Suguru Getou ( ) - Jujutsu Kaisen 2nd Season - Episode 2

Suguru Getou (夏油 傑) - Jujutsu Kaisen 2nd Season - Episode 2

Oh. Dear. Jesus.

the fall

13.9k / dbf!joel x f!reader

official dbf!joel playlist

warnings: 18+, minors dni. so much smut. so much angst. dont ask me why this is so fucking long cause i dont know either. age gap (reader is 23, joel is in his late 40s). dbf!joel, dom!joel, fingering, oral (f receiving), face sitting, unprotected p in v, car sex, uhh, maybe more but that feels exhaustive

a/n: y'all thank you so much for the love on this series. i love that people love dbf!joel as much as i do. you have been so beyond welcoming and getting to interact with y'all as i write this is so ridiculously fun. your comments and replies and asks are hysterical. and insightful. your reading comp skills are a thousand times better than mine because you're picking up on things i didn't even know i was writing LMFAO. i love being able to share with you all and i really appreciate you letting me have fun with this. lots n lots of love. to everyone. 🤍 requests incorporated: face sitting, car sex, date night (part 2), maybe something else im forgetting.

this is part 9 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

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

“Jesus,” he mutters. “Come here.”  He grabs your hips. Not — rough, but a long way from gentle. He drags you higher, over his stomach and the flat plane of his chest, maneuvering your hips until they’re dripping over his mouth.  You suck in a breath. Your legs tremble. You’re trying not to drop your whole weight to his face. But the grip he’s got on your thighs, pulling you down — says that’s exactly what he wants.  “Sit down,” he growls. 

Of course Hayes is her fucking nephew. 

Of course he is. 

You’ve never had, like, the best luck in the world. Not when it comes to guys, at least. Seems like you draw the short straw pretty often. Like, say, falling for your dad’s best friend — and not the toned, tanned, age-appropriate boy whose footsteps you can hear in the hallway. 

This is your fault, you think. This is your mess. There are plenty of attainable, nice, non-asshole guys out there who aren’t even tangentially connected to your father. Zero relation. Couldn’t pick him out of a lineup if their lives depended on it. But — no. Just your luck you’d fall for Joel. Just your luck you’d sleep with Hayes. And just your luck they’re about to be in the same room, at the same time, after you’ve ghosted one and fallen head over heels for the other. 

Laurie can sense the change in tone. She puts her mojito down on the desk, next to Joel’s drafting papers, and you have to kick the urge to run over and grab it. Just — down that shit, before Hayes can even make it to the office. Whatever gets you drunk fast. 

You settle for standing stiffly in place. You swallow your spit and she frowns. 

“You okay, honey?” she asks. “You look pale.” 

A laugh bubbles up in your throat. Not the humorous kind, but the — I‘m fucked, can you believe this shit? — kind. 

She stares at you. Joel, too. He looks completely useless, standing there beside the desk. He’s got his drafting pencil clutched in his hand. The lead point digs into his thumb. 

The door creaks open. All three of you turn to watch Hayes walk in. There’s a plastic Walgreens bag in his hand, hooked around his little finger, swinging aimlessly when he steps into the room. He’s wearing the same shoes he’d worn when you’d dragged him to your room. White vans. Slip-ons. 

Your head swims. 

“Hey, Laurie,” he says. 

He doesn’t see you right away. You’re in the corner, a ways from the desk, standing stock-still in his peripheral. You’ve got this hindbrain, idiotic notion that if you stay completely, totally still, maybe he won’t see you. 

“I got the stuff you wanted,” he says. You’d forgotten how smooth his voice is. How polished and pitched, compared to Joel’s. “They didn’t have those Vitamin C tabs, but—”

You’re not looking at him. But you can tell — from the sudden, stifling silence — that he’s clocked you. You and Joel. 

The AC kicks on, full-blast. His Walgreens bag starts to wave. The plastic crinkles and the sound makes you flinch. 

“What the fuck?” 

“Hayes!” Laurie laughs, awkwardly. “Good lord. That how you greet people?” 

He’s staring at you. Full-on. You can feel his eyes, burning a brand where yours drop. You drag your gaze from the floor and your cheeks blaze. 

“I’m sorry,” Hayes says. He sounds like he’s short-circuiting. He sputters a little — turns from you, to Joel, to Laurie, then back to you again. “Sorry. What — sorry. What the fuck?” 

“Hayes.” Laurie tuts. Her brows pull. “Knock it off.” 

He ignores her. His gaze narrows. The shock is wearing off, you think. You can see something angrier making its way in. 

“What are you doing here?” he asks you. He points at Joel. “What is he doing here?“ 

Laurie answers for you. Which is good, since you’ve got nothing. 

“He’s a contractor,” she says. She sounds miffed. “He’s helping me with the Austin house. What — what is this? You know each other, or something?” 

“Yeah,” Hayes bites. “Or something.” 

His gaze shifts. He looks at Joel and Joel holds his stare. 

More silence. The tip of Joel’s pencil shoves deeper into his thumb. You hear the lead snap, bouncing off onto the carpet, and you swallow. Your throat runs dry. 

Hayes sniffs. 

“Can I talk to you?” he blurts. 

He turns away from Joel. Looks you dead in the eyes. 

“In private,” he adds. 

Laurie frowns. “Hayes—”

“It’s fine,” you say, quickly. You don’t look at Joel. “It’s fine.” 

Hayes nods. He shoves the door back open and holds it for you — ever the gentleman, even still. Even when you sidle past him and feel him bristle. 

You catch a glimpse of Joel right before the door shuts. You can’t quite read the look on his face. 

“It’s through here,” Hayes clips. 

He leads you back down the hallway, to the kitchen you’d passed on your way in. You stare at his back and try to train down your blush. You think up ten thousand excuses, in the thirty-second walk to the kitchen — I wasn’t ghosting you, really, I’ve just…had my phone off? Been busy with work? Didn’t want to seem desperate? — but you’re a terrible liar. And the truth is you have been ghosting him. You’ve been ghosting the hell out of him. 

So you’re silent. You make it to the kitchen and he sits at the island, digging his elbows down into the marble. He gestures toward a free stool and you follow his hand. 

“You wanna sit?” 

“Uh—” you blink, “—no. Thanks. This is fine.” 

This being the awkward, statuesque pose you’ve taken up by Laurie’s sink. About as far from Hayes as you can get without turning tail and sprinting back down the hall. 

 You’re expecting him to say something. He dragged you in here, after all. Out of the office. Away from Joel. 

But he’s quiet. He just…looks at you. Meadow-green eyes and an angled frown. 

So you talk. Because the silence is fucking unbearable. 

“So,” you say. “She’s your, um…” 

“Aunt.” 

“Yeah. Right.” You nod. Gnaw at your lip. “Kind of a fucked up coincidence.” 

You hope, maybe, that he’ll take it in stride. Light up the kitchen with that megawatt smile. 

But he doesn’t smile. If anything his frown gets deeper. 

“Yeah,” he agrees, finally. “Kind of fucked up.” 

“So when you said you were going out of town for the weekend…” you gesture weakly to the kitchen. “You meant, like…here.” 

He looks at you. Cocks his head. His hair’s grown out, in the week or so since you’ve seen him. You think it looks better like this. Makes him look more like a man. 

“So you did get my texts,” he says. 

Fuck. 

“I just read them, like, today,” you say, which is not technically a lie. Sure, you’ve been watching the notifications flood in all week with a lingering, existential sense of doom — but you hadn’t actually opened them until today. Until five minutes ago, when he was already crunching up the drive. 

He shakes his head. His jaw goes tight, like he’s chewing on a word. 

“What are you doing here?” he asks. “With him? Like, what — what is this?” 

“It’s — fuck. It’s Joel’s thing. He’s — he’s building a house for your aunt, or something. I’m just along for the weekend. It’s a — it’s like a favor, for my dad. He was supposed to be here instead of me. Fuck, I obviously — I didn’t know she was your aunt, otherwise I never would have tagged along. Obviously.” 

“Obviously,” Hayes repeats. He sounds hollow. He looks bitter. His eyes scrunch up when you mention Joel’s name. “Makes it kinda hard to ghost me when you’re standing in my kitchen.” 

You don’t love the tone. You’ve been waiting since your first date — which had been, like, just a little too perfect — for something uglier to rear its head. A scrap of Southern-money, Stanford-bred entitlement, maybe. And there it is. Right there. My kitchen. 

Your aunt’s kitchen, you want to bite. But this is still a job, and you’re still here for Joel, and you’re on thin ice as is. So you keep your mouth shut. 

“Sorry,” you say, awkwardly. “I should’ve…said something.” 

Which is not entirely untrue. You should have cut him loose the second you’d landed back in Joel’s bed. But you just…hadn’t. You’d watched his texts come in, and let them fester unopened on your phone. You let the notifications pile up. Maybe because, in some ironic twist of fate, you didn’t want the confrontation. Or maybe some part of you liked the safety net. Liked the fact he’d still be there, on the hook, if Joel ran away again. 

So you mean it, when you tell him sorry. At least some part of you does. 

His shoulders relax. His tone softens. That ugly look goes out of his eyes — that one that surfaced when you first mentioned Joel — and you start to think maybe it was never even there. 

“Look,” he says, “if you didn’t wanna see me again, that’s fine, I just —” he huffs, “I would’ve appreciated, like, a heads up, maybe? Or just — a sign of life? So I know you didn’t fall off the face of the earth?” 

