is your daddy home?
hbf!joel miller x afab!reader
warnings: nsfw!! fingering, piv smut, porn w/plot, husband's best friend!joel, dirty talk, praise, wall pining, cheating reader...........
synopsis: while your husband is out for a job, you're left home all alone. one night, his best friend, joel, comes over with a pack of beer and food. what starts as a little shared meal in the kitchen, ends with something that makes you think twice about the man you married.
author notes: this was based off the song 'im on fire' by bruce springsteen! :3
The heat pressed against the windows long after the sun went down. The cicadas outside were still singing in waves, slow and drawn out. The air smelled like cedar and newly mowed grass. Inside, the only light came from a dull lamp in the corner of the room, casting everything in amber and shadow. You sat on the old couch, barefoot, legs curled under you, with a sweating glass of water untouched on the small table beside you.
Your husband had left for a two-week job out west, some contract work he’d said would be good money, and it wasn’t like you’d argued against it. You both needed the break, the space.
You were halfway through the same page for the third time. The book sat open in your lap, your fingers curled against the spine, but your eyes had drifted past it again, unfocused. The overhead fan clicked in its slow rotation above you. Sweat beaded at the back of your neck, warm and irritating. You shifted slightly, trying to focus.
You weren’t even sure what the book was about anymore. Something historical. Something heavy. You’d picked it up because it had a pretty cover and you’d liked the way the paper felt in your hands. Now, it was just something to look at so your mind didn’t drift too far into what-if places.
You set the book down on the table, and then reached for the glass. Condensation had puddled underneath it, bleeding out in a perfect ring. The water was on the warmer side now, but still, you took a sip.
Knock, knock
You blinked. Waited.
Another, slower this time.
You turned your head toward the door. The knock wasn’t rushed, wasn’t insistent—just there. You let the glass rest back on the table again, your knees sticking for a moment to the couch cushion as you rose.
You made your way to your front door, questioning who could be here at this hour. Stopping for a moment before reaching for the brass knob, and opening the big wooden door. You were met with one sorry sight.
Joel.
He stood with one shoulder leaning just slightly against the frame. His eyes found yours fast—no hesitation, no pause. He held up a bag and a six-pack of beer like an apology.
Your hand tightened, moving to the edge of the door. You didn’t know what you were going to say until the words came out. “…Just passin’ through?”
Joel shrugged once, slow. You hesitated, you knew he shouldn’t be here, but you also knew you wouldn’t be the one to tell him to leave. He looked at you, eyes dark and unreadable under the heavy curve of his brow.
You stepped back, letting him in without a word.
The door closed behind him with a soft click of the latch catching, no harder than necessary, but it still sounded loud in the quiet house. You stood there for a second, hand still on the wood, watching Joel’s back as he moved toward the kitchen with that slow, grounded kind of ease he had.
A soft flick was heard before the kitchen lit up. The six-pack made a soft thump on the kitchen counter top, glass bottles clinking against one another as he set them down. He placed the food beside them—barbecue, you could tell from the way the smell hit the air immediately, thick and smoky. The scent crawled up the back of your throat, almost making drool come dripping out of your mouth.
You walked towards the kitchen, arms crossing loosely over your chest, the cotton of your tank top catching slightly at your ribs where the heat made it cling to your skin. The floor was cool under your feet—cooler than the air, at least.
Joel didn’t turn to look at you. He was unpacking the bag slowly, setting out wax-paper containers on the counter like he was laying out tools at a job site. You stood in the doorway of the kitchen and watched the way his shoulders moved under his shirt, the way the fabric clung slightly where his skin had sweat through it at the short sleeve. He moved his fingers almost in a dance—calloused and blunt, but precise and careful.
“I brought too much,” he said, finally glaring at you over his shoulder. “Figured if you weren’t hungry now, you might be later.”
You nodded, though you weren’t sure he saw it. Your voice didn’t want to come out when you tried to call it.
Joel moved, opening a drawer, grabbing a bottle opener without asking, and popping the top off the beer like he’d done here a dozen times before. He slid one of the glasses across the counter toward you, his hand lingering on the marble for a second too long—not touching, still, but just there.
You stepped forward and took the glass, letting your fingers brush the counter instead of his hand. But, you felt it. That nearness. The deliberate almost.
Joel took a swig of his own glass, eyes on you over the rim. You sipped yours too.
He moved to settle into one of the kitchen chairs, a soft grunt leaving his throat. You stayed standing for a moment longer, watching him from the other side of the counter, one hand curled loosely around your glass. He opened the box of brisket and slid it between you both on the counter, the scent of it so strong it made your mouth water. Another box—slaw, hush puppies, something sweet-smelling and fried— and then silence again.
Joel took a plastic fork and ate some of the brisket. You watched his jaw work, slow and thoughtful. He acted like there wasn’t anything strange about sitting in your kitchen, past nine on a Tuesday night, with no warning.
“You eat yet today?” he asked, not looking at you.
You shook your head. Then, realizing he wouldn’t see it, you answered. “No, I was trying to read.”
