💭MDNI: Sleepy grinding/dry humping smut, clingy!Fred, playful and needy vibes
—
Morning at the Burrow never comes quietly, but today it’s muffled — distant clatter from the kitchen, someone laughing downstairs, the faint smell of toast drifting up through the crooked house.
Fred doesn’t move.
He’s wrapped around you like he fell asleep mid-cuddle and never bothered to let go, one arm heavy across your waist, face tucked into the crook of your neck. His hair is a mess against your cheek, warm breath ghosting over your skin.
You shift slightly, testing the stiffness in your shoulder.
His grip tightens instantly.
“M’not awake,” he mumbles, voice rough with sleep. “Go back to sleep.”
“You’re crushing me.”
“Worth it.”
You huff a quiet laugh, but you settle again, sinking back into the mattress. He makes a satisfied little sound, something soft and pleased, and noses closer like you’re the pillow he actually wanted all along.
There’s a pause.
Then you feel it — the slow, absentminded way his hips shift forward, pressing closer, like he’s chasing warmth without even realizing it. Not purposeful. Not calculated. Just sleepy instinct.
“Fred,” you whisper.
“Mmm?”
“You’re doing that thing again.”
He goes very still for half a second.
Then, instead of moving away, he drags you closer, leg hooking over yours to keep you pinned there, a lazy grin audible in his voice even with his face still buried in your neck.
“Not awake,” he repeats.
“You are absolutely awake.”
His nose brushes your jaw, lips ghosting the sensitive spot just beneath your ear. “Don’t sound very upset about it.”
You’re not. Not when his hands are wandering now, slow and warm, tracing the line of your waist under the blankets, pulling you flush against him like he can’t stand even an inch of space.
It’s unhurried. Uncoordinated. Soft in that way that only happens when neither of you has fully woken up yet.
Fred hums quietly, pressing a drowsy kiss to your shoulder.
“Missed you,” he murmurs, like he only just realized it.
You turn your head, catching his mouth in a sleepy kiss — slow, messy, all soft lips and warm breath. He smiles into it, hand sliding up your back to hold you there.
“Five more minutes,” he whispers against your lips.
He absolutely does not mean sleep.
Fred’s grin is pure mischief, even half-hidden in your neck.
“What?” he murmurs, feeling the look you're absolutely giving him, and his hips give another slow roll that makes your breath catch. “We’re just … cuddling.”
The lie is so lazy it almost counts as honesty.
You feel him—the unmistakable press of him, hot and insistent through thin sleep-shorts—rocking right against the damp heat of your core. Each lazy rut is unhurried, like he’s savoring every inch of friction, like he’s determined to stay in that hazy place between dream and waking where everything feels too good to stop.
Your fingers find his hair, carding through the soft red mess. “Fred.”
He answers with a drowsy hum, feigning innocence while his palm slides up, warm and sure, under your shirt. He cups your breast, thumb brushing over a sensitive peak, and the sleepy smirk against your throat widens when you gasp.
“Still not doing anything,” he mutters, mouth dragging along your pulse point. The words vibrate over your skin; the next roll of his hips is slower, deeper, dragging a low whine from your chest.
“Liar.”
“Mm-hmm.” He pinches lightly, lips curving when you arch into his hand. “Shouldn’t start name-calling this early, love. Bad manners.”
You try to shift—either away from the teasing or closer to the heat, you’re not sure—but the leg he’s hitched between yours holds you in place, forcing every subtle move to translate into more friction. His next thrust is a little harder, still measured, but need is bleeding through the syrupy pace.
“Fred—”
“Just helping us wake up.” Another lazy rut that makes your thighs tremble. “Feels nice, yeah?”
It does. Too nice. The room is still dim, quilts twisted around your bodies, and each grind lights sparks low in your belly. He cups you more firmly, thumb circling, hips finding an easy rhythm that turns the world into slow, warm pulses of want.
“You gonna let me?” he whispers, finally lifting his head—sleep-ruffled hair, half-lidded eyes, that crooked morning grin. “Let me start your day off right?”
You nod, already breathless.
“Good girl.” His praise is soft, reverent—and the next roll of his hips makes it impossible to keep quiet. Your hand fists in the back of his shirt; his answering groan is pure satisfaction.
He keeps it gentle but relentless: palm kneading your breast, mouth scattering open-mouthed kisses along your jaw, hips rocking until you’re melting against him, every sleepy thrust dragging you closer to the edge. Outside the room, the Burrow creaks awake, but in Fred’s bed the morning belongs only to the two of you—warm fists of sheet, tangled legs, and the steady, needy push of his body into yours like he never plans to let you leave.
Breakfast can wait.
His hand leaves your chest only long enough to tug your sleep–shorts aside—just enough for skin to meet slick heat. The sound he makes is half-groan, half-laugh, all morning-drunk greed.
“Merlin, you’re warm,” he murmurs, rocking forward again so bare, silky friction glides exactly where you both need it. Nothing rushed—just that steady, delicious slide that turns every breath into a shaky little gasp.
You clutch the back of his neck, nails grazing sleep-warm skin. “Fred…”
“I know.” He noses along your cheek, lips brushing your ear. “Feels good, yeah? Give me a minute.” A lazy thrust punctuates the promise, dragging a moan from both of you. “Maybe two.”
A shiver ripples through you when his fingers find your nipple again, rolling gently while his hips keep that slow, rolling push-pull. Each grind sends sparks spiraling low in your belly; each pass of his thumb steals a sharper sound from your throat. Fred laps it up, humming pleased approval, mouth curving against your skin.
“That’s it, sweetheart—there you go.” The praise is husky, slurred with sleep and need. “Knew you’d be this soft for me.”
Your hips answer on instinct, meeting the next rut. The heat coils tight, and Fred’s rhythm falters—just a stutter—before he catches it and groans, forehead pressing to yours.
“Gonna make me embarrass myself,” he breathes, grinning even as his eyes flutter shut. “Can’t be blamed, though… look at you.”
He shifts, hiking your leg higher over his thigh; the angle hits perfectly—pressure sharp, perfect, again, again. Your fingers dig into his shoulders, a soft cry spilled against his mouth. Fred’s breath hitches, the smirk wiped clean by raw need.
“Come for me,” he whispers, voice frayed. “C’mon, let me feel you.”
Two more rolls of his hips, thumb brushing that aching spot just right, and heat snaps—white, sweet, slow-building pleasure washing through you in waves. You clutch him tight as tremors ripple, breath catching on his name. Fred’s curse is a broken rasp; he grinds through your aftershocks, hips stuttering until he follows you over the edge, burying a groan in your shoulder as he shakes apart.
Silence settles—only the soft crackle of the Burrow’s pipes and both your uneven breaths.
Fred noses your temple, lips ghosting a smile. “Best alarm clock I’ve ever had.”
You huff a laugh, boneless and warm, letting him pull you deeper beneath the covers. His arms band around you, greedy even sated.
“Five more minutes?” you mumble.
His chuckle rumbles against your chest. “We’ll make it ten. Mum can live without us a little longer.”
Outside, the day begins, but inside the tangle of quilts and freckled arms, it’s all slow heartbeat, shared heat, and the lazy promise of whatever mischief Fred dreams up next.
💭MDNI: Smut, bath sex, fingering, riding in a bath,
A/N: My second Fred fic as promised! I have some other fics I’m writing and I’m trying to catch up on requests!
—
The door clicks shut behind you with a soft echo. The torches along the tiled walls ignite one by one, casting warm golden light over the steam-slicked marble, the stained glass window glowing pale pink and blue in the dark.
It’s quiet. Blessedly so.
You exhale, rolling your shoulders, and make your way to the edge of the enormous bath—deeper than a pool, wide enough to float in. You place the tiny cloth-wrapped bundle on the edge, unwrap it carefully, and drop it into the water.
The effect is instant.
It fizzes, hard and fast, like a firework blooming beneath the surface. The water ripples with color—soft lilac and peach, the scent of bergamot and honeysuckle curling into the air. You step in, sighing as the heat slides up your calves, your thighs, your waist. By the time you sink all the way in, your body is already starting to melt.
This is exactly what you needed.
You lean back against the curved edge, eyes fluttering shut, fingers trailing lazy circles in the warm, shimmering water.
And then—
Click.
The door opens.
Your heart leaps.
You twist toward the entrance, water sloshing around your chest, just in time to see a familiar head of ginger hair slip inside.
Fred Weasley’s grin is wide, easy, and completely unapologetic.
“Well, well,” he says, voice echoing across the room. “Didn’t peg you for the rule-breaking type.”
You scowl, instinctively sinking deeper into the water, bubbles rushing to hide bare skin.
Fred doesn’t move.
Just leans casually against the tiled doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, eyes dragging over every inch of you with zero shame. You know that look. That slow, hungry, absolutely insufferable smirk that says he likes what he sees—and he knows you know it.
“You gonna stand there all night gawking?” you ask, trying to sound irritated.
He hums. “I might. You’re very educational, love. All curves and steam and… look at that—” he gestures loosely toward the water, “—sparkly tits.”
You splash him.
He laughs, dodging it with the grace of someone who clearly deserves worse.
“Alright, alright,” he grins, walking toward the edge of the tub. “Just surprised, is all. You never mentioned you had such a rebellious streak.”
You tilt your head. “Says the boy who’s broken into this bathroom more times than I can count.”
“Ah, but I’m a charming delinquent,” he says, toying with the buttons of his shirt. “You? You’re usually all rules and timetables and ‘let me just study for fifteen more minutes, Fred.’”
You roll your eyes and lean back against the smooth tile, letting the water lap at your collarbones. “Well, maybe I wanted to be alone.”
He shrugs. “And now you’re not.”
Another button undone.
You watch him despite yourself.
He’s slow on purpose—peeling his shirt off, letting it drop to the floor like he’s performing for an audience. Your audience. When his fingers slip down to his belt, your breath catches—just slightly.
Fred notices.
His grin turns downright devilish.
“You sure you want me to join you?” he teases. “You look very cozy all on your own.”
You don’t respond.
You just slide one leg out from beneath the bubbles and rest it along the edge of the bath.
An invitation.
Fred whistles low under his breath. “Merlin, I love you.”
He doesn’t rush, sliding his pants and boxers off with care— because you’re watching.
He steps into the bath like it’s his second home, easing down into the water with a soft hiss of pleasure. “Bloody hell, that’s hot,” he mutters—and then you feel his hands on your ankle.
Still resting where you left it—perched on the edge, glistening with water, slick and soft beneath his fingers.
He lifts it, just slightly. Kisses the inside of your knee.
“I saw what you did there,” he murmurs, voice low. “Stretching that leg out like some kind of temptress.” Another kiss. Higher now.
You scoff, eyes fluttering open. “You’re imagining things.”
“Oh, I don’t think I am.”
He doesn’t stop kissing. Small, damp pecks up your thigh, until the bubbles start to tremble around your waist and your breath’s coming just a little faster.
Then his arms slip around you—strong and sure—and he pulls you gently back into him.
Your spine meets his chest, your head resting against his shoulder, and you melt.
The bath bomb has turned the water a dreamy swirl of lavender and gold, soft foam curling around your arms as his fingers trail across your stomach. Light. Curious. Wandering.
Fred noses into your damp hair, voice barely above a whisper.
“See, when you said you wanted a relaxing evening,” he murmurs, “I didn’t realize it was code for ‘please, Fred, sneak into the Prefects’ bathroom and absolutely ruin me.’”
You laugh softly, trying not to squirm. His hands are gliding lower, just above the swell of your hips. “That’s not what I said.”
“No,” he agrees, lips brushing your ear, “but that’s what you meant.”
One hand settles low on your belly. The other slides beneath your thigh, pulling it gently to drape across his own, spreading you open under the water.
You bite your lip.
“Still want to be alone, love?”
You shake your head.
Fred grins against your neck.
“That’s what I thought.”
Fred’s grip is firm under the water, but slow. Almost reverent. His fingers trace the curve of your thigh where it drapes over his, his other hand resting low on your stomach—thumb brushing soft, idle circles, maddeningly close to where you need him but not quite there.
Your breath hitches.
He hums. “You’re so tense, darling.”
“I wonder why,” you mutter, but your voice is already breathy.
Fred grins against your temple. “Could be anything. Long day? Heavy workload? Or maybe—just maybe—it’s because your boyfriend is currently half-hard under you, thinking about all the things he’s about to do to you in this bath.”
You press your lips together to suppress the sound that threatens to slip out, but it doesn’t help—not when his hand dips lower.
Under the water, the pads of his fingers finally brush between your legs—slow, gentle, exploring like it’s the first time. And when he finds your clit and starts circling, just barely pressing?
You melt.
A soft, broken breath escapes you. Your hips shift without permission. Fred groans, low and quiet.
“Fuck, there she is…”
He keeps his touch feather-light at first. Teasing. Unhurried. You squirm against him, body arching back into his chest, and his mouth finds your shoulder—kissing, nipping, dragging his teeth over damp skin.
“You smell ridiculous, by the way,” he murmurs. “Like something I shouldn’t be allowed to touch.”
“You’re already touching me.”
“Mm. Not enough.”
He sinks two fingers inside you.
The water muffles the motion, but you feel it—deep and slick, the stretch perfect, the curl of his fingers precise. You gasp, head falling back against his shoulder.
“Better?” he asks, voice wrecked and close.
You nod.
He moves—slow at first. Deliberate. The soft slosh of water rising and falling around you as his fingers pump in and out, thumb circling again and again. He’s got you spread wide, pulled open, the warm water licking your skin while he works you open with the kind of patience that makes you ache.
“You’re dripping for me,” he breathes. “Even underwater.”
Fred slows his hand—just slightly. Enough to make you whine.
Not a loud one. Barely a breath. But it’s there, and he hears it.
“Mm. That wasn’t a please, was it?” he whispers, fingers still deep inside you, thumb ghosting over your clit in maddening, lazy circles. “You were so polite in the library. What’s changed, love?”
You try to buck against him, but his grip tightens around your thigh, keeping you pinned wide.
“I could stop,” he muses, pressing a kiss just behind your ear. “You’d hate it, of course. All worked up, nowhere to go. But I’d be happy to sit here, hold you close, let the water do the teasing for me.”
He gives you one more curl of his fingers—exactly right—and your mouth falls open.
Another sound escapes you. Louder this time.
“Hmm?” Fred breathes, grinning now. “That sounded like something. You trying to say something, sweetheart?”
“Fred—” You gasp, half-whimper, head lolling against his shoulder. “Please. Don’t stop.”
He stills his hand.
You could scream.
He chuckles, slow and smug and so infuriating. “That’s more like it.”
Then he starts again.
Faster now. Deeper. His fingers thrusting steady and hard, his thumb relentless. The water ripples with your movement, bubbles clinging to your chest as you writhe in his lap, soaking and helpless and so close.
Fred keeps whispering in your ear, low and filthy. “Gods, listen to you. Those pretty little sounds. You know what they do to me, don’t you?”
You whimper something incoherent. He presses harder.
“Bet if I slid inside you right now, you’d scream.” Another deep pump of his fingers.
Your legs start shaking.
You’re right there—right on the edge, the pleasure cresting so fast it makes you gasp—
“Go on,” Fred murmurs. “Come for me. Let me hear you.”
And you do.
You shatter in his arms with a cry you can’t bite back, trembling and soaked and gone you barely register the splash of water or the way he holds you tighter, murmuring soft praises into your skin.
Fred doesn’t rush you through the aftershock.
He lets you melt against him for a moment—arms around your waist, chin resting on your shoulder, breathing slowing just enough for you to catch your own. The water laps gently against the marble, bubbles popping softly around you.
Then he shifts.
Leans back against the smooth edge of the tub, one arm stretched out along the rim like he owns the place, the other still hooked around your waist to keep you close.
His eyes drag over you. Slow. Appreciative. Filthy.
“Come here,” he murmurs.
You blink, still hazy. “Fred—”
He lifts you easily, guiding you onto his lap, settling you right over him. You feel him—hard again, already lined up, thick and warm beneath you—and you inhale sharply.
“Careful,” you whisper, breathy and wrecked. “If I do that, I’m going to get water everywhere.”
Fred’s smile is lazy. Dangerous.
“So?” he says. “It’s a bath.”
He presses a hand to your lower back, guiding you down inch by inch. Slow. Unforgiving. The stretch makes you whine despite yourself, hands flying to his shoulders as you sink onto him fully.
Water sloshes over the edge.
Fred laughs softly. Softly. Like this is exactly what he wanted.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, eyes locked on your face. “Perfect view.”
You roll your hips experimentally—and immediately gasp.
“Fred,” you breathe, needy and unguarded, voice already wrecked. “You— you feel so good.”
He exhales, head tipping back against the tile. “Yeah?” His hands slide to your hips, steadying you. “Go on, sweetheart. Show me.”
You start moving.
Slow at first—rolling your hips, feeling every inch of him drag inside you. The water makes everything slicker, easier, your body responding without restraint. Your breath stutters, little sounds slipping out of you before you can stop them.
Fred doesn’t interrupt.
He just watches.
Thumbs digging into your hips, eyes dark and heavy-lidded, mouth parted like he’s trying not to lose his mind. Every time you whimper, his grip tightens just a little.
“That’s it,” he says quietly. “Just like that.”
You pick up the pace without realizing it, chasing the way he fills you, the way the water splashes against the marble with every movement. Your head tips back, lips parting as another breathy sound spills out of you.
“I— I can’t—” you whisper, embarrassed and desperate all at once. “Fred, I’m—”
“I know,” he murmurs, sitting up just enough to kiss your throat, your jaw, the corner of your mouth. “You look so pretty like this.”
His hands guide you faster now, meeting every roll of your hips, the water sloshing wildly over the edge of the tub as you come undone on top of him.
And Fred?
He loves every second of it.
Fred’s eyes are glued to you—half-lidded, greedy, like he’s never seen anything so beautiful. The way you move on top of him, water sliding down your skin, cheeks flushed, mouth open with every broken breath?
He’s absolutely gone for it.
Your hands press against his chest, fingers digging in, head thrown back as you grind down harder, faster, chasing that perfect pressure. Every thrust rocks water up over the rim of the bath—everywhere, exactly like you warned. But you don’t care. Neither does he.
His hands move from your hips to your thighs, gripping tightly now, helping you ride him—matching your pace, meeting every roll with a deeper thrust. He’s moaning now too, quiet and ragged, like he’s finally losing his composure.
“Fuck—just like that,” he pants, eyes locked on where your bodies meet beneath the water. “You feel so good, love. Not sure I’ll last.”
You’re not either.
You’re shaking now, thighs trembling, moans coming fast and breathless.
“Fred—” you gasp a moan.
“Come on, darling,” he whispers, hips snapping up to meet you harder. “Come with me. Let me feel it.”
And when you do—when it hits, full-body, sudden and blinding—you bury your face in his neck and cry out his name, clutching at him like you might drown in it. Your whole body clenches, the waves of your orgasm crashing through you.
Fred follows immediately after, cursing under his breath, hips jerking up one last time as he spills into you—deep, hot, hands still holding you tight as he groans against your skin.
You both go still.
Just the sound of your breathing, the water sloshing gently around your legs, and the subtle drip drip drip of bathwater now coating half the tile floor.
You lift your head after a long moment.
Fred’s hair is plastered to his forehead. He looks completely wrecked.
“…You did get water everywhere,” he mutters.
You shoot him a look. “You were the one who said it was a bath.”
He grins. Lazy. Content. Utterly satisfied.
You sigh, raise a shaky arm, and murmur, “Tergeo.”
With a flick of your wand, the spilled water vanishes from the marble, the steam softens, the bath quiets. Even the bubbles reform themselves politely around your waist.
Fred whistles low. “Look at you. Efficient even after a bath-time shag.”
You drop your wand with a roll of your eyes and sink against him again, exhausted, heart still racing.
notes: hiii lovelies! i don’t have much to say except reqs are open & appreciated💘.
pairing: george weasley x fem!reader
genre: smut, porn w/ plot, angst?? but not really
summary: Draco has the audacity to tell your boyfriend that he isn’t a “real man” after a gryffindor victory. George makes sure to vocalise how funny he finds this as he is pleasuring you later that same evening.
tw’s: Muggleborn Ravenclaw reader (for the plot), cursing, unprotected sex, praise kink, George in general, nicknames (love, sweet baby, pretty girl, sweetheart, lovebug), a little dry humping🤔??, anddd aftercare ofc!
main masterlist
Another crushing victory for Gryffindor against Slytherin. You noticed that every game you attended, George tried his hardest to impress you so you didn’t wander off back to whichever book you were reading at the time. You find it cute but it seems Malfoy did not. Quickly you fought your way through the crowd to get on the field where the pair were arguing. When you finally managed to get there, you caught the ending segment of the argument.
“I think you’re right Freddie! I think little Malfoy’s upset that he had the ‘hots’ for my girl and she chose me!” George laughed out mockingly, causing the other surrounding players and students to laugh as well. Malfoy clenched his fist by his sides as his jaw tightened when Fred continued. “Well it was a bloody obvious choice George, truly.” Fred joined back, causing the twins to snicker together as Draco finally managed to bark back a reply.
“Oh yeah Weasley? Clearly your father never taught you how to be a real man. I bet you can’t even pleasure that sorry little mudblood of yours!” Malfoy cackled. George didn’t say another word, that deranged look on his face as he walked closer to Draco is what caused most of his teammates to begin to hold him back for everyone’s sake. Even you interjected at this point. “C’mon George let the stupid git talk.” You tried. Placing a hand on his surprisingly muscular forearm that you simply adored as you tried to persuade him.
He noticed how Malfoy tensed when you were around, and he smirked devilishly at the new upperhand.
“You’re so right love, ‘m think I just need a kiss and i’ll be good as new again.” He remarked playfully to you. His teammates finally releasing him as he stood there awaiting his kiss. You giggled and rolled your eyes, getting up on your tippy-toes due to the height difference that George relished in to plant a kiss to his cheek. His dopey grin grew wider but he was still very determined to ‘rub it in’ Malfoys face. “A real kiss, yeah?” He inquired, pulling you in by your waist and bending down slightly so you could give him a ‘real kiss’ directly in front of Draco.
He hummed obnoxiously as he finally pulled away from you, Malfoy beginning to turn on his heels with a loud huff as he and the rest of the Slytherins retreated in a hurry.
George chuckled mischievously as he finally gave you his undivided attention, his adrenaline still obviously coursing through him as the two of you began to walk back to the Gryffindor dorms together. (usually the two of you go back to the ravenclaw dorms but you don’t force him to walk up all those stairs on quidditch nights) George didn’t typically act like that. It was more Fred’s thing to be rude and crack a laugh from everybody around simultaneously. Clearly, your boyfriend’s twin had been rubbing off on him.
—————————————————————
George had you straddled on his lap on the edge of his bed as you cleaned up some of his minor wounds. At first, George despised this because he felt ‘weak’ having you clean him up but eventually he learned to adapt it as a “post game ritual.” On more calmer quidditch nights, you would have him read you a book or his latest assignment while you tended to him, but right now he was rambling on about Malfoy.
“I mean bloody hell! You can’t play like shit the whole game and then be mad when we win!” He complained, in which you hummed in agreement. “Stupid git, should’a seen the look on his face when Harry stole that snitch.” You giggled at his expression that was supposed to be imitating Malfoys face. The sound of your laughter fizzling all of his anger away as you finished tending to all of his little bruises.
You always ended this little ritual by kissing every mark you fixed, and he stared down at you lovingly as you began. “But you were amazing tonight love, I could hear ya’ cheering from all the way on the pitch.” George complimented. You smiled against his skin before placing another peck down his arms. You knew how much he adored hearing you scream for him. on and off the pitch. “‘m tried my best Georgie, y’know I don’t condone violence but you sure did look good yelling at Malfoy.” You mumbled against his skin, your ‘muggle accent’ under-toning your sentence as he smiled and pulled you closer on his lap. You could feel his hard-on begin to press into you as you mimicked your boyfriend’s grin back to him.
“think you missed a spot, sweetheart.” He remarked cockily as he pointed at an imaginary bruise on his lips. You giggled, causing him to laugh as well. “Oh how could I!” You exaggerated playfully in which he shrugged with a smug smirk.
You pulled him in by the back of his head. Your fingers intertwining in his ginger locks as he immediately began to desperately search your mouth. He resembled a starved man as he kept your lips connected to his. You barely had a moment to breathe before he was pulling you back in, loving how your warm mouth invited him so willingly to paradise each time.
Subconsciously, you bucked your hips against his clothed erection. You only realised that you were practically grinding on him when he groaned into your lips. “fuck pretty girl…” He murmured under his breath and your face flushed as you came to realisation on what you were doing. This wasn’t uncommon for you, you and George had been dating for the better half of a year and although you were insanely comfortable with him… you still managed to get flustered in moments like this. Although George didn’t mind it, in fact, he quite enjoyed the little noises you made whenever he whispered lewd little things in your ears at the worst of all times.
“aww, is someone getting shy? C’mon sweetheart, I can smell you.” He rasped, his voice a little breathless and you whimpered at his filthy words. He gently but firmly grabbed your hips and began to grind you against him. Chuckling as you whined and buried your face into his neck. “‘m need more, Georgie.” You whispered against his skin, planting gentle wet kisses to persuade him further. You could practically hear the grin in his voice. “Guess you deserve it, yeah? You were such a good girl f’ me today.” He murmured as he nipped playfully at your earlobe. You simply whimpered and nodded in response, not entirely trusting your voice not to croak.
His fingers began to fiddle with the waistband of your skirt, teasing you mercilessly. You desperately wanted to tell him to get on with it and stop being a tease… but you also wanted to be his good girl, his sweet little thing who takes what he gives her, his precious ravenclaw who lets him run wild. So all you did was whine. His grin only grew at your self control. “oh? Well this is quite new…” He murmured knowingly. You were about to retort something back, but then you felt his fingers dip under your skirt to rub your cunt through your panties. Immediately, he felt the wet patch on your undergarments and grinned up at you knowingly.
“Naughty little Ravenclaw…” He remarked playfully. Before you could process what was happening, he had you on your back with your hair splayed along his pillow in mere seconds. His bed reeked of his scent, and you simply adored it. He didn’t miss the skip of your heartbeat or the way you had a newfound hunger in your eyes as he effortlessly manhandled you, deciding to tuck that information into his back pocket for now.
George had simple plans for you tonight, but then he recalled Malfoys little ‘pleasure’ comment. Instead of teasing, he slithered his body up your own to press wet kisses along your jawline and neck instead. “What do you need, love?” He asked straightforwardly. This was odd, George normally drew this type of thing out of you until you were a whining mess. “Want you inside, George.” You hummed back, your voice wavering a little but remained true. He groaned against your warm skin before his usual grin returned.
“whatever you like, pretty baby.” He granted as he planted a final kiss. That was one of those nicknames George used whenever he was being sweet, but you could tell his mind was a little aloof. You watched in adoration as he began to strip himself. Hastily tugging away his clothes and discarding them carelessly. You began to do the same, but George’s hand quickly caught yours and gave you a devilish smirk.
“Trying to rid me of all the fun are we? Let me take care of you, yeah?” He teased and you rolled your eyes in response. “Well get on with it!” You insisted, your patience from earlier dwindling thin. This granted you a look of defiance and a remarkably slow George peeling off your clothing one-by-one. Eventually, he couldn’t take the slow reveal and ripped the rest of your black skirt off, causing you to huff in annoyance.
“George! That was my favorite black skirt!” You scolded. You were quickly knocked off of your fit of anger when you felt a long finger slip into your sopping wet cunt. You whimpered almost instantly at the connection. “Doesn’t seem like you mind that much.” He confirmed with a grin, causing you to scoff and whine as he retreated his finger. He was eager tonight, always taking time to savor the taste of your juices as he sucked on his previously inserted digit. “Tasting perfect, love.” He complimented. To say George loved your taste, was an understatement. He relished in it, but tonight, tonight he had a primal urge to claim you.
You both groaned as he began to rub his tip up and down your soaking folds. Both of your eyes glued on the display before he fully slipped inside of you. Your head quickly retreated back to his pillow, eyes screwed shut as he gave you a moment to accommodate to his size. You had taken George many times before, and yet he still gave you this little moment to calm yourself. And yet, you still needed it.
You moaned as he began to move, starting with slow deep thrusts that made you head spin deliciously. He groaned as you clenched around him, his hands gripping your hips as he watched his cock disappear and reappear with each thrust. “Fuck love… you’re squeezing the life out of me down here.” He informed, followed by a sharp hiss when your legs wrapped around his waist and provided a new angle. With this new angle, he sped up his pace, his mesmerizing cock now drilling into you.
Your moans and other little noises were beginning to grow much louder. This seemed to motivate George as he abused the spot that elicited the prettiest noises from deep within you. “Doing so good love, so fuckin’ good for me.” He praised, his words slurring as his head rolled back to reveal his adam’s apple to you. The sight reminded you of sweet torture and it was simply maddening. “J-jus’ like that, feels so good Georgie please don’t stop!” You pleaded with him, no amount of money could pay George to stop as his grip on you grew brutal. He was sure to leave bruises whilst he pounded into you, his erect and long cock hitting the perfect spot within you as he overrode your senses.
You could feel that familiar knot beginning to grow unbearable at his intense pace. Your legs squeezing around his waist as you tried to keep yourself bounded to this world. Every time George fucked you like this it always left you in a floaty headspace. It was one of the few times your brilliant brain wasn’t hard at work, because it was much too occupied and overwhelmed with pleasure.
“You’re so close love I can feel it. So pretty like this baby, so fuckin’ beautiful.” He groaned, your hands flying from the clenched bedsheet to his shoulders as your fingernails dug into his muscular blades. This resulted in a new noise of pleasure from him that made you whimper in return. “Come for me sweetheart, c’mon sweet baby I need to feel you.” George rasped. His voice pulling an utterly filthy noise from you as the coil within you snapped and you came all over his large cock. He let out a guttural moan while he fucked you through your high, making sure to fulfill you whole as he felt himself begin to drawl close.
“Mmm, I-I’m getting their love. Where can I-…” His words trailed off as he couldn’t get enough of your pussy. You fit like a fucking glove around his erection and it was glorious to him. “Inside George please. Want it inside s’ bad.” You whimpered out breathlessly. Your pleas is what caused George to snap as he bottomed out inside of you. Groaning as he began to spill his seed. “Fuck…” He cursed, his cock painting your insides just as you had requested.
He lowered himself on you once he finished. He knew how much you loved his weight on you as the both of you collected your breaths while panting. George was the first to move, planting kisses all over your heated skin while he gently pulled out. “Did so good love, always so good for me.” He complimented. He quickly retrieved a warm washcloth and cleaned the two of you up. He could easily do it with magic, but George loved the intimacy this brought as he peppered kisses all over your body. You were astonished on how he complimented you like that even if you didn’t really do a thing that whole time, but he didn’t mind it. This was a day for you and your pleasure, (as well as his pride)
“I love you so much, love bug. Such a brilliant, bloody perfect, little witch.” He murmured as he finally finished cleaning you up. Joining you in the bed as he cuddled up behind you skin to skin, spooning your bare form. You smiled at the cheesy little nickname, it was corny, but something he always called you when you were overcome by sleep.
“‘m love you too, George. thank you…” you murmured back, sleep already evident in your voice as he chuckled softly and traced comforting patterns along your skin. “Night, pretty girl.” He hummed back, but you had already drifted off as he planted a final kiss to your shoulder and buried his face in your hair. The smell of your- no his vanilla shampoo lulling him to sleep.
————————————————————
Thank you for reading!!! please drop a Weasley twins request or a Loki request for me😇
Summary: Celebrating your dad’s birthday at the yacht club becomes damn near unbearable when Joel Miller brings a date along too. Jealousy and hate sex ensue.
Warnings: 18+. Food fight turned hatefuck (don’t ask). Cockwarming and semi-public sex on the bridge deck. Oral (m! and f!receiving). Daddy kink. Dirty talk. Age gap. C*mplay. Katoptronophilia. Orgasm denial. One risqué Viagra joke. Drinking games. Descriptions of vomiting. Joel cockwarming you while smoking a cigarette <3
Word count: 12.8k
Read on AO3
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10
"Can ya try that one more time, sweet pea? For daddy?"
You can. Try, anyway. Controlling your tongue while he’s buried so deep inside you is a far harder task than expected, though. Especially when he’s so still.
Joel sees it. Feeling a twinge of pity, he leans over your body and digs his hips even deeper—not thrusting, but still granting a modicum of friction as he takes another drag of his cigarette. The hot, heavy throb of his girth pulses like your own fucking heartbeat, and your eyes roll back.
An orangutan on roller skates would’ve had more grace.
A grizzly bear in hibernation might’ve been more lively.
A fucking cross-eyed octopus reciting Shakespeare would’ve been less strange, alarming, and painfully awkward to see than your father’s best friend the week after he’d railed you senseless in the front seat of his car.
Joel Miller had shown up with a date, for Christ’s sake.
Of course, you’d been three cocktails deep and playing stack cup with a random group of gentlemen on the bridge deck at the time, but that was almost immaterial. This was your dad’s fifty-first birthday party—one of the rowdiest nights the Austin Yacht Club had yet to see—and yeah, you planned on getting belligerently shitfaced on Dirty Shirleys and obscene amounts of catered food.
You’d never thought to bring a date of your own, though.
That was just distasteful and crass, all things considered.
Presently, you slammed your ping pong ball to the tabletop and watched it make a wide arc over your cup.
