Cuties

🥺 cuties

"percy is an unreliable narrator because he undersells his skills!" no!! percy is an unreliable narrator because he managed to convince the fandom that he was completely oblivious to both annabeth's crush on him and his crush on annabeth when in reality he just refused to say it explicitly to the reader!!!!!

mind you, percy almost confessed to annabeth TWICE within one night in the titan's curse, and the only reason he didn't was because he was having an anxiety attack the first time, and because athena told him off the second time. he's being vague on purpose but it's pretty obvious what he means when he says "there was a lot i'd wanted to say to annabeth" lol

just bc he doesn't say "i have a crush on annabeth" doesn't mean it isn't obvious he's upset he didn't get to dance longer with her CMONNN

percy throws a temper tantrum when he finds out annabeth was thinking of a "boy-free tomorrow" LMFOANKGFNJVNF

he has this habit of trailing off when he's saying something vague that implies he likes annabeth romantically CONSTANTLY

ok so obviously he knows he has a crush on annabeth half of the titan's curse is him trying to find new ways to say it

now for proof that he was aware of annabeth's crush

he's connecting the dots everyone annabeth took the time to store something they recovered on their quest together wow!!!!

he's defensive over how annabeth is the one making effort (showing she has interest)

reassures her that he barely knows rachel 2. tries to change the subject when he realizes it didn't help LOL

i mean you could argue he's like this bc he's aware he has a crush on annabeth and everyone at camp openly teases them about having crushes on each other but still

by this point he's basically openly saying he knows annabeth is jealous

anywayyyyy im tired now but i made my point

(not to mention in the show he sort of implies she has a crush on him by saying she's acting weird after they hugged)

Candy Girl [joel miller]

The before and after. Or, Joel fucks his friend's daughter for the first time.

my masterlist!

pairing: joel miller x f!reader

rating: 18+ [mdni]

tags/warnings: daddy kink, baker!reader, age gap (20s/40s), (sort of) dbf!joel, daddy dom!joel, soft!joel, angst, self-loathing, waxing poetic about eating pussy, unprotected piv (wrap that shit up like a pastry), creampie, cream pies, dirty talk, pet names, forbidden romance, tw for occasional stylistic omission of quotation marks, moodboard for aesthetics only

word count: ~ 6k

read on ao3!

a/n: hi, all!! please, as always, mind the tags for this fic - it's quite a departure from what i typically write, but daddy joel has set up shop in my brain and he won't leave. if this isn't for you, that's cool - you don't have to read it. i hope you'll be kind, and as always, i hope you enjoy!! xoxo

thank you HUGELY to my dear mya @cavillscurls for the absolutely stunning moodboard!!! i love you and i'm obsessed with you and you're crazy talented 🫶 and thank you endlessly to my parents sam and el @tieronecrush and @northernbluess for being AMAZING betas and always supporting me and my silly fics!!

CANDY GIRL

What have I done, he thinks, parting your dewy folds with two fingers and sliding his tongue through the glistening mess between your thighs, to deserve this?

He certainly can’t think of some good-enough deed to warrant him being here, tucked warmly in this apex, kindling a fire, rubbing his hands over the red of the flame, breathing sighs and gasps and groans into the sweet-smelling flesh of your thighs as if he were destined to arrive here. As if it were a mere quirk of fate, and now everything is gently settling into motion. 

Your fingers are curled in his hair and your chest—bare, smattered with a faint sheen of sweat and reflecting moonlight, illicit—is heaving. You have no instinct to steer him. Your hand knows no guiding push or pull. Your back is bowing off the mattress and your mouth is emitting needy little whines and whimpers and pleas for mercy, more, please, Daddy. 

And he’s acquiescing, toppling slowly into that heady pull of sticky wet warmth between your thighs, and all he can think is that you smell like cherries. 

And you are messy. Fuck, you’re dripping onto his chin as he licks through you, languishing in the prickling taste as if he's guiding his tongue along the salt rim of a glass. His fingers absently dimple your thighs, bruising, forcing them to fall open, part wider, for him. 

Let me in, baby girl. 

Thaaat’s it. My sweet girl. My pretty girl. 

So goddamn beautiful like this. 

You just relax, baby, and let me in. C’mon, now. 

You obey every muffled order like it’s law, letting him shoulder his way between your legs, his hand pressing firm on your belly, pinning you. The answering mewl he hears from your parted lips is the sweet slide of your strawberry icing along his taste buds. He buries his tongue between your wet folds and holds you tighter, dizzied with the smell and the taste and the feel of finally taking what he wants. What you've given him. 

Joel licks self-indulgently through your slit until your pretty cunt is slathered in his spit and glistens with your own juices. When he sees your clit, puffy and fucking needy and shining at him like a goddamn pearl, he licks his lips. 

Look at her. She’s fuckin’ cryin’ for me, baby girl. You need your Daddy to kiss it better? 

You whine, grasping his locks, still never quite urging or pushing, but begging: Daddy, I’ll do anything. Please, I’ll do anything.

Shh, sweetheart. Don’t have to do anything. Just keep ‘em open for me. I’ll make it good. Hear me?

A frantic nod. A reflexive squeeze of the hand on your belly. Eyes, watery and butter-soft in the darkness—wrong, risk—meet his own. 

Yes, Daddy. 

It didn't begin this way. 

Some of the edges are blurred with time. He vaguely recalls the time before you—mornings alone at the breakfast table, intermittent calls to Sarah all the way in College Station, long days on the job site because he had nothing else to come home to—and he’s bitter. It tastes nothing like the after: strawberry icing, vanilla perfume, cherries. 

It must have begun when Chris slapped him on the back after the scaffolding on the Queen Street job was taken down and said, “Couple of us are grabbing coffees at the Morning Star. You should come along, man. Get outta the house.”

The Morning Star. A slightly weathered pink awning and a varnished oak interior, a couple small tables (occupied), a flurry of activity in front of and behind the counter. A glass display case brimming with cakes and croissants and macarons. Glass vases filled with pink roses whose stems have been neatly trimmed. A pretty girl working behind the counter, tending to customers with an irradiating smile, a tender hand, the blinding glint of a bracelet, a pair of earrings, glowing. 

“What can I get for you this morning?” you asked him, like it was some secret spilling from the torso, a heart lurching from its cage, spread out on the ground. 

Petal-pink flowers painted on your fingernails. The aching attentiveness of your stare. Ekphrastic turns of phrases pasted to the wall behind the counter, in the form of a mural, crowd-sourced poems and letters and works of art. Lived-in, loved. The smell of cherries as you approached.

And then it was Chris, clapping Joel on the shoulder, a jolt of good-natured violence turning to torrent as he said, “The usual for me, honey.”

It's been wrong since that moment. Maybe it's been wrong all along. That doesn't stop him from ending up here. And it doesn't stop you from following. 

On your back, in Joel’s bed, your legs spread wide to accommodate his broad shoulders, welcoming the face-warming intrusion of his mouth between your slick folds. Bold in the way you curl your pretty polished fingers in his greying locks—he’s too old, much too old for you—and receptive in your soft moans and your uttered hexes of yesyesyes. 

Bewitched, he flattens his tongue against your pulsing clit and latches his lips around it, his eyes fixed on the way your head falls back, the length of your throat exposed, the evidence of your beating heart laid bare for him in the tremble of your pulse. 

He sucks on your clit until your legs begin to shake, and it’s the telltale squeeze of your thighs around his shoulders, the way you reflexively kick his back with your heel. But he’s pulling away, crushing his nose in the flesh of your thigh, nipping your soft skin, and the cry that leaves your mouth carves a tremor down his spine. 

Your tight little hole flutters with the need to be filled, to take him inside you, to make him wholly yours, the way he already is, the way you can never know. 

So he slides his tongue over your clit and lathers you in his spit and digs his fingertips into your thighs as if he owns you—because he never can. 

The flickering burn of regret and shame soothes when he's between your thighs, sucking your clit into his mouth and making you come so hard that you weep—leg kicking out, shackled by a firm hand around your ankle, back arching, fingers grasping, flexing, at whatever you can touch. You pour into him, molten gold, recast in his likeness, and he doesn't deserve this but he will take it. 

Instinctively, he pushes deeper, lapping your release from your messy hole, his nose pressed against your oversensitive clit—and he can’t resist, has never been able to, gently coaxing you through it, Poor baby, so goddamn needy for Daddy, sweetheart. Taste so fuckin’ sweet.

You’re whining, finally pushing at his head as the pleasure notches too high, and he presses a soft kiss to your clit before dragging his lips up your belly, between your tits, pulling you upright to sit you in his lap. You grin lazily and drop your forehead against his. 

Fuck, he's so proud. He smooths his hand down the crown of your head and skates his fingers down your sweat-slick spine. 

You tired, baby?

You nod, and he nips at your pouting bottom lip.

Hmm, but you ain't a quitter. You can give me another, can't you? You wanna be good for me. 

He whispers it all against the curve of your throat, into your collarbones, fitting his rough palm against your lower back and pulling your body flush to his. He sweats through all his layers and bleeds his warmth into you, but you don't care, grinding down on his lap, sliding your wet pussy along the hard length in his jeans. 

