Curvy Mermaid

the elevator doors close with a soft click suspended above the city.

you stand beside him. close, but not touching. not yet.

to the cameras, to the world, you are nothing more than business allies. but here, in this pocket of silence, every heartbeat says otherwise.

his pinky brushes yours.

you don’t look at him. you don’t need to.

“i spent that whole board meeting pretending not to look at you and all i wanted was to reach over and touch your hand.” harry whispered, voice low and strained with restraint.

your lips curve, slow and sweet.

“one more minute and i would’ve kissed you in front of all of them,” you murmured, barely turning your head.

that draws a quiet laugh from him. soft and disbelieving.

“you’re dangerous,” he said, looking at you now.

“so are you,” you replied with a little tilt of your chin. “but at least i admit it.”

he watched you for a moment, like he was trying to memorize you. eyes tracing your cheek, the curve of your mouth, the slope of your shoulders.

harry reached for you slowly, one hand rising to brush a strand of hair behind your ear, fingers grazing your jaw.

then, gently, like he couldn’t help himself anymore, he leaned in.

your noses brushed. you closed your eyes.

and when his lips finally touched yours, it wasn’t rushed or frantic. it was reverent. warm. the kind of kiss that lingered long after it ended.

his hand cupped your cheek as your fingers curled into the front of his suit, pulling him just a little closer, just a little longer.

when you finally parted, breathless and smiling, you whispered into the space between your mouths.

“tonight. come by. back entrance. no security.”

“and what would the heiress of the sorelli family say if i just showed up unannounced?”

“she’d say she missed you,” you murmured, brushing your nose against his.

he pulled back just enough to look into your eyes.

“and what would her father say?”

you tilted your head with a small, knowing smile.

soft and spoiled all at once.

“he wouldn’t know. he still thinks i’m too busy running empires to fall in love.”

the elevator chimed.

as the doors slid open, harry’s hand found the small of your back. he guided you out like nothing had happened.

like he hadn’t just kissed the one woman he wasn’t supposed to fall for.

your pulse was still racing as you walked through the lobby and his fingertips lingered against your spine.

the house was quiet. jazz floated lazily from the record player.

you wore nothing but silk and bare skin, the cool floor beneath your feet grounding you as you padded down the hallway.

you heard the door open and close with care. no knocks. no voices.

his footsteps.

you stepped into the hall, standing where the shadows met the light.

“took you long enough,” you said with a small smile.

harry looked up, still wearing his coat, hair tousled from the wind, eyes warm and tired and completely focused on you.

“i tried not to speed,” he said quietly.

you walked toward him, slow and barefoot, letting your eyes drink him in.

he reached for you without thinking, his hand finding your wrist, thumb brushing the inside of it like he needed that touch to breathe.

“you’re late,” you teased softly.

“i didn’t want anyone to follow me,” he murmured, gaze sweeping over your figure with something that looked like longing and something that felt like relief.

you stepped into his space and curled your arms around his neck. he pulled you close without hesitation, one hand sliding along the curve of your back.

“good,” you whispered against the side of his throat. “because i don’t want to share you tonight.”

he closed his eyes as your breath warmed his skin.

“you never do,” he said, and you could feel the smile in his voice.

when harry kissed you again. slow, lingering, his hands gentle on your waist, it felt inevitable.

the way his lips explored yours with aching care.

the way his body fit perfectly against yours when you leaned into him, silk against wool.

now, you’re in your bedroom.

he’s standing between your thighs as you sit on the edge of the bed, wrapped in a fresh silk slip.

one he hasn’t seen yet. midnight blue.

he looks at you like he can’t believe you’re real.

his blazer drops to the floor with a quiet thud.

you reach up, undoing each button of his dress shirt with slow, steady fingers, your palms skimming over his chest, tracing muscle and hair.

he exhales shakily, leaning into your touch like he’s been starving for it.

then his hands slide to your thighs, the silk beneath his fingertips.

he lifts the slip just slightly.

you see the shift in his expression: confusion, surprise, then a wicked sort of delight.

he looks up at you slowly, voice low and thick.

“you’re not wearing any panties.”

you smirk, all sweet mischief.

“i got comfortable.”

he huffs out a soft, dark laugh, shaking his head as his hands skim higher, cupping the backs of your thighs.

“you’re a naughty girl,” he murmurs, his voice turning rough with arousal. “sitting here like this. waiting for me. silk and nothing else.”

“i knew you’d appreciate it.”

“oh, i do,” he growls softly, dropping to his knees between your legs. “now lie back, sweetheart.”

you obey, easing onto the pillows as your slip pools around your hips, exposing soft, bare skin. your legs part for him without hesitation.

he kisses your knee. then your thigh. his hands stroke the length of you with reverence and hunger.

and then his mouth is on you.

the first flick of his tongue is light, teasing and barely there.

he watches you as he licks, eyes dark and focused, like your pleasure is the only thing that matters.

you gasp softly, back arching when his tongue grows bolder.

stroking you in slow circles, licking deep and firm. his hands spread your thighs wider as he settles in.

“you taste like heaven, baby,” he whispers between strokes.

you moan, one hand tangled in his hair, the other clutching the sheets.

“that’s it,” he murmurs, lips brushing your slick skin. “just relax. let me make you feel good.”

he flattens his tongue and drags it from your entrance to your clit in one long, devastating pass, then circles your clit again and again.

his pace is slow, relentless. he draws out every whimper, every trembling breath.

and he doesn’t stop when your legs start to tremble. he doesn’t stop when your hips lift off the bed, chasing his mouth.

in fact he grins against you, fingers digging into your thighs to hold you still.

“stay right there for me, sweetheart.”

your body builds with pressure, pleasure curling tighter, hotter. his tongue never letting up over and over and over until you’re writhing, whimpering his name.

“harry—please—”

he groans, licking faster, more focused now. his tongue flicks, presses, circles your clit with maddening precision, keeping you right on the edge.

“let me feel it.”

your body goes taut. it’s overwhelming.

your thighs clamp around his head, your voice breaks on his name, and he holds you through every wave.

but he doesn’t stop.

even after your orgasm crashes over you, his tongue keeps moving, slow and soft, then quick and pointed. overstimulation licks at your nerves, making you twitch beneath him.

“too much—harry—”

he lifts his head just enough to meet your eyes.

“shh. one more, baby. just one more. i’ve got you.”

his fingers slide inside you. two.

his thumb replacing his tongue to rub your clit in tight, perfect circles.

you sob a breath, overwhelmed and shaking.

“you’re soaked,” he murmurs, pressing deep. “so fucking tight. let me see you fall apart again.”

his name spills from your lips like a prayer as your body coils again trembling around his fingers.

you come harder this time, vision going white around the edges.

he kisses your thigh, then your stomach, then pulls you up gently into his arms.

you’re panting, limp and trembling against his chest.

“you okay?” he whispers into your hair, brushing it back.

you nod, clinging to him.