“Yeah,” you say, blankly. “Yeah. Sorry. I wasn’t — I don’t know. I wasn’t thinking.” 

He’s quiet. You both are. He taps his fingers on the marble and works his tongue over his teeth. 

“It’s okay,” he says, after a beat. “I just — I thought we had a good time. And I don’t usually, uh…” 

He looks at the counter. His cheeks turn pink. 

God, they’re so different. He and Joel. You have no idea how you landed somewhere between the two of them. One can’t make eye contact when he talks about sex. The other won’t fuck you without it. 

Hayes looks back up. He’s struggling. 

“I’m just trying to say — it was good. For me, at least. All of it. Not just the…you know. Not that that wasn’t good. It was fucking — it was amazing. But the rest of it, too. The dates. You. All of it.” 

He shrugs. His eyes are wide. 

“I don’t know,” he says. “It was nice, that’s all. I thought we clicked.” 

“We did,” you say. “We had fun.” 

It’s not a lie. It’s just not the whole truth. You leave out the part where you click a whole lot better with the contractor in his aunt’s office. 

“I’m sorry,” you say, again. You mean it a little less this time. “I just — things changed.” 

“Okay, but — in a day?” 

“Sorry?” 

“You changed your mind in a day?” He laughs now — like, chuckles, and it makes your skin prickle. “I mean, it just seems — we have these great dates, and then we have great — sorry — great sex, and then, like, you ghost me? You change your mind that fast?” 

Fuck. Off. 

You flip up your hands.

“It’s not — it wasn’t that serious, Hayes! We went on two dates. Two. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have —  I should have said something. But it happens. It fucking — it happens all the time.” 

You get the sense, from the look on his face, that it doesn’t happen all the time to him. Handsome, whip-smart, rich as sin. White sneakers and a pearl-white smile. He doesn’t get ghosted. 

“It happens?” His voice is strained. He wants to snap at you, you can tell. You almost wish he would. “So you — what? You sleep with a lot of guys, never call them back?” 

“What?” You push yourself off the sink. Your skin flushes pink, then red. “Is that what I just said? Jesus. What the fuck?” 

“Sorry.” He rakes his hands through his hair. Shakes his head. “Fuck. Sorry. I’m not trying to — I just — I liked you. I still like you. I thought maybe I did something, or…” 

“You didn’t do anything,” you clip. There’s still some heat to your voice. Some edge. You’re not sure it sounds convincing. 

But he nods. Swallows. He looks a little kicked-puppy like this, sitting on a stool with his sneakers dangling. His eyes meet yours and you wish they were brown. 

“Guess this looks pretty dumb now, then,” he says. He lifts his wrist off the counter and your heart sinks. 

He’s still got that tacky five-dollar bracelet wrapped up on his wrist. The one you’d found together, at a thrift store in downtown Austin, when neither of you wanted your date to end. He’d gotten you a matching necklace. And you’d taken it off, the very next day, on your way back from Joel’s house. It was the last piece of Hayes that had lingered on you after Joel had fucked out the rest. 

“You took yours off,” he says. 

“Oh.” You blink. “I…” 

“No, don’t,” he says. He waves you off. “I’m sorry. That’s — it was just a stupid thing.” 

He unclasps the bracelet. It sloughs off his wrist and clatters to the marble. The little turquoise pendant glares up at you. 

“No,” you say. “It wasn’t stupid. It’s…” 

You trail off. You touch your hand to your neck where the necklace had been, almost like an afterthought. 

His eyes follow your hand. He tracks your fingers where they land and splay at your collar. 

And then he frowns again. Deeper. Darker. 

“What is that?” he asks. His voice is soft. 

You stare at him. Your hand stills under your throat. 

“On your neck,” he says, when you’re too quiet. “What is that on your neck?” 

It doesn’t click right away. What he’s talking about. Your fingers drift up your throat, rising with his stare, and that’s when you feel them. The red, raised marks on the side of your neck, hallway hidden by your hair. A handprint much bigger than Hayes’s. 

“What the fuck.” He stands up. Pushes the stool back. “Who — what the fuck?” 

You bring your whole hand up to the side of your neck. You press your palm into the shape of Joel’s and try to hide the mark when Hayes steps closer. 

His eyes are on fire. He’s got a weird look to him, like he doesn’t quite know whether to be angry or confused or concerned or something all in between. He gets uncomfortably close and you shrink against the sink. 

“Move your hand,” he says. “Let me see.”

“Stop it. Step back.” 

“Move your hand,” he says. He’s trying to peer under, over, around your palm. Trying to see where Joel’s fingertips stretch out across your throat. He’s really close now, close enough to touch you, and he lifts a hand to try and pry yours away. 

You yelp. Your hand jumps from your throat and you bat him away. 

“Hayes, stop,” you bite. “Don’t — fucking touch me.” 

He drops his hand immediately. Takes half a step back. You’re both panting. The mark on your neck is on full display. 

“It’s nothing,” you say. You swallow thickly. Stare him down, while you both catch your breath. “It’s fucking nothing.” 

But it’s not nothing. You can both see that it’s not nothing. 

“It’s probably — it’s probably from you,” you say. “From the other night.” 

“I didn’t do that to you,” Hayes says. His voice is cold. Distant. “I wouldn’t do that to you.” 

He’s breathing hard. His eyes are dark. 

“Who?” he asks. 

“No one,” you say. And then — “it’s none of your business.” 

He huffs. 

“Fine,” he says. “When, then? Cause — fuck. You were with me, like, just a few days ago. And you say you’ve been here, with your dad’s fucking — friend all weekend, so —”

Stop, you think. Fucking stop. 

But it’s too late. He gets it. That Stanford education at work. 

You watch his brow furrow, and you can physically see him connect the dots. The weekend trip. The fresh marks on your throat. The clinging cologne that sticks to your skin. 

“Holy shit,” he says. 

Your heart seizes. There are two options here, really — deny, deny, deny, — or scorched-earth it. You try for the first. 

“Hayes,” you say, “it’s not—”

“Don’t,” he says. “Don’t even say it.” 

There’s a pause. You swallow. 

“I didn’t say anything,” you say, quietly. 

Hayes shakes his head and then shakes it again. His hair tousles, like a waterlogged dog. 

“You fucked him,” he says, and it’s not a question. He says it like he’s convincing himself. “You — him?” 

You’re quiet. There’s not much to say. 

“Fuck me,” Hayes mutters. “Jesus.” 

He shoves his hands to his hair. Holds them there. “What the fuck,” he mumbles, half to himself. 

“Hayes—”

“No, I mean — what the fuck? Seriously! There’s — he’s — he’s, like, a thousand years old! What the hell are you doing?” 

“What the hell am I doing?” Anger roils at the pit of your stomach, hot and thick. “Why is that your fucking business? What are you, my dad?” 

“You’d probably like that, right?” 

“Oh, fuck off. What the fuck? Are you — are you serious?” 

“He’s — isn’t he your dad’s friend? Your fuc—your neighbor?” He stares at you, wide-eyed. “Jesus Christ. Is that why you haven’t texted me?” 

“Oh my god,” he says, when you don’t respond. “Is that why you were wearing his fucking shirt? The morning after we—?”

So he does remember that. You were hoping it might have slipped his mind. The same way you’d slipped into bed with him, beside him, wrapped up in another man’s shirt. 

You’d let him touch you, in the middle of the night. Put his hands under a shirt with Miller Contracting splashed in print across the back. It was fucking filthy then, and it’s filthier now. Now that he puts it together. 

“Is that why he threatened to hurt me?” Hayes asks. “Told me he’d break my jaw?” 

You’re silent. He takes that as a yes, because it is one. 

“Jesus,” he breathes. “Fuck. So I was — what? Like a — a game, for the two of you? Or—” 

“It wasn’t a game,” you bite. “It’s — fuck. It wasn’t a game. Just leave it alone.” 

“Leave it alone? He’s as old as my dad. You’re — look at your fucking neck. He’s —”

“He’s what?” Your pulse hammers. “He’s — what?” 

Hayes is quiet. You should be relieved, really, but the silence is worse. The way his eyes squint, like he’s working through a jigsaw. 

He takes a few steps back and you welcome the space. Your legs feel weak. Your head is swimming. You fold your hands on the lip of the counter and the marble stings your skin. 

He’s pacing. You watch him out of the corner of your eye. You wonder how long you’ve been out here. You wonder if Joel will start to worry. If he’ll burst out of the office, and thud down that hallway in his heavy work boots, and find you in the kitchen with your fists on the counter. 

You think about those guys at the bar last night. How they’d spoken to you. How Joel had…taken care of it. And then you think about Hayes — what Joel would do to him, if he could hear him right now — and the thought is weirdly comforting. It probably shouldn’t be. 

Hayes’s voice rises. You lift your head. 

“Are you okay?” he’s saying. You get the sense from his tone that he’s already asked. 

You blink. 

“Am I okay?” 

“Yeah,” he says. He’s breathless. His fists bunch at his sides. All tense, corded muscle. “Like — are you — is he making you do this? Is this, like — is he —?” 

You stare at him. You’re not actually convinced you’ve heard him correctly. It’s that insane of a question. But you clock the look on his face — totally, completely sincere — and then you’re fucking furious. 