Your hand is slippery at the back of his neck and your eyes are lidded, sleepy, near-black, as you take what you need because you're a greedy girl when it comes down to it, and he's holding your bloody beating heart in his palms. 

I’ll be so good, Daddy. 

He knows. God, he knows—his lips find your temple, hair matted with sweat, and he can feel your tits pressing up against his chest, the erratic melody your heart sings to him, for him, through him. And he doesn’t deserve this.

Gonna need to take me out, baby girl. Go on, now.

You scramble, reaching between your bodies and unbuttoning his jeans, your hand teasing down the waistband of his boxers. Joel groans when you squeeze him, his teeth catching on your earlobe, nibbling from your jaw to your chin. He watches your manicured hand with its pretty pink polish wrap snugly around the base of his cock—you give him a firm, slow stroke, and he curses at the sight of your oh-so eager gaze.

Shit, baby. You're grinding your hips, smearing your wetness along his length, and he kneads your hip like dough while you grasp his shoulder, your head lolling. He bares his teeth, growling and snapping like a dog at the hot, slick slide of your cunt, his eyes a pendulum between the joining of your bodies and the heavy gaze you give him. That’s it, that’s fuckin’ it, take what you need. 

Your legs are trembling, too weak to hold yourself upright, and he knows, as always, exactly what it is you want. 

You’ve always been spoiled, because he’s let it happen. 

“Just a coffee,” he said, his third consecutive day in the Morning Star. “Please.”

He felt the twist of your lips in his ribcage. “I promise we have more than just coffee.”

“‘s good coffee,” he said. “Why spoil a good thing?”

He liked your pale pink hat and apron and the colour of your nails. He liked the way you feathered your fingertips over the till while you waited patiently for orders, the way you dealt so kindly with indecisiveness, the way your heart-shaped pendant glimmered when the sun dipped low in the western sky. 

He only knows it glows like that because you let him stay one night, long after close, to fix the hinge on the front door.

He’d known the Morning Star for a month. He knew it better than he knew you. 

“You don’t have to do this, Joel.”

An anxious shifting of your weight from one foot to the other, an intermittent four-fingered tap of your nails on the countertop, a soft weariness blurring the edges of your irises, as you tried to tell him you were fine, you could call your dad in the morning, please don’t worry about me.

The gentle in-and-out of your chest as you breathed, the golden near-evening light trickling the sun into the whites of your eyes, where it belonged. When you inhaled, he exhaled, the rhythmic pulse of life dancing between you, twirling carelessly on the edge of something neither of you could explain. 

“I wanna help,” he said. “And you should let me.”

You sighed, little of the charging bull and more of the huffing kitten, and his stomach lurched painfully. He wanted to touch you. He wanted to rest his hand at the crown of your head, soothe the tension in your shoulders with a measured press of his fingertips, unearth the blood-flecked bones that heralded emotions he could not yet name. Later, he would know them intimately; later, he would set his teeth in the white marrow and lick the blood from his chops. 

He wanted to ask all of his questions with his fingers, not his mouth, let you answer them the way you saw fit, giving that silent, haptic space the power it needed to pry open the parts of your life he could only guess at. 

But he did not touch you. 

Then, a time firmly lodged in the hazy somewhere of before-and-after, he could only pretend. And he could fix the door. 

Now, he’s gazing in disbelief at the way your tight little hole wrenches open around the weeping tip of his heavy cock, his sweaty body sliding along yours as you hastily shove the buttons of his flannel out of their slits and shuck off his shirt. Skin-to-skin, he feels your pulse ever stronger, licking and sucking at the juncture of your neck and shoulder. His palm is flat between your shoulder blades as he eases you open, helping you take his big cock. 

Daddy…

I know, baby girl, I know. Just a little more. That’s it—keep holdin’ onto me, baby. 

Petting you like a domesticated cat, fitting his fingers in the grooves between your ribs, feeling his own heartbeat settle into the rhythm of yours. You grasp his shoulder, the nape of his neck, your lips parting against his forehead, pressing feverish kisses to the space where his greying curls stick to his skin. 

You can take me, sweet girl. My baby. So good for me—

—the way you always have been.

“When my mom left, she gave the bakery to me.” Guiding the pink icing onto the small fluffy cakes, you moved seamlessly. Second nature, like laying mortar and brick. Your hands were speckled with flour and frosting. 

The vanilla cupcakes, robed in white paper, were a commission for a young girl’s sixth birthday. “Pink was Sarah’s favourite, too,” he’d said when he walked in that morning—perhaps too needy for a reason to connect. Blindly tossing a fishing line into a murky lake. 

But you still glowed when you had beamed up at him: “And now? She still a pink lover?”

“Haven't asked in a while,” he’d said, “but I’d reckon so.”

“She’s smart.” You had slid the black coffee across the counter and placed a cupcake next to it. Joel frowned. 

“What's this?”

You had lifted your brows, your eyes telegraphing a challenge. He had sunk neck-deep into your emboldened gaze. “This is a cupcake.”

“Smartass,” he’d huffed. “You got a reason for givin’ me a cupcake?”

You’d gently pushed them closer to him and given him that blinding, tempting grin, and how could he ever hope to decline you when you looked at him like that? 

“I value your opinion, Joel,” you’d told him, “and if you don’t eat it, you’ll hurt my feelings.”

He'd taken the cupcake and sunk his teeth into its pillowy flesh right there in front of you. 

“And your dad?” asked Joel, on his knees under the counter, replacing the latch on the display door’s hinge. “He help you out a lot?”

 An intrusive figure, playing unwitting God in the budding flower bed, picking petals before they were dead. He would always inflate the distance between you, assert his right to decide who you wanted, dated, fucked—he would always be Joel’s judge and jury. 

The executioner’s axe he’d take up himself. 

You topped off a row of cupcakes with little candied cherries. “He couldn't afford to quit, so I’m running the place. So much for school.”

Joel didn't like that. He didn’t like the way you let it all slide gently down your spine. There was a quiet defiance in the way you spoke—some simmering anger you buried deep in the earth where the colours weren't bright and your heart wasn't so naked. He could feel its veins as if holding it in his palm, the gentle ba-dum, ba-dum of a vulnerable organ so acquainted with disappointment.

“What do you want to study?” he asked. 

“Don’t know. Never got the chance to think about it.”

Never got the chance to find yourself. To learn. To grow. You had simply stepped into another’s body, a ghost, occupied endlessly with the next task and the next and then one more. You should've been spending your early twenties partying and studying and crying your eyes out over idiot boys who didn’t know how good they had it. You shouldn't have to be here, decorating cupcakes for a six-year-old while some old man fixed yet another broken hinge, latch, bulb. 

“I became a dad pretty young,” said Joel. “Thought I was gonna lose my whole life, all my opportunities, not that I had any.”

He did not deserve the empathetic shimmer in your waterline. “Joel, that's not true—”

“But,” he said with a faint groan as he rose, “I got to make a life of my own, with my kid, and I was happy.”

“You were happy?” you said wearily. “You aren't anymore?”

“I’m…”

He caught your eye and felt the plates far beneath his feet dislodge. Quantum shift. You held his gaze as if you were waiting for some truth to crawl from his sockets—like he was your answer. And Joel did not know what to do with that, but if you would keep looking at him this way, he would tell you any false truths you wanted to hear. 

“I’m lonely,” he said at last. Joel reached up and tucked a lock of hair behind your ear. A shiver coursed through your heart which lay in his palm, warm crimson blood trickling down his wrists. “And you shouldn't have to be. You’ve got so much life ahead of you, sweetheart.”

Some glacial melt keeled the weight of your head toward him, and your cheek was resting in the pool of his palm. Joel did not care for the hand of God whose fingers would inevitably squeeze the life from whatever this was. The jigsaw fit of your bodies felt so right in this incomprehensible sliver between before and after.

“You're not old, Joel,” you said softly. 

“Too old for you.”

He didn't know why he said it, but it made you smile. 

“You keep lying to me, Mr. Miller, and I’m not going to trust you anymore.” A wry twist of your lips. “You don’t want that, do you?”

Is this flirting? he thought to himself, so fucking out of practice that the concept felt altogether foreign. But you were giving him that foxlike look and his hand was still cupping your cheek and he could feel the flutter of your pulse, and he didn’t want to stop.

“No, baby. I don’t want that.”

Flesh meets flesh. Your hips drop, and you’re sitting so prettily on his cock, the whole of him buried inside you, stretching your capacities, shifting the dichotomy of right and wrong. He stares up at you—lips parted, eyes lidded, heart beating JoelJoelJoel—and pleasure pinballs down each knob of his spine. He’s locked in the tidal push-and-pull with your body, gravity sucking him into you, or sucking you down onto him. It doesn't matter. 

This is the after, and you're drunkenly nudging his nose with yours, trying to kiss him, and he's taking you. Running with the diamond. Sliding his tongue into your mouth, tasting cherries and frosting and giving you a piece of what he's already taken from you. You're sighing and moaning and greedily opening your mouth into him to swallow down your own taste. 

His hand slides up your spine to the sticky nape of your neck as he presses you to him, joined by every joint, every pound of flesh. 

And when he begins to move, to grind up into you and draw gooey, cloying gasps from your mouth, Joel thinks he briefly sees white. 