Joel made a sound, and took another bite. He met your gaze this time.
There was a kind of war happening in the silence between you, invisible but palpable— your breath moved slower now, his eyes flicked once to your collarbone. You sighed lowly while setting your bottle down, before walking around the island.
You sat next to him, and he didn’t flinch when you did. You pulled a container toward you and dug in, not speaking at first. The slaw was cold and sharp, vinegar biting your tongue, but you barely tasted it. All you could feel was the weight of Joel’s stare resting somewhere low on your body, like gravity had shifted between your legs and he was caught in the pull.
He shifted, moving to face his body towards yours. “He know you dress like that when you’re alone?”
You didn’t answer right away. Joel’s eyes had dipped. Your tank top, soft and clinging, had pulled tight across your chest, the fabric thin enough to betray the shape of everything beneath. Your shorts rode up without you noticing.
And oh, did he notice.
You held his gaze and took a slow bite of brisket. “You think you would be here if he did?” you asked softly, almost absently, not because you needed the answer— but because you wanted to hear what it would sound like in Joel Miller’s voice.
He sat back, just a fraction, the chair creaking beneath his weight. “Maybe not,” he gruffed out. “…I ain’t been able to stop thinkin’ about it since the last time I saw you. That dress, those legs. Him talkin’ your ear off while you just sat there quiet, like you wanted to be anywhere else.”
You swallowed. Your thighs pressed tighter together, involuntarily. Joel saw. He always saw.
He leaned into you, slow, like he had all the time in the world. “What else do you do when he’s gone?” he asked, voice dropping to a darker pitch now. “You just sit around? Wait for him to come back like a good wife?”
Your breath caught, you stared down at the food, then back up at him.
You smiled. A small, dangerous thing.
Joel’s eyes narrowed like he could see right through it— through the sweet wife act you barely wore anymore. You dragged your fork through the slaw, slow, not eating, not looking. Your breath was still caught high in your chest.
“I used to think about you.”
You looked at him, letting it hang for a moment, your pulse beating high in your ears. “I mean, before,” you added, voice growing raspy. “Back when he’d bring you around all the time. You’d sit in the backyard, while he talked about money and tools and all the bullshit that made him feel like a man. And you’d just sit there, drinking, listening. But, I knew what you were doing. Watching me.”
He didn’t deny it.
“I used to go inside just so I could breathe,” you continued. “Stand in the kitchen, cool off. When you looked at me like that—” you paused, shaking your head. Joel exhaled through his nose, barely audible. “You never said anything,” you murmured.
His mouth twitched, not a smile, but regret. “Wouldn’t mattered if I did.” he said. “You were already wearin’ his ring.”
You looked down at your hand, at the metal you’d stopped noticing months ago. The thing was— he was right. You had been your husbands long before you wore the ring. You remembered that version of yourself. Naive, young, willing. You thought the quiet spells were normal, thought the long silences were just tiredness. But they weren’t. They were the cold undercurrent of a man who didn’t really want a wife—he wanted something to own. You thought he loved you, then he stopped pretending.
“You still think about me?” he asked, his voice stripped down and thick with something darker. He moved his hand, setting his fingers lightly over your wrist. He could feel your pulse spike.
You leaned forward, lips parting just slightly. “Every time I hear his truck pull up,” you whispered, “I hope it’s you.”
The chair scraped back, quick this time. He stood, not fast nor rough, but sudden. His hand slid from your wrist to your fingers, gripping, then tugging. Joel pulled you off the chair then against him, your shorts brushed against his jeans. He stared down at you for one suspended second, chest rising slow and heavy.
Finally, he reached for you again. It wasn’t rough, but also wasn’t gentle. His hands came down to your waist, dragging over your ribs. His mouth was on yours in no time. His hand immediately slid up, fingers curling around the back of your neck to deepen the kiss. The heat of his lips makes you shiver, his speckled beard rough against your chin, cheeks, and edge of your throat when he kisses down briefly before coming back up again. He takes your bottom lip between his teeth and pulls softly. You gasp, sharp and quiet.
You can feel him everywhere. The heat of his chest against yours, the flex of his stomach through his shirt where it presses into your ribs, and the hard line of him already forming where his hips meet yours. Your thighs tense, heat spiraling low in your belly as his tongue licks into your mouth, hot and sure, making your knees go weak.
Your hands find his chest, gripping his shirt, needing something to hold onto. He breaks the kiss, pulling back just a half inch. He grabs you by the waist and lifts, strong arms locking under your thighs as your legs go around him. He moves around, before pinning you against a nearby wall—cool drywall against your exposed skin. His hips press forward between your legs, and you feel him—all of him— thick and hard against the cotton of your shorts, a strap of your tank top slipping off your shoulders as his mouth crashes back into yours.
You moan softly into the kiss, fingers finding their way into his hair. He growls. “You’re killin’ me,” he mutters against your mouth, breath hot. “I can feel how wet you are through your fuckin’ shorts.”
