This is a purely 18+ account. Minors Do Not Interact
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Current works:
A Nobel War On Terrorrism
About Me:
I’ve been writing smutty fanfics since I was 13 (if you're wondering, it started after I read the entirety of Twist and Shout in one setting on a school night).
My pronouns are she/her. I’m in my early 20s and live in the US.
I do not have a constant schedule and use this account as a safe place for my creative outlet. I post whatever I’m currently fixated on. It changes every week Tbh.
I Do Not post 18+ content about real people, only characters. For example, I’ll write about Dean Winchester but I will not write about Jensen Ackles.
Synop: When Tommy dragged Joel to the town's fireworks show, he was ready to hide in the shade and avoid the crowd. That is, until he locks eyes with you — the girl he can't help but want to always be around.
Warnings: no outbreak! joel, age gap (unspecified but mentioned), fingering, praise kink, lowkey sub joel, pinv, riding, creampie, joel and reader have a past
Word Count: 10k
(dividers by: @enchanthings) MINORS DNI!!!!
The sun was already beating down like it had something to prove, and Joel hadn’t even made it out of his damn driveway yet.
He slipped on his boots with a sigh, muttering something halfway between a prayer and a curse. The kind of groan a man makes when he knows he’s been tricked but shows up anyway, out of pride more than willingness.
Tommy had called the night before, talking all sweet about “spendin’ quality time” and “family traditions”, like Joel wasn’t sharp enough to hear the beer cooler slamming shut in the background.
“Be good for you,” Tommy had said. “Sarah’ll like it.”
“It ain’t even that crowded,” he’d lied.
Joel could smell the bullshit from three blocks over, but still — here he was. Climbing into his truck at ten in the goddamn morning, barely caffeinated, to go stand around in the heat and listen to country cover bands butcher Springsteen for the sake of freedom.
He rubbed a hand down his jaw, already tired.
Sarah had gone with a friend for the weekend, which left Joel squarely without an excuse when Tommy came calling. And Joel knew his brother — had known him since birth, in fact — so he knew damn well “family time” actually meant “Joel’s gonna be my designated driver while I get shitfaced and try to impress some bartender I dated in highschool.”
Still. He’d gone.
The festival grounds were already starting to fill by the time Joel parked behind the fire station. Kids running around sticky with popsicles, someone fiddling with busted speakers over a too-small stage, red, white, and blue streamers hanging like they were doing any real work against the Texas sun.
Joel spotted Tommy near the grills — beer already in hand — grinning like a man who knew he owed someone a big favor later.
“There he is,” Tommy called, arms wide like Joel was just returning from war. “Was startin’ to think you’d come to your senses and stayed home.”
Joel shoved his hands in his pockets. “Still considerin’ it.”
“C’mon now,” Tommy said, clapping him on the back, “You’ll have a good time. Might even get a smile outta you.”
“Doubt it.”
Tommy laughed and wandered back toward the beer tent, already pointing at someone Joel didn’t recognize, yelling something about flip cup. Joel stayed where he was, jaw clenched, hands still in his pockets, taking in the chaos.
He hadn’t been to this thing in a couple years — not since Sarah was little enough to want matching shirts and face paint. Now she was sixteen, and he was just the guy holding her water bottle while she bounced between booths, pretending he didn’t exist unless she needed cash.
He couldn’t blame her. She was growing up. Fast. And he was still… here. Still Joel. Still tired. Still stuck somewhere between grateful and lonesome.
He was about to go find some shade — or maybe just fake a heatstroke and leave early — when he saw you across the lawn.
Hands full with a stack of folding chairs, face flushed from the sun and effort, talking to some teenager who clearly wasn’t helping nearly enough. You hadn’t seen him yet, but Joel’s feet didn’t move. Not right away.
Something about the way you were frowning — all business, all fire — made his chest go still for a second. Like he’d forgotten how to breathe around you, even if it wasn’t the first time.
“Shit,” He muttered under his breath.
Because now there was no leaving. Not yet. Not until he talked to you. Not until he remembered what his voice sounded like when it wasn’t locked behind his damn teeth.
Tommy, the bastard, might’ve dragged him here — but Joel suddenly wasn’t so sure he minded.
Joel hadn’t even known you were back in town until Tommy brought you to the house one Sunday afternoon, carrying a pan of something that smelled too good for a recipe pulled off the back of a box. You wore a sundress, your hair pulled half up, and you laughed with your whole chest — the kind of sound that filled a room before anyone even asked what was funny.
Tommy had waved off Joel’s surprise like it wasn’t a big deal. Said you’d needed a break. That things back home got heavy, and Austin was “as good a place as any to catch your breath.”
And just like that, you started showing up. To cookouts. To game nights. To nothing nights, where Tommy flipped through channels and you curled up at the far end of his couch with a glass of wine and your bare feet tucked under you.
You and Tommy had history, sure — and that was part of what made Joel keep his damn hands to himself. You hadn’t dated long, not seriously. A couple months, years back. Tried something after a few late-night beers and one too many old memories. But it fizzled out before it got messy. You both knew it wasn’t the right fit, and you’d stayed close. Real close. Tommy still called you “trouble” and you still rolled your eyes at him like he was your annoying older brother, even if he wasn't really.
Joel hadn’t said much about it at the time. But it stuck with him — that you’d been close enough to try. Close enough to be around.
And now you were always around.
Sometimes you brought over a pie from that little diner off 290, sometimes you just brought a book and sat near the window while Tommy worked on his truck in the driveway. And Joel — well, he tried not to hover. He tried not to watch you trace your finger around the rim of your glass, or tap your painted nails against the arm of the couch when you were thinking. He tried. But he wasn’t made of stone.
The worst part? You noticed.
You never pushed. Never called him out. But there were these moments. Tiny ones. Moments no one else ever seemed to catch but him.
Like when your knees bumped under the coffee table and neither of you moved. When he handed you a fresh beer and your fingers lingered too long around his. When you sat beside him on Tommy’s couch — just close enough that your perfume slid under his skin — and crossed your legs slow, with your knee brushing his thigh like you didn’t even notice.
Except you did.
Joel would sit there, jaw tight, trying not to shift. Trying not to lean half an inch to the left and lose his goddamn mind. He’d stare at the TV, pretending like he wasn’t hyper-aware of your soft laugh, your bare shoulder brushing his arm, the way your voice dropped low when you asked him things you didn’t ask anyone else.
It was a slow kind of torture. Familiar. Intimate in a way that made it worse, because you were Tommy’s friend. And you were younger — not by a lot, not in a way that mattered to anyone else, just a little younger than Tommy — but enough that Joel noticed. Enough that it made him second-guess everything he wanted to say.
So he didn’t say anything at all.
He kept his hands to himself. Kept his voice even. Played the part. And every time you looked at him like you were waiting for him to stop pretending, he just gritted his teeth and looked away.
But it was there. The tension. The want.
It was there every time you sat next to him and laughed at something stupid Tommy said. Every time your thigh touched his and neither of you moved. Every time you passed behind him in the kitchen and your fingers brushed the small of his back just enough to burn.
Joel told himself it didn’t mean anything. That he was just imagining it. But sometimes, late at night, lying awake in a too-quiet house — he let himself think about what it would mean if he wasn’t.
He didn’t move until you looked up.
Not until that sun-flushed face tilted toward him, lips parting mid-sentence like the words had stalled the second your eyes found his. A beat. Then another. And then — the corner of your mouth quirked, slow and knowing.
You knew he was staring. Didn’t mind, apparently.
Joel swallowed, throat dry, and finally took a step. Then another. The grass crunched beneath his boots, loud even over the distant twang of country music and the crackle of a barbecue smoker. Some little kid ran past with a sparkler already lit, despite it being hours from dark, but Joel barely noticed.
You straightened as he got closer, nudging the teen beside you with your elbow. “Go help your mom,” you told the kid — sweet, but firm. “She’s drowning in potato salad.”
The boy groaned but obeyed, trudging off toward one of the picnic tables. You turned your full attention to Joel.
“Fancy seeing you here,” you said, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “Did Tommy bribe you, or threaten you?”
“Bit of both,” Joel said, voice low and rough like it always got around you. “Said I needed to ‘get out the damn house.’”
You laughed. Not loud, like you did with Tommy — this was quieter. Softer. Just for him.
“Well, it’s good you came. Wouldn’t be a real country 4th without a Miller somewhere nearby, drinking beer and trying to pretend they’re not enjoying themselves.”
Joel’s mouth twitched, the ghost of a smile threatening his usual scowl. He nodded toward the chairs in your arms. “You always haul furniture around at parties, or is this a special occasion?”
You huffed. “Only when I don’t trust a bunch of teenagers to not break their necks sitting on a plastic cooler.”
“Smart,” he said, then reached out without thinking. “Here— gimme that.”
You hesitated. Just a second. Long enough to make him think maybe you’d say no, that you'd insist you had it. But then your hands lifted, slow and deliberate, and you let the weight of the chairs fall into his grip.
And Jesus, your fingers brushed his. Barely. But it was enough.
“Thanks,” you said, and he couldn’t tell if you meant for the help or the touch.
Joel cleared his throat, nodded once. “Where you want ‘em?”
You pointed to a shady patch under an old oak tree, where some red-checkered blankets were already laid out.
“Over there. Figured we’d claim a spot before the fireworks start and everybody loses their damn minds.”
Joel followed you, the chairs clanking in his grip, and tried not to think too hard about the we in your sentence. As if it was natural. As if he was part of it.
You bent down to spread out the last of the blankets, smoothing the corners with the palm of your hand, and Joel stood there like a fool, watching the sun catch in your hair. You looked up at him from your knees, squinting slightly.
“You gonna sit, or just stand there brooding all day like it’s your job?”
Joel grunted as he dropped into one of the folding chairs beside you. “Ain’t brooding.”
You gave him a look. One of those crooked, knowing smiles that made his stomach feel a little too warm, even in the heat.
“Could’ve fooled me,” you said, leaning back and stretching your legs out in front of you. The sunlight slid down your thighs, bare and golden, and Joel had to look away before his brain short-circuited.
You were wearing cutoff denim shorts — frayed at the edges, soft and worn like they’d been in your drawer for years. Your tank top was cut off just above your belly button, red and sleeveless with little white stars that shimmered when you moved. And the boots — well, the boots might’ve killed him outright. Worn leather, scuffed at the toes, like you actually used them instead of buying them for show. And your legs? Jesus.
He tipped his hat forward just enough to cast a shadow over his eyes, hoping you didn’t notice how long he’d been staring.
Tommy had shoved it at him when he had arived — the damn hat — said it was “time to look the part.” Joel rolled his eyes but wore it anyway. Figured it wasn’t the worst thing if it kept the sun out of his face — and maybe kept him from looking directly at you too long, burning up like an idiot under your smile.
He wore his usual uniform: faded jeans, boots that had seen too many summers, and a dark button-down rolled to his elbows. But the hat… it changed things a little. He saw the way you glanced up at him when he first walked over. The way your gaze ticked up his chest and settled on the brim of his hat for a second longer than it needed to.
Now, though, he was trying not to look like a statue while you laughed — not with him, but with Tommy.
Joel clocked it the second his brother trotted back from the beer tent, all smug smiles and mischief.
“You ready, trouble?” Tommy asked, nudging your shoulder like a kid on the playground.
You gave Joel a little shrug, like this was nothing. “He signed us up for the two-step contest.”
Joel blinked. “He what?”
“She agreed,” Tommy cut in, waving a finger in your direction. “She just didn’t know it was happening right now.”
You rolled your eyes but didn’t look the least bit reluctant. In fact, you stood up with a stretch, brushing the grass from your shorts and fixing your hair with a quick twist. “C’mon,” you said to Tommy, “before I change my mind.”
Joel watched as you walked away — boots kicking up dust, hips swaying just enough to make it hard to focus on anything else. His jaw clenched.
It was stupid. It was a damn dance. Just two people who’d known each other forever, having fun on a hot Texas afternoon.
It started innocent enough.
Tommy clapped his hands and offered you a dramatic little bow, grinning like the devil in front of the makeshift dance floor. You rolled your eyes but took his hand anyway, letting him pull you through the crowd toward the small space roped off near the main stage. Joel watched from his chair, legs stretched out and arms crossed tight over his chest, beer bottle untouched in his lap.
The fiddle picked up into something fast and familiar, a classic two-step rhythm that had the older couples already out there gliding in circles like they’d been practicing since the ‘80s. Tommy turned to you with that cocky grin Joel had known since childhood and gave your hand a tug.
“You remember how, right?”
“Please,” you said, snorting. “Try to keep up, old man.”
You were already laughing as you stepped into position, hands finding their place — one in his, the other on his shoulder. Tommy’s arm slid around your waist, easy and familiar, and Joel felt his jaw lock tight.
It wasn’t the first time he’d seen you and Tommy touch. There were always little things — hugs, play fights, a casual lean into each other on the couch when you were both half-drunk on a Sunday night. But this? This was different.
This was close.
You were pressed chest-to-chest, hips aligned, boots moving in tandem. Tommy spun you once, then again, hand sliding down your back to steady you. You laughed, breathless, your head tipping back as the brim of your hat nearly knocked into his.
Joel couldn’t look away.
Your tank top clung to the curve of your spine when you spun, and those shorts — they rode a little higher with every turn, showing off long, tanned legs that Joel had spent too many damn nights imagining wrapped around his hips. And the way Tommy held you — not crude, not possessive, but comfortable. Like he’d done it before.
And he had. That was the part Joel couldn’t ignore.
Tommy had kissed you. Held you. He knew how your laugh felt against his neck, how your skin felt under his hands. He’d touched you in ways Joel never had — ways Joel never would, not if he kept letting his guilt tie a noose around his own damn throat.
You twirled again, and this time Tommy caught you low — his hand firm on your waist, the other lifting yours high as your back arched into the dip. The whole crowd cheered, clapping and whistling, but Joel barely heard it.
All he could focus on was how Tommy looked at you.
Not like a man still in love. No, that wasn’t it. But with history. With knowledge. With the kind of easy intimacy that didn’t just vanish, no matter how things ended. It was in the way he grinned when you rolled your eyes, the way his hand lingered a second too long at the small of your back, fingers splayed across bare skin like it belonged to him.
Joel looked away, but it didn’t help.
The image was burned behind his eyes — you, flush with laughter, your body tucked against his brother’s, dancing like it meant nothing.
And maybe it didn’t. Not to you. Not to Tommy.
But it sure as hell meant something to Joel.
He stared down at his boots, breathing through his nose like that might ground him. The brim of his cowboy hat cast his face in shadow, but it didn’t hide the twitch in his jaw, or the way his fingers curled tight around the beer bottle in his lap.
What the hell was he doing?
Wanting you was bad enough. But wanting you while you danced like that with Tommy — with the man who’d once tasted you, touched you, maybe even loved you — that made Joel feel sick. Twisted up and mean. Like some bitter old fool watching from the sidelines, full of things he had no right to feel.
He didn’t know if it was worse that Tommy had had you, or that he’d let you go without a fight.
Joel hadn’t had either luxury.
He’d never even tried.
“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, tipping his beer back in one long, desperate swallow.
You were laughing again, clapping as the song came to a close. Tommy bowed with flair, and you gave him a playful shove before heading back toward the chairs — cheeks flushed, hair sticking to the back of your neck, eyes bright.
Joel schooled his face the second you looked at him, forcing something like a smile onto his lips.
“You two win?” he asked, voice flat.
You shrugged. “Doubt it. But we didn’t fall over, so I’ll take the moral victory.”
You collapsed into the chair beside him with a sigh, fanning yourself with your hand. Joel passed you his beer without a word. You took it, tipped it toward him in thanks, and took a slow drink from the same bottle he’d just had his mouth on.
And just like that, he was gone again — head spinning, heart somewhere around his boots, throat dry with wanting.
You handed the bottle back, licking a bit of foam from your bottom lip.
“I’m stealing you for the next one,” you said casually, eyes on the band.
Joel didn’t answer.
Couldn’t.
Not when he was still trying to breathe through the fact that his brother’s hands had been on you — and his would never be.
The sun had softened by the time you and Joel wandered toward the vendor tents, the heat finally letting up just enough to breathe. Cicadas hummed from the trees, and the scent of grilled meat and fried dough floated in from the food trucks parked near the edge of the park.
The festival booths lined the gravel path like a row of open-air treasure chests. You slowed for nearly every one, and Joel followed — always half a step behind, hands in his pockets, hat tipped low over his brow.
You picked up candles and sniffed them, laughing at one labeled Cowboy Kisses “Whatever that means,” you muttered, tapped your nails against little bars of soap stamped with lavender & cedar, and ran your fingers over stacks of delicate bracelets made from leather and colored thread.
At one point, you stopped cold in front of a little handmade jewelry table.
Joel noticed it immediately. The way your eyes drifted to a small silver necklace strung with a turquoise charm — just a soft glint of blue and polished stone, barely the size of a fingernail. It wasn’t flashy. Wasn’t expensive. But you stared at it like it had whispered something only you could hear.
Then you reached for it — only to let go the second you saw the price.
You laughed under your breath and stepped back.
Joel’s voice came from beside you, low and steady. “You liked that one.”
You didn’t even look at him. “Yeah, but I didn’t bring cash. I wasn’t really planning to—”
He stepped forward and pulled out his wallet.
“Joel, no. Seriously, that’s not—”
“It’s not a big deal,” he said, already handing over a twenty.
You stood there flustered, watching the woman wrap it up in a little square of brown tissue and tuck it in a bag.
“I’ll pay you back,” you said, voice firmer now.
“Don’t want you to.”
“Then I’ll buy you something.”
He gave you a look. “It’s a gift.”
You paused. Just stared at him, your expression softening in a way that made Joel’s chest go too still.
“…Thank you,” you said, quieter now. “Really.”
He just shrugged — but the truth was, something about it mattered to him. It wasn’t just a necklace. It was a chance to give you something, something small and good. And you let him.
You pulled it out and clipped it around your neck right there at the edge of the booth. Lifted your hair with one hand, fingers brushing the back of your neck, and Joel looked away — jaw tight — before his mind wandered too far down that road.
But he still smiled when he saw it hanging there.
Tommy appeared out of nowhere about fifteen minutes later, stumbling in from the beer tent like he’d been pulled in on a breeze. He had a red solo cup in one hand and a bag of peanuts in the other.
“Y’all serious-faced over here,” he slurred, jabbing a peanut at Joel. “You givin’ her a lecture or what?”
You grinned. “He’s buying me jewelry, actually.”
Tommy blinked. “What the hell—Joel?”
Joel didn’t answer. Just sipped his drink and looked at the horizon.
Tommy squinted at you. “Wait, is that new?” He leaned closer. “You didn’t—did you buy that from Martha’s booth?”
You nodded proudly.
Tommy clutched his chest. “I been savin’ up for that exact one.”
You shoved him. “Get outta here.”
“Dead serious,” he said, totally unconvincing. “I was gonna wear it to church next week.”
“Please do,” you said. “I’d love to see it over your fishing shirt.”
Tommy winked and wandered off again, spilling peanuts as he went.
By the time dinner rolled around, the crowd had thickened. Tables filled with families, lawn chairs clustered near the food trucks, and the sweet haze of mesquite smoke hung over everything like a cloud.
You and Joel grabbed plates from a big fold-out buffet line — brisket, ribs, pickles, baked beans, cornbread — and settled at a long folding table with plastic tablecloths and mismatched chairs.
A few locals were already seated — folks Joel nodded at in passing — and you made conversation easily, always knowing what to say to make people feel at ease. Joel sat beside you, mostly quiet, his arm brushing yours every so often when he shifted in his seat.
Halfway through your plate, Tommy reappeared. This time slower. Red-faced. A little sweatier.
“Damn near forgot where y’all were,” he said, pulling up a chair across from you. “Place is a maze.”
Joel arched a brow. “Or you’re drunk.”
Tommy ignored him and narrowed his eyes at your plate.
“You done with that?” he asked, pointing.
You blinked. “My cornbread?”
He didn’t wait. Just reached across the table and stole it clean off your plate, took a massive bite like it was owed to him.
You stared at him in disbelief. “You animal.”
“’S good,” Tommy said, mouth full.
Joel laughed — really laughed — shoulders shaking as he shook his head. “You’re gonna regret all this when you wake up tomorrow.”
Tommy raised his cup. “That’s future Tommy’s problem.”
He eventually wandered off again, likely in search of another beer or another girl, but not before trying — and failing — to flirt with the woman handing out sweet tea near the smoker.
You and Joel watched him go, shaking your heads.
“He’s a menace,” you said, stealing a piece of brisket off Joel’s plate.
Joel glanced sideways at you. “Doesn’t bother you?”
You tilted your head. “What? Tommy hitting on girls?”
Joel nodded slowly, not quite looking at you.
“No. It doesn’t bother me.” You took your time chewing before answering. “I don’t feel that way about him anymore. Haven’t for a long time.”
Joel looked at you now, his eyes shadowed but focused.
“I love him, sure. But not in a way that fits with… y’know. Marriage and mortgages and sharing a damn toothbrush holder.”
Joel smirked at that.
“I love him like… a dumb brother who once kissed me in a bar parking lot and then apologized with Whataburger fries.”
Joel huffed a quiet laugh, looking down at his plate. He didn’t say anything right away. But he reached over and slid his remaining cornbread onto your plate.
You smiled.
The sun sank lower. Music picked up. Families spread out across the open lawn with picnic blankets, dogs on leashes, toddlers holding glow sticks like magic wands.
You and Joel stood just outside the crowd now, sipping fresh lemonades. You’d dusted powdered sugar off your hands after sharing a funnel cake, and you were watching the sky turn from gold to lavender.
“Where’s Sarah tonight?” you asked softly.
Joel’s mouth tightened just slightly. “With her friends.”
“Oh,” you said. “I thought she might be here.”
“Yeah. Me too.” He glanced toward the far edge of the festival. “Figured I’d run into her eventually, but… haven’t seen her once.”
You touched his arm lightly, a quiet gesture, grounding.
“She’s lucky to have you,” you said.
Joel didn’t answer.
But he didn’t look away either.
The crowd was thick now. The air smelled like warm spice and charcoal. The lights strung across the trees blinked to life one by one, little firefly bulbs casting everything in a soft yellow haze.
Joel stood beside you, hat tipped back, the hem of his sleeve brushing your arm.
And in the distance — past the noise, past the laughter, past the blur of everyone else — he still felt like it was just the two of you.
Like something was building. Something inevitable.
The first few notes of the song filtered through the air — slow, steel-stringed, soft enough to hush a crowd. A waltz rhythm, warm and nostalgic, played by a local band who clearly knew what they were doing. Joel didn’t know the name of the song, but he recognized the feel of it. Something country. Old but familiar. The kind of song you held someone to.
He was just about to take another sip of his lemonade when your face turned toward the stage, lit up like someone’d flipped a switch inside you.
You rolled your eyes, but your smile stayed soft. “You can’t not dance to this.”
“Sure I can,” he said. “I’m doin’ it right now.”
You huffed, reaching for his hand. “Joel.”
He let you grab it, but didn’t move. His feet felt stuck. Too heavy.
“I’m serious,” he said. “I haven’t danced in years. And even then I wasn’t any good.”
You leaned in, eyes gleaming under the string lights, your grip tugging just enough to make his chest tighten.
“Doesn’t matter,” you said. “Pretend it’s just us. And I’ll lead if I have to.”
Joel stared at you for a second — at your sun-burnt cheeks, your messy hair, that damn necklace he’d bought hanging just above your collarbone — and knew he’d already lost.
“Shit,” he muttered.
You grinned. “That’s the spirit.”
And just like that, you dragged him to the edge of the crowd where couples were already swaying — boots scuffing against dry grass, arms looped around each other like they had all the time in the world.
Joel’s palms were already sweating. He didn’t want to make a fool of himself. But you turned toward him with your arms out, patient and open, and he stepped into them like it was the only place he wanted to be.
At first, it was awkward.
His left hand hovered near your waist like he wasn’t sure how close he was allowed to get. His right hand held yours too tight, too stiff, his thumb locked over your knuckles like he was bracing for something. His boots fumbled the first few steps, off beat, slow to match yours. He moved like a man trying to remember how to speak a language he hadn’t used in years.
But you didn’t laugh.
You didn’t flinch.
You just smiled — that same damn smile that wrecked him — and stepped closer. One hand found his shoulder, the other still curled in his, and you leaned in enough that your chest nearly brushed his. You fit yourself into the space between his arms like you’d been there before — like you knew exactly where to go and how to hold him.
Your fingers smoothed along the back of his neck, feather-light, a little bolder now. Joel felt it straight through to his spine. His breath hitched. His hand, finally, settled low at your waist — then a little lower, just above the curve of your hips, his palm broad and warm against your bare skin where your shirt had ridden up slightly. He could feel the heat of you through his rough palm.
“Relax,” you whispered, lifting your hand to toy gently with the hair curling at the nape of his neck. “You’re fine.”
And somehow, that was all it took.
Joel exhaled, long and low. His shoulders dropped. His hand on your back slid just slightly — no longer hovering, now holding. His thumb traced a slow, absent circle against your spine. You didn’t seem to notice, or maybe you did — but you didn’t pull away.
You shifted, just enough to press more of yourself into him.
Your bodies found a rhythm.
The two of you swayed in slow circles, boots brushing grass, the rest of the world dimming around you. You moved fluidly, letting him follow your lead for a beat or two — guiding his hips with the subtle shift of your own. Your chest grazed his with every slow turn. Your thigh slid alongside his, warm and firm and steady.
Joel’s hand curled more firmly at your waist, tugging you subtly closer. Not possessive — just... certain.
You didn’t back away.
Instead, you tilted your head and rested your temple near the hollow of his throat, and Joel felt your breath against his skin. Slow. Steady. Your fingers pressed lightly into his chest now, palm warm over his heartbeat.
“You’re not nervous,” he murmured, more a question than a statement.
“No.”
He swallowed.
“Why?”
You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes — close enough he could count every fleck of gold in them under the glow of the string lights.
“Because I’m dancing with you.”
Joel didn’t breathe for a second. Didn’t move.
You looked at him like you’d been waiting. Not for this moment exactly — but for him. The way he held you. The way he looked at you like it cost him something.
His hand slid a little lower, fingers brushing the curve where your back met your hips. Not deliberate. Just instinct. Your hand, in turn, curled behind his neck, fingers threading lightly through the ends of his hair. The motion was slow. Intimate. Like you were trying to memorize him.
Joel wanted to say something — anything — but it was too much. You. The music. The warmth of your body against his. He could feel the subtle give of your thigh every time it brushed his. The softness of your stomach when it pressed against him during a turn. The perfume clinging to your collarbone, faint and sweet and dizzying.
He swore he could feel the outline of your necklace — the one he bought — pressed between your chest and his.
“Do you dance with Tommy like this?” he asked, voice low and tight.
You didn’t flinch. “Once or twice. He was always a good dancer.”
Joel nodded, eyes flicking down between you.
“But not like this.”
His gaze snapped back to yours.
“Not like this,” you repeated, quieter now.
Your fingers ghosted across his jaw, slow and soft. Like you weren’t sure where you were going with the touch — only that you needed to feel him. You let them drift down, over the curve of his throat, and rest just above his collarbone. His pulse thudded against your fingertips.
Joel didn’t say anything. Couldn’t. He just held you tighter. Pulled you in until there was nothing left between you but the thump of his heart and the music still turning slow around you.
The song stretched on.
And neither of you moved to leave.
Not until you shifted in his arms again, a little reluctant, and said, “It’s really crowded.”
Joel blinked. Looked around.
And yeah. The field was full now. Packed with people, laughter, music vibrating through the ground. Kids zipped between legs with sparklers. Someone tripped near the lemonade stand. The noise was rising now, voices layered over voices, the heat of the crowd closing in.
“It’s a little overwhelming,” you admitted, still half in his arms.
Joel hesitated.
Then swallowed.
“I got an idea,” he said quietly. “Could drive the truck up the ridge. Little hill just past the treeline — looks out over the whole fairground.”
You looked up at him, surprised. “Really?”
He nodded, trying not to sound too eager. “Wouldn’t have to deal with the crowd. Be a good spot to watch the fireworks.”
You smiled — slow and genuine — and nodded. “Let’s go.”
Joel felt it then. That low hum in his chest. The quiet shift between maybe and more. And this time, he didn’t look away.
Joel felt it the second you pulled away from him — a quiet sort of ache, like his arms were still shaped around your body even after you'd slipped out of them. The space left behind felt colder than it should’ve. Emptier.
But before he could dwell on it, your fingers caught his again.
You didn’t look back. Just grabbed his hand and took off through the grass like the fairgrounds were on fire and only he could save you. Laughing, tugging, nearly pulling him off balance as your boots kicked up dust. The smile on your face lit up more than any firework ever could, and Joel — he let himself be dragged. Chest tight. Heart thudding. Somewhere between disbelief and wonder.
“Where’d you park?” you called out, already halfway across the field.
“Behind the fire station,” Joel answered, a little breathless.
You didn’t slow. Didn’t even hesitate. You just looked over your shoulder with a grin and said, “Perfect,” like this was always the plan. Like tonight belonged to the two of you and no one else.
By the time you reached the truck, Joel’s chest was tight with something he didn’t want to name. His brother — the festival, the rest of the night — it all blurred in the background. And suddenly, he was realizing what he’d just done.
He’d left everything behind. Because you asked.
You jumped into the passenger seat like it was second nature, throwing your legs up on the dash as he climbed in and turned the key. The engine rumbled to life, headlights flicking on as the gravel crunched beneath the tires.
The ride was short — a backroad trail Joel knew like the lines of his own hands. A hill just past the treeline, not too far but far enough. Quiet. High. The fairgrounds stretched out below like something out of a postcard, lights glowing soft against the dark.
“It’s so pretty up here,” you murmured, voice quiet like you didn’t want to break it.
Joel parked and killed the engine. For a second, he didn’t move.
“Y’know,” he said, glancing at you, “I didn’t plan on leavin’. Didn’t think I’d… end the night this way.”
You tilted your head, smiling softly. “And now?”
Now, he can’t imagine wanting anything else.
But he didn’t say that. Just gave a small shrug and stepped out of the truck.
You followed close behind as he lowered the tailgate, reaching into the back for the old flannel blanket he always kept tucked under a toolbox. He spread it out like he’d done it a hundred times before — smooth and instinctive — then sat down with a quiet sigh.
You climbed up beside him, crossing your legs as the night settled in. The only light came from the moon and the distant glow of the fairground below. The music was still playing somewhere in the distance, muffled and soft, barely loud enough to recognize.
Fireworks would start any minute.
Joel sat with his hands resting loosely on his knees, careful not to let them drift too close. But that didn’t last long.
Without hesitation, you scooted closer and curled into his side — like it was the most natural thing in the world. Your head settled on his shoulder, your arm wrapped around his waist, and Joel went still.
Completely still.
Like if he moved too fast, the moment might disappear.
His arm hovered for a second before he wrapped it around you — slow, deliberate — pulling you in until there wasn’t even air left between you. Your body was warm against his. Your hair smelled like sun and sugar. And Joel… he didn’t breathe right for a whole minute.
The tailgate was warm beneath you, the blanket soft against your legs, but Joel barely noticed any of it.
Not when you were curled into his side like that.
You fit against him so naturally, your head tucked under his chin, your arm wrapped around his middle. The distant noise of the fair was a low hum now, like it belonged to another world entirely. All he could hear was the steady rhythm of your breathing and the way the trees rustled gently above you.
“I’ve had an amazing day,” you said, your voice low, quiet against his shoulder.
Joel’s eyes flicked down to you, something pulling tight in his chest. “Yeah?”
You nodded slowly. “Really amazing.”
He didn’t say anything right away. Just squeezed your side gently, his thumb tracing slow, careful circles over the fabric of your shirt.
“I wish I could stay in this moment,” you murmured.
Joel swallowed. Hard.
You shifted slightly, enough to lift your head and look at him. The glow of the moon caught the side of your face, lighting up your features in soft silver. He could see every detail — the way your lashes fluttered, the faint crease between your brows, the corner of your mouth twitching like you wanted to smile but weren’t sure if you should.
“I know why you never said anything,” you said softly. “Why you never crossed that line.”
Joel’s breath caught in his throat.
You didn’t look away. “Because of Tommy. Right?”
His jaw tensed, but he nodded. Once.
You exhaled slowly, a warm puff of air across his collar. “But Joel… you can't let Tommy stop you from taking what you want."
Joel didn’t respond. Couldn’t.
Because you were leaning in — slow and sure — and his whole body went still, like something sacred was about to happen. His heart thundered in his chest. He didn’t think. Didn’t breathe.
Then you kissed him.
Soft. Barely there.
Just a press of lips, gentle and hesitant, like you were giving him one last chance to pull away.
He didn’t.
Instead, he tilted into you — his hand sliding up your back, his fingers threading through your hair — and kissed you back.
And this time it wasn’t hesitant.
It was deep and slow, warm and certain. You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling yourself into his chest, and Joel’s hand moved to your waist, steady and sure. Your bodies fit like puzzle pieces, heat pressed to heat, and Joel felt his blood roar with something fierce and long-denied.
You kissed like it was the only thing keeping you alive. Like it was the only thing that had ever made sense.
And then — just as your lips started to part again — you pulled back, barely a breath between you, eyes half-lidded and glowing under the moonlight.
“Shit,” you whispered, breathless. “We’re gonna miss the fireworks.”
Joel looked at you for half a second — then reached up, cupped your cheek in his palm, and pulled you right back in.
“Don’t care.”
And then his mouth was on yours again, firmer this time, more certain. His other hand slid up your back, drawing you closer until you were half in his lap, arms still looped around his neck. The kiss deepened, grew slow and heated, like the two of you were speaking in a language no one else had ever understood.
And then — just as your lips pressed to his like you’d never get enough of him —
Boom.
The first firework exploded behind you, gold and brilliant, lighting up the entire sky.
You didn’t even flinch.
Joel kept kissing you like the world could burn behind him and he still wouldn’t let go.
Because this was it. The moment. The one he hadn’t let himself want for far too long.
And now that it was here — with you wrapped around him, fireworks blooming above, the world fading away — he finally let himself have it.
All of it.
All of you.
You crawled into Joel's lap with ease, legs straddling his hips, arms still wrapped around his neck. Joel's hands trailed down the small of your back, thumbs rubbing gentle circles at the small indented dimples before resting against the soft skin.
Your fingers gently tugged at the curls of his hair, deepening the kiss as his mouth parted wider, inviting you in. He felt the way your tongue slipped past his lips, tangling with his own. You tasted of brisket, lemonade, and something intoxicating that he couldn’t imagine ever getting enough of.
It’s almost as if he could get addicted to you — like your lips are some drug luring him in, prepared to ruin his entire life — and he would let that happen without a fight. Fireworks continue to explode behind you, colorful sparks filling the night sky. Cheers a distant sound from the crowd below.
For a fleeting moment, he contemplates stopping this. He envisions a romantic moment—a cherished memory of witnessing the breathtaking display in the sky with a beautiful girl by his side. Fireworks are a rare occurrence, coming around only once a year. Besides, he could take you home tonight if you let him.
But the idea quickly fades from his mind as quickly as it had come to him when your hips brushed against the rough fabric of his jeans, seeking friction from him. In that moment, he found a kind of relief that he didn’t even realize he was craving.
The denim around his crotch tightened as he felt himself becoming hard from your movements. He couldn’t believe he had even considered turning this down for a light show he didn’t even want to attend.
His hands slide lower from your back, meeting the curve of your ass. He pulls you tighter, eliminating any space between you. The kiss becomes sloppy, your spit covering his lips, and drool probably dripping down his chin as if you were his last meal.
Your hands frantically search for the buttons on the front of his flannel, tearing them apart in a desperate attempt. Joel hesitates, wondering if he should be doing this. But what did you say? Take what you want.
So it isn’t long before he follows your lead, slipping his hands beneath the tight fabric of your tank top. Feeling the swell of your breasts, the peak of your hardening nipples. Of course a girl like you wouldn’t wear a bra to an event like this.
You pull away from him, admire the way Joel's eyes are heavy with lust, thumbs rubbing tenderly, circling along your nipples. He watches the way your eyes trail down his exposed chest, hands slowly trailing along his tough, tanned and sun-worn skin. Built for a man his age.
“I’ve been dreaming of this,” you admit, a shy smile spreading across your face.
It makes Joel blush. Makes him realize you were down just as bad as he was.
“Me too.” He replies, kissing the corner of your mouth. For a moment, you sit there just staring at each other. Not awkward. Not scared or nervous. Just trying to grasp that this moment is real. That Joel finally has you in his arms. In a way he never thought would happen.
But finally you move, hands lifting at his belt, unclasping the buckle and almost ripping it from the constraints of his belt loops. The romantic and sweet moment quickly changes to something hot and dangerous. Something fast and needy.
Joel pulls your tank top above your head, revealing your bare chest. Your sacred skin. The way your breasts fit perfectly in the palms of his hands. He leans in, taking your aching nipple between his teeth and sucking lightly before flicking his tongue against it.
Your hands continued fumbling with his jeans, pulling them down when he lifted his thighs to help you out a little. And just as quickly, you pull down your own shorts — throwing them to the side like they mean nothing to you. Like they were in the way.
It drives Joel crazy when he feels how wet you are against his boxers. How wet you are through your own panties. He can’t believe you needed him in this way. Can’t believe he gets to tend to that need. Precum already seeps through his own boxers — especially with the way you grind against him, trailing yourself up his entire length.
You slide your hand down his waistband, palming him and feeling his entire length — rubbing your thumb across his leaking slit. This draws a long groan from somewhere deep within Joel's chest. The desperation in your touch makes Joel's head spin, dizzying yet electrifying. He knows how bad you want him, but as if he were questioning it, you confirm his thoughts.
“I want you so bad, Joel,” you say in a whisper so sweet it’s like Joel can taste it on his tongue.
“Yeah?” He groans, rubbing you through the soft cotton of your panties. “So fuckin’ soaked.”
“Touch me.” You beg, already pulling the fabric to the side. Joel likes how certain you are. How you tell him exactly what you want without a single thread of hesitation.
And he can’t help but admire the sight of you, wriggling into his thumb — chasing his touch. He trails his finger through your folds, watching the way he glides between them. Watching the way your juices glisten in the light of the fireworks. He rubs soft circles over your throbbing clit, finally offering you some sort of relief. You throw your head back slightly, sighing at the feeling.
He takes this as an opportunity to plant small kisses in the center of your chest, traveling slowly to the insides of your breasts as his index finger slides past your walls. His rough hand grazes over the peaks of your other nipple before wrapping his arm around your upper back to hold you steady as his pace between your legs quickens.
Joel thought that he would be focused on the way you take him in as he enters a second finger. Thought maybe he would watch the way you play with your own breasts as you arch your back to his touch. But no, all his attention is on how beautiful you look underneath the light of the moon. How your lips form a slight frown and small whines escape your lips. How your cheeks glow with a small blush and your eyes become glassy underneath your lashes.
You look so beautiful and full of a type of pleasure that could make Joel do this for the rest of his life. It doesn’t matter that his wrist is cramping from the awkward, bent position he has it in his lap. It doesn’t matter that his arm is getting worn out from the pace of his fingers. It doesn’t matter that his back hurts from sitting straight up with you in his lap and nothing to lean against. As long as he gets to please you, hear those pretty moans trapped behind your clenched teeth.
“Joel… fuck me, please.” You basically whimper.
“Yeah— yeah. Of course, sweetheart,” because who is Joel to deny your wish? "Whatever you want."
Joel shoves his boxers down just enough to pull out his thick, throbbing cock. You take him in your soft hands — so different from his own calloused ones — and lift your hips just enough to line him up with your entrance.
You look him up and down, gaze trailing from his lips to is eyes, and rub his tip along your clit. Joel watches the way your jaw drops open slightly from your own pleasure. He loves the way you touch yourself with is own dick, as if he were just some toy — he didn’t mind.
“So fuckin’ hot, baby,” he says as you start sliding him between your folds.
“Want to feel me?” You tease, as if you didn’t already know the answer to that. You push his tip barely between your walls. Just enough to give him a little taste. Just enough to have him crying for more.
“God— come on,” he whines. He fucking whines. “Don’t do this to me.”
“Say please.”
And Joel can’t believe he’s doing this. He was never one to beg in bed. Never one to submit his control. But it’s like you make him a completely different man. So here he is, fucking begging.
“Fuck, please, sweetheart. I need.”
And with that, you slowly slide yourself down his length. Joel's breath stutters as you clench around him — adjusting to his size. He has no fucking idea how he’s going to last as he watches your pussy swallow every inch. Watches how you drip a trail of your sweet wetness along his shaft when you slowly lift yourself back up.
You start at a slow, steady pace, wrapping your arms around him and burying your face in the crook of his neck. He can feel your hot breath against his skin, feel every time you’re breath catches when you hit that perfect spot.
“Shit, sweetheart... feel so good.” He groans, grabbing your hips. He dips his fingers into your plump skin and helps lift you up —quickening your pace.
“No,” you say, pushing his hands away. “Wanna do it myself. Wanna please you on my own.”
You push him till he’s leaning back on his elbows. The truck bed now digging into his skin. You seat yourself fully on him. Joel has completely disappeared inside of you and it drives him crazy. He doesn’t know how he held himself back from you for so long. He doesn’t know if he’s ever going to be able to hold himself back again.
You roll your hips, gasping as your walls clamp around him. Your fingernails dig into his sides as you steady yourself — knees lifting just to fall back down. Feeling all of him in an overwhelming manner.
“Take your time, baby.” Joel coddles, brushing a stray hair behind your ear. You look so pretty. So breathtaking. The way you're dedicated to pleasing him, even though he would be more than willing to please you.
But, of course you refuse. What did he expect, honestly? Your pace quickens, the sound of skin slapping against skin fills his ears, mixed with the explosion of the fireworks behind you. His touch trails from your hair, down your neck, to the front of your chest.
His mouth has fallen open, taking in the way you squeeze around him when he palms your tender swell, grazing his thumb over your nipple. He loves the way your body reacts to him.
“My perfect girl.” He mutters, fingers now trailing down the front of your belly till they rest on your hip.
“I’m yours, Joel.” You moan, as you fuck yourself down on him deeper. Your legs start shaking around him and Joel can’t tell if it’s because you’re close or you’re tired. He pushes you farther though, pressing pleasure against your clit with his thumb.
Your movements falter. “Oh— oh my god.” His thumb starts rubbing quick circles around the tender nerves.
Your body gives out as you fall against him. It’s almost as if you’ll never be able to use your legs against. He knew that you pushed yourself too hard, but he knew you weren’t done yet. Quickly, he pulls your legs from underneath him and flips you over.
You’re on your hands and knees facing the edge of the cliff in front of you, arching your back — ready for him again. Joel positions himself behind you and grabs your ass harshly, pulling you flush against him as he thrusts himself back inside of you.
A small scream leaves you with the sudden stretch, a burning you can’t help but love. And Joel can’t help but love his view. He doesn’t think it can get any better than this — your ass agasint his lower stomach, soft skin clapping with each thrust, fireworks still exploding in the sky.
Joel digs his rough fingers into your skin, cock buried deep as he pushes you forward and pulls you back into him. Your moans are loud and untamed. He’d be afraid of someone hearing if the fairgrounds weren't filled with people and country music.
“Don’t stop, Joel. I’m so close.” You whimper. Joel reaches down between your legs and rubs the pads of his fingers against your clit. “Oh god— Joel.”
“Just like that, baby.” He whispers, fingers soaked with your juices dripping down your thighs. You pulse around him and start meeting his thrusts with your own. “Yeah, that’s right. Cum on my dick, babygirl.”
And you do, hard and loud. Your screams fill the night air, mixed with small curses and the moan of his name somewhere in between. And Joel isn’t much further behind — pounding into you with little forgiveness.
He can feel your wetness collecting at the base of his cock — thick creamy strands connecting your bodies togethers. He leans over you, keeping his rhythm.
“Good fuckin’ girl. Takin’ me so well.” He breathes into your ear. Your thighs tremble at the overstimulation. Tears pool at your lashes.
But he doesn’t stop. He continues chasing his high, determined on giving you what you’re meant to receive.
“Joel… want to watch you cum on me.”
“Fuck... such a filthy girl, aren’t ya?” He groans. But still, he pulls out and spins you around. Your back now flat against the truck bed, mouth parted and eyes wide — ready for him. Joel's knees cradle around your hips, hovering over you, as his hand tugs roughly down his entire shaft.
Something about the way you wait patiently for him draws him over the edge and hot strands of cum shoot straight for your chest. He continues pumping until he’s squeezed out every last drop — some beads fall across your cheek — then collapses on his side.
You lay in silence, only the sound of your breaths filling the air, chests heaving and sweat beading on his forehead.
“Oh my god, Joel, look.” You shout, pulling his attention from trying to regain his strength.
He quickly follows your gaze. Streaks of color fill the sky. Red, white, and blue sparks and explosions shoot up one after the other. So beautiful and captivating.
“Well, at least we didn’t miss the finale.” He laughs and pulls you closer to enjoy the view. Your naked bodies entangled with each other, watching the show in front of you.
When they finally end, he uses the blanket to clean you up and helps you dress — your legs so shaky you can barely stand.
Joel tossed the blanket in a nearby trash can and turned around just in time to see you smiling.
You hadn’t moved. Still sitting on the tailgate, legs swinging just a little, like you were trying to hold on to the last sliver of summer night. Your hair caught the moonlight in soft pieces. And your smile — that sweet, steady thing you aimed right at him — said more than you ever had to speak aloud.
You weren’t sorry. Not even a little. And God, that did something to him.
Joel didn’t say a word. Just swallowed hard and climbed back into the cab beside you. His hand hovered on the keys. You leaned your head back against the seat, eyes still glassy from the glow of everything that had just happened between you.
Then—
“Aren't you supposed to take Tommy home?” You asked suddenly, a little breathless.
Joel blinked. “Shit.”
You were already laughing softly, covering your face. “He’s gonna kill you.”
“Or throw up on me.”
Joel started the truck, tires crunching down the gravel path as the fairgrounds began to glow again in the distance. But he could already feel it — the shift. Like the world had spun sideways a little, tilted just enough to show him something new. Or maybe something he’d been too afraid to really look at until now.
Because everything was different now.
And somehow… everything felt right.
He pulled into the fairgrounds to find Tommy exactly where Joel had parked earlier, leaning against the side of someone’s car like it was a wall made to keep him steady, arms crossed, hat crooked, one boot toe tapping in the dirt like a man who’d been waiting too long.
Joel didn’t even have time to put the truck in park before Tommy was pointing at them like they were late to their own trial.
“Where the fuck did y’all go?”
You were calm. Effortless.
“I got lightheaded,” you said, real serious, even though your eyes had a flicker of mischief. “Joel took me away from the crowd to get some fresh air and water."
Joel didn’t even look at you — didn’t need to. The lie slid so cleanly off your tongue it almost sounded like the truth. And it worked, because Tommy just squinted, rubbed his face, and muttered something about the heat.
“You okay now?” he asked.
“Fine,” you said quickly. “Joel took care of me.”
Joel’s fingers flexed on the wheel. His chest pulled tight.
Because that part was the truth.
Tommy climbed into the back seat like his limbs were too long for his body. He collapsed with a groan, smacking his lips like he’d just run a mile.
“Y’all missed it,” he slurred. “There was this girl. Blonde. Real sweet. Sat next to me. Think she’s in love.”
You turned to glance over the seat. “That so?”
“She gave me her funnel cake,” Tommy said proudly.
Joel side-eyed him in the mirror. “Maybe she just wanted you to shut up.”
Tommy ignored that. “Romantic as hell. Fireworks goin’ off, all dramatic. Then I turn around and you two are just gone. Disappeared like ghosts. Whole thing was suspicious as shit.”
Silence. Sharp and sudden.
Joel kept his eyes on the road, heart thudding hard in his ribs.
Tommy leaned forward between the seats. “Y’all are bein’ real weird right now. Like you’re hidin’ somethin’. Almost like…”
Joel didn’t move.
“…almost like y’all fucked or somethin’.”
You froze. Joel stiffened in his seat.
He felt the air shift. Knew Tommy did too.
And then, right as Joel thought his brother might actually see through him—
Tommy let out a loud bark of a laugh and smacked the back of Joel’s chair.
“I’m just fuckin’ with ya.”
Joel exhaled like he’d been punched in the gut.
You giggled beside him, face turned toward the window, shoulders shaking as you tried not to laugh.
“Jesus,” Joel muttered, pulling into the driveway. “He’s gonna give me a heart attack.”
Getting Tommy out of the truck and into the house was its own little disaster. He dropped his wallet three times, claimed he didn’t need his boots, and muttered about calling the blonde from the fireworks until Joel practically dragged him to bed.
You followed behind quietly, hands full of whatever Tommy discarded along the way.
By the time they got him into bed — sideways, boots off, snoring already — Joel felt ten years older.
The hallway was dim. The house had that deep, quiet stillness that only came late at night, when everything else in the world had settled down. You stood in the doorway of the guest room, fingers resting on the frame, watching him like he might disappear.
Joel turned to head for the couch.
“You sure?” you asked quietly. “It’s not too late to run.”
Joel smirked. “Tempting.”
You smiled, soft and sleepy, stepping inside the room and reaching for the bedside lamp.
Joel lingered a second longer. Not ready to say goodnight just yet.
When you looked up at him again, something shifted in your expression — soft around the edges, still glowing from earlier.
“Goodnight, Joel.”
He swallowed. And gave a slow, careful nod.
“Goodnight, darlin’.”
Your door shut with a soft click.
Joel stood there for a moment, staring at it.
Then he turned back toward the couch, exhaled, and sat down in the dark — the sound of your moans still echoing somewhere in the space between his ribs.
He'd never been so thankful for Tommy dragging him out before. But tonight... tonight was worth it.
a/n: i am actually in love with this one ughhhh. but no worries guys, seattle tommy coming real soon i promise!!!! also check out @thewritergx for some more one shots (;
Content: Jackson!Joel x reader; Jackson!Tommy x reader (not a threesome sorryyyyy)
Synop: Joel Miller only comes around at night. After the sun sets. After the stars have already flooded the sky. After all of Jackson is already asleep — including his wife.
But you're tired of being his dirty secret. Of being the other woman. You didn't think you'd hurt this much. That is until Tommy. Tommy who wants you openly. Tommy who wants you and only you.
You thought you were healing... until Joel comes along.
Warnings: age gap (unspecified reader of age), cheating (joel has a wife), reader gets heartbroken, mean joel, pinv, oral (f! receive), no ellie, praise kink (tommy), pet names, face riding (kinda), torn between both millers (me too)
Word Count: 9k?
(dividers by: @cafekitsune)
a/n: this did not turn out the way i originally planned but that's okay because i just let my fingers write whatever they desire. truly i am torn between both miller brothers and don't know who to have y'all end up with so let me knowwwwwww. SPOILER tho you will have sex with Joel next chapter. sorry not sorry.
The coffee's gone cold. It always does when you pour it too early, thinking he might stay longer than he does.
But he never does.
The sun bleeds gold across the warped floorboards, crawling in through the broken slats of the blinds you never fix. It’s quiet in that cruel kind of way — not peace, but pause. Like the world’s holding its breath before it moves without you.
Your place still smells like him. Leather and old sweat. Tobacco and pine soap. Faded traces of campfire smoke clinging to the flannel he left draped over the back of the chair. Like he’ll be back any minute.
But you know better.
He comes on the wind, always at dusk or after — carrying the weight of something he won’t name, eyes heavy with history and hands that shake until they’re on you. And when he touches you, he’s not gentle, not rough either. Just hungry. Like he’s trying to remember what it feels like to want something he’s allowed to take.
You let him. Every time.
Because the thing about being the other woman is that you learn how to live in the in-betweens. In the dark hours and unfinished sentences. In the jacket he forgot to take and the warmth in your bed that isn’t yours to keep.
And on Sundays — you never expect him.
Sundays are for her.
The one who gets his name whispered soft across pillowcases and gets to ask where he’s been without flinching. The one who gets to admire his features in the daylight. You don’t want her to exist anymore. But you know she always will.
Because Joel Miller never comes around on Sundays. Sundays are for her.
And if he ever did — you think maybe you’d ask him to stay.
But he doesn’t. He won’t.
And so you sit in the quiet with your cold coffee and that old flannel, pretending this room is a church and you’re the only sinner left praying for a man already spoken for.
It was Thursday. Or maybe Wednesday.
The days blur when you don’t ask for promises.
He came in like he always does — shoulders slouched, boots heavy, voice low. Said your name like it hurt. Like it was the first word he’d spoken all day and it tasted unfamiliar in his mouth.
You didn’t ask him where he’d been.
You never do.
You just moved aside, let him in, closed the door behind him like you were sealing something in. Or keeping something out. You’re still not sure which.
The lights stayed off. That’s how he likes it.
He sat on the edge of your bed like he didn’t mean to stay long, like this was a mistake halfway made. But then his hands found your hips, and his head found the crook of your neck, and suddenly you were both breathing like you’d been underwater.
It’s never urgent, with Joel.
It’s not tender either.
It’s quiet. Tense. Like a storm held behind his ribs.
You feel it in the way he touches you — slow, searching, like maybe if he just holds you long enough, he’ll forget what he’s running from.
You let him leave fingerprints. Bruises, sometimes. He always kisses them after, though. Mouth soft where his hands weren’t. As if to say I’m sorry, without giving it a voice.
You didn’t say anything when he traced his fingers along your spine.
Didn’t move when he stared too long at the ceiling after.
You just watched him — that profile you’ve memorized a hundred different ways — and counted the beats of silence between breaths.
Then he spoke. Just one word.
“Laura.”
You turned your head away. He didn’t notice.
Or maybe he did. And didn’t care.
He left before the sun rose. No kiss. No goodbye. Just the groan of boots on old floorboards, the soft thud of the door closing, and the echo of her name still floating in the stale air you shared.
You buried your face in the pillow he used, pretending it didn’t smell like regret.
You don’t cry anymore.
That part of you dried up months ago — somewhere between the first time he left without looking back, and the fifteenth time you let him in anyway. Grief got old. Tears started to feel theatrical. And anyway, there’s no one left to see them but the walls, and even they’ve stopped listening.
Now it’s just the quiet. The long hours. The weight of being something he uses to feel human, but never stays human for.
You clean the sheets. Wash the pillowcase he used. Light a candle to burn the smell of him off your skin.
And still, it lingers.
That feeling. That film.
Like you’ve been dipped in something thick and invisible. Not blood, not dirt — worse. Something that clings behind the ears, between the thighs, under your tongue. Shame, maybe. Or the slow realization that you’re not a secret because you’re special — you’re a secret because you’re nothing.
Because love is something he gives to her.
And you’re just flesh.
You sit at the edge of the bed, half-dressed, your back to the mirror. You don't like to look anymore. You used to — used to try, anyway. Lip gloss. Liner. A hand in your hair, brushing it just so in case he noticed. In case he saw you.
But now, you don’t even try. What would be the point?
She gets him clean. You get him hollow.
You wonder what she’s doing right now. Maybe she’s making eggs. Maybe she’s wrapping her robe around herself while he kisses the top of her head and asks her what she dreamed. Maybe he makes her coffee without being asked.
Maybe he says good morning to her without needing to borrow a body first.
You’ve never heard him say it to you. You’ve never seen him like that in the light. You wonder if he looks different. Softer, maybe. Or maybe just real. You only ever get him in shadow — in pieces, in fragments, in the kind of silence that bruises.
He gives her Sundays. And you?
You get Thursdays, Mondays, Wednesdays — Fridays and Saturdays if you’re lucky.
Maybe. If he’s not too tired.
Never Sundays. Never.
You want to tell yourself you don’t care. That it’s just something you do — like a habit, or a drug, or a sin you haven’t gotten tired of yet. But that’d be a lie, wouldn’t it? Because it’s not just your body that aches when he leaves. It’s all the parts of you that no one’s ever wanted.
The parts you buried hoping he might dig them up.
But he never does.
He doesn’t ask.
It didn’t start with a look. It started with a sound — the scrape of boots on concrete behind you, the rustle of old canvas, the low murmur of someone asking for rifle rounds two stalls down.
Joel Miller.
Everyone in town knew his name. Not because he wanted them to — he kept to himself, like a man who learned long ago that silence is safer than kindness — but because in a place like this, everything echoes. Rumors. History. Grief.
You’d seen him before. Always moving, always grim. Eyes that didn’t linger. Hands that looked like they’d broken more than they held.
You didn’t speak. Not at first.
Just noticed.
He lived near the edge of town, in that crumbling house with the boarded windows and the overgrown porch. You passed it sometimes on supply runs and wondered what the inside looked like. If it smelled like cedar. Or smoke. If he ever lit candles, or just sat in the dark like you imagined he would.
The first time you actually spoke, it was raining. Hard. You were struggling with a crate of dry goods outside the community hall, your hands going numb, your patience gone.
He didn’t offer to help. He just picked up the other side of the crate and said, “Where you want it?”
And that was it.
No small talk. No smile. Just effort. Quiet and necessary.
After that, he started nodding when he saw you. A tilt of the head, sometimes a gruff “Hey.”
Then he started staying longer at the trade stalls when you were there. Asking about things he already knew.
One day, he brought you jerky from his last hunt. Said it was extra. You knew it wasn’t.