“Fuckfuckfuuuuuck,” you whispered low as the man four spots down made it in, and the man after him bounced the ball straight into his own on the first go. He moved the tall, swaying stack of red Solos immediately to your right, and you knew from the jump you were fucked.
Tommy Miller was a master at stack. You could already see the sly smile on his face from the corner of your eye.
Just as Mötley Crüe gave way to Hall & Oates on the speakers overhead, Joel’s brother crammed his stack of cups over your own and made a smug, triumphant bow.
“All you, kid,” he grinned and slid the second to last cup in your direction.
You could’ve cursed his whole bloodline, Joel included.
There was no way in hell you were getting stuck with death cup again—the last, cruel punishment for the loser of the game a mix of three different types of liquor, soda, and a spritz of Natty Light. Filled to the brim and waiting to be downed by whoever didn’t sink the final shot.
You squared your shoulders and locked the fuck in.
Bounced the ball once. Twice. Christ, this was hard. The man to your left was struggling too, but he seemed just as determined and twice as skilled, and you were pretty buzzed. A second later, he made it in and, of course, slid it right back to Tommy, who was practically overcome with laughter.
“MILLER! MILLER! MILLER!” Men were not creative when it came to chants. Or beating fists on furniture.
“Quit shakin’ the shit!” Tommy roared, tapping his ping pong ball deftly onto the table’s surface.
You blinked a few hazy, anxious thoughts out of your head and tried with everything in you not to miss this shot. The instrumental bridge of ‘Maneater’ was sinking its teeth in your soul and taunting your nerves to no end.
You took the ball, swallowed hard, watched the cup, and flicked your wrist, at last, from a singularly perfect angle.
The ball was a millisecond away from making it in.
Tommy Fuckstick Miller managed to stack you first.
A chorus of obnoxious, wholly drunk howls rang loud in your ears, and suddenly, the attention was back on you, the unhappy victim of the game’s most gruesome drink.
You didn’t hesitate. You pinched your nose and guzzled from the cup before the torment could go on any longer.
You did well at first.
Opened your throat like a pro and cleared it down to the last fourth of the drink, to the point where you could see the slick white bottom side of the cup clear as day.
Your mouth had just flooded with the final draught of death cup when a familiar guitar riff caught you off guard.
You weren’t sure why it had to happen that way, but after being forced to listen to the song some five thousand times on your road trip with Joel, the tenor of Billy Joel’s voice was like nails on a chalkboard to you now. Grating. Nauseating.
Vomit-inducing.
Swiftly, you ran to the nearest railing and lost your last drink—and your whole dinner—over the side of the boat.
You yakked into Lake Travis like you never had before.
And, just as that stupid, forever-tainted song surged on, you heard footsteps approaching. A moment’s pause. Then a hand on your back. Patting gently and, seconds later, lowering a cup of water to the side of your head.
Your face was still dangling upside down off the yacht. You didn’t want to be touched.
“Go to hell, Tommy,” you muttered.
“You first,” he said, chuckling.
You didn’t sit so much as slump back onto the deck with your head in your hands. The whole boat had gone sideways in your mind, and Tommy’s outstretched arm looked more like a bubbling lump than a friendly gesture.
You groaned at the sight of the cup and shook your head.
“I’m alright, okay. I’m good.”
Then, when the cup didn’t waver:
“Can they change the fucking song already?!”
Tommy cocked a brow and squatted down next to you. He set the water aside.
“Got a problem with dad rock or somethin’?” he smirked.
You shook your head no—it wasn’t the music that was making you sick but the man Tommy called his brother that made you wanna vomit again. The thought of that man tangled up with a svelte brunette who looked fresh off the cover of Sports Illustrated when he couldn’t even be bothered to shoot you a text after the condom broke last week. Like he just didn’t give a shit if you were alive, dead, or pregnant with his child. Unfortunately, you had nothing more to throw up, and your eyes were on fire.
Tommy slung an arm around your shoulder and pulled you into his side. Took a handkerchief out of his pocket.
“No more Dirty Shirleys for you, young lady,” he chided, dabbing lightly at the tears that had trickled out.
“No more men for me,” you grumbled quietly.
You couldn’t see it then, but you could feel him trying not to smile. He tugged you closer.
“Boy trouble, huh?” he said, “Whose ass needs kickin’?”
Your brother, actually. Curb stomp that fucker, please.
You shrugged instead.
“Some guy from school.”
Tommy nodded, waiting for you to elaborate. When you didn’t, he just assumed you wanted to keep it to yourself—which you did—and squeezed your shoulder softly.
“Well…you know you’ve got your dad, me, and Joel to beat the shit outta any guy, any time, any place, right?”
You wished it were that simple. You wiped your nose and nodded all the same.
“And…” Tommy started again, working slow to get you back on your feet, “Most guys your age don’t know their ass from their fuckin’ elbow, honeybun. Don’t take it too personal if he’s dumb enough to lose a gem like you.”
The corners of your lips twitched slightly at his words. Almost smiling by the time he had you up on your feet.
“Thanks, Tommy.”
“Anytime, kiddo.”
You might’ve rolled your eyes when he pinched your cheek, but the water he held back up for you to drink looked far too appetizing, and you knew he meant well. You took the cup from him and started to chug.
Again, you’d almost made it through the whole refreshment when a sound threw you off. Abruptly.
“Where have you two lovebirds been?!” Tommy chirped.
You lowered your water and almost regurgitated again. Bile jumped up in your throat, and you just narrowly managed to keep it all down with a cough and a sputter.
Joel and Ms. Centerfold were at the far end of the deck.
Joel was tucking his dress shirt back into his pants.
Are you fucking kidding me?
“Gettin’ nasty on her daddy’s yacht? That’s bold,” Tommy cackled, nudging you playfully.
Your face was bloodless. Every last ounce of pretense and decorum had spilled out with your dinner, before, and now you were just staring at Joel blankly. Numb.
You watched him shove the last clump of his shirt under the waistband and straighten up slightly. The woman at his side flashed you and Tommy a blinding white smile.
“Might say the same for you,” she called back. She seemed to be eyeing you both with a half-curious look.
Tommy made a face as if to say ‘yuck—what the fuck?’ and threw his arm around you again, shaking you lightly.
“She’s like my little sister, Ashton. You’re fuckin’ gross.”
Little sister. Nice. Like a knife twisting inside your gut.
If Joel took any notice of the comment, he didn’t show it. He just stood there, dull and impassive as a loaf of bread. Every coarse lineament of his face was unreadable—just as bleak, bland, and uncaring as the eyes staring out of it. Then he fished around in his back pocket and pulled out his lighter and a pack of American Spirits. He passed the latter to Ashton and leaned over to give her a light.
Throwing yourself off the boat seemed like the most logical next move out of anything available to you.
That’s when you knew you were off your shit and needed to leave the bridge deck—immediately.
“Need a drink,” you mumbled, starting off the other way.
Tommy was hot on your heels, following fast after you.
“That’s— that’s actually the last thing you need, I think, sweetie. How ‘bout some lemonade?”
“Can you spike it with bleach?”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Tommy followed you down the staircase straight through to the galley, past the throngs and pockets of partygoers crowding the main dining area. Hitting the bar was a bad idea—wait staff knew you well enough to sense when you were utterly trashed, sad, or both—so you slipped toward the wine cooler and quickly sidestepped Tommy.
“No! No way. Nuh-uh.” He was still trying to block your access to the fridge when you grabbed hold of the door.
“Hair of the dog, Thomas.”
“That’s not a thing. That’s— you just projectile vomited off the deck, dude. You need a breather.”
You stopped just long enough to let Tommy pry you off the refrigerator handle and back to the kitchen island. You were pissed off, sure, but also not nearly prepared for another drop of alcohol if you were being honest with yourself. Your head was still spinning when you sat down on the counter.
Once you were settled, Tommy got to rifling through the cabinets, and you pressed a hand to your forehead.
“So how long’s that been going on?” You couldn’t help it.
“Wha- oh, Joel and Ash?” Tommy hummed from deep inside a cupboard. He came out with a small blue box.
You winced at the nickname. Watched him go from the pantry to the sink, fill a glass halfway, find a spoon, and tear the box in two, along with a couple chalky tablets.
“They’ve been…weird.” The sentence was punctuated with a pinch of his brow and a frown. He started stirring.
“Weird how?”
Your feet were dangling over the edge of the island; you pretended to gain a sudden interest in a smudge on the toe of your shoe.
“Weird like…I don’t know,” Tommy tossed the spoon in the sink and turned back to you. Holding out the cup, “They’ve been ‘friendly’ for years—Ash is a coworker of ours—and Joel swears it’s nothing more…but I dunno.”
He ended his speech again with that weird intonation and grimace, like he wasn’t so sure if he believed what he was saying himself, then shook his head and shrugged. He watched you take a sip of the Alka-Seltzer and urged you to get the whole thing down. It tasted like shit.
“Christ, that’s salty,” you coughed.
You didn’t want to keep going, but Tommy tipped the glass back in your hand and made you finish.
“It’ll help with your stomach,” he said before strolling over to the caterers’ fridge to look for bland food options.
“So if they’re not a thing, why’d he bring her here?”
You didn’t care what Tommy thought of your questions. He knew you were eager to hear the tea in any situation.
You watched as your friend procured a hand of bananas and some bread. He gave the fruit to you and took the bread over to the toaster, where he dropped in two slices. You couldn’t quite tell if he was contemplating an answer, didn’t want to spill, or hadn’t heard the question at all. He snagged a plate and a butter knife while you peeled apart your snack, silently dying to know the truth.
At length, Tommy shrugged. Again.
“‘Cause Joel’s a goddamn drama queen and doesn’t know what he wants, I s’pose,” he said.
Ain’t that the truth.
Then, after a minute:
“Had his panties in a wad ever since he went to Boston.”
You stiffened hearing that. You couldn’t pretend to be invested in your shoe scuff, the floor, or the food in your hand any longer. Your eyes flitted up to Tommy to see if his expression had shifted any.
It hadn’t—he was just looking for strawberry jam.
“You hitched a ride home with him then, didn’t you?” he asked casually.
You swallowed and nodded. You watched Tommy retrieve the two freshly-warmed pieces of toast that jumped up to greet him and, having found the jam he wanted, slapped them both on a plate and lathered them up. You muttered a quiet ‘thank you’ as he slid them over.
You were almost too scared to ask more questions, but you knew you had to find out. About Joel, Ashton, anything Tommy might’ve gleaned about your trip home from Boston. You found you could hardly sit in one place and had to step off the counter to eat your food.
“Joel’s been, uhh…how do Gen Z’s say it? Trippin’ balls?” Tommy reached for a banana himself and started in.
“Tweaking,” you corrected him.
“Tweakin’, yeah. Joel’s been a real fuckin’ tweaker lately.”
“In what way?”
“Just…shuttin’ himself in is all. Wouldn’t talk to me or your dad or anybody for days after he got back. Didn’t show up for our monthly Bingo matchup at Mando’s—and he hasn’t missed one of those in almost six years.”
You pursed your lips, equally mystified. You knew just how seriously your dad and his friends took those games—how rare it was for Joel to turn down any opportunity to drink, play Star Wars-themed Bingo, and shoot the shit with his buddies over Coors Light and cheese curds. You took another bite and waited for Tommy to continue.
“And there’s— there was this…thing he— I dunno.”
Suddenly, it seemed your friend had lost the power of coherent speech, and he was rubbing the back of his neck, flashing a half-sheepish smile, and shaking his head. Contemplating whether he should share something with you and ultimately deciding against it.
You raised both eyebrows.
“What?”
“Nah, it’s dumb, really.”
“Tell me.” You took a far-too-large bite of your banana and had some trouble getting it down.
“Well, he…” Tommy trailed off, shifting his gaze from yours to take a look at his own shoe, for a second, “When me and your dad were riding with Joel to a work site…we, uh…found a box of Plan B in his glove compartment.”
Half-chewed banana and toast almost flew across the room while you spluttered and choked and just barely managed to cover your mouth to keep it all in.
“Right? Threw me for a loop, too,” Tommy grinned as you beat your chest with a fist and fought to keep yourself breathing, “Your dad damn near had a baby when he picked that little box and those booty shorts up himself.”
When he what?! You wanted to scream, just picturing your straight-laced, conservative father flipping a Plan B box between his hands, in shock, and then…your shorts—when the fuck had you taken your shorts off again?
Right, when you were busy trying to scoop some more of Joel’s jizz from your cunt as he raced you both to CVS.
Good times.
You held your hair back and leaned over the sink, spitting two more chunks of banana and bread down the drain. Tommy reached around behind you for the spigot and filled another glass with water as he tried not to laugh.
“Easy, now,” he said, patting your back like he’d done for you before, “Joel didn’t happen to mention this lady friend to you now, did he?”
“No,” you choked. You wiped your mouth clear of any spit and food residue and slowly blinked down into the sink, feeling an old wave of nausea begin to settle over you. Accepted the new glass of water from Tommy and hoped he wouldn’t notice the tremor in your hand as you did.
The man seemed completely oblivious. Still standing close behind you, Tommy rubbed circles in your back and leaned a little closer.
“Death cup really got ya, huh?” He smirked, and you realized then that he very much was like an older brother. This whole situation with Joel was fucked on so many levels and would be fucked tenfold if Tommy ever found out.
You turned around and felt yourself steadied between two warm, broad palms—‘Wanna sit? Lie down?’—and then you were shaking your head, reaching for another banana and trying like hell to seem semi-composed, though every neuron in your brain was firing away at a million miles per second and your legs were feeling like scrambled eggs.
“I’m okay.”
“Yeah?”
Suddenly, one of Tommy’s hands had moved up to brush a few strands of hair from your face, and you felt your skin radiating raw heat. A deep-seated anxiety, too.
He’s going to find out—what if he already knows?
What if Joel tells Tommy?
What if Tommy tells dad?
Your mind was reeling, on fire, still working in earnest to find something to tell your friend to say you were fine, just dizzy, and definitely not fucking his big brother.
Your brain was drawing blank after blank after blank.
Just then, a clatter sounded nearby. Both of you jumped.
When you shot a look to the source of the intrusion, you nearly folded into Tommy from secondhand humiliation.
“Nice hands, feet,” the younger Miller called over to Joel, who was currently trying to recover the dozen-odd pots and pans he’d knocked over at the threshold of the room. You stared at the two in a mixture of confusion, disbelief, and disgust—the latter reserved exclusively for Joel.
You set your drink down, held your hand over your stomach, and pretended to head for the bathroom.
“Be right back,” you muttered, brushing past both men.
You knew you wouldn’t be back at all if you could help it.
Still clutching your banana in one hand and your raucously churning tummy in the other, you climbed the galley stairs fast to get back up to the bridge deck. You almost tripped over both your heels trying to make it up the steps so quick, desperate for solitude and quiet.
Another hair metal hit from the ‘80s was playing overhead, but fortunately, the deck was free of people. You stumbled over to one of the catering tables, looking helplessly for something that might settle your belly, but no, this sickness was coming straight from your head—from that insufferable munch of a man, Joel Miller.
You gingerly approached the railing behind the table and prepared yourself for another round of dry heaving.
You rested both elbows on the metal, looked out toward the dark, glassy water beneath you, then hung your head in abject defeat. You slid your tongue across the roof of your mouth and waited for the vomit to come.
The only thing that followed were footsteps.
Heavy, thunderous sounds making their way up the stairs.
“Stay back, Tommy. Please.” You raised a hand to the man approaching softly behind you, not turning your head, “That Alka-Seltzer stuff didn’t work for shit.”
“Shoulda stuck to water, sweet pea.”
That made you pivot.
Not a quick tilt of the head or a twist to the side, but a full-fledged 180-degree spin on your heels, hand to your gut, what-the-FUCK-are-you-doing-here turnaround.
You stared ahead and felt sicker than you had all night.
Then, pointing one crooked, accusatory finger his way without thinking, you hardly knew or heard what you were saying before the words came out. It sounded a little something like, “Joel, you goddamn fucking idiot.”
Joel didn’t flinch.
In fact, he seemed supremely unfazed.
He just held your fuming gaze and frowned.
“You tryin’ to fuck my little brother or somethin’?”
Your hand had closed around your banana on the table before his words had hung in the air for even a second. You flung the fruit full-force at his head, enraged.
Unfortunately, you were drunk and your aim was shit. Your yellow boomerang-like weapon of choice barely made it within three feet of its target before it glanced off a light fixture and struck the ground with a thud.
Accuracy be damned, you weren’t quite done.
“You left the fucking Plan B out for my dad to find?!”
Just when Joel tried to answer, or perhaps hurl another accusation in your direction, you stuck your hand in the closest catering tray you could find—a serving of green peas, as it was. You lobbed a handful at the man as he started to draw closer, and this time, you managed to land a pretty hefty spray. Joel only rolled his eyes.
“I didn’t leave it there—you did,” he retorted.
“My shorts, too?!”
You grabbed another fistful of peas and threw it. Joel was able to dodge it right before making it to the other end of the table. He gripped the edges of the wood in both hands and stood stern—imposingly—opposite you.
“Your shorts, your fuckin’ problem, sweets.”
Just when you reached for another green pea projectile, he surprised you and made for the tray right beside it.
Shortly, a glob of garlic mashed potatoes struck the front of your dress and slid slow, almost sluggishly down the pristine pink silk fabric before falling at your feet. Joel’s aim was evidently much better than yours.
You brushed what chunks of food you could get off your chest and pinned him with a wide, incredulous look.
“You’re a Grade A fucking asshole, you know that?”
“You’re a bit of a shithead too, potato tits.”
“FUCK you!”
“Already DID!”
You would’ve flipped the whole table if it were in your power to do so. Would’ve toppled all the tables, kicked the chairs, took a lighter to the curtains and sent the goddamned yacht down in flames if you had to—that was how much you despised the man in front of you.
Instead, you threw your hands up and stormed off.
“Maybe I will fuck Tommy!” you barked as you started toward the stairs, “I’ll fuck your brother’s brains out, and you can screw Ashton all you want, how ‘bout that?”
You’d made it about two feet before Joel grabbed hold of one of your wrists and yanked you back. You didn’t hesitate to throw a gruff—and ultimately fruitless—punch that hit him square in the chest. He didn’t budge.
“You don’t mean that,” Joel sneered. He shook your whole frame with one simple flick of his forearm.
“I’ll tap your whole bloodline like a keg, Miller. Try me.”
Again, you tried to shake him off, but the hand only constricted around you tighter. Then it was walking you backwards, slowly, almost carefully, until your back was to a wall and your eyes were searching his, angry as ever.
“You’d break your daddy’s heart with that one,” Joel said just above you, voice lowered considerably.
“Yeah?” you challenged, “Maybe if I was less of a shithead I would care what my dad thought. But I’m not. So I won’t.”
“Wasn’t talkin’ about your father, darlin’.”
Joel was good.
He was an insufferable ass and he was good.
Then you remembered the radio silence over the past seven days and the fact that he may or may not have fucked someone else earlier that night—possibly right where you were standing—and he lost all appeal real quick. You shoved him hard in the chest once more.
“Don’t play that shit with me. You, of all people—” You made as if to read him the riot act but cut yourself short, deciding it wasn’t worth your time explaining human empathy to a man who believed bootcut jeans and all things Ely Cattleman were peak fashion, and just learned what ovulation was last week. Then, sliding along the wall and trying to head to the stairs again, you felt Joel’s leg slot between your own.
“What did I do?” he said, curious.
Before you could answer, his thigh had stirred in place, grazing lightly over the spot the hem of your minidress had exposed to him. You ignored it.
“Doesn’t matter,” was your non-answer.
Joel seemed intrigued by the ambiguity and only lowered his head to get closer to yours—‘Then why’re ya so mad you’re throwin’ dinner food at me, darlin’?’—puffing warm breaths on your neck and only smiling when you flinched back. He took your response as a cue to keep pressing, both figuratively and physically.
“Just wanted attention or somethin’? That what it is?” Joel’s voice was as saccharine as it was taunting, words paired with a hand circling light across your thigh. He wasn’t moving in, and it was tearing you to shreds inside.
“Fuck your attention, and fuck you, Joel.”
Words hardly reflecting how you felt internally.
Swiftly, then, the hand at your leg was raised to your face—cupping it with a bit more force than you expected. Joel’s grin stretched even wider.
“Attention and discipline,” he mused aloud, “Two things dad never gave his little girl growin’ up, I see.”
Before you could reply, he was squeezing your face even tighter and nodding his head, as if already anticipating your answer. Then, somehow lower, “Such a filthy mouth on her, too. Never knows when to keep it shut and how to be polite to someone who fucked her so nice already.”
You might’ve whimpered if you didn’t also want to throat punch the motherfucker and knee him in the balls. When Joel started stroking your cheek, you groaned instead, and you hoped he would hear it as chagrin, not arousal.
“I can help with both of those, y’know—” His thumb rubbed a little harder, and his leg moved up. You pressed your hands flat to his thigh to keep him from teasing, but the man would do no such thing to oblige you. In fact, he just shifted his leg back and forth…and back, again. A ripple of bliss from the friction sparked low inside you.
“I can give you attention, and I can scrub that mouth clean if that’s what you really need,” Joel continued, “Just say the word, darlin’.”
“Fucker.” That was your word.
And it worked well enough for Joel.
In the next instant, he had you half-carried, half-dragged across the deck and thrown onto the table where you’d lost that dreaded game of stack. Solo cups still littering the surface, and puddles of beer soaking in through your dress, you made a sound of disgust and tried to thrust yourself up, just to fail. You squirmed and swatted at the man standing in front of you, who easily kept you pinned to the surface with one palm laid calmly on your belly.
He reached into the back pocket of his trousers and retrieved his lighter and cigarette pack.
“Someone could catch us,” you hissed, helpless, unsure of what else to say to show you weren’t giving in just yet.
Joel lit up in four seconds flat. He sucked in a breath.
“I roped off the stairs coming up,” he replied.
He what?
You moved back, slowly, on the surface when Joel worked a hand to his belt buckle, and you heard half a dozen plastic cups fall to the floor behind you.
You would not be his date’s sloppy seconds—ever.
Joel yanked at your thighs and pulled you back to be straddling his hips, shrugging his pants down; you couldn’t bear to keep looking when he lowered his briefs.
He took another drag and eyed you hungrily, happy to see you all sprawled out and pretty before him. The tight fabric of your dress had cinched over your hips and left you bare to just panties, making him grow even harder.
“Joel.”
He worked his dick out of his pants and moved the head to trail slow along the seam of your barely-clothed cunt. Even through the lace, he could feel how wet you were. He notched the tip at the space where your panties had parted just slightly to the side and felt your arousal pool even wetter around the end of his member. He grunted.
“Joel, I—”
“Daddy’s gonna give ya attention, sugar. Hold still.”
You couldn’t. Wouldn’t. You splayed your fingers over the hand that was trying to guide his cock into you and clenched your jaw—every carnal fibre in your being telling you not to do what you were about to try anyway.
“You fucked her didn’t you?”
Joel flicked the ash off his cigarette, “No.”
“You brought her here.”
“Had to.”
Your face was flushed and likewise flooded with smoke, curling slow from Joel’s lips before it painted the air an opaque, muddied grey above you. You wriggled your hips away from his, and for once, he didn’t try to stop you.
“I saw you tucking your shirt in. Tommy said you fucked!”
“Tommy’s about one fry short of a Happy Meal, honey,” Joel puffed once more, “He’s always sayin’ shit like that.”
Incredibly, he’d managed to use about a dozen funny words in that old Texas lilt and still say so little to actually answer your question. When the pinch in your brow told him you weren’t quite satisfied, Joel let out a sigh.
“Ash spilled pebre on my shirt. I had to change.”
Oh.
“And you—” you started.
“—have no fuckin’ right to know, one way or the other, because you’re the one who said we’d just ‘fuck and forget it,’ remember?” Joel interrupted, reminding you of your own curt words from your Bronco boning session.
Again, you tried to speak and found yourself spoken for, Joel carrying on as casual as ever as he sucked the last life-breath from his cig and stared you down, cynically.
“Your dad’s the one who made me bring her tonight. Said I seemed ‘down’ since the last gal I fucked wasn’t around—I didn’t have the heart to tell him it was his daughter—and here we are,” Joel smiled, wryly, and flicked his cigarette into the lake. You would’ve liked to tell him littering was a crime that trashed us all but refrained.
You were too busy staring at his lips, wondering why he hadn’t kissed you yet. You reckoned all the pea flinging, swearing, and swinging might’ve played a small part.
At length, Joel slid a new American Spirit out of its pack and wrangled you back to his hips as he lit up again.
“Happy?” he said, after a beat.
You weren’t sure whether to nod or cross your arms. Beckon him in with both hands or kick his bunched-up pants, belt, and boxer briefs away altogether and keep the bratty act going. You didn’t like being wrong.
At any rate, it didn’t matter. He’d called you on your bluff.
Still smoking, still smiling, still happy as a clam at high tide, Joel pressed his length straight up to your folds and watched you squirm on the wood underneath him.
“Gonna listen now?” he hummed.
“Uh-huh.”
Good, his wretchedly deep brown eyes seemed to say. Good that you were here, good that you were spread wide and supine beneath him, good that you’d gone all soft and pliable under his touch and were watching him now with a look that said you’d let him do just anything.
Good that he could fuck you.
Great that he wasn’t planning to—not fully, anyway.
Joel wasted no time taking your answer in the affirmative to slip past your panties and push deep inside your sweet cunt. When your walls stretched and cried all around him, he sighed and gripped your legs even tighter. He gritted the cigarette between his teeth and brought your ankles to rest over his shoulders, sinking in even deeper. Then he had to hold steady inside you and keep you flat on the table in front of him, and just when you whined to fuck me now, Joel, fuck me right now, daddy, please, he stilled. He took a big, long drag and didn’t move an inch.
He’d teach you some discipline one way or another.
“Joel, please,” you groaned again, hands bracing the table to start fucking up and down on his shaft, before he put a stop to that fast and held you firmly in place, “Please, Joel, I need you so fucking bad, daddy, please.”
Joel tapped his ash to the side and ignored your pleas.
He felt your walls contract around him and tried not to grunt. He focused instead on the smoke overhead.
“Wanna say that nicer?” he asked, deadpan. Then, staring expectantly down at you, while you flushed and struggled to stay still, “Keep that mouth a little cleaner?”
Fuck, did he have that father-figure tone down to a T.
You laid there before him and almost forgot his cock was wedged inside you for a second. He seemed so sincere.
“I wan— want you to move, daddy, I-I-I don’t know how else to say i— FUCK!” Your pussy spasmed around him when the tip of his pubic bone grazed your clit. That squeaky clean mouth of yours was nowhere to be seen.
“Mhmm,” Joel nodded anyway, pretending to be observing your behavior as he might for a clinical trial. Like he was testing a new drug, not his dick inside your cunt, practically clenching in Morse code around him.
“Can ya try that one more time, sweet pea? For daddy?”
You could. Try, anyway. Controlling your tongue while he was buried so deep inside you seemed to be a far harder task than you could’ve ever expected, though.
Joel sensed it. Feeling a twinge of pity, he leaned over your body and dug his hips even deeper—not thrusting, but still granting some modicum of friction. The hot, heavy throb of his girth pulsed inside you like your own fucking heartbeat, and your eyes rolled back.
“Fucking shitsucking DICK BITCH CUNT! FUCK!”
Sounding every bit the uncouth novice in a COD lobby chat circa 2009, you knew you didn’t have the faintest hope of earning Joel’s strokes now. You hated yourself for it—and Joel, too, for subjecting you to such cruel and unusual punishment for just needing to fuck him hard.
You were desperate and heated. Five seconds away from yanking your sex off of his and going to town with your own fingers, you felt a palm press down on your tummy.
Damn Joel and his super-sized hands.
You could barely breathe, much less pry yourself off.
Joel was quiet and calm. Stuffing you full and puffing away at his cigarette the whole time. He smirked.
“Ain’t that difficult, honey,” he said, hardly losing his will or his sympathy when you shot a raw glance his way, “Stay still on this cock and ask daddy nicely, ‘s’all ya gotta do.”
He could tell by the look in your eyes you couldn’t stand to play nice—but needed to cum. He watched you swallow your pride, soften your eyes just a bit, and when you felt you might implode from all the feeling, whined,
“Please make me feel good, daddy, please, I need it.”
Joel breathed and eased back just an inch, lowering his hand to thumb softly at your clit. You keened.
“That’s my sweet girl.”
Still just rubbing that bundle and looking down while you came unraveled, Joel thought you perfectly sublime. He’d kill to keep you there like that, eyes rolling and skin soaking the table beneath you both in sweat and arousal. He stared down at the place your bodies were connected—a sliver of his cock visible and soaked with your juices—and he felt a wave of desire crest over his mind. Panting, quietly, he brought one hand to your hip and kept the other working furiously over your clit, trying to ignore the urge to rut inside you. It was self-discipline for him, too.
He wouldn’t let you know that yet, though.
He crushed the cigarette between his teeth and kept still.
“Ya like that, sugar? Like daddy stuffed inside this pussy, makin’ ya beg real pretty for me?” His husky Southern drawl ran like molasses off his tongue, thicker now when he was balls-deep and half-drunk off your cunt.
You watched his mouth, intrigued, and saw a long line of spit drip deliciously from those pretty, stubbled lips of his to your lower ones, making the spot more filthy and warm as your fluids mixed together. Still, Joel didn’t move a thing more than his thumb—but the sounds from you both were growing louder and more desperate.
The gentle squelch of spit, sweat, and arousal running all down your pussy, paired with those noises you made when you were feeling this good and squeezing him tight, was enough to send Joel straight over the edge. Now he didn’t have the strokes or any motion to focus on before him, just you—he flicked his cigarette away the second he sensed you were getting close yourself.
“Sweet little thing,” he cooed, still rubbing in circles, “How’s my baby feelin’?”
You clawed at the table beneath you and knocked your head back once or twice on the wood, humming a quick, ‘Good, daddy, good’ in the most hoarse and pathetic voice you’d ever used, and Joel smiled. You hadn’t cursed out loud in a minute and seemed to be taking his touches well. He’d have to give you some form of reward.
Gently, Joel pulled back and made a shallow thrust inside you. Both your body and his jolted with pleasure.
“FU—n stuff, fun stuff,” you hissed, trying hard to mask the expletive.
In truth, Joel was struggling too. Just one stroke inside you and that coil inside him was about ready to burst.
“Fun, huh?” he teased, keeping his motions down to quick pistons as he laid his palms flat on either side of your head, “Daddy make ya feel fun-ny, does he?”
“Yeah, he does, he— ah, SHIT right there, right there!”
Evidently, he’d found your G spot.
Joel stilled inside you as soon as the foul word escaped.
You whined. Loud. Almost tempted to burst into tears.
“Nononono, that doesn’t count, Joel! That doesn’t—” Your voice was shortly supplanted by a whimper when the man went back to thumbing your clit, hips rendered still once more and cock wedged deep inside your core.
“What’s it gonna take to make you behave for me, huh? Do I have to talk to your daddy again?” Joel seethed.
You shook your head quick and felt him circle your clit even harder, more punishing now. Your body craved the friction from his cock but could barely contain the words that were coming out now. You pinched your eyes shut, feeling your orgasm creeping closer and closer, and whimpered gently, desperately, ‘Fuckfuckfuuuuuck.’
Whether it came down to making terrible plays at stack cup or getting your clit torn apart by Joel’s thumb, you simply could not keep the filthy language at bay.
You weren’t going to listen, that much was clear.
Joel had no choice but to make you learn a different way.
So, prying his fingers and his cock from your cunt, he reached across for your hips instead—pulling you off of the table and pushing you down to the floor, at his feet.
He smoothed a palm over the top of your head and fisted your hair in one hand, his cock in the other, and brought his hot, swollen, slick-coated length within an inch of your face, stroking fast.
Your gaze flitted from the sight in front of you to Joel’s eyes, back and forth, stunned and in utter disbelief. As you felt your own climax crumble and recede from you at once, the sound jumped up your throat before you could stop,
“What the FUCK is your problem, Joel?!”
“There it is,” Joel just flared his nostrils as he jerked himself above you, “There’s that nasty fuckin’ mouth.”
He pulled your head even rougher and tipped your chin back to meet the scowl on his face. Pleasure had almost swallowed the man whole, yet his expression scarcely betrayed a trace of it, eyes cold and jaw clenched tight.
“If that mouth can’t be good for me, can it open real wide and show me how a dirty slut does it?”
You were beside yourself. Holding his gaze like a bomb might go off in his brain any second—something you’d be happy to see—you scowled as well. Begrudgingly, and knowing Joel wouldn’t ease off of this punishment until he’d made you pay for your language, you nodded.
“What’s’at?” Joel snapped, stroking himself even faster, “What do ya want me to do, sugar?”
You gritted your teeth and silently wished they were crushing his balls to powder between them.
“Want…you…to cum…on my face.”
“Little louder, sweet pea, can’t hear ya from up here.”
The sound of his palm working over his cock again and again, shimmery and slick with your arousal soaking it, was almost too much to bear. You watched, forlorn and silently boiling with rage as Joel stared down at you, as merciless as he’d ever been. Mocking, almost, it seemed.
“Want you to…cum on me, please.”
“One more time, darlin’,” Joel pressed, pupils blown wide with desire, “Be real sweet and say it one more time f—”
“I WANT YOU TO CUM ON MY FACE, YOU FUCKER.”
That sparked the first real smile on Joel’s lips you’d seen in a while, and then he was watching you cockily, nodding.
