Pairing: Enji Todoroki X Fem!Reader

Pairing: Enji Todoroki x Fem!Reader

Rating: Explicit, 18+ Only

Word Count: 6.6k

Warnings: authority/power-play, boss/employee relationship, age-gap, size difference/size kink, public heavy petting/fingering, rough sex, desk sex, praise kink, use of “good girl,” light choking/breath play, hand pressed over reader’s mouth, hair pulling, creampie (Enji is implied to be divorced, no cheating) trapped in an elevator for a while, so warnings for claustrophobia and elevators in general. 

A/N: Special thanks to @whats-her-quirk​ and @titan-fodder​ for reading over this bad boy, and extra special thanks to my power going out right as I was excited to post this. God how I’ve missed Endeavor. One horny thought turned into over 6k. Enjoy ❤️

Endeavor’s name and presence is all over his hero agency. On every letterhead, blazing neon red letters on the front of the building, on company sweatshirts and stamps, email signatures, and even every pen and notepad. Yet the man himself is hardly ever seen.

Working directly for the titular hero of the agency as his senior support staff means that you see him more than most, and even still, his flaming body is a rarity to you.

So it’s a shock to see him in the elevator this morning, fire extinguished due to the spacial hazard. He’s dressed casually, white dress shirt and navy trousers. It’s too early for his hero duties to begin, the clock having not yet struck 9 a.m.

“Good morning,” you whisper with your eyes averted; his proximity always makes you anxious.

“Morning.”

He greets you with a curt nod as you step into the elevator from the parking garage floor.

Your first instinct is to press yourself to the farthest wall away from him. There’s an obstacle, however, one of his many sidekicks already twiddling his thumbs with worriment against the right wall. Endeavor stands in the back left corner, arms crossed, muscles bulging. You stick to the front of the car, leaning against the cool wall near the control panel.

The top-most floor is where you’re headed—same as your boss.

Keep reading

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.”

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---

Talk | A Joel Miller Mafia AU (Chapter One)

Pairing: Mafia!Joel x afab!reader

Summary: Your father had been a loyal asset to the Miller Clan for his entire life. After his passing, Joel feels a responsibility for you and your safety; inviting you further into his world, and your desires.

Warnings/tags: MDNI. Mafia!Joel alternate universe. Plot & porn. Foul language. Mentions of violence, murder, and death. Age gap (reader is 25, Joel is 40). Joel has known reader her whole life (nothing remotely unsavory/sexual is even insinuated/thought about on his end until after reader is 21). Depictions and mentions of anxiety and grief. Angst. Oral (f receiving). Overstimulation if you squint. So much praise. Riding. Unprotected p in v. Creampie.

Word count: 6.8k (oops?)

prequel. | series masterlist. | chapter two.

❝ I won't deny, I've got in my mind now

all the things we would do.

So I'll try to talk refined for fear that you’ll

find out how I'm imaginin' you. ❞

- Hozier, Talk.

You had never trusted any man in your life the way you trusted Joel Miller.

Including your late father, who was undoubtedly a decent man, save for the nefarious business he took part of his entire life. A loyal ally of the Miller Clan. This was the only world you had ever known. Even with his death, your place in it remained.

You never knew the exact story of how your father had gotten involved with the most notorious clan in New York City, but it was never any cause for worry; once you proved your loyalty to the Miller brothers, you were family for life. An unbreakable bond that ended in death, one way or another. Your father had never tampered with those odds; the security his loyalty provided his family was an irreplaceable asset.

Your mother had gone first. Cancer. It wasn’t easy, but it was simpler to digest than the tragedy you had seen around you your entire life. Men you had known as protectors and valuable parts of your fathers team shot or targeted, families torn apart or held captive. When you lost her, you couldn’t help but feel a semblance of peace knowing she went without terror. And after she died, your father vowed the same for you.

Your price of death would not come at the hands of the clan — even if his did.

A delivery gone wrong. It was a story you had heard a million times before, which likely explained why you felt so numb to the news at the time. Grief was an emotion you had avoided for much of your life, as death was always around you.

But Joel Miller made it easier to digest.

He had known you since you were just five years old, twenty at the time, and brand new to his role after his own father had passed on. It was natural for him to accept the position, being the eldest. But nowadays, he and Tommy shared the weight of their world fairly evenly — Tommy with most of the field work, and Joel the sharp mind behind every task.

Truly, for most of your years knowing the Miller brothers, you only saw them on rare occasions. Normally, a representative of the clan would do the talking or pay necessary visits. But the older you got, the more you anticipated seeing them.

Seeing Joel.

Around the age of sixteen was when you started to notice your budding attraction to the man. Time had aged him gracefully, and while he lost some of the brightness of his youth, the brooding, ruthless nature that replaced it became an object of your interest. He was a man of little conversation, but his presence alone commanded a room.

At eighteen, you could strike up a conversation with him without feeling like you were going to collapse. Speaking with the boss of a city clan was not for the faint of heart, but something seemed to soften in him when you were near; he would offer you a grin, seldom or unheard of to most who knew him. A roll of his eyes, always in jest or teasing. Sometimes, he would even extend a joke of his own, always witty and timed to perfection.

At twenty-one, his eyes started to linger.

Over the past four years, you had seen Joel more than you had ever in your life. At first, you weren’t in tune enough to question the intention of it; assuming he had his own reasonings for being so close that likely pertained more to your father than yourself.

You never imagined he would want to be near you as much as you wanted him to be.

After your fathers passing, Joel wasted little time in offering you a place in his estate. As far as he was concerned, you were his responsibility now. You had argued about it, promising him you would be fine in the apartment your father had secured for you in his will.

“You ain’t livin’ in no damned apartment on my watch.” His tone at the time had confirmed his seriousness on the matter, and you got the idea that no matter how hard you pushed, he wasn’t taking no for an answer.

And that was how you ended up in the glorious four story estate on the coast, overlooking the tumultuous waves of the Atlantic. In his bedroom, another aspect of the arrangement you had argued about, assuring him the guest room was more than big enough for you to dwell in. He didn’t even bother to continue the conversation, ordering his staff to move out any items of his that would hinder your own from taking up the space.

Now, here you are ~

3 months after your fathers death, standing in front of Joel’s bathroom mirror. The ends of your hair are still damp from the shower as you brush your fingers through the strands, the reminisce of soap smelling like him; strong, earthy, comforting.

You develop a routine over the weeks. There is a luxury that comes with the way these men live. Call it nurture or even the grief, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care if it is wrong.

You enjoy every moment of it.

His room is large; bedroom sporting a king size mattress adjacent to a lush, golden bathroom. The jacuzzi tub a fine stress reliever for your ever aching muscles. You often wonder what it would be like to see him dwell in it; when you had moved in, it was well kept, but you figure that is just Joel.

He pays close attention to detail.

Signing softly to yourself, you carefully fold the damp towel over the rack before settling into your night attire. It varies. Sometimes, like tonight, you wear the flimsy black nightgown that makes your skin feel like silk. Other nights, you find yourself standing in front of his closet, hands itching to wrap yourself up in one of his sweaters. You never do. Too afraid to what questions there would be to answer if he caught you.

You never touch anything in his room, in fact. Save for the essentials. You think it’s maybe because you want Joel to trust you, be certain that keeping you in his life would be just as valuable as your fathers.

Carefully, you sit yourself down in front of the vanity beside the bed. This is an addition specifically for your occupancy of his room. You coat your fingers in cream, studying your features in the mirror as you soak it into your skin. You feel refreshed, relaxed. Ready to curl up and give way to a similar slumber. The soft patter of rain hits against the balcony of window; thunder rumbling in the near distance, indicative of the coming storm.

You flicker off the big light, leaving only the soft glow of a lamp on the bedside, ready to will yourself under the covers when a soft wrap of knuckles hits the door.

Letting go of the sheet you had been reaching for, you pad your way to the door, gently turning the handle to peek your head out. When your eyes meet the visitor, confusion melts to pleasant surprise.

Joel stands before the door way, peering down at you with tired eyes. His hair is tousled, like he’s been running his hands through it. He’s still in his day attire, black slacks with a button up of the same hue, the first three buttons undone, soft dark hair peeking through, the roll or his sleeves reveling his toned forearms.

“Joel,” you breathe softly, pulling the door open fully. His eyes take a once over, taking in the sight of you in nothing but your thin nightgown. He doesn’t hide it, which elicits a shiver down your arms.

“Hey darlin’,” he drawls, voice laced in a frustrated fatigue. He leans a hand against the door frame. “Hope I didn’t disrupt ya?”

