Sensational; Part Ii

sensational; part ii

6.8k | joel miller x f!innocent!reader follow-up to sensational

summary: you've tasked joel with teaching you about all of the things you missed. he's back for more...teaching moments. warnings: smut (duh), 18+, mdni. softdom!joel vibes in this one, joel gives reader an anatomy lesson, pet names (lots of dollface) fingering, praise kink to the gods, masturbation (f and brief m), reader gives joel a hand(y), grinding, bit of a corruption kink toward the end, jesus there might need to be a part 3 note: well. look at what you guys did. you went and loved on sensational so much and asked for a part 2 so often that i just had to grant your wishes. i hope you’re fckn happy✌🏼🥹 (this is all jokes i’m so excited to write more of this dynamic teehee)

You'd never counted yourself as a dreamer of any sort; when sleep clouded your brain at night, every thought faded along with it. Aside from the occasional nightmare, reminding you of your parents' absence, you hadn't had an actual dream since you were a kid.

Of course, that night in Joel's house had changed everything, in every possible way. In just an hour or so he had taken your world into his hands, shaped it, flipped it, and returned it to you, unrecognizable. His name was carved into everything you saw and touched, and this included your dreams.

He was everywhere in your head when you slept. So much so that you'd begun to forget which was reality and which was a figment of your imagination, which made your patrols with him all the more humiliating.

Your hands were cold. It was all you could focus on as you followed Joel along your normal patrol route. Just twelve hours had passed since that night in his house, when he'd touched you with rough hands and what taught you what it meant to feel desired. His words still rang clear in your head days later:

Trust me, doll. I've got so much more to teach you.

It sent your head reeling just to think about it now. The memory of his fingertips grazing the side of your face as he'd said it, those brown eyes sparkling with desire for you—a vision of contentment.

You had leaned into his touch subconsciously, reaching a hand up to trace the line of his wrist. His eyes had darted to where your fingers pressed to his skin, a soft grin replacing his satisfied smirk. "I'd better get you home, then," he'd whispered.

It had taken everything in you to ignore the small pang of disappointment that had bloomed in your gut, but it was an easier task when he'd dropped his lips to your forehead.

"No one'll miss me at home," you'd protested quietly, trying not to relish too much in the feeling of his beard scratching at the space between your eyebrows.

This sentiment was true. You still didn't know how things had worked out so well, but after arriving in Jackson, Tommy (the fact that it was Joel's younger brother made this seem all the less coincidental) and Maria had been more than accommodating. They'd offered you your own space, a house to yourself. Granted, it was much smaller than Joel's, but it was your own. It had become home in the four short years you'd lived in Jackson.

No one was waiting for you at home. It was a fact that used to make your throat close up, memories taunting you every moment they could. Now it was a welcomed thought, if it meant that you could remain in the heady presence of Joel Miller.

But he'd only shaken his head, his brown eyes flitting down to your lips before returning to your gaze. "I'm sure they'll notice when you don't come strolling out of your own place in the mornin'," he'd insisted gently. His thumb traced your bottom lip when your shoulders slumped. You hoped you didn't look as pitiful as you felt, your lip threatening to push outward in a pout.

"Might not be able to keep my hands to myself tonight if I let you stay," he'd breathed. You didn't care if he said it as an apology, or if it was actually true.

Because who were you to disagree with him? It was Joel.

So without more than a lingering hand on your wrist, he'd walked you to your door. When you'd teased him for such a chivalrous act, he'd cocked an eyebrow, glancing sideways at you. "Can't just let you walk home alone after that," he'd scoffed, his voice rough again in the outdoors. A few people were still milling about despite it being darker than pitch after nightfall. "M'not a complete scoundrel," he said with a wry grin.

Your front door always looked so inviting, a place for you to take a breath and relax after a long day. In that moment, it was taking everything in you to put one foot in front of the other and return to your own place.

"Scoundrel," you'd mused, hoping the amusement in your voice covered the way you leaned back with every step, as if you could claim one more touch of his body—arm, chest, shoulder—to send you to bed with nothing but him on your mind. "Kind of a big word, wouldn't you say?" you'd teased him, just as he'd done to you. "Sure you know what it means?"

The twitch of his jaw was enough of a reward for your attempt at humor, but your satisfied smirk had been wiped clean off your face when he'd darted a glance around before leaning in, hovering just centimeters from your face.

It occurred to you in that moment that you'd truly only kissed him once. A shame, a voice in your head sighed. His lips were devastatingly plump, even in the darkness.

Joel had stayed there, his eyes tearing down to your mouth before warning you in that deliciously low baritone, "I know what it is. Best get inside," his jaw twitched once more and you caught him clenching and unclenching his fists, "'fore I show you what it means to be a scoundrel."

You'd gone inside with a shaky breath and the return of that familiar pulse that, it seemed, only he knew how to ignite.

—

Joel chose not to look in the mirror when he'd gone home that night. He wasn't sure he'd be able to stand the way his hair was undoubtedly wild, his eyes hard with desire, and his hands still aching with the memory of her squirming body in his lap.

After four years of near silence, this girl had unraveled him. After all those days on patrol with her, nothing to do except look at her when she wouldn't notice, Joel Miller had been undone.

The next day, waking up early with the stiffness in his boxers begging to be dealt with, Joel spit on his palm and wrapped it around his cock, releasing a sigh. Fuck's sake, he thought with a groan. Can't hardly get a full night's sleep anymore.

It should have annoyed him; it was certainly an inconvenience. But if it meant that he'd get to spend more time thinking about her body and her lips and her eyes when she asked those incessant questions, then so be it. He'd never sleep another wink and be glad for it.

It didn't take long for his release to come, not when the memories of her whines were so fresh in his mind. To think that he'd had her on his lap, hips squirming in that way that only she knew...it was enough to make him—"A grown fuckin' man," he reminded himself—spill into his hands and draw ragged breaths into his lungs to recover.

With an arm thrown across his face, he latched onto the image of her in the heat of ecstasy, her eyelids fluttering shut and her lips wet from constantly biting them.

For a moment, he tried to rein himself in. Can't be doin' this, he'd thought while getting ready for patrol that morning. Don't wanna take advantage of her, or fuck her up cause of my inability to control my own desires.

In reality, he'd considered, did she really know what she was getting herself into? With little more knowledge than the mechanics of reproduction, it had been evident with the events of the previous night that she knew nothing of what pleasure could be. Did he really want to be responsible for her discovery of such things?

But when he went to the stables an hour later and saw her standing in the snow with an extra twinge in her grin and her eyes sparkling despite the echoes of fatigue in her irises, every doubt dissipated immediately. He pretended not to notice the way her eyes lingered on his back when they saddled up, heading out of Jackson for the day.

Joel Miller was never one to deny a woman in need. Why should he have stopped now?

—

"How'd you sleep?"

When you looked over at him, almost shocked that he'd broken the silence, your eyebrow quirked up. "Fine," you answered.

It wasn't that this patrol had been disappointing, it was just...ever since you'd left Jackson that morning, you'd been waiting for him to look at you like he had the night before, or to even acknowledge you in the way that you could still remember him doing.

Maybe it was because Tommy was nearby at the time, or maybe he'd changed his mind after all. Maybe you'd overstepped, asking a man so much older than you to teach you all of this. Maybe it hadn't happened at all—your dreams were rather convincing these days.

If it hadn't been for those girls, hell-bent on making you feel ostracized, perhaps you wouldn't have landed yourself in this position. You probably wouldn't have had any reason to be curious about what it all meant, and you could have gone on in comfortable silence with him on your patrols.

With a heavy mind, you blew out a breath. If it hadn't been for those girls, though—you never would have known the creases that sank into the corners of his eyes when he grinned at you.

Beside you, having held back to come up shoulder-to-shoulder, Joel huffed. "Bullshit, darlin'," he scoffed, casting a sideways glance in your direction.

You tightened your hands on the reins. "Excuse me?" you said sharply.

His chuckle was a soft rumble in his chest, and you ached to feel it against your back. "I saw those sleepy eyes at the stables," he crooned, the corners of his eyes crinkling just like you remembered. "Looks like someone didn't get a good night's sleep."

"Oh, and I'm just supposed to believe you slept like a damn baby, then?" You couldn't help the incredulity in your tone, but you blushed when you noticed him smirking, his lips twitching as he fought a smile away.

"'Course not," he shook his head almost dismissively. "Couldn't tell my brain to stop conjurin' pictures of you shakin' in my lap." He adjusted the way he was seated on his horse, and you couldn't help but wonder if he was getting hard at the reminder of the memory.

You, in a similar vein, were trying to ignore the unmistakable feel of heat puddling between your legs. Keeping your eyes forward, you asked, "Is that a good thing?"

Joel nodded. "A very good thing, dollface. You were so good for me last night."

Any air that had been in your lungs left in a rush, and you put a hand to your cheek, warm despite the winter's wind. You thought you heard yourself whine at the sound of the pet name.

Thankfully, he didn't say or do anything to show that he'd noticed. Instead, he tugged his horse to a stop. "Let's get down here," he said. "Walk and talk, yeah?"

The thought of walking beside him after all that had happened the night before was enough to make you freeze in your saddle, suddenly unsure of how to get down. "Yeah," you mumbled, if only to fill the silence.

You could hear the crunch of snow under his boots as he came up beside you, thick gloved hands reaching for your waist. "C'mon, darlin'," he'd insisted, "I won't bite."

There was a note of irony in his tone, and you let him pull you from your saddle, landing in the snow in front of him. Your jacket snagged against his, and you stood there for a moment, letting your frosty wisps of breath coil and furl with his. "What do you mean?" you asked, cursing your ever-present confidence when it came to asking him questions. It seemed that you'd never learn to hold your tongue.

"Hmm?" he hummed in response. "What's what mean?" He stepped away from you to grab the reins in his hand and began to walk forward in the snow.

You shook your head and pushed on, stumbling after him. When did the snow get so deep? "You sounded rather..." you trailed off, searching for the word.

"Oh, here it comes," he mused in that serious tone, hardly covering the teasing lilt that rang clear in his eyes. "Bet you're coming up with a big word right about now, huh?"

You couldn't help it when you rolled your eyes and swatted a hand at the back of his arm. "I was going to say you sounded smug," you finished. "About how you won't bite?"

There it was again. That look of slight surprise at your questions. You waited for a few moments, the two of you trudging along in the snow, before he answered quietly. "We're jumpin' ahead of ourselves, but I s'pose it won't hurt." He shrugged. "Some people like it. Biting."

You furrowed your eyebrows. "Like it?" You looked down at your hands, covered in thick gloves. "Doesn't it hurt?"

Joel smirked. "It can," he considered, "if the person gettin' bitten wants it like that." He brushed your arm with his. "But some people don't like it at all. Just depends."

You braved a look up at his face and swallowed roughly, feeling your core pulse at the sight of his rosy cheeks. "Does it have to hurt?" You didn't mean to sound so desperate; you were just curious. "I mean, is it like...like a real bite?"

It happened so quickly that you hardly had a moment to process. Joel stopped in his tracks, pulled you near, and dipped his head down to your ear. "Don't have to," he murmured, and you were just starting to quiver at the feel of his voice next to your ear when he was brushing your hair from your neck and grazing his teeth against your skin. "Can feel good, if the person doin' the biting knows how."

You couldn't help the hand that shot out to grab his arm, as if it were the only thing that might hold you up. "I'm assuming you know how," you said thickly, eyes wandering on his weathered face. Funny, you thought at the sight of his grin, he looks quite young like this.

Joel shifted his arm so he could squeeze your hand once with his before letting it go. "Don't boost my ego too high, sweetcheeks," he warned, but you could hear the humor in his voice. "Might never let go if you do."

You knew he was kidding, but the prospect that he was being serious made your stomach flutter and forced you to clench your thighs together, bringing the forefront of your attention back to the frustration that was pooling between your legs. "Joel," you muttered in a whine, not quite realizing you'd said it until he was looking at you with a twinge of concern.

"What's up, doll?" he asked, slowing to a stop. "Somethin' wrong?"

A curly tendril of his graying hair was blown into his face with the winter wind, and you wished you could brush it away with your fingers like he'd done just moments ago. "I..." you inhaled deeply, and shifted your weight. "I'm..."

It took him a moment to understand, and when he did, his eyes sparkled. "Oh, doll," he cooed, reaching forward to tug you closer to him. "Need something', huh?"

You leaned your head forward until your forehead rested against him, breathing in the scene of pine and old leather and that heady musk that was utterly Joel. Nodding into his strong chest, you brought your hand up to his wrist and tugged it down, down, down...there.

Joel's large hand cupped the mound between your legs and you swallowed harshly as it pulsed again, begging for the sweet release he'd given you the night before. "Fuck," he breathed, the vibrations of his voice rolling against your skin. "Shoulda told me you were this bothered, baby," he hummed.

You lifted your head. "I've been trying," you said in a pitiful whine, although this wasn't entirely true, and he knew it. "Why does it...why do I ache so bad?"

His smirk quivered, and his pupils were suddenly huge as he withdrew his hand from where it covered your heat, exposing it to the frigid winter air once more. "I think we've gone far enough, don't you?" he winked. "Think we may as well head back."

The implications of what would happen when you got back to Jackson made your head spin. Nodding feverishly, you let go of the twinge of embarrassment at your eagerness. "Yes, please," you hiccuped.

His tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip. "Good," he murmured.

—

This was the worst possible outcome.

Just when you'd worked up to exactly where you wanted to be with Joel, with his hands on you and his intentions leading you back to his house (and hopefully his couch), Tommy stopped you at the stables.

Well, not you. Not you at all, actually. He stalked up to his older brother and said, Meeting at my place, Joel."

He'd just gotten down from his saddle to help you do the same and was letting his hands linger on your waist when the interruption happened. With his hungry eyes locked on yours, he'd been leaning into your touch and hovering his hands just inches from your heat.

You could have sworn he jumped out of his skin at the sound of Tommy's voice; you just hoped it was because of his infamous hearing loss on his ride side and decidedly not because he'd been caught standing so close to you.

"We just had a meeting last week," he said gruffly, his eyes still searching yours. For what, you weren't sure—but you were quickly growing addicted to finding those rare flecks of gold buried in the espresso brown seas reflected back at you. His hands clenched involuntarily, and given the fact that they were resting around your hips, you got a delicious lick of pleasure that shot through your pelvis at the sensation.

Tommy didn't seem to be in the mood for dawdling. "And now we're having one this week," he insisted. "My place. Maria and the others are waiting."

You lifted your chin to see him close his eyes in annoyance. His mouth opened once; he closed it. When he opened it again, his eyes flashed along with the movement. "Alright, I'll be there in a minute," he said tersely, and you pretended not to notice the way his gloved thumb rubbed a slow circle on your hip. An apology, perhaps.

When he didn't move, you blushed with smug satisfaction. It had never been more clear that he didn't want to move.

"Joel, it's important." Usually, you'd never had an issue with Tommy. Now, of course, the sound of his voice clawed at your every hope for tonight.

With a soft look at your lips, Joel jerked his head to look at his brother. "I said give me a fuckin' minute," he said, his words clipped. "Fuck's sake," he muttered as he turned around. "Just answerin' a goddamn question," he finished, soft enough that you were sure his brother couldn't hear.

Tommy grumbled his fair share of disapproving words, but you couldn't help the grateful bubble that bloomed in your gut when you heard the shuffle of his boots as he left you alone in the stables with Joel.

He waited a moment or two before letting out a soft sigh. You couldn't have known how disappointed he was, but the way he lifted a hand to your cheek was clue enough. "New lesson, dollface," he said.

A pang of regret hit your stomach and you found yourself shaking your head. "Please?" you asked in a quiet voice. "I don't want a new lesson."

Joel grinned and sucked in a sharp breath. "I know, baby, I know." The familiar phrase threw you back to the night before, when he'd had his hands all over you, reassuring you with those exact words. But now, it wasn't a comfort. "But if I'm not around and you need to feel good..." His hand trailed down your cheek, brushed against your chest and returned to its previous spot between your legs. "I want you to practice touchin' yourself, yeah?"

His voice had become a near-painful whisper, just loud enough for you to feel rather than hear his words caress your skin. "This of me all you want, darlin'. God knows I'll be thinkin' of you at this damn...meeting," he practically spat the last word, but it didn't take away from the pressure that was building and causing you to blink rapidly. "Think about me," he repeated, "but I want you to explore this pretty body for me so you can tell me all about it when I get back."

The sound of his voice enveloped you, that heady sensation nearly making your knees give out. With a slow nod, you couldn't see yourself ever disobeying him. Not when he asked such sinful things of you.

"Okay," you whispered. "I'll try."

His mouth was in a hard line, his irritation at Tommy's interruption still prevalent. But it softened for a moment when he slid a gloved thumb over your bottom lip, letting it get pulled from its place before bouncing back. You darted your tongue out, wetting your lip in a desperate attempt to taste his leather on your skin; to taste him.

"Good," he said softly. Something new pulsed at the sound of his praise, but you fought it down. "I'll see you soon, doll."

—

Despite everything you tried when you got home—despite squeezing your eyes shut and picturing that dimple in Joel's cheek when he smirked, or the way his arms felt when wrapped around you—nothing helped. The pressure remained, the ache between your legs was ever-present, and yet...

You couldn't give yourself the release you craved. Not like Joel could.

There was no telling how long you tried, hand shoved down your pants in a sour attempt to replicate the feeling he'd given you. Your fingers were clumsy, untrained, and entirely new to the task, leaving you desperate and unsatisfied. A strangled whine left your throat when your mind flashed with the memory of his face near yours, his lips on your own, and his rough hands rubbing that small bud at your center. It was maddening.

He'd asked you to do this one thing, and you couldn't deliver. Of course, you'd never even realized this was a possibility; you'd only ever heard of men bringing themselves to the plummeting precipice of pleasure. You never considered that you could do the same.

But you didn't want to make yourself feel good. You wanted Joel to do it.

After what felt like hours, stuck in your house alone, Joel nowhere to be found, and with your hopes slipping into despair, you gave up. Your fingers would never be as rough or as thick as his. You didn't know how to explore your body when you couldn't tip yourself over the edge to ecstasy; it was impossible.

Weary and defeated, you went to bed with a groan. Joel still hadn't shown up. Either it was a long meeting, or...you didn't want to entertain the thought that he'd possibly forgotten about you. About your task to be completed.

You actually did drop off into a dreamless sleep, but when you woke to the sound of a knock at your door, you were almost positive the dreams had begun again. Swinging your legs out of bed, you trudged to the door with sleep oozing in every movement. The door opened with a click, and you blinked.

"Sorry I'm late, sweetcheeks," Joel breathed. A distant streetlamp, the only one in Jackson, was the sole source of light that illuminated the edges of his broad body on your porch. He looked near-angelic.

You didn't say anything for a moment, only crossed your arms to keep yourself warm in the face of the wintry outdoors. The relief and anticipation at seeing him here paired with the disappointment and fatigue that it had taken so long warred with each other, creating a dangerous mix as you managed to say, "Are you...hungry? Or something?"

He swallowed, and your head swam with the desire to lay your tongue flat on his neck where his Adam's apple bobbed. "Starving," he groaned, and in one step he was not only in your house but he was all over you, and you were wearing nothing but your thin pajamas.

He'd apparently already taken off his gloves, and when his hand came up to cup your cheek your body registered the chill of his fingers with a shock, despite leaning into his touch all the same. He took a moment to look at you before touching his forehead to yours, pressing his lips to yours gently. You could practically taste the restraint on his mouth, and you wanted nothing more than to beg him for everything.

Something about your face must have given it away when he pulled back because he tapped a finger against your cheek. "You look like you need somethin'." He darted a look down to your legs. "Did you do what I asked?"

You weren't sure what made you lie, but you nodded nonetheless. "Uh-huh."

Even in the dark, he was so close to you that you could see his eyebrow lift in question. You didn't know how he knew, but why wouldn't he? This was Joel. "You didn't come," he concluded, and you ducked your head. "Why not, dollface? I thought I told you to."

The implication that his request was, in fact, a command, didn't slip your mind. Your cheeks burned when you forced yourself to look at him. "I couldn't. I don't know how."

"Sure you do," he whispered. "You did real good last night for me, remember?" His lips ghosted your jaw.

You shook your head. "I don't know how. I've never...made myself come."

When Joel looked at you, you could have sworn his lips twitched, betraying the desire in his movements. "I'm sorry, babydoll," he cooed, bringing his other hand to your cheek. He slotted his lips over yours once more, and it was all you could do not to sink to the floor right there. "We'll have to fix that, won't we?"

You nodded. "Show me? Please?"

Without another word he bent to brush his lips across your hairline—you could have sworn you felt him inhale with his nose in your hair—and murmured, "In the morning, yeah?"

You pulled away to complain but he only gave you a soft smile. It was then that you could see the exhaustion in his face, eyes downturned despite those creases winking at you in the darkness. "But—"

"Told Tommy you need a day off," he clarified. "'Cause you're...sore..." he splayed his hand on your back and tugged you near, voice low. "Ya know, from all that horseback ridin'."

An anticipatory chuckle bubbled from your chest. "No way he bought that," you said breathlessly as he nipped your jawline with his teeth (you were almost sure it was supposed to be a kiss). "I've been patrolling on horseback for years."

Joel shrugged and looked down at you with a smirk. "Who knows? Maybe I should have told him you were waiting for me to come home and make you fall apart on my fingers," he said dismissively, but his tone did nothing to stop your stomach from flipping.

"Oh," you said dumbly, cursing yourself inwardly for how easily you were rendered speechless in his presence. "He'll...he'll really let us take the day off?" Your mind swam with the possibilities of what you could do with an entire day.

He shook his head. "Not us, darlin'. Just you." Tracing the line of your jaw, his lips twisted into a dry smirk. "I'll have to go tomorrow. But," he whispered, squeezing a hand on your hip and cocking an eyebrow at the way your legs wobbled," I'd gladly go every morning all by myself if it meant you were in your bed all day, daydreamin' about me."

It was a heavier confession that you'd expected out of him, and you let out a breathy sigh. "In the morning then," you asked. You swallowed roughly in an attempt to push down the lump of pure need that had risen in your chest, but to no avail.

Joel nodded firmly. "Trust me," he hummed, "in the morning."

So you'd led him to your bed with no more discussion. It hadn't occurred to you that he might not stay the night; he'd come to your place after the meeting like he'd said, and it was the middle of the night. Why wouldn't he have stayed the night?

Despite everything in you fighting to stay awake, the second you returned to your mattress and pulled the covers up, your eyelids drooped. Joel stood at the end of the bed and shed his jacket slowly. "Sleep, doll," he said, his voice echoing in the otherwise silent room as he bent to kick off his boots. "I'll be here when you wake up."

—

Was he getting too close? Was he pushing the boundaries too far, too soon? Probably.

Selfishly, Joel didn't much care.

—

Sure enough—when morning came, when the dull winter sunlight crept into your house and draped the floor in soft yellow, you felt the dip of your mattress beside you and betrayed Joel's presence. He'd stayed. Like he said.

Quite the dedicated teacher, you thought to yourself with a satisfied warmth. You'd felt him climb into bed last night, but despite your every wish for him to press himself to your back and hold you tightly the whole night, he'd kept at least a foot of space between your bodies. Always close enough to touch, but never giving in.

