Dbf!joel Miller - Tumblr Posts

(S)CREAMING bro i’m a whore for dbf!joel

LATE NIGHT SMOKE

pairing: dbf!joel miller x f!reader

summary: while your parents are asleep, you sneak out into the garden to have a smoke. little do you know, your dad's best friend joel is staying the night.

warnings: pre!outbreak, smut, weed, dom!joel, dbf!joel, rough sex, p in v, fingering, degrading (slut, whore), sir kink, unprotected sex, creampie

note: im BAAACK, i know i say that after every fic but im fr this time i promise. anyway, here's a joel fic because i have loved pedro for so fkin long and him as joel is just perfect

You smiled to yourself when you finally heard your parents' footsteps climbing up the stairs and heading towards their bedroom. It felt like you'd been waiting years to go into the garden and spark up a joint.

Being as quiet as you could, you climbed out of bed and grabbed your dressing gown, wrapping it around you since it was a cold night and you were only wearing a pair of shorts and an oversized t-shirt. You were smart enough to preroll a joint, the tapping of your metal grinder would have probably alerted your parents.

After double checking you had a lighter in your pocket, you slowly opened your bedroom door and made your way downstairs, being as silent as possible. Once you had finally made it to the kitchen, you slipped on a pair of slippers you had near the back door and entered the garden.

The night sky was beautiful. It was clear, stars speckled the darkness like freckles and the moon shone bright. The air was crisp and cold, you were thankful you'd decided to bring your dressing gown. After sitting down on the wicker patio furniture, you placed the joint between your lips and lit the end, breathing back the smoke and fluttering your eyes closed as a calm feeling washed over you.

"You shouldn't be smoking that," a voice from the back door startled you, making your heart race as you whipped your head towards the voice. Your dad's best friend, Joel, was leant against the door, his arms crossed and a smirk playing at his lips, "Sorry, didn't mean to startle you,"

"I didn't realise you were staying the night," you spoke, your heart rate settling when you realised it wasn't some crazed murderer, "Don't tell my dad about the joint,"

Joel laughed, "Don't worry, we were all your age once,"

You smiled and motioned your head towards the seat next to you, "Care to join?" you took another hit of your joint, "Since your up anyway,"

"Might as well," he shrugged, stepping out from the doorway and taking a seat next to you, "Do you mind if i have some?"

You nodded, putting the joint between your lips and taking another drag before passing it to him. You couldn't help but watch as Joel smoked it, your cheeks heating up as he blew the smoke out. As wrong as it was, you had always had somewhat of a crush on Joel, but could anybody blame you?

Saying Joel was handsome was an understatement, the man was plain drop-dead gorgeous. There was something about his rugged, working-man look that made you so fucking turned on every time you saw him.

"You see something you like?"

Fuck, he had caught you staring. Heat rose to your cheeks and you stammered, "I- uh, sorry-"

"It's alright, darling, nobody here but us," he took another hit of the joint, "No need to act so shy,"

He passed the joint back to you so you chose to smoke instead of answering, making Joel raise an eyebrow, "It's rude to ignore somebody, y'know,"

You don't know what came over you, maybe it was the THC in your system, but you turned to look at him, "Maybe I do see something I like, what would you do?"

Joel let out a soft chuckle and shook his head slightly, "What would you want me to do, sweetheart?"

Heat rushed down to your core and you squoze your thighs together, taking another drag before leaning towards him. You mustered up every inch of courage before whispering, "This," and crashing your lips against his.

Joel immediately kissed back, he tastes of cigarettes and whiskey with a bit of weed and you couldn't get enough of it. Whimpering into the kiss, you deepened it, placing the joint on the patio table before wrapping your arms around his neck.

"Fuck, darling," Joel broke the kiss for a second, "You're gonna drive me crazy if you make noises like that,"

"What if that's what I want?" you chuckled before kissing him again, this time shifting so you were sat on his lap. He wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you closer to him, letting you feel his hard bulge against your clothed cunt.

Slowly, he moved one arm from around you and started to snake it up your thigh, the feeling of his calloused fingers against your bare skin making you even wetter. When his hand was centimeters away from your core, he stopped, pulling away from the kiss so he could speak, "Can I?"

"Please.." you whispered, giving Joel the go ahead to dip his fingers into your shorts. As soon as he made contact with your dripping cunt, you let out a soft moan, making sure to stay quiet as to not alert your parents.

"No panties?" he raised an eyebrow and moved the tip of one finger to rub at your clit slowly, "And you're already fucking soaked, such a slut for me aren't you?"

You bit you lip and nodded, your hands falling from around his neck and moving to grab at his shirt, "Y-yes,"

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, sir, such a slut for you," you whined, rutting your hips against his hand slowly.

"Atta girl," Joel grunted as he moved his hand down to slip two fingers inside you without warning, making you let out a loud gasp-like moan, "Fuck, Joel.."

"Gotta stay quiet, darling, I know it feels good but your parents are inside," he reminded you, his thumb planted on your clit. Biting your lip again, you nodded, screwing your eyes shut as Joel began to curl his fingers inside you.

"Look at you," he chuckled as he set a brutal pace, his thumb rubbing at your clit as his fingers pumped in and out of you, "Little whore, letting her dad's best friend finger her while he's asleep upstairs,"

You tried your best to stay quiet but Joel's filthy words alongside the heavenly feeling of his hand were just too much. You moaned loudly once again and Joel rolled his eyes, "So fucking dumb, stay quiet," he spoke through gritted teeth, "What would your mom and dad say if they caught us, hm?"

"It feels too good, sir," you whined, your hips rocking in time with him. A familiar heat began to bubble in your abdomen and you knew you were approaching your orgasm, "I-I'm close," you moaned as quietly as you could, your head falling against his shoulder, "Please, can I?"

Joel's pace got impossibly faster and you cried out, thankful the fabric of his shirt was able to muffle you. "Go ahead, princess, let me see you fall apart on my fingers,"

The older man was smart enough to cover your mouth with his hand as you came undone around him, a whoreish moan rolling off your tongue as your hips bucked uncontrollably, "Sir!" you cried out into his palm.

Sloshing sounds could be heard as he worked you through your orgasm, making you blush. "Good girl, fuck," Joel groaned as your release coated his hand, "Can you hear the fucking mess you've made, gonna have to throw these jeans out,"

He pulled his hand away and you looked down, blushing hard when you saw the wet patch on his blue jeans, "Sorry," you mumbled, slightly out of breath from your orgasm. Joel chuckled, placing a kiss just below your ear, "It's alright, you're gonna make it up to me, aren't you?"

You nodded eagerly, a quiet whimper leaving your mouth as he rocked his hips up. Not wasting any time, Joel grabbed your hips and lifted you off him, placing you on the seat before standing up, "You gonna be a good slut and let me fuck that tight little pussy, hm?"

Nodding once again, you wrapped your fingers around the hem of your shorts and pulled them down as he worked on his belt; feeling yourself somehow get wetter as you watched him pull down his pants to mid-thigh, giving himself just enough room to free his leaking cock, "Words, darling,"

"Yeah, gonna let you fuck me so hard, sir," your eyes widened when you saw how big his dick truly was. Joel had always radiated big dick energy, but this was insane. You were slightly worried that it wouldn't fit.

"You sure you can fit?" you gulped, your eyes flicking from his length to his eyes. Joel smirked, placing a hand on your knee and spreading your legs wide for him, "I'll make it fit, don't worry your pretty little head about it,"

A shaky breath rolled off your lips as he placed himself between your thighs, the tip of his cock resting on your clit, “So wet for your dad’s best friend,” Joel chuckled, moving slightly so his cock moved down to prod at your entrance, “What would he say if he saw us right now, hm?”

You looked down and shook your head, trying not the think about it. Another soft chuckle was heard from Joel before he placed a hand on your chin and forced you to look up at him, “He probably thinks your so innocent, he’s absolutely fucking clueless about the fact you’re a dirty slut for older men,”

“Joel..” you whined, wiggling your hips as you began to grow inpatient, “Please just fuck me already,”

“As you wish, princess,” The older man smirked and slowly began to sheath himself inside you, the slight burn of the stretch making you gasp and throw your head back. Joel grunted as your pussy sucked him in, the feeling of your tight walls against his cock just heavenly.

“Fuck, baby..” He breathed as he bottomed out, “This pussy is just perfect, can’t believe I waited this long to claim it,”

“So big,” you moaned softly, your hands flying up to tangle in his brown locks and pull you both closer together, “Wanted this for so long, sir,”

Joel placed one hand on your hip to help you wrap a leg around his waist and the other on the side of your face; his palm resting against your cheek and his thumb just under your pouting bottom lip, “You look so pretty stuffed full of my cock, babygirl,”

“Please move,” you spoke, your cheeks and chest flushed, “Don’t be gentle, fuck me with everything you’ve got,”

“You’re gonna regret saying that,” Joel smirked cockily before pulling out and slamming his hips forward, making you gasp and throw your head back.

Joel forced your head back so you could look at him, his thumb now pushing past your lips and into your mouth, “Eyes on me, I wanna see your face while I fuck you dumb,”

As you began to suck hungrily on his thumb, Joel set a brutal pace with his hips, angled perfectly so the tip of his cock was kissing your cervix with every thrust.

“F-fuck, so fucking good,” you mewled around his thumb, arching your back and grinding your hips slightly against his, the coarse patch of hair on his pubic bone stimulating your neglected clit perfectly.

“Look at you,” he cooed, moving his hand so it was wrapped around your neck, “Taking my cock so well like a good little slut,”

The name went straight to your cunt, a feeing starting to bubble in your lower belly, “Sir, I-I’m close,” you managed to say quietly, speaking being quite hard due to the hand wrapped around your throat.

“G’won, baby,” Joel groaned as he felt his own release begin to build up, “Cum for me like the little fucking whore you are,”

As soon as he moved the hand that was holding your waist and started to rub soft but fast circles on your clit, you saw white, a whoreish moan rolling off your tongue as you came hard around his cock.

“Gonna fill you up, fuck- have it dripping out of you and running down your legs,” Joel cried out as he felt your cunt squeeze him, his thrusts beginning to get sloppy as he approached his high, “Everyone’s gonna know who this fucking pussy belongs to,”

As soon as he finished speaking, Joel thrust his hips forward roughly, burying his entire length inside you as he came with a loud moan. You hummed in content as you felt his load full you up, “Fuck..”

Moving his hand from around your throat, Joel stroked your cheek softly before pulling out, a whimper leaving your lips from the loss of feeling full. You both looked down, a blush forming on your cheeks when you saw his cum dripping out of you.

“You better be on the pill,” Joel chuckled, running a hand up your thigh, “Or we’ll be in real trouble,”

---

OBSESSED OBSESSED OBSESSED 😭

blue skies

12.2k / dbf!joel x f!reader

official dbf!joel playlist

warnings: 18+, minors dni. alright y'all. you know the drill. age gap (reader is 23, joel is in his late 40s), dbf!joel, dom!joel, use of gags, spitting, fingering, oral (f! receiving (x2! get it girl!)), unprotected p in v, joel dressed in his slutty work clothes

a/n: this is it y'all. we made it. the (sort of) finale of dbf!joel, with many future one-shots to come. i wanna thank each and every one of you for coming along for the ride. it has been so, so much fun. you made my summer. i can't wait to explore their future with you guys.

i love y'all. thank you, seriously, from the bottom of my heart. your artwork, your analysis, your playlists and moodboards and shirts and a thousand other insanely creative projects that y'all have undertaken are extraordinary and they mean the WORLD to me. you all mean the world to me.

going forward, i'll be working on more projects, as well as adding to this universe with drabbles, one-shots, etc. i've already gotten some great requests, and i have some ideas of my own - but if there's anything you'd like to see my requests are always open. i'll try my best to make it happen.

i love y'all a whole lot. here's to many more adventures. 🤍 🤠

ALSO - my computer, or tumblr, or a combination of both rolled over and died when i tried to edit my taglist. so - no more taglist. going forward, follow @jrrmintfics and turn on notifications to see new fic postings!

this is part 13 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 | part 10 | part 11 | part 12

masterlist here. kofi here, if you wanna leave a tip :)

“I love you,” he mutters. Just low enough for you to hear.  “You’re just drunk,” you tease.  His hand tightens on your leg.  “No,” he growls. “I love you.”  You look up at him. His eyes are dark.  “How much?” you whisper. 

You don’t see your dad right away. You have this irrational fear he’ll be waiting in the entryway, coiled up behind the door like an overeager rattlesnake. So you’re wincing, a little, when you turn the key in the lock and ease your way inside. You’re waiting for him to pounce. 

But he doesn’t dart around the corner. He’s not waiting in the dark. He’s not in the hallway, or in the dim-lit lead-up to the dining room. You poke your head into the kitchen and he’s not in there, either. 

The house is quiet. Almost calm. 

You kick your shoes off. Climb upstairs. 

Your room is exactly how you left it: bed unmade, sheets tangled, clothes across the dresser — and it relaxes you, in some way, to know your dad hasn’t been in here. He hasn’t snooped. Hasn’t tried to piece things back together. He’s just — given you your space. 

You shrug your duffel off your shoulder. Kick it over to the bed. You set Joel’s duck down, on the edge of your nightstand, and tilt its tiny wooden head to face your pillow. 

You smile. Then you dig the two polaroids out of your back pocket — both of you, both filthy — and shove those in the depths of a drawer. All the way at the back. You set a book on top of them for good measure. 

And then you take a shower — like, a molten-hot, thousand-degree, skin-melting shower — because a cabin in the woods is nice enough but there’s nothing like proper, civilized water pressure. Temperatures that don’t run cold. Your own soap in the corner. 

It’s nice, until you step out smelling like strawberries instead of Joel. And then you miss that stupid fucking ice shower. 

You towel off. Pull on an old tee shirt and a pair of black sweatpants. You wander out to the stairs and peer over the landing. 

Your dad is standing at the bottom of the stairs. He’s got one foot on the first step and the other firmly planted on the ground. His hand is pancaked on his knee. The other dangles at his side. He looks like he can’t quite decide if he should start the trek up. 

You reel back half a step. Make a small, surprised sound. 

“I didn’t see you downstairs,” you say. 

“I was out back.” He pauses. The hand on his knee rubs a tight, nervous circle. “Didn’t hear ya come in.” 

“Oh,” you say. You blink. Water drips from your hair to your collar, soaking the fabric there. It winds ice-cold down your spine. “Yeah.” 

And then — because fuck it, might as well address the elephant on the staircase — you add, “—Joel dropped me off.” 

“Right,” he says, after an agonizing beat. “Okay.” 

But that’s all he says. He doesn’t lunge up the stairs. He doesn’t snap. His knuckles don’t curl and splinter the rail. 

He’s calmer, you think. Subdued. He nods deferentially when you start down the steps, a little tentative, and when you reach him at the bottom he moves aside to let you pass. 

“You, uh—” He clears his throat. “You leavin’ again?” 

“I don’t know,” you say. You let the silence hang. “Depends.” 

He nods, slowly. 

“I figured we could — talk first, at least,” you say. 

“Yeah,” he says. He takes his foot off the stairs. Plants them both back on the ground. You think he looks relieved. “Yeah, ‘course.”  

He follows you into the living room. You claim the couch and he takes a chair, close but not too close. He puts his hands on his thighs and drills his fingers into denim. 

You draw your knees up to your chest. Your jaw tightens and you work it slack. 

“Okay,” you say, finally. 

“Okay,” he repeats. 

“No screaming,” you tell him. “Shouting. Yelling. Whatever. If you raise your voice—”  your voice wavers, “—I’ll leave. Like — that’s it. I’m gone.” 

It’s more authoritative than you feel. You’re not used to laying down the law. That’s always been your dad’s job. 

But you’re dead fucking serious, and you guess he can tell. Because he nods, quietly, and repeats after you. 

“No screamin’,” he promises. 

You take a deep breath. So does he. 

“Joel and I—”

He stiffens. You ignore him. 

“I know it’s a lot,” you say. 

He chuckles. It sounds hollow. 

“It’s not what I expected,” you say. “I didn’t, like — I didn’t plan it. Neither did he. It just — happened.” 

“And it kept happening,” you say, before he can respond. Before you can lose your nerve. “It kept happening, because I wanted it to. Because he was — he was gentle, and thoughtful, and kind.” 

Your dad is quiet. He turns his fingers into fists and taps them once against his knees. 

“Joel Miller I know ain’t any ‘a those things.” 

You swallow, hard. Something brittle rises in your throat. Something defensive.

“Then maybe you don’t know him very well,” you say, softly. 

Your own fingers are balled into fists. 

Your dad is quiet, again. Then his fingers relax and he hangs his head. 

“Maybe not,” he says. 

There’s a heavy sort of silence. You watch your dad watch the ground. 

When he speaks he doesn’t lift his head. He addresses the carpet, instead of your face. But you hear him well enough. 

“He’s good t’you?” he mumbles, and the tops of his cheeks go red. “He’s — he’s good?” 

“Yeah,” you tell him. Your eyes sting. You’re not sure why. “Yes.” 