“What?” 

“I can help you,” Hayes says, and you almost punch him in the face. “Seriously. Like, if this is — if he’s —” 

“What the fuck,” you breathe. 

Silence. Your fist balls on the marble. And then he opens his fucking mouth again, and you snap. 

“I just—”

“Jesus, Hayes!” Your palm comes down flat on the counter. The slap makes him flinch. “What the fuck is wrong with you? No. No. He’s — no. Of course he’s not.” 

“Of course? What do you mean, of course? You’ve got a—” his voice lowers. Wavers. “You’ve got a fucking handprint on your throat,” he says. “It’s sick.” 

“It’s not sick.” 

“No, ‘cause you don’t see it,” Hayes says, and he sounds so fucking condescending you want to scream. “Cause you’re — you can’t see it. You’re too — I’m sorry, but he’s clearly taking advant—” 

“I asked him to,” you bite. 

That…shuts him up. He stops pacing. You put a hand to your throat and trace the shadow of Joel’s fingers. 

“I wanted it,” you say. “I fucking asked him to.” 

He’s quiet. He looks at your hand. At the ghost of Joel’s. 

“You didn’t ask me to do that,” he says, softly. 

“No,” you say. “I didn’t.” 

He doesn’t say anything. Not to that. You push yourself off the counter. 

“Are we done here?” you ask, at the exact same time he decides to open his mouth again, and ask — 

“—are you in love with him?” 

You freeze. Full stop. 

“Excuse me?” 

“Is this, like…” he shakes his head. “I’m just trying to figure out what the fuck is going on here. Like, you think you’re in love with him, ‘cause he tells you what you wanna hear? Makes you feel special? Cause this is — this is textbook. This is Psych 101. This is —”

“Fuck off,” you snarl. 

You shove past him. Like — shove. Your shoulder clips his and he grunts. He reaches for you before you can pass and snakes a hand around your wrist. 

“Hey,” he says. “I care about you. I’m just trying to help—”

“Get your hand off me,” you say. 

His grip slackens. You rip your hand out of his. He tries to say something else — calls your name, when you stumble past him — but you’re already halfway down the hallway. You’re making a beeline for the office — for Joel — and when you get to the door your fingers tremble. You wrench the handle with your heart stuck in your throat. 

The door shoves open and spits you inside. You stand there panting, feet planted on carpet, and the look on your face must be downright desperate because Joel’s already on his way to you. 

He stops abruptly a few feet from where you stand. Like he’s just remembered Laurie’s there, behind him, watching you both with a frown. You wish she would fucking go. You wish everyone would just — go. You wish Joel would touch you. 

“Hey,” he says, softly, “are you…?” 

Hayes is on your heels. You can hear his slip-on sneakers squeaking down the hall. You look up at Joel and shake your head. 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “Joel, I’m sorry.” 

He frowns. His brows knit. His fingers flex at his sides, inches from yours, and you know it’s taking everything in him not to reach out and touch you. 

“Hey,” he repeats. Low. Slow. “Hey. What —?” 

The door rocks back open. Hayes’s squeaky footsteps hover at the threshold. You can hear his breath at your back, short and shallow. It pulls when he sees Joel. 

Joel’s gaze lifts. He looks past you, at Hayes, and the muscle in his jaw flinches. He doesn’t know what happened — he wasn’t in that kitchen — but the look on your face is enough. He looks about ready to strangle someone, client be damned. 

The silence stretches. Laurie clears her throat. 

“Okay,” she says, in that two-mojitos-deep twang, “look, I’m not sure what’s happening—”

Hayes interrupts her. He shoves his index finger at Joel. 

“This is who you want to hire?” he asks, and it’s so petulant, so boyish that it makes your head spin. 

Laurie laughs awkwardly. 

“He’s supposed to be the best,” she says. 

“Is he? Is he the best?” 

There’s a monumental silence. Hayes’s accusatory finger shifts: from Joel — to you. 

“Let’s ask her,” he says. “She’d know.” 

Your head snaps up. You open your mouth to fire back — are you fucking serious right now? — but Joel beats you to the punch. 

“That’s enough,” he snarls. “That’s fuckin’ enough.” 

You wince. So much for polite, yes ma’am Joel, who’d turned down Laurie’s offer of a drink at the door. This is the Joel from the bar last night. The Joel with a knife in his hand and a spark in his eyes. 

“Hayes.” Laurie again. Sterner, now. “You wanna tell me what the hell’s going on here? How do you know each other?” 

“Oh, well. That’s a funny story,” Hayes bites. His voice says it’s not very funny at all. 

He’s glaring at Joel. You thought they were the same height, that first night you met Hayes. But three feet apart, staring each other down — Joel looks a hell of a lot bigger. And a hell of a lot meaner. 

“He wants to break my jaw,” Hayes says, with a crooked, angry smile. “Right?” 

Joel huffs. 

“I’m sorry?” Laurie says. “What?” 

Poor Laurie. You almost feel bad for her. Just wanted to build her damn house. 

“Joel?” she says. “Is that — is that true?” 

Joel is silent. He takes a breath, and the exhale is ragged. He’s pissed. 

“Or maybe he’d rather choke me out,” Hayes says. His nose is all scrunched up, again. “That’s your thing, isn’t it?” 

The blood goes out of your face. You feel sick. 

“We’re done here,” Joel says. 

And then he is touching you. He’s got his hand on the small of your back, big and warm and safe, and you’re vaguely aware of him herding you toward the door. 

Laurie says something. She sounds confused. Maybe a little angry. 

Joel ignores her. He leaves everything on the desk — his pencils, his blueprints, his papers. He leaves everything except for you. 

Hayes scurries to stand in the doorframe. His stupid sneakers squeal on hardwood. 

“You don’t have to go with him,” he says. 

Your face burns. Hayes reaches out; tries to graze your wrist again. You flinch. 

“Don’t touch me,” you hiss. 

Joel’s hand tightens on your back. 

“It’s not right,” Hayes says. “He’s — guys like him, they’re not —”

“You don’t know a fucking thing about guys like him,” you say. 

You can’t be in this house for one more second. You rip yourself away — from Hayes and from Joel — and hightail it down the hallway. Back through the kitchen, back through the foyer, past Hayes’s spare white sneakers tucked in the entryway. 

Out the front door. Down the steps. Onto the gravel drive and up into Joel’s truck. 

It’s unlocked. You climb into the passenger seat and slam the door shut. 

And then — finally — you let yourself cry. You put your feet up on his seat. You rest your heels on the edge and bury your face in your knees. Your hands curl on the leather cushion. 

You take heaving, panicked breaths and stare at the floor between your legs. You don’t look up when Joel storms out the front door, a few minutes after you, and jogs to the truck with his keys in his hand. 

He doesn’t get in the driver’s seat. He comes around the truck instead, to the passenger side, and tugs open your door. 

He doesn’t touch you. He just stands there, boots planted in gravel, until you lift your head from your knees and look at him. 

“Hey,” he breathes. 

He looks shattered. You wonder if it’s because of you or the job. 

The job you just fucked. 

“I’m sorry,” you whimper. 

His face slackens. He looks heartbroken, now. 

“Oh, baby girl,” he murmurs. 

He leans in. He puts a broad hand on the back of your head and pulls you into his chest, into the soft, worn cotton of his flannel, and you breathe in his scent. His heart beats under your cheek. Slow and safe and steady. 

“‘M sorry,” you mumble. Your voice is muffled in his shirt. 

He holds you closer. Tighter. 

“It ain’t your fault,” he murmurs. 

But it feels like it is. It feels like it is. And you could swear he feels stiff, when he presses a kiss to the crown of your head. When he tucks you back into your seat, and walks around the driver’s side, and pulls out of the driveway with a tight look on his face. 

You watch the house blur in the rearview. The wheels stop crunching, and the gravel runs to road, and the added silence makes your chest hurt. 

You don’t know what to say, so you don’t say anything at all. You lean your temple on the window and stare at the street. He turns onto a highway and you watch the double-yellow lines streak by in silence. 

You don’t know what he’s thinking. If he’s giving you space, or if he’s seething at the wheel. He’s impossible to read and you can’t think straight. You feel like shit. So — naturally — you assume the worst. 

That it’s your fault, even though he says it’s not. That he hates you, even though he held you hard enough to steal breath. That he’ll run away again. 

He flicks his blinker on and the sound startles you. He pulls off the freeway and stops at a red. 

“I didn’t tell him,” you say. It just — comes out. It seems important that he know. “Hayes. I didn’t say anything. He — he saw my —”

You gesture weakly to your neck. Joel tracks your hand in your peripheral. 

The light turns green. He doesn’t go. 

“I didn’t tell him,” you repeat. You need him to know. You tried to keep it a secret. 

He’s quiet. The car behind you honks. 

“Go,” you say, dully.  

He goes. He makes a right, back in the general direction of the hotel, and you take his silence for anger. You take his white knuckles on the wheel for pissed, not protective. 

“Can you say something?” you beg. “Please?” 

He swallows thickly. You look up at him, briefly, and he’s got the same expression scrawled across his face that he’d had that night, at your dad’s house, after he’d fucked you senseless in the kitchen. When he’d told you that he couldn’t do this. When he’d left you in the dark. 

You can handle Hayes. You can handle the embarrassment of — whatever the hell that last hour was. But Joel running away, for the second time in as many weeks — that you can’t take. That is too much. 