Jesus. Been waitin’ so goddamn long for this. You're so fuckin’ soft, baby girl. So fuckin’ beautiful. 

His teeth in your throat, around your earlobe, scraping your jaw, pleasure pinching, recapitulating, recovering only to start again. Your name on his tongue, passing from his mouth to yours, the anchor of your hand around his neck, the other on his shoulder, reciprocal re-stabilising. 

He needs you just as much as you need him, and he shows you in the way he pulls you firmly to him, because he cannot bring himself to whisper it into the barely-there space between your bodies.

“Joel, I’m sorry to call you so early, but I’m out of options, and the party starts in two hours, and my delivery guy flaked, and—”

“Honey, slow down. Lemme wake up, okay? I’m comin’ to you.”

“Oh, God, just forget I said anything. Go back to sleep. Fuck, I’m so sorry.”

He still remembers the break in your voice, the fragile warble of your resolve cleaving down the middle. He remembers the sting in his own chest like it was his wound, not yours. He was awake before the sun began to climb.

You had to personally drive the cake you’d made for a ten-year-old’s birthday party all the way across town now that your delivery service had fallen through. You didn’t even have a car; you took the bus everywhere, which Joel had chewed his tongue to pieces over for months. Things could happen in the dark. Public transport was no different. But your own father didn’t seem to take issue with it, so how could Joel?

“Don’t say a word,” he told you when you hopped up into his truck and opened your mouth to apologise. “I don’t mind. You know damn well I don’t mind.”

“You should mind,” you said, instinctively picking a piece of lint from his flannel with that miserable little pout on your face. “All I’ve ever done is ask you for things.”

“And if I like doin’ things for you?”

“Then I’ll put you on my payroll,” you countered.

Joel shook his head fondly. You cleaned when you were anxious; grooming and picking at him like a monkey should not have surprised him. “Well, I got a birthday comin’ up, if you wanna thank me.”

“Yeah?” You bit your lip and some of the heaviness sitting on your shoulders lifted, the promise of getting to repay him for his altruism at last eliciting the smile he wanted. “What would you like?”

You take me so well, baby girl. Goddamn meant for me.  

The hot, wet slide of your cunt up and down the length of his steel-hard cock has him doubling over, mouthing sloppily at your tits, sucking and nibbling on your stiff nipples as you cry and whimper: Oh, Daddy, please… fuck, that feels… I can’t—

He’s blinking hard to squeeze the bleeding edges of fantasy away—because this is real, and he cannot know if he will ever have this again. I know you can. You can take me.

A nod, frantic and sick with desire, slips against his temple. I can take it. Please—let me be your good girl. I’m good, good for you. 

I know you are, baby girl. So good for Daddy. 

“Joel!”

He had never heard his own name infused with such thrill. It settled in the pool of his gut and oozed out past his ribs. 

You beckoned him to the counter and placed a steaming mug between the pair of you. The umber liquid sloshed gently in the cup. “It’s a macchiato. And don’t worry”—you caught him before the gash between his brows could deepen worriedly—“it’s nothing like that sugar heap you'll get at a Starbucks. Two shots of espresso, balanced with the milk foam.”

Joel tried to smile, but he was sure it looked more like a grimace. “Milk… foam.”

“I know you're a coffee purist, Joel, but hear me out.” You scurried to the large black boards on the back wall and flipped one over to reveal the bright white writing—stark, vibrant, a proclamation you should’ve had no business making, not when it was so bold as this. 

NEW, it read in a pretty, looping font. THE MILLER. 

His heart leapt to his throat. And there you were, gesturing to the board with his name—Joel’s name—on it, and he was lifting the confounding liquid to his lips. 

Some of the foam accumulated in his moustache as he tentatively sipped and rolled the flavour over his tongue. It wasn't… bad. Not at all. A little too sweet where he preferred the bitter drag of a dark roast. A few too many frills. But—

“It’s good,” he said. Your answering smile decided it for him. He would never go back to black coffee. 

Fuck, baby, that's it. Keep on ridin’ me just like that. Oh, Jesus—

The slow, rhythmic slap of your thighs against his as you lock your arms around his neck and lift yourself up and down on his dick. Your head lolling around your shoulders, your brows drawn up in the middle. The squelch of your creamy cunt as you take him to the hilt and bring your hips down in measured, grinding motions. 

You’re getting yourself off, too, your clit rubbing against the hairs at the base of his cock, and Joel groans, Fuckin’ hell. Christ, that’s good. That’s it, that’s—

“Think I’m gettin’ fat on all these sweets, baby.”

He’d begun to come into the bakery on Saturday mornings, too, even though he didn’t work. With Sarah no longer in Austin and a dreadfully empty house whose groans and creaks only kept him up all hours, he had little to do but work, maintain the lawns, and, well…

Sat together at the table by the window, you shared a leftover slice of rich cherry pie. The awning outside fluttered gently in the breeze, cutlery and ceramic softly colliding as folks indulged in your treats. You beamed at Joel and reached out to swipe some foamed milk from his moustache. 

“I like you this way,” you said, your thumb coasting along his jawline, your eyes like jewels. The pendant on your throat dipped as you swallowed, settling in the hollow like a perching bird. 

Joel, white-knuckling his fork, felt his cock grow hard in his boxers, a heavy weight against his leg. The rapid shuttering of your eyes left him feeling inexplicably panicked. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to overstep—”

“No,” said Joel, his hand covering your knee beneath the table. You were wearing a little skirt that day. The silky fabric shifted under the coarse texture of the pads of his fingers and he wondered if the softness would be akin to the flesh of your thighs, your belly, your tits (sitting so pretty in that plain T-shirt: pink, of course). “No, you didn’t… You know I…”

And what could he say?

You know I’ve wanted to slip my hand down each one of those pretty skirts you wear since the first day I saw you. You know I take my cock in my hand and jerk off in the shower and I picture your lips around it. You know you’ve fucking infected me. You know I’m poisoned. You know I ain’t good enough. Youknowyouknowyouknow I can never have you.

“Joel, man, I’ve been calling your cell.”

His hand smacked the underside of the table in its hasty retreat as Chris rounded the corner and clapped Joel on the shoulder. “Hey, kiddo. You mind if I have a bite?”

And because you were so goddamn sweet, because you were a smart girl and knew how to play it cool, you gave your father your fork with a big smile and said, “All yours. I should get back. Thanks for the taste test, Joel.”

Chris easily occupied your seat at the table and Joel, adjusting his pants discreetly, was struck by how wrong this had been. To sit with you, sharing a pie, touching, wanting—

He was fucked. And he didn’t care. He only wanted more. 

“Cowboys kick off next Sunday,” said Chris through a mouthful of baked cherries. The warm, cloying scent reminded Joel of your perfume. “You want to come over for dinner? We’ll order takeout, grab some beers.”

Joel swallowed, rubbing his fingers over his mouth. He felt the phantom touch of your thumb lingering just above his Cupid’s bow. “Yeah, man. Be fun.”

Chris grinned over the pie—now his, no lingers yours and Joel’s. “Hope you don’t mind that I invited my kid, too. She needs the break.”

You’re close, baby. Can fuckin’ feel it. Feel you squeezin’ me.

Thighs trembling, muscles gooey, you struggle to lift yourself up, and it's Joel who scoops you up with a hand on your ass and lies you on your back, never once pulling out. He doesn't think he can. How did the first man to discover fire ever snuff it out?

He bends over you and thrusts deep, punching a sob out of your throat. Joel groans, nipping your chin as you toss your head back, his mouth trailing down the hollow of your throat, latching around one of your sore nipples, already abused by his attention. You rake your fingers through his tousled greying locks and lift your legs up around his hips as he fucks you slow, hard, deep enough that your heart begins to bruise. 

Joel hisses when he feels your fingernails scratching down his spine, between his shoulder blades, pulling him close to you. He dulls his pain in your flesh, open-mouthed kisses soothing the biting bruises he's left on your throat. 

Your cunt rhythmically pulses around his cock and Joel grunts, driving deeper, hand fisting your hair, and Daddy, I’m so close—!

Friday night. Joel’s birthday. 

He’d spent it on the job site, laying brick, then at home, cracking open a cold beer and calling Sarah, whose gift hadn't arrived yet. She sang him “Happy Birthday” from her dorm room and Joel smiled. All things considered, it wasn't a shitty day. Just…

Lonely. 

And you—

You were at his door at ten o’clock, shrouded in night in a way he'd never seen you. Not dressed in pink but black: sweatpants and a tight little tank top that made him swallow his tongue. You were holding a goddamn cake. 

You'd had a stressful day. He could tell. Eyes a little sunken, shoulders a little rounded, but you were still smiling, still holding up that cake—chocolate, circled with candied cherries, of course—and singing a weary “Surprise!”

Joel laughed—in shock, maybe—and rubbed his hand over his beard. “Jesus, baby,” he said. “C’mon in; it’s cold out.”

He helped you secure the cake in the refrigerator and offered you dinner: leftover pad thai and a beer. You accepted the former with a grumbling stomach and politely declined the latter. Of course, you were a wine girl. 

“I’m sorry it’s so late,” you told him, sitting across the couch while reruns of Happy Days idly played on the television. “Shit goes down at the Morning Star when you're not there.”