He nods absently. Strokes the crown of his knee. 

“Listen,” you say, and you think maybe you’ve got the hang of this whole setting boundaries thing, because your voice doesn’t tremble. “I know it’s — surprising.” 

Another laugh from dad. Another shake of his head you ignore. 

“I’m sorry I lied to you,” you say. “I am. But I’m not — I’m not sorry that I love him. And I’m not asking you to like it — believe me, you’ve made it perfectly clear that you don’t—” 

You take another deep breath. In. Out. 

“—but you have to respect me,” you say, quietly. “You have to respect this. And you cannot—” 

Here it is. The quiver in your throat, like a too-taut bowstring. Salt tears on your tongue. They spring up before you say the words, so you try again. Hushed, hissed. Angry. 

“You cannot — fucking — touch him.” 

Your dad looks up. You stare at each other. He’s got that deer in the headlights wrinkle in his brow. 

“I didn’t—”

“Don’t,” you snap. “Don’t do that.” 

He’s quiet. 

“He didn’t even fight back,” you say, softly. “He didn’t even touch you.” 

“You know why?” you demand. The tears shift: to the tip of your tongue, to the well of your eyes. You sniff them back. “You know why he didn’t?” 

He doesn’t answer. But he shakes his head. Just once. No.

“Because of me,” you say. “Because he didn’t want to hurt me.” 

That lands. You know it does. You see the words punch, right under his gut.  

“You get it?” you breathe. 

“That’s what he said?” he winces. “Joel?” 

“He didn’t have to.” 

He shakes his head. Puts his hands up to his forehead. 

“Fuck,” he breathes.  

“Yeah,” you say.  

“Fuck,” he repeats. 

“Yeah,” you say. 

“I — do,” he starts, in that awkward, stilted, dad-speak. “I do respect you. Y’know. You’re an adult. You’re smart as hell. ‘Course I respect you.”  

“Show me, then,” you say. “Respect this.” 

He hesitates. Nods. 

“Can’t promise I’ll like it,” he says. “’N if he puts one goddamn foot outta line —”  

“Dad.” 

“I’ll try,” he says. He nods, again. He sounds sincere. “I can — try.” 

It’s not picture-perfect. He doesn’t get down on his knees, and beg your forgiveness, and give you both his undying blessing. Sparrows aren’t singing the song of your reconciliation on the windowsill, à la Disney channel. You’re not hugging it out. 

But it’s something. It’s a start. And when you manage a very small, very tentative smile, he volleys it back. 

“Okay,” you say, softly. 

“Okay,” he agrees. 

You lapse back into silence. He drums at his knees. 

“Joel,” he says, finally, “is he…?” 

“He’s fine,” you say, and you still sound defensive. Thorny. There’s a prickle on your skin whenever Joel’s name leaves your father’s lips. “You fucked him up pretty good. But I —” 

I fixed him, you want to say. 

“He’s fine,” you say again, instead. 

“Good,” he says. “That’s good.” 

There’s an awkward beat. You’re not sure what to say. Mercifully — or, perhaps, the opposite of — your dad fills it for you. 

“’N you’re — bein’ safe, at least,” he fumbles. 

“Jesus, dad.” 

You shake your head. Your cheeks go pink, then red, then crimson. 

But, then — you laugh. Like actually, honestly, laugh. 

It’s such a monumentally fucking awkward thing to ask that the rest of the stuff — the heavy stuff — takes a backseat. The air between couch and chair lightens; loosens. Your hands slide off of your knees. 

“Ew,” you tell him. You’re laughing, still. “Stop. Stop. We’re — adults. Jesus.” 

He cringes. Holds up his hands in mock surrender. 

And then he laughs, too, and you feel like maybe the worst part is over. You’ve weathered the storm and your ship is still standing. You’re still in one piece. 

You think maybe — for the first time in weeks — things will be okay. 

Eventually. 

You both stop laughing, after a while. He sits back in his chair and rubs his face with his hand. Yawns, heavily, and then sighs. 

“You, uh — you goin’ out?” he asks. It’s casual — or trying to be — but you know what he’s asking. Are you going back to him?

“No,” you tell him. “Not tonight. Thought I’d stay here.” 

You pause. Nod toward the TV. 

“Maybe watch a — shitty movie, or something. See what Hallmark has on.” 

You see his eyes light up. The tentative twinkle. The way he tries not to look too eager. 

“Well,” he says. “‘Y’missed the rest ‘a Christmas in July. August they got a new thing goin’. The Wedding Veil. Six movies. ‘Bout a — magic weddin’ veil.” 

“Oh,” you say, snuggling back against the couch, “good. Sounds awful.” 

“Hey, now.” He shrugs. He loves those shitty fucking movies. “Don’t knock ‘em.” 

You smile. Shake your head. 

“You want some company?” he asks. “Gets a little confusin’ around movie three. Multiple magic veils, ’n all that. Might need an expert t’explain.” 

He looks hopeful. Slightly pitiful. So — 

“Sure,” you say. 

You lean over. Snatch a blanket up, off the edge of the couch. “You can make the popcorn.” 

Three weeks later — September 1st — you start a brand-new job in downtown Austin. 

Hours on LinkedIn, and Indeed, and fucking — Glassdoor — plus ten million copies of your resume circulated — and someone finally took the bait. 

It’s your dream job. A tiny publishing house, smack-dab in the middle of downtown Austin. It’s just a starter role — freshly post-grad, nothing fancy — but still. Still. 

It’s small, and indie, and eclectic as hell — hardwood floors and beanbag chairs and tinted, stained glass windows — but you love it. It’s yours. 

Joel buys champagne to celebrate. You drink it the night before your very first day, side-by-side on the foot of his bed, and when he takes your glass and tips you back against the pillows he tells you that he loves you. He tells you that he’s proud. He tells you how much fuckin’ smarter than him he thinks you are, and you have to shut him up.

You spend your first day at work hungover. You’re not sure if it’s the champagne, or just the lingering taste of him. 

You text him during your lunch break. You can’t help it. 

You: so far so good

You: kinda miss you, though 

You add a cheeky emoji he won’t understand. He texts back half a minute later — uncharacteristically fast — and you read his message in that tight-jawed gruff. 

Joel: Thought you were supposed to be working.

You: i’m on a break. ever heard of one?

Joel: Smartass.

You: asshole

Joel: Get back to work.

You smile into your hand. Text back, under your desk. 

You: yes, sir.

That’ll rile him up. You set your phone face-down and pretend to ignore it. 

He doesn’t respond for a good ten minutes. Your break is almost up when your phone buzzes again. 

It’s a picture. Of him. Your stomach flips and doesn’t settle. 

He’s at work. On a site, somewhere. You can tell — he’s outside, and there’s a stack of plywood planks against a wall behind him. It’s just his lower half in the frame. His toolbelt on his waist, slung low across his jeans. The tops of his work boots. There’s a glove on the floor, where — you assume — he’s ripped it off of his hand. To take the picture, maybe. 

His other hand is still gloved. You know, because it’s in the frame — cupping the outline of his very hard cock.  

You swallow. Your heart dances at the base of your throat. You can guess what he smells like -- leather, sweat, sawdust. You can guess what his face looks like, even though it’s not in frame. You can guess the snarled, desperate look scrawled out across his mouth. 

Thin ice, he writes under the picture. 

You grin. Your face goes hot. You shift a little in your chair, against the pull between your legs.

You: nice belt

You turn your phone off before he can respond. Get the fuck back to work. And it’s your dream job, sure, but — you count the hours until five. 

You spend the rest of that week — your very first week — commuting from your dad’s house. 

Well. That’s not exactly true. You spend two days of that first week commuting from your dad’s house. The other three mornings you wake up in Joel’s bed, and drink Joel’s coffee, and get driven to work in Joel’s passenger seat. 

It also just so happens that those three mornings — when you wake up in Joel’s shirt, and rinse off in Joel’s shower — are the same three mornings you’re almost, almost late to work. 

Which is pure coincidence, of course. It has nothing to do with the way he wakes you: shoulders bunched under the sheets, head bent between your thighs. It has nothing to do with the way he holds you, after: warm and safe and comfortable.

And if your lunch breaks are five, ten minutes longer than they should be — it has nothing to do with the texts that he sends you. The short, clipped — good girl — when you tell him you crushed that meeting. The scruffy selfie — of his face, this time — that he finally sends, on a Friday, after a full week of work and a full week of begging. 

It’s just coincidence. Or maybe just Joel. 

Two weeks after your first day — September 15 — you sign the lease on your brand-new apartment. 

Ten minutes from work. Fifteen from Joel’s. 

Your dad helps you with the first month’s rent, and a down payment on some furniture. You tell him you’ll pay him back, once the paychecks start rolling. He tells you not to worry. 

You’re good, now. You and your dad. Or — better, at least. Things were a little strained, in those few weeks before you moved out. The house felt crowded. Like it was — you, and your dad, and the constant, broad-shouldered specter of Joel Miller. 

So you’re glad you move out when you do. It’s time. You think your dad’s a little relieved, too. 

Plus — you’re psyched to have your own place. You’re excited. Almost as excited as Joel, when he steps over your brand-new threshold and sees just how much shit from Ikea needs building. 

“Hey,” you tell him, when you greet him at the door. “My first visitor.” 

You tilt up on your tiptoes to kiss him. He smiles into your mouth. 

“Got no furniture,” he drawls, when he follows you inside. He looks around — Ikea boxes, half-built-and-then-abandoned bookshelves.

“Gimme a break,” you say. “I’ve been living here for like, twelve hours. And this shit is — way harder than it looks. I tried to put the bedframe together at two in the morning.” 

His lips quirk. 

“And?” 

“I slept on the floor,” you grumble. 

He grins. 

“Good thing y’got an expert,” he purrs. He rakes a hand through his hair. Cocks his head to look at you. “What would ya do without me, I wonder?” 

You scowl. 

“I dunno,” you say. “Hire another hot contractor, probably.” 

He shoots you a look. His hand snakes out to grab your arm and he reels you into his chest. 

You protest weakly. Your laugh muffles in his faded t-shirt. 

“There’s a ton of stuff,” you mumble, with your mouth pressed to his heart. “Are you actually sure you don’t mind?” 

He huffs. His chin scrapes the top of your head. 

“Seriously, if it’s too much — I can do it myself.” 

“No y’cant,” he says, amusedly. 

You roll your eyes. He releases you, finally, and you pull back reluctantly. 

“Okay, well. I can always ask someone else.” 

“No y’cant,” he repeats. That measured, silken drawl. He shakes his head. 

“Will you shut up?” he drawls. He puts his hand to your cheek. Tucks a strand of runaway hair behind your ear. 

“This is nothin’,” he says, with a nod to empty floors and moving boxes. “Nowhere I’d rather be.” 

His hand stalls on your cheek. His thumb strokes an aimless pattern there. 

Your face warms. A smile tugs at the edge of your mouth. 

“Build the bed first,” you tell him, softly. 

His brows quirk. 

“Why?” 

You shrug. Lean into his hand. 

“Faster you build it, faster we can break it in.” 

His eyes glitter. Brown, black. A muscle jumps in his jaw. 

“That a promise?” 

“If you do a good job.” 

He drops his hand. Rolls his shoulders. He looks cocky, you think. Smug.

“Always do a good job,” he says. “‘M a professional.” 

“Oh, yeah?” 

You toy with his shirt. Drop your hands to his belt. Your finger drips through a loop in his jeans. 

You don’t even have to touch him, really. He’s that responsive. He’s that fucking — desperate, for you. He hisses softly through his teeth. His hips buck into your hand. His cock swells at the seam of his jeans. 

You squeeze, gently. Just enough to make him groan. 

Then you drop your hand, and take half a step back, and smile at his snarled scowl. 

“Better get to work, then,” you say. 

You hear him swear when you turn your back. Soft. Almost-silent.

“What was that?” you call. 

“Nothin’,” he grumbles. And then, after a beat, “—said y’drive me fuckin’ crazy.” 

“That’s the idea,” you chirp. You pause, on your way into the kitchen. Put a hand out on the doorframe. “Don’t forget the bed.” 

He grumbles again. You grin. 

And then you let him get to work. 

He puts that bed together in a hurry. 

You check on him every now and then. And by every now and then you mean, like — every five minutes, propped in the doorframe with a smirking little smile. He’s rolled his short-sleeve even higher. It’s kind of shamelessly slutty: the sweaty brow, and the work-sloughed hair, the corded muscle-under-tee-shirt look he’s sporting. You can’t help looking. And he can’t help noticing, after the third — or fourth — or maybe fifth time you stop by. 

He turns. He’s on his knees, hammer in hand, and he’s got that worn toolbelt slung low across his waist. The same one from that fucking selfie, just a few weeks back. 

He blinks at you, long and slow. Nods at the frosted cup in your hands. 

“That for me?” 

“Oh.” You look down at the cup. Then back up at him. You do have sort of a vague recollection of filling it up for him, somewhere between check-ins three and four. 

“Yeah,” you say. “Sure.” 

You walk it over to him. He sits back on his knees and lays the hammer down. Swipes his hands off on his jeans. When he takes the glass his fingers nudge yours. 

You watch him down the whole glass in one go. When he’s done he sets it down, on your newly-built nightstand — and offers you a crooked smile. 

“Y’know, ‘f you’re just gonna stand there—” He nods to the doorframe. You blush. “—y’could get down here. ’N help.” 

You consider this. 

“No, thanks,” you say, after a beat. “View’s better from here.” 

He tries not to smile. It’s not very successful. And you should really let him work — the sooner you leave him alone, the sooner you don’t have to sleep on the floor — but you can’t help it. You cross the bedroom in a few short steps. Cup his face in your hands. 

He looks up at you, eyes dark. His knees dig into the floor. 

“Stand up,” you say. 

He gets up. His jeans crinkle. His belt droops, tools clinking. His shirt is damp with sweat. 

You’d been taller than him, just a second ago, when he’d gazed up at you from his knees. It’s easier to boss him around, like that. When you’ve got his chin between your hands. But now that he’s up he towers over you, black eyes gleaming, hands flexing at his sides. 

Your pulse flickers. Heat pools between your legs. 

“Kiss me,” you say. But your voice is softer, now. Thinner. It doesn’t sound like a command, so much as a plea. 

His lips curve. He’s suddenly very — very — close to you. 

“Ain’t finished,” he murmurs. 

You look past him, at the bed. It looks more or less finished to you. There’s a frame. A headboard. A mattress. And — sure, a few screws still scattered on the ground, but — 

“Yeah, you are,” you mumble. 

You pull him closer. Put your fingers in his hair. He groans a little, when you tug at his roots and tip his mouth to yours. 

“Fuck,” he growls. His breath paints your skin. Soft, smoky. He kisses you again — messier, more desperate, and his tongue swipes your lower lip. He licks into your mouth and you melt to his chest. 

You rake your hands up his sides. Make fists in the fabric there. You yank at his shirt and the cotton rides up. 

He breaks your kiss. Just for a second. Just to peel his shirt off over his head. 

He throws it somewhere in the corner. It hooks the edge of an unopened box and crumples there. 

Then he looks at you, smirking slightly, and you stare right back. 

Toned chest. Tanned skin, shiny with sweat. The toolbelt on his waist makes his jeans slouch, exposing the band of black boxers. 

If you put some suspenders on him — maybe oiled him up a little — he could probably star in one of those sexy fireman calendars. Full page spread. He’d be splashed across one of the sexy months, too. Like…June. Or October. 

You blink. His mismatched smile gets wider. 

“Go on,” he drawls. 

He tips his chin over your shoulder. To the finished-but-not-quite-actually finished bed. 

You stumble back until your legs hit mattress. Drop down with a breathless sort of sigh. There aren’t even any sheets on the bed. Nothing to grab, when he stands over you and nudges your knees apart with his. 

He reaches for his belt. You lean forward to stop him. 

“Wait,” you say. “Leave it.” 

He pauses. His hand hovers over leather. He almost looks confused, but then his gaze mellows out. Something more smug takes its place. More amused. 

“Really?” He hooks a thumb through the belt. His jeans droop lower. You can read the Calvin Klein scrawled in white across his boxers. “Y’like this, angel?” 

You swallow. His jaw flickers. 

“Y’do,” he drawls. He shakes his head. “Fuckin’ — filthy.” 

You tug at the toolbelt. He lets you drag him closer, til the tops of his thighs bump the edge of the bed. 

He drops his own hands from his belt. Holds them up, briefly, in an I surrender gesture. You win. The shirt is off, but the rest stays on. The leather toolbelt, the jeans, the work boots. 

For now, at least. 

He shifts focus to you. To your clothes, and the fact that you’re wearing entirely too many. 

You haven’t exactly dressed up — you’ve been unpacking all day, in a pair of denim cutoffs and a plain white tee. 

It doesn’t matter. The look he gives you is fucking — starving. Eyes black, lips parted. Shallow, hungry breaths. 

He drags his hands up your thighs. Hooks a knuckle in your waistband. 

“Up,” he says, gently. 

