Welcome. A few notes; (1) Reader is Black. In order for me to properly feel like I am balancing scales in the reading world, where even without making "white" features obvious.. there's the other haunting thing when observing media and race.. the great big assumption.. filling in the spaces or using bias. Well make no mistake, especially not assumption. All my readers will be black. That's how I feel I contribute to equality here. For every non-descriptive or blatantly white reader fiction I will make it known that black (and other POC) characters have just as much to give by being the intentional focus, in a society where they are often intentionally or unintentionally put out in preference for whiteness. (2) As it stands now, this a NO-OUTBREAK fic. Sarah is game age but I'm not sticking to 2003.. I was only 2-3 at the time so this first half is going to be set in 2015. Joel will be 34 still and reader is turning 26. This is an age gap but no more than 8 yrs. (3) There are some things far along in the plot and possibly along the way such as perspectives (and small things like humor in dialogue, trying something new and poetic w sentence structure etc.) that I may need other more experienced fanfic writers to assist me. So if you are an experienced writer stumbling upon this and OPEN TO being used for STORY HELP, please feel free to comment or message me so I know! (otherwise I will be selecting some randoms that I love and see if they'll help, once I get to those bridges.)
As always if there are any significant spelling or grammar errors or anything, sorry- please politely point them out and I will edit. And finally enjoy. Edited- made POV edits.. SORRY! that throws the reading off, my bad.
SYNOPSIS: Joel Miller x Reader. You just moved into town after graduating. You've secured a year long position and often find yourself giving random childcare to your consistently unattended neighbor's daughter. What starts as judgment, misunderstanding, and miscommunication slowly... slooowwllyyy.. turns into a story of found family, forgiveness, and falling in and out of love.
“You just don’t know how proud your uncle is! You know I feel terrible that I can’t be there to help you get adjusted, but hopefully you getting to live out my house for the next year or so on your own will suffice.” A gentle chuckle escapes from his lips, the sound across the line briefly fading out due to the connection at the Edelweiss Lodge. Uncle Sage and his new wife Carmen are there for their honeymoon; the first of many stops for the pair.
“Especially since I couldn’t make it to your graduation, consider it just one big present- Damnit. I had an image of the house literally wrapped in a bow and I should’ve done it.” You laugh, immediately imagining him doing so before he continues. “But, I'll be checking in and making sure you're keeping my plants… our plants alive.”
“Of course, Uncle Sage. And I wish you were here too, but there’s plenty of time for you to show me around ol’ Texas. I mean, it’s not going anywhere. But, if you don’t show Aunty Carmen the world.. and why she’s agreeing to the rest of y'all's lives together, she surely will be going somewhere.. And it will be without you,” you joke. Both of their laughter drifts through the speaker as Carmen voices her agreement. “Okay, niece. Check-in soon,” Sage states and the call ends as the U-Haul arrives in front of his home. It's nothing out of the ordinary or particularly spectacular. A comfortable and quiet slice of suburbia tucked just outside of Austin. One thing you were grateful for was the bit of space and the yard. Something fresh out of college individuals like yourself would have to work another few years to afford.
Fortunately, you were able to secure a decent newsroom internship at KLRU-TV. When you saw it was in Texas, you hesitated. But, then you realized you had Uncle Sage and he would not be able to say no to you staying with him rent free. Going farther south is not your first choice location wise, but it was too good to pass up. Uncle Sage relocated here many years ago after he retired from the military. Then, he met Carmen who is a Texas native and does a lot of close social work with minority communities and is involved with the TCRP. You’re beginning to think finding the type of company you’re used to, in Texas, won’t be as difficult as you assumed.
“Alright kid,” Mom states as she puts the heavy boxes on a dolly, “start stacking the heavy stuff.” The Texas sun is already beaming down hot in mid- June and you have never been more grateful your mom drove all the way down with you, trusting your younger siblings back home for a few days. She smiles brightly at you as she begins to pull the dolly. “Ready for a new adventure?”
You glance at the blue sky briefly before replying, “At the very least the neighbors better not call me any n-words or y’all are gonna get a call from a Texas jail.”
You both laugh and Mom quips briefly about how you “better not get locked up just because someone says a slur”. You think to yourself, “I hope for everyone involved, we won’t have to fuck around and find out”.
“Okay, Mommy,” is your verbal reply.
………….
“Damn, kid. I'm breaking a sweat here. These boxes are heavy as fuck… what the hell did you pack.”
You briefly stop at the door with the last of the boxes; the light stuff. Getting the heavy boxes on the dolly, then up the stairs about three times took you both out. “Oh, I don’t know, mom… my whole life.” She shoots you a raised eyebrow, but laughs at the sarcastic reply. You set the last of the boxes inside by the growing line of them near the steps, before crossing back to the kitchen to grab you both a bottle of water. You lean parallel to her against the door frame as you glance out into the neighborhood, taking a much- needed breather. You’re halfway through the water bottle, plastic crinkling when she says, “Now we just have to get the vanity, the dresser, and the large television.” You let out a loud groan at the reminder that your back is going to have to hang in there for the final haul.
………….
Getting the rest of the stuff off the truck and inside, and the things already inside upstairs to your room, took another good two and a half hours. That includes stopping midway, in the sweltering heat, to complain about how ‘we don’t need a man but, it sure would be nice if the chivalrous kind existed and helped us carry this stuff.. Seriously, in all of Texas, no man on this street wants to help some young ladies?’ Your mom got a kick out of you referring to ‘us’ as young ladies. You actually have not talked to her in over a month, since moving in.
You’ve been trying to get your bearings here. You know she’s just a phone call away, but you don’t want to rely on her so heavily that way. You want to be able to stand on your own two feet and just call her to check in, not because you’re lonely or can’t cope with the silence of being alone. Which you can. You’ve been waiting.. Dying.. To finally get out on your own. But as you began to grow up, you realized some complex things can exist at once. And that’s what makes this whole experience on Earth, as a human, fucking insane. How can you miss your mom and your siblings so much, but desperately wanted to stay away from them any chance you got while still living there..?
Work has been amazing, all things considered. No one likes working 40 hours a week. You certainly do not. You hate early mornings. Yet, you’re up just before the sun, out of the house as it appears, and home a few hours before it’s dark again. The sunset is the beautiful view in front of you now, as you drive home.
Considering the pay for this internship and your love for the nature of your field, you can’t exactly complain. ‘I mean, this is what I went to school for right?,’ you think to yourself.
‘This is what everyone is expected to do whether they love what they do or not, is to work day in and out, just to buy sustenance and nutrients for survival..’.
You have to prove you have the right to exist in this world.. By working. So, you consider yourself lucky to at least like the workforce slavery you do. You should get out more, though. You feel you’ve established some of your workflow and adjustment in that area. You have no friends, though, no major networking. You pull into your driveway, the headlights illuminating the entire front as you debate swallowing down all your anxiety and going out alone.
You look down at your phone briefly. 7:57PM. It is still early. You should just get dolled up and go to that bar Sage says he loves. Maybe… *THUNK*. You startle as you hear a loud sound hit your car.
As soon as you open the door, you already hear a child-like voice shout, “Oh my god, I’m so sorry. My god,” over and over. You unbuckle, open the door and begin to step out- setting eyes on a loosely curled mane bouncing with each step. Your neighbor’s kid.
You’ve only spoken to her a handful of times, her often being outside playing (more often than not, by herself, but occasionally with kids from down the street) when you come home from work. Every day, like clockwork. Not once have you seen what obviously would be her guardian, because surely she cannot afford a house like that on her own. However, most of the time you see her like that… on her own. Every day she is outside, doing homework or playing with a soccer ball. Or reading or drawing. After school and outside by herself. If you were not primarily taken aback by the amount of time she spends alone, you would find yourself more impressed with how independent she is. And mature, to be spending her time in such a well-rounded way instead of putting off homework and watching television all day after school- until the front lock clicks, and then pretends to do homework when her parents walk in. The parent which you’ve never seen and your thoughts circle back to that every time. Naturally, you cannot commend her independence without considering what it cost her. You know that feeling all too well.. Which means you do not view whatever guardian she does seem to have (because she does act like she has home training) in a positive light. In fact, it isn’t until you've made your sleepy-time tea and curled up with a book in bed, that you hear an obnoxiously old truck rumble past your house and into the driveway next door. An hour or two.. Sometimes three, after the sun is set. Yeah, her guardian is not too cool in your book.
“What the hell was that?” You frown as you slightly tip your chin down to look at Sarah.
“I’m so sorry.. It was my soccer ball..” She teeters off and scrunches her face into a “yikes” expression. The kind of expression that says ‘we’ve talked about this already’.
“God damn, girl,” You mutter as you close the driver’s door and look at the semi- symmetrically rounded indent. “I know, I know, I am so sorry. I really don’t want my dad to know, but I promise he would know someone that could fix this..” She mutters. Suddenly her eyes widen as she glances behind you, and you hear those old rumbles squeak to a stop and you both watch the whole time, as her dad pulls into their driveway.
Suddenly, you're holding your breath and you don’t know why. Are you finally about to meet the asshole who leaves their daughter alone, all the time, especially during night hours? It seems that way. And you're going to potentially ask him for a favor, to fix the dent in your car? You don’t know how you feel about owing a favor to this absent stranger so soon. You’ve lived here for a month now and are more comfortable with his 13 year old daughter and he has not so much as offered you a “Welcome to the Neighborhood” note. Prior to moving to Texas, that wouldn’t be a thing you would have even considered as a worthy tally against Sarah’s guardian to justify your assumptions of him, but Texas really is annoyingly full of “kind” and “hospitable” folks. You have not been able to take a leisurely stroll in this neighborhood without someone saying something to you. That’s only just started dying down, because it’s not hospitality but plain nosiness.
The driver’s door slams shut and your eyes skim the top of dark curls peeking from the other side of the truck and you shoot a glance at Sarah’s curls. By the time your eyes come back up, you see two brown worried ones, cushioned by a few stress lines and a sharply constructed nose. Your eyes begin to dart to other places trying to latch onto all the physical traits that are supposed to be.. Sarah’s dad. Damn.
You focus your eyes back on his worried face as the first thing he spotted was Sarah in your yard. Probably, from the moment he pulled up which is a shocking thought, that he could be so attentive. But, he does not take his eyes off Sarah as he approaches your yard. Seemingly observing anything that physically could be observed, to verify if she’s okay, not just in the physical. And without tipping me off to his concern and distrust of the stranger who his daughter is next to. Unfortunately, you’ve been observing this anticipated stranger as much as he’s been observing her. So by the time your eyes finally meet, you’ve been tipped off that he’s concerned and does not trust you.
You offer a polite smile and state, “You must be Sarah’s legal guardian. Nice to finally meet you.”
I apologize y’all. I’m 25 just graduated a year ago, constantly job hunting, trying to save up to move out of state AND buy and apartment and I currently work in childcare (not working in my degree, the great college graduation gift that keeps giving) and that can be exhausting physically. Also I’ve been doing a farm work exchange for a little over a month in July in Hawai’i and that could be physically taxing as well and I wanted to enjoy this mental/emotional sabbatical. I’ll be working on the next two chapter (ch2 is partially written) and will update with the release dates. Because it’s been so long ch2 will be posted by Sunday night or Monday morning and on Monday I’ll set time aside to get ahead on two more chapters and schedule the posts. I need to be intentional and grab my life by its balls. LOL. So thanks for hanging in. I’ve heard tumblr is dying, fandom and fanfic is dying. And so is the pedro pascal fandom. (which yes I’m aware of what’s been said, I have to do my own research and find out who his bf’s Zionist mentor or acquaintance is to finally nail how I feel bc trust I’m pro MF Palestine and it’s fuck Israel and ICE and genocide and religious war (or any war) over here.) regardless I need to do this for me. I’ve been wanting to write fanfic for years mf I was always scared. So unfortunately this is more for me at this point but I hope you guys can enjoy the ride. I only think there’s a good handful of pedro character writers esp doing full fledged stories and not one shots, so I hope to be one of those people in coming months. Idgaf about likes and reposts at this point bc this hellscape is dying in all shape and forms and fear fanfic as a movement won’t live much longer/stronger or in the same capacity since its rise in the early 2010s with fanfic. But fuck it I’m in this bitch now.
Summary: Accompanying your friend Javier to his holiday work party seemed simple enough until it gets a little too hard to just pretend to be dating.
Warnings: language, fake dating, one bed trope, sexual tension, jealousy, flirting, cigarette use, alcohol use, friends to lovers, reader has insecurities about her looks, fingering, smut (18+ MDNI), unprotected piv sex
WC: 6.4K
dividers by @saradika-graphics
"Please, cariño, it's just one night. The party's at a casino about two hours outside the city. The DEA paid for hotel rooms 'cause they're worried about people drinking and driving. We'll be back by noon on Saturday, you'll still have your whole weekend to mope around over Travis," Javi begged as he followed you around your kitchen.
"Trent," you corrected with a glare over your shoulder. Javi just waved you off.
"Yeah, whatever. His name doesn't matter anymore, now does it?" he countered with an arched brow. You frowned and continued to put your dishes away.
Javier was right - Trent's name didn't matter anymore. Not after he dumped you out of the blue, two weeks before Christmas. He probably didn't want to buy you a gift, Javier had said when you called him up crying. It wasn't exactly the most comforting thing to hear, but at least he made you laugh.
"And why is it you don't want to attend this event by yourself? I thought you would have wanted to take some poor secretary back to your room for the evening," you said, flipping the dishwasher closed before playfully adding, "This better not be some sick move to try to get into my pants again." Javi pulled out his carton of cigarettes and began to anxiously tap it against his palm. When you whisked by, you smacked it out of his hand with a warning: do not smoke in my house.
"You've made it very clear I won't be touching your pants, hermosa," he chuckled, recalling a handful of failed attempts to get you into bed before giving up entirely. "But, uh, I've been taking one too many secretaries home lately," Javi admitted with a lopsided grin. "Got one real pissed at me for not calling her back. Had to make up a lie that I had gotten back together with an ex, so..."
Your jaw dropped and you stared daggers at him with your hands on your hips.
"So not only are you asking me to go with you to this party, but I'm supposed to pretend we're dating?" you clarified, ignoring the butterflies in your stomach. When he nodded sheepishly, you tossed your hands in the hair and began to curse under your breath.
"Oh, come on! It won't be that bad! It's not like she's gonna say anything. It's just for looks. Hell, you never know. Maybe you'll meet someone at this thing. I could be doing you the favor of a lifetime," he said before hopping up to sit on your kitchen island. You smacked his knee when you walked past and he grinned.
"I have barstools, you know."
"Yeah, but I like it up here. Better view," he winked and jutted his chin towards your v-neck shirt.
"Gross," you scowled, making him laugh. He took a handful of nuts from the bowl on your counter and shook them in his hand like dice.
"So? What's it gonna be? You in?"
You watched him tip his head back, pouring some peanuts in his mouth, and you sighed. What the hell. You didn't have anything better to do.
"Fine."
Javier jumped off the counter excitedly. "Thank you! I owe you one!" he exclaimed before heading for your door. "I gotta run. I'll pick you up around noon on Friday. And, hey - bring a dress. The party is a little formal."
You rolled your eyes and groaned, then shooed him out your door. "Thanks. Now I have to figure out a damn outfit."
"You're the best!" he shouted happily from his car. You shut your door and turned around to sag against the wood, finally surrounded with silence. Something you thought you were craving until you had it, and then suddenly you realized you had never felt more alone in your life.
"Where the hell is this place?" you asked, staring out the passenger seat of Javier's jeep. It felt like the car kept climbing higher and higher, and the way your ears were popping, you were thinking your hunch was right.
"It's a hotel slash casino up in the hills," he said with a nod towards the open, winding road. "Supposed to have a hell of a view."
"Yeah, guess so," you muttered, then gasped when a clearing came into view and you saw just how high up you really were. "Oh, my god! Javi - look!"
"I'm driving, cariño," he reminded you with a smirk, but his eyes still flickered quickly over the ridge.
"Wow," you said breathlessly. The view was spectacular. Miles and miles of hills and trees surrounded a sprawling hotel/casino. If you were closer to the edge, you would be able to see a lazy river snaking around the bottom of the mountain.
"Alright. So what's the story?" you asked when you settled back in your seat. There was still a ways to go until you reached the casino, but you could see it from the road nestled into the landscape.
"What story?"
"Our story," you said like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "You told a girl you got back together with an ex. So, why did we originally break up?"
"Oh," Javi said, scratching his chin. "I don't know. You really think it matters?"
"Maybe. Who knows? Probably a good idea we at least talk about it," you shrugged.
Javi thought about it for a minute before snapping his fingers. "You wanted marriage and I didn't."
You made a face and shook your head.
"That would imply we're on the path to getting engaged. You really think you can fake a whole marriage because you pissed off a girl at work?"
"Yeah, good point," he mumbled before falling quiet to think about it some more. After a few minutes, he came up with another idea. "How about you were gonna move away for a job and we didn't want to do long distance, but the job fell through and you stayed?"
You nodded slowly, rolling the idea around in your head.
"Yeah, that's good. That'll work. Then one day to explain why you're single again, you can say I got another job offer out of state or something."
"Exactly."
"Alright. Easy enough," you hummed, then turned to gaze out your window again. Javi watched you for a few minutes out of the corner of his eye, his jaw working back and forth while he tried to come up with the right words to express his gratitude.
"Hey, uh," he said, clearing his throat. You turned to look at him expectantly. "I just wanna thank you again. I know you're going through a tough time and all that-"
"Don't mention it," you said dismissively. "It's not a big deal. Plenty of guys out there, right?"
Javi gave you a tight smile. "Yeah. Sure."
One thing that you didn't have a chance to fully think through was the sleeping situation. As Javi checked you in and you heard the girl at the front desk confirm one king sized bed, you felt yourself stiffen. He signed and grabbed the keys, then shot you a warm smile before gesturing towards the elevators. From the looks of it, Javier didn't mind one bit. Then, of course, it was Javier...
"No funny business," you declared when you entered your room and Javier flopped down tiredly on the huge bed. "You stick to your side, I'll stick to mine."
"Whatever you say, cariño," he replied with his eyes closed. "I'll be reminding you of that later tonight when you're all over me after a few drinks."
"That was one time and I told you I was sorry!" you exclaimed, cheeks burning from the memory.
Your relationship in the past with Javier was... complicated. When you first met, it felt like you kept seeking each other out at all the worst times. Whenever you made a move, he was unavailable, and vice versa. Eventually, you had decided to just be friends and left it at that. And it worked well. You had an easy relationship where it felt effortless and natural to go to the other with some exciting news, and sought a shoulder to cry on if something bad happened. It just seemed to work better without the romantic element.
All of that aside, at the crux of the issue was you were a romantic, through and through. You liked being in long term relationships. You enjoyed the comfort and peace it brought. Javier, on the other hand, was the exact opposite. You couldn't even remember the last time he brought the same girl out for drinks more than once and you had a suspicion he had never been in love.
"I'm just messing with you. Can't help it, I like when you're all flustered," Javi said before sitting up with a groan. When he stretched, you found your eyes drifting down to where his shirt rode up, revealing a small sliver of bronzed skin. You swallowed and forced yourself to look away because no matter how many times you reminded yourself it would never work between you, it didn't stop you from being unbearably attracted to him.
It was the confidence that he exuded. That was what you had finally decided was the thing that kept you drawn to him in a decidedly less-than-friendly way. But of course, you were quick to remember you weren't the only one who was attracted to his charm. Half the women in the city noticed it, too. You had just gotten very good at hiding it.
"What time's the party start?" you asked, hauling your duffel bag onto the bed so you could begin to unpack your toiletries. The first thing you did was take out the dark red slinky dress you bought so you could steam out the wrinkles with the iron packed away in the coat closet. What you didn't notice was the way Javier's eyes greedily locked onto the fabric while you moved around the room.
"Uh..." he murmured, his pulse quickening when he saw the plunging neckline of your dress. "That new?"
You furrowed your brow and turned around. "Yeah. I didn't exactly have anything suitable so I went shopping. Why? You don't like it?"
"No, no... it's perfect," he assured you. Javier blinked a few times, snapping himself out of it, and looked at you. "Very... festive."
You grinned and hung up the dress on the back of the bathroom door. "Thanks. I thought so, too. So... the party? What time?"
"Oh, right. Cocktail hour starts at five, dinner's at seven then dancing or whatever til who knows when."
You glanced at your watch and made a face after you did a quick pass with the iron.
"I better get in the shower, then," you said, grabbing your things. Javier leaned back onto the headboard and flicked on the television with the ease of a man who didn't intend on putting in much work on his appearance for evening. However, once you finished your hair and makeup and stepped out of the bathroom in that damn dress, he suddenly felt like he should have tried a little harder.
"Maybe I should put something in my hair," he muttered, his fingers flicking through the dark locks as he stared at his reflection in the mirror. You appeared in the doorway of the bathroom looking way too fucking attractive to be his date, let alone masquerading as his girlfriend. Your brows pinched together as you looked at his hair and it took every last ounce of willpower not to let his eyes fall to your cleavage in that tight dress.
"I think your hair looks good," you said. When you reached up to fix a stray piece of his hair, he cleared his throat and twisted away.
"Alright, let's get this thing over with," he mumbled as he slid past you and headed towards the door.
"What's got you so grumpy?"
"Nothing. Just need a drink and a smoke."
"You're gonna abandon me with a bunch of DEA agents to go smoke for ten minutes?" you whined, following him out of your hotel room towards the elevators.
"You could always join me. You'd look like Bette Davis smoking a cigarette and wearing that dress," he replied when you both stepped inside the elevator. He tapped the lobby button and grinned down at you.
"You and Bette Davis," you laughed, rolling your eyes.
"What? She made smoking look so damn cool."
"Yeah, well, I think I'm going to pass," you told him. "I'll get a drink and mingle. Maybe find one of the girls you pissed off and have a cat fight."
Javi chuckled and shook his head. "That's a long list, baby. Shouldn't be too hard."
When the elevator doors slid open, you could hear the music thumping from the ballroom and laughter echoing off the walls.
"Sounds like they didn't waste any time," you said to Javier.
"Are you kidding? When the government gives you an open bar, you fucking milk it," he replied before taking one step towards the front doors. "You sure you're good for a few?"
"Yeah, I'll be fine," you said, waving him off. He nodded and pulled out his pack of cigarettes. Before he even made it to the door, he slipped one in between his lips.
The ballroom was pretty full already, Javi was right: when government employees have a chance to let loose, they jump at the opportunity. The entire room was decorated in Christmas lights, garland, and at least five different trees. The DJ was cycling through a mix of Christmas carols, pop music, and classic rock. Some people already shaking their hips on the dance floor with drinks in their hands. You spotted two different bars set up, so you made your way to the nearest one and ordered a white wine. As you waited, you bopped your head along to the beat of Last Christmas while mindlessly scrolling on your phone.
"Jack Daniels, neat," a man's deep voice said from beside you when the bartender placed your wine glass on a coaster. You thanked him and slid a few dollars across the bar before taking a sip.
"Excuse me... have we met?"
You turned to look at your neighbor and slowly shook your head. He was cute. Blonde hair parted to one side, mustache, lean but strong physique and sparkling blue eyes.
"No, we haven't," you said before offering your hand and name.
"Steve," he grinned, giving your hand a firm shake before accepting his drink with a nod and a couple bucks in the tip jar. "What department do you work in?"
"Oh, I don't work for the DEA, I'm here with someone," you said, leaning closer. You watched his face fall when you implied you weren't single and you pursed your lips. How the hell would Javi expect you to meet anyone when you had to pretend to be his girlfriend?
