Broken Hearts Lead To Fandoms

Teesh. Dean!Girl. Pedro Stan. 29. Consumer of probably way too many (or just the right amount) of fics. Been working on one of my own but am nervous to post it.

[markmjensen]

Jensen Ackles as Mark Meachum | Countdown 1.11

[inacatastrophicmind]

Jensen Ackles as Mark Meachum in Countdown S01E11

[the-pandora-jar]

Any minor inconvenience in my life: happens

Me and my sensitive ass:

[thriftedtchotchkes]

his favorite girl, part i

pairing: joel miller x f!reader

summary: joel agrees to teach you how to play guitar for a college course, but you can't keep your eyes off him long enough to learn. he really likes that.

warnings: 18+ MDNI, language, guitar teacher!joel, no outbreak, big age gap (reader’s 22, joel’s 56), slow-burn, sexual tension, finger kink, slight dubcon, touching, smut for later chapters, some fluff, mostly angst

word count: 3.3k

a/n: my first chaptered fic! dedicated to joel's fingers! i've been playing guitar a lot more lately so...yeah 🥲 thinking this'll probably be 3 or 4 chapters? as always, thoughts and feedback are always appreciated! hope y'all enjoyy

Don’t stare at his fingers. Don’t stare at his fingers. He’s doing you a huge favor by teaching you to play guitar in the first place. The least you can do is pay attention and stop staring at his fingers. 

But it’s a lost cause, and you know it, because you’d have no hope of learning without staring at his fingers. 

Even so, you’re convinced he’ll somehow know that’s not the real reason you’re watching them so intently. The way they hop gracefully from fret to fret, strings biting into his well-earned calluses, producing the most beautiful chords that ring out perfectly with every strum. 

It’s a wonder any of that is even possible for him. You don’t mean to knock his talent—he obviously honed his craft through decades of fine-tuning and dedicated practice—but his fingers are just so thick.

With your clumsy, beginner’s touch, you’re constantly fumbling with the strings, unable to press down hard enough or keep your other fingers out of the way for them to vibrate the way they need to. They just sort of…fizzle.

But there’s a finesse to how he plays. It also helps that his guitar is a lot bigger than yours. It's a totally innocuous thought, but it still warms your cheeks a little. A big guitar for a big man. Broad and tall, with those thick, thick fingers—

“Hey, you still with me?” 

You’re not sure when he stopped playing, but you really hope it was right before he said something. Otherwise, he definitely knows exactly what you were thinking about, and that would be humiliating. 

Not a great start to your first guitar lesson, but how were you supposed to know your teacher was going to look like that? When your music theory professor recommended him, he conveniently left that part out, which, whatever, makes sense. But it still would’ve been helpful to know ahead of time.

Joel Miller. 56 years old. Has a ton of experience and takes on very few students, so you should consider yourself lucky. That’s all of the information you were given before you stepped into his house this afternoon, and were greeted by possibly the hottest man you’ve ever seen. He was supposed to be your ticket to an A on your senior thesis. But you’re totally flubbing it.

“Y-yeah, sorry, just got a little distracted,” you laugh awkwardly, wishing you had said anything else but that. You couldn't be any more obvious if you tried. “Won’t happen again, promise.” 

He’s kind enough to pretend you’re not a filthy liar and taps the neck of his guitar to redirect your focus. “S’alright. We’ll just take it from the top. You remember the fingerin' for the first chord?”

You gape at him dumbly for a second. He’s kidding, right? You might as well leave now if he’s going to keep saying fingering with that devastating Southern drawl of his. 

“Um, yeah, I think so,” you sputter, lying for the second time in a row. You're struggling to recall anything from your lesson but, god, you can only remember his fingers, not their placement. With no confidence whatsoever, you press your fingertips down firmly on the three strings you think he showed you. “Here, right?” 

He quirks a brow. “You askin’ me or tellin’ me?” 

Ah, so he’s that kind of teacher. The 'learn the hard way', 'fail on your own until you succeed' type. Well, he’s about to learn that you’re not that kind of student.

“…Telling?” Your voice lilts with even less confidence. He chuckles, nodding at your finger placement.

“Let’s hear it, then,” he says expectantly, the slightest hint of a smile on his face. You can’t tell if that’s a good thing or a bad thing, but you’re about to find out. You strum slowly, and the sound reverberates around the room. 

Wrong. 

His smile widens just a fraction as you grimace, quickly wrapping your hand around the neck of the guitar to stop the horrible noises still playing from it. You look over at him, wincing, but he doesn’t seem frustrated. If anything, he seems patient.

“Not quite,” he shakes his head, moving his instrument out of his lap so he can shift closer to where you’re sitting further down the couch. The cushion dips with his weight, and you tip into him slightly, but he remains completely unfazed. “Lemme show you again—and pay attention this time, alright?”

You start to nod apologetically, but then he throws an arm behind you on the back of the couch, and all hope of retaining whatever he’s about to teach you goes out the window. Instead of showing you on his own guitar, he gestures for you to hold yours up, gently arranging your fingers on the frets.

His fingertips whisper against yours like he’s hesitant to touch you, softly tugging them into place before pressing down, showing you the right amount of pressure to apply. 

They feel just as warm and rough as you’d imagined, dwarfing yours by a long shot, and the realization makes your fingers accidentally twitch out of place. Your eyes dart up to gauge his reaction and lock with his, deep and brown, and very amused. 

“Doin’ alright there?” he teases, and now you know he’s on to you. You try to play it off, blaming it on your inexperience.

“Just haven't gotten used to using those muscles yet," you mumble, moving your hand away from his to flex your fingers. "Not sure I've ever had to stretch them like that before."

 "'m sure ya have. Probably just didn't realize it at the time. That kinda muscle soreness comes from prolonged repetition—repeatin' an action over 'n over," he explains in that syrupy-sweet accent, completely unaware of how his words are affecting you. "Bet ya use those fingers for a lot'a different things every day, just nothin' long or strenuous enough to leave you achin'."

You bite your lip to keep from reacting. He has to know what he's doing right now. How he sounds. This conversation is starting to veer into dangerous territory, but the weird thing about it is that he genuinely doesn't seem to realize that everything he's saying has a double meaning. To you, at least. You knew all this fingering talk was going to get you into trouble. 

"Uhh, yeah," you agree, side-stepping that line of thought to bring yourself back to the lesson, but it's getting harder to stay focused. "I guess I just thought playing would mostly be memorization, but there's a lot of physicality to it, too, huh?" 

"Yeah, s'pose that's true," he muses, looking down at the calluses on his own hand. This time you refuse to take the bait, your breathing already too shallow, heart nearly pounding out of your chest with how close he's sitting. But he’s still completely calm and collected. "Your hand hurtin' a lot right now?"

You shrug, inspecting your reddening fingertips. "Kinda, yeah."

"It's like that in the beginnin’," he says kindly. "But the more ya play, the tougher the skin gets, and ya won't feel it as much." 

He surprises you by taking your hand again, massaging the tender skin between his thumb and index fingers. God, that feels so much better already. The heat of his fingertips seeps into yours, soothing the painful indents left by the unforgiving strings, and you let out a breathy sigh of relief. 

You feel his entire body tense palpably next to you. It might be your imagination or just wishful thinking, but you swear you can feel his warmth radiating into your side, somehow even closer than before. Your brain’s starting to fizzle more than the sound of your shitty guitar playing, and the room feels a little hotter. Hazier, like a daydream.

"That feel good?" he murmurs, lips practically brushing the shell of your ear.

Definitely closer.

“Y-yeah, feels nice…really nice,” you stutter, voice lowering almost to a whisper as if you were sharing a secret. “The, um—the rest of my hand is a little sore, too. Is that normal?”

You can feel him grinning at your obvious attempt to get him to keep touching you, and he gives in easily. Surprisingly so, and it's becoming clearer that he's as into whatever's happening right now as you are. You’re not sure what happened to the unfazed man from before, but you’ll happily welcome this change in demeanor.

“Yeah, s’normal,” he trails down to your palm, engulfing your hand with his own. “Don’t worry, I'll take care of ya.”

Your eyes flutter closed as his thigh presses into yours, and the arm behind you lowers around your shoulders, his hand skimming the side of your neck. Shit, what is going on? You’re pretty sure guitar lessons don’t usually go like this, but you can’t bring yourself to dwell on it. Not when he feels this good.

Everywhere his skin touches yours feels electric, sending jolts up your spine, and making you forget where you are and what you were doing in the first place. He ducks down to press his lips to your bare shoulder, and your mind goes completely blank. 

All that's left is...sensation. Something dragging roughly across your skin, then soft—a little chapped—and wet. Sharp. You're abruptly aware of him sucking a hard bruise at the crook of your neck, soothing the sting with his tongue, and you're unable to stop the whimper that escapes your lips. It's soft and inappropriate. A single, hushed syllable.

"Joel."

He lets out a pained groan that rumbles from deep within his chest, and the hand around yours tenses. That boundless patience he had earlier feels like it's about to run out, and the thought makes your blood run hot. 

God, how is he real? How is this real? You just met this man—this much, much older man—less than an hour ago, and, yet, this is probably the hottest thing that’s ever happened to you. He continues to mouth up your neck, nipping at the underside of your jaw.

"What else hurts? Tell me, 'n I'll make it better," he mutters humidly, urgently against your skin. 

You want to tell him where it hurts the most. That unbearable ache between your legs, the burning in your belly that you didn't even realize he was stoking. But you're so wound up, all you can manage is a frustrated sob.

"Use your words, beautiful. C'mon, lemme hear 'em," he says as if you're his instrument, meant to produce dulcet tones and resonate at his hand.

"It—fuck...it—here," you drag the hand clutching yours down, next to where the body of your guitar rests on your thigh. Where you've already soaked through the thin fabric of your pants. "Joel...need you to make it better."

The gentle vibrato of your voice, the way it shakes tumultuously around his name, and even more so when he cups your heat. His lips return to your throat to feel it, to taste it as you moan for him. And those fingers. You knew they’d feel good, and they’re so close to where you need them. Just a little bit more—but there’s still too many layers between you and his rough touch. 

“M-more…need more, just—,” you whine, and he mirrors the sound back at you raggedly.

“‘Course, beautiful. Told you I’d take care of ya, didn’t I? 

You're too far gone to even notice yourself desperately grinding into the palm of his hand, or the fingers at your cheek turning your face toward his. 

Or your guitar quickly slipping out of your lap, more and more with each swivel of your hips. It hits the carpet with a hollow clang and, suddenly, the spell is broken. Then, it all comes crashing back. 

He’s saying your name, but he sounds...different. Less breathy, less needy, and more like your patient, collected guitar teacher. Joel Miller. 56 years old, remember? Way too old for you, for your body to be reacting to him like this, and the man whose help you still desperately need to help complete your thesis.

Your eyes snap open and you realize with abject horror that you’ve been daydreaming this entire time. You can’t even imagine how long he’s been trying to get your attention while you’ve just been sitting here, fantasizing about his hands on you. 

Not even ten minutes ago, you promised you wouldn’t get distracted, but you did. Again. And so much worse this time.

By his furrowed brow and the way he won’t even look at you, you must have accidentally said something out loud, too. Something totally inappropriate that you really shouldn’t have. But then, his hand twitches and your blood turns to ice. 

That—fuck, that's not where it was before you zoned out. It was still on yours, arranging your fingers on the frets for the chord he was teaching you. He…he was asking about your hand, if it hurt, and then—

As if you’ve been burned, you quickly release his hand from where you’re clutching it between your legs—not just in your daydream, but in horrifying actuality. You’re screwed. 

Not only is he probably going to kick you out of his house and refuse to be your teacher anymore, but he’ll likely tell your professor. And he’d have every right to. There’s no way you’ll be able to get anyone else to teach you after this.

The reason you’re here, everything you’ve worked so hard for, flashes before your eyes, catching fire and turning to ash. Your love for music, your degree—in the span of a single guitar lesson, you destroyed all of it.

And what would he think? Your father, your inspiration for choosing this path. He’d be so disappointed in you, though maybe not as much as you are right now. 

All of this for what? The attractive, middle-aged guitar teacher you’ve known for less than an hour? He doesn’t even want you and, even if he did, that’s not what you came here for. Stupid, stupid. 

You can feel his eyes on you, but you can’t bear to look at him, to say anything at all. Instead, you lean down to retrieve your guitar from where it still lies face down on the floor, and slowly stand up. 

“I, uh…,” you croak out, fighting the urge to cry and look like even more of an idiot. You shake your head, unable to finish your sentence, and start to walk away, but then something miraculous happens.

Joel’s hand shoots out, his fingers wrapping around your wrist to keep you from leaving. You turn back to him, eyebrows raised in shock, dropping your gaze to where his skin is touching yours. He doesn't let go. 

“Look—,” he starts, and you wince. It’s never a good sign when someone starts a sentence like that. If all he’s trying to do is let you down easy, he shouldn’t have stopped you. He’s just shaming you even further. “—‘m not too sure what just happened here, but if you just—if ya sit back down, we can talk about it or…just keep goin’ with the lesson…”

You didn’t see that one coming. 

“You want me to stay?” you ask dubiously. “Why?”

You search his eyes for the answers to all of the things you’re not understanding, but come up with nothing. He’s sitting on the couch watching you, still holding your hand like nothing’s wrong. Acting like none of this is a big deal, as if you didn’t basically just shove his hand down your pants without his consent.

“Still got a lot to teach ya. We didn’t even get through the first line of music,” he chuckles, his voice filled with such kindness. So much more than you deserve. 

“Yeah, and that’s my fault. I—,” you pause, still trying to gather your thoughts, “—I crossed a line…made you uncomfortable. You really don’t have to do this.”

He sighs, rubbing his thumb soothingly into your wrist, and the gesture makes you shiver. Somehow it’s calming, even as the gears continue to turn in your head. You still can’t seem to grasp any of this or shake the feeling that there’s something wrong with this picture. 

“Well, isn’t this supposed to be a favor for some big, important grade? Don’t ya need this to pass your class?”

He’s not wrong. Without his help, you’re basically fucked for the rest of the semester.

“Yeah, I...actually really do,” you answer hesitantly.

Hope blooms in your chest. Maybe your thesis isn’t totally lost. If you’re lucky, maybe you’ll even be able to focus on your lessons.

“I think we can keep this professional. Don’t you?” he implores, brows raised.

He’s right again. That’s the only way this is going to work, but it’s still a reminder that he’s not interested in you in the slightest. You’re not sure why that feels so bad.

“Totally,” you breathe out, but your expression must betray your words because he rushes to reassure you.

“It’s not that I—look, I mean…you’re a beautiful girl ‘n all, but…,” he trails off, and…what?

Beautiful. He can’t have just said that out of the blue. Beautiful, of all the words he could’ve used to describe you right then. This man is driving you crazy—and he won’t stop.

“Can’t help feelin’ like maybe I gave ya the wrong impression. I took advantage of ya,” he looks away, pained, like this was all his fault. You have no idea how he came to that conclusion, but he’s got it all wrong.

“What—no. No, if anything, I took advantage of you. You were just trying to be a good teacher,” you shake your head furiously. “Look, I did this. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t pull away, now, did I?” 

His eyes meet yours again, darker than before, and you know for a fact you’re not making it up this time. The setting sun is casting shadows around his living room, across his 80s-style leather couch and carpet, illuminating every one of his handsome features. 

And, yet, his eyes are black, endless voids that threaten to consume you. Whatever power he has over you feels dangerous. You knew you couldn’t have imagined it all. 

But it's gone as quickly as it came. He clears his throat, dropping your wrist as if he finally came to his senses. Your patient, unaffected guitar teacher is back.

“I, uh, think maybe that about wraps it up for today,” he says with finality, standing up. “It's already eight, anyhow. You should head on home.”

Gently plucking the guitar from your hands, he zips it up in its case and gives it back to you. You nod, feeling grateful, but cautious...and also extremely curious. His hand finds the small of your back, leading you to the front door, and you try your best not to react as his fingers urge you forward. 

You know you’ll be thinking about them later tonight, even though you really shouldn’t. About them finishing what you started earlier, taking care of you like you still want him to. Part of you hopes he’ll be thinking about yours, too. 

His hand drops and he turns to you with a small smile, leaning on his arm against the doorframe. 

"But, uh, same time tomorrow? And maybe put in a little practice time before then—stretch out those fingers so you're ready to play."

“Sure,” you reply breathily. “Same time tomorrow.”

thanks for reading! part ii coming soon 🥰

(p.s. how are we feeling about finger sucking...okay bye)

[flightlessangelwings]

Being inclusive with your reader insert fic is a kindness. It tells people of color (poc) that you are considering someone who does not look like you in your fic. It shows love and dedication to our craft. It tells poc that they belong here too and they can see themselves in your story.

Poc aren’t look for activism in fic, we know fandom isn’t that serious, but we should be able to have that same level of escapism when we turn to fic and fandom. We belong here too. This space is for everyone, not just one group of people.

Just to give a few examples of how simple it can be: say “skin warmed” instead of blushed, say “cradled your head” instead of running fingers through hair, say “angles yourself to kiss” instead of standing on tiptoes, use italics to indicate Spanish to take out a throwaway line of “you didn’t understand Spanish” things like that. Small changes that do not impact the fic at all but make a world of difference in inclusivity!

And for anything you can’t/don’t want to change, simply add warning in the beginning. Things like hair descriptors, anything reader might wear, some backstory for reader (especially involving family or where the story is set), readers job, things like that. A lot of times just having that heads up before the fic makes a world of difference!

And one example of kindness we as writers always worked to change: until recently (just a couple years ago) it wasn’t common to label the gender of the reader. But those who aren’t female asked writers to label it so they know which to read and which to avoid, and now it’s common to label the gender/pronouns of the reader. So it is possible! It just takes effort! And I’m a writer myself so I know it can be done!

We can pretend to be a bartender or a bounty hunter or an actress or anything else. But we shouldn’t have to imagine we’re a white one.

[hellishjoel]

little black dress

10k / pairing: bartender!joel x f!reader

summary: You’re breaking things off with your douchebag situationship at one of your favorite little dive bars because lord knows you’re gonna need a drink or two. The bartender, Joel, is happy to offer his assistance. 

warnings/information: MA 18+ (minors DNI), no outbreak, swearing, alcohol consumption, slight angst, toxic ex-boyfriend putting hands on you, dom!Joel, dirty talk, pet names, oral (f receiving), titty attention, unprotected p in v (wrap it up pls), I think that’s it!

A/N: I’ve held this in my vault for WEEKS. Thank you to @strang3lov3 and @macfrog for helping get this piece to completion! I quite literally couldn’t have done it without them and without their input and encouragement.  Also -- this is my first 10k fic! how exciting!!

here's my masterlist!

**follow hellishfics and turn on notifications get updates on my fic postings**

Your breaths grow heavy with impatience, waiting to feel him. Him soaking up your slick wasn’t enough. He finally got the hint as your hips rutted back into this touch, hearing his hellish low chuckle at your desperation.  “So-” your breath hitches as you feel his tip nudge in, “fuckin-” you clench your eyes closed as his first few inches break you in two, your jaw dropping, “tight.” He bottoms out in one swift thrust, filling you up to a level you didn’t even know you possessed.  “Joel!” A broken cry unleashes from the depths of your throat, you didn’t need to see him to know how big he is. You can fucking feel every single inch of him. 

You had never gotten dressed up for a breakup before. 

As you looked yourself over in the mirror, you were reminded of what you discussed with your friends last night. 

You felt a little on edge when you revealed to your friends over a girl’s night that you wanted to break up with your short-term boyfriend Chris. The relationship was only a couple of months old, but the guy was a douchebag. And you realized it too late. 

“He was such a waste of your time.”

“Oh my god, he was an asshole to you.”

“Girl, I hope you do a revenge breakup on his sorry ass.”

“A revenge breakup?”

Ahh, yes. The revenge breakup. For wasting your time, efforts, and emotions on Chris, you deserved to have a little fun in the form of revenge.  You’d put on your favorite little black dress, do your hair and your makeup, wear a red lip, and show him that you don’t need him. 

But now as you stood in front of your bathroom mirror, you felt like you were playing dress up. You weren’t really this confident, this bold. But your pouty red lips said otherwise. Your favorite perfume said otherwise, as well. After a slow turn in the mirror, long legs on show with a short black dress adorning your curves, you decided you would be a man-eater tonight. 

You would have preferred to break up with him over text, but you decided you were together for a little too long not to break things off in person. 

Despite what you looked like on the outside, your heart was a tangled mess of emotions.

When you first met Chris at one of the fancy bar lounges on the east side, he was the standout of his friends. Tall, blessed with dark blonde hair, perfectly clean-shaven, still dressed in a work suit to join in on the Friday night happy hour. You quickly learned a lot about him. He had an apartment in the city, but his permanent residence was in the neighboring state. He liked golf, basketball, and football. He was a family guy, close with his parents. After buying you a drink, he told you he worked at a finance agency, a large one at that. 

The professionalism in itself made you swoon. You couldn’t help it, he seemed put together and men who had a plan were attractive to you. 

Needless to say, you went home with him after he was whispering in your ear all night long, his large hand planted possessively on your hip, derailing any other guy in the room who thought about trying a conversation with you. 

It could have stopped there, should have stopped there. But he was smart, and his face wore a permanent smirk that put you in a destructive tailspin. So you kept seeing each other. He took you out on lunch dates, got you into the trendy clubs, and put the two of you up in hotel suites from time to time for a nice weekend away. 

It was fun while it lasted. His charm eventually wore off, and you realized he was just… a completely selfish douchebag.

 You were ready to break things off. 

And so it was decided. You looked hot. Too good for him. Your roommate insisted that she could come with you for moral support dressed as a casual bargoer, watching the show for herself behind a bar menu. The idea made you bubble up a laugh, but you really wanted to do this yourself, for yourself. 

Your stomach was in knots the entire Uber ride over, leg crossed over the other as you drew shapes into the material of your clutch. You wanted to arrive a little earlier than the set time with your soon-to-be ex-boyfriend-fling, needing a drink or two of encouragement. 

The Blackbird was a corner bar that had survived the rapid changes of downtown for the past ten years, or so. Initially around when there was a small gas station on the opposite corner, now it was neighboring a family diner and a video rental shop. 

As soon as you enter down the cement stairs and through the dark green door, you’re greeted by a stage to your right where local bands came in and played. After walking past the pool tables that desperately needed new felt, you pass an old golden jukebox that was playing 80s dad rock. It fit the atmosphere, you had to admit. Some Guns N’ Roses started to play after just finishing a Twisted Sister song. 

Maybe it was the fact that you were entering into a small dive bar, easily becoming the best-looking person there by a mile and a half, but it was the confidence you needed. 

Eyes were on you, a small smile fluttering on your lips at the discovery.

Cigarette smoke filled the air, your heels clicking casually against the hardwood floor as you used the space as an off-duty catwalk. Pool balls clattered, matching the fast-paced beating of your heart. 

The Blackbird Bar offered little lighting, aside from the bulbs that hung above the pool tables and a few old neon signs. The walls were decorated in well-loved decor like old license plates and tacky bar signs. There was a $1 bill hung up in a frame, most likely the first bill the bar had ever made. It's a crowning little achievement in all of its dust-covered glory. 

The bar stools could use new upholstery and a fresh coat of paint might do the wall wonders, but people didn’t come here to enjoy upscale aesthetic and fruity drinks. They came for cheap booze and company from the regulars. 

An empty string of barstools waited for your company at the end of the long bar, your eyes adjusting to the darkness the bar was veiled in. 

Your fingernail traced over the slight scratches on the bar’s surface, someone clearing their throat knocking you loose from your thoughts. 

“What’ll y’ have?” 

Your head was so clouded with what you might say during your impending breakup that you didn’t think of what you wanted to drink. You could really use some liquid courage.

“Uhm..” You paused as you looked over the bartender, your eyes adjusting as you watched him clean a glass with a rag before he tossed the cloth over his shoulder. 

He was older, a little shaggy looking. He wore a tattered dark green henley with a waffle print, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. 

You ordered your go-to drink, slowly swirling your straw around the ice as you anxiously watched the clock tick closer and closer to your planned time. 

“Hey beautiful.” Shit, he was early. 

Your eyes widened as you quickly set down your drink, signaling to the scruffy bartender and tapping at your glass to request another.

Chris entered your space with a charming smile, his pungent cologne instantly piercing your senses as your eyes gazed over his square jawline. 

“Hey.” You teetered on your seat, adjusting the hem of your dress, feeling that it was all of a sudden far too short for the evening. Like it was shrinking up your body. 

Chris quickly picked up on your not-so-warm greeting, his head cocking as he set down his jacket on the bartop. 

“Interesting pick for the bar. I could’ve taken you somewhere uptown.” 

The comment made your gut clench, especially since the bartender was right in front of the two of you, making your drink as he silently listened to every word. 

“I actually really like this spot. Feels less pretentious than uptown.” You bit back, maybe a little too much venom in your comment. 

Chris playfully threw up his hands in surrender, smirking down at you as he took in your appearance. Slightly smeared red lipstick and an all too tight black little dress. 

“Alright, uptown is pretentious now, I’m glad you updated me.” His comment was snide but laced with a hint of teasing, your hand instantly reaching for your drink once it was crafted by the bartender. You mutter an apologetic thank you. 

“Hey,” Chris spoke up as he raised two fingers to flag down the bartender. “Can I get-”

Before he could finish, the bartender had walked off further down the bar lane, grumbling under his breath as he went to fulfill another customer’s order. Chris scoffed and tried to brush it off but it made you smile. Well deserved. 

Once Chris finally did receive his drink, a corona with a lime, he started to tell you about his week in the office. Unprovoked. 

Apparently his coworker was brutally fired, his department was on their third secretary within the year thus far, and he was up to his ears with his end-of-the-month reports.

You weren’t sure what drink number you were on. The bartender kept giving you glances every time he poured your glass back up, his eyes signaling to Chris as he kept speaking over you. He looked just as annoyed as you felt. 

“And Chambers is just.. all up my ass about finishing it ahead of schedule but I keep telling him, y’know, Dude, it’s not due until Monday. Get off my ass about it. Right? Right?” Now he was laughing like his life, and his story was really all that interesting. Like everyone was hanging onto every word he ever said with enthusiasm. 

He kept wagging his beer around in his hand as he spoke, using mannerisms to go with his exquisite storytelling. 

You muster up a noise to give him some sort of implication that you were interested. However, the more you drank, the more you realized how uninteresting he actually was. Who talks at someone like this for 45 minutes? When did he ask you a question about you? Did he know shit about you?

“Hey,” your voice sounded power drenched which quickly captured his attention. His eyebrows raised as if you were interrupting his train of thought. 

“Do you remember what I told you I studied in school?” Your head cocked to the side, eyes narrowed on his. Despite the volume in the bar, you could still feel your heart thumping in your ears. 

He tried not to look phased by your question. After a pause on his end, he mustered up an awkward chuckle before clearing his throat, shifting back and forth on his feet.

“How long have I lived in the city?” 

You watched as his eyes flicked off to the side, his lips parting as if he was hoping the right answer would just come to him. 

“Uhm..”

“Uhm?” You mocked, a nasty smirk on your lips. It was taunting.

The more he couldn’t answer your questions, the angrier you got. You mocking him seemed to get his blood boiling. 

“What do I do for work? What are my hobbies?” Your red lipstick kissed the straw as you took another sip while you waited, crossing your leg over the other as your foot casually bounced while you watched him squirm. 

You continued to roll out question after question. You enjoyed watching him writhe under your scrutiny, finding out that he didn’t fucking know you at all. 

Someone you considered to be so put together, so refined, and so charming was really just a douchebag clown masquerading in a suit. 

The grip on your drink tightened, and you’re not sure if it was the alcohol or the anger you bore, but something gave you the nerve to throw the remnants of your drink on him. 

The liquor splashed across his white button-up shirt first, your half-melted ice cubes followed by pelting his chest. 

Satisfaction and surprise filled your gut, your hand coming up to cover your mouth as you tried to hide a laugh. The crowd of regulars watched from a distance, a few gasping while a few others snickered.

He looked furious. 

“You fucking-- bitch! What the hell!” He was still shaking off ice cubes, pieces of his blonde hair falling down and presenting him as disheveled.

“If that wasn’t answer enough for you, I don’t want to see you again. We’ve been on countless dates, and you don’t remember a damn thing about me.” 

You didn’t care that people were watching, you were putting on quite the show for them in your little revenge dress. 

Chris scoffed at you in disbelief, shaking off the liquid that clearly stained through his shirt. You could feel your chest swell with a sense of pride and courage. Your body felt warm, stained with confidence as red as your lipstick. 

“You’re fuckin’ sick, you know that? You’re a fuckin’ psycho!” He was nearly laughing at you, the insults scraped at your throat and made your confidence cut down an inch.

“Just-- get the fuck out of here, I don’t want to see you again.” 

Suddenly, something you weren’t expecting was his hand tightening around your forearm. It stung, his iron grip burning into your flesh so hard that your fingertips already felt numb from the lack of circulation. 

You let out a whimper of discomfort, your big eyes looking between his talons pressed into you then back up to his twisted face.

He yanked you into him, your heels scraping the bottom of the floor-- or maybe that was the screech of his barstool he pushed out of his way on the hardwood. 

“You really think you’re all that interesting?” His eyes were narrowed in on yours. “You were just an pair of open legs.” He muttered in disgust. 

Your eyes hardened, jaw tightening shut as both anger and sadness twisted inside of you until it created a damaging tornado. You couldn’t believe you saw interest in him or anything at all.

“Hey-” A voice so low and booming broke you out of your thoughts, both of your heads snapping to the bartender who was staring daggers into Chris. 

“You don’t touch a lady like that in my fuckin’ bar. Get the hell outta here.” His voice relaxed in volume, his scary stature and piercing eyes were enough to thrust a splinter of fear into Chris. But of course, being the cock that he was, he wouldn’t let it seem like the bartender phased him. 

“This doesn’t concern you, man. Best if you just drop it-”

“Or what?” The bartender’s words cut quick as his head cocked up, eyes narrowed on Chris’s. Challenging him. Goading him to fight back. The bartender even stepped closer to the bar’s edge, making Chris step back a foot or two despite the bar being a direct barrier to the two. Chris’ hold didn’t slack, it became stronger. Your nails started to try and pry away his hand from you, but his grip was solid. 

You looked to the bartender, a silent plea for his help behind your eyes as you were still lightly fighting against the grip Chris had on you. The anger Chris felt towards the man reflected in his hand around your forearm, a short cry coming from your lips as his fingertips bruised into your delicate skin. 

“What did I just fuckin’ say?” The bartender was rounding the bar towards the two of you, Chris quickly dropping his hold on you as the man neared closer. This idiot had never been in a fight before in his life, and he surely wasn’t going to start with the tall, broad bartender who probably beat up drunk assholes every other night.

You were so hypnotized by their interaction, the feeling of the bartender’s hand gently on your back before he became a barricade in front of you. His broad arms crossed in front of his chest and he was still looking for a fight out of Chris.  

He looked scary,  but in a more protective way now. Now that he was so much closer, you had a better look at him. 

His flesh was seared with the signs of life, soft lines on his forehead and by his eyes-- probably from the permanent scowl he wore like how people put on their glasses every day or a watch around their wrist. He had a speckled beard, but a prominent mustache on his upper lip, both the hair on his head and his facial hair wore a brief streaks of silver.

His nose was aquiline, it fit him perfectly. He was long in the torso, broad in the shoulders, and drawn in at the waist. The henley shirt he wore looked like it could barely fit around his biceps, the material stretching to accommodate. He was handsome for a stranger you had paid little attention to all evening. 

“You alright?” You could tell he was talking to you without looking, his voice more serene. 

“Yeah.” Your voice sounded shakier than you wanted it to, the whole interaction being a shock to your system. Your hand delicately stroke over where he held you, the ghost of his grip still aching on your skin as small bruises were sure to form later. 

The bartender’s attention was back on Chris after being assured you were alright. 