You lift your hips for him. Arch your back up, off of the mattress. He works your shorts off, over your knees, and tosses them by his forgotten shirt. Your panties, too. He slides them down, past your ankles, and lets them dangle from his index finger. 

Something — or someone — thumps above you. You both look up. 

“Y’got neighbors,” he muses. 

He closes his fist around your panties. You watch the fabric seep over his knuckles. 

“So?” you whine. It sounds a lot like please just fuck me already.

“So,” he drawls, “better keep ya quiet.” 

His smile spells trouble. His fingers flex around your panties. 

“‘Less y’wanna make a real strong first impression.” 

You’re not sure what, exactly, he has in mind, but the look he gives you makes your pulse race. You sink back into the mattress, propped up on your elbows, and watch him with a wide-eyed stare. 

His gaze drops: your eyes to your mouth. He nods. 

“Open,” he says. 

Your stomach flutters. You open your mouth, tentative at first and then wider, when he unfurls his fist and shoves your own soaked panties into your mouth. 

You whimper. Close your teeth around the fabric. They taste like you, and they taste like him: like the salt on his hands, stained into damp cotton. 

You mumble his name. It comes out muffled; muted. You breathe through your nose and watch him through hooded eyes. 

He wraps both hands around your calves and drags you closer. You lose your balance — your elbows go out, and your head thumps the mattress. You lie flat, legs spread, knees crooked over the edge of the bed. 

You’re panting. So is he. You can hear it, in the quiet. You see his chest rise and fall when he sinks to his knees. 

You lift your head off the mattress to look him in the eye. 

“Yeah?” he asks, softly. He’s got both hands wrapped loose around your ankles. His face is eye-level with your twitching hips. “Okay?” 

Yeah, you want to scream. Fucking — more than okay. 

But you can’t say anything, thanks to the makeshift gag across your tongue. You can’t tell him how badly you want him. 

So you just — nod, once, like — yes, fuck, yes — and drop your head back to the mattress. A muffled, mangled whine seeps under the gag. 

“Good,” he rumbles. He sounds satisfied. His voice is low, silk-smooth. “Good girl.” 

He bows his head, and you expect him to taste you. You expect his tongue, hot and slick and velvet-soft. You lift your hips; tip your chin to the ceiling. Whine, softly, when a minute passes and his mouth doesn’t land. 

And then you hear him spit — not onto his hand, like that night in the cabin — but directly onto your cunt. Your skin prickles; snaps. The heat in your core bubbles over. You drive your hips up toward his mouth and swear into cotton. 

He splays a hand across your thigh. Holds you down when your hips cant up. His other hand sneaks higher, playing with the mess he’s made. He rubs slick, soaked circles on your clit. Slides the tips of two fingers just barely — barely — into you. 

Your back arches. You call him every fucking name under the sun and none of it translates. His stupid panty gag works infuriatingly well. 

You resort to pleading, instead, which also doesn’t translate and which he also ignores. He takes his time. And when your pleas filter through — he goes even slower. 

He crooks his fingers. Drags them through your folds, agonizingly slow, and lets his spit and your slick drip down his knuckles. 

“Goddamn,” he marvels. “You’re fuckin’ — soaked.” 

“Mmph,” you whine. It translates roughly to fuck you.

Your hips writhe. You leave creased, crescent marks in the mattress where your nails dig in. 

His hand tightens on your thigh. Holds you firmly in place. He pushes two fingers inside you — his index, then his middle — and you make a choked, desperate sound. 

He slides in easily. You’re more than ready for him. Your muscles flicker, hugging his fingers, dragging him deeper with a sweet, stinging squeeze.

“Fuck,” he murmurs. His thumb works circles on your clit. Always attentive, even with his breath pitched and his eyes half-lidded. “Want it bad, huh?” 

“Mmmmmph,” you whimper. Longer. More plaintive. Something like — really, seriously, fuck you. For real.

He smiles. The edge of his lip turns up. 

“Speak up,” he says. “Can’t hear ya.” 

Your legs tense. Your stomach swirls, white-hot. You curse him out again, under the gag, and his smile goes lopsided. 

“Hang on,” he says. 

He leans forward. Tugs your panties out from between your teeth. 

You gasp. Suck in a breath. 

“You were sayin’?” he drawls. 

He’s so smug. So cocky. Your stubborn, logical, independent brain says — fuck you. 

Your mouth says — 

“Fuck me.” 

He grins. Stuffs the panties back into your mouth. Then he leans back on his haunches, between your thighs, and pries your legs apart with two broad hands. 

“You’re impatient,” he drawls. 

“Mm. Mmmph.”

His brows flick. He looks up at you, face framed between your thighs. The image makes your stomach clench. 

“Gimme a minute,” he says, and he sounds like he’s bargaining — even though he’s in control, even though you can’t speak, with your panties stuffed between your teeth. He sounds like he’s asking. “Wanna taste you first.” 

Your jaw screws tight. Heat floods your skin. You nod once — shallow, short. 

Yes. Fuck — yes.

His smile digs deeper. His eyes go dark. His head bows, curls dripping — and his tongue darts out to taste you. 

You yelp. Sharp, shrill. Your teeth grind into cotton. He’s still got two fingers buried deep inside you; crooked, soaked, tipped up against your g-spot — and now his tongue is on your clit. And it’s almost — fucking — too much. You have to pull your head up, off of the mattress, and tangle your hands in his hair. 

His tongue slides lower. His stubble rakes the seam of your thigh. You yank at his roots, dragging out a groan, and he pulls his mouth away. His fingers flex against your core. 

“Fuck,” he murmurs. “Y’taste good, baby.” 

He nods at your mouth. At your panties shoved against your tongue. 

“Yeah?” he drawls. “Ain’t that right, angel?” 

It’s the first time you’ve ever really tasted yourself. Apart from on his fingers, or on his lips. 

You look at him, wide-eyed. Nod, softly. 

“Yeah,” he mumbles. He looks pleased. “Taste like fuckin’ heaven.” 

His head dips, again. He licks a stripe up your clit and your eyes roll up, up, up — to the ceiling, to the lazy fan doing circles there. You let the heat in your core boil over, and when it starts to spill you call his name. 

It’s still muffled. Still muted. But he feels you tighten, fast, around his knuckles. He sees the way your skin starts to shiver. 

He lifts his mouth from your cunt. His lips are soaked, swollen. 

“You wanna cum, baby?” His fingers slow, notched inside you. His breath dances up your clit. 

“Yeah, y’do,” he murmurs. “Can feel ya.” 

You whine. He smirks. 

“You wanna talk?” he murmurs. “Wanna tell me how it feels?” 

You whine again. Writhe against him. His name filters through the fabric as a long, stuttered whimper.

“Poor baby,” he says. “Look so pretty like this, though.” 

Your legs tremble. You kick your feet out, lift your hips — anything to get his mouth back on you. Anything to get him to make you cum, please, right fucking now. 

He slides his tongue inside you. Drags it back out when your nails rake his hair. 

“’S alright,” he drawls. His eyes flick to meet yours. They look black. “You’re doin’ good, babygirl. You’re doin’ fuckin’ —”

Slips his tongue back inside you. Paints a rhythm with his fingers. Your head falls back and the ceiling fan starts to spin. 

“—good,” he purrs. “Real good.” 

He’s so vocal, right now. You remember when you couldn’t force a word out of him. Now you can’t shut him up, with his tongue wrapped up on you. 

So much for the neighbors, you think, absently, when he finds a pace that makes you limp. He’s making enough noise for the both of you.

He hits a spot — that spot — deep inside you, with his tongue and with his fingers — and you shout into the cotton. Fist your fingers in his hair. His smile curves somewhere against you. 

“Attagirl,” he says. “Let go.” 

You yank at his hair. A last-ditch effort to ground yourself, maybe. And then you’re falling apart, begging him close, and your knuckles go white with your vision. 

Fuck, you think. Holy fuck.

It comes out as a whine. Again. You think he gets the gist. 

You’re beyond wrecked, when he tips forward on his knees. You don’t feel him reach — across your scrawled, splayed shape — and rip the cotton right out of your mouth. 

In fact — you’re not even aware that your gag is gone, really, until you’re already pulling for a breath. Your jaw goes slack. Your whimper pitches. The taste of salt sweat isn’t staining your tongue. 

“F—” You drag a big breath in, through your mouth. Then another. “Oh my — god.” 

You try to sit up. The bed creaks underneath you. And not a — we’re fucking! — kind of creak. But, like — an ominous, something is broken — kind of creak. An oh no kind of creak. 

You stay perfectly, immovably still. But it’s too little, too late. Something shifts. The bed frame pops. The mattress groans, then slides to the left. 

You broke the bed. The bed Joel insisted wasn’t finished. The bed you insisted looked finished enough.

The headboard jerks. One of the screws screams loose.

Yep. Definitely broken. 

Joel blinks. He’s still on his knees, still on the ground, forearms still perched on the edge of the bed. 

“Shit,” he mumbles. 

You laugh. The bed squeals. 

He drags you off the bed before the whole thing crumbles. You half-fall, half-drop onto the floor beside him. 

You land in a heap. He rolls you over, onto your back, and hooks a leg over your waist. Swings his chest over yours. Your shoulders sink into the carpet. 

“I fuckin’—” he kisses your neck, your jaw, the side of your lips, “—told you—” 

—your cheek. Your nose. Your mouth, finally. 

“—it wasn’t finished.” 

You look up at him. His nose bumps yours. 

“It looked finished,” you say. 

He groans. Rolls his eyes. When he dips to bite your neck you rut your hips into his. 

“Really?” you whisper. “On the floor?” 

There’s a wicked smile dog-earing his lip. 

“Y’broke the bed,” he says. “So. ‘Less you’d rather wait t’fix it—

“No,” you tell him. “Floor’s good.” 

“Mmhmm,” he agrees. “Floor’s good.” 

So he fucks you on the floor, in your brand-new apartment, with your poor bed on life support two creaking feet away. 

He doesn’t tug at the hem of your shirt, and you’re grateful. Your back is on the ground, digging into carpet. You can’t imagine the rug-burn, if he were to tear it off. Although at this point — you’re not sure you’d care. 

He leaves an open-mouth kiss on the side of your throat, and the contact makes you shout. Fuck the neighbors. You’ll smooth it over later, with a — pound of sugar, or a cake, or whatever people bring over these days. You’ve never been much for first impressions anyway. 

He grinds his hips down into yours. He’s still got his jeans on, and his toolbelt, and his boots are digging wells in the carpet. You whine a little — at the scrape of denim and the rasp of leather on your skin. Your nails scrabble on the floor. You’re tearing up tufts of fiber, scratching the hell out of your brand-new carpet, but — you don’t care. 

You don’t care. 

You drag your hands up to his waist. Pull at the belt there. Now you want it off. 

“‘Bout time,” he drawls. 

He leans back on his knees and leaves you pulling for breath. He unclasps the belt and throws it carelessly to the side. The tools skitter across the carpet. You watch a Philips screwdriver roll under the bed. You try to reach for it and he swats your hand away. 

“Leave it,” he growls. 

Then he undoes his jeans — just the button, and the zip — and falls back over you. You hook a finger in his waistband and shove them down past his hips. His boxers, too. Just enough to let his cock spring free. 

You reach for him. Wrap a hand around his length. You squeeze at his base, drag your fist up his cock, and he groans. His hips stutter into your hand. 

You swipe your thumb over his tip. Precum soaks your fingertip, slick and glossy, and his jaw goes tight. His eyes droop. 

“Fuck,” he hisses. You drop your hand and he takes the lead; positions himself at your dripping entrance. The arm braced beside your head trembles slightly. 

“You want it?” he murmurs, and his voice sounds broken, like it’s taking everything in him not to just — fuck you senseless. You wish he would. 

“Yes,” you yelp. “Fuck. Joel. Pl—ease.” 

“How bad?” 

What the fuck, you want to scream. You writhe under him. Just please fuck m—

He slides into you. Just the tip. Your hips buck, begging him deeper. 

He doesn’t move. Your core clenches around him. Your skin bursts into flame. 

“Bad,” you pant, and it sounds like a plea. “More than — fuck — that.” 

“All of you,” you beg him, when he still doesn’t move. “Joel, pl—fuck, please, I want a-all of you.” 

He blinks. His eyes soften. He drags out of you, and your heart sinks — and then he’s flexing his hips, thrusting down into you, filling you up til your throat tangles. 

“Good girl,” he mutters. His jeans scuff your thighs. His cock nudges your g-spot, harder than his fingers, and you whine. “’S all y’had to say.” 

And then he kisses you, and your mind goes blank. Your legs fall wider and he fucks you harder, faster, curling his big hand in the carpet by your head. He’s got his teeth on your lip and his tongue in your mouth and he’s talking to you between kisses — little words, obscene things, begging you to let him hear it. 

Eventually you’re not really kissing — it’s too much work, and you’re both too distracted, and you can’t think straight with him this deep inside you. It’s just — messy, desperate — and when he hits something new inside you he swallows up your strangled moan. You bite down on his lip so hard you taste metal. 

“Fuck,” you gasp. There’s blood staining his lip. You bit him. “Fuck, sorry, I—”

He drives his hips down; fills you up. You whimper and throw your head back. So much for apologizing. 

You’re not sure he even notices. If he does he doesn’t care. He bends his head back to your neck, nipping at the thin skin there, and mutters low against your throat — 

“C’mon, baby. Lemme hear.” 

“What about the n—ngh—neighbors?” you pant. Your head feels foggy. Your eyes are glassy. Your limbs feel heavy but the rest of you is light, floaty, weightless. Like it’s all wrapped up in him. 

He pauses. Just long enough to punch out — 

“Fuck ‘em,” in that low, serrated drawl. 

“Fuck ‘em,” you agree, mindlessly. 

You tip your head back, onto the carpet. He snaps his hips, and bites down on your neck, and it’s rough and dirty and — on the fucking floor — but it’s always, always gentle. In that way that only he can be. 

He knows just how hard to bite, so he doesn’t draw blood the way that you did. He knows when to slow down, when your breathing starts to stumble. He knows how to talk you through it, when you fall apart — with soft, quiet praise and his lips on your jaw. 

He lets go, when you beg him to. When you run nails down his spine and plead with him to follow. His hips jerk and he spills inside you, muscles twitching. He rolls over — so he doesn’t crush you — and lays panting on his back across the carpet. 

You turn over, onto your side. Nuzzle into his shoulder. Then you sit up, and swing your leg over his chest, and this time it’s you climbing on top of him. You straddle his stomach and stare down at him, all messy hair and wild eyes and tired, sweat-slick skin. 

You put a hand to his mouth. Run a tentative finger past his lip. 

“I bit you,” you say. 

He lifts a brow. The corner of his lip twitches. You feel it, against your hand. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Should do it more often.” 

Your eyes shoot to him. He’s really smiling now — crooked, gleaming. He catches your hand in his and kisses your fingertips. 

You roll your eyes. Laugh a little, then a lot, when he rolls you back over and buries his nose in your neck. Your arms come up to wrap around his shoulders. Light, loose. You rake your nails through his hair and he smiles. 

You stay like that for a long time. On the floor, on that carpet, just — touching. Just — together. The shadows on the carpet get longer, darker. The sun outside your window wanes. 

“I guess,” you say, after a protracted silence, “technically, we did break the bed in.” 

He’s sprawled out on his side, somewhere beside you. He turns his head to frown at you. 

“Emphasis on broke,” you add. 

He shakes his head. Laughs. He gives a heavy sigh and you watch his eyes sparkle. 

“I’ll fix it,” he grumbles. 

“Mm.” 

You nuzzle closer, into him. Kiss his neck. 

“I’ll order some food,” you say. 

You eat on the floor, in the living room, with your backs to the couch. Chinese food. Takeout. There’s no table, yet, because Joel hasn’t built it. 

He was supposed to build it. Right after the bed. He was also supposed to build the coffee table, and the bookshelves, and the television stand, and a laundry list of other things you can’t remember right now. 

He told you he could do it in a day. He’s a professional. 

But that was before you’d distracted him. That was before he’d fucked you into the floor, and spent the better part of the late afternoon fixing the bed you’d already broken. 

So — yeah. You have no furniture, except for one half-finished, fixed, and then finished-for-real bed. 

It’s good enough. You don’t mind eating on the floor in happy silence, with a candle burning and the TV on. He can build the rest tomorrow. It gives him a reason to spend the night. 

Not that he needs one. 

“You know you’re gonna have to stay the night,” you tell him, matter-of-fact, when Say Yes to the Dress goes to commercial break. 

He tears his eyes from the screen. He’s got a beer in his hand and an egg roll two-thirds of the way to his mouth. 

“Yeah?” He blinks. His lips twitch. “How’s that?” 

“Technically, you’re responsible for breaking my bed,” you say. 

“I fixed your damn bed.” 

“Yeah, but it wouldn’t have broken in the first place if you hadn’t—” you make a vague, ambiguous gesture. He looks amused. “You know.” 

“Oh, so you didn’t like that?”

“I didn’t say that,” you snap, nudging his knee. You stifle a smile. “I just said it was your fault.” 

