Katsuki's Never Been One To Let Himself Get Attached To His Flings. He Knows His Limits, Knows When Fucking

katsuki's never been one to let himself get attached to his flings. he knows his limits, knows when fucking turns into love-making. he has a hard 45 day limit on his relationships, even going so far as to mark their expiration dates down on his calendar.

still, he can't smother the feeling he gets in his chest on day 36 of you. he wasn't even planning to see you today, wasn't thinking about talking to you until he notices you sitting out in front of a dive bar from the window of his car. you're at a small patio table, alone, picking at the label on your empty beer bottle, doing that thing you do where you purse your lips when you're trying not to cry.

and when that first tear rolls down your face and you quickly swipe it away, katsuki feels like his ribs are caving in and his thoughts are swirling around in his head, a cosmic whirlpool of I'm going to protect you, who did this to you who hurt you? I'll never let you feel this way again, not ever again, not ever ever again

he tells his driver to pull over and he's in the bar before anything can stop him, grabbing another two beers, some cheap brand he saw in your fridge after a night in your bed.

"katsuki?" you look at him with glassy eyes when he sits down next to you, sliding one of the bottles across the table.

"why're you cryin' outside of a shitty bar at 2am, hm?" he takes a swig of his drink, nearly grimaces at the flavor.

"can we just fuck like usual and leave it at that?" you ask hoarsely.

"tell me why you're cryin' and then I'll take you back to my place." katsuki lays a hand on your thigh and you trace along his splayed out fingers with your nails.

you're quiet for a minute, and then:

"what would you do if you were in love with someone, but they didn't love you back?"

katsuki unconsciously strengthens his grip on your thigh, blunt nails digging into your skin.

he knows he has a choice in this moment, one that scares him more than any day he's had as a pro-hero.

but the next words out of his mouth feel so natural, he barely has to think about them.

"I'd buy her a beer at a shitty dive bar on my way home."

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

---

✨ 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."

---

patchwork

12.4k / dbf!joel x f!reader

official dbf!joel playlist

warnings: 18+, minors dni. angst. smuttt. hurt and (heavy) comfort. i said this was gonna be a shorter chapter and i lied. age gap (reader is 23, joel is in his late 40s). dbf!joel, dom!joel - in spirit, but SUB!joel in the sheets (just this one time OKAY) (big mean boys need love too), oral (m receiving), unprotected p in v, cockwarming ???, some fluff, mentions of reader getting her period, descriptions of injury, reader’s dad is a menace

a/n: (off-key trumpet fanfare) (medieval banner unfurling) new chapter. same old dbf!joel. this time featuring old favorites such as the miller contracting shirt and sarah being more intelligent than everyone else combined. and newcomers, such as sub!joel and men whining and whimpering.

to everyone who keeps up with this series, thank you so much. you mean the world to me. to people just now joining the party, welcome, I love you, you also mean the world to me.

this is part 10 of my dbf!joel series. read the previous parts here:

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 | bonus chapter (joel's pov) | part 7 | part 8 | part 9

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

“Joel,” you say.  He must see how badly you need him. How your eyes are blown wide, pleading pathetically with him. How your throat tightens up when you try not to beg. But he doesn’t kiss you.  “How many times ’til you understand?” he breathes. “I’m right here. I ain’t goin’ nowhere. I’m — fuck.”  His jaw flexes. He pushes out a breath.  “I’m yours,” he says. “’Til you say I ain’t.” 

You do think about lying, at first. Deny, deny, deny. But it didn’t work with Hayes, when he cornered you in his aunt’s kitchen — and if the look on your dad’s face is any indication, it sure as hell won’t work now. 

He knows. You can see it, in sunken eyes and sallow cheeks. He already knows. 

So you just ask — 

“How?” 

—in a hollowed-out voice. 

Your dad shakes his head. He rolls his knuckles on the table. 

“Your friend,” he says. “Hayes? That his name? Nice kid. Good boy.” 

Your skin pricks. Of fucking course. 

“He was here?” You swallow. “In the house?” 

“Came late last night,” your dad says. There’s something brittle, about the way he sounds. You don’t like how quiet he is. How he looks at his hands, when he speaks, instead of at you. “Said he tried t’reach you,” he murmurs. “Your phone was disconnected, or somethin’. So he got worried.” 

Fucking Hayes. Your phone works fine. His number’s just blocked. 

“So—what?” Your face heats. “He just came straight here? To my house? To my fucking dad?” 

“He was worried,” your dad clips. His jaw flickers. You can feel his bite at the back of your skull. “’N rightfully so.” 

“And you believe him?” You bristle. “Just like that? Some guy you’ve met — what? Once?” 

“No,” he says. “No, course I fuckin’ didn’t. Didn’t think you’d do that t’me. Didn’t think—” he hiccups. He picks up a bottle and his nails clink the neck. “—didn’t think Joel’d do it.” 

You’re quiet. 

“But then I did a little diggin’,” he continues, slightly slurred. “Found this.” 

He reaches into his pocket. Pulls out his phone. He swipes to an email and shoves the screen in your face. 

It’s his hotel booking confirmation from a few weeks back. Single room. Queen bed. Garden view. The room you were supposed to take. And right above that, another email from the same address. Sent Friday night. About ten minutes after you and Joel had checked in. 

You stare at the subject line. Reservation successfully cancelled! And underneath that: Hope to see you sometime soon! 

 You suck in a breath. Fuck. 

“’S funny,” he muses, in a way that makes you think it’s not very funny at all. “Never woulda seen this, ‘f that kid hadn’t come by. Never woulda thought t’look.” 

He puts his phone face-down on the table. His fingers hover on the glass.

“Yeah,” he says, softly. All to himself. “So.” 

He picks up a fresh beer from the pile at his feet. Pops the cap on the edge of the table. Foam hisses up the neck and spills over his fist. 

You watch him sip in silence. Your chest feels tight. You hate this — the quiet, the far-from-calm. The air is stretched out, too taut and too thin. You can feel it start to unspool. 

He sets the bottle down. It makes an angry sort of thud. 

“You wanna explain?” he breathes. “Or should I go get Joel?” 

You don’t like the way he says Joel’s name. You don’t like the venom that sticks on his tongue. 

“He didn’t do anything,” you say, quietly. “Dad. He didn’t do anything. I st—I started it.” 

He stares at you. 

“How long?” he asks. 

“What?” 

“How long,” he hisses, “has this shit been goin’ on?” 

“I don’t know,” you say. “Not — not that long.” 

“You don’t know,” he repeats. 

You swallow. 

“The party,” you mumble. “The Fourth of July.” 

He makes a small sound. 

“Okay,” he murmurs. “So you do know.” 

You’re silent. 

His breath quickens. You can see his pulse pick up, where it thunders at his neck. His palm splays on the table. His fingers flex against wood. 

“Okay,” he says, softly. “Okay.” 

“Dad—”

He nods. Once. Just to himself. 

“I’ll kill him,” he says. 

His eyes drag to you. You catch a glimpse of something dark. 

And then he’s standing up, out of his seat, moving a hell of a lot faster than he should be able to, in this state. His chair scrapes across the floor with a slurred screech. 

You lunge across the table. 

“Dad, stop.” You try to grab at his hand. His wrist. Anything to tug him back down. “Stop. It’s not his fault.” 

He pauses. Then he leans over, hands braced on the edge of the table. His shoulders bunch. 

“It’s not his fault?” he says, slowly. He sounds incredulous. “No? I let him into my house. Drive his fuckin’ kid to soccer practice. ’N he—”

He breathes deep. It rattles wet between his ribs. 

“You’re right,” he scoffs. “It ain’t his fault.” 

It’s not exactly reassuring. Not the way he says it. 

“It’s mine,” he slurs. He shoves himself up, off of the table. Stands straight, and dusts his hands off on his knees. He runs a palm over his face, and his boot catches on an empty bottle. You watch it roll under the table. 

“Shoulda seen it,” he says. His lip twitches. “Right in fronta me, right?” 

He laughs. Or — barks. It sounds angry. 

“Joel Miller,” he drawls. “Can’t keep a wife. Fuckin’ deadbeat brother’s in jail every weekend. His own kid's hardly home.” 

He scoffs again. Shakes his head. 

“Shoulda known, huh? Shoulda fuckin’ known.” 

“Stop it,” you say, and there’s something else in your voice now. It sounds like a warning. “Stop. You don’t know. You have no fucking idea—“

“Oh, I got some fuckin’ idea,” he snarls. “Known him a helluva lot longer ’n you.” 

“He’s good,” you say. You take a shaky breath. You don’t remember your voice starting to rise. “He’s good, dad, you—”

He brings his hand down, hard, on the table. The sound makes you flinch.

“He’s a fuckin’ liar, ’s what he is.” He drags a shuddering breath. “And you’re a goddamn kid. You’re my kid.” 

“I’m not a kid.” 

He ignores you. Some of the bottles must be broken, you think, because his boots crunch glass when he staggers past you. 

“I’m not,” you echo, and you hate that you sound like a kid, now. Fucking begging him to listen, begging him to stay. 

He stumbles out of the dining room. You turn in your chair. 

“Where are you going?” 

“Stay there,” he says. “Deal with you later.” 

“Dad,” you say. “Don’t—”

“Stay the fuck there!” he shouts. His hand curls in his hair. “Jesus! Fuck!” 

His eyes squeeze shut. He pushes out a shaking sigh. 

“I’m not doin’ this right now,” he mumbles. You can see him holding back. His fingers tremble at his sides. “Just go upstairs. Please. We’ll talk about this later.” 

“Go upstairs,” he repeats, when you still don’t move. 

Your throat crowds. Something hard and bitter sticks there. 

“He didn’t do anything,” you breathe. 

He huffs. Shakes his head. There’s thunder, somewhere far outside. You’re pretty sure it’s raining. You can hear it thrash at the front door. 

“He did fuckin’ plenty,” he growls. 

—

You stay in your room for hours. 

Not because your dad told you to. You’re not thirteen, and you’re not grounded. You stay there because it’s safe and silent and familiar, and because you don’t know where the hell else to go. 

You wish you hadn’t given Joel’s shirt back. That stupid, soft cotton one, with his name scrawled in print across the back. You’d curl up in it now, if it was still dripping across your dresser. You’d dig yourself under the covers and try to capture his scent on the collar. 

But you don’t have his shirt, and you don’t have him. So you lay at the foot of your bed, in your own clothes, and you scroll through your phone until the screen makes you sick. 

You text Joel twice. Maybe three times. He doesn’t respond. 

You do get up at some point. You’re not sure when. You take a shower, and two Tylenol for the pounding, throbbing ache in your head, and you settle back into bed with wet hair. You swipe your phone back open and stare at the screen. 

No texts from Joel. No nothing. 

You call him. It rings eight, nine times and goes to voicemail. 

“Fuck,” you mutter. 

Your dad isn’t here, either. He’d come back once, hours ago, and stomped around downstairs before leaving again. He hadn’t come up, and you hadn’t gone down. You’d watched him leave from your bedroom window and peel out into the rain. 

That was hours ago. When it was still light out. You think maybe you should call him, but — you don’t. You just don’t. 

You go to your window, instead. You cup a hand to the glass and try to catch a sign of life from Joel’s house. 

Nothing. The rain is coming down too hard. It blurs the glass, and makes the night bleed darker, and all his fucking lights are off, anyway. Every single one. Even his porch is pitch black. 

But his truck is still in the driveway. You can see it from your room — or the shape of it, at least. So you’re pretty sure he’s home. Sure enough to roll out of bed at ten, when it’s clear you won’t be falling asleep, and wander out of the house. Sure enough to run barefoot across the street, in the rain, in a pair of sleep shorts and a shirt two sizes too big. 

You don’t take anything with you. You leave your phone in the house, upstairs, half-hidden underneath your pillow. You figure your dad will try to call you, eventually. Or he’ll come home, finally, and come upstairs, and scream at you some more. You don’t want to deal with either possibility. 

So — fuck it. You leave your phone. And your socks, and your shoes, and the sweater that’s hanging on your bedroom door. You leave everything, and you sprint across the street to Joel’s. 

Your hair is dripping, by the time you make it to his door. Your shirt is clinging to your chest. Your cheeks are wet, and you can’t tell if it’s that hot, gloomy, summer-soaked rain or if you’ve just been crying. 

Basically — you look like a fucking mess. But he looks a hell of a lot worse, when he opens up his door. 

You only have to knock twice. Call his name once. And then the door is creaking open, a little reluctantly, and he’s staring at you from the threshold. 

All the lights are off behind him. You can’t see into his house. And you can barely — barely — see his face. 

But you can see enough. Enough to make your breath catch. 

“Oh my god.” You take half a step forward. He shrinks back, into the dark, like he doesn’t quite want you to touch him. Like he doesn’t want you to see him. 

“Joel,” you breathe. 

“S’okay,” he murmurs. 

Your lip trembles. 

“My dad,” you say, quietly, “did he—?” 

He doesn’t answer. Your heart breaks.

“Can I come in?” you plead. “Please?” 

He doesn’t answer. Again. But he holds the door open, a little wider, and he steps back to let you in. You move past him, into his pitch-black hallway, and he shuts the door behind you. The rain fades to a nervous patter. 

“Sarah?” you ask, softly. 

He shakes his head. 

“Home in the mornin’,” he murmurs. 

Thank god, you think. 

The dark doesn’t really faze you. You know his house like the back of your hand. But you walk carefully all the same, cause you can feel him behind you like a spooked animal. You wander into his kitchen and he hangs back a few feet. He leans against the counter with his face turned toward the dark. 