“too good,” you manage.

he kisses your temple then your lips.

“not done yet, i still need to be inside you.” he murmurs.

his lips press to your jaw, then lower along your throat, over your chest.

you’re still trembling, but you don’t want to stop. you want more. all of him.

he knows. he always knows.

“you want to ride me?” harry whispers, his large hands sliding down your sides before gripping your hips firmly. “take what you need?”

you nod, breath caught in your throat. you push lightly on his chest, urging him to lean back, propped up against the headboard.

slowly, you straddle him, knees pressing into the mattress on either side of his thighs.

his cock, flushed and slick with your arousal, stands hard between you, glistening with precum.

it’s already leaking for you.

you reach down, your hand wrapping around him, sliding along his slick length to line him up.

his dark eyes lock on yours, full of heat.

“look at you, my spoiled little heiress… sittin’ on me like you own me.”

“i do,” you whisper, lips brushing over his.

you sink down slowly, every inch filling you, your silk slip sliding and clinging to your curves.

harry’s hands find your hips first then they trail up your sides until his fingers curl under your slip.

cupping your breasts with hunger thumbs tracing circles around your swollen nipples until they pebble, hardening beneath his touch.

your breasts bounce, pressing into his chest and palms with each slow, deep roll of your hips.

a strangled groan escapes him.

“you’re gonna fucking kill me,” he groans, eyes darkening as he drinks in the sight of you riding him, your tits trembling in his grasp.

you lean down to kiss him. messy and desperate. his mouth claims yours, teeth grazing your lower lip.

your thighs tremble, your body slick with need and silk.

“turn around for me,” he pants, voice low and commanding. “on your hands and knees. let me take care of you.”

you whimper but obey, sliding off and flipping over onto the pillows, chest pressed down, ass raised in the air.

his eyes darken as he takes in the slick heat between your thighs.

“look at you,” he growls. “so fucking wet. so fucking ready.”

his cock lines up with your entrance, and then he presses in slow.

you cry out, burying your face in the sheets, your body arching involuntarily.

harry’s hands grip your hips hard, but one slides up your side, slipping beneath the silk slip to cup and knead your breast.

with every deep, powerful thrust, your breast bounces, the silk sliding and catching, heightening every sensation.

skin slaps, slick moans, and harsh breaths fill the room.

“that’s it,” he hisses. “take it. take all of it.”

your nails rake the sheets as you moan, your body trembling under his relentless pace.

“harry—fuck—”

he growls your name, pulling your hair lightly, arching your back. his hand moves between your bodies, rubbing tight circles on your clit as he pounds into you harder, fingers curling into your hip.

one hand slides back to your breast with a desperate worship that sends hot jolts through your core.

“you gonna come like this? stuffed full of me?” he pants.

you nod, breath ragged.

“i’m so close—”

“come for me,” he demands, voice rough. “now.”

your orgasm crashes through you like thunder, whole body trembling, muscles clenching hard around him as you scream his name.

harry pulls out, flipping you over again, lips pressing feverishly to yours.

now he’s on top. his mouth claims yours. kissing you deep and hungry, he presses back into you, slow and full. his other hand cups your face, holding you close, eyes dark with need.

“you’re mine,” he whispers against your lips. “every inch.”

“i’m yours,” you gasp, wrapping your legs around his waist, nails sinking into his back.

his thrusts grow more urgent, deeper, chasing release.

you’re right there with him, heat and pleasure crashing through your veins.

“come with me,” he begs, forehead pressed to yours. “one more, baby.”

your bodies lock together as he spills inside you, hips jerking, whole body shaking with release.

he stays buried deep, panting against your neck.

then soft kisses trail from your jaw to your shoulder to your lips.

You’re on Joel’s lap the night it starts.

Half-drunk on cheap whiskey and the weight of his arms around your waist, you’re draped across him like you belong there. The porch creaks beneath your bare feet as you rock slowly in the old chair, his breath warm against your neck, and his hand resting low on your thigh, just under the hem of your shorts. A breeze carries in the sounds of Jackson’s quiet night—distant voices, boots over dirt—but your eyes are locked on one thing.

Or rather, one man.

Tommy Miller.

He’s sitting across from the two of you, laughing at something dumb Joel just muttered—God knows what, you’d stopped listening a minute ago. He’s got that easy grin, relaxed posture, tanned skin catching firelight from the lantern beside him. A couple buttons are undone on his shirt and his forearms are dusted with grime and work. And you?

You’re staring.

Hungry.

It’s not subtle either. You let it happen, cocking your head just a little, gaze dragging over the line of Tommy’s jaw, lingering where his neck disappears into his collar. You know Joel sees it. You want him to. All the time.

He shifts beneath you, breath catching just a little. His fingers flex tighter on your leg.

“Careful,” he murmurs, voice low in your ear. “You’re starin’, sweetheart.”

You hum, slow and syrupy, turning your head to glance back at him over your shoulder, lips curling.

“Can’t help it,” you purr, unbothered. “You Millers come in the same model—built tough, look good filthy. I got a type, what can I say?”

Joel’s jaw tightens, but there’s no anger in it. Just something darker. Slower. Watching you with that narrowed stare of his, like he’s weighing the shape of your words in his head. Behind you, Tommy’s too busy sipping his drink to notice how thick the air’s gotten.

Joel slides his hand higher up your thigh.

“You want him?” he asks, almost too casual. Almost.

You blink.

“What?”

Joel leans back in the chair, pulling you with him. You’re sitting square in his lap now, back against his chest, his palm splayed against your stomach.

“You look at him the same way you look at me,” he says, voice low and steady. “Been noticin’ it a while now. When we’re out on patrol. Dinner. Hell, even when it’s just the two of us here. Eyes all starvin’. So I’ll ask again.”

He nudges your thighs apart just a little with his knees.

“You want him?”

You laugh, soft and breathless, turning to face him properly now. “And if I do?”

Joel doesn’t blink.

“Then you could have him,” he says. “Long as I get to watch.”

The words hit you like a spark to dry tinder. Your mouth parts. Your breath stills.

You feel it between your legs immediately.

He sees it.

“Fuck,” you whisper, smiling slow. “You’re serious.”

His gaze doesn’t waver. His voice lowers.

“Dead serious.”

And from the other side of the porch, Tommy lifts his glass and calls out, easy and oblivious:

“Y’all whisperin’ secrets over there, or just bein’ gross again?”

You smirk.

Joel’s hand slides even higher.

“Maybe both,” you call back, eyes never leaving Joel’s.

The horses are stabled, boots are muddy, and the sky’s starting to dim again — that hazy, gold hour when the shadows stretch long and the air feels thicker than it should.

Joel tosses his saddle over the gate and wipes sweat from his brow. Tommy’s leaning against the fence post, drinking from his canteen, still catching his breath.

They’ve been riding quiet all afternoon — too quiet, for brothers who usually bicker just to pass the time.

Joel doesn’t look at him when he says it.

“You been starin’ at her too, haven’t you?”