He hums. Sips his beer. 

“So. You owe me. You can build the rest of the shit in the morning.” 

He pretends to think this over. Munches on his egg roll. 

“We can start with the table,” you say. 

“Alright,” he says, finally. “I’ll help ya build your table.” 

He smiles. Boyish; wicked. 

“‘F ya help me break it.” 

Say Yes to the Dress comes back on. You snatch his egg roll clean out of his hand and finish it off in one bite.

“Deal,” you tell him. You nod to the TV. “Now watch.” 

Joel’s birthday rolls around almost two weeks later. September 26th. It’s a Friday, this year. 

Which is great, because the second you get off work — 5 o’clock, on the nose — you’re peeling into the Party City parking lot. And you’re peeling out with way too many balloons, and party hats that’ll make him groan, and a big red bow for his very top-secret, very surprise birthday present. 

Sarah texts you in the parking lot. You lean on the shopping cart and dig your phone out of your pocket. 

Sarah: CODE BLUE is go

You smile. Shake your head. 

You: you know you don’t have to use the code name when it’s just us

Sarah: but it’s fun

Sarah: top-secret mission

You roll your eyes. Laugh. Sarah texts again. 

Sarah: i’ll bring him over at like 8?

You: yeah

You hesitate. Your fingers hover on the keys. 

You: you’re sure he’ll like this?

She takes a while to respond. Your heart draws a lazy, nervous pattern in your chest. 

Sarah: that is literally the dumbest question ever

Sarah: YES.

Sarah: plus he loves you, so.

Sarah: you could get him, like, a brick and he’d still love it

Sarah: actually he’d probably love a brick. that’s like. some old man contractor shit

Sarah: it’s not too late. you could return the surprise. and get him a brick

You: please shut up

Sarah: love you

You grin. You push the cart forward, in the general direction of your car, and you’re so busy texting back love you, too — you don’t see a woman step directly in your path. 

She puts a hand on the front of your cart. You look up — yelp a startled, aborted apology —  and pull it to a stop. 

“Shit—” you stow your phone back in your pocket, “—sorry. Wasn’t paying attention.”

“Clearly,” she clips. 

You blink back the sun. It’s hot, still — September in Texas might as well be July — and the heat is lifting off the pavement. You have to tip your sunglasses down over your nose to see this woman clearly. 

Oh, you think, for fuck’s sake.

Alicia Simmons is standing in front of you, one hand on your shopping cart, faux-leather ankle boots planted on the pavement like a…nightmare mirage. 

Your nose crinkles. You do your best impression of a smile. 

“Alicia,” you say.

“Ms Simmons,” she corrects. 

You blink. She lowers her angled, vulture-nose and inspects the contents of your cart. A bouquet of brown-and-silver balloons. Party hats with the little foam toppers. A stack of bright red solo cups. 

“Having a party?” she asks. 

“Uh.” You shift uncomfortably. “Yeah.” 

You don’t like this woman. You don’t like the smug, botoxed swell of her cheeks, or her artificial twang — you’re pretty sure she’s from New Jersey — or her stick-straight, platinum-blonde hair, so bleached it’s almost white. You don’t like the way she sunk her claws into Joel on the Fourth of July, and again at that fucking movie night. But really you don’t like the way she looks at you, like you’re — expendable. Disposable. A very shaky rung on her very desperate ladder.  

She doesn’t have a cart, but she’s clearly on her way out of the store. She’s lugging two bags of plastic champagne flutes close to her chest. 100 per bag, for $14.99. You can see the price tags, peeking out between her fingers. You wonder if she’s hosting, too — or if they’re all for her. You don’t ask. 

“A birthday?” she probes. She hasn’t let go of your cart. 

You take your sunglasses off. Fold them up. 

“Yeah,” you say. 

“Joel’s,” you add, when she doesn’t fucking move. 

She takes a full step back. Her boots clackclack on the asphalt. 

“Joel Miller?" she asks. 

You squint. Nod. 

“Joel’s birthday,” she repeats. She looks puzzled, like she can’t quite square it. “That’s funny. He didn’t mention.” 

You bristle a little. 

Why the fuck would he mention? you want to ask. 

“Oh,” you say, instead. “Well.” 

“I ran into him the other day,” she says, by way of explanation. “I was on a walk around the block. He just happened to be in his driveway.” 

You’re met with a very vivid image of this woman lurking by her kitchen window, peeking through the blinds, waiting for Joel to emerge from his house. 

“Okay,” you say, again. You nudge your cart forward. Move. 

“He didn’t say anything about a birthday,” she says. “I just — figure he would have mentioned, if he was having a party.” 

“Mm.” You drum your fingers on the cart. “Well, it’s — he’s pretty private, so —” 

“But he invited you,” she says. It sounds accusatory. Mean. 

“Not really,” you say. “I mean — it’s my party. For him.” 

“Oh,” she says. There’s a pregnant pause. Heat beads on the seams of her snakeskin pants. “I see.” 

“Yeah,” you say. You push the cart forward. More purposeful, this time. “So, actually, I have to go get ready for that—”

She puts a hand out to stop you. Like, physically stops you. 

“He said he had a girlfriend,” she blurts. 

You pause. Heat floods your face. Not from the sun, this time. 

“Sorry?” 

“A girlfriend,” she repeats. “I asked myself in, for a glass of wine. He wouldn’t let me in the door. Said he had a girlfriend.” 

You’re silent. You know you should be annoyed, and you are, but — 

You’ve just never heard Joel call you that, before. It’s not like you don’t know exactly what you are. It’s just — different, hearing the actual word. Even if it’s second-hand, from Alicia Simmons’s lips. 

You stifle a smile. But then she’s talking again, and it fades as quickly as it comes. 

“I just assumed he was blowing me off,” she says. “I didn’t know he meant—”

She scoffs. Makes a semi-disgusted gesture in your general direction.

You lift a brow. 

“But — you’re so young,” she stammers. “And—”

You listen patiently. You can’t wait to hear this and. But she trails off, instead, and makes another confusingly rude gesture. Your jaw flickers. 

“Unless—” she nods, like she’s convincing herself, “—did he mean you?” 

She sounds hopeful. Like — maybe it’s not true. Maybe you can set her addled mind at ease. 

“Well,” you say, “he certainly didn’t mean you.” 

She settles into stunned silence. 

You smile. Push the cart past her. 

“Always a pleasure,” you tell her. 

The party starts at eight. You decorate the whole apartment — tacky Happy Birthday banner on the wall, balloon bouquet by the couch. Party hats on a silver tray. Beer on ice in the kitchen sink.  It’s not much, but it’s cute. It’s quaint. You want him to like it. 

And he does, when he walks through your door with Sarah at his side. She hugs you first, well before he can reach you. She bowls over the threshold and tugs you into her chest. 

“Is it here?” she whispers. 

You grin into her neck. 

“Bedroom,” you whisper back. 

She squeals happily. She breaks your hug and bounds past you, into the kitchen, and you watch her pluck a White Claw from the sink. Joel frowns. 

“I can see you,” he shouts. 

“Then don’t look,” she shouts back. 

He shakes his head. Smiles. His gaze drops, back to you, and his eyes rake your body. Your heels, your hair. The little black dress you wore just for him. 

“Hey,” he says, softly. 

“Hi.” 

He bends his head. Catches your mouth in a light, happy kiss. 

“Y’look beautiful,” he murmurs. 

Your heart flips, the way it always does when he looks at you like that. You resist the urge to pull him back down into another — longer, slightly more desperate kiss. Sarah might be cool, but — still. She doesn’t need to turn around and see your tongue down her dad’s throat. 

So — 

“Thanks,” you say, instead. You sound soft. Shy. You smooth your dress down, and his eyes follow. 

“’N this—” he gestures toward your apartment — now fully furnished — and the decorations you’ve hung. The balloons, the hats. The lopsided banner. “Y’didn’t have to—” 

“Shut up,” you say. “Just say it looks good.” 

He grins. 

“Looks great,” he says, earnestly. He nods at your balloon bouquet. 

“Brown balloons,” he says. “Nice touch.” 

“Mm. Your favorite color. I think I’m, like, the first person ever to clear out Party City’s brown ballon stock.” 

He laughs. The sound makes you smile. 

“You know I ran into Alicia Simmons today,” you say. 

He groans. 

“She told me that Joel Miller told her that he had a girlfriend.” 

“Mm,” he hums. He looks amused. “Did he?” 

“Apparently.” Your lip twitches. “She must be pretty cool, your girlfriend. Really cool, even.” 

“She’s somethin’,” he drawls. 

You shoot him a look. His goofy grin is contagious. You lean in — to punch his arm, playfully, or tug him down into a kiss — and the door jumps behind his back. Someone knocks twice and then twice more. 

“Hold that thought,” you say. 

You walk around him. Pull open the door. The younger Miller brother greets you there, leaning up against the doorframe. He’s got a Carhartt jacket on and a scrawled, sloping smile. His hair is tucked behind his ears. 

“Tommy,” you say. 

His grin widens. White teeth and happy eyes. He looks softer than Joel: clean-shaven, friendlier — but the resemblance is there. In the heavy walk, in the Southern slope of his words. 

“The famous hostess,” he drawls. “Thanks for the invite. Heard a lot about ya.” 

“Oh, yeah?” 

You look over at Joel. He’s staring at Tommy, like he can’t quite believe his little brother’s at the door. Like he can’t quite believe everyone’s here just for… him. 

You look back at Tommy. 

“Good things, hopefully.” 

“Very good,” he says. He drops his voice, conspiratorially. “Ain’t never seen him like this,” he says. “Tried t’throw him a party, a few years back, ’n he nearly kicked my ass. You —” he nods, “—are somethin’ special.” 

Your cheeks flush. You step aside to let him in and he approaches Joel with his arms outstretched. 

“Birthday boy,” he crows. “Bring it in, big brother.” 

Joel’s jaw flickers. But he lets himself be hugged, and you watch him plant an awkward slap on his brother’s back. He looks at you over Tommy’s shoulder. 

Thank you, he mouths. 

You nod. Your cheeks warm. He looks happy. 

The next hour passes happily. You sneak away every so often to check on his present, tucked away in your bedroom. Your excuses for slipping away get more and more elaborate. 

When you come back out the third or fourth time, Sarah’s hooked the TV up and wrestled two controllers out of the cabinet. She’s midway through a very contentious Mario Kart race with Tommy — Coconut Mall, judging by the music — and she’s winning by a landslide, if Tommy’s increasingly colorful language is any indication. 

Joel’s watching amusedly from the couch, legs kicked up on the coffee table. He takes a sip of beer and smiles into the rim. 

You settle onto the couch beside him. Nuzzle into his silk collar. You watch Sarah finish in first place.

“She’s good,” you say, absently. 

“Mm,” Joel mumbles. You’re not sure he’s listening. His fingers are ghosting your leg, drawing aimless patterns up your thigh. His knuckles brush the hem of your dress. 

The dress you’d picked out, put on — worn just for him. 

Your skin pricks under his touch. If he’d just — slide his hand higher, higher — he’d see the panties you’ve worn just for him, too. Black. Lace. Almost soaked, now, just from his fingers on the crest of your thigh. 

You tip your head into his shoulder. Toy with the collar on his black button-down. 

“I love you,” he mutters. Just low enough for you to hear. 

“You’re just drunk,” you tease. 

His hand tightens on your leg. 

“No,” he growls. “I love you.” 

You look up at him. His eyes are dark. 

“How much?” you whisper. 

The look he gives you says enough. 

A lot.

More than anything.

You swallow. Heat races up your neck. 

“You dressed up,” you mumble. And he did — black silk button-down, black jeans. Boots with laces that don’t look like a Labrador chewed them. “For your birthday?” 

He turns his head from the screen. Drops his voice. 

“For you,” he says. 

Fuck it. You’re about to drag him off to your bedroom — Tommy and Sarah are distracted enough — when someone else knocks at your door. 

Sarah pauses the game. Tommy looks over his shoulder. 

“You expectin’ someone else?” he asks. “Joel, y’ain’t got this many friends.” 

Joel glowers at him. You get up, smoothing your crinkled dress, and your heart is fucking — pounding — because you know who’s at that door. 

You undo the lock. Pull open the door. Your dad is standing on the threshold with a poorly-wrapped present in his hands. 

“Hey,” you say, softly. “You came.” 

Joel appears at your shoulder. You can feel him behind you. Your dad looks up — looks at him — and then drops his gaze. 

“Yeah.” He clears his throat. “That okay?” 

He’s addressing Joel. Not you. So you let Joel respond. 

“‘Course,” Joel says, after a beat. He steps back, and so do you. “Come on in.” 

The first few minutes with your dad are tense. Sarah hovers at your side like a German Shepherd, like she’s just — willing him to say some shit. At one point she takes your hand, squeezes it. You squeeze back. 

She gives you a look. You good?

You nod. Yeah. 

And you are. It’s — good. It’s fun. Tommy and Sarah are buffers, and your dad is on his best behavior. He’s polite. He asks Tommy about work and Sarah about school. He wishes Joel a happy birthday in a low, deferential tone. 

“Glad ya came,” Joel tells him. He puts a hand on your dad’s arm and neither flinches. 

Mario Kart starts back up. Your dad has a drink — for courage, he says, and Joel laughs — and then plays Sarah. She’s unbeatable, so he commiserates with Tommy. They form a loser’s circle in the kitchen by an open box of pizza.  

Joel lopes off to join them. Sarah sidles up to you. 

“Code Blue?” she asks, in a hushed stage whisper. 

“I thought we nixed the code name thing,” you say. 

“You nixed the code name thing,” she says. “I vetoed your veto. Code names are fun.”

You roll your eyes. You watch the men in the kitchen fight over the last slice of pepperoni. 

“Okay,” you tell her. “Go wrangle them. I’ll go get his present.” 

“Fuck yeah,” she hisses. She turns back when she’s almost to the kitchen.

“Don’t forget the bow,” she whispers. 

You shoo her off. Slip away, into the bedroom. You can hear her issuing orders behind the door — put the pizza down. come into the living room. put your party hats on. no, it’s not negotiable. we’re doing birthday things. okay. good. lights off. dad, close your eyes. no, seriously, close them. i don’t care if you don’t want to. there you go.

The light flicks off under your bedroom door. Sarah leads a very off-key rendition of Happy Birthday.

That’s your cue. You wander over to the foot of your bed and collect a snoring, large-pawed, Bernese Mountain Dog puppy off the duvet. There’s a tiny buckle collar on his neck. A hanging silver bone-tag that reads BLUE.

“Alright, dude,” you tell him. He opens one, drooping eye. You hold him up to your face and he licks at your cheek. “Showtime.” 

You swipe the red bow off your nightstand. Affix it haphazardly to his big, square head. Then you hoist him up, against your chest — he’s fucking heavy, already — and push open your door. 

They’re halfway through Happy Birthday when you step out, dog in tow. Joel’s got his eyes closed. Sarah’s blindfolded him with a dish towel for good measure. 

Everyone else turns to look at you, the second you step out. Sarah gasps — like, audibly gasps — and loses her place in the song. Tommy grins that lopsided grin. Your dad smiles — but he looks uncomfortable, you think. A little nervous. 

You join in the song. Joel’s brows perk up over the blindfold, like he’s just now registered your presence. He sits up straighter on the couch. 

You walk over to him. Blue wriggles in your arms when he sees Joel, like somehow in his tiny, play-doh puppy brain he’s recognized that that’s his person. His bow slips to the side. You push it back up. 

The song winds down. You put Blue down gently, gently, in Joel’s lap. 

There’s a very long, very quiet moment of silence. Blue’s freakishly giant paws dig into Joel’s jeans. And then his tail starts to wag — thumpthumpthump — and Joel’s hands come up to bury in his fur. His mouth parts. A shocked noise slips past his lips. 

His hand shoots up. He undoes the dish-rag blindfold and it falls behind him to the couch. 

He looks at Blue, tunneling into his lap. Then at you. 

“You’re hard to shop for,” you say, quietly. 

He blinks. His eyes are wide. You’ve never seen them look so — light.

“He’s—” he picks up the dog, holds him in two big hands, “—y’got him for me?” 

“Well, yeah,” you say. 

He stares at Blue. Blue stares back. 

“You better like him,” you say. “There’s no gift receipt.” 

He blinks again. And then he laughs — like, actually, genuinely laughs, deep and rumbling and happy — and brings the dog up to his heart. 

“Goddamn it,” he mumbles. “He’s cute.” 

“Language,” Sarah chides. She’s grinning. “He’s a baby.” 

She joins him on the couch, and then Tommy does too — until all three Millers are thoroughly distracted. They pass Blue around like a very large, very heavy potato. His bow slips off, somewhere on the floor, and no one picks it up. 

You slide over to your dad. He’s sitting back in a slouched chair. 

“Okay?” you ask him. 

“Yeah.” He nods toward the dog. “You did good,” he says. “He’ll love that thing.” 

“Yeah,” you echo. 