“You heard her. Get the hell out of here.” The bartender’s head cocked behind Chris and to the door. Once the bartender got involved with your fight, you could feel the presence of the tough pool table guys pause their game to make sure the situation was handled. 

Outnumbered, Chris scoffed before he yanked his ice-covered jacket from the bartop, his eyes on you as he shook his head, his nostrils flaring. “Keep her. She’s not worth the fuckin’ trouble.” 

The bartender had enough of Chris thinking he was in charge of the situation. He planted his hands at the top of Chris’ chest, giving him a harsh shove that had him staggering backward, still trying to maintain his balance as he was shoved out the door repeatedly. 

“I don’t usually ask twice, consider yourself lucky.” The bartender’s words were cut with steel. He looked so calm and unbothered like he picked fights with random guys every other night and it was no big deal. 

The crowd of regulars at the bar cheered him on until Chris was swiftly shoved out the door and you could hear his body scuff against the cement steps outside. 

You finally felt a flood of relief course through your body, the adrenaline had come and gone, but the racing of your heart hadn’t subsided. 

You let out a hot puff of air as you brought the scattered barstools back to their home under the bar, seeing a pair of hands help you align the last one. It was the bartender, and he was watching you with eagle eyes.

“I’m sorry-” you quickly blurt, shaking your head and pressing your hand to the side of your neck to find some sort of relief. “I didn’t mean to cause a scene or put you in a situation-”

“You didn’t do nothin’ wrong.” He was quick to cut in and assure you, your bunched-up shoulders slowly relaxing as he resumed his spot behind the bar. 

You sort of wanted to leave. You hated the unwanted attention your hot-headedness created. Even though he was the asshole, you still felt like it was your fault. 

“Sit down.” His voice demanded, your eyes softening as your head whipped back up to look at him.

“I’ll remake your drink, just… sit down.” You shifted on your uncomfortable heels before giving in and satisfying him with a little nod, returning to your barstool as he came by and made you another drink. 

“Can you-” your voice perked up and tapped at your glass gently. He paused his motions as he looked down at you. “Can you make this drink as responsibly strong as you can?”

His lips tightened, trying to hide a smile poking out from the corner of his mouth. 

“Sure, Trouble.” You watched as he tipped the alcohol in, letting it fill up with the ice before he added only a good splash of mixer. Thank god. 

The breakup with Chris was warranted, but it was hard thinking about having to start all over with someone new. Hopefully with someone better. You weren’t one to drink by yourself like this, but the burn of the alcohol sliding down your throat felt better than the ache you felt festering in your chest.

As the night went on, the bartender didn’t seem keen on being more than a few feet away from you. He’d fulfill a patron’s order on the other end but always end up back by you, meandering himself to keep busy. You had watched him clean one beer mug three separate times now. Sometimes you made eye contact, only for a fleeting second before he looked away. 

He kept asking if you were alright. Yeah, I’m alright.  If he could do anything. You’ve already done more than enough. Thank you. Finally, he broke. 

“So… you wanna tell me who that guy was?” He asked, topping off your drink as you sighed and swirled your straw around. 

“He was... I don’t know. A boyfriend, I guess.” You waved around your drink as you spoke, your eyes meandering around the bar. 

“Whatever we had, it didn’t last long.”  You tutted up a short laugh at your little joke. You took in a deep breath through your nose, your shoulders rising before they dropped on the exhale. 

The bartender shook his head, almost looking inquisitive. 

“Why d’ya laugh?” He asked curiously, his arms spread as he planted his palms into the bar for balance as he kicked back one of his boots to rest behind the other. He was so broad and handsome.

“Oh,” you paused and covered your face for a moment in embarrassment that he called you out on it. “I said it didn’t last long, the relationship, but like.. Y’know.” You trailed off and shyly smiled, setting your hands back in your lap as you caught his eye contact, however, now he was holding it with you. 

“What?” He pressed further. But he knew what. He just wanted you to say it. 

You let out a short nervous bubble of laughter, shaking your head. Oh, fuck it. The alcohol was helping you relax, and frankly, you wanted to laugh at Chris. You didn’t owe him anything. 

“He didn’t last long. The relationship didn’t last long, and he didn’t last long. Y’know. In bed.” You felt the need to over-clarify now, taking another sip from your drink, your eyes clenching closed slightly as the strong alcohol made your face tense.  

The bartender’s mouth chipped up into a crooked smirk, shaking his head as he looked over you for a moment. You remembered what you were wearing, your little black dress doing wonders for your cleavage resting just above his bar. 

“‘S’a damn shame.” He finally said, shaking his head as he threw a white cloth up onto his shoulder, his attention fully on you now as the bar had begun to die down throughout the night. All that was left was a set of people playing pool and one cigarette smoker on the other end of the bar, his eyes tiredly captured by the random game show on the television. 

“What is?” You ask curiously, your straw slurping ice now as you sighed and pushed the glass away, shaking your head at him to signal you were done for the night. 

He paused before answering you, taking your glass from the bartop and throwing down the ice into a tray then the glass into soapy water. He shook his head and shrugged as he wiped his hands. 

“Jackass twenty-somethings not knowin’ how to make their pretty girlfriends finish. Damn shame.” 

Your lips parted, your doe eyes on his whiskey-colored ones. Your stomach twisted, a tug between your legs so strong it felt like you were battling an internal fire. 

Finally, you just laughed. It was out of shyness and shock, but it was a laugh. 

“Is that so?”

“So it is.”

“I don’t even know your name.” 

He didn’t let you go another second without it. “Joel.” 

Your head cocked to the side, your confidence bubbling up as you sighed quietly. “Joel.” You repeated back to him, the two of you slowly nodding to one another. Now you were the only thing his eyes would look at. You sort of wished he would look somewhere else, to let you fucking breathe.

But he pinned you right there in your barstool with his gaze, in his bar. It was crazy to think something fruitful might actually come from the train wreck that was tonight.

Maybe put together looked something more like Joel. Someone a little older, experienced. No wedding ring, a barely-there smile that seemed to only come out on special occasions. He amused you, even if it was just for tonight. 

“So, Joel,” your hand reached out, pointer finger gently grazing over the top side of his hand that was planted in front of you. His skin was warm, your nail grazing the soft hairs by his wrist, and the band of the watch he wore. “What are you trying to say?” 

His expression didn’t break, if anything, there were minute details you noticed. His jaw clicked tighter like there was someone slowly turning a tight wheel that controlled it behind the scenes. His shoulders bunched a bit more at his upper back, his body tall and looming and strong. But his eyes stayed on yours, consistent, dark, and beautiful. 

“I can show you better than I can tell you.” His words were laced with a promise you were begging him to fulfill. You weren’t sure how much longer you could last with this nagging feeling between your legs begging for relief. 

Your intimate conversation was cut short with the final clatter of a pool ball, the black 8 ball sinking into a pocket. 

You finally let out a breath, one you didn’t know you were holding in. You glanced to the side, away from Joel’s protective gaze as you watched the men hang up their pool cues on the wall mount, grabbing their leather jackets as they came to set their empty beer bottles on the bar top and thanking Joel before they exited. 

His hand came up in a subtle wave, not even shaking his hand back and forth, just throwing his hand out there to say a silent farewell. 

Your breath quickened at the thought of him alone in the bar with you. If it wasn’t for the chain smoker dulling both of your fantasies. 

Joel caught your wandering eyes, following them down the lane to the final patron.

“Paul, do you know how late it is?” Your eyes fell to Joel’s fingers as he covered the clock behind the counter methodically. 

The smoker, who you learned was Paul, finally pulled the cigarette away from his dry and cracked mouth, glancing around to see how empty the bar had become. Besides you and Joel. 

“Your wife is probably waitin’ for you at home. Best if you start headin’ out.” Joel said as his head tilted to the door next to him, the man nodding with wide eyes. 

“Oh, she is gonna kill me. That woman,” he mumbled something else you couldn’t quite hear from your end of the bar, smiling as Joel snuck a glance at you as he ushered Paul out. He’d stay here all night if Joel didn’t tell him to head on home. 

Your nerve finally made your long legs move, heels landing on the hardwood as you slowly walked the length of the bar, your fingers dancing along the top. You felt a few chips and divots in the wood, years of wear and tear exposing itself to you.

Joel flicked the lock on the door and flipped the sign. Sorry, we’re closed!

The action in itself made you feel spoiled. He wanted you to himself for the rest of the night, he didn’t want anyone interrupting. Goosebumps flooded your skin as you leaned back against one of the pool tables, the light above you making you have an angelic silhouette. 

Your eyes followed him as he walked to the jukebox, the only thing eliciting noise in the otherwise silent bar. With a push of a button, the music halted. 

“What? No music?” You asked. Your voice had a slight echo now. 

His heavy footsteps loomed closer, his eyes on yours and never straying.

“Rather hear you.”

Well, there went any remaining ounce of respect you had for yourself. 

 You initiated the first contact, needy at this point. Needy for someone to take care of you just for tonight. Joel was more than willing to take on that role. A means to an end. 

Your soft hands landed on his exposed forearms, moving upwards until they hit the rolled-up sleeves of his dark green henley. You had to force yourself to breathe when you felt over his biceps, your warm palms coming to rest on his broad chest. 

“I could have handled it you know. Before you intervened.” Your words elicited a slight grumble from the man in front of you. From Joel. 

“I’m thankful, but… I had it under control.” Your fingers continued to dance over his upper half. 

He let out a gruff and shook his head. “Not from where I was standin’, Trouble.” His voice was curved with cockiness. This was the first time you really took hold of his southern accent. It came out when his voice was lust drenched. 

He challenges you, and your attitude matches his stubbornness.

Joel’s hips are against yours now, you can feel his jeans against your thighs that your dress doesn’t quite reach. His hands are a warm welcome on your hips. They’re gentle on you in the same way they’re possessive, eager to have you but wanting to approach you with a sense of tenderness. 

“I had it.” You were persistent.  Your arms moved to wrap up around his neck, intertwining your hands and feeling the soft curls on the back of his head. 

“Sure.” 

The distance was closing between the two of you now, his body moving with a flirtatious sense of stealth. 

He watched you with a stoic face. He seemed so unphased. Your touch alone was often enough to have gentlemen attempting to take you home. You were methodical in that sense. But maybe so was Joel. 

He was a total stranger, but knew little things about him. Stiff, silent, impossible to read, a human shield, a protector. He would have knocked Chris out with a single swift swing of his heavy fist if he didn’t let you go, you knew he would have. Because he was watching you both all night like he had a gut feeling. 

Joel’s tundra-cold voice broke you out of your thoughts for the third time tonight, his large hand coming up and pushing a loose strand of hair out of your eyes, tucking it behind your ear before he cradled your cheek. His actions were soft, his words were filth. 

“You got a real mouth on you, y’know that?” His eyebrows were furrowed, the indents on his forehead and eyebrows exposing themselves. 

A proud smirk danced on your lips, your arms tugging Joel in closer. He could choose to stay still, he’s strong enough to resist your tug. But he lets you. Because he wants to. 

“So I’ve been told.” 

You can feel a breath leave through his nose, a sigh of contemplation. Teetering on the idea of falling down into the unknown with you. 

Your breath hitches in your throat as his hands tighten on your hips, hoisting you up to sit on the pool table’s edge. The position makes your dress roll up your thighs, a broken gasp leaving your mouth as he finally fills the void between the two of you with a heavy kiss. 

It’s tongue and teeth at first, meshed and mangled as you both searched for dominance. His tongue danced with your own before you were tugging on his lower lip. You swallowed Joel’s low grunt, his hands falling to the outside of your thighs with his thumbs pressing into your skin. 

Fuck, he was spreading you further. The dress rolled to the very top of your legs, his body sliding through the opening as his warm body consumed you. He tasted like mint. He was probably tasting the alcohol he was pouring you all night. 

You fisted his hair at the nape of his neck to hold onto some sort of control, but he was persistent. 

Joel was invading your senses on all fronts until finally, you had to wave your white flag.

“Joel,” Your voice came out in a desperate breath on his lips, his head quickly nodding as if he already knew what you needed before you had to ask. 

“Lie down, baby, lemme take care a’you.” He kissed you once more before pulling away, his head nodding up once, instructing you to lay back. 

You felt bashful as your shoulder blades hit the pool table, still spread perfectly for him.

His expert hands pushed the dress up your hips, lifting your ass off the edge to let the material pool around your stomach. 

His warm and possessive hands claimed the lower half of your body. He bent down to take you in, pouted lips kissing your naval while his heavy eyes studied your reactions. 

A breath was caught in your throat as you felt his hands on the inside of your thighs, brushing over the front of the red panties you wore. He was thinking the same thing you were, you could see it the way he dropped a small grin. Same color as your lipstick, pretty girl. 

 “Fuck,” you whispered, using the strength you had left and sitting up on your elbows. You were too turned on not to watch him work. 

Your fingers wound into the salt and pepper curls atop his head, biting down on your lower lip as his fingers continued to ghost over cotton. 

His thumb began to teasingly stroke over you, brushing over your covered clit and sending electricity through his touch to your core. 

Joel hooked his thumbs into the sides of your underwear, bringing up your legs to take them off with ease. You scoot closer to the edge of the table, scoot closer to him.

“What?” You ask, his bemused grin now eliciting one from you too. “Think I’m desperate?” You ask, a little on edge for his answer. 

A man of suspense, you watch as Joel shrugs off the question. 

You watched as his eyes came down to admire what was previously concealed, your lips parting as he let out a hum in reaction to seeing your soaked core. All because of him, all for him. 

Sinking down on his knees before the pool table, your hips rutted forward a few more inches to close the distance. His toying with you was aggravating. 

Joel hooked one of your legs over his wide-set shoulder, his large hand coming up to pry the other one up and open. One of your heels nearly sunk into one of the pool table pockets. You whimpered out as you eventually kicked them both off, hearing one pair clatter to the floor on the left of Joel, then the other on the right. 

His lips were on you like a magnet, a heavy sigh leaving your mouth as your eyes fluttered closed. Your gut was tight, feeling it create its own knots as Joel licked an exploratory stripe up your glossy slit with his tongue. You gasped at the estranged feeling. 

“Fuck,” he moaned out, a short yelp leaving you as the vibrations were shot up your center. “Taste too good not to go down on.” The compliment left you in a swirling heat, feeling your walls flutter desperately for him. 

“Joel, you can just-” you paused, not realizing how frantic your words sounded. You sounded frantic enough for him to stop his tongue in his path and look at you like a deer in headlights. 

“‘Somethin’ wrong?” He asked, hesitant concern crossing his features. “You alright?”

As much as you liked his attention, you felt awkward about him tasting you. Only one or two guys have ever done this for you before, neither making you finish. You just remember moaning their names until they stopped, letting them think they had succeeded. Good oral sex took experience, trial, and error. You just didn’t want him to waste his time on you.

But now that his tongue was gone, you realized how good he was making you feel. It made you realize that your slick was already devoured by his lips and his taste buds purely because he wanted to. But you still had that nervous gut feeling that it was out of some sort of chivalrous act. I’ll do it because it’s polite, because it’s only courteous. 

“You just- you don’t have to, okay? I understand if you don’t want to, is what I’m trying to say.” Despite your words being laced with little pants of trying to collect yourself from the pleasure, you still offered him a respectable out. “We can just fuck, get to the good part for both of us.” Your heart thumped in your chest, looking to him with shifty, sympathetic eyes.

Your statement made his head roll to the side, his lips parting. He almost looked disappointed.

“You don’t want me to?” He finally asked, your heat still begging for his attention. You could feel your thighs trembling under the warmth of his palms spreading your legs apart. 

Meekly, you finally push an answer up and out of you. “No.” Your words were breathy, eager, desperate. “Don’t want you to stop.” 

Joel gave you a slight nod, his eyes looking over you for a moment before he settled back down by your core. He kissed up the inside of your thigh, his beard hairs scratching after the soothing touches of his mouth. 

“Good. Now let me make you feel good.”        

His words made your stomach clench, your walls fluttering and begging to be filled. By the look in his eyes, he had seen it. The way your arousal was quite literally dripping and becoming sticky on your skin. 

You could feel his hot breath fanning over your core again, your hips chasing the feeling. You decided to lay back once more, just wanting to relax with Joel’s head between your legs. 

His palm on your leg moved to plant your hip down into the pool table, halting your movements and holding you still. The anticipation was all too much, and you let him know that by whimpering out his name. 

He wasn’t exactly slow, it’s like he was learning. With each lap of his tongue, letting it move up to your clit and then down to your entrance, he was taking the time to learn you. 

You purse your lips as your eyes flutter closed, letting out a genuine gasp as he began to suckle on your clit. The motion eluded something deep in the pit of your stomach. It wasn’t exactly gentle, but it didn’t hurt. Feeling his mouth suck and tug on your aching clit, his teeth just lightly grazing your sensitivity felt like powerful lighting strikes setting a wildfire loose in your core. 

“S’that feel good, pretty girl?” He whispered, trying to learn what made you tick.

“M-mhmm,” you whimper-moaned shakily in response, not finding it in you to lace together more than a few syllables. 

One of your hands braced the edge of the table while the other fisted his hair, gripping the dark strands and keeping him in place. As if he was going anywhere. 

You could feel Joel slowly untying the knots you had made in your stomach, plucking open one and then the other with each stroke of his tongue. 

He liked your taste, he liked pleasuring you, he liked that you liked how good it felt to be given this type of attention. Attention he was sure you hadn’t rightfully experienced before. 

You were eager for more but shy to ask. Joel, being the mind reader that he was, moved his hand that was dedicated to holding down your hip and brought it to glide up your slick. His wet tongue made slow figure-eights around your clit, broken moans tumbling from your mouth as you let your eyes dip open and then closed as waves of pleasure began to consume you in an even rhythm. Joel’s rhythm. 

His mouth kissed at the inside of your thigh once more, having to bite down into the flesh to conceal his excitement. It made you smile and whine. You wanted the marks of his teeth, you wanted the prints of his hands on you. His were welcome.  

He slowly sunk a finger into your pleading entrance, letting a breathy sigh enter the air above the two of you. The only sound in the empty bar was your eager moaning. 

His mouth gave you much needed relief, your pussy taking his finger to the knuckle while his tongue continued to create generous circles around your sensitive bundle of nerves. 

That’s when you felt it. The it no one had given to you before. The it that left your mind blindsided. 

He was only one finger inside of you but his tongue was working magic. You started to mewl out feverish moans of his name, the hand in his hair clenching tighter and causing a sting to radiate across his scalp. The leg hiked up on his shoulder was shaking, your heel digging into his back to guide him even closer if that was humanly possible. 

“Joel, holy shit,” you whimpered, head coming up to look down at him. His lips and mustache were glistening in your slick. “I’m s-so close.” 

You didn’t have to convince Joel like you had to convince the others. Your moans were authentic, your cries of passion genuine. 

Joel listened, he kept his pace, the pace that had you shattering like a freshly broken mirror. 

“J-.. Fuck Joel, your fingers,” you whimper, your walls fluttering around where he was pumping into you with just the one. 

“Mhmmm?” He elongated in a questioning tone, not freeing his mouth from you to respond. He wanted you to say it. You threw your head back in frustration and nodded quickly with your chin to the ceiling. 

“A-Another, another finger.” You groan out. You could feel his smirk plastered against your clit, feeling his cheeks raise with his smile against your shaking thighs.

You don’t need to ask twice. Joel’s inserting a second finger and you can feel yourself stretching for him. He picks up his pace again and the it you’ve been fantasizing about is happening. 

Your toes curl, the heel of your foot still indenting into his back as you let out heavy pants into the air. Your back arches as your walls tighten around his fingers while Joel curls them in the perfect spot, your hand fisting the edge of the table as you searched for words to resemble how good he was making you feel.

Joel kept untying your knots, plucking open one after the other, after the other, until-

“Holy f-fuck! Joel!” Your body convulsed with your orgasm, your hard nipples peaking in your dress as your lower half started to grind against his mouth for the ultimate finish. You were seeing white, your moans and the squelching noise your wetness made filled the room. 

His fingers worked you down from your orgasm, your chest rising and falling as you came back to life. Freshly resuscitated after a life-altering orgasm. And one you didn’t have to fake. 

His fingers were covered in your cum-mixed arousal, he didn’t waste any time sucking them clean as his eyes connected with yours. An exhausted whimper left your throat. Your lips were pouty, eyes as wide as a doe as you sat up to face him. 

He pushed himself off his knees, your leg dangling free from his shoulder. 

Your foreheads came to rest against one another, both taking a breath to collect yourselves. His beard definitely gave your thighs a little burn rash, but with how good he made you feel, the slight pain was worth all the pleasure. 

“I’ve never had someone go down on me on a pool table.” 

Your fingers aimlessly drew circles in the felt, your other hand reaching up to swipe your thumb clean across his bottom lip. 

“Ever been fucked on a bar?” His eyes dark and tantalizing, his voice lacking true emotion and replacing it with grit and lust. Good. That’s the last thing you want right now. You don’t need emotions tonight. 

“Mm-mm.” You said as you shook your head, the two of you wearing matching smirks. 

You were glad you and Joel were on the same page. Neither of you seemed interested in anything more than sex tonight. 

Joel was about to help you down from the pool table, a wave of heat splashing your already warm face. He turned back when you dropped hold of his hand, lightly squirming on the table. 

“Just-” You’re a bit embarrassed, you don’t want him to feel sympathetic. “I need a minute. For my legs.” You gave him a shy smile, and he wore a crooked cocky one in return. 

You glanced down as you tested a foot on the floor. Your stems felt like jelly, as if you had just run a marathon, but really, Joel was just pulling an earth-shattering orgasm from you.

Joel was quick to shake his head, his body coming back to yours. 

“Don’t need you walkin’ barefoot on the floor. I’m a little behind on cleanin’ up the place.” His words made you stifle a laugh. 

He was okay with eating you out on the pool table and fucking you on his bar, but god forbid you might step on something sticky. 

You wonder if it’s because he feels protective of you. He wasn’t going to let some dickhead break your arm tonight. Not in his bar. 

“I’m fine.” You say as you haul yourself up, planting your palm into his bicep for leverage while you put on one heel and then the other. You could walk on your own.

“You wanna fuck me on your bar, baby? You do this with all the girls?” You ask as the heels clicked on the floor, one after the other. 

His pace catches up with you, dark eyes watching your every move like a predator meeting prey. It would scare you if you didn’t know how good he was with his tongue. 

“Only the real pretty ones with delicious tasting cunts.” 

Your lips parted at his words, merely watching as his pace kicked up a notch. You felt your back slam against the bar as Joel consumed your front and he was kissing you once more. 

His kiss was magnetizing, commanding. Open your mouth for me. Let me taste you. 

You obeyed, feeling him slip in and have his taste. Your hands reached for your dress that was bunched around your stomach, pulling your lips from Joel though he was apprehensive to let you do so. The material tangled your hair but you were quickly tossing your dress aside, eager to have him back in your space. 

His eyes lingered on your tits, his mouth on yours, but now his hands- god, his hands, they were massaging and cupping them in his palm. 

You let out a strangled whimper as he pinched your nipple between two fingers, still sensitive from your orgasm across the room. 

He enjoyed watching you squirm, your jelly legs already coming back.

“So fuckin’ greedy.. Can barely hold yourself up.” Joel’s words were gritty, lost in the depths of his heady lust. You wondered how big he was, you could see the heavy outline through his jeans.

While he played with your tits, his mouth now slobbering on your nipple and making your core tremble, your hands were on his old leather belt. Pulling the excess to the side and flicking open the pin. 

He takes over, pushing down his jeans to the tops of his thighs. You smile seeing his dark green briefs, the same green as his henley. 

“I guess we’re both matching tonight.” You teased, snagging your pointer finger into his briefs and tugging until it snapped back into his waist. 

“Turn around pretty girl, wanna feel that pretty pussy around my cock.”

Your stomach was already bottoming out, all those knots Joel had untied on the pool table were now forming again. 

You whimpered as you eagerly turned around, your saliva covered tits now plastered to the bar as you bent over it. The bartop gave you a shiver, considering how cold it felt while bare. 

You whipped your head to the side when you could hear him shifting out of his boxers, his belt clattering with his movements. You flicked your hair out of your way as you tried to get a look at his lower half but he was flushed behind you in no time at all. 

Joel wrapped his hand around his base, his other hand on your hip as he guided you to stand between two barstools. He slid his tip in your fresh arousal, smirking as he watched you grip the edge of the bar. 

“Such a pretty fuckin’ girl. Need a man to make you feel good, not a boy.” 

His words released a whimpery moan from you while you nodded, each time his tip teased your entrance made your heart race just a beat faster with anticipation. 

“Need you, Joel.” 

He nods, his open palm splayed on your lower back and right hip as he admired the curve of your ass. 

Your breaths grow heavy with impatience, waiting to feel him. Him soaking up your slick wasn’t enough. He finally got the hint as your hips rutted back into this touch, hearing his hellish low chuckle at your desperation. 

“So-” your breath hitches as you feel his tip nudge in, “fuckin-” you clench your eyes closed as his first few inches break you in two, your jaw dropping, “tight.” He bottoms out in one swift thrust, filling you up to a level you didn’t even know you possessed. 

“Joel!” A broken cry unleashes from the depths of your throat, you didn’t need to see him to know how big he is. You can fucking feel every single inch of him. 

Your cunt was in shock, your tight walls clenching desperately around him as you began to flood over him with your arousal. 

You began panting into the wood of the bar, the pain greeting you in a hot flash. 

“Oh f-... god,” your knuckles were white gripping the backside of the bar. You could hear Joel behind you, moaning at the way your walls expanded graciously for them. 

“Good girl, alright baby, come on, baby,” His voice was heavy, wrapped up in his lust as he hiked up one of your legs and set it on the barstool. “So fuckin-” his heavy breath fanned across your back as he pulled he retracted his hips, “perfect for me.” He said as he reeled them back in, filling you to the max.

Your leg up on the barstool released a new angle for the two of you, your eyelashes fluttering as Joel found a previously undiscovered spot. 

He started slow, letting your body adjust to him. How could someone as good-looking as Joel be humble about a dick like this? And he knew how to fucking use it. 

You were trying to moan his name, but they just kept coming out in hot pants. 

“Joel, Joel, fuck Joel!” The pleasure had now replaced the pain, a sweet sting at your core every time he ground his hips into you just right. 

Joel’s thrusts never wavered, they were deliberate and calculated as he filled you to the brim. His cologne was invading your senses, mixed with his sweat. 

He collected your hair in a loose ponytail, peeling your face off the bartop as your chin angled up to the ceiling. The pool table may have been for you, using his mouth to get off. But now, this was for Joel. Joel was using you good and hard, and you fucking loved it. You loved that you were what he needed tonight, and vice versa. 

The sound of Joel’s hips clapping against your ass echoed throughout his bar, your hand coming back to grip onto his forearm for some sort of leverage. Some sort of control. Some sort of… anything. 

But Joel made it clear that he was in charge tonight. 

His tempo edged you. Once you fell close to another crashing orgasm, his thrusts feeling like they were hitting you at a million miles an hour, suddenly slowed to the flow of bumper-to-bumper rush hour traffic. It was torturous the way he had you mewling out his name in desperation one moment and then the next, he had you whining for more. But every time you neared the finish line, the overwhelmingness of it all was stronger, and you knew Joel felt it too. 

Joel didn’t want you just to feel good, he wanted to change how you saw sex. No more laziness from a partner, no more vanilla positions, no more faking orgasms. This was what it felt like to be fulfilled by the real thing. 

No matter how hard he tried, both of you were losing strength to put up with the passing of another orgasm. 

“J-Joel-” He could barely hear his name with the sound of his front snapping into your behind. “I’m so- fuck me,- I’m so c-close,” You were sure to have bruises on your hips tomorrow, the wooden edge of the bar being nailed into you. “I’m close, please!” you whined, beginning to throw yourself into each of his thrusts which worked up a good grunt from him. 

“Feel so fuckin’ good around my cock,” you twisted your head back as you felt his arm snare around your hip, his fingers slowly circling around your sensitive bud. You were gasping for air, seeing stars as he actually fed you what you wanted. He was ready to let you cum. 

Your eyes weakly watched him as he fucked you over his bar. Eventually, you had to push yourself off of the front because it was pinning your hips into numbness. Your leg came down from the barstool, your back still bent over as you used your palms to flush against the edge of the bar to hold yourself up. Your head whipped back again as you became obsessed with observing him. 

“You like watchin’ me fuck you, sweetheart? Little fuckin’ troublemaker.” 

There were no words, it was too late. Your head dropped as your nails chipped into the wood, letting out a cry of his name as Joel continued to untie the knots in your stomach, all of them falling loose until you came. 

You heard him let out a long and low groan, your barely-open eyes turning back to watch the sight of Joel finishing. 

Joel could feel your walls pulsing desperately around his swollen cock, his fingers getting a little messy with your clit but he kept at it, he wasn’t going to disappoint you. That’s when it hit him, where he couldn’t hold on anymore. 

He spilled his white hot cum into you, rope after rope until it was coming out in shorter streams inside your cunt. You and Joel were moaning in unison as you both finished together.

After a few moments to breathe, you gently pat his hand that was rubbing lazy circles in your clit, feeling his warm palms move to your hips as you slowly straightened out together. 

You flipped your messy hair out of your face, smirking tiredly as you looked over him while he tugged his jeans and briefs back up on his hips, your eyes hypnotized by watching his rough and calloused hands easily secure his belt on. 

“Uhm..” You paused as you shyly searched around for your dress a few barstools down. You went to retrieve it,  Joel taking it from your hands and slipping it back on your body. You watched his face, his eyes looked through you. 

Your thumb came up to his lips, watching as he did a minute flinch with how fast your hand invaded his space. 

“Relax,” you tease, swiping away the red lipstick of yours that melted on the edge of his pretty mouth. He slowly relaxed as he watched you clean yourself from him, his warm palms still holding your aching hips. 

You sighed, your body and mind tired from being completely blown out. Your feet were sore from your heels, you were ready to take this dress and makeup off for good tonight. 

You watched with a teasing smile as Joel did a shitty job with a wet rag cleaning up where you were thrust against his bar, shaking your head at him.

“Missed a spot.”

He tutted dryly. “Funny.”

You collected your clutch and your other belongings, seeing the spot at the end of the bar where the ice you had thrown at Chris had long ago melted and was now a puddle on the floor. 

“Come on, I’ll walk you out.” Joel’s voice erupted from behind you. 

Your hand clutched the stray 8 ball on the pool table Joel had you laid out on, dragging it to the corner pocket before you went to meet him at the door. He unlocked it to let you out, even going up the concrete steps with you. 

“It’s fine, Joel.”

He shrugs and shakes his head, looking past you once more. 

“I know. Just wanna make sure you get in the cab alright.” He waved up his hand and stepped into the street, signaling a car until one pulled up to you both. You didn’t know what time it was, how late it had gotten. You probably had several missed messages from your friends to hear how your revenge breakup went. You couldn’t wait to tell them how tonight turned out for the better. Because of Joel.

Finally, he was really looking at you. And you had no idea what to say. Your lips parted, looking up at the older man who sort of saved your night.

Your eyes said it all.  Thank you. 

He just nodded and cocked his head towards the cab. 

“Night, Joel.” You tugged open the door to the cab, tossing your purse in the backseat before sliding in as gracefully as you could. You should forget about being graceful at this point after what you’ve done. 

“You gonna tell me your name before you go?” How could his question come from curiosity but his voice was as cold and bare as ever. His hand was in the window of your cab, as if holding it in place from taking off on him. 

His interest made you smirk, your hand playfully plucking his fingers free from his grip on the window before giving a little shrug and not saying a word.

His eyes stray from yours and look down the road, seeing him cross his arms in front of his broad chest before he continues. “Alright, fine.” He said with a little nod. “Do you think I don’t pay attention to ID’s when I check ‘em?” He says your name, testing the waters as a shy smile creeps on your lips, his cocky little smirk was enough to make your eyes roll. “That’s alright, I’ve been calling you Trouble all night anyway.” 

