Whiskey and Want |dbf!Joel x f!reader| | 18+ MINORS DNI | {series masterlist}
Chapter 4: The Buzzkill | wordcount | 3.5k {TLOU AU, modern-ish, no outbreak, Sarah lives!}
| a/n | Chapter 4!! Drunken car rides home with Joel! What could go wrong? Things are gettin' a lil steamy now. Hope this chapter messes with your head as much as I want it to. apologies in advance. Your comments and reblogs are making my heart so happy, I'm glad you're enjoying my first lil fanfic (: xox - Liv “Joel reaches up, cupping your face in his calloused hand. His thumb drags over your bottom lip, pressing lightly, tugging it downward. Your lips part slightly, breath shuddering against his fingertips. ‘What was that, huh?’ His voice is a low drawl, thick with amusement. ‘Thought I was the pathetic one?’”
Warnings/tags: 18+ only, minors DNI, slow burn, forbidden romance, angst, yearning, Alcohol aftermath, intoxication, vomiting, kissing, straddling, sexual tension, age gap dynamics, strong language, emotional vulnerability, mild injury (fall) aftermath. series warnings after the fic. reader uses she/her pronouns and has hair. no major physical descriptions of the reader. no use of y/n but has the nickname Bird, Birdie, etc. reader has a backstory.
You don’t move over to the passenger seat.
Instead, you stay in the middle of the bench, your bare thigh just barely brushing against the sweatpants Joel threw on before coming to get you and Tommy from the bar. The tequila still lingers in your stomach, but it’s not the only thing making you feel woozy. The air in the cab is heavy, warm—it smells like Joel, even with the little tree-shaped air freshener hanging from the mirror.
You zone out, watching the winding road as you drive toward home, slipping in and out of sleep. Every so often, you jolt awake, your head going slack and crashing toward your chest. Joel hasn’t said a word. He just keeps his eyes on the road, hands at nine and three, lips pressed together in a quiet hum.
He flipped on the radio when you pulled out of Tommy’s complex. It plays softly, tuned to some classic dad-rock station. You recognize the late-night host’s voice from being in this exact situation before—riding home drunk, half-asleep with your dad.
From the corner of your eye, you watch Joel until the steady hum of the truck’s engine, mixed with the rhythm of his breathing, lulls you back to sleep.
You wake up again, this time to the sound of Joel mumbling. You notice the faint vibration against your cheek, you must have rested your head on his shoulder while you slept. Half-opening your eyes, you realize you’re in the drive-thru of a fast-food restaurant. Joel pays at the window, and you let your eyes drift shut again, leaving your head where it is, trying to ignore the way he smells; like lavender and musk.
Judging by the passing scenery, you’re only about five minutes from home when a sudden panic jolts you fully awake. You untangle the arm you somehow wrapped around Joel’s, carefully moving his hand from where it rests, palm up on his thigh. Squinting against your blurred, doubling vision, you turn your head toward him and whisper in his ear,
“Joel.”
You feel his whole body tense. The hand on his knee scrunches the fabric of his jeans, and the knuckles gripping the steering wheel turn white.
“What do you need, darlin’?” he asks, caution in his voice.
“Pull over.”
He turns to look at you, his nose just inches from yours. His expression catches somewhere between intrigue and terror.
“Why do you want me to pull over? Your daddy’s gonna lose his mind if I don’t have you home soon.”
“I’m gonna throw up.”
The second the words leave your mouth, you snap your head away from him, fumbling with your seatbelt as you lurch toward the passenger door. Joel cranks the wheel hard to the right, jumping a curb and bringing the truck to a rough stop halfway onto the sidewalk. You barely get the door open before you’re heaving, stomach acid and cranberry juice burning your throat.
Fucking awesome.
You try to push him away, but Joel insists on helping. He holds your hair back, rubbing soothing circles between your shoulders. It’s clear this isn’t the first time he’s done this.
Of course, it isn’t. Joel always picked Sarah up from the bar, or any party she went to. He preferred it—never trusted her to take a cab home from the city.