You shake your head earnestly. “No, I was just settling down. Please-” you step away from the doorway, allowing him to shuffle into the room, and quietly close the door behind him.

He paces around the space for a moment, seemingly lost in his own thoughts. You stand patiently, rubbing at your arms to try to rid them of their goosebumps. Your entire body seems to be ignited in his presence.

He surveys the room with his eyes, and you wonder what he may be searching for. “You comfortable in here?” he asks then, stilling in his spot a few feet in front of you, eyes back on you. There’s a concern in them, one that suggests he’s asking about multiple types of comfort. You give him a soft, reassuring smile.

“Joel, yes. Everything is perfect. You have been more than hospitable to me.” Too much so, you want to add, but don’t. You’re too busy studying him, the crinkle to his brows, the rigid nature of his shoulders. You don’t often see him during the day, normally holed up in the parlor where his desk sits, or meeting with potential informants of adversaries. So when you do see him, usually when the sun has set past the horizon, you gather as much information as you can. Alone, like this, he is stripped down to a simpler version of himself. The side he doesn’t let the majority of the people in his life see.

He lets you.

The silence wills you forward, taking a few steps that closes the space between you until you are craning your neck to look up at him with sympathetic concern.

“Something’s wrong,” you say, a statement that lingers with questioning. He doesn’t meet your graze at first, and when he does, he releases a heavy sigh in the process.

“I gotta step away from the property for a few days. Headin’ down south back to our base in Texas. Got a call this afternoon that a deal fell through, and there was quite a bit of fallout,” he explains, keeping his voice level and hushed. “Need to go take care of some…business.”

You know what that means. You feel a knot form in your stomach, a wave of nausea overcoming you. Someone had wronged Joel Miller, a fatal mistake. Severe enough that he wants to handle it himself.

This would be the first time in your three months of living in his estate that he wouldn’t be here, or at least within arms reach. An unfamiliar panic starts to overtake you at the thought of him gone, exposed to the threats that hide around every corner. He is not the only man with vendettas.

You don’t even notice the way your breathing starts to heave until you feel the rough touch of his calloused fingers cradling your jaw, bringing your attention back to him. His eyes are soft as they peer down at you, just like his touch.

“S’only for a few days, darlin’. I promise.”

You don’t argue with him, wishing not to cause him anymore stress than he’s already enduring. Instead, you nod slowly in his grasp, swallowing the thick lump forming in your throat and threatening to sting your eyes with tears.

“So, I-I’ll be alone?” you inquire hesitantly, scolding yourself for how pathetic the question sounds coming shakily off your lips.

You didn’t want to be alone. You didn’t want to be away from Joel.

His hand falls from your face, and you find yourself missing the warmth of it instantly. “No, no, not at all,” he shakes his head. “Usual security’ll be here, and I asked Tommy to come back to take care of things on this end. He’ll be in tomorrow mornin.’”

You like Tommy. You trust Tommy, of course you do. But he isn’t Joel. And you can’t stop yourself from picturing him returning to you the way the last person you cared about did.

With a bullet between his eyes.

You did not notice the tears that silently poured down your cheeks until Joel's warm hands are cupping them, his eyes flitting over your face in an array of confusion and concern.

"Hey, hey," he soothes softly when a meek sob leaves your lips. Then, he is pulling you into his chest, wrapping his strong arms around your waist in a firm hug that lifts you to your toes. This is not the first time you have cried in front of Joel, and you are certain it will not be the last. Usually, these kinds of emotions overcome you in a moment of unbearable grief, too strong to be avoided, and you trust no one else with such vulnerability. But now, they are tears of worry. Anxiety. A crippling amount of it you have noticed worsening over the weeks. Always feeling like you have something to lose.

He is silent for a long while, tracing soft circles against your back as you cling onto the collar of his shirt, silently crying against the warm flesh of his chest. He rests his chin atop your head, and you are grateful for the comfort his touch provides.

"Just a few days," he reiterates, only a whisper. "I promise."

And then, he is cradling your cheeks again, wiping the reminisce of tears away with his thumbs. He is shushing your embarrassed apologies for being so emotional while tucking strands of damp hair behind your ear. He is letting his eyes wash over you again, in the way that makes your stomach coil, before pressing a delicate kiss to your forehead and telling you to sleep tight.

You try. You really do. But no matter what way you twist or turn, you cannot situate yourself. Cannot silence your brain that runs amuck with scenarios of terror. And eventually, you are sitting up in a huff; skin slick with sweat, breathing labored, and eyes searching the room frantically. A flash of light startles you, and you realize the storm has centered over the estate. Once distant thunder now rumbling at your windows. You run your hands down your face.

This is stupid. You're being stupid. Just go back to bed.

You don't. No, instead, you throw the covers off of you and reach for your silk robe to cover yourself in your nightgown. You open the door, carefully, taking a good look of the upper corridor. Any guards that are on duty are likely stationed on the lower levels, leaving you an open pathway to cross the hall without questioning. The entire time you pad across the wooden floors, you are internally scolding yourself to turn around, to suck it up and cut it out. But your body wills you forward before your mind has a chance to intervene, and before you know it, you are standing outside the guest room door at two in the morning knocking for Joel.

A few moments of silence go by, your rationality catching up to you as you realize how ridiculous this is. You are about to turn around and endure a sleepless night when you hear the lock unlatch, and with it, the door opens.

You suck in a deep breath.

He stands shirtless before you now, tan skin glowing in the soft moonlight that comes in through the cracked curtains. Gray sweatpants hang low on his hips, and you use every bit of willpower you have left in you not to look down. His eyes are squinted, hardly even open, face contorted in disorientation as he tries to register you outside the door. You can't help the warmth that invades your chest seeing him like this: stripped down to the essentials, bare and peaceful, save for the worry that quickly consumes him.

"What's goin' on? What happened?" he grumbles, voice laced with sleep. It's unbearably sexy.

"Nothing, nothing," you are quick to rush out, keeping your voice a careful whisper. "I just-"

You're gnawing at your bottom lip then, shame overtaking you. He lifts a hand to rub at his eyes with his middle finger and thumb, shaking away some of the sleep. He looks at you a bit clearer now.

You play with the strings of your robe, eyes dropping to your bare feet. "I can't...I can't sleep," you admit, sheepishly, peering up at him then through your lashes wistfully.

He stares at you for a long while, and you cannot decipher if he is upset or merely processing the information. But then, you watch his chest fill with a deep breath, groggy expression turning sympathetic. He doesn't hesitate to tell you to c'mere, moving out of your way to let you into the room, locking the door behind the both of you.

The room smells like him, even more so than his own bedroom as months of no longer dwelling in it has dimmed the scent. You are wordless in your movements, walking carefully towards the less messy side of the bed, figuring he is occupying the other. You shimmy off the robe, letting it fall to the floor, and take in the sights outside the window when you sit on the edge of the mattress. Rain hits the glass in large pellets, the wind taking up big waves to the shore. You're even more grateful he's here now, as you never did well in thunderstorms, another anxiety bound to overtake you just as much as the thought of his absence.

You curl under the covers on your side, facing away from him, pulling your knees slightly to your chest. You are already invading his privacy, the last thing you want is to take up too much space. When the mattress dips behind you, you are acutely aware of your predicament all of a sudden.

You are alone. In bed. With Joel. In nothing but your night slip and panties, feeling the heat of him behind you, warm breath just barely tickling your shoulder blades.

God, you really didn't think this through.

If you were awake before, you are wired now. The bubble of anxiety in your stomach spreading throughout the rest of your body. You squeeze your eyes shut, taking in deep, calculated breaths to try and center yourself. And that's when you feel it; as light as a feather, the tip of his finger reaching out to trace the exposed skin of your spine. Your body stiffens instinctively.

"You're breathin' so hard," he grumbles, matter of factly. Still sounding like he's only half with you. You feel bad for waking him, for bothering him.

"I'm sorry," you whisper back, coiling further in on yourself.

"Don't," he huffs, and you feel the mattress shift again, his breath closer. "Don't apologize."

You bask in the moment, the breath, the tension. Until your mind is too clouded with grief, worry, and desire, that you blurt out the words you have been aching to say since you were sixteen years old.

"Will you hold me?"

You're not sure he even hears you at first, a still silence overtaking the room, save for the crash of thunder that vibrates the windows, and the steady hum of rain. You're about to retract your statement, desperately searching for the right words to explain such an idiotic idea.

