angel eyes

"Now you run on home to your mother... you tell her everything's alright. There are no more guns in the valley." my name is karley and i write about superpowered nerds and i love frank castle [i track the tag #userkarley]

[havokangel]

Lesson Learned

Summary: Joel saves you from a creep at the bar. You repay him with how you see fit.

Word Count: 10.9k

Warnings: 18+. MDNI. P in V sex. Assplay. Age gap. Reader is in her 20s, Joel’s in his late 40s/50s. Reader is a teacher. Size difference. Slight dom/sub undertones. Dirty talk. Squirting. Panty sniffing. Choking. No Outbreak.

Banner: by @cursed-carmine

Authors Note: it has been a million and one years since I’ve written and i have never written for Joel before so be kind ! I would also love to practice writing drabbles bc this initially was supposed to be a drabble but I lost control lol. so send me and gnarly imagines you have about frank castle and joel miller (and fuck it even Arthur Morgan) and we’ll have a ball <3

ao3 link [coming soon]

Tequila has never been your friend.

The ritual of licking the grainy salt, shooting the shitty well tequila, immediately following with a soggy lime wedge usually led to a terrible burn in your belly and immediate regret— because once that tequila worked its magic, it usually led you and your burnt out group of teacher friends to order another round.

And then another, because fuck it you guys, we work with kids for a living! At least three of us here had a chair thrown at us this week!

And by the time the third round of that dark, shitty well tequila gets ordered, your brain is already becoming mush and you really don’t mind that your group is being the loudest in the small dive bar. In fact, you really don’t mind— especially when it catches the attention of the regulars who love to buy a group of pretty young girls their next round. A free drink is a free drink, and typically the men that hit on you and your girls know there ain’t a chance in hell any of you would give in to them. Sure, there are some that give it their all— “c’mon, my wife don’t got it any more”— or “give this ol’ man a chance, baby” — but typically with a bat of your lashes and the excuse of having a nonexistent boyfriend, they let up.

But that isn’t the case tonight.

Mike, you think is his name, can’t be younger than 50. He has a belly rounder than you’d ever seen and a nose as red as Rudolph’s. Surely, a sign of his drinking habits throughout the years. He’s bought the latest rounds of drinks after approaching your table, words already slurred and breath so horrifying you’re afraid that if he lit up a cigarette, his breath would catch fire.

But a free drink is a free drink, and your girls weren’t ready to tell him to kick rocks just yet.

You, however, were ready to tell him to fuck off.

It had been a long week. Between the usual troublemakers in your class and a surprise observation from your admin, your free time was being consumed by conference prep. Hours after school were being spent making copies, scheduling with parents, making sure the kids desks were neat… it was stressful.

And to top it all off, the fucker took it upon himself to plop his ass right next to you.

You know the type. He was probably on his third divorce, and spent a little too much time at the bar during his free time. It disgusts you to even think that this guy is probably thinking about what it would take to get you home.

With an arm slung around the back of your seat in the booth, he’s asking alllll about what it’s like to be a teacher these days. And much to your annoyance, your friends have begun not so secretly taking pictures—no doubt making it into the shared album by the morning.

“Now sweetheart,” Mike (or maybe Matt? You couldn’t keep it straight.) slurs, and your nose crinkles at the smell of the cheap beer on his breath. “M’tellin’ you. If had a teacher like you growin’ up—‘

God, there it was. Guys always think that line works, as if hearing it for the millionth time would finally land them on your roster.

“—Would’ve paid real close attention in class.”

Gag.

Your smile grows tight as you squirm towards the edge of the vinyl booth. “Alright!” You exclaim loudly. “With that note, m’gonna go get a Diet Coke. Somethin’ to wash the tequila down.”

“Baby I can go with ya—” Mike groans as he moves towards you, but you smile as sweetly as you can and cut him off before he can inch any closer.

“Jess, I’m sure Mike would love to hear about how that kid told you to fuck off last week.”

Mike snorts. “Names not Mike. S’Matt.”

“Matt, sorry.” You aren’t sorry. You’re already halfway to the bar as you say that.

Jess, who is the main instigator of the night out, is a social butterfly who isn’t scared of a damn thing. She can handle a few questions from Matt.

The Rusty Spur was usually packed tighter than a can of sardines, but tonight is bad. To your right is one bachelorette group cornered towards the end of the bar, sticking out like a sore thumb in their pink cowboy hats, multiple groups of guys dressed in business casual; shirtsleeves rolled up and collars unbuttoned—and to your left, at least a dozen frat boys hogging the pool tables, the scent of their cheap cologne making your lip curl in distaste.

And to your front, the line looks to be a million people deep. With a groan, you stretch to your tiptoes and attempt to look over the shoulders of the people in front of you. God, you just needed some Diet Coke to get rid of the taste of tequila out of your mouth and to clear your head. And to close out your tab, you suppose—your iPad and shower were singing their siren song to you right about now.

Given that you were currently more than a few drinks deep and growing more and more irritated by the lengthy line of tall frat boys, you rise to your tippy toes once again and tilt yourself to the left, attempting to get a look to see if any progress is being made to get to the bar.

God dammit, everyone is so tall!

Leaning juuuuuust a bit further left, another tall body rams itself into your side; and suddenly your center of gravity is just…gone. Your wedges fail you—you knew wedges were the wrong choice—and your body is falling faster than you can process.

“SHIT!”

Not only is your head pounding, but now your tailbone is pounding—and soaked in god knows what kind of liquid. With reddened cheeks, and tears of embarrassment forming in your eyes, you look up to see what asshole shoved into you; only to meet the eyes of fucking Mike.

Before you can push yourself off of the bar floor and tell him exactly where he can shove it, you feel a pair of hands grab onto your shoulders, gently lifting you up and onto your feet

“Hey, easy,” a voice says in your ear. Low, unbothered, with a slight drawl to his tone. Not slurred at all—unlike Mike who had been breathing down your neck for the last hour.

Slightly disoriented, you blink slowly; craning your neck to get a good look at the stranger, and your eyes lock on someone who is entirely unlike the other guys here. Not even close.

This boy… no… man… is tall. Broad, biceps being hugged perfectly by his t-shirt. Deep set wrinkles frame his eyes, but their deep chocolate shade is enough to momentarily make your tongue forget how to even form legible words. You’re pretty sure if you even tried to talk, nothing would come out. As if his eyes weren’t enough of a distraction, the scent of the bar was quickly replaced with a distinct aroma of wood pine and spearmint. It’s clear by the calluses on his palms and the slightly paint-stained shirt that read MILLER CONSTRUCTION, whoever he is, is a man.

If you hadn’t known any better, you’d think that your damn jaw was slack, drool pooling all around the two of you.

He’s still holding onto your elbow, unsure whether you’ll fall over again if he lets go of you. You’re sure you must look like a mess, but the stranger has an unreadable expression as he finally steps back, releasing his grip on your arm.

“You alright miss?” He reaches beside him to the bar, grabbing a napkin and politely handing it to you.

Texan, you think. Of fucking course.

“Mostly,” You grumble, accepting the napkin to wipe your hands. “This jackass won’t leave me and my friends alone. And now he just…”

You gesture to him, and the stranger rolls his eyes and turns his attention to Mike, who seems blissfully unaware that he just body slammed you to the ground. The stranger, whose expression remains unreadable, glances over at the perpetrator, visibly eyeing him up and down. If you had to guess, the stranger was thinking of a way to get this man kicked out of the bar.

“Matt.”

Mike turns suddenly, beer spilling over the sides of his pint glass—adding to the mess you had just landed on. His face of stupor quickly turns to a toothless grin as he recognizes the stranger who just pulled you up from the mess.

“Joel!” He instantly steps towards Joel, both arms wrapping around Joel's shoulders. From the way Joel tenses up as Mike slaps his back with one hand, it’s clear that Joel does not like him. “S’been a few weeks since ya been out, buddy!”

Joel gently, but with a firm movement pries his arms off his shoulders and takes a step back. “Has been, friend. You knocked this lady over.”

He says it evenly. With authority. He says it in a way that shows you that his moral compass wouldn’t allow this to happen on his watch, whether you were a stranger or not.

“Pssssh,” Matt breathes, waving a hand. “This….” He gestures to you, a look of disgust blooming in his eye, “bitch had it comin. Been buying her and her slutty friends drinks. Won’t even gimme a damn feel.”

As if things hadn’t gotten enough out of hand when you landed in dive bar liquids on a dirty hardwood floor, you’re now frozen in disbelief as this complete degenerate decides to insult you. And to a complete stranger—Joel—now involved.

If you weren’t red as a tomato before, you’re sure that now you’re going as red as a bad sunburn. If the fall hadn’t embarrassed you enough, now this fucker is really going for the gold.

That moral compass of his leads Joel to the most obvious next step. You watch half in horror and half in awe, as he takes two decisive steps forwards and grabs Matt by the collar, yanking him towards the door. Matt nearly topples over his own boots as Joel grabs him, a grunt escaping his lips. The pair brush past you as Joel easily pushes Matt towards the door.

Maybe it’s the tequila—but watching Joel move around a huge dude like Mike like it’s nothing—it’s really fucking hot. You’re moving with them before you even realize you’re walking.

“Time to go home, Matt.” Joel says evenly, giving him no other option but to follow. “We ain’t dealin’ with your shit for the rest of the night.”

Matt clearly isn’t happy as Joel escorts him out. “The FUCK, Miller?!”

Getting closer and closer to the door, the bouncer at the door sighs and stands when he notices the disruption. Clearly it’s not Matt's first rodeo with getting kicked out of a bar.

“Fuckin’ disrespectful is what you are,” Joel says flatly, shoving him towards the bouncer. “Matt’s at it again. Pushed the poor lady.”

“Shit man, one more time and you’re gettin’ 86’d from the Spur,” the bouncer groans, grabbing Matt by the arm. “Swear to god.”

The cool night air hits your face as a second bouncer swings the door open, following the pair outside to ensure that it’s handled. As the door swings back shut, your lungs deflate with a breath you didn’t notice you had been holding.

“Such a damn idiot,” Joel murmurs to himself, finally turning to you. His eyes dart down and up at you quickly; no doubt thinking about what a wreck you probably look like at the moment. “You okay?”

“Better,’” You reply, hiking your bag over your shoulder. “I—I—thank you. You didn’t have to do that. Joel, right?”

He nods, holding his hand out for you to shake. Those calluses on his palms once again meet your skin, sending a momentary spark down your spine.

“Yeah, Joel. And m’happy to. Matt’s been pullin’ shit like this for years. Ain’t funny nor cute.” He pulls his hand away, looking you over once again. The way he does it doesn’t feel like he’s checking you out; more like he’s looking to see if you’re hurt. “M’sorry about your skirt. I wouldn’t wanna know what’s been spilled on these floors.”

Your hands swipe the back pockets of your skirt; face turning to a wince when you feel the damp spot on your ass.

“It’s a good thing I own a washer and dryer, I guess.”

He huffs out a chuckle, the lines in his face deepening as he does so. You weren’t one to typically be enamored with someone older, but Joel is so… effortless. Soft, yet tough.

You introduce yourself, heart stopping for a moment as he repeats your name. Why does it sound so much better coming from him?

“I, uh, can I get you a beer?” You ask, thumb pointing to the bar. “You really didn’t have to—“

“—I’m okay, promise,” Joel interrupts, lip pulling into a small smile. “Like I said, Matt has been doin’ shit like that for a long time. Needs to learn his lesson.”

Just like Joel wouldn’t bend his moral compass, even for strangers, you weren’t going to back down now. Especially when the stranger who jumped in to defend you was hot.

“I don’t think m’gonna take no for an answer tonight.” You’re already taking out your card; feet moving you back towards the bar—the scene of the crime. “You had a Coors banquet, yeah?”

You’re half-expecting him to double down on his refusal and return to his seat at the bar, but to your surprise—he doesn’t.

“I did.” Joel replies, clearly amused by your forwardness. He follows you to the line, hands in his pockets as he does. Respectful. God, that’s such a turn on.

With the line beginning to thin out, you shift on your feet and look up at him. How did Joel know that asshole anyways? Asking him some questions wouldn’t hurt, especially since there’s still a line.

“How do you know Mike anyways?” You ask, tilting your head out of curiosity.

“Re-did his kitchen a while back for him and his wife. Was a pain in the ass then, still a pain in the ass now.”

“Wife, huh?” An amused laugh passes through your lips at the revelation. “Didn’t see a ring, and he definitely didn’t mention a wife.”

Stepping forward in tandem with you as the line moves, you note how he stands just close enough to hear you, but far enough to let you take the lead.

Joel shrugs nonchalantly. “And that doesn’t shock me either. Yourself and your friends are pretty. Sucks that he had to go and be an asshole about it, though.”

Pretty.

Joel thinks you’re pretty.

“Most guys are.” Another step forward to the bar. Not too far, now. Your inner monologue tells you to keep the conversation going, dammit! “So you do… residential construction?”

“Mostly residential, but we’ll take a few commercial gigs if it fits. My brother and I own the company together,” he explains easily. You’re just thankful that this stranger has either not noticed your flushed face, or is too nice to say anything about it. “It’s a good gig. What do you do?

Another step. One more person in front of you.

Keep it going.

Fiddling with your card in your hand, you answer, “I’m a teacher. Elementary.”

“That makes sense.” His brows raise with a smile, and he steps forward with you. “Where at?”

“I don’t tell people at bars,” You reply quickly, but mentally hitting yourself at the delivery. “I mean—I didn’t—“

“—No, I get it,” Joel laughs, raising his hands in mock defense. “You don’t know me, I don’t know you. M’sure you’ve had this conversation enough times to learn what to say, and what not to say. I don’t take any offense.”

You raise a brow as if you don’t believe him, and Joel’s small smile turns to a grin as he leans down a little, doubling down on his statement. Like he knew you needed the reassurance that he wasn’t offended by your evasiveness.

“Promise.”

There’s that wood pine and spearmint smell again, taking over your senses. Is this what pheromones are? If so, they’re working overtime to make sure you feel his presence.

The group in front of you at the bar leaves happily with their drinks, and you’re thankful for the quick respite to regain your bearings as you order Joel his Coors and your own Diet Coke. And to ensure that you don’t drink further and make even more of a fool of yourself, you close out your tab.

Sliding the receipt and pen towards the bartender, you turn to Joel who surprisingly is still here with you in line, nursing the cold beer. Surely that means he’s not done with you just yet—because simply, you were too taken with him to be done yet, either.

With a quick glance over your shoulder, your group has already had their attention shift to the pool table; where Jess was currently getting a lesson from a kid with a backwards hat and no doubt a zyn in his lower lip.

They’d be fine without you for a few minutes,.

“M’gonna get some air—“ You say casually, twirling your straw against the ice in your glass. Keep it cool.

“Maybe I should come with, ‘f you don’t mind,” Joel responds coolly. “Need a cigarette after that.”