Tommy’s halfway through a drink. He pulls the canteen away, squinting.

“…The fuck?”

Joel finally glances over, eyes steady beneath his brow. “Don’t play dumb, Tommy.”

Tommy laughs. A short, sharp bark of disbelief. “You serious right now?”

Joel just stares.

“You’re talkin’ about her?” Tommy adds. “The girl who’s been crawlin’ all over your lap for weeks? That one?”

Joel gives a slow nod.

Tommy shakes his head, smirking. “What, you wanna fight me or somethin’? ’Cause I looked?”

“No,” Joel says. Then, after a pause:

“Wanna offer her to you.”

The smile dies right there.

Tommy straightens. “Jesus Christ.”

Joel leans against the fence, arms crossed, voice low and even.

“She’s not mine. Not really. We fuck. We talk. She drinks my whiskey and runs that smart mouth of hers till I shut her up. But we keep it casual. She doesn't belong to me.”

Tommy just stares at him like he’s gone insane.

Joel shrugs. “I see how she looks at you. The same way she looked at me before she got in my bed. You ever notice how quiet she gets when you walk into a room? Or how she licks her lip when you talk?”

Tommy doesn’t answer, but his jaw tics.

Joel sees it.

“Thought I was imaginin’ it,” Joel says. “But last night? When she sat on my lap and you were sittin’ across from us? She didn’t even try to hide it.”

“She’s half your age,” Tommy mutters, shaking his head, still like he doesn’t quite believe this is happening.

Joel’s voice drops, quiet and rough. “And yours too. That stop either of us?”

Tommy goes silent.

Joel watches him.

“It don’t have to be a thing. You want her—I’m givin’ you the green light. She wants it too. She’s probably just waitin’ for one of us to say it out loud.”

Tommy laughs again, but it’s different this time. Lower. Nervous.

“You really okay with just… watchin’?”

Joel raises an eyebrow. “Who said I’d be just watchin’?”

That gets a look.

But Tommy doesn’t argue.

He looks away instead, out toward the mountains. Wipes a hand across the back of his neck. He’s quiet for a while. Too long. And Joel lets him sit with it.

Then, finally, Tommy sighs.

“Fuck,” he mutters.

Joel waits.

“I mean… yeah,” Tommy says. “I’ve looked. I’ve thought about it. Lot more than I should’ve.”

Joel nods once, like he knew it already.

Tommy exhales, shaking his head. “You’re a goddamn lunatic.”

Joel just smirks.

“Yeah,” he says. “But I’m not wrong.”

Joel’s place smells like cinnamon and sin.

He walks in first, boots heavy on wood, holding the door just long enough for Tommy to follow. You don’t look up right away — you’re elbow-deep in something sweet, hands dusted in flour, sleeves pushed up past your elbows, a pie crust laid out on the counter in front of you like an offering.

You hum to yourself, casual, barefoot, hips swaying just a little in the quiet rhythm of your own routine.

“I brought company,” Joel says from the doorway, voice unreadable.

You glance back, eyes flicking over your shoulder, playful smile already curling.

“Hope it’s someone I’d actually let eat my pie,” you say, sweet as honey and sharp as the knife on the cutting board.

Tommy snorts behind him. “If that’s the welcome, I might take my chances.”

You finally turn, arms folded, leaning your hip against the counter. The apron tied around your waist does nothing to hide the curve of you — the softness, the bare legs, the casual confidence. You’re comfortable here. Powerful in it.

And you know exactly what you’re doing.

“Well, well,” you purr, eyes dragging over him, slow and deliberate. “Didn’t know we were graced with royalty tonight. To what do I owe the honor, Miller junior?”

Tommy raises an eyebrow. “Joel’s idea.”

You shoot Joel a look, mock suspicion. “That so?”

Joel shrugs, already settling into his chair at the table like he didn’t just bring a loaded weapon into his kitchen.

“Said you were bakin’,” he says. “Figured Tommy might wanna see you with somethin’ sweet in your hands for once, instead of my cock.”

Tommy nearly chokes. You laugh.

“Oh my god, Joel,” you say, eyes wide, fighting the grin.

But you don’t deny it.

You look at Tommy again — this time slower, letting the silence stretch. He’s shifting his weight, trying not to stare too obviously. Failing. His eyes flick down, then up again too fast, trying not to look at your thighs, or the smear of flour on your chest.

“You bake, Tommy?” you ask, teasing. “Or you just good at eatin’ things other people make?”

He smirks, leaning against the frame. “I get by.”

“I bet you do.” You tilt your head. “You watch long enough, I’ll let you lick the spoon.”

Joel chuckles low in his throat, shaking his head, but doesn’t interfere.

Tommy lifts both hands like surrender. “You’re trouble.”

You turn back toward the pie, smoothing the crust into the dish, voice over your shoulder: “Only if you don’t know what to do with me.”

Behind you, Joel meets Tommy’s eyes — silent, subtle — and gives a single nod.

Tommy exhales slow, tongue running along the inside of his cheek.

“Pie smells good,” he says, eyes still fixed on you.

You smirk without turning.

“Better when it’s hot.”

You don’t look at either of them as you fold the last edge of crust into place, fingers moving with practiced ease. The room’s gone quieter, heavier, like the air itself knows something’s different. Joel’s sitting at the table with one leg stretched out, a glass of whiskey in hand. He hasn’t said a word in minutes — just watching. Steady. Measured. Like this is all part of some slow game he already knows the ending to.

Tommy lingers at the counter, just behind you now, arms crossed. Close enough to smell the cinnamon, and under it — your skin.

“Didn’t know you could cook,” he says after a beat.

You shrug, wiping your hands on a dish towel. “I like working with my hands. Keeps me out of trouble.”

“Pretty sure you are the trouble,” he mutters.

You glance back, smirking. “Then I guess I’ve been working overtime.”

Tommy chuckles, but it’s tight. A little shaky around the edges. He runs a hand through his hair and glances toward Joel, like he needs a read on the room — needs to know how far he can go without crossing something he can’t walk back.

Joel just lifts his glass.

“Don’t look at me,” he says. “You’re the one standin’ there, starin’ at her like you’re tryin’ to solve a goddamn puzzle.”

You laugh quietly, leaning back against the counter. The pie dish sits beside you, raw and waiting.

“Well?” you ask Tommy, eyes catching his again. “What’s so complicated, huh?”

He opens his mouth, closes it again. Scratches at his jaw.

“I dunno,” he says finally. “Feels like you’re messin’ with me.”

“Oh, baby.” You push off the counter and step toward him, slow and deliberate, bare feet silent against the floorboards. “I am messin’ with you. Doesn’t mean I’m not serious.”

He stands still as you pass him, brush by his arm — the heat of you so close, so casual. You walk to the sink, rinse your hands in cold water, stretch your arms high over your head when you’re done, knowing exactly how your shirt rides up, how Tommy’s eyes follow the motion even though he tries not to.