So you run first. Or you try to. 

He turns onto a busy street, lined with shops and signs and moms pushing strollers — and you yank at the car door. It doesn’t give. The stupid fucking auto-lock. 

Joel glances over at you. His brows knit. 

“Let me out,” you say. 

He blinks. You tug the handle again. 

“Fuck,” you swear. Your cheeks are hot. Your breath hitches, and you don’t want to cry again — not when you’ve just fucking stopped — but you can feel it coming. Rising up in your throat. “Can you just — let me out?” 

He says something. He sounds a little surprised, a little concerned — but you’re not listening. You’re pulling on the car door and your breaths are coming fast and thin. The truck is still moving, and Joel’s voice is slightly raised, and you think he’s telling you to stop but you can’t hear him right. 

“Let me out,” you repeat. There are tears on your face. 

You’re a little surprised that he listens to you. He slows down. Pulls over on the curb, alongside a packed sidewalk — and you’re unbuckling your seatbelt before he can speak. 

“Just—” He reaches halfway over the center console and then stops. Freezes, like he can’t quite tell if he should touch you. 

You push at the door and this time it gives. It’s too much, it’s too fucking much — Hayes’s words in the kitchen, and his hand on your wrist, and this feeling you can’t shake, now, that Joel is gonna run. It’s too much. You need — you need some fucking air. 

You jump out of his truck and your feet hit pavement. You make it ten feet down the sidewalk, sucking in dry, Texas air — before you hear his car door slam. Before you hear his heavy footfalls as he runs to catch up. And then his hands are on you — big, rough, familiar — grabbing you, turning you, wrapping you up in his arms. 

“Woah — hey.” He clutches you to his heart and you ball your fist in his flannel, push at his chest, but there’s no strength to it. You want him to hold you. 

And he does. Right there in the middle of the side, in broad daylight, with his truck parked haphazard on the curb. His keys dangle from a finger, locked somewhere behind your head. 

It takes you a minute to register what he’s saying. Over and over and mumbled in your hair. 

“It’s okay,” he’s breathing. “I gotcha. S’okay.” 

“It’s not okay,” you say. You sound fucking miserable, with your voice in his shirt. You don’t even recognize the sound. “You’re gonna run.” 

There’s a pause. His hands loosen and he pushes you back, just far enough to search your face. 

“Run?” he says. “Who’s runnin’?” 

“You,” you whine. “It’s a fucking — it’s a mess, with Hayes, and the job, and I —” 

His brow furrows. The corner of his lip crinkles up. 

“I ain’t runnin’ nowhere,” he says, softly. “You’re the one runnin’. Damn near jumped out the truck.” 

“Yeah, cause you — you looked so angry, I thought —”

“Angry?” His whole face softens. He shakes his head. “I ain’t angry, angel. Not at you.” 

Your lip trembles. You’re not sure what to say. 

“C’mere,” he murmurs. He pulls you in again and you go willingly, burying your face in his sleeve. It’s a far cry from the way he’d held you this morning, with a hand around your throat and his cock nestled inside you. This almost feels closer. 

“‘M right here,” he’s saying, again and again in the crown of your head. “I ain’t goin’ nowhere.” 

You rest your chin on his chest and look up at him. Your breathing evens and then stills. He’s not running. He’s not going anywhere. He’s right here, holding you, with his hands on your body and his mouth in your hair. He’s right here. 

“I’m sorry,” you mumble, for the millionth time today. “I don’t — Hayes, he fucking — the stuff he said. He got in my head.” 

You don’t elaborate. He doesn’t ask you to. 

Instead he just says — c’mon, — in that intoxicating drawl, and slips an arm around your shoulder. He starts to walk and drags you close, into his side, unwilling to let you stray even when he’s on the move. You stumble to keep up. It’s an awkward angle and you’re too close to walk comfortably, but you don’t pull away. You don’t want to. 

He leaves the truck half-cocked on the curb and ducks into the nearest store he finds. A little coffee shop, with all-white seating and a lavender sign. String lights strung out across the ceiling. Decorated cookies in the glass display. Your vibe. Not quite Joel’s. But he leads you in all the same. 

He parks you at an empty table and orders for you. Coffee in a to-go cup and one of those stupid cookies, with black and white frosted wings and an orange-frosted beak. A penguin. It’s such a dumb, sweet gesture that it almost makes you smile. You almost feel better. 

He doesn’t say much — never been too good at saying much — but he seems determined to make you smile. To convince you that this — none of this — was your fault. 

He digs a spare, stubby drafting pencil from the pocket of his jeans. He leans over the table and grabs your coffee, still half-full, and you protest weakly when he drags it to his side. 

He tips the cup and scribbles something with the pencil. You nibble on the edge of your stupid penguin cookie while you wait for him to pass it back. 

He slides the cup back across the table. You squint at his addition, and it makes you smile. An actual smile. Then it makes you laugh. You swipe dried tears from your cheeks and hold the cup up to the light. 

“What the hell is that?” you say.

He looks mock-wounded. He tucks the pencil away and nods to the cup. 

“S’you,” he says. “Y’know. Tried to capture the — the snarky look, ’n everythin’.” 

You stare down at his drawing. It’s like the world’s worst stick figure, with your name scrawled in pencil underneath. 

“It’s terrible,” you tell him. 

“Nah, it’s — it’s abstract,” he says. “Y’ain’t lookin’ at it right. Here—” he takes the cup back, hoists it up, and you laugh harder, “—see?” 

“Oh, yeah. No. Much better.” 

He smiles. His eyes sparkle. He’s trying so fucking hard to make you happy — the way he knows how, with anything but his words — that it makes your heart hurt. You were sprinting down the sidewalk fifteen minutes ago. Now you have to bite your tongue to keep from letting slip you love him. 

He hands your cup back. You reach out to take it and your fingers brush his. 

“I’m sorry,” you say, again. For this mess. For almost running. For assuming you would. 

“Stop apologizin’,” he says. 

“I was supposed to help you this weekend,” you say. “You were supposed to get that job. And I feel like — I feel like I ruined it.” 

“You didn’t—” he lowers his voice, “—you didn’t ruin anythin’.” 

“Yeah, but — I kinda did? I mean — I only slept with Hayes cause I was pissed at you, and then I never called him back, and now he fucking hates you, and he thinks you’re — he thinks you’re crazy, and his stupid rich aunt is gonna —”

You’re breathing hard, again. He stops you. 

“Stop,” he says. He reaches across the table. Closes your hands up in his. “Stop.” 

“Don’t care ‘bout the job,” he says. 

“Yes you do,” you mumble. “We drove all the way out here.” 

“Care ‘bout you,” he says. He leans back in his seat. Rakes his hands through his hair. “Fuck. I don’t — I care ‘bout you.” 

You’re quiet. You swallow a sip of coffee. 

“And if I…if I did cost you the job?” 

“You didn’t,” he says. A beat passes. He looks at you and sighs. “But you’re worth a whole lot more ’n a job.” 

There’s a long, delicate silence. You take another sip and set the cup down on the table. 

You sniff. Nod. 

“That’s really corny,” you say, finally. 

He pauses. Blinks. And then he laughs, and you do too, and the tension clinging to your shoulders diffuses. He told you it was okay — that everything was okay — and maybe it is. Maybe it will be. 

“Fuck you,” he says, with that crooked half smile. “Was tryin’ t’be nice.” 

“Don’t,” you say. “It’s weird.” 

He shakes his head. Rolls his eyes. 

“Someone’s feelin’ better,” he says. But you can tell he’s relieved. 

You hum. 

“C’mon, then,” he says. “Let’s get outta here.” He motions toward the fairy lights. The happy, purple paintings on the wall. “Place kinda creeps me out.” 

“I’m not finished,” you say, and he shoots you a look. He gives you hell, but he likes when you talk back. He likes the attitude. Likes it a whole lot more than muffled tears in his flannel.

“’S a to-go cup,” he drawls. 

He stands up. Swipes your coffee, so you’re forced to follow him. He hands it over when you’re back on the sidewalk and you wrap your palm around his scribbled, shitty drawing. You trace his pencil strokes with your finger and swallow back I love you for the second time today. 

You climb back into his truck and shove your coffee to the cupholder. He pulls off of the curb with a groan and you watch him while he drives. 

“Where are we going?” you ask. “Back to the hotel?” 

He shrugs. 

“Up t’you,” he says. “Finished earlier ’n I expected.” 

You swallow back a pang of guilt. 

“No real reason to stick around,” he says. “Could just drive on back to Austin. Make it back by dinner.” 

He looks quickly at you, and you try to read his face. Is that what he wants? Cut the trip short? 

“Or,” he drawls, and your pulse spikes, “we could—”

“Yeah,” you say. You don’t need to hear the rest. “That one.” 

He grins. Laughs. “Y’didn’t even hear the pitch,” he says. 

“Don’t care,” you say. “Long as we stay here.” 

He’s smiling at you, but you think there’s something in his stare. A twinge. You’d stay here forever, if it meant more time alone with him. You wonder if he feels the same. 

“Alright,” he says, softly. “That’s that, then.” 

You lean back against his leather seat. You ride in comfortable silence for a few minutes, down quiet, sleepy roads and residential streets — and his scribbled stick figure gazes up at you from the cupholder. Your heart swells. You twist the lid aimlessly and shift in his seat, squirming against the all-too-sudden tug between your legs. 

