summary: Joel takes care of you, whether you know it or not.
cw: consensual somno, dual pov, age-gap (reader in college/grad school, pre-outbreak joel), power imbalance due to employment (babysitter), pre-established relationship (fwb/dom-sub), discussion of d/s dynamics, discussion of mental health, oral f!recieving, fingering, unprotected piv sex, pre-outbreak joel my love, joel miller DOWN BADDDDD, use of pet names (baby, honey, pretty girl, etc.), PRAIIIIIIIISEEEEEE
word count: 1.4k
a/n: don't look at me, i know it's another somno but what's a girl to do about it huh? i just want an old man eating me out in my sleep is that such a crime
masterlist
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You weren’t sure how it started, this arrangement with Joel.
Sure, you technically worked for him, as Sarah’s babysitter during the week. But this relationship – if you could even call it that – was a separate deal entirely.
Joel knew how to read you, unlike any other man before him. He knew your nervous tics, your pressure points, your signs of stress. He knew when you were desperate for distraction, needy for direction.
At first, the relationship was purely sex; scratching an itch you both had, a mutual desire for release. Waiting for him to come home, long after Sarah went to bed, and jumping his bones the moment he crossed the threshold of his doorway.
Joel certainly never had any complaints, and neither did you.
Until grad school started up again, and your head swam with more than just regular twenties-troubles.
Buzzing anxiety plagued you constantly, brooding weight seemingly slung across your shoulders, making you heavy with self-doubt, insecurity, stress. You spiraled at any small deviation from the standard you set for yourself, the impossible bar you bent yourself into pretzels to reach.
With school, and babysitting, and work, and friends, and family, and money… you found yourself desperate for reprieve from the leash you had on yourself, aching to give up the control you clung to so tightly.
Joel knew. He knew you wanted, needed, something requiring more trust than simple friends with benefits.
You need me to quiet that head of yours? Tell you what to do for a while?
In the dark of night, you’d nodded eagerly, entirely willing to become nothing more than his.
Okay, pretty girl. Get on your knees for me. Right now, you ain’t gotta be nothing but a mouth.
–
Joel was horribly, horrendously, unforgivably late.
It was all Tommy’s fault, really. His little brother refused to stop flirting with the owner, was slow on the dimensions of the property, and insisted on a nightcap after a 12-hour workday.
All Joel wanted to do? Be with his daughter, or with you. Either one was a better deal than anything he did all day.
The clock had just struck eleven when he finally managed to crack through the front door, his house quiet, dark. One lamp had been left on, casting his home in a dim, warm glow.
He knew Sarah had long gone to sleep. But you…
His heart melted at the sight of you, snoozing on his living room sofa. Golden Girls played on the TV, muted, adding to the angelic light that cast shadows across your face.
Dropping his bag at the door, he moved towards you, keeping his boots quiet on the hardwood floor so as to not wake you.
Joel couldn’t look away from you, so soft and beautiful and sweet in the dim light.
Your brow furrowed in your sleep, telling him exactly how plagued you’d been all day. Despite your stress, he knew you’d taken care of Sarah as a first priority, valuing his daughter’s smile over your own personal needs. And he couldn’t thank you enough for it.
But he could damn well try.
Joel wrapped his hands around your bare thighs, kneeling between your legs, and propping them up on his broad shoulders. His cock hardened at your pliantness, even in your sleep, letting him do as he pleased with you.
His perfect girl.
Joel hummed softly as he breathed in your scent, pressing his nose against the fabric of your shorts. Slipping his fingertips under your waistband, he pulled the shorts off easily enough, bringing your panties with him.
He held those close, feeling like he would want to play with them again.
Joel breathed in your bare cunt like it was the crispest air he’d ever inhaled. His balls tightened as he saw the hair you let grow in, how it showed the evidence of your arousal even in your sleep.
Noticing the stretch marks that pulled across your inner thighs, he pressed light kisses to the sensitive skin. At once, your cunt gushed with a rise of desire, your body reacting to his worship unconsciously.
Joel always made a point to praise the things that you critique about yourself, from stretch marks to your breasts to your stomach to your intelligence itself. He found purpose in making you see yourself in the way he sees you, making you recognize your own worth because of the things you dislike so violently, and not in spite of them.
He kissed your inner thigh more deeply, sucking marks into the skin that he knew you would smile at in the morning. Even with his marking of you, still you slept, though the tension between your brows had eased.
Joel, holding your legs spread over his shoulders, licked a line up your cunt from the skin above your asshole all the way up to the sensitive bundle of nerves at the top of your pussy. A moan escaped him as he ate at you, something dark and dominating arising the moment your sweet taste met his tongue.
Blood rushed to his cock, pressing a harsh dent into his work jeans.
Your cunt responded to him with neediness, despite the fact that you hadn’t yet stirred. He grinned into his pretty girl, your pussy like fine wine as he lapped at your wet hole.
“Joel…”
Your breathy, sleepy whine sent fire racing down his belly, and into his groin. Here you were, calling his name in your sleep, as he ate your cunt like a starving man.
He shushed you quietly, coaxing you back into rest. “Relax for me, baby, that’s it.”
Your lips parted slightly, soft moans escaping as he put his mouth on you again. He rubbed his thumb over your sensitive clit in circles, fucking you on his tongue with wicked delight curling within him.
He would die here, between your legs. Forget Texas, forget his brother, forget contracting, forget it all, save for Sarah. You were all he needed, all he wanted.
Your sweet skin, and soft moans. Your bright eyes studying him as he fixed his whiskey. Your giggles of joy, and pleasure. Your trust in him to take care of you.
He would live and die taking care of you, if he had it his way.
“Joel, what…” you sighed, eyes fluttering open and shut between reality and dreams.
“Shhhh, baby. Just let me kiss you for a bit,” he said into your skin, his tongue delving between your folds in a punishing swipe.
Your legs dug into his broad back, and through your closed lids, he knew your eyes were rolling back into your skull. In your haze of sleep, your hips lifted against his mouth, chasing your orgasm.
Joel pressed his thumb more heavily to your clit, and grinned into your cunt as your muscles began to clench.
“Good girl,” he breathed, sinking his teeth into your soft thigh as you came on his tongue. Breathy moans fell from your lips as you grinded against his calloused thumb, the faint call of his name nearly enough to get Joel to cream his jeans.
Despite the heavy rise and fall of your chest, and the slickness coating Joel’s mustache, you remained asleep, relaxing into his sofa cushions with a quiet sigh.
Joel hummed with delight, and slipped two fingers knuckle deep into your wet cunt.
–
You weren’t sure where the dream ended and where the reality started.
All bets were off once the clock struck ten, and exhaustion overtook you.
At first, dreams of C- grades, overdrawn checking accounts, and burnt cookies plagued your mind. Not nightmares, but aggravating mishaps that made your shoulders tight with worry, the buzzing of anxiousness deafening in your head, trapping you in restless sleep.
Somewhere, somehow, the dreams shifted to something much more delightful.
A vague sensation of lips on your core, rough hands holding you steady, sent you into a blissful state. Dark eyes, calloused fingertips, and a gruff Southern drawl chased away the worrying dreams tormenting your sleep.
Distantly, you registered the soft murmur of your name in your ear, against your stomach, against your wet pussy. A warm mouth eating at you lazily, a single thumb rolling your clit beneath worked callouses.
The darkness of sleep was comforting, replacing restlessness with satisfied contentment. You didn’t particularly notice the fingers stretching out your slick core, or the blunt cockhead pushing deep into your belly.
Only tidal waves of orgasms, easy crests of pleasure, and the rough rumble of your name as someone with dark eyes took what he wanted and gave you what you needed.
❧tags: smutty at the end, headcanon, this list includes some potentially hard pills to swallow, this is mega stream of consciousness and not heavily edited so plz be kind, I saw these pics of him and have been thinking about preoutbreak!joel sinceeeeee cause holy moly☙
❧ he doesn’t waste time on dating. i mean, he barely has enough hours in the day as it is. work wears him thin, and whatever’s left belongs to his daughter. they hike, they go to museums, she plays a lot of sports but loves soccer the most (he makes sure to get to every single game) and once a year, if he can afford it, they take a vacation. cruises, road trip, you name it. he's determined to still give sarah the childhood she deserves. this just means he doesn't have a ton of time to date. it's just not his priority, and any girl that might be interested would have to know its always sarah first, which most...25-30 somethin' year old women don't necessarily want to 'compete with'...
❧ this man is not on datin' apps. they're a waste of time, too damn superficial. if he wanted just a pretty little thing on his arm he'd go ask tommy, who always had a new girl blowing up his phone every week.
❧ he's hard to hunt down at first. hard to pin down for a time and a day to take you out, because his hours are weird and sometimes the contractors make them stay late, sometimes (most times, really) things go wrong on a job site and he's working overtime. and after, he's just too tired to go out for dinner and would rather sit on the couch with his daughter and watch tv before bed.
❧ however, joel was raised right. a gentleman to the bone, even if he can't always prioritize dating. so if you eventually do get a first, second—hell, if you're lucky—third date with the man, he's bringing you flowers, he's opening doors, he's always paying (though you insist on splitting, he always politely declines), he's dropping you off at home to make sure you get back safe. he's pretty shy, a hard shell to crack open, but eventually he does. he likes talking to you, he realizes. he might even kiss you on the second date if he's feeling brave enough.
❧ it’ll take him a long time to let you meet sarah. he’s not hauling every date into the house he’s worked hard to keep a safe space for her. that’s his and his daughter’s world, and he guards it close. he’s upfront from the start—first date, he’ll tell you he’s got a kid, no use wasting anyone’s time. but introductions don’t come easy. he waits, watching if you’ll stick around after that first bomb drops, and only when he’s sure you mean it does he let you step into the part of his life that matters most.
❧the first time you do meet her, it's the first time you come to his house, and he is nervous. he wants it to go well, he wants sarah to like you, because jesus christ he thinks you might be the one. but it all comes down to this. because if sarah disapproves, you're done. so when you show up in your pretty pale blue dress with a plate of sarah's favorite cookies, her big smile mirroring yours with a hug to your waist, he lets out a breath of relief.
☙addendum: when joel gets up to collect dishes after dinner, leaving just you and sarah together at the dining table, she tells you how happy he's been lately, how he's different, he laughs more, he's just... more relaxed. he overhears the whole thing, and can't help but feel a twist in his gut of how much his kid notices without him realizing.
❧and when you start going steady with joel miller, he makes the time for you. he brings you along to the museum dates with sarah because christ the kid keeps asking about you. you go on picnics during his lunch breaks, even if he's covered in cement dusting and his hands are nearly all black, you kiss him like you mean it and he can't even believe he got so lucky. he is doting, he is sweet and gentle and easy to talk to once he opens up. he's funny too, loves your humor, laughs easily with you around.
❧ warnings: smut below☙
❧joel would be one to wait to fuck you, even though he's desperate for you. he hasn't been a relationship guy for a while, so he tells himself this will be different. he will not fuck you up against the wall in the bar bathroom of your first date, he will not fuck you in the backseat of his truck on the second or third...but by the forth, he can't keep denying himself like this. or you. because the way you've been looking at him makes him nearly certain you may have been open to the idea of being taken against the wall in the bathroom on the first date, afterall. and so, it's when you invite him inside on your fifth date that he accepts and even says yes to a whiskey neat that you offer as you shrug off your light spring jacket, your boots going next. He loves your little house, it's charming and full of little trinkets and things you like, letting him see a glimpse into you, the real you. he doesn't wait long after the whiskey is down his throat to push you up against the kitchen counter, his mouth all over you and his cock absolutely pulsing against your belly.
❧joel’s a freak in bed, there i said it. though you’d never know it by the way he carries himself. he’s shy, quiet, almost reserved, but once his blood starts pumping south, it’s like a switch flips. those big, rough hands get on you and suddenly his mouth is spilling filth you never saw coming—Been dreamin’ of what you might feel like beneath me, baby, and Yeah? That what you want? Take my cock out for me, baby girl, go on now—it’s all for you. And when he’s finally buried deep, the words rush out like a river: Fuck, you feel so tight… made for me—this pretty pussy.
❧and...when you accidentally let the d-word slip...it takes him a minute to compute and not combust right then and there. because, okay, before you get your knickers in a twist, it's been years since sarah ever called him that. poor girl had to grow up so fast, which he hated, and with that, she dropped the -dy long, long ago. so hearing it again stirred up some weird feelings in him. at first, he says no, he's not quite comfortable with it, feels too...complicated. the last thing he wants to think of while he's shoving his cock into your tight heat is his little girl waiting for him at home.
❧but then...one night, he's out for drinks with his coworkers, the guys just grabbin' a few beers on a thursday. you come out to meet him since its the only night he's got free this week, and the way the other men are eyeing you has a molten heat stirring low in his belly. he takes you outside and fucks you in the truck right in the parking lot, making you scream his name, telling you you're his, you're daddy’s girl. all daddy’s. those fuckers can look, but they’ll never know what this sweet pussy feels like. cause it’s all mine—ain’t that right, baby?
❧he asks you to be his girlfriend that night.
ty for reading hehehe i never do headcanons! it felt so weird having to keep everything so short. more? post outbreak?
When your high-powered marketing career goes up in flames, you find yourself back in Texas and out of options—until your old childhood friend Tommy offers you a job at his family’s growing construction company. The only catch? His older brother Joel, the project manager with a chip on his shoulder and zero patience for your city-slicker attitude.
You clash instantly: you’re clever, confident, and painfully corporate. He’s quiet, rugged, and set in his ways. You push his buttons. He pushes back harder. But somewhere between long meetings, late nights, resurfacing memories, and hurt, along with one very unexpected work trip… the tension starts to shift.
What begins as bickering turns into banter. Glances linger. Walls crack. And neither of you is quite sure when things started to change.
♡ Side Stories (Don't read if you want spoilers!) :
T&C: HOLIDAYS OFF
Christmas fluff, post-main story, slight spoilers if you really read into it, family fluff
T&C: FIRST LOVE
Prequel Story, Raymond's POV, so much fluff it hurts, pregnancy, baby Joel
T&C: DRESS HIM UP
Sequel Story, family fluff, date-night prep, Joel's POV
T&C: LEARN IN MORE WAYS
Sequel Story, family fluff, almost smut, SC's POV, graduation season, parental fluff
T&C: HOLD US
Sequel Story, family angst, first-time parents, Joel's POV, near-death experience
♡ Fan-Extras:
♡ Moodboards, Fan Spotify playlist by @broknedits
♡ Fan edits by @evcrmoree
♡ Joel and Reader's son fanart, baby!Sarah + young!Joel by @krispykattv
♡ Happy couple things fanart, Chapter 29, Young!Joel's animal, Raymond + Lorraine + Baby Joel, Clause 37 Flashback, 13years!Joel+Sarah (mostly oc x t&c!Joel) by @hoziersguitarr
♡ Family Tree (contains spoilers), SC's plane ticket by @honey-moon-13
♡ Moodboards by @onlythehobi/@dilf-docs
♡ Fan Spotify Playlist by Justin
— chapter summary: After a week that felt like a month (and a month that felt like a decade) your friend Lola convinces you to break out of your routine and join her at the bar where her new boyfriend’s band is playing. You’re expecting loud music, alcohol (please), and maybe a valid distraction. What you’re definitely not expecting is the stranger who gives you a terrible first impression… and still manages to flip your entire night upside down, ending with you in his bed. Joel, he said.