"I mean, just a friend. A good friend," you added, praying you didn't blow Javi's cover the first time you opened your mouth. "Uh, what do you do?"
"I'm an agent," he told you, chest puffing with pride. "Takin' down drug rings one scumbag at a time."
"Wow. That's so impressive," you gushed. You saw the way his cheeks flushed a bit and preened when he glanced down at your chest. "That must be so hard. What's your favorite part about the job?"
"Goin' to the Christmas party and meeting beautiful women like you," he shot back smoothly, making you giggle and toss your hair flirtatiously over your shoulder. Steve's gaze dragged up and down your dress appreciatively before adding, "I mean it. You look stunning. Should've known someone like you didn't work for the DEA."
"Oh, stop," you giggled, feeling your face warm from his compliment.
"Where are you sitting? Maybe I can convince you to dance after dinner? Now fair warning, I got two left feet, but I got a feeling no one's gonna be lookin' at me," Steve grinned, taking a step closer and grazing his thumb along your bare arm.
"Hmm, that sounds-"
"Murphy."
You both twisted around to find Javier storming across the room. And storming was really the only word for it. His fists were clenched and his jaw pulled tight like he was about to take a swing at Steve.
"Javi," you greeted him sweetly with a smile. At the same time, Steve said, "Peña."
"What's going on here?" he asked, sidling up so he could wedge himself between you and Steve.
"Nothing. Steve and I were just talking," you said innocently.
"Looked like more than that," Javier huffed. His tone and the serious look on his face made you falter. Did you do something wrong?
"Well-"
"I was just asking her for a dance after dinner. Relax, Jav," Steve joked with a playful punch to his shoulder. When Javi remained stoic and unmoving at your side, the smile slowly slipped from Steve's face.
"Oh, shit. Sorry. I thought you were just friends."
"We are," you said quickly, but Steve was already backing away.
"Enjoy your night! It was lovely to meet you," Steve said with a wink before disappearing into the crowd. You swiveled on your heel to glare at Javi.
"Why didn't you correct him?" you seethed.
Javi just shrugged, his relaxed demeanor slipping back in place, and leaned up against the bar to flag down a bartender. "You can do better than Steve."
"Who are you to say?" you argued back after he ordered a whiskey. "We were clicking! And he's cute, why-"
"'Cause I don't want you fucking my partner, hermosa, that's why," Javi snapped. Your eyes widened and you clamped your mouth shut for a moment.
"He's your partner? Why didn't you ever introduce us before? He's-"
"C'mon, let's go find the appetizers or something," he said after snatching his glass from the bar top. It was very evident you wouldn't be getting any more information out of Javier so you decided to drop the subject. But as the happy hour inched along with your third drink in your hand and Javi's arm finding a permanent home around your waist as he introduced you to his coworkers, your mind kept drifting back to that hardened look he had given you and Steve. The butterflies in your stomach churned to life every time you thought about it, your memory twisting things so you could pretend he was jealous over you flirting with another man. It wasn't that hard to imagine, really. He could hardly keep himself from touching either your waist or lower back or grabbing your hand. It fed the little fantasy in your head, deluding yourself into thinking he was subtly trying to claim you in front of the whole party, warning others to stay away.
You had given up reminding yourself that the fake relationship schtick was just an act by the end of dinner. It was too nice to pretend otherwise.
Javi had been wrapped up in a long winded conversation with the man seated on the other side of him, but your heart was fluttering the whole time because from the moment he set his silverware down, his hand hadn't once left your leg.
With a dreamy smile plastered across your face, your eyes casually drifted around the room. People were already beginning to dance but many still remained at their dinner tables chatting. You had been quietly admiring the artwork on the walls and sipping from your glass when you felt the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. It was hard to explain, but you just felt like someone was staring at you. Doing your best to be subtle, you shifted in your seat and let your gaze wander around the room again until you found the source.
There was a table to your left, half of which was empty, but five young women remained staring in your direction. Some had drinks dangling from their fingers, one had a scowl and another was leaning in to whisper something in her ear.
There was no question one of the girls must have been one of Javi's scorned lovers. If not all of them. Your heart sunk a little when you saw how beautiful they were and you forced yourself to look away.
Javier was handsome, he had charm, and he was funny. A lethal combination that managed to get him in bed with some extremely drop dead gorgeous women. It was then you felt your insecurities flare up. How could anyone buy you were a couple when he was used to having girls like that on his arm?
With Javier still talking, you stood up from your chair, suddenly feeling flustered and overwhelmed.
He stopped speaking mid sentence to look up and ask, "Where are you going?"
"Uh," you glanced around and swallowed nervously. "I think I just need some fresh air. I'll be right back."
"I'll go with you," he said, immediately standing. "I'll catch up with you later, Jim," Javi added over his shoulder before hurrying to catch up with you. When his palm pressed against your back, your feet automatically slowed.
"What's going on? Drink too much?"
"No. Well, maybe. I don't know," you rambled, eyes scanning for the exit. "I just feel like I don't fit in here."
"What? Why?" he asked, grabbing your arm and spinning you around. His face was filled with concern as he tucked a stray piece of hair behind your ear. "You're doing great, cariño. I thought you were having fun."
"I was. I am," you stammered, and then your gaze landed on the table of girls, most of which had moved on to something else.
Before you could tear your eyes away, Javier noticed where you were looking and sighed.
"Yeah, sorry. I told you, I pissed off a woman or two here."
"It's not that," you mumbled, now staring down at the floor.
"Then what is it?"
You felt your cheeks flush and you couldn't look him in the eye when you finally admitted, "They're really pretty, Javi."
He just scoffed and took your hand in his.
"You're prettier."
You laughed lightly and shook your head. "Yeah, right. It's a good thing there's an open bar. Otherwise, I'm not sure people would believe we're together when you're usually seen with girls like that."
"Hey," Javi said softly. He hooked a finger under your chin and tilted it up so you would look at him. "Don't say that. You look better than anyone else here. If you weren't already, I'd be trying to get you up to my room right now," he said with a smirk. You giggled a little and sighed.
"Sorry. I guess I just had a moment or something," you said, breathing deep. Javi looked around the room and noticed how the dance floor was beginning to fill up.
"Wanna dance?"
You smiled and pulled your lower lip between your teeth as you watched others having fun on the dance floor. Without waiting for your answer, Javi tugged your hand and tilted his head, urging you to follow him. "C'mon, don't leave me hanging."
You laughed and let him lead you to the dance floor, weaving through the throngs of people until he found a little wiggle room, but right when he turned back to look at you with a big, goofy smile, the fast tempo switched to a much slower ballad. Javi cocked an eyebrow at you and extended a hand, unphased.
With a smile of your own, you took his hand and let him pull you in close. His fingers laced together with yours while his other arm wrapped around your middle and your free hand came to rest on his shoulder.
"Hey, you can dance," he teased when you fell into rhythm with him effortlessly.
"Of course I can dance," you said, rolling your eyes. Being that close to him, you could smell his aftershave, the whiskey on his breath, and a faint hint of cigarette smoke from earlier. The smell you had unknowingly grown to love. The smell that was, simply put, Javier.
You gazed up at him, smiling at the little pink tinting his cheeks and the glassy look in his eye. He looked so fucking adorable it almost pained you.
"Can I ask you something, Javi?" you asked quietly. His eyes softened at your tone and he nodded. "Why were you so mad earlier when I was talking to Steve? Really?"
The corner of his mouth twitched and his eyes flickered somewhere behind you as he considered his answer.
"I think you know why."
When he looked back down at you, the playfulness was gone. His eyes carried something else in them. Something he couldn't bring himself to say. Then your heart skipped a beat and your breath caught in your throat when you saw it. The look you had been aching to see from him for years. The same look you were giving him at the very same time.
And then it hit you. Yeah, you knew why.
It turned out Javier was much more popular at work than you ever expected. You had spent the rest of your dance trying to come up with the right thing to say, but you panicked and lost your chance when Javier's boss nudged his shoulder while dancing with his wife. The four of you fell into a conversation - the men about work, you and his boss's wife about Christmas bargains - in the middle of the dance floor. When you realized you were in the way, the conversation moved to the bar. After that, an investigator joined in the conversation with her girlfriend and before you knew it, it was nearly midnight and the moment you had with Javi on the dance floor was long forgotten.
Or so you thought.
It had been a long night. You were exhausted and your feet ached from the new shoes you picked out to match your dress. You had hoped to possibly find an opening and talk to Javi about what you thought he implied during your dance, but while you were waiting for him to wash up, you passed out cold.
One thing you knew for certain was you were on your side of the bed when you fell asleep. You knew that because your side faced the bathroom and you had rolled over to wait for Javi before you fell asleep. However, you couldn't explain why you woke up around three in the morning with your cheek resting on his shoulder and your arm wrapped around his waist.
Well, maybe you could explain it. It was probably your subconscious trying to seek him out after spending the evening being so close to him. No matter the reason, you knew you had to sneak back to your side of the bed before he woke up, so you slowly began to extract your arm.
"Where're you goin'?" Javi murmured sleepily. Your eyes widened and your heart began to race.
"Nowhere, just go back to sleep," you whispered, pulling your arm away. Just as you were about to roll over, Javi's hand shot out to grab your wrist. You froze, cheek still pressed against his shoulder, and slowly lifted your eyes up to meet his.
It was hard to see in the dark, but from what you could tell, he was wide awake. His dark brown eyes continued to study your face while you fumbled for words.
"Javi?" you said, voice sounding so small in the quiet room. His eyes flickered anxiously between yours for another moment before he came to his decision. In one quick movement, he had rolled you onto your back, his hips fitting perfectly between your legs as he caged you in.
"Javi," you said again, although this time sounding far more breathless and aroused than you intended.
He swallowed tightly, gaze flickering from your eyes to your lips before he whispered, "Do you feel it too, cariño?"
You shifted underneath him, eyelids fluttering when you felt his arousal pressing up against the inside of your thigh.
"Yes," you whispered back.
His mouth crashed against yours in an instant. It was rougher than you expected it to be but you didn't mind. You understood because you felt it, too. All that time wasted, dancing around something that was right in front of you the entire time. It was bound to drive anyone a little crazy, a little hungry.
Before you knew it, your fingers were in his hair, dragging down his shoulders, and then tugging at his shirt, and all the while his mouth remained cemented against yours. He had to pull away to yank his white tshirt over his head and you heard yourself make a pathetic little noise, like you couldn't possibly survive without his kiss, not even for one second.
"Take this off," he panted, lifting your oversized shirt halfway up your torso. You didn't need to be told twice. You flung it off and pulled Javier back down before he even had a chance to take a good look at your bare chest.
Everything was moving so fast but given the amount of time it took you to get there, it felt like a fucking eternity. He expertly tugged your shorts and underwear off while your tongues fought for dominance in each other's mouths. It wasn't even until you felt his fingers brush against your cunt that you realized you were entirely undressed.
"Oh, god... Javi!" you cried out brokenly when he slipped two fingers inside of you.
His mouth fell to your chin and he made a strangled sound, curling his fingers when he said, "Fuck, baby, when you say my name like that..."
His hand maintained a steady rhythm between your legs, reaching for that spot that made your back curl off the bed every time he thrusted inside. His other hand got lost in your hair, tipping your face so he could feverishly lock his lips with yours while dragging your first orgasm to the surface with a few circles over your sensitive clit.
"Javi! Wait... I'm gonna - I'm gonna come -" you gasped, unable to stop your hips from rolling up and meeting his hand.
"Go ahead, hermosa. I got you."
"No," you whimpered, muscles going tense. You were getting to the point of no return and you needed to stop him. "I wanna - I want you to fuck me, Javi. I - I wanna -"
Your head fell back into the pillow, unable to complete your sentence.
"I am. I'm gonna fuck you," he assured you, lips ghosting the shell of your ear and wrist snapping faster between your thighs. "I'll make you come on my cock, don't worry, baby. Just let go, c'mon, you can do that for me, right?"
"Christ, cariño, you're gonna wake the whole fucking hotel," he chuckled, but you were too far gone to care. You tilted your chin to the ceiling, his name echoing off the walls as you came. It felt like your heart was going to beat right out of your chest, like your legs were so weak you may never walk again, yet somehow it wasn't enough. Not for either of you. In fact, it only seemed to make you each more desperate.
Your kisses on his skin became messy, both of you so eager to have the other that there was no room to worry about being too fast or abrasive. Your teeth clashed together when your arm curved around his neck, yanking him down to your level. Your shared hot breaths mingled with each pant and gasp. When you reached down to wrap your fingers around the heavy weight of his cock, he moaned into your open mouth and slid his fingers from your pussy so you could line him up with your entrance, neither of you in any mood to wait a second longer.
"Fu-uck," he groaned when he pushed inside of you, burying himself to the hilt in one go. You gasped and sharply bit down on his shoulder when tears sprung up and threatened to spill down your cheeks.
"You okay?" he panted, planting weak kisses against the side of your face. All you could do was nod. He filled you and stretched you so perfectly that it took your breath away and left you speechless. He nodded, too, lips parted as he puffed for air, then began to rock his hips. Slow at first, then steady and deep.
"Javi," you moaned in his ear, sending a shiver through his body. "Shit, just like that. Oh my god, Javi, just like that!"
Javier smirked into your shoulder, fucking you with deep, long strokes as you continued to fill the room with your cries and moans.
"Never thought you'd be so goddamn loud, baby," he teased, nipping playfully at your shoulder.
"Sorry," you whined into the air. Your jaw was clenched tight, fingers clawing uselessly at his broad shoulders while he continued to pump in and out a little bit harder, a little bit faster, setting loose one of the tears that welled up in your eyes.
"Don't be sorry, I fucking love it," he groaned. He lifted himself up so he could watch your face contort with each devastating thrust. "Fucking love how you say my name. Dreamed about it for so long, you have no idea-"
"Me, too," you moaned, a second tear trickling down your cheek. You wrapped your legs around his waist, holding onto him tightly as he began to fuck you faster. His eyes flickered down to your bare chest, breasts bouncing from the force of his thrusts. Craning his neck down, he latched onto one with a groan, teeth grazing enticingly over your nipple before sucking the other one into his mouth.
"God, you're so perfect," he mumbled into the space between your breasts. "So fucking perfect, hermosa. Drove me fucking crazy all night."
Your heart stuttered before grabbing the sides of his head and pulling him up for a deep kiss. Every time he slammed inside of you, it had you seeing stars. You felt completely at his mercy, unable to think about anything else except him, him, him.
"Tell me you want more," he demanded, pulling away from your kiss so he could look you in the eye. His eyes were blown wide with lust and a few dark hairs were beginning to stick to his forehead, the image so captivating that he had you nodding dumbly to his request.
"Yes, Javi, please," you moaned, "more, please, fuck me-"
"No, I mean-"
His hips slowed and he cupped your face, chest heaving and lips parted for air as he stared down at you imploringly. "I mean, tell me you want more than just tonight. Tell me there's something else here."
You blinked rapidly and nodded, stunned he would even have to ask when you had always been the one to prefer relationships. Hardly trusting yourself to speak, you whispered, "Yeah. I want more than just tonight. I want more than just this."
A smile stretched across his face right before he lunged down to capture your lips with his own. His hips resumed their pace, snapping steadily into you and pushing you higher and higher until you stiffened and cried out his name.
"Oh, fuck. Oh, shit," he muttered, hips stuttering against you, his name still tumbling from your mouth as the last of your orgasm rippled through your body. "Baby - look at me," he begged, and it wasn't until that moment you realized your eyelids had even shut.
Tiredly, you opened your eyes to gaze up at him. The way he was looking at you caused a lump to form in your throat and you had to suppress a shiver. It was too intense all of the sudden, the air thickening between you in a matter of seconds.
"Come for me, Javi," you murmured lowly. You brought a shaky hand up to card through his damp hair, watching as his eyebrows pinched and his chin dropped, pulling out of you quickly and sitting back on his heels to fist his cock. Your hand fell back to the cool sheets beside you, unable to look away. He was hunched above you, one fist pressed into the mattress and the other jerking himself off until he stilled with a deep groan, painting your stomach with his sticky release. You couldn't even let yourself blink, doing your best to commit every detail to memory until he collapsed next to you with a heavy sigh.
"Fucking Christ," he grumbled, forearm tossed over his eyes. You giggled, face warming when you heard how raspy you sounded. Javier removed his arm and turned his head to look at you with a lopsided grin.
"You're a screamer, hermosa."
"Javi!" you cried out softly, but your broken voice only further proved his argument. He chuckled and rolled onto his side to push some hair away from your eyes.
"I was expecting a phone call from the front desk ten minutes ago."
"Shut up, Javi!" you whined, covering your face with your palms.
"Don't be embarrassed, baby, I love it," he said while pulling your hands away. You bit your lip and peered up at him, searching his face for any sign of regret and finding none. Then his face softened and he swallowed nervously before adding, "I'm in love with you."
He said it so quietly, so sweetly, that it had you wondering if you were hearing things. But then you saw the anxious look in his eye and your pulse skyrocketed.
"Really?" you asked in disbelief. Slowly, he nodded.
"Yeah. I think I've been in love with you for a while," he admitted, tracing an invisible line down your cheek.
You laughed and two fresh tears fell when you said, "I love you, too."
His mouth crashed against yours in relief and you wrapped your arms around his neck, matching smiles pressing together in stunned happiness.
"I'm sorry I wasted so much time and didn't tell you sooner," he murmured while stroking your hair.
"It doesn't matter," you replied, "we have each other now."
Javi smiled and kissed the tip of your nose.
"So, now what?" he asked.
"Now? Now I would really like to take a shower," you said, then grinned when you added, "and maybe in the morning we can do this all over again."
He laughed and rolled to his side so you could get out of bed. When his eyes locked onto your ass as you made your way to the bathroom in the dark, he flung the covers off and leapt out of bed to follow you.
"I think we're gonna need a late check out."
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"I used to lick cream off strawberries in the summer..."
summary: Your best friend’s dad Joel Miller had the warmest smile and the most charming little winks and that was all it took for you to develop a massive crush on him. You started finding every possible excuse to be around the old man, drawn to the way he proudly cared for his garden overflowing with the sweetest strawberries you’d ever tasted.
tags: 18+ (mdni). best friend's dad! joel x male! reader. reader and his friend are college classmates. teasing. flirting. pining. secret relationship. smut with feelings. oral sex. come play. outdoor sex. horny on main. joel calls his son best friend "bud" and "big guy".
wordcount: 3,8k
n/a: this is pretty much inspired by the two first verses from "wink wink" by charli xcx, just thought it was a nice concept. i know its hard to see joel as a "boy dad" but lets pretend to the sake of this au ok!!!!
"like its summer take my clothes off"
joel was proud of his garden. and honestly? it was adorable.
rows of fat ruby red strawberries spilled over the edges of raised beds, their leaves were dark green and glossy under the summer sun.
he tended them every evening after work, sleeves rolled up, sweat darkening the back of his flannel shirt.
you thought it was cute, how proud he got when the first berries ripened, how he’d carry a little basket inside full of fruit.
and joel himself… god, he was stupidly hot. broad shoulders, strong forearms corded with muscle, a salt-and-pepper scruff that that looked even better when he smiled. because fuck, that smile, it was crooked and dangerously charming. every time he caught you staring, he’d flash it and toss in a playful little wink that made your stomach flip.
“careful, you’re gonna make me blush,” he’d tease whenever he noticed your eyes lingering too long.
his voice was rough, the kind that settled warm in your chest.
you couldn’t stop staring at the way his jeans sat on his hips or the way the veins stood out on his hands when he gripped his gardening tools.
that’s why you kept finding excuses to be at your best friend's house every chance you got.
you two would play soccer in the backyard almost every afternoon, grass stains on your knees, shouting and laughing while joel worked nearby. he’d pause with his hands on his hips, watching you both with that crooked grin.
“keep your head up, big guy” he’d call to you, tossing the ball back when it sailed too wide.
he was always nice like that, never annoyed when you stayed for dinner, actually, he was glad you did.
“good to have you here,” he’d say, ruffling your hair as he passed by.
one july night, you and your friend were sprawled across his bedroom floor, speakers blasting some raw punk rock, fast, angry and perfect for drowning out the thoughts you definitely shouldn’t have been having about his dad. the bass vibrated through the floorboards. we were headbanging dramatically, laughing like idiots, when a shadow filled the doorway.
joel leaned against the frame, arms crossed over his chest, one eyebrow raised. the sleeves of his worn henley were pushed up, showing off those forearms you couldn’t stop thinking about.
“you boys seriously listening to this crap?” he drawled, voice cutting through the distortion.
your friend grinned and turned it down a notch. “it’s punk, dad. it’s supposed to sound like that.”
joel shook his head, clearly unimpressed. “sounds like someone’s strangling a cat with a guitar string.” he stepped into the room, filling it in that quiet way he had, and pulled out his phone. “here. let me show you something that actually has melody.”
he tapped the screen and started playing “strawberry fields forever” by the beatles. the dreamy, psychedelic intro floated through the room.
joel stood there looking proud of himself, like he’d just handed us the keys to real culture.
“see? this is music,” he said, nodding along, a small, satisfied smile tugging at his mouth.
you laughed, but your heart was hammering. you would get too nervous around him and he would notice the way your breathing seemed to stop or quicken once he got closer, see the way you'd get tense.
joel’s gaze flicked for a second longer than usual.
“you like it, big guy?” he asked.
“yeah,” you said, voice a little too soft. “i like it a lot.”
after the beatles song ended and joel had gone back downstairs with a satisfied little smirk, you and your friend stayed up a while longer talking nonsense.
eventually your friend’s yawns got longer and longer until he finally passed out, sprawled sideways across his bed.
then you slipped out of the sleeping bag and crept toward the door, lying to yourself that you were just going to the bathroom but actually you wanted to see what your best friend’s dad was doing.
he was lounging on the couch, a half-finished beer loosely held in his hand. his legs were stretched out, feet propped on the coffee table.
the tv was playing some old western but his eyes were half-closed, head tipped back against the cushion like he was two minutes from dozing off.
god, he was this really cool dad. the kind of cool that made you sometimes wish that he was your dad instead… or at least something a lot closer than your best friend’s father.
“well hey there bud” he said, voice extra rough and warm from the almost-sleep. “couldn’t sleep?”
you shrugged, trying to look casual even though your pulse was racing. “yeah… guess the punk rock got me too wired.”
joel gave a low, sleepy chuckle. “c’mere. this western is going to make you sleep. hell, i’m having a hard time paying attention to what’s even going on.”
you padded over and sat on the couch beside him, tucking your legs under you. the cushions dipped, bringing you closer than you expected.
he took a slow sip of his beer, then tilted the bottle lightly in your direction.
“want a sip? nah, don’t tell your parents i offered that,” he added with a playful wink. “i’m supposed to a responsible adult”
you smiled up at him “i won’t tell,” you whispered “i’m good at keeping secrets.”
for a few minutes you both just watched the movie in comfortable silence. the old western flickered across the screen, cowboys riding across dusty plains but you were far more interested in the way joel’s arm rested along the back of the couch, just inches from your shoulders. slowly, carefully, you leaned back until your shoulder brushed against his arm.
you swallowed hard, nerves buzzing under your skin. “i… i should probably try to sleep again,” you whispered, voice a little shaky. “don’t wanna keep you up.”
joel gave a soft grunt and a small nod. “yeah, get some rest, bud”
you stood up slowly, letting your fingers graze lightly along the back of the couch as you passed him. you glanced back once with a shy little smile before heading upstairs, heart still racing the whole way.