“Joel,” you say, softly. 

He’s quiet. 

“I need to turn a light on,” you say. You’re speaking slowly. Quietly. The way you’d speak to a child. “I need to — I need to see.” 

He doesn’t say anything. But he doesn’t try to stop you, when you reach for the switch. You hit the lights, dimmest setting, and the kitchen flickers to life. 

You turn around. Blink. Your eyes adjust to the change in light. 

And then you see him — like, really see him — and you gasp. You can’t help it. 

It’s worse than it looked in the dark. It’s…way worse. 

His right eye is swollen shut. There’s a bruise underneath, puffy and purple, pulling up around his eye and dripping down onto his cheek. There’s a neat little slice across the bridge of his nose. Blood on his cheek and his chin — from his nose, maybe, or from something else you can’t see. 

But that’s not what kills you. None of that is what kills you. 

It’s his hands. His fucking hands. There are no bruises blooming across his knuckles. There’s no blood splashed on his palms. 

His hands are clean. He didn’t fight back. 

He catches you staring. He sees the look on your face. 

“S’okay,” he repeats. “Ain’t ’s bad as it looks.” 

He tries to smile. The wince he lets slip instead says it’s worse. 

You’ve never seen him like this. Not in all the years you’ve known him. You’ve never seen him look broken. 

You’re trying not to cry. From the look he gives you, you must not be successful. 

“Don’t do that,” he says, gently. “Please don’t cry, angel.” 

“Your fucking — your face, Joel—”

“S’fine,” he slurs. “S’nothin’.” 

“It’s not fine.” You shake your head. Water drips down your back. You’d shiver, if you could think about anything other than him. Him and his gorgeous, stupid, shattered face. “It’s not — fine, Joel.” 

He’s quiet. You take a breath. Then another. You start to think a little clearer. Maybe it’s adrenaline, or some kind of base, protective instinct. Not an instinct you thought you had, but — it’s sure as hell kicking into high gear right now. 

“Sit down,” you tell him. Your own tone surprises you. You sound collected. Commanding. A whole lot calmer than you feel. “You’re not fine. Sit down.” 

His brows furrow. But he listens, so either you are that commanding, when you want to be, or he’s just too beat up to fight you. 

You point to the breakfast table. He wanders over obediently and slumps into a chair. 

“Do you have a first aid kit?” 

He stares up at you. Blinks, with his good eye. 

“Joel,” you say. “Do you have a first aid kit?” 

“Uh—” he thinks, nods, “—yeah. Bathroom. My bathroom. Under the sink. But I don’t need—”

“Yeah you do,” you say. “Don’t move.” 

He doesn’t move. You leave him at the breakfast table, huddled in his seat, and return a few minutes later with his first aid kit in tow. You pop it open on the table. Everything’s intact — gauze, isopropyl alcohol, tape, tweezers. It looks like it’s never been used. 

“Don’t need all that,” he grumbles. 

“Shut up,” you say. 

He shuts up.   

You should turn some more lights on, really, so you can see exactly what it is you’re doing. But you keep it dark — or dim, at least — because he winces whenever you tilt him to the light. So either the light hurts his bad eye — or, more likely, you think — he just doesn’t want you to see him like this.

You stand between his legs. The small of your back brushes his breakfast table. You take his chin in your hand and angle it up. 

He hisses through his teeth. 

“Stop fidgeting,” you murmur. 

You dab at his chin with soaked cotton from the kit. The alcohol takes the blood right off. 

“Y’don’t need t’do this,” he mumbles. 

“Yeah,” you say. You can feel him looking at you. You’re ridiculously close like this, caged between his legs. But you’re focused on his face — on the blood splashed on his cheek, and the ragged cut across the bridge of his nose. “I know.” 

He winces when you dab at his nose. Makes a low, annoyed sound in the back of his throat. 

“Ow,” he says, flatly. 

“You’ll live.” 

“Mmph.” 

You move onto his cheek. You try your best to avoid the bruise there, splattered underneath his eye, but you catch an angry edge on a few passes. You know when you do, because you feel him tense. You hear the breath he sucks in under your fingers. 

“Shit,” you mumble. “I’m sorry.” 

He tries to shake his head. But that hurts, too. 

You pause. The cotton hovers over his cheek. He squeezes his thighs together, just slightly, and they cage you in tighter. His hands come up to hold your waist. 

“I’m sorry,” you say, again. Your voice is softer, now. Shattered. You’re sorry for something else. You’re sorry for this. 

“I didn’t know,” you say. “I tried — I tried to stop him. I didn’t know he would—”

His grip tightens on your waist. You dab his cheek with the cotton and your fingers linger on his skin.

“Stop,” he murmurs. 

But you can’t stop, really. It’s all just — bubbling up. Now that the blood is off his face your composure is slipping — no more cool, calm, collected. You feel as broken as he looks. 

“It was — it was Hayes,” you say. It just tumbles out. “He — he tried to text me, last night, and when I didn’t respond I guess he fucking — he drove back to Austin. To my dad. And he—”

You wave a hand. He did this. 

“—I don’t know, he snitched, and then my dad — he found the cancellation, for the hotel room, and — and he was so fucking drunk, and I—I told him you didn’t do anything, I told him not to come here, but—”

 Joel is quiet. You shake your head. 

“I should’ve done something. I don’t know. I could have — I could’ve stopped him, or something—”

“No,” he says, quietly. 

“Yeah. Yes. I could’ve — I should’ve been here. With you. Not fucking — not upstairs, in my room, just —”

“No,” he bites. The way he says it shuts you up. 

“I told you,” he says, quietly. “He doesn’t like mess.” 

He looks at you, with that one good eye. 

“’N we made a fuckin’ mess,” he murmurs. 

You shake your head. Tears well at the back of your throat. His thumb strokes aimlessly at the band of your shorts. 

“Why didn’t you do something?” Your voice breaks. “Why didn’t you hit him back?” 

He sighs. You hear it rumble in his chest. He runs big, broad hands up the sides of your soaked shirt. 

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to. 

You take a trembling breath and he pulls you down, into him, until you give up standing and crumple into his lap. Your legs dangle sidelong over his. The dye on your soaked shorts bleeds into his jeans. 

He doesn’t care. He pushes your hair back from your face and kisses your jaw, your cheek, the side of your nose. Whatever he can reach. It’s not sexual. It’s just…gentle. So fucking gentle. 

“What do we do?” you ask. You sound miserable. You feel even worse. 

His breath dances on your jaw. 

“I don’t know, angel,” he says, finally. 

You make a small, desperate sound and bury your face in his shoulder. He holds you there. You can feel him breathe. In and out and in and out. Slow. Even. It used to piss you off, how unbothered he always seemed. Now your fingers sprawl over his heart and cling to his steady pulse-beat like a lifeline. 

“He’s not home,” you say. The words are muffled in his shirt. “I don’t know where he went.” 

He nods. You figure he already knew that. He can see your empty driveway from his window. 

“I don’t want—” you swallow thickly. His scent crowds your nose. Coffee, linen. The copper twang of blood. 

“I don’t want to go back,” you say.

He breathes in deeply. His lips graze your temple. 

“He’ll wanna talk t’you,” he murmurs. “Can’t avoid him forever, baby girl.” 

“I could try,” you mumble. You’re only half-joking. 

Joel smiles. You feel it curve at your temple. 

“I don’t want to talk to him,” you say. “Not yet. Not — not now.” 

You pull your head back from his shoulder. You put a hand on his cheek and run a careful thumb along his jaw. 

He tips his head back a little, responding to your touch. A soft sigh slips past his lips. 

You run your thumb along his bottom lip. His mouth parts, slightly. His good eye blinks at you, soft and brown and almost pleading. 

“Please,” you breathe. “Joel. I don’t want to go home.” 

He nods again. Your thumb stills over his lip. 

“Okay,” he murmurs. His hand drifts up your back. His fingers trace your spine, stroking over soaked fabric. “Yeah. Okay, baby.” 

His free hand comes up to wrap around yours. He moves your thumb gently from his lip and kisses it, instead. Featherlight. The pad of your thumb, your knuckles, your fingertips. It’s kind of a startling contrast, you think. The rough wrap of his hand around yours. The reverent brush of his lips. 

“C’mon,” he breathes. 

He whispers it between kisses, buried in the valley of your knuckles, so desperately soft you’re not sure he’s even said it at all. 

But then he’s letting your hand go, and moving you gently from his lap, and he’s standing up from his seat with a wince that makes your heart ache. 

He holds his arm out for you and you fold into his side. You can’t tell if you’re supporting him, when he limps through the dark to his room, or if he’s supporting you. Keeping you upright, with his big hand bunched in your wet shirt. 

Maybe it’s both. You’re not sure that it matters. Either way you don’t let go of him,  and he doesn’t let you go — not until you’re in his room, for the second time ever — and you’re staring at his unmade bed. 

His duffel bag is open on the floor. There are clothes sprawled out across the carpet. Some of them are folded. He was probably in the middle of unpacking, when your dad got here. 

You don’t know why that — specifically that — makes you so, indescribably sad. You stare up at the ceiling fan over his bed and try your fucking hardest not to cry. Again. For the ten thousandth time tonight. 

He watches you. He sees your eyes roam across his carpet, and the clothes there, and the wrinkled, crumpled sheets on his bed. 

“Sorry,” he murmurs, a little sheepish. “Everythin’ — it’s a mess.” 

He means the clothes, you think. He means the room. 

But, yeah, you think. Everything is a fucking mess. 

You shake your head. His ceiling fan hums somewhere above you, and the air it kicks up makes you shiver. You hadn’t really realized how cold you were, when you were patching him up in soaked clothes. You realize now. 

So does he. He takes one look at you — the way your hands rub up your arms — and swears, softly. 

“Fuck,” he mumbles. “I didn’t even — you’re freezin’.” 

“I’m fine,” you say. 

“You’re soakin’ wet,” he says. “Take those off. I’ll get you somethin’.” 

You hate the way he limps to his closet. You wish he’d just sit the hell down, and let you take care of him the way you did in the kitchen. But he’s stubborn, when it comes to this. When it comes to you. 

You strip down to your underwear while he roots around in his closet. They’re the only thing the rain hasn’t soaked through. The rest — your shirt, your cotton shorts — you leave in a damp heap by your feet. 

Then you sit back, onto the foot of his bed. Your arms come up to fold across your chest. You’re not sure why. It’s dark in his room, and it’s nothing he hasn’t seen a hundred times now. 

It’s just — he still makes you nervous, when he limps back from the closet with a dry shirt in his hand. He still makes you shy. And he’s impossible to read, on a good day, but after all this…you have no idea what he wants. 

So you keep your arms crossed, pressed tight across your chest. Watch him with quiet eyes when he stops, a few feet from you, and holds out the shirt like a peace offering. 

You hesitate. Just a second. When you reach out to take it, his eyes flick to your chest and then drop to the floor. He swallows. 

“Thanks,” you say, softly. 

He nods. 

You tug it on without really looking, but the fabric feels familiar. Silk-soft, from one too many washes. You catch a glimpse of orange letters when you slide it over your head. 

It’s that fucking Miller Contracting shirt. The one he’d given to you weeks ago. The one you’d slept in, next to Hayes. The one you wish you’d never given back. 

It smells like him again. You twist a hand in the hem. 

“Never should’ve given this back,” you say. 

He smiles. You can see it in the dark. Soft. Small.

“Second time’s the charm,” he mutters. 

You huff. 

“Yeah,” you say, quietly. “Something like that.” 

He’s quiet. He watches you toy with the sleeve. 

“Keep it,” he says. “S’yours.” 

You’re sure your dad will love that. He already knows you’re fucking Joel. Might as well traipse around the house in his signed shirt. 

That’s if he ever lets you back in the house again. If he ever even comes home. 

Fuck. If you ever even come home. 

“Hey,” Joel murmurs. He must read the look on your face. The way your smile fades. The way your throat pulls taut. 

“We’ll figure somethin’ out,” he says, gently. “He’ll — he’ll come around.” 

You scoff. Yeah, right. The empty bottles scattered in your dining room; Joel’s shattered face — none of that spells about to come around. None of that spells reasonable, or even halfway rational. And Joel knows it. You think he lies to comfort you, and it almost — sort of — works. 

“Just give him time,” he says. He takes a weary seat beside you, on the foot of his bed. The duvet sinks beneath him. 

You look at him, next to you. His face is shadowed in the dark. 

“He hurt you,” you whisper. 

He’s quiet. You can hear him wrestle with the silence.

“He loves you,” he says, softly. 

“That’s not—” You shake your head. “You should have hit him back.” 

There’s a pause. You think he sighs. 

“No, darlin’,” he says, quietly. 

“Why? Just cause he’s — cause he’s your fucking friend?” 

He swallows. You hear it, tight and thick, buried deep in his throat. His fingers slide over his knees. 

“No, baby,” he murmurs. “Not cause he’s my friend.” 

He doesn’t elaborate, which is…typical. But this quiet feels deeper, heavier than his usual lapses into silence, so…you let it go. You mumble something into the dark and stare off the edge of his bed. You watch your own bare feet dangle over his carpet. 

“I wouldn’t blame you, y’know,” you say. “If this is just — if it’s too much, now.” 

He looks at you. His good eye sparkles. 

“Funny,” he says. “Was gonna tell you the same thing.” 

You frown. 

“It’s not too much for me,” you say, a little defensive. “Why — why would it be too much for me?” 

He looks vaguely amused. 

“I dunno,” he drawls. “You’re the one who brought it up.” 