You sighed tiredly and smiled, tapping the cab window. “Goodnight, Joel.” You say before falling back into your seat and giving the driver your address.

“Goodnight, Trouble.” 

Joel saw you off before disappearing down the concrete stairs into the Blackbird, your fingers gently ghosting over your red lipstick as you watched the city fly by. 

---

here's my masterlist!

follow hellishfics and turn on notifications to see the next time I update! after sept. 1, there will be no more taglist!

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[zepskies]

Hey loved your Sam having a crush on Dean's gf! I was wondering if I could request the flipped version where Dean has a crush on Sam's gf 😏😏

Oh my God, hun! 🫢

The way I didn't even contemplate this!! But it's so delicious...

(And thank you for reading that Dean imagine! It was angsty, but oh so fun. 😘)

See this imagine for context: You are Dean's one exception.

Word Count: 1,300

Imagine: Dean gives you an impossible choice.

Dean hates this. He hates it more than anything.

He hates the look of you, all soft curves and smiles that brighten your eyes. Your hair looks even softer.

(He wants to tangle his fingers in it, tight, until your voice echoes in his ear.)

He hates that you bake cookies on Saturdays. (He also hates that you're learning how to make pies, just because he mentioned off-handedly that you should try. If your snickerdoodles are this good, he can only imagine what you could do with some cherry filling.)

He hates that you greet him, every morning, without fail, with a hand on his shoulder and asking how he's slept. (Even better if you'd joined me, he thinks.)

And then his mind gets truly creative, imagining all the ways he could make you lose sleep. All the ways his hands and tongue could get creative, tracing the contours of your body.

He hates all of that too.

But what he hates most of all?

That you're Sammy's girl.

Sam's known you longer, since college. The two of you reconnected after the second apocalypse diverted. Or was it the third one? Dean's lost count at this point.

So you're smart. Sam studied Latin, but you studied Greek and Spanish, and even symbology. You consider yourself a linguist -- a fact that had Dean grinning from the moment he met you...

But as many times as he made you blush and smile with his charm and a well-placed joke, it was Sam who hooked you with one of his dimpled smiles and asking you for help on a case.

You'd agreed, for him. The two of you bonded over your nerddom, with heads bowed over ancient texts and shared personal history, and Dean tried not to feel like an outsider.

And yet, even when you fell for his brother. Even when you moved into the bunker, taking up his counter space with your ridiculous baking appliances. Even when you doted and touched and kissed and promised Sam more with your eyes, Dean couldn't shake the feeling that he'd missed his chance.

So Dean backed off. He made excuses not to be around you and Sam when it got too much for him. Had to ignore the way his stomach churned (and maybe his heart clenched too).

...Until his chance comes. He sees it.

He's also a bit drunk.

"Aw, Dean. You okay?" you ask, picking up a large, empty bottle of whiskey by his hand, which still holds a fifth of a glass.

"Oh, I'm good," he replies, raising his brows with a smile. "I'm real good."

You snort with a laugh. He smirks at the sound; he would never admit it, but a small part inside him always swells with warmth when he makes you laugh.

You bring him a glass of water with just a few cubes of ice. You know he doesn't like it packed to the top. "Drink this."

"What's the magic word?" Dean teases, even as you take the glass tumbler out of his hand.

You then sit next to him at the kitchen table and offer him a wry smile, resting your chin in your hand while your elbow rests on the table. "Please, will you hydrate yourself?"

"Already did," Dean remarks.

"Dean," you say, more seriously gesturing to the water. "Please."

He hesitates. But seeing your face, he finally rolls his eyes and dutifully sips at the tall glass of water.

You reach out for his shoulder. His inebriated gaze is drawn to your hand, the smooth skin of your arm, and back to your face that shows soft concern.

"You don't drink like this unless something's on your mind," you say.

Dean falters. When did you get to know him so well?

"What, a man can't drink alone anymore?" he says wryly.

"He can, but he's gonna have to spill his guts sooner or later," you smirk. Dean grimaces at the image. Suddenly the Jameson sloshing around in his gut doesn't feel all that nice. But the longer he looks at you, the worse he feels.

"Trust me, you don't wanna know," he says. He gestures, with the hand that holds his glass, up at his head. "'S not for newcomers."

"Yeah, but I'm not a newcomer, am I?" you quip.

Dean can't help it. He stares at your face. Your damn perfect face. Perfect for him.

His heart clenches with the pain of guilt. With thoughts he shouldn't have. How he'd rather slit his own wrists than hurt his little brother. Not like this, for fuck's sake.

But Dean's got a problem. It's eating him down to the bone.

He wants you. He really wants you. More than he's wanted anything in so long...

"You really wanna know?" Dean asks. His voice is both a rumble and a coarse whisper. His green-eyed gaze falls to your lips.

For your part, you suck in a subtle breath. Your eyes widen, and your body's frozen, suspended in time.

You stare back at Dean's handsome face, overgrown with stubble, like he’s forgotten to shave. And you finally know what he's been hiding for the past few months. Why he sometimes ducks out when it's supposed to be the three of you, hanging out, watching a movie, sharing a pizza, being friends and family all at once.

You sometimes thought Dean had something against you, no matter how many times Sam has said, "That's not it." With one of those pensive looks on his face.

Like he knows something you don't, and just doesn't want to speak it into existence.

But then, Sam would distract you with his hand stroking your cheek. A kiss to your lips, sweet, but with urgency. You like that about Sam. You even love that about him -- how he can be both kind and considerate, but passionate in his affections.

But now, you stare at the eldest Winchester's face. You don't even know what you're thinking.

Dean sees the blush staining your cheeks.

He leans in, slowly. He’s mere inches away from finding out how sweet you really are.

He hears your shallow breath. His eyes flick up to yours, briefly capturing you again. You smell whiskey on him, but it doesn't completely drown out his cologne. His Deanness.

You can feel your face heating up further, down to your neck. What the fuck is happening right now?

"Tell me no," Dean says. Tell me to stop, or I swear to God...

"Dean, what..." you whisper. But that's not a no.

Still, he can't. He just can't do it. Not to Sam.

Dean just reaches out with a hand to soothe a gentle thumb across your cheek. He realizes then that he loves you. He loves you enough to let you go, if he has to.

"It comes down to this," Dean says. His voice is deep, full of grit and desire. You can see it in his eyes. He sees the conflict in yours.

He swallows. His heart is pounding against his ribcage, but he uses every ounce of self-restraint he has left, forcing his hand to fall away from your cheek.

"You've got two choices, sweetheart," he says. And he pulls away, leaving you there at the table.

Dean doesn't know it, but your heart is about to burst just like his. What the hell! How could he do that? Why...

But you realize then, holding a hand to your wildly beating, guilt-ridden, confused heart.

You never told him no.

AN: I love Sam, don't get me wrong. But because I'm unequivocally a Dean girl, I had to leave it a bit ambiguous. 😏

Dean Winchester Masterlist

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[murder-wife-deactivated20250628]

Heads up besties!!!

Sins Of My Father is officially under way!!! As I said before, it will be a few weeks before it actually starts coming out but I did finish the first chapter already! Are y’all excited for some sexy rich old man Miller??? I know I am!!!

Please comment under this post if you want to be added to the taglist! I’m going to tag the people who usually interact with my posts or who i think might enjoy this story but I won’t add you to the taglist unless you want to be tagged! Be sure to leave a comment if you want to be notified when this story gets going!!!

I love you all! Prepare for FILTH!

Taglist: @xanqels @joeldjarin @livingdeadmaria @pedritosgfreal @romana-after-dark @romanarose @megamindsecretlair @cesspitoflove @mysteriousheat4058 @biwitchy @morgaussy @sheepdogchick3 @lumoverheaven @marisemonteiroo @ravensfanart18 @megangovier20 @littlebunnybigheartfics @beccerjune @jenispunk @planet-marz1 @basicoccult @disassociation-daydreams @tloubarbie @noisynightmarepoetry @serendipity22086 @hiddenbabynyc @justagalwhowrites @cannolighost @pattwtf @ilovepedro @jay-zzle @partyofone3413 @walkintotheriveranddisappear @marvel-redemption-omega @maryrhodalouandted @diversemediums @suzmagine @persephone-girl @dizzyforyou @amanitacowboy @chaotic-mystery @chloeangelic

[jrrmint-deactivated20231020]

moonshine

10.4k / dbf!joel x f!reader

official dbf!joel playlist

warnings: 18+, minors dni. lets see what we got cookin today...age gap (reader is 23, joel is in his late 40s), dbf!joel, dom!joel, sort of slightly sub!joel for two tenths of a second, fingering, masturbation (f), picture (?) taking (?), spitting, unprotected p in v, anal, it's an extravaganza, reader gets plastered, you get it

a/n: i love y'all. i know i say it every time but it's TRUE! very thankful for this community and for all of your asks and comments and theories and creations. this series is a blast because you make it one.

i am sad (but also kind of excited) to announce that next chapter (chapter 13) will be the last official chapter in this series. as summer comes to a close so too will dbf!joel. HOWEVER. i am not planning on ending their story anytime soon - i have a ton of ideas, you guys send in great ideas - and i will incorporate those into one-shots and spinoffs as long as you want them. so - the summer will come to a close but the adventures will most certainly continue.

i love you guys. almost as much as joel loves his wood duck. 🤍

this is part 12 of my dbf!joel series. read the previous parts here:

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 | bonus chapter (joel's pov) | part 7 | part 8 | part 9 | part 10 | part 11

masterlist here. kofi here, if you wanna leave a tip :)

“Last chance,” he drawls.  You grin.  “Get your ass inside,” he says. “Don’t make me chase you.”  “That’s so much more fun, though,” you say. 

You don’t say it back. Not right away. 

Not because you don’t love him. You do. You fucking — definitely, definitely, do. But it’s like you’ve been waiting so long, fighting so hard not to say it, that once the way is clear you just…don’t. 

Not right then and there, at least. Not on that chair, in his lap, looking up at the stars.

And he doesn’t ask you to, either. He doesn’t push it. But he says it again that night, whispered low against your ear — I love you, — in that moonlit drawl. And again, later, when you’re both back in his bed. Go t’sleep, he mumbles. I love you.

—

You sleep through the night, this time. No more midnight trips to stare up at the stars. And you’d sleep straight through the morning, too, if it weren’t for Joel shaking you gently awake. 

You mumble something incoherent. Crack a single, tired eye. 

Joel’s face swims above you. He’s propped up on an elbow, sheets sloughed around his waist, peering down at you with a hangdog stare. 

He’s let his beard go a little longer since you’ve been here. His hair, too. He looks scruffier. More sunlit, when he tilts his head and lets the light frame his jaw. You reach up on instinct and run your thumb along his cheek. 

“Hey,” you blink. 

You trace a line down to his mouth. To the corner of his lip. 

He smiles into your hand. 

“Thought you mighta died,” he says. 

You roll your eyes. Then you roll away from him, stretching out onto your side, and he loops a playful arm around your waist. Tugs you back into his chest. 

“You kept me up late,” you complain. “What’d you expect?” 

“I kept you up, huh?”

“Mm.” You nod into the sheets. Yawn. “Mm-hmm.”

“Ain’t quite how I remember it.”

“Well. That’s how it happened.”

You hear him hum into your hair. His arm flexes, pulling you closer, and you relent. You snuggle back against his chest and curl there like a happy cat. 

“What else ‘m I misrememberin’ ‘bout last night?” he asks, in that lazy, smiling drawl. 

“Dunno,” you mumble. “You tell me.”

He thinks for a minute. Or pretends to, at least. His fingers toy with the hem of your shirt, sneaking to the soft skin underneath, and you snuggle closer to his touch. 

His hand trails up your stomach. Your shirt bunches at his knuckles, dragging higher with his fingers, and you gasp a little when he pauses. His thumb grazes the underside of your breast. 

“Remember tellin’ you I love you,” he murmurs. 

He waits a beat. His thumb inches higher. 

“‘Less you wanna tell me I got that wrong, too.”

Your stomach swirls. 

“No,” you breathe. 

“No,” he agrees. 

And it’s sexual, the way he touches you, the way he rolls your nipple between two fingers — but it’s safe, too. It’s soft. He feels warm and he makes you feel warmer. 

You could tell him now. You should tell him now. You want to. But you’re so content like this, sandwiched between his hand and his heart, molded to his touch like a piece of limbless putty — that you just…don’t. 

Again. 

His nose nudges at the side of your throat. He kisses you there: the ridge of your jaw to the dip in your collar, and then back up again. Light kisses. Featherlight. Just tracing the marks he’s already made. 

“Joel,” you whisper.

“Mm.”

He pauses when you’re quiet. Lifts his mouth from your skin. 

“Did you mean it?” you ask, softly. 

You can hear the breath he takes. And then he’s untangling himself from you: drawing his hand out of your shirt, dragging his arm back, pulling limbs and lips away until he’s propped above you again. 

He blinks down at you. His brows are furrowed. 

“Don’t say anythin’ I don’t mean,” he says. 

“No, I know, but just — we were tired, and it was late, so—”

“Wasn’t that late,” he says. “‘N I wasn’t that tired.”

He shakes his head. 

“‘Course I meant it,” he says. He laughs a little: bright, light, like he’s pushing out a breath. “Fuck. ‘Course I did.” 

You look at him, wide-eyed. His gaze softens. 

“You’re stubborn as hell,” he murmurs. “Probably taken — five years off my life, already. ’N you got a fuckin’ — mouth on you, needs fixin’, but—”

You punch up at his chest. Bury your laugh in the back of your hand. 

“Better be a good but,” you say. 

His jaw ticks. His curls drip down his forehead and tickle your nose. 

“But,” he drawls, “I meant what I said.”

He swears softly, under his breath. 

“Shit,” he mutters. “‘Course I love ya, baby girl.” 

It’s not like he hasn’t said it before. But you’d spent the better part of last night — after he’d tucked you back in, and kissed you goodnight — convinced that you’d dreamed those three little words. It had almost seemed too perfect. The moonlight, the stars, the silver rasp of his voice in your ear. 

But hearing him say it in the daylight — when the sun is staining his face, when you’re tangled up beside him in soft sheets and flannel blankets — it feels real, like this. It feels true. 

You reach up to touch his face. His jaw, his cheek, the fading, crooked outline of that stupid fucking bruise. You swipe your thumb across his lower lip and he parts his mouth for you. 

You push your thumb past his lips. Past the tip of his tongue. He closes gentle teeth around your knuckle and licks a stripe up the pad of your thumb. 

Your breath hitches. Heat pools between your legs. 

You drag your thumb back. He looks at you, dark eyes and swollen lips. 

“Come here,” you mumble. “Just — kiss me.” 

He grins. That loopy, scrawling smile. 

“Yes, ma’am,” he drawls, and dips his head to kiss you. 

He seems content to let you call the shots, for now. He lets you lead, when your tongue tangles with his and you moan into his mouth, soft and sweet and a little bit desperate. And he takes your hint, when you push up off of the pillows and press at his chest. 

He flops onto his back with a huff and lets you climb into his lap. You straddle the bulge in black boxers and grind your hips down into his. 

“Fuck,” he growls. 

He braces both hands on your waist. Drags you along his clothed cock in shallow, hungry motions. 

Your stomach flutters. There’s a damp patch on his boxers where you’re soaking the fabric. 

He’s still got that Dallas Cowboys shirt on. It looks soft. Heather grey, stretched-out sleeves. You’re sure he won’t mind if you steal it later. 

For now, though — 

“Take it off,” you mutter, tugging at his hem. You shove it up to his arms and he yanks it past his head. He balls it up and throws it to the foot of the bed. 

Then he blinks at you. His hair sticks up, curls ruffled. 

“Take it you ain’t a Cowboys fan.” 

You laugh. 

“I like some cowboys,” you say. “The Southern kind. With the drawl. And the flannels.” 

He shakes his head. But he’s smiling. His eyes glitter, brown-black. 

“What’s that thing they say?” You shift in his lap, grazing the tip of his cock, and his hands tighten on your waist. 

You ignore him. Your grin widens.

“Save a horse…” 

“Jesus,” he groans. “Just—”

He gives a shallow thrust. Swears. 

“Just shut up,” he mumbles, “’n fuck me.” 

You giggle. He’s so easy to rile up, now that you know just what buttons to press. But you take pity on him, just this once, and bend to catch him in a kiss. 

He takes the lead, this time. He licks into your mouth and his hands rake up your sides, fisting in the fabric of your shirt. 

You’re not wearing one of his, for the first time in forever. You’d slipped one of your own shirts on — some old, faded band tee — in your rush to get to bed. 

He likes to fuck you in his clothes, in his sheets, in his bed. 

But when it’s your shirt… 

“Off,” he mutters, pawing at the hem. “Wanna see you.” 

You laugh softly, into his mouth. Bat his hands away. 

“Hands off,” you tease. “I’ll do it myself.” 

He drops his hands reluctantly. Watches you with dark eyes as you toy with the hem. 

You pull your shirt up, inch by inch, exposing the band of blue underwear and a sliver of skin.

He sucks a breath through his teeth. His fingers flex on the sheets. 

“Don’t be a fuckin’ tease,” he says. “Ain’t—fuck,” 

You roll your hips into his lap. His cock strains against cotton. 

“—ain’t nice,” he pants. 

“Didn’t say I was nice.” 

He mutters something incoherent. His head tips against the pillow. 

You grin. And you’re about to put him out of his long-suffering misery — really, you are — but then you see something. Right there, on his nightstand, ten inches from your face. Peeking out of the drawer he hasn’t quite closed. 

“What is that?” 

It takes a second for him to process. His eyes are heavy, blown to black. He has to blink a few times to register what you’ve said. 

“Huh?” 

“What—” you lean over to the nightstand, still straddling his lap, and tug at the drawer, “—is that?” 

“What’s what?” 

He’s not even looking at the drawer. He couldn’t care less. Not when you’re on top of him, dripping wet, in a tee shirt he could rip like tissue. 

You arch a little off his lap to reach the drawer. He grumbles, clearly annoyed you’re doing whatever the hell you’re doing instead of kissing him — but he holds you steady with two broad hands. Keeps you from toppling out of his lap and off of the bed. 

When you straighten there’s a Polaroid in your hand — retro grey, with the rainbow streak. The viewfinder is lined with dust. 

You blow it off. Wag the camera in his face. 

“Don’t tell me this is Tommy’s,” you say. “Cause — I don’t even wanna know what he’s doing with this.” 

He’s been scowling at your little detour, til now, but that makes him laugh. He shakes his head. Takes the camera from you, gently, and turns it over in his hands. 

“Got it for Sarah,” he says. “Couple ‘a Christmases ago. But she ain’t been up here in years. Probably left the damn thing behind.”

You lift a brow. 

“So she won’t mind if we use it, then,” you say, slowly. “I mean. Since it’s been abandoned.”

He looks at you, a little skeptical. Reads the sly, suggestive smile playing on your lips. And he’s quiet, for a minute, but you can tell he likes the idea. You see the way his eyes run black. 

“C’mon,” you say. “Give it.”

He peers through the viewfinder. His grip tightens on the camera. 

“Uh-uh,” he says. “‘S only got a couple pictures left. You ain’t wastin’ ‘em on me.” 

You roll your eyes. It’s hardly a waste, you want to tell him, but his jaw is turned up, and his grip is airtight, and he’s got that stubborn, immovable gleam in his eye. You try to snatch the camera back and he clutches it closer to his collar. 

“Fine,” you huff. 

You settle resignedly back into his lap. His hips twitch underneath you. 

He picks the camera back up. Holds it loosely by his eye. He has to tilt the lens to catch your face. 

“Y’got…” he furrows a brow, double-checks the viewfinder, “—three shots.” 

He grins. You can see the corners of his mouth curve underneath the camera. 

“Better make ‘em count,” he purrs.  

You hesitate, half a beat. Just — working up the courage for what you want to do next. It’s not like you’re nervous around him. Not after he’s told you he loved you under the stars and fucked you senseless more times than you can count. It’s just — 

You kind of are. 

You can’t help it. He just has that effect. It sounds stupid, when you play it over in your head — it sounds so high school, but — he gives you butterflies. 

Fuck it. Joel Miller gives you butterflies. 

So you sit there for a second. You swallow back a tangle in the back of your throat. You focus less on your blush, when he aims the camera up at you, and more on the white-hot pull between your legs. On the way his breath catches when you rock your hips into his. 

“Fuck,” he mumbles. 

You pause. His chest stutters.

“What?” 

“Nothin’.” He drops the camera, just for a second. Just to look at you. “Y’just—look good. Like that.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“Don’t need to.”

Fuck. Your stomach pulls. You roll your hips along his cock and draw out a groan. 

He hasn’t brought the camera back up to his face, yet. He’s too busy staring with those big brown eyes. And he seems momentarily stunned, half-drunk on the drag of your hips, so you seize the opportunity. You put a hand on his cheek and trace a line to his lips. 

“Open your mouth,” you tell him, softly. 

He does as he’s told. He’s pretty pliant, when you’re grinding down into his lap. You get the sense he’d do whatever you asked, right now, with a lopsided smile and that scrawling yes, ma’am.

You push the pads of two fingers into his mouth and he parts his lips for you. Closes them over your knuckles. He swirls his tongue over your fingers, sticky-sweet and velvet-soft, and gives a quiet, obedient groan. 

His mouth is fucking — warm, and wet, and you can’t help thinking it would feel a hell of a lot better somewhere else — but you’re in the middle of something. So you pull your shit together as best you can and focus.

“Fuck,” you tell him, rolling your hips into his lap, “yeah. That’s good.”

He hums around your fingers. You drag them out slowly, soaking his bottom lip, and pull them back to you. 

He’s panting. His lips are slick, swollen. The Polaroid is perched half-forgotten on his collar. 

“Pick it up,” you tell him, gently. 

He picks it up. Puts it back to his face. 

“Three shots,” you parrot, with a smug little grin. “Better make ‘em count.”

You slip a hand into the band of your underwear. You hear his breath hitch, but you can’t see his eyes behind the camera. You can see him swallow, though, when you crook the fingers he’s soaked and slide them into yourself. 

Your head falls back. Your hips roll over his. He makes a strangled noise, somewhere deep in his throat, and his hips thrust up to meet yours. 

You hear the telltale snap of the shutter. The low, retro whir when the polaroid forms. 

“Fuck,” he’s panting, “fuck, baby girl, you look so fuckin’—”

He trails off into something like a groan. You flex your wrist, stretching yourself with two fingers, and the noise you make makes him tremble. His finger shivers on the shutter.

“That feel good?” he mumbles. “Huh?”

Your face is flushed. Heat creeps up your neck. 

“Yeah,” you gasp, “but you feel better.”

“Yeah?” 

You nod. You push your shirt up with your free hand and palm at your breast. 

That drives him crazy. He tenses up, all of him, his chest and his cock and his hips, underneath yours. His knuckles are white on the camera. 

“Fuck, angel,” he whines. “Were y’always this f—fuckin’ filthy?”

You arch your back. Hit that spot deep inside yourself that he hits a hell of a lot easier. You whimper softly and he swears. 

“I don’t know,” you say, breathless. “Think you bring out the worst in me.”

He groans in agreement. 

“Wanna touch you,” he says. “Wanna f—fuck. Wanna feel you.” 

“Please,” he breathes, when you don’t stop, “make y’feel so good, angel, please—”

You feel bad for him, begging this earnestly. So you give him something. 

You lean forward and grab his free hand. You drag it up to your breast, replacing yours, because he feels better anyway — and he gets it. He rolls his thumb across your nipple. Cups you with a rough hand. Your shirt drips around his knuckles. 

You almost don’t hear the camera, this time. You’re beyond out of it. His touch is electric, and his cock is straining up against you, and when you twist your fingers you pretend that they’re his. 

You’re vaguely aware that he’s taken another one — one left — and tossed it somewhere on the sheets to develop. But then you’re somewhere else, again. 

“Fuck,” you gasp, “Joel. Need you to t-touch me.”

You hear the camera thud somewhere beside you both. And then his hands are on you, both hands, and he’s ripping your shirt off, and you’re dragging your fingers back to make room for his. 

He shoves your panties to the side. Slides two thick fingers inside you. 

And you’re ready for him — you’re soaked — but he’s still a stretch. He hits that spot you have to  reach for in two seconds flat. 

It doesn’t take long for him to make you cum. You were close before he started touching you, and he knew as much. You figure that’s why he started begging. He likes to watch you, likes to see you feel good, but — he wants to make you cum. 

“Yeah,” he coaxes. His accent is thick, the way it only ever is when he’s half-asleep, or punchdrunk on you. “’S right, lemme see you, baby, ’s a good fuckin’ girl—”

“Fuck,” you breathe, “fuck, J—”

Your vision bursts. White, then black, and then you’re folding hard across his chest. Your breath stumbles over his heart, fast and thick, and you try to finish his name while you’re pressed to his skin. 

He rakes an absent hand up your spine. His cock is still straining against his boxers, prodding at your thigh, and you think it must be uncomfortable by now, but he doesn’t say a damn word. He lets you catch your breath. He lets you take your time. 

When you’re more or less recovered you lift your head up from his chest. You leave a lazy kiss on his collar and sit back up, bracing yourself on his shoulders. 

You look at him. He blinks back up at you. 

“Holy shit,” you mumble. 

He laughs. And you wish you had that fucking camera in your hand, right now, because the smile on his face makes your heart melt. He looks happy. He looks content. 

You do have one photo left. You counted, even in your blissed-out state. He only snapped the shutter twice. 

So you lean over his lap — quickly, so he can’t stop you — and snatch the camera up from the sheets. You drag it back up to your chest and aim it at his face. 

“Do that again,” you say. 

“Do what again?” 

“Smile.” 

His brow furrows. He scowls. 

“Why?” 

“Cause that’s what people do. They smile. For the camera.” 

“Ain’t what you were doin’.” 

You set your jaw. Stare at him over the lens. 

“Really?” 

He shrugs. Then he smiles again, too fast for you to capture. Your finger flickers on the shutter. 

“You are so fucking annoying,” you tell him. 

“Mm,” he hums. He tilts his head against the pillow. “Y’love it.” 

Yeah, you think. You love it. 

You love him. 

And you should fucking — tell him. You should tell him. 

So you do. 

“Joel,” you say. 

“Y’don’t want a picture ‘a this,” he complains, oblivious to your change in tone. He throws a teasing arm across his eyes. “Y’look better anyway.” 

“Joel,” you echo. “Look at me.” 

He hears it in your voice, this time. 

He drops his arm. Looks up at you. His face softens. 

“I love you,” you tell him. 

And then you snap the picture. 

It’s a good picture. At least, you think it will be. He grabs it out of your hands before it can develop. The picture and the camera — all of it — and shoves them away to the side of the bed. 

“Hey,” you whine, “I was—”

He sits up, off of the pillow. Splays his big hands out across your spine and pulls you close. 

“Say it again,” he says. 

He’s so close you can taste him. The salt on his skin and your words in his mouth. 

“I love you,” you say, softly. 

He pushes out a breath. Your legs tighten around his waist. 

“Again,” he says. 

You swallow. 

“I love you,” you breathe. “Joel. I love you.” 

“Fuck,” he mumbles. “You…fuck.” 

He tips you, gently, with an arm still slung across your back. Your legs loosen around his waist and your head thumps the mattress. You’re turned the wrong way around — your head by the foot of the bed, your feet by the pillows, but — fuck it. Doesn’t matter. Joel is hanging over you, head bowed, pulling your underwear down and your legs apart with desperate hands. 

His head sinks lower. His curls tickle the base of your stomach. You reach up, instinctively, and put your hands in his hair. You tug at his roots and he groans. 

“Don’t stop,” he mumbles. “Don’t fuckin’ — stop.” 

Don’t stop touching him, don’t stop telling him you love him, don’t stop loving him — you’re not sure what he’s asking for. But — 

“I won’t,” you promise. 

He nips the inside of your thigh and you bite back a gasp. “I f—I love you,” you chant, again and again, over and over while his mouth skates higher. “I love you, Iloveyou, fuck, I—”

“Joel,” you mumble. 

“Y’love me,” he murmurs, half to himself. — and when he drops his head, finally, and puts his mouth between your legs — he’s smiling. 

— 

It’s lunch, by the time you make it out of bed. Joel insists you stay put — he’ll make ya somethin’, he promises, when he pulls his pants back on and tugs a shirt over his head. And you don’t have high hopes, but — you let him go. 

You get dressed, and brush your teeth, and dick around on your phone while he makes a shit ton of noise in the kitchen. You have no idea what he’s doing in there. But you’re content to let him try his best — until you smell something burning. 

That seems like your cue to get the fuck up. You roll out of bed and wander into the kitchen, where he’s standing helpless over two hot dogs, and shove him gently to the side. 

“Move,” you say, pushing at his waist. “I’ll do this. Just — go stand outside, or something.” 

He gives up the pan. Steps back, to let you take over. You turn the overhead fan on and set to work salvaging his disaster. 

“Wasn’t that bad,” he says, sheepishly. 

“You’re helpless,” you tell him. 

He grunts. 

“Go get the buns out,” you say. “If you can manage that.” 

He mutters something under his breath. You’re pretty sure he’s smiling. 

You eat outside, nestled in those too-big chairs. It’s hot out today, and humid, and you watch Joel swipe the hair back from his eyes. 

He puts his plate down when he’s finished. Leans back in his chair and stares out at the trees. 

“Should think ‘bout gettin’ you home,” he says, after a few minutes. “Not — now, but — when you’re ready.” He smiles. “Can’t stay here forever.” 

“Ugh.” You thump your head against the chair. But he’s right, and for once your hackles don’t raise at the thought of going home. Of talking to your dad. 

He gives a sympathetic smile. Scratches at his stubble. 

“I know,” you say, finally. “Just—not yet. Not today.” 

“Not today,” he agrees. 

You lapse into comfortable silence. You put your plate down on the porch, by Joel’s, and nestle back into your chair. 

“I’m gonna stay, you know,” you say. “In Austin. In the city. I’ve been — looking at jobs. And places.” 

He’s quiet. He tips his head to look at you. 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah,” you say. “I like it here.” 

He nods. His face softens. 

“Good,” he murmurs. “I like ya here.” 

—

He does the dishes. It only seems fair, since you rescued his cooking. He walks your plates back to the sink and refuses your help when you sidle to his waist. 

“Go away,” he gruffs. “Siddown. I got this.” 

You shrug. But you don’t fight him. Might as well give him a chance to be useful. You leave him to the dishes and wander into the living room: to the fireplace, and the desk littered with wooden carvings, and the bookshelf collecting dust on the far-side wall. 

You’d been so preoccupied by the discovery of his semi-precious wooden duck, yesterday, that you hadn’t really given the rest of the room more than a cursory glance. You give the bookshelf a once-over now. Worn copies of Gulliver’s Travels, Huckleberry Finn, Robison Crusoe — Joel books, through and through. Linda Ronstadt CDs stacked on top of Billy Joel. Wildlife guides. A birdwatching book splayed out on its side, with a pair of black binoculars perched on the cover. 

You smile. Run a lazy finger along Huck Finn. 

And then you see the guitar, leaning haphazard against the edge of the bookshelf, and your lips quirk. You look over your shoulder at Joel. He’s got his back to you, still, hunched over the sink while he rinses a cup. 

“Hey,” you call. You tilt the guitar towards you. Skim some dust off the neck. 

He turns. Soap drips from his fingertips. 

“Tommy’s?” you ask. 

He shakes his head. 

“Wow.” You grin. Your little finger skims the strings; hits a strained, discordant note. “Joel Miller, rockstar. Will wonders never cease.” 

He scoffs. He dries his hands on a dish towel and joins you by the bookshelf. 

“Gimme that,” he mutters. He swipes his palms on his jeans, shedding excess water, and takes the guitar from your hands. He walks it over to the couch and you follow. 

You perch beside him on a cushion. Criss-cross your legs. 