You whimper when he mentions it. You feel his hand slide down more as he holds you, fingers stroking the soft curve just beneath your ass. You buck into him, chasing friction, and he laughs. “You want me to take ‘em off?” he asks, mouth hot on your throat now, tongue tracing just below your jaw.
You nod.
“Say it,” he breathes, voice ragged. “Say what you want, sweetheart.”
“I want you,” you whisper, coming out broken.
He groans, then moves his hands to shove both your shorts and underwear aside. His fingers slide through your folds, the wet heat of you coating his skin as he groans deep in his chest. “Fuck,” he groans, kissing you again, thumb circling your clit before two fingers slid inside. “You were made for my fingers.”
Your head falls back, lips parting in a cry that’s too loud for how quiet the room is. You clench around his fingers, back arching, nails digging into his shoulders as he finger fucks you against the wall, hand pressed deep between your thighs.
You’re wet—soaked, really— and he loves it. The sound of your hole’s obscene sounds as he works you harder and deeper only pushes him more. Your legs tighten around his waist, heels digging into the top of his ass, trying to pull him closer, trying to make the angle better. His hand is so big between your legs, thick fingers like he knows exactly what you need. He’s watching your face, your mouth, your fluttering eyes, the way your hand curls into him like you might fall if you don’t hang on.
“Look at you,” he mutters, breath hot against you neck. “Such a dirty girl..”
You make a noise—high, and broken, your hips buck. Your thighs shake as the tension starts to coil deep in your belly, tight and molten. You can feel it building, wave after wave, every thrust of his fingers pushing you closer o that edge you’ve only ever chased in the dark, alone, when no one else was home.
“Yeah,” Joel growls, lips at your ear now, “There she is. Gonna come on my fingers, baby?”
You nod—or try to. Your head won’t move quite right. You’re too full, too fucked. He speeds up just a little, fingers fucking into you faster now, his palm rubbing perfectly against your clit in tight, practiced circles. Your stomach clenches. Your toes curl. You can feel the throb between your legs grow sharper.
It hits hard— your whole body tightening around him as the orgasm rushes through you like a flood, hot and fast. A cry rips from you as you grind down into his hand, thighs trembling uncontrollably. Joel holds you through it, fingers still moving, slower now. Your cunt pulses around his fingers, aftershocks making you twitch as he finally pulls back.
You look at him, dazed and ruined. And you reach for his belt with shaky hands. You can see the way his cock strains behind the denim. You start to imagine how it’ll feel inside you, stretching you out, hitting deeper than anyone else ever has.
But, before you can get the buckle undone, Joel grabs your wrist. You look up at him, confused, but he’s already moving. He slides his hands beneath your thighs again and puts you down with care, setting your feet to the floor. Your legs are shaky, but he steadies you. He walks you a few steps toward the counter, before pressing you against it. The marble is cold under your palms as your waist hits it.
Joel steps in behind you, hands slipping around to undress you, throwing the clothes somewhere you will find them later. Then, he steps back to work his own clothes off. You hear the clink of metal, the zip of his jeans, and the soft rustle as he pushes them down. He also threw his shirt off in the middle of the movement.
His hand moves to the small of your back, urging you to lean forward, to fold over the counter. You let him guide you—chest against the cool surface, arms braced, and legs spread. You feel completely exposed, but not shy. He spits in his hand, a filthy but perfect sound. Then, finally, you feel him slide between your legs, the swollen head of his cock dragging through your slick folds, teasing your entrance.
“Joel—” you gasp, needy now.
“Shhh,” he breathes, one hand gripping your hip, the other guiding himself into place. “I got you, darlin’. Just let me—”
And then he pushes in. Slow, deep. You cry out, fingers clutching the edge of the counter as he fills you. Your walls stretch around him, your body tightening to take him.
“Fuck,” he groans, hips trembling as he bottoms out. “She’s grippin’ me so hard, honey.” he speaks, like he’s talking less to you and more to himself.
You moan, hips pushing back instinctively, chasing more. One large hand splays on your lower back, keeping you in place while he pulls out just to slide back in again, harder this time. The wet slap of skin meeting skin echoes through the kitchen. Your mouth drops open as he sets a rhythm that slowly undoes you.
His cock drags against your inner walls, every stroke sending sharp, white-hot sparks up your spine. He hits that spot deep inside you with every thrust, pounding into it again and again, and soon your legs are shaking. Your moans come uncontrollably, slurred and begging.
“Jo-el.. fuck, don’t stop—please—”
He pants behind you, fucking you deeper, the sound of his hips slamming into your ass relentless. “Takin’ me so well, sweetheart.”
You can barely breathe, barely think. He reaches around you, one hand sliding between your legs to circle your clit again, and your entire body snaps. Your orgasm hits hard and without warning, tearing through you with a force that bends your back and arches you off the counter. You cry—raw and ruined as your cunt tightens around his cock, pulsing in waves that won’t stop.
Joel groans loud, and he slams into you. Once, twice, then buries himself to the hilt and spills into you. His grip was bruising on your hips, his cock twitching deep inside as he paints your insides, gasping your name like a prayer he forgot to say.