You rolled over and swiped a hand over your face, a few stray strands falling into your eyes. The breath left your chest when you saw him there, eyes open and waiting for you. "Hi," you said, your voice rough with sleep. Again with the monosyllabic responses, you scolded yourself.

Joel hummed, the deep rumble of his voice reverberating through the mattress and into your body. "Looked so sweet like that, darlin'," he mused, his rough hands tucked under his head. He reached one of them toward you and tapped your bottom lip, plump with sheep, with two of his fingertips. "Didn't wanna wake you up."

"You didn't." You weren't sure what made you do it, but you moved closer, shifting your entire body until your nose almost brushed his. Your eyes flitted up to look at the way his graying hair laid messily around the crown of his head, haircuts neglected for who knew how long. "Can we...I want to start now," you mumbled.

His jaw ticked, and he looked like he was swallowing down a grin. "Look at you," he cooed, "so eager. Aren't you hungry, doll?"

You bit your lip and you could have sworn you saw his eyes widen. "Starving," you fumbled over the word, imitating his response to you the night before on your porch.

Joel let go of a chuckle and his eyes danced with mirth. "Always turnin' my words back on me, aren't ya?" When you nodded sheepishly, he slid his hand around to cup the back of your head and he pulled you in, connecting his lips with yours. "Okay, pretty girl," he said. "We'll start. Since you asked so nicely."

His lips were chapped from the cold weather but they were still soft as he pressed them to yours, moving lazily as the two of you blinked away the last clutches of sleep. "Always so soft, these lips," he murmured, and then his hand was moving from your neck to your chest. "Everyone's different, yeah? There's these spots on everyone's body," he said, absentmindedly drawing swirls along the expanse of your chest, making you shiver. "Let's call them...pleasure points."

"Pleasure points," you repeated breathlessly, your stomach fluttering as he rolled a nipple between his thumb and forefinger. "Is that—"

He grinned with a nod. "Think I just found one of 'em, doll." He rolled you onto your back and bent his head down, his breath fanning over your chest and warming you through your thin pajama shirt. "This is how we get you all ready for me, when the time comes."

You nodded quietly and let out a shaky sigh as his hands wandered. He pressed a kiss to your forehead and you practically preened at the feeling of his lips against your skin while his hands squeezed and caressed your breasts, moving over your stomach. "Joel—"

He paused, hand hovering over the hem of your shirt. "What, babygirl?"

You couldn't help the whine that fought its way out of your throat. "Please," you whimpered, squeezing your eyes shut at the pressure that writhed in your core.

Joel's fingers lifted the hem of your shirt, his mouth widening in a grin at the way that your stomach rose and fell in spattered pants. "Come on, darlin'," he crooned, "open those pretty eyes for me. Gotta see you, doll."

It was all you could do not to take his hand in your own and shove it to your core where you needed him desperately, but you did as he asked.

"That's it, baby," he breathed, good girl."

You'd become familiar with the way your stomach clenched at his use of pet names, but this was new. You had done well for him. You wanted to stay that way. "Will you touch me please? I need—"

"So eager," he murmured, leaning in with his lips to your earlobe. "Lemme take my time with you, dollface." And then his lips were wrapping to the soft part of your ear, his teeth grazing at your skin. Paired with this sensation and the heady feeling of his hand on your waistband, fumbling to push his hand beneath it, you arched your back and released a series of high-pitched whines.

"JoelJoelJoelpleasepleaseplease," you were overcome with the pure, unbridled need that was speeding through your body like a tidal wave on a summer day.

"Alright, darlin', alright," he acquiesced, pushing his hand into your waistband and pulling it down over your hips. You didn't even have the mind to be shy about being laid bare to him this way; you just needed him to touch you.

Before you could beg him again, he had his fingertip on your core, sliding it gently through your slick heat. "Oh, baby," he groaned, rutting his hips against your side. His bulge pressed into your hip and you flexed your fingers to reach for it. "M'never gettin' used to how wet you are for me," his voice shook.

One finger became two, and then his fingertips were rubbing sweet circles to your sensitive bud, drawing near pornographic moans to tumble past your lips. "Can I touch you, please?" you begged, your hand fisting your bedsheets. "Wanna touch you, Joel, please."

He hummed against your ear as he swiped another finger against your bud and lifted your hand to his lips. "Sure thing, doll," he said, and placed it in his hair. Your fingers instinctually carded through the coarse strands, and you blushed when his eyes fluttered closed. "Hold on tight if you need to, pretty girl," he grinned, and lemme know if it's too much."

You were going to ask if what was too much, but then he dipped his finger further down your core, notching it at the small opening. You hadn't even thought this far ahead, that things would eventually lead here. Something pulsed and you whined, tugging his hair in your hand.

"Look at you, so ready for me," he murmured against your neck. His tongue swept out to lick a small stripe along the sensitive skin there and when you let out a stuttering breath he chuckled. "You are ready for me, aren't ya, pretty girl?"

You couldn't nod fast enough. "Please," you choked out, and then he was pressing his finger inside you.

It was a small intrusion, but overwhelming all the same. In all your years, you'd never had the thought that it could feel this good to have him close to you like this. He was only as far as the first knuckle, but with the way that his bulge was nudging your hips, he wanted much more. "Good girl," he breathed, "such a good girl, openin' your legs like this."

"Wanna touch you," you whimpered again, vision blurring with the desperation that coursed through your veins. "Please, Joel, let me touch you."

He kissed you, but you could hardly focus enough to move your lips against his. "Already touchin' me," he said. "You want more?"

"Yes," you nodded feverishly, releasing your hand from his hair. "I wanna..." you looked down at his bulge and licked your lips.

Joel's eyes were wide as he whispered, "For fuck's sake, darlin', when you're cryin' about it..." he swiped a thumb across your cheeks, collecting a teardrop you hadn't even known was there. "How could I say no?"

Thankyouthankyouthankyou were the only words in your mind, a jumbled mess as you reached for him. Your finger traced his length and before you knew it, you were reaching inside his boxers to release it from its constraints. "Holy fuck," you whined, bucking your hips into his hand as you saw just how big he was, long and thick and heavy in your hand. "Need it," you found yourself whispering. "Need you."

It was all you could do before he pushed his finger further, then out, and then in, just enough to throw you closer to that addicting edge of ecstasy. Once again, you found yourself enveloped in the thick pressure of pure desire in his arms.

He pressed the pad of his thumb to your bud and swirled circles in your heat, his lips connecting to your ear once more. "Alright, baby. Alright, baby," he practically chanted in a low tone, nibbling on your lobe just hard enough to pinch the skin. "C'mon now, squeeze my finger like that, that's it," he groaned, drawing out the final two syllables, "good girl."

With his hand in the crux of your legs and his mouth connected to your ear, whispering the filthiest things you'd ever heard in your sheltered life, you threw your head back into the pillow and curled your legs toward him, your hand squeezing his cock tightly as you continued your strokes.

The sounds that erupted from your throat as you burst in a state of pure pleasure were the most pitiful (and yet electrifying) noises you'd ever heard yourself make, and you couldn't help but continue rolling your hips into his hands, chasing the feeling until it became more intense and your legs began to twitch again. "Joel," you mewled, voice breaking, "I need you."

A teasing chuckle sounded, and your cheeks warmed as he removed his hand from your slick. "So much you don't know, dollface," he crooned, tracing his index down the line of your nose. He pushed another, shining with your release, into your mouth. The sweetness nearly made you fall apart again. "Don't know if you're ready for that."

Your body was on fire, nearly throbbing with the insatiable need to be wrapped in his arms, with his hands everywhere, his lips anywhere. Your hand had been moving on his shaft, but his hips stuttered with your next words. "I am," you insisted, "I need you, please. I wanna feel you everywhere."

Joel's pupils went wide and he shuddered out a breath, mumbling a string of curses with his eyes shut. He thrusted his hips into your hand and then your skin was sticky and warm with his own release, some of it landing on your stomach where you lay beside him.

"Shit," he groaned with a rueful smirk. "Maybe I'm not ready for that yet." His breath fanned deliciously over your skin as he continued. "Can't hardly last long enough with the thought of stretching you out like that, baby."

You grinned, and you didn't mind the fact that he could definitely see the flush in your cheeks. "No?"

He shook his head. "Fuck no. I don't wanna think about how quickly I'll come if I were to be inside that pretty pussy yet," he said with a short and gentle tap to your mound. When your hips arched off the mattress and you whined at the sensitivity, he cooed apologetically.

"Isn't that a good thing?" you frowned slightly. "I thought I was making you feel good."

"Makin' me feel too good," he mused, bringing his hand up to hold your face toward him once more. He winked. "Can't have me comin' before you do, sweet girl. Not very gentlemanly of me."

You couldn't help the pang of doubt that clouded your face, and it must have been obvious, because then he was cupping the back of your head and pulling you to his chest. Humming into your neck, he smirked. "Besides, I want to be able to take my sweet time with you. To see you squirmin' beneath me like you do, baby? S'enough to make the pope leave the goddamn church."

tysm for reading, i can't believe you guys convinced me to write MORE filth for these two. u made it to the end, lemme know what you thought!

it’s just so good 😭

san antonio

12.5k / dbf!joel x f!reader

warnings: 18+, minors dni. smut. more smut. smut after that. age gap (reader is 23, joel is in his late 40s). dbf!joel, dom!joel, feisty reader, oral (m receiving), toxic!joel, light violence, edging, teasing, nonconsensual touching/harassment (creepy men at the bar), protective!joel, possessive sex, unprotected p in v, shower sex, pet names (angel, baby, pretty girl, etc), praise kink, no use of y/n.

a/n: im back...with another ridiculously long chapter and a ridiculously horny joel miller. i tried to incorporate a lot of requests this time around - shower sex, date night, pda, feisty reader...if you're someone who requested any of those i hope i could do 'em justice. i wanna thank y'all a million times over for all of your support on this series. it means everything to me. finding this fandom and being able to share this writing has been incredible. i love every one of y'all.

this is part 7 of my dbf!joel series. read the previous parts here (or read this standalone):

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6

masterlist here. kofi here, if you feel like leaving a tip!

“C’mon,” he says, when you don’t move. “‘Less you’d rather starve.”  He turns and walks off. You swear softly and scrabble at your own door, wrenching it open and jumping down to the asphalt. You have to jog to catch up to him.  “You’re supposed to wait,” you pant, when you reach him. He shrugs. He pulls his car key from his pocket and clicks the lock. The truck chirps somewhere behind you.  “Y’were takin’ too long,” he says.  “You’re a gentleman.”  He looks at you. The corner of his lip curves.  “’N you’re a brat,” he says, cooly. 

You don’t see much of Joel the rest of the week. It’s not for lack of wanting on either of your parts. You’re just…busy. You spend your days applying to every job you can get your hands on, and your nights watching shitty cable movies with your dad. 

Your dad is even clingier than usual. He’s cockblocked you twice in as many days. You’d planned on sneaking out last night, after dinner — making up some excuse and going to Joel’s place, instead — and he’d stopped you with one foot out the door. Guilt-tripped you into eating frozen pizzas and watching the Hallmark Channel’s mind-numbing Christmas in July special. 

So you’d stayed home, and swallowed the ache between your legs. Tried to think about anything other than the fact that you could be getting railed by your father’s best friend, right now, if you weren’t watching the world’s worst movie instead. 

You’d texted Joel to let him know you wouldn’t make it. Some innocuous complaint about Hallmark and frozen pizza. You hadn’t been expecting much of a response. 

But he had responded, about five minutes into the opening scene. You’d felt your phone buzz between couch cushions and fished it out of the dark. 

Joel: That’s a shame. Had big plans for you. 

You’d almost thrown your phone at the TV. And of course he hadn’t fucking responded to anything after that — even when you’d double and triple texted a series of frustrated ???s — because he’s a tease. 

“Turn your phone off,” your dad had said. “It’s movie night.” 

And then — 

“Who’re you talkin’ to, anyway? That Hayes kid?” 

You’d stared at Joel’s name on your screen. Clicked your phone off, and let it slide back between cushions. 

“No,” you’d muttered. “Just a friend.” 

—

By the time day three of no Joel rolls around, you’re coming out of your skin. It’s kind of embarrassing, how badly you want to see him. 

So when your dad mentions him at breakfast, casually, like he’s reporting on the weather — you choke. Your mug comes down hard on the glass. 

He stares at you. You wave him off. 

“Sorry,” you sputter. “Swallowed wrong.” 

“Mm.” He shakes his head. “So damn jumpy lately. Couldn’t even make it through Christmas in July.” 

“I’m not jumpy,” you bristle. “That was just a terrible movie.” 

His jaw drops. He glares at you, mock-wounded. 

“Not terrible,” he says. “Classic. Iconic. Fun for the whole family.” 

You lift a hand in surrender. Whatever you say. Your dad leans back in his seat, hands laced behind his head. He gives you an easy, goofy grin and you almost feel bad for steering the conversation back to his best friend. 

“You were saying something about, um—” You clear your throat. Drop your gaze from your dad to your coffee. “About Joel, I think? Before?” 

“Oh, sure.” He sits up. Slaps his hands on his thighs. “Alright. Listen. Hear me out ‘fore you say no.” 

“Not off to a promising start.” 

“Just—listen,” he says. “I was s’posed to head down to San Antonio with Joel this weekend. Just two nights. He’s meetin’ a client there. Some hotshot lady buildin’ a big house here in Austin. Wants to hire him for the job.” 

You sip your coffee. It burns your throat on the way down. 

“Okay,” you say, slowly. 

“I can’t go. Got my own client problems. Need to stay here this weekend and put out some fires.” 

“Okay.” You blink. “So…” 

“So, I promised I’d help him out. S’posed to be a two person job. He’s haulin’ blueprints, samples, all kinds of shit to San Antonio. Go a lot faster for him if he had an extra set of hands.” 

You’re not stupid. The only reason you don’t immediately pick up on what he’s asking is because you can’t quite believe what you’re hearing. 

“So—sorry.” You shake your head. “You’re asking me to—”

“I’m askin’ you to go with him. As a favor. For me. You can—put it on your resume, or somethin’. For all those jobs you been applyin’ for.” 

He must take your blank stare for distaste, because he doubles down. 

“Look,” he says, when you forget to blink, “I know he ain’t the easiest. You been weird about him since you got home. But—”

“I haven’t been weird,” you say. 

There’s an awkward pause.

“Okay,” your dad says, lifting his palms. “Whatever. Anyway, point is, he’s a pain in the ass. But I gave him my word. He’ll take good care ‘a you. And you hardly have to see him. Just — drive up there with him, help him with the client. That’s it.” 

“That’s it,” you repeat. Your throat feels thick. 

“C’mon,” your dad says. “Two days. You can handle him for two days, right?” 

You can feel your heartbeat behind your eyes. 

It’s kind of perverse, him pleading like this. You wonder what he’d do — to you, to Joel — if he knew just what he was offering. If he knew he was sitting here at the breakfast table, practically begging his only daughter to fuck off on an all-expenses-paid weekend of sex with his best friend. 

So, really — you should say no. It’s the right thing to do. The good daughter thing to do. 

But you ticked the good daughter box already, last night, when you watched that godawful movie instead of sneaking off to Joel’s. So…

“Yeah,” you say, and hope your voice sounds even. “Sure. I’m not doing anything.” 

“You’re a lifesaver,” your dad says, and you almost feel bad. “I’ll break the news to Joel. Hope he won’t be too disappointed. S’posed to be a boy’s weekend, ’n all.” He looks at you. “No offense, kid.” 

“Mm.” You shake your head. You have to bury your smile in the rim of your cup. “None taken.” 

—

Joel, as it turns out, is pretty far from disappointed. 

Your dad wanders over there around noon to let him know the change in plans. You get a text from Joel ten minutes later. 

Joel: Heard you’re my new plus one. 

You can’t help smiling. Your fingers fumble on the keyboard when you go to text him back. 

You: disappointed? 

Joel: I’ll live. 

You smirk. 

You: anything i should pack? clothing-wise?

He waits a couple seconds before responding. You can see his three grey bubbles appear and disappear at the corner of your screen. 

Joel: The less the better. 

Your head swims. 

—

It’s a ninety-minute drive to San Antonio. 

You listen to music for the first half of the drive. Joel lets you DJ and doesn’t kick up a fuss — not even when you put on a 2000s Party Hits playlist and sing into your phone like a mic. He refuses to sing along, though. You tilt your phone to his mouth at every chorus and watch the almost-imperceptible shake of his head. You have a niggling suspicion he’s trying not to laugh. 

You nudge him halfway through Fergalicious. He tries his best to ignore you. 

You lean forward and click off the music. Fergie trails into silence. 

“You know,” you say, “you’re not very fun.” 

He scowls. 

“I’m fun,” he says.

“Oh, yeah? Name the last time you had fun.” 

He tears his eyes from the road for a split second. Just to glare at you. 

“Jesus.” He shakes his head. “How long is this fuckin’ drive?” 

“Has anyone ever told you,” you say, leaning over the center console, “how sweet you are?” 

He grunts. 

Your phone buzzes before you can torture him more. You pull it back down to your lap and tap at the lockscreen. 

Hayes: 1 new message 

It buzzes again before your screen can go dark. 

Hayes: 2 new messages

Your heart sinks. You click your phone off and let the screen go black. 

“Good?” Joel asks, when you’re quiet just a beat too long. 

You look up. Nod, quickly, and stash your phone in your pocket. 

“Yeah,” you mumble. “Sorry.” 

He shrugs. Unfazed. Your gaze lingers on his profile: the square cut of his jaw, the scrunch of dark eyes when he squints at the sun. His hand on the wheel, wrapped up on worn leather. 

Hayes and his unread texts flee your thoughts before they settle. You’ve got one thing on your mind, and he’s sitting six inches away. His lip curves, like he can feel you staring, and a bolt of longing stings your core. 

When he speaks he doesn’t look at you. His stare is fixed on the road. 

“Can feel ya starin’, pretty girl.” His jaw flinches, like he’s trying not to smile. “See somethin’ you like?” 

“Not staring,” you say, as you continue to stare. 

You shift in your seat, trying to alleviate some of the tension between your legs. His gaze flicks briefly from the road. Just long enough to stoke the fire on your skin. 

You twist to face him fully. You rest your elbow on the console and lean over into his space. 

“I’m not,” you echo. You lay your free palm on his knee and smirk when he stiffens. 

A muscle jumps in his leg where your fingertips dig into denim. He doesn’t say anything, though. Not until your hand moves higher, skating over his knee and up the muscled expanse of his thigh. 

Your fingers tighten. You edge closer to the seam of his jeans. 

“What are you doin’?” he mutters. 

You pause. Your hand hovers at the inside of his thigh. 

“Nothing,” you say. 

You move again. Your fingers drift into his lap and trace the growing hardness there. 

He drags in a breath. It breaks the heavy silence in the car. 

“Let me,” you say, quietly. You squeeze, gently, and his exhale stumbles. “Please.” 

He huffs. His eyes break from the road, long enough to look at you. 

“Go on, then,” he growls. “Get a fuckin’ move on.” 

Your skin flushes. His lip quirks. 

“Go on,” he repeats. “Wanna run that mouth so much. Might s’well give it somethin’ to do.” 

You swallow. White heat pools between your legs. 

You stroke the head of his cock through his jeans and he sucks in a breath. Your hand pulls higher, to the metal teeth of his zipper, and you steal a look at him. 

He’s still staring stubbornly ahead. Jaw tight. Eyes glued to the highway. Hand looped around the wheel with a white-knuckle grip. 

You work his fly down. His fingers flex on the wheel. 

He lifts his hips. Gives you just enough leeway to drag his jeans and his boxers down far enough to free his cock. 

The truck lists to the left. He pulls it back to center with a curse. 

“Shit,” he mutters. His voice sounds strained. “You—”

You don’t wait for him to finish. You lean further across the console, braced on your elbow, and take the tip of his cock into your mouth. 

He curses. Covers his groan with a cough. 

You smile. Your lips curve around his cock, squeezing gently when you take him deeper. Your palm stays flat on his thigh, resting on faded denim as you ease him past your tongue. 

He’s big. A hell of a lot bigger than anyone you’re used to. Especially at this angle, draped across the console with his cock stuffed in your mouth. He nudges the back of your throat and you choke. 

“Fuck,” he drawls. You can hear his velvet smirk. “Too big, baby?” 

You have to clench your fist to keep from whining. Your nails dig into your palm. You try to tell him no, fuck off, screw you — and all you manage is a strangled mmph. 

So much for that. You hear his satisfied chuckle somewhere above you. 

“S’okay,” he says. “You’re tryin’.” 

You mumble something defiant around his cock, and the hum of your voice makes him groan. You relax your throat and take him deeper — as far as you can — and the added inch makes him hiss. 

Then you ease up, and drag your mouth up his length, and release him with a tight little pop. Spit drizzles from your lip to the head of his cock. 

His hips twitch. He bears down so hard on the wheel that the leather starts to groan. 

You stick your tongue out. Lick at the tip of his cock with tiny, shallow strokes until his palm picks up and smacks hard on the wheel. 

“Fuck,” he growls. “Stop it. Just— ”

You pause. Your breath pants at the head of his swollen cock. You wrap a fist around his base and hold him steady, just in front of your tongue. 

He swears again. Tries to strain into your mouth. Pre-cum beads at the tip of his cock and drips to the top of your fist. 

“I can take it,” you say. 

He grunts. Irritated, turned on — both, maybe. 

“Let me show you.” 

He grunts again. A little more desperate, this time. You feel his truck drift to the right before he drags a sharp breath and corrects on the wheel. 

You lick a stripe up his shaft. He groans. 

“Unless…” You look up. He swallows, hard. “Unless you think I can’t.” 

“No,” he huffs. “Fuck. No. Know you can, angel. Show me. Fuckin’—Christ.” 

You smile. You swirl your tongue along the head of his cock, lapping at the mess he’s already made, and take him back between your lips. 

It’s almost too much. You can tell. His cock pulses on your tongue. 

“Easy,” he gasps. “Slow, baby, easy.” 

You ignore him. You hollow your cheeks and swallow him deeper, all the way to the base, until your lips brush his pelvis. Your throat burns. He throbs inside your mouth, hot and thick and velvet-soft. He’s too fucking big for this, but you’re determined. 

One of his hands flies off the wheel. You hear it pound against the window. 

“Fuck,” he groans. “God — damn. You’re a fuckin’ — ah, angel, slow. Fuckin’ — slow.” 

You grin. But you listen, this time. You take it slow. Mostly because you’re having fun, torturing him, and it’s another half hour to San Antonio. You figure he can suffer a little longer. 

You ease up. Your head bobs slower and you hold him at the back of your throat. You hum softly, ignoring the heat that drips between your thighs. 

His breathing evens. Just slightly. You can tell whenever he takes his eyes off the road and looks at you, wrapped around his cock, because the truck lists dangerously close to the median. He must drag it back from the brink five times in ten minutes. 

“Told you you were fuckin’ — dangerous,” he punches out. “Gonna get us — fuck, baby — gonna get us killed.”  

You drag your mouth from his cock. His eyes leave the road and roll to the sky. 

“I could stop,” you offer. 