Maybe it’s just your pulse on a comedown, now that Hayes seems more like a memory and less like a threat. Maybe it’s the way Joel wrapped you up in his arms on the sidewalk and refused to let you go. Maybe it’s the shitty little sketch that winks up at you now, where his hands said what he couldn’t. 

It’s something. Something makes you desperate for his touch, right now, now that the shock of the world’s worst morning has diluted. 

He turns down an empty street. The sun blazes across the dashboard. 

“What d’you wanna do?” he asks. His drawl is sweet, syrupy. It melts on your skin like sunlight. “Could go back t’the hotel. Could go to the riverwalk. Used t’go there with Sarah, in the summers. They got a boat tour, s’posed to be —”

“Pull over,” you say. 

He looks over at you. Frowns. 

“What?” 

“Pull. Over.” 

“Why?” he asks, and you could swear he sounds distressed. “We just went over this. I ain’t chasin’ you again—”

“Joel,” you say, and something about the way you say his name makes him pause, “pull over.” 

He gets it. It clicks. He pulls the fuck over. 

Your seatbelt is off before he’s in park. You’re scrabbling at your pants and he’s doing the same, whipping off his belt, untucking his flannel, shoving down his zipper with rough, heavy hands. 

He leans down and tugs his seat back as far as it’ll go. Makes space for you between his chest and the wheel, when you climb over the console and straddle his lap. 

You need him so badly you can’t see straight. You can’t even wait to get back to the room, with the bed and the shower and the couch that he’s paid for. You’re like teenagers. Except you never did this as a teenager, because you were never this fucking desperate.  

He lifts his hips. Shoves his jeans and his boxers down in a rushed, messy motion. He’s got his cock out already, by the time you climb across to straddle him. Not wasting any time. He looks as desperate as you feel. 

Your knees punch the seat on either side of his lap. Your panties drag along the head of his cock and you wonder when you got this wet — at the coffee shop? Before that? When he stopped you on the sidewalk and held you in his hands? 

He has the same thought. The tip of his cock slides over soaked cotton and he groans. 

“Fuck, baby,” he murmurs. “Shoulda said somethin’. So fuckin’ wet f’me.” 

“Please,” you tell him. Your breath skates along his neck. Trickles down to his collar. “Joel. Please. I need—”

His thumb grazes your clit. He bears down gently and you gasp. 

“Tell me,” he says. He sounds urgent. Rough. He strokes you over soaked, scrappy fabric and something white-hot swirls at the pit of your stomach. 

“Need to feel you,” you say. It tumbles out broken, like you’re begging, and you think maybe you are. You just want him close. You just want him here. 

“Fuck,” he groans. He tips his head back. His hair is plastered on his forehead, where it’s been pressed against your collar. His eyes are glassy, wild. He looks like a mess already, and he hasn’t even fucked you yet. 

You think he needs it worse than you do. You don’t say that, though. You don’t say anything, cause he’s reaching to yank your panties aside and you can’t fucking think straight. You rut uselessly in his lap and he holds you still, one hand on your waist and the other fumbling at cotton. His finger catches the edge of your panties and you whine something close to his name. 

You’re making a mess in his lap. Leaking onto his thighs, his seat. Your nails scrape his scalp and he mumbles something by your throat. 

“Hold—ngh. Hold still,” he says. He’d usually demand it. But this time he just sounds desperate: desperate for you to listen, so he can fuck you faster. Maybe it’s your urgency he’s feeding off of. Or maybe the morning was just as bad for him as it was for you — or worse, if that’s even possible — and he’s not in the mood to issue any orders. 

He drags you down against his lap and his cock slides through your slick. He gives a shallow thrust up and nudges your swollen clit. 

“N-need it this bad?” he pants. His voice is strained. There’s sweat on his brow. The setting, your urgency — it’s fucking with his head. It’s making his cock twitch, and his stomach pull, and you watch through hooded eyes as he swallows back a moan. “In the fu—fuckin’ car, baby girl? Right on the f—fuckin’ street?” 

He shoves your panties further aside. His knuckle strokes up your seam and heat curls your skin. 

“F-fuckin’ filthy,” he breathes. “F—ah.” 

You can’t wait any longer. You’re impatient. He told you he was right here, when he held you on that sidewalk, and you want to believe him. You want him to prove it. You want him right here, right now, closer than close. 

You sink onto his cock before he can guide you, grinding your hips down into his lap. His head flies back against the seat. His thighs tense. Whatever mumbled, half-formed thought was on his tongue gets swallowed up in a moan. 

He lets you take the reins. For a little while, at least. You ride him as best you can in the limited space his truck allows. Your head brushes the ceiling and your knees leave divots in his seat. The glass fogs, and the air goes thick, and the little evergreen car freshener that dangles off his mirror can’t do much to mask the smell of sex. 

You can tell he’s not gonna last long. You could tell before you buried yourself on his cock, and you can certainly tell now. His nails dig into your waist, lighting up your skin, and your breath punches somewhere by his head. 

“Fuck, baby, slow,” he growls. “I ain’t—ain’t gonna last.” 

“It’s — fuck, it’s fine,” you mumble, and it is, it’s fine, you want him to mark you up and spill inside you and you don’t fucking care about anything else. “Joel, I don’t care, just—” 

Your head rolls back. His cock throbs inside you and your hips stutter on his lap. 

“It’s fine,” you repeat, “please, just fucking—please.” 

He hisses through his teeth. His hands slide to the top of your ass and he squeezes. You mumble his name and your body goes slack, folding into his, content to let him take over if it means you can stay nestled in the crook of his shoulder. 

He gets a good grip on your ass and thrusts up into you. It’s a deeper, sharper angle than the one you’d managed, bouncing on his lap — and it makes you yelp. You bite down on his shoulder and get a mouthful of flannel. 

He likes that. You can tell. He rumbles deep at the back of his throat and his cock stumbles into you. 

“Fuck,” he mumbles. He thrusts up into you and drags you down at the same time, hitting something deep inside you. It’s cramped in here, and your knees ache, and his thrusts are frantic, like he’s clawing at the edge — but it’s fucking — good. It’s right. 

Heat pulls across your skin. Dances low at the base of your stomach. Your hand shoots from his hair and slams against his window, grasping at glass. You’re this fucking close, and then — 

Joel cums. Hard. No warning, no break in the frantic way he’s fucking you. His cock pulses inside you, mid-thrust, and his breath snags in his throat. His grip on you goes tight, so tight it’s almost painful — and then he slackens. All of him. Slumps back against the seat with his cock still speared inside you. 

“Shit,” he’s mumbling. He blinks, hard. He looks as surprised as you. “I don’t—” 

You kiss him. It’s messy. Tongue and teeth and shallow breaths that you swallow with your own. But it shuts him up. His hands rake up your ribcage and you clench around him, squeezing his half-hard cock. He groans. He breaks the kiss and pants. 

“Fuck,” he says. “Fuck, angel, s’too — too — fuck. Too much.” 

You smile softly. Nip at his jaw. You slide off of his cock and his groan sends a pang between your legs. A not-so-subtle reminder that you didn’t quite cum. 

Joel can read your mind. He looks up at you, while you straddle his lap. Pushes a strand of damp hair back from your forehead. 

“M’sorry,” he says, a little sheepish. 

“For…” 

“For cummin’ like a teenager,” he says. “I don’t — you fuckin’ — you do somethin’ to me.”

He swallows. You smile softly.  

“Mm. A good something?” 

He huffs. You drop your head to kiss his neck and he strokes his hands up your back. 

“Yeah,” he mutters. “A good somethin’.” 

You hum into his neck. His hands still. 

“Fuck,” he mumbles. “I didn’t even — did you…?” 

You pull back. Search his face. 

“Yeah,” you lie, after half a second. You’re not sure why you lie. He’d take care of the ache between your legs in two seconds flat, if you told him to. But you just — you want him to feel good. He’s had enough disappointment for one day, you figure. “Yes.” 

He looks at you funny. Like he doesn’t quite believe you. But he doesn’t push it. You lean to kiss him again and he cups your face in his hands. 

He leans down to pull the seat forward with you still straddling his lap. Your back hits the steering wheel and the horn blares. 

You jump at the sound. 

“Fuck,” you mumble.

He laughs. 

“Go on,” he says, helping you clamber back to your seat. “‘Fore the neighbors come out.” 

He drags his jeans back up while you settle in your seat. Re-does his zipper and his buttons. He leaves his belt on the floor, coiled somewhere by the brake pedal, and he doesn’t bother tucking his flannel back in. He rakes a hand through his hair and it still comes out tousled. 

“Jesus,” he mutters, with a glance in the mirror. “You made a fuckin’ mess.” 

You shake your head. Roll your eyes. But he does look wrecked, thanks to you, and you’re smiling when he puts the truck in drive. You pull your pants back on and push the ache between your legs out of your head and tell yourself it’s fine — you don’t have to cum every time. You can let him be the mess, once in a while. 

He looks over at you, nestled in his seat. He leaves one hand on the wheel and drapes the other on your thigh. Squeezes, gently. 

“Good?” he murmurs. 

Kind of a loaded question. You don’t know if he’s asking about the frantic, heady car sex, or the hot fucking mess that came before it, or just — all of it, in general. 