The next afternoon after class,
you rode your bike straight to their house, knowing your friend was out.
deep down, you were craving more alone time with his dad.
joel’s truck was in the driveway, but the house was quiet.
you found him in the big garden, sleeves rolled up, working among the strawberry beds.
the sun was warm on your skin as you leaned your bike against the fence and walked over.
you stopped at the edge of the beds, watching him for a moment.
the way his flannel stretched across his broad shoulders and the sweat glistening on his forearms made your mouth go a little dry.
“hey joel,” you said softly, not wanting to startle him. he straightened up and turned, brushing dirt from his hands.
a warm, surprised smile spread across his face when he saw you. “well, hey there, bud. didn’t expect to see you today.”
“i was just riding by… saw you out here working.”
“yeah, these strawberries are ripening fast. gotta stay on top of ‘em before the birds get all the good ones.”
joel reached down, gently twisted off a big, deep-red strawberry, and held it out to you without even looking up.
“here, try this one. should be real sweet.”
your fingers brushed against his as you took it. you brought the strawberry to your lips, took a slow bite, and the flavor burst across your tongue. it was incredibly juicy and sweet.
you looked up at him with bright, admiring eyes while you finished the berry, stepping just a little closer under the excuse of looking at the plants.
you looked up at him with bright, admiring eyes while you finished the berry, stepping just a little closer under the excuse of looking at the plants.
“these are perfect, joel,” you said softly “i swear they’re the sweetest i’ve ever had”
joel’s smile grew bigger, warm and a little bashful, the way it always did when someone praised his strawberries. you loved that look on him.
he ended up pulling a couple of cold drinks from the house and a blanket, and the two of you settled into a shady spot at the edge of the garden. bright red strawberries piled up between you.
at one point you reached for the orange juice, laughing at something silly, and tipped the bottle too fast.
cold juice spilled all down the front of your shirt, soaking the fabric and making it cling to your skin.
“ugh—” you looked down at the mess, cheeks heating up.
joel chuckled. “it’s hot out anyway, bud. just take it off so it doesn’t stick to you.”
you peeled the wet shirt off slowly, feeling the sticky juice and strawberry juice on your chest and stomach. the sun warmed your bare skin, but the stickiness from the fruit made you feel strangely aware of every little drip and smear across your torso.
you caught joel’s eyes flicking over you for a brief second before he looked back at the strawberries.
you dipped the berry into the small bowl of cream he had brought out from the kitchen, then brought it to your mouth.
instead of biting right away, you let your tongue catch a thick drop of cream that was about to fall.
slowly you licked your finger clean, eyes half-lidded in pleasure.
the cream was cool and silky against the warm, sun-ripened strawberries. you dipped another one, letting the thick white cream coat it generously before bringing it to your lips. a little spilled at the corner of your mouth, staining your lips a deeper, glossy red from the berry juice.
“mmm… this is dangerous,” you murmured playfully. “the strawberries were already too sweet… now with cream? i might never leave.”
he cleared his throat “you’re enjoying those a little too much, bud.”
“it is your fault,” you teased “everything you grow tastes this good. how am i supposed to behave?”
joel’s eyes darkened as he watched your tongue chase the cream. he shifted on the blanket.
“fuck… it really is hot today,” he muttered. without thinking twice, he reached back and tugged his flannel shirt off over his head, revealing his broad and sweaty chest.
your mouth watered instantly.
god, your best friend’s dad was so fucking hot.
joel caught you staring.
a dangerous little smirk tugged at his mouth.
he leaned back on one hand, the movement making his muscles flex, and reached for a strawberry himself. instead of eating it, he dipped it in cream and held it out toward you.
your lips parted. you leaned in and took the berry straight from his fingers, sucking the cream off slowly while your red, glossy lips brushed against his fingertips.
joel’s breath hitched. he watched as you licked and savored, clearly losing the battle with temptation.
he leaned back on one hand, muscles flexing, then kicked off his boots and started working on his jeans.
“too damn hot for all this,” he said, voice rough. he pushed the jeans down his thick thighs and tossed them aside, leaving him in just a pair of snug black boxers. then he stretched out fully on the blanket, arms behind his head, letting the sun kiss his sweaty body.
you couldn’t stop looking.
his chest rose and fell with each breath. sweat glistened across his skin, trailing down his abs. your eyes kept drifting lower… to the heavy bulge straining against the thin fabric of his boxers. it was impossible to ignore.
“you not feeling hot too?” he asked, his eyes were slowly dragged over your bare chest and sticky skin. “come on… fair’s fair.”
without hesitation, you hooked your thumbs into your shorts and pushed them down your legs, kicking them aside. now you were lying beside him in just your boxers, the sun warming your skin
joel’s gaze darkened with approval as he looked you over.
he reached for another strawberry, dipped it generously in cream, and brought it to his own mouth first. he let the cream coat his tongue, then turned to you with a wicked little smirk.
“these are so fucking sweet…” he murmured, voice husky. “come here. taste.”
he leaned in slightly, tongue slightly out, covered in thick white cream.
the invitation was clear.
you moved closer on the blanket, heart racing, until your faces were only inches apart. slowly, almost shyly, you leaned in and licked the cream right off his tongue.
the sweetness mixed with the taste of him made you whimper softly.
joel groaned quietly at the feeling of your tongue sliding against his.
“atta boy…”
one of his hands came up to cup the side of your neck, thumb brushing your jaw like he was testing how you felt under his palm.
he let out a quiet chuckle, the sound vibrating between you. “do you like how this old man tastes, huh?”
before you could answer, joel closed the last inch and kissed you properly.
so deep, so wet.
his mouth was hot, tongue sliding slow and heavy against yours, licking into you like he wanted to devour every whimper. the thick scratch of his beard dragged roughly over your smooth skin, burning deliciously against your chin and cheeks as he tilted his head and went deeper.
both of you were already half-hard in your shorts, the growing pressure obvious when your thighs brushed.
joel pulled back just enough to breathe, lips shiny and swollen, then dropped his mouth to your sticky chest. “so fuckin’ sweet…”
he licked another slow stripe over your chest, savoring you like you were the best thing he’d tasted all summer.
you could barely believe this was happening. your best friend’s hot dad, the guy you’d been fantasizing about for months was licking sweat off your chest.
he sat back on his heels, his eyes were playful as he hooked two fingers into the waistband of your boxers, pushing them down and freeing your cock.
it sprang up hard. joel’s gaze dropped straight to it, and that wicked smirk grew wider.
“well shit… ” he teased, voice low and rough. he wrapped one big, calloused hand around you and gave a slow, lazy stroke, clearly proud of the way you twitched in his grip. “now you’re the one that’s gonna feel this old man, right bud?”
he leaned in and kissed you again, quick and filthy, beard scratching your face as he laughed softly against your lips.
“big boy’s rock hard already. that’s real cute.”
joel wrapped those perfect, full lips around the head of your cock and sucked slow and wet, and so damn good your hips jerked off the blanket. his mouth was scorching and silky, the perfect tight heat.
“fuuuck…” you gasped, fingers threading into his hair.
joel pulled off just enough to grin up at you, lips shiny.
“tastes even better down here, bud.” then he sank back down, taking you deeper. his tongue kept teasing you mercilessly, sucking hard for a few strokes until your toes curled, then slowing down to lazy licks and soft kisses along the shaft, just to hear you whine.
his beard scratched lightly against your thighs and balls with every bob of his head.
the afternoon sun beat down on your skin, making everything hotter and slicker. sweat rolled down your chest and stomach.
every time he took you deep, your thighs trembled and your breath hitched, little desperate sounds slipping out that you couldn’t hold back.
the wet heat of his mouth was driving you crazy.
he slid two fingers into your lips.
“open up, bud. suck on these for me.”
you obeyed instantly, wrapping your lips around his fingers and sucking eagerly.
“that’s it… ” he murmured.
he pulled his fingers free, now shiny and dripping, and dragged them straight to your chest. he circled one stiff nipple with the wet pad of his finger before pinching and rolling it gently. the cool-wet sensation against your hot, sweaty skin made you moan loudly, back arching up into his touch.
you were a sweaty whimpering mess under him, hips bucking, skin flushed and shining in the sun.
finally, you couldn’t wait anymore.
you pushed at joel’s shoulders, and he let you flip positions with a surprised, amused chuckle.
you shoved his boxers down his thick thighs, freeing his heavy cock. it slapped up against his stomach, hard and leaking, and your mouth watered at the sight.
joel let out a deep, delighted laugh that turned into a groan as you leaned in and dragged your tongue up the length of him.
“fuck” he grinned, one hand sliding into your hair. “… show me what that pretty mouth can do.”
he tasted so fucking good.
the leftover sweetness from the strawberries and cream still coated your mouth, mixing perfectly with his musky flavor.
you opened wider and took him into your mouth. his cock was thick and pulsing. the head leaked a little precum that tasted slightly sweet.
every time you pulled back you swirled your tongue around the head, chasing that sweet-salty mix, then sank down again, letting spit drip messily down his balls.
you were sucking him like a total expert cocksucker. eager and shameless. moaning around his thick cock like it was the best thing you’d ever tasted.
“c’mere, big boy. lay down with me.”
you stretched out on your back beside him under the hot sun, both of you sweaty and shining. joel immediately rolled closer, pressing his body against yours, his arm slid over your shoulders as he pulled you closer.
“fuck, look at that,” he chuckled, turning his head to kiss you deep and filthy, tongue sliding against yours while his hand pumped faster. “that’s it… stroke with me, bud”
your whole body was trembling, thighs shaking, toes curling into the blanket as the pleasure built fast and sharp.
you couldn’t stop staring. joel’s cock was so fucking big. you were mesmerized by it, watching the way he stroked himself like a real man. the sight made your mouth water all over again.
you started stroking yourself harder, matching his rhythm, your hand flying over your own cock while you kept sneaking glances at his massive one.
“arghhhh…” you moaned.
joel kept teasing you between filthy kisses, his deep voice right in your ear.
“you like that, don’t you?” he growled, his breath ragged.
“that’s it, big boy… fuckin’ cum for this old man,” he groaned against your lips.
the words hit you hard.
your back arched off the blanket, a loud broken moan spilling into joel’s mouth as you came thick ropes of cum splattering across your sweaty stomach and chest.
joel didn’t stop kissing you for a second, swallowing every whimper and moan, his tongue sliding deep while you pulsed and spurted in his view, clearly loving the sight of you falling apart right beside him.
“look at you makin’ such a mess.”
he slid down your body and dragged his hot tongue slowly over your cum-covered stomach, licking up every drop of it.
the feeling of his warm, wet tongue sliding through the mix of your cum and sweat made you shiver hard under the blazing sun. he moaned low and filthy as he tasted you, beard scratching your sensitive skin while he cleaned your chest.
““mmm… fuck, bud.”
he gathered the last thick streak of cum on his tongue, then crawled back up and kissed you deep and dirty.
the cum-soaked kiss was perfect. you could taste yourself on his tongue as he pushed it into your mouth, making you whimper softly.
he sat back on his knees, still between your legs, and started stroking his thick cock harder. his fist flew fast and tight, muscles flexing in his arm as sweat rolled down his chest. he kept his eyes locked on you the whole time, completely focused on your body.
you watched as he chased his own orgasm with low, rough grunts. his hand moved with raw need, thumb swiping over the slick head on every stroke while his chest heaved.
“urghhhhhh” with a deep, guttural groan, joel came hard. thick ropes of his cum splattered across his own stomach and chest, shiny and hot under the sun.
he milked every last drop, breathing heavy.
still catching his breath, he reached over and picked one of the ripest strawberries from the basket beside the blanket. he dragged it slowly through the mess on his chest, coating it generously with his warm cum, then brought it straight to your lips with a filthy little grin.
“have a strawberry with this old man’s cream on it. sweetest thing you’ll ever taste.”
he pressed the cum-covered strawberry to your tongue, eyes locked on yours the whole time, clearly enjoying every second of feeding you his mess in the middle of his garden.
the burst of the juicy strawberry mixed with the warm salty taste of his cum created a flavor that made you moan softly around it as you bit down. warm juice and cum ran down your chin while joel watched with proud eyes, thumb brushing the sticky mess from your lip.
so fucking delicious.
“can you keep this little secret about my garden?” he asked with a lazy smile and a wink.
you nodded.
“need a ride home?”
“i’m good, i rode my bike.”
you pulled your shorts back on and grabbed your bike.
the heat of what you two had just done refused to leave your body.
Summary: Rescued by Jackson patrolmen and brought back to the city's rapidly growing settlement you're given temporary shelter in Joel Miller's spare room while waiting for a place of your own. Joel does his best to be welcoming in his own gruff way, but your guarded nature leaves him uneasy. With tensions already high after a recent falling out with Ellie he can't shake the feeling that there's more to you than you're letting on. Despite both your better judgments, suspicion slowly gives way to attraction and an unexpected bond begins. However you're hiding a secret powerful enough to destroy everything and everyone.
tags (for now): Enemies to lovers (duh, it's me), angst, trauma, slow burn, smut, secrets and lies, violence, forced proximity, HEA
author notes: There will be a day I don't write about Joel Miller. Today is not that day. Chapter one dropping later this week.
P R O L O G U E
The Miller brothers stand over the office desk, eyes on the rudimentary blueprints they've concocted.
"I'm thinking if we can manage a decent runoff system for the west end we can fit a small communal set up," Tommy murmurs, finger tracing a penciled line on the paper. "Sorta like a small apartment set up. What do you think?"
"Better for the singles."
"Yeah. S'what I was thinking."
Joel pushes back the hair that's fallen into his creased forehead, his eyes sharp with focus.
"Yeah," he adds after a few moments of thought, lower lip pouted in consideration as he stares at the papers. "Yeah, that should work."
"We can't start until the rain clears up consistently," Tommy offers, rolling up the paper. "The weather is shit this year, so it's gonna be a bit."
"Yep."
Joel knows that the building is going to be delayed. He knows that because he's in fucking charge of Jackson's expansion. Has been ever since he and Ellie landed here five years ago.
He knows it's gonna be at least two months of waiting around before the sopping spring weather ceases its endless rainfall. When Jackson will become drier and the weather will be decent enough to start building foundations.
If this were before the outbreak it might be possible to work through the bleak skies. Back when he and Tommy were on construction they had protective coverings and the right kind of wood. Here they have whatever materials can gather from patrol missions.
The brothers part, each going to their salvaged desks across from one another. Joel's is rusted on the bottom, Tommy's dented so badly he can't use the middle drawer. Still, it feels good to be in this office with its blueprints and maps. Good to be around pencils and sketches. Good to be with his little brother, even if the guy pisses him off at times.
"Hopefully we're gonna be finished the new school by the end of the month," Joel tells him. "Only have a few more interior repairs. Then the kids'll have somewhere to go and learn that isn't that shitty old church."
His brother tilts back in his chair until it creaks, feet propped on the edge of his desk.
"What do you think they teach em about?" Tommy muses.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, do they bother teaching them anything before Outbreak Day? Politics... World Wars... Vietnam...?"
"S'above my pay grade," Joel shrugs. "Guess you'll find out when Ben starts."
Tommy rocks in his chair, fingers laced over his belly as he thinks. Joel darts a look up to see his brother staring out the window that overlooks the main part of town.
"I like the art room and the music room in there," Tommy smiles. "Can't believe y'all brought back a piano."
"Wasn't my patrol that did that," Joel frowns, shaking his head as he flips the pages on his notes of repairs. "That was all Logan and Josh and that lot. Fuckin' idiots if you ask me."
"Still," Tommy says with a wide grin. "Music. Art. Schools. Fresh air. Don't think we could have imagined something like that happening back when we were struggling back in Boston."
Joel has a moment when that old life in the Boston QZ flashes behind his eyes. To a time when he was angrier, his tastes uglier, his body crueler. A time when fighting felt better than breathing. When Tess and her strong, sure way of navigating the world seemed like a beacon in darkness.
"You getting enough sleep?" Tommy asks, head cocked. When he does that, for a moment, Joel remembers the child he was. The one who was always getting into scrapes, the one Joel had to protect when he got too mouthy at school.
"You know I'm not," Joel sighs, looking back down at the newer blueprints.
Joel can't remember the last time he slept through the night without the aid of sleeping pills and whiskey. The former of which isn't as easily accessible to him anymore. Painkillers are for external pain, not the internal kind.
"Daddy!"
The door to the office swings open and an elated child of no more than four streaks across the room and into Tommy's waiting arms.
A tall black woman enters her glossy braided hair in a loose ponytail down her back. Her full mouth curves into a smile at the sight of her husband and son in an embrace.
"Hey darlin'," Tommy says, standing with a yawning Ben in his arms. The child watches as his father plant a kiss on his mother's waiting lips.
"Ew," Ben says, squirming in Tommy's arms until he's lowered to the floor. He moves over to Joel without hesitation.
"Hey Ben," Joel smiles gently over at his nephew, chair rolling back. Ben crawls onto his uncle's lap, smiling up at him, shiny little seed pearl teeth gleaming.
"Hi Uncle Joel. Daddy says you have candy I can have."
Joel shoots his brother a dark look over his nephew’s curly head.
"He did, did he?"
"Yep."
Joel doesn't like sharing his stash and a smirking Tommy knows this.
"You okay with it, Maria?"
The woman in Tommy's arms nods indulgently.
Joel's eyes drift back to Ben's, to the young boys bouncing legs and eager expression. As if he could deny this kid anything. He reaches into his pocket for the small paper bag, fishing out one of the chocolate bits he brings along with him on office days. He holds it out to Ben with a serious look.
"You gonna brush your teeth extra good tonight?"
"Yes sir."
"Alright then," Joel says pressing the chocolate into his chubby palm. "Enjoy, kiddo."
His nephew nods, shoving the chocolate into his mouth, the left side of his cheek bulging before he's twisting to see what Joel's been working on.
"What's this?"
"This is gonna be your school when you're old enough," Joel says, pointing to the pencil drawing on his desk. "That's gonna be the music room... That's the art room... That's the gym..."
He goes through the small schoolhouse, his smile broadening with each excited squeal from Ben. His nephew is a constant learner, eager to understand the world, curious to the point of absurdity.
"Alright," Maria says, gathering her son into her arms when he yawns. "Nap time."
"No! Mama please-"
He pouts in a way that reminds Joel of a young Tommy.
"Enough of that or no more chocolate from Uncle Joel," Tommy scolds lightly from over her shoulder.
Ben immediately stills, casting a baleful look at Joel before sighing heavily, as if the world is on his narrow shoulders.
"Say goodbye," Maria says with a peck to his bronzed cheek.
"Bye Uncle Joel."
"See ya later, kiddo."
Maria glances over at Tommy who's starting to busy himself with cleaning the desk. He usually goes home for lunch around this time.
"Oh, Tom, did you talk to him about...?" She trails off.
Maria exhales irritably when she sees Tommy's stricken expression.
"Talk to me about what?" Joel asks, eyes narrowed in suspicion before they move from Maria's face to Tommy's.
"Oh, uh," Tommy clears his throat, looking around the room, avoiding Joel's sharp look.
"Tommy, honestly," Maria says with a shake of her head. "Here, you put Ben down for a nap. I'll be home soon."
Joel watches the handoff of Ben to Tommy, his brother mumbling a goodbye before the door shuts behind him.
Joel's stomach twists uncomfortably when it's just he and Maria left in the quiet office. His brother's wife is a strong figure, someone he has come to respect just like everyone else in the community she founded.
But she and Joel often butt heads, whether it is on matters of repair deadlines or giving her son too many chocolates during family dinners.
He watches her arms fold over her swelling stomach. She hasn't made a formal announcement, but Joel knows one is coming soon. She scans the array of gathering figures that mingle outside, laughing, sharing groceries, making plans.
"What did you need from me, Maria?"
Dark eyes flick his way.
"Your brother was supposed to talk to you about putting someone up in your place for a few weeks." She says it casually, scratching her elbow as if this isn't catastrophic.
"What do you mean put up?"
"Have them live with you in that empty room of yours."
Joel goes still, the pencil in his hand almost snapping.
"No."
Maria moves from the window, nearing his desk. "Joel-"
"Maria, I work my ass off for this place morning to fuckin' night."
"We all work our asses off."
"My house is the only place I can have a break."
"A damn large house to have a break in," Maria comments, her words lingering in the ensuing quiet from the glowering man across from her.
Joel's spine straightens, tossing the pencil down. It rolls around the blueprints.
"Joel, Jackson's overcrowded as it is," Maria says wearily. "With Ellie moved in the shed you have that whole bedroom sitting unused."
"She might wanna move back in."
There's a moment of pity that touches Maria's eyes before she shakes it away. "Well, if that happens then we'll move em into the shed."
Joel stands, pushing back from the desk. His hands stem on his hips as he paces a moment, eyes flying to the people outside.
Too many fucking people.
"You said it was our house when we got here," Joel says with a growl to the edge of his words.
"And it is yours. But you live in a community which means there are times we have to share." Maria shifts. "Now, it's just temporary. Just until we get some new places finished."
"That could be months."
"Might be."
"So I'm just supposed to live with some stranger until then?"
"Think of it like a roommate."
"Fuckin' roommate at my age," Joel scoffs, irritated and exhausted. "S' ridiculous. I don't see why we're letting all these folks in if we have no place-"
"Stop right there," Maria cuts in. "I'm serious, Joel. Not another word." She motions to the gathered masses down below. "That was you and Ellie at one time. You think it would have been right to turn you away?"
Shame touches Joel's cheeks, making them flame pink. He looks down, hands loose on the desk She's right. When he doesn't say anything else Maria continues, her voice just as sharp.
"You have your choice, a single or a mom with two kids."
Joel flinches at thoughts of loud children screaming in the night, of sticky fingers leaving greasy fingerprints on his woodworking supplies.
"Single."
"Figured as much," Maria says. "Alright. Glad that's sorted."
She turns footsteps heavy on the wood. Joel goes to close the door behind her when he stops, brows pulled.
His voice reaches out after his sister in law. "When's he moving in?"
"Tomorrow."
Maria hesitates, looking over her shoulder with a strange expression before she moves down the steps.
Rating: Explicit. 18+ (Minors DNI)
Summary: The little blue house on Goldenrod Lane is a fresh start for you and your son Layne. The handsome single dad across the street just happens to start showing up, fixing all the broken things in your life, and maybe even your heart.
Warnings: no outbreak au, takes place in the early 2000's, alternating pov, slow burn, eventual smut, ten year age gap (joel is 36, reader is 26), pining, yearning, joel's dad sarah, indie music, 90's grunge, toddler named after layne staley, new beginnings, chapters will be named after rock albums
Chapters will have individual warnings.
Masterlist | Series Playlist
Chapter 1 - Piece of Cake
—-
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A writer friend told me something that broke my heart a little bit today; they're going to quit publishing their fanfic.
My instant thought was that they had been trolled or attacked or that something terrible had happened in their life because this person is so passionate about their writing. It wasn't any of that. Engagement with their works has been going down, as it has for many of us. Comments are like gold dust a lot of the time, and just looking through the historical comment counts on old fics on ao3 demonstrates this trend very clearly. It was not simply the comments dropping off which caused them to decide to stop posting, however.
My friend came across a discord server for their fandom (I should point out here that their fandom interest and mine diverged a couple of years ago, we stay in touch but don't currently read each other's posts because I'm not into their fandom and they would rather gouge their eyes out with a wooden spoon than read anything Star Wars) and specifically to share fic in that fandom. They joined, because we all love a good fic rec, only to discover that their latest multichapter fic, which has almost no comments and very few kudos, is being hotly discussed in this server as one of the best stories ever. Not one of these people has bothered to say this to them on the fic. When they asked, none of participants could see the point in telling the author of the fic they apparently loved so much that they love it.