You didn’t know what to make of it, but you started brushing your hair before heading into town. Started wearing that jacket he once glanced at.
You told yourself it was nothing.
Then one night, he showed up at your door. Said nothing.
Just looked at you like the day had been long, and the world had been unkind, and you were the only soft thing left in it.
You didn’t ask questions. You just stepped aside.
That first night was clumsy. Not in a bad way — just in that way that two broken people collide. Careful and unsure, like neither of you had done this in a while. He didn’t kiss you. Not really. Just pressed his mouth to your collarbone like he was afraid it would vanish.
He left before dawn. No goodbye. Just the faint scent of sweat and regret on your sheets.
It kept happening.
Not often, not predictably. Just… when he needed.
He never made promises. Never brought flowers or touched your face like you were precious. But he came back. And for a while, that felt like something.
You started marking time by him. How long since he last came. How long until he might again.
You'd hear about him from others — how he helped reinforce the south gate, how he traded for ammo, how he didn’t speak much but always delivered.
He existed in your world like a shadow moving through the same air. A man near enough to haunt you, but never close enough to claim.
And slowly, what began as a flicker — something small and thrilling — dulled into routine.
Now, when you hear the knock at your door, you don’t smile.
You just open it.
Let him in. And let him leave.
He’s not a mystery anymore. He’s just a fact.
Like the cold. Like the curfew bell. Like the ache in your chest that never goes away.
You knew about her from the beginning. Before the first touch. Before the first knock.
Before the first night he let his body speak in place of his mouth.
People talk in towns like this. They whisper in market lines and at water pumps, over stitched-up coats and shared cigarettes.
"Joel Miller’s wife’s a good woman," they’d say. "She’s patient, still sets a place for him at dinner even when he’s late."
"She keeps the old world alive — bakes bread, tends a garden, teaches the little ones to read."
And you nodded, pretending you didn’t care.
Pretending your stomach didn’t twist when you heard the word wife.
You should have closed the door when he first came to you. But you didn’t.
Because no one ever taught you how to say no to something that feels like almost-love.
And he never mentioned her. Not once.
Not in words, at least.
But you saw it anyway — in the way he never stayed too long, in how he always kept one boot near the door. In the look in his eyes when he pulled away from you, like the sin had already been committed and there was nothing left but clean-up.
You don’t feel guilty.
Not really.
You’ve tried. God, have you tried.
But guilt implies you didn’t want it. And you did.
You still do.
You wanted the way he looked at you like maybe you were something warm in a world that had gone cold. You wanted his hands on your hips, heavy and sure. You wanted to feel wanted, even if it was only in the dark, even if it was only when he couldn’t carry whatever lived in his chest back home.
And maybe that makes you cruel.
Maybe that makes you hollow.
But it also makes you his, if only for the hour it takes to forget the life he chose before you.
She walks through town in the mornings — strong-legged and soft-eyed, with silver just starting to streak her dark hair. She looks like she’s earned her peace. Like she’s carried something heavy and learned how to set it down without screaming.
She’s his age. Maybe even older.
And you — you’re old enough to remember the world before it ended, but young enough to have gone through the hardships of puberty with infected hidden in every corner.
You hate that you envy her. But you do.
You envy the way people smile at her. The way her name is said with respect. The way Joel lets her hold his arm in public.
You envy that she gets all of him.
His mornings. His coffee breath. The sound of his voice when he isn’t worn thin.
You only get what’s left.
The part that’s too tired to speak. The part that hurts.
And still — you open the door.
Every time.
Even knowing he’ll leave smelling like you and crawl into her bed like nothing’s out of place.
Even knowing you’ll wake up in your empty sheets and try to remember what your name sounds like in someone else’s mouth.
He gave her the world. He gave you his ruin.
And somehow — somehow — you keep calling it love.
He comes late.
Later than usual. Boots caked with dirt, knuckles raw, a cut on his cheek that’s already scabbing. He doesn’t say a word when you open the door. Just walks past you like this is his house, like your body is furniture he knows by memory.
He sits on the edge of your bed. Elbows on his knees. Head bowed.
You don’t move to touch him. Not tonight.
You close the door slowly, lean against it like maybe it’ll hold you up. For a moment, neither of you speak — just the sound of the wind outside, and your heart thudding like it knows what’s coming before you do.
You ask quietly, almost gently, “Why do you treat me like this?”
He looks up, eyes narrowing like you’ve broken some unspoken rule. “Like what?”
You step toward him. Not angry. Not pleading. Just tired. “Like I’m no one. Like I don’t deserve to know anything about you. You come here, and you take what you need, and you leave. You don’t talk to me. You don’t even look at me, half the time.”
His jaw tightens. “I never made you any promises.”
And that hurts. Because it’s true.
You sit down across from him, knees almost touching, voice barely a whisper. “Is she different?”
His face hardens, but you press on.
“Are you nice to her? Do you talk to her? Does she get the real you?”
He looks away.
You keep going, each word slicing your own throat as much as his.
“Does she know what you’ve lost? What you’ve done? Does she get to hold you when the guilt comes? Because I don’t even know what you’re guilty of. I just know you crawl into my bed like a ghost trying to forget who he used to be.”
He stands abruptly. Paces. Hands clenched at his sides. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talkin’ about.”
“Because you won’t let me.”It explodes out of you. “You won’t let me see you. You come here and hide. And I take it. I’ve taken it for years. But I can’t do this anymore if you won’t even give me the truth.”
He turns back to you, angry now. “I never asked you to love me.”
You blink. Swallow the sting. “You didn’t have to. I did it anyway.”
Silence. Thick and final.
He stares at you, breathing hard — a man made of walls, panicking at the thought of tearing one down.
You think maybe he’ll say something. That maybe the dam will break. That maybe he’ll finally tell you who Sarah was, or what it’s like to lose the world twice, or why he looks so tired all the time.
But he doesn’t.
He just grabs his coat and walks toward the door.
Your voice trembles, but it’s steady where it counts.
“If you leave now, don’t come back.”
He hesitates. For half a second. Then he leaves.
Just like that.
No slamming door. No final word. Just the sound of boots fading into the night.
You stand there in the stillness, your whole body humming with what’s just been torn out of it.
You should feel strong. Empowered. But all you feel is empty.
Still, this is the first time in a long time you’ve chosen yourself. Even if it hurts like hell.
Even if the bed feels colder than ever. Even if tomorrow, you’ll still look at the door and wonder if he might come back anyway.
But tonight — You finally said what needed to be said. And that has to count for something.
You cry yourself to sleep most nights now. Not loudly. Not in that wild, breaking kind of way.
No — it’s quiet. The kind of crying that lives in your throat all day and only spills when your head touches the pillow, when the dark closes in and there’s no one left to pretend for.
You face the wall. Bite your knuckles to keep the sound in. Tears soaking the same side of the bed he used to lie on.
You don’t even know why it hurts this much.
You ended it. You told him to go.
But you never expected him to vanish like you meant nothing. Like you never mattered at all.
And now he walks past you like you don’t exist.
You see him sometimes. Out in town. At the gates, helping unload supplies. At the trade stalls, his voice low and rough, asking for nails or ammo or salt.
But he never looks at you. Never nods. Never glances. Never gives you even that old, familiar ache of almost-contact.
And that? That hurts worse than the nights he left your bed cold.
He let you go too easily. As if you were just another wound he’d gotten used to ignoring.
You tell yourself this is for the best. That every night you spend crying into the silence is one step closer to being free of him.
But healing doesn’t feel like healing. It feels like rotting in place.
Then one day, while you're working behind the mess hall, someone calls your name.
You turn, expecting a trader.
But it’s him. Not Joel — his brother.
Tommy.
You freeze. Something cold crawls up your spine. Not fear. Just... shock.
Because for a second, you think Joel sent him. Think maybe this is the moment everything comes crashing back.
But no. Tommy doesn’t look angry. Or suspicious. He looks... relaxed.
“Hey,” he says, hands in his pockets, a crooked grin tugging at his mouth. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
You nod, throat dry. “You didn’t.”
He steps closer, gestures toward the crates you’re moving.
“You always this tough, or just showin’ off?”
You almost laugh. Almost. Your voice comes out hoarse. “You offering to help or just standing there with compliments?”
And he smiles — not like Joel. Not guarded. Not hiding something behind his teeth.
It’s easy, unpracticed, genuine.
“I could be talked into both,” he says. And something in you lifts.
It’s small. Fleeting. But real.
For the first time in weeks, your chest doesn’t feel like it’s caving in. For one strange, stupid, golden second, you forget.
You forget how Joel looked when he left. Forget the way he never fought for you. Forget the sound of your own muffled crying into an empty pillow.
Tommy asks how you’re doing. He talks about the weather. The crops. A dumb story about some guy falling in the river trying to catch a chicken.
And you laugh. You actually laugh.
And when he looks at you — really looks — it feels like he’s seeing a whole person, not just a warm body in the dark.
He flirts a little, too.
Not hard. Not heavy. Just enough to remind you that you are still wanted. Still worth looking at.
And when he leaves — when he tips his hat and says he’ll see you around — you stand a little straighter. Breathe a little deeper.
You remember Joel again, of course. That night. That argument. The way he left without even asking if you’d meant it.
But for a single, flickering moment... You weren’t thinking of him.
And it’s the first moment in a long time that didn’t hurt.
Tommy keeps showing up. Not in the way Joel did — heavy-footed and silent, like a storm pushing through your door — but light. Curious.
Warm.
He comes by the stalls, where he was never one to linger before.
Sometimes with a bundle of old books to trade, sometimes with nothing but a lopsided grin.
Most days, he doesn’t even bother pretending he’s there for supplies.
“You again,” you tease, brushing your hands on your thighs, trying not to look like you were waiting.
And he’ll just shrug. “What can I say? I like the company.”
At first, you keep your guard up. Not out of suspicion, just… self-preservation. You’re still stitched together with thin thread, and Joel tore through you like a blade.
But Tommy never asks for anything. He talks. He listens.
Sometimes he flirts — softly, the way sunlight warms your neck through a windowpane. It’s never the kind of heat that burns.
He compliments your laugh. Says you’re funny. Smart. That your eyes catch the light in a way that makes it hard to think.
And you blush. Actually blush. You forgot you could.
It’s been weeks since the last time you cried into your pillow. Now, you fall asleep thinking of Tommy — the things he said, the way he smiled like he wanted you to see it.
The way his hand brushed yours when you passed him a tin of tea.
You think about him more than you think about Joel. Not entirely.
There are still scars. Still moments when you catch sight of that same worn flannel in the crowd and your lungs seize.
But the ache has dulled. Like a wound that finally started healing the right way — not clean, not pretty, but real.
And then, one late afternoon as you’re closing up shop, Tommy leans against the frame of the stall, looking uncharacteristically nervous.
He scratches the back of his neck, eyes flicking up to meet yours.
“I was thinkin’,” he starts, voice low, “I know a spot. Just outside the north ridge. We cleared it a few months back — safe, quiet. Stars are real clear out there.”
You blink. Heart thudding somewhere deep in your ribs.
He keeps going. “Thought maybe we could make a fire. Got a stash of chocolate, too. Even found marshmallows that ain’t gone stale yet.” A small grin. “Could roast a few, talk some more. Maybe... count constellations, if you’re into that kinda thing.”
You stare at him, wide-eyed. Not because you’re shocked he likes you. But because no one’s ever asked you for something gentle before.
A date.
Not a favor. Not a secret. Not a body to bury pain in.
A real, sweet, silly date. With s’mores and stars and firelight on skin.
Your voice is soft when you answer, but it doesn’t tremble. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
And in that moment — with his eyes crinkling in that way Joel’s never did, with your heart fluttering like it used to before it knew better — you almost forget what it felt like to be someone’s ghost.
Because for the first time in too long… you feel wanted in the light.
You take your time getting ready.
Not because you're trying to be perfect — but because, for once, you actually want to be seen.
Your tiny denim shorts hug your hips just right, cinched with an old brown belt you found in a forgotten drawer last spring. They're worn, soft, fraying a little at the edges, but they feel like you.
You button up a maroon and white plaid shirt — short sleeves, tight at the waist. It fits snug across your ribs, flattering but not loud. Something about the colors makes your skin glow in the low light.
And then the necklace.
A tarnished gold chain with a little amber stone at the center — simple, but lovely.
Your mother gave it to you before she died. Before Jackson. Before Joel.
You don’t wear it often. It’s too easy to forget who you were before she died. But tonight, it feels right.
You glance in the mirror once before stepping away. Your cheeks are flushed from anticipation, your lips soft and parted like they’re waiting for something sweet.
You feel... pretty. Not just presentable. Pretty.
You hadn’t expected that to feel so strange.
And then — a knock at the door.
Not heavy. Not impatient. Just soft. Measured. Hopeful.
For the first time in forever, a knock at night doesn’t make your stomach drop.
You smile before you even open the door.
Tommy stands there, a little breathless, a little awkward — and handsome as hell.
He’s dressed up. For you.
Clean button-down, sleeves rolled up just enough to show his forearms. Jeans without a single stain or rip. Boots polished like it actually mattered what you thought when you looked at him.
And in his hand — a bundle of wildflowers. Pink and yellow, petals already wilting a little from the heat of his palm. Still, they’re beautiful. Vibrant and crooked and real.
Your breath catches.
“For me?” you ask, voice light, teasing.
He scratches the back of his neck, grinning sheepishly. “Yeah. Spent way too long lookin’ for ’em, honestly. Think I held up patrol more than once. Heard a lotta sighing behind me.”
Your smile falters — just a flicker — at the word patrol. Because you know who he rides with.
You picture Joel somewhere behind him, arms crossed, eyes dark, unknowingly watching Tommy pick wildflowers for you.
And your heart stutters. But you shove it down.
Not tonight.
You reach for the flowers, let your fingers graze his as you take them. They smell faintly of grass and sunshine and effort.
They smell like someone tried.
“They’re beautiful,” you say softly.
He’s looking at you like you’re something out of a dream. Like he can’t quite believe this is real.
“You look...” He swallows. Laughs under his breath. “Hell, I don’t even got the right word. You look dangerous, maybe.”
You arch a brow. “Dangerous?”
“Yeah. Like someone I might fall for if I’m not careful.”
Your stomach flips — not in fear. In fluttering. And you haven’t felt that in a long, long time.
He offers his arm, old-fashioned. “Ready?”
And you nod, tucking the flowers close to your chest. “Yeah. Let’s go.”
And just like that, you leave the door behind. Leave the bed where you cried yourself to sleep. Leave the ghost who never knocked again.
Tonight is for you. And for the man who actually came when he said he would.
The forest hums low with night.
You walk side by side, not touching yet, but close enough that your arm brushes his every now and then. The air smells like pine and dry leaves, the dusk settling slow and golden around the tree trunks. The path winds quietly, moonlight creeping between branches like silver veins.
When you reach the clearing, your breath catches.
It's simple — a little fire pit circled with stones, a folded blanket resting nearby, and a tin box of supplies tucked neatly beside it — but it feels like something meant. Not thrown together, not rushed.
Chosen. Prepared.
Tommy sets the blanket down first, spreading it carefully over the soft grass. Then, without a word, he gestures for you to sit.
You do. And he moves around you with practiced ease, stacking logs, striking a match, coaxing a slow, crackling flame to life.
The fire’s warmth kisses your skin in waves. You pull your knees to your chest, resting your cheek against your arm, and just watch him.
He notices. Smirks a little. “You keep starin’. I got somethin’ on my face?”
You grin. “Just wondering if you’ve always been this good at this.”
“At makin’ fires?”
“At... this.” You gesture vaguely. “Being nice. Making people feel safe.”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just opens the tin and pulls out a bag of marshmallows, a broken bar of chocolate, and some skewers made of smooth, whittled sticks.
“I had a lot of years to practice,” he says finally, voice soft.
You nod. Don’t press. Not yet.
Over sticky, melting s’mores, you talk about small things. Silly things. Like his worst jobs back in the old world.
He tells you he once got kicked by a horse trying to impress a girl. You nearly choke on your marshmallow.
“Did it work?” you ask between laughs.
He grins. “She married my best friend a year later.”
You lean back, satisfied and full, the sugar warm in your blood.
The stars have come out, pinpricks in the ink of the sky, sharp and endless.
Tommy glances at you, eyes lit with something boyish. “Got one more thing for you.”
You turn, brows raised, as he reaches into the bag beside him and pulls out—
A bottle.
Dark. Dusty. Long-necked, with a cracked label that’s mostly peeled away.
He sets it in front of you like it’s treasure. “I know, I know — real fancy, right?”
Your eyes widen. “Is that... wine?”
He nods proudly. “Found it on a run, buried behind a collapsed liquor store. Figured it was fate.”
You run your fingers over the dusty glass. “You were saving it?”
He shrugs, suddenly a little shy. “Didn’t know what for. Just felt like... I shouldn’t open it ‘til the moment was right.”
He pulls out two mismatched but real wine glasses — one chipped, one cloudy — and you laugh, breathless.
“You came prepared.”
He pours carefully. Red-gold liquid, thick and rich, filling the glasses with a quiet glug.
You stare at yours, then admit, “I’ve never had wine before.”
Tommy raises a brow, smiling gently. “Well, that just makes this better.”
You hold the glass, heart thudding. His eyes are on you — not greedy, not expectant. Just... warm.
You take a sip. It’s bitter. Complex. Sour, sweet, strange.
But it’s good.
You close your eyes, swallow slowly. “That’s... that’s really nice.”
He tips his glass toward you. “Told ya. Wine’s better when it’s old. Kinda like me.”
You giggle. You giggle, and you don’t even feel stupid about it.
And then — without even noticing when it started — you’re both lying back on the blanket, shoulders pressed, gazes tangled in the stars.
He points upward, totally confident. “That one there’s Orion. Or, uh… maybe it’s a frying pan.”
You snort. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Course I do,” he says, deadpan. “Look at it. Big ol’ dipper-lookin’ guy with a sword.”
You elbow him lightly, and he grabs your hand playfully, holding it between both of his. And suddenly your fingers are laced together, and the stars don’t seem half as interesting anymore.
The wine makes your skin buzz. Not dizzy. Not dull.
Just soft. Open.
You shift closer, your head finding his shoulder. His arm curves around you without hesitation, pulling you in. You tuck your legs beneath you, curl into him like you’ve always known the shape of him.
Neither of you say anything for a long while.
The fire pops quietly nearby. The stars blink, distant and watching.
And you? You don’t care about constellations anymore.
Because here — in this sliver of night, on a blanket in the woods with wine in your blood and kindness wrapped around you — you feel like maybe you’re allowed to be happy.
Like maybe you’re not ruined after all. Like maybe you’ve found something worth holding on to.
The stars have faded from your focus.
All you can feel now is him — warm against your side, arm curved around your shoulder, his chest rising slow and steady beneath your cheek. The wine has made everything glow softly at the edges. You feel buzzed in your fingertips, in your knees, in the flush climbing your neck.
You haven't spoken in a while.
Just quiet breaths. Little shared glances. His thumb brushing over your shoulder in slow, absent arcs, like he’s tracing the thought of you into memory.
And then you feel it shift.
The stillness between you grows thicker — charged and certain — and when you turn your head to look at him, he's already watching you.
His expression is soft. Not hungry. Not fast. Just… hopeful.
His hand lifts to your cheek — callused, rough, gentle — and he leans in slowly, giving you every second to pull away.
You don’t.
Your eyes close just as his lips meet yours.
The kiss is light at first. Testing. Tender. Like a secret being told mouth to mouth.
Your breath catches. Your heart stammers wildly.
His lips part slightly — warm and careful — and he kisses you again, deeper now.
Not demanding. Just there. Real. Present in a way you didn’t think anyone could be anymore.
You feel your cheeks bloom with heat. It’s ridiculous, really. You’ve been touched before.
You’ve been kissed in the dark like a secret, like a sin.
But this — this — makes you blush. Makes you feel like something delicate in good hands.
Your fingers find his shirt, holding lightly at the edge. His hand slips to your waist, grounding you
He kisses you again, and again — unhurried, sweet — until the rhythm feels like something you were meant to know.
And then—
He deepens it.
Just a little. Just enough for his tongue to brush yours.
And your stomach flips. Not in the good way.
Because suddenly, uninvited and cruel, he is there.
Not Tommy. But Joel.
Joel — with his rough, bitter mouth. Joel, who never kissed you soft. Joel, who made you feel wanted and worthless in the same breath. Joel, who touched you like a man burying a memory, not holding a person.
And now here you are — tongue tangled with his brother, and something sour rises in your throat.
You pull back gently, your hand moving to Tommy’s chest.
He looks at you immediately, worry flickering behind his eyes.
You force a smile. Light. Airy. You hope it doesn’t shake.
“Hey,” you whisper, trying to soften the moment, “slow down, cowboy. I’m still new to wine and stars and, you know... you.”
He laughs under his breath — not hurt, not defensive. Just sweet.
“Yeah. Of course,” he says, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Sorry. Got a little carried away. You're just...” He looks at you like you hung the moon. “You’re kind of impossible not to kiss.”
You look down, smiling for real now, even if there's still a tremble in it.
He pulls you back into his arms without hesitation, without pressure, like he doesn’t need anything else from you tonight except your closeness.
And so you lay there again, your head on his shoulder, his arm around your back.
And maybe the magic of the moment is cracked now. But it’s not broken.
Later, when the fire’s embers are nothing but soft orange breath, he stands and offers you a hand. Packs everything up without asking you to lift a finger. Tucks the wine glasses back into his bag like something delicate.
He walks you home in the moonlight.
You don’t speak much, and you’re afraid — quietly, deeply — that maybe you ruined something. That the kiss that faltered might leave behind too much silence.
But when you reach your door, he turns to face you.
And just before he leaves, he kisses your forehead.
“Sleep good,” he says. “I’ll see you soon.”
And he walks away. Not lingering. Not asking to stay.
Just… leaving you with the feeling that someone actually cared enough to be gentle.
You stand in the doorway, watching him disappear down the path.
And for the first time in a long time, the ache in your chest doesn’t feel like loss. It feels like hope.
It’s your day off.
The sun’s warm on your skin, not hot, just gentle — like it’s blessing you for once.
A quiet breeze hums through the trees around the Jackson square. Someone’s hammering in the distance. Chickens cluck lazily across the yard near the fence. Children’s laughter spills from the schoolhouse down the road.
You sit on a bench just outside the mess hall, a book in your lap — one Tommy lent you, something about a girl lost in the woods. Your legs are crossed loosely, your thumb tucked between the pages.
You’re not really reading, though.
Every so often, your gaze lifts toward the path, expecting him. Tommy. He’s supposed to stop by later.
You don’t know if you’ll kiss again, or just talk, or just sit close and laugh about nothing. But whatever it is, you want it. You want him.
And for the first time in what feels like years, you’re not waiting to be needed. You’re waiting to be chosen.
So when a shadow falls over your page, your heart skips.
You smile before you even look up. “Hey—”
But it’s not Tommy. Your smile falls.
It’s Joel.
He’s towering over you, arms crossed, eyes storm-dark and narrowed. His jaw’s clenched so tight you see the muscle twitch.
“Joel,” you murmur, instinctively closing your book. “I—”
“What the hell’s goin’ on?” His voice is low, sharp, not yelling — but it slices all the same.
You blink. “What?”
He stares down at you like he’s holding back a thousand things and losing grip on all of them. “You care to explain why my brother spent half our patrol this morning blushin’ like a goddamn schoolboy? Talkin’ about your little date. Your outfit. How pretty you looked under the stars.”
Your cheeks go hot instantly — part pride, part confusion, part fear.
Tommy talked about you like that? Like you were precious?
But Joel’s not looking at you like you're precious. He looks furious.
He looks hurt.
“I didn’t know he was talking about it,” you say, your voice quiet. “I didn’t tell him to.”
He steps closer. Not enough to touch, but enough to pull the air from your lungs.
“I know what this is,” he says, voice thick. “You’re usin’ him to get back at me.”
You freeze.
“What?”
His gaze burns through you. “You think I don’t see it? You’re tryna make me jealous. Parade around town lettin’ him hold your hand, kiss your face, pretend like I didn’t mean anything to you.”
“I’m not—”
“You are,” he cuts in. “And I’m not gonna let you drag him into your mess.”
Your breath stumbles. “My mess?”
His face twists. “You think he knows what you let me do to you? You think he knows you let me in your bed, night after night, cryin’ and clingin’ to me like I was the only thing keepin’ you from breakin’?”
Your whole body goes still.
He’s too close. Too loud. Too angry to care about who might hear.
Your voice shakes now, but not from fear. From something deeper — betrayal, maybe. Heartbreak.
“I’m not using Tommy,” you whisper. “I care about him. He makes me feel safe. And wanted. And happy. Things you never let me feel.”
Joel’s chest rises and falls like he’s been running. His arms are still crossed tight, but his eyes betray him — flickering, pained, like he can’t believe you’re not just laying down and belonging to him anymore.
“Do you know how fuckin’ jealous that makes me?” he growls suddenly, voice raw. “Is that what you’re tryin’ to do? Watch me fall apart over this?”
You blink hard, throat tightening.
And in the silence that follows, a single thought hits you like a stone dropped in still water:
He feels it. Joel Miller is jealous.
He feels something.
But it’s too late. Too twisted.
Your voice steadies. “You don’t get to feel jealous, Joel. Not after what you did. Not after how you treated me.”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just watches you.
“I think…” you say slowly, your voice trembling with something that tastes like both terror and freedom, “I think I could actually love Tommy. And I think he could love me too. We could have a life. A real one. Not a secret. Not some... dirty, bleeding shadow in the dark.”
You see it hit him.
Right in the gut.
Joel stares at you for a long, long time. His face is red, jaw clenched, arms like steel across his chest.
And then — without a word — he turns.
And walks away.
No apology. No threat. No parting shot.
Just leaves you sitting there with your book unopened in your lap, and your breath caught between heartbreak and release.
You don’t know what that silence means. But for the first time, you don’t chase it.
You try not to think about Joel. You try.
But his voice keeps echoing in your head, even hours later — low, bitter, possessive. That damn question clinging to the walls of your mind like smoke you can’t scrub out.
Do you know how fuckin' jealous that makes me?
You don’t know what it means. You don’t know how it made you feel. All you know is it shouldn’t matter — not anymore.
Not when Tommy’s the one coming to meet you.
You’re back on the same bench, pretending to read again. The sun’s slid down the sky, casting long gold shadows across the street. Your fingers twist nervously in the hem of your shirt, heart beating a little too loud for comfort.
You hear his boots before you see him.
Then, warm as always, his voice: “You alright?”
You look up. Tommy’s there — handsome in a plain tee and clean jeans, a flannel tied around his waist, eyes squinting slightly against the sun. His expression is soft, but worried.
You freeze.
It hits you all at once — how different this feels.
How he doesn’t demand answers, just asks because he cares.
And for a moment, you want to tell him. Want to say: Joel showed up. Joel said things. Joel looked like he might break in two and I don’t know why it still hurts.
But you can’t.
You can’t.
Joel doesn’t get to take this from you.
So you force it all down, deep into that box where you’ve stuffed the ache, the guilt, the heat of his eyes.
You smile. Not the biggest smile. But real enough.
“I’m fine,” you say gently. And before he can ask more, you lean up and press a kiss to his lips.
That does it.
He relaxes instantly, grinning as he kisses you back. “Okay then,” he says softly. “Let’s go.”
He takes your hand and leads you down the lane, fingers laced through yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And for a little while, you let yourself forget the shadow that passed over your day.
Tommy’s house surprises you.
It’s nicer than you imagined. Country style, tucked just off the main path, with big windows and a porch strung with old Christmas lights that still work somehow. Inside, it smells like cedar and soap, warm and lived-in. There’s a leather couch with a throw blanket, a bookshelf brimming with paperbacks and dusty mugs, and a framed photo of him and Joel by the door — a reminder of another life.
The kitchen is small but tidy, and a bowl of fresh tomatoes sits proudly on the counter.
“Spaghetti night,” he announces like it’s a sacred ritual. “Told you I was cookin’.”
You grin, shrugging off your shoes. “And I told you I’m helping.”
Tommy mock-groans but doesn’t argue. “Alright, alright. But don’t say I didn’t warn you. I take my sauce real serious.”
He shows you how to cut and peel the tomatoes, how to sauté garlic in olive oil, how to add salt “with love, not fear.” You’re clumsy with the measurements, splash sauce across the counter, drop a spoon in the sink with a loud clang.
He doesn’t get annoyed.
He just watches you with amusement, shaking his head fondly. “You’re a menace in the kitchen,” he says, chuckling.
“And yet,” you shoot back, “you invited me.”
When the sauce is finally simmering in the pot, you wipe your hands on a towel, only to feel something wet smear across your cheek.
“What the—?”
You turn. Tommy stands beside you, licking sauce off his thumb with a devilish grin.
“Punishment,” he says. “For makin’ a mess of my counter.”
You gasp, scandalized. “Oh, it’s on.”
Before he can move, you grab a glob of sauce with your fingers and slap it onto his cheek.
He freezes. Then breaks into a grin.
The next few moments are chaos. Sauce flung. Laughter echoing. You chase each other in lazy circles around the tiny kitchen until you collapse against the counter, breathless and sticky.
And then—
His hands find your waist. Yours find his collar.
And you kiss.
It’s playful at first — wine-sweet and garlic-touched — but it deepens quickly, hunger turning slow and sweet. He pulls back only to gently wipe the mess from your face with a soft cloth, fingers lingering along your jawline.
“I could get used to this,” he murmurs. “We could have nights like this every damn week.”
You look at him. At the sauce on his shirt, the light in his eyes, the way his voice dips when he says we.
Dinner is simple — pasta, bread, and the rest of that dusty old wine he saved. But he lights two stubby candles between you, their soft flames dancing as the sky darkens through the window.
And when you go to sit across from him, you change your mind. You slide into the seat beside him, hip to hip, thigh to thigh.
“Hi,” you say with a little smile.
He kisses your cheek in reply.
You play footsie under the table like kids. You compliment the meal.
“Tommy, this is actually amazing.”
He beams. “Told you. Serious about my sauce.”
You talk about small things — who you saw around town, someone’s busted gate, a child’s chalk drawing of a horse that looked more like a rabbit.
Then he asks: “How was your day?”
And you freeze.
Your smile falters for just a second too long.
He notices — you feel him notice — the way his hand slows as it traces your leg under the table, the way his eyes search your face like he’s trying to read between the words you haven’t said yet.
You lift your glass of wine, buy time with a sip. Force your voice to stay light.
“It was good,” you lie. “Quiet. Peaceful. Spent most of it with my book.”
He watches you for a beat. Then smiles, brushing your hair behind your ear.
You don’t know if he believes you. You’re not sure if it matters.
You lean into him, rest your head on his shoulder.
And somewhere in your chest, the ghost of another man gnaws quietly at your ribs.
But tonight, you are warm. You are safe. And you are not alone.
Before you know it, the night has gone quiet.
Just the soft murmur of the radio playing in the background — some old love song, dreamy and distant — and the faint hum of wind against the window glass. You’re curled up on Tommy’s couch now, head resting in his lap, your body curled sideways like a cat soaking up warmth. His fingers glide gently through your hair, slow and steady, like he’s memorizing each strand.
You’ve never been touched like this. Not like you’re fragile, or precious — but like you’re known.
Your eyes flutter closed. His palm rests on your temple now, warm and grounding.
You think, I could get used to this.
And just as the thought settles sweetly in your chest, Tommy breaks the silence:
“So… are you gonna tell me what really happened today?”
Your eyes open slowly. Your breath stills.
“I already did,” you murmur, keeping your voice soft, lazy.
But his fingers pause. You feel his gaze on you.
“No, you didn’t,” he says gently. “You said it was a quiet day. Peaceful. But you weren’t peaceful when I showed up. You looked… shaken. Scared, even. And you’ve been smiling all night, but not really. Not the way you did before.”
You shift, sit up a little. Your pulse picks up.
“Tommy—”
“Look,” he says, his voice firm but not unkind. “I know we haven’t known each other long. Not like that. But I’m not just doin’ this for fun. I’m into you. Really into you. And I’m not the kinda guy who can build something real if it starts off with secrets.”
He leans down, brushing your hair behind your ear, eyes locked with yours now — earnest and unflinching.
“I want someone honest. I want you. And maybe that’s stupid, but…”
He huffs a soft laugh. “…you make me nervous as hell. I go to sleep thinkin’ about you, and I wake up with your face in my head. I don’t even know what to do with it sometimes. But I know one thing — if I’m gonna fall for you, I gotta know you’re not hidin’ somethin’ that’s gonna break me.”
Your heart drops.
Because God, you want to tell him.
You want to cry right here in his arms and tell him everything — how you let his brother crawl into your bed for over a year, how you loved him, how he broke you, and how today, he showed up and lit a fuse in your heart you thought had burned out.
But you can’t.
If you tell him, you lose this. Lose him.
And you’re not sure who you’d be with both Millers carved out of your chest.
So instead, you look down. Swallow the ache.
“…Some guy said something to me this morning,” you say softly. “Not someone you know. Just some asshole. Said I was easy. That I didn’t belong here. It just… threw me off, I guess.”
It’s not even a good lie. But it’s enough.
Tommy’s face hardens instantly. His arms go around you, pulling you up into his lap like you’re weightless. One hand cups the back of your head, the other gently strokes your cheek.
“Hey. Look at me.”
You do.
“You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen,” he says, firm and slow, like he needs you to believe it. “And I don’t give a shit what anyone else says. You’re strong. You’re kind. You belong exactly where you are. With me.”
Your throat tightens.
He studies your face for a moment, then adds, quieter now, “I’ll find him if you want me to. I swear.”
You laugh softly — more guilt than amusement. “No, it’s fine. Really. I just needed to shake it off. I didn’t want it to ruin tonight.”
Tommy’s brows relax. His expression softens like candlewax.
“You didn’t ruin anything,” he whispers. “You being here? You… lettin’ me hold you like this?”
His hand touches your chin, tips it up gently.
“I think I’m fallin’ for you.”
And then he kisses you.
Not careful this time. Not shy.
It’s deep, and romantic, and hungry in a way that makes your chest ache. His hands grip your waist, your back, like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he doesn’t hold on tight enough.
And for a moment, you let yourself believe this could work.
That maybe you can love him clean. That maybe one day, the lie will fade, and all that will remain is this. The way his mouth tastes like wine. The way he makes you feel safe. The way he chose you.
And maybe, just maybe — that can be enough.
Tommy’s kiss deepens, his mouth parts and his tongue slips between your lips. This time you’re not scared. This time you take it, entangling your tongue with his.
His hands wander, tentative at first — down the curve of your back, brushing along your waist, slowly tracing the line of your thigh. Like he’s unsure if he’s allowed, or maybe like he knows exactly what he wants but doesn’t quite have the nerve to ask for it. Every touch feels like a question, and every answer is in the way you lean closer.
So you decide to make the first real move. Your fingers drift down the planes of his chest, slow and deliberate, until they find the hem of his worn black shirt. For a second, you hesitate — then slip your hands beneath the fabric.
His skin is warm and impossibly soft beneath your palms, the kind of heat that seeps into your bones and makes you forget the cold ever existed. Your fingers explore the shape of him — the lean muscle, the faint scars, the way a trail of coarse hair starts just below his navel and disappears beneath the waistband of his jeans.
You feel him shiver. Not pull away — just breathe, sharp and shallow, like he’s been waiting for you to touch him like this, but didn’t think you ever would. His hands still for a moment, caught somewhere between restraint and want, before resting on your hips — not guiding, just grounding. Letting you lead.
It’s quiet, except for the soft rustle of clothing and the heartbeat echoing in your ears. And in that silence, you realize: he’s letting you in. Not just into his space — but into something deeper, something softer. Something real.
You pull away from the kiss, breath mingling in the small space between you. In one slow motion, you tug his shirt up and over his head, revealing skin kissed by sun and time — warm, golden, and solid beneath the soft glow of the low light.
He’s strong, that much is obvious — a man shaped by years of labor and living — but there’s a gentleness in the way he carries it. No fresh bruises. No jagged edges. His chest rises and falls with steady breath, his body unguarded in your presence.
Joel was always different. Built like a wall, all grit and sharpness — the kind of body that told a story just in scars. There was never a moment with him that didn’t feel like it might end in ache. But Tommy…
Tommy feels like safety. Like home.
There’s something soft about him, even in his strength — in the slope of his shoulder, the dip of his collarbone, the way his eyes search your face for permission, for want. Not taking, just waiting.
And for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel like something to be used. You feel wanted. Cared for.
Tommy’s hands slip beneath your shirt, the warmth of his touch blooming across your skin like a slow-burning fire. His fingers move with purpose, but not haste — exploring the soft terrain of your waist, the gentle curve of your ribs, holding you like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his hands if he isn’t careful.
He touches you like he’s trying to understand you — not just your body, but the quiet ache beneath your skin, the places where longing lives.
His hands roam higher, slow and steady, until they hover just beneath where you want him most. There’s a hesitation there — delicate, almost reverent — as if he’s waiting for a signal, a breath, a whisper of permission.
And that pause says everything: that he wants you, but won’t take more than you’re willing to give. That he sees you, not just your body, but your need — the kind that’s laced with history, with heartbreak, with the hope that maybe this time, it won’t end in ruin.
“For fucks sake, Tommy, just touch me.” A slow, heavy breath escapes you, desire coursing like wildfire beneath your skin.
“Sorry, sorry. I’m just nervous.” He admits. Embarrassment fading across his face.
“That’s cute.” You say as you grab his wrists, pushing his hands beneath your bra.
His fingers finally graze across your hard nipple. His mouth parts slightly as he feels every tender inch of your breast. Feels how badly you're aching for him. He quickly pulls your shirt to your shoulders, dragging your bra with it. Your breasts bounce freely in front of him. His gaze lingers before his touch follows, admiring every curve.
He eases your shirt off now, slow and careful, like he’s unwrapping something fragile. There’s no urgency in the way his fingers move, only patience. Intention. When the fabric slips from your shoulders and over your head, he sees you — all of you. Or at least, the part of you you usually try to hide.
Scars trail across your skin like ghosted memories, remnants of a life you survived — one lived shoulder to shoulder with danger, where the infected were never more than a heartbeat away and safety was something you only dreamed about.
They’ve always made you feel exposed. Marked. Like the past would never quite let go. But Tommy doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away.
His eyes move over you slowly, tracing each line like they tell a story worth knowing — not something ugly, but something earned. You brace for judgment, for pity, but what you see in his expression is softer. Something closer to awe.
And in that silence, that gentle stillness, you begin to believe that maybe you're not something to be hidden after all.
You move freely in front of him — unguarded, unhidden, unashamed. There’s no need to tuck your insecurities away, no fear of being too much or not enough. In his gaze, you are seen, fully and without judgment. Every soft curve, every silent scar, every secret wish — they all exist in the open, and he looks at them like they’re sacred.
You’ve never been like this with anyone. Not even Joel. With him, there were always shadows — things you kept quiet, parts of yourself folded away, unsure if they were welcome. But with Tommy, there’s space. Space to breathe. To want. To be.
And so you let yourself unfold — slowly, delicately, like something once bruised that’s finally learning how to bloom again.
“So pretty.” Tommy whispers amongst his admiration. He makes you blush in a way you never thought you could, for reasons you never thought you’d experience.
He wraps his arms around your back, pulling you in closer, bare chest to bare chest. Your tender nipples scrape against the dark coiled hairs lining along his chest. His lips find yours in a kiss that’s slow and tender, his mouth moving with quiet worship. He kisses you like he’s savoring it — like he’s learning it — his lips molding gently to yours, warm and sure. When his tongue slips forward, it’s soft, exploratory, tracing the edge of your teeth with the lightest touch, like a question he’s too careful to speak aloud.
Then he plants soft kisses along your cheek, jaw, neck — meeting the soft skin below your ear, sucking enough to leave faded marks. Marks no one would notice but you. No one would notice unless they were looking for it.
“Tommy..” You breath, rocking your hips into his, feeling the growing curve beneath his jeans. His breath hitches — hands grasping your hips tighter.
“Fuck. Already makin’ me lose myself.” He groans, pulling his lips from the growing red marks he’s left.
“I need you.” You plead, his hands pulling you roughly into him — closing the space between his jeans and your shorts. The denim rubbing against your clit — that’s rubbing against his budlge — almost becomes too much to handle. You can feel the dampness between your legs. You can see the way his jeans darken with every movement.
His head dips to your chest, taking your hard nub between his lips — sucking harshly, flicking and circling his tongue around your nipple. Your grab your free breast with your hand, squeezing and palming yourself, causing electric shocks to travel down your spine.
Your back arches into his mouth, his touch. Chasing every movement. He shares his attention with your other breast now, removing your hand, letting him take care of you.
You’ve never been this way with Joel. Never sat in his lap, thrusting into his clothed cock, chasing his mouth with your arching back. Joels never shown you this kind of attention, made sure the pleasure was all about you. With Joel, it was always how he wanted it.
Tommy’s hands slid around the small of your back, holding you with a gentle strength as he eased you down onto the soft cushions of the couch. Without thinking, your legs curled around him instinctively, pulling him closer. He leans in, his lips brushing yours in a tender, slow kiss. The world seemed to hush around you as he captured your bottom lip between his teeth, nibbling softly, a sweet and intimate gesture that sent a shiver down your spine.
One hand pressed gently to the cushion beside your head, his weight resting on his elbow as he leaned in, anchoring himself in the intimate space where your breaths tangled and the world fell away. The other reached hesitantly between your legs, looking you in the eyes — asking for permission. Your begging pants were all he needed to hear before he rubbed slow circles on the ache hidden beneath your shorts.
“More…” You ask in a whispered hush. Wrapping your arms around his neck.
He whispered softly, his breath warm against your skin, “I want to take you to bed… to do this right, with you.” Carefully, he lifted you from the couch, his touch gentle, his eyes full of quiet devotion as he held you close.
Tommy’s arms wrapped securely around you as he carried you through the dimly lit hallway, your body fitting naturally against his. Every step was steady and sure. The world outside seemed to fade, replaced by the quiet rhythm of your breaths.
When he reached his bedroom door, it creaked softly as he pushed it open—an intimate sound that felt like the start of something sacred. The room was bathed in the soft glow of the bedside lamp, casting warm shadows that danced across the walls.
Slowly, carefully, he lowered you onto the bed, his hands never losing their gentle hold. The mattress dipped beneath your weight, and for a moment, he just stayed there—watching you, his eyes full of something tender and protective. The quiet hum of the night wrapped around you both, and all that mattered was this soft, suspended moment between you.
He left a trail of gentle kisses down your body — stopping at the silver button clasping your shorts. He pulls them down — underwear including, his patience worn. Met with the sight of your glistening, begging pussy.
He drags his thumb between your folds, capturing your slick, and rubbing gently at your throbbing clit. Before you know it, his head dips between your legs — lips planting kisses on the inner soft skin of your thighs.
“You're dripping.” He groans. The eye contact with him becomes too much, to fierce. It sends a pulsing fire right to your lower stomach.
His tongue licks a long stripe, swirling and sucking right where you need him. Your moans fill the air and you can feel yourself become wetter and wetter. You’d be embarrassed with how loud you were being if it weren’t with Tommy. But Tommy eats up every bit of it.
Your legs curl tightly around his shoulders, drawing him deeper, while Tommy’s hands explore the soft, heated flesh of your thighs with slow, deliberate pressure — anchoring himself in the intoxicating pull of your body pressed close.
He digs his tongue inside of you, the sight of his face fully buried, nose pressed tightly on your clit, has your legs shaking. Once he enters two fingers, thrusting deeply and curling into the spongey part of you, you’re sent over the edge.
Your hands tangle fiercely in his hair, gripping tightly as you struggle to steady the rush of your trembling body. He thrusts his fingers into you faster, harder, as you try to chase his touch — griding against his face.
“Oh- oh god, Tommy.” You moan, the heat curled deep in you threatening to spill over.
His muffled moan vibrates against you in response. Enough to send shivers down your spines. Enough to finish you. Before you know it, you’re spilling your hot liquids on his fingers. On his tongue that’s still licking circles around your ache.
Tommy lifts himself from between your thighs, showing his fingers covered in your slick. He slowly brings the two to his mouth, licking them clean. The sight nasty, perverted, but turning you on once again.
“Tastes so good.” He claims, dragging his fingers out of his mouth with a pop. “Ready for me, babygirl?”
You nod your head desperately. “Yes..”
His hands move deliberately down, undoing the button of his jeans with practiced ease, unveiling more of the dark, tangled hair that lay beneath. He pulls them down, past his thighs, his boxers following quickly behind.
You weren’t expecting how big he is. His length slapping against his belly button, tip already dripping with wet precum. Your legs spread instinctively wider, inviting him in. He gives you a knowing smirk as he leans down, hovering over you and balancing himself on one hand as he guides himself to your entrance with the other.
He moves into you gently, as if savoring every second of closeness. You’re already so open to him, your bodies drawn together by something deeper than desire. His hands come to rest tenderly around you head, thumbs brushing your temples like a silent promise. A deep, almost trembling groan slips from his lips, and his eyes flutter closed — not just from pleasure, but from the overwhelming truth of how much he feels for you. It’s not rushed. It’s not just passion. It’s raw and quiet, spoken in the way he holds you.
His touch is slow, like he’s discovering something sacred. When he moves inside you, it’s not with haste but with intention — like very inch is a silent confession. You’re already so ready for him, your bodies fitting together with an ease that feels fated, walls accepting him deeper inside of you.
Tommy’s breath shutters as he presses his forehead to yours, hands gently cupping the sides of your face like you’re something fragile he’s afraid to break. His voice is low and warm, roughened by need. Thrusts a steady rhythms — the sound of skin slapping skin filling the air.
“You feel so fuckin’ good.” He whispers, bottoming out — a feeling that almost has you screaming. “Feel like I’ve been waitin’ my whole damn life for this.”
He moves slowly, savoring the way your body tightens around him every time he pulls out. Quiet sounds escape your lips — sounds he drinks in like they’re meant only for him. His hands slide back through your hair, then trail down your breasts, your sides, worshiping the lines of your body with a quiet awe, till his hands grasp your ass, spreading you wider.
“So damn beautiful,” he breathes against your skin. “You don’t even know, do you?”
And he’s right. You don’t. You haven’t in a long time. Not since whatever you had with Joel started. But your Tommy’s now.
His lips find yours again — slow, deep, and lingering — then trail to your jaw, your neck, pressing soft kisses between each whimpered word. His voice stays low, intimate, like a secret he’s trying to keep.
“Been dreamin’ of this… of you. The way you feel. The way you look at me. The way you make me feel like I ain’t carryin’ the weight of this while damn town on my shoulders.”
You feel Tommy in every part of you. The way his fingers lace with yours above your head, grounding you. The he pauses to look at you, chest rising and falling with every breath like he’s afraid he’ll miss something.
“You’re safe, darlin’,” he murmurs. “With me. Always.”
His rhythm deepens slowly, never rushed — every movement purposeful, guided by the overwhelming need to make this mean something. He leans in, burying his face in the crook of your neck as his pace builds.
"Fuck- takin' me like such a goodgirl." He whispers.
And when the tension finally builds too high to hold back, your legs wrap around his, pulling him closer — legs shaking. Tommy’s thrusts falter as he collapses into you, hot strands of him shooting deep inside of you. His pace slows as he releases every last drop, beads of sweat lining his forehead and chest.
Afterward, he stays wrapped around you, his hand resting in the strands of your hair. He presses a kiss to your temple, then your shoulder, and finally your lips — slow and lingering.
And when you wake the next morning, The light is soft when you stir — that gentle, early morning glow slipping through the curtains like a secret. Your body is warm, heavy with the kind of peace that only comes after something real… something that meant more than just a night.
At first, you're not fully awake — just aware of warmth beside you, the steady rise and fall of someone's chest, the brush of a hand loosely resting at your waist. And then your eyes flutter open.
He’s still here.
Tommy.
His face is so close, peaceful in sleep. One arm is slung around your waist, holding you gently but securely, like even in his dreams, he wants to keep you near. His breath is slow, even, ruffling your hair every so often as he exhales. You can feel the warmth of his naked skin where it touches yours, where your legs are tangled together beneath the sheets.
Your chest tightens.
You’re used to waking up alone. Used to the hollow stillness after Joel would slip out sometime before dawn — not cruel, not cold, just… distant. Detached. He never stayed. Never really let himself.
So now, lying here with Tommy still wrapped around you, the weight of his presence is almost too much. Too tender. Too safe. Like your heart doesn’t quite know what to do with it.
Your instinct is to freeze, not out of fear, but disbelief. You wait for him to move, to get up, to pull away.
But he doesn’t.
Instead, he shifts closer in his sleep, nuzzles his face against your shoulder with a soft hum, and tightens his arm just slightly around your waist.
A tiny sound catches in your throat. It’s not quite a sob, but it’s something close — quiet and raw and full of all the things you’ve never let yourself hope for. You press your forehead into the pillow, breathing slow, trying to make sense of the ache in your chest.
Tommy stirs then, as if your silence reached him even in sleep. His eyes blink open, still heavy with rest, and they find yours almost immediately.
“Mornin’, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice low and rasped with sleep. “You okay?”
You nod before you even think about it, eyes wet, lips parting to speak — but no words come.
He sees it, though. He always does.
His hand moves up, fingers brushing gently through your hair as he leans in and presses a soft kiss to your temple.
“I’m not goin’ anywhere,” he says, barely more than a whisper. “You don’t gotta look so surprised.”
It had been a quiet kind of day — the good kind.
Tommy was busy with town duties, something about a supply run meeting and wall repairs, so you'd kept to yourself. The house was calm, filled with the soft rustle of pages as you read by the window, curled under a blanket. The book had long since been forgotten, though — set aside on your lap while your thoughts drifted to Tommy.
It was late now — past midnight — and the fire had burned low in the hearth. Outside, Jackson had settled into that peaceful silence it only ever got on cold, still nights.
Then came the knock.
Three soft taps. Hesitant. Almost... unsure.
You weren’t expecting anyone.
Your heart gave a strange little lurch — hopeful, for just a second, that maybe Tommy had found his way to your doorstep anyway. That maybe he couldn't sleep either, missing you the way you missed him.
But when you opened the door, your breath caught.
It wasn’t Tommy.
It was Joel.
And not the hardened, guarded version you’d grown used to. He looked different. Raw. Torn. Eyes shadowed. Like he hadn’t meant to come here, but his feet brought him anyway.
And then it hit you — the weight of the moment.
It was Sunday.
You stood there frozen in the doorway, one hand on the frame, the other wrapped tightly around yourself, as if your body instinctively knew this moment would hurt.
“Can I come in?” he asked, voice low, rough. Like gravel underfoot.
You stared at him for a beat too long. “It’s late.”
“I know.”
His eyes searched yours. There was something behind them — not just guilt, not just longing. Something more desperate. Something that made your chest tighten.
You hesitated, then stepped back wordlessly, letting the door swing open just enough for him to step inside.
Joel walked in slowly, glancing around your little living room like it had changed since he last saw it — and maybe it had. Maybe it felt different now, because you were different.
You didn’t offer him tea. Didn’t make excuses for the silence. You just crossed your arms and waited.
He stood by the edge of the fireplace, not looking at you. “I shouldn’t be here.”
“No,” you said quietly. “You really shouldn’t.”
His jaw clenched. “Tommy told me. ‘bout you and him… how he fucked you.”
Your heart thudded.
“So what?” you asked. You tried to keep your voice steady, but it cracked — not from weakness, but from everything he’d never let you have.
Joel finally looked at you. And you hated that your heart still flipped at the way his eyes softened, even now.
“You happy?” he asked.
You blinked. “Why does it matter?”
“Because I—I never meant to hurt you.”
You let out a short, bitter breath. “You didn’t have to mean it. You just did.”
He flinched like the words hit harder than you’d intended.
“You never stayed,” you whispered. “You never looked at me the way he does. And now you show up? On a Sunday?”
Silence.
“I left her,” Joel said suddenly. The words dropped like a stone in still water.
You stared. Shocked. “What?”
“Couple nights ago. I couldn’t—” he ran a hand down his face. “I couldn’t stop thinkin’ about you.”
Your breath caught in your throat.
“I kept tryin’ to tell myself it wasn’t real, what we had,” he continued. “That I didn’t feel nothin’. But it was a lie. And then the way Tommy said he…”
He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to.
You stepped back slightly, unsure whether you wanted to laugh, cry, or scream. “You only came because you saw someone else loving me. Not because you were ready. Not because I mattered before.”
Joel looked down, silent again.
And then you spoke the truth you’d been holding in your chest for too long.
“I needed someone who didn’t just want me when they were lonely. I needed someone who chose me even when it wasn’t convenient.”
Joel looked up. Eyes full of something broken.
“You were never an inconvenience." He mutters. You swear you hear his voice crack. "I always wanted you."
"Stop, Joel. That's not fucking fair." Your eyes burn as you beg them to hold back your tears. "I'm with Tommy now."
"I bet you thought about me while he was deep inside you, huh?"
"Joel stop."
He's close now, leaning in centimeters from your face. "Did he do it right?"
"Joel, please." You beg. But yet you don't find yourself leaning away from him, from the way his hands slip under your sweater — grazing your bare hips.
He stutters for a moment. Eyes searching your face for any sort of excuse to stop himself. But he leans in, lips grazing softly against yours, mouth parting to say: "Stop me."
You don't. You collide your lips into his, tasting the familiarity. Hands wrapping instinctively around his neck, pulling him in closer. Like you've done this a million times before.
Well... you have.
But, it's only when his hand slips beneath you leggings, traveling down to the front of your underwear, that you push him away. That you push him off of you.
"We can't do this anymore. Seriously. I really am with Tommy." You inform, wiping away his drool from your lips. You feel filthy.
"You want me. Admit it." He fights back. The fear and anguish now returning to his face. The hurt as well.
"Get the fuck out, Joel." You yell, pushing him harshly towards you door, the tears finally escaping.
He didn’t fight. He didn’t beg. Maybe he finally understood.
And when you opened the door again, he walked out without another word — not angry, not cold.
Just hollow.
You closed the door behind him, leaned your back against the wood, and let yourself breathe. Slow. Deep.
And when your eyes drifted to the small clock on the mantel… it had just passed midnight.
Synop: What was supposed to be a quiet Memorial Day at the lake turns into something far more complicated when long-held tension finally snaps. In the stillness of the woods, boundaries blur and secrets take root—ones that can’t be easily forgotten once the sun rises.
Warnings: No!Outbreak Joel, No use of y/n, degradtion kink, pet names (babygirl, little girl, sweer heart), Mean joel (kinda, calls reader a slut), Joel tries make you feel guilty kink?, Creampie, No protectipn pnv, fingering, honestly just kind of disgusting in a sexy way? Public (kinda but no one’s around), in front of your daddy but he’s sleeping (so sorry for this)
Word Count: 10k
(dividers by: @strangergraphics)
Memorial Day in Texas feels less like a holiday and more like a dare — how long can you stand the heat before it breaks you? The sun comes up early and mean, baking the pavement by 9 a.m., turning leather car seats into griddles and the air into something thick enough to choke on. That’s why you escape to the lake every year, just far enough outside Austin that the water feels cleaner, cooler, like a secret. You pack light: cutoff denim shorts, a thin knit sweater, and the one bikini you know will get noticed — black, high-cut, a little more grown than anyone at the lake last saw you in. Joel shows up in his usual: a faded black tank that hugs his shoulders and clings in all the wrong places once it’s soaked through, swim shorts, and that same damn baseball cap he’s had for years, sweat-stained and stubborn. He looks like summer and trouble, and maybe that’s why you hate the heat a little less when he’s around.
Joel and your dad go way back — not college buddies or some childhood thing, but the kind of friendship that forms in real life, under pressure. They met working construction in their twenties, two guys figuring it out as they went, both with young families, both struggling to make ends meet but still finding a way to laugh at the end of the day. Joel had Sarah, just a baby then. Your dad had you, and your mom — back when life was loud and full, and holidays meant cookouts, not silence.
Every memory you have of childhood, Joel’s somewhere in the background. Fixing the AC in the middle of a heatwave. Bringing over brisket and cheap beer. Holding a sleeping Sarah while your mom made peach cobbler. The two families blurred into one, easy and natural — until your mom got sick. And after she passed, it wasn’t your dad who held things together. It was Joel.
He never made a big show of it. Just… showed up. For you, for your dad. Quiet help — rides to school when your dad forgot, groceries in the fridge, fixed leaky sinks without asking. Never stepped into your mother’s space, but never let either of you fall too far, either. And when your dad was too broken to be fully present, Joel was the one who kept you grounded.
Sarah’s grown now — lives a couple states away, working, in love, building her own life. Joel’s divorced. Has been for years. It wasn’t messy, just one of those things that runs its course. He stayed in Texas. Stayed close. And you? You never really stopped orbiting him, even when you left for school, even when life moved on.
Now you’re older. Old enough to see Joel not just as the man who helped raise you, but as a man. Strong, steady, familiar in a way that feels dangerous now. Your dad still calls him his best friend. Still trusts him more than anyone. And that’s the line you know you’re not supposed to cross.
But sometimes Joel looks at you like he’s not sure if you already have.