Biting back a small smile, you lead the way through the crowd towards the back enterance—taking your phone out as you do, you tap Jess’s contact.

Going outside for some air, brb

It takes her less than a minute to answer.

Atta girl, don’t worry about us. We’re nearby

be safe <3

Tucking your phone into your purse, you hold the door open behind you for Joel; sighing as you feel the night air cool off your body from the bar. Breathing in a breath of air, you turn to see Joel claim a standing table, setting his beer down and digging in his back pocket for what he needs.

”Ah, there we go,” He exclaims softly, lighter emerging from his pocket. “I know these are bad for me but—Matt’s a real ass.”

Leaning against the table he’s chosen, you don’t even notice the small smile you’re giving him as he strikes up the lighter, cigarette between his lips.

”What’re you smiling about?” He asks, but not in a teasing way—it’s playful, making you flustered all the while.

”I just…I haven’t…” You pause and think for a moment. Why were you smiling? You could blame the tequila. You could blame your friends for dragging you out. Or, you could admit to yourself that Joel…this stranger, who is probably older than your dad, is—doing it for you.

After all, he had called you pretty.

Surely that meant he’d want to feel… whatever this was out with you.

”I’m just floored, I guess. That you helped me. Lotta people these days wouldn’t have even said a word.”

Joel lets the smoke spill from his lips smoothly as he listens to you. He’s no stranger to helping others—his parents raised him right—and normally, he would have just let you buy him a drink as a thank you and he would have returned to his seat after the exchange. No harm, no foul.

But Mike really was an ass. Shoving a pretty young thing like you, then to top it all off, mouthing off about being a bitch—he felt bad for you. But he noticed right away the twinkle in your eye when he helped you up. It wasn’t just thankfulness. It was something else.

Joel was 50. Back in his 20s, he knew how to talk to women. It felt like second nature—do a late shift at the auto shop, hit the bars with his buddies after. But as Joel had grown into fatherhood and owning a business, his priorities shifted and he didn’t go out as much.

Didn’t date as much.

And definitely didn’t check out women that could be his daughter.

Your lips closed around the straw and his eyes dart to the movement, watching how the gloss stains the rim of it. Part of him feels…dirty, noticing the plumpness of your lips.

The other part of him wonders what it would feel like elsewhere.

“I guess I’m floored, too.” Joel remarks, watching your reaction to his response. Joel isn’t a creep. He knows what this could look like to you if you weren’t into it—he just wants to test the waters and gauge your interest. Your brow furrows.

”Why?”

Bringing the cigarette back to his lips, his eyes don’t leave yours as he thinks carefully about his answer.

”Guess m’floored that your boyfriend didn’t intervene before I could.”

In that moment, you feel something pass between the two of you. Curiosity mixed with lust, maybe. Joel's eyes are still locked with yours as the smoke clears—so you can really look at him and he can really look at you.

It feels as if he’s staring straight into your soul.

”I don’t have a boyfriend.” It’s the truth, and he knows it too. You aren’t dumb. You know why he’s asking. Your eyes flicker down to his left hand, and a feeling of relief and glee spreads throughout you when you notice he doesn’t have a ring on his finger.

God. What have you come to? Checking for a man’s ring. And getting excited when he doesn’t have one? He’s old.

You reach out wordlessly to him. He chuckles and passes the cigarette to you and watches you intently as you inhale softly, flicking ash to the ground as you exhale.

“I’m shocked,” He answers finally, breaking the silence. “Pretty, young, a great career…” A pause, as you hand back his cigarette. You don’t miss the way his eyes flick to your mouth. “you’re a catch.”

If this wasn’t flirting, you had to be the dumbest girl on the planet.

Before you can think of a response to Joel, both of your attention goes to the door; where Jess and your group come bursting through, the pool table boys en suite. Jess is practically hanging off backwards hat boy, and the rest are no doubt ordering the uber back to their respective apartments.

As if the two of you were in sync, you both turn at the same time to look at each other; as if trying to convey that neither of you were ready for the night to end. And truth be told…you weren’t.

Neither was Joel.

Jess pries herself off of the guy when she finally spots you, mischievous grin on her face as she looks at the scene before her.

“Hey—you good?” She says brightly. You’re thankful for Jess. She has a way of checking in that doesn’t come off as rude. “We’re all gettin’ ready to leave—but m’going home with…” Her voice trails as she looks back at the guy she just walked out with, and Joel stifles a giggle as she attempts to recall his name. You smack her arm playfully and she laughs.

”Well I guess it doesn’t matter. I uh—“ She smiles with a laugh, looking at Joel, and then back at you. “—I don’t mean to interrupt things. But Sammy needs a ride home. And I’m assuming you do too?”

“Yeah,” you answer, shaking your head; attempting to come back from reality. “I can uh-order an uber for Sammy and I—“

Joel watches as you fumble with your words, and he decides that if the night isn’t going to end here…he’ll just come to your rescue.

Again.

He has a feeling you won’t complain.

“If everyone’s okay with it, I can drive 'em home.” Joel offers with a shrug, flicking the cigarette to the ground. Jess eyes him with that fierce, older sister look she loves to give. To that, Joel pulls out his wallet and slips his ID out, handing it to her without hesitation. As if saying to Jess, test me. “Go ahead. Take a picture.”

Jess’s mouth hangs open momentarily, before shutting just as quickly as it came. She yanks her phone out and snaps a photo, handing it back to him.

”Alright Joel. If my girls don’t report right back to me in the morning—“ She starts, and you giggle as you cut in.

”—You’ll kill him yourself. We got it, Jess.” Gesturing to her toy for the evening, you add, “get back to your boy. We got Sammy. Promise.”

Jess hugs you tight, eyeing Joel over your shoulder. He’s desperately trying not to laugh, and even you can tell that, and you’re not even looking at him.

“Okay…” She says as she pulls back, taking one last look at the two of you. “Be safe.”

You all know she’s not talking about the drive home.

Joel is wondering what he’s gotten himself into when Sammy gets in the car.

Sammy, a kindergarten teacher, as she slurred several times—was upset that she saw her ex at the bar with another girl. You, being the kind friend that you are, opt to sit in the back with her for the ten minute drive to her house, holding her hair back and wiping the tears off her cheeks; occasionally looking at the rear view mirror.

What draws you in about him is that he seems almost impossible to read. You can’t tell if he’s amused, unimpressed, or just focusing on the road. Either way, your eyes always seem to find those brown eyes of his whenever you look for them.

Pulling into Sammy’s driveway, Joel steps out of the truck and immediately goes to Sammy’s side of the car; helping you get Sammy on her feet.

“I just—ugh!” She whines, completely unaware that it’s taking two people to get her to the front door. “He’s such a fucking—jerk! I gave him EVERYTHING!”

“I know,” You reply empathetically, grunting under the weight. “But he’s dumb and you’re so much hotter, Sam. Where’re your keys?”

She pulls away from the two of you, swaying unevenly as she digs around in her purse. Looking back at Joel, you smile sympathetically and say “I’ll get here inside—won’t be more than five minutes. I promise.”

He nods, holding back a small smile. Poor girl, he thinks to himself as he walks back to the truck. Reminds me of my friends back in the day.

Sammy is nearly inconsolable when you finally unlock her door and get her in—between gentle words of advice and picking out pajamas, you’re itching to get back to Joel.

“Can you pleeeease call me in the morning?” Sammy sobs, pulling the sheets around her.

“Of course!” You promise, finally catching your breath as your hands go to your hips. All your mind is saying at the moment is JoelJoelJoelJoel. “I put water by your bed and ibuprofen next to it. Get some sleep, ok?”

Blubbering out, Sammy weakly sits up to add, ”But he’s such—“

“—LOVE YOU!”

Locking her front door, you take a moment to breathe. Your back meets the door and your eyes flutter shut. Your skirt currently smells like shitty beer, your makeup is more than likely completely rubbed off, and you have an unbelievably attractive man waiting for you by his truck.

You can do this.

One foot in front of the other.

Wedges clacking against the pavement, you curve around to the truck where Joel’s waiting—back leaning against the passenger side door, hands in his pocket.

“Is she normally that—much of a handful?” He asks, not moving from his spot by the door.

”Sometimes,” you chuckle. “Can’t really blame a girl. He was an asshole, after all.”

“No you can’t.” He lets out a low laugh and shrugs in agreement. “You live around here?”

”Yeah, just down the block. Not too far now.”

”Good,” He answers, slowly pulling himself off the truck. Your eyes don’t leave his as he steps towards you, his hand ever so carefully reaching for yours; thumb swiping against the skin of your knuckles. “Let’s get you home.”

Game on.

You’ve never been more thankful that you live close by to Sammy than you are at this exact moment.

All it takes is exactly five minutes and Joel’s pulling into your driveway—one hand on the wheel, his other in yours; toying with your fingers the entire way, enjoying the low hum of The Strokes.

Normally, you would have attempted to fill the silence with meaningless conversation; talking about anything and everything to calm your nerves about the potential of what was to come—but there is something easy about the silence with Joel. You don’t feel the need to prove yourself, or pull out any…stops.

You’re just… you.

Not a caricature of a fetishized teacher, not a perverted version of a woman a frat guy always dreamed of. It’s refreshing and almost freeing.

Joel kills the engine of the truck as he pulls in, the warmth of his hand leaving yours to do so—and momentarily, you catch yourself wanting to be selfish and reach back for him, chasing that safe and warm feeling he’s been unknowingly feeding you, since he lifted you up from the floor.

He doesn’t say anything as he exits his side, making his way towards you. You feel as if you can’t breathe as he opens up your door for you—frozen with lust or fascination, you’re not really quite sure just yet—a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he offers you his hand. All while not saying anything, yet conveying that he knows what you’re wanting, no, needing from him.

Your hand finds his and he helps you down, fingers lacing together seamlessly as you take the lead to your front door; the heavy steps of his boots following.

Clunk. Clunk. Clunk.

You finally manage to make yourself break the silence as you climb the stairs to your door. He still hasn’t let go of your hand.

”S’me.” You hold up your keys, the sound of them jangling softly through the silence that’s been building between the two of you.

Joel doesn’t miss the way you haven’t even attempted to unlock the door. Just like at the bar, he isn’t ready to walk away from this. The flickering porch light is practically illuminating your face; lips still partially glossed from earlier, eyes twinkling with something he can’t quite place—desire? Curiosity?

Either way, Joel remains planted on the porch, thumb rubbing gently against your skin. The gears in his head are turning, and he thinks carefully before he finally speaks; those deep, brown eyes not leaving yours for a second.

“I uh, don’t do this—“ He gestures between the two of you, and you feel the heat flush your cheeks. “—Often.”

”I don’t either,” Your words come out more breathless than you intended them too, but you don’t care; not now.

He grimaces slightly, shaking his head.

”I trust that. But you—“ His hand leaves yours, but they move to brush down your bare arms, stopping at your elbows; electricity flowing in your skin as he does so. “—you are…you’re…”

“I’m…what?” You will your voice not to shake, but your feeble attempts don’t translate. Adrenaline seems to be pumping through you, your senses on overdrive as he’s still holding on to your elbows. His eyes still seem to be searching yours for something.

”Young.”

A beat of silence passes as you process his internal warfare—you hadn’t put much consideration to your respective ages; you, by definition, are young in comparison to him.

But that doesn’t mean that what he’s doing is bad.

By now your pulse is thrumming, and you force yourself to step forward—braving to be the one that makes the space between you smaller. You hear the way Joel’s breath hitches as you do so; your hands sliding up and over his forearms to his biceps.

”Joel…”

Now how was he supposed to walk away from this? Saying his name in that gentle voice of yours. How could he, when he felt the constriction of his jeans growing by the second?

“I—I don’t want you to go.”

Fuck.

Your hands keep travelling, the palms of your hands sliding to cup his cheeks in your hand. Even in wedges you could feel yourself leaning up on your tiptoes to try to be on his level; to make him really look at you. The rough scratch of his beard on your palms makes your breath quiver as his eyes don’t move away from yours.

”In fact,” you begin to say, letting your chest ever so gently press against his. “I want you to come inside.”

The audible breath that he lets out at your words tells you that he’s battling with his own self about your age; one half being the responsible part of himself, where he knows you’re better off with someone your own age, someone who could keep up with that libido every young person has.

The other half of him? The other half of him could only focus on how close your mouth was to his and how you could most definitely feel the hardness of his cock against your tummy.

You could tell that that half of him was close to winning—it just needs an extra nudge.

The hands that currently were cupping his cheeks brought them forward, ever so gently pressing his lips to his. It’s as if time stops, and the world around you stills as you register that he actually is kissing you back.

It lasts all but two seconds as you pull back a hair of a centimeter away, nose brushing against his as you gauge his reaction. All that can be heard is the gentle sounds of your breaths, and the hum of the porch light.

Joel’s eyes are still shut. He doesn’t say anything. Maybe you wildly misread his body language.

Just as thoughts of doubt begin to settle in and your body attempts to pull itself away from him—those big hands that pulled you off of the bar floor made its way to your waist and gave your body a gentle shove—your back meeting with the front door of your house. You would be embarrassed by the erotic gasp you made, but it’s really hard to care when a man like Joel is looking at you like he already knows how he’s going to take you.

”M’an old man,” His voice grits out, breath fanning against your face. “I ain’t exactly gentle—not when it comes to a pretty thing like you.”

“I don’t need you to be gentle,” You reply breathlessly, fingers digging into his shoulders. “I just want you.”

A beat passes as Joel searches your face. For what? You’re not entirely too sure— could be a second guess on your end, or searching for hesitation—any excuse he can give himself to walk away.

Another beat passes, and his grip on you tightens. Like the decision is final.

Your hesitation doesn’t come. And that’s enough for Joel.

His mouth is on yours before you can even think, that muscle in his mouth sliding eagerly against yours as his knee slides between your thighs; finding the part of you that causes your body to lurch in pleasure as he presses himself against your panties. A moan attempts to release itself, but it’s quickly swallowed as his hands slide around your hips to grab at your ass below your skirt. His palms are large enough to hold the cheeks of your ass whole, and the thought of that alone is enough to thoroughly dampen the cotton of your panties.

”Fuck,” The words barely come out as a gasp as you feebly attempt to dig your keys out of your jacket, mind becoming numb as Joel kneads the flesh in his palms. “Can’t find my keys—“

Joel moves before you can even finish your sentence.

Wordlessly, he quickly pulls himself from your body, knee falling from its position between your legs as his hands grip your waist and spin your body towards the door. God, were you really out of breath? The man has only groped you and you feel as if you’ve been edged for hours. His movements are quick and rough as he shoves his hand in your purse and quickly finds the keys, unlocking the door and pressing your body through the doorway. The wedges on your feet nearly cause you to become unbalanced as you spin back to look at the old man, and Joel is slamming the door shut, already making his way to you.

As if he was a predator going in for the kill.