“Well, yeah, but — I’m not the one who got my shit rocked.” 

His brows flick up. His smile pulls. You’re teasing him again. Must mean you feel at least a little, tiny bit better. 

“I’m just saying.” You’re serious, again. “I wouldn’t blame you for running now.” 

“You want me t’run?” 

“No,” you say. It’s faster, harsher than you mean. “No, fuck. Of course not. I just — I wouldn’t — blame you. If that’s what you — want.” 

He’s quiet. 

“’S not what I want,” he says, softly. 

He’s been careful not to touch you, since you’ve been in his room. He’d given you his shirt and then given you space — and you appreciate his hesitation, under the circumstances — but you wish he would just put his fucking hands on you. Make your eyes roll back. Make you forget. Just for a night, at least. Just for tonight. 

And he does put his hands on you, now. Finally. Just — not in that rough, domineering way that you’re used to. He lifts a hand to your face and brushes a piece of hair back, behind your ear. His fingers splay under the cut of your jaw. He tips your face up, towards him, and your chin rests in the palm of his hand. 

“I told you already,” he says. “I ain’t goin’ anywhere.” 

You look at him. You don’t have much of a choice. He’s forcing your gaze, with a grip like silk steel. His thumb strokes soft over your jaw. 

“Yeah,” you say. “But that was before.” 

“Doesn’t matter when it was,” he murmurs. “It was the truth.” 

You feel small, with your chin in his hand. With your face tipped to his, and his big, warm fingers sprawled out over your skin. But you like it. You like that you fit in the palm of his hand. 

You want to kiss him. You always want to kiss him, if you’re being honest, but — right now it’s less of a want, and more of a need. It tugs deep in your chest, somewhere behind your ribs, and you whimper uselessly around his fingers. 

“Joel,” you say. 

He must see how badly you need him. How your eyes are blown wide, pleading pathetically with him. How your throat tightens up when you try not to beg. But he doesn’t kiss you. 

“How many times ’til you understand?” he breathes. “I’m right here. I ain’t goin’ nowhere. I’m — fuck.” 

His jaw flexes. He pushes out a breath. 

“I’m yours,” he says. “’Til you say I ain’t.” 

He’s quiet. His thumb stills on the ridge of your jaw. 

“How many fuckin’ times ’til you get that straight?” 

He’s so close. You don’t remember him getting this close. You don’t remember his hand sliding up to cup your cheek, and you can’t tell if it’s his skin that’s white hot or if it’s yours. 

He leans in — closes that last, searing inch — and his lips brush yours. It’s not quite a kiss. But almost. Almost. 

“I don’t know,” you mumble. “Tell me again.” 

You tip into him. Rob him of his lead. You kiss him and his mouth parts obediently, like he was just waiting for you to do this. Just — sitting, stubbornly, until you took what you wanted. And now that you’re here — now that you’re taking — he gives it up. Willingly. More than willingly, you think. 

You bite at his bottom lip and he groans. Sweet, smooth. Still distinctly Southern, in its silk-soft timbre. His hand skates up your back, over your shirt and under your still-damp hair — and he cups the back of your neck. Gently. Like he’s just — bracing himself, so that he doesn’t lose your kiss. Making absolutely, desperately sure you stay close. 

You slip your tongue to his mouth. He makes a sound that sets your skin on fire. 

You reach up to touch his face. You’re not really thinking. Your fingers brush his cheek — and the nasty, sprawling bruise there — and he winces. 

You pull back. All of you — your mouth and your fingers. 

“Fuck,” you breathe. “I’m—”

His hand is still on the back of your neck. And this time it’s not so gentle, the way he pulls you back against his mouth. But it shuts you up, at least. 

“Don’t—”

He breaks his kiss for half a second. Just to scold you with that Southern snarl— 

“—fuckin’—” 

He licks into your mouth. Makes you whine. 

“—apologize.” 

“Sorry,” you squeak. 

He tugs your head back. Holds you there, an inch from his lips. 

You watch him toll his tongue across his teeth. Then you watch him shake his head. 

“Jesus,” he says. 

You almost laugh. But he swallows it up in a kiss, so you settle for a smile on his lips. 

You’re gentler with him, this time. More aware of your hands: of where they are and how you touch him. You put your arm over his shirt, just under his heart, and take stock of the way his breath hitches. 

You figure it’s probably not just his face that’s mottled black and blue. So you’re extra careful, when you drag your fingers up his arms, and over his sleeves, and across the soft flannel of his collar.

And you’re extra, extra gentle when you break his kiss, panting softly, and put two hands on the flat of his chest. 

“Lie down,” you tell him. 

He doesn’t move. So stubborn. 

You push at his chest. Gentle. Gentle. 

“Joel,” you say. “Lie down.” 

“Mm,” he says. “Don’t take orders.” 

There he is. That’s the Joel you’re used to. It’s kind of a relief, as stubborn as he is. Nice to know he’s not broken. Just…bruised.

You stare at him. He matches your gaze, one good eye for both of yours. 

This is the part where you give in, usually. But you made him listen in the kitchen, and you’re gonna make him listen now. 

“Yes you do,” you say. “Tonight you do.” 

He opens his mouth. You shut him up before he argues. 

“Joel,” you say. “Just — let me take care of you.” 

His breath snags. He shakes his head, but his eyes look pleading. Like he doesn’t quite know how to say yes. It makes your heart hurt, a little. You wonder if anyone’s ever looked after him. If anyone’s ever offered. 

“Already took care ‘a me,” he protests. “Y’don’t—” 

“If you tell me I don’t need to, I swear to god, I’m gonna kill you.” 

He blinks. 

“I’m serious,” you say. 

A smile plays at the edge of his mouth. He nods. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Y’look serious.” 

“So lie down.” 

He looks at you. Half a second longer. And then you push at his chest, again — still light, still gentle — and this time he goes. He lies back and his weight dips the mattress. 

“Scoot back,” you say. “Head on the pillows.” 

He glares up at you. He looks a little peeved, but — he listens. He moves up and lays his head down on the pillows. You don’t miss the way he relaxes, almost instantaneously — all bunched up, beaten, six-foot-something of him. The way his muscles untense, when he splays on the sheets. The way his fingers unspool at his sides. 

“Comfy?” 

He grumbles. 

“You can say yes,” you say. “I won’t tell anyone.” 

He grumbles again. Slightly softer. You can feel him eyeing you, where you still sit at the end of his bed. 

“Come up here,” he huffs. He sounds impatient. 

You tilt your head. Twist your finger in the hem of your shirt. 

His eyes flicker shut. His fingers tangle in the sheets. He lets a low groan slip, and it goes straight to your core. 

“Please,” he grits, and you stifle a grin. Joel Miller, pleading with you. You should get it on camera, for posterity. But you’re not that mean. You’re just mean enough to make him repeat himself. 

“Please…what?” 

The look he gives you is downright wicked. You’ll pay for this, when he’s all healed up. When he can lunge up, off of those pillows, and flip you on your back without dragging in a wince. 

But he can’t, right now. So…

“Please,” he repeats. Low, deliberate. Dripping in that deadpan drawl. “Get your ass up here.” 

You indulge him. 

“Okay,” you say, softly. “Since you asked so nicely.” 

He mutters something. It sounds like a curse. You shuffle toward him on your knees, crinkling his sheet and straddling his legs. You stop when you’re hovering over his lap. 

The hem of your shirt tickles his. When you sink down slightly, and drop a fraction of your weight to his lap, your underwear graze the dark seam of his jeans. 

He hisses. His hands come up to hug your sides. He ruts his hips up, winces, and rolls his head back to the pillow. His arousal nudges at your thigh. 

“Please,” he mumbles. He doesn’t sound annoyed, anymore. You’re not even sure he knows he’s begging. 

He swallows. Rocks his hips up, again, and winces. Again. 

You put a hand on his face. On the good side. He drops his hips and looks at you with one wide eye.  

“Slow,” you breathe. “We’ll go slow.” 

“Don’t wanna go slow,” he growls. Always so. fucking. stubborn. His grip tightens on your waist. “Wanna fuck you." 

“You’re not doing anything,” you say. “You’re out of commission.” 

“‘M not—fuck.“ 

You palm his cock through his jeans. His hips fumble mid-thrust and then fall. His breath shudders. 

“Fuck, darlin’,” he mumbles. “What—”

“Relax.” You flatten your palm and drag it over denim. Over the rapidly-hardening line of his cock. His fingers dig at your shirt, crumpling the cotton, kneading at the soft spot between your ribs. 

“Relax,” you repeat. And then, again, for the thousandth time tonight, “—Joel. Let me take care of you.” 

He’s quiet. His eyes are half open, heavier with every short slide of your hand up his thigh. 

“Please,” you murmur. 

Your hand stills over his lap. You watch him with wide eyes. He swallows, thick, and then — 

“Okay.” His head thumps back against the pillows. His cock strains uselessly, chasing your hand. “Fuck, baby. Okay.” 

You start with his belt. Your fingers fumble on his buckle, and you blame the dark. And maybe your nerves, a little bit. He’s never let you take control like this. And you want — you want to do a good job. You want him to feel good. 

You’re kind of surprised, actually, just how badly you want him to feel good. It’s not like you’re selfish, usually, when it comes to guys, but — this is different. This is a different kind of want, and a different kind of ache that bites low in your belly.

You get his buckle undone and slide his belt through his jeans. You toss it somewhere, and you think it hits the floor. You don’t bother looking. You’re busy again, already, tugging at his zipper, undoing the stiff button on his jeans. 

“Lift your hips for me,” you say, softly. And then — because you remember how he winced, when he bucked his hips up into you, “—slowly.” 

He does what you say. With a trademark grumble, but — still. He tilts his hips; slowly, gently, just high enough off the bed for you to pull his jeans down. 

You shuck those off the bed, too. You can find them in the morning, in the half-folded sea of all his other clothes.  

He’s breathing hard, by the time you settle back over his lap. There’s a damp spot at the front of his boxers, where pre-cum leaks from the tip of his cock. He’s this fucking desperate, and you haven’t even touched him yet. Not properly, at least. 

And obviously he thinks you’re about to put him out of his misery, because his thigh twitches under yours, and you can feel his chest pull tight. His fingers curl hard on the mattress. You can hear the silk snap of sheets where they bunch in his knuckles. 

Your hand drifts over the head of his cock. You can see the outline clearly now, without his jeans on. Hard and thick and dripping under black boxers. You stroke him through the fabric and he growls. Like — low, dark, buried at the base of his throat. It might scare you a little, if he had any fight left in him. 

But he doesn’t. So you just…let go. 

He groans. It sounds dangerously close to a whine. 

“Fuck,” he pants. “Please. Baby.” 

You ignore him. You move your hands up, to the hem of his flannel, and you watch his gaze flicker. A little confused. A lot annoyed. You start on the lowest button and he hisses through his teeth. 

“What are you doin’?” he whines. Definitely a whine, this time. 

You snap the second button. A sliver of golden skin peeks out. 

“Going slow,” you say. 

Third button. You run your fingertips over the skin you’ve uncovered. Featherlight. But he’s so fucking sensitive it’s enough to make him shiver. 

“Fuck,” he hisses. 

Fourth button. Fifth. You’re almost to the top, now. You work the last one undone and his flannel falls open, exposing his chest to the dark. You can’t see much, but you chart the change in his breath when your touch lands in certain places. The tender space between his ribs. The swell under his heart and the ridge of his collar. You imagine they’d look a lot like his face, if you leaned over and turned on the light. Black and blue and angry. 

“Joel,” you breathe. 

“S’okay,” he mumbles. In that dopey, blissed-out, touch me drawl. He shakes his head. “Doesn’t hurt.” 

You don’t believe him, because it’s a lie. It hurts, and you know it fucking hurts. You see the way his eyes close, when your fingers graze his ribs. 

“Yes it does,” you say, softly. “It hurts.” 

He huffs. 

“Doesn’t matter,” he mumbles. “You f—fuck.” 

You lay your palm on his stomach. On a safe spot. Your hand is so warm, and so small, sprawled out across him, and when it inches just slightly, slightly lower he takes a shuddering breath. 

You take your hand away. Brace it beside him, on the mattress. Then you lean over his chest, over the skin you’ve revealed, and you kiss the shivering print your palm left on his skin. Just underneath his navel. 

He whines again. His big hands come up to tangle in your hair. 

“I what?” you murmur. Your lips skim his skin.

“You feel good,” he says. “Make me f-feel fuckin’ good, baby, fuck—”

You’re feeling bold. Kind of. You press your lips to that sore spot, just between his ribs. You figure his hands are already in your hair, if he wants to yank you off. 

But he doesn’t. He hisses, sure — you hear the sharp breath he drags in, and the swear that slips free — but he doesn’t buck you off. He lets you put his lips on him. Lets you try to kiss it better. 

Until he just can’t take it, anymore. 

You pepper kisses on his chest, and his stomach, and on the jutting ridge of his hip. You pull at the hem of his boxers, just a little, whenever your mouth drifts down to his hips. Tug them down, fraction of an inch by fraction of an inch, and kiss the new skin you uncover. 

And that drives him fucking crazy. That’s when he starts begging. 

Mumbled, at first. You can’t even tell what he’s saying. That’s how fucked out he sounds. But you get the gist of what he’s asking for. His fingers in your hair, buried at your roots. His cock straining and neglected underneath you. 

“Words,” you say. Your breath skitters along his hipbone. Your fingers toy with the hem of his shorts. “Use your words, baby.”

“Fuck,” he pants. His head is tossed back, tipped up against the pillows. The fan over his bed rustles the sheets. It doesn’t do a damn thing for the fire on his skin. 