Joel watches it all with that quiet, unreadable look.

You turn, leaning one hip against the sink, towel still in hand.

“I see the way you look at me, Tommy. It’s cute. Like you’re tryin’ real hard to pretend you’re not imagining what I sound like moaning your name.”

Tommy swallows hard.

You smile, wicked and slow.

Joel’s voice comes in, low from the table. “She’s good at that part, too. That sound.”

Tommy shoots him a look, but Joel just sips his whiskey, calm as ever.

You walk back toward the counter, sliding the pie into the oven without breaking eye contact. Then you close it with a soft clink, straighten, and say:

“You gonna help set the table or just keep standin’ there tryin’ not to pop wood in your brother’s kitchen?”

Tommy chokes on air.

Joel laughs — deep, rough, genuine.

But you don’t wait. You’re already moving to the cabinets, humming some old song under your breath like this is just another Sunday evening. Plates clink. Silverware glints.

And behind you, Tommy finally takes a slow step forward.

Right into the deep end.

The pie cools just long enough for the scent to fill every corner of the room — cinnamon, brown sugar, heat.

You slice it carefully, the crust flaking under your knife just right, steam curling into the air as you plate each piece. Joel gets his first — always does — and you set his down in front of him like a ritual. Tommy’s next, though, and this time you place his on the table with a knowing little smile.

Then you move past both chairs.

You don’t sit in yours.

You sit in his.

Right in Tommy’s lap.

He freezes under you, fork halfway to his mouth. You wiggle just a little, getting comfortable, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Hope you don’t mind,” you murmur, your voice honey-thick and innocent.

Tommy swallows hard, one hand hovering mid-air like he doesn’t know where the hell to put it.

“You… uh,” he starts, eyes darting briefly toward Joel, who hasn’t moved. “You’re real casual, ain’t you?”

“Mm,” you hum, cutting into your own slice with his fork, then turning slightly in his lap to look at him. You feed yourself slowly, tongue catching the edge of the bite before pulling it in, licking a smear of filling from your lip.

Tommy just stares.

“Y’know,” he mutters, “you’re dangerous.”

“I’ve been told.”

Joel leans back in his chair, pie untouched for now, watching you two. Quiet. Patient. There’s a glint in his eye — not jealousy, not quite approval either. Something possessive in its own right. He’s enjoying this, you realize. Watching Tommy squirm. Watching you work.

Tommy’s hands finally find a place — one at your waist, the other resting gently on your bare thigh, unsure if it’s allowed to go further. You don’t flinch. Don’t pull away.

You just lean back against him and take another bite.

“Don’t let me make you nervous, Tommy,” you say without turning. “You’ve seen what this mouth can do.”

He huffs a laugh under his breath, but it’s strained.

“I haven’t,” he says, low.

You look over your shoulder. “Not yet.”

Joel’s voice cuts in then, calm and smooth:

“She likes bein’ watched.”

That pulls Tommy’s eyes back to him, startled for a moment — but Joel’s calm. Still. Like none of this rattles him.

Like he wants this.

“She likes pushin’ buttons. Likes takin’ control.”

You shift in Tommy’s lap again, slow, pressing back ever so slightly.

“Only if the man’s worth it.”

“You think he is?” Joel asks, voice even, measured.

You smile.

“I think he’s about to find out.”

The plates are empty.

Crumbs scattered, forks abandoned. The only sounds left are the creak of old chairs, the low tick of cooling metal from the oven, and the steady beat of breath — yours, his, Joel’s. The quiet isn’t comfortable anymore. It’s thick. Heavy with what’s next.

You’re still on Tommy’s lap.

His hands have found their place now — one splayed wide on your thigh, the other curled around your waist like he forgot it wasn’t supposed to be there. He’s warmer beneath you than he was earlier. A little tense. A little still.

And very aware of where you’re sitting.

You let the silence stretch.

Then you shift again — slow, subtle, but enough to drag your ass right over the growing bulge in his jeans.

Tommy inhales sharply.

Joel watches from across the table, his eyes dark, steady.

You glance up at him briefly, then back at Tommy, tilting your head like you’re thinking real hard.

“You always this quiet?” you ask, your voice syrupy, sweetened with a mocking lilt. “Or is that just ‘cause I’m sittin’ on something important?”

Tommy’s jaw ticks.

“You keep grindin’ like that,” he mutters, “and I’m not gonna stay quiet.”

“Oh?” You grin, resting your elbow on the table, your body still square in his lap. “Big talk for a man who hasn’t even tried to touch me proper.”

“You’re in my lap.”

“And fully clothed. Which, frankly, is a little rude.”

Tommy shifts under you again, hands tightening on your waist.

Joel, still lounging in his chair, finally speaks.

“You don’t have to hold back, y’know.”

Tommy’s eyes flick to his brother. “You sure about that?”

Joel lifts his glass, tilts it lazily.

“I wouldn’t’ve brought you here if I wasn’t.”

The implication hangs there, heavy and clear.

You twist around just enough to look Tommy in the eye, your legs straddling him now, knees on either side of his thighs. You’re close enough to feel the heat of his breath, to hear how shallow it’s gotten.

“You ever think about it?” you whisper. “Me. Spread out. Moaning your name. Begging for it.”

His eyes flick down to your mouth, then back up.

“Yeah,” he says, low. “I’ve thought about it.”

“Good,” you murmur. Your hand slides up his chest, nails dragging lightly over the buttons of his shirt. “Because I’m done with pie. And I’m fuckin’ starving.”

Joel lets out a low breath — something close to a chuckle.

And Tommy?

Tommy finally moves.

You don’t wait for him to move again.

You lean in first — one hand still curled lightly around the collar of Tommy’s shirt, the other resting against his jaw, fingertips tracing the rough edge of his stubble. His breath hitches when you get that close. He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe.

You tilt your head, just enough.

And kiss him.

Soft at first.

Just your mouth against his — light pressure, a test, a tease. He doesn’t move right away, but you feel the way his whole body responds under you, muscles tightening, breath catching.

Then he kisses you back.

Harder.

Hotter.

You pull away just enough to murmur, “Get up.”

Tommy blinks. “What?”

You slide off his lap, hand still in his shirt. “Get up.”

He does, and you move immediately, climbing up onto the edge of Joel’s kitchen table like you’ve done it a hundred times — like you were meant to be there. You sit at the edge, legs spreading slowly, heels hooking around the edge of the chair he just vacated.

You look down at him, still standing between your legs.

You smile, dark and soft. “C’mon, Miller.”

He steps in, hands going to your hips — tentative at first, then firmer when you don’t flinch. You pull him in again, fingers tugging at his collar as you press your mouth back to his, this time deeper, slower, lips parting just enough to let him feel the heat behind your teeth.

You kiss like you’ve been waiting for this.

Like you’ve already pictured exactly how he tastes.

And now?

You’re proving yourself right.