This discovery has absolutely destroyed my friend's love of sharing fic. They share because they love seeing other people's enjoyment, and fic writers do that through comments and kudos/reblogs/likes because we don't get paid. There is no literary critic writing a blog post/article about how amazing the story is for us to copy and keep/frame. There is no money from royalties. All we have are the words of the people reading our works.
Those people on that server could have taken five minutes of the time they spent gushing about how amazing my friend's story was to other people and used it to tell the one person guaranteed to want to hear that praise how much they loved it. They could have taken a moment to express their opinion to the person who spent hours upon hours plotting, writing, editing, and posting those chapters. Instead, they deprived my friend of thing that keeps them sharing their writing, and in the process have killed their love of it. My friend now feels used and unmotivated.
I won't be sharing a link to their fic, they said I could share their experience but not their identity. I know they plan to post one final chapter. I know they intend to express their hurt at being excluded from the praise for the thing they created, and I know they intend to announce that as a consequence they will not be posting for a long while, if at all.
So please, I beg you, don't hide your love of a story from the writer. It's just about the only thing we have.
Hi! Would you be interested in writing something with daddy Joel being a little physically aggressive (only bc he’s strong not bc he’s being mean necessarily) bc he’s so eager to get his girl off and PERHAPS she’s never squirted before and she pushes at him to stop bc she thinks she’s going to pee but she can’t get him to move bc he’s so much heavier and stronger and he knows what he’s doing so he doesn’t budge? I can’t get this out of my head I just imagine him being sooo condescending with it too omg
Sorry if this is long and too specific lol I love your writing!
Messy Girl
Warnings: 18+, smut, daddy!joel, slight ddlg undertones, unspecified age gap (only if y'all like), joel being physically aggressive, fingering, clit rubbing, overstimulation, squirting, crying, praise kink, unprotected sex
A/N: sooo sorry for the long wait anon! I'm still a bit sick, but feel a lot better so i thought i could write a request. I'm still tackling down a lot of fics that i've planned and ughhhh🥴 this was really delicious to write though, and i hope you like this anon!!!
Your big, old daddy is testing your limits today.
His weight pins you into the mattress, thick fingers already buried deep, deep inside your soaked, velvety cunt, stretching you around them in a firm constant motion.
His forearm flexes as he pumps and pumps them in and out with a wet, filthy rhythm, thumb pressing into your little nub and knuckles brushing onto that sweet, sensitive spot that makes your thighs jerk over and over again.
"Shhh, babygirl," Joel murmurs, voice low. "Daddy's got you. Daddy's got his baby. Just let it happen, honey."
You're already crying—soft, small hiccuping sobs that shake in your chest—because it's too much, too fast, too overstimulating for your poor little cunt, and you've never ever felt anything like this.
Oh and Joel knows you've never felt this way before.
Your hands can only push weakly at his shoulders, and he won't move. Solid, immovable, pinning you completely under him, every ounce of his strength focused on squeezing another orgasm out of you.
"Daddy—please, I-I think I'm gonna—" Your voice cracks as fresh tears slip down your temples. The pressure in your belly is so unbearable, a hot, insistent throb that presses and presses. "I'm gonna pee, I can't—"
Joel's free hand slides up, palm broad and calloused, and presses firmly right below your belly button. The heel of it sinks into the soft flesh of your tummy, and the sensation makes your whole body jolt against him.
"S'okey, baby. You ain't gonna pee. That's not what's happenin'." He places a kiss on your forehead. "You're gonna squirt for Daddy, that's all. My messy girl just needs a little help."
His fingers curl again, scissoring them inside you, and the wet sound is obscene—slick, squelching, constant. Your thighs tremble around his wrist, trying to close, but he's wedged between them, hips braced wide so you can't escape the relentless drag of his knuckles.
Every thrust and rub makes your clit throb oversensitive, swollen and aching, you can feel how puffy your folds are, how they cling to his fingers on every pull.
"T-too much," you whimper, voice breaking. Fresh tears spill, hot, salty, melting into your hair. "Daddy, please, I can't—"
He hushes you again, leaning down so his beard brushes your cheek, breath warm against your ear.
"You can, honey. You're doin' so good for me." He murmurs, his free hand going behind your head and making you look at his fingers disappearing in your hole. "Pretty cunt takin' my fingers like it was made for 'em. So tight, so wet—fuck, listen to you."
He punctuates the words with a particularly deep, hard thrust, and a gush of slick spills out around his knuckles, soaking the sheet beneath you.
"Oh—" you gasp, your hands fist into his flannel shirt, tugging, but it's useless.
He's too damn heavy, too solid, and he knows it.
The knowledge sits in his pretty brown eyes when he pulls back just enough to watch your face; dark, patient, maybe a little amused.
"Push all you want, babygirl. Ain't movin' till you give it to me."
The pressure crests then again, sharper this time, and your back arches hard off of the bed.
Joel's hand on your tummy presses down firmer and firmer, pinning you, making the overstimulation worse. The combination—his fingers stroking that spongy spot inside you, the weight of his palm, his body lying on top of you—snaps something loose.
"There she goes."
You sob his name as it hits, a sudden, violent rush that sprays out around his fingers in a hot, messy arc. It soaks the sheets, splashes up his wrist, wets his pants and keeps coming and coming in pulsing, squelching waves while your cunt clenches desperately around him.
Joel groans low in his chest, the sound filthy and approving. "There it is. That's my girl. Look how much you had in ya, so messy."
But he doesn't stop.
His fingers keep moving, slower now but still deep, working you through every aftershock until you're a twitching and whimpering mess.
The overstimulation burns, sharp and electric, every nerve raw and singing. You try to twist away but his body keeps you caged, your hips shifting just enough to grind the heel of his palm against your clit on every stroke.
"Shhh, I know," he soothes. "Daddy's too strong for you, ain't he? Can't get away even if you wanted to. And you don't really want to, do you? Feels too good, havin' your old man ruin that pretty pussy."
Your answer is a broken moan, hips jerking helplessly as another smaller gush leaks out around his fingers.
Joel chuckles, low and warm, finally easing his hand free.
Your cunt flutters around nothing, empty, aching, slick dripping down the cleft of your ass to join the wet patch beneath you.
He shifts his weight then, one knee nudging your thigh wider, and the blunt head of his cock nudges against your entrance suddenly.
He's thick, hot, the ridge catching on your swollen folds as he rocks forwards just enough to tease.
You shake your head immediately, a whine of protest leaving your lips. "S'too much, daddy..."
"S'okey, honey. You're okay. We're gonna do that again," he murmurs, and your stomach flips. "But this time, i'm gonna fuck it out of you. Fill you up all nice and slow, and make you squirt on my cock, over and over till you can't think straight. Ya hear me, sweet girl?"
You can't do anything but nod, tears still clinging to your lashes, body trembling under him.
This overstimulation in your body has you floaty, every sensation now amplified: the drag of his cockhead through your slick, the way his chest hair rasps against your nipples when he leans down, the steady press of his hand still splayed across your tummy because he owns it.
Joel pushes in slow, the stretch burning sweet and so, so deep, making your walls flutter around him, still so sensitive from the earlier release.
He groans when he bottoms out, hips flush to yours, and stays there for a moment, rubbing your little clit, letting you feel every inch.
"Theere we go, just take me. You're so tight, honey." he breathes. "Even after all that, still squeezin' me like you don't wanna let go."
When he starts to move—it's long, deliberate strokes that grind against every oversensitive spot inside you.
Each thrust punches little gasps and pitiful whimpers from your throat, and the wet sound of your cunt taking him is louder now, slick and messy from everything he's already pulled out of you.
His hand stays on your belly, thumb stroking soothing circles even as his hips snap harder, driving you up the bed.
"Gonna make you squirt again," he promises, voice rough with effort. "Gonna feel you gush around my cock, soak the both of us. And you're gonna take it, 'cause Daddy knows what you need better than you do."
Your hands clutch at his shoulders, nails digging in, but there's no fight left—just the overwhelming rush of sensation as he fucks you through the overstimulation, each thrust pushing you closer to that same unbearable edge.
Joel's voice stays in your ear the whole time, sweet and condescending, praising and guiding you through every wave until you're sobbing his name again and again while the sheets are ruined completely beneath you.
This makes me kinda want to write a piss kink fic but...I already got so much hate for writing fauxcest im a LITTLE traumatised😭😭
Oh yes 🙌🏻 I loved this so much, loved him and his condescending tone, they way he didn’t budge and squirting honestly makes me absolutely feral, it was heavenly written 🤤
I need him so badly, GOD 🫠🫠🫠
Thanks for sharing your talent with us, darling, as always you did an immaculate job 🙂↕️👑
Summary: Joel Miller has mastered the art of self-control in all areas except one: not fucking his friend’s daughter. A cross-country road trip home from college takes a hard turn when he’s forced to share a motel room with you.
Warnings: 18+. Protected p-in-v. Praise. Overstimulation. Sweet, possessive, slightly obsessive and pussywhipped Joel. Daddy kink. Drug use. Angst. Accidental creampie. Joel fucking you while on the phone with your father.
Word count: 13.1k
Read on AO3
Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10
“You okay, hon? You sound…distracted,” your dad presses. A hint of concern rises from his end of the line.
At length, Joel grips both of your legs and brings them up over his shoulders, and he grins before kissing your ankle and shoving his cock even deeper.
“Yes!” you yelp as you crush the phone to your ear, hoping your father can’t hear any of the filthy sounds down below, “Just a little stretched—I mean stressed out, is all.”
Aside from the fact that he smoked like a chimney and bumped far more Billy Joel than any man ever should, Mr. Miller was an A-OK friend—your father’s best friend.
All you needed was a ride home for the holidays.
From the second you’d set foot in his old Ford Bronco, you sensed this trek wouldn’t be an enjoyable one—thirty-hour road trips rarely ever were—but you leaned back in the passenger seat, propped your feet on the dashboard, and bopped along to ‘You May Be Right’ for the fifty-fifth fucking time that morning and smiled.
Joel frowned.
“Dogs off the dash,” he muttered, swatting at your bare, polished toes before you kicked his touch away.
“Shotgun puts her feet up, driver shuts his cakehole.”
That wasn’t even how the saying went. Oh well.
Joel slowed the car to sixty in the right-hand lane and smacked your ankles even harder. You yelped.
“Hey! You can’t hit a woman!”
“I’m not hitting a woman, I’m hitting a little gremlin,” Joel tried not to grin as he delivered another tart slap to your foot, and you almost jerked into the passenger door.
He momentarily righted the car before it went veering into the lane beside it, seized one of your feet, and tried to forcibly shove it off the dashboard, to no avail. As soon as he moved one limb, the other would glide right back up to take its place; Joel’s hands were big, but they weren’t massive enough to grab hold of both of your legs at once and make you stay the fuck there, Christ’s sake.
You liked to see him flustered. Brought a whole new hue to his tough, stubbled cheeks that folks rarely got to see. You squirmed in your seat when he reached for your side.
“Wh—NO! No tickling!” you cried, trying your hardest to roll away.
But the man was nothing if not a lover of cheap shots and filthy antics. He’d never played a clean game in his life and wasn’t about to start now.
His gaze darted from the road to your writhing form, pinned against the door and begging him to stop, while he pressed his foot harder on the gas and smirked.
“Too much?” he teased, “Say pretty, pretty please.”
In other words: give up. You would do no such thing. Your elbow jutted out to the side and clipped his fingertips sharply, and right before he could reach for you again, you were heaving yourself up and leaning almost halfway out the open window, trying to shy away from his touch.
“You fuckin’ nuts?! Get down!” he yelled.
“But it just may be a luuuunatic you’re lookin’ for!” you sang along to your old friend Billy Joel and pretended not to see, or hear, Joel Miller twisting desperately across the center console to take hold of your belt loops.
“Get—I swear to God, kid—DOWN!”
Joel had just managed to finagle a loose, feeble grip on your denim waistband as he tried to keep the car from soaring across three lanes of traffic, was just about to yank you back inside and give you a red-faced, fatherly lecture of a lifetime, when a sound startled you both.
A siren, and a set of flashing blue lights behind you.
You scrambled back in your seat and swallowed a lump in your throat the size of a peach. You turned off Mr. Long Island.
“Great! Good fucking going,” Joel griped beside you as he flicked on his blinker and started to pull off the road.
Dogs no longer on the dash—and a very pissed off cop pulling up behind your car on the shoulder of the road—you got the feeling this would be a long couple of days.
You hadn’t even made it outside the city limits of Boston.
Somewhere between Richmond and Roanoke, the two of you turned off the highway to find a place to sleep.
Joel had sat and stewed and ignored you for the customary duration of about two hours before choosing to re-engage in conversation, but deep down, you knew he was still kind of irked by that reckless driving citation he’d received. You couldn’t help but feel responsible.
Though it had been pretty funny when the state trooper had approached the car and pointedly asked, “What the hell was your daughter doin’ danglin’ outta this thing?!” Joel was nowhere near as amused as you, but he managed to roll with it and told the cop you were just trying to wave to the cows in the fields passing by.
The police officer hadn’t bought it.
He probably would have arrested you both if you hadn’t been such a coquettish flirt and somehow managed to persuade the man to let your ‘dad’ off with just a ticket.
You had hoped that would temper Joel’s anger some, but if anything, the sight only seemed to make him more mad at you. You weren’t sure why.
Presently, you pulled up to Balmaceda’s Mountain Lodge and cast a bleak look at the front office before you.
This looked nothing like the snug, homespun mountain retreat you’d been picturing in your mind. Ahead of your car, there stood a single-story concrete slab of a motel, tilted to one side and consumed almost entirely by the dark of night and wide open wilderness. A big block letter neon sign displaying the owner’s name in red now barely flickered above a muddied, pinkish glow. You groaned.
But before you could complain to your travel companion, Joel was already stepping out of the car and heading toward the main office. Hastily, you followed after.
“No way, Miller. No fucking way are we staying in Murder Motel,” you hissed.
“Bal-ma-ceda’s,” Joel intoned with a maddeningly accurate lilt, ignoring your protests, “I think that’s a Chilean name.”
He swung the door wide for you to enter and pretended not to see you shoot him a glare as you strolled in.
“Needin’ a room?”
The lady behind the counter barely graced your entrance with a look.
“Yes ma’am. Whatever you got,” Joel replied, smiling.
“Smoking or non?”
“Smoking, please.”
Of course he would. You could already feel the fetid stench of American Spirits wafting up to your nostrils.
“King or two Queens?”
“Queens,” you and Joel answered in unison.
At first, the woman nodded, flicked through a rolodex on her desk and nosed through a couple yellowed pages in front of her. Then, frowning, she looked back up.
“Sorry. All the Queens are took up. Rest of the rooms are being fumigated but the one—” she tapped a manicured nail on the motel map, “—and it’s got a King. That okay?”
No. No, it was not. You opened your mouth to speak but were shortly cut off by the woman before you could.
“Of course, if you don’t want dad hoggin’ up all the sheets, there’s a pull-out sofa for him to sleep on.”
The sixty-something desk clerk offered a smile, and you likely would’ve returned the favor if you hadn’t been so deeply nauseated at the thought of everyone around you assuming that Joel was your father. You chanced a look at the man, who seemed equally uncomfortable as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. You sighed.
“Alright.”
Defeated, but marginally pleased that you wouldn’t have to share a bed with your ‘old man’ that night.
Joel paid and signed the papers without another word, or look, to you or the woman. By the looks of it, he just wanted to book the room and get the hell out as fast as possible, his brow pinched inward and lips zipped tight.
He’d turned to leave so quick that he was almost approaching the door when the lady called out,
“Mr. Miller! You forgot your keys.”
You hardly needed to steal a glance in Joel’s direction to see that he was flushed. Even blushing a bit.
You strode over to the counter and intercepted the keys she was dangling for someone to take, then politely, finally, were able to manage a smile and a thank-you.
You turned back to Joel.
“Here you go, Daddy.”
In a blink, the small silver set was pelted in his hands, and the man nearly dropped them—and lost his balance. By some miracle, Joel managed to catch them between his big sweaty palms and step aside just in time for you to saunter past him, straight through the door.
“I’m starved,” you announced, then, averting your face to hide your smug expression and lower your voice a bit, “Feed me, Daddy.”
In that moment, Joel thanked every last one of his lucky stars that his pants were made of denim, and that the denim itself was thick. And that the woman at the front desk was swift to turn her attention back to her tabloid magazine, away from you two, and didn’t look up again.
If they weren’t, and if she hadn’t, it would’ve been plain as day to see that Joel Miller was sporting a hard-on.
A huge, swollen hard-on that made it almost impossible for him to walk and haul luggage and try to keep apace with your steps as you sailed along the gravel drive. So big the man had to will himself not to limp, not to make it known how stiff he was, until he eventually failed at both.
Once you’d grabbed your bags back at the car and made it up to your place, you entered Room 102 with a lightness you hadn’t felt all day. Joel slogged behind with all of the baggage and a boner beneath his jeans that probably could’ve cut sheet metal, if needed.
He was fucked. No doubt he’d have to enlist in the Witness Protection Program after your real father found out that his best friend had gotten visibly bricked up for you, his one and only daughter. How awkward holiday dinners were bound to be from that point on; how humiliating it seemed to him to pop a chub at a thing as dumb as saying ‘daddy’; how batshit insane it was that he hadn’t gotten laid in almost a year, and you were still, somehow, the only one he wanted to break the dry spell.
Joel was better than this. A fucking pro at self-control and all things dirty old guys didn’t do. He could chill out.
He just needed to rub one out in the bathroom, fast.
So, while you flopped down on the bed, Joel dropped every bag and made a beeline for the toilet. Slammed the door so hard he probably could’ve knocked the thing off its hinges, but he didn’t care. He was wrestling his belt, button, and zip off in a second. Then haphazardly turning on the sink to mask the sounds of all that was to come. No pun intended.
He yanked his thick, throbbing, rock-hard member out of its confines and had to hiss through his teeth to keep from moaning. The sensitivity he felt was unbearable, the front of his boxers already painted with pre-cum.
Gingerly, Joel wrapped one hand around his cock and raised the other to anchor himself against the sink. He slid his palm, which he’d just barely lubricated with some spit of his, up and down the shaft and groaned. A welt of pleasure formed in his chest, and he rubbed even faster. And, in spite of his legs feeling a bit like jelly, he stood there and fucked his fist and wished with every bit of himself that it was your warm, lush folds opening around him instead. Stifled a groan and would’ve paid any sum of money to hear your moans spilling out while he thrusted. The act here was more mindless and reflexive than anything else—jerking himself and soaking in the sharp, fiery sensations that shot up through his body.
To him, at least, it was all purely physical. Mechanical.
Nowhere near as euphoric and otherworldly as it would have been with your hand actually curled around him.
Or your lips. Or your tongue. Or your tight, wet cunt.
Fuck, he needed a shower.
Blindly, Joel moved inside the tub to his left and yanked the curtain shut over a space almost two times too small for his frame. He turned on the water and made it hot. Then he fisted his cock again, pressed his head to the shower wall, and pumped himself as fast as his forearm would allow him—trying all the while not to think of you.
You, with all your wily, shrewd ways were still the daughter of the man who guzzled down IPAs with him at the local dive bar every Thursday night over jalapeño poppers and buffalo dip. The man who clapped him over the shoulder and shook his frame with the kind of good-natured sneer that only a best friend could make, ‘A man as suave as you oughta get some tail every now and then. Go find you a gal and fuck her brains out, Joel!’
But the only ‘gal’ Joel wanted to rail was the one who called that man ‘dad’—and just called him ‘daddy’ for the first time that night—and he hated himself for it.
Sparks of pleasure continued to ignite across his lower half as he jerked himself in the shallowest, short pumps. He flicked his hand back and forth, circled the tip with his palm, and felt a groan start to claw at his throat. He tried to picture any face but yours but failed miserably.
All he could think, see, or breathe was you—imagining your lips enveloping the head of his cock, jerking him softly, taking him down to the back of your throat and bobbing that pretty little face up and down his length.
That sweaty, desperate fist of his just wasn’t cutting it.
For the first time, Joel couldn’t make himself cum.
Now even more pent-up and pussywhipped than he’d been when he first started, he slammed his palm against the wall and flung the shower handle in the opposite direction—turning the water as cold as it could get.
Five minutes passed, and the icy spray had scarcely left a dent in his raging erection. Joel stepped out of the shower, wrapped a towel around his hips, and stood in front of the mirror to see that he was still very hard.
Fuck this.
He bunched his strewn aside clothing together and held it over his crotch, discreet as he could, and waddled out.
And, either the temperature inside had just jumped fifty degrees or the world outside had just caught fire, but Joel’s face was flooded with heat the second he exited.
You were sprawled across the bed wearing nothing but a thin white tank, shorts, and fuzzy socks—and a scowl.
“Sofa’s broke,” you said.
Joel blinked.
“Broke?”
You nodded toward the busted sleeper couch at the far end of the room, torn to pieces and kicked a half-dozen times since you’d tried unfolding it in Joel’s absence.
The jaws of the old steel frame had simply refused to give way, and now the sofa was so out of sorts and misshapen that you had no hope of putting it back the way that it was. You sank further in the bed and pointed to the floor.
“You can sleep there.”
Joel eyed a flat sheet and a pillow laid across the carpet, visibly coated in dust and grime. He turned back to you.
“You’re smokin’ crack if you think I’m doin’ that.”
“Be grateful I’m not making you sleep in the car, daddy.”
Again with that fucking name. Joel tightened his grip on the clothes he was holding over his dick and tried to fight a thousand dirty thoughts threatening to seep back into his head.
Unfortunately, the dirty thoughts had hands—and were beating his ass to a bloody pulp when he first caught sight of your nipples poking up through your shirt. Just when the man might have started to drool or else begun humping that pile of clothes, you snapped your fingers.
“Miller Lite. Eyes up here.”
Fuck.
“Got a…stain on your shirt,” he grumbled in his defense.
“Shut up. Now, we can flip for the bed if you want.”
By turns, Joel’s focus was slowly coming back, and the man was trying like hell to find a place on your face that didn’t arouse him to no end—to help ease the intrusive thoughts and all. So far his search had yielded nothing.
“Like, uh…coin?” he asked. Endearingly stupid.
“Heads, I win,” you said, nodding, “Tails…”
Joel swallowed.
“Tails, what?”
“Tails, you tell me what was going on in your head when you were jacking off to the thought of me just now.”
Your words came out in a hurry, almost too quick for Joel to comprehend. He still heard them, though, and nearly choked on his spit when he tried to swallow again.
“I wasn’t—”
“You were,” you bit back, “I heard you moan my name.”
Joel didn’t remember that. Joel didn’t remember much of anything that had taken place in that bathroom apart from being implacably horny and unable to bust a nut. You stepped off the bed to stand in front of him.
“What? Cat got your tongue all of a sudden?” you sneered, “Think I’m just gonna run off and tell my da—”
“Don’t,” Joel’s response was immediate, insistent. Then, setting his jaw in a way you knew too well, contemplating about fifty different thoughts in the span of two seconds, he pressed the clothes pile to his crotch even tighter and sighed, “Don’t…do that, please. I’ll take the floor.”
You raised both brows, mildly amused.
“I said we could flip for it. C’mon,” you said.