Memorial Day at the lake was tradition — not something anyone ever questioned, just something that happened, like clockwork. Every year, the same plan: your dad would pack the truck with coolers full of beer and whatever meat he felt like over-seasoning, Joel would bring the boat and the old rusted grill that somehow still worked, and you'd toss in towels, sunscreen, and the too-small duffel bag that always carried your swimsuit and a second pair of dry clothes you never ended up needing. The three of you had been doing it for as long as you could remember — back when Sarah was still small enough to cling to Joel’s back in the water and you were too shy to take off your shirt in front of anyone. Back when your mom would make cold pasta salad in a giant plastic bowl and yell at your dad for forgetting the ice. Even after she passed, even when Sarah got older and stopped coming, the tradition didn’t break. It shifted. Tightened. Became something quieter and more sacred. Just the three of you — a long weekend of sunburns and smoky air, Joel manning the grill with a beer in hand, your dad blasting classic rock from a busted speaker, and you stretched out on the dock, toes in the water, pretending not to notice the way Joel’s voice dipped when he talked to you. It wasn’t about the holiday. It was about the ritual. About holding on to something that still felt right, even when everything else had changed.
The drive to the lake always felt longer than it was, but maybe that was just the heat — or maybe it was because you were crammed into the backseat of Joel's truck, half-napping against the window, pretending not to listen to the familiar back-and-forth between your dad and him. They talked like they always did — like no time had passed. About work, traffic on I-35, the price of gas, whether the water level at the lake would be high or low this year.
You kept your sunglasses on and didn’t say much, letting their voices hum in the background like static. The sun was already hot, even before noon, and the AC in Joel's truck gave up halfway into the drive. You were sweating through your sweater and silently cursing the denim shorts that now felt painted on. Still, you didn’t regret what you’d packed — especially the black bikini tucked under your clothes. It was a little bold, sure, but after last year’s Memorial Day trip, when Joel didn’t even look twice at you, you’d decided this year you weren’t going to fade into the background. Not again.
The truck finally turned down the familiar gravel road, and the air changed — lighter, full of cedar and lakewater and something nostalgic. The trees parted to reveal the same sagging dock, and that wide, glinting stretch of water that made it all worth it.
You were the first one out of the truck.
Joel didn’t say anything as he grabbed the rope from the bed and headed toward the water. You watched from the edge of the dock as he worked — pulling the cover off the boat, checking the fuel, tying off lines with practiced ease. He hadn’t changed much, at least not in ways that made him any easier to look away from. His tank top was sun-bleached and clinging just enough to show the shape of him — broad shoulders, strong arms, tan skin gone golden under the sun. His hat shaded his face, but you still caught glimpses of his eyes when he glanced up, squinting toward the glare.
He hadn’t even taken his sunglasses off yet, and still you felt like he could see right through you.
There was something hypnotic about watching him work — the steadiness in his hands, the little grunt he made when something stuck, the way he wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his arm, unaware or just unaffected by the fact that you were staring. He’d always had this calm, capable energy that made you feel safe without even trying. But now, older, clearer-eyed, it hit different. It settled low in your stomach. Pulled at you.
Your dad was still fiddling with the cooler in the truck bed, grumbling about forgetting charcoal, oblivious. But Joel? Joel caught your eye for just a second as he stepped onto the boat. He smirked — subtle, knowing.
“Water’s perfect,” he called out. “You bring that swimsuit or just plan on lookin’ hot and sweaty all day?”
You blinked, then laughed, heart kicking.
He turned away before you could answer, already back to work. But that one line sat with you. Because he said it so easy. Like he didn’t even realize what it sounded like.
Or maybe he did.
It didn’t take Joel long to finish up with the boat. He moved with that quiet focus he always had — checking the motor, untangling ropes, kicking open the storage compartments to toss in life vests and the warped foam noodles your dad refused to throw away. Once everything looked good, your dad finally hauled the first cooler down from the truck, grunting like it weighed more than it did, and Joel stepped in without a word to help. The two of them moved in sync, loading up the boat with bags of chips, beer, and the pre-wrapped burgers your dad insisted on grilling even though it was already 90 degrees.
You lingered on the dock, pretending to scroll through your phone, but really just watching. Waiting.
Joel hopped back onto the boat and opened a beer with the edge of the cooler, leaning against the railing like it was second nature. His tank top stuck to his chest now, damp with sweat, and his skin had already started to flush from the sun. He wasn’t looking at you — not directly. But you caught the shift in his stance when you stood up. The way his body stilled. The flick of his eyes under the brim of that damn hat.
Time to make it worth it.
You peeled off your clothes slow — first the sweater, then the shorts — and folded them with deliberate care, placing them neatly at the edge of the dock. The air hit your skin all at once, and the black bikini felt suddenly bolder than it had in your bedroom mirror. High-cut, low-backed, with just enough give to make you feel dangerous.
You didn’t look at him right away. You just walked over to the lounge chair and grabbed your tanning oil from your bag, unscrewing the cap with one hand while the other smoothed your hair back off your shoulders. Then, you started to apply it — slow, intentional, dragging your palms over your arms, then down your legs, gliding over your stomach like you had all the time in the world.
Only then did you glance up.
Joel was mid-sip of his beer, but it had stalled halfway to his mouth. His gaze was locked — not openly, not in a way anyone else would notice — but you saw it. The way his eyes trailed down the curve of your body and then quickly darted back to the boat like he hadn’t just undressed you all over again with one look.
You smiled to yourself.
This swimsuit was a good choice.
He tried to play it off, mumbling something to your dad and rummaging through a bag that definitely didn’t need rummaging. But you caught it again — the second glance, lower this time. And when you lifted one leg to rub oil into your calf, his jaw flexed hard enough to make your chest flutter.
You leaned back on your elbows, soaking up the sun. Letting him look. Letting him want.
For the first time, you weren’t the one being watched like a kid. And Joel? He wasn’t hiding it nearly as well as he thought.
The boat eased away from the dock with a low hum, the water shimmering under the sun like molten glass. Joel was at the front, one hand on the throttle, the other resting on the wheel like he’d been born to drive this thing. He wore those same dark sunglasses, and the breeze whipped his shirt against his chest as the boat picked up speed, slicing through the lake with smooth confidence.
You laid back across one of the cushioned benches, sunglasses on, letting the sun kiss every inch of your oiled skin. Your dad was futzing around with a Bluetooth speaker that kept cutting in and out, alternating between classic rock and static. Occasionally, he’d call out to Joel to steer left or point out a cove they’d used to fish in, but mostly, it was quiet — lazy and warm, the kind of afternoon that felt suspended in time.
Eventually, Joel cut the engine. The boat bobbed gently in the middle of the lake, surrounded by nothing but water, hills, and heat. He stood up and stretched, back arching just enough to make your mouth go a little dry, then kicked off his shoes.
Without a word, he jumped.
The splash was loud, and when he surfaced a few feet from the boat, his hair was pushed back and dripping, face slick with lake water and sun, his grin wide and boyish in a way you hadn’t seen in a long time. The wet tank clung to his chest for a second before he pulled it off and tossed it onto the deck behind him.
You didn’t even try to pretend you weren’t looking.
His shoulders, tanned and cut, gleamed in the light, droplets racing down the planes of his chest. His laugh was low and easy as he treaded water.
“C’mon,” he called out. “Water’s perfect.”
“Don’t pressure her,” your dad said — right before cannonballing in beside him, creating a second wave of water that sloshed against the side of the boat.
You groaned and pushed your sunglasses up. “I’m good right here.”
They both resurfaced, grinning, ganging up like clockwork.
“Aw, come on,” your dad called. “You used to be the first one in!”
“Used to,” you shot back, stretching out further, crossing one oiled leg over the other. “Now I’m grown and civilized.”
Joel smirked, running a hand back through his wet hair. “Grown, huh? That why you’re afraid to get your hair wet now?”
You narrowed your eyes behind your sunglasses. “Not afraid. Just not stupid.”
Joel floated closer, arms lazily pushing through the water. “Yeah, yeah. You’re just scared we’ll splash you.”
“You will splash me.”
“We will,” he agreed, grinning. “That’s half the fun.”
You shook your head and leaned back with a sigh of exaggerated contentment. “I’m on beer duty. Go play.”
Your dad laughed and turned away, swimming toward the back of the boat.
Joel just lingered there, watching you.
“I give up,” he finally said with a dramatic sigh. “Toss me a beer, will ya?”
“Fine.” You sat up, grabbing a cold one from the cooler, condensation already sliding down the side of the can. You shuffled over to the edge of the boat where Joel was floating and leaned over the railing to hand it to him, the sun warming your back.
And that’s when he struck.
His hand shot up, wrapping around your wrist, and before you could even yelp, he tugged — hard.
You gasped, tried to pull back, but the slippery deck offered no grip. The world tilted for a split second — sun, sky, Joel’s smirk — and then you hit the water with a splash that stole the breath right out of you.
Cold and shocking, but somehow still perfect.
You surfaced with a sputter, pushing your wet hair out of your face, eyes wide as Joel laughed loud and unrepentant. He backed away in the water, arms raised like he was innocent.
“Joel!” you shouted, splashing water at him furiously.
He just grinned. “Told you it was perfect.”
Your dad howled with laughter in the distance.
You blinked the water from your lashes, glaring — but it was hard to stay mad when Joel was right there, water dripping from his jaw, that same damn smirk on his face, and your heart beating just a little too fast in your chest.
Maybe falling in wasn’t so bad after all.
After Joel yanked you into the water, it was full-on war.
You splashed him until your arms ached, trying to keep up with how fast he moved in the water. Your dad jumped in to “defend” you, which really just turned into him dunking Joel under like they were ten years old again. The lake echoed with laughter — yours louder than it had been in a long time — and the heat of the afternoon felt less suffocating when you were weightless, drifting in cool water, surrounded by two people who’d known you your whole life.
You forgot about the sunburn slowly forming across your shoulders. Forgot about time.
At some point, Joel disappeared under the surface, only to pop up right behind you and lift you up out of the water in one strong motion, tossing you with a triumphant shout. You hit the water laughing, kicking toward him, yelling his name like a threat, even though you weren’t really mad.
Eventually, the chaos quieted. You all settled into the stillness that always came after the burst of play — muscles heavy, voices softer, the heat stretching out like molasses.
Joel pulled a pool noodle under his arms, head tilted back, eyes closed behind his sunglasses. You found a floatie — one of those half-deflated recliner ones — and climbed on, letting your legs hang over the sides. Your dad drifted between you, occasionally humming along to the music still playing faintly from the boat’s speaker.
The water rocked everyone gently. It was the kind of peace that didn’t need words.
After a while, your dad cleared his throat. “Alright,” he said, paddling toward the boat. “Time to get the grill set up before I pass out from hunger.”
You cracked one eye open.
Joel just grunted a lazy, “Mmm.”
Your dad laughed and climbed back aboard, the boat tilting slightly under his weight. He moved around the deck, opening the cooler again, mumbling about lighter fluid and forgetting to bring the damn tongs.
You stayed where you were — drifting, warm, weightless.
Joel floated a few feet away, arms still hooked over the noodle, chest rising and falling slow. He glanced your way, and for a second, it felt like the sun paused in the sky.
The water between you shimmered. Quiet. Charged.
And your dad was just close enough to feel like a buffer, but far enough not to hear a word.
The water lapped gently around you, lazy and warm now in the late afternoon heat. Your float rocked with each soft ripple, and somewhere behind you, your dad moved around the boat, metal clinking as he got the grill ready. The smell of charcoal drifted faintly on the breeze, mixing with cedar, sunscreen, and the soft churn of lakewater.
Joel was still there — a few feet away, noodle tucked under his arms, sunglasses low on his nose. He hadn’t said anything in a while. Just floated. Watched.
You tried not to look at him. You really did. But the way the sun hit his skin, all bronze and wet, his hair slicked back from the water, neck beading with droplets—it wasn’t easy. He looked like something out of a dream you didn’t even know you had permission to have.
“You’re quiet,” you said finally, your voice soft, breaking the thick silence between you.
Joel’s lips quirked just a little. “So are you.”
You shrugged. “It’s peaceful out here.”
He hummed in agreement, eyes scanning the sky, the tree line, the lazy ripple of the water before finally settling on you again.
“You always liked it out here,” he said. “Even when you were little. You’d float around like you were made of water. Never wanted to get out.”
You smiled at the memory. “That hasn’t changed much.”
Joel let out a quiet chuckle, deep and low in his chest. “No. Guess it hasn’t.”
A beat passed. Then two. The space between your float and his noodle shrank slightly with the movement of the water, just enough to feel noticeable. Intentional.
“You surprised me today,” he said, not quite looking at you. “With that suit.”
You turned your head toward him slowly, heartbeat ticking up.
“Why’s that?”
He finally looked you dead-on, and even through the sunglasses, you could feel the weight of his gaze. He didn’t smile this time. His voice dropped, lower than before.
“Because you’re you're getting older.”
The words hung in the air, heavier than they should’ve been. You swallowed, throat tight.
“Yeah,” you said, barely above a whisper. “I guess I am.”
The water between you stilled.
Joel ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back again, the movement slow — almost nervous. You’d never seen him like that. Not around you. He cleared his throat and looked away, but not before you caught the flicker of something in his expression. Hunger. Conflict. Restraint.
Your float drifted a little closer.
“Joel,” you said, voice soft. “You don’t have to pretend you didn’t look.”
That got his attention. He looked at you again, this time with something raw in his eyes.
“I didn’t mean to—” he started, then stopped. “Well. Maybe I did.”
Your stomach flipped.
Behind you, your dad cursed loudly about the propane tank, and the spell broke. Joel sat up straighter, turned toward the boat, jaw tight again like he’d reeled himself back in.
You let the silence take over again, but it felt different now — full of everything that had just passed between you. Everything that had almost happened.
And maybe still could.
The quiet between you stretched out, heavy but magnetic. Joel hadn’t moved much — just floated close, close enough that the water brushing your leg might’ve been him. You didn’t know for sure until you felt it again — firmer this time, deliberate. A hand, slipping beneath the surface, fingers grazing the curve of your hip where the waterline met your bikini.
Your breath caught in your throat.
He didn’t look at you. Just kept his face turned toward the boat, the sun glinting off the water between you. His fingers moved slowly, barely there — a slow stroke of skin just under the surface, hidden from view. He wasn’t grabbing, wasn’t pushing, just touching. Like he was testing if he could. If you’d let him.
You didn’t stop him.
You didn’t say a word.
Your pulse fluttered in your throat, and the rest of the world faded down to water, skin, and the electricity building in that sliver of space between your float and his.
And then—
“Alright, you two, let’s go,” your dad called, loud and casual, from the boat.
The hand vanished instantly, like it had never been there at all. You jerked upright a little too fast, water splashing against your float. Joel cleared his throat and turned, swimming a couple strokes toward the boat.
Your heart thudded hard, heat crawling up your neck — not from the sun this time.
You glanced at your dad, trying to read his expression, but he didn’t look suspicious. If he’d seen anything, he didn’t let on. He was leaning against the railing, grinning like always, waving you in.
“Got the coals lit. We’re losing daylight,” he called. “Come on before Joel drinks all the beer.”
Joel climbed aboard first, grabbing your hand to help you up like nothing had happened. His grip was firm, steady, but when your eyes met, there was a flash of something there — something unspoken and sharp. He let go a beat too late.
You dried off quickly and pulled your sweater back on, trying to steady your breath while your dad moved around the grill, humming off-key to the music now coming in clear from the speaker. Joel cracked open another beer and stood beside him, the two of them falling back into their usual rhythm — arguing about burger doneness, who forgot to pack the cheese, and whether it was too late to drive into town for firewood. Then Joel drove everyone back to land.
You busied yourself spreading the picnic blanket across the little patch of shaded grass just off the dock once the boat was tied. You laid out the paper plates, napkins, the tub of potato salad your dad insisted on bringing every year even though it always got warm too fast. Your skin was still damp, hair clinging to the back of your neck, but your hands moved automatically. Anything to give you something to do. Anything to keep from glancing at Joel too much.
Dinner was easy. The way it always was — plates balanced on laps, beer bottles sweating in the grass, food that tasted better because it had been earned by sun and laughter and a long day on the water. The three of you sat in a triangle on the blanket, your dad telling a story you’d already heard twice before about the time he and Joel got stranded in the middle of the highway with a flat tire and a cooler full of melted ice.
You laughed. You always did. Joel added the same sarcastic commentary he always did, flicking a bottlecap at your dad’s arm mid-story.
But every now and then, you felt his eyes on you.
Quick glances over his bottle. A flash of tongue licking grease off his thumb. His knee brushing yours and staying just a moment too long before shifting away again.
The food disappeared fast. Your dad leaned back with a satisfied sigh, his plate empty, beer in hand, already talking about grilling breakfast tomorrow. But you weren’t listening to the words.
You were listening to the tension. To the silence pulsing just under the surface — not between all three of you, but between you and Joel.
Something had shifted.
And even if no one said it out loud… it was there now.
Undeniable.
The sun had started to dip behind the lake by the time you were clearing the last of the paper plates, the sky washed in deep orange and fading gold. The lake glimmered in the distance, still and endless now, and the heat had finally loosened its grip, replaced by a breeze that whispered through the trees and lifted strands of your damp hair off your shoulders.
Joel had already gotten a fire going, the crackle of burning wood filling the space where conversation had died down. They had made the drive into town for firewood, and he’d stacked it just right—tight and efficient, like he did everything. He stood nearby now, feeding another log into the flames, face lit up in flickering amber, a cigarette tucked between two fingers and a beer balanced in the other.
Your dad was off to the side, tying the last corner of the old camping hammock he swore by. It hung between two trees just a little ways back from the fire pit, swaying gently in the breeze. He always staked that spot for himself come nighttime—said it was the best seat in the house for stargazing and s’mores.
You tossed the last bag of trash into the bin and wiped your hands on your shorts, making your way back toward the fire just as Joel lowered himself into one of the folding chairs with a groan and a muttered, “My knees weren’t built for this much swimming.”
You grinned and sat in the chair next to him, close enough that your knees brushed his for a moment before you tucked them up under yourself.
Your dad had finally settled in his hammock, beer in one hand, bag of marshmallows resting on his chest. He’d already started humming to himself, eyes barely open, the kind of blissed-out contentment only someone who’d grilled three burgers and floated in the sun for hours could feel.
Joel passed you the cigarette without a word. You took it between your fingers and inhaled, the smoke curling warm in your chest as you exhaled into the fading light. He lit another for himself and leaned back in his chair, his free hand lazily strumming the strings of the battered old acoustic guitar he kept in the truck. He hadn’t played all day, but now, as the sun gave way to dusk, he let the music slip out like muscle memory.
It was low and slow — something old and familiar, something that melted into the firelight like it belonged there.
You sipped your beer and watched him, your legs stretched out toward the warmth of the flames. His fingers moved with casual grace, the melody floating softly into the night. The guitar glowed in the light, the wood darkened from years of playing, his hand resting easily on the neck like it was part of him.
Your dad let out a soft snore, the marshmallows rolling off his chest and into the hammock with a rustle. Neither of you moved to wake him.
You just sat there, under a sky turning dark, with the lake at your back and the fire between you and Joel. The smoke, the heat, the music — it all felt thick and quiet and close.
Joel didn’t say anything, but he looked at you once through the smoke, the firelight catching in his eyes. It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t a statement.
It was just there.
Whatever this was between you — it was burning too.
The fire had burned down to a slow, steady glow, casting everything in warm gold and flickering shadows. Crickets chirped lazily in the brush, and the trees creaked quietly in the breeze. Your dad was fully asleep now, gently rocking in his hammock with a soft snore escaping every few breaths, a beer bottle still clutched loosely to his chest like a trophy.
You and Joel hadn’t spoken in a while. You didn’t need to.
He kept playing — quieter now, slower — until even that faded into silence. His hand stilled on the strings, and the only sounds left were the crackle of wood and the distant lap of water against the dock.
He set the guitar down beside his chair and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, cigarette burning low between two fingers. For a moment, you just watched the smoke curl up into the night sky, your heart beating slow but loud in your chest.
Then his voice, low and rough, cut through the quiet.
“You ever think about how different everything would’ve been if life had gone the way we planned?”
You turned your head, eyes catching the way the firelight touched his face — carving out every line, every shadow. He looked older here. Softer, in the dark. Like he didn’t have to hold up the weight of everything for once.
“I try not to,” you admitted, tucking your knees closer to your chest. “Doesn’t do much good.”
He nodded slowly, like he already knew what you were going to say.
“I used to think there was only one way to be a good man,” he said after a pause. “And I followed that as best I could. Worked hard. Stayed in my lane. Kept my hands clean.”
You tilted your head, watching him carefully.
“But then life starts rewriting all your rules,” he murmured, flicking ash into the fire. “And suddenly… there’s this person you shouldn’t want. Someone you can’t want.”
The words hung there between you. Unsaid, but completely understood.
Your breath hitched. You didn’t look away from him.
“You didn’t stop yourself earlier,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.
“No,” he said, eyes meeting yours now, steady and heavy and raw. “Didn’t want to.”
Neither of you moved. The night was a living thing between you, breathing and buzzing and watching. Your heartbeat was in your throat. In your fingertips. You wondered if he could hear it.
His voice dropped, barely more than a rasp. “You didn’t stop me either.”
“I didn’t want to,” you echoed back, just as quiet.
Joel’s hand shifted slightly, resting on his knee. Close to yours. Not touching, but close. You could feel the heat of him there, even in the night air.
He leaned in, just a little.
“I think about you more than I should,” he said. “Been tryin’ not to. But it’s gettin’ harder.”
The admission landed like a weight in your chest. A tremble ran through your limbs — not fear, not nerves. Just want.
You looked at him — really looked. His face was lit by fire and memory. His eyes weren’t guarded now. They were open. Vulnerable. Honest.
“I think about you too,” you whispered.
Neither of you moved right away.
But the shift had already happened.
And nothing was going to be the same after tonight.
The fire crackled, shifting slightly as a log split open with a soft pop, sending a shower of embers drifting into the dark like fireflies. Joel watched them float up, his hand still near yours, his knee brushing against you when he shifted, like he didn’t even realize he was reaching for closeness—or maybe he did.
You didn’t pull away.
He exhaled slow, like he was choosing his next words with care.
“I notice things about you now,” he said quietly. “Things I didn’t let myself see before.”
You turned toward him, pulse picking up. “Like what?”
His jaw flexed, and for a second he didn’t answer. Then he looked at you — really looked. Like you were something fragile and dangerous all at once.
“The way you look when you think no one’s watching,” he said. “How quiet you get when you’re trying not to say what you’re feeling. The way you walk around like you don’t know how beautiful you are.”
You swallowed hard, throat tight. Your fingers twitched in your lap.
“And it’s wrong,” he added, softer now. “You’re—”
“Don’t say it,” you cut in, your voice just above a whisper. “Don’t pull that card.”
Joel stared at you, something stormy in his eyes. “He’s my best friend.”
“And I’m not a child,” you said firmly, but not harshly. “You know I’m not.”
He didn’t argue.
The silence that followed was louder than the fire.
You leaned back slightly, heart thudding, the space between you sparking like it had its own pulse.
“I used to think you didn’t see me at all,” you admitted. “Like I was invisible to you.”
Joel turned his head slowly, regret written clear in the lines around his mouth.
“I saw you,” he said. “I saw everything. That was the problem.”
Your breath caught. You felt it, then — how much he meant it. How long he’d been holding this in. The restraint hadn’t just been recent. It had roots.
“I used to convince myself it was just a crush,” you said. “That it would go away. But it didn’t. It got worse.”
Joel’s lips parted like he wanted to say something, but he didn’t. He just looked at you—like he was trying to memorize you. Like maybe if he held your gaze long enough, he’d find the strength to walk away… or the excuse not to.
“I don’t want to mess this up,” he said finally, voice rough. “Don’t want to be a mistake you regret.”
You reached for his hand then, slowly, your fingertips brushing his knuckles.
“Then don’t be,” you said softly. “But don’t pretend this isn’t real either.”
Joel didn’t move at first. Just stared at your hand against his like it might burn him.
Then—finally—his fingers turned, lacing with yours.
The touch was simple. No rush.
But it meant everything.
The line had been crossed, not with a kiss, but with the truth.
And there was no going back now.
Joel’s hand stayed wrapped around yours, warm and steady, the callouses on his fingers rough against your skin in a way that made your chest ache.
He looked down at your joined hands like he didn’t quite believe it was real. Like part of him still expected you to pull away.
But you didn’t.
Instead, you gave his hand the faintest squeeze.
That was all it took.
He stood without a word, still holding your hand, and gave a subtle nod toward the tree line just past the fire. You understood him without needing to ask. Not here. Not with your dad half-snoring in the hammock just ten feet away.
You rose and followed him, the fire casting long shadows behind you as you stepped off the blanket, your bare feet brushing over dry grass and soft pine needles. Joel led you just far enough away that the firelight flickered at your backs, barely kissing the edge of your shoulders now — just far enough for the dark to feel like privacy.
The air was cooler in the trees. Quieter.
He stopped near the base of a tall cedar, the branches low and swaying gently above. He dropped your hand slowly, like it hurt to let it go, but didn’t step away.
You were standing close now. Closer than you’d dared all day.
The silence between you was no longer awkward or tentative — it was expectant.
Joel looked at you for a long moment, something stormy and unreadable behind his eyes.
“You’re sure?” he asked, voice rough, low.
“I’ve never been more sure,” you whispered.
That was it.
Whatever thread had been holding him back finally snapped.
He stepped forward and reached up, his fingers brushing your jaw, then settling along the curve of your neck. His hand was warm, steady. Your breath hitched as his thumb dragged slowly beneath your ear, the gentleness of the touch at complete odds with the fire in his eyes.
He leaned in.
Not fast. Not greedy.
Like he was memorizing every second before it finally happened.
And then, with a low breath that barely touched your skin—
His lips met yours.
It was careful at first. Tentative. A test.
But the moment you exhaled against him — the moment your mouth parted and your hands found his chest — Joel deepened the kiss with a quiet, broken sound in his throat, like he’d been holding it in for years.
His hand slid down, resting at your waist, the other cupping the side of your face. The pressure of his mouth grew more certain, more hungry, and your body tilted into his instinctively, drawn to his warmth like gravity.
The kiss wasn’t rushed, but it was full — of everything you hadn’t said, everything you hadn’t dared to let yourself want until now.
And as the fire crackled behind you and the stars blinked into the dark sky above, Joel kissed you like he’d wanted to for a long, long time.
And now that he finally had you, he wasn’t letting go.
The kiss deepened, his lip biting your bottom one for an invitation inside. You parted your mouth wider, allowing his tongue to slip through, tasting every inch of your hot, wet mouth. Meeting his tongue with yours in a war of dominance that he, of course, won.
His hands trailed down from your waist to the front of your shorts, unbuttoning the silver stud that glowed in the fading firelight. The zipper was loud in the quiet of the night, and you instinctively turned your head around the trees to look back at your dad — make sure he was still sound asleep.
"Don’t worry about him, babygirl," Joel said, his voice low and rough as his hand came up and gripped your cheek with just enough force to make you gasp. He turned your face back to his, eyes dark. "He’s too deep in the beer to know what year it is.”
His hands continued fumbling with your shorts, dragging them down your thighs and revealing the black swimsuit underneath — still damp from the earlier swim. His hands grab at the revealing skin of your ass, pulling you closer until your rubbing against the hard outline of him.
You drop your mouth in a moan — feeling how big he is just underneath the polyester material of his shorts. His hands slip under your bottoms now, giving him full access to the plump skin. He harshly grabs and pulls at your ass, grinding you against himself — sucking in sharp breaths everytime you meet his already wet tip soaking through his shorts.
His hands, now feeling like fire against your skin, trail up your stomach, tracing the thread of shadow on your skin. He pulls your shirt off, exposing just how tiny your bikini really is.
“You did this for me, didn’t you?” He smirks, letting a small laugh escape.
You try to shake your head no, but he can see right through it.
“No, you did. Can’t lie to me, sweetheart.” He assures, as his fingers trace the outline of your hardening nipple through the material of your swimsuit.
“God, Joel, just fuck me.” You beg, bucking your hips to meet his. You want to rip off your swimsuit—and his—and reveal the naked bodies hidden underneath. You want to see him, all of him. And you want him to see all of you too.
But he only shakes his head, a slow, deliberate smirk tugging at his lips. “So desperate for me, aren’t you?” he murmurs, voice low and rough with want. His fingers trail just shy of where you need them, deliberate in their torment. “I’m not rushing a damn thing. I’ve waited a whole year for this—ever since last Memorial Day, I haven’t stopped thinking about you. Dreaming about this.”
The confession catches you off guard—your breath stutters, heart skipping a beat—because last Memorial Day, he’d barely looked at you, all cool glances and casual distance, while you’d spent the whole day trying not to stare. You had no idea he’d been thinking the same things, wanting the same things, all that time.
He pulls down the black material, your tits bouncing out—begging for his attention, stealing the show. Your nipples are perked so painfully, needing his touch, his mouth. But he just watches them, gaze slow and heavy, like he’s memorizing the way they look—like the sight alone is something he means to savor.
Finally, his fingers brush over the nubs, sending an electric sensation down your spine, all the way to the wetting of your bottoms.
“Fuck, look at you. Beggin' for me.” He growls, never meeting your eyes. “Want my mouth? Huh, babygirl?”
You nod, too quickly to be graceful, too eager to hide—and maybe it would’ve been embarrassing, how desperate you are, if not for the heat curling low in your belly, if not for the way the air between you feels too thick to breathe. There’s no room for shame, not with this kind of need.
The desperation is enough for his head to dip down, mouth meeting your nipple—sucking ever so slowly but harsh enough to cause your back to arch into him. His fingers grab at your free breast, twirling and pulling.
You want to moan so badly, to allow him to hear exactly what he’s doing to you, but with your dad only yards away, you can’t risk the moment. So you let the harsh breaths spill from your lips, unrestrained and deliberate—each one a quiet plea, a wordless invitation. Loud enough for him to hear your want, raw enough to show you crave more.
His mouth pulls away from your hardened nub with a loud pop, causing you to shake at the loss. But the feeling doesn’t last long when he slides his hand down your bikini bottom, feeling your slick between your folds.
“So wet for me.” He groans, rubbing your clit in slow, deliberate motions—a gasp leaving you. “Fuck, is this what I do to you, baby girl?” he murmurs, voice thick with awe and heat, like he can’t quite believe the way you’re falling apart for him.
His mouth finds the tender hollow beneath your neck, lips claiming the skin with bruising intent, each mark a promise that will bloom dark and visible by morning. But he doesn’t care—can’t. His tongue follows in slow, soothing strokes, tracing over the wounds he’s made like an afterthought of kindness, like a quiet act of worship for the damage he’s left behind.
His fingers trial slowly down from your aching clit, throbbing at the loss, and to your entrance. He pauses when he meets just where you need him most, fingers slick with your need and want.
You grind down on his fingers, needing him—desperation overcoming you, making you look like a complete mess under his gaze. His eyes lock with yours, molten with desire, thick with unspoken want—and yet, behind the burn, there’s a glint of playful cruelty, like he’s savoring every second of your unraveling.
“Beg for it.” He demands, fingers still hovering under your entrance.
“Wh– What?” you manage, thrown off balance by the weight of his voice. But his expression doesn't waver—there’s no joke in him, only something deep and commanding, something that leaves no room for doubt.
“I said,” he breathes, leaning in so close his lips nearly brush your ear, his heated breath stirring a trail of tingling fire down your neck. “Fucking beg for it.”
You freeze for a moment, caught off guard by the change—the gentle words vanished, leaving only a teasing edge behind. Somewhere deep down, you know he won’t call you “sweetheart” again tonight. Not now. Not while this game is just beginning. You know you’re going to like this, what with you now dripping all over his hovering hand.
“Joel…” you whisper, breath trembling with a mix of nerves and anticipation. You’ve never dared to cross this line before, but the unfamiliar thrill pulls at you—electric and intoxicating. “Please…”
“Please… what?” He growls, fingers trailing ever so slightly between you. You almost got him…almost.
“Please…please put your fingers inside me. Please, Joel, I can’t stand how empty I feel. I need you.” You finally beg.
His eyes darken as a smirk displays across his face. “All you had to do was ask.” His fingers finally enter you, your mouth shaping into an Oh at the feeling. “Now, are you going to be a good girl for me?”
You nod fervently, every fiber of you aching to please him, to offer exactly what he desires—an unspoken promise carried in your desperate submission. Two of his thick fingers enter easily inside your soaked walls. You can feel this stretch around his fingers, the fiery burning that sends chills down your spine.
“Please, faster. I want you to go faster.” You plead, riding his fingers and gripping at his biceps with your nails.
“Such a slut. Riding your daddy's best friend's finger when he’s right there sleeping. Begging him to fuck you.” He rasps, shaking his head in a lingering but teasing disappointment.
That should’ve stirred something in you—a warning, a flicker of regret for the path you were on. But instead, it fanned the flames inside you, setting your blood ablaze, a fierce heat boiling low in your belly.
He grabs your torso, pushing you against the back of the tree—stopping you from grinding against him. He holds you tight, leaving a red mark beneath his hold as you try to wiggle free. He pushes deeper inside of you, fingers curling in the perfect spot that dares the heat pooling in your belly to spill over.
His arms finally move, fingers going faster and faster—just as you had requested. Pulling completely out just to bury himself knuckles deep inside over and over again. A wet squelch fills the night air, just under the fading, cracking, uncared-for fire that’s daring to put itself out.
You writhe under his clutch, you know his hand will be bruised against your hip. Your legs start to shake as you feel an undeniable closeness threatening to spill into Joel's hand.
His pace starts to slow, the feeling leaving just as quickly as it came. A groan escapes your lips.
Joel’s hand, impossibly large and fierce, sweeps over your mouth, silencing you with a roughness that feels both unforgiving and utterly possessive.
“You’re not going to come till I fuckin' tell you to.” He seethes. You might be afraid—if desire didn’t drown out every shred of fear burning inside you.
His fingers exit your body, and emptiness overcomes you. He brings them to your mouth, giving a look daring you to open, to taste yourself.
You gulp, the weight of the moment pressing down—can you truly go this far? But with Joel, distance and limits dissolve. Whatever he wants, you’ll offer willingly, as if your very soul depends on it.
Your mouth parts, inviting him in with an innocent look fading across your eyes. A look that makes Joel quiver, fucking quiver. You could come with that sound alone.
You wrap your tongue around his fingers—slowly, intentionally—before pulling them inside. Tasting yourself coated on his digits. You suck them clean, swallowing, letting him know you’re not afraid of what he has to offer. He drags his fingers out—curling around your bottom teeth and pulling your mouth open before his lips meet yours.
He can taste you in your own mouth, and that alone could make him crumble into you, if he allowed it. He sinks his teeth into your bottom lip, pulling away at it with a pop. Blood immediately forms around the wound left before he wipes it away with this fingers that just fucked your mouth.
“Look at you,” he mutters, voice rough and laced with something dangerous. “Such a disappointment to your daddy, aren’t you? … if only he knew what you’re up to right now.”
“Joel, please.” You whimper, need overcoming you. Submission ready to give in.
“What does my little girl need?” he murmurs, mock-sweet and laced with heat, each word a thread of temptation pulling you further under.
“I- I need you to fuck me. Right now, Joel. I- I need to feel you inside of me.”
With that, Joel pulls your bikini to the side—pulling his own shorts low enough to reveal his glistening tip. How big he is shocks you, you’re not sure if you’re prepared for this, but you know you want it, need it.
He lines himself up with your entrance, tugging your hips closer to him. Your back now leaning against the tree, scratches etching into your skin from the bark. Your hips bent to meet his, legs spread and ready. The sight of you—ready to be fucked, dripping down your own thighs—Joel cant wait any longer.
He grabs the hem of his tank top, aggressively pulling it into his mouth so that he can see him fuck into you better. This movement exposes his belly. How dark hair runs down his navel and meets into his now revealed shaft. His abs are shadowed by his shirt, but you still get a good look. The way his teeth clench around the bottom of his shirt drives you crazy, saliva darkening the edges.
He pushes himself slowly inside of you, stretching your hot walls around him. He can feel you clench as you get used to the size.
“So fuckin' tight.” He groans, words muffled by his shirt in his mouth. “Don’t worry, gonna open ya up real nice.”
You whimper at the words, the sight, the feeling of his thick shaft stretching you endlessly. He doesn’t stop until he’s buried deep inside of you, pushing against your cervix. You look down and realize he’s all the way in —you can't see him anymore, just croch to croch. Clit brushing against the hair just above him.
“Look at her, takin' me all in like a good girl.” He looks up, meeting your eyes. “She’s a good girl, ain’t she?”
You nod, realize he’s talking about your aching cunt. You can feel him throb inside of you. You need him to move, now. But you remember, he wants you to beg. He won’t do anything without you asking him for it.
“Fuck me Joel.” You groan. “Fuck me hard. Ma-make me scream.”
He finally pulls himself out, your walls clenching and begging him to stay.
“Such a dirty girl.” He huffs, slamming himself into you in one harsh movement. Making you scream just like you asked. “Your daddy know his little girl has such a filthy mouth?”
You shake your head, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from the sting—but this is what you asked for. What you begged for. And now, you’re unraveling beneath the weight of it.
He pulls and slams into you faster now. The sound of skin slapping fills the air, the fire now dead, bodies only lit by the moonlight. Joel pulls himself into you, your bare breast now rubbing against his ruffled-up tank top. His teeth now focused on biting at the sweet, soft skin of your neck.
He can hear the way his moans sound, gruff and airy as if he’s trying to keep quiet—trying to keep in control. The sound opens you up, invites him in deeper.
His hand reaches down in between your legs, rubbing harsh circles on your clit. You shake violently as his free hand pulls at your hair—your back arching into him at an impossible position. You’re going to be so sore tomorrow.
“I can feel how close you are.” He breaths into your ear, hands still circling around your aching, swollen clit. “Wanna come on my dick?”
A whisper escapes your lips. You try to nod, but his hand his gripped so tightly into your hair it makes it impossible to move.
“Use your fuckin' words.” He growls, biting the lobe of your ear in punishment. His hands let go of your hair, your neck thankful for the loss, and he pinches your nipples harshly.
“Yes…”
“Yes…what?” He commands. His teeth now biting the skin around breast before sucking it soothingly. He’s being so rough with you, something you weren’t expecting, but you can't deny the way your body reacts.
“Yes. I want to come on your big dick. I want you buried deep inside of me while I do it.” You cry.
He lifts up from you. Hands gripping both hips harshly, you know this is to keep you upright for what's about to come. “Fuck, such a dirty mouth on my girl.”
And then he slams inside you at an impossible pace. His tip slamming into your cervix—that’s definitely going to bruise. Screams leave your mouth; you'd cover your mouth to muffle them if your nails weren’t digging into Joel's wrist for support.
The tree’s bark bites into your back, jagged and unforgiving, the sting blooming with every shift—warm and raw, a quiet confirmation that it’s tearing you open. Just like Joel.
The boiling sensation returns deep in your belly as Joel slams into you unforgivingly, moans escaping his lips as well. This time he doesn’t stop, doesn’t pull out before you can finish. You clench hard around him, causing him to twitch inside of you.
“Yea? Ya like that? Like me buryin’ myself inside you pussy?” He says—a low grovel in his voice, almost like he’s about to lose himself too. “That’s right. Come on your daddy's friend's dick. Nasty fucking girl.”
That’s enough for you to spill over. You collapse into his grip, legs shaking mercifully, as your juices soak him, escaping out the sides and dripping down your legs, into the grass underneath your feet.
White, slick thread now connect Joels shaft and your cunt, bubbling each time your slide back down into him. A disgusting, sticky sound now entering the night air. You come down from your high, stomach cramping at the sensation—but Joel isn’t finished with you yet.
He lifts you up, legs wrapping instinctively around his waist, and pushes you pully against the tree. His hands that were once wrapped brutally around your waist now grip violently into he bark of the tree. Some of the bark lifting and falling by the trunk.
His thrust start to falter, he’s getting close now, as he ruthlessly burries himself deep inside your aching cunt, white heat pooling low inside once again.
“Fuck.” He groans, teeth grazing your collarbone. “You’re ruinin' me, babygirl.”
“Joel… please, cum inside me.”
“God. You’re such a slut, aren’t you?” He smirks, but never denies your request. “How badly you want me to cum inside you, huh?”
“So bad. Ple-please. I-I’ve been imagining it for so long. Want it to come true.”
“You been dreamin’ about your daddy's best friend? Been dreamin’ about him cuming deep inside your begging pussy? Now, now… that’s not how a good girl’s supposed to behave.” He mocks, thrusting, getting deeper and harder. “That how you behave for me?”
“Only you, Joel. I- I’m about to come.”
“Come for me, babygirl. Wanna finish at the same time.”
Your nails dig violently into his back, drawing blood that will definitely stain under your nails. His movements start to falter as he throbs deep inside of you. It’s only when you start grinding your hips to meet his movements that he finally falls apart.
White, hot ropes shoot deep into your hot—swollen walls. You finish at the same time, come mixing while creamy slick leaves you and pools at the base of Joel's shaft.
The two of you collapse to the forest floor in a tangle of limbs, the cool earth pressing against your skin. Loud, ragged gasps fill the air, mingling with the distant hum of the woods as you both struggle to catch your breath. Your chest heaves, heart still pounding in the aftermath, the silence between you thick with everything unspoken—raw, breathless, and electric.
Joel finally pulls out of you, removing his shirt and cleaning the sticky come off of himself—before he turns to focus his attention on you. He slowly drags his shirt up the sides of your legs, cleaning the forgotten slick from just minutes ago, before he makes his way to your swollen, fucked out cunt. He cleans the mess, making sure to not miss anything.
Your swim bottoms are ruined and stained. He tears them off before fetching your shorts, shaking them off in case any bugs tried to make them their home on the grassy floor. The mean Joel disappeared—bringing back the sweet one as he dresses you, readjusting your swim top to cover you, and pulling your sweater back over your head.
After he redresses you with an unexpected tenderness, his rough hands gentle as he helps you back into your clothes, straightening the hem with deliberate care. There’s a softness in his gaze you hadn’t seen earlier, something quiet and real beneath the hunger that had just devoured you. When he’s done, he leans in close, lips brushing the shell of your ear.
“Enjoyed every damn minute of that,” he murmurs, voice low, still thick with the weight of everything that had just passed between you. “Never had anything like that before. Not ever.”
The words land heavy, full of meaning that tightens something in your chest. You nod, cheeks flushed, lips parted as if to speak—but there’s nothing to say that could match the gravity of it. Instead, you follow him in silence, legs still unsteady as he leads you back through the trees, the scent of pine and summer and sex clinging to your skin. The embers of the dying campfire come into view, and relief floods through you when you see your dad still slumped in his hammock, snoring softly, blissfully unaware.
Joel moves with practiced ease, beginning to pack up the remnants of the night—folding chairs, dousing the fire, the clink of metal and the rustle of canvas loud in the quiet. Eventually, he shakes your dad awake with a muttered, “Time to head home,” and the older man grumbles, groggy but compliant, stumbling toward the truck.
The drive back is uneventful, quiet except for the low hum of the engine and the occasional snore from your father in the passenger seat. You steal glances at Joel from the backseat, and though he doesn’t look at you, his hand tightens on the wheel every time your eyes linger too long.
When the truck finally pulls into your driveway, your dad mumbles something half-asleep before stumbling into the house without a backward glance. You start to follow, but Joel’s hand catches your wrist, firm and unyielding. He pulls you back just enough to press you against the side of the truck, eyes locked on yours.
“Can’t wait till next Memorial Day,” he says, voice quiet but rough with promise. And before you can respond, he leans in and kisses you—slow, claiming, and utterly certain. The world fades for a moment, everything else falling away under the press of his mouth against yours.
As he pulls back and you finally turn to head inside, legs still trembling from more than just the walk through the woods, one thing is undeniably clear.
summary: Carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, Joel meets the daughter of Seth, his old army buddy. He struggles with finding peace, his mind still stuck back in that Afghan desert heat. Time passes and Joel feels himself finally relaxing, mostly thanks to that effortless smile and dirty mouth.
warnings: Pre-outbreak. Age Gap (Joel in his mid/late 30s and reader in early 20s, though it’s mainly unspecified), DBF!Joel, mutual yearning, possessive nature, angst. Smut: Fingering, Kissing, Oral (f!receiving), Pet Names: Baby girl, Darlin', Sweetheart.
please be aware of these tags: War Flashbacks, talks of PTSD, & Military Propaganda. Mentions of guns and lost loved ones.
word count: 10.7k
MINORS DO NOT INTERACT
note: Support your creators. Likes and reposts appreciated. Click Here if you’d like more stories from me. Text divider from @strangergraphics. Text Color Generator. If you'd like more Joel Miller stories, please go check out @pearlessance and my dear friend, @filthyjoelslvr.
Joel ran his callous fingers through his thick hair, pushing back the loose strands of disheveled salt and peppered curls that inconveniently drooped down his forehead, sweat beading just under his hairline. His bare feet planted onto the polyester rug lining along his bed, broad shoulders spread and biceps flexed. One hand fell to the plentiful skin of your ample thighs, and his belligerent hips pounded into you with an echoed thump- the dark, oakwood headboard slamming mercilessly against the drywall.
“Ooh, ow! God, Joel! Ok-Okay! F-Fuck!” Your euphoric wails echoed in Joel’s ears, high-pitched and vibrating against the mattress. Your face lay pressed into a worn-out feather pillow, mouth open and borderline drooling on the white cotton fabric.
“Too much”, you beseeched, your fragmented cries cracking in the back of your throat, muffled by the fresh sheets under you.
“Aw, baby. I thought ya’ said ya’ could fuckin’ take it? Givin’ up on me that easy, little girl?” Joel spoke, through labored, panting breaths. His chest burned with exhaustion as he fought to keep himself upright. “My big cock too much for ya’?”
Your body was screaming to say, ‘Yes, it’s too big, too much,' but your mind wasn't ready to give up, to admit defeat this soon. You hated how much you loved it- the power Joel had so easily obtained over you. He trusted harder, clinching a handful of your long hair. The strands lay taught in his fingers as he pulled back, forcing your head to rise from the pillow.
“I-god, I-I can! I can… t-take it”, you fought to speak- your teeth chattering as if Joel had just thrown ice-cold water on you.
“Nah, ya can’t. Just tell me ya’ can’t an’ we can be done.” Joel wrapped his other hand around the reddening skin of your neck, your spine arching against his chest as he continued his mind-altering, determined pace. He sucked his tongue between his teeth, a drip of sweat falling down his chest. Grey and brown hair gingerly peppered from his belly button down to the base of his dick.
He had told you that you weren’t ready for all of him just yet- this dark, violent side he had learned to suppress. And you? You had looked him in his eyes and laughed. Now you were here, in his apartment across town, stretched out by his inconsolable girth- your slick pussy almost rejecting him with an impossible burning. His cock slammed into your cervix- unmerciful and unwavering in strength.
He was right. You couldn't take him like this. Not at this pace, not for this long. His tight grip on your hair kept you from pulling away, consuming you completely, and fucking you out until you were useless- a melting mess of cum dripping down your legs and staining his duvet.
“Okay, y-yes! I-I, Please, slow down”, you unwillingly whimpered, unable to speak or hold yourself up anymore. Hot tears had flooded the corners of your eyes, and your pupils dilated black. You reached your arms back- a puny attempt to push his hips away.
Joel laughed, “Yeah? Ya’ need me to slow down, baby? Pause so ya’ can breathe?” Although he sounded cocky- with his confident words and nonchalant demeanor, a deep desire to please you spilled through. An unfamiliar empathy for the pain he might be causing.
You had tried to resist it, struggling to make yourself strong enough for him. He had warned you, truly. You forced yourself to shake your head up and down, followed by a nearly inaudible ‘uh-huh’. A simple but hardline confirmation to his question. It was over. This was all you could take.
How were you supposed to know he wasn't lying when he said that he could break you? That he could make you cum until you were begging him to stop?
If Joel was being honest, he hadn't expected you would be able to take him like this in the first place. Gradually he slowed his movements, timidly releasing your arms and easing you into the memory foam mattress. “That’s a good girl, tryin’ so hard for me.”
Joel Miller was by no means a gentleman. Anger coursed through his veins in a perpetual and involuntary torment, flooding his mind with a violence and rage he almost couldn't control. For a while, he was able to repress it- slow breathing stopping him from the brutality he was trained to love. He had grown used to it- was no stranger to it. But recently, he had become unstable, his body begging for a release of tension he could only settle through a fight. A rough, bloody, world-ending fight that he was sure would land him on the inside of a federal government cage, iron bars locking him away from the outside world forever. He was constantly on edge, nerves settling on his skin like a bee sting. Joel wasn’t stupid. He knew why these feelings were here. He had been government property, a trained hitman, for so long that it had completely washed his original self away, replacing it with a soulless, empty shell of a man. The perfect soldier.
It had haunted him at night, pulling him back into that arid, dry desert of Afghanistan all over again. Even in his dreams, he was fighting. He couldn’t rest, couldn’t close his eyes without seeing the faces of his abandoned friends or his cracked, bloody, and mud-covered hands gripping a coal-black M4 Carbine. He knew he wasn't really there, but some days it sure as hell felt like he was living through it all over again. It had taken him years and four different therapists to finally develop some tricks. He couldn’t stop the dreams, but he could make them more manageable, less deadly. When things were really bad, and he couldn't tell if he was dreaming or not, he would look at his broken watch. In all his nightmares, the glass of that worn-out watch was clean. Perfect, like the day his grandpa had hugged him goodbye and given it to him. It had been a reminder of home, a symbol of his family, while he was away, but he was also hyper-aware of its identifying factor. Some days, he thought, when his body was in pieces and riddled with bullet holes, that watch would still be there. A piece of him telling the world, ‘he is gone and I am all that remains.’ He still wore it every day, the hands no longer ticking, like time had stopped when a stray bullet that should’ve killed him struck the glass. A dog tag on his wrist.
Joel hadn’t been a good man. He knew he was rough. He had hurt people, sometimes the innocent, but he was trying. He had hoped in all his efforts, he could find the peace he craved- like he felt as a kid when he had fallen asleep in the car, his mom scooping him up in her arms and carrying him into the cool air of their house. She would lie him lovingly on the bed, tuck the covers under his chin, and kiss his forehead. He hadn’t felt like that in years. Certainly not when he was out there in that desert, and not when he came home. His parents were gone- six feet down and marked by a shared marble rock with his last name. It was obvious everyone around him was waiting for him to fall apart, their eyes always glued on him.
You were no stranger to his demeanor, dread plastered on his face as he sulked in the corner of the living room at dinner or during parties hosted by your dad. Even in his unpleasant appearance, you couldn’t stop that nagging feeling of wonder, an intense craving lingering in your mind anytime the unapproachable man was within your proximity.
You were so different from the rest, never looking at him with obvious concern. Instead, you were kinder, your eyes an agonizing plea of something he couldn't quite name. Joel tried to deny it at first, the way his anger melted into a pile of nothingness around you. Maybe it was your cheerful disposition- that adorable smile that left him feeling peaceful, his tense muscles finally relaxing.
Although he couldn’t name it, he was drawn in, dreaming of the way his name fell from your lips. It was an undeniable craving- lust overflowing. He felt powerless, unable to touch the only person who could offer him any release.
If you hadn’t been your father's daughter, he probably would’ve had you wrapped around his fingers already, crying out his name as he rubbed teasing circles around your clit. Joel may not have presented it as obviously as you, but he was just as lost as you were. He knew he was gone the second he saw you. Hadn’t even tried to fight it either. That first time he had stood in your doorway, shaken hands with your father, and introduced himself to you, he knew the hold you would have on him.
Sure, he was aware Seth had a daughter, but he had expected something different. He thought he would be meeting a ten-year-old child with blonde pigtails and bows in her hair, smiling up at him shyly. Instead, he was greeted by you, a twenty-something woman with bright eyes and tanned skin revealed by a little outfit. He wasn’t prepared for it- the way your eyes fixated on him too long, or the way your hand was completely engulfed by his as he shook it. He certainly wasn't prepared for that filthy, pretty mouth of yours.
Joel would’ve liked to say he rejected this part of himself- the part that yearned for your tiny frame to flex around him, but he knew himself better. He didn't push that feeling away. Instead, he leaned into it- waited for it to come rushing into him.
It had started out innocent enough. Joel had come over on a scorching hot summer day, the Texas heat high enough to cook eggs on the sidewalk. Sweat pulled at the small of his back, his black t-shirt sticking to his skin and clinging too tightly around his biceps. He held a set of tongs in his hands, clanking them together as he turned hot dogs on the charcoal grill. His presence was almost unnoticeable, his wide frame standing tall in the back corner of the yard as you walked outside. You wore that baby-blue bathing suit he had quickly memorized, tucking the blueprints of your body by the poolside to his memory like a file he would pull out to study on a later date. The material had clung to you perfectly, the thin straps delicately digging into your shoulders and holding your perky tits up at the perfect angle for him to see your cleavage from across the yard. Your hips swayed gradually as you walked, your ass on full display as the string bottom dug between your cheeks.
“Hi, Mr. Miller!” You shouted across the yard, waving excitedly as you laid your towel on the empty lawn chair.
“Hey, kid”, Joel had called back, sun rays reflecting off the undulating waves of your father’s swimming pool. His previous gaze fixated on the burning grill, was now focused on you. His face, stern and unreadable as always, followed your movements. You lay sprawled out on the chair, rubbing suntan lotion down your legs, up your arms, and across your chest. Joel's jaw clenched, and he gripped the handle of the tongs tighter like they might slip out of his grip and roll away. You notice it, sense his gaze on you. He should tear his eyes away, but he's not gonna. He won't, not even when you look up and meet his eyes with that merciful smile of yours.
Joel clears his throat, returning the smile with a stoic nod of his head, his shoulders relaxing and tension slipping away. He has to physically pry his eyes away, the risk of the hot dogs burning a helpful distraction.
He rotates them again, an even roast of the grill lines coating each one to perfection. He had expected to look back up and see you lying by the pool, the hot sun beaming down on you. Instead, he watched you through the corner of his eye, taking shuffled steps towards him.
“Mr.Miller, do you think you can get my back? I can't reach, and I don't want to be uneven,” you asked solemnly, holding out a coconut-scented bottle.
“Don’t mind at all, sweetheart.” Joel doesn't hesitate for a moment, not with that pouty look on your lips. “Turn ‘round for me.” He likes this cliche.
You do as he asks, silently turning to face the beaming sun. “Thanks,” you mutter, your arms hanging by your sides.
Joel took the bottle in his hands, abandoning the tongs on a plate he had sat nearby. He squeezed some of the oil into his palm and meekly brushed away your hair- exposing your back properly. Joel's eyes fell to the arch of your spine and he couldn't help but notice a few freckles, the goosebumps riding up on your skin, a small scar under your shoulder blade he would have to ask about later, and the way your hair smelled- vanilla and lavender.
He starts at the lowest part of your back, his strong hands rubbing light-hearted circles where your pelvis ends. Your skin absorbs the lotion, a light sheen making you glimmer. The two of you are silent, but you lean into his touch, dropping your neck a bit. His hands move with masterful precision- calloused fingers a sharp contrast to your velvety skin. He pauses for a moment, one hand hovering above your side, the other supporting your shoulder. You looked so small like this, his palm covering up most of your torso. He feels the warmth of your body already, and he takes an unconscious half-step closer.
You close your eyes, sighing as his thumb moves in serene up-and-down motions.
“Would it kill ya’ to wear somethin’ less…revealin’?” Joel muttered, wearing an impressive frown. His breath fans against the back of your neck. The scent of him lingered in the air- smoke from his Marlboro reds. The kind they used to smuggle on base, and a different, unnameable sweetness. It clung to you like a cancer infecting your cells. Something you couldn’t just wash away.
“What? You don’t like it?” Your breath stutters shallowly in your lungs, the tension growing with each passing second.
Joel leans down and takes a quick glance at the back door. It’s glass and very much see-through, though Joel doubts anyone is watching. “I didn't say I didn't like it. Just hard enough already. Ain't gotta make it worse for me,” he muttered, his mouth going dry- maybe from the heat, maybe from you. He shouldn't be confessing this. He should be pretending he doesn't even notice you, but you had a way of getting him to talk- to spill all his dirty little secrets. His words are calculated and controlled, his sorry attempt at trying not to be too forward.
Your breath hitches in your throat, not from nervousness or fear, but from excitement. Your brain tells you not to, but you take a purposeful step backward. You're close enough now that your thigh brushes against him, and you feel his belt buckle press into you. Your way of saying ‘I’m not scared of this or you’ and Joel can’t help that his legs automatically open, accommodating the perfect amount of space for you to puzzle into.
“Careful,” Joel chuckles. “Ain't much more room for ya’ t’go.” His touch is faint now, and you think for a moment he might push you away. But then you feel it. His fingers move at a hesitant, slow pace, trailing over the bottom seam of your bikini top until his arm is wrapped around you- the tips of his fingers sliding under the seam, stopping just centimeters away from the fullest part of your breasts.
The sound of sizzling smoke pierces through the tension between you, pulling both of you away and shattering the intimate moment. A sting of disappointment strikes you, Joel's fingers twitching as ragged, uneven breaths escape you. Joel clears his throat for the second time, gathering his composure as he takes a step away. His hands linger for a moment too long, as if he would rather let the hot dogs burn to a crisp before he pulls away.
“You’re distractin’”. His tone has a sharper edge now- his jaw tightening and eyes narrowing.