Joel shook his head. “I run a tight ship. You doin’ okay?”

“I’m strung-out, Joel, as ever. But fine.” Your conciliatory smile was so fucking cheeky he had half a mind to put you over his knee. “I hope your birthday wasn't a disappointment.”

“Couldn't have been,” he said. “You brought me a cake.”

You beamed. And the cord wrapped around both of your bodies jerked tighter. Joel was hiding his erection with the takeout container, too humiliated to let you see the hard band of his cock in his jeans. You'd run. You'd think he was a freak, a perv, a sleaze. 

He was all three, of course. Didn't stop him from wanting—

His cock driving deep inside you, achingly slow, back screaming for relief. Daddy, please, I’m… nnngh, please let me come! Daddy, I’ll do anything, please!

Shhh, baby girl. He rises to his haunches and dips his hand between your joined bodies, rubbing your slick little pearl in fast circles. Your eyes roll back and your head collided with the pillow once more. Thaaat’s it, baby. You gonna come for Daddy? Be a good girl for me?

“Joel,” you said softly, your food forgotten on the table, your body inching closer to his, now two feet apart at best. Your eyes buttery in the darkness, lips dewy with some pinkish gloss you always wore, gloss he knew tasted like cherries. He licked his lips. 

His hands flexed. “Yeah.”

“I’ve seen the way you look at me,” you said, bridging the gap, placing your hand on his knee, pink nails and soft skin and vanilla perfume. Joel sets his container aside, swallowing hard. 

“Yeah?”

“Mhm.” You were tentative at first, scooting closer, your hand gingerly exploring the length of his strong thigh, against the grain of the denim. 

“Baby,” said Joel, more a long-bated exhale than a word at all. Gritting his teeth, hands at his sides, he watched in disbelief as you explored him, your manicured hand gently palming the hard length in his jeans. The moan he let out surprised himself. 

“Tell me to stop,” you whispered, pulling yourself onto his lap, straddling his hips, your arms winding around his neck, perfumecherrieslipgloss—

“Tell me to stop and I will.”

Joel’s hands, no longer balled into fists, flattened against your arms and travelled their length, exploring your contours, dipping his palms into the curves of your shoulder blades, lodging himself firmly in the after with you. 

You shivered, and he liked it. 

“You need someone to touch you, too, baby girl.”

Not a question. You nodded anyway. 

“Words,” he demanded. 

Your lips parted and suddenly your noses were brushing, the pupils of your heavy eyes expanding, taking all of him in. 

“I need you to touch me, Joel.”

“I know,” he said, one hand smoothing down the crown of your head, the other trailing featherlight up your spine. “I’m gonna kiss you, baby.”

You nodded again, a little feverish, pulling yourself closer to him, your thighs squeezing his. “Please.”

The after began with you, the way it will end with you. And he's kissing you now, too, swallowing the sounds of your orgasm as you hold him so tightly to you there's no escape. Not that he wants to leave. Not that he finally has this. 

He's breathing life into your climax and burning it bright, hot, endless—that’s my good girl, coming so much for me, I know it's a lot, baby girl, just keep holdin’ me, that’s it, sweetheart. 

And he's coming, too, grasping your hips so hard they'll bruise, nipping your earlobe and your jaw and leaving sloppy kisses on your neck, spiralling out of control, squeezed so tight by your hot, wet pussy. He comes with a pinch of pain in his lower back, groaning your name into you, pitching up into a near-whine as you milk him, guide him, coax him. 

Fuck, fuck… goddamn—

Daddy, I need your cum. Please come inside me. 

I will, baby girl, I will… Jesus—

It's so warm and slick where his cock begins to pulse inside you that he couldn't pull out if he wanted to. He empties himself, absolves himself, no longer a sinning man but one cleansed. Your body begs for it, your cunt pulling every drop from him, letting him make a mess of your used hole. Joel grinds absently until it's too much, until he’s sensitive and softening and trying not to collapse on top of you. 

Your lip gloss is smudged. He licks his lips and tastes cherries. 

“You okay, baby?”

You wince as he pulls out of you, globs of cum pooling at your hole and dripping onto the bed sheets. “Mhm.” You pull him closer, asking for a kiss he happily gives you. 

“I feel good. I feel happy.”

He grins into your throat, littering meagre kisses in the junction there. “Did so well for me,” he mumbles.

“Tell me something,” you whisper, combing your fingers through his hair. 

He purrs at the satiating scratch of your nails, his head resting on your chest. “Mmm.”

“Do you really like the Miller Macchiato, or are you just ordering it to make me happy?”

Joel chuckles, playfully taking your nipple between his teeth. “It's grown on me.”

From here, where he can feel the thrum of your settling heart reverberate through his skull, Joel gently tucks the beating organ back between your ribs for safekeeping. Here, in the clear-blue space of after, he doesn't need to hold it to know he's got it. He only needs to lower his ear to your chest and hear it sing his name. 

tagging some friends who showed interest in the wip!!: @casa-boiardi @swiftispunk @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin @cool-iguana @morning-star-joy @party-hearses @5oh5 (i love you all 🫶)

"‘If you ever leave me again,’ she said, her eyes stinging, ‘I swear to all the gods –’ Percy had the nerve to laugh. Suddenly the lump of heated emotions melted inside Annabeth."

I thought I would jump back on tumblr and start sharing my recent art, in case anyone isn't on IG <3

HAUNTING YOUR BED. mike schmidt

description. you, mike, and abby bake a chocolate cake and mike gets to taste it from your lips

→ pt 2 to nothing real

includes. GN! reader (i think), simp mike, abby !!!!, fluff galore, more pining, more domesticity, kissing, one boner mention

wc: 2.2k+

a/n: finally wrote a pt 2 to something who would've thought. title from haunt//bed

When Mike opens the door, he’s too tired to see straight. 

His shift ended earlier than he originally anticipated and since he’d clocked out, his body was begging for a shower and sleep. Maybe even just sleep, depending on how comforting his bed looked. If he could tolerate it, maybe even a few bites of a frozen meal. 

This is his original plan. 

But somehow due to the sleep induced haze, Mike had forgotten that you were babysitting Abby tonight. Not the sitter that had taken your place for a couple of nights, completely incomparable to you to the point where Mike didn’t even waste his time. Abby, though, spent a solid ten minutes each night complaining about the temporary sitter and another five minutes longing for you. 

(Mike felt the same but he would never let Abby know lest he wanted you to find out within 2 business days) 

So truthfully, whenever Mike opens the door, he’s too tired to see straight, and then as soon as he steps into his home, his vision clears up just enough to see you in the kitchen and his body introduces a burst of energy spurred on by your light squeal and suddenly he can tolerate an hour spent with you and Abby. 

“Shit!” your swear shocks Abby as much as it does Mike, the word foreign to his ears from your mouth but it sounds completely natural when you say it. It’s small, a tiny detail, but it reminds Mike that he doesn’t know you. At least, not the you that exists out of the four walls of the Schmidt household. 

He doesn’t know what you wear when you’re not babysitting, or what your nonprofessional personality is like. He’s sure you’re more or less the same, but for some reason, Mike wants to consider the opposite. 

Despite his rampant overthinking, Abby points at the jar sitting on the end table towards the entrance of the home. 

“Swear jar!” she alerts you. Or maybe it’s more of a command. Either way, you shamefully step away from the counter, wipe your hands on the apron you wear, and start to walk out of the kitchen. 

Mike guesses you’re heading for your purse, which he assumes is most likely sitting on the bench in front of the window where it usually is. Your plans are halted when you’re made aware of Mike’s presence, and when you say “oh”, Mike feels like he’s living his days over again. 

Just a few weeks ago, a similar circumstance, a similar feeling. 

Mike touches his hair at the memory, hoping it’s long enough to warrant another cut from you, but it’s the perfect length and he drops his hand. 

“Hey,” he greets you first, trying to remain calm and behave how he usually does. But suddenly he doesn’t know how to. Does he usually say ‘hey’? Or has he been saying ‘hi’ this entire time and didn’t realize it? Maybe even ‘hello’? 

You seem to care less about that than Mike does, greeting him back casually and then continuing your journey to your purse. Mike watches as you dig around in it for a second, pull a dollar out, and then slide it through the created slip in the top of the mason jar. 

Then, you reenter the kitchen and Mike suddenly realizes that time has been moving around him and he’s been stuck between it all, too enamored by you engaging in minute movements to do so himself. 

He throws his keys in the bowl and slips his shoes off. 

“What’s uh …” He steps into the kitchen, attempting to get a glimpse at what Abby is doing. She’s staring down at the counter, standing on a small step stool that makes her a lot taller than the counter instead of being a few inches off. “What’s going on in here?” 

Abby turns around, and Mike gets a glimpse of a big plastic bowl in front of her, along with the carton of eggs, the jug of vegetable oil, and a cake mix box. 

If he needs even more clarification, Abby happily declares: “We’re making a cake!” 

“But I dropped the shells into the bowl.” Which explains your out of character swearing. 

Initially, Mike’s upset. His logical (grumpy, in Abby’s words) side comes out and he’s thinking about how at least two eggs that could’ve been used for breakfast has gone down the drain and cake provides no nutritional value so not only is Abby going to be hungry, she’s also going to be bouncing off the walls from the sugar intake. 