A/N: Fun fact; did you know that Pride and Prejudice was originally titled First Impressions? Jane Austen used that as the working title, but changed it before the novel was published in 1813. First Impressions highlighted the snap judgments the characters make about one another, while Pride and Prejudice captures the deeper flaws they have to confront and outgrow. Anyway… here’s the first chapter of TMM. Hope you love it 🫣🤍 Tell me what you think, your feedback helps me a lot 🤍
It is a universally acknowledged truth that a single woman in her thirties, in possession of a comfortable bank account and an thriving career, must be in want of whatever makes her happiest.
Travel, you’ve done it. Europe, most of the Americas, even a little corner of Asia. Food, you’ve eaten your way through every good restaurant in the city and signed up for culinary tours on every continent that would have you. And as a result, you now find yourself in possession of one of the most crowded refrigerators imaginable, covered in magnets of every shape, color, and meaning. There’s even one from the Red Light District in Amsterdam, your latest souvenir and arguably your most questioned one.
You could, theoretically, focus on your career. Though it’s already perched at the highest point it can reach right now, and wanting another promotion so soon would be ambitious even for you. It’s been, what, three months since Erica promoted you from assistant editor to editor? And, to be honest, you still haven’t taken down the banner Jules and Charlie hung in your living room to celebrate.
That might be because of your impossibly busy schedule (lie) or because that night was the last one you and Charlie spent together (truth).
You’ve never thought of yourself as a melancholic person. But there’s a certain ache stitched into that white banner with its pink letters and silver stars. You could call it the last loving thing he ever did for you, though, if you’re being fair, it was probably Jules who painted the letters and made sure it was straight. At most, he might’ve been the one who brought the ice cream and takeout from the little chinese place around the corner.
Still, the banner remains; hanging above your pristine new sofa like a piece of overly cheerful decor that yells in your face every time you walk through the door: Congratulations! We love you, Jules and Charlie.
You’re going to take it down tonight. Fold it neatly, too neatly, into several sections and tuck it somewhere out of sight, somewhere it can’t bother you. Then you’ll uncork a bottle of wine and sink into the sofa to watch another episode of that true crime show you recently found on Netflix. That’s how easy your nights are to plan now that Charlie’s gone.
He’d be furious if he could hear that thought. He’d accuse you of being heartless, of moving on too quickly. And honestly, given how much you’ve been thinking about him this week, “moved on” might be a bit of an overstatement.
But that was Charlie for you. He hated how practical you were, and you couldn’t stand how sentimental he could be. Some things you simply overlook in the early years of a relationship, until you can’t anymore. Until one day you stop cold and ask yourself the question you’ve been avoiding: Is this actually going anywhere?
Right. Option three: focus on the big, blinding reason your relationship went down the drain: having a baby.
It’s not like Charlie ever said no outright. His exact words were something like, “It’s just not the right time yet.” And sure, you could wait. You did wait. You would’ve kept waiting if he’d asked you to. But the conversation got heavier every time you had it, until he finally admitted he didn’t see himself as a father... ever.
A beautiful way to end a seven-year relationship: realizing you never actually wanted the same things and accepting that sometimes that’s just it. There’s nothing to fix.
Which is why, now, you’re spending your work hours googling info about in vitro fertilization and adoption. Because you’re done putting your life on pause for a man; especially one who lied for years about the future he pretended to want with you.
Not anymore.
Three months later
“If you want one so badly, you can have Noah. God knows I could use a break. He’s potty trained now, by the way.”
You shot Taylor a grin as the three of you walked down the street. The sun was long gone and the city was gleaming in its neon lights.
The girls had spent most of the afternoon listening to you spiral, in great detail, about how you were this close to officially pursuing artificial insemination. No one really understood how absurdly expensive (emotionally and financially) the whole ordeal was.
Well… they definitely did now.
After hours of your passionate monologue, they’d earned the right to tease you as they strolled toward the bar where Lola’s new boyfriend’s band was set to play.
“Tell him congrats from me. And sure, I’d take him in a heartbeat, but we both know he wouldn’t last a day without you.”
“You’re right,” she said, smiling. “I’m raisin' a mama’s boy.”
“Careful,” Lola chimed in, walking beside her. “You don’t want one of those. They grow up to be full grown men with Oedipus issues.”
“Oh, God forbid,” Taylor said, shaking her head. “I’m having a margarita tonight.”
“Oh, I need something stronger,” you said, adjusting your bag on your shoulder and glancing at Lola, who was glued to her phone. “So, where did you meet this Carly guy?”
“Met him at my sister’s clinic. He was in the waiting room.”
Lola’s sister was a dentist. A really good one, according to her.
“And how do you know he’s not a creep?” Taylor asked as you rounded the corner and the bar came into view. “How well do you actually know him?”
“We had a few dates, okay? He seems like a decent guy,” Lola said, looking at both of you. “You know I’ve got a good eye for these things.”
Taylor snorted. “These things? You mean men?”
“Exactly.”
According to Lola, Carly's band was really good and this bar, The Crow, was very cute too and not far from your apartment. You’d never been there, though.
The door swung open as Lola pushed inside, and the noise of a packed Friday night crashed into you. It was cute, definitely, in that mismatched way: warm string lights, vintage liquor signs, and probably a dozen other details you failed to register because you were too busy scanning for an empty table. After an entire day at work in the brand new heels you’d impulsively broken out this morning, your feet were staging a protest.
“There,” you pointed, and Lola grabbed your hand before you could even take a step, dragging you toward the table.
Originally, you’d planned on saying no to this whole outing. It had been a long, emotionally heavy week. And also, there was a new vintage dress in your closet that deserved better than staying home. Taylor sealed the deal when she warned that if you bailed, Lola would run off with her new guy, leaving her tragically alone at the bar and forced to go home early. And God forbid she go home early. Her husband was with their kid, and she hadn’t had a night out in ages. And honestly? A little distraction wouldn’t kill you either.
In the last few weeks, you’d gotten dangerously close to fully committing to the whole plan. You’d read every study, scouted every clinic within a reasonable radius, and made what felt like the final call. Of course, that didn’t make any of it easier. Or less terrifying. But well...
“I’m gonna go say hi. Two seconds,” Lola announced, already sprinting toward the tiny stage where a pack of guys were untangling cables and looking casual about it. Beards just shaggy enough, hair just tousled enough, like they woke up effortlessly cool.
“I feel a little too old for this, babe,” Taylor said as she sank into the chair across from you, watching out of the corner of her eye while Lola wrapped Carly up in a hug.
You followed her gaze and bit the inside of your cheek. “Not true. No one here looks under twenty five.”
“And not over forty.”
You swung your attention back to her. “You’re not even over forty.”
“Oh, no, but I’m thirty seven, which is practically the same thing. Give me two years and perimenopause will come for me like a debt collector.” She propped her chin on her hand, elbow on the table. “Every woman in my family hits menopause by forty. My mom started at thirty nine. Tragically ahead of schedule, if you ask me.”
You nodded. “My mom was fifty. According to her it was hell.”
“Well, you’ve got genetics on your side. And I’ve heard that afterward, plenty of women feel like, like reborn or something. Sky high libido and everything.”
“Isn’t that during?” You frowned. “I thought that’s why there are so many, ugh, geriatric pregnancies. I hate that term.”
“Geriatric pregnancy?”
“Yes. Geriatric. Why geriatric?” You waved a hand. “Is a forty year old woman suddenly ancient? I’m convinced a man came up with that.”
“Like the damn speculum.”
“Yeah, what the hell. After thirty five you go from fertile goddess to geriatric case study, what kind of nonsense is that?”
Taylor clicked her tongue. “They’re just labels. My sister had my niece at forty three.”
You leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Sure, I know. I mean, did you know that physically, pregnancy after forty has real risks? And whatever,” you said, lifting a hand, “but the logic is still ridiculous!”
“Why?” Taylor laughed.
“Well,” you started, “apparently the ideal age to have kids is twenty five, right? Biologically speaking.” You tilted your head. “But what about literally everything else? Jobs, school, rent? The modern world is absolutely not designed for modern twenty five year olds to be raising babies.”
“And for the record, being forty doesn’t guarantee you’re any more put together.”
“I draw the line at thirty.” You made a sweeping gesture. “If you’re lucky, you have a decent job, or a job, period. And your frontal lobe has finally finished developing, which has to count for something, right? I mean, if we're speaking—okay, enough. No more baby talk. What are you drinking?”
Taylor was still laughing when you slid out of your chair and brushed a hand over your cheek.
“A margarita if they’ve got one. Otherwise a beer.”
“Got it,” you said, already turning toward the bar, when a hand caught your arm. Lola was there, wearing a lovestruck grin.
“Hey, where are you going?”
“To get drinks. Want something?”
“A beer. Should I go with you?”
“No, no,” you waved her off, “settle in. I’ll be right back.”
You turned and smoothed a hand over your stomach, the soft mesh of your new dress gliding under your fingertips.
Sure, this might not have been the most reasonable venue to debut a vintage piece of tulle like this, let alone John Galliano. But whatever. Clothes are meant to be worn, not archived for mythical perfect occasions. Besides, it wasn’t like this could possibly be worse than the time you went grocery shopping in a The Row dress and baptized it in chocolate milkshake.
“What can I get you?” the bartender asked, one palm pressed against the counter as he leaned in a little.
You tilted your head. “Um, one margarita, one beer, and for me…” You squinted at the menu, though you weren’t actually reading it. “What’s the strongest thing you’ve got?”
He laughed. “One of those nights?”
You grinned. “Not really. I just want, need something strong. But also sweet. Got anything that fits the brief?”
He considered you for a beat. “With your vibe? I could make ya a Cosmo.”
Your brows shot up. “Seriously?”
“Sure.” He gave a small nod. “Cosmo. Or, if you’re in the right mood, I’ve got a great Jack Daniel’s Honey that might treat you right.”
“Okay, yeah,” you said, decisive for once. “Let’s start with the Cosmo.”
He gave a little salute, tapping two fingers against his temple. “Got it.”
“Thanks…?”
“Tommy.”
“Right. Thanks, Tommy.”
“They’re so good, right? Aren’t they good? Carly is so good!” Lola beamed, riding the high of at least three drinks. You loved seeing her like this. She was sweet on a regular day; drunk, she became the human embodiment of a ultra processed cupcake.
The band kept playing, and yeah, they were actually pretty great. You’d caught yourself nodding along more than once, though you could easily blame your loosened state on the two cosmopolitans currently warming your bloodstream. Honestly, you were dangerously close to ordering a third… or finally testing that whiskey Tommy the bartender had suggested.
Raised voices pulled your attention to the hallway near the bathrooms. Two guys were mid argument, one flailing his hands. The other jabbed a finger into his chest, which only made the first guy go red hot nuclear.
“Babe,” Lola said, tapping your arm. You turned back to her. “Your phone.”
You looked down to see it buzzing on the table, screen lit up with an incoming call from Jules.
“Oh, be right back,” you said, grabbing your phone and sliding out of your seat.
You made for the exit, hearing the bar fight escalate behind you. Some glass shattering, a few voices raising, but only stole a single glance before pushing through the door. Nothing, not even a juicy bar brawl, could pull your attention from talking to your sister.
“Hi? Jules? Can you hear me?” you asked, pressing the phone to one ear, shielding the other with your hand.
“Yeah, yeah. Where are you?”
“Uh, at a bar. The guy Lola’s seeing is playing—” You stopped mid sentence at a strange crackle on the other end. “Hello? Jules?”
“Can you hear me?”
“Barely, I…,” another burst of static, “…Where are you?”
You turned toward the street, people walking past, oblivious to your struggle.
Another woman was on the phone not too far from you, waving her hands around. “No, Frankie, stay close,” she said. “But don’t you dare walk into the bar, okay?”
She laughed, pulling your attention away from your own conversation for a second.
Whatever. Jules. JULES.
“We’re in a cabin… outside the mountain, near… no… signal,” Jules’s voice cut in and out.
You laughed. “I can barely hear anything!”
“I know… just wanted to tell you… can you hear me?”
“When are you coming back? I’ve got my car again, I can pick you up from the airport—”
“No, no… I’m not coming back—”
“What?” You frowned. “What do you mean? Jules?”
You wandered a few steps further from the door, then circled back to hover near it.
“David got us permission to… I’ll tell you when we get down to the city, it’s insane!”
“To where? I didn’t hear you!”
Jules laughed. “I’ll call you tomorrow… I’m heading down to the… can you hear me? I’m going to the city.”
“Okay, well, I… please call me.”
“Yeah, love you… take care. Bye.”
“Jules, wait, what do I tell mom and dad? Have you—” You cut off mid sentence as a hard shove slammed into your back, sending your phone and bag flying, their contents scattering across the sidewalk.
A man. A man had barreled into you, shoved by another. Recognition clicked; the one being pushed was the guy from the fight inside.
“We already had this conversation, Hal,” the other said, pointing a finger. “Don’t fuckin' show up here again or Tommy’s gonna make you pay every cent you owe him and we all know you broke as hell.”
“I don’t give a damn about this dump, you and Tommy are garbage!” the drunk spat back, letting a glob hit the ground.
The other guy snorted and lunged forward, pushing the drunk to spin around and stagger off.
“Don’t you dare show up here again, you stupid drunk asshole!”
The drunk kept running, and the other guy watched him for a few seconds before letting out a tired sigh and turning back.
Then, he stopped when he saw you. His eyes lingered on yours for a moment.
“What?” he asked, and you realized your face was tighter than it had ever been, and all your stuff was still strewn across the sidewalk.
“What do you mean, ‘what?’” you snapped, waving a hand.
He glanced at the mess and clicked his tongue.
“Shit, sorry,” he said, crouching to gather some of it.
“It’s fine, I got it,” you replied immediately, angry, squatting down and grabbing whatever you could. Lipstick, a few stray bills, a mini bottle of your perfume. But he already had a handful of things in his own grip.
You stuffed your bag as fast as possible, then froze. Your phone was sitting in front of a parked car.
When you moved, picked it up and inspected it, your jaw dropped.
“What's wrong?” he asked from behind you.
You turned. He was holding a tiny deodorant and your wallet.
“My phone,” you said, lifting it with a grimace. “It’s completely shattered!”
“Shit,” he muttered. “I’m sorry, let me—”
“It’s fine,” you cut him off, shoving the thing into your bag before he could finish. Without looking at him, you started walking toward the door again.
“Wasn’t on purpose, y’know?”
You stopped dead and turned around. “What?”
“I said it wasn’t on purpose.” He folded his arms. “You were standin’ right in the doorway.”
“I was not standing in the doorway.”
“Sure were. Dead center.” He gestured toward the entrance. “That’s why we bumped into you comin’ out.”
“No, what happened is you kicked that guy out like he was a damn football, so excuse me for not teleporting out of the way.” You crossed your arms. “Do you always throw people out like that?”
He looked at you for a long moment, and you could see it; the tug of amusement threatening the corner of his mouth before it broke into a small, infuriating smile.
He stepped closer, set his hand on the lock, flipped it open, and pulled the door wide.
“Go on,” he said, chin tilted toward the inside. “After you.”
You stared him down, eyes trailing over him from head to toe and back again, knowing damn well you looked judgmental, maybe even a little petty. But you didn’t care. You didn’t even need to check your phone to know it was probably toast.