“Yeah,” you say, quietly. You put your hand over his. Trace the fading bruises on his knuckles. “Good.” 

— 

The second half of the day is significantly better than the first. You almost forget about Laurie and her stupid white-sneaker, white-knight nephew. 

Joel takes you back to the hotel to change, because it’s muggy as hell and all your clothes smell like sex — and you pick out a sundress that makes him swear. He puts on the same t-shirt you’d stolen from him this morning, and you’re willing to bet it’s cause it still smells like you. And then he rakes a comb through his hair, and when he looks a little less wrecked and a lot more presentable he takes you back out. 

He suggests the riverwalk and you couldn’t care less, so you ditch the truck and walk the three blocks there. It’s hot out, and humid, but he holds your hand the whole way there. So it’s worth it, you think. You’d walk six more blocks and be a whole lot hotter if it meant you could keep him this close. 

And — when you get there — you have to admit he was kind of right. It is cool. There’s live music playing everywhere you look. People with guitars, and mariachis, and keyboards on colorful carpets. Open-air restaurants sprawled on the water’s edge. Packed boats drifting by on black water. 

He’s two for two on date locations. You tell him as much while you walk. 

He smiles. You think he looks proud of himself. 

“You really never been here?” he asks. He lets your hand go. Drapes his arm around your shoulder, instead. 

You shrug. “Maybe on a school trip or something,” you say. “But, like, way back. Nothing I remember.” 

He grunts. He leans into you; kisses the crown of your head, and your heart sparks. 

“Show ya around, then,” he drawls. “Make sure you remember this time.” 

You don’t think that’ll be a problem. Every second of the last two days is burned like a brand on the inside of your brain. The way he tastes, the way he smells, the sound of his voice when you kiss him awake. 

You press closer into his chest. “Don’t think I’ll forget,” you say, softly. 

—

You walk until the sun sets. He even convinces you to get on one of those stupid tourist boats that drags a lazy route up the river. 

“I look like a tourist,” you whine, when he drags you onboard. 

“You are a tourist.” He takes his phone from his pocket and points the camera at you. You scowl. Mostly to hide the smile that’s creeping up your throat. 

“Smile,” he says. 

You try to scowl deeper and you crack. He snaps a picture when you laugh — a couple, you think, of you against the river in that flowy little dress — and smiles half to himself when he swipes back through them. 

The boat starts down the river, slow. It’s kind of nice, actually. It’s cooler on the water, and the lights from nearby restaurants make the surface shimmer. You push yourself off the railing and hold your hand out for his phone. 

“Lemme see,” you say. “The pictures.” 

He swipes his phone open and shows you. You cup a hand to the screen and squint. 

“You need to work on your skills,” you say. “My eyes are closed in half of these.” 

He grunts. 

You go to hit delete on the worst ones and he practically rips his phone away. Tucks it back in his pocket. 

“What?” you say. “I’m just — lemme get rid of the bad ones.” 

He looks at you. Frowns. 

“Ain’t any bad ones,” he says, and he sounds so sincere it makes your heart hurt. “Not ‘a you.” 

Your cheeks heat. You shake your head. 

“Fuck off,” you mumble.

He gives you a crooked smile. He puts his chest to your back and loops his arms up around you. You wrap your hands around the steel rail, watching the water, and his chin comes to rest on your shoulder. His stubble grazes the curve of your jaw. 

“I mean it,” he says, after a minute. You can see his reflection when you stare down at the water. Interspersed with twinkling lights. “Y’look — you’re beautiful.” 

You thought it was enough he called you pretty, way back on the Fourth of July. This is something else entirely. This is soft and warm and almost shy, whispered gently over water. 

You turn halfway in his arms. When you catch him in a kiss he murmurs low against your lips. 

“Joel,” you say. 

“Yeah, angel.” 

You look at him. Swallow. If you did work up a nerve, you’ve already lost it. 

“I don’t know,” you mumble. 

He’s quiet. His fingers stroke back your hair. 

“S’okay, baby,” he says. “I know.” 

— 

He takes you to dinner, too. 

After the boat. When the sun is gone, and the air is cool, and your skin is flushed pink from his touch. You pick a random place — the first one you see, with a chalkboard menu set out by the river — and take a table outside. 

He gets a whiskey and you get a cocktail. One of those fun fruity ones, with the little pink umbrella floating on top. He teases you, mercilessly, until you shove the straw into his mouth and tell him to try. And then he shuts up. 

“See?” you say. More than a little smug. “It’s good, huh? Better than your stupid whiskey.” 

He frowns. Takes an unhappy sip of his own drink. 

“Shut up,” he says. 

You laugh. 

The rest of dinner is comfortable. Easy. He talks about Sarah and he asks about school. He asks a lot of questions — like, a lot, as far as Joel goes — and you think he just likes to hear you talk. He’s got a quiet, happy smile scrawled across his face when he listens to you. Like a cat in the sun. 

And then — of course — his phone rings, just as you’re finishing up. He sets his fork down on his plate and stares at the screen. 

“Your dad,” he says, flatly. He shows you the phone and you frown. Shrug. 

He picks up. Pulls the phone back to his ear. 

“Yeah,” he says. 

You put your own fork down. Watch his face, while he talks to your dad. He doesn’t give much away — the occasional sniff; a short nod of his head, a tap of two fingers on the white tablecloth. You’re not sure why your pulse is pounding. 

“Yeah,” he says, again. “Sure. It was fine.” 

There’s a long silence. Joel scratches at his stubble.

“Dunno,” he says. “’S a big job. Said she’d get back t’me.” 

You look at the ground. Your face heats. Joel says something else — a few more things, noncommittal and stereotypically short — and hangs up. He stares at you across the table. 

“What’d he want?” you ask, dully. 

“Checkin’ in,” he says. “Wants t’know ‘bout the job.” 

“Mm.” You push some food around. “What are you gonna tell him? When we get home?” 

“Dunno.” He blinks. “I’ll think ‘a somethin’.” 

You nod. 

“Hey,” he says, softly. “S’okay.” 

“Yeah,” you say. You nod again. Lift your gaze, to look at him. “Yeah.” 

Your own phone buzzes. You glance down at your lap and Hayes’s name lights up the screen. 

“Fuck,” you mutter. 

“That kid again?” 

“Yeah,” you say. “Fuck. I’m just — I’m just gonna block him.” 

Joel nods. You swipe your phone open and navigate to Hayes’s contact. You block his number and then delete his whole text thread — just like that, without even reading whatever shit he’s just sent. 

“There,” you say. You put your phone down on the table, face-down. Lean back in your seat, and swirl your pink umbrella. “Should’ve done that a week ago.” 

Joel hums. He takes a sip of whiskey and watches you across the table. 

“What’d he say?” he asks, quietly. “Today. At the house. When you — ‘fore you came back in the office.” 

“Hayes?” 

Joel nods. 

“Oh,” you say. You swallow. “I mean — nothing. It was just — he was being a dick.” 

“But it bothered you,” he says. 

“Not — I mean, yeah, but not —” you fumble, “—it doesn’t matter.” 

“Matters ‘f it bothered you.” 

You’re quiet. Joel is, too. Hayes’s voice rings in your ears. 

It’s sick. 

“He…” you poke the pink umbrella in your drink with your pinky.  “I don’t know. He said you were…” 

Your waitress crops up at your table like a gopher. She re-fills your water, then Joel’s, and there’s a pregnant, suffocating silence. You smile politely and wait til she goes. 

You reach for the water. Your fingers tremble on the glass.

“He said a bunch of shit,” you say, quietly. “That it was — sick, what we’re doing. That you’re — that you don’t actually lo—I mean, that you’re not—that it’s not real. That this isn’t real.” 

Joel is silent. You shake your head. 

“It’s just bullshit,” you say. “He’s — it’s just bullshit.” 

He blinks. Settles back against his seat. Your eyes drag up to his, and there’s something pleading in your stare. 

“It is bullshit, right?” you ask. “I mean, this is — it’s real, right?” 

He swallows. You watch his breath catch in his throat. 

“It’s real,” he says, softly. “You’re—”

His jaw flickers. You watch him wrestle with the words. 

“It’s real,” he repeats. “It’s a fuckin’ — it’s a mess,” he huffs, and he almost smiles, “but, yeah. Fuck. It’s real. Ain’t nothin’ as real ’s this.” 

You take a breath. Laugh, lightly. His fingers touch yours, splayed out across the table, and your skin sparks at the contact. 

“Fuck,” you mutter. “Kind of a day, huh?” 

He shrugs. 

“Rough start.” He smiles. “Think we saved it, though.” 

You grin. Bury your nose back in your drink. The check comes and he pays, with the same worn, weathered wallet he’s had since the dawn of time — and then he stands and takes your hand. He leaves a crumpled tip on the tablecloth and you take the long way back to the hotel — up the bank and along the river, so he can watch your face under the moon and your reflection in black water. And so he can drag you close, and kiss you, and tell you you’re beautiful again and again and again when the stars paint you both silver. 

—

You do eventually make it back to the hotel. Eventually. 

You don’t want the night to end, so you pretend you’re not tired, but the truth is you’re exhausted. It’s been a fucking day. You kick your shoes off, and your dress, and you tug another one of Joel’s shirts over your head. And then you take one look at the fluffed-up duvet, and the thousand pillows stacked like ski hills — and you curl up on the sheets like a kitten. 

