinced it was over between you two.

You feel dizzy. You pull back, only because you fear if you don’t, you’ll literally topple over. Joel’s breathing is heavy — it matches yours.

“What are you — fuck — what are you doing here, Joel?”

“I need to talk to you,” he pants.

“Could’ve called,” you say, as if there’s any universe in which you’d prefer that.

You lead him to the living room. Fall back onto the couch. He sits down next to you, taking both of your hands in his. You get a good look at him for the first time since he’d barreled into your apartment, and he looks wrecked.

“Are you okay?,” you ask.

His response isn’t much of an answer. “’m selling my house.”

Your head spins. “You — what?”

“Listed it last week,” he says. “Already got a couple offers.”

“Oh,” you blink. “Okay.”

“‘m gonna move up here.”

Oh.

Your heart feels like it’s going to beat straight out of your chest. You’re — speechless.

“I put an offer on a place,” he continues. “‘ts a ranch with some land. Room for sheep. I’m sellin’ my half of the business to Tommy. Leavin’ Texas.”

He exhales. His eyes search yours with tangible desperation. “Say somethin’.”

“I — fuck, Joel,” you breathe. “You’re — when? How?”

“Found the place a couple days ago. ‘ts about thirty minutes Southeast of here. Just went and saw it in person. Sent my offer letter before I came here.”

“Right,” you nod. “But Joel, you can’t just leave-”

“Sure I can,” he interrupts. “Nothin’ there for me anymore. Not Sarah, not you.”

A beat passes. And then he adds:

“I can’t lose you.”

Your heart swells in your chest as you imagine Joel this past week, making all of these plans to rectify the distance between you, to be sure he doesn’t lose you. And still — you’re not sure if you deserve it after the way you hurt him.

“You — you still want me, even after what I said?”

“Darlin’,” he says, in that honey-sweet drawl. “I love you. There’s nothin’ you could do to make me not want you. You were right. This isn’t feasible. We can’t do this forever.”

“Joel,” you sigh, “I just — you’re sure you want this?”

“I want you,” he says plainly, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world — like nothing else matters. “And you need to be here. So it’s a no-brainer”

The rain picks up outside. It patters against the windows.

“Tell me you don’t want this and I’ll leave,” he says. “I’ll retract my offer. Go back to Texas.”

“I do Joel — want you here more than anything, love you more than anything. But-”

“Good.” He cups your face in his hands. You stare into his eyes, your future.

“It’s settled, then,” he says, pressing his forehead to yours, his fingers twisting in the fabric of your shirt. “I’m movin’ to Vermont.”

“This is crazy,” you laugh. “I love you. So much.”

“I love you more,” he beams. “No gettin’ rid of me now.”

You smile so wide your cheeks hurt. “I wouldn’t dream of it, Cowboy.”

end notes: ty again for reading! pls consider reblogging and leaving a comment if you liked it <3

tagging everyone who expressed interest in reading a part 2 (lmk if you don't want to be included going forward): @anoverwhelmingdin, @joelalorian, @lol-im-done, @bensonispunk, @sereindreams, @survivingandenduring, @stevie75, @vee-bees-blog, @brittmb115, @casssiopeia, @bbyanarchist, @janaispunk, @barbellpedro

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller smut #joel miller fic #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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mieczyslawsravenclaw · 2 months

Text

Best Friends, Is That All? - Stiles Stilinski

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

•Pairing - Stiles Stilinski x Fem!Reader

•Rating - 18+, Minors DNI - Smut - NSFW!!!

•Summary/Prompt - Just a regular ride in Stilesʼ jeep…Or it would be, if the love-struck fool could stop asking you how you feel about him. Guess someone's got a different kind of ride in mind...