You pressed your lips together, clutching your bag a little tighter as you stepped back inside the bar. But suddenly, you slowed down almost immediately, aware of the stranger walking in right behind you, and for some reason, you let yourself feel it for a second. His nearness. Just because.
But then, he walked past you, and by the time you started toward your table and glanced over your shoulder, he was already heading to the bar. His eyes caught yours just for a heartbeat, and then he was gone.
When you sat back down, Taylor placed a hand over yours.
“Hey, what happened? You okay?”
“It was Jules.”
“How’s she doing?”
Behind Taylor, Lola was swaying her head in time with the band’s music, smiling at Carly.
“She’s fine. I think. You know, same as always,” you said, leaning closer to Taylor’s ear to be heard over the noise. “She’s not coming back yet.”
“Oof. What’d you say to her?”
“Nothing. What was I supposed to say? The signal was crap, and before I could say anything else, some guy from the bar shoved past me on his way out and knocked my phone down.”
“No shit. Which one?” she asked, frowning and scanning the room.
You laughed. “Doesn’t matter. Jules isn’t coming back.”
“Yet,” she said.
“Yeah. Yet.”
Taylor squeezed your hand.
The band’s set had been really fucking good. And you were being completely honest about that.
When a few of the guys came over to say hi, you didn’t say it out loud, but you did smile when Taylor told them they’d played great. That counted as agreement. Support, even. That was enough, right?
You weren’t in much of a talking mood anyway. It was late, and you had just enough alcohol in your system to turn soft, maybe a little sentimental. You knew that in about an hour the girls would be ready to call it a night. Lola would take off with Carly and Taylor would sigh, say she was tired, and claim she’d hit her limit. So you tried to shake off the weight in your chest and join whatever conversation was going on at the table.
But it wasn’t exactly gripping material. They were talking about guitar strings; different brands, different tones, and one of the guys was going on about his new Fender bass and how he’d swapped out the strings because they “didn’t feel right.” Another one immediately jumped in to ask for the old ones if he wasn’t using them, and you tuned the rest out, folding your arms and letting your eyes drift toward the bar.
Tommy was there, chatting with a blonde whose hair brushed her shoulders, a beer bottle loose in her hand. Next to them, the guy who’d shoved you earlier ran a hand over the back of his neck, right where your gaze had landed.
Oh, funny.
Your eyes lingered, tracing the spot just beneath his hairline where the short curls tapered into a little triangle of skin, sun warmed and golden before disappearing into the collar of his shirt.
His fingers went right there.
And then he turned.
Shit.
You smiled, caught, and looked back at the table, laughing softly to yourself as if you’d been following the conversation the whole time.
Taylor brushed her hand over your arm, leaning closer.
“I think I’m gonna head out,” she said. “You comin’?”
You met Taylor’s eyes, and you could tell she’d already assumed you’d go home with her.
Well, you had two options:
Option one: go home. Take a long, hot shower. Do a hair mask, then a face mask. Eat the pint of ice cream waiting in your freezer for the mythical night you’d stay awake long enough to actually enjoy it; every other night this week you’d fallen asleep with the tv still on. You could finally do your full skincare routine, crawl into bed, and sleep like someone with her life together. Sounded perfect.
Option two: stay. Just for a little while. Try that Jack Daniel’s Honey the bartender had recommended, loosen up a bit, and maybe (just maybe) keep admiring the back of that guy’s neck at the bar.
Who knew what could happen? Something in you whispered that it might be worth finding out.
You smiled. “Nah. Think I’ll stick around a bit longer.”
An hour later, your feet ached too much to keep pretending you were the adventurous type.
Yeah, you were ready to go home. And anyway, the guy at the bar had left a while ago with a redhead, though not before giving you a look as he passed. Weird one, too. Definitely not your night.
Not that you’d been planning anything stupid. Of course not. You’d just gotten curious, that was all. Restless. Like some mischievous little bee had stung you right between the thighs and now you wanted to crash a Dionysian party somewhere.
Was that it? Had Dionysus himself shown up to sting you with the illusion that you were bold enough for a one night stand?
God. Listen to yourself. You were definitely drunk enough.
Lola came over and asked if you wanted a ride back to your building; Carly had the car. But one look at him told you he was far drunker than he’d ever admit, so you shook your head.
“You shouldn’t get in his car either,” you said. “Take a cab. And I mean it, I’m not letting you get in that car. Want to just come home with me?”
Lola shook her head. “No, no. You’re right. We’ll grab a taxi. Want us to drop you off on the way?”
You thought about it for a second. “Sure.”
She smiled, then turned to tap Carly’s wrist and murmur the plan in his ear. He nodded, looked over at you, and smiled before fishing his phone out of his pocket.
Taylor had left a while ago. She’d said she was tired, that she’d had a good time; enough of a good time. She’d hugged you tight, promised coffee on Monday before work, downed the rest of her beer in one go, and left to wait for her taxi right outside exactly where you were standing now, half an hour after Carly had already called for a car that was apparently “delayed due to high demand.”
You’d suggested ordering an Uber, but he’d waved it off. Said he’d already booked the car and wanted to smoke another cig anyway, maybe wait for his band’s lead singer, Van, to finish arguing with his girlfriend on the phone.
Of course.
Now Lola was glued to Carly’s side, all sweet smiles and soft laughter, while you stood next to them with your arms crossed, feeling like the cranky chaperone. You made a mental note to scold Taylor later for ditching you after explicitly asking you not to do the same to her.
And now here you were. Stuck with your friend, her boyfriend, and your bad mood. And no stranger's neck to look at.
“Bye, babe! Text me tomorrow, okay?” Lola shouted from the car window, waving her hand wildly. “Love you! Take care!”
“Love you too! Be safe!” you yelled back, waving just as hard.
Lola laughed as the taxi pulled away, and you watched it disappear down the street before shaking your head with a small smile. You slipped a hand into your bag, fishing around for your keys.
Lipstick. Perfume. Phone. Wallet... ugh.
You sighed, opening your bag wider and peering inside.
No keys.
That couldn’t be right. You’d picked everything up off the ground, hadn’t you? You remembered holding your lipstick, your perfume, the pack of mints, your wallet—
No.
You froze. Maybe he’d picked them up. The guy who’d shoved you.
But wait... he’d helped you gather your stuff too, hadn’t he? You remembered that part. His hands, your things, the half second of awkward eye contact before you turned away and went back into the bar and…
Fuck. You pulled your phone out of your bag and tapped the cracked screen. Nothing. Just black.
You clicked your tongue.
“Come on,” you muttered, pressing the side buttons, swiping at the shattered glass like it might suddenly come to life. “Shit.”
Dead. Completely, hopelessly dead. The screen was cracked, full spiderweb and dark, every button useless.
What the hell were you supposed to do now? Taylor was definitely asleep by this hour. Lola wouldn’t answer. You didn’t have your keys, and even if you did...
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Before you could think twice, you spun around and started walking fast, the panic setting in. If your keys had fallen outside the bar, they’d probably still be there; unless someone else had picked them up. But if someone had picked them up, they’d have turned them in, right? That’s what a decent person would do.
Hey, found these keys outside, figured I’d drop them off in case someone comes looking for them. Logical. Human. Decent.
Were you close already?
Yeah, just one more block, then a turn at the corner, and the bar would be there. Ready to fix your problems. Ready to hand over your keys and let you end the night peacefully (manifesting).
Oh, it was still open. Thank God.
You pushed the door and let out a breath when you saw Tommy still behind the bar. The place was quieter now, the crowd thinned out, but you were just relieved it hadn’t closed yet. You had no idea what time it even was, not like you could check.
RIP to your phone. Three loyal, unbroken years of service, all for it to meet its end at the hands of a drunk and a judgmental stranger. You’d hold a symbolic funeral later; maybe tuck it back in its box and send it floating down a river, thanking it for the endless hours of laughter, videos, memes, and the occasional very questionable late night reading. And it had been pink, too. God, what a loss.
“Hey, long time no see,” Tommy called out with a grin, leaning a little over the bar. “Thought you and your crew left a while ago.”
You pressed your lips together. “We did.”
“Band was good, huh?”
You nodded. “Yeah.”
“The singer’s my cousin,” he said, then lifted a hand. “But for the record, that’s not why I let ’em play here. Don’t mess with that nepotism crap.”
You smiled. “A man of principle. Impressive.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said with mock solemnity. “So, what brings you back?”
You sighed, sliding onto one of the barstools.
“By any chance, did someone turn in a set of keys? Maybe found outside?” You gestured vaguely behind you.
No flicker of recognition. No spark of oh yeah, I’ve got them right here.
FUCK.
“Don’t think so,” he said. “What do they look like?”
“Uh, two keys. A keychain with Snoopy reading a book.”
Tommy chuckled. “Sorry, no Snoopys have made it through my door tonight.”
“Shit.” You propped your chin on your hand, elbow against the bar.
He tilted his head. “Can I ask what happened? You need to call somebody?”
“Yes, please,” you said, straightening up. “A few hours ago I was outside and—”
You stopped midsentence as the very culprit of your disaster walked right past you. Your eyes tracked him as he moved behind the bar, giving Tommy a friendly pat on the back.
Of course.
“Him,” you said, pointing.
“What?” Tommy asked, smiling in confusion.
The man glanced over, brows furrowing. “Me?”
“Yes, you,” you said flatly.
“Me what?”
Tommy laughed. “What’d you do now, Joel?”
Joel. Huh. Fitting.
“I can’t find my keys,” you said, pointing vaguely toward the door. “I’ve been standing outside my building for God knows how long, can’t call anyone because my phone’s completely dead.”
Joel braced both hands on the bar and leaned forward a little. “Look, I said I was sorry. I tried to help you with your phone but you—”
“And what were you gonna do?” you snapped, pulling the shattered device from your bag and dropping it onto the counter.
“Oof,” Tommy muttered, picking it up and tilting it toward the light. “You did this?” he asked Joel.
Joel clicked his tongue and snatched it back. “I didn’t do this. It was an accident.”
“You pushed me.”
“No, I didn’t push you,” he said, setting the phone back down and glancing at Tommy. “You were right in front of the door when I kicked Hal out.”
“Intentional or not, you pushed me. Now my phone’s dead and my keys are gone, and I can’t get into my damn apartment.”
Joel looked at you, silent for a few seconds, his expression unreadable. Then he nodded once, sighed, and stepped back from the bar.
“Alright,” he said finally. Then he rounded the counter, came to your side, and gently took your wrist, guiding you off the stool.
“What are you doing?” you asked, not really pulling away.
“Gonna help you find your keys.”
Joel led you outside, and once the door shut behind you, he let go of your wrist and started moving; bending down, checking under the parked cars while you stood there with your arms crossed, scanning the sidewalk.
“Maybe someone picked them up,” you said.
“Could be. What do they look like?”
“Two keys and a Snoopy keychain.”
Joel turned to you with a small grin.
“What?” you frowned. “What’s with Snoopy?”
“Nothing. Absolutely nothing,” he said quickly, crouching again to peer under another car.
You sighed and started walking, your eyes darting along every corner, every patch of pavement that might glint in the streetlight. Nothing.
A grunt made you turn. Joel was pushing himself up, brushing off his jeans.
“Sorry, no sign of any Snoopy around here.”
You sighed, rubbing your forehead. “I don’t know what I’m gonna do.”
“Got anyone you can call?”
“Yeah, my friends. But they’re probably asleep or... busy.”
“Try anyway,” he said, reaching into his pocket.
He pulled out his phone, unlocked it, and handed it to you.
“Thanks,” you murmured, taking it.
You stared at the screen. For a few seconds. Then a few more.
Joel’s brow furrowed. “What’s wrong?”
You looked up at him, dead serious.
“I don’t know their numbers.”
He laughed. “What?”
“I don’t know their numbers. They’re just... saved in my phone. I never memorized them.”
Joel laughed again, shaking his head. “You don’t know anyone’s number?”
“Well, my parents live two hours away, but I don’t... could you stop laughing?”
“Sorry,” he said, hands raised.
“Oh, come on,” you huffed. “Don’t tell me you actually memorize people’s phone numbers.”
“No, just the important ones,” he shrugged. “You know… for emergencies.”
You stared at him, unimpressed, and held out his phone. He took it, and a faint smile tugged at his lips.
“Look, I’m sorry,” he said, stepping closer. “Let’s figure this out, alright? I’ve got a toolbox at home. Maybe I can help you open your door or something, if you want.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah. I don’t live far, just a couple blocks away,” he said, nodding toward the street. “I can grab it and come back. At least until someone can help you in the morning.”
You hesitated.
Was this insane? Not really. Though it was kind of insane to let a stranger come to your apartment and fiddle with your door in the middle of the night. Who knew what could happen?
Still, Joel didn’t exactly seem shady. He looked like a regular guy, tired maybe, but genuine. And Tommy too.
“Alright,” you said finally. “I’ll take the help.”
Joel nodded once. “Good.”
He turned, pulled the door open, and tilted his head toward the inside. You followed him back in, the warm air of the bar washing over you as the door closed behind.
Tommy looked up the moment you sat back down on the barstool. “Any luck?”
Before you could answer, Joel spoke up; offering a version of events that, conveniently, left out just how much of this was his fault.
Still, Tommy’s expression softened, taking it seriously enough.
“Oh, that sucks. I’m sorry,” Tommy said, frowning as he looked at you. “But you can call someone if you want.”
“She doesn’t know anyone’s number,” Joel said from behind him, arms crossed and a teasing smile tugging at his lips as he leaned a hip against the counter.
You huffed. “Who even knows phone numbers anymore?”
Tommy laughed. “No little address book tucked away in that purse of yours?”
“Everything was on my phone,” you sighed. “And even if I did have one, I wouldn’t bring it to a bar.”
“I told her I’d help,” Joel said, effortlessly popping open a beer. “I’ll go grab my toolbox and get her door open. Then in the morning, someone can take care of it properly.”
You noticed the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth, like he was trying not to grin.
“Are you two friends or something?” you asked suddenly, eyes flicking between them. Both men looked caught off guard by the shift in topic.
“Brothers,” Joel said. “Why?”
Of course. That made sense.
“Ahh, and you’re the older one, right?”
Tommy laughed as he turned to help a woman who had walked up with her wallet in hand, leaving you alone with Joel again.
He took a sip from his bottle, watching you over the rim. Then he set it down, swallowed, and gave a small, amused tilt of his head.
“What makes you think that?”
You smiled, tilting your head. “Am I wrong?”
His gaze lingered a beat too long. Steady, quiet, heavy, and the way it did made something low in your stomach tighten.
He set his bottle aside, pushed off the counter, and moved to stand at the front of the bar, directly across from you.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
Don’t tell him.
“My name?”
Don’t tell him.
“Yeah, your name,” he said, leaning in a little closer, resting his forearms on the counter.
You dropped your gaze.
“Claire,” you lied, too fast. The name was still fresh in your head after finishing Outlander season one last night. Claire. He didn’t need to know your real name.
When you looked back up, his eyes were still on you.
“Claire,” Joel repeated, tasting the sound of it. “You want a drink before I go grab my toolbox?”
“Actually, yeah,” you said with a small smile. “How about that Jack Daniel’s Honey your brother mentioned?”
A low laugh rumbled from his chest as he nodded, moving easily behind the bar. You watched him, broad shoulders, steady hands as he reached for the cream labeled bottle, grabbed a short glass, and set it in front of you.
“Ever tried it before?”
You shook your head. “Never.”
He twisted the cap off. “You usually drink whiskey?”