“You’re fast,” you say—to him or yourself? You’re not too sure. An almost disbelieving smirk is plastered on your face as you take a step back, heart beating as he strides to breath the distance between the two of you. “I like that—“

Your words are swallowed by his mouth again, the stubble rubbing pleasantly against your skin as he groans into the kiss. Your hands wind themselves in his salt and pepper hair as his knees bend, lifting you with ease and encouraging your legs to wrap around his waist. An mmph escapes your throat as his teeth graze your lower lip, his biceps twitching as your nails dig into them.

“Bedroom?” He asks, his teeth dragging down your bottom lip. The look in his eye tells you that the man needs an answer now or he’ll take you on whatever flat surface is near—and won’t stop until you’ve both gotten your fill.

“Down the hall and to the left.” Your words come out more desperate than you’d have liked, but it’s hard to remain neutral when a man like Joel’s cock is hard against your core.

The heavy clump of his boots echo down the hallway as he strides in the direction you gave him, and luckily for you, you know for a fact you’re stocked on condoms.

With a swift kick of your door, Joel drops you on the bed without missing a beat of hesitation, watching you as you prop yourself up on your elbows; looking up at him through those long lashes of yours, as if saying, come on, ol’ man.

Tongue darting out to lick his lower lip, Joel takes a moment to really look at you.

That little skirt that caught his eye at the bar is now currently hiked up and under your ass, and Joel can catch a faint glimpse at the pink patch of fabric hiding between your thighs. Your breasts are rising up and down at a quick pace, matching your breath—as if you were attempting to predict what his next move might be. God, the fact that he can render you breathless shouldn’t turn him on… but it does. Oh, it does.

“Jesus, girl,” He mutters, taking a quiet step towards the edge of the bed. “You have no fuckin’ clue what you’re doin’ to me.”

Your thighs clench at his words, watching the way he sinks to his knees in front of you. His fingertips graze the skin of your calves and travel up past your knees, causing your stomach to tie itself in knots out of anticipation.

“You should show me,” the words come out as barely an exhale, but you don’t care. His fingertips cause a shiver to travel through your body as they reach your hips; pointer fingers digging into the band of your panties—pulling them downwards, ever so slightly. “Touch me, Joel, please.”

Instead of replying to your plea, Joel opts to press his lips against the crook of your knee, basking in the whimper you give him as he tugs the fabric down slowly. Joel might be an impatient man, but when it comes to giving, he could take hours if he so pleased. Letting his lips travel up and over your knee, your teeth dig into your lower lip as he carefully licks a line up the expanse of your inner thigh—stopping where your panties were stretched around your thighs.

“Lift up for me, baby.”

Really, it’s sick how quick you obey his command. Hips lifting, you nearly burst when he easily catches the fabric between his teeth and pulls.

When he tugs them down your legs and off your body, your eyes widen in awe at how he pulls them to his face, eyes fluttering shut as he brings them to his nose and inhales. Pulling them away from his face, he wads them in a ball and pockets them—as if it were a trophy.

Your hand runs through the soft curls of his hair as he does so, tilting his face up to look at you attempt to find the words capable of describing your arousal—but nothing comes.

You don’t need to say anything.

He knows what you want.

Joel leans forward, his right hand following the trail of his lips as his left slides up and over the arch of your body to grope one of your breasts firmly; allowing his lips to close around the bundle of nerves at your center.

He lets out a hum against your core, soaking up the way you let out a strangled gasp from low in your throat. Joel feels fucking high as he catches your pebbled nipple between his fingers, pinching ever so slightly as the tip of his tongue traces against your clit.

Sweeter than sin, he thinks to himself, finally allowing himself to pull his gaze away from you.

Flattening his tongue on your clit, his name falls from your lips like a prayer as he laps at you—letting the scruff of his facial hair scratch at the most sensitive parts of you.

”Joel,” You gasp sharply, back arching against his touch. His hand on your breast flattens and moves quickly to your lower stomach, pressing down—like he’s telling you to stop your squirming. “Fingers, please, God-“

He gives you a gruff mhmmm before sucking gently on your clit, letting his index and pointer fingers rub over the wet slick of your lips—ever so lightly letting them dip into you.

”Yeah?” He responds lowly to your moan of desire. “You wanna feel me inside of you, don’t you?”

“Please! Joel—please,” your words are a desperate plea. “I want it. Please.”

He sinks his digits in juuust enough to breach you, and it’s just enough to numb your mind. Joel’s lips curl into a pleased smirk as he keeps them there, memorizing the way your head tilts back and your pulse ripples through your neck.

”I want you to ask me real nice n’ pretty, baby,” He asks, the Texan drawl making it all the more erotic. “C’mon, ask.”

You’ve already asked. Joel is well aware of your desperate pleas, but a deep part of his ego is fed when you beg for him.

Tightening your grip on his hair, you give a feeble attempt to even your breath as you reply, “I need to cum, Joel. Please.”

And that’s good enough for him.

His digits sink fully into your sex as he envelops your sensitive clit, causing your already numb mind to completely shatter. The knot in your stomach that has been tied since the moment he kissed you has been pulled entirely too tight, body shaking and arching as his fingers move deftly against your walls. The soft squelch of your cunt around his digits are more than enough to make his dick fucking hurt in his jeans, and he knows that once you cum like this—he’s going to bury himself in you.

He’ll make sure you won’t forget it.

He’ll make sure you don’t forget him.

The tension in your body is too much, with every sensitive part of you being dominated by Joel. Your cunt, your body, your mind feels euphoric as you feel his fingers grow slicker with each thrust—and that knot that’s been forming snaps.

Joel groans in pleasure as he feels your walls tighten and tighten, and a hoarse laugh escapes his throat as your arousal drips off his chin and his fingers— a sign that he’s done his job. A sign that he’s done his job well.

Licking a line up your stomach, his rough hands are quick to yank your top off your body, mattress dipping under his heavy weight as his mouth finds yours. Joel groans into your mouth as you taste yourself on him, your shaking hands working to take his belt off. When the metal buckle hits the ground, Joel pulls back to yank his worn shirt off his body.

You can’t remember the last time you actually felt yourself salivating over a man in your bed—but it’s hard not to when a man like him is over you. You knew at the bar that he wasn’t like your normal type—no. He’s solid muscle, yet soft in the middle with a healthy line of hair trailing down to his jeans.

Brown eyes not leaving yours, Joel yanks his jeans down along with his briefs—watching your eyes trail from his to his cock.

”Holy shit,” you breathe softly, watching him stroke himself. “S’not gonna fit.”

Joel watches as your face cringes, realizing you hadn’t meant to say it out loud. But you did, much to his amusement.

”We’ll make it fit,” He assures you, pulling you closer to him by your waist. You let out a breathless laugh as he guides the thick head of his cock between your folds. “You got a condom?”

“Yeah,” you reply, already reaching for your drawer. “Just gimme a sec—“

Your words are cut off by a sharp inhale, feeling his tip press in, ever so slightly. Bracing himself against the headboard, a smug look is plastered all over his face as he watches your movements slow—already overwhelmed by a small part of him.

”C’mon, sweetheart,” He taunts, his hips pulling away from you—god, the man was a tease. “Get that condom.”

“M’workin’ on it,” You reply with a breathless laugh. Grabbing the little tin packet, you rip it open with shaking hands as he mouths at your neck. “S’hard when I got you teasin’ me.”

”I ain’t doin’ such a thing.” He answers, teeth grazing your pulse as you grip him in your hand. Rolling the condom on him, you feel your stomach flutter as you realize that to fully grip him—you needed two fucking hands to fully accommodate his girth.

It’s a good thing he worked you open with his fingers, and it’s even better that you have an unopened bottle of lube for emergencies.

With the condom fully on, Joel cups your cheek, thumb running over your plush lower lip. Eyes trailing over your face, it’s a stark contrast to his earlier, rushed movements. It’s as if he’s memorizing you and this moment—and deep inside of you, you hope that maybe…just maybe, this didn’t have to be a one time thing.

As if he can see the gears in your head turning, Joel leans forward just enough to graze his lips against yours, watching as your eyes flutter shut.

“You tell me if anythin’ hurts, sweetheart. You got that?” His words melt through you, and all you can muster up in a nod. You trust him.

And with those words, he doesn’t let you adjust—he sinks his cock into your needing cunt.

All nine inches of him.

If you thought his mouth was erotic, it’s nothing compared to what he had hiding in his jeans. Echoing his sentiment before he came inside of your house, Joel Miller isn’t gentle, no. Especially not when he’s got you under him; one orgasm deep already.

He wastes no time driving himself into you, every moan and strangled gasp that you let out encouraging him to make you fucking take it. With every thrust there’s a spot deep inside of you being hit, a place that makes you well aware that you’re gonna feel him the next morning.

”Yeah?” He grits out, pulling your legs over his shoulders; effectively folding you in half. “You like that, baby?”

”Yes!” You gasp, the new position making you somehow even more sensitive. “Joel-yes!”

Joel moves his hand to close around your throat, and it’s not enough to fully choke you, but it’s more of a reminder that he’s in charge—and that you’re gonna do what he says.

“Look at you, takin’ it like a fuckin’ champ,” he praises, reveling in your half lidded eyes. “N’here you were, worried it wouldn’t fit.”

The blatant teasing makes your stomach jump with a strangled laugh, and he lets out a hot moan at the feeling of you tightening. Joel knows that he’s got the stamina—but with the way you feel? He might not make it as long as he’d like.

And he’d be damned if he didn’t get to enjoy every angle of you.

“Turn the fuck over.” He grunts, but he’s already doing it for you as his hands find your hips and he manhandles you to your knees. Hands finding the flesh of your ass, you let out a squeal as he gives a sharp smack, leaving a handprint on the curve of the skin there.

What you expect is Joel to push his length into you again. What you don’t expect?

You don’t expect him to spread your asscheeks, leaning down to lick over your slick folds again. With your cheek smushed against the satin of your pillowcase, you bite back a moan as his tongue swirls around your clit; his hands sliding down the expanse of your back.

“Could eat this pussy for hours,” He says, catching his breath. Joel kisses the flesh of you ass as he lets his fingers rub against your folds, listening as you mutter a mess of a response. Leaning back down, he flattens his tongue against your lips one last time, before sitting back on his knees—pulling your hair into a makeshift ponytail.

Neck arching back, it feels brand new as he pushes his dick in you, fucking you like he’s a man starved. The pain of your hair being pulled is welcome, and all it does is make your spend drip down the apex of your thighs as he commands you. Gripping the headboard in front of you with one hand, your other hand has a mind of it’s own as your digits move to rub at your self— which only turns him on even more.

The hair in his hand travels to your throat, tilting your head back so you’re forced to look at him.

”What a nasty fuckin girl,” He pants, his mouth ghosting yours. “You gonna cum like that? Gonna cum on my cock?”

”Mmph, you’re—you’re huge, Joel!” You reply desperately, your movements quickening as you feel another orgasm building. “Can feel you everywhere.”

”Everywhere?” His words echo yours as an idea comes to him—one that he’s sure a pretty thing like you wouldn’t object to.

Your breathless mhm makes him release his grip on your throat, watching as your face drops to the sheets—and he makes his move.

Your whole body shivers as his hands spread your cheeks again, and a glob of his warm spit falls between the crack of your ass. Fisting the sheets in your hands, you know that if you said stop—he would. But something deep within you knows that you don’t want him to stop. Even further—you’re welcoming it.

Sliding his cock back into you, he barely gives you time to adjust to his size once more before the pad of his thumb dips between your cheeks, sliding against the tight muscle as he continues fucking into you.

His thumb coats itself in the warm spit he left moments before, massaging the rim of your ass as he looks for any sign of discomfort. Looking over your shoulder, all he can see is your jaw slack in pleasure, eyelids fluttering shut as your body involuntarily presses backward to him—as if saying I want it.

And oh, you do.

Joel slows his hips, seating his cock inside of you to the fucking hilt— the head of his cock kissing that spot deep in you. You know he’s trying to ease the inevitable stretch, and holy, does it relax your body. All you can think about is how fucking huge he is and how this will live in your spank bank forever—

Your mind goes up in flames when his thumb breaches the rim of your ass, thoughts coming to a complete and utter stall as he doesn’t stop until his thumb is properly hooked in your ass.

Looking at the sight of you below him, Joel knows that he’s only a few fuckin’ pumps away from finishing.

A thin layer of sweat coats the both of you, and he can’t quite peel his gaze from where the two of you are connected—your cunt hugs him just fuckin’ perfectly, and the damn needy thing is practically crying for him.

Your spend has already dampened the sheets below you, and drips down the apex of your thighs as his free hand squeezes the flesh of your ass—and you tighten at the feeling of him everywhere.

”You ok?” His voice is strained now, and you know that he has to be close. His thumb stays firmly inside of you, his cock pulsing in anticipation.

“Yes,” You nod furiously against the sheets, not even caring that your precious satin pillowcases are covered in makeup. It’s hard to care about much of anything when a man like Joel is splitting you open. “S’good-feels amazing.”

”M’almost there, baby,” Joel presses his chest to your back, lips finding your shoulder blade. “Makin’ me feel like a damn teenager.”

“Me too,” you reply, turning your cheek to try and chase his lips. “Keep goin’, please.”

Pulling himself away from your skin, Joel catches his lower lip between his teeth as he settles on his knees—giving your ass one last squeeze of encouragement before pounding back into you.

It’s as if his thumb inside of you lights your skin on fire. The sex was already fucking amazing just due to the size of him, but now? With his thick thumb seated inside of you?

You feel full.

The quick and sharp sounds of your flesh slapping against each other, and short breathy moans is enough cause your cunt to tighten one last time—effectively soaking your sheets as he talks you through it.

”Oh,” He growls, feeling his thighs dampen. That certainly has never happened before—and he feels as if it’s a badge of honor. “Look at you, girl. Fuckin’ comin’ all over me. Dirty little thing likes havin’ her holes filled.”

His words barely register in your brain as you attempt to ground yourself on your sheets. He’s still ruthlessly pounding into you still, but pulls his thumb out of you to fist your hair in fist once more.

“Where do you want it?” Joel's words come out as a hiss, but it’s all he can manage now. The sight of you squirting on him was his one way ticket to finishing. “Tell me you where you fuckin want it, baby.”

”My tits,” The words spill out of your mouth faster than you can process it. “Cum on my tits—please—“

With one last brutal thrust, you feel your body be man handled to your chest as Joel—eyes dark with lust—climbs your body, condom getting tossed to the side. It’s a blur as you bat his hands away from his cock, taking him in your own fist. Bracing himself against your headboard, he lets out a deep groan as he spurts those thick, white ropes across the expanse of your breasts.

His breathing his ragged as his eyes flutter shut; reveling in the orgasm that just rocked his fucking world. He knows that he’s definitely going to wake up with his back thrown out the next morning, but he can’t find it in him to care as he collapses beside you, finally turning his head to look over at you.

What a fucking sight you are.

Makeup messy, hair in knotted curls with his cum painted on you, Joel laughs softly to himself.