Honestly, it’s surprising you haven’t ended up in this position before tonight. You and Sarah went out most nights whenever you were both home.
Once you’re sure you’ve emptied your stomach, you drag yourself back into the truck. Sliding back into the middle seat, you rest your head on his shoulder for the remainder of the drive. Neither of you say a word.
Joel just lazily drapes an arm over the back of the seat.
Before long, Joel pulls into the driveway.
He tugs you from the cab, setting you down, but your knees buckle like a newborn fawn’s—weak, wobbly, Jello-soft.
He huffs, exasperation sharp, and scoops you up before you hit the ground, cradling you like it’s nothing.
“Hold onto my neck,” he mutters, and you do, fingers sinking into the soft curls at his nape.
Your head spins, booze-soaked, and a memory flickers—three years back, right after Mom died, you spiraling into vodka stolen from Dad’s stash night after night, chasing numbness until it became your only lifeline. You’d been drowning in it, dependency creeping in as grief hollowed you out, barely 22 and already cracking. That night, he found you half-passed out on the porch, bottle tipped over, voice breaking as he whispered, holding back tears,
“I can’t lose you too, Birdie.”
The next day, he’d turned to Joel, pressing the key into his hand with a hollow, desperate look.
“You’re family, Joel—keep her from breakin’ like she did…” He stopped, eyes wet, the unspoken weight of her absence hanging between them.
You try to blink it away, clinging tighter now as Joel digs out that same key—a copy he’s had since then. He’s been Dad’s rock ever since her silence took hold, and you know this closeness is a shard in that fragile trust.
With a quiet click, the door unlocks. He carefully shifts sideways, making sure not to knock your knees against the frame as he carries you inside. His footsteps are light as he moves through the living room, lowering you onto the couch like it’s nothing. He’s still strong, handling you with ease, but he’s smart enough not to haul you upstairs and risk throwing out his back. Maybe when he was thirty, he wouldn’t have thought twice. But now? Pushing closer to fifty, his knees and back have the final say.
You roll onto your side, hugging a throw pillow and burying your face in it.
Joel heads into the kitchen, reaching into the cupboard above the sink. He grabs a bottle of whiskey and the ibuprofen, then pulls down two glasses—one for alcohol, one for water. He shakes out two pills, one for now, one for the morning.
There’s no need to be quiet. Your dad is half-deaf, could probably sleep through an artillery strike without stirring. He’s the heaviest sleeper you’ve ever met—a huge perk when you were a teenager. You never even had to sneak out; you just left and came back. He never had a clue. And your mom? She checked out of being a parent long before you hit your teens.
Joel settles beside you on the couch, pulling your legs across his lap. His fingers move to the buckle of your shoe, and at the first brush of contact, a shudder rolls through you—goosebumps prickling across your skin. It feels too intimate. You think about telling him to stop, but you don’t. Instead, you just watch as he slips off both heels and tosses them beside the couch.
Then, he nudges your shoulder.
“Sit up.”
When you don’t move, he sighs, grabs your wrist, and pulls you upright.
“Here, drink this.”
He presses the glass of water into your hand, holding out the pill in the other.
“Like I was saying earlier, cowboy—you ain’t my daddy.”
“You see him around right now? No, he’s sleepin’ while I take care of you. Now drink the damn water.” His voice is even firmer this time.
You oblige, placing the pill on your tongue in front of him and tipping the cool glass to your lips. You sip, then chug the rest. You hadn’t realized how thirsty you are until the liquid touches your tongue—parched, like a neglected houseplant or someone rescued from the Sahara.
Joel takes a slow sip of whiskey, watching you over the rim of his glass.
“Atta girl. Finally fuckin’ listenin’ to me.” His voice is low, a gravelly purr.
The praise makes your heart—and your pussy—throb.
It also makes you choke on your last sip of water. You double over, coughing into your elbow, eyes watering.
“You good, kid? Don’t go dyin’ on me now; I just got you home safe,” Joel says, half-amused, half-concerned.
“I’m fine. Went down the wrong pipe.” Your face burns with embarrassment.