“Not usually.”
“Can I make you a cocktail, then?”
You lifted an eyebrow. “What kind of cocktail?”
“Well,” he said, leaving the bottle open on the bar, “since you’re not exactly a whiskey drinker, I was thinking the best way to try this one would be with a little lemon and ice. Or lemonade, if you’ll let me.”
“Oh,” you nodded. “Sure. Make it however you want.”
Joel’s mouth curved slightly as he turned away, looking for something behind the counter. Your eyes lingered on his back; on the muscles shifting under his shirt, on his bare forearms, on the bit of skin visible at the back of his neck. He looked strong. Solid. And yet his hands moved with a kind of careful grace, holding the glass with a gentleness that didn’t match the roughness of his fingers.
You watched him drop the ice cubes in, pour the honey colored whiskey over them, and then add just a small splash of lemonade. And when your eyes finally lifted, he was already looking at you, the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth as he slid the drink across the counter.
“On the house,” he said.
When you reached for the glass, your fingers brushed his. You waited a beat to see if he’d pull away. He didn’t.
“Claire?”
You lifted your drink to your lips. The music in the bar had slowed to something softer now; the place was still half full, people talking in low voices, laughter breaking here and there. And beside you sat Joel, telling you odd, funny stories about things that had happened in the bar.
He’d told you he didn’t actually work here. Tommy owned the place, and Joel just stopped by sometimes to help out or hang around. During the day, he worked long hours, though he didn’t say doing what. Nights like this, he said, were the only times he could properly unwind. There’s nothing better than a good drink after a long day, he’d added, and you had to admit you were starting to agree.
“Claire?” someone called again. Tommy.
You turned your head one way, then the other, until your eyes landed on Joel, who was already smiling at you.
Oh. Right. Tommy was calling you.
You were Claire.
“Oh, yeah?” you said, blinking.
“Phone, checking time,” he nodded toward the counter behind him, where your phone sat plugged into a charger.
“Ah, right.” You placed a hand on Joel’s knee (without really meaning to) as you steadied yourself to slide off the barstool, then made your way over.
It had been Tommy’s idea to try charging your phone. “Maybe it just needs a minute,” he’d said. You’d known it was hopeless, but fine, it was worth a try. So he’d plugged it in, and you’d decided to wait thirty minutes before checking if it had magically resurrected itself. In the meantime, you’d gone back to your drink. And to Joel.
That had been two hours ago.
Now, as your feet touched the ground, it felt like walking on clouds (liquor-heavy clouds) and for a second you wondered just how reliable Joel would actually be when it came to breaking into your apartment. He was probably just as drunk as you were by now. And in your current state, the image of him fumbling with tools at your door was both worrying… and somehow a little funny.
Jesus, maybe it was better to just wait until morning. How long could that be, anyway?
You weren’t that drunk… right? Though it did take you a second to focus on the clock hanging on the wall.
“What time is it?” you asked.
Tommy glanced at his wrist. “One a.m.”
You froze, hand still holding the charger cord. “Really?”
He grinned. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Oh.” You looked down at your phone again, pressing the side buttons, tapping the cracked screen. Nothing. “And what time do you close?”
“Two.”
“Ah.”
You stared at the device for a while longer. You were stubborn by nature; giving up wasn’t in your DNA. But this time, it wasn’t you giving up. Your phone had. It was gone, completely gone. No amount of electricity could pull it back from the technological underworld.
With a sigh, you unplugged it carefully. “Impossible. It’s gone.”
“Sorry about that,” Tommy murmured as you passed him on your way back to the barstool.
Joel didn’t wait long before reaching out to take the phone from you. He turned it over in his hands like he knew what he was doing, squinting at it, then clicking his tongue like an expert delivering bad news.
“Completely gone,” he said.
“I know,” you said, snatching it back from him. “You have any idea how long we’ve been together, him and me?”
“I’m guessing a while.”
“A long while. And it took forever to find it in this color, you know?” You lifted the phone, showing it to him.
“It’s a nice color,” he said.
“I know. It’s a very nice color.”
He pressed his lips together, then reached out and set his hand on your knee; warm, solid, thick fingers soft on your skin. The touch made your breath catch, even if you tried not to show it.
He smiled a little, one corner of his mouth curving up. “I’m sorry for pushing you. And for making you drop your things, and your phone, Claire.”
Your hand landed on top of his. “Apology accepted, Joel.”
“Alright then,” he said, leaning back a little, “what do you say we go get that door open?”
“I’d like that.”
“Good. I’ll head home for a second, won’t take long. Will you wait here—”
“Do you live far?”
“Two blocks away, to be exact.” He tilted his head, paused. “You wanna come with me?”
Your blurred eyes traced over his face for a moment, stopping briefly at his upper lip, half hidden beneath the mustache that bled into his beard.
Your gaze drifted up to his eyes. “Yes, I’ll come with you.”
“Right,” Joel said, pushing himself back and getting up from the barstool.
You watched him quietly until he extended his hand toward you, helping you down slowly from your seat. When your feet touched the floor, they didn’t ache like before. Well, at least not that much.
You smoothed your hands down the skirt of your dress, straightening it while Joel gestured to Tommy, and he reached under the counter, pulled out a jacket, and slid it across the bar in one smooth motion.
“Heading out already?” he asked.
Joel nodded. “It’s getting late.”
“Are you staying to wait for him, Claire? Or should I say goodbye to both of you?”
You immediately caught the small smile tugging at Tommy’s lips, but maybe you were too drunk to read into it, so you just nodded and waved a little.
“Goodbye, Tommy. Nice to meet you.”
“Likewise.”
You turned, feeling Joel’s hand brush lightly across your upper back; barely there, but enough for you to still feel its warmth as you walked from the bar to the door. Once there, he stepped away to open it, gesturing for you to go ahead.
And just as you predicted a second before stepping out, the brief barely cold Austin air rushed against your legs, sweeping away every bit of comfort you’d had.
You walked beside Joel for a few meters in silence; there were still a few people on the street, a handful of places open and ready to close for the night. You hugged your purse tighter to your body, and a sigh slipped out after a quiet groan.
“What’s wrong?” Joel asked, nudging your arm gently with his elbow.
“What? Why?”
He smiled. “You’ve been sighin’ and groanin’ since we left the bar. You okay?”
“Really? Didn’t notice,” you laughed. “I thought I was doing it internally.”
“Nope, pretty sure it was out loud too,” he chuckled. “So? What’s up?”
You sighed and held his gaze for a moment.
“Nothing, my feet hurt,” you said, glancing down at your shoes. “Wasn’t planning on walking this much.”
“Right, well,” Joel looked down too. “They don’t look too comfortable.”
“They’re not, but they’re cute, don’t you think?”
He laughed. “Yeah, they are.”
You smiled and lowered your gaze again, focusing on the sidewalk ahead, trying not to trip on anything. You sighed, crossing your arms as a shiver ran through you.
Joel clicked his tongue beside you, a low laugh rumbling from his chest.
“Alright, hold up,” he said, touching your arm.
You stopped and turned to face him. Then he turned his back to you, hand resting against it.
“C’mon, hop on,” he said, a teasing glint in his eyes.
“What?” you laughed.
“Get on my back. You can’t keep walkin’ like that. You’ll hurt yourself.”
“Um, sure, but with this dress… I’ll probably flash my ass to half the neighborhood.”
“Say no more,” he replied, taking off his jacket and holding it open at your sides. “Arms up.”
You obeyed, and Joel wrapped the jacket around your waist, tying the sleeves snugly in front of you. When he finished, he patted your arm softly.
“There. Better. You ready to climb on now?”
You smiled. “Yeah.”
“Alright, c’mon.”
Joel crouched down, and you placed your hands on his shoulders before jumping lightly, settling onto his back. His hands found your thighs, adjusting you higher as he straightened up, and you wrapped your arms around his neck, laughing under your breath as he started walking.
“Don’t drop me,” you murmured near his ear. “And if I’m too heavy, I can get down.”
“I ain’t droppin’ you. I’m a skilled drunk,” he said, giving your legs a squeeze.
“You’re not cold?”
“Nope. You are? Is not cold.”
“Yeah, not really.”
You squeezed his shoulders gently, resting your cheek against the side of his face, close to his ear, and let him carry you the short distance to his place.
Joel hadn’t lied about not living far from the bar. That was true. But his apartment wasn’t two blocks away, it was three. He lived in a small, charming building you entered by climbing a short set of stairs and through a dark blue door with a glass panel in the middle. When you told him the place was lovely, he gave a shy little “thanks” and mentioned he’d been living there for almost three years.
Once inside, Joel led you toward the staircase
“Just three floors up to my place. Go on, climb back up,” he said, motioning for you to get on his back again.
“Joel, no. Absolutely not. I can walk up the stairs.”
“Aw, come on, it’s nothin’,” he laughed.
“And what if we fall? You really wanna tumble down three floors of stairs?”
“We’re not gonna fall. Told you, I’m skilled. Don’t you trust me?”
You smiled sideways. “Can I? I mean, to be fair, I’ve only known you for a couple of hours.”
He laughed. “That’s true.”
“You could very well be a psychopath, and I wouldn’t even know.”
“Do I look like a psychopath to you?”
You looked at him in silence for a moment, your eyes scanning his and the faint curve of his mouth.
“No, not really,” you said, placing your hand on his shoulder to guide him as he turned around. “Though, there’s always that tiny bit of doubt, isn’t there?”
Joel turned, settling into position so you could climb onto his back again. Once you did, he gripped your ankle and said,
“What if you’re the psychopath?”
“Well,” you leaned closer to his face, tightening your hold around him as he started up the stairs, “then you’re completely screwed, because now I know where you live. In fact, you’re carrying me straight to your apartment.”
Joel laughed. “Well, there are worse ways to die, huh? But I know you’re not a psychopath, no psychopath would ever say that.”
“That’s true,” you laughed. “Or maybe I’d say exactly that to confuse you, make you think I’m not a psychopath.”
“I wouldn’t mind dying at your hands,” he said with a grin. “Lately, the routine’s been wearing me down. A change would be nice.”
“A change?”
“A good long rest.”
You smiled. “Ah, so you’re a pessimist.”
Joel pulled you a little closer, giving a small bounce to adjust your weight. By your count, there were still two floors left.
“People usually say I’m more of a grump.”
You laughed. “You’re not a grump. You’re the older brother.”
“Oh yeah? And what makes you so sure it’s that and not that I’m just an asshole?”
“Well,” you said, glancing down at his chest over his shoulder, “I can tell an older brother when I see one. There’s a certain… vibe, don’t you think?”
“You’re the oldest, huh?”
“Yeah, seven year gap.”
“Little brother or little sister?”
“Little sister,” you sighed. “What about you and Tommy? How many years between you two?”
“Five.”
“That’s about what I figured.”
“And you have more siblings, or just a younger sister?”
“Just her. Jules. I was talking to her when my phone went flying.”
Joel chuckled. “Sorry about that.”
“It’s fine, the signal was bad anyway,” you laughed softly. “She’s up in the mountains somewhere.”
“The mountains?”
“Yeah. She’s been traveling for two months now. She was supposed to come back last month but pushed it back, and tonight she said she’s not coming home yet. Or something like that. Hard to tell, some guy was pushing me around. By the way, what’s the deal with that Hal guy? Sounded like some long standing feud.”
Joel laughed again, taking the last few steps in silence until you reached the landing. There were only a handful, and when he stopped in front of his door, he let you slide gently off his back.
“Hal’s an old customer, been coming around since my dad used to run the bar,” he said, looking at you with tired, glinting eyes as he fished his keys from his pocket. “He always orders drinks he can’t pay for, and lately he’s been getting pissed whenever Tommy tells him not to come if he’s broke. He’s not a bad guy, just a pain in the ass when he’s drunk. Tonight he got mad and threatened to piss on the bar, so I kicked him out.”
“Oh, I see.”
“Yeah, he’s a real piece of work,” he muttered, frowning as he struggled to fit the key into the lock.
It took him two tries, a quiet “shit” and then... click. Joel pushed the door open and motioned for you to step inside.
When he turned on the lights, your eyes wandered around the place with secret curiosity.
Because even though Joel carried that kind of mystery you’d expect from someone you’d only met a few hours ago, there were still a lot of things about him you couldn’t quite figure out or wouldn’t have guessed. Like the fact that his place was actually tidy and clean. You didn’t want to sound judgmental, but he gave off more of a laid back vibe.
Still, his living room felt warm; the soft golden glow from a table lamp lit the space gently. There were records stacked neatly on a shelf, a guitar resting by the window, and a small dog bed sitting next to the couch.
“You have a dog?” you asked, smiling as you turned to look at him.
Joel smiled back, but he didn’t need to answer, because before he could say anything, the sound of tiny, excited paws echoed down the hallway.
A moment later, a beagle puppy came running toward you, tail wagging wildly, completely overjoyed. The little dog spun in a few happy circles before Joel crouched down to pick him up, and you just stood there, staring, utterly delighted.
“No way, you have a puppy?” you said, stepping closer to stroke his soft little ears as your heart melted entirely.
“It’s a long story,” Joel said with a small laugh. “But I guess you could say yeah, I have him now.”
“And you leave him alone?” you frowned, pretending to scold him as you took the puppy from his arms. “So this man here leaves you all by yourself at night? Just to go drink at a bar!”
“I don’t leave him alone,” Joel protested beside you, gently petting the puppy’s head.
“Oh no? Let him answer,” you said, grabbing the puppy’s collar to check the tag. “Let’s see what he says... oh, you gotta be kidding me!”
Joel stifled a quiet laugh, and you looked at him with a wide, incredulous smile.
“Snoopy!” you exclaimed, hugging the puppy as he excitedly tried to lick your face, pulling a laugh from you. “I can’t believe you have a puppy named Snoopy!”
“He came with the name,” Joel said, watching the pup. “Wouldn’t dare change it.”
“Oh my God, you’re so perfect, little one, you’re so perfect, the perfect Snoopy.”
Joel chuckled softly and stepped aside. “I’m gonna grab my toolbox, won’t be long.”
“Sure,” you nodded, gently setting Snoopy down on his bed beside the couch.
You gave him a few more pets before curiosity got the better of you. You wandered over to Joel’s record shelf, scanning the titles and artists he had stacked neatly. On top of the shelf sat a framed photo; two boys, who you guessed were Joel and Tommy, and their parents? Maybe.
You lingered there for a few seconds before turning around and slowly taking in the rest of the apartment. The air was completely drown in his scent, and it clung to every inch of the place. For some reason, the smell stirred something in your stomach, and your hand drifted there without thinking.
Then, you noticed Joel’s jacket was still around your waist. You pulled it off, lifting the fabric to your nose before you could stop yourself.
How weird was it that the smell of... well, a stranger, could be this appealing? It smelled clean, like laundry soap and something woodsy, deep, like his cologne had warmth in it.
You frowned, inhaled again, and felt that ridiculous flutter in your stomach when—
Joel chuckled under his breath.
“Hey,” you said, lowering the jacket from your face and turning toward him. He was setting the toolbox down on the coffee table. “Sorry. I, uh… like your cologne.”
You reached out to hand it back, cheeks burning. He stepped closer, took it from you, his fingers brushing yours, and didn’t seem in any rush to move them away.
“Knew I wasn’t imaginin’ it earlier,” he said. “You were sniffin’ my neck while I was carryin’ you down the street.”