“What?” You say with a shy laugh, chest still rising and falling fast.

“M’a lucky guy.” Joel says it as if it’s obvious. The small but powerful compliment turns your cheeks even more red than they already are.

“Ditto.” You reply, hiding your face in your hands as you bite back a smile.

Sitting with a groan, Joel looks back at you over his shoulder as he pulls on his jeans.

“Lemme get you a washcloth. Where’s your bathroom?”

Maybe it’s his age. Maybe it’s the guys you’re used to dating. But in your years of hookups and relationships, it’s few and far between to have aftercare—and it makes those butterflies flop in your stomach as you direct him to where it is.

When Joel returns, you clean yourself up as he locates his discarded clothes from earlier. God—the two of you had made a mess of the room. You’d have to add wash sheets to your to-do list after he’d leave.

Tossing the damp cloth in your hamper, you grab your old robe off the back of your door and tie it loosely around your body as he slides on his worn-in work boots. For you—small talk as a guy leaves your house was always the dreaded part of a hookup. The silence was awkward, and there were always half assed lies about for sure callin’ ya tomorrow.

Spoiler—they never did.

But the silence with Joel doesn’t feel awkward. It feels comfortable, almost. You don’t miss the way he gives you a genuine smile as he stands, leaning down to kiss your temple

”Walk me to the door?” He asks gently, his hand sliding down the satin of your robe. His brown eyes that were filled with lust not even ten minutes ago were now softer, more gentle.

”Of course.” You answer, leaning up on your tiptoes to kiss his cheek.

You take the lead as you walk him down the hallway and to the front door, tucking your hair behind your ear as you reach your destination. Tugging on his flannel, Joel clears his throat as he looks down at you. He’s not quite sure what you’re thinking, but he feels like you’re a strong woman—and that no matter what he says, or where he leaves this—you won’t object.

He can’t tell if that intrigues him, or if it scares the hell out of him.

“I uh—never was really good at this type of thing,” Joel finally says, gesturing between the two of you.

”What, sex?” You quip, a teasing smile pulling at the corner of your mouth. “Cause I have a pretty solid statement against that.”

”No,” his words come out as a laugh. “I mean—talkin’ to women. Keeping relationships. All that stuff.”

Joel notices the visible confusion in your expression, and groans at himself—only proving his point to himself. He never was good at words.

”What I’m tryin’ to say is…m’a pretty busy guy. I got a kid. Own my own business.”

Kid. Figures. He’s definitely the age to have one.

”I can’t promise a lot but… I uh, wouldn’t be opposed to seeing you again.”

His hands find his jean pockets as he finishes his explanation, toying with his truck keys in his pockets as he braces himself for whatever you might say—could be a rejection. Could be a laugh. Whatever it will be—Joel braces himself for it.

To his shock, none of his made-up scenarios happens. In fact, your captivating smile never leaves your face.

”I’m not looking for a promise either, Joel,” You say, hugging yourself. “Here—give me your phone. If you ever need company, just give me a text. No hard feelings if not.”

He obliges your request, pulling his phone out of his back pocket and handing it over. It doesn’t take you long to type in the digits and hand it back to him that beautiful smile still on your face.

“Don’t be a stranger, Joel.”

Leaning down to kiss your temple one last time, Joel pulls away and replies,

”I’ll see you around, sweetheart.”

Three Weeks Later

You don’t hear from Joel after that night.

And honestly? You had been too preoccupied to sit and cry about the fact that the best fuck you’ve ever had never texted you.

You were deep into report card season, candy filled holidays, and planning upcoming parent-teacher conferences. You were lucky if you left work two hours after contract time—you knew if you brought home any work it wouldn’t be done.

The great thing about teaching? Getting to celebrate and talk to parents about the growth their children have made so far, and how they can be supported at home. It was a feeling you loved—you loved seeing parents light up at their students work, and you loved hearing about what your student gets up to outside of school.

Especially when they’re students like Sarah Miller.

Sarah is nothing below an outstanding student, and her bubbly personality makes her a great friend to others in the classroom. If you could have a class full of Sarah Millers, your life would be perfect.

And her Mom? She’s amazing.

Always bringing in treats for the class on holidays and volunteering when needed, her mom is a powerhouse. Which is exactly why you’re slightly disappointed when the office puts her call through to your classroom—ten minutes before her time slot with Sarah.

”Hello!” Her chipper voices sings from the other side of the line.

“I am so sorry—but I can’t make it in today with Sarah,” She explains, apologetic as all hell. “My boyfriend just got rear ended in the town over, needs a lift.”

”No worries at all!” You reply, fingers flipping through Sarah’s work portfolio. “Do we need to reschedule?”

”Not at all, actually! Sarah’s with her dad today, and he has no problem taking my place today. I just wanted to give you a heads up!”

Huh, you think to yourself. You always had assumed her boyfriend was Sarah’s biological dad, but maybe you missed the detail. Sarah, while an amazing student, is a chatterbox. She loves to chat your ear off when you have any spare second, so maybe the detail got lost in the myriad of stories she tells.

”That’s perfectly fine,” You answer, jotting on a sticky note to make extra copies for mom. “I will send a copy of her folder with her next week!”

Hanging up the phone, you walk to your meeting space to straighten the stacks of work as you wait patiently for Sarah and her dad to arrive. She’s the last conference of the day, and because of her high grades and outstanding work—there wouldn’t be much to report.

As thoughts of what your Friday evening might look like after Sarah’s conference, the little girl sprints through the door with an excited squeal of your name—enveloping you in a tight hug that she always gives you at the end of the day.

”Hey kiddo!” You squeeze her back with a bright smile, pulling her back to steady her.

“You’re with Dad today?”

”Yes!” She exclaims excitedly. “He’s lookin’ at the art we made last week in the hallway!”

”Oh really?” You answer, putting your hands on your hips. “Well, I’m sure your dad will be even more impressed when he sees some of your latest multiplication quizzes.”

Sarah giggles in excitement as you turn your back to her, grabbing her work portfolio off the table. Just as you’re about to look back at Sarah, a voice you’ve been dreaming about for three weeks shatters your thoughts when he says,

”This is quite a classroom you got, baby girl.”

Your body goes cold as you turn to look at him. Joel, who has his hands shoved in his pockets, and that same MILLER CONSTRUCTION shirt he had on that night you met at the bar—this time, a heavy carhartt jacket on his shoulders, boots replaced with Romeo’s.

The look on his face as your eyes meet is one met with first, shock—then being shaken back to reality as Sarah tugs on his wrist to pull him closer to where her work is.

”Dad—this is my teacher! The one who always does art on fridays!”

You’re a professional, you scold yourself, and Sarah’s smart! Don’t look fuckin’ scared!

”You must be Mr. Miller,” you say coolly, attempting to regain your dignity. Reaching out to offer your hand, you ignore the way his palm lights a fire in your veins as he shakes it firmly. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”

Joel lets his hand linger for a moment in yours, letting the shock wear off as his lip curls into a smile.

”It’s nice to meet you as well, Miss,” He answers gently. “Sarah’s told me quite a bit about you throughout the last few months.”

”Well—I can’t wait to share how much growth Sarah has made,” you manage to reply, letting your hands drop from one another. “Shall we get started?”

”Let’s do it,” Joel gestures to the table. “And I uh—have a few questions to ask you at the end, if that’s alright.”

Returning the small smile on Joel’s lips, you have a feeling this won’t be the last time you see him.

In fact, you have a feeling this school year is about to get a whole lot more interesting.

[mirrormauve]

—cherry; series masterlist

pairing: joel miller x f!sex worker!reader

summary: Lonely, widowed, Joel seeks company where he knows he shouldn't.

series status: complete

general series warnings, please see each chapter's individual warnings for a complete list: age gap (20s/50s), smut (in most, probably all, chapters), reader is a sex worker, misogyny, smoking (reader and joel), internalized shame, poverty and issues and dangers that come along with that

a/n: this fic is my baby, and I hope you all enjoy reading it as much as I have enjoyed writing it. I've never preplanned a series and had the parts completed or mostly completed before publishing it before. maybe I was being a little selfish in keeping them to myself. updates every tuesday <3

chapters below the cut:

cherry ; Lonely, widowed, Joel seeks company where he knows he shouldn't.

late nights ; You never expect Joel to come back, let alone to search for you.

offers ; Joel comes back to you like clockwork. He has a proposition for you.

resolve ; Joel gives you a credit card. You're hesitant to use it.

interlude ; Joel grapples with guilt and shame. But there's no quitting you.

even just that ; Joel calls you; you call Joel.

more than, twice as ; Joel is different than all the other men you've slept with. . .Right?

warmth like... ; A promise is fulfilled. Joel takes you horseback riding.

best laid plans ; You attempt quitting with variable results.

only in quotes ; Things can't keep going on as they have, can they?

in effect ; Going it alone isn't easy.

of my own name ; Joel doesn't cope well without you.

belief ; Joel makes sure you get home safely.

the b-side ; There might be a future for you, if you and Joel are brave enough to grab it.

post-series drabbles:

cherry's first morning at the ranch

cherry is confronted by a stranger about joel

joel and cherry get ready for bed

joel takes cherry to the state fair

cherry tells her parents she's engaged

'do you still have my nudes?'

cherry and joel's third anniversary

cherry's 25th birthday

extras:

cherry playlist

how cherry evolved as i wrote her

cherry edit by @yougavemeeverythingandnothing

cherry edit by @totallynotastanacc

cherry edit by @fanrony

[ummimjustagirl]

love them

[havokangel]

this is one of the best I’ve ever read🩷

[xavisherr]

That one pic

[fakeboygirlbortion]

gang i miss first class :(

[havokangel]

im replaying rdr2 and i just had an Idea™️ for an angsty morally grey arthur fic 🤭🤭

that man LOVES mary point blank period

imagine runnin’ with the gang and somehow reader and arthur start messing around with each other. absolutely no strings attached but reader defffff catch feelings because look at the man. reader will never admit it though cause reader knows that his heart will always be mrs. lintons. and reader has come a long way to accept that

but imagine when he’s deep inside reader, maybe a little boozed up, and he says Mary instead.

and he feels goddamn awful about it and ignores reader for weeks until he can bring himself to apologize and cut off whatever they’re doing

[ozarkthedog]

SHAWN HATOSY for Quinn

[llayla0]

Midnight fix

masterlist | ao3

pairing: sleazy!mechanic!joel x fem!reader

summary: Getting lost at midnight in the middle of nowhere doesn't sound too good. Neither does the shitty engine of your beat-up truck that decides to stop working, very conveniently, near an auto shop. Joel, the mechanic, insists on taking a look despite the shop being already closed. But after what you saw in the back room and with no money to pay, trusting him with your truck might be a very bad idea.

warnings: no outbreak AU, unspecified age gap, dirty pervert joel, masturbation, slight voyeurism (as much as she wants to deny it, reader is a freak), trading sex for a service, protected piv, fingering, spanking, choking, cum eating, dirty talk, pussy pronouns, alcohol & smoking, banter, teasing, no descriptions of reader's appearance, no use of y/n (if anything is missing please don't hesitate to tell me!!)

word count: 7.1k

a/n: went down the rabbit hole of sleazy!joel and i just had to write something for this filthy man 🌝 i blame the amazing fics of @littledes1re for the shit i just wrote girl i swear you put cocaine in your writing or smth i'm ADDICTED

No, no, no.

"Fucking piece of shit-"

Yeah, cursing at the damn truck would definitely make it move forward. That's clearly how cars work, throw in some bitchy whining and the engine will magically stop the death rattle it's currently making.

"Come on, come on, come on.." you mutter, gripping the wheel until your fingers go numb. "Don’t do this to me, not now."

Maybe you should call someone for help, ask them to come pick you up.

Sure, great idea. If you actually had cell service. Maybe you could find a phone booth somewhere. Even then… what would you say to anyone?

Sorry for calling in the middle of the night, could you come pick me up, please? Where? Oh, right. I have no fucking clue where the hell I am.

The engine gives a pathetic wheeze, almost as if it's mocking you, then goes silent again. You sit there for a second, debating whether to cry, scream, or just accept your fate.

That’s when you see it: a dim rectangle of light in the distance, a little oasis against the dark.

An auto shop. Closed, almost certainly. But the lights are on. Maybe someone is still there, someone who could at least tell you where you are if they can't fix your truck.

Not that you had any money to pay for it, anyway.

After many frustrated groans and fists slamming on the dashboard, you somehow managed to keep the engine alive just long enough to pull up to the door. The "CLOSED" sign stared back at you, but the dim glow of the shop promised hope, or maybe someone who could help you.

You exhale, gripping the steering wheel as the truck rolls to a stop, grateful it held together for just this long.

Just by looking through the dusty window, you can tell there's no one there, the place is empty. Still, you push the shop door open, the little bell above it giving a tired jingle.

"Hello?" you call out, stepping inside. "Anyone here?"

The front area is completely empty. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, reflecting off tool cabinets and a grease-stained counter. The place smells like oil and metal and stale beer, just what you'd expect from an isolated auto shop. Somewhere deeper in the building, something shifts, the noise drawing your attention.

So someone is here.

"Hello?" you try again, louder this time.

Still nothing, just a muffled sound from the back.

You hesitate for a moment before walking towards it, footsteps echoing softly in the quiet building. The door at the end of the hall is cracked open, light spilling through the gap.

You start hearing sounds that grow louder with every step you take. Muffled groans that lure you closer to the source, heavy breathing, a lewd sound you'd recognize anywhere. The slick, sloppy twap of skin meeting skin in uneven, rapid claps.

You should knock, you know that.

But you don't.

Instead, you glance through the opening, eager to see who's making those wet, obscene sounds.

It's a man, probably in his fifties, if you had to guess. He's leaning back in a worn office chair, the wheels squeaking faintly under his weight. He's wearing a dirty short-sleeved button-down littered with oil and sweat stains. The top buttons are undone, revealing a patch of tanned skin, prickly dark hairs curling across his chest.

There's a name tag pinned under the chest pocket of his shirt, part of what you assume is supposed to be his work uniform. You can't quite make out the letters on it, but right now you don't really care to learn his name.

The sight in front of you is far more interesting.

The dim light casts lines over his arms, highlighting the flex of muscle beneath sweat-streaked skin.

In his left hand he's clutching a Penthouse magazine, the damn thing is probably older than you by the looks of it.

The cover is crumpled, the image of a pretty blonde woman sprawled across the front with her legs spread eagle, staring out with a sultry, inviting gaze. The gloss has worn thin at the folds. Many of the pages are dog-eared and surely stuck together, some edges warped from years of repeated use.

But you're not interested in the pretty lady on the cover either, your gaze is fixed somewhere else. On the source of the sounds you've heard earlier, to be more precise.

His right hand is wrapped around the girthy length of his cock, stroking it leisurely.

You squint, taking in the movement of his calloused palm sliding up and down, from the pinkish tip, slick with small white drops, down along the pulsing vein on the underside, all the way to the base. Coarse hair traces a thin line up to his bulging belly, disappearing beneath that filthy shirt of his, and down over thick thighs left bare by the denim pushed to his knees.

You freeze behind the doorframe, heart hammering in your chest. Every stroke, every slick movement, every pant that leaves his lips makes it impossible to look away.

Your stomach twists and the slick pooling in your daisy dukes doesn't make it any easier to look away.

You shouldn’t be here. You really shouldn’t. What you should do is turn away and go, give the man some privacy.

Okay, go. But where? Last time you checked, your truck is acting up and you have no idea where you are.

Then, suddenly, the frantic movements of his hand stop.

Your heart lurches. Surely he saw you, caught you peeking. When you look up from his twitching cock, bracing to meet his eyes, you're relieved to see that he's not looking at you. His gaze is locked on the magazine in his other hand. He flips a few pages, examining each one with slightly furrowed brows. The crease on his forehead eases when he seems to find something he's satisfied with.

Then, with a small sigh, he leans back against the squeaky chair, spits into his palm and wraps his hand around his dick again. His thumb glides over the tip, gathering the small pearly beads that have formed there, stroking slower now as his eyes remain glued to the pages.

Heat coils low in your belly, spreading outward in a way that makes your thighs tremble. You shift your weight, pressing them together instinctively, but it barely helps with your aching clit not getting the attention it yearns for.

Your nipples prickle through the lightweight fabric of your tight top, straining for notice without the barrier of a bra.

You press your hands to your thighs, gripping the denim to steady yourself, but it’s useless.

You shouldn't be here, shouldn't be peeking, shouldn't be enjoying this as much as you are.

You really shouldn't.

For a moment, you almost forget why you’re even here, why your shitty truck is still waiting outside. Your fingers drift to your pussy, heat radiating even through the denim of your shorts, and your body shivers at the sight of sticky spurts shooting from his twitching length.

Great, you didn't even get to enjoy the view long enough and now he's already cumming all over that damn magazine.

Now you really shouldn't be here, any moment now he'll notice you. So you do the most logical thing you can think of.

Run.

Feet pounding softly against the concrete, you dart back to the front desk, hands braced against the edge to steady yourself.

You freeze just for a second, listening, straining to hear any sound from the man.

Nothing. Just the hum of a fan circling lazily and a distant song on a dusty radio tucked in the corner of a table amongst some dirty tools.

Safe. For now.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

It must’ve been a few minutes later when you finally hear a whistled tune drifting down the hallway, followed by the soft jingle of keys.

The man appears from the back, a cigarette hanging lazily from the corner of his mouth like a toothpick, a ring of keys spinning around his finger carelessly. He strolls out of the hallway unhurried.

In the bright overhead lights you can finally get a proper look at him, far better than in the dim back room where you just saw him jerking off.

He’s exactly the kind of man you’d expect to run a place like this.

Mid-fifties, maybe. He’s broader than you first realized, his body filling out the stained button-down that surely has seen better days. The short sleeves hug thick forearms dusted with dark hair and faint grease smudges. His shoulders are strong and wide, while a soft, pudgy stomach strains faintly against the buttons, the fabric pulling tight across his chest and belly. You can finally read the word on his name tag.

Miller.

His face has that worn, roadside look to it. Weathered skin, a crooked nose that might’ve been broken once, and deep lines around his mouth and eyes like he squints into the sun more often than not. Dark stubble covers his jaw, a little uneven, and there are faint streaks of gray running through his hair at the temples. Not neatly styled, just pushed back like he ran his hands through it a few times and called it good.

The cigarette bobs between his lips as he walks, and when he pulls it out to exhale, you catch the smell of cheap tobacco drifting across the room.

He looks exactly like the kind of sleazy guy you’d run into at a lonely gas station at midnight. The kind who’d lean on the counter, give you a long once-over, and ask where you’re headed with a half-smirk like he already knows the answer.

"I’m sorry, man, we’re closed," he calls out gruffly, not bothering to check who’s standing there. "You’ll have to come back in the morn-"

He finally looks up.

And stops.

He takes you in from head to toe without much effort to hide it, smoke curling from his mouth as he exhales towards the ceiling.

His posture changes almost instantly. Shoulders roll back. Chin tilts slightly. The keys stop spinning on his finger.

His eyes run over you slowly, starting at your legs and taking their time climbing upward, lingering on your tits a moment longer before lifting a brow when he finally sees your face. The cigarette shifts in the corner of his mouth as his expression changes, less annoyed now, more interested.

"Well now," he mutters, his voice dropping into something rougher. "What's a gal like you doin' out here in the middle of the night?"

"I'm sorry, I didn't realize you're closed-"

His eyes flick towards the window where your truck sits outside, then drift back to you again, slower this time.

"Lemme guess…" he says, one corner of his mouth lifting slightly. "You havin' problems with that truck of yours, sweetheart?"

Another slow look up and down, completely shameless. He taps ash from his cigarette onto the concrete floor without breaking eye contact.

"Well, yeah. Damn thing's acting up," you admit, shifting your weight a little under his stare. "But I just need some directions, actually. I don't wanna bother you after closing time."

"Bother?" he scoffs softly, taking a few steps towards you. "Nonsense, sweet cheeks," he gestures lazily towards the garage bay with the cigarette between his fingers. "C'mon, lemme take a look at it. I'm sure I can fix it for ya."

"Are you sure?" you ask quickly. "I mean, you're already closed. I really don't want to-"

He stops a few feet away, smoke curling from the corner of his mouth as he studies you again.

"Wouldn't be right lettin' a lady sit out on the side of the road all night," he adds, voice turning almost mock-chivalrous.

You hesitate, glancing towards the window where the truck waits outside under the dim light.

"I really was just hoping to find the next town," you say.

And I really don't have any money for your greasy ass.

"Next town's a good twenty miles down that highway," he interrupts, jerking his chin towards the road. "And if that thing's already actin' up, you might not make half of it."

He flicks his cigarette aside and crushes it under his boot without looking down.

Then his eyes return to you, that same crooked smile creeping back.

You hesitate, fingers curling into the hem of your shorts.

"I just need to know where I am," you say carefully. "So I can… call someone. Have them pick me up."

His brows lift slightly.

"Call someone," he repeats, tone slow.

"Yeah. I don't have service out there, and I have no clue what road this even is," you offer a small, tight smile. "If you could just tell me the name of the road, that’d help."

He studies you for a second too long, eyes narrowing just slightly before telling you what you want to hear.

You've never even heard of this road. How the hell did you get here?

"Is there a gas station or something nearby?" you ask. "Somewhere I could get signal?"

He huffs a quiet laugh.

"Closest place with decent reception’s back the way you came. ‘Bout thirty minutes," he tilts his head. "You plannin’ on walkin’?"

You glance towards the door, towards the endless dark road stretching in both directions.

"I'll figure something out."

"Mhmm," his eyes drag over you again, slowly this time. "You ain't gonna last ten minutes out there, sugar. Road's full of sketchy guys at this hour. You wouldn't wanna run into the wrong people."

Wrong people? You can’t help the thought that you’re already standing in the presence of one.

You bristle slightly. "I can handle myself."

"I’m sure you can," he replies, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, though it’s clear he’s not entirely convinced.

"So…" he says, hooking his thumbs casually into his belt loops. "You gonna let me help you out, or you plannin' on riskin' it?"

If you go out there, chances are that he's right and you're really fucked if you run into some drunk guy looking to blow some steam off.

But if you stay and let him fix your car, how are you gonna pay?

You reach into your purse, the one you tossed onto the passenger seat after spending your last cash on gas a few hours ago. Except for a few crumpled receipts, a lip gloss and a lighter, it’s empty. Nothing.

"Look, I don't have a lot of money right now."

None at all, actually.

"Don't worry 'bout that, sweetheart. We'll negotiate the price later."

You swallow, heart hammering, and look back at him. His smirk hasn’t faded. He’s leaning against the counter, arms crossed, watching you like he knows exactly what’s going through your head.

Fuck it. You'll figure something out.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

"Hmm, she’s not looking too happy," he mutters, voice low and casual.

By she, he means your truck.

"Could be the battery… starter… hell, the whole engine might be busted."

He crouches by the truck, hands resting on his knees, scanning the engine without even touching a tool.

You’re perched on the edge of a metal worktable, legs swinging lazily, watching him move.

You cross your arms, eyes following every motion. There’s something mesmerizing about him, confident, unhurried. And though he focuses on the truck, you suspect he’s aware of you, too, the way his glance drifts your way every so often.

"Huh," he mutters again, straightening and leaning against the fender, eyes squinting over the engine with a practiced intensity. "She’s been treated like a cheap rental, ain’t she?"

"She’s been treated very well," you snap, rolling your eyes. "Not that it’s any of your business. Can you fix it, or not?"

He chuckles, taking a big gulp from a bottle of beer he took out of a mini fridge earlier. You watch his neck bobbing when he swallows, a small drip of beer running down from the corner of his mouth. He wipes his lips with the back of his hand before speaking.

"Oh, don’t worry. I’m gonna get her running. She just needs a little… lovin’."

He sets the bottle down and crouches again, one hand resting casually on the wheel well as he examines the engine, muttering under his breath. His eyes flick to you, lingering just long enough to remind you that he enjoys having an audience.

You shift slightly on the table, trying to appear casual, but your pulse ticks a little faster at the way he moves and the tone in his voice.

He straightens from the engine, wiping his hands on a dirty rag, and glances up at you when you decide hop off the table and approach him.

You might as well make conversation while you're trying to figure out how the hell you're gonna pay this motherfucker. You realize that your snappy comment from earlier clearly wasn't the best approach. Maybe if you're friendly enough he won't charge you at all.

Highly unlikely, but it won't hurt to try.

After a beat of silence, curiosity gets the better of you. "So… what did you say your name was?"

"Name’s Joel, sweet cheeks. And I don’t think I caught yours either."

He extends a grimy hand towards you. You hesitate for a second, then shake it reluctantly after giving him your name.

Why does he even care? It’s not like he’s going to use it, probably prefers anything else in its stead.

Joel’s grip lingers just a second too long before he lets go, his thumb dragging slightly over your knuckles before he turns back to the engine.

"Pretty name," he mutters after repeating it, like he’s testing how it feels in his mouth.

He leans back under the hood, grabbing a wrench, but not before his eyes flick over you again.

The sharp click of metal fills the space.

"Are you sure you can fix it?"

He huffs under his breath. "Don’t stress your pretty head with that, sugar" he says, voice rough, almost lazy. "I know what I’m doin’."

A beat.

"Been fixin’ things longer than you’ve probably been alive… all kinds of things."

You roll your eyes, but you feel your cheeks burning anyway.

"Don’t get many visitors out here this late," he goes on casually. "’Specially not ones like you."

You shift your weight, crossing your arms again without realizing that you're also squishing your breasts together in the process. "What’s that supposed to mean?"

He lets out a quiet laugh, tightening something with a sharp twist. "Means you stick out. Most folks who come through here got beer bellies, not a nice rack like yours."

Disgusting pig.

His eyes flick up to you again, slower this time, lingering on your chest without a hint of shame.

He crouches lower, one hand braced against the frame while the other works the tool loose. His movements stay unhurried, like he’s got all the time in the world. Like you do too. You can swear that he's doing it on purpose.

"You’re wound up too tight," he says, like it’s a simple observation. "Ain’t gotta be."

"I’m not."

Liar.

He hums, not buying it for a second. A faint smirk pulls at his mouth as he shifts, wiping his hand on the rag before reaching deeper into the engine. His arm flexes with the movement, grease smearing across his skin.

"Relax," he says, tone low, almost amused. "I ain’t gonna bite."

Your throat feels dry, a stark contrast to the damp heat pooling in your panties. Why do you feel like this? How did he manage to get you so wet without even laying a finger on you?

You need something to steady yourself. Your eyes land on the bottle he left sitting nearby, still half full.

Screw it.

You grab it without asking, lifting it to your lips and taking a long swig. The beer’s warm and bitter, but it calms your racing thoughts and eases the tight coil of tension in your chest.

Joel notices immediately. His hand stills for a fraction of a second before he glances up at you, eyes dropping to the bottle, then back to your face.

"Help yourself, sweet cheeks," he mutters, voice rough, edged with amusement.

You lower the bottle, shrugging like it’s no big deal. "You left it there."

He smirks. "Want a smoke too while you’re at it? I'm sure there are some snacks you can eat in the fridge," his tone drips sarcasm.

"Yeah, actually," you reply, shrugging again. "A smoke would be nice."

He's probably gonna keep you here all night or call the cops on your ass when he sees that you've got no money to pay, so you might as well enjoy yourself while he's working.

He huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a pack of Marlboro Reds. The smell of tobacco mingles with motor oil and sweat.

You step closer, inhaling the mix and waiting as he hands you a cigarette. You place it between your lips, waiting for him to light it.

His eyes flick up, slow and knowing while he brings up the lighter to your mouth.

"You always steal people’s drinks, ask for cigarettes… and spy on ’em while they’re havin' a good time?"

Having a good time?

Oh-

Oh.

Goddamn it, so he did see you peeking.

Well, at least there's no point in denying it now.

You take a long drag from the cigarette, lips wrapped tight around the filter, staring him dead in the eyes. His lips twitch under the scruffy mustache, just the faintest smirk tugging at the corner. You can almost see the image forming in his mind while he takes in the view of your mouth sucking on the filter.

Pervert.

Him? Or you? You're thinking the exact same thing, so are you really any better than him?

After pulling the cigarette away you hold the smoke in your lungs for a moment, then blow it straight in his face, letting it envelop his jaw and nostrils. The gesture is bold, almost teasing, and you can see his amused eyes narrow slightly through the haze.

"You always jack off when your clients are waiting?" you ask, voice steady despite the heat pooling low in your belly.

"We were closed, sweet cheeks," he says, voice low and lazy, that crooked smirk reappearing on his face. "There weren’t supposed to be any clients."

He takes a slow step closer, wrench still in hand. The faint smell of motor oil and sweat drifts towards you, mixing with the burning tobacco in your hand, heady and intoxicating.

You instinctively take a step back. Joel moves again, shrinking the distance between you.

Your shoes click against the concrete, and you realize too late you’re being backed towards the metal worktable where you’d been sitting earlier.

One more step, and suddenly your back presses against the cold edge of it. You’re caged, him in front, the table behind.

He leans in slightly, wrench in one hand, the other landing on the surface behind you, eyes glinting with amusement and something darker. 

The space between you shrinks, and the warmth of his body presses into you. Your heart pounds wildly in your chest, every nerve screaming warning. The fluorescent hum of the garage fades around you.

"That’s not the point-" you start, voice sharp, trying to put some authority into it. "You can’t just-"

He cuts you off with a low, lazy chuckle, leaning closer. He sets the wrench down on the table beside you, freeing his hand just long enough to pluck the cigarette from your fingers.