You think about that story Joel told you, a long time ago now, about that flea-ridden dog on the side of the road. How he found it, fed it, took it back to your house. How your dad kicked them both to the curb. 

You wonder if he’s thinking about that, now. You wonder if he regrets it. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, softly, like he can read your mind. “I shoulda said it. Weeks ago. But — I’m sorry.” 

You nod. 

“I know,” you tell him. 

He settles back into his chair. 

It’s a step, you think. It’s a start. 

It takes a long, long time to get the party back on track. Introducing a puppy an hour into the festivities is a surefire way to derail the night. 

But you do, eventually, manage to pull focus. Joel opens the rest of his presents on the floor, while Blue chomps away at discarded wrapping paper. He looks like a kid on Christmas. The whole scene makes you smile. He makes you smile. 

Sarah gets him a set of brand-new, painted picks for his guitar. She did them herself, she explains, in her downtime between classes. She bends to kiss him on the cheek and he ruffles her hair. You hear his gruff thank you, kiddo when she melts into his hug. 

Tommy gives him a bottle of whiskey, which is already open and only two-thirds full. Joel turns it over in his hands and looks up, nonplussed.

“Had t’try it,” Tommy explains. “Make sure it wasn’t — poisoned.” 

Joel lifts a brow. Shakes his head. He stows the whiskey on the ground, beside the wrapping paper, and Blue gives it a hearty sniff. His nose crinkles. 

Your dad forks over his present. It’s eerily quiet while Joel works at the wrapping, like everyone is half afraid a grenade might tumble out. Or a — bag of snakes, or a bomb. 

But it’s just a book — a worn, wrinkled book — and Joel holds it to the light to read the title. Birds of America. There’s a pair of mallards painted on the cover. 

“Found it in my office,” your dad says, gruffly. “Know ya — like that kinda thing.” 

Joel looks up, surprised. So do you. So does Sarah. 

“Yeah,” he says, after a minute. He sets the book down gently on the coffee table. Pulls Blue away when he snaps at the edge. “Thank you.” 

Your dad mutters. Nods. You look at Sarah and she shrugs. Progress.

“What’s this?” Joel asks. He’s reaching for the coffee table, for the envelope there with his name scrawled in pen. 

You realize he’s reaching for it too late. You’d meant to hide it away, give it to him sometime later, but — you forgot, in the Blue-fueled chaos. Left it sitting on the table, well within reach and well within view. 

“No, don’t—” you reach for him, reach for it, but — he’s already tearing it open. 

“It’s for later,” you say, lamely. “I was gonna…” 

You trail off. Your throat feels sandy, dry. You watch him open up the card. Two small squares of plastic fall face-down to his lap. 

He ignores them, for the time being. He’s too busy reading what you’ve written on the card. 

You already know what it says. You wrote it this morning, bent over your desk. 

Happy birthday. 

And then, in smaller letters below that — 

I love you.

He looks up. Swallows, thickly. And you blush — not because of the look on his face, right now — but because of what’s sitting in his lap. Those polaroids. The ones he took at the cabin, of you, straddling his chest with your hand stuffed down your panties. 

He sees your gaze drop and his follows. He picks up the pictures, turns them over — 

And goes beet fucking red. He coughs like he’s just swallowed glass. 

“What?” Sarah asks. She’s on her feet, trying to peer over his shoulder. He stuffs the card — and the polaroid — to his chest. Tommy’s brows flick. Even your dad looks semi-curious. 

But Sarah — always Sarah — is more perceptive than the two of them combined. She’s got a pretty good idea of exactly what’s gone down, even without a front-row seat to his card. There’s a devilish grin on her face when she turns to look at you. 

Gross, she mouths. 

Shut up, you mouth back. 

Joel flips the card shut. Puts it facedown on the coffee table. He slides the polaroids into his pocket. 

Then he stands, abruptly. Brushes his hands off on his jeans.

“Would you, uh — excuse me?” he asks. 

Tommy shrugs. You turn to watch him go, from your seat on the floor, and when he stops by your shoulder your chest lights up. Your pulse thunders in your ears. 

He lingers there, just a second. His finger brushes your skin. 

And then he stalks off, toward the bathroom. You wait a beat and then get up, too. 

“I need to — check on something,” you announce. 

Tommy shrugs again. He’s already unscrewing Joel’s bottle of whiskey.

Sarah stifles a smile. She turns the TV back on and chucks your dad a controller. Blue barks, once, when the Mario Kart music sparks up. The tag on his collar clinks happily. 

“Have fun,” she shouts. 

You ignore her. But you’re grinning a little, on your way down the hall. 

You wait til the noise in the living room kicks up to knock on the bathroom door. Just once. A short, shallow rap. 

It swings open immediately. His hand snakes out and grabs ahold of your wrist. 

“What—“

You yelp. Laugh, softly, when he drags you in and slams the door. You suck in a breath and watch him with wide eyes. 

He pulls the pictures from his pocket. 

“How come y’never showed me these?” he breathes. 

“I don’t know,” you say. “Thought they’d make a good present.”

“I told you,” you murmur, when he surges closer, “you’re hard to shop for.”

He lays the pictures down on the edge of the sink. Takes your chin between his fingers and kisses you. 

It’s not like the kiss when you met him at the door. It’s needy, hot. Snapping teeth and shallow breaths. You moan into his mouth and he lifts you. 

Just like that. Like you weigh — nothing. His fingers crumple the sides of your dress. 

He sets you down on the edge of the counter. Your legs hang, heels clicking on the cabinet. 

You reach for his belt. Black leather, today. A step up from the grease-stained toolbelt you’re used to. 

And he lets you, until you start to work yourself off the counter. He knows what you’re trying to do. Get down on your knees, on the tile, and pull his jeans down past his hips. 

Like you did that one night, months ago, on the Fourth of July. 

But he stops you, now. That’s not what he wants. 

He strokes a hand up your knee, to the seam of your thigh. His knuckle brushes black lace and you gasp.

“Wait,” you pant. “I was gonna—”

“I know,” he murmurs. Your dress drips around his fingers. He ghosts his thumb over damp fabric and you rut into his touch. “Rather do this.”

Your resolve is slipping. His hand is moving higher, hooking under lace, and whatever he’s doing is suddenly sounding a hell of a lot better than you, on your knees, on a cold tile floor. This is — warm. His hands, his touch, his breath on your jaw. 

“But it’s your — birthday,” you protest, weakly. 

He moves your panties to the side. Bends, slowly, and hooks your heels over both his shoulders. 

“Exactly,” he mumbles, and dips his head to taste you. 

Fifteen minutes later, Joel steps out of the bathroom. Lips swollen, hair rumpled, silk shirt creased in the perfectly imperfect shape of your fist. 

You follow him out two minutes after that. Might as well try and maintain some illusion that you haven’t been together. 

He takes the polaroids on his way out. You watch him open up his wallet and slide them both into the back, somewhere just for him. Private, yeah, but not quite hidden. 

He’s already rejoined the party, by the time you find the living room. You’re a little dazed. It takes you twice as long as it should to roam back down the hallway, and when you do reappear — dress wrinkled, makeup just — slightly smudged — Blue bounds to greet you. His big, floppy paws thwumpthwumpthwump on the hardwood. 

You scratch at his ears. Let him lick at your leg. Sarah follows you in when you wander into the kitchen and dig a beer out of the melted ice. 

“Boo.”

You start. Turn. She’s grinning at you. 

“Jesus,” you mutter. “You scared me.”

“You’ve been gone a hot minute,” she says. 

She clocks your messed-up clothes. The brand-new tangle in your hair. 

“Ewww,” she whines. She makes an exaggerated ugh face. 

Your cheeks flush. You grab a dishrag off the counter and bat playfully at her. 

“You’re gonna give him a heart attack,” she says, dodging your blows. “Seriously. Remember that guy from Downton Abbey? Just, like, keeled over in bed? You have to chill. He’s like a hundred years old. That could happen to him. Any day.”

You stare at her, slack-jawed. The towel hangs at your side. A violent, smothered laugh bubbles up in your throat. 

The door swings. Joel thuds into the kitchen. He sees you and Sarah by the drinks — the stifled laughs, the conspiratorial smiles — and his brows knit. 

“Ladies,” he drawls. 

Sarah dissolves into a fit of giggles. She pats his arm on the way out of the kitchen, still laughing, and he watches her go with a bemused look.

“Do I wanna know?” he asks, when the door swings shut. 

“Something about Downton Abbey.”

He groans. 

“In that case,” he nods, “y’can spare me.” 

He looks adorably flustered right now, you think. Someone’s wrestled a party hat onto his head — probably Tommy — and it’s cocked haphazard on a clump of curls. He looks a little drunk, on the party and the drinks and on you. There’s black, white, brown dog hair scattered all across his button-down. 

You tip to reach him. Drag him down for a kiss. 

“Happy birthday,” you mumble. 

“Yeah,” he says, gently. “It is.” 

He pulls back. Looks at you. 

“Cause ‘a you.”  

He kisses you again. 

And this time, now, when your hands come up to tangle in his hair — you try not to let go. 

THE END ... for now

---

Just binged this entire thing 😮‍💨😍❤️ LOVED IT!!! Highly recommend

cowboy like me | masterlist

dbf!joel miller x f!reader | ao3 | playlist

back home in austin after five years away, you're looking for something to do with your summer. what you don't expect, is to find that something in the form of joel miller. quietly charming, ruggedly handsome, flannel-donned joel. you know. your dad's best friend.

please check out individual chapter content warnings before reading!!! this series features adult content.

series warnings: age gap (reader is 23, joel is 48), cursing, alcohol + dr*g use, mentions of pregnancy & periods, physical violence, allusions to cheating, smut, angst, fluff, softdom!joel mostly (some jealous/protective/possessive!joel along the way).

main series

chapter 1: greetings from austin, tx

chapter 2: shameless

chapter 3: grilled

chapter 4: moneyball

chapter 5: welcome home

chapter 6: company

chapter 7: bloodstream

chapter 8: lend me some sugar

chapter 9: checkmate

chapter 10: ride it, cowgirl

chapter 11: illicit affairs

chapter 12: hits different

chapter 12.5: if i had a gun

chapter 13: heart, body, soul

chapter 14: secrets

chapter 15: the sweetest con

bonus

if patrick bateman were a woman

drabbles

➵ reader drags joel to the eras tour ➵ sex tape [prelude to chapter 11...] ➵ books joel would be into ➵ slow dancing in the kitchen ➵ joel calming reader down from a nightmare

---

Gimme! Gimme! Gimme!

And Joel is right… a cigarette is wonderful after sex 🫠

Wonderful as always Bug 😘😘😘

Bad Habit

“Don’t you ever start smokin’. If I catch ya with one of these in that mouth of yours, I’ll make you regret it,” he said, exhaling smoke. “I will make you fuckin’ regret it.”

After Joel catches you smoking, he gives you something else to put between your lips. (7.2k)

Tags - dbf!joel, neighbor!joel, pervy/sleazy yet comforting Joel, cock from a man who could be your second father, smut, smoking, dubcon elements, blowjobs, masturbation, joel jorks it, oral sex, unprotected piv, creampie, joel makes you smoke until you’re sick to your stomach, vomiting, gratuitous use of the nickname ‘kiddo’ because I am who I am, dubcon, the other stuff Fic help - thank you my dearest @noxturnalpascal for editing <3 and for my other main squeezes for brainstorming with me!! @endlessthxxghts @beefrobeefcal A/N - heddo!I sorry for the delay on getting this out. fic posting will continue to be sporadic and weird for a while so thank you for being patient <3 i hope you all have a safe week and I love you very much 🫂💕 definitely didn’t skip class to finish this and watch gilmore girls btw so if you hear that rumor about me it is bullshit it is not true at all

The cool, late-summer air blows gently on your skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake as you sit next to your open window, headphones on, Fiona Apple’s When The Pawn… playing in your ears. You take a long drag of your cigarette and let it fill and burn your lungs, then blow the smoke outside. The sun is setting, the dim light making everything in your room look like a black and white movie, even your own hand in front of you. You love nights like these. 

Eyes gently shut, you’re lost in thought when a tapping on the glass startles you. You gasp when you see Joel, his big hand clutching a large garbage bag. He must have seen you on his way taking the trash out. 

Joel’s your neighbor, he’s been your neighbor all your life. He’s your dad’s closest friend as well, and had a heavy hand in raising you. You used to eat at his house for dinner on Sunday nights, a tradition that’s lasted to present day. As a teenager, you’d spend days and nights at his house when you and your dad weren’t getting along, needing some space from each other. Joel was always a safe person for you to go to. His guest room practically became your second bedroom by the time you graduated. Joel taught you card games, and would make you root beer floats while you played round after round of Rummy. 

Joel was actually the first person to introduce you to smoking. Unintentionally, of course. You can remember him always smelling warmly of tobacco, smelling it on his hair, skin, and clothes when you’d hug him. When you were younger, he told you once, cigarette in his mouth, “Don’t you ever start smokin’. If I catch ya with one of these in that mouth of yours, I’ll make you regret it,” he said, exhaling smoke, “I will make you fuckin’ regret it.”

“Hey, trouble,” Joel drawls. “You ain’t ‘sposed to be smokin’ that.” 

Joel reaches for your cigarettes and pulls it from your mouth, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip. He examines it, chuckling quietly at the feeling of the stickiness of your lipgloss on the rolling paper. He brings it to his mouth, then takes a couple puffs before stubbing the cigarette out on the sole of his shoe, then disposes it in his garbage bag. Your dad doesn’t need to see your old cigarette stubs when he’s mowing the lawn. “Don’t let me catch ya again,” he warns, then presses a warm kiss to your forehead, mustache tickling your skin. “Get some sleep. G’night, kiddo.”

This isn’t the first time Joel’s caught you smoking. The first time he did, you were probably around eighteen years old. You remember that it was around Thanksgiving, the leaves were still falling off the trees and the air was chilly. It was an evening when Joel and your dad were hanging out in the kitchen, watching a Bears and Cowboys game on TV. Rooting for the opposite teams, your dad and Joel were barking at each other, getting loud and rowdy. There was no escape from the noise, so you snuck out of your bedroom window and just started walking. Joel left his garage door open, so you decided to hang out there. You admired the posters on the wall, Nirvana and The Rolling Stones. Different liquor brand artwork, picked up from when he used to work as a bartender. The garage never changed, always had that faint smell of cigarettes permeating the air. 

Cigarettes. They were on the workbench in the back of the garage, a pack of Marlboro reds just sitting there, waiting to be smoked. To the left of the pack, a little white Bic lighter. You weren’t sure what came over you at that moment but you palmed both items, then peeked over your shoulder to make sure you really were as alone as you thought you were. You held your breath and focused hard, and found that you were able to hear the faint sounds of Joel and your dad yelling. You were in the clear. 

You opened the worn pack of Marlboros and pulled out one of the cigarettes, the first time you ever held one in your hand. You rolled it between your fingers, inspecting it, before you brought it to your nose to smell the tobacco. With trembling hands you placed the cigarette between your lips, and as you fumbled with the little white lighter, Joel’s warning played over and over again in your mind. If I catch ya with one of these in that mouth of yours, I’ll make you regret it.

But Joel wasn’t there. And what Joel didn’t know wouldn’t kill him. So you lit the cigarette and inhaled, then coughed a bit at the sensation. It was harsh, made your throat feel itchy and scratchy. You didn’t like the way the smoke burned your lungs and you couldn’t wrap your head around how Joel - anyone, for that matter - could become addicted to something as unpleasant as this. You took another puff for the sake of experimenting and you were met with the same experience. Unpleasant. But by the third or fourth drag, you felt the beginning of that headrush everyone talks about. A lightheaded, hazy sort of feeling. Now that…that wasn’t quite so unpleasant. You could see exactly how cigarettes could relieve stress. Taking another puff, you thought maybe you’d steal one or two more from the pack, save them for the end of the week. Smoke them when you’re home from school, before your dad or Joel could see you. And then you’ll shower real quick, wash your hair and brush your teeth and toss your clothes in the washer and -

“The hell do you think you’re doin’?” 

Shit. 

You pulled the cigarette out of your mouth and stubbed it out in a nearby ashtray on Joel’s workbench. “N-nothing.” 

“Bullshit, you’re smokin’,” Joel bit, approaching you through the open garage door. “So help me Ggod, kid...” He snatched his pack of cigarettes from you, along with his lighter. “Stealin’, too. These are my smokes. What the fuck’s the matter with you?” 

“Joel, I’m sorry. I-” 

“You ain’t sorry, yet. Get in the truck.” 

“Joel-”

“Get. In. The fucking. Truck.” he seethed. He wore such a threatening scowl, and his face and neck were red, veins bulging in his skin as his anger grew. 

You scurried into his truck that sat on the driveway and Joel followed suit, slamming the door shut before turning the key into the ignition. Even the truck sounded angry as it roared to life. Joel shifted into reverse and drove you down the street, to the nearest gas station. “Stay there,” he ordered. 

You awaited his return anxiously, picking at your nails. Joel returned with a new pack of Marlboro reds and drove back to his home. “Garage,” he said. 