“Ain’t got any coins.” Joel was already retreating to his makeshift sleeping pad on the floor, eyeing the shag carpet for any traces of blood, piss, or rodent droppings. Before he made it too far, you reached for his arm.
Joel tensed under your touch.
“We can try something else.” Your voice was cloying, almost too sweet to be trusted.
It had just dawned on you then how bare the man standing before you was. Clad in only his towel, every taut, toned inch of Joel’s body was there on display—coated with sweat and a fine sheen from the shower, his skin practically shone in the glow of the bedside lamp. You watched him shift in place and saw the towel around his hips stir along with it. He never let those old clothes in his hands move an inch away from his groin, though.
“What game?” he asked.
“Something my roommates showed me,” you began, “‘Too Hot.’”
“Too Hot?”
“You heard me.”
“What, like— like Spin the Bottle, or some bullshit?”
Joel could just picture it: a gaggle of your college pals huddled around an old, empty bottle of Bud Light as you watched it turn circles again, and again, and again on the dorm’s linoleum floor. You tugging at the sleeve of some oversized man-child from a frat Joel couldn’t name, leaning in and beaming like the insatiable flirt he knew you to be, asking that boy if he wanted to sneak off somewhere and let his tongue take a tour of your mouth.
The thought made Joel’s stomach turn.
Presently, you wrinkled your nose up at him.
“Spin the Bottle? That’s rookie shit,” you made another face reminding Joel, once more, how little he knew of the life you lived 1,900 miles away from Austin, at college.
He still couldn’t shake the thought of those boys.
“No, Joel,” you shook your head, drawing your syllables out for effect, “‘Too Hot’ is just…edging your opponent.”
Joel’s throat tightened, and he tried not to let his eyes widen too much, but he was almost certain they had. Before he even knew the words he was saying, the thought of your father taking his fist—or a shotgun—to his face made him blurt out in response, stammering,
“We can’t— I can’t— can’t lay one finger on you, darlin’, you know that. Your dad would murder me.”
To his surprise, the smile on your face only widened.
“Bingo,” You stuck one pretty finger in his face like he’d made the world’s finest discovery, “You can’t touch me.”
“Huh?”
“That’s the whole fuckin’ game, Miller. We can kiss, but we can’t touch each other with our hands. First one to crack and grope the other player loses the game.”
Your expression now was something just shy of sadistic. Watching him with keen, narrowed eyes and a wicked little grin, it seemed you were half-expecting him to fold on the spot. No way was this a game your college friends taught you; you just wanted to play him. Make him lose.
And Joel was a man who couldn’t stand to lose, no matter the stakes.
You watched that failure-averse glint eclipse every shade of lust in his eyes, at least momentarily. Suddenly, Joel didn’t look so fearful of your father’s wrath or what lurid implications this night might bring—he just had to win.
“You suck, you know that?” he said, at last, dropping his makeshift shield from the front of his towel and knocking you flat on the bed with a single push.
“You wish I would,” you grumbled, heart still jumping up in your ribcage all the same. You scooted back.
“I bet you will.”
The man was a menace when he had the will to be.
At length, Joel crawled over your body and made room for himself snug between your legs. The bulge that he’d been trying to hide all this time was now heavy on your center, pressed tight to your stupid-thin shorts and the panties you’d conveniently forgotten to wear. He grinned.
“Are tongues allowed?” he hummed.
“Everything but hands,” you shrugged.
Try as you might to play it cool with him, though, every fibre of your being was alight with desire for the man on top of you. You flitted a look between his soft brown eyes and slightly parted lips and could’ve melted in that bed had Joel not lowered his head and dove right in for it.
His mouth was far gentler than expected. Reverent, even. He slotted his lips between your own and made a fine, delicate showing of just how tender and adept he could be while imparting his slow, sweet kisses. Skirted his tongue across your bottom lip before driving it inside, coaxed your mouth open to him in a matter of seconds. He was graceful. And patient. And lithe with that tongue.
Joel Miller was showing off for you—the bastard.
“Sweet little thing,” he groaned against your mouth, “Ain’t felt a tongue this shy on mine in a long time.”
Of course he’d try taunting you, too. Same old Joel.
“What’s it been? Two years since a woman let you touch her?”
“Twenty since I felt one this good.”
You would’ve liked to reach around the back of his head and seize a clump of that thick, dark, grey-speckled hair. But you couldn’t. Your hands remained plastered to the duvet beneath you, and then, just slightly, your fingers started to curl inward. Joel’s palms laid flat on either side of your head.
It felt weird; mashing lips, teeth, and tongue with a man who’d been alive about twenty years longer than you and went further back with your father than you could even remember. What felt even stranger was the fact that you couldn’t touch him, or take him between your two hands.
Joel’s tongue continued roaming every contour and crevice of your mouth like he had an ache for this taste that he just couldn’t quench. Your tongue tried keeping up, too, but frankly, you were too preoccupied by a pulse between your legs—your parts and Joel’s practically throbbing in time with one another—to work just as hard.
Even through the towel, he felt huge.
You whined when Joel started to grind up against you, and shortly, those fingers of yours that had just been grazing the sheets before were gripping them. Tight.
“Earlier…” Joel murmured between kisses, hips working a vicious pace against you, “You said you were hungry.”
“Yeah?”
“Sorry—starved,” he corrected himself, and you almost could’ve smacked him for being so smug about it.
“What’s your point, Miller?” You were fisting the sheets beneath your palms and gyrating your whole body to meet the motions of the man currently dry-humping you.
All of a sudden, Joel’s movements stopped.
He peered down at you with a curious look.
“I could go for something to eat, too,” he declared.
You blinked. Stared. And just when you’d opened your mouth to say, well, maybe you should’ve grabbed us a bite to eat when we passed that Burger King on the way in, dipshit, Joel’s torso started to move down your own. Slow and painstaking as ever as he made sure not to graze one inch of your skin with his hands while he did.
You leapt back against the headboard, almost cracking your skull on the wood.
“Joel— Joel,” you hissed as the heels of your feet dug into the mattress below, and Joel just sank even further.
Then he was slowly, scrupulously pinching the fabric of your shorts between each index finger and thumb, gaze trained close on your lower half to make sure he never touched you, and he started pulling it down.
“This isn’t—” you started again, only to be offered a soft shush and an even quieter rustle of the cotton material sliding down both your legs.
You dropped your head on a pillow and probably could’ve burned a hole in the ceiling with the wide-eyed look you fixed on one spot, in utter disbelief of what he was doing.
“No panties, huh?” Joel observed. Gentle puffs of his breath were now fanning across the whole bare expanse of your lower half, and your pyjama bottoms were shortly discarded. His face was just hovering there, and you could tell that he knew you knew by the way he lowered his voice and brought his head to have only the tips of his chin stubble grazing your abdomen, “You needed this.”
Some lone remnant of ire flashed in your eyes.
“I don’t need shit from you, Miller. You need me. And you’re gonna lose this.”
Even though your gaze was still trained to the ceiling, you could feel him grin against your delicate skin.
“Hey,” he mumbled, “You said tongues are fair game.”
Fuck me, you wanted to keen the second his lips made contact with your…lower ones, and Joel swiftly got to kissing you there just as he’d done to you above. Hot, soft, and tender as the first rays of morning sun heralding a new day, he sponged his lips across the seam of your heat and made as if to massage the place, gently.
You could hear as well as you could feel that effusion of desire leaking out of your cunt and pooling around the man’s mouth. How eager he was to lap it up with his tongue, to grace your ears with those delectable squelching sounds, he caressed every inch between your folds and only sank deeper when you whined above him.
“Joel.”
Right now you couldn’t look down. Not with the way your legs were already trembling around his head, your chest heaving with the fastest, most frenzied breaths. You’d sooner die before you watched him unravel you like this.
“Darlin’, you’ve got a man soaked.” Some sound almost resembling a chuckle reverberated between your thighs and sent a brand new shockwave of pleasure in its wake, “You like it when daddy uses his mouth on this needy, wet cunt, don’t you?”
Yes, yes, you did. But your answer was nonverbal: a sharp curl of your toes and a grip between your fingers so tight across the sheets that he saw you veritably could’ve torn the linens in two.
Neither of you had laid a hand on the other.
Joel was perfectly content to make do with his mouth for now.
“Got those sheets all balled up, you’re fixin’ to rip ‘em.”
“My tongue make ya feel that good, honey?”
“Poor thing can’t even breathe it feels so nice, right?”
So he’d seen you hiccup, try to steady your breaths, and fail before succumbing to a string of lewd moans. Joel saw you, and knew how you felt, as if he’d had his own secret gauge for how good his mouth was doing you in.
Surely, he could’ve sensed the words before they ever came out of your mouth.
“Touch me, Joel, please.”
His tongue was just then making a lazy circuit around your clit, mouth saturated in your juices, when he smiled.
“Nah.”
Curt and cruel as ever. Then:
“No matter how fuckin’ perfect this pussy is, I ain’t losin’.”
He completed the arc with his tongue and took your bud between his lips, sucking in. You almost screamed.
“Motherfucker.”
“Miller, baby, Miller. Close, though.”
And just when you thought he’d had his fill of cheeky games, Joel sucked your clit even harder and flicked the tip of his tongue against your bundle of nerves until you were writhing, crying on the bed above him,
“JoelbabypleasebabyfuckmefuckohfuckitfeelsoGOOD.”
It was a bit tough to decipher through your strangled, desperate moans, but Joel got the picture. Heeding your requests, he kept at that pace above your clit and slid his tongue back and forth, over and over, lapping up your honeyed glaze like it was the finest thing he’d tasted. Scruff harsh against your thighs, lips soft in a perfect suction, Joel Miller had your head swimming in desire and your better judgment dissipating before your eyes.
At the first sign of bliss, your muscles clenched, and the last linchpin of your resolve crumbled right along with it.
You carded your hands through Joel’s hair and grabbed hold of those locks with a full-throated moan, using his head for shameless leverage to buck and rut your hips into his face as you rode out the peaks of your high.
And, ever the gentleman, Joel fought like hell to keep his lips and tongue connected to your core while you writhed above him—this time at liberty to work his arms under your thighs and hold them since you’d given up the game. He would’ve smiled if he weren’t so narrowly preoccupied, seeing you thrash about and moan out loud and fuck his face like it was the last thing tethering you to earth. He liked seeing you come undone beneath him.
A bit too much, if he were being completely honest.
While you made the languid descent from ecstasy and your breaths were still slowing in your chest on the bed, Joel was back on his feet. Padding toward the bathroom door, slamming it shut behind him as he had before. When he returned in a minute or two, he was clothed. He fished for his keys in the pockets of his snug, stonewash Wranglers and made a face. He didn’t look at you.
“I’ll be back,” he said, starting toward the door.
“Back?” You sat up, perplexed, “The hell ya goin’?”
“Out.”
This motherfucker.
“Did I miss something? Were we not just seconds away from getting down to some how’s-your-father?”
Joel visibly grimaced at your choice of sex slang. Under the circumstances, you would concede it wasn’t ideal.
“O-kay, sorry,” you returned, crossing your legs out in front of you, “I mean…don’t you want me to get you off?”
Again, Joel’s expression twisted into something just shy of overwrought, weary, and repulsed—a look that you couldn’t begin to understand, for the life of you—and you watched him flit his eyes from the bed to the door, again and again, seeming to be pining for the sweet release of leaving your shared motel room as soon as possible.
You’d been with your fair share of emotionally avoidant fucksticks, but most of them didn’t ghost until after they’d gotten their nut and felt no reason to stick around. Joel’s exit seemed premature. Strange.
“So you don’t want to fuck?” you asked, deadpan. You’d never been one for beating around the bush.
“Can’t,” Joel shook his head, bringing one hand to rest on his hip while the other fiddled uncomfortably with his car keys, “Your dad…that’s just— that’s crossing a line.”
“And being nose-deep in my cunt isn’t?”
You stared him down, incredulous.
So now he decides to claim the moral high ground, after coaxing you to soak every inch of his beard and cum all over his tongue? How very fucking charitable of him.
“That’s different,” Joel retorted, rubbing his knuckles in a nervous tic, “That was a game. I won. We’re done.”
You set your jaw just tight enough to keep your tongue in check and refrained from firing off a brash, unsavory remark. It wouldn’t do either of you a lick of good.
You let him leave. Joel had told you that you could keep the bed, he didn’t mind, and then he slipped out the door without another word. Leaving you cold and alone on the soiled, tawdry floral bedspread of Room 102, wondering what the hell had gone so wrong in the span of the last five minutes. From the center of the bed, you could see Joel’s Bronco pull off into the silent, frigid night.
You were still hungry as shit.
Rolling onto your side and rummaging through the bags at the end of the bed, you found nothing even remotely edible—save for, literally, one of Joel’s brownie edibles—and you groaned out loud. You threw your shorts back on, stepped into your old Luccheses, and did a quick circuit around the room to find your jacket before you left. As it turned out, you’d forgotten it back in Joel’s car.
You dropped to your knees and went back to tearing through luggage, searching for some suitable outerwear.
By the end of that second suitcase foray, though, you found you had nothing of your own that was hefty enough to brave the below-freezing temperatures outside, so you had to settle on a dark brown, fleece-lined coat from Joel’s bag. It was durable enough but about four sizes too big—and reeked of cigarette smoke.
You trudged outside, not really knowing where you were going or what you were hoping to find. Your stomach growled, and a few cool gusts of wind came to lap at the bare skin of your thighs where Joel’s spit was still drying.
You stepped a few feet out and turned toward the road.
Bal-ma-ceda’s, you read the seedy neon sign and heard Joel’s enunciation of the name ring between your ears.
What you wouldn’t give for the greasiest, girthiest, barely-FDA-approved 7-Eleven corndog to kill your thoughts about that sleazy little fucker right now.
You started toward the convenience store across the street but quickly found that it was closed—along with every other establishment on that stretch of road. You glanced toward the front office and caught a glimpse of your old friend dozing behind the counter. The speakers outside were playing a tinny rendition of ‘Piano Man.’
Just as you tried not to barf in your mouth at the sound and silently primed yourself for a long, long trek through the boonies to the nearest gas station, you stopped.
In a compact little breezeway that cleaved the motel in two, you saw light pool around an old vending machine.
You almost fell over yourself trying to get to it.
Never mind the fact that there were about half a dozen ragtag teens decked out in camouflage and comically tattered denim cutoffs crowding the area. All absently smoking and blowing o’s, or else sipping on cans of beer in the cramped, concrete passage, they looked bored. A couple lazy smiles broke out upon seeing your approach.
You nodded back and sidled up to the snack dispenser.
Then you zeroed in on the first sugar-packed products you could find: a pack of sour gummy worms and a bottle of Sprite—no, Mountain Dew—and a chocolate bar. Maybe a bag of Cheetos or Fritos thrown in for good measure. All of the snacks were probably stale as shit and hadn’t seen a replacement since dinosaurs roamed the earth, but you didn’t care. You were prying singles out of your wallet and salivating before you could think.
“Gotta kick it a couple times ‘fore it’ll spit anything out,” one of the boys lounging around you piped up.
You’d just inserted a couple bills and were waiting for the machine to dispense your gummy worms, when the thing appeared to stall. Stuck in its tracks, like he’d said.
You raised a brow and tapped the toe of your boot to the appliance, turning toward the one who’d addressed you,
“Like this?”
“Nope. Nuh-uh.” The redhead got up and strode over, where his much bigger, square-toed boot delivered a kick to the vending machine that almost toppled it.
A bag of Trolli Sour Brite Crawlers dropped out.
The kid—who actually happened to be nineteen years old and a student at some college a few states away, along with his whole group of friends—was kind enough to repeat the same ritual for all of your treats. You’d just gathered your stuff together and were about to thank him for his services, when the guy presently stuck a hand in your direction and introduced himself as Connor.
Then Blake. Then Micah. Then Wyatt. Then Trent. All traveling with their team for a tournament that weekend.
Then a beer was held out to you. You declined. A little homemade deer jerky? No, thanks. How ‘bout some Oreos? I’m good on snacks, really. Well, shit, you seem a little high-strung, why don’t you take a hit right here? And Connor pulled his dab pen out from his pocket.
Well.
You hadn’t smoked in a minute. You might’ve decided to take a bite out of Joel’s brownie back in the room, but you hadn’t known how strong it was—or where the fuck he’d gotten it. The pen this stranger was offering you was one that looked similar enough to the kinds you’d seen passed among your friends a hundred times before that you felt comfortable taking one hit, maybe. Two max.
You felt stupid as soon as you’d sucked in every breath, but you ended up taking four hits in total.
You hacked and sputtered and blinked up at Connor, who was grinning big.
“Alright, hardass,” he chuckled, taking back the device.
“Daddy know you smoke?” Wyatt cut in with a sneer.
Daddy?
There was no fucking way Joel looked that old for everyone to think he was your father. You inwardly cringed.
“Y’all been spying on us?”
“Ain’t shit else to do around here.” That was Blake.
You tried to swallow but found your throat much drier than it had been before. And not just from the weed.
“He doesn’t care,” you said, managing a shrug.
It wasn’t entirely false. Joel did give no fucks about you.
“Dude looks like a— a fuckin’ DEA agent or something,” Micah said, amused.
“Like that guy from Narcos,” Trent snickered.
You’d never seen the show and didn’t particularly care to know what law enforcement archetype Joel appeared to embody—in fact, you didn’t want to discuss him at all.
Just as the first fuzzy beads of warmth began to roll into your head, you were already planning your exit strategy. Thank Connor for his selfless assistance and cannabis, bid the group a good night and the best of luck in their upcoming lax tournament, and be done with this shit, ASAP. You were still trying to steady your tongue in the bone-dry cavern that had become your mouth when one of them kicked at a near-empty case of beer at their feet.
“We’re about out.” Micah announced.
Seconds later, Connor was turning to you.
“Wanna…restock in our room?” he asked, the corners of his lips twisting into a smile as he looked down at you.
You crinkled your nose and shook your head. Connor leaned his whole weight against the vending machine between you, seeming unconvinced by your answer.
“I don’t believe you,” he said, “I think you wanna come.”
“Do I?”
You only entertained the backtalk because your brain was currently swimming in a far-off, pleasant void of contentment and indifference. Every sharp edge dulled in your mind, to an extent, and your body at ease. You didn’t have to be home to anyone, anytime, and Joel was probably halfway plastered at a dive bar down the road. You didn’t move back when Connor stepped forward.
He wasn’t even that close. You could leave whenever you pleased.
“For sure. I think you’d enjoy our shitty beer and even shittier company. We can smoke some more, too.”
The man certainly had a way with words. He muscled in a bit closer.
“You think so?” you hummed.
“I do. I really do.”
“And you’re willing to risk the wrath of my dad if he finds out where I am?” You made it sound like a challenge.
“Wyatt can fight.”
Connor motioned toward his friend, who was mindlessly chomping on deer jerky in his lawn chair off to the side, glossy-eyed and hammered. You couldn’t help but laugh.
“Okay, but make sure he’s ready. I can only stay for five.”
Connor seemed wounded as he put a hand over his heart in mock dismay.
“Only five minutes?” he griped, “Why not ten? Or twenty?”
“Six.”
“Fifteen at least.”
You folded your arms over your chest and felt an opaque haze beginning to settle over your brain. It wasn’t quite a high, just a lightness of being that drove tender little streaks up your spine. Like Joel, tickling at your sides while you writhed around in the front seat of his car.
This time you took the beer Connor offered and cracked it open. He seemed pleased—and taken by surprise—to see you down the drink in spite of the overflowing foam.
“Ten,” you returned once you’d swallowed it all.
“Twenty.”
“Honey?”
The last voice didn’t belong to anyone in the group. You turned on your heels and almost coughed up your beer.
It was Joel, of course.
Standing at the threshold of the breezeway like a surly, disconcerted parent, of all things, watching you like he’d just caught you red-handed in the most horrific of acts.
Clutched in one hand was a Burger King takeout bag.
“Daddy. Hi,” you breathed.
Apparently your attempt at casual came across more slurred than anything else, because Joel stepped closer.
‘Let’s go’ was all he said. No accusations, no threats, no outward displays of emotion found anywhere on his face. Just a gruff ‘Let’s go,’ and a free hand reaching for yours.
Instinctively, you recoiled.
“We’re just talking,” you said, gesturing behind you. If you could have seen the uniform looks of discomfort and agita, damn near treading on fear, among them all, you probably wouldn’t have bothered.
“Good. Now you’re leaving,” Joel supplied in a moment.
He was blissfully indifferent. Asserting his will in a space where, less than one hour ago, he couldn’t bear to share a room with you, much less impart a shred of dignity or care to your condition. He had nerve, that was for sure.
“I’m not leaving,” you said, a touch more venom in your voice than you intended.
Joel raised both eyebrows.
“No?”
His expression, directed to you, was infuriating.
“Fuck no,” you answered.
A few of the guys behind you sucked in a breath as if to say, ‘Okaaaaay, time to go!’ but then Joel pressed,
“For someone who wants to be treated like an adult—”
“Adult?” you scoffed, “You treat me plenty like an adult, Joel. Just whenever the designation suits your needs, huh?”
No one moved.
Well, Joel flinched a bit. Then he squeezed your wrist.
Truly, you never failed to underestimate the man’s brute strength when it came to carrying you off at will—but there you were, being yanked behind the big, bad Joel Miller as he hauled you off to who-knows-where. You scowled but didn’t bother to steal a glance behind you at the beer, boys, or vending machine treats you were being forced to abandon. All you could do was stare a hole through Joel’s skull and tug back—largely ineffectually.
“You’re an ass,” you spat, digging your heels into the gravel terrain as he pulled you along.
“You’re a brat,” he fired back.
In a minute, the exterior of Room 102 was coming into view; Joel was practically toting your ass like a knapsack.
“You just abandoned me back here, Miller. You— you don’t get to pretend like you give a fuck now.”
“I was getting you Burger King, for Christ’s sake.”
Joel was fiddling with the lock now. Simultaneously juggling your hand, the paper bag, and a set of keys that didn’t seem keen on cooperating, he huffed, disgruntled.
“Even got you those—” Joel grunted, thrusting his shoulder into the door, “—fuckin’ curly fries you wanted.”
Your jaw slackened. That was supposed to make it okay?
“Joel, FUCK your curly fries!” you cried, “Are you seriously still trying to play good guy right now?”
“If that’s what you—”
“No. You don’t get to tonguefuck your friend’s daughter and buy her a goddamn Double Whopper and act like it’s all good. Sure as hell don’t get to dictate who I talk to.”
Like he had before, Joel cringed to hear your crude language—particularly as it related to what he had done to you but didn’t seem capable of owning up to just yet. You couldn’t bear another second of that look.
“Fuck this. I’m sleeping in the car,” you grumbled.
You thrashed your arm out of Joel’s hold and started off in the other direction. Picked up your pace when you heard the bag of fast food drop to the ground and Joel trotting after you. Calling your name.
Even at your most brisk, you knew you couldn’t outstrip those big, beefy legs of his. He gained on you in seconds.
So you took off running.
Joel gripped his side, thinking, ‘Aw, hell’ before breaking out in a sprint just as fast.
You were pissed at how far he’d parked this time around. You caught sight of the old Bronco perched a ways away from your room and almost opted to change course on the spot, to the front office—maybe dive behind the counter and beg that poor old woman to give you another place to stay—but you kept at it, anyway. For once, you were glad to have had Joel beat by so many years, because the man’s endurance was, evidently, shit.
“Hey, s— stop!” Joel shouted after you.
Fat chance, Miller.
You closed in on the car. Joel rarely ever locked it.