Joel flicks his eyes over our body one last time, finally turning away from you, his hands shaking moderately, and attention back to the grill. Your heart is still racing, your body cold and empty without his touch. “Yeah, I know”. Against your better judgment, you pick up the bottle of lotion and walk towards the pool.
Things just kept getting worse after that.
There were small, meniscal moments that left your heart fluttering. Moments when it felt like the two of you were on the brink of something previously out of reach- a spark ready to ignite into a violent fire. They never lasted long enough before reality came crashing back in and doused the embers of the flame. Like when you and Joel would be in the kitchen alone. He would find you by the sink, drinking a glass of water, and stand behind you, his arm reaching out on the granite countertop. He would usually stay silent, just letting you know he was there. You swore he would breathe you into his lungs, chest expanding as he filled himself with your scent. Other times, when he knew your dad was out of earshot, he would make diminutive comments telling you how much he missed you that week or how cute your outfit was.
These tiny moments grow more frequent, the tension in every conversation settling between your unsaid words and landing between your thighs. You were both just waiting now. For a chance. For someone to break first and just come out and say it.
Joel kept coming up with excuses to come over. He’d say something about needing to drop off tools, having to borrow a ladder, or helping your dad fix the broken railing on the back porch. Each time it ended the same, with Joel's eyes lingering on you, begging you for something real you’d never gotten the chance to deliver.
As the summer season wound down and September approached, Joel knew he needed a new plan. The white lies he used to come over were obviously not working anymore (your house was now in perfect condition with nothing left he could fix anymore).
Luckily, the NFL season had kicked off, offering Joel a perfect cover. He knew your dad watched it every week, never missing a Cowboys game. Plus, Joel was into it, and he didn’t have cable. He had played in high school. It wouldn't be hard for him to stay entertained. Under the guise of watching sports with his buddy, he was able to get closer to you. Was it manipulative? Yes. Did he care? Not in the slightest. Not if it meant you would be curled up on the couch next to him.
Joel didn't care to ask. He didn't need the stone-cold confirmation, but he knew you were in on it too. You never spoke about football, never mentioned going to a college game, or seemed interested in any kind of sport other than tennis and the occasional figure skating. But every Sunday for the past three weeks, you had been excitedly dressed in a cowboy's jersey, a bucket filled with popcorn already made before Joel had walked through the door.
It was cute and innocent in a lot of ways. Even better, it was inconspicuous- so invisible to your dad that sometimes even Joel forgot. You had felt a twinge of guilt in the beginning. If it hadn't been for the promise of Joel’s company, you probably would have been spending your time partying with your friends or inside some douchebag's apartment. You guessed Joel was making you a better person in that way. You were becoming more reliable- more “family-oriented”- even if it was just a cover to get underneath him.
Joel liked that this was new to you. He liked seeing the confused look on your face, the way your eyebrows furrowed when a ref called a flag you didn’t understand. He liked that you would ask him, “What does that mean?” when an offensive lineman yelled at his teammate. Joel would laugh and say something along the lines of “t's too complicated to get into right now”, but then, like the week before, he would patiently explain everything again. He wandered sometimes, if maybe you just asked so you could hear his voice. He liked that thought, that you would pretend to be interested in something you clearly knew nothing about just so you could listen to him decipher it.
This worked for a bit, helping to keep your urges at bay. But after a month of your weekly ‘reunions’, you were growing impatient. You had tried your hardest to behave, you really, really did. But this particular day, you just didn't have it in you to fight the nagging mess between your legs.
Joel had stumbled in, a six-pack of beers in his hand and a t-shirt one size too small. He looked good. Really fucking good. You sat down next to him, nestled in a fluffy throw blanket you kept on the couch- that familiar smell of dusty sweet wood wafting from him. Your dad made a hostile home in the recliner, which he had named the ‘best seat in the house’, eyes fixated on the 55-inch TV screen. His gaze didn’t waver, and you figured you had approximately ten minutes until the commercial break. You weren't waiting anymore. You couldn’t.
Strategically, with snail-like movements, you shifted closer to Joel. You tried to make it look like you were sitting at an uncomfortable angle and needed to move to a different position. You threw the blanket up a bit, the extra material landing on Joel's thighs, and placed the popcorn bucket in your lap. It looked casual- you hoped.
Joel wasn't lost to this. He was a teenager once. He knew how to cover up something he shouldn't be doing. You weren’t surprised when the arm he had slung around the couch came falling to your thighs, his thumb almost brushing the inseam of your sweatpants.
Joel squeezed the skin of your thighs, his rough hands pulling you a bit closer. It was like you had done this before, talked it through, and planned it out in great detail.
He should’ve stopped there. But he hadn’t. He worked his fingers casually, finding the drawstring between his fingers and pulling one side, releasing the bow-tied knot.
“God! Catch the fucking ball!” Your dad had shouted, his voice booming across the house as he threw his hands up in frustration. “Useless goddamn offense”.
You felt Joel flex, his movement halting to a stop. “Fuckers get paid thousands just to suck at their jobs”, he forcefully half chuckled. It sounded casual enough, he thought. Joel turned to face you, watching the fear building in your dilated eyes, and gave a subtle head nod- as if to say ‘Chill. Everything is fine”.
Then with a cocky smile, his eyes refocused on the TV. You forced yourself to take deep breaths, the pounding thud of your heartbeat restricting your blood vessels. You were sure they could see it in your face, your cheeks a burning bright red, and your palms sweaty. Just as you were easing back down, you felt the familiar sensation of Joel's fumbling fingers.
He searched for a few moments, trying to find where the strings ended and the top of your sweats began. You swallowed hard, his fingers easing upwards until they rimmed the band that clung to your waist. His fingers dip under, ever so slightly, and you spread your thighs apart, trying to make as much room for him as the couch allowed.
It was risky, too dangerous. You were both in over your heads and starting to feel it. Someone had to pull away. Joel knew it wouldn't be him. You knew it wouldn't be you. With neither of you saying anything and letting this moment grow into something else, Joel snuck his hand inside your pants. The position was odd, and he had to be careful not to move too much, worried your dad might notice the faint flexing in his upper arm.
You sink into the firm cushions of the couch, your chest rising and falling under the blanket. Joel was calculated, studying how far he could go before you were a quivering mess next to him. By the time Joel had made any sort of real contact with your panties, just enough that the palm of his hand grazes your clit over the lace material, you’d completely soaked through them. Joel understood now just how needy and neglected you truly were. It must have been so hard, having to deal with this problem all alone, especially when he was right here, willing and longing to solve it for you.
Joel cleared his throat, his free hand reaching for the bucket of popcorn and the other continuing to explore you under the constraining layers. You watched as he threw pieces of popcorn into his mouth casually- like he was completely unaffected by his own actions as you melted into him.
“Pass me some.” Your dad stated, reaching over to grab the bucket.
Your breathing stops again, only this time, there is no chance to come down. Joel's hands had found their way to the edge of your panties, his fingers hooking inside to pull them away. You squirm at the sensation, watching as Joel grabs the popcorn from your lap.
“Here ya go,” Joel stated, handing the bucket to Seth’s outstretched arms.
“Thanks, brother.”
You had almost laughed through the shock of it. Quickly, you came to the realization that nothing was funny. Not when Joel’s finger began rubbing faint, muted circles on your clit. You bit the inside of your cheek, your mouth threatening to fall open and reveal everything. You turned your head, facing Joel for a moment- your eyes pleading “more, more”. Joel swore he could read your mind, snaking his middle finger inside you. He was greeted by warm, tight walls sucking him further inside. Fuck what it must feel like to have you wrapped around him.
Then, the clock on quarter two reaches zero. “Can ya’ believe that shit? Down twelve points. Don't even know why we keep watchin’ this sorry ass team.” Joel mutters, shoving a second finger inside you with a heavy stretch.
“Disappointed, but I ain't surprised”, your dad groans as he stands, stretching out his back and arms. “ Gotta take a leak. Be right back”.
You both watch as Seth disappears from your line of sight, down the hallway. Then you hear the bathroom door shut, the lock clicking. You turn to face Joel, and he is on you in a second, ripping the blanket away to expose you as much as he was able without removing any clothes. He stood in front of you, the pace of his fingers never faltering. Joel worked fast. He knew he had to make this quick. That had never been his strong suit. He liked to take his time and make sure the women he was with left feeling satisfied and taken care of. It was a crime that he couldn't do the same for you.
“We got 5 minutes max, so I’m gonna need ya’ t’raise up a bit.” Joel used his free hand to scope your ass up, lifting you so your hips nearly elevated off the cushions. It brought his fingers in deeper, and now he was hitting all the best spots. Then he bent his knee, placing it down next to you so he had some real leverage and a bit more strength to his motions. A sharp gasp escapes your pouting lips, and the heat in your cheeks burns a brighter red.
“Feels good, don't it?” Joel coos under his breath as he places an indulgent kiss on your forehead. A delicate, intimate act in the heat of something so obscene.
You nod your head, unable to speak in fear that the words may come out too loud, too close to a cry you only hear in bedrooms. Your eyes fixate on his chest, how it expands each time he pumps his finger in and out. Now you were really struggling to stay quiet, his name dripping out of you in a purr- like honey on a warm biscuit.
“Shh, darlin’,” Joel whispered, reaching for the remote and turning the TV up a few clicks to drown out your heavy breaths. “Bite me if ya’ have to.”
You shook your head again, your glazed-over eyes fluttered back, and you closed your teeth around the fabric of his shirt, digging your face into his chest and raking your nails down his back. Your bereaved sniffles muffle against his chest, and you breathe him in that sweet pine enough to make your hips buck into his hand. Your legs started to tremble, your whole body shuddered, and Joel felt it- the way you involuntarily clenched around him. This is what he had been waiting for, what he fantasized about on all his sleepless nights.
“There ya’ go,” Joel mutters against you, his fingers hitting that sweet spot with a rush of unfiltered adrenaline. “Good fucking job.” A hum of pride absconds his throat, and he knows you’ve reached the end, your legs going limp and mouth releasing his shirt. Leisurely, like he wasn't in his best friend's house, fingering his only daughter (who happened to be at least fifteen years younger than him), he removes his fingers, dragging them across you as he makes his way out of your pants. “Fucking real good job, babygirl.”
You had just enough time to collect yourselves. You re-tied your drawstring, fixed your disheveled hair, and curled back up into the blanket by the time you heard the door down the hall click open. Joel had made his way to the kitchen, the water in the sink running.
Joel would have loved to taste you, to wrap his mouth around his finger and lick them clean, but even he knew this wasn’t the time or the place to get too comfortable. What a sin to be so close to the parts of you he had wanted to devour and be completely locked away from it.
Since that day, you had started texting Joel a lot more. Usually sending cute pictures of yourself lying in bed, your shirt riding up to reveal just enough of your stomach to make Joel’s cock twitch. You had mastered the art of bad timing, too. The texts where you would say “wish you were here right now,” followed by an image of all your clothes on the floor, usually came in while Joel was busy at work- or on the phone with your dad- or as he had just taken a sip of his morning coffee he was now choking on. It had become so frequent nowadays that for the first time in his life, he had a reason to put a password on his phone.
Of course, he would respond. “Miss ya’ too, kid. Be there real soon”. Joel wasn’t exactly handy with a camera, so he left that art up to you. Plus, he had learned imagination was a powerful tool.
You weren't sure that you would call it love. It was more understanding- somehow even more valuable and tangible. You weren’t afraid to see his dark parts, in fact, some days you had embraced it, cradled it in your hands late at night, and soothed like a baby up crying. Joel knew it was a lot. He knew he came with demons, extra baggage, and ghosts that followed his every move. On his bad nights, instead of staying up and staring at the ceiling, he would call you. He knew you always left your ringer on, just in case. The first time he heard your groggy, lethargic voice on the other end of the line, he felt guilty. He shouldn't have woken you up, but then you told him, all patient and caring, that you were happy he called. It was starting to become a nightly thing, him falling asleep to the sound of your breathing and light snores. It was like you were next to him for a moment, his arms wrapped around you and your head nestled into his chest.
It wasn't what either of you had truly wanted. He had wished you were really there. Wished he could show you how much you fucking meant to him. The need was starting to cloud his judgment. Sometimes he had to force himself not to drive to your house, pick you up in the middle of the night, and take you home with him. He imagined what it would feel like to have you sitting by his side, one hand on the steering wheel and the other on your thigh, as he pulled into his driveway,- the windows down and your silk hair blowing in the wind. It was driving him mad. Totally one hundred percent insane. He knew it because he couldn't even get off to porn anymore. Now all he could do was scroll through old texts, zoom in on the pictures of you in your bedroom, and recall that day you came around his fingers. He swore some nights he could still hear you whimpering his name.
You knew how lucky you were. Some other man might have given up ages ago- found some girl he could actually be alone with. Or worse, some might have kept you around for all the sexy parts and nothing else. Joel was different. He wondered about you- had actually cared. The nights when he had called, thinking he was bothering or annoying you, he had actually been chipping away at your mind. He wanted to know every thought that wandered into that little brain of yours. Wanted to dissect you and learn how you thought, what your dreams were, and what you aspired and longed for in life. He was just different. Different from any other guy you had talked to in the past. Looking back, you were in awe that you hadn't sworn off men completely before Joel came along. You learned what it had felt like to be treated like a person, sometimes a princess, even. And although you had coveted Joel since that day by the pool, you were thankful for all that time spent just being in his presence without having to promise anything physical. It was more than lust- more than greed to possess you.
By the time Halloween had rolled around, Joel had mastered all your tell-tale signs. He knew when to follow you into the kitchen, when to stay behind, when he could and couldn’t open his phone in public, and when you needed him most. Those days usually came in the middle of the week, in between the time Joel had left and the next time he would show up.
He was painfully aware of how long it had been since he had gotten to touch you. His cock was equally aware. God, he was starting to crave you worse than he had craved a home-cooked meal in his time overseas.
You had spent the day decorating the house- hanging up spooky lights and those pictures that seemed normal until you got to a certain angle and shifted into a new image entirely. Halloween was a big day for your tiny household. Your parents had met at a Halloween party and ever since your mom passed, Seth threw his own- like a fucked up anniversary he celebrated by dressing up and getting piss drunk with all his friends.
Joel had arrived early, bringing in some cupcakes and bottles of whiskey. He was here to help, but he looked forward to spending quiet time with you. He didn’t care that it was mundane or unexciting. Not if he got to listen to our pretty laughter and dirty jokes. Once five PM rolled around, you had the house looking pretty good. Snacks lined the countertops, ice sat in the freezer, and spooky music played in the background.
Now came your favorite part- the getting ready. Joel had made a home outside, nursing a beer in one hand as he laughed with your dad and a couple of other friends who rolled in before the rest. You figured you had about an hour before you had to be dressed and ready to greet people at the door. You showered quickly, applied some subtle makeup, and threw on your clothes. This year, you kept your costume simple. You picked out a pair of too-short daisy dukes, borrowed one of your dad's old flannels, and braided your hair into two pigtails. The cutest little cowgirl you ever did see. By the time you had finished, Joel was inside, sitting in the calm before the storm.
“Joey, where’s your costume? You're supposed to dress up for these things, you know?” You asked from down the hall.
“I hadn't realized it was going to be so…strict,” he smiled, his teeth showing a bit.
You looked him up and down. “Well, you have boots and blue jeans. Maybe you can be my cowboy.” You grabbed his hand, interlocking your fingers and dragging him to your dad’s closet. Joel’s chest almost gave out at the way it felt so casual, so normal for your fingers to intertwine with his.
“Here, put this on”, you grabbed a cowboy hat from the top of Seth’s dresser, placing it on Joel's head. It looked natural like he could have really been a bull rider. You laughed and watched as Joel smiled.
“Oh, that’s funny, is it?” He adjusted the hat, moving his hair in places that stuck out.
Then you reached for one last thing, pulling out a flannel with a mimicked partner to your own. “Take this off.” You instructed with gentle necessity
Joel wasn't sure if this was one of your ‘shared moments’, but he could see how excited you were. He didn't blink when you pulled at the hem of his t-shirt, guiding it up his arms and over his head. He played along, buttoning the flannel but leaving the first two undone. He wanted you to see some part of him, no matter how small.
You stood in front of him, admiring. “Thanks for helping with the decorations, Mr.Miller,” You chirped, planting a grateful kiss on his cheek.
“Anythin’ for ya’, sweetheart.” The words rolled off his tongue, and he knew he meant it. Anything. Anytime. Anyplace, for any reason.
Joel knows now that staying in this room any longer would be the death of him, his bones crumbling at your feet like you had just slain him. He should take your hand in his, like how you led him in, and walk out to join the rest of the party.
Yeah, that's what he should’ve done. But through the muffled music and distant laughter, his gaze was settling on your lips and pulling you closer.
“Fuck, I wanna kiss ya’”, he sorrowly muttered- that Texas accent shining through. His brown eyes looked down at you and his thumb grazed the exposed skin of your torso. “S’that alright, darlin’?” He hadn’t expected you to say no, hadn’t even thought there was a slight chance of it. But he had to be sure- wanted to hear you say it.
You place your arms around Joel’s neck, your fingers coming to the curls at the bottom of his hairline. “Yeah, Joel. That’s alright,” You smiled, your cheeks plump and lips parted. If you were somewhere different you might have shouted ‘Yes, kiss me!’ But you weren’t. You were in your dad's room, the door wide open, with a house full of people down the hall.
Then Joel was leaning in, cupping your cheek, and stroking your soft skin with the pad of his thumb. “So beautiful” he had murmured before his lips compassionately grazed yours. Tender and slow, like he was soaking everything up, his lips molded to yours.
Joel knew he probably tasted like whiskey and old cigarettes, but you still whimpered meekly into him. He wanted more, of course, he did. You were so fucking pretty and smart. He’d be crazy if didn’t. But this moment wasn't rushed. It wasn't dirty. It was a connection, hidden away in the form of a scandal. This gentleness, the patience, underlining everything you did, is what he had been waiting his whole life to find.
There’s no hunger, no deviant desire. There’s just you and him breathing as one. To anyone else, it would have appeared sinful, and shameful. But to you, it was a simple act of love, of bonding- like when married people kissed goodbye before heading to work.
Joel doesn’t want to let go. He wants to stay right here, in this moment, forever. But reluctantly, he pulls away. Then he sees that sweet, kid-like gleam in your eyes, and his own stomach is filled with butterflies. He felt like a fucking teenager at prom again.
“Now let’s go dance, partner,” you joked, sliding your small frame through Joel and walking towards the living room.
“Yeehaw,” Joel laughed, lifting the cowboy hat just above his head.
The night was winding down now- mostly just drunk, old men throwing hacky sacks into a cornhole. Your family members and neighbors from the street were already at home and curled into bed.
Joel sat in a lawn chair, your dad by his side. He’s telling some story about how Joel used to make lower-ranking privates do his laundry for less time on patrol.
“What? I was busy, saving your dumbass.” Joel laughed, the fire cracking in a low hum. Orange light flickered in his eyes, casting shadows across his face. He leaned back in his chair, one hand curled loosely around the sweating bottle of his beer.
“Hey, you're the one that almost pushed me on an IED, or did you forget that?” your dad grumbled, knocking his shoulders into Joel.
From across the yard, you had flashed him a smile, dancing to the music. You started slowly, a soft sway of your hips as you lifted your arms. Your eyes closed and your lashes brushed against the tops of your cheeks as you tilted your head back towards the stars.
Your shorts offered just enough of a view to tease the fattest part of your ass, body rolling Languidly to the beat and hair falling nobly down your back. Your fingers traced against your collarbone, and you knew Joel was watching.
He was hyper-aware of your presence, like always. So much so that his eyes kept darting to you through the smoke of the burning wood pile. He watched you closely like you were some kind of rarity that might vanish if he looked away too long- his eyes glowing orange in the cascading flames.
He couldn’t exactly follow you around like a lost puppy here, but he could have this- the simple view of you. Like Joel, you felt him in the air, his diverted eyes focused on you.
You noticed when he stiffened in the lawn chair, readjusting his jeans as he leaned forward, his elbows placed on his knees. He looked strong like this, his body all tense and rigid. You thought this was how he might look when you were sitting under him, mouth open and eyes begging.
Joel takes a quick sip of his beer, and the once rhythmical pattern of his heartbeat turns inconsistent. God be damned, if he had a fucking heart attack before he got inside you.
By the time he placed his beer down, you were walking over. His eyes traced you as you wobbled over, your legs exhausted from a long day of dancing and preparing the house.
“Goodnight, Daddy. I love you. Don’t stay up too late.” Joel watched as you placed a kiss on his cheek- the same one you had given him earlier in the day.
Joel felt the loss of you immediately- the air around him becoming too light. He wanted to tell you to stay. Wanted you perched in his lap as he joked with everyone at the party. Instead, he forced himself to stay quiet and watched you disappear inside.
An hour had passed, and the two men remained by the fire, nursing countless beers and cigarettes. Joel’s eyes began to droop, and he was hardly holding on anymore.
“I’m fuckin’ glad you’re here, man. Needed ya’ back home, ya know?” Seth's words slurred and ran together, some syllables coming out too fast and others too slow. Seth had always been sentimental. That, accompanied by the meaning of the day, had made him a delicate drinker. He didn’t drink often, but when he did, he had a way of pushing past his limits.
“Yeah. I love ya’ too, Sethy boy.” Joel smiled, that half-cocked drunken smile men only got when they were alone.
“I ain’t jokin’ boy.” His tone was stern now like it had been when Joel was only allowed to call him ‘Colonel.’ “Don’t forget you’re ten years younger than me.” And suddenly, there were hot tears pooling in Seth’s eyes. Joel realized this was a real conversation. One they hadn’t ever had. “You were too young, man. Should’ve had the chance to live a little first.”
The wait between them grew silent and cold, the added influence making it somewhat more manageable. They probably would never said those few, short words under sober conditions.
“Yeah, well. What’s done is done, right? Can’t change it.” Joel placed his arm around Seth. “I think it’s time we called it. Let’s get ya’ to bed, ya’ old fucker”.
Joel watched as your dad fought with the sliding glass door, impatiently pulling it open with one hand. “God-goddamn thing. Made me s-spill my whiskey,” he grumbled.
Seth stumbled through the house, bumping into walls and knocking down a decoration you had hung. Joel stayed close behind him, guiding him through the hallway and into his room. Like Joel’s mom used to do for him, he had tucked Seth into bed, ripping his boots off and throwing them on the floor.
“I love ya, brother. Don’t kill yourself on the way home,” Seth had mumbled as Joel placed a trash can on the side of the bed.
“Yeah, I love ya’ too. Now stop fuckin’ cryin’.” They both laughed, and Joel swore Seth was passed out before he even had the chance to shut his bedroom door.
Joel took quiet steps through the house, hoping to slip through the door unnoticed. Then just as he was grabbing his keys from his pocket, and reaching for the handle, your sultry voice rang out under the silence.
“You’re gonna leave without saying goodbye?” You stood in the darkness of the living room, wearing a pair of underwear hidden by a baggy t-shirt. The same shirt you had helped mindlessly throw off in your dad’s bedroom. It swallowed your small frame but revealed your hardening nipples.
“Thought you’d be ‘sleep already.” Joel leaned against the door, his back pressed to the oak.
“I just got tired of talking to everyone. Wanted some quiet for a minute.” You stepped closer, fiddling with your fingers sheepishly and walking towards him.
“Sleep well, darlin’. I’ll see ya’ soon, promise.” Joel reached for the handle again, the ring to his keys looping around his fingers. He had almost turned it, almost walked outside. But then you were pulling him back in with more ease than he cared to admit.
“Don’t go”, you begged, eyes pouting and bottom lip sticking out.
“I-I…gotta go, baby.” Joel knew if he didn’t, he was going to end up in that warm bed of yours no matter how hard he tried not to. “I have to,” he whispered. Even standing here with you across the room, he was already planning all the things he could do to you. Joel had seen Seth drink before, and he knew that man wasn't getting up for anything until at least 1 PM tomorrow, giving him plenty of time to do all the dirty things floating around in that head of his.
Joel wanted to tell you to stop, to step back. It's what he should’ve done. But then he saw that pleading look in your eyes. It made him remember how awful he felt when he realized, back on that couch, just how neglected you had been. He knew you needed him just as much as he had, and he just couldn’t. He didn't want to be the reason for your pain anymore. He knew he was going to hell- he had made his peace with it long before you had come along. Yes, he was betraying the only man who truly understood all the trauma he carried within him. But it wasn't enough. He didn't think anything could ever be enough.
Joel pulled himself up, his back stretching off the wall. This time, he was taking a step closer, and before he could internally struggle with it anymore, he was crashing his lips into yours. It was sloppy, hot, and full of possessive hunger- the complete opposite of your last kiss. It was all focused on need, your pent-up desires flowing out and manifesting like rushing water in an angry river.
Joel’s hands traveled to the base of your neck, and he pulled you in tighter. Your lips spread apart and without a care in the whole goddamn world, he was sliding his tongue over yours. You arch into him, and for the first time, he learned what it feels like to have you moan into him. It was addictive, and now he absolutely got himself in too deep. He would want to hear all the different sounds you made, no matter how loud they might echo off the walls of your house. He wanted to learn what made you the loudest, wanted to make you muffle them into his hand as he covered your mouth while you were cumming for him.
Joel's breath catches and his grip in the back of your neck falters down to your ass. His bottom lip lands between yours, and then you bite him infirmly, just enough to add a sweet pressure under all that red-hot aching.
“Take me to my room, Mr. Miller,” You spoke between gasps of air you couldn’t quite catch.
All Joel did was nod in return before he grabbed you by the back of your thighs and wrapped your legs around him. Joel navigated his way in the dark, almost crashing into the coffee table as he carried you, his lips never leaving yours. It was like a scene out of one of those guilty pleasure romance movies you watched with your friends at a slumber party.
When he found his way inside your bedroom, he was kicking the door shut and tossing you onto the mattress.
“Look real good in my clothes,” Joel wore that half-cocked smile with pride, his chest expanding with each struggling breath. Finally, you were alone and he was so goddamn nervous he thought he just might blow it. You sprawled out on the bed, waiting as Joel stood motionless before you. He was drunk, probably too drunk to be doing any of this. When he fucked you, he wanted to remember it- wanted to feel every forsaken moment of it. But he couldn't say no to you, not when you were already spreading your legs and making room for him.
Joel walked to the end of the bed, grabbed a pillow, and tossed it lightly on the floor. Then he was grabbing your waist and pulling you, your legs hanging off the side of the mattress. “Can’t give ya’ what ya’ really need tonight.” Joel’s heart burned at his own words. “Just let me taste ya’, baby. Know it's not enough, but it’s all I got right now.” He vowed at that moment to never take another sip of alcohol again.
Joel fell to his knees on the pillow, the remnant of a sinner at a church altar begging for forgiveness. Your eyes looked down at him, your forearms pressed against the mattress, and your ab muscles flexing.
Then Joel was gliding his hands up the velvet skin of your exposed legs, moving upwards until he pulled at the hem of your panties. Dirty girl, he thought, walking around with so much for the world to see. In the dim light of your room, Joel stuffed your panties in his pocket, a keepsake he would definitely pull out later. Finally, the sweetest part of you was revealed, glistering and plump with your slick need.
“Fuckin’ look at ya’. I do all that?” Joel asked, peppering feather-light kisses down your thighs.
“Yeah,” It was an answer to a question Joel already knew, but fuck did it feel good to hear you say it.
“How long t’ been like this, baby girl?” That guilty feeling of negligence returned, carrying a new weight along with it. Regret. Regret, for waiting this long to take what was his, to give you what was yours.
“Too long,” you whined, your back easing into the mattress and hands lying feebly at your sides.
It would have been easy to tease you like this. If you hadn't been so angelic, he probably would have. But he knew it was already too much, and he decided to spare both of you any more wasted time.
“I got ya’ now, baby. I got ya.” Joel's mouth hovered above you, his hot breath brushing against the pinkish skin of your clit and gave it a light kiss. His tongue licks one long stripe against your folds, and you are already reaching for his hair. He parts your folds carefully, lapping up the sweet strings of juices flowing from you. Already, you were the best goodman flavor he had tasted, like a sweet watermelon on a summer day.
Your hands tangle deeper in his hair, and Joel knows he's got you right where he wants you. He flicks his tongue again, this time aiming for the prettiest clit he’d ever seen. The sound of sloppy, wet kisses and his name flowing out of you fills his ears, and he’s more in his element than he's ever been before. He opens his mouth wider, his lips wrapping around your swollen parts and sucking you in. His beard brushes against the inside of your thighs, and you jolt, releasing his mouth with an echoed ‘pop’.
“Fuck, don’t fucking move.” Joel’s hands grip your thighs, and he's learning in closer, throwing your legs over his shoulders until his face is completely buried in you. “Swear, you taste like heaven.” His words come out inaudible, muffled by the sounds of your wetness and unsteady moans.
“Joel, Joel, Joel” spills from you, and then you’re gasping as he gently enters one finger inside you.
“Quiet, sweetheart. Don't get me caught,” His words should've been a command, but it was more the softest plea he had ever uttered- like he was praying to god that nothing would ever stop this moment. Joel twisted his finger inside you, searching for that spot that made your legs shake more. When he found it, he didn't let it go- his motions were accurate and consistent each time he re-entered you.
His tongue moved faster now, with more purpose and less exploration. He needed this just as much as you. When your legs started trembling, he just gripped you tighter, keeping you glued to his face as he devoured as much of you as he could without coming up for air. Your hips developed their own motions, and Joel embraced it, using your movements for more leverage as he slipped another finger into that tight space. Your pussy stretched around him and your back arched off the bed, your eyes fluttering closed.
“Oh, yes! Fuck, fuck.” You tried your hardest to contain all the dirty noises that were spilling out, but that sensation you had longed for was building in your stomach and spreading throughout your veins.
“Yeah? Cum f’me, darlin’”. Joel wrapped his mouth around your clit again and then you were seeing stars, all the muscles in your body tensing and your heart pounding. “Goddamn masterpiece” Joel whispered, his fingers continuing a pace that let you ride out your high for as long as possible. He liked to play this game- see how long he could go before you couldn't take it anymore.
He could've done this all night, but when your body finally relaxed, your legs going limp in his hands, he smoothly removed his fingers and finally caught his breath.
“That better?” Joel placed last-minute kisses on your thighs again, his chest heaving as much as yours. This was a lot of work for a drunk middle-aged man.
You nodded your head, picking yourself back up on your forearms. This was just a piece of him, and you were already fucked out of your mind.
Joel's face smeared with your wetness, and he used the sleeves of your dad's flannel to wipe it away. Then pressed another kiss to your lips, your sweet taste lingering on his skin. Your eyes were heavy, and Joel helped you get under the covers, your body shivering. If he had it his way, he would’ve warmed you up himself and laid in that bed until he was forced to leave by the midday sun.
“Get some rest. I’ll stay on the couch.” If he couldn’t stay next to you, he decided he would at least stay in proximity. Seth wouldn't even question it in the morning, just assumed Joel was too drunk to drive home. That was the truth in part, so it's not like Joel even had to lie. He stumbled to the living room, kicking his boots off and ripping his belt buckle from his jeans. He slung himself drunkenly on the couch, half covered by the throw blanket you kept there. It smelled like you, and Joel breathed it in all night, adding heat to his already spinning head.
Joel woke in the morning to the smell of eggs and fresh coffee. His legs cramped from the way he had bawled up on the couch, and there was a high-pitched ringing in his ear.
“Ugh, god.” Joel moved with languor, sitting upright with his hand on his eyes as he rubbed vigorously. The simple act caused his head to spin and for a second he swore he was going to throw up for the first time since he was in his twenties.
“Advil, Gatorade, coffee”. You floated in from the kitchen, sitting the items on the coffee table. “Can you eat?”
“Huh?” Was either still drunk or the sheer sound of your voice was hexing him- like a siren’s call, he attached himself to it, and followed it into empty darkness. He peered up at you, dark circles under his eyes. You were still wearing his shirt, only now it was accompanied by a pair of Nike shorts.
You laughed at the view of him like this, groggy and pathetic. “I said, can you eat? I’m making eggs and toast.”
Then Joel started imagining what it would be like to have this- to wake up to you in the kitchen humming a quiet melody and wearing one of those silky slip dresses you had liked to sleep in.
“Think so”, Joel groaned and stretched his arms over his head, arching his back before he stood on wobbling legs. “Your daddy up?” Joel peered around the room, smiling for the first time as half-baked memories puzzled back together of last night.
“Not yet. I’ll check on him soon.” Then you were wrapping Joel into the most precious and peaceful of hugs he had ever gotten. You fit right into him, your head pressed lightly against his rib cage- unrestrained innocence.
You felt frozen in time, like if you didn’t move then nothing around you ever would. Joel still smelled like a mixture of liquor and sweat. You inhaled him anyway, all your sensations feeling him.
“You stink”, you mumbled, your head up at Joel and watching through your lashes.
“Well, someone took my clean shirt.” Joel pressed a light kiss on the top of your head. “Keep it. Looks damn good on ya’.”
“I’m gonna check on your daddy. Hangovers are a bitch after forty, I hear.” He eased your arms off him, your touch lingering on his chest before he grabbed some of the Advil.
Seth was still in a dead sleep, his shirt half ripped off and legs in a starfish position, one knee bent and his arms spread out. Joel heard his snores before he even opened the door or flicked the bedroom light on.
“Sethy boy, wakey wakey,” Joel whispered, pushing your dad until he was rocking awake.
“Get your fucking hands off me, man” Seth growled, covering his head with a pillow.
Joel just laughed, setting the items on a bedside table. “Your daughter made you breakfast. I’m gettin’ the fuck out of here and goin’ back to sleep. I love ya’, brother.” As much as Joel longed to stay here, to eat breakfast and drink his moving coffee next to you, his bones were aching. He needed a hot shower and the dark light of his bedroom while he nursed himself in bed.
“Love ya’,” your dad had groaned back, his head not coming off the bed for a second.
Joel shut the door, walking through the house until he found you again, sitting on the front porch outside.
“Hey, kid.” Joel stood next to you, his eyes squinting in the too-bright sun and his coffee hot in his hands. “What ya’ doin’?”
“Feeling the morning air.” There was a slight breeze, the fresh October air painting the ground with colorful leaves. “I thought you would be heading out, so I made ya’ this.” You held out a plastic container of Tupperware- a biscuit, two strips of bacon, and scrambled eggs inside.
“You’re too fuckin’ good to me, baby.” You made it so much harder to leave than it should’ve been. “Such a sweet thing”.
A slight blush spread across your face. “Be safe, Joel.” You kissed him on the cheek, handing him the key he had mindlessly thrown in the living room last night.
Every step Joel took to his truck was torture. Not because of the deadly hangover or his cramped legs, but because you hadn’t been next to him. He slammed the door to his truck shut and turned the key in the ignition. The engine roared and before Joel had the chance to put it in reverse, his phone dinged. His screen lit up with your name followed by “Miss you already.”
I would like to take a second to preface that I do not condone/support war on any groups or nations. I am only telling a story that pulls inspiration from real-life events. Please do not use this story as a reason to bully or make comments targeted at any group/individuals in society.
I am just a girl who loves military Joel Miller.
“T’s too much”, you beseeched- Your fragmented cries cracking in the back of your throat, muffled by his fresh sheets and feathered pillow.
“Aw, baby. I thought ya’ said ya’ could fuckin’ take it? Givin’ up on me that easy, little girl?” Joel spoke through labored, panting breaths, his chest burning with exhaustion as he fought to keep himself upright. “Big cock too much for ya’?”
summary: Carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, Joel meets the daughter of Seth, his old army buddy. He struggles with finding peace, his mind still stuck back in that Afghan desert heat. Time passes and Joel feels himself finally relaxing, mostly thanks to that effortless smile and dirty mouth.
warnings: Pre-outbreak. Age Gap (Joel in his mid/late 30s and reader in early 20s, though it’s mainly unspecified), DBF!Joel, mutual yearning, possessive nature, angst. Smut: Fingering, Kissing, Oral (f!receiving), Pet Names: Baby girl, Darlin', Sweetheart.
please be aware of these tags: War Flashbacks, talks of PTSD, & Military Propaganda. Mentions of guns and lost loved ones.
word count: 10.7k
MINORS DO NOT INTERACT
note: Support your creators. Likes and reposts appreciated. Click Here if you’d like more stories from me. Text divider from @strangergraphics. Text Color Generator. If you'd like more Joel Miller stories, please go check out @pearlessance and my dear friend, @filthyjoelslvr.
Joel ran his callous fingers through his thick hair, pushing back the loose strands of disheveled salt and peppered curls that inconveniently drooped down his forehead, sweat beading just under his hairline. His bare feet planted onto the polyester rug lining along his bed, broad shoulders spread and biceps flexed. One hand fell to the plentiful skin of your ample thighs, and his belligerent hips pounded into you with an echoed thump- the dark, oakwood headboard slamming mercilessly against the drywall.
“Ooh, ow! God, Joel! Ok-Okay! F-Fuck!” Your euphoric wails echoed in Joel’s ears, high-pitched and vibrating against the mattress. Your face lay pressed into a worn-out feather pillow, mouth open and borderline drooling on the white cotton fabric.
“Too much”, you beseeched, your fragmented cries cracking in the back of your throat, muffled by the fresh sheets under you.
“Aw, baby. I thought ya’ said ya’ could fuckin’ take it? Givin’ up on me that easy, little girl?” Joel spoke, through labored, panting breaths. His chest burned with exhaustion as he fought to keep himself upright. “My big cock too much for ya’?”
Your body was screaming to say, ‘Yes, it’s too big, too much,' but your mind wasn't ready to give up, to admit defeat this soon. You hated how much you loved it- the power Joel had so easily obtained over you. He trusted harder, clinching a handful of your long hair. The strands lay taught in his fingers as he pulled back, forcing your head to rise from the pillow.
“I-god, I-I can! I can… t-take it”, you fought to speak- your teeth chattering as if Joel had just thrown ice-cold water on you.
“Nah, ya can’t. Just tell me ya’ can’t an’ we can be done.” Joel wrapped his other hand around the reddening skin of your neck, your spine arching against his chest as he continued his mind-altering, determined pace. He sucked his tongue between his teeth, a drip of sweat falling down his chest. Grey and brown hair gingerly peppered from his belly button down to the base of his dick.
He had told you that you weren’t ready for all of him just yet- this dark, violent side he had learned to suppress. And you? You had looked him in his eyes and laughed. Now you were here, in his apartment across town, stretched out by his inconsolable girth- your slick pussy almost rejecting him with an impossible burning. His cock slammed into your cervix- unmerciful and unwavering in strength.
He was right. You couldn't take him like this. Not at this pace, not for this long. His tight grip on your hair kept you from pulling away, consuming you completely, and fucking you out until you were useless- a melting mess of cum dripping down your legs and staining his duvet.
“Okay, y-yes! I-I, Please, slow down”, you unwillingly whimpered, unable to speak or hold yourself up anymore. Hot tears had flooded the corners of your eyes, and your pupils dilated black. You reached your arms back- a puny attempt to push his hips away.
Joel laughed, “Yeah? Ya’ need me to slow down, baby? Pause so ya’ can breathe?” Although he sounded cocky- with his confident words and nonchalant demeanor, a deep desire to please you spilled through. An unfamiliar empathy for the pain he might be causing.
You had tried to resist it, struggling to make yourself strong enough for him. He had warned you, truly. You forced yourself to shake your head up and down, followed by a nearly inaudible ‘uh-huh’. A simple but hardline confirmation to his question. It was over. This was all you could take.
How were you supposed to know he wasn't lying when he said that he could break you? That he could make you cum until you were begging him to stop?
If Joel was being honest, he hadn't expected you would be able to take him like this in the first place. Gradually he slowed his movements, timidly releasing your arms and easing you into the memory foam mattress. “That’s a good girl, tryin’ so hard for me.”
Joel Miller was by no means a gentleman. Anger coursed through his veins in a perpetual and involuntary torment, flooding his mind with a violence and rage he almost couldn't control. For a while, he was able to repress it- slow breathing stopping him from the brutality he was trained to love. He had grown used to it- was no stranger to it. But recently, he had become unstable, his body begging for a release of tension he could only settle through a fight. A rough, bloody, world-ending fight that he was sure would land him on the inside of a federal government cage, iron bars locking him away from the outside world forever. He was constantly on edge, nerves settling on his skin like a bee sting. Joel wasn’t stupid. He knew why these feelings were here. He had been government property, a trained hitman, for so long that it had completely washed his original self away, replacing it with a soulless, empty shell of a man. The perfect soldier.
It had haunted him at night, pulling him back into that arid, dry desert of Afghanistan all over again. Even in his dreams, he was fighting. He couldn’t rest, couldn’t close his eyes without seeing the faces of his abandoned friends or his cracked, bloody, and mud-covered hands gripping a coal-black M4 Carbine. He knew he wasn't really there, but some days it sure as hell felt like he was living through it all over again. It had taken him years and four different therapists to finally develop some tricks. He couldn’t stop the dreams, but he could make them more manageable, less deadly. When things were really bad, and he couldn't tell if he was dreaming or not, he would look at his broken watch. In all his nightmares, the glass of that worn-out watch was clean. Perfect, like the day his grandpa had hugged him goodbye and given it to him. It had been a reminder of home, a symbol of his family, while he was away, but he was also hyper-aware of its identifying factor. Some days, he thought, when his body was in pieces and riddled with bullet holes, that watch would still be there. A piece of him telling the world, ‘he is gone and I am all that remains.’ He still wore it every day, the hands no longer ticking, like time had stopped when a stray bullet that should’ve killed him struck the glass. A dog tag on his wrist.
Joel hadn’t been a good man. He knew he was rough. He had hurt people, sometimes the innocent, but he was trying. He had hoped in all his efforts, he could find the peace he craved- like he felt as a kid when he had fallen asleep in the car, his mom scooping him up in her arms and carrying him into the cool air of their house. She would lie him lovingly on the bed, tuck the covers under his chin, and kiss his forehead. He hadn’t felt like that in years. Certainly not when he was out there in that desert, and not when he came home. His parents were gone- six feet down and marked by a shared marble rock with his last name. It was obvious everyone around him was waiting for him to fall apart, their eyes always glued on him.
You were no stranger to his demeanor, dread plastered on his face as he sulked in the corner of the living room at dinner or during parties hosted by your dad. Even in his unpleasant appearance, you couldn’t stop that nagging feeling of wonder, an intense craving lingering in your mind anytime the unapproachable man was within your proximity.
You were so different from the rest, never looking at him with obvious concern. Instead, you were kinder, your eyes an agonizing plea of something he couldn't quite name. Joel tried to deny it at first, the way his anger melted into a pile of nothingness around you. Maybe it was your cheerful disposition- that adorable smile that left him feeling peaceful, his tense muscles finally relaxing.
Although he couldn’t name it, he was drawn in, dreaming of the way his name fell from your lips. It was an undeniable craving- lust overflowing. He felt powerless, unable to touch the only person who could offer him any release.
If you hadn’t been your father's daughter, he probably would’ve had you wrapped around his fingers already, crying out his name as he rubbed teasing circles around your clit. Joel may not have presented it as obviously as you, but he was just as lost as you were. He knew he was gone the second he saw you. Hadn’t even tried to fight it either. That first time he had stood in your doorway, shaken hands with your father, and introduced himself to you, he knew the hold you would have on him.
Sure, he was aware Seth had a daughter, but he had expected something different. He thought he would be meeting a ten-year-old child with blonde pigtails and bows in her hair, smiling up at him shyly. Instead, he was greeted by you, a twenty-something woman with bright eyes and tanned skin revealed by a little outfit. He wasn’t prepared for it- the way your eyes fixated on him too long, or the way your hand was completely engulfed by his as he shook it. He certainly wasn't prepared for that filthy, pretty mouth of yours.
Joel would’ve liked to say he rejected this part of himself- the part that yearned for your tiny frame to flex around him, but he knew himself better. He didn't push that feeling away. Instead, he leaned into it- waited for it to come rushing into him.
It had started out innocent enough. Joel had come over on a scorching hot summer day, the Texas heat high enough to cook eggs on the sidewalk. Sweat pulled at the small of his back, his black t-shirt sticking to his skin and clinging too tightly around his biceps. He held a set of tongs in his hands, clanking them together as he turned hot dogs on the charcoal grill. His presence was almost unnoticeable, his wide frame standing tall in the back corner of the yard as you walked outside. You wore that baby-blue bathing suit he had quickly memorized, tucking the blueprints of your body by the poolside to his memory like a file he would pull out to study on a later date. The material had clung to you perfectly, the thin straps delicately digging into your shoulders and holding your perky tits up at the perfect angle for him to see your cleavage from across the yard. Your hips swayed gradually as you walked, your ass on full display as the string bottom dug between your cheeks.
“Hi, Mr. Miller!” You shouted across the yard, waving excitedly as you laid your towel on the empty lawn chair.
“Hey, kid”, Joel had called back, sun rays reflecting off the undulating waves of your father’s swimming pool. His previous gaze fixated on the burning grill, was now focused on you. His face, stern and unreadable as always, followed your movements. You lay sprawled out on the chair, rubbing suntan lotion down your legs, up your arms, and across your chest. Joel's jaw clenched, and he gripped the handle of the tongs tighter like they might slip out of his grip and roll away. You notice it, sense his gaze on you. He should tear his eyes away, but he's not gonna. He won't, not even when you look up and meet his eyes with that merciful smile of yours.
Joel clears his throat, returning the smile with a stoic nod of his head, his shoulders relaxing and tension slipping away. He has to physically pry his eyes away, the risk of the hot dogs burning a helpful distraction.
He rotates them again, an even roast of the grill lines coating each one to perfection. He had expected to look back up and see you lying by the pool, the hot sun beaming down on you. Instead, he watched you through the corner of his eye, taking shuffled steps towards him.
“Mr.Miller, do you think you can get my back? I can't reach, and I don't want to be uneven,” you asked solemnly, holding out a coconut-scented bottle.
“Don’t mind at all, sweetheart.” Joel doesn't hesitate for a moment, not with that pouty look on your lips. “Turn ‘round for me.” He likes this cliche.
You do as he asks, silently turning to face the beaming sun. “Thanks,” you mutter, your arms hanging by your sides.
Joel took the bottle in his hands, abandoning the tongs on a plate he had sat nearby. He squeezed some of the oil into his palm and meekly brushed away your hair- exposing your back properly. Joel's eyes fell to the arch of your spine and he couldn't help but notice a few freckles, the goosebumps riding up on your skin, a small scar under your shoulder blade he would have to ask about later, and the way your hair smelled- vanilla and lavender.
He starts at the lowest part of your back, his strong hands rubbing light-hearted circles where your pelvis ends. Your skin absorbs the lotion, a light sheen making you glimmer. The two of you are silent, but you lean into his touch, dropping your neck a bit. His hands move with masterful precision- calloused fingers a sharp contrast to your velvety skin. He pauses for a moment, one hand hovering above your side, the other supporting your shoulder. You looked so small like this, his palm covering up most of your torso. He feels the warmth of your body already, and he takes an unconscious half-step closer.
You close your eyes, sighing as his thumb moves in serene up-and-down motions.
“Would it kill ya’ to wear somethin’ less…revealin’?” Joel muttered, wearing an impressive frown. His breath fans against the back of your neck. The scent of him lingered in the air- smoke from his Marlboro reds. The kind they used to smuggle on base, and a different, unnameable sweetness. It clung to you like a cancer infecting your cells. Something you couldn’t just wash away.
“What? You don’t like it?” Your breath stutters shallowly in your lungs, the tension growing with each passing second.
Joel leans down and takes a quick glance at the back door. It’s glass and very much see-through, though Joel doubts anyone is watching. “I didn't say I didn't like it. Just hard enough already. Ain't gotta make it worse for me,” he muttered, his mouth going dry- maybe from the heat, maybe from you. He shouldn't be confessing this. He should be pretending he doesn't even notice you, but you had a way of getting him to talk- to spill all his dirty little secrets. His words are calculated and controlled, his sorry attempt at trying not to be too forward.
Your breath hitches in your throat, not from nervousness or fear, but from excitement. Your brain tells you not to, but you take a purposeful step backward. You're close enough now that your thigh brushes against him, and you feel his belt buckle press into you. Your way of saying ‘I’m not scared of this or you’ and Joel can’t help that his legs automatically open, accommodating the perfect amount of space for you to puzzle into.
“Careful,” Joel chuckles. “Ain't much more room for ya’ t’go.” His touch is faint now, and you think for a moment he might push you away. But then you feel it. His fingers move at a hesitant, slow pace, trailing over the bottom seam of your bikini top until his arm is wrapped around you- the tips of his fingers sliding under the seam, stopping just centimeters away from the fullest part of your breasts.
The sound of sizzling smoke pierces through the tension between you, pulling both of you away and shattering the intimate moment. A sting of disappointment strikes you, Joel's fingers twitching as ragged, uneven breaths escape you. Joel clears his throat for the second time, gathering his composure as he takes a step away. His hands linger for a moment too long, as if he would rather let the hot dogs burn to a crisp before he pulls away.
“You’re distractin’”. His tone has a sharper edge now- his jaw tightening and eyes narrowing.
Joel flicks his eyes over our body one last time, finally turning away from you, his hands shaking moderately, and attention back to the grill. Your heart is still racing, your body cold and empty without his touch. “Yeah, I know”. Against your better judgment, you pick up the bottle of lotion and walk towards the pool.
Things just kept getting worse after that.
There were small, meniscal moments that left your heart fluttering. Moments when it felt like the two of you were on the brink of something previously out of reach- a spark ready to ignite into a violent fire. They never lasted long enough before reality came crashing back in and doused the embers of the flame. Like when you and Joel would be in the kitchen alone. He would find you by the sink, drinking a glass of water, and stand behind you, his arm reaching out on the granite countertop. He would usually stay silent, just letting you know he was there. You swore he would breathe you into his lungs, chest expanding as he filled himself with your scent. Other times, when he knew your dad was out of earshot, he would make diminutive comments telling you how much he missed you that week or how cute your outfit was.
These tiny moments grow more frequent, the tension in every conversation settling between your unsaid words and landing between your thighs. You were both just waiting now. For a chance. For someone to break first and just come out and say it.
Joel kept coming up with excuses to come over. He’d say something about needing to drop off tools, having to borrow a ladder, or helping your dad fix the broken railing on the back porch. Each time it ended the same, with Joel's eyes lingering on you, begging you for something real you’d never gotten the chance to deliver.
As the summer season wound down and September approached, Joel knew he needed a new plan. The white lies he used to come over were obviously not working anymore (your house was now in perfect condition with nothing left he could fix anymore).
Luckily, the NFL season had kicked off, offering Joel a perfect cover. He knew your dad watched it every week, never missing a Cowboys game. Plus, Joel was into it, and he didn’t have cable. He had played in high school. It wouldn't be hard for him to stay entertained. Under the guise of watching sports with his buddy, he was able to get closer to you. Was it manipulative? Yes. Did he care? Not in the slightest. Not if it meant you would be curled up on the couch next to him.
Joel didn't care to ask. He didn't need the stone-cold confirmation, but he knew you were in on it too. You never spoke about football, never mentioned going to a college game, or seemed interested in any kind of sport other than tennis and the occasional figure skating. But every Sunday for the past three weeks, you had been excitedly dressed in a cowboy's jersey, a bucket filled with popcorn already made before Joel had walked through the door.
It was cute and innocent in a lot of ways. Even better, it was inconspicuous- so invisible to your dad that sometimes even Joel forgot. You had felt a twinge of guilt in the beginning. If it hadn't been for the promise of Joel’s company, you probably would have been spending your time partying with your friends or inside some douchebag's apartment. You guessed Joel was making you a better person in that way. You were becoming more reliable- more “family-oriented”- even if it was just a cover to get underneath him.
Joel liked that this was new to you. He liked seeing the confused look on your face, the way your eyebrows furrowed when a ref called a flag you didn’t understand. He liked that you would ask him, “What does that mean?” when an offensive lineman yelled at his teammate. Joel would laugh and say something along the lines of “t's too complicated to get into right now”, but then, like the week before, he would patiently explain everything again. He wandered sometimes, if maybe you just asked so you could hear his voice. He liked that thought, that you would pretend to be interested in something you clearly knew nothing about just so you could listen to him decipher it.
This worked for a bit, helping to keep your urges at bay. But after a month of your weekly ‘reunions’, you were growing impatient. You had tried your hardest to behave, you really, really did. But this particular day, you just didn't have it in you to fight the nagging mess between your legs.
Joel had stumbled in, a six-pack of beers in his hand and a t-shirt one size too small. He looked good. Really fucking good. You sat down next to him, nestled in a fluffy throw blanket you kept on the couch- that familiar smell of dusty sweet wood wafting from him. Your dad made a hostile home in the recliner, which he had named the ‘best seat in the house’, eyes fixated on the 55-inch TV screen. His gaze didn’t waver, and you figured you had approximately ten minutes until the commercial break. You weren't waiting anymore. You couldn’t.
Strategically, with snail-like movements, you shifted closer to Joel. You tried to make it look like you were sitting at an uncomfortable angle and needed to move to a different position. You threw the blanket up a bit, the extra material landing on Joel's thighs, and placed the popcorn bucket in your lap. It looked casual- you hoped.
Joel wasn't lost to this. He was a teenager once. He knew how to cover up something he shouldn't be doing. You weren’t surprised when the arm he had slung around the couch came falling to your thighs, his thumb almost brushing the inseam of your sweatpants.
Joel squeezed the skin of your thighs, his rough hands pulling you a bit closer. It was like you had done this before, talked it through, and planned it out in great detail.
He should’ve stopped there. But he hadn’t. He worked his fingers casually, finding the drawstring between his fingers and pulling one side, releasing the bow-tied knot.
“God! Catch the fucking ball!” Your dad had shouted, his voice booming across the house as he threw his hands up in frustration. “Useless goddamn offense”.
You felt Joel flex, his movement halting to a stop. “Fuckers get paid thousands just to suck at their jobs”, he forcefully half chuckled. It sounded casual enough, he thought. Joel turned to face you, watching the fear building in your dilated eyes, and gave a subtle head nod- as if to say ‘Chill. Everything is fine”.
Then with a cocky smile, his eyes refocused on the TV. You forced yourself to take deep breaths, the pounding thud of your heartbeat restricting your blood vessels. You were sure they could see it in your face, your cheeks a burning bright red, and your palms sweaty. Just as you were easing back down, you felt the familiar sensation of Joel's fumbling fingers.
He searched for a few moments, trying to find where the strings ended and the top of your sweats began. You swallowed hard, his fingers easing upwards until they rimmed the band that clung to your waist. His fingers dip under, ever so slightly, and you spread your thighs apart, trying to make as much room for him as the couch allowed.
It was risky, too dangerous. You were both in over your heads and starting to feel it. Someone had to pull away. Joel knew it wouldn't be him. You knew it wouldn't be you. With neither of you saying anything and letting this moment grow into something else, Joel snuck his hand inside your pants. The position was odd, and he had to be careful not to move too much, worried your dad might notice the faint flexing in his upper arm.
You sink into the firm cushions of the couch, your chest rising and falling under the blanket. Joel was calculated, studying how far he could go before you were a quivering mess next to him. By the time Joel had made any sort of real contact with your panties, just enough that the palm of his hand grazes your clit over the lace material, you’d completely soaked through them. Joel understood now just how needy and neglected you truly were. It must have been so hard, having to deal with this problem all alone, especially when he was right here, willing and longing to solve it for you.
Joel cleared his throat, his free hand reaching for the bucket of popcorn and the other continuing to explore you under the constraining layers. You watched as he threw pieces of popcorn into his mouth casually- like he was completely unaffected by his own actions as you melted into him.
“Pass me some.” Your dad stated, reaching over to grab the bucket.
Your breathing stops again, only this time, there is no chance to come down. Joel's hands had found their way to the edge of your panties, his fingers hooking inside to pull them away. You squirm at the sensation, watching as Joel grabs the popcorn from your lap.
“Here ya go,” Joel stated, handing the bucket to Seth’s outstretched arms.
“Thanks, brother.”
You had almost laughed through the shock of it. Quickly, you came to the realization that nothing was funny. Not when Joel’s finger began rubbing faint, muted circles on your clit. You bit the inside of your cheek, your mouth threatening to fall open and reveal everything. You turned your head, facing Joel for a moment- your eyes pleading “more, more”. Joel swore he could read your mind, snaking his middle finger inside you. He was greeted by warm, tight walls sucking him further inside. Fuck what it must feel like to have you wrapped around him.
Then, the clock on quarter two reaches zero. “Can ya’ believe that shit? Down twelve points. Don't even know why we keep watchin’ this sorry ass team.” Joel mutters, shoving a second finger inside you with a heavy stretch.
“Disappointed, but I ain't surprised”, your dad groans as he stands, stretching out his back and arms. “ Gotta take a leak. Be right back”.
You both watch as Seth disappears from your line of sight, down the hallway. Then you hear the bathroom door shut, the lock clicking. You turn to face Joel, and he is on you in a second, ripping the blanket away to expose you as much as he was able without removing any clothes. He stood in front of you, the pace of his fingers never faltering. Joel worked fast. He knew he had to make this quick. That had never been his strong suit. He liked to take his time and make sure the women he was with left feeling satisfied and taken care of. It was a crime that he couldn't do the same for you.