“Your m—ah. Your mouth, angel, pl—fuck. Please.”

His words — if you can call them that — are going straight to your core. If you let him feel you right now, you’re pretty sure you’d be soaked through. But his hands are busy, clinging to your hair while you draw lazy circles on his skin with your tongue. And it’s not about you, anyway. You don’t care that you’re aching for him, or that your whole body trembles when he begs you, please. 

This is for him. For Joel. You can worry about you later. 

You drag your lips off his skin. Long enough to rest your chin on his stomach and gaze up at him. 

“My mouth,” you repeat. You dip the pad of your finger into his boxers. His thigh flinches. “My mouth where?”

“Oh, fuck,” he moans, and you can’t really tell if he’s pissed, or just desperate. His voice is hoarse. “On my f—on my cock, baby, please. Such a pretty f—fuckin’ mouth, angel. Wanna f-fill you up. Need t’feel you, fuck—“

You hook your fingers in his boxers and tug. His cock springs free, red and swollen. Pre-cum beads at the tip and drizzles down his shaft. 

You flatten yourself in the cradle of his legs. You wrap a tight little fist around his cock and lick a stripe up his length, base to tip, collecting his taste on your tongue. 

The sound he makes is broken. His fingers flex, then slacken in your hair. 

You pause at the tip of his cock. Your tongue swipes over his slit, once and then twice, and his fingers tighten again in your hair. He likes that. 

And then you flatten your tongue, and drag it over the silk-smooth underside of his head — and he ruts into your mouth. So he really likes that.

It’s not like you’ve never done this before. You’ve just never had the time to do it properly. Like, really, truly, right. Never been able to focus on him fully, on his bathroom floor or in the front seat of his car. 

But here, in the dark, sprawled out between his legs —you can take your time. You can take care of him. 

You flutter your tongue along that hidden spot until he’s saying something incoherent. You think it might be your name. And then you hollow your cheeks, and slip him into your mouth, and take his cock inch by inch to the back of your throat. 

Slow. Slow.

“Fuck,” he’s mumbling, “such a g—good girl, darlin’, fuck. P-pretty girl. Look so f-fuckin’ pretty f’me.”

His broken praise makes your stomach swarm. Spurs you on. You shift up a little, sprawled out between his legs, and try your best to take him deeper. 

The tip of his cock nudges the back of your throat. You choke, but you don’t let him go. You don’t move, either. You just hold him there, thick and pulsing on your tongue, until he begs you to move. 

“Pl—fuck. Move your head, baby. Please. Lemme—ngh. Lemme feel you.”

You drag your eyes up. Look at him, in the dark, when you start to bob your head. 

His eyes roll back. His head tips, digging into his pillow. You drag your mouth along his length, setting a steady pace, and when he’s soaked with your spit you add your fist. You swirl your hand, slow, in time with your tongue. 

He won’t last long. He was a mess before you put your mouth on him — and now that you’re touching him, choking on his cock while he splays on soft pillows — 

“Fuck,” he punches out. “Not gonna—last, babygirl.”

His fingers curl in your hair. He can’t thrust his hips up, into your mouth  — he learned that lesson, already — and you can tell it’s taking everything in him not to go for the alternative. Not to just — sink his fingers down, into your roots, and shove your head down, instead. 

You drag your mouth back to his tip. Release him, with a tight little pop that makes him groan. Your breath drips over his cock and makes him twitch. His tip grazes your soaked bottom lip. His fingers tremble in your hair.

“Joel,” you say, softly. “Take what you want.” 

His breath picks up. His fingers flex again, experimentally, asking for permission you’ve just given. 

You let him push your head down — gentle, gentle — until his cock is just kissing your lips. 

“It’s okay,” you breathe. “Use me. Make yourself feel good.” 

You think maybe it’s your words that get to him, more than your mouth or your fist or your tongue could do. He fucking whimpers — like, honestly whimpers, with his head tipped and his eyes shut and a soft, shattered plea on parted lips. 

And then he does exactly — exactly — what you ask him to do. He digs rough, thick fingers into your skull and guides your head onto his cock with a frantic, stilted shove.

You almost choke. But you’re warmed up; stretched out from the agonizingly slow pace you’d set for him, before — so you take it. You can take it. You let your jaw go slack. Let him fuck himself on your mouth. 

It’s the opposite of slow. It’s fast, and sloppy, and desperate, and for once you don’t stop him. His stomach clenches. His balls pull up tight. He groans, long and low and broken, and you —

You pull off of him. Right before he can cum down your throat. 

“What—” He’s a mess. His chest is heaving, slick with sweat. His cock twitches. Slick, swollen. Fucking — aching, if the twisted look on his face is any indication.

“What are you doin’,” he groans. “Baby, please, I n—”

“Relax,” you breathe. 

He doesn’t relax. He’s the opposite of relaxed. Every part of him is tensed; coiled up like an angry spring. 

His breath hitches, when you untangle yourself from his legs. When you climb back into his lap and straddle his cock. 

You lift the hem of that worn-out, faded, Miller Contracting shirt. It’s huge on you. It drips down onto his chest, when you lean forward, and shove your soaked panties to the side, and roll your hips over his cock. 

He gasps. Swallows. His hands come up to grasp weakly at your hips. 

You sink down onto him. Inch by inch. You’re fucking — soaked, for him — but he’s still a stretch. He still splits you open. 

“God—damn,” he hisses. “So f—fuckin’ tight, sweetheart, fuck—”

You’re gentle with him. Like — really, really gentle. You fold over him — almost chest to chest, but not quite touching — and brace your hands on either side of his shoulders. You’re careful. The way you roll your hips is careful. The way you put your lips on his neck, above the bruise on his collar and below the one on his cheek — is careful. 

Everything is careful, and gentle, but when you swivel your hips, and his cock nudges your g-spot, it’s him who tells you —

“Slow—”

—in that husky, rasping drawl. 

You listen to him. You lift your hips up, walls fluttering around him, and sink back down slow. He sighs. You bury your own gasp in his neck. 

“Cum for me,” you tell him. “It’s okay. Wanna feel — fuck. Wanna feel you.” 

He grunts. His cock throbs.

You know how close he is. It must be borderline painful, you think, so you wonder why he won’t let go. But then his hand is sliding off of your hip, and slipping under the hem of that worn t-shirt,  and his thumb is rubbing circles on your clit. 

“You f—fuck,” he breathes. “You first.” 

You bite back his name. Your hips buck, involuntarily — too hard, too fast — and if he was half-coherent he might wince. But he just bears down harder, racing you to the finish line, and your muscles clench around his cock. 

You cum hard, trembling around his cock, and your chest drops over his. You’re putting weight on him; on the bruises scattered across his skin, but — he doesn’t care. He holds you there. His hands come up, over your shirt, and splay out across your back. He presses you down, into him, and his hips jerk up. You feel his cock pulse, somewhere deep inside you, and he spills inside you with a groan. 

You think he’ll move you, as soon as he comes to. As soon as he remembers that he’s hurt. You’re sprawled across his chest, curled up around his bruises while his cock still throbs inside you. 

But he doesn’t move you. He doesn’t even try. He holds you there, draped across him like a blanket, stroking lazy, stuttered patterns up your back. 

You bury your head in the crook of his neck. You move your hips, just to see — and he moans into your collar. His fingers bunch in your shirt. 

“Fuck,” he groans. “Gonna—ngh. Kill me.” 

You smile. It curves soft in the column of his throat. 

“Not tonight,” you mumble. 

You try to slip off of him, then. Try to lift your hips up, and roll onto your side. 

He’s not having any of that. He clutches you harder. Presses you to his chest, and keeps his half-hard cock speared inside you. 

“Stay,” he mumbles. And then — still begging, “—please.” 

“Don’t wanna hurt you,” you whisper. 

“Ain’t hurtin’ me.” He sounds sleepy. His arms are heavy, where they drip over your back. 

“You feel good,” he slurs. His nose nudges at your collar. “Feel like home.”

Your heart skips. Swells. You nuzzle into his neck, and even though it’s not physically possible to get any closer to him — you’re tangled up in every part of him, already — you try. You try. 

He sighs. His breathing slows. You think he’s half-asleep, already. 

You lift your head. You press a gentle kiss to his lips, and he responds with a sleepy little moan. His mouth is warm. Soft. He tastes like coffee and he smells like you.

He licks into your mouth with a low, lazy groan. When you break the kiss his head flops back to the pillows. His hands slacken on your back. 

“Take good care ‘a me,” he mumbles. His good eye flickers open, and flutters back shut. His sleepiness is contagious. You bite back a yawn and snuggle into his shoulder. He’s still talking — mumbling — when your eyes start to close. 

“So f-fuckin’ good t’me,” he breathes. “Don’t deserve you.” 

You don’t respond. There’s nothing to say, except that you love him. And he’s already fast asleep. 

So you nestle into him. Close your eyes. You listen to his breathing, deep and even, and you fall asleep over his heartbeat.

—

The morning is decidedly less romantic. 

You wake up before him. You’ve both moved, in your sleep, and when you open your eyes you’re somewhere on your side. His arm is draped loosely over you. And there’s a dull, cramping throb at the base of your stomach.

“Shit,” you hiss. 

You extricate yourself from his arm. You slip out of his bed and tiptoe to the door, sidestepping the mess of clothes on the floor. The sun pokes through a crack in his drapes. It lights a patch of cream carpet and a sliver of his skin. Tanned, golden, tinged with the purpling edge of a bruise. 

You swallow. Shake your head. You push open his door, as quietly as you can, and sneak into his bathroom. You click the lock behind you. 

You drop down onto the toilet. Dig your head into your hands. You confirm that — yes, you’ve started your fucking period — which is a good thing, really, considering the alternative — but still. Of all the days. 

“Fuuuck,” you mumble. 

You ransack his drawers. They’re predictably empty. There’s a half-full bottle of shaving cream, and some men’s razors, and a bottle of moisturizer that looks like it’s never been used. A gift from Sarah, you assume. 

You shove the drawer shut. Huff. You click the door open and tiptoe back down the hall, back into his room, and stand awkwardly on the threshold. 

Your presence must wake him up. He rolls over, wincing slightly, and his eyes blink open. He stares up at you, a little confused as to why you’re in his doorway and not in his sheets. 

“…Hey,” he says, sleepily. “You okay?” 

“Yeah.” You shift uncomfortably. Gesture vaguely toward the bathroom. “I just — do you have a tampon?” 

“Oh.” 

He blinks again. Props himself up on his elbow. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, ‘course. Uh — check Sarah’s bathroom. Should be, uh — under the sink, or somethin’.” 

“Great. Thanks.”

“Yeah,” he says. He watches you, half a second longer. Watches the faded letters on your shirt when you duck out into the hallway again. 

Sarah’s bathroom is a success. You come back in, a few minutes later, and sit on the edge of his bed. You rub at your stomach with the heel of your palm.

He sits up in the sheets. All the way, this time. He scoots closer to you and rests his chin on the ridge of your shoulder. Strokes his hand up your arm. 

“Feel okay?” 

“Yeah,” you mumble. “Just fucking — cramps. It’s whatever.” 

“Ain’t whatever,” he mutters. His lips skate along your shoulder. You lean back, into his touch. You tilt your neck to let his mouth wander. 

“What d’you need, baby?” 

“Nothing,” you say, quickly. Your face heats. He’s a fucking mess. Beaten and bruised and half black and blue. The last thing you need is him worrying about you. 

He pauses. His mouth is hot along your neck. 

“Nothing,” you say, a little less convincing. “I’m good.” 

“Okay,” he says, quietly. He nibbles at the side of your throat. You gasp. Your head tips back, toward him. “I gotta bottle ‘a Advil in the bathroom. ’N some tea downstairs. Can start there.” 

“I just said—”

“Yeah, I heard what you said,” he drawls. His stubble rakes your skin. “Ain’t listenin’, though.” 

“Fuck off,” you grumble. But Advil sounds good. So does tea. So does his mouth on your neck, the way he’s got it right now, nipping gently at thin skin. 

“Mm,” he hums. He’s uniquely unfazed by your tone. He sees the way you melt into his touch. The way you try not to smile, when his nose nuzzles your neck. 

“Took care ‘a me,” he murmurs. “Lemme take care ‘a you.” 

“That’s not the same,” you grumble. 

He ignores you. His mouth leaves your neck and he pulls you gently back to bed. He leans over you, half-lit by the quiet sun, and kisses your forehead. 

“Stay there,” he says. “I’ll get it. What kinda tea you like?” 

“I don’t know. Uh — like, Peppermint, I guess.” 

He makes a face. 

“Okay,” you say. “Chamomile.” 

“Don’t have Chamomile.” 

You blink.

“What do you have?” 

“Dunno,” he says. “Little red tin. Got the Queen on it.” 

You stare at him. He’s an enigma. Whip smart, sometimes, and other times — like, say, now — he’s just. Dense. He’s so fucking dense. 

“Okay,” you say. “Great. The one with the Queen.” 

He nods happily. He kisses you again and rolls off the bed. He pulls on a shirt, hissing slightly at the stretch of sore muscles — and you stifle a smile. He’s trying, you think. He’s trying.

You can hear him clattering around in the kitchen, a few minutes later. You lift your head off the pillows. 

“Do you know how to make tea?” you call. You’re only half-teasing. You’ve seen him try to cook, on a few unfortunate occasions. It’s a disaster every time. 

He doesn’t answer. More clattering. 

“It’s just water,” you shout. “It’s just hot water. You take the little bag—”

The clanging pauses. 