There’s a grunt. His hips chase your mouth. 

“Think I’d rather die,” he says, trailing to a groan when you take him back to your mouth. 

You’re content to keep him on the edge like that for a while. Until you feel the truck slow, to what you assume must be the speed limit, and you hear his finger taptap on the wheel. 

“Cop,” he mutters. “Keep your head down.” 

You sputter. You try to slow up — to pull your head back — and he snakes a hand from the wheel. It tangles in your hair and holds your head steady. Your mouth stays fastened around his cock. 

“What did I just fuckin’ say?” he breathes. 

You mumble. His hand loosens in your hair, forming a makeshift ponytail as he guides your mouth updownup. 

Your pulse quickens. Wetness seeps to the hem of your panties. You half expect the whine of sirens; the flash of blue and red with every shallow thrust of his hips. 

“Attagirl,” he says. His gaze is trained on the windshield. On the road. “Such a pretty mouth, baby. Better not get us into any fuckin’ trouble.” 

You shake your head, or try to. It’s kind of useless, with his hand stunting your movements. His thigh twitches under your palm.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “You wanna swallow, babygirl?” 

You nod, as best you can with his cock down your throat. His fingers stroke your hair. 

“Not til he’s fuckin’ gone,” he says, with a glance at the cop in his rearview. “Y’hear me?” 

Your breath quickens. You squeeze your thighs against the ache that pulls there. You try to nod, again, and it’s good enough for Joel. His cock pulses twice at the back of your throat and he spills hot across your tongue. 

He breathes hard. A broken moan slips past his lips. 

“Fuck,” he pants. “Fuck, baby.” 

You draw back, but you don’t get up. You stay sprawled over the console, head in his lap, mouth full of his cum. A little bit spills free and drizzles down your chin, and it’s filthy — it’s fucking filthy — but you don’t think twice. You just do it. You hold it there in your mouth, let it drip down your chin — because he asked you to. Because you want to. 

The cop must pass, because you hear Joel breathe out a sigh, and the truck picks up speed again. His hand goes flat against your head, nestled snugly in your hair. 

“He’s gone,” he says, so casually it makes you weak. “Sit up, pretty girl. Swallow.” 

You pull yourself out of his lap. Slump back against your own seat. He rips his eyes from the road long enough to watch you swallow. 

“Good girl,” he mutters. He takes one hand off the wheel and reaches over, swiping his thumb across the mess on your chin. “Listen a whole lot better when your mouth is full.” 

You shrug. You pull the mirror down on the passenger side and fix your rumpled hair. 

“Maybe you should shut me up more often, then.” 

You watch him swallow. 

“Jesus,” he mutters. 

You snap the mirror closed. Look over at him with a raised brow. 

“What?” 

“Nothin’.” He shakes his head. You’re pretty sure he almost laughs. “Not gonna get any fuckin’ work done.” 

—

Joel checks you both into the hotel. It’s nice enough. A Hyatt in the center of downtown. 

You’re booked for two separate rooms. It’s your dad’s reservation — and, naturally, he’d opted for his own room. 

The woman at reception confirms the booking. Rooms 1410 and 1412. Joel stops her with a quiet hand. 

“Just need the one,” he says. 

Your heart skips. You’re not sure why. You can blow him all day in the front seat of his car, but it’s the fact he wants to share a room that brings on the butterflies. 

You lay your hands on the front desk. Lean into the counter, casually, and pretend like you’re not interested in the conversation Joel’s having with the concierge. 

“—change of plans,” he’s explaining. “Don’t need it.” 

The lady hesitates. She looks at him. Then you. 

“Okay,” she says, after a beat. “And is that — sorry, is that gonna be two Queens? Or—”

Joel tilts his head. His fingers trill on the counter. 

“That all you got?” 

She consults the computer. 

“We have, uh — one King left.” 

“King, then,” he drawls. “Only need one bed.” 

You swallow. The concierge nods. 

“Sure. That King room is one of our suites, though. It’d be about — $300 extra, for the two nights.” 

He tosses you a sidelong glance. You start to shake your head. 

“It’s fine,” you say, quickly, “you don’t have to—”

He draws his wallet out of his back pocket. Slides his card across the counter. 

“Work trip,” he says, when the lady takes his card. “No expense spared.” 

You have to hide your blush in your sleeve. 

— 

The room is nice. About $300 nicer than it needs to be, thanks to Joel’s spur of the moment upgrade. You’re on the 14th floor — very top — with a bird’s eye view of downtown from your window. You can make out the tops of peoples’ heads as they gather at a crosswalk. 

Joel carries your bag up from the car. He sets it down by the bed and joins you at the window, caging you against the glass with his chest to your back. 

Your body responds immediately. Your head tilts back, into his shoulder, and he bends to nip at your neck. His hands settle heavy on your waist. 

“This is nice,” you say, softly. “The room. And — this.” 

He hums. His stubble rakes your neck. 

“You do this for all your work trips?” you murmur. “Or am I just special?” 

His mouth drops to your shoulder. His hands squeeze gentle at your sides. 

“You’re certainly somethin’,” he mutters. Teasing. 

You twist to face him. Your back thuds softly against the window. You rest your arms on his shoulders and fix him with a grin. 

“Rude,” you say. 

He huffs. You watch his gaze dart from your mouth, to your eyes, to your mouth, again. 

“Meetin’s not til tomorrow,” he says. His voice is low. “We could…y’know.” 

He nods out the window. To the street below, lined with life. You catch his drift. 

“Mr Miller,” you gasp. “Are you suggesting a date?” 

His jaw flickers. “Don’t fuckin’ — call me that.” 

“What? Mr Miller?” You laugh. “You don’t like that?” 

He stares at you. You clock the change in his eyes; the way they darken, the way his breath pulls — and your brows flick. 

“Oh,” you say. “You do like that.” 

“Fuck,” he growls. “Stop it.” 

“Or…” 

“Or we ain’t goin’ anywhere,” he mutters. “Stay here ’n fuck you, instead.” 

Your fingers bunch at his shirt collar. You tug him into a kiss, and he meets your mouth with a low, hungry groan.

You slip your tongue to his. His cock stirs to life against you and he groans, breaking the kiss before he loses himself. His forehead tips to yours. 

“Go—” he pants, watching you through hooded eyes, “—go get dressed. ‘Fore I change my mind.” 

You smirk. Your arms slip from his neck and drop back to your sides. 

“What am I wearing?” you ask. “Is this, like — fancy?” 

He frowns. “You want fancy?” 

“Not particularly.” 

He grunts. “Then no.” 

You stifle a smile. Tip your head up, quickly, and brush your lips against his jaw. Then you’re ducking out, under his arm, leaving him at the empty window. You rifle through your bag for something date-with-Joel-Miller appropriate and disappear into the bathroom.

—

Joel’s waiting for you when you re-emerge, half an hour later. You look good. Maybe a little nicer than the casual look he’d suggested — slip dress, white sneakers, jacket slouched over your arm — but, fuck it. It’s your first date. 

It takes Joel a hell of a lot less time to get ready. You’re pretty sure all he’s done is swap his t-shirt for a flannel and rake a comb — or his fingers — through his hair. The rest of him looks the same. Same jeans, same boots, same belt he’d driven down in. Never one to make a fuss. 

He’s sprawled across the bed when you come out. His legs are angled off the side, letting his boots dangle. His hands are clasped across his chest. You’re pretty sure he’s asleep, if his heavy breaths are any indication. It’s kind of adorable, as far as Joel goes. Barely eight o’clock, and he’s passed out on the pillows. 

Your phone buzzes before you can wake him. You flip it over in your palm and check the screen. 

Hayes: 4 new messages 

You ignore the notification. You swipe open your messages and text your dad, instead. 

You: made it to san antonio

He responds quickly. Probably been waiting for your update, you think, with a pitiful pang. 

Dad: Thx for update. Have fun! Don’t give Joel too much trouble…

You look up from your phone. Look at Joel, stretched out across the sheets. You smile. 

You: i’ll do my best

But that’s a lie, of course, because you have every intention of giving him trouble. And you do, when you climb quietly to the bed and straddle his waist. 

He blinks himself awake. You roll your hips into his lap and he hums sleepily, hands coming up to grip your sides. 

“Nice nap?” 

He scowls. “Was just — restin’ my eyes.” 

“Oh, sure. Okay.” 

You smile. You bend to kiss him and his hands skate higher, up the dress you’ve worn just for him and to the silk-sheathed shape of your breasts. 

“Thought I said nothin’ fancy,” he murmurs. His palm splays against your breast. He finds your nipple over silk and swipes his thumb across the fabric. 

You gasp. Your hips roll into his. 

“Didn’t wear it for you,” you breathe, which is a dirty fucking lie and you both know it. But he doesn’t kick up much of a fuss. His attention is elsewhere — on his hand, gliding over silk and under your dress and to the edge of lace panties you’re wearing for him. 

He hooks a finger in the band. You swallow, hard, and your hips jerk in his lap. 

“How bout these?” he murmurs. “You wear these for me?” 

You bat his hand away. A blush stains your cheeks. 

“No.” 

“No?” he echoes. He sounds amused. 

“No,” you repeat. Your teeth graze your lip. “Don’t — fuck. Don’t sleep with guys on the first date. And I definitely don’t—ah—” He tugs at your panties, and the fabric drags against your clit, “—don’t sleep with them before.” 

His eyes flash. You hear him mutter a curse. At least he’s awake now, you figure. He could barely keep his eyes open two minutes ago. Now he’s T-minus ten seconds from fucking the life out of you. 

You notice the change in his stare — the shift from sleepy to starving — and you try to wriggle from his lap with a squeal. His finger slips from the band of your panties and his hands curl tight around your hips, holding you squarely in place. 

“Keep it up,” he warns, “’n you’re gettin’ yourself off tonight, pretty girl. Which would be a shame —” 

He slips one hand back under your dress. Swipes his thumb over damp lace. 

“—considerin’ how fuckin’ soaked you are.” 

Your breath catches. You rut your hips into his thumb and your smirk twists to a moan. 

He drags his hand away before you can use it. Slaps it lightly to your hip. 

“Up,” he gruffs. He sits up, off of the pillow, and you crumple to his chest. You wrap your legs around his waist and he gives a playful groan, swinging his feet to the floor while you cling like a koala. 

He stands up and takes you with him, lifting you like you weigh nothing. Your lips nuzzle in the crook of his neck. His hands drift to your ass, and your dress bunches between his fingers when he gives a gentle squeeze. 

“You’re a tease,” you whine, when he sets you down on your feet. You smooth your dress. Flatten your hair with your palm. 

He shrugs. You watch him swipe a room key from the nightstand and shove it deep into his pocket. He’s already halfway to the door when he turns to look at you. 

“You comin’?” 

You huff. You drag yourself across the room and meet him at the door. He holds it open for you and you mutter under your breath. 

“Apparently not.” 

“Clever,” he drawls. He tips his head to the hallway. “Get your ass out there.” 

You roll your eyes, but you do as he says. You hear his shallow chuckle at your back, and the click of the door as he pulls it shut. He joins you in the hallway and slips his hand into yours.

You steal a glance, when you’re sure he’s not looking. You’re pretty sure it’s the first time you’ve ever really seen him smile. 

—

When Joel says not fancy, he means really, decidedly, not fucking fancy. He drives you to a spot about fifteen minutes from the hotel, somewhere off the main road, and when he parks the truck you’re convinced he’s lost. 

But — no. He cuts the engine and looks expectantly at you. 

“Alright,” he drawls. “Out you go.” 

“Here?” You cup your hands to the window. Stare out, squinting at the dark. “In this…abandoned parking lot?” 

He grunts. 

You pull your hands away. Stare at him. 

“Romantic,” you say. “I know I said casual, but—”

He rolls his eyes. Leans over, and unclips your seatbelt. Then he cracks his car door and hops out, dusting his hands on his jeans. 

“C’mon,” he says, when you don’t move. “‘Less you’d rather starve.” 

He turns and walks off. You swear softly and scrabble at your own door, wrenching it open and jumping down to the asphalt. You have to jog to catch up to him. 

“You’re supposed to wait,” you pant, when you reach him. 

He shrugs. He pulls his car key from his pocket and clicks the lock. The truck chirps somewhere behind you. 

“Y’were takin’ too long,” he says. 

“You’re a gentleman.” 

He looks at you. The corner of his lip curves. 

“’N you’re a brat,” he says, cooly. 

Your stomach swirls. You try to scowl, shake your head, something — but it’s too late. He sees the way your eyes dart to his mouth. To the silver buckle on his belt. 

His smile pulls. He puts a broad hand on the small of your back and your core sparks at the contact. 

“S’alright,” he mutters. “Deal with you later.” 

Fuck. You almost turn around right there. March him back to the truck, and make him deal with you in the backseat. But you don’t, because — well, because you’re kind of curious, if you’re honest. You want to know what Joel Miller considers a date. And you’d like to see this parking lot adventure through, now that he’s swindled you out of the car. 

So you suck it up, and ignore the slick pull between your legs, and follow him over cracked asphalt. 

He tugs you around a bend and your eyes go wide. You make a small, surprised sound and turn to look at him. 

“Okay,” you say. “I take it back. This is cool.” 

He shakes his head. But he looks pleased, you think. Like he’s happy you’re impressed. 

And it is cool. Like, surprisingly so. You’re still in a parking lot — graffiti and asphalt and concrete medians — but a huge swath of space has been reclaimed by string lights, and food trucks, and wooden picnic tables. Colorful lanterns on the ground and woven runners on the tables. Music humming from outdoor speakers. And it’s crawling with people — vendors, couples, families. Like a makeshift night market, hidden smack-dab in the heart of downtown. 

“How’d you find this?” 

He shrugs. He looks annoyingly smug. “Could tell you,” he says. “I’d have to kill you, though.” 

You glare at him. Punch lightly at his sleeve. He catches your arm and pulls you close, into his chest, and you bury your nose in his flannel. It smells like him. Warm. Safe. Light. He presses a kiss to the crown of your head and your heart skips. 

People can see you. There are a lot of lights, and a lot of people, and a lot of eyes on you when Joel kisses your head. You make eye contact with one couple while his arm is slung over your shoulder. A few minutes later a larger group stumbles past, obviously drunk, and Joel wraps you up into him as they pass. 

You almost push him away — out of instinct, and nothing more. You’re half expecting your dad to wander out of the dark. Or Sarah. Or Hayes, and his thousand missed messages. 

But they’re not here. They’re a hundred miles away, and you’re alone, and this is — new. This is nice. The closeness. The not having to hide when someone swings in your direction. Him dragging you close, instead of shoving you back. Making you laugh — out loud, with his hand on your waist — instead of muffling your moans in his palm. 

It’s so nice it almost hurts. Because it’s not really real, and you know it, and you wonder if he knows it, too. You wonder if he’ll hurt the way you will, when you have to go back home. When you have to hide again. 

But you can worry about that later. For now, you can just — be. You can pretend he’s not your dad’s best friend, and you can pretend there won’t be hell to pay if you touch him like this back home. 

He strokes your hair back from your forehead. Looks down, frowning slightly, like he can tell your mind has slipped. 

“I’m good,” you say, before he can speak. “I just — I like you. I like — spending time with you.” 

His brow lifts. He looks bemused. 

“Like you too, angel. Figured you knew that already.” 

“Yeah, I just — you know.” You wave a hand. You’re not sure what the hell you’re trying to say. 

“I know,” he says, gently.  

You look up at him. His thumb stills on your chin. He tips your face to his and kisses you.

“Go ’n get a table,” he says, quietly. His lips brush yours. You can taste him: whiskey and cedar. Masculine. Joel. 

His eyes drop. His stare rakes over you: your jacket, the slinky, silk slip you definitely didn’t wear for him — over the lace he knows is waiting underneath. You shiver. 

“Fuck,” he mumbles. He wrings his head, like he’s trying to focus. “Go. I’ll get us some food.” 

You’re reluctant to leave him — especially when he looks this close to breaking, and just dragging you back to the hotel — but you do as you’re told. You find an empty picnic table and beat a teenage couple to it. 

You don’t feel like turning your phone on, and seeing god knows how many messages from Hayes — so you look around, instead. You watch a herd of tiny children sprint across the lot, dodging in between food trucks, wielding vanilla cones like little scepters. One of them has dark hair. Tousled, unkempt. He races past you, light-up sneakers thudding on pavement, and you catch a glimpse of big brown eyes. 

It makes your heart hurt. You’re not sure why. 

“Scoot.” 

Joel’s voice. Gruff, gentle. You blink twice and your focus snaps back. You move down the bench to make room. 

He drops down beside you with two paper plates. You peek over his hand. 

“Tacos,” you say. “Inspired.” 

“Just—fuckin’—try ‘em.” 

“I’ve had tacos.” 

“Not like this.” 

“Well, yeah,” you say. “Exactly like this. They all kinda look the same.” 

“Jesus Christ. You’re a piece ‘a work.” 

You grin. You slide one of the plates in front of you and take a bite. He watches you intently, like he’s genuinely invested — like he really, truly cares whether you like his stupid tacos. 

And you do. Of course you do. Because they’re really fucking good. Because he bought them for you. 

“Oh, shit,” you mumble. Sauce drizzles to your hand. “You’re right. That is good.” 

He rolls his eyes. Leans in, close, napkin in hand, and swipes your wrist clean. It’s weirdly intimate. More so than every kiss you’ve shared since you stepped out of his truck.

He lingers in your space for a second. Long enough for you to watch him scowl. 

“See?” he mutters, when he draws back. “‘F you listened more, ‘stead of runnin’ your mouth all the goddamn time — I could show you a few things.” 

“It’s one taco. Don’t get a big head.” 

He stares at you. He tries — really, really tries — to keep the scowly, stern, I’m so scary thing going. He lasts a solid three seconds before he breaks. His frown crumples. A shallow laugh spills out of him. 

“Fuck’s sake.” He shakes his head. “You’re impossible.” 

You wipe your mouth with the edge of your napkin. When you’re done you push your empty plate away and lean into his shoulder. You’re making the most of this uninhibited closeness. Touching him whenever you get the chance: little, harmless brushes and soft kisses behind strangers. 

You rest your head on his shoulder and look up at the lights. The string above you flickers, muted yellow, and the glow paints Joel’s skin golden. 

You sigh. His flannel grazes your lips. His mouth finds the top of your head and nestles in your hair. 

It’s been largely innocent up until now. The touches, at least. You’re not really one for PDA — not usually, anyway — but he has you feeling like a teenager again. And he doesn’t seem inclined to stop you, when the flat of your palm slips underneath the table and dusts over his knee. 

He only pumps the brakes when your lips graze his ear, scraping soft skin, and you whisper something filthy that only he can hear. 

He clears his throat. His gaze flicks to the milling crowd. 

“S’it,” he announces. “We’re leavin’.” 

You have to stifle a laugh at the sound of his voice. The quiet desperation he masks as command. Turned on. Time to go. 

He makes to stand and you squeeze his knee. His body stiffens. His weight drops back to the bench. 

“Don’t wanna leave,” you say. You give him your best pout. “I’m having fun.” 

You’re teasing. Truth is, you’d race him to the truck right now if it meant you’d get back faster. But you like working him up. You like him riled, by the time he’s fucking you. You like his breathing ragged and his snarl at your back. 

He gives you a sharp look. Heat pools at the pit of your stomach. 

“Come on.” You’re egging him on now, and he knows it. He knows it. “You take me out, and you can’t even make it past ten?” 

There’s a muscle in his jaw going haywire. You watch it. It’s a good gauge of just how fucked you’ll be, later, when he takes back his upper hand. 

For now you press him. You’re feeling bold. Maybe it’s the little plastic-cup margarita he’d brought out with your food, or the fact that a hundred people can see you with him, watch you touch him, and for the first time you don’t give a shit. 

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” you say, dropping your voice. Your hand skates higher, under the table — up his thigh, over blue jeans. “I didn’t even — I wasn’t even thinking. It’s, like — it’s way past your bedtime, right?” 

A low, low sound escapes his throat. His hand finds yours on his thigh and closes fast around it — just tight enough to stop your moving. Not tight enough to hurt. 

“Got a real goddamn attitude tonight,” he growls. 

His hand squeezes yours. Harder. Enough to make you whimper, when you imagine those fingers on your throat, instead. 

“S’okay,” he murmurs. His hand lets up. Your own fingers tremble on his thigh. “S’alright, babygirl. Gonna take care of it.” 

He leans closer. His breath is hot on your skin. 

“Gonna fuck it outta you,” he drawls. 

The heat in your stomach spills over. Fire drips between your legs. 

“Fuck it,” you mumble. “Let’s go back.” 

But he’s playing, now. You teased him too much, overplayed your hand, and now you’re fucked. He’s looking at you with those big brown eyes and you can see them go black when he smirks. 

“What’s ‘a matter, angel? Thought you wanted to stay out.” 

“Joel—”

“Made a whole goddamn fuss,” he says. “Can’t go back now.” 

“We can,” you insist. “Yes we can. There’s not even — look. Everyone’s leaving.” You point to the crowd. No one is leaving. “It’s all — it’s closing. It’s done. Let’s go back.” 

He doesn’t look. He clicks his tongue, instead. Mock-sympathy. 

“C’mon, now,” he says. “We’ll think ‘a somethin’. Keep you nice ’n busy. Few more hours, at least.” 

You groan. Your forehead thuds on the edge of the table. 

“Fuck, you’re mean.” 

You hear him hum his soft agreement. The bench whines when he stands, and then his palm is at your back, gently guiding you up and onto your feet. 

“Ain’t the one who started it,” he says. He drapes an arm around your shoulders and leads you away, back towards the truck. His mouth bends to brush your ear. “Could be headed back to the hotel, right now,” he says. “Could be in bed. Could have my head between those pretty legs.” 

You swallow. 

He pauses. His fingers tap lazily against your shoulder. “Too bad y’were such a goddamn brat.” 

You make a quiet, frustrated sound. You know he won’t let up. You’re resigned to suffering in silence, until Joel decides you’ve had enough. Until he decides to drive you back to the hotel, finally, and fuck you the way he knows you need. 

“Y’know what your problem is?” he asks, casually, as you approach the car. “Y’got no follow through. Roll over too easy.” 

“I don’t roll over,” you huff. 

“No? ’N how come every time you run that mouth, try to tease me—”  he cracks the driver’s side door. Looks at you. “—you always end up beggin’?” 

You’re quiet. You’d bite back, if he wasn’t infuriatingly right. It’s not like you can think of a comeback, anyway. You’re so turned on your mind is hazy. 

“Think on it,” he says, cooly. He puts the truck in reverse and throws his head over his shoulder. “Got nothin’ but time.” 

You mutter something soft. A curse. A plea, maybe. You watch him turn out of the lot and go the wrong way — not back to the hotel, not back to the room, not back to bed — and you pull your thighs against an ache that won’t quit. 

— 

He takes you to a bar downtown. Kind of…divey, but fun. Cool. It’d be a hell of a lot cooler if you could actually enjoy it. If you could think about anything other than him fucking you senseless, right now.

You trail him in. Out of the car, down the steps, past the bouncer who checks your ID and not Joel’s. 

He posts up by the bar and you join him. There’s one stool left and he saves it for you, standing at your side while you sit and smooth your dress. 