“But my dad-”

“Garage.” 

 If I catch ya with one of these in that mouth of yours, I’ll make you regret it.

Joel made good on his promise. He sat you down in front of the workbench, right where you were before. He lowered the garage door until it rested just about a foot off the ground so that the smoke had somewhere to go. Then he sat in front of you, hit the pack of cigarettes on his palm five times before unwrapping the cellophane and opening the pack. Joel took one cigarette out and flipped it upside down in the pack. 

“What are you doing?”

“Christ almighty,” he sighs. “You’re so fuckin’ young. You pack the cigarettes first, so they burn smoother an’ longer.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh. And then you flip your lucky - just the one cigarette.” Joel pulled the upside down cigarette from the pack to demonstrate. “Old World War II tradition, if I’m not mistaken. ‘Sposed to be a good luck charm.” 

Joel pulled one cigarette from the pack for you, placed it between your lips and lit it. He could see the confused expression on your face as you inhale and exhale. 

“Just you wait,” he said. “I promise you, this is a punishment.” 

“How?”

“You’re gonna sit here with me and smoke every last cigarette in that pack. I don’t care f’your lungs start to burn and you feel sick to your stomach, you’re smokin’ ‘em all,” he said. “Now get to it.” 

Joel watched you as you smoked cigarette after cigarette. He was right, your lungs did start to ache and hurt and your stomach had begun to feel queasy from all the nicotine. After about the sixth or seventh, you had figured out that you could make things a little easier on yourself by not breathing in the smoke all the way, just let it hang out in your mouth instead. 

“I started smokin’ when I was around your age,” Joel said as he lit another cigarette for you. “Couldn’t ‘a been older than seventeen.”

You nodded. 

“Why’d you pick this habit up, huh? You know these things aren’t any good for ya.” 

“I don’t know,” you sighed, ashing onto the garage floor. “I just…I don’t know. Stressed out.”

“‘Bout what?”

You shrugged. “Just everything, I guess.” 

Joel nodded. “I get it,” he said. “But there’s other ways of relievin’ stress that ain’t smokin’.” 

“Like what?”

“Well,” Joel began, looking down at his lap. “The cigarettes are causin’ that brain of yours to release those feel-good chemicals. You gotta find something else that feels good, hon. M’sure you’ll figure out what that means.” 

 You felt your cheeks heat up at the implication of how to get your endorphins flowing, but you knew he wasn’t wrong. You nodded shyly. 

“Now keep smokin’.” 

“Joel,” you whined, coughing dryly. 

“Keep it up,” he threatened, “I’ll make it two packs.” 

What felt like hours passed until you finally made it to the last two cigarettes in the pack, and you felt ill. “C’mon,” Joel said. “Last two. I’m smokin’ the last one with ya, and then we’re done, both of us,” he promised. He lit his cigarette first, then yours, and then took a drag. You did too, though it was agony. 

“I don’t feel so good, Joel,” you told him, clutching your stomach and squirming in your seat as the nauseating feeling in your stomach worsened. 

“Good,” Joel retorted. “Means the punishment’s workin’. You ain’t ‘sposed to feel good.” You looked at Joel with glassy eyes, your skin a little damp with sweat. “You okay, sweetheart?”

You shook your head. Your stomach churned harder, you felt your mouth salivate as your heart began to beat faster. There was no more staving off the feeling - you dropped your cigarette and sprinted inside, making a beeline for Joel’s bathroom. Joel followed close behind and rubbed your back as you emptied your guts into his toilet until you were dry-heaving. “Oh, I know, I know,” he whispered, patting you gently. “You’re gonna be okay.” 

“Fuck,” you groaned, lifting your head up and leaning back to rest against Joel. He flushed the toilet for you, then helped you up so you could rinse your mouth out in the sink. 

“It don’t feel too good, huh?” he murmured, stroking the side of your face. “You’re gonna be a good girl for me? Gonna quit smokin’?”

“Yeah,” you said. “Yeah, I’m done.”

“Attagirl,” Joel smiled. 

Joel offered you some Pepto-Bismol and guided you to his couch, where he held you and talked. After about forty-five minutes, he sent you home. Your dad was none the wiser, probably passed out on his own couch after the game. Joel kept your secret under the condition that you’d quit smoking for good, and he quit too. In all honesty, he was shaken that it was his cigarettes you’d stolen, and disturbed by the fact he was the one to introduce you to tobacco - your dad didn’t smoke, never has. He had unknowingly introduced you to it, of course, but Joel still held himself responsible. Joel meant it, smoking that last cigarette with you. He decided that night he was quitting cold turkey. He was done.

-

You should have been done too. You shouldn’t still be doing this. And that pack of Marlboros in your purse shouldn’t be there, you should have thrown it out the other night when Joel caught you smoking out of your window. But you’re in Joel’s backyard, cigarette between your fingers as you listen to the sounds of the family barbecue taking place in your own backyard. 

It was just too much. Your family increases in size every year, be it a new partner, new family friends, new children. And your family is loud. Every conversation happens using raised voices, even if no one is speaking in anger. Boisterous laughter, dogs barking, shrill squeals of excited kids running through sprinklers. There’s no escape from it at all, unless you’re to escape it entirely - so that’s exactly what you did, and why you’re at Joel’s house instead of your own. You needed a momentary reprieve. Separated by nothing more than a thin fence and yet it makes all the difference. Joel’s backyard is quiet, serene. He keeps his fence lined with flowers that he had you pick out at the nursery, he has a nice deck with a comfortable patio furniture set. You rock back and forth in one of the chairs as you smoke, promising yourself after this cigarette - or maybe just one more - you’ll go back to the party. 

The glass patio door slides open, causing you to jump and scramble to put your cigarette out, but you’re too late. Joel’s always a step ahead, somehow. “What are you doin’, kiddo?” he asks in a low, accusatory tone. 

“Nothing,” you lie. 

“You’re smokin’.”

You hang your head. Joel sits in the chair next to you and holds out his hand, palm facing up. You sigh and place your pack in his hand. “I’m sorry.” 

“Uh-huh,” Joel says. “Why’re you still doin’ this? You’re poisoning yourself, sweetheart. It’s breakin’ my heart.” 

You shrug. “I don’t know,” you admit. You open your mouth to speak again, then exhale when you give up. 

“I want you to try,” he urges. “Jus’ talk to me, hon, you’re not in trouble right now. Tell me what’s goin’ on.” 

“Okay,” you nod. You take a deep breath, then begin to explain. “I want to quit, Joel. I do. I tried gum and patches…”

“Go on. I’m listenin’.” 

“They worked for a while, I guess. I was even able to stop entirely, get past the nicotine withdrawals. They weren’t even so bad.” 

“Right,” Joel nods, “But what?”

“It’s stupid.” 

“S’not stupid. Keep tellin’ me.” 

“I missed the ritual of it all, if that makes sense,” you confess. “ Lighting it, holding it. Watching the smoke. Feeling it in my mouth.” You find the courage to look at Joel, and he’s not making fun of you for your admission. He’s nodding along, listening intently. “It’s sort of soothing.” 

“I get it,” he says. “I do.”

“You do?”

“Mhm. S’called an oral fixation, sweetheart. Means it calms ya down to have somethin’ in that mouth of yours. You heard of it?” You shake your head no, and Joel explains further. “Same reason some people bite their nails or chew on straws. Jus’ somethin’ people do.” 

“Oh.” 

“Mhm. You should try keepin’ your mouth busy with somethin’ else.” 

Your mouth goes dry, and you feel yourself becoming flustered. “Joel…” you whisper. 

“Quite the imagination you got there, huh?” he smirks, nudging your knee with his own. “M’not talkin’ about that, dirty bird. Do you have a sweet tooth at all?”

“Um,” you hum, “I guess.” 

“I got a sweet tooth myself,” Joel replies. “C’mon inside.” 

Joel leads you inside, and he doesn’t bother to sneakily throw your cigarettes in the trash. He makes sure you can see it, hear the thud of the pack hitting the bottom of the can. You stand in his kitchen as he opens his freezer and rifles through some items. “Pick a flavor,” he says, “I got green apple, grape, cherry, and lemon.” 

“Cherry,” you answer. 

Joel pulls out a cherry-flavored popsicle and unwraps it for you. “Open,” he says, then places the cold, sweet and tart ice on your tongue. Your hand brushes his when you grab the wooden stick, watching him. You can see the way his pupils dilate when you suck on it, how his chest rises when he sucks in a deep breath. Joel feels his cock begin to thicken in his jeans and abruptly clears his throat. “So, uh, anyway,” he stutters, “It helps to suck on somethin’ sweet. I’ll keep my freezer stocked with these for ya, you just let me know if you have any flavor requests. You help yourself anytime you’re havin’ one of your cravings.”

You pull the popsicle from your mouth, your lips stained red. “Thanks, Joel,” you smile. 

“You’d best get back to that party, hon. I’ll catch up with ya in a minute, nature’s callin’,” he teases, quickly excusing himself into his nearby bathroom. He hears you giggle and whine, “Gross,” as you leave his house. Joel watches you through the frosted bathroom window as you sneak back into the party. He’s palming his growing bulge, pressing his hand firmly against it until he can’t see you anymore, then quickly unzips his jeans and pulls out his cock, leaking and hard. He spits into his hand and strokes himself, his rough palm sliding up and down his thick, veiny cock, squeezing hard. He pumps himself and groans when he comes, spilling into his palm and on his fingers. Joel washes his hands, tucks himself back into his jeans and makes his way back to the barbecue. 

-

You’re in Joel’s truck. It was a long day of work, the phone was ringing nonstop and you could hardly catch a break, though Joel gave you extra time on your lunch to make up for the crappy day. He has you helping him out with his contracting job, having you answer phones and schedule estimates and whatnot. He likes having you around, giving you a little money to burn as you expand your resume. 

At six, Joel tossed you his truck keys and told you he’d be right out there, but that he’s gotta finish up with a client real quick first. “Go ‘head and start up the truck for me, hon, I’ll be out there soon. Shouldn’t be more than ten minutes,” he promised. But that was an hour ago, and it’s beginning to get dark. You’re itching to leave. On days you work with Joel, he’s your ride. Oftentimes it’s a blessing as he’s the one paying for gas and driving through traffic, but other times, it’s a curse. You’re on Joel’s time, itching to leave and he’s…doing whatever he’s doing.

You’re getting that feeling again. You’re not sure why, but it’s been happening more and more lately. You’ve been absolutely craving a cigarette recently. Just one, maybe two. You shouldn’t have done it, but you bought a pack at the gas station. Promised yourself you’d save it for special occasions but after this pack, you’d be done. For good. 

You’re just dying for one right now. Turning the pack over in your hand, you watch, anticipating seeing Joel leaving the building. But it never happens. Fuck it. You take a cigarette out of your pack and place it between your lips, and just before you light it, you stop. You look around in his truck, see if he’s got a straw from a fast food restaurant in his glove box that you could chew on, maybe a toothpick. At least you tried. It certainly doesn’t help that it smells like cigarette smoke in here anyway, what with Tommy always smoking when he drives with Joel. You resign yourself to lighting the cigarette, inhaling that smoke you missed so much. That familiar burn doesn’t quite hurt the same way it used to and in fact, it’s a welcome pain now. You love that tingly, heady feeling of the nicotine entering your bloodstream. You exhale the smoke out of the window of the truck and close your eyes. 

You think about lots of things, what you’re gonna eat for dinner when you get home, what movie you’re gonna watch. What flavor popsicle you’ll steal from Joel’s freezer. You think about which vibrator you’re gonna use between your thighs, which ones are charged and which aren’t. 

You’re not being subtle. Shamelessly blowing smoke out of the window, Joel can see you. And in fact, he’s been watching you. He’s fuming as he walks toward his truck and opens his door, startling you and causing you to drop the lit cigarette on your lap. “You are un-fuckin’-believable,” he seethes as he leans over you to pick it up off of your thighs and tosses it out of the window. “In my truck? Are you fuckin’ serious?”

“Joel, I’m sorry–”

“Shut up,” he interrupts. “You pissed me off. I don’t wanna hear it.” 

You shrink into your seat and stare at your lap, anxiously circling your thumbs around each other as Joel breathes deeply. He leans back in the driver’s seat and pinches the bridge of his nose, groaning angrily. 

“Joel–”

“Don’t.”

In Joel’s head, he counts backwards from ten, attempting to let go of some of his rage. He looks at you, your eyes are big and pleading, those plump lips of yours are pouting, just begging, aching for something to fit snugly between them. “What am I gonna do with you, kiddo,” he whispers, reaching for your face and cupping your cheek. Fuck, that goddamn soft spot he has for you. “All sorts ‘a trouble you could go an’ get yourself into and you pick the one that’s makin’ you sick.” 

You nod, feeling guilty for putting Joel through this stress. You know he’s right. You’re gonna drive him to pick up the addiction again himself.

He rubs his calloused thumb back and forth over your cheekbone, looking at you with those big, brown eyes of his. They’re sparkling under the diminishing daylight, looking darker than they usually do. He’s so handsome. He’s always been so handsome. 

“Maybe you need to get into a different kinda trouble,” Joel murmurs. 

You pause. “Like what?”

“You know what kinda trouble,” he answers softly, assertively. You look down at his lap and notice that with his free hand, he’s begun palming his crotch, cock hardening in his jeans. “Somethin’ else to satisfy that fuckin’ fixation of yours.”

Joel unzips his jeans and pulls his cock out, half hard and growing. “Gimme your hand,” he instructs. He doesn’t wait for you to comply, and takes the pack of Marlboros you had forgotten you were holding out of your hand. He takes your hand and first spits in it, then wraps it around his cock, his fingers wrapped around your wrist as he helps you stroke him. His cock grows to full length in your hand, so thick and hard and meaty. “On your knees, now,” he says. “C’mon. You know what you’re doin’.” 

You sink to your knees and Joel slides to the center of the seat so you’re as close to him as can be. He spreads his legs apart and you slot yourself snugly between them, a hand on each one of his thick thighs. It feels surreal, being in this position. Joel senses your nervousness, and you look so vulnerable on your knees for him. Poor thing. 

He leans forward a little to tangle his fingers in your hair and then pulls you down, ushering you toward his hard cock. “Open up f’me,” he says. You part your lips and he presses the warm, blunt head against them. You open your jaw wider and he pushes you down on his cock, filling your mouth entirely. “Nice an’ wide. That’s it.” 

Joel keeps pushing you down, past the point of comfortability and you choke and sputter on his cock when he hits the back of your throat. “Just relax a minute,” Joel says. “An’ breathe through your nose, kiddo. You’ll get used to it.” 

With his hand tangled in your hair, it’s less of you moving of your own volition and more of Joel guiding you, making you take him down your throat the way he wants you to. You like that. As your head dips lower and bobs back up again, you swirl and drag your tongue along his shaft, tasting that heady, musky flavor of his cock, the salty precum when your tongue slides over his small slit.“Yeah, you know what to do,” Joel groans. “Ohh, that’s it. Good girl.” 

You feel his cock pulsing under your tongue, a welcome experience. There’s something so intimate and satisfying about learning all of the exact, fine details of what Joel’s pleasure looks and tastes like. He rolls his hips to meet you where you’re at, taking control of his pleasure, doing all the work himself. Sweat is beginning to gather on his body, dripping down his temples and gathering on his soft tummy. He can’t help but feel a little like he’s taking advantage of you right now, but he doesn’t feel bad enough to stop. In fact, it turns him on more. Joel thinks that maybe it even turns you on, too, what with the way you let out quiet, sweet little moans. “You like it, don’t you, baby?” 

“Mm-hmm,” you hum. 

“I know you do,” Joel coos. “Feels good, don’t it?”

You nod your head, moaning as you slide your tongue along his length, swirling it around his head before dipping lower again, your nose buried in those thick curls spattered around the base of his cock, dampened by your saliva. “What a mess you’re makin’,” Joel murmurs, enjoying those wet, sloppy noises you’re making. “Such a good girl f’me, you’re takin’ it so good.” 

You reach for his balls, cupping them and rolling them gently in your palm, eliciting a sharp gasp from Joel. “Oh, fuck,” he groans, “That’s it, kiddo, keep doin’ it jus’ like that. Goddamn.” 

Joel basks in the feeling of being inside your hot, wet mouth, feeling you suck and slobber on him, the dizzying feeling of your tongue teasing his shaft and his head. It’s all so soft, so slick and warm. He can feel it in his stomach, his balls begin to tighten as he approaches release. Joel takes your head in both of his big, masculine hands and fucks your mouth hard. “Oh, Christ,” he hisses. “Fuck, ohhh, fuck.” 

With just a few more deep, frenetic thrusts, Joel comes in your mouth without a warning, just a guttural, deep groan. He paints your tongue with his hot, salty spend, ropes and ropes of it spurting from his thick, twitching cock. He fucks your mouth through his orgasm, his thrusts turning slower, more shallow in time as you take every last bit of his come, swallowing it all. 

“Up,” he tells you, his voice raspy. “C’mere.” 