•Warnings/Content - Pretty much all bases covered, they definitely fuck, tons of begging and mentions of markings and scratching, they use a condom bc SAFETY, oral oral lots of oral, TONS of petnames sorry its cheesy ik but I canʼt help it, lots of praise too bc thatʼs tasty, oh yeah and boys whimpering bc thatʼs just hot asf, they're in love so it's a little fluffier but still VERY spicy

•Word Count - 4.5k

•Authorʼs Note(s) - As always, just want to write about the spicy ideas I get from having spicy dreams, I feel like this oneʼs a little better than the last one but who knows? >_< /// (YA'LL I EXPECTED LIKE 4 LIKES ON MY SPENCER BLURB AND I GOT OVER 200 TY????? WTF???? )

•Additional Tags - they fuck in the jeep!, stiles is a whore for begging, theyʼre obsessed with eachother ffs, Switch!Stiles but mostly Sub!Stiles, he talks her through it UGH YES, CONSENT IS KEY, heʼs okay with whatever even if that means he doesnʼt get laid, Stiles is one cocky SOB with BDE and just a big dick oops, theyʼre for sure gonna fuck again before the night is over hehehe

“Do you get nervous?ˮ

The question takes me by surprise - Up until now, it had been a normal, routine drive with Stiles, albeit more fidgety than usual from his side. But once the question has left his lips, heʼs even more so, if thatʼs possible.

“Do I…yeah, definitely. Of course I do.ˮ I quirk my eyebrow at him; Heʼs avoiding my eyeline, focused far too much on the road ahead.

Something else, another question maybe, passes his lips, but itʼs far too quiet for me to catch. The poor thing is redder than a tomato, tapping his hands on the wheel as he starts to drive just a little faster unknowingly.

“Huh?ˮ

“A-About…M-mmmmm.ˮ Stiles stutters, dragging out his thought. The jeep seems to follow its driver, stuttering a bit on the road as he pushes the pedal down further.

“Sti, are you okay?ˮ

“Nervous.ˮ He repeats the word like heʼs reading it from a dictionary, not like heʼs using it as a self description. Weʼre getting further into the back roads now, and if I didnʼt know any better, Iʼd think he was bringing me out here to kill me or something.

“Pull over a sec, yeah?ˮ

He nods, bringing the jeep to a crawl along a forest road that could more accurately be called a trail, if anything. The silence is filled only by the bumping of the tires on the gravel, until we reach a stopping point, surrounded by nothing but trees for miles.

“Whatʼs eating at you, Stilinski?ˮ I turn in my seat, eyeing him in the mid-day light. Filtered through the jeepʼs dusty windows, he looks like a modern god, and my heart can hardly take it. Iʼve loved this poor boy a long time, but Iʼve never been brave enough to say it. And now, weʼre all alone in the woods for who knows what reason, and Iʼm more nervous than ever.

“Dʼyou ever get nervous…about me?ˮ He manages, his eyes squeezing shut and his fists clenching tight. He lets out a huge breath, then continues in a ramble, “God, I canʼt believe I even just asked that. Holy shit. I mean, you make me so nervous. Dʼyou know that? Youʼre my best friend, and you make me so nervous I feel like I canʼt even breathe, I want you to just reach over and break the distance between us and give in and just take me. God-ˮ

“Sti.ˮ It comes out half-choked. The lump in my throat swells - oh, my god, he likes me too? - as I scoot ever closer to him.

“Oh, of course not,ˮ He sighs, eyes still closed. He doesnʼt see me shift again, within touching distance, he just keeps on with his nervous blabber. “I mean, someone as beautiful as you with a guy like me? Come on, Stiles, get real.ˮ

“Stiles. Look at me, damn it.ˮ Hands shaking, Iʼm reaching over to touch him when he listens to me, turning and looking all in one motion.

“Oh, hi there.ˮ He blurts, flushing crimson.

“Yes, I get nervous about you, too.ˮ I can hardly believe Iʼm uttering the words. But my fear is trumped by the desperate need for him, right here and right now. I canʼt believe of all times and places, this is where itʼs gonna happen, but I donʼt quite care at the same point, either.