You’re attracting looks. A lot of them. The crowd in here is…diverse — college kids, bikers, bachelorettes on the road to blackout. You stand out, in your little silk dress. Joel — in his flannel, and blue jeans, and worn out work boots — not so much. 

He flags down the bartender. It’s a miracle he gets served, considering how swamped the bar is. But Joel commands a room, in that cool, quiet way. He taps a lazy finger on the bartop and the bartender comes running. 

“Whiskey,” he says. “’N a…” 

“Rum and coke,” you say. It’s the first thing that comes to mind. 

The bartender nods. Joel slides a bill across the bar and tells her to keep the change.  

“Rum ’n coke,” he says, when she leaves to get your drinks. He shakes his head. Chuckles. “You drink like a high schooler.” 

“Shut up. They’re good.” 

“Uh-huh. Remind me t’make you a proper drink, sometime.” 

You shoot him a scowl. But your heart lifts, a little, at the implication that there will be a sometime. You’re always half-expecting him to run again. 

It’s hot, in here. Too many people. You shrug your jacket off and spread it out across your lap. You lean your elbows on the counter and frame your chin in your palms as you look up at him. 

His head tilts. His gaze drops to the skin you’ve exposed. You catch the almost-imperceptible hitch in his breath, and it makes you smile. It almost redeems the blinding, white-hot burn between your legs that he refuses to acknowledge. 

“Parking lot tacos and a dive bar,” you say. “I feel like a princess.” 

His eyes drag back to yours. He huffs. 

“You wanna go out again, ’n act like a good girl — maybe I’ll treat you like one.” 

Your breath snags. A blush tickles the base of your neck. 

He pushes his sleeves up, past his forearms. Leans an elbow on the bar to get closer to you. There’s music blaring — some classic rock mix — and by all accounts it should be the only thing you hear. That, and the clamor of too many people and too many drinks. But you’re too far gone, staring at him, and you can’t hear anything that doesn’t start and end with his velvet fucking drawl. 

It’s the reason you don’t hear the voice at your back. Not until it’s rasping hot along your ear. 

“Hey, pretty lady.” 

You start. Your back stiffens. You swivel in your seat to face the sound. 

There’s a man there. Two men, actually, crowding the side of you Joel isn’t occupying. They both look trashed. Slurring, bleary-eyed — but sober enough, still, to know what they want. And drunk enough to try and get it. 

The one closest to you — crew-cut, square jaw, somewhere between your age and Joel’s — slaps his hand on the bartop. The sound makes you flinch. You can feel Joel bristle at your side. He pulls up, off of his elbow, and straightens to his full height. 

“Sorry,” you say, and you hate that you apologize. Hate that it’s reflexive, when they’re bothering you. “I’m — we’re kind of in the middle of something.“ 

The one with the crew-cut frowns. His friend simpers. 

“You don’t even have a drink,” he says. “C’mon. Let us buy you a drink, at least.” 

The bartender re-appears, as if on cue. She slides Joel his drink and hands you yours. You wait til she’s gone and tip your glass towards the men. Cheers. Fuck off. 

Crew-Cut smiles. His friend shrugs. 

“Alright,” he says. “But we can do ya one better.” 

His friend rifles through his jacket. He produces a tiny, plastic baggie and passes it to Crew-Cut. Two pink pills rattle at the bottom. 

“See this?” Crew-Cut grins. A gold cap glitters on his tooth. He folds the baggie in his hand and nudges yours. “You wanna have a little fun, sweetheart? Look like you know how.” 

His touch makes you freeze. Your throat feels thick. 

“I’m not—”

There’s a thud — furious, loud — as Joel’s fist comes down on the bar. You can feel it, beside you. The whole counter shudders. Someone four seats down looks up in surprise. 

“She ain’t fuckin’ interested,” Joel growls. “Move on.” 

Crew-Cut lifts a brow. 

“Who’s this?” he laughs. His hand slips to your wrist. “This your daddy?” 

Silence. He nods at Joel. “You her daddy?” 

“Take your fuckin’ hand off her.”

“Oof. Daddy’s got a mouth on him.” His fingers dig into your pulse point. “Ain’t gonna take my hand off her,” he says. “Think she likes it. What do you think, Dutch? Think she likes it?” 

His friend — Dutch — nods stupidly. You try to pull your hand away and your drink wobbles on the bar. 

“Fuck off,” you hiss. 

“Damn. You got a nasty mouth, too.” He looks up at Joel. “She’s a hot one, huh? Ain’t no way you can handle all that.” 

You rip your hand free. Successfully, this time. Your wrist knocks your drink and it goes flying — glass, rum, ice on the floor. Coke splatters Crew-Cut’s jeans and he swears. 

“Shit,” he mutters. “Fuckin’ bitch.” 

“Shut your goddamn mouth,” Joel snarls. 

He slips from your side. You can feel the heat roll off him, when he moves around your seat and stands in front of you, instead. You watch his back. The way his shoulders bunch under flannel; the way his fist flexes at his side. 

He’s blocking your view, now. Standing between you and the men. You have to tip to the side to catch a glimpse of Crew-Cut’s glare. 

And he’s glaring, all right. He looks pissed. His lip curves up and his gold tooth winks. 

“What ya gonna do?” he taunts, when Joel takes half a step forward. The words are slurred. He’s fucking hammered. Probably high, too, if the pills in his palm are any indication. “Huh, big man? Two ‘f us. One ‘a you.” 

Dutch nods. His big, dumb hand curls to a lazy fist. Not the brains of the operation, you figure. But still large, and still tall, and still leering with a look that makes you sick. 

“You got ten seconds to get the fuck out,” Joel says. He sounds eerily composed. 

“Or what?” Another nasty grin. “You gonna fall asleep on me? Bite me with your fuckin’ dentures?” 

“Nine,” Joel says. “Suggest you get a move on.” 

“Yeah? You suggest I get a move on?” Crew-Cut jabs his head past Joel. Towards you. “That what she tells you when you fuck her?” 

Oh, fuck. 

“Joel,” you mumble, but it’s too late. He’s closing the distance between Dumb and Dumber before you can even process he’s moved. He leans over the counter in a single, fluid motion and swipes something from behind the bar. You don’t see what it is. Not until he brings it down, to the thin stretch of skin between Crew-Cut’s knuckles, and you catch a flash of silver just before it lands. 

You’re lucky this place is so packed, and so loud, and so — well, shitty. Because the shout Crew-Cut lets slip — followed by the horrified yelp from his friend — would be pretty fucking hard to miss anywhere else. 

“Holy shit,” you breathe. “Joel—”

There’s a steak knife pinning Crew-Cut’s hand to the counter. Joel’s fingers are wrapped around the hilt. There’s blood where Crew-Cut’s hand rips, dripping heavy to the floor — but it’s not as much as you’re expecting. Not as much as there will be, when he pulls the knife back out. 

Your gaze darts to the bartender, at the far end of the bar. Her back is to you, and to Joel, and to the steak knife sticking out of her patron’s hand. It’s dirty. Serrated. Probably giving Crew-Cut tetanus, on top of the stitches he’ll need. 

Joel leans in. His hand tightens on the knife. 

“C’mon,” he drawls. That velvet voice that makes you ache. Darker, rougher, but — still Joel. “Lemme walk you out.” 

He yanks the knife out. You wince. Crew-Cut gives a mangled cry and stumbles back into his friend. Blood gurgles from his palm and drizzles down over his wrist. 

“Fuck you, man,” Dutch says. He looks a little pale, but he stands his ground. They both do. “Messed with the wrong fuckin’ guys.” 

Joel’s quiet. He slams the tip of the steak knife into the wood bartop, and you watch the handle wobble. The men flinch.

“Out,” he says, softly. “Now.” 

Crew-Cut goes first, cradling his hand. Dutch follows with a dumb, dark scowl. Joel trails them both. His boots crunch on glass from your spilled drink. 

You get a glimpse of his face, when he turns to you. You’ve never seen it quite like that. 

“Stay put,” he mutters. You realize he’s talking —  to you, and not the men— and your skin sparks. 

You should probably stop him. From — well, from whatever he’s about to do. Escort them outside, murder them, something in between, maybe. 

But you…don’t. You just nod, slowly, and swallow back the fire in your throat. 

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Take your time.” 

He pushes both men past you. Crew-Cut mutters something as he passes you. Sounds a lot like fuckin’ slut. 

You watch Joel tense in your peripheral. The tug between your legs pulls so taut it almost hurts. 

You’re pretty sure it’s fucked up, to want him the way you do right now. You should be horrified, or something. You should look at the blood on the bartop and get the first bus back to Austin. 

You definitely shouldn’t just…sit here. You shouldn’t be fighting every urge to slide a hand up the hem of your dress and make yourself cum to the sound of his snarl. 

But — fuck it. You’ve done a lot of things you shouldn’t do, this past month. So you watch his knuckles close around the back of Crew-Cut’s collar, and you watch him drag both men across the threshold of the bar. Out the door. Out of sight and out of mind. 

You order another drink while you wait. No one bothers you, this time. 

And when Joel comes back ten minutes later, alone, with bloody knuckles and a split in his lip — you practically drag him out of the bar. 

— 

The drive back to the hotel is pretty much silent. 

He doesn’t tell you what happened outside of the bar. You don’t ask. 

You watch his knuckles grip the wheel, instead. Red. Raw. Ruined. You rub your thighs together and shift in his seat. 

He pulls in by the lobby. He puts the truck in park and doesn’t let the gear shift go. 

He looks up. At you. 

“Are you alright?” he murmurs. 

It’s so…gentle. Kind of a jarring contradiction, to the blood splashed on his knuckles. 

“Yeah,” you say. Your voice is quiet. “I’m good.” 

He nods. But he doesn’t quite believe you, you think, because his whole frame is stiff — when you grab for his hand on your way inside, and when you lean into his side while the elevator comes. 

You get in first and he follows, slowly. He stands opposite you and grips the steel handrail. 

He reaches for the buttons. Presses 14. 

He clears his throat when the doors close. 

“‘M sorry,” he says, finally. “You shouldn’t—wasn’t right, what I did. You shouldn’t ‘a seen — had to see that.” 

“See what?” You cock your head. “See you beat the shit out of two assholes?” 

He looks at you sharply. You shrug. 

“That’s funny,” you say, and you’re only half teasing. “I was gonna ask if you could do it again.“ 

He shakes his head. Swears, softly. 

“Ain’t right,” he mutters. “‘F your dad was here, he’d—”

“He’s not here,” you say. A little more bite than you mean. 

It shuts him up, at least. He’s silent when the elevator climbs past 4. 

“Never seen you that mad,” you say, after a beat. 

His fingers tense on the rail. 

“I scare you?” 

“No,” you say, quickly. “Just never seen it before.” 

He watches you. A muscle jumps in his jaw. 

“You always get that pissed?” you ask. 

“No,” he says, after a pause. He looks at you. Then — 

“Just don’t like people touchin’ what’s mine.” 

Your stomach swirls. The elevator announces floor 9. 

“Is that what I am?” you ask, quietly. “Yours?” 

He tilts his head. A low, quiet sound slips past his lips. He pushes off the rail and crosses the floor to you, caging you against the wall. The small of your back digs into steel. 

“You tell me,” he growls. 

His mouth is so close you can taste him. His drawl drips to your skin and paints you red. 

You kiss him. Your mouth slants against his and he punches out a sigh. His hands find your waist and crumple cheap silk. 

You drag him closer. Your fingers bunch at the front of his shirt. You pop one of his buttons and he groans, licking into your mouth. 

You’re so busy attacking his shirt you don’t hear the elevator ding at floor 12. You don’t even feel it stop until the doors are wheezing open. 

You freeze. Your lips go slack against Joel’s. You hear him huff and you push at his chest. He stumbles backwards, half a step, just as an elderly woman shuffles inside. 

She greets you both politely. You manage a smile and Joel manages nothing. 

And then you’re moving again, climbing the last two floors to 14 — and the elevator opens. 

“S’cuse us,” Joel gruffs, and practically shoves you over the threshold. You apologize to the woman when you trip over her shoes. 

“Sorry,” you squeak. 

“Quite the hurry,” she notes. 

You have no fucking idea, you want to say. But Joel is dragging you down the hall, and keying open the room, and she’s out of sight before the door can even close. 

—

You wonder if he’ll say more, now that you’re finally alone. But when you’re back in the room, and he drops his wallet and his phone and his keys on the desk by the door — he’s clearly not in the mood for conversation. He tips his chin to the bed, and the command is clear. But you still want to hear him say it. 

So you stand, stubbornly. His mouth twitches. 

“On the bed,” he says. “Right fuckin’ now.” 

You take a few steps back, toward the bed. Then you stop. 

He growls in frustration. 

You ignore him. You point to his bloody knuckles, and to the dust on his flannel. There’s blood on your lip — his blood — where he kissed you with a sliced mouth. 

“No,” you say. “No. I’m sorry. I’m not going anywhere til you get in the shower. You look like you just killed someone.” 

He scowls. Stares at you, nonplussed. 

“You didn’t, right? Kill someone? Or — someones? Because—”

His frown deepens. You watch his eyes narrow. 

“Kidding,” you say, quickly. “Sort of. Just — shower. Please. You’re a mess. And those are white sheets.” 

He mumbles something unintelligible. He holds your gaze a second longer and then stalks past you, toward the bathroom, still muttering as he fumbles with his shirt. 

“What was that?” 

“Nothin’,” he grunts. 

“Didn’t sound like nothing.” 

He whips back around. His shirt hangs, half-undone. His eyes glint. 

“Said you’re fuckin’ impossible,” he gruffs. 

You grin. You flop back onto the bed while he hovers at the bathroom door. 

“Better hurry,” you tell him, trailing a hand up your thigh. You bump the hem of your dress and your fingers creep under. “Might get started without you.” 

His stare goes dark. His hand drops from his shirt. 

“Don’t,” he warns. 

You give him a look. Your fingers drift up the seam of your thigh, circling the wetness there. The hem of lace panties peeks over your wrist. 

“Don’t…what?” 

“Fuck,” he hisses. “The hell’s gotten into you?” 

“Don’t know,” you say, innocently. “You? Hopefully?” 

His jaw flickers. He swears, softly, and his belt hisses from his jeans. He shrugs his shirt off his shoulders and takes half a step toward you. 

You grab a pillow off the bed and hurl it at his chest. It lands with a thud and stops him in his tracks. 

“Go,” you say. 

“Jesus,” he mutters. 

But he does as you say. He turns around; walks back to the bathroom with a low, angry sigh, and you watch his jeans ride low on his waist. 

The door clicks shut behind him. You wait for the water to start and then you get up, off of the bed, shedding your shoes and your dress as you cross the carpet. You crack the bathroom door open and slip in. 

He doesn’t see you come in. He’s turned away from you, standing under the water with his back to fogged glass. The walls and the counters are slick with steam already. 

You step out of your underwear and leave them on the tile. Tug the shower door open, just wide enough to edge through, and join him underneath the spray. 

“Hey,” you say, softly. 

He turns. Blinks at you. Water streams down his brow and cleans the cut on his lip. 

For half a second he seems surprised. And then his gaze evens out and his eyes rake your body. 

Your skin heats — under his stare, under the water. You watch him swallow and your stomach does a flip. 

“Close the door,” he mutters. “Lettin’ all the steam out.” 

You do as he says and slide the glass shut. The added warmth makes your skin sting. 

He brings his hands up, to push through soaked hair. Water drips past his knuckles and hits the ground pink. 

You take half a step forward and the spray beats at your neck. You lift your hands to his and drag one of them down and he lets you, watching you with quiet eyes. You fold a palm over his knuckles and he sucks in a breath. 

You bring his hand up to your mouth. Press a featherlight kiss to the bruise on his knuckle. 

He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t yank his hand back. Just looks at you, with that soaked-black stare. 

You gaze up at him, eyes wide. Water drips from your lashes and skates to your cheeks. You part your lips and drag two of his fingers up into your mouth. 

He sighs. His half-hard cock stirs to life by your thigh. 

His fingers are soaked, from the spray of the shower. Slippery. It means they slide easily into your mouth, and curl wet against your tongue when you take him to the knuckle. Your lips brush the cuts there and he hisses through his teeth. 

“Fuck,” he breathes. “Easy. Easy.”

He uses his free hand to tip your chin up. To look into your eyes, when you hollow your cheeks and take his soaked fingers deeper. There’s a look on his face you can’t quite read. 

“You like that, baby?” 

He sounds a little mystified, maybe. His fingers play on your jaw, urging your mouth open wider. You can taste the salt on his skin. The metal tang of blood where his knuckles are raw. The sweet-smelling soap he’s used to clean out his wounds. 

You whine, with your mouth full of him. Try to take his fingers deeper when they hook around your lips.

“Fuck,” he mutters, half to himself. “You do.” 

He drags his fingers out of your mouth. A string of spit hangs from his fingertips and disappears under the spray. 

“Turn around,” he says, softly. 

You turn around. 

Truth be told, you’re expecting him to fuck you. Finally. What you’re not expecting is the telltale pop of a shampoo cap, and the smell of artificial fruit, and Joel’s broad, bruised hands in your hair, massaging soap to your scalp. 

You let a small, involuntary sound slip. You tilt your head into his hands and water splashes your collar.

“Can do that myself,” you mumble. 

He hums in response. His fingers dig into your scalp and you moan. 

“Know you can, angel.” He works the soap through your hair. Kneads tight little circles at your roots. “But let me.” 

You nod, absently. Let him cradle your head in his hands. His fingers pull to the nape of your neck and work at the knots there. Probably the same ones that settled when you leaned over his lap in his truck, this afternoon, and dragged your mouth along his cock. 

His hands leave your hair too soon. The excess soap drips down your back and leaves you smelling like strawberries and Joel. 

You almost turn back around to face him. But then his hand is on your back, between your shoulder blades, and he’s pushing you forward until your palms kiss tile. 

He doesn’t tease you. He doesn’t make you beg for it. You’re sure he would, if you’d never gone to that bar. He’d torture the hell out of you, the way he promised he would. 

But you did go to the bar, and now he’s bruised and bleeding and broken, and there’s something to his touch that you can’t quite place. Something different. Something desperate. Like he needs you worse now than you’ve needed him all night. 

“You still want this?” he asks, behind your back. 

You can feel his cock, soaked and swollen, nudging at the slick skin between your thighs. But you’re pretty sure that’s not what he’s asking about. You can tell, from the drag in his voice. From the way the words stumble down your back and swirl to the drain. You know what he’s actually trying to ask —  in that rough, muddled way that only he can muster. 

You still want me? 

You twist your head over your arm. Look at him under the spray. 

“Always,” you mumble. “Always want you. Please, Joel—”

You don’t need to beg him. He listens. He lines his hips behind you and his skin touches yours, soaked and soapy and scalding hot where water runs. He’s taking the brunt of the spray, behind you. It thrashes his eyes and streaks past his mouth, punching the split in his lip. You can hear him wince at your back. Can hear him hiss, when his knuckles squeeze at your sides and his sliced lip buries in the slope of your shoulder.

He’s clearly in pain. And he clearly couldn’t care less, when he tugs your hips back into his and strokes his soaked cock through your slick. 

“Fuck,” you breathe. Your fingers scrabble for purchase on the tile. It’s too slippery, too wet, and you have to lean over further to brace your forearms on the wall. 

The new angle makes him groan. You’re more exposed, like this. Bent and dripping for him. The head of his cock notches at your entrance and his fingertips twitch on your waist. 

He’s not stingy with the foreplay, usually. But his mouth is out of commission, and so are his fingers, and even though you have a feeling he’d do it, gladly, if you asked — you’re so turned on from hours of back and forth teasing and whatever the hell happened at that bar that you’d rather he just — 

“Fuck me,” you gasp. Your muscles clench around nothing. The steam from the shower muffles your moan. “Just — fuck me.” 

“Relax,” he drawls. “Relax, baby.” 

He pushes the tip of his cock into you. Just barely. Making sure you’ll take him, without his mouth or his fingers to ease your way, first. 

You squeeze pitifully around the head of his cock. Whimper something that sounds like his name. 

“Fuck,” he mumbles. He sounds a little awed. “You’re fuckin’ — soaked. You need it this bad, babygirl?” 

You rock your hips back in response. His cock slides deeper, an inch, two inches — stretching you open — and then he’s grabbing at your hips and thrusting all the way in. 

You yelp at the intrusion. His hips smack your ass and shove you up against slick tile. You have to push back against him to keep from slamming into the wall — and when you meet his thrusts he snarls. 

“Always so — fuckin’ — tight,” he hisses. Something drips to your back. Hot and thick, thicker than water. Blood from his lip, you think, torn open again on his snarl. 

“Tell me,” you say, urgently. You wouldn’t ask, usually, but — you can’t think straight. The water is scorching your skin, and his hands are even hotter, and his cock is lighting you up from the inside out. “Tell me what you — ah. Tell me what you did to them.” 

His thrusts slow. He drags his cock out of you. 

“Who?” he murmurs. 

And then he pushes back into you, white-hot and no warning, and your breath punches out of your lungs. 

“The—fuck,” you yelp, “the guys. At the — the — ngh, Joel — at the bar.” 

He’s quiet. He pulls out again, all the way, and waits until you whine to thrust back in. And then he does it again, and again, over and over, until the slap of soaked skin drowns the sound of the shower. 

“Tell me,” you plead. 

“Fuck,” he swears. “Fuckin’—sent ‘em home.” 

“Yeah?” You swallow a moan. Your muscles clamp down on his cock. “In one — fuck — piece?” 

He makes a sound — like a chuckle, or a groan, or something in between. His hand leaves your hip and wraps tight around your shoulder, bracing you against his cock as he pounds you into the wall. 

“Just about,” he pants. 

You bite down on your lip. His cock rolls against your g-spot and you cry out. The sound fogs the glass and drips to your feet. 

Heat drills at your core. Your eyes glaze. 

“Fuck,” you mumble. “Fuck, Joel, I’m gonna—” 

“Yeah?” His voice rips through you like wildfire. Low, rough, serrated — like that dirty fucking blade he’d left swaying in the counter. “That turn you on, hearin’ all that? You gonna cum?” 

You whine. Water rakes down his jaw and splatters your back. 

“Bad fuckin’ girl,” he growls. He bottoms out and his hips stall. His cock throbs somewhere deep inside you. “Never been so fuckin’ wet for me.” 

Your hands make useless fists on the tile. You stare at the water on the floor and your vision swirls. 

“Joel—” 

“Go on,” he says. “Attagirl, baby, go on. Lemme feel.” 

You’re so tightly wound your whole body almost snaps. You’ve been two well-timed touches away from falling apart since this afternoon, when he shoved his cock down your throat and told you in no uncertain terms to keep your fuckin’ head down. 

So when he pushes you over the edge, finally — your knees buckle. You’re lightheaded. Your muscles strangle his cock, bearing down so hard it practically drags his own release out. His hips stumble into yours and he chokes on your name. 

His hand lets up on your shoulder when he cums. Without him holding you in place you go limp, boneless — and your forearms slip on the tile wall. He barely — barely — catches you before you sink to the shower floor. 