Your hand secured a grip on the door and jerked it back. It swung right open.
Just as Joel was pulling up the rear, you had the driver’s side slammed shut and your palm laid flat on the door lock knob—shoving the little black lever down each time Joel tried to unlock the car.
It was a fruitless endeavor, you knew; you couldn’t keep the man out all night so long as he had the car keys in his hands. You could piss him off some more, though.
“You won the fucking game, just take the bed!” you said, straining against the door with your weight pressed hard on that knob. Joel was furiously working to get it open.
“I mean it, Joel, I-I don’t wanna sleep in there wi— shit.”
You leapt back in your seat as Joel flung the door wide open. You scrambled across the center console, made a desperate grasp at the passenger door to climb out the other side, but your ankle was taken between two hands. Just as you tried to slink out on the opposite end of the vehicle, Joel pulled you right back in. Flipped the center console up so you were sprawled flat across the bucket seat at the front of his car and pinned underneath him.
Then he pulled you over his lap.
Not into it—nestled on top of his crotch, with your ass pointing up in the air. Joel’s big ass Carhartt jacket was bunching up around your torso, collar crowding you up to the chin. Your twisted just far enough to meet his gaze.
“What do you want from me?” Joel demanded, “What?”
You stared up at him, poring over your options in the span of what seemed like two milliseconds. Wondering, silently, why he wasn’t touching you anywhere.
“I want you to fuck me, Joel,” you replied at length.
Seated between driver’s side and shotgun, Joel looked perfectly unperturbed, raking a hand through his silver-flecked hair and letting his gaze trail up to the ceiling, as if considering something of grave importance.
“And what after that?” he asked, still staring at the roof.
Before you could reply, though, he was forging ahead,
“What happens when I can’t even look your dad in the eye knowin’ I’ve been balls deep in his little girl, and every fuckin’ time I’m over at your house or you’re over at mine, I’ll be thinkin’— no, dreamin’ of what it was like to have you wrapped around my cock, screamin’ my name and takin’ it so deep inside you like I know ya want it?”
You paused a beat. Had to bat your eyes a couple times to rid your head of those filthy thoughts he’d planted.
“We could, uh— fuck…then…too,” you ventured quietly.
Joel grinned at the spot he was watching, humorless.
“That easy, huh?” he mumbled.
Again, before you could speak, Joel continued,
“I can’t even cum with you on my mind,” he said, and for a split second you thought that might mean he wasn’t attracted to you in that way, when he swallowed hard and closed his eyes, “I’ve tried beating off twice today—in the bathroom and as soon as I left earlier—and I can’t…even get close with you here. You fuck with my head.”
You fuck with my head.
Without meaning to, your hips stirred over his, and Joel audibly groaned. At last, he dropped a palm to your ass and gave it a taut smack, and your whole lower half reverberated with the sensation—and a welt of pleasure.
“You think I want it to be like this?” Joel said, voice strained, fingers kneading over the flesh he’d just struck, “Think I enjoy havin’ the biggest set’a fuckin’ blue balls known to man whenever I’m around ya, honey?”
You winced when you were spanked again, letting out a whimper into the seat’s charcoal-colored upholstery.
“I can help with that,” you hissed, feeling him massage the spot once more. You arched your back into his touch.
“No. You’d make it worse,” Joel shook his head, “Once I get a feel inside this sweet cunt I’ll never wanna stop.”
At the soft rumble of his words, you felt yourself growing aroused. Noticeably so. Your skin broke out in broad swaths of gooseflesh every place he touched, and in the wake of those hands grew a pool of dull warmth. Sticky, slick, soak-straight-through-your-shorts sort of warmth.
Joel’s hand hovered about an inch from the source.
“We’d get bored eventually. It’d be fine,” you said, words crawling off of your parched tongue with some difficulty now. That faint, heady feeling from before had become a high, finally, and it seemed every sense you possessed was ablaze with desire. You were barely able to breathe, much less speak, but there you went, rambling anyway,
“Soon enough, you’ll get over the thrill of screwing me, and I’ll find a nice, polite, age-appropriate boy to spend the rest of my life having nice, polite sex with, and we can both pretend like this never happened. Deal?”
It was quite possibly the dumbest offer you’d ever made.
Joel slotted his hand between your legs to rub against that dampened patch of fabric. You almost jumped.
“Yeah? Just fuck around and forget about it?” Joel spoke, and you truly couldn’t tell if it was a sneer or real sincerity, as your eyes were squeezing shut, “Is that all you want from me, sugar?”
His fingers slipped beneath your shorts and made swift, easy contact with your heat. You buried your face in the seat and tried to muffle the sounds that were clawing their way out of your chest, while your hips tilted up.
“Please, Joel,” you whimpered.
By now, your head was spinning, in a daze, that you almost didn’t notice him tug your shorts down your legs. Or take them off at your ankles. You did get a sense of when he was breaching your folds—taking two, meaty fingers and trailing them up the slick glaze of your cunt.
“Doesn’t seem like this pussy wants ‘nice and polite’ to me,” Joel murmured, eyes gradually fastening to that lovely, exposed spot pointed up to him. He wet his lips, “Needs somethin’ else, doesn’t she, darlin’?”
Speaking of your pussy in third-person wasn’t something you ever thought could be hot, but coming from Joel? While his fingers traced up and down the seal of your entrance, tips circling your tight, hot, throbbing hole? Arousing didn’t even begin to cover it.
You pushed your ass back, and Joel chuckled above you.
“Wanna fuck daddy’s fingers? Is that it?” he taunted.
No, no, no—you wanted his cock buried inside you. But now you just needed reprieve from that ache, and your senses were practically on the fritz trying to get it.
Your hips rocked back and forth over his fingers—sliding the two digits in and out of your cunt with each motion—and, as much as Joel would’ve liked to make you beg and wait a little, your desperate pleas as you fucked his hand were more than enough to satiate him. He worked his free arm under your body and pinched hard on one nipple, eliciting a soft moan of ‘Joel’ underneath him.
“Oh, baby,” he breathed, watching you rut your hips for more friction, “That’s it, baby, fuck daddy’s fingers. Use my hand to make yourself feel good— that’s my girl.”
At the last, you probably could’ve cum on the spot, and Joel could tell by the way you clenched around him. He nudged a third finger between your plush, sensitive walls and heard your moans take on an even higher pitch.
“Hurts,” you whimpered, with no real indication of pain. You just felt stretched out, stuffed, and aching again. The only ‘hurt’ was not having even more of him in you, “Need more of you daddy, please. It hurts.”
Joel wanted to see you cum on his fingers. He really did. But when you got down to begging and pleading for his cock like that, the man’s whole heartbeat throbbed in his jeans, and he simply didn’t possess the resolve to refuse.
He hoisted you upright in his lap so you were straddling his hips. The fabric of his jacket hung loose off your frame and both of your arms as you latched around him.
“Are you high?” Joel asked, voice evening out all of a sudden to pin you with a serious look.
“Yeah.”
“How high?”
“I can consent, Joel.” Your thighs tightened around his sides, and your hips had already begun to stir.
“Not just can consent—do consent. Do you want this?” Joel’s hands moved from the small of your back to cup your face. You gave him a squished-together pout.
“Yes, I want this,” you managed through pinched cheeks. When Joel released you, you lowered your own hands to the buckle of his belt.
It felt foreign and familiar at once—this age-old ritual of fumbling for each other’s clothes and wrestling to get them off, like your bodies might catch fire if you didn’t act fast enough. Joel was a tad more graceful as he shrugged his jacket off of you, peeled your tank top off, and helped you maneuver your bare limbs around him. You, on the other hand, felt half-feral and every bit the wide-eyed novice while you stripped his body garment by garment and wordlessly told him just leave the jeans, I can’t wait another fucking second. Joel bit back a grin and had to steady you above him, feeling his cock twitch against his tummy but still slowing down enough to remind you, shhh, shhh, honey, it ain’t goin’ nowhere.
You had a tough time remembering that as you rubbed your wet centre over his shaft. Feeling so good you feared the feeling might escape any second, you whined.
“I know, baby, I know,” Joel cooed as your head fell in the crook of his neck, “Still hurtin’ somethin’ awful, hm?”
The tip of his cock just barely grazed over your clit and you buried your face even deeper, nodding furiously; Joel leaned forward to grab some item out of the glove compartment behind you and braced your body to him.
He tore something with his teeth. You craned your neck just slightly.
“Don’t laugh,” Joel muttered, voice momentarily stifled by bright, metallic wrapping.
“Is that…” You straightened up enough to cock a brow at him. Joel’s tongue rolled across the inside of his cheek.
“Cobwebs and all.”
Beneath your gaze was the flimsiest, dust-ridden, damn-near vintage condom—a decade old, at least.
“You buy that before or after the Great Depression?” you teased.
“Shut up.” Joel was already working it onto his dick.
“So Prohibition-coded.”
“I can find something to shove in that mouth, y’know.”
You were having too much fun at the old man’s expense, blissfully unaware that Joel was about one Gen X joke away from making you suck three of his arousal-soaked fingers. When you opened your mouth to speak—to try another wisecrack or else question the integrity of this ancient relic of a rubber—Joel crashed his lips against yours and made you mute with his tongue instead.
At the same time, he slowly eased himself inside you.
Your mouth fell open when you sank down on his length, fully, but no sound came out. You just gripped Joel’s shoulders and peered into his face as if to say, ‘Shit.’
No way any man was ever meant to feel this good.
No shot your walls were fitting his cock like a glove.
Joel soaked in your gaping, wordless stare with a nod.
“Good?”
“Great.”
You’d give all eight inches of the man a goddamn standing ovation if your legs weren’t feeling like jelly. Joel let out a small grunt when you clenched around him.
“Nice and…easy,” he said, as much to himself as to you. He pinched your hip in one gigantic hand and held you there, “Let ya take a second and adjust, alright, darlin’?”
“But Joel—” you whined, already trying to slide back up.
His grip kept you impaled on his dick, anchored in place. With the other hand, he brought a thumb to your clit.
“Just feel me, sweet pea,” Joel said, slow and languid as molasses while he touched you, “Ain’t gonna hurt ya.”
You couldn’t be sure if the man was a sadist or the world’s biggest fan of cockwarming—or just polite.
The bare, slightly-less-sexy truth was that Joel hadn’t done this in a very, very long time. Even the sex he’d had, close to a year ago, was something more of a flashbang than a bona fide carnal experience; he’d just bent a perfect stranger over the bathroom sink and drilled her. This was a fever dream, a first to end all firsts, and at present, Joel felt himself toeing a razor-thin line between self-restraint and bliss by just your presence alone.
In short, he didn’t want to fuck it up by busting too soon.
When you rolled your hips and squeezed your eyes shut above him, well, Joel almost fell into a panic.
Think of golf. Differential equations. The weather in Kuwait. Anything to get his mind off of how tight your pussy was holding him in, how lithe your body worked to grind above him while he sat there, so helpless and—
“Big,” you whined, stretched to the fullest you’d ever been. Unable to bounce up and down like you wanted but still squirming for more friction, “So big, daddy.”
Hockey. Geometry. Wind patterns around the Maldives. He held you even tighter, but your motions were growing desperate. You had to start moving.
“Joel, please,” you begged him.
“Baby, I’m—”
About to cum. I am two seconds away from cumming.
“Need you now, need you so—” your voice broke off in a moan as you sank your nails into his muscly shoulders, “So bad, daddy, please, please, please—”
On the seat beside you both, your phone lit up, buzzing:
Dad 💙
Fuck.
FUCK.
Your eyes locked on Joel’s in a shared look of panic and horror, and for once, your bodies stopped, perfectly still.
You knew your dad too well. Just as much as Joel did.
Your father wasn’t the type to call late at night unless something was up. And he wouldn’t stop calling until someone picked up.
“Should we…?” That whisper came from you.
Joel was frozen in fear, eyes now glued to the screen.
“Just…give it a sec,” he breathed, “Might be nothing.”
But his tone couldn’t mask the dread behind his words. He gritted his teeth and watched the phone ring.
It stopped.
Then started again.
The pair of you clung to one other in the old Ford’s bucket seat like your dad might veritably hear the two of you having sex from 1,300 miles away if you moved.
It stopped once more.
The screen stayed black.
You let out a small sigh and felt your eyes start to close.
Then the trill of a ringtone under Joel’s ass started up the second they’d fluttered shut, and suddenly your gaze was wide, and frightened, and freaking the fuck out when you realized that your dad was trying to reach Joel.
“Answer,” you hissed.
“What?!” The whites of Joel’s eyes were bigger now than you’d ever seen them.
“He’ll know something’s up! Just—” you slipped your hand under Joel’s rear, completely devoid of any sexual insinuation this time, and yanked his old iPhone 6 out of his pants, “Answer it. Now. Be cool.”
Joel’s expression was still paralyzed with terror, but he brought the ringing phone to his ear anyway. Gingerly tapped ‘answer’ once you’d smacked him on the bicep.
“He-e-y man.”
You were so fucking dead.
Your face hovered mere inches away, and you could almost hear the warble of your father’s voice on the line.
“Great,” Joel answered, stilted as a puppet with someone’s hand up its ass, “So good. How are you?”
A beat.
“She’s good, she’s good.”
For a moment, Joel’s gaze flitted to the spot where your bodies were still connected and you saw a flash of desire, followed by guilt, then his head tip back to close his eyes as he tried to concentrate on the conversation at hand.
“In the bathroom…Uh-huh…Phone must be dead…”
“No, she’s been a trooper—just fine…”
“Somewhere just shy’a Bedford, I think…”
You listened to Joel drone on and clench his jaw, and every now and then you’d feel a squelch in that tiny space between you two when one of you moved, and it occurred to you then that it probably was not in your best interest to stay seated on his dick while he talked. You shifted your legs underneath yourself to get up.
When you started to slide up Joel’s shaft—the first time you’d ever really moved, mind you—you felt a knot in your tummy start to tighten. The friction was to die for.
You sank back down and heard a hoarse little cry spill out from your lips before you got the chance to swallow it.
At the same time, Joel groaned. Then stopped himself. Then coughed—profusely.
“Sorry, just got a little—” Suddenly, a fiery set of eyes were searing holes in your head, angry as they were desperate, “—tickle in my throat is all.”
You ignored the strained Southern drawl and the eyes that looked ready to put a bullet between your own, and you rocked your hips again. The sensation was just too good. Your body practically acted of its own accord, and suddenly you were bouncing up and down in Joel’s lap.
The man beneath you looked enraged. Aroused.
Ready to wring your neck and maybe spit in your mouth.
“World’s movin’ too. damn. fast,” Joel seethed, trying to communicate to you semi-covertly while you rode his cock, “She’s one hell of a— firecracker, man, I’ll tell ya.”
You heard your dad’s laughter on the other end. While the sound subsided to chuckles, Joel grabbed your neck. He covered the mouthpiece for a second, then, in a murmur,
“This is not a fucking game.”
He squeezed your throat so tight you probably could’ve lost all circulation going to your head, but you smiled.
In spite of the hot, glowing embers of pleasure taking shape at the pit of your stomach and the coil that kept twisting and swelling inside, you grinned down at him. Then you mouthed, softly, ‘Yes, it is,’ and you rocked your hips against him even harder.
Joel drew in a breath through his teeth and watched you ride him with bleary, half-hooded eyes—keeping one hand on your carotid as the other hand cradled the phone to his ear. The man was transfixed.
By the pinch of just one set of fingers, you knew you were done for. A dwindling supply of oxygen, combined with your high and the hundreds of nerve-endings being brushed by Joel’s cock every other moment, you were spiraling toward release and didn’t know how to stop it.
When Joel pursed his lips and lifted his hips to start fucking up into you, you had to let go. Couldn’t hold on. You grabbed hold of his forearm, still hovering across your throat, and you moaned as the bliss washed over you. You slid your needy lower half back and forth, squeezed that tanned, tough arm practically bulging with veins above you, and you came around Joel’s cock. You whimpered his name, again and again, feeling him stroke your walls and fuck you through a euphoric high.
The next thing you felt was the seat cushion behind you—and the shift of Joel’s body weight pinning you down.
His cock hadn’t slipped an inch when he flipped you over; his grip was still secure on the phone.
The only thing that had changed was that look: malicious and vindictive with the hint of a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. Joel felt you pulse around him, starting to come down from your high, and he just decided to fuck you even harder.
“Shouldn’t be much longer now…” Joel hummed aloud, lowering a hand to your throbbing clit and muttering a soft ‘Uh-huh’ to your father while you clawed at his wrist.
“Joel,” you choked.
Now the feeling was too much. You were still so wet, raw, and sensitive that the pad of his thumb almost drew a shriek from your chest when he moved his finger in circles. You heard them chat about football. Joel shared a short, strained laugh with the man on the other end and pretended not to hear your whines as he continued to rail you senseless in the front seat of his car.
With the diversion of the phone call keeping his own climax at bay, Joel was free to fuck you as rough as he pleased—and couldn’t be more in awe seeing you veer close to the edge, again.
“Please, daddy, please,” you beseeched him, tears springing to your eyes as Joel’s thrusts kept shaking you.
He just shook his head and smiled as if to say, ‘Hold still.’
“It’ll be fine,” he said, “Mahomes is next-level. Best they can do is keep their heads down and take it, y’know?”
Your own soft, aching hole was taking the beating of a lifetime, and somehow, you managed to meet Joel’s gaze with a look that almost struck him as loving. That blissed-out, cockdrunk look of pure debauchery crossing your eyes in a way he hadn’t come to find in ages, if ever, was intoxicating. He felt the first fluttering pulses of your orgasm squeeze around him again, and suddenly he was pumping you faster, drilling you harder, gripping your throat and starting to sense his own climax draw near.
He couldn’t finish off like this.
Not talking shop and Super Bowl to your father—no.
Joel had to do something you might rightly hate him for for the rest of your life, and never forget, or forgive.
He lowered the phone, and right before he did, said,
“She just stepped outta the bathroom, actually. No, yeah, she’s right here. Wanna say hello?”
Your heart skipped a beat and nearly jumped into your throat. You tried to shake your head—fast—and even went so far as to try and dodge the phone when Joel brought it down to your ear, but that motherfucker had a grip like you couldn’t believe and wouldn’t stop stroking inside you or holding you down. You hated that you found Joel’s total dominance and control…kind of hot.
You flashed him the most nasty, bratty, ‘I’ll get you for this, Joel’ look you could muster anyway, and when he pressed the phone to your cheek, you mouthed a few more silent expletives before changing your air entirely:
“Hey, dad!”
Joel knew he was cooked from the second you said hello. Something objectively malevolent inside him got a rush to hear you speak to your dad in such a contrived, high-pitched tone of voice, knowing the unspeakable things he was doing to your body the whole fucking time. He could focus, now, with no need for any strained civilities of his own, but deep down, he knew it wouldn’t last long. He would not last long.
Might as well make it fun while it lasts.
“He…did,” you hummed, flitting your eyes up to Joel when he brushed your lower lip with his thumb—still holding the phone up for you while he rutted into you, “No, nuh-uh…Mr…Mr. Miller didn’t mind, no sir.”
Shit, the sound of you saying ‘sir’ was something that made Joel’s whole body lurch with pleasure. He made a mental note to have you call him that later and stroked your lip once more.
You tried to turn your face away—telling Joel, wordlessly, that you couldn’t keep up this conversation with your father if you had a thumb in your fucking mouth, but Joel didn’t care. He watched you pause for a moment, let just the tip of his finger press into your tongue, then, battling your better judgment, wrap your lips around the digit almost cautiously and suck. He knew you liked it, too.
He knew it by the way you bobbed your head, hummed, and nodded every time he thrust inside your aching walls and dragged his cock back out. The way your teeth clamped hard on his thumb whenever he grazed a particularly sensitive spot and how your lips held him in like a gag, or some other thing to keep you quiet amidst the moans and the whimpers bubbling up in your chest.
Suddenly, Joel was at your other ear, lips grazing skin and tongue praising your every move.
“My sweet girl.”
“Doin’ such a good job stayin’ quiet.”
“Takin’ daddy’s cock so well, aren’t ya, darlin’?”
From that point on, every single one of your father’s words over the phone fell on deaf ears—all you could hear was Joel. All you could feel was Joel. Your lips parted as if starting to speak, but all that would come out were small puffs of air, perfectly in sync with each one of Joel’s thrusts.
“You okay, hon? You sound…distracted,” your dad pressed. A hint of concern rose from his end of the line.
At length, Joel gripped both of your legs and brought them up over his shoulders, and he grinned before kissing your ankle and shoving his cock even deeper.
“Yes!” you yelped as you crushed the phone to your ear, hoping your father couldn’t hear any of the filthy sounds down below, “Just a little stretched—I mean stressed out, is all.”
The sick, smug fuck currently wedged eight inches deep inside you almost burst out laughing. If you weren’t so perilously close to your fourth orgasm of the night, you would’ve told Joel to take a long walk off a short bridge.
“Just worried about grades a-a-and all,” you stammered.
Joel leaned forward and almost tore a scream out of your chest—his tip was kissing the edge of your cervix now.
“Yes, sir. I will.” You tried your hardest not to whine and almost let out a sigh, “I’ll…ask him about it, for sure.”
As bone-crushingly fun as this all was, Joel was close.
He could feel it in the furthest recesses of his stomach; he was about to blow his load.
So, leveraging his weight to strike just the right angle and pushing his thumb in to stifle your moans, Joel sped up and drew even closer, face-to-face, so he could see your every expression from a hair’s breadth away.
He was so near he could hear your dad’s droning voice. See you struggle to take cock the closer you got to your release. You hadn’t cum in such quick succession…ever, really. All but one of the guys you’d let between your legs before seemed like amateurs compared to Joel, and to be honest, you weren’t sure if you could make it to four.
You popped his thumb out of your mouth and mumbled some ‘Sure, okay’ or other to your dad before casting a pleading look up at Joel. His hips were working up to a ruthless pace.
You covered the mouthpiece.
“I can’t, Joel.”
“Sure you can, sugar.”
“Joel,” you hissed, and tried to grab his wrist, when you felt your stomach start to cave. Every exposed inch of skin gave way to waves of heat, and your toes curled in. Worst of all, Joel was letting out sounds you hadn’t ever heard—short, ragged breaths that broke off in low groans—and it felt as though he were cradling your head. Holding you to him. Your eyes were locked on one another, your mouths practically panting in time, and what parts of you had not yet become commingled with him were practically coated with sweat. And shaking.
Then, in tones that rang like music to your ears:
“Alright, I’ll let ya head to bed, then. G’night, pumpkin.”
Your dad hadn’t even fully hung up the phone before you flung it across the car. Heels dug deep in Joel’s back.
“Cum for daddy,” Joel coaxed, “Cum all over this cock.”
You didn’t need much more instigation than that.
You came. He followed.
And it probably split his eardrum in two having his name screamed so fucking loud, but frankly, Joel hadn’t seen a reason for going deaf that he could’ve enjoyed so much.
Then, he didn’t sink so much as simply collapse on top of you while you both kicked back and let the waves of ecstasy roll over you. You adored his warmth in spite of the heat practically suffocating you both in that car.
Until it was in you.
Sticky, sweet dripping inside you.
You pushed Joel hard in the shoulder.
“Did it…”
“What?”
“Joel!”
You flipped your legs down and tapped his abdomen furiously, telling him, pull out, pull out right fucking now, and Joel gently obliged. Dragged his cock three-fourths of the way out when a frail, tattered condom came loose around the head of his cock and almost fell off entirely. That damn prehistoric rubber had broken inside you.
“JOEL!”