Before you could even think to blink, stand up, or storm off again, you felt a fat, sticky-wet glob of warmth hit your cheek. Then another. Then another. Then another. You winced and flinched back, but Joel held your head in place, in front of his cock, and gripped you firmly as he unloaded rope after rope of his cum all over your face.
By the time he was finished, your skin was glistening. Coated in the stuff and still blinking through strings of the hot, sticky mess as Joel stood over you, chest heaving fast as he pumped himself through his release.
Must be fucking nice.
When the downpour had slowed to a trickle, two thick fingers swiped at a dollop of cum on your cheek. Then, wordlessly, they moved down to your mouth.
“Open,” Joel commanded.
You’d barely parted your lips a quarter of an inch when he pushed both digits inside. Swirled them around in your mouth and made sure to cover every soft, wet contour and crevice before pulling out with a pop.
He wiped at your other spend-streaked cheek and repeated the action, plunging his fingers in and out of your mouth to make sure you cleaned him thoroughly. This was more of an act meant to tease than anything else, you knew, almost demeaning in the way he stood there and nodded his head while murmuring, ‘’Atta girl.’
You hated how much you liked that stupid show of dominance—and, even worse, how good he tasted.
Joel brushed your tongue with another fingerful and watched you bob your head in time. He hummed his approval and scanned your face for any spend left over.
There was a lot. He paused, as if considering something.
“Drop ‘em.” Joel motioned to the straps of your dress.
You did as he said and pulled both bands down at once. When your breasts spilled out of the fabric, you watched Joel lower his gaze and, fixating on the spot you’d just exposed to him, take two—no, three—careful fingers to collect the remainder of himself and spread it downward.
Joel took his cum and smeared it all over your tits.
He was equal parts meticulous, gentle, and gratuitous in doing so, and he took pleasure in every second.
With a heavy-lidded, glossy gaze trained unwaveringly on your chest, Joel rolled each nipple between forefinger and thumb and fell into a trance. Rubbed you up and down every inch he could find and groaned at the sight. Glazing your skin all over with him and savoring it.
You couldn’t deny the feeling of being marked in a way so degrading, dirty, and adoring at once had a dizzying effect on you, too. The look in his eyes, and the soft brush of his fingers, almost quelled your rage entirely.
Almost.
When Joel pulled your spaghetti straps back into place—and you, in turn, back onto your feet—you yanked away. Forcefully. While Joel straightened up, silently cursed his bad back, tucked his dick in his pants, and started to reach for your waist, you jabbed the fastest, fattest, fuck-your-whole-family middle finger in his face and took off.
“Honey—”
“Don’t.”
“But I—”
“Have some goddamn fucking nerve.”
You’d nearly made it to the staircase again, heels turning to start down the first steps, when Joel sidestepped at lightning speed and blocked off your passage. All you saw then was the front of a starch white dress shirt and a light patch of chest hair peeking out from the highest button, crowding your vision, moving in time with every manoeuvre you tried to make around him. He smelled like sweat and fresh citrus. Perhaps a hint of vengeance.
You wouldn’t meet his gaze when he grabbed your face. Tried to shrug him off when he made as if to pull you into a hug—‘Are you off your shit?! Are you?! People are right downstairs’—and Joel just smiled. Grinned like a jackass eating briars, about five times too smug for his own good, and drew you into his chest by gentle turns.
You weren’t sure why you recoiled when he kissed you.
Hell, you’d done it a dozen times before—albeit a bit more frantically, in a way to say ‘I need to fuck you’ when words just wouldn’t suffice—but this one was different. Deeper. Joel was gripping both sides of your face and still grinning as he kissed you, feeling your muscles slacken some and your frame meld gently into his.
You hated it.
“I missed you,” Joel murmured between kisses.
Hated him.
“How’s my baby been, huh?”
Oh, you know, just waiting. Hating you a little. Hoping we didn’t inadvertently create a baby ourselves, courtesy of your prehistoric condoms.
“I missed you.” Gently. Again.
You tensed in his hold when his lips trailed down to your neck. You felt a low flutter. It was like your feet had been glued to the floor and your tongue left wholly immobile; you let Joel caress, kiss, and whisper down your skin like every cell beneath his touch wasn’t seething en masse.
Your stolen climax. Broken condom. Close call with your father and Tommy. Radio silence ongoing for days.
You couldn’t wrap your head around any of it, or him, or how grossly inconsistent the man’s every move upon you now seemed to be with the way he’d acted all week.
Joel slowly descended your body.
“Like I said, honey…you fuck with my head,” he said soft against your dress, then your legs, then the space in between them.
“Makes two of us,” you grumbled back.
You braced your weight against the railing over the stairs just behind you when he slipped your panties to the floor. Then he tucked them snug into one of his back pockets and brought his face to your wet, aching core.
“Discipline doesn’t come easy, does it?” It sounded like something trapped between a question and a declarative coming out from the side of Joel’s mouth.
Fortunately for you, he didn’t try to clarify which of the two he meant, or do much else at all except eat your pussy from that point on. He kissed your thighs, gripped them tighter, then wedged his face between them while you held fast to the metal behind you. You stifled a moan when his tongue traced over the seam of your cunt.
You didn’t have to like the man to love what his mouth could do for you, you silently reminded yourself.
Love it you could—and would. Without shame.
Granted, you were still sensitive as all hell from your last almost-orgasm of the night, but Joel knew how to work his lips and tongue around it. He swiftly lapped between your folds, teased a finger at your hole, and wrapped his warm lips around your clit to suck once or twice, and you were damn near ready to spiral in seconds. You fisted the soft salt-and-pepper hair at the top of his head and rutted your hips in short, shallow motions against him.
“Good girl,” Joel crooned, welcoming each thrust with another swirl of his tongue, “That’s my sweet baby.”
“Joel.”
You traded expletives for the simple repetition of his name, not wanting the pleasure to stop. Joel hummed and sucked and held your legs around him even tighter.
You sighed, almost whined, and dug your fingertips into his scalp, feeling your climax building quick inside you.
Joel’s mouth was working faster, sucking harder, drawing smaller and crueler circles, lapping eagerly against your arousal and giving it everything he had, it seemed, to work you up to your release. He grunted when you yanked hard on his hair but didn’t stop.
In fact, the bastard just kept trying to talk you through it, fluid movements of his own tongue and lips be damned.
“Doin’ so damn good for me, sweet pea, keep goin’.” There was an apology in there somewhere, working hard to atone for the orgasm he’d denied you right before.
Four more flicks of his tongue and a gentle endeavor to pump his fingers in and out, again and again, right above that soft, spongy pad of pleasure deep inside had you teetering over the edge of a cliff.
You tore your gaze from Joel for a second, preparing for that sweet and lusty consummation, when your head turned to the side just slightly. You almost groaned.
Your own hot, flushed, and fucked-out reflection was the first thing to greet you in a sliver of a mirror on the wall. Just beneath you, as you could’ve expected, there was Joel—kneeling between your legs with his chin tipped up, beard coated in moisture and pleasure and warmth. You weren’t sure why the sight from this angle had such a strong effect, but something about the full view of your bodies in motion gave your stomach a pinch. A burn. You ogled the glass and made a sound audibly higher in pitch than a whimper as Joel suckled and tongued at your clit.
You came just like that—gripping the rails, fisting his hair, rutting your hips, and staring implacably at that mirror.
When Joel resurfaced, you were still fully transfixed.
Gawking at how fucking nice he looked between your thighs. How filthy it all was to be seated on his face and cumming for his tongue while the rest of your father’s dinner party mingled blissfully unaware downstairs.
When you saw Joel rise, you jerked your head back.
You weren’t sure why it felt like being caught, but it did.
Just as you began to murmur some half-assed apology his way, you felt hands on your hips and a rock-hard bulge at your rear as Joel spun you round in front of him.
He shoved you flush against the mirror so your tits were pressed up to the glass. He gave you a quick once-over.
Slid the straps of your dress off your shoulders and shimmied the fabric down your chest, once again.
With your breasts splayed out in front of you and your hands pressing hard on the mirror—as if letting up the slightest bit might send you straight through it—you tried to crane your neck. You felt the sticky squelch of cum and fresh spit painted over your chest, muddying up the glass with every movement you made. Your chin dug deep in your shoulder as you cocked your head to the left, eyes searching for Joel’s behind you.
You heard the clink of a belt, followed by a rustle of fabric. Then a hand slamming close beside your head on the mirror, while another worked industriously to free his cock from the confines of his trousers once more.
“Joel,” you breathed, still tender from your climax.
“Hm?”
He was gruff as he rubbed and smacked your bare ass with his cock. Let it rest on the soft, fleshy shelf between you two and teased his length over that space.
“Did someone take his little blue pill today?” you teased.
“Fuck off.” You saw a flicker of a smirk in the mirror.
No way Joel Miller was getting a full-fledged erection twice in the same ten minute span. That shit didn’t happen outside the realm of porn flicks and a woman’s wildest fantasies when it came to men Joel’s age. He knew it just as well as you but tried to feign indifference when he pressed the head of himself to your folds. He did, however, suck in a breath at the new sensation.
He could do this.
He could cockwarm you raw, tonguefuck your cunt, ravage and render you all but brainless on the surface of that mirror, and still have the wits about himself to take another breath. He could show those shit-for-brains college boys he’d been battling for days in the depths of his mind how much better he could fuck you than them.
Really, Joel was just manifesting at this point.
He hadn’t busted a nut and fucked this quick since Bill Clinton had been in office. All hat and no cattle whatsoever for this pussywhipped cowboy.
“Better hope I go easy on ya, sugar.”
“Best believe I won’t.” You would’ve winked if you weren’t so bone-crushingly aroused and fresh off your peak.
Joel had just chuckled, more than a touch nervous, and began rubbing your warmth to coat himself in it—angling his slightly apprehensive penis up to your cunt when you straightened some. Rather than keep your tits to the mirror, you chose to press your back against him, ass snug to his front and eyes roaming wildly over the reflection of your two forms. Both of you flinched when the head of his cock hitched around your entrance.
Joel’s Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat just over your shoulder. He pressed a kiss to your skin.
“Gotta be the sweetest thing I ever seen,” he whispered into your ear. Meeting your gaze in the mirror and lifting his hips just so before breaching your folds.
He hoped you’d take it for sweetness and not just a vicious strain of anxiety or weakness as he prepared for the first thrust. He’d need a second, a minute—maybe a goddamned hour, if he was being real honest. You were too damn pretty to be fucked by a two-pump chump.
Joel nudged his nose against your ear and tried to stall. Pausing a beat.
“Never been humped and dumped before, yaknow.”
Wait—the fuck?
That came out wrong.
You cocked a brow and tilted your hips. You didn’t seem keen on talking but had no choice but to humor him.
“The hell’s that supposed to mean?” you hummed.
Joel balked at his own stupidity, trying, and failing, to remove his foot from his mouth and remedy his words.
“I mean, I— I get it,” he returned, too fast for his liking, “I’m no texter myself, I just…thought, uh, maybe—”
“Miller. Spit it out.”
Your body was all but leaking arousal before him and the man was trying to divert the conversation to…phones?
Joel winced.
Felt his member deflate with embarrassment just a bit.
He’d done it to himself. Tried to hamper sex for a second too long just to give his dick a fighting chance at survival and ended up mucking things up supremely. Per usual.
“You never texted me back.” He sounded blunt now. Rushed.
Joel watched you raise both eyebrows.
“Texted you back?” you scoffed.
“Yeah…texted, called, snipchatted, whatever.”
Your face didn’t change despite the glaring Gen X error.
“You never texted me, Joel!”
What?
Suddenly, the dick wedged between your legs and hovering over your cunt seemed to be the last thing either of you could be bothered to worry about.
“I’ve…been texting you all week. Called a few times too.”
“Like hell you have. You ghosted me and went off the grid this whole fuckin’ week—Tommy said so, too.”
Joel cringed again to hear his brother’s name brought up in this context and shook his head. You were wrong.
“512-867-5309. Been trying to talk to you all goddamn week, see how you were, and you never responded,” he said, indignation creeping into his tone against his will.
At last, your expression dropped.
From furious to frowning to just fucking annoyed. Your lips were drawn tight in a line across your face.
“My number is 512-867-5305, dipshit.”
“Huh?”
“5 at the end, not a 9.”
“…No.”
“Yeah…”
Shit.
Joel Miller had made his fair share of flubs in his life, but fucking up the phone number of his best friend’s daughter whose pussy he’d accidentally cum inside the week before seemed almost criminal. Too fucking asinine and rookie-level dense to ever recover from. He blinked.
“Thought you…hated my fuckin’ guts,” he confessed.
You threw your hands up in disbelief, frustration. Fury.
“I do— believe me, I do,” you snapped, “But not for that.”
‘That’ meaning the last time you two bumped uglies. Joel wasn’t sure whether to take heart or step back.
“What’s’at mean?” he asked.
You pushed your feet a little further apart on the floor and pressed back into Joel. He took that as a decidedly good sign and reached for your hip. Then took his cock, again, which had invariably twitched and swelled up at the smallest motion from you.
“Means we’ve got plenty of reasons to hate each other, but fuckin’ ain’t one of ‘em,” you shrugged, angling your ass in the perfect place for penetration. Joel was just about back to full-mast and buzzing as you spoke, “I can get over the whole…old dude taboo—you being dad’s friend and all—I just couldn't stand the thought of you leaving me in the lurch when shit got weird at the end.”
‘Weird’ meaning risky. Virulent. Damn near catastrophic if it ever came to be that one of Joel's swimmers had latched onto one of your eggs and knocked you up. The fear of pregnancy, and every bloodcurdling, awkward conversation to ensue, had been amplified tenfold by the thought that Joel didn't even care one way or the other and couldn't be bothered to text, call, or otherwise show that he didn't totally regret what you'd done in his car. You could handle a clean break, but leaving it on such uncertain terms had been torture. At length, you sighed.
Joel was nosing behind your ear now, a bit less tense.
A little more laid-back and warm this time around, as he, like you, had gotten to exhale a breath of relief realizing that neither of you had deliberately tried to fuck the other over, or ghost, just yet. You'd been pissed at him all night, and he'd been busy barraging a perfect stranger somewhere in Austin with strings of texts and calls all week, but the two of you were ultimately OK. For now.
“But you still hate me, huh?” Joel spoke low against your skin and felt you soften just a little.
You nodded, careful not to slacken too much.
“Mhmm.”
Now Joel was almost glad to have taken that brief, heated detour, because his dick had made a complete comeback and was aching to tease you some more. He grabbed the base of his length and slotted it slow as ever between your folds. Rolled his hips forward and pushed you both a little closer to the mirror. One of your hands flew up to steady yourself, and Joel’s hand followed. He laid his palm over the back of yours and pressed in.
“It’d be a real shame if you do,” he said, smirking as he notched the tip of his cock just within the tight ring of muscles at the groove of your cunt, “For a second there I was starting to think you might’ve liked fucking me, too.”
In the next second, Joel was easing inside you. Feeling you arch into the motion and grabbing hold wherever he could across your front, he pulled you into his chest and felt a streak of coarse pleasure lick up the full length of his spine. Your walls were squeezing him in a brand new way, a novel position, and he was starting to fear there wasn't any place he could fuck you that wouldn't send him veering for release within his first two strokes inside.
He bucked his hips a little something like an amateur, he thought, getting used to taking you like this. You were moaning, holding his fingers between your own atop the mirror as you squeezed your pussy tight around his cock, and he hoped that meant you hadn't minded the few stuttered, desperate strokes he'd delivered at first.
“I love…fucking you, Joel,” you seethed at last.
Then, wordless as it was pointed, finding his gaze in your reflection, ‘I still hate you, Miller. There’s a difference.’
He slammed into your ass and quickly got the sense that you liked it this fast—loving, lusting, or despising him otherwise. Almost needed it a bit frantic and rapid-fire when he was fucking you from the back, he reckoned.
Joel looked you in the eye from his view behind you in the mirror and saw it clear as day. He almost grinned.
You were wildly fucked out and in need of quick release.
For once in his life, he could oblige you on that, easy.
He slid his cock in and out, rutting much quicker than he ever thought you’d want it, and he grunted. Slipped a hand between your thighs and felt you pulse around him, involuntarily, when his fingers found your clit. He could tell by that grip, and those febrile little whimpers, that you were loving this just as much as him and probably were as close, if not closer, to a new, shuddering climax.
Joel plunged deep inside your cunt and drew you closer.
Taking your throat in one hand, he nudged your body into the glass and smirked, drunk with the feel of you.
“Ya like it when I fill this pussy, huh? Love feeling me deep inside this needy little hole?” he murmured, slow and taking care to draw out the syllables in each word.
You nodded that you did. Rocked your hips back to meet his thrusts and moaned.
“I love it, daddy,” you managed weakly, “Love it so much.”
The fingers at your clit increased in speed, and Joel rutted into you even harder, relishing the soft squelch between your bodies as he moved. Then he reached for a fistful of your hair and, instead of pulling back like he might normally have done, he pushed in. He pressed your face in the mirror, turned to the side, and pistoned his hips even faster. Felt your moans spill out across the glass and mix with his own, and he couldn’t help but let a raw, primal impulse take over his thrusts—and tongue.
“You make the prettiest fuckin’ noises, y’know that?” Joel breathed, hunched over and close to your ear.
Before you could so much as acknowledge his praises, bob your head, or moan in response, he shifted the hand in your hair again. This time turning your face toward the mirror, he brought your lips within inches of the glass and made you watch him fuck you, again and again.
You trailed your gaze over your full reflection and almost whined out loud, ripe with desire and ready to cum just seeing how good he looked as he took you from behind.
With his brow furrowed, pupils blown, hair a fucking mess, lips parting slightly with the strain of every grunt and moan, and hips rolling repeatedly, furiously into your own, Joel looked about as handsome as you thought you’d ever seen him. You felt the soft nudge of his tummy behind you, the tightened grip on your hip and in your hair, and within seconds, you were nearly there.
“My pretty. fuckin’. girl—” Joel managed through gritted teeth, each word punctuated with a thrust, “—and her pretty. fuckin’. moans.” Then, bringing his beaming, sweaty expression right next to yours in the mirror, “Ready to cum for me, pretty girl?”
You curled your toes into the floor and nodded, slotting your fingers through his own when he planted a hand above you again,
“So— so close, daddy.”
Joel squeezed your fingers back. Kept your faces damn near side-by-side in the mirror and relished the marked change in your features when he grazed that spot inside. You let out the filthiest, fuckdrunk moan and didn’t need another stroke—you came around his cock with a tight, pulsing spasm, seizing his hand, rocking your hips back into his hard as the pleasure washed over your body.
Joel’s cock absorbed every last delicate throb, hot and heavy enough to send the man spiraling himself. He braced his front tight against your body and kept fucking you through your release, groaning a vicious, desperate bout when he felt that deep-seated urge to spill his seed.
Fuck. He’d have to pull out. Now.
Just as his own climax was close at hand—close as he could ever, or should ever feel it while still inside you—Joel reached down for your hip to pull out and cum all over your ass, but he was brought to a stop. Swiftly.
To his surprise, it was you pulling off of him—sliding off his cock and dropping to your knees as if to take him in your mouth.
Thank fuck.
Joel grabbed his dick as quick as he possibly could and moved to start stroking himself over your face, when your hand closed around his own. Stopping him. Again.
You grinned.
Feeling the slightest twinge of retributive pleasure at seeing him like this, just like he’d had you, your smile stretched even bigger. Joel could’ve wept at the sight.
You brought your lips to his cock and grazed it, barely.
“Wanna try something fun?”
He knew better than to let a moan slip at a time like this.
Not when he was sitting at the dinner table; not when he was surrounded by the people he knew and loved the most. Not when he was celebrating his best friend’s fifty-first birthday, and certainly not when that man’s daughter was currently perched between his thighs, out of sight from every eye at the party but his.
Joel lifted the tablecloth. He almost came on the spot.
This was your idea of ‘fun.’
Payback by any other name would’ve smelled as sweet.
Seeing your mouth open wide and your lips curled tight around his hot, throbbing member, Joel couldn’t help but ache for reprieve, or else a split-second lapse of judgment—one where he forgot all sense of decorum and simply went to town on that pretty little face of yours. But, as it was, the rest of the party was totally oblivious to your absence, and he didn’t want to draw attention to it, or him, by roughfucking your mouth.
That would come later.
No, now he would let you glide your mouth gently over his shaft, leaving trails of thick spit and hints of a shiny pink lip gloss in its wake. He’d let you bob your head softly—self-assured in a pace you got to set—and he wouldn’t lay a finger on your face or let a thrust of his get in the way, because this was all about you giving him the pleasure. Maybe making him squirm just a little, too.
That didn’t mean he couldn’t steal a glimpse every now and then and pin you with an expectant look when he wanted something done his way. The room was dimly lit and everyone in it drunk; Joel would gladly take the risk.
‘You can go deeper than that, sweet pea.’
‘Nope, three-fourths ain’t enough, I need your mouth around me whole.’
‘You did wanna make daddy feel good, didn’t ya, sugar?’
He didn’t have to speak a word of it out loud for you to know what he meant. What he needed. You loosened your jaw and stretched your lips even wider, whining just a little when the head of his cock grazed your tonsils.
“Fuck that feels nice,” Joel said aloud.
You froze.
Then, without missing a beat, you heard him continue just as comfortably, speaking to the people around him,
“Y’all feel that breeze comin’ in?”
Sick fuck. You continued to suck him anyway.
One hand braced tight against Joel’s leg and the other moved shamelessly between your own, and you tried not to moan, but the sound escaped anyway. No one heard it, but Joel felt it reverberate down his shaft, and he gripped his glass of Merlot like a vice. Your dad shot him a curious look from across the table but said nothing.
“Can’t get enough’a her, huh?” Tommy grinned beside him.
“What?” Joel faltered. Set his drink aside carefully.
Down below, you dragged your mouth just far enough to take his tip between your lips and suckle. Joel grunted.
“The wine,” Tommy said, still smiling, “You must love it.”
Joel let out another strangled breath that he tried to pass off as a chuckle and nodded.
“Got me on my fuckin’ knees,” he admitted.
And that was the truth. Starved for air and blinking through tears as you knelt down to blow him, it was still you with the chokehold on Joel, and both of you knew it.
Try as you might to convince yourselves otherwise, the man was enrapt. Too spellbound to turn down your offer of sucking him dry under the dinner table just minutes after he’d almost cum all over your face, Joel was in it, and he was in it deep. It was just that small matter of you being his best friend’s daughter that made him loath to admit it. At any rate, he had your tongue licking strips up his cock and felt a sudden, sharp clench in his stomach.
He knew he wouldn’t last much longer. Neither would you.
Joel couldn’t see it then, but you’d practically soaked your own hand from how hard you’d been rubbing your clit—ignoring his orders not to touch yourself there—so turned on from just sucking his dick and needing to feel relief while you selflessly, secretly pleased him beneath the table. While Joel reached for another draught of wine, you brought one hand to his balls and kept the other at your cunt, triple-tasking like the efficient little slut he needed you to be: sucking, cupping, and rubbing all at once to get the two of you off in one minute or less.
You guided him down to the furthest place in your throat, then pushed him even deeper. You gagged just slightly and felt a hand reach down for your cheek. A thumb began to rub at the tears welled up at the corners of your eyes.
‘Sweet thing hasn’t felt a man this deep before, huh? Wanna swallow some more?’
You nodded that you did. Couldn’t actually hear him now, or see much else besides the soft tufts of hair on his belly, but you could feel a light, heady warmth seep into your brain.
You rutted your hips and just hoped no one dropped a fork nearby. Bucked desperately into your hand and felt the heat start to swell to a whole new feeling, and suddenly you were whimpering, whining on Joel’s cock from under the shade of the table and cumming all over your fingers.
Joel returned a quick smile from your father and cracked a joke about the Super Bowl. Raised his hips just the slightest bit and wiped one of your tear-soaked cheeks.
‘Almost there, hon, keep that throat open for daddy.’
All you could do was cry and try your best. Wild feelings from both the slow, deep facefuck he was giving you and the flurry of euphoric aftershocks coursing all throughout your body made it almost impossible to bear, but you obeyed your sweet and strong and steady-handed Joel and sensed a blossoming desire crop up for something else.
You wanted to taste him as he blew his load in your mouth, flooded your tongue with his spend, and painted every inch of your insides with that hot, sticky stuff.
You needed him whole.
Your Joel.
In tune with your thoughts—or perhaps just overcome with a need to see you before he reached his peak—Joel raised the tablecloth the slightest bit when Tommy wasn’t looking. His gaze locked on yours, and his tongue darted quick between his lips. He cocked a brow. Brushed his thumb again and looked down as if to say,
‘Ya want this, darlin’? Want all of me?’
You gave a soft nod, and that was all he needed.
No sooner had you given him the green light than his cum went pulsing out in ropes, coating your throat and eventually your whole mouth as you held still and took it all.
There was so much more than you thought. So much of Joel that had been waiting to give your mouth a proper fucking glaze that once he’d started he just couldn’t stop. Above the table, your dad shot a pointed look in his direction—‘You good, man?’—and it took every ounce of strength in Joel’s body to grit his teeth tight and nod.
He’d filled so much of your mouth it was spilling out.
You tried to hold steady, keep your movements extra slow. You’d heard your dad’s voice and just knew there’d be a lot more on the line than Joel’s dribbling seed if either one of you fucked up now. Your breath caught in your chest, and you felt too afraid to even swallow.
“I just…came,” Joel started, and your head almost cracked on the wood surface from how abruptly you flinched back,
“—to the realization—”
“—that you…are so…motherfuckin’ old, my friend.”
Your father’s laugh was the first you heard, followed by Tommy, his friends, and a dozen other party guests.
The next thing you felt, to your complete and utter shock, was Joel’s cock brushing your cheek. Then your lips. Then your tongue. He slid his still-hard member through the ‘o’ your mouth had made in awe and started to move in gentle motions back and forth, like a man all but aching to get a feel for your wet, sodden walls.
A man who couldn’t risk a glimpse now, but wanted more than anything to see the mouth he’d just filled.
Your father’s words hadn’t even cooled in the air.
Joel Miller, you sneaky, freaky fuck.
As the laughter subsided, and Tommy scooted back in his chair to take leave of your table, you felt a spark ignite. Whether it was yours or Joel’s or both your perverted minds suddenly alight and insane with the same thought, you couldn’t be sure, but you could make out the sound of a tablecloth flipping back up above you.
Joel slipped his dick out of your mouth and grinned. Took a firm hold of your face under the table so his fingers were coaxing your jaw to unhinge before him.
It was the lowest, slowest, menacing sort of sound you’d ever heard from him before, but it was his all the same.
Speaking to you now, softly, “Show daddy, darlin’.”
You thought you might like to see him that way forever.
Eyes honey-soft and glazed, thumb toying at your lip. Chest heaving up and down in time to your own breaths and growing ragged as you opened your mouth to him. He was sated and somehow unfulfilled—a bottomless pit of raw prurience as he stared down and held your gaze. Hair tousled, pants unbuckled, cock resting comfortably against your cheek, the man looked wonderfully undone and half in love with your sweet face peering up at him.
You couldn’t deny you loved doing this, too.
You’d just wished he saw Tommy before Tommy saw you.
Summary: Joel Miller has mastered the art of self-control in all areas except one: not fucking his friend’s daughter. A cross-country road trip home from college takes a hard turn when he’s forced to share a motel room with you.
Warnings: 18+. Protected p-in-v. Praise. Overstimulation. Sweet, possessive, slightly obsessive and pussywhipped Joel. Daddy kink. Drug use. Angst. Accidental creampie. Joel fucking you while on the phone with your father.
Word count: 13.1k
Read on AO3
Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10
“You okay, hon? You sound…distracted,” your dad presses. A hint of concern rises from his end of the line.
At length, Joel grips both of your legs and brings them up over his shoulders, and he grins before kissing your ankle and shoving his cock even deeper.
“Yes!” you yelp as you crush the phone to your ear, hoping your father can’t hear any of the filthy sounds down below, “Just a little stretched—I mean stressed out, is all.”
Aside from the fact that he smoked like a chimney and bumped far more Billy Joel than any man ever should, Mr. Miller was an A-OK friend—your father’s best friend.
All you needed was a ride home for the holidays.
From the second you’d set foot in his old Ford Bronco, you sensed this trek wouldn’t be an enjoyable one—thirty-hour road trips rarely ever were—but you leaned back in the passenger seat, propped your feet on the dashboard, and bopped along to ‘You May Be Right’ for the fifty-fifth fucking time that morning and smiled.
Joel frowned.
“Dogs off the dash,” he muttered, swatting at your bare, polished toes before you kicked his touch away.
“Shotgun puts her feet up, driver shuts his cakehole.”
That wasn’t even how the saying went. Oh well.
Joel slowed the car to sixty in the right-hand lane and smacked your ankles even harder. You yelped.
“Hey! You can’t hit a woman!”
“I’m not hitting a woman, I’m hitting a little gremlin,” Joel tried not to grin as he delivered another tart slap to your foot, and you almost jerked into the passenger door.
He momentarily righted the car before it went veering into the lane beside it, seized one of your feet, and tried to forcibly shove it off the dashboard, to no avail. As soon as he moved one limb, the other would glide right back up to take its place; Joel’s hands were big, but they weren’t massive enough to grab hold of both of your legs at once and make you stay the fuck there, Christ’s sake.
You liked to see him flustered. Brought a whole new hue to his tough, stubbled cheeks that folks rarely got to see. You squirmed in your seat when he reached for your side.
“Wh—NO! No tickling!” you cried, trying your hardest to roll away.
But the man was nothing if not a lover of cheap shots and filthy antics. He’d never played a clean game in his life and wasn’t about to start now.
His gaze darted from the road to your writhing form, pinned against the door and begging him to stop, while he pressed his foot harder on the gas and smirked.
“Too much?” he teased, “Say pretty, pretty please.”
In other words: give up. You would do no such thing. Your elbow jutted out to the side and clipped his fingertips sharply, and right before he could reach for you again, you were heaving yourself up and leaning almost halfway out the open window, trying to shy away from his touch.
“You fuckin’ nuts?! Get down!” he yelled.
“But it just may be a luuuunatic you’re lookin’ for!” you sang along to your old friend Billy Joel and pretended not to see, or hear, Joel Miller twisting desperately across the center console to take hold of your belt loops.
“Get—I swear to God, kid—DOWN!”
Joel had just managed to finagle a loose, feeble grip on your denim waistband as he tried to keep the car from soaring across three lanes of traffic, was just about to yank you back inside and give you a red-faced, fatherly lecture of a lifetime, when a sound startled you both.
A siren, and a set of flashing blue lights behind you.
You scrambled back in your seat and swallowed a lump in your throat the size of a peach. You turned off Mr. Long Island.
“Great! Good fucking going,” Joel griped beside you as he flicked on his blinker and started to pull off the road.
Dogs no longer on the dash—and a very pissed off cop pulling up behind your car on the shoulder of the road—you got the feeling this would be a long couple of days.
You hadn’t even made it outside the city limits of Boston.
Somewhere between Richmond and Roanoke, the two of you turned off the highway to find a place to sleep.
Joel had sat and stewed and ignored you for the customary duration of about two hours before choosing to re-engage in conversation, but deep down, you knew he was still kind of irked by that reckless driving citation he’d received. You couldn’t help but feel responsible.
Though it had been pretty funny when the state trooper had approached the car and pointedly asked, “What the hell was your daughter doin’ danglin’ outta this thing?!” Joel was nowhere near as amused as you, but he managed to roll with it and told the cop you were just trying to wave to the cows in the fields passing by.
The police officer hadn’t bought it.
He probably would have arrested you both if you hadn’t been such a coquettish flirt and somehow managed to persuade the man to let your ‘dad’ off with just a ticket.
You had hoped that would temper Joel’s anger some, but if anything, the sight only seemed to make him more mad at you. You weren’t sure why.
Presently, you pulled up to Balmaceda’s Mountain Lodge and cast a bleak look at the front office before you.
This looked nothing like the snug, homespun mountain retreat you’d been picturing in your mind. Ahead of your car, there stood a single-story concrete slab of a motel, tilted to one side and consumed almost entirely by the dark of night and wide open wilderness. A big block letter neon sign displaying the owner’s name in red now barely flickered above a muddied, pinkish glow. You groaned.
But before you could complain to your travel companion, Joel was already stepping out of the car and heading toward the main office. Hastily, you followed after.
“No way, Miller. No fucking way are we staying in Murder Motel,” you hissed.
“Bal-ma-ceda’s,” Joel intoned with a maddeningly accurate lilt, ignoring your protests, “I think that’s a Chilean name.”
He swung the door wide for you to enter and pretended not to see you shoot him a glare as you strolled in.
“Needin’ a room?”
The lady behind the counter barely graced your entrance with a look.
“Yes ma’am. Whatever you got,” Joel replied, smiling.
“Smoking or non?”
“Smoking, please.”
Of course he would. You could already feel the fetid stench of American Spirits wafting up to your nostrils.
“King or two Queens?”
“Queens,” you and Joel answered in unison.
At first, the woman nodded, flicked through a rolodex on her desk and nosed through a couple yellowed pages in front of her. Then, frowning, she looked back up.
“Sorry. All the Queens are took up. Rest of the rooms are being fumigated but the one—” she tapped a manicured nail on the motel map, “—and it’s got a King. That okay?”
No. No, it was not. You opened your mouth to speak but were shortly cut off by the woman before you could.