But then you feel it. The solid sturdiness of his chest pressing into your back, strong arms circling your waist, molding you into him. And just like that, every drop of worry is rolling off of you at an alarming rate. You sink into him like an anchor, hands coming up to grip his where they rest just under your breasts. You feel the tickle of his stubble against your neck, and you just can't help yourself, wiggling within his hold, nuzzling yourself back into him. You want to feel every bit of him.

He let's out a soft grunt at this, and you freeze, unable to question it before you can feel it. Undeniable and strong, his erection pressed into your lower back.

Chalk it up to anxiety, the looming thought that after tonight, there is a chance you would never see him again. That is true every night he is gone, but tonight feels different. You are not wrapped in his arms every night.

Testing your luck, you shimmy your hips just the slightest bit again. This time, his arm across your waist slinks back, fingers digging into your hip firmly.

"Babygirl," he mutters. It's a warning. Joel has offered you many terms of endearment over the years, but never that one. And hearing it come off his tongue has a certain spot between your legs aching for attention. "Can't be doin' that," he tsks, giving your hip one last, stern squeeze before looping his arm around you again.

You must be losing it.

"Why not?" you challenge, surprised at your own boldness. Only a fool would be so brave as to disobey Joel Miller. You stare into the nothingness, bathing in doubt, arousal, and Joel. Awaiting his response in the deafening silence.

You hear him mutter something unintelligible, and then:

"Look at me."

You heed his command instantly, twisting in his arms to face him, bracing yourself for his eyes.

Oh, he's awake now.

Pupils blown wide, jaw set heavy and clenched. At first, you think he may be angry, but then, he is licking his lips, dragging his eyes over your lips, your neck, your cleavage that is poorly covered by the flimsy material of your gown. You feel the weight of his grip tighten on your hips, both covered by his hands. It elicits a gasp, causing you to push your chest further up to his, your own fingers finding their way to his skin, shyly placing them on the expanse of his chest.

You cannot help yourself. You tilt your head up, the tip of you nose brushing his. When he shows no sign of disinterest, you let your eyes flutter closed, pressing your lips to his in a tender kiss. His lips are soft, warm, hands steady. You savor the feeling, a familiarity and comfort in the way your lips touch. And just as you dig your nails into his skin, encouraging him to deepen the kiss, he pulls back with a sharp hiss, hands leaving your waist.

“Darlin’, I—”

You’re reaching for his face then, cradling either of his cheeks, and forcing him to look at you. He’s flushed, but even in his uncertainty, you can see the unbridled lust.

“Please,” you whisper, a soft begging. Your hands trail from his cheeks, over his shoulders and down his chest until you’re reaching for his own, slowly placing them back to their rightful place on your hips. His eyes are on you the entire time, the crease between his brows twitching. “Please, don’t make me wait any longer.”

You are on your back in an instant.

Joel's hips are slotted between your thighs, and his lips are on yours, kissing you with a hunger that suggests years of restraint. You cannot help but arch from the mattress, your legs circling his hips, your arms his neck, engulfing yourself in the mass of him. He's eager, but soft. Tongue massaging into yours with precision and expertise. His hands are unforgiving, caressing down your ribcage, squeezing at your hips, your thighs, anywhere he can touch you, he marks with his prints.

"Shit," he seethes, breaking your lips momentarily only to begin his descent over your jawline, down to your neck. You grant him access freely, head lulling back against the pillow, eyes fluttering closed to relish in the burn that is his lips on your skin. When he nips at the sensitive spot below your ear, you mewl in delight, tugging at the hair at the base of his neck. This evokes something in him, and he's growling into your skin, rutting his hips forward between your thighs for you to feel the unforgiving hardness of his cock against your cotton clad lips.

"You have no idea," he begins between each peck, voice a heavy drawl of desire. "How long I've wanted you like this, darlin.'"

You always had your suspicions, but hearing the words from Joel himself in such a moment of vulnerability and lust has you reeling. You think maybe deep down, there is a worry in Joel, too. A worry of losing you, regretting the chance to ever have you this way before the possibility of something terrible could happen. Even if it is a mistake - a life altering, change the game completely mistake - doubt would have to wait until morning.

You want to tell him you do know, you know exactly what he feels, your own fantasies plaguing you far longer than his. But your mind goes blank at his ministrations, now delicately pulling the neckline of your night gown below your breasts, exposing them to the crisp air. The straps fall off your shoulders, nipples tightening as a hand comes up to knead one of them, the other entertained by his lips, sucking and nipping at the flesh.

You can't think, can't breathe, the looming sound of thunder now a distant roar in the haze of your mind, high off the only man you have ever really wanted in your life.

"Joel," you whine, giving his curls another impatient tug.

He chuckles into your skin. "Relax, baby," he whispers against your stomach, carefully pulling the hem of your night gown up to kiss the bare flesh. He scoots his weight down the mattress, lips resting just above the waistband of your panties. "Let me get you ready for me, hm?"

You want to scream in frustration, tell him you're already ready, that there are no more moments to spare. Time feeling incredibly precious all of a sudden. But you refrain from complaint when he places a firm kiss to your clothed clit, your hands flying to cover his on your hips. The electricity the jolts through your core is almost unbearable, only now realizing how desperate you are for relief. Your cunt involuntary clenches around nothing, every rub of the lacy fabric against your center shooting little tremors down your legs. It sticks to you uncomfortably, glued by your own slick. And he's barely even touched you yet.

When you allow yourself to look down at him, his eyes are already on you. The intimacy of it makes your breath hitch, and you watch as he hooks both of his thumbs into your panties, slowly maneuvering them down your legs. You kick them off when they reach your toes, immediately letting your feet fall against the mattress, legs spread apart.

"Didn't know you could be so needy, baby," he teases, and then, he is situating himself between your legs, gentle hands spreading your thighs apart and hooking your knees over his shoulders. As soon as his hot breath hits your lower lips, your head rears back against the pillow.

"Fuck," he breathes, just barely grazing his lips against your inner thigh. "But I did suspect you'd have such a pretty pussy, darlin'." He speaks in pure filth, but it riles you up beyond comprehension. "Wonder if it tastes as good as it looks."

He wastes no time then, warm tongue licking a slow stripe from your leaking hole all the way up to your clit. He lets it linger there before flicking against the hard bud in calculated strokes. Your wanton moans mix with the sound of thunder, and your hands are flying back to his hair, urging him closer. You want more, you need more. His tongue descends back down to your opening, collecting the ambrosia like a starved man.

"Tastes so fuckin' sweet," he praises. One of his hands abandons your trembling thighs, fingers prodding at your cunt before he sinks two, thick fingers inside the flesh. You cry out at the sudden stretch, but are quickly filled with relief as your walls finally have something to clamp around, emptiness replaced with the urgency to be filled.

"So tight too, darlin'. Scared I might not fit." His fingers curl, meeting the spongey spot inside of you, making your thighs clench around his shoulders.

"You will," you gasp as he slowly, much too slowly, begins to pump his fingers in and out of you, tickling that special spot every single time. "You-you have to."

You cannot bring yourself to care how pathetic you sound, too spellbound by your fantasies come to life. And by Joel's reactions, you don't think he minds much either. In fact, he looks like he's relishing in it, giving your words a hum of satisfaction before his lips are back on your point of nerves, growing ever more sensitive by the second.

"Don't you worry that pretty little head of yours, sweet girl. I'm gonna take care of you," he promises, and you believe him. With your whole being; Joel would always take care of you.

His lips wrap around your clit to suck on it gently. This, coupled with his fingers quickening their assault inside of you, has you seeing stars. You do your best to stay still, his free hand keeping you steady against the mattress as you writhe below him. When you feel the growing coil in your lower belly, you crane your head up to look at him, whimpering at the sight.

His dark eyes are peering up at you from between your legs, lips ravenously tasting every bit of you, and you think the view of him enjoying the devouring of your pussy may be the hottest thing you've ever seen.

Your hands are tugging on his hair then, but he doesn't seem to mind, hell bent on building you up to your budding release. You sink your teeth into your bottom lip, feeling the waves of pleasure beginning to ripple through your thighs. Your breathing is erratic, and when you feel the slight graze of his teeth against your clit, your vision goes white.

"Joel, Joel. Oh, fuck, I'm gonna-"

You never find the words, only watch him with wide eyes as your jaw goes slack, his forearm pumping his fingers in and out of you at an unruly pace as your orgasm washes over you, even more turbulent than the stormy waves outside the window. When your legs go to close around his head, he's pulling his fingers out of you, using both hands to keep your legs pried apart as he buries his face into your cunt, licking and sucking you through the high. And even when the aftershocks begin to pulse through you, he still tastes you, making sure to get every last drop.