Joel’s right behind you. He climbs up beside you in just a pair of black boxers and the mattress dips under his weight. You stretch out and move closer, wriggling into his chest. He strokes thick fingers through your hair and you feel him hum. 

He reaches for the remote with his free hand and clicks the TV on. That stupid hotel information channel blares quietly. Color swims across the duvet. 

“Mm,” he mumbles. “What d’you wanna watch?” 

“Don’t care,” you yawn. You turn your face out of his chest, a little, to squint at the TV. “Haven’t watched cable TV since I was, like, five.” 

You can feel his eyes roll. You smile into his skin. He draws you closer to his side and flips aimlessly through channels. 

He pauses on one. American Pickers. You can’t even see the screen, the way you’re buried in his side, but you’ve spent enough time with your dad to know this shit when you hear it. 

“No,” you say, sharply, when you feel Joel perk up. “No. Absolutely not.” 

“Thought you didn’t care,” he says. 

“Yeah, well.” 

“You ain’t even watchin’,” he complains. 

“No.” 

He grumbles. Keeps surfing. 

“Storage Wars,” he says. 

“No.” 

“Ooh,” he says — like an actual, genuine ooh — “Pawn Stars.” 

“Oh my god,” you groan. You turn further into his chest. “I’m going to sleep.” 

“Alright,” he says. “Jesus. Fine. Here.” He clicks at the remote. “Here’s fuckin’ — don’t know what the hell this is.” 

You lift your head. Sigh in relief. You snatch the remote from his hand and crank the volume. 

“Fuck yeah,” you say. “Say Yes to the Dress.” 

“Oh, Christ,” he mumbles. But he doesn’t put up a fight. If you weren’t pressed so tightly against him right now you’re pretty sure you’d see him smile. 

You watch for a while, too tired to talk but too stubborn to sleep. You draw lazy circles on Joel’s stomach with the tip of your finger, dipping occasionally to skim the waistband of his boxers. He tenses up when you do that. Every time, like a reflex. His skin prickles and his breath pulls, and then you drag your hand back and he relaxes. 

He strokes aimlessly at your hair. His heart beats hard and strong under your cheek. He makes an inane comment every few minutes, directed at the screen, and you stifle your laugh in his chest. The bride on-screen tries something on — some cream, fishtailed monstrosity — and you feel Joel shake his head. She tries on another and he grumbles. 

“Jesus,” he mutters. “Poor lady. Got no goddamn taste.” 

You giggle. Your nose scrunches in his skin. His arm tightens, clutching you closer, and he buries a kiss at the crown of your head. 

“Mm,” he mumbles. “Somethin’ funny?” 

“You,” you say. “You’re cute.” 

“I’m cute?” 

“Yeah.” You drag a finger down his chest. You pause at the hem of his boxers and he stiffens almost instantly. “You’re cute.” 

He twitches, almost imperceptibly. Your hand drifts lower, just a little bit lower, and he sucks in a breath. His cock swells against fabric. 

He stops your hand when you reach for his lap. Wraps your wrist up in that soft-steel grip. 

“’N you’re a liar,” he says, softly. 

Your brows furrow. 

“I’m a—” 

“Liar,” he echoes. He cocks his head. Rolls his tongue across his teeth. “’N not a very good one, either.” 

You blink. You’re about to ask him what he means when he pins your trapped hand to the mattress and rolls on top of you. The TV drones somewhere behind him. 

He gathers up your other hand and pins them both above your head. He’s so fucking big, all of him. Just one of his palms folds easily over both of your wrists. You squirm a little, yelping his name, and he ignores you. His shirt rides up your hips when you wriggle in the sheets. 

“Joel,” you mumble. You’re not so sleepy anymore. 

He spreads your legs with his knee. His free hand slips between your thighs. You’re not wearing any underwear — just his shirt, and nothing else — and the realization makes him swear. He swipes his thumb up your slit, gathering slick, and his eyes go dark when he feels how fucking wet you are. How wet you’ve been all day, since you almost — almost — came in his car. 

“Asked you ‘f you came, in the car today, ’n you said yes.” He rolls his thumb over your clit and your hips buck into his hand. “But that ain’t true, is it?” 

You say something incoherent. He presses down with his thumb, lighting up a thousand nerves, and you bite so hard on your lip you taste blood. 

“No,” you squeak. 

“No,” he echoes. “Poor baby. You’re fuckin’ soaked.” The pressure on your clit lets up, and he cups your cunt with his warm hand. Your hips roll. You grind into the heel of his palm, desperate for friction, and he gives you fucking nothing. 

“Why didn’t you let me take care ‘a you?” he whispers. 

“It’s—” you squirm. He holds his hand stubbornly still, buried between your thighs, letting your slick soak his fingers. 

“Just wanted — wanted you to feel good,” you say. And it’s true. You just wanted to be close. You just wanted him. 

He’s not having that, though. Of course he’s not having that. 

“Don’t feel good ‘less you cum,” he says, softly. 

You’re quiet. His black eyes search yours. 

“S’okay, angel,” he murmurs. He drags two fingers through your folds and crooks them at your entrance. “Let’s fix it, yeah?” 

Your hips jerk. You wriggle uselessly, rutting into his palm. Your trapped wrists whine under his hand. 

He fucks you slow with his fingers. Excruciatingly slow. You can feel his pulse, when his wrist flexes between your thighs. He splits you open on his knuckles and you welcome the stretch. 

Your nails dig into your palms. You’d scratch him, if you could touch him. But you have to use your words — beg him over and over to go faster, deeper — and he doesn’t fucking listen. He likes watching you squirm. Maybe this is what you get for lying. 

“C’mon,” you whimper, “Joel, please—”

He goes even slower, if that’s possible. His fingers curl deep inside you and he pumps a lazy, languid rhythm.  

“Fuuuck,” you groan. You push up against his hand; try to fuck yourself on his fingers, but you’re pretty much pinned. The hand on your wrists makes sure of that. 

“Please,” you repeat. “No more lying. Won’t do it again, I swear to g—god, Joel, fuck, — please—” 

He drags his fingers out of you. You throw your head back and try not to curse him out. 

But then he’s letting your wrists go, and rolling off of you, and shuffling down the sheets to sprawl out on his back. 

You blink. Rub at your wrists. He pats his chest — come here — and you climb into his lap a little uncertainly. His cock strains against his boxers. It nudges your ass when you straddle him, prodding you through cotton, and he bites back a groan. Butterflies swarm your core. 

“C’mere,” he says. Pats his chest again. 

You hesitate. You’re not really sure what he wants. You shuffle forward a little, off of his lap and away from his cock, and hover over his stomach. He huffs. 

“Jesus,” he mutters. “Come here.” 

He grabs your hips. Not — rough, but a long way from gentle. He drags you higher, over his stomach and the flat plane of his chest, maneuvering your hips until they’re dripping over his mouth. 

You suck in a breath. Your legs tremble. You’re trying not to drop your whole weight to his face. But the grip he’s got on your thighs, pulling you down — says that’s exactly what he wants. 

“Sit down,” he growls. 

“I don’t —” You hesitate. The ache between your legs burns, and his mouth is inches from your cunt, and you want to sink down onto his tongue so fucking badly but you’ve never actually done this before. Not — not like this. 

“I’ve never...”

“Sit down,” he repeats. His drawl goes straight to your core. “’N make yourself cum.” 

Your breath sharpens. Stills. He parts his mouth — licks his lips, like he’s starving — and the gesture is so obscene it almost makes you moan. 

You can’t think straight. The throb between your legs is borderline painful. So — fuck it. You sink down, onto his mouth, and — 

“Holy fuck,” you yelp, “Joel—” 

He’s busy. His tongue is buried in your folds, licking up your sea, and his nose bumps your clit. The contact makes your hips roll, almost involuntarily. You grind against his face and he rewards you with a low, hungry sound at the back of his throat. 

He drags his mouth away for a split second. 

“Do that again,” he says. 

You hesitate. He doesn’t. He puts his hands on the backs of your thighs and rocks your hips forward, against his lips and his tongue and his nose, setting a rhythm that makes you tremble. When you’re sure he’s not gonna suffocate, or — when you kind of stop caring whether he does — he takes his hands away and you do it yourself. You put your palms out on the headboard and roll your hips into his mouth. 

And when you start to stumble a little, and the heat in your core pulls so tight you almost snap, he helps you. He dips the tip of his tongue into your cunt. Lets you ride him like that, with his soaked tongue licking deeper. 

“Oh my god,” you breathe. “F—feels so f-fucking good, Joel, fuck, I’m gonna—” 

He hums his approval, with his tongue still buried in your cunt. You cum across his face and he fucks you through it, lapping you up with soaked lips and dark eyes. It’s filthy — it’s filthy — and when you open your eyes long enough to look at him he’s completely fucked. His cock is straining at his boxers, somewhere underneath you, and you’re sure it must be downright painful at this point but he doesn’t seem to notice. Or he just doesn’t care. 

You start to lift your hips off his face and he tugs you back down. You yelp. 

“One more,” he says. 

He wraps his teeth around your swollen clit. Applies gentle, gentle pressure. Enough to rip his name from your throat. 

“I—fuck,” you pant. “I can’t.” 

“Yes you can,” he murmurs. “Y’owe me, angel. One for this afternoon—” he licks a stripe up your seam, and you writhe, “—’n one for tonight.” 