“Mhm. Alright, whatever. Eat.”
He hands you a grease-stained brown paper bag. The smell alone makes you salivate. You reach inside and shove a handful of fries into your mouth, sighing softly as the salt and grease coat your tongue. Joel, thankfully, either ignores it or does a good job pretending to.
“You want some?” you ask, mouth full, holding out the box of fries.
“Nah, I’m good. You need the carbs to help soak up all the liquor in ya, kid.” He chuckles softly. “You’re gonna feel it tomorrow.”
“I’ll be fine. I barely ever get hungover.”
“Enjoy it while it lasts. You hit my age, you go out drinkin’ like you did tonight, and you’ll feel it for a week.” He takes another sip of his drink, and you watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows.
You smirk.
“Oh yeah, so true! I keep forgetting you’re an old man.”
Joel doesn’t laugh. Just stares at you, unreadable. Then, slowly, he moves his hand from the arm of the couch down to your ankle, wrapping his fingers around it. He squeezes once before tracing slow, lazy circles into your skin.
“You’re on mighty thin fuckin’ ice, brat,” he mutters, exhaustion making his voice even growlier.
For a second, you consider pushing him further just to hear more of it. But then you remember how pissed he got earlier at the bar. Maybe best to let it go.
“Thank you,” you murmur. “For bringing me home. And buying me food. And holding my hair, even though you didn’t need to do any of those things.”
Joel snorts.
“I didn’t need you to tell me to take you home from the bar. Watchin’ you dancin’ on an old man told me you were plenty ready to leave.”
His expression twists slightly, like the memory alone makes him taste something sour.
“Tommy’s not that much younger than you. If he’s old, you must be ancient,” you tease. “And if it’s any consolation, I was only doing that to keep him from breaking some poor kid’s nose.”
Joel just watches you talk, nodding along as you babble.
“That’s why I texted you. He almost beat up some guy for hitting on me.”
“Well, did he deserve it?” Joel asks.
“Not really. He was pretty harmless. Tommy must’ve been jealous.”
Joel hums in agreement, still absentmindedly rubbing your lower legs, every now and then dragging his fingers down to your feet. It’s a harmless act—a paternal instinct, you tell yourself. It reminds you of the nights your dad would sit at the end of your bed, rubbing your shins to ease the growing pains that left you sobbing.
Your eyelids feel heavy.
You close your eyes and let yourself sink into the warmth of Joel’s touch.
“Where’s my phone? It was in my jacket last time I saw it,” you ask him.
“Oh, must still be in the truck. I’ll go get it, hold on,” he answers.
“No, it’s fine. I’ll grab it—I need to change out of this stupid dress anyway. You stay.”
You shift off his lap slowly, swinging your legs over his knees. The movement is careful, measured, and when your bare skin grazes over his crotch, you feel the way his body stiffens beneath you. He doesn’t say anything, he just watches, expressionless—but you don’t miss the way he swallows hard, his grip tightening for a second on his glass of whiskey before he sets it down.
As you head for the door, you glance back. Joel’s adjusting the throw blanket over his lap, his jaw clenched like he’s trying to will himself into stillness. You don’t say anything, but a knowing smirk plays at your lips as you step outside. //
The air is cooler than you expect, the contrast against your warmed skin sending a small shiver down your spine. You climb into the truck and grab your jacket from the floor of the cab, but as you lift it, something catches your eye. A crumpled sticky note, partially stepped on. You smooth it out between your fingers and immediately recognize the handwriting.
Thank you for supporting our small business—Sweet Berry Farm.
Your lips twitch into a small smile as you remember the bouquet of sunflowers Joel brought you the day you came home. They’re still sitting on your nightstand, petals a little wilted now.
You swing the truck door closed and step onto the porch, deciding to light a cigarette since you’re already outside. The porch swing creaks under your weight as you sit, leaning your head back and taking a slow drag. The tobacco is sweet on your tongue, the warmth settling low in your belly, making everything feel a little easier, a little looser. The quiet hum of the night wraps around you, and you get so lost in it that you don’t hear the front door open or close.