“We got 5 minutes max, so I’m gonna need ya’ t’raise up a bit.” Joel used his free hand to scope your ass up, lifting you so your hips nearly elevated off the cushions. It brought his fingers in deeper, and now he was hitting all the best spots. Then he bent his knee, placing it down next to you so he had some real leverage and a bit more strength to his motions. A sharp gasp escapes your pouting lips, and the heat in your cheeks burns a brighter red.
“Feels good, don't it?” Joel coos under his breath as he places an indulgent kiss on your forehead. A delicate, intimate act in the heat of something so obscene.
You nod your head, unable to speak in fear that the words may come out too loud, too close to a cry you only hear in bedrooms. Your eyes fixate on his chest, how it expands each time he pumps his finger in and out. Now you were really struggling to stay quiet, his name dripping out of you in a purr- like honey on a warm biscuit.
“Shh, darlin’,” Joel whispered, reaching for the remote and turning the TV up a few clicks to drown out your heavy breaths. “Bite me if ya’ have to.”
You shook your head again, your glazed-over eyes fluttered back, and you closed your teeth around the fabric of his shirt, digging your face into his chest and raking your nails down his back. Your bereaved sniffles muffle against his chest, and you breathe him in that sweet pine enough to make your hips buck into his hand. Your legs started to tremble, your whole body shuddered, and Joel felt it- the way you involuntarily clenched around him. This is what he had been waiting for, what he fantasized about on all his sleepless nights.
“There ya’ go,” Joel mutters against you, his fingers hitting that sweet spot with a rush of unfiltered adrenaline. “Good fucking job.” A hum of pride absconds his throat, and he knows you’ve reached the end, your legs going limp and mouth releasing his shirt. Leisurely, like he wasn't in his best friend's house, fingering his only daughter (who happened to be at least fifteen years younger than him), he removes his fingers, dragging them across you as he makes his way out of your pants. “Fucking real good job, babygirl.”
You had just enough time to collect yourselves. You re-tied your drawstring, fixed your disheveled hair, and curled back up into the blanket by the time you heard the door down the hall click open. Joel had made his way to the kitchen, the water in the sink running.
Joel would have loved to taste you, to wrap his mouth around his finger and lick them clean, but even he knew this wasn’t the time or the place to get too comfortable. What a sin to be so close to the parts of you he had wanted to devour and be completely locked away from it.
Since that day, you had started texting Joel a lot more. Usually sending cute pictures of yourself lying in bed, your shirt riding up to reveal just enough of your stomach to make Joel’s cock twitch. You had mastered the art of bad timing, too. The texts where you would say “wish you were here right now,” followed by an image of all your clothes on the floor, usually came in while Joel was busy at work- or on the phone with your dad- or as he had just taken a sip of his morning coffee he was now choking on. It had become so frequent nowadays that for the first time in his life, he had a reason to put a password on his phone.
Of course, he would respond. “Miss ya’ too, kid. Be there real soon”. Joel wasn’t exactly handy with a camera, so he left that art up to you. Plus, he had learned imagination was a powerful tool.
You weren't sure that you would call it love. It was more understanding- somehow even more valuable and tangible. You weren’t afraid to see his dark parts, in fact, some days you had embraced it, cradled it in your hands late at night, and soothed like a baby up crying. Joel knew it was a lot. He knew he came with demons, extra baggage, and ghosts that followed his every move. On his bad nights, instead of staying up and staring at the ceiling, he would call you. He knew you always left your ringer on, just in case. The first time he heard your groggy, lethargic voice on the other end of the line, he felt guilty. He shouldn't have woken you up, but then you told him, all patient and caring, that you were happy he called. It was starting to become a nightly thing, him falling asleep to the sound of your breathing and light snores. It was like you were next to him for a moment, his arms wrapped around you and your head nestled into his chest.
It wasn't what either of you had truly wanted. He had wished you were really there. Wished he could show you how much you fucking meant to him. The need was starting to cloud his judgment. Sometimes he had to force himself not to drive to your house, pick you up in the middle of the night, and take you home with him. He imagined what it would feel like to have you sitting by his side, one hand on the steering wheel and the other on your thigh, as he pulled into his driveway,- the windows down and your silk hair blowing in the wind. It was driving him mad. Totally one hundred percent insane. He knew it because he couldn't even get off to porn anymore. Now all he could do was scroll through old texts, zoom in on the pictures of you in your bedroom, and recall that day you came around his fingers. He swore some nights he could still hear you whimpering his name.
You knew how lucky you were. Some other man might have given up ages ago- found some girl he could actually be alone with. Or worse, some might have kept you around for all the sexy parts and nothing else. Joel was different. He wondered about you- had actually cared. The nights when he had called, thinking he was bothering or annoying you, he had actually been chipping away at your mind. He wanted to know every thought that wandered into that little brain of yours. Wanted to dissect you and learn how you thought, what your dreams were, and what you aspired and longed for in life. He was just different. Different from any other guy you had talked to in the past. Looking back, you were in awe that you hadn't sworn off men completely before Joel came along. You learned what it had felt like to be treated like a person, sometimes a princess, even. And although you had coveted Joel since that day by the pool, you were thankful for all that time spent just being in his presence without having to promise anything physical. It was more than lust- more than greed to possess you.
By the time Halloween had rolled around, Joel had mastered all your tell-tale signs. He knew when to follow you into the kitchen, when to stay behind, when he could and couldn’t open his phone in public, and when you needed him most. Those days usually came in the middle of the week, in between the time Joel had left and the next time he would show up.
He was painfully aware of how long it had been since he had gotten to touch you. His cock was equally aware. God, he was starting to crave you worse than he had craved a home-cooked meal in his time overseas.
You had spent the day decorating the house- hanging up spooky lights and those pictures that seemed normal until you got to a certain angle and shifted into a new image entirely. Halloween was a big day for your tiny household. Your parents had met at a Halloween party and ever since your mom passed, Seth threw his own- like a fucked up anniversary he celebrated by dressing up and getting piss drunk with all his friends.
Joel had arrived early, bringing in some cupcakes and bottles of whiskey. He was here to help, but he looked forward to spending quiet time with you. He didn’t care that it was mundane or unexciting. Not if he got to listen to our pretty laughter and dirty jokes. Once five PM rolled around, you had the house looking pretty good. Snacks lined the countertops, ice sat in the freezer, and spooky music played in the background.
Now came your favorite part- the getting ready. Joel had made a home outside, nursing a beer in one hand as he laughed with your dad and a couple of other friends who rolled in before the rest. You figured you had about an hour before you had to be dressed and ready to greet people at the door. You showered quickly, applied some subtle makeup, and threw on your clothes. This year, you kept your costume simple. You picked out a pair of too-short daisy dukes, borrowed one of your dad's old flannels, and braided your hair into two pigtails. The cutest little cowgirl you ever did see. By the time you had finished, Joel was inside, sitting in the calm before the storm.
“Joey, where’s your costume? You're supposed to dress up for these things, you know?” You asked from down the hall.
“I hadn't realized it was going to be so…strict,” he smiled, his teeth showing a bit.
You looked him up and down. “Well, you have boots and blue jeans. Maybe you can be my cowboy.” You grabbed his hand, interlocking your fingers and dragging him to your dad’s closet. Joel’s chest almost gave out at the way it felt so casual, so normal for your fingers to intertwine with his.
“Here, put this on”, you grabbed a cowboy hat from the top of Seth’s dresser, placing it on Joel's head. It looked natural like he could have really been a bull rider. You laughed and watched as Joel smiled.
“Oh, that’s funny, is it?” He adjusted the hat, moving his hair in places that stuck out.
Then you reached for one last thing, pulling out a flannel with a mimicked partner to your own. “Take this off.” You instructed with gentle necessity
Joel wasn't sure if this was one of your ‘shared moments’, but he could see how excited you were. He didn't blink when you pulled at the hem of his t-shirt, guiding it up his arms and over his head. He played along, buttoning the flannel but leaving the first two undone. He wanted you to see some part of him, no matter how small.
You stood in front of him, admiring. “Thanks for helping with the decorations, Mr.Miller,” You chirped, planting a grateful kiss on his cheek.
“Anythin’ for ya’, sweetheart.” The words rolled off his tongue, and he knew he meant it. Anything. Anytime. Anyplace, for any reason.
Joel knows now that staying in this room any longer would be the death of him, his bones crumbling at your feet like you had just slain him. He should take your hand in his, like how you led him in, and walk out to join the rest of the party.
Yeah, that's what he should’ve done. But through the muffled music and distant laughter, his gaze was settling on your lips and pulling you closer.
“Fuck, I wanna kiss ya’”, he sorrowly muttered- that Texas accent shining through. His brown eyes looked down at you and his thumb grazed the exposed skin of your torso. “S’that alright, darlin’?” He hadn’t expected you to say no, hadn’t even thought there was a slight chance of it. But he had to be sure- wanted to hear you say it.
You place your arms around Joel’s neck, your fingers coming to the curls at the bottom of his hairline. “Yeah, Joel. That’s alright,” You smiled, your cheeks plump and lips parted. If you were somewhere different you might have shouted ‘Yes, kiss me!’ But you weren’t. You were in your dad's room, the door wide open, with a house full of people down the hall.
Then Joel was leaning in, cupping your cheek, and stroking your soft skin with the pad of his thumb. “So beautiful” he had murmured before his lips compassionately grazed yours. Tender and slow, like he was soaking everything up, his lips molded to yours.
Joel knew he probably tasted like whiskey and old cigarettes, but you still whimpered meekly into him. He wanted more, of course, he did. You were so fucking pretty and smart. He’d be crazy if didn’t. But this moment wasn't rushed. It wasn't dirty. It was a connection, hidden away in the form of a scandal. This gentleness, the patience, underlining everything you did, is what he had been waiting his whole life to find.
There’s no hunger, no deviant desire. There’s just you and him breathing as one. To anyone else, it would have appeared sinful, and shameful. But to you, it was a simple act of love, of bonding- like when married people kissed goodbye before heading to work.
Joel doesn’t want to let go. He wants to stay right here, in this moment, forever. But reluctantly, he pulls away. Then he sees that sweet, kid-like gleam in your eyes, and his own stomach is filled with butterflies. He felt like a fucking teenager at prom again.
“Now let’s go dance, partner,” you joked, sliding your small frame through Joel and walking towards the living room.
“Yeehaw,” Joel laughed, lifting the cowboy hat just above his head.
The night was winding down now- mostly just drunk, old men throwing hacky sacks into a cornhole. Your family members and neighbors from the street were already at home and curled into bed.
Joel sat in a lawn chair, your dad by his side. He’s telling some story about how Joel used to make lower-ranking privates do his laundry for less time on patrol.
“What? I was busy, saving your dumbass.” Joel laughed, the fire cracking in a low hum. Orange light flickered in his eyes, casting shadows across his face. He leaned back in his chair, one hand curled loosely around the sweating bottle of his beer.
“Hey, you're the one that almost pushed me on an IED, or did you forget that?” your dad grumbled, knocking his shoulders into Joel.
From across the yard, you had flashed him a smile, dancing to the music. You started slowly, a soft sway of your hips as you lifted your arms. Your eyes closed and your lashes brushed against the tops of your cheeks as you tilted your head back towards the stars.
Your shorts offered just enough of a view to tease the fattest part of your ass, body rolling Languidly to the beat and hair falling nobly down your back. Your fingers traced against your collarbone, and you knew Joel was watching.
He was hyper-aware of your presence, like always. So much so that his eyes kept darting to you through the smoke of the burning wood pile. He watched you closely like you were some kind of rarity that might vanish if he looked away too long- his eyes glowing orange in the cascading flames.
He couldn’t exactly follow you around like a lost puppy here, but he could have this- the simple view of you. Like Joel, you felt him in the air, his diverted eyes focused on you.
You noticed when he stiffened in the lawn chair, readjusting his jeans as he leaned forward, his elbows placed on his knees. He looked strong like this, his body all tense and rigid. You thought this was how he might look when you were sitting under him, mouth open and eyes begging.
Joel takes a quick sip of his beer, and the once rhythmical pattern of his heartbeat turns inconsistent. God be damned, if he had a fucking heart attack before he got inside you.
By the time he placed his beer down, you were walking over. His eyes traced you as you wobbled over, your legs exhausted from a long day of dancing and preparing the house.
“Goodnight, Daddy. I love you. Don’t stay up too late.” Joel watched as you placed a kiss on his cheek- the same one you had given him earlier in the day.
Joel felt the loss of you immediately- the air around him becoming too light. He wanted to tell you to stay. Wanted you perched in his lap as he joked with everyone at the party. Instead, he forced himself to stay quiet and watched you disappear inside.
An hour had passed, and the two men remained by the fire, nursing countless beers and cigarettes. Joel’s eyes began to droop, and he was hardly holding on anymore.
“I’m fuckin’ glad you’re here, man. Needed ya’ back home, ya know?” Seth's words slurred and ran together, some syllables coming out too fast and others too slow. Seth had always been sentimental. That, accompanied by the meaning of the day, had made him a delicate drinker. He didn’t drink often, but when he did, he had a way of pushing past his limits.
“Yeah. I love ya’ too, Sethy boy.” Joel smiled, that half-cocked drunken smile men only got when they were alone.
“I ain’t jokin’ boy.” His tone was stern now like it had been when Joel was only allowed to call him ‘Colonel.’ “Don’t forget you’re ten years younger than me.” And suddenly, there were hot tears pooling in Seth’s eyes. Joel realized this was a real conversation. One they hadn’t ever had. “You were too young, man. Should’ve had the chance to live a little first.”
The wait between them grew silent and cold, the added influence making it somewhat more manageable. They probably would never said those few, short words under sober conditions.
“Yeah, well. What’s done is done, right? Can’t change it.” Joel placed his arm around Seth. “I think it’s time we called it. Let’s get ya’ to bed, ya’ old fucker”.
Joel watched as your dad fought with the sliding glass door, impatiently pulling it open with one hand. “God-goddamn thing. Made me s-spill my whiskey,” he grumbled.
Seth stumbled through the house, bumping into walls and knocking down a decoration you had hung. Joel stayed close behind him, guiding him through the hallway and into his room. Like Joel’s mom used to do for him, he had tucked Seth into bed, ripping his boots off and throwing them on the floor.
“I love ya, brother. Don’t kill yourself on the way home,” Seth had mumbled as Joel placed a trash can on the side of the bed.
“Yeah, I love ya’ too. Now stop fuckin’ cryin’.” They both laughed, and Joel swore Seth was passed out before he even had the chance to shut his bedroom door.
Joel took quiet steps through the house, hoping to slip through the door unnoticed. Then just as he was grabbing his keys from his pocket, and reaching for the handle, your sultry voice rang out under the silence.
“You’re gonna leave without saying goodbye?” You stood in the darkness of the living room, wearing a pair of underwear hidden by a baggy t-shirt. The same shirt you had helped mindlessly throw off in your dad’s bedroom. It swallowed your small frame but revealed your hardening nipples.
“Thought you’d be ‘sleep already.” Joel leaned against the door, his back pressed to the oak.
“I just got tired of talking to everyone. Wanted some quiet for a minute.” You stepped closer, fiddling with your fingers sheepishly and walking towards him.
“Sleep well, darlin’. I’ll see ya’ soon, promise.” Joel reached for the handle again, the ring to his keys looping around his fingers. He had almost turned it, almost walked outside. But then you were pulling him back in with more ease than he cared to admit.
“Don’t go”, you begged, eyes pouting and bottom lip sticking out.
“I-I…gotta go, baby.” Joel knew if he didn’t, he was going to end up in that warm bed of yours no matter how hard he tried not to. “I have to,” he whispered. Even standing here with you across the room, he was already planning all the things he could do to you. Joel had seen Seth drink before, and he knew that man wasn't getting up for anything until at least 1 PM tomorrow, giving him plenty of time to do all the dirty things floating around in that head of his.
Joel wanted to tell you to stop, to step back. It's what he should’ve done. But then he saw that pleading look in your eyes. It made him remember how awful he felt when he realized, back on that couch, just how neglected you had been. He knew you needed him just as much as he had, and he just couldn’t. He didn't want to be the reason for your pain anymore. He knew he was going to hell- he had made his peace with it long before you had come along. Yes, he was betraying the only man who truly understood all the trauma he carried within him. But it wasn't enough. He didn't think anything could ever be enough.
Joel pulled himself up, his back stretching off the wall. This time, he was taking a step closer, and before he could internally struggle with it anymore, he was crashing his lips into yours. It was sloppy, hot, and full of possessive hunger- the complete opposite of your last kiss. It was all focused on need, your pent-up desires flowing out and manifesting like rushing water in an angry river.
Joel’s hands traveled to the base of your neck, and he pulled you in tighter. Your lips spread apart and without a care in the whole goddamn world, he was sliding his tongue over yours. You arch into him, and for the first time, he learned what it feels like to have you moan into him. It was addictive, and now he absolutely got himself in too deep. He would want to hear all the different sounds you made, no matter how loud they might echo off the walls of your house. He wanted to learn what made you the loudest, wanted to make you muffle them into his hand as he covered your mouth while you were cumming for him.
Joel's breath catches and his grip in the back of your neck falters down to your ass. His bottom lip lands between yours, and then you bite him infirmly, just enough to add a sweet pressure under all that red-hot aching.
“Take me to my room, Mr. Miller,” You spoke between gasps of air you couldn’t quite catch.
All Joel did was nod in return before he grabbed you by the back of your thighs and wrapped your legs around him. Joel navigated his way in the dark, almost crashing into the coffee table as he carried you, his lips never leaving yours. It was like a scene out of one of those guilty pleasure romance movies you watched with your friends at a slumber party.
When he found his way inside your bedroom, he was kicking the door shut and tossing you onto the mattress.
“Look real good in my clothes,” Joel wore that half-cocked smile with pride, his chest expanding with each struggling breath. Finally, you were alone and he was so goddamn nervous he thought he just might blow it. You sprawled out on the bed, waiting as Joel stood motionless before you. He was drunk, probably too drunk to be doing any of this. When he fucked you, he wanted to remember it- wanted to feel every forsaken moment of it. But he couldn't say no to you, not when you were already spreading your legs and making room for him.
Joel walked to the end of the bed, grabbed a pillow, and tossed it lightly on the floor. Then he was grabbing your waist and pulling you, your legs hanging off the side of the mattress. “Can’t give ya’ what ya’ really need tonight.” Joel’s heart burned at his own words. “Just let me taste ya’, baby. Know it's not enough, but it’s all I got right now.” He vowed at that moment to never take another sip of alcohol again.
Joel fell to his knees on the pillow, the remnant of a sinner at a church altar begging for forgiveness. Your eyes looked down at him, your forearms pressed against the mattress, and your ab muscles flexing.
Then Joel was gliding his hands up the velvet skin of your exposed legs, moving upwards until he pulled at the hem of your panties. Dirty girl, he thought, walking around with so much for the world to see. In the dim light of your room, Joel stuffed your panties in his pocket, a keepsake he would definitely pull out later. Finally, the sweetest part of you was revealed, glistering and plump with your slick need.
“Fuckin’ look at ya’. I do all that?” Joel asked, peppering feather-light kisses down your thighs.
“Yeah,” It was an answer to a question Joel already knew, but fuck did it feel good to hear you say it.
“How long t’ been like this, baby girl?” That guilty feeling of negligence returned, carrying a new weight along with it. Regret. Regret, for waiting this long to take what was his, to give you what was yours.
“Too long,” you whined, your back easing into the mattress and hands lying feebly at your sides.
It would have been easy to tease you like this. If you hadn't been so angelic, he probably would have. But he knew it was already too much, and he decided to spare both of you any more wasted time.
“I got ya’ now, baby. I got ya.” Joel's mouth hovered above you, his hot breath brushing against the pinkish skin of your clit and gave it a light kiss. His tongue licks one long stripe against your folds, and you are already reaching for his hair. He parts your folds carefully, lapping up the sweet strings of juices flowing from you. Already, you were the best goodman flavor he had tasted, like a sweet watermelon on a summer day.
Your hands tangle deeper in his hair, and Joel knows he's got you right where he wants you. He flicks his tongue again, this time aiming for the prettiest clit he’d ever seen. The sound of sloppy, wet kisses and his name flowing out of you fills his ears, and he’s more in his element than he's ever been before. He opens his mouth wider, his lips wrapping around your swollen parts and sucking you in. His beard brushes against the inside of your thighs, and you jolt, releasing his mouth with an echoed ‘pop’.
“Fuck, don’t fucking move.” Joel’s hands grip your thighs, and he's learning in closer, throwing your legs over his shoulders until his face is completely buried in you. “Swear, you taste like heaven.” His words come out inaudible, muffled by the sounds of your wetness and unsteady moans.
“Joel, Joel, Joel” spills from you, and then you’re gasping as he gently enters one finger inside you.
“Quiet, sweetheart. Don't get me caught,” His words should've been a command, but it was more the softest plea he had ever uttered- like he was praying to god that nothing would ever stop this moment. Joel twisted his finger inside you, searching for that spot that made your legs shake more. When he found it, he didn't let it go- his motions were accurate and consistent each time he re-entered you.
His tongue moved faster now, with more purpose and less exploration. He needed this just as much as you. When your legs started trembling, he just gripped you tighter, keeping you glued to his face as he devoured as much of you as he could without coming up for air. Your hips developed their own motions, and Joel embraced it, using your movements for more leverage as he slipped another finger into that tight space. Your pussy stretched around him and your back arched off the bed, your eyes fluttering closed.
“Oh, yes! Fuck, fuck.” You tried your hardest to contain all the dirty noises that were spilling out, but that sensation you had longed for was building in your stomach and spreading throughout your veins.
“Yeah? Cum f’me, darlin’”. Joel wrapped his mouth around your clit again and then you were seeing stars, all the muscles in your body tensing and your heart pounding. “Goddamn masterpiece” Joel whispered, his fingers continuing a pace that let you ride out your high for as long as possible. He liked to play this game- see how long he could go before you couldn't take it anymore.
He could've done this all night, but when your body finally relaxed, your legs going limp in his hands, he smoothly removed his fingers and finally caught his breath.
“That better?” Joel placed last-minute kisses on your thighs again, his chest heaving as much as yours. This was a lot of work for a drunk middle-aged man.
You nodded your head, picking yourself back up on your forearms. This was just a piece of him, and you were already fucked out of your mind.
Joel's face smeared with your wetness, and he used the sleeves of your dad's flannel to wipe it away. Then pressed another kiss to your lips, your sweet taste lingering on his skin. Your eyes were heavy, and Joel helped you get under the covers, your body shivering. If he had it his way, he would’ve warmed you up himself and laid in that bed until he was forced to leave by the midday sun.
“Get some rest. I’ll stay on the couch.” If he couldn’t stay next to you, he decided he would at least stay in proximity. Seth wouldn't even question it in the morning, just assumed Joel was too drunk to drive home. That was the truth in part, so it's not like Joel even had to lie. He stumbled to the living room, kicking his boots off and ripping his belt buckle from his jeans. He slung himself drunkenly on the couch, half covered by the throw blanket you kept there. It smelled like you, and Joel breathed it in all night, adding heat to his already spinning head.
Joel woke in the morning to the smell of eggs and fresh coffee. His legs cramped from the way he had bawled up on the couch, and there was a high-pitched ringing in his ear.
“Ugh, god.” Joel moved with languor, sitting upright with his hand on his eyes as he rubbed vigorously. The simple act caused his head to spin and for a second he swore he was going to throw up for the first time since he was in his twenties.
“Advil, Gatorade, coffee”. You floated in from the kitchen, sitting the items on the coffee table. “Can you eat?”
“Huh?” Was either still drunk or the sheer sound of your voice was hexing him- like a siren’s call, he attached himself to it, and followed it into empty darkness. He peered up at you, dark circles under his eyes. You were still wearing his shirt, only now it was accompanied by a pair of Nike shorts.
You laughed at the view of him like this, groggy and pathetic. “I said, can you eat? I’m making eggs and toast.”
Then Joel started imagining what it would be like to have this- to wake up to you in the kitchen humming a quiet melody and wearing one of those silky slip dresses you had liked to sleep in.
“Think so”, Joel groaned and stretched his arms over his head, arching his back before he stood on wobbling legs. “Your daddy up?” Joel peered around the room, smiling for the first time as half-baked memories puzzled back together of last night.
“Not yet. I’ll check on him soon.” Then you were wrapping Joel into the most precious and peaceful of hugs he had ever gotten. You fit right into him, your head pressed lightly against his rib cage- unrestrained innocence.
You felt frozen in time, like if you didn’t move then nothing around you ever would. Joel still smelled like a mixture of liquor and sweat. You inhaled him anyway, all your sensations feeling him.
“You stink”, you mumbled, your head up at Joel and watching through your lashes.
“Well, someone took my clean shirt.” Joel pressed a light kiss on the top of your head. “Keep it. Looks damn good on ya’.”
“I’m gonna check on your daddy. Hangovers are a bitch after forty, I hear.” He eased your arms off him, your touch lingering on his chest before he grabbed some of the Advil.
Seth was still in a dead sleep, his shirt half ripped off and legs in a starfish position, one knee bent and his arms spread out. Joel heard his snores before he even opened the door or flicked the bedroom light on.
“Sethy boy, wakey wakey,” Joel whispered, pushing your dad until he was rocking awake.
“Get your fucking hands off me, man” Seth growled, covering his head with a pillow.
Joel just laughed, setting the items on a bedside table. “Your daughter made you breakfast. I’m gettin’ the fuck out of here and goin’ back to sleep. I love ya’, brother.” As much as Joel longed to stay here, to eat breakfast and drink his moving coffee next to you, his bones were aching. He needed a hot shower and the dark light of his bedroom while he nursed himself in bed.
“Love ya’,” your dad had groaned back, his head not coming off the bed for a second.
Joel shut the door, walking through the house until he found you again, sitting on the front porch outside.
“Hey, kid.” Joel stood next to you, his eyes squinting in the too-bright sun and his coffee hot in his hands. “What ya’ doin’?”
“Feeling the morning air.” There was a slight breeze, the fresh October air painting the ground with colorful leaves. “I thought you would be heading out, so I made ya’ this.” You held out a plastic container of Tupperware- a biscuit, two strips of bacon, and scrambled eggs inside.
“You’re too fuckin’ good to me, baby.” You made it so much harder to leave than it should’ve been. “Such a sweet thing”.
A slight blush spread across your face. “Be safe, Joel.” You kissed him on the cheek, handing him the key he had mindlessly thrown in the living room last night.
Every step Joel took to his truck was torture. Not because of the deadly hangover or his cramped legs, but because you hadn’t been next to him. He slammed the door to his truck shut and turned the key in the ignition. The engine roared and before Joel had the chance to put it in reverse, his phone dinged. His screen lit up with your name followed by “Miss you already.”
I would like to take a second to preface that I do not condone/support war on any groups or nations. I am only telling a story that pulls inspiration from real-life events. Please do not use this story as a reason to bully or make comments targeted at any group/individuals in society.
I am just a girl who loves military Joel Miller.
“T’s too much”, you beseeched- Your fragmented cries cracking in the back of your throat, muffled by his fresh sheets and feathered pillow.
“Aw, baby. I thought ya’ said ya’ could fuckin’ take it? Givin’ up on me that easy, little girl?” Joel spoke through labored, panting breaths, his chest burning with exhaustion as he fought to keep himself upright. “Big cock too much for ya’?”
summary: Uncle Tommy gives you everything you want for your twenty first birthday.
pairing: step uncle!Tommy Miller x f!Reader
warnings: explicit sexual content MDNI, stepcest, age gap (reader is 21, Tommy in his mid thirties), size difference, praise kink, oral sex (f!receiving), dirty talk, unprotected piv, begging, dom/sub undertones, tommy yearns bad in this one, a bit of angst mixed in, alcohol overconsumption, reader is made uncomfortable by someone at a bar, references to being drugged (but doesn't actually happen), allusions to addiction
note: if you haven't heard yet, i'm turning this into a little mini series!! you can let me know here if you'd like to be added to the taglist. thank you to everyone for the support on this one, I'm so glad you all love uncle tommy as much as i do. let me know what you think of this chapter, i love love love talking to you guys and i promise there's more to come!
[series masterlist] [main masterlist] [AO3]
Tommy Miller is a high functioning addict.
Self aware enough to admit it, hedonistic enough to only manage it. Has been that way for as long as he can remember.
He likes the head buzz of nicotine and the dizziness of liquor and the adrenaline rush of a real bad decision. His favorite high, though, is you. His favorite sound, his favorite taste, his favorite sight.
His favorite girl.
After that fateful night in his apartment, the two of you get good at the balancing act. The push and pull. You ride the line of too much and not enough religiously. Have gotten it down to a goddamn science.
But the problem is that an addict never knows when to quit.
He does well for a while. Truly. Learns that it’s a whole lot easier to manage his longing with witnesses around, and goes out of his way to avoid being in an empty house with you. He interlocks his fingers together and squeezes when the urge rises in him to touch you. To cradle your pretty face, to run his thumb over your mouth when you make some filthy joke and smile up at him. He bites the inside of his cheek when you’re sitting beside one another and turn to whisper something in sync, bringing you face to face, so overwhelmed with a craving for the taste of your tongue that his heart hammers against his sternum.
For what it’s worth, Tommy tries. Loses sleep over it, even. Stares up at his ceiling for hours, warring with what he wants and what he knows is right.
The right thing would be to wean himself off of you. Cut back a little at a time. Day by day, until eventually the thought of you becomes less persistent. Until he stops smelling the faintest trace of your shampoo in his sheets, until he stops transferring that half-smoked cigarette with cherry lip gloss on the filter from pack to pack.
But then, sometimes, he catches this look in your eye when you’re listening to him speak. He could be talking about something shitty that happened at work or telling you about a song he heard on the radio that he thinks you’d like, and you just stare at him like he hung the moon in the sky.
He’s important to you, and you make him feel it. And it’s this, this that he can’t give up. The way you trust him so completely, the way you love him without a trace of doubt.
You say it once, in passing. Everyone’s sitting in lawn chairs in the backyard, enjoying the nice weather before the rainstorm moving in from the west hits. You’re sitting next to Sarah, but your feet are resting in Tommy’s lap.
Sarah’s talking animatedly, telling everyone about her college English professor and how they’ve been playing matchmaker all semester. On three separate occasions, they’ve paired groups together, and couples have emerged from them. Sarah thinks it’s intentional, but your mom and Joel aren’t so sure.
Tommy stays quiet for most of the conversation. But then he says, “Definitely a little weird. But, uh…anyway, I wanted to let everyone know I’m a changed man. Dropping the whole blue collar act and going back to school to study English.”
Everyone laughs, and you kick the side of his thigh lightly with a shake of your head. Through your giggles you say, “I fucking love you,” and it fills him with so much warmth he’s overflowing with it.
He rides that high for days. Gives you shit for it, even.
When he steals your half finished slice of pizza right out of your hands and you call him a dickhead with a smile on your face he says, “Yeah, but you love me anyway.”
You don’t deny it, and even that makes him feel special. Tommy takes every crumb of affection you throw at him and eats it up with a fork and knife like it’s the most delectable meal he’s ever had. Consumes your sweet words and your closeness so thoroughly, it’s almost comical. Like he’s a dog with a bone, desperate for it, because he is.
He stays balanced, though. Never lets it go too far. Can feel right when his desire begins to cloud his judgment and knows when to call it.
But things change one night at the dining room table.
You and Joel sit beside each other. He‘s in front of that shitty laptop he bought decades ago, trying to write an email that sounds both professional and assertive without using the words asshole or fucking idiot.
He’s grumbling and typing with his two pointer fingers and a single thumb on the keyboard, shaking his head as you explain, “You have to capitalize her name, Joel. You’re not sending an email to your friend, she’s a CEO.”
“Yeah, well, capital letters are meant for people. Not for corporate lizards trying to fuck with my company.”
You catch Tommy’s gaze from across the table, making you both snort and fall into rambunctious laughter, earning you a glare.
“It’s not funny,” Joel says sharply. “Stupid I even have to do this. I don’t know why people don’t just leave well enough alone.”
“Everyone wants a piece of the pie,” you explain. “You’re making good money doing good things, and she wants to be a part of it. You guys keep taking on more projects this year, and inquiries like this are just the beginning.”
“It’s a good thing, ain’t it?” Tommy shrugs. “Means you’re doing somethin’ right.”
“Exactly,” you agree. You lean across the table and swipe the glass bottle from his hands to take a sip.
Tommy knows you don’t like beer and isn’t surprised when you cringe at the hoppy flavor, wrinkling your nose at him. He thinks maybe you drink it anyway not for the alcohol, but to put your lips to the same place his were seconds ago. He tries not to let the warmth that idea elicits in his chest spread too far.
“Well, I don’t need some uppity lady who works in an office telling me how to do my damn job,” Joel adds.
“So say that,” you tell him. He starts typing on the keyboard again, so you lean in close, peering over his shoulder. “Oh my God. Not word for word. You have to paraphrase.”
Joel throws his hands up in the air and groans in frustration. “How do I say fuck off in a nice way?”
You and Tommy both laugh again, which only serves to piss Joel off even further. It’s not funny, not really; it’s just the dramatics of it all. And, truthfully, Tommy finds everything funny when he's with you.
“You write it,” Joel says, pushing the laptop towards you.
“That’s not gonna solve anything,” you say, shaking your head.
“What if I pay you?”
“Then you’ll be in the same situation next time. You’re gonna have to learn how to be a business owner, Joel. Not just a contractor.”
“Okay, so make it permanent, then,” Joel says, shrugging. “Like a…a receptionist. Come work for me and quit that coffee place. They don’t even offer health insurance.” He says it with such disdain, and Tommy knows exactly why.
They’d discussed it on the way home from work one afternoon. Too god damn smart for a place like that, Joel had said, and Tommy could do nothing but agree.
“I can’t quit my job to write your emails for you,” you argue.
“Not just that,” he says. “Can be in charge of payroll and schedules and the licensing bullshit. All the things I’m bad at. Weekends off, whatever hours you wanna work. I’ll pay you double what you’re makin’ now, and you get health insurance.”
Hesitation shows on your face. Tommy knows his brother means what he says, and he thinks you know it, too. But it’s a lot to consider. A big change.
“You’re good at talkin’ to people,” Joel continues, closing the laptop. “An’ it would mean a lot to me.”
That’s what does you in, Tommy knows. The nail in the coffin. He sees it in the way your shoulders drop and your eyes soften. Selfless girl, he thinks. Always taking care of the people you love. “What if I don’t like it?”
“You will,” Tommy answers. Because he knows Joel will take care of you, too. Make sure you have everything you might need. But more importantly, Tommy knows you. And even though he can sense the way it threatens his balance on that already thin line between safe and depraved, he knows you’ll enjoy it.
And he’s proven correct on that very first day.
Joel sets you up in the air-conditioned trailer they haul from job site to job site. Mostly, they use it to cool off during lunch, everyone piling into the small space for half an hour before going back out into the Texas heat.
The two of you spend most of the day going over all the contacts Joel’s acquired over the years, and how to schedule a consultation, and where to order materials. He gives you all of his passwords and clears off the cluttered desk that never gets used.
Everyone on the team is awfully eager to meet you, and Tommy’s no fucking idiot. He knows exactly what goes through their heads as they shake your hand and introduce themselves and stare a little too hard at the shadow of red lace beneath your thin white top.
They conveniently wait until Joel’s out of earshot before the comments start pouring out of their foul mouths.
Pretty little thing, ain’t she?
Joel’s got that livin’ under his roof? Christ. Poor old man.
You see the way those jeans fit her?
Is it too early to start callin’ Joel ‘pops’?
Tommy wonders briefly why they feel so comfortable saying shit like this in front of him, knowing who he is to you, but then realizes he’s said far worse in the past about girls half as pretty. They feel comfortable because in any other situation, he would be joining right in.
Noah’s the worst of it. Takes things a little too far when he says, “Stepdaughter videos ain’t number one on the hub for nothin’.”
Tommy clenches his teeth. Keeps his head down. Tries and fails to fight his smug ass smirk when you come grab his truck keys a little after four and return to the trailer wearing his Carhartt hoodie, the one he’d left in the back seat a couple days ago.
Later that night, Tommy follows you up to your room. Door wide open, with Sarah just across the hall and Joel and your mom downstairs. Not that he has any intentions other than checking in after your first day. It’s just…precautionary—an added layer of security to prevent a backslide.
He flops back in your unmade bed, hands folded behind his head, and watches a little too closely as you bend over to unlace your sneakers. “Well?”
You unclasp your necklace and drop it into a ceramic bowl on your dresser. “I loved it,” you admit. “It was a little stressful, but…I don’t know. I liked feeling like I could make a difference. Like I’m not just going in there to do my job and go home, I felt like I was being productive. It was nice.”
Tommy’s pleased to hear it. Loves the way your voice sounds in his ears. Happy, satisfied. He knows right then and there that he needs to set a firm boundary with Noah because you’re never going back to that coffee place, and Noah’s not going anywhere near you. “Said you’d like it, didn’t I?”
With a roll of your eyes, you sit beside him and pull your legs close to your chest, resting your chin on top of your knees. “Joel’s kind of a hard ass.”
It makes him laugh because it’s true. Can’t count on both his hands just how many times his brother has nitpicked the way things are done. He can only imagine the pressure you'd felt in that trailer, likely being told how to talk to this person or that one. “Only the beginning, darlin’,” Tommy says.
The sunlight leaks in through your bedroom window, sheer lace curtains casting rays of gold over your skin. You’re beautiful, Tommy thinks. Painfully so. Sometimes he’ll catch you at a certain angle, just like this one, and it makes his heart rate stutter.
In another world, Tommy wouldn’t let you out of sight fucking ever. Would accompany you whether you were going to a nightclub or if you were just going to the corner store. Because he knows from experience that all it would take for a man to fall to his knees before you is a single look from those pretty eyes. In another world, one where he wasn’t your Uncle Tommy, one where he could just be yours, he’d make damn sure you’d never need anything from another man.
Never need a door opened for you, never need to pay for a meal, never need to confide in anyone else. He’d take care of you. Do it all. Satisfy you in every way of the word because it’s what you deserve. He wants to take care of you, wants to be a provider.
Tommy supposes it’s what he’s always wanted, despite his actions reflecting the opposite. He wonders if maybe he’s just been waiting for you this whole time.
You ask, “What are you thinking about?”
And he doesn’t lie. “You.”
With a scoff, you playfully pinch his side. A sliver of his abdomen is exposed where his t-shirt has ridden up, and feeling you there is a shock to his nervous system.
And when your touch lingers, his body tingles, and his brain becomes foggy. Tommy Miller has never wanted anyone the way he wants you. Is reduced to the simplest, most carnally driven man just at the feel of your delicate fingertips on his skin.
Your attention is centered on your hand as you slowly move it across his soft belly, eyes hooded and filled with desire.
Tommy knows that look now. Knows the filthy thoughts invading your brain, knows exactly what you’re reminiscing about. He knows, too, that the balance is skewed. The longer he lies here with you, the closer he comes to caving. “Your turn,” he says. “Spill your guts.”
When you speak, your voice is quiet. A barely-there whisper. “It would be so easy, you know.”
He does. Has rolled the idea over in his head a million fucking times. “S’the problem,” Tommy explains. “Can’t stop myself twice.”
“Then don’t,” you say simply, continuing to run your fingers over his skin. He sees his favorite troublesome smirk begin to form on your sweet mouth and has to squeeze his eyes shut to keep himself from finding too much joy in it. “Could do it right here. Bet they’d never know.”
The edge of your pinky finger dips just below the waistband of his jeans. Barely there, but Tommy notices everything you do, and this is no exception, hyper aware of your every movement. He lets out a slow, shaking breath and swallows hard. He can’t bring himself to move or push you away like he knows he should. All he manages are two, hesitant words. “Ain’t right.”
Your response is quick. Honest and true. “I don’t care.”
It only makes his will to abstain that much harder. Knowing he isn’t alone in his longing, knowing you’re suffering in such a similar way…it hurts him just to think of it. But it’s different for you. Easier. Because you’re just at the beginning of your life, while he’s nearly halfway through his.
You have time to bounce back from this. To choose someone your age who’s a lot less twisted. Someone you don’t have to hide from the people closest to you, who you can kiss out in the open without shame.
And Tommy’s…well, Tommy knows there will never be anyone else for him. Has sat with that fact for quite some time. Accepted it by now, and considers himself lucky just to have had that one, stolen night.
Slowly, you move further down the mattress. The same one he once slept on that now belongs solely to you. You slot yourself between his strong thighs and his cock swells as you look up at him through your lashes.
There’s an experiment here, Tommy knows. The two of you are just alike. So similar that sometimes it frightens him. He can see the challenge in your eyes, testing the waters, seeing how far you can go before he pulls you back.
You lean forward, bracing yourself with your hands on his hips. And when you press your lips to the bulge in his jeans, Tommy bites back a moan.
This is too far, he knows. Way too fucking far.
His heart hammers in his chest. The door is still wide open, and everyone is home. All it would take is one person to walk down the hallway, and it would all be over.
But it would be easy. Quick, too—Tommy’s never had much control when it comes to you.
With a quick flick of your thumb, you pop open the silver button. Saliva gathers between your parted lips, mouth watering for a taste of him.
Tommy Miller is weak. Corrupted. Sick and twisted and perverted and— “Beautiful, baby,” he whispers. “You’re so fucking…Christ. You got any idea how fuckin’ pretty you are?”
He gently strokes your hair, and when you smile up at him, he grins right back. His cock is already hard but then you pull his zipper down with your teeth and Tommy thinks he might die without relief.
Sarah calls your name from across the hall.
You scramble away from each other, sitting at opposite ends of the bed seconds before she rounds the corner.
“Do you remember Summer? That girl from my biology class?” Sarah pays Tommy no mind as she sits beside you.
It’s not out of the ordinary for him to be in your room, after all. He’s the first to lend a helping hand when you get the urge to move your furniture around and has carried up your laundry from the basement countless times.
“Yeah, of course,” you say. “The one you…”
Sarah flushes a deep crimson. Her eyes flicker between your face and Tommy’s, and he’s smart enough to read the room.
“Guess that’s my cue,” he says, standing from the bed, tugging at the hem of his t-shirt.
You grab his hand as he walks past. Just briefly, but it turns his insides molten. One more lingering touch before he leaves. A way of saying, I don’t want you to go, but I know you have to.
Once out in the hallway, Tommy zips up his jeans and takes a few long, deep breaths before he goes downstairs to say goodbye to your mom and Joel. The two of them talk briefly, and Joel asks how you felt after your first day.
He says, “An’ I know you know that girl like the back of your hand, so don’t lie. She like it or not?”
Tommy isn’t quite sure why the words leave him feeling dizzy, but they do. He likes that he knows you so well and likes even more that the closeness you share is so visible. If he can’t outwardly call you his, if he can’t outwardly be yours, then he’ll take whatever this is. “She likes it.”
Joel’s shoulders sag in relief. “Good, cause she’ll make my life a hell of a lot easier.”
The next morning, Tommy stops by at seven to pick you and Joel up before heading to the job site. You carry a steaming travel mug in each hand, and before you climb into the back seat, you poke your head through the open driver's side window. “Just milk and sugar,” you say. “Right?”
He doesn’t know why you ask when you know the answer. “You didn’t have to do that, darlin’,” he says. But he happily takes the coffee anyway and takes a careful sip. It’s the perfect ratio. Tommy’s not surprised.
There’s a playful lilt to your voice as you say, “I usually take mine with cream, but we were all out. Thought maybe you could supply me with some.”
He laughs hard and shakes his head. “Un-fuckin’-believable,” he says through his mirth. He glances over the top of your head to see Joel locking the front door behind him.
You uncap the lid. “Well?”
His face burns, but Tommy thinks he’s never had such a perfect start to his day. “Get in the truck before you start somethin’ you can’t finish.”
“But that’s my favorite thing to do,” you whine, pushing your bottom lip out into a dramatic pout. You listen, though. Replace the lid and climb into the back seat behind him.
Tommy scoffs and says with a grin, “Don’t I know it.”
It doesn’t take long for you to get awfully good at your job. That first week alone, you manage to slice their payment for materials in half just by haggling with the lumber mill Joel’s bought wood from since the nineties. You accompany him to a handful of consultations, learning what to look for in a client and how to pick and choose which jobs are worth taking.
You convince Joel to buy a mini fridge for the trailer that you keep fully stocked with bottles of water. And when you bring in those electrolyte drink mixes, it’s all anyone talks about for days.
Noah says, “The peach one is my favorite. Wanna taste hers next.”
Everyone finds humor in it but Tommy.
The words come out sharper than intended. “Quit sayin’ shit like that, man.”
Noah laughs. Like it’s funny. “You’re telling me you don’t want a piece of that ass?”
“What I’m telling you is to shut your goddamn mouth,” Tommy answers. He stops digging through the sand they’ve been moving for the last hour, left hand squeezed tightly around the red handle of his shovel.
“It was a joke, Tommy. Lighten up.”
“Don’t care what it was,” he says, staring Noah in the eye. “I hear some shit like that again and I’ll fuck you up. You understand what I’m sayin’?”
Noah sizes him up, and for a split second Tommy thinks he just might be brave enough to step. But Noah just sneers and returns to the task at hand, an awkward silence lingering between the group of them.
But Tommy doesn’t care. Sits in that silence happily knowing he won’t have to listen to anyone speak about you like that anymore.
Joel cares, though. And on the way home, he says, “Mike told me about you giving Noah a hard time today. You two gonna have a problem?”
“Wait, what happened with Noah?” You slide to the center of the leather seat in the back of the cab.
“Nothing,” Tommy lies. “Ain’t gonna have a problem.”
Joel narrows his eyes in warning. “Good. 'Cause that’s the last thing we need right now. Behind enough as it is.”
He thinks that’s the end of it.
But then you say softly, “He asked me out the other day.”
“He what?” Tommy and Joel say it in perfect unison. Equally floored and equally irate.
Joel turns almost completely around in the passenger seat.
You raise your hands in surrender and look at Tommy through the rearview mirror. “Said he wanted to take me to dinner, and I told him I’d rather starve.”
“Listen to me,” Joel says with that stern, no bullshit dad voice he sometimes still uses on Sarah. “I don’t want you anywhere near those boys. Ain’t a single one worth a damn. Liars and cheaters and fucking criminals. All of ‘em.”
A crease forms between your brows. “So why the fuck did you hire them?”
“Cause they’re good at what they do,” Joel explains. “But that don’t make them good. Deserve better than that. You hear me, kid?”
“Yeah, I hear you. Keep it professional with everyone,” you say. “Except for Uncle Tommy.”
He chokes. Tries to cover it up with a cough, but it doesn’t work in the slightest. His hands pale around the steering wheel.
“Exactly,” Joel says.
Later that night, Tommy is smoking on the back porch when you step outside to join him. It’s the first moment he’s had alone with you all day. “You tryin’ to get me killed or somethin’?”
“Or something.” You lean back against the siding and shrug. “Kinda sounded like Joel’s blessing to me.”
“You’re fuckin’ trouble, girl.” Tommy chuckles and passes you his lit cigarette when you reach for it. “Joel wasted all that breath warnin’ you about those boys when he should be warnin’ them about you.”
“Yeah, probably. But you love it.”
Tommy can do nothing but agree because it’s the truest thing he’s ever heard. “Your birthday’s comin’ up soon,” he says, watching as you take the nicotine deep into your lungs. “Twenty-one. Anything you want?”
That too familiar smirk forms on your face, and Tommy knows what you’re going to say before you even open your mouth. Can see all those filthy thoughts behind your eyes, can almost hear whatever dirty joke you’ve got locked and loaded on the tip of your tongue.
“Don’t even fuckin’ start with me,” he warns, a playfulness to his voice. But there’s no weight to it. Your inability to take anything seriously is one of his favorite things about you.
Your lips part in a mockery of surprise. “I didn’t even say anything!”
“Didn’t have to,” he says, plucking the cigarette from between your fingers. “Give me something realistic.”
“Okay…” You tap your index finger against your chin, contemplating. “What about…a pearl necklace,” you say with the sweetest, most innocent smile.
Tommy laughs. Can’t help himself. “Alright, you know what? I take it back. You only get gifts if you’re good.”
He thinks the sound of your giggling might be the only thing that’s ever truly brought him peace. Finds comfort in your joy, in knowing you’re happy. But when your laughter dies down, there’s a sad sort of look in your eye. A melancholic longing.
Then you quietly say, “I just want you.” And Tommy’s ears ring.
This is what hurts him the most. The heavy truth of it.
He’d known that taking your closeness to new heights would change him in irreparable ways. Known that nothing would ever compare, and he was ready and willing to live the rest of his life with that dull ache in his chest. Welcomed the haunting of emptiness with open arms because it was you and it was him and that one fucking night was yours.
But Tommy wasn’t the only one who’d been changed by it. Wasn’t the only one to suffer in the aftermath.
He wants to comfort you. Wants to take your hands in his and kiss each of your knuckles until his lips turn blue. He doesn’t move, though. Not even an inch. Because he’s never felt nearer to a relapse than he does when you look at him like that. Like you see him. Like he’s all you see.
“I’m right here,” he says. “Always will be.”
Tommy means it. He thinks he would follow you anywhere just to feel the faintest warmth of your affection.
It seems to satisfy you. For now, at least. You give him the tiniest smile, a half effort, but it soothes the sting for him, too. Just a little.
Your birthday falls on a Friday. Tommy gets up early and stops at a bakery before heading to Joel’s, and is pleased when he uses the key under the mat to find that the house is quiet. Still.
He creeps up the stairs and slips soundlessly into your room. The day is just beginning, and the light of dawn spills through your cracked window. Tommy sits on the edge of your bed and tucks a stray piece of hair behind your ear.
When he presses a gentle kiss to your forehead, you stir and stretch out your limbs. Your voice is tired and filled with sleep as you ask, “Uncle Tommy?”
“Happy birthday, sweetheart,” he whispers. He cradles your face in his hands and strokes your cheek with his thumb as clarity slowly finds you.
You smile up at him with starry eyes, and Tommy’s stomach flips. You’re so good, so perfect that sometimes he wonders how the fuck you’re even real.
“C’mon,” he says. “Sit up for me. Got you somethin’.”
Tommy holds your hands when you reach for him and pulls you forward. You push yourself up the rest of the way and fold your legs over one another beneath the blankets.
It’s only at that precise moment that Tommy realizes you’re wearing one of his t-shirts and the sight of it steals the air right from him. He likes it—loves it. Loves that a piece of him lives here with you. In your closet, in your room, in your sheets.
He’s not quite sure how you ended up with it, though. Thinks he might’ve left it on a lawn chair after spending an afternoon in Joel’s pool, or missed it in the dryer when the ones at his apartment were out of order.
But then you say, reading his every thought, “I stole it.”
Tommy laughs. “Think you’re supposed to ask before you take things that aren’t yours.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” You lean forward, lips an inch away from his ear. “And I know I’m not the only one with sticky fingers, Uncle Tommy.”
His face burns. He thinks of your cherry lip gloss on his bathroom sink and your tank top on the right side of his bed and your lace panties in his nightstand. Tommy thinks he should know better than to hide things from you anymore. You’re too close, too similar. “Caught me,” Tommy mutters.
And then he digs his lighter out of the front pocket of his jeans and lights the ten cent candle he’d found at the back of Joel’s junk drawer. He sticks it into the center of the cupcake he’d picked out just for you—lemon flavored, with vanilla frosting and lime colored sprinkles.
He holds it between you and says, “Make a wish, birthday girl.”
The flame flickers as your gaze darts between Tommy’s eyes and his mouth. You smile widely, and he can’t resist mirroring your joy. Feels it as thoroughly as if it were his own. Tommy’s never cared much for his birthday, but he feels overwhelmed with gratitude for yours. Thankful.
You close your eyes, make your silent wish, and then blow out the candle. He unwraps the wax paper for you, crumbs sticking to his fingers, and laughs when you take a bite and let out a blissful moan. “Holy shit,” you say.
Tommy feels pride bloom in his chest. Thinks pleasing you might be his favorite thing on the planet. “S’good?”
“It’s fucking amazing,” you answer. And then you turn the cupcake towards him. “I’m not kidding. Try it.”
He does. Leans forward and takes a careful bite right from your hands. You’re not wrong, either. The lemon is refreshing, and the vanilla buttercream is the perfect sweetness. Tommy nods as you take another bite. “Christ,” he says. “Worth every damn penny.”
You touch your thumb to the corner of your mouth. “You’ve got frosting on your face,” you say with a teasing grin.
Tommy wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “I get it?”
“More to the left,” you instruct. But when he tries again, Tommy knows it’s still there when you hold in your laughter. And then you say, “Can I…?”
Tommy doesn’t understand right away why you even ask. You’re always laying your head on his shoulder or draping your legs over his or running your hands through his hair. This is no different, nothing out of the ordinary.
But when he nods, you lean forward and lick the frosting off his bottom lip.
It freezes him in time. Seconds feel like minutes as they tick by. He can feel the wetness of your tongue on his mouth, and you linger. Close enough that he can taste the sugar on your breath.
His morals hang in the balance. Sobriety threatened. Tommy Miller wants you so badly that he starts to wonder if you’re some fucked up form of punishment. Karmic justice for all those hearts he’s broken in his youth, just to be denied the one woman he’s ever truly wanted.
When you speak, it’s breathless. Nearly inaudible. “Kiss me.”
It is your birthday, after all.
He fights the intensity that batters against his every impulse and instead presses his mouth to yours gently. Unhurried. So much different than the first kiss you’d shared. Your lips move against his in sync, one soul split into two bodies, whole again for the first time in months.
Tommy thinks it’s just instinct when his tongue meets yours. You taste just as he remembers. A little warm and a little honeyed and a little like opium.
When you pull away, he feels the loss like a knife.
But then you cover your mouth with your hand and laugh, elation spilling through your fingers, and it’s like a balm to his heart.
Around another mouthful of confectionery, you insist, “Here. Have some more.”
Tommy sits there with you, waiting for the sun to rise, and the two of you share your birthday cupcake before the rest of the world wakes. You close your eyes and drop your shoulders as if it’s the most delicious thing you’ve ever eaten, giggling between each bite.
It’s such a soft, quiet moment. Only the two of you. For just a little while, you have nowhere to be, no one to perform for. It’s just you, and it’s just him, and when you take the last bite, Tommy licks the frosting from your fingertips.
Joel’s alarm echoes down the hallway, and Tommy taps the tip of your nose, delighting in the pretty way it scrunches in response. “I’ll see you outside,” he says. “Happy birthday, darlin’.”
On the way to work, Joel asks about your plans for the weekend, and you tell him about how your friends are taking you to that new bar that just opened up downtown. He warns you to be careful, tells you it’s been packed full of people every time he’s driven by it, and says to call if you need anything.
You promise you will.
For dinner, your mom makes all your favorite foods, and Sarah gifts you a handmade pony bead bracelet. She wears a matching one on her wrist with the colors inverted, and they both say 4EVER in little black letters.
When Tommy returns to his empty apartment that night, it’s with a deep sadness. He tries to drown it out. Showers off the sweat of the day and watches something mind-numbing on television. But the main character in the sitcom rerun makes a dirty joke, and he can almost hear you laughing at it beside him.
Everything reminds him of you.
He thinks about calling one of the women he’s hooked up with on and off throughout the years, but the problem is that Tommy knows how that ends. Knows he’ll ask them to leave halfway through, and he’ll lie there, unsatisfied and painfully in love with a girl he can never have.
His longing chokes him until he’s devoid of breath, of life. Just a shell of a man without you.
This is the wretched low he pays for those highs, Tommy knows. And he pays it without complaint because the highs are heavenly. Fucking spiritual.
He goes to sleep every night without regret. This emptiness is oppressive, but his love for you is transcendent.
His phone rings a little after one in the morning.
Your voice is slurred when you speak. “Uncle Tommy?”
Something’s wrong. He doesn’t know how he knows, but he does. Can hear it in your voice. “Where are you?”
There’s faint music in the background. “That new bar on Sixth Street. Can you…I’m sorry. Can you come get me?”
He’s out of bed and pulling on his jeans before you finish asking. “I’m on my way, baby. What happened?”
You say, “I’m not…I’m not sure,” and Tommy’s heart sinks.
Because whatever it is is bad. Can feel it in his fucking bones. “Are you alone? Who’s with you, sweetheart? Where are your friends?”
“No, I…I’m just really—I had too much to drink, I think. There’s just so many people and I don’t wanna be here anymore.”
The new bar is halfway across town, but Tommy makes it in six minutes. It’s at capacity, just as he’d anticipated, all the townsfolk trying to see for themselves what all the hype is about. Tommy might recognize a few faces if he gave anyone but you half a second of thought, but he doesn’t.
He makes a beeline for the women's restroom at the back of the bar and ignores the scowls he receives from the two girls touching up their makeup in the mirror. He calls your name and finds you in the very last stall, sitting on the floor, arms wrapped around your legs.
Tommy breathes a little easier when he sees you. Knows that with him, you’ll be safe. He kneels at your side and tucks your hair behind your ear. “Hey, sweetheart.”
You let out the softest whimper. “Uncle Tommy,” you say, voice filled with affection. “You came.”
“Course I did. S’alright. C’mon.” He tucks his arms beneath you and pulls you to your feet. Supports your weight almost entirely as he leads you out of the crowded bar and back to his truck.