Your legs feel like jelly when he is shuffling out from under them, body molten into the mattress, the toll your orgasm took on you sending you into a blissful stupor. You watch through hooded eyes as he stands at the foot of the bed, taking in the sight of you with a grin on his lips.

"So beautiful," he whispers, so low you almost miss it, before he undoes the waistband of his sweatpants and rids himself of them, no boxers to be found.

You cannot help the soft gasp of air that leaves you when his cock springs free from its confines, thick and veiny, hitting his stomach where a string of precum stains the flesh. Your body moves slowly, sensually. Sitting up before turning onto your hands and knees and crawling towards the edge of the bed. He watches you, hair a wild mess, sweat sheen skin, and dire eyes, looking as though he would answer to your will without a second thought. But when you reach your hand out to stroke him, he takes you by the wrist, stopping you.

Your eyes shoot up to him, lip jutted in a disappointed pout while your mouth waters to taste him. He flashes you an amused expression, clearly satisfied by your eagerness to please him, but carefully shakes his head.

"Not this time, baby," he says, and instead, takes your hand into his as he guides you both towards the center of the mattress. The insinuation that there would be more than just this time makes your stomach erupt in an endless flutter.

He settles back against the headboard, gently tugging you forward and onto his lap, legs straddling over his thighs. His hands land onto the curve of your ass, rocking the flesh, and you moan at the hard rub of his cock against your bare cunt. Your hands find refuge on his shoulders, appreciating the firmness of them. You like this, sitting up on him like this. Studying the way he looks at you, the hard lines of his face seeming to soften; you think he looks younger like this, a youthful glow overtaking him.

This man. This frightening, powerful man that you have given your entire life over to. And here you are, willingly handing off the last piece of yourself you have to offer him, knowing that deep down, no matter the fall out of both your actions, he would handle it with care.

Your hands come up to his face then, cradling it like you did when you first kissed him, and gingerly bringing your lips to touch his again. The kiss is softer than before, slower, and you cannot repress the emotion that overcomes you. Tears sting your eyes as they did before, in his bedroom, while he comforted and soothed you. You realize then why you are so afraid of him leaving, knowing it is something you could never admit aloud, at least not until you are certain you could even entertain the idea of losing him.

You love him. You love Joel, and you likely always have. Always will.

“I wanna feel you,” you whisper against his lips, reaching a hand between your bodies to grip his cock. He grunts at he contact, helping you lift your weight off of him to line him up at your entrance, nestling the tip between your folds. You meet his eyes when you begin to sink down his shaft, watching the way his own roll back into his skull, teeth clenching almost as hard as his hands that bruise into your ass.

Your head falls forward against his chest once he’s sheathed inside of you, desperately trying to catch your breath. The stretch is wide, a momentary rattle of pain as you get use to the sheer size of him. It has been so long since you knew a man this way, but you know none of those experiences could prepare you for the way Joel is making you feel.

After a brief moment of silence, except for the song of your shared grunts and moans, you begin to rock your hips. You lift your head from his chest, pressing your forehead to his, sweat sticking your skin together. The tuft of hair that sits at the base of his shaft tickles your clit, and as quickly as it came, the pain disappears, your walls relaxing to accommodate him, aching for more.

The rock of your hips just isn’t enough, thighs sore just from the broad expanse of having to straddle him. You let out a frustrated sigh, to which Joel counters with a smirk, pecking at your lips.

“Need some help, sweetheart?” he asks, and you look at him bashfully, merely nodding your head.

“What did I say?” he whispers against your lips, hands slipping to the under curve of your ass to steady your weight in his hands. “I’m gonna take care of you.”

And then, he’s thrusting up into you, slow and deep at first, and you’re gasping for air, hands scrambling to steady back on his shoulder. His lips latch onto your neck, hands spreading you open while simultaneously forcing you to ride up and down his cock.

“Oh my god, Joel.” You are breathless again, wrapping your arms entirely around him now, molding yourself into him. Wet, needy, clenching so feverishly around him. His face is buried in the crook of your neck, animalistic grunts echoing in your ear as he begins to piston up into you. The sound of slapping skin is accompanied by your cries, yelling out into the room, unafraid of anyone who may hear. You are in the safest spot in the world right now, as far as you’re concerned.

“So fuckin’ tight,” he’s mumbling, fucking you absolutely senseless. And you let him, allowing yourself to go blank, drunk on his cock, feeling nothing but Joel. “So good for me, taking my cock so well, pretty girl. Just like I knew you would.”

His praise has your eyes squeezing shut, tiny squeals coming from the back of your throat with each pound of his cock against your cervix. His pace is slower now, but inexplicably deep, and you can feel the way he’s swelling inside of you.

“Joel,” you moan, and suddenly, it’s the only word you know. Singing off your lips in prayer, over and over again.

“M’gonna fill you up, darlin.’ Is that what you want? Want me to make your pussy all mine?”

He could be saying anything to you in this moment, and you think you would agree. You nod frantically, clutching onto him for dear life as he starts to hammer into you again. You’re practically flying off of him only for him to slam you back down on his cock, filling you to the brim.

You're fluttering around him, uncontrollable now, pussy milking his cock in critical need of him to fill you. The sensation of your second orgasm building in your gut almost too much to bare. Joel seems to notice, as he keeps his steady pace and angle that has your toes curling.

“That’s it, baby,” he coos against your ear, taking the lobe lovingly between his teeth. “Just let go. Cum on my cock, and I promise I’ll give you what you need.”

And you do need it. So bad. The sickening desire to be branded by him. You focus on every minute detail about him; his hands, his breath, the sounds he makes, no shame detected in the way he graces you with them, until the pleasure is too much to mange and you're throwing your head back in ecstasy, your second release hitting you even harder than the first, leaving you to tremble uncontrollably around him.

He catches you, holding you steady as he chases his own release, muttering sweet nothings of how beautiful you are, how good you've been for him, and how he wants nothing more than to take care of you. Seconds later, his thrusts grow sloppy until he is still, filling you up one last time before he releases his seed inside of you, coating your walls in the comforting warmth with a string of disgruntled sounds.

You're not sure how much time passes, but you both remain unmoved. Sitting, entangled in one another, his cock falling soft inside of you, the sticky invasion of his release leaking onto his thighs and the sheets. You're both searching for your breath, once sporadic pants now falling into melodic puffs of air. One after another. Yours and his, melting into each other.

You have not brought yourself to look at him yet, still huddled safely against his chest when another loud crack of thunder shakes the room.

This one startles you again, the others having been so lost in your lust. When you perk your head up, his eyes are already on you. You recognize the display of worry on his face. His hands abandon your skin to graze over your cheeks, palms cradling them so delicately, as if you may break.

He gives you a narrow, serious look. "Are you alright?"

You realize then that it is not only worry for you, but panic that overtakes him, any certainty and confidence from the moments before reduced down to what you fear may be regret.

You flash him the most reassuring eyes you can muster, leaning into his touch, tilting your head to press a chaste kiss to one of his palms.

"I'm okay," you whisper. "More than okay. I promise."

You have made so many promises to one another, you are beginning to wonder if one will ever break. Thus far, they hadn't.

Promise to take care of you.

Promise to protect you.

Promise to give you what you need.

The sorrow finds you again then, and you are slumping forward, wrapping your arms around him to find reprieve. And to shield him from the stubborn tears that finally start to pour down your cheeks again. Time is precious, and it keeps ticking away. Mere hours would pass before he is back to being more than just your Joel, back into a world that places a target on his back.

"Just a few days?" you mutter quietly against his skin.

He chuckles breathily, relief seeming to find him. He places a kiss atop your head, hugging you to his chest. "Just a few days," he repeats, and as the fatigue finally starts to overcome you, you vow that whatever questions or worries tonight would pose for your future together, you would deal with them when he returned safely to you.

"I promise."

song inspo:

tag list: @vickie5446 @casa-boiardi @dinsdjrn @hey-moon-child @scarletsloveletter @subconsciouscollapse @thetriumphantpanda@mommasnakesss @cupofjoel@tightjeansjavi@sinsofsummers @morning-star-joy

i wanted to write something nasty but it ended up being quite sweet, don't blame me i just need love

⠀ૈ☆ ex-husband nanami x fem!reader

𓏲 ࣪₊♡ tw: [n]sfw, breeding kink, jealousy, possessiveness, fluffy ending

it only took one look, just one look across the room full of guests to reignite something that had never really been extinguished.

nanami's grip around his glass of wine got a little tighter, his eyes flashing at you and his heart starting to beat fast.

he became more muscular since your divorce, his shoulders looked stronger, carrying him with much more confidence and charisma than before.

maybe he finally quit his shitty job, you thought to yourself, trying to act cool as you saw him coming closer...

yeah he definitely quit his job, you think to yourself again, laying on your back while his cock is splitting you open.