“Shut up,” he shouts back. “You’re s’posed to be asleep.” 

You grin. Settle back against the sheets. You toy with the hem of his shirt and wait for him to come back. 

And he does, a few minutes later. With two Advil in the palm of his hand, and a steaming mug of tea that looks — in a word — acceptable. 

He puts it down on the nightstand, next to you. He looks proud. 

“See?” he drawls. “‘M a professional.” 

You roll your eyes. You take a sip, just to appease him — and he definitely did not leave the bag in long enough, but you don’t tell him that. You just smile, into the rim of the mug. Swallow back the pills he’s brought.

“Don’t you have work?” 

“Called off.” He gestures to his eye. “Don’t feel like answerin’ questions.”

“Oh.” You look down. A pang of guilt darts up your chest. “Yeah. Sure.” 

“Besides,” he drawls. “Someone’s gotta watch you. Make sure y’don’t keel over.” 

“Oh, fuck off. I’m fine.” 

“Mm.” He leans in. Kisses you. “Pain in the ass, though.” 

But he’s smiling, and so are you, and everything is so normal, for a minute. So domestic. You pretend he isn’t hurting, and neither are you. 

“Joel,” you tell him, when he gets up to leave, again.

He pauses in the doorframe. Runs a hand through ruffled hair. 

“Never mind,” you say. 

—

Sarah comes home sometime after noon. You’re in Joel’s living room, on his couch, bundled up in a fleece blanket while the TV blares. You’ve got a pillow clutched up to your stomach, to help with the cramps that you’ve told Joel are nonexistent. 

But he doesn’t believe you, because you’re a terrible liar, so — here you are. Relegated to the couch, while he works on his laptop. There’s some innocuous, sleepy show on TV. TLC. My Strange Addiction, or something like that. The guy on screen can’t stop eating tartar sauce. 

Joel looks up from his laptop. He points to the TV. “That,” he says, matter-of-fact, “is fuckin’ disgustin’.”

“Mm. I thought you were working.”

"I am," he says. 

He’s not. 

He slams his laptop shut. Makes a face at the TV. You swallow back your smile and snuggle into his shoulder. 

“Your eye looks better,” you tell him. And it does. Sort of. In the sense that it’s no longer completely swollen shut. 

“Yeah, well. Had a good nurse.”

He looks down at you. Smiles. 

“Kinda strict, though,” he says. 

“Watch it.”

“‘N stubborn as hell.”

You glare at him. He grins. He tucks a strand of hair back from your cheek. Lowers his lips to the shell of your ear.

“Real good with her mouth, though,” he drawls. 

Your face heats. You drag the pillow from your stomach and swat gently — gently — at his shoulder. 

He laughs. 

He disappears into the kitchen later, to make you both lunch, and you trail behind him. Perch yourself on his counter, while he rifles through the fridge. He hasn’t pulled the blinds, so you can see your driveway through his window. Your dad’s car is still gone. You wonder if he’s tried your phone. 

You know Joel sees the empty space in your drive. You catch him staring. But he doesn’t say anything, and neither do you. 

You’re glad. You don’t want to talk, yet. Not about that. He makes you a sandwich and you eat with your back to the window. 

You’re still sitting there when Sarah comes home. 

In your defense, you didn’t know she’d be home, like — right now. It’s why you’re still in Joel’s shirt and a pair of his boxers, when she wanders out into the kitchen. 

She sees Joel first. To her credit, she seems remarkably unfazed. Her backpack slides off her shoulder and hits the ground with a thud.

“Damn,” she says. “What happened to you?”

“Uh.” He touches his fingers to his face. “Accident. At work. I’ll live.”

“I figured.” Her face softens. She shakes her head. “Be more careful,” she says. 

He nods. 

She turns. Clocks you, at the table. She does a double take — the shirt, the rumpled hair, the bare feet — and her brow furrows. 

“…Hey,” she says. 

You stare at each other. Sarah blinks. Joel clears his throat behind her. 

“She’s just, uh — here helpin’ out,” he says. “Work stuff.”

He points vaguely towards you. You nod. 

Sarah looks between the two of you. Her lip quirks, like she’s hiding a smile. 

“Work stuff,” she says. “Cool. Cool.” 

You stare at the table. Joel shifts uncomfortably. An awkward silence strains. 

“How are you, kiddo?” Joel asks, after a beat. “How was, uh—Abigail’s?”

“Oof.” She sucks her teeth. “So close. Alison. But — yeah. Sure. Good. She says hi.”

“Uh-huh. Yeah. Good.”

Sarah blinks. Again. 

“Oo-kay,” she says. “Weird vibe in here. I’m gonna go shower.” She points to you. “Are you staying?”

“Oh.” You glance at Joel. “Uh—”

“Yeah,” he says. “For a bit.”

Sarah shrugs. “Cool,” she says. “We’ll hang out.”

—

You do hang out. And — it’s fun. It’s easy. You love Joel, but it’s nice to just…have a friend, for a while. You hang out in her room for the whole afternoon, lounging on her bed while he wraps up work. You listen to her shitty 2000s pop-punk playlist. You sprawl across her pink duvet, and she tells you about boys. 

One boy in particular, actually. Some dude named Luke. Turns out Sarah wasn’t at Abigail’s — or Alison’s, or whoever the fuck’s— last night. 

“I was with him,” she says. She giggles a little. Her eyes are wide, and she looks punch-drunk. “Do not tell my dad.” 

Trust me, you want to say. He’s hardly one to talk.

“‘Course,” you say, instead. You put a finger to your lips. “Not a word.” 

She nods. Hits skip song on her speaker. 

“What about you?” she asks.

“What about me?” 

“Well, I don’t know. I just told you a secret. The polite thing to do is tell me one.” 

“Oh,” you say. “Um.” 

You stare at her. She stares back. And then Joel is rapping at her door, and you thank god for his blundering timing. 

“Hey,” he says, through the door. “Uh. I ordered pizza.” 

“You’re not off the hook,” Sarah says, when you roll off her bed. “I want something juicy.” 

Your face heats. You almost trip, on your way out the room. 

—

Sarah notes your empty driveway during dinner. The glaring, dusky space where your dad’s car should be. 

She asks if your dad is out of town. You tell her yes. 

“Huh,” she says. She shrugs at Joel. “You should spend the night here, then.” 

You blush. You try not to look at him. You don’t tell Sarah you already spent the last. 

“I mean — that’s cool, right?” she asks, when Joel doesn’t answer. “She can stay?” 

He’s quiet. His glass clinks on the table. 

“Yeah, course,” he murmurs. “Course she can stay.” 

“Cool,” she says. “That’s settled, then.” 

—

You help Joel clear the table while Sarah finishes up. It gives you at least a second of much-needed privacy.

“I’ll take the couch,” you say, quickly. 

He looks at you. His jaw flickers. He doesn’t like that plan, you can tell, but — 

“It’s too risky,” you say. “With Sarah. I’ll just — I’ll sleep on the couch.” 

He swallows. Nods. 

“Fine,” he mumbles. “But — least lemme make it nice for ya.” 

“Yeah,” you say, softly. “Sure.” 

—

It turns out nice in Joel Miller-speak just means gathering up every single spare pillow, and every single spare blanket — enough to comfortably sleep a small village — and layering them on top of the couch. By the time you’re ready for bed, it’s like slipping into a cloud. Like — an oppressively hot, way-too-plush, suffocatingly sweaty cloud. 

But he looks really proud of himself, when he presents his handiwork. He wants you to be comfortable, if he can’t fall asleep with you. So you sink down, into his makeshift nest, and tell him it’s nice when he tells you goodnight. 

The second he’s gone you sit up straight. You rip the sheets off your body and sit there panting in the dark. 

Sarah peeks out of her room. She wanders over to the couch and laughs at you. 

“Nice,” she says. “You look cozy.” 

“Shut up.” 

“You wanna sleep in my room?” She shrugs. “I can move over.” 

“No, it’s — fine,” you say. 

She hesitates. Then she sinks down onto the couch, next to you, and rolls her tongue across her teeth. 

“You can just go in there, you know,” she says.

Your head whips to her. Your pulse picks up. Pounds.

“What?” 

She shrugs. “C’mon,” she says. “You’d probably both sleep better.” 

You stare at her. You’re pretty sure your mouth is open. 

“You—” Your voice drops. “You know?” 

“Oh, seriously?” She sighs. “Dude, come on. I’ve known for weeks.” 

“What—how?” 

She blinks. 

“Well, it’s not like you’re subtle. No offense. You left your bathing suit in my bathroom, that night I found you guys swimming. Plus, you were, like — extra weird. So, you know.” She gestures. “Connect the dots.” 

“That was —” You shake your head. “That was, like, three weeks ago. You’ve known for three weeks? And you just—nothing?”  

“Well, what do you want me to say?” She shrugs. “Yeah. Sure. It was a little weird, at first. I mean, you’re way younger than him. He’s so old. He’s, like, ancient. He’s—”

“Okay,” you say. “Point made.” 

“Look, I love my dad,” she says. “But he’s a pain in the ass. He’s always cranky. He says, like, two things a day. He’s impossible to shop for.” 

“Is there a but somewhere?” 

“But,” she says, with a pointed look at you, “—he’s—different, now. The last couple weeks.” 

“Different how?” 

She shrugs. 

“He’s happy,” she says. “You make him happy.” 

You’re quiet. She looks at you a long time. 

“Does he make you happy?” she asks, softly. 

It’s the first time you’ve ever talked about Joel with someone other than — well, Joel. Or Hayes, or your dad, you guess, but you’re not sure that counts. That was — less conversation, more screaming match. 

But Sarah’s looking at you earnestly, with a brown-eyed stare that reminds you of her dad. So you answer her honestly. 

“Yeah,” you say. “Yes.” 

She nods. 

“Okay,” she whispers, and you see her smile in the dark. She nods down the hallway. Towards his room. “So get off my couch, then.” 

You get off her couch. You’re halfway to his room when you turn back to look at her. 

“No,” she says, before you can open your mouth. “No, I can feel it. You’re gonna say thank you, or some shit, and just —”

She waves you off. 

“Don’t,” she says. “Do not thank me, for letting you sleep with my dad. That’s so gross. I’m covering my ears, if that’s what you’re gonna do.” 

You bite back a laugh. 

“You’re a piece of work,” you tell her. 

“Yeah, well.” She flashes a grin. “Runs in the family.” 

— 

Your dad’s car is in the driveway, the next morning. Joel sees it first. 

You figure there’s no harm in filling Sarah in over breakfast. You leave out the part where Joel gets beaten to a pulp — she doesn’t need every detail — but you give her the Reader’s Digest version. 

Your dad knows. He’s pissed. You’re camped out here, like a fugitive, because the thought of confrontation is enough to make your head spin. 

She listens. Nods, every now and then. She doesn’t ask any questions, which you think you appreciate, but you can tell she’s processing. She prods at her Eggo with a painted nail. 

“He’ll come over here,” she says. “Now that he’s back. He’ll — I mean. Sounds like he’ll come looking for you.” 

“Yeah,” you say. You know.

She rips off a piece of Eggo. Chews thoughtfully. 

“And you don’t want to talk to him,” she says. 

“I don’t know,” you mumble. “Not—not right now. Not until he’s…”

“Cooled off?” she offers. “Less psycho?” 

“Sure,” you say. “That.” 

Joel roams past the breakfast table, and you both look up to watch him. He’s been patrolling the window like a German Shepherd all morning, ever since he saw your dad pull in. He hasn’t let you stray more than four feet from his side. 

“Hey,” Sarah says. She snaps her fingers. “Earth to dad.”

He blinks. Drags his stare from the window. Sarah points at you. 

“Take her to Tommy’s,” she says. 

He pauses, mid-pace. 

“Tommy?” You look at Sarah. Then Joel. “Like your brother, Tommy?” 

He’s quiet. Thinking. Sarah answers for him.

“Yeah,” she says. “Like Uncle Tommy. You’ve met him a couple times, I think. Funny stories. Man-bun.” 

It rings a vague sort of bell. 

“He has a cabin,” she says. “Like, three hours away. East Texas. Up in the Piney Woods.” 

“Just take her there,” she says, and she’s talking to Joel, now. “Not, like — forever. Just til you figure your shit out. ‘Cause I don’t want to be here when—” She gestures toward the window. Toward your driveway. “Whenever that goes down.” 

 You can tell he’s thinking about it. He scrapes a hand over his scruff. 

“I’d have t’ask Tommy,” he says. 

Sarah rolls her eyes. “Tommy hasn’t been up there in months. He won’t care. Besides, you built it for him. Isn’t it, like — doesn’t that technically make it yours?” 

“No,” he says, flatly. 

He drops his hand from his jaw. Cocks his head toward the kitchen. He wants to talk to you. In private.

Sarah grumbles. You put your fork down and follow him in. 

He turns to you, when you’re safely out of Sarah’s earshot. Drags in a deep breath. 

“What d’you think?” he asks, softly. 

“What do I think — of what? Of — hiding out, at your brother’s cabin? I’ve met him once. If that.” 

“Not like he’d be there,” he says. 

You push out a breath. Stare at him. 

“Listen,” he says, gently. “’S your call, darlin’. But she’s right. Y’can’t—” his jaw ticks, “—we can’t stay here. Not ‘less you wanna deal with your dad today. Now.” 

You don’t. Not today. Not — not right now. 

You need time. And you need Joel. 

“You wanna talk t’him, I’ll go with you,” he says. He touches your face. Tilts your chin with two fingers. “Right now. Across the street. We’ll do it together.” 

