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Assistant: Title: Homecoming
        Author: floatyourboat1997 floatyourboat1997 
        Chapter: 14/14 
        Summary: *TLOU AU - No Cordyceps Outbreak*You’re not sure when it happened, exactly. The moment when you began to see Joel Miller as more than just your neighbor. More than just your dad’s friend. More than just the surly, sawdust-covered parental figure he’d always seemed to be.You suppose you can’t actually pin it down to one specific moment. It was more of a...culmination of events.
            
            A crease forms between his brows.“Ain’t you too young for beer?”You narrow your eyes at him, “I’m twenty five.”The crease deepens.“Since when?”You sigh heavily, your tone laced with good-natured annoyance, “Since my birthday.”“Jesus,” he mutters, more to himself than you, you think. His expression changes. Grows harder. Darker. You do your best to ignore it.
        Contents: Chapter 14: Denouement
    

    

        
          
          
            “You were sayin’?” He asks quietly into your skin. His bravado is faltering - there’s a hitch in his words, giving you a glimpse at just how f@ck@d he actually is.You come back to yourself at that - never one to back down from a challenge - and you let your hands slide up, up, up, into his hair, tugging at the chocolate locks.Leaning forward, ghosting your mouth over the shell of his ear, you whisper, “Shut up and f@ck me, Miller,” punctuating the end of your sentence by letting your tongue drag over his earlobe.He stiffens above you, and you can almost hear the switch flipping in his brain.
          
        

      
        
          happy Miller...Wednesday???? 😅😅😅please accept 5,200 words of sm@t as my apology for the delay
            
            (See the end of the chapter for  more notes.)
            
      
  

  
  
    
    
  Joel looks just as baffled as you feel when he opens the door. 

  Your eyes flick to the scar on his cheek, the slice through his brow. The stitches seem to have mostly dissolved in the days you’ve been apart, but the evidence is still there, and it makes your heart hurt. 

  You don’t know what you’re doing here - you barely remember the journey to his front door - and you blink at him. 

  “Do you really love me?” You blurt, suddenly angry, pulling the edges of the blanket tighter around your shoulders, warding off a chill that doesn’t even exist. You’re in your own head again - sabotaging something that doesn’t even 
  
    need
  
   to be sabotaged. Spiraling, really. 

  Joel doesn’t love you, and he was just saying it for show, and now he’s regretting it, which is why you haven’t 
  
    seen him,
  
   and he’s 
  
    stuck now
  
   because he doesn’t know how to tell you it was a mistake, and-

  He blinks, mouth parting, “Of- of course I do.” 

  Your jaw snaps shut, inner monologue coming to a screeching halt. 
  
    Oh.
  

  But then you blink, the irritation reappearing. 

  “Then why didn’t you call?” You narrow your eyes at him. “Or...text-” but as soon as you say it, you remember Joel 
  
    hates
  
   texting, so that portion of the question is invalid. “-Or, just, like 
  
    show up
  
   at my door?” 

  His hand drops from the door frame in surprise, falling back to his thigh with a slap. “You...you were on concussion protocol?” He says in answer, though it’s more of a question than a statement. “And...yeah, I mean, your mom’s been...
  
    nice
  
   about this whole thing, but I don’t think she’d appreciate me just...
  
    showin’ up
  
   ‘n askin’ for you.” 

  You pause. He has a point. An annoyingly valid point. 

  “Well,” you say, still defensive, though you’re not sure why. “Well I- I just wanted to...make sure, because-” 

  “’M so in love with you I don’t know what to do with myself,” he admits, and his words make you snap your gaze from the floorboards to his eyes. They’re so warm, so kind, you’re pretty sure your heart bursts. 

  You swallow. “That’s...good.” 

  It’s great, really - 
  
    monumental,
  
   even - but your brain is short circuiting. 

  The rug has been ripped out from under you. You were confused, 
  
    angry, 
  
  even - and then Joel just...did what Joel does, and made everything right. 