You laughed, caught somewhere between mortified and a little too aware of how close he was now.
“Oh, so you did notice?”
He tilted his head, squinting at you. “A little. Just a bit. Mostly when you buried your nose in my neck.”
“I did not bury my nose in your neck,” you said, pushing the jacket against his chest, his hand still resting over yours. The movement made your head spin, though maybe it wasn’t the motion so much as the way his eyes started to mean something entirely different.
He smiled, slow and crooked, and drew you just a little closer.
Good fucking lord.
A quiet laugh slipped out of you. “What are you trying to do, Joel Joel?”
He huffed a laugh. “Joel Joel?”
“I don’t know your full name, I wanted to sound defiant.”
He gave your wrist a light squeeze. “Miller.”
“Miller,” you echoed. “What are you trying to do, Joel Miller?”
In one smooth motion, Joel pulled the jacket from between you and tossed it onto the couch, keeping his hand on yours, pressing you a little closer to his chest.
You flattened your palm against him, sliding it up until your thumb brushed the base of his throat, your fingers fanning out along the side of his neck, and moved your thumb up and down, slow and delicate.
Joel exhaled, his hand wrapping gently around your wrist as he lowered his head closer to yours.
“How you feelin’, sweetheart?” he murmured.
“Pretty good. You?”
“Real good.”
You slid your other hand up his chest too. “Then why haven’t you kissed me yet?”
Joel looked at you for a moment, quiet. “You want me to?”
A breath slipped out of you as your head fell back slightly, your throat exposed for a second while his hands found your waist; tight, steady, holding you close.
“Of course I do,” you said, tilting your head to look at him. “I’m perfectly aware of what I’m asking, if that’s what you’re worried about. Actually, I decided I wanted to kiss you before you even poured me that honey whiskey.”
He smiled. “Thought you didn’t much like me at that point.”
You brushed your fingers along the back of his neck. “That’s not true. I mean, sure, maybe I didn’t at first, but it didn’t last long once I got to know you.”
“Once you got to know me, huh, Claire?”
You grinned, cheeks tightening, and before you could think of something clever to say back, Joel leaned in; his face close to yours, his mouth brushing the shell of your ear, and suddenly every hair on your body stood on end.
His hands tightened on your waist, and your head tilted back, just a little.
“What’s your real name, Claire?” he asked softly, right against your ear.
“My name is Claire.”
“No, it ain’t.”
“And how do you know that?”
“Ah, just do,” he murmured, voice smooth as silk. “And I can spot a bad liar when I see one.”
You smiled, and a second later, in a whisper, your name slipped off your tongue, and you felt Joel’s hands travel up your back, leaving the fabric behind until his fingers found the bare skin your dress didn’t cover.
“That one suits you better,” he murmured, and before you could say a thing, his lips were on your neck. The feeling shot through you so fast it almost hurt, heat spilling down your spine until your knees went weak and a quiet sound escaped your throat before you could stop it.
Joel’s teeth grazed your jaw, and you opened your eyes to find him so close his irises looked like dark glass, gleaming like black tourmalines and impossible to look away from.
What was the worst that could happen?
What was the craziest thing that could happen if, just for one night, you let yourself want what you wanted? Even if it was crazy or uncommon for you like.. Right now, in this exact moment, there wasn’t a single thing you wanted more than to kiss him, to feel him all over you, inside of you, and just stop thinking.
So what was stopping you?
He leaned in and kissed you; barely, softly. Just a brush of his lips, innocent enough to hurt. But it was enough.
Joel pulled you closer, your stomach against his, your chest pressed tight to his. His hands slid down to your thighs, gripping without apology, and you melted in his hands.
When you opened your eyes, it took a second to place yourself.
You were naked, wrapped in a soft gray sheet, your body warm and heavy with sleep. A man’s chest was pressed against your back; Joel’s. His arm draped over you, his hand resting beneath your cheek, fingers laced with yours. His grip was firm, steady, and his warmth curled around you, pulling memories of the night before right back to the surface.
You remembered everything.
Joel was asleep behind you, breathing slow and even, with such a peaceful calm that it made you want to stay exactly where you were. The bed was comfortable. He was, too.
But then, like a sudden drop, you felt reality hit.
And before you could think too hard about it, you were already dressed, slipping your shoes on quietly by his front door.
Snoopy sat beside you on the floor, tail wagging, eyes bright with expectation. He probably thought it was time for a walk. Did Joel usually take him out this early?
Don’t leave.
You didn’t want to, did you? Or maybe you did. Maybe you should.
But it was already too late.
Because by the time the thought really hit, you were out on the street, the morning air cool against your cheeks, your steps echoing softly as you walked back home. You stopped at a green light, watching a few cars rush past in front of you.
No. What were you doing? You should’ve stayed. For some reason, you should’ve stayed.
You could still turn around, if you wanted.
But that was ridiculous, right? Leaving and coming back, ringing his doorbell, what could you even say? You were only three blocks away. Tommy’s bar was already in sight.
You slowed your steps as you approached, staring at the closed bar with that particular kind of melancholy that only shows up when you wish you could rewind time but not far, just a few hours.
Anyway… it was eight in the morning. Or at least it had been eight when you’d checked the time on Joel’s watch.
You started to cross the street when something caught your eye a few feet from the bar.
You tilted your head, frowning, the sunlight glinting off something half-hidden near the curb.
“No fucking way,” you muttered, moving quickly toward the parked car. You crouched down as best you could, reaching behind the tire until your fingertips brushed metal.
You straightened, turning it over in your palm; the Snoopy keychain, a little dirty but still intact, the two keys dangling from it.
A laugh slipped out of you as you shook your head at how ridiculous it all was.
And when you unlocked your apartment door and stepped inside, quiet as a ghost, you walked straight to the sofa and let yourself fall onto it. Your body was tired, still buzzing from the night before, and there it was again, that heavy, stupid ache in your chest.
Summary: You're Sarah's new teacher and Joel can't stop asking you out even though you keep rejecting him.
Warnings: age gap (i picture reader to be 23 and Joel in his late thirties but imagine them however you want), longing, pre outbreak!Joel
Word count: 1.2k
A/N: english isn't my first language and this is my first time writing a fic so sorry for any mistakes
Joel had never been the type of parent who got too involved when it came to school affairs. He showed up when Sarah had a game or for Open House Day, but that was about it. He didn't want to be involved in PTA drama or deal with the single soccer mom's —or even the married ones— who tried to flirt with him.
That was until he met you.
Sarah's new math teacher.
You met during the yearly Open House Day, when he was requested to go to your classroom so you could talk about his daughter's grades.
Sarah had always struggled when it came to math, her grades barely making it to average when it came to the subject. So he walked into the school thinking that he was going to hear the same words he'd been hearing year after year: 'she needs to do better'.
When he came into the classroom he started talking before you even had the chance to introduce yourself or say anything.
"Look, i know what you're gonna say. Sarah's grades ain't the best and she needs-" He sighed as he ran a hand through his hair, a bit tired of the same speech he always heard.
You were a bit taken aback by the man's voice and how you couldnt even get a word in. You had prepared what you were going to say beforehand. You were new to the school and to teaching so you didn't have a lot of practice when it came to talking to parents.
But you quickly composed yourself.
"It's the opposite actually." You cut him off with a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips.
You introduced yourself quickly, just your name and that you had been only been in this school for six months.
"Your daughter's doing great. Her grades just keep going up." You said handing him the last tests and assigments you had graded.
"She's actually one of my best students."
Joel's jaw slacked as he heard you speak. He wasn't sure what surprised him more—what you were saying or you.
You were wearing a blue dress decorated with small flowers, the hem stopping just before your ankles and a pair of black flats. Your hair in a half up ponytail and there were two lose strands framed your face perfectly. You looked sweet, like the type of teacher kids and everyone adored.
And easily the prettiest woman he had ever seen.
You continued speaking about Sarah, her improvement and you even complimented him for how she was being raised. But he only heard half of it.He just couldn't stop staring at you, the way your lips moved, your smile and how the sun kept hitting your skin in a way that made you glow.
He left a few minutes later but not without giving you a handshake that lingered a little too long.
---
That was three months ago and since then Joel kept finding excuses to show up around school so he could see you. PTA meeting. Volunteering at school events. He even got out of the car when he picked up Sarah instead of just waiting inside like usual.
He'd tried asking you out a few times already. Always polite, complementing your outfit or just telling you that you looked beautiful. But he kept getting rejected—despite the pull that he knew you felt as well.
You were polite about it, your voice soft and apologetic as you said: 'Im sorry Mr. Miller. It just wouldnt be approppiate for me to date a student's dad'.
But he could always caught you blushing or how your eyes lingered on him when you thought he wasn't looking. And Sarah—unware of the effect it would have on his dad— had comented you seemed to dress a bit more on the days he was around.
But then, came the last day of school.
Joel was waiting on the front of the building while Sarah chatted with her friends about god knows what. And there you were, leaning against the doorway like you were waiting for him.
And he noticed, just like he noticed everything about you.
"Mr. Miller..." You said as he walked up to you. Your voice lighter than usual. "Or i guess i can call you Joel now that i'm not Sarah's teacher anymore."
He chuckled, taking a step foward to close the distance between you. Just enough so that he could smell that perfume that drove him so insane. "I already told ya. Call me whatever you want, darlin'."
You felt the blood rush to your cheeks at his voice, that southern drawl that made your knees buckle. The last few months had been hell, wanting him, wanting this thing you two had going on, but turning him down because you didn't want trouble for dating a student's dad.
"Well, Joel..." You said, a teasing lit in your voice that had never been there before. "How about you call me tonight?" Your eyes dropped to his hands for a second as you handed him a small piece of paper. Your fingers brushing and sending that familiar spark through your body.
He didn't blink as he stared at the paper, his eyes flickering between your neat handwriting and your face. The face that had kept him up many nights.
You giggled at his reaction, the sound soft and girlish, just like you.
He was about to speak when you beat him to it. "I'm not Sarah's teacher anymore so i thought 'what's the harm?'" You shurgged, trying not to sound eager even though your stomach was turning with anticipation.
Neither of you got the chance to say anything before Sarah's voice rang through the air, reminding you that you weren't the only ones there. "Dad, i'm glad she said yes but can we please go now?"
You both laughed before he leaned in to kiss your cheek, mumbling a small 'goodbye' before turning around and walking towards the exit next to his daughter.
You walked back into your classroom to pack your stuff with a love struck smile on your lips, silently celebrating by yourself and wishing you could make the rest of the day go faster.
God, you couldn't wait to this where this was going.
It’s Sunday, chore day, and Joel has a honey-do list item of his own: get his girl pregnant.
my masterlist!
pairing: joel miller x f!reader
rating: 18+ (mdni)
tags and warnings: pre-outbreak joel, married!joel, pure fluff and smut, slight au, body worship, some cock worship, handyman!joel, malewife!joel, joel “my wife doesn’t lift a finger in this home” miller, vague daddy undertones, overstimulation, joel miller is a munch, oral sex (m and f receiving), unprotected PIV (wrap it up unless you’re joel), creampie, breeding kink, actual breeding, talks of pregnancy, pregnancy kink, domestic bliss, joel’s love language being acts of service and by that i mean putting a baby in his wife, competence kink
word count: ~ 10k (someone stop me)
read on ao3!
a/n: hello, lovelies!! i received this ask ages ago and the idea inevitably snowballed because who is self-control?? does she go to a different school? anyway, this fic is pure plotless domestic fluff and domestic smut (is that a thing? yes!), so i really hope you all enjoy! pre-outbreak joel is very special to me xoxo
HONEY-DO
Your shared bedroom looks out over the eastern sunrise. A mutually-assured vigil, keeping one another safe—and timely.
In the mornings, the golden light spills through the break in the curtains. It will peek slowly inside and gently warm your body awake, testing the limits of its power. When you roll over and make a soft groan of protest in your sleep, seeking more warmth, the little strip of sunlight will widen, directing you. You will find the body next to yours, nuzzling close, your nose bumping his bare chest, and settle happily against it. In return, his body will seek yours, symbiotic exchange, a greedy arm pulling you closer.
In frustration, the sun grumbles it way higher in the sky, shining brighter and spreading wider.
It takes a couple tries to get it right: to shine in just the right way to make you blink rapidly awake, squinting in the glow. You gradually come to life, your lungs sucking in the first deep breath of morning air, your naked body stretching like a cat in the sunspot. Dust hovers lazily in the air, heralding a Sunday occupied by chores. The room is still, silent, and kissed by morning rays. Peaceful.
You examine him in the light: tanned skin sparkling gold, plush lips slightly parted, broad chest rising and falling. His hair is pleasantly tousled from sleep. There are patches of silver beginning to thread through his dark brown beard, and in your self-sustaining state of affection, you gently put your lips to one of the patches of skin where hair does not grow.
Your persistence grows with every second he refuses to wake. It may be a bit petulant, your lips smattering soft kisses across his jaw, beneath his ear, down to his neck and all its veins, but it begins to work. He stirs, groaning softly, turning onto his side and wrapping both arms around your waist. He does all of this without opening his eyes, resting his head on your belly and nuzzling against you as if he could get any closer—sated, for now, his body knowing nothing but the pull toward you.
You comb your fingers through his messy hair and listen to him breathe while he listens to your heartbeat.
“It’s ten,” you whisper.
“Hmph,” he says against your belly. He hasn’t opened his eyes yet; if you didn’t know his breathing patterns like they were mapped out in the lines of your palms, you would think he’s still sleeping.
“We slept in,” you point out.
Joel gently bumps his forehead into your stomach as if he were banging his head against a wall. “Shit,” he grumbles.
You laugh as his moustache tickles your skin. “Do you want to get up now?”
Another grunt, accompanied by a shake of his head. Big, strong arms pull you closer.
“I’ll make you breakfast,” you coo, stroking his hair away from his face. “Eggs… bacon… coffee…”
Joel presses his lips to your belly. “Don’t go takin’ my job, now,” he says, his voice groggy with disuse. “No girl of mine’s gonna run around gettin’ her own damn coffee.”
“Hmm. Means you have to move, Romeo.”
This earns a playful smack to the side of your thigh, his big, callused hand kneading your flesh while he wakes himself up with mouthfuls of your scent—linen and vanilla—and gulps down the sunlight glowing on your skin.
“Never mind,” you sigh, dreamy and complacent under his attention.
His eyes finally crack open, peering up at you, honey-brown pools touched by the golden light. He rests his chin on your belly and keeps his arms wrapped around your hips. His fingers trace shapes up and down your lower back. “You got a honey-do list?” he asks with a crooked grin.
Your tongue wets your bottom lip. “That depends. Can I get you to mow the lawn without a shirt on?”
“What do I get if I do?” he teases, his hand moving to your hip, contouring his hand to the shape of you.
You lift a brow, easing your legs apart underneath his body, letting him feel the warmth between your thighs. Like a moth to the goddamn flame, his eyes wide and eager, Joel crawls down your body with his mouth on your belly. Pausing just above your naked cunt, he blows cool air onto your clit and watches you squirm.
“After,” you gasp. “After chores, honey. We’ll never get up if we start now.”
“Don’t think I can make my woman come in good time?” he challenges, his palms keeping your thighs spread. Your pretty pussy glistens before his eyes, better than any fuckin’ breakfast. He begins to salivate.
Your head falls back into the pillows. “I never said that.”