“Woah — hey —” He’s got you, you think, and you can’t really see, with the shower all fogged and your eyes all hazy — but he’s got you. He’s got you. He’s got his big arm wrapped around your tummy, stopping you from crumpling all the way down. 

“Okay, easy,” he murmurs. You can barely hear him over the roar of the shower, and the static between your own ears. “Shh. Easy. S’okay. ‘M right here. I got you, babygirl.”  

You mumble something that gets lost in the spray. You’re pretty sure it’s his name. And then he’s sinking to the ground, with you, because it’s easier to go down than to bring you back up. He clutches you to his chest as he slumps against the wall. He hits the ground first, before you, so that you land in his lap instead of the floor. 

And then he just…holds you. You fold into his chest and you feel so fucking small, all wrapped up in him, with your legs tangled over his and your head tucked under his jaw. He wraps an arm around you and you leave soaked, breathless kisses on whatever bit of him you can reach. 

He reaches his free hand up and fumbles for the shower handle. He cranks it, hard, and the water shuts off. A few searing droplets land on your bare shoulder. He kisses them dry and his stubble scrapes your skin. 

“Okay,” he breathes. Over and over, until his voice soothes your shiver. You tuck into his chest and your breathing starts to still. “Okay, angel.” 

You feel like crying and you’re not totally sure why. Maybe it’s the earth-shattering release he’s just given you, after hours and hours of fucking nothing. Maybe it’s something else. Maybe it’s the fact you can hear his heartbeat, pressed up against your ear, and you can feel it skip when your lips skim his jaw. 

“Talk to me,” he says, softly. And then, a little unsure — “Please.” 

“‘M fine,” you mumble. The words are semi-slurred. You’re blissed out. You’re tired. You smell like soap, and sex, and you smell like Joel. Or Joel smells like you. You can’t even tell anymore. “‘M good.” 

“Fuck,” he says. “Fuck. Was that — was I too rough? I — you should’ve said, I should’ve —”

“No,” you say. You shake your head. “No. Was good. You’re good. Perfect.” 

You hear him exhale. Short, shallow. Relieved, or amused. 

“Okay,” he echoes. Agonizingly gentle. “Alright, baby. Let’s — let’s get you to bed, yeah?” 

“Mm,” you mumble. “Yeah.” 

You let him lift you. Let him carry you out of the shower, past the glass sliding door and onto dry floor. He sets you down, on top of the closed toilet seat, and sits you there while he finds you a towel. Your head hums. Your skin glows pink — from the shower, from his touch. When he comes back with a towel you let him wrap you up like a burrito, thudding into his chest while he dries you off.

He leans down when he’s finished. Presses a kiss to the top of your head. 

“C’mon,” he says, softly. 

You look up, bleary-eyed. His stare searches yours. 

“Bed?” 

“Yeah,” he says. “Think so.” 

“Mm. Not tired.” 

“No?” You watch his brow lift. “Not tired?” 

“Mm. Mm-mm.” 

“Okay. Sure.” He takes a breath.“How ‘bout you just humor me, then?” 

You nod solemnly, like you’re doing him a favor. You let him tug the towel tight around your shoulders and you stand on your own, this time, wobbling on shaky legs. You lean into his side and he walks you out, into the bedroom and straight into bed. 

He pulls the sheets up around your chin. You’re semi-aware of the fact that you’re naked, and you can’t bring yourself to care. You watch him pull on dry boxers from the duffel bag at the foot of the bed, and then he’s climbing in beside you. The mattress dips with his weight. You register somewhere, in the back of your mind, that it’s the very first time you’ve ever slept beside him. 

The thought makes you lightheaded again. You nuzzle into his side and he drags you close. 

A few minutes pass like that. His breathing slows. 

“Joel,” you say. 

He mumbles. His voice is rough in the dark. 

“Yeah.” 

“I had fun,” you say, sleepily. “Today." 

He exhales. He rolls onto his side and pulls you close, his chest to your back. His mouth drops to your shoulder. 

“Yeah,” he repeats. “Me too, angel.” 

“‘Specially when you killed those guys.” 

You can feel him roll his eyes. His teeth nip at your shoulder. 

“Ain’t kill anyone,” he mutters. “Jesus. Go t’sleep.” 

“Mm.” You yawn. “Okay. When you stabbed that one guy, then.”

He sighs. His breath drips down your skin. 

“He was a dick,” you say. The words are muffled in the crook of his arm. 

You hear him huff. 

“Yeah,” he says. “He was a dick.” 

You hum happily. Curl up between his arm and his chest. Your ass rubs up on his boxers and you can feel him harden again, already — but he doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t roll his hips into yours, or say something filthy, or tighten his grip on your body. He just holds you there, to him, until his breathing drops off and his arm goes limp. 

Something flickers in your chest. Something dangerous. You twist quietly in his arms until your chest is brushing his. 

“Joel,” you whisper. 

When he doesn’t respond you edge closer to him. You rest your nose and your mouth in the crook of his neck. 

“I am, y’know,” you breathe. “Yours.” 

He doesn’t answer. You’re pretty sure he’s asleep. But later, when you drift off with your head on his heart — you could swear he buries a kiss in your hair. 

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✨ chef’s kiss ✨

Happy Birthday

Pairing: Kiba Inuzuka/fem!reader

Warnings: 18+ mdni // modern au, intoxication, unhealthy amount of tension, edging. reader is naruto uzumaki's younger sister.

Word count: 11.5k

Summary: Kiba invites you to his 22nd birthday party. Stuff happens.

a/n: nobody asked for this, but here i am; posting this one-shot in honour of the birthday boy.

HAD this all been a mistake?

As you feel the bitter burn of yet another consumed shot seep its way down your throat, you can't say for sure.

Placing the tiny glass back upon the kitchen counter, your expression twists into one of pure disgust when the heat settles into the pit of your stomach.

You've forgotten just how bad vodka tastes on its own, lacking the sweet tang of Red Bull or juice. The reminder is semi-welcomed, you suppose.

The broad palm to land upon your shoulder blade in that moment is warm as it pats you encouragingly one, two; three times.

You suck in a sharp breath through gritted teeth, swallowing the runny saliva that's only there because of the damn vodka, before a bright red solo cup is shoved right into your hands.

Your eyes narrow as you look up at the tall, handsome brunet which you've had the unfortunate pleasure of knowing ever since you were little.

Unbeknownst to many, Kiba has been terrorizing your life for as long as you can remember. Adorning nearly every picture in your family photo album with that tan, freckled face of his, the ebullient Inuzuka had met your big brother on his first day of preschool, and stuck by his side from that moment onward.

Since Kiba is Naruto's best friend, it's no wonder how most of the memories you have of your childhood include him.

Only two years younger than the two boys, you grew up alongside both Naruto and Kiba; building sandcastles on the beach together whenever you went on vacation, playing hide and seek, as well as every other game you could possibly come up with off the top of your tiny heads and which made you constantly end up in trouble together.

Kiba - always the rather boisterous and rowdy kid, much like your big brother - had been more or less invariably nice to you throughout all those years.

Until he abruptly wasn't.

After all, as soon as the Inuzuka turned eight, he had started getting mean; towards you, specifically. Constantly tugging on your pigtails and taunting you for how you acted and spoke, Kiba had made you cry and tell on him to your mother on several occasions.

Crying big, fat tears, you never quite understood why she only chuckled at your childish complaints back then. Why Tsume, Kiba's own mother, had had the exact same reaction, too. Why Naruto agreed with everything he said like the traitorous older brother he was, and got fussy all of a sudden if you wanted to play with them like you always did.

You stopped trying to fit in amongst the two rowdy boys at some point, and instead focused on your own hobbies.

So, years passed. You grew up into a sweet girl, who eventually found friends of her own, and forgot all about stupid, idiotic Kiba who teased you until you cried, despite that he swung by nearly every other day.

That is, until he went to visit his dad one summer when you were thirteen. That year, Kiba came back tall and lean; with his limbs almost comically long, as well as accompanied with a deep voice that made you burst out with laughter whenever it cracked into a higher pitch mid-sentence.

You still quarelled in the same way you used to when you were little, but this time without your tearful complaints to your mother.

He told you all about how his summer went, how his dad was pretty okay whenever he wished to be, and how his older sister Hana had stepped on a sea urchin and had to be rushed to the hospital, where he laughed his ass off as she groaned with every pluck of the doctor's tweezers.

But then that summer came to an end, as all things do, and Kiba started high school along with Naruto, and you were forgotten once again because of other, new friends and experiences that interested him as a proper teenager, and that certainly had nothing to do with thirteen-year-old you. 

By the time you became a freshman yourself, he was already seventeen and a junior. Much to your beffudlement, Kiba had started acting weird around you at that age, mostly turning an ignorant eye towards your direction and barely speaking to you at all, which had most definitely been way out of his usually outgoing personality.

He stared at you only when you weren't looking. Asked Naruto about how you were doing, but never once voiced the question directly to you. The entire ordeal only made you grow further apart.

You never questioned him about it; well at least not truly, anyway. It wasn't like you actually cared about what someone as silly as Kiba thought of you, after all.

And then all of a sudden said boy was a senior finishing high school, getting ready to begin living yet another chapter of his life. He got a sports scholarship and left town for college without ever saying goodbye, much like your own brother. He left you behind, just like that. They both did.

It seemed that university life was a blast for an open, untamed person like Kiba, at least judging from the pictures he posted on his Instagram. From eighteen to twenty-one, you mostly saw him transfigure from a boy to a man over the screen of your phone - barely interacting with him at all, if it weren't for the rare exception whenever he liked the selfie you occasionally posted, was asking for Naruto, or if he dropped by the house to say hi to your parents during the summer.

So, to say that you were absolutely flabbergasted when you received a random text from him one night, inviting you to his 22nd birthday party would be an understatement.

Even Naruto seemed surprised when you asked if Kiba had possibly made a mistake. Had turned slightly suspicious, too, as you skipped down the stairs way more dolled up than usual on the night of the party, staring up at him with slightly anxious eyes.

"It's just Kiba," your brother tells you, eyeing the pretty skirt and top you've decided on tonight, "so, why are you all dressed up?"

"Who said it was for him?" you reply with an eye roll, despite that there's an inexplicable bounce to your step as you leave the house.

And that was that, as well as the reason how you find yourself staring at a freshly turned twenty-two-year-old Kiba, the golden amber within his irises recoiling whenever your gazes meet inside his dimly-lit kitchen.

You have no idea how he has managed to hunt you down amongst the mass of people to fill every room of his house, but the honey-like shade nearly glows with overt amusement when he smiles down at you after he's successfully persuaded you into sharing a third round of double shots with him.

Let's be honest, it's not like it took him a lot of effort. It's his birthday, after all. And the birthday boy gets what he wants!

Meanwhile, Kiba, who is feverishly determined and drunk just enough to finally shoot his shot with the girl that's been off limits to him for fucking aeons, is putting his best effort in making that statement true.

He knows what he's attempting to do is supposedly wrong as he keeps poking and prodding at you to see how you play - knows it darn well, but after literal years of loyalty and restraint, he's allowed to go behind his best friend's back just this once, right?

Sure, Naruto will unleash hell and fury upon him if he finds out, but...

I mean, come on! You're old enough to make your own decisions in life. He's tired of only liking your cute selfies and never sliding into your DMs, because Naruto gets upset everytime he sees him double-tap the damn posts. It's his birthday, for crying out loud!

And it's not just any birthday. This year, Kiba has finally allowed himself to wish for you; hence why you're here in the first place. 

So, it's the fact that it's just you and him inside the little kitchen that matters most to him, no matter that you're surrounded by other individuals who he can't bring himself to care about in that moment. Honestly, with so many people around, Kiba is slightly surprised that he's the only one you seem to endure the company of tonight.

After all, he had waited for an hour or so before leaving his friends to go look for you instead, giving you plenty of time to mingle. When he at long last found you behind the kitchen counter, mixing yourself a drink, completely alone and not talking to anybody, it was like yet another birthday present amongst many.

The realization that you're actually standing in front of him and he's seeing you properly after years of nothing is making his heart feel all kinds of weird. He's been crushing on you ever since he was a little kid, but that's long gone. 

He's a man now - a man that's still undeniably crushing on you, but still...

All he has left to do as an infatuated man, now; is to score. It's a parlous task, however Kiba is willing to take the risk. 

He's thought long and hard about this. Has taken safety precautions. The people he invited have no fucking clue who you are, or are far too intoxicated and high to remember whose baby sister exactly he's beginning to hit on. The sister, mind you, whose annoyingly protective older brother is nowhere to be seen, because Kiba had made sure to invite his friend Hinata from college, so that she'd keep the damn cockblocker busy while he kicks up the charm.

But you don't know anything about his wicked plan. You just see his smile, and assume he's being nice to you because a circuit inside that little, male brain of his must have glitched, or whatever.

He's telling you something, but you can barely hear him over the booming music and equally as loud chatter. The brown-haired Inuzuka seems to own an entire army of friends, however is that really a surprise, considering how damn affable he is?

His mouth moves in the most peculiar way when he grins, upper lip pink and plump as it pulls back on his teeth; as well as slightly glossy from the shot he's just finished. The two incisors he owns are way sharper than whatever you've seen on any other human. They glint in the dim light, causing your pulse to quicken.

"Hey," you hear him drawl seemingly from miles away, "you doin' okay there?"

You feel your nose scrunch up when he snaps his fingers in front of your face all of a sudden. Catching gazes with the fierce amber, you feel like the silliest of fools.

You've successfully zoned out, thinking about his stupid mouth, and Kiba is staring at you now; studying you like you're a goddamn enigma he seems surprisingly eager to solve.

His eyes are enticing just like his mouth. The realization that you've been caught ogling at his lovely smile makes heat radiate through your chest. You swear that you can feel your heart hurting from the sheer and utter embarrassment.

Jittery nerves propel your adrenaline levels, your grip around the cup which you're still holding in your hand, tightening in response.

The tips of your fingers feel somewhat numb from all the alcohol you've indulged yourself in. You're not entirely sure if that's a good thing or not.

"y/n," he says your name, waving a hand in front of your face again.

"Wha-... Sorry, what?" you manage lamely.

The second heatwave of humiliation to hit you in that moment isn't exactly helping in sobering you up, but that's not the plan anyway. It's just annoying that you can't seem to focus.

Kiba snickers at your obvious discomfort, just like he did when he was a kid. "Somebody can't handle their booze?"

The frown you portray is subtle and pouty. "I'm just tired."

"Mhmmm," he hums exaggeratedly, nodding, "of course you are."

You can't believe you used to have a crush on a taunting prick like him. The sigh you loose is exasperated as you point to the solo cup he's just handed you. "What's in this?"

"What?" He quirks one dark brow before leaning in slightly so that he can hear you better.

His cologne invades your nose in an instant. Kiba smells like rain and cedarwood; heavy, balsamic notes that remind you of a forest that's wrapped in a blanket of thick fog and moss, all of it coated in a layer of cool morning dew.

The pleasant scent titillates your senses to the point where it makes you want to cling onto the white t-shirt he's wearing, so that you'd be able to bury your face into the crook of his neck. 

Pause. It's Kiba we're talking about here. Idiot Kiba, who forgot to tie his shoes before he went on a roller coaster when he was nine, and sent them flying away in the middle of the ride.

Kiba, who chugged milk straight from the carton and laughed so hard it spurted out his nose when you told him how gross he was. Kiba, who kept picking up spiders and other nasty bugs, and then ran after you, threatening you he'll drop them into your hair as you squealed and cried.

The thought of sin that had crossed your mind nearly makes you cringe away from him at the other memories to otherwise flood your brain as if in argument. How embarrassing for you!

Blinking, you instantly hang blame upon the alcohol that's coursing your veins, and obviously clouding your better judgement. He's your brother's best friend, after all - one who you've known since diapers and that's been seen as nothing but a menace in your eyes ever since.

It'd be gross to think like that about Kiba of all people, wouldn't it?

... Wouldn't it?

Partially satisfied with your reasoning, you grumble and curl your fingers around the unbuttoned front of the flannel he's wearing over the white t-shirt, so that you can pull him closer.

He's compliant as he leans in, but what you fail to notice, however, is that his hand rests against the kitchen counter at the tug; trapping you in-between the cool marble and his body. Caging you right in.

The sleeves of his flannel are rolled up to his elbows. You can't help but glance at the defined knuckles and flexible digits. His forearm is tan and covered in dark hair, but you can still see a small fraction of the thin, white scar he's acquired when he fell off his skateboard when he was seven, and that's now hiding underneath the rather familiar forest green, vowen bracelet he's been wearing since forever.

Back then, it would have been either a sprained wrist, or a head-on collision with you when you had swerved in front of him on your little, bright pink rollerblades just as he had picked up speed on the damned board.

Luckily for you; Kiba had chosen the former.

Come to think of it, he always chose you over his own well-being. He fussed about it, of course, but he nonetheless picked your safety first.

You're not entirely sure why you even remember such a thing; even less why it makes your heart flutter. But you're not one to dwell on it.

Stepping onto the tips of your toes, your mouth is right next to his ear as you raise your voice and repeat the question, "I was asking what's in the cup?"

"It's just soda, pipsqueak," Kiba says, the rasp of his voice laced with laughter as he adds, "it'll help in getting rid of the taste of booze that you can't seem to endure."

Both of your brows shoot up in mild astonishment at the blatant taunt. "Excuse me?"

He smiles down at you once more. "What?"

Your eyes dip to his smile again. There you go, staring at his mouth for a second time in the mere span of five minutes. Making him notice. Stupid, stupid, stupid! 

Your voice shakes slightly as you utter, "Don't you think you're a bit too old to keep teasing me, Kiba?"

"Hmm?" His eyes glimmer with profound mischief when he says, "I always thought you'd be the kind of girl that'd enjoy a little bit of teasing."

Heat creeps up your neck at the hint. He's obviously drunk, but so are you, because now you're smirking as you reply, "It completely depends on the occasion."

"Yeah?" He seems completely invested, impatient fingers tapping against the marble of the counter as he towers over you. "What kind of occasion, exactly?"

You can't resist an eye roll. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

"Oh, I'd like to know, all right. Very much so."

The giggle you weave into the tease is innocently cute, "Sorry, but I don't kiss and tell." It's all fun and games, right? No harm done.

He's quick to turn it into his favour. "Mind making an exception for me?"

"For which one, exactly," you quip in an instant, "the kiss, or the tell part?"

"Why, you little-... Hah." His lips part, revealing the perfect, straight row of teeth again as he laughs quietly at your jab.

The beam itself is crooked and appealing, and it's in that exact moment that you realize how close he actually is as he stands next to you. How his gaze burns like a forge as it focuses solely on you, and how anyone walking past could take it the wrong way as you push back against the counter and he leans in even further, like it's his fucking instinct to follow after you.

Wait. Are you actually flirting with him right now?

You pray to every God you know that Naruto doesn't come searching for you. If he were to find you like this, your brother might just tear you to shreds for messing with his best friend of all people. Might rip Kiba apart for allowing it in the first place, too.

But in all seriousness; are you just messing around with him? Or do you actually want to initiate something with your brother's best friend, who, at long last, is giving you the attention you've wished for ever since you were thirteen? Or perhaps it is just the booze taking control of your actions?

The edge of the counter bites into the small of your back with the movement as you pull back. Kiba's digits tap against the marble again. He trails his eyes all over you - up and down. Like a proper bastard.

His arm is so close to your side that you can feel his body heat pour into you, even though you're not making any sort of physical contact ever since your hand had left his flannel. The feeling is overwhelming, to say the least. You can't believe you're actually growing flustered around an idiot like Kiba, for fuck's sake.

The daze you feel is the reason why the best you can do is stare at his chest now, which is so wide that you're wondering how big his goddamn ribcage must be. His heart definitely beats like a war drum; you're sure of it.

Before you can hesitate, the curiosity you feel makes you press your palm against the middle of his chest. Not a moment passes, and there it is - the strong, steady heartbeat you've expected to feel; grazing your finger pads, and making your own pulse skyrocket. 

"Anyways," you pat his firm chest, trying to seem as nonchalant as possible while placing the cup of soda onto the counter, "I can handle it just fine, Kib."

"Sweetheart," Kiba utters, the grin on his face growing even wider, "I'm not entirely sure you can."

Your gaze lifts as you look at him underneath your eyelashes. His face owns a reddish tint to it now; both cheeks blooming with heat which you're guessing is there because of the alcohol.

His eyes seem glossy, the stare heavy-lidded and complacent, but most importantly - unmoving from your own.

Your nerves are firing up all at once at the intense eye contact. Pressure climbs up your throat, making your chest tighten with blazing-hot tension. Your mind is running all over the place, turning you incapable of concentrating. 

The suspense makes you falter as you peel your eyes away from him. It turns you into a coward, because now you're completely changing the subject, "Nice bracelet."

Kiba on the other hand, seems to be holding his ground. His voice is smooth as velvet as he tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear and says, "As far as I remember, you've bought it for me at the beach years ago."

Hyper-awareness flashes throughout you at his touch, making you tongue-tangled with the jumble of words you let out, "Yeah, 'cause you wouldn't stop bitching about how I lost your stupid Spider-Man towel, and I had to make it up to you somehow."

"First of all, it wasn't stupid. And second," he chuckles as he curls the same strand of hair around his finger and tugs it lightly to provoke you further, "it was an Iron Man one. Please educate yourself before you come for me, cutie."

Your pulse is racing now. "Cutie?"

Kiba blinks. His knuckle brushes your cheekbone and it's like a tingling, nearly electrical jolt that surges through him at the accidental touch in that exact moment.

He pulls back, leaving the part of skin he touched burning in his wake. "I'm sorry. I didn't-... I didn't mean it like that. Fuck, hah."

His laughter is somewhat nervous now, and to be honest, you've never seen him act this hesitant before. The Kiba you know had always been nothing but smug in every single aspect, but at the same time, you barely know the current Kiba.

You haven't talked in years, after all - not properly, at least, which is why this entire interaction is so freaking odd in the first place. You wish you had some sort of power to know what on earth is going on inside that pretty head of his.

Based from experience gained from spending so many years in his company, you're guessing not much is happening inside that thick skull, but you'd kill to know the reason as to why he's invited you to his birthday party at all.

What has changed? Why was he searching the house for you, specifically, pretty much ignoring all the people he had invited, and why has he decided to spend the rest of the night in your presence, instead of anyone else's?

It seems that no matter how simple his mind may be, Kiba is - much to your dismay - the true enigma here.

Great.

"Ugh, I'm sorry," he repeats when you don't say anything in return, running a frustrated hand through his chestnut hair, "I think I'm just really wasted and saying shit I don't mean, 'cause of it."

In truth, he just wants to see if you'll bite into the bait he's setting up for you. If you'll play, and allow him to yank you right into his greedy hands.

You must be wasted, too, because now you're looking him right in the eye, saying, "It's all right, Kib. I liked it."

You just can't help yourself. Tonight is the first time in your life that you're seeing him this defenseless. That you're able to tug and pull on his strings, and play with him like he's a shiny, new toy that you can't wait to mess with. The opportunity is simply too good to miss out on.

If only you knew.

The atmosphere changes yet again at the words you've just spoken out loud, God have mercy on your soul. Something sticky and morally questionable settles right between you.