He blows some dust off the neck. You watch him fiddle with the tuning pegs. 

“You know you have to play something, now,” you say. “Can’t just leave me hanging.” 

He gives a noncommittal grunt. Strums a quiet chord. It sounds a hell of a lot better than the one you plucked out. 

“Come on,” you coax. “One song.” 

“‘M outta practice,” he says, and you could swear he sounds shy. He looks down, at his fingers sprawled out on the frets, and his cheeks flush.  

“It’s just me,” you say. You nudge his knees with yours. “Swear to god — if you suck, I won’t tell anyone.” 

He glares at you. You grin. 

“Come on,” you repeat. “I know you want to.” 

He hangs his head. Stifles a smile. 

“Y’know I used t’wanna be a singer,” he says, with a chuckle that makes your heart stir. “When I was a kid. Used t’—put on shows, ’n everythin’. Out ’n the garage. Drove my old man crazy.” 

You’re met with a blinding image of a very young Joel — same tousled curls, same brown eyes — on a makeshift stage with a tiny guitar. And then, because you can’t quite help it, you picture a little boy who looks a whole lot like him, with a toy guitar slung on his shoulder — same eyes, same hair, but with your smile. 

You shove that thought back. Way back. Stick it somewhere deep.

“A singer, huh?” You clear your throat. “How come I’ve never heard you sing?” 

“‘Cause I ain’t any good.” 

“Bullshit.” You nod to the guitar. “Can’t be a singer if you don’t perform. C’mon. I’m stuck in the woods with you. Literally a captive audience.” 

He stares at you. His fingers hover on the strings. 

And then he relents, sighing heavily, and he strums a tentative chord. Then another. You settle back against the sofa with a smile. 

It’s a simple song he plays. And when he starts to sing his voice is simple, too — safe and raw and rasping, like the rustle of leaves or the wind between trees. He sounds gentle. He sounds warm. 

When the night has come

And the land is dark

And the moon is the only light we'll see

No, I won't be afraid

Oh, I won't be afraid

Just as long as you stand

Stand by me

He looks up at you, over the guitar. Blinks, shyly. When he sings the next verse his voice is low. 

So darlin', darlin', stand by me

Oh, stand by me

Oh, stand

Stand by me, stand by me.

There’s more to the song, but he doesn’t sing it. He strums the last chord and sets the guitar down against his knee. 

“Somethin’ like that,” he says, softly. 

You swallow. Your throat is tight. 

“That was—”

“Rough?” 

“Good,” you say, shaking your head. “I was gonna say good. Really—fuck. Really good.” 

He huffs. 

“Teach me,” you say, quietly. “Just—a chord, or something. I wanna learn.” 

He looks up. 

“Teach you?” he repeats. “Now?” 

You shrug. “Unless you’ve got something better to do.” 

He laughs a little. His shoulders drop. He moves the guitar to his side and spreads his legs. 

“C’mere, then,” he says. 

He pats his knee and you scoot back, into the cradle of his legs. You settle there, your back to his chest, and he hands you the guitar. His fingers hover on the strings, over yours. 

“Start nice ’n simple,” he drawls, and his voice is right there, dripping like silk to the shell of your ear. His stubble rakes your skin. “C-chord. Put ‘em like this—”

He closes his hand over your fingers. Moves them to the proper places. And you’re trying to focus — you are — but his hand on yours, and his breath on your neck, and his cock pressed to the small of your back — is making that kind of, sort of difficult. 

You wriggle in his lap. His cock stirs at the seam of his jeans. He hisses soft somewhere behind you, and his fingers stutter over yours. 

“Quit,” he mutters. His heartbeat catches at your back. 

“Not doing anything,” you mumble. 

He moves your hand back into place. Strums the chord with you. It sounds good — not as good as when he plays it, on his own, but — good. 

He lets your hand go. 

“On your own, this time,” he says. 

You swallow. Shift again, against his lap. He groans, long and low at the base of your neck, and you pluck out a feeble chord. Your fingers tangle on the strings. 

“Fuck,” he growls. “Thought y’wanted t’learn.” 

“I do,” you say. 

He hums. Not convinced. You grind your hips back into him — entirely intentional, this time — and play a semi-decent C-chord just to spite him. 

“See?” You shrug. Look back over your shoulder. “You’re a good teacher.” 

His face is twisted. He looks pained. When you turn around to look at him he snatches the guitar back, out of your hands, and slides it face-up to the floor. 

“Don’t break it,” you laugh. 

“Don’t care,” he mutters. 

He lets the guitar fall. And then his hands are on you, wrapping low around your waist, dragging you closer in the crook of his thighs. He slides a hand down the front of your shorts and you lift your hips for him. 

“Easy,” he murmurs. His voice stains your skin. “Relax.” 

You whimper. You let your head tip back to his collar. 

He drags his fingers over damp cotton. When he slips his hand under your panties you’re fucking — soaked, for him — and he whistles low at the base of your neck. 

“Fuck,” he breathes. “Poor baby.” 

“Joel, please.” You buck your hips again, into his hand. You need him inside you — his finger, his tongue, his fucking — whatever. You just need him. “Please.” 

He slides his middle finger into you. Crooks it just right and nips your ear when you gasp. 

“Okay,” he murmurs. He pulls his finger back out and you whine. “On your knees, baby girl.” 

It takes you a second to do what he’s asked. You have to re-focus, and struggle to sit up. And when you do start to get on your knees — on the floor, between his legs — he stops you. That’s not what he means. 

“No, angel,” he says, gently. “Not like that.” 

“On the couch,” he nods, when you don’t quite follow. “Back t’me. Face the window.” 

Oh. 

You get it, now. You face the back of the couch — the wall, the window — and get onto your knees. They dig into the cushions. Leave heavy divots in the leather. 

Joel stands. He walks behind you, between the couch and coffee table, and you hear the jingle of his belt as he drags it through his jeans. The telltale rustle of denim-on-skin. 

And then he’s behind you, close to you, and his hand is on your back. He pushes gently, urging you forward until you fold. You brace your forearms on the back of the couch. Your nose nearly nudges the windowpane. You work your knees into the leather, spreading your legs a little wider, and he gives a satisfied purr at your back. 

“Like that,” he says, softly. “Yeah?” 

You nod. Your fingers dig into the backrest.

“Yeah,” you say. 

“Good,” he says. “Don’t fuckin’ move.” 

You smirk. “Yes, sir.” 

You’re teasing, mostly, but there’s silence at your back. You resist the urge to look over your shoulder. 

“Goddamn it,” he hisses. He hooks a finger in your waistband. Pulls your shorts and your underwear down, together, and lets them bunch around your knees. “Don’t—fuckin’—” 

“What?” you pant. You can’t see him, but you can make out his reflection, in the haze of the window. His ruffled hair. His frantic jaw. 

He’s still got his shirt on. His jeans are undone, shoved haphazard down his hips. 

“Don’t what?” you taunt, when he doesn’t respond. “Call you sir?” 

He makes a guttural sound. Wraps a hand around your waist and drags your hips back into his. His cock notches at your entrance. 

“I’m sorry,” you gasp. “Do you like Mr Miller better? I can never remem—” 

He slides into you. No preamble, no nothing. Not that you need it. You’re dripping wet, practically begging him to fuck you, and he fills you up in a single motion. You cry out and clench around him. 

You push your hips back, when he doesn’t fucking move. Your forehead drops to rest on your hands. 

“Shut up,” he growls. He sounds strained. His cock twitches inside you. You know he wants to move. 

“Yeah,” you say, breathless. “Yes, sir.” 

His hips flex, involuntarily. Your stomach tightens.

“Jesus,” he pants. “Just—” 

He pulls out, halfway. Slams back into you. 

“—fuckin’—” 

It sends you reeling forward, into the back of the couch, and the leather leaves marks on the sprawl of your wrists. 

“—quit,” he snarls. 

“Please,” you say, breathless, “you fucking love it. You f—uck—“ he hits something inside you, something deep, “—ing love me.” 

He makes a strangled sound. Fucks you harder. A familiar heat coils low in your stomach. 

“Joel,” you gasp, “fuck—I’m—”

“Yeah, baby.” He rolls his hips. Makes you shout. “’S it. Let go f’me.” 

You cum hard, choking his cock. Your knees tremble on the leather. Sweat beads on your spine and slicks salty down your skin. 

“Fuck,” you pant. 

“One more,” he says. “C’mon. One more.” 

You can’t do one more. You’re spent — from this morning, from right now. From his fucking voice dripping down your shoulder blades.

“Joel—”

“One more,” he repeats. He wraps a hand around your front, circles your clit with his finger, and heat springs back to life in your core. 

“Fuck,” you yelp, “oka—fuck. Yes.” 

He drags his fingers away after a minute. Braces it on your waist. Then he picks up the pace, until the slap of skin rings in your ears. 

His hand comes up to grab your shoulder. Better balance than your waist, you guess. You don’t fucking care, as long as he doesn’t stop. His fingers dig into you, dragging you back onto his cock again and again. 

“Yeah, f—Joel, fuck,” you mumble, “don’t s-stop, please, don’t—”

And — of course — he stops. He pulls out, right as you’re creeping toward the edge. You scrabble at the sofa, nails scratching, and a whine snakes up your throat. 

“Why?” you whimper. 

“Quiet,” he breathes. 

And then you feel his cock nudge at your ass, at the tight ring of muscle there, and your breath hitches. You do look over your shoulder, this time. 

“Yeah,” you tell him, before he can ask. “Yes.”

He nods. His eyes are black. 

He takes his hand off your shoulder. Holds it over the small of your back. You watch him spit into his palm, and drag it slow and slick along the length of his cock, and it’s fucking filthy. Your stomach pulls. Heat drips between your legs. 

“Turn around,” he says, gently. 

You turn around. Your fingers curl on the back of the couch. 

The head of his cock presses at your ass. He pushes his hips into you — slow, a little tentative — and you gasp. Your back arches. Your nose ghosts the window, the glass, and your eyes glaze. But you don’t tell him to stop. 

He does stop, though, with just the tip of his cock buried inside you. It’s a stretch — a hell of a lot more than his thumb was, last night — and you hiss through your teeth. You’ll leave marks, on the back of the couch. On the inside of your hands, where your thumbs dig into your palms. 

The sting mellows, after a while. It gets sweeter. That coiled heat in your core starts to burn. You remember how close you were, before he pulled out and robbed you — and you start to get impatient. He’s filling something deep in you, right now, something you didn’t know he could fill — but you need more. You rock your hips, slow, and the friction makes you yelp.

“Joel,” you beg him. Your thighs tremble. “Please just — fucking — move.” 

He gives a shallow thrust. Pushes in an inch deeper. You whine his name and your breath fogs the window. 

“Fuck,” he mutters. His voice pulls. “Baby, ‘m not—”

He’s close. You can feel him tense inside you. You push your hips back and he exhales. Hard.

“Just—fuck, it’s fine, just please. Joel, please, Iloveyou, fuck, pl—”

His hips flex. He digs both hands into your waist and thrusts into you, all of him, all at once, and the pressure makes your head spin. Something snaps at the base of your core: liquid heat, white-hot, and you’re coming apart before he can settle. 

He feels you squeeze him, hears his name on your lips — and he spills inside you with a broken groan. He folds over your back, shirt pressed to your spine, and he’s too fucking heavy but you’re too limp to care. 

You sink down. Off of your knees. You slip off the back of the couch and melt down into the cushions, boneless and light-headed and totally, completely wiped. He stumbles down somewhere beside you, slouched against the sofa with his legs spread and his hands on his knees. His neck is tipped, mouth parted. He’s breathing like he’s run a marathon. 

“Fuck,” you pant. “Okay. Fuck.”

He rolls his head to look at you. Pulls a hand off his knee and drapes it soft across your thigh. 

His thumb strokes your skin. The hem of your shirt. 

“Good?” he asks. 

“Yeah,” you say. “Really good.”

“Really good,” he echoes. Then he laughs.

And you laugh, too, because you’re both delirious and slick with sweat and the sun is slipping through the window at a slant, warming you both til it’s too hot to think. The air is thick, syrupy. You could curl up right here, in his lap, and let the sun wash you to sleep. 

“I’ve never — done that,” you say, quietly. 

He smiles. His hair sticks to his forehead, sweat and static. He rubs an aimless pattern up your thigh. 

“I know,” he says, gently. 

“I’m glad it was you,” you say. “I mean — with you.” 

“Yeah,” he says. “Me too.” 

“I’d do anythin’ with ya,” he says, softly, after a moment’s silence. “Not just — that. But, I mean —” 

He struggles, the way he always does with a thought that’s longer than three words. Struggles to piece the words together, in a way that makes you see. 

“Anythin’,” he says, finally. “Anythin’.” 

“Yeah,” you say. And this time it’s your turn to tell him — 

“I know.” 

He nods. He looks thoughtful. But whatever he’s thinking he keeps to himself, locked up in a small, sloping smile — and you don’t ask. You’re content to let him be content. 

You sit in silence for a minute. Maybe two. Your skin sticks to the leather. Your eyes start to droop. 

He nudges you awake. 

“Should take a shower,” he murmurs. “Cool off. ‘M a mess. ’N you’re — burnin’ up.” 

He’s right. The leather soaks up heat like a sponge. So between the sex on your skin and the sun — you’re a mess. And so is he. 

But you have a better idea, in your blissed-out state. Or, at least — you think it’s better. Joel would probably disagree, which is why you don’t ask him. You just untangle your limbs, and peel yourself up off of the couch, and stumble into the kitchen on unsteady legs. 

You can feel his stare at your back. At the hem of your shirt, where it just — barely — skates over your ass. 

“Shower’s boring,” you say, without turning to face him. “I got a better way to cool off.”

“A better way,” he repeats, nonplussed. 

“Yeah.” You lean over the counter, not unaware of how your shirt rides up — and turn around with Tommy’s dusty glass bottle of god-knows-what clutched in your hand. The liquid sloshes up the side. 

He sits up straight. 

“Don’t drink that,” he says, as you start to unscrew the top. “Do not—”

Too late. 

You bring it up to your lips. Take a sip that’s probably way too big. It goes down like battery acid. With, like, the barest hint of cherry at the end. 

You shove your hand over your mouth. Cough until your eyes burn. 

“Oh my god,” you choke. You purse your lips. Stare up at the ceiling, sucking in air. “Holy fuck. That is poison.” 

He shakes his head. He looks incredulous. A little concerned. And maybe, slightly, impressed. 

“Tried t’tell ya,” he grumbles. 

His mouth ticks. He’s holding back a smile. 

You let it soften in your stomach. It’s not that bad on the downswing. It’s not good, and it’s not even decent, but there’s a nice little burn that settles south of your throat. 

“Mm,” you tell him, squinting, “it’s getting better.” 

“No it ain’t,” he says. 

“Yeah.” You take another sip, before he can stop you. Hiss it down. 

“Oh, yeah,” you cough. “Definitely better.” 

He stands up. Makes a beeline for you. 

“Gimme that,” he says. 

“Why?” you laugh, dodging him, “You want some?” 

His gaze narrows. You grin. He reaches for you and you wriggle under his arm. He’s bigger, but you’re faster, and you beat him to the front door. 

You crack it open. Slip outside. The bottle hangs between your fingers. 

You cock your head, teasingly. Take a few slow steps backward to the edge of the porch. 

“You want it?” You smile. “Come get it.” 

You turn around. Trot down the stairs. You hear him swear somewhere behind you. 

You turn to him at the base of the steps. He watches you from the threshold, one arm splayed to block out the sun. 

Your toes sink in sandy soil. It’s soft; cool. 

A breeze lifts the hem of your shirt and you watch his eyes darken. He looks at the bottle. At you. 

“Last chance,” he drawls. 

You grin. 

“Get your ass inside,” he says. “Don’t make me chase you.” 

“That’s so much more fun, though,” you say. 

You take off, streaking down the path, into the pines and towards that pebbled shore — and you don’t wait to see if he’ll follow. You can hear his heavy sigh, behind your back. His low — goddamn it — before his feet thud down the steps. The laugh he tries to stifle when he stumbles after you. 

“Come on,” you taunt. Your voice carries through the tops of trees. “Keep up.” 

The trees thin out, a few hundred feet from the shore. The soil underfoot turns to grey, pebbled stone. The ones closest to the water’s edge are soaked black. 

You pick your way across the stones, toward the water. You pull your shirt off as you go, tugging it over your head and tossing it somewhere behind you. You wade into the water and hiss at the cold. 

It’s nice, though. After a minute. It’s a hell of a lot more refreshing than a shower. 

You sink in a little deeper, all the way to your waist. You hoist the bottle up, above the surface, and twist around to face the shore. You take another half-sip and watch Joel clear the trees. 

He doesn’t see you right away. He blinks out at the lake, standing barefoot on the stones, slick with sweat and vaguely panicked.

“Damn,” you shout. His head whips to you. Relief scrawls wide across his face. “You are slow as hell.” 

He shakes his head. Stares at you on the water. 

“Get outta there,” he says. 

“Get in here,” you say. 

He pauses. His eyes rake your neck. Your collar. The tops of your breasts, when you bob in the water. 

“Thought you wanted to cool off,” you say. 

He makes a profoundly irritated noise, somewhere between a whine and a long-suffering groan — but then he reaches for his shirt. Tugs it up, over his head, and throws it out across the rocks. He picks his way toward the shore, wincing where the stones dig into his feet — and undoes his jeans as he goes. Buttons, zipper, belt. He leaves them somewhere between his shirt and the shore. 

You laugh. Float out, onto your back. The bottle hangs between your fingers, half-submerged. 

His entry is a lot less graceful than yours. He splashes into the water, shouts — Jesus, fuck — when the cold nips his ankles — and then bites the bullet, and dives in headfirst. He surfaces a minute later, three feet from you, sputtering and soaking wet. Water drips off his jaw and beads at his throat. His hair is plastered to his forehead. 

You reach up. Push it back. He smiles into the curve of your wrist. 

“See?” You grin. “Feels good.” 

“Feels cold.” 

“Here.” You pass him the bottle. “This helps.” 

He shakes his head like a dog, scattering water back into the lake — and takes the bottle from your hands. He holds it up to the setting sun and squints at the contents. 

“Looks fuckin’ disgustin’,” he says. 

“It is.” You splash at his chest. “Warms you up, though.” 

“One sip,” you say. “C’mon.” 

He looks skeptical. But he relents, cause you’re convincing — and brings it up to his lips. Screws his eyes shut while he swallows one sip, and then another. 

“Stop,” you laugh, when he tilts the bottle and keeps going, “—stop, stop, oh my god, Joel. Jesus.”

You splash his face. He sputters mid-sip and brings the bottle back down. He winces, but — he doesn’t cough. His lips are slick, shiny. You swim up and kiss him, still laughing, and he tastes a little like cherries. 

“What the fuck,” you mumble, wrapping your legs around his waist, “—is wrong with you? I said one sip.”

He shrugs. Holds you loosely with one arm, and holds the bottle with the other. 

“Figured that’d shut ya up,” he says. 

You punch lightly at his chest. Drape your arms around his neck. 

“It is really fucking gross,” you say, after a beat. The words come out a little slurred, nestled somewhere near his shoulder.

He hums in agreement. 

“So gross,” you say. “And. I think I might be drunk.” 

“Woulda’ never guessed,” he drawls. 

You hit him again. He grins. 

It creeps up on you fast. You didn’t feel it, on your sprint to the lake — but you’re sure feeling it now. Your head is foggy. Your thoughts muddle — in that peaceful, aimless kind of way. You lean into Joel, boneless in the water. 

And you’re sure he’s feeling it too — there’s no way he’s not, the way he swallowed it down — but if he is he’s not so obvious. He’s bigger than you, and his tolerance is probably a lot fucking better, and you think maybe he’s used to whatever disgusting Miller concoction is left in that bottle. 

Which is probably a good thing, at the end of the day. It means he can hold you, in the water, and ensure you don’t drown. It means he can carry you back to the cabin. It means he can tuck you in, and maybe — maybe — hold your hair back, late tonight.  

For now, though — you feel good. You feel great. You nip playfully at his neck and smooth it over with your tongue. And then you kiss him, again — soaked and sloppy— and he smiles into your mouth.

“Mm,” you slur. “Taste good.” 

“Yeah? I taste good?” 

“Yeah,” you nod. “Like…coffee. ’N….cherries. And like…a little hint of, like….saw…dust.” 

“Sawdust,” he echoes.

“’S hot,” you assure him. “’S, like, a man. Y’know. Like…I’m Joel Miller. I build stuff. I play the guitar.” 

“Yeah,” he says. “Does sound like me.” 

“Mmhmm,” you agree, and nuzzle deeper to his shoulder. Water laps at your chin. 

He holds you like that, while the sun slips and the sky turns dark. Blue, then purple, then a stained, almost-black. You trace the ridge of his cheek; the fading cut across his nose. 

Your fingers stall there. You frown. 

“‘M sorry,” you say, sadly. 

He huffs. “For what, darlin’?”

“’S gonna be — a scar,” you say, softly. “‘Cause of me.” 

He reaches up. Takes your hand away, gently. 

“No,” he says. “Not cause ‘a you.”  

You’re quiet. 

“Hey.” He peels you from his shoulder. Holds your chin in his hand. “Not cause ‘a you.” 

He kisses you. Soft, sweet. When he pulls back he shakes his head. 

“Scar’s a good thing, anyway,” he says. “Means ya healed. Means ya made it.” 

You blink at him, slowly. Water beads on your lashes. 

“We made it,” you say.  

“Yeah,” he says. “We did.” 

You nod. 

“I love you,” you say, sleepily. The moon is up now, again. The stars glitter on the lake, and on the beads on both your bodies. “A — lot.” 

“A lot, huh?” 

“Mm.” 

“How much ’s a lot?” 

“Dunno,” you slur. “A lot’s a lot.” 

He hums. Can’t argue with that logic. 

“D’you—” you poke at his chest, “love me? “ 

“Yeah,” he says. “A lot.” 

“How much ’s a lot?” you parrot, with a sloping, punchdrunk smile. 

He pauses. And he’s smiling, too, but when he speaks he’s serious. The moonlight splashes off his jaw. 

“More ’n anythin’,” he breathes. 

—

He does have to carry you back to the cabin. Not that he minds. You’re a lot less stubborn, when you’re drunk, and you seem to have no filter for telling him — and the entire, surrounding forest — that you love him. Over and over again. Up the shore, and over the stones, and back up the path you’d sprinted down. Which makes him smile. And laugh. And almost trip, four separate times, over tangling roots and his own bare feet. 

It’s only when you’re back inside that you realize you’ve forgotten all the clothes. Just — left them there, on the shore, strewn out across the stones. 

Oh, well. Whatever. You can get them tomorrow, when the sun is up. Or never. You don’t really care. You’re exhausted, and your head is spinning, a little, and you can hear Joel’s heartbeat where your cheek meets his chest. 

He brings you into the bedroom. Sets you down, on the foot of the bed, and you watch your feet dangle while he disappears. 

He comes back a minute later. He’s got a blanket from the living room — a fuzzy one, synthetic fur, ten times warmer than the flannel on his bedspread — and he wraps it up around your shoulders. He fills a glass from the sink and makes you drink — more ’n that, let’s go, good girl, baby — and takes it back when you’re done. Sets it down on top of your nightstand. Then he pulls a shirt out of his duffel — something big, and soft, and easy to slip into — and lets you curl up inside it. 

He tucks you in, under the covers. When your teeth still chatter he takes that fuzzy fur blanket and lays it down on top of you. 

“Stay,” you mumble. 

He laughs. 

“‘M right here,” he says. He lays down beside you. The mattress dips. “Ain’t goin’ nowhere.” 

“Mm.” You nod, approvingly. Snuggle deeper into his shirt, his sheets, his blanket. “’S good.” 

“Feel okay?” 

You self-assess. Or — try to. You’re sleepy. And plastered. 

“Good,” you report. “Drunk.” 

“Yeah,” he drawls. “Very.” 

“Do not,” you slur, into the pillowcase, “let me do that again.” 

“Tried t’stop you,” he says. “Too damn stubborn.” 

“Mm.” 

You wriggle closer to him. He loops an arm over that giant, unwieldy blanket — and you. You smile. Your eyes drift shut. 

He leans over. Kisses you softly on the temple. His nose nudges your cheek; a strand of still-damp hair. 

“I love you,” he whispers. “A lot.” 

— 

You drive back the next morning. 

It’s your decision — even though you’re hungover as fuck, the second you wake up and squint at the sun — and even though you’d like nothing more than to lay in bed with Joel until next year. 

But it’s time. It’s time. You haven’t texted your dad for two days, and he hasn’t messaged you. He’s given you space, just like you asked. And you think — maybe — you’re ready to talk. 

Joel just nods, when you tell him you’re ready. He’s easy like that. He goes down to the lake, to recover the clothes you’d abandoned last night. Loads up the truck while you nurse an alka-seltzer. 

He pops his head through the door. His duffel is slung across his shoulder. 

“Almost done,” he reports. 

You give a weak thumbs-up. 

“How’s the headache?” 

You swap it for a thumbs-down. He grins. 

“How are you not hungover at all?” you complain. “I watched you drink, like, a third of that bottle.” 

He shrugs. 

“Ain’t a lightweight,” he says. You bat at his general direction and he chuckles. Re-adjusts his bag. 

“C’mon, killer,” he tells you. “Get ya a coffee on the way. ’N maybe a — bucket, or somethin’.” 

“Shut up,” you mumble. But you’re laughing, a little, when you shove yourself up and follow him to the door. 

“Shit,” you say, before he can shut it. “Hang on. I just — forgot something. Real quick.” 

He shrugs. Lets you go. You go back to the bedroom and fumble on the sheets, under the blankets, until — 

There. The polaroids. Still tangled up in the sheets, where Joel had cast them aside yesterday. You dig them out. Swipe them clean on the edge of your shirt. 

And then you look at them properly, for the first time — and your breath catches. You forget the blinding headache between your eyes for a second. 

The first two are of you. It’s a good angle — he’d gotten it right; captured all of you. 

You’re straddling his lap, in the first one. You can see the base of his stomach, toned and tanned at the edge of the picture. Your hand is buried in your panties, fingers crooked, and it’s a filthy fucking picture — but you prefer the second. 

It’s not that different. You’re still straddling him. Still touching yourself. But your eyes are heavier, and your head is tilted, and his hand is in the frame, cupping your breast with rough fingers. Your shirt is bunched around his knuckles. It’s fucking — 

You stare at it, a long time. Heat flutters at the base of your belly. You shove both photos into your pocket and flip over the third. 

He’d ripped it out of your hands, yesterday, before you had time to watch it develop. Tossed it somewhere on the sheets. You’d almost forgotten it even existed. 

Look at me, you’d told him— 

I love you.

—and then you’d snapped the shutter. Last shot. Last photo.  

But the first time you’d told him those three little words. 

And —

“Fuck,” you mumble, alone in his room. You swipe a finger past the picture.

It’s perfect. He’s perfect. His hair is tousled on the pillowcase. His eyes are soft, blown wide. His mouth is half-parted, lips upturned in an awestruck smile. He’s got a look scrawled on his face you can’t quite quantify. It’s a look he only ever gives you. 

You almost put that one back in your pocket, with the rest. But it doesn’t quite belong there. You want it closer. Safer. So you wedge the case off your phone, and slide it in between the glass and the plastic — just for now, just for safekeeping — and tuck your phone back in your pocket. 

And then you join him by the door. You give the cabin a last once-over and he puts a hand between your shoulders. 

“Ready?” 

“Yeah,” you say, softly. You squint up at him. The bruise on his cheek is almost, almost gone. “Let’s go.” 

— 

You make it home by noon, with a stop for coffee on the way. You have to choke it down, but after that you feel better. Sort of. You hang your head out the window like a dog and let the wind sting your face. 

You didn’t pack sunglasses, so Joel gives you his. He keeps a pair in the glove compartment — aviators, tinted brown. They’re way too big, and they slide down your nose, but — they keep the headache at bay. He tries to play his music and you bat his hand away. 

“Don’t even think about it,” you snap. 

He grins. 

“Yes, ma’am,” he drawls. 

So you ride in relative silence, all the way home. Which is fine by Joel, and weirdly comfortable, for you. He rests his hand on your thigh and you let him keep it there. 

He only drags it back when he pulls into your driveway. Your dad’s car is there — he’s home — and the thought makes your breath hitch. 

He puts the truck in park. Looks at you, with his hand on the stick. 

“Alright,” he says, gently. 

“Yeah,” you say. “Alright.” 

You stare at each other. He swallows. 

“You okay?” he asks. “I can—come with ya, or—”

“No.” You shake your head. “I’m okay. I should — do it myself.” 

“Yeah,” he nods. “Okay.” 

“I’ll — text you, or something. After. Let you know how it goes.” 

“Sure,” he says. 

He cocks his head toward his own driveway. 

“Y’know where t’find me,” he murmurs. “Ain’t goin’ nowhere.” 

You smile. It’s what he said last night, snuggled up to you between the sheets, when you asked him sleepily to stay. It’s what he tells you now, when he knows you have to go. 

“Good,” you say. “Better not.” 

He laughs, lightly. Drums his fingers on the steering wheel. You watch him drag a long breath in. 

“I have somethin’ for you,” he says. “‘Fore ya go.” 

“Oh.” You pause. You’d been reaching for the door handle, but you settle back now against the seat. Turn your head, to look at him. “Okay. Sure.” 

He swallows. His jaw flickers. He unclips his seatbelt and leans over, into the backseat, and fumbles with the zip on his duffel bag. 

“What—” 

“Hang on,” he gruffs. 

He reappears a moment later. Straightens back against his seat. There’s something cupped between his hands, but you — can’t quite make it out. 

“Okay,” you say. “You’ve piqued my interest.” 

“Don’t get your hopes up,” he says. “Ain’t anythin’ special. Just — did it last night, ‘fter ya went t’bed.” 

You’re quiet. Curious. You nod, a little uncertain, and watch him unfurl his fingers. 

And then — you can’t help it, really — tears spring behind your eyes. You have to bite your lip to ward them off. 

Because his duck is in his hands. His little wooden duck. The one you told him you loved, because it belonged to him. 

“No,” you say, too quickly, “no, Joel, I can’t.” 

“Yeah, y’can,” he says. He holds it out to you. It looks so small, in the palm of his hand. The carved, careful feathers. The happy black eyes. The tiny J.M. scratched into the side. 

“He’s yours,” he says, softly. He pinches the duck between his fingers. Turns it, gently. “See?” 

There’s something else there. Something new, scrawled underneath the feathers, the same size as his J.M., and the same uneven hand, but carved into the opposite side. Newer. Fresher.

Your initials. 

You reach out without thinking. Take the duck out of his hands, and close it up in yours. 

“’S yours,” he repeats. When you look up at him he looks at the floor. He sounds sheepish. “‘F ya want.” 

“I—” 

You run a thumb over the new initials. A tear snakes down your cheek and you swipe it away. 

“But you — you said he was a part of you.” 

He smiles softly. 

“So ‘re you,” he says. 

You shake your head. You don’t know what to say. 

“Thank you,” you mumble. 

“C’mere.” 

He pulls you into his heart, across the center console. Presses a kiss to the crown of your head. When he lets you go you lean in, closer, and ghost your lips across his jaw. 

“Joel,” you say, again, “thank you.” 

You pull back. He clears his throat. Then he nods — at the door, at your driveway. 

“Go on,” he says. “Get.” 

So you go. 

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[swiftispunk-deactivated20241031]

coming soon:

your summer dream, day four–sand

a reminder to follow @swiftispunkupdates and turn on notifications for updates <3

chapter vibes ⬇️

snippet below~

Joel smiles sympathetically, squeezing your hands tighter, enveloping them fully in this massive grasp as he holds them to his chest, drawing your body in closer to his.

"Don't you listen to a word she said," he says fiercely. "You don't owe him–"

Knock, knock, knock.