It’s too raw. It’s too fresh. His face is still shattered. 

He can see your hesitation. The way you shrink at the suggestion. 

“You wanna run, I’ll run with you,” he says, quietly. “Doesn’t matter t’me, baby girl. I’m with you either way. But you gotta choose, angel.”

You bite down on your lip. Your pulse pulls between your ears. When you look at him your eyes are wide. 

“He won’t mind?” you ask. “Tommy?” 

“Nah,” he says. “He won’t mind.” 

You nod. Half to yourself. 

“I’d have to — get stuff,” you say. “From my house. My phone is still there. And I need clothes—”

He gives a patient sort of hum. 

“We’ll get ‘em,” he murmurs. “Whatever y'need.” 

You look at him. Your heart settles in your throat. 

“Okay,” you say. “Just for a few days. Just ’til we figure it out. Together.” 

“Yeah, baby,” he murmurs. His thumb strokes at your jaw. “Together.”

taglist (lmk if you wanna be added!)

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---

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!

---

feelings on fire (joel miller x f!reader) 18+ PART SIX

previous chapters | again, thank you so much for all the love on this fic. it's so beyond overwhelming and wonderful to know that people are enjoying this story. i hope you enjoy this chapter, let me know! and here's my kofi if you'd like to leave me a tip 💕 chapter summary: it's time for your first official "lesson" with joel. rating: 18+ explicit warnings: age difference (joel is in his 50s, reader is in her early 20s), innocent/inexperienced reader, praise kink, dirty talk, pet names, mentions of religion, catholic guilt, fingering, oral (f receiving), lap-sitting, grinding word count: 8.7k ao3

You feel ridiculous.

You stare in your bedroom mirror at yourself with a look of pure mortification, assessing the beige dress you're currently wearing that your mother picked out from her own closet, falling to your ankles and bagging off your hips in the most unflattering way imaginable. It looks like a potato sack with long sleeves, long and floppy and absolutely horrendous.

You slowly shake your head at your reflection as she comes up behind you with attentive eyes, assessing the same trainwreck you are. You can see in her expression that she's similarly disappointed in the way it looks.

"I'm not wearing this," you say quietly, trying not to sound too harsh, "Please, Mom, this doesn't fit me right."

She bites her lip, eyes still scanning you up and down, "You're probably right," she sighs.

She wants you to dress modestly for your first lesson with Joel. You'd settled on Saturdays as your official "lesson" day, a perfect choice in your opinion as you now have an excuse to go to his house on the weekend without having to lie to your parents about where you are. You want to appease them in some way, your mom in particular; you've felt so bad about all the lying you've been doing, you feel you owe her something. And that something is apparently agreeing to let her pick your outfit, a decision you're already regretting immensely.

"The navy blue one was nice," you say, gesturing toward one of the other options she's laid out on your bed - one that's actually from your own closet and not hers, "I know I've grown out of it but it's not that short."

She walks over to your bed and picks up the dress in question with an exasperated sigh, eyeing the clock on your night stand, "I guess it'll have to do, we're running out of time. You don't want to be late," she hands it to you quickly, "You'll have to wear stockings with it though."

You nod - that's a compromise you can deal with.

She gives you some privacy to change, leaving you to fight your way out of the oddly shaped beige atrocity on your own. It crumples into a pile at your feet and you kick it to the side with a little too much aggression. Imagine if she'd actually made you wear that - Joel would never want to touch you again.

The thought of Joel sends a rush of warmth throughout your body as you slip into the other dress, velvet and modest but nowhere near as awful as the previous one. You'd talked to him on the phone last night after he'd finished work, cuddled in bed against an extra pillow in place of him - you'd slept so well on Thursday night when you'd slept in his bed, felt so safe and warm in his arms, you're now doing anything you can to replicate it. You'd wrapped his flannel shirt around it, coating it in his scent.

"I miss you," you'd whispered through the phone, the insecurities from the previous night almost nonexistent as you nuzzled your cheek into the fabric of his shirt, "I know I saw you this morning but I can't help it."

He'd laughed lightly, soft and familiar in your ear, "I miss you too, babygirl. Miss havin' you in my bed."

You'd taken only one deep breath before admitting softly, "I miss your cock."

He'd groaned, low and deep, "I know, darlin'. I know you do."

You'd both had simultaneous orgasms about ten minutes later, your name on his lips as he came into his fist and you buried your face in the pillow you wished was him, fingers scissoring inside you. You walk over to your bed now and pull up the mattress a bit, tugging his shirt out from underneath while you have a spare moment alone. You bring it to your face and inhale deeply, eyes closing and heart fluttering; you're obsessed.

"Ready to go?" your mom calls from downstairs, and you quickly shove the flannel back under the mattress, making sure it's hidden before you dash to your dresser to grab a pair of stockings. They're black and stop at your thigh, the edges hidden beneath the dress; you already know Joel will take them off soon enough.

You immediately notice the grimace on your mother's face when you appear at the bottom of the stairs and you wonder what you've done wrong already. She assesses you again without saying anything, gnawing on her lip and circling you a bit.

"Can I go?" you ask quietly, unsure what she's going to say, "I don't wanna be late."

"Where's your crucifix?" she finally says, tilting her head slightly, "I don't think I've seen you wear it all summer."

Astute observation - you haven't worn it all summer. It's still upstairs in your jewelry box, exactly where you'd left it when you went off to college several years ago. You'd begun to resent everything it represented and no longer felt like parading around with it on your neck like you'd done your whole life. The thought of wearing it now after so many years of forgetting it even existed... well, it certainly doesn't appeal to you whatsoever.

But you are trying to make up for all the lying, even if she doesn't necessarily know it.

You plaster a forced smile on your face, "I'll go get it." She mirrors it and nods as you turn around and head back up to your bedroom. Do it for the lessons, you think to yourself calmly.

Looking in the mirror after clasping the silver cross around your neck is a trip to the say the least. You suddenly feel ten years younger, standing in your bedroom preparing for an early service, Sunday School homework crumpled in your backpack and an immense weight of pressure on your shoulders to be perfect. You stare at the crucifix and feel that familiar sense of guilt begin to creep in, surrounding you in a quiet but palpable void of judgement that you've spent years trying to escape.

Why the fuck are you doing this? Why are you so hellbent on following the rules, after everything you've done? Why does the approval of your parents still mean so much to you? How is any of this even worth it?

You swallow back the pain you feel, the guilt, the anger, the resentment, all of it. Now is not the time to have an existential crisis; you have a "lesson" to go to - something you are not going to feel guilty about, no matter how bad your former Catholic brain may want you to.

As if by some ironic miracle, your phone buzzes and you unlock it to see a sudden surge of text messages in your college group chat:

have fun at your lesson 😘

don't do anything we wouldn't do!!!

pls give us all the details later 🥵

ITS ENTIRELY POSSIBLE TO SUCK DICK ON ACCIDENT JUST FYI

A breathless laugh escapes you, relief flooding your body at the sudden sense of normalcy, the reminder that what you're doing is not wrong. You're so glad you told your friends about what's been going on - you can't imagine keeping this secret all to yourself any longer. Knowing that they're there, that they support you and care about you and want you to have these experiences... it's enough for you to turn from the mirror without a second glance.

It's just a fucking necklace.

--

You arrive on Joel's doorstep at exactly ten o'clock, smoothing down your dress a bit and taking a deep breath before knocking. You're not sure how he's going to react to you standing there in all your Catholic glory, hair down and parted through the middle, crucifix dangling from your neck, hymn book weighing heavily in your purse. You still feel like that past version of yourself, shifting nervously from right foot to left as you stand there waiting for him to open the door.

The knob finally twists and there he stands, tall and broad in front of you. Your eyes widen when you see him, lips parting in surprise - the exact same reaction he has when he sees you.

He's dressed up. No band t-shirt or jeans to be seen, no bare feet or messy hair or disheveled beard. His grey curls are gelled back, demure and handsome, scruff trimmed up to shape his jaw. He's wearing a grey button down tucked into a pair of black dress pants, shoes that look freshly shined. For all intents and purposes, he looks like he's about to go to a church service.

You both stand there staring at each other without saying anything, both pairs of eyes scanning up and down your bodies with almost no regard for politeness. You're speechless, completely in awe of his sudden transformation, a transformation you certainly had not been expecting.

"I thought, uh-" he chokes out, breaking the silence between the two of you as his hand reaches up to awkwardly touch the back of his neck, "I thought your mother might bring you."

You continue to stare at him, a ball of emotion suddenly growing heavy in your throat, "Y-you wore this in case my mom came with me?"

He slowly nods, suddenly looking a bit sheepish as his eyes scan the road behind you for any onlookers, "I wanted to make a good impression."

With a shaky inhale full of a feeling you can't describe, you take a step toward him, unable to stop yourself from reaching forward to grab his hand, "Joel," you whisper, barely audible and almost alien in your mouth - you're so used to calling him Mr. Miller, "That's... that's..." you don't even know what to say, words completely failing you.

"It's no big deal," he says with a small smile, tugging on your hand and urging you to follow him inside, "C'mere."

As soon as the door closes behind you he's grabbing both your hands and pulling back to look at you again, eyes still awestruck. You can't help but feel embarrassed when his gaze freezes on your crucifix.

"My mom made me dress up," you mumble, "I know, it's a lot."

He nods and clears his throat, taking a long exhale through his mouth as he continues to peer at you, "I'm a bad man." Your brow furrows, confused for a moment before he laughs breathlessly and shakes his head, "I am, I must be, 'cause I shouldn't find you wearin' all this so damn sexy."

A giggle slips past your lips, skin warming as he entwines his fingers with yours and moves forward a bit to tower over you, eyes trailing to your lips.

"I mean it, darlin'," he whispers with a tender smile, "You look... fuck, you look pretty."

"Thank you," you whisper back, tilting your head up a bit more, waiting for him to kiss you - and he does. It's soft and sweet, not the type you'd been expecting after a comment like that. He seems slightly reserved as he kisses you, squeezing your hands in his and pulling away far too quickly, "What is it?" you ask quietly, raising an eyebrow, "What's wrong?"

He shakes his head again with a chuckle, "Nothin' at all, babygirl. I'm just... I'm tryin' to keep at least some of these next two hours focused on learnin' guitar."

You make a face, "Oh. Right."

"Remember what I said the other night?" he looks down at you with a playful smirk.

We'll make it sexy.

A smile spreads slowly across your face, "I remember."

--

He sits you between his legs on the couch, just like the first time he'd touched you. He noses your shoulder and breathes you in, pulls you close as he carefully places the guitar into your lap. His arms are warm and comforting, thighs strong and safe. You lean back into his touch immediately with a sigh of contentment, closing your eyes.

"Now, how am I supposed to teach you if you've got your eyes shut?" he asks with a laugh. You pout and open your eyes again, turning your face a bit to catch a glimpse of his relaxed expression.

"Sorry, it's just - you're distracting."

He snorts and redirects your attention to the task at hand, reaching down to capture your fingers in his and bring them up to the neck of the guitar. It's already distracting having him so close, but you can feel the shape of his cock against your lower back; it's not even hard -not yet, anyway - and your heart is already pounding.

"I mean it," you mutter softly, "I can't think when you're so close to me. Not after..." you trail off, feeling your cheeks warm at the thought, "Not after what we did the other night."

You feel him smile against your jaw, lips ghosting your skin, "I know, it's overwhelmin' isn't it?" His fingers trace the shape of yours, pressing gently against the guitar, "That's normal, sweetheart. We took a big step."

You can't help but lean back into him as he speaks, head coming to rest gently on his shoulder, forehead brushing his neck, "It felt so good," you whisper, secretive and shy, "When you were on top of me like that. When you had your mouth..."

He hums softly in understanding without you having to finish the thought, turns a bit to nose your hairline, "You want my mouth on you again, huh?"

"Yes."

He kisses your skin softly, lingering for a moment before moving his face downward, "How 'bout this?" he murmurs, pressing another soft kiss to the bare skin at your neck, "How 'bout I teach you three chords? Just three," another kiss, this time to the spot above your collarbone, near your crucifix, "and when you can play them for me without my help, I'll give you a reward."

"What kind of reward?" you breathe, eyes closing again as his lips graze your neck back and forth.

"Somethin' that feels really good," he whispers, and you swear you feel the tip of his tongue flutter against you for a brief moment, warm and wet, "Somethin' new I wanna show you, if you'll let me."

"I'll let you do anything," you admit, voice shaky, "You know that."

He smiles against you, then slowly licks a long stripe up from your neck to your cheek, an act that probably would have disgusted a previous version of yourself but now sends you reeling, skin going hot beneath his mouth. You turn your head toward his and he captures your lips in a searing kiss, the kind you'd expected at the door, full of arousal and sex and the promise of more. You're already wet and throbbing when he pulls back to peer at you.

"I know," he murmurs, hand that's not on the guitar coming up to hold your chin between his thumb and index finger, "You'd do anything I asked, huh?" You nod, eyelashes fluttering as he thumbs your chin and whispers, "Such a good girl."

Your mind is empty as he releases your chin and takes your other hand in his, bringing it down to the strings. You let him move you the way he wants to, adjusting you a bit between his legs so you're pressed more firmly against him, his broad chest tight against your back. You can't help but let out a breathless noise, almost a whimper.

"I know," he repeats, voice calm and soothing as he pushes his groin forward so his clothed cock makes even more contact with your lower back, "I know, babygirl, it's so much, isn't it? Feelin' so many different things," he carefully adjusts your fingers on the neck of the guitar, places them on the correct strings and murmurs, "You can do this, I know you can. And then you'll get your reward, I promise."