“Of course, if you don’t want dad hoggin’ up all the sheets, there’s a pull-out sofa for him to sleep on.”
The sixty-something desk clerk offered a smile, and you likely would’ve returned the favor if you hadn’t been so deeply nauseated at the thought of everyone around you assuming that Joel was your father. You chanced a look at the man, who seemed equally uncomfortable as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. You sighed.
“Alright.”
Defeated, but marginally pleased that you wouldn’t have to share a bed with your ‘old man’ that night.
Joel paid and signed the papers without another word, or look, to you or the woman. By the looks of it, he just wanted to book the room and get the hell out as fast as possible, his brow pinched inward and lips zipped tight.
He’d turned to leave so quick that he was almost approaching the door when the lady called out,
“Mr. Miller! You forgot your keys.”
You hardly needed to steal a glance in Joel’s direction to see that he was flushed. Even blushing a bit.
You strode over to the counter and intercepted the keys she was dangling for someone to take, then politely, finally, were able to manage a smile and a thank-you.
You turned back to Joel.
“Here you go, Daddy.”
In a blink, the small silver set was pelted in his hands, and the man nearly dropped them—and lost his balance. By some miracle, Joel managed to catch them between his big sweaty palms and step aside just in time for you to saunter past him, straight through the door.
“I’m starved,” you announced, then, averting your face to hide your smug expression and lower your voice a bit, “Feed me, Daddy.”
In that moment, Joel thanked every last one of his lucky stars that his pants were made of denim, and that the denim itself was thick. And that the woman at the front desk was swift to turn her attention back to her tabloid magazine, away from you two, and didn’t look up again.
If they weren’t, and if she hadn’t, it would’ve been plain as day to see that Joel Miller was sporting a hard-on.
A huge, swollen hard-on that made it almost impossible for him to walk and haul luggage and try to keep apace with your steps as you sailed along the gravel drive. So big the man had to will himself not to limp, not to make it known how stiff he was, until he eventually failed at both.
Once you’d grabbed your bags back at the car and made it up to your place, you entered Room 102 with a lightness you hadn’t felt all day. Joel slogged behind with all of the baggage and a boner beneath his jeans that probably could’ve cut sheet metal, if needed.
He was fucked. No doubt he’d have to enlist in the Witness Protection Program after your real father found out that his best friend had gotten visibly bricked up for you, his one and only daughter. How awkward holiday dinners were bound to be from that point on; how humiliating it seemed to him to pop a chub at a thing as dumb as saying ‘daddy’; how batshit insane it was that he hadn’t gotten laid in almost a year, and you were still, somehow, the only one he wanted to break the dry spell.
Joel was better than this. A fucking pro at self-control and all things dirty old guys didn’t do. He could chill out.
He just needed to rub one out in the bathroom, fast.
So, while you flopped down on the bed, Joel dropped every bag and made a beeline for the toilet. Slammed the door so hard he probably could’ve knocked the thing off its hinges, but he didn’t care. He was wrestling his belt, button, and zip off in a second. Then haphazardly turning on the sink to mask the sounds of all that was to come. No pun intended.
He yanked his thick, throbbing, rock-hard member out of its confines and had to hiss through his teeth to keep from moaning. The sensitivity he felt was unbearable, the front of his boxers already painted with pre-cum.
Gingerly, Joel wrapped one hand around his cock and raised the other to anchor himself against the sink. He slid his palm, which he’d just barely lubricated with some spit of his, up and down the shaft and groaned. A welt of pleasure formed in his chest, and he rubbed even faster. And, in spite of his legs feeling a bit like jelly, he stood there and fucked his fist and wished with every bit of himself that it was your warm, lush folds opening around him instead. Stifled a groan and would’ve paid any sum of money to hear your moans spilling out while he thrusted. The act here was more mindless and reflexive than anything else—jerking himself and soaking in the sharp, fiery sensations that shot up through his body.
To him, at least, it was all purely physical. Mechanical.
Nowhere near as euphoric and otherworldly as it would have been with your hand actually curled around him.
Or your lips. Or your tongue. Or your tight, wet cunt.
Fuck, he needed a shower.
Blindly, Joel moved inside the tub to his left and yanked the curtain shut over a space almost two times too small for his frame. He turned on the water and made it hot. Then he fisted his cock again, pressed his head to the shower wall, and pumped himself as fast as his forearm would allow him—trying all the while not to think of you.
You, with all your wily, shrewd ways were still the daughter of the man who guzzled down IPAs with him at the local dive bar every Thursday night over jalapeño poppers and buffalo dip. The man who clapped him over the shoulder and shook his frame with the kind of good-natured sneer that only a best friend could make, ‘A man as suave as you oughta get some tail every now and then. Go find you a gal and fuck her brains out, Joel!’
But the only ‘gal’ Joel wanted to rail was the one who called that man ‘dad’—and just called him ‘daddy’ for the first time that night—and he hated himself for it.
Sparks of pleasure continued to ignite across his lower half as he jerked himself in the shallowest, short pumps. He flicked his hand back and forth, circled the tip with his palm, and felt a groan start to claw at his throat. He tried to picture any face but yours but failed miserably.
All he could think, see, or breathe was you—imagining your lips enveloping the head of his cock, jerking him softly, taking him down to the back of your throat and bobbing that pretty little face up and down his length.
That sweaty, desperate fist of his just wasn’t cutting it.
For the first time, Joel couldn’t make himself cum.
Now even more pent-up and pussywhipped than he’d been when he first started, he slammed his palm against the wall and flung the shower handle in the opposite direction—turning the water as cold as it could get.
Five minutes passed, and the icy spray had scarcely left a dent in his raging erection. Joel stepped out of the shower, wrapped a towel around his hips, and stood in front of the mirror to see that he was still very hard.
Fuck this.
He bunched his strewn aside clothing together and held it over his crotch, discreet as he could, and waddled out.
And, either the temperature inside had just jumped fifty degrees or the world outside had just caught fire, but Joel’s face was flooded with heat the second he exited.
You were sprawled across the bed wearing nothing but a thin white tank, shorts, and fuzzy socks—and a scowl.
“Sofa’s broke,” you said.
Joel blinked.
“Broke?”
You nodded toward the busted sleeper couch at the far end of the room, torn to pieces and kicked a half-dozen times since you’d tried unfolding it in Joel’s absence.
The jaws of the old steel frame had simply refused to give way, and now the sofa was so out of sorts and misshapen that you had no hope of putting it back the way that it was. You sank further in the bed and pointed to the floor.
“You can sleep there.”
Joel eyed a flat sheet and a pillow laid across the carpet, visibly coated in dust and grime. He turned back to you.
“You’re smokin’ crack if you think I’m doin’ that.”
“Be grateful I’m not making you sleep in the car, daddy.”
Again with that fucking name. Joel tightened his grip on the clothes he was holding over his dick and tried to fight a thousand dirty thoughts threatening to seep back into his head.
Unfortunately, the dirty thoughts had hands—and were beating his ass to a bloody pulp when he first caught sight of your nipples poking up through your shirt. Just when the man might have started to drool or else begun humping that pile of clothes, you snapped your fingers.
“Miller Lite. Eyes up here.”
Fuck.
“Got a…stain on your shirt,” he grumbled in his defense.
“Shut up. Now, we can flip for the bed if you want.”
By turns, Joel’s focus was slowly coming back, and the man was trying like hell to find a place on your face that didn’t arouse him to no end—to help ease the intrusive thoughts and all. So far his search had yielded nothing.
“Like, uh…coin?” he asked. Endearingly stupid.
“Heads, I win,” you said, nodding, “Tails…”
Joel swallowed.
“Tails, what?”
“Tails, you tell me what was going on in your head when you were jacking off to the thought of me just now.”
Your words came out in a hurry, almost too quick for Joel to comprehend. He still heard them, though, and nearly choked on his spit when he tried to swallow again.
“I wasn’t—”
“You were,” you bit back, “I heard you moan my name.”
Joel didn’t remember that. Joel didn’t remember much of anything that had taken place in that bathroom apart from being implacably horny and unable to bust a nut. You stepped off the bed to stand in front of him.
“What? Cat got your tongue all of a sudden?” you sneered, “Think I’m just gonna run off and tell my da—”
“Don’t,” Joel’s response was immediate, insistent. Then, setting his jaw in a way you knew too well, contemplating about fifty different thoughts in the span of two seconds, he pressed the clothes pile to his crotch even tighter and sighed, “Don’t…do that, please. I’ll take the floor.”
You raised both brows, mildly amused.
“I said we could flip for it. C’mon,” you said.
“Ain’t got any coins.” Joel was already retreating to his makeshift sleeping pad on the floor, eyeing the shag carpet for any traces of blood, piss, or rodent droppings. Before he made it too far, you reached for his arm.
Joel tensed under your touch.
“We can try something else.” Your voice was cloying, almost too sweet to be trusted.
It had just dawned on you then how bare the man standing before you was. Clad in only his towel, every taut, toned inch of Joel’s body was there on display—coated with sweat and a fine sheen from the shower, his skin practically shone in the glow of the bedside lamp. You watched him shift in place and saw the towel around his hips stir along with it. He never let those old clothes in his hands move an inch away from his groin, though.
“What game?” he asked.
“Something my roommates showed me,” you began, “‘Too Hot.’”
“Too Hot?”
“You heard me.”
“What, like— like Spin the Bottle, or some bullshit?”
Joel could just picture it: a gaggle of your college pals huddled around an old, empty bottle of Bud Light as you watched it turn circles again, and again, and again on the dorm’s linoleum floor. You tugging at the sleeve of some oversized man-child from a frat Joel couldn’t name, leaning in and beaming like the insatiable flirt he knew you to be, asking that boy if he wanted to sneak off somewhere and let his tongue take a tour of your mouth.
The thought made Joel’s stomach turn.
Presently, you wrinkled your nose up at him.
“Spin the Bottle? That’s rookie shit,” you made another face reminding Joel, once more, how little he knew of the life you lived 1,900 miles away from Austin, at college.
He still couldn’t shake the thought of those boys.
“No, Joel,” you shook your head, drawing your syllables out for effect, “‘Too Hot’ is just…edging your opponent.”
Joel’s throat tightened, and he tried not to let his eyes widen too much, but he was almost certain they had. Before he even knew the words he was saying, the thought of your father taking his fist—or a shotgun—to his face made him blurt out in response, stammering,
“We can’t— I can’t— can’t lay one finger on you, darlin’, you know that. Your dad would murder me.”
To his surprise, the smile on your face only widened.
“Bingo,” You stuck one pretty finger in his face like he’d made the world’s finest discovery, “You can’t touch me.”
“Huh?”
“That’s the whole fuckin’ game, Miller. We can kiss, but we can’t touch each other with our hands. First one to crack and grope the other player loses the game.”
Your expression now was something just shy of sadistic. Watching him with keen, narrowed eyes and a wicked little grin, it seemed you were half-expecting him to fold on the spot. No way was this a game your college friends taught you; you just wanted to play him. Make him lose.
And Joel was a man who couldn’t stand to lose, no matter the stakes.
You watched that failure-averse glint eclipse every shade of lust in his eyes, at least momentarily. Suddenly, Joel didn’t look so fearful of your father’s wrath or what lurid implications this night might bring—he just had to win.
“You suck, you know that?” he said, at last, dropping his makeshift shield from the front of his towel and knocking you flat on the bed with a single push.
“You wish I would,” you grumbled, heart still jumping up in your ribcage all the same. You scooted back.
“I bet you will.”
The man was a menace when he had the will to be.
At length, Joel crawled over your body and made room for himself snug between your legs. The bulge that he’d been trying to hide all this time was now heavy on your center, pressed tight to your stupid-thin shorts and the panties you’d conveniently forgotten to wear. He grinned.
“Are tongues allowed?” he hummed.
“Everything but hands,” you shrugged.
Try as you might to play it cool with him, though, every fibre of your being was alight with desire for the man on top of you. You flitted a look between his soft brown eyes and slightly parted lips and could’ve melted in that bed had Joel not lowered his head and dove right in for it.
His mouth was far gentler than expected. Reverent, even. He slotted his lips between your own and made a fine, delicate showing of just how tender and adept he could be while imparting his slow, sweet kisses. Skirted his tongue across your bottom lip before driving it inside, coaxed your mouth open to him in a matter of seconds. He was graceful. And patient. And lithe with that tongue.
Joel Miller was showing off for you—the bastard.
“Sweet little thing,” he groaned against your mouth, “Ain’t felt a tongue this shy on mine in a long time.”
Of course he’d try taunting you, too. Same old Joel.
“What’s it been? Two years since a woman let you touch her?”
“Twenty since I felt one this good.”
You would’ve liked to reach around the back of his head and seize a clump of that thick, dark, grey-speckled hair. But you couldn’t. Your hands remained plastered to the duvet beneath you, and then, just slightly, your fingers started to curl inward. Joel’s palms laid flat on either side of your head.
It felt weird; mashing lips, teeth, and tongue with a man who’d been alive about twenty years longer than you and went further back with your father than you could even remember. What felt even stranger was the fact that you couldn’t touch him, or take him between your two hands.
Joel’s tongue continued roaming every contour and crevice of your mouth like he had an ache for this taste that he just couldn’t quench. Your tongue tried keeping up, too, but frankly, you were too preoccupied by a pulse between your legs—your parts and Joel’s practically throbbing in time with one another—to work just as hard.
Even through the towel, he felt huge.
You whined when Joel started to grind up against you, and shortly, those fingers of yours that had just been grazing the sheets before were gripping them. Tight.
“Earlier…” Joel murmured between kisses, hips working a vicious pace against you, “You said you were hungry.”
“Yeah?”
“Sorry—starved,” he corrected himself, and you almost could’ve smacked him for being so smug about it.
“What’s your point, Miller?” You were fisting the sheets beneath your palms and gyrating your whole body to meet the motions of the man currently dry-humping you.
All of a sudden, Joel’s movements stopped.
He peered down at you with a curious look.
“I could go for something to eat, too,” he declared.
You blinked. Stared. And just when you’d opened your mouth to say, well, maybe you should’ve grabbed us a bite to eat when we passed that Burger King on the way in, dipshit, Joel’s torso started to move down your own. Slow and painstaking as ever as he made sure not to graze one inch of your skin with his hands while he did.
You leapt back against the headboard, almost cracking your skull on the wood.
“Joel— Joel,” you hissed as the heels of your feet dug into the mattress below, and Joel just sank even further.
Then he was slowly, scrupulously pinching the fabric of your shorts between each index finger and thumb, gaze trained close on your lower half to make sure he never touched you, and he started pulling it down.
“This isn’t—” you started again, only to be offered a soft shush and an even quieter rustle of the cotton material sliding down both your legs.
You dropped your head on a pillow and probably could’ve burned a hole in the ceiling with the wide-eyed look you fixed on one spot, in utter disbelief of what he was doing.
“No panties, huh?” Joel observed. Gentle puffs of his breath were now fanning across the whole bare expanse of your lower half, and your pyjama bottoms were shortly discarded. His face was just hovering there, and you could tell that he knew you knew by the way he lowered his voice and brought his head to have only the tips of his chin stubble grazing your abdomen, “You needed this.”
Some lone remnant of ire flashed in your eyes.
“I don’t need shit from you, Miller. You need me. And you’re gonna lose this.”
Even though your gaze was still trained to the ceiling, you could feel him grin against your delicate skin.
“Hey,” he mumbled, “You said tongues are fair game.”
Fuck me, you wanted to keen the second his lips made contact with your…lower ones, and Joel swiftly got to kissing you there just as he’d done to you above. Hot, soft, and tender as the first rays of morning sun heralding a new day, he sponged his lips across the seam of your heat and made as if to massage the place, gently.
You could hear as well as you could feel that effusion of desire leaking out of your cunt and pooling around the man’s mouth. How eager he was to lap it up with his tongue, to grace your ears with those delectable squelching sounds, he caressed every inch between your folds and only sank deeper when you whined above him.
“Joel.”
Right now you couldn’t look down. Not with the way your legs were already trembling around his head, your chest heaving with the fastest, most frenzied breaths. You’d sooner die before you watched him unravel you like this.
“Darlin’, you’ve got a man soaked.” Some sound almost resembling a chuckle reverberated between your thighs and sent a brand new shockwave of pleasure in its wake, “You like it when daddy uses his mouth on this needy, wet cunt, don’t you?”
Yes, yes, you did. But your answer was nonverbal: a sharp curl of your toes and a grip between your fingers so tight across the sheets that he saw you veritably could’ve torn the linens in two.
Neither of you had laid a hand on the other.
Joel was perfectly content to make do with his mouth for now.
“Got those sheets all balled up, you’re fixin’ to rip ‘em.”
“My tongue make ya feel that good, honey?”
“Poor thing can’t even breathe it feels so nice, right?”
So he’d seen you hiccup, try to steady your breaths, and fail before succumbing to a string of lewd moans. Joel saw you, and knew how you felt, as if he’d had his own secret gauge for how good his mouth was doing you in.
Surely, he could’ve sensed the words before they ever came out of your mouth.
“Touch me, Joel, please.”
His tongue was just then making a lazy circuit around your clit, mouth saturated in your juices, when he smiled.
“Nah.”
Curt and cruel as ever. Then:
“No matter how fuckin’ perfect this pussy is, I ain’t losin’.”
He completed the arc with his tongue and took your bud between his lips, sucking in. You almost screamed.
“Motherfucker.”
“Miller, baby, Miller. Close, though.”
And just when you thought he’d had his fill of cheeky games, Joel sucked your clit even harder and flicked the tip of his tongue against your bundle of nerves until you were writhing, crying on the bed above him,
“JoelbabypleasebabyfuckmefuckohfuckitfeelsoGOOD.”
It was a bit tough to decipher through your strangled, desperate moans, but Joel got the picture. Heeding your requests, he kept at that pace above your clit and slid his tongue back and forth, over and over, lapping up your honeyed glaze like it was the finest thing he’d tasted. Scruff harsh against your thighs, lips soft in a perfect suction, Joel Miller had your head swimming in desire and your better judgment dissipating before your eyes.
At the first sign of bliss, your muscles clenched, and the last linchpin of your resolve crumbled right along with it.
You carded your hands through Joel’s hair and grabbed hold of those locks with a full-throated moan, using his head for shameless leverage to buck and rut your hips into his face as you rode out the peaks of your high.
And, ever the gentleman, Joel fought like hell to keep his lips and tongue connected to your core while you writhed above him—this time at liberty to work his arms under your thighs and hold them since you’d given up the game. He would’ve smiled if he weren’t so narrowly preoccupied, seeing you thrash about and moan out loud and fuck his face like it was the last thing tethering you to earth. He liked seeing you come undone beneath him.
A bit too much, if he were being completely honest.
While you made the languid descent from ecstasy and your breaths were still slowing in your chest on the bed, Joel was back on his feet. Padding toward the bathroom door, slamming it shut behind him as he had before. When he returned in a minute or two, he was clothed. He fished for his keys in the pockets of his snug, stonewash Wranglers and made a face. He didn’t look at you.
“I’ll be back,” he said, starting toward the door.
“Back?” You sat up, perplexed, “The hell ya goin’?”
“Out.”
This motherfucker.
“Did I miss something? Were we not just seconds away from getting down to some how’s-your-father?”
Joel visibly grimaced at your choice of sex slang. Under the circumstances, you would concede it wasn’t ideal.
“O-kay, sorry,” you returned, crossing your legs out in front of you, “I mean…don’t you want me to get you off?”
Again, Joel’s expression twisted into something just shy of overwrought, weary, and repulsed—a look that you couldn’t begin to understand, for the life of you—and you watched him flit his eyes from the bed to the door, again and again, seeming to be pining for the sweet release of leaving your shared motel room as soon as possible.
You’d been with your fair share of emotionally avoidant fucksticks, but most of them didn’t ghost until after they’d gotten their nut and felt no reason to stick around. Joel’s exit seemed premature. Strange.
“So you don’t want to fuck?” you asked, deadpan. You’d never been one for beating around the bush.
“Can’t,” Joel shook his head, bringing one hand to rest on his hip while the other fiddled uncomfortably with his car keys, “Your dad…that’s just— that’s crossing a line.”
“And being nose-deep in my cunt isn’t?”
You stared him down, incredulous.
So now he decides to claim the moral high ground, after coaxing you to soak every inch of his beard and cum all over his tongue? How very fucking charitable of him.
“That’s different,” Joel retorted, rubbing his knuckles in a nervous tic, “That was a game. I won. We’re done.”
You set your jaw just tight enough to keep your tongue in check and refrained from firing off a brash, unsavory remark. It wouldn’t do either of you a lick of good.
You let him leave. Joel had told you that you could keep the bed, he didn’t mind, and then he slipped out the door without another word. Leaving you cold and alone on the soiled, tawdry floral bedspread of Room 102, wondering what the hell had gone so wrong in the span of the last five minutes. From the center of the bed, you could see Joel’s Bronco pull off into the silent, frigid night.
You were still hungry as shit.
Rolling onto your side and rummaging through the bags at the end of the bed, you found nothing even remotely edible—save for, literally, one of Joel’s brownie edibles—and you groaned out loud. You threw your shorts back on, stepped into your old Luccheses, and did a quick circuit around the room to find your jacket before you left. As it turned out, you’d forgotten it back in Joel’s car.
You dropped to your knees and went back to tearing through luggage, searching for some suitable outerwear.
By the end of that second suitcase foray, though, you found you had nothing of your own that was hefty enough to brave the below-freezing temperatures outside, so you had to settle on a dark brown, fleece-lined coat from Joel’s bag. It was durable enough but about four sizes too big—and reeked of cigarette smoke.
You trudged outside, not really knowing where you were going or what you were hoping to find. Your stomach growled, and a few cool gusts of wind came to lap at the bare skin of your thighs where Joel’s spit was still drying.
You stepped a few feet out and turned toward the road.
Bal-ma-ceda’s, you read the seedy neon sign and heard Joel’s enunciation of the name ring between your ears.
What you wouldn’t give for the greasiest, girthiest, barely-FDA-approved 7-Eleven corndog to kill your thoughts about that sleazy little fucker right now.
You started toward the convenience store across the street but quickly found that it was closed—along with every other establishment on that stretch of road. You glanced toward the front office and caught a glimpse of your old friend dozing behind the counter. The speakers outside were playing a tinny rendition of ‘Piano Man.’
Just as you tried not to barf in your mouth at the sound and silently primed yourself for a long, long trek through the boonies to the nearest gas station, you stopped.
In a compact little breezeway that cleaved the motel in two, you saw light pool around an old vending machine.
You almost fell over yourself trying to get to it.
Never mind the fact that there were about half a dozen ragtag teens decked out in camouflage and comically tattered denim cutoffs crowding the area. All absently smoking and blowing o’s, or else sipping on cans of beer in the cramped, concrete passage, they looked bored. A couple lazy smiles broke out upon seeing your approach.
You nodded back and sidled up to the snack dispenser.
Then you zeroed in on the first sugar-packed products you could find: a pack of sour gummy worms and a bottle of Sprite—no, Mountain Dew—and a chocolate bar. Maybe a bag of Cheetos or Fritos thrown in for good measure. All of the snacks were probably stale as shit and hadn’t seen a replacement since dinosaurs roamed the earth, but you didn’t care. You were prying singles out of your wallet and salivating before you could think.
“Gotta kick it a couple times ‘fore it’ll spit anything out,” one of the boys lounging around you piped up.
You’d just inserted a couple bills and were waiting for the machine to dispense your gummy worms, when the thing appeared to stall. Stuck in its tracks, like he’d said.
You raised a brow and tapped the toe of your boot to the appliance, turning toward the one who’d addressed you,
“Like this?”
“Nope. Nuh-uh.” The redhead got up and strode over, where his much bigger, square-toed boot delivered a kick to the vending machine that almost toppled it.
A bag of Trolli Sour Brite Crawlers dropped out.
The kid—who actually happened to be nineteen years old and a student at some college a few states away, along with his whole group of friends—was kind enough to repeat the same ritual for all of your treats. You’d just gathered your stuff together and were about to thank him for his services, when the guy presently stuck a hand in your direction and introduced himself as Connor.
Then Blake. Then Micah. Then Wyatt. Then Trent. All traveling with their team for a tournament that weekend.
Then a beer was held out to you. You declined. A little homemade deer jerky? No, thanks. How ‘bout some Oreos? I’m good on snacks, really. Well, shit, you seem a little high-strung, why don’t you take a hit right here? And Connor pulled his dab pen out from his pocket.
Well.
You hadn’t smoked in a minute. You might’ve decided to take a bite out of Joel’s brownie back in the room, but you hadn’t known how strong it was—or where the fuck he’d gotten it. The pen this stranger was offering you was one that looked similar enough to the kinds you’d seen passed among your friends a hundred times before that you felt comfortable taking one hit, maybe. Two max.
You felt stupid as soon as you’d sucked in every breath, but you ended up taking four hits in total.
You hacked and sputtered and blinked up at Connor, who was grinning big.
“Alright, hardass,” he chuckled, taking back the device.
“Daddy know you smoke?” Wyatt cut in with a sneer.
Daddy?
There was no fucking way Joel looked that old for everyone to think he was your father. You inwardly cringed.
“Y’all been spying on us?”
“Ain’t shit else to do around here.” That was Blake.
You tried to swallow but found your throat much drier than it had been before. And not just from the weed.
“He doesn’t care,” you said, managing a shrug.
It wasn’t entirely false. Joel did give no fucks about you.
“Dude looks like a— a fuckin’ DEA agent or something,” Micah said, amused.
“Like that guy from Narcos,” Trent snickered.
You’d never seen the show and didn’t particularly care to know what law enforcement archetype Joel appeared to embody—in fact, you didn’t want to discuss him at all.
Just as the first fuzzy beads of warmth began to roll into your head, you were already planning your exit strategy. Thank Connor for his selfless assistance and cannabis, bid the group a good night and the best of luck in their upcoming lax tournament, and be done with this shit, ASAP. You were still trying to steady your tongue in the bone-dry cavern that had become your mouth when one of them kicked at a near-empty case of beer at their feet.
“We’re about out.” Micah announced.
Seconds later, Connor was turning to you.
“Wanna…restock in our room?” he asked, the corners of his lips twisting into a smile as he looked down at you.
You crinkled your nose and shook your head. Connor leaned his whole weight against the vending machine between you, seeming unconvinced by your answer.
“I don’t believe you,” he said, “I think you wanna come.”
“Do I?”
You only entertained the backtalk because your brain was currently swimming in a far-off, pleasant void of contentment and indifference. Every sharp edge dulled in your mind, to an extent, and your body at ease. You didn’t have to be home to anyone, anytime, and Joel was probably halfway plastered at a dive bar down the road. You didn’t move back when Connor stepped forward.
He wasn’t even that close. You could leave whenever you pleased.
“For sure. I think you’d enjoy our shitty beer and even shittier company. We can smoke some more, too.”
The man certainly had a way with words. He muscled in a bit closer.
“You think so?” you hummed.
“I do. I really do.”
“And you’re willing to risk the wrath of my dad if he finds out where I am?” You made it sound like a challenge.
“Wyatt can fight.”
Connor motioned toward his friend, who was mindlessly chomping on deer jerky in his lawn chair off to the side, glossy-eyed and hammered. You couldn’t help but laugh.
“Okay, but make sure he’s ready. I can only stay for five.”
Connor seemed wounded as he put a hand over his heart in mock dismay.
“Only five minutes?” he griped, “Why not ten? Or twenty?”
“Six.”
“Fifteen at least.”
You folded your arms over your chest and felt an opaque haze beginning to settle over your brain. It wasn’t quite a high, just a lightness of being that drove tender little streaks up your spine. Like Joel, tickling at your sides while you writhed around in the front seat of his car.
This time you took the beer Connor offered and cracked it open. He seemed pleased—and taken by surprise—to see you down the drink in spite of the overflowing foam.
“Ten,” you returned once you’d swallowed it all.
“Twenty.”
“Honey?”
The last voice didn’t belong to anyone in the group. You turned on your heels and almost coughed up your beer.
It was Joel, of course.
Standing at the threshold of the breezeway like a surly, disconcerted parent, of all things, watching you like he’d just caught you red-handed in the most horrific of acts.
Clutched in one hand was a Burger King takeout bag.
“Daddy. Hi,” you breathed.
Apparently your attempt at casual came across more slurred than anything else, because Joel stepped closer.
‘Let’s go’ was all he said. No accusations, no threats, no outward displays of emotion found anywhere on his face. Just a gruff ‘Let’s go,’ and a free hand reaching for yours.
Instinctively, you recoiled.
“We’re just talking,” you said, gesturing behind you. If you could have seen the uniform looks of discomfort and agita, damn near treading on fear, among them all, you probably wouldn’t have bothered.
“Good. Now you’re leaving,” Joel supplied in a moment.
He was blissfully indifferent. Asserting his will in a space where, less than one hour ago, he couldn’t bear to share a room with you, much less impart a shred of dignity or care to your condition. He had nerve, that was for sure.
“I’m not leaving,” you said, a touch more venom in your voice than you intended.
Joel raised both eyebrows.
“No?”
His expression, directed to you, was infuriating.
“Fuck no,” you answered.
A few of the guys behind you sucked in a breath as if to say, ‘Okaaaaay, time to go!’ but then Joel pressed,
“For someone who wants to be treated like an adult—”
“Adult?” you scoffed, “You treat me plenty like an adult, Joel. Just whenever the designation suits your needs, huh?”
No one moved.
Well, Joel flinched a bit. Then he squeezed your wrist.
Truly, you never failed to underestimate the man’s brute strength when it came to carrying you off at will—but there you were, being yanked behind the big, bad Joel Miller as he hauled you off to who-knows-where. You scowled but didn’t bother to steal a glance behind you at the beer, boys, or vending machine treats you were being forced to abandon. All you could do was stare a hole through Joel’s skull and tug back—largely ineffectually.
“You’re an ass,” you spat, digging your heels into the gravel terrain as he pulled you along.
“You’re a brat,” he fired back.
In a minute, the exterior of Room 102 was coming into view; Joel was practically toting your ass like a knapsack.
“You just abandoned me back here, Miller. You— you don’t get to pretend like you give a fuck now.”
“I was getting you Burger King, for Christ’s sake.”
Joel was fiddling with the lock now. Simultaneously juggling your hand, the paper bag, and a set of keys that didn’t seem keen on cooperating, he huffed, disgruntled.
“Even got you those—” Joel grunted, thrusting his shoulder into the door, “—fuckin’ curly fries you wanted.”
Your jaw slackened. That was supposed to make it okay?
“Joel, FUCK your curly fries!” you cried, “Are you seriously still trying to play good guy right now?”
“If that’s what you—”
“No. You don’t get to tonguefuck your friend’s daughter and buy her a goddamn Double Whopper and act like it’s all good. Sure as hell don’t get to dictate who I talk to.”
Like he had before, Joel cringed to hear your crude language—particularly as it related to what he had done to you but didn’t seem capable of owning up to just yet. You couldn’t bear another second of that look.
“Fuck this. I’m sleeping in the car,” you grumbled.
You thrashed your arm out of Joel’s hold and started off in the other direction. Picked up your pace when you heard the bag of fast food drop to the ground and Joel trotting after you. Calling your name.
Even at your most brisk, you knew you couldn’t outstrip those big, beefy legs of his. He gained on you in seconds.
So you took off running.
Joel gripped his side, thinking, ‘Aw, hell’ before breaking out in a sprint just as fast.
You were pissed at how far he’d parked this time around. You caught sight of the old Bronco perched a ways away from your room and almost opted to change course on the spot, to the front office—maybe dive behind the counter and beg that poor old woman to give you another place to stay—but you kept at it, anyway. For once, you were glad to have had Joel beat by so many years, because the man’s endurance was, evidently, shit.
“Hey, s— stop!” Joel shouted after you.
Fat chance, Miller.
You closed in on the car. Joel rarely ever locked it.
Your hand secured a grip on the door and jerked it back. It swung right open.
Just as Joel was pulling up the rear, you had the driver’s side slammed shut and your palm laid flat on the door lock knob—shoving the little black lever down each time Joel tried to unlock the car.
It was a fruitless endeavor, you knew; you couldn’t keep the man out all night so long as he had the car keys in his hands. You could piss him off some more, though.
“You won the fucking game, just take the bed!” you said, straining against the door with your weight pressed hard on that knob. Joel was furiously working to get it open.
“I mean it, Joel, I-I don’t wanna sleep in there wi— shit.”
You leapt back in your seat as Joel flung the door wide open. You scrambled across the center console, made a desperate grasp at the passenger door to climb out the other side, but your ankle was taken between two hands. Just as you tried to slink out on the opposite end of the vehicle, Joel pulled you right back in. Flipped the center console up so you were sprawled flat across the bucket seat at the front of his car and pinned underneath him.
Then he pulled you over his lap.
Not into it—nestled on top of his crotch, with your ass pointing up in the air. Joel’s big ass Carhartt jacket was bunching up around your torso, collar crowding you up to the chin. Your twisted just far enough to meet his gaze.
“What do you want from me?” Joel demanded, “What?”
You stared up at him, poring over your options in the span of what seemed like two milliseconds. Wondering, silently, why he wasn’t touching you anywhere.
“I want you to fuck me, Joel,” you replied at length.
Seated between driver’s side and shotgun, Joel looked perfectly unperturbed, raking a hand through his silver-flecked hair and letting his gaze trail up to the ceiling, as if considering something of grave importance.
“And what after that?” he asked, still staring at the roof.
Before you could reply, though, he was forging ahead,
“What happens when I can’t even look your dad in the eye knowin’ I’ve been balls deep in his little girl, and every fuckin’ time I’m over at your house or you’re over at mine, I’ll be thinkin’— no, dreamin’ of what it was like to have you wrapped around my cock, screamin’ my name and takin’ it so deep inside you like I know ya want it?”
You paused a beat. Had to bat your eyes a couple times to rid your head of those filthy thoughts he’d planted.
“We could, uh— fuck…then…too,” you ventured quietly.
Joel grinned at the spot he was watching, humorless.
“That easy, huh?” he mumbled.
Again, before you could speak, Joel continued,
“I can’t even cum with you on my mind,” he said, and for a split second you thought that might mean he wasn’t attracted to you in that way, when he swallowed hard and closed his eyes, “I’ve tried beating off twice today—in the bathroom and as soon as I left earlier—and I can’t…even get close with you here. You fuck with my head.”
You fuck with my head.
Without meaning to, your hips stirred over his, and Joel audibly groaned. At last, he dropped a palm to your ass and gave it a taut smack, and your whole lower half reverberated with the sensation—and a welt of pleasure.
“You think I want it to be like this?” Joel said, voice strained, fingers kneading over the flesh he’d just struck, “Think I enjoy havin’ the biggest set’a fuckin’ blue balls known to man whenever I’m around ya, honey?”
You winced when you were spanked again, letting out a whimper into the seat’s charcoal-colored upholstery.
“I can help with that,” you hissed, feeling him massage the spot once more. You arched your back into his touch.
“No. You’d make it worse,” Joel shook his head, “Once I get a feel inside this sweet cunt I’ll never wanna stop.”
At the soft rumble of his words, you felt yourself growing aroused. Noticeably so. Your skin broke out in broad swaths of gooseflesh every place he touched, and in the wake of those hands grew a pool of dull warmth. Sticky, slick, soak-straight-through-your-shorts sort of warmth.
Joel’s hand hovered about an inch from the source.
“We’d get bored eventually. It’d be fine,” you said, words crawling off of your parched tongue with some difficulty now. That faint, heady feeling from before had become a high, finally, and it seemed every sense you possessed was ablaze with desire. You were barely able to breathe, much less speak, but there you went, rambling anyway,
“Soon enough, you’ll get over the thrill of screwing me, and I’ll find a nice, polite, age-appropriate boy to spend the rest of my life having nice, polite sex with, and we can both pretend like this never happened. Deal?”
It was quite possibly the dumbest offer you’d ever made.
Joel slotted his hand between your legs to rub against that dampened patch of fabric. You almost jumped.
“Yeah? Just fuck around and forget about it?” Joel spoke, and you truly couldn’t tell if it was a sneer or real sincerity, as your eyes were squeezing shut, “Is that all you want from me, sugar?”
His fingers slipped beneath your shorts and made swift, easy contact with your heat. You buried your face in the seat and tried to muffle the sounds that were clawing their way out of your chest, while your hips tilted up.
“Please, Joel,” you whimpered.
By now, your head was spinning, in a daze, that you almost didn’t notice him tug your shorts down your legs. Or take them off at your ankles. You did get a sense of when he was breaching your folds—taking two, meaty fingers and trailing them up the slick glaze of your cunt.
“Doesn’t seem like this pussy wants ‘nice and polite’ to me,” Joel murmured, eyes gradually fastening to that lovely, exposed spot pointed up to him. He wet his lips, “Needs somethin’ else, doesn’t she, darlin’?”
Speaking of your pussy in third-person wasn’t something you ever thought could be hot, but coming from Joel? While his fingers traced up and down the seal of your entrance, tips circling your tight, hot, throbbing hole? Arousing didn’t even begin to cover it.
You pushed your ass back, and Joel chuckled above you.
“Wanna fuck daddy’s fingers? Is that it?” he taunted.
No, no, no—you wanted his cock buried inside you. But now you just needed reprieve from that ache, and your senses were practically on the fritz trying to get it.
Your hips rocked back and forth over his fingers—sliding the two digits in and out of your cunt with each motion—and, as much as Joel would’ve liked to make you beg and wait a little, your desperate pleas as you fucked his hand were more than enough to satiate him. He worked his free arm under your body and pinched hard on one nipple, eliciting a soft moan of ‘Joel’ underneath him.
“Oh, baby,” he breathed, watching you rut your hips for more friction, “That’s it, baby, fuck daddy’s fingers. Use my hand to make yourself feel good— that’s my girl.”
At the last, you probably could’ve cum on the spot, and Joel could tell by the way you clenched around him. He nudged a third finger between your plush, sensitive walls and heard your moans take on an even higher pitch.
“Hurts,” you whimpered, with no real indication of pain. You just felt stretched out, stuffed, and aching again. The only ‘hurt’ was not having even more of him in you, “Need more of you daddy, please. It hurts.”
Joel wanted to see you cum on his fingers. He really did. But when you got down to begging and pleading for his cock like that, the man’s whole heartbeat throbbed in his jeans, and he simply didn’t possess the resolve to refuse.
He hoisted you upright in his lap so you were straddling his hips. The fabric of his jacket hung loose off your frame and both of your arms as you latched around him.
“Are you high?” Joel asked, voice evening out all of a sudden to pin you with a serious look.
“Yeah.”
“How high?”
“I can consent, Joel.” Your thighs tightened around his sides, and your hips had already begun to stir.
“Not just can consent—do consent. Do you want this?” Joel’s hands moved from the small of your back to cup your face. You gave him a squished-together pout.
“Yes, I want this,” you managed through pinched cheeks. When Joel released you, you lowered your own hands to the buckle of his belt.
It felt foreign and familiar at once—this age-old ritual of fumbling for each other’s clothes and wrestling to get them off, like your bodies might catch fire if you didn’t act fast enough. Joel was a tad more graceful as he shrugged his jacket off of you, peeled your tank top off, and helped you maneuver your bare limbs around him. You, on the other hand, felt half-feral and every bit the wide-eyed novice while you stripped his body garment by garment and wordlessly told him just leave the jeans, I can’t wait another fucking second. Joel bit back a grin and had to steady you above him, feeling his cock twitch against his tummy but still slowing down enough to remind you, shhh, shhh, honey, it ain’t goin’ nowhere.
You had a tough time remembering that as you rubbed your wet centre over his shaft. Feeling so good you feared the feeling might escape any second, you whined.
“I know, baby, I know,” Joel cooed as your head fell in the crook of his neck, “Still hurtin’ somethin’ awful, hm?”
The tip of his cock just barely grazed over your clit and you buried your face even deeper, nodding furiously; Joel leaned forward to grab some item out of the glove compartment behind you and braced your body to him.
He tore something with his teeth. You craned your neck just slightly.
“Don’t laugh,” Joel muttered, voice momentarily stifled by bright, metallic wrapping.
“Is that…” You straightened up enough to cock a brow at him. Joel’s tongue rolled across the inside of his cheek.
“Cobwebs and all.”
Beneath your gaze was the flimsiest, dust-ridden, damn-near vintage condom—a decade old, at least.
“You buy that before or after the Great Depression?” you teased.
“Shut up.” Joel was already working it onto his dick.
“So Prohibition-coded.”
“I can find something to shove in that mouth, y’know.”
You were having too much fun at the old man’s expense, blissfully unaware that Joel was about one Gen X joke away from making you suck three of his arousal-soaked fingers. When you opened your mouth to speak—to try another wisecrack or else question the integrity of this ancient relic of a rubber—Joel crashed his lips against yours and made you mute with his tongue instead.
At the same time, he slowly eased himself inside you.
Your mouth fell open when you sank down on his length, fully, but no sound came out. You just gripped Joel’s shoulders and peered into his face as if to say, ‘Shit.’
No way any man was ever meant to feel this good.
No shot your walls were fitting his cock like a glove.
Joel soaked in your gaping, wordless stare with a nod.
“Good?”
“Great.”
You’d give all eight inches of the man a goddamn standing ovation if your legs weren’t feeling like jelly. Joel let out a small grunt when you clenched around him.
“Nice and…easy,” he said, as much to himself as to you. He pinched your hip in one gigantic hand and held you there, “Let ya take a second and adjust, alright, darlin’?”
“But Joel—” you whined, already trying to slide back up.
His grip kept you impaled on his dick, anchored in place. With the other hand, he brought a thumb to your clit.
“Just feel me, sweet pea,” Joel said, slow and languid as molasses while he touched you, “Ain’t gonna hurt ya.”
You couldn’t be sure if the man was a sadist or the world’s biggest fan of cockwarming—or just polite.
The bare, slightly-less-sexy truth was that Joel hadn’t done this in a very, very long time. Even the sex he’d had, close to a year ago, was something more of a flashbang than a bona fide carnal experience; he’d just bent a perfect stranger over the bathroom sink and drilled her. This was a fever dream, a first to end all firsts, and at present, Joel felt himself toeing a razor-thin line between self-restraint and bliss by just your presence alone.
In short, he didn’t want to fuck it up by busting too soon.
When you rolled your hips and squeezed your eyes shut above him, well, Joel almost fell into a panic.
Think of golf. Differential equations. The weather in Kuwait. Anything to get his mind off of how tight your pussy was holding him in, how lithe your body worked to grind above him while he sat there, so helpless and—
“Big,” you whined, stretched to the fullest you’d ever been. Unable to bounce up and down like you wanted but still squirming for more friction, “So big, daddy.”
Hockey. Geometry. Wind patterns around the Maldives. He held you even tighter, but your motions were growing desperate. You had to start moving.
“Joel, please,” you begged him.
“Baby, I’m—”
About to cum. I am two seconds away from cumming.
“Need you now, need you so—” your voice broke off in a moan as you sank your nails into his muscly shoulders, “So bad, daddy, please, please, please—”
On the seat beside you both, your phone lit up, buzzing:
Dad 💙
Fuck.
FUCK.
Your eyes locked on Joel’s in a shared look of panic and horror, and for once, your bodies stopped, perfectly still.
You knew your dad too well. Just as much as Joel did.
Your father wasn’t the type to call late at night unless something was up. And he wouldn’t stop calling until someone picked up.
“Should we…?” That whisper came from you.
Joel was frozen in fear, eyes now glued to the screen.
“Just…give it a sec,” he breathed, “Might be nothing.”
But his tone couldn’t mask the dread behind his words. He gritted his teeth and watched the phone ring.
It stopped.
Then started again.
The pair of you clung to one other in the old Ford’s bucket seat like your dad might veritably hear the two of you having sex from 1,300 miles away if you moved.
It stopped once more.
The screen stayed black.
You let out a small sigh and felt your eyes start to close.
Then the trill of a ringtone under Joel’s ass started up the second they’d fluttered shut, and suddenly your gaze was wide, and frightened, and freaking the fuck out when you realized that your dad was trying to reach Joel.
“Answer,” you hissed.
“What?!” The whites of Joel’s eyes were bigger now than you’d ever seen them.
“He’ll know something’s up! Just—” you slipped your hand under Joel’s rear, completely devoid of any sexual insinuation this time, and yanked his old iPhone 6 out of his pants, “Answer it. Now. Be cool.”
Joel’s expression was still paralyzed with terror, but he brought the ringing phone to his ear anyway. Gingerly tapped ‘answer’ once you’d smacked him on the bicep.
“He-e-y man.”
You were so fucking dead.
Your face hovered mere inches away, and you could almost hear the warble of your father’s voice on the line.
“Great,” Joel answered, stilted as a puppet with someone’s hand up its ass, “So good. How are you?”
A beat.
“She’s good, she’s good.”
For a moment, Joel’s gaze flitted to the spot where your bodies were still connected and you saw a flash of desire, followed by guilt, then his head tip back to close his eyes as he tried to concentrate on the conversation at hand.
“In the bathroom…Uh-huh…Phone must be dead…”
“No, she’s been a trooper—just fine…”
“Somewhere just shy’a Bedford, I think…”
You listened to Joel drone on and clench his jaw, and every now and then you’d feel a squelch in that tiny space between you two when one of you moved, and it occurred to you then that it probably was not in your best interest to stay seated on his dick while he talked. You shifted your legs underneath yourself to get up.
When you started to slide up Joel’s shaft—the first time you’d ever really moved, mind you—you felt a knot in your tummy start to tighten. The friction was to die for.
You sank back down and heard a hoarse little cry spill out from your lips before you got the chance to swallow it.
At the same time, Joel groaned. Then stopped himself. Then coughed—profusely.
“Sorry, just got a little—” Suddenly, a fiery set of eyes were searing holes in your head, angry as they were desperate, “—tickle in my throat is all.”
You ignored the strained Southern drawl and the eyes that looked ready to put a bullet between your own, and you rocked your hips again. The sensation was just too good. Your body practically acted of its own accord, and suddenly you were bouncing up and down in Joel’s lap.
The man beneath you looked enraged. Aroused.
Ready to wring your neck and maybe spit in your mouth.
“World’s movin’ too. damn. fast,” Joel seethed, trying to communicate to you semi-covertly while you rode his cock, “She’s one hell of a— firecracker, man, I’ll tell ya.”
You heard your dad’s laughter on the other end. While the sound subsided to chuckles, Joel grabbed your neck. He covered the mouthpiece for a second, then, in a murmur,
“This is not a fucking game.”
He squeezed your throat so tight you probably could’ve lost all circulation going to your head, but you smiled.
In spite of the hot, glowing embers of pleasure taking shape at the pit of your stomach and the coil that kept twisting and swelling inside, you grinned down at him. Then you mouthed, softly, ‘Yes, it is,’ and you rocked your hips against him even harder.
Joel drew in a breath through his teeth and watched you ride him with bleary, half-hooded eyes—keeping one hand on your carotid as the other hand cradled the phone to his ear. The man was transfixed.
By the pinch of just one set of fingers, you knew you were done for. A dwindling supply of oxygen, combined with your high and the hundreds of nerve-endings being brushed by Joel’s cock every other moment, you were spiraling toward release and didn’t know how to stop it.
When Joel pursed his lips and lifted his hips to start fucking up into you, you had to let go. Couldn’t hold on. You grabbed hold of his forearm, still hovering across your throat, and you moaned as the bliss washed over you. You slid your needy lower half back and forth, squeezed that tanned, tough arm practically bulging with veins above you, and you came around Joel’s cock. You whimpered his name, again and again, feeling him stroke your walls and fuck you through a euphoric high.
The next thing you felt was the seat cushion behind you—and the shift of Joel’s body weight pinning you down.
His cock hadn’t slipped an inch when he flipped you over; his grip was still secure on the phone.
The only thing that had changed was that look: malicious and vindictive with the hint of a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. Joel felt you pulse around him, starting to come down from your high, and he just decided to fuck you even harder.
“Shouldn’t be much longer now…” Joel hummed aloud, lowering a hand to your throbbing clit and muttering a soft ‘Uh-huh’ to your father while you clawed at his wrist.
“Joel,” you choked.
Now the feeling was too much. You were still so wet, raw, and sensitive that the pad of his thumb almost drew a shriek from your chest when he moved his finger in circles. You heard them chat about football. Joel shared a short, strained laugh with the man on the other end and pretended not to hear your whines as he continued to rail you senseless in the front seat of his car.
With the diversion of the phone call keeping his own climax at bay, Joel was free to fuck you as rough as he pleased—and couldn’t be more in awe seeing you veer close to the edge, again.
“Please, daddy, please,” you beseeched him, tears springing to your eyes as Joel’s thrusts kept shaking you.
He just shook his head and smiled as if to say, ‘Hold still.’
“It’ll be fine,” he said, “Mahomes is next-level. Best they can do is keep their heads down and take it, y’know?”
Your own soft, aching hole was taking the beating of a lifetime, and somehow, you managed to meet Joel’s gaze with a look that almost struck him as loving. That blissed-out, cockdrunk look of pure debauchery crossing your eyes in a way he hadn’t come to find in ages, if ever, was intoxicating. He felt the first fluttering pulses of your orgasm squeeze around him again, and suddenly he was pumping you faster, drilling you harder, gripping your throat and starting to sense his own climax draw near.
He couldn’t finish off like this.
Not talking shop and Super Bowl to your father—no.
Joel had to do something you might rightly hate him for for the rest of your life, and never forget, or forgive.
He lowered the phone, and right before he did, said,
“She just stepped outta the bathroom, actually. No, yeah, she’s right here. Wanna say hello?”
Your heart skipped a beat and nearly jumped into your throat. You tried to shake your head—fast—and even went so far as to try and dodge the phone when Joel brought it down to your ear, but that motherfucker had a grip like you couldn’t believe and wouldn’t stop stroking inside you or holding you down. You hated that you found Joel’s total dominance and control…kind of hot.
You flashed him the most nasty, bratty, ‘I’ll get you for this, Joel’ look you could muster anyway, and when he pressed the phone to your cheek, you mouthed a few more silent expletives before changing your air entirely:
“Hey, dad!”
Joel knew he was cooked from the second you said hello. Something objectively malevolent inside him got a rush to hear you speak to your dad in such a contrived, high-pitched tone of voice, knowing the unspeakable things he was doing to your body the whole fucking time. He could focus, now, with no need for any strained civilities of his own, but deep down, he knew it wouldn’t last long. He would not last long.
Might as well make it fun while it lasts.
“He…did,” you hummed, flitting your eyes up to Joel when he brushed your lower lip with his thumb—still holding the phone up for you while he rutted into you, “No, nuh-uh…Mr…Mr. Miller didn’t mind, no sir.”
Shit, the sound of you saying ‘sir’ was something that made Joel’s whole body lurch with pleasure. He made a mental note to have you call him that later and stroked your lip once more.
You tried to turn your face away—telling Joel, wordlessly, that you couldn’t keep up this conversation with your father if you had a thumb in your fucking mouth, but Joel didn’t care. He watched you pause for a moment, let just the tip of his finger press into your tongue, then, battling your better judgment, wrap your lips around the digit almost cautiously and suck. He knew you liked it, too.
He knew it by the way you bobbed your head, hummed, and nodded every time he thrust inside your aching walls and dragged his cock back out. The way your teeth clamped hard on his thumb whenever he grazed a particularly sensitive spot and how your lips held him in like a gag, or some other thing to keep you quiet amidst the moans and the whimpers bubbling up in your chest.
Suddenly, Joel was at your other ear, lips grazing skin and tongue praising your every move.
“My sweet girl.”
“Doin’ such a good job stayin’ quiet.”
“Takin’ daddy’s cock so well, aren’t ya, darlin’?”
From that point on, every single one of your father’s words over the phone fell on deaf ears—all you could hear was Joel. All you could feel was Joel. Your lips parted as if starting to speak, but all that would come out were small puffs of air, perfectly in sync with each one of Joel’s thrusts.
“You okay, hon? You sound…distracted,” your dad pressed. A hint of concern rose from his end of the line.
At length, Joel gripped both of your legs and brought them up over his shoulders, and he grinned before kissing your ankle and shoving his cock even deeper.
“Yes!” you yelped as you crushed the phone to your ear, hoping your father couldn’t hear any of the filthy sounds down below, “Just a little stretched—I mean stressed out, is all.”
The sick, smug fuck currently wedged eight inches deep inside you almost burst out laughing. If you weren’t so perilously close to your fourth orgasm of the night, you would’ve told Joel to take a long walk off a short bridge.
“Just worried about grades a-a-and all,” you stammered.
Joel leaned forward and almost tore a scream out of your chest—his tip was kissing the edge of your cervix now.
“Yes, sir. I will.” You tried your hardest not to whine and almost let out a sigh, “I’ll…ask him about it, for sure.”
As bone-crushingly fun as this all was, Joel was close.
He could feel it in the furthest recesses of his stomach; he was about to blow his load.
So, leveraging his weight to strike just the right angle and pushing his thumb in to stifle your moans, Joel sped up and drew even closer, face-to-face, so he could see your every expression from a hair’s breadth away.
He was so near he could hear your dad’s droning voice. See you struggle to take cock the closer you got to your release. You hadn’t cum in such quick succession…ever, really. All but one of the guys you’d let between your legs before seemed like amateurs compared to Joel, and to be honest, you weren’t sure if you could make it to four.
You popped his thumb out of your mouth and mumbled some ‘Sure, okay’ or other to your dad before casting a pleading look up at Joel. His hips were working up to a ruthless pace.
You covered the mouthpiece.
“I can’t, Joel.”
“Sure you can, sugar.”
“Joel,” you hissed, and tried to grab his wrist, when you felt your stomach start to cave. Every exposed inch of skin gave way to waves of heat, and your toes curled in. Worst of all, Joel was letting out sounds you hadn’t ever heard—short, ragged breaths that broke off in low groans—and it felt as though he were cradling your head. Holding you to him. Your eyes were locked on one another, your mouths practically panting in time, and what parts of you had not yet become commingled with him were practically coated with sweat. And shaking.
Then, in tones that rang like music to your ears:
“Alright, I’ll let ya head to bed, then. G’night, pumpkin.”
Your dad hadn’t even fully hung up the phone before you flung it across the car. Heels dug deep in Joel’s back.
“Cum for daddy,” Joel coaxed, “Cum all over this cock.”
You didn’t need much more instigation than that.
You came. He followed.
And it probably split his eardrum in two having his name screamed so fucking loud, but frankly, Joel hadn’t seen a reason for going deaf that he could’ve enjoyed so much.
Then, he didn’t sink so much as simply collapse on top of you while you both kicked back and let the waves of ecstasy roll over you. You adored his warmth in spite of the heat practically suffocating you both in that car.
Until it was in you.
Sticky, sweet dripping inside you.
You pushed Joel hard in the shoulder.
“Did it…”
“What?”
“Joel!”
You flipped your legs down and tapped his abdomen furiously, telling him, pull out, pull out right fucking now, and Joel gently obliged. Dragged his cock three-fourths of the way out when a frail, tattered condom came loose around the head of his cock and almost fell off entirely. That damn prehistoric rubber had broken inside you.
“JOEL!”
“I’m sorry! Fuck, I— fuck.”
Joel scrambled to get his cum-drenched cock and what remained of the condom away from your body, but the damage was done. You started throwing on clothes.
“I’m ovulating this week, I am so fucking fucked!”
Joel swallowed, shimmying his boxers and jeans back into place and scoping the front seat for his shirt.
“What’s…ovulating?”
You wanted to tear your hair out at the root.
There was no way this man had survived half a century on earth and didn’t understand the menstrual cycle.
“It means I can get pregnant if we don’t get a Plan B up in this bitch immediately. Let’s GO!”
That part seemed to click. Joel almost fell over himself trying to find his keys, while you slid out of the Bronco.
“Where are you going?!”
“To— to try and get some of this shit out of me first!”
Joel bounded after you, and within the first steps, you were sprinting across the parking lot. Your sweaty, half-naked companion tried—and failed—to slow you down.
“Are you not on birth control?” Joel huffed.
“Are you not capable of buying condoms more than once every fucking decade—or three?” you snapped.
Your strides were growing wider and more frantic by the second. Joel clutched his side and struggled to keep up.
“I’m…sorry,” he grunted, more embarrassed and worn-out than anything at the moment, “I’m sorry, darlin’.”
“‘Sorry’ doesn’t get your cum out of me, daddy.”
Your words couldn’t have gotten any more caustic or merciless—or inopportune—if you tried.
As it was, you were passing by the breezeway where all the bored lacrosse players were still lounging around, cracking cold ones, and craning their necks to see what the fuss outside was all about. The sounds of your feet racing fast on gravel and you and Joel’s raucous, bickering back-and-forth had caught their attention, and shortly, Connor was sticking his head around the corner. His expression—along with all the faces behind him—had twisted with horror. Confusion. A visible look of disgust.
Joel had just slowed down to catch his breath. He doubled over and braced both hands on his knees.
“I’ll fuckin’…duct tape my dick next time I hit it, honey!” he wheezed, barely loud enough for you to hear but perfectly audible to all the terrified guys around him.
Joel turned his head and almost groaned.
Then he was straightening himself back up, starting to retreat from the group who had him pinned with genuinely frightened—and nauseated—looks.
Joel normally wouldn’t care. This time, though, he threw his hands up and thought, fuck it, I’ll clear the air.
Over his shoulder, he grinned, yelling back to the guys:
“I’m not actually her dad!”
All of them stared back. Half-jealous, half-awestruck, Connor stood up, raised his beer, and called after him:
contents: jake sully x f!avatar/na'vi!reader, whole fic is based around reader getting off on jake's abs so, f ejaculation, grinding, "riding", jake refers to himself as "daddy" once.
a/n: probs trashy (m sorry), @evanpetersluver thanks for the motivation man, couldn't have done it w/o u.
"ah look at you girl..." jake's hands had firm grip around your hips, helping you move front and back over his abdomen, "making such a mess on daddy, hmm?"
to say that jake preferred his avatar form over his human body wasn't a secret. for obvious reasons he was mostly happy to have his legs back, but there were more physical attributes that he wouldn't give up for the world now.
for one, his human body had began to get weak, turn pale and lost weight since he started dreamwalking, but in his avatar body he was thriving. looking better than ever, blue, but he got used to the change pretty quickly. he had a tall build, with muscles that didn't even start to showcase his newfound strength. every body part was lean, all from his feet to shoulders, with strong calves and thighs, to abs and biceps that managed to help jake achieve anything he could've only dreamed of in his human body — all in all, jake deemed himself the luckiest man in the world. how many could experience life like this?
second, he loved the attention he got. his figure wasn't anything rare around the na'vi, the build and shape of him was really the way most of how the omatikaya warriors looked, with broad shoulders and slim waists, yet, the absolute confidence he radiated made him so much more attractive.
it was one of your favorite things about him.
sometimes, his confidence could come off as cocky, whenever he made sure you knew how good he looked or got you to confirm his own words, he always had that smug look written all over his face. but it was so attractive when he just knew he was hot, he knew that the way you were eyeing him up was much more than just a friendly look.
jake was proud over his looks, and knowing that you found his abs just as attractive as he did, it did something to him. it's how you found yourself grinding yourself on his abs, the small bumps, edges hitting just right over your clit, your wetness all over his stomach — and he found it so fucking hot.
"doing so good for me baby, looking so pretty," your legs on either sides of his torso, two hands holding your hips in place, "such a sweet thing, aren't you?"
he loved having you on top of him, he could casually display his dominance but also make you feel like you could take control of the situation if you wanted to.
you couldn't, but he liked to see you try.
he liked to see you withering, eyes scrunched shut from pure pleasure, mouth open letting the most filthy sounds bless his ears. it was his definition of heaven. he liked to see how big he was compared to you, your small, soft thighs rubbing against him, his hands encasing them perfectly. your hands were perched on his chest, leaning weight on his upper body. it made it easier for your body to roll like that on him.
your hips were like waves, grinding smoothly over the wetness you had left all over him. having your translucent slick glistening on his stomach was enough to make him miss the friction against his dick, a problem he would take care of another time.
"jake, i need you." you had your head thrown back, everything felt just right. his lean abdomen made your body bounce just a little whilst sliding over his abs, it was enough for your tits to move, and jake had never seen a prettier view. pandora was beautiful sure, but you were the most precious thing on the foreign planet.
"yeah, gotta be a good girl for me though, baby." he helped you slide quicker, heat pooling in a familiar boil in your lower stomach, bubbling over soon enough. the obscene moans slipping through your parted lips felt so dirty, and it felt so good. jake's hands rubbed over your ass, gripping you, guiding you. he pinched you slightly, jolting forward on his abs, making the perfect angle for your clit to repeatedly feel the budges and ridges on his stomach.
you sat up straight, hands leaving jake's chest to trace up your own, smoothing over the skin of your stomach and up to cup your breasts, massaging them whilst giving the man underneath you the best show possible.
along with every touch, pinch and grind also came your impending orgasm, the euphoria of pleasure building it's way up your lower belly. jake angled your hips, your clit catching the right spot, receiving the right pressure each and every time. your moans and whines upped in pitch, and jake's hands pulling at your skin made the sensation of the snapping coil all the more pleasurable. withering and trembling, you layed down on jake, his hands rubbing lovingly across your lower back.
he rolled you over, legs caught between yours, his dick poking against your thigh, painfully hard after your show.
"my turn now, hmm? gonna let me fuck you silly, baby?"
riding Jake’s thigh… @pandoraslxna’s kinktober day 03!
MDNI!!
warnings: a little overstimulation, praise
"Yeah, just like that.." he coos, holding your hips as you slowly rub your exposed heat on his thigh. You mewl and bite your lip, your slick wetting his skin. "Fuckin' love to see you like this," his hands trail up and down your bare body and his cock stays sprung up.
"Please, let me have it..." you beg, looking down at his erection while you speed up, riding his thigh faster and harder.
"Nah, you gotta cum first, then you can have my cock," he pinches the area around your navel, making you jump for a second before you continue pleasuring yourself, desperately chasing your orgasm on him. Jake is the type to please you. He always made sure that you had a climax, sometimes even several, before he would think about finishing.
"Fuck," you whisper softly, biting your lip to stifle your little noises as you clench around nothing. You're so wet- such a mess for him. He grips your hips tighter, fingers digging into the flesh there. He begins to help you, pushing you back and forth and grinding you onto his muscular thigh. You melt like putty, leaning forward and tucking your head into the crook of his neck. You softly moan into his skin while your hands hold him firmly. As your orgasm comes closer, you squirm.
"Shh," he croons., rubbing the back of your head as you writhe in his embrace. When your climax hits, he grunts as your arousal squirts onto his skin. Your swollen, desperate clit tingles with pleasure. You whisper-moan sweet nothings into Jake's ear.
"Thank you, thank you, thank you-" you whimper, feeling overwhelmed.
"I've got ya," he chuckles. He thinks it's adorable, how you get all flustered whenever you cum.
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｡𖦹°‧➵ PAIR: Joel Miller x babysitter!fem!reader
｡𖦹°‧➵ WC: 11k
｡𖦹°‧➵ CONTAINS: 18+ SMUT MDNI, no outbreak au, pov switching, trailer park joel awooga wooga, tommy miller appearance because daddy i love him, joel is kinda sleazy and pervy, large girthy age gap (53/early 20s), and it’s very much brought up, finding joel’s porn drawer because he’s vintage, reader is called jailbait like once, reader is also a little creep lmao, just two freaks coming together praise, masturbation, fingering, brief allusions of fisting, the BAREST hint of ass play, p in v, rough sex, riding, pussy pronouns, spanking, finger sucking (told you i can’t stop), erectile dysfunction? yeah we don’t know what that means in this house because that old man can fuck like he’s twenty, porn with too much fucking plot, no use of y/n.
｡𖦹°‧➵ NAT’S NOTE: i blame tommy gunn for this…and my period for rearing its ugly head and making me act like an animal. i don’t know i guess my brain is just fully rotted, but y’all’s are too so here’s a nice little gift from me to you, i’m lovingly placing this on your dash xoxo. this isn’t really based on manchild sorry for the false advertising babies, i just thought the lyric was super cute and it’s been stuck in my head so yeah here we are lmao. hope y’all love it, mwah!
dividers by @cafekitsune & @saradika-graphics! plus the delicious icon from @iamasaddie!
joel miller needs a babysitter, you’re back in town…
Gruene hasn't changed much. Not really.
You're not sure how much different it'd be after only a couple years away, but still. Something in you had expected it to feel even smaller—like the way old t-shirts shrink in the wash when you’re not paying attention.
The air felt the same when you first stepped out of your beat up Chevy, heavy and humid like a wet mouth. The pavement in front of your house still burned the bottom of your shoes, and the cicadas were buzzing in the dry grass like they never stopped.
You left for college thinking you’d never come back. And yet, here you are. Spending summer back in your hometown, a little more than half a degree under your belt, flat broke, and bored to death.
Your room’s the same, maybe just a little smaller now that you’ve lived other places, slept in other beds. All the posters are still up, faded from the sun and curling at the corners. Your mom left your old tennis trophies on your dresser, like maybe she thought you’d want to see them. You don’t, not really. You appreciate the effort anyway, at least she didn’t turn it into a yoga room or a place to keep extra boxes and Christmas decorations.
You try not to spend too much time at home, even though you technically don’t have anywhere else to go. You kill time with long drives down the streets you memorized years ago, past beat up gas stations with sun bleached lotto signs and eighteen wheelers parked in the back.
You try your hand at some half-hearted job hunting at a few different places that promise to call but never do. And you sit in the back booth of an old diner where you and your friends used to sneak fries from abandoned tables and smoke paper wrapped joints in the alley out back.
Every place you go feels like a ghost town version of what you remember. Familiar, but all hollowed out.
“You know who might be looking for help?” Your mom says one morning, standing at the stove fussing over a pan of bacon. “Joel Miller, you remember him don’t you?”
You pause, your fork stuck hovering just above the plate. “Sarah’s dad?”
“Mhm. I ran into him at the market a couple weeks ago and we got to catching up. He’s needing to pick up some extra work, and it’s just him, you know. Sarah’s starting high school in the fall but he’s still not wanting to leave her on her own. He looked stressed, poor thing.”
You hum warily, pushing your eggs around your plate to distract from the way your stomach flutters.
Joel Miller.
You haven’t heard that name in years. Not since you stopped babysitting Sarah, not since you left. It has something low and guilty stirring somewhere deep inside you.
You shouldn’t be surprised that it’s floating back into your life like cigarette smoke—all pungent and sour and impossible to ignore. In a town of less than two thousand people, you were bound to circle around some old memories sooner or later. And Joel Miller was a big one.
Mr. Miller was a few years older than your mom, a single dad that lived with his daughter in the trailer park a few miles past the city limit. You met him when you were seventeen and trying to save as much as you could for college, when your puny part time job flipping burgers and serving ice cream cones wasn’t cutting it.
He needed someone to pick up Sarah from school and watch her until he got home from work, you needed the extra money. It seemed like a perfect fit.
But Joel was always…different. He scooped you up off the gravel and carried you into his living room to bandage up your knee when you took a bad fall outside his trailer. He never ratted you out when he caught you smoking one of his Marlboros in his backyard after you put Sarah to bed one night. He drove you home when you got too drunk at a field party and couldn’t stomach the thought of calling your mom.
You can still remember the way his truck smelled—gasoline, sunbaked leather, sawdust.
He didn’t say much, just kept his gaze trained on the road as you watched him through glassy eyes while Johnny Cash floated through the cab. He looked back once, slow and quiet, like he was really thinking something over.
It’s been a long time since you thought about that night, but the reminder of it resurfaces sharp and sudden, like a thumb pressed into a bruise.
Now, your mom’s pouring more coffee into your cup and saying his name like it’s no big deal, like she didn’t just drop a live wire into your lap. Like he didn’t take up way too much room in your seventeen year old imagination.
“You should go down there and talk to him sometime,” she says, casual. “It might be a good way to make some money while you look around for something else.”
You bite back a grimace, conflicted. “Isn’t Sarah old enough to stay home alone by now?”
Your mom shrugs like it doesn’t matter. “Maybe, but like I said Joel’s always been a little…anxious about leaving her on her own too many nights. She’s at that age, you know—boys, phones, lord knows what else.”
You frown, stabbing at your eggs. You only remember Sarah as the sweet little girl who’d beg to stay up and watch Disney with you, who was more interested in her Barbie dolls than any screen. You used to braid her hair while she did her times tables, let her wear some of your lip gloss when she begged.
You take a sip of coffee, the burn of it trickles down from your throat to settle somewhere deep in your chest. “You really think he’d hire me again?”
Your mom shrugs again, plating the bacon. “I don’t see why not. Sarah always loved you, Joel too. He’s asked about you once or twice, said you were a real good girl. Very responsible and all that.”
You try not to laugh at that.
Good girl. Responsible. Right.
You nod vaguely, standing to clear your plate into the trash even though it’s still half full. “Maybe,” you mutter. “I’ll think about it.”
Later that night, alone in your room, you find yourself scrolling through Facebook like an angsty teenager.
You kicked your sheets off a while ago, cracked your window open to let in the cool breeze swirling outside. Crickets sing quietly in the background, only drowned out every once in a while by the sound of cars passing your street.
Joel’s profile is still public, but it’s sparsely updated. A new truck photo here, a blurry picture of Sarah’s eighth grade promotion there. She looks the same, maybe a little older. Her hair’s longer, but still curly as ever.
There’s no recent pictures of Joel anywhere. Not posted by him or any of his friends. You can’t tell if the feeling that blooms inside of you is disappointment or something else entirely.
You’re about to exit the app when finally, a tagged post catches your eye.
A post by an account with the name Henry B. attached to it. It’s just a grainy photo of someone’s backyard littered with wood pallets and stray tools, Joel standing in the middle of it all with a few other people you don’t recognize.
His account is tagged in the caption underneath. Big thanks to my buddy Joel Miller for the extra set of hands tonight. Saved our ass! It’s dated June 13, 2023.
You pause, your thumb hovering over the screen. So he’s still handy, you think distantly, chewing on your bottom lip.
You remember that much. There were always new projects cluttering the yard in front of his trailer. A crib for the expecting couple a few doors down, a rocking chair with ornate vines and flowers carved into the armrests, a soccer goal for Sarah to practice with when she started getting serious about it in the fifth grade.
You zoom in on the picture, just a little.
The angle’s weird and it’s overexposed as shit. Joel’s face is half shadowed by an old Longhorns baseball cap, but even still—there’s that jaw. That mouth. That same broad width of his shoulders you used to trace with your eyes when he’d lean on the doorframe after he got home from work.
It’s still an older picture, and you can’t help but wonder how much he’s changed since.
You breathe through your nose, one long uninterrupted breath before you close the app and toss your phone face down on the mattress.
Joel Miller was handsome when you were in high school and stupid and still biting your nails.
He was a late forty-something, tired around the eyes. Always in pair of ratty, stained jeans and those soft, worn down flannels with the sleeves rolled up. Sarah’s dad. The hot one, according to the girls at school. The divorced one, according to the snooty moms at the PTA. He was tall and strong, thick arms with dark hair dusted along veiny muscle. Big hands that were calloused and rough to the touch when he slipped you a couple folded twenties at the end of every night.
You haven’t seen him since the summer after you graduated, but sometimes you still think about the way he used to look at you.
Like he shouldn’t.
Like he knew he shouldn’t, and did it anyway.
You can still feel it. That heat, that weight. The way his eyes always lingered a little too long when you bent down to grab your homework off the coffee table. The way his voice got low and syrupy when he asked what you were doing that weekend.
You were young then, but now?
Now you’re not sure who you are, not entirely—but you know you’re not that same girl. You’ve lived. You’ve done things he couldn’t even guess at.
You’ve grown up. And you wonder if Joel would notice too.
You don’t plan on going. Not really.
The next day, your mom leaves a note taped to the fridge that says she’s out running errands and won’t be back until later. You stare at it for a while, then glance at the clock.
It’s barely noon.
You have nothing to do. No plans. No job. So you get into your boiling hot car, roll the windows down, and drive.
You’re not sure what makes you do it.
Maybe it’s the antsy feeling that’s been worming around under your skin since you got here. Maybe it’s the way Joel’s name has been bouncing off all the corners of your mind like a moth against glass ever since your mom said it.
Either way, you find yourself veering onto a familiar exit off the highway, tires crunching under gravel until it turns to dirt when you pull into the same trailer park on the edge of town. The same one you spent most nights back in high school.
You sit in your car for a little longer than necessary, keys still in the ignition, engine ticking quietly as it cools.
The place hasn’t changed much either. Same sloped roof, same white paneling, same wind chimes clinking together on the porch. There’s a pair of muddy work boots by the steps, and your stomach knots.
You didn’t bother calling ahead. You don’t even know if he has the same number. You’re regretting that now.
You should leave. You really should. But you’re already pulling the car door open and stepping into the dry afternoon heat. The air’s thick again, the sun sitting high and mean in the sky. Your shirt sticks to the sweaty skin along your spine as you walk through the gate and up the short gravel path.
You hesitate at the foot of the stairs, clenching and unclenching your fists a couple times like that’ll magically relive all your nerves. You wonder, and almost hope, if Sarah will be the one to open the door. If she’ll even remember you.
Then, the screen door cracks open before you can knock.
Joel’s standing there. He looks the same as the last time you saw him.
“Well I’ll be damned,” he mutters, opening the door wider. He’s in jeans, barefoot, nothing but a tank top clinging to his chest, a dark patch blooming at the collar where it’s damp with sweat. “Look at you.”
No, not the same.
Older. Broader, somehow. More worn in, like a favorite jacket that’s been well loved. His hair’s longer than you remember, messier. His beard is thicker too, dusted with more gray, and there’s a little more weight around his middle. But his eyes are just the same—dark, steady, and sharp in a way that makes you feel instantly, achingly seventeen again.
He looks you over once. Not quick. Real slow. Real deliberate. A single drag of his eyes from your flip flops to the shorts you maybe shouldn’t have worn. His gaze sticks when it reaches your chest, lingers there a beat too long before flicking back up to your mouth. And then, finally, your eyes.
You shift your weight, offering a small smile. “Hey, Mr. Miller.”
His eyes narrow, and there’s the ghost of a smirk pulling at his mouth. “Don’t start with that ‘Mr. Miller’ bullshit. You’re grown now.”
Your stomach tightens.
“I, uh...my mom said you might be looking for help,” you say, fighting the urge to squirm where you stand. “With Sarah, I mean.”
He leans against the doorframe, one hand gripping the wood above his head. The movement lifts his shirt just enough to show a strip of his stomach, a trail of dark hair disappearing under the waistband of his sweats. “She did, huh?”
You nod, still frozen in place at the bottom of the steps.
Joel lets the silence hang in the air, heavy and charged. Then he huffs a quiet breath through his nose—half amusement, half something else—and steps aside. “You comin’ in or what?” he asks, jerking his head impatiently, giving you another long, lazy once over. “Ain’t polite to keep an old man waitin’, kid.”
Your heart beats wildly against your ribcage, and with one last quick, steadying breath you hope Joel doesn’t notice, you climb the stairs.
Joel hadn’t expected to see you again. At the very least like this, showing up at his place in the middle of the day—standing at the bottom of his porch like a mirage in the heat, older and more grown in all the places a man like him shouldn’t be noticing.
And sure as hell not in those shorts.
He watches you walk past him into the living room, slow and uncertain, that little sway in your hips you maybe don’t even mean to have. Or maybe you do.
Either way, it’s a goddamn sight.
Joel closes the door with a soft click, dragging a hand over his mouth like that’ll help wipe the look off his face. It doesn’t. The look of you—bare legged and smiling, sun kissed and back in his house after all this time—sticks to the inside of his skull like syrup.
You look around the room with a small smile, eyes scanning the familiar furniture. Some of it’s new, some of it’s the same. Joel’s never been much for decorating. You pause in front of the bookshelf he built a few years back, Sarah’s old school pictures still sit in a few mismatched frames next to a couple of paperbacks.
He clears his throat, scratching at his beard so he has something to do with his hands as he walks to the kitchen. “You want somethin’ to drink? Water, iced tea? I think I got Coke in the fridge somewhere.”
“I’m good, thanks.” You follow slowly, looking younger somehow in the kitchen light. You rest your hip against the doorway, eyes watching him as he walks to the fridge. “I won’t stay long. I just figured I’d stop by real quick and see if you still needed some help.”
Joel pulls the fridge open anyway, grabbing a beer from the half empty six pack. He cracks the tab with a soft hiss and leans back against the counter. “Sarah’s mostly independent now. She don’t need a sitter like she used to, but I still get caught up workin’ late. Don’t like the idea of her bein’ here by herself too often. 'Specially not with some of the boys sniffin’ around lately.”
You laugh, soft and bright. “Well, I’ve got time,” you say, toying with a loose thread on your cutoffs. “I don’t know how much help you actually need, but my schedule’s pretty much open. I can do evenings, weekends, whatever you want.”
Joel has to bite back a grin. Whatever he wants.
If you only knew the half of what he really wants.
Joel shifts his weight against the counter. “It wouldn’t be every night,” he says, shaking his head. “Just the evenings I pick up extra hours, or if I get called out for a job.”
You nod. “I can help. You don’t have to worry about paying me a whole lot. I’ll just be happy to keep busy.”
His mouth pulls into something that might be a smile. “I’ll pay you,” he says, almost gruff. “You’re doin’ me a favor.”
The silence that follows feels familiar. Not awkward—just full. A little tight around the edges.
He’s always known how to talk to you, but now there’s something different to it. You’re not seventeen anymore. Not biting your lip and looking away when he catches your eye. You’re standing there calm as you please, looking straight at him, like you already know he’s thinking things he shouldn’t.
Joel watches you from across the kitchen, beer can sweating against his palm. The ceiling fan spins lazily overhead, stirring warm air that doesn’t help much with the heat climbing under his skin. You’re standing there across the way from him like nothing’s changed, like you never left. Like no time has passed at all.
Except that it has. And it shows.
“You still in school?” he asks, voice rougher than he means it to be.
You blink, head tilting to the left. “Yeah. I’m up in Chicago now, Northwestern.”
“Big shot,” Joel whistles low, nodding appreciatively. “That’s a ways away from here.”
You shake your head, smile small and bashful. “It is. It’s expensive as hell too, my scholarship’s the only reason I’m there.”
He makes a soft sound in his throat, impressed. “Smart girl.”
“I try.” You shrug, but there’s pride under it. “I’ve got one year left, usually I stay for the summer to try and make as much as I can in the city. I—I just needed a breather, I guess. Some time to figure shit out, you know?”
There’s something soft in your tone when you say it, an openness he didn’t expect, and maybe shouldn’t pry into. But part of him wants to. Always has.
“You don’t seem like the type that needs figurin’ out,” Joel says, voice a little quieter now. “Always thought you had your head on straight.”
Your smile flickers into something crooked, something secret. “That’s because you didn’t really know me.”
He chuckles, deep and rough. “No, sweetheart. I think I knew you just fine.”
Your eyes lock for a second too long after that, thick enough with heat and history to make the air feel heavier than it already is.
You look away first, your eyes flicking to the living room. “I, uh–sorry, do you mind if I use the bathroom?”
Joel gestures vaguely with his free hand. “Go ahead, you remember where it is.”
You push off the doorway with one last grateful smile and duck down the hallway, footsteps silent against the linoleum. Joel watches until you disappear around the corner, his gaze dipping low without shame.
He waits until he hears the click of the bathroom door shutting behind you to exhale a slow breath, setting his beer down on the counter harder than he has to.
Jesus Christ.
She’s not a girl anymore, he thinks to himself. And you’re not, you’re far fucking from it.
But that feeling, that ugly one churning deep down in Joel’s gut, it’s still there. It feels just as dangerous as it used to, maybe even worse now. All because of you.
The look of your glossy lips forming around the words whatever he wants. The shape of your thighs, those damn shorts clinging to you like a second skin. The way you were looking at him, eyes all wide and shiny under his shitty kitchen light.
Joel can’t help himself, he thinks back to a few years ago. You, curled up on his couch every night when he got home from a long build, looking so soft in the hazy glow of the TV. Barefoot and sleepy, blinking up at him in those skimpy little after school clothes you’d always throw on.
It was a vision, something to settle his aching bones.
He thinks about how he started looking forward to it, coming home to you. It was sick, he knew that much, the fucked up little game of house he played, projected onto you. An old man like him leering at you, thinking of you long after you’d left, waving sweetly from the window of your moms car.
Joel should’ve known better. Should’ve done better. But that never stopped him before, not when it came to you.
A knock at the door pulls him from his thoughts. Two quick raps, followed by a heavy creak.
“Joel?” Tommy’s voice fills the trailer before he can even move, loud in the quiet. “You home?”
Joel sighs, brows pinching together as he pushes off the counter. He didn’t even hear the damn truck pull up.
Tommy rounds the corner, sweaty and covered in dirt. He’s got a ratty bandanna hanging from his jean pocket, sleeves pulled up around his shoulders and a pair of aviators covering his eyes.
“You ever heard of callin’ before you just barge in on someone?” Joel doesn’t try to hide the annoyance in his tone, brow arched as he stares at his brother.
“Hello to you too, jackass.” Tommy just walks past him like he owns the place, opening up one of the cabinets above the sink. “You gettin’ memory loss already, old man? You said Saturday.”
“Yeah, well now ain’t a good time, Tommy.” Joel cuts his eyes to the hall, to the light bleeding out from under the bathroom door.
Tommy just snorts, still rifling through the cabinet. “Yeah right, you got a woman over or somethin’?”
Joel doesn’t answer, eyes still fixed on that thin sliver of light glowing under the bathroom door like it might give him away.
Tommy catches on, turns slow with a shit-eating grin already stretching across his face. “You do have someone here.”
Joel gives him a hard look, one that should tell him to shut the hell up—but Tommy only laughs, knowing.
“C’mon,” he drawls. “Didn’t know you were even seein’ anybody. You been holdin’ out on me?”
“It ain’t like that,” Joel mutters, too fast, too defensive.
Tommy tilts his head, chewing on that like a dog with a bone. “Huh. So she’s not yours then?”
Joel doesn’t get the chance to answer. Before he can shoot back with something mean enough to shut him up. From down the hall, the bathroom door opens with a quiet click, and then—
Then you're back, smoothing your hands down your thighs as you reappear around the corner, voice drifting back into the space.
“Jesus, that sink is still running freezing cold water? I nearly put my-oh…” You’re clearly caught off guard, your eyes catching on where Tommy stands in front of the sink. “Tommy?”
Joel watches it click in real time—your eyes lighting up with recognition, mouth parting into a surprised smile like you’ve just stumbled on an old friend. Which, in a way, you have. Tommy was around a lot back then. Backyard beers, watching football on the TV, leaning against Joel’s truck while you wrangled Sarah inside for dinner.
“Well shit,” Tommy says, slow and low, pulling his sunglasses down. “That isn’t the little babysitter, is it?”
You smile, sheepish and sweet, and Joel feels something sour twist in his gut. “It’s been a while.”
“Yeah.” Joel watches Tommy take a good long look at you just like the one he did, eyes wide as his gaze rakes from your head down to the bare skin of your legs and back up all over again. “No kiddin’.”
It makes the space behind Joel’s ribs burn with something hot and ugly, Tommy’s eyes on you. Shameless and obvious as all hell. He might just be the biggest hypocrite in the country for it, but he can’t find it in himself to care.
“I didn’t know you were back in town,” Tommy goes on, leaning in like he can’t help himself. “You home for the summer?”
“Yeah, just for the summer,” you say brightly. “I thought I’d see if Joel needed help with Sarah again.”
“Oh, I bet he does,” Tommy says, and Joel’s had about enough of this.
“We were just finishing up,” Joel cuts in, his voice sharp enough to slice through the air. “She was about to head out.”
You don’t seem to notice the tension, if you do, you ignore it with grace that makes it worse somehow.
Your eyes flick to him, and for a second, Joel thinks maybe you notice something’s off. But your smile is still easy. “Yeah, I should probably get going.”
Joel gives a short nod and steps toward you before Tommy can open his mouth again. “I’ll walk you out, honey.”
You look between the two brothers for a second longer, then nod and head back into the living room, Joel right behind you. The sound of Tommy’s boots are hot on his heels, following.
You bend down to swipe your keys off the coffee table, not by much, just enough for your shirt to ride up and your shorts to dip low. Joel nearly swallows his tongue at the sight of lace. Bright pink, thin. A pathetic little scrap of fabric clinging to either side of your hips.
Joel’s throat goes dry, heat rolling under his skin like a slow burn, thick and unrelenting. You straighten back up, smooth the hem of your shirt down, but the damage is done. He feels that familiar ache stirring low in his belly, his cock twitching with interest in his sweats.
He doesn’t look at Tommy, he doesn’t need to. The quiet crunch of a beer can bending under a tight grip is all he needs to know that he isn’t the only one taking that lace peeking out from under those damn shorts as a neon sign flashing all the wrong kinds of welcome.
Joel barely has enough wherewithal to drag his eyes up to your face when you turn back around—that sweet, oblivious smile still pulling at your lips.
“Okay.” Your fingers toy with your keys, the metal soft and jangling in your palm. “Ready.”
Joel gives you a short nod, jaw tight. He doesn’t trust himself to speak.
Tommy, of course, steps in the silence, voice syrupy. “Hey, don’t be a stranger, alright? Good seein’ you again, sweetheart.”
You glance over your shoulder, lips parting into a lazy little grin. “You too, Tommy.”
Joel holds the door open for you, watching the way the light hits your shoulders, the back of your thighs, the little shadow that dips right at the curve of your spine.
The cicadas are buzzing, your car parked half crooked along the curb. You walk slow, gravel crunching under your sandals. Joel stays beside you, hands shoved deep in his pockets. The sun’s lower now, soft gold spilling across the lawn.
You open the car door, pausing with your hand on it. “That was…fun.”
Joel nods, biting back a frown. “Yeah, sorry about him. Tommy hasn’t got much of a filter.”
You laugh, shaking your head. “It’s okay, I missed you guys.”
Joel’s heart kicks hard in his chest. He’s not sure what to do with that.
“You know where to find us,” he says finally.
You nod, climbing into the car. The engine kicks up and the window rolls down.
“Thanks for the talk,” you say. “And the job, I’ll call you?”
Joel leans down a little, arms resting on the open window frame. You’re so close like this. Too close. He can smell the sweet perfume mixing with the bright tang of sweat on your skin.
“Of course,” he says, eyes flicking down to your lips. “I’ll be waiting.”
You smile. “It was nice seeing you, Joel.”
Joel watches you drive off, his reflection shrinking in your side mirror until he’s nothing but a speck in the dust your tires kick up.
He lets out another long breath, turning to walk up to steps. When he comes back inside, Tommy’s on the couch now, feet kicked up on Joel’s coffee table.
Joel shuts the door a little too hard behind him.
He lets out a low whistle. “Damn.”
“I told you,” Joel says, low and firm. “Now ain’t the time.”
Tommy’s grinning. “No shit it ain’t the time. Jesus, Joel. She’s what—twenty? Twenty one?”
“Somethin’ like that.” Joel says, arms crossed tightly over his chest.
“Oh, well never mind then, that makes it fine,” Tommy says, laughing. He cracks open the beer in his hand, taking a slow sip. “You’re outta your fuckin’ mind, you know that?”
Joel clenches his jaw, not bothering with an answer. His heavy silence speaks louder than any words could.
Tommy watches Joel closely, taking his silence for what it is and grinning wide enough to show off the sharp point of his canines. “She filled out real nice though, didn’t she?”
Joel shoots him a warning look, brows pinched together. “Don’t.”
Tommy holds his free hand up in surrender, but he’s still smirking. “All I’m sayin’ is—I remember when she was this pretty little thing runnin’ around here. Now—” He makes a vague gesture at his own chest. “—jailbait’s a whole lotta grown.”
Joel takes a step forward, hands clenched into fists at his side. “Watch your goddamn mouth.”
Tommy raises a brow, and the air goes real still between them for a beat. Joel knows his little brother—knows he’s testing the waters, seeing just how deep the river runs.
Joel shakes his eyes off him, walks to the kitchen and snatches his forgotten beer off the counter.
He hears Tommy chuckle again, more to himself than anything, his voice is louder so Joel can hear him. “You better watch yourself, man. That one? She’s trouble.”
Joel downs the rest of his beer in one long, bitter swallow, eyes peering out the window—locked on the road your car disappeared down. His voice, when it comes, is low and final.
“You got no idea.”
It’s almost too easy, falling back into the routine of it.
A few nights a week, just like before. Joel calls. You come over. The knock on the door doesn’t even feel necessary anymore, since Sarah already knows it’s you when she yanks it open and launches into talking before you’ve even stepped inside.
You know where the snacks are. The remote. You know how to work the tricky thermostat and still have all the emergency contacts scrawled on a paper tacked to the fridge memorized.
It all comes back like muscle memory—like no time has passed at all.
Sarah’s older now, a little more sarcastic. Witty and bolder in a way that surprises you sometimes, just enough edge in the way she talks to you that reminds you how much time has passed since you used to sit on the same couch and color. She’s brimming with the kind of secrets she’s aching to spill to someone she knows won’t tell her dad.
You’re still not quite a “grown-up” in her eyes, but you’re not a kid anymore either. You’re in that sweet spot—a cool older girl with her own car who lets her say things like shit and dickweed when Joel’s not around.
You’re not supposed to let her stay up this late, but you both pretend not to notice the clock. She’s curled up next to you on the couch, draped over the armrest only half watching the reruns you turned on with her chin propped on her palm.
"Can I ask you something?” Sarah says suddenly, grinning.
You narrow your eyes at her, mock suspicious. “You can, but I’m not promising I’ll answer.”
She laughs, kicking you gently with a socked foot. “Did you ever, like, sneak around when you were my age? Steal beer? Hook up with anyone?”
“Jesus, Sarah.” You raise your eyebrows, but she’s too amused to be embarrassed. You toss a throw pillow her way lazily. “You know your dad would kill me for answering that, right? He’d think I’m giving you ideas or something.”
“That’s not a no,” she sings, smirking.
“No comment.” You shake your head, smiling in spite of yourself. “I don’t need to give you any blackmail material to use on me later if I piss you off.”
“Please,” she huffs with a dramatic roll of her eyes. “I’d never narc on you like that. Besides, Dad still thinks I’m eight, I don’t even think he knows that I know what “hooking up” means.”
You laugh, shaking your head as you turn your attention back to the TV. “You’re his baby.” You shrug as a new episode of Daria starts. “It makes sense that he’s treating you like one.”
“Gross,” Sarah huffs again, letting her head fall back against the cushion to stare up at the ceiling. “He’s just so overprotective sometimes. I mean, I guess I get it but, come on? I’m basically in high school now, I’m not really a baby anymore.”
You glance over at her, and she isn’t. Not really. Not the gap toothed little girl who used to fall asleep on your shoulder watching Finding Nemo. She’s growing up in the kind of terrifying, beautiful way that makes your chest ache a little—already too smart for her own good.
She cracks her eyes open a bit, peering across the way at you. “Bet you noticed that when you were my age, right? When guys started looking at you differently.”
You blink. It’s not the words that shake you—it’s the timing. The way they hit, low and close to the bone.
Because yeah, you did notice. You still do. Especially now. Especially here.
Before you can say anything, the alarm you set on your phone blares loudly, cutting through the quiet.
“Alright!” You push her feet off your lap and stand, happy for the distraction as you clap your hands together. “That’s curfew.”
Sarah groans, but she rolls off the couch with no argument and starts down the hall.
You busy yourself with tidying up the living room as she brushes her teeth, pointedly ignoring the growing pit in your stomach. Her words ring in your ears like church bells, her voice tolling a little too close to something you’ve pointedly ignored since you got back. Something half buried and dangerous.
Bet you noticed that when you were my age, right? When guys started looking at you differently…
You breathe out slowly, shutting off the TV and dropping the remote onto the couch a little harder than necessary. You shouldn’t read into it. She didn’t mean anything by it. Just a kid mouthing off, reaching for connection, for understanding.
But it rattles you more than you want to admit, especially here—especially in his house.
You swallow hard, clearing the dirty dishes off the coffee table and walking into the kitchen. You just won’t think about it anymore, it’s that easy.
You're just being ridiculous. Paranoid. That's all.
A little while later, you’re still tidying up.
The dishes are all done, washed and drying in the rack next to the sink. The living room looks better than when you got here. It’s damn near pristine.
Sarah went to bed almost half an hour ago. You crane your head down the hallway as you fold an old blanket, her door is cracked open enough that you can see the light from her alarm clock shining in the dark. The soft sounds of waves drone quietly from her noise machine.
You smile, a warm fondness blooming in your chest.
That fuzzy feeling doesn’t last long, not when your eyes drift almost on their own, landing on Joel’s door.
Joel’s room.
It’s cracked open too, just like Sarah’s, but there’s no light shining from inside. You keep folding the blanket, distracted. It’s not like you haven’t been in Joel’s room before, you have. Passing through it with clean loads of laundry or sneaking his phone charger from the plug near his nightstand when your phone died.
But you’d never gone in alone, and you’d never stayed long. Sarah was always hot on your heels, catching your wrist in her tiny hand to drag you back out—following you around like an overexcited puppy. Not to mention it was always in the light of day, never at a time like this. When the moon is shining high in the sky and the stars are scattered across vast velvety darkness like spilled sugar.
You drape the folded blanket along the arm of the couch, eyes still glued to the door. The cogs in your mind turn and turn, spitting out an idea that has your stomach clenching with something you can’t quite put your finger on.
You gnaw on your bottom lip anxiously, eyes cutting to the clock above the door.
11:53
Joel told he’d be a while tonight, before he left. He said they’d be short a man, that the job would drag on because of it.
That’s not an excuse, you know that.
You shouldn’t. You really shouldn’t.
Your feet are moving before your brain can catch up to how bad of an idea this really is.
Your steps are silent on the linoleum, barefeet not making a sound. The wood of his door is dark and shiny, cool against your hand when you lay your palm over it. You give Sarah’s room another sideways glance, you can see the shape of her beneath the covers. Sound asleep.
The door creaks when you push it open, just barely. The sound isn’t enough to scare you off, and you step inside. The carpet is plush under you, it silences your steps even more as you walk to the nightstand and flick the light on.
Your heart pounds against your ribs as you take it in. The messy, unmade state of Joel’s bed. The covers are thrown back, there’s a dip in the pillow where his head rests. The nightstand has a paperback open and laying face down, a pair of wiry reading glasses resting next to it.
The room smells like him.
That scent that used to cling to you by accident when you were younger—clean cotton and cedar, a little motor oil and sweat, and whatever body wash he’s been using for years. It hits you all at once.
It has something stirring in your core, the familiarity of it. You look around some more, greedy eyes taking in every tiny detail you can. There’s a few paintings and framed pictures littering the walls. Pictures of Sarah, of Tommy, all kinds of different Texas landscapes.
An old guitar rests on the wall across from you, you can see that it’s a little beat up even from where you’re standing. The glossy wood chipped and well loved.
Then your eyes land on the dresser.
It’s old, stained a light brown. You wonder distantly if he built it himself.
Your gaze catches on the top drawer, the pull handle worn with use.
Again, you know it’s wrong. That you’ve already crossed every line imaginable by just being in here, but you seem full to bursting with bad ideas tonight.
You’re across the room with your fingers resting gently on the handle before you can even blink. Slowly, like something’s pulling you on a leash, you slide it open.
Socks. Boxers. Old, ratty belts. It’s nothing special, but heat climbs up the back of your neck all the same.
The next drawer has shirts, old band tees and fancier button downs that really should be hung up. You press your hand against one of them, feeling the starchy fabric beneath your skin.
The third drawer sticks a little, enough that you need to yank on it harder than the last two. It slides open with a dull thud. You wince, your eyes flicking to the door like Joel could be standing there, catching you rifling through his underwear like a sick little perv.
The darkness of the hallway is all that greets you. Quiet, empty.
You take a steadying breath, but your hands don’t stop trembling as you tug it the rest of the way open.
You’re not sure exactly what you’re looking for, but then, you see it.
There, tucked toward the back under a couple old flannels, a small stack of magazines.
Playboys. A couple Hustlers. From the look of them, they're mostly 90s, maybe early 2000s. It’s so vintage, so Joel. The covers are glossy, edges curled and worn.
Your breath hitches. The heat between your legs is instant, sharp and impossible to ignore.
You pull one out, heart hammering, and flip it open carefully. Your eyes skim over picture after picture, some of the pages sticking together as you thumb through them. The scent of paper and dust and something faintly musky drifts up, and the centerfold you finally land on is obscene—posed, yes, but raw in a way that makes your thighs press together.
Legs spread wide on a bearskin rug, pink mouth parted, full bush and glossy nipples.
She’s brunette, hair poofy and curled up to Jesus like they used those big old school rollers. Her eyes are the same color as yours, half lidded and covered in a sparkly blue shadow.
You glance down at the caption under her photo.
“Turn-ons: Older men. The kind that know how to use their hands.”
A shiver rolls down your spine.
You should be laughing. Maybe grossed out. But instead—
Instead you imagine Joel, sitting in this room, flipping through these pages alone. Hand between his legs. That rough, big, calloused hand. Not fast, not frantic. No, you imagine him slow.
Measured.
Probably gritting his teeth, because he seems like the type who doesn’t let himself sound desperate even when he is. Grunting softly. Breathing hard. Coming into a tissue or his palm or maybe just letting it land on his stomach. Because there’s no one here to see. No one to touch him. Just him and the sound of paper turning.
You shut the magazine too fast. Slide it back in place, heart pounding.
Before you can push the drawer closed, your eyes catch on one of the flannels that covered Joel’s little secret.
It’s an old one—soft looking, broken in, a faded green and black. You should put it back, lay it down exactly where you found it so there’s nothing even hinting at you digging around in places you shouldn’t.
Instead, your hand closes around it, and without letting yourself think too long, you hold it up to your nose.
God. It smells like him. Like his detergent, like summer sweat and wood and something faintly smokey. Warm and safe and so damn inappropriate in every possible way.
It’s too much, it’s not enough. It’s obscene.
You can’t help yourself, you push the rest of the flannels back over the magazines, but the one in your hand gets tucked under your arm.
You don’t even try to justify it. You don’t even look back.
You don’t touch yourself right away.
You wait. You ride the buzz all the way home. Eat a popsicle standing barefoot in your kitchen, flannel in a heap on the counter like a loaded gun. You pretend to forget about it. You go about your night like normal. Shower. Brush your teeth.
Then you’re in bed and it’s just there. Laying on your mattress.
You unfold it. Run your fingers over the soft, worn fabric. You should feel guilty. You do, but that doesn’t stop you from pressing it to your nose and inhaling a deep lungful. You crawl into bed, tearing your shirt off and kicking your shorts down your legs all at once.
You lay back against your sheets, flannel still clutched in your hands. You rub it along your chest, over your peaked nipples, down your stomach. Rubbing Joel’s scent into your skin like it’s your own personal brand.
Your free hand slides down your body, down the lacy fabric of your panties. You’re already wet. You’ve been wet since the minute you opened that drawer.
You close your eyes, fingertips teasing along the wet expanse of your pussy as you let your mind go there—
To the thought of Joel finding you like this.
His flannel draped over your face. Your hand between your thighs.
Would he be mad? Would he punish you for it?
Would he take it back? Rip it out of your hands?
Or would he make you put it on—just so he could see you wear it while he ruined you?
You want to come like this. Wrapped up in something of his. Want to ruin yourself in it. You dip your fingers into your underwear and finally—finally—brush them over your clit.
The gasp you let out is sharp.
It’s not just his cologne. It’s his scent. That hot-skin smell that clings to the inside of his hats and his truck and his work boots. It’s Joel, soaked into the fabric like he’s holding you down.