"Good to go, Miller?" your dad's voice calls from the hallway outside and your attention is pulled from one another as you both turn to face the source of the sound, your heart pounding in your chest. Goddamnit. Here you are, interlocked with Joel Miller while your dad waits on the other side of a thin, hotel door. You attempt to free your hands from Joel's but he latches on to them firmly, refusing to let you go.

"Be right out," Joel barks before he's facing you again, bringing your conjoined hands up to his mouth. To your shock and wonder, he places a soft kiss against your knuckles, swift and fleeting.

"We'll talk later," he whispers as he finally releases you.

[jrrmint-deactivated20231020]

lakeside

13.2k / dbf!joel x f!reader

official dbf!joel playlist

warnings: 18+, minors dni. y'all know the deal by now. smut. heavy on the fluff. age gap (reader is 23, joel is in his late 40s). dbf!joel, dom!joel (he's back) (prepare the red carpet), fingering, toys, some, uhh, light ass play and some equally light...tying up? spanking, unprotected p in v, reader can get/is on her period, joel's face is still busted, ive exhausted myself y'all can let me know if i missed something

a/n: hello party people. i love you long time. y'all make my day every day. have fun, be safe, live laugh love dilfs, etc etc. inbox is always open for all of y'all 🤍 enjoy the cabin. it will be a two part affair.

this is part 11 of my dbf!joel series. read the previous parts here:

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 | bonus chapter (joel's pov) | part 7 | part 8 | part 9 | part 10

masterlist here. kofi here, if you wanna leave a tip :)

“Fuck,” he mumbles. “What?”  He swallows. Shakes his head. His thumb drops to skim the edge of your mouth.  “Nothin’,” he says.  And then he kisses you. 

Joel waits in his truck while you get your stuff. He keeps the engine going and his foot on the gas. 

You like knowing he’s there, when you slip into your house. You like knowing he’s close. 

You make a beeline for the stairs the second you’re inside. You don’t announce you’re home, the way you usually do, and you think with any luck your dad won’t hear you come and go. 

You make it to your room without a chase. You drag a duffel from your closet and throw in some clothes — tee shirts, jeans, whatever’s closest — and whatever’s within reach on your bathroom sink. A toothbrush and toothpaste. An open, almost-empty box of tampons. Whatever. You figure Joel can stop for anything you miss. 

Your phone is where you left it two nights ago, half-buried underneath your pillow. You fish it out and stuff it in your duffel. Your charger, too. Then you do a final, hurried sweep — and, fuck it, — you shove that little black vibrator in, too. The one tucked in the back of your nightstand. The one you haven’t touched since that night with Hayes. 

You zip the bag. Sling it up over your shoulder. Your pulse paints a weird, nervous patter by your throat. 

And then — because of course your luck has to run out, sooner or later — your dad’s voice lurches behind you. Hard and brittle. Almost broken. 

“You’re home,” he says. 

You freeze. Your hackles are up, like a cat in the corner. His shadow stains the carpet.

You turn, slowly. Your duffel slouches. 

“I’m leaving,” you say. Soft. Even. But — firm, you think. You’re leaving. Get out of my way. 

“Where’ve you been?” he asks. He sounds tired. 

You don’t answer. You know he already knows. 

He sighs. His head hangs. 

“Fuck,” he mumbles. His hand comes up, fast, and slams the doorframe. “Fuck!”

You wince. 

“You’re not goin’ anywhere,” he says. You can’t tell if it’s an order or a plea. Both, maybe. “Just—put the bag down. Come downstairs. We’ll talk.”

“I don’t wanna talk.”

“Just — fuck!” He swears, again. Slaps the door, again. You wonder if he hit Joel like this. Open-palm. So hard he makes splinters. Or if it was worse — closed fist, knuckles scraping. 

Your cheeks burn. 

“I’m not talking right now,” you say. “You’re too—” 

You don’t finish. He’s too everything. Too much. 

You walk closer. He doesn’t step aside, so you squeeze past. 

He doesn’t stop you, at least. Doesn’t touch you. But he follows you, when you sidestep him and take the stairs two at a time. You can hear him on your heels. 

“Stop,” he says. He’s slower than you are on the stairs. You’re halfway out the door by the time he hits the bottom. 

You don’t stop. You can hear Joel’s engine, purring out in the middle of the road, waiting for you when you step into the sun. Just like he promised. 

You take your porch steps two at a time, too. When your shoes hit the street you’re almost sprinting. Not — away from your dad, so much as towards Joel.

He cracks his door when you get close. Trots around the truck to the passenger side. 

You shrug your bag off your shoulder and he takes it from you. Puts it in the backseat. He snaps the passenger door open and nods. 

“Okay?” 

“Yeah,” you mumble. Your face is flushed. 

He nods again. His finger flexes on the door. He’s looking past you now, up the street, where your dad is stomping down your driveway with an angry sort of gleam. 

“Get in,” Joel says. 

You get in. He shuts the door behind you. His window is cracked — you’re not sure they’re even capable of closing — so you can hear every snarled syllable when your dad crosses the street. 

He’s shouting. It takes you a minute to work out that he’s yelling at Joel and not you. 

“Are you fuckin’ serious?” he’s saying. Shouting. 

He’s barefoot on the pavement. He’s lucky it’s still overcast, you think. Or else the soles of his feet would peel right off. You kind of wish they would right now. 

Joel is quiet. Which is nothing new, really, but — still. You wish he’d fight back. He’s bigger than your dad. Taller. His voice rolls deeper. It’d take one word to set him back in his place. 

But he’s quiet. Silent. You notice, though, that he doesn’t move. He stays wedged in front of the passenger-side door. Between the truck and your dad. Between you and your dad. 

“Where the fuck d’you think you’re goin’?” your dad yells. “You asshole. Y’can’t take her.”

“Dad,” you say. 

He ignores you. Joel stays put. 

“Goddamn it,” your dad swears. “You didn’t learn your fuckin’ lesson already? Huh? Wanna go again?” 

“Dad,” you say. 

He ignores you. Again. He takes a jolting step forward, towards Joel and towards you. He shoves Joel with two flat palms and a snarl. 

Joel stumbles. His back thumps the door. Heat swirls in your chest. 

“Don’t fucking touch him,” you snap. Your hand curls on the handle. “You need to — you need to calm down.”

“I need to calm down?”

He’s talking to you now, at least. He sounds incredulous. He glares between you and Joel. 

“Get outta the car,” he says. He’s not yelling. You wish he would. 

“No.”

“Yes. We’re gonna talk about this now. Get out of the fuckin’ car.”

He reaches around Joel for the door handle. You shrink back. 

And Joel — who didn’t fight back two nights ago, who’s peppered black and blue with bruises, who hasn’t moved a muscle this morning- 

Joel puts a flexing, furious hand on your dad’s shoulder. 

“Step back,” he growls. 

There he is. That’s the Joel from the bar. That’s the Joel that beat the shit out of two grown men and sent them running. 

And you get it, you think. You get it now. Your dad can threaten him all day long. Beat him black and blue. But the second he raises his voice at you—the second it’s you he’s reaching for — Joel is on guard. He’s pulling rank. He straightens up, drags himself to his full height, and you see the not-so-subtle way his shoulders bunch. Even banged and bruised, he looks imposing. More so than usual, maybe. Like a wounded animal: angrier, untethered. 

“You got some fuckin’ nerve,” your dad says. But he’s stepped back, you notice. “She’s my kid.”

“‘N she doesn’t wanna talk,” Joel says. “So I’m tellin’ you to step—” his jaw flickers, “—the fuck back.”

Your dad stares. You swallow. 

“Fuck you,” he says, finally. But he’s stepping back now, all the way. Crossing his arms. 

Joel doesn’t say anything. No last word. No smug smile. He just walks quickly around the truck, to the driver’s side, and clips the door shut when he climbs in. He wraps a hand around the gear shift. 

You stare straight ahead. Your hands are shaking. 

“You okay?” he murmurs. Still gentle. 

“Yeah,” you breathe. You can see your dad in your peripheral, standing in the middle of the road. Arms barred. Face tangled. “Just drive.”

—

Tommy’s cabin is in the middle of fucking nowhere. Which is — nice, actually. It’s nice to get away. From Austin. From everyone. From everything.

The nearest town is a place called Two Springs. Two Springs, Texas. It sounds more like a stop on the Disneyland express and less like an actual location, but — Two Springs. You stop there, on your way up. For groceries, gas — the essentials, according to Joel. 

It turns out town is a gross exaggeration. Two Springs has exactly four buildings to its name: a gas station, a bar, a Mexican restaurant, and a sprawling, Western-style structure with a sign that says GENERAL ORE. You figure it might’ve said General Store once, like a century ago, when someone painted it for the first and last time. 

It’s well-stocked, at least. They have Tylenol, Advil, Aleve — for your cramps and for Joel’s ten thousand cuts and bruises. They have a reusable ice pack Joel insists he doesn’t need. They have tampons, to supplement the grand total of three you’d managed to scavenge from your desperate sweep of your bathroom. 

And they have food. Lots of food. 

“Better stock up,” Joel tells you. He’s slouched against the shopping cart with a lazy sort of lean. His sleeves are sloughed up to his elbows. The further from Austin you’ve gotten, the more he’s seemed to relax. He almost looks content, right now. 

“Hundred bucks says Tommy ain’t got a damn thing in the house,” he says. “So. Get whatever y’like.”

“Oh, god.” You fake a groan. “Does that mean you’re cooking?”

He shoots you a glare. You grin. 

You split up. You case one aisle and he takes another. When you meet back up in the middle of produce, you’ve got your hands full of ice cream and he’s cradling a case of beer. 

You point to the beer. Shake your head. 

“You’re useless,” you say. 

He frowns. 

“You’re one t’talk,” he says, with a nod toward Ben and Jerry.

“This counts as food.” You study the label. “See? Chunks of real cookie dough.”

He stares at you. Blinks. Then he sighs; that beleaguered, bemused huff that hides his smile.

“Just put it in,” he grumbles.

—

You do manage to get some actual food. Eventually. And you talk him into that reusable ice pack,  for the sprawling, angry bruise under his eye. Eventually.

A spindly, skeleton of a man checks you out up front. His eyes droop. He’s got a cowboy hat on — true Texan — and there’s a layer of dust on the brim. He’s probably been sitting here since they built the store. 

He takes an eternity to scan your items. You can feel Joel getting antsy beside you. 

“Passin’ through?” the man croaks. 

He’s got a voice like a broken rattle. It startles you both. 

Joel grunts. 

The man nods. He mutters something you can’t hear. Then he points to you with a gangly finger. 

“She’s a nice little thing,” he drawls. 

Your nose scrunches. Fucking — gross. 

Joel tenses beside you. His fist folds on the counter. 

“Don’t,” he says. His voice is dangerously quiet. “I ain’t in the fuckin’ mood.” 

The man blinks. Swallows. He drops his gaze and doesn’t look at you again. 

He finishes ringing you up in silence. When he hands Joel the bag his fingers tremble. 

“Y’all have a nice day,” he says. 

Joel grunts. 

You follow him back out to the truck. He puts the groceries in the backseat, by your duffel, and you don’t say anything to him, not yet, but you’re gnawing on your cheek when he climbs back in the driver’s seat. 

You’ve had a shitty start to the day. A shitty last few days, to be honest. You don’t want Joel to be pissed. It’s just — he’s kind of hot, when he gets riled up. When he snaps at your dad. When he rolls his fist on the counter and snarls at strangers. 

No. He’s not kind of hot. He drives you fucking crazy. 

But you keep that to yourself. For now. At least ’til you get where you’re going. You figure you can wait at least a little while longer. 

—

Tommy’s cabin is nice. 

Not that you were expecting anything less. Joel built it, after all. 

But — still. It’s nice. It’s really nice. It looks like something straight out of a Hallmark postcard: Adirondack chairs on a pinewood porch, stone chimney surrounded by trees. No neighbors — at least none you can see. A quiet lake with a pebbled shore. 

The whole place smells like sunlight and pine needles and freshwater. It’s a far cry from Austin. From home.

He parks the truck out front, on a packed-down slope of dirt. There are tire treads baked into the soil — Tommy’s, you assume. 

You’re halfway out of the truck before he puts it in park. You snatch your duffel from the back and stand in the shade, staring at the tops of trees, waiting restlessly for Joel to get his ass out of the car. 

He lumbers out, eventually. You shift your bag to your other shoulder while he gathers up the groceries. 

He leads the way up the slope, towards the cabin. You follow on his heels. 

“This place is kinda cool,” you admit. “I haven’t been camping since I was, like, ten.” 

“This ain’t campin’,” he says. 

Typical. You roll your eyes. Pull a face behind his back that he — mercifully — doesn’t see. 

“Uh-uh,” he drawls. “Don’t roll your eyes ’t me, pretty girl.” 

You pause halfway up the steps. Your duffel hangs off of your shoulder. 

“I didn’t roll my eyes at you.” 

He hums amusedly. He digs a key out of his pocket and twists it in the lock. 

The door gives with a push. The smell of pine drips down the porch. 

“What, so, you can read my mind now?” 

He hums again. He puts the key back in his pocket and leads the way inside. 

“Somethin’ like that,” he says. 

You roll your eyes again. He turns around this time, just past the threshold, and fixes you with a hooked half-smile. 

“You ain’t that hard t’read, darlin’.” 

You grumble something in response. His smile widens and yours does too, reluctantly, because seeing him happy is fucking infectious. It almost makes you forget about the bruise under his eye, and the slice across his nose that still looks too fresh. 

“C’mon,” he says. He flicks a switch by the door and the whole place flickers — once, twice — then settles into soft light. “I’ll give ya the tour.” 

He snatches up your hand and you lean into his arm, smothering your smile in his sleeve. 

“Alright,” you tell him. “Better be good.” 

—

It is good. You’re impressed. It’s a small place, cozy, but he’s thought of everything. Dark wood floors and a light leather couch and comfortable, colorful throws. Sketches on the walls: deer and ducks and charcoal antlers. Half-finished woodworks on a desk by the window. You wonder if they’re Joel’s, or Tommy’s, or both. 

You don’t ask. Yet. 

The bedroom is equally intimate. White sheets on the bed. Wooden headboard. Flannel blanket that screams Joel Miller. It makes you smile, when you drop your duffel down on it and unpack your things. You like it. This whole place feels like Joel. 

You put your random, assorted toiletries in the bathroom, and — in a spur of the moment decision — you shove that black vibrator in the back of the nightstand, where you’re keeping your phone charger. Force of habit, you guess. You leave the rest of your clothes in your duffel and shuffle out to find Joel.

And — speaking of Joel — he was right to stock up, in that shitty not-quite-town of Two Springs, because the kitchen is empty. Well — almost empty, if you count the cobwebby bottle of clear liquor stashed beside the sink. You pick it up while Joel puts the groceries away. Turn it label-side out. 

“What the hell is this?” you ask. 

You hoist it up, towards Joel. Dust sloughs off the glass. 

He straightens. Turns. 

“Not a damn clue,” he says. “But I wouldn’t touch it ‘f I were you. Knowin’ Tommy, ’s probably radioactive.” 

Your nose scrunches. You work the top off and put your nose to the rim — which is a huge mistake, because it smells like raw gasoline. You cough loudly and reseal the cap. 

“What the fuck,” you sputter. 

Joel laughs. Told ya so.

You shove the bottle back by the sink. Wipe the dust off on your jeans. Joel finishes arranging his beers and stands back to admire his handiwork. 

“So-o,” you say. You push yourself off the counter and wander out of the kitchen. You drag a curious finger toward the wall of charcoal sketches, and you can feel Joel’s gaze follow. You can hear his sigh, too. Like he’s preparing himself. 

“Tommy’s?” you ask, turning halfway to face him. “Or yours?” 

He shifts a little. Shoves his thumb through a belt loop.

“Tommy’s,” he gruffs. 

That checks out. You’ve seen Joel’s drawing skills on display, in that tiny coffee shop in San Antonio. He’s god awful. And these are at least…halfway decent. You wouldn’t say impressive, but — 

“They’re good.” You flash a grin. “I mean. Better than yours, for sure.” 

His brow lifts. The corner of his lip twitches. 

“I’d watch it, ‘f I were you.” 

“Oh, yeah? Or what?” 

He almost smiles. You almost catch him. 

“Or y’can sleep outside,” he drawls. “With the bears.” 

“Mm.” You turn away from the drawings. You’re not so interested, now you know they’re not his. You wander back to him and smooth your hands along his collar. “Very scary. I’m terrified.” 

His pulse picks up at your touch. You can feel it, when your hands drift lower and skim across his heart. 

“Should be,” he murmurs. 

You’re close to him, now. Really close. You have to tilt your chin to meet his gaze. His voice drips to your lips and settles there, white-hot. 

You want to kiss him. You really do. It’s just — that fucking bruise on his cheek is glaring at you, mangled and purple and mean. 

You swallow. Draw back, just a little. He looks disappointed. 

“That bruise looks bad,” you murmur. 

He starts to shake his head. You cut him off. 

“C’mon,” you say. “We bought that ice pack. Let’s try it, at least.” 

“You bought it.” 

“Not true. I just put it in the cart. You paid.” 

He frowns. 

“Don’t say no,” you say. 

“Didn’t say anythin’,” he gruffs. “But no.” 

“Mm. Okay. Keep it up, you can sleep outside with the bears.” 

He frowns again. Deeper, this time. You get the sense he’s forcing back a smile. 

“Don’t be a baby,” you say. “We can’t waste it. It was, like, seventeen bucks. Total rip off.” 

He grumbles. But he doesn’t grumble quite as much as he did two nights ago, when you first begged to take care of him. So he’s either getting used to someone caring about him — caring for him — or you’ve just worn him down. 

You don’t mind either way. Whatever gets the job done. 

“Go on,” you tell him. “Couch.” 

He’s still grumbling. But he goes obediently to the couch and sits, sinking down onto the cushions with a heavy sort of sigh. 

You sit beside him. He’s easier to reach like this, when you’re both sitting. You can perch yourself on the arm of the couch and tip his chin up, towards you. You can hold the pack to his face without reaching. Press it gently to the mangled colors on his cheek and his chin and his jaw. 

He hisses softly, but he doesn’t pull away. If anything he sort of melts into your touch, the way he’d been too scared to do two nights ago. 

He could do this himself. Easily. He tries to tell you as much, a couple times — and you bat him away. You like helping. You like feeling useful. And you like any excuse to be this close to him; to touch him, even though you don’t need much of an excuse at all. 

He stops asking to do it himself, after a while. You get the sense he likes the help as much as you like giving it. His face gets heavier in your hands, and you realize he’s stopped propping himself up. He’s just — dead weight, in your palms. He trusts you. 

You swallow. Your throat feels thick. So does the air, all of a sudden, like someone’s tossed a giant blanket on the inches between you. You move the ice pack half an inch to the right. Expose the corner of his mouth you’d had covered. 

And then you try not to kiss him. Again. 

The edge of his lip you’ve exposed quirks up, like he’s asking you to do it. Teasing you. Wondering just how long you’ll hold out. 

You clear your throat. 

“So the drawings are…Tommy’s,” you say, lamely. 

He blinks. Hard. He’s been staring at you. 

“Yeah,” he says, after a beat. “Says he comes up here t’hunt, but — I’ve never seen him shoot a deer. Only ever seen him draw ‘em.” 

You smile. You pull the ice pack back and examine his face. It looks a little better. Less…angry. There’s a pink shine on his right cheek, where the ice has numbed his skin. 

“I get it,” you say. “Miller boys. You’re both big softies.” 

He glares at you. You can feel his jaw tense where you cup his face. 

“Sorry,” you say, quickly. “I mean — very scary. So scary.” 

He grunts. Mumbles something unintelligible. You could swear his almost-smile gets wider. 

“And the little wooden things?” You tilt your head toward the far wall of the cabin. Toward that desk by the window, littered with half-finished carvings and pinewood peels. “Are those Tommy’s, too?” 

He doesn’t answer. Which is fine, because you’ve gotten pretty good at reading his silence. 

“Okay,” you say. “So. Not Tommy’s.” 

There’s a pause. He sniffs. Then his gaze drops; off of the couch, onto a knot in the hardwood, and the cheek you haven’t been icing turns pink.

He’s blushing.

You stifle a grin. He’s cute when he’s flustered. And he’s even cuter when you consider that this must be how he spends his free time. Joel Miller, strong, silent, a little bit mean, carving little creatures out of wood. 

You push off of the couch before he can protest. He grumbles weakly and sinks further into the cushions. 

You walk over to the desk. Sunlight pours through the window, baking the glass, and the wood is lighter where it spills. You slough some wood chips aside with the flat of your hand. Most of the carvings are in some state of progress, like he can’t quite decide what to work on and what to finish — but you find one that seems pretty much done. You pick it up, gently. Turn it over in your hands. You hold it up to the window and swallow back your smile. 

It’s a duck. A little wooden duck, with a flat bill and pine feathers. There’s a tiny J.M. carved into the side. 

It’s good. Better than Tommy’s drawings. But, then — you might be biased. 

When you turn back to Joel you’re grinning. The duck is hoisted in your hand. 

“Shut up,” he says. 

“I didn’t say anything!” 

“You’re ‘bout to.” 

“It’s good.” You walk back over to him. Sit beside him on the couch. His little duck sits in the palm of your hand. 

“It’s cute,” you say. 

He glares at you. Then the duck. 

“It ain’t cute,” he says. 

“Yeah it is. It’s cute. It’s adorable. You carve ducks.” 

“Don’t carve ducks,” he says, gruffly. “’S just the one. The feathers are — hard t’get right. ’S good practice.” 

“Right. For more ducks.” 

He looks at you. Shakes his head. He snatches the duck up out of your hand before you can close your fist. 

He stands up, off of the couch. Walks his duck back to its place on that sunlit desk. 

“Come on,” you protest. “Finder’s keepers.” 

“Uh-uh.” 

“Fine. Then you can make me one.” 

He sets the duck down. Adjusts it, so its bill is basking in the sun. You’ve only ever seen him this gentle when he’s touching you. Well — you and his wooden duck. 

He straightens up. Turns back to face you. 

“You’re a pain in the ass,” he says.

“Yeah. So you’ve said.” 

“Y’don’t want one of these,” he says, with a gesture toward the desk. Toward the dozens of half-finished creatures. You can make out the vague shape of a deer, in one block of wood. The hint of an antler. “They ain’t even good.” 

He’s self-conscious. Joel Miller is self-conscious about his ducks. Or — duck. Singular. 

“Yes they are,” you say. You stand up, too. Join him over by the desk. You loop your arms around his waist and rest your head on his back. “I mean, you’re not gonna be carving the David anytime soon—”

He twists around to glare at you. Your arms drop from his waist. 

You laugh. You laugh until he’s smiling, too. You laugh until he tugs you into his chest, and tucks your hair behind your ear, and tilts his bruised face down to yours. 

“You made them,” you say, softly. “‘Course I love them.” 

You mean that. You’d love anything he’s scrawled his initials into. 

He’s quiet, for a second. His thumb stills on the ridge of your cheek. 

“Fuck,” he mumbles.

“What?” 

He swallows. Shakes his head. His thumb drops to skim the edge of your mouth. 

“Nothin’,” he says. 

And then he kisses you. 

You’ve been waiting for this all day. There’s been a borderline-painful tug between your legs since you left that shitty almost-town of Two Springs. So you melt into him, when he bends to kiss you, and you’re almost — almost — too preoccupied to feel your phone buzz in your pocket. 

You ignore it. His tongue slips into your mouth. He tastes like summer sun and coffee, and his lips are still cool from the edge of that ice pack. 

You fist your hands in his flannel. Bite at his bottom lip and swallow his groan. His hands go to your waist and he’s turning you — turning you both, so that your back nudges the desk — and you get the vague sense he’s lifting you up. He swipes stray wood chips aside, clearing space for you, and puts you down with a gentle sigh. 

You mumble something into his mouth. You’re not sure what. Your legs are hooked around the backs of his, pulling him close, and when he bends to kiss your neck you tilt your head for him. His nose grazes the side of your throat. 

And then your phone buzzes. Again. 

He hears it, this time. He pulls back with a bemused smile. His eyes are heavy. 

“Wanna get that?” 

“Not particularly,” you mutter. But you dig your phone out of your pocket anyway, just to turn it off, and your dad’s contact lights up the screen. 

You groan. Your heart sinks to your feet. 

 “Shit.” 

Joel is quiet. He’s still desperately close. There’s a piece of his hair that’s out of place, thanks to your wandering hands. It’s curled halfway down his forehead. 

“It’s my dad,” you say, blandly. You flip the screen to show him. 

“Figures.” 

You swipe the notification open. Your phone is ridiculously slow in opening, which probably has something to do with the fact it’s on 2% battery. It’s kind of impressive it’s even still functioning, considering you can’t remember the last time you plugged it in. 

Your dad’s messages come up. Slowly. You read them with your feet dangling off the desk. 

“What’s he say?” Joel asks, quietly. 

You shrug. 

“Wants to know where we are,” you say. “I turned my Find my Friends off, so.” 

You don’t elaborate. You doubt Joel even knows what the hell that is. 

“I should tell him something,” you say. “So he knows I’m not dead, at least.” 

Joel nods. 

“Sure,” he says. 

You swallow. Look back down at your phone. The screen blinks with a battery warning.

“Fuck,” you mutter. “I need my charger. Can you—?”

“Yeah,” he says, quickly. “‘Course. Where ’s it?” 

“Uh—nightstand. In the bedroom. The one on the right.” 

He nods. He extricates himself from between your legs, a little reluctant, and you watch him disappear down the hallway. 

You look back down at your phone. At your dad’s messages. Your last text to him is still plastered on the screen — something inane from San Antonio, when everything was still good. Normal. It makes your heart hurt a little. 

You text him back quickly. Before your phone can die. 

You: i’m fine. need a few days. we can talk when i'm home. 

The service up here is hanging on by a thread. It takes a minute to deliver, but when it does his grey bubble pops up almost immediately. It takes another minute for his response to come through. And it’s not really what you’re expecting, when it does. It’s not angry. It’s just — short. It makes your throat swell a little. 

Dad: OK. Be safe.

You lay your phone down on the desk. Face-down. It’s progress, you think. It’s something. 

And then you wonder where the hell Joel is, because this place is not that big and he’s been gone way too long for a phone-charger scavenger hunt. You told him exactly where it is. So unless he’s blind—

“Joel,” you yell. “The nightstand on the right. It can’t be that hard to—”

He pokes his head around the corner. Steps out, slowly, until the sun washes his skin.

“…find,” you finish, lamely. 

He moves closer to you, and it’s clear there’s something in his hand. Judging by the look on his face — narrowed gaze, crooked smile — and the way his fist is folded, tight, it’s not your charger. But there was only one other thing in that nightstand, which means— 

He’s just a few feet from you, now. You think about sliding off of the desk, and darting under his arm — but he’s stepping in between your legs, again, and you let him cage you in. 

You watch the gentle rise-fall of his chest under flannel. The way his smile drags wider when he unspools his fingers and shows you his palm. 

“What’s this?” he drawls. 

You know what he’s holding. You don’t have to look. You’re blushing before his fist can unfurl. 

Your little black vibrator. The one you’d taken from your room, on an impulse, in a mad-dash sweep of your things. The one you’d squirreled away in the nightstand on the right, next to your fucking charger. 

“Uh,” you say. 

His eyes sparkle. He looks annoyingly smug. You figure he’s probably loving the look on your face right now, after you subjected him to torture by wooden-duck. This is payback, you think. 

“Go on,” he urges. 

He drags a rough thumb over the black shell, and your stomach clenches. A shiver crawls up your throat. Whatever’s been stirring in your core since the car ride up here sparks suddenly to life. 

Something about that thing in his hand. How small it is. How smug he looks. 

“It’s nothing,” you say, softly. 

“Yeah?” He cocks his head. That one stray curl flips against his forehead. He pushes his thumb down, gently, and the vibrator buzzes to life in his palm. 

You stare at it. So does he. Heat pools at the pit of your stomach. 

“Don’t look like nothin’,” he murmurs. 

He flicks it off. You swallow back a sound. 

You lean in. Snatch it up, out of his hand. Your fingers close around the shell, and you ignore the fact they’re trembling.

He lets you take it. He looks amused, if anything. He likes watching you squirm.

“I just thought, maybe—” your cheeks are burning again, “—you wouldn’t want to, like — you know.” 

He looks at you, nonplussed. You blink. 

“Since I’m on my period?” you offer, weakly. “I didn’t know if you’d want to do—like, do anything, so—I just brought it in…case.” 

He’s silent. Even more so than usual, if that’s possible. 

“It’s totally fine, by the way,” you say, hurriedly. You’re pretty sure you’re just talking to talk, now, but — you can’t stop. “If you don’t want to. I wasn’t trying to—”

He tilts his head a little. Enough to show he’s listening. Enough to shut you up. 

And then he puts his palm out. Face-up, in the small space between you both. 

You know what he wants. He doesn’t have to ask. Your fingers flex around the toy, a little hesitant, but you give it up. You give it back. 

His hand folds around the shell. He slides it into his jeans, into his pocket, and you watch it disappear. 

The tension is too thick. Sticky. It’s hard to draw a breath. Outside the sun slips toward the water. 

The light slants a little darker through the window. Almost blue. Almost dusk. 

“Bedroom,” he says, and his voice is silk. Like smooth whiskey and the slipping sun. “Five minutes.” 

And then he turns, and goes, and you count back from three hundred. 

— 

You wait five minutes, like he asked. 

It feels excruciatingly long. But, then — you’re used to this, by now. The minutes with him go too quickly and the ones without him never end. You can’t ever seem to get it just right. 

But the time does pass, eventually. You make it pass. You push yourself off the desk and wander into the bathroom. You take your clothes off — everything, except black underwear — and you take your tampon out, and you run a brush through your hair. Then you walk back to the living room, where his duffel bag is still sitting by the front door — and you fish one of his flannels from the top. It’s red and brown and smells like bourbon and it’s way too fucking big. But you button it up anyway, over your bare chest, and leave the top two undone. 

It’s huge on you. The sleeves drip over your fingers. The hem drops just above your knees. 

You like it. It’s warm. It feels like him. 

And then your five minutes are up, just like that, and you follow his shadow to the bedroom. 

You’re nervous, when you open the door. But you’ve gotten used to that, too. The constant swarm in your stomach when he calls you by name. The flush in your face right before you see his. 

You take a quiet step inside. Let the door click shut behind you. 

“Hi,” you say, softly. 

He’s sitting on the edge of the bed: Still dressed, in his belt and his boots and his jeans and his flannel. The sleeves are cuffed at his forearms, exposing tanned skin and corded muscle. His runaway curl is smoothed back into place. 

There’s a towel spread across the sheets. One of the big, fluffy black ones you’d seen hanging by the shower. The edge hangs slightly off the bed. 

He doesn’t say hi back. But he does give you a look — like, a look — that makes your throat run dry. His eyes roam your body: up your legs, over his flannel, over the bit of exposed skin where you’ve neglected the top buttons — and you watch them go dark. 

“C’mere,” he says. 

You take one step forward. Then another. There’s something intensely commanding about the way he sounds right now, and you’re not sure if it’s the fact he’s almost completely, totally silent, or the way he doesn’t move a muscle while he watches you approach. He only really moves once, to push his own sleeve higher. You watch his wrist flex with the motion. 

You stop at the edge of the bed. He tilts his chin to look at you. 

“Lie down,” he says. 

You get the sense that this is not about to be a repeat of two nights prior, when you issued all the orders. You’re pretty sure that was a one-time thing. Or at least — a once-in-a-blue-moon thing, if the look on his face and the cut in his voice are any indication. 

He’s back to his old self. More commanding, if that’s even possible, like he’s making up for lost time. His eyes are black. 

“Don’t like repeatin’ myself,” he murmurs. 

Your breath hitches. The tug between your legs is borderline painful. You have to bite back a whimper when you sink down onto the bed, on top of the sheets and on top of the towel. 