  “Come inside,” he says, stepping back from the door frame. 

  You do as you’re told, crossing the threshold and letting him carefully pull the blanket from around your shoulders. He drops it absentmindedly onto the coat hook by the door, but you’re so close to him, and the warmth from his body is curling around you, and you don’t even notice it’s gone. His eyes never leave yours. 

  “I’m sorry,” you start, shaking your head. You have 
  
    so much 
  
  to apologize for. 

  “Don’t,” he interrupts you gently, but you place a trembling palm on his chest to stop him. His heart beats steady and strong against your hand. It grounds you. 

  “Let me,” you beg. “Please.”

  He swallows, and you see his jaw clench, but he nods, so you continue:

  “I didn’t 
  
    want
  
   to...to end things between us. It just- it felt like it was the 
  
    right
  
   thing to do. Like, what I was 
  
    supposed
  
   to do. But all it did was make my heart hurt, and I’m...I’m guessing it didn’t make you feel great, either. I don’t expect you to forgive me so easily, Joel, but I need you to know that I 
  
    am
  
   sorry, and I regret it 
  
    so much, 
  
  and-”

  “Darlin’,” he says quietly, his hand coming to rest on your hip. You shudder at the possessiveness, the certainty behind the gesture. “I appreciate the apology, ‘n I’ll accept it if that’s what you need from me, but you really have 
  
    nothin’
  
   to feel sorry about. This ain’t...this ain’t a normal situation,” he chuckles. “‘S’the first time for both of us. There’s no right or wrong way to act.” 

  
    Jesus.
  

  “I don’t deserve you,” you mumble, leaning forward until your forehead 
  
    thunks
  
   against his chest. 

  He chuckles, throaty and hoarse, and it makes goosebumps bloom on your skin. His grip tightens on your hip before sliding away. You pull your face away from his chest while his palms drag up and down your arms soothingly. 

  “Do you still want this?” You whisper, scanning his face for even a 
  
    hint
  
   of doubt. 

  He knows what you’re asking. 
  
    Do you still want 
  
  
    me?
  

  “I do,” he nods. His hands pause on your shoulders, coming up to cradle the sides of your neck. His thumbs press into your jaw, holding you steady. “I really do.” 

  You lean into his touch instinctively, gripping his wrists to keep him there.

  “We’re doing this,” you tell him, eyes flicking over his face rapidly. 
  
    This
  
   - dating. Doing the d@mn thing. “Like, actually doing this.” 

  He nods firmly, “Think so, yeah.” 

  A grin breaks wide over your lips, and you allow yourself to feel the 
  
    joy
  
   for just this moment. You don’t have to worry about Sarah, or your parents, or society, anymore. You can just...be with him, and nothing else matters. 

  You bathe in it - the joy - and spring onto the b@lls of your feet, throwing your arms around his neck. You waste no time closing the distance between your mouths and letting your lips ghost over his. 

  His palms cup the side of your face, and you feel yourself go boneless in his hold. He’s got you, because Joel’s always got you, and his hands are warm and rough as they cradle your cheeks, and it feels like coming home. 
  
    Finally.
  
   For good, this time. 

  The dam breaks, and Joel is quick to jump at the opportunity to push you back into the door. Your shoulder blades hit it with a dull 
  
    thud, 
  
  but you don’t even notice, because his hands are in your hair, and his hips are grinding into yours, and his breath is fanning out over your cheeks, and-

  He pulls back, eyes wide, “Are you...are you still on concussion pr-”

  
    “No,”
  
   you mumble, shaking your head and lunging for him again. 

  The kiss is hasty this time - desperate and passionate and rough as your mouth curves against his. He makes a low noise in the back of his throat, and his grip on your waist tightens, arching you into him. “Good,” he mumbles against your lips. “‘S’good.” 

  “Stop talking,” you whisper. 