His words are smooth as butter and have almost no meaning at this point, thoughts foggy as you press down on the strings and try your best to focus on what he's asking of you. You're suddenly completely pliant under his touch - he could pick you up and bend you over the kitchen counter and you'd let him, wouldn't even have a thought in your mind as he did it.

But he won't - that's not why you're here.

Learning guitar chords with a half-hard cock digging into your back and warm breath at your neck is much easier said than done. You don't know how you manage to get through the fifteen minutes it takes you to learn the C chord, and the ten minutes it takes to learn what you think is the D chord - you can't even remember now, you're so distracted by his body against yours. He's teaching you G when you feel yourself slipping, thighs rubbing together to seek some kind of relief. It's never felt like this before; usually you'd be touching yourself at this point or he'd be touching you. The lack of contact almost hurts, your pussy throbbing around absolutely nothing and dampening your underwear, begging silently to be relieved in some way.

"What's wrong?" he whispers, big fingers still pinning yours to the neck of the guitar, stubble scratching against your skin as he presses a feather-light kiss to your ear, "Tell me, darlin'. Why're you wigglin' around like that, huh?"

He knows why; you can feel the smirk on his face, sense the teasing edge to his voice. He's enjoying this, having you completely under his spell while you try your hardest to learn and remember. His cock is getting harder by the second, the movement of your hips and ass certainly not helping the situation by any means. You know what it looks like now, what it feels like, can picture it in your mind growing stiffer and stiffer, leaking from the tip through his pants.

"Feels f-funny," you manage to whimper, forcing yourself to strum out your first G with shaky results. You try again, pushing your fingers more firmly against the strings with Joel's help, feeling his nose trailing gently across your temple.

"What feels funny, sweetheart?" he murmurs, and part of you wants to rip yourself from between his legs, toss the guitar to the floor, and straddle his lap, grind yourself down on him. You've never done it before but you can suddenly see it in your mind plain as day, an obvious solution to the problem in your panties that's growing worse by the second.

"My pussy," you moan, closing your eyes and tilting your head against his shoulder again, hands loosening on the guitar, "It hurts."

He pulls you in closer, inhales your perfume and releases a low groan, "Poor baby," he murmurs, "I know, honey, you're just achin' to be touched, huh?" He tightens your fingers against the strings again, eyelashes fluttering against your neck, "Come on, sweet girl, you almost got it, you're so close."

You're not sure he intends for that to have a double meaning but it makes you groan nonetheless, a weak sound that makes him chuckle. He removes his fingers from yours and waits for you to show him the chord without help - you can feel his eyes on you as you shakily strum. You wince when it comes out sounding wrong.

"Gotta push down harder," he murmurs, "You almost got it, babygirl, show me."

"I can't," you whimper, shaking your head, "I can't, Mr. Miller, it's too much, please."

"Shhh," he soothes, pressing a gentle kiss to your neck, "You can, darlin'. You're doin' so good." You feel him pull your dress up in the back as he speaks, and then he's suddenly pulling you up and into his lap, sitting you directly on his clothed cock. "You just gotta push a little bit harder." He grinds against you at the word, firm and purposeful, pinning you to the solid length of him.

"Oh my god," you gasp out, awestruck by the feeling of him, so big and thick and warm beneath you. Your pussy continues to pulse and throb and you know you're already starting to soak the nice pair of dress pants he'd worn for you, covering his crotch in your slick.

It's somehow still not enough. You find yourself grinding down onto him, matching his own movements as your hands squeeze the guitar and your thighs push together. You whimper pitifully in his lap, squirming and making a mess but too horny to care about how ridiculous you probably look.

"You feel my cock against your pussy, baby?" he asks, voice low and deep, and all you can do is nod frantically, a moan tearing from your throat, "That feel better? Think you can play now?"

You truly don't think you can, but he's clearly still waiting for you to show him. Your whole body is on fire, hands trembling as you push your fingers against the strings as hard as you can, strumming out the G chord with more success this time. You sigh in relief, loosening your grip on the guitar and leaning back into his touch.

"Now show me all three," he whispers.

"Mr. Miller," you groan, frustration and arousal starting to fully overtake you, "Please."

"Shhh," he repeats, "Shh, baby, it's okay. It's okay, I'll touch you this time. Just play those three chords while I play with your pussy, alright? Can you do that for me?"

You nod again, swallowing tightly as you reposition your fingers on the neck of the guitar and try to remember where they're supposed to go for the C chord. It's impossible to focus as Joel snakes his arm up around your belly, slips his hand down beneath your dress to where you're aching.

"Lemme feel," he murmurs, fingertips tickling over the wet spot of your panties and pressing down gently against you, "Oh, she's throbbin', babygirl." You moan again, borderline hysterical as he uses two fingers to circle your hole through the fabric, callused tips prodding your folds. "Shhh, I know, baby, I know. Keep goin honey, keep playin'."

You don't know how you do it, have absolutely no idea how you manage to actually strum out the chords while he's touching you like this, but you do. You shakily play the C as he slips his index finger inside your panties and places it against your hole, feels how much you're dripping for him and groans into your neck.

"Always so fuckin' wet for me," he murmurs, "Never even had a cock inside you and your pussy's so ready for it every time, babygirl, just beggin' to be filled up."

He pushes both his index and middle fingers inside as you play the D chord, slipping them in with barely any resistance as you grip the guitar and try your hardest to keep going, to not give up - you're so close, in more ways than one. You whimper when the tips of his fingers brush gently against that spongey part inside you that you can't reach yourself.

"That's it," he encourages you softly, slowly beginning to fuck you with them, pulling them out and pushing them back in as he noses your neck and breathes you in as you tremble, "I know, sweetheart, feels so good, doesn't it? One more, baby, one more."

Tears are stinging in your eyes as you strum out the G chord, the last one you need to play in order to get your reward, to end Joel's teasing and finally get what you were promised. You push your fingers down as hard as you can and play it with a finality that makes him smile against your skin.

"All done," he murmurs, taking the guitar from you with one hand and tossing it to the other end of the couch. You moan out a sound of relief and he pulls you in close, holds you firm against his lap and speeds up his fingers, fucking you harder and smiling wider when you cry out in pleasure, "Good girl, angel, good girl."

You can't speak, jaw going lax and eyes hooded as his fingers plunge in and out, his other hand spread on your belly as he pushes you down onto his cock. You turn your head slightly to bury your face in his neck, biting down on your lip and letting the sensations overwhelm you, whimpering when you feel his cock twitch and pulse through the material.

"Now, that wasn't so bad, was it?" he asks huskily, "Didn't even wanna learn guitar today, did you? Just wanted to come over and be my good little girl, get fucked by my fingers and grind against my cock, that right?"

You're unable to answer any of his questions, letting your body do all the talking for itself as you become completely loose and pliant under his touch, a ragdoll in his lap as whimpers continue to escape your mouth.

"Wearin' this little dress," he murmurs, "And these fuckin' socks," the hand that's not on your pussy comes down to rest on your thigh, squeezes the bare spot between your dress and your stocking, "Just beggin' to be touched, babygirl."

You should've seen what I had on before I left the house, you think to yourself, remembering the beige potato sack and thanking the heavens that your mother hadn't made you wear it. You watch as Joel pulls up your dress in the front, exposing both of you to the pornographic image of his hand inside your panties, fingers fucking you relentlessly while you drip and soak everything within reach.

"You want your reward now, baby?" he asks you softly, pulling your hair back and pressing a wet kiss to your temple, fingers beginning to slow, "Huh? You wanna try somethin' new?"

"Y-yes," you manage to finally speak, voice faint and weak, "W-want it so bad." And it's true - you don't even know what it is but you're dying for him to do it already, teach you something else that's not just chords on the guitar.

At your words he pulls his fingers out of you and you whine, petulant and frustrated as your hips buck in his lap. Without a word he pulls you off of him and carefully slips off the couch, placing you back against the cushions where he was sitting. You watch with wide eyes as he kneels on the floor in front of you, hands coming up to rest on your knees as he slowly pushes your legs apart.

"W-what are you doing?" you whisper, but a small voice in the back of your mind tells you that you already know, recalling past discussions from your friends that you'd listened to with curiosity. Is he...? Is he really going to?

"Gonna kiss it better, baby," he breathes, hands trailing up to the edges of your stockings and carefully thumbing your bare skin, shuffling closer and looking up at you with those big brown eyes, "Gonna make you feel so good."

"Isn't it..." you feel yourself frowning, thoughts muddled, "Don't guys not like..." you're not sure how to word it, grimacing, "Aren't you supposed to hate doing that?"

His brow furrows, "And where'd you hear that from?"

"My friends at college," you breathe, "They say guys hate doing it. Or... or they don't know how to do it right or something like that."

He surprises you when he smirks, eyes going devilish and sexy in that rugged way you love, "That's 'cause college girls usually sleep with college boys, babygirl," he says softly, "And college boys are dumb as rocks."

You giggle at his words, thinking back to that freshman party you'd attended where the handsome college boy had rejected you, gone for your friend instead. Joel's words are validating, comforting.

He pushes up your dress a bit more, then drags your panties down your legs, completely soaked. He smirks again at the sight of them, squeezes them in his palm before dropping them to the floor and picking your legs up to place them on his shoulders, pulling you toward him. You let out a gasp, eyes going hooded again as he scoots you forward and then dips his head down, presses a kiss to the soft skin of your inner thigh.

"This," he murmurs against your skin, "is one of my favorite things to do in the whole world." He kisses your other thigh, the hint of his tongue just barely flicking out to wet your skin, "And I wanted to do it to you," another kiss, "since the first day," and another, "you showed up on my doorstep."

You're losing your breath again, lips parting as he finally brings his lips to where you're aching for him, soaking the couch with your arousal. He presses a small and tender kiss to one of your outer lips, then the other, then carefully moves his hands up to thumb them apart, holding you open for him. You don't dare make a sound, biting down hard on your lip as you watch him look at you, take you in.

"Prettiest pussy I ever saw," he says quietly, breath fanning out over your wet skin, "I mean it, sweetheart. Ain't never gotten to kiss a pussy like this," he leans forward then and presses a small kiss to your clit, feather light. Your hips buck immediately, an odd sound coming from the back of your throat as you try to keep yourself together, "I know," he murmurs, "Just let go, honey. Don't hold back, want you to come all over my mouth."

And then he's licking a stripe up your folds, just like he'd done to your neck, long and languid and wet. Your eyes roll back, head hitting the back of the couch as he tastes you. The feeling of his mouth on such a sensitive part of you is indescribable; your head is suddenly empty again, no thoughts to be found other than feels so good, feels so good, feels so good. You don't even realize you're saying it out loud until he laughs, mouth vibrating against your pussy in the most perfect way.

"Love this cute little clit," he murmurs, kissing it again and then tugging it into his mouth with his tongue, sucking on it and making you writhe on the couch, fingernails digging into the cushions. He hums around it, pulls off it relatively quickly, then drags his mouth downward and pushes his tongue inside your hole, fucks you with it as your head lolls atop your shoulders.

College boys really are dumb as rocks.

"Your tongue," you moan out, eyes scrunching together as gasps continuously rip from your throat, "Oh fuck, oh my god." He licks inside you, pulls his tongue out to suck your labia, nose bumping against your clit. You shriek, hands coming up to cover your face as you bite down so hard on your lip you fear you might draw blood.

"Tastes so fuckin' sweet, babygirl" he says gruffly, pulling away for only a few seconds to peer up at you, chin glistening with your juices, "Just like I knew you would." He drops back down to suckle on your clit again, the tip of his tongue circling it over and over until you're on the verge of completely falling apart, a fire burning inside your belly that's growing stronger and stronger by the second.

The only thought that comes into your mind before you come is how sinful you must look right now, wearing your Sunday best, crucifix around your neck, hymn book strewn to the side as your fifty-six year old neighbor eats your pussy, coaxes noises out of you that you didn't even know you could make. You should feel ashamed, should feel sorry, but you don't. In fact, it's probably the hottest thing you've ever experienced in your life.

You have no time to give him any sort of warning, not that he needs one anyway. With one final suck to your clit you're gone, hips bucking upward as you cry out into Joel's living room pathetically, eyes shut tight as you flail beneath him. He puts his hands on your hips, pins you to the couch so you don't fall off as you come all over his mouth, just like he asked.

You lay there for what feels like a long time, body like jelly as you sink further and further into his couch. He peppers tiny kisses all over your pussy, avoiding your clit as not to cause you too much overstimulation, then very slowly pulls back to look at you, dropping your thighs from his shoulders.

"Good reward?" he asks softly, and all you can do is nod.

You listen as he gets up and busies himself in the kitchen for a moment, running the tap. He returns with a wet cloth and a glass of cold water, handing it to you before dropping back to his knees to wipe you clean. You hiss a bit when he touches your clit, hips stuttering.

"Shh, it's okay," he murmurs, "Just cleanin' you up, sweetheart."

When he's done he scoots in beside you on the couch, lets you curl up against him and lay there for a few quiet moments, breath evening out as you come back down to Earth. He strokes your hair, kisses your forehead, thumbs your cheek.

"That felt really good," you finally whisper softly, eyes hazy as you open them to look at him, "Thank you."

He smiles, charming and gentle, "You're welcome, babygirl."

"What time is it?"

He looks at his watch, "Ten after eleven, still got some time to spare," he brushes his nose against yours, "You wanna keep practicin' or do you wanna relax?"

"Relax," you hum, "Definitely relax."