"Oh, I can," he says, wrapping his lips around the filter before pulling a slow drag. He hums when he tastes the faint flavour of your lip gloss left on the cigarette.

"I’m off the clock, sweet cheeks. I can do whatever the hell I want."

You straighten your back, trying to keep your voice steady. "That doesn’t make it right. You can’t just-"

"Right? Nah, don’t worry about right and wrong," he interrupts again, exhaling smoke to the side.

His eyes gleam, scanning you from your legs up to your face. "Tell me, sugar.. is it right to let me fix your truck when you ain’t got a dime to pay me?"

You freeze, heart hammering in your chest like it's ready to explode.

"I-"

He leans just a fraction closer, smirk widening. "Pretty little thing like you, all alone, no money… what am I gonna do with ya?"

Your stomach twists, part dread, part arousal, and you realize there’s no point trying to argue. He’s got the upper hand, and he knows it.

You don’t know what possesses you. Pride, defiance, or the reckless heat simmering under your skin, but instead of shrinking away, you grip the edge of the table and push yourself up onto it. The cool metal bites into the backs of your exposed thighs as you lift yourself.

You hold his gaze as he steps forward until he’s standing between your legs, the cigarette still dangling from his mouth.

Your hand rises slowly. Your fingers brush his lips as you slide the cigarette free and bring it back to your own mouth. Joel’s eyes darken at the touch. His hands come to rest on either side of your waist. 

"You could let me go without paying…" you murmur, voice quieter now.

"And why would I do that?" he asks softly, gaze dropping to your mouth as you take a slow drag.

"Because that's what a decent man would do."

"I think we’re past decency, sweetheart…" His hands trail up from your waist, touching the curve of your chest. Instead of pushing him away, you lean into the touch when his thumb swipes over a hardened nipple through the material of your top.

"I accept other forms of payment, you know."

"That so?"

He nods once. "Mhm.. I’m a flexible man."

One of his hands snakes back down to your waist, further down to your hips until it nestles between your legs and cups your pussy through your jeans.

As much as you want to deny it, you want this, probably more than he does. Oh Lord, you can't even explain how much you crave it. You know it's wrong, you shouldn't be enjoying this as much as you are. You shouldn't be as wet as you already are.

But is it truly that wrong?

Would anyone blame you for simply wanting to be at the mercy of a total stranger?

Probably.

But after the long, exhausting day of driving you've had, you couldn't give a fuck about what anyone would think.

"I thought payment comes after the job’s done," you say, forcing a cool edge into your voice.

"Sugar," he murmurs, leaning in closer, "I like knowin’ what I’m workin’ with before I put in the effort."

You swallow but hold his gaze.

"So this is a down payment?" you ask, raising one eyebrow.

His thumb presses lightly on the denim, right above your puffy nub, testing your reaction.

"Call it whatever the fuck ya want, but I prefer.. exchanging favours."

The forgotten cigarette trembles slightly between your fingers, the slow movements of his thumb over the rough denim making you bite the insides of your cheeks.

Without breaking eye contact, he lets go of your breast, reaches down and plucks it from your hand, taking one last drag. The ember flares bright in the dim garage, but you don't look at it. You can't avert your eyes from his piercing gaze.

Then he drops it.

It hits the concrete with a dull thud and he crushes it under the heel of his boot, grinding it out slowly.

"Come on, sugar. Get your pretty ass off that table."

You hold his gaze for a second longer, then slide off the metal surface. Your feet hit the floor softly. You turn your back to him and lean against the table, palms flat against the cool steel. You tilt your head slightly, glancing at him over your shoulder.

"Better?" you ask.

He hums in response, fingers hooking into the waistband of your jeans, rough knuckles brushing your stomach as he tugs you back an inch, just enough to create space.

He drags the zipper down in one steady motion, the sound loud in the quiet garage. The button pops free under his thumb. His hands slide to your hips again, thumbs slipping just inside the loosened waistband. The denim scrapes against your skin as he pulls your jeans down to your ankles. 

You hear a sharp whistle behind you before his hands land on your ass, kneading the flesh in his palms.

"Well, I’ll be damned," he mutters under his breath.

You feel his finger hook into the waistband of your panties, tugging the fabric away from your skin before letting it snap back into place.

"I was right, sugar," he murmurs, voice low and satisfied. "Look at those sweet cheeks," his palm comes down sharply on your ass.

The impact is sudden enough to make your whole body jolt. A sharp hiss slips past your lips as the sting blooms across your skin. For a second, every muscle in you goes tight. Then his hand smooths over the spot he struck, easing the heat he just created. The contrast makes your breath hitch, the roughness replaced with an almost comforting caress.

"Sensitive, huh?" he mutters, voice thick with amusement.

"Shut up."

You press your palms harder into the table when you hear him chuckle, trying to steady yourself, telling your body not to react.

But it does.

His hand lingers, dragging lightly over your hip before drifting to your front as he leans his body forward against yours.

God, you can just imagine that smug look on his face.

How the hell did you end up like this? Bent over a table, ready to get fucked stupid by a pervert with a filthy mouth, all in exchange for getting your truck fixed.

Speaking of said pervert, his fingers are currently making their way down to your pussy agonizingly slowly.

"I bet this pussy's already wet for me, sugar. Ain't that right? Ain't she soakin'?"

Out of all the seedy men in the world, you had to fuck the one with the biggest mouth, who thinks calling your truck and your pussy by a pronoun is perfectly normal. It might not be normal, but it sure makes your walls flutter. He’s so confident, so sure of himself, and rightfully so. You’re soaked just from him slapping your ass.

You just hope his dick is as big as his ego.

"No, she's not-," you try, and fail, to convince yourself, at least, that Joel's touch has no effect on you, "Fuck.. I'm not-"

You try to distract yourself, looking at the cracks in the wall in front of you as if they’re the most fascinating thing in the room. Your gaze lingers on the wrench he placed on the table earlier, now sitting in the corner of your eye, anything to keep your attention off the man standing behind you.

His fingers slip down the front of your underwear, tracing an experimental circle over the bundle of nerves tucked between your thighs just as you were inspecting the rust on the wrench’s handle. Your hands clench, the bite of your nails digging into your palms forcing your eyes shut.

You’re sopping wet, and he knows it. Feels it.

"Oh, sweet cheeks.. I wish you could see 'er, she’s practically drippin’-"

"Can you please shut the fuck up?" you snap, lowering your head and resting your forehead on the table.

Your body feels like it’s on fire, and the cool metal pressing against your torso does nothing to soothe the sensation. If anything, it only makes it worse. You struggle to breathe, your hardened nipples pressing uncomfortably into the surface with every rise and fall of your squished body.

You can feel the rough calluses of his fingers even through the fabric of your panties, the friction against your clit making your legs tremble.

This man can’t possibly be just a mechanic. This dump of an auto shop has to be some kind of front for a brothel or something. It’s kind of embarrassing, the state he’s got you in from nothing more than the pads of his fingers.

There’s a low groan from his throat when he pushes your underwear to the side and runs a couple of fingers between your damp folds. The feeling and the sound of him has your jaw clenching tight in an attempt to muffle a whimper.

"Why would I shut up, huh? I can see how much you enjoy-"

"I don't-"

"Deny it all you want, sweetheart. This pussy's practically beggin' for me," his other hand grips your hip, fingers digging into your skin.

Oh, how you loathe that filthy mouth of his and everything that comes out of it. You despise every corrupt remark, especially the way they make you feel. Because he's right. You do enjoy every depraved word.

You try to conjure a comeback in your head, but when two thick fingers sink into your cunt with a loud, squelching sound, your mind goes numb.

Your head snaps up from the table, your back arching, hips straining against his grip when he starts moving his digits, curling them inside you to hit that spongy spot that makes you see stars.

Fuck, it's not enough. You want more. You need more of him.

"Please-" you practically whimper, trying to turn your head to catch a glimpse of him.

He takes great pride in hearing your strained voice attempt to beg for him. And you take great pleasure in seeing him hard, straining against the denim of his worn jeans. Scratch that, you don't just see him. He's pressed so closely to you that you can feel him twitching against your ass.

"Please what, sugar?"

You can't take it anymore, without even realizing your mouth parts and a hushed moan slips out. Then another, and another, and another. Each one of them louder than the latter.

You need him. Who cares that it's wrong to do this with a stranger? Who would care when just the stranger's fingers can do that to you?

"Please," you whine, "I need it.. I need you."

That's all he needs to hear.

His hands move, no longer gripping your hip, no longer buried inside your weeping cunt. You nearly pout at the loss of his fingers, feeling the void they left behind.

You hear the faint metallic scrape of his belt buckle coming undone, the soft rasp of leather sliding through loops. Your walls clench around nothing in anticipation.

There's a faint shuffle behind you, him searching for something in his back pocket. For a split second, you think he’s pulling out another cigarette. But the sound is different. A plastic wrapper?

A condom.

At least he's a prepared pervert.

He gets his hands filthy because he refuses to wear gloves when working on cars but draws the line at fucking you raw. Do all of his clients end up like this? How many other girls have been bent down on this exact table before you? Is this a regular thing he does?

So many questions and yet you can't be bothered to find any answers when his jeans slide down to the floor along with his underwear. You bite your lip at the sight of his length springing free, the dark tip glistening with precum. He tears open the condom wrapper with his teeth, rolling it down smoothly to the base.

His left hand returns to your hip, guiding your body back until your calves are pressed to his thighs, while his right hand strokes himself a few times.

You feel him dragging his cock through your folds, the tip grazing your clit with every pass. Then a poke at your entrance, a shallow pressure struggling to enter.

"Fuck- you're so goddamn tight," he mutters under his breath.

His words barely register, all you can do is moan out his name. Your mind is reeling, thoughts swirling around endlessly making you dizzy.

He pushes once and in one swift mood every last inch of himself is sheathed inside you to the brim. You cry out at the pleasurable sting, eyes rolling back into your head.

"Goood girl.. that's it, sweet cheeks. Look at ya, so full of my cock," he praises.

You don't have it in you to answer. All you can do is nod a few times, hoping that he can see the back of your head bobbing up and down.

He drives into you again, falling into a fierce, relentless rhythm with each impossibly deep motion, harsh yet intoxicating, giving and taking. Every gasp that slips from your parted lips seems to fuel his fervor, urging him on with even greater force and intensity.

"Damn, you’re a needy one, ain't ya?" he mutters, gripping your hips tightly, his hands spanning your waist as his fingertips press against your stomach. "You’re pullin' me in so deep, sweetheart- been craving this that bad, huh?"

His hips drive into yours, the softness of your skin shifting under his grip with every rough thrust. You give him every sound he draws out of you: every cry, every breathless moan, every whispered plea, especially when he brushes against that perfect spot.

"You got nothing else to say, sugar? Where's that big mouth of yours, huh?" he taunts, bending over you until his warm breath grazes your neck, his mouth trailing slowly across your shoulder.

His arms cage you in, one hand slipping lower, his practiced fingers circling that sensitive nub in slow, maddening strokes, the other rising to cradle your jaw and throat in a possessive hold.

“Too gone to think straight, huh? I’ve got you that messed up, baby?” he growls, pushing himself deeper, forcing another broken sound from your lips.

Flattened against his chest, he lifts you off the table, hauls you upright and drives up into you with a sharper, more punishing rhythm, a low chuckle rumbling from him when a cry rips free from your strained voice. His hold tightens as if he could press you right into him, every movement claiming more. He doesn’t ease up, his hand keeps working between your legs, his touch rough and insistent, while his mouth leaves heated marks along your neck, teeth grazing and lips sucking slow reminders into your skin.

"I can’t- 's too much, I’m gonna-"

Pleasure surges outward from your core in relentless waves, pulling you closer and closer to the brink. You’re teetering on the edge, barely holding yourself together, clinging to a few more stolen seconds of bliss, just a little longer with him.

His grip tightens around your throat, while his forearm presses hard between your breasts, the pressure hard enough to leave its mark.

"You gonna cum, sugar?"

Yes.

Your head falls back, fitting perfectly into the curve of his shoulder as the same word spills from your lips again and again, breathless and broken. The sound of it, sweet and desperate on your tongue, feels almost as intoxicating as the climax crashing through you, pleasure ripping from your center and flooding every inch of your body.

What happens next is a blur. You're too fucked out of your mind to even remember your name.

You just feel the loss between your legs when he pulls out with a loud groan, his rough hands turning you to face him. The cold floor hits your skin when you sink down to your knees. Did he push you down? Did you just do it on your own? You can't tell.

You see him pulling the condom off, throwing it carelessly on the floor before returning his attention to you. You look up to him with hooded eyes, parting your lips when he starts stroking his throbbing cock.

"That's it, sweet cheeks.. open up for me. Yeah, just like that-"

Before you can even process what’s happening, thick white ropes shoot from his tip, warmth spilling over your skin. You lift a hand to your cheek, brushing your finger through it before bringing it to your lips. A soft, satisfied hum escapes you as you savor the taste of him.

Damp with sweat, vision blurred as if stars are swirling before you, you struggle, gasping, to draw in a full, steady breath, but it won’t come.

Minutes pass in a haze. You're moving on wobbly legs, going back to sit on the metal table. You feel your thighs aching as you watch him pull his jeans back on, getting another cigarette from his back pocket.

Something clicks in your brain. Suddenly, you're too aware of the stickiness clinging to your face, of the loud whistle that echoes off the walls.

"Y'look real pretty with my cum drippin' on your face, sugar," he's sporting that shit eating grin you've grown accustomed to in the last hour.

"Get me something to wipe this off, asshole."

"There she is, thought you were still cock-drunk s-"

"Shut up."

Something is thrown at you, that grimy scrap of material he’d used to wipe his hands of motor oil earlier.

You wrinkle your nose. "Really? That’s all you’ve got? Nothing clean, maybe?"

He chuckles, a low, rough sound. "Just use the damn thing, sweet cheeks. Gimme somethin’ to remember ya by."

Gross.

Your fingers brush against the fabric, and you can feel the grit, the smell. Every nerve in your body bristles at it.

And yet… you do as he says.

You drop the filthy rag, wiping your hands on your thighs, "So… when’s my truck going to be ready?"

He leans back against your car, arms crossed, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Already done, sugar."

You blink, incredulous. "What do you mean… already done?"

He shrugs lazily, eyes roaming over you. "Took me longer to deal with you than the engine. She’s good to go. Start her up and see for yourself."

Cautiously, you hopp off the table, stumbling on unsteady legs toward the truck, glancing back at him. He just watches, that crooked grin never leaving his face, like he’s thoroughly enjoying the whole show.

You slide into the driver’s seat, turn the key, and the engine roars to life. Perfect.

"See?" he calls after you, voice low and teasing. “Told ya I knew what I was doin'."