Joel isn’t listening anymore. He kneads your thighs as he peers at you above your belly, your tits, to the curve of your jaw as you lie comfortably. Good. His baby ain’t about to get herself worked up on a Sunday morning.
He lowers his face just enough to let you feel his lashes tickling your lower belly, and you giggle his name, the sound pure adrenaline to his blood. You're so soft and supple under his fingers, moulding to his touch, letting him take care of you. You may be in charge of him, but this is where he takes control.
He presses a soft kiss to your clit and you sigh, your head turning toward the direction of the sun. It warms your face while your husband slides his tongue through your wet slit, lazily and sleepily, as though he's operating on instinct alone. Gathering up your wetness on his tongue, he groans, his fingers dimpling your thighs.
“Taste so fuckin’ sweet,” he murmurs. “Fuckin’ made for me.”
“Oh, God,” you whisper, your eyes fluttering. “Baby…”
That sweet little whine is poison. He cannot do anything but continue to drink you down, flicking his tongue against your clit. He's a sucker and he's always been. Your pretty fuckin’ smile from across the bar that first night; your tight black dress and the too-sweet cocktail you smooth-talked him into ordering that had his adenoids prickling; your instinct for sensing others’ troubles and your uncanny ability to make them feel like they have none at all. He never stood a chance.
He knows for a goddamn fact every man in the bar that night wanted to do to you what Joel is doing now: lapping up your juices with his tongue, spit mingling with arousal, warming his body between your thighs under the watch of the mid-morning sun. But he got you. Joel. He bought you a drink and he took you on a date. He got to taste your pretty pussy and he got to sit you on his dick—after the second date, that is.
He's the one who gets to wake up with you, share matching gold bands around your fingers, kiss you freely. As far as he's concerned, he's the luckiest guy on the fuckin’ planet.
He feels particularly green when your back arches, your lips parting around his name, relishing in the feeling of his mouth on your clit. You're unashamed to take pleasure, never shy about telling him Oh, fuck, yes! Right there, honey! Joel, yes, that feels so good, baby.
Joel preens with pride. His hot tongue glides over your clit, smooth and wet, easily coaxing you to a languid high. The golden spotlight through the curtains shines on you. You're the starlet and he's the adoring fan. From the first day, he knew he'd do anything to make you notice him.
“This wasn’t your first bar fight, was it?”
Plucking pieces of glass out of his bloodied knuckles, you looked up through your lashes at Joel, who had been staring at you since you sat him down in the bathroom. Okay—a little longer than that.
He shook his head.
You just smiled at him and gently shook your head. About as much reproach as he would get. “This might sting. Just hold on tight if you need to.”
“Like the sound of that,” he said quietly, and if you heard, you didn't comment. You guided his hand under the warm water and washed the rest of the blood from his knuckles, gently smoothing the pads of your fingers over his rough worker’s hands. Capable, you thought, idly watching the blood swirl into the drain. He barely winced when you put his hand under.
“Wanna tell me why you did it?” you asked him, your tone soothing and sweet.
Joel shrugged. Big, broad shoulders. Humbly strong, until someone made him show it. “Ain't manly to touch a woman like that.”
You lifted your brows. “But it's manly to beat the shit out of the guy who touched her?”
Joel studied your face. Cherry-red lip gloss. Gently flushed cheeks from a healthy couple drinks. The instinctual rise and fall of your chest as you breathed, the lighting shifting gently over your collarbones. It was fascinating just to watch you breathe. Even cleaning his bloody knuckles, you slowly circled the pad of your thumb over the back of his hand, like an innate urge to comfort. Your eyes had an old wisdom to them; a particular gleam a person gained when they were familiar with the hardships life had to offer.
He wanted to ask you. He wanted to know everything. He wanted to do more than beat up some asshole who thought he could get away with pinching your ass.
But he would earn it. A real man earned what he got.
“Didn’t beat the shit out of him. Just roughed him up,” he says.
He watched you bite down on a smile. “You're a little twisted, Joel.”
“Yeah?” He smirked, eyes flicking to your dewy lips, coated with that gloss. “Think so?”
“Yeah.” You licked your bottom lip and he wondered if you tasted like cherries. “But I'm going to ask you on a date anyway.”
Your fingers curl in Joel’s messy hair, making him groan into your pussy. “Oh, baby,” you gasp, cracking your heavy eyes open to watch him lap at you, practically petting his hair away from his face as his big brown eyes remain fixed to yours.
He purrs, suckling your clit between his lips, his eyes eagerly drinking in the sight of your flushed, tightening body. Making you come is one thing. Watching it is another. Your back arches and your fingers pull on his hair. Scalp prickling, Joel grips your thighs tighter. He’d let you peel away pounds of his flesh if it made you happy. He’d go eagerly to the grave knowing he had put some good into the world, put some light in your eyes.
“Joel, I’m… I’m coming—ah!” you cry, your thighs squeezing his head, your sensitive clit pulsing under his tongue as your pussy contracts around itself, seeking something nice and big to grasp onto. His cock is aching, his hips grinding idly against the mattress for relief, his head fuzzy from the pleasure of making you feel good. Your body slowly melts into the bed, your limbs twitching as the tension in your muscles loosens, your lips parted permanently around his name.
Eyes drooping and teary, you try to find him between your thighs, gently stroking his hair away from his face as it begins to fall into his big brown eyes. “Need a haircut,” you croak.
Joel hums, his head listing to the side, using your soft thigh as a pillow. He nips you playfully, your skin a golden path he intends to follow to the end. His hands caress your hips, helping you come down to Earth. You admire the delectable convex slope of his nose, the way it curves deliciously against your skin when he kisses, bites, inhales. He’s freckled and indented with the signifiers of a lived-in life; a good life. His is a likeness you could trace with your eyes closed.
It’s eleven o’clock, and your stomach begins to grumble.
Joel chuckles, pressing a long kiss to your belly. “Gettin’ up now,” he says. “Promise.”
He pulls on a pair of sweatpants, tucking his hard cock away to be dealt with later. Padding down the stairs, Joel is quick to tend to your needs, putting on a fresh pot of coffee. After so long together, his mind operates on autopilot, steering him from the cupboard to the refrigerator and back to the steaming pot, occupied with the menial task of making a good cup. The gentle clinking scrape of the spoon as he stirs your milk into the cup wakes him up until he feels practically revitalised. He keeps his coffee black.
He hears the soft tread of your feet behind him, feels the warmth of your body as you crowd his space, smiles at the way you smooth your palms over the planes of his muscled back in unadulterated admiration. His shoulders are wide, tapering down to the soft belly you’ve nurtured through years of cooking. He’s sturdy and strong and all yours. The sight of him always makes you a bit giddy.
“So handsome,” you whisper, wrapping your arms around his middle and pressing your face between his shoulder blades. The buffed claws of his woodsy pine scent hook into the spaces between your ribs.
Joel lifts your hand to his mouth and kisses the wedding band on your finger, the engagement ring above it. “Sit down, baby. Coffee’s ready.”
You grin against his back, nudging your nose into his tanned skin. “Mmm. That sounds good. But I wanna stay here. ‘s nice and warm.”
“Girl of my dreams,” Joel murmurs, reaching around his back and patting your ass. “C’mon, I’ll keep you warm.”
You grumble your way to the little circular table in the kitchen, tucked into the alcove at the front window. It’s a souvenir from your parents' garage sale when they decided to sell their home and move to Austin. As a girl, you’d draw, scratch, and paint on that table, endlessly entertaining yourself by marking things up. Even now, there are remnants of your childhood in the worn grooves and chipped varnish. It fits nicely into your home, perfectly suited to two. It could even fit one more.
You ruminate as you watch Joel carry two mugs to the table. He knows which cup is your favourite: green ceramic decorated with tiny flowers, perfectly contoured to the shape and size of your hands, warming your palms just nicely between sips. Joel’s mug shows its age: white but slightly yellowed from years of use, bigger than yours. The steam of the coffee gently curls into the air, a dance of silvery ribbons in lock-step. They twist together as you purse your lips and blow. The rich, smooth caramel hue of your coffee contrasts the tar-black of Joel’s.
Since you dragged yourself out of bed on shaky legs, you shrugged on the navy T-shirt he tossed aside last night to give his greedy wife access to his chest. You'd carved some decent marks into his skin, now that you're properly looking: tiny bruises sharpening to purple, faint pinkish scratch marks that you don't remember making.
“Baby, I don’t mind,” he says, watching you scan his chest with a frown creasing your brow.
“But it looks painful, honey. You should let me—”
“You don’t gotta do anything,” says Joel, “‘cept come over here.”
Your brows lift coyly, your body sliding out of the chair and into his lap, legs bracketing his strong thighs. His hand finds a home on your lower back, bunching the hem of his shirt up to find your ass bare, your wet cunt sitting nice and pretty on his hard cock. You gasp when the generous length meets your puffy clit with heavy pressure. “Joel…”
Your voice is a mere whimper, a soft little plea for more, or for mercy. Joel’s always had better restraint than you.
“Warmer now?” he asks, like a real arrogant asshole, slipping his hand under the shirt on your body and splaying his fingers over your ribcage, thumb grazing the underside of your breast.
You do feel warmer, crushed up against him like this. You reach behind you and grab your coffee mug, taking a small sip. Your other hand winds around his neck and scratches the tousled hair at the nape of his neck. Joel hums, leaning close, nuzzling his face between your tits.
“Gimme the list,” he says, voice muffled.
You keep on stroking his hair and drinking your coffee between list items. “Mow the lawn. Clean out the eavestrough. Fix the sink.”
“Hmm, easy work,” he says, his other hand sliding up and down your back. It makes you melt into him even more, giving him the chance to tease a nipple between his teeth through the fabric of your shirt. You huff, wiggling your hips, but he's a brick wall. He does not budge. “Gimme yours, baby.”
You recall the items on your own list. “Vacuum the house. Go for groceries. Touch up the paint on the front door. Do the laundry. Cook dinner. Cut your hair,” you add with a playful smile.
Joel frowns against your chest, pulling back to look up into your eyes like a grumpy, needy dog. “You put all that down for yourself?”
You try to placate him with a kiss on his nose. “You work so hard, sweetie. I could use some hard labour once in a while.”
Joel shakes his head. “You aren’t doin’ all that by yourself.”
“No?” You lift your brows. “Wanna buy it off me, Mr. Miller?”
“I’ll win ‘em from you,” he says, tilting his head back to kiss your jaw. “Name the price.”
You bite your lip and chase his mouth, plush and soft under that dark moustache. “I’ll think on that. Meantime, you can get to work on that lawn while I watch from the comfort of the front porch. That sound fair?”
Joel’s old Southern values rear up every now and then, imparted by his mother and his father’s mother before. Putting in an honest day’s work will make his wife comfortable and happy. He doesn't want you lifting a finger around this home if he's perfectly capable of doing the job himself. He works with his hands all day, gets dirty and sweaty. You shouldn't have to—not when you work so damn hard every other day of the week.
Joel nips your chin. “Fine. But I ain’t gonna forget that I owe you.”
“Wouldn't dream of it, baby.”
Joel finishes his coffee, but you take your time with yours, changing into a short blue sundress while Joel, regrettably, puts a pair of jeans and a shirt on. Curling your legs up on the porch swing, you watch your man start the lawnmower, enthralled by the rippling of his back muscles with every pull. You know that some of it’s for show—knowing you're watching makes him want to impress you. Sometimes, he's still the man with the teenaged crush on the girl, doing everything he can and going out of his way to make you smile. It works.
He’s methodical: making lines up and down the lawn, shearing away the too-long blades of grass under the motor. As sweat begins to bloom under his collar and his brow, he wipes his forehead with his forearm and you lick your lips, saliva pooling in your mouth at the thought of running your tongue all over his strong, naked body. Jesus. You finish off your coffee and force your eyes away from your husband for a moment. It isn't too hot from where you sit on the wraparound porch, but your chest feels sticky.
You rush inside to fill up a glass of water for him, hastily scrubbing your mug clean and putting it back in the cupboard. Maybe you should be occupying yourself with your chores today; you worry nothing will get done if you continue to watch him work in the Texas sun.
He’s just finishing when you shoulder your way back outside, his neck glistening with sweat and golden noon-hour light, warm and tempting. You set the glass on the railing and wait for him to come your way, squeezing your thighs together as your eyes trail up and down his body.
He's always been a capable man, broad and tall—so good at his job that he was offered a promotion after a few months. But it isn't just his strength or his doggedness when it comes to getting his work done. It's the way he’s so eager to finish things, to check off the items on your list, to please you. He frowns at the idea of you doing too much work. He parades you around town with a puffed-up chest, as if to announce, This is my wife. I’m her husband and I’m fucking proud. He takes your pleasure so seriously that it feels like a competitive sport—always outdoing himself, always striving for more. He loves selflessly, and yet he loves just selfishly enough to make sure the world knows you're his.
He’ll be a good daddy.
You glance down at your belly and let yourself picture it: swollen and round, ballooning big enough to fit a new life inside. You imagine smoothing your hand over a growing bump, Joel’s warm palms feeling the undulating kicks of a little baby inside, half of him and half of you. You picture back aches and swelling feet and insatiable cravings and expended energy. And not a part of it deters you. Not a speck of your willpower wavers, the way it would have mere months ago.
Something has changed. It may have been gradual and it may have been sudden. But it's new, all the same. It’s been this way since a week ago, when you looked in your nightstand at your little pink pill organiser labelled by weekday, and decided: No more.
Watching Joel make his way back to you, shielding his eyes from the light, you idly place your hand on your belly. Something new. A welcome change, you think, to have someone new sitting at our little table.
Joel climbs up the steps to the porch and gulps down the glass of water. “Thank you, baby,” he says, wiping his mouth. Your lips part as if to taste the air around him, to chew, to savour, relishing the richness.
Your pupils expand, taking in more of him, and Joel notices, placing a rough hand over yours where it rests on your belly. “You’re lost in thought, honey. Wanna tell me what's in that pretty head?”
“Just…” Your tongue wets your bottom lip. “Thank you for doing that. I know it's a big job.”
“Ain’t nothin’,” says Joel, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Got any idea how I can win those chores off you?”
Hands grasping your hips, sliding over your sweat-slick spine, saccharine noises slipping from your throat onto your tongue and out into the open air. Fingers imprinting permanent fixtures into your ribs. The heady weight of his big, fat cock wrenching you open, as it always does, slow until it isn't anymore. Desperation kicking in, a switch flipped, pummeling and brutal and unforgiving. Uncompromising. Hips pressed flush to your ass, nothing spilling out. Not a drop.
Everything sealed in tight as promises are exchanged as whispers in the dark.
“I want you to put a baby in me.”
All right. You could have been more delicate about it. Not precisely how you wanted to approach the topic, but it seems to get the job done.
Looking down at you, Joel slowly lowers the empty glass, mouth opening as he searches for words. “What?”
There’s no point in shyness or hesitation. You know your body, your mind, your heart. You thread your fingers through Joel’s and let them stay connected over your stomach. “I want you to give me a baby, Joel Miller,” you say softly, your gaze locked to his. “That's my price.”
Joel swallows thickly, his mouth still gaping. “I heard you,” he rasps. “Just… you… you mean it?”
You try not to melt over the tone of his voice: low, bordering on desperate, wanting. There’s hunger in the sound of it. “We’ve talked about it,” you offer, conciliatory. “Lots of times.”