He chuckles, "I'll put this away then," he extricates himself from you and reaches for the guitar, turning around to lean it back against the wall. He picks up your hymn book and goes to slip it back inside your purse before you sit up, shaking your head.

"I told my mom I loaned that to you," you smile sheepishly, "You should probably, um, keep it for a little bit."

"Ah, so that's my reward," he says with a laugh, thumbing the pages gently, "I'll take good care of it, promise."

Your eyes go wide at his words, "Oh my god."

He raises an eyebrow, puzzled by your reaction, "What?"

"You never came," you sit up on the couch, shaking your head frantically, "I'm so sorry, oh my god, come here, let me help," you reach toward his belt and he just laughs again, taking a step back.

"You don't need to do that, sweetheart," he says softly, kindly, but you're not having it.

"No, I want to, please," you stand up from the couch and step toward him, gripping his belt buckle, "Please let me."

He shakes his head; suddenly he's the one looking sheepish. You halt your movements, staring at him in confusion.

"I came, darlin'," he says with a breathless sort of laugh, smiling at you, "I came in my pants like one of your college boys. Haven't done it in years, actually. I'm surprised I still could." He pulls your hand off his belt and brings it to his lips, presses a kiss to your knuckles, "You're not the only one who learned somethin' new today."

You feel a proud sort of flush tinge your cheeks, smiling softly to yourself as you take his words in.

"That bein' said, I'm gonna need to change," he winces a bit as he adjusts his pants, "I'm a bit of a mess right now." His eyes suddenly light up with some kind of realization, and he quickly puts his finger up before walking over to one of his bookshelves and pulling a little gift bag off the bottom shelf, "Which reminds me," he says with a smile, heading back over to you, "This is for you."

You stare at the bag, confused, "For me?"

"For you."

You take it from him, feeling beyond touched despite not having any idea what's inside. Your heart is beating fast as you reach in the bag, push past the tissue paper and pull out something lightweight, soft under your touch. You stare at it for a few seconds, looking at the pastel pink material and thumbing it gently, brow slowly beginning to furrow.

"You said you needed a new swimsuit," he says softly, "You wanted a bikini, remember? I picked this up for you."

"Yeah, I... I remember," you're still staring at it; it's cute and ruffled, nothing too crazy like the things you'd worried he might get for you. However there's an odd feeling in the pit of your stomach as you look at it, dropping the bag at your feet and holding up the top half in front of your face, staring at it like it could attack you at any second.

It's quiet for a moment, then, "I can take it back if you don't like it, darlin'. No worries."

"No, no, I...I like it," you say quickly, "I just..." you can't really explain how you're feeling, unsure how exactly to word it, "If my parents ever saw me in this..." you suddenly feel like you're going to cry, shaking your head and dropping the top back into the bag, "I'm sorry, I know I told you to get it but... now that I'm actually looking at it... there's no way I can wear this in my pool. Not without my mother having a conniption. I don't know what I was thinking."

You feel his eyes on you as you reach down to pick the bag back up, pushing it back toward him, waiting for him to take it from you - he doesn't.

"It's yours, angel," he says softly, "You don't have to wear it but I want you to have it."

You shake your head, pushing it toward him again, "No, you don't need to waste your money on something I'll never wear."

"I don't care, I want you to have it," he repeats, voice kind yet firm, "I bought it for you, it's a present, and I think you deserve to have somethin' nice for yourself."

"I have plenty of nice things," you snap, letting go of the bag and watching as it cascades to the floor, "I don't need it."

You can't bring yourself to look at him, crossing your arms against your chest and biting down on your lip to keep the tears at bay. He stands there for a few seconds silently, probably waiting for you to say something else, but you don't.

"Well, I'm gonna go change outta these clothes," he says quietly, "I'll meet you out on the back deck, alright? It's real private out there, don't gotta worry about anyone seein' you."

You nod slowly, staring at a spot on the floor. He turns away from you and heads upstairs, leaving you standing there feeling like a complete asshole. What is wrong with you? He just gave you a fucking present, not to mention the best orgasm of your life, and this is how you treat him? You take a deep breath and force the tears away, sighing to yourself and bringing your gaze back to the little bag on the floor.

You hate this. Why does every single thought you have need to be somehow policed by your parents despite them not even being in the room? Why is every decision, every move you make, always influenced by that guilty part of you, the part of you that wants to be their perfect girl, their star student, their obedient God fearing daughter? How has it gotten this deep? Why are they so ingrained in you to the point where something you literally asked for is tainted by thoughts of their disapproval?

You stand there staring at the bag, arms still crossed, thoughts going a mile a minute. Get over yourself. You just had a man's mouth on your pussy and you're suddenly worried about wearing a bikini? You make a grumbling sound in your throat, exhaling and shaking your head. Stop letting them control you. Stop giving them power.

You slip inside the downstairs bathroom, little bag in tow.

--

The sun is hot against your skin as you step out onto Joel's back patio, clad in your brand new bikini and surprisingly less self conscious than you thought you'd be. He was right; the backyard is very private, shielded by trees and a tall white fence similar to your own. You briefly wonder why he'd choose to play guitar on his front step when he has such a nice atmosphere back here, but the thought fades quickly when you see him sitting there in front of you in a lounge chair, wearing a pair of shorts and nothing else.

You feel yourself flush as you walk forward, shutting the door behind you with eyes glued to the hair on his chest, the sweat clinging to his skin, dipping into his tummy. You're still a bit embarrassed by your initial reaction to your gift but it's seemingly water under Joel's bridge when he turns around at the sound of the door to see you standing there.

He whistles when he sees you, low and cartoonish, "Phew. I think I made a good choice," he looks you up and down as you smile shyly, "Gimme a twirl."

You do as you're told, the thin ruffles tickling the tops of your thighs as you spin on the spot. You giggle when he whistles again.

"I really do like it," you say softly, walking over to him and settling into the other lounge chair, "It suits me. I'm sorry I got all weird."

He smiles at you tenderly, "That's alright, babygirl. I understand," he pauses then, looks thoughtful for a moment before saying, "You know... I know what it feels like to be worried about disappointin' your parents. To always be seekin' approval."

Your brow furrows at his words, "You do?"

He nods, leaning back a bit in the chair and sighing a bit, "I may be new to this neighborhood but I ain't new to Texas, darlin'. Born and raised here, went to church every Sunday just like you, had a curfew and rules and expectations and all those things you have." He closes his eyes against the rays of sun, "Difference is, I'm not an only child. I wasn't dealin' with it alone, thank God. Had my little brother Tommy with me every step of the way."

You smile at that, trying to picture a much younger version of Joel in his childhood, horsing around with another little boy. You'd always thought about what it would have been like to have a sibling, to not be the only one with all the pressure on your shoulders, but your parents had never given you any. Your mom had wanted to have more kids and simply couldn't, another layer of guilt added to your ever increasing pile. Her only daughter - a sinner. You shake the thought away and continue to listen to Joel.

"The thing about havin' a brother, in my experience anyway, is that people will always find ways to compare you. Tommy was always the smart one, the moral one, good head on his shoulders, always did well in school and knew his scripture back to front," he chuckles to himself, "I tried so hard to be like him but I just couldn't do it, wasn't built that way, never have been. I was the angry one, the problem child. Was always good with my hands but my parents never saw much value in that, always ended up askin' me the same shit: Why can't you be more like Tommy? Tommy's got straight A's, why don't you? When are you gonna start actin' more like Tommy?"

You frown, feeling a pang in your heart at the words.

"Was too much pressure to be like Tommy. He was their golden boy, you know? And I just couldn't compare. God knows I tried but..." he reaches over the side of his chair and picks up a bottle of beer you hadn't noticed before, bringing it to his lips and taking a sip, "I started messin' up a lot when I hit my teenage years," he continues, "Drinkin', breakin' curfew, sneakin' out to see girls. I had fun but my parents...phew, my father in particular, he was not happy, let me tell you. And then -" he cuts himself off suddenly, frozen for a moment before taking one last sip of beer and putting it down again.

"Then...?" you ask softly.

He shrugs to himself, hesitating a bit before answering, "Then... I got myself into some trouble. Won't go into it, not right now, but they kicked me out. That was that, didn't wanna have nothin' to do with me after that."

Your stomach twists at his words, "That's horrible."

He shrugs again, finally turning to look at you, "It ain't as bad as it sounds, trust me. I was better off, I didn't need any of their judgement in my life, any of that Catholic guilt. It was like a weight came off my shoulders. Sure, I had some bigger fish to fry after that, had to do a lot of things on my own, but I wouldn't change a thing."

"So, do you still talk?" you can't help but ask, feeling slightly selfish; it's for you, for your own conscious.

"Who, me and my parents?" he laughs lightly, "They're long gone now, sweetheart. But yeah, after my Dad died I spent some more time with my Momma, got to have her in my life again for a bit. That was nice." He ponders to himself for a moment, "I think, as cliché as it sounds, time really does heal most wounds. Nothin's ever perfect, nothin' can ever go back to the way it was, but people change. And while they're changin', you gotta focus on what's right for you, on livin' the life you want, not worryin' about what they'll think."

You nod thoughtfully, taking in his words. "So... this life, the one you're living right now... is it what you want?" you ask softly, brow furrowed, "Are you happy?"

He sighs then, leans further back into the chair and closes his eyes once more, "Now that's a complicated question."

You both lay there in silence for a little while, though it's neither awkward nor uncomfortable. It feels nice, to just sit with somebody with no pressure of making conversation or answering things about yourself. Every time you've interacted with anyone this summer, whether it be your parents or your mom's friends or people you used to know, there's always been an expectation to inform. To prove yourself, to show how good of a person you are, how much you've achieved. With Joel none of that pressure exists; it's so easy to just be with him and not have to be anyone but yourself.

Though he hadn't really answered your question, you have an answer of your own. Before you met Joel, almost two weeks ago now, you hadn't known where you stood in life, what you wanted, who you were. And now you're slowly beginning to realize that there's this whole other person inside of you, dying to get out, to be free. And you like that person, want to be her more than anything, want to live that life.

But just like Joel said - it's complicated.

"Do you ever..." you break the silence, trailing off slightly before continuing, "Do you ever feel like you're just kind of going through the motions? Like... wasting all your time doing things for other people instead of yourself?"

"Honey, you just summed up my whole life," he says with a laugh, deep and smooth, "You think I wanna be out workin' til ten every night, doin' construction and barkin' orders and layin' plans for shit I got no interest in? I'm fifty six, I should be thinkin' about retirin' by now." He winces at his own words and then sits up a bit, giving you an odd look, "Forget I said that."

You raise an eyebrow, confused, "Why?"

He grimaces, "I don't need to be remindin' you how old I am."

You can't help but laugh, smiling to yourself and shaking your head quickly, "I don't mind, Mr. Miller, really."

His expression softens at your words, but then his brow furrows. He's quiet for a moment, the cogs in his head seemingly turning until he finally says softly, "Call me Joel, darlin'."

You're a bit surprised by his words, eyes widening, "Oh, I'm sorry."

He smiles, "Don't be sorry, sweetheart. I... I do like you callin' me Mr. Miller, but you can call me by my name too, if you want. If it feels natural for you."

You nod slowly, "Joel," you say quietly and he chuckles, "Joel," you repeat, smiling to yourself, "Joel."

"Don't wear it out," he admonishes with a grin, reaching down to pick up his bottle of beer again, "Though I do like how you say it."

Your cheeks warm at his words and you settle back into the chair, closing your eyes and inhaling the fresh air. Your time is winding down now - you'd told your mom you'd be home around noon; the sun is almost at the highest point in the sky.

"So what would you be doing?" you ask suddenly, "If you had more freedom for yourself, if you weren't doing the whole contracting thing?"

He thinks to himself for a moment, then shrugs, "Playin' music, I guess. Always wanted to when I was young but my parents didn't like the idea, I'm sure you can imagine." You grimace at his words, understanding completely. "But yeah... doin' some gigs, playin' guitar, singin' a bit here and there... that'd be the dream." He smiles at you then, crinkly eyed and gorgeous, "What about you, darlin'? If you didn't have all these things with your parents to worry about, what would you do?"

You bite your lip, averting your eyes from his as you softly murmur, "I think I'd still be sitting right here with you."

He looks at you for a long time, thoughtful and soft. You can't help but feel shy under his gaze, toying with a ruffle on your bikini and wondering if maybe you've said too much. You've barely known him two weeks, you doubt he's feeling any ounce of the butterflies that have been fluttering in your belly since the day you met him, and yet you can't help but hope that maybe...just maybe... he's starting to.

"You want a beer or anything, sweetheart?" he interrupts your thoughts, standing up from his chair and gesturing toward the house, "I'm goin' in to get another one. I have some lemonade too."

"Lemonade sounds nice," you say with a smile, and he mirrors it, reaching down to push a strand of hair behind your ear.

"One lemonade comin' right up," he murmurs, then leans down to press a soft kiss to your lips, sweet and quick. You melt under his touch, eyes closing as he strokes your cheek, realizing you could sit here forever just existing with him, being touched by him, being kissed by him.

Yup. Very complicated.

--

You arrive home to find your mother sitting at the kitchen table eating lunch; she looks up as soon as she sees you, eyes lighting up, "So? How'd it go?"

You're wearing the dress again, the stockings, the crucifix. The only difference is that the hymn book in your purse has been replaced with the pink bikini, wrapped in tissue paper. You sit down across the table from your mother, feeling a little lighter, like there's a little less weight on your shoulders.

"It was amazing," you tell her, unable to stop the genuine smile that spreads across your face, "I learned so much."

---