When he leans over your slumped frame to try and buckle your seatbelt, you start peppering the side of his face with sloppy kisses.
He says, “Okay, alright一would you just一sit still一”
But he doesn’t mean it. Not really. You’re a giggly mess of a girl, reaching for the hem of his t-shirt and sliding your cold hands over his too-warm skin. “You’re just.” Kiss. “So.” Kiss. “Fucking cute.” Kiss.
Tommy’s smiling hard, but pushes you away as much as he hates to. “Cute, huh? Don’t know about all that, sweet girl.” He finally latches your seatbelt and quickly rounds the truck to the driver's side.
You're reaching for him the moment you can, arms outstretched and fingers grabbing for him. “Hold my hand,” you say, and of course he does. Kisses your knuckles as the engine roars to life.
Tommy says, “Let’s get you home.”
And you respond sleepily, “You’re my home.”
He tries not to read too much into it. Knows you’re just sappy and drunk. You don’t mean it. Not really. Tommy’s seen you trashed before. Has covered for you countless times and has all those drunken texts you’ve sent him memorized. You’re always like this. Loving and overly affectionate, a happy drunk to your core.
But you’ve never said anything that moved him quite this much.
Home.
What a perfect way to describe it.
But he just shakes his head. “How much have you had, kid?”
You toss your head back and laugh like it’s the silliest question he ever could’ve asked. “Too much! That’s why I called!”
Still holding tight to his hand, you roll down your window all the way. The air is cold but fresh, filling the cab of his truck with the scent of the early morning dew. You lean your head against the leather frame and close your eyes.
Tommy’s not quite sure when you fall asleep because your hand remains in his, squeezing tight even in your unconsciousness. He checks on you every couple of seconds, monitoring your breathing and the soft, slumbering noises you make.
He hates to wake you, but does it anyway when he returns to his apartment. You groan in defiance when he makes you stand, and it takes everything in him not to give in and carry you.
“I know, baby, I know. But I need you awake for a little while longer,” he says. “Gotta get some food and water in you first, okay?”
You fight him each step of the way. Defy Tommy’s every instruction, once bubbly demeanor now replaced with agitation. But once he’s got you inside, he lets out a sigh of relief. He lays you on the couch and disappears into the kitchen for only long enough to make some toast and fill a tall glass with icy water.
He holds your head up with one hand and tilts the cup against your mouth with the other, doing everything for you apart from the actual hydrating. You eat the toast slowly and argue between each bite, but he persists.
While you sleep, Tommy sits on the floor beside you. Half monitoring, half admiring.
He doesn’t take his eyes off you for a single second. Even though exhaustion weighs down his limbs, Tommy is more concerned about you than he is about himself. He spends the night stroking your hair and making you drink a little more water each time you stir in your sleep.
A few times, you wake up completely, turning over to try and find comfort. You whine and sniffle, and Tommy repeats the same tender words until you fall back asleep. “You’re alright. I’m still right here. Uncle Tommy’s got you.”
It’s late by the time you sober up, almost noon. Tommy’s back aches from sitting on the hardwood for so long, and he needs a coffee or a nap or both—but the important thing is you. Always you.
You smile when you see him, and it’s so warm. A kindness that he’s only ever received from you.
It’s a visceral reaction, his mouth pulling up at the corners. Like he just can’t help it. He sees your happiness and feels it, too. “Hey,” he whispers.
“Hi,” you say. And then you grab his big hand and press it against the side of your face. Tommy can feel your joy, can feel the way the muscles strain as you fight off your sleepy giggles.
He runs the pad of his thumb gently over your cheekbone. “How’re you feeling?”
“Like my head’s going to explode,” you say, voice filled with so much faux cheer that it’s comical.
Tommy chuckles and stands to his feet, knees cracking. “Let me get you some aspirin.”
He’s not at all surprised when you follow him to the bathroom, never far for very long. While he sifts through his medicine cabinet, you sit on the edge of the tub. “Can I tell you something?”
“Always,” Tommy promises. He dumps two aspirin into his palm and hands them to you.
It takes a second before you speak. You turn the little pink tablets over and over in your hand, eyes downcast. And then you say, “I was too drunk and overwhelmed last night, but that isn’t what scared me. Noah was there.”
Tommy’s heart sinks to his feet. His jaw clenches, his knuckles turn white.
“He kept…I don’t know. He wanted to take me home, and I was dodging him all night, but he just wouldn’t take no for an answer. Followed me for an hour, trying to change my mind. He didn’t…didn’t do anything, but it freaked me out.”
Tommy thinks he’s never wanted to hurt another man so badly in his life. He takes a deep breath, makes sure his rage isn’t fueled by any rash decision. And then he leaves the bathroom and finds his shoes. “I’m going to fucking kill him.”
“Wait—Tommy, please don’t.” You follow, clawing at the back of his t-shirt. “Please.”
The fear in your voice stops him. He thinks maybe you don’t quite understand the gravity of the situation, so he tries to explain. “Can’t let this one go,” he says, shaking his head. “Not—Christ. Not this. He doesn’t get to make you that uncomfortable and get away with it. Fuck no.”
“I love that job,” you reason. “And I promised Joel—!”
“He’ll be just as pissed when he finds out—”
“I don’t want him to find out. Please, don’t.”
Tommy takes your hands between his. “Do you understand how much worse it could have been?” Tommy feels sick, thinking back on all those times Noah had made jokes about roofies and Tommy had just discounted it as dark humor. “Ruined your fuckin’ birthday,” he grumbles.
You say, “He didn't ruin it. I got to spend it with you, didn’t I? That’s all I wanted.”
He squeezes his eyes shut. Tommy can’t hear such sweet words when he’s like this—hot and angry and murderous. “No.” He shakes his head. “He doesn’t get to—”
“If Joel fires me for this, I will never forgive you,” you suddenly say, voice holding a cutting edge.
Tommy doesn’t understand. “What? Sweetheart, he’s not going to be mad at you, okay? You’ve done nothing wrong. Nothing. Joel will understand why I have to do this. He’s going to be mad at Noah, baby, not you.”
“Who I swore not to cause issues with!” Tears well in your wide eyes, and Tommy feels something inside his chest crack wide open. He’s never seen you cry before, not like this.
He pulls you into an embrace. Holds you tight against his chest, arms wrapped around your shoulders. His hands shake, unable to get a handle on either his anger or his despair.
Against his shoulder blade, you murmur, “Promise me you won’t tell Joel.”
And Tommy does. Swears to keep this as far away from you as possible. He refuses to make matters worse for you and, Christ, the sight of you crying makes him fucking miserable. He’s never hated anything more.
Once you sniffles subside, you lift your head and say, “I smell fucking awful.”
Tommy laughs, tension bleeding from his shoulders. “Go shower. I’ll find you some clothes.”
He picks out an old t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants with a drawstring, sets them on the bathroom sink and decides to make you breakfast. But Tommy notices quickly that his eggs are expired, and the box of cereal on top of the fridge has gone stale. He has nothing to offer you, and he’s not sure why, but the realization leaves him feeling hollow.
Eternal bachelor with nothing to his name. You can never be his, and Tommy knows this, but he thinks maybe if he were…better, somehow, that maybe you could be. But you’re too good for him. Too sweet, too lovely, too you.
And Tommy’s…well. He’s Tommy. And just because you look at him like he puts the stars in the sky doesn’t mean he actually does. He’s not like Joel, never has been. Has always gotten into trouble, doing things he knows he shouldn’t. Fighting or drinking or just being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Tommy’s never had his shit together a day in his life, and you deserve someone who can take care of you. Someone less disappointing.
Someone who can make you breakfast, for fucks sake.
He feels you before he sees you一your warmth at his back. Tommy’s eyes flutter closed when you slip your arms around his waist and lay your head in the space between his broad shoulders.
You say, “Thank you for always keeping me safe,” and Tommy wonders how the fuck you always know exactly what to say. Like you’re in his brain, somehow—a sixth sense finely tuned precisely to him.
Emotion bubbles up in his throat. Thick and smothering. He loves you, Tommy knows. Has never and will never love anyone like this again.
“You make me so happy.” There’s a tenderness in your words, soothing his every ache. “I wouldn’t know what to do without you.”
Tommy turns in your embrace. Cradles your face in both hands and promises, “You’ll never have to find out. M’always gonna be here for you.”
You kiss him, and Tommy lets you, even knowing he shouldn’t. It’s a little different than the one you’d shared at dawn in your bedroom. A little more heated, filled with clear intent.
He can sense it. Feel it in your every movement. Knows just what you want, what you need, and slips his tongue into your mouth when your lips part anyway. Let's you tilt your hips against his, feeling the growing hardness there, and swallows up your moan as he slots his knee between your legs.
His breath comes fast, and he’s aware of just how wrong it is, but you make him feel so important. Like you really, truly want him. Not for the things he does but just for him—flaws and disappointments and all.
An addict who always craves your fix.
You rock your hips against his knee and breathe a sigh of relief into his mouth. Tommy helps you, grabbing at your soft thighs and pulling you back and forth to increase the friction.
It’s too much. Too far.
This isn’t a drunken night. It’s the morning after. Stone cold sober, inexcusable.
“We should stop.”
“I know,” you say. But neither of you takes your own advice. He only kisses you harder, soaking up all of your benevolence for as long as he can. You slide your hand between your bodies and palm his cock through his jeans.
The surety of your touch is dizzying. You want him. It’s clear as day, but he wants to hear you. “Say it.”
You don’t hesitate, reading him like an open book. Tommy suppose, for you, he is. With sugary sweet words, you admit, “I need you, Uncle Tommy.”
He’s never been good at denying you anything. “I know, baby.” In one swift movement, he lifts you off your feet, and your legs wrap instinctively around his waist. He kneels down and lays you back, right there on the kitchen floor, and tugs your borrowed sweatpants down your thighs.
You kick them out of the way, and he pushes your t-shirt up over your breasts. “Touch me,” you sigh.
Tommy presses his mouth to the center of your chest. Inhales deeply, taking the familiar scent of you into his lungs. He cups your breasts in his big hands, the rough pads of his thumbs grazing over the peaks of your nipples.
He kisses and licks and bites down the center of your belly, leaving shallow indentations in the shape of his teeth on each of your hips. When he presses his mouth to your pubic bone, Tommy leans back just enough to get a full look at you. “You’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.”
A soft flush crawls up your cheeks. “I’ve missed you so much,” you say.
Tommy understands. Even though he’s been right here, right by your side, he hasn’t been completely honest until this very moment. Not with you, and not with himself, and not since that night in his bed.
It’s like being unclothed. Bare boned. You both know the truth of it, know that he’s your Uncle Tommy and that it’s corrupt and perverted for him to be here, kneeling between your legs. But he’s here anyway, and his mouth is watering, and he fucking loves the sounds you make when his slides his tongue through your slit.
He licks up the wetness that has gathered, groaning at the heady taste of you. Your hands tangle in his hair when he circles your clit with a pointed tongue, drooling down his chin.
With one arm wrapped tightly around your thigh, keeping you in place, Tommy uses the other to gently press his two middle fingers into you. The sight of your arched back is extraordinary; the kind of goddess-like beauty the poets write about. Your pussy clenches around his fingers when he twists them inside of you and pushes firmly against that spot that has you writhing.
“That’s so一” You inhale sharply. “Fuck, it’s so good.”
It pleases him to hear it. Loves knowing that in this, he can never fail you. Tommy sucks your clit into his mouth, tongue flicking over the sensitive nerves, and thrusts his fingers a little faster. He thinks he’ll never grow tired of this. Of the way you taste, the way you sound, the way you call his name.
“Oh, God. Please don’t stop, please.” He wouldn’t dream of it. Your body shakes beneath him, thighs trembling in the grip of his rough palm. He can feel your walls pulse around his fingers, and Tommy knows you’re close.
When he pulls his mouth away, he slides his thumb easily through your folds to swipe it over your clit. “You’re so fuckin’ wet, baby,” he murmurs, kissing your soft belly. “Your pretty pussy always get this messy?”
You shake your head and say brokenly, “No, it’s just…just for—hmm—just—oh my God—”
“Shh,” he coos, chuckling lowly. “S’okay. I know it’s just for me. I know how much she likes it when Uncle Tommy kisses her like this.” He angles his hand and pushes it deeper inside of you, cock throbbing at the way you soak his fingers. “Give it to me.”
With a stuttering breath, you let out a salacious moan and your orgasm hits you hard. Your hands tug at the curling strands of his hair, your every muscle tenses, and your spine bends off the linoleum. His name falls so fucking beautifully from your sweet mouth, and Tommy wants to taste it.
So he does. Slides up your body and presses a kiss to your lips. You whimper into his mouth and he swallows down the sounds of your bliss like fine wine. “There you go,” he whispers tenderly. His thumb on your clit doesn’t slow until he’s sure he’s pulled every last drop out of you. “S’that feel better, sweetheart?”
You nod and giggle softly, a wide grin stretched across your face. The moment is filled with such happiness that it warms him from the inside out.
And even though his cock aches, Tommy thinks this alone is enough to satiate him. Enough to curb that craving, just seeing your pupils blown wide and the pretty flush on your face. Knowing you’re fulfilled and content and that he’s the one who’d brought you to that high does wonders for his confidence.
“You’re so good at that,” you say, and it makes him laugh.
“Can’t get enough of you,” he explains, kissing you hard. “Could eat you all fuckin’ day and still feel hungry.”
Tommy laughs when you turn your head to press your face into your shoulder, hiding the way your nervous smile grows.
“Don’t go gettin’ all shy on me now, darlin’,” he says, pressing his stubbled cheek to the side of your throat. He presses his lips to the curve of your jaw and grins when goosebumps form on the back of your neck. “Uncle tommy just had your pretty pussy in his mouth. Least you can do is look him in the eye when he tells you how fuckin’ good it tastes.”
He can feel the way your spine bends, pressing your body firmly against his. But you’re a giggling mess beneath him, squealing at his filthy words as if worse hasn’t come out of your mouth.
“S’alright if you ain’t got nothin’ more to say,” Tommy tells you. “Gonna have to start from the beginning ‘til you learn to use your words again.” His mouth moves down the column of your throat, leaving hot, open-mouthed kisses down to your collarbone.
He’s slow in his pursuit, listening to the way your breaths become shallower and shallower as he lowers his head to the valley between your breasts. When he makes it to that sweet spot just below your navel, he stops.
“Wait,” you say, and he does. “I want…more.”
Tommy knows. He knows, and yet still, he urges, “Tell me, baby.”
“I want you.”
He thinks suddenly about the conversation you’d had on Joel’s back porch. The last time you’d admitted that you wanted him, that he’s all you wanted. Tommy doesn’t understand it, in truth. Will never understand what the fuck you see in him or why you not only give him the time of day but why you seek him out.
But what he does understand is this.
Tommy sees your need and matches it. Exceeds it.
You slide your hand down your body, fingers slipping through the wetness between your thighs. “Want you here,” you say. “I need it, Uncle Tommy.”
He knows he shouldn’t.
But you want him. And that’s the best high of all.
“M’comin, sweet girl,” he promises. He leans back on his knees and grabs his shirt by the back of the collar, pulling it over his head. You watch him with half-lidded eyes as he undoes the button of his jeans and pulls down his zipper, and Tommy watches you. “You’re so fuckin’ beautiful,” he murmurs, shoving the denim down around his hips just enough to take his heavy cock out.
You take him in your delicate hand and press his tip to your clit, sliding it slowly through your slick folds. Such a gentle movement, but it has his breath stuttering already, and Tommy has no fucking idea how he’s going to make this last. “Go slow,” you say. “Wanna feel every inch.”
Tommy notches himself at your entrance and does just as you ask. Pushes into you so carefully it’s almost painful. His every instinct urges him to surge forward, to split you open and bury himself inside of you. But the whimpers you make as you adjust to the stretch he creates keep his head on straight.
It’s the most pornographic image he’s ever seen, watching your sweet pussy greedily swallow up his cock. You’re so wet, dripping for him, and it makes these obscene sounds with each pressing inch that has Tommy’s heart beating hard against his sternum.
“Shit,” he hisses. “You feel so good, baby.” Once he’s fully seated inside you, his waist pressed against yours, Tommy rolls his hips, and the movement has you gasping. He can feel your walls clamp down around him, and it only spurs him on more. He does it again, a gentle pressure at the deepest part of you he can reach.
“It’s so—so big,” you whine, fingernails clawing at the back of his shoulders.
Tommy only smiles. Kisses your mouth tenderly and says, “You can take it. Hm? My perfect girl. Made just for me.”
One of his hands slide up the back of your thigh, hooking your leg around his waist, while the other comes to circle your clit. He can feel your body’s reaction, can feel the way you squeeze tight around his cock.
You nod frantically, the beginnings of tears welling in the corners of your eyes. You breathe out the word, “Yours,” and he feels his orgasm threatening already, building at the base of his spine. “I’m all yours.”
Tommy circles your clit and sets a steady pace. Fucks you slow, fucks you deep. Just how you need it, delighting in your moans. He presses his mouth softly to your temple, your cheek, and spends a little extra time with his teeth at that spot just behind your ear. “Look at me, baby,” he says, nudging his nose against yours.
When you do, your eyes are all starry in that way he loves, filled with awe. You’re the only person to ever look at him like that, with not an ounce of disappointment. It’s like you’re just happy he exists, and Tommy feels emotion build in his throat.
“Don’t stop,” you say, and so he quickens his pace, circling your clit faster. “Don’t stop, God, I’ve—I’ve missed you so bad, Uncle Tommy.”
It’s the most dizzying thing he’s ever heard. It nearly tips him over that edge. But he needs to feel you first, needs to make sure you get everything you need. “Yeah, I know it,” he says tenderly, thrusting in deep. “Missed my baby, too.”
He thinks it’s an understatement. Feels wrong, saying he’s only missed you when he’s thought of nothing else.
Tommy knows you’re close, can feel the way you pulse around him, breathe stuttering. “That’s it,” he mutters. “You gonna cum for your Uncle Tommy? Hm?”
“Fuck, fuck, I’m—”
“S’good, baby,” he whispers against your mouth, keeping his rhythm. “So fucking good for me.”
Your moans echo off the walls as you reach that peak, thighs trembling around his hips. He can feel a rush of moisture against his cock and he tears a low sound from somehwere deep in his chest.
He doesn’t stop, chasing his own high, even when you start to squirm beneath him. His fingers stay circling your pretty clit, ratcheting the pleasure higher and higher until—
“My face,” you suddenly say. “Want you to cum on my face.”
Tommy thinks you’re going to be the death of him.
Perfect, filthy girl.
He pulls out of you quickly, orgasm dangerously near. You prop yourself up, palms against the kitchen floor behind you, while Tommy takes his cock in his hand and squeezes. “Goddamn,” he groans. “Ask me nice.”
With the prettiest, most innocent smile, you say, “Cum on my face, Uncle Tommy. Please, please, please.” You stick out your tongue and look up at him, and that’s what does him in. The fucking love in your eyes.
Tommy cums hard, stroking his cock over top of you. Sticky, white ropes of his release coat your face, leaving splotches on your cheeks, your chin, down your chest. It’s disgusting. Easily the worst thing he’s ever done in all his life.
But when he’s finished and his cock begins to soften, you swipe the mess off your chin and push it onto your tongue and moan. Like it’s everything you’ve ever wanted. And any remorse he once had vanishes into thin air because how can he be sorry when you look so happy?
You giggle and say, “Guess I got that pearl necklace after all,” and Tommy has to look away to keep from laughing too hard.
He cleans you up with a hand towel and water from the kitchen sink, shoulders a little lighter. And once you’ve got his borrowed clothes back on, Tommy watches with reverence as you move around his kitchen as if you belong in it.
You open the freezer and go right for the half empty carton of mint chip ice cream. It’s your first choice. Not expired eggs or stale cereal.
Seeing it gives him a flicker of false hope.
Because he knows he can’t be what you need forever. Knows he won’t keep you in the end, knows that whatever this is isn’t sustainable. But maybe he can just…keep you happy to the best of his ability. Just for now.
You only grab one spoon but offer him the first bite. “Mint chip is the best flavor by a fucking mile,” you say. “And anyone who says otherwise is delusional.”
“Keep that up when Sarah finds out it’s your favorite,” Tommy insists. “Cause she’ll fuckin’ tear you apart. Believe me, I know from experience.”
Laughter falls from your lips when he hands you the spoon. “Oh, I know. Was a victim of her chocolate chip cookie dough defense monologue, too.”
Tommy’s phone rings on the kitchen counter, and he swallows hard when he sees Joel’s name flash across the screen. When he answers, there’s a trace of alarm in Joel’s voice as he asks if he’s seen you. “Just a little concerned is all. Figured her phone’s dead or somethin’ but…haven’t heard back since last night. Just wanted to make sure she got somewhere safe.”
He’s never lied to Joel in all his life, and Tommy knows he would sense it the minute he tried. So he tells as much of the truth as he can. “Yeah, she uh…called me early this morning. Picked her up from that bar an’ let her crash on the couch. I’ll be bringin’ her home in a minute.”
You gather your things, and Tommy tries not to let that sliver of emptiness trickle in too fast. You’re still here, still with him, and this moment still belongs to you even at its close.
Like always, you sense his gloom before it’s even fully hit. And when he pulls into Joel’s driveway, you thread your fingers through his and say, “Stay for dinner. I miss you already.”
Tommy knows he shouldn’t. Knows that feeling lightheaded just from your words alone is a real problem for him.
summary: Tommy meets Joel's new girlfriend and takes a twisted liking to her live-in daughter.
pairing: step uncle!Tommy Miller x f!Reader
warnings: explicit sexual content MDNI. step-cest, age gap (unspecified, but reader is 19/20, Tommy in his early-mid 30s), unprotected piv, oral sex (both f! and m! receiving), attempted seduction (from reader), pussy pronouns, praise, dirty talk, creampie, begging, dacryphilia, alcohol consumption, no outbreak AU, Tommy POV
note: genuinely this is the filthiest most diabolic thing I've ever written and I'm absolutely terrified to post it!!! if it's not your cup of tea pls keep scrolling, and if you do read it, let me know what you think!! also, I wrote the nightclub scene with the song Feel So Close by Calvin Harris in mind (iykyk), but feel free to imagine whatever you like!
wc: 12.1k
[series masterlist]
[main masterlist] [AO3]
You’ve always been close.
Since that first night you’d met in Joel’s kitchen, Tommy has always felt drawn to you. Like you were one and the same. Two peas in a fucking pod, despite how…indecent it sometimes felt.
It was late summer. Hot. Your mother and Joel had arranged a dinner. They’d wanted everyone to ‘get to know each other.’ Grilled burgers and made pasta salad and poured glasses of cheap champagne. The whole nine yards.
Joel had warned Tommy about you ahead of time. Talked about his new girlfriend’s daughter, about how you were a bit…wild. Impulsive. Too pretty and too smart for your own good.
You’re a couple of years older than Sarah, freshly out of high school with a devil-may-care attitude. The two of you get along well—Sarah thinks the whispered comments you pour in her ear all night are just hilarious. The two of you spend most of the afternoon on the side of the pool chattering while Tommy…well, Tommy certainly feels a bit like a third wheel.
He knows it’s not intentional. Joel isn’t like that, he’s just…excited. He loves your mom and is eager to start this new chapter of his life, to expand his family the way he’s always wanted to. And your mom is nice enough. Sweet and easy going, a good match for his brother. But she’s a mom. And Joel’s Joel.
It’s Saturday night, and Tommy Miller is bored half to death sipping champagne and watching two teenage girls giggle over something on their cell phones.
And it’s not like he can leave right away. At least, not until after his desert has settled. But he knows where Joel keeps the good liquor, and dismisses himself in search of it.
He’s pouring two shots of whiskey into a glass tumbler when he hears the back door open. Tommy expects it to be Joel, coming to offer a penny for his thoughts. He opens his mouth to soothe his brother's nerves, to reassure him that his other half does fit him as perfectly as it seems. To tell him that he’s crazy for letting another little girl live under his roof, to warn him it’ll be double the hormones and double the attitude, but if it makes him happy…
“Hey.”
It’s not Joel who speaks at all. It’s your voice, soft but sultry. Tommy smiles at you over his shoulder. “Hey, kiddo.”
You saddle up to his side, so close your elbow brushes his as you lean on the counter, eyes focused on his hands as he pours. “This is the most boring party I’ve ever been to,” you say with a dispirited sigh.
It makes Tommy laugh. He sets the bottle down and lifts the tumbler to his mouth, grinning all the while. “Can’t say this little soirée is particularly, uh…exhilarating,” he says, sipping from his glass.
He can feel your attention on him, hotter even than the burn of the whiskey. Your eyes slide down the column of his throat, over his chest, stopping at his waist. You turn your head the smallest bit, not dissimilar to that of a curious little puppy. Crude and shameless in your examination. You look back up to find him staring at you, unable and unwilling to fight his knowing smirk. “Can I have some of that?”
“You old enough?” Tommy doesn’t even know why he asks, because he already knows the answer.
With a shrug of your shoulders and a sweet little smile, you say, “No. But it’s not like it would be my first time. No cherry to pop here.”
Filthy mouth for a girl your age. Funny, though. It’s kind of endearing. He was an awful lot younger than you are now when he started drinking. The first time he’d blacked out had been his sophomore year of high school—barely sixteen, woke up in the middle of a field two hours away from home. He’d had to use a pay phone to get ahold of Joel to come pick him up.
And it’s better this way, isn’t it? To do it at home, surrounded by people who care about you. Who will keep you safe. It’s not like one drink’s going to put you on your ass, anyway.
He nods slowly. “Alright,” he says, opening the cupboard to find another tumbler.
You stop him, delicate hand around his wrist. “Are you crazy? That’s evidence.”
Tommy furrows his brows. “What, the cup? I’ll wash it when you’re done. S’alright.”
“Waste of time.” You take the whiskey and twist off the cap, pushing the smooth glass bottle into his hands. “You know how to waterfall without drowning me?”
He likes you, Tommy thinks. Probably more than he should. He gets that familiar tug in his lower abdomen, the one that urges him to move closer, to speak slower.
It’s a little fucked up, he knows. You’re so young, and odds are your mom will marry into the family, and then you’d be…well, you’d be his niece. Kind of.
His heart races a little faster at the thought.
“Well?”
“Yeah,” Tommy promises. “Yeah, I got you. Tilt your head back.”
You step further in front of him, spine pressed against the edge of the countertop. He can feel the heat of your skin against his, and it makes Tommy feel dizzy. You tilt your head back, just as he said, but it’s not quite enough.
He reaches up, cradling your jaw in his hand, thumb pressed against the underside of your chin. He knows he could just tell you, could just use the words ‘a little more’ and you’d do as he asks. But the heated look in your eyes as he touches you so gently…it’s worth it. “Like this,” he tells you, pushing your chin back. “There you go. Now open your mouth.”
It sounds so vulgar in his ears. And Tommy doesn’t mean it that way, but you smile up at him and say, “You’re supposed to take me out on a date first, I think.”
“You think?” He scoffs. “You ever let another man in your mouth and he doesn’t wine an’ dine you first, you let me know so I can take care of him.” Tommy’s only sort of kidding. If you ever asked, he’d do it in a heartbeat.
“Alright,” you say. “No other man, then. Just you.”
He has to look away, unable to contain his amusement. “Christ, girl.” Tommy shakes his head, delighting in the sound of your giggling. He can feel the vibration of it in his hand, still pressed against the side of your neck. “Ridiculous.”
Joel’s voice cuts through the kitchen, calling Tommy’s name.
He tries to take a step back, get some distance, but you hook your leg around his to keep him close, bare and exposed to him from the hem of your denim shorts down. Tommy grips your thigh tightly but doesn’t quite push you away. “Yeah, Joel?”
You tilt your head back, perfect this time, just like he showed you.
Tommy shakes his head again, surprised by your brazenness, but he just can’t seem to stop smiling. He lifts the glass bottle and pours the whiskey slowly, holding in his laughter all the while.
“Bring out another slice of that pie,” Joel says from the back door. “The key lime one. Sarah wants some more.”
“Yeah, sure. One slice of key lime,” Tommy calls back, watching with rapt attention as the amber liquid pools in your pretty mouth. And then, more to you than to Joel, he says, “You got it.”
He stops just before your mouth is too full and sets the bottle back on the counter as the back door closes. You tilt your head back down, grimacing as you swallow. You have to do it twice, and Tommy knows that shit burns.
He’d feel bad if it weren’t for the drop of liquid that spills from the corner of your pursed lips, leaving a trail of whiskey as it drips down your chin. It’s such a sight to behold that his mouth waters. It takes every last ounce of his common sense to keep from leaning forward and licking it up.
Instead, he runs his thumb across the seam of your lips, collecting every last drop, and proceeds to suck it clean. “No man left behind,” he says playfully, painfully aware of the slight lift of your hips and the almost unnoticeable arch of your back.
“Right, no. Of course,” you say, words just a little breathless. “It would be, like, alcohol abuse.”
Tommy chuckles as he finally steps away, surprised by the complete lack of guilt he feels. He pulls a plate from the cupboard and finds the remainder of the key lime pie in the fridge.
Your steps echo in the kitchen when you leave, the screen door creaking as you push it open. He catches the words as you speak them under your breath just before disappearing from view. “Certainly not boring anymore.”
Tommy returns to the backyard with Sarah’s key lime pie in one hand and his refilled glass tumbler in the other, a newfound spring in his step.
It doesn’t take long for family dinners to become a tradition. They’re moved to Sunday nights, though, which works a hell of a lot better for Tommy. He usually shows up hungover, sporting a headache and a bad mood.
You’re real good at pulling him out of it, though. Always making those dirty jokes, uncaring of who hears, often earning a scolding from your mother when your humor graces the dinner table.
Eventually, it takes nothing but a shared glance before you slink off to the kitchen, one at a time, to steal more of Joel’s whiskey. Like a secret, shared language that only the two of you understand. As if the moment the thought crosses his mind, it crosses yours, too. Almost like you’re connected, somehow.
Sometimes Sunday dinners will be paired with a movie. Often, it’s a film Joel rented for the weekend that he claims has ‘good reviews,’ but never has a satisfying ending.
Tommy doesn’t stay for the popcorn or the candy, though. He doesn’t even stay for the movie, in truth.
He stays because you always sit beside him on the loveseat.
It always starts innocently enough. You pull the scratchy, old blanket from the back of the couch, draping it over you both. And then you’re poking his thigh while murmuring comments in his ear.
You’ll say, “God, that guy has the worst fake crying face I’ve ever seen. Looks like he’s constipated.”
And Tommy will laugh, and Sarah will scowl and shush him, and your hand will linger on his knee.
Halfway through, you’ll shift in your seat, trying to get comfortable. You’ll lean back against the armrest and lay your legs across his lap. And Tommy, impulsive man that he is, will slide his hands between your thighs and rub circles into your soft skin, careful not to move too fast, to be too obvious.
Once you reach this point of the night, Tommy doesn’t pay attention to the movie at all. He focuses on you instead, on the way your breath catches in your throat when he squeezes hard, on the way your knees slowly drift further and further apart, on the flush that crawls up your cheeks each time he catches your eye.
It never feels quite so innocent when the movie ends and Tommy has to sit on the couch with that blanket over his lap just a little longer than everyone else.
In September, Joel tells him you and your mom are moving in permanently. No more weekend sleepovers. You’re taking the spare room across the hall from Sarah, the one Tommy knows like the back of his hand after crashing in it countless times.
He’s not sure why, but there’s something satisfying about knowing you’ll be there, sleeping in the bed he’s slept in hundreds of times.
Joel asks him to help move some of the furniture, and Tommy doesn’t hesitate to agree. They move the larger things, while you and Sarah excitedly unpack cardboard boxes and talk about sharing clothes and shoes.
Tommy remembers the times Sarah would beg Joel for a sibling when she was younger, and it warms his heart to see she’s finally gotten the sister she’s always wanted.
He sees you a whole lot more often after that. Tommy picks Joel and Sarah up every morning and drops Joel off after work every day.
Most of the time, you’re still sleeping when he shows up at seven. But the evidence of you is littered all over the house; your shoes by the front door, your jacket slung over the dining room chair, your denim shorts on the floor beside the laundry basket in the bathroom.
And after work, he always comes inside to visit you. Just to see how you’re doing, to see if you’ve had a good day, often making some silly joke just so he gets to hear your sweet laughter. Sometimes he finds you watching one of those teen dramas in the living room, and he loves to poke fun at you for it. “These weird ass vampires again? What, now there’s werewolves, too? How original.”
“Shut up,” you’ll say, tossing a throw pillow at his head.
“I’m just fuckin’ with you, darlin.’ I know how you love that freaky shit.” The embarrassment will show on your face, and Tommy will laugh but his shoulders will drop as all the stress from the day melts away.
Some nights, he’ll find you in the backyard by the pool with that tiny lime colored bikini on, lying on your belly, soaking up the sun. He’ll try to scare you, try to get close with soundless movements.
But you always catch him. Can always sense he’s there. “Now, what if I suddenly decided I didn’t want tan lines and took off my top while you tried sneaking up on me? Tits out. Then what?”
Tommy stops just a few paces away from the spot in the grass where you’ve thrown out your beach towel. He towers over you, casting shadows across your spine. “Wouldn’t be nothin’ I haven’t seen before,” he says.
“You peeping on me, Tommy? Is that where you got your name?”
He snorts, but the idea isn’t half bad. “You fuckin’ wish.”
“Yeah, maybe I do.” The comment gives him pause, but he doesn’t have time to think too hard about it because you’re turning on your back and reaching for the string tied loosely around your neck.
You stare up at him, eyes all glittering and mischievous, hair splayed out in a perfect halo around your head. Tommy knows that he should stop you. Should laugh it off and walk away.
He doesn’t, though. His feet stay firmly planted, pressure building in his lower abdomen, cock pulsing behind the chrome zipper of his jeans.
You tug at the strings until the fabric falls slack. Still covering your chest, but only just barely.
Tommy thinks green might be his new favorite color.
You hook your thumb around the thin string across your ribcage, the only resistance left between this moment and the next, a lone scrap of polyester that stands between Tommy being the fun uncle and the weird one.
He doesn’t say it out loud, doesn’t say anything at all. But he admits to himself only that he does want it. That he wants you. To see you, to touch you, to feel you. It’s wrong and perverted and maybe even a little gross, but you’re just so fucking pretty.
Slowly, those loose-fitting triangles drift lower and lower, almost there. His breath comes fast and labored. The seconds tick by, feeling much longer than they truly are.
And then—
“Dinner!” Your mom’s voice carries through the backyard, kind and airy. “Are you staying, Tommy? We’re having pasta tonight.”
Tommy clears his throat and looks over his shoulder at your mom, who stands on the back deck completely oblivious. “Uh, no,” he says. “Not tonight. Thanks, though.”
“Suit yourself,” she says before disappearing back into the kitchen.
You extend your hand to him, the other held tightly over the fabric of your top to keep it in place. “Help me up,” you say, and he does.
He watches as you turn your back to him, straining to memorize every last second of this moment because he never, ever wants to forget it. The smoothness of your skin, the shallow slope at the small of your back, the delicious curve of your ass—if this is all he ever gets to see, Tommy wants it stuck in his brain like glue. Permanent.
You move the arm that’s held to your chest, and the green fabric finally drops, exposing you completely. With your back still to him, all Tommy can see is the subtle curves of the sides of your breasts, but it’s enough to make his heart race. You gather your hair at the nape of your neck and ask, “Can you tie it for me?”
Tommy knows you’re doing this on purpose. Trying to get a rise out of him, and it’s working. “Course,” he says, stepping forward, placing his rough, calloused hands on your delicate shoulders. He reaches down your body and gathers the nylon strands between his fingers, careful not to touch you more than what’s necessary.
He wants to, though. Christ, does he. His lungs stutter at the thought alone. It takes everything in him to resist lowering himself to his knees and giving you the tender, loving care you deserve. He’d worship you, Tommy decides. He’d demonstrate how a girl like you is supposed to be treated. Touched slowly, gently—until you beg him for more, until you whimper and cry and remember no words but his fucking name.
Until his touch is so deeply embedded in your skin that you’d never be able to root him out.
But he doesn’t give you so much as a clue to what he’s thinking. Instead, he exhales a shaky breath, fanning across the back of your neck, and ties the lime colored strands into a perfect bow. He presses a chaste kiss to the crown of your head and says, “Be good, now. Alright?”
You turn to face him, that familiar, provocative smirk on your sweet mouth. “Never,” you promise, and he knows you mean it.
Tommy doesn’t even notice he’s speeding the entire way back to his shitty apartment. What’s worse is that he doesn’t even make it inside. He sits behind the wheel of his truck, right in the open, empty parking lot, squeezing his aching cock in his hand, head filled with thoughts of you.
The next time he stays for dinner, your mom makes fajitas. You sit beside him on the steps of the back porch and pick red peppers off his plate.
You and Sarah belly-laugh about some YouTube video you watched together late last night, mimicking impressions of an animatronic voice. And it’s at this very moment that Tommy realizes he might be in real trouble.
Because he wants to fuck you. Thinks about it almost every goddamn night. Can’t even get off with the women he meets at the bars anymore without closing his eyes and recalling that lime bikini or the arch of your back or the way your thighs fit so perfectly in his big hands. It’s a carnal desire. Uncontrollable.
But this? Feeling a sense of elation provoked only by knowing you're here beside him, safe, happy, and fed? It’s something else. Something heavy. Something he can’t quite put a name to because he doesn’t have any experience with it, despite his age.
All Tommy Miller knows is that he smiles just at the sound of your name.
The thought crosses his mind that he should try to keep his distance, and he tells himself he will. He lies in bed thinking about it, conducting a plan in his head while staring at the ceiling at two in the morning. He can’t not see you. But maybe he doesn’t have to be so inviting. Maybe he doesn’t have to seek you out every afternoon, doesn’t have to check in and make sure you’ve had a good day.
Maybe he sits on the opposite end of the table during Sunday dinner. Maybe when you give him that look and head to the kitchen in search of whiskey, Tommy keeps his ass on the couch.
But then the next morning rolls around, and he’s picking Sarah and Joel up with dark circles under his eyes and a cigarette hanging from the corner of his lips. He sits on the front steps and glances over his shoulder when the door creaks open and is only a little surprised when you step outside with bare feet, wearing nothing but a thin tank top and a pair of sleep shorts.
Your hair’s messy, and there’s an imprint from your pillow on your cheek. Still half asleep, you let out the cutest whimper he’s ever heard and crawl right into his lap like it’s where you belong.
Tommy spreads his knees apart to make room for you, stubbing his cigarette out on the concrete and tossing it in the grass. He brackets his arms around your waist and interlocks his fingers at your hip while you curl up against him, stealing his warmth.
It feels so easy, so natural that he doesn’t fight it for a second. Doesn’t even realize he should. All those big plans he made six hours ago to right this wrong dissolve as easily as sugar in water. He kisses your forehead and holds you close and says, “Hey, sweetheart. You alright? Somethin’ wrong?”
You nuzzle your nose against the crook of his neck and murmur sleepily, “Missed you.”
Just two words, but that’s all it takes. He decides that the heavy feeling inside his chest is his to cope with. He won’t make you suffer for it. Can’t imagine ever pushing you away or sitting across from you instead of at your side.
There’s only one word for this, he knows. Only one explanation for why he continuously fights for your laughter, your comfort. Only one reason he’s memorized the pattern of your breathing and would know the touch of your hands with his eyes closed.
It’s not right.
It’s not, and Tommy knows it, but he doesn’t have the strength to fight it. So, he cradles this feeling in his hands. Holds it gently. Sees it for what it is.
And then he tucks it away. Locks it up tight and promises never to speak of it.
Joel takes your mom to Galveston for the weekend on their anniversary. He asks Tommy to keep an eye on you and Sarah, to keep his phone on in case the two of you need anything.
He brings takeout over after work on Friday night, but leaves the two of you to your own devices after that. Tommy remembers being your age and doesn’t want to hover, doesn’t want anyone involved to consider him a fucking babysitter. So he gives you the space he wanted when he was young. Figures if you need him, you’ll call him, and he’ll come running.
The phone doesn’t ring until late Sunday afternoon.
Joel and your mom are due home in the next few hours, and your voice is panicky on the other end of the line. “Hey. Can you—can you come over? We sort of broke something, and I tried to fix it but I think I only made it worse.”
Tommy’s in his truck before the call even ends. He asks a hundred questions, tries to get some sort of clarification on the way over. But you don’t give much in the way of answers, and his confusion only increases when he pulls into Joel’s driveway and sees you standing on the porch with a trash bag in hand. “Okay, before you come inside, you have to swear to secrecy,” you say.
Tommy’s brows furrow. “Christ, kid. What the hell’d you do? There a fuckin’ dead body in there?”
You roll your eyes. “Just promise you won’t tell Joel or my mom.”
“Can’t promise nothin’ if I don’t know—”
“Just promise me, Tommy,” you say, frustration building. He’s never seen you this serious, he realizes.
Even if there was a dead body behind the front door, Tommy knows he’d do nothing but protect you from the fallout. And he hates how nervous you look, so the decision comes easily. “Hey.” He reaches out and takes your hand in his, running his thumb across your knuckles. “I promise, alright?”
You let out a sigh of relief. “Good. Cause Sarah’s in there freaking the fuck out cause I called you.”
Tommy follows you inside, mouth open with the intent to ask more questions. But they’re all answered rather quickly when he sees the state of Joel’s living room.
There are half-empty beer cans and red solo cups littered all over every viable surface. Pink and green and orange streamers hang from the ceiling fan and over the stair bannister. Confetti covers the floor and there’s a shattered glass bottle in the kitchen sink, but the most obvious stressor is the six-inch hole in the wall beside the fridge.
Sarah’s footsteps rush down the hall, finger pointed at Tommy. Her eyes are wide, and there’s genuine tension on her face. “Did you swear?”
Tommy raises both hands in surrender. “Cross my heart,” he says, and means it. “Let me take care of the wall first. I’ll get the broken glass after. Don’t wanna see either one of you near it. The last thing we need right now is a trip to the emergency room for stitches.”
Between the three of you, it doesn’t take long. Tommy finds a mesh patch, spackle, and a half-empty gallon of paint in Joel’s garage that matches the kitchen walls. He fills the cavity as quickly as he can, using the box fan from Joel’s bedroom window to speed up the drying process.
You make quick progress, and yet still, he feels his heart sink to his feet at the sound of tires in the driveway.
Both you and Sarah freeze in place, staring at each other with expressions that are somehow both horrified and amused. “We’re so fucked, dude,” you whisper.
But when it comes to hiding things like this, Tommy Miller might just consider himself an expert. “Not just yet,” he swears. “Throw it all out back. I’ll keep them outside for a minute, and then when I leave, I’ll take care of it, alright? Be quick.”
He tries not to laugh as you and Sarah launch into action, running around the room and filling your hands with what remains.
Tommy meets Joel at his truck and asks him how their vacation was, making comments and drawing the discussion out as your mom talks about the aquarium and the restaurants on the pier and how the hotel staff folded your towels into the shape of little swans.
Joel asks how you and Sarah behaved, asks if there had been any trouble. Tommy shakes his head, leaning against the side of the truck. “Nah,” he lies easily. “They were perfect angels as usual.”
When he can no longer make viable conversation points, he very nosily helps them bring their luggage and souvenirs inside. He finds you and Sarah cuddled up on the couch, both reading books that Tommy knows you’ve never cracked open a day in your life.
You both look so out of place that it almost gives you away. He tries not to laugh, but it doesn’t quite work. Joel stares at him in confusion while you and Sarah glare at him from across the room, and so Tommy dismisses himself quickly. “Gonna head home,” he says. “Have to, uh…check on the neighbor's cat. Watching it for the weekend, too.”
He leaves through the front door, but sneaks around through the gate and quietly grabs the trash from the backyard just as he promised. It takes two trips to get it all, and he throws everything into the back of his truck on the off chance that Joel checks the bin before trash day.
Tommy’s tossing the last one when he sees you come sprinting off the front porch. He thinks maybe he’s forgotten something, or maybe Joel and your mom had seen right through the lie and all that acting was for nothing.
But then you’re throwing your arms around his neck and wrapping your legs around his waist, face buried in his shoulder.
Holding you is as easy as breathing. He keeps you upright, keeps you close, with his big hands spread wide over your back.
You say, “Thank you, Uncle Tommy,” and the air is punched from his fucking lungs.
It’s the first time you've said it. The very first time, and he feels giddy and nervous, and his stomach gets all tied in knots like he’s some teenage boy. He squeezes you tighter, and his laughter slips out unrestrained this time.
It’s filthy and dirty and disgusting, but he loves it. “I’ve always got you, darlin',” he says. “You know that.”
You lift your head to look at him, and your pretty mouth is suddenly so close to his that you share the same breath. “Yeah,” you giggle. “I know you do.”
It warms him from the inside out to hear it. He loves being this for you. A holder of secrets, a shoulder to lean on, a solver of problems. He loves that you make him feel needed—wanted in a way he’s never been before.
He loves being your Uncle Tommy.
You press your forehead to his, and desire creeps up his spine, hot and thick and asphyxiating. His limbs feel heavy, and his breath gets caught in his lungs. It’s painful how badly he wants you. Like a peak he can’t quite reach, an itch he can’t quite scratch. You thread your hands in the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling gently, and his eyelids flutter closed.
Nothing has ever felt as good as it feels to be touched by you, Tommy realizes. And he knows nothing will ever compare.
“Fuck,” he hisses. “Fuck, sweetheart, I…”
There are no words to say. They get all jumbled in his head, and the only thing he can make out in the chaos is his yearning.
“I know,” you say. Because of course you do. You’ve always known him, have always understood him in a way no one else has. Have always been able to see the look on his face and read the thoughts in his head. “I know.”
Slowly, carefully, you untangle your legs from around his waist. You slide down his body and he knows you can feel it. Knows there’s no way in hell the throbbing of his cock could ever be mistaken as just his belt buckle.
But you say nothing. Just smile up at him with those hungry eyes and press a sweet, soft kiss to his cheek.
He drives home in silence.
No music, no news station. Even the windows he leaves up. Tommy can’t think beyond the taste of your oxygen, can’t see past the absolute fucking shit show he’s gotten himself into. He sits in his truck outside his apartment for twenty minutes before he moves again, scratching the stubble along his jaw.
And then, as if he hadn’t almost kissed you in broad daylight, the world keeps turning.
He cleans out the bed of his truck, showers the smell of paint and cheap beer from his skin, and then he goes to work the next morning. He teases Joel about the swan-shaped towels, but there’s no salt to it. Truly, he’s happy for his brother.
Joel’s been so selfless his whole life. Has given the first half of it up to raise Tommy and the second half to raise Sarah and never complained, not even once.
If anyone in the world deserves that gooey, cliche kind of love that’s just good and uncomplicated and easy, it’s Joel. They really are perfect for each other, he and your mother.
Tommy tries not to think about how his happiness for his brother is paired with a simmering jealousy underneath. Decides to take that green-eyed confession to his grave.
Friday afternoon, one of the electricians Joel hired a few months ago invites Tommy out to a nightclub. “The whole team’s going tomorrow,” he says. “Booze, girls, drugs if you’re into that kinda thing. One of those pop-up ones. It’s in that old warehouse on the other side of town.”
Sounds tempting, he’ll admit. Right up his alley. But Tommy knows himself, and knows that in a place like that he’s likely to go a little overboard. Spend too much money, have too many drinks, wake up the next morning with a girl in his bed he doesn’t remember talking to. And if he does that, he likely won’t make it to Sunday dinner at Joel’s.
Which means no time with you.
No stolen, longing glances across the room. No heat of your thigh pressed against his. No thieving fingers on his plate.
Tommy shakes his head. “Thanks, Mike. But, uh…I’m—I’m good.”
He thinks that’s the end of it. But then Joel asks, real gently, “You got a girl or somethin’ I don’t know about?”
“What? Nah, man. No. Definitely not.” Tommy knows his answer comes too quickly, too dismissive for it to be even remotely believable. But it’s true, isn’t it? You’re not his girl. You just…well, you’re his niece. Sort of.
Joel eyes him suspiciously. All he says is, “Never would’ve imagined you’d skip out on that.” But it’s enough to convince Tommy that his brother doesn’t believe him for even a second.
He lay awake that night, head filled with thoughts of you. Because Tommy knows Joel’s right. Before you’d waltzed into his life and altered its course, he would’ve been all over that. Would’ve jumped at the opportunity for an exclusive warehouse party, even knowing what would likely happen. He’d take the migraine and the dehydration and the overdrafted checking account at just the plausible idea of a good time.
And he’d declined so quickly. That’s the part that gets him. The thing that gives him perspective. He hadn’t even debated it for a single second because the things that once brought him joy pale in comparison to simply being at your side.
Saturday morning, Tommy makes a phone call. Says he changed his mind and gets the address of the warehouse.
He spends his afternoon running errands, doing everything he knows he won’t have the energy for tomorrow. And then he showers and puts gel in his hair and picks out a nice outfit. Starched blue jeans that fit him nicely and an expensive leather belt and a white t-shirt. He puts on a simple gold chain and sprays his favorite cologne (trying not to think about the fact that it’s only his favorite because one afternoon you’d said he smelled so good he was ‘edible’).
On the drive over, he has to hype himself up. Has to try and convince himself that this is a good thing. It’s what he needs. To get out there again, to find someone who makes him feel the way you do. Someone nice and age-appropriate and not loosely familial. Someone who doesn’t know Joel or your mother or Sarah or you in any fucking capactiy whatsoever.
Tommy doesn’t think it’s likely that he’ll find that person here, of course. But there’s a possibility, right? To meet someone who could be the love of his life. A slim chance, but a chance nonetheless.
There are more people than he expects. The warehouse looks almost dark on the outside. Quiet and empty. But once the bouncer checks his ID and lets him through the double doors, the inside is a different world entirely.
There are three different bars. One on the left wall, one on the right, and one in the very center of the room in the shape of an oval. There’s a big stage with a live DJ and house music playing loud over the speakers. The dance floor is lively and drenched in neon lights and the air is thick with humidity and the smell of liquor.
Excitement trickles into his bloodstream. It’s been a long while since he’s been in a place like this, but Tommy thinks it might just cure him.
All it takes is a quick text before he finds Mike and the rest of the guys from the work site that decided to show up. There’s only a handful of them, but they all split the bill for a round of shots, and Tommy orders a whiskey and coke.
They’re here for one reason, of course—and Tommy’s no different. They chat for a while, but eventually the guys all peel off from the group one by one after buying a girl a drink and then proceeding to disappear into the crowd of dancing bodies.
Mike has a wife, but even he finds someone to dance with, and eventually Tommy sits at the bar alone.
He pulls out his phone. Opens your thread of messages and smiles to himself as he scrolls through them. It’s filled with silly photos and dirty jokes and the occasional text from you that reads, ‘miss you today<3’ and his perpetual response, ‘I always miss you more. Be good, sweetheart.’
Tommy’s so deeply focused on his phone that he nearly jumps out of his skin when his drink is pulled right out of his hands.
He looks up with a scowl on his face, not anticipating a fight but preparing for one, and then—
“Can I have some of that?” You don’t wait for his answer before sipping from his glass, leaving lip gloss stains in the same place his mouth was moments ago.
“What in the fuck?” A crease forms between his brows as he takes in your familiar face, backlit by green and yellow lights. “They’re checking IDs at the door,” he says. “How did you even get in here?”
You roll your eyes. “Oh, come on, Uncle Tommy. You’re telling me you never had a fake when you were my age?”
Tommy knows he probably should say something…responsible right now. Should probably warn you of the dangers in a place like this, especially for a girl like you. Should be taught about covetous men with wandering hands and powders dropped in drinks and cigarettes laced with God knows what.
But he did have a fake ID at your age and could be found at places a whole lot like this one. Two peas in a fucking pod, he thinks.
So, instead, he asks, “Did you, uh…come here with someone? Friends or…I don’t know. A boyfriend, maybe?”
He steels himself in preparation for your answer. You’ve never mentioned a boyfriend before, but you’re at that age. Probably experimenting a little, sifting through the options to find which one suits you best.
But you’re standing at a bar, all alone, buying your own drink. Shitty fucking option, Tommy thinks.
“Why? You jealous or something?” There’s a teasing lilt to your voice, and Tommy knows you’re just trying to get a rise out of him. But the sad part is that you’re not too far off, and that’s what has him turning to the bartender and ordering another.
“Got no reason to be jealous,” Tommy answers with a shrug. “Ain’t exactly like I’ve got a spot on the roster, darlin’.”
Your smile falls. Just barely, almost undetectable. But Tommy notices. Would notice it even if you were across the room. “Is that what you think?”
“It’s what I know.”
“Well, then you’re a fucking idiot, Tommy Miller.” You laugh, but there’s no humor in it. The words are sharp, icy. You take a long drink from his stolen glass. “What stops you?”
His brows furrow. “Stops me…?”
“From doing what you want to me.” It gives him pause, laying it out so boldly like that. The truth he’s never spoken aloud falls so easily from your tongue. “We get so close,” you elaborate. “Just one moment, one choice away…but you never do it. You always hesitate, and then the moment’s gone. So what stops you?”
His morals, your age, your vibrance. You’re so good, so lively and carefree and happy. How does he explain that he doesn’t want to ruin this? Ruin you? How does he explain that taking that next step with you would tarnish both of you forever? Red to blue, green to yellow. It would never be the same.
He’s supposed to protect you. Supposed to give you a shoulder to cry on and a soft landing in your time of need and spot you a twenty when you’re short on cash. Supposed to be a guiding hand as an uncle should. He’s not supposed to be…whatever this is.
Tommy’s relieved when the bartender hands him his drink. “You know what stops me,” he says as if it’s obvious, throwing back half the glass in one long drink. The whiskey burns.
“Would it be different if you didn’t know me?”
“Very,” he answers honestly, his mind filling so easily with those obscene possibilities. “But I do know you, so it doesn’t matter.”
That familiar, troublesome smirk finds its way to your glossy lips. You toss back what remains in your glass, set it on the bar, and say, “I’m going to walk away. Okay? And you’re going to have one of those cases of temporary amnesia.”
Tommy laughs and shakes his head. “You’re crazy,” he says.
But you don’t pay him any mind. “You’re going to forget everything you know about me. Every last detail. I’m just some girl at a club, and you’re just some guy at the bar.” You put your hands on his shoulders, shaking lightly, staring up at him with starry eyes. Tommy’s heart races behind his sternum, but he can’t stop grinning. “I’m not me, and you’re not you. And tomorrow, you’ll be cured. Everything will go back to normal, just like it was. Okay?”
“S’a real bad idea, darlin’,” he warns.
“So don’t make me do it alone.”
Tommy swallows hard. He’s never said no to you in all his life, and it’s just…it’s just one night, right? Maybe it’s what he needs. A slow release of pressure, a controlled indulgence to prevent an explosion.
You see the decision as he makes it. Know what he’s thinking without him speaking a single word. Tommy covers his mouth to stifle his rugged amusement as he watches you take five steps away from him, turn in a complete circle, and then make your way back to the bar.
In a dramatic show of film-esque seduction, you lean against the bar and say, “Well, aren’t you a tall glass of water?”
“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Tommy mutters to himself, smiling so hard the apples of his cheeks hurt.
You playfully slap his bicep with the back of your hand. “Aren’t you going to ask if you can buy me a drink? Wine and dine me?”
He recalls your very first conversation, that one in Joel’s kitchen when you’d promised not to let any man inside your mouth without properly romancing you first. “Alright, then,” he resigns. “What’re you havin,’ sweetheart?”
“Whiskey,” you say, and he’s not the least bit surprised.
Tommy buys your drink and says, “You look…really beautiful.” You’re wearing a silvery satin dress, sinfully short, tight in all the right places. The straps are thin against your otherwise bare shoulders, and he reaches out and gently runs his knuckles down the curve of your collarbone. He thinks it might be the very first time he’s ever touched you here, and it’s not inherently a sexual caress, but it feels so… intimate. Heavy.
You glance down at yourself, at the strappy black heels on your feet. “Thank you,” you say. “But I think it’d look even better on your bedroom floor.”
“Fuck yeah it would,” he agrees, chuckling.
“Do you wanna dance?”
Tommy’s never abandoned a drink so fast in his life. He takes your hand in his and says, “I thought you’d never ask.”
He leads you through the crowd while the DJ plays some bass-heavy pop song he’s heard on the radio a hundred times. He finds a reasonable space and raises your hand above your head, turning you so he can properly appreciate the sight of that dress.
“You’re fucking perfect,” he says. “Do you know that?”
You roll your eyes like it’s a joke, but Tommy’s being dead serious. You say, “Shut up.” But he sees the way your cheeks heat, even beneath the flashing lights.
You sway your hips in time to the beat, body moving in sync with the music. There’s nothing shy or timid about it; that allure of yours comes so easily, glowing from the inside out.
Tommy’s never been a good dancer, and he knows it, but it doesn’t feel that way at all. You seem to find such amusement in his nonsensical movements, not a drop of apprehension trickles into his psyche.
When you grab his hands and place them on your hips, he lets his instinct take over. Pulls you in close, chests pressed together, his thigh between your legs. You sing the lyrics as if every song is your favorite with a face-splitting grin and those sweet giggles falling from your lips. He pushes you away and spins you around, only to pull you right back. Right into his waiting embrace, right where you belong. Your breath comes fast, but you don’t slow down, and neither does he.