“Yeah, we have.” Joel steps closer, his eyes dipping from your eyes to your mouth, your throat and collarbones, to your belly. His hand flexes. “You gotta be sure. You gotta know it's what you want.”
You cup his face and give him your best smile. It's the sort of smile he remembers from the very first night you met. The sort of person who is unashamed to show their joy on their face. “Honey, I want it all with you.” Your fingers squeeze his. “We’ve waited so long and I don’t want to wait anymore.”
His ears are ringing. All Joel can do is sweep you into his arms and grin into your throat, his hand firm on the back of your head, curling around a fistful of hair. “Girl of my fuckin’ dreams,” he mumbles against your skin. “I’ll make you a momma. Give you just what you want. Everything you want.”
As you close your eyes and open your ears to his ramblings, your erratic heartbeat settles. Serenity finds the pair of you, locked together on your front porch, and the next part of your life begins.
“Don’t think this gets us out of doing chores,” you tease.
“You aren’t gonna lift a goddamn finger,” says Joel fiercely, his lips still littering kisses all over your neck. “You’re havin’ a baby.”
“Honey, I’m not pregnant yet,” you laugh. “I don't need to get all lazy right away.”
“Yeah, you do, and you will. I’m gonna make you the laziest momma in Texas,” says Joel, smiling into your throat, the scratch of his moustache making you dizzy with laughter. “Gonna look so fuckin’ beautiful with a baby in you. Gonna glow like a goddamn firefly. Shit, we need to paint the spare room. I need to build a crib, get time off work—”
“Joel,” you coo, scratching your nails up and down the back of his neck. “We’ll have time to do all of that.”
He pulls back to look down at you, eyes so buttery-soft in the shade of the porch that you impulsively reach for his cheek and run your fingers through his patchy beard. “What’s next on my list?” he asks, holding you around the waist.
You tap your fingers gently against his cheek as you recite each item over again. Joel’s arms tighten, pulling you closer, pupils widening.
“And then what?” he says gruffly.
You beam, and he's so fucking in love that he may keel over, doubled by the intensity of his affection. “And then, you're going to take me to bed and put a baby in me.”
This phenomenon should be studied: how quickly Joel Miller speeds through his chores when he has enough incentive. The anticipation of bending you over on the mattress and wringing every drop of cum from his balls until your stomach swells drives each flick of his hand as he touches up the forest-green paint on the front door, weathered slightly by morning sunlight over the years. The image of his hips pressed flushed to you as he grinds deep, spilling his cum into your womb and forcing it to take, motivates every turn of the steering wheel as he drives you to the grocery store in his clunky Chevy.
He’ll need to drive to Benny’s, get the suspension fixed up; no way in hell he's going to let his pregnant wife sit on the old bench of a bumpy pickup truck, not with the speed bumps dotting the neighbourhood. At least there's a good preschool nearby. He pictures taking his baby to school and he preemptively feels the inevitable first swoop of dread into his gut knowing he'll have to watch his little girl disappear behind those doors. He knows, somehow, that it’ll be a girl. There's not a doubt in his mind.
“What are you thinkin’ about?” you ask him, playing with his fingers as he holds your thigh. Joel is a great driver; he steers so easily, one palm sliding smoothly over the wheel, his eyes alert and his speed under control. It’s a little sexy, and it makes you antsy from where you sit on the bench. Sure, there are chores to do and there’s dinner to make, but it’s getting harder to push your innate needs to the back of your mind. You don't know if you can wait all day to get him inside you.
“Names,” he says. “Got lots of ideas.”
“Yeah? Fire away.”
“Well, I like Eleanor. Good, strong, classic name, y’know? Little wordy, maybe. Then there's Mary, Marie, Hannah, and I can tell you don't like any of ‘em,” he finishes with a laugh, squeezing your thigh. Your silence has always been a tell.
“They're very sweet names,” you concede, “but they don't feel like my baby.”
Joel’s hand slides up to your belly and warms you beneath your dress. “Maybe we’ll feel it,” he says, “when we make her.”
“Think it’ll happen on the first try?” you wonder aloud, watching the scenery whiz by outside. It's a sunny, temperate day for Austin. You think about taking your baby for a walk, lounging lazily in a stroller while you say words that fall on deaf ears, but will resonate in due time nonetheless. You think about a little girl that will cling hard to her daddy’s leg when she gets scared of the storms outside, the way you did when you were little. You think about long nights shushing your sweet baby girl to sleep, about those same nights spent nestled into Joel’s body, the three of you dozing idly on the sofa. A unit.
“If it doesn’t, I’ll just have to try again.” You watch his fingers creep back down between your legs and snap the waistband of your panties.
You smack his hand. “If you keep playin’, Mr. Miller, you're gonna have to take me right here, in this truck. You want to give your wife a bad back?”
Joel grunts, patting your thigh. “Dirty play.”
“That's what I thought.”
Back at home, Joel vacuums the house while you manage, some-fuckin’-how, to convince him to let you do the laundry. He fishes debris and runoff out of the eavestrough, then gets down on his bad knees to tighten the plumbing underneath the sink.
“Let me help, sweetie. At least hand you a wrench or something. You'll hurt your back again.”
“I got it,” he grunts from under the sink. “Just a loose pipe. I’m peachy.”
You just sigh and let him carry on, the stubborn bastard. When he stands, the job done, he lifts the hem of his shirt to wipe the sweat off his forehead, and you get a generous glimpse of his belly, the trail of dark hair directing your gaze down, down—
“Joel?” you squeak, wringing your hands together.
He drops the shirt back over his abdomen and steps closer. “Yeah, baby?”
“Are you, um… Are you hungry?”
He understands the particular glint in your eye, the telltale widening of your pupils, the hollow of your throat dipping as you swallow, your lashes fluttering gently. Blood surges down to his cock and it begins to fill out his jeans at the thought of taking what he's waited for all day. “No,” he says, licking his bottom lip. You eye every minute movement with meticulous precision. “Think dinner can wait.”
“I was thinking the same thing,” you say, crowding him and tugging at the hem of his shirt. He watches you prowl slowly toward him, gaze locked to the heady pull of your eyes. His cock twitches with a vested interest in the body now pressed up against him. Joel cannot look away from the siren now calling him to sea.
“That so?” he rasps, bunching the fabric of your dress so it rides up your hip and gives him a good look at your panties. “You dressed up all pretty today. For me?”
You're as coy as a flirtatious schoolgirl, trailing your fingers up and down his muscled bicep. “Always for you.”
“That’s right, baby. You like me lots, don't you?”
“Mmm, I do,” you purr, your hand sliding up his abdomen to his chest, admiring the hard planes of his strong body. “So handsome, strong, generous…” You get lost in your exploration, eyes dipping to his throat, your lips instinctively seeking the delectable vein that pulses with every beat of his heart. “Such a good man. Gonna be such a good daddy.”
Joel’s breath shudders out of him when he feels your soft, warm mouth on his neck, indulging in the taste of him. “Jesus,” he croaks, gripping your hips hard. “Jesus, honey, you gotta go easy on me. Lemme take it slow—”
—or I swear to God, I’ll blow a load in my jeans.
“You wanna undress me?” you say, like a real fucking tease, pulling away and tugging playfully at the straps of your dress. Joel’s nostrils flare, and he’s walking you back into the wall, cupping the back of your head to protect it, and slanting his mouth over yours.
He’s salty with the sweat that drips from his temples and he still smells of fresh-cut grass. He’s all Joel, all yours, the first gulp of air you breathe in when you wake and the last sigh you exhale before you sleep.
You moan into his mouth as he parts your lips and dips his tongue between them to taste yours. You taste like mint and coffee and he clutches you tighter, wrinkling the fabric of your pretty little dress in his fist. The sunlight filters through the windows, intrusive, bleeding into the moment as if taking a snapshot. Joel kisses you so deeply that your throat feels stained with the gasps of breath you exchange.
You're sweet enough that it makes him ache, bending your back to fit you to him, craving more. Closeness is not enough—he needs possession.
Joel’s kisses are bruising, unforgiving, merciless, but they are also slow, careful. He isn't sloppy; he does precisely what must be done to get you riled. And when he breaks away, his forehead resting against yours, you tug his hair with a pitiful whine.
“I wasn't done,” you tell him.
Joel pouts, mocking. Fingers pull at the straps of your dress until you're watching it pool at your feet. His big hands find your tits immediately, squeezing out all his frustrations, tweaking your nipples and lowering his mouth to your throat.
Your fingers curl into his hair, glueing him to you while he marks your throat, sucking blood to the surface, retribution for the hickeys all over his chest. His warm palms explore your tits the way he likes, and you curve into him, giving him all the access he wants. “Joel, honey—”
Your voice is nectar, warmth from a fire on the Fourth of July, the stomach-cramping laughter around the flame. Joel groans, blindly searching for your hand with his face still nuzzled in your throat, sucking a particularly aggressive bruise that you’ll scold him for later. But he threads his fingers through yours and feels the cool kiss of your twin wedding bands, and your sweet, wispy sighs have him grinding absently against your thigh. You don't have half the mind to get mad at him for a goddamn thing.
He pulls away with a great yank of his self-restraint, still holding your hand. “C’mon, baby.”
You follow dutifully, staring up at your husband with the same moony eyes you gave him on your wedding day. The third stair creaks a bit, the way it always does. The bedroom door is first on the left, and it's a good fucking thing, because Joel can't wait any longer.
He walks you to the edge of the bed, stalking, a predator on prey, focused solely on his task. “Goddamn beautiful,” he says to himself, scanning your mostly-naked body and feeling his eyes droop in arousal.
“Think so?” Your hand drops between your bodies and palms his erection over his jeans. “Yeah, you really think so.”
His nostrils flare. “Sit.”
You lower yourself onto the mattress, primly placing your hands on your thighs and straightening your spine. Joel hums appreciatively, approaching you and slotting himself between your legs. There's a dark wet spot pooling in your panties. “Sweet thing. So needy all fuckin’ day.”
“So were you” is your retort, packing little punch due to the way you push your tits toward him like a fucking whore.
Joel presses his big, warm hand to your sternum. “Remember what you said to me the first time I got you in bed?”
“‘Let’s go again’?”
“The other thing.”
“'Let me suck your dick’?”
“Try again, baby.”
“‘Wrong hole’?”
Joel snorts, shaking his head. “Goddamn smartass,” he mutters. “Told me you wanted me from that first night. Told me you woulda let me fuck you against that bathroom mirror.”
His hand begins to move, rolling your nipple between his fingers like a cigarette, playing with you the way he likes. “Said you’d let me do whatever I wanted,” Joel says quietly, not meeting your eyes, transfixed by the way your body seeks the touch he gives you. “That still true?”
“I meant it then, and I mean it now,” you tell him, pulling your lip between your teeth. “I’m yours, Joel Miller.”
He tilts his head slightly, satisfied. “You got somethin’ you wanna ask me?”
You hook a finger in his belt loop. “Can you get naked now?”
He laughs, guiding your hand to the buckle on his belt. “Go on. Do what you wanna do, baby.”
He belongs to you. He’s yours to mould the way you want.
Your fingers do away with his belt, whipping it out of the loops and hanging it around your neck. Joel’s hands flex at his sides as you toy with the hem of his shirt, bringing it slowly up his torso with your palms flat to his tanned skin.
You imagine you're sculpting him like clay, bringing your hands over the contours and admiring the work when all is done. It’s the artist’s pride of finishing the work and none of the self-reproach when something comes out wrong, because it’s Joel, and wrong becomes negligible.
You bring the shirt over his head with his assistance, lifting his arms for you, tossing the thing aside with little care. His eyes haven't once wavered from you. Next are his jeans, the scrape of his zipper and the delectable anticipation of hooking your fingers in the waistband and guiding them slowly down his hips.
His cock springs forward, thick and heavy and so hard it must ache, as you shuck his jeans down with his boxers. He grunts above you, his cock bobbing at the sight of your pretty lips parting. But you don’t take him into your mouth. You grasp the base of his cock and gently nuzzle your cheek against his length. Something like a strangled whimper leaves his throat.
“Baby,” he chokes.
“Yes, honey?” you say sweetly, looking up at him through your lashes.
“Jesus,” he says through his teeth. “You’re so fuckin' sexy. Fuck.”
You hum, slowly stroking your hand up and down as your tongue darts out to lick his balls. Joel’s hips stutter, his hand flying out to catch himself on the bedpost. “Goddamn. Jesus—”
Your coy smile knocks him askew, your lips pursing as you spit on the head of his cock, spreading your own saliva around the tip with your thumb. “I just wanna thank you”—a soft kiss to the tip has a rumbling groan crawling out of his throat—“for everything you do for me. I just want you to know how much I love you.”
Joel exhales hard, struggling to remember how breathing works when he's got his wife playing with his cock like it's your favourite toy. “How much do you love me?” he demands.
You wrap your fingers around the head of his cock and twist your hand up and down his shaft in a couple slow strokes. You're driving him fucking crazy. His vision is whiting out.
“I love you,” you purr, licking a broad stripe up the underside of his length. Joel’s chest is heaving with the effort of holding back. “Love you so much. Love you enough to make you a daddy.”
Joel caves, threading his fingers through your hair at the nape of your neck and stroking his thumb along your jaw. “Fuck, baby. Please…”
“Do you love me?” Batting your lashes, you scatter measured kisses from his tip to the base, teasingly licking his balls.
“Christ, I—” His hips jut forward instinctively. “I love you. Fuckin’ love you, baby.”
You flick your tongue against his slit and relish his groan, revelling in the sight of his flushed chest, his pink cheeks, the sweat on his brow. His jaw is tense, his nostrils flaring. He’s trying not to take control.
You slap his cock twice on your tongue and finally take it past your lips, sealing your mouth over the head. Joel moans, white-knuckling the bedpost, his other hand now stroking your hair. You fondle his balls in your free hand while the other grips him at the base, and he’s going to come embarrassingly soon if you keep looking up at him this way.
Your tongue swirls around the head of his cock while your lips seal tight, greedily suckling at his tip. Oversensitive, skin prickling with salty sweat, Joel practically breathes through his teeth. “Gonna kill me,” he manages. “You’re gonna kill me, honey.”
“Mmmm,” you reply, happily taking him deeper, his length sliding along the warm wetness of your tongue. Joel’s fingers tighten in your hair.
“Fuuuuck. You love this cock.”
“Mmmhmm.”
“Love takin' me into your mouth like a little slut.”
“Mmmmph,” you agree, pushing your tits out.
His hand drifts down to the belt hanging around your neck and he wraps his fist around both ends, tugging so you’re forced to take him deeper. You splutter, breathing hard through your nose, your arousal dripping onto the mattress.
The sloppy sounds of your mouth working his cock send his head spinning. Drool dribbles from the corners of your lips, your eyes squeezing black tears from dewy lashes. And when you take him down your throat, the sound of your choked moan leaves Joel with little choice but to pull out before he comes.
You whine, squeezing your thighs together. He swipes his thumb underneath your eye and shows you the black smudge from your mascara. “Doesn't take much to get you cryin’. You like me that much?”
You bite your bottom lip and beam up at him. “Did I do okay?”
Your faux-innocence makes his dick twitch in your face, and you flick your tongue out to lick at the tip once more. Joel grunts, grasping his belt and tossing it away.
“‘Did I do okay,’” he murmurs, tweaking your nipple between his fingers. “Got no idea after all these years. No idea what you do to me.”