"I missed you so much my love..."

familiar goosebumps hit your skin and his hands slide along the curves of your waist, the tip of his cock pushing against your cervix.

all you can do is take it, unfocused eyes watching your ex-husband thrusting inside your dripping pussy. nanami grunts, his body pressed against your own, his breath fanning over your neck, and you can't help but moan his name and wrap your legs around his hips, trying to meet his thrusts.

"'missed you too kento..." you try to speak, your hands reaching out to hold his face.

you missed everything about him, the warmth of his skin, his cologne scent, how messy his blond hair gets when you run your hands through it, and the way he knows every single one of your weak spots.

he never fucked you this hard in the past, of course he was rough sometimes, but you can tell something has changed, snapped.

not that you're complaining about it.

your back arches off the bed, making his pelvic bone touch your spasming clit.

"this time I'm not letting you go angel..."

his eyes get darker, thinking about the potential men and women who had you since your divorce, it makes him fuck you harder, deeper.

"mine..." he whispers, more to himself than for you to hear.

he takes your hands to pin them above your head and smiles when he hears you whine.

"you're gonna cum angel?" he asks, not slowing down his thrusts.

he knows you by heart, and he smiles when you nod, his mouth starting to suck on the soft skin of your neck, marking you.

"that's okay, I'm gonna cum too..." he says, and you can feel his hot breath hitting your skin.

he keeps rubbing your sweet spot, completely lost in the feeling. god he missed that feeling, you're the only one who can make him lose his mind like that, he can't believe he let you go when you're this perfect.

"you're still not on birth control?"

and he smiles again when he sees you shake your head. so perfect.

"gonna put a baby in you yeah? gonna make you a mom... will you let me angel?"

you mindlessly nod your head, wrapping your legs tighter around his waist, your whole body is trembling and you feel his cock twitches inside of you.

"please... breed me..." you sweetly asks, and he can't deny you.

your vision gets blurry, your eyes roll back and you violently cum around his cock as he does the same in you, still thrusting to push his cum deeper. you both stays silent for a few seconds, nanami's head buried in your neck, inhaling your familiar scent, closing his eyes of content when he feels your hands rubbing his back.

"I love you, I've never stopped loving you, even after six years..." he whispers, his voice sounding almost vulnerable as he kisses your shoulder.

you ruffle his hair, and you whine a little as you can feel his cock still pushing against your cervix.

"I'm here now, I won't leave."

he hums, his arms wrapping around your waist and you can feel yourself slowly drifting off to sleep.

this time you both won't let go of each other.

jjk masterlist

---

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."

---

IT’S SO GOOD 😭

à la carte

5.8k / dbf!joel x f!reader

warnings: 18+, minors dni. smuttttt. age gap (reader is 23, joel is in his late 40s), semi-public touching, unprotected p in v, oral (m receiving), dom!joel, dbf!joel, angst, soft!dom reader for like two seconds, pet names (baby, angel, pretty girl), praise kink, no use of y/n.

request: a chapter centered around a dinner where joel is invited to readers house. she wants to be annoying and teases joel, only to piss him off more as he sends warnings.

a/n: thank you to everyone who’s supported this series so far! to everyone sending requests - I see them and I love all of them and I’m incorporating them whenever I can. for the people who wanted jealous joel, he’s coming next chapter. apologies for the angst in this one…but sometimes it be like that. love y’all. thank you for feeding my dbf daydreams.

this is part 5 of dbf!joel series, but it can be read separately. read the previous parts here:

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4

masterlist here. kofi here. thank you to everyone who reads, comments, reblogs, y'all mean the world to me. 🤍

“You know,” you mutter, teasingly, “when I said bring something sweet, I was thinking more along the lines of dessert.”  His fingers flex on the glass. His breath skates over the shell of your ear.  “Already got that, darlin’.” He lets the bottle go and it passes to you. His hand moves to your waist and drags over denim, moving lower, pressing in between your thighs. “Right —”  He angles two fingers against your core.  “—here.” 

You don’t even hear your dad, at first. You’re standing in the kitchen, leaning onto the counter for moral support while your coffee takes five years to brew. 

You’re fucking…wiped. You’re sore. You could still feel Joel when you woke up this morning, sprawled out on the sheets, and winced at the ache between your legs. 

And you can still feel him now, here. Your arms burn where you’d braced against the door. Your skin stings where he’s marked you with his teeth. You’re wearing his shirt, the one Sarah lent you, and his scent is wrapped up in your collar. 

So you’re preoccupied, and rightfully so, when your dad joins you in the kitchen. You’re staring at your reflection in the glass coffee pot when he starts to speak, your eyes glazed, wondering when the soreness between your thighs will subside. And kind of hoping at the same time that it won’t. 

“—want anything—” 

You turn, a little startled. Your dad blinks back at you. 

“Sorry, what?

“I asked if you want anything,” he says, dragging out the words.

“From…” 

“From the store? Where I just said I’m going? To pick up dinner?” 

“It’s like…” you yawn. Sunlight seeps through the window, dousing the counter, and you squint. “Nine am.” 

“For tonight, smartass.” 

“Oh.” You look at him, nonplussed. “Are you…cooking?” 

“You could try to sound enthused.” 

Your gaze narrows. Your coffee is done, finally, and you take your time pouring it into a mug. You take a tentative sip and watch him over the rim. 

“I just didn’t know you cooked,” you say. 

“I do when we have company,” he says. 

You pause. The mug stalls halfway to your lips. 

“We have company?” 

“Jesus.” He shakes his head. “Do you — do you actually listen to anything I say? Or does it all just kinda —” he makes a whooshing sound and gestures over the top of his head. 

You scowl. 

“I said Joel’s coming tonight,” he repeats, exasperated. “I invited him. Sarah’s out, and I thought it’d be nice to catch up just the three of us. Like old times.” 

You’re silent. You’re pretty sure if he listened closely enough he’d be able to hear your pulse scream. 

Something is weird. He picks up on that much. His brows scrunch, trying to get a read when your eyes drop to the mug. 

“You don’t…mind,” he asks, after an awkward beat. “Right?” 

Yeah, you think.

You mind. 

You find your voice in the dregs of your coffee. 

“No,” you tell him. “Not at all.” 

“Great,” he says. His frown doesn’t quite fade. “Should be fun.” 

“Yeah,” you say. 

You’re sure. 

—

You did actually have plans today. Big plans. You were finally gonna make a dent in that stupid stack of to-read books that’s cluttering your desk. 

But of course you can’t do that, now, because the casual mention of Joel at your dinner table has made it fucking impossible to think about anything else. 

You make it five pages into your first book — some shitty murder mystery — and toss it off the couch. Then you swear at Joel, even though he’s not here, because he’s ruined a perfectly good afternoon. 

You dig your phone out of your pocket and thumb to your texts. You type out a quick message and send. 

You: heard you’re coming to dinner 

He responds almost immediately. It stokes something a little smug inside you. 

Joel: That a problem? 

You: no

You’re feeling bold, so you double text. 

You: assuming you can keep your hands to yourself.

He doesn’t respond for a few minutes, and you worry that you’ve scared him off. Maybe it is just dinner, to him, and maybe he does just want to see your dad, and now you’ve gone and made this a whole fucking…thing. 

But then your phone buzzes, and the ache between your legs practically throbs when his message pings through. 

Joel: Ain’t me I’m worried about, sweetheart. 

Cocky. Fucking…smug. Your fingers tighten on the phone, squeezing the frame, and you just — ugh. Ugh. 

You: i’ll manage 

Joel: We’ll see. 

“Dick,” you mutter.

But you’re turned on, already. Just sitting here. Just glaring at his two typed words while you read them in that lazy drawl.

It’s not fair, you decide. He doesn’t get to do this every time. He doesn’t get to turn you on, and make you beg, and play you the way he plays that — stupid, sexy guitar. You’re better than that.

You think.

You could turn the tables tonight. Take back some much-needed control. Make him beg. Or — if that’s too ambitious — make him blush, at least. 

Yeah. Screw it. Yeah. You can do that. He’s spoiled any chance of peace and quiet for you today. The simple promise of his presence has been enough to derail the whole afternoon. So, yeah. You can fuck with him a little. It’s only fair. 

