They're the ones who'll hate you When you think you've got the world all sussed out They're the ones who'll spit at you You will be the one screaming out. 18+
Summary: Joel is your grumpy old neighbor, and one night when there’s a thunderstorm he comes over when his power goes out.
Warnings: explicit content, mature themes, smut, porn with some plot, age gap, older Joel, grumpy Joel, dominant Joel, oral female receiving, minor fingering, unprotected sex, dirty talk, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, soft Joel at the end.
A/N: hello my favorite people! Let me know what you guys think of this one I would love to hear from everyone! Seriously if it’s a compliment, favorite part, or even to give advice is want to hear from everyone! Don’t forget to reblog and comment your little hearts out it is always appreciated and strongly encouraged! Plus, my taglist for Pedro is still open so please join! Thanks everyone again so much! XOXO
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The rain hammers against your roof like it's trying to break in, a late-summer storm that's been building all day. You're curled on the couch in nothing but an oversized T-shirt and cotton underwear, wine glass sweating on the coffee table, some mindless true-crime documentary droning in the background. The thunder is so loud it rattles the old single-pane windows of your fixer-upper.
Then you hear it, those three sharp knocks on your front door. You freeze. No one knocks on your door at 10:47 p.m. during a thunderstorm unless something's wrong.
You pad barefoot across the hardwood, heart already kicking up, and peek through the peephole.
Joel Miller stands on your porch, soaked through, dark hair plastered to his forehead, flannel shirt clinging obscenely to the broad planes of his chest and shoulders. His jaw is set like he's chewing glass. He knocks again much harder this time.
You open the door just enough to speak through the gap. "What the hell, Joel?"
"Power's out on my side," he growls, water dripping from the brim of the baseball cap he's wearing backward. "Generator won't catch. Saw your lights still on. Need to borrow your outlet for my charger. Phone's dead and I got a job site at six."
You stare at him. "You're asking to come inside my house at almost eleven because your phone's dead?"
His eyes narrow. "You gonna make me stand out here and drown or what?"
There's a beat of silence broken only by the rain and distant thunder.
You pull the door open wider. "Fine. But wipe your boots."
He steps inside without a thank-you, tracking mud across your mat anyway. The scent of wet denim, pine sawdust, and something darker—sweat, maybe motor oil—fills the entryway as he shrugs out of his drenched flannel, leaving him in a faded black T-shirt that's just as plastered to him. The fabric molds to every ridge of muscle across his stomach, the deep V of his hips, the thick swell of his biceps. You hate how your mouth goes dry.
He glances around like he's never been inside before, and spots the outlet beside the couch. "This'll do."
You cross your arms. "You could've just asked during daylight like a normal person."
"Didn't need it during daylight." He crouches, plugs in the cord he pulled from his pocket, and his shirt rides up enough to show the dark trail of hair disappearing into his jeans. "And you're usually gone by the time I get home."
"Because I don't want to hear you bitching about my overgrown hedges again."
He snorts, still crouched, forearms braced on his thighs. "They're a goddamn eyesore."
"They're privacy."
"They're a fire hazard."
You roll your eyes. "You're insufferable."
He finally looks up at you like really looks, and something shifts in his expression. His gaze drags down your bare legs, lingers on the hem of your shirt where it skims the tops of your thighs, then flicks back to your face. His voice drops half an octave.
"And you're standin' there in nothin' but a fuckin' T-shirt like you ain't got a care in the world."
Heat crawls up your neck. "It's my house."
"Yeah." He stands slowly, unfolding all six-foot-something of him until he's crowding the narrow space between you and the couch. "And I'm in it."
The air feels thicker now, charged like the storm outside. You should step back. You don't.
"You want me to leave?" he asks, quieter, meaner.
You swallow. "I want you to stop being such an asshole to me every time we talk."
His mouth twitches—not quite a smile. "Maybe I like seein' you get all riled up."
Your breath catches. "That's fucked up."