He doesn’t move, still, when you lie down. He stays sitting at the foot of the bed. But he does turn slightly, to look at you, and his stare is so sharp you drop your own gaze. 

He doesn’t do anything, so you pick up his slack. Or…try to. You bring shaky fingers to your flannel — his flannel — and start to pull at the buttons. 

He shakes his head. Your fingers still. 

“Don’t,” he says, gently. 

So you don’t. You drop your hands. Let them fall useless to your sides. 

And then he moves. Finally. He undoes his belt with deft fingers and slips it through his jeans with a soft, leathery hiss. It’s the only sound in the room. It makes your skin prick and your stomach clench. 

He gets up, off of the bed, and you tilt your neck to follow him. He walks up to you, where your head is propped against the pillows, and bends to pick up your hands. 

He’s gentle, while he does all this. Gentle and quiet and not at all the rough, teasing, domineering type you’ve gotten used to. But there’s something about him, still, that spells you into silence. Something that makes you listen, and makes your wrists go limp when he takes them both in one hand. 

He pulls your hands up over your head. Your pulse beats a double-rhythm in his palm. He holds them to the headboard, to the second wooden slat of four, and ties them in place with his belt. 

And you let him. You let him wrap the leather around your hands and the headboard, let him cinch it tight, let the metal buckle bite into your wrists. You don’t say a damn word and neither does he. 

Not until he sits back down beside you, on the edge of the bed, and digs that black vibrator back out of his pocket. 

Your breath picks up. Your legs pull. You flinch a little, tugging at his belt, but it doesn’t give. If anything the leather cinches tighter. 

“What’re you…?” 

He puts a broad hand on your thigh, inches above your knee. Heat flushes underneath his touch. The hem of your flannel bunches around his fingers. 

He looks up at you. 

“Said you weren’t sure ‘f I wanted it,” he says. 

He flicks the vibrator on. It hums to life in his palm. 

“Stupid fuckin’ question,” he murmurs. He drags his hand up the seam of your thigh, until his thumb grazes cotton. Your hips jerk a little. 

He holds you in place with that hand. Puts the toy to your clit with the other. 

“Makin’ sure y’never ask again,” he growls. 

And then you really do buck your hips; pulling at his makeshift restraints, whining through your teeth while he teases you through cotton. 

“Fuck,” you yelp, “Joel—”

“Shh,” he mumbles, half to himself. He moves the vibrator half an inch lower, clicks the setting higher, and fire shoots through your core. Your wrists wrench at the headboard. The wood doesn’t give. Neither does his belt. But you’ll have a bruise on both hands, you’re pretty sure, where the buckle gives a warning bite. 

“Y’move too much,” he murmurs. 

“S-sorry,” you pant, and you’re not really sure what you’re apologizing for, but you’re kind of delirious and you’ll say whatever he wants if he just — doesn’t stop. The pressure he’s putting on your clit is fucking — it’s ten times better than any time you’ve used this thing on yourself. You’re not sure if it’s just him, or if he’s got some kind of magic technique, or what, but — 

“S’okay, baby,” he says, in that gentle, slopey drawl. “’S why we used the belt.” 

Your legs are trembling, and you’re not really sure if it’s the toy or his voice or the words themselves, dripping to your skin like honey. You try to pull them together, against the ache he won’t fill, and his free hand tightens on your thigh. 

“Jesus,” he murmurs. He sounds amused. His thumb strokes at the seam of your thigh. “Tie the rest ‘a you down, too, ‘f you don’t quit movin’.” 

You whimper — something pitiful, pathetic — but you stop moving. Part of you wants to push him: rut your hips, and writhe against his belt, just to see if he’ll make good on his promise. Part of you wants him to. 

But this is enough, for now. This is almost too much. He’s got your eyes rolling back, and he’s keeping you still with that big, broad palm above your knee. He flicks the setting higher, higher, highest — and you shout his name. You pitch forward, panting, and the belt snaps against your skin. It might hurt, if you weren’t so preoccupied. 

“Fuck,” you plead, “Joel, p—fuck—”

“Too much?” he asks, gently. 

You shake your head. Your hair is in your face, in your eyes, and you can’t shove it away. Your thigh flinches underneath his hand. 

“No,” you punch out. “N—fuck, please don’t st—op.”

You’re close. He can tell, probably before you can. It never takes you long with the vibrator — that’s why you bought it — but Joel plus toy is something else entirely. It’s a hell of a lot different than when you use it yourself. You never push it past the first few settings. You’ve got an easy, relaxed routine, under your covers, in the comfort of your upstairs bedroom, or your dorm room, or wherever. It’s lazy. Languid. Sometimes there’s a video, to help things along. More often than not you just use your imagination. 

 And you always — always — think of Joel. 

So having him here — actually here, flipping your lazy routine on its head, working the toy against your clit with the kind of practical skill that comes from a lifetime of using your hands — 

It’s a whole lot better than your imagination. And you try to tell him that, or something like it, but your head is foggy and your vision is blurred and his knuckles are grazing the soaked-black fabric of your panties while he guides the toy along. 

So you settle for his name, instead. It comes out broken on your tongue. 

“S’good, baby,” he coaxes. “Good girl.” 

You cum hard, then, with his name still on your lips and a slew of fractured curses behind that. His free hand lets up on your thigh. It’s still there, still warm and rough and comforting, but he’s not applying any pressure. He doesn’t have to keep you still. 

He clicks the vibrator off. Moves it back, gently. The guys you’re used to would keep going, once they got a result — struck gold once, why stop digging? — but Joel knows when to stop, when to pull back, when to let you catch your breath. He knows how to read your voice, and your body, and the words that get tangled on their way up your throat. 

He leans back while your breaths steady. You see his shape in your peripheral, putting the toy down gently on the nightstand, and then his hand is on your face and he’s pushing your hair back, away from your eyes and your mouth and your cheeks. 

Even that touch makes you shiver. You figure you’re probably just fucked, when it comes to Joel Miller. 

You pull up a little on the restraints. You want to kiss him. Or — you want him to kiss you, since there’s not much you can do. 

He doesn’t give you what you want. He pulls back, and moves back to his familiar spot beside your legs. He drags an aimless hand up your calf, your knee, your thigh. 

You suck in a breath. Push it out through your teeth. 

He knows what you want. He picks up on the patterns in your breath; the way your panting turns to pleading. 

“Can you —fuck—” you pull against his belt, “—just—fucking—untie me, please—”

His fingers drift up your thigh, ghosting cotton, and then — they drop. His touch trickles back to your calf. And then he starts again, even slower, and it’s softer than the toy, and gentler, and lighter, but it’s driving you just as crazy. Maybe more. 

He takes his time, like he’s pretending to think. His touch skates higher. 

“No,” he says, after a long pause. “Don’t think so.” 

You make a long, frustrated sound. Drop your head back to the pillow. Your wrists go limp against his belt. 

His thumb strokes at the edge of your panties. You gasp.

“Make ya a deal,” he drawls. “Gimme one more — ’n we’ll see ‘bout the belt.” 

“We’ll see about the belt?” 

He shrugs. It takes everything in you not to buck your hips into his thumb. 

“Best I can do,” he says. “Take it or leave it.” 

You stare at him. Then your head flops against the pillow, and you sigh. 

“Fine.” 

He smiles. You can feel it. 

“Kinda like ya like this,” he says. “Ain’t so stubborn.” 

He swipes past your swollen clit. You yelp.

“Fuck you,” you pant. 

He hooks a finger through your waistband. Pulls your underwear down, down your thighs and over your knees and off around your ankles. Then he holds them, wrapped around his index finger, and tilts his head. 

“We’ll do somethin’ ‘bout that mouth, next time,” he says. 

He tosses your panties to the floor. Pushes his slipping sleeves back to his forearms. You roll your eyes, but you know he sees the blush that stains your cheeks. 

His brow lifts. 

“You’d like that, huh?” He smiles. “Dirty fuckin’ girl.” 

You mumble something. It sounds like a whimper. But it must be good enough for him, because he takes pity on you. 

“What d’you want, baby?” he asks, softly. His gaze drifts to the nightstand. “Up t’you.” 

You know what he’s asking — and with most guys you’d say yes, please, use the fucking vibrator, I thought you’d never ask — because its success rate is exponentially higher than most college boys’s clumsy fingers. 

But this isn’t a college boy. This isn’t most guys. This is Joel, and you want Joel. Just Joel.

“No,” you tell him. “Just — you.” 

He doesn’t move, so you add, a little awkwardly — 

“—please.” 

He blinks. Then he snaps back, like he’s just — recalibrating. He’s got the same look on his face as he did half an hour ago, when you told him you loved his little wood duck. 

“Is that…okay?” 

“Yeah,” he says, after a beat. “Fuck. Yeah, ‘course it’s okay. Just thought—” he’s looking at the nightstand again, with a curious kind of look on his face, “—thought y’might like that better.” 

That’s stupid, you think. It’s a stupid fucking question, even though with anyone else it would be true. 

“No,” you say, quietly, and you’re blushing, still, but for a different reason. “I like you better.” 

He swallows. His jaw flexes. 

“What?” you ask. 

“Nothin’,” he says, again. And then — softly, “—just don’t know what t’do with you.” 

He looks at you. His fingers are still splayed at the inside of your thigh, half an inch from where you want him most. You stare at them; at his hand sprawled on your skin, and he follows your gaze. 

“I know where you can start,” you mumble. 

And then he smiles again — that crooked, happy, satisfied smile — and his hand slides higher. 

“Hold still this time,” he says, in that honeyed drawl, “or the belt stays.” 

It’s not much of a threat. You like the way the leather hugs your wrists. You like that it belongs to him. You like that you do, too. 

But you play along. You nod. And when he slips two fingers inside you you try your hardest not to squirm. 

You don’t think you’re that successful. But he’s nice about it, or he’s distracted, because he doesn’t say another word. He lets you thrash against his belt, and writhe into his hand, and shout his name when he crooks his fingers and pumps his wrist and hits something inside you that that fucking toy can’t ever reach. 

And — if it’s even possible — you cum faster on his fingers than you did with the vibrator. 

He talks you through it. Murmured words and quiet praise. You tell him you’re close, again, and he tells you he’s got you, good girl, y’look so beautiful like this.

It’s the last one that sends you over the edge, you think. The way he calls you beautiful, in that molasses drawl, quiet and reverential and a little bit awestruck when you come apart in his hands. 

And then he’s untying you; unclasping the buckle, releasing you from the headboard, and you’re undressing him before you can rub at your wrists. You can do that later, in the dark. You can ice his face and then your hands and then his face, again. 

He kicks his boots off. His jeans are easy to get off, without his belt in the way, and he helps you with his shirt when your fingers shake. He leaves yours on, though. He stops you, when you go to take it off for the second time tonight. 

“Leave it,” he says, and his voice is so dark, so deep, that it stops you in your tracks. “Like you like this.” 

By this he means — in his clothes. In his scent. Wrapped up in him, in every way. He likes the way his shirts are too big, and he likes the way the smell of pine and coffee linger on your skin. You’d say he likes showing off that you’re his, but — there’s no one around. He just likes to see it for himself. 

Which you knew, already. It’s why you pull his shirts out of his duffel, whenever you get the chance. It’s why you’re swimming in his flannel now. 

So you nod, shyly. You keep his shirt on, and when he leans forward, and cups your jaw in his hand, it feels like he’s everywhere. On your skin and in the air and on your lips, when he kisses you. 

You fall back against the pillows. He climbs over you, on top of you, and his knees dig into the towel. And this is the part, now, where you might start getting self-conscious — about the fact you’re on your period, and he’s gone to all this trouble, even though it’s really no trouble at all, about the fact you might make a mess, about ten thousand other things that couldn’t matter less. 

But you don’t think about that. You think about Joel. And when your mind slips, into that fuzzy, peaceful space, you think about the way he feels, and the way he tastes, and you spell that you love him in drifting fingers down his back. 

You have nothing but time, so he takes his. He drags his teeth up your neck and smoothes the marks with his tongue. He kisses your collar, where the edge of his shirt meets the dip in your skin, and his scruff leaves gentle scrapes. You put your hands in his hair, in his roots, and he lets you guide him. 

And then — finally, finally, he draws away from you, and pulls back on his haunches to take off his boxers. 

You watch him, while he does. You watch him toss them onto the floor and then fold back over you, chest to chest. His cock nudges at your entrance and you spread your legs, lifting your hips for him — but he doesn’t push into you. Even though it would be easy; even though he’s achingly hard and you’re soaked for him and you’re practically begging him, please. 

He doesn’t fuck you. Not yet. He noses your cheek, instead, surprisingly gentle, and he kisses you there. And then he kisses the edge of your brow, and your temple, and your forehead. Just — gentle. Soft. Like he’s telling you something, or — trying to — but this is all his mouth can do. 

He stops when you whine, softly, because you need him closer. You put your palms on his chest and push up, lightly. He breaks his kiss and pulls back. His forehead hangs over yours. 

“Please,” you whisper. 

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Okay, angel.” 

His hands are splayed somewhere beside your head. He moves one of them, now, to wrap around the base of his cock and guide himself into you. He slides in easily, so fucking easily, like he just fits there. Your head sinks into the pillow and your nails sink into his skin, into the muscle on his arms, and you’re sure he’ll have marks there. Little crescent cuts to go with all the rest. 

He sets a slow, patient rhythm. He’s usually rougher, faster, and you’re pretty sure his show of self-restraint is driving you crazier than him. He’s hitting something deep inside you, over and over, not quite fast enough to push you over the edge but steady enough to keep you there. 

And even though the cabin is empty, and you don’t have to be quiet, you are — because he’s kissing you. He swallows all your quiet moans and his own tangled, whimpered name. 

He pulls halfway out of you. Drags his mouth away to breathe. You gasp at the emptiness but he swallows that, too — he flexes his hips, and thrusts into you, and his tongue is sliding back to yours before he’s even fully gone. 

You have never — never — fucked Joel like this. You’ve never fucked anyone like this. Not in a dorm room, or a frat party, or a childhood bedroom that feels too cramped, now. Not your ex-boyfriend Carter, or any guy at school, or Hayes. 

Not anyone. Not ever. Not until now. 

“Feel good,” he’s mumbling, in those rare seconds when his mouth leaves yours. “Feel fuckin’—good.” 

He pulls out, again. Thrusts back into you. This time he groans, into your mouth, and his hips stumble a little. His cock twitches. You dig your fingers into his shoulders, clench around him, and he breaks your kiss with a gasp. 

“Fuck,” he pants. “D-do that again.” 

You’d make him work for it, usually, but you can’t bring yourself to tease him. You drag him closer; squeeze tight around his cock, and his head drops to your shoulder. He pushes into you —less steady, less restrained — and finally picks up the pace. 

You loop your hands around the back of his neck. Let your head go hazy. But when the pressure at the pit of your stomach starts to build, you tell him — 

“—Wait—” 

—in a shallow, breathless voice. 

He stops. Immediately. He slips out of you, and his head whips from your shoulder, and he looks at you with wide eyes. 

“Fuck,” he mumbles. “What's wrong? Did I—”

“No,” you say, quickly. “No. I just—”

You trail off, a lot more self-conscious now than you were two seconds ago. Easier to demand things of him when he’s railing you, you guess. 

“I just wanted to—or, I wanted you to—”

You’re blushing, again. Your eyes dart to the side, away from his. 

The concern drips out of his stare. He knows exactly what you want — what you’re trying to ask for — because he knows you. 

Now, he looks — amused. And fucking smug, again. 

“All y’gotta do is ask,” he drawls. 

You swallow. 

“Or you could just tell me,” you say, quietly. 

You watch his eyes go dark. He likes that. You know he does, because you know him. 

“Flip over,” he says. 

You flip over. Stomach-down on the towel. Your cheek digs into the pillow. His hands wrap around your calves and he drags you down, lower, and you let him manhandle you. You let him move you the way he wants. 

And then he’s settling over you again, and you can’t see him but you can feel him. His weight, behind you. His hand, when he shoves your shirt up and puts his palm on the small of your back. 

“Hold still,” he says, for the thousandth time tonight. You smile. 

“Or what?” You grin into the pillow. Try to lift your hips and push against him. But you keep forgetting how strong he is, even with one lazy palm sprawled out across your back. He pins you down too easily. “You’re gonna bring out the belt?” 

You hear his huff. 

“Keep ya still without the belt,” he says. 

“Not a chance.” 

You can feel him roll his eyes. This must’ve been how he felt, earlier this afternoon, when you’d rolled your eyes behind his back. You can't see him, but you just know. 

“No?” he drawls. 

It’s a terrible attempt to rile him up. But he’s humoring you. 

You mumble your no into the pillow. Shake your head. 

You hear him sigh above you. Then his palm lifts off the small of your back, just briefly, just for a second — before he cracks it down across your ass. It’s not hard, really — not hard enough to hurt — but it’s enough to leave a mark. Enough to make you yelp. 

“F—”

He does it again. Same spot. The sting that sticks behind is sweet. 

You swear into the pillow. Your skin glows white-hot. If he flipped you over right now, you’re not sure if you’d slap him, or kiss him, or beg him to fuck you. 

Probably the last one. Definitely the last one. 

“You never fuckin’ listen,” he says. 

His palm settles over your ass. Over the handprint you’re sure he’s already made. 

“You gonna hold still?” 

This time you nod. As best you can. 

“Yeah?” he asks. 

“Yes,” you say. 

He squeezes your ass. 

“‘Atta girl,” he says. 

Then he slides into you, one hand braced on the towel beside you and the other on your ass, and you have to bite into the pillowcase to keep from mangling his name. 

The angle he’s hitting is so much deeper, and so much different, and he’s splitting you open all over again, and — 

“Fuck,” he pants, “you—fuck.” 

He flexes his hips. Thrusts deeper into you. This is a much different pace than the one he’d set before, when he’d peppered you with gentle kisses and gentler words. This is something else entirely. This is rough, and untethered, and exactly what you tried to ask for. 

He fists your hair in his palm and pulls, yanking your chin up off of the pillow, wrapping your hair around his knuckles while he slams into you. You gasp for breath.  

“This what you needed, baby girl?” 

You say something. You’re not sure what. 

He pulls on your hair. Tilts your neck back, further. 

“Yes,” you yelp, “Fuck! Y-yes.” 

He lets you go. Lets your head drop back to the pillow. His hand is back on your ass, splayed out in a possessive sprawl. 

“Yeah,” he agrees. “’S what you needed.” 

He pushes deeper into you. Groans, softly. His flannel scrunches up around your cheek, your mouth, and you bite down on the fabric. 

His hand drifts lower, over your ass. His thumb skims the ring of muscle there. 

You tighten. He notices — he must — because he stills, for a minute. But his thumb doesn’t move. 

There’s a beat. You take a breath. 

“No?” he asks, softly, and you already know what he’s asking. 

You go to shake your head, reflexively — you’ve said no every time, to everyone, no matter how creative or long-winded or desperate the proposition. Just — no. 

“S’okay, angel,” he says, gently. “Don’t have to.” 

“No,” you say, quickly — but you’re not saying no to him, you realize. “I want — I want you to.” 

“Don’t sound too sure.” 

“No, I am, I’ve just never—”  

There’s silence. You can feel him above you, gauging your reaction. Gauging the blush on your upturned cheek. 

“I want to,” you say, again. And you mean it. You want to, with him. 

“Okay,” he murmurs. But his thumb still doesn’t move. He doesn’t move. 

“Joel,” you say, a little impatient, now, because you’ve been on the edge for so long, and you just gave him permission, so what the fuck is he waiting f—

“Relax,” he says, quietly. He’s not rough anymore. He’s just Joel. “Relax, angel.” 

You only realize how … not relaxed you are when you actually, really try to relax. Everything is tense. Your jaw, your stomach, the fist you’ve wrapped around his sheets. 

You’re nervous. Which — okay, fine — but this is Joel. With the gentle Texas drawl, and the warm hands, and the flannel shirt that smells like sunshine. 

It’s just Joel. And you trust Joel. 

So you do relax. For real. You let your jaw go loose and untangle your fingers. 

“I trust you,” you mumble, into the pillow. 

He’s quiet. 

“Yeah,” he says, simply. “I know, baby.” 

Then he pushes back into you, stretching you out, and you breathe his name into his flannel. His thumb nudges at your ass and you push your hips back, into him. You want him to. 

“Easy,” he murmurs, and you’re not sure who he’s talking to. His thumb pushes into you — just the tip — and you hiss into his shirt. But that’s it. It hurts for a second, maybe, and then it doesn’t. He’s crooking his thumb, pressing deeper into you, hitting something deep inside you, and you just feel full. You feel like he’s fucking everywhere — inside you, and on your skin, and in the words you can’t say. 

“Fuck,” you gasp, “Joel, fuck—”

“Good?” he asks. He’s not really moving, and you realize he’s waiting for your green-light: waiting for you to re-set the pace. 

“Yes,” you plead. “Fuck, yes, please just—” 

You whimper. Mumble around his shirt. 

“—don’t stop,” you tell him. “Don’t fucking — stop.” 

That’s all the green-light he needs. He snaps his hips up, into you, and he fucks you at that frantic, furious pace you’d begged him for. You push back weakly; against his hips, against his thumb, but you’re content to just let him take over. You can’t think straight, anyway. Everything is foggy and white and bright, and when he takes you to the edge this time you let yourself fall. 

“Doin’ so good, baby,” he’s saying, over and over again, good girl, good girl, doin’ so fuckin’ good f’me, look so good like this—and you can barely hear him, because you’re so blissed out, but you feel him, when his hips trip into you and he spills inside you with a strangled cry. You feel him, when his chest crumbles to your back. You feel his heart beat through your shoulder blades, frenzied and wild. 

It takes you a long time to catch your breath. It takes him even longer. When you’re aware of your surroundings again — when you can hear things that aren’t your own pulse between your ears — you roll over and touch him. 

His eyes are closed. Or half-closed, at least. He looks like he’s dozing, or drifting, or in some kind of happy, dreamlike, almost-sleep. You feel kind of bad, waking him up. He hardly ever looks this…peaceful. 

You prod him. When that doesn’t work you nuzzle into his shoulder, and kiss his cheek, and nip at his jaw until he groans.

“Mmmph,” he grumbles, which is not usually a sentence, but which you’ve learned in Joel-speak can mean a myriad of things, like who the fuck is bothering me and why the fuck are they bothering me and can you please stop fucking bothering me.

“Move,” you say, pushing at his arm. It’s like moving a grizzly bear. But he does move, eventually, with a long-suffering sound that makes you roll your eyes and laugh.

“What?” he grumbles. 

“The towel,” you say, and you hate that you still sound shy. That that self-conscious streak has wriggled back in. “I’m gonna — I need to clean up. So do you.” 

He opens his eyes, then. He rolls over and frowns. 

“Go get ’n the shower,” he says. 

“But—”

“I’ll take care ‘f it,” he says. 

You look hesitantly at the towel. At him. 

“I can do it,” you say. 

“Didn’t say y’couldn’t,” he drawls. Then he’s rolling off the bed, and tugging the towel out from under you, and you have no choice but to stand up and let his shirt drip back over your knees. 

“But—”

“But nothin’,” he says. He nods toward the bathroom. “Go. Hot water ain’t great. Only lasts a couple minutes.” 

You stare at him. But then you go, because he said so, and there’s really no arguing with him. So you shower while he puts the towel and the sheets and the pillowcases in the laundry, and when he’s done he joins you in there. 

The hot water is almost gone, but he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t complain. He washes your hair, and works out the tangles, and swipes soap off your jaw with even soapier fingers. 

“Thanks,” you say, a little awkwardly. “For — cleaning up.” 

He shrugs. 

“It’s nothin’,” he says. And it is nothing, to him. Everything is just — nothing. Except for you. 

You let him have a turn under the water. It’s pretty much icy, now. Your teeth clatter while you wait for him. 

“We should probably make dinner,” you say, while he sloughs shampoo from his hair. 

He opens his eyes. Blinks water at you. 

He’s a terrible chef. And you’re too wiped to even think about cooking. You both know both of these things, so you just — stare at each other. Eventually he turns the water off, and bundles you in a towel, and dries himself off with another. 

“Or,” you say, slowly, “we could just eat the Ben and Jerry’s.” 

He pauses, mid-towel dry. 

“Chunks of real cookie dough,” you remind him. 

“Mm.” He pulls a tee shirt on over his head. “Lead the way.” 

—

You do eat the Ben and Jerry’s. The whole thing, between the two of you, and even he has to admit that it’s — in his own words — pretty alright. 

After that you’re both full, and a little hopped up on half a pint of sugar, so you sit on the couch with your legs in his lap and you ask him every stupid question that flies into your mind. He rubs your feet while you talk, like he’s silently praying you might just wear yourself out. 

But he indulges you. There’s a smile playing at the edge of his lips. He’s turned the fireplace on, with a lighter he found somewhere deep in the kitchen, and his face flickers in the glow — orange, red, orange, again. 

“Favorite color,” you say. 

He tips his head to the ceiling. 

“Brown.” 

“Oh my god. Brown?” 

“’S wrong with brown?” 

“Dirt is brown. Mud is brown. No one’s favorite color is brown.”

But you’re realizing, as you’re saying it, that you’re wrong. His hair is brown. Deep brown, dark brown, like a forest after rain. His eyes are brown. Light, sometimes, like water over silt, and sometimes almost-black. His flannels are brown: brown and red, brown and yellow, brown and something, and he always looks like autumn. 

So he’s right, you think, when he says brown is his favorite color. You think maybe it’s yours now, too. 

“What?” he asks, when you’re quiet too long. 

You look up at him. Brown eyes, tired. Brown hair, tousled. 

“Nothing,” you say. “Next question.” 

“Childhood pet,” you say. 

“Black lab. Cooper. Used t’hunt ducks.” 

“Like that one?” You nod toward the desk, where his little wood duck sits facing the moon. 

He makes a soft sound. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Sure.” 

“And when did you start wood…working?” 

“Carvin’,” he amends. His thumb stills on the arch of your foot while he thinks. “Dunno,” he shrugs, after a while. “After Sarah came ‘long, I guess. ’S—relaxin’.” 

“You should sell them,” you say, matter-of-fact. “Like. At a Farmer’s Market, or something.” 

He half-laughs. But then he sees you’re serious — or as serious as you can manage, in your fucked-out, sugar-high, loopy sort of bliss, and he shakes his head. 

“Nah,” he says. 

“Why not?” 

“‘Cause no one would buy ‘em,” he says. “They ain’t any good. And,” he adds, when your mouth snaps open to protest, “—‘cause they’re—part ‘a me.” 

Your mouth snaps back shut. 

“What d’you mean, part of you?” 

“They’re mine,” he says, a little helpless. “I made ‘em. Don’t wanna give ‘em away.” 

“Sell them,” you amend.

“Don’t wanna sell ‘em,” he says. “Ain’t worth anythin’, anyway. ‘Cept to me.” 

“And me.” You prop yourself up on your elbows. Look at him across the couch. “They’re worth something to me.” 

He actually does smile at that. Not — smug, or self-satisfied — but shy. Sweet and shy and a little bit sheepish. 

“Okay,” you say. “One more question.” 

“Said that ten questions ago.” 

“I was lying. This is the last one.” 

“Mm,” he says. But he lets you go. 

“What’s his name?” 

“What?” He blinks at you. “Who?” 

“The duck,” you say. “What’s his name?” 

He’s silent, for a moment. 

“Ain’t got a name,” he says. “’S a duck.” 

“Ducks have names. Donald Duck. Daisy Duck.” 

“Those ‘re fake ducks,” he says. 

“So’s yours,” you say. 

“Jesus,” he says. 

But it’s soundproof logic, so — you win. He sighs, heavily. 

“Clyde,” you say, after a minute. 

“Clyde?” 

“Yeah. That’s his name. He’s British.” 

“Mm.” He leans back against the cushions. His hand strokes a lazy line, from your calf to your ankle and back up again. “Long way from home.” 

“Yeah,” you agree. Your eyes are heavy, now. You rest your head against the arm of the couch and stretch your legs out in his lap. “Poor Clyde.” 

He chuckles, softly, and that makes you smile. You flex your foot against his hand and close your eyes.

You sit quietly for a few long minutes. You maybe — maybe — fall asleep. 

His voice wakes you. His gentle hand below your knee. 

“Tired?” he murmurs. 

“No,” you say, without opening your eyes. “I’m — resting my eyes.” 

“Okay,” he says. “Well. Y’can rest your eyes in bed.” 

You try to mumble something in protest. You don’t want to go anywhere. You like it right here, with your feet in his lap and your head on the couch and the fireplace warming your skin. You like how close he is, how domestic. You don’t want it to change. You don’t want the sun to rise. 

You want to stay right here. 

But you’re fighting a losing battle, because he’s moving your legs aside, gently, and standing up off the couch, and he’s scooping you up like you weigh nothing at all. 

“C’mon,” he mutters. 

You don’t argue anymore. You let your head slump in his shoulder and your nose nudge at his neck. You kiss him there, lightly, and you hear his hum in response. Warm and silk-smooth. 

He puts you down and disappears for a few minutes — to lock the door, and turn the fireplace off, and check the windows are sealed. Then he comes back in, and shucks his sweatpants and his shirt off, and when he climbs into bed beside you you nuzzle at his side. 

He’s like sleeping with a space heater. Every part of him is a thousand fucking degrees. Which is nice, because you’re freezing. You chalk it up to genetics, or the half-pint of frozen ice cream floating through your bloodstream. Either way he lets you burrow into him. Under his arm and into the warm plane of his chest. 

“G’night,” you say, softly. 

He kisses you. Somewhere buried in your hair. 

“Night, angel,” he murmurs. 

You could swear he mumbles something else, too — something softer — but you’re half-asleep already. You don’t hear, and he doesn’t repeat it. 

And then you really do sleep, wrapped up in his arms and pressed to his heart, and when you dream they’re all of him. 

— 

When you wake up it’s still dark. Which sucks, but — you have to pee, and the only thing left over from your Ben and Jerry’s dinner is a fucking headache, and you have cramps that bite you awake. 

Great, you think. It’s the trifecta. 

And there’s something else, too, something bigger and heavier that won’t let you sleep, but you don’t — or you won’t — think about that, right now. Right now you roll out of bed, eyes adjusting to the dark, and you hobble over hardwood to the bathroom. 

You only turn the light on when you’re sealed inside. Joel’s a heavy sleeper, but — still. You don’t want to wake him. He deserves the rest. 

You dig around in your bag and slam two Tylenol — one for the headache and one for the cramps. Or so you figure. You use the bathroom, wash your hands — and by the time you’re back in the bedroom you’re wide awake. 

Naturally. 

So — fuck it. You grab a hoodie from your duffel and slip out of the bedroom, down the hall and through the living room and to the front door Joel’s dead-bolted. 

You undo the latch and let yourself outside. You leave the door open but close the screen behind you — so you won’t lock yourself out, on accident. You don’t love the thought of spending the night — or whatever’s left of it, at least — outside. 

You’re not sure what time it is. If it’s closer to morning or to night. The sky is pitch-black, littered silver with stars, and the water on the pebbled lake is glittering, moon-grey. 

It’s beautiful. It’s peaceful. You can’t remember the last time you looked at the stars.

You pick your way over to one of Tommy’s Adirondack chairs, sprawled out across the porch. It’s huge — big enough for two people, easily — and you slouch down against the slats. It makes you smile, how small you feel. In the too-big chair under the too-big sky. You put your hand on the wooden arm and tilt your head up to the stars. 

Behind you the screen door opens, and whines, and then shudders shut. Joel’s heavy footsteps join you on the porch. 

You twist around in the chair. He’s leaning up against the cabin wall, in a grey Dallas Cowboys shirt and a pair of grey sweatpants. His hair is mussed. He’s got a chipped mug in his hands that he cups with both palms. 

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks. His drawl is still thick. He must’ve just woken up. 

“Not really.” You frown. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”  

He shrugs. 

“Didn’t wake me,” he says. “Room just felt empty.” 