The tension is making your mouth dry. You're both circling now; unsure and waiting to see who is willing to take the first step towards the reason behind your uncertainty.

"You liked it," he mumbles at long last, unable to look at you properly, "the pet name?"

"Mhmm, I think it's cute." The smile you offer him is as cunning as one of a fox - pure vixen. Kiba doesn't understand why, but something about your face brightening up and the way the sheen of your lip gloss catches light tempts him; makes him tilt his head to the side and take you in unashamedly this time around.

He's outright leering at you now, studying you from head to toe, and taking in the pretty skirt and tight top, without trying to hide his interest like he's been doing for the past hour and a half.

You might own the smile of a fox, being an Uzumaki and all that, but when his amber eyes darken with shadows you can't quite read, you realize that he's the hound that's just about ready to start hunting you down.

His bottom lip is tucked underneath the same teeth that are now chewing the tender flesh from deeply pondering a thought which you'll never get the pleasure of knowing.

Kiba steps from one foot to another, loosing a huffed chuckle before he looks you in the eye again; seemingly satisfied with his conclusion.

Time to go all-in.

"You know," he says, voice wary, "I've got loads of other stuff from way back when we were kids, saved in a box upstairs, if you wanna check it out?"

He pauses for a second as his head whips to the side. He looks over his shoulder, and you can see him scan the room quickly; searching for something, or rather someone, before he turns back towards you and adds, "It's, uh... It's up in my room."

You quirk a brow at the suggestion. "You want to take me up to your room?"

Is he seriously asking what you think he is?

"Yeah," he says a bit more confidently now, scratching the back of his neck. His face is red as he mutters, "But only if you want to, of course."

"Hmm." You spend two or three seconds pretending that you're thinking it over just to see him fidget and squirm a bit more, before you at long last give him a slow nod of your head, "Sure, I guess."

Kiba seems relieved, until: "Though, I should probably go tell Naruto, so that he knows where I am."

Pushing from the counter, you dust off the imaginary lint from your cute skirt, however before you can even look up at him, his hand is back to pressing against the marble; blocking your path.

It seems that you aren't going anywhere.

Kiba's eyes are dark and glazed, the iridescent flecks of gold lazily swirling inside the liquid amber whenever the light catches the irises just right. He's looking down at you with a furrowed brow and an expression that's pretty bitter, unlike his honey eyes, but you only realize that he can't stop staring at your mouth when he says, "Maybe we shouldn't tell Naruto about where we're goin', sweetheart."

You aren't stupid. You know that the words have a deeper meaning. And now, you have yet another reason for your hunch to be proven right on why he doesn't want your brother to find out where you're going with him. Still, you push his limit, feeling him out, "And why is that?"

"He's probably busy." His voice is firm as he looks down at you when you flutter your eyelashes up at him. Perhaps it even owns a certain edge of frustration to it.

You sound like a bimbo when you reply, "Ah, I see."

You stare at each other as you feel the buzz of tension to sear your skin in mind-numbing waves. They're hitting against you both like you're cliffs that are constantly being kissed by the rowdy sea.

You can almost taste the anticipation of what's to come. Meanwhile, Kiba can nearly taste your saliva mixing with his own.

All he wants to do is kiss you. Kiss you, until you won't be able to feel your mouth anymore from how hot his tongue is to stroke yours and scorch you.

He's been imagining how it'd be like to kiss that pouty mouth ever since he was fourteen. And now - at twenty-two - he wants to know just as bad.

"Well?" he utters, impatience peeking through the mask he's put on ever since you've shown up at his front door.

"Chill, you idiot," you giggle finally, nodding again, "I won't tell Naruto if you don't want me to."

It'll be our little secret.

Relief washes over him yet again. He smirks as he moves at your compliance, offering you his hand like those cocky gentlemen in the films you're an absolute sucker for. "Well, shall we, then?"

The action is so cheesy and sweet, that you don't even hesitate to place your palm upon his own, not realizing the consequences of your decision in that moment. 

His grip is tight and possessive in all the right ways. You can't remember the last time you've held hands with him, but it certainly didn't feel like this.

"Lead the way, Kib."

And so, Kiba does.

---

"Christ, I haven't been up here in forever."

"And yet, you seem to have made yourself quite at home."

You turn to look at him from your spot on his bed you've just plopped down and made yourself comfortable on. His childhood bedroom is a bit different than what you saw the last time you were here, but what exactly has changed?

The bed is certainly bigger, as well as the wardrobe that stands in one corner opposite from where you're currently sitting. All of the furniture is made out of rich oak, exactly like most of the house; as well as the desk that's covered in random clutter, mostly consisting of notebooks, bright highlighters and sticky notes, which he must have brought home from college.

The movie posters to adorn the walls are still there, and somehow compliment the cosy aesthetic of his space. You spot the fluffy-looking dog bed that's set-up right next to his desk. It's empty.

"Is Akamaru with your mom?"

"Yeah, they won't be back until tomorrow evening," Kiba replies, closing the door, "now stop snooping through my stuff, will ya?"

"Uh, it's called looking around? Who said I was snooping?" The scoff you let out in answer is nothing short from derisive as you say, "And besides, it's not like there'd be anything new to find... Not much has changed; seeing that your room is still as messy as it was when you were ten."

"It ain't that messy," he retaliates, fingers wrapping around the key that's secured in the lock. He stands next to the door for a couple of seconds, making you stare at his back in puzzlement.

His voice is surprisingly quiet and soft when he speaks again, though thankfully you can still hear him over the muffled noise of music that's still being blasted downstairs, "By the way, uh... Do you mind if I lock the door?"

Oh?

The smirk which insists on curling the corners of your gloss-coated lips upwards is hard to hide. "Why would you lock it?"

He pauses again, body going still. You just know the gears within his head are turning at the speed of light. You can't help but wonder if it hurts him to think this much; this hard, when he says, "I don't want people getting the wrong idea."

Your reply is as swift as an arrow: "Don't you think locking the door would give them that exact idea in the first place, Kiba?"

For fuck's sake, you're too clever and witty for your own good; always have been. It's infuriating, but Kiba tames the tone of his voice into something sweeter by swallowing hard. "Let's hope not."

Before you can quip anything back at him, the lock clicks into place. Click! - your fate is sealed with his decision. God help you.

"Wow," you snort, shaking your head, "thanks for having the decency to at least ask me if I wanted the door locked, I suppose."

Kiba flashes you a playful, closed-eyed smile when he turns around and makes his way towards the wardrobe. You try to your best ability to not ogle at the way the flannel tightens around his broad shoulders and back when he raises his arms to pick up the box he's been telling you about.

Still, no matter how hard you try to look away, it seems to be literally impossible for you to quit glancing in his direction whenever the rippling muscle shifts underneath the cotton with every minuscule movement he makes.

The sports scholarship must have done him good, because he's fit and fucking fine as hell.

Though, not in the tall and lean way kind of fit, like he's been during most of his teenage years. No, as a proper adult, Kiba is appealingly vigorous and buff; owning strength you can't quite possibly imagine being unleashed upon your smaller frame.

He'd be able to crush you into a pulp if he ever wished to do so. To squeeze your throat until you'd be fighting against him, so that he'd allow air into your lungs. To hold you up without any sort of trouble as he'd fuck you against the goddamn wall.

You're not entirely sure if the knowledge of that last one thrills you, or instead frightens you right to the bone which he'd be able to break right in half anyway. Still, possibly scared or not, you might just start drooling at the sight of him.

You're looking at him like he's a piece of meat you'd like to chew on. How pathetic of you to be this shallow.

And how pathetic of him to be doing the exact same thing.

"Okay," he mumbles as he brings the box over and plops down onto the bed right next to you, "let's see what's in here."

Kiba flicks the lid off, the tiniest of smiles creeping up on his lips at the audible gasp you let out as soon as the items come into view.

The box is filled with seemingly completely random clutter, but after taking a closer look, you recognize the tiny sea-shells, the movie tickets, as well as all the postcards you've sent him. It's more than ten years of life - stuffed into a cardboard shoebox.

You spend the next half hour going through the box with him, reminiscing about memories that are both equally as sweet as they are nostalgic, sharing laughs and teasing each other as they bring you closer together; sewing up that gap of unfamiliarity between you with every passing second and exchanged relic.

Kiba's heart is fluttering with every drunken, tinkling giggle you're letting out, as well as the way your entire expression brightens because of him.

And he - the smitten, poor man that he is - just can't stop looking at you, because he's missed this. Talking to you, bringing those beaming smiles forth everytime he makes you laugh; just being in your warm presence, overall. Truth be told, he's missed all of it.

He's missed you.

"Can't believe you've kept all of this, Kib," you utter softly, reading the postcard you've sent him nearly nine years ago, "most of these literally make no sense. I'm just blabbering about my vacation, but in writing."

"I know. I suppose you could call me sentimental, eh?" He laughs quietly as he leans in and trails the tip of his finger over the scribbles you've written down when you were eleven. "But I always liked the lil' hearts you drew for me on every one."

"The hearts?"

"Yeah, look," he says as he pushes even closer to you, pointing to the corner of the postcard, "here's one. And... Another one."

His index finger brushes against your thumb when he points to the second doodle of a heart on the postcard you're still holding. He's sprawled on his side, supporting himself with one elbow and reclining so close to you, that you can smell his cologne all over again.

The scent clouds your mind for a second time that night. You're right back inside that rainy forest again; wishing to lie down onto the damp, moss-covered ground and just be fucking overtaken by the fog, until you'd feel the chill of its kiss on your neck.

The thought makes you drop the postcard somewhat absent-mindedly as you turn to look at him. He's much closer than you've realized, because as soon as you make eye contact; your faces are mere inches apart, the tips of your noses almost touching.

You can see all of his freckles this up-close, as well as the dimple in his cheek which shows up when one corner of his mouth tugs to the side. Something within you begins to glow when he looks at you so very warmly with those big, fierce amber eyes of his.

He makes you feel special with just one look alone. Unique. One of a kind.

"What is it, cutie?" His voice is barely above a whisper now.

"Nothing, I just," you mumble as heat sears your face at the pet name, "I think I must be very drunk right now, because I actually think you look super pretty up-close."

"Oh?" Kiba snickers at what you admit. "Why, thank you. Wish I could say the same for you, but you're kind of blurry for me right now."

"Ha ha, funny." You roll your eyes at him, shoving him away by pressing your palm against his chest. However, before you can even fully extend your arm to use more force, his fingers are wrapping around your wrist; tugging you closer in one swift movement.

He yanks you towards himself, until you're practically hovering above his face with your own. You're so close that you're sharing your breaths, staring into each other's eyes - both of your pupils dilating at the intimate closeness.

"I-I'm very drunk right now, Kiba," you repeat, cursing yourself internally for the stutter.

"As am I," he replies quietly, pushing your hand firmer against his chest. You can feel his rapid heartbeat right underneath the tips of your fingers again. The rhythmic sensation makes you gather up the cotton of his crisp, white t-shirt between your own digits as you clutch it tightly.

Your forehead presses against his own. You're almost breathless already, and he hasn't even kissed you. "This... This might not be a good idea."

"We haven't done anything," he utters in a hushed whisper, the hand that was just holding your wrist snaking up to caress your cheek. He trails the tip of his finger over your cheekbone, eyes glued to your mouth, "And we don't have to either, if that's not something you want."

The alcohol is pushing you to tell the truth. It's promising you that you'll feel better if you admit your feelings that have been there for ages. That the fear you feel is nothing compared to the relief that's to come.

"The problem is that I, uh... I do." You sigh, inching closer and closer, "I do want to."

Oh, god. Kiba's heart is just about ready to burst from joy at your answer. He feels nauseous from how overwhelmed all the feelings are making him. He just has to feel everything so strongly, doesn't he? It's amazing how he hasn't burned out yet, but he has to keep it together. Has to keep himself in check for you.

"Yeah?" His chuckle is dark in humour as he cups your cheek tighter, "You want me to kiss you?"

"Ye-... Yeah."

Kiba doesn't need anything else. His lips latch to your own as soon as you get the approval out, and the moment your mouths connect in panting, careful kisses that become hotter and hotter with passion with each one that follows after the other, it's everything you could have possibly wished for.

Kissing him is better than whatever you've imagined for all these years. He tugs on your bottom lip, spoils the upper one with affection, warms them both with his gentle sigh. You can't believe it took you this long to actually get to feel that plush mouth of his pressing against your own this softly, this tenderly.

Better late than never, you suppose.

He pulls back after a while, taking a deep, shaky breath. You're both chuckling quietly now, avoiding each other's eyes and not saying anything; too stunned to speak from the kiss you've just shared. His face is gaining the colour of a red tomato. He just likes you so much.

"Fuck, that was..." He's quiet for a moment, shaking his head with a grin that owns the power to bring you to your knees as he says, "Can I, uh... Can I kiss you again, maybe?"

"Yes," you barely let out, before his mouth is back upon your own.

His warm tongue strokes your bottom lip, silently asking for entrance. As soon as your lips part with a content sigh, he's pushing against you, tasting and gliding over every crevice within your sweet mouth, as well as the roof of it - tasting you for the very first time, and relishing you thoroughly because of it.

You can feel him forcing you into the mattress as the kisses flow between you and the tension you feel spreads through your entire body like a wildfire; until you're lying down on your side, and he's hovering above you exactly like you've done just a minute prior. 

He's more eager now; overtaking your mouth with his tongue and the quick, slightly painful prickles which burn whenever he sinks his teeth into your bottom lip. A small moan manages to slip past your mouth at the sensation when he tugs on your swollen lip that's long since lost all the gloss from how harsh your kissing is turning.

The sound of your mewl is so appealing that it makes him lazily part his eyelids, which are so heavy and hooded that he's barely keeping them open. Kiba watches you completely melt into the kiss he's been waiting to happen for literal ages. You look so sweet that he can barely control himself.

His chest feels like it's going to explode, and not from the lack of air, but from all the emotions he's feeling all at once again.

Your hands are running through his chestnut hair; entire body squirming and writhing when he trails his own palm down your side. He stops at the hem of your skirt, eager fingers twitching from anticipation as he asks, "Want me to touch you, too?"

Your voice is breathless as you whine, "Please."

"Look at you, asking so nicely." He snickers quietly, the smirk on his mouth tricksy, "Didn't know you had it in you."

And before you can even come up with a witty reply to his teasing, he's kissing you yet again, his warm hand grasping and squeezing the plush flesh of your thigh. His touch is greedy and possessive. It makes your core burn even hotter with wildish need.

His hand squeezes your thigh so harshly that it burns. You're gasping into his mouth in response to the ache, before he inches higher up to the inner part. The noises you're making as you're parting your legs to help him gain better access are adorable, and are also the reason why his dick keeps twitching inside his pants. He can feel the surge of warmth rushing to his groin. You're making him hard just by sound alone.

He keeps circling the spot where you need him most as he plays with you; testing your patience. He's so close but yet so far, making the tension within you build up to the point where you can feel your skin tightening over your bones because of it. 

"Kiba," you whisper, tugging on his hair to bring him closer, "st-stop messing around."

"Here?" His voice is nearly a gentle coo as he at long last rubs a digit over the damp spot of arousal on your pretty panties, completely disregarding your empty warning, "You want me to touch you here, cutie?"

"Mhmmm," you hum, dazed already from the sensation.

He taps the lace with a single rough fingertip, nearly making you purr from the way he's pressing against your clit over the fabric. "Take these off for me, then, pretty please?"

You don't have to be told twice. His request is so sweet that you're eager as ever as you reach underneath your skirt, hook your fingers around the waistband and tug the delicate lace down your legs.  

Kiba's hand finds you the second your panties hit the floor of his room. Your eyelids flutter at the contact, but you somehow force them to stay open, so that you can watch his smug smile as he trails a fingertip over your soaking pussy; gathering the arousal you've been trying to hide from him the entire night.

His voice is a rough whisper as he traces lazy circles over your throbbing clit, "So wet for me, huh? It seems like you haven't been touched in a while."

"It's been a lonely couple of months, yeah."

"That silly boyfriend of yours ain't around anymore, hmm?"

"We br-broke up."

"Good. I was growing tired of seeing his stupid face on your Insta all the time."

All you can do is nod as you stare up at him, your bottom lip tucked underneath your teeth. With one side of his face splashed in the soft glow of the light coming from the desk lamp that's positioned on the other end of the room, Kiba looks absolutely stunning.

His amber eyes shine golden when your leg hooks around his hip, so that you can give more space to that big hand of his as he pleasures you.

He keeps toying with you, rubbing your clit in soft circles that give you just enough friction to make your legs shake, and for your pussy to clench around nothing. The desire to be filled up by him is making you foam at the mouth. You're on the verge of going completely feral.

"Kiba, c'mooon," you whine, "I thought I've told you to stop mes- Fuck...! Oh, god."

"Hm? What was that?" His words are a lazy drawl as he now starts to pump two fingers inside you, stroking your hot, sensitive walls, "Did you say something, sweetheart?"

You're tugging on his hair so harshly that it makes him hiss as you try to fuck yourself on his fingers, "Holy shit, that feels so good."

"Needy," he mumbles quietly, his thumb still stroking your clit. He curls his fingers and forces himself even deeper inside you, until you can feel the brush of knuckles against your walls. Despite your hushed pleas to go faster, he keeps the languorous pace; sending your mind into absolute overdrive. 

Your hands are clumsy as they slide down his chest and dip to his belt buckle. You're growing frustrated from being such a klutz, until you at long last hear that satisfying click! as you unbuckle his belt on your third attempt. Quickly undoing the button and zipper of his jeans, you're eager to finally slip your hand into his black boxer briefs.

You stroke him over the fabric first. He pushes against you in an instant; chasing that extra friction as you try to cup and fondle as much as you can. You could have sworn that you feel him twitch as his breathing picks up its speed.

You're both looking down now, staring at your hands that are exploring each other's bodies.

The groan to leave the back of his throat makes you feel absolutely primal as you use one hand to tug the boxers down just enough for his cock to push free from the tight confines of his clothes, and the other to stroke him properly this time around.

The gasp to leave your lips is as astonished as your gawking. You've been wondering how he looked like underneath all those layers ever since you were fifteen and had gotten that first wave of hormones flooding your brain.

And as you're ogling at him so blatantly now, eyeing his throbbing cock and the pre-cum that's leaking out the tip, you realize that his size could best be described as nerve-wracking.

Your fingers are hesitant to wrap around him properly because of how tiny your hand looks compared to his dick, and yet you still do it anyway. Kiba's hand clamps around your own the moment you make contact, forcing you to tighten your grip and start pumping.

"Fuck," he whispers, eyes dark and murky at the touch, "that feels so good."

He's copied you word for word.

"Aha," you utter nervously, feeling him pick up his pace, "so, so good, Kib."

He feels big in your hand, the surge of blood making his dick so hard and throbbing that you're worried how on earth you'll make him fit if things actually escalate in that direction. If he doesn't calm down, he might just tear you apart with his cock.

The handjob you're giving him is as sloppy as the kisses you're sharing while he fingers you. It's so intimate and overwhelming; the way you're pushing against one another, writhing on his bed so much that you're both starting to sweat. 

"Wanna fuck you," he groans into your mouth at some point, his words nearly incoherent from the way you're gliding your tongue along his front teeth, "wanna fuck you so bad, cutie."

"Do it," you gasp when he applies more pressure to the sensitive bundle of nerves that makes you squirm against him. The need you feel comes first before the nervosity. You'll deal with your wrecked insides after he fucks you silly.

"Yeah?" he murmurs softly, kissing your jawline when your head tips back from the pleasure, "You'll let me fill up that cute pussy of yours?"

Heat crawls up your neck at his question and your answer, "Yeah."

He quickens his pace. "Pound it, too?"

"Yes...!"

Kiba lets out a short, huffed laugh at your enthusiasm before he presses a messy smooch right against your panting mouth. The sound echoes throughout the bedroom, making you giggle in reply. His face is so red. You doubt that it's from the alcohol now.

Thick fingers leave you slowly, rubbing the sweet arousal all over your inner-thighs and clit as he says, "Turn around for me."

You're worse than an obedient slut, or a feral bitch in heat from how happily you follow his orders. As soon as your back is turned towards him, your gaze falls upon the mirror of the wardrobe that's right opposite you.

The sight of your body as it twists and recoils on top of the bed sheets is a pitiful one, but it's quickly obscured by the fluttering of your eyelashes as soon as you feel him rub his cock over your dripping heat.

His mouth is right next to your ear when he whispers, "You on the pill?"

"Mhmm."

"Okay," he says, kissing your neck lovingly. You can feel the graze of his sharp canines slide across your pulse point when he adds, "gonna fuck you raw, then. Nice and slow, to really savour the feeling of that lil' cunt."

You're arching your back in response, pushing your ass towards his hips while your spine is pressing flush against his heaving chest.

Kiba slowly aligns himself with your sopping, tight hole. Now, your whimper is more of a cry than a moan as he begins to stretch you out with every inch he's leisurely pushing into your warmth. Even he's surprised that he's patient enough to be this gentle, but he just cares for you so much.

Your upper lip quivers as tears brim your eyes from the burn to sear through you. His forearm flexes as it tightens around your middle to keep you from outright running away from him. The shifting of muscles you see in the mirror as his grip turns tenacious is a welcome distraction.

"You're taking it so well, cutie," he encourages you delicately, using every chance to push himself in deeper, "you gonna keep taking my cock, right? Gonna keep being good for me?"

You can't form words, so you only nod as he keeps forcing himself further and further between your walls, sighing at the friction and the tight, wet warmth to surround him. You're on the cusp of crying by the time he at long last bottoms out within you, groaning at the sensation of being balls deep inside your soaking cunt.

"Fuck," he curses, breathing quick, "I've wanted to do that since I was seventeen."

"Kiba," you whine his name out, arching your back again, "it-it's too much...!"

It really is. He's taking over your entire capacity, and you feel like you're about to burst.

"Nu-uh," he smirks, not taking no for an answer as he kisses your temple, "you just need a lil' time to get used to it. Imma stretch you out real nice, sweetheart. We're gonna have so much fun."

Your fingers tighten their grip on the bed sheet, until you're literally clawing at it when he pulls his hips back and slams them right back into you with a lewd squelching noise and a smack!

"Oh, god!" Your eyes are sent rolling into the back of your head when he does it again. And again.

"No god here, 's just me," he laughs quietly, gaining a steady rhythm when it comes to destroying your insides. You're leaking milky arousal right down to the hilt of his dick as he keeps slamming home into you, making you cry out profanities every two seconds or so.

The noises you're both making mix with your heavy breathing and the sound of muffled music that's still thundering downstairs without stop. You're both so invested into each other that neither you nor him can recognize the song that's playing in that exact moment. All that matters are his grunts and your soft moans. As well as the friction. Holy fuck, the friction.

"You're a sucker for this, aren't you?" He pants into your ear, ramming himself into you with even more force, "You love the way my cock fills up your cute cunt, and how it hurts when I make you take it; all of it."

"I do," you sob out, face contorting from the intense pleasure, "I lo-love it so much...!"

"Fuck yeah, you do, cutie," he grits out, teeth clenched, "fuck yeah, you do."

You can't see his face in the mirror, but just the sight of his big, rough hands roaming your front; greedily lifting your top until your bra is exposed, and groping at your tits without any kind of respect is enough to make you want to scream his name until the entire house could hear.