His thoughts show on his face, just like they always do, and then Mike is looking over at you from where you’re grabbing the whisk out of the drawer and your head lifts. “But I dropped the shells into the bowl,” you add, initially oblivious to Mike’s inner turmoil. Your mishap explains your out of character swearing, and Mike would comment on it but instead he’s trying to make his face neutral. 

But you see it, the exhaustion and slight frustration and worry. 

You send him a smile that’s nothing more than one side of your lips pulling into your cheek, pronouncing the apple of it that presents a complimentary color to your skin tone. You look … upset? Are you upset? 

Mike can’t tell and this makes him feel worse. 

He decides that instead of pouting and grumbling about it, he unzips his jacket, throws it onto the kitchen table, rolls the sleeves of his thermal up, and then steps to join you two. 

“Let me help.” 

Mike ends up wearing a pink apron that he knows for sure does not belong to the Schmidt household. At least, it didn’t whenever he left for work. 

Mike attempts to hide his surprise whenever Abby excitedly tells him that you brought the apron for him. His eyebrows lift, he looks over at you, and you’re suddenly really focused on the written instructions on the back of the cake box even though they really are incredibly simple. 

“Really? She did?” 

Abby hums and Mike hopes you’ll look over at him, but you don’t, instead gnawing on your bottom lip and squinting as you concentrate even harder. 

“Mm. It’s cute. I like it.” And that’s when you lift your eyes, sending them over to Mike to give him a quick once over. 

“It suits you,” you compliment, just before putting the box down and grabbing the cake pan. 

Some time has passed. The cake has been baked, decorated (white frosting with pink, green, and yellow swirls from Abby), and eaten with slightly freezer burnt ice cream. Abby has pouted when Mike declared one giant slice was enough for her. 

The shower has turned on and off, Abby has run into the living room to give you a hug and say goodnight, and now comes the part that Mike hates the most. 

He’s still tired, maybe minutely more energetic from the sugary cake, but his body is still begging for a good rest. Yet, he doesn’t want you to leave. 

You start to grab your things, jacket pulled back on, purse thrown over your shoulder. Just before you can slip your shoes on, Mike stands from his spot on the recliner. 

“Do you want another slice?” He gestures lamely at the cake on the kitchen table. “We can’t eat this all on our own and I refuse to let Abby try.” 

A small laugh from you as you shake your head. “No, it’s okay. Abby should be able to enjoy the fruits of her labor.” 

“She’ll enjoy it too much until she has a cavity and I have a dentist bill.” A pause where your eyes shift over to the cake, then back to Mike. 

“I really don’t want to overstay my welcome.” 

“If that’s what you’re worried about then you’ve got it all wrong.” Mike replies as he walks to the cabinets, pulling out two small plates and then two forks right beneath it. He slices the cake, the pieces almost proportionate but you seem to have gotten just a bit more. 

Maybe it’ll take you longer to eat and Mike will be in your presence for just a bit more. 

It’s silent for just a few moments before you’re talking about everything and nothing all at the same time. 

Raves about the cake the three of you made turns into reminiscing about the triple chocolate cake they used to serve at Sparky’s before they underwent new management. The talk of new management turns into you ranting to Mike about the manager at your day job and Mike listens intensely, thrilled to have a new piece of information to add to the puzzle of your life. When you apologize, a little shy and maybe even embarrassed, Mike shakes it off instantly. 

“Don’t apologize for speaking your mind,” he tells you. You joke about the line being poetic and Mike finds himself revealing that he used to write teenage angst poetry in his bedroom at night. When you laugh, it’s not as if you’re belittling him, it’s different. Light, airy, filled with enthusiastic shock and a little bit of wonder. 

It makes him laugh, too, and for a moment he forgets that his sister is sleeping just down the hall. 

You both seem to remember at the same time, laughter tapering off into small intakes of air and then fizzling off completely in the vibrant night air. 

He glances at the clock on the wall. 

10:47. 

“It’s getting late,” Mike thinks out loud. 

When he turns back to you, you look a little sadder. “I guess I should get going then, yeah?” 

Shit. Mike wants the opposite. He wants you to stay over for the night. He’ll take the couch if it means you’ll take his bed. He wonders if the small space would smell like you afterwards. He pictures you sleeping in his clothes, forced to wear them instead of the jeans and sweater you wear now. 

He’s thinking too far ahead. 

“Oh, I didn’t mean it like that.” 

You stand anyway, taking a final bite of your cake before you set the fork down. There’s still a tiny piece left, waiting for you, just as Mike is. 

He stands too. 

“No, it’s okay. You have work in the morning and I shouldn’t be on the road this late anyway.” Your jacket is zipped up, your purse is back over your shoulders. 

Mike says your name, firm despite the low volume. It’s vulnerable, a plea almost. It stops you, makes you look at him with wide and wondering eyes. 

It’s on him now. He’s the one who has to speak. 

He takes a breath. He licks his lips. 

“I would like it if you stayed. Honest.” 

His admission has weight to it. The words are that of a concerned friend, but the way his hands nervously play with his jeans and the way his eyes bounce around the room with your frame as a continuous anchor says much more than the eight words could have. 

Your voice just barely shakes when you speak. “Tell me I’m reading this wrong.” 

He shakes his head. “You’re not.” 

In the nervous energy that rakes through Mike’s body, it’s unclear to him who moves first. All he knows is one moment he’s staring into your eyes, and then the next his lips are against yours. 

The kiss is soft, nothing more than the lengthened press of lips against lips. His hand cradles the side of your face, yours bunches the fabric of his thermal around his bicep. And while it might be nothing objectively, it’s so much to Mike. For him to finally feel your lips against his, rougher than he imagined but even that means something to him. 

It’s euphoric. 

Your lips pull back from each other, but neither of you move. So, Mike is clear this time whenever he initiates, giving you one more safe kiss before he starts moving his lips against yours. Still, it’s polite, just like you deserve. 

His free hand presses into your middle back, pulling your chest into his. He tilts his head just a little for comfort. He’s holding back. 

You, on the other hand, aren’t. 

You pull Mike impossibly closer to you by his shirt, your other hand digging into the short hair at the back of Mike’s head. You turn the kiss into one of more desperation, parting your lips to introduce open mouthed kisses instead, slipping your tongue against his. 

Mike is trying to keep his composure as he reciprocates. He’s trying to muffle his little sounds before they even come out, push them down his throat. But they climb up anyway, jumping from his mouth to yours with the access. 

He can’t control himself whenever your body is pressed against his. He can’t hold back when he tastes the chocolate cake on the tip of your tongue and the mint leftover from the gum you’d been chewing earlier in the night. He presses his hips against yours, shamelessly displaying the tent that’s growing. He runs his hands along your sides and back and hips, feeling every curve he has analyzed with only his eyes from afar. You’re softer up close and it makes Mike want to feel you as you are, devoid of any clothing to cover you. He hopes he’ll get his wish soon. 

You pull away and Mike has to restrain himself from following your lips. 

“If I stay over,” his ears instantly perk up. “Can I wear your plaid pajama pants?” 

The grin he gives you is genuine. It hurts his cheeks and heals his soul. 

“Of course.”

oh my gawd

let it snow [joel miller]

It's cold on the trail. Joel keeps you warm.

12 days of pedro masterlist | my masterlist

pairing: joel miller x f!reader

rating: 18+ (mdni)

tags/warnings: an early winter smattering of daddy kink, feel free to picture game!joel or show!joel here, post-outbreak, jackson!joel, christmastime fuzzies, soft old man!joel, self-indulgent age gap (20s/50s), protective!joel, christmas tree hunting, hiking, sex in an apocalypse, snowball play(?), fingering, frostbite does not exist in this universe, thigh fucking, dirty talk, ellie loving dinosaurs, snowball fights, a joel who enjoys what little peace life brings him

word count: ~ 5.3k

read on ao3!

a/n: hi, lovelies - this fic is my contribution to @hellishjoel's 12 days of pedro celebration! everyone please check out the masterlist linked above to check out the other works from all of these amazing authors!! thank you endlessly to my parents @northernbluess and @tieronecrush for beta'ing this fic and reassuring me every step of the way - i love you both to the moon and back. i hope you enjoy and as usual, please mind the tags and please tell me what you think!! ❄️

super cute dividers by @saradika-graphics!!

Fall comes on slow. The leaves begin to bleed orange from the arteries. The air crackles with bright, cold wind that bites and pokes. Debris crunches underfoot and the trees shed their lustrous coats. It’s nothing like the onset of winter in Jackson—the downward crash of an overnight snowstorm that crests too quickly for the residents to prepare. 

It's a crystallised, overrefined flurry of soft flakes that gather on thatched rooftops and bury the barren, browning garden beds in the western corner of the village. It’s a nighttime assault of gnashing wind carrying fractals of ice and snow, and before most are awake, Jackson is snowed in.

