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Child of Mine

Short Days, Long Nights: One Shot

Series Masterlist

Joel Miller x f!reader

Rating: E

A/N: I missed them, so here you go ❤ one million bajillion thanks to @bageldaddy for looking this over and for typing the words "do a crux check, I think it's here like five times". She was right, as she often is 😌

--

The brothers ride in silence, snow crunching under the hooves of their horses. Everything covered in a fresh blanket of white, they leave fresh tracks behind them as they make their way towards the gates. 

“You gonna tell me what your problem is?”

Joel glowers, his grip tightening on the reins. “What the hell are you talkin’ about?”

Tommy smirks, a white cloud of heat puffing from his nose. “That’s what I’m talkin’ about.”

A muscle in Joel’s jaw ticks, but he says nothing. He shifts in the saddle, his thighs squeezing to spur his horse on faster.

It’s fuckin’ cold, and his knees ache. 

“I think you scared ‘em,” Tommy says, flicking his chin towards the two riders behind them. The boys – new to patrol – give them ample space, their skinny frames swathed in coats in their seat in the saddle. “Just about tore their heads off every time they made a mistake.”

“They shouldn’t be makin’ em,” Joel replies easy. 

Tommy laughs. “Like you never made a mistake in your life.”

Joel shakes his head, squinting at the brightness of the fresh snow. Each night has brought a fresh few inches, and he wonders if the kids have been outside in it. He pictures them making snow men, building forts. The snowball fight they had last week with the neighbor kids comes to mind, and a warmth fills up inside of him. Snow wasn’t a thing for him when he was growing up – not in Texas – and he’s glad they get to experience it. 

Even if it’s cold as shit. 

He pictures the front window of the house, the warm glow it would cast across the snow as darkness falls. You in the kitchen, maybe, and the constant movement of the kids. The image invites him even from beyond the gates, and sighs. 

Tommy continues to poke, in the way that only little brothers can. 

“Oh, I get it. It’s been awhile, hasn’t it?”

Joel frowns. “Since what?”

“Since you got some alone time. With your wife.”

Tommy’s eyes are bright with teasing, and Joel would normally rise to the occasion – but he doesn’t have it in him. Instead he gives his little brother a sidelong glance. 

Tommy chuckles. “I knew it.” 

“Hard with all the kids in the house all the time,” Joel grumbles. “Always underfoot, never giving us a moment’s peace.”

“Seems like every time you get a moment’s peace, you end up with another kid, brother. Maybe it’s a good thing.”

Joel shakes his head again, the edge of his mouth lifting for the first time in days. 

“It does, doesn’t it,” he says, and Tommy laughs. 

“Let me take those little monsters for you,” he offers. “Maria’s been wanting to see them anyhow, and then maybe you won’t walk around anymore lookin’ like you wanna fight anyone who steps in your path.”

Joel scoffs, though he doesn’t argue. 

The gates of the settlement come into view, the guard towers built along the top capped with mounds of snow. He pictures the bustle of people that will appear when the gates open – the mess hall, the stables, the familiar facade of the town he’s come to recognize as home. And somewhere, in all that, you.

His mind strays to the image of your face: your beautiful, soft smile, the warmth of your body that he’s missed at night. Weighted heat builds low in his hips, and he begins to thicken underneath his fly. 

“Goddamnit,” he mutters. 

It really has been too fucking long. 

“Tonight,” he says to Tommy, giving him a look. “Can you take ‘em tonight?”

Tommy grins.

–

Joel needs to see the little monsters first. 

He needs to listen to June’s endless chatter as she curls up next to him on the couch, wants to see Hank play with his trucks on the carpet, needs the weight of Dolly sleeping body on his chest. His lips brush her downy curls, and he relaxes into the cushions of the couch, surrounded by his children. 

“Yea, darlin’” to June, and “tell me more, bud” to Hank and murmurs of “hey, sleepy girl” to Dolly. 

His head tips back against the couch, his eyes closing for a second. 

“You gonna make it, old man?” you tease, tucking a sleeper into the backpack in front of you. A teddy next, a blanket following it. 

He turns his head to look at you, and his eyes slip down your body and back up again. He’s been half hard since the second he pressed a fleeting kiss to your mouth in greeting when he walked in the door.

“I’ll show you old man once these kids leave.”

Your movement halts for a split second, and the corner of his lips tip up as you start to pack faster.

–

You’re still tidying the kitchen when he gets back from Tommy’s. 

“I thought I would have more time,” you frown, scooping up the dinner plates to set them in the sink. He stands at your back, his hands curling around your hips to pull you close. His mouth brushes along the column of your neck, his beard tickling your skin. “I wanted to be upstairs, waiting for you. Assuming you’re still up for–”

He turns you, cutting off your sentence with the press of his mouth. 

It’s been so fucking long. So long since you’ve really kissed him, too long since you felt his strong grip, too long since you’ve done anything more than a peck here and there between the daily chaos of life. Patrol, the green house, your duties around town, the kids – too many nights have gone by with you falling asleep on the couch while he picks away at his guitar, or collapsing into bed together the second the kids turn in. 

You’ve missed him, and you can tell by the way he kisses you, he’s missed you as well. 

His deep kiss lingers until he breaks it, resting his forehead against yours. 

“Dance with me, honey.”

A smile curls at the edge of your lips. “There isn’t any music.” 

“Never stopped you before,” he replies, kissing the corner of your mouth, guiding your arms to wrap around his neck. 

Every time he mentions your time at the cabin, a sweet ache blooms in your chest. A time when it was just the two of you, nothing to exist on but the sustenance found in each other. A private, tender time, full of intimacy and closeness, of quiet peace in a world filled with anything but. It’s not like you miss it compared to the safety of Jackson, but…sometimes you do. 

You’re reminded of it in the mornings, with his warmth curled along your spine, his nose tucked into the nape of your neck. 

You’re reminded of it when you work alone in the garden, the kids down for their naps. 

And you’re reminded of it now, as he turns the two of you slowly in a room with no music. 

Drawing him in, you bring his mouth to yours. You lean into his sturdiness and breathe him in, your fingers slipping into the curls at the nape of his neck, and he sighs, melting under your touch. 

He tilts his head, deepening the kiss and his hands cup your cheeks, his fingertips brushing against the curve of your jaw. Shuffling his feet forward, he guides you towards the counter until the edge of it presses into the small of your back. His mouth moves with more intent, and the toe of his boot nudges your feet apart, making room for himself between your thighs. 

“Upstairs?” you mumble against his full mouth, and he shakes his head. 

“Right here.”

The husk in his voice makes your eyes flutter shut, an instant liquid heat pooling in the cradle of your hips. It intensifies when his hand takes your own and he slides it down his torso, your fingers brushing over his belt buckle. Lower still, and he wraps your fingers around the heft of his cock, clearly outlined through his jeans. 

His hips buck forward into your touch, and a soft moan breaks free of your throat. 

“You really did need it bad, huh?” you tease, a breathless thing dripping with your own want. 

“So bad, honey. So bad.”

His fingers work the button of your pants open, and you start doing the same to his belt buckle until he swats your hands away, and starts tugging at your pants and underwear. Kneeling, he drags them over the curve of your ass and down your legs, his mouth laving hot kisses along the front of your thighs as he helps you step out of the fabric. 

“Joel, your knees. Baby, get off the floor.”

He pays you no mind, his hands forcing you up onto the counter. Spreading your thighs, he shifts closer until his mouth hovers right over where you need him the most: your gleaming, soaked center. 

“Fuck my knees,’ he groans, leaning in for a kiss. 

Your head tips back against the cabinet with a small thud, your fingers pushing through his hair. You flex your hold, the strands silky underneath the palm of your hand, and he lets out a muffled groan into your center, smearing his tongue flat up the center. He slides it over the pearl of your clit, circling the bud a few times as his fingers dig into the meat of your thighs. He laps at your clit, taps it with the tip of his tongue, slides his tongue around and then over it, over it, over it and when you start to rock your hips against his mouth, he latches onto it with a gentle suck. 

“Oh God,” you breathe, your hooded gaze fixed on the crown of his dark curls. His brow furrows in concentration and pleasure, his whiskers catching the delicate skin on your inner thighs and when he presses himself even closer to bury the bottom half of his face, you arch your hips up to meet him. His hand slides up your side in a weighty drag and palms your breast in a full handed hold, giving it a squeeze as he sucks harder. Focusing on the pebbled peak he feels underneath your shirt, his thumb drags over the bud and you feel it between your legs, in time with the steady licks of his tongue. 

Your thighs start to tremble against his cheeks, and his hand curls around the bottom of your knee, pushing your leg up to rest your heel on the counter. The position spreads you wide open for him, something he takes advantage of to slip two thick fingers into your soaked core. They fit in snug to the knuckle; your other leg crooked over his shoulder with a tense hold as he starts to stroke a spot deep inside. His full touch tucks tight against your walls, the pressure paired with the wet glide of his tongue tips you over the edge of your release, your moan joining the sound of his. 

His knees crack when he stands, and his lips slide against yours. His mustache and chin are damp with you, your taste in his kiss and you deepen it, winding your legs around the back of his thighs to pull him closer. He palms your bare ass, grinding his denim covered crotch against your slick curls. His movements get faster, more desperate, and then he pulls back, his gaze dropping down to watch as you roll your hips into his. 

“If you don’t stop, honey, I’m gonna fuck you right here on this counter.”

His words are a low threat, that rumbles from his chest, his eyes never leaving the crux of your thighs. 

“Do it.” 

Your own gaze is fixed on the bulge behind his fly; your cunt an empty, needy thing. You know just how well he fits, just how good it feels when he slides inside. Snug and thick and filling and your eyes close, a frown pulling at your delicate features. 

“Please.”

“If I start here, I won’t be able to stop. I wanna lay you out.” He leans forward, crowding you against the cabinets. “I wanna fuck you too hard for this counter top. I want you too much.”

The words make your stomach drop with need, and you grab his face to pull him in for a frantic, consuming kiss before pushing him back so you can slide off the counter. You can feel him right on your heels as you race up the stairs, a laugh bursting from you when he slaps your ass on the way up. He rushes you through the bedroom door, his hands already grabbing at your remaining clothes. 

“Come on, mama. Take that shirt off for me.”

“You first,” you reply, tugging at his blue button down. The snaps pop open in a straight line down his chest, and he tugs it off, flinging it onto the floor. You strip with him: first your top, then your bra. Sliding onto the bed naked, you watch him peel his jeans down his legs. His briefs go next, and your thighs part to make room for him as he crawls on the bed to join you. 

Your bodies are a tangle of limbs lying sideways across the bed, his mouth presses against yours the same time his hand dives down to line himself up. The crown of his cock slips right in, and his hips drive forward, forcing you open around him. 

“Joel,” you moan, your eyes closing tight. 

In the cabin, sunlight pouring through the window across your writhing body, his shoulders between your thighs and his face buried at the crux. 

“You feel so fuckin’ good. So good,” he breathes, rocking his hips against yours. 

In the woods, the bark of a tree rhythmically scraping against your back, the hot pant of his breath across your skin. 

His low groans blend with your softer, higher pitch ones as your fingers dig into the meat of his ass to force him deeper. 

Clothing scattered on the bank; shadows scattered across the rounds of your bare shoulders as you ride him, taking him inside you again, and again. 

Heady need blooms behind your belly button, your toes curling as your heels dig into the back of his thighs, and every rock of his hips against yours is a filling stroke, a smooth slide forward and back. Whole is what you feel – pressed underneath the weight of his body, the heat of his skin flush with yours, his cock filling every last open inch that belongs to him. 

Threading your fingers through the gray at his temple, the open, pleading expression on your face tells him everything he needs to know. 

“You gonna come again, honey?”

You nod frantically, the roll of your hips picking up pace. Your nipples tighten against his chest, the hair there scraping each sensitive peak. He braces himself above you, his fists curling into the bedding as he fucks you harder, deeper. 

A shudder slips through his solid frame as he watches you come underneath him, and his hips stutter, a deep, reluctant groan rumbling from his chest as he pulls out. Sitting back on his heels, his fist works his cock with an audible, slick pump. 

“Where do you want it this time?”

It’s a question he asks now. Jackson has birth control methods, but with scarce supplies, they aren’t something you can always get your hands on. Condoms are more readily available, but you hate the thought of a barrier between the two of you. 

Instead, you push your breasts together in a silent invitation, and shift closer to him, positioning his cock right above your chest. The view of his broad chest and strong shoulders has you biting your lip, his arm flexing as he pumps his thick cock filling your vision and your thighs squeeze shut, even though you are more than satisfied. 

“Play with ‘em, honey,” he begs, his deep voice straining. 

You do, and with one of his hands wrapped around his cock and the other gripped white around the top of the headboard, he comes in spurts across your chest. You keep playing, smearing the milky pools across the tops of your breasts, circling the tight buds of your nipples until they are glistening peaks as he works every last drop out of his cock, and sated, his frame finally relaxes. 

“Jesus,” he sighs, dropping down on the bed to lay next to you. 

You roll onto your side, your skin damp with his release. His pulse is a steady drum underneath his skin, his cheeks are flush with heat, and the gray along the curve of his jaw stands out even more in the dim lighting of the bedroom. He’s older now, the physical signs more visible. Lines that surround his eyes, more gray threaded throughout his hair — but his hunger is the same. Still the same needy, firm grip love that you’re used to; his calloused hands sliding over your skin. Your gaze slips down his strong profile, lingering on his parted lips and you shift closer to him, tucking yourself closer.

He cracks an eye open to look at you, a dimple appearing in his cheek when he grins. Rolling onto his side, he faces you, slinging the weight of his arm over your waist. 

Your fingers brush along his collarbone, and for the first time in days, you feel yourself fully relax. 

You know patrol is part of the many pieces keeping this community together, but you’ll never get used to being separated, not fully. You’re half of a whole when he’s gone; half of your heart venturing out into the dangerous world. You’re tense from the second he heads out to the stables until the moment you see him through the front door. 

With him finally home, you breathe him in, curling closer. Right where you belong. 

His thumb brushes along your cheekbone, and you smile. 

“You’re so beautiful, honey.” His nose skims along yours, his lips brushing over your cheek. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too. It’s hard to sleep without you here.”

The kiss he gives you is slower this time, more lush. His mouth molds against yours, savoring your familiar taste and you swallow his soft groan down, holding him close. He starts to fade, his kisses slowing into lingering, soft presses. 

Rain sliding against the window, flashes of lightning illuminating his profile. 

His mouth stops, his eyes fluttering shut. He sleeps the way you never saw him sleep on the trail, the way he was never afforded before the cabin either. The way he probably couldn’t while on patrol, either. 

A book resting open and face down on his chest, his breathing steady and deep. 

A bone-deep sleep, sated and safe. 

Still, when your thumb skates across his full bottom lip, his mouth purses – an unconscious kiss, even from the depths of his slumber. His hand flexes, smoothing over your skin. 

Reaching for the light, you click it off, and pull the quilt over the two of you. 

Another worn quilt, another bedroom. 

Tucking your face into the space between his chin and chest, you close your eyes.

Needy Frankie! This was so sweet and so hot ❤️

Wet Dreams [Frankie x reader]

My Frankie Morales masterlist

Fandom: Triple Frontier

Ship: Francisco “Catfish” Morales x you (gn!reader, no body descriptions)

Warnings: Nocturnal emission, lil bit of a handjob and teasing.

Summary: Frankie has a wet dream and cums in his pants in his sleep. That's the plot.

Words: 871

A/N: Thanks to @pazizz and @rambling-in-purple for going YAY when I said I was writing something <3

Something drags you out of dreamland, and you slowly become aware of the darkness surrounding you, Frankie's warm body next to yours. Blinking as you turn your head to catch the time from the bedside table digital clock, you note that it's only three-thirty. Turning your head back on the pillow, facing Frankie, you think that you maybe woke him up with your small movement, because he's moving as well. His hips push against the covers that have bunched between the two of you, and you wait for him to put his arm around you and pull you closer, like he so often does when he wakes up at night.

But he doesn't do that. Instead, he whimpers. You frown, more awake now, and wait for the next sign of life. His breathing is a little shaky, but when you carefully put your hand on his shoulder, he's relaxed and indeed in deep sleep. You scoot closer, settling in for more sleep, but as soon as your leg touches his, he moves again, his breath stuttering.

"Frankie?" you whisper, thinking for a moment that he's having a nightmare. He's well-adjusted to being a civilian, but not without ghosts. The nights are usually when he's haunted by the things he has seen and done.

This, however, feels different.

He sighs now, the sound bordering on a moan, he moves his pelvis again. It brushes up against you, and you feel his stiff shaft trapped in his underwear.

You smile a little then, realizing what is going on. Frankie has woken you up in the middle of the night before, all tongue and hands on your sleepy body, but you've never seen this before. Waiting a while to see what happens, you listen to Frankie's breathing, feel the warmth that he radiates, and wait for him to wake up. When he doesn't, you carefully place your hand on his hip. He immediately twitches, rubbing himself against the covers, and now you. You resist the urge to reach for him, to rub him through his underwear, instead opting for a light touch on his hip. Your lower regions grow heavy and throbbing as you listen to his soft sounds, and you hope that he'll wake himself up, wanting you. But you don't want to wake him up yourself.

You inch closer, lifting your head off the pillow so that you can lean in and moan softly into Frankie's ear. He responds with a quiet moan of his own, legs twitching. Very delicately, you trace your fingers over his hard cock, smiling when it trembles underneath the fabric. The covers whisper when you move your fingers over his cock, your gut clenching when Frankie moans again. God, the sounds this man makes! Only he can make you so crazy and emotional at the same time. This man is yours, he adores you, he desires you, and you desire him and adore him and love him and...

Gently, you place your palm over his bulge. Frankie chokes momentarily, then whines, and you feel his cock pulsate. The front of his boxers grows wet, and the salty-musky smell of semen spreads from under the covers. Well, that was easy.

"Oh, my sweet man," you mumble before inching closer and wrapping one arm around Frankie's waist. He snorts out a cute little snore but doesn't wake up, and you ignore the throbbing between your legs, instead letting sleep pull you under.

You drift apart during the remainder of the night. When you wake up in the morning, you have to roll over to face Frankie, who's slowly blinking his eyes open.

"Morning," you mumble with a light kiss to the tip of his nose. "Sleep well?"

"Perfect," he yawns, then smiles at you. "Had a good dream."

"Yeah?"

"You were in it..." He leans in, nuzzles your neck, moves closer, but then stops and checks himself. A frown lines his forehead, and you know he can feel it: the crusty, dried cum in his underwear, the smell of it reaching his nostrils when he moves.

"You okay?" you ask innocently, and he nods slowly.

"M-hmm."

"You don't look okay."

"I'm not sure..." He moves again, hand in front of his pants. Even in the sparse light, you can see the color rising in his cheeks.

"Babe, I think I... had a wet dream about you. And I..." He licks his lips nervously.

"You came in your underpants," you finish the sentence for him, now reaching for his hand under the covers. Lovingly and a little teasingly, you place his hand over his crotch.

"I was awake. You kept moaning and jerking your hips. I barely touched you, and you came."

You kiss him again, this time on his lips, tasting the staleness of his morning breath.

"It was super hot, Frankie."

"Yeah?" Slightly flustered now, his eyes are still cast down, long, thick lashes kissing his cheekbones.

"You remember what you were dreaming about?" you prompt him in a low voice, now releasing his hand and instead rubbing him yourself. "What did I do in the dream?"

He groans, but tells you. And by the time he has told you the entire dream, he's spilled over your hand.

Everyone should watch the Terror because it's a masterpiece on a million different levels but you should be aware of what it will do to you. I just watched an hourlong history channel documentary about a dude who tried to go to the North Pole on a submarine in 1931 and I was riveted. I read a 400 page book about the Franklin Expedition this summer and I thumbed through pictures of the Shackleton Expedition and was absolutely amped when the Endurance was found. I'm almost certainly going to cave and buy a rare Canadian map detailing the route of the rescue efforts to find the Franklin Expedition. This is who I am now. It happened to me and it will happen to you

actually my photo.

imagine this is what your mornings look like. your little cup with sugar and cream; his black and strong. he’s so soft and sweet in the mornings. his voice rumbles and all he wants to do is hold you, coming up from behind and burying his face in your shoulder.

he’s so warm; soft tummy and hairy chest pressed right up against your back. all you smell is coffee and him.

“mornin’ baby,” in his sleep laden texan accent.

PEDRO PASCAL as JOEL MILLER The Last of Us (2023-) 1.04 "Please Hold to My Hand"

PEDRO PASCAL Orange Coast Magazine (2014)

i wanna be wrapped in joel’s arm for a hug and be inside his thick jacket holding onto his flannel shirt and inhaling the scent of him from that junction between his throat and his shoulder and have him kiss my hair and just hold me for ever and ever and ever actually

Make It Stick

Pairing: Old!Joel x Reader

Summary: Joel never thought he’d need a vasectomy. Then, one night, he accidentally finishes inside you.

Warnings: 18+. Unprotected-peepaw-p-in-v (I’m sorry). Accidental creampie. Age gap. Cumplay. Breeding kink. Ovulation has led me places I wouldn’t go with a gun.

Note: Convergence is a painting by Jackson Pollock. We studied it in high school and I thought it looked like jizz idk

Word count: 4.7k

He should’ve gotten snipped when he had the chance.

Should’ve taken the plunge, faced his fears of needles and fluorescent-washed doctor’s offices like any man his age could have done and gotten the damn vasectomy. Now he was here, nearly two decades older and still none the wiser in this cold, dead world with a pretty young thing like you between his sheets. In lieu of elective surgery, Joel Miller had only to grit his teeth, bite hard, and repeat over and over again in his head, desperate:

‘Don’t cum, don’t cum, don’t cum, don’t cum, DON’T—’

Words like those normally worked. With women that weren’t you, they tended to serve him exceedingly well.

But you were just so tight. And wet. And welcoming. And try as Joel might to pretend like he got laid on a regular basis, the truth was that he didn’t. Wouldn’t. Couldn’t seem to think straight when it came to this fixation he’d developed for you, so, instead, he let his dick do all the decision-making whenever he found himself around you. Ten times out of ten that ended in:

“J-J-Joel—oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck—I’m gonna CUM.”

And that made it worth every last life-endangering drop.

Feeling how your flushed, lithe body came apart beneath his touch. How you needed him. How your eyes grew to half the size of your face and you gaped up at the man, lips parted, like you couldn’t even comprehend how the friction of seven inches could make you feel so good.

If he had it his way, he would’ve loved nothing more than to show you that feeling every night, and twice the next morning if his hip wasn’t giving him too much trouble.

But, at present, the man had bigger fish to fry. Like not becoming a new father at fifty-nine if he could help it.

With the last two fluttering pulses of your heat, and almost going cross-eyed from the pleasure as he felt it, Joel yanked his big, slippery cock out of your body and made a fist around his member as he always knew to do. Tugged and pulled and grunted above you—‘Sweet girl, you’re so fuckin’ good to me’—and watched your tits and your belly for the milky white ropes to ensue.

Strangely, though, your skin stayed the same.

No cum-spray Convergence appeared before him, no opaque and cloudy fluids dribbling down your ribs, nothing. Your stomach was as bare as the rest of you, save for a few beads of sweat, and that was all there was.

Joel shook his dick harder, confused. Beneath him, you were still coming down from your high smiling ear-to-ear and staring blissfully at the ceiling. Your chest rose and fell, rose and fell in quick succession, and while you endeavored to recollect your mind, Joel was losing his.

Where the FUCK was his cum?

In no naked horizontal tango to date had Joel simply…cum without noticing. Shit like that just didn’t happen to men, least of all to ones his age, so when he’d wrung his poor cock like a sodden towel and still saw nothing come out, he felt his stomach turn and plummet inside him.

He dropped to his hands and knees in less than a moment and lowered his head between your legs.

“No, Joel!” you squealed, giggling. Kicking your feet, “Another round and I’m gonna combust, you old perv!”

But Joel wasn’t looking to get his dick wet again. He was inspecting you. Or trying to, anyway. Quickly realizing he couldn’t see a thing in the darkness, he let out a breath through his nose and lifted you off the bed. Your naked frame thrown over his shoulder, bare hip beside his head and your strangled, muffled cry of, ‘What the hell, Joel?!’ hardly seemed to register with the man carrying you off.

You were toted to the bathroom. Joel was about to ease you down on your feet. Then, appearing to change his mind at the last second, he set you onto the sink instead. Your skin bristled with indignation, anger. A little arousal.

“Last time we did it on a sink we broke the faucet,” you reminded him, feigning more dismay than you really felt inside. If anything, you liked it when your fossil-age fuckbuddy switched things up. You were just exhausted.

Heedless of your words, Joel kneeled on the floor and pried your legs apart before him. When you swatted at his silver-flecked head, he brushed your hand away.

“Hold still,” he grunted.

“How come?”

“‘Cause I said.”

How quickly he commanded that tone of a father.

“Wanna sleep,” you groaned, about to roll your eyes.

But you couldn’t deny you liked being doted on by him.

Joel’s touch was gentle. Probing. Spidering down the most sensitive parts of your bare lower half, between your thighs, and slowly coaxing you closer to the edge of the sink. Your breath hitched when you saw his head tilt.

He appeared to be deep in thought—a rare sight for anyone who’d seen Joel Miller in the postcoital state. Most every time he’d blown his load before, the man was dead asleep within ten minutes. His joints could barely hold himself upright after a half hour of plowing the back forty, much less carry you, too, so you were puzzled now.

He thumbed at the seam of your cunt, and you whined:

“Jo-el—”

“Can ya…push, baby?” His eyes flitted up quickly.

“Push?”

“Yeah, just…” With a look you couldn’t quite read, he placed the palm of his other hand on your belly. Then, pressing, “Like this. Like you’re squeezin’ somethin’ out.”

You cocked a brow in muted confusion but did as he asked. You watched his gaze, and it stayed on you.

Or, rather, on that soft and pliant spot between your legs the old man seemed to favor so much. On any other occasion, in a position like this, he surely would’ve been wearing a smile. Tonight, his lips curled into a grimace.

And twisted even further when you ‘pushed’ like you did.

At first you felt nothing. A gentle clench of your walls supplied little more than a sense of having been stretched—no novel concept to you, who’d spent the last three-and-a-half months or so getting fucked by the finest AARP affiliate alive most every night. It wasn’t until you clamped down again that you got the feeling there was something else. Something thick and warm and slow as molasses trickling out from between your folds.

You let out a low, tender, ‘Mmph’ without meaning to; it felt kind of nice. Beneath you, Joel’s face turned grave.

He watched as his spend oozed out of your freshly-fucked hole and thought of vasectomies again.

You were young—too young to know better. Too sweet and naïve to see any peril in spreading your legs for a man like him, in a world like this. And Joel swore he’d be careful. But no post-apocalyptic birth control method was perfect, or even close to it, and it was clear he’d relied too heavily on reflexes to keep him from cumming inside you. Joel was old—too old to be doing this shit.

Too grown and well-versed in sex to be making mistakes as stupid as that. His brow pinched in, and he drew his next breath as if the air around him was growing scarce.

“Joel, what’s—”

“When’s the last time you— you— uh…bled?”

Hardly more in control of his face than the rate his heart went thudding in his chest, Joel winced at the end. This time, you were the one to knit your eyebrows together. You could tell by that tight, discomfited tone he wasn’t talking papercuts, but were still unsure of his purpose.

“Like two, two and a half weeks ago. Why?”

Well, fuck.

Joel buried his face in his hands. You scooted closer to the sink’s edge, thinking little of his cum leaking out.

“Why?” you tried again. Softer this time.

An old, weathered head lifted to greet you. It was bleak.

“You see this?” Joel paused. Swiping his finger through the viscous white substance that had trickled out on the counter, in a puddle now, “Y’know what it means, right?”

You let his look, and the question, remain suspended in air for a second. Then another. Then you shrugged.

“Yeah. But…you’re old,” came your answer at length.

You’re old.

Joel and you both knew as much, but the former wasn’t quite following your train of thought. Still wanting to try and mitigate damages while he could, though, Joel reached for the roll of toilet paper that was fastened to the wall and tore himself a strip. He bunched it up and, reaching for one of your knees to spread you further for him, took to daubing the tissue across your entrance.

“What’s me bein’ old got to do with anything?” A little sharp, then, seeing you flinch when he drew too close to your clit, “‘m sorry, baby, just— gotta get this out of you.”

You made a face but let him continue anyway. Your eyes followed each movement of his hand, and reflexively, the muscles in your thighs tightened. Why bother with this when the man has so many better uses for his hands?

For a second, your eyes fluttered half-shut.

“Maria says old folks are, uh…infertile. Got something to do with a middle pause,” you said, breaths labored.

Joel stopped just long enough to shoot you a look.

“Menopause,” he corrected, all too matter-of-fact, before returning to his work, “is a woman thing.”

What the hell were they teaching in Jackson’s sex ed classes, anyway? Then Joel remembered how his brother sincerely believed that women peed out of their vaginas until he was twenty-three, and the thought of you not knowing the ins and outs of male virility wasn’t the most far-fetched idea in the universe. Besides, sexual health wasn’t exactly the community’s highest priority when the world around it was in a perpetual state of decay and hordes of fungus-faced fuckers ran rampant in the wild.

He curved a tender, careful finger against the ring of muscles framing your sex, trying to absorb more cum, and your grip on the edge of the countertop tightened.

“S-So, you—” You swallowed, throat constricting a little too, “You’re sayin’…men can make babies…whenever?”

You sounded so innocent as you said it. Joel wanted nothing more than to club himself over the head for being the cause of this predicament—of being such an instrumental part of the perceived corruption, as it was.

Meanwhile, your head was swimming in filthier thoughts.

Deeper, Joel, keep…pushing in…dee-e-per. You would have scarcely had more luck giving a fuck what Joel was talking about now than if he’d just said the room was on fire. By his voice, you knew you should’ve been paying attention, but the dexterity of his fingers was too much. He was caressing the first couple inches of your inner walls, attempting to scrape what bits of his release he could get unstuck from the flesh, but it seemed he was succeeding mostly in just turning you on. Rendering you deaf to the drone of his words as you pictured him pushing something else inside your tight, throbbing—

“—whole lotta problems for us if you’re, uh…ovulating,” Joel finished, expression taut and oblivious. You hadn’t heard the first part of that sentence and didn’t care to.

“Ovulating,” you repeated slowly. Indifferent.

Joel carried on without a hitch.

“Kids just ain’t fit for this world. I know you know that.”

You nodded along, not hearing a word.

“And if you’re— if y’ever did consider, maybe…”

Your lungs took an extra sharp inhale when Joel’s fingers coaxed out a warm, sticky glob of his load, and he petted your folds with his thumb. Then let out a breath himself.

“…y’oughta start a family with someone your own age—”

That part snagged your attention. Too swiftly, it came:

“My own age?”

Sighing, in spite of those welts of pleasure so heightened by his touch that the space between your legs began to throb and ache. Hardly possessed of more sense to form words that weren’t just echoes of his own, you tried communication from a simpler source—your foot.

You nudged his shoulder, and Joel looked up.

“What?”

“What?”

Parroting was, evidently, a hard habit to kill. Your toes curled into the bare skin of Joel’s shoulder, and when he re-inserted his finger, you ground your heel even deeper.

“When’s that ev…ever stopped us from doing it before, hm?” you said, tone strained but laced with some humor too, “Thought you liked sayin’ you’d make me a mama.”

Joel’s face flooded pink at the recollection—as a matter of fact, there had been several such memories. Instead of answering immediately, he just averted his gaze again. He anchored one hand to your thigh, and with the other teased out another string of your shared arousal before wiping his finger on the tissue, clinically, and repeating. All he had to offer in reply after was: ‘That’s different.’

And it was, to some extent. Joel wasn’t blind to the sea of uneasy looks that trailed behind you both whenever you walked the streets of Jackson together. How wide the eyes would get when instead of observing some filial display of affection play out before them, as expected, you’d loop your arms around his waist and take his lip between your teeth as you kissed—‘Can we please go home now, baby?’—that Joel was certain he’d been cemented as the resident pervert among everyone in town. Just how much worse that reputation was liable to get if there ever happened to be a round and swollen belly between that embrace someday was unthinkable. Dirty talk was one thing; parenthood another entirely.

This is for the best, became the low, grating refrain in his skull. Why he dug so hard, pushed so far inside the wet, velvety interior of your body without a thought for his own desires in that moment; he had to cull every trace of himself out of there, before he had half a chance to think.

“Baby, hey, hey, no—” Joel cut in a second later, abrupt.

No, no, no. You weren’t thinking either. Wrapping your hand around his wrist, pushing his fingers deeper inside.

Smiling a little, too.

“What are you— no, honey, don’t— you can’t,” Joel’s words splintered in every direction, watching you plunge his own index and middle fingers into the slick and the warmth he’d just been trying to get his cum out of. He looked up and saw your lids were heavy, about to close.

“What are you doin’? This ain’t…no, baby, it ain’t…safe.”

Back to sounding like a dad in no time at all.

“What’s wrong with leaving it in a bit longer? Feels nice.”

You had no idea what you were talking about. Joel pulled back on his hand and, in less than a second, had it freed.

“I just told you,” he huffed, “You’re too young—”

“I’m plenty old, Joel,” you returned, eyes snapping open, “You’ve shown me that more times than I can count.”

Joel was silent, stunned. He rose to his feet as your eyes seared holes into his, and for a second, he was uncertain whether to take a step back or reach out for you again.

“Baby…”

To his surprise, something like hurt surfaced behind your eyes. You set your lips in a tighter line, and your grip on the counter grew firmer just the same. He would’ve taken that move as his cue to lean in gently, slot his body between your thighs, and venture an apology of some sort, when the next thing you did stopped him cold.

Without a word, you slipped your free hand between your legs—eyeing Joel closely, almost scornfully, as you did.

You took your middle and ring fingers and sank them into your cunt. Not intending to let a drop of his spend leak out, you wedged them in as far as they’d go. Joel watched. Gawked. Once sufficiently pleased with the look of shock taking over his handsome, aged features, you withdrew the fingers. You brought them up to your mouth, wrapped your lips around the tips, and sucked.

It was a rare thing to get a taste of you and Joel together like this, so you savored it. You moved your mouth further down to drink it all in, peering up with wide, indulgent eyes and a look that was meant to punish.

Feels nice.

Tastes alright, too.

You’d licked the last bit of this glaze off your hand when your stomach clenched. You knew it would happen. Full as you were, you feared your body still hungered for more. As such, it hardly came as a surprise when next your muscles tensed, and you shifted closer to Joel.

“Maybe I don’t want babies with someone my own age.”

Either one of your knees were nudging his hips. Drawing him in. Joel appeared to waver for a second, unsure, but the look on his face made it clear this was mostly a matter of a delayed reaction. He couldn’t get his legs to move because the rest of him was still in awe. Staring at your lips, where the residue of his spend was glistening, then to your eyes, which were no less inviting, then up to the crown of your head and over it, to fix his stare on the mirror behind it. You watched him watch his own reflection with a look that was both hard and unkind, breathing slow. When he didn’t stir from that position after a minute, you touched a hand to his lower stomach.

And, brushing the heel of your palm against what felt like a hundred grey hairs in the old man’s happy trail—your favorite ones—you smoothed a caress along his belly, back and forth, before moving it left. Your hand came to rest on a mound of muscle and fat sitting right above his hip. Love handles, Joel had remarked one morning with vague distaste. Love handles, you’d repeated, beaming. You held on tightly now, appreciatively, and used your well-loved wall of flesh to pull him closer. As with any beckoning of yours, Joel didn’t have so much as half a mind to resist. He did, however, refuse to meet your gaze while you tilted your hips and spread your legs wider, before winding your ankles around the backs of his legs.

“Don’t you think I’d look pretty?” You pouted up at him. Your folds made a light, warm suction rubbing along the front of Joel’s cock—of course he’d grown hard again, and you could hold him, point him down to that wet embrace awaiting him patiently at the edge of the sink.

Joel cursed under his breath.

“‘Course I do…” he said, voice hoarse, “Y’always look—”

“I mean…with your baby inside me, Joel. Right here.”

As if to put a finer point on your words, you nestled the head of his cock inside the first inch of your body. Joel had to seize the laminate underneath you and grit his teeth to keep from letting out a groan too loud. That tip may as well have been a first-rate conductor of heat, and your warmth the thing that might send him spilling again

“You don’t—” Joel choked out, nearly incensed, “—don’t know what the hell you’re sayin’, baby. What that means.”

In truth, there wasn’t a world Joel Miller could imagine where a girl like you could give more than a passing thought to getting knocked up by him—a man his age. What good would it do? You had your whole life laid out before you like a four-course dinner spread; there was no sense whatsoever in letting the meal go to waste on him.

He communicated as much by moving to pull out.

You met the effort with a push of your own, sinking down another inch or two on his shaft and smiling when you saw his eyes roll back in his head at the dizzying friction.

“I know more than enough, old man—” Grin stretching ear-to-ear as you dug your heels in his ass and tugged him deeper, “—who do you think taught me all this?”

Of course, it had been Joel.

Always, always him—the only one, in fact.

Your walls drew him in like a hug. For once, Joel conjured up the strength to take a look between your lower half and his, and when he did, the next moan was inevitable. It trickled through his lips. Your body looked sublime swallowing a third of his cock, and it was almost as though a maggot had crawled into his brain, chanting:

‘Make her full. Make her yours. Tell any man who’d even think of looking her way she belongs to someone else.’

He couldn’t.

Joel would never be so selfish. Just think of her youth.

But when his gaze drifted back to yours, every thought and any word besides seemed gently to melt away. Beneath him, your eyes were two pools of desire.

“You like this…don’t you, Joel?” Your voice was tiny.

“I do.”

In fact, he loved it.

“Then why can’t we?” Why shouldn’t we?

Minuscule now, the words that reached him barely exceeded a whisper. It was as though the moment itself had drained all fear from your face—and out of Joel, all common sense from his brain—leaving you both to stare at the other with shared, stupid, anoetic looks of bliss. The man who had you beat by thirty-odd years seemed nearly of the same mind, with almost identical ignorance.

Idiocy.

“Just once?” Joel croaked.

Somewhere underneath, unseen, you smiled.

“Just one?” you murmured back.

He sank in another inch. When your walls contracted around him, Joel’s hands found your hips by force of habit and pushed your back against the glass behind it. The mirror was cool, and inside you, Joel was throbbing.

“Once,” he repeated, not thinking too deeply.

“One,” you said, with a world of more purpose.

Joel relinquished the last three inches, and with it, all of his resolve. The handsome, scarred, and plainly greying features all twisted as one, and the expression that you knew too well to mean that the man was feeling good took on the slightest hint of guilt. He gripped you tighter.

“One?” Joel panted. Confused.

He pulled out halfway just to find his home again. Your pearly slick mixed together with his spend, and both coated over Joel’s shaft in a pretty, generous sheen.

“One more of you, I mean.” You sounded too sweet. There was no way in hell you’d actually meant it.

Joel’s cheeks flushed again, but he didn’t stop, either.

“Baby…” he trailed off instead. He pushed in, pulled out, felt your tender little hole make an ‘o’ around his shaft, and then he kissed the edge of your left cheek—maybe to rein in the need in his words before he spoke again: “One’a me takes and I’m givin’ ya fifteen more, y’hear?”

The smile he received told him as much as he needed to hear. He probably wouldn’t have believed it even if you’d said the words yourself. Joel’s thrusts sped up, and as the pleasure distended in the pit of his stomach with the friction and the feel, his words flowed a little more freely.

In disbelief, “Wanna be a mama that bad for me, huh?”

Your grin grew bigger. You nodded your head.

“Make your old man a daddy, is that it?”

Exactly. Senseless as it was, your look said it all.

To have slipped between the grooves and ridges of Joel’s brain and caught wind of even a fraction of the things he wanted to do to you then, a smarter girl would have run. Would have shoved him back out as swiftly as she’d let him in and told him no, that’s gross, and gone home. And, had the grey matter floating inside your own skull not been so completely dominated by primal need and wanting, that’s likely what you would have done, too. Instead, with a head full of lewd, youthful stupidity, you seized the black-grey curls dangling at the nape of his neck and drew him closer. You spread your legs wider.

“That is what you’ve wanted this whole time, right?”

Under his scruff, a muscle tensed as Joel bit down.

That’s all he’s ever wanted.

Let the neighbors talk.

Let them say what they wanted to say—it was probably all true to the point they were trying to make, anyway. That Joel was a pervert, of course. That you were naïve, also true. That you would look too good not to stare in a white cotton frock with a bump underneath, absolutely. These were the ideas permeating your brain and his while Joel took a firmer hold of your sides and brought his nose to rest against yours. With every stab of his hips, he pressed kisses to your soft, parted lips, speaking low:

“That what you want, too, darlin’?” More serious now.

The head of his cock nicked a sensitive ridge inside you, eliciting a whimper, but you nodded. You nodded again, feeling the brush of his stubble at your mouth and your chin, and nodded again when he bottomed out, stuffing you tight. It felt a little more momentous than any other time in the past, now that you were picturing a fullness that wasn’t just him. Him and you: a concrete being to soothe the sting of his absence long after Joel withdrew.

Something to stick.

“Please say it, baby.”

Someone to call yours.

“I want it,” you said, sounding desperate.

A coil was just starting to form in the place you felt him. Drifting up, pulling tight, making your eyes go glossy and wide while they stuck to Joel’s and begged him for more.

“Want what?” He sped up, and his thrusts got sloppy.

“Want you,” you breathed, “Inside me, Joel, please.”

As if predicting your next thoughts, the man lowered his hand to your belly. You hadn’t even noticed the smallest bulge had taken shape beneath the skin. Joel slowed, momentarily, then rubbed the base of his palm against the mound where your body was obliged to make room for his cock inside you. He drew soft, tender circles there and, with the motion, sent stars flying before your eyes.

“Good girl,” he murmured, “Right here?”

“Ri— right there. Right there.”

Joel adored that sound. The soft, elated look, the gentle knoll of flesh in a bump below his hand, the whimpers rolling off your tongue repeatedly, quicker and quicker the more the pleasure inside you continued to build. Joel’s release was coming soon, too. For the hundredth time that night, he silently wished he were a little younger; so he could fill you up once, twice, twenty more times until your insides were stuffed and painted white. As if reading his mind, as he had for you, you wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him in for a kiss.

“Hope our baby has your eyes,” you murmured to him.

It shouldn’t have had such a strong effect—but of course, it did. Joel pictured the small, sweet infant with irises that shone a bit like his, and his stomach caved in.

Tonight, tomorrow, or ten months down the line, he was getting you pregnant. He’d clear his whole schedule for it

“That right?” And now he couldn’t stop the smile as he spoke, leaning even further in, “What about their nose?”

He kissed the tip of yours.

“Hope they get this.”

He kissed either one of your cheeks.

“These too.”

You had to fight back a laugh while his scruff tickled skin. Two deep strokes away from the brink of release and he still somehow always stayed in tune with your needs.

The threat of your peak was perilously near. Joel’s spend and your slick, tender glaze made a chorus of sounds at each thrust, and the deeper he went, the bigger it swelled. Your smiles couldn’t stay for much longer when the feeling inside you both was being amplified like that. Sensing this, Joel took hold of your face and slipped his touch to cup your chin. He made you tilt your head up to him, as if to ask again, ‘Are you sure?’ and when you nodded, his lips twitched again. A fleeting hint of a grin, like he couldn’t be more eager to finish now if he tried.

Holding your face, cock swollen and throbbing and desperate between your walls, he felt a familiar twitch.

There it is.

communist cowboys💕

“I haven’t done anything for that amount of time before, and so my attachment to the experience is strange. As a guy who’s pushing 50, to feel this very innocent, semi-angry, emotional attachment to an experience that’s over… I haven’t been able to let it go.”

PEDRO PASCAL on Variety Actors on Actors (2023)

For your smut asks:

❛ if you called just to get off on my voice, i’m hanging up. ❜

ft. Dieter Bravo or Lucien

a/n: thank you for this, babes! i've gone with dieter for this one.

dream of me | dieter bravo x f!reader

pairing: dieter bravo x f!reader word count: ~1.2k warnings etc: established relationship, smut, phone sex, masturbation, porn, a sprinkling of angst and fluff (they're in love ok), kind of subby!dieter. no use of y/n.

READ ON AO3

Is it school break or something?

@joelslawyer one and only fic up (that she was too lazy to give a title to), is Han's (@swiftispunk / @tonysopranosrobe ) fic, Your Summer Dream (available only on AO3 for registered users)

Please just block them, they've turned off replies for the post and their DM's and their ask box.

Petting a very good boy

this is just something i’m curious about. for folks who frequently send asks on anon, why is that? and if you’re someone who only uses it on occasion, what would make you choose to use anon? feel free to reblog!

wow… just— wow.

the fanfiction in my head is soooo good wish you guys could see this

Joel Miller 37/??

This is so full of tenderness and love. These two always bring me to happy tears 🥹❤️❤️❤️❤️

reprise

A follow-up to who knows where the time goes.

Rating: Explicit, 18+, it's pure smut. Words: 1.8k Tags: The Last of Us, The Last of Us (HBO), Prospect, Joel Miller x Ezra, fluff for once, SMUT, smut right off the bat, don't say I didn't warn you, stupid soft queer bois being queer, gay sex, anal sex, handjobs, bisexual!Joel, gay!Ezra, romance, idiots in love, tiny age gap (~10ish years so barely a thing), I've probably forgotten some so please let me know <3

Notes: I have no excuse for this. It’s just the softest, fluffiest, most indulgent smut. The boys have “OMG we’re married now” sex on a couch. That’s it, that’s the fic. Don’t look at me.

That night finds them on the couch, the solid bulk of Ezra’s frame underneath Joel’s, hand carding through his hair, lips slanted soft and pliant and wanting against his own. The gold on his ring finger glints in the firelight, but he’s oblivious to everything but the taste of him, concentrated nips and sucks at his collarbone, the heady musk of him, the stretch of warm skin where his t-shirt rides up. He slides his palms up his torso, skimming scars and sparse hairs, circling his navel with one reverent thumb. 

“Husband,” Ezra whispers, drawing the word out until it tickles against Joel’s neck. It makes him shiver, makes the tips of his ears red and his chest hot, a name he couldn’t fairly claim even when it was a legal truth. It’s enough to tighten his throat and blur his vision, and then he’s pressing his lips to Ezra’s like a brand, like a bruise, suddenly desperate to have nothing between them. He tastes like coffee, rich and chocolatey and warm. Ezra pulls his t-shirt over his head and watches, amused, as Joel stands and rushes through the buttons on his shirt, the clasp of his belt, all trembling hands and over-eager fumbling because he’s nervous like the first time. Ezra follows and stills him with a hand to the center of his chest.

Joel ducks his head and huffs a laugh, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I’m…m’just…”

“I know, cher.”

Ezra wraps his arm around his shoulders, presses the long line of his body to Joel’s, and they sway on their feet to the soft hum of static on the stereo, the actual music having long since stopped playing. It’s been almost two years of this, two years of them, a kind of life Joel hadn’t dared dream for himself. He lets his arms loop Ezra’s waist, skin on skin, heat building between them until their kisses grow frantic, until the subtle grind of his hips isn’t enough to relieve the ache.

“Want to be inside you, songbird,” Ezra rasps at the tender hollow of Joel’s throat, the words going straight to his cock, and that’s all it takes. He growls low in his chest, an animal sound of want. The rest of their clothes scatter. The door is locked, curtains drawn against the howling wind and snow. They have nowhere to be, no one to answer to for hours, and a honeymoon of sorts to get to.

Ezra sits back on the couch, lounges, looks up at his partner with heavy-lidded eyes and pupils blown wide. The couch creaks lightly under their combined weight, but it holds them, Joel straddling Ezra’s lap. He opens easily to his own touch, fingers spit-slicked and patient and prodding, soon to be replaced by the stretch of Ezra’s cock. He takes him in at a measured slide, seats himself and has to pause to catch his breath, focused on the burning weight of another body inside, foreign but familiar. He rocks forward, then back, rolls his hips to find the right angle, all while Ezra watches and waits and traces the line of his jaw with the pad of his thumb.

A rhythm settles, an easy give and take. Ezra’s hand on his hip, guiding his movements, a delicious grind, slow and deliberate and so, so close. Skin stuck to skin, sweat pooling in the dimpled crevices of Joel’s back where it faces the fire. Baby, he drawls, a breathless whisper, and kisses him with quiet fervor, tongues and teeth sliding in a tender, practiced scrap.

Ezra takes control, reaching between them to run a hand over the firm heft of Joel’s cock, but he’s too sensitive, too full, so swollen it hurts. He entwines their fingers and brings his hand to his lips instead, kisses along his knuckles, the tips of his fingers, the center of his palm. He draws the first two digits into his mouth, flicks his tongue between them, sucks hard. Ezra makes a choked groaning sound in the back of his throat and bucks underneath him. Joel curls forward, arms crossed behind Ezra’s neck, forehead to forehead, supping from each other. Slow and tender until it’s not, until Ezra hits that spot inside just right, the key to his lock.

They rock in tandem, Joel moaning softly into the crook of Ezra’s neck as he drives up into him. Joel’s cock pulses a heartbeat, slicked in precome and pressed between their bodies with just enough friction as a coil of bright hot pleasure winds low in his gut, the pressure inside building to a crescendo.

“Ez…Ezra…baby m’close, ah–”

But his warning goes unheeded, and Joel is at the mercy of Ezra’s skilled tongue, curling and licking into his mouth, his jaw slack. Ezra catches his cries, shares in them as Joel clenches around him, as the coil snaps and a molten heat races up his spine, cock throbbing and releasing against his belly. He cradles Ezra’s face in his hands, an anchor guiding him home, grinds sloppily against him until he’s wrung out, a quivering, lovestruck mess. He presses a kiss to his temple just under the white-blonde thatch of hair, rocks his hips until they start to ache along with his knees, the couch springs echoing his pain.

“Up, cher,” Ezra whispers when it’s clear Joel is too tired, too fuckin’ old to keep going that way. He stands on shaky legs and wanders over to the record player where the needle has reached the end of its groove, a soft snick as he flicks off the switch and puts the cover down. Now the room is quiet, just the crackling fire and their mingled breathing.

He turns and finds Ezra watching him, slowly stroking himself with that half-grin in the firelight, eyes soft with a love Joel still doesn’t know if he deserves. The sight is enough to make him forget his creaky knees, makes him ache in a different way. Ezra lies down on his side, stretches a languid, lithe stretch, and pats the cushion with an inviting smirk. Joel goes to him; always does, always will, he supposes.

He eases himself down, pulls Ezra against him until they’re side by side on the narrow couch, Ezra tucked between him and the back cushions. Ezra’s length presses keenly against Joel’s thigh but there’s no rush, no urgency, just the warmth of his body on one side and the fire at his back. Joel explores, drawing his hand along the scarred plane of Ezra’s chest, his stomach, the hard muscle of a thigh, the knob of a hip, the wiry curls between his legs. Lets his mouth touch what it can reach, drags his tongue along the tendon at his neck, savors the taste of him, the feel of him, his, his, his.

Husband, he thinks, still wrapped in a fog of pleasure and disbelief.

His hand wraps Ezra’s silken length, watches with fascination as his eyes flutter shut, mouth dropping open in a quiet groan. One hand works his cock, the other cups the back of his head, threading his fingers through his dark, damp locks.

“Eyes on me,” he murmurs, nuzzling his cheek, pressing feather-light kisses to the tip of his nose, the ridge of an eyebrow, the half-hidden dimple under his scruff.

Ezra drags his eyes open, arches a curious brow, groans again as Joel’s grip tightens and loosens, strokes and teases. Thumb to the tip, circling, circling, watching Ezra’s nose crinkle and lips purse and pout at the sensation. He enjoys this, enjoys watching him as he loses the careful mask he wears, loves the little sounds and the broken French that spills from his lips that Joel doesn't have to know to understand. Amour, amour, amour.

“There he is,” he murmurs when Ezra bucks against him, urging him along, whining softly when Joel draws back. He cups his sac, touches with the pads of his fingers deeper between his legs until he squirms and arches, seeking more. Joel chuckles and Ezra huffs an impatient breath against his lips that he answers with a sharp nip soothed by a soft tongue, a warning to behave.

Stroking and stroking and holding off when he’s close, watching for the tells he’s become attuned to in their years together. The hitch in his breath, the furrow in his brow, his stomach tensing, muscles rippling against Joel’s side, the swelling throb of his cock against his palm.

“What do you want, baby?” Joel rumbles, latching onto the freckle just behind Ezra’s ear, suckling at that spot that makes him shiver. Ezra gapes, seems to have lost his words, and Joel can’t help but feel a little smug at that, the man who never shuts up can’t form a full sentence when he’s cradled in his arms and thrusting helplessly into Joel’s tight fist.

“Like…this,” he moans. “Just–just like…oh, Joel, cher, please–”

“I gotcha,” he whispers, pulling back to watch as his hand finds a steady, firm stroke, tugging the foreskin up over his weeping, glistening head, swirling around then back down, pressing in at the root of him. He tugs at the hair at Ezra’s nape, gently tipping his head back, holding him in place. “Eyes open, sweet boy. Wanna see you.”

A throaty whimper at the endearment, but Ezra obeys, his eyes two dark pools of want trained on Joel as he brings him closer to the edge. Four, five more rough strokes and then he’s impossibly hard, impossibly swollen in his hand before his cock jerks and throbs and his warm seed spurts through the clutch of Joel’s fingers, smears into the thatch of hair on his stomach. He works him through it, greedy for every last sigh, every shudder, every pearly drop.

He coaxes Ezra down from his high, caresses his back, strokes his hair, presses him deeper into the cushions until their spend is mingled, painted on their stomachs in a sticky, slippery mess. When the sweat cooling on his skin becomes too much for the fire to counter, Joel reaches down, blindly swipes a piece of clothing off the floor to wipe them down, then pulls a throw off the back of the couch and spreads it over them.

“This okay?” Joel murmurs, nuzzling the lobe of Ezra’s ear. He’s not sure if he’s asking about the sex or the sleeping arrangements or the bands on their fingers.

His voice is a low, sleepy-soft thrum at Joel’s throat. “Mmmm. I cannot fathom a more fitting consummation than this, songbird.”

“...so that’s a ‘yes’, right?”

Ezra tilts his chin up and smiles, kisses him long and languid and deep, and Joel has his answer.

Later, he’ll wake up chilled, the fire burned to embers, the throw puddled on the floor. Ezra’s face is relaxed and soft in sleep, lips parted slightly. Even in the dark, Joel can see the glint of the ring on his hand and it makes that feral kernel in his chest swell with pride and fear and so, so much love. His lower back will regret this, his knees already do, but he pulls the throw up over them and curls into Ezra’s warmth. He twines their fingers, a shared fist with matching rings tucked between them, and decides to stay a little longer.

PEDRO PASCAL as DAVE YORK The Equalizer 2 (2018) dir. Antoine Fuqua

listen. i'm thinking about frankie morales in soft grey sweatshorts. nothing underneath.

he's just freeballing it, going about his day. he woke up half hard, got semi-dressed bleary eyed, and is doing nothing about it as he wanders around his house.

soft swell of him against the fabric, the curve of his cock pressing soooo deliciously against the fleecy inside. he's so sensitive like this, rutting into the light pressure, barely aware of the fact he's doing it. he just feels good all over. and hey, maybe he's running high off the feeling, the low ache below his navel, the pull of something. maybe he pulls the curtains and doesn't try to hide the shape of his dick incase a neighbour walks past.

he lets it drag on because it feels so nice. brain a little fuzzy as he half finishes tasks, because he's just a little too horny. he just likes teasing himself a little, playing a game with himself like this. sometimes he wonders what it would be like if you were here, playing this game, too. both half dressed, touching each other, rubbing up against each other, slanting open mouths and breathy whines before breaking apart and absentminding another task when it gets too heated. orbiting around each other because you can't be that far from the other's warmth when you're all cloudy and wet like this.

he tugs at himself through the fabric when thoughts of your mouth, your ass, your tits, your tight, wet warmth threaten at his mind. maybe he gets a little carried away in the kitchen, fingers dipping below the waistband to actually wrap his hand around his cock, mouth falling slack as he pumps himself slowly. the other hand gripping the lip of the sink, backyard blurring as his brain replaces the sight with the memory of fucking you right here a couple of weeks ago. how you sounded, how you felt. silk slick of him swelling to full size in his palm, achingly hard, dribbling precum.

he squeezes his base, imagines how you'd coo at him. so pretty, so needy, aren't you baby boy? and he huffs, so fucking warm, sweating with arousal. cock now straining against his shorts, grey stained darker around his tip. quietly satisfied as he observes how long, how thick he is like this. balls heavy, edging himself until you walk through the door, having spent most of the day in bed with your hands between your thighs, thinking of him.

maybe he sends you a photo or two, a video before you arrive. drawing out the inevitable, drawing out the fun of it. and when he finally gets you on his couch, when he slides your panties to the side, you're still so wet from your last orgasm, throbbing at the thought of him. and he's been so close all day, it takes ten minutes max for you to be falling apart at the same time. messy and, impossibly, still so turned on.

you spend the rest of the day, well into the evening, making each other come as many times as possible. the hours before you arrived making him heady, making it difficult to let you out of his grasp for even a minute. only barely sated when you fall asleep still wrapped in each other, waking some time after midnight to do it all again.

anyway. i was just thinking about it.

spending autumn in a cabin with sweet ol Frankie may look something like this… 🍂☕️🍁

he’d probably talk your ears off about helicopters and planes, so much so that his coffee runs cold. complete with a custom made wheel thrown mug, with a little helicopter painted on it. oh, and he’d be extra cuddly when the night gets cold.

This is delightful.

I adore the way Frankie and Jay have so much trust in Alma, and she clearly feels so safe coming to them with her problems. They are totally the parents that let any of their kid’s friends crash in their guest room.

It also warms my heart how much passion they have, Frankie and Jay have clearly always been crazy for each other, but it was so special to see that at this age too.

Thank you for taking my prompt! ❤️

I Hope You Dance [a Jay and Frankie fic]

Read on Ao3

Fandom: Triple Frontier

Ship: Frankie Morales x Jay ‘Lady’ Ray (OFC) **Series masterlist**

Warnings: TeenagerParent!Jay and Frankie, allusions to J & F having sex, underage drinking, vomiting, mention of girls kissing, teenage bisexual panic.

Words: 1,817

Summary: Jay and Frankie have a childfree night when Alma, 15, calls in panic from a party and asks to be picked up. Mom and dad to the rescue in more ways than one.

A/N: @beesmall asked the following: "What are things like for Jay and Frankie when the girls are a little older? Would love to hear about how they navigate the teenage drama years." I hope you like it! (Title is shameless stolen from Lee Ann Womack's song of the same name. I don't particularly like the song, but it fits the fic *shrugs*)

”MOOOOOM!”

Jay puts down the knife she was just about to use to cut vegetables, and looks over at Frankie, who’s frying meatballs at the stove.

”Is that girl about to die or what the hell is going on?”

Frankie chuckles. ”I think she might.”

The stairs groan under the running feet of a very stressed teenager, and the second after, Alma shows up in the kitchen.

”Mom, where’s my purple plaid?”

”I don’t know, honey, I don’t have a crystal ball,” Jay tells her patiently as she cuts up the tomatoes. ”And what have I told you about yelling like that?”

”Not to,” Alma pouts, but she’s still vibrating with pent up energy. ”But mom, if I don’t have the plaid, I won’t have anything to wear to Kat’s party!”

”You have a closet full of clothes.”

”You don’t get it!”

Alma storms off again in search of the beloved plaid, and Jay sighs deeply.

”My daughter cares about fashion. What did I do wrong?”

”Now, now,” Frankie chides her while shaking the frying pan in order to turn the meatballs. ”There are worse things a fifteen-year-old could do, you know that. Ours is actually very balanced.”

”Oh, I know that. But I still don’t understand how I’m supposed to know where her clothes are. Our kids fold their own clean clothes, and put the dirty ones in the hamper.”

”Maybe Bianca borrowed it.”

”If she did, Alma’s going to kill her.”

Alma reappears, now carrying the purple plaid and a very relieved look.

”Where was it?” Frankie asks lightly, knowing the answer.

”Where I left it,” the girl mutters, but she seems less stressed now.

”Imagine that,” Jay quips with a teasing smile, which is met by an eyeroll.

”Okay, mom.”

”Lay the table, please. Dinner will be ready soon, and then I’ll drive you to the party.”

Alma accepts without comments, and Jay watches her in secret while preparing the salad. Alma may be something of a tomboy who doesn’t really care about makeup and skimpy little party outfits, but she still cares about what she looks like. That purple plaid is her favorite, and she’d obviously want to wear it for a party.

After dinner, Jay takes Bianca to a friend’s house for a sleepover, then picks up Alma’s friend Joanna, and drives the girls to Kat’s house for the party.

”Remember that you can call for any reason,” she reminds her daughter before dropping them off. ”If anything happens, if something feels wrong, if the two of you wanna go home. Okay? At any time.”

”Sure, mom,” Alma nods, already getting out of the car. ”I’ll call, I promise!”

”Have fun!”

Confident that Alma will reach out, Jay drives back home to the old farm that she and Frankie bought and fixed up with the South American money all those years ago. Frankie’s waiting for her, grinning mischievously at her from his chair on the porch when she ascends the stairs.

”What?” she grins back, knowing full well what’s on his mind. The older the kids get and the more time they spend away from home, the more the sturdy bed in the master bedroom has to suffer. The years haven’t diminished the love and attraction Jay and Frankie have for each other.

”Come here, mama...”

///

The phone wakes Jay from her slumber, but as soon as she sees her oldest daughter’s photo on the screen, she’s wide awake.

”Hi, sweetie.”

”Mom?” Alma’s voice is small and unsure. ”Can you come and pick us up?”

”Alma, what’s the matter?” Jay’s in full mission mode immediately, getting out of bed and pulling out clothes from the closet. Frankie sits up as well, hearing that something’s amiss.

”Joanna isn’t feeling well, she had a lot to drink, and there are some older guys here...”

”I’m on my way, honey. Are you safe there? You want me to call 911?”

”Just get here, mom.”

”Fifteen minutes, honey.”

Frankie’s up as well, pulling his jeans on.

”What’s wrong?” he wants to know as soon as Jay hangs up. She pulls an old army hoodie over her head.

”Joanna drank too much, and apparently there are some older guys there. I think Alma’s fine, but she wasn’t feeling safe.”

”I’m coming with.”

Jay nods, and a couple of minutes later, they’re in the car, leaving the farm.

The party’s in full swing when they get there, but when Jay marches in, grim-faced and heavy-booted, it puts a damper on things. Not even the seventeen- and eighteen-year-old boys dare say anything when she turns her steely gaze at them.

”I’m only gonna say this once,” she proclaims loudly. ”Everyone who’s not on Kat’s year, get the fuck out. You have ten seconds, then I’m calling the cops and holding you down until they come and arrest your asses.”

Five guys get up quickly, picking up six-packs, and quickly making their way past her, only to meet Frankie’s broad shoulders towering menacingly over them at the door. A car engine starts, and it’s like the rest of the crowd lowers their sholders. Jay quickly finds Alma and Joanna in the bathroom, poor Joanna sobbing into the toilet bowl. After making sure that both girls are okay, Jay and Alma help lead Joanna out, where Frankie picks up the lurching girl, and carries her to the car.

”You can’t tell my parents, they’ll kill me,” she sobs in the backseat. Jay and Frankie exchange glances as they get in the front seat, Frankie driving this time. Joanna was supposed to spend the night at their house, and maybe it’s better to stick to the plan, and deal with the aftermath tomorrow.

They make it home with a couple of stops so that Joanna can throw up by the roadside, Jay and Frankie comforting her, Alma watching with a lost look on her face. When they finally get home, they put Joanna up in the guestroom with a bucket, an extra blanket, painkillers and water. After making sure she’s okay, they leave her to sleep.

Jay exhales deeply once the guestroom door clicks shut behind her. Walking into the kitchen, she glances at the clock on the wall, seeing that it’s two am. She hears Frankie call her softly from the living-room. Walking there, she finds her husband and daughter on the couch. Alma’s looking confused and tired, and Frankie has his arm around her shoulders.

”I’m sorry, mom,” she whispers, and Jay hurries to her, sitting down next to her.

”Alma, honey, you have nothing to apologize for.”

”I should’ve taken better care of her.”

”It’s not your responsibility,” Frankie reminds her gently, and Jay nods.

”He’s right. You did everything right, Alma, you looked out for your friend, and you called us when you couldn’t handle the situation. I promise you, Alma, you did exactly right. I’m proud of you.”

The girl’s eyes fill with tears. ”Really?”

”So, so proud,” Frankie confirms, and Alma sobs.

”Even when I drink? I mean, with mom...”

”Honey, I’ve told you, I know you’re going to drink sooner or later,” Jay reminds her. They’ve had this conversation before, and so far, Alma hasn’t once come home drunk. ”I just want you to be careful when you do.”

”It wasn’t even that good, so I couldn’t drink much.”

”Yeah, it tastes shit, doesn’t it?” Jay chuckles. Alma smiles weakly through her tears before sobbing again.

”Joanna’s gonna be mad at me.”

”She’ll be fine in the morning,” Jay guesses. ”She’ll probably feel ashamed, but it’s okay. She’ll come around.”

”No, I mean...” The girl clams shut, and Jay strokes her neck gently until she’s comfortable to share.

”We were dancing and having a really good time and... I kissed her.”

Oh, my poor baby. Alma came out as bisexual about a year ago, first to her beloved uncle Benny, shortly later to her parents and sister. It hadn’t changed anything for Jay and Frankie, except that their first week after the coming out was filled with frantic googling on how to support their daughter. Dating, Jay had realized, would maybe be a little trickier for Alma, but she had resolved to give advice and help whenever her daughter asked for it, not before.

”You think she’ll be mad at you for that?” Frankie asks her gently. Alma shrugs.

”She got really weird, and then the guys showed up, and they had beers and she just started hanging with them.”

”Baby, I’m sure you’ll patch things up,” Jay tries to comfort her. ”Just let her sober up, live through her hangover which I’m sure will be epic, and then you can figure things out.”

”She kissed me back.”

”Then I hope there’s an even bigger chance that things will work out,” Frankie points out. Alma shakes her head.

”Her mom and dad are really strict. They’ll kill her.”

”No they won’t,” Jay tells her firmly. ”We’ll see to that, honey, I promise. It’ll be okay.”

Alma takes a deep breath and sighs it out, relaxing visibly.

”I love you mom,” she whispers, and now Jay embraces her tightly.

”I love you too, Alma.”

”I love you, dad.”

”I love you, mijita.” Frankie’s arms are around them both, warm and reassuring.

They help their daughter to bed before retiring to their own bedroom for the second time that night.

”Christ,” Jay yawns as she undresses. ”I guess it begins. The dating and heartache phase, not to mention drinking.”

”But we did good,” Frankie reminds her, already in bed and waiting for her. ”She did everything right, just like you said.”

”Yeah, thank fuck.” Jay joins him between the sheets that still smell of their earlier love-making. She settles against him and yawns again.

”But I can’t believe our baby girl is so grown up already,” Frankie adds, his voice quivering a little. Jay passes her hand over his chest in half a caress, half a shove.

”Please don’t start bawling about out kids growing up yet again, I’m too tired for that shit.”

”When will you stop pretending like you don’t think it’s super cute that I get so emotional?” he chuckles, and Jay has to smile.

”When hell freezes over.”

”You’re a hard woman. But you did amazing with Alma tonight.”

”It was teamwork, baby,” she reminds, now angling her face up towards his. Their lips brush against each other. ”I’ts always teamwork.”

Frankie hums before pressing his lips to hers for a long, sweet kiss that ends with both of them yawning.

”Goddammit, I’m too old for this,” he mutters, and Jay lays her head down on his shoulder again.

”You and me both. And we still have to deal with whatever fresh catastrophe those two come up with tomorrow.”

”That’s for tomorrow,” Frankie rules, and Jay agrees. Right now, both of them are happy with what they’ve accomplished, and deserve some sleep.