[havokangel]

Here’s a sneak peak of lesson learned part 2 under the cut, just in case you don’t want spoilers 💌🫶🏻

I can’t wait to share the whole thing when it’s done🪄✨

[havokangel]

I’m comin’ out of my depressive state to finish this fic and I’m 7k words in and they’re finally banging

Hopefully it will be yours before April <3

[sonarspace]

❦︎ bruce wayne x reader. slight age gap. 18+ nsfw.

older!bruce who was your dad's business partner on a new project. it started slow, but before you both knew it, the tension was undeniable. the countless galas and parties you both ran into each other, eyes always meeting across the room.

older!bruce who you ran into at a bar, eyes fixed on you as he kissed a lady. were you jealous, he wondered? did you wish it was you? but god, the minute you turned it on him and picked a man in the crowd to kiss, he was fuming.

older!bruce who left the club pissed and with blue balls. what the fuck had gotten into him? he jerked himself off at the thought of you. it felt wrong. you were his business partner's daughter. but would it be fair to just reduce you to that?

older!bruce who saw you a few weeks later. you walked passed him into a club but before you could get too far, he pulled you into a private room. you yelped, but you'd be lying if you didn't say you were hoping for this.

older!bruce who asked it you wanted to cross the line so easily. and who were you to deny yourself the simple pleasures of life?

older!bruce whose fingers found your heat too quickly, eager to feel you out. he went down on his knees so easily, you'd think he was praying to the powers above. his lips trailed up your thigh, hands hiking up your dress until he felt the waistband of your underwear. he slipped it down easily.

his lips edged closer to your slick folds. his fingers parting your lips, watching as your cunt glistened in arousal just from thoughts of him. god, he'd tried drugs, but this was getting him on a whole different level of high.

older!bruce who made eye contact, holding it as he pressed his tongue and tasted you. “fuck baby,” he mumbled against your skin.

his eyes rolled back on their own accord. his hands tightened their hold on your hips as he drove further in. the taste of your juices mixing with his saliva as he lapped at you hungrily.

older!bruce whose finger slipped into you as he lapped at your needy clit. you gripped him the hair biting down on your lip. this was too much, too fast, but you didn't want to stop. he hummed as you clenched around him. the tightness in your stomach increasing tenfold as he added a second finger. you finally snapped when you felt his lips wrap around your nub and suckle greedily. you came, trembling in his grip as he made sure you felt every second, his tongue unrelenting.

older!bruce who stood up slowly, wiping his mouth, and straightening his suit. you tugged your dress down, taking a moment to breathe. “you okay, sweetie?” he asks as if he didn’t just almost suck your soul out. you nodded in response and he gave you a knowing, almost smug smile. without a word, he opened the door, and you followed him out into the cool night.

[littledes1re]

Sit on it

Read on Ao3

Pairing: Sleazy!joel miller x f!reader

Summary: You’re in the middle of a rant, and Joel Miller couldn’t care less. He’s calm, dismissive, and entirely too confident for a man who should probably be listening. But then he does something bold enough to stop you mid‑sentence—and suddenly the argument turns into a different kind of standoff. One you’re not sure you’re ready to lose—and he can see every crack forming.

Warnings: 18+, Smut, MDNI, slight fluff, sleazy!joel, fuck buddies, fat!joel, riding, pinv, unprotected sex, creampie, pet names, JOEL CALLS YOUR PUSSY HONEYPOT, daddy kink just once, Joel talks shit most of the time, orgasm control (?), one (1) spank, nipple play, biting also once, male masturbation, no outbreak

A/N: Guys, I can’t believe how beloved sleazy!Joel has become… 🤭 I hadn’t planned on it, but I ended up writing a little continuation to ‘Strawberry Creampie.’ It’s not as filthy as the first one, but it definitely has its own dirty energy and Joel’s nonstop, ridiculous yapping. Enjoy, pookies!! <3333

“Joel, this is disgusting. It’s stiff. It’s literally stiff with gasoline and whatever the hell you spilled on it. And you left it on my couch. My couch.”

The van feels like it’s melting. Heat clings to your skin, the air thick and heavy, carrying the usual mix of gasoline and old leather. (And cigarettes, though you’ve long since gotten used to those.) Under all of it, your nose still catches Joel’s cheap aftershave—the one he splashes on like holy water.

In your mouth, a lollipop. 

He bought it for you while grabbing his cigarettes at the gas station, leaning over the display with that lazy, sleazy grin and saying, “C’mon, hon. Grab a color. You always look real cute when you’re workin’ on one of these.” Then, lower, just for you: “Get the biggest one they got, sweetheart. You always handle it just fine.”

And now, Joel is slouched in front of you, on the built‑in bench with sweat all over him. His shirt was tossed somewhere behind him, leaving the broad, heavy spread of his stomach bare to the thick summer air. Sweat beaded along the crease where his belly met his ribs, sliding down in slow, shining trails. 

He’s got a cigarette tucked behind his ear, another unlit one rolling between his fingers, and a beer sweating on the table besides him. He looks like he’s been here for hours, like he’s slowly melting into that furniture.

His eyes aren’t even on the shirt you’re holding in front of him. Instead, he sighs dramatically, like you’re the one inconveniencing him.

“Sweetheart, you’re talkin’ like I marched into your place with a whole god damn laundry basket and dumped it on your bed. It’s one shirt. One. And it ain’t even that bad. Smells like a hard day’s work, that’s all.” He shrugs. 

You stop pacing just to stare at him.

“It smells like a gas station bathroom.”

“You’ve ever been in a gas station bathroom, baby?” He chuckles hazy. “‘Cause if you had, you’d be thankin’ me for bringin’ somethin’ in your house that smells better than that.”

You groan, rolling your eyes and toss the shirt at him. It lands across his stomach and he doesn’t even flinch. Just lets it sit there like a napkin he’s too lazy to move.

“And another thing,” you say, pointing at him. “Stop leaving your cigarettes in my apartment. They’re everywhere. On the counter. On the floor. In my plants. One was in my plants, Joel.”

He snorts. “They ain’t lit. They’re fine.”

You push the lollipop off to the side, letting it sit deep in the hollow of your cheek. Joel’s eyes flick to the way it bulges your cheek out, the stick tapping against your lip every time you speak. 

“They’re dirty,” you snap. “They’re gross. And you leave them everywhere like some kind of—”

“Like some kinda man who ain’t got a trash can in his van,” he interrupts, gesturing around the cramped space. “Look at this place. You see a trash can? ’Cause I sure as hell don’t.”

“That’s not an excuse.”

“It’s a damn good one.”

You throw your hands up. “You’re impossible.”

Joel leans back even further, belly rounding, thighs spread, looking like he’s settling in for a real long, and real comfortable argument. (His favourite thing to do).

“Impossible? Sweetheart, I’m a delight. You just dramatic as hell. You get all worked up over nothin’. A shirt here, a cigarette there—“

“And my leftovers,” you cut in sharply. “Don’t forget those.”

Joel pauses, squints, then nods slowly as he remembers shoving your leftovers into his mouth all at once the night before.

“Oh yeah. Those were good.” He licks his lips. 

“They were mine.”

“They were sittin’ in my line of sight,” he counters. “And you know how I get when I’m hungry. You can’t just leave food around me like some kinda test. That’s entrapment.”

You stare at him, jaw dropped. “Entrapment?”

“Damn right. You left ’em right there on the counter, all innocent‑lookin’, like they weren’t beggin’ me to eat ’em. What was I supposed to do? Walk away? I ain’t no saint.”

You can’t believe what you’re hearing. How one person can lack even an ounce of responsibility or respect is beyond you. It feels like talking to a child who hasn’t learned the basics of common sense yet.

So, you pace again, muttering under your breath, waving your hands, ranting about boundaries and hygiene and how he’s slowly turning your apartment into a landfill, because apparently turning his own van wasn’t enough and he has to turn your—

“Keep goin’, baby. I like when you get all fired up. You start walkin’ around, talkin’ fast, wavin’ your arms…gets you all worked up.” His voice drops into that long, lazy drawl he uses when he wants to get under your skin.

You whip around. “Don’t.”

He grins wider.

“You never take anything seriously. Ever. Not the mess, not the cigarettes, not my space, not the fact that you treat my apartment like a damn storage unit—”

Joel exhales a long, dramatic sigh, head tipping back against the wall.

“And you know what? I’m done. I’m done letting you walk in, eat my food, leave your crap everywhere, and act like it’s all just—just—”

Joel lifts a hand, palm out, like he’s trying to calm a wild animal. “You’re wound up tighter than a damn banjo string. C’mon now. You know I don’t mean nothin’ by it. I just get comfortable. ’Cause you make it real easy to get comfortable.”

You stop pacing just long enough to glare at him. 

“Maybe you shouldn’t be so comfortable. Maybe we shouldn’t even be hooking up at my place anymore. Maybe you should just stay in your van and keep all your trash to yourself.”

You don’t even realize what you’ve just said until it’s out. It hangs in the air, heavy and sharp, your mouth gaping open. Joel also goes still for half a second—just long enough for you to notice—then he huffs a laugh, low and amused.

“There she goes,” he mutters. “Sayin’ things she don’t mean just ’cause she’s mad.”

You spin back towards him.

“Don’t—” you start, throwing your hands up. “Don’t do that thing where you act like you know everything. I’m not mad, I’m just— I’m just tired of you acting like you can do whatever you want in my house.”

So, you start pacing again, words spilling faster than you can even organize them.

“And you never listen, Joel. Ever. You just sit there with that face, like you’re above it all, like nothing I say matters, and I swear it drives me insane—”

The lollipop shifts in your mouth, knocking against your teeth. You pause mid‑sentence, annoyed at the sudden sweetness hitting your tongue again. You pull it to the other cheek with a sharp click.

“—and this stupid thing keeps getting in the way,” you mutter, waving the stick vaguely before you shove it back between your lips

“And—“

Your eye catches on something tiny.

Tiny and wet. 

Sitting just below Joels belly. His hand is wrapped around it, covering the pulsing veins you know all too well, while it keeps releasing generously amount of white fluid from the tip. 

Joel was jerking off. Without you noticing, he pulled the waistband of his down away—and then (somehow) sneakily pulled his cock out.

His posture shifts, his breathing grows heavier, his eyes darkening—fixated on you with a hunger that makes your stomach flip. His hard cock is free, tip smudging against the underside of his belly, leaving small, sticky droplets of pre-cum on his skin. 

Fucking bold. 

“What are you—are you fucking serious right now?” Your eyes look at him up and down. 

He doesn’t even look guilty. Heck, not even surprised.

Because what else do you expect from a man who uses pussy as his fleshlight and laps around your folds like it’s his last meal on earth? 

He tilts his head, eyes slowly dragging over your tank top, your chest, the lollipop you’re still absentmindedly chewing on.

“What?” he drawls, voice thick. “You’re walkin’ around in that tiny little shirt, no bra, nipples all perked up, suckin’ on that damn lollipop like you don’t know what you’re doin’. I’m only human, baby.”

“Joel,” you start. “You’re such a—”

“A pervert?” he offers, grinning. “Yeah, sweetheart. You knew that when you let me in.”

You’re too stunned to speak.

He keeps moving up and down lazily, while his eyes are half‑lidded and fixed on you with that slow, filthy amusement he always has when he knows he’s getting to you.

He doesn’t even pretend to care. He never does.

“Go on, sweetheart,” he drawls, voice thick and lazy. “Finish your little rant.”

You roll your eyes so hard it almost aches, but you keep talking anyway.

Or at least, you try to. Because with Joel, it’s always a power play. He watches you fight for your composure like it’s for his entertainment, taking in every twitch of irritation as if it’s something he needs for to stay alive. He lives for this—your stubborn attempts not to react, and the way you inevitably do.

Your words start to trip over each other the moment you hear his low groan. Not because you’re giving up, but because you know exactly where this goes. You’ve been down this road with him before. You know the slope, the heat, the way your body starts to anticipate him before your mind catches up.

He is still jerking off, slowly.

“You’re—you’re just so disgusting,” you say, but it comes out more frustrated than anything else. “You can’t just—Joel, seriously, I’m trying to talk to you.” 

“Ain’t stoppin’ you,” he murmurs. “Keep talkin’.”

You look away, trying to pace again, trying to hold onto the thread of your irritation, but the heat in the van is crawling under your skin, and the only thing you start to hear is Joel’s breathing picking up. You try to not look at him—him and his leaking cock, rock hard, pulsing with each—

“Oh, you done?” he interrupts your thoughts. 

You don’t answer. Because you can’t. He has you wrapped around his finger.

“…Thought so.”

You exhale, long and shaky, more frustrated with yourself than with him.

Then he says it.

“C’mere then.” 

You stand there for a moment, jaw tight, fingers flexing at your sides, trying to pretend you’re still deciding.

And you can’t believe that Joel’s hunger—his shamelessness, his filth, all that god damned sleaze he wears like a second skin—always has an effect on you.

But let’s face it: you wouldn’t be in his van if you didn’t have the same messed‑up, dirty, feral thoughts running through your head just like he does.

“Sit.” 

And that’s what does it for you. 

The way he says it like he knows exactly that you’re going to. 

You don’t even realize you’re moving until you’re already stepping towards him, tugging your pants down as you go. Your panties slipping with them, pooling at your feet by the time you reach him.

You lower yourself, holding into his shoulders while Joel grips the tip of his cock, lazily playing with your folds, nudging against your clit, and then—slowly inching his way into your cunt. You sink down on him, breath hitching as you feel your walls being stretched around him.

“Slow…slow…don’t let your attitude hurt my honeypot.” He murmurs, looking down.

You stop halfway to give him a scoff. 

As you start to sink slowly again, cunt swallowing the last bits of his pulsing cock, you hear his voice again: “There she is,” smug. “Couldn’t help yourself, huh?” 

He chuckles when you drop onto his lap, hard enough to make his belly move.

You shoot him a glare, shifting on his lap, trying to get used to the burning stretch. “Shut up,” you mutter—which only makes his smirk deepen.

“All bark, no bite.”

Joel’s eyes stay on you as he leans back, arms folding behind his neck while he settles comfortably on the bench. The smug look on his face tells you this was his plan all along—getting you on his lap just to watch you crumble for him.

But you’re not backing down. You know exactly how to make him crumble too.

You breathe out, hands stabilising on his shoulders as you lift yourself up and sink down again. You swallow, already feeling his tip nudging against that spongy spot inside you. 

You can see Joel’s jaw tighten, like he’s fighting not to break that smug smirk on his face—but you know him. He’s crumbling inside.

“Mhmm, always thinking with your cunt, that’s how I know her.” He nods. “Thought you were gonna keep up that little tantrum all day. But nah, you see cock and balls and your mind goes blank.”

You lift, and settle down again. Harder this time. 

“And you always use your cock and balls to get you out of every single argument and confrontation,” You rock your hips. “But yea, i’m the one that thinks with her cunt.” 

Joel bites back a groan when your hips start to get used to a rhythm, riding him in a steady, controlled pace. 

“You’re cute as hell, baby. Look at you, all worked up and pretendin’ you’re still mad.” He drawls lazily. “Go on, keep talkin’ your little talk—I’m lovin’ every second of it.”