The children are thrilled. All of them too small to have known anything but the walls of the town, they burst from their homes, half-zipped coats and bright-and-early tummy-rumblings and wondrous impatience, to stick out their tongue and catch the still-falling snowflakes. Parents and caretakers and teachers straggle, still pulling on their own boots and coats, in the effort to stay close to their charges. Snowballs are packed together and hurled from behind fortified walls of snow; passers-by are pulled unwittingly into the two-sided, relentless barrage; and the shrieks and cries crackling into the dead white air are born from the watery womb of promise, not terror.

There’s some joy yet to be found in this world. 

He isn’t participating in the frozen-water war, but he’s watching from the margins, leaning against the wall of the schoolhouse with his arms folded over his chest and his eyes hawklike as he observes your every move.

A group of young girls has inducted you into the battle and now you’re hiding with one of them behind a wall, packing a tight ball of snow in your hands, barely protected by your threadbare gloves. He can see the grip of the cold on your body, the way your breath circles above your head, a silvery halo. He can see the slight shivers that start in your lower spine and tremble their way up to the back of your neck, and he can see the phantom imprint of his hand resting there, warming your nape, curling his callused fingers around your brain stem and guiding you the way he liked. He can see your gentle touch not only in your hands but in your smile, in the soft application of snow to the top of the wall as it begins to melt, in the sweet curl of your mouth as you help a child who has fallen to their feet. 

Swiping an accumulation of snow from the child’s nose with your thumb, you mouth some words he cannot see. The child sniffs happily and wraps their arms around their mother’s leg. 

You sneak away from the barrage of snowballs and blow some warm air into your cupped hands. He shifts off the wall and begins to prowl toward you. 

When he’s close enough, when no one is around nor awake enough to notice, pulls you into the alley between the schoolhouse and the theatre.

His mouth captures your surprised exhale, stealing the visible puff of warm air for himself, swallowing it down as he pries you open for him. His hand rediscovers the slow, warm pleasure of its resting place on the back of your neck, gently steering you, unkindly pinning your body to the wall. 

He feels the itch of your gloves as you cup his face, and his other hand lifts to circle around both of your wrists, idly pressing them beneath his heavy coat, against his heart. It thuds strongly, pouring its rhythm into the grooves of your palms. 

He crowds you, making you small, his desire for this closeness prodding your inner thigh. You go oh-so easily, the gruff sounds he spills into your mouth tapping, chiselling, knocking down each vertebrae. Carefully, with the slide of his warm, wet tongue along yours and the greedy assault of his mouth, he shapes you for himself and turns you into the pliant little thing he needs you to be. 

You moan softly into his mouth, and his answering groan is something rabid. Your spine curves to him, gravitational pull, wooden slats of the building at your back tugging the fabric of your coat. He will kiss you until you’re breathless and preening under his touch because it’s what he always does. He will inculcate you with the knowledge that you’re for his eyes only. 

When he pulls away, he watches you chase his mouth with lidded eyes and kiss-bruised lips, and he smirks. His hand moves to your head, gently smoothing down your crown to your jaw, the way one tenderly pets a kitten. 

“Got you somethin’.”

You raise your brows. “You did?”

“Mhm.” He nudges his nose against yours and relishes the smile you give him—eyes crinkling at the corners, irises reflecting glistening sky. “Open your mouth for me first. Go on, now.”

You obey, letting your tongue loll out, more from habit than anything. Still, he’s pleased, unfurling the hastily-wrapped paper package in his pocket and placing the small square of chocolate on your tongue. 

You close your mouth with the help of his hand on your jaw, and the gentle snap of the chocolate bleeds the melting centre down your throat, disseminating the oaky flavour on your tastebuds. 

“Y’like it?”

His voice is a carving knife. You're split down the middle by his simple show of affection, spilling out into his arms, wrists still clasped in one of his big hands. 

“It’s good,” you tell him. “I’ve never…”

His smile digs a thumb into your open wound. “I know. Took it from the kitchen.”

You lick your lips and swallow the rest of the melted chocolate. Joel watches the action from the moment your tongue darts out to the moment it retreats. “Maria will have your ass.”

“Hmm, Maria can tell me off much as she wants. Wanted to give you somethin' sweet.” He presses in closer, hands dropping to your hips, kneading the pad of his thumbs over your hips. You're wearing old jeans whose waistband is fraying. “What do you say?”

This is the fun part of the game you play. His thumb brushes your bottom lip, teasing, begging entrance even though he knows there isn't a world in which you would deny him. You part your lips and take his thumb into your mouth, swirling your tongue and cleaning off the taste of leather that still lingers on his skin. 

“Thank you.”

He strokes your jaw with his thumb. “You wanna know what else?”

You're already leaning into his palm as he cradles your cheek, and he’s so proud of the volcanic thaw in your eyes. “What else?”

Joel reaches back into his coat pocket and places something small in your palms. It’s a smooth wooden figurine that smells faintly of sawdust and is carved in the perfect likeness of your home, which sits across the street from his. 

“‘s almost Christmas,” he says, suddenly so unsure of himself as he watches you turn the little shack over in your hands. “Thought you might like—”

But you're leaping onto him like a little monkey, your mouth crashing against his. It’s all lips and teeth and tongue and he can taste the chocolate he placed there just moments ago. The chimney of your miniature home prods his chest as you hold the figure close, tucking it safely between your bodies. 

“Easy, baby girl,” he says with a low laugh, not-quite pulling away, letting you lick into his mouth like a cat after milk. The scratch of his beard will leave patches on your chin and everyone will see them. He grins, tilting your head up and soothing the worried skin with soft kisses. 

“I love it,” you tell him, sighing into his body, “so much. I love it, Joel.”

“Good.” He nudges his nose against your temple. “Take good care of it, now.”

You nod, scratching at the too-long hair curling slightly at the nape of his neck. “How do you know that it's almost Christmas?” you ask him after a moment. 

“Took a guess,” he says, nipping your earlobe. “Y’know, the big tree they put up in the middle of town helps.”

You playfully tug his hair. “Asshole.”

“So goddamn mouthy. Gettin’ spoiled.”

“You're the one spoiling me,” you purr, mouthing wetly along his jaw. 

Joel chuckles. “Yeah. Guess I am.”

“You know”—your voice takes on a musical lilt—“I don't have my Christmas tree yet.”

Joel lifts his brows. “You want a Christmas tree?”

You lift one shoulder in a shrug. “I don’t really remember the holidays.”

The watery shimmer under your irises reminds Joel just how much more life he's lived. You were young when the outbreak started, both parents lost to the virus before the first week was out. You’d hid under your bed for three days straight before FEDRA found you. 

They’d taken you, underfed and dehydrated, to the Colorado QZ, where you spend most of your adolescence until it was bombed by Fireflies. You'd managed to sneak away before they could round you up like FEDRA had. You’d travelled with one group to the next before Jackson welcomed you. 

There's a scar on your throat, just below your jaw on the right side, and another at the nape of your neck. You've been held at knifepoint, you told him in the early days of knowing one another, by the very same people who'd taken you in as one of their own. They’d offered you up as trade for some deer meat. Joel traces the mark and feels his throat constrict. 

The kind of life you’d led before Jackson… He’ll make sure you never have to run again. 

“Let’s get you one,” he says. “Tomorrow.”

You pull away from him to meet his eye. “Joel…”

“Tommy’s got a saw behind the bar. I can take down a tree. We’ll bring it back ‘n’ put it up in your place.”

The grin creeps up at the corner of your mouth. “You're going soft, Miller.”

Joel just crowds you back against the wall and slants his mouth over yours. He has no problem going soft when he can feel the wooden edges of his gift to you prodding the flesh of his chest. Let it pierce him. 

Joel has few rules he's willing to push back on. At his age, he's lost some of his jagged edges, compromising on more. When he's got you like this, tucked into his side, wearing only his shirt, he remembers exactly why he enforces these few rules. 

The light is soft in the winter; it doesn't quite penetrate his eastern-facing window the way the summer sun does. He blinks awake, feeling you shift next to him, your nose buried in his throat. Your arms are wrapped tight around his middle, one leg hoisted over his torso. 

“C’mon, baby,” he grunts, throwing his arm over his eyes. “Gotta get up.”

He can feel your sleepy pout against his neck. “Mph.”

“Yeah, I know.” Joel chuckles, slumping back into the mattress. You shift so you're on top of him, your thighs bracketing his hips. Sitting up, you explore his bare chest with your soft hands, migrating down the length of his torso and his softening belly. He grabs your hips and soothes himself awake by rubbing his hands up and down your sides. The fabric of his shirt draped over your body shifts under his palms. 

“I’m patrolling with Tad,” you tell him, “so we’ll have to put up the tree when I get back.”

“No, you're not.”

You cock your head. “Tommy told me—”

“Tommy doesn't know what the hell he's talkin’ about,” says Joel. “You and I get the day off. And I”—he pulls you down toward him and secures his hand at the back of your neck—“know a spot.”

Your answering hum is playful. “You know a spot. I had a couple boyfriends back in the QZ who knew a spot, too, Miller.”

“I ain't your old boyfriends,” he says with a faint growl, landing a light smack on your ass. “There’s a good trail west of here. Some trees what would look nice all done up.”

You beam down at him. Your hair is somewhat tousled from sleep and the fuzzy light haloes your head. “You aren't worried about raiders?”

“Don't think I can keep you safe?” He caresses your bare thighs, his cock interested in the warmth of you on his lap. 