He’s not sure he’s ever felt like this in his entire life. This open, this full. A strange sort of nostalgia passes through him, a homesickness, missing the moment before it’s even passed, knowing he’ll eventually look back on this night as the best he’s ever had.
The air is hot and stiff, but he breathes in your oxygen, and it gives him life. You move together so seamlessly, and Tommy thinks about how he’d come here seeking the possible love of his life and wonders if it’s fate that you were here.
Fate that you had a fake ID, that you somehow knew about the same exclusive pop-up party he’d declined and then came to anyway. Fate that you’d be here alone, that you’d choose one bar out of three others, and that he just happened to be standing there at the very same time. In a warehouse filled with a thousand strangers, you’d somehow found him.
The songs flow and fade, bleeding from one to the next. You dance and dance, and Tommy watches you—enthralled, obsessed, in love.
He loses track of the time, thinks hours could have passed without his notice, and he wouldn’t have even cared. But when he sees a bead of sweat trickle down your neck, he asks, “Wanna step out for a minute?”
You nod once, and Tommy grabs your hand again and pulls you out of the crowd. He gives the bouncer a tight-lipped smile as you slip out of the wide doors. There’s a designated smoking area near the entrance, and that’s where Tommy leads you.
The music can still be heard outside, muffled and low. He pulls the pack of Marlboros out of his back pocket, lights one, and inhales deeply. When he looks up, he finds you watching him, leaning back against the concrete wall of the warehouse, the blue light of the moon reflected in your eyes.
You outstretch your hand and take the cigarette from between his fingers, taking a slow drag. “Do you bring girls you don’t know home often?”
Tommy can see right through you. Sees that unease beneath your smile, sees the way you feel the need to ask but don’t want the answer, and relates to it. It makes his stomach turn, though. Because he doesn’t ever want you to think of yourself that way, doesn’t want you to think for a single second that this is anything like that.
Because you’re not a girl he doesn’t know. Not just a means to an end. You’re you.
You’re everything.
“I don’t like this,” he admits quietly. “The pretending.”
You pass the cigarette back to him, and when he puts it to his mouth, he can taste the cherry flavor of your lip gloss on the orange filter. “Would you have as much fun, though? With all that added weight.”
Tommy doesn’t know. Has never had a fucking clue about anything in all his life, really. Never knew what he wanted to do or who he wanted to be.
The only thing that has ever been clear to him is you.
“If we stopped pretending,” you say. “What would you do?”
He hesitates.
And then decides not to let this moment pass him.
He places both hands on either side of your face and kisses you hard, hungry. Tasting you feels like a breath of fresh air, like relief. Your bottom lip slots between his so perfectly that he thinks you must have been made for him, that there could never be anyone else. When you let out the most delicious whimper he’s ever heard, Tommy slides his tongue into your mouth and moans.
It feels like time wasted, like this is what he’s been meant to do his whole life, and now he has to make up for the opportunity lost.
When he pulls away, it’s reluctant, still cradling your pretty face in his hands. Your eyes are wide, and your breath is labored.
“That’s what I would do,” he says.
A minute passes, and you just stare at him, searching his eyes for something. Doubt, maybe. But you won’t find any, because Tommy Miller has never been more sure of anything in his entire life.
And then, finally—
“Uncle Tommy?”
No more pretending. “Yeah, sweetheart?”
“I want you to take me home. Right now,” you say.
“Now?”
“Yes. Right the fuck now. Please.”
He smiles widely. “C’mon, baby.”
Tommy takes you to his truck and buckles you in. The ride back to his apartment feels like a blur. He’s barely had two drinks, but you make him feel drunk.
You can’t keep your hands off him. It only takes three seconds once he pulls onto the road before you’re unbuckling your seatbelt and sliding across the cab. You press wet, open-mouthed kisses to the side of his neck and run your hands over his strong thighs, giggling all the while.
He has to reel you in a little after almost running a red light. “Careful, now,” he says, taking your hand in his free one and pressing a kiss to the back of it. “If I die before I get to eat your pussy I’ll come back and haunt the fuck out of you.”
You throw your head back and laugh, but Tommy means it.
It’s a relief when he pulls in the parking lot in one piece, but before he even cuts the ignition, you’re crawling into his lap.
His pretty, desperate girl.
You kiss him deep, tongue sliding against his, hips tilting over the already hard cock in his jeans. He could cum just like this, Tommy knows, with you on top of him and your hands tangled in the curls at the nape of his neck. You smell sweet and seductive, and he can think of nothing beyond this singular moment.
“Let’s just do it right here,” you say, panting, hands sliding beneath his t-shirt. “I want you so bad. I’ve wanted it for so long, please.”
There are no words to describe how much it satisfies him to hear it, to hear you beg for him. But you deserve better than this. Deserve so much more than a back seat fuck. He wants to give you everything, wants to give you all of him. “I know, sweetheart, I know,” he says. Because he does. “Wanna see you in my bed, though.”
You wrap your arms around his neck, and Tommy uses it to his advantage, holding you close as he quickly gets out of the truck and locks it behind him. You’re a giggling mess, pressing kisses to his face as he makes his way inside and up the stairs to his apartment. “You’re so handsome,” you say. “Have I ever told you that?”
“A hundred times,” he says, kicking the door closed behind him. “But one more won’t hurt.”
His apartment is a mess. There are dishes in the sink and clothes on the floor and an empty plate on the coffee table, but just seeing you here makes his heart swell in his chest.
He begins to wonder if this is where you’re meant to be; taking up room in his space, kicking off your shoes at the front door.
Tommy’s cock pulses in the confines of his jeans.
“Kiss me again,” you say. “Kiss me like you mean it.”
He does. His mouth clashes against yours, tongue licking into your sweet mouth, savoring the taste of what remains of your shimmery lip gloss.
Tommy’s hands drift lower, squeezing at the round globes of your ass, pulling you impossibly closer. One of his hands dips between your thighs, feeling the soft lace you wear beneath that sinful dress. “Fuck,” he hisses. “Fuck, I need to taste you. Been dreamin’ about it.”
“You dream about me?”
He wraps his big arms around your waist and lifts you. “Every fuckin’ night,” he admits, turning towards his bedroom.
Doesn’t make it very far, though. Because when you wrap your legs around his waist and rut against him, Tommy lets out a low sound from somewhere deep inside his chest before laying you back against the kitchen island.
“Fuck it,” he murmurs to himself. Close enough, he thinks.
You look so fucking pretty like this. All sprawled out for him, flushed with your swollen lips parted and your pupils blown wide. He’d always known it would be a sight to behold, but this…it’s something else entirely.
Cataclysmic. Divine sacriliege.
He leans over you and kisses your chest softly. “Tell me you want this,” he says. “That you want me.”
Your answer comes fast. “I want you, Uncle Tommy.”
And he feels a deep-seated desire swirl low in his abdomen. Because it’s fucked up. He knows it is. Is completely, lucidly aware that this is all wrong. Filthy and twisted.
Yet he wants it anyway. Maybe not despite it, but because of it. Pleasure heightened with this sick perversion.
He slides his hands under your dress and hooks his fingers around the lace, pulling it down your legs. You’re so wet for him he can see it stick, webs of slick snapping as he groans at the sight. “Goddamn, sweetheart,” he whispers. “Didn’t tell me it was like this.”
“I need you so bad it hurts,” you tell him. “Get so wet just thinking about it.” Your voice is low and desperate, almost a cry.
“Don’t worry, baby,” he says. “Uncle Tommy’s going to take care of you, okay? Gonna make that ache go away.”
He kisses you slowly. Starts at your ankle and slowly works his way up. He kisses and bites the insides of your thighs, savoring the moment not for you but for him, leaving indentations of his teeth in your flesh. A memory, he thinks. A promise that you’ll think of this tomorrow and the next day. That you’ll remember the way he made you feel.
Then he’s rolling your dress up your hips, delighting in the way you get all shy and squirmy as he takes you in, unashamed in his study. “Such a pretty little pussy,” he says. “Gonna make her feel real good, sweetheart. Don’t you worry.”
He surges forward, licking through your folds. memorizing the way your slit feels beneath his tongue because he never wants to forget this. Never wants to forget the way you gasp beneath him or the way your hands pull at his hair. “Oh my god.”
“Shhh,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you, pretty girl.” he kisses your clit. Once, twice, before sucking it between his lips. He spreads your legs wide and presses his mouth to you, nose crinkling against your pubic bone.
He could die here a happy man. You taste divine, better than anything his mind could have ever conjured up. He licks and sucks until you’re writhing, and when he presses two fingers gently into your opening, your back arches off the counter top.
Tommy hooks two fingers inside you, hitting that sweet spot, your perfect moans echoing through his kitchen. He wraps an arm around your thigh and pulls you roughly to the edge of the counter. His tongue is warm and wet as he uses it to circle your clit, groaning against you, sending vibrations through your body.
His name falls from your mouth between gasping breaths. You grind yourself against him, making a delicious mess of his face and pulling at the roots of his hair.
He can feel you clenching around his fingers, chasing that high, chasing release. Tommy decides to give you a little encouragement. “Go on, now,” he mutters against your spit-soaked clit. “Take it, baby. You deserve it. Been so fuckin’ good for so long. Deserve a reward.”
Your breath halts, just for a second. And then you let out a long, salacious moan and your legs tremble around his head. Tommy feels your walls pulse around his two fingers, squeezing them hard. “Fuck, fuck—”
“That’s it,” he praises, flicking his soft tongue gently over your clit, fingers working you through it, pressing in deep. “There you go, shhh. Just like that.”
He looks up at you, branding this image in his brain. The arch of your back, the strain in your throat as you desperately take in oxygen, the way the shimmery, silver sequins on your dress cast little rainbows across his apartment. He’ll never forget it for as long as he lives.
“You look so beautiful, darlin’,” he says. “So pretty when you cum for your Uncle Tommy.”
Only when your writhing stops and your breath evens out does he slow the rhythm of his fingers, caressing your insides slowly, gently, making sure he coaxes it all out of you and delighting in the little whimpers you make in response. And then he carefully slides them out of you, digits slick and glossy with your release. Your eyes are glued to his as he brings them to his mouth and licks them clean, not wasting a single drop. That smirk of yours forms as you say, breathless, “Kiss me.”
Tommy grips the back of your neck and pulls you forward, grinning as he gives you what you need. He kisses you eagerly, tongue finding yours, licking into your mouth.
“Can taste it,” you mutter, giggling against his lips. “I made a real mess of you.”
In more ways than one, Tommy thinks. “Tastes fuckin’ good, though,” he says. “Just gettin’ started, anyway.”
He lifts you off the counter, laughing as you squeal in surprise when he tosses you over his shoulder so easily. You fist your hands in the bottom of his wrinkled t-shirt, seeking stability. “I bet you have blue sheets,” you say.
Tommy snorts. “You’ve thought about the color of my sheets?” Such a simple thing, an irrelevant part of his life that has never mattered to him in any capacity.
“Duh,” you say as if it’s obvious, and Tommy’s suddenly overwhelmed with warmth. He likes that you think about it—his sheets, his bedroom, him. Likes knowing he’s not been alone in his mania. “Always knew I’d end up in them.”
He laughs darkly as he pushes open the door and shoulders you onto his bed, right in the center of his navy blue sheets.
You smile up at him, beaming with pride, and he shakes his head as you say, “Told ya.”
It doesn’t surprise him that you’d guessed correctly because you know him. Better than anyone else ever has. Because you and Tommy are one and the same, two sides to the same twisted coin. “Yeah, yeah, alright,” he teases, crawling over you, knees braced on either side of your thighs. “S’enough outta you, know it all.”
You open your mouth, probably to make some filthy joke, but whatever it is never sees the light of day because Tommy hooks his fingers around the thin straps of your dress and pulls them down your shoulders. He tugs at the fabric until your breasts are bared to him, pretty and soft and perfect.
He cups them tenderly in his hands, thumbs grazing the hardened peaks of your nipples. He watches goosebumps rise across your chest, and it brings a sick smile to his face. “S’that feel good, sweetheart?”
“Yes,” you breathe, eyes heavy. “Touch me more. Wanna feel you.”
Tommy’s never heard a more tempting request in his life. He leans over and presses his mouth to your chest, hands roaming over your skin. He takes your nipple in his mouth and flicks his tongue over the sensitive flesh, sighing against you at the sound of your moan.
He pushes your dress down to your hips and lets you shimmy the rest of the way out of it, kicking the shiny fabric onto the floor. You lift your hips to meet his, and his cock is so hard and needy that the smallest bit of friction nearly knocks him on his ass. “Shit,” he hisses, trailing kisses across your chest, spreading his worship. He plans to take his time, wants to see just how close he can get you with just his mouth on your tits.
But then your voice breaks through your breathy whimpers. “Uncle Tommy,” you say. “Wait. Wait, I—”
He stops, pulling back, giving you room to breathe. The coldness of fear begins to trickle in as he anticipates your next words. Has he gone too far? Said too much, moved too fast?
“I want you in my mouth,” you say with those pretty eyes, and he convinces himself he’s dreaming. “Please.”
Because this can’t be real. There’s no way in hell he’s looking at you, naked in his bed, begging to suck his cock. His pretty, perfect girl. Tommy runs his hands down his face, and a sound of utter disbelief escapes him. But then he’s nodding, just as eager. “Yeah, baby,” he says. “Course you can.”
Your responding smile sends a shiver down his spine. Carefully, you move from beneath him, hands tugging at the buckle of his leather belt. He can do nothing but watch with reverence as you unbutton his jeans and pull at his zipper, tongue wetting your lips.
The air gets stuck in his lungs as you reach into his boxers and pull him out with gentle fingers. It’s hypnotic, the way you touch him. You press a sweet, chaste kiss to his tip and with that one touch alone he’s already fighting for his fucking life.
But he lets you do what you want to him. Lets you move at your own pace. Tommy’s grateful you’re slow in your pursuit, though. Tasting him, tongue gliding down the underside of his shaft, savoring.
When you finally take him fully in your mouth, his head falls back and he sighs deeply. It’s almost too much to feel you and look at you, but Tommy doesn’t want to miss it. He strokes your hair as you hollow out your cheeks and greedily swallow him down. “Fuck,” he groans. “Look so good with my dick in your mouth. Yeah, there you go. Just like that.”
You suck harder, take him in deeper. His vision blurs, and pleasure builds and builds and builds, rushing to the surface of his skin.
“Easy,” he warns. You look at him through your lashes, lips parted around his heavy cock. It’s the most pornographic image he’s ever fucking seen and it’s going to have him cumming down your throat. “Easy, easy, easy—” Tommy takes a handful of your hair and pulls you back, dick pulsing as he watches strands of your spit stick to him. “Jesus Christ, sweetheart.”
Pure, sprightly giggles bubble from your glossy lips. So beautiful it hurts him. “Can I tell you what I want?”
“Always,” he promises, and means it.
You move across his bed, crawling back towards the headboard. Your voice is low, a seductive whisper as you tell him, “I want you to take off your clothes.”
He does. Starts by pulling his t-shirt over his head and tossing it to the floor. Then he takes off his boots and shoves his jeans and boxers down, discarding them beside your pretty little dress.
“I want you to come over here and kiss me,” you say. Tommy moves on instinct, crawling towards you. He’s nearly there when you speak again, mouth hovering over yours. “And then I want you inside me, Uncle Tommy.”
He shivers as you spread your legs slowly, putting on a sweet little show. All for him. “Yeah?”
“Mmhm,” you murmur. You slide your hands down your body, that troublesome look on your face, teasing. As you glide your fingers through your pussy, slick and glossy, you continue. “Wanna watch it go in. Wanna see it here,” you say, pressing hard against your lower abdomen.
Tommy’s always given you everything you’ve ever wanted. Has never had any problem satisfying all your needs. And that doesn’t change now, either.
He kisses you slowly. Meaningfully. There’s intent behind it. Love. Adoration. He hopes you can feel it. Hope you can sense it.
With his forehead against yours, he lines himself up at your entrance. He cradles your face with his hand. Says, “Tell me if it hurts.”
And then he’s pushing inside you, and his hands shake. You watch it, just as you wanted. Watch his cock split you open, watch your pretty pussy make room for him. And Tommy watches you, delighting in the way your eyes go wide and watery, in the way your lips part in a gasp.
He sinks into you all the way, hips pressed tight against yours. And when he pulls back out his cock is covered in your slick. “How’s it feel, baby?”
You nod frantically, chest heaving. “S’good,” you answer. “So fucking…God. You’re so big.”
Tommy tilts his hips, quickly finding a cadence that makes you cry out his name. You feel like heaven. Warm and wet, soaked. The sounds echo in his bedroom, obscene and filthy. He kisses your forehead, your nose, your temple. Every part of you he can reach. “This what you wanted? Hm?”
“Yes, yes, please—”
“Shh, s’alright, darlin’. Ain’t gotta beg me. Uncle Tommy’s got you.” Your silky walls grip his cock tighter as he says it, and he knows then and there that you’re the same in this, too. Knows that you like the perversion, the corruption, the filth.
He thrusts harder, deeper. Your back arches, and your hand reaches for his. Tommy laces his fingers through yours and has never felt closer to anyone in his life. You say, “I needed you,” and he agrees.
“I know, baby. Me too. I’m here now. Gonna make you cum for me.” He uses his free hand and presses it to your lips. “Open your mouth.”
You do. His perfect girl. He presses his fingers past your lips, into your mouth. Your tongue swirls around them, coating them in your spit. And then he snakes his arm between you and circles your clit, tortorously gentle. “Oh my fucking God,” you cry, squeezing your eyes shut.
But Tommy won’t have it. “Nuh-uh. Look at me, baby,” he says. “C’mon. Wanna see the way you look cumming on Uncle Tommy’s cock, huh?” You do as he says, and a tear rolls down your cheek. “There you go. Just like that. Good job.”
“Tommy,” you whimper, pussy fluttering around him. He’s not going to last long, not like this. Not when you cry for him so beautifully.
He circles your clit faster, fighting off the bliss that creeps up his spine. “Right here,” he says, kissing your tears away, salt clinging to his lips. “Stay right here with me, sweet girl. Takin’ it so fuckin’ well for me.”
Your fingernails dig into the back of his hand and he knows you’re there, can feel your pussy sucking him in deeper. “Cum with me,” you say, breath ragged. “Cum with me, please.”
“Fuck, fuck…baby, I don’t know if—”
“It’s okay, I promise,” you tell him, voice pleading. “I’m on birth control, I swear. Just…I want to feel it, Uncle Tommy. Want you to fill me up.”
This will damn him, he knows.
“Please, please, please. I’m gonna—I’m gonna cum, oh my God—”
He’d do anything for you.
“Always gonna give you what you want,” he says. “My favorite girl.”
Your eyes are starry as you crest that high, somehow even more exquisite than the first time. Sweet moans fill the room, and your thighs shake as your release rocks through you, spine bending off his blue sheets. You cry out his name, and that’s what sets him over the edge.
His cock pulses inside of you, painting your insides with thick, sticky ropes of cum. It’s the most intense orgasm he’s ever had, and he knows he’ll chase this high for the rest of his fucking life. “That’s it,” he whispers, his breath hot against the shell of your ear. “Such a filthy little thing, beggin’ for your Uncle Tommy to fill you up with his cum. You’re so perfect for me.”
He gives you ever last drop, thrusting in deep until his cock is so overstimulated it almost hurts. But he circles your clit with his spit-soaked fingers until you come down, walls spasming uncontrollably around him.
When he finally pulls out of you, he does it gently. And then he collapses on the bed beside you, panting to try and slow the racing of his heart. He turns his head to look at you and catches your eye, and he’s not quite sure why, but you both grin and just laugh.
There’s no dirty joke or any sort of amusement. Nothing’s funny, but Tommy supposes he’s just…well, he’s happy. Seeing you on the right side of his mattress, all naked and fucked out and satisfied, it just feels so right.
And he knows it’s not. Knows it’s so far removed from the idea of right that it’s absurd, but you’re stifling your laughter behind your hands and turning away from him to try and find some sort of composure, and Tommy thinks maybe he just doesn’t fucking care.
Doesn’t care about right or wrong, doesn’t care about what anyone would think or say. Because how could he when you’re at his side? How could anything else on God’s green earth ever matter to him as much as you?
It can’t happen again. He knows that.
But this is enough, Tommy thinks. This one night. A stolen moment in time that will forever belong only to the two of you, where nothing and no one matters beyond his apartment. The life here, the love between you, encased so perfectly in these four walls…it’s a gift. One he doesn’t deserve. Sweet as maple syrup and warm as the hot summer sun.
And yet it’s been given to him anyway, and Tommy Miller’s going to cherish it for the rest of his life.
When you finally turn back to him, you lie on your side with a face-splitting grin. “We’re so fucked,” you say.
Tommy laughs. “Oh, absolutely,” he agrees, pulling you close. He wraps his arms around your waist and treasures the weight of your head on his chest. “Totally, completely fucked.”
“Well, at least we’re together.”
He smiles. Presses a soft kiss to the top of your head. “Yeah,” he whispers. “At least there’s that.”
Two peas in a fucking pod.
(ermmmm ik i said i wanted to write more single part fics this year but if literally just one person asks for a part two I'll cave)
Synop: It starts with a glance through the window — a quiet moment, thick with tension, where nothing happens… and then everything does. You don’t move. Not at first. Joel does.
He’s your dad’s best friend. Off-limits. Older. But none of that matters when the night is this quiet, and his voice is in your ear, telling you exactly what to do.
Warnings: age gap (not specified); Dbf!Joel; Mutual Pining; Chocking; Sexual Tension; Secret Relationship; No Outbreak; Possessive behavior; Pet names; Fingering; No use of y/n
Word Count: 6.7K
(dividers by @strangergraphics)
Joel Miller had been a fixture in your life for as long as you could remember — not quite family, but never quite a stranger either. He moved into the house across the street when you were still young enough to sleep with stuffed animals and complain about having to eat your vegetables. Fresh off a divorce and looking for a reset, Joel arrived like a shadow with a hammer — quiet, dependable, always fixing something.
He was your father’s best friend. That much was clear from the start. The two of them shared beers on the porch, worked on weekend projects that never seemed to get finished, and had the kind of unspoken loyalty men like them wore like old leather boots — worn, scuffed, but built to last. Joel didn’t have any family of his own, no kids tugging at his sleeve, no wife waiting up at night. He slipped into your world with quiet ease, showing up at birthdays, holidays, Saturday barbecues, and Sunday football games like he belonged.
At the time, he was just Joel. The man with sawdust on his jeans and calluses on his hands. The man who nodded when you walked past and ruffled your hair without looking up from the grill. He was always there, like background music in your childhood — never the chorus, just the rhythm keeping everything moving.
And you? You were just the kid. The younger daughter. The one who ran up the stairs with armfuls of snacks for you and your sister and a trail of laughter behind you. You didn’t look at Joel, not really. He wasn’t a person you thought about. He was just there.
But years passed, as years do. Your sister moved out, got married, graduated college. You grew into your own body, your own mind, your own defiant habits. The girl in cartoon pajamas was gone, replaced by someone who lit candles for no reason, smoked out bathroom windows, and spoke less but thought more. On to the second year of college, still living with her dad knowing there was no point in living in a dorm just blocks away.
And somewhere along the way, Joel stopped being invisible.
It wasn’t sudden. It wasn’t a switch you flipped. It was slow — the kind of change you only notice in hindsight. In the way his eyes lingered when you laughed. In the way your name sounded when he said it now — low, patient, like he was waiting for something you hadn’t offered yet. In the way he never told your father about the little secrets the two of you began to share. Catching you with a blunt between your fingers, stealing from your dad’s liquor cabinet, sneaking out the window and hopping in a cherry red mustang.
You didn’t talk much, not directly. But something unspoken passed between you. A glance. A look. A shared silence that stretched longer each time.
He was still your dad’s best friend. Still Joel. But he wasn’t just in the background anymore. And you weren’t just the kid across the street.
Lately, the space between your houses has started to feel smaller.
It’s not that anything’s changed — not really. Joel still comes over for dinner a few nights a week. Still sits beside your dad on the porch with a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Still wears those same dust-covered jeans and that Miller’s Carpentry shirt that smells like cedar and summer sweat.
But the way you notice him — that’s what’s different.
You catch yourself paying attention to things you never used to. The deep line in his brow when he’s concentrating. The way his voice sounds when he’s tired — low and almost tender. The strength in his hands when he lifts something heavy, the way his shirts stretch across his shoulders when he reaches for a drink in the kitchen. You’ve memorized all of it without meaning to.
You moved into your sister’s old room at the beginning of the college semester — bigger space, better light, more privacy. You didn’t realize it at the time, but it offered you something else, too: a perfect view into Joel’s bedroom.
It started by accident.
One night, half-dressed in your favorite oversized tee, you moved to close the blinds and noticed his window glowing across the street — warm light, drawn shades, the outline of him moving inside. You paused, just for a second, your fingers hovering at the cord.
And then you saw him.
Joel, standing with his back to you, pulling a clean shirt from a drawer. His movements slow. Unhurried. Quiet in the way he always is.
You told yourself you’d just look for a moment. Just long enough to satisfy some idle curiosity.
But then he pulled his shirt off. And everything changed.
You don’t know why you didn’t look away. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was something heavier, something you weren’t ready to name. Whatever it was, it held you there — rooted to the window, breath shallow, fingertips curled around the edge of the blinds like you needed them to stay upright.
His body was nothing like the boys you used to date — all soft muscle and sun-worn skin, lined with age and effort. There was something grounded in him, something real. The hair on his chest, the faint scars that marked his shoulders and arms like stories untold, the trail leading from his navel to where his jeans still sat low on his hips. He moved without performance, unaware — or uncaring — of any audience.
You knew it was wrong. Watching him like this. He hadn’t invited it. But the guilt only made it feel more electric.
Then his hands dropped to his belt. His fingers worked the buckle with practiced ease, metal glinting in the lamplight. The fabric of his jeans slackened, revealing the curve of his hips, the band of dark boxers beneath.
Your heart pounded so hard it was all you could hear.
And that’s when it happened.
He looked up.
Right at you.
Not a passing glance. Not some vague look toward the window. His gaze cut through the space between your houses like a spotlight — direct, unflinching.
Your stomach dropped. A jolt of panic raced through you as your fingers snapped off the blinds and they clattered back into place, loud in the quiet of your room. You stumbled backward, cheeks blazing, pulse hammering in your throat.
Did he see you?
You crawled into bed, limbs trembling, pulling the sheets over your head like you could hide from the shame curling tight in your chest. The heat beneath the blanket was unbearable, but you didn’t move. You didn’t want to face the night, or what it meant — what he might’ve saw. What he might’ve caught.
But as your breathing slowed and your eyes grew heavy, one image stayed with you: Joel, standing still in the golden light, shirtless, steady, and watching.
And for reasons you didn’t fully understand, the thought of him seeing you didn’t just scare you.
It thrilled you.
Morning came too fast — soft light peeking through your curtains, the scent of coffee drifting up from the kitchen, the faint buzz of your dad’s radio playing in the garage. Everything was normal. Familiar. Ordinary.
Except it wasn’t.
You kept thinking about last night. About Joel. About that look.
And when you finally dragged yourself downstairs, trying not to seem off, there he was — standing in the kitchen like nothing had happened.
Joel leaned against the counter, coffee in hand, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. His hair was still a little damp, like he’d only just showered. He looked relaxed. Natural. Unbothered.
But when his eyes flicked toward you, you felt it again. That strange current.
“Hey, kid,” he said, the same way he always had — but this time it sounded heavier. Slower. His gaze lingered for half a second too long.
“Hey,” you managed, your voice tighter than you meant it to be. You moved past him toward the fridge, hoping the cold air would cool the flush rising to your face.
Your dad was outside, arguing with a lawnmower, giving you and Joel that thin veil of privacy that suddenly felt too intimate.
You could feel him looking at you.
He wasn’t saying anything — didn’t need to. It was there in the silence. In the way he sipped his coffee. In the way you couldn’t stop thinking about the lamp in his bedroom window, the way his shoulders looked under the warm light, the way he might’ve seen you watching, and chosen not to look away.
“So,” he said eventually, his voice low and casual, like this was any other day, like he hadn’t caught you peeking through the blinds with wide, guilty eyes. “How’s school?”
You turned, leaning your hip against the counter, forcing a smile. “It’s fine. Boring.”
He nodded, took another sip, then said — quieter now, his eyes meeting yours — “You sleep okay?”
You blinked.
Your mouth went dry.
There it was — subtle, but unmistakable. An acknowledgment. A thin thread pulling last night into this moment.
You held his gaze a little too long.
“Yeah,” you said softly. “I slept fine.”
Joel just nodded again, eyes never leaving yours, but he didn’t press. He didn’t need to. The weight of what had passed between you — what was passing between you — filled the space with something thicker than air.
And then your dad came through the back door, muttering something about broken mower blades, and the moment dissolved like mist.
But the heat lingered.
And when Joel left an hour later — after lunch, after laughter, after pretending nothing had shifted — he looked at you again just before he stepped off the porch.
That look stayed with you for the rest of the day. That look said he remembered. That look said he wondered if you'd be watching again tonight.
The day felt like it had been filtered through a thick fog. You tried to focus on the mundane things — schoolwork, a quick errand for your dad, a phone call with your sister — but it all felt distant, disconnected. Your thoughts kept drifting back to the previous night, to the way Joel had seen at you. The way he'd caught you watching him. The way he hadn’t seemed upset, or angry, or even surprised. He'd just... looked.
That was the part that haunted you — not just that he'd caught you, but that he didn’t turn away. He hadn’t looked terrified or stormed off. He had simply met your gaze, and in that unspoken moment, you could feel the weight of something new pass between you. A change. A shift. And then this morning. The lingering heat in the air, the exchange of ever knowing looks, the silent invitation.
By the time night fell again, the quiet of your room felt heavier than usual. You’d avoided the window all day, half-expecting to look out and see him, standing there, waiting for you to make the next move. But as the hours passed, the urge to look, to see him again, grew stronger. You finally gave in.
You shouldn’t be watching. You know that.
But you are.
Joel’s blinds are open again tonight — like the night before, like he knows. The amber light of his bedside lamp casts long shadows across the room, painting soft golden lines across his walls and spilling out across the street, right through your window.
You tell yourself it’s just coincidence. A glance. A curious flick of the eye.
But your gaze lingers.
And when he walks into frame — into the soft light, the quiet — you forget to breathe. You press a palm gently to the glass as if you can steady your heartbeat that way. He doesn’t look at you, not yet. He walks to his dresser, pulls open a drawer, and tosses a pair of flannel pajama pants onto the bed. The same kind he always wears. Simple. Familiar.
Then his hands go to the hem of his shirt. And he pulls it over his head in one slow, practiced motion. You’ve never seen Joel like this before last night — not bare, not like this. His body isn’t sculpted like a young man’s, but strong in the way of someone who’s built things with his hands, who knows work, who’s lived.
And you know it’s wrong to look. You know this is Joel — your dad’s best friend. The man who once called you “kiddo” and ruffled your hair on the porch. The one who poured you your first illicit glass of whiskey and never said a word. The one who gave you a knowing look when you came back from that party reeking of bad decisions and cheap perfume.
But this — this is something else. Something neither of you has named.
His hands move lower, and your breath catches. He undoes the button of his jeans, slowly — not like he’s rushing to change, but like he’s waiting. Watching. And then, as if confirming your worst fear and your secret hope, Joel lifts his eyes.
Right to your window.
You flinch. For a moment, your body locks, and your hand jerks from the blinds — they clatter softly as they snap shut again. You stumble back from the window, heart racing, cheeks flushed. He knows. He likes it. And you don’t know what to do about it.
Rain taps against the windows in soft, lazy patterns, and the world outside your bedroom feels muted — like even time has slowed to listen. You wake with that feeling in your chest again: the quiet hum of something unresolved. Something real.
You take your time getting ready. You braid your hair. Wear that long sweater you always reach for when you’re not sure how to feel. When you finally come downstairs, the scent of coffee greets you — warm and grounding.
And so does Joel.
He’s leaning in the doorway between the kitchen and the dining room, arms crossed, boots tracking in a little rain. His jacket’s slung over the back of a chair. There’s a mug in his hand, and when he sees you, he tips it toward you in a silent greeting.
“Mornin’,” he says. Simple. Steady.
You nod, pulling your sleeves over your hands. “Hey.”
Your dad’s nowhere to be seen — probably still upstairs getting ready for a day with Joel. Which leaves just the two of you, the way it always seems to now. Close, but with space between. Silence, but full of meaning.
You cross to the counter, grabbing your own mug and pouring slowly. You feel Joel’s eyes on you before you hear his voice again.
“d’you sleep okay?” he asks. Country accent thick in the air.
The same question from yesterday. But this time, there’s a weight to it. A thread tying it to something unsaid. You glance at him. Hold his gaze for a second longer than you should.
“I did,” you say quietly. “Eventually.”
A pause.
Joel takes a sip. “Yeah?”
You nod, turning slightly to lean against the counter. “You?”
He shrugs, mouth tugging into something like a smile — not playful, not teasing. Just… knowing.
“Same,” he says. “Took me a while.”
The air tightens between you, not in a suffocating way — but like a string being pulled taut. A connection neither of you can ignore anymore. You should say something light. Break the moment. But you don’t.
Instead, you ask, voice softer than you meant it to be:
“Did you see me?”
Joel doesn’t pretend not to understand. His gaze flicks up to meet yours — calm, steady, unreadable. But not cold.
“I did,” he says. Quiet. Clear. No apology in his tone. No shame.
You feel your heartbeat in your throat. You swallow thick.
You expected denial. Or dismissal. Or worse — disgust. But Joel’s voice is careful. Grounded. Like he’s letting you steer this, if you want to.
“I thought…” you start, then stop. You shake your head. “Never mind.”
He doesn’t press. But he does step forward — just one pace, still at a distance, still safe.
“You don’t have to be afraid,” he says, voice lower now. “Of what I saw. Of what you saw.”
There’s a beat of silence.
“I just don’t know what it means,” you admit, almost whispering. “If it should mean anything.”
Joel nods once, slow.
“It doesn’t have to. Not if you don’t want it to.”
His words are calm, careful — but not empty. There’s something beneath them. A door, open just enough. You could walk through. Or you could turn away.
But for now, you just stand there, coffee growing cold in your hand, heart louder than the rain outside.
And you hold his gaze.
Because for the first time, neither of you is pretending.
You don’t know what makes you do it.
Maybe it’s the way he looked at you this morning — calm, open, like he wasn’t afraid of what this was becoming. Maybe it’s the quiet thrill still echoing in your ribs every time you think about last night, about the moment his eyes found yours through the glass.
Or maybe it’s just time.
The wind has picked up outside. Your candles flicker in response, casting long shadows across your walls. You’re already in your room, already changed into something soft and light and not exactly innocent. And your window — your window is open.
So is his.
You pace for a moment, unsure of what you’re doing, unsure of whether he’ll even be there tonight. Part of you hopes he’s not. Part of you hopes he is.
And then the light turns on.
Joel walks into frame like he always does — same slow pace, same deliberate quiet. But he doesn’t go to his dresser. Doesn’t reach for a clean shirt. He just stops in front of the window and looks across the street.
Straight at you.
Your breath catches. You step forward — not close, not fully to the glass, but enough for him to see you. Enough for him to know you're there.
This time, you hold his gaze. And then, without fully thinking it through, you raise your hand.
Not a wave. Not a signal to stop. A gesture — soft, small, slow — fingers curling in slightly. An invitation.
You don’t say it out loud, but somehow, he understands.
Don’t undress tonight.
Let me.
Joel stands still for a moment, brow barely furrowed, like he’s making sure this is what you really want. That you’re not playing.
And when you don’t move — when you don’t hide — he sits down on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, watching.
Waiting.
Your heart is thunder in your chest.
You reach for the straps on your satin slip dress with slightly shaking fingers. Pause. Look at him again.
He doesn’t look away.
Doesn’t smile.
Doesn’t smirk.
He’s just there, in the glow of his bedside lamp, eyes steady, breath even. You can’t tell if he’s nervous. But he’s not turning away.
So you slip off your pretty dress.
Slowly.
The satin brushes over your skin, falling inch by inch until it’s off, piled beneath your feet like something no longer needed. You stand in the soft golden glow of your bedroom lamp, bare, unsure of what you’re doing — only that he’s watching.
And you want him to.
There’s no performance in your movements, no posing. Just the honest, vulnerable act of being seen.
Of choosing to be.
You stand still for a breath. Two.
Joel exhales — the only movement from him so far. His eyes never leave you. And somehow, that makes you feel more powerful than exposed. More right than wrong.
And then you move to the window..
Not fully — not pressed against the glass, not offering everything all at once. Just near enough that the lamplight catches the edge of your shoulder, the dip of your collarbone, the delicate shape of your silhouette.
Joel still hasn’t moved.
But you see it now — the way his jaw is set tighter than before, how his fingers curl into his thighs. Not with tension, exactly. More like restraint. Like if he lets himself feel too much too fast, he might lose control.
You like that you can do that to him.
Your fingers trail up the frame of your open window. Not teasing — just something to do with your hands, something to keep grounded while your chest thrums like a second heart. You glance at him, searching for something in his face.
And then you see it — the way he shifts, just slightly, like he’s made a decision.
He stands. Crosses the room. And then you hear it.
Your phone.
The screen lights up on your nightstand, buzzing low and persistent.
Joel.
Your breath catches again, for an entirely different reason now. You don’t think — just answer.
“…hi,” you say, voice barely above a whisper.
There’s silence for a second. Then:
“Don’t move.”
The command is quiet. Steady. Not rough, but firm.
You stop breathing.
He exhales once, slow. Like he needed a moment to figure out how to speak.
“Turn toward the window. Let me see you better.”
You do.
The air shifts in your room — or maybe just in your body — as you step closer, turning slightly in the lamplight. You can feel the night on your skin, the weight of his gaze from across the street. His breath comes through the line, steady and deep.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Just like that.”
There’s a pause — like he’s considering something.
“Now… take your time. Show me how you want to be touched.”
A slow heat coils low in your belly.
You’ve never done anything like this before. Not with him. Not with anyone.
But somehow, it doesn’t feel strange. Doesn’t feel dirty or performative or wrong. It feels like being drawn into something quiet and ritualistic. A shared secret.
You swallow and shift your weight, your fingers brushing along the side of your thigh, then higher, slipping up the curve of your waist. Not shy — not anymore. Just slow, honest.
You hear him exhale again — soft, but rougher this time.
“You look so goddamn beautiful right now,” he says, like he’s trying not to say it, but can’t help himself. “Keep goin’.”
You close your eyes for a moment and listen to the sound of his breath, your own heart hammering in time with it.
You don’t know where this night will end.
But for now, the distance between you is charged and sacred — two windows, two rooms, and one quiet line connecting the space between your bodies and something deeper.
You keep your hand moving.
And you wait for his next instruction.
His breath crackles softly through the speaker, a rasp of need and restraint that coils tighter around your spine. You can see him from where you’re standing — the vague warmth of his bedroom window across the way — but you also feel him. Every inhale, every low murmur, like he’s right behind you, speaking straight into your skin.
“Good,” he says again, voice lower now, darker. “Don’t stop. I want ya aching.”
Your fingers trail higher, over the soft rise of your ribs, pausing just beneath the edge of your bra. It’s a whisper of pressure, but it lands like a spark, and you hear it in his breath — that stutter, that hitch.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Just like that. Such a good girl.”
You drag your hand across your sternum, slow and trembling now with something heavier than nerves. You put him on speaker as your other hand joins — not even touching yet, just hovering, warm and near. Your hips shift, searching for friction, for release, but you’re not there yet.
Neither of you are.
“Undo it,” Joel says, after a pause that hums with need. “Your top. Take it off real slow.”
You reach behind you, fingers fumbling slightly, and when the clasp finally gives, your breath rushes out in a hush. You let the fabric slide off your arms — slow, teasing, just like he asked — and let it fall at your feet.
“Jesus,” he breathes into the line. “You’re killin’ me, darlin’.”
You glance toward the window, see him still sitting on the edge of the bed, pulling at his ever tightening jeans. The way he says it — like you’ve undone him completely — makes something molten settle low in your stomach.
“Touch yourself,” he says next. “One hand. Keep the other where I can see it.”
You do. One palm pressed lightly to the glass, bathed in lamplight, the other sliding down your now bare breasts, touching the hardening nipple, then trailing down, past your stomach, dipping beneath the waistband of your panties.
You gasp. Quiet, but sharp.
He hears it.
“That good?” he asks, voice ragged.
You nod before you realize he can’t see it. “Yes,” you breathe.
“Don’t go fast,” he tells you. “Make it last. Want to hear every sound you make.”
Your fingertips find the place you need them most, slick and aching, and you let your head fall back slightly, lips parted as you drag slow circles that send little shocks through your legs against your clit. You bite back a moan — instinct — but then his voice comes through again, low and firm.
“Let me hear you.”
So you do. Quiet at first. Then louder. Honest. Nothing held back.
Across the street, he’s dead silent, but you can feel him in every pulse, every breath. You can feel how still he is, how focused — like he’s trying to memorize every sound, every sigh.
“Wish I had ya right here,” he growls finally, voice cracking under the weight of it. “Would’ve had you against this wall, hand around your throat, legs shakin’ around my waist. God, the things I’d do to you.”
A cry slips from your mouth before you can stop it. “Need you, Joel.”
Your rhythm falters for a moment — you’re getting close now — but you don’t stop. You can’t. Not with his voice in your ear like that, not with the heat building in you like a rising wave.
“You close?” he asks, voice a low rasp.
“Y-yeah.”
“Don’t come yet,” he warns, but there’s a tremor in it now — like he’s barely holding on himself. “Wanna be with you when it happens.”
You whimper, body trembling, and he groans softly in response, like the sound alone undoes him.
“Fuck it,” he mutters. “I’m comin’ over.”
Your eyes fly open.
“What?”
“Stay just like that,” he says. “Don’t move. Keep touchin’ yourself. Door unlocked?”
You nod, breath catching. “Yes.”
“Good. ‘M two minutes away. Keep me on the line.”
And then he’s gone — not from the call, but from the window. The space he left behind is dark, empty, but your world feels anything but.
You hear the sound of footsteps. The soft creak of a door.
And somewhere in the distance — growing closer — the sound of him coming to finish what you started.
There’s a beat of silence. Then:
“Look at you,” he murmurs.
His voice is rough. Stretched thin. Like he ran the whole way over just to keep a promise he couldn’t bear to break. He hangs up the phone.
You feel his hand before you see it — the warm press of his palm at your waist. Just resting there. Grounding.
“You doin’ all this for me?” he asks, low and quiet, his lips ghosting the lobe of your ear.
You nod. Barely. But it’s enough.
His hand moves — slow, careful — tracing the line of your stomach. His fingers skim your soft skin, still warm from your own touch.
“Show me,” he says, a whisper now. “Show me where you were.”
You take his hand in yours and guide it down.
His breath shudders out against your neck when he feels how soaked you are — how ready. His other arm wraps around you, pulling you back against his chest like he needs you there, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he doesn’t anchor you.
“You were gonna come for me like this?” he asks, voice ragged. “Alone?”
You don’t answer — can’t — not with the way his fingers are already moving, sliding slow and firm, perfectly in rhythm with the ache you’d been building. He curses under his breath, low and rough, and buries his face in your neck.
“Not anymore,” he growls. “Not without me.”
You moan, soft and broken, and he tightens his grip on your waist.
“Got you,” he murmurs. “Don’t have to do a damn thing. Just feel it.”
And you do.
You melt against him, every part of you drawn to the steadiness in his body, the barely restrained fire in his touch. His free hand finds your breast, fingers grazing gently at first — then harder, as your hips start to rock against his palm. He pinches harshly, causing electric spikes to coarse through your spine.
“So fuckin’ soft,” he mutters. “So perfect.”
“God, Joel.” You moan quietly.
His fingers dip easily inside of you, creating a loud wet sound in the room. Embarrasment rises to your cheeks as Joel says:
“Jesus, drippin’ all over my hand baby. So fuckin’ wet for me.”
His fingers curl, hitting that soft spongy spot that makes you scream. His hands fly to your mouth, muffling the sound entirely.
“Shh, your daddys sleepin’ down the hall.” He whispers into your ear. “You gonna be a good girl and be quiet for me now?”
You nod harshly into his palm, desperately wanting to listen to his every instruction. His hand slides slowly down from your mouth until it wraps lightly around your throat, squeezing harsh enough to quiet you but soft enough that you can still breathe.
His pace quickens between your legs, your bare back now flatly against his torso. You can feel the harsh buldge rubbing just above your ass. The heat that pooled deep in you now threatening to spill, all over his thick fingers. He gives you a nod, letting you know it’s okay, come for me.
You crumble into his hand, shaking breathes escaping your lips as you body shakes into compulsion. You arch into him, wrapping your fingers into the curl of his hair. His fingers continue in his steady but fast pump — easing you through every shake. You tighten around his fingers, squeeze your thighs together, and spill your sticky juices into his hand. Feeling the slick drip down your thighs.
You’re still trembling.
His arm is a solid band around your throat, holding you upright as you come down, your body still fluttering with aftershocks. But he’s not done.
Not even close.
Joel presses a kiss to the curve where your neck meets your shoulder — slow, open-mouthed — and you feel the heat of his breath as he speaks against your skin.
“You think I’m gonna stop now?” he murmurs. “After watchin’ you fall apart like that?”
His hand moves again — the one between your legs — but this time it’s slower. Deliberate. He slides his fingers gently through the mess he made, spreading the wetness with a low, appreciative sound in his throat.
“Goddamn,” he growls. “You’re soaked.”
You can barely hold yourself upright. But you nod, wordless, hips already tipping back toward him in silent invitation.
Joel smiles against your skin — you feel it. That little curve of satisfaction. Then his fingers slide back in — deeper this time, two of them, thick and sure — and your breath punches out of you like a prayer.
Your head falls back against his shoulder, lips parting on a broken moan.
“That’s it,” he says softly. “Let me in. Let me feel how much ya want this, baby girl.”
He sets a rhythm — slow and devastating. Every thrust of his fingers hits something deep, something aching. And the heel of his palm grinds against your clit just enough to make your legs start to shake again.
“You’re gonna come for me again,” he says, voice rough in your ear. “I wanna hear you sobbin’ my name, baby. Wanna hear what I do to you.”
You whimper — too far gone to speak — and your hips begin to chase every movement of his hand. You’re slick, soaked, your body a live wire, and Joel’s hand is steady, ruthless in its precision.
“You’re squeezin’ me so tight,” he mutters. “Feel that? You’re beggin’.”
You don’t know if he means your body or the sounds pouring from your mouth — soft, desperate, needy — but either way, he’s right.
“Please,” you gasp. “Joel, please—”
And that does something to him.
He curses under his breath, hand tightening at your throat, the rhythm of his fingers growing sharper, deeper. You can hear it now — the slick, obscene sound of you coming apart on his hand.
His voice drops even lower, like a growl under his breath.
“Come for me, sweet girl. Now.”
It hits like a bolt of lightning — sudden and hot and overwhelming. You’re sent flying over the edge. You don’t know how you do it. How you manage to spill your liquids all over his hand again, as if it was the first time.
This time, Joel lets you collapse into his arms, holding you close to him as he lifts you with his free hand.
The air in the room is quiet again, but it’s different now. Softened. Like the tension has unraveled slowly, and the weight of everything that’s passed between you both has settled into something comfortable.
Joel’s hands are still gentle on your back as he helps you lay down on the bed, the soft cotton sheets cool against your skin. You let out a small sigh of relief, finally feeling the soft press of the mattress beneath you, the quiet warmth of the room surrounding you.
“Get some rest,” he says quietly, his voice low and soothing. He brushes a stray lock of hair from your face, his touch lingering just a little longer than necessary, fingers grazing your cheek with a tenderness that makes your heart ache.
You blink up at him, still dazed from everything that’s happened, the world feeling a little too dreamlike now. “Stay,” you murmur. “Please.”
He hesitates.
Just long enough that you notice it. But then he takes a deep breath, running a hand through his hair, eyes flicking briefly to the window, to the door, then back down at you — at the softness in your expression.
“You know I can’t.” he says, the words heavy and reluctant, but firm.
Your heart lurches a little in your chest. The way he says it, like he wants to stay, but there’s something holding him back.
“Why?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper, your fingers curling into the blanket. “I don’t want you to leave.”
Joel leans down, his lips pressing against your forehead — soft, lingering, but there’s a quiet urgency in the way he pulls back, his expression flickering with something that looks almost like regret.
“I know, baby,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing over the back of your hand, tracing the lines of your skin like he’s memorizing it. “But I can’t risk it. Your dad… if he finds out I’m here… it’ll be bad. For both of us.”
You frown, the words hitting you with an unexpected sharpness. The reality of it. His concern — his caution. It stings in a way you weren’t prepared for. You want to pull him closer, to tell him that you don’t care, that you don’t want him to leave. But you know he’s right.
It’s not just about the two of you. It’s about everything else. The world beyond this room.
“I don’t care about that,” you say, your voice small, but the truth is there, clear in the quiet space between you.
Joel smiles softly, but it’s tinged with sadness, like it’s a kindness he wishes he didn’t have to offer.
“I do,” he says, his voice low. “Care too much to risk it. Don’t want him comin’ after me… don’t want you in the middle of it.”
You want to argue, to insist that it doesn’t matter. But deep down, you understand. He’s trying to protect both of you in the only way he knows how.
His hand cups your cheek one last time, his thumb brushing across your skin in a slow, deliberate motion, like he’s trying to erase any lingering doubt that he cares. That he wants to be here. Wants to stay with you.
“I gotta go.” He whispers, removing his thumb from your cheek, leaving the area now cold and missing his touch.
A lump rises in your throat, the ache of him leaving swelling in your chest.
“Please don’t go,” you whisper, the words trembling, even as you know the weight of his reasons.
But Joel just shakes his head, a small, sad smile pulling at the corner of his lips.
“I have to,” he says, his voice steady even if the look in his eyes is anything but. “I’m gonna be right across the street, ‘right? You just rest. I’ll be close.”
Your fingers reach for his hand instinctively, wanting to hold on, to make him stay, but he’s already pulling away.
“You’ll be okay,” he murmurs. “’m not far.”
And with that, he stands, his movements slow but resolute. For a moment, you just watch him, your chest tight, a longing stretching between you both like an invisible thread.
Before you can say anything else, he glances at the door, then back at you — one last look — and gives you a soft, bittersweet nod.
“Be good.” he says, and it’s almost a whisper, like a promise carried on the air.
And then, he’s gone.
The door clicks softly behind him, leaving you alone in the quiet of the room, the cool sheets still cradling you like a silent reminder of what you just shared.
But there’s a hollow feeling in your chest, a void where his warmth was, and even though you know he’ll be close — that he’ll return soon — the distance still stretches between you both, heavy and unspoken.
a/n: OMG this is my first one-shot on this account!! Please leave a comment and reblog to support if you enjoyed!
A mixed collection of P!Links for the Supernatural Brothers. These are literal porn links available on X (Twitter). You must have an active X to view them. Please remember that these videos may not look exactly like the characters.
Please feel free to like and repost. Click Here if you’d like more stories from me. Text divider from @cafekitsune.
Gentle Torture: Joel Miller x F!Reader (Reupload, Complete Story)
Summary: Joel Miller loses every ounce of restraint when a high school senior moves in next door. Pre-Outbreak
Warnings: Smut: Age Gap (Joel in his late 30s, reader starts out at 18), Dbf!Joel, Kissing, Oral (F!Receiving), Fingering, unprotected PinV, slightly rough, some overstimulation, choking. Pet Names: Sweetheart, baby girl, good girl, little girl.
Word Count: 8.5K
Originally uploaded as two different parts. This is an edited, complete version of Part 1 & Part
EXPLICIT SEXUAL CONTENT. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT
Please feel free to like and repost. Click Here if you’d like more stories from me. Text divider from @cafekitsune. Text Color Generator. If you'd like more Joel Miller stories, please go check out @pearlessance.
Joel Miller could not believe all the choices he made in life had led him…here. Standing above you, your legs sprawled out, pussy wet and glistening for him. He hated where he was right now. He hated that he loved it so much, watching as you quivered at his touch. Hated that he craved you every goddamn waking hour of his life. He fucking hated you for being so innocent, so irresistible. It was a gentle torture, something he never experienced in his thirty plus years of life.
By all accounts, he was a good man. Sure, he had been arrested a few times as a teenager, won (and lost) some bar fights, and broke a few women's hearts. That did not make him a bad man, at least he had hoped not. He had made an honest, decent life. He had flaws like any other man, but he knew deep down he would die for those he loved, no questions asked. That had to count for something.
He was sure he was a good man, but when Joel laid his head to sleep at night, his mind always led him down a sinful, unspeakably bad place. He Would try to sleep, he really would but when he closed his eyes, flashes of you in perfect little bikinis, tight crop tops (the ones where your nipples set perfectly visible and erect for everyone to see), and those tiny denim shorts tortured his mind. Thoughts of you had plagued him, clouding his mind and hardening his cock over and over again for months.
It had not started out this way, not in the slightest. Over a year ago, you and your father, David, had moved in next door. At first, he had not paid much attention to the new additions next door. Sure, he introduced himself, shaking your father’s hand and giving you a light smile and wave. But there was not much interaction after that. Not until some remodeling was needed on your home. Joel being a construction worker was obviously convenient for your father. David had never been much of a handyman himself, so Joel was the first person he came to for help.
“Your dad says you want to paint your room?” was the first sentence Joel had actually spoken to you, his voice smooth and raspy all at the same time. It sent chills through you, a not so innocent crush on the older man already forming. The two of you stood in the empty bedroom, all your things moved temporarily into the living room.
“I was thinking something dark, maybe a forest green”, was all you responded, holding out a stack of paint cards you picked up from Home Depot. Joel took them lightly in his hand, his fingers brushing against yours. It was enough to wake every nerve in your body. You hoped the hot blush on your cheeks was not too obvious.
“This one. The sun would wash out the rest”. Joel held up a card to the wall, Vermont green. You nodded in agreement. It was your favorite too. Joel couldn’t help but notice how small you were next to him, your frame drowned in his as he stood firmly still next to you.
“So you're starting a new school. It must be hard being a senior in a new place.”
You nodded again, carefully lining tape at the base of the walls like Joel had shown you moments before. “Yeah, especially with the year being halfway over. But I’ll manage.”
Joel relaxed at the sound of your soft voice. It was so refreshing, happy, and full of youthfulness. “Got any plans for college? Ya’ seem smart” Joel asked, lining the floor with a thin plastic material.
“I’ve actually got my license for cosmetology already. I'm trying to find a shop right now, but it’s hard being new to the area and still being in school.”
Joel nodded, taking notice of how soft and bouncy your hair looked. Perfect curls stoping just under your shoulder blade. Perfect for him to grab onto while you sit on all fours, ass up and face down for him. He quickly shook the thought away, cursing himself for even being alone in a room with you. What had gotten into him?
As the year went on, Joel and your father started hanging out more and more. A familiar boyish relationship formed between them and now they seemed, for the most part, inseparable. Joel spent weekend after weekend in the backyard of your house, cooking steaks, hotdogs, and hamburgers. You had graduated and were home all the time in the summer. He always tried to ignore the way your perfect little ass bounced with every step you took towards the pool, your bikini bottoms ridding up, hardly covering anything and a red popsicle sitting between your plump pink lips. He had never been jealous of a popsicle before. It made him angry, hot all over. He recalled days he accidentally burnt the meat on the grill, too dazed out at the thought of you to pay any mind to food. He was starved, but never for what he was cooking.
Joel always cursed himself after, hating how much he wanted to destroy your innocence. He made it his mission to be as friendly as he could while still keeping his distance from you. He never sat in chairs next to you, never hugged you, never even gave you a high five. But he would offer you smiles, ask how work at the salon was going, and help you with house work if you ever needed it. He hoped this was enough to stop the involuntary twitch in his cock every time he saw you.
It never was.
You, on the other hand, were always trying to get closer. On days you knew Joel would be over, you would dress a bit lighter, show a touch more skin. Enough that he could imagine, but not enough for your father to notice anything was up. You were not always sure if it worked, but you swore some days you could feel Joel’s eyes linger on you like a lion stalks its prey. Other days, it felt like he was disgusted by you. Only saying a short ‘hey’ and then practically running as far opposite from you as he could. It was so frustrating. You were eighteen, not a child. You knew you could handle him, knew you could take him.
Today was not a good day to tempt Joel. He had woken up yearning, his skin on fire for you. He had done his best to stay away from your house for the day, taking a cold shower and trying to focus on anything other than the eighteen-year-old girl next door. But you had other plans, knocking steadfastly on his door.
Joel startled at the light bangs, pacing towards the window and reluctantly moving the blinds. He watched as you stood on his front steps, a sweet smile on your face. God, what did you want?
“Did you forget…You’re supposed to be cooking for my dad’s party. He’s gonna be pissed if people show up and there’s nothing to eat.” You spoke, a hand laid lightly on your hip. You wore a light blue sundress, the material flowy and hugging your waist like it was handcrafted for only you.
A strap from a black bra poked through the thin top of the dress, causing a silent groan and a string of curses to raddle his brain.
“Goddamn it, fuck! I fuckin’ forgot. Just come in…” Joel cursed, slapping his forehead and dragging it down his face.