His hands slide down to your thighs, thumbs dragging along your bare skin as your tongue flicks against his. His breath comes faster, and the kiss turns rougher — no hesitation now, just heat. Hunger. His hips press forward without meaning to.

Behind him, Joel hasn’t moved.

You break the kiss long enough to glance past Tommy’s shoulder. Joel’s still seated, still drinking you both in with that quiet, coiled energy. His elbow on the table, fingers wrapped around a glass of whiskey he hasn’t touched in a while.

You lock eyes with him over Tommy’s shoulder.

Your lips still wet from his brother’s kiss.

And you smirk.

Then you whisper, low into Tommy’s ear:

“Tell me what you want.”

You don’t have to ask again.

The second your breath brushes Tommy’s ear, something breaks loose in him.

His hands slide up your thighs — rougher this time, fingers digging in as they rise. There’s no hesitation now, no caution. He’s locked in, focused, hungry. And you feel it in every inch of his touch.

He kisses you again — deeper, messier this time, mouth open against yours. His tongue pushes past your lips, meeting yours in a slick, heated grind that sends a slow pulse straight between your legs. You shift forward on the table, pulling him closer, the pressure between you sparking against the friction of your bodies.

His hands slip under the edge of your skirt.

You gasp into his mouth as his thumbs hook the waistband and drag them down just far enough to bare the curve of your hips, his fingers brushing heat and skin and nothing but you.

“You’re soaked,” he mutters against your lips, voice thick.

“Yeah?” you breathe, pulling back just enough to look him in the eyes. “Guess I do like bein’ watched.”

You glance at Joel again — still in the same chair, jaw set, eyes locked on the two of you, a muscle twitching in his cheek. He hasn’t said a word. His hand rests loosely on his thigh now, the other curled around his untouched glass.

He doesn’t interrupt.

Doesn’t look away.

Tommy’s fingers slip lower.

They find you.

And they don’t hesitate.

Your breath catches hard as he slides two fingers between your folds, slow and deliberate, dragging through the slick heat. His thumb brushes over your clit just once — featherlight — and your legs twitch around his hips, heels digging into the edge of the table.

You moan softly, back arching.

He watches your face like he’s trying to memorize it.

“You feel like fuckin’ heaven,” he mutters, voice raw.

You laugh — breathless, dark. “Better than pie, huh?”

Tommy groans, sliding his fingers deeper, your slick welcoming him with ease. The stretch is perfect, just enough to make your thighs tighten around him. Your hips roll into his touch without thinking.

Behind him, Joel shifts.

The sound is small — wood creaking under his weight — but it cuts through everything. You look at him again, lip caught between your teeth, his eyes burning into yours.

You can tell.

He’s hard in his jeans.

And he’s not touching himself.

Yet.

“You gonna keep watchin’?” you ask him, voice low, laced with heat and dare.

Joel leans forward just slightly in his chair.

“For now.”

Tommy presses deeper.

And you cry out — loud this time, no shame, no restraint — your body rocking into his hand as your head falls back.

The table creaks beneath you.

And Joel just keeps watching.

Tommy’s fingers leave you only long enough to push your dress up — slow at first, like he’s trying to savor the reveal. The hem catches on your ribs, and you lift your arms without a word, letting him pull it over your head.

It drops to the floor with a soft whisper.

You’re bare underneath.

No bra.

Tommy swears under his breath — not loud, just enough that you feel the heat of it where he’s staring. His eyes drag over your chest, lingering on the swell of your breasts, the way your nipples tighten under the chill of the room — or maybe under his gaze.

His hands slide up your sides, calloused and warm, thumbs brushing under the curve of your breasts. Then, without warning, he dips his head.

His mouth wraps around your nipple — hot and sudden — and your whole body jolts.

Your hands fly to his hair, fingers curling into it as he sucks deep, tongue swirling slow, drawing tight circles around the sensitive bud. He groans into your skin, the sound low and reverent, like he’s been waiting to do this — like he’s dreamed it.

Your head tips back with a sharp gasp.

“F-fuck, Tommy…”

He moves to the other, dragging his mouth across the center of your chest, stubble scraping sensitive skin. His tongue is hotter than his hands, mouth open, wet, taking you in like it’s the first real taste he’s had all day.

Your thighs flex around his hips, heels locking against the backs of his legs. You grind instinctively against the denim of his jeans, slick and aching, every nerve lit up from the way he’s devouring you inch by inch.

Behind him, Joel hasn’t moved.

But you feel him.

Your eyes flutter open long enough to look over Tommy’s shoulder.

Joel’s leaned forward now, elbows on his knees, his face unreadable — but his eyes are fire. Fixed on your breasts, on Tommy’s mouth working you. You watch his throat bob as he swallows hard.

You smile through your moan.

“Y’mind if I let him keep going?” you breathe, voice teasing, drunk with pleasure.

Joel’s voice is gravel, low and tight:

“Didn’t tell him to stop.”

Tommy’s hands slide around your back, pulling you tighter to the edge of the table as his mouth keeps working you — slower now, wetter, tongue flicking teasing circles while his fingers knead your waist, possessive and sure.

He lifts his head only for a second — lips swollen, jaw tight — and says, voice rough:

“You taste like fuckin’ sugar.”

Your laugh turns into a gasp as his mouth drops again, tongue lapping hungrily against your nipple before he takes it back between his lips, harder this time.

You cry out — back arching, head thrown back.

And Joel?

Still hasn’t touched himself.

But his knuckles are white around that glass.

Tommy pulls back, breath hot against your chest, lips glossy from where he’s been working your skin. His hands are still on your waist, holding you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go.

You’re flushed, gasping, but the smile playing on your lips is wicked. Too smug.

You glance over Tommy’s shoulder again.

Joel still hasn’t moved — but his glass is half-empty now, the other hand resting on his thigh, his thumb tapping slow against denim.

He’s watching your mouth when you say it.

“You sure you’re okay just sittin’ there, Joel?” you purr, breath still catching between words. “You look like you’re gonna break that glass or start humpin’ your chair.”

Tommy huffs a laugh against your collarbone — but Joel doesn’t smile.

He lifts his eyes to yours, slow.

Dead calm.

“You’re real mouthy tonight,” he says, voice low and dry. “Feelin’ bold ‘cause you got someone else’s tongue on your tits?”

You grin wide, dragging a thumb across your nipple, still wet from Tommy’s mouth. “Might just invite the whole town next time. Start a little bake sale.”

Tommy snorts again, but quieter this time. Joel’s face hasn’t changed.

Just his posture.

He sets the glass down.

Stands.

His boots are loud on the floor as he walks over — slow, measured. You tilt your head up as he approaches, all smirk and challenge, legs still spread where Tommy left you on the edge of the table.

Joel stops right in front of you.

“You done?” he asks.

Your smile doesn’t fade. “You jealous?”

His eyes narrow.

Then his voice drops, dark and final:

“Bedroom. Now.”

You blink.

Then grin even wider. “Oh? Daddy’s done watching?”