You’re quiet. Steam twists out of the mug and drifts apart in the cold air.  

You don’t know what to say. That thing that will not let you sleep is getting bigger, heavier. 

So you nod, quietly. And you accept the mug, when he peels himself off of the wall and offers it with both hands. 

“What is it?” you ask, a little skeptical. You put your nose over the rim and sniff.

“Tea,” he says. There’s a pause, then he adds, “Peppermint.” 

Peppermint. Your favorite. You told him as much, just a few nights ago — and apparently he listened. 

You take a tentative sip. Smile. He made it right, this time. Kept the bag in long enough.

“Where’d you get this?” 

“Had some at that gas station, on our way up. I just thought—” He shrugs. “Just ’n case.” 

“Just in case,” you repeat. You take another sip. 

“It’s good,” you say, quietly. “Thanks.” 

He smiles. You think he looks pleased. He takes a seat in the other Adirondack chair, beside you, and you watch the moon paint his face silver. His jaw, his cheek, the bruise under his eye and the slice across his nose. Everything looks lighter. More muted, less angry. 

You put the mug down on the chair’s arm. Then you stand, careful not to let it spill, and you go to his chair, instead. 

He makes room for you right away. You don’t ask him to, but he does. He scoots back, spreads his legs, and you drape yourself across his lap. His nose nestles in your hair, by the shell of your ear. 

"Y'alright?" he asks.

"Yeah," you tell him. "I think so."

But you're not, really, and he can tell. He can read your mind, or something close to it. So you're not all that surprised when he noses your ear, a little more insistent, and says—

“Hey. Talk t'me."

The irony of Joel Miller, asking you to talk to him. You’d laugh, if it didn’t feel like something was sitting on your chest. 

“I don’t know,” you mumble. But you do know. “It’s nothing.” 

He’s quiet, for a moment. You wonder if he’ll let it go. 

“Your dad?” he asks. 

“No,” you say. Which is the truth. You haven’t thought about your dad since you texted him, half a day ago now. It’s not him. 

Joel is silent again. You turn in his arms to look him in the eye. 

“It’s nothing,” you repeat. “It’s not—it’s stupid.” 

He takes a breath. Lifts a finger to your face, and traces a strand of hair. 

“Bet it ain’t stupid,” he says, softly. 

“Yeah.” You push out a laugh. It sounds hollow. “It is. It’s dumb. Let’s just — drop it.” 

You can feel him studying you. Watching you. But he’s quiet, and he doesn’t ask you again, because you asked him to drop it. He only says, “okay, angel,” in that syrupy drawl, and strokes your arm with a rough thumb. 

And you appreciate that. You do. But you kind of fucking wish he’d ask you until you break, if only to get this weight off of your ribs and your chest and your stomach and your heart. 

But he doesn’t. Because that’s not Joel. Joel listens. He listens when you tell him your favorite tea. He listens when you tell him to leave it alone.

He changes the subject, instead. He brings his hand up beside your face and points to the sky. 

“’S, uh — Orion, I think.” 

“Oh.” You blink. The change in subject throws you a little, but — you follow his index finger. Squint up at the dark. You have no fucking idea what you’re looking at, but he seems eager enough. 

“Sure,” you lie. It all looks the same to you. Just a bunch of streaky silver. Beautiful streaky silver, but — still. 

“To the left,” he says, gently, and you can hear the smile on his lips. His breath tickles your cheek, your neck, your collar. 

He drops his pointer finger. Puts his hand on your jaw, instead, and tilts your head in the right direction. 

“There,” he mutters. “Now look.” 

And you actually do see it, this time. 

At least, you think you do. It’s hard to concentrate, with his fingers so close to your neck. With his voice like starlit silk in your ear. 

You shift a little in his lap. The wind whistles, whinging off the lake, and his arm tightens reflexively around you. Possessive. Protective. But — gentle, too. Always gentle. 

It bubbles up in your throat again. That thing you can’t keep down. That thing that will not let you sleep. 

“Joel,” you whisper. It sounds like a whine. 

“Yeah.” 

You turn to look at him again. His hand is still on your jaw, fingers slack, just — holding you. His thumb rolls over your chin. 

You shake your head. Fuck.

“Yeah,” he repeats. “I know, baby.” 

“No you don’t,” you say. Your throat feels tight. You’re angry, you think — not with him, just — at the sky. At Orion. At yourself. Just fucking say it.

“I want—but I don’t want to—”

His thumb inches to your bottom lip. He holds it there, effectively shutting you up. 

“S’okay,” he says, softly.

His thumb strokes higher — to the edge of your mouth and then back down, over your chin, to the ridge of your jaw. He’s tracing you. Mapping you like the stars. 

“S’okay, angel,” he echoes, and you’re still shaking your head when he speaks again. Low. Gentle. So, so gentle. “I love you, too.” 

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[inkskinned]

i made a little quiz. it has gentle wisdom to take with you. whatever i can give you is yours. love u. take the wisdom & run.

[tacticaltaxonomist]

Declutter Tumblr

The new layout it a whole mess. Thankfully Xkit can already help with a bunch of this! I'm sure it'll give more options soon.

Vanilla Tumblr: (I have marked in red what can be removed. The tabs can be set not to stick, so you will really only see them at the top of your dash. Empty box on the left for hidden notifications and shop sparkle, i just didn't have any. I'm EU so no Live for me).

Xkit Rewritten Tumblr:

The settings I use:

[pechebeche]

this is so nostalgic. tumblr rolls out something terrible. everyone complains. it breaks several people's dashboards. for some reason it only rolls out to a few people at a time with seemingly no warning. the community collectively and immediately searches for a browser extension that undoes the change. i know we've all gotten burnt out on all social media sucking but this is genuinely The tumblr experience. everyone who hasn't gotten it already gets an achievement. welcome to the club

[livingemkayde]

carousel 

neighbor!joel miller/dbf!joel miller x f!reader

Warnings: Rated 18+, CONSIDER THIS YOUR COMMUNITY LABEL minors please dni, smut, age gap, oral m!receiving, unprotected p in v, praise kink, light choking, dom!joel, dirty talk, pet names. can you tell i have a thing for car sex. Probably more but…yk. 

a/n: im so grateful you guys are giving me the opportunity to share my writing with a huge community. I cant thank you enough. This has been an outlet for me emotionally that i never anticipated. I love writing and i love love love reading your feedback. just for all the love you get double the smut. thank you again. please enjoy. 

if u wanna listen to a song while reading, Let The Light In by ldr was playing while i wrote this lol. apple music spotify

wc: 5k (jesus)

this is apart of my small dbf!joel mini series, read the previous parts here:

part i part ii part iii

if you would like to read more of mine: masterlist!

He pumps his cock with your slick on his hand, moving so it's trained at your aching entrance — his hand shoots out above your head and braces himself on the car door.  “Fuckin’ in the car like teenages,” he grunts, running his tip along your clit.  “Please Joel,” you whine. You don’t know if you can take it any longer.  Joel squeezes the tip in, your walls accept him graciously, the desire to be filled overwhelming your senses.  He slides in slowly. You whine for him to go faster.  “Need you — please, just —”  “Shut up — fuck — not gonna last,” he groans into the crook of your neck. 

You try not to think about Joel — somewhere in the back of your mind you know it’s dangerous that he occupies so much of your brain at all times. 

But you really can’t help yourself. 

Especially when his stares linger a bit too long.

Or when your dad makes burgers and Joel’s thigh grazes against yours under the table. 

And definitely not when his hands find your waist when everyone is shuffling around the kitchen, putting dishes away. 

And it might physically hurt to ignore him when Sarah convinces you to run into the ocean at midnight and he’s waiting with towels for you on the deck — his hands brushing your ass when he wraps the towel around your body. 

You thought you might have been doing an okay job at it, until you find yourself outside his bedroom door, contemplating knocking. You really didn’t want to seem desperate. But the tug in your lower stomach sends you forward, bracing your hand to knock. 

You look to your left, Sarah's room is at the end of the hall and your dad’s is around the corner. You tiptoed through the dark hallway to get some water and you couldn’t help but walk past his door — to your surprise the light was on — seeping out under the door into the hallway. 

You hear him moving. And the light turns off at your feet. You gasp and move back. But he opens the door, and catches you outside his room. 

He meets you with a curious face. You read the silent question etched into it. 

What are you doin’?

You shake your head, attempting to convey an overall I wasn’t doing anything vibe but he gives you a knowing look that makes you blush. 

He nods his head towards the stairs and moves past you. 

You follow his figure. He’s wearing pants that hug his hips and a t-shirt. He’s very simple. Yet he’s very Joel, and you can’t take your eyes off him.

He leads you into the kitchen and grabs a beer from the fridge, you sit at the table. 

When he joins you, it’s almost like you’re both too scared to make any noise, you sit in silence, watching him as he tips the beer, sipping it, while keeping his eyes trained on you. 

You aren’t dressed for the occasion, and it's a bit cold, but you don’t think he minds. 

“I was just getting some water,” you manage to get out, your voice a bit hoarse. 

“Sure,” he replies, tipping his beer towards you, chuckling a bit.

“What? I was,” you say defensively. 

“Your room was the other way,” he notes, shrugging. 

You blush and try to hide your face.

“Whatever.”  

“S’alright, baby,” he says coolly — like his words don’t shoot down right to your core, “Just didn’t know you were so needy.” 

“Fuck you,” you mumble, a laugh crinkling your eyes, “You’d like that,” you bite. 

He laughs too. 

“Maybe I would,” he says. 

A few beats pass. There’s enough tension at the table you could cut it with a knife. 

“You wanna tell me?” 

“Not really,” you tease him with a smirk, “I was just surprised you were awake is all,” you say when he doesn’t respond, leaning back in your chair. 

He lets out a huff and downs the rest of his beer. 

“Could say the same ‘bout you.” 

“I’ve got some things on my mind,” you say sheepishly, teasing. 

“Yeah?” 

You nod. 

“What things?” 

You stand, stalking towards him, he parts his legs to let you slot yourself in between his thighs. He looks up at you. 

“Don’t be an ass,” you mumble while looking at his lips, “You know what things.”

“I don’t play guessin’ games.”

“I’m not playing any games,” you quip back. 

Something in your tone switches the conversation.  

It sort of stops Joel in his tracks. He looks up at you, and then his hand finds your hip, pushing against the bone. His fingers dip into your shirt, rubbing over the bruise he pushed into your skin from earlier — he bends to place a chaste kiss to the bruise. It makes your breath hitch. You think he might push you away, or tease you for being bratty with him. But he looks up at you with caramel brown eyes. 

“On your knees then,” he says, stone-cold. 

Your eyes widen, and you look around the kitchen in shock even though you know you’re alone with Joel. 

He looks up at you — maybe a little shocked that you comply so quickly without putting up a fight. But you were a goner the second you walked by his room and your body is dropping in between his legs before you know any better. 

Your knees hit the floor and you sit back on your heels, settling in between his feet. 

He groans and pushes forward to rest his elbows on his knees, looking down at you. One hand grabs your face, tilting it up so you’re looking at him. The hold on your jaw squishes your cheeks a bit. 

“You want it?” he says. 

Your eyes intuitively look down to his zipper. 

You nod. 

“Use your words.” 

“Yes,” you let out as best you can with his hand on your jaw. 

“Fuckin’ dirty girl,” Joel groans. His hand keeps your jaw in place, the other undoes his belt and frees his cock. 

“Thought ‘bout me all night, huh?” 

You nod out of habit. 

“What I just fuckin’ say?” he shakes his head, the hold on your jaw comes down to your throat, squeezing gently. 

“Yes — yes,” you say quickly. 

You look down to his cock again, the tip of it gleaming with precum. It sends a white heat straight to the apex at your thighs. 

“Please,” you whimper, looking up at him, “Can I?” 

Joel can’t resist you. You both know that much. 

“Alright,” he drops his hand from your throat. “C’mon princess.” 

He leans back slightly. You spring to your knees, not waiting for his permission, and take the tip of his cock into the heat of your mouth. The saltiness of it hits your tongue and you whimper around his length. It makes him groan. 

“Shit.” you hear him curse above you. 

He gathers your hair, raking it up into a mess at the top of your head. You suck and lick his tip, teasing him a bit before he gets impatient and pushes your head down. You don’t mind his advances, bracing your tongue for his length. 

But he’s big. 

Bigger than the few you’ve had — and you choke when he hits the back of your throat. You brace yourself on his thigh, trying to take the little he’s pushing you down on. 

“You can take it baby, c’mon. Slow.” 

His words shoot straight down to your cunt. You try but you’re not used to his length. 

“Chokin’ on it, c’mere —” he makes a move to pull his cock from your mouth but you whimper and slide in more across your tongue. He groans, “— fuck, baby.” 

You want to take more. You know you can take more. 

“Doin’ so good,” he grunts when you swallow more of him, “Fuck — you —”

Joel's hand holding your hair moves to your face. He runs his thumb across your cheek. It makes you look up at him through your lashes. His praise rings in your ears, and you can feel your hot slick dribble down your thighs. 

He stares at you taking him — mouth slack with lust. His rich drawl, velvet, coaxes you down further. 

“Goddamn angel —” he moans, “— so fuckin’ perfect.” 

His head tips back in pleasure when you take what doesn't fit in your mouth into your hand. 

He wipes the tears that spring from your efforts away with his thumb, looking at you kinda sympathetically. 

“Attagirl, fuckin’ made f’me, baby,” he whispers. You look up at him again, because it sounds like he might actually mean that. You press your thighs together at the thought. 

His words become quiet whimpers mixed with groans as you bob your head, steadily taking more — replacing your hand with your mouth. 

“In your fuckin’ throat,” he hisses out when your nose brushes against the mess of hair at the base. 

He slots his fingers through your hair, his hands, frantically touching you anywhere he can scramble to. 

When Joel goes silent you know he’s close. His soft breath becomes pants above you. 

When he grips your hair hard, you know he’s teetering on the edge and who are you to deny him?

His hips slightly cant towards your mouth, chasing his high, and he spurts down your throat in hot succession. He lets out a string of curses followed by your name. It makes you blush as you swallow. 

You release his cock from your mouth, sinking back onto your heels as you rest your cheek on his thigh. His breath rises and falls and you watch the place where his heart should be rhythmically moving. 

“Don't fuckin’ look at me like that,” he says, shaking his head and trying to avert his eyes. You look up at him, lazy, the slick between your thighs is enough to put a tortured look through your brows. 

His thumb wipes your chin, some cum dragging across your swollen lips, and sticks his thumb back into your mouth as you suck it clean. 

“Jesus, baby.” 

“What?” you smile back at him. 

Joel looks down at you, resting against his knee, in between his legs, your eyes lidded with lust and exhaustion. 

He bends down to kiss your lips, and then your forehead, whispering into your skin —

“You’re killin’ me.”

_

Everyone takes it easy the next morning, Sarah dips into the ocean in the afternoon, you help your dad with lunch. 

It's uneventful but it's nice. 

Your dad suggests going to the boardwalk for dinner, which you all agree to, Sarah wanted to check out the rides there. 

You slip into a dress, your dad said the restaurant was a bit fancy. You’re just grateful you brought a dress in the first place. You meet everyone downstairs, Joel looks up at you descending which makes you laugh a bit. It’s sort of like prom when you first come down the stairs and your date is waiting for you. Or like he’s prince charming and you’re Cinderella. 

But you get snapped out of that trance quickly. 

“Ready to go kiddo?” your dad says, moving towards the entrance. 

You smile at him, Sarah comes to your side, linking arms and goes on about how there's a ferris wheel and carousel on the boardwalk, across from the beachfront restaurants. 

You all pile into the truck, Joel in the driver’s seat. It's a short walk but it’ll be easier to drive with so many people.

Your dad was right, the restaurant is a bit fancy. And it feels like you’re suffocating when you sit down across from Joel, Sarah at your side. He looks up at you — you blush and smile to yourself, opening the menu. It’s far too formal for the four of you, but it’s a nice change. And you like seeing Joel in a button down. 

Dinner drowns on — you aren’t really paying attention to much because Joel’s foot keeps bumping into yours. Maybe it’s accidental. Or maybe it's a silent plea. 

Sarah’s voice snaps you out of it. 

“Please dad?” she asks, having cleaned her plate. 

You remember them talking in the truck, Sarah saying something about meeting a few friends her age on the beach. 

“They down near the rides?” Joel says, gruff. 

“Yes, dad. Like I’ve told you a million times,” she rolls her eyes and Joel laughs a bit, waving her off with a twenty and telling her to be safe and get back by midnight.

The two men turn their attention back to you. 

Joel’s foot knocks into yours again and you shoot him a look — though he doesn’t seem to be paying it much attention. You’d be lying if you said the uncertainty of his touches left you completely unbothered. 

You finish dinner with a coffee, the men have their drinks. 

You can't really think about much else until your dad's voice snaps you out of it. 

“So, what do you think?” 

But he's not talking to you. He's talking to Joel. 

“What do I think ‘bout what?” He asks. 

“Dude—” your dad is sipping at his whiskey, “Theresa?” 

Doesn’t seem like appropriate conversation when you’re present but that doesn’t really cross your mind because who the fuck is Theresa? 

“Uh, yeah she’s nice, man,” Joel says awkwardly. 

Nice? 

“Nice?” your dad scoffs, echoing your sentiment. 

Your dad looks over at you — “Been tryin’ to set Joel up with a lady,” he says, explaining. But it feels more like a punch in the face. Your eyes widen, you choke a little on your coffee. 

“Oh,” you say. Joel doesn’t meet your eye, “She from the neighborhood?” you inquire, thinking about the woman from the barbecue. 

Your dad nods. 

“She’s a teacher,” he says. “You probably met her at the barbecue.” 

He turns back to Joel.

“She likes you dude,” your dad says. “Think she’d be good for you.”

That feels less like a punch in the gut and more like you got roundhouse kicked in the face and slammed into the ground. You try not to let it get to you. 

“Just don’t know if I’m lookin’ right now,” is all he says in reply. You try not to look at him, but your brain subconsciously makes an effort for you, peering up at him through your lashes. He catches your eye quickly — and drops it in just as much time. 

Your dad grunts in response, waving down the waiter to get the bill. 

“What ever happened to that Liam kid?” he says, talking to you now. 

“Oh,” you reply kinda absentmindedly. You haven't really thought of Liam in a couple days. His texts remain unopened in your phone. 

“Nothing,” you shrug. 

“Hm, nice kid though,” your dad claps Joel on the back, “Ain’t you think so?” he says, talking to Joel now.

“Sure,” Joel lets out in his rich drawl. 

Another tap on your foot.

Joel’s eyes stare into yours but he doesn’t look angry — it's more of an expression you can’t read. 

He isn’t mad right? 

“Yeah,” you say, the conversation dying down. 

Your dad doesn’t see your stolen glances. 

“Why don’t you go with Joel, kiddo?” he says, fishing bills out of his wallet. 

“What?” You ask, shocked. 

“Need to handle some work-things back at the house, but I heard the boardwalk here is nice at night,” he nods over to the exit. 

You look at Joel tentatively. He nods towards the exit, giving your dad a handshake while you follow him outside. 

The cool air hits you. You shiver a bit, wrapping your arms around yourself. 

You fall into a steady stroll towards the boardwalk. You can see the lights from the ferris wheel a couple hundred feet ahead of you, the ocean water shining under the moonlight as you walk along the coast.

You look over at Joel, his hands digging into his pockets. 

“Good dinner?” you ask, smiling.

“Mhm,” he says.

You settle into the night, walking towards the carousel lighting up the center of the boardwalk. 

“C’mon, Joel,” you say, looking towards the small line waiting to get on. The lights shine a white-yellow — lighting up his eyes in the darkness. Kids scream. Adults laugh. It’s a bit too perfect. 

He looks at you and huffs. Almost like a no is already trained on his lips from habit. But when he looks at you, he stops himself. 

“Alright, c’mon,” he grabs you by your hand, interlacing your fingers and steps in line. 

The previous ride ends quickly, Joel steps on the platform first, helping you up, extending his hand. 

You both sit on one of the benches meant for parents. He drops an arm around you, like it’s second nature. You snuggle into it. 

“Haven’t been on one of these in years,” he says when the music starts and the platform begins to spin. Some kids run by, trying to claim the best animal. 

“Me too,” you say in reply. 

You remember the last time you’d been on a carousel. Your dad and Joel organized a day trip to the state fair — though it feels like forever ago — during high school. 

“State fair, remember?” You say, hesitant. 

“Yup,” he squeezes your shoulder. 

“Didn’t think you ‘member,” he continues. 

“Of course I do,” you look at him, he meets your eye. “You gave me my first sip of beer.” 

You wonder if that might strike a nerve. It’s more than a loaded statement — a bomb already counting down. 

He huffs a laugh. 

“Now look at you,” he says. 

“Yeah, all grown up or something,” you say, teasingly. 

“Or something’,” he echoes, with a huff, not meeting your eye.  

A few moments pass. 

You see a particularly pretty horse out of the corner of your eye. You begin to stand on the moving platform, Joel scrambles for your waist. 

“The hell are you doin’?” he grabs you, standing. 

You look back at him, entranced by the light circling his face. It looks perfect — he looks perfect. Picturesque. Hallmark. Like it could be a movie scene. Maybe in another life he would kiss you — with the horses spinning around you, the night sky staring down when he kisses you like nothing else matters. 

But you know Joel. 

And you know putting his arm around you was pushing his boundaries. 

“C’mon,” you pull him towards the horse that caught your eye. 

He grunts but follows you. 

You get on, both legs on one side, stumbling a bit on the way there. But you’re having fun, and Joel is here and he doesn’t want to leave. 

He stands next to the horse, looking up at you.

“Havin’ fun?” 

“Loads,” you smile at him, he smirks back, hiding his face when you touch the spot between his neck and his shoulder, squeezing. 

“You look pretty,” he cuts through the music. 

You try to hide your shock. 

Pretty. 

It's not like this with other guys. Sure, they've called you pretty, some even called you beautiful. But with Joel, you feel like he really means it. 

It also shoots down to the white heat building in your stomach. 

“You clean up nice, Miller,” you say with a blush. 

The ride ends, you both settle, walking through the boardwalk. A breeze rushes through, it sends a chill up your spine. 

You wrap your arms around yourself to trap some heat even though your efforts are fruitless. 

But Joel notices. 

“Got a jacket in the truck. C’mon,” he says, turning to walk back to the truck parked near the beach. 

You follow him. 

It might even be on instinct, but you snake your hand through his, interlocking your fingers while your other hand holds onto his arm where the crease of his elbow is. 

You don’t see him smile. 

When you get to the truck he opens the back door, leaning in to grab his jacket out of the backseat. He wraps it around your body. The smell instantly fills your nostrils and shoots down to your core. It’s his heavy work jacket and it’s entirely too big for your small frame but you like it — love it. 

When you finish putting it on, he looks at you, still standing by the open car door. He leans back against the seat cushion, looking at you with crossed arms. 

“A little big,” you giggle, showing him your hands which disappear into the canvas sleeves. 

“Looks good on you,” he says with a smile. 

You walk towards him, he wraps his arms around you. 

“Thanks,” you say into his chest. 

Joel hums in response. 

A breeze pushes on your legs and you can feel your nipples pebble against your dress — you think Joel can feel it too if his sudden stiffness is any indication.

You adjust in his arms, slotting yourself between his legs. 

You can feel him. 

“Kiss me,” you say, looking up at him. 

“We’re in public,” he doesn’t look down at you, but you can see the muscle in his jaw tick. You don’t know why he’s being withholding. No one is nearby — Joel’s truck is the only one left in the parking lot. 

“Please?” 

“Not now.” 

His tone might suggest he doesn’t actually want to kiss you. But his cock pressing hard against your stomach tells a different story. 

“Joel,” you whine, wriggling against him. 

“Quit,” he says. 

You try to stop moving. But the feeling of him, hard, against you, makes your cunt throb.

He stops you before you make any decisions. 

“Don’t.” 

“I didn’t even do anything.”

“Know you’re thinkin’ of somethin’,” he says, placing a chaste kiss on your forehead. “Needy,” he complains. 

You’re about to drop it. But his hand snakes around your waist under his jacket. The movement hikes your dress up, his hand resting on your low back.

You are — needy. 

But you just need him.

“Joel,” you say, giving him a warning. 

“What, baby?” he says, teasing. 

“Please.” 

Not a question — a statement. 

A plea. 

Joel looks down at you for a couple seconds. Then he taps your ass towards the inside of the truck. 

“Get in,” he moves so you can crawl in first, spinning around when you get to the other side of the truck’s backseat, shucking off his jacket and hiking up your dress. He crawls in after you, shutting the door. 

He’s quick with his belt, undoing his jeans in a frantic fashion — pulling his tucked shirt out of his pants. His cock is free before you have the chance to pull down your panties. 

Joel pushes your dress up more, revealing your underwear. He plays with the straps a bit, before pushing them to the side roughly. The sudden movement causes them to rip a little.

“Joel!” you say, as he grabs your panties and stuffs them into his pocket. 

“I’ll buy you new ones,” he pants, sucking a mark into your hip. 

His fingers find your core as you lay down along the back seat, opening your legs for thighs with slick. Joel’s thick fingers slide through your folds. His breath hitches and he lets out a curse to find you soaking wet, staining your hip. 

“Fuck baby, you didn’t…?” he trails off, referring to after you had his cock in his mouth and he told you to get some rest. 

You shake your head. “Waiting for you,” you pant, breathless. 

“Christ,” he groans, playing a thumb on your clit as you writhe under him. “This all for me?” 

“Yes — Joel — you,” you say through moans. 

He pumps his cock with your slick on his hand, moving so it's trained at your aching entrance — his hand shoots out above your head and braces himself on the car door. 

“Fuckin’ in the car like teenagers,” he grunts, running his tip along your clit. 

“Please Joel,” you whine. You don’t know if you can take it any longer. 

Joel squeezes the tip in, your walls accept him graciously, the desire to be filled overwhelming your senses. 

He slides in slowly. You whine for him to go faster. 

“Need you — please, just —” 

“Shut up — fuck — not gonna last,” he groans into the crook of your neck. 

“God—” you moan when he slides home, his hips pressing into your thighs. 

Joel can feel you pulsing around him. You’re dangerously close already. 

The windows gather condensation from your combined pants. 

You try to angle your hips up to meet him, fucking him back as he thrusts slowly, but that makes him groan more. 

“Jesus Christ, baby,” he says, his thick drawl wrapping all through the truck, stoking the fire burning in your low belly. 

You want more — no — need more. 

You push his chest back. He looks at you confused but compiles. He sits back in the seats, you straddle him, pushing his cock towards your entrance. 

You look at him. He stares back in awe. 

“Baby—” you cut him off by sinking down on his cock, the tip sneaking past your entrance. He lets out a strangled groan. 

You take him, inch by inch, feeling his girth stretch you out in an entirely different way at this angle. 

“Fuck, feel so good, Joel,” you settle on top of him, both of your chests panting against each other as you grind your hips a bit. “So deep,” you moan out, cockdrunk. 

His hands find your waist and hips, begging you to move — to do anything. You look down to his jacket on the seat. His work jacket. That he wears around the neighborhood. You’re not sure why but your dad’s comments about Theresa enter your mind. 

“Do you have a crush on anyone in the neighborhood?” 

“What?” he asks with a grunt. “I’m literally inside you.” 

“I know, but…” 

You shift a bit in his lap, the movement makes both of you moan out. 

“Said she’d be good for you,” you manage to get out. 

“Don’t really remember her,” he whispers, trying to push his hips into you. “‘N don’t agree.” 

“You don’t like her? — ah —” you start rocking on his hips, chasing a high that's settled in your stomach on instinct. 

“No,” he fucks into you, chasing his own.

“Then what do you think?”

His eyes dart up to yours, holding your gaze for the first time tonight, not breaking it or looking away.  

“Think I like you,” he breathes into your cheek. 

He says it with such a genuine tone even though he’s deep inside you. It makes your stomach do a flip, finding the urge to ride him incessant through your loud thoughts of what could be. When he says things like that it’s hard to ignore it any longer. When he looks at you like that you know you’re completely done for. 

“Fuck —” you say, clenching around him. 

You ride him, the notion of his words settling in your chest and pushing you towards your release quicker than you thought possible. 

You’re coming before he can respond. 

“Oh my — fuck, Joel,” you whine. 

“That’s it, attagirl — fuck,” he goes silent, chasing his own high as you relax around him. 

His hands urge you to continue moving. He kisses you, like a man starved. All your silent begging through the night erupting with one kiss as you come down from your high. It's like he was telling you at the restaurant — be patient and at the carousel just wait. 

Your stomach tightens at the feeling of his breath on your neck, sucking and biting and just smelling your skin. 

You continue to ride him through your post orgasmic haze. He chases his own release like he's done the whole night. 

“Oh baby — I —” he groans when you nip at his earlobe. 

“Please Joel, wanna feel you,” you whisper into his ear. 

He groans at that, pushing you down by your hips faster, you grind against him, a piece of clay destined to be molded to his body perfectly. 

“Jesus — fuck,” he groans, wrapping his arms around you, sinking his teeth into your neck, and coming inside you with hot hands running over your back. 

When he relaxes under you, he presses soft kisses to your temple, you tremble from the thought of his hot slick oozing out of you through the night. 

“Did so good for me, such a good girl,” he whispers into the dark truck. 

You slump against him, he holds onto you. 

His words ring in your ears. 

Think I like you.

You smile when you look at him. 

“What?” he asks, a smirk on his lips. 

“You said you like me,” you chide, teasing him. 

“Shut up,” he breathes, laughing a bit. 

“Don’t worry,” you kiss him, “I like you too.” 

_

taglist! (comment or message me if you would like to be added) kisses to you all:

@nostalxgic @iluvurfather

@thatgirlpeaches @prettyangelsthing @loreleiintheskye @ghostofjoharvelle @vickywallace @nevertrustapanda16 @crocodiile @lovely-ateez @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin @expir3dl0v3 @koshkaj-blog @alloftheboysivelovedbefore @smol-beb @bbyanarchist @evyiione @dlwrish @mishala005 @mxtokko @faeriemel @caatheeriinee07 @virgils-left-hoodie-string @sorry--for-the-mess

[livingemkayde]

waterfront

neighbor!joel miller/dbf!joel miller x f!reader

Warnings: Rated 18+. CONSIDER THIS YOUR FUCKING COMMUNITY LABEL LOL. Minors please dni. Smut. unprotected p in v. age gap. Pet names. Dirty talk. Dom!joel. Oblivious ass reader's dad. Not proof read one bit (per usual). 

a/n: thank you so much for the recent love. you guys are honestly so funny - COMMENT ASK REQUEST PLEASE INTERACT WITH ME IM SO LONELY ON HERE. this lil mini series has really pushed me to write despite some…things (and by things—i actually have been getting a shit ton of hate on my din fic for some weird reason?? so im really happy this dbf corner of tumblr is very accepting cuz that was really making me feel…SAD LMFAO). also do you guys picture joel in this fic as game joel or hbo joel - i wanna know. please enjoy this token of my gratitude as always. 

wc: 4.5k

part i part ii

if you would like to read more of me: masterlist!

“Fuck, Joel,” you mutter when you finally relax around him, your tight walls flutter at the feeling of his cock moving halfway out of you. When he pushes back in you see stars.  “That’s right honey —fuck— so good for me,” he pants, bottoming out again and setting a slow pace that punches each breath out of you. “Teasin’ me all day—couldn’t fuckin’ wait any longer.” 

“Sweetie? Have you seen the sunblock?” 

“Yeah dad, in the back bathroom!” you yell back from your room. 

It’s honestly unbelievable. 

Packing. 

You’re packing. 

For a weekend getaway at some beach house property one of Joel’s client’s offered him for the weekend.

Joel’s client. 

Joel Miller.

Who got down on his knees for you at your graduation barbecue. Who fingered you in the front seat of his pick-up truck when your dad was looking for you. 