Your head tips. You brace shaky hands back on the headboard. 

This time he does the heavy lifting. He pays exclusive attention to your clit until you’re squirming, and chanting his name, and it’s this close to being too fucking much. He pulls you right to the edge and holds you in place with his hands on your hips. When his tongue slides inside you again, dipping warm and wet and wicked into your cunt — your second orgasm hits you so hard you see white. 

He doesn’t wait for you to come down. He flips you over right as you fall apart and drags his boxers down. His cock slides inside you and you’re so fucking soaked he bottoms out in a single thrust. You whine his name, somewhere between your own shaking, shallow breaths. He manages a few frantic thrusts, but he’s already dripping pre-cum, and he’s impossibly hard, and your muscles are choking his cock. The end of your orgasm drags out his own and he spills inside you with a moan. He kisses you, hard, and you taste yourself on his tongue. 

“Fuck,” he mumbles. His cock throbs inside you. You squeeze around him and he groans into your neck.

You’re vaguely aware that the TV is still on, blaring somewhere in the background. Say Yes to the Dress is long over. Chip and Joanna Gaines are demolishing a lake house on screen. 

He kisses you again. Slips out of you with a shallow breath. He rolls over onto his back, panting softly, and you nuzzle into his side. 

A few quiet moments pass. You put a palm to his chest and watch his breathing even out. He strokes a pattern up your back and you melt into his touch. 

“Um,” you say. “That was…” 

His fingers still over your spine. 

“Next time,” he murmurs, “tell me the fuckin’ truth.” 

You shift. You lay your chin on his chest and stare up at him. 

“Or what?” you say. “You’re gonna do that again? Cause if that’s the punishment…” 

He shakes his head. You tip forward to kiss him and his stubble rakes your jaw. 

“Impossible,” he mutters. 

“Shut up.” You smile into his mouth. You sink back against his chest, and you’re so fucking tired, all of a sudden. Your bones are heavy. You drape your leg over his and try to shuffle even closer. “You love it,” you slur. 

There’s a pause. Your brain jolts awake, and you think maybe you might have said too much. The wrong thing. You love it. You love me. 

But then his hand is on your back, again. Stroking lazy, aimless patterns. And his voice is honey in your hair. 

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Maybe.”  

—

You drive back to Austin in the morning. 

Joel buys you a coffee on the way back, and lets you listen to your music, and this time he sings along. Reluctantly, at first. But you wear him down, the way you usually do. You crank the volume on some shitty pop song until the windows on his truck start to tremble. You watch his scowl twitch to something like a smile. 

You make record time getting home. You kind of wish there was traffic. Like, the bumper-to-bumper kind that drags a ninety-minute drive into an all-day affair. The kind that would normally make you want to rip your hair out. But you fucking wish for it, now, because then you wouldn’t have to leave him so soon. 

You wonder if he feels the same. He’s almost impossible to read, and it’s not like he’s keen on sharing. Getting him to express an emotion is like pulling out a tooth. 

But he’d been quiet, this morning. Quieter than usual. He’d held you tighter than ever, when you’d woken up in his arms. Kissed your lips, and your neck, and your shoulder. You’d pretty much had to shove him off you, when you’d finally decided it was time to shower. And even then he’d followed you, into the bathroom and into the water, watching you with puppy-dog eyes and a sad little scowl. You’d let him shampoo your hair with silent fingers and wrap you up afterwards, in a towel and then in his arms. 

So, yeah. He might not say it, and you don’t press it, but — you think he’s bummed. You think he’ll miss you. 

You’re almost done with your coffee when he gets off the freeway. He pulls onto your street and you shove it in the cupholder, next to his scribbled cup from yesterday. You’d never thrown it out. His stupid drawing still stares up at you. 

Your heart tightens. He pulls into your driveway, behind your dad’s car, and puts the truck in park. 

He squints at his watch. Frowns. 

“He’s home early,” he says, with a nod to your dad’s car. 

You shrug. 

“Maybe he called in?” 

“Your dad?” Joel scoffs. “That’d be a first.” 

You shrug again. You’re kind of preoccupied, trying to say goodbye to Joel. You don’t really give a shit if your dad called in or not. But for whatever reason Joel seems intrigued. 

“I’ll check on him,” you say. “I’m sure he’s fine.” 

“Yeah,” Joel says. He sounds weird, you think. Strained. “Sure.” 

He tears his gaze back to you. His eyes soften. 

“I had fun,” you say, softly. “This weekend.” 

“Yeah,” he echoes. “Me too, angel.” 

You swallow. Your hand folds on the handle, but you don’t open the door. It’s like you can’t quite bring yourself to leave. To get out of his car. 

“Go on,” Joel says. He smiles. Nods again to your dad’s car. “Sure he missed ya.” 

“I’ll call,” he says, when you still don’t move. “Promise. Just — gimme a few hours t’get settled.” 

“Yeah,” you mumble. “Okay.” 

He watches you. He takes half a breath, like he wants to say something else, but he just — doesn’t. 

“I’m sorry again,” you say, quietly. “About the job.” 

He shakes his head. 

“Stop,” he says. 

“I’m just—” 

“Stop.” His eyes dart to the windshield, like he’s checking for the all-clear — and then he leans over the console. Kisses you, with his broad hand on your cheek. You mumble into his mouth and sink into his touch. 

He pulls back. Blinks. The taste of him settles on your tongue. 

“Fuck the job,” he says. 

You chew at your lip. Your pulse pounds at your throat. 

“Yeah,” you say, after a beat. “Fuck the job.” 

Your hand wraps around the handle and this time you do get out. You hop to the ground and squint at the sun, slinging your bag across your shoulder, shoving your phone to your back pocket. You weave between Joel’s truck and your dad’s car and make your way up the drive. Up your front porch steps. You turn around on your threshold and Joel’s already pulling out, reversing down your driveway, lifting two lazy fingers off the wheel in a subtle wave goodbye. And then he’s just — gone. He’s back across the street, pulling into his own drive, and you seal yourself inside before you can chase him. 

— 

Your dad isn’t in the living room. Which is weird, since that’s, like, the only room he lives in. Almost as weird as his car in the driveway at 11 am on a Monday. 

You drop your duffel in the entryway. Peer into the living room and back down the hall. 

“Dad?” you call. 

Nothing. You frown. He usually greets you at the door like a Spaniel. 

“Hello? Dad?” You duck into the kitchen. No dad, but there is a stack of plates in the sink. An empty Hamburger Helper package left out on the counter. So a sign of life, at least. 

“Hellooooo,” you singsong. You grab a glass from a cabinet and fill it up at the sink. You push the kitchen door back open. Wander out into the dining room. “I’m ho—” 

There he is. Sitting at the dining table. Elbows on the wood. 

“Jesus,” you say, a little startled. “You scared me. Did you not hear me calling you? I just got home, like, two seconds ago.” 

He doesn’t respond. Your brows furrow. You take in the whole scene — the slumped shoulders, the bags under his eyes. The four glass bottles of beer beside his hand, all empty, and the rest of the case on the floor by his feet. At least two more empties, from what you can see. 

You can smell it on his breath. On his clothes. In the stale, heavy air. 

He’s hammered. 

“Dad,” you say, a little uncertain. “What—”

“Where’s Joel?” 

“Um.” You set your glass down. Your breath crawls up your throat. “He went home.” 

He nods. He picks up the bottle closest to him and swirls the dregs. When he looks up his eyes are dark. 

“How was the trip?” he asks, quietly. 

“Yeah,” you say. “Yeah, it was — good. Are you—”

“How was the hotel?” he interrupts. “Room good?” 

He already asked you that. Yesterday. When he insisted on speaking on the phone. But you chalk it up to a full case of beer. 

“Um, yeah,” you say. “It was good.” 

“Good view, right?” he slurs. “The one I booked? S’posed to be a garden view.” 

You nod, slowly. 

“Yeah,” you say, again. “Good view.” 

He slams his bottle down. A crack snakes up the neck. 

“Why the fuck,” he asks, and you flinch at his voice, “—are you lyin’ t’me?” 

Your heart stutters in your chest. The blood runs from your skin. 

“What?” 

“Sit down,” he slurs. He points to an empty chair. 

You swallow. Feel it stick. 

“You’re drunk,” you say, cooly. Or at least — you hope it’s cool. You try to keep your voice even. “And I’m tired, actually, so—”

“Sit your ass down,” he snarls. 

You sit down. 

“Dad,” you say. 

He shakes his head. Takes a deep, unsteady breath. 

“You wanna go first?” he asks. “Or should I?” 

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Gojo's Past Arc - Then vs now

Where You Belong Masterlist

Prince Shoto Todoroki x Court Lady Reader

Warnings: Forbidden love, family tensions, mentions of abuse, angst, eventual smut, FLUFF LOTS AND LOTS OF FLUFF

A/N: hey everyone! I'm so happy for the positive reaction my poll got that helped me decide to post this lovely fic over here! The Ao3 link is still functioning if you prefer to read on that platform I will be updating my post soon. I hope everyone enjoys, I put a lot of soul into this piece!

Reblogs, Likes, and Comments are very much appreciated and treasured like gold ✨️

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

---

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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---

sensational; part ii

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

"How'd you sleep?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

This was the worst possible outcome.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nodded. "Show me? Please?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

Selfishly, Joel didn't much care.

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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