Luckily for you, he chokes you before you can do it, though the desire is still there. He's making you feel that good.

So good, in fact, that the heat in the pit of your stomach is becoming unbearable. You're on the verge of erupting into pure bliss from the mind-shattering orgasm that's coming up; lingering just around the corner. There'll be nothing left of you if he keeps this up. He'll make you blaze, until you're nothing but ash.

"S-So close," you manage through shallow breaths because he's barely allowing you to breathe while you're rolling your hips against his own for that extra push, "please, please, fucking please."

"Already?" He laughs at your fucked out state as his expert digits hook around your thigh. Lifting your leg without warning, the pressure within your core swells and grows bigger and bigger. His fingers dig into the back of the plush flesh before he trails them upwards; aiming them for your clit again.

"Kiba," you gasp his name once more, feeling his grip around your throat tighten in response as he pulls you even closer to his chest, "fuck, please, I-... Need it...! Need to cum so bad."

"I thought you said you liked to be teased a little?" 

"Just do it, god fucking damn!"

"All right, all right!" He chuckles lowly, "So impatient, damn... Keep your leg up for me."

The moment his rough finger pads make contact with your demanding clit, your entire body spasms in his tight hold, fire licking at your skin with ferocious hunger. You can see it all in the mirror, the way the veins atop his tan skin protrude as he applies the pressure you need to become undone in the end.

"Ri-Right there. Fuck, yes...!" Your whispers are a trembling jumble of moans and whimpers. Kiba is chuckling quietly, his smile pressing against the back of your head as he keeps fucking you; keeps slamming you into goddamn oblivion. You're delicate like glass, but he sure as hell isn't going to handle you that way.

"Yeah?" He drawls tiredly, blushing at the lewd, wet sounds your lovemaking is producing. You're so wet that he's mesmerized in a way. Never before had a girl been this excited to have him. It's like a present. "Like this, baby?"

"Mhmm, like that."

"Gonna cum for me?"

"Wanna, yeah. So bad."

His laughter warms your very soul. "You're such a slu-"

"Kiba!" The sudden knock to come from the door makes you both stiffen, bodies turning rigid at the suspense of what's going to happen next. Your heart is pounding inside your ribcage, because the voice you've just heard sounds familiar. Especially when it says: "Yo, Kiba! You in there?"

Naruto.

The hushed exclamation of panic to leave you is quickly stifled by Kiba's palm that covers your mouth in a movement that's faster than lightning. He's panting now, leaning into your ear, going, "Shh, shh, shh. Keep quiet."

All you do to reply is make a muffled noise, fingers curling around his arm that's still keeping busy between your legs. He's never stopped fucking you; even whilst your brother is standing right on the other side of the door.

You're lucky Kiba had decided to lock it, because now you can hear the sound of the handle as Naruto tries it.

"Kiba," your sibling repeats, knocking again, "hellooo?"

The irritation to lace Kiba's voice is so profound that it sets your teeth on edge as he shouts, "What? I'm busy, man!"

"Busy? With what?"

"Fucking your sister."

Holy fucking hell.

Your eyes widen in shock, another muffled noise escaping your lips as you twist and turn to fight back against the tight grip he holds you in, but Kiba refuses to let you go. He fights right back, using his weight to press you flush against the mattress as he makes you roll onto your stomach.

His hands wrap around your wrists, shoving them both into the pillow to keep you from thrashing on top of his bed.

The moment he pushes his cock all the way into your warmth again, you go completely still. The new, deeper angle makes your breath stagger in the back of your throat. It takes all you have within you to not moan as loudly as you can as you try to crawl towards the headboard of the bed to pull yourself up.

He just can't stop fucking you, unable to release you from the cage his body has created around you. He's been waiting for too long; daydreamed and fantasized about this exact moment far too much to just allow Naruto to cockblock him yet again. He wants to see this entire thing to its end. Wants to see you cream on his dick, and to kiss you right after.

"You idiot," you cry out into the pillow, "why'd you tell him that?"

"Stop squirmin' around," he whispers, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, "you wouldn't want your big brother to hear us, now would you? And besides, it's not like that moron is ever gonna take it seriously."

"Ha, wow, you're so funny!" Naruto snorts in that exact moment, his voice the epitome of intoxication and proving Kiba right, "Speaking of y/n: do you know where she is? It's been a while since I've last seen her."

"I dunno, I think she left early to go hang out with her friend, or some shit," Kiba replies, eyeing your writhing body underneath him with a smirk as he keeps pushing, and pushing, and pushing until it hurts, "now quit nagging me, will ya? You're annoying as fuck, and I don't really care where your sister is."

He's a good liar, at least. And a mean one, too.

When you whip your head to the side to look up at him, he's shaking his own head no, leaning in quickly to kiss your cheek.

"Didn't mean any of that," he whispers into your ear, peppering soft kisses to the corner of your jaw, "don't be angry with me."

All you do is roll your eyes and lift your ass up higher into the air by arching your back. Kiba chuckles at the sinful portrayal of truce between you, biting back a groan when he burrows himself so deep inside you that he's kissing your cervix with every thrust.

You're so close that your toes are curling in on themselves. As he picks up his pace again, trying to make it as silent as he can, you're biting into the pillow, squeezing your eyes shut from the euphoria to start overtaking you.

Kiba can feel your walls clenching around him; can feel them spasming and pulsating around his cock as your pretty cunt tries to milk him dry - tries to force the cum right out of him. 

You look fucking beautiful like this; panting and drooling on his pillowcase as you attempt to stay quiet. It just makes him torture you even more. Especially when his fingers find your clit again.

You're clenching around him so hard that it nearly hurts as he strokes, pinches and spoils your sensitivity with his rough touch. He's completely dazzled from how well you're taking him. And as for you: all you can feel is his hand as it covers your mouth again just to be safe the moment before you're finally pushed over the edge.

And then, you're falling. Falling into true, utter bliss that only some good, ferocious pounding can bring.

He fucks you like an animal throughout your entire high, never once stopping in slamming home and torturing that sweet, sensitive spot deep within you - not even as your entire body shakes when you gush milky slick all over his cock and make it drip onto the bed sheet. It spurts and stains your inner-thighs; makes it even easier for him to abuse your cute pussy from how slick it is now.

"Ki-Kiba."

"Holy fuck, cutie," Kiba whispers, caressing your cheek lovingly as he keeps pounding; drilling into you, "you're so hot."

"Kiba!" Naruto shouts in that moment.

"What?!"

"Christ, man... Don't gotta be so grumpy all the time." He sighs, "Did she tell you which friend she was going with?"

Kiba looks down at you again, trying not to pay mind to just how fucking gorgeous you look with your skirt hiked up around your waist and sweat glimmering on your skin as you keep bouncing on top of the mattress everytime he pounds into you. His tongue flicks over the side of your neck as he murmurs, "Sweetheart?"

Your pupils are dilating inside your glazed irises when you look up at him. You're completely dazed from the high you've just experienced. Goddamn, he fucks like other men can only dream about fucking. He's worse than a beast. More insatiable than Greed itself. "Mm, Tenten... Tell him it's Tenten. She'll cover for me."

He grins at the lie before he calls out, "I think it was some chick called Tenten."

Naruto's reply is quick. "Ah, okay! That fits."

"Go away now, stupid!"

"Yeah, yeah! Going away now, you fuckin' grouch!"

You're both silent for a couple of seconds as you wait for Naruto to leave you alone before you finally allow yourself to giggle quietly.

Kiba joins in a moment later, snickering against your shoulder. He rests his forehead upon it and sighs. You can feel the layer of sweat sticking to his skin. He's completely drenched in salt, and so are you. Must be the clothes you were both far too impatient to take off.

"Fuckin' hell," he mutters quietly as you flip onto your back and wrap your legs around his waist with a sheepish grin, "he's always trying to cockblock me when it comes to you, I swear. Even without knowing it."

Your brow quirks in wicked amusement. "Oh? You've tried to hit on me before?"

Colour blooms on his tan face when he looks down at you and leans in to kiss you again. His arms are on both sides of your head as he looms above you. He's so big and bulky that he overtakes you completely. It makes you feel safe, instead of threatened.

There's just something peculiar seeing this completely new, unexplored side of him after knowing him for years. It's thrilling.

"I've wanted to text you and ask you out so many times," he mumbles, unsure if it's the alcohol talking or his heart, "I've been crushin' on you since I was a kid, but, uh... I was Naruto's friend first, ya know...? I didn't wanna make it weird between us."

"I get it, Kib." The tips of your noses are touching before he tilts his head to the side and kisses you again - this time deeply, slowly; sensually. The way he moves now is intimate and it means something deeper than it did before. You're both rocking alongside each other, trying to match each other's pleasantly laggard pace.

"Do you," he mumbles, staring down at you through hooded, heavy eyelids, "get it?"

"Yeah," you sigh, your own eyelids fluttering at the pleasant sensation of being so full, "I've been crushing on you for years, too."

"Ha, knew it."

"Don't laugh, now."

"Okay, okay."

The deep, raspy grunts to leave his mouth mix with your breathless gasps and quiet whimpers. Especially when he lifts your leg and places it on top of his shoulder, so that he can brand your fucking soul with his mark.

You're clawing at his damp t-shirt, trying to gain hold of him as much as you possibly can, so that you can keep him as close as he lets you. 

"You're so fuckin' pretty, y/n."

"You're pretty, too."

"Can't call me handsome?"

"No."

The bashful chuckles to leave both of your mouths fade into silence when you kiss again, tongues tangling into something more gentle and sincere. He's so close to you that all you can breathe in is him. He makes you glow from within yet again; like your heart is being submerged in liquid sunshine.

You've missed him so much. He's been the one for all this time, after all.

"Fuck, that's it."

"Mm, yeah... So good."

"Gonna-... Gonna cum soon."

The headboard of the bed starts to slam against the wall as Kiba picks up his pace, every thrust becoming quick and hard when he at long last allows himself to reach his finish. His brow furrows when your panting mouth latches to his own hungrily, swallowing the groan he lets out as the heat to build up within his lower stomach finally spills right into your goddamn womb in the form of thick, warm ropes of cum that paint your walls entirely white.

His entire body feels like it's on fire. The release is as heavenly as was the build-up.

You follow a fraction of a second later, writhing underneath him in your own high as you cling onto him, leaking a mixture of your own juices of pleasure and his seed. It's messy, and hot, and so fucking overwhelming that you both feel slightly dizzy as you try to breathe in as much air as possible.

You're both soaked in sweat, but he still holds you so tightly that it hurts while you're both losing yourselves in each other, and you don't mind at all that your bones are nearly breaking in half as he keeps whispering sweet praises into your ear; telling you how good it feels, how goddamn proud he is of you.

"Such a good girl," he murmurs as he kisses you again and again, "such a pretty, clever girl."

You're still absolutely dazed, cunt clenching around him in attempt to gather every last drop of his warm cum, head tipped back in complete ecstasy as he's kissing your jaw. 

You can't move. He's fucked you stupid, so it's no wonder that your only, rather brainless, response is:

"Happy birthday, Kiba."

---

Talk | A Joel Miller Mafia AU (Chapter One)

Pairing: Mafia!Joel x afab!reader

Summary: Your father had been a loyal asset to the Miller Clan for his entire life. After his passing, Joel feels a responsibility for you and your safety; inviting you further into his world, and your desires.

Warnings/tags: MDNI. Mafia!Joel alternate universe. Plot & porn. Foul language. Mentions of violence, murder, and death. Age gap (reader is 25, Joel is 40). Joel has known reader her whole life (nothing remotely unsavory/sexual is even insinuated/thought about on his end until after reader is 21). Depictions and mentions of anxiety and grief. Angst. Oral (f receiving). Overstimulation if you squint. So much praise. Riding. Unprotected p in v. Creampie.

Word count: 6.8k (oops?)

prequel. | series masterlist. | chapter two.

❝ I won't deny, I've got in my mind now

all the things we would do.

So I'll try to talk refined for fear that you’ll

find out how I'm imaginin' you. ❞

- Hozier, Talk.

You had never trusted any man in your life the way you trusted Joel Miller.

Including your late father, who was undoubtedly a decent man, save for the nefarious business he took part of his entire life. A loyal ally of the Miller Clan. This was the only world you had ever known. Even with his death, your place in it remained.

You never knew the exact story of how your father had gotten involved with the most notorious clan in New York City, but it was never any cause for worry; once you proved your loyalty to the Miller brothers, you were family for life. An unbreakable bond that ended in death, one way or another. Your father had never tampered with those odds; the security his loyalty provided his family was an irreplaceable asset.

Your mother had gone first. Cancer. It wasn’t easy, but it was simpler to digest than the tragedy you had seen around you your entire life. Men you had known as protectors and valuable parts of your fathers team shot or targeted, families torn apart or held captive. When you lost her, you couldn’t help but feel a semblance of peace knowing she went without terror. And after she died, your father vowed the same for you.

Your price of death would not come at the hands of the clan — even if his did.

A delivery gone wrong. It was a story you had heard a million times before, which likely explained why you felt so numb to the news at the time. Grief was an emotion you had avoided for much of your life, as death was always around you.

But Joel Miller made it easier to digest.

He had known you since you were just five years old, twenty at the time, and brand new to his role after his own father had passed on. It was natural for him to accept the position, being the eldest. But nowadays, he and Tommy shared the weight of their world fairly evenly — Tommy with most of the field work, and Joel the sharp mind behind every task.

Truly, for most of your years knowing the Miller brothers, you only saw them on rare occasions. Normally, a representative of the clan would do the talking or pay necessary visits. But the older you got, the more you anticipated seeing them.

Seeing Joel.

Around the age of sixteen was when you started to notice your budding attraction to the man. Time had aged him gracefully, and while he lost some of the brightness of his youth, the brooding, ruthless nature that replaced it became an object of your interest. He was a man of little conversation, but his presence alone commanded a room.

At eighteen, you could strike up a conversation with him without feeling like you were going to collapse. Speaking with the boss of a city clan was not for the faint of heart, but something seemed to soften in him when you were near; he would offer you a grin, seldom or unheard of to most who knew him. A roll of his eyes, always in jest or teasing. Sometimes, he would even extend a joke of his own, always witty and timed to perfection.

At twenty-one, his eyes started to linger.

Over the past four years, you had seen Joel more than you had ever in your life. At first, you weren’t in tune enough to question the intention of it; assuming he had his own reasonings for being so close that likely pertained more to your father than yourself.

You never imagined he would want to be near you as much as you wanted him to be.

After your fathers passing, Joel wasted little time in offering you a place in his estate. As far as he was concerned, you were his responsibility now. You had argued about it, promising him you would be fine in the apartment your father had secured for you in his will.

“You ain’t livin’ in no damned apartment on my watch.” His tone at the time had confirmed his seriousness on the matter, and you got the idea that no matter how hard you pushed, he wasn’t taking no for an answer.

And that was how you ended up in the glorious four story estate on the coast, overlooking the tumultuous waves of the Atlantic. In his bedroom, another aspect of the arrangement you had argued about, assuring him the guest room was more than big enough for you to dwell in. He didn’t even bother to continue the conversation, ordering his staff to move out any items of his that would hinder your own from taking up the space.

Now, here you are ~

3 months after your fathers death, standing in front of Joel’s bathroom mirror. The ends of your hair are still damp from the shower as you brush your fingers through the strands, the reminisce of soap smelling like him; strong, earthy, comforting.

You develop a routine over the weeks. There is a luxury that comes with the way these men live. Call it nurture or even the grief, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care if it is wrong.

You enjoy every moment of it.

His room is large; bedroom sporting a king size mattress adjacent to a lush, golden bathroom. The jacuzzi tub a fine stress reliever for your ever aching muscles. You often wonder what it would be like to see him dwell in it; when you had moved in, it was well kept, but you figure that is just Joel.

He pays close attention to detail.

Signing softly to yourself, you carefully fold the damp towel over the rack before settling into your night attire. It varies. Sometimes, like tonight, you wear the flimsy black nightgown that makes your skin feel like silk. Other nights, you find yourself standing in front of his closet, hands itching to wrap yourself up in one of his sweaters. You never do. Too afraid to what questions there would be to answer if he caught you.

You never touch anything in his room, in fact. Save for the essentials. You think it’s maybe because you want Joel to trust you, be certain that keeping you in his life would be just as valuable as your fathers.

Carefully, you sit yourself down in front of the vanity beside the bed. This is an addition specifically for your occupancy of his room. You coat your fingers in cream, studying your features in the mirror as you soak it into your skin. You feel refreshed, relaxed. Ready to curl up and give way to a similar slumber. The soft patter of rain hits against the balcony of window; thunder rumbling in the near distance, indicative of the coming storm.

You flicker off the big light, leaving only the soft glow of a lamp on the bedside, ready to will yourself under the covers when a soft wrap of knuckles hits the door.

Letting go of the sheet you had been reaching for, you pad your way to the door, gently turning the handle to peek your head out. When your eyes meet the visitor, confusion melts to pleasant surprise.

Joel stands before the door way, peering down at you with tired eyes. His hair is tousled, like he’s been running his hands through it. He’s still in his day attire, black slacks with a button up of the same hue, the first three buttons undone, soft dark hair peeking through, the roll or his sleeves reveling his toned forearms.

“Joel,” you breathe softly, pulling the door open fully. His eyes take a once over, taking in the sight of you in nothing but your thin nightgown. He doesn’t hide it, which elicits a shiver down your arms.

“Hey darlin’,” he drawls, voice laced in a frustrated fatigue. He leans a hand against the door frame. “Hope I didn’t disrupt ya?”

You shake your head earnestly. “No, I was just settling down. Please-” you step away from the doorway, allowing him to shuffle into the room, and quietly close the door behind him.

He paces around the space for a moment, seemingly lost in his own thoughts. You stand patiently, rubbing at your arms to try to rid them of their goosebumps. Your entire body seems to be ignited in his presence.

He surveys the room with his eyes, and you wonder what he may be searching for. “You comfortable in here?” he asks then, stilling in his spot a few feet in front of you, eyes back on you. There’s a concern in them, one that suggests he’s asking about multiple types of comfort. You give him a soft, reassuring smile.

“Joel, yes. Everything is perfect. You have been more than hospitable to me.” Too much so, you want to add, but don’t. You’re too busy studying him, the crinkle to his brows, the rigid nature of his shoulders. You don’t often see him during the day, normally holed up in the parlor where his desk sits, or meeting with potential informants of adversaries. So when you do see him, usually when the sun has set past the horizon, you gather as much information as you can. Alone, like this, he is stripped down to a simpler version of himself. The side he doesn’t let the majority of the people in his life see.

He lets you.

The silence wills you forward, taking a few steps that closes the space between you until you are craning your neck to look up at him with sympathetic concern.

“Something’s wrong,” you say, a statement that lingers with questioning. He doesn’t meet your graze at first, and when he does, he releases a heavy sigh in the process.

“I gotta step away from the property for a few days. Headin’ down south back to our base in Texas. Got a call this afternoon that a deal fell through, and there was quite a bit of fallout,” he explains, keeping his voice level and hushed. “Need to go take care of some…business.”

You know what that means. You feel a knot form in your stomach, a wave of nausea overcoming you. Someone had wronged Joel Miller, a fatal mistake. Severe enough that he wants to handle it himself.

This would be the first time in your three months of living in his estate that he wouldn’t be here, or at least within arms reach. An unfamiliar panic starts to overtake you at the thought of him gone, exposed to the threats that hide around every corner. He is not the only man with vendettas.

You don’t even notice the way your breathing starts to heave until you feel the rough touch of his calloused fingers cradling your jaw, bringing your attention back to him. His eyes are soft as they peer down at you, just like his touch.

“S’only for a few days, darlin’. I promise.”

You don’t argue with him, wishing not to cause him anymore stress than he’s already enduring. Instead, you nod slowly in his grasp, swallowing the thick lump forming in your throat and threatening to sting your eyes with tears.

“So, I-I’ll be alone?” you inquire hesitantly, scolding yourself for how pathetic the question sounds coming shakily off your lips.

You didn’t want to be alone. You didn’t want to be away from Joel.

His hand falls from your face, and you find yourself missing the warmth of it instantly. “No, no, not at all,” he shakes his head. “Usual security’ll be here, and I asked Tommy to come back to take care of things on this end. He’ll be in tomorrow mornin.’”

You like Tommy. You trust Tommy, of course you do. But he isn’t Joel. And you can’t stop yourself from picturing him returning to you the way the last person you cared about did.

With a bullet between his eyes.

You did not notice the tears that silently poured down your cheeks until Joel's warm hands are cupping them, his eyes flitting over your face in an array of confusion and concern.

"Hey, hey," he soothes softly when a meek sob leaves your lips. Then, he is pulling you into his chest, wrapping his strong arms around your waist in a firm hug that lifts you to your toes. This is not the first time you have cried in front of Joel, and you are certain it will not be the last. Usually, these kinds of emotions overcome you in a moment of unbearable grief, too strong to be avoided, and you trust no one else with such vulnerability. But now, they are tears of worry. Anxiety. A crippling amount of it you have noticed worsening over the weeks. Always feeling like you have something to lose.

He is silent for a long while, tracing soft circles against your back as you cling onto the collar of his shirt, silently crying against the warm flesh of his chest. He rests his chin atop your head, and you are grateful for the comfort his touch provides.

"Just a few days," he reiterates, only a whisper. "I promise."

And then, he is cradling your cheeks again, wiping the reminisce of tears away with his thumbs. He is shushing your embarrassed apologies for being so emotional while tucking strands of damp hair behind your ear. He is letting his eyes wash over you again, in the way that makes your stomach coil, before pressing a delicate kiss to your forehead and telling you to sleep tight.

You try. You really do. But no matter what way you twist or turn, you cannot situate yourself. Cannot silence your brain that runs amuck with scenarios of terror. And eventually, you are sitting up in a huff; skin slick with sweat, breathing labored, and eyes searching the room frantically. A flash of light startles you, and you realize the storm has centered over the estate. Once distant thunder now rumbling at your windows. You run your hands down your face.

This is stupid. You're being stupid. Just go back to bed.

You don't. No, instead, you throw the covers off of you and reach for your silk robe to cover yourself in your nightgown. You open the door, carefully, taking a good look of the upper corridor. Any guards that are on duty are likely stationed on the lower levels, leaving you an open pathway to cross the hall without questioning. The entire time you pad across the wooden floors, you are internally scolding yourself to turn around, to suck it up and cut it out. But your body wills you forward before your mind has a chance to intervene, and before you know it, you are standing outside the guest room door at two in the morning knocking for Joel.

A few moments of silence go by, your rationality catching up to you as you realize how ridiculous this is. You are about to turn around and endure a sleepless night when you hear the lock unlatch, and with it, the door opens.

You suck in a deep breath.

He stands shirtless before you now, tan skin glowing in the soft moonlight that comes in through the cracked curtains. Gray sweatpants hang low on his hips, and you use every bit of willpower you have left in you not to look down. His eyes are squinted, hardly even open, face contorted in disorientation as he tries to register you outside the door. You can't help the warmth that invades your chest seeing him like this: stripped down to the essentials, bare and peaceful, save for the worry that quickly consumes him.