He leans in — not quite touching you, just close enough that you feel the heat roll off his chest.

“No. Daddy’s tired of his brat running her mouth like she owns the room.”

That one hits.

You swallow.

And for a second, neither of them moves — just the sound of your breath, the silence between their bodies, and Joel’s voice hanging in the air like a struck match.

Tommy clears his throat softly behind you, like even he felt that hit a nerve.

You hop off the table slowly, feet hitting the floor with a soft thud.

Still smiling.

But your legs tremble just a little as you walk past Joel, hips swaying on purpose, your voice over your shoulder like a dare:

“Coming, boys?”

You reach the bedroom first — the door creaking open with a soft groan — and step in like you’re still in charge, like this is your space. But the second Joel fills the doorway behind you, arms crossed, blocking out the light from the hall with that dark look in his eyes, everything tilts.

He doesn’t step in fully.

Just stands there.

Commanding the room without needing to raise his voice.

“On the bed,” he says. “Hands and knees.”

You hesitate, just for a beat.

And that’s all it takes.

Joel’s brow lifts. “Don’t make me ask twice.”

Your mouth goes dry. You climb onto the mattress — slow, deliberate, still trying to hold some kind of power — and crawl forward. You settle on your hands and knees, back arched, hair falling into your face. Your skin’s flushed, still tingling from Tommy’s mouth, and the cool air brushes over where your shorts were peeled off.

Behind you, Joel’s voice stays low, easy.

“Start with your mouth, Tommy.”

Tommy lingers just inside the room, but Joel doesn’t look at him — just keeps his eyes on you.

“She likes that,” he says. “Being on all fours. Somethin’ about it makes her feral.”

You let out a shaky breath, fingers flexing against the sheets.

Joel steps just inside now, but still doesn’t come close — leaning against the wall, arms crossed, voice steady as ever.

“Go on,” he says. “Get on your knees behind her.”

You hear the soft rustle of Tommy moving — the sound of his jeans shifting, dropping, the faint thump as he kneels onto the mattress behind you. Then warmth — his hands sliding up the backs of your thighs, fingertips tracing the curve of your ass.

“She’s soaked,” he mutters again, almost like it’s for himself.

Joel chuckles, quiet and dark.

“Of course she is. Been starvin’ for it all night, runnin’ that mouth like she doesn’t want to beg. Show her how quiet she gets when she’s got your tongue on her.”

And Tommy does.

He grips your hips gently at first, then firmer, spreading you open beneath him — and then his mouth is on you.

You gasp — high and sharp, your head dropping between your arms. His tongue moves slow at first, licking a broad stripe through your folds, warm and wet and teasing. Then he finds your clit — flicking, circling, sucking just the way your body needs — and your legs tremble instantly.

Joel watches it all.

Eyes locked on the way your back arches, the way your thighs shake when Tommy’s mouth gets deeper, wetter, messier.

“Good,” Joel says softly. “She’s real sensitive. You’ll know when you hit the right spot — she’ll start whining like a fuckin’ toy.”

Tommy groans into you, and the sound sends heat lancing up your spine.

Your moans start to come faster, more broken, hips rocking against Tommy’s face without shame. One of your hands clutches at the sheets, the other fisting uselessly in the air.

“F-fuck, Joel…”

He hums, slow and calm, still leaned against the wall like he’s got all night.

“See?” he murmurs. “She’s still cryin’ for me.”

Tommy’s mouth doesn’t stop moving.

He’s deeper now, tongue sliding lower, licking into you like he wants to drown in it. His grip tightens on your hips, pulling you closer, holding you wide open for him, tongue flicking firm and fast against your clit. Each pass sends another jolt through your spine, your thighs trembling, the bed creaking under your knees.

Your breath breaks into moans — ragged, helpless, strung out in Joel’s name whether you mean to or not.

And Joel, still leaning by the door, just smiles.

“That’s right, baby,” he says, voice low and steady like it’s just for you. “Let him taste all that mess you made. You love this, don’t you? Gettin’ tongue-drunk while I stand here and watch you fall apart.”

You whimper, burying your face in the sheets, fingers curling into the blanket. You try to speak — to answer — but all that comes out is a gasped, desperate noise.

Joel steps forward a little, just enough for the light to catch the sharp line of his jaw.

“Use your words,” he says, slow and thick with command. “C’mon, girl. You got so much to say when you’re runnin’ your mouth. Now tell me what you want.”

Tommy groans into you again, his tongue circling your clit with maddening precision — and your hips stutter, your thighs twitching around his head as another cry escapes you.

“F-fuck, Joel—please—”

Joel’s smile sharpens.

“There she is,” he murmurs. “That’s my girl. You beg real pretty with your pussy stuffed full of tongue.”

Your moan splits into something higher — a whine now, helpless and wet.

Tommy’s mouth doesn’t falter. He flattens his tongue and drags it slow, firm, sucking you just right — and Joel watches the whole thing, eyes glued to the way your back arches, the way your legs shake.

“You gonna come just from that?” Joel teases, voice darker now. “Just from a mouth on you? On all fours like a bitch in heat? Yeah… you will. I can tell.”

“Joel,” you cry again, breath breaking.

Tommy tightens his grip on your ass, pulling you closer, pressing his face in deeper — hungry, worshipful, lost in you.

And Joel keeps talking.

“She’s close,” he says, like he’s proud. “Get your fingers in her, Tommy. Nice and slow — let her feel it. She needs that stretch. Needs to be filled while she falls apart.”

Tommy groans again — this time muffled by your body — and then his fingers are sliding into you, two at once, thick and slick, curling deep while his tongue keeps lapping at your clit. The stretch is perfect, the pace brutal.

You cry out, the sound cracking in your throat.

Your knees nearly give out.

Joel’s voice dips lower, rougher.

“Go on, baby. Let it break you. I want you screamin’ while his mouth’s on you and my name’s still the only thing you can say.”

You’re right there.

So close your thighs are shaking, breath caught in your throat, the sheets twisted in your fists. Tommy’s tongue is relentless, his fingers stroking you just right, deep and curling — everything perfectly timed, perfectly built to take you over the edge.

Joel watches, still near the doorway, arms crossed and mouth set in something close to satisfaction.

But then — suddenly — Tommy stops.

Everything.

His mouth pulls back. Fingers slide out, slick and slow.

You gasp, body jolting forward like someone yanked your soul out of it.

“W-what—?”

Your voice breaks on the word.

You glance over your shoulder, dazed, wrecked — eyes wide, lips parted, thighs soaked and twitching. You look like something ruined. Like a fire halfway extinguished and still burning underneath.

Tommy wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, chest rising and falling hard.

Then his voice comes — low, new, edged with something else now.

Something earned.

“On your knees.”

You blink. “What?”

He sits back, legs spread, cock straining thick and red between them — eyes dark and locked on you.

“I said kneel. Right here,” he says, tapping the space in front of him. “You wanna come? You earn it.”

Joel lets out a quiet sound — not quite a laugh, not quite a breath — more like approval. He leans back against the wall again, letting it unfold.

“She’s good at it,” Joel murmurs. “Once she shuts up and listens.”

You hesitate for only a second — not because you don’t want it, but because you do, too much.

You slide off the bed, knees hitting the floorboards with a soft thud. Your hands come to Tommy’s thighs automatically, steadying yourself between them. His cock’s heavy, flushed, glistening at the tip, and your mouth waters instantly.

You glance up at him — wide-eyed, breathless — and lick your lips slowly, still trembling from the orgasm they ripped away.

“Still hungry?” he asks.

You nod.

“Then open your fuckin’ mouth.”

And behind you, Joel’s voice comes again — rougher this time, deeper.

“Make it good, baby. You want that release? You better earn it with your throat.”

You open your mouth without a word.

Eyes wide, lips parted, tongue wet and waiting — hungry, desperate, obedient. You press your hands harder into Tommy’s thighs, steadying yourself, and lean forward until your lips brush against the flushed head of his cock.

He groans immediately.

Low and guttural, like the sound’s been building in him all night.

Your tongue slides out first — a slow, deliberate lick over the tip, tasting the bead of precum already there. Then another. Then you flatten your tongue and drag it down the length of him, slow and wet, watching his head tip back with a hiss through his teeth.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “She’s—Jesus—she’s perfect like this.”

Joel hums from across the room. “Told you.”

Your mouth wraps around the tip, and you take him in slow — inch by inch, steady, letting him feel every wet pull of your lips, every flick of your tongue under the shaft. Your throat opens bit by bit, eyes never leaving his, and Tommy’s hand slides into your hair automatically, not to control — not yet — just to feel.

Joel’s voice cuts in — calm, sharp.

“Don’t let her go too fast.”

Tommy looks toward him, dazed. “What?”

“She’ll try to get you there quick. Girl knows what she’s doing. Don’t let her. She doesn’t get to end this yet.”

Your lips curl around Tommy’s cock at that — around the moan building low in your throat.

Of course Joel would know your tricks.

Tommy grunts, hand tightening in your hair just a little, guiding your pace now.

You bob your head slow, mouth slick and hot, tongue swirling around the tip each time you pull back. You suck him deep, letting spit drip from your chin, eyes fluttering shut for a second as your throat stretches to take him farther.

“You see that?” Joel murmurs, voice thick. “Look at the way her jaw opens for you. Look how needy she is with her mouth. She’ll suck the soul outta you if you let her.”

Tommy groans, hips twitching forward involuntarily — and you let him, choking just slightly, loving the weight of him, the control you don’t have.

But Joel speaks again — firmer now.

“Pull out.”

Tommy grits his teeth. “What?”

“Pull out,” Joel repeats. “She doesn’t get to finish that. Not yet.”

Tommy looks down at you, torn.

You look wrecked — spit smeared on your lips, your chest rising fast, eyes wild and glassy, your tongue flicking out to chase every inch he takes away.

But he obeys.

He pulls back with a gasp, and your mouth falls open, a whimper escaping you as your hands tighten on his thighs.

“No—Joel—” you start, voice trembling.

Joel steps closer now, finally off the wall.

“Don’t whine,” he says. “You knew what this was.”

You sit there on your knees, ruined, mouth open, jaw sore, cunt throbbing — and still completely untouched where it counts.

Joel looks you over, eyes slow, deliberate.

Then he nods to Tommy.

“Sit her on the edge of the bed. Let her feel it without havin’ it. We’re not done teachin’ her patience yet.”

Your back hits the bed as Tommy hauls you up — strong hands under your thighs, spreading them wide, holding you open like you’re something to be used. He’s panting now, voice dark and wild in your ear.

“You’ve been teasing me with this pussy all fuckin’ night,” he growls. “Every time you looked at me, I thought about splittin’ you open. Now look at you — spread and soaked for it. Fuckin’ brat.”

He lines up — thick and heavy, already glistening from your mouth — and presses the head of his cock against your entrance.

You whimper, still oversensitive, still aching from the denial.

And then he pushes in.

Not slow. Not gentle.

A single, hungry thrust — deep, firm, greedy — and you cry out, hands flying to the sheets, your head snapping back with the shock of it.

“God—Tommy—”

“Oh, that’s right,” he mutters, hips grinding as he bottoms out, buried deep. “She’s tight, Joel. Real tight. Like her pussy doesn’t know who it wants to come for.”

Joel’s there before you can answer — right beside you now, his belt already loose, jeans undone. His cock’s out, heavy and flushed, and his hand finds your jaw like it belongs there.

“Open up.”

You do — lips parting, tongue already slick, already aching for something to fill it.

He slides in without hesitation, thick and slow, stretching your mouth just like Tommy’s stretching your cunt. The noise you make is guttural, strangled — your throat filled as your pussy clenches around Tommy’s cock.

Joel groans low. “Fuck yes.”

“Look at her,” Tommy snarls from between your legs, hips snapping forward now, fucking you in rough, steady thrusts. “All that attitude, now she’s just a hole on both ends. She begged for this.”

Joel holds your head in place, thumb stroking your cheek as he slides deeper into your throat, slow and controlled.

“She’ll keep beggin’, too,” Joel murmurs. “It’s what she’s best at.”

Tommy grunts, each thrust sharper now, driving into you with the full weight of his hips, skin slapping against skin. “Tight fuckin’ cunt, squeezin’ me like she wants to come — you feel that? She’s already there. We could ruin her right now.”

Joel pulls back slightly from your throat, letting you breathe just enough before pushing in again.

“We could,” he agrees. “But we won’t.”

Tommy groans.

You’re shaking under both of them — mouth and cunt full, no room for thoughts, just sensation and heat and pressure. Your hands claw at the sheets, at anything, but all you feel is the rhythm of Tommy’s thrusts and Joel’s cock pushing into your throat.

“Goddamn,” Tommy growls. “This pussy’s beggin’. She’s fuckin’ choking on you and she’s still clenching on me like she wants me to fill her up.”

Joel chuckles darkly, pulling back to the tip.

“Not yet.”

Tommy grits his teeth, thrusting deep once more, staying inside you.

“She don’t get it until she earns it.”

Tommy’s pace is brutal now.

His hands are wrapped around your hips, dragging you into every thrust, cock punching deep, relentless, hitting the spot that’s made your legs twitch and your voice crack for the last goddamn hour. He’s grunting with each slam of his hips, sweat slick between your bodies, his head low, eyes locked on the way you take him.

“Fuckin’ look at her,” he growls, jaw tight. “She’s clenching like she’s tryin’ to make me come just by beggin’ for it.”

Above you, Joel’s grip tightens on your jaw, guiding his cock deeper into your mouth, then letting you pull off with a wet gasp. He fists your hair in one hand, the other gripping yours — tight, grounding — fingers laced between yours on the bed.

His voice drops low, growled against your temple.