“You do?ˮ

“Stiles, I can barely contain myself around you. These past few months especially, I just-ˮ My reaching hands are still hanging near him, and he notices, finally, taking them in his own. I let out a shaking breath, closing my own eyes in desperate need to escape his searching gaze that sends my pulse skyrocketing. “You-Youʼre everything, do you know that? Iʼve wanted to tell you for so long, but I didnʼt think youʼd even look at me like that, I just thought-ˮ

“Best friends, nothing more?ˮ He chuckles softly, and I can sense the way his lips curl, not even needing to see it to know it. “Yeah, sounds familiar. Hey, look at me. I like you, you idiot.ˮ

My eyes open at the last few words, and seeing it straight from his mouth makes me lose myself for a moment. All I can do is blankly stare, my stomach doing flips. He likes me, he likes me, he likes me!

“Can you say something?ˮ He groans, eyes flicking between my own and down to my mouth. “Like, maybe confirm to me that you like me back? I mean, you kinda said as much, but I just really wanna hear you say it. Can you say it? Is that okay? Youʼre killing me, here-ˮ

“I like you too. Of course I do, who wouldnʼt?ˮ

“You do. For sure? Not just tryna pity me, are you?ˮ He quips, but itʼs clearly halfhearted.

“I really like you, dumbass.ˮ I move closer, dying for something to happen. Anything.

“Are you gonna kiss me now? Or am I gonna kiss you? Somebodyʼs gotta kiss somebody here, or Iʼm gonna lose it. Please, Iʼm begging you.ˮ

“Oh, youʼre begging me now?ˮ I smirk.

“Absolutely I am. If we were outside Iʼd be on my knees for you. Please, just fucking-ˮ He lets go of my hands, reaching for my waist as I grab at his collar.

We meld like itʼs second nature, lips forming together with a satisfied groan from Stiles that makes my legs weak. Somehow, I climb onto him in this cramped little jeep, bumping the steering wheel with my ass. He laughs, almost immediately going back to kissing me, a bit harder now. Itʼs clear in the way I grind my hips down to him with what I feel rising back to meet me that this is gonna take up a lot of our time together today.

I wonder for a moment if anyone will assume what weʼve gotten up to. Of course, Allison knows how I feel about Stiles, Iʼve told her a million times. I wonder if heʼs told Scott. Iʼm sure he has.

“Youʼre thinking too much,ˮ He growls, biting my lip. I moan back. “Thatʼs a lot coming from me,ˮ Another kiss, coming down my jaw now as I catch my breath. “I know. But…what can I do to get your mind back to me, hmm?ˮ

“That. Keep doing that.ˮ My hands tangle in the back of his hair, the tousled sort-of-waves that have grown out as of late being tugged as he nips at my neck.

“You want me to keep begging for you too?ˮ He teases, his lips coming up to my ear. “Cause I can do that all day, baby.ˮ

I nod, unable to grasp words with his breath against me.

“You gonna let me take you here, right now? Itʼs killing me to feel you on me like this and not have you. Please, let me have you, I canʼt stand it.ˮ

“T-tell me what you want me to do.ˮ I grasp harder at his hair, and he lets out a whimper. Oh, my god, that.

“I want you to fuckinʼ destroy me, and Iʼll beg until you do. God, Iʼm shameless, I donʼt even care if weʼre out here all alone or not, just please for the love of fuck, ride me like nothing else matters.ˮ

I pull his lips back to mine, silencing him for a time as we continue to make our own rhythm, learning one another with moans and laughs and tension unparalleled. Itʼs great, too great-I smack my head against the jeepʼs roof, letting out a yelp.

“Oh, shit-ˮ Stiles pulls me down against him, biting his lip when I land.

“Iʼm okay. Ow.ˮ

“How about we move this to the back?ˮ He pops the door open, letting me out first. Despite his words, heʼs back on my neck the moment weʼre outside, making it hard for me to push the seat down to get into the back.

“Stiles…ˮ I sigh, fumbling with the latch.

“Sorry, just want you-god, just want you so bad.ˮ He pulls back, reaching forward and sending the seat down with a practiced grasp.

I clamber inside, watching him hyperfocus on giving us as much room as possible. Front seats pushed down and forward, clutter thrown into the front, then heʼs back on me, kissing me and tugging at my shorts.

“Can I…?ˮ He motions, and I nod, letting him pull them down. His lips come back to mine, his fingers playing at the edge of my panties.