“I’m sorry! Fuck, I— fuck.”
Joel scrambled to get his cum-drenched cock and what remained of the condom away from your body, but the damage was done. You started throwing on clothes.
“I’m ovulating this week, I am so fucking fucked!”
Joel swallowed, shimmying his boxers and jeans back into place and scoping the front seat for his shirt.
“What’s…ovulating?”
You wanted to tear your hair out at the root.
There was no way this man had survived half a century on earth and didn’t understand the menstrual cycle.
“It means I can get pregnant if we don’t get a Plan B up in this bitch immediately. Let’s GO!”
That part seemed to click. Joel almost fell over himself trying to find his keys, while you slid out of the Bronco.
“Where are you going?!”
“To— to try and get some of this shit out of me first!”
Joel bounded after you, and within the first steps, you were sprinting across the parking lot. Your sweaty, half-naked companion tried—and failed—to slow you down.
“Are you not on birth control?” Joel huffed.
“Are you not capable of buying condoms more than once every fucking decade—or three?” you snapped.
Your strides were growing wider and more frantic by the second. Joel clutched his side and struggled to keep up.
“I’m…sorry,” he grunted, more embarrassed and worn-out than anything at the moment, “I’m sorry, darlin’.”
“‘Sorry’ doesn’t get your cum out of me, daddy.”
Your words couldn’t have gotten any more caustic or merciless—or inopportune—if you tried.
As it was, you were passing by the breezeway where all the bored lacrosse players were still lounging around, cracking cold ones, and craning their necks to see what the fuss outside was all about. The sounds of your feet racing fast on gravel and you and Joel’s raucous, bickering back-and-forth had caught their attention, and shortly, Connor was sticking his head around the corner. His expression—along with all the faces behind him—had twisted with horror. Confusion. A visible look of disgust.
Joel had just slowed down to catch his breath. He doubled over and braced both hands on his knees.
“I’ll fuckin’…duct tape my dick next time I hit it, honey!” he wheezed, barely loud enough for you to hear but perfectly audible to all the terrified guys around him.
Joel turned his head and almost groaned.
Then he was straightening himself back up, starting to retreat from the group who had him pinned with genuinely frightened—and nauseated—looks.
Joel normally wouldn’t care. This time, though, he threw his hands up and thought, fuck it, I’ll clear the air.
Over his shoulder, he grinned, yelling back to the guys:
“I’m not actually her dad!”
All of them stared back. Half-jealous, half-awestruck, Connor stood up, raised his beer, and called after him:
Summary: you work at a sex store and Joel comes in looking for help, eventually becoming a regular you can't help getting wet around. When it's clear he's coming in for more than your extensive stock of toys, you find out all the ways the man you've been helping can help you.
Chapter Warnings: 18+, MDNI, suggestive, fem reader, no use of y/n, modern AU, no outbreak, strangers to retail regulars to lovers, Joel calls reader "sweetheart", literally set in a sex store so do with that what you will, peepaw joel my beloved
WC: 1.3k
AN: This is a repost of my joel x sex store reader WIP post. I wanted to have a polished version to act as the first part of this series. The poll was pretty close so I'll be posting chapters as I go and will post a complete version when the whole thing is done. I'll be posting the next chapter sometime in the next few days! I'm not looking for feedback, but please let me know if there are any copy edits I missed. And a big thank you to @cursed-carmine for the dividers!!
Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoy :)
You couldn't decide what was worse-- having to deal with customers, or having to fill the long, slow hours after you finished your work and had nothing else to do. Slow, you decided. Slow was worse. You’d had nothing to do for the last hour, reduced to checking and rechecking stock you’d already dusted and faced earlier in the day.
Though it's true you got your fair share of creepy customers on account of working closing shift at a sex store, you wished anyone would come in and break up the hours of talking to yourself. At least you got to cuss out nasty customers.
You were busy doodling dicks on a post-it when he came in.
“Hi, welcome in. Let me know I can answer any questions for you,” you said, only glancing up enough to confirm it wasn't some kid trying to get in without being carded.
“Will do,” the man said, gruff.
His voice piqued your interest, and once you caught sight of his salt and pepper hair and those eyes, however, the man had your complete and total attention. Normally a man of his age would have your hackles raised, but something about the man’s demeanor made you feel at ease.
“Looking for anything in particular?” You asked, only slightly ashamed to be ogling the man from behind. And what a view it was. The hint of jaw you could see from this angle, the faint impression of muscles you could see through his flannel shirt, and that ass in those jeans. The man was handsome to say the least, and you simply couldn't resist an older man.
Still, you had a legitimate job to do, even when the customer is hot.
“Not necessarily. Just… browsing I think,” he said, turning to face you.
“No worries. Just let me know if you need anything.”
He nodded, turning toward the first room in the store. You trailed him from a distance, tidying lingerie while watching him in your peripheries. It had been a long time since someone had tried to steal something on your shift, but you were reticent to let that happen again. Plus, you couldn’t help but enjoy the man’s facial expressions as he took in all the high-tech toys. You guys really did try to stock everything: rabbits that thrusted and warmed and buzzed, every dildo imaginable from "about the length of my phone" to "about the length of my arm", plugs of every shape and size, pussy pumps, penis pumps, “supplements” (rebranded Viagra), strokers, and plenty of toys you were yet to explore. You were sure the man had seen his fair share in his lifetime, but he seemed well out of his depth. You couldn't help but ask.
“Do you mind me asking who you’re shopping for?”
“Uhm, just... myself,” he answered, eyes dancing away from yours.
“Gotcha,” you said brightly. “Do you mind if I help you browse? It is literally my job to know everything about everything in here.”
He sighed, as though steeling himself to answer. “Yeah, that’d be helpful. Thank you.”
"It's no problem. I know you said you're browsing, but do you have a sense of what sort of stimulation you're looking for? We've got penis stuff and we've got butt stuff." You doubted that Peepaw was looking to take it in the ass, but you’d learned not to assume.
"Uh, penis, please," he said, avoiding your eyes, cheeks ruddy.
“Perfect, then I’ll just lead you to this room here,” you said, walking toward the back. “In here we’ve got all sorts of strokers and the like. These are more simple, and these have all the bells and whistles.” You gestured as you spoke.
The man nodded, eyes sweeping over the area you’d pointed out as “simple”.
“I’ll let you browse a while, but please let me know if you have any questions.”
“I will. Thank you."
You smiled. “It’s no worries at all.”
You idly tidied the counter, peeking at the man in the cameras now and again as he browsed. As he considered his options, you gradually lost interest, sorting the size tags you'd accumulated during your shift. You hardly noticed him approach, abruptly standing up straighter as he set his purchase on the counter.
“Will that be all for you tonight?” You asked, ringing out the simple stroker he’d picked out. It was a good pick-- a basic pussy stroker. It was one you'd grown fond of compared to many of the other options, largely because it was one of the few without AI or a borderline-underage looking girl on the box.
“Yes, that’s it.”
“Do you need any lube or toy cleaner or anything?”
“No, thank you. I’m all set.”
You nodded. “It’s gonna be thirty-nine sixty-six.”
He handed you a card. “Thanks for all your help. It’s… been a while since I’ve been in a place like this. I generally prefer the old fashioned way.”
You smiled as you ran his card. "It's no problem at all. I'm genuinely happy to help."
The man signed and you handed over his bag.
"Have a great rest of your night!"
"You too," he said with a nod.
You watched him walk away. The instant the door closed behind him, you checked your tip jar to see if he'd left anything. It was a silly habit-- your grand total most nights was a rousing zero dollars and zero cents. Still, you swore you'd seen him drop something in there-- a rarity that made you eager.
And sure enough, there was a bill in your little cardboard cup. Expecting a one, maybe a five, you stared at the note with confusion for a long moment before it clicked.
He'd tipped you fifty dollars.
Suddenly you were scrambling to get outside, certain he'd gotten his bills mixed up and left you more than he'd intended. Normally you'd abide by your maybe-not-so-moral rule of retail--finders keepers-- but the man had genuinely been nice. You'd have felt guilty all week if you had kept it.
You quickly spotted the only other car in the lot besides yours: an older Ford pickup that'd seen better days. Trying to not think about the fact that no one was manning the store, you jogged over to the truck and rapped on the passenger window.
The man glanced over, brows knitting before rolling down the window.
"Sir, you accidentally left me a fifty," you said lamely, extending the bill.
He stared at you for a long moment. "Sweetheart that wasn't an accident. You were a big help in there. I just wanted to show my thanks. That's yours."
"Oh. Thank you so much, that means a lot to me. Sorry about the confusion."
"No need to apologize. Have a good rest of your night."
"You too," you said with a nod. You were suddenly giddy, clutching the bill to your chest. The man's truck sputtered to life behind you, and you listened as he pulled away.
Heading behind the counter, you tucked the fifty into your bag and pulled out the last charge slip from your pile. You always felt a little creepy looking at someone's receipt, but you were looking for something in particular. Just above the signature, neatly printed in ink: the cardholder.
Joel Miller.
You tucked away the name in your mind as bits of your conversation resurfaced. Him assuring you the bill was yours to keep, him calling you "sweetheart".
Him saying he prefers doing things "the old fashioned way".
You knew you'd be thinking about that little comment all night.
જ⁀➴ ♡ Your resignation should have been simple: hand Harry Castillo the letter, walk out of his office, and forget everything that happened the night you found him falling apart behind the closed doors of Castillo Holdings.
Forget his hands, his mouth, and the terrible, impossible feeling that, for a few stolen minutes, Harry had wanted you more honestly than he had ever wanted anyone.
Unfortunately, Harry has never been good at letting go of things he wants.
So when his family starts pushing too hard, when his mother asks one question too many, and when his brother’s perfect life is held up like proof that Harry has somehow failed at his own, he does the only reasonable thing a lonely, emotionally constipated man can do.
He lies.
He tells them he is engaged.
To you.
Now Harry needs you to spend one weekend pretending to be his fiancée in front of his family. Smile for the photographs. Wear the ring. Share his room. Let his mother adore you. Help him survive the lie he was stupid enough to tell.
In return, he’ll give you everything you asked for: your freedom, a clean exit from Castillo Holdings, and a recommendation letter to any company in New York.
Easy enough.
It’s not like Harry is using a fake engagement as an excuse to keep you close.
And it’s definitely not like either of you could fall in love over one disastrous weekend.
...Right?
જ⁀➴ ♡ tags: boss/assistant relationship, age gap, fake engagement, fake relationship, marriage of convenience vibes, forced proximity, grumpy x sunshine, workaholics with terrible coping mechanisms, mutual pining, banter, anxiety, loneliness, fear of abandonment, mentions of past emotionally abusive relationships, Harry believes he is destined to die alone, Reader believes love is not meant for her, Reader is Harry’s aggressive chihuahua, miscommunication final boss, pole dancing, unprotected sex, a frankly irresponsible amount of smut, possible breeding kink, one very non-jewelry-related pearl necklace, but don’t worry, babes, this is a rom-com, love is very much on the menu despite all the angst!
Rating: Explicit. 18+ (Minors DNI)
Summary: Your neighbor plays his cello way too fucking late, and all you want to do is get off and get to sleep...
Warnings: smut, masturbation, cello lessons, grey sweatpants, hot neighbor, voyeurism due to thin walls, bach, i have zero clue about this character but i want to fuck him, riding, unprotected p in v, finger fucking and sucking, like he HAS to be good with his hands right?!, written in a fevered few hours, i feel like that jon hamm gif
Words: 3,000
A/N: Did I fuck off and ignore work for a few hours to write this? Yes. Am I going to have to pay for it by working tonight? Yes. Is it worth it? I don't know man, I'm horny af for this new character. Siri, play "Fresh Out The Slammer" because I feel rejuvenated in my delusional porn writing. Gif made by me because I'm that fucking insane.
Masterlist
—-
The notes mock you, mock the catch of your breath, the beat of your heart, the way your fingers move across your clit, pressing and swirling. You’re so close, and yet so far. Your trusty vibrator, rose, and grinder sit discarded on your quilt. The mournful music filtering in through the thin bungalow walls and windows is not helping. So close. So far. Your orgasm drowns again.
You slap your hand down against your stomach, killing the last vestige of your mood and roll off the bed. You just wanted ONE singular orgasm, something to take the edge off. But no, there’s a sad cello playing some sort of depressing, somber thing that just leaves you even more frustrated.
You check your phone and grumble. 11:39. Who fucking needs Vivaldi or Bach this loud after eleven?
Your new neighbor, apparently.
You don’t even bother to close your robe when you stomp out into the damp night. Your bare feet squelch in the wet grass, and you don’t care. The music gets louder when you get to your neighbor’s door. It’s nice? You guess. You don’t even know anymore.
You pound on his door. Three rasps. You give your neighbor time. Nothing. So you pound again. Until the music stops. Footsteps get closer, floorboards creak.
The door opens, just like your jaw drops. Dark hair slicks back from a face that the gods might as well have sculpted. Sharp cheekbones, strong nose, plush lips, big brown eyes. He’s in a black tank top, ridiculously broad shoulders escaping the flimsy fabric. His gray sweatpants hang loose on his hips. His whole look suggests either a strategic carelessness or a total lack of giving a shit. It might be due to how fucking horny you are, but your new neighbor could be the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.
His dark eyes size and assess you. Your robe. The flimsy, light pink tank top sticking to your skin, the short, barely there sleep shorts with tiny, green polka dots. Your hair’s probably a mess, your skin still damp with a sweat of frustration. He looks almost amused at the sight of you, but his eyes linger a little longer than propriety should suggest at your thighs.
“Can I help you?” he asks. Deep, kinda dark, like a freshly poured cup of your favorite coffee.
“It’s la—” your voice squeaks. You clear your throat, square your shoulders. “It’s late. Your music. It’s… loud. Some of us have to, you know. Sleep.”
He leans on the doorframe, folds his arms, and your eyes square in on the way his biceps bulge, the line of his forearms. “Sleep,” he says.
“Yes. That’s right. It’s past 11.”
“Didn’t think it was that loud.”
“Could you turn it down at least?”
A thick eyebrow arches up. “Guess these walls are paper-thin. I suppose I could use a different bow.”
There’s no shame in his voice, no apology, and it just irks you more. You wobble a bit in the way he looks at you, half wanton desire, half boredom.
“I’d… appreciate that.”
“Mm,” he says, and his lip quirks up in a maddeningly handsome smirk… like he knows he’s gorgeous and getting under your skin. “You best get back to… sleep,” he says.
You nod, because you have no other fucking clue how to respond under his heated, cocky gaze and the revelation that the music was being played by him and not a too-loud stereo.
The silk of your robe swishes across your hot skin as you make your way across the grass to your bungalow. You’re sure your neighbor’s watching you the whole way and you don’t dare look back.
He keeps his word, you can barely hear the music when you lie back down in bed. Fuck him for being beautiful. Your whole body is still reverberating from the baritone rasp of his voice. You press a pillow over your face and scream an annoyed sound into it, as the heat of his gaze still blooms across your body.
At least now all you can hear is nothing but the sound of your breathing, picking up when the heel of your hand slinks its way back between your thighs. Jesus Christ, you’re even wetter now. You’re leaking a frustrating hunger, the image of your neighbor’s big shoulders and golden skin playing in your mind. You imagine his biceps pinning you down and his thick fingers hooking against your waist as he pounds into you.
“Fuck,” you whisper, picturing his wide palm against your mouth. You wonder what he sounds like when he cums, is it as sad and tragic sounding as the music he plays?
God, it’s so easy now. Your body’s arching up, desperate to feel how soft his tank-topped chest is when it’s shoved against your chest. You can almost feel him, the weight of him atop you, his dark eyes searing into you as you edge yourself closer and closer. You’re pressing needy circles against your clit, your thighs tensing and toes curling. “Fuck, fuck,” you moan out, too loud for your own good and the silence of your own bungalow. Your hips are moving against your hand harder, faster, and when you think of that damned smirk of his and the way he’d watch you shatter apart for him, you orgasm, hard and hot and loud. “Oh fuck, godddd,” you moan. You don’t even care. You want him to hear it. Maybe he will, with the thin walls. Maybe he won’t, because he’s too busy playing that damned music. Maybe he heard a hint, and now he’s sat, frozen in his chair, bow in one hand, listening to your own symphony between the walls.
—-
Two nights of silence, and then you hear it… a loud cat-like moan around 11 PM. Followed by another high-pitched mew. “Aleeeeex,” the shrill sounds. “Oh god, Alex.”
So, your hot neighbor’s name is Alex.
A rhythmic thumping starts up against your wall, fast, brutal, not sweet. You can’t help yourself as you move towards the wall, listening in for any type of low grunt or groan, but there’s nothing… just a repetitive smack of wood against drywall and the squealing of a woman.
You roll over, turn on your speaker, and pick up your phone. You know the perfect song. You scroll to the B’s in your music, find Cello Suite no. 2 by Bach, and let the sad, melancholy play… loud.
The pace just behind the shared wall picks up, and the wails of the woman speed up, along with the tapping against the wall. Now it’s your time to smirk, take that, Alex, and whoever he’s decided to fuck.
And when the roaring sadness of the music slows and quiets at a point… you hear it. A long, low groan timed perfectly to the song, almost like he was waiting for it.
You feel the angry roar of want in your body at the sound of him and let the song fade out as you reach into your drawer and pull out your vibrator.
—-
The next night, the cello is back, at 11 on the dot. Louder. Like it’s back to mock you. You shake your head and smile, willing it not to bother you as you turn in bed and put a pillow over your ear, but even through the muffled down, you recognize the song. It’s Cello Suite no. 2, just like you played him last night.
Damn, he’s talented. You have to give him that.
By 11:30, he hasn’t stopped, and the cello almost plays like a siren song to you and your sleepy, horny frustrations. You step out into the night air, and you swear the cool air hisses against your heated skin. No robe this time, just you and your light blue silky, short nightdress, complete with the lace trim across your breasts.
You punch at his door again, then stand back, arms crossed. You’re sure your nipples are pressing against the thin fabric, and you don’t care.
He answers almost instantly, and good lord, he’s only in a pair of boxers and a loose, button-up shirt.
“You’re playing on purpose now, aren’t you?” you ask him, no greeting, just attitude.
“I need to practice. Figured you’d like to hear it.”
You snort. “So why that song?”
His hand rests against the doorframe and he looms over you. “Thought I’d return the favor of last night.”
You roll your eyes and huff. “Thanks.”
He turns his head back to his living room, then back at you, deep brown eyes searing into you. “Come in. I’ll play you something else.”
“It’s late.”
“It’s not like you were going to sleep anyway.”
You don’t say anything, you just walk past him into his place. It’s neat, in order, vintage furniture with modern touches. His bow is discarded on the floor, the cello leaning against the wall.
He lifts his hand, guides you to his couch, a soft, buttery leather that dips when you settle on it, mindful of just how short your nightdress is. He bends to pick up the bow, and your throat goes dry as you stare at his ass. You blink yourself back to reality as he takes a seat and places his cello between his legs. God, his legs, strong and dusted with hair, he looks to be golden all over.
He begins playing. Something you don’t recognize, but it’s smooth and sultry. Your heart and body answer, heating and beating with each note of music that flows from the instrument.
Alex doesn’t look up, he’s transfixed by the music he plays, and you’re just as spellbound. You’re sure you’re breathing hard, sure your pulse is thrumming along to the song. You don’t know how long you sit like that, mesmerized by the music and the man. If this is how he looks as he plays, then you’ll surely sacrifice the nights of sleep, just to let this beauty out into the world.
His head tips back, neck straining as his head lulls back and forth, caught in the notes, and when he looks at you, dark brown eyes meeting yours, you know he can see the way your chest is rising and falling, the heat of your stare. He gifts you one of those damned smirks, but this time it’s different. It’s heated and full of desire. He watches you watch him, and you can’t look away. Every note he plays flows through you, from your ears to between your thighs.
Alex’s arm slows, the bow stopping, and the last warble of the strings escapes the cello. He sets the cello against the wall with reverence, his loose shirt gapes open as he turns, exposing golden chest and a dark line of hair. You try to adjust how you’re sitting, the leather couch sticking to you with the heat of your thighs.
His eyes roam over you, from your bare legs up to your chest, up, up, finally meeting your eyes again. He licks his lips, pink tongue against his plush bottom lip. He smiles, hot, knowing, painfully cocky. “Did you like it?” he asks.
You answer with a bobble of your head. Any type of words would just fail to be husked out of your dry throat. Goodness, you want him. You want him a way that’s almost embarrassing in the desperate, feral way you do.
"You want to try to play?" he asks.
You’re silent again, just another nod sent to him.
He pats his thighs, beckons you over, and you rise and pad towards him, going to exactly where he wants you. He parts his legs, and you straddle his lap, your back meeting his chest. You’re painfully aware of the silk of your dress clinging to the arch of your ass, the way your thighs bracket his, his skin meeting your skin. You move, hoping he can’t feel how wet you are for him, but you hear the small grunt, and you know he absolutely can.
He picks up the cello and sets it between both of you, the smooth wood is cool against your thigh. He wraps his arms around your waist, enveloping you in his strong arms, his chest flexing against your back.
You’re glitching, absolutely dumbstruck by how gentle and low his voice is as he places your fingers over the strings. “Here,” he whispers, guiding your hand to the cello’s neck. “Thumb here. Not too tight.” His hands are big and hot. His breath fans across your ear, and it makes you shiver.
“Now, try,” he says, handing you the bow. You attempt to make a song, but you’re so heady off the closeness of him that you’re too clumsy to do anything right. The bow draws across the strings, and it’s… like a car crash of a note, but he tightens his arms and chuckles low against your ear.
“Again,” he whispers, and you try. This time, the note is softer, a pleasant hum leaves the cello. “Good,” he says, lips grazing against your earlobe. He rewards you by letting his hand skim against your thigh.
There’s a shared hunger, an almost understanding, guided by the music and want that’s drifted between the walls. You melt and tense at the same time, and you feel the press of his cock against you when you tilt back and press yourself into him.
He slides his hand up, rucking up the hem of your dress. “You still want to play?”
You’re dizzy, barely holding onto the bow. “No.”
“Then set the bow down.”
You obey, letting it clatter to the floor. He takes the cello from between your legs and sets it aside while keeping you still locked against him, hand splayed against your belly. “Spread your legs,” Alex tells you.
You instantly spread, letting him slip his palm between you and trace your soaked pussy through the wispy layer of your lace panties. You almost lose it right there, hips jerking at the thick, callused fingers of his exploring the drenched line of your cunt.
He lets out a low, incredulous growl as he touches you, pressing his mouth to your neck, sucking at the skin. “Feel good?” he rumbles. “Yeah?”
“Fuccck,” you manage.
He smiles into your neck, slides his fingers into your panties, parts you, thick, middle finger slowly exploring before plunging deep into you. You moan, noisy and erupting, louder than any song he can play.
He fucks you with his hand, two fingers, thick and skilled, shallow then deep, giving you a pattern you’ll never guess. His thumb rubs circles on your clit, making you stupid with just how good he is at this. You’re sweating now, shaking, under the control of Alex’s possessive hands against your body.
He’s rutting and hard against you, whispering “that’s it, that’s it,” over and over as his fingers play you like an instrument he’s mastered.
You cum for him, so hard you shudder and squeeze. Head knocking back against his broad chest. He growls, licks up the sweat of you, holding you tighter as you ride and writhe against his fingers.
He pulls his fingers out, yanks your panties to the side, and frees his cock from the thin cotton of his boxers. You don’t know if you’ve ever wanted someone so bad before and when he brushes the fat tip of him against your accepting hole, you gasp at the promise of his size.