You stretch out on the couch and wiggle your toes. You wait a few minutes before texting him back. 

You: you bringing something? 

Joel: You want me to? 

You: most polite guests do 

You: but most polite guests don’t have to be reminded, so. 

Joel: Cheeky. 

Joel: Got something in mind? 

You hesitate half a second. 

You: something sweet. surprise me.

Then you shut off your phone before it can buzz, because you’ll be damned if Joel Miller has the last word tonight. 

—

Five hours later — eight pm, sharp — Joel turns up at your door. 

You tell your dad you’ll get it. He’s busy in the kitchen, cooking up god knows what. It was taking the very vague shape of chicken parmesan the last time you mustered up the courage to peek. 

You unlock the door, ease it open, and — 

Oh. 

Your stomach does a neat little flip. You blink a few times, trying to neutralize the look of surprise you’re sure is scrawled across your face. 

You’re pretty positive it’s Joel on your doorstep, but he looks so…nice, so… put-together, that for a minute you’re not positive someone hasn’t kidnapped him, and sent his weirdly well-kept doppelgänger in his place. 

You’re used to scruffy Joel. Contractor Joel, with his tee shirts and flannels, his blue jeans with the tears digging in to the seams, his boots tracking dirt where he walks. Tousled hair, chocolate eyes, patchy beard. 

You’re not expecting the Joel at your door. You’re not even sure you’ve ever seen him before. 

His hair is combed. Slicked back a little, too, like he’s taken time to put in product. He’s in black jeans, not blue, and they look new — no tears, no holes, no washed-out patches. And they fit. They hug his waist; squeeze his legs and his calves just right. 

And his shirt — you’ve never seen that, either. Button-down, as black as his jeans, canvas instead of heavy cotton. Plus — what the fuck? — he’s gone ahead and tucked it in. 

Well, half-tucked. One of his shirttails hangs out, slumped over his jeans, still slouched and rumpled and very much Joel. 

You’re not sure how long you stand there, staring dumbly, but it must be a while because he’s started to smile. That crooked, cocky look. Wolfish and starving. The same one you swore you’d wipe clean tonight. 

“Think you’re s’posed to invite me in,” he drawls. 

You blink. You take a couple steps back, leaving the door open as you retreat inside. He sidles past you, brushing dangerously close, and his hand skims your waist when he meets you on the threshold. 

He pauses there, half a second. You can smell the soap on his skin. 

You’re convinced he’ll say something. A filthy word, maybe, nestled in the quiet inch between you. 

But he doesn’t. He’s silent. His touch drips from your hips like cool water and he’s moving past you without so much as a word, only turning on his heel when he’s halfway to the dining room. 

“Your dad joinin’ us?” he asks, leaning his weight on the edge of the table. He cocks his head. His shirt shifts, exposing smooth, tanned skin where he’s left the top two buttons undone. 

You’re staring. You catch yourself, this time. 

You mumble something. You’re not sure what. His smile widens, nudging at his cheek, and he reaches for the bowl you’ve set out on the table. He fishes out a chip and pops it into his mouth, munching softly. 

Your cheeks burn.

It drives you insane, how casual he is. How completely, perfectly un-fazed. Standing there in his slutty little shirt, unbothered, crunching on a chip while he fucks you with his eyes. 

“He’s in the kitchen,” you say, finally. “He’s — well, he’s trying to cook.” 

He looks amused. 

“Should see ‘f he needs anythin’,” he says. But he makes zero effort to move. 

His gaze flickers. Your heart jumps to your throat and you swallow it back. 

It’s only then you realize what he’s holding. You’ve been so preoccupied with this new, black-collared version of blue-collar Joel that you hadn’t even noticed the bottle of wine in his hand. He’s clutching it kind of awkwardly, fist choking the neck like he’s never held one in his life. Your eyes go to his hand: to his knuckles, tensed on black glass.

“Didn’t think you drank wine,” you say, softly. 

“I don’t,” he answers. 

And neither does your dad. Beer and whiskey, through and through, for both of them. 

But you drink wine. And — now that you think about it — you’re pretty sure you’d told him once, years ago, that he might look halfway decent if he ever decided to put a comb through his hair. 

You’d just been teasing him. It’s what you do.

But, now — the wine, the hair, the jeans that fit and the unbuttoned shirt — 

You cant help but feel like he’s done it for you. 

You step closer. He’s still leaning up against the table, and your chest brushes his when you reach for the wine. You tilt into his space and your lips graze his jaw. 

“Careful,” he warns.

You wrap a hand around the bottle. He doesn’t let go, not right away, and your fingers tangle on the neck.

“You know,” you mutter, teasingly, “when I said bring something sweet, I was thinking more along the lines of dessert.” 

His fingers flex on the glass. His breath skates over the shell of your ear. 

“Already got that, darlin’.” He lets the bottle go and it passes to you. His hand moves to your waist and drags over denim, moving lower, pressing in between your thighs. “Right —” 

He angles two fingers against your core. 

“—here.” 

You gasp. He rubs your swollen clit over your jeans, and you have to fight his name back from your throat. 

And then — of course — the kitchen door swings open, and your dad chooses now to wander out. You hear him coming and rip yourself free, abandoning Joel and the wine as you scurry to the opposite end of the room.

Joel’s reaction time is slower, or maybe he’s just better at playing it cool. He stays leaning up against the table, and you catch him tug at his jeans before your dad rounds the corner. 

“Thought I heard you come in,” your dad says. He extends his un-floured hand to shake Joel’s. “Make yourself at home. You know where everythin’ is. Dinner’ll be out in a few.” 

Joel grunts. Your dad is so chatty, you kind of wonder how the two of them ever hit it off. Unstoppable force meets immovable object, or something like that. 

Your dad clocks the bottle of merlot you’ve left by Joel. 

“What’s with the wine? he asks, frowning. 

Joel clears his throat. You catch his eye, briefly, and your pulse hums.

“Just bein’ polite,” he says. “I’d take a beer, though, ‘f you got one.” 

Your dad laughs. The tension in the dining room diffuses.

“Sure,” he says. “I’ll go grab ya one. Go on and sit down, both of you.” 

Joel doesn’t sit. “You, uh—” he pushes himself off of the table, his broad back to you. “You sure you don’t need help?” 

You could swear he sounds a little pained. Like he doesn’t quite trust himself to be alone with you.

“Since when are you so eager to help?” Your dad laughs. He points at you. “She’s not botherin’ you, is she?”  

A muscle jumps in Joel’s jaw. He turns, a fraction of an inch, just enough for you to watch his lips twitch.

“No,” he says, quietly. “No, she’s a real good girl.” 

Fuck. 

You’re gonna fucking — kill him. You shoot him a death-glare, but he’s already turning back around, facing your dad with that easy Southern drawl while your blush burns a brand in his back. 

So. Fucking. Smug. 

You’ll show him. 

—

You end up sitting right next to him. You and Joel on one side of the table and your dad on the other. 

And it’s fine, at first. It’s almost like old times, when your dad totes a burnt chicken out, and you all pretend to like it until someone breaks first and you fall like dominoes. 

But then you laugh, and your knee bumps Joel’s, and the innocent contact makes your heart shiver. 

You slide one hand off of the table and into your lap. The other holds your fork steady, ghosting over your plate, nodding quietly along as the conversation starts to blur. 

You’re not listening anymore. Which is fine, because your dad and Joel are debating the finer points of power tools, and they seem to have forgotten you exist. 

Until the hand in your lap sneaks to Joel’s thigh. 

He flinches. His knife clatters to the rim of his plate. 

Your dad pauses mid-sentence. “You alright?” he asks, eyeing Joel across the table. 

“Fine,” Joel grits. He picks up his knife again, and you don’t miss the way his knuckles whiten on the hilt. 

He’s not alright. Not really. Because your hand is in his lap, sliding under his napkin, palm coming up to cover the bulge in his jeans. 

He swears. He hides it well, buried in his hand, but you still catch it. The sharp, biting fuck he tries to smooth with a cough. 

Your dad glances up, vaguely concerned. It’s probably the most noise he’s heard Joel make in one consecutive sitting. 

“‘M fine,” Joel mutters. “Somethin’ stuck in my throat.” 

“I’ll get you some water,” your dad offers — and to your surprise, Joel doesn’t protest. 

His acquiescence makes more sense when your dad disappears into the kitchen, and Joel takes the opportunity to seize your wrist and pin your hand to his cock. 

“You’re on thin fuckin’ ice,” he growls. 

You try not to smile. He’s not blushing — not yet, at least — but he’s flustered. 