“Please-ˮ

“Youʼre begging now?ˮ He chuckles, his voice lower and throatier. Gods, Iʼm wet as fuck just from that.

“Shamelessly.ˮ I echo his earlier words, earning another small laugh.

“You want me, baby? How bad?ˮ He teases, hand grasping at my hip.

“Real-Really bad. Want you so bad, want you to-ˮ I canʼt even finish the thought, as he presses against my clit with his thumb. I moan, bucking up against him.

“Sorry, Iʼm impatient, you know that.ˮ He amends, kissing down my jaw and pulling back. He sits me up against the door, pulling my legs up and pressing a deep kiss against my opening. “Youʼre soaking, I can tell even through these little things.ˮ

I shudder, eyeing him in between my legs. Itʼs a sight to behold, and he isnʼt even getting started yet.

“Howʼs about we take em off, huh? Donʼt need these where weʼre going.ˮ He discards the fabric, and when his eyes meet the heat pooling below my belly, his jaw goes slack. I could almost swear he was drooling.

For a moment, Iʼm self conscious, folding in on my body under his gaze. But he holds my thighs back down, shaking his head.

“Uh-uh. No shame, right, princess?ˮ He hovers over me, eyes flicking back and forth between his focus and my face. “Now, you just let me know what feels good and what doesnʼt, okay? Wanna make sure you enjoy yourself.ˮ

“Stiles, Iʼm dying here, please just touch me already.ˮ

He smirks, another shake of the head, this one with a cocky air to it.

“If you insist, sweetheart.ˮ He brings his lips down to meet my opening, licking a stripe up that sends my hands grasping at the jeepʼs seat.

“Sti-ˮ

He hums against me, his grip on my thighs tightening. A few more precise licks, and heʼs delving into my core, filling the jeep with my desperate cries. Fuck, heʼs good, and Iʼm already closer by the minute.

“Taste so good, baby…ˮ He murmurs, getting lost in the task as my hands tug at his hair. When he shifts up to suck at my clit, the noise it brings from me is almost inhuman. “Feel good?ˮ

“Yes- oh my god, yes-ˮ

“Want more? How does this feel, hmm?ˮ He presses a finger to my opening, and I push against him, wordlessly begging. He chuckles, pushing it in fluidly. One, a few motions, and clearly Iʼm still desperate so he adds in another. “Talk to me, baby. Use your words.ˮ

“You want me to talk right now?ˮ I moan, my mind spinning in the pleasure-filled void heʼs trapped me in.

“I know, itʼs just too good, huh? You donʼt have to talk, your noises are more than enough.ˮ He curls his fingers, pulling against a sweet spot that has me crying out.

“Stiles!ˮ

Back down to me with his lips now, too, I can feel the smirk that starts up hearing me say his name like that. He knows exactly where he has me, and heʼs gonna relish in it. Not only are his fingers working magic now, but along with his tongue? Iʼm gonna break, and he knows it.

“Iʼm-Oh, donʼt stop-ˮ

A hummed approval is all I get from the usually chatty lips of Stiles Stilinski, his beard that heʼs let grow in recently brushing over me while he brings me to the edge. Iʼm practically drowning in the pleasure, and heʼs the air I need. One more fluid motion, just the right one, and Iʼm spilling curses from my mouth and wetness from my heat. He laps it up heartily, a satisfied groan from the recess of his throat vibrating against me.

“You…I just…wow.ˮ He pauses for a moment to look over me with a smile beginning to tug at the corner of his lips. I flush, back to being nervous under his eye.

“Stunned you into silence, eh, Stilinski?ˮ

“Oh, Iʼm far from done. Just figured Iʼd give you a break.ˮ He quips with a smirk.

“I donʼt need one.ˮ I blurt, the words faster than my brain.

“No?ˮ He laughs. “Okay, then. Well, if thatʼs the case, Iʼm begging you to get back to being all over me.ˮ

“In what way?ˮ I smirk, looking at his coated fingers.

He snorts, rolling his eyes.