"What's goin' on? What happened?" he grumbles, voice laced with sleep. It's unbearably sexy.

"Nothing, nothing," you are quick to rush out, keeping your voice a careful whisper. "I just-"

You're gnawing at your bottom lip then, shame overtaking you. He lifts a hand to rub at his eyes with his middle finger and thumb, shaking away some of the sleep. He looks at you a bit clearer now.

You play with the strings of your robe, eyes dropping to your bare feet. "I can't...I can't sleep," you admit, sheepishly, peering up at him then through your lashes wistfully.

He stares at you for a long while, and you cannot decipher if he is upset or merely processing the information. But then, you watch his chest fill with a deep breath, groggy expression turning sympathetic. He doesn't hesitate to tell you to c'mere, moving out of your way to let you into the room, locking the door behind the both of you.

The room smells like him, even more so than his own bedroom as months of no longer dwelling in it has dimmed the scent. You are wordless in your movements, walking carefully towards the less messy side of the bed, figuring he is occupying the other. You shimmy off the robe, letting it fall to the floor, and take in the sights outside the window when you sit on the edge of the mattress. Rain hits the glass in large pellets, the wind taking up big waves to the shore. You're even more grateful he's here now, as you never did well in thunderstorms, another anxiety bound to overtake you just as much as the thought of his absence.

You curl under the covers on your side, facing away from him, pulling your knees slightly to your chest. You are already invading his privacy, the last thing you want is to take up too much space. When the mattress dips behind you, you are acutely aware of your predicament all of a sudden.

You are alone. In bed. With Joel. In nothing but your night slip and panties, feeling the heat of him behind you, warm breath just barely tickling your shoulder blades.

God, you really didn't think this through.

If you were awake before, you are wired now. The bubble of anxiety in your stomach spreading throughout the rest of your body. You squeeze your eyes shut, taking in deep, calculated breaths to try and center yourself. And that's when you feel it; as light as a feather, the tip of his finger reaching out to trace the exposed skin of your spine. Your body stiffens instinctively.

"You're breathin' so hard," he grumbles, matter of factly. Still sounding like he's only half with you. You feel bad for waking him, for bothering him.

"I'm sorry," you whisper back, coiling further in on yourself.

"Don't," he huffs, and you feel the mattress shift again, his breath closer. "Don't apologize."

You bask in the moment, the breath, the tension. Until your mind is too clouded with grief, worry, and desire, that you blurt out the words you have been aching to say since you were sixteen years old.

"Will you hold me?"

You're not sure he even hears you at first, a still silence overtaking the room, save for the crash of thunder that vibrates the windows, and the steady hum of rain. You're about to retract your statement, desperately searching for the right words to explain such an idiotic idea.

But then you feel it. The solid sturdiness of his chest pressing into your back, strong arms circling your waist, molding you into him. And just like that, every drop of worry is rolling off of you at an alarming rate. You sink into him like an anchor, hands coming up to grip his where they rest just under your breasts. You feel the tickle of his stubble against your neck, and you just can't help yourself, wiggling within his hold, nuzzling yourself back into him. You want to feel every bit of him.

He let's out a soft grunt at this, and you freeze, unable to question it before you can feel it. Undeniable and strong, his erection pressed into your lower back.

Chalk it up to anxiety, the looming thought that after tonight, there is a chance you would never see him again. That is true every night he is gone, but tonight feels different. You are not wrapped in his arms every night.

Testing your luck, you shimmy your hips just the slightest bit again. This time, his arm across your waist slinks back, fingers digging into your hip firmly.

"Babygirl," he mutters. It's a warning. Joel has offered you many terms of endearment over the years, but never that one. And hearing it come off his tongue has a certain spot between your legs aching for attention. "Can't be doin' that," he tsks, giving your hip one last, stern squeeze before looping his arm around you again.

You must be losing it.

"Why not?" you challenge, surprised at your own boldness. Only a fool would be so brave as to disobey Joel Miller. You stare into the nothingness, bathing in doubt, arousal, and Joel. Awaiting his response in the deafening silence.

You hear him mutter something unintelligible, and then:

"Look at me."

You heed his command instantly, twisting in his arms to face him, bracing yourself for his eyes.

Oh, he's awake now.

Pupils blown wide, jaw set heavy and clenched. At first, you think he may be angry, but then, he is licking his lips, dragging his eyes over your lips, your neck, your cleavage that is poorly covered by the flimsy material of your gown. You feel the weight of his grip tighten on your hips, both covered by his hands. It elicits a gasp, causing you to push your chest further up to his, your own fingers finding their way to his skin, shyly placing them on the expanse of his chest.

You cannot help yourself. You tilt your head up, the tip of you nose brushing his. When he shows no sign of disinterest, you let your eyes flutter closed, pressing your lips to his in a tender kiss. His lips are soft, warm, hands steady. You savor the feeling, a familiarity and comfort in the way your lips touch. And just as you dig your nails into his skin, encouraging him to deepen the kiss, he pulls back with a sharp hiss, hands leaving your waist.

“Darlin’, I—”

You’re reaching for his face then, cradling either of his cheeks, and forcing him to look at you. He’s flushed, but even in his uncertainty, you can see the unbridled lust.

“Please,” you whisper, a soft begging. Your hands trail from his cheeks, over his shoulders and down his chest until you’re reaching for his own, slowly placing them back to their rightful place on your hips. His eyes are on you the entire time, the crease between his brows twitching. “Please, don’t make me wait any longer.”

You are on your back in an instant.

Joel's hips are slotted between your thighs, and his lips are on yours, kissing you with a hunger that suggests years of restraint. You cannot help but arch from the mattress, your legs circling his hips, your arms his neck, engulfing yourself in the mass of him. He's eager, but soft. Tongue massaging into yours with precision and expertise. His hands are unforgiving, caressing down your ribcage, squeezing at your hips, your thighs, anywhere he can touch you, he marks with his prints.

"Shit," he seethes, breaking your lips momentarily only to begin his descent over your jawline, down to your neck. You grant him access freely, head lulling back against the pillow, eyes fluttering closed to relish in the burn that is his lips on your skin. When he nips at the sensitive spot below your ear, you mewl in delight, tugging at the hair at the base of his neck. This evokes something in him, and he's growling into your skin, rutting his hips forward between your thighs for you to feel the unforgiving hardness of his cock against your cotton clad lips.

"You have no idea," he begins between each peck, voice a heavy drawl of desire. "How long I've wanted you like this, darlin.'"

You always had your suspicions, but hearing the words from Joel himself in such a moment of vulnerability and lust has you reeling. You think maybe deep down, there is a worry in Joel, too. A worry of losing you, regretting the chance to ever have you this way before the possibility of something terrible could happen. Even if it is a mistake - a life altering, change the game completely mistake - doubt would have to wait until morning.

You want to tell him you do know, you know exactly what he feels, your own fantasies plaguing you far longer than his. But your mind goes blank at his ministrations, now delicately pulling the neckline of your night gown below your breasts, exposing them to the crisp air. The straps fall off your shoulders, nipples tightening as a hand comes up to knead one of them, the other entertained by his lips, sucking and nipping at the flesh.

You can't think, can't breathe, the looming sound of thunder now a distant roar in the haze of your mind, high off the only man you have ever really wanted in your life.

"Joel," you whine, giving his curls another impatient tug.

He chuckles into your skin. "Relax, baby," he whispers against your stomach, carefully pulling the hem of your night gown up to kiss the bare flesh. He scoots his weight down the mattress, lips resting just above the waistband of your panties. "Let me get you ready for me, hm?"

You want to scream in frustration, tell him you're already ready, that there are no more moments to spare. Time feeling incredibly precious all of a sudden. But you refrain from complaint when he places a firm kiss to your clothed clit, your hands flying to cover his on your hips. The electricity the jolts through your core is almost unbearable, only now realizing how desperate you are for relief. Your cunt involuntary clenches around nothing, every rub of the lacy fabric against your center shooting little tremors down your legs. It sticks to you uncomfortably, glued by your own slick. And he's barely even touched you yet.

When you allow yourself to look down at him, his eyes are already on you. The intimacy of it makes your breath hitch, and you watch as he hooks both of his thumbs into your panties, slowly maneuvering them down your legs. You kick them off when they reach your toes, immediately letting your feet fall against the mattress, legs spread apart.

"Didn't know you could be so needy, baby," he teases, and then, he is situating himself between your legs, gentle hands spreading your thighs apart and hooking your knees over his shoulders. As soon as his hot breath hits your lower lips, your head rears back against the pillow.

"Fuck," he breathes, just barely grazing his lips against your inner thigh. "But I did suspect you'd have such a pretty pussy, darlin'." He speaks in pure filth, but it riles you up beyond comprehension. "Wonder if it tastes as good as it looks."

He wastes no time then, warm tongue licking a slow stripe from your leaking hole all the way up to your clit. He lets it linger there before flicking against the hard bud in calculated strokes. Your wanton moans mix with the sound of thunder, and your hands are flying back to his hair, urging him closer. You want more, you need more. His tongue descends back down to your opening, collecting the ambrosia like a starved man.

"Tastes so fuckin' sweet," he praises. One of his hands abandons your trembling thighs, fingers prodding at your cunt before he sinks two, thick fingers inside the flesh. You cry out at the sudden stretch, but are quickly filled with relief as your walls finally have something to clamp around, emptiness replaced with the urgency to be filled.

"So tight too, darlin'. Scared I might not fit." His fingers curl, meeting the spongey spot inside of you, making your thighs clench around his shoulders.

"You will," you gasp as he slowly, much too slowly, begins to pump his fingers in and out of you, tickling that special spot every single time. "You-you have to."

You cannot bring yourself to care how pathetic you sound, too spellbound by your fantasies come to life. And by Joel's reactions, you don't think he minds much either. In fact, he looks like he's relishing in it, giving your words a hum of satisfaction before his lips are back on your point of nerves, growing ever more sensitive by the second.

"Don't you worry that pretty little head of yours, sweet girl. I'm gonna take care of you," he promises, and you believe him. With your whole being; Joel would always take care of you.

His lips wrap around your clit to suck on it gently. This, coupled with his fingers quickening their assault inside of you, has you seeing stars. You do your best to stay still, his free hand keeping you steady against the mattress as you writhe below him. When you feel the growing coil in your lower belly, you crane your head up to look at him, whimpering at the sight.

His dark eyes are peering up at you from between your legs, lips ravenously tasting every bit of you, and you think the view of him enjoying the devouring of your pussy may be the hottest thing you've ever seen.

Your hands are tugging on his hair then, but he doesn't seem to mind, hell bent on building you up to your budding release. You sink your teeth into your bottom lip, feeling the waves of pleasure beginning to ripple through your thighs. Your breathing is erratic, and when you feel the slight graze of his teeth against your clit, your vision goes white.

"Joel, Joel. Oh, fuck, I'm gonna-"

You never find the words, only watch him with wide eyes as your jaw goes slack, his forearm pumping his fingers in and out of you at an unruly pace as your orgasm washes over you, even more turbulent than the stormy waves outside the window. When your legs go to close around his head, he's pulling his fingers out of you, using both hands to keep your legs pried apart as he buries his face into your cunt, licking and sucking you through the high. And even when the aftershocks begin to pulse through you, he still tastes you, making sure to get every last drop.

Your legs feel like jelly when he is shuffling out from under them, body molten into the mattress, the toll your orgasm took on you sending you into a blissful stupor. You watch through hooded eyes as he stands at the foot of the bed, taking in the sight of you with a grin on his lips.

"So beautiful," he whispers, so low you almost miss it, before he undoes the waistband of his sweatpants and rids himself of them, no boxers to be found.

You cannot help the soft gasp of air that leaves you when his cock springs free from its confines, thick and veiny, hitting his stomach where a string of precum stains the flesh. Your body moves slowly, sensually. Sitting up before turning onto your hands and knees and crawling towards the edge of the bed. He watches you, hair a wild mess, sweat sheen skin, and dire eyes, looking as though he would answer to your will without a second thought. But when you reach your hand out to stroke him, he takes you by the wrist, stopping you.

Your eyes shoot up to him, lip jutted in a disappointed pout while your mouth waters to taste him. He flashes you an amused expression, clearly satisfied by your eagerness to please him, but carefully shakes his head.

"Not this time, baby," he says, and instead, takes your hand into his as he guides you both towards the center of the mattress. The insinuation that there would be more than just this time makes your stomach erupt in an endless flutter.

He settles back against the headboard, gently tugging you forward and onto his lap, legs straddling over his thighs. His hands land onto the curve of your ass, rocking the flesh, and you moan at the hard rub of his cock against your bare cunt. Your hands find refuge on his shoulders, appreciating the firmness of them. You like this, sitting up on him like this. Studying the way he looks at you, the hard lines of his face seeming to soften; you think he looks younger like this, a youthful glow overtaking him.

This man. This frightening, powerful man that you have given your entire life over to. And here you are, willingly handing off the last piece of yourself you have to offer him, knowing that deep down, no matter the fall out of both your actions, he would handle it with care.

Your hands come up to his face then, cradling it like you did when you first kissed him, and gingerly bringing your lips to touch his again. The kiss is softer than before, slower, and you cannot repress the emotion that overcomes you. Tears sting your eyes as they did before, in his bedroom, while he comforted and soothed you. You realize then why you are so afraid of him leaving, knowing it is something you could never admit aloud, at least not until you are certain you could even entertain the idea of losing him.

You love him. You love Joel, and you likely always have. Always will.

“I wanna feel you,” you whisper against his lips, reaching a hand between your bodies to grip his cock. He grunts at he contact, helping you lift your weight off of him to line him up at your entrance, nestling the tip between your folds. You meet his eyes when you begin to sink down his shaft, watching the way his own roll back into his skull, teeth clenching almost as hard as his hands that bruise into your ass.

Your head falls forward against his chest once he’s sheathed inside of you, desperately trying to catch your breath. The stretch is wide, a momentary rattle of pain as you get use to the sheer size of him. It has been so long since you knew a man this way, but you know none of those experiences could prepare you for the way Joel is making you feel.

After a brief moment of silence, except for the song of your shared grunts and moans, you begin to rock your hips. You lift your head from his chest, pressing your forehead to his, sweat sticking your skin together. The tuft of hair that sits at the base of his shaft tickles your clit, and as quickly as it came, the pain disappears, your walls relaxing to accommodate him, aching for more.

The rock of your hips just isn’t enough, thighs sore just from the broad expanse of having to straddle him. You let out a frustrated sigh, to which Joel counters with a smirk, pecking at your lips.

“Need some help, sweetheart?” he asks, and you look at him bashfully, merely nodding your head.

“What did I say?” he whispers against your lips, hands slipping to the under curve of your ass to steady your weight in his hands. “I’m gonna take care of you.”

And then, he’s thrusting up into you, slow and deep at first, and you’re gasping for air, hands scrambling to steady back on his shoulder. His lips latch onto your neck, hands spreading you open while simultaneously forcing you to ride up and down his cock.

“Oh my god, Joel.” You are breathless again, wrapping your arms entirely around him now, molding yourself into him. Wet, needy, clenching so feverishly around him. His face is buried in the crook of your neck, animalistic grunts echoing in your ear as he begins to piston up into you. The sound of slapping skin is accompanied by your cries, yelling out into the room, unafraid of anyone who may hear. You are in the safest spot in the world right now, as far as you’re concerned.

“So fuckin’ tight,” he’s mumbling, fucking you absolutely senseless. And you let him, allowing yourself to go blank, drunk on his cock, feeling nothing but Joel. “So good for me, taking my cock so well, pretty girl. Just like I knew you would.”

His praise has your eyes squeezing shut, tiny squeals coming from the back of your throat with each pound of his cock against your cervix. His pace is slower now, but inexplicably deep, and you can feel the way he’s swelling inside of you.

“Joel,” you moan, and suddenly, it’s the only word you know. Singing off your lips in prayer, over and over again.

“M’gonna fill you up, darlin.’ Is that what you want? Want me to make your pussy all mine?”

He could be saying anything to you in this moment, and you think you would agree. You nod frantically, clutching onto him for dear life as he starts to hammer into you again. You’re practically flying off of him only for him to slam you back down on his cock, filling you to the brim.

You're fluttering around him, uncontrollable now, pussy milking his cock in critical need of him to fill you. The sensation of your second orgasm building in your gut almost too much to bare. Joel seems to notice, as he keeps his steady pace and angle that has your toes curling.

“That’s it, baby,” he coos against your ear, taking the lobe lovingly between his teeth. “Just let go. Cum on my cock, and I promise I’ll give you what you need.”

And you do need it. So bad. The sickening desire to be branded by him. You focus on every minute detail about him; his hands, his breath, the sounds he makes, no shame detected in the way he graces you with them, until the pleasure is too much to mange and you're throwing your head back in ecstasy, your second release hitting you even harder than the first, leaving you to tremble uncontrollably around him.

He catches you, holding you steady as he chases his own release, muttering sweet nothings of how beautiful you are, how good you've been for him, and how he wants nothing more than to take care of you. Seconds later, his thrusts grow sloppy until he is still, filling you up one last time before he releases his seed inside of you, coating your walls in the comforting warmth with a string of disgruntled sounds.

You're not sure how much time passes, but you both remain unmoved. Sitting, entangled in one another, his cock falling soft inside of you, the sticky invasion of his release leaking onto his thighs and the sheets. You're both searching for your breath, once sporadic pants now falling into melodic puffs of air. One after another. Yours and his, melting into each other.

You have not brought yourself to look at him yet, still huddled safely against his chest when another loud crack of thunder shakes the room.

This one startles you again, the others having been so lost in your lust. When you perk your head up, his eyes are already on you. You recognize the display of worry on his face. His hands abandon your skin to graze over your cheeks, palms cradling them so delicately, as if you may break.

He gives you a narrow, serious look. "Are you alright?"

You realize then that it is not only worry for you, but panic that overtakes him, any certainty and confidence from the moments before reduced down to what you fear may be regret.

You flash him the most reassuring eyes you can muster, leaning into his touch, tilting your head to press a chaste kiss to one of his palms.

"I'm okay," you whisper. "More than okay. I promise."

You have made so many promises to one another, you are beginning to wonder if one will ever break. Thus far, they hadn't.

Promise to take care of you.

Promise to protect you.

Promise to give you what you need.

The sorrow finds you again then, and you are slumping forward, wrapping your arms around him to find reprieve. And to shield him from the stubborn tears that finally start to pour down your cheeks again. Time is precious, and it keeps ticking away. Mere hours would pass before he is back to being more than just your Joel, back into a world that places a target on his back.

"Just a few days?" you mutter quietly against his skin.

He chuckles breathily, relief seeming to find him. He places a kiss atop your head, hugging you to his chest. "Just a few days," he repeats, and as the fatigue finally starts to overcome you, you vow that whatever questions or worries tonight would pose for your future together, you would deal with them when he returned safely to you.

"I promise."

song inspo:

tag list: @vickie5446 @casa-boiardi @dinsdjrn @hey-moon-child @scarletsloveletter @subconsciouscollapse @thetriumphantpanda@mommasnakesss @cupofjoel@tightjeansjavi@sinsofsummers @morning-star-joy

i wanted to write something nasty but it ended up being quite sweet, don't blame me i just need love

⠀ૈ☆ ex-husband nanami x fem!reader

𓏲 ࣪₊♡ tw: [n]sfw, breeding kink, jealousy, possessiveness, fluffy ending

it only took one look, just one look across the room full of guests to reignite something that had never really been extinguished.

nanami's grip around his glass of wine got a little tighter, his eyes flashing at you and his heart starting to beat fast.

he became more muscular since your divorce, his shoulders looked stronger, carrying him with much more confidence and charisma than before.

maybe he finally quit his shitty job, you thought to yourself, trying to act cool as you saw him coming closer...

yeah he definitely quit his job, you think to yourself again, laying on your back while his cock is splitting you open.

"I missed you so much my love..."

familiar goosebumps hit your skin and his hands slide along the curves of your waist, the tip of his cock pushing against your cervix.

all you can do is take it, unfocused eyes watching your ex-husband thrusting inside your dripping pussy. nanami grunts, his body pressed against your own, his breath fanning over your neck, and you can't help but moan his name and wrap your legs around his hips, trying to meet his thrusts.

"'missed you too kento..." you try to speak, your hands reaching out to hold his face.

you missed everything about him, the warmth of his skin, his cologne scent, how messy his blond hair gets when you run your hands through it, and the way he knows every single one of your weak spots.

he never fucked you this hard in the past, of course he was rough sometimes, but you can tell something has changed, snapped.

not that you're complaining about it.

your back arches off the bed, making his pelvic bone touch your spasming clit.

"this time I'm not letting you go angel..."

his eyes get darker, thinking about the potential men and women who had you since your divorce, it makes him fuck you harder, deeper.

"mine..." he whispers, more to himself than for you to hear.

he takes your hands to pin them above your head and smiles when he hears you whine.

"you're gonna cum angel?" he asks, not slowing down his thrusts.

he knows you by heart, and he smiles when you nod, his mouth starting to suck on the soft skin of your neck, marking you.

"that's okay, I'm gonna cum too..." he says, and you can feel his hot breath hitting your skin.

he keeps rubbing your sweet spot, completely lost in the feeling. god he missed that feeling, you're the only one who can make him lose his mind like that, he can't believe he let you go when you're this perfect.

"you're still not on birth control?"

and he smiles again when he sees you shake your head. so perfect.

"gonna put a baby in you yeah? gonna make you a mom... will you let me angel?"

you mindlessly nod your head, wrapping your legs tighter around his waist, your whole body is trembling and you feel his cock twitches inside of you.

"please... breed me..." you sweetly asks, and he can't deny you.

your vision gets blurry, your eyes roll back and you violently cum around his cock as he does the same in you, still thrusting to push his cum deeper. you both stays silent for a few seconds, nanami's head buried in your neck, inhaling your familiar scent, closing his eyes of content when he feels your hands rubbing his back.

"I love you, I've never stopped loving you, even after six years..." he whispers, his voice sounding almost vulnerable as he kisses your shoulder.

you ruffle his hair, and you whine a little as you can feel his cock still pushing against your cervix.

"I'm here now, I won't leave."

he hums, his arms wrapping around your waist and you can feel yourself slowly drifting off to sleep.

this time you both won't let go of each other.

jjk masterlist

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☀︎ your summer dream masterlist ☀︎

joel miller x f!reader

ONGOING SERIES~

series playlist

pairing: joel miller x fem!reader rating: 18+ minors dni series warnings etc: [NO OUTBREAK] we'll call him dad's buddy!joel, fairly soft!joel, age difference (28/50), alcohol, food, smut (will specify with each chapter), fluff, anxiety, mentions of infidelity, mentions of divorce, jet skis????, secret relationship. no use of y/n.

series summary: fresh on the heels of the worst breakup of your life, you find an unexpected kindred spirit in joel miller, who's agreed to tag along for seven days at a tropical resort with you and your parents.

Drive your car down to the sea / All the while you build a scheme / Take her hand and walk on with her / Make it real, your summer dream

prologue

day one–(re)introductions

day two–?

day three–?

day four–?

day five–?

day six–?

day seven–?

*follow @swiftispunkupdates and turn on notifications for updates

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