  He nods, but says nothing more. His palms drag down the small of your back, over the curve of your ass, until he’s hunched over your form and palming the backs of your thighs. 

  The implication is clear: 
  
    jump.
  

  So you do.

  Wrapping your legs tightly around his trim waist, feeling his rough hands grip the backs of your thighs in a vice. He pins you against the door, 
  
    grinds
  
   into you with so much force that your breath catches in your throat. 

  The denim of his jeans is rocking into you 
  
    just right,
  
   catching on your cl@t through the thin fabric of your leggings. You moan breathlessly as his tongue glides against yours. 

  Suddenly you’re moving. The door vanishes from beneath your shoulder blades, and you lean forward, into Joel, to regain your balance. Your fingers lace together at the back of his neck, tangling in the curls that you’ve missed more than you could ever comprehend. 

  The change in angle allows you to roll your hips against him, using gravity to your advantage and grinding 
  
    down
  
   into his groin. You can feel him - hard, ready - through his jeans, and it makes you whimper.

  He grunts affectionately into your mouth, squeezing you tighter, and you dully register the sounds of his boots thudding on the stairs. You don’t really care where you end up, as long as Joel is there. He could f@ck you right here on the floor, or on the bathroom counter, or hell, on the grass outside, and it would be 
  
    perfect.
  
   

  You’re too lost in his kiss, in his touch, to register the butterflies that are flipping rapidly inside your stomach. It’s been 
  
    far
  
   too long since he’s held you like this. You shudder in his hold, desperate for more, more, 
  
    more, 
  
  and he gives it to you.

  You know you’re in Joel’s room without even opening your eyes. You can smell it, feel it, 
  
    taste it,
  
   as he brings you through the doorway and promptly shuts it behind him. His grip falters almost imperceptibly as he toes out of his boots, and he sets you down roughly on the mattress, slotting himself above you like a needle finds a groove.

  Your legs instinctually wrap around his waist, hitching over his hips and crossing your ankles together at the small of his back. You tug him into your core, and he willingly obliges, rolling into you, slow and hard. His lips are feverish against yours, sloppy and desperate and uncontrollable as they leave your mouth, trail fire down your neck, suck bruises into your collarbone. 

  You’re a mess of teeth and tongues and heavy exhales. It’s quick and rough and 
  
    desperate.
  
   A throaty moan works its way up your throat when his teeth sink into your pulsepoint. 

  You feel goosebumps bloom on his skin beneath your fingertips when you tug on the hem of his shirt. He rocks back, away from you, perched on his knees between your legs. Your mouth goes dry as he tugs his shirt overhead one-handed, exposing his tanned, toned torso, and the deep V that runs beneath the waistband of his jeans.

  Taking advantage of the few seconds you’re apart, you lean up and shuck your own shirt overhead. His gaze darts down immediately to your exposed br@@sts, nipples peaked with arousal. He licks his lips, and you shiver, reaching out on instinct, dragging your hands over the sides of his ribs and down his stomach, latching onto his belt and tugging him back into you. He falls forward easily, bracing a forearm next to your head before he can crush you completely. 

  The feeling of his bare skin pressed against yours is something you’ll never get tired of. So warm, and comforting, and 
  
    right.
  

  “Stunning,” he murmurs against your mouth, swiping his tongue out to drag along your bottom lip. His teeth follow a second later, grazing over the sensitive, kiss-swollen skin, and you tilt your head up to meet him halfway, dragging your fingers along his spine and settling on his shoulder blades. 

  He rocks into you, dragging his jeans over your core through your leggings, and you gasp into his mouth, falling back onto the pillow beneath your head. He strikes your cl@t 
  
    just right
  
   at the same time his palm - warm, rough, f@ck@ng...
  
    massive
  
   - comes up to cup your breast, thumb swiping over your nipple, and you see stars. 

  
    Jesus.
  
   You’re not going to last long.

  You’re completely touch-starved, 
  
    desperately
  
   aching for him to the point where your fingers are trembling. 

  He pulls away suddenly, and you chase after him, but he goes too far - sitting back on his heels again. You pout. 

  He ignores it. 

  Drags thick fingers over his belt, unbuckling it, and the 
  
    tink 
  
  the metal clasp makes echoes in the silence of the bedroom. Your breathing hitches. 

  You think he’ll toss the belt to the side - to the floor, joining your discarded shirts - but he doesn’t. He takes it off completely, pulling it out of each belt loop with practiced ease, until the leather strap is cradled in his palms. He grips it tightly, and your gaze darts from it to his eyes in time to see his pupils blow. 

  “Hands,” he orders quietly. Roughly 

  Swallowing, you bring your hands out in front of you, wrists together. 

  He nods in appreciation - 
  
    always so good at following orders - 
  
  and easily grips both of your wrists in one of his palms. 

  Gently, softly, he wraps the leather around your wrists, pulling them up and over your head and bringing them to the headboard. 

  You trust him completely - you really do - but you’ve never done this before. Never been so 
  
    completely
  
   at his mercy for whatever he has planned. 

  His presence is quiet, calming, but something about him is so...
  
    strong,
  
   so stoic, that you fold immediately. 

  He cinches the belt tight to the headboard, and you instinctively 
  
    tug
  
   on it when he leans back, just to see if it’ll give. It doesn’t. The leather bites into your wrists at the same time you dig your teeth into your lower lip. 

  “Joel-” you begin, but he shakes his head. His eyes roam - down your neck, over your bare chest, across the planes of your stomach, and your skin grows hot under his predatory gaze. 

  “Don’t leave me again,” he says, but instead of sounding like a plea, a desperate cry, it comes out as an order. Harsh. Severe.

  You’re already nodding.

  “I won’t,” you promise. You tug on the belt again, desperate to tangle your fingers in his hair, drag his mouth back down to yours. “I’ll never leave you again.” 

  His jaw clenches, and his eyes are still so dark they’re black. You get lost in them. 

  “Believe you,” he murmurs with a dip of his chin. “But still gotta teach you a lesson.” 

  Your mouth goes dry. Mind goes blank. Bones turn to Jello. 

  
    What kind of lesson?
  

  The best kind, you’re sure. 

  His broad palm lands on your thigh, legs still bent, still bracketing his waist on either side. He gives your quad a rough squeeze before releasing his grip and dragging his fingers to the waistband of your leggings. 

  His eyes flick to yours, and you’re still nodding fervently. 

  
    Yes. Off. Take them off. 
  

  
    Right. F@ck@ng. Now. 
  

  He obliges, eyes glinting with amusement, dragging them down your thighs, taking your underwear, too, and tossing it all carelessly to the side. 

  You pull on the belt again - you want to kiss him, to feel his curls under your palm, his stubble under your fingertips - but the leather holds strong. You whimper dejectedly, clenching your thighs around him because it’s all you can do. He doesn’t seem to notice, or care, as he drags his fingers slowly up the inside of your bare leg.

  Your skin is on 
  
    fire
  
   beneath his fingertips. Up, up, 
  
    up,
  
   he goes, halting dangerously close to the apex of your thighs, before journeying back down again. Goosebumps form on your flesh. 

  
    “Joel,”
  
   you pant through gritted teeth. “Don’t-” 

  “Quiet,” he interrupts. “Or we’ll have to do somethin’ about that mouth, too.” 

  Your lips part as heat rushes through your core. Visions of Joel forcing his c@ck into your mouth, down the back of your throat, over your swollen lips, fly through your mind. Your eyes practically roll back into your head.

  “That’s not exactly a threat,” you huff, raising a brow and tugging on the belt for emphasis.

  “Hm,” he hums as he drags two fingers through your slit without warning, gathering the slick that’s pooled between your legs and pushing it around curiously. 

  Your head falls back to the pillow with a gasp, eyes scr@w@ng shut so tight you see white. 

  “F@ck,” you whimper. 

  “Not so tough now, are ya?” He murmurs, continuing to swirl his fingers around your cl@t. 

  You flick your eyes open to glare at him, but they roll back into your head again when he dips down to your entrance, letting his pointer and middle finger sink in to the knuckle. 

  He whistles lowly when your walls clench around the intrusion. It hasn’t even been that long, but you’re 
  
    desperate
  
   for him, pulling him into you with your legs. 

  “Needy girl,” he chuckles darkly, curving his fingers inside of you at the same time his thumb grazes over your cl@t. Your hips buck into his hand, grinding into him unabashedly. 

  “Joel,” you try again. “Take the belt off. Please. Just- f@ck- just take it off-” 

  He halts his movements, leaves his fingers inside of you, while he considers. His eyes flick to yours. “No,” he says flatly. “Don’t think I will.”

  You yank on it again, so hard you’re sure to have bruises in an hour, clamping your thighs around his hips desperately. You writhe against him, trying to force some sort of friction. His other hand comes to rest flatly at the base of your stomach, just below your navel, and he presses into you firmly. 

  “Do I need to tie the rest of you down?” He asks. It’s only half a joke.

  You halt. The premise is...intriguing, to say the least. 

  You can’t hark on it too long, though, because he resumes his movements, curving his fingers inside of you as fire 
  
    shoots
  
   through your core. You arch into his touch, back bowing, legs trembling as he strokes your inner walls over, and over, and over again. 

  A pitiful whimper drips past your lips. 

  His fingers hook just right, hitting that spot you’ve never been able to touch when you’re alone in your bedroom, and your vision blurs. 

  “Joel,” you warn him, feeling the fire in your core erupt into a full-fledged inferno. You knew it wouldn’t take long for him to drag you over the edge - you’ve been wound tighter than a Jack-In-The-Box since you left him alone in the drive-in parking lot all those nights ago. 

  “‘S’okay, darlin’,” he murmurs in a sleepy, half-drunk drawl. “Go on ‘n c@m for me.” 

  
    Another order you’d be remiss to deny. 
  

  You’re tumbling over the edge at the next stroke of his fingers. His thumb presses deep, slow circles over your cl@t, 
  
    dragging
  
   your @rg@sm out of you and guiding you gently into oblivion.

  “‘S’it, pretty girl,” he encourages you as he feels your walls clench around his fingers. “Wish you could see yourself.” 

  Everything surges up inside you, white hot and unrelenting. The muscles in your stomach clench, your back arches to the sky, goosebumps covering every inch of exposed flesh while you writhe beneath him and whimper into the air. 

  His palm presses further into the base of your stomach, holding you steady, grounding you while your mind caves in on itself. 

  “So f@ck@n’ pretty f’me, darlin’,” gone is the urgent, commanding tone. Now he’s just...quiet. Reverential. Amazed.

  When your vision returns, when the air forces its way back into your lungs, he’s still murmuring, awestruck, while he scans your face. You stare at the ceiling, 
  
    reeling,
  
   chest heaving, skin graced with a thin layer of sweat. 

  
    Good. So good.
  

  He chuckles, and his fingers slip out from your core. Your legs are still wrapped weakly around his waist, trembling when he slips out from between them. You’re still disoriented, but your gaze flicks down to watch him shuck out of his jeans. He leaves his boxers on, and you make grabby motions with your fingers where they’re still wrapped in the belt. The leather groans in protest as you tug harshly against it. 

  You’re bordering on feral, with how badly you want - 
  
    need
  
   - his c@ck in your mouth. Sliding over your tongue, pushing down the back of your throat, choking you until your eyes water. 

  “Joel,” you say for the millionth time. “The belt- please- I just...
  
    f@ck,
  
   I need-”

  He raises a brow, “What do you need?” 

  
    “Ineedyoutotakethef@ckingbeltoff-”
  
   you race, pulling against it. 
  
    “Pleasepleaseplease-”
  

  He’s chuckling again, but he obliges. The second your wrists are free from the leather you’re lunging at him, switching your positions and forcing him onto his back on the mattress. You’re pretty sure the only reason he’s gone so willingly is because you’ve caught him off guard.

  You were bordering on catatonic twenty seconds ago, you doubt Joel was expecting you to move so quickly once freed from your restraints. Later, you’ll laugh, because you’re pretty sure you’ll 
  
    never
  
   get the drop on Joel Miller again. 

  Frenzied, frantic, you drag your fingers under the waistband of his boxers, tugging at it until his c@ck springs free. Your mouth is already watering so much you might drool. 

  “Easy, baby,” he murmurs, but his tone is full of delight. 

  He lifts his hips enough for you to tug his boxers the rest of the way down, and you settle in between his legs, dragging your tongue down his shaft before he has a second to know what’s happening.

  
    “Jesus,”
  
   he stutters, hips bucking up into your touch. His hands immediately fist in your hair, tugging on your roots. 

  You grip his fingers, tightening his hold on your head - 
  
    more.
  

  He does so without another ounce of encouragement, pulling hard enough to send shivers down your spine. 

  You take him into your mouth without warning - just the tip - letting your tongue flick freely over the head of his c@ck, scooping up the prec@m coating his skin. 

  “Sh@t,” he breathes, and you see his chest stutter. 

  You can’t help the grin that spreads over your lips. It’s 
  
    too easy.
  
   

  You slide further down the shaft, taking more of him into your mouth and hollowing your cheeks at the same time. His hips rock into your mouth instinctively, nudging into the back of your throat. You’re not ready yet, not warmed up, and you choke. 

  He chuckles quietly, his fingers tightening in your hair, “S’a matter, darlin’? Too big?” 

  You pull off of him in answer, letting your mouth fall to his b@lls and gently - feather light - grazing your teeth over the sensitive skin. 

  He stutters. 

  Satisfied that you’ve successfully shut him up, you return your mouth to the head of his c@ck, sliding it into your mouth once more. 

  The sounds are bordering on obscene - your spit-slick lips dragging over the skin of his c@ck, his heavy exhales rolling past his lips and curling onto the floor below, the occasional gag that slips up the back of your throat. 

  You’ve never felt more alive. 

  Relaxing fully between his legs, you take him deeper, until your nose is brushing against the skin of his pelvis. It’s his turn to choke. 

  The muscles in his abdomen clench, his fingers form fists in your hair, and his head tips back into the pillow beneath him. You flick your gaze up while he sits in the back of your throat, examining the column of his throat as it flexes in the dim light of his bedroom. Veins pulsing, sweat gracing the hollow of his throat, chest heaving. 

  
    “F@ck,”
  
   he grits. He holds your head steady, keeps you in place while he slowly pulls his c@ck out of your mouth, thrusting back up into it a second later. He doesn’t ask, he just takes - using you - and 
  
    f@ck
  
   if it’s not the hottest thing ever. 

  You hum in appreciation, sending vibrations straight to his b@lls. Again, and again, and again, he f@cks up into your mouth, until your eyes are watering and your nose is running and drool spills from your parted lips. It’s filthy, and vulgar, and bordering on foul, but you don’t care. 
  
    You love it.
  

  You’re content to stay here forever - until he’s spilling down the back of your throat, until you’re swallowing every last drop and drooling all over him - but Joel, apparently, is not. 

  His grip loosens on your hair, and his hips still buck up into you, but he forces himself to come to a halt. You take over eagerly, dropping your head back down onto his c@ck and swallowing as much of him as you can.

  “F@ck,” he pants. “You- 
  
    stop. 
  
  Not- 
  
    Jesus-”
  
   he cuts himself off when you hum and swallow around him again. “Stop it. Not gonna last.” 

  Slowly, begrudgingly, you pull off of him. 

  His eyes immediately land on your mouth - and you know 
  
    exactly 
  
  what sort of filthy thoughts are running rampant through his mind. He reaches for you, cupping your jaw in his hand, running his thumb over your slick, puffy bottom lip. 

  “You gonna f@ck me now?” You ask innocently, a small smile curving into the side of your mouth.

  His eyes darken immediately, and he’s lunging for you.

  A squeak of excitement claws its way out of your chest, and you’re grinning and giggling as he flips your positions. You land on your back, gazing up at him while he slots himself between your legs again.

  Every barrier is gone - you’re skin to skin from head to toe, and he wastes no time fisting his c@ck in one hand and 
  
    dragging
  
   it through your folds. His nose nudges the joint between your neck and shoulder, lips dragging over the sensitive skin, teeth tugging at it a moment later. 

  Your eyes roll back into your head, fingers tugging harshly on the ends of his hair. 

  “Stop 
  
    teasing,”
  
   you whine when he pulls his c@ck away from your entrance, swirling around your cl@t. “I need-”

  You don’t get a chance to finish your sentence. 

  He’s slipping his c@ck back down and thrusting into you, filling you up immediately, completely, with one hard snap of his hips. 

  Your jaw drops, breath stuttering in your lungs, vision blanking. 

  He didn’t give you a 
  
    second
  
   to adjust. You’re so 
  
    full. Full of Joel.
  
   

  “Holy sh@t,” you whimper, fingernails raking scratches into his shoulder blades. You reach up, sinking your teeth into his collarbone because you just need to do 
  
    something. “Holy sh@t.”
  

  He sighs breathlessly, halting when he’s seated inside you fully. His tongue swipes down the column of your throat, sucking bruises into your shoulder a second later. 

  “You were sayin’?” He asks quietly into your skin. His bravado is faltering - there’s a hitch in his words, giving you a glimpse at just how 
  
    f@ck@d
  
   he actually is. 

  You come back to yourself at that - never one to back down from a challenge - and you let your hands slide up, up, 
  
    up,
  
   into his hair, tugging at the chocolate locks. 

  Leaning forward, ghosting your mouth over the shell of his ear, you whisper, “Shut up and fuck me, Miller,” punctuating the end of your sentence by letting your tongue drag over his earlobe. 

  He stiffens above you, and you can almost 
  
    hear
  
   the switch flipping in his brain. 

  He’s pounding into you by the next beat of your heart, and your jaw drops as low as it can possibly go. 

  His hips snap into yours, loud and messy and 
  
    rough,
  
   and you arch into him. It steals the breath from your lungs, makes you go boneless beneath him. 

  Over, and over, and over, he hits a spot so 
  
    deep 
  
  inside of you that you think you might black out. He’s ruthless, unyielding, unrelenting. His teeth tug at your skin, his hand squeezes the outside of your hip in a vice, his breath is hot and wet in your ear. 

  “Take it so good, baby,” he murmurs, stumbling over his words with every snap of his hips. “So. F@ck@n’. Good.” 

  You can’t form a sentence - a 
  
    thought.
  
   They simply don’t exist. 

  You’re pretty sure you’ve died and gone to heaven. It’s the only plausible explanation for why everything feels so overwhelmingly 
  
    good.
  

  “So perfect f’me,” he mumbles into your neck. “So f@ck@n’ tight. So f@ck@n’ wet. Missed this. Missed 
  
    you.
  
   Perfect little p@ssy, just f’me.” 

  It’s too much. Even if he wasn’t f@ck@ng you into oblivion, you’re pretty sure he could make you c@m with just his words alone. 

  “Joel,” you whine, trying to warn him, but your head lolls to one side weakly, brows knitting together. 
  