“What?” you whisper. You wrap your fingers around his erection and squeeze. 

He hisses through his teeth. 

“Jesus—Christ,” he grits, swallowing a groan, “just—fuckin’—just wait.” 

You can hear your dad in the kitchen, fumbling for water in the fridge. He’s not exactly expeditious. If Joel were actually choking, he probably would have died twice by now. 

You figure you have another ten, fifteen seconds until he gets back. 

You lean closer to Joel. You stroke him through his jeans, thumbing the head of his cock, and he breathes out a curse.

“Quit.” 

“Quit what?” you ask, innocent. “I’m not doing anything.” 

He huffs. His grip on your wrist tightens, holding you against his cock as he ruts into your palm. 

“This what you want?” he mutters. His cock throbs in your hand. “Dirty fuckin’ girl. You wanna get us both killed?” 

You hear the fridge door shut. Joel’s grip goes slack and you pull your hand free, snaking it back to your lap as your dad rounds the corner. 

He sets a glass of water down in front of Joel.

“Here y’go,” he says. He takes his seat across the table from you and doesn’t catch the way Joel fidgets, tugging his napkin back over his lap. 

You watch Joel drink out of the corner of your eye. He downs half the glass in one go and sets it back on the table with a dull, anxious thud. 

“So,” your dad says. “This big project of yours. Top secret? Or can you tell us?” 

Thank god. The sooner they slip back to contracting talk the sooner you can tune out. Direct your attention elsewhere. 

Joel mumbles something noncommittal. For all his easy, Southern charm he’s having trouble staying focused, muddling his way through one sentence and trailing off halfway through another. You take a certain amount of pride in having fucked him up already. 

Your dad chimes in, mercifully, and Joel shuts up. You can feel him beside you, tensed in his seat, fingers crimping the edges of his napkin. 

You pick up your spoon. You can feel his eyes on you the second you move, tracking your hand as it skates over silver. 

You glance at him and he looks away. Pretends to focus on your dad as he rambles away. But the muscle in his neck gives him away, twitching just beneath his jaw as you lift the spoon to your plate, drag some sauce along the edge, and lift the metal to your mouth. 

You hold it there for a minute, trapped between your two front teeth as you feign interest in the conversation. Then you lean forward, just slightly, elbows brushing the table as you swirl your tongue along the rim of the spoon.

Joel is listening, or trying to. But he can see you in his peripheral, twirling the spoon between your fingers and following the curve with your tongue. 

And this time he does choke. For real. He’s got his glass halfway to his lips when you part your mouth and push the spoon deeper, against the flat of your tongue. He’s trying so hard not to look, but his dick gets the better of his head and he glances at you, quickly — just long enough to see your lips close slow and soft and smirking around silver.

He sputters. Coughs. Your dad looks up in alarm. 

“Jesus,” he jokes. “Chicken that dry?” 

You pull the spoon from your mouth with a pop and lay it down by Joel’s pinky.

He stiffens. 

“Chicken’s fine,” he grits. “Don’t know what’s wrong with me tonight.” 

“Gettin’ old,” your dad teases. 

He doesn’t laugh. He’s pissed. You can feel the heat coming off him in waves, rolling from his shoulders and staining his cheeks. 

And maybe you shouldn’t be proud, because his breathing is short and his fingers are fisted and he’s furious, you can tell — but you are. 

Because he’s blushing. 

You made Joel Miller blush. 

You ride that high for about five minutes. It ends abruptly when Joel stands up pushing back his chair, and starts to gather everyone’s plates. 

Your dad tries to protest.

“You don’t need to,” he says, starting to stand. But Joel waves him away, rounding up silverware, clearing the table in stiff, stony silence. 

“You cooked,” Joel gruffs. “Sit down. I’ll deal with the dishes.” 

Your dad relents, settling back into his seat. Joel straightens, plates balanced in his hand, and pauses by your chair on his way to the kitchen.

“Did you cook?” he asks. 

You look up at him. You’ve got the sinking feeling your victory was short-lived: he’s not blushing, not anymore, and he’s looking down at you like a wolf stares down a rabbit. 

Completely in control. Completely pissed. 

“No,” you mumble. 

“Good,” he drawls. “Then you can help.” 

Your gaze flicks to your dad. He nods, oblivious as ever — go on, go help — and you stand shakily from your seat. 

You follow Joel out of the dining room and into the kitchen. He pushes open the door with his shoulder and you slip in before it swings shut. 

The silence is suffocating. You lean up against the counter and wrap your fingers on the ledge, watching him across the room with a nervous, darting stare.

He puts the plates down by the sink and turns the faucet on. Then he stills, his back to you, shoulders bunched in black fabric as he watches the water. 

He doesn’t rinse anything. He just lets the tap run, drowning out sound from beyond the door. Ensuring your dad doesn’t hear when he turns to face you and growls, low and dark and dangerous— 

“You wanna fuckin’ explain that?” 

Your fingers curl on cool granite. When you don’t respond right away he shoves himself off the sink, crossing the kitchen in long, angry strides.

His hands find your waist. He pushes you back, into the counter, and the edge of the stone bites your spine. 

“Asked you a question,” he grits. 

His erection crowds your hips, nudging into your core.

“Sorry,” you gasp; and you’re not, really — you did this on purpose, riled him up, and a part of you thinks it’s cause you knew this might happen. “I’m—fuck—” 

“Think it’s funny?” he murmurs. “Teasin’ me under the table?” He rolls his hips into yours and you gasp. 

“Fuckin’—filthy,” he grits. “Touchin’ me in front of your daddy. You need it that bad, pretty girl? You that fuckin’ desperate?” 

His hand slips under your shirt and splays at your ribcage. His fingertips move higher, skating up your skin, grazing your nipple through the cup of your bra. 

So much for taking back control. You whine softly, trying to lift your hips off the counter as you chase his cock. 

The hand on your waist clamps tighter. 

“Open your mouth,” he says. 

You stop wriggling. You part your lips for him and his hand leaves your hip, coming up to wrap around your throat. 

His thumb settles on the edge of your jaw. It digs into the skin there, kneading gently, forcing your gaze to him. His index and middle fingers tug at your lip and dip into your mouth.

You swallow a whimper around his fingers. He slides them further and you suck obediently, taking him to the knuckle.

“You can do better’n that,” he taunts. “Know you can. Saw you chokin’ on that fuckin’ spoon.” 

His words go straight to your core. White heat pools at the pit of your stomach. 

He hooks his fingers and pushes deeper. You let him, slackening your jaw, moaning against his knuckles. 

He pulls his hand back and you gasp. A string of spit drips from your lips when he drags his fingers free. You’d put on lipstick tonight — light, neutral — and you can see it smeared around the base of his knuckles. 

You don’t need a mirror to know you look fucked. 

He swipes the spit from your chin with his thumb. You look up at him, panting softly. 

“God damn, baby.” 

Your heart thrums at your chest. You whine a little, snaking your hand down to palm at his cock. 

He groans. 

“Turn around,” he orders. 

You hesitate. The small of your back digs into the counter. 

“Turn around,” he repeats, voice low. “‘F you want it so bad, I’ll give it to you.” 

You look over your shoulder, quickly, towards the swinging door that leads out of the kitchen. The faucet is still on, maintaining the illusion that you are, in fact, doing dishes. The running water muffles your short, shallow breaths. 

Your dad is in the next room over. Thirty, forty feet away. Still sitting at the table, you assume, probably scrolling through his phone while he waits for you both. 

“My dad,” you whisper. “He’s right — what if he comes in?” 

Joel follows your gaze to the door. When his eyes drag back to you they’re black. 

“Suggest you make it quick,” he says. His hands go to your waist and he spins you, turning you around until the edge of the counter digs into your tummy. He kicks your feet apart, lining his hips with your ass, and you let his name slip.

“Fuck,” you breathe, “Joel, f—”

His palm comes up to cover your mouth. You go silent, hips stuttering, eyes rolling back when he hooks a finger in your waistband and drags your pants down. 

He finds the band of your underwear and pulls those down, too. They bunch around your thighs and keep your legs from spreading further.

“I’m gonna take my hand away,” he murmurs, voice scraping your ear, “and you’re gonna keep your mouth shut.” 

You nod weakly. Okay. 

His palm drops from your mouth and he slides two fingers into your cunt. The same two he’d pushed inside your mouth, soaked and shining now with your saliva. They slip in easily, sinking to the last knuckle, and you fold into the counter in an effort not to whine. 

“‘Attagirl,” he mutters. “Just like that.” 