“You look like shit,” you laughed, taking a long glance as you gently stepped inside the living room. A worn-down couch and loveseat sat in the center of the room, a glass table between them. The walls were boring beige, to be expected.
“I d-didn’t sleep good…that’s all”, Joel groaned across the room, slamming down two pills. His head was fucking killing him. He rushed around the kitchen, pulling spices and items from the fridge. He let out a few “Grab this and this”.
“Fuck, I need to change. Why didn't you come get me earlier?” Joel’s tone was impatient, something you had never really heard before. He was always so pleasant.
“My bad. Didn’t know I was babysitting a grown man,” you huffed, holding a plethora of ingredients Joel had thrown at you.
“Don’t be a fuckin’ smart ass” Joel half yelled. He stopped for a moment, a deep sigh escaping him. He forced himself to finally look at you, his eyes traveling up your body. Fuck, you looked so good.
“Sorry…Listen, I need you to take this shit to the grill while I get the ribs ready. Then come here, get me a decent outfit. Nothing crazy. Just need a semi-nice shirt and jeans.” Joel raddled, his words coming out faster than you processed.
You nodded your head in agreement. It was something Joel loved about you. How easily you listened, how accepting and obedient of his words you were.
A few hours had passed and Joel’s sour attitude had remained the same. He watched from a lawn chair, drinking beers like a sad old man as you danced with family and friends, hugged your father, and smiled at the few strangers in attendance. He tried his damndest to keep his boiling anger at bay, possessive thoughts of grabbing you and leading you to his bedroom invading him. It pissed him off even more to see you act so casual. Like the thought of him ravishing you never crossed your mind. Was he just some kind of freak weirdo obsessed with a teenage girl half his age? Or worse… was he just your dad’s friend to you?
Racing thoughts plagued his mind. He probably looked like a standoffish asshole to everyone. He had hoped to be in good spirits by the time the party started, but you just would not fuck off. You stood next to him as he cooked, offering help in any way you could. Of course, you were trying to be polite, just wanting to be of assistance. He knew that he should not be so angry at you, but that stupid sundress was making his cock throb against the zipper of his jeans, no release in sight for hours. He daydreamed of when he could lay in bed, cursing himself as he pulled up your Instagram page. Like most nights, he would zoom in on your pictures, picking out ones of you on the beach, your thighs, ass, or tits on display. Then, he would gently drag down his boxers, coat his hand with a thin layer of spit and stroke his cock until he was cumming on his stomach.
For now, he was stuck in this chair, watching you like a fucking weirdo.
“Joey”, your dad’s voice rang out across the yard, an octave above the heavy rock music playing in the background. Joel hesitated to stand, scared his semi-hard cock might be obvious to those around him. He forced himself up, half-drunk beer in hand, and made his way over to David.
“Just wanted to t-thank you for bringing everyone t-together. You've been a g-great friend to me, and you’ve been so so good to y/n. You would be a great f-father, ya know.” Your dad’s words were slurred and he drunkenly threw his arm around Joel's shoulder. An intense sting of guilt and disgust rushed through Joel like he was being struck by lightning. Guilt because he was daydreaming of fucking the brains out of his best friend’s daughter and disgust because David had just compared you to Joel’s imaginary child.
“Of course,” Joel spoke simply, quickly downing the rest of his beer. This wouldn’t work. He needed something hard. A drink that would actually loosen him up. Joel pulled himself from your dad’s arm, trying to act as happy as he could. He’s finally lost sight of you. Thank god. “Gonna go get another drink, want anything?” Joel asked, watching as your father struggled to gain balance. Clearly, he was cut off. “Actually, never mind.” Joel laughed, his first genuine laugh of the entire day.
Joel wandered to the backdoor, sliding the glass frame open and quickly ducking inside. The house was quiet, everyone gathered outside drinking and laughing. It relaxed him, and he closed his eyes, leaning against the door framing and letting out a heavy breath.
“Social anxiety?” You asked, standing in the kitchen, a cherry popsicle wrapped around your lips.
“Somethin’ like that,” Joel smiled, shaking his head and begging to be anywhere but here. Anywhere but near you. His skin crawled as he watched you lick the popsicle, your tongue gliding in a circular motion around the tip. You knew what you fucking doing. Joel knew it. You both knew it.
Joel stayed glued to the doorframe, his eyes locked on you as you silently dragged your tongue from the bottom of the popsicle to the top and then dipped it deep into your mouth.
“Stop,” Joel commanded, taking long strides to the kitchen. He did not dare get too close to you, so he stopped when you were just out of reach, hoping the distance was enough to hold him back.
“What? I’m not doing anything,” You spoke innocently, sucking the tip of the popsicle until red juice settled on your lips and ran softly down your chin. A light smile sat on your face as you looked up through your eyelashes at Joel, continuing your gentle attack on the popsicle.
“I’m serious,” Joel spoke, not a hint of emotion behind his words. He took an involuntary step closer, his legs no longer under his control. “You know what you're doing…” Joel whispered, lowering his face until it was just above your ear, his breath hot and thick on the smooth skin of your neck. Every fiber of your being stood at alert and you furrowed your eyebrows in confusion. Why was he so close? Why had he been in such a bad mood today?
“Joel, I-” Your voice was enough to push him over the edge, and without warning, he took the popsicle from your hand, laying it down on the counter. He pressed his body against you, trapping you between him and the counter. Your back arched against the cold marble, a hint of fear widening your eyes. Joel stood silently in front of you, looming above your tiny frame.
“God, you don’t know what you do to me little girl”, Joel’s voice had finally softened but his jaw and fists were still closed tight, like he might explode at any moment.
You try to speak, try to come up with any type of words, but your mind has disconnected from your body and all you can think is ‘Joel, Joel, Joel’. You don't try to pull away from him, don't even fight when he takes your chin in his hand, forcing you to look up at him. Your eyes meet his and you swear you could die right there.
His lips fan above yours momentarily, so close but still so achingly far away. “Say you want this,” Joel mumbles, dragging his thumb across your plump lips, a bright red stain left behind by the cherry flavoring.
Your body is a melting, trembling mess already. “I-I w-want this,” your words are hardly audible, all breathy and slow.
That’s all it takes for Joel to completely break, come undone to the point he can never be ‘done’ again. Joel slams into you, pulling you into a sloppy kiss, claiming you through a desperate mess of saliva and tongue. He can taste the cherry on your lips, sweet and addicting. He is completely lost in you, biting softly against your bottom lip. You tug your hand in his hair, thick brown locks finding a home between your fingers. He is a fucking mess and he cannot stop himself from dragging his hands to your waist, pulling you in so deep you are practically one. You suck in a deep breath, allowing Joel’s tongue to dip further inside, swirling inside your mouth desperately. You try to stay quiet, try to keep composed but a moan escapes you before you can even think about stopping it. Need rushes through your body as you whine into him and you feel every muscle in Joel’s body tighten around you.
Joel cannot believe he is actually fucking doing this. His mind is racing, thoughts clouded with needy desire and despair. He ached for more of you, anything you would offer him. Joel allows himself to get lost in you, finally roaming his hands to your hips, rough and possessive. His lips never part yours, sucking at the tip of your tongue and softly dragging his teeth across it.
Joel's strong hands travel lower, gripping your soft curvy thighs with calloused fingertips. He squeezes your supple flesh, pushing you deeper into the counter. He swears he could do this, just this for hours, never even needing to be inside you to feel euphoria. He kneads at your skin, pulling you flush against his body and biting your lip again. Hesitance lingers through him but he ultimately gives in, slipping his hand under the hem of your dress. Joel groans against your lips as his fingers wander to softer, gentler skin. They move higher and higher until they meet the edge of your panties, slowly tracing a finger along the fabric, his other hand on your waist keeping your wiggles firmly at bay.
You finally break the kiss, tearing your mouth away from him with reluctance. You place your forehead on his shoulder, breath hot and heavy against his chest. He drops his head, resting it gently atop of yours. His hand on your waist gives you a light squeeze. Joel inhales deeply, the smell of rose and vanilla filling his senses. A low groan reverberates through his chest, need echoing off of him. He wants you right here, doesn't even care if anyone sees or walks in. Doesn't care if it would end up with him getting his ass beat. He just needs you.
You bite down on the fabric of Joel’s shirt as his hands travel to your ass and grip you tight. He easily lifts you, sitting you down gently on the cold marble in front of him. He knows better, knows not to but an unnameable list takes over him. All he is thinking about is dipping his fingers inside you and your pleading, begging, eyes told him ‘do it, please do it’.
Your pupils dilate with lust, a soft whimper easily hexing Joel’s finger back to your thin panties.
Joel looks down at you, soft hunger written across his face. “This okay?” he whispers, lightly dragging a finger down your clothed slit. You wonder if he can feel the warm, wet spot staining your pretty pink panties.
“Mmmh,” is all you can reply, Joel’s free hand caressing the skin of the inside of your thigh. He applies gentle pressure, slowly spreading your legs, making more room for his long fingers. Your dress rides up, fabric bunching just above your pelvis. You were finally on display for him, that body he had been fantasizing about for months almost exposed.
Joel watches you tremble under his touch, eyebrows furrowed as he palms at your core. His hand is so warm and your breath hitches in your throat. His movements are slow, so hurtfully soft. He has not even done anything, but his chest is rising and falling like he just fought in war. Your forehead returns to his shoulder and you grab at his forearm, body screaming for more of the sweet sensations of his fingers. You place a light kiss on his shoulder, closing your eyes as Joel uses his fingers to massage your outer lips, pinching them together. Joel moved his finger in a swirling motion, circling your clit with possessiveness. He groans into your neck, breathing in your sweet scent again. He was drunk off it, drunk off you.
“You gonna let me take these off?” Joel whispers, dipping the very tip of his index finger under the hem of your panties.
“Yes, sir”, you whine, your voice a destroyed pathetic cry. Joel chuckles, a smirk on his lips as your cry vibrates through him. Relief struck him. He wasn’t just your dad’s friend, and he wasn’t imagining things. You wanted him. You wanted him.
“Just Joel, baby”, he responds, pulling at the thin pink material.
“Joel”, you repeat, cold air hitting your exposed core.
Joel is quick to drag your panties down, past your white heels, and shove them deep in his pants pockets. He couldn't just leave them lying around. Joel swallows hard, the back of his throat dry with nervousness. He knows he should stop here before he does anything he can’t take back. But it’s too late, and his fingers are reaching for your sensitive bundle of nerves. Joel takes a moment to spread your legs wider, groaning as he finally takes a look at your pretty pussy. He could’ve passed out at the sight, your lips plump and the inside a dark rosy pink. You looked like heaven on earth.
Usually, Joel would have lubed up his fingers, shoved them in your mouth until you were gagging around them, and coated them thickly with your spit but he could tell how badly you need this, needed him, your arousal dripping down your cunt to pool on the marble under your ass.
His finger enters you and you can't stop the loud moan that rings through the empty house. “Shh, babygirl, shh”. Joel speaks tenderly. He curls his finger upwards, gently stroking against your soft walls. He can’t believe how fucking wet, warm, and tight your pussy feels around his finger. He wants to die in there, drown in your juices.
You nod your head, biting your lip so hard you swear you taste a hint of blood. Juices coat his finger and a faint squelching sound fills his ears. Fuck, he’s never been so hard. You arch your back, hips rudding gently at his movements. More moans escape you, and you have to slam your lips back on his to keep quiet.
He meets your kiss, swallowing every sound that involuntarily floods out of you. He pressed his finger in deeper, pumping in and out as slow as he could. He tried his hardest to stay gentle, too scared to get rough.
“Oh! Joel…n-need more”, you whimpered watching as fingers entered and exited you smoothly.
“Yeah? This not enough for my little girl, huh?” Joel growled, adding a second finger deep inside you. This time, he curled his fingers with a mission. He had to make you cum like this, had to feel your walls tighten around him.
His two fingers were so thick, stretching your cunt out with a subtle burn. It was so much more than you were used to, more than you could ever give yourself. You gasped at the new sensation, your pussy sucking him in deeper and deeper.
You were crying now, whimpers and moans of Joel's name spilling out of you like a bucket of paint kicked over on the floor. “Fuck, J-Joel. Please, please. Can’t take anymore. I’m gonna cum, please.” You forced yourself to whisper, your body fighting to yell out his name, hands tight around his shoulders.
“Such a good girl. Go ahead and cum on my fingers.” Joel growled “Let me watch you”, he demanded, grabbing your chin and forcing you to look at him. Your mouth fell silently open, eyes locked on his.
You felt your chest tighten, a coil snapping inside you and shaking your entire system. “Oh fuck,” you screamed, feeling more wetness drip out of you and down your soft thighs. Your vision blurred, a foggy haze destroying every ounce of strength in your body.
“There you go, baby girl. Just like that”, Joel mumbled, placing soft kisses on your forehead and cheek. He subtly slowed his fingers until they came to a stop, pulling them out of you with a sting. “Did so good for me, so fucking good.”
Joel whipped his fingers on his pants, grabbing your hips and helping you down from the counter. Your legs wobbled as they hit the ground, and Joel supported while you regained balance. He took a moment to fix your hair, whipping away the thin layer of salvia he left on your lips and chin. You pulled your dress down, legs still shaky.
Joel squeezed your side again. His brown eyes stare down at you and he places one last soft kiss on your lips, before clearing his throat and walking out of the kitchen towards the front door.
He doesn't say bye. Not to you. Not to his best friend. He just goes home, hating himself and craving you even more.
You stay pressed against the counter, your face flushed and lips swollen a bright pink. You take a moment to catch your breath, questioning if you imagined the interaction. Your heart races as you feel your core, slightly sore and crying for more.
Days passed and you have not seen or heard from Joel once. You try to go on with your everyday tasks, but the memory of the shared kiss and Joel’s warm body pressed against you replays again and again in your head. You find yourself constantly looking for him, waiting to hear his echoed laughter as he makes dumb jokes with your father. You cannot help but overthink. Were you a bad kisser? Did you do something wrong? Did he hate you?
You tried to bury yourself in work. You scheduled as many hair and nail appointments as you could in the small town, even giving clients discounts. You knew Joel was avoiding you, all the same. That much was crystal clear.
Joel was a complete mess. Shame and anger guilted him. How could he have been so stupid? He was so possessive and desperate over you. Over his best friend’s daughter. It was pathetic. He could not get your little moans out of his head. Could not stop replaying the way you shivered at his light touches. Could not stop imagining what your little cunt would feel like wrapped around him as he plows into you. He could not sleep, could not eat. Jerking off was not even working anymore.
Joel hated that he had been ignoring you. He hated that he had to lie to your dad, telling him he was sick with the flu. He knew it was for the best, and again he started to question if there was any good in him at all. You were so young, so innocent. He knew it was wrong, so wrong. But you wanted him. Needed him, just as much as he needed you. Joel wished you hated him. Wish you had screamed at him and told him to get the fuck off you. Wish you did not let him cause those beautiful moans to leak out of you. He did not deserve it. Did not deserve you.
The days were dragging on and Joel missed you. Even missed hanging out with your dad. He was scared. He did not know if you ever wanted to see him again. Maybe it was just a one-time thing for you, something that just happened in the moment.
In the last few days, he left for work late, waiting until he heard your car pull out of the driveway next door before he even got out of bed. He came home late, an entire hour after he knew you would get home, just so he did not have to pass you outside as you walked into your house.
You were fucking his entire life up.
Joel sat idly at his kitchen table, nursing a cup of hot coffee and watching the news on TV. The sound of his cell phone ringing shakes him from the TV. He picks it up, annoyed to see a text from your dad.
‘Hey Joel, know you're not feeling too hot. I’ll be out of town this week on a work trip. I was wondering if you’d check on y/n while I’m gone?’
Joel's face darkens. Damn it. It's not like he has an excuse to say no.
‘Yeah, no problem. I’ll stop by when I get off later’ Joel responded, slamming his phone down on the table. Fucking great.
The day passes and you get home, excited for some alone time. You slip into a thin pair of shorts and a crop top, ditching your shoes in the doorway of your room. Your mind cannot help but wander to Joel. What was he doing? Where was he? You turn on the TV in the living room, curling up in a blanket, hoping it will distract you from him.
Joel drags his feet the entire day. He tries to stay at work as late as possible, but he knows it’s just slowing the inevitable. When he pulls up to his driveway, he can’t help but picture you inside your house, all alone. He knows he shouldn’t but his legs beckon him to your front door. He could just text you, and ask if you need anything. But instead, he was standing outside, hating himself.
A knock at the door startles you and you sit up straighter. You stand slowly pausing the movie as you step towards the door. You open it in shock, a tired Joel Miller in the doorway. He’s wearing jeans, boots, and a dusty work shirt. His forehead is slightly beaded with sweat from the hot Texas sun and fuck his skin is so golden. It is clear to you he has been working all day, dark circles under his eyes.
“I know. He told me to check you,” Joel spoke calmly even though his skin was crawling to slam the door open, come inside, and have his way with you.
“I’m fine,” you responded with a roll of your eyes and a hint of fire in your tone.
Joel stands there, hands buried deep in his pockets, eyes locking onto yours. His gaze darkens at your tone, fist tightening into balls. “Text if you need anything. You know where I'll be.” His voice comes out with a low, gruff frustration.
“I’m not a child and I don’t need anything,” you scowl, closing the door harshly behind you before stumbling back towards the couch. Who did he think he was? He could be all sweet one second, kiss you like he was possessed, and then not talk to you for days? You were over it. Completely fucking over it.
Joel stands at the door for a moment, jaw clenched in anger, annoyance, and desire. Even when you were pissed at him, you were so fucking beautiful. So perfect. He thinks about knocking again but forces himself to turn around and walk home.
Joel lays in bed later that night, staring up at the ceiling in defeat. He cannot get you out of his mind. The way you looked at him so hurt earlier fucking killed him.
His mind thinks back to that night, your tiny frame and silky smooth skin. The way you came on his fingers, god the way you moaned his fucking name. He knew he wouldn't be able to sleep tonight and before he processed what he was doing, he was getting dressed and walking back to your house.
The moon cast a silver glow over the street, each stride Joel took leaving his heart racing. He swore he could feel his blood pumping and his ears rang. He stood on the porch praying you were still awake. He had no idea what time it was, didn't even bother to check his phone when he left. His chest grew tight and he gently knocked on the door.
Of course, you were still up, tossing and turning with annoyance in your bed. Joel didn’t know it but you were just as exhausted as he was. Your heart pounded in your chest as a quiet knock stirred you out of your daydreams. You quickly walk to the front door, flipping on the living room light. You looked through the peephole, surprised to see Joel, his head down. You open the door, slightly smiling.
Joel looks up, surprised to see you standing in a pair of black panties and a loose-fitted t-shirt. The sight of you like this drove him crazy, his mind going blank for a moment.
He’s so lost in you, he doesn't even realize that he's walked inside the house. His eyes roam over your body and he tries to think of any words to say.
“Joel…” you whisper, your voice soft and breathy. His name was a plea, a trembling surrender to him.
It causes Joel to snap back to reality. He takes a deep breath, his eyes wandering down to your exposed legs. It takes every ounce of restraint to not pull you into his arms and take you right here on the front door.
“Sorry, I-I came over here like this…Can’t sleep. I, fuck. I had to come see you,” Joel stands awkwardly, running a hand through his hair, his voice shy and sheepish. You had never heard him sound nervous before. Despite the obvious need he felt to touch you, he stayed locked in place, a few steps away from you.
“Me either” you muttered, nervously playing with your fingers.
Joel lets out a quiet sigh, his eyes scanning the room like he had never been here before. He’s completely unsure of what to say or do, his mind too drunk on how sexy you look in front of him.
The two of you stand in silence, both too nervous to move.
“Where have you been?” You ask, the environment of the room drying out your throat.
Joel shifts uncomfortably at your question, his gaze wandering to your eyes before landing on the floor below you. “Been busy,” is all he can force himself to respond with.
“Right, busy” you roll your eyes, crossing your arms over your chest.
Joel knows you don't buy it. It was obvious to the both of you that he was ignoring you. What the fuck was he supposed to say? He feels so fucking guilty. Guilty for ignoring you. Guilty for leaving you in the kitchen like that. Guilty for not being able to fuck you properly that night.
“Fuck, I’m sorry sweetheart. I shouldn’t have ignored you like that. I just…You don’t know what it’s like, even standing and talking to you, I can't stop thinking about taking you in that room and fucking you until you beg me to stop.”
Your skin grows hot at his words and you take a step closer to him. Joel's heart races, your body close enough that he can feel your warmth. He’s trying his best to keep composure but it’s getting harder and harder with each passing second.
“What are you doing?” Joel asks, his voice low and stuck in his throat. An involuntary shiver escapes him.
“Just need to be close to you, need to feel you,” The sound of the subtle plea in your words nearly breaks Joel. A low growl escapes him and in a second he closes the gap between you. His eyes are locked on yours.
Joel's hand cups your face gently, his tough hands so tender on your soft skin. “You have no idea how much I want you”. His toned body towers over you, a shiver rushing down your spine as he leans his head down, lips hovering an inch above yours.
He groans, finally meeting your lips, and all his resolve breaks. His tongue seeks out yours, nipping at your bottom lip. He explores your mouth, mapping out every inch, filled with a hunger Joel can't seem to control. His hands grip your hips, pulling you flush against him and his muscles quiver in an effort of restraint. He wants to take you right here, bend you over and fuck you from the back. But he knows he has to be gentle, has to give you as much pleasure as possible.
Joel’s arms wrap around you, lifting you off the ground with ease. He holds you tightly, placing your legs around his waist. His hands make a home on your ass and he carries you to your room, his steps slow and calculated in the dimly lit house.
He uses a hand to open the door and gently lays you on the bed. Your brain is all fucked out already. His eyes roam over your form, studying every inch of you like you might disappear.
Joel gently hovers over you, supporting his weight on his forearms as you resume kissing him. His lips explore your neck, making his mark on you with soft bites and sucks. You melt beneath him, moaning soft cries.
You lift your hips up, the thin material of your panties allowing you to feel the hard bulge in Joel’s sweatpants. He lets out a groan, allowing you to groan against him. He never wanted it to stop. Joel’s hands roamed down your body, leaving a line of fire in the wake of his fingers and he traveled from your neck to chest, to your waist.
“Such a good girl,” Joel praised, lifting himself onto his knees. He gently pulls at the soft fabric of your shirt. “May I?” Joel asks softly, meeting your eyes.
You nod your head, arching your back off the bed. Joel is practically crying when he lifts the t-shirt over your head, your perfect tits on display. Your nipples were the perfect shade of pink, erect in the cool air.
Joel swallowed hard, undoing the buttons of his flannel and throwing it off his shoulders. You had never really gotten a chance to see him without a shirt on. God, he was toned, his strong arms flexing with every movement.
Joel wrapped his lips around a perfect perky nipple, a sweet hint of vanilla to your skin. Little ‘ohs’ escaped you, your hand traveling down to Joel’s toned back. He licked at the soft bud, massaging the other gently. He didn't realize just how big your tits were til he was face deep inside them, leaving soft hot kisses on the fat.
He pitched your nipple, twisting it softly between two fingers. You relaxed into his touch, gently caressing his back and moaning his name over and over. Joel would never get tired of the way each letter spilled out of your mouth.
Joel released your swollen nipple with a pop, quickly swallowing the other. Your hips grinded against him more and you could only take so much teasing.
“Need more”, you pleaded, back arching and hips writhing.
Joel was quick to give you what you wanted, bringing a hand down to rub you through the thin fabric of your panties, dampness creating a dark circle at your entrance. Your eyes slowly move down, watching Joel’s hand gently massage the swollen outside of your pussy.
You whine at the view, Joel's large hand gently playing with your lips. He used a finger to hook the material, pulling your panties down in a swift motion. He tosses them somewhere, dragging his body until his knees are planted on the ground. He grabs your thighs, pulling you until your ass is just hanging off the bed.
“Bet you taste so fucking good. Gonna let me eat that pretty little pussy?”
“Please,” you whined, needing his touch more than air.
Joel placed soft, wet kisses on your thighs, wrapping his forearms around the back of your thighs, holding your legs apart. You stayed still, waiting as he blew cold air on your clit, gently separating your slippery lips when his fingers. His breath was a new sensation, your body craving more. His soft lips hovered above your pussy, licking a long thick stripe from your entrance to your clit. Joel's tongue was soft and warm against your sensitive skin, licking small cat licks between your slit.
Joel brushed his tongue in a circle around your clit, your hand gently grabbing at his hair and the other pulling at the blanket below you. He flicked his tongue up and down, left and right, faster than you could have anticipated. Loud slurping sounds filled the room and you wondered how Joel was even breathing.
His nose brushes against your clit, lapping his tongue at the entrance of your cunt without warning. He pushed it in and out, tasting every drop of arousal your pussy could provide him.
“Better than I ever fucking imagined,” he vibrated against your core, sending a shock wave through you. He hummed, tracing your clit again.
Joel licked the sides of your entrance, gently sliding the tip of his middle finger inside you. You let out a gasp, moaning his name and tightening the grip on his hair. Joel quickly found the best pace, paying great detail to the way your mouth hung open and eyebrows furrowed. Your legs clenched around him in desperation as Joel sunk his finger further inside.
“So beautiful,” he mumbled to himself. Joel couldn't believe he was knuckle deep in his best friend's daughter, a girl half his age…again. Fuck, you weren't even 20 yet.
Joel brushed the thought away, pumping his finger in and out, swirling and curling them to open you up as much as he could. He searched for your sweet spot, hitting it over and over as he lapped his tongue in your slit.
You bucked your hips, so close to release. Joel knew it. He pumped his finger faster, sucked your clit more, and spit roughly on your pussy, his saliva running down the back of your ass cheek.
Your orgasm shot through you, wave after wave hitting you like lightning. Joel’s grip on you tightened, unwilling to let you slip out of his hands until he was sure you had ridden your orgasm all the way through. By the time he came up for air, his hair was a mess and his chest was rising and falling, leaving him all out of breath.
“That’s my good girl,” He groaned, hovering above you and kissing you deeply.
God, he was obsessed with how responsive you were.
Joel stood at the edge of the bed, carefully removing his shoes and pulling down the sweatpants that hung loosely from his waist. You watched as he undressed, the bulge in his boxers undeniable. Joel Miller could not believe all the choices he made in life had led him…here. Standing above you, your legs sprawled out, pussy wet and glistening for him.
You swallow your nervousness, eyes locked on his member as he kicks off his boxers. His cock sprung free, precum gathering at the top. He was bigger than you imagined, not huge but definitely more than the average. Joel's cock stopped just below his belly button, the tip a shade lighter than the rest. He looked delicious, his balls a perfect size to slap your clit,
Joel smirked as he met your eyes like he was reading your thoughts.
“You done this before?” Joel asked simply.
You nodded your head. “Just a couple, with my ex-boyfriend”.
Joel hummed, a slight smirk painted on his lips. “That’s good”. Joel felt himself ease a bit, no longer nervous he was the first man to be inside you. It made him feel less creepy, less like a piece of shit.
“It’s been, kinda a while and he wasn’t… as big as you.” You whispered, your voice coxed with fear and trembling.
“That’s okay, sweet girl. I’m gonna be so gentle with ya.” Joel responded tenderly, placing a light kiss on your neck.
Your stomach fluttered in anticipation. He was so…new to you.
Joel stepped closer, hovering about you and bringing your legs up, bending them at the knees so your ankles hung next to his shoulders. He placed a soft kiss on your ankle, caressing his hand up and down your shin.
Joel lined his thick cock with your entrance, the tip teasing you. “You think you're ready for me, baby?” Joel asked, softly cupping your cheek.
You nodded in agreement, softly closing your eyes.
“Need to hear you say it, baby” Joel spoke, a serious tone hidden behind the layer of desire.
“I’m ready Joel. Please…put it in.”
Joel hummed in response, biting the inside of his cheek. He gently grabbed the base of his cock, pushing the tip just inside your tight hole. He was seeing stars already. God, how could you feel this good?
You inhale sharply, throwing your arms around his broad shoulders, and dragging your nails down with more force than you intended. You hoped it didn't hurt, but the thought of leaving a mark on him drove you crazy.
“Relax, baby. I got you. I got you.” Joel groaned into your neck, pushing himself further inside you. He placed a kiss on your lips, swallowing your cries of pleasure. Joel stayed in place as long as he could, his body screaming to push its way inside, fuck you until you were a mess of tears.
You have never been stretched out this much. Joel’s hard cock hit the back of you with a rough pressure, causing a yelp to escape you and your hands to reach out towards his stomach, pushing him out some. Joel tried to stay gentle but he knew you could take him. He grabbed your wrist, pushing it away from him and sinking back inside.
“Too big,” you cried, a single tear forming in your eyes as Joel pulled out of you, the tip crashing back down and hitting your soft walls. You were so fucking tight around him, you were practically sucking him in.
“You got it, baby girl. You can take it.” Joel growled, slamming gently into you with clenched teeth. “Take my cock, baby.”
The bed creaked below you, the frame hitting the wall with an audible thud. Joel pushed your thighs down, ankles bouncing with each thrust. He was completely fucked. He would crave you every night now. God, why was he doing this?
Your vision blurred, a jolt of electricity pooled in your stomach, a fire igniting so hot in you. “Fuck yes!” you screamed, creamy white arousal gathering at the bottom of Joel's cock. The sight sent him into hyperdrive, thrusting into you like his life depended on it. Joel paid your orgasm no mind, continuing his thrust as you whined and wiggle under him, completely overstimulated by his touch, the way his cock was hitting you at that perfect angle. You were sure you’d never have sex like this with anyone other than him again.
“Fucking good slut, taking me so well,” Joel growled, his thrust too hard for you to handle. “Told you, you could” Joel laughed, wrapping a hand around your throat and giving it a light squeeze. You gasped, swallowing as air slowly escaped you. He knew he shouldn't be here and this was why. He was trying so hard to be gentle, but he still couldn't stop himself from making a complete mess of you. Before you knew it, you were screaming out his name again, tightening your walls around him and cumming harder than ever before. “Ah!”, you whined, feeling Joel crash into your cervix hard.
Your high-pitched moans reduced to soft cries, hips bucking, pleading for a break. You tried to wiggle out of his grip, tried to push him off a bit, but Joel was unmoveable. He grabbed your wrist, pushing them above your head and holding your hands in his. His finger intertwined with yours, engulfing you in his grasp. You clenched your walls around Joel, body almost rejecting his thick cock.
“Love this cunt, baby. Fucking love ya” Joel growled into your neck, his thrust becoming messy and uneven. “Fuck, gonna fucking cum baby. Where you want it?” Joel asked, sweat pulling at his forehead. He had hoped to last long, craved to have you cumming over and over again around him. But you were so warm, so fucking tight around him. He would have believed you if you told him you were a virgin.
“Oh fuck,” you cried Joel’s dick hitting you with so much force you thought you might be bruised.
Joel groaned, pulling his cock out and quickly cumming on your stomach before you got a chance to process what was happening.
“Goddamn, you were made for me,” Joel whispered, crashing on the bed next to you and pulling your shaky body on top of him. "My sweet little girl."
You stay like this for a while, Joel gently caressing your hair as your eyes get heavier and heavier. Finally, you both could rest.
Summary: Sat 1 year after Ellie and Joel find a home in Jackson. Joel is plagued with thoughts of ruining the sweet girl his brother rescued. A series of Joel destroying all your innocence.
Warnings: Mentions of guns. Knife use. Smut Containing: Age Gap (Joel is 57, undisclosed age for reader but I picture her around 28). Praise Kink, Kissing, Fingering, Gentle Dom!Joel, Innocent Reader, Virgin Reader. Its giving corruption kink, lowkey free use kink at times. So many pet names I can’t even list them out.
Word Count: 5.5K
EXPLICIT SEXUAL CONTENT. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT
Please feel free to like and repost. Click Here if you’d like more stories from me. Text divider from @plum98. Text Color Generator. If you'd like more Joel Miller stories, please go check out @pearlessance.
If Joel Miller had been told a year ago that he would be finding solace comfort between the legs of a woman half his age, he would have laughed until all the air in his lungs was depleted, leaving him bright red in the face. The last thing Joel ever considered himself was a ‘dilf’ but behind the impenetrable walls of Jackson, you were clinging onto him like he was made of the finest metals. A handful of gold and pearls in your unwavering grip.
He never meant for it to turn out this way. He didn’t mean to have you accidentally clenched around his fingers in an anguished void of eroticism. Yet there he was, dismantling every particle of decency he had remaining in his traumatized psyche.
Joel wasn’t sure why he was so intrigued by you. He couldn't point it to a singular trait or moment in time. Maybe you made him feel young again, like a teenage hot for teacher. Maybe it was the way your eyes wrinkled slightly when you smiled up at him. Maybe it was the way you leaned into his touches, no matter how faint. All he knew was that the sound of your voice stimulated his body with a deadly erotic static every time he spoke to you. Forbidden and illicit as your lips brushed against his.
Joel and Ellie had just begun settling in the new city when you showed up. It was a dull morning, the sun just starting to rise over the horizon as snow drizzled down the frozen air. Joel had been sitting on his newly furnished porch, polishing a rifle to perfection and sipping on a piping hot coffee. His tired eyes fluttered closed, warm steam from his mug hitting his face. He was never a fan of the cold, having grown up under the hot Texas sun, but he was starting to find peace in the frigid atmosphere. His usual racing mind was void, an uncommon and strange occurrence since the outbreak began. He allowed himself half a second of relaxation, his broad shoulders easing into a rickety vintage chair.
Even in this secure environment, he knew not to let himself get too comfortable. Startled by the image of his brother’s wobbling tracks against the snowy ground, his eyes widened. Tommy’s slender strides buckled. It looked like he was carrying something. Something Joel couldn't quite make out from the distance between them. He stood on alert, his coffee almost spilling as he slammed the porcelain mug on a feeble side table. Joel stomped through the arctic powder, a white-knuckled grip on his rifle. Tommy struggled to keep going, falling to his knees with a hard ‘thud’. Joel swore he felt his heart stop. The only audible sound was his blood vessels restricting, the air in his lungs hindered by his hasty steps. Tommy was never a weak man, but the time spent walking back to camp, the weight in his arms, and the heavy snowfall had exhausted him to the point of complete collapse.
“Tommy!” The concern in Joel’s tone was palpable, his strong arms grabbing his brother. Joel snaked his hands under Tommy’s shoulders, supporting his weight and pulling him from the soiled ground. Finally, Joel could recognize the undisclosed package in Tommy’s grip. A girl. She looked freezing, her cheeks a bright red and slow breaths crackled.
“Fuck, give her to me.” Joel’s heart pounded, rushing to take you in his arms. You were feather-like in his arms, weightless as he pressed you against his chest. The thin jacket you wore hardly provided any fight against the icy rain that trickled down but Joel had hoped his body heat would be enough to provide some type of warmth. He rushed you to the infirmary, his stride incalculable and unstoppable. He had practically thrown you inside, placing you under multiple layers of thick blankets. You looked almost peaceful, but your body was shivering and your skin a ghostly pale white.
Time passed and Joel, along with Tommy, had spent days at your bedside. They had made sure you were taken care of, helping you drink water, and making sure you got enough to eat. Strangely, Tommy was thankful for the practice, knowing a new baby was waiting for him at home. Once you had recovered and could leave the infirmary, you really didn’t have any other place to go except Joel’s. Tommy had found you alone in the woods, but he had just started his own family. Plus, It didn’t really feel right leaving Joel after he had watched you at your worst. Alone and with no other choices, you moved into the spare bedroom right down the hall from him and Ellie.
This particular day had been one straight from his most lustful nightmares. Like every day, he was in charge of weapon maintenance, foot patrol, and a newer annoyance. Training new recruits. Joel had not given much thought to teaching the younger members of Jackson how to protect themselves. But he was glad he could be of some use, especially with the way certain members still looked at him like he was a threat. Like he might bust down the doors in a blaze of ranging gunfire at any moment. He tried his best to build new connections, build a new life for Ellie and himself. A life his brother would be proud of. In the newfound dystopia he had begun to call home, he never expected you to be so motivating. You were a lot like him in certain ways. Quiet. Unapproachable. This made Joel want to do good, guarantee you were proud of him.
For the last three months, you had haunted the halls of what was once Joel’s newly perfect home. As perfect as you could these days, anyway. You were always lurking. Your tight little body sprawled out on the couch, your hair fallen forgotten in the bathroom sink, your toothbrush in the same cup as his. It was too much for an old man’s fatigued heart to take.
To make matters worse, Joel was in charge of training you. Every day, it was shooting, hand-to-hand combat, or teaching you how to use makeshift medical supplies. He hated admitting it, even to himself, but teaching you how to shoot a gun might have been the best thing left in this godforsaken world.
Joel would stand close behind you, wrapping his fingers around your hands to help you aim better. He would try to ignore it, but the way your tiny hands gripped the gun under his fingers was enough to spring his cock to life. He wondered if you could feel it pressed against your back as he leaned down, lowering his voice. His breath would be all hot and slow in your ear while he told you what a good job you were doing. You always tried to keep your reactions to his words internal, but god some days all you wanted was for him to press you against the wall and trap you against him as he explored your body with his calloused hands. Surely, he had to know. He had to sense how much you loved it, the simplest of touches having you weak in the knees.
Despite Joel's love for the shooting range, bullets couldn’t be wasted and through his discontent, you were a surprisingly great shot. That meant today’s focus was hand-to-hand combat. A special type of torment in which you quickly grew fond of. You worked on blocking punches, throwing someone off you, and other easy ways to stab the infected. This kind of practice often required Joel to push you around, grab you tight against him, or hover his full body weight above you.
Joel huffed, his chest expanding with each heavy breath as he laid under you, his muscles firming around your strong grip on you pinned his arms down.
“Ya learn quick,” he grunted, bending his knee to lock you in place as you sat atop him. This was one of the moments when he couldn’t stop picturing you naked. He imagined the way your tits would bounce in this position, perfect for him to wrap his hand around your throat or gently slap your cheek.
You pushed off him, holding a hand up as he struggled to pick himself up off the ground.
“Yeah well, you’re a good teacher”. You rolled your eyes, taking his hand in yours and balancing your weighing as you helped him off the plush grass.
“Yeah. Alright, square up. Let's go again, darlin” Joel stood in front of you, tightly wielding a sharp knife in his hands. He was always giving you pet names like that, the words falling from his lips and landing between your legs like rain. You watched as his jaw clenched, muscles in his arms flexing as he threw a jab at you. You swerved your body, quicking jumping out of the way and hitting the knife out of his hands. The blade landed with a thud, leaving Joel weaponless.
“Yes! See, that was perfect.” Joel smiled, his broad shoulders spreading as he stretched his arms out. He wasn’t lying, you learned far quicker than he liked to admit, the end of your training with him just a few weeks away. “That's enough for today. Gettin’ kinda late”. Joel patted your back, a simple praise of how well you performed.
All Joel really wanted at this moment was to get you underneath him, and not in the “pretend to fight me off” type of way. In a way that would have you whimpering his name and your legs quivering.
He tried to keep the invasive urges at bay, forcing himself as far away from you as the enclosed space of Jackson would allow. Even after avoiding you until dusk, your touch lingered on him like a parasite, eating at his tanned skin until it was all mushy and broken. He would be successful for a brief time, maybe even until the morning if he was lucky. Training you every day was gradually unraveling him. Bit by bit until he was losing control, a constant internal conflict raging inside himself. He could stay at a distance for now, but in the end, he could never truly escape you.
For you, that evening had gone by so painfully slow, your body begging for some type of release. You had slipped into a comfortable pair of panties, the material hugging your ass softly. You lazily threw on an oversized t-shirt and crawled under the thick blankets of your bed, heavy as a bag of rocks thrown down the stairs. The bed was warm and through exhaustion, your eyes quivered closed. Flashes of Joel’s hands on you, pinning you down and throwing you around invaded your thoughts. All the training along with your daily tasks had depleted every ounce of your strength, but Joel sent a jolting rush of stamina through your nervous system.
You let yourself lean into your desires, lethargically reaching your hands down to the bundle of nerves insistent on your affection. Any other day you might have been strong enough to ignore the ache, but today you were weak. Today you were consumed by it. Your hands found your panties in a pathetic desperation, a faint wet spot darkening the material at your core as you began to rub merciful circles. You bit your lip, a jagged inarticulate sound escaping. Your fingers moved delicately, needy and wet from an entire day of training, your subconscious daydreaming to get back into your room and play with yourself.
The only problem with this was you weren't really any good at it. You knew how it worked, all the parts, and what you were supposed to do with them. You just couldn't reach the ‘end’ that so many people raved about. You tried an endless amount of times, even thought about hooking up with random guys you had stumbled upon in the past. But it never felt right, forcing yourself to be with someone just because they were the only one around. You had decided the high that other women described must have been a complete lie. Still, you learned different angles, different ways to finger yourself, and all types of tricks. Something was always missing, an extra sensation that would push you over the edge always out of reach.
Your index and middle finger created a slight friction on your clit, a rough buttery sensation against your panties. Goosebumps formed across your body as you feebly slid the restricting cotton down, spreading your legs to give yourself better access to pleasure. You added some spit to your fingers, a hushed wail slipping as you continued making small circles, biting your bottom lip harder and throwing your head back. You shut your eyes tight, the sound of Joel telling you ‘Good girl, that's perfect’ and all his other innocent compliments replaying. You sped your movements up, adding more pressure to the sensitive nerves. It felt adequate, but you knew it wouldn’t last. You needed more. Delicately, you dipped your finger inside your crying pussy. Your walls gripped around your finger, sucking it in further like it was starving. You curled the digit, trying to hit that spot that was just out of range. You hardly grazed it, your g-spot unobtainable. After a lengthy time of great strive your finger became slick, drowned in your juices but nowhere closer to the finish line. You groaned, your arms already becoming tired from the relentless pumping.
“Ya know, you’re doin’ that totally wrong.” A familiar voice spoke out from the dim light of the room, a dark silhouette basked in moonlight.
You threw your blankets over you, jumping under the covers and removing your fingers quickly. You stared, frozen. Even in the dark with shadows hiding his facial features, you could make Joel out. Your mouth fell agape as Joel stood against the wall, his weight on his back foot. He crossed his toned arms across his chest condescendingly, watching in silence.
“Oh my god! You scared the fuck out of me. What are you doing?” You spoke fast, voice revealing how obviously embarrassing the interaction was.
“Couldn’t sleep. Head a noise. Thought you were cryin’. Came to check on ya.” Joel took a step closer, his eyes dark and eyebrows furrowed in a slight frown. “Didn’t mean to interrupt but…I can see you’re strugglin’ I can help…If you want.”
You racked your brain to find the words adequate enough to articulate your racing mind, watching as Joel stood, shirtless and chest completely exposed. You could see him now, the muscles in his arms, the scar where he stabbed. God, you didn't get to see him like this nearly enough. In fact, now that you thought about it, you weren't sure if you had ever seen him shirtless at all. Greying hair lightly peppered his chest, a trail running from his belly button to the clothed fabric around his waist. You were nearly drooling, his boxers hugging his thighs.
“I-I”. Your chest rose and fell, your heart beating quicker than you were used to as you tried to make sense of his words. “H-help me ho-how?”
“Been standin’ here for a while. You're not comfortable enough, ya need to relax. To be honest, ya look scared,” Joel chuckled, his face a bit flushed but words nonchalant and composed. “I consider myself a pro in this area. I could show ya how to make it better.”
“I know how to do it”, you snapped. You cut your eyes at him, a sudden rush of anger slapping you in the face. Who was he to tell you how to masturbate? He didn't own a vagina. You doubted he could do it better than you.
Joel peered deep into your eyes, his stance at attention like a soldier in formation. He wasn’t going to budge. You knew he didn't believe you, not if he really had been watching like he said.
“Okay then, little girl. Show me…if you're so good at it”. Joel stood in place, like a stone unmovable.
You felt pathetic, peering up at him with white-hot embarrassment. A switch broke and you had given in so easily. You didn’t put up a fight for a second, your core pleading for your attention to return to the earlier movements. “O-Okay”, you whined, laying back down and moving the blanket towards the foot of the bed. You let yourself diminish into the mattress completely, your body on view for him. You trembled, silently spreading your legs and scooping up the wetness dripping out of you. You placed your finger back inside, humming at the little pleasure it gave you.
Joel let out a groan “That’s a good girl. Play with that pussy for me”. The tone in his voice was new to you, smooth like he had just drunk a hot tea. His jaw clenched shut, teeth clashing tight as sounds of your wetness vibrated off the walls. He wondered how often this occurred, how many times he slept through your cries of need. He moved across the room with a leisurely pace, sitting on the edge of the bed as he watched you sprawled out in front of him, body hypnotizing him. You felt the bed sag under his weight, achingly close but untouchable. You curled your finger more, listening to his hitched breathing and closing your eyes again. It was strange, him watching you like this. You tried your hardest to hit the right spot, letting out a huff of frustration and reluctantly removing your fingers, making circles around your clit again. It was clear to both of you. You had no idea what you were doing.
Usually, Joel preferred his women experienced, liked them a little loose and pre-used. He could be rougher that way, less careful, and more spontaneous. But fuck, you looked so fucking pretty, begging to cum but unable to do anything about it. He was sure he died and woke up in his personal heaven.
Fuck, he couldn't believe he was doing this. He was supposed to be the man keeping you safe, not the one sneaking into your bedroom at night and making a mess of you. Joel hummed, watching the slight shake in your legs grow with anticipation of a climax you would never reach on your own.
Before you could stop him, too focused on proving him wrong and torturing the both of you, he was gently grabbing your wrist and pulling your hand away from your aching pussy.
“Just let me... know ya need me. You were sayin’ my name, ya know?” The look in his eyes had changed from a hungry desire to a desperate soft plea, his voice a whisper in the suffocating quiet of the bedroom. He never had to be this cautious before, never really paying much mind to what his actions might result in.
You thought for a moment, looking into Joel’s eyes for any sense of danger. He didn’t turn away, didn’t loosen his grip. But in his eyes, you could see it, helpless wanting. His shoulders dropped as he waited for any type of response that would allow him to come closer.
“O-Okay,” you whined, “t-thank you”.
Joel crept forward, sympathetically hooking his arms around your waist and pulling you closer. Your back rested against his chest, legs on either side of his muscled thighs. His skin was smooth, warm like a campfire and his breath on your neck heated you even more under the chill of the snowy mountains. Throughout the months of getting to know the unmerciful brooding man, you had never gotten the opportunity to be this close, this intertwined.
“Like this, soft and slow” Joel whispered, positioning his fingers on the sides of your swollen lips. He moved unhurriedly like he had pressed a button and frozen time around you. In his mind, he never had to leave this room, all the time in the world to watch you fall apart. Tactfully he spread your lips apart to reveal the slick wetness leaking out of you.
“Fuck.” Three fingers hovered above your clit, the motions tender as they moved in repeated circles “What's got ya all worked up, pretty girl?” The pads of his fingertips absorbed the saliva you had paced there moments ago.
“Nothing,” you swallowed, your words already strained in the back of your throat. Despite your earlier presumption, Joel could do this better than you. He was proving you wrong each time his fingers slid across, shockwaves forcing you to admit defeat.
Joel hummed, watching his fingers soak in your juices. “Think it was probably me, huh?”
Shane crept up on your skin, your cheeks impossibly more flushed. You shouldn’t admit it. That it was him. That it was his words.“I-I…just like the way you talk to me, is all.” The words came out a strained whine, leaning into him and spreading your legs wider, watching his delicate fingers dancing across your needy skin.
“Yeah? Ya like when I tell you what a good job you're doin’? What a good girl ya are?” His voice was so light, his Texas accent almost innocent. Like he was talking to a baby.
“Y-yeah”, you nodded your head, the simple four-letter word feeling like a monologue as you spoke them.
“I do it ‘cuz I know ya like it”. Joel listened to the way you responded to his touch. He had to get this perfect. Had to make sure you knew he was more than capable of handling your little ‘problem’.
Quiet ‘ohs’ quickly streamed from you, Joel’s fingers melting you into him. You tried to keep quiet, hoping no one could hear you through the thin walls of the house. Joel silently prayed that Ellie was already asleep, his heartbeat thudding at the thought of her finding out what was going on in the room a few feet across from her.
Joel quickened his pace, your clit swollen around his fingers, thick arousal coating them. He hummed into your neck, and you tensed. “Relax”, was all Joel had to say for you to nod your head and stretch your neck out. His lips feel to the exposed skin, placing serene kisses under your ear. He left a burning hot trail with his lips, his beard brushing against the delicate skin. He sucked a bright red spot where he felt you liked it the most, low enough for your shirt to mostly cover but still marking you his. The added sensation caused you to stir your hips, your legs and hands shaking.
“Try and stay still, baby. Keep movin’ like that and you're gonna drive me crazy,” Joel mumbled, his free hand wrapped tight around your waist.
Joel dragged that hand up your body, placing it tenderly on your cheek. He turned your head as much as your neck would allow, a loud moan falling out of you as he brushed his lips against yours. His tongue danced liberally inside your mouth. Your perfect plump lips parted for him without a hint of hesitation, mint and beer thick on your tastebuds. His mustache kind of tickled, the hair grazing your lips. You tried to breathe through your nose as Joel sucked your bottom lip into his mouth, fingers still determined on shattering your sanity. You couldn’t remember the last time you kissed anyone, warm saliva spreading across your mouth and chin. You felt drunk against him, almost powerless in his grip.
Joel pulled away, a growl escaping him as you breathed heavily against him. “Goddamn. That’s my sweet girl”. You swallowed hard at his words, a sense of pride filling you.
“Can I put a finger in you, darlin’?” Joel slowed his circles, reaching lower, finally gathering as much of your natural lube as he could. He was collected, so much more confident than you.
You shook your head, a hesitant ‘yes, please’ was all you could respond. You were positive you looked a mess, but something told you Joel didn’t care.
Joel hummed, “Yeah? Do me a favor then, sweetheart.” Joel brought his hand to your mouth, fingers lingering on your lips. “Get those nice and wet for me”.
You hesitated, looking back at Joel to find his brown irises, darker and glazed over more than that usual. You self-consciously wrapped your lips around his fingers, only spreading your lips enough to fit them inside. Your teeth grazed against him, the rough pads of his fingers dancing across your tongue. They left a taste of your bitter-salty arousal thick on your tastebuds.
“That’s it. You always listen to me so well”. Joel’s cock twitched at the view of your cheeks hollowing around him. It was bizarre how kindhearted he presented himself, his usual rough exterior completely gone. You wondered if this was the real Joel, one no one else got to see.
Joel watched as he slowly pumped his fingers in and out, spit coating down to his knuckles. His breathing grew ragged, watching your eyes grow dark with lust as he hit the back of your throat. He studied your reaction, your eyes growing wider at the sensation of being so full. You strained, a muted cough slipping from you as he shoved them persistently deeper. You were taking them well, even through the obvious struggle.
Joel removed his fingers from your warm mouth, slick and shiny with a mix of your spit and slick. He lowered his hand to your clit again. Hesitantly, with eyes glued between your legs again, he slipped one finger past your folds and inside your velvet walls. You sucked in a deep breath at the feeling, startled as he curled his index finger. It was so much thicker, longer than yours and the gentle stretch flowed through your veins like water on a hot summer day.
“How’s that feel?” Joel tried not to focus on how fucking tight you were, his mind daydreaming of what you would feel like wrapped around him, all fucked out on his bed.
“Oh god,” you whined, voice shakier than you wanted it to be, and your hips returned back to that involuntary bucking. “G-good”. His finger brushed against your G-spot, little cries echoing in Joel’s ear. This was what you were missing all these years. A real man’s touch.
“I know, baby girl. I know. Gonna take such good care of ya, just like I always have” Joel placed a kiss on your shoulder, his finger pumping in and out at a controlled speed. His movements were like a drug, clouding your judgment. “Think you take another? Or is this too much already?”.
“P-please”, You tried not to beg too much, the pathetic whine in your voice striking Joel like a punch to the gut. Fuck, he would do anything you said right now. Anything.
“Always so determined,” Joel smirked, hypervirulently aware that you probably hadn’t taken this much before. Cautiously, he dipped a second finger inside you, stretching you with a heavenly sting. It was unfamiliar but invited and your body sucked him in further. It was more than your fingers could ever do and suddenly you understood why sex ruled everyone’s lives.
A wet sloppy sound filled the room and Joel pumped his fingers with a presentation purpose, a hint of strength behind each minuscule gesture. Joel growled, spreading your legs wider and pulling you further into him, fully in his lap now. You felt his bulge press against your back rock hard. You couldn't stop imagining how big he was. It felt so thick against you, like a 9.mm gun in his waistband.
His fingers were a velvet robe encasing you. It was almost too much and you felt an uncomfortable heat building in the pit of your stomach. Joel felt you clench tighter around him and he knew you were close. “There you go, sweetheart”.
“Oh fuck, wait wait wait.” You tried your hardest not to scream, but the squelching sounds Joel’s fingers created were pushing you over the edge.
You felt the man under you tense up, every fiber of his muscles firming. Regrettably, he stopped the movement of his fingers, leaving them frozen inside.
“What's wrong? You okay?” A thick hint of concern or maybe fear just behind his words.
“I-I…kind of felt like I was gonna pee, is all.” your cheeks flushed, burning with unease.
Joel hummed, moving his fingers again and ripping moans from you. “That’s good,” Joel chuckled, focused on keeping his fingers at a constant pace, “Means it’s workin”. He placed a hot trail of kisses down your neck again, biting at the skin.
You moaned at his words, that unfamiliar heat steadily finding its way back into you. Your legs shook almost uncontrollably, and you had to grip onto Joel's forearm to keep from slipping off his thighs.
“That’s it. Feel how you're clenchin’ ‘round me, gettin’ all wet and shaky under me?” You nodded at his words. “Just relax into me, baby girl.” You arched your back, biting your lip in a desperate attempt to keep yourself from screaming out.
The feeling of needing to pee was replaced with something unnamable crashing through your entire body. “Yes, oh my god!” you cried, throwing your head back and bucking your hips up into his hand.
“That’s it. Cum on my fuckin’ fingers,” Joel kept his moments sharp, making sure to coax out every drop the orgasm had to offer. After your shaking stopped and your cries settled back down, he eased his fingers out of you. Your arousal leaked down your core, a puddle forming under your ass onto the exposed skin of Joel’s thigh.
“Did so good,” Joel kissed your cheek, rubbing small circles on your clit again as you cried out. He grabbed your hand, kissing your fingers and trailing up your arms until he settled past your shoulder and into your neck.
“Oh, fuck. Thank you, Joel”. You weren't sure why you felt the need to thank him, but you had to make sure you said it.
“You’re welcome, darlin’. Know I'd do anything for ya, right?” His voice was soft and airy, slightly out of breath.
You tried to focus on his words, your orgasm still thick in your mind. You closed your eyes, a wave of exhaustion hitting you like a brick wall. You nodded your head silently, lips parting as your heavy chest rose and fell.
Joel smiled, he didn't even need to be inside you to feel euphoria. Being close, just talking to you was enough. Sex was just an added pleasure. But, fuck, he couldn't wait to show you more. He wanted to completely ruin you. He was a terrible person, he thought, but he didn't care at all. Not with the way you breathed against him, your head heavy on his chest as your eyes fluttered closed.
It would be weird to stay, Joel thought. As he silently watched your chest expand against him, the thought occurred that he might get too used to this, already craving to rewire you into a whining slut. A little toy he could at any time. He was stressed, overworked, and constantly worried about Ellie. About you. Maybe he had finally found a way to release some of that pressure, even for a moment. Joel ran his thick fingers through your hair, admiring the way your body benignly twitched at the sensation.
Sleep came and went in waves for Joel. Some nights, if he was so exhausted and worn out from a hard day of work, you could hear his snoring echoing through the docile home. Other nights you woke up to the sound of screams and then an earth-shattering quiet. Like he yelled so hard he woke himself up too. The mornings after a night like that always resulted in a moody, quiet Joel. Like his mind was racing with so many visions he couldn’t even speak. But right now, Joel’s mind raced with different thoughts. Less violent but just as powerful and forsaken. He wondered how far you would let him go with this little game. Maybe he could show you all the tricks he had built up over the years, all his experience preparing him for this. Leading up to please you. To make you his. It was wrong. He knew that. Of course, he knew that. But as your hand settled on his pectoral muscle, he felt nothing but unwavering satisfaction.
The town already hated him. He was already a mysterious murderous stranger. What would ruining a girl half his age really change? Sure he would be berated and probably receive double the glances of disapproval but as long as you were under him, begging him to fuck you harder what did any of it matter.
As he laid under you, his cock throbbing and begging to be released, he dreamed of shoving it in your mouth. He dreamed of watching you struggle to take it, choking on the head of his dick as it slipped between your supple lips. Maybe you would even like it, beg him for it when he was supposed to be teaching you how to live in a world full of danger. All the risk, all the pain and suffering this new era threw at him disappeared at the sound of your pleas. All he wanted was for you to gag on him with tears streaming down your face.
He was a bad man. He knew it because behind all the need, all the repressed yearning for your innocent cunt, there was not a hint of guilt. Not the slightest bit of sympathy. To be honest, it shocked him. He thought he would care more about disgracing you. He hoped he wouldn't even be able to function, intense and unweaving regret causing him to suck himself back into the dark reality of this world. But it never came. That was the first moment he knew for sure the people of Jackson had been right. He really was a bad man.