You only notice Joel when the swing shifts beside you.
“Your daddy know you smoke?” His voice is thick, a little rough around the edges.
You pause, cocking your head slightly.
“What he don’t know won’t hurt him.”
“I ain’t tellin’,” he murmurs, plucking the cigarette from your lips before you can react. He brings it to his own mouth, inhaling, the ember flaring bright, a red glow pulsing like a heartbeat.
“Too pretty to be smoking, though, darlin’,” he adds, exhaling, the smoke shimmering unnaturally in the dark.
You should roll your eyes, should brush him off, but you don’t. You just watch. The way the smoke curls from his lips. The way his chest rises slow and steady, broad and strong. The way his fingers linger near his mouth before offering the cigarette back to you.
Your mouth goes dry, and your thoughts scatter. Can he taste my chapstick? Why does he make smoking look so good? What do his lips feel like? What do they taste like?
You reach for the cigarette, but Joel notices the way you hesitate. His lips twitch.
“You still in there? You’re starin’,” he drawls, holding it just out of reach.
Real smooth, fucking weirdo.
You recover quickly, snatching the cigarette back with a huff.
“Not staring—zoning out. Headrush. Don’t flatter yourself.” You take another slow pull, but the warmth in your face betrays you. The heat that started in your chest is lower now, simmering beneath your skin, and when you shift in your seat, pressing your legs together, Joel notices.
His eyes flick down, then back up. He leans in, just enough that you smell the faintest hint of whiskey.
“Whatever you say, kid.”
His voice is low, teasing, and you officially lose any chance of pretending you have the upper hand. He knows exactly what he’s doing—he’s enjoying this.
You keep passing the cigarette between you, his fingers brushing yours each time. When it burns down to the filter, you stomp it out and flick the butt into the yard. You pull your phone from your pocket, exhaling slowly, but when you glance at the screen, your stomach drops.
Your eyes widen at the first notification.
(1:08AM)T-Mills: Had a lot of fun tonight, bird. We should hang out more. 😜 Srry Joel's such a fuckin’ buzzkill. 🙄
Your stomach twists. Whatever reaction flickers across your face must be obvious, because before you can even think to hide it, Joel leans in. His eyes flick over the screen, and before you can pull away, he snatches the phone from your hands.
“Is he fuckin’ hitting on you still? Jesus Christ.”
His voice is sharp, edged with something rougher, something possessive. His whole demeanor shifts—shoulders squared, jaw tight, fingers gripping your phone like he’s about to snap it in half. You can’t tell if it’s scaring you or turning you on.
“Joel, give me back my phone. Who cares if he is, anyway?”
You reach for it, but he jerks his arm away, forcing you to grab at his forearm in a weak attempt to pry it from his grip.
“Oh, I fuckin’ care. He knows better.”
Joel scoffs, shaking his head like he’s personally offended. His grip tightens around your phone, and then he mutters,
“You’re off limits, and he knows that.”
Your brain short-circuits.
Off limits?
Your hands go slack, any fight draining out of you. What’s the point? He’s stronger—he could keep it from you all night if he wanted to. You watch as he unlocks your phone, swipes to the camera, and snaps a picture of himself flipping off the screen. Then, he types out a message and hits send.
(1:27AM) You: Get fucked, Tom—The Buzzkill 😉
You huff out a laugh, shaking your head.
“You guys are both fucking pathetic.”
It must hit a nerve, because Joel’s expression changes instantly. His eyes darken, pupils blown wide—so wide, you swear you can see the whole damn moon reflected in them. But this time, he doesn’t look angry. Just… intense.
Heat licks up your spine.
Joel reaches up, cupping your face in his calloused hand. His thumb skims across your cheekbone, fingers trailing lower, slow and deliberate, tracing down the side of your neck. Your breath falters in your throat, and before you can stop it, a quiet whimper slips past your lips.
For fuck’s sake.
Joel grins.
“What was that, huh?” His voice is a low drawl, thick with amusement. “Thought I was the pathetic one?”