It’s one monstrous, behemoth of a thrust that makes your eyes flutter shut and all the air escape you. He fucks up into you hard, and you grab at his big hands, holding on as the old wooden chair frame creaks. He’s so fucking thick, overwhelming and rough, but Christ, the way your slippery cunt swallows him, it’s like he was fit for you. You ride him, back rubbing against his chest as he pumps in and out of you, the noise of your slick and his grunts crescendoing in the sex-heavy air.
He grabs your hips, planting both feet on the floor, and starts railing up into you so deep you let out a sob of his name. He’s rewarding and withholding at the same time, sliding all the way out, holding you above himself, letting you beg for him, until he plants all of himself into you. He slinks a hand up your body, thumb stroking your cheek before he sticks two of his fingers into your mouth.
You taste the sweet tang of your orgasm, tongue licking at the rough and ridges of his fingers. You suck, and he groans, bucking so hard the chair actually scoots back across the floor.
He must want to see you desperate and dumb, his other hand moving between your legs, playing with you there. It only takes a couple strokes of his fingers against your puffy, needy clit for him to orchestrate your orgasm out of you. It’s shocking how fucking hard you cum for him, how white your vision goes, how the pulse of your body pulses a cacophony of beats. Alex fucks straight through your orgasm, cock spearing you as you whimper around his fingers and drip around his cock. But, he’s losing it now, panting into the crook of your neck, hips snapping so loud against you.
He pulls out, and you feel the slide of his cock head against your clit when he cums, thick, white ropes painting against your panties, your belly, the silk of your dress. You’re still floating high like the music notes he plays, a trembling mess in his arms when you lean your head back and can’t help but laugh. Alex chuckles, too. Both of you are sticky and soaked, pressed together, glazed in shared sweat and cum.
The cello sits unused, the bow on the floor. Alex’s forehead rests against your shoulder as he comes down. You think he’s going to say something smart and frustrating, but he just kisses your shoulder blade and tightens his arms around you.
series summary: sometimes, love isn't enough to make you stay... and sometimes, it isn't enough to go after you either. but years later, you both meet again and you're different people. time hardened the both of you, especially in this world. would love be enough this time?
pairing: joel miller x fem!reader
series content warning(s): EXPLICIT CONTENT (18+ ONLY MDNI), established relationship, lovers to exes to strangers to lovers (?), joel is bad at feelings, protective joel, joel lives!!!, child loss, grief, use of alcohol/drugs, jealousy, time jumps, flashbacks, talks about being immune, violence (it's the apocalypse y'all), don't worry there's a happy ending, no use of y/n. each chapter will have its own separate warnings!
a/n: been missing joel miller real bad and i know i have a handful of series that i haven't yet completed, but i'm revamping this entire story (from 2023 - wow!). if you've read the original, there will be a few scenes that will be repurposed in this as well, but generally, it's gonna be entirely brand new. it's gonna be a dark one, filled with angst, but i promise, there's a happy ending (bc ya girl can't not have one lol).
Summary: You take up boxing in an attempt to find a hobby and have something new to do that dulls the monotony of grad school. Enter Joel Miller, your instructor.
Rating: Explicit (18+), MDNI
Length: Multi-chapter
Tags: boxing AU, joel is your boxing instructor, slow-ish burn, eventual smut, slight age gap (reader is late 20s-ish, joel is late 30s/early 40s), no outbreak au, unresolved sexual tension, romance, chapter-specific tags will be included
a/n: this idea came to me during a nap. i have a rough outline for it but am also winging it as i go. hopefully it works out! i've been wanting to write a younger, less angsty version of joel so i'm excited to try it out!
the pictures for the graphic are from pinterest and the divider in the graphic is from @/firefly-graphics. the divider used in-text is by @/saradika-graphics
Summary: Little you was awake. The night was quiet, but your thoughts unfortunately weren't. They were drifting far, soft, and hazy, carrying you somewhere your small mind couldn't quite hold all alone. And in that fragile place, you reached for the one person you weren't supposed to need anymore. A man who shouldn't be your shelter…yet somehow always is...
Warnings: 18+, smut, mdni, huge age gap (20s and 60s), daddy!joel, ddlg dynamics, unprotected sex, JUST THE TIP, pinv, size kink, needy!reader, subby!reader, subspace, crying, forbidden relationship (don't know why, you can just think about something), daddy kink, finger sucking, clit rubbing, grinding (once), slight stern!joel, but really really soft daddy!joel, no outbreak
A/N: the more the people complain about the daddy kink, the more i'll write it😘 also if you look at it sideways, this could almost be a hazy little echo of "Daddy, I'm sorry." I didn't really choose a concrete reason for their forbidden dynamic—I just wanted the feeling of it. Let your mind fill in whatever fits.. Enjoy my dear pookies <33
It's night.
The sheep are asleep. The cows are dreaming of endless fields. And the chickens are waiting, patient and already plotting, for the moment they can scream the morning awake.
Only little you was still awake…lost in thoughts, hazy and far‑gone in that quiet world your mind always slips into when everything feels too heavy. A softer place perhaps, where things made more sense for your tired little brain, but even there, you still needed something—someone—to steady you.
To calm the buzzing in your chest, to hold you together, to make sure you reached that faraway place safely instead of getting lost in it.
And that someone was Joel.
'Daddy' you called him sometimes, voice tiny and unsure, even though you weren't supposed to. Your glassy eyes always found him first. Your hands always fisted his shirt. Your thighs always around his waist while he rocked and rocked you to sleep.
'Little babygirl' he'd answer, even though he wasn't supposed to. A stern face guiding you, big hands holding you and that strong frame of his making you feel safe as if it was his only mission in life.
Tonight, Joel is deep asleep. Breathing slow, steady, calm. Exactly that quiet rhythm you know by heart.
And you're standing there in the doorway, small and overwhelmed, staring at the only place that had ever felt like shelter.
Little you is drifting.
The edges of your vision are soft, your thoughts wrapped in that familiar, thick cotton of subspace. You don't want to think; you just want to be held.
Carefully, you peel back the heavy blanket and slide into the heat of his bed. You press your front against his back, your small frame curling into the curve of his body. You let out a tiny, broken whimper, the sound vibrating against his skin, and bury your face between his shoulder blades.
Oh, how warm he is.
And Joel stirs.
A slow awakening—a gradual return to consciousness that starts with the feeling of something soft and trembling pressed against him. And even though he freezes just for a heartbeat, your daddy recognises you immediately.
But he can't. He shouldn't turn around and wrap his arms around your little frame until all those bad thoughts drifted far away. He shouldn't.
"No," he murmurs, his voice thick with sleep. He doesn't turn around yet, but his muscles tense. "No...we said we weren't doing this again. You can't just...you can't just slip in here, babygirl."
He tries to sound stern, tries to maintain the boundary you both agreed upon, but you only press closer. You cling to him, your fingers bunching the fabric of his shirt, a sob catching in your throat.
"You can't always just crawl into my bed," he says, voice firm. "I mean it."
He didn't mean it.
He knows what this state of yours means.
He knows exactly where it's heading, knows exactly how it's gonna end. He knows so well.
"Go to your room," he says again, sharper this time. "You hear me? You can't be doin' this. We said we weren't…we weren't gonna let this happen again."
And oh how it stings your small, tender heart when Daddy's voice turns stern like that.
He exhales hard. "Sweetheart, don't make me say it again."
You can't help but let a hot tear escape, soaking into his shirt. The sound of your quiet weeping is the breaking point for him.
Joel closes his eyes, a pained flicker crossing his face as his resolve finally cracks. He can't leave you drifting out there alone. Can't leave his little babygirl all by herself.
With a heavy, quiet exhale, he shifts, rolling over and letting one steady arm find your waist, guiding you upwards and into the safe space of his lap—the place that's always only meant for you.
He settles you there, your legs draped over his thighs, and begins to stroke your back in long, grounding sweeps. You immediately bury your face into the warmth of his neck.
"You're slipping away, huh?" he asks softly, his voice losing its edge and turning into that nurturing, honeyed tone that always makes you feel safe. "All gone in the head? Just a little babygirl who can't handle the world today?"
You nod, nuzzling into his shirt, breathing him in, and a tiny whimper escapes you; a sound so small and pitiful it's barely a breath. Your hand fists in his shirt, and you mumble against his chest, your voice thick and slurry, like you're talking through a mouthful of cotton.
"Want your cock, Daddy."
He releases a breath, your words making his mind spin. His grip on your hip tightens, his fingers digging slightly into your soft flesh. You respond by grinding your aching center against his thigh, a soft, desperate moan escaping your lips.
"No, babygirl." His voice is soft, gentle but firm. "We've talked about this, didn't we?"
You feel the frown pull at your brow, and you lift your head, your eyes hazy and unfocused, struggling to find his face in the dim light.
"But I need it," you whine, the sound dragging out. "Please, Daddy. Please. I need it so bad."
He cups your cheek, his thumb stroking over your cheekbone, his skin rough and warm. "Sweet girl. You're so far under I can see it in those pretty eyes. You ain't in a place to think straight right now."
"I can—" you start, but he shushes you with a soft click of his tongue.
"I know you think you can, honey. But I'm your Daddy, and it's my job to know what's best for you."
Your mind drifts, foggy and unfocused, to all the times he told you he couldn't be your daddy—that you shouldn't call him by that name, that it wasn't right, that it wasn't allowed. But now…in this confused, hazy state, you don't question a single word he says. You just accept it, soft and small, because everything feels too far away to fight.
He adjusts you on his lap, and he feels it then: the wet heat of you against his thigh, the slick slide of your bare cunt leaving a glistening trail on his pants.
You'd taken your panties off hours ago, wanting to feel the chill on your skin. And now his breath hitches, just a little, and his hand drifts down to rest on the curve of your hip.
You're leaking.
You can feel it, a slow, steady drip that soaks into the fabric, and you squirm, rubbing yourself against him just a little, chasing that friction.
He groans low in his throat. "None of that, babygirl."
"Just the tip, Daddy." The words tumble out in a rush, desperate and breathless. "Please. Just the tip. I'll be good. I promise I'll be so good."
He sighs, long and heavy, and you can see the war in his eyes—the stern, responsible daddy who wants to tuck you into bed and keep you safe, and the daddy who aches to give you exactly what you're begging for.
"No, honey. We had just the tip last time, and you didn't behave."
You remember. You remember the way you'd bucked against him, trying to take more, the way he'd had to pull out mid-thrust and hold you down until you calmed down. But this time it's different, you swear.This time you're so soft, so pliant, so utterly lost in the haze that you know you'd be good.
You'd be so so good for him.
"I'll be good, Daddy. I swear on my heart. I'll be so still and quiet. I just need to feel you—just a little. Please, Daddy. Please, please, please." Your eyes find his, limpid and pleading, tears pricking at the corners. "I'm so empty. I feel so empty without you."
He stares at you for a long, long moment, his thumb still tracing lazy patterns on your hip. His gaze is tired, heavy, searching, and you hold your breath, your whole body trembling with the effort of staying still for him.
"Alright," he murmurs, and the word is like a key turning in a lock. Your heart stutters. "Alright. But you gotta promise me, babygirl. You let Daddy control it. You let me take care of you."
"I promise, Daddy. I promise I'll be good. I'll be your good girl."
He shifts you off of his lap, laying you down gently on his bed, your head sinking into the blanket.
The mattress then dips as he moves, positioning himself between your thighs, his weight settling over you.
You look up at him, all hazy in adoration, and spread your legs wider in invitation.
"I ain't hard, baby. But it'll work." He mutters under his breath, more to himself than to you. "We can make it work. You're tight anyway...it'll fit right in. Just a little bit, honey. Just enough to make you feel better."
You watch as he takes his cock out of his pants.
It's soft, just as he said it would be, but even like this it's thick enough to make your mouth water. His tip the size of a small lime, flushed in a reddish undertone, and wet at the slit. He wraps his fingers around himself, giving himself a few lazy strokes, and you squeeze your thighs together instinctively.
"Please, Daddy," you peep, voice small.
He chuckles again, warm and fond. "I know, honey. Just a little babygirl, huh? My sweet, sweet girl."
But then he shifts, reaching for the nightstand, and a tiny, needy whine crawls out of your throat before you can stop it, fingers curling into his shirt, tugging him back.
"Hey…hey…shh." His voice drops like warm honey, slow and soothing. "Daddy's here. Just needed my glasses to see your pussy better, hon. Nothin' happened. M'here."
You blink up at him, and he's sliding those wire-framed glasses onto his face, the moonlight catching the lenses for a moment.
He looks down at you, and through the glass his eyes are even softer, even more focused on his babygirl.
"Desperate baby," He hums almost to himself, as his fingers find your folds and part them gently.
You gasps at the touch, the cool air on your slick skin, and he lets out a breathy chuckle.
"Oh, you've been real needy, hm?" He hums. "Pretty little pussy, all soft and swollen for Daddy. Yeah, honey?"
You nod frantically, a little moan escaping you.
He strokes through your wetness then, gathering it on his fingertips, and brings his hand to his cock.
With a gentle squeeze, he guides his cockhead to your entrance and presses slowly in.
Even that single inch is a stretch, a slow, burning fullness that makes your eyes roll back in your head. Your mouth falls open, a breathy "oh" escaping you, and you feel every ridge, every vein as he sinks just barely inside. He stops there, his hips flush against yours, and you can feel him pulsing, feel the slight give of his flesh inside you.
Your head falls back, whimpering, hips twitching, trying to take him in. But he pulls back, just a fraction.
"What did we say, hon? Behave."
You pout, bottom lip jutting out, and a fresh tear slips down your cheek. But you still, your body trembling with the effort, wanting to be good for your daddy.
"That's my good girl." Joel rewards you with a slow, gentle press of his soft tip further into your hole.
You cry out, a high, keening sound, and he hushes you, his voice a low purr.
"Ain't even need to be hard, honey. Look how pretty you take me. Just the tip, babygirl. Just a little taste. You feel that? You feel Daddy's cock in your sweet little pussy?"
"Mhm—" you nod, glassy eyes watching as he plays with your cunt.
While he looks down at your cunt, his reading glasses slip to the bridge of his nose, hanging there stubbornly. Your hand rises without thinking, pushing them back up with a small, clumsy touch.
"Thank you, honey," he says gently. "Barely here, and you're still takin' care of me." Joel shakes his head, fond and tired.
"Always daddy..."
He breathes out a soft laugh, and strokes your cheek with a slow, careful touch.
Oh, how Joel's heart ached. Even while you were far away, those tiny words slipping out of you like instinct. God, how he wished that he didn't care this much.
"I don't wanna hurt my little girl. You're too far gone for your own little good. You tell me if it's too much, yea, honey?" He asks gently.
"Yes, yes daddy," you babble, your words running together.
Then he starts to move, the shallowest of thrusts, just the thick head of his cock pressing in and sliding out of you with a pop, each pass catching on your rim. It's a tease, a tantalizing brush with something more, and your hands fly up to grip his shoulders, your nails digging into his shirt.
Joel watches intensely how his tip gets covered in your juices. Every slow thrust makes your cunt react: growing wetter and wetter, entrance clenching and gripping his head like it wants to suck him deeper.
"Daddy..." The word is a whimper, stretched out into a plea.
"I know, babygirl. I know." His voice is ragged, strained. "Just let daddy feel you. You're so tight. So perfect. So warm and wet for me."
His eyes move from your face down to your arms, noticing the goosebumps racing across your skin.
He halts his movements, frown on his face, murmuring a small: "Cold, honey?" He doesn't wait for an answer before he pulls his thick blanket carefully over your legs and tummy, tucking the edges so the warmth traps against you.
The sudden cocoon of heat makes you melt under him. Your muscles loosen, your breath evens, and the fuzzy, floaty feeling you've been chasing settles deeper. Joel watches your face soften, watches your lashes flutter, and a small, fond smile tugs at his mouth.
Then he starts with his thrusts.
He rocks, rocks and rocks into you, slow, agonising, sweet while staying true to his promise: just the tip.
Each tiny thrust is measured, patient, meant only to keep you drifting. His free hand slips under the blanket to rest over your belly, thumb rubbing soothing circles while he keeps the rest of you covered and safe.
His hand then slides lower where your bodies meet. His thumb finds your clit, circling that swollen nub with firm, steady pressure that matches the pace of his shallow thrusts. The dual sensation makes your breath hitch, your hips twitching towards him.
"Oh, my sweet babygirl," he whispers. "You're so close, aren't you."
And you were. So so close.
His thumb presses harder, rubbing tight circles while his cockhead continues its lazy, teasing slide. You hiccup, the praise hitting you like a spark, heat flooding through your core as your muscles clench around him.
Your orgasm builds fast, faster than you can realise—cresting without any warning. Your thighs tremble on either side of his hips, your back arching off of the bed as pleasure crashes over you. Soft, whiney whimpers spill from your lips: "daddydaddydaddy," while your walls pulse and squeeze around the tip still nestled just inside you.
"That's it. There you go, honey," Joel murmurs, his voice steady and encouraging. His thumb doesn't stop its relentless rubbing, drawing out every wave. "Squeeze it...yes, juuust like that. You're milking me without even having me inside. Such a good, needy little girl."
Your body responds to every word, clenching tighter around his head as the aftershocks ripple through you.
Joel keeps the slow, shallow movements going, letting you ride it out while his thumb gentles on your oversensitive clit. The warmth of his body surrounds you, his free hand stroking your hip in soothing circles as your breathing slowly evens out.
But then his hips start to tremble too, you can see the muscles in his forearms cord as he holds himself back, his knuckles white where they grip the bed on either side of your head.
Your sweet daddy was getting hard...and he was trying his oh so best to not fill you up in one, quick thrust.
With his now hard tip pressed inside you, his thumb leaves your clit to hold into your hips.
Joel groans low, his eyebrows furrowing together.
The head of his cock feels hotter now, thicker, the veins along his shaft pulsing against your entrance as he gradually swells inside the tight ring of muscle.
You feel the change immediately—his tip stretching you wider, the pressure building deeper even though he still refuses to push past that first inch.
A soft whimper slips out before you can stop it.
"Daddy...I'm gonna...again...I can't...please... please just fill me..."
Joel shakes his head gently, his free hand stroking your thigh in soothing circles.
"No, no. You stay right there," he murmurs, voice warm and steady. "Just feel it, babygirl. Feel how big Daddy's getting for you."
His cock throbs harder inside your entrance, the flared head catching on every flutter of your walls as he rocks forwards again, teasing without giving you more.
Your impatience grows fast.
Your legs kick lightly against the mattress, your hips rolling up to chase more of him, desperate to pull him deeper.
Joel clicks his tongue softly and pulls out completely, his wet cock slapping against your mound.
"Hey. Hey. Oh, honey. It's okay," he soothes, gathering you up into his arms before you can protest. "Didn't you promise me you'd behave tonight, hm?"
He shifts back against the headboard and settles you into his lap, your thighs straddling his hips, your face pressed to his chest.
"M'sorry, daddy...i'm tryin' but I need you..." you mumble into his chest, tears already falling from your eyes.
"Shhh, easy now, it's okey." he whispers against your hair, one big hand rubbing slow circles on your back while the other reaches down to grip his cock again.
He lines himself up beneath you and then—oh.
He starts to lower you, inch by careful inch.
The thick head parts your folds once more, but this time he sinks deeper, stretching your walls open around his full length.
"There you go...easy." he whispers into your ear while he moves so so agonisingly slow that you feel every ridge, every pulse, every vein dragging along your sensitive insides until he's buried to the hilt inside you.
"Too much, daddy..." The words comes out muffled against his shirt as you bury your face further in his chest, overwhelmed by how completely he fills you. Your body trembles around him, adjusting to the deep stretch, your arms wrapping tight around his torso.
"I know, babygirl...I know. Big stretch." He murmurs into your hair.
He holds you close, rocking his hips in tiny, shallow movements that keep him seated deep without thrusting hard.
"Bet that feels real good now in your pussy, hm? All deep inside now." He murmurs.
Your face comes up from his chest to look at him, cheeks flushed, mouth gaping open. A soft "mhm,"comes from your lips before your face goes into his chest again.
With every gentle thrust your whimpers—those tiny, little broken sounds—grow louder and louder the longer he keeps that steady pace.
Joel watches your face the whole time, eyes soft with that sweet mix of concern and affection. When another shaky whine slips out of you, he slows even more, one hand leaving your hip to brush your cheek.
"Open your mouth, babygirl," he murmurs. His fingers trace your lower lip, then nudge gently between your teeth. "Mhm. Open, there you go, that's it. Daddy knows what you need, honey."
He slides two thick fingers past your lips, letting them rest on your tongue while his hips start to rock up into you in those same tender thrusts.
The weight of his cock fills you completely with every slow push, and the fingers in your mouth give you something to suckle on, something to ground you while little you floats away.
"That's my good girl," he whispers, eyes never leaving yours. "Just like that. Keep sucking on Daddy's fingers while he takes care of this pretty cunt."
His thrusts stay soft and steady, the wet sound of your bodies meeting barely louder than your muffled whimpers around his fingers.
Joel chuckles when he feels you biting down his fingers, kissing the top of your head. His hand strokes slow circles over your lower back, steadying you.
"So full of Daddy's cock. You want Daddy to cum in you, baby?"
You nod hazily around his fingers, your walls fluttering around him.
But Joel shakes his head with a soft, teasing pout. "We ain't using any protection, bug." His hand slides down to grip your hip, guiding your movements gently as he continues those slow, shallow rocks.
Your mouth leaves his fingers and you pout too, all soft, all floaty, mumbling, "M'gonna cum, Daddy."
"Yeah, baby? You're gonna cum?" His voice stays gentle even as his hips pick up the pace just a little, small thrusts turning quicker.
Your whimpers grow louder, turning into broken little whines as pleasure coils tight in your belly.
"C'mon then, show your Daddy how good you can cum, bun," Joel sweetly encourages, thrusting steadily until your walls clamp down around him again, creaming and pulsing along his length.
Your soft moans and cries stay muffled against his chest, your body shaking in his arms as the pleasure rolls through you in long, sweet waves.
Each squeeze sending warmth around his cock, each clench sucking him deeper and milking him until Joel couldn't take it anymore.
He pulls out quickly once you're spent, stroking himself fast until hot ropes and ropes of cum paint across your tummy and thighs. You look down hazily, still overstimulated from your orgasm, wrapped up in a blanket of clouds.
He keeps you tucked against him, one hand stroking your hair while the other rubs slow circles on your back. You're already soft and heavy in his arms, eyes fluttering closed as sleep pulls at you.
"You did so well, babygirl." Joel presses a kiss to the top of your head, holding you close. "All worn out now, aren't you, honey?"
The last thing you hear is his voice, low and sweet, humming a lullaby you don't recognize, and the steady, strong beat of his heart beneath your ear.
Tomorrow will come with its own heaviness.
You both know that. The guilt will settle in quietly, embarrassment will whisper untrue thoughts, and neither of you will quite know what to do with it. You'll avoid each other's eyes, speak in short, careful sentences, pretend the night didn't happen the way it did.
But that's tomorrow.
Right now, wrapped in his arms, the world feels small and warm and so so gentle. Right now, his heartbeat is steady under your cheek, and your breathing finally matches his.
For this one quiet moment, you let yourself rest.
And your daddy, with his old, tired ache in his chest, lets himself hold you just a little closer, wishing he could have this forever.
Phewwwww. I don't really know if i like this or not my brain is such a mush bc of this heat and stress so excuse my lack of proofreading!