You sit next to Joel as he comes down from his high, his deep breathing beginning to regulate. Joel looks at you, wipes a bit of his come from your bottom lip with his thumb and pushes it inside your mouth, where you suck the digit and lick the spend. “S’all you needed, huh? My cock in your mouth?” Your face is hot and a little damp with sweat, your lips all swollen as you nod, a little sheepish. “No need to be bashful, sweetheart. S’okay. F’it works, it works.” 

Joel adjusts his jeans and turns up the air conditioner, then scoots back over into the driver’s seat. He pulls you close to his body, tucking you into his side as he shifts the truck into reverse, then drives out of the parking lot. “When that fixation of yours starts actin’ up again or you’re gettin’ nicotine cravings, you to come to me. Will you do that for me, sweetheart?”

You nod. “I will.” 

“Good girl,” he says. “I’ll get ya taken care of.” 

-

Your craving for a cigarette hits as early as the following night. To test you, Joel had surreptitiously dropped your last pack of cigarettes in your purse last night in his truck. You only noticed a little bit ago, when you were digging through your belongings to find your lip gloss. You could smoke them if you wanted to. You do want to. You could be sneakier about it, go for a walk and smoke somewhere Joel won’t see you. 

You slip on a pair of sneakers and throw a light sweatshirt over your shoulders, then walk out of your room and past your father in the living room. “Where you off to, sweetie?” he asks. 

“Just for a walk,” you answer quickly. To be honest, you weren’t expecting him to be awake. It’s late and the TV’s on, which usually means he’s sleeping. He can’t stay awake through any movie or TV show. 

“Mm,” he hums. “Be safe, honey. Come back soon, I don’t like you out too late all by yourself.” 

You promise your dad you’ll be back soon, then leave out of your front door and make a left. As you walk past your yard, then Joel’s, you realize he’s in his garage, tinkering with something at his workbench. He doesn’t see you, and you could walk on by without him noticing, smoke your secret cigarette and he’d be none the wiser. 

But you’d feel guilty. You feel guilty for even thinking about it. You shift your weight from one foot to the other, contemplating. Maybe Joel’s right, that you need to get yourself into a different kind of trouble. You used to feel thrilled when you’d drink underage or smoke when you shouldn’t have been. But Joel’s cock down your throat, on your knees for your dad’s best friend, a man who’s like a second father to you…Well, nothing compared to that thrill. 

You walk up Joel’s driveway and quietly into his garage, he’s got an old CD player on and he’s listening to Nirvana. “Joel?”

Joel turns to look over his shoulder and smiles at you. “Hey, you.” 

“I…” you struggle to get the words out. Joel nods in understanding, he knows exactly why you’re here. You’re such a good girl for him. Always been a good girl.

Joel pauses his CD player and takes your hand, then leads you inside his house. When you’ve finished sucking his cock, he tells you he’s glad you came to him and that he’s very proud of you. On your way home, you throw that pack of Marlboros away. And for once, you really are done. 

You suck his cock the next week at work, when you’re watching Tommy take a smoke break through the window next to your desk. You’re on the phone with one of Joel’s clients who’s been giving both you and him trouble all week, and you’re reaching the end of your rope with this guy. He’s old, impatient, and speaks so rudely to you. After you’ve argued with him in circles for about twenty minutes, he interrupts you and demands that you put him on the phone with a man. You’re livid. “Absolutely, sir. Let me place you on a brief hold and I’ll transfer you to my boss,” you tell him as sweetly. You press a few buttons on the phone and slam it on your desk, then march into Joel’s office, slamming the door and then locking it. 

Joel’s eyes light up. He rolls back in his chair and reaches behind himself to twist the blinds shut, then unzips his pants as you drop to your knees .

The routine happens day to day, week to week. Joel notices that there are days when you suck his cock aggressively, like you’re angry or you’re restless and antsy. But after a few weeks, they don’t quite feel that way anymore. You focus on his pleasure, and not your need to curb an addiction. It felt satisfying to have Joel’s cock down your throat before, and that certainly helped to satisfy your particular fixation. You’re more satisfied now at the notion of bringing Joel to absolute ecstasy, memorizing the way his breathing changes when you trace your tongue along his shaft and around his head. You’ve begun kissing up and down his length, gently sucking his balls and kissing his thighs, his tummy. You used to grip his thighs tight, digging your fingers into his flesh, but you hold his hand, now. It’s passion, adoration, maybe even love. You deserve the same pleasure, Joel thinks. 

Your dad’s out of town for a few days, he’s staying overnight in some city a few hours away for some work conference. He had stocked the fridge with different snacks and had tasked Joel with making sure you have something hot and filling each night for dinner, so you’ve spent the past few evenings at Joel’s house. 

 You’re on Joel’s couch, watching old reruns of Will and Grace on TV as Joel does the dishes. When he’s done, he joins you on the couch. When the show pauses for a commercial break, Joel mutes the TV. “Wanna talk to you ‘bout somethin’,” he says. You turn your attention to him. Joel’s hand drops to your thigh, and he scratches your skin lazily. His touch sends a jolt of excitement to your core. “You’ve been real good f’me, you know that, don’t you?” 

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. Been a long time since your last cigarette, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you reply, “Couple months, I think.” 

“S’what I thought,” he whispers. “An’ it’s why I wanna do somethin’ for ya.” 

“Do what?”

“Well,” Joel begins, inhaling deeply. His hand goes higher with every pass, fingers closer and closer to the apex of your thighs. You’re starting to feel hot. “I think it’s awful unfair ‘a me to be leavin’ you high and dry the way I’ve been. Not very gentlemanly, huh?” 

Joel’s fingers are wiggling beneath the fabric of your shorts, gently skating along your thin cotton panties. “Joel,” you whine. 

“I’m gonna make it even,” he murmurs softly into your ear, his hot breath tickling your neck. Joel drags the tip of his sharp, aquiline nose over the curve of your ear, then gently bites your earlobe, causing you to squirm. He smirks at that. “Gonna taste you.” 

Joel hovers over you, laying your body across his soft couch. He kneels as he hooks his fingers around your shorts and panties and pulls them down and off your legs, tossing them on the floor. 

His warm, big hands slide up your legs until he reaches your knees, “Spread your legs for me, sweetheart,” he says, and you part your thighs for him. He spreads them wider, pushing your knees toward your chest. Your nerves are on fire as he slides your shirt up your chest, exposing your bare body to him. “C’mere,” he mumbles, dipping his head low to kiss all over your torso, up your belly until he reaches the soft flesh of your breasts, nipping at the skin there before he sucks a nipple into his mouth. 

“Joel,” you gasp, your hands reaching for his head, fingers tangling in his thick, graying curls. He smirks against you as he kisses his way across to your other breast, repeating the same actions and kissing, licking down your stomach until he’s hovering over your pussy. Under the soft, warm light in the room, he admires your body. Your chest is rising and falling with shaky, nervous breaths. Your legs spread wide gives Joel the perfect view of your pussy, curls framing the shape of your cunt. Skin darkened and glistening wet, pearly ribbons of arousal delicately decorating your slick folds. He can’t wait any longer, he needs to taste you now. 

Joel quickly pulls his shirt off and unbuckles his belt, then kicks his jeans off where they join the rest of the discarded clothes on the floor. He settles on his stomach and pulls your body close to his face, his hot breath fanning over your damp, aching pussy. To tease you, he kisses his way toward your center, inching closer and closer to where you need him most yet not giving all the way in. “Please, Joel,” you whine. 

“Ohh, I know,” he rasps. He kisses the other thigh, then uses his thumbs to spread your soft folds apart for easier access and licks one long, fat stripe up your pussy. “Oh my god, yes,” you gasp. Joel chuckles at your excitement. He traces up and down with his tongue, his nose buried in the hair that covers your mound. You rock your hips into his face and he holds you tight, limiting your movement so that he holds all control. He’s feeling generous, and you’re going to take all that he gives you. 

“Fuck, right there,” you whimper when he licks your clit in circles. His tongue dips lower, circling your tight, wet hole before dipping inside to taste your sweet arousal. Joel hums in pleasure, he loves everything about this - the way you writhe and moan, how your dripping pussy feels against his face. He dips his tongue and swirls it inside of you before replacing it with two of his calloused, weathered fingers, rhythmically curling them inside you so that he’s hitting your g-spot. 

You’re moaning, babbling his name along with some other dirty words as Joel licks you and pumps his fingers, soaking him so intensely he thinks he could drown. He’d be happy to. There’s nothing he loves more than eating you out right now, passionately lapping your cunt like you’re the first meal he’s had in days. Your moans are becoming quicker, more frantic as you reach for his free hand and suck and bite his fingertips - always needing something in your mouth. He knows you’re close. Joel focuses on bringing you to the edge and sending you over, unwaveringly fucking you with his fingers and his tongue as your thighs are trembling and twitching, then squeezing the sides of his head as you come hard for him. “Joel,” you cry loudly. 

“Yeah, s’it. Give it to me, kiddo. That’s it,” he praises, “Good girl. Good fuckin’ girl.” 

Joel works you through your orgasm until the feeling subsides, and then pulls away from you. As you steady your breathing, you close your legs gingerly, hips sore from the position Joel held you in. Joel holds your knee, preventing you from moving any further. “Where do you think you’re goin’?”

“You made it even,” you breathe, reaching for his hand and placing yours on top.

“Nuh-uh, sweetheart. We ain’t square yet,” Joel spreads your legs again, then reaches for his cock. It’s rock-hard, the tip is blushed and swollen as he pumps it with his fist. “You gotta come on my tongue a couple more times than that before we’re even. And-” he grunts, adjusting his position before lowering himself over your body. He wraps your legs around his waist and notches his tip inside of you, “M’only a man. I’m gettin’ mine tonight too.” 

With that, he begins to push himself inside you. That slow, deep slide inside your cunt has him groaning in pleasure, Christ, you’re fucking tight. And so warm, soft, and wet. You squeal a bit as you adjust to the feeling of his cock inside of you, his cock splitting you open. “Shhh…” Joel quiets your moans. “Give it a minute, kiddo, you’ll get used to it.” 

You watch Joel as he slowly pulls out of you about halfway, then inches his way back inside you incrementally, little by little until your face relaxes and you let out that first sigh of pleasure. “Oh, there it is,” Joel coos. “Right there, huh?”

You nod, then wrap your arms around Joel's broad shoulders as he sets a steady pace. It’s slow, but not quite gentle at first, before it builds to something faster and harder. He rolls his hips at the perfect angle to have you squirming and writhing in pleasure, the head of his cock kissing that sweet spot inside of you over and over. You bury your face into him, biting softly where his neck and shoulders meet. His skin is so soft, slightly salty under your tongue. 

“Fuck, good girl,” he praises, kissing the side of your head where your hair is slightly damp with sweat. With each of his thrusts, you feel every inch of him. The scruff on his face brushing against you, his weight on your body, his skin on your skin, his pubic bone grinding against you. He fucks you passionately, sometimes quickening his thrusting, sometimes slowing it down, fucking you with longer, slower strokes. You bask in the sensation, entirely consumed in it all, in Joel. “You’re doin’ so good.” 

You rock your hips to match each one of his thrusts, needing more friction against your clit. “M-more, Joel,” you beg. “I wanna come. Please, Joel, make me come again.” 

Still fucking you, Joel spits onto his fingertips and wriggles his hand between your body. He searches for your swollen, sensitive bud and then paints steady circles into it, using the motion of his thrusting to help bring you to the edge once more. “Right there,” you tell him. “Don’t stop, please.” 

“I know, I gotcha,” he says. “Go ‘head and come for me, baby. Come all over my cock.”

You’re right there, right fucking there as he rounds your clit again and again with his fingers. Your reaction is more intense than before; your moans are louder now, pleading, more urgent. Your brows are knit together, mouth wide open when you go quiet - you’re gonna come, and it’s gonna be long and fiery and intense. 

Pure, unadulterated pleasure is all you feel when you finally reach your climax, moans and whimpers falling from your lips like honey until you’re crying Joel’s name, begging him as he fucks you through it. Begging for what, you don’t know. “Joel, Joel, Joel.” 

Your orgasm propels Joel’s own, and he’s growling into your ear as he spills into you, milking himself entirely. His come feels so warm inside you, so satisfying. “Oh, fuck me. Jesus, hon,” he groans. “Ohhh, god.” 

His thrusts slow, slow, then stop. He whimpers a little when he pulls out of you, then sits back on the couch. His head resting against the back of it, he turns to you. His eyes travel down your body, where some of his spend drips from your pussy. He pushes it back inside you, finger buried all the way to the knuckle, then pulls you into his side. 

“You’re gonna kill me,” he says, his voice low and gravelly. 

You look up at him, “Why?” 

Joel smirks. “ Could use a cigarette,” he answers. “Hits the spot right after sex.”

“Fuck off,” you giggle. “You said we’re done.” 

“We are done,” he affirms. “But our deal’s still in place. Which means…” Joel gently pushes you onto your stomach, then pulls you up by your hips. “We’re goin’ for another round.” 

If you enjoyed, please reblog/send an ask with some nice comments! Your words keep me motivated to write.

---

This was so fucking good!!!!

Such an original idea having been put together! Listen, I will read DBF fics all day long but the twist at the end?!?! OH MY WORD YES!!!!!!!!

YES YES YES

Guilty Pleasure | Series Masterlist

Pairing: dbf!Joel Miller x reader Summary: You're home from college for the summer, staying with your parents in Austin, TX. So is your dad's best friend, Joel Miller. Series warnings: Age gap (reader is 22, Joel is 43), masturbation (f), use of sex toys, oral sex, PiV, anal, hair pulling, dirty talk, getting caught, playful use of 'daddy', outrageous flirting, groping, reference to m/m, Joel's arms should always come with a warning. No outbreak!AU.

Part 1 You don't remember Joel looking like this - or you reacting so strongly to him. Part 2 After having gotten yourself off twice to the thought of Joel, your paths cross again in the kitchen. Part 3 Sunday dinner with your parents and Joel is... weird. But also hot. Part 4 Somehow you end up in the car with Joel for five hours. With all that heat outside, you just can't be held responsible for what happens next. Part 5 One thing you weren't prepared for: the sight of Joel using the pool in the backyard. One thing *he* wasn't prepared for - you needing some help to put on SPF. Part 6 An open bar and Joel in a tailored black outfit mean trouble at your father's garden party. Enough reason to do something you haven't done before.

Part 7 You've thought about this moment so many times. Now you're actually standing there, your hand on the doorknob of Joel's room, and you can hear his heavy breathing already.

A/N: If you know me, you're probably just as shocked as I am to see a dbf!Joel fic by my hand. Totally get it if it's not your thing. However - if you've read and enjoyed other fics by me, you may wanna give this one a try after all. Thank you to @magpiepills @legendary-pink-dot @lotusbxtch @sin-djarin @mountainsandmayhem

@qveerthe0ry @perotovar

encouraging me to write a wild idea that suddenly came to mind. This came together shockingly fast with ideas and feedback from all of them, so thank you babes for supporting and enabling me!

And yes, of course this series is named after the Chappell Roan song 'Guilty Pleasure' because of allll the reasons.

👉If you want to receive notifications when I post new fic, please follow @longlongtime-updates

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Diehard

Pairing: dbf!Joel x Reader

Summary: Joel tries Viagra for the very first time.

Warnings: 18+. Unprotected p-in-v. Erectile dysfunction. Daddy kink. Praise kink if you squint. Overstimulation. Cumplay. She/her pussy pronouns. Pushing physical limits with a pre-negotiated safe word in place for it.

Note: No more limp dick erasure. We die like [old] men.

Part of the Waiting Game ‘verse | Word count: 986

Joel just wanted to prove he could fuck like he used to.

He didn’t think he’d almost kill you in the process.

“JOEL!” you screeched, heels digging deep in the mattress as your climax came in seismic waves.

The stimulation was insane. Normally the much-older man would have been down for the count after two—and usually one—big O, but now his chest was heaving, hips relentlessly beating a punishing pace against your own.

Your walls were slick with not only your cum but his, milky ropes of his arousal making for an obscene set of sounds every time his dick slid in and out of your cunt. You could feel his balls tighten and twitch with every forthcoming spurt of him, practically reeling with the pulse of each new sticky gift inside you. His groans rumbled low, but the power and pleasure and outright primal fervor they conveyed were unmistakeable. You had to look down, feebly, to believe it yourself—Joel never fucked his way through your orgasm and his.

Then you felt a palm slide up the back of your head, and Joel held it up to make sure you watched him fuck you.

“J-Joel,” you whimpered, watching his girth disappear and reappear at least a half-dozen times as you did.

“Just a little more, honey,” he murmured against your forehead. The smack of each thrust was dizzying, “Want my pretty girl nice and full’a me before she leaves, okay?”

Joel never could let you head back to college without a few of his loads and a head full of filthy memories—something to hold you over until your next visit home. You would’ve liked to mumble back, ‘Okay,’ but then your pussy clenched around him, and his thrusts grew faster.

“My sweet girl,” he grinned, “She likes that, huh?”