Your mouth fits over his, fingers threading through his hair, and Joel settles into the steady rhythm of your heartbeat fluttering against his own chest. 

“I think,” you whisper, “that we're already late. Let's go get a Christmas tree.”

Half an hour later, he’s still yawning on his way to the stables and wishing he was in the warmth of his bed instead of out here in the biting cold. Joel runs his gloved palms together and fixes his rifle over his shoulder. 

You, of course, are fresh-faced and early, securing the saddle over your chestnut mare Princess. Joel pats her snout and inspects your pack where it hangs on the hook nearby. 

“Forgot your bandages again.”

You hum and it's music. “You always have extra. Ready to go?”

“Sure you’re not waiting for Tad?”

You gently pat your horse’s back. “Tad is terrified of you, so he's terrified of me. You're ruining my reputation, Miller.”

“That so?” Joel sidles up next to you, pushing your pack into your arms. “You got a complaint you wanna file?”

“None so far,” you say, biting down on your grin, “but there's always time. Better be careful with me.”

“I’m always careful,” Joel says into your ear. “Now go on. We got ground to cover.”

There is a method to Joel Miller’s madness. Tommy knows damn well he needs to pick his battles. But Joel will always win when it comes to you. That is where he simply does not compromise. 

“I’m gonna fuckin’ kill you, Tommy.”

His brother’s hands fly up, palms out, already pleading his case. “Joel, listen to me—”

Joel slaps the book against Tommy’s chest. “I don't need to hear your goddamn excuses. She doesn't go with anyone but me.”

“Listen,” says Tommy, tossing the worn leather agenda aside. “We've got people out sick, and they ain't about to go out in this cold. And you need to be with Flynn, ‘cause Christ knows he ain't trained up enough to handle anything up in those woods.”

Joel scoffs. “And Tad’s trained up enough to go with her? Don't give me that shit, Tommy. She goes with me.”

“Joel—”

“We clear?” He squares up to his brother, folding his arms over his chest. 

Tommy rolls his eyes at Joel’s posturing but concedes nonetheless. “Fine. I’ll take Flynn.”

“Good.” Joel turns to leave for the stables. He’s stopped by a hand on his shoulder. 

“She’s a strong girl,” says Tommy, “and you can't play guard dog forever.”

The snow has settled a bit in the week since the first fall. It's crystallised and hardened underfoot, packed tightly. Icicles dangle from the naked trees on the outskirts of the woods, and your breath mists. The cold penetrates your jeans and the slivers of exposed wrists where your gloves don't quite meet your coat sleeves. Hugging Joel around the middle, your body heat shudders through him. 

“Snow like this is always a goddamn problem,” he mutters. 

“Covers tracks,” you say. 

“That's right. You do listen.”

“Well, when you give me chocolate…”

Joel veers Princess north and brings your gloved palms to his mouth so he can breathe warm air into them. You sigh your thanks, bumping your forehead into his back before returning to your vigilance as lookout. Once you're well out of the way of the city walls, it's easier to get wrapped up in the blistering wind. You bring your bandanna up over your nose and watch Joel do the same as you pass the river. It’s frozen over, not blue but a sheet of miserable white. You mourn the loss of colour as the wind nips at your skin. 

“We’ll have more cover when we break through the trees,” says Joel. “Shuffle closer to me.”

You do, sliding your hips forward. Princess’s reins around one fist, he covers your hands with his other, squeezing you intermittently. His body heat helps you settle comfortably into him. 

“What was your first Christmas like with Sarah?”

Joel chuckles. “She was one hell of a rowdy kid. Had to fish her out of the tree one time—only turned my back for a goddamn second.”

You smile fondly. “Thought you were gonna have to drag Ellie kicking and screaming out of that snowball fight the other day. She was a minute away from nailing your brother in the face.”

“Hmph. Asshole probably deserved it,” says Joel. “Sarah’d never hurt a fly. She saved spiders; threw ‘em outside instead of killin’ ‘em. But she’d get along with Ellie. Sometimes I look at her and see Sarah.” Joel’s quiet for a moment, guiding Princess past the tree line where the wind begins to penetrate in bursts rather than a constant stream of cold. “Do you think that's wrong?”

You frown. “No. I don't think so. Sometimes, I talk to kids in town that remind me of you. They’ll have a nose or eyes that make me think of you, and I’ll think it’s so nice that we’re all still here, still kicking. You know? There are parts of Sarah in Ellie and there are parts of that tree over there in me. When we love someone, we see them everywhere.”

Joel brings Princess to a halt about a half-mile into the woods; a trail veers off to the east next to you. He loops her reins around the branch of a tree and helps you off the horse. “Y’know,” he says, “you're too damn smart for your own good.”

“You’ll do well to remember that, Miller.” You shove your bandanna back down so it lies limp around your neck. “Now show me this spot.”

Joel failed to warn you that it involved a hike. An honest-to-fuck hike. You and your boots are used to traversing long distances, but you hadn't particularly prepared to trek through the frozen woods in December on a few hours’ sleep, a couple hours’ orgasm, and a hastily-chugged cup of coffee. Not had you prepared for an uphill hike in the brutal cold just to find a fucking Christmas tree.

If you didn't like him so damn much, you know for a fact you'd happily throttle your Joel. 

Your Joel, who can't seem to find a tree that's good enough for you. Too tall, he'll say about one, won't fit inside your place. Too skinny, he’ll say about another, you could barely string lights on that. 

Your lungs are burning cold. Every breath you inhale feels like swallowing needles. Your chest heaves and your cheeks are numb and you’re drawing up what's left of your resolve to give him a piece of your mind. 

“Nah, not this one,” he’s saying, knocking his fist against the trunk of another tree. “It’s practically hollow. Would crumble the second we—”

“Joel, if you could find a tree you do like so we can head back and I can stop freezing to death, that would be so, so appreciated.”

Your teeth chatter the whole time, but you get your message across. Joel stops, his hand splayed against another tree, a smaller one with a decent-sized middle, and turns to face you. 

“You cold, baby?”

It's not an innocent question. Around you, the wind whips at the branches of the tallest trees and crackles through the air. But Joel’s voice, slow and gravel-thick, permeates the breeze. It bites deeper, to the gums, latched in your skin. It’s warm. 

No—it's hot. 

Joel’s hand drops from the tree. His foot crunches the snow under his boot as he takes a step toward you. 

Wordlessly, you nod. 

“You had lots to say before, baby girl. Thought you wanted your Christmas tree.”

You do. Fuck, you want to go home. You want to curl up in his bed with another cup of coffee and warm yourself up with his body. But Joel is staring at you, eyes hard, rubbing his gloved hand over his mouth, and the alternative now feels much more tempting. “Uh-huh.” 

“I think you should see for yourself,” he says, “whether or not you want this one. Go on.”

He's playing some game. He’s ringed with silvery light, a soft and hazy glow backlighting his longer hair, threaded with grey, his body so broad, solid, strong—

There’s none of your Joel in the way he stands. This is the Joel who’s used to following orders. This is the Joel he never lets you truly see: the man who has seen so many more years, seen so much more of the world.

You pass him, hiking farther up the trail, to inspect the tree. It is decent; just taller than you, but thick enough to stay upright, plush with needles. A gentle tug at your scalp, a puff of warm air on your cheek, the dizzying weight of him at your back. He’s twirling a lock of your hair between two gloved fingers. 

“You like it?” he says gruffly, his mouth mere inches from your ear. The telltale tingling begins in your core and you swallow hard. 

“Joel, I didn’t mean to—”

“Shhh. None of that. I wasn’t thinkin’, sweetheart.” He nips at your earlobe, hands trailing down your body, underneath your heavy coat, sitting warmly on your hips. “Gotta keep my girl nice ‘n’ warm. Got all caught up in my own head, thinkin’ like a carpenter. Let me make it up?”

He loves so selflessly that it can feel bizarrely like greed. 

Sometimes, you forget that he’s so much older. That he lived his own way of living for a long time before you came along, that he knows this planet like that back of his hand, that you can’t even begin to name a country or a food or a song that FEDRA didn’t teach you. That you’ve only just begun to experience the terror and the pain that’s engulfed this world for so long. 

Joel Miller’s lived a long life. He’s choosing to spend these moments with you, in the cold, dead woods, picking out a Christmas tree. For as long as he’s been waking up with you, his girl, he’s wanted you longer. He’s tired. He’s old. But he’s finally getting to choose. 

He’d like to think he deserves a bit of choice after all this time. So, again, he comes back to you, like the last time and the last, spreading his fingers over your body and cupping you, molten gold, in his hands. 

Settle down, his brother told him a few years back. You deserve this, Joel. To just… settle down, if you can ever find a way.

You’re his way. He intends to make it clear. 

“Need to hear you say yes, baby,” he says, shifting your hair aside, nuzzling his face in the crook of your neck where it’s warm and quiet and smells of the coffee he always makes you.

“Yes,” you whisper, reaching back to fix your hand at the nape of his neck and glue him to you. “Please. Please, Joel.”

He grins, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to your throat, the fluttering veins below your jaw. He steals every one of your heartbeats for himself. 

“All right,” he says. “We’ll get this one.”