His thumb drags over your bottom lip, pressing lightly, tugging it downward. Your lips part slightly, breath shuddering against his fingertips. He doesn’t move any closer, just stays right there, hovering. You’re sharing air now.
You’re inches away from something irreversible.
You try to say something—anything, but before you can find the words, Joel closes the gap. His lips meet yours, rough and consuming, and you swear your pulse is loud enough to drown out the whole city.
Your body ignites.
You press into him, mouth parting wider, pulling his bottom lip between your teeth. You bite down, just enough to feel resistance before you soothe it with a slow drag of your tongue.
Joel’s fingers tighten around your jaw, tilting your chin up, deepening the kiss. His tongue slides against yours, tasting, exploring, claiming. His other hand grips your thigh, fingers digging into the flesh, pulling you closer. Your own hands find their way into his hair, twisting into the curls at the base of his neck, tugging just hard enough to draw a low growl from his throat. The vibration shoots through you like lightning, settling deep in your core.
It’s not enough.
Your pussy aches, you’re desperate for some kind of friction, anything to get some relief. You continue mapping out his mouth with your tongue, never breaking the kiss until you turn to swing your knee over his thigh. You hover, hands planted against his shoulders, thumbs pressing into the space between his collarbone and traps.You settle over him, straddling his lap. Or at least, you try to.
Joel’s hands clamp down on your hips, holding you still.
“Can’t do that, darlin’.” His voice is rough, strained. “S’not right. You’re drunk.”
His hesitation threatens to snap the moment in half, dragging him back to reality, but you refuse to let it slip away that easily. Your breath is still heavy, your heart beating relentlessly as you meet his gaze.
“I’m sober enough to know what I’m doin’.”
Joel exhales hard through his nose, shaking his head.
“Sure, but I don’t think you have a fuckin’ clue what you’re gettin’ yourself into, little bird.”
His pupils are still blown wide, but his face is serious again—his mind warring with his body. You can see it. The restraint tightening in his jaw, the way his fingers flex against your skin like he’s debating whether to push you away or pull you closer.
“We shouldn’t be doin’ this, your daddy’s gonna have my fuckin’ head.”
You tilt your head, voice dropping to a whisper.
“I’ll never tell, cowboy.”
That’s all it takes.
He breaks.
His hands tighten on your hips, dragging you down as his mouth crashes into yours. A sharp whine escapes from the back of your throat, swallowed up by the heat of his lips. Your nails dig into his shoulders, anchoring yourself against him, his pulse beneath your fingertips racing.
His tongue dances on yours, slow, like he has all the time in the world to take you apart piece by piece. The taste of whiskey lingers, sharp and heady.
You shift, rolling your hips against his thigh—chasing friction, desperate for more. He growls into your mouth, fingers surely pressing bruises into your skin as he holds you there, letting you feel exactly what you do to him.
Then—
Creak.
Joel tenses beneath you.
You barely have time to react before—
The swing creaks too loud, the night bending around you.
Snap.
The porch swing collapses beneath you both. You plummet backward, limbs tangling with his as you hit the ground.
And just before your head smacks against the siding of the house—
You wake up. (I'm so sorry for this please don't hate me I promise I'll make it up to you)
series warnings!!! fluff, smut, angst,unprotected p-in-v (please wrap it up), f/m masturbation, fingering, large but legal age-gap (joel is in 40's reader is in mid 20's), size kink?, choking, pervy!obsessive!joel, pervy!mean!Tommy, possessive/rough sex, vomiting, alcohol intoxication, praise, sex on the phone, drinking/smoking, strong language, sneakin around, lowkey obsessive and reckless Joel, blackmail, competency kink, risky sex, infidelity/implied, semi-public sex, breeding kink lowkey, overstimulation, a tiny bit of coercion, dirty talk, oops its a creampie, brief mentions of grief and implied suicide, Tommy is a jerk in this one, guilt and betrayal, bar-fights @yesjazzywazzylove-blog @brittmb115 @mystickittytaco @your-nightmaredoll @leenieweenie12 @jokesonthem