“Say it.”

You try, but your voice breaks into a moan — overwhelmed, ruined.

“Please,” you whimper, your throat raw, lips swollen. “I-I need to—God—please, let me—”

“Say who you’re beggin’,” Joel murmurs, thumb brushing over your spit-slick lips. “You want to come? You ask us.”

Tommy slams into you harder — so deep it knocks the air out of you.

“Beg for it, sugar. Or you’re not gettin’ shit.”

Your hand tightens around Joel’s.

“Please,” you sob, thighs shaking, cunt pulsing around Tommy’s cock with every thrust. “Joel. Tommy. Please, let me come. I need it—I can’t—I’ll be so good—just please.”

Joel groans — low, wrecked — as he fists his cock and presses it against your lips again, letting you lick and suck at the tip, sloppy and desperate.

Tommy’s rhythm stutters.

“She’s fuckin’ there,” he gasps. “I can feel her—she’s gonna come the second I do—”

Joel leans down, lips right at your ear, voice shaking:

“Now.”

Tommy slams in deep — one, two more thrusts — and with a strangled groan, he comes, buried to the hilt, pulsing thick inside you. His head drops to your shoulder, breath ragged.

Joel’s hand tightens around yours, and you open wide for him one last time, sucking him in deep, just as his cock throbs on your tongue. He groans hard through his teeth, spilling into your mouth, and you take all of it — choking, gasping, swallowing him down as your body finally, finally breaks.

Your orgasm crashes over you like a fucking storm.

Your legs lock around Tommy’s hips, your fingers nearly crush Joel’s, and you scream into Joel’s palm — throat raw, body shaking, cunt squeezing around Tommy’s cock like it’s trying to keep him there.

Everything pulses.

Everything floods.

Tommy breathes your name against your skin, hips still twitching.

Joel pulls his cock from your mouth slow, slick, spent, leaning down to press his forehead against yours.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, brushing sweat-soaked hair from your cheek. “That’s my girl.”

And you just lie there — wrecked, full, held between them.

Finally emptied.

Finally claimed.

Your body’s still shaking.

The climax hasn’t let you go yet — your thighs twitch with aftershocks, your chest rising too fast, lips swollen from sucking Joel down until your jaw ached. You’re stretched full, pulsing around Tommy’s softening cock, every nerve still lit up.

You barely register it when Joel brushes the hair from your face. When Tommy presses a soft, grounding kiss to your shoulder. All you know is warmth — inside and out — and the weight of hands that no longer hold you down, but keep you together.

Joel’s the first to speak.

Voice low, rough-edged from release, but gentled now.

“You did so fuckin’ good for us.”

He’s sitting at the edge of the bed, still close enough to touch. His thumb strokes over your knuckles, hand still laced with yours. “Took everything we gave you. Held it like you were made for it.”

You shudder softly, the words going straight to the sore center of you.

Tommy’s still inside you — slowly softening, but not in a rush to pull out. His hands rub up and down your waist, calming, coaxing your breath back to normal.

“You were somethin’ else,” he murmurs, lips near your ear. “Been thinkin’ about that mouth for weeks. But this—?” He kisses the side of your throat. “You just gave it. All of it.”

You let out a quiet breath, your voice hoarse. “Thought you were gonna make me pass out.”

Joel chuckles — warm, real.

“Almost did,” he says. “You should’ve seen your fuckin’ face.”

“She looked gone,” Tommy adds, still stroking you. “Goddamn beautiful. Messy, ruined, full of both of us, and still beggin’ like it wasn’t enough.”

You manage a smile, eyes fluttering closed, cheek pressed to the pillow. “Still might be.”

Joel hums low in his throat, thumb brushing your bottom lip.

“Careful,” he murmurs. “Say shit like that, you’ll get round two without a nap.”

Tommy finally slides out, slow and careful, and you whimper at the loss. He presses another kiss between your shoulder blades.

“Let’s clean her up.”

Joel’s already grabbing the towel from the nightstand — planned, prepared, always thinking ahead. He’s gentle when he wipes you down, cupping your hip with one hand to steady you, cleaning between your thighs like he’s done it before.

Tommy watches, then leans down to whisper:

“Hey.”

You look up.

He’s grinning, soft now, worn out and happy.

“You’re the best fuck I never knew I needed.”

Joel shoots him a look, deadpan. “That supposed to be a compliment?”

Tommy laughs. “Shut up, man, she knows what I mean.”

You smile again — sore, satisfied, soaked in praise and attention.

Joel tosses the towel aside, then climbs into the bed behind you, pulling you into his chest with one strong arm. Tommy settles in on the other side, hand stroking lazy patterns across your thigh.

“You did real good, darlin’,” Joel murmurs again against your hair. “Bratty, loud, filthy. Just how I like you.”

Tommy nods, fingers tracing the curve of your hip.

“We’ll keep you like this,” he says. “All soft. All ours.”

And in the dark, held between them, full and warm and safe, you finally let yourself drift.

The bathwater Joel prepared is hot.

Almost too hot at first — enough to make you hiss as your legs lower into it, thighs trembling from soreness. But Joel’s behind you already, one hand on your waist, the other steady on your back.

“Easy,” he murmurs. “I got you.”

Tommy’s in front, sleeves rolled up, crouched at the edge of the tub, watching with that lazy smile of his. He hands Joel a cloth, already soaked through with warm water and lavender soap.

You sink into the tub slowly, your whole body protesting in the best way — muscles aching, cunt sore, jaw tender.

Wrecked. Used. Worshipped.

Joel starts to wash you.

Carefully.

He runs the cloth down your neck, over your shoulders, across your chest like you’re something breakable now. The same hands that held you still earlier now glide over you like you’re made of silk.

Tommy just watches for a minute. Quiet. Soft-eyed.

Then he speaks, voice low, slower than before.

“Never seen anyone like you.”

You glance at him, brows raised, lips barely curving.

He leans in closer. “You’re wild, y’know that? Got a fuckin’ mouth on you. Make a man wanna ruin you. And then you turn around and melt when we talk sweet.”

You blink, your throat too thick to answer.

anyway - very happy to be here!!! I grew up so immersed in fandoms (musical theatre, glee) on fanfiction & tumblr. I am now an adult, so I'm on A03 & back to tumblr.

feels like coming home <3

LIKES: theatre, pop music (Ariana, Taylor), rap (Kendrick, Megan, Doechii), & cute animals

FANDOM: Pedro Pascal, specifically the characters he plays.

Din Djarin

Joel Miller

Jack Daniels / Agent Whiskey

General Marcus Acacius

But I'd read anything honestly :)

I also love: Poolverine/Deadcalls, Ghoulcy, Gentlebeard

WORK(S*): Desire of Venus - tumblr link, AO3 link ; f!reader/Din Djarin, sex pollen, helmet stays on, rough sex, rough day reference (WOO), just nasty

*will be plural very soon hehe

I'm also on twitter @lightinglobster

okay byeee~