You can hear it in his voice—the way he holds himself back from not gripping your hips, from not letting out a sound, from not pushing you against the table and fucking you until you forget your own name. 

You smirk, lifting yourself up and sinking around him again, repeating the process, fueled by a sharp, reckless need to prove you’re not the one breaking first. 

“Oh, now she’s hopping.” He smirks, fingers suddenly sliding up to curl under the hem of your shirt. He starts to tug it higher—and you smack his hand away like he’s lost his damn mind.

Joel’s eyebrow furrow. 

“Lemme see my girls.” He mutters. “C’mon now…don’t leave me hangin’. I’m starvin’ over here.”

“I know. That’s the fun part.” You nod, smug. 

“Hm. She thinks she’s real funny today.” He taps your thigh, amused. “Go on then. Let’s see how long this pussy can keep that up.”

He leans in, quieter. “Cause I already can feel her fluttering.” 

You swallow, but continue to move your hips.  His chest starts to rise in heavy, uneven breaths, sweat glistening along his stomach as he tries to keep his hands where he put them—laced behind his head, knuckles white with restraint, trying, oh so hard, to ignore your cunt clenching down on him. 

The long‑forgotten lollipop taps against your teeth as you smirk down at him, suddenly aware you can use it to tease. You pull it from your mouth, a thin strand of sweetness stretching before it snaps, and you drag the candy across his lips with deliberate slowness.

He exhales sharply, eyes narrowing up at you.

“You’re real funny,” he mutters, but he still parts his lips, letting you press the candy to his mouth. 

His jaw works once, slow, like he’s tasting more than just sugar—eyes still locked into yours. 

And while he sucks on the candy, another idea to break him sparks in your mind.

You lean in and bite into his neck, teeth sinking into skin—hard enough to leave a mark, sharp enough to make him jolt and make his cock switch. 

The lollipop slips from his mouth, clattering onto the table as he lets out a rough sound he clearly didn’t mean to make. And you know, you got him this time. 

“Hey,” you say, “I wasn’t done with that.”

“Ya know, most folks apologize after takin’ a chunk outta someone’s neck,” he says, clearly annoyed. “Not you. No, you’re sittin’ here mournin’ a piece of fuckin’ sugar.”

“You liked it. You groaned.” You say it quietly, a smile on your lips as you trace the grey stubbles along his neck.

“I like a lot of things, hon,” he murmurs, slowly melting at your lips against his neck. “What more I like is this pussy wrapped around me. Heck, ain’t even close yet. Keep goin’.” 

Joel lands a sharp spank on your right ass cheek, forcing a sound from you that cuts straight through the calm front you were trying to hold. A moan. 

He chuckles.

“There she goes,” he mutters. “Knew you’d crack.” 

You set your jaw, brows pulling together as you start to pick up your pace, going up and down his cock with a sharper, more deliberate movement. You’re done playing around—and he can tell.

“That’s it, ride all that anger out.” He says but you see that the sudden intensity knocks a rough breath out of him, his head tipping back, hands twitching like he’s fighting the urge to grab you. 

And then you slowly start to feel it—your slick dribbling down the sides of his cock, walls fluttering and spasming; every roll of your hips giving away a squelching sound and Joel can feel you holding back. 

Your lips form into a straight line, eyebrows still pinched and your cunt can’t do nothing but soak into his lap, your body completely betraying you. 

“Let me help you out, pretty girl. Looks like you’re startin’ to lose it.” He murmurs, before you feel the pad of his thumb going through your messy folds and then touching your aching, little clit, sitting just between the mess—switching. 

You release a whine, stopping your movements on his length to take a deep breath so you don’t come on the spot. He doesn’t stop, his thumb keeps rubbing lazily over your nub, determined to make you more sensitive. 

You try and swat at his hand again, stubborn as ever, but he just shakes his head with that slow, lazy little smirk that always gets under your skin.

“Nuh‑uh,” he drawls, voice low and maddeningly calm. “You wanted a challenge, didn’t you?”

You grit the words out through clenched teeth, “Fuck you.”

He just chuckles—like he’s been expecting that exact crack in your voice.

“Oh, I know,” he coos, eyes half‑lidded, savoring the moment you finally slipped.

His thumb on your clit speeds up, massaging tight, little circles around the nub and pushing that dry, cracked texture of his digit into your flesh, over and over again. 

Your breath stumbles, trying to keep moving your hips. 

And before you even expect it, Joel tugs at the hem of your shirt, flipping it upwards and releasing your tits to him. His hand immediately lashes onto one of your nipples; already sensitive and pebbled as he pinches the little nub between his fingers. 

That, unfortunately, does it for you. 

Your hips stutter, you stop your rhythm while your hands hold onto his chest, breathing through the stimulation and trying so hard not to come. 

Joel smirks. His thumb slowing down, fingers leaving your nipple to slowly caress down your sides. 

“Knew you’d burn yourself out tryin’ to beat me. You always do. Come on now…breathe. I got you. You did real good, pretty girl.” He murmurs, cupping your cheek. “Let me take it from here.” 

Your whole body goes slack, the last of your stubbornness draining out of you as his hand cups your cheek. You try to glare at him, you really do, but the warmth in his voice makes your breath hitch instead. “Don’t…” you mumble, cheeks hot, “don’t talk to me like that.” There’s no real bite behind it. You’re melting, and he knows it.

“Mm‑hmm…that’s what I thought,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb over your lips. “All that stubbornness and look at you now.”

His voice drops, warm and maddeningly sure of himself. “Breathin’ all shaky, tryin’ so hard to pretend you’ve still got some fire left.”

He tilts your chin up gently, eyes soft but smug.

“You don’t. Not with me. And that’s alright, baby. I got you.”

Something in you just…folds. Because he’s right, and you hate that he’s right, and you hate even more how gentle he sounds when he says it.

You feel your resistance slip, piece by piece, until there’s nothing left to hold onto.

And you can’t ignore the tight coil in your stomach, pulled so taut it feels ready to snap. Your gummy walls clinging around his cock for dear life, while your clit throbs in anticipation. 

You need him. 

“Buckle up now, honeygirl… let me show you how this is really done.”

With that, Joel’s grip settles on your hips—solid—fingers digging into your flesh as he starts to pound into you, hard and rough. Your body moves on top of him, tits moving up and down, head lulling from side to side. You try to stabilise yourself on his shoulders, sudden moans and whines leaving your lips. 

“Easy now…that’s it. Let me hear you.” He murmurs through gritted teeth. “Don’t hold back on me, darlin’. I want every sound you’ve been tryin’ to swallow.”

His hips snap harder from underneath, swollen cock hitting that sweet, sensitive spot in you, making your head spin and shaky sounds slip past your lips. You tip your head back and catch Joel’s dark eyes on you, focused and intent, studying every little detail of your face.

“Joel—please,” you don’t know what you’re pleading for. 

Joels hands grip you even rougher, knuckles white as he leans forward until the top of his head settles against your chest, his hair brushing your skin as he exhales roughly. 

“I know,” He rasps against your skin. “Cunt is soft as warm honey now, baby. I can feel you letting go.” 

He eases his head away from your chest, his hand coming up to cradle your cheek with surprising gentleness. 

“Turning into butter in my hands, huh? Aren’t you, sugar?” 

He pulls you in, brushing a gentle kiss against your lips like he’s trying to settle you.

“My sweet girl.” 

That steals the breath right out of you. For a second you freeze, thrown off by the sudden softness—then everything in you loosens, warmth flooding through your chest as the words sink in.

Joel feels it; your walls clenching on him, flooding his lap with the same wetness he loves to lap on whenever he eats you out. 

“Daddy’s honeypot is sucking me in so nicely.” 

“Don’t call it honeypot…” you whine. 

He lifts an eyebrow, the ghost of a grin tugging at his mouth. “Oh, I’m callin’ it that,” he says, like it’s already settled. “Cause that’s what it is. Daddy’s honeypot.” 

You moan out, louder than before and your head falls on his shoulder. His thrusts speed up once again, Joel pressing himself deeper, tighter as if he already knows that you’re on the verge of coming. 

“Mmm… there it is. Sweet, messy thing,” he says. “I can feel you tremblin’. Come for me, sweetheart. I got you.”

You gasp, hiccuping his name as you nuzzle into him closer, sudden waves of your orgasm rushing through you. Your belly tightens, your body locks in and your fingertips curl into his skin. 

Joels hip stutter, thrusts followed by squelching sounds of your come and while you try to ride your high out, you feel Joels cock throbbing rapidly—finally spurting his warm release into you. 

“There we fuckin’ go…” he groans out. “This pussy is heaven.” 

His thrusts slow down, grip softening on your hips as you breathe through the last waves of your release, nuzzling into his neck and placing a few kisses here and there. 

Joel sinks back, dragging in a sharp breath, then another, his chest heaving as he tries to steady himself. 

“I’ll be damned… we’re sweatin’ like whores in a church.”

You huff out a tired laugh against his neck, your forehead nudging into the warm skin there. Joel tilts his head just enough to brush his jaw against your hair, a small, worn‑out sound rumbling in his chest. 

After a moment, he reaches blindly towards the table besides you, fingers closing around a cigarette pack. He shakes one out, sticks it between his lips, and lights it with a low groan.

He takes a long drag, exhales slow, then mutters around the smoke, “Lord…my damn back’s gonna kill me tomorrow. Ain’t twenty anymore, that’s for damn sure.”

Then, you start to push herself up, moving sluggishly, like your body hasn’t quite remembered how to work yet. But Joel has other plans. Before his cock is even halfway out your cunt, he pulls you back in, making you sink down around his softening cock again. 

You gasp, eyebrows pinching, looking at his unbothered face. 

“You’re not goin’ anywhere. Not ‘til I say so.” He murmurs besides the cigarette. 

You tries to push at his shoulder, but it’s weak, more symbolic than anything. “You’re such a pain.” 

And then you nuzzle right back into his neck. Your breathing evens out almost instantly, soft and steady, your whole body going slack as sleep pulls you under.

Joel shifts the cigarette at the corner of his mouth, glancing down at you with a tired huff.

“Figures,” he murmurs around the smoke, voice low and rough.

He leans back against the couch, sunlight catching in the curl of smoke drifting past his face, and just watches you sleep—peaceful, quiet, completely gone—wishing he could have this forever. 

Want more of Sleazy!joel? Here are The Sleaze Files!

This is not really proofread so please ignore the mistakes yall🫣 anyways…i’m planning a little special valentines day fic for our @/coffeguitar babies hehe <333

Taglist: @vickie5446 @thatgirlmendo @ihearttdilfs @pickyeater13 @sweetiegirl16 @afyreinjuly @shivispunk @kyloispunk @marisemonteiroo @meetmeatyourworst @joelmillerswife9 @iveseenstrangerthings50 @idrkman @blueberryfruittart @vanishintoyoubby @dlwrish @brittmb115 @xcallmetaniax @umadirectioner @millersweetheart @wildthyng @armandispunk @chick66i @bratty-spicee @am1a-niigo @hopelessromantic727 @styleslfreak @psclcain @susieqorion24 @rxsemarinusx @jandtmillersgirl @fertilise-me @mitskilover88 @lostboys1987girl l@begginforthread @pinkangelglitterdusttt @facethepascal @ddiana111 @twilightblogss @cheeseizts @pedrosgirl03 @swimmingnightcolor @gabfromgreedycity @bartzabel4 @blueflowerstranger @easybbgrl @madnessofadaydreamer @sadie6sinks6slut @hopelessromantic727 @miramindlesslywriting

[yourlonelypoet]

I really like when people write older readers in x reader, idk why

"Big age gap" "college student reader" "19/50" fuck that porno shit, man, give me a reader who's on their thirties, forties even, give me joint pain and wrinkles and gray hairs

"But that's not relatable at all!!! I'm not forty!!!" Well, neither are you a fucking Avenger, are you? So just roll with it

[havokangel]

yall some days I love teaching and some days I despise it

I got some mean ass lil girls and my class is in shambles rn

[havokangel]

.݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. ⋆˙⟡ ⋆.˚ ⊹₊⟡ ⋆ . ݁₊husband!joel headcanons ♡

tags: fluff. mentions of sex. but mostly fluff. no outbreak. just tooth rotting fluffy daydream material. warning: there’s a mention of fertility issues. read at own discretion.

authors note: as I’m writing lesson learned part two, I just kept daydreaming about husband!joel who is the SWEETEST husband. ever. also, come and chat about joel miller, frank castle, and arthur morgan with me !

husband!joel, who warms your car up before you go to work because he knows you love to sleep past your alarm—snoozing it a million times, the buzzing blaring loud enough that he can hear it from the kitchen as he slides his slippers on so you don’t have to be cold on your way to work.

husband!joel, who, even though money is tight, still manages to hand deliver you flowers in between job sites every once in awhile—making all the office ladies swoon as he kisses your temple before he leaves, leaving behind a smile on your face and butterflies in your stomach.

husband!joel, who can take one look at you when he walks in the door as you wait impatiently in the foyer and just knows when you’ve had a bad day—and wordlessly opens his arms to hold you and console you as you cry in his shirt.

husband!joel, who after working damn near 14 hours a day crawls into bed after a much needed shower, feeling part guilty but part whole heartedly loved knowing you’re still awake—letting out a deep and tired sigh as he nuzzles in your chest; melting into the feeling of your fingertips dragging through his hair.

husband!joel, who is thrilled when you have your friends over (your laugh always makes his heart swell), quietly staying out of the way but somehow managing to make sure every friend's wine glass is never empty.

husband!joel, who swears up and down he’s not a dancer and that he’s got two left feet, baby but still indulges you with a smile of endearment when you beg him to two step at the bar when your favorite song plays.

husband!joel, who just can’t resist you when you’re doing even the most mundane of things; from folding the laundry in your sweats or applying mascara in a tiny dress—he’ll find a way to get you underneath him.

husband!joel, who’s there with you when you go through another negative pregnancy test for the third month in a row—holding you until your tears ebb with promises of a baby miller one day, a family.

husband!joel, who can tell by the look in your eye in passing just exactly how you want him tonight—whether it’s rough and fast and dirty or sweet and passionate, he knows what his girl needs.

husband!joel. husband!joel. HUSBAND!JOEL.

[buddie-romance]

thank you ao3 for being an archive and not an algorithm. thank you for letting me like things without consequences, thank you for being free with no ads, thank you for having lawyers to defend our freedom of speech. thank you tag wranglers. thank you to all authors and thank you ao3

[havokangel]

look… joel miller knows how to swing dance/2 step and you cannot tell me otherwise

[ireenredd]

insta: ireenred_ / Arthur Morgan | Red Dead Redemption 2 ✨

[havokangel]

I just wanted to say thank u for blessing us with Lesson Learned I seriously reread it every other day it is the best writing piece ever😭🙏🙏

GIIIIIIIIIIRL THANK YOU!! ITS ONE OF MY FAVE PIECES IVE WRITTEN! PART 2 COMING SOON🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