    “F@ck,”
  
   you try again. “Gonna- gonna-”

  “‘S’it, pretty girl,” he nods into your neck. “Go on. Wanna feel you.” 

  He pulls back, out of the safety of your collar, and flicks his eyes - dark, 
  
    f@ck@d,
  
   lustful - over your face, waiting with bated breath to see you fall apart beneath him. 

  His hips don’t stutter once - giving you exactly what you asked for. Rough, hot, fast. 

  There will be time for soft and slow later. But you missed him - you 
  
    need
  
   him. You need quick and dirty. You need wild and desperate. 

  And Joel has never been one to deny you of what you need, because more often than not, he knows what you need better than you do. 

  “Feel so good,” you whimper weakly. “So good, Joel.” 

  He nods in agreement, finally at a loss for words. 

  His hand drifts down between you, but you’re c@mm@ng before he can even press his thumb to your cl@t. Squeezing his c@ck in a vice, bearing down on him so hard your entire body resets. 

  He freezes above you, caught off guard, and his palm lands flat on the mattress beside your head, holding himself steady while he continues to thrust into you. He watches you come undone, wide-eyed as your walls clamp down around his c@ck. His hips stutter. He chokes on your name. 

  “Jesus,” he mumbles. “‘S’it baby.” 

  His @rg@sm comes out of nowhere. He can’t stop it, can’t control it. One minute he’s awestruck, scanning your furrowed brow, the pout in your lips, the tears falling from the corner of your eyes, and the next-

  His hips are staggering to a halt, and he’s spilling inside of you, breathless and trembling while his head falls down to your collarbone. 

  You drift in oblivion for an indeterminate amount of time. It might be hours by the time your soul finds your corporeal form again, and you dully register the weight of Joel’s body draped over yours. 

  When you force your eyes open, the edges of your vision are still tinged with white. You blink several times, feeling tears snake their way into your hairline, and you release a breathless chuckle, grinning wildly.

  Joel shifts above you as your chest stutters, and he mumbles incoherently into your neck. His lips pepper feather-light kisses over your pulsepoint, your jaw, nipping at the skin. He gently slips out of you, pausing to watch his cum leak from your entrance, satisfied. 

  He rolls onto his back next to you and huffs, breathless. 

  “Missed that,” you admit to the ceiling, still beaming. 

  “Jus’ want me for my body,” he gripes, but his tone is laced with humor. “I get it.” 

  You roll your eyes, shifting onto your side to face him. “D@mn straight.” 

  He cracks an eye open at that, glancing at you sideways. 

  A smile curves into the side of his mouth, dimple slicing through his skin while he extends an arm out for you. 

  The scar on his cheek shifts with the movement, and in the dim light of his bedroom, you can see the freckle straining to make a reappearance beneath the damaged skin. 

   “C’mere,” he mumbles.

  You slide over the mattress, draping yourself over the side of his torso and resting your chin on his pectoral. His fingers trace absentminded patterns over the bare skin on your back. 

  Your hand reaches up on its own accord, dragging your thumb through the scar on his brow. Once, twice, before halting and just...holding him. 

  “Love you,” you whisper, giddy because now you can 
  
    say it, 
  
  whenever you want.  

  “Hm,” he half-hums-half-chuckles, shuffling deeper into the mattress, getting comfortable. He presses a kiss to the top of your head, lingering for a few seconds before eventually murmuring, “I love you.”  

  Your bones feel heavy, and you settle into his side while he pulls the sheets up and around you, letting your eyes flutter shut. 

  
    This is your future,
  
   you realize with a drunk, euphoric smile. 

  You and Joel. 

  
    This is it.
  

  
  

    
      
        
        
          in hindsight i probably should've advertised that i'd be doing some international traveling for ~1 month (2 ish weeks now) with limited internet accessmy b fam. i promise i didn't forget about you or this ficnext week's chapter will likely be delayed as well *braces for the pitchforks and torches*'
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