“I just wanna take care of my man. He works so hard, you know, keeping me safe and happy.” You run your hand over his soft belly, the trail of hair that leads down to his cock. “He’s always liked to give me things.”
Joel backs you farther up the bed and crawls over your body, lowering his head to bury his face in your throat. You smell fresh and sweet as vanilla, and when he playfully bites into your skin, your saplike laugh has him grinding helplessly against your thigh.
He loves to give—always has. It’s all he knows. It took a long while for you to get him to unlearn some of his blind selflessness, to let you take control sometimes and care for him instead. Your Joel provides; he does not take. And the prospect of getting to give his wife a baby is turning him to putty in your hands. By the time he gets to work, he’ll be dead-set on his task, hard-pressed to pull out of you. He’ll want to get the job done on his first try, refusing to see you upset if the test comes back negative, but the id will still scratch and claw for another chance to fill you up.
Joel sucks a hickey into your neck and soothes the mark with his tongue, the slow, soft pleasure compounded by the way his warm body covers you, your fingers carding through his locks.
Your voice oozes, honeyed, down his spine. “I love you, Joel.”
He squeezes his eyes shut and crushes his nose in your throat, his hand smoothing down your hair. “I love you.”
“You want to make a baby?”
He rears back slightly, his nose bumping against yours. “Yeah. I really fuckin’ do.”
You grin, lacing your fingers together at the back of his neck. “Will you fuck me? Please?”
Joel brushes his thumb across your chin. “Use your words.”
“I want to be a mom, Joel.” You give him a long, gooey stare, eyes warm and soft as running water. A look like that will make a man give you the goddamn galaxy.
He nods, pressing a soft kiss to your mouth. “I know, baby. I’ll help you. Hands and knees, now.”
The gentle direction moulds your body to the shape of the words. You go easily, your back arching as you rest your weight on your forearms and spread your thighs. The bed dips behind you as Joel settles in, his hands grasping your ass and making you jump.
Your body trembles with excitement. You’re going to be a mom. He's going to get you pregnant. You feel dizzy, bending deeper at the hips and shaking your ass at him, deluded with your own arousal.
But Joel doesn't fuck you right away. No, he bumps up against the backs of your thighs, warm hands branding your skin, and rubs two fingers over the wet spot darkening your panties.
“I do this to you?” he says smugly.
“You know damn well—”
“Wanna hear you say it.” The no-nonsense command triggers a submissive response. “Who did this to you?”
Your body melts against him, presenting your pussy to him like a needy whore. “You, Joel. It’s you, baby. Only you.”
Your babbling makes him squeeze handfuls of your ass, spreading your asscheeks apart to get a good glimpse of the way your pussy drools into your panties. Shuffling backward and lowering himself to his knees on the floor, Joel’s tongue darts out and licks you through your underwear.
“Ohh, fuck!” you gasp. “Joel…”
He hums, tasting your tang through the fabric and finding your puffy clit, sucking gently. You cry out, your fingers grasping the sheets, and Joel moves your panties aside to slather his spit all over your dripping pussy. The languorous movements of his tongue are indulgent, achingly slow; he loves the taste of you as much as you enjoy having his mouth on your cunt.
“Oh my God, Joel… fuck, honey, please—!”
Your thighs are trembling as you struggle to hold yourself up, the strokes of his tongue turning your muscles to soup. He stops to take your panties off, guiding them off your legs, and by now, you're so wet that your juices glisten halfway down your thighs. Joel dives back in and licks up the rivulets of arousal from your skin, all the way back up to your weeping hole.
“So goddamn sweet,” he grumbles, kneading your ass in his hands as he flicks his tongue over your clit a few more times.
“Joel, I’m…” You’re drooling, grinding pathetically into his face, already close to an orgasm, and he isn't fucking letting up.
He wants you as wet and needy as possible, his own cock leaking onto the bedsheets at the prospect of sliding into your creamy pussy.
Your cheeks burn and your muscles lock as Joel makes out with your pussy, his tongue laving over your pearl in slow, aching circles. He drowns in the pleasure of making you feel good. He soaks himself in kerosene and lights the match.
“Oh, fuck!” Your thighs shake around his head and your toes curl, ears ringing with the force of your high. Grasping feebly at the bedsheets, you try not to list, but Joel isn’t fucking stopping, cleaning you up with his tongue like you're a piece of goddamn pie.
His fingers dig into your ass, rapacious as his mouth, and you climb high to a space that transcends the sky, feeling nothing but the linen underneath and the man above, softly kissing your poor, used clit.
He doesn’t let up until you reach back and gently shove his head away, grasping his damp curls. “Baby, let me rest,” you gasp, “just for a second.”
Regretfully, he pulls away, pressing a kiss to each knob of your spine, dragging his nose up your back. “‘m so fuckin’ lucky,” he murmurs against your skin.
“Lucky you didn’t kill me.” You laugh breathlessly, your hips already sore from keeping your ass in the air.
“Makin’ sure you’re ready,” he says innocently, sliding his thick fingers through your slit. You gasp, trying to escape his grasp despite yourself. He just clicks his tongue in reproach. “Nuh-uh, baby. You're gonna stay right here, let me make it good for you. Hmm? Wanna feel good?”
You nod your head frantically. “Yeah, yeah, I do. Wanna be good.”
“Mmm, now, you know that ain't your job tonight,” he says in a mock scold. In the meantime, his fingers soak themselves in your wetness. “Don't think you're ready for me yet.”
“No! No, I’m ready,” you pant, grinding against his erection. Joel grunts, holding your hip in place. “Baby, please, I’m ready for you. Need you so badly.”
“Shhh, sweetheart. I'll give you what you need. Just be patient.” Hands smooth over your ass, between your thighs, and then two fingers are teasing your hole. Joel tilts his head to watch the way he spreads your folds wide. “Gonna fill this up.”
A strangled noise spills from your mouth, your cheeks burning hot at the way he exposes you so tenderly. “Please,” you croak, hiding your face in the crook of your elbow.
He grasps himself and teases the already-wet head of his cock over your pussy, spurting precum onto your hole. “You want a baby?” he asks, low and dark. You luxuriate in the velvet-soft tone. “Tell me what you want.”
“I want a baby,” you whisper, “please. Please give me a baby.”
He readies himself at your tight cunt and the excitement briefly overcomes him, forcing his hips forward and pushing past the wet, gummy seal of your pussy. You gasp, held in place by his hand on your hip.
“What. Do. You. Want?”
“I want to make you a daddy!” you sob. “I want to have your baby and make you a daddy.”
“You want to be a momma?” he says through his teeth, tunnel vision narrowing his focus to the way he slowly guides himself into you, wrenching you open. At this angle, with how wet you are, the glide is delicious, white-hot, his balls heavy with the need to empty inside you. “That it? Want everyone to know who put a fuckin’ baby in you?”
Your husband is so fucking big, so strong, and the way he pins your body down feels close to primal. “Yes! Yes, Daddy, yes! I want to be a momma. Please give me a baby.”
The words put a chisel to his self-restraint and crack down. He’s gone, baring his teeth, pulling your hips toward him and impaling you on his cock, relishing the give of your tight walls and the way he sits snug against your cervix. You mewl, reaching back to find a purchase on his hip. “Joel, fuck…”
He establishes a punishing pace, driving your body farther up the bed with every thrust. “That’s it,” he groans, sliding his palm up your spine. “Gonna look so goddamn beautiful with a baby in you. You were fuckin’ made to take this cock.”
Your moan is syrupy and pitched low, your cheek buried in the mattress, letting him fill you up again, again, again—
“I’ll get you fuckin’ pregnant,” continues Joel, panting through his words, sweat beading on his brow as he runs his hands over your skin. “Stuff you so goddamn full you'll always feel me.”
“Uhhh!” you moan, fisting the sheets, your body practically folded in half to accommodate your husband’s huge body, his thick cock.
Joel wants this, too—has for a long time. It’s hard not to notice the little details. He places his hand on your belly when he isn't even paying attention, his lips finding the soft skin there when he first wakes in the morning. You knew he would have dropped everything to give you a baby the second you demanded it, but you realise you may have underestimated his need.
Joel is growling like a dog, sweat dripping from his temples and back pinching with effort as he holds your body close, glueing you to him, his cock reaching deep, deliberate, mind going numb, intent the only tangible feeling he can grasp onto. Intent and the white-hot drag of his cock against your walls.
You’re going to grow swollen and round with his baby. He will watch your tits grow heavy, your belly bulge, your cheeks take on a ruddy, dewy glow, the telltale mark of his success, his devotion. He’ll wake up every morning wrapped in the scent of your body, your hormones, his palm finding sanctuary on your soft, warm belly. He’ll bury his face in your throat and you’ll smile and the sun will warm the golden spot where a new life grows.
Fuck, he’ll never let you do laundry again. You could hurt your back.
Your head spins at the wet slap of his balls against your clit, the obscene squelch of your pussy around his impressive length, the way he grabs at you. He’s greedy, hands mapping each rib, each vertebrae, every curve and contour that makes you.
Your pussy sucks him in, just as needy, breathless moans and squeals punching out of your throat as you croak out pleas: Joel, baby, please. I want a baby so badly. Wanna have your baby. Please, please, fill me up! And Joel listens, his palm sliding around your waist and down your belly, rubbing your sensitive clit with two fingers.
A real man gives his wife everything she wants.
He moans at the feeling of your cunt squeezing him, his fingers wet and insistent against your little clit, coaxing you toward your climax. “C’mon,” he grunts, “come for me, baby. Fuckin’ choke me. Wanna feel it. Come and I’ll give you the baby you want so goddamn bad. C’mon, baby.”
His words seep into your bloodstream, an uncontrollable tremor racking your body, your arms giving out as he bends over you and sinks his teeth into your shoulder. “Ohhhh, God! Oh my—!”
Joel’s hands squeeze your tits, his entire body covering yours, a warm, protective blanket, slick with sweat and heart thundering against your back. His lips are on your skin, feverishly kissing and nipping. You can’t breathe, can’t move, and it feels so fucking good. You soak his cock, muscles seizing, pinned down by his strong body.
“Fuck, that’s it,” he groans. “That’s it, baby. Goddamn, keep on squeezin’ me like that. Not gonna leave this tight pussy until you're fuckin’ pregnant.”
“Joelllll,” you whine, your orgasm prolonged by his words, his unrelenting thrusts, the jolt of his balls slapping your clit. “Want it so bad. Wanna give you a baby. Come inside me, please. Please give me your cum, oh, God—”
The broken sound of your voice, weak and raspy, goes straight to his dick, and his balls are pulling up, his head bombarded with the smell of sex, perfume, linen, you. He rests his forehead between your shoulder blades as you milk his cock, turning his thrusts sloppy and desperate. He needs to come. He needs to make it real.
Your orgasm leaves you pliant and loose in his arms, and he fondles your tits, squeezing them hard in his hands as he pictures them growing, swelling heavy with milk he’ll feed your baby. His baby. Idly, you moan, letting him use your body to get off, his teeth grazing your neck.
“Gonna come. Gonna fuckin’ fill you up, give you a baby. Gonna—Jesus, goddamn—”
Maybe it's the pent-up frustration of not having come all day. Maybe it's a renewed sense of purpose, knowing he's got a job to do, keeping every drop safe inside you. Maybe it's the sheer fucking excitement of getting to give his wife what he's wanted to put in you for so long. But when he comes, hips flush to your ass, he comes so much, for so long, that the rapid rush of blood from his cock back up to his head has him nearly keeling.
Kissing your cervix, the head of his cock spurts rope after rope of hot cum inside you, and you mewl, your back arching to deepen the angle, luxuriate in the liquid warmth. Joel isn’t so loud now, not so cocky. He’s reduced to strained groans and whimpers as your body depletes him, greedily taking every drop of cum he has to offer.
It feels like minutes before it finally stops, but with your ass up in the air, none of his cum spills out. Your hips are sore, your ass bruises from his hands, your tits still sitting warmly in his hands. The cool kiss of his wedding band soothes the too-hot press of his body on top of yours, your doubly-slick skin meeting indecently. His lips are on the back of your neck and he thrusts shallowly, wringing the last of his cum from the tip until he's wholly empty and bordering on oversensitive.
You're the first to speak, your throat clogged with drool and some of your own tears.
“Thank fuck I was at the bar that night.”
Joel’s laugh scrapes down your spine along with his beard as he drags himself upright, knowing he’s crushing you. “Never would've had to patch me up”
“Mmm, you're sexy when you're mad,” you point out, your thighs twitching as he carefully guides you onto your side, back to his chest, his cock still acting as a plug for his cum. You’re deliciously full, and you hum happily at the feeling of his warm belly against you, his big arms cradling you close.
“Shouldn't enable violence,” he grumbles. His lashes flutter against your shoulder.
You roll your eyes. “Oh, please.”
He chuckles. “You feel okay?”
“I feel good,” you muse, running your fingers along his forearm, the prominent veins under his skin. “I feel excited.”
His grin curves against your skin, the scratch of his moustache sending a shiver up your spine. Outside, the sun begins to dip, and your twin golden rings glimmer in the fiery light.
“Me, too,” he whispers, and you lace your fingers through his, squeezing, both of you practically giddy.
There’s a lull, and for a moment, you think he’s fallen asleep. The sun creeps behind a home across the street, and its watch ends for another day.
“Hey, Joel?”
His mouth meets your throat in a sleepy kiss. “Yeah, baby?”
“I like the name Sarah.”
THE END.
tags: @cavillscurls @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin @cupofjoel @northernbluess @tieronecrush @joelmillers-whore @bastardmandennis - thank you all so so much for showing excitement for this fic!! kisses for you all 🫶
You and Joel Miller were in a six-year relationship that ended in pure and utter hatred for each other. While your writing career soared, his insecurity spiraled, negatively fueled by drinking and resentment for your success. It all culminated in a brutal car wreck that left you lifeless on the asphalt and him fleeing the scene. You woke from a month-long coma to a new, cruel reality: a brain injury that stole your dexterity and murdered your ability to ever hold a pen again. Joel never looked back.
Years later, you’ve traded your dreams for a quiet teaching gig in Dallas, while trying to manage tremors. Then, a name appears on your first-grade roster: Sarah Miller. You tell yourself it’s a coincidence until the classroom door swings open, and Joel walks in to drop off the daughter you never knew he had. The man who broke your life is back, and this time, he's holding the hand of your student.
tags & plot warnings: no outbreak AU, younger Joel (30), Sarah is 6, lovers to exes to ??, heavy angst, PTSD, chronic disability, smut!, both MC and Joel do questionable things, car accident, severe depression, learning disabilities, Sarah's mom plays a role, past abuse, alcohol and drug use
author notes: I try and make all of my work as accurate as possible by doing heavy amounts of research on the topics at hand before writing (see my fantastic four fic as an example). For this fic, I used my brief experience as a special education TA to bring knowledge to different state testing names, dyslexia policies, etc, but I will be taking creative liberties on what I deem necessary if it does not effect the integrity of the story.
If you feel as if I could add something for more accuracy, I welcome feedback with open arms.
i do not have an updating schedule as I work full time and will be in law school in the next few months. I try and update once a week. I do not consent for my work to be fed into ai.
chapter visuals done by @dilf-docs and myself 💜
beta read by: @suupermoonn and @dilf-docs 💜
dividers by @saradika-graphics 💜
shout out: @followyourfleart beautiful and magnificent story terms & conditions inspired me to write my own Joel x reader fic! Go read it right now or else. GOAT. 💜