You could scarcely manage a nod. The weight of your head was held fully by him, and if that wasn’t indicative enough of your fucked-out state, your face surely said the rest. When Joel leaned back to adjust the angle of his thrusts, he caught sight of your hooded, glossy stare and almost came all over again. He slowed his pace for once.

Then he dipped a finger between your body and his, just long enough to douse the tip of his digit with cum. He bottomed out inside you, watched you part your lips in a gentle gasp, and pressed his touch to that open space.

It was almost like you didn’t have the strength to suck. You just let him smear the sticky stuff along your lower lip, gaze plastered to his. Then Joel’s cock sank deeper.

“O-ow!” you whined, partly reanimated by the stretch.

“You can take it,” Joel grunted.

The double entendre wasn’t lost on you. You could, and would, take his finger and his cock inside. You suckled dumbly on the cum-drenched fingertip in assent.

But when Joel’s finger popped out of your mouth and his thrusts picked back up, you weren’t entirely convinced you would be able to hold up the second half of that deal.

It wasn’t fair. He took one magic pill, and poof, his dick stayed hard for half the fucking day. You had nothing but your youth and two shaking legs to ensure your survival. When Joel worked his cock back and forth a couple more times and it seemed your body was about ready to scream, you took hold of his biceps and squeezed tight.

“I can’t.”

“Can’t what?”

The tip of his cock nicked a soft ridge inside you, and you jolted back. Joel’s palm was still pressed to your head, holding you to him, and his hips had you pinned as well.

Instead of answering, you whimpered.

You didn’t want him to stop, but you also weren’t sure if you could handle any more. Your eyes met his, pleading.

“Can’t what?” Joel pressed, a little more sternly.

Another whimper. Inside, Joel’s cock was rubbing that pleasure point raw, and you felt another climax coming.

“Use your words.”

“Too— too—”

Each new thrust was sending stars before your eyes. Joel was one sick man if he tried to make you talk while he fucked you past the point of all intelligible speech.

“Too what? Tell me, baby.”

You’d get that fucker back someday. Joel just grinned.

“Too much,” you hissed when his hips delivered another mind-numbing push. Then, feeling pleasure threaten to peak at almost a painful degree, “Toomuchtoomucht—”

Joel continued thrusting, knowing damn well you knew what to say if you really wanted him to stop. As if to underscore this point, he tipped your head back and made you hold his gaze, features creased with a frown.

“That sure don’t sound like the safe word to me.”

It wasn’t. You knew it wasn’t. He didn’t need to tell you twice, or even breathe a second word besides. With one more brush of Joel’s thick, throbbing, implausibly hard cock, he sent you over the edge and into your fourth orgasm of the morning, hitting that spot again and again.

And again.

And again.

Just like before, Joel fucked you through each wave, catching your lips this time to stifle your cries. You might’ve gone blind for a second or two, but that was alright; the pleasure, proximity, and then the sweet, erratic pulse of his cock sending rope after rope of his cum deep inside made the overstimulation worthwhile.

Your body went limp against the bed, held tight in Joel’s grasp, when you felt that sickly sweet dichotomy of soft, tender touches and a cock lodged between your walls that was as hard as it had ever been. Still trying to console you with kisses, still trying to warm you up for another round, perhaps, Joel almost laughed out loud in your mouth when you groaned into his and whispered:

“Please don’t ever take that fucking pill again.”

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eighties baby

summary: your parents throw an 80’s themed party in their mansion. you try your best to contain your infatuation for joel, your dad’s best friend. you and your friend get a little too drunk and joel decides to teach you a lesson.

content: joel miller x reader, no outbreak, little plot, dbf!joel, reader in her twenties

warnings: CONTAINS MATURE CONTENT. 18+ mdni!, age gap is 20s/50, piv unprotected sex, oral (f receiving), cream pie, doggystyle, dirty talk, choking

an: i’m baaaaaack ;) this was… wow! pls enjoy

“Your ass looks immaculate.”

You glance over your shoulder in the reflection of the mirror, locking eyes with your best friend. She’s giving you wild eyes while biting her bottom lip that’s covered in bright red lip stick. Her makeup was done very vibrantly compared to usual; blue eyeshadow with bright pink blush.

“You don’t think it’s too short?” You ask, popping a hip to accentuate your ass further under your very tight and very short mini skirt. Typically, you wouldn’t mind if a little bit of cheek was hanging out the bottom of your skirt, but this was your parents’ party, not your typical college party. Your best friend rolled her eyes and you and laid a smack down on your ass. You yelped in surprise.

“It’s perfectly fine. It’ll be dark.” She begins, then her voice lowers. “Plus, Joel will want to eat you alive when he sees you in it.”

You bite your bottom lip to fight back a grin. She knew you too well. You sighed and placed your hands on your hip, your head turning to the side as your further inspect your outfit in your full length mirror. You decided to go with an 80s glam rock look instead of the typical vibrant colors from the time period. You were wearing a tight black leather skirt and matching top, with knee high platform boots with silver chains on them. You had grungy black eyeshadow matched with a glossy red lip. You felt hot.

“I can’t be too obvious. You cannot let me get too drunk tonight.” You say sternly. You were talking more to yourself than anything. You knew if you drank too much alcohol you would make a fool out of yourself in front of Joel.

Joel was your father’s main man. They’d known each other for decades now. Joel was a stern man; the crinkles by his eyes from his fifty years of wisdom weren’t usually intensified by joy, more by scowls. You’d like to think at one point he was a light hearted man, but you can’t help but wonder what in his years turned him into such a sour puss. You could count on one hand the amount of times you’d seen him genuinely laugh. It was an extremely rare occurrence, but the times he had, it was the most amazing sound you’d ever heard.

“Fine. But this is your chance to act as unhinged as you want because in the morning you can blame the alcohol.” Your best friend winks at you, patting you once more on the bum.

“You’re a terrible influence.” You turn to face her. Your shorter friend stares up at you with a devilish grin and runs her thumb along your bottom lip, cleaning up your red lipstick.

“We should head down there, take a couple shots, scope it out.” She suggests, grabbing your perfume off your vanity and spritzing it on the both of you a few times. You nod in agreement, and check your outfit in the mirror one last time. You take a deep breath and grab your friend’s hand to leave your bedroom. The 80s music was already thumping from your parent’s massive surround sound speakers downstairs. The lights were off, with the sole light source being a couple lamps and some red lights your parents used for their annual Halloween party.

When you made it downstairs, the house was already packed out. The entire neighborhood was in your parents’ house. All of the couples in the neighborhood were in attendance, as well as their children (all in their twenties or older). If you squinted hard enough, it even looked like a college party. The lighting was just enough to see the basic traits of everyone’s faces, most of them being somewhat recognizable to you. You had just graduated from college earlier that month, so you were home temporarily until you found your full-time calling.

Your friend dragged you to the kitchen where all of the alcohol was stashed. On the island, there was a lineup of liquor with the appropriate mixers. She decided to pour you each a hefty shot of tequila, as well as a lime wedge. You absolutely hated any dark liquor, and unfortunately vodka had been tainted for you in your time at college, so tequila was the sole surviving option for you. You didn’t mind the taste of tequila, but the catch was its effect on you. Unlike other forms of liquor, tequila made you incredibly horny. After around 4 tequila shots, you had the tendency to shed off articles of clothing like you were battling a heat wave. This made you nervous considering you knew Joel would be in attendance; however, as your friend said, you can use the liquor as a scapegoat if it got that bad.

As you and your friend shot back your tequila, you began wondering where Joel could be. The party started over thirty minutes ago, and it was uncharacteristic of him to be late, meaning he was in the house somewhere. The thought alone made your skin crawl.

“One more.” Your friend called out over the music, pouring you each another hefty shot. Your eyes got wide. You knew you’d have to take a break from drinking after this shot, otherwise you’d end up butt ass naked in the middle of this party.

Another hefty shot later, and you were already feeling the buzz from the alcohol. Your veins felt tingly and your limbs felt weightless. You each made yourselves your mixed drink of choice, and decided to make your way out to the makeshift dance floor in your parents’ spacious living room. They had a portable disco floor, as well as a disco ball hung from the ceiling. No one took parties more seriously than your parents.

Your friend grabbed your arm and pulled you onto the dance floor, with “Talking in Your Sleep” by the Romantics blasting from the speakers. Your eyes wandered around the room trying to find the brown eyed man you’d be longing to see. Sure enough, you spotted him. He was sitting on the sofa, leaning back with his legs spread out in front of him. He had a glass of what appeared to be whiskey in his hand, resting on his thigh. You gulped when you noticed he was already looking at you. You quickly looked away and took a sip of the tequila sour you half-assed at the kitchen makeshift bar.

You made eye contact with your friend, and you gave her panic eyes to let her know you found him. She caught on almost instantly, and took that as a queue to scoot out of your line of sight. She leaned closer to you to say something in your ear.

“Go sit next to him.” She suggested loudly into your ear.

You shot her a look of unease. Wouldn’t that be too obvious? You shook your head no rapidly in response. It was too early in the night for you to do something as ballsy as that.

After about half an hour, your friend’s drink was empty and she was dragging you back to the kitchen. Your drink was still three-fourths full. Your stomach was bubbling with anxiety knowing that Joel had a direct view of you in your anything but conservative outfit. Besides, you were scared for your actions if you ingested any more alcohol.

Your friend took two more shots and mixed herself another strong cocktail. You knew she was going to be shitfaced in the matter of minutes. You rub your forehead and sigh. It’s going to be a quick night for her.

Your predictions were correct.

Forty minutes passed and her cocktail was gone, and so was she. She was so plastered that she couldn’t stand up straight, constantly grabbing your arm for support. You looked around the room and immediately made eye contact with Joel. He’s watching the both of you intensely, his head nodding over to the side as he observes your friend stumbling around. You’re fully embarrassed at how gone your friend was already. Your stomach flips when you noticed Joel was lifting himself off his spot in the sofa, making his way towards the both of you. He grabbed onto your arm, a look of concern crossing his features.

“Come on.” He said shortly, moving his arm from yours to hers, helping her stand up somewhat straight. “Let’s take her upstairs.”

You glanced down at your friend and her head was lulling to the side, her eyes fluttering shut. There was no salvaging her. You nodded in response to Joel and helped him practically carry your friend upstairs to your bedroom. After her nearly falling every few steps, you finally make it to your bedroom. You noticed Joel’s eyes wandering around the walls of your room as he took in the decor. You had various band posters still hanging in your childhood bedroom, many of them being 60’s rock bands that your dad showed you. You gently lay your friend down onto your bed, and almost immediately she’s snoring.

“Jesus Christ, I’m so sorry about this, Joel.” You mutter, looking up at him with apologetic eyes. You absentmindedly toy with your hands in front of you. Despite the shots you did take, you were still feeling nervous; the liquid courage wasn’t doing its job.

Joel stepped closer to you and shook his head. His brown eyes were soft and his eyebrows were furrowed.

“It was nothing, really.” He assures you, taking a glance back at your friend. He was amused at just how fast your friend fell asleep. He turned back to look at you and felt something flutter deep in his gut.

He had kept his eyes in you all night. He couldn’t believe how grown you were. Sure, he had known you since you were young, but you were a woman now. You had always been pretty, but now, you were stunning. He felt disgusting about it. Of all the women in his life, none of them compared to you, his best friend’s daughter. The entire night he had watched the way your latex skirt was fighting to stay over the plump flesh of your ass. Your top wasn’t much better; it left little to the imagination, your nipples peaking through the thin fabric of it. You were genuinely perfect in his eyes, and it was causing him the most intense moral battle of his life.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” You asked quietly. His eyes were wandering over you, but he was saying nothing. It looked as though he was fighting something internally.

“What are you doing here?” He asked blandly, ignoring your question entirely. You furrowed your eyebrows in confusion.

“What do you mean?” You pondered, crossing your arms over your chest, unintentionally pushing your boobs up further, placing them in perfect display for Joel.

“You could be anywhere, yet here you are drunk at your parents’ party.” He said, glancing down at your chest, hoping you wouldn’t notice, but of course you did. You chuckle in response.

“I just graduated college, Joel. I’m home temporarily until I can find something full time. What’s the matter? Am I inconveniencing you somehow?” You asked with pure sass.

“Well not entirely, no.” Joel says, stepping closer to you. “You’d think you and your friend would have a little self control considering the environment. This isn’t college, sweetheart.”

“I beg your pardon? I’ve barely drank anything. For god sake I helped you carry her.” You get defensive, emphatically gesturing towards your friend that’s passed out in your bed. “And unfortunately she could’ve been way worse than this.”

“You should’ve stopped her before she was fighting to keep herself standing.” Joel scolded you, his brows furrowing further.

“Aww what’s wrong, Joel? You have no children of your own so you have to parent me?” You snarled, stepping another inch closer to him. Joel frowns, his fist clenching at his hip.

“You’re a little fucking brat, ain’t ya?” Joel growls, getting centimeters away from your face. He was so close that you could feel his hot breath on the skin of your face.

“And you’re just a dickhead, huh?” You fire back.

Joel grabbed you by the forearm and tugged you towards your bedroom door. Before you could protest, Joel was dragging you down the hall to a spare bedroom. He swiftly pulled you inside and locked the door behind you. He grabbed you firmly by the throat, squeezing just the sides as to not restrict your airflow.

“Bit of an attitude problem, eh?” Joel spoke sternly. You gulped, gawking up into his crinkled eyes. “Might just have to sort you out.”

“What are you doing, Joel?” You squeaked out, your hand reaching up to grab ahold of his forearm. His face moved closer to yours, his eyes moving down to your crimson lips.

“I can only imagine you put on this poor excuse of a skirt to try and get someone to pay attention to you in the way you’re craving. You’re a little fucking whore, aren’t you?” Joel growls, his free hand moving down to your skirt, pulling it away from your body so it smacked back against your plump thighs. You gasped. You didn’t know how to respond to that. Was this actually happening?

After years of secretly fantasizing about a moment like this, it was finally happening, and you were flabbergasted.

“Answer me. Tell me what you are.” His grip around your throat slowly moved up to your jaw, his fingers squeezing your cheeks, making your lips purse.

You groaned in response, a hand trailing up Joel’s torso to his chest, laying a flat hand against him. His heart was beating rapidly. You glanced down and noticed the bulge straining against his vintage Levi jeans. He was enjoying this a little too much. You forced your face away from his grip, grabbing his wrist as hard as you could.

“I’m not a whore.” Your words were laced with venom. You were frustrated. Not because of the substance of Joel’s words, but because you were so fucking aroused. If it were anyone else, you probably would’ve planted a firm kick in their groin or sucker punched them in the lip. His words were disgusting, but you were eating it up.

“No?” Joel cocked his head at you. His free hand snakes up under your skirt, his fingertips pressing against your folds. His fingers were met with moisture. Your panties were soaked through. His gaze fell to his hand, then back up to your doe eyes. He smirked devilishly at you, his hand moving to your face. With his thumb, he pawed at your bottom lip, pulling it away from your teeth.

“Your cunt says otherwise, darling.” He muttered, his breath fanning across your face once more. You swallowed hard. You averted your eyes from him, his gaze making you feel entirely too hot.

“My parents.” You blurted out, your gaze returning to his momentarily. He swallows, his thumb still sitting by your mouth.

“They won’t know.” He said. You retracted your grip from his forearm, and he took that as an opportunity to run his finger up the outside of your arm painfully slow. “What’s wrong sweetheart? Scared of your daddy finding out?”

Your lips parted, a harsh exhale escaping your throat. Your body was on fire, your skin littered with goosebumps from Joel’s touch. To any normal person, this situation would be incredibly alarming. Yes, your moral compass was clawing at the back of your mind, but you craved interaction. Your morals were out the window, your desires taking superiority.

“Yes.” You whispered, your gaze falling to Joel’s lips. They were tempting you.

“If you don’t want this, stop me.”

Joel’s hand moved from your arm back towards the bottom of your skirt, pushing it up over your thighs, your red panties on full display.

“Fuck.” Joel growled, his fingertips grazing your mound through the lacy fabric. He pushed your panties to the side, his finger running through your folds, collecting your arousal. “Stop me, angel.” He teased.

His fingertip ghosted over your sensitive clit, your legs jolting in response, a whimper leaving your mouth. His mouth hovered over the soft skin of your neck, his breath stirring up goosebumps.

“S’matter sweetheart?” Joel muttered, planting a soft kiss to your throat. “Tell me what you need.”

“N-need more.” You said, your brows furrowing in desperation. You glanced down at his hand between your legs, your lower gut fluttering at the sight. He applied more pressure to the circles he was dancing over your swollen bud, the pleasure sending your head to lull backwards. You whimpered more, your legs beginning to feel like jello.

“You sound so pathetic.” Joel spat, working his fingers faster on your clit. You exhaled unevenly, your hand coming down on Joel’s bicep for stability.

You felt that familiar white heat beginning to ignite low in your belly, your cunt throbbing steadily. Your eyes squeezed shut. You were close— but Joel knew that. He wasn’t going to let you come just yet. Without warning, Joel halted his actions, