Summary: Little you was awake. The night was quiet, but your thoughts unfortunately weren't. They were drifting far, soft, and hazy, carrying you somewhere your small mind couldn't quite hold all alone. And in that fragile place, you reached for the one person you weren't supposed to need anymore. A man who shouldn't be your shelter…yet somehow always is...
Warnings: 18+, smut, mdni, huge age gap (20s and 60s), daddy!joel, ddlg dynamics, unprotected sex, JUST THE TIP, pinv, size kink, needy!reader, subby!reader, subspace, crying, forbidden relationship (don't know why, you can just think about something), daddy kink, finger sucking, clit rubbing, grinding (once), slight stern!joel, but really really soft daddy!joel, no outbreak
A/N: the more the people complain about the daddy kink, the more i'll write it😘 also if you look at it sideways, this could almost be a hazy little echo of "Daddy, I'm sorry." I didn't really choose a concrete reason for their forbidden dynamic—I just wanted the feeling of it. Let your mind fill in whatever fits.. Enjoy my dear pookies <33
It's night.
The sheep are asleep. The cows are dreaming of endless fields. And the chickens are waiting, patient and already plotting, for the moment they can scream the morning awake.
Only little you was still awake…lost in thoughts, hazy and far‑gone in that quiet world your mind always slips into when everything feels too heavy. A softer place perhaps, where things made more sense for your tired little brain, but even there, you still needed something—someone—to steady you.
To calm the buzzing in your chest, to hold you together, to make sure you reached that faraway place safely instead of getting lost in it.
And that someone was Joel.
'Daddy' you called him sometimes, voice tiny and unsure, even though you weren't supposed to. Your glassy eyes always found him first. Your hands always fisted his shirt. Your thighs always around his waist while he rocked and rocked you to sleep.
'Little babygirl' he'd answer, even though he wasn't supposed to. A stern face guiding you, big hands holding you and that strong frame of his making you feel safe as if it was his only mission in life.
Tonight, Joel is deep asleep. Breathing slow, steady, calm. Exactly that quiet rhythm you know by heart.
And you're standing there in the doorway, small and overwhelmed, staring at the only place that had ever felt like shelter.
Little you is drifting.
The edges of your vision are soft, your thoughts wrapped in that familiar, thick cotton of subspace. You don't want to think; you just want to be held.
Carefully, you peel back the heavy blanket and slide into the heat of his bed. You press your front against his back, your small frame curling into the curve of his body. You let out a tiny, broken whimper, the sound vibrating against his skin, and bury your face between his shoulder blades.
Oh, how warm he is.
And Joel stirs.
A slow awakening—a gradual return to consciousness that starts with the feeling of something soft and trembling pressed against him. And even though he freezes just for a heartbeat, your daddy recognises you immediately.
But he can't. He shouldn't turn around and wrap his arms around your little frame until all those bad thoughts drifted far away. He shouldn't.
"No," he murmurs, his voice thick with sleep. He doesn't turn around yet, but his muscles tense. "No...we said we weren't doing this again. You can't just...you can't just slip in here, babygirl."
He tries to sound stern, tries to maintain the boundary you both agreed upon, but you only press closer. You cling to him, your fingers bunching the fabric of his shirt, a sob catching in your throat.
"You can't always just crawl into my bed," he says, voice firm. "I mean it."
He didn't mean it.
He knows what this state of yours means.
He knows exactly where it's heading, knows exactly how it's gonna end. He knows so well.
"Go to your room," he says again, sharper this time. "You hear me? You can't be doin' this. We said we weren't…we weren't gonna let this happen again."
And oh how it stings your small, tender heart when Daddy's voice turns stern like that.
He exhales hard. "Sweetheart, don't make me say it again."
You can't help but let a hot tear escape, soaking into his shirt. The sound of your quiet weeping is the breaking point for him.
Joel closes his eyes, a pained flicker crossing his face as his resolve finally cracks. He can't leave you drifting out there alone. Can't leave his little babygirl all by herself.
With a heavy, quiet exhale, he shifts, rolling over and letting one steady arm find your waist, guiding you upwards and into the safe space of his lap—the place that's always only meant for you.
He settles you there, your legs draped over his thighs, and begins to stroke your back in long, grounding sweeps. You immediately bury your face into the warmth of his neck.
"You're slipping away, huh?" he asks softly, his voice losing its edge and turning into that nurturing, honeyed tone that always makes you feel safe. "All gone in the head? Just a little babygirl who can't handle the world today?"
You nod, nuzzling into his shirt, breathing him in, and a tiny whimper escapes you; a sound so small and pitiful it's barely a breath. Your hand fists in his shirt, and you mumble against his chest, your voice thick and slurry, like you're talking through a mouthful of cotton.
"Want your cock, Daddy."
He releases a breath, your words making his mind spin. His grip on your hip tightens, his fingers digging slightly into your soft flesh. You respond by grinding your aching center against his thigh, a soft, desperate moan escaping your lips.
"No, babygirl." His voice is soft, gentle but firm. "We've talked about this, didn't we?"
You feel the frown pull at your brow, and you lift your head, your eyes hazy and unfocused, struggling to find his face in the dim light.
"But I need it," you whine, the sound dragging out. "Please, Daddy. Please. I need it so bad."
He cups your cheek, his thumb stroking over your cheekbone, his skin rough and warm. "Sweet girl. You're so far under I can see it in those pretty eyes. You ain't in a place to think straight right now."
"I can—" you start, but he shushes you with a soft click of his tongue.
"I know you think you can, honey. But I'm your Daddy, and it's my job to know what's best for you."
Your mind drifts, foggy and unfocused, to all the times he told you he couldn't be your daddy—that you shouldn't call him by that name, that it wasn't right, that it wasn't allowed. But now…in this confused, hazy state, you don't question a single word he says. You just accept it, soft and small, because everything feels too far away to fight.
He adjusts you on his lap, and he feels it then: the wet heat of you against his thigh, the slick slide of your bare cunt leaving a glistening trail on his pants.
You'd taken your panties off hours ago, wanting to feel the chill on your skin. And now his breath hitches, just a little, and his hand drifts down to rest on the curve of your hip.
You're leaking.
You can feel it, a slow, steady drip that soaks into the fabric, and you squirm, rubbing yourself against him just a little, chasing that friction.
He groans low in his throat. "None of that, babygirl."
"Just the tip, Daddy." The words tumble out in a rush, desperate and breathless. "Please. Just the tip. I'll be good. I promise I'll be so good."
He sighs, long and heavy, and you can see the war in his eyes—the stern, responsible daddy who wants to tuck you into bed and keep you safe, and the daddy who aches to give you exactly what you're begging for.
"No, honey. We had just the tip last time, and you didn't behave."
You remember. You remember the way you'd bucked against him, trying to take more, the way he'd had to pull out mid-thrust and hold you down until you calmed down. But this time it's different, you swear.This time you're so soft, so pliant, so utterly lost in the haze that you know you'd be good.
You'd be so so good for him.
"I'll be good, Daddy. I swear on my heart. I'll be so still and quiet. I just need to feel you—just a little. Please, Daddy. Please, please, please." Your eyes find his, limpid and pleading, tears pricking at the corners. "I'm so empty. I feel so empty without you."
He stares at you for a long, long moment, his thumb still tracing lazy patterns on your hip. His gaze is tired, heavy, searching, and you hold your breath, your whole body trembling with the effort of staying still for him.
"Alright," he murmurs, and the word is like a key turning in a lock. Your heart stutters. "Alright. But you gotta promise me, babygirl. You let Daddy control it. You let me take care of you."
"I promise, Daddy. I promise I'll be good. I'll be your good girl."
He shifts you off of his lap, laying you down gently on his bed, your head sinking into the blanket.
The mattress then dips as he moves, positioning himself between your thighs, his weight settling over you.
You look up at him, all hazy in adoration, and spread your legs wider in invitation.
"I ain't hard, baby. But it'll work." He mutters under his breath, more to himself than to you. "We can make it work. You're tight anyway...it'll fit right in. Just a little bit, honey. Just enough to make you feel better."
You watch as he takes his cock out of his pants.
It's soft, just as he said it would be, but even like this it's thick enough to make your mouth water. His tip the size of a small lime, flushed in a reddish undertone, and wet at the slit. He wraps his fingers around himself, giving himself a few lazy strokes, and you squeeze your thighs together instinctively.
"Please, Daddy," you peep, voice small.
He chuckles again, warm and fond. "I know, honey. Just a little babygirl, huh? My sweet, sweet girl."
But then he shifts, reaching for the nightstand, and a tiny, needy whine crawls out of your throat before you can stop it, fingers curling into his shirt, tugging him back.
"Hey…hey…shh." His voice drops like warm honey, slow and soothing. "Daddy's here. Just needed my glasses to see your pussy better, hon. Nothin' happened. M'here."
You blink up at him, and he's sliding those wire-framed glasses onto his face, the moonlight catching the lenses for a moment.
He looks down at you, and through the glass his eyes are even softer, even more focused on his babygirl.
"Desperate baby," He hums almost to himself, as his fingers find your folds and part them gently.
You gasps at the touch, the cool air on your slick skin, and he lets out a breathy chuckle.
"Oh, you've been real needy, hm?" He hums. "Pretty little pussy, all soft and swollen for Daddy. Yeah, honey?"
You nod frantically, a little moan escaping you.
He strokes through your wetness then, gathering it on his fingertips, and brings his hand to his cock.
With a gentle squeeze, he guides his cockhead to your entrance and presses slowly in.
Even that single inch is a stretch, a slow, burning fullness that makes your eyes roll back in your head. Your mouth falls open, a breathy "oh" escaping you, and you feel every ridge, every vein as he sinks just barely inside. He stops there, his hips flush against yours, and you can feel him pulsing, feel the slight give of his flesh inside you.
Your head falls back, whimpering, hips twitching, trying to take him in. But he pulls back, just a fraction.
"What did we say, hon? Behave."
You pout, bottom lip jutting out, and a fresh tear slips down your cheek. But you still, your body trembling with the effort, wanting to be good for your daddy.
"That's my good girl." Joel rewards you with a slow, gentle press of his soft tip further into your hole.
You cry out, a high, keening sound, and he hushes you, his voice a low purr.
"Ain't even need to be hard, honey. Look how pretty you take me. Just the tip, babygirl. Just a little taste. You feel that? You feel Daddy's cock in your sweet little pussy?"
"Mhm—" you nod, glassy eyes watching as he plays with your cunt.
While he looks down at your cunt, his reading glasses slip to the bridge of his nose, hanging there stubbornly. Your hand rises without thinking, pushing them back up with a small, clumsy touch.
"Thank you, honey," he says gently. "Barely here, and you're still takin' care of me." Joel shakes his head, fond and tired.
"Always daddy..."
He breathes out a soft laugh, and strokes your cheek with a slow, careful touch.
Oh, how Joel's heart ached. Even while you were far away, those tiny words slipping out of you like instinct. God, how he wished that he didn't care this much.
"I don't wanna hurt my little girl. You're too far gone for your own little good. You tell me if it's too much, yea, honey?" He asks gently.
"Yes, yes daddy," you babble, your words running together.
Then he starts to move, the shallowest of thrusts, just the thick head of his cock pressing in and sliding out of you with a pop, each pass catching on your rim. It's a tease, a tantalizing brush with something more, and your hands fly up to grip his shoulders, your nails digging into his shirt.
Joel watches intensely how his tip gets covered in your juices. Every slow thrust makes your cunt react: growing wetter and wetter, entrance clenching and gripping his head like it wants to suck him deeper.
"Daddy..." The word is a whimper, stretched out into a plea.
"I know, babygirl. I know." His voice is ragged, strained. "Just let daddy feel you. You're so tight. So perfect. So warm and wet for me."
His eyes move from your face down to your arms, noticing the goosebumps racing across your skin.
He halts his movements, frown on his face, murmuring a small: "Cold, honey?" He doesn't wait for an answer before he pulls his thick blanket carefully over your legs and tummy, tucking the edges so the warmth traps against you.
The sudden cocoon of heat makes you melt under him. Your muscles loosen, your breath evens, and the fuzzy, floaty feeling you've been chasing settles deeper. Joel watches your face soften, watches your lashes flutter, and a small, fond smile tugs at his mouth.
Then he starts with his thrusts.
He rocks, rocks and rocks into you, slow, agonising, sweet while staying true to his promise: just the tip.
Each tiny thrust is measured, patient, meant only to keep you drifting. His free hand slips under the blanket to rest over your belly, thumb rubbing soothing circles while he keeps the rest of you covered and safe.
His hand then slides lower where your bodies meet. His thumb finds your clit, circling that swollen nub with firm, steady pressure that matches the pace of his shallow thrusts. The dual sensation makes your breath hitch, your hips twitching towards him.
"Oh, my sweet babygirl," he whispers. "You're so close, aren't you."
And you were. So so close.
His thumb presses harder, rubbing tight circles while his cockhead continues its lazy, teasing slide. You hiccup, the praise hitting you like a spark, heat flooding through your core as your muscles clench around him.
Your orgasm builds fast, faster than you can realise—cresting without any warning. Your thighs tremble on either side of his hips, your back arching off of the bed as pleasure crashes over you. Soft, whiney whimpers spill from your lips: "daddydaddydaddy," while your walls pulse and squeeze around the tip still nestled just inside you.
"That's it. There you go, honey," Joel murmurs, his voice steady and encouraging. His thumb doesn't stop its relentless rubbing, drawing out every wave. "Squeeze it...yes, juuust like that. You're milking me without even having me inside. Such a good, needy little girl."
Your body responds to every word, clenching tighter around his head as the aftershocks ripple through you.
Joel keeps the slow, shallow movements going, letting you ride it out while his thumb gentles on your oversensitive clit. The warmth of his body surrounds you, his free hand stroking your hip in soothing circles as your breathing slowly evens out.
But then his hips start to tremble too, you can see the muscles in his forearms cord as he holds himself back, his knuckles white where they grip the bed on either side of your head.
Your sweet daddy was getting hard...and he was trying his oh so best to not fill you up in one, quick thrust.
With his now hard tip pressed inside you, his thumb leaves your clit to hold into your hips.
Joel groans low, his eyebrows furrowing together.
The head of his cock feels hotter now, thicker, the veins along his shaft pulsing against your entrance as he gradually swells inside the tight ring of muscle.
You feel the change immediately—his tip stretching you wider, the pressure building deeper even though he still refuses to push past that first inch.
A soft whimper slips out before you can stop it.
"Daddy...I'm gonna...again...I can't...please... please just fill me..."
Joel shakes his head gently, his free hand stroking your thigh in soothing circles.
"No, no. You stay right there," he murmurs, voice warm and steady. "Just feel it, babygirl. Feel how big Daddy's getting for you."
His cock throbs harder inside your entrance, the flared head catching on every flutter of your walls as he rocks forwards again, teasing without giving you more.
Your impatience grows fast.
Your legs kick lightly against the mattress, your hips rolling up to chase more of him, desperate to pull him deeper.
Joel clicks his tongue softly and pulls out completely, his wet cock slapping against your mound.
"Hey. Hey. Oh, honey. It's okay," he soothes, gathering you up into his arms before you can protest. "Didn't you promise me you'd behave tonight, hm?"
He shifts back against the headboard and settles you into his lap, your thighs straddling his hips, your face pressed to his chest.
"M'sorry, daddy...i'm tryin' but I need you..." you mumble into his chest, tears already falling from your eyes.
"Shhh, easy now, it's okey." he whispers against your hair, one big hand rubbing slow circles on your back while the other reaches down to grip his cock again.
He lines himself up beneath you and then—oh.
He starts to lower you, inch by careful inch.
The thick head parts your folds once more, but this time he sinks deeper, stretching your walls open around his full length.
"There you go...easy." he whispers into your ear while he moves so so agonisingly slow that you feel every ridge, every pulse, every vein dragging along your sensitive insides until he's buried to the hilt inside you.
"Too much, daddy..." The words comes out muffled against his shirt as you bury your face further in his chest, overwhelmed by how completely he fills you. Your body trembles around him, adjusting to the deep stretch, your arms wrapping tight around his torso.
"I know, babygirl...I know. Big stretch." He murmurs into your hair.
He holds you close, rocking his hips in tiny, shallow movements that keep him seated deep without thrusting hard.
"Bet that feels real good now in your pussy, hm? All deep inside now." He murmurs.
Your face comes up from his chest to look at him, cheeks flushed, mouth gaping open. A soft "mhm,"comes from your lips before your face goes into his chest again.
With every gentle thrust your whimpers—those tiny, little broken sounds—grow louder and louder the longer he keeps that steady pace.
Joel watches your face the whole time, eyes soft with that sweet mix of concern and affection. When another shaky whine slips out of you, he slows even more, one hand leaving your hip to brush your cheek.
"Open your mouth, babygirl," he murmurs. His fingers trace your lower lip, then nudge gently between your teeth. "Mhm. Open, there you go, that's it. Daddy knows what you need, honey."
He slides two thick fingers past your lips, letting them rest on your tongue while his hips start to rock up into you in those same tender thrusts.
The weight of his cock fills you completely with every slow push, and the fingers in your mouth give you something to suckle on, something to ground you while little you floats away.
"That's my good girl," he whispers, eyes never leaving yours. "Just like that. Keep sucking on Daddy's fingers while he takes care of this pretty cunt."
His thrusts stay soft and steady, the wet sound of your bodies meeting barely louder than your muffled whimpers around his fingers.
Joel chuckles when he feels you biting down his fingers, kissing the top of your head. His hand strokes slow circles over your lower back, steadying you.
"So full of Daddy's cock. You want Daddy to cum in you, baby?"
You nod hazily around his fingers, your walls fluttering around him.
But Joel shakes his head with a soft, teasing pout. "We ain't using any protection, bug." His hand slides down to grip your hip, guiding your movements gently as he continues those slow, shallow rocks.
Your mouth leaves his fingers and you pout too, all soft, all floaty, mumbling, "M'gonna cum, Daddy."
"Yeah, baby? You're gonna cum?" His voice stays gentle even as his hips pick up the pace just a little, small thrusts turning quicker.
Your whimpers grow louder, turning into broken little whines as pleasure coils tight in your belly.
"C'mon then, show your Daddy how good you can cum, bun," Joel sweetly encourages, thrusting steadily until your walls clamp down around him again, creaming and pulsing along his length.
Your soft moans and cries stay muffled against his chest, your body shaking in his arms as the pleasure rolls through you in long, sweet waves.
Each squeeze sending warmth around his cock, each clench sucking him deeper and milking him until Joel couldn't take it anymore.
He pulls out quickly once you're spent, stroking himself fast until hot ropes and ropes of cum paint across your tummy and thighs. You look down hazily, still overstimulated from your orgasm, wrapped up in a blanket of clouds.
He keeps you tucked against him, one hand stroking your hair while the other rubs slow circles on your back. You're already soft and heavy in his arms, eyes fluttering closed as sleep pulls at you.
"You did so well, babygirl." Joel presses a kiss to the top of your head, holding you close. "All worn out now, aren't you, honey?"
The last thing you hear is his voice, low and sweet, humming a lullaby you don't recognize, and the steady, strong beat of his heart beneath your ear.
Tomorrow will come with its own heaviness.
You both know that. The guilt will settle in quietly, embarrassment will whisper untrue thoughts, and neither of you will quite know what to do with it. You'll avoid each other's eyes, speak in short, careful sentences, pretend the night didn't happen the way it did.
But that's tomorrow.
Right now, wrapped in his arms, the world feels small and warm and so so gentle. Right now, his heartbeat is steady under your cheek, and your breathing finally matches his.
For this one quiet moment, you let yourself rest.
And your daddy, with his old, tired ache in his chest, lets himself hold you just a little closer, wishing he could have this forever.
Phewwwww. I don't really know if i like this or not my brain is such a mush bc of this heat and stress so excuse my lack of proofreading!
Based on this request, writing this sent me spiraling omfg. Enjoy...
Joel takes you everywhere with him to be able to use you any time he wants.
Contains: smut, p in v, unprotected sex, creampie, lots of cumming, oral sex (m receiving), dirty talk, free use, dom/sub dynamics, petnames (babygirl, doll, sweetheart), Joel treating you like a pet, submissive/whiny reader, light spanking, teasing, orgasm denial, objectification, degradation, dumbification, breast play, little bit of crying, reader just wants to please Joel, mentions of the word daddy, controlling!Joel, established relationship
Wordcount: 7,208
Masterlist
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You walked down the stairs, your head still groggy from sleep. Joel was by the counter, as always, a steaming cup of coffee in his hand.
"Mornin', babygirl," he snarled, his voice louder and more jarring than any alarm.
"C'mere," he made, tapping his fingers on the surface next to him a few times.
Like a pup, you followed his voice and approached him on your tiptoes, feet and legs naked as Joel's big, oversized shirt was the only thing you were wearing. These days, you always slept naked as your boyfriend usually ripped off any piece of clothing the night before. Frankly, he would prefer that you walk around the house naked, but the idea wasn't really feasible in this cold winter.
He enjoyed the mornings after, though, when you woke up with just the blanket hiding what was underneath. If he got lucky, the fabric was only loosely tangled around your legs and Joel could catch a glimpse of your inviting soft skin peeking out. Today, he unfortunately had only seen a messy head of hair next to him, but the scene unfolding in front of his eyes now was much to his pleasing.
"Gimme a kiss, angel," he muttered, his hand already grabbing your hair tightly to pull you toward him before you could choose to do it on your own.
"Slept well?" he asked, his left hand shamelessly roaming your back until it landed on your butt.
"Yes, Joel," you answered and blissfully smiled into the kiss. Mornings that started like this usually proceeded nicely. Your priority each day was to please Joel as much as possible, and it was convenient that a single squeeze of your ass could set his mood so well.
"You look pretty… Ready to be my 'lil pocket pussy for today?" he murmured lowly, almost inspecting you with the way his gaze lingered on your face and neck.
"Yes, Joel…," you replied equally quietly, hooking your fingers into the collar of his shirt.
"Then why aren't you dressed yet? Not that I ain't enjoyin' this sight… But you think I'm gonna let my coworkers fuck you with their eyes? They're already gonna do that just 'cause you're the prettiest thing they've seen in months, but hell, I ain't gonna encourage it by lettin' you walk around like a slut."
He spanked your ass harshly, making you jolt, but you were securely trapped between his muscular arms.
"I just wanted to make you happy, Joel… You said you liked seeing me in your t-shirts."
"I do, babygirl," he grinned and suddenly spun you around, his right arm draping firmly around your torso. "I like it a 'lil too much… You know why?"
"Why?"
He pressed a kiss to the side of your head, smelling your hair.
"'Cause when I see you looking like this, I feel like I only have two options: Staying home and fucking you all day 'til I got ya crying for me, or taking you with me like my perfect 'lil pet and doing the same thing at work. But since I've got my princess to take care of and buy her pretty things, I'm gonna have to choose the latter."
"I don't mind coming to work with you, Joel," you instantly claimed, leaning into his touch and stroking up his massive forearm.
"Oh yeah? You enjoy it?" His lips brushed over your ear, teeth dangerously close to biting down. "You enjoy bein' shown off? Me showin' my coworkers what I have and what they can't have? Bein' taken to the bathroom every hour to be fucked until you see stars? So that I basically gotta drag you out of there 'cause you can't stand on those pretty legs by yourself?"
His voice was sultry and low, his words sordid and obscene, making every last hair on your arms bristle. You knew that he wasn't supposed to talk like that. Not if he wanted to have a productive workday. Joel working himself up early in the morning always meant that he would be insatiable for the rest of the day. Which normally ended with you trembling uncontrollably by the end of it. Sometimes, you almost fell asleep while curled up in his lap just before he left.
"Yes… I want that."
Joel's dick pressed hard against your back, the rough fabric of his jeans doing nothing to hide the boner.
"I know you do… Maybe I'm gonna fuck your ass, baby. It just looks so… appealing today. Or your mouth. But don't ya worry, I'm never gonna neglect that pretty pussy. That I get to carry around like I own it."
He smacked your backside again, this time actually motioning you to start walking.
"Get dressed. An' wear somethin' modest. But you know… no panties. Wanna have easy access."
Twenty minutes later, Joel was wrapping a scarf around your neck, adoringly tucking it in to make sure you would be protected from the cold, cutting air. If there was one thing he hated, it was you getting sick in the winter. It would mean having to go without your tight, warm throat for at least a week, and he had tried that out before. To say it had been complicated was an understatement.
"Look at me," he demanded and tapped on your nose as you turned your head.
"What are you, huh?" he whispered as he grabbed his keys and bag, gently pushing you toward the door.
"I'm your toy, Joel. Your property."
"S'right, but it ain't what I wanted to hear."
Before you could reach for the door handle, he held you back by the bicep, turning you around once more.
"Tell me. Tell me what your purpose is."
"I'm your pocket pussy… I'm just here to serve you. And for you to let off steam." Your voice was sweet and obedient, just the way he liked it.
"Good girl. That's right. You're just gonna stay silent. You ain't gonna talk to anyone, best if you just keep that mouth shut. Unless, of course, I tell you to open it…" He stroked back a strand of your hair, tucking it beneath your hat. You truly looked adorable like this, all wrapped up in thick, warm clothes that made him think of you as his gift even more. All he had to do was peel off layer by layer until he had his little pocket pussy in front of him, ready to be used and wrecked.
"C'mon. Let's go."
He locked the door behind the two of you, leading the way down the street to Joel's workplace.
For months, he had made his living as a construction worker in Jackson, but figuring that he had a better purpose as a planner and instructor, Maria had asked him to work in the office. He had his own little room with a door that locked from the inside. There were also some very thick curtains that provided an excellent way to hide what was happening inside his office.
Sure, there was someone knocking on his door every now and then. And he also had to leave his space for lunch break, which he spent with his colleagues in a conference room. Aside from that, though, he had plenty of opportunities to spend time with you alone throughout the day.
Joel was now entering the building, keeping his hand firm on your lower back just like he always did when the two of you were in public. Not that there was a single person in Jackson who doubted who you belonged to. Anyone who stepped outside in the past few months with two functioning eyes realized that Joel was highly possessive of you and wouldn't let any man get closer than a few feet. The amount of distance that was needed for you to understand what the other person was saying. He just wanted his perfect pocket pussy all to himself. He didn't just need to know that you were his alone, no, he also needed everyone else to understand it.
"Joel. Mornin'," his colleague Felix babbled in that moment, head lowered over some paper sheet until he raised it to scoff at your sight.
"You're all bundled up. It's not like it's arctic temperatures outside."
By this time, it had become commonplace for you to accompany Joel to work. Even though no one really knew what you were doing sitting around your boyfriend's office all day, they accepted and respected it nonetheless. Sometimes, Joel believed that it was almost too easy to figure out, but at the same time, why would he care? Maybe it was even better. It would be good for all his male coworkers to know that Joel didn't even tolerate being away from you for eight hours a day. There was no room for interpretation. He owned you. Uncompromisingly and intransigently.
"Need to protect my girl from the cold, don't I?" Joel sneered and clenched his hand around your waist.
"Right... Of course... Is she gonna stick around today? I'll have to tell Gina to put out an extra chair for lunch."
"I thought by now, her bein' around is not anythin' special anymore, Felix."
Felix smirked wryly, running his eyes down your body for a brief moment. It hadn't gotten past Joel though. Joel, who was resting his hand on you with a casualty that openly gave away where his true intentions lied. He was an animal, lurking around its prey while simultaneously looking out for any possible threats to his ownership over you.
"I know. It's not gonna be a problem. I was just surprised by the fact that she doesn't get bored. My wife came to work with me once, but she left after lunch. Said it was even more boring than the town meetings. And that means something."
Joel chuckled, then turned toward you, giving you an encouraging nod.
"You don't think it's that boring, do ya, darlin'?"
You smiled shyly but shook your head, your chin tucked underneath the scarf. "No. I don't think it's boring."
"Well what's she supposed to say? Poor thing…," Felix laughed out loud, then shifted his attention back to the paper sheet as Joel applied light pressure on your back, gesturing you to move.
"Anyways, have a nice day. I'll see you at lunch."
Joel nodded, holding his chin high to show his dominance. "See you later."
Next stop was his office.
By now, the walk across the small building toward the last door in the hallway was a familiar one. You almost blindly reached for the light switch next to the door once Joel let you in.
"Take a seat, sweetheart," Joel said, his voice loud and commanding as usual.
"Joel?"
He put his bag on his desk, briefly glancing at you.
"Yeah?"
"Can I get a coffee, please?"
He let out a sound that was a cross between a chuckle and a growl.
"Always askin' so politely… Sure, darlin'. You just stay right 'ere, okay? Gonna get the both of us some coffee. Don't touch anything. And don't ya touch yourself… You know I can't wait to take off all of this once I'm back…"
He winked at you, allusively gazing at your front before squeezing your shoulder and straightening up.
"Stay as pretty as that. Don't move a fuckin' muscle."
With that, Joel rushed out of the room as if he didn't trust you to be alone for even a minute. Then again, maybe it was his anticipation about touching you in a few minutes. Oftentimes, you questioned how Joel managed to get any of his work done with you distracting him and provoking him to bend you over the desk he should use to plan the major construction projects of Jackson, but he had assured you many times that he had everything under control. And of course, you trusted him. Besides, Jackson was still standing, wasn't it? Everything was going smoothly, and as long as you weren't responsible for one of the buildings collapsing due to a lack of renovation, you wouldn't insist on keeping your distance from him during his long, draining workdays. Not that he left you a choice.
"There we go…," Joel was just muttering, putting a cup of coffee in front of you. A sprinkle of milk and one teaspoon of sugar. Just the way you loved it.
"Thank you, Joel. Can I take this off now? I'm really warm…"
You turned your neck, eyes following his broad frame heading to his desk again.
"You're not gonna do anything, babygirl. You're here to look pretty, spread your legs and let me use your worthless holes until I'm satisfied. And preferably stay silent. But if you ask nicely… I might take it off."
"Please," you immediately begged, folding your hands on your lap. You were well past a point of having any dignity inside you. Why would you care about self-respect, pride, or stubbornness when your boyfriend was there to make all the decisions in your life? Also, you really were boiling beneath your clothes, the heater in his office running and the air a little stuffy.
"Please take them off, Joel."
"C'mere," he demanded, moving his finger to beckon you to come closer. You took a step forward, the slight tremble in your knees visible and very telling.
If Joel was down bad for you, then you were even more. You were a mess before he touched you, you silently pleaded for him before he even got home and you were ready to do any inhuman and squalid things even before he had acknowledged you with a glimpse.
"Now sit down. On my lap."
Once your core made contact with his jeans, your movements still a little slow and timid, Joel started taking care of the many layers of fabrics that were serving their purpose of shielding you from the icy wind outside well. Only that in here, the cold was already taken care of. The heater was running, providing a warm environment, and mixed with Joel's strong body beneath you, you knew that you wouldn't freeze once your clothes were off.
"You know what I'm thinkin' about, princess?" Joel muttered the moment your shirt dropped down onto the floor.
"What?"
"I'm thinkin' about which hole o'yours I'm gonna use first…"
You jumped, feeling his leg press up against your core, which caused him to twist his lips sordidly.
"I'm thinkin' it's gonna be your pretty 'lil pussy. S'what I brought you here for, ain't it? To be my 'lil pocket pussy. To be able to use you any time I want. So I can carry you around and know that you're available any time. That I can just bend you over any desk or couch, press you up against a wall and your legs are gonna be open when I say so. Ain't that right, sweetheart?"
You nodded, your head spinning from the way he was still calling you his princess or sweetheart while reducing you to a mere toy to slake his sexual desires. It was probably the most arousing thing you had ever heard in your life, and you couldn't even explain why it turned you on so much.
Your bra was off now too, which made Joel click his tongue.
"Stand up. Gotta take off your pants."
You jumped to your feet as quickly as possible, but your legs gave way, so you grabbed the edge of the desk as a precaution. Buckling before he had even touched you wouldn't be very elegant.
"No underwear… Good girl. You learn well."
He brazenly regarded your bare legs and pussy that looked both so wrong and perfect in the middle of his office. He had taken you to work with him quite a few times before, yet he sometimes had to quietly chuckle remembering where he actually was right now.
"Lean over. Part your legs. And if you're not wet yet, you better touch yourself right now."
You quickly moved toward the desk, bending over in the position Joel had demanded. He was sure your natural fluids wouldn't be a problem since he usually only needed to glance at you, and you were soaked like an ocean.
"You know that I woke up with a boner today? I thought there was enough time to fuck you quickly and get rid of it, but no, you were busy in the bathroom. So I gotta take it out on you right now."
Joel's voice was sultry and husky, the clanking sound of his belt behind you making your toes curl in anticipation. He only permitted your socks to stay on your body. Even though his office had carpeted floors, he didn't want you to catch a cold from having your feet exposed to the air. Besides, you looked too cute getting fucked while wearing nothing but thick wool socks.
Joel didn't bother taking off his jeans entirely. He just let them dangle around his knees, then got into position behind you and pressed down on your spine.
"Arch that back for me, baby… Yes. You're my good 'lil toy, aren't you? You ready for what I'm about to give ya?"
Wriggling your hips in excitement, you hummed something inaudible, lids hooded and lips parted.
"Yes… Yes, Joel."
The first thought that crossed his mind as he entered you in one go was how damn lucky he was to have a pet as willing and good as you. To be able to fuck you whenever he felt like it and to have your pussy welcoming with so much keenness and welcoming wetness.
"Jesus Christ… You're so good, angel. Such a perfect, tight pussy. Look at 'er adjustin' to me…"
It was clear that he was talking to himself, since there was no way you would have been able to twist your neck and see what he was talking about. You could imagine it well, though. Your pussy lips parted, your opening stretched wide for his massive shaft that you hadn't been able to take so effortlessly in the beginning of your relationship.
"She likes it so much, right? She likes to know that she's just here to please me. To make me real happy. Drenchin' my fuckin' cock, holy shit."
Joel delivered a few brutal thrusts that each pushed you up the desk. Your head was dropped because it was easier to focus on one body part and keep it upright – your legs.
Meanwhile, your hands lay flat on the desk, your fingertips turning white from the force with which you gripped the wood. You felt as though you needed the contact to stay stable while bent over the desk, but Joel's grip on your hips and waist was just as secure. He pulled your back against him to meet his pounds and kept his grasp so firm that the possibility of slipping away from his hold was close to zero.
"J-Joel," you gasped, your face flushed and searing from exhaustion already, even though you didn't do any of the work.
"Shh baby," he hushed you instantly, bending your knee to force you to open wider for him. "Just keep quiet. You're just gonna take it like my pretty pocket pussy's supposed to. 'Cause that's your only fuckin' job. Openin' your legs for me and shuttin' up when I tell you to."
He forcefully turned your head, then cupped your face with one hand, squeezing your flesh to make you form a pout.
"There we go… Open your mouth."
Once you presented him your flat tongue, he let some spit dribble down, his features drawing with mischief as he watched his drool spread on your pink muscle. You made no attempt to swallow just yet, just like he had taught you it. He patiently waited for another few seconds, thinking how well he had trained you, before giving your cheek a light slap.
"Swallow."
You complied, keeping your gazes locked as your throat bobbed.
"Good girl… You're my good 'lil pet, ain't ya? You know just what I want ya to do an' how I want you every day when I take you with me."
He rutted his hips into yours for a few more minutes, alternating between quick, abrupt thrusts and deep, intense ones. Joel loved to see your face contort when he hit you deep, delivering pounds that served the mere purpose of watching your reactions. It was his dirtiest and most sadistic side taking over, and it made his heart flutter seeing your body spasm every time his tip nudged your cervix.
Five minutes later, Joel orgasmed, ropes of his cum painting you from inside. The fact that he filled you up was out of question. He had never been one to spill his cum over your face or tits, even though he loved to see your body marked by him. He could do that by spreading his spit all over you, though, or sucking on your neck until it was covered in little bruises.
No, his semen belonged inside you. Because that was the part of you that he was the only one to see, touch, or bruise. It was about claiming and owning you in a whole different way, crossing a line and demonstrating his ownership in the filthiest and most primal way.
He rolled his hips into yours a few times, riding his orgasm out while you trembled and mewled with eyes that sparkled with wetness.
Not making you cum had been a conscious decision. You had to deserve it, so if he would be pleased with you by the end of the day, he would reward you later at home.
Even though you had a good idea why you hadn't experienced pleasure yet, you still whined in despair as Joel pulled out and groaned deeply.
"Joel…," you made, reaching for his hand, but he just snatched your wrist away and pressed it down on your belly.
"Shhh… No. I gotta work now. You're gonna sit in the corner and be a good girl until I'm in the mood for the next round."
"But I – " you started but were cut off by your boyfriend yanking you off the table by your forearm.
"No. Quit it. You're gonna cum if I want you to cum. You think I want you all fucked out and tired just from one single fuck? Hell no. You're gonna cum at the end of the day. Maybe. If I feel generous."
He guided you to a chair in the corner of the room, which allowed you a good view of the back of his head but unfortunately not of his face. You didn't speak up again, though your pussy continued to greedily throb for the next hour.
That was how much time Joel spent focusing on his work, but to you, it felt like 10 hours. What you wanted most in the world – he – was right there in front of you. You wouldn't even ask for a lot, grinding on his shoe or his thigh would be enough, but at the same time, you didn't want to piss him off again.
When you heard his pen click, your eyes widened ever so subtly, your fingers curling.
"C'mere."
He didn't even turn around but there was no need to. Within seconds, you were standing next to him, your pussy painfully clenching around nothing and your nipples hard – clearly not from the temperature since his office was snug and warm.
"Knees."
Your heart dropped as the prize was snatched away right before your eyes. Of course being fucked by him didn't inevitably mean reaching your high, but your chances were obviously better with his dick in your pussy than in your mouth. Still, you obeyed at once, and Joel had to bite down on his lip once more, thinking how well you were listening to him.
"Mhm baby… You cold?"
His large hand grabbed your right breast, twisting your stiff nipples between his thumb and index.
"N-No," you stammered, arching your chest to get closer to his calloused skin.
"Good. So your nipples are stiff 'cause you like bein' my toy?"
"Yes."
His lips curved, though his eyes remained dark and imponderable.
"C'mon. Crawl beneath the desk."
You couldn't sit up straight under the table, but you had enough space to kneel in front of him, your head close to his inner knee. His belt was still undone, but he had closed the zip of his jeans.
"Open my jeans. And take me out. And while you do that, you can already think about what your job as my pocket pussy is. I feel like it's good remindin' you from time to time."
It took you quite some time to pull down the zipper, yank his jeans down enough, and take his half-hard length out, which gave you a lot of time to think about his question, even though you honestly struggled to concentrate on two things at once.
"Well?" Joel scoffed with lifted eyebrows, watching his tip dangle in front of your nose.
"I'm supposed to behave… Do as you tell me. And always be available when you want to use me."
He hummed out in satisfaction, stroking your cheek with his knuckles, which really did make you feel like his pet.
"Good… Yeah. But I think there's more, babygirl. Use that brain, sugar."
It was hard not to stare at his manhood, which made Joel chuckle, feeling like you had just seen it for the first time.
"You always take me with you. So that you can always fuck me."
"Yes, but you already said that," Joel muttered, bringing one of his hands under your chin and raising it firmly.
"Oh c'mon now, sweetheart… Don't get all dumb on me."
He was referring to your large, glossy eyes that were radiating helplessness.
"I'm not allowed to wear any underwear."
"Good girl…," Joel grunted, caressing your chin softly. "That's enough for now. Keep thinkin' about it though. Gonna ask you about it again afterwards."
He pulled at your bottom lip, watching it snap back, and then wrapped a hand around his shaft.
"Open. And don't ya do anythin'. I just want you to keep 'im warm and snug. No suckin', no swirlin' that pretty tongue, no movin' your lips. Just keep 'im still."
Your lips stretched as you unlocked your jaw, trying to take him down in one go. You didn't know how deep he wanted you to take him, so you stopped when he was about halfway inside.
"No, no, babygirl. More. Did I say I want half of my cock inside you?"
You swallowed briefly before closing your eyes and going deeper, feeling him stuffing your throat from your lips all the way down to the base of it.
"Gosh… Look at that. So pretty, baby."
What he meant by that was how well he had trained you. It wasn't like you had taken him so effortlessly the first time he had fucked your throat. Over time, though, with a lot of practice, you learned how to relax your muscles and allow his thick shaft to reach all the most delicate and sensitive spots. It had been strange at first, but you got used to it.
"No movement now. We're gonna wait until I'm hard again, and then you're gonna sit on my lap and let me fuck that tight cunt. Gonna fuck my cum right back into you and then fill you up again."
Before his own dirty talk would make him lose his mind and force him to bend you over again, filling you with whatever devices available at the moment, he took a deep breath and focused on his work again, even though what was happening between his legs was quite tempting to look at.
In a matter of minutes, his dick was fully erect again, stubbing hard against your teeth that you were careful to cover with your lips.
"Up," was all Joel barked.
He rolled his chair back far enough for you to stand in front of him. Then, you lowered yourself onto his right thigh at your own pace. Which wasn't quick enough for your boyfriend.
"Jesus Christ," he rumbled and dragged you closer, making you put your knees on either side of his hips on the chair.
"You may listen well today, but you act like you're a helpless doll. I always gotta do anythin', right? I spoil you too much."
You wanted to speak up, say that he certainly didn't spoil you too much because he hadn't made you cum yet, but you swallowed the words before you could get yourself into more trouble. You were always a little nervous about riding him since there were more things that could go wrong than when you were lying on your back with your legs spread. On the other hand, Joel wasn't in the mood to give up any control today, which is why your racing heart slowed down as you felt him guide your center to hover over his turmercent manhood.
"Relax. Get down 'ere."
You carefully sank down on him until Joel rolled his eyes and pushed you all the way down with one rough tug.
"Jesus fuckin'… Gotta teach you somethin' about speed next time, huh? Pleasin' me isn't all about lookin' pretty and takin' your clothes off when I tell you to. S'about doin' something when I tell you to. Doin' it at once."
He narrowed his eyes, a gesture that made the whole upper half of his face look stern, which consequently swamped your system with sadness. You hadn't meant to disappoint him. Your only goal today was to receive his praise and hear him tell you how proud he was at the end of the day.
"Oh baby… Don't give me that look now," he growled, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. "You ain't supposed to look like that while I got my cock inside you."
Yes, his cock… You had completely forgotten about it now that you were so drenched with your juices that the stretch had been essentially non-existent.
"It's okay," he cooed, moving his hips slightly below yours to remind you of the purpose of this encounter. "Don't ya get all whiny… You're here to please me, remember? You think I wanna see my little pocket pussy cry? I want ya to cry down there, and hell, you're already doin' that. But up 'ere, I wanna see how you feel gettin' split open on that dick."
You blinked a few times, keen to do a better job from now on, and nodded.
"Yes, Joel."
Those two words were his cue to tighten his grip on your waist and pull you onto his lap. You really felt like a rag doll, being used and thrown around at his whim while you barely knew what to do with your hands. In the end, you rested them on his shoulders, though you certainly didn't need support with Joel fucking you on his dick at his own preferred pace and in his favorite ways.
Sometimes he moved rapidly, panting in your ear and fanning his fervent breath over your cheek while he lifted you up and down on his shaft, and other times he moved almost sensually, catching you off guard for a moment. He was passionate today, insatiable and hungry for more, which usually provoked him to take his desire out on you.
"Clenchin' so hard 'round me, sugar… Tight as a fuckin' vice."
His hand on the small of your back applied pressure, pushing you closer so your bare chest was flush against his clothed torso.
"Joel…," you whimpered, seizing the opportunity to form fists around the fabric of his shirt.
"Don't ruin my shirt, babydoll," he laughed, though he didn't sound like he was genuinely concerned about it. "How m'I gonna explain it to my colleagues, mhm? I don't even know how I'm gonna explain your state… Cheeks red, hair messy and that goddamn shimmer in your eyes… You know that everyone can see it on your face when you've just been fucked well?"
You shuddered at his obscene words, clinging to him like you were drowning as Joel picked up his pace slightly.
"Look at me. And don't ya hide anythin' from me. Wanna see every 'lil thing… Oh gosh… Yeah, you're such a good toy. You were made to be my toy, baby. You were made to be fucked by this cock."
Based on the volume of his voice, he was getting closer to finish, which involuntarily made your expression shift with frustration. There was nothing in his touch hinting at the fact that he was going to let you cum this time – no hand that was silently slipping between your legs, no husky words whispered in your ear and telling you to bring yourself to your high.
Joel didn't care about any of that. He was certain about your role in this: being his cum dump. You were a pretty hole for him to fuck and take his seed. And he made sure you never forgot it.
"You're ready to take my cum again, doll? You think your pussy can take it, or is she gonna overrun? You know I don't want a single drop to go to waste. So you better squeeze that cunt and make sure it all stays inside…" Joel gave your butt a harsh spank while making sure the noise wouldn't leave the thin walls of his office. Then, he squeezed that very flesh in his large palm and soothingly rubbed the area.
"C'mon… Be my good 'lil plaything and clench that pussy real nice for me. C'mon… Be good for daddy."
Whenever he dropped the name "Daddy," you knew it was about to end badly for you, usually with you being literally imbued with his sticky, hot cum.
"Joel," you whispered breathlessly, on the verge of crying just from the stimulation being so concise, so toe-curling, and yet not enough to make you cum.
Your teeth ground, the frustration consuming you while Joel reached his second orgasm of today. You were cautious though not to show how much you craved something he wasn't willing to give you yet. First and foremost, your priority was to please him. Secondly, you knew that complaining would only decrease your chances of finding satisfaction by the end of the day.
"Fuckin' hell…. Holy shit, baby, you're so good for daddy. You're bein' my perfect 'lil pocket pussy. Always there to clear my mind when I feel like it. S'why I keep you around at work. 'Cause I always know what's waitin' right there…"
He pinched your mound, remaining inside you a minute longer than necessary just to savor the thought of ensuring his slick was deep inside you without giving it a chance to run down your thighs instead.
"Jesus. Look at me."
You raised your gaze, unaware of the light redness around your eyes.
"Mhmm… You're doin' so well, sweetheart. Just like my 'lil doll is supposed to. Next time, I'm gonna take you with me when I go to the bar with Tommy. You know why, huh?"
He brushed your hair behind you ears, then kissed the tip of your nose. You had a strong idea why but just chewed on your bottom lip.
"Why?"
"So I can take you to the bathroom any time I want. Sit you down on the sink and fuck your brains out. And then, we're gonna return to Tommy and we're all gonna act like it ain't obvious what I did to your poor pussy in there. Like he don't notice how you can't walk on those pretty legs."
He slapped your ass again while already reaching for his pencil.
"Hop off, baby. Daddy's gotta work now."
His words had an enchanting effect on you. His use of the word daddy, his authorial demeanor, hearing him talk about a possible bar visit with Tommy… the combination of all of these things made you a pliant, obedient mess for him, and caused you to walk back into the corner of his office with no hesitation whatsoever.
"You can play with that pretty pussy, baby. As long as you're silent and don't cum. I swear to fuckin' god, if you cum, I'm gonna know. I know this pussy better than anyone. And she's mine. She only gets to cum under my hands. So don't even think about it."
He had said this while being turned away from you, which forced you to vocally express your gratitude.
"Thank you, daddy."
"Oh don't thank me, little pet. We only got an hour until lunch. You don't wanna show up there all needy and desperate to be touched, do ya? 'Cause if you won't behave, I'm gonna leave you here in my office and bring you some food later."
"No," you immediately protested, apprehensively shifting on the chair which offered little friction to your throbbing clit.
"I thought so. You wanna stay with daddy, right?"
"Yes, daddy," you howled, desperately darting at his profile to meet his gaze, but he was already typing on his keyboard, looking all concentrated.
"Then behave. S'very easy, actually."
You had to wait an hour, sitting around impatiently with nothing to do but curl your toes and stare holes in Joel's head. You had briefly circled your bundle of nerves in the beginning but quickly had come to the conclusion that without a possible high, your actions were futile, maybe even hindering. So you had stopped and instead tried to distract yourself by counting the little hairs in the back of your boyfriend's neck.
"Time for lunch, angel!" Joel uttered when you had least expected it, making you jolt.
"C'mere. Lemme check that pussy real quick."
He patted his thigh, watching you approach on wobbly legs with a wry grin.
"Oh baby… Someone's really shaken up right now… Did daddy scare you? With all that talk about behavin'?"
Your lower lip trembled but you nodded, even though it was a shy gesture.
"No need for that… Daddy's right there beside you. You ate lunch with those guys a million times before. Nothing's different today. I just enjoy teasin' you, sugarplum."
He cupped your chin, brushing with his thumb over your plump bottom lip that slowly began to stop shivering.
"Good girl… My good 'lil pet. You just need your daddy and everything's fine, mhm? Ain't that right?"
While you searched for an intelligent reply, Joel stood up to pick up your clothes. You just nodded and muttered a quiet "Yes, Daddy" as he pulled your shirt over your head, adjusted it, and proceeded with your jeans and hoodie.
No underwear at all.
He usually let you wear a bra at least, especially when he was showing you off to other men.
"Gotta have easy access… What if I feel like I wanna fuck you during lunch? Gotta be quick, babygirl," he explained himself and kissed your forehead.
Fortunately—or unfortunately—he didn't feel that desire during lunch with his colleagues, even though his hand was firmly on your thigh the entire time.
He was possessive of you and would study the room whenever he felt someone was looking at you too long. He was like a predator protecting its prey from other dangers, which made you feel like a princess.
You liked nothing more than feeling like Joel Miller's favorite plaything, which he was eager to shield and claim, just as he was eager to show it off.
Joel fucked you one more time in his office that day, not right after lunch, even though he couldn't constrain himself for long once the two of you were back inside the warm room. He kept you sitting on his lap while typing on his computer until he mumbled a dark "Fuck it" through his teeth and suddenly flipped you over, so that you were bent over his desk, stomach first.
This one was quick, with his fingers gripping your hips tightly and his jaw clenched. He barely spoke to you while chasing his orgasm, not giving a single thought to your pleasure.
As expected, he filled you up once more, his spend joining the slick, warm pool that was sticking to your walls already. You were so overflown with Joel's seed, that you almost felt numb to it, merely doing your best to stay still while he slammed his hips into yours over and over until he was positive, his balls were fully emptied.
"My god…" he growled, sounding almost mesmerized by what terrible and soiled things you allowed him to do to you. "You really are my perfect pocket pussy, mhm? And you like it way too much… I bet if I told you to suck right now, you would. If I told you to stay like this until I'm hard again, you wouldn't move a muscle, mhm?"
He reached around you, pulling at one of your nipples, which caused you to squeal and jerk in his strong arms.
"Mhmm, maybe you wouldn’t stay still. But you just wanna be my good 'lil toy so bad. You wanna be my pet just as much as I enjoy makin' you my pocket pussy. You like me carryin' you around and usin' you like you're some worthless doll any time I want. Just gotta look at your pretty pout and I gotta have you pressed up against some wall or some desk… Jesus. Call me fuckin' greedy but I didn't get myself such a lovely girl for no reason, right? Need to take advantage of that tight cunt as often as I can."
He brushed over your shoulder blades, tracing after the bone while you purred like a satisfied cat. You hadn't cum, sure, and your body made all the effort in the world to not make you forget it, but right now, you were satisfied, nonetheless.
Hearing Joel's praise, as degrading and filthy as it was, made the blood rush in your cheeks and your heartrate double in pace.
Why would you care about the state of your poor, raw cunt that would probably bind you to bed tomorrow?
Why would you care about not getting anything out of Joel thrusting inside you?
Besides, he'd reward you at home if he thought you did a good job.
A smile spread automatically and sincerely across your face as your body relaxed while Joel continued to lovingly caress your back.
You took your lip between your teeth, the wooden surface beneath your chin feeling surprisingly comfortable at that moment.
Was there anything better in this world than pleasing Joel Miller?
Cw: 18+, smut, MEAN!joel, unspecified age gap, unhealthy relationship dynamics, dub-con, non-conish?, slightly toxic, possessive behaviour, controlling behaviour, NO safeword, psychical aggression: pinching, slapping, spanking, spitting into mouth, 'only the tip' as punishment, pinv, unprotected sex, orgasm denial, pet names (puppy, pet), praise, naive reader kinda, no outbreak
A/N: me sick and me bored and me horny af AND I've dreamt about mean!joel absolutely ruining my life so...i had to write something little. /Note: this one has abusive/unhealthy dynamic vibes. If that's not your thing, totally okay! just don't hit "continue reading" and then yell at me. ;) For the rest of you degenerates, I'm still working on requests AND sleazy!joel so enjoy, pookies <333
Joel Miller was one mean, mean man.
But that's what you maybe liked about him. People would talk. Oh, how much they would talk. They would say he pinches too hard, slaps too rough, spanks you until you weep. They say he calls you puppy like a dog, pet like a thing, girl like you barely deserve that much.
But they never see the way he holds you after—thumbs brushing the red mark on your cheek, voice low like gravel: "That's my girl."
He sometimes pinches your skin without looking up from his newspaper.
Sometimes he doesn't even need a reason.
You'd be standing at the stove, stirring something for dinner, and he'd come up behind you. His fingers would find the soft skin just above your hip, pinch until your breath hitches, and he'd murmur right into your ear: "Been too quiet today, puppy. What's on that pretty mind?"
You'd try to answer, but the words would come out shaky.
He'd pinch harder. "I didn't tell you to speak."
Until you'd go still, and he'd kiss the back of your neck like a reward.
Oh, but the slaps.
Those would come when you really stepped out of line.
Maybe you sassed him in front of the mailman. Maybe you rolled your eyes when he told you to fetch his boots. He didn't raise his voice. He never did.
He just waited until you two were alone, then he'd take your chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilt your head just so, and say: "You know what you did, girl."
And then his palm would connect with your cheek, not hard enough to knock you over, but enough to make your ears ring and your eyes water.
He'd hold you steady while you'd blink through the shock. "Better now?" he'd ask, soft and mean.
You would nod, and he'd lean in and press his lips to the same cheek, a kiss so tender it hurt worse than the slap.
The spankings were a language all on their own.
Over his knee in the living room, the fire crackling, his hand rising and falling with a rhythm that felt like a hymn.
Each smack echoed through the old farmhouse. He'd count, but sometimes he'd lose track, stop, shrug, and start over. "Don't matter," he'd mutter. "You'll be red either way."
By the end, your skin was heated, your thighs were wet, and you were crying on his flannel. He'd pet your hair, then his fingers would find your chin, tip your head back, and he'd spit into your mouth—a warm and slow act.
"Swallow," he'd say, and you did. "That's it."
Some nights he would only give you the tip of his cock—just the head, slick and warm, pressing against your entrance.
He'd lie behind you, half-asleep, one arm under your head, and nudge into you an inch, maybe less.
Then he'd stop. "That's all you're gettin' tonight, puppy." He'd yawn. "Been real mouthy."
And he'd fall asleep with just that tease inside you, leaving you clenched and desperate, your hips twitching against him in vain. He never stirred. He was dead to the world, and you were left in the half-dream of his presence, aching for more of a man who didn't even know he was torturing you.
Other nights, he'd take you slow out of pure meanness.
He'd lay you out on the rug, spread your legs wide, and push into you with a patience that made you weep.
Each thrust was a long, dragging press, his cock filling you inch by inch, then pulling back until just the head remained.
"Beggin' without a sound, aren't you, girl?" he'd say, chuckling, thumb pressing into your clit just enough to make you gasp. "You want to come, puppy?"
You'd sob out a yes.
"Ain't that a shame." He'd speed up, just a fraction, enough to build that wave inside you—and then he'd stop. "No. Not happening." Over and over until you were a mess of sweat and pleadings, until you forgot your own name and only remembered his.
And when he lets you come (rarely), it's always almost an afterthought.
He'd be inside you, slow and deep, analysing your face, and you'd be wrapped around him, whimpering, and he'd sigh like he was tired of the whole thing.
"Go on, then," he'd mutter, pressing his thumb into your clit. "Get it over with." And you wpuld shatter, and he'd grunt once, then pull out and spill all across your belly, his breath hot on your face.
"Look at you, girl. Good puppy. Are you gonna thank your old man?"
And you did. You always did.
Because under that meanness was a man who built his whole world around you—big shoulders and worn hands, a country house with a porch swing where he'd sprawl and let you curl at his feet like a cat.
He'd stroke your hair and spit into your open mouth without breaking his gaze on the horizon, just because he could, just because you were his, and you'd swallow and feel like you were part of a story that had no beginning and no end.
This is not a story meant for other ears.
It's a fairytale only you two know the ending to—a dream where the mean old man keeps his little pet safe, warm, and used under the same roof, and she wouldn't want it any other way.
Summary: Daddy Joel knows how much your period hurts you. So he takes you to the strawberry field he found. He carries you when your legs give out, feeds you berries one by one, wipes the juice from your chin with his thumb. All he wants is to make you feel better, to remind you that you're his sweet, whiney girl.
Warnings: 18+, smut, fluff, FAUXCEST, huge age gap (60s and 20s), daddy!joel, ddlg undertones, pinv, unprotected sex, creampie, slight breeding, praise kink, spitting into mouth, slight food play, slight cum/period eating, clit rubbing, period sex, secret relationship, idk how much it makes sense that strawberries exist after the outbreak but
A/N: guess who had strawberries AND her period in this heat? 🥵 i was craving some dada joel and some ickiness sooo...ALSO im currently writing a lot of requests (bc they've been sitting in my inbox for ages🫣) and one of them is sleazy!joel hehe. As usual: if you don't like something you can just scroll and block me. I hope yall enjoy this one pookies <333
Joel had a surprise for you.
He lied to Maria, the Guards and even to his own brother Tommy.
"Got some scoutin' to do," he told them. "Won't be long."
And once you two were out of Jackson, he slowed. His hand moved from yours to the small of your back, guiding you through the tall grass.
But the last half mile had been rough. You've been whining under your breath, one hand pressed to your lower belly, the ache a dull, stubborn throb that pulsed down into your thighs.
The walk had begun to feel endless, every step a small betrayal as you dragged your feet through the wild grass, letting out a little huff of complaint.
"Joel…where are we goin'?" you whine, your voice thin and pitiful.
He doesn't answer, just keeps walking ahead, his broad back a quiet wall of patience. The afternoon light catches the gray in his hair, and you watch the way his shoulders move under his flannel. He's carrying a small canvas sack, but you don't know what's in it.
"Dad," you try again, letting the syllable stretch into a whimpering plea, knowing the name gets him.
He glances back, and his eyes are soft, the corners crinkling. "Hush now, sweet girl. We're almost there."
You let out a dramatic sigh, but you keep walking.
Your underwear is already damp with blood again, the fresh pair with a slip he helped you into earlier felt already too sticky. You remember the way he knelt in front of you in your little room, his big hands gentle as he peeled off the stained panties, knowing you're embarrassed. "That's alright, honey. S'just your body. Nothin' to be ashamed of." He murmured, pressing a kiss to your hipbone, then another to the swell of your belly, and you'd felt the tension crack open, just a little.
The first thing anyone noticed about Joel Miller was his rough edges; knuckles permanently shadowed by old scars, deep-set furrow of his eyebrows. A voice that could drop into gravel and command a room by sound alone.
But you...you noticed his soft edges.
Maybe it was the way his fingers moved with a deliberate gentleness on your skin. Pressing a warm hand on your belly. Smoothing back your hair when you dozed off against his shoulder. The way he cupped your cheek, thumb brushing lightly, before pressing a soft kiss to your temple.
Or maybe the way he made you feel like you were the only thing that kept him grounded in this God abandoned world.
You noticed it first, when you called him 'dad'.
It slipped out, honestly.
You were curled in his lap after a nightmare—something about clickers, about teeth, about the cold. He had held you, rocked you, murmured soft, sweets words into your hair. And you had looked up at him with tear-streaked cheeks and said, "Thanks, Dad."
His hands had stilled. His eyes gone dark and soft and hungry all at once. He didn't correct you. He just kissed your forehead and said, "Anytime, bun."
Later, when he was on top of you, cock hard against your thigh, he growled (or begged) for you to "Say it again," and you did.
But nobody needed to know, of course.
What would everyone say? A sixty year old, together with a woman whose youth made him feel almost ancient.
And oh, how much he tried to forget your face, to ignore your touch, to dismiss his feelings for you.
You were too young to remember the world before, too soft, too sweet. He said that as if it was an accusation, but his eyes said something else.
Now you're outside, and the world smells of earth and green, and you're following him like a child, trusting blindly.
Halfway up a small rise, you stop, leaning over with your hands on your knees. "Can't," you breathe. "Cramps are real bad."
Joel turns, and there's no impatience in his face, only that steady, watchful tenderness that makes your chest ache.
He walks back to you, and without a word, he crouches, one hand reaching for your wrist, pulling you gently towards his back. "C'mon. I got you."
You don't argue.
You climb onto his back, your thighs wrapping around his waist, your arms looped over his shoulders. He stands easily, one hand cupping your ass, the other holding the sack. You bury your face in the crook of his neck, breathing that comforting smell he has.
The sway of his walk is hypnotic, and your cramps start to ease slightly with the steady motion.
"You're so good to me," you murmur against his skin, pouting.
"S'what daddies do, peanut." His voice is a low rumble, the vibration felt more than heard.
He carries you for what feels like forever, until the path opens into a small clearing. You lift your head, and your breath catches.
Strawberries.
A whole patch of them, sprawling over the ground like a spilled paint of red and green. The vines are tangled, the berries fat and gleaming, some half-hidden under leaves. The sun falls directly on them, and the scent rises up—sweet, earthy, soft.
It's impossible, a tiny miracle in this broken world, a secret pocket of something beautiful.
"Joel," you whisper, your voice thick with wonder.
He sets you down carefully, and you stand there, staring.
"Found it last spring," he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck like he was embarrassed. "Thought you’d…I dunno. Like it." You didn’t give him time to second-guess it—just threw your arms around his neck, pressing sticky kisses to his stubbled jaw until he huffed and swatted your ass. "Quit it. Pick some before the birds do."
You let out a sound—something between a gasp and a laugh and you immediately dropped to your knees in the middle of the patch, the soft soil giving way, the leaves brushing your knees.
You plucked a strawberry, fat and crimson, and bought it to your mouth. The first bite is a burst of sun and sugar, juice running down your chin, and you moan, closing your eyes.
Joel chuckles, a low, warm sound. "That good, huh?"
You don't answer.
You're already reaching for another, and another, stuffing them into your mouth, the red juice dripping over your fingers, staining the front of your dress.
The sweetness floods your tongue, and for a moment, the cramps, the heaviness, the embarrassment of earlier—all of it just fades.
You're just a girl eating strawberries in a field, and your daddy found this for you.
He settles down across from you, legs crossed, watching you with an expression of pure, quiet adoration.
"Messy girl," he coos.
You look up at him, your lips smeared red, your hands sticky. You grin, a wild, happy grin. "Dad. Open your mouth."
He raises an eyebrow but complies, his lips parting slightly. You pick a perfect berry, hold it up to his mouth, and press it gently past his lips. He bites down, and you feel the slight brush of his teeth on your fingertips. You giggle, pulling your hand back, but he catches your wrist, sucking the juice off your fingers with a slow, gentle pull.
Heat flares low in your belly, a different kind of ache.
"Gonna bite your hand off if you ain't careful, bunny." he murmurs, his eyes darkening.
"Don't you dare," you say, but your voice is breathy.
He lets your hand go, and you pop another strawberry into your own mouth, chewing slowly, watching him. Your dress is hiked up a little from kneeling, the hem bunched around your thighs.
You're not wearing a bra (you never do when you're with him) and the thin cotton of the dress clings to the curve of your breasts.
You feel his gaze travel down, lingering, and then a slow smile spreads across his face.
"Lemme see, babygirl."
Your heart stutters. "Dad…"
"C'mon. Just a peek."
He leans forward, his fingers hooking into the hem of your dress, lifting it inch by inch. The air kisses your thighs, your belly. You shiver, but you don't stop him.
His eyes drop to the patch of white cotton between your legs, the damp spot visible, pale pink. He hums, low and appreciative.
"So pretty," he breathes, and then he's leaning in, pressing his mouth to the inside of your knee, then higher, his lips brushing fire along your skin.
You forget about your strawberries. You forget about everything. Your head falls back, a small moan escaping your lips.
His fingers find the waistband of your panties, sliding under, brushing through the soft curls. You gasp, the touch electric, and then he cups you, his palm warm and firm, pressing against the ache.
"Daddy," you whisper, your voice small. "S'full of blood. It's…messy."
He looks up at you, his mouth still against your thigh. "Don't give a damn, honeybun. You think I care about a little blood?" He shakes his head slowly, his eyes holding yours. "You're my sweet girl. Every part of you. Even the messy bits."
Your cheeks flush red.
Then he shifts, laying you back on the grass, the ground soft and cool under you.
The strawberry vines brush your arms, the leaves tickling your skin. He moves between your thighs, settling his weight over you, and you feel the length of him pressing against your hip, hard even through his jeans.
"Let's make you feel even better, huh?" he asks, his voice a low, rough whisper.
You nod, your mouth dry.
He strokes your hair away from your face, his thumb tracing your jaw. "Are you gonna let dad see your pretty pussy?"
The words send a shiver through you, a wet heat pooling deeper than the cramping. You nod again, your eyes half-lidded, already sinking into that warm, foggy space where there's only him, only daddy.
He lifts the hem of your dress higher, bunching it around your ribs, and then he hooks his fingers into the sides of your panties and pulls them down slowly, deliberately. The damp cotton slides over your hips, your thighs, and then he's lifting your legs to slip them free. The air hits your cunt, cool and tingling, and you feel the slow, thick trickle of blood sliding down to the grass. A sensation that would make you flinch if it was anyone else.
But it's Joel.
He looks down at you, at the smear of red on your inner thighs, the way the ground beneath you darkens. He makes a sound, soft and almost reverent. "Look at you," he murmurs. "Bleedin' into the grass."
Your face heats. "Daddy…"
"Shh, baby. S'beautiful." He leans down and kisses your soft belly, just above the mound of your cunt.
Then he's unbuckling his belt, pushing his jeans and briefs down just enough for his cock to jump free, already thick and flushed, the head glistening with pre-cum.
You watch him stroke himself once, twice, his eyes fixed on you, nodding as if he is counting his strokes.
"Tell me if it's too much," he says, but his voice is thick, and you know he's as desperate as you are.
He lines himself up, and you feel the blunt pressure at your entrance, warm and heavy. Then he pushes in, and the sensation is a shock—tight, wet, the blood acting as a slick, silky glide. You gasp, your fingers digging into the grass. Your body clenching around him, the fullness making you dizzy.
"Dad, oh—"
"I know, I know," he hushes, stroking your hair, his forehead pressed to yours. "Let go, honey. Let daddy in."
He pushes deeper, the squelching sound is loud in the quiet field, obscene but intimate. The blood and the wetness and the heat—it all blends together into that perfect, cozy feeling.
That feeling only Joel could give you.
He starts to move, slow, deep thrusts that rock your whole body, the ground beneath you soft and yielding.
"Somebody'll see us," you whimper, but the words come out as a moan.
He shakes his head, his breath hot against your cheek. "Cleared the whole area before. It's not patrol time. Just us, baby bun. Just you and me."
He picks up a strawberry from where it fell, pressing it to your lips. You open, bite down, the juice running down your chin. He leans in, his mouth catching yours, and he swallows the bite from your lips, his tongue sliding against yours.
As he pulls back, you see him gather a bit of spit and juice in his mouth, and when he opens, he lets it drip into yours.
"Swallow," he murmurs, and you do. "That's my girl."
His cock is a steady, dragging pressure inside you, sliding against that deep spot that makes your toes curl. Your hands find his chest, clutching his flannel, and you arch into him, desperate for more. The cramps start to dissolve under the pleasure, only the squelching sounds of blood being the proof of your period.
The red and his cum will mix later, but for now, there's only that gentle rhythm, the wet slap of his hips against your thighs, the soft grunts he makes against your neck.
He looks down between your bodies, at where the red is pooling around you, staining the green leaves. "Aw, honey," he coos, and there's a tenderness in his voice that makes your heart clench. "Makin' a mess of yourself." He reaches down, his fingers dipping into the warm slick, and he brings them to his lips, tasting. "S'just life, baby. Nothin' bad."
Your eyes well up, a mix of embarrassment and overwhelming love. "Dad..."
He shushes you, kissing your eyelids, your nose, the corner of your mouth. "You're doin' so good. So beautiful. Just let it happen."
He slows his pace, making each thrust a languid, deliberate drag, and you feel every ridge of him, every pulse. Your body starts to tighten, the pleasure building like a wave, slow and inevitable. You're gripping him, your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him deeper.
"Close," you breathe. "Daddy, I'm—"
"I know, sweet girl. What did we speak about? Focus on that feeling. Focus on daddy." His voice dropping low.
He reaches between your bodies with that, his thumb finding your clit, pressing in tight circles.
The sensation spikes, your mind trying to focus on his thrusts and on the pleasure while a foggy cloud wraps around yours mind.
Joel coos and coos, persistent with his thrusts and rubs.
"C'mon, peanut."
And you shatter, your back bowing, a cry torn from your throat. Your cunt clenches around him in rhythmic waves, spilling blood, and he groans. His hips stutter as he drives into you one last time, spilling deep inside, the warmth spreading through you like honey.
He stays buried, his forehead resting on yours, both of you panting.
The world is silent again except for the hum of insects, the distant rustle of leaves. You can feel the mixture of blood and cum seeping out of you, pooling on the grass, and for a second, embarrassment flickers.
But then Joel shifts, lifts himself, and looks down.
He scoops his fingers through the slick, gathers a pearl of red and white on his fingertip. He looks at you, his eyes soft and dark, and brings his hand to his mouth, tasting it slowly.
"Tastes so sweet," he says, his voice husky.
You bury your face in his chest, hiding your blush, and he chuckles, wrapping his arms around you, pulling you close. He rolls to the side, careful not to crush you, and you curl into him, your head on his shoulder. The strawberry leaves are crushed beneath you, the juice and blood and cum mingling with the earth.
He picks a fresh strawberry from a nearby vine, holds it to your lips. You open, and he feeds you, watching you chew with that soft, paternal satisfaction. Then he plucks one for himself, eats it, and kisses you, sharing the taste.
"This was a good surprise," you murmur, your eyelids heavy.
"The best surprise is seein' my girl happy." He strokes your hair, his fingers catching on tangles, his thumb tracing the shell of your ear. "You feelin' better?"
You think about the cramps, which are still there, but muted now, cushioned by the glow of pleasure. You think about the blood, the mess, and how he didn't flinch, didn't make you feel less. You think about the way he looked at you, as if you were something precious and holy, even with red smeared across your thighs.
"Yeah," you whisper. "Much better."
He hums, satisfied, and pulls you tighter. The sky is deepening to gold and pink, the sun lower now, casting long shadows across the field. You're sticky and sore and perfect, and he's here, solid and warm, your daddy in a world that doesn't deserve him.
You reach for another strawberry, and he catches your wrist, bringing it to his mouth, biting it in half, offering you the other half with his lips. You take it, and the sweetness blooms on your tongue, the last light of day catching the red on his lips.
"My messy girl," he says, so softly it's almost a prayer.
And you smile, burying your face in the crook of his neck, the blood and the cum and the strawberries all blending together into one warm, pink, perfect afternoon.
This is so short🫣 i hope you all stay hydrated especially while taking antidepressants or stimulants!!! Also, i think the past tense and the present tense is very confusing in this, it's the one thing i struggle with most so im sorry...🥲
Pairing: Joel Miller x Female!reader x Jack Abbott
Summary: It wasn’t supposed to happen. One wrong turn past the perimeter, one breath of unknown, drifting pollen, and suddenly Joel is pounding on Jack Abbott’s door with you burning up in his arms. Now it’s the middle of the night, the town's asleep, and the only medic who won’t report the two of you is the one staring at you down like he already knows this is going to get real bad.
Warnings: 18+, Smut, THREESOME, slight fluff, Age gap (Joel is 60, Jack is 50 and reader is in her 20s), sweet!joel, gentle!jack, fictional sex pollen, double penetration, inaccurate medical/scientific shit, needy!reader, pinv, unprotected sex, lots of fluid and cum lol, nipple play, finger sucking, medical kink, gloves kink?, pet names, clit rubbing, oral f!receiving, fingering, multiple orgasms, squirting, medical exam, sub!reader kinda
A/N: guess who watched The Pitt and fell for yet again another old man...also! I finally learned how to do this cool gradient text thingy and now i feel even more aesthetic✨ none of this below makes sense like AT ALL but just ignore it and enjoy the smut pookies <333
"Open the goddamn door, Abbott!"
Joels boots hit the wooden steps of Jack Abbott's clinic hard enough to rattle the whole damn porch. His first knock wasn't even a knock—it was a fist slamming into the wood, a desperate, violent slam that echoed through the otherwise quiet streets of Jackson.
The night air was thick with a cold that etched deep into bones, wind so strong it moved trees and houses. But Joel couldn't feel it. Not when you were burning up in his arms, your body almost a furnace pressed tight against his chest, your breaths coming in short, ragged gasps that tore at his heart one by one.
Your skin was slick with sweat despite the chill, and your eyes—those sweet eyes that usually held so much warmth, so much life—were glassy, trying to focus but failing to land on anything.
Then, a light flickered inside. The lock scraped, and the door swung open to reveal Jack Abbott, still half-dressed in a worn pullover over his undershirt, his grey hair mussed from sleep that had clearly been interrupted.
"What the hell happened?" He asked, eyes going worried.
Joel didn't answer.
He just moved, carrying you past Jack and down the narrow hallway that led to the small clinic room Jack kept in his home.
The space was clean but lived-in: a metal examination chair in the center, shelves lined with bottles and worn medical texts, a couch, a single lamp casting a warm, yellow glow over the worn wooden floor.
Jack Abbott arrived in Jackson a little over two years after Joel did.
He had been traveling with a small group before, acting as their medic, but the constant moving wore him down.
Jackson was the first place in years that felt safe enough to stop, so he stayed when Maria asked him if he wanted to, while the others moved on.
Within a few months, he turned one of the unused small houses near the edge of town into two spaces: a tiny clinic in the front and a small living area for himself in the back.
People started calling it Abbott's clinic.
Joel met him after a patrol accident left him with a deep cut.
Jack stitched him up with quiet, steady confidence, and Joel respected him immediately.
He didn't ask too many questions, no bullshit, no small talk. Over time, Joel kept ending up at Jack's door, Jack kept patching him, and a quiet, practical friendship formed between them.
So when Joel set you down on his examination chair he knew you were in good hands.
His hands stayed on you, steady, fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt.
Jack followed close behind, already pulling out a pair of latex gloves from a box on the counter.
The snap of rubber against his wrists was sharp in the quiet room. He moved to your other side, his eyes scanning you with the practiced efficiency of someone who had seen too many emergencies in too many late hours.
"Joel." He said it firmly, not a question. Then softer, more insistent. "Joel. Talk to me. What happened?"
Joel dragged a hand down his face, the stubble rough against his palm.
"We—" He stopped. Swallowed. And then started again, his voice lower. "We weren't supposed to be there."
Jack's eyebrows shot up. "Where?"
"The old storage yard. Past the perimeter."
The silence stretched for one beat, two, three and Joel could see the thoughts racing behind those dark eyes—the implications, the danger, the sheer stupidity of it.
Jack let out a slow breath, his jaw tightening. "You two were past the forbidden perimeter?"
Joel nodded once, feeling guilty, miserable.
"She saw…" He let out a frustrated huff, shaking his head. "Hell, I don't know. Rabbits or somethin'. Wanted a closer look."
His voice cracked on the last words—with frustration, with...with anger at himself, at the moment of weakness that had led him to agree, to let you wander just a little too far, just a little too deep into the overgrown brush beyond the safe zone.
You had smiled at him. God—that sweet, hopeful smile that made it impossible to say no. And now you were here, burning up and it was all his fault.
"She breathed in this cloud of…dust. Pollen. Somethin'."
Jack only stared at him, open mouth, gaze caught somewhere between disbelief and the cold calm of a man processing information.
He opened his mouth, then closed it. Then, very quietly, he said: "Joel."
"It ain't important right now," Joel snapped, the words cutting through the air like a blade. But the edge softened almost immediately as his eyes flicked back to you, and his voice dropped to something quieter, more fragile. "Just—just fix her, alright?"
Jack held his gaze for a long moment. Then he nodded, once, and turned his full attention to you.
He leaned in, his movements careful, deliberate, as he reached for a small penlight from besides him. "Alright, sweetheart. Let's take a look at you."
He leaned closer, bringing the penlight up to your eyes. But your head lolled slightly, and you squirmed on the chair, a low, restless sound escaping your throat. Jack paused, his hand hovering near your jaw.
"Easy now. I need you to hold still for just a second, okay?" He tilted his head, meeting your gaze from behind the flashlight. "C'mon. Look at me."
Your eyes—glassy, unfocused, pupils blown wide—drifted toward him.
Jack clicked on the penlight, shining it first into your left eye, then your right, watching the way your pupils reacted—or failed to react. His brow furrowed. He hummed low in his throat, a sound that made Joel's stomach clench.
He clicked off the penlight, put it back into his place, and straightened up. He met Joel's gaze, his expression thoughtful.
"Pupils are dilated and sluggish. Could be a neuroactive toxin," he said, his voice carrying the weight of professional assessment. "Some kind of alkaloid, maybe. That targets the central nervous system." He paused, then added, almost to himself, "But her skin is flushed, and her pulse is tachycardic. Heart rate's way up. Could be pyrexia, but…" He trailed off, then turned back to you, his voice gentle again. "How did this flower look? Can you tell me anything about it?"
Your lips parted. "Trans…translucent. Purple."
Jack's eyes sharpened suddenly.
He turned away, crossing to the cluttered desk in the corner where a worn leather notebook sat among scattered papers. He opened it and the silence stretched while he flipped through it.
"Damn it," Jack muttered under his breath.
Joel stiffened. "What?"
Jack didn't look up. He kept turning pages, his finger tracing lines of cramped handwriting. "I've seen mentions of this before. Not many though, just scattered reports from patrol medics out west. And a couple of passing mentions in some old pre-outbreak botany notes I found in the library archive." He stopped on a page, reading it intently. Then he let out a slow breath and turned to face Joel.
"Reports of what?" Joel pressed, his voice tight.
Jack hesitated. It was a hesitation that Joel had never seen on him before.
He set the notebook down and crossed his arms, his gaze flickering between you and Joel.
"A mutated flower. Causes fever, disorientation, elevated pulse…and some....sexual changes."
Joels head snapped up. "It ain't the time for jokes, Abbott."
But Jack didn't flinch. "I'm not joking. That's what the reports called it. I told you—it causes fever, disorientation, elevated pulse." He paused, letting the words settle. "The body's been flooded with a compound that mimics extreme sexual arousal. It's not toxic on its own, but if left untreated, the fever and heart strain can cause complications."
Joel stared at him and when he turned back to you, he saw the way your fingers curled and uncurled against the metal and the way a soft, breathy sound escaped your lips as you shifted restlessly on the chair.
"Complications," Joel repeated, his voice hollow. "What kind of complications?"
Jack moved closer, his expression softening as he looked at you. He reached out, pressing the back of his hand gently against your forehead, feeling the fever that radiated off you in waves.
"If we don't address the underlying arousal-based symptoms, the body will keep ramping up. Heart rate spikes. Temperature climbs. Eventually, the system burns out." He pulled his hand away, his voice dropping lower. "The only effective treatment recorded in those reports is…direct physical release. Sexual stimulation to completion, multiple times, until the compound is flushed from the system."
He held up a hand as Joel opened his mouth, ready to protest. "Look, I know how it sounds. But I've seen enough strange things in this world to know that nature doesn't care about what sounds reasonable."
Joel turned away, his hand dragging through his hair, frustration in his face.
"So what are you tellin' me? That I gotta—" He couldn't even finish the sentence.
"I'm telling you that she needs care, Joel. And that care is going to involve intimacy. Whether that's with you, or with me helping her through it medically, or both—that's up to you. But she can't wait much longer." Jack's voice was calm, steady, the voice of a man doing his job. The room fell silent again. The only sounds were your labored breathing and the faint ticking of a clock somewhere deeper in the house.
Joel then turned back, his eyes meeting yours. He saw the fear in them—and something else, something raw and needy that he didn't know how to name.
And suddenly—
"Please," you whined, the word thick and broken. "Please…need…need something."
Your body was a furnace, burning from the inside out. Every nerve ending felt raw, exposed, screaming for relief. The fabric of your shirt clung to your skin, damp with sweat, and it felt like a cage. Your hands moved before your mind could catch up—grabbing at the hem, tugging, pulling.
Joel's eyes widened. "Hey, hey—hold on—"
But you couldn't hold on anymore.
You were beyond reason, beyond shame. You squirmed against the chair, your movements jerky and frantic, yanking your shirt over your head and tossing it aside.
Joel caught your wrists gently, trying to slow you down, but you twisted out of his grip, your fingers fumbling with the button of your jeans, the zipper, pushing them down your hips with a desperate, whimpering sound that tore at Joel's chest.
"Honey—" Joel started, his voice cracking.
But Jack held up a hand, his expression calm but intent. "Let her. The compound is driving her body to seek release. Fighting it will only make it worse, Joel."
Joel's hands fell to his sides. He watched, helpless, as you rid yourself of the last of your clothing, tossing jeans and panties to the floor until you were bare on the examination chair, your skin flushed and slick with sweat, your chest heaving with every ragged breath.
Your legs fell open without thought, your hips rolling against the cold metal, searching for friction that wasn't there.
"Need…please…I need something…" Your voice was a broken loop, tears starting to stream down your cheeks.
Joel's throat tightened. He looked at Jack.
When Jack met his gaze, there was no judgment in those dark eyes—only the weight of a man who understood the gravity of the situation. Jack's hand paused over your body, as he turned to Joel, his expression asking a silent question.
May I?
Joel stared at him for a long, breathless moment. Then he nodded, his voice low and rough. "Do what ya gotta do. I trust you."
Jack's shoulders relaxed a fraction and he moved to the foot of the chair, positioning himself between your spread legs.
"I ain't no gynaecologist," Jack said, his voice carrying a hint of dry humour. "But I need to see if it's really the flower we're talking about. The reports mentioned specific physical changes."
Joel clenched his jaw, stepping closer and placing his hands on your shoulders, holding you steady as you squirmed beneath him. You looked up at him, your eyes glassy and wet, and you whimpered.
"Please…let him…"
Joel let out a shaky breath. He looked at Jack and gave a short, sharp nod.
Jack leaned in. His gloved fingers found your thighs, then he gently parted your labia with precision.
He murmured to himself, cataloging observations as he worked. "Labia swollen. Significant engorgement. Vulvar tissue appears hyperemic, engorged with blood flow consistent with severe vasocongestion."
You gasped as his thumb accidentally brushed against the hood of your clit, a jolt of electricity shooting through your core. Your hips bucked involuntarily, a desperate, wordless sound escaping your lips.
"Easy," Jack murmured, more to himself than to you.
He shifted his grip, using his thumb and forefinger to part the inner folds, exposing your entrance. It was gaping, red, and glistening with a clear, almost viscous fluid that had already pooled on the chair beneath you.
Joel's hands tightened on your shoulders, his knuckles almost white.
He trusted Jack—hell, he was the only man in this godforsaken place he trusted you with. But he still couldn't help the way he felt. A little too protective. Maybe even jealous.
"Her insides feel swollen," Jack said. He pressed two fingers—index and middle—against your opening, testing the resistance. The muscles fluttered and clenched, straining against the intrusion before it even begun. "Loss of tone in the pelvic floor muscles. Usually, there's some natural tension, but here…it's like her body is actively pulling things in."
And then he pressed inside.
The latex-covered fingertips breached you with a wet, slick sound that echoed in the small room.
You cried out—not in pain, but in need that tore through every nerve ending. Your back arched off the chair, your head thrown back, Joel's name falling from your lips in a desperate, ragged moan.
"Oh, fuck—!"
Jack didn't move. He held his fingers still, buried to the second knuckle, his eyes fixed on your face, watching your reaction with clinical detachment even as his body betrayed a slight tension.
"She's extremely sensitive. The internal tissues are swollen and hot—probably a few degrees above normal body temperature. The flower is causing nerve hypersensitivity."
Your hips bucked again, grinding against Jack's hand, seeking more. Every bit of shame leaving your body.
But the pressure of his fingers inside you was maddening—not enough, never enough. You whimpered, a high, thin sound that turned into a gasping sob as Jack slowly began to withdraw his fingers, dragging them along your inner walls.
And then, suddenly, an orgasm hit you without warning.
It crashed through you like a wave, sudden and violent, pulling a strangled scream from your throat. Your entire body clenched, your inner muscles spasmed around Jack's retreating fingers, and a gush of fluid flooded out of you, soaking his gloved hand and dripping onto the chair in thick, sticky ropes.
Jack pulled his hand back, his fingers coated in the warm, translucent fluid. He held them up, examining the consistency with narrowed eyes.
Joel could only stare, his mouth hanging open.
His gaze flicked from your flushed, trembling body to Jack's dripping fingers, and then back to your face, where tears and sweat had mingled in a mask of desperate relief and craving.
"Did she just…?" Joel's voice was hoarse, cautious.
Jack nodded slowly, wiping his fingers on a clean cloth. "Ejaculate. Yeah. That's…that's exactly what that was. The flower causes her body to reach climax extremely quickly—and just as quickly, the need returns. It's like the release doesn't satisfy anything; it only opens the door for more."
You were already squirming again, your hips rolling against the empty air, your breath coming in sharp, frantic pants. "Please…more…need more…"
Jack set the cloth aside and picked up the blood pressure cuff, wrapping it around your upper arm.
He pumped it up, watching the gauge as the numbers climbed.
"This is an unusual procedure," he said, his voice flat. "Her body will need release. Repeatedly. And even then, the effects might last for hours—until the compound works its way out of her system."
Joel ran a hand through his hair, pulling at the grey strands in frustration. "Jesus Christ. Is there any medicine? Anything you can give her to stop this? To slow it down?"
Jack shook his head, the blood pressure cuff hissing as he released the pressure. "No. This is all about managing symptoms. The fever, the blood pressure, the dehydration. The only thing that treats the root cause is—" He paused, glancing at Joel. "—well, you know..."
He pulled off his gloves with a snap, tossing them into a bin. Then he grabbed a fresh pair, pulling them on with practiced efficiency.
"I could now let you two go," Jack said, turning to face Joel fully. "Let you handle this on your own. Just fuck like goddamn rabbits for the next few hours. But her blood pressure is 160 over 110. That's stroke territory if we're not careful. And her fever is also still climbing."
You whimpered on the chair, your hand reaching out blindly. "Please…Joel…I need…"
Joel caught your hand, pressing it to his chest. "S'okey, honey. I'm right here. Don't be scared." He leaned down, pressing another kiss to your damp forehead, his voice softening to a trembling murmur. "I got you. I ain't goin' nowhere."
He turned to Jack, his eyes hard and resolute. "I'll do it. You keep her fever and blood pressure in line. I trust you."
Jack nodded.
He pulled the chair behind your head, positioning himself so he could put cool towels on your forehead and monitor the equipment.
"I'll keep the cold packs on her neck and forehead, monitor her vitals. You handle the rest."
Joel let out a long, shaky breath. He shrugged off his jacket, tossing it onto the nearby counter. He moved between your legs, his boots scraping against the worn linoleum.
"Jesus Christ," he muttered, looking down at the mess you've had made.
Your pussy was a complete wreck; swollen, red, glistening with a mix of your own fluids and the lingering evidence of your climax. Your clit stood out, big and glossy, twice its usual size. Your hole gaped, soft and open, the muscles twitching with unfulfilled need.
Joel had never seen you like that. Not even when he fucked you countless times the night before.
Jack's voice came from behind your head, quiet and steady. "I know. That's the flower."
Joel looked at your face—your tear-streaked cheeks, your parted lips, your eyes glassy and fixed on him with desperate, animal hunger. He placed his rough, calloused hands on your inner thighs, spreading you wider.
"You'll be fine, babygirl," he whispered, more to himself than to you. "I'll take care of you."
Joel's jaw tightened, his gaze flicked anywhere but towards Jack as he unzipped himself and wrapped a calloused hand around his own cock.
He stroked himself slowly at first, trying to will himself hard despite the awkward weight of another man's eyes in the room. Embarrassment flushed his neck, but the sight of you—needy, swollen, and waiting—pushed him forwards.
He needed to do this for you, his sweet girl, no matter how strange it felt with his old friend watching.
Joel lined himself up, the thick head of his cock nudging against your entrance before he pushed inside in one steady thrust.
A high-pitched moan tore from your throat, your hips bucking up to meet him as your walls fluttered and sucked him deeper.
"Continue," Jack said quietly, nodding once, his voice calm and measured.
Joel grunted, hips snapping forward.
The wet, splashing sounds of your soaked pussy filled the small clinic room with every thrust, obscene and loud.
He punched into you harder, the head of his cock dragging against that sweet, sensitive spot inside while your cunt milked him greedily, rhythmic pulses drawing him in.
"You need to talk to her the way you guys always do it, Joel," Jack instructed, still monitoring your pulse. "Keep her grounded."
Joel's eyebrows furrowed, but he nodded, voice rough. "D-does that feel good, honey?" He drove deeper, breath hitching. "Prettiest cunt all fuckin' swollen. Look at you, takin' me so good."
You whined, the praise sending fresh heat through you.
Jack suppressed a smirk, trying to focus instead on the steady thrum beneath his fingers. "Pulse is elevated but stable," he murmured. "Pupils are still dilated."
And without warning, another orgasm crashed over you.
This time, your thighs fell further apart as a raw cry teared from your throat, back arching off of the examination chair. Your cunt clamped down, once, twice, then opened. A hot, gushing stream bursted hard, pushing Joel's cock out and making a splashing sound in the quiet room.
"Joel—"
Joel's breath hitched as your cries echoed off of the walls, his eyes widening when the hot flood gushed against his groin.
"Fuck," he muttered, almost to himself. His eyes landed on Jack's calm ones, and a wave of embarrassment hit him. He was standing there like this was nothing, like the whole scene wasn't awkward as hell, and Joel just couldn't decide if that made it better or worse.
Jack nodded, his eyes landing on your clenching tummy. "Normal reaction."
Joel cursed again, gripping his slick cock and thrusting back inside your still-quivering pussy.
"Wanted to see those bunnies, huh?" he rasped, tsking with his tongue as he set a punishing rhythm. "Now look at what happened to you."
Each thrust made your squelching cunt echo wetly around him.
Jack's gaze sharpened as he noticed drool slipping from the corner of your mouth. "Hm. Another autonomic response; excessive salivation," he noted, and glanced at Joel mid-thrust. "Mind if I help keep her calm?"
Joel nodded without breaking his rhythm. He didn't care anymore. He just wanted you to feel better.
"Easy now. Breathe for me." Jack slid two latex-gloved fingers past your lips. "I'm just gonna help you."
And you immediately sucked them in, tongue swirling, a broken whimper escaping around them. "Please, doctor…"
Jack's breath got caught in his throat, his own cock twitching to life, growing visibly against his pants even though he was trying to he professional.
"S'okay, sweetheart." he soothed, fingers gentle but firm in your mouth.
You sucked on them with desperate, whining pulls, saliva coating the gloves.
Joel shook his head, voice strained. "God damn flowers."
"I know," Jack replied, eyes flicking down to where Joel's cock disappeared into your soaked cunt. "Reports were way worse. It's like heat for humans—constant need until the cycle breaks."
Joel kept thrusting, the filthy wet sounds growing louder, his thumb finding your sensitive clit, giving only gentle, light rubs. You moaned around Jack's fingers, whimpered, your body arching from the stool as another orgasm ripped through you.
He buried himself deep, grunting as he came too, hot pulses of cum flooding your cunt while your walls clenched around him.
Jack's free hand stroked your hair. "You're doing so well," he whispered. "That's it. Let it all out."
Joel slowly pulled out, watching thick ropes of his release trickle down from your swollen pussy. He tucked himself back in, thinking that would be enough.
But the needy ache in your core hadn't faded. Your hips still rocked, eyes glassy, silently begging for more. Your cunt started clenching again, desperate to be stuffed.
Jack pulled his fingers out of your mouth, taking his gloves off.
"She's…she's still not done," he said, his voice softer now, laced with an uncertainty that wasn't there before.
He swallowed. "The flower's effects are cumulative. She's had three orgasms so far, but the pollen load was significant."
Jack's fingers trailed down your cheek, your jaw, until they rested on your collarbone. "Your heart rate's still high." He glanced at Joel. "Can you hold her steady? I need to examine her cervix again."
Joel nodded, his hand moving to cradle your head. He leaned over you, his face inches from yours, his breath was warm against your cheek, pressing a kiss on your nose. "You hear that, baby? Doctor Abbott's gonna take a look. Just breathe, okay?"
Jack pulled on a fresh pair of gloves, the snap of latex loud in the quiet.
He positioned himself between your legs again, his fingers gentle as he parted your slick folds.
Your cunt was still a swollen, pink mess—puffy and raw, dripping with Joel's cum and your own release.
Jack's brows furrowed deeper, his tongue wetting his lips. "No tearing. But she's inflamed. The tissue is still pretty engorged." He pressed two fingers just inside your entrance, and you gasped, your hips bucking. "Still sensitive. Very sensitive."
Joel watched, his eyes dark, the grip on your hand tightening. "What do we need to do?"
Jack withdrew his fingers slowly. "I think…I think she needs stimulation again. But maybe a different angle. She's been stimulated vaginally. The flower's compounds are absorbed through the mucous membranes, so oral stimulation might also help" He looked at Joel, and for the first time, a faint blush colored his cheeks. "I could…only if that's okay with you, I could use my mouth. On her. It's the gentlest way. Fingers or a toy might be too rough with the swelling."
Joel's eyebrows rised. He didn't say anything for a long moment, just stared at Jack with a mixture of surprise and unsureness. But he trusted him. "You're the doctor."
Jack's answer was a shaky breath.
He knelt down, his prosthetic clicking softly as he positioned himself between your spread thighs. He looked up at Joel, eyes wide, his voice was barely above a whisper. "I won't do something that you don't want."
"You won't," Joel said, and there's a quiet certainty in his voice. "You're good at what you do. And you care. That's all that matters."
Jack leaned in, his lips brushing the inside of your thigh first, a soft, hesitant kiss. He started murmuring to you, his words muffled against your skin. "It's okay, sweetheart. Just relax. Let me help you."
He trailed his mouth up, leaving a wet path, until he reached your pussy.
He hesitated at first, his breath hot against your swollen folds, and then his tongue darted out, flicking tentatively over your clit.
You cried out, a sharp, high sound, your hips jerking.
Joel shushed you, his hand stroking your hair. "Easy, easy, honey. Let him work."
Jack's tongue moved in slow, careful circles, his eyes closed, his whole being focused on the task. He was so gentle—so so gentle it almost hurt. He let his tongue flatten, just barely, dragging the softest, wettest line from the bottom of your slit all the way up to the hood of your swollen clit.
When he reached the nub, he didn't flick or circle.
Instead, he parted his lips just enough to take the tiny bud between them, not sucking, not even really holding—just resting it there, letting his breath ghost over it. He knew you were sensitive so he gave it a single, featherlight pulse of his tongue, like a heartbeat, before releasing it just as gently.
He pulled back for a moment, looking at Joel. "She's still very wet. The pollen keeps secreting fluids. That's good—it means her body is actively metabolizing."
He pressed another kiss onto your inner thigh, his hand coming up to cup your mound, his thumb rubbing soft circles. "You're doing so well. Just a little more, okay? I'll make it good."
Joel watched, his breath coming heavier. He was hard again, his cock pressing against his jeans.
He didn't touch himself, though. He just held you, his eyes locked on Jack's mouth as it worked over you, his own throat tight with something that feels like gratitude and jealousy all tangled together.
"I got her, Joel," Jack said between gentle strokes of his tongue, his voice strained. "She's responding. Clenching. She's—" He broke off as you moaned, your body beginning to tremble again. "She's close. Another one."
Joel leaned down, his lips brushing your ear. "Let go, baby. Let Jack take care of you. You can do it."
Your orgasm build, slow and deep, and when it finally broke; it's was a rolling, shuddering wave that pulled a desperate sob from your chest.
He didn't stop, his tongue gentling through the aftershocks, drawing out every last tremor until you're limp, your body sagging into the chair.
"Good, yeah, that's real good," Jack pulled back, wiping his chin with his hand while looking at the fluids you released. "She did well."
You breathed out, already feeling your cunt spasm again, in need of another release.
Jack checked your fever and your blood pressure again, letting out a soft breath, turning to face Joel. His voice was low and gentle, unhurried. "It's still not stabilizing the way I'd like. Her heart rate's come down which is good. But her blood pressure's still sitting high, and her temperature's not dropping."
Joel's grip on your hand tightened. "God dammit. What else can we do?" He asked. "You said oral would help."
Jack nodded slowly. "It did help. It brought her some relief. But the pollen is trapped in her pelvic tissue now. To fully clear it, she needs a stronger parasympathetic response. I think at this point, oral alone won't reach that deep."
He paused, thinking.
"There's another option," he said, looking at Joel first, then down at you. "It's a bit more...involved. But I think it would work. I've read it in the reports."
Joel's brows furrowed. "Just tell me."
"Dual stimulation. It could trigger a more complete autonomic response. Simultaneous penetration of the vaginal and anal canals would increase overall parasympathetic activation, potentially clearing the pollen from deeper tissue through intensified contractions and fluid release."
He held up a hand, reassuring. "I know it sounds like a lot. But i've read enough of them in the reports."
Joel looked at you, then back at Jack. His voice was rough but not angry. "You mean, hell—both of us? At the same time?"
"If you're comfortable with that," Jack said, his tone still gentle, almost apologetic. "I wouldn't suggest it if I thought there was another way. But she's still suffering, Joel. I can see it in her eyes. And I don't want her fever to spike again."
Joel stared at the floor for a long moment, then looked at you. Your skin was still flushed, your eyes glassy with need, begging him to do something. You squeezed his hand weakly, a small sound escaping your throat.
He let out a breath. "Fine. If it'll help her. But I swear to god above, Abbott, if she stays like this. Then—"
"Joel… I hear you," Jack murmured, hands half‑raised in a calming gesture. "I'm not…I'm not thrilled about this either. But I won't let anything happen to her. I promise you that."
He then knelt between your legs again, his hands resting lightly on your thighs. "I need to check if she's ready," he said. "The pollen causes natural relaxation, but I want to be sure there's no discomfort."
He pressed a thumb gently against your perineum, then traced it along the rim of your anus.
The touch was featherlight, exploratory but uour body responded without a thought: a shiver, a soft gasp.
Jack looked up at Joel, his expression calm.
"She's already relaxed. No prep needed." He nodded.
Jack shifted his gaze to you. His hand remained where it was, a grounding pressure against your most intimate space. He spoke slowly, his voice a soothing murmur.
"Sweetheart, I'm going to tell you exactly what we're thinking, and you can take your time. There's no rush."
He paused, waiting for your eyes to meet his.
"Joel will be with you the way he always is—inside you, slow and gentle. And I'll be behind you, entering you here," he said, his thumb pressing just slightly inward, "in your bottom. We'll move together, very slowly, matching each other's pace. It'll feel full—intense—but it won't hurt if you're relaxed, and you are. The pollen will release, your fever will come down, and your heart will settle."
He watched your face, his eyes patient and warm.
Joel leaned down, brushing his lips against your nose. "It's your call, babygirl. I'm right here."
Your breathing hitched. The heat inside you coiled tighter, desperate. You looked up at Joel, then at Jack—his dark eyes patient, his hand steady on your body.
You nodded, needy.
"Yes," you whispered. "Please. I need something."
Jack's lips curved into a faint, reassuring smile. "That's good. That's real good." He withdrew his hand slowly and looked at Joel.
Joel's jaw tightened. He lifted your hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to your knuckles, slow and deliberate. Then he looked over his shoulder at Jack, and to the couch in the room. "This couch work for you? She'll be more comfortable there—pillows, somethin' to brace against."
Jack nodded, already moving. "I'll get it set up."
-
Jack cleared the sofa with efficient movements: tossing aside a pillow, spreading a clean blanket over the cushions, positioning two more pillows against the armrest.
His hands moved with practiced precision, but there was a slight tremor in his fingers as he smoothed the fabric.
He was trying to stay professional. It was cute, in a way; this man who had stitched up Joel's wounds and patched up Jackson's sick, now preparing a makeshift bed for something more intimate.
And you wouldn't lie if it didn't excite you.
While Jack worked, Joel stayed with you. He cupped your face in both hands, his thumbs tracing the line of your cheekbones.
"Hey," he murmured, tilting your chin up so you had to meet his eyes. "Look at me."
You did. His eyes so soft. Tender. The same eyes that had watched over you during patrol, that had softened when you begged him to take you to the forbidden parameter just to see those stupid, wild rabbits and play with them.
"It's gonna be alright," he said. "You trust me?"
"Always," you breathed.
"Trust Jack?"
You glanced towards the sofa, where Jack was adjusting the last pillow. He caught your gaze and offered a small, reassuring smile—the same smile he gave before setting a broken bone, before delivering difficult news.
Professional. Always kind and gentle.
"Yes," you said. "I trust him."
Joel leaned in and kissed you then. Slow, thorought, a kiss that promised you stability. His lips moved against yours with a gentle pressure, his tongue brushing the seam of your mouth, tasting you. One hand slid into your hair, cradling the back of your head, while the other found the small of your back, pulling you just slightly closer.
When he broke the kiss, you were breathless. He rested his forehead against yours.
"Good girl," he whispered. "You're doing so good. Now let's get you comfortable."
Without warning, Joel slid one arm under your knees and the other behind your back, lifting you off of the exam chair as if you weighed nothing.
You gasped, your arms instinctively winding around his neck.
Jack had positioned himself on the far end of the sofa, sitting sideways, his legs spread, a condom wrapper discarded on the side table.
He was already hard—you could see the outline of his cock straining against his jeans, and when he shifted, the fabric pulled tight.
"Come here," Jack said, his voice a low murmur. He patted the cushion besides him. "There we go."
Joel lowered you gently onto the sofa, your knees sinking into the plush cushion. You were facing him, your hands braced on his broad shoulders, while he sat down too.
And behind you, you could feel the heat of Jack's body.
"Alright," Joel said, his hands sliding from your shoulders down your arms, leaving a trail of goosebumps. "He's gonna take care of you from behind. And I'll be right here." He tapped your chin, making you look at him. "Right in front of you. You need to stop, you tap my arm twice. You need a breath, you say my name. You hear?"
"Yes," you whispered.
"Good girl."
He touched you gently, his hands guiding your hips, your knees, until your back was closer to Jack and you were still facing Joel. He then positioned you on your knees, the cushion soft beneath you, your thighs spread just enough to accommodate what was coming.
Jack's breath caught.
His eyes roamed over you; the curve of your ass, your pretty waist, and your back.
"You're in control," Jack said, and his voice was strained but still carrying that professional cadence, the doctor's calm. "I'm gonna put on a condom, then you can take it at your own pace."
You heard the crinkle of a condom wrapper. Then the slick sound of him rolling it on. You looked over your shoulder, watching him position himself—knees spread, cock standing up from his body, the condom sheathing him in a thin layer of latex.
His cock was thick, smaller than Joels, standing full and erect from a nest of dark and grey curls. His head was already a dark plum shade, slick with pre-cum bubbling on top, indicating that he was already hard all the while he examined you earlier.
"Whenever you're ready, sweetheart." Jack said, and there was a raw edge to his voice now, the professional slip giving way to something hungrier. "Lower yourself onto me."
You reached behind you, fingers brushing his thigh. He flinched—a tiny jolt, involuntary. You saw his cock twitch, the head bobbing slightly.
"Please," you whispered.
Jack's jaw tightened. His nostrils flared. He forced himself to nod, keeping his hands on his own knees. "It's okey. I'm right here."
You braced one hand on the back of the sofa, the other reaching down to guide him. Your fingers found the head of his cock, slick with latex.
You positioned it against your entrance—the tight ring of muscle that had just been stretched—and pushed back.
"There she goes." Joel murmured.
The pressure was intense.
A fullness that bordered on overwhelming.
You felt every ridge, every inch as you sank onto him, your body yielding slowly, grudgingly. Jack's breath hissed through his teeth, a sharp, bitten-off sound. His knuckles were white where he gripped his own thighs, the tendons in his forearms standing out with the effort of staying still.
Joel breathed out, holding onto your waist as he guided you gently down.
"Good," Jack managed, his voice strangled. "That's…that's perfect. You're doing so well."
He was fully sheathed inside you then—your ass stretched around his cock, the sensation so deep it seemed to reach into your belly. You felt full, split open, but not in pain. Just…finally filled the way you needed it.
In front of you, Joel watched your face with an intensity that made your stomach flip. His hand left your waist and stroked your thigh, a slow, grounding rhythm, his thumb tracing the crease where your leg met your hip. "You're my good girl." He whispered.
His own cock was hard, straining against his jeans, but he made no move to touch himself.
All his focus was on you.
"You got her?" Joel asked Jack, his voice low and gravelly.
"Yeah," Jack said, and his hands finally moved, settling on your hips. Not to guide you, not to push—just to steady. His palms were warm through the thin gown. "She's fully seated. Go ahead, Joel."
Joel's eyes never left yours. His cock thick and flushed, already slick with precum and your release from earlier.
He shifted closer, his knees bracketing yours on the cushion, his cock pressing against your wet, waiting entrance. He didn't push in immediately. Instead, he leaned forward, pressing a kiss to your forehead, then your temple, then your lips—soft, lingering.
"I've got you," he murmured against your mouth. "Breathe for me. Deep and slow. I can feel you clenching already—you're so ready, baby."
"Yes," you breathed.
He pushed in.
The sensation was indescribable—Joel's cock filling your cunt from the front, Jack's cock stretching your ass from behind.
They were separated by only a thin wall of flesh, and you could feel every movement of each man through the other. Joel's thickness pressed against Jack's length, a constant, intimate pressure that made you gasp.
Joel groaned low in his chest, his forehead dropping to yours. "Fuck," he breathed. "There we go, honey. There we go. You feel so perfect around me."
Behind you, Jack's grip tightened on your hips. "Jesus christ."
"I know," Joel said. "I know."
Joel stopped there, buried full, and let out a low breath against your neck. Then he looked down.
Your cunt was stretched wide around his shaft, the lips pulled apart, pink and slick with your own wetness. Below that, Jack's cock stuffed deep in your ass, making the whole patch of skin between your legs look swollen, used, full.
He watched the way his own cock disappeared into you, how the flesh clung to him like it didn't want to let go.
He then pressed a palm flat against your belly, rubbed slow circles just above where he's buried to calm you down.
They stayed still for a long moment—both of them buried inside you, your body stretched and full and trembling. Joel's breath was warm against your cheek. Jack's chest pressed against your back, his heart hammering against your shoulder blades.
"We're gonna move when you're ready. Slow and deep. Get your body to get used to it." Jack said behind you, gripping your waist.
Joel huffed as a nod, giving your cheek a kiss before his hand touched your mound, spreading you to watch himself.
Then they began to move. Small, shallow thrusts.
At first, it's barely more than a pulse—a subtle shift of both cocks deep inside you, rocking in place. Your pussy flutters around the first, a gentle squeeze that welcomes the tiny motion. Your ass clenches around the second, holding him tight as he budges fractionally in and out.
You gasped, burying your head into his neck.
"Shh, it's okey." he murmured, his voice rough with emotion. "You can take it, babygirl."
His lips found your cheek, soft and lingering. He pulled you back just enough to meet your eyes—half-lidded, glassy, still lost in the haze of pleasure. His thumb traced over your cheekbone, wiping a smear of drool from the corner of your mouth.
"So damn beautiful, aren't you?"
Behind you, Jack's breathing was heavy, controlled. He was pumping inside you, careful not to be fast, his hands resting on your hips with a gentleness that belied the tension in his shoulders.
Over your shoulder, his gaze met Joel's.
A silent conversation passed between them. A nod.
A confirmation. We're good. She's good. Keep going.
"She is doing good," Jack murmured.
Joel nodded, his hand sliding down your side, fingers tracing the dip of your waist, the swell of your hip. "Best girl," he said, low and warm. "Yeah, baby?"
A sound tore out of you then.
Loud, ragged, utterly needy. It rose from somewhere deep in your chest—a whine that had no shape, no words, just pure, aching want.
Jack smiled. "Is she drooling again?"
Joel pulled back just enough to look at your face. Your lips were parted, slack, a glistening string of saliva stretching from your lower lip to your chin.
Your eyes were all hazy, unfocused, your breath coming in shuddering gasps.
"Mmhmm," Joel hummed. "Look at you, baby. All drooling to your chin. Messy thing."
Jack couldn't help but chuckle, his cock twitching inside you. His hand came up from behind then. His finger in latex, pressed against your lips without hesitation. The touch was light though, asking permission, even now.
Your mouth opened, and you took him in.
You closed your mouth around him and sucked, hard, hollowing your cheeks, pulling him deeper. A deep, shuddering satisfaction rolled through your chest.
Your eyes fluttered closed. This was what you needed. Something to suck on. Something to anchor you.
Jack's hissed out. "There you go. That helps, huh?"
Joel's hand slid down your belly, past the slick, glistening mess of your thighs, until his thumb found your clit. It was swollen, angry red, twice its normal size and pushing out from its hood like a small, desperate pearl. The barest brush of his calloused thumb made your whole body jolt, a shockwave of sensation that ripped through you.
"Easy, Joel." Jack murmurs, his voice a low. "Her clitoris is sensitive right now. If you apply too much direct pressure, she might get overwhelmed. Try lighter, circular motions, just around the hood. Let her build."
Joel nodded, his eyes analysing your face as he touched the little nub gently. Slow, deliberate circles, barely any pressure.
Your back bowed, arching into Jack's chest, your mouth clamping down on his finger, sucking for dear life.
The orgasm that ripped through you was sudden, violent but perfect. It started in your clit, that single point of pressure and radiated outwards in hot, electric waves. Your cunt clenched around Joel's cock, your ass tightening around Jack's.
A broken cry escaped around the latex in your mouth.
"That's it," Jack groaned, pushing his finger deeper into your mouth, feeling your throat convulse around the tip. "Just like that, sweetheart. You got it."
Joel's smile was soft, his eyes wet with something profound. He kept his thumb moving in slow, steady circles, drawing out every last tremor of your climax.
"You're doing so good for us, baby. Flushin' all that pollen out, huh?"
You nodded as best you could, gasping, drool pooling around Jack's knuckles.
They held still then, pausing their thrusts and letting your body catch up, letting the aftershocks of your releasre ripple through you.
Jack's free hand moved to your wrist.
His thumb pressed into the delicate skin, feeling the rapid thrum of your pulse. He counted silently. Then he moved his hand to the side of your neck, feeling the beat there, strong and wild. He pressed his palm to your forehead, then your cheek.
"Fever's going down," he said, the doctor's cadence threading back through the ragged lust in his voice. "Pulse is still a touch elevated. One more good one should flush the last of it out of her system completely."
He pulled his wet finger from your mouth with a
slick pop. A string of saliva connected his glove to your lower lip, stretching thin, then breaking.
Your mouth stayed open, seeking, needy so Joel planted open mouthed kisses on the corner of your lips.
"S'so much, Joel," you whined, the words slurred and breathless. Your voice cracked. "S'too much. Can't—can't take—"
"I know, babygirl." Joel leaned in and pressed a long, lingering kiss to your forehead. His lips stayed there, warm and steady. "I know. But you can. You're almost there. One more. Just one more for us."
"Gonna be a good girl for me?" He asked. "For Doctor Abbott, too?"
Joel glanced over at Jack, catching the faint flush rising in his cheeks. Jack swallowed dropping his gaze, and that tiny, embarrassed gesture pulled a low chuckle out of Joel.
You whined, nodding your head quickly. Your head lulled back, dropping to Jack's neck and looking up at him.
"Are you?" he murmured, looking at you, the words slipping out before he could stop them—quiet, direct, and meant only for you.
Joel’s brows lifted, a slow grin tugging at his mouth.
Your eyes went wide at his question. You nodded before you even realized you were doing it, breath catching as you stayed pressed against him.
Then, before you could turn around, Joel started thrusting upwards again. Slow, deep, deliberate.
Each stroke was a long drag against your walls, a languid exploration of the slick, hot grip of your cunt.
Jack started matching him, finding the counterpoint rhythm—sliding deeper as Joel pulled back, filling the space Joel left. His eyes were still on you, steady, nodding against the thrusts and counting them.
The fullness was overwhelming, the stretch a perfect pressure that occupied every empty inch inside you.
A whine broke from your mouth. Your head stayed on Jacks shoulder, while your eyes landed on Joels face again.
He grunted, speeding his hips, calloused hands on your thighs moving you to the rhythm he built.
"Someone's close," Jack said, his voice low.
"She is," Joel agreed breathless, hair falling damp to his forehead. "My sweet girl."
You moaned—sweet, broken, the sound rising from your chest like a prayer. Your head fell still Jack's shoulder, your eyes fluttering closed. Sweat glistened on your skin, beaded on your collarbone, trickled between your breasts.
Jack's hands slid up your damp stomach then.
They were slow, exploratory, tracing the lines of your ribs, the soft swell of your belly.
His palms cupped your breasts, lifting them slightly, feeling their weight. His thumbs found your nipples—hard pebbles against the cool latex of his gloves. He rolled them gently, watching your face for reaction.
"These are also very sensitive," he observed. The clinical observation was a thin veneer over the raw truth—he just wanted his hands on you. And he started to become bold enough to do so.
His thumbs circled and circled, pressed and pressed while pinched ever so lightly.
You whimpered, your hips bucking upward, grinding against Joel's thrusts.
"They are," Jack repeated, more to himself. "Good. That's good."
Joel watched your face, his pace quickening. A fine sheen of sweat covered his forehead, and a vein stood out on his neck.
"Look at me, darlin'. C'mon. Let me see those eyes."
You forced your lids open. Joel's gaze was locked on yours—dark, tender, burning.
"There you go," He growled. "Look at my babygirl...enjoying herself on two cocks, yea?"
Your cheeks flushed red at his words, closing your eyes again.
The slick, wet sounds of your bodies filled the room. Jack's fingers stayed on your nipples, rolling, tugging, pinching in rhythm with the thrusts.
"Hey, look at me." Jack said behind you, firm.
You did, looking into his eyes lazily.
"You're close. I need you to focus on us, is that clear?" He asked, eyes searching for any discomfort in your face.
Your eyes went wide at the sudden firmness in his voice. You nodded quickly, breath catching as you tried to steady your focus on him like he asked.
Joel let out a low, hum. “Yeah,” he said, a slow grin pulling at his mouth. “Listen to him.”
The pressure was building again—impossible, overwhelming. You were close, just like Jack said. Your thighs trembled. Your belly tightened. A hot coil wound in your core, drawing tighter with every stroke.
"C'mon," Joel urged, his voice dropping to a growl. "Give it to me, sweetheart. Let go. I'll catch you."
Jack's hips slapped against your ass, faster now, deeper. "Cum for us, sweetheart." he whispered against your ear. "Release it all. One more time."
And you did.
A hot gush came out of you—not a trickle, not a spasm, but a flood. It poured from your cunt, soaking Joel's cock, your thighs, his lap, the blanket beneath you.
A broken cry tore from your throat, raw and desperate, as you squirted hard, the release feeling like the fever finally leaving your body.
Your vision went white.
"Fuck," Jack groaned. He pulled out in one slick motion, the condom still snug on his cock. He ripped it off, stroking himself twice, three times, and spilled into the latex with a raw, shuddering groan that seemed to come from deep in his chest. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."
Joel's arms were around you instantly.
He dragged you flush against his sweaty chest, your weight settling on top of him as he fell back against the couch cushions.
He was still inside you, buried deep, and he didn't stop. He thrusted up into you—four powerful, driving strokes, each one hitting that perfect, swollen spot.
"One more, sweetheart. C'mon. One more for me." He whispered into your ear.
You squirted again—a weaker gush, a final release that flooded his belly and pooled beneath you. You cried out, burying your face into his neck.
Joel let out a guttural grunt, his hips stuttering as he came, hot and thick, pumping into you with a desperate, possessive rhythm. His fingers dug into your hips, holding you in place.
Your body went limp, boneless, slack against Joel's chest. Your face burrowed into the hollow of his throat, into the damp, salty warmth of his skin.
His heartbeat thudded against your cheek, strong and steady.
The world finally went soft, and your body relaxed.
Jack on the other hand, moved with quiet efficiency besides you. His hands were gentle as he pressed two fingers to the hollow of your throat, counting the steady thrum of your pulse.
He lifted one of your eyelids gently, checking your pupil response. A small flashlight flickered in his hand—when had he grabbed it? You had no idea. He pressed his palm to your forehead, your cheek, the side of your neck.
"She's asleep," he confirmed, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Completely out. Pulse is seventy-two. Pupils reactive. Skin temperature normal. Pollen's probably fully out. She's going to be just fine."
Joel's arm tightened around you, a possessive, protective reflex.
He pressed a long kiss to the crown of your head, breathing you in. His hand came up to stroke your hair, smoothing the damp strands away from your face.
"God damn," he said to the ceiling, his voice a worn-out rasp. "That was wild."
He turned his head. Jack was on his feet, pulling his jeans up his hips, fastening his belt. Reaching for his flannel shirt. His movements were precise, unhurried, but there was a tremor in his hands that betrayed the cost of control.
"Thank you," Joel said. "No more bunnies for this Honeygirl."
Jack paused mid-motion, chuckling, his hand on the collar of his shirt. He looked at Joel, then at your sleeping form, tucked into the curve of Joel's throat. Your lips were parted, your breath even and deep.
He gave a single nod.
All that needed to be said, understood perfectly between them.
He finished buttoning his shirt and padded quietly into the kitchen. The faucet ran. A glass clinked. He was already preparing water for when you woke up, already thinking ahead.
Joel held you closer, his hand stroking your back in slow, soothing circles.
He pressed another kiss to your hair, then let his eyes close, just for a moment, listening to the steady rhythm of your breathing, the proof that you were safe.
The way i googled the weirdest things guys...i've literally learned so much about the body LMFAO. if anybody sees my history they would think i've gone crazy. Also this is definitely not an excuse to write medical kink no no🫣
I hope this met some expectations, i'm still very very new to writing Jack abbott so please bear with me!!!
synopsis: you had a crush on joel. it was obvious now. which was why when your fathers work began pushing you closer together, you were grateful for the opportunity to be closer to him. even if that meant going on a little road trip with him.
word count: 6.9k
warnings: age gap, daddy issues, familial issues, kissing, lots of touching, fluff
pae speaks ~ sorry for how late this is coming out i’ve been so busy lately but i’m back! i enjoyed writing this so much and thank you so much for the support on it <3 it means a lot to me xo (and i lied, there will be one more part after this lol)
The days passed and you couldn’t stop yourself from looking for Joel everywhere you went. You hoped to see him at the grocery store, the Tipsy Bison, and especially when you were working on the farm. You wanted an excuse to talk to him though you figured you had plenty.
He felt like the stable ground you kept searching for. Like maybe the dead end road you thought you were on actually was leading you to this.
To Joel.
One morning, you woke up to the sound of a truck door slamming shut. You blinked awake, your mouth dry and eyes half shut. You glanced around your room before grabbing the water bottle by your bed and taking a sip.
After a while arguing with yourself about getting out of bed, you finally managed to throw the covers off and start your day.
The floorboards creaked under your feet as you went into the bathroom. You smelled of vanilla and cigarettes. You leisurely brushed your teeth, taking your time since no one was waiting on you.
You finished up in the bathroom before going back to your room. The sun was shining brightly, creating a shadow of patterned lace against the floor. Everything about the air and the sun made it a lazy Saturday morning.
Until you heard voices coming from outside your window.
You padded over, socks scuffing against the ground. Who in the world could be here so early?
Your fingers wrapped around the lacy curtains, pulling them back and peering out at the property.
Your heart gave a sharp thud.
Your hands felt sweaty.
There, talking to your father by the barn, was Joel Miller. The man you’d been waiting to see for what felt like forever when in reality it’d only been a few days. But he was here and you were going to act on the feelings that had been accumulating.
You changed into a simple white sundress, slipping on a pair of brown boots and braiding your hair into two braids on either side of your head. Right as you were about to leave your room, the makeup on your vanity caught your eye.
You didn’t go anywhere without at least a little on your face. So you quickly brushed on some mascara and swiped some lipgloss on your lips before rushing downstairs.
The television in the living room was playing morning news, your mother sat in her chair with a blanket and a cigarette. Clearly she didn’t remember the conversation you tried having with her yesterday and you were both disappointed and relieved.
She glanced over at you as you went into the kitchen, grabbing a small bite to eat. “You’re up early.”
She was right, of course. Truth was, you would have gone back to sleep if you hadn’t seen Joel outside.
You gave a one shoulder shrug. “Felt like being productive.”
She hummed, taking a drag. The smoke flowed from her mouth as she spoke, “Miller’s over.”
“Is he now?”
“Yeah,” she confirmed what you certainly already knew. “He’s helping your daddy out with some work. Won’t you be a good girl and bring them lemonade or something?”
You tried to smother the smile that crept onto your face. She just gave you the most perfect excuse to go talk to him. “Yes, ma’am.”
As you worked on pouring two glasses of cold lemonade, you looked out the window above the counter through your lashes. Joel was standing by the tractor, nodding along to whatever Rhett was rambling about. He was wearing a navy blue shirt that was hugging his biceps, the veins along his hands prominent as they rested on his hips.
You were done for. There was no reason for him to look that good especially with that salt and pepper hair of his.
With a steadying breath, you headed outside with the two glasses, careful not to spill as you brought them over to the men.
Joel noticed you first and you watched as all the interest he had in what your father was saying quickly vanished. You didn’t know what to make of that so you just gave a sweet smile.
“Hello, boys,” you said, handing your father one glass and when you went to give Joel his, your heart skipped a beat when your fingers brushed against his.
“Mornin’, sweet pea,” Rhett said, giving one braid a small tug. “Joel here’s just helpin’ fix the tractor. But the cats could use some milk.”
You gave a little nod, gaze flickering back to Joel before going off to get the pitcher of milk. A hint of disappointment settled in. Joel didn’t say anything to you. You just assumed it was because your dad was present and he didn’t have time.
However, your goal to get Joel to notice you was still in place.
After grabbing the pitcher, you went over to the barn where the cats had a blanket spread out under a small awning. The kittens mewled, tiny little noises that made you smile.
“Hi, sweeties,” you said in a soft voice, crouching down to pour the milk into a saucer. You gently scratched behind the mom cat’s ear and she purred, leaning into your hand.
Your dress had rode up a little bit on your thighs and you glanced over to see if Joel was looking.
He was not.
Instead, he was bent over the tractor engine, arms working deep within the machinery with a focused expression on his face—wrinkles drawn on his forehead, lips pursed, eyes squinted.
If you were trying to be the distracting one, it clearly had backfired.
You stood back up, bringing a hand to your brow to keep the sun from shining in your eyes as you watched Rhett walk into the storage shed.
You sauntered back over to Joel, smoothing your dress down. “My daddy got you doing the dirty work now?”
Joel looked up, sweat glistening on his temple. He stepped back from the engine, taking a sip of the lemonade you brought him. “All I do is dirty work, darlin’.”
His words sent your thoughts into dangerous territory.
You crossed your arms over your chest, hoping to push up your cleavage. His eyes never strayed lower. Dang it. “He at least paying you?”
He shrugged, turning his back to the tractor and leaning against it, wiping the oil from his sturdy hands with an old rag. “I ain’t here to steal his money.”
You raised your brows. “Then why are you here?”
Joel studied your face for a moment and you couldn’t help but shift nervously on your feet.
“Found ‘em!” Rhett’s voice called out across the way and you felt a bout of anger surge within your chest. He always seemed to be ruining the good moments in your life even though it was just a lot of poor timing.
Joel only turned his attention back to him when he handed him a tool you couldn’t name. “Thanks,” he said bluntly, wiping away the sweat and getting back to work.
Rhett settled his hands on your shoulders, dirty from the farm and you suppressed the urge to shove him off. “I’m glad you came down.”
You glanced back at him. “Why?”
He grinned, showing off yellow teeth that were decaying from years of using chewing tobacco. It made you stifle a grimace. “I’m glad you asked.”
He pulled back, reaching into the pocket of his worn jeans and retrieving a folded piece of paper. “I haven’t been able to make a supply run with your mother having all her doctors appointments.”
You weren’t sure why but your heart eased a little at that. Sure, your parents weren’t nearly as in love as they once were but they still had their moments.
Rhett handed the list to you. “I’d been meanin’ to ask you. But since you’re here, I figured it wouldn’t be a hassle.”
Your eyes went from his to the crumpled paper. You really didn’t want to waste gas or money on supplies your father needed for his farm but you didn’t really have anything to do.
Except impress a certain someone.
You slowly took the paper, reading the list of items. Your brows furrowed. “Where am I supposed to get a carburetor from?”
“Lots of hardware stores carry them but I placed an order from one down in Jacksonville.”
Your eyes widened. “Jacksonville?”
He nodded. “I know it’s far but it’s too annoying to cancel my order.”
“Since when do you even place online orders?” He was always one for doing things the manual way. You were vaguely aware he even had a phone in the first place.
“Don’t talk back, girl,” he said, his voice gruffer even with Joel next to him.
“I wasn’t talking back—”
“Is getting the part a problem or not?”
You let out a sigh. “The drive there is three and a half hours and so is the drive back. That’s six hours all together, daddy.”
Rhett ran a hand over his scruffy beard. “Fine. I’ll pay for gas and food.”
“No need.”
Your eyes snapped to Joel who clearly had been listening in on the conversation. “I’m sorry?”
He folded his thick arms across his broad chest. “There’s no need. I’ll take you.”
Your jaw could’ve fallen to the ground. You clenched your teeth together to prevent that from happening, still having trouble containing your surprise by his candid statement.
Your father seemed just about as shocked as you were. “Why, Joel, I think she can manage herself…”
Joel shook his head. “I’m sure she could but that highways no joke. Besides, wouldn’t hurt to have a navigator.”
Rhett seemed to consider this before nodding again. “Well, then, long as you keep my little girl safe then I don’t see a problem with it.”
Joel looked at you when he said, “she’s in good hands.”
You folded the paper back up and gestured towards the house, all the argument dying out of you. “I’ll go get my things.”
Feeling a nervousness take flight in your stomach, you scurried back up to the house, opening the screen door with a little too much force.
Your mother was laughing over some sitcom but the sound was more of a wheezing hack. She glanced over at you as you made a beeline for the stairs, focused on grabbing your purse and leaving.
“Why are you in such a hurry?” She asked, lighting up yet another cigarette.
“Supply run,” you answered, “daddy’s makin’ me go all the way to Jacksonville.”
“Jacksonville?” She echoed just like you had.
“That’s what I said.”
She let out a scoff, inhaling the nicotine before itching her cheek. “Well, forecast said there’s a storm blowing in. You might wanna pack a bag just in case you get caught up in it.”
Great. A storm. How convenient.
You huffed, the heat and the situation starting to grate your nerves before you remembered Joel was going to be with you. Which meant maybe the storm would give you more time with him even if you were going to be on the road with him for six hours.
You grabbed a pink ballet duffel bag from forever ago, tossing in perfume and deodorant along with your keys and a jacket. You considered the possibility of being stranded by the storm and bit your lip as you contemplated on whether or not to be prepared for a late night stop.
Despite you probably being absolutely delusional, you added a light pink nightgown to the mix before zipping it up and heading back down.
Before you could make it out the door, your mother called, “don’t take the Cadillac!”
You stopped abruptly. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“‘S too pretty to take on the highway.”
You supposed she had a point. “Alright, momma. I’ll see you later,” you said, blowing a kiss.
You headed back outside and sure enough, you spotted a patch of gray clouds. They didn’t look too ominous yet but you knew they’d get heavier as the day went on.
Joel was already by his truck and you assumed that was the vehicle of choice by default. You walked over to him, noticing his clean hands he must’ve rinsed off.
Rhett gave your back a firm pat and looked at Joel. “Keep her safe, Miller. If those clouds get worse, let me know.”
“Will do,” Joel said bluntly before you slipped away from your father, eager to get away for a while.
Once you and Joel were seated in his truck, you tossed your bag into the backseat and sighed. “I’m sorry I roped you into this. I could’ve gone by myself.”
Joel put the truck in drive, heading down the dirt path leading to the main road. “I offered, darlin’.”
For some reason, you didn’t ask why. You didn’t want a repeat of what happened last time. You’re my friends kid. Those words still spun in your head like a broken record.
“What’s on the list anyway?” Joel questioned, leaning back in the drivers seat with a wrist draped over the wheel.
You unfolded the paper from your dress pocket and skimmed your father’s messy handwriting. “Tools, I’m guessing. And that stupid carburetor thing we’re driving three hours for.”
Joel glimpsed over at you. He felt guilty for the thoughts that had been on his mind since he saw you earlier today. You looked so soft and pretty sitting there in his passenger side, your cheeks flushed from the heat and hair a tad frizzy from the sudden humidity.
He also had to admit he found it quite adorable that you had no idea what you were talking about. The confident little Miss America who was confused over mechanic tools.
“Well let’s hope we don’t get rained on,” he said, leaning forward a little bit to look at the cloud filled sky. When he settled again, he gestured to the glovebox. “There’s some old cd’s in there if you want to look at any.”
You set the list aside and opened the glovebox. You were going to be here for three and a half hours and you did not want to spend it in awkward silence.
You wanted to make conversation but now that you were finally next to him, you had no idea what to say.
As you went through the old cd’s, you found the need to tell him what happened. “I’m not with that guy anymore.”
Joel remained silent. It made you swallow nervously.
It was almost as if he knew you just needed to get something off your chest and he was more than willing to listen.
“He was a douchebag, just like the rest of them. I should’ve known. Well… I did know. But I guess it doesn’t make a difference.” You let out a frustrated huff of air, pulling out an old Elvis album. “Point being, your brother and sister in law helped me.”
His eyes stayed locked on the road as he focused on merging onto the highway but inside, he had a million questions.
“Tommy?”
“No, Richard,” you said sarcastically, sliding the cd into the player. “Of course it was Tommy.”
“What’d he do?”
You slid off your boots and curled your feet up on the seat and it brought you back to the night. “Well Randy was just being rude and Tommy… punched him in the jaw.”
Joel rubbed a hand over his jaw. “My word, kid.”
Deep down, Joel was mad. Not at you. Never at you. But at any man who thought they had the right to shame you and especially in the humiliating manner it came in. The boy at the farmers market, your father, and now this Randy guy? He was sick of it even though he felt he had no right to be.
And underneath that brewing anger was a hint of jealousy. He loved his brother dearly but some protective part of him wanted to be the one defending you. The one who got to sock that disrespectful guy in the face.
You, on the other hand, thought he might see the issue as immature. “Maria helped me outside. You should be very grateful you have her as a part of your family now.”
You didn’t elaborate further. You felt embarrassment and shame as you sunk further into the seat, wishing you’d kept your mouth shut.
Joel sighed before saying, “I’m glad he did, sweetheart. But maybe it’s time you… stayed away from those douchebags.”
You didn’t know what you were expecting but it wasn’t that. “You’re probably right.”
Just like that, you remembered exactly why you had developed feelings for Joel. He didn’t shame you. Didn’t yell at you for being the way you were. Just provided a grounding presence for you to lean into.
The first three hours seemed to go by quickly. Well, only because you managed to fall asleep against the door at an odd and uncomfortable position. You ran a hand over your face as you woke up, staring at the passing scenery.
Eventually, Joel pulled up to the hardware store with the address Rhett had sent him.
“Here already?” You asked, mouth dry and skin feeling clammy from your nap.
“Mhm,” Joel hummed before unbuckling and getting out of the truck. You reached for your seatbelt and the list but before you could open the door, Joel beat you to it.
You felt those butterflies stir again as you slipped out, fixing your rumpled dress and thanking him.
The two of you headed inside, the smell of sawdust and wood filling your nose. You grabbed a basket before looking at the list. “Okay, first up… socket wrench.”
You had no idea what that was. Yes, you grew up on a farm but you now understand why your father kept Joel around to decipher what was to be used in fixing machinery and utilities.
Joel saw the cluelessness in your eyes, how you tried so hard to sound like you knew what you were talking about but falling short.
He walked forward and you scampered along behind him, knowing he knew his way around a store like this. Within minutes there a shiny new socket wrench in the basket. “What’s next?”
It became a short routine. You told him what was on the list, he’d find it, and in the basket it went.
Once it was filled with the needed items, Joel waited for an employee to assist him with figuring out where the carburetor was. You rocked back and forth on your heels, feeling lighter now that you were out of town for a little while. And with Joel.
When the man finally came over, he didn’t seem to notice you at first until you started to follow him and Joel to the back of the store. He was obviously trying to be discreet about checking you out but was failing miserably.
You didn’t mind so much now that you had Joel with you who acted as a human shield if need be.
The carburetor box was placed in Joel’s hands and as the man assisting him led you to the front to check out, that’s when the inevitable questions came out.
“She yours?” The man asked while scanning a tool.
Usually that sort of question would offend you. You didn’t belong to anyone and yet a part of you didn’t mind as long as it was Joel. But at the end of the day, you were just his friend’s daughter.
Joel, however, had a different strategy.
“She ain’t mine,” he answered, sorting through his wallet. “Not in the way you’re suggesting, anyway.”
You were confused as to what he meant and then it dawned on you—the man was insinuating that you were his daughter.
Your eyes darted to Joel but his impenetrable mask of indifference was too difficult to decipher.
The man’s face paled and he rung up the items without another peep.
When you two left the store, you still couldn’t believe what he said. You didn’t think he’d ever want anything romantic to do with you, especially after the way he’d been acting.
The rain had begun but it was only light sprinkles. You should’ve been able to make it back before the downpour started.
As Joel loaded the last of the bags into the backseat, he noticed the ballet duffle. You had prepared for this little excursion. Something about that made his insides twist.
You were young, he knew that. You were his friends daughter, not to be messed with anymore than you already had.
And yet, an aching part of him wanted to give you everything you needed and more.
The cab of the truck was quiet. You didn’t want it to be. There was a three and a half hour drive ahead of you and you weren’t going to spend it in awkward silence.
“Not in the way you might think?” You spoke up, a sly smile playing on your lips. You were good at harmless, playful flirting so why would Joel be any different?
He barely glanced at you as he pulled out of the parking lot. “He needed to back off.”
You raised your brows and your heart did that thing again. “Well it certainly worked. But what if that was my future husband?”
Joel wanted to pretend you didn’t say that. He couldn’t stand the thought of yet another pathetic little boy wasting your time. He knew he probably wasn’t the better option but he knew he’d never intentionally do anything to hurt you.
“Then the wedding will be postponed,” he grumbled, keeping his eyes on the road.
You couldn’t help but let out a small laugh. “How tragic that would be.”
Soft rain droplets began to splatter on the wind shield as you put in a Johnny Cash cd and turned it up. You began to sing along, only knowing the lyrics because your father used to sing them with your grandfather before he passed.
Joel found it helplessly endearing. He didn’t care if you were off key, he could’ve listened to your voice all day if only he was the one it was for. Not so long ago he had been at the funeral of your grandfather. Back then he wouldn’t have noticed you although he did recall you taking secret sips from a flask to drown your grief.
The highway was getting congested now, cars bumper to bumper as the storm grew heavier.
“Damn it,” Joel grunted under his breath, lightly smacking the steering wheel before leaning back and putting his fingers to his hairline.
You looked over at him, seeing the patience wear thin on his aged face. “Is it because of the storm?”
Joel gestured at the long stretch of cars. “Someone must’ve spun out. Roads are gettin’ slick and my bet is they were drivin’ too damn fast and lost control.”
His frustrated old man rant made you stifle a laugh. You turned your head, looking out the window at all the stopped cars.
Dark clouds completely covered the sky now and the wind was picking up. This wasn’t just rain, it seemed to be a whole thunderstorm rolling in.
You let out a sharp gasp as you watched a tree branch get blown onto the hood of someone’s car. “Joel—”
He let out a ragged expletive before his eyes began searching for the nearest exit. “Call your father. Tell him we gotta wait out the storm.”
You nodded, pulling out your phone and ringing your father. He didn’t answer so you just sent a quick text explaining the situation you and Joel found yourselves in.
Slowly but surely you two made it to the exit, driving until you reached a small gas station. The lights illuminating the lot buzzed and you could see bugs flying around in it.
Joel parked by the gas pump before unbuckling. “Stay here.”
He didn’t elaborate and you didn’t have time to ask as he hopped out, making a beeline for the gas station entrance.
You sighed, locking the doors and watching as the wind nearly bent the trees in half. Leaves blew onto the windshield and the wipers swatted them away rhythmically.
Secretly, you had been hoping the storm would get to this point. You wanted every excuse you could get to have more time with Joel.
As soon as he left, Joel was back, getting into the truck. His shirt now had rain darkening in small spots in the fabric but he didn’t seem to mind. He dropped a plastic bag on the seat between you.
Unable to hide your curiosity, you reached for it. Inside you found two bottles of water and some snacks.
You cast a look up at him. “What’s this for?”
He had already put the truck in drive again. “We gotta find some place to stay. Figured that’d be dinner.”
You blinked at him as it registered to you what he was suggesting. “You mean… we’re not going back to Austin?”
“Not tonight.”
Joel was probably being dramatic. Well, not dramatic. He was just taking advantage of the opportunity that had been presented to him by the weather. He had you right there in his passenger seat, blinking at him with curiosity.
He’d get right back on the highway if you told him you wanted to go back home.
But deep down, neither of you wanted that.
You sat back in your seat, trying to hide the giddiness bubbling into your chest. This was practically a dream come true.
He drove around until he came across a motel. It was one story, two buildings settled on either side of the main one. The flickering sign read vacancy and even if it wasn’t ideal, it was still somewhere to seek shelter from the storm.
The truck came to a stop in a parking spot before the two of you got out. You became very aware that you were wearing a white dress and bolted for the door.
Joel wasn’t too far behind you, the little bell above the door signaling your arrival.
Chills shot up your arms as you stepped into the lobby from the air conditioning, making everything feel humid. The floors were surprisingly made of wooden planks, a large plum colored rug spanning the width of the room. A sofa sat on one wall with a table in front of it, magazines spread out on the surface.
You ignored the staleness of the air and the slight smell of mildew as you stepped up to the front counter where a woman sat behind it.
Joel cleared his throat. “Two rooms, please.”
Her eyebrows slowly raised in boredom as she glanced from you to Joel. “Two?”
You fiddled with the hem of your dress, looking anywhere but at her. Again with people making it awkward for you two. Yeah, your crush on Joel was getting bad but you were good at not letting it show.
At least you thought you were.
“Yes, two,” Joel confirmed, pulling out his credit card.
The woman shrugged, checking the ledger.
Joel glanced down at you, watching as you again rocked back and forth on your heels. Gosh, you were so adorable he couldn’t take it.
“Well,” she said slowly. “Unfortunately you two aren’t the only ones escaping the storm and I only have one available room left.”
His attention was pulled back and he schooled his features quickly. “Only one? You don’t have any others that room service can clean up real quick?”
The woman gave him a unamused look. “It don’t work like that. Now, do you want the room or not?”
Joel knew he should’ve said no. Sleeping in the truck didn’t seem all that bad but the sharp pain in his lower back didn’t seem to agree. Sharing a room with you alone was dangerous for him.
He caught the way you kept looking at him. Maybe you looked at all men that way and he was too old to feel special about it. But some other part of him recognized that look—you felt safe with him.
And that’s what he promised your father.
“We’ll take the room.”
Your heart could’ve grown wings and flew out the window to be taken with the wind.
One night alone with Joel Miller in a beat up motel room. Your legs suddenly felt shaky just at the thought of it. This was everything you wanted. Everything you needed to finally remove the dead end of your life and figure out if this was the man that would take you further.
Joel was the man you wanted. The one you needed. The only one who’d ever treated you like a woman instead of an object to be toyed with.
You two stepped outside and Joel insisted you stay dry under the awning while he grabbed the bags from the truck.
You stood in front of the room’s door, the wind pulling strands of hair from your braids. Joel moved like the storm was nothing but a minor inconvenience, shutting the door once your duffel bag and the one from the store was in his hands.
“Here,” he said, handing you the keys to the room.
You unlocked it, stepping inside and leaving the storm behind you. Joel followed, placing the bags down on the small table in front of the window.
You took in the small space, examining the floral wallpaper and the matching comforter and sheet set. One queen sized bed sat in the middle of the room and your heart skipped a beat.
Joel ran a hand through his damp hair. “Go dry up then if you’re hungry you can have a bite to eat.”
You snapped out of whatever daydream you were in before nodding. With shaky fingers you unzipped your bag and pulled out the nightgown you had brought.
You wondered if Joel thought you were dumb for preparing for this without even knowing if it’d storm.
But clearly you hadn’t been as delusional as you thought you’d been.
You went into the dingy bathroom, the light flickering unsteadily. You took off your boots, leaving on your socks as you traded your dress for the pink nightgown.
You looked into the mirror, smoothing your manicured hands over the soft fabric. The lacy hem brushed against your thighs, the top curved around your breasts secured with a tiny bow in the middle.
You wore things like this to bed every night so what was the problem now?
Attempting to brush off your nerves, you stepped out, your folded dress in one hand and your boots in the other.
Joel felt like he wasn’t supposed to see this.
You looked so beautiful in that nightgown, your hair loose out of the braids, the frilly socks on your feet. He’d never seen you as a girl who looked fragile but right now he thought he’d break you with a single touch.
You set your boots down and put the dress in the duffel before he finally managed to look away.
“Here,” he said gruffly, handing you a sandwich. “Not much but it’s something.”
“Thank you, Joel,” you replied quietly, taking the sandwich from him before tentatively sitting on the edge of the bed.
The springs creaked beneath you as you unwrapped the sandwich and took a bite. Joel didn’t touch his, instead going into the bathroom and locking the door.
He had to get a grip on himself.
She’s your friend’s daughter he kept repeating to himself as if that would get his heart to stop responding to the way you made it thump.
It was no use. His mind kept pushing the image of you to the forefront of his eyes, curves looking so soft under that thin fabric.
Tonight was going to be long.
You had finished the sandwich by the time he re-emerged. You threw the trash away before sitting back in your spot. “I have a question.”
Joel leaned back against the television stand across from you, crossing his arms like he wasn’t struggling to keep his composure. “And what’s that, darling?”
“Why did you start helping my father out?”
Out of all questions, he was not expecting that.
He gave a shrug. “I know he ain’t the best man ever but I’ve known him for a long time. He’s gettin’ older, we all are, and he asked for my help. There was no reason to deny him.”
You had to admit you didn’t think of it that way before. You nodded, crossing your ankles.
When the silence came back, you knew this was the only time you’d get to voice what had been eating at you for weeks now.
“Joel?”
“Hmm?”
You took a steadying breath, forcing your eyes to meet his. But this time, you didn’t give him those eyes other boys were so used to.
“That night of the farmers market in your truck… that meant a lot to me.”
That meant more to Joel than he let on. He shifted slightly in place. “I’m glad I could help, sweetheart.”
You looked down at your lap, unsure of what to say next. This was your one chance to tell him what you’d been feeling. But you’d never been good with words. Everything you got you used your body to get it. That’s apparently anyone ever saw you as.
You leaned back a little, subtly, just enough to let your nightgown cling to the curves of your body.
Joel was hanging on by a thread. Only once or twice had he let his thoughts drift to what it’d be like to run his hands over your soft body, to feel you under his hands that didn’t deserve to hold anything so precious.
“You don’t gotta do that.” He spoke through gritted teeth, his voice nearly cracking with restraint.
Your heart sank. “Do what?”
He pinned you with a hard stare. “You know what.”
Then your patience snapped. You had gotten everything you wanted just by flaunting yourself about but you never realized how frustrating it was when you had to work for it.
And it irritated you just as much that you secretly loved that he wasn’t easily giving into you.
You let out a frustrated huff.
Then it all came spilling out.
“What is it, Joel?” You said rather harshly. “Am I too young? Am I too naive? It can’t be. Every other men would’ve jumped at me so what is it? Don’t make me embarrass myself anymore. Please. If I’m reading this wrong… just tell me.”
Joel’s heart ached. He didn’t want you to feel like that. But he didn’t want to mess this up even though he felt like that was already happening.
You blinked at him, almost feeling humiliated again. “Why’d you bring me here?”
Joel went ridged.
You cleared your throat, trying to gain some confidence back. “You would’ve gone home if I wasn’t in the truck so tell me now why did you bring me here?”
Just like that, he’d been caught red handed. You were right, of course, he would’ve gone back to Austin in the storm if you hadn’t been with him.
His silence was driving you mad. You hit your hand against the side of the mattress. “Damn it! Say something—!”
Joel pushed off the counter faster than you could blink and suddenly rough hands were cupping your face and lips were crashing against yours.
Your heart slammed hard in your chest. For a second, you were stunned.
Joel Miller was kissing you.
And you’d be dumb to not kiss him back.
Your hands flew to his broad shoulders, feeling the scorching heat of him radiating through his shirt. Joel wasn’t rushing, his lips moving slow against yours and when you opened your mouth to him, he licked into it in such a languid way that had heat blooming through your lower stomach.
This wasn’t those kisses you had with those other men who acted as if you’d pull away at any given moment.
Even with his musky scent clogging your nose and his tongue tasting yours and his heat warming your cold skin, he was making it known that this was your choice.
When Joel pulled back, his face stayed close to yours and you couldn’t suck enough air into your lungs.
One of his hands moved, gently brushing a piece of hair behind your ear. “I brought you here because I couldn’t stand seein’ you with those boys anymore,” he said, his voice deep and low only for you. “And right now, you don’t have to pretend anymore. Not with me.”
Just like before, your eyes softened and you felt like you could cry. So it wasn’t all in your head.
“Joel…” you whispered, fingers grazing his collar.
“Yeah, sweet girl?”
The nickname made your skin go hot.
Your gaze roamed over his weathered face and it made your longing for his touch feel consuming. “You know what everyone will say.”
Of course he’d thought about that. That’s the first thing that had crossed his mind when those feelings for you came about. He knew everyone knew the farmer’s daughter, knew that the whole town just about recognized your name. They’d look down on an older man being with a girl younger than him.
“I know.” Joel murmured, pulling back his hands.
You quickly grabbed them. “I don’t care,” you said firmly. “You know me, Joel. You know I’ve been with older men. I’m just worried about what they’ll say about you.”
Joel was taken aback. You were worried about what people would say about him? He wasn’t expecting that. But when it came down to it, he wanted this.
He wanted you.
That wasn’t going to change just because some people didn’t agree.
“I’m a grown man, baby.” He stroked a thumb over your cheekbone. “They can talk but I’m not letting you go. Just let me take care of my pretty girl.”
I’m not letting you go.
You slid your hands up his forearms, tears pricking your eyes. Joel didn’t need another word. He put his hands beneath your arms and gently lifted you further onto the bed. He followed, slipping off his boots and crawling over you.
Looking at him hovering over you made your stomach flip with butterflies. You’d been with many men but Joel was different. He made you feel special in a way no one else had before.
His rough hand caressed your cheek, those dark eyes tracing your features. For once, you didn’t feel the need to take off any clothes. You just wanted him here, with you, holding you like you weren’t just another body to be had.
Joel leaned down slowly, holding himself up on one hand beside your head while the other slowly trailed down to your waist. He traced slow circles as his mouth lowered to yours.
Your lips parted and his tongue gently dipped into your mouth if only for a second. Every movement was made with care.
His lips sealed against yours once more, his beard scratching against your face in the most delicious way possible. You sighed, feeling like an ice cream cone in the hot sun as you melted into the rough sheets of the motel bed.
The storm outside sounded like white noise as Joel kissed you, deep and loving in a way you never felt before. His fingertips grazed against your thigh, not in a sexual manner but more like he was learning you. Mapping every surface of smooth skin and soft curves he wanted to know every road to.
Here there was no Randy. Here your father was miles away. Here your mother didn’t parade around in your head.
It was just Joel.
Carefully, he moved down to press featherlight kisses to your jaw and then your neck. “This okay, baby?” He murmured softly.
For a moment you were too speechless to say anything. You slid your fingers into his graying curls. “Yes. More than okay.”
Joel wasn’t taking. He was giving. That was something unfamiliar to you.
He kissed further down, keeping everything over your nightgown. His kisses left your heart a fluttery mess, making you curl your toes inside those frilly socks.
Joel finally reached your thighs, one large hand settled on top of your knee, pulling it aside gently to reach the inside. You let out a shaky breath and then a small little laugh.
He grinned against your skin. “You ticklish, darlin’?”
Your smile widened. No one had ever picked up on that before. “Little bit.”
Joel returned your look of happiness, a smile so rare you didn’t even know he was capable of it.
He reached down, lightly tugging on the sock. “Cute,” he muttered before sliding his hand back up your leg and moving back over you.
This time, you couldn’t wipe the smile off your face as you cupped the back of his neck. “Do we ever have to go back?”
Joel brushed his nose against yours. “I don’t know. This motel room might not be so bad long as you never leave this bed.”
You laughed, real and unrestrained. “Well then,” you said, batting your lashes playfully. “Consider me incapable of walking ever again.”
He pinched your side just a little bit before kissing you as your foot accidentally nailed the back of his leg. It didn’t hurt. But he knew you’d still try to say sorry anyway.
For one moment, everything felt right. You were just a girl who finally found someone to care. He was just a man who was more than willing to give it to you.
For once, you wanted him to be the one to take you home.
Cw: +18, mean!joel, really desperate/needy reader, sub!reader, deep throat, crying, oral m!receiving, degradation, unspecified age gap, cum swallowing, lot's of saliva, slapping, hair pulling/yanking
A/N: today is my birthday, so yall are getting fed!!! It's very short, but yummy and i just couldn't get these pics out of my head, like he looks so huge and dada...sooo enjoy pookies <33
The floorboards are cold under your knees, but you don't care about that right now.
Your eyes are too wide, too wet, too desperate, looking up at him with an unbearable ache between your legs and saliva watering inside your mouth.
Joel towers over you, hands planted on his hips, his jaw tight, eyebrows furrowed. He's looking down at you like you're something he scraped off of his boot. Unimpressed. Bordering on disgusted.
And you know it. You know how much he hates you.
His jeans strain across his thighs, and there—right fucking there—that thick swell of him, rock hard already, pressing against the denim, swollen in need. Above it, that soft pudge of his belly, that little curve you've pressed your face into a hundred times only when he lets you. Only when he's feeling generous.
Your eyes drift to that spot you love so much, picturing his cock already leaking for you.
He tsks sharply, the sound cutting through the tense air like a whip.
Your gaze snaps back up, but it's already too late. His eyes have gone dark, narrowed down at you with something sharp and cold. Annoyance. Disdain.
"Too god damn desperate," he growls, his voice low and gravelly. "For your own good."
You can't help but nod frantically, your mouth already watering at the thought of him, saliva pooling under your tongue. "Please," you whisper, your voice trembling with raw need. "I need it. In my mouth."
You lean forwards then, nuzzling against the rigid outline of his erection, inhaling the musky scent of him through the denim, your desperation making your hands twitch at your sides, itching to touch but knowing better than to try.
His hand moves fast.
He grabs a fistful of your hair at the scalp and yanks, wrenching your head back so hard your neck cracks. Your gasp cuts through the quiet.
Then his palm comes against your face.
A slap lands across your cheek with a sharp crack, the sting blooming hot and immediate, leaving your skin tingling and your breath catching in your throat.
You freeze, eyes wide and pleading, the slap only fueling the fire of your need rather than dousing it. Your cheek burns, but you don't pull away; instead, you stay perfectly still, gazing up at him with utter submission, your body trembling with how badly you crave more.
He holds your gaze for a long, heavy moment.
A small "pathetic" leaves his lips.
And then, something flickers in his expression—not softening, never that. But a decision.
"Alright," he says, calm. "You want it that bad? Open the zipper. With your mouth. Only your mouth."
You don't hesitate.
You lean in, your lips brushing against the cold metal tab of his jeans zipper. Your tongue darts out, fumbling, clumsy, desperate to please. You catch the tab between your teeth and tug. The teeth of the zipper part slowly, and you work your way down, your jaw aching, drool already starting to slip from the corner of your lips.
Inch by inch, the fabric parts, and then his cock springs free through the open slit in his boxers—thick and heavy, veins bulging along the shaft, the swollen head already glistening with a bead of pre-cum that drools from the tip. It bobs right in front of your face, so close you can feel the heat radiating off it, the salty scent filling your senses.
You drool again; a fat string of saliva that drips from your lower lip and lands on your own thigh. You don't even notice. All you see is him.
"Jesus Christ," Joel mutters, but there's no tenderness in it. Just exasperation. "Look at you. Droolin' like a bitch in heat."
You don't care. You can't care. You're already leaning forward, lips parting—
His hand clamps onto your hair again, stopping you. The pull hurts on your scalp already.
"I ain't done talkin'."
You freeze, a whimper leaving your lips.
"I'm gonna fuck your throat," he says, each word deliberate. "Deep. Slow. And you're not gonna gag. Ya hear me?"
You nod as much as his grip allows, a jerky, desperate motion.
"No gaggin'," he repeats, making sure you understand. "Not a sound. You take it. That's what you're made for."
He doesn't wait for an answer.
He guides the head of his cock right between your lips, and you open for him—greedy, hungry, your tongue already stretching out to taste him. He pushes past your lips, past your tongue, and keeps going.
He's thick. So thick that your jaw aches instantly. You taste every vein, every inch stretched wide around him. He fills your mouth completely, and he keeps pushing, deeper, until his tip nudges the back of your throat.
You feel your body already rebel—a reflexive clench, a spasm from the back of your throat. But you force yourself to relax, to open, to take.
And then he's past the barrier, sliding into your throat in one smooth, burning slide.
Your eyes start to water.
Tears spill over, falling one by one down your cheeks. Your nose is pressed against the hair at his groin, and the world has narrowed to the taste of him, the stretch of him, the smell and the sound of his breathing.
He holds there. Just for a moment. Just to let you feel it.
"Good girl," he says, and the praise is so unexpected, so incongruous with everything else, that a sob of relief catches in your chest. But he doesn't let you savor it. "Now we're gonna move. Slow. And you're gonna keep that mouth open."
He pulls back, almost all the way out, leaving just the tip resting on your tongue.
Then he pushes in again.
Slow.
All the way in until his fat head drags against your palate, your tongue and then lands against the back of your throat.
He sets a rhythm with slow, agonising thrusts that bury him deep, hold for a heartbeat, then retreat. Every time he sinks in, your throat convulses around him, trying to accommodate, and every time he pulls back, you drool—a mess of spit and pre-cum that strings from his cock to your lips.
You try to breathe through your nose, keep your jaw unclenched and throat relaxed while tears still spill from your eyes.
Joel watches. His eyes are half-lidded, focused entirely on where he disappears into your mouth, and on your tears. His free hand then comes up, and you feel his rough fingers on your throat—right over the place where his cock is sliding in and out.
He presses down lightly, rubbing the skin.
"You can feel it, can't you?" His voice is a low murmur, almost lazy. "Feel me right here, movin' in you."
You can. The sensation is foreign and intimate, his fingers tracing the bulge of his own cock moving inside your throat. It makes you moan, a muffled sound that vibrates around him.
"Quiet," he says, calm, there's no heat in it. Just a reminder.
He keeps going. Slow, Relentless. Making your throat memorise the veins of his cock.
Your jaw aches. Your throat burns. Tears and drool mix together, soaking your chin, your neck, the collar of your shirt.
But you don't care. You'd stay like this forever, if he'd let you.
He thrusts a little deeper, then. Turning a little harder. His rhythm suddenly changes, becoming more urgent, his hips rocking forward with a rougher snap. You can feel his cock throbbing inside your throat while his breathing thickens, the grip on your hair tightening to the point of pain.
"Fuck," he grunts. "That's what you're only good for. Gonna fill that throat of yours. Gonna pump you so full."
Your eyes roll up, meeting his for a brief moment. He's watching you; gaze dark, possessive, hungry.
Then he groans, a low, guttural sound from deep in his chest and his cock swells against your tongue. He thrusts deep one last time, burying himself to the root, and you feel the hot pulse of his release hitting the back of your throat.
There's a lot. Wave after wave, thick and bitter, flooding your mouth. You swallow instinctively, your throat working around him as he keeps twitching, keeps coming.
He holds you there, pressed against him, until he's empty.
Then he pulls out slowly, his cock sliding wet and spent across your tongue, slowly softening.
You're a mess.
Sobbing and sniffling quietly. Spit and cum and tears all over your face. But you keep your mouth closed, holding everything down.
Joel takes a step back. His hands drop to his sides again. He looks down at you, breathing hard.
"Open," he says.
You do. You part your lips, tilt your head back, showing him the inside of your mouth. Clean. Empty. You swallowed every drop like a Good girl.
He looks at you for a long moment. His expression doesn't soften.
Summary: If you’d known that half a sandwich behind a dumpster was gonna be the start of… whatever the hell this turned into, you’d’ve probably stayed home that day. He wasn’t lookin’ for trouble—hell, he talks to everybody, that’s just how Joel is. But every damn time he saw you sittin’ there, quiet as a ghost, lookin’ like you’d rather be anywhere else, he couldn’t help it. ’Cause life’s funny like that. It throws people at you when you least expect it—usually when you’re already havin’ a goddamn terrible week.
Warnings: +18, smut, fluff, angst, sleazy!joel, fuckbuddy!joel, unspecified age gap, protected sex, oral f!receiving, slight size kink, unhinged dirty talk, fingering, making out, talks about divorce, friends with benefits, talk about child loss, no outbreak
A/N: OMG FINALLY. I've rewritten this chapter like fifty times trying to make it something I don't hate, and I think I finally like this version. It's long, itms messy, it's smutty, and it goes way deeper into readers backstory than I had originally planned. Joels backstory is still lurking in the background, but trust me it's coming in the next chapters. Enjoy pookies!!! <333
Before Strawberry Creampie. Before Sit on it. There was...Half a Sandwich.
And you remembered it like it was yesterday...
You sat in the back of your office, clutching a halfly eaten salad like it was the last chore on a long, long fucking list of things you no longer had the energy to finish. The plastic fork felt flimsy in your hand, the lettuce wilted, the dressing too sour—everything just tasted like too much obligation.
A window with dull concrete around and dry bushes stared back at you, a perfect reflection of the life you were dragging behind you.
Empty apartment, tangled sheets with an unmade bed, mind drifting through fog with no direction or desire.
No one to share this pathetic lunch with, no one to come home to, no soft words to chase away the ache of isolation.
You chewed mechanically, staring at the same patch of wall you stared at yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that. The world kept moving around you; cars passing, coworkers laughing, life happening—but only you had felt stuck, suspended in a moment you just couldn’t climb out of.
"Oi, Jerry! Tell that fucker to hurry up!"
And of course, it was once again him, interrupting your thoughts.
Joel Miller, the delivery guy who rolled in every Tuesday with stacks of office supplies, had been part of the background noise in your life long before he became your fuck buddy.
You couldn't ignore him if you tried to anyways; he owned every room he entered with that brash, take-no-shit swagger.
Pushing late forties, hair slicked back with whatever cheap gel he had, a solid gut from beers that he wore like a trophy, not giving a damn.
He smelled like cigarettes and gas stations, a scent that clung to the office air and sparked whispers amongs your coworkers—not out of dread, but that eye-rolling tolerance for the loudmouth who never knew when or how to shut up.
Joel was all noise, no substance: complaining about bullshit traffic, picking fights over nothing just to hear his own voice win, his gaze sliding over everyone—guys, gals, whoever sparked a glance.
Heck, he sees ass, he looking. He finds a face pretty, he flirtin' no matter the gender.
But with you back then? He kept it clean, no sleazy lines or winks, even if his eyes hung a beat too long. He'd spot you, acknowledge, then bounce, like some unspoken rule held him back.
What flipped the switch that day? Maybe that bare finger where your ring used to sit, or the way your stares locked, or just dumb luck kicking in.
Maybe even fate.
"Well, hello beautiful—thought I was the only fool smart enough to sneak off from all that hustle out front." You can still remember the exact words. "What's a pretty thing like you doin' hidin' with your lunch on a day like this? You work inside, right? Must be nice. I'm out here breakin' my back while you're in there enjoyin' the air-conditionin'."
His words were annoying, your fuse already short from the weight of your own misery.
"You're real chatty, huh?" He asked, laughing deep and unbothered, pressing on: "Most people say hi back. Or at least blink. You're like talkin' to a statue."
You stabbed at your greens, sighing loudly.
"That's alright. I talk enough for both of us."
He flashed a grin, propping his clipboard like a throne, eyes lighting with that devilish spark. "If I'd known there was someone this cute hidin' back here, I'd've started takin' my breaks here weeks ago."
You didn't lift your head at that point.
"Ah, playin' hard to get. Classic." He teased. "Name's Joel. And you are?"
Head down, fork scraping plastic, you shot back cold: "Not interested."
He let out a low whistle, more entertained than stung. "That's an interestin' name, sweetheart." Chuckle rolling out thick. "Bet it's real hard to fit on a driver's license."
Annoyance flickered hot, mixed with the dull throb of your solitude—you wanted him gone, but he stuck, a loud intrusion in your quiet hell, dragging the outside world into your numb bubble.
"Alright, miss not-interested. Try not to miss me too much." He called out, and finally left with that.
-
"Lord almighty, I swear this job's tryin' to put me in an early grave," he announced to absolutely no one, wiping sweat off of his forehead with the back of his hand. "Ain't even noon and I already wanna go home, crack a beer, and pretend today never happened."
The second week, he didn't just stand in front of you and yapped about everything and nothing—no.
He sat down right next to you.
He dropped onto the concrete with a grunt so dramatic it almost echoed off the wall.
And you didn't look up. You just prayed that he will get up and leave.
But of course, he didn't.
"First thing this mornin', some jackass parked his truck sideways in the loadin' zone. Sideways. Like he spun the god damn wheel, said 'Jesus take the wheel,' and Jesus said 'nah.'"
You stabbed your salad.
"And them warehouse men today? Useless. Every last one of 'em. 'Joel, can you lift this?' 'Joel, can you sign that?' 'Joel, can you fix the forklift?' 'Joel, can you suck my dick?'" You almost chocked on your salad, looking at him in disgust. He chuckled. "Nah, just kiddin'—I'll yap 'bout my route instead."
At some point Joels vulgar language became the standard. At some point. But unfortunately not that day.
"Drove through three counties this mornin', dodgin' puddles bigger than ponds. Tell ya what, darlin', days like this make a fella appreciate findin' a pretty face to break the monotony. You just sit pretty; I've got stories for days."
You inhaled slowly through your nose and closed your eyes for a second, and that was enough for him to make another dumb joke.
"Oh, look at that—she's alive," he said, chuckling.
You glared at him, only earning a grin from him.
"But...you're real good at this, y'know."
"At what?" you muttered.
"Listenin'," he said, smug. "Most folks interrupt me halfway through my first rant. But you? You just sit there takin' it like a champ."
Then he winked obnoxious.
"Guess you're built different, sugar."
You stabbed at your salad again, trying to ignore the twist in your stomach after that pet name. Joel finally pushed himself to his feet, scratching at his belly as he dug a pack of Marlboros out of his pocket.
"Alright, not-intrested. Same time next week."
-
By the third week, you hated to admit it—even to yourself—but you could remember a flicker of anticipation that waited for his presence. A tiny, unexpected part of you sparked with oh, he'll probably show up again.
Because how many days had you been sitting alone on this concrete, telling your coworkers it was "nothing," that the divorce was just a "mutual decision"?
How much you hated their whispers and the way their eyes kept drifting to your bare finger—all of them inventing their own version of your own story, none of them stopping to think, even for a god damn second, 'maybe we should just leave her alone'.
"Lord above, if this mornin' gets any worse, I'm throwin' myself in front of a forklift."
You didn't look up, because you knew exactly what was about to happen.
He plopped down besides you with a grunt, holding a lunch bag and groaning: "Shoot, sugar, you're quieter than a church mouse on sunday, again. but that's fine—means I get to unload without interruption."
So you sat there, clutching on a sad little muesli bar, not even having the slightest energy to open it and listening to his ramblings.
You were exhausted. Exhausted from waking up each day and pretending that everything is okey. Exhausted about battling thoughts on going sick for the day, or even leaving work.
"Warehouse's a damn zoo," he muttered, digging inside his launch. "Boss got me waitin' around 'cause some idiot mislabeled the shipment. Again. I swear, I'm surrounded by fuckin' morons."
He pulled out a sandwich; thick, messy, wrapped in crinkled foil and was about to take a bite when he finally glanced sideways.
His chewing stopped.
He stared at your muesli bar.
Then at you.
Then back at the bar.
"…What in God's name is that."
You blinked. "Lunch."
He snorted. "That ain't lunch, hon. That's a god damn cry for help."
You rolled your eyes at him, ignoring his glance.
Then, without warning, he tore his sandwich clean in half—one loud, irritated rip and shoved the bigger piece toward you.
You recoiled. "No."
"Take it."
"I said no."
He grabbed your wrist then, not rough, just stubborn, and slapped the sandwich half into your palm.
"Gonna starve yourself to death with that lil' piece of shit," he grumbled, already unwrapping his remaining half. "Ain't lettin' you pass out on my watch. I ain't fillin' out paperwork for that."
You stared at the sandwich in your hand. It was warm, heavy, smelling like cheap deli meat and something spicy.
Your throat tightened.
Your husband used to make you sandwiches.
Every morning. Even on the days you didn't speak. Even when the marriage was already cracking down the middle.
You swallowed hard.
Joel didn't notice because of course, he was already back to complaining.
"And another thing...traffic was a damn nightmare..."
You didn't know then how much he'd matter.
-
You couldn't exactly remember why you ended up in a bar that night.
You hated alcohol. The taste. The warmth in your throat.
But it was one of those evenings where the past clawed its way back, uninvited, wrapping around your thoughts like fog and making your heart ache. And as much as you tried to drown it with liquor, a Coke zero did the job better that night.
His hand used to fit perfectly in yours, pulling you through days that blurred into moments of happiness and quiet joys; lazy Sundays with coffee steaming in the kitchen, his laughter rumbling low as he teased you about burning the toast again, the way he looked at you as if you were the only one in his life.
And now?
It was all gone, evaporated like morning mist under the harsh sun, leaving you lost in this unfamiliar city, this bar that hummed with the low murmur of conversations you didn't want to join.
Who did you blame?
Him, for letting the spark die out in a series of unspoken silences?
Yourself, for not fighting harder, for not seeing the cracks sooner?
Had you changed too much, bent too far for his expectations, until you were a shape you no longer recognized?
The questions swirled in your mind, unanswered, as you stared into the bubbles of your drink, the ice melting slowly.
And there you saw him again.
Joel.
He was perched on his stool like he owned that place, nursing a pint of beer that sloshed slightly as he scratched at his big belly, the fabric of his faded flannel shirt straining against the motion.
You sighed, and rolled your eyes painfully.
His gaze lingered too long on a woman's ass as she leaned over the pool table.
Years later you would hear whispers about him, from the regulars who nursed their own sorrows at the bar; how he was a fixture here, always chasing the next warm body, stumbling home with someone on his arm, the scent of whiskey heavy on his breath.
They even said he had a daughter once, lost her young to some tragedy that hung over him like a shadow, but in that night, you didn't know about any of that.
That night, you just wished this god forsaken dim light would swallow him whole before he noticed you.
But as if the universe conspired against your solitude, Joel caught your eye across the room.
His lips curled into a smug smirk, the one you already know all too well.
He shifted on his stool, the wood creaking under his weight, and without a second hesitation, he pushed off and headed your way, his boots thudding softly against the floorboards.
"Well, well, well," he drawled, his voice thick with that southern twang.
He stopped just close enough that you caught the faint whiff of his cologne—cheap and musky, mixed with the sharpness of the beer.
"Didn't expect to see my lunch buddy here, lookin' all lonesome and pretty under these sorry lights. What brings a fine thing like you to a dive like this on a night that's beggin' for trouble?"
You rolled your eyes again.
"Still playin' hard to get, hm?" Joel persisted, leaning one elbow on the counter besides you.
He chuckled low, a rumble that vibrated through his chest, and took a step closer.
"Darlin', you know you can't fool ol' Joel. I see that fire in your eyes, even if you're tryin' to hide it behind that soda. Come on now, what's a man gotta do to get a smile outta you tonight?"
"Joel, please," you said, your voice flat, edged with the irritation. "Ain't in the mood."
He didn't take the hint—never did. Instead, he grinned wider.
"Oh lord almighty," he drawled, dragging out the words exaggerated. "The statue can talk, eh?"
He set his beer down right next to your soda with a clunk, and slid onto the stool besides you, his knee bumping yours under the counter—accidental, or so he'd claim.
The foam from his last sip still clung to the edge of his mustache, a white froth that made him look even more unkempt, more insistent.
"You look like you could use somethin' stronger than that coke, sweetheart. What's got you all twisted up? Some fool broke your heart, or this city just grindin' you down? C'mon now ol' Joel's got an ear and a shoulder, 'specially for a gal who looks like she needs a little…distraction."
"None of your business, Joel. Go bother someone else."
But Joel just leaned in closer, unbothered, his breath warm and beery against your ear as he launched into another rambling.
"Aw, don't be like that, Honey. I'm just tryin' to help a lady in distress. Let me buy you somethin' stronger…or we could slip outta here, find somewhere quiet where a southern gentleman can take care of you proper."
He took a long pull from his beer then, the liquid going down his throat, and when he set it back down, a fresh bit of foam clung to his mustache, dangling there for a second before he swiped it away with the back of his hand, smearing it across his stubbled chin.
You felt the weight of Joel's words settling over you like the bar's humid air.
"Look, I ain't tryin' to go where I'm not wanted. Just sayin' you look like someone life's been gnawin' on. I've been there. Lost a marriage once. Hurts like cheap whiskey goin' down."
His flannel sleeve rode up slightly, revealing a faded tattoo on his forearm, a blurry horse that spoke of younger, wilder days, and you couldn't help but wonder, fleetingly, what stories it hid or if it hid anything at all.
The blunt honesty surprised you, slipping past your annoyance and stirring a thin thread of curiosity.
"Yeah, well," you muttered, your voice barely rising above the hum of the room. "Doesn't mean I need your pity party or whatever this is."
But the words lacked their earlier bite, softened by the way his story mirrored fragments of your own unraveling.
Joel chuckled, his mustache twitching as he scratched at his jaw, stubble rasping against his nails.
"Pity? Hell nah, darlin', that ain't my style. See, after my own shit fell apart, I figured out the best way to forget is with a little company that don't ask too many questions, just shows up warm and willin', lets ya lose yourself in the moment till the sun comes up and chases the shadows away."
You swallowed hard, the tightness in your throat eased just a touch as his words wormed their way in, distracting from the echo of your ex husband's words.
"Company that doesn't ask questions," you echoed softly, the phrase tasting foreign on your tongue, your gaze dropping to the melting ice in your soda.
There was uncertainty in your tone, but a flicker of interest sparking, even if you didn't want to admit it.
"Exactly right," Joel drawled. "No drama—just see where the night takes us, you and me, darlin'. If you say stop, I stop. I promise, by the time we're done, them troubles'll be nothin' but echoes."
His implication clear as day, without shame and respect. The kind of blunt talk that should have repulsed you outright.
And it did, in part; disgust curled in your stomach, at the sleaziness of it all, this old man yapping nonsense like it was gospel.
Yet beneath it all, as your world of careful plans and shattered stability cracked wider, a strange pull tugged at you—an attraction born from desperation, the want of something to numb your thoughts.
"You're disgusting," you shot back, the words tumbling out sharper than intended, your cheeks flushing.
Joel didn't flinch; instead, his lips quirked into that infuriating smile.
"And you're beautiful, honey." he replied, his drawl softening.
The compliment landed unexpectedly, stirring warmth in your chest you hadn't felt in ages.
Overcome by the rush of it all; you acted on impulse, leaning forwards to press your lips to his in a kiss that was quick and fleeting, tasting the bitterness of beer and the rough scratch of his beard against your skin. It was a moment of raw need, but as quickly as it happened, you pulled back, confusion flooding your features, heart pounding.
Joel's eyes widened for a split second, surprise flashing across his weathered face, before that smirk returned, smug and knowing.
"Well now, ain't that a surprise," he drawled, voice thick with teasing triumph. "Looks like all that neediness was just bubblin' under the surface, waitin' for a little nudge."
You froze, the vulnerability crashing over you in waves, embarrassed.
Joel's expression shifted then, the smirk softening just a tad bit.
"Easy there, honey," he murmured, drawl low and coaxing. "No need to bolt like a spooked filly. I get it—world's been rough, leavin' ya all tangled up inside. But how 'bout we take this outta here, head to my van? It's got space, privacy, and I can help chase them tormentin' thoughts right outta your pretty head, least till mornin' comes callin'."
He nodded towards the door.
You breathed deeply, steadying the whirlwind within.
What the hell was wrong with you?
Your eyes met his, searching in those crinkled depths for something real amid the sleaze, and after a long moment, you nodded, accepting the uncertain path ahead.
Joel grinned, wide, sliding off of his stool with a grunt. He fished a crumpled wad of bills from his pocket, tossing them onto the counter, the bartender nodding absently as change clinked back.
Then he stood, extending his hand towarsd you beckoning you into the night, the beginning of something tangled and unexpected.
-
His van was...if you'd put it nicely...very compact.
Boxy, and worn down to its bones. The paint had faded into a chalky blue, chipped along the edges like old nail polish. Rust bloomed around the walls in stubborn freckles, and the back door had a dent big enough to suggest a story he'd never bother telling. A tiny row of potted plants sat on a narrow wooden shelf outside the window, their green leaves pressed against the glass like they were desperate for some water.
Joel's hand settled on your waist as he guided you forwards, fingers splayed just enough to steer you through the puddles without a word.
Who were you in that moment?
The woman who'd once ironed her husband's shirts on Sunday mornings, planned grocery lists with precision, traded her drafting table for community meetings and minivan keys?
And now this—trailing after a stranger's touch into the night, not knowing how it'd end.
"Y'know, darlin'," he drawled, "this ain't exactly the Ritz, but it'll do for keepin' the wolves at bay. Got a little garden out back of the park where I park most nights. Pretty flowers on summer and stuff. Ain't much of a flower guy though." He chuckled at his own nonsense.
You tried to school your features, to keep that flicker of disgust from showing: the way the van's interior peeked through the grimy windows, cluttered with stuff and a tangle of extension cords, a far cry from the crisp lines of your old house with its polished counters and linen curtains.
It almost repulsed you, that glimpse of transience, the life pieced together from scraps and stubborn will, but you bit back the words, swallowing them away.
Joel noticed it anyway; his hand tightened fractionally on your waist before loosening. He cleared his throat, the sleaze turning into something almost shy, almost like shame as he fumbled for his keys.
"Yeah... I know it ain't the best place," he admitted, the drawl softening, "Folks look at it and see a mess. But hell, it gets me through the day, y'know? Keeps the roof—such as it is—over my head and the road under my wheels. No mortgage chasin' me down, no fancy lawn to mow into submission. Just me and this old stubborn ass."
He shot you a sidelong glance, eyes crinkling with a forced grin, trying to lighten your mood with that rambling charm of his.
The door slid open with a metallic groan, releasing a puff of warmth laced with the faint, musty scent of unwashed blankets and motor oil.
And inside—much to your surprise—it was actually cozy and put‑together.
Sure, there were empty cans and bottles scattered around, and it clearly hadn't been cleaned in a long time. But somehow, it still felt warm.
There was a narrow space lined with built‑in cabinets, a real bed raised against the back wall with a worn quilt folded neatly on top and a compact kitchen with a proper stove and a tiny sink squeezed beneath a window. Soft fairy lights hung along the ceiling, casting a warm glow over the wood.
"C'mon, darlin', don't stand there catchin' your death," he said. "You can lay down on the bed if ya want—ain't no palace, but it's clean enough, or as clean as a man livin' solo gets. I'll crank up the heat."
He fiddled with the controls until the vent rattled awake, warm air stirring inside the van.
Uncertainty started to coil in your gut, as you sat down his mattress—a tangle of doubt and fleeting desire, the perfect wife you'd been fracturing further with each passing second.
Joel sank down besides you with a grunt.
"Look, I ain't gonna rush ya," he murmured, "We can just sit here, listen to the rain play its tune on the roof, talk 'bout nothin' if that's what you need. Or...whatever feels right. Your call, beautiful—no pressure from this side of the van."
His words washed over you, annoying in their length and sleaziness, yet oddly soothing, smoothing the jagged edges of your thoughts.
You nodded, barely, your fingers twisting in the hem of your shirt.
This wasn't you—climbing into a van with a stranger, a loudmouthed guy who lived like this, all nomadic and unapologetic.
But his promise echoed in your mind, that he'd fuck all your problems away, and part of you, buried deep, wanted to believe it.
Before your brain could catch up, you leaned in, smashing your lips against his in a rush of impulse again. Joel's smirked against you, that smug curve pulling him back just enough to break the kiss. His rough hands cupped your face, thumbs brushing your jaw.
"Well now, ain't you just warmin' up quicker than a skillet on the stove, eh?" he murmured, eyes sparkling like he'd won some unspoken bet.
You ducked your gaze, staring at the frayed edge of the blanket, your pulse racing under his touch.
"How long's it been since somebody touched this beautiful body of yours, huh?" He asked, one hand sliding down to trace the curve of your shoulder. "I mean, look at you—curves like a backroad at midnight, all soft and invitin'. Bet it's been a spell, baby, leavin' you all pent up and achin' without even knowin' it."
Too long.
It had been too damn long since anyone had looked at you like that, let alone touched you with intent.
You squirmed under his touch, that directness was disrespectful, disgusting in its bluntness, the way he talked to you like you were a prize he'd earned.
But god, the arousal twisted deeper, heat pooling between your thighs, making your breath hitch.
He didn't wait for words; his lips found your neck, pressing open mouthed kisses along the sensitive skin, stubble scraping in a way that sent shivers racing down your spine. He nibbled at your earlobe, teeth grazing just enough to earn a soft gasp from you, his free hand roaming over the swell of your breast, thumb circling through your shirt until your nipple hardened under the attention.
"Hey now," he whispered, "this still alright with you, sugar? I ain't pushin' if you ain't ready—though damn if you don't taste like trouble I been cravin'."
You nodded, words already failing as your body betrayed your caution, arching slightly into his touch.
Joel's grin widened, pleased, before he captured your mouth again, deeper this time, tongue sliding against yours in a slow, claiming dance.
He shifted, guiding you back onto the mattress with a gentle push, his weight settling over you. That big belly of his pressed down, soft and heavy against your stomach, pinning you.
He broke the kiss with a chuckle. "If you can't breathe under all this, darlin', just holler—though I reckon you'd rather I smother you a lil' more, keep you pinned like the pretty thing you are."
You rolled your eyes and pulled him back down.
Your kisses grew hungrier as Joel's hand wandered lower, tracing the dip of your waist, the curve of your hip, before dipping between your legs. His fingers brushed the edge of your panties, and you startled, thighs clenching instinctively, a jolt of uncertainty spiking through the haze of desire.
"Whoa there, easy now," Joel soothed, not pulling away but pausing, palm resting on your thigh. "Ain't no need to jump like a cat on a hot tin roof, beautiful. I got you—gonna take it slow as molasses in January, make sure every touch feels like heaven. Been doin' this dance longer than you think, and I promise, by the time I'm through, you'll be beggin' for more of this big ol' belly pressin' down on ya."
His words tumbled out, long and filthy, uttering nonsense half of you didn't even understand. But it distracted you from that uncertainty and replaced it with a fresh wave of want.
He slipped his hand under the waistband of your panties, fingers finding your slick folds.
You were soaked already, embarrassingly so, and he groaned low in his throat as he traced your clit in slow, deliberate circles.
"Goddamn, honey," he muttered, "you're drippin' like a summer storm out there."
He slid one thick finger inside you, then two, curling them just right to hit that spot that made stars burst behind your eyes. The stretch was big, his movements steady and unhurried, pumping in and out with a rhythm.
You moaned, the sound escaping raw and needy, your hips bucking up to meet his hand.
"Listen to you, moanin' like a siren callin' me home," Joel teased, thumb pressing firmer on your clit as he worked you deeper. "Sounds filthy as hell, sugar—got me harder than a fence post just hearin' it. Keep makin' those pretty noises; I could listen to 'em all damn night while I finger this sweet pussy of yours."
"Shut up," you gasped, half-annoyed, half-breathless, but the words unfortunately lacked any bite, dissolving into another whimper as he quickened his pace, the wet sounds of his fingers filling the van.
The coil in your belly tightened quicky, pleasure building quick, the months without touch, the sleepless nights, every stroke of his fingers pushed you closer.
And when the orgasm hit, it crashed over you in waves—your walls fluttered around his fingers, body arching off the mattress as you cried out, the release washing away all the insecurities in a flood of bliss.
"That's it, beautiful, come for me," Joel praised. "I got you, honey, ride it out...yeah, just like that."
As you calmed, Joel shifted slightly, his free hand drifting down to his lap, fumbling with the zipper of his jeans.
He pulled out his cock then; thick, heavy, already hard and swelling under his grip as he gave it a slow stroke.
Your eyes widened, locking onto the sight—veined and girthy, curving upward with a heft you'd never encountered, the head flushed and glistening faintly in the low light.
It was bigger than anything you known.
He chuckled, low and smug. "Like what ya see there, beautiful? Ol' Joel's packin' a bit more than most fellas, ain't he? Been told it makes a gal's eyes pop just like yours are doin' now—wide as saucers, wonderin' how it'll all fit. Don't worry, sugar; this big boy's got a mind of its own, but it'll treat ya right if ya let it."
"I want it." You whispered before you could even stop yourself.
What was wrong with you?
Joel's smirk widened, knowing, as he kept stroking, his thumb circling the tip to spread the bead of pre-cum.
"Oh, I know ya do, baby. Finally breakin' down for me, huh? Good girl—ain't no shame in cravin' what ya need. This pussy's beggin' for it already, I can tell."
You sighed, the annoyance flaring even as arousal pooled low in your belly, but there was a smile tugging at your lips.
He paused then. "Condom?"
You nodded quickly—you hadn't been on birth control since the divorce.
Joel rummaged in a drawer besides the bed, pulling out a foil packet with a grin, tearing it open and rolling the latex down his length with practiced ease, the material stretching over his size.
He smirked at you the whole time, eyes gleaming. "I'll promise ya some lovin' and care, baby. All these thoughts will be gone—poof, like smoke in the wind. Gonna fuck 'em right outta ya, leave ya floatin' on a cloud of nothin' but good feels."
You rolled your eyes, a mix of exasperation and excitement bubbling up as you didn't know what the hell you were doing, but in that moment, it felt right enough.
He shrugged off his shirt fully now, revealing the full expanse of his belly, soft and heavy, before nudging your legs apart and settling between them, his weight dipping the mattress further.
"Look at this pretty pussy, all pink and swollen from comin' on my fingers," he murmured. "Shinin' like a damn pearl in the moonlight filterin' through that window there."
He pushed in then, the blunt head breaching you inch by agonizing inch, your walls fluttering around the intrusion. It burned at first, a delicious ache as he filled you, his girth forcing you open.
You winced, discomfort flickering across your face, and he paused, one hand stroking your thigh, the other braced besides your head.
"Easy now, honey, breathe through it," he cooed, though his tone was laced with triumph. "I know it's big, but you're takin' it like a real champ."
"Shut up, oh my god," you hissed, embarrassment washing over you, but the words broke into a moan as he bottomed out.
Joel grinned, sweat beading on his brow, and shifted his weight onto you completely, pinning you beneath his bulk as he began to thrust—slow at first, deep rolls of his hips that dragged his cock along your inner walls.
"That's it, beautiful, feel me fuckin' ya deep, chasin' away every damn worry in that head of yours."
His pace quickened, thrusts turning rougher, the bed cracking in time with the slap of skin on skin, his belly rubbing against you with each drive.
He kept yapping, filthy stream of consciousness pouring out between grunts, his drawl turning breathless but no less annoying unfortunately.
"Fuck, darlin', this tight hole's milkin' me good—gonna fill this rubber up with my cum soon, mark ya as mine even if it's just for tonight. You love it, don't ya? Takin' every inch like a pro, moanin' for more."
The words blurred into sensation, your body responding despite the sleaze, hips rising to meet his as pleasure rebuilt, coiling tighter.
You clenched around him, cries spilling from your lips as it crested, waves of ecstasy crashing through you, your nails raking his back.
Joel followed soon after, groaning loud and guttural, his thrusts stuttering as he came, hips grinding hard against you while he filled the latex with hot spurts.
He collapsed then, breathing ragged.
After a moment, he pulled out carefully, disposing of the condom with a quick tie and tossed into a nearby trash can. He cleaned himself up with a towel from the floor, wiping away the sweat and stickiness, before turning back to you.
You laid there all breathless, chest heaving, skin flushed and damp, the emotional high crashing into a wave of shame that made you curl inward.
You rolled your eyes at his gaze and turned away, burying your head into the pillow, the scent of him overwhelming as regret whispered in your ear:
What had you done, giving in like this?
Joel noticed immediately, his voice softening as he reached out, hand resting on your shoulder.
"Hey...did I hurt ya? What happened, honey? You were all lit up like fireworks a minute ago, and now you're hidin' like a scared kitten."
You mumbled something into the pillow, the words muffled. He pulled you back gently, wrapping you in his arms again, that unexpected tenderness cutting through the post-climax haze like a balm.
You didn't cry, but you let out a big sigh, looking at a corner of the van.
The empty apartment, the signed papers, the life unraveling like frayed thread. It all came crashing down on you.
What had you done to deserve this?
You muttered against his shirt, voice muffled and broken, "I got divorced."
The words hung there, exposed, the rain seeming to pause in sympathy.
Joel pulled back just enough to look at you, his thumb stroking your cheek with surprising care, though his grin crept in, sleazy but laced with a sweetness that caught you off guard.
His eyes softened, just a fraction, and he murmured, "Oh, baby."
"God dammit, that mother fucker was sure as hell a dumbass to let you go like that," he said. "I mean, look at ya—pretty as a peach in July, all soft curves and fire in them eyes. He'd have to be blind and stupid to toss away a woman like you."
You couldn't help it—a laugh bubbled up.
His words were filthy in their bluntness, annoying in their endless sprawl, but they lightened the mood, pulling you from the edge.
So, you two stayed like that for a while, wrapped in his arms, the van's heater humming as the rain drummed on, his hand stroking your back in lazy circles until your breaths evened out.
-
The next day, he slipped his phone number into your palm while you were still asleep, pressed a quick kiss into your hair, muttered something about needing to get moving before his boss 'chewed him out like a dog with a bone,' and then left the van quietly so you could keep sleeping.
And when you came home again, disgust started to coil in your gut, sharp and unrelenting.
Was this who you were now?
Divorced once, the ink barely dry on those papers, and already fucking strangers in the back of a van just to numb the ache?
The shame washed over you in waves, hot and suffocating, but tangled in that was something far worse—the admission that it had felt good.
Too good.
Joel chased away those shadows in your mind, his kisses, sleazy as they were, had landed soft, pulling you under until the pain dulled to a distant hum. The way he pleasured you, something you haven't felt in years.
You didn't cry.
You never let yourself. Crying felt like a crack in the armor, and you couldn't afford to fall apart—not now, not ever. Not even as you got fired the next day.
Your boss's voice droned through the office like white noise—too many sick days, too little output, pack your things and leave.
You only nodded numbly, the words sliding off of you like rain on glass, and drove home in silence, the radio off, the engine's hum your only companion in that moment.
And there you sat in your apartment:
Divorced. Fucked by a random man in his rusty van. And now, fired.
Where was the perfect wife from years ago, the one with the husband who kissed her goodnight in their beautiful house, the one with plans and stability woven into every corner?
Still, no tears came.
You could remember how hard it had been, those days stretching like no end in near, each one heavier than the last, the weight of unraveling pressing down until breathing felt like a chore.
And in that moment all your eyes could see Joel's number on the coffee table, staring up at you like a dare.
You thought about it for two full days, fingers hovering over your phone in the quiet hours, the what ifs swirling in your head.
What would happen if you called?
He would say some sleazy, stupid shit. Tease you in that obnoxious tone until you rolled your eyes. And then? He would ask to fuck.
You felt so fucking stupid even considering it—chasing distraction from a man who probably saw you as just another notch—but god, he numbed the pain, turned the sharp edges soft, if only for a night.
"Now, who the hell is this callin' me up? I swear to the good Lord above, if this is one of them scam artists tryin' to fleece old folks outta their hard earned cash, you're barkin' up the wrong damn tree, buddy—ain't got nothin' but cigarettes in my pockets and a van that leaks worse than a sieve."
You swore you didn't want to call.
But a soft smile tugged at your lips despite the knot in your throat, the sound of him so vividly alive in that sterile quiet of your space.
"Joel," you said softly.
There was a beat of silence, then a low chuckle, lazy and smug. "Well, I'll be damned, if it ain't my favorite troublemaker callin' me up outta the blue. Here I was, sweatin' bullets thinkin' I'd scared you off for good with all my big talk and bigger belly." He said. "Hell, I been thinkin' 'bout you non-stop, beautiful, wonderin' if you'd come to your senses and give ol' Joel a ring. What's the word? You need a laugh? A ride? Somethin' more...interestin'?"
He talked and talked, words tumbling out in that endless, annoying stream, painting pictures with his charm.
Suddenly, the words spilled from you, unbidden.
"I got fired."
"Lord have mercy," Joel growled, the playfulness dipping into something almost genuine. "Fired? Shit, darlin', that's a raw deal if I ever heard one. You holdin' up alright? Tell me what happened, or hell, don't—ain't gotta spill it all if you don't want. But listen here, you sound like you could use a pick-me-up, and I know just the thing. You need me to swing by and scoop you up?"
He'd been thinking about that one thing again, the heat of bodies and the escape it promised,
but in the ache echoing through your chest, maybe that's exactly what you needed—a distraction.
So you whispered into the phone, "Yes."
-
"Goddamn, darlin'," he drawled, voice muffled against your wetness. "You taste like honey straight from the hive—sweet and sticky, makin' a man forget his own damn name. Let it go now, yeah? Tell ol' Joel what's eatin' at you 'bout that job. What'd they do to my girl, huh?"
It ached once inside your stomach when he said 'my girl' but it was quickly overshadowed by his tongue diving over your clit.
Joel's broad shoulders were wedged between your thighs, his calloused hands gripping the soft flesh there, thumbs pressing into your skin that sent shivers up your spine.
Tongue flat and broad, he licked a slow, deliberate stripe up your pussy, savoring the slick folds with a groan that vibrated through your core.
No words were said from the drive over—just his knowing grin as he manoeuvred his truck in front of his van.
And what happened next, didn't surprise you.
"C'mon, tell ol' joel what's bothering you."
You exhaled a shaky breath, fingers threading into his salt-and-pepoer hair, the strands coarse under your palms as the first waves of pleasure loosened the knots in your chest.
"The...the endless meetings," you murmured, hips twitching upwards into his face, the words fracturing on a gasp as he hummed approval, the vibration sending sparks along your nerves. "Talking in circles, nothing ever changing..."
He didn't stop, couldn't—tongue thrusting shallowly now, lips sealing around your clit to suck with rhythmic pulls that made your thighs quiver against his ears.
"That's it, beautiful, keep talkin'. What else? Gimme the dirt—bet they had you runnin' ragged like a dog chasin' its tail."
His free hand slid up your belly, palm warm and heavy, thumb brushing the underside of your breast in lazy strokes, grounding you even as he unraveled you.
"Boss...always breathing down my neck," you continued. "Criticising everything, like I was invisible until I screwed up. And the hours—god, the hours bleeding into nothing."
Joel growled low, the sound feral and approving, doubling his efforts: tongue flicking rapidly over your clit while two thick fingers eased into you, curling to stroke that sweet spot inside you.
Confessions started spilling freer now: "Colleagues whispering, promotions going to the loudest liars, feeling like I was drowning in paperwork that meant jack shit"—until the dam broke.
Orgasm crashed over you like a sudden storm, thighs clamping around his head as you came on his face, pulsing waves of release soaking his beard and lips.
You cried out, back bowing off of the mattress.
Joel pulled back slowly, chin glistening, eyes triumphant. "Fuck me, beautiful, that was a sight—comin' apart like Fourth of July, all fireworks and no holdin' back." He drawled.
He stood up then, the mattress dipping under his weight and rummaged in a nearby drawer, pulling out a towel, and dabbed gently at your thighs, cleaning your release with care, his touch lingering just enough to tease without pushing.
You sat up slowly, limbs heavy with afterglow, watching him through half lidded eyes; his belly strained against his shirt, the faint sheen of sweat on his brow catching the dim light filtering through the curtains. He caught your gaze and grinned, tossing the towel aside.
"Well, hell, I'm gonna miss ya as my lunch buddy now that you're footloose and free."
You smirked, a playful spark cutting through the haze, even as surprise flickered at your own words tumbling out.
"You got my number now."
Why did it sound like that?
Like you two were something official...
"Yeah," he drawled simply. "Gimme a sec—gonna wash up."
He walked towards the tiny bathroom, the door clicking shut behind him, leaving you alone with the hush.
Your eyes wandered and wandered then, tracing the faded photos pinned to a corkboard above the sink—mementos amid the chaos of tools and takeout wrappers.
One caught your eye: a faded snapshot of a blonde girl, no more than eight, gap-toothed smile besides a younger Joel, his arm slung around her shoulders, both squinting into the sun at what looked like a county fair.
"Is that your daughter?" you asked when he emerged, towel slung over his shoulder, voice light and curious, no weight behind it—you didn't know him and you didn't want to push it.
Joel froze mid-step, the easy smirk fading, his face hardening into lines etched deep by time and loss.
The air thickened, a sudden stretch of silence between you.
"Yeah," he said finally, voice low. "Lost her a long time ago."
You went silent then, nodding once, gaze dropping to the rumpled sheets.
This was the only time you ever heard about Joel's daughter. The rest was whispers and rumours from the bar. Even today, Joel never wanted to talk about it. And you didn't push him.
Joel cleared his throat after a beat and headed toward the narrow kitchen at the front.
"Hell, this bastard's hungry now—mouth's all worked up, but I ain't got nothin' but some sad ass lookin' tomatoes, a hunk of cheese that's probably seen better days, and fuckin' bread that's more hole than loaf." His sleaze returned, trying to lighten the mood.
You rose quietly, padding after him on bare feet, and leaned against the counter's edge. "Let me make you something. I don't need more than that."
He stared at you for a beat, something unguarded flickering in his eyes before he shoved it down. But you caught the way his features grew soft.
-
By the third time it happened, you stopped pretending it was an accident.
Joel had spent the days between calling you nonstop to complain about anything he could think of— payments, deliveries, the guys in the warehouse—just rambling into your ear until you fell asleep from sheer boredom.
You remember being deep in your job search—hours of scrolling through listings that blurred together into rejection and possibility—when your thoughts started to distract you again.
The phone buzzed on the coffee table, jolting you from the haze, Joel's name lighting up the screen like an uninvited spark.
"Honey, you ain't gonna believe the bullshit I dealt with today—had this asshole at the site yappin' about permits like he owns the damn place, breathin' down my neck while I'm tryin' to weld a frame that won't hold up to a stiff breeze. Swear to God, if I had to listen to one more word 'bout codes and inspections, I'd have shoved that clipboard where the sun don't shine. Anyway, enough of my griping—how's that fancy job hunt goin'?"
Bla bla bla and more bla.
You rolled your eyes.
But there was a pause then, his breath catching just a fraction, the bravado softening into something almost shy.
"Listen, uh... you wanna come over tonight? Or I could swing by and pick ya up? Ain't pushin', just...thought maybe we could unwind, y'know?"
You sighed, the sound heavy in the quiet room, the promise you'd made to yourself after the last time—no more distractions, no more surrendering to the pull of his rough warmth—cracked under the strain of solitude.
"Yeah," you said finally, voice steadier than you felt. "Pick me up."
So...you landed in his van again.
His lips met yours with a hunger tempered by familiarity.
You melted into it, hands finding his neck, fingers tangling into his strands as the kiss deepened—tongues brushing in lazy exploration, breaths mingling hot and ragged in the small space.
You pressed closer, the scratch of his beard against your skin a grounding rasp, the make-out stretching slowly, bodies shifting on the bed until you were half in his lap.
Breathless, Joel pulled back first, forehead resting against yours, his eyes searching yours.
"I was thinkin'...we could make this somehow official. Nothin' serious, mind you—just fuckin' around and stuff when we need it, y'know? Keep the loneliness at bay without all the messy strings." He grinned, but there was a flicker of uncertainty in it.
You laughed, the sound light and disbelieving, echoing softly in the van's cocoon.
"Are you serious? You want me to be your fuck buddy?"
The term hung absurd in the air, but it pulled a chuckle from him too, his eyes crinkling further.
"Yeah... why not? If we're gonna keep doin' this, we might as well call it what it is. Ain't promisin' the world, but hell, I could be your go-to when the night's too damn quiet."
You looked at him then, really looked—the way he held his gaze steady despite the sleaze, while you remembered the care in his hands after that first unraveling, how he wiped away the evidence of your surrender with a tenderness no one else had offered. The way his presence drowned out that hollow ache, letting you forget the spin of your life for stolen hours.
How were you able to numb those thoughts otherwise?
How could you deal with this loneliness eating you from the inside?
"Yeah," you said, the word simple and sure, sealing the pact with another kiss.
You remember that you were left wondering, even then, if this was just how Joel was—if he took care of everyone like that, if he softened for anyone who crossed his path. You told yourself not to read into it, not to mistake kindness for anything else. You assumed he was like this with all the people he let close.
You didn't know he'd cut them all off the same week he met you. All women, all men he hooked up with.
You didn't know you were the exception.
You didn't know he'd never been gentle for anyone else.
And you...you saw or still see him as temporary.
A placeholder.
Someone you'll leave behind once you finally get your life back.
You downloaded a dating app that same evening you agreed to the arrangement with Joel.
Two people agreeing to keep things simple, and only one of them caring too much.
-> If you'd like to be tagged for this series, please let me know!!!
i'm sooooo bad at past tense stuff so i hope this isn't super confusing and just somewhat understandable. I also hope this met yall's expectations on how Joel and reader met. This is how i always had it in my mind and well...it'll get angsty🤭🤭
Pairing: Daddy's best friend + mean!joel miller x f!reader
Summary: It was just supposed to be an easy fix. On the stuffed animal, thighs gripping it and in your mind your daddy's best friend. Surely, you hadn't planned for him to catch you. Or to bend you over his knee. Or to be balls deep into you the next moment, right?
Warnings: 18+, Smut, Mean!joel (he is back!!), huge age gap (20s and 60s), grinding on stuffed bear, orgasm denial, spanking, size kink, pet names, praise kink, slight degradation, pinv, clit rubbing, unprotected sex, crying, slight dub-con, darcyphilia, slight fauxcest (Joel calls himself uncle), dbf!joel, stern but also sweet joel, slight hair pulling, no outbreak
A/N: ummm my ADHD has been doing parkour in my brain so Sleazy!joel is taking his sweet time 😭 BUT I did write this little filler based on the mean!joel idea I had a few days ago, so enjoy this filthy mess pookies <333
Being home again is…unusual, to say the least.
Memories, emotions, things you thought you’d outgrown. You kneel besides an open box, sorting through old notebooks and trinkets, but your mind keeps wandering.
When you straighten up, your eyes catch the stuffed animal sitting in the corner of your bed, its fur a little worn, its button eye slightly crooked.
It looks like its been already waiting for you.
But you know that your dad mentioned that Joel was gonna stop by and pick up some tools he wants to borrow for a weekend project and—that could be nothing unusual, since Joel has been like an uncle to you while growing up but right now with the house so empty and your thoughts running, you find yourself giving in to that secret itch, straddling your old stuffed bear on the bed.
That plush toy, with its threadbare fur and button eyes, has been your guilty escape for years, especially with thoughts of Joel creeping into your fantasies back then—his broad shoulders, that deep voice, the way he handles everything around the house while having that strict, authoritative way about him—the same tone your dad uses, only sharper, meaner, and somehow aimed always right at you.
Your skirt is bunched around your waist, panties tugged aside, and you're rocking slowly, the soft seam of the bear's belly pressing juuuust right against your aching clit.
But lost in the rhythm...you do not hear the front door opening downstairs.
Heavy footsteps echo up the stairs, pausing outside your door. A knock—light, hesitant.
"Hey, kiddo? Your dad around? He said he'd leave them tools in the kitchen, but I figured I'd check up here too." Joel's voice; that thick, rough, southern drawl wrapping around the words like warm gravel.
Before you can even respond, the door creaks open, and there he is...tall and big, flannel shirt sleeves rolled up over forearms corded with muscle, jeans hugging his solid thighs.
His eyes widen as he takes in the scene: you frozen mid-grind, thighs spread over the bear, your face flushing hot with embarrassment.
"Jesus fuckin' Christ," he growls, "What in the hell are you doin', girl? Humpin' away on some goddamn stuffed bear like a bitch in heat? Your daddy'd skin you alive if he saw this shit."
He doesn't yell. Yet. But there's an edge to it, stern, like he's caught you sneaking cookies, not this.
His jaw tightens, and he averts his eyes for a beat, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck, the picture of a man wrestling with himself.
'Shouldn't even be in here. This ain't right. Girl's barely outta her teens, and here I am, starin' at... fuck.' Guilt flashes across his weathered face, creasing those lines around his eyes, but his boots stay rooted to the floorboards.
He doesn't back out. Instead, his gaze flicks back to you, conflicted, a flicker of something darker stirring beneath the disapproval—his jeans tensing slightly at the crotch, betraying him.
You scramble to pull your skirt down, heart pounding, but the words stick in your throat.
"Joel, I—it's not what it—"
He steps closer, slow, like he's approaching a skittish animal, his big frame making the room feel small.
"Save the excuses, honey. What would your daddy think, huh? Me walkin' in on his little girl like this, all desperate and spread out on a damn toy? He trusts me to look after you when he's out, not to...hell, this is a mess." His tone's firm, paternal almost, laced with that sternness, but there's a coo in the way he says 'honey,' softening the rebuke just a touch.
He reaches out, his large hand gentle as he grips your upper arm, pulling you off the bear with ease.
The toy tumbles to the side, fur matted with your slickness, and you stand there on shaky legs, panties still to the side, feeling tiny next to him.
"Now, you listen here," he says, guiding you to sit on the edge of the bed besides him as he lowers his weight onto the mattress.
His thigh presses against yours, warm and solid, and you can feel the heat radiating from him—the hard line of his cock straining against his jeans, impossible to ignore.
"You're better than this, sweetheart. Rubbin' yourself raw on some childhood relic 'cause those boys at school ain't cuttin' it? That's no way to learn about your body." He pauses, hand resting on your knee, thumb traicng slow circles. "But actin' like your uncle, I gotta teach you right. Can't have you hurtin' yourself on nothin' but fluff."
Your breath hitches at the contact, arousal pooling hotter despite the embarrassment.
"Joel, please...I didn't mean for you to see," you whisper, but your eyes drop to the bulge in his pants, betraying your thoughts.
He chuckles low, a rumble in his chest, but it's not cruel—more like a man who's seen too much and knows how to handle it.
"Oh, I see plenty, girl. And that pretty face all flushed? Makes a man wanna help." His hand slides up your thigh, calluses rough but careful, pushing your skirt higher, taking a peek of your pussy. "But first, a little reminder of what happens when you get into trouble. Over my knee—c'mon now."
He pats his lap sternly, but his eyes soften. "It'll sting, but you'll thank me later, honey."
Trembling, you drape yourself across his lap, ass up, the position exposing you fully as your skirt flips over. He's so, so big—your small frame fits perfectly over his thick thigh and you feel his hardness press against your belly, a promise of what's to come.
"Good girl, takin' this like you should," he murmurs, praise slipping in before the first smack lands—firm but measured, the crack echoing softly. It stings, heat blooming, and you yelp, tears pricking your eyes.
"Easy now," he coos, hand rubbing the spot immediately after. "That's for bein' sneaky in your daddy's house. He raised you all good—don't need you ruinin' it on toys."
Another spank, a bit harder, on the other cheek, and you squirm, the friction against his cock making him groan quietly.
"There you go, your skin's turnin' pink so pretty."
He alternates, five or six measured swats, each followed by a stroke or a soft word—"Breathe through it, baby, you're doin' fine" building the burn without overwhelming.
Tears well up, spilling hot down your cheeks, and he notices, thumb brushing one away when you turn your head.
"Cryin' already, huh?" He chuckles.
By the end, your ass throbs, red and sensitive, panties soaked through.
He helps you up gently, but his eyes darken as he tugs the fabric aside, exposing your dripping folds, middle finger touching your lips.
"So wet from a spankin'. Pussy's all shiny and swollen—too sweet for what those boys got, I bet. But I can fix that, teach you how a real man handles it."
His middle finger stays between your folds as he stands, unzipping his jeans, his cock jumping free—massive, thick and veined, easily bigger than anything you've ever had.
"Back on that bear, c'mon" he orders, guiding you with a hand on your waist. "Gonna show you the difference, but you grind nice and slow—learn to build it just right."
You straddle the toy again, the fur already damp and sticky from before, a yucky reminder as it clings to your slick skin.
Lowering yourself, you begin to rub tentatively, the plush dragging against your clit in messy slides—gross, the way it mats further with your arousal, but thrilling under his watch.
Joel positions himself behind you on the bed, his weight making it dip, hands spanning your hips easily.
"That's it, babygirl, move those hips," he praises, voice gravelly as his cockhead nudges your entrance, hot and blunt. But he doesn't thrust yet—teases, sliding along your folds. "Feel how big I am? Your little hole's flutterin' so scared but wantin'. Your daddy would have my hide for this, but you need teachin'—can't let you settle for less."
Guilt flickers in his tone, but he presses forward, just the tip nudging you, stretching your tight walls with a burn that makes you gasp.
"Oh—Joel, it's too much," you whimper, tears starting again, body tensing as you grind on the bear, the fur chafing wetly, adding to the overstimulation.
"Shh, easy, sweetheart," he coos, one hand stroking your back tenderly while the other fists your hair lightly, not yanking hard—just guiding your head back to arch you. "Breathe, honey. You're so tight, squeezin' like you were made for this fat cock. Just the head—feel it? Push back slow now."
He inches deeper on your movement, talking you through each bit: "There, darlin', another inch. Your pussy's openin' up so good, even if it hurts a lil'. Cry if you need to; those tears tell me you're feelin' it right."
He groans when you sob, his hips twitching, but he keeps it paternal, praising: "Good girl, takin' your lesson."
One hand grips your hips, his cock entering your walls. "Going deeper now—yeah, juuuust like that."
You rock on the bear, the wetness intensifying—the plush soaked, strands sticking to your thighs and folds, a filthy grind that makes squelching sounds with each roll. It's degrading, the childhood toy turned lewd, but his voice anchors you.
"Grind harder on that thing," he instructs, meaner now. "but don't you dare to cum yet. Earn it by lettin' me fill you proper."
He sinks halfway, the stretch agonizingly full, your small hole straining around his girth.
"What would your daddy say? Hm? His girl stretched on her uncle's dick."
Tears stream freely now, mixing pain and pleasure as he bottoms out finally, balls resting against the bear's fur.
"All in—feel me in your belly? Hold still, darlin', adjust to it." He holds, stroking your sides, cooing praises: "Proud of you, takin' every inch like a champ."
Then, after a while, thrusts start—slow drags out, then pushes in, talking through them: "Out easy...easy. Now in...deep. That's it."
You cry harder, the dual sensations overwhelming—the bear's damp fur rubbing your clit in sticky, gross friction, his massive length pounding relentlessly.
"That's it...real deep." He whispers.
"Joel—please, it hurts so good," you sob, grinding down.
"Yeah? Tell me more, honey," he urges, hand leaving your hair to cup your breast, thumbing your nipple. "How's that big cock feel compared to your toy? Deeper than any boy could go—gonna make you forget 'em all."
His pace builds, hips snapping, but he denies you—slowing when you clench.
"Not yet, babygirl. Hold it for me. Cry those pretty tears but don't cum."
Minutes drag, drawn out with his mix: harsh commands like 'Take it harder—learn it, that's it.' and tender coos like 'Almost there, baby, you're perfect.'
Your tears straining your cheeks, your cunt clenching down, as you try to hold the orgasm.
"Milking me so well. Pussy is eager to cum, huh?" He asks, stroking your sides. His thrusts quicken, head pressing right into sweet spot in you.
Finally, as your body quakes, he growls approval.
"Alright, cum now, honey. Real slow. Let go around my cock and on that bear." His thumb presses your clit against the plush, rubbing through the mess, while he pushes his cock deep into your cunt. You shatter—screaming, tears flooding, grinding wildly as waves crash, his thumb amplifying the release.
Joel follows, burying even deeper, cock releasing hot spurts and filling you up slowly. "That's it, here it comes. Take it real deep into that small pussy."
He collapses over you briefly then, breath hot on your neck, cock still releasing the smallest amounts of cum into you. He pulls out slightly, watching everything drip down onto the bear.
"Your dad's gonna kill me," he mutters, his hand strokes your back almost tenderly. "But you needed that lesson. Don't let me catch you on that toy again—unless I'm here to fix it."
I feel like i could've made him a bit meaner...but idk.
After years apart, you're pulled back into your ex-husband’s life when an accident leaves him believing you're still married. Forced to play along for his recovery, you quickly realize some things, like love, lies, and the past, don’t stay buried as easily as they should.
tags: 18+ MDNI, amnesia, slow burn, divorce, angst, a wound, pain, medication, medical terminology, but i'm not a professional so pls be kind. let me know if i missed anything!
words: 9.4K
notes: hello helloooooo! i am overjoyed that so many people liked the first chapter, and it really helped me with cranking out this one. i appreciate your thoughts! hope to see you all next week! - mack 🂱
Of course the house would look the same. Of course it would bring everything back.
Joel kept the house in the divorce. It made sense. You were the one leaving Texas, chasing something new, something far enough away that it wouldn’t feel like this. You knew all of that. You told yourself you were prepared for it.
Still, standing outside, staring at it, the familiarity knocked the air from your chest.
And then you stepped inside, and whatever breath you had left disappeared completely.
Nothing had changed.
Maybe a different TV mounted above the mantle, but everything else was exactly as you remembered. The same couch. The same backsplash in the kitchen. The same wallpaper, the same carpet.
The same wedding photos.
They hung exactly where you had placed them, like time had decided to stop here and never move forward.
The memory hits you before you can brace for it.
The day you got the photos back from the photographer, you had been so happy you could barely sit still. You wanted them printed immediately, couldn’t stand the idea of them just living on a screen. Joel had insisted on making the frames himself, staying up late at the kitchen table, measuring twice, sanding the edges down until they were perfect.
You had loved them more because he made them.
Before you can stop yourself, your hand lifts, fingers brushing lightly over the glass. Over your faces. Over a version of you that doesn’t exist anymore.
As if touching it might bring it back.
It doesn’t.
You haven’t been that happy in years. And somewhere along the way, you stopped believing you ever would be again.
New York had been hard at first. Too loud, too fast, too unfamiliar. But eventually, that became the point. Life moved quickly enough that you could get lost in it. In the noise, in the people, in the work.
Especially the work.
You landed a job at an up-and-coming law firm not long after you moved. Women-run. Sharp. Driven. The kind of place where no one questioned whether you belonged in the room. The past three years had been good. Busy in the best way. The firm was growing, and so were you.
And Winnie made it easier.
Your boss, technically. But never really just that. She was the kind of person you could grab drinks with after work, the kind who called you out when you needed it and sat with you when things got heavy. She told you things you didn’t always want to hear, but probably needed to.
Like last week.
“You’re too buried in work,” she had said, sliding a drink across the table to you. “At some point, you have to let yourself live a little.”
You had laughed it off.
But she wasn’t wrong.
Ever since the divorce, nothing had felt the same. No one had felt the same.
You tried. God, you tried.
You even switched it up completely. Went out with a girl you met on Tinder, thinking maybe you had just been looking in the wrong place this whole time. But there was nothing there. No spark. No pull.
Then there was Eli.
Four months. Four months of trying to convince yourself that something would click eventually. That feelings could grow if you just gave them enough time.
He was perfect on paper. Smart, funny, great hair, an even better smile. The kind of green eyes people wrote poetry about. Stable job, good with money, kind in a way that didn’t feel performative.
He should have been everything.
But he wasn’t.
And you couldn’t fake it forever.
Winnie never understood that part. She couldn’t understand why you let him go, why you wouldn’t even let her set herself up with him after.
But you knew. He wasn’t for you. And you weren’t for him.
Maybe that was just it. Maybe you weren’t meant for anyone anymore.
The thought settles heavier than you expect.
You thought if you moved seventeen hundred miles away, the air would taste different. You thought if you traded the sound of cicadas for sirens, you’d finally be able to hear your own thoughts without his voice interrupting them.
And for five years, you lied to yourself. You told Winnie, you told Eli, you told the mirror every morning that you were ‘cured.’ That Joel was just a fever that had finally broken.
But then the phone rang. A Texas area code. And before the woman on the other end even says his name, your heart is already at the airport. It didn’t ask for permission. It didn’t remember the yelling, or the boots tracking mud, or... or Claire. It just knew its owner was in trouble.
The doctors call it retrograde amnesia. They say his brain has a hole in it where the last five years should be. He looks at me and he doesn’t see the woman who slammed the door and signed the papers. He sees the girl who promised to love him until the end of the world.
And God, that’s the knife, isn't it? Because he forgot how to stop loving you... but you never even learned how.
You’ve spent five years building a fortress in New York. Steel, glass, billable hours, and expensive gin. You thought you were strong. But you walk into this house, our house, and you see the frames he sanded by hand. You smell the cedar and the dust. And you realize you haven't been 'living' in New York. You’ve just been holding your breath.
You look at him in that hospital bed, and he calls you 'sweetheart,' and for a split second, the world stops shaking. The anger? It’s there. The betrayal? It’s screaming. But under all that rubble... it’s still him. It was always him.
That’s the real tragedy. Not the accident. Not the memory loss. It’s the fact that you could be anywhere in the world, with anyone else, and you’d still be waiting for a Texas area code to light up your screen.
You never left him. You just changed your address.
You move further into the house, and every floorboard that groans under your weight sounds like an accusation. Each step feels like you’re trespassing on a version of your life that died a long time ago. Or at least, it was supposed to be dead.
Because it isn’t yours. Not anymore.
Your life is six floors up in Manhattan, tucked into an apartment that smells like the burnt espresso from the shop downstairs. It’s a space defined by west-facing windows and the sunset bleeding over the skyline while you sit in your nook, anonymous and safe. That life is quiet. That life is earned.
This? This is a haunting.
You make your way to the bedroom, the door creaking with that same familiar, high-pitched hitch that Joel always promised to oil but never did. The bed is a time capsule, same frame, same comforter, the same dent in the mattress where he sleeps. It’s like the house itself refused to believe you were gone.
You don't let yourself look. You can't. Instead, you move with a clinical, frantic energy, grabbing a duffel bag and raking clothes out of drawers. You focus on the fabric, the tactile reality of denim and cotton, anything to keep your mind from drifting toward the scent of his detergent.
But then, you open the sock drawer.
The air in the room suddenly feels twice as heavy. There, resting against the dark wood like a silent heart, is a small velvet box. Your stomach drops before your hand even reaches for it. You know. You know what’s in there, but your fingers move on an instinct you thought you’d killed years ago.
You flip it open.
There it is. Joel’s heavy gold band, scratched and dull from years of work. And nestled right beside it, tucked into the same velvet slot as if it never left, is yours.
The breath leaves your lungs in a ragged rush.
You remember the exact spot you left that ring five years ago. You’d placed it on the kitchen counter next to the keys, a cold, silver period at the end of a very long sentence. You walked out and never looked back.
But he hadn't thrown it away. He hadn’t pawned it for a bottle of bourbon or hurled it into the brush. He’d brought it in here. He’d kept them together. Like they still had a promise to keep.
Your chest tightens so violently you have to press your palm against your sternum, trying to keep your heart from hammering its way out. The silence of the house is suddenly deafening, filled with the ghost of the woman who used to wear that ring.
If I’m his wife, the thought hits you with the force of a physical blow, I have to look the part.
Dr. Anders’s voice echoes in your head, clinical and detached: Treat things as normally as possible. Don’t contradict him. You are his anchor.
Your hand trembles as you reach for the ring. It’s cold against your skin, but as you slide it back onto your finger, it fits perfectly. Infuriatingly perfectly. It’s a weight you aren't ready to carry again, a gold shackle that tells the world a lie you’re starting to realize you never truly stopped believing.
The "Mrs. Miller" you left behind in Texas wasn't dead. She was just waiting for him to call her home.
Your fingers tremble as you reach into the box. You pluck the ring from the velvet, and the metal feels freezing against your skin, a sharp, cold reminder of a life you spent five years trying to outrun. For a second, you just stare at it sitting in your palm, a small circle of gold that used to mean everything and now feels like a threat.
You take a sharp breath, close your eyes, and slide it onto your left ring finger.
It slips on perfectly. It doesn’t snag or resist; it just settles into the groove it wore into your skin years ago. The weight of it is immediate and suffocating. It’s a physical shackle, a gold anchor dragging you right back into a role you thought you’d finally shed.
You drop Joel’s ring into the front pocket of your purse before you can overthink the intimacy of the gesture, zip up the duffel bag, and walk out of the bedroom without looking back.
The drive back to St. Luke’s is a blur of shimmering asphalt and a rising sense of dread. The Texas heat presses down on the roof of the rental car, thick and demanding, but you’re numb to it. The only thing you can actually feel is the metal band on your finger. It feels like it’s burning a hole through your skin, a brand marking you as a woman who hasn't lived in this state for half a decade.
When you push the door to room 412 open, the sterile air hits you like a wall. Tommy is leaning against the windowsill, his silhouette sharp against the bright afternoon light. He looks over as you walk in, his eyes dropping to the duffel bag slung over your shoulder, and then, inevitably, to your left hand.
His gaze catches on the gold and sparkle from the center diamond. He doesn’t say a word, but the subtle, heavy nod he gives you says everything. Thank you. He knew you’d do it, but he also knows exactly what this is costing you. He sees the New York version of you disappearing in real-time.
Joel’s head turns toward the door, and that same devastating, open smile spreads across his face.
“There she is,” Joel says. His voice drops into that warm, gravelly register that used to make your stomach flip, the one that still does, despite the screaming protest in your head.
You force a smile, the muscles in your face feeling brittle and tight. You drop the bag onto the small sofa near Tommy, desperate for the distance. “Brought your favorites. The gray sweatpants, a few clean shirts. I figured you wouldn't want to leave in a hospital gown.”
“You're an absolute lifesaver, sweetheart,” he murmurs.
You step closer to the bed, the word sweetheart sending an involuntary shiver down your spine. It’s a label you haven't answered to in years. As you reach out to adjust his blanket, a nervous habit just to keep your hands busy, Joel’s hand comes up to catch your wrist.
His grip is gentle, but firm. It’s so familiar it aches in your bones. He tugs your hand down, pulling it to his chest, right over the steady rhythm of his heart.
His thumb automatically strokes across your knuckles. It’s a rhythmic, mindless habit, a language his body remembers even if his brain doesn't. Then, his thumb slides down to rest directly over the cold metal of your wedding band.
He sighs, a deep, contented sound that vibrates against your palm. He traces the edge of the diamond with his thumb, completely oblivious to the fact that your heart is hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.
“Missed you,” he says quietly, looking up at you with nothing but absolute, terrifying trust.
Tommy pushes off the windowsill, the faint scrape of his boots against the floor breaking the heavy silence. He clears his throat and shoves his hands into his pockets, looking anywhere but at your joined hands.
“Right, well,” Tommy mutters. “Now that the warden’s here to keep an eye on you, I’m gonna go track down Dr. Anders. See what kind of paperwork we need to sign to bust you out of here.”
Joel doesn’t look away from you. He just lifts his free hand in a lazy wave toward the door. “Bring the truck around to the front when you’re done. I ain’t walking across that parking lot in this cast with those annoying ass crutches.”
“Yeah, yeah. Princess treatment, I got it,” Tommy grumbles affectionately, slipping out the door and letting it click shut behind him.
The silence that settles over the room is immediate and heavy. It feels too intimate, too full of things you can’t say without breaking the fragile peace in his eyes.
Joel’s thumb is still resting over your wedding band. His skin is warm and calloused, a sharp contrast to the freezing metal digging into your finger. You try to subtly pull your hand back, a small, jerky movement, but his grip just tightens slightly, anchoring you in place.
“You’re shakin’,” he notes. His voice drops an octave, softening into that gentle, low timber that used to completely undo you.
“I’m fine,” you say quickly. Too quickly. You force your shoulders to drop, trying to mimic the posture of a wife who is simply relieved her husband is okay, rather than a woman playing a terrifying game of pretend. “It’s just… cold in here. Hospitals are always freezing.”
Joel’s brow furrows a fraction, his dark eyes scanning your face. He takes in the rigid line of your jaw, the way your gaze keeps darting to the monitor, the blanket, the window, anywhere but his eyes.
“Hey,” he murmurs, tugging your hand again until you’re forced to look at him. “I’m okay. I promise.”
Your breath hitches. He thinks you’re worried about him. “I know,” you manage to force out, the words tasting like ash. “The doctor said it was a mild fracture and a concussion. You just… scared me.”
Joel’s face softens into something so open and tender it makes your chest physically ache. He reaches up with his other hand, his knuckles brushing lightly against your cheek. You flinch, barely, just a microscopic stiffening of your spine, but he catches it.
For a second, a flicker of confusion crosses his face. But then he lets out a quiet, tired breath, brushing his thumb under your eye where the dark circles of a sleepless redeye flight have settled.
“I know you hate hospitals, darlin’,” he says gently, completely brushing off your distance. He rationalizes it instantly, packing your behavior into a neat little box that makes sense to him. “And I know you’ve probably been runnin’ yourself ragged on that big case you were talkin’ about last week. Add a midnight phone call about me fallin’ off a damn scaffold… I don’t blame you for being a little spooked.”
You swallow hard, your throat tight. That big case from last week. He’s pulling memories from five years ago. He’s placing you right in the middle of the hardest year of your marriage, but looking at you with a patience he lacked right before the end.
“Yeah,” you whisper, stepping back just enough that his hand falls from your cheek. You turn toward the duffel bag, desperate for a task. “I’m just exhausted. Let’s… let’s get you out of that gown. The sooner you’re dressed, the sooner we can get you home.”
“Bossin’ me around already,” Joel chuckles, a low, easy sound. He groans slightly as he shifts his weight, trying to sit up straighter against the pillows. “Guess that means you’re feeling a little better.”
You unzip the bag, pulling out the gray sweatpants and a soft, worn-out henley you found shoved in the back of his drawer. You keep your back to him for as long as possible, fighting the tremor in your hands.
“Do you need help?” you ask, finally turning around.
Joel is already working the snaps of his hospital gown, the fabric falling off one broad shoulder. He pauses, looking up at you with a smirk that is entirely too familiar. It’s the look he used to give you across the kitchen island.
“Well, unless you want me flashing the nurses when I try to get these sweatpants over this giant cast, I might need a hand, yeah.” He watches you hesitate, your feet glued to the floor. His smirk softens into an easy smile. “C’mon, sweetheart. Ain’t nothing you haven’t seen a thousand times before.”
The casual intimacy of the statement hits you like a freight train. You squeeze your eyes shut for a fraction of a second, battling the rising tide of panic, anger, and a grief so heavy it threatens to pull you under completely.
Just treat things normally.
You force your feet to move, stepping up to the edge of the bed. “Alright,” you say, your voice remarkably steady for how fast your heart is racing.
You step closer to the bed, your sneakers creating a soft squeak as you move. The air between you feels thick, suffocatingly so, as you reach out to help him with the remaining snaps of the hospital gown.
His hands drop to his lap, letting you take over. It’s an act of complete submission, of absolute trust, and it makes you feel violently sick.
"Arms up," you say. Your voice is strictly clinical. It's the voice of a lawyer who has detached from the emotion of a case, not a wife tending to her husband.
He complies with a soft grunt, the movement clearly pulling at the bruised muscles in his ribs and shoulder. The thin, faded fabric of the gown slips down, pooling at his waist, leaving his chest bare.
You freeze for a fraction of a second.
There are new scars you don't recognize. A small, jagged line near his collarbone. But the rest of him is exactly the same. The broad line of his shoulders, the dark smattering of hair across his chest, the warmth radiating off his skin. You used to fall asleep with your face pressed right over his heart.
You grab the gray henley, your movements jerky, a little too fast. "Here. Careful with your head."
You guide the collar over his thick hair, avoiding the white bandage at his temple. As he pushes his arms through the sleeves, his knuckles graze the side of your neck.
It’s a tiny, accidental touch, but it sends a jolt of electricity straight down your spine. You flinch, pulling back so quickly you almost trip over the leg of the chair behind you.
Joel pauses, his head emerging from the collar of the shirt. He doesn't pull the hem down right away. He just watches you, his dark eyes hooded and observant.
"You're jumpy," he notes softly.
"I just didn't want to hurt you," you lie smoothly, crossing your arms over your chest. A physical barrier. The wall going up. "Your head."
He doesn't look entirely convinced, but his brain is still too foggy to push the issue. He tugs the shirt down, wincing slightly as it settles over his torso. "Okay. Pants."
This is worse.
You swallow the lump in your throat and bend down near the edge of the bed. You grab the sweatpants, gathering the left leg so you can ease it over the bulky, gray cast.
"Lift," you instruct.
Joel leans back on his elbows, using his good leg to shift his weight as you carefully guide the fabric over the cast. You're so close to him now. The sterile smell of the hospital is fading, replaced by the faint, earthy scent that is just Joel. It’s a scent that has no right still being so familiar.
As you pull the waistband up past his knees, your hand accidentally brushes against his bare thigh.
You jerk your hand back like you've been burned.
Joel lets out a soft sigh. Before you can stand up, his hand reaches down, his warm fingers wrapping gently around your wrist.
"Look at me," he says.
It’s not a command; it’s a plea, quiet and rough. You keep your head down for a second too long, staring at the gray fabric of his sweatpants, at the way your hand looks against his skin. The gold ring catches the harsh overhead light, a bright, lying glint that makes you feel sick.
Slowly, you lift your gaze.
Joel is leaning back on his elbows, his chest rising and falling in a slow, heavy rhythm. The shadows under his eyes make him look older, but the way he’s watching you, with that focused, unwavering intensity, is exactly how he used to look at you before everything turned into a battlefield.
"You’re acting like I’m made of glass," he states, his thumb brushing the pulse point on the inside of your wrist. He can feel it. He can feel your heart racing, a frantic beat that contradicts every clinical word you’ve spoken. "Or like you’re scared to touch me."
"I told you," you say, your voice sounding thin and reedy in the quiet room. "You had a head injury, Joel. I’m just trying to be careful."
"It's more than that," he says, his grip tightening just a fraction. He searches your face, his eyes tracking the tension in your mouth, the way you’re holding your breath. "You’ve been... quiet. Ever since I woke up. Like you’re standing ten feet away even when you’re right in front of me."
He lets out a short, frustrated breath and shakes his head, the movement causing him to wince. "I know things have been rough lately. I know the work... the hours... I know I haven't been the easiest man to live with this past year. I've been angry, and I've been loud, and I've said things I shouldn't have."
You freeze. He’s apologizing. He’s apologizing for the version of him that existed five years ago, the one that was tracking dirt through the house and picking fights about your career. He’s trying to fix the cracks in a marriage that has already been shattered for half a decade.
"Joel, don't," you whisper.
"No, I need to say it," he insists, his voice growing thicker. "Wakin' up today... it was like a reset button got hit. All that noise, all that bickering... it doesn't matter. Not when I almost lost the chance to see you again. I'm sorry, darlin'. For all of it. I’m gonna make it up to you. I promise."
The irony is a physical weight in your lungs. He’s finally giving you the apology you would have died for five years ago, and it’s arriving five years too late, addressed to a woman who isn't there anymore.
You want to scream. You want to tell him that he did make it up to you back then, and then he broke it again, and then he ended it in a bar with your best friend in his lap. You want to pull your hand away and run until you hit the state line.
But then he pulls your hand up to his face, resting his cheek against your palm. He closes his eyes, a long, shaky exhale escaping him.
"Just be here with me," he breathes against your skin. "I just need to know we're okay."
He doesn't mean the divorce. He means the fight you had "last night" in his head. He means the tension that was brewing before the accident.
You stand there, bent over the edge of the hospital bed, your hand trapped against the stubble of his jaw. You don't say anything. You can't. You just let him hold you, a silent participant in a story that’s already over for you, but is just beginning again for him.
The door handle turns, the sharp click of the latch cutting through the tension like a blade.
Dr. Anders walks in, carrying a clipboard, followed closely by a nurse pushing a wheelchair. Joel takes one look at the chair and lets out a heavy sigh, his jaw setting stubbornly.
"I can walk," Joel grumbles, adjusting the hem of his henley.
"Hospital policy, Mr. Miller," Dr. Anders says smoothly, unfazed by the glare Joel shoots him. "Before we get you out of here, I just need to take a final look at that laceration."
The doctor steps to the side of the bed, and you instinctively move back, trying to reclaim some of the air in the room. But Joel’s eyes track you instantly, his gaze anchoring you to the spot, making sure the distance between you doesn't grow too wide.
"Let's get this bandage off," Dr. Anders murmurs.
You watch as the doctor’s gloved fingers work at the edge of the thick white tape. The adhesive makes a sharp, tearing sound against Joel’s skin. Joel winces, a low hiss of breath escaping through his teeth, and his hand twitches on the bedsheet as if he wants to reach up and stop the sting.
Without thinking, your own hand rises, a phantom jolt of sympathy shooting through your chest.
Don’t, you tell yourself, the thought cold and firm. You force your arm back down to your side, your fingers curling into a fist. Do not touch him.
Dr. Anders peels the gauze away. The skin beneath is a bruised, mottled map of purple and black, the center held together by a neat, ugly row of dark stitches. It looks raw. It looks painful. The reality of the impact, the height of that scaffold, the concrete floor, hits you in a sudden, sickening wave. For all the anger you’ve carried for five years, seeing him broken like this still makes your stomach turn.
"Healing nicely," Dr. Anders observes. He leans in with a small penlight, the clinical click of the switch echoing in the quiet. He checks Joel’s pupils one last time, his movements practiced and detached. "No signs of infection. I’m going to put a lighter dressing over it just to keep it clean, but you need to keep the site dry."
The doctor turns his attention toward you, shifting the weight of the medical chart.
"Mrs. Miller," he says. The title still feels like a bucket of ice water down your back. "I’m sending him home with a prescription for pain management and an anti-inflammatory. He needs to take them exactly as directed. I also need you to wake him up every few hours tonight, just to check his responsiveness. Standard concussion protocol."
Joel scoffs lightly, though the sound is tight with the pain in his head. "You’re gonna make her set an alarm to bother me all night? She’s already exhausted, Doc."
"I’m going to make her ensure you don't slip into a coma, yes," Dr. Anders replies dryly. He slaps a fresh, smaller bandage over the stitches with a crisp efficiency. He hands you a stack of discharge papers, thick, white sheets filled with instructions for caring for your ex. "Keep an eye on his mood, his balance, and any extreme spikes in confusion. And remember what we discussed in the hall."
The subtext hangs in the air, heavy and invisible. Don’t push his memories. Keep him stable. Keep up the lie.
You take the papers, the edges of the staples digging into your palm. You don't look at Tommy, and you certainly don't look at Joel. You just nod once, a silent agreement to the terms of your surrender.
"I understand," you say, your voice as clinical as the room.
"Good," the doctor says, already turning toward the door. "Then let’s get him into that wheelchair and out of here."
Ten minutes later, the nurse is wheeling Joel out of the room. He looks utterly defeated by the chair, his jaw set in a line of deep annoyance as the small wheels click against the floor. You follow a few paces behind, the duffel bag heavy on your shoulder.
Tommy is waiting at the curb, his truck idling and sending plumes of exhaust into the shimmering Texas heat.
"Look at you, riding in style," Tommy teases the second the automatic doors hiss open.
Joel lets out a curt chuckle, flashing Tommy the bird without looking up. "Shut up and help me get into this damn thing," he snaps, though the bite is gone, replaced by a weary edge that makes him sound older than he should.
It takes both of you to maneuver him. You have to get close, closer than you can probably handle, hyper-aware of the placement of your hands: one on his waist to steady him, the other bracing his back as he hoists the dead weight of the gray cast into the passenger seat. The second he’s settled, you recoil, stepping away so quickly you almost stumble off the curb.
"I'll take the back," you mutter, practically diving into the cramped backseat of the extended cab before either of them can protest. You just need the distance. You need a barrier.
Tommy catches your eye in the rearview mirror once he’s in the driver’s seat. He doesn’t say anything, but the look is heavy with understanding. He knows exactly what you’re doing, building a fortress, brick by brick, just trying to survive.
The drive is agonizingly quiet. The low hum of the AC struggles against the heat, and the muffled static of the radio barely masks the tension vibrating in the cab. From your spot in the back, you have a perfect view of the back of Joel’s head. You can see the rigid line of his shoulders and the way his hand rests heavily on his thigh. From this angle, the changes you missed are undeniable. There’s more gray lacing through his dark curls now, and the scruff along his jaw is thicker, grittier. He looks tired, not just from the accident, but in a way that suggests the last five years haven't been kind to him either.
Halfway there, Joel reaches back. His hand moves blindly, feeling for the empty space of the center console, searching for yours.
You press yourself harder against the door, pulling your knees tight together and staring fixedly out the window at the passing highway. You use the blur of the trees as an excuse not to see him, not to reach back. You let his hand grasp at empty air until, with a heavy, resigned sigh, he pulls it back to his lap.
When Tommy finally turns down the familiar oak-lined street, your pulse starts thudding in your ears. The tires crunch over the gravel driveway, rolling to a stop in front of the house. Joel looks out the window at the front porch, at the hanging ferns that somehow survived the summer and the peeling paint on the railing he’d always promised to fix. A soft, grounded smile touches his lips.
"God, it's good to be home," he murmurs, and the sheer weight of his relief hits you right in the center of your chest.
He pushes his door open, bracing his good leg against the running board. Tommy is out of the truck in a flash, grabbing the crutches from the bed. You sit frozen in the backseat for three seconds, your heart doing a strange, frantic double-tap against your ribs. It’s not just the urge to run anymore; it’s the terrifying pull to stay. Your emotions are being tugged in both directions.
Then Joel looks back at you through the open truck door. His dark eyes are tired, clouded with pain, but they settle on you with a quiet certainty.
"Comin', darlin’?" he asks softly.
The "darlin’" catches you by surprise, pulling you from your thoughts, familiar and sharp. You nod stiffly, swallowing the lump of uncertainty as you step out into the stifling heat.
You follow them toward the front porch, the wood creaking under your feet, a sound you haven't heard in five years.
Tommy unlocks the door, pushing it open with his shoulder while keeping a firm grip on Joel’s right side. You step inside behind them, and the air immediately knocks the breath from your lungs. It’s the scent, cedarwood, old leather, and that faint, lingering spice of his cologne. It’s a sensory tidal wave, making the last five years feel less like a new life and more like a very long, very cold intermission.
For a second, you aren't a lawyer from New York. You’re just home.
The heavy, awkward thud of Joel’s crutches against the hardwood snaps you back to reality.
“Easy, easy,” Tommy mutters, guiding him toward the living room. “Don’t put any weight on it, you stubborn ass.”
Joel grunts, his jaw tight as he maneuvers across the rug. “I got it, Tommy. Stop hovering.”
You hang back by the entryway, your hands white-knuckled around the straps of the duffel bag. Your eyes dart around the space, searching for your own reflection in the house. When you were here just a few hours ago, you were moving too fast to notice, but now the silence of the walls is deafening.
Five years ago, your heels would have been kicked off by the door. Your favorite coat would be hanging on the rack, smelling like the perfume he used to say he could find you by in a crowd. There would be a bowl for your keys and a stack of mail with your name on it.
But the entryway is stripped bare of you. It’s a museum of a man living alone.
You brace yourself, your pulse thudding in your fingertips. You wait for him to look around, to ask why your coats are gone, why the entryway table is empty, why the house feels like half of it was removed. You have the lies ready, tucked behind your teeth, but you find yourself almost wanting him to notice, to prove that your absence left a mark, even to this version of him.
He doesn’t.
In fact, his dark eyes slide right past the empty coat rack without a flicker of doubt. It’s as if his brain is simply filling in the blanks, projecting the version of the house he remembers over the reality of the one he’s standing in. He isn't looking for your things because, to him, you are already right where you belong.
“Just get me to the sofa,” Joel breathes out, a heavy sheen of sweat on his forehead from the exertion.
Tommy helps him pivot, and Joel sinks into the cushions with a long, pained groan. His casted leg stays propped up stiffly on the oak coffee table, the one you’d picked out together at a flea market three lifetimes ago. He leans his head back against the leather, squeezing his eyes shut as he rides out a wave of pain.
You stand there in the hallway, the duffel bag feeling heavier by the second. You realize that the house doesn't feel like the prison or trap that you originally thought it would. It feels like a memory that won't let you go. And as you watch the steady rise and fall of his chest, you realize the most dangerous part of the lie isn't that he believes it.
It’s how easily you could let yourself believe it, too.
“You good?” Tommy asks, hovering near the armrest.
Joel swallows hard, keeping his eyes shut against the thrumming in his skull. “Yeah. Just… spins a little if I move too fast.”
“Alright.” Tommy claps his hands on his thighs, taking a reluctant step back. “Well, I got you delivered in one piece. I gotta get back to Maria before she sends out a search party. You got the meds?” He looks over his shoulder at you.
You move into the living room, setting the duffel bag down on a nearby chair with a practiced, steady hand. “Yes. I have them. Go on, Tommy. We’ve got it from here.”
“Good.” Tommy walks toward the door, but pauses, looking back at his brother. A flicker of something complicated passes over his face—a mix of relief and a heavy, lingering guilt—before his eyes shift to you. “Call me if you need anything. Seriously. Anything.”
“I will,” you say quietly.
The front door clicks shut a moment later, the sound echoing through the house like a final seal.
And then, it is just the two of you.
The silence isn't the cold, empty kind you expected. It’s thick, and layered. Filled with tension of things you can’t say. You stand rooted to the spot, feeling less like a stranger and more like a ghost who accidentally stepped back into her own life.
Joel finally opens his eyes. He looks at you standing there, clutching your purse, and for a split second, a shadow passes over his face. It’s a flash of profound, ancient sorrow, the look of a man who has spent a long time memorizing the way a room feels when it's empty.
But then he blinks, and the shadow vanishes, replaced instantly by that soft, lopsided smile.
“You look like you’re waitin’ for me to go blank in the mind, sweetheart,” he says, his voice a low, teasing rumble. “Relax. I’m not gonna break again.”
“I’m just thinking about the schedule,” you deflect, dropping your purse onto the chair to free your hands. “The pills, the check-ins... I need to get you some water for your first round of meds.”
“Before you go play nurse,” Joel interrupts softly, gesturing toward the TV. “Can you turn that on? The quiet in here is making my head echo.”
You nod, grateful for the task. You walk over to the media console, your fingers finding the remote exactly where it used to live. You point it at the screen, and the low, familiar murmur of a sports broadcast fills the room, grounding the space in something mundane.
When you turn around, Joel isn’t looking at the TV.
He’s looking at you.
His head is tilted back against the leather, his dark eyes tracking you with a quiet, hungry intensity. It’s not the look of a man who saw you this morning; it’s the look of someone who has finally found his way back to the only thing that makes sense.
“What?” you ask, your voice barely a whisper.
Joel’s jaw tightens. For a second, the air between you pulls taut, but then he exhales, letting his head loll to the side to look at the screen.
“Nothing,” he murmurs, his tone shifting effortlessly back to easy. “Just... love you.”
The words hit you like a physical weight, simple and devastating. You escape to the kitchen under the pretense of getting his water, your chest heaving the second you’re out of his sight. The kitchen is a time capsule, but the signs of his solitude are everywhere. One coffee mug. One plate. No magnets on the fridge. It’s the kitchen of a man who stopped expecting anyone else for dinner a long time ago.
You turn the faucet on, letting the water run cold as you pop two pills from the bottle. You can do this. You just have to keep the rhythm. Helpful. Distant.
Then, you hear it.
Thump. Squeak. Drag.
The rhythmic, metallic strike of the aluminum crutches hitting the hardwood floor makes your blood run cold. You shut off the faucet, spinning around just as Joel’s large frame fills the kitchen doorway. He’s leaning heavily into the supports, his broad shoulders hunched as he navigates the tight space. He looks exhausted, his face pale beneath the stubble, but his eyes are locked onto yours with a startling, quiet intensity.
"What are you doing?" The panic rises in your throat, sharp and instinctive. You drop the pills onto the counter and move toward him, hands raised as if you could catch him. "Joel, the doctor said to stay off that leg. You’re going to fall and hurt yourself."
"I’m fine, darlin’," he mutters, his voice a low, raspy drawl that vibrates in the small room. He swings himself forward another step, the rubber tips squeaking against the tile.
"Then why are you up?" you demand, backing up until your hips hit the edge of the kitchen island.
He stops just inches from you. He’s so close you can feel the heat radiating off his body, the scent of the hospital fading under the familiar, earthy musk of his skin. Even injured, he has a way of making the room feel incredibly small, crowding the distance you've tried to maintain.
Joel shifts his weight, leaning into the right crutch so he can free his left hand. He reaches out, his rough fingers wrapping loosely around the edge of the granite counter, effectively trapping you between his body and the island. A slow, tired smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
"I've been stuck in that bed lookin' at beige walls and Tommy’s ugly face for the past three days," he says, his voice dropping to a soft, gravelly murmur. "I finally get to come home to my wife, and you run off to the kitchen. Didn't wanna sit in there by myself."
Your breath hitches.
It’s such a simple, reasonable request from a man with a broken body and a foggy brain. He just wants to be near you. But since you know the reality of the last five years, the words carry a suffocating weight. He hasn't just been lonely for three days; he's been sitting in this quiet, empty house for half a decade. And now that you're finally standing in his kitchen again, he physically cannot bear to let you out of his sight.
"I was just getting your water," you say softly, desperately trying to keep your voice level. You reach blindly behind you, grabbing the glass. "You need to take your pain meds."
Joel glances down at the water glass in your trembling hand, then back up at your face. He doesn't move back. He just stays there, soaking in the proximity, his dark eyes tracing the line of your jaw with a hunger that makes your skin prickle.
"I know," he says quietly, his gaze dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second before meeting your eyes again. "Just missed lookin' at you, is all. That a crime?"
The sheer, unbroken devotion in his tone feels like a slow-turning knife.
"Here," you whisper, holding out the pills. Your voice is stripped of its sharp edge, leaving only a raw, shaky vulnerability. "Take these. And then I'm helping you back to the couch before you fall and I have to call Tommy to scrape you off the floor."
Joel lets out a soft, genuine chuckle. He takes the pills from your palm, his calloused fingers deliberately brushing against yours, sending a jolt of heat straight up your arm.
"Yes, ma'am," he murmurs obediently.
You watch his throat work as he swallows, draining the glass. He hands it back, his fingers lingering against yours for just a heartbeat too long before he grips the handles of his crutches again.
“Alright,” he sighs, his shoulders slumping as the exertion finally starts to catch up with him. “Take me back. Before I actually do hit the floor.”
You set the glass down and step up beside his uninjured side, sliding your arm around his waist. He’s heavy, solid, and incredibly warm. Instinctively, he shifts his weight, dropping his free arm heavily over your shoulders. He tucks you right into his side, a puzzle piece fitting perfectly back into a place that shouldn't exist anymore.
The walk back to the living room is slow. Every step is agonizingly close. You can feel the steady thud of his heartbeat against your shoulder and the way his fingers curl loosely against your collarbone. When you finally reach the couch, you help him ease down, holding your breath as he straightens his casted leg with a tight wince.
He lets his head fall back against the cushions, eyes slipping shut as the medicine begins to take hold.
“You should go unpack,” he murmurs, his voice thick with fatigue.
You freeze. How does he know you need to unpack?
“Whatever work trip you were on… ya’ must be exhausted,” he continues blindly, his eyes still closed, completely unaware of the ice forming in your veins. “Go put your stuff away. Take a shower. I’m just gonna… rest my eyes for a minute.”
Your stuff. In the bedroom.
“Right,” you choke out, your voice sounding thin and hollow. “I’ll go do that.”
You back away from the couch and practically sprint toward the entryway to grab your purse and the small carry-on bag you brought from New York. When you step into the master bedroom and softly click the door shut behind you, the silence of the house finally turns into a scream.
You drop your bag onto the floor and stare at your side of the dresser. It’s scarred and bare. The nightstand where your lamp used to sit is an empty island of dust. You look at the closet door, knowing with a sick certainty that it is filled only with his flannels and work boots.
How the hell are you going to hide this?
You unzip your suitcase with trembling hands. You pull out the few things you packed, like two blouses, a pair of jeans, a pair of pajamas, and a makeup bag. You slide open the top drawer of the dresser, which is the one that used to hold your lace and silk.
It is completely empty. Wiped clean.
You dump your folded clothes into the hollow space and shut the drawer. It is a fragile illusion. If he opens the closet or looks in the bathroom cabinet for your shampoo, the lie will unravel in seconds. You make a mental note to get to a Target the second Tommy can take over, just to buy enough fake clutter to make it look like a woman still lives here.
By the time you walk back out, the sun has completely set. The living room is cast in thick, heavy shadows. Only the blue flicker of the muted television illuminates the space.
Joel is fast asleep on the couch.
His head is tilted to the side, and his chest rises and falls in a deep, even rhythm. The harsh lines of pain and exhaustion have smoothed out. He looks devastatingly peaceful. He looks exactly like the man you fell in love with before everything went to shit.
You glance at the clock. Wake him up every few hours, Dr. Anders had said. Check his responsiveness.
You swallow hard and step quietly around the coffee table. You kneel on the rug right beside his chest. The plush fibers dig into your bare knees.
For a long moment, you just look at him. Without his dark eyes tracking you and without the weight of his expectations pinning you down, you let the mask slip. God, you are so tired. You are tired of the anger, tired of the distance, and mostly you are tired of how much it hurts to be this close to him.
You reach out, and your hand hovers over his chest.
"Joel," you whisper.
He doesn’t stir. You press your hand gently to his shoulder and give him a small shake. The warmth of his skin seeps right through the thin cotton of the henley. It grounds you in a way you are not ready for.
"Joel," you say, louder this time. "Wake up."
With a sharp inhale, his eyes snap open.
For a split second, he looks completely disoriented. His pupils are blown wide in the dim light. He blinks hard, and his body tenses defensively before his gaze focuses and lands on you kneeling there. The tension instantly drains from his muscles. It is replaced by a soft, sleepy recognition.
"Hey," he breathes out. His voice is a gravelly, sleep-heavy rasp that sends a shiver straight down your spine. He shifts, turning his face toward you. "What time is it?"
"Just past nine," you say softly. You keep your voice level. "The doctor said I have to wake you up, remember? Ask you some questions. Just to make sure you are okay."
Joel lets out a quiet, huffing laugh. He turns his body slightly so he is facing you. He reaches out, and his large, warm hand finds the side of your neck. His thumb rests right against your pulse point. He can probably feel how fast your heart is going.
"Alright, Doc," he murmurs. His voice is deeper in the quiet. His eyes are locked onto yours, and they are heavy with an intimate, sleepy heat. "Interrogate me."
You clear your throat and desperately try to ignore the warmth of his thumb. You force your voice into a calm tone.
"What is your name?"
Joel huffs a quiet, amused breath. "Joel Miller."
"Do you know where you are?"
His dark eyes soften. They drop to your lips for a heartbeat before drifting back up. "I am in my living room. In our house. With my wife."
The words land like stones in your stomach. They are heavy and sinking, but you force yourself to press on.
"What’s your favorite football team?"
"The Cowboys," he answers without missing a beat. A faint, sleepy smirk pulls at his mouth. "Even when they are playing like absolute shit and ruin my Sunday."
You nod slowly, and your eyes drop to the rug.
It hits you then with a sharp and terrifying clarity just how much of him still lives in your head. Five years in New York. Five years of new restaurants and new cases and new people. Yet you still know exactly how he takes his coffee. You know he hates the smell of lavender but loves the smell of rain on asphalt. You know his favorite team and his worst habits and the exact way his jaw ticks when he’s trying not to get angry.
All this time apart, and you still know him down to his bones.
"Okay," you whisper. You gently reach up to pull his hand away from your neck. You place it carefully back on his chest to break the contact before it completely undoes you. "You pass. Your brain is intact. But you can’t sleep down here. It’s gonna ruin your back, and we need to elevate that leg properly."
Joel groans softly as you stand up and the reality of his injuries settles back in. "I thought you were supposed to be the nice nurse."
"I am the practical one," you correct. You grab his crutches from where they rested against the coffee table. "Come on. Up we go."
Getting him off the couch is an ordeal, but getting him toward the stairs is worse. The heavy plaster cast throws off his entire center of gravity. After just a few steps toward the staircase, his breathing is ragged. A fine sheen of sweat breaks out over his brow.
"Screw the crutches," he mutters. He leans heavily against the banister at the bottom of the stairs. "I can’t balance with ‘em on the steps."
"Okay," you say. Your heart picks up a frantic rhythm as you step up next to him. "Put your arm around me."
He doesn’t hesitate, wrapping his heavy and muscular arm around your shoulders. He tucks you flush against his side. You snake your arm around his waist, and your hand rests flat against the heat of his lower back.
"Take it slow," you instruct. Your voice trembles slightly at the sheer proximity.
The climb up the stairs is agonizingly slow. Every step requires him to shift nearly all of his weight onto you as he hops his good foot up to the next tread and drags the casted leg behind him. You bear it silently. You feel the powerful flex of his back muscles under your palm and the warmth of his chest pressing into your shoulder. His breath ghosts over your temple. It is ragged and warm, and it smells of mint and the lingering scent of the hospital.
It takes nearly five minutes to reach the top landing. By the time you navigate down the hallway and through the door of the master bedroom, you are both out of breath. You guide him to the edge of the mattress, and he sinks onto the comforter with a heavy and relieved sigh.
"Jesus," he breathes out. He runs a hand through his messy dark hair. "I feel like a helpless old man."
"You did good," you say softly. You step back carefully, putting a safe three feet of distance between you and the bed. You grab an extra pillow from the armchair and tuck it under his cast to elevate it.
Joel watches you. The fatigue in his eyes battles with something much deeper. He reaches out and grabs the edge of the comforter to pull it back. He is making room on your side of the bed. The side that has been empty since you left.
"Come here," he murmurs. His voice is a low and thick rumble. "I’m exhausted. Let's just go to sleep."
Your feet remain glued to the floor. Your heart is hammering so hard it physically hurts your ribs.
"I’m actually going to sleep in the guest room," you say. Your eyes cast downward to avoid his gaze.
Joel freezes. His hand stops moving on the comforter. He looks up at you with genuine confusion. A sharp spike of hurt flashes across his features.
"Why?" he asks. His voice cracks slightly. "We have a perfectly good bed right here."
You wrap your arms around your stomach as a defensive shield against the raw vulnerability in his eyes. "You’re injured, Joel. You have a concussion and a broken leg. I toss and turn in my sleep. If I accidentally kick your cast in the middle of the night or elbow your head..."
"You are not going to hurt me," he argues immediately. He shakes his head. He reaches his hand out toward you with his palm up in an open plea. "You’ve never hurt me. Come on, sweetheart. Don’t go across the hall. I just want you next to me. I-I sleep better when you’re next to me. Please."
The plea nearly shatters you. It takes every ounce of willpower you possess not to cross the room and crawl into that bed. You want to bury your face in his chest and pretend the last five years were just a terrible nightmare.
But you know the truth. The lie is already suffocating you. Lying next to him in the dark will only make the inevitable reality hurt worse when it finally crashes down. When he finally remembers everything, and it all goes back to the way it was.
"I’ll be right across the hall," you whisper. Your voice is thick with unshed tears. "If you need anything… just call for me. I’ll leave the doors open."
Before he can argue again and before he can hit you with another look of devastating betrayal, you turn on your heel and walk out of the room.
You step into the dark guest bedroom and pull the door mostly shut. You sink down against the wall and bury your face in your hands as the first silent sob finally rips through your chest.
Summary: Joel catches himself always staring as you walk over in that flimsy sundress, smile sweet as pie tugging at his restraint. Those pink panties you 'forget' on his bathroom floor? They shouldn’t make his pulse race, or have thoughts he shouldn’t entertain. It’s only laundry, but each visit leaves him harder, hungrier, and his restraint cracking further.
Warnings: +18, smut, pervert!joel, age gap (20s and 60s), neighbour!joel, unprotected sex, pinv, dub-con (?), pantie sniffling and licking, fingering, clit rubbing, cream-pie, male!masturbation, praise kink, degradation, teasing, no outbreak
A/N: hey babes 🩷 took a little break but I’m easing back in. this one’s on the shorter side, and i really missed writing this pervy old, old man…sooo I hope you enjoy it pookies!! <33
You know, the first time it happened, Joel didn’t think much of it.
It can happen to anyone, no? Leaving dirty underwear on the bathroom floor of your old neighbor?
Joel decided to let it slide when it happened, just because you’re the bubbly girl next door, 20-something with your little ‘hello’s’ in sundresses that hug your curves just right. And he already hated himself for catching himself staring at your ass when you bend over to garden, or your tits bouncing as you jog by, ‘She’s half my age, for fuck’s sake’—but his cock twitches anyway because, yeah, it’s been forever since he’s buried himself balls-deep in a tight, wet pussy and filled it up to the brim.
He was only a man, after all.
So when you knocked on his door, the first time, with a smile sweet as pie, asking if you can use his washing machine because your ancient piece a’ shit gave up on you, and you have week-old clothes, he couldn’t say no, his eyes fixated on the soft, baby pink bras and thongs in your basket.
And after you did your load, he came back to find one of your pink cotton panties on the bathroom floor (maybe it slipped from the basket, he thinks).
Joel picked it up, saw the faint damp spot in the crotch from your day, and that night, alone in his dim bedroom, he wrapped it around his thick cock and stroked real hard, imagining your sweet face as he grunted and shot ropes of cum into the fabric, staining it further.
Guilt hit after, of course. But the high lingered.
Then, it happened again. You, wanting to use his machine, with a: “It takes forever to be repaired, I’m sorry.” And then leaving yet another lacy, pink underwear on his floor.
That time, Joel was bolder—he sniffed it first, tongue darting out to taste the salt, then jerked off in the laundry room by himself, leaning against the dryer, fantasizing about bending you over it and rutting into you from behind until he flooded your cunt with his load.
And now, when he hears the door knocking, he anticipates that you want to drop off yet another one of your panties on his bathroom floor because the repair guy is taking so long, but—a third time? That would be a bit too much, wouldn’t it?
“Again? That’s the third time now, darlin’. Your machine still out?”
There you are; standing once again with a basket full of pink underwear, an apologising smile on your face and a soft sundress clinging to your skin in the humid afternoon air.
You nod quickly, shifting the basket in your arms, your voice coming out small. “I’m really sorry, Mr. Miller. The repair guy’s dragging his feet. It won’t take long, promise.”
He sighs heavy, trying not to show his excitement, and steps aside to let you in.
“Fine. But you just like wastin’ my water, huh?Comin’ over here every other day.”
You set the basket down by the washer in his cramped bathroom, glancing up at him with a soft laugh that doesn’t quite hide your nerves. Your cheeks tint pink as you start loading the clothes.
“No, s’not like that, Mr. Miller. I appreciate it, really.” You say.
As you bend over, one hand ‘accidentally’ brushes your pocket—a pair of your sheer, white silk panties tumbles out, landing softly besides the machine. You straighten up quick, pretending not to notice, but you bite your lip hard, pulse thumping.
Joel spots it right away, blood rushing through his cock, jaw clenching tight. He crosses his arms over his chest, leaning against the door with that stern look. “And those panties…”
You swallow hard, your face heating up like fire, eyes flicking to the floor. “W-what?”
Shit, you were caught.
You knew this was gonna happen the third time. I mean, who the hell even washes laundry three times a week?
“You like leavin’ me little souvenirs?” His words come out firm, almost instructional, like he’s correcting a bad habit, but there’s a husky rumble underneath that he can’t quite mask.
He’s trying to play the responsible neighbor, the gruff teacher, but you see the way his jeans tighten, the tension in his stance.
You fumble with the last shirt in the basket. “I... they’re just laundry. Must’ve fallen again.”
Again, again and again?
He chuckles.
Joel steps closer, slow and deliberate, bending down to pick up the panties with just two fingers. He holds them out like they’re proof in some lesson plan, dangling them in front of you.
“First time, fine—must’ve fallen. Second? Alright. The third? Right in front of me? What the hell’s that about?” His voice is gruff, eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that demands answers.
Inside, you know he’s been thinking about it—about you—just like you’ve hoped.
Your breath catches, and you squirm a little, the sundress suddenly too tight against your hardening nipples. “Can I have them back? Please?”
“They’re full of cum now, girl. Both pairs. What’d you expect me to do, just toss ‘em? After you left ‘em there, all damp and smellin’ like you?”
And you would be surprised, ashamed even embarrassed if it wasn’t exactly what you were planning on. The old, lonely man from next door who always stares at your tits when you walk by, who always has an eye on your curves when you bend over.
Who would’ve thought that he would use the panties you left for them?
You press your thighs together as a rush of wetness soaks your bare pussy—no panties underneath this time, just for the risk of it.
“You…you used them? Mr. Miller, that’s—“
—That’s disgusting and perverted, and you sure as hell didn’t want that to happen? Oh yeah, sure.
Joel’s restraint cracks just a fraction; he stuffs the panties into his pocket and shuts the door behind you both, then he backs you up against the sink, not crowding you fully, but close enough that you feel the heat rolling off his body, smell the faint musk of him.
“Need to teach you some damn manners, apparently.”
“Teach me?” you whisper, your voice half-challenge, half-plea, hands twisting in the fabric of your dress as flutters build low in your belly.
“Yeah. Lesson one: Teasin’ like that gets a man thinkin’ things he shouldn’t.” His rough palm cups your cheek, thumb brushing over your bottom lip—gentle in that gruff way, like he’s demonstrating instead of just saying. “You been droppin’ these on purpose? Hopin’ I’d notice? Hm, baby?”
“No... I mean, maybe a little. But I didn’t think—“ You avert your eyes, flustered, but you lean into his touch anyway, craving more.
He tilts your chin up with firm fingers, his eyes stern and unyielding.
“Look at me when you answer. Been jerkin’ off to your scent every night, fist pumpin’ hard while I pictured slidin’ my cock into that tight little pussy of yours. That’s what you wanted huh? Me leakin’ all over your pretty panties, fillin’ ‘em up with my load.”
His other hand trails down your side, calluses scraping lightly, then hooks the hem of your dress and inches it up slow, exposing your thighs.
You whimper, nodding as your face burns hotter. “I’m sorry. I just...wanted to you notice me. Makes me feel...”
“Wanted? Fuck, yeah, you are.” He finishes it for you, voice dropping to a gravelly growl, his hand slipping higher to discover you’re bare beneath.
His fingers trace your slick folds, parting them gently at first.
“Christ, no panties today? Lesson two: Own what you provoke. You’re soakin’ wet already, drippin’ down your thighs for an old man like me.”
He circles your clit with his middle finger, pressing just right—slow, firm circles that make your knees buckle. You love it, the way his filthy words twist in your gut, making you clench around nothing.
“Mr. Miller—“ you moan out, hips bucking forward instinctively, chasing the pleasure. Your hands grip the sink edge behind you, flustered breaths coming fast.
“That’s it, sweetheart. Say it—admit you left ‘em for me, wanted me strokin’ my cock to the thought of buryin’ it in you.”
He dips one thick finger inside your pussy, curling it deep to stroke your inner walls, the stretch making your eyes roll back. His free arm braces above you on the mirror, caging you in as he pumps slow, agonising.
You gasp, walls fluttering around him.
“I did...wanted you to touch yourself to me. Please, show me more.”
The words tumble out, embarrassed but honest, and you push back onto his hand, loving how full he makes you already.
“Good girl. Y’learnin’ fast.” He adds a second finger, stretching you wider, thrusting them in and out with wet, obscene sounds that echo off the tiles. His thumb starts working your clit, building that coil tighter.
“Feel that? How your greedy little cunt sucks me in? Been dreamin’ of this—your tight hole grippin’ me like it never wants to let go.”
You nod frantically, moans spilling free as pleasure sparks through you. “Yes—feels so good, don’t stop.”
Your body loves every filthy syllable, the way he talks like he’s claiming you, making your arousal drip down his knuckles.
He withdraws his fingers suddenly, leaving you aching and empty, and you whine at the loss. But then the rasp of his zipper fills the air and his cock springs free—thick, veined, the head flushed pink and leaking pre cum. He wraps his hand around the base, stroking once, twice, his eyes devouring you.
“Lesson three: How it feels to take what’s been buildin’ up. Gonna fuck this sweet pussy raw, fill it with my cum just like I did your panties.”
He rubs the fat head along your slit, coating himself in your juices, teasing your entrance.
“Sweet pussy. Sweet fuckin’ pussy. Been so long since I had one this tight and wet.” He growls.
You love it, the praise mixed with his dirty edge, making you throb for him.
With a low, guttural groan, he pushes in—inch by thick inch, the stretch burning so good as your walls part for him.
“Breathe through it, darlin’, let me in deep.” His hands grip your hips hard, guiding you down onto him until he’s buried to the hilt, balls pressed against your ass. “Thaaat’s it, honey.”
You brace on the sink, pushing back to meet him, the fullness overwhelming you.
“Mr. Miller—oh god, you’re so big. Deeper, please.” Your voice is breathy, flustered, but you rock your hips, loving how he splits your pussy right open.
He starts thrusting—slow at first, pulling out almost all the way before slamming back in, the slap of his hips against your ass punctuating each drive. One hand slides up to cup your breast through the dress, pinching your nipple hard enough to make you arch.
“That’s right, take every inch. Been holdin’ back too long from a little tease like you—now you’re milkin’ my cock, beggin’ for it without sayin’ a word.”
His pace picks up, pounding deeper, the angle hitting that spot inside you that makes stars burst behind your eyes.
You cry out, legs trembling as you wrap one around his waist, pulling him closer.
“Yes—fuck me harder, Mr. Miller.” The words feel bold, but his filthiness eggs you on, your pussy clenching rhythmically around him.
“Greedy girl.”
He grunts with each thrust, sweat beading on his brow, his free hand dropping to rub your clit in tight circles. The dual sensation has you spiraling, the bathroom filling with the wet sounds of him fucking you senseless, your walls clamping down real greedily.
“I’m close, don’t stop.” You whimper out.
You shatter first, orgasm crashing over you like a wave—your pussy spasms wildly around his cock, gushing wetness as you scream his name.
He follows right after, burying himself balls-deep with a low goran, his cock throbbing as he unloads. Thick ropes of hot cum pulse into you, flooding your walls, so much so that it starts leaking out around him with every grind.
“Take it all, darlin’—fillin’ this sweet pussy up, markin’ you with my seed. Fuck, you’re perfect—taking every drop.”
He holds you pinned there through the aftershocks, his mouth crashing down on yours in a deep, possessive kiss, tongue claiming as his cock pumps the rest of his spurts.
Finally, he pulls out slow, watching with dark eyes as his cum drips from your swollen pussy, trailing down your thighs.
“Trouble,” he mutters gruffly against your lips, but his hand strokes your back soft, almost tender. “But you’re gettin’ the idea now.”