"Yeah." He takes one step closer. You can feel the heat rolling off him despite the wet clothes. "It is."
Thunder cracks so loud the lights flicker. You both freeze. Then the power cuts out completely. Darkness swallows the room. Only the occasional lightning flash illuminates the hard lines of his face, the way his chest rises and falls faster now.
"Shit," he mutters.
You laugh once, shaky. "Guess your charger's useless now."
He doesn't answer. Just stares at you in the stuttering blue-white light. Another flash. He's closer.
You whisper, "Joel—"
His hand finds your jaw—rough, callused palm cupping the side of your face, thumb dragging across your bottom lip. Not gentle. Possessive.
"You gonna keep runnin' that mouth," he says, voice gravel, "or you gonna let me do somethin' about it?"
Your heart slams against your ribs. You don't answer with words. You surge up and kiss him. It's not sweet. It's teeth and hunger and months of every barbed comment, every glare across the fence, every time you caught him staring too long when you were watering plants in cutoff shorts. He groans into your mouth like he's been starving.
His hands are everywhere—gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, sliding under your shirt to palm your ass, dragging you flush against him so you can feel exactly how hard he already is through soaked denim.
"Fuck," he breathes against your lips. "Been thinkin' about this too goddamn long."
You bite his bottom lip. "You're such a dick."
"Yeah." He hauls you up quickly your legs wrap around his waist instinctively. "And you're wet for it."
He carries you down the dark hallway like he already knows the layout—maybe he's watched your windows more than he'll ever admit. Your bedroom door bangs open. He drops you onto the mattress hard enough that you bounce once. Lightning flashes again. You see him clearly for a second: shirt clinging, jeans dark with rain, erection straining obscenely against the zipper, eyes black with want.
He yanks his shirt over his head. The wet fabric slaps the floor. You sit up on your elbows, breathing hard.
"You're soaked."
"Gonna get you soaked too." He hooks his fingers in the waistband of your underwear and rips them down your legs in one rough tug. No preamble. No teasing. Just pure, impatient need. You gasp when cool air hits you.
"Look at you," he mutters, voice wrecked. "Already drippin' and I ain't even touched you yet."
He drops to his knees at the edge of the bed, drags you toward him by the hips, and buries his face between your thighs without warning. You cry out—sharp, surprised, filthy.
His tongue is relentless. Broad, flat strokes at first, then pointed, flicking over your clit with devastating precision. He groans like you're the best thing he's ever tasted, the sound vibrating through you.
"Joel—fuck—slow down—"
He doesn't. He sucks hard, then softer, then hard again, changing rhythm until your hips are jerking helplessly. One thick forearm bands across your stomach to pin you down.
"Stay still," he growls against you. "Let me eat this pussy the way I've been dreamin' about."
You thread your fingers into his damp hair and pull—hard. He likes it. Growls louder. Shoves two fingers inside you without warning, curling them immediately, stroking that spot that makes your vision white out.
"Oh god—right there—don't stop—"
"Gonna come on my tongue?" he asks, voice muffled, smug. "Gonna soak my fuckin' beard?"
"Yes—yes—Joel—"
You shatter. Back arching, thighs clamping around his head, crying his name loud enough the neighbors probably hear it over the storm. He doesn't stop until you're whimpering, oversensitive, trying to push him away.
Only then does he lift his head, lips shiny, beard glistening. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and crawls up your body like a predator. You're still shaking when he kisses you again—deep, dirty, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.
"Turn over," he orders.
You obey before you can think. He manhandles you onto your stomach, yanks your hips up so you're on your knees, chest pressed to the mattress. You hear his belt buckle clank, the rasp of his zipper, the wet sound of him shoving his jeans down just enough.
Then the blunt head of him is nudging at your entrance.
"Tell me you want it," he says, voice low and dangerous. "Tell me you want your grumpy old neighbor to fuck you raw."
You push back against him. "I want it. I want you to fuck me so hard I can't walk tomorrow."
He slams home in one brutal thrust. You scream into the pillow. He's thick—thicker than you expected—and the stretch burns so good your eyes water. He doesn't give you time to adjust. Just grips your hips and starts pounding into you like he's trying to leave an imprint.
"Fuck—tight—Christ—" he grits out. "This cunt was made for me."
You claw at the sheets. "Harder—please—Joel—"
He leans over you, chest to your back, one hand wrapping around your throat—not choking, just holding. The other hand finds your clit and rubs fast, merciless circles.
"You like bein' fucked like a little slut in your own bed?" he growls in your ear. "Like knowin' I can hear every sound you make through these thin walls?"
"Yes—god yes—"
"Next time I see you bendin' over in that garden I'm gonna remember how you looked with my cock buried in you. Gonna remember how you begged."
You're crying now—overwhelmed, oversensitive, chasing another orgasm that feels like it might kill you.
"Come on my cock," he snarls. "Come on it right fuckin' now or I swear I'll edge you till mornin'."
You break again—harder this time, vision tunneling, thighs shaking violently. He fucks you through it, pace brutal, until he's gasping, cursing under his breath.
"Gonna fill you up," he warns. "Gonna come so deep you'll feel me for days."
"Do it," you gasp. "Please—give it to me—"
He slams in one last time and stills, cock pulsing, flooding you with heat. The groan he lets out is broken, raw, almost pained. He stays buried inside you for a long minute, breathing ragged against your neck.
Finally he pulls out—slow—watching the way his come leaks out of you with something like possession in his eyes.
He flops onto his back beside you, chest heaving. You collapse onto your stomach, legs trembling. Silence stretches, broken only by the rain.
Then he mutters, rough, "You okay?"
You turn your head to look at him. "You're asking now?"
He snorts. Reaches over and drags you half on top of him, one heavy arm banding around your waist.
"Don't get used to it," he grumbles. But his thumb is stroking lazy circles on your hip.
You smile into his shoulder. "Too late."
He sighs—like he's annoyed, like he's resigned, like he's already thinking about round two. Outside, the storm keeps raging. Inside, something else has just begun.
The storm hasn't let up. Rain still lashes the windows in angry sheets, thunder rolling farther away now like it's finally losing interest. Inside your bedroom the air is thick with sex and sweat and the faint metallic tang of ozone that's seeped in through the cracks. You're both wrecked in the best way—skin slick, breathing uneven, sheets twisted around your ankles.
Joel hasn't moved much. He's still on his back, one arm flung over his eyes, chest rising and falling in heavy, slowing pulls. His other hand rests heavy on your lower back where he dragged you half-draped across him earlier. You can feel the steady thump of his heart under your cheek, can feel the sticky warmth of his come still leaking slowly out of you every time you shift. It should feel obscene. Instead it feels like you’ve been claimed.
You're the first to speak, voice hoarse. "You alive over there?"
A low grunt. His arm slides off his face so he can squint at you through the dark. Lightning flickers once, weak and distant, just enough to catch the silver in his beard and the faint flush still riding his cheekbones.
"Barely," he mutters. "You tryin' to kill me?"
You huff a tired laugh against his shoulder. "You started it."
"Yeah, well." His fingers flex against your spine, not quite a caress, more like he's reminding himself you're still there. "You finished it."
Silence again. Not awkward, exactly—just full. The kind of quiet that happens after something irreversible. After a minute he exhales through his nose, long and slow, like he's bracing himself. Then he rolls—careful, deliberate—until you're on your back and he's hovering over you on one elbow. His free hand comes up, rough knuckles brushing sweat-damp hair off your forehead.
"You hurtin'?" he asks, quieter than you've ever heard him.
You blink up at him. "What?"
"Don't play dumb." His thumb traces the edge of your jaw, then down the column of your throat where he'd held you earlier—not tight, never tight, but firm enough you'll probably have faint fingerprints tomorrow. "I was rough. Tell me if I hurt you."
The tenderness in his voice catches you off guard. This is the same man who spent the last year growling at you over property lines and garbage cans. Now he's looking at you like you might break if he breathes wrong.
"I'm sore," you admit. "But the good kind. Not... not bad."
He nods once, jaw working like he's chewing on something he doesn't like the taste of. "Still."
He shifts his weight and eases off you completely. You make a small, involuntary sound of protest—already missing the heat of him—but he's already moving.
"Stay," he says, not looking back as he swings his legs over the side of the bed. The mattress dips, then rises.
You hear him in the dark—bare feet on hardwood, the soft clink of his belt buckle as he kicks his soaked jeans the rest of the way off, the rustle of fabric. A minute later the ensuite light flicks on, a warm stripe of gold cutting across the bedroom floor. He disappears inside. Water runs.
You push yourself up on your elbows, wincing a little at the deep ache between your thighs, the dull throb in your hips where his grip had been brutal. Worth it.
He comes back with a damp washcloth and a glass of water from the sink. No shirt, just faded black boxer briefs that do nothing to hide how thick his thighs still are, how solid he remains even after coming so hard his voice cracked on your name.
He sets the glass on your nightstand, then kneels on the edge of the mattress—careful, almost hesitant now.
"Open," he says, nudging your knee with his free hand. You hesitate for half a second. He notices of course.
"Ain't askin' to fuck you again," he mutters, a little gruff, a little embarrassed. "Just wanna clean you up. You're a mess."
Heat crawls back into your face. "Romantic."
"Shut up." But there's no bite in it. You let your thighs fall open. He's gentle in a way that feels obscene after how roughly he took you—slow swipes of the warm cloth along your inner thighs, careful presses against your swollen folds, wiping away the mix of both of you with steady, focused strokes. Every time you flinch at a particularly tender spot he pauses, thumb rubbing soothing circles on your hip until you relax again.
When he's done he folds the cloth, sets it aside, then grabs the water glass and holds it out.
"Drink." You take it, sip. Cool relief slides down your throat. He watches you like it's his job to make sure you finish at least half.
Only when the glass is back on the nightstand does he finally lie down beside you again—this time pulling you properly into his side. One thick arm loops around your waist, tucking you against his chest. His chin rests on top of your head. You can feel his heartbeat slowing under your palm where it rests over his sternum.
"Better?" he asks, voice rumbling through you.
"Mm." You nuzzle closer, already half-drifting. "You're still an asshole, though."
A huff of laughter against your hair. "Yeah. But I'm your asshole now, I guess."
You smile into his skin. "Possessive much?"
"Had my tongue in your cunt and my come in you twenty minutes ago. Think I get to be a little possessive."
You snort. "Dick."
His hand starts moving again—slow, lazy strokes up and down your spine, fingertips catching on the knobs of your vertebrae, then smoothing over the small of your back. It's hypnotic. You feel your limbs growing heavier, eyelids drooping.
"Joel?"
"Hm?"
"You staying?" He's quiet long enough you start to wonder if he heard you.
"You want me to?"
You press your lips to the center of his chest. "Yeah."
Another beat.
"Then I'm stayin'." He reaches over you, drags the tangled sheet and comforter up over both of you. The fabric is cool against your overheated skin. He tucks it around your shoulders, then settles back, pulling you even tighter against him—like he's afraid you'll disappear if he lets go.
"Sleep," he murmurs, lips brushing your temple. "I got you."
You believe him. The rain keeps falling, softer now. His breathing evens out beneath you, deep and steady. One last rumble of thunder rolls through, distant and harmless.
You're already slipping under when you feel his hand slide down to cup your ass—not sexual, just simply holding. Possessive. Safe.
"Night, sweetheart," he whispers, so quiet you almost miss it.
You smile against his skin, already too far gone to answer. But you squeeze his side once, just enough for him to feel it. He squeezes back. And for the first time in a long damn time, the house next door doesn't feel quite so far away.
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