Who refused to talk to you after that. Not like you were trying anyways. This had to stop. Especially since you and Liam have been talking more and he’s…nice. Boring—sure. But he’s what’s good for you. 

He even got you a job at some hardware store on the other side of town. 

Liam was keeping you company—no—keeping you busy. But not enough to stop the incessant thoughts of your middle aged neighbor who is—even worse—probably your dad’s only close friend. 

You tried to keep your distance. For your sake and Joel’s. You don’t want to know what’s going on in his mind anymore. All you know is he continually runs laps around yours. 

You can’t shake how he looked at the barbecue. How the sea of people parted for him like he was Moses, greeting him with strong handshakes and acrylic nails wrapping around his bicep. But even worse, you can’t stop thinking about how through all those people—he found your eyes first. 

You tried to convince yourself that maybe Joel was thinking the same thing you were. That this—whatever it is—was actually fucking ridiculous and had to stop. 

Because it did have to stop. But it never felt ridiculous to you, as much as you will yourself to believe. 

You tried to convince yourself that much when your hand was down your pants in the middle of the night. Something sounding a lot like Joel’s name on the tip of your tongue as you made yourself come. 

You aren’t sure if your dad has seen much of him either—saying something about how he was booked through the fourth of July weekend with a huge project he was working on with his brother. 

That’s why you were shocked when your dad came up to your room with a grin explaining he counted you in on the weekend getaway with Joel, his brother, Sarah, and the two of you. 

You were excited to see more of Sarah — she had really grown up in the time you were away. But with Sarah comes Joel, and you aren’t sure if the butterflies in your stomach were from anxiety or anticipation at that thought. 

A half a day after your dad told you to get packing, you’re in the backseat of Joel’s truck, Sarah at your side, while she talks everyone's ear off about something. You aren’t really paying attention because Joel can’t stop stealing glances at you in the rear view mirror—and let's be honest. You can’t stop either. 

“—so then she said to me that it was my fault. I mean can you believe that?” Sarah slaps your arm gently while finishing her story. 

She looks around the car for approval and the dads just shrug their shoulders. You give her a sympathetic look. 

“Sorry Sarah, sounds crazy,” you say, grabbing her hand. You—honest to god—tried to pay attention but there were so many names thrown out you couldn’t keep up. It didn’t help that the man in the driver's seat kept you up at night—almost every night—since the barbecue. 

“I know! But then Jackson was like okay with it so whatever,” she gives you a knowing look, finishing her story—don’t say anything else because my dad’s here.

“Boys,” your dad murmurs to Joel under his breath, but you catch it. 

You also catch Joel shaking his head in response, letting out a huff and a—

“Tell me ‘bout it.” 

You meet his eye through the rear view mirror and drop his gaze quickly. His knuckles go white on the steering wheel. 

You think you’re almost off the hook and maybe can get some rest but Sarah lets out the first of many—

“Are we almost there yet?” 

Four more of those and you arrive at a secluded beach house on the coast. Joel pulls up to the back of the house, you can see the deck which leads down to the beach. Sarah and your dad hop out of the truck hastily—excited to see the house, and enter through the back door. It leaves you and Joel in the car together. Alone, for a few uncomfortable seconds until he finally speaks. 

“You alright?” 

It throws you for a loop. Joel Miller asking if you’re okay? You must be dying. You look at him through the mirror, an eyebrow raising. 

“‘M fine,” you reply back, monotone.

“Do you wanna talk?” 

Another surprise. 

“There’s nothing to talk about. You made that clear,” you huff, putting an emphasis on you so maybe he can start to feel an ounce of what you do. 

He gets out of the car but you don’t move from your position. Your dad and Sarah have disappeared into the house, undoubtedly claiming the best bedrooms and rifling through the owner’s things. 

He opens your door, his hand hanging off the top of it while his other braces himself on the car near your head. He dips his head closer to you, taking up the entirety of the door frame. 

“You gonna be a brat this whole trip?” His drawl, rich and velvety, almost tricks you into leaning up to kiss him, but you snap out of it from his words. The name shouldn’t make you clench your thighs together like it does. You opt for anger over letting him see what he does to you.

“I’m the brat?” You bite back. He’s not going to do this again. If it’s your last dying wish, Joel Miller will learn a lesson this trip. For leaving you high and dry. For being a fucking asshole, just like you told him at the barbecue a couple days ago.

“You think parading that lil boy ‘round here s’okay?”

“Again with Liam? It’s not any of your business.” 

You look at him. Really look at him—and there’s a certain emotion behind his eyes you can’t place. Like he’s biting his tongue, and you know he is.

“What, Joel? God,” you say, exasperated. 

“Nothin’—I—” he pauses like he’s trying to collect his thoughts before speaking. Then he says something that surprises you—like maybe he really does care about you and what happened in his truck. 

“He make you laugh?” 

You stare at him, shocked, and you can’t help but soften your gaze. You feel like bursting into a puddle of tears—but what’s even worse—you feel like running into his arms. 

“He doesn’t make me cry.” 

He looks down at that. Like he’s defeated. 

“I told you I care,” he throws his words back in your face. From when he had his tongue buried inside you. 

You roll your eyes. 

“What? You think I want it like this?” He continues when you don’t respond.

“I have no fucking idea what you want.” 

“I want to not be sneaking around behind my friend’s back. Your dad’s back.”

“Didn’t stop you before.”

He pushes off the car at that, putting his hands on his hips while scoffing to himself. You think you catch him mumbling something and before you can bite your tongue you urge him to speak up. 

“Insane,” he grunts.

“Sorry?” 

“I said you drive me fuckin’ insane.” 

You pause at that. Partially because his tone suggests it’s not the typical insane but like he can’t stay away from you. Like you drive him up the walls. Like he can’t stop thinking about you. Maybe even the kind of insane he makes you feel. Maybe it's the same thing he does to you. And you didn’t know you did…anything to Joel. 

“That’s my job,” you reply sarcastically instead of saying something stupid—or something you regret. 

You break his gaze—looking down to unlatch your seatbelt. When your hand goes to click the button, you stay fiddling with it; the latch fails to come out of the buckle. 

“‘S jammed. Need to get a repair,” he reaches over you to unlatch it himself. 

But you don’t get your hand out of the way quick enough and your fingers meet over the button. 

He pauses, you both do. The contact makes your head spin. 

You think he’s going to pull away. An apology is already braced on your tongue but instead of moving or retracting, he tentatively rubs your hand with his thumb instead, lacing his fingers through yours like it’s second nature. 

He’s in your space, and he smells like Joel, and you don’t think the two of you have ever shared a more intimate moment. Not even when his mouth was between your legs. 

You look up at him, hesitant, because you aren’t sure what’s going to be looking back. But he stares at you, his eyes soft. Joel looks down to your lips and back up to your eyes. His brow twitches a bit. You let out soft pants—the peaks of your breasts threaten to ghost against his chest. 

He looks at your lips again and inches closer, starting to duck his head. 

“‘M sorry,” he grumbles in a low, dangerous drawl that shoots right up your spine. 

You don’t think it’s a phrase he says often. You’ve never heard it. It sounds foreign on his lips, especially when they’re inching closer to yours. 

“For what?” You squeak out, a breath cutting through your words. 

“Everythin’.” 

Your eyes urge him to continue. 

“Thought I could stay away f’m you.” 

He gets closer. 

“Thought it was the right thing.” 

You shake your head. 

“But I don’t think I can stay away.” 

“Don’t stay away. Don’t go,” you plead with him and shake your head. All of your plans to make him pay have honestly gone out the window. But when he says things like that and he really—honest to god—means them? You know you’re fucked. 

“'M here.” 

You close your eyes at his words and will your tears back when they close. All you can smell is Joel and all you can feel is his hand coming up to loosely wrap around your throat, the curve of his palm hugging your collar bone. 

“Look at me.” In a blink, you do. 

He’s closer, if possible. 

And he kisses you. It’s the first time he’s ever kissed you. It’s not tentative, or aggressive.

This kiss feels like the real apology. Not him on his knees for you and then ignoring you after. He kisses like he’s willing you to forgive him. You know he’s not good with words—that’s why this kiss feels like the heartbreak that had settled in your chest is scattering. It feels like your old fantasies and butterflies breaching the surface are making you moan into his mouth. 

He kisses you like a man starved, but also like he’s scared of messing up again. 

It feels fucking good—he feels fucking good. 

His hand on your throat lengthens your neck to deepen the kiss. Your hands find his bicep and squeeze the life out of him. 

His other hand pulls at the hem of your shirt and almost ghosts the skin of your stomach but the sound of a door slamming snaps you both out of it. Joel turns to see Sarah pushing out of the patio door with her back turned towards you, carrying towels and a cooler. He quickly unbuckles your seatbelt with dexterous fingers, helping you out of the car.

You act like you were helping him unload the flatbed when Sarah turns around—a big smile cast on her face.

“Get your bikini on! Let’s go!” She looks at you and nods towards the ocean over her stack of beach supplies. 

“Alright, alright, I’m going.” 

You hustle into the house with a duffle slung over your shoulder. You can see your dad in the kitchen rifling through the pantry—the cooler for drinks and food abandoned on the floor near the fridge. 

You find a bathroom and change into your swimsuit quickly. You don’t miss the wet spot on your panties. From a kiss nonetheless. You’re beginning to think you’re way more fucked than either you or Joel like to believe. 

You rush out onto the patio. Sarah is probably shoulder deep in the water and it’s way too fucking hot to be sitting under the sun without taking a dip. You haven’t been to a nice beach like this in a really long time. You don’t remember the last time you went on vacation. 

This is nice.  

Joel is being way too…nice. 

You pass him on the way to the beach where you see Sarah jumping through the water. He looks at you, subtly. Out of the corner of his eye. You try to avoid his gaze and hide your blush but you can feel his burning eyes shift to the back of your head as you give him a small smile in passing. 

“Dad! C’mon let's go!” Sarah yells from the water. You look to see Joel staring back at you—you drop his eye when your dad busts through the door. 

“‘N a minute!” Joel grumbles as he throws his duffle over his shoulder, carting in a crate of barbecue things for the weekend. 

Your flip flops splat on the deck as you break into a small jog down to where Sarah is. She smiles at you as you run into the water. The two of you playing in the salty spring like teenagers—well she is—you aren’t. 

You can see your dad and Joel settle on beach chairs some yards away from the shoreline. They sport a couple beers and talk amongst themselves while watching you and Sarah play in the water. 

You catch Joel’s eye a couple times. He even comes down and throws around a football with your dad. He splashes and teases you all day. 

When the sun finally extends down to the horizon and the water turns orange from its light, Sarah tells you she’s beat and basically hobbles back over to the dads on the beach chairs. She slumps down onto the one next to Joel, you move towards them as well, trying not to blush because you know Joel is looking at you before you meet his eyes. 

“Tired?” Joel asks, not to you or Sarah in particular, but it falls on you—Sarah already asleep on the beach chair. 

“Exhausted.” You plop down on the chair beside your dad, taking a towel and drying your hair off before moving to the rest of your body. 

“Want dinner? I’ll make my burgers,” your dad inquires, beginning to stand and take the beers with him. 

“Sounds good dad.” You stand and wrap the towel around your body. “Need a shower.”

You try to wake Sarah up gently, she grumbles and stalks off to the house, you, trailing behind her. She kicks her flip flops off at the entrance and moves to the couch in the living room. She’s back asleep before you get the chance to enter the door. 

Your dad moves to the kitchen, you don’t know where Joel went. Maybe you left him back on the beach. You move to take a cold shower, the small tug in your stomach grew to be quite big when you caught him staring at your exposed skin on the beach. 

When you get upstairs, you enter your designated bedroom. You smile when you realize it has a bathroom attached to it. You strip off your bathing suit, putting it in the sink of your bathroom. 

You wrap a towel around your body and go to twist the knob of your shower. When you tug it towards hot it comes off the shower wall with a chink and you curse to yourself, the water coming out in a leak rather than a stream. 

You huff. This is not what you need right now. 

“Dad!” You call from the doorway of your bedroom—not wanting to venture further in just a towel. 

You turn away from the door—moving into the bathroom, trying to chance figuring out how to fix it instead, when a pair of footsteps fall by your bedroom door. 

“You okay?” A voice calls from your bedroom, but it’s not your dads. 

You jump at the sound of a honey rich southern drawl echoing your name as Joel pushes through the bathroom door to find you in your towel, holding the shower handle.

“Jesus—” he looks away with a cough, you can tell he’s shocked to see you in just a towel. But when he sees you holding the handle he does a double take. 

“What the hell did y’do?” He flips between giving you privacy and moving toward you with an outstretched hand, taking the shower handle into his own. 

“I just tried to turn it on and it snapped off,” you try to reason with him, a flush coming to your cheeks when he comes into the bathroom. 

“Move,” he grumbles, sneaking by you. In the brief moment you come chest to chest, you look up at him and he lets out a groan. His hand snakes by your waist. He looks down at you—a dangerous look in his eyes. 

Joel breaks first, moving towards the shower. 

“I’m gonna—yeah—just…uh thanks,” you gesture to your towel and shut the door to the bathroom behind you. Leaving Joel in there alone. 

You throw on an oversized t-shirt and underwear before he comes out, sans shower handle. 

“Thanks,” you mumble, suddenly self conscious you didn’t have time to put on pants. You aren’t sure why. Joel’s seen…a lot already. 

“‘Course,” he says, but doesn’t leave like you anticipated. 

“You havin’ fun?” He asks. There’s something in his tone that suggests he doesn’t actually care. 

“Yeah,” you reply, breathless, “Thanks for inviting us.”  

“sorry—I—” he points to the bathroom, “thought you were in trouble or somethin’.” 

“‘S’okay.” 

He looks at you, and down to your bare legs, your underwear just peeking out from beneath your shirt’s hem. 

The way Joel looks at you—like you’re the only one who matters—stokes the fire growing in your stomach. The look in his eyes tells you he’s still wrestling with his moral compass. Like he needs to stay away for his own good, but like he said in the car—he just can’t. 

Joel nods, and steps back like he’s turning to leave. You don’t want him to. You need him. When you take a tentative step toward him, he suddenly breaks into stride in your direction. The dam of fleeting touches and wandering eyes for half a day breaks. He grabs your face in his hands, kissing you hard. His tongue slips to run over your bottom lip and you whine into his mouth. 

Your hands come up to rest on his chest. His, wrapping around your waist while he dips his head to start kissing your neck.

“Joel–” you start, but the feeling of his lips on the sensitive parts of your collarbone punches your breath.

He only hums at that sentiment. 

“Where are we going?” you manage to get out, when he’s tugging you into the bathroom by your wrist, shutting the door behind him. 

“Need to fuck you,” he groans into your ear as he spins you around, so your hips press into the bathroom counter. You can look into the mirror and see your reflection. You look entirely too fucked out from a couple kisses and he looks stone cold. 

“J-Joel—ah—jesus,” you moan when his hand dips to your front and catches your clit through cotton. 

“Say please,” he groans into the skin of your neck. You turn your head to catch his lips in a chaste kiss. It's all tongue and teeth, but you don’t mind either way. He’s close, he’s here and he’s kissing you. 

You break away from the kiss just enough to whine out a small, “Please–fuck–”

You don’t really know what you’re asking for, but you know if that’s what he wants—you’d give him anything in this particular moment. 

“Nicer.” 

You whine, the pad of his finger catches your clit just right.

“Please, Joel,” you cut out through bated breath. 

He huffs, you can hear the sound of clinking and shuffling behind you—the tell tale sign of his belt coming undone. 

“Alright, baby, c’mon,” he pushes you down, folds you in half, your breasts pressed against marble. It's cold, and his hot hands on your waist, snaking down to slot his fingers in your underwear makes you dizzy. 

“You’re a tease,” he groans when he eases your underwear to the side, the head of his cock catches your clit.

“Joel—p—fuck—” His cock catches at your entrance. You both pause for a second, reveling in the feeling. One of his hands grips your waist so hard you’re sure you’ll have bruises by dinnertime. The other pushes your face down—fingers tangling in your hair. 

“Look in the mirror,” he growls, lifting your head up by your hair, just enough so you can watch his face as his tip slips past your entrance. 

He stretches you out just from that, you muffle down a scream in your throat. 

Joel’s mouth goes slack but he doesn’t react much with his face. He just looks down at your bodies connecting and pants while he slowly slides home. 

“‘S big Joel. Feel so good—oh my god—” he breaks you open and splits you in two. His breath cuts somewhere behind your head—your eyes squeezing shut at the feeling. 

He buries himself to the hilt, you curse and mutter inconsistencies into the bathroom. His iron grip on your body goes tighter if possible. 

“Eyes open,” he growls behind you. “You can take it baby, c’mon.” 

You will open your eyes, focusing on him in the mirror. He has a sheen of sweat already casing his forehead, his shirt is half unbuttoned with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. 

“Relax, angel,” he pants. “You’re squeezing me — could barely get it in,” 

He settles there, you try to relax but the stretch makes you squirm underneath him. He lets you adjust to his length, cursing every time you clench around him. It’s filthy. Obscene. He’s pushing your head up — lifting you by your hair, so you can see him spear into you with no remorse. He’s filthy, and so are you. 

“Fuck, Joel,” you mutter when you finally relax around him, your tight walls flutter at the feeling of his cock moving halfway out of you. When he pushes back in you see stars. 

“That’s right honey —fuck— so good for me,” he pants, bottoming out again and setting a slow pace that punches each breath out of you. “Teasin’ me all day—couldn’t fuckin’ wait any longer.” 

“More please,” you whine, meeting his eye in the mirror. The air is thick in the bathroom now, the potpourri on the sill of the window doesn’t really mask much of anything. 

He complies—surprisingly. Moving faster and harder, each push of his hips knocks you into the counter. The grip on your waist gets impossibly tight. The hand pulling at your hair finally lets you rest back down on the counter, pushing hair out of your face when you look back at him. It rests on the back of your neck. 

“Feel so good baby,” he groans. 

“Joel—I’m—I can’t, I’m gonna—” 

“C’mon angel, come for me,” he says, you take another peak at him through the mirror. He looks wrecked. But you look even worse. 

You get impossibly tight around him while he mutters things you can’t hear over the ringing in your ears. You think you hear him toss out a small that’s right when you finally spill over the edge. 

He fucks you through it, his pace doesn’t let up, the coldness of the counter brings you back to reality. Where his breaths are becoming groans and pants and he strokes your cheek with his thumb. 

“‘Nother,” is all he says when your tight walls finally relax, molding to him and only him. 

“I–I can’t—” you say, slumped against the counter. You sound cock drunk. It’s halfway true though. No one else has ever made you come twice in one night. You were starting to think it might be a myth. 

“Know you can, pretty girl,” he goes slow at that, angling down so the tip of his cock catches something inside you that lights the fire again. “There we go. ‘S okay, can feel it already.” 

He pushes you towards another orgasm, it washes over your entire body and you slump against the counter. Maybe it’s some sort of weird trance he has you in. Or maybe you were right and this — whatever it is — is getting bad. Fast. You’re threatening to fall. But he’s there, and he picks you up and holds you down. 

“Jesus. Fuck, baby,” he curses into your skin when your release coats his cock and lets him sink deeper, thrust faster, push harder. 

“Joel—fuck. Fuck.” Maybe the overstimulation should be getting to you, but you stay there like that, as he speeds up and his thrusts become more frantic. He chases after his own orgasm. 

“Turn over,” he says, hastily. His hands move at your body before you can process his words. He flips you around and slots himself in between your legs—sliding back in deep, grinding into you while folding over so his head is in the crook of your neck. 

“Please,” you whimper. You both know what you’re asking for. But he pulls out, ripping your shirt up and spilling all over your stomach and breasts. It coats you, the liquid hot and he dips his head to watch it coat your body. He lets out a strangled string of curses, bracing himself on the counter as he comes. 

He kisses you. Really kisses you. You grab his face and moan into it. Like you’re willing him to stay there, in between your legs forever. 

But he breaks first, moving to grab a towel out of the cabinet above the toilet. He cleans you up gently, wetting the towel with warm water before it touches your skin. The sentiment could make you cry. 

When he’s done cleaning you up, he kisses your forehead. Joel wraps his arms around you as you sling yours over his shoulders. He holds you there, his hand coming to cup the back of your head, stroking your hair and breathing hot kisses into your crown. You smile, lazily. 

He pulls back just enough to look at you. You know you still look wrecked and are in desperate need of a shower—he looks perfect by contrast, completely untouched and definitely unbothered. 

“Dangerous,” he mutters when you look at him through your lashes. 

You kiss him instead of responding.

You know Joel's right—this is dangerous. 

But it feels way too good to stop. 

_

taglist! (comment or message me if you would like to be added) kisses to you all:

@nostalxgic @iluvurfather

[sinsofsummers]

undone

2.2k | dbf!joel miller x f!reader

summary: joel miller worships the day you showed up braless to his fourth of july party. warnings: smut (of course), 18+, mdni. no outbreak au, fourth of july party (forgive him he's from texas), joel's pov, he's a dumb bitch, masturbation (m), pervy!joel but not really, age gap (reader is in her 20s, joel in his early 40s), slight religious slander (not extreme by any means!). note: this is just me dipping my toes into the dbf!joel universe, lemme know what you think! zero editing basically, i'm so sorry, there will probably be more drabbles for this. also this is consolation for the dumb shit holiday that is independence day in the us. i hate it here.

He's anything but religious; he hasn't gone to church since he was a kid. And yet...Joel Miller worships the day you went braless to his Fourth of July party.

Even now, laid in his bed with his arm thrown carelessly across his face and his fist curled tightly around his cock, he's not sure he'll ever recover.

Muffled grunts fall from his lips with every strained tug, and he's sure it sounds something like prayer. Considering the fact that you're as close to heaven as he'll ever get, he'll call it a fair assessment. If it's sacrilege to jerk off to the thought of his best friend's daughter every night...so be it.

He's never been one with any type of remarkable memory, but he knows that the image of your perfect chest peeking at him through the thin thank you'd worn that day would stick with him forever.

You'd blinked up at him with a grin, a bowl of fresh fruit salad prepared to share with the rest of the guests in your hands. A strand of hair had fallen into your eyes and he'd had to fight against every urge and keep his hand down at his side.

What he really wanted to do was brush your hair from your eyes (ever the gentleman), and then replace the spot where his fingers would touch your forehead with his lips. He'd always wondered what your hair might smell like, what shampoo you used in the morning, and how your skin looked when the suds ran down your body, rinsed down the drain.

What he wouldn't give to be the suds running down your radiant skin, to touch every curve and crevice of your body, the spots that never see the light of day.

He hadn't seen you since you'd gone to college. Well, not for more than a few days over your Christmas break each year, and even then...he'd made sure to steer clear of you. Tried to ignore the way your smile made his own stutter, how your arms were always so soft around his neck when you gave him the occasional hug.

How your eyes had begun to linger, just enough to make his jaw clench and his cock twitch.

A strangled sigh fights its way out of his chest as he remembers the events of that fateful party, and just how he's ended up here, cock in hand, your scent in his head, and your name on his tongue.

—

"Jesus Christ," he murmured when you and your dad showed up with your dishes to pass. The backyard had been strewn with red, white, and blue decorations, the perfect image of a typical Texan backyard celebration for Independence Day.

He'd been unable to hide his groan at the way the bright colors practically bled into his skull, but there was no other way to have a Fourth of July party, apparently. Of course, this was really just for tradition, and...well, his younger brother Tommy would have had his head if there weren't at least a few American flag streamers.

Your little white tank had already begun to cling to your skin in the Texas heat, the straps thin. Before he knew it, he was hoping that the sun would do him a favor and kiss your skin where he wished he could. That it might form those pretty little lines along your shoulders and give a warm glow to your face, evidence of your presence at his house, at his party, drinking his beer.

"Drunk already?" your dad's voice roused him from his momentary lapse in judgment and then Joel was getting tugged into a firm handshake and a clapped hand on his shoulder.

He tore his eyes from you and hoped that the pink in his cheeks (that was definitely there) could be mistaken for a quickly setting sunburn. He didn't want to think of what you might take his blush for if you noticed.

He chuckled, shaking his head and returning the handshake. “Hell no,” he answered hastily, “just gettin’ hungry for that fruit salad, man.” And the angel holding it. “Need a hand?” he asked you, forcing his eyes not to wander from yours.

Fuck. Your eyes were extra bright today, with the sun seemingly lighting them from the insides. And those cheeks? Already pink and sunkissed, just how he’d hoped they would be. He might have offered you some sunblock if he’d thought it was appropriate. Might have offered to help you spread it onto your smooth skin if he’d thought that was appropriate.

Of course, he’d be condemned to the darkest circle of hell if he let those thoughts run wild. So he trained his eyes on yours and waited for your response.

You shook your head and tucked your hair behind your ear. You squinted into the sun, an action that forced one eye closed, as if you were winking at him. “I’ve got it,” you said casually, “can I put it inside for now?” You adjusted your hold on the fruit salad, making your breasts shift under your shirt.

Joel nodded—fuck’s sake, he thought with the movement of your chest—and tilted his head toward the back door that led to the kitchen. “Go for it, Sarah’s already in there.”

Your dad had been called away by Tommy, so Joel was left in your quiet company. He watched your smile widen at the mention of his daughter’s name and felt his heart twinge. You were just a few years older than his daughter, and here he was, not only willing his cock to settle down at the sight of your nipples pressing against the cloth of your shirt, but also wishing that your smile widened at the mention of his name. 

Joel wasn’t quite sure what happened in the subsequent minute or how he moved so quickly. Before he knew it, you’d stepped closer to him and he’d stepped to the side, except he was really just getting in your way, and your eyes were widening in surprise, and then the bowl of fruit salad was shuffling in your grip and he was stumbling to get back out of your way and then—

“Shit,” you mumbled a curse. The juice from the contents of the bowl—mostly watermelon juice, it looked like—had splashed up onto your shirt, seeping through the white fabric and painting your chest a pale pink. You looked up, a careless smile replacing the distracted look on your face. “Don’t worry about it, Mr. M, really. I was gonna have to wash this shirt tonight anyway.”

“I—uh, I didn’t mean to,” was all he could come up with, and he could feel his face heating once more at the look on your face. “Shirt’s ruined. I’m sorry darlin’,” he mumbled—was the temperature increasing by the second?—and pretended not to notice the way your shirt clung even tighter to your chest. It was like a damn wet t-shirt contest, the way the darker shade of your nipples began to peek through the soiled fabric at him. He blinked and looked away, trying to ignore the way your smile had turned into a smirk. Have you caught him? 

You shrugged and passed the bowl to him. “No, it’s not,” you reassured him with a breathless chuckle. “I’m sure Sarah’s got a shirt or two I can wear.”

He’d been left standing with the bowl of your fruit salad as you’d trekked into the house, presumably to do as you’d said. When you came out just a few minutes later, he’d been talking to your dad and a few of the other neighbors that had come over. He’d almost completely forgotten about the incident, until you were there again, standing in front of him. 

In his shirt.

“Uh,” he said dumbly, not sure whether you knew whose shirt you were wearing, or if you’d gone into the wrong laundry pile.

You picked at the hem of the shirt, and he traced the lines of your long fingers with his eyes, practically seeing your sweet scent sink into the fabric. He hoped you could smell his cologne lingering on the collar as it licked against the soft skin of your neck. “Sarah found this in her closet,” you explained, “she said it was one of her sleep shirts.” You flitted your gaze to him, and he caught a glimmer of amusement in the depths of your eyes. “Smells kind of…”

Like me. He shivered despite the heat and tapped his finger on his hip to calm himself down. It smells like me, and now you’re gonna smell like me, angel.

“Like men’s cologne,” you finished with a smirk dancing on your lips. “You sure Sarah’s not bringing home any guys you don’t know about, Mr. Miller?”

He cocked an eyebrow and bit back a cutting remark. “‘Course not,” he said smoothly, “they’d never get past the front door.”

It was all he could do not to tug you onto his lap with his shirt hanging past your hips, giving the illusion that you weren’t wearing any shorts beneath it. Fuck, he had to get away from your father before he did anything he regretted. “Need another drink, anyone?” he offered, shifting his weight away from you in a failed attempt to get the thoughts out of his mind.

The others shook their heads, but you nodded. “I’ll get another, actually,” you said simply. And then he was stuck with you, his fingers itching to lift that shirt from your body and reveal that warm skin to his desperate mind.

The kitchen was empty—a small blessing—and Joel fished through the fridge for another beer. Handing one to you, he cherished the way your fingers brushed his as you pulled it from his grasp, the droplets of condensation running down the bottle like he knew the sweat was running down his back at the thoughts that swam through his mind.

“S’my shirt, you know,” he grumbled softly, not quite sure why he’d said it. Maybe it was to gauge what your reaction would be. Maybe he already hoped that you’d smile at the thought.

You looked down at the shirt, cheeks reddening. “It is?” you said quietly, the surprise unraveling in your voice. “I’m sorry, I can get another one—”

He waved a dismissive hand. “Nah, s’okay. Looks better on you than it does on me, anyway.”

“Oh.” Just one word, but he noticed the way your legs wobbled at the same time. The way the bottle slipped just a centimeter in your hand.

Gotcha, he smirked inwardly. 

—

Days have gone by, and he still thinks about that blush in your cheeks every night. He can’t help it when you just look so angelic in the shirt of a sinner like him. 

Joel’s hand squeezes his cock for all its worth as he strokes himself languidly, faint mumbles beginning to fall from his lips like the verses of a damn hymn. “So fuckin’ pretty,” he groans in the darkness of his room, feeling the pressure build in his body. With every muscle in his chest tensing, he lets a broken sigh escape his throat as he spills his hot seed into his hand, the picture of your face embedded in his mind’s eye. Laying there for a moment, he catches his breath as oxygen raggedly pushes itself in and out of his lungs.

And then he hears it. A knock. The front door, it sounds like.

He hastily cleans himself up, but the faint feeling of stickiness remains on his hand as he traipses down the stairs in the dark, wondering just who the hell would be knocking on his door so late at night. 

When he opens the door, he’s not exactly expecting to see the face he’d just come on his hand to. 

“Hey,” he chokes out, hiding his hand behind his back as if you might be able to see the evidence of sacrilege on his skin. He’s afraid you’ll be able to decipher the sweat on his forehead for the sinful act that it had come from just moments ago. “What’s up?”

“Oh!” you sound surprised at his answering the door, a fact that makes him smirk. “I’m just…I’m just here to return Sarah’s shirt,” you explain hastily. 

There it is, hanging from your loose grip, waiting for him to take it. “You mean mine,” he corrects gently, his grin widening as he feeds his hand up the frame of the door, hovering over you close enough that he can see your pupils widen and pulse at the proximity of his chest to yours.

Your mouth hangs open, just enough that he thinks about pushing his thumb in between your lips, up to the first knuckle. His mind goes wild at the thought of how warm and soft and wet your mouth would be around his fingers. How perfect it would be around even more.

He shoves the thoughts away as you nod. “Yeah,” you say with a breathless chuckle. “Yours, I mean. I don’t need it anymore, though. So…” your eyes drop to the shirt between you, your words trailing off.

Joel shakes his head. “Don’t need it back,” he says warmly. “Not yet, anyway. Keep it.”

You blink. “What?”

He shrugs, the thought of you wearing it more than once lighting his mind on fire. “Keep it for now. I’ll come to collect it some other time. No reason to return it in the dead of night, doll.”

Fuck. The nickname had slipped. 

But based on the way your lips curl at the corners, he’s dodged a bullet. “Okay,” you say softly, and he swears he can see the moon reflected in your eyes. “Just for a little longer, then.”

He nods and says goodnight, closing the door only when he can see that you’ve made it back to your house next door safely. The door shuts with a soft click, and he grins to himself. 

To hell with the shirt. Doesn’t matter to him. He’ll get it back eventually. And when he does, he plans to have it smell like you.

this ending was so rushed ahhhh i have to go to work!!! bye!!!! ty for reading and all the love!!!!

tagging here cause i have to goooo to workkkkk!!!

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