You rub slow circles over your clit, hips twitching. You can’t stop picturing him. Not just his face, but the sounds he’d make. The weight of his body over yours. The way his voice would rasp against your ear if he caught you doing this.
“Dirty fuckin’ girl, so desperate you’re gettin’ off with my dirty laundry?”
You slide two fingers inside yourself and gasp, mouth falling open. You imagine his hands instead. Rough, thick, calloused. Bigger than yours. Slower. Crueler.
“Oh fuck, Joel—” you whisper without thinking, the name catching on your teeth like a sin.
You come hard, pressing the flannel to your face, thighs trembling, biting down on soft cotton as you ride it out. It rolls through you in hot waves. Shame, lust, guilt, need—all tangled up.
When it’s over, you lie there panting, the room silent except for your heartbeat in your ears. You relax your jaw, the flannel falling from between your lips, fabric soaked with your spit.
You drift off with it clutched to your chest. Still wet between your legs. Still aching. Still imagining what he’d do if he ever found out.
And you sleep better than you have in weeks.
You don’t think anything of it when you see Joel’s truck parked in front of the trailer. It’s not out of the ordinary, he’s almost always there to make sure you get in safe before he leaves.
You climb the creaky steps and knock like usual. Three little raps, your knuckles against the thin aluminum of Joel’s door, already shifting your weight to the side as you wait for Sarah to yank it open and start catching you up on all the latest gossip from her last summer soccer practice.
Only—it doesn't swing open. Not right away.
You frown, Sarah’s usually opened the door before you can even raise your fist to knock again. It’s only then that you notice how quiet it is.
No music thumping out from her window, no light flicked on in her room. No hum of the TV playing. No voice yelling “Just a second!” from down the hall. Just the light hanging above your head buzzing faintly and the dull thud of your knuckles against the door.
You knock for a fourth time, less sure.
A few more seconds go by. One, two, three, four.
You count all the way to ten before the door creaks open, the screen with it. Joel fills the frame, one shoulder leaning against it. The light floods out from behind him, a warm yellow glow spilling into the dark and haloing around his broad shoulders.
He’s not dressed in work clothes, just an old grey short sleeve and a pair of jeans that ride dangerously low on his hips—a beer bottle held loosely in his left hand. He doesn’t even have shoes on.
You’re hit with a violent wash of déjà vu, your traitorous mind thinking back to the first day you saw him again.
“Hey,” you say as casually as you can, shifting on your feet. You peer around him into the living room. Empty. “Where’s Sarah?”
Joel doesn’t move, head tilting as he watches you. “She’s stayin’ over at a friends.”
You blink. “Oh.”
“Yeah. Oh.” The corner of Joel’s mouth raises slightly, it’s not quite a smirk, but it’s close. “I texted. You didn’t check your phone?”
You shake your head slowly, but you can’t help the way your brows furrow. You had checked it, right before you left your house, like you awake do. No calls. No texts.
“I must’ve missed it.”
Joel gives you a lazy once over, eyes dragging down your front like a slow lick. “Huh,” he says, but it’s far away. “Guess you might as well come in anyway, wouldn’t want you to waste your time comin’ out here for nothin’.”
He steps aside, holding the door open expectantly.
“It’s fine, really.” You laugh, but it’s awkward. “I can just go—”
“Come inside.”
He says it low. Not a suggestion.
You hesitate for half a second, nerves suddenly scraping just beneath your skin. But you step in anyway, brushing past him into the cool dimness of the trailer, the familiar scent of cedar, beer, and Joel hitting your nose all at once.
The door shuts behind you with a heavy click.
Joel walks past you, sets his beer down on the coffee table before his eyes find yours again. You can see his face better in the light of the living room, his eyes are hard. Dark in a way you haven’t seen in a long time. It has your stomach clenching tightly, the sour edge of alarm churning with arousal inside you.
“It’s good you’re here. We oughta talk.”
You open your mouth, then shut it. His tone is strange—off—but not angry. Amused, almost. You wring your hands behind your back anxiously. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah,” he says, voice low, rough, “I been meanin’ to ask you somethin’. Just been waitin’ for the right time.”
You frown. “Ask me what?”
Joel drags the silence out. He watches you try not to squirm, mouth tilted in another half smirk.
"You go through my shit, baby?"
Your heart trips three times over in your chest, stomach dropping down to your feet. “I—what?”
Joel huffs hard out his nose, that smug smirk spreads. It’s all teeth now, feral and amused. “Did I stutter?”
You’re shaking now, hands trembling in time with the frantic beat of your pulse. “I just thought—I didn’t think you—”
Joel clicks his tongue, cutting you off. “Yeah that’s the problem, ain’t it? You didn’t think.” He takes one slow step toward you, eyes locked on yours, heavy and dark and hot enough to burn.
“It’s real funny,” he says offhandedly, too casual—like you’re talking about this week’s forecast. “There’s only a few people who’ve been in and outta here lately. And I know Tommy ain’t the one riflin’ through my drawers, takin’ shit that doesn't belong to him. I ain’t dumb, baby.”
Your mouth opens and closes desperately, mind racing to say anything. To lie, to defend yourself, to beg for forgiveness. Nothing comes out. Your throat works around nothing, and your hands are clenched so tightly behind your back they’re going numb.
Joel just hums. A low, throaty sound that vibrates down your spine. His fingers curl under the hem of your shirt, lifting it slightly, just enough to show the little strip of skin above your shorts. “You touch yourself in it?”
The question punches the air from your lungs. You don’t need to ask him what it is.
“I—Joel—”
“Don’t try lyin’ to me.”
Your face burns. You can’t bring yourself to nod, let alone speak. You don’t have to.
Joel laughs—dark and low, like he already knows the answer. He trails his hand along the skin of your stomach, his touch featherlight. You can’t hide the shiver that wracks through you, goosebumps pebbling along your skin.
His hand falls away, only so he can drop down onto the couch behind him. Legs wide, thighs spread, jeans tugging tight across them as he leans back like he’s settling in for a show. His voice is pure gravel. “Go on, then. Show me what you did.”
You just stand there. Eyes wide. “What?”
Your voice shakes, quiet and small in the tension.
Joel shakes his head, sighing like he’s dealing with a stubborn child. He hooks one finger in the waistband of your shorts, tugging. You move without thinking, stepping into the space between his spread thighs.
“See, I don’t wanna have to ask you again, baby. So, are you gonna show me?” he says slowly, his touch dipping low enough to brush over the lacy edge of your panties. “Or am I gonna have to make you?”
Your breath catches in your throat, heat flooding your body in less than a second. “Joel—”
He cocks a brow. “What’s wrong, sweet thing? You were bold enough to sneak into my room, go through my drawers, take what don’t belong to you. Don’t get shy now.”
You feel it then—that impossible to ignore, deep, slick throb between your legs. Shame and heat twisting up your insides. Your whole being pulses with heat, phantom flames lapping over your skin.
You don’t know if you’re more humiliated or turned on—your body doesn’t seem to care either way. Joel hasn’t taken his eyes off you.
There’s no way out of this. And you’re not even sure if you want one.
You bite your lip, cheeks burning as your fingers trail down your belly, under your shorts and down between your thighs. Already wet. Slick with the shame of it, slick with how bad you want him watching you.
Joel swats your hip, not hard enough to sting. Just enough to make you feel it. “No ma’am, none of that shit. Shorts off.”
You freeze, your hand still buried under the waistband, your pulse thudding in your ears like a war drum. Apparently, you don’t move fast enough, not for him, and Joel’s already leaning forward, hands on your hips as he yanks them down himself—your shorts and panties in one brutal tug.
“Fuckin’ brat,” he mutters, almost to himself, dragging the fabric down your thighs and letting it pool at your ankles.
Your breath hitches as he sits back again, arms draped lazily over the back of the couch, dark eyes fixed on the wet heat between your thighs like he’s starving.
You step out of your clothes, naked from the waist down, cheeks burning, heart beating so hard it’s making you lightheaded.
Joel tips his chin toward the floor. “Go on.”
Your stomach flips. You’re sure he can see it, the way your chest heaves, nipples pressing hard into the thin fabric of your top. Your hand drifts between your legs again, slow and shaky. Joel’s eyes follow every motion. Every tremble.
Your middle finger dips down and slides through your folds, slow. You let out a shaky breath. You brush over your clit, and twitch, hips jerking without meaning to.
“That’s it.” Joel nods, his hands clenched into fists. “See how easy it was, sugar? Feel’s good, doesn't it?”
“Yes,” you whisper, your voice threadbare. You’re rubbing yourself faster now, pressure building fast. “It feels so good, Joel.”
Joel groans at his name falling from your lips. “I bet it does. Bet you fucked your fingers into that tight little cunt while smellin’ me on the collar of that damn shirt. You nasty little thing.”
You nod, barely, lips parted as you circle your clit again, breath hitching on contact.
“I should spank your ass red for that,” he growls. “Should bend you over my lap like a fuckin’ child. You need discipline, don’t you?”
Your knees nearly give. “Joel. Please—”
He cuts you off again, gesturing lazily to where your hand disappears between your thighs. “Open her up. Let me see.”
You press two fingers between your folds, spreading them apart so he can see your glistening pussy, sticky and swollen from just a few strokes.
“Goddamn,” Joel groans, reaching down to adjust the thick shape of his cock hard under his jeans. “She’s fuckin’ drippin’. That for me, baby?”
You nod, lips slack as your thighs tremble.
“Yeah,” he drawls, stretching the word like out taffy between his teeth. “That’s real pretty.”
You moan at that. Loud and desperate. Your touch dip that much lower to push one finger inside. Then another, like you just can’t help yourself. You’re so wet there’s no resistance, your pussy welcoming them in like it’s done this a hundred times thinking of him. Slick drips down your thighs, shining under the light of the lamp.
Joel licks his lips slowly, deliberately. “Look at that.” He leans forward, pupils wide and dark as an oil spill. “Just a little rub like that, a little stretch and you’re already makin’ a mess.”
You whimper, hips rocking against your hand. “Joel, I—”
“Give yourself another finger. Show me how you take it”
You grind down onto your own fingers, mouth slack with soft moans that breathe to life before you can muffle them. You press in a third finger. The stretch burns, but you don’t stop. You’re panting now, skin dewy, hips jerking forward to meet your hand. Joel watches like a man starved.
He grins, smug and handsome and infuriating. “Yeah, three feels nice don’t it, honey?” He reaches out, his hand sliding up your thigh in one slow motion, lazy and unhurried through the slick. “Bet you could take my whole fuckin’ fist if you wanted it real bad.”
A pathetic little whine fills the air, more of a mewl than anything. It takes you a second to realize you’re the one making the noise, so desperate and gone from the tiniest amount of touch. It makes your walls clamp down harder around your fingers.
Joel sees. Joel knows.
And it’s all he needs to finally break.
“Come here,” he growls suddenly, jerking his head impatiently.
You scramble over, straddling him, bare thighs spread over his denim clad ones. Joel undoes his belt with one hand, the clink of the metal making your pulse trip. He pulls himself out of his soaked boxers, hard and straining, the rosy head drooling precome onto his shirt when it slaps up to rest against his stomach.
Your mouth falls open at the sight of it, flushed and big. Bigger than you’ve ever seen, outside of guilty late night porn searches.
Joel chuckles darkly, taking himself in his hand. He strokes himself slowly, twisting his wrist over the head. “You think you can take all this?” he taunts meanly, dragging the tip through your folds, wetting himself with your slick. “You’re just a baby, sweetheart. You think you can handle this dick?”
You moan as he rubs himself over your sensitive clit, warm and wet. Your hips twitch down, desperate for more. Your pussy clenches around nothing, overwhelmingly empty.
He slaps your ass, hard. He kneads the tender skin in his rough hand after, dragging out the sting. “How old am I? Tell me, honey. Say it.”
You gasp, eyes screwing shut in embarrassment. “Fifty–ah! Fifty three,” you breathe, not looking Joel in the eye as you say it.
You can’t, not with the humiliation coursing through your veins like pure kerosine. It’s white hot, burning so bright, but it’s still not enough to stop your pussy from dripping sticky all over his cock like a broken faucet.
“Damn right,” he growls. “Old enough to be your fuckin’ daddy.”
Joel thrusts into you in one brutal push.
You scream. Your nails dig into his shoulders hard enough that you feel the thin material of his shirt straining under it. The stretch feels like it’s tearing you in two, like your fingers didn’t do anything to prepare you for his cock carving a place for itself inside you.
Joel kisses you, sucks the noise right off your tongue. He tastes like beer, like sweat and salt and something that’s only him. You moan into his mouth, your fingers threading into the soft hair curling at the nape of his neck.
He pulls back, a string of spit connecting your lips until it bends and breaks under the weight of gravity. “Come on, darlin’.” He slaps your ass again—once, twice—and you squeal, the burn sharp and perfect. “You wanted to fuck me so bad you couldn’t keep those thievin’ hands to yourself, huh? Well now’s your chance. Fuck me, give it to me good.”
You don’t ease into it, too worked to even think about starting slow.
You bounce on his lap like you’re possessed, thighs slapping, slick drenching his jeans. Joel groans with every roll of your hips, low and drawn out. He lets his head fall back against the couch, the tan column of his throat on display.
“Been waitin’ for this,” he pants. “Since the day you showed back up. Actin’ all grown. Look at you now. Cryin’ on my cock.”
You’re drooling. Dizzy. Brain turned to static as you ride him, his hands gripping your hips so tight you know you’ll bruise.
“You’re so fuckin’ tight,” he growls, raising his head to watch you. “This pussy wasn’t made for boys your age. Needs a man to stretch it out. To ruin it.”
You whine, your pussy tightening around the throbbing length of his cock. Joel notices, of course he does.
His hands grip your ass, urging your hips up and down faster. “You like that, sweet thing? You like lettin’ an old man fuck you raw like this?”
“Yes,” you whine, tears burning at your water line. “I love it, want you to come inside me so bad Joel, fuck-”
“I know, baby.” Joel kisses your cheek, softly. Too soft, too tender. “You ain’t ever gonna want some college boy after this. You’re gonna be thinkin’ about how Mr. Miller fucked you open better than they could.”
Your moan is muffled by his fingers pushing between your slack lips, filling your mouth. You whine at the taste of yourself coating his skin, sucking obediently as he presses them down on your tongue.
“Gonna make you mine,” he pants. “Mine. No more sneakin’ around, no more stealin’ my shit—you want something, you ask for it like a big girl, and I’ll fuckin’ give it to you.”
You shake your head, babbling around his fingers. “Yes—yes, only you. I’m yours—”
You can feel your orgasm building deep in your belly, the coil of pleasure tightening and tightening until it threatens to snap.
Joel rips his fingers from your mouth with a dark growl, reaching back down to grip your ass again. He spreads you open, the cool air making you gasp. One finger, wet with your own spit, rubs over your rim.
He doesn’t push in—just teases, circling, pressing, tugging—enough to make you clench and cry out as he starts pounding up into you. His hips lifting off the couch and filling the room with the loud noise of skin on skin as his balls slap against your ass with every thrust. Your pussy squelching around him with dirty, wet noises would make your ears burn if you weren’t so far gone already.
“You gonna let me play with this too?” he murmurs, lips brushing against your. “You lettin’ me train this hole next?”
That’s it. It’s all you can take.
You shatter with a scream, pussy squeezing so tight it makes Joel snarl and buck wildly up into you. He grabs your ass, choking out a strained string of “fuck, fuck, fuck—”
He curses, pulls you down hard onto his cock one last time as he spills inside you, so deep you swear you feel it behind your ribs. His head drops to your shoulder, breath ragged as he comes and comes.
It feels endless, spurt after spurt of hot spend flooding your walls until it’s forced to leak back out along the fever hot skin of his cock, slipping down his balls to drip onto the couch.
It’s filthy.
It’s obscene.
It’s exactly what you wanted.
You both lean into each other, breathless and spent as you come down. Sweat drips down your back, rolling down your spine as your hands stay buried in his hair.
Joel strokes your thigh lazily, still inside you, watching the mess drip down where you’re spread open around him.
“You’re stayin’ the night,” he says simply.
You can’t fight the tiny, secret smile you press against the sweaty skin of his throat as you nod wordlessly, thighs still shaking violently around his hips.
You’d never make it to the door anyway.
MINI NAT'S NOTE: what's so funny to me about this is that i didn't realize how much i actually missed writing for joel until i took a little mini break to work on my other frankie and harry fics like it’s so dramatic truly, but baby we’re so back! back and hopefully pissing off the joel age gap haters!
shoutouts to baby rylea for giving me the flannel idea cause this fic might have been lost without it. it was rescued from being just another abandoned wip and instead turned into a literal monster which was never supposed to happen but uh that's chill i guess…two fics over 10k words in one month? that’s literally unheard of over here. ALSO my first venture into ass play to spite @ebodebo and @yuenity sooo that’s fun. i love them both really LMAO
once again it's four a.m because i just can't function like a normal person. thank you to femme bot by charli xcx, pink red bull, and ofc my geeky bar for letting me power through and finish this mess. okay i'm done now sorry for talking so much, i just love yapping to you guys :(( thank you so much for reading, love you!
Summary: After countless dates with a boy, you know that next time you’re going to sleep with him. But you’re way too inexperienced. So what better way is there than showing up at Joel Miller’s door with cherry pie in hand, and asking if he’s willing to help you out?
Warnings: 18+, MDNI, smut, oldman!joel, dom!joel, both reader and Joel are kinda unhinged, slight pervy!joel, tiny bit of mean!joel but he is a softie, cheating (also not? bc reader is not together with that boy), inexperienced!reader, girthy age gap! (61 and 24), praise kink, slight degradation, breeding kink (?), oral m!receiving, pinv, unprotected sex, multiple orgasms, creampie, fingering, riding, size kink, outbreak, tiny bit of thigh riding
A/N: oh my gosh that old, dirty man is back at it again. I missed him, I hope yall did too😌
Your fingers tapped nervously on the plate beneath the cherry pie. The sweet scent was almost unbearable, but giving up wasn’t an option—not after that time you spent searching for ingredients outside of Jackson.
The sun dipped low behind the trees and it was nearly evening. The timing was perfect for some pie, and you were sure Joel would love it.
His house sat on the quieter edge of Jackson, marked by a ‘Miller’ mailbox, a wooden porch, and a dried-out garden. (You couldn’t blame him though, he was working way too hard to keep up with his garden.)
Three knocks.
“Hi.” You greeted him, a smile tugging on your lips. His eyebrows quickly furrowed—just as you know him. Joel looked exhausted. His green flannel dirty, hair messy and dirt stained boots. He just came back from work.
“Whatcha doin’, girl?” His voice hoarse, deep. Sending shivers down your spine.
And you knew this was a bad idea. Heck, asking Joel—your mentor, your teacher and someone who took care of you countless times—to show you how to give someone a blowjob was embarrassing.
But you didn’t know how else to learn. You were way too inexperienced—no enough friends to ask, no porn, no education in this town.
And after your last time, having to interrupt a heavy make out session with that one boy who works at the day care, you needed desperate help for next time.
“Bought you cherry pie.”
His eyes lingered over the pie for a moment, then landed on your body—following the curve of your skin up and down, lingering far too long on the red crop top you were wearing.
“Made me pie, eh? It’s cold outside. Come on in.” He opened his door wide, a hand coming to the small of your back and letting you in—lingering a bit longer than usual.
From the inside, his house was cosier—the last bits of sunlight spilling from the windows, painting everything into a golden haze. His furniture, old and rugged like him, was scattered with soft pillows and a few photos here and there. And of course, his beloved wooden carved animals, carefully crafted, sat in every corner, quietly collecting dust.
You carefully place the pie on his kitchen counter, nervously biting the inside of your cheek.
Joel already pulls out two forks, one for you and one for him. “Now what do we have here.”
You knew he adored your pies. Sometimes you’d bake him two or even three, and he’d devour every last bite—but only after he’d done something in return. Whether it was fixing something around your apartment or bringing you something from patrol, there was always a little exchange involved.
“What’s the matter with you? Why the face?” he asks, and your heart leaps, suddenly remembering why you came. He already took a generous bite of cherry pie, a smear of filling resting messily at the corner of his mouth.
“Just—uhm. Can you do me a little favor?”
“A favor? Should’ve known. Y’never bring that old man pie without wanting any favors.”
You giggle quietly, also taking a bite of pie.
“What is it this time, sweetheart?”
Sweetheart.
The first time he called you that was when you were together on patrol. He taught you how to use a sniper, his hand landing gently on your shoulder, squeezing softly when you did well. Or when you helped him fix your light—tools in your hand, his voice calling you a good girl when you handed him the right ones.
Or when he had you creaming around his fingers. After giving him his pie, quietly, on your couch. Leaving small kisses on your neck, the other hand rubbing your nipples through your shirt, telling you how good you are for him.
And a ‘this can’t happen again.’ leaving you with wanting more.
So, you weren’t sure if you were here because of that boy or because of Joel. Because, admittedly, you have been aching for his touch since then.
“Cat got ya tongue?” He interrupts your thoughts with a quick snap of fingers. “My back is fuckin’ killing me. Let’s sit down on the couch, then you can tell me about that little favour of yours.”
Before you can answer him, he pulls out two plates, carefully puts one slice for you and two slices for himself, and then walks to his living room with them.
You take a deep breath.
Walking into the living room, you see him sitting there—already one of the slices gone—as he starts on the other. You gently make your way to him, sitting down next to him. He takes his fork with pie and brings it to your mouth, making you giggle and take it, a coo leaving his lips.
“C’mon, say it,” he urges, nudging you. Your mind spins with all the ways this could end.
Either he’ll react well—just as you know him—and help you, or he’ll make you leave his house and never contact him again.
You start, “So there is a boy.” And you can see him clenching his jaw tight, fork leaving his hand as his eyebrows furrow.
“That so?”
“Mhm. And I—I don’t know how to ask you this but—“
You look down, your fingers fidgeting with each other, heart thudding in your chest like it’s about to break out.
“Spit it out, kid.” He sighs, sets the plate down, and turns his body toward you—making it now impossibly more difficult for you.
“I—I want to do things with him. But i’m kinda too inexperienced.” Your cheek heat up while you’re talking, your gaze falls down not wanting to look into his disturbed face. The air in the room now feeling impossibly thick.
After an awkward silence you peak up to Joel, who is just looking at you. You can’t tell if it’s disbelief or disgust. Or maybe something in between.
“Jesus christ, girl.” He mutters out. “And what do you want me to do? Hold your hand while you’re getting dicked down?”
Your eyes widen, a gasp leaving your lips at his wording.
“Oh my god—no, no. That’s not what I meant.” Well, what you meant might be just a little bit worse than what he interpreted it as.
“Just—ya know…maybe show me how to give a blo—“
“Nah.” He interrupts you swiftly, shaking his head. “Not happenin’”
You sigh, defeated. Not only did you feel embarrassed, but you probably just ruined your almost perfect relationship with him. Joel took a pillow, mumbling something under his breath, and placed it over his lap. Your eyes perked up at that—he was hard. And he was trying to hide it.
“B-but, you also showed me something else the other time. Wouldn’t be that the same?”
He sighs. “Baby, you ain’t comin’ here dressed like that, bringing me cherry pie and asking me to give you sex ed.”
“Y’know I ain’t got anyone else.” You pout—maybe that’ll help. “And besides, you told me to come to you whenever I needed something right?”
“Christ,” he groans, rubbing his forehead. “Just can tell you how it’s done, yea? Nothin’ more.”
You hesitate. Hearing it out loud would be more awkward than him simply showing you. His eyes leave no room for choice, so you give a small nod.
“Comin’ here asking me how to blow someone.” He shakes his head, in disbelief.
“Heyyy, Joel—I don’t know how else to learn okey? I don’t want to embarrass myself.” You whine.
“S’fine.” He grumbles under his breath, sitting up straight. “Y’start by teasing.”
His eyes land on your tits.
“Show ‘em. Every boy will appreciate it.”
Your cheeks flush red.
“Then you get on those pretty knees. Take it out, give it some love.”
You ask, curious. “How do I give it some love?”
“Can’t serve everything on a silver spoon can I?” Grumpy, annoyed—making you amused. The pout from earlier starts to form again, you give him a pleading look.
He sighs once again. “Give kisses first. From top to bottom. Stroke gently.” And you notice how the tip of his ears are red.
“And the rest is pretty much self explanatory, ain’t it sweetheart?”
You look at him, the curiosity not letting up. As if you had no clue of the world, wanting him to explain it to you in every single detail. And you were so amused at how flushed and annoyed he was getting.
“God damn, girl. Open them lips, wrap them around and go up and down.”
“How fast?”
“Just how fast that person likes.” He shruggs.
“How do I know how fast that person likes it?” And it’s laughable at how dumb you were making yourself seem, but seeing him grip the pillow over his crotch tighter, his cheeks flushed and sweat dripping from his forehead—it was worth every single second.
“I let my girls know when I gather their hair in my palm and push them faster down.”
Your breath hitches, his girls.
“Then I buck my hips into their mouth,” he continues.
All this time, you thought Joel was a miserable, lonely man with no relationships whatsoever. Embarrassment washes over you as you think about how you believed you were the only one he liked—and that when he fingered you, you were special. You came here to get educated—no, you came here to seduce him. And that was the plain truth.
“Got that in your pretty little head?” He asks you, suddenly pinching your chin between his fingers and making you look at him.
You wanted him to push your head down and buck his hips against you.
“Not really.”
“You’re getting on my last nerves.” He grumbles before putting the pillow away and revealing his bulge. Your eyes land on it, as he zips down his pants, looking at you. His eyes darkening.
“C’mon. That brain of yours had to take some sort of information, right?”
His eyes land on your tits.
You quickly nod, pushing your crop top up quicky, revealing your breasts to him. You hear a groan leaving his chest, then a chuckle.
“Good, that’s what I like to see.” His hand finds your chest, fingers squeezing, then pinching your nipple. “Now what do we do?”
“Get on my knees.”
“Atta girl. Get on those knees.”
He doesn’t need to tell you twice when you slide down the couch and kneel in front of his bulge. Nodding, he gently pulls his hard one out of his boxers.
You almost start to drool at the sight.
He was so big. And he was pulsing. Red mushroom head, precum dribbling from the slit and decorated with veins from bottom to top.
“Now, what did we say?” He asks, his hand gently pumping himself up and down, while your eyes follow.
“Give it some love.”
Your hands shakily grab his cock, looking small compared to his length. Stroking up and down, looking up to him with doe eyes and placing kisses on every inch while you listen to Joels groans.
“That’s it.” He gathers your hair into his palm, forming a loose ponytail to keep it from falling in your face. “A man should always do this, yea? Not let you do all the work.”
Your cheeks heat up again, his eyes lock into yours as you nod. There was a warmth spreading inside your panties. You had already difficulties taking his fingers last time, you wonder how it’ll be if you took his cock.
“Wanna take him into my mouth.” You mumble.
He coos. “‘course ya do. C’mon then. Show me how good you listened.”
“Up and down.” You nod. “Hm, up and down, that’s right.” He answers.
You open your lips, hand gently stroking up and down his dick. Slowly, you wrap your mouth around his tip, hearing him shudder in response.
You try different things out. Swirling around, getting deeper, pulling out and giving small kitten licks. All the while Joel groans your name, and without noticing, your ponytail wrapped in his fist, he moves your head—slow, deliberate—up and down his length.
“Just like that. Y’learning fast.”
The pleasure in your abdomen getting unbearable. You feel yourself soaking through your panties as you start grinding your hips against the heel of your foot.
“Would ya look at that.” He chuckles, his hand going faster.
And as Joel’s movements get messier, he dives your head down until a gag rises sharp in your throat. You cough, and he pulls out quickly, watching your face closely.
“Deep breaths, deep breaths, baby.” He carefully tries to calm you down, and while you try to breath normal again, he starts apologising: “I’m sorry, sweetheart. That should’ve not happen. Got too lost in the pleasure.”
“S’okey.” You smile lazily to him, drool hanging from the sides of your face, lips swollen red. You looked too beautiful for your own damn good right now. And Joel wants nothing more to take you right then and there.
“I think that’s enough for today. You already learned how to use your mouth. I’m sure you’ll do good.”
Disappointment washes down your face. You sit there looking up to him with pleading eyes. The throbbing in your cunt unbearable and the urge to take care of him way too big.
He slips the edge of his shirt over his thumb and brushes the drool from your mouth, slow and careful.
“Pretty girl. You let that boy treat you well, yea? Or else.” He mumbles, but your eyes are only on his wet, aching cock.
The boy was forgotten, and Joel could see it in your hazy, fucked-out eyes. You were needy—needy to be touched—and he wished he could just take you, right on his couch. But he made that mistake once. He couldn’t let it happen again.
You move before you even realize it, climbing onto his lap and settling on one of his thighs. His hard cock grazes your skin, and he takes his time looking at you—your lips, your tits.
“Oh angel, we can’t.” A breath leaves his mouth.
You lean in and start kissing him—his cheek, his neck—fingers stroking through his hair as you suckle on his collarbones. His hands find your waist, gripping tight. One hand cups your breast, pinching your nipple. And before you even realize it, your hips are grinding against his thigh.
“Why?” You ask, laying your head against his chest, moving your hips in a slow rhythm.
“I would ruin you.” He answers, “And people in this town would kill us.”
“But you’re just teachin’ me something. Nobody has to know.”
A groan leaves his lips when your hands wrap around his cock, gently stroking up and down.
“That so?”
“Hm”, you nod. “Y’still need to teach me how to take cock.”
“Jesus christ, sweetheart. When did ya get so bold, huh?”
And you want to say ‘when you left me with aching for more’ but you don’t. Instead, you focus on the pleasures building in your tummy. Grinding harder against the rough fabric of his jeans, and a whimper slipping from your lips.
Suddenly, Joel mumbles a “fuck it,” then follows with, “Pull your pants and panties down. Now.” He demands it—and you do just that, standing up and tugging everything down.
“But you ain’t gonna complain if it hurts.” His hands pull you back into his lap, making you sit down again. “All this begging and then complaining about it hurting would be pathetic, girl.”
“C’mere. You’re wet enough.” One hand touches your folds, the other holding his cock. You buckle up, his tip gliding over your folds as you release a breath.
You gently and slowly, sink down.
“Easy, easy, babygirl.” He helps you. Squeezing your hips and guiding you through. A cry leaving your lips when you fully sit down. His length stretching you, touching places you’ve never even felt before.
“S’big, yea? That’s a mans cock, baby. Not gonna gave that much satisfaction when you ride that boy.”
Your head falls to his shoulder, biting down, clenching on his cock. “So big.” A whimper falling from your lips.
“Oh I know, I know.” He whispers. “But you’ll take it, baby. Still need to teach you, don’t I?” He says it playfully. Joel knows the boy is long gone from your mind—and that you came here for one thing: to get fucked by him. There’s no denying it.
He shifts underneath you, gripping you by your thighs and thrusts two times up, leaving you breathless.
“Good?”
“Mhm. More.” And he doesn’t need to hear that twice. He starts giving you quick thrusts, altering between deep and slow, while your moans fill the room.
Your hands grip his shirt, looking at him, his eyebrows furrowed, concentrating, rough breaths leaving his mouth. Tits start to bounce up and down, while he pumps in and out of your squelching cunt.
“Ain’t the one I used to be, girl—help that old man, will you? Start moving your hips.” He groans.
Your body almost limb from the pleasure, starts moving at his request. Going up and down, circling. His hands guiding you, helping you. Biting your lips, whines filling the quiet room and as Joels body suddenly shudders, you feel it.
His cum pumping you. Spurt after spurt, filling you to the brim.
You whimper, looking down, seeing drops of cum escaping your pussy.
“Oh, that’s a good girl.” He coos. “Tightest fuckin’ cunt i’ve ever had. Made me cum in no time.”
And you’re still aching for more.
“Could’ve just go to him.” You shrug. “He would’ve at least lasted longer.”
Joel looks at you with widen eyes. The relief after his orgasm completely gone, his cheeks and the tip of his ears flushing red. Not with shame or embarrassment.
But anger.
Without a word, he grabs your hips and forces you down onto the couch beside him. Your eyes widen, hands clutching his neck as he looms over you.
“Joel, what are you doing?” You ask, with no answer. Instead, he spreads your legs and grabs his cock.
He glances down, noticing he’s still soft. After a few frustrated strokes, he mutters, “God dammit.”
You giggle.
“Find that funny, huh?” He asks and you can’t even answer before he fills you with two of his fingers, a yelp leaving your lips. “Still got my fingers, baby.”
“Joel..” You squeeze your eyes shut when he curls them, his thick fingers going in and out of you.
“M’right here, angel. Y’think that boy of yours can reach those spots huh?”
And the spots he reaches are indescribable. Your mouth falls open when he hits your g-spot over and over again. Your legs start to shake, as you feel yourself getting close.
“Look at that, y’let me cum in you so well.” He whispers, looking at the ring of sperm build around his fingers whenever he pulls them out of your cunt.
“Joeljoeljoel.” With that you clench down his fingers, hips bucking, tummy clenching, you come around his fingers with a big cry.
Before you can even come down, he’s filling you again—his cock sliding in. The stretch feels good this time, and you clutch his shoulders as he murmurs your name. Your sensitive walls tighten around him, his length still a bit soft but just firm enough to push deep.
“Takin’ it so so good, baby.” He gently whispers in your ear. His lips latch into your neck, kissing and biting. Your moans start to fill the room again, as his thrusts begin in a quick rhythm.
“Feels good, feels so good.” You whimper, and squirm around. “I know it does, I know. That boy may last longer, but he won’t give you a reason for your pussy to be swollen red.” He looks down at your cunt while saying, a thumb landing on your clit.
You can’t even listen to him as the pleasure grows in your tummy once again. “M’gonna cum, please.”
“Good, c’mon then.”
His thumb speeds up at your clit, your leg falls from the couch because of the hard thrusts. Your hands grip impossibly tight to his shoulders.
“Gonna fill you up again, show this whole town who you belong to, yea?” Your eyes get wide at that, making him chuckle. His thrusts growing sloppier and sloppier.
“Joel, please.”
“Shh, s’okey. Cum with me, baby.” And you do.
You let go. This time, it’s harder than any orgasm you’ve ever had. Your mouth falls open, silent, as Joel gives you two more hard thrusts before spilling inside you—filling you up again, his release dripping onto the couch beneath you.
He kisses your temple, your nose, your forehead while you come down. His breathing is still hard and deep just like yours, softly coming down from the hard orgasms you two just had.
He pulls out, sits up slightly and watches as his cum oozes out of you.
“Christ, all filled up aren’t you?” His fingers wander to your slit, then he gathers the cum that drips out of your hole and pushes it in with two of his fingers.
With all the exhaustion, you can only whimper.
He thrusts them in and out, thumb gently landing on your clit, just slightly grazing it and making you shudder because of the sensitivity.
“No boy, yea? You’re mine. And if that takes, that’ll prove it.” He looks at you, furrowed eyebrows. And you nod your head softly, limbs to weak to function as you lay on his couch filled to the brim while his fingers are still working inside of you.
The next orgasm rolls in quietly, soft and fleeting—just enough to leave you relaxed and sleepy. Joel lets out a quiet chuckle, then pulls you close by the waist and shoulder. You nestle your head against his shoulder, and he kisses your forehead with quiet affection.
“God damn, y’need to bring me more often pie, sweetheart.”
😵💫😵💫😵💫 just need that old man so bad…
If you want to be added to my taglist, just write me your username right here!🫶🏻
｡𖦹°‧➵ contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, no outbreak au, no ellie, joel’s pov, swearing, age gap (52/23), semi-public sex (more of a semi-public ALMOST over the pants handjob?), p in v, clothed sex, unprotected sex, rough sex, hair pulling, spit kink, degradation, pussy spanking, creampie, fucking in your childhood bedroom RAAAHHH, one (1) single line about joel wanting to slap you, one (1) single use of the word daddy, erectile dysfunction? we don't know what that means in this house because that old man can fuck like he's twenty, porn w/o plot, no use of y/n.
｡𖦹°‧➵ nat’s note: hi babies! i'm back! did you miss me? cause i missed you and oh em gee i'm so excited to be rejoining the party. this actually wasn't what i planned on posting but the angsty joel fic is kicking my ass so hard that i had to take a break from it. i just needed to word vomit some raunchy, freak-nasty porn to cleanse my palate! i don’t normally go for the dbf trope but it's just so joel i couldn't not dip my feet in these waters. it's also more like dad's-close-but-distant-acquaintance-joel because in my head that man has little to no friends honestly. hope you love it, mwah!
dividers by @cafekitsune & @saradika-graphics!
joel gives the best graduation gifts...
Joel isn’t the type to get invited to these kinds of things.
Graduation parties for Ivy League brats. Champagne in fancy crystal flutes and catered hors d'oeuvres getting passed around on silver trays. Men in loafers and pastel polos calling each other “old buddy” without any irony. It’s a far cry from his usual crowd—his mangy old t-shirt and stained blue jeans stick out in the place like a damn sore thumb.
The invitation came from a distant friend, someone he used to work with before his career took him in an entirely different, much shiner direction. He was here more as a favor than anything else. Tommy’s been worried about him, says he needs to get out more.
“Meet some new people, drink a few beers.” He’d said with his hand clasped on Joel’s shoulder. “It ain’t healthy to spend every weekend fixin’ shit around the house, Joel.”
Joel doesn’t see the problem. He’s fine the way he is. But somehow, he still got roped into going when he could have used any excuse to pull out at the last second. He could have faked sick, faked busy, faked like he had anything else to do besides sit at a fancy oak table on a back porch bigger than the whole first story of his house, decorated in Yale blue balloons and streamers.
He regretted giving into Tommy the second he pulled up in the driveway—a too-big Craftsman style place in West Lake Hills, all clean laid brick and perfectly manicured lawns. Joel couldn’t for the life of him remember why he said yes in the first place. Maybe it was the guilt of worrying his brother. Maybe for the decent catered food and overpriced beers he knew would be there when he first got the address.
What he hadn’t expected—what hit him in the goddamn chest when the door swung open after he knocked—was you.
And Christ, did you look smug about it.
It had been months ago. The only reason Joel was even in Connecticut was to meet with a client, a big time East Coast entrepreneur who wanted a new add on to his ten car garage and was fine slinging around the money to pay for a round-trip flight and a cushy hotel room.
He hadn’t planned on going to the bar that night, but after hours of back-and-forth about permits and material costs, he needed a drink. Just one, maybe two—enough to take the edge off before heading back to the hotel.
It was a shitty little dive about ten minutes from where he was staying. The beer was cold, the lights were low, and he wasn’t supposed to be making decisions with his little head. But then he saw you across the way, right in the middle of the dancefloor.
You were in a circle with a few other girls, your dress riding up higher and higher each time you’d roll your hips to the heavy bass blaring from the overhead speakers.
Joel watched you like that for a while, leaned up against the bar lazily sipping at his beer. He hadn’t planned on doing anything about it, just sat there and enjoyed the view. But you’d caught him looking, and instead of turning away and pretending not to notice, you’d smirked.
Joel should have known right then that he was in trouble.
It wasn’t long before you left your little group and made your way over, slipping on the stool beside him like you belonged there, like you’d already made your mind up about what was going to happen next. You’d leaned in close, close enough for him to catch the scent of whatever perfume you’d rolled over your throat before heading out—something rich and heady that damn near made his head spin.
“Hey, cowboy.” You’d said with a tilt of your head, the long column of your neck dewy with a light sheen of sweat he wanted to feel under his tongue. “You’ve been watching me?”
There was no accusation in your voice, just a quiet sort of amusement, like you already knew the answer.
Joel had huffed a laugh, he didn’t see the point of denying it. He was a lot of things, but subtle wasn’t one of them. “Yeah.” He’d admitted, taking a slow sip of his beer before setting it down. “What about it?”
Your eyes dropped down the length of his body, studying him, and he’d let you. Let you take your time looking, even as heat crawled up the back of his neck.
“Buy me a drink?” You’d asked, smiling up at him like butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth.
That was all it took.
One drink turned into two, which turned into three, and then you were leaning into his space like you were made to be there. Your index finger teasingly tracing along the collar of his shirt as you whispered something filthy in his ear that had all the blood in his brain rushing down south.
Joel really shouldn’t have let it go any further than some goddamn footsie under the bar and a few dirty words whispered over the rims of shiny glasses, he was too old for shit like that. But you were just so damn tempting—confident and sharp and pretty as all hell.
Before Joel knew it he had you pressed up against the side of his truck, giggling into his mouth, fingers tugging at his belt like you couldn't get it off fast enough. You’d tasted like the fruity cocktails he bought you and something sweeter underneath, something distinctly you, and Joel had to have more.
You let him have it too—fisting his shirt and dragging him into the backseat without a care in the world, all eager hands and breathless laughter as you straddled his lap.
It was supposed to be just that. A reckless decision with a pretty young thing as the cherry on top of his trip. A one-night deal he’d let himself have because, fuck, it had been a long time since someone looked at him like that.
Joel tried his damndest to think how he should’ve, tried not to let some one off fuck turn him all sorts of ass backwards. He tried his damndest to boot you out of his mind the next morning when he was boarding the flight back to Austin—but you stuck anyway, like a burr in his goddamn brain.
The way you’d looked sprawled out under him, eyes glazed over with pleasure, lips parted, or the way you’d moaned his name like it was a prayer you needed him to hear. The way you’d rode him nice and slow, dragging your nails down his chest just to watch him shudder. The way you’d kissed him after, lazy and sweet, before sneaking off into the night like a goddamn thief.
Joel could've sworn he saw God that night, a smudged silhouette in the fogged up windows of his truck.
And now you’re here, standing in the doorway of some polished, high society home, looking like sin wrapped up in tulle and pearls.
Joel wasn’t a man who spooked easy, but seeing you again, surrounded by people who had no goddamn idea what you’d let him do to you in the backseat of his truck all those months ago, knocked him on his ass harder than a sucker punch.
The recognition was damn near instant, your eyes shining just as much as the sparkly sash that read “GRAD!” in big glittery letters. The initial shock gave way to a tiny, secret smile as your gaze slid up and down his body shamelessly, like this was some kind of funny inside joke.
Joel was seconds away from turning tail, walking back down your ridiculously long driveway and getting in his truck to get the hell out of there, but then your father was walking up behind you with a big grin on his face. He clapped Joel on the shoulder roughly and introduced his “Old buddy Joel Miller from his blue-collar days!”
You were all coy smiles and wide eyes. A sugared, “It’s so nice to meet you, Mr. Miller. Thank you for coming…” passing through your glossy lips.
The same lips that left shiny red smudges along the skin of his cock when you slid him down your throat, peering up at him with glassy eyes. The memory alone was enough to get heat stirring deep in his gut, and the way you looked at him now—all demure and polished, like you were some angelic scholar fresh off a podium—only made it worse.
Joel is too damn old for this.
“Very top of her class,” your father boasts, swishing his beer bottle through the air towards you flippantly. “Can you believe it? Just think of what we were doing at her age, brother. She sure as hell didn’t get any brains from me, that’s all her mother.”
Joel tries to chuckle with him, but it sounds strained, forced. He keeps his eyes facing forward, knee bouncing restlessly under the table. You’re looking at him again, hot and persistent against the side of his face. The heavy weight of your gaze practically begging him to look back. He doesn’t.
This dinner is it’s own form of torture, because of course, you just had to sit in the empty seat next to Joel—close enough that he can feel your knee bump up against his every few minutes.
He’s done a good job avoiding you until now, always walking the other direction when you waltz into the same room, not making eye contact when your gaze would sweep over the crowd hoping to catch his, trying for once in his life to be a good man.
A good man that suffers through this damn party without doing something he'll regret, that leaves at the end of the night and never has to see you again.
“Yeah,” he says, nervously starting to pick at the label of his own beer. Some snobby, imported New England brewery, probably sixty bucks a six-pack. “Good times.”
Joel can see you lean forward out of the corner of his eye, the neckline of your dress sliding down an inch as you stare at him, attention rapt. “What were you like back then, Mr. Miller?”
Joel nearly winces, his fingers tightening around the neck of his beer hard enough to turn the skin around his knuckles white.
‘Mr. Miller’ echoes in his ears lewdly, blaring like church bells. Your voice is nothing but a honey-sweet mockery, so syrupy he can nearly feel it trickling down his throat to add to the warmth settling low in his stomach.
Your father snorts over the lip of his bottle, answering you before Joel could open his mouth. “Joel didn’t go to college, honey. He went into the trades right after graduation,” he takes a long sip, Joel feels your knee bump against his again. “That’s how we met.”
You hum, nodding your head languidly. “You’re an architect too?”
Joel shakes his head, not looking at you as he answers. “Carpenter.”
Your father launches into some story about his old work days with Joel, about how back in the day, they were “real men” with “real jobs,” but Joel can barely process any of it. He nods along absently, lets out some half-hearted chuckles when he needs to.
Joel nearly puts his knee through the table when he feels your barefoot brush up against his ankle, hiking his jeans up ever so slightly. He shoots you a glare as subtly as he can.
It’s a look so sharp, so warning, that it should be enough to make you back the hell off from whatever game you’re playing. You’re not even looking at him anymore, eyes glued to your father as you nod along to whatever story he’s telling now.
But there’s a knowing little smile on your lips as your hand creeps beneath the table and falls into his lap, the pads of your fingers pressing against the inside of his thigh.
Joel goes still. Rigid as his breath catches on a sharp inhale.
Christ, you’re trying to kill him.
Your father’s voice pulls him out of the silent panic and heavy arousal waging a war inside of him. “How’s business, Joel?” he asks, leaning back in his chair. “You and Tommy still running things at a hundred miles a minute?”
Joel barely registers the question as your hand inches higher and higher. He can hear his own pulse pounding in his throat, in his chest, in his cock, already half-hard in his boxers from some goddamn heavy petting like a wet behind the ears teenager.
“Yeah, we–” Joel pauses, willing his voice to steady with a quick cough to clear his throat. “We’ve been pretty busy with Summer rollin' around.”
Your father hums in agreement, cracking open another beer. “Of course, my schedule’s been a killer too this season,” he brags shamelessly, tone heavy with understanding like he and Joel are in the same boat. Only your fathers boat is a three million dollar yacht sailing for blue-print meetings with big shot celebrities and architectural digest interviews. “It’s a miracle I even had time to fly in for the party, isn’t that right sweetheart?”
Your hand slides up the length of his cock in one slow stroke, your palm grinding roughly over the tip through the tented denim.
“Yes, daddy.”
Your voice has gone all light and airy around the edges, almost melodic as it buries itself in Joel’s ears. At first, Joel thinks you’re talking to your father, but when his eyes flick over to you, you’re looking at him—your eyes half-lidded and sparkling with something dangerous as your fingers tug at the tab of his zipper.
Joel’s hand flies to your wrist, squeezing tight enough to stop your pawing at his now fully hard cock. “Alright if I use your bathroom?” he asks sharply, his voice a little too loud. He tosses your hand away and stands abruptly from his chair before he’s got an answer.
“Of course,” your father says easily, thankfully not noticing the tension at the table, or the way Joel’s trying to subtly hold his hands over his crotch. He turns his attention towards you, “Would you show Joel where the downstairs bathroom is, honey?”
Your smile only widens as you slip your sandal on and calmly stand from your own chair. “Sure,” you say breezily, but you’re not looking at your father, dark eyes still glued to Joel’s. “Follow me.”
The flowy fabric of your dress swishes behind you as you walk through the yard, Joel hot on your heels. He waits until you're both in the house, stepping through the open sliding glass door and out of view before his hand flies to your arm and squeezes hard.
Joel hears you wince softly, but you don’t try to fight your way out of his grip. He leans down closer, his lips inches away from your ear. His voice is low and rough as he grits out, “Take me to your room, now.”
You lead him through the kitchen and up the stairs silently, but Joel can still see the smug smile on your lips as you turn the corner. The need to slap that bratty shit right off your face wracks through him like thunder, anger burning hotter in his chest with every step.
You push the door to your bedroom open and step inside, barely turning to face him before Joel slams the door shut behind him and stalks past you. His eyes are dark, filled with a mix of rage and want as he stares you down.
“Do you think this is a goddamn game?” His voice is teeming with fury, the calm facade he scarcely maintained at dinner now entirely gone. “That you can do whatever the hell you please because your Daddy’s sittin' across from you?”
You bite your bottom lip, leaning against the door with your arms crossed behind your back coyly. “You didn’t bring me a present.”
It’s a taunt if Joel’s ever heard one, and it finally breaks him.
He crosses the room in three large strides, pinning you against the door. His hands on either side of your head, caging you in. Joel cranes his neck down, his face inches away from yours. He can smell your perfume this close, it’s different than what you wore at the bar—something soft and girly and sweet that has his cock straining in his boxer.
“You’re real fuckin' proud of yourself aren’t you?” he spits roughly, watching the way your pupils dilate, eyes going glossy under his intensity. “Does your old man know how much of a tramp his precious little baby girl is? That she’s got such a greedy fuckin' pussy she can’t help herself from rubbin' his buddy Joel’s cock under the table like a desperate slut.”
“Joel,” you whisper breathlessly, all the attitude draining from you at the drop of a hat the second he gets a little mean. Your eyes are stuck on his lips and, after a beat, you start leaning in, like you’ll die if you don’t kiss him.
Joel stops you with a hand fisted in your hair, keeping you still a few centimeters away from his lips. A pitiful whine falls from your slack mouth, wide eyes flicking back up to meet his with a pleading look.
“You want me to kiss you, princess?” he asks, mean and condescending. Your breath puffs over his lips, hot and needy as you nod your head as best you can. Joel laughs, dark and cool as he shakes his head slowly. “Whores like you don’t get kissed baby, they get fucked.”
It does something to you—Joel can see it in the way your lashes flutter, in the way your thighs press together, like you can feel his words between your legs. He watches the rise and fall of your chest quicken, the way your lips part as a little breathless sound escapes them, and he knows he’s got you right where he wants you.
Desperate. Squirming. Ready to let him ruin you.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, low and almost reverent, but the wicked curl of his lips betrays the softness in his tone. “Bet you’re already soaked, aren’t you?”
You nod, your chest rising up to press against his with every breath.
“Words,” he demands, voice sharp as a needle. Your thighs twitch at the sound of it.
“Yes,” you breathe shakily. “I’ve been wet since you got here.”
That has Joel groaning, jaw ticking as his cock twitches heavily in his boxers, pre-come oozing into the cotton.
He doesn’t waste another second. He drops your hair to grab your shoulders, pulling and pushing until you’re tumbling onto your old bed. You let out a sharp gasp as your back hits the mattress, the force of it bouncing you a few times.
Joel looms over you, watching you, finally letting himself get a good look at the picture you make. Splayed across dainty floral sheets, chest heaving, staring up at him with need written all over your pretty face. It practically pumps off of you in waves, he can almost taste it.
Without another word, Joel reaches for his belt, his heavy gaze never leaving yours. The metal of his buckle clinks loudly in the quiet of the room, underscored by the quick pants of your breath. It snaps with how hard he yanks it out of his belt loops, the leather cracking in the air menacingly.
"You wanted this," Joel mutters, popping the button on his jeans, dragging the zipper down with a sharp hiss. "You practically fuckin’ begged for it."
You make a desperate little sound at the sight of his cock finally being freed from the confines of his jeans—thick, heavy, and leaking when it slaps against his stomach. Your legs spread wider like an offering, like you need it in you now.
Joel huffs out a laugh, grabbing your ankle and yanking you down the bed, making you squeak in surprise. He climbs on the mattress, his body completely blanketing yours so you couldn’t move if you wanted to.
His hand drags down your body, over the swell of your breasts, over your ribs, the curve of your hip, until he’s gripping the hem of your dress. Joel slips his hand under the skirt, rough palms gliding up the soft skin of your thighs before gripping the meat of them hard enough to bruise.
The thought of you finding the marks tomorrow, pretty shades of purple and yellow branding your skin as a reminder of this moment, of what Joel did to you—it makes his stomach flip with a sick thrill.
It doesn’t take much for Joel to push the bunched fabric around your hips the rest of the way up, exposing the barely-there scrap of lace covering you.
He makes a sound low in his throat when he sees the little damp spot blooming along the powder blue fabric. “So fuckin’ needy,” he mutters, tracing his middle finger along the wet seam of your pussy, featherlight, teasing. “Can’t even sit through one damn dinner without beggin’ for my attention like a two-bit truck stop whore.”
You nod frantically, lips trembling, pupils blown wide as you blink up at him.
Joel tsks mockingly, raising his palm to give your clothed pussy a sharp slap that has you crying out. “Use your words, baby.”
“Yes,” you gasp. “Please, Joel.”
Your voice is so soft, so wrecked. And Joel feels himself get impossibly harder, his cock throbbing where it’s pressed against your stomach, blurting pre-come onto the delicate pink tulle of your dress. He can hardly wait any longer.
Joel hooks a finger into the leg of your panties, dragging them down hard enough that he hears a rip. He can’t find it in himself to care, he just pulls them far enough that they pool around your ankles uselessly.
He finally takes himself in his hand so he can drag his cock through the wet mess of your pussy, bumping it up against your hole but not giving you a damn inch. A devastating noise falls from your lips, slow and sweet as molasses, your hips buck up off the mattress, trying to take him in. He presses one heavy hand down on your stomach, keeping you still.
“Ask me for it,” Joel whispers darkly, slapping the head over your glistening clit. “Beg for my cock.”
Your fingers curl into the sheets, frustration and desire burning in the inky black of your pupils. “Please, Joel. It’s all I can think about, can only think about you,” you ramble senseslessly, voice breathless. “About you fucking me. About your cock stretching me open. Please fuck me, please, want it so bad.”
Fuck, he loves hearing you beg.
Joel grips your hips, holding you steady as he presses inside, slow at first, just enough to make you gasp, enough to let you feel how thick he is stretching you open. He curses, head falling forward as he watches himself disappear inside you inch by inch.
Your hands scramble along the length of his back, nails scratching uselessly as you try to adjust to the sudden fullness. Joel knows he’s too big, the stretch too much all at once without prep. He knows it. He just doesn’t give a damn.
“I know, it’s a big stretch ain’t it?” Joel coos, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles over the skin of your hips. “You can still take it, darlin’. It’s what you wanted, wanted me to lose my goddamn mind and ruin this sweet little pussy.”
You nod desperately, a loud cry bursting from your chest as he pulls you back until his hips are flush with your ass. Your velvety heat feels scalding around him, snug and perfect, like it was made for him—made for his cock.
“Fuck, baby,” he stays there for a beat, buried to the hilt—forcing you really feel the full, aching stretch before he starts to move. He drags his cock out to the tip, almost all the way, before slamming forward again, knocking the breath from your lungs. “That’s it—take it all, just like that.”
Joel sets a brutal pace, fucking you so deep he swears he must be in your goddamn guts. His grip is merciless, his fingers digging into your hips as he uses them to pull you back against him, meeting every punishing thrust. The dirty sound of skin on skin fills the room, mixing with the slick squelch of your pussy as it tries to suck him back in each time he pulls out, the pretty soft gasps and moans you’re struggling to keep quiet the cherry on top of it all.
It’s so loud, a symphony of lewd sounds bouncing off the walls enough that Joel would be worried that someone might overhear if your house wasn’t such a maze.
Joel watches you writhe beneath him, your back arching, hands grasping at his shoulders, his arms, his hair, desperate for something to hold onto as he fucks into you with ruthless precision. Every thrust sends a shockwave through your body, makes your breath hitch, your legs trembling where they’re locked tight around his waist.
“Poor thing,” he mutters, voice a low rasp in your ear. “Too dumb to talk now, huh? Just layin’ here, takin’ it like a good little whore.”
Your eyes roll back in your head when he tilts his hips, the new angle forcing his cock to rub up against your sweet spot with every thrust. “Joel–”
Joel leans over you, breath hot against your ear as he mutters, “This what you needed, baby? Needed Daddy’s friend to hike your pretty dress up and fuck you good and hard like this?” He speeds his hips up fast enough to get the bed shaking on its frame. “Actin’ like a spoiled little brat all night just so I’d drag you up here and teach you some fuckin’ manners?”
“Yes, yes, yes, fuck—” Your words slur together, breathy and high-pitched, your fingers twisting in his hair as he keeps up that relentless pace.
Joel reaches up to snatch your jaw in a tight grip, the rhythm of his hips never faltering. “Open your mouth,” he growls, fingers digging into the meat of your cheeks meanly. When you don’t, too fucked out of your mind to listen, he shakes your head back and forth like a bad dog. “Open it.”
The command breaks through the pleasure filled haze clouding your mind, and your mouth falls open obediently. Your slick lips parting enough for Joel to see the enticing pink of your tongue. A groan claws its way out from deep in his chest, and he leans down close to spit into your mouth.
Your moan is a high, choked whine as your eyes flutter shut, your pussy squeezing around his cock impossibly tighter.
“Don’t you dare fuckin’ swallow,” he says, fucking into your clenching heat harder. “Hold it right there.”
You open your eyes to stare up at him like he’s some kind of God, your lashes clumped together and glossy with unshed tears—gaze glazed over with a kind of bliss that makes something dark and satisfied wriggle to life in his chest.
“Good girl,” he mutters, barely above a whisper, but the words hit you like a sack of bricks. Your walls squeeze around him, and he groans low in his chest. His hands grip your thighs, spreading you even wider so he can watch the way his cock disappears into your puffy pussy, shining with your slick every time he pulls out. “Look at that. Fuckin’ made to take cock, aren’t you?”
You moan around closed lips, nails digging little crescent moons into his shoulders so hard that he can feel his shirt ripping under the force of it. Joel can tell you’re getting close, your whole body trembling violently as the coil of your orgasm winds tighter and tighter.
“Go ahead and swallow for me, baby girl.” Joel needs to hear you, needs to hear you say his name when you come on his cock. “Wanna hear that pretty voice.”
The sound of you swallowing is music to Joel’s ears, his hips stuttering as he watches your throat work.
“Please,” you gasp, fat crocodile tears rolling down your cheeks. “Need to come, need you to make me—”
“Yes,” he hisses, his thrusts turning sloppy for a beat before he regains his rhythm. “You gonna come for me, baby? Gonna soak my cock nice and good?”
His words push you right over the edge. Your entire body tenses, pleasure rolling through you in a white-hot wave as your climax crashes over you, stealing your breath. You sob Joel’s name, thighs shaking uncontrollably, body shuddering beneath him as you clench down so fucking tight he can barely move.
Joel groans, his jaw going slack as he watches you fall apart, losing himself in the feel of your pussy milking his cock. He grits his teeth, hips snapping erratically as he chases his own release.
“Fuck—gonna fill you up, baby,” he groans, voice wrecked. “Gonna fuck you full of me, make you mine.”
With one last thrust, Joel spills inside of you. He buries himself as deep as he can go, warmth flooding your core as spurt after spurt of come paints your insides, thick and hot. His body shakes with the force of it, a deep, guttural moan falling from his lips as he rides out his orgasm.
Joel just stays there, panting, his forehead resting against yours.
For a moment, both of you are too overwhelmed to move. You just lay on the mattress tangled together in the aftermath, breaths mingling, bodies slick with sweat. Joel smooths his hands up your sides, grounding himself as you both come down from the highs of ecstasy.
When you finally stop shaking, Joel pulls back just enough to look at you, to take in the wrecked, spent look on your face. He brushes his knuckles over your sweaty cheek, softer than before. “Still think I didn’t bring you a present?”
You let out an amused huff, pushing your hands up under the back of his shirt so you can trace the column of his spine with gentle fingers. “Trust me, it’s the only present I’m getting that’ll be worth a damn. Money can’t buy this, Miller.”
Joel chuckles, low and smooth as warmth blooms in his chest. He presses a lingering kiss to your shoulder. “You earned it, baby.”
mini nat's note: thank you so much for reading! mwah.
“Hmm, still thinkin’ bout that boy?” He grunts, baring his teeth as his hand wraps around your throat. Your legs are spread wide open, your back is arched while you gasp and moan wildly with Jake’s thrusts.
He’s over you, looking at you with lust and anger in his eyes.
“I- I- jus- mph!” You stutter and pant. Your mind is blank. All you can possibly process is the feeling of his thick cock pumping you full. He gets closer to you, and kisses your forehead while his shaky breath becomes louder.
“He can’t make you feel good like I can. He wont ever be able to fuck you like I can.” He whispers. His face is pressed against yours. “Yeah, that’s right. You’re mine.” His husky voice causes you to clench around him tighter. He grabs your chin and nudges your head, forcing you to look in his eyes. “You. Are. Mine. You hear me?”
“Ah.. yes sir.. yes,” you force out a response, squeezing your eyes closed in a mixture of pleasure and fear.
“Say it back now.” His hand leaves your chin and travels down to grope your body.
“I’m yours.” The arch in your back collapses. Your body is melting for him.
“Good, good girl,” he strokes your breast, then down your torso. “Shh, shh,” he slows his pace. His grunting turns softer. He kisses you deeply on the lips.
“Mmm, Jake..” you murmur against his mouth. His hand comes back to your face. His thick fingers touch your lips.
“Open.” He says. You part them. You hear a soft gurgling noise before he spits. He spits into your mouth. You squeal. He closes your mouth with those thick fingers. He shushes you. “Now swallow.”
You make eye contact with him. Your throat bulges as the glob goes down. He nods in approval.
contents: jake sully x f!avatar/na'vi!reader, whole fic is based around reader getting off on jake's abs so, f ejaculation, grinding, "riding", jake refers to himself as "daddy" once.
a/n: probs trashy (m sorry), @evanpetersluver thanks for the motivation man, couldn't have done it w/o u.
"ah look at you girl..." jake's hands had firm grip around your hips, helping you move front and back over his abdomen, "making such a mess on daddy, hmm?"
to say that jake preferred his avatar form over his human body wasn't a secret. for obvious reasons he was mostly happy to have his legs back, but there were more physical attributes that he wouldn't give up for the world now.
for one, his human body had began to get weak, turn pale and lost weight since he started dreamwalking, but in his avatar body he was thriving. looking better than ever, blue, but he got used to the change pretty quickly. he had a tall build, with muscles that didn't even start to showcase his newfound strength. every body part was lean, all from his feet to shoulders, with strong calves and thighs, to abs and biceps that managed to help jake achieve anything he could've only dreamed of in his human body — all in all, jake deemed himself the luckiest man in the world. how many could experience life like this?
second, he loved the attention he got. his figure wasn't anything rare around the na'vi, the build and shape of him was really the way most of how the omatikaya warriors looked, with broad shoulders and slim waists, yet, the absolute confidence he radiated made him so much more attractive.
it was one of your favorite things about him.
sometimes, his confidence could come off as cocky, whenever he made sure you knew how good he looked or got you to confirm his own words, he always had that smug look written all over his face. but it was so attractive when he just knew he was hot, he knew that the way you were eyeing him up was much more than just a friendly look.
jake was proud over his looks, and knowing that you found his abs just as attractive as he did, it did something to him. it's how you found yourself grinding yourself on his abs, the small bumps, edges hitting just right over your clit, your wetness all over his stomach — and he found it so fucking hot.
"doing so good for me baby, looking so pretty," your legs on either sides of his torso, two hands holding your hips in place, "such a sweet thing, aren't you?"
he loved having you on top of him, he could casually display his dominance but also make you feel like you could take control of the situation if you wanted to.
you couldn't, but he liked to see you try.
he liked to see you withering, eyes scrunched shut from pure pleasure, mouth open letting the most filthy sounds bless his ears. it was his definition of heaven. he liked to see how big he was compared to you, your small, soft thighs rubbing against him, his hands encasing them perfectly. your hands were perched on his chest, leaning weight on his upper body. it made it easier for your body to roll like that on him.
your hips were like waves, grinding smoothly over the wetness you had left all over him. having your translucent slick glistening on his stomach was enough to make him miss the friction against his dick, a problem he would take care of another time.
"jake, i need you." you had your head thrown back, everything felt just right. his lean abdomen made your body bounce just a little whilst sliding over his abs, it was enough for your tits to move, and jake had never seen a prettier view. pandora was beautiful sure, but you were the most precious thing on the foreign planet.
"yeah, gotta be a good girl for me though, baby." he helped you slide quicker, heat pooling in a familiar boil in your lower stomach, bubbling over soon enough. the obscene moans slipping through your parted lips felt so dirty, and it felt so good. jake's hands rubbed over your ass, gripping you, guiding you. he pinched you slightly, jolting forward on his abs, making the perfect angle for your clit to repeatedly feel the budges and ridges on his stomach.
you sat up straight, hands leaving jake's chest to trace up your own, smoothing over the skin of your stomach and up to cup your breasts, massaging them whilst giving the man underneath you the best show possible.
along with every touch, pinch and grind also came your impending orgasm, the euphoria of pleasure building it's way up your lower belly. jake angled your hips, your clit catching the right spot, receiving the right pressure each and every time. your moans and whines upped in pitch, and jake's hands pulling at your skin made the sensation of the snapping coil all the more pleasurable. withering and trembling, you layed down on jake, his hands rubbing lovingly across your lower back.
he rolled you over, legs caught between yours, his dick poking against your thigh, painfully hard after your show.
"my turn now, hmm? gonna let me fuck you silly, baby?"
riding Jake’s thigh… @pandoraslxna’s kinktober day 03!
MDNI!!
warnings: a little overstimulation, praise
"Yeah, just like that.." he coos, holding your hips as you slowly rub your exposed heat on his thigh. You mewl and bite your lip, your slick wetting his skin. "Fuckin' love to see you like this," his hands trail up and down your bare body and his cock stays sprung up.
"Please, let me have it..." you beg, looking down at his erection while you speed up, riding his thigh faster and harder.
"Nah, you gotta cum first, then you can have my cock," he pinches the area around your navel, making you jump for a second before you continue pleasuring yourself, desperately chasing your orgasm on him. Jake is the type to please you. He always made sure that you had a climax, sometimes even several, before he would think about finishing.
"Fuck," you whisper softly, biting your lip to stifle your little noises as you clench around nothing. You're so wet- such a mess for him. He grips your hips tighter, fingers digging into the flesh there. He begins to help you, pushing you back and forth and grinding you onto his muscular thigh. You melt like putty, leaning forward and tucking your head into the crook of his neck. You softly moan into his skin while your hands hold him firmly. As your orgasm comes closer, you squirm.
"Shh," he croons., rubbing the back of your head as you writhe in his embrace. When your climax hits, he grunts as your arousal squirts onto his skin. Your swollen, desperate clit tingles with pleasure. You whisper-moan sweet nothings into Jake's ear.
"Thank you, thank you, thank you-" you whimper, feeling overwhelmed.
"I've got ya," he chuckles. He thinks it's adorable, how you get all flustered whenever you cum.