“Funny.ˮ Keeping up eye contact, he licks his fingers clean. He seems to enjoy the groan it elicits from me. “Like that, huh? Iʼm looking forward to finding out what else you like.ˮ

I sit up, pressing to him once again. He tastes like me, and chuckles against my kiss. The clink of undoing his belt buckle becomes the sounds of rustling fabrics, my shirt tossed, his gone. His chest to mine, warm and inviting, and his pants kicked to the side. I fumble with my bra, my cheeks red.

“I…ˮ

“Yʼknow we can stop anytime, yeah?ˮ He amends, sensing my hesitation. “Like, of course Iʼm okay with whatever, I want you in all the ways. But only if youʼre comfortable. Consentʼs important.ˮ

“Oh, I want you. I want all of you, of course I do.ˮ I sigh. “Just…real nervous about how I look.ˮ

“You?ˮ Heʼs incredulous, pulling back and sweeping my body with his gaze. “Holy shit, no way. Nuh uh. You, youʼre…God, youʼre gorgeous, are you kidding me? Every part of you fits just right with the other, promise. You donʼt have to do anything you donʼt wanna do, but you gotta know that. You gotta know Iʼm gonna love how you look. I donʼt even need to have seen it yet to know. You just…are.ˮ

Iʼve been rendered speechless, and all I can do is take it off while he rambles.

“Not to say that you gotta just cause Iʼm saying all this. You get that, right? Iʼm not saying it just to get you to-ˮ He stops cold when Iʼve tossed the bra, my hands still hiding the majority of my chest. With a gentle grasp, he reaches to uncover me. “Can I…?ˮ

“Yeah, Iʼm just nervous.ˮ

“Thatʼs okay. Me, too. Youʼre beautiful though.ˮ He lifts my cover away softly, eyeing me with precision and adoration. He pokes at the moles and freckles that adorn my upper body, smiling as his eyes meet mine again. “See? Perfect. Nothing to worry about.ˮ

“Stiles, I adore you.ˮ I blurt, tears starting to form.

“Oh, sweetie.ˮ He pulls me closer, kissing my nose. “We can stop if youʼre really too nervous. I donʼt mind. Iʼll just jack off later or something, no big.ˮ

I snort at his words. “As much as Iʼd love to watch that. No, Iʼm okay. Just needed a moment, I guess. Trust me, Iʼm still dying for you.ˮ

His face goes red. “Youʼd- huh? Wow, thatʼs an image. Maybe another time, yeah? No shortage of things to think about for that, especially now Iʼve seen you and itʼs not just my imagination spurring me on.ˮ

“Youʼll have more to go on soon, too.ˮ I pull him back down onto me, kissing him.

“Fuck, youʼre hot.ˮ He moans. “Youʼre killing me.ˮ

“Destroying you,ˮ I correct him. “Thatʼs what you wanted, isnʼt it?ˮ

“Still want it,ˮ He grasps at me, nothing but his boxers to hide that want now. “Very much still want it.ˮ

More kissing ensues, and weʼre groping at eachother like weʼre high-schoolers again. Somehow, at some point, heʼs as bare as I am now and the way weʼre pressed to one another is the most tempting thing Iʼve ever experienced in my entire life.

“Hey, so, uh- not to seem like a copycat or anything, but…ˮ He breathes against my lips, his voice catching. “Yʼknow, nervous about how I look, now that Iʼm thinking about it. Not really very manly of me, I know, whatever.ˮ

“Fuck manliness,ˮ I amend, letting him pull back. “Youʼre perfect, you…oh, how could you not be?ˮ

What a sight he is to behold, in all his naked glory. Goosebumps pepper my skin as I look him over, from the moles that adorn him across his body the same way they do across his face, to the burning red that sits underneath his pale skin…to of course what heʼs referencing concern over the most. And thereʼs certainly none needed, in my opinion. No concerns, except how Iʼm gonna need to stretch out around that. Oh, my.

“Stiles…ˮ My voice, my gaze, softens. His shoulders drop. “Youʼre stunning.ˮ

“Not just saying that, are you?ˮ He brushes non-existent dirt from his shoulder. “My ego will be sorely bruised.ˮ

“Should I tell you or should I show you?ˮ I lick my lips, gaze going between his legs and back to his face. The noise he makes would be comical in any other circumstance.

“Fuck, definitely show me.ˮ

Now, itʼs his turn to lie back. And Iʼm control. I must have absolutely stunned him, because heʼs got nothing to say, just watching me as I lower over him. Once I begin to kiss at and lick stripes over him, though, heʼs got plenty to say - I donʼt recognize half the curses he lets fly, they must be Polish or something. But fly they do, and his hand is at my hair when I start to take him in my mouth, grasp tight.

“Oh, my god-ˮ

I keep it up until he stops me a few moments later, a funny little quirk to his brows.

“God, I donʼt ever wanna stop this, but if you keep going like that Iʼm gonna fuckinʼ bust, and I gotta know what you feel like riding me first, please?ˮ He reaches blindly around, cursing. “Fuckinʼ - just need my wallet, whereʼd my jeans go?ˮ

I laugh, pulling back to help his search. When he comes up with the item in question, I understand- protection, no shit.

“Yeah, okay, now Iʼm ready.ˮ He nods after heʼs prepared himself, sitting up against the seat. He helps position me over him, eyes locked. “Oh, my god, is this actually real? I feel like Iʼm in some kinda magical dream.ˮ

“Very real. I remember what I had for breakfast and everything.ˮ I quip, trying to ease the nerves. They wonʼt go, though, and the knot in my stomach is ever-tighter as he brushes against my opening. “Fuck, I want you inside me, now.ˮ

“Kinda up to you, there.ˮ He holds me tight around the waist, eyes pleading. “Iʼm ready when you are, though, rock my fuckinʼ world sweetheart.ˮ

The need is too great to put it off any longer; I let myself push down to meet him, the entering gasps we let out mingling in the short bit of air between us. His head falls back, his hands only guides as I bring myself further down, slowly, slowly, slowly. I take a moment around the first few inches to breathe; as ridiculous as it sounds, Iʼve never had someone quite as…gifted as him.

“Fuuuuuck, youʼre tight.ˮ He groans. “So thatʼs how you feel. No imagination or anything my hands can do compares to that.ˮ

“Iʼm only getting started,ˮ I reply. “Genuinely, in all honesty, not a joke or anything. Youʼre…a lot to take.ˮ

“Having fun strokinʼ my ego?ˮ He chuckles.

“Tilʼ you give me something else to stroke.ˮ

“Fuck, thatʼs a promise.ˮ He ruts up against me, bringing a cry from my lips. “Shit, sorry, reflex. You feel so good, I just want more of you. Did I hurt you?ˮ

“No, it felt too good.ˮ I admit. “Just taking it slow cause Iʼm not really used to anything this…ˮ

“Big?ˮ Heʼs got the widest smirk on his face now.

“Howʼs that for your precious ego?ˮ I flirt, pushing down another bit with a sharp breath. The stretching pain is worth it for the look on his face.

“My ego is just fine. Big, just like my- Oh, my god-ˮ He stutters out, his bravado going out the window when I start to rock my hips back and forth. And was that a whimper? “Oh, please donʼt stop, keep going. Oh, god-ˮ

“Long as you keep begging.ˮ

The more I move, the easier it gets to take him, until Iʼm fairly close to bottoming out. Heʼs holding me closer than ever, kissing me whenever he gets the chance to, and the noises and whimpers havenʼt stopped. It spurs me, the collision of our bodies growing ever-faster as he cries my name and begs me not to stop. I wonʼt, I canʼt, itʼs all too good and Iʼm chasing a high that I find myself soon riding out onto him. Now, Iʼll be the one saying his name, his real name.

“God, that sounds so good coming from you,ˮ He moans, “Iʼve never heard it sound so good.ˮ

“Hereʼs to many more.ˮ I stutter out between the motions weʼre making and the sounds accompanying. Heʼs less in control now, thrusting up to meet me and pushing me down to him. Heʼs made plenty of marks on me, from the hickeys littering my skin to the surefire bruising my hips will have from his grasp. I can only hope to either hide whatʼs visible or risk the teasing the pack will no doubt give us later.