His wrist flexes between your thighs, fucking into you with thick fingers. Your cunt throbs, squeezing at his hand. He must feel you clench, grinding down on his knuckles, because he drags his hand back with a tight little chuckle. 

You whimper softly, mourning the loss.

He could make you cum like that, easily. And he knows it, too. He knows your body by now, knows how to crook his fingers and stretch you just right, knows that you’d beg him until you were hoarse if you were anywhere — anywhere — else. 

He knows all that, and he pulls his hand away anyway. He doesn’t let you cum, because this isn’t about you. This is dirty, and quick, and desperate. This is payback for an hour of teasing, and touching, and sucking off a spoon in the corner of his eye. 

This is punishment. 

You hear his zipper pull, and the rustle of denim, and then his hand is on your back, guiding your chest to the counter until you’re practically folded in two. Your head turns, cheek pressed to cool stone. His fingers wrap at the back of your neck and hold you gently in place. 

He slides into you and your voice almost breaks. You suck a sharp breath through your mouth and exhale his name.

He’s not wasting time. He bottoms out, cock twitching deep inside you, and you make useless fists on the granite. His hips roll, grinding into your ass, and you think you hear him swear. 

“Feel fuckin’—tight,” he whispers, harshly. His breath stumbles and slips to your shoulders. “How are you this—god damn—tight?” 

Your cheeks start to burn — at his words, at the low, rough sounds he’s making at your back, at how supremely fucked up this is. 

If your dad were to walk in now, right now, there’s no way you could cover your tracks quickly enough. You’re facing the door. Joel’s got you splayed across the countertop, your chest kissing stone while he fucks you from behind. 

And that’s not the worst part, as far as you’re concerned. The worst part is that you can’t seem to care. 

Joel’s fingertips dig at the nape of your neck, pressing your cheek to the counter. He’ll leave a print, probably. A mark on your neck to go with all the others. 

“This what you needed?” he asks, voice dripping at your ear. “Huh?” 

You mumble into the stone. Heat coils in your stomach and licks at your core. You push back into him, as best you can, and the added depth lets his cock graze your g-spot. You bear down on your lip so hard you taste blood. 

“’N now?” he growls. “Now what d’you need?” 

His hips flex. He thrusts up, into you, and his hand tightens by your head.

“You need to cum?” 

Yes. 

You try to nod — yes, please, fuck — but his grip on your neck makes it impossible. 

“‘F I let you,” he says, “you gonna pull that shit at the table again?” 

You go to shake your head, but his hand prevents you from moving again. 

“Yes or no?” he hisses. 

“No,” you mumble. “I—fuck. No.” 

“You sorry?” 

“Yes,” you say, mindlessly. Your skin is on fire. You can’t string two thoughts together, anymore, but it’s apology enough.

“Okay,” he mutters. His voice softens. The grip on your neck goes slack, freeing up your movements. “Alright, angel. C’mon.” 

You have to bite down hard on the back of your hand to keep from crying out when you cum. Your muscles slacken, bones going limp as you slump against the counter.

Joel praises you quietly — ’s good, baby, good girl, easy, easy, easy— while he fucks you through it. You’re barely recovered before he’s pulling out of you with a soft, stilted groan, leaving you stunningly empty. 

You push yourself up, off of the counter. You turn, still shaky, and watch with heavy, hungry eyes as he pumps his cock with his fist. 

You’re not really thinking when you sink to your knees. You just do it, and he doesn’t stop you — not when you put his hands on his thighs, or drag your mouth to the tip of his swollen cock. 

Your lips brush his fingers, still wrapped around himself, and he barely stifles a groan. He drops his hand and chokes out a curse when you take him deeper. He tips forward, bracing one hand on the counter and the other on your head. 

“Fuck,” he breathes, “yeah, baby. Like that. Don’t—ah—god—don’t st—” 

His hips rut, stuttering into your mouth as he cums across your tongue. You pull back, rocking on your haunches, and his cock slips free. You meet his eye from the floor and he watches you swallow. 

He groans. His head tips, pushing out a breath. 

He lends a hand to help you stand. When he pulls his jeans back up his fingers fumble on the zipper. 

You get dressed quickly, quietly, and by the time you’re done Joel’s back at the sink. He’s turned away from you, working at the stack of plates you’d abandoned and rinsing them under the still-running tap. 

You watch him while your breath evens out. When your legs feel solid again, and you’re convinced you can make it the length of the kitchen, you walk quietly to his back. You loop your hands around his waist and brush your lips against his shoulder. 

It’s soft. There’s no lust in it — just a silent sort of warmth — but he seizes up like he's been shot. The plate he’s working on skitters into the sink. 

Your hands slip back to your sides. You back up. Something anxious swirls at the bottom of your chest. 

“I can take care ‘f the rest,” he says, quietly. He doesn’t turn to look at you. 

You blink. Right. 

“Yeah,” you mumble. “Sure.” 

Your shirt is wrinkled where his hands creased the fabric. You smooth it back down, raking over his touch, and leave him standing by the sink. 

—

You don’t see him again until you walk him to the door. He disappears into the living room with your dad — some big baseball game is on — and you excuse yourself to your room. You’re not exactly presentable: smudged lipstick, rumpled hair — and Joel’s mood when you left him in kitchen had been palpably weird. 

You sneak downstairs an hour later, for a glass of water, and catch him on his way out the door. 

Your dad stops you. 

“There you are,” he says, smiling. “Joel was just leavin’. You can walk him out, say goodbye.” 

You pause. You look at Joel and Joel doesn’t look at you. 

“Sure,” you say. 

Your dad nods. He shakes Joel’s hand and shuffles off down the hall — to bed, you assume, if the yawn you hear is any indication. 

You’re left in stifling silence. Joel opens the door and you follow him out onto the porch, blinking at the heavy dark. 

“Are you okay?” you blurt, when you can’t take it any more. “Like, did I do something, or—?”

“No,” he says, quickly. 

That settles your stomach. Slightly. You nod, still a little unsure. 

“Okay,” you say. “So—okay.” 

He stares. At least he’s looking at you, now. 

“Um.” You rub at your wrist. “Maybe next time we could do this, like — just us. Alone. No…” You gesture broadly behind you. To your house. To your dad. 

You watch him take a breath. Something flickers in dark eyes. 

“This has to stop,” he murmurs. “This is—fuck.” He rakes a hand through his stubble. “This is so fuckin’ stupid.” 

Your pulse thrums. Your brow furrows as you try to read his face — is he joking? Is he fucking serious? 

“No one knows,” you say, slowly. 

“And how long ’til someone finds out?” He shakes his head. “You keep fuckin’—shit. You keep doin’ this to me, I’m not gonna be able to—” 

He huffs. His weight shifts on the floorboards.

Your stomach pools at your feet. 

“I’m an adult,” you say. “It’s not—we’re not doing anything wrong.” 

“Fuck—come on,” he hisses. “You’re not that dumb. Just—think, for two seconds. Your dad, Sarah—”

“Where was this an hour ago?” you snap. Your voice starts to rise, clawing its way up your throat. “When you were—when you were fucking me in the kitchen? Or was this not a convenient conversation to have while you were getting your dick sucked?” 

“Jesus, fuckin’—keep your voice down.” 

You stare at him. Your breath comes, hard and fast, threatening to tangle on a sob. 

“So, what?” You swallow. “That’s it?” 

He’s quiet. Anger flares on your skin, burning your cheeks. 

“You get what you want and fuck off? Is that it?” 

“Stop,” he mutters. “Just — stop. That’s not what this is.” 

“Then what is it, exactly?” 

He looks pained. His jaw is tight, and his throat pulls taut when he hangs his head. 

“I—‘f we keep goin’ like this, I—”

He sighs. “It doesn’t matter,” he says. “This has to stop.” 

You stare at him. Shake your head, incredulous. 

“Fuck you,” you say, quietly. “Fuck you, Joel.” 

He doesn’t move. 

“Go,” you tell him, balling your fists when your voice starts to break. He’s not about to see you cry. “Jesus Christ. Can you just — fucking — go.” 

He looks at you for a long time. Long enough to see a tear cut your cheek, when you can’t hold it back any longer. 

His face falls. He takes half a step towards you on instinct and you shrink away from him.

“Don’t,” you warn. 

You don’t want him to listen. You want him to touch you. You want him to stay. 

“Just go, Joel,” you mumble.

He goes. 

taglist (lmk if you wanna be added!):

@bbyanarchist @elissaaa @nana90azevedo @cannolighost @jbb-sgr @cedricbitch @totallynotastanacc @jasminedragoon

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