Eyes lidded, you watch over your shoulder as Joel fiddles with the button of your jeans and yanks down your panties with them, now hanging limply off your knees. 

“Joel!” you gasp. The cold air bites your thighs, your ass, your poor, slick pussy, as he unwraps his present. Playfully squeezing your ass, he grinds his clothed front against you. 

“Yeah, baby?” he mumbles, the smug bastard, pinning you to the tree by his strong hips, your fingers splayed on the trunk. Above you, pine needles flutter down to the ground around you, but the trunk doesn't budge. 

It is a good tree. 

“‘m cold,” you manage, putty in his hands, under the sweet, slow kisses he's pressing to your jaw. 

Your petulant whine rivals the pitch of the wind off the mountain trail. The whistling air shrieks. The hard weight at your back absconds with the warmth it brought you, and he's bending to one knee, packing a not-quite spherical ball of snow in his gloves. 

“You’re cold?” It doesn't sound like a question and you're nodding anyway, your cheek scraping the bark of the fir tree. It smells of terpenes and the shingles of bark bleed resin.

“I’m so cold, Daddy.”

He stands, and a huge glove is caging your ribs, a bearded cheek nuzzling your temple. “Let’s see, baby girl. Open wide.” 

He brings his other hand between your exposed thighs and, lips prying at the corner of your mouth, cups the feebly-formed snowball against your pussy. 

“Daddy,” you gasp, writhing away and grinding into his hand all the same, your mouth open in a long, pitiful cry. Your silvery breath ascends in a long-limbed dance with his own. 

The snow melts in moments, rubbed firm into the scorching heat of your body, but you feel the biting cold against your clit as if it were pulled between a set of pearly teeth. 

“See?” There’s a cruel tone of mocking in it and you preen like it’s a sweet lullaby. “Nice ‘n’ warm.” 

He mouths at the crook of your neck, hot and wet, tongue dipping into the junction between your ear and your jaw, where it’s soft and does not hurt when he bites down. 

The once-packed snow, now tepid and formless, drips down your thighs, and the air is so cold it begins to freeze again. Joel hears your helpless moan and takes pity, unbuckling his own jeans just enough to pull out his cock. 

But he doesn't slot himself at your needy hole and push slowly inside you the way he did last night. No—he guides the leaking head between your thighs and closes your legs around him, the length of him flush to your cunt. 

“Ohhhh, fuck.” You shiver, dropping your forehead against the tree, as Joel lubricates his cock with the melted water of the snowball and begins to fuck himself between the cushions of your thighs. “Joel… oh my God, Daddy—”

He grunts, taking it slow, the wet slide of his cock electrifying, cold and warm all at once, his body caging yours against the tree. With every thrust, the head of his cock catches on your clit, and he gasps in your ear, nibbling your exposed skin. You grasp at his hair, the hand that presses down on your belly, fixing him to you. 

“That's it, baby. Goddamn, you feel so good. So fuckin’ soft, just for me, all for Daddy, right, baby girl?”

“Yes, yes! I’m yours, all yours, please…” Your thighs twitch when his cock drags along your clit once more, and it's so good—but it's not enough. 

“I know,” groans Joel, lowering your joined hands to your clit and rubbing slow, aching circles over your slick pearl. A strained moan rumbles in your chest and your head grows heavy, falling back on his shoulder. The pleasure, white-hot and insistent, makes you forget all about the cold air savagely biting off chunks of your skin. It's all Joel. “I know, baby girl. That feel good?”

“Mmmm,” you manage, breathless and panting, your exhales swirling up into the air and disappearing in the trees. He keeps your hands joined, working in tandem to pleasure your needy clit. “Mhm, so good. Just like that.”

Joel nods into the crook of your neck, keeping the pressure steady on your clit as he continues to get himself off between your legs. “My pretty girl, so cold,” he rasps, “so needy. Y’know I’d get you anything you wanted.”

You nod vigorously, wetting his cock with your arousal, gloved fingers slick on your pussy. The rough grind of the leather closes an electrical circuit up and down your body. Joel Miller has always known how to make you feel safe, cared-for—sensations you'd never known before Jackson. With him, you're glutted, satiated. With you, he’s begun his long winter’s task of settling down. 

“Let go for me, baby,” he says, taking your jaw between his teeth as he feels his stomach tighten, his balls pulling up. “C’mon, baby girl, let me feel it. Get yourself all warm with me.”

He rubs your clit faster until you're seizing, core tensing, your mouth open in a long, low cry that echoes down the trail. Joel talks you through it, good girl, that’s it, I know it’s a lot, honey, just let go, and your fingers flex, trapped in his, as you come until your legs are trembling. 

Joel hums like he's satisfied, his hips pummeling into your backside in stuttering thrusts that indicate he's coming, too. “You gonna let me come, baby girl?” he says, baring his teeth against your cheek. “Gonna forgive me?”

“Yesyesyes! Fuck, you’re so good. Please come for me, Daddy, please!”

“Fuck, baby, I will. I will.” And he does—stuffing his cock between your thighs, it begins to pulse beneath your cunt, spilling hot cum all over your legs, your pussy, the tree he’s pinned you against. All the while, he holds you tight, his mouth greedy on you, words coaxed into your ears that aren't meant for another soul. 

“You’re mine. All fuckin’ mine.” He's rambling as he comes down, spurts of cum still dribbling from his cock down your thighs. “Goddamn perfect.”

You shiver as the cold begins to seep back in through your skin, even as Joel helps pull your jeans back up over your ass. It's a bit uncomfortable, feeling the slide of his cum on your legs underneath the denim, but you smile anyway, letting him guide you to face him, your foreheads pressing together. 

“I like this one,” you tell him. Joel laughs, bringing your mouth to his for another kiss. 

“Dude, where the fuck did you get this?” 

You look over your shoulder at Ellie, who inspects your miniature figurine, now with a home just inside your foyer. 

“Joel gave it to me,” you tell her. 

“Whooooa. You think he could make me a dinosaur?”

You turn to Joel, who's nursing some bourbon and hiding a smile in the rim of the glass. “That's a great question, Ellie. What do you think, Joel?”

“C’mon, man, when do I ever ask you for anything?”

Joel chokes into his glass. “Every goddamn day of your life, Ellie.”

“Okay, well, just think about how cool it would be to have a dinosaur. It’s basically the real thing.”

Joel shakes his head. “Yeah, okay. Maybe next year.”

“Ugh. Fine. But don't think I’m not gonna remember.”

Idly rubbing his back, you lean into him and turn your head toward the tree. It sits tall and proud in the corner, strung with a couple coloured lights Maria had found for you, hung with baubles that some of the schoolchildren had been thrilled to make. It's a bit bare in spots, haphazardly decorated, prickly to the touch.

“You like it?” asks Joel, nudging his nose against your temple. 

“It's perfect.”

He grins into your cheek. “You think she’ll like the dinosaur?”

Your eyes fall to the smattering of gifts under the tree, tossed into spare crates and bags.  

“Ellie, why don't you open first?”

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Dincember - December 11: Icicle

character: Din Djarin (The Mandalorian)

prompt: Icicle

main masterlist • dincember masterlist

⋆꙳•̩̩͙❅*̩̩͙‧͙ ‧͙*̩̩͙❆ ͙͛ ˚₊⋆ ⋆꙳•̩̩͙❅*̩̩͙‧͙ ‧͙*̩̩͙❆ ͙͛ ˚₊⋆ ⋆꙳•̩̩͙❅*̩̩͙‧͙ ‧͙*̩̩͙❆ ͙͛ ˚₊⋆ ⋆꙳•̩̩͙❅*̩̩͙‧͙

"Din." Your voice was more commanding than it was pleading at that point. "Get out of the cold. Please."

Din sighed as he powered down his drill, his helmet tilting at you. "I can't." He gestured to the work he was doing on the fractured Razor Crest. "The faster I work, the faster we get off this frozen rock."

"I get that." You held your arms tighter as the unrelenting winds of Maldo Kreis brushed past you. "But I'd prefer to get away from here with you alive."

"I'll be fine." Din went back to his work, and he had the nerve to add amusement into his tone as he continued. "Just colder than usual."

You offered a response with no hesitation. "I can warm you up easy."

Din stopped, his helmet and his hand falling for a moment as he slowly swung his head back towards you. His voice was low as replied. "That's a dirty move." He adjusted his positioning and continued his work. "That's a promise you can't fulfill until this ship's in the air again, anyway."

You took a deep breath, fogging up the air around you as you made your way closer to him. Din's visor never left his work even as you reached forward and broke off a jagged piece of ice from the bottom of his helmet, just under his visor. You presented it to him with a raised brow. "An icicle, Din. A damn icicle."

Din powered down the drill again and turned to look at you. He held the drill between both his gloved hands. "Look. I'll rest for a spell before continuing the work, if that makes you feel better."

You smiled at him and nodded. "That would make me feel much better."

Din lifted a hand to the back of your head, gently urging your forehead against his iced-over helmet. "Good." His thumb brushed over your head. He took an uncertain breath, but ultimately spoke on his thoughts. "And about warming me up later..."

You laughed and nodded. "Once our passenger is gone? Yeah, I'll stick to it."

Din nodded back at you. "Good."