“Please, take me all the way, Iʼll help you through it.ˮ He begs, kissing me again once Iʼve come down far enough. “Youʼve got this, baby, please?ˮ

No words, just a resolute nod, and his response is a repeated thanks. I push further, to the very end of him, my nails digging into his shoulders.

“Good, baby- fuck , youʼre doing good, pretty girl. So good, so good for me. There you go.ˮ He kisses my burning skin, the devouring fire weʼve made together consuming us both as I shift around under his grasp. He doesnʼt force, only guides, and makes a rhythm for me to follow with sputtered curses abounding. “God, you feel so good. Does it feel good for you? Hurt?ˮ

“Only enough to make me want it more,ˮ I moan, letting my head drop to his shoulder. “F-fuck me.ˮ

“Is that a statement or a request?ˮ He doesnʼt wait for an answer as I slow, taking the lead and snapping up into me. Once, twice, I lose count. He seems to get lost, too, senseless mumbles and moans filling the jeep as my hand streaks the fogged window. Heʼs entirely filled me up, and I want for nothing more than to go until I canʼt anymore.

He guards my head when I raise back up, making sure I wonʼt hit the roof again, and when it starts to rain in the secluded forest weʼve hidden ourselves in, itʼs not the only thing sending waves crashing down around us. Another thing I lose count of - heʼs far too good at this, and I tell him so.

“Been thinkinʼ about this for a while, so that counts as practice, yeah?ˮ The sweat sticks a bit of his hair to his forehead, and he looks about ready to tire out.

“You losing steam on me?ˮ I tease, brushing his hair back.

“Hell, no!ˮ He groans when I move my hips, sat bottomed out but doing nothing else. “Iʼm pretty close, thatʼs all. But when Iʼm done with you here Iʼm not done with you for the night, if youʼre willing.ˮ

“Well, if youʼre close…ˮ My lips curl deviously, and I bring myself back to the pace and movement that had had him howling earlier. Heʼs back to it in an instant, but his whines are more pronounced, drug out.

“Fuck, please, please donʼt stop-ˮ

“Gonna cum for me?ˮ

“Y-yes, yes-ˮ

“Good.ˮ Itʼs like a growl from me, and his cries only grow from it, until Iʼm sure at least anyone with supernatural hearing can catch onto us if theyʼre anywhere near.

“Oh- Oh, my god, Iʼm gonna-ˮ Stiles holds me tight, the most animalistic noise of it all loosing from his lips as he loads the condom full inside me. Weʼre hot, sweaty, and as close together as we possibly can be, but he still pulls me closer, taking a deep, heavy breath.

“So…how was I?ˮ

His laugh is quick, choked.

“Are you serious? Fuck, that was amazing. Iʼd just as soon do it again, but Iʼm…a little depleted at the moment.ˮ He eyes where we meet with an eyebrow wiggle. “Hey, we just had sex.ˮ

“That we did.ˮ I laugh.

“You and me, best friends. Just had sex. Well, we might wanna rethink that whole just best friends idea, huh?ˮ He kisses my cheek, letting out a content sigh. “No rush on that, Iʼm just talking. You know how I get. Just…excited that this happened. That it is happening. And…Iʼd be okay with calling you something more than my best friend. If youʼre into that.ˮ

“Very much into that.ˮ

“So…girlfriend?ˮ

“Shit, I was gonna say fiancee or wife. Or soulmate.ˮ

His eyes bug for a moment, then he starts to laugh.

“Youʼre fuckinʼ with me. Youʼre hilarious. Alright, girlfriend-future-fiancee-wife-soulmate-whatever-you-want, howʼs that sound?ˮ

“A little long, if Iʼm being honest.ˮ

“Long didnʼt seem to bother you just a moment ago.ˮ

“Mieczyslaw!ˮ

“Still sounds beautiful cominʼ from you. Like…ˮ He catches my glare, and smirks. “Nevermind. Letʼs get this cleaned up and head back, huh? Thereʼs a pizza about to be made with our names on it.ˮ

#stiles stilinski smut #stiles stilinski #sub!stiles stilinski #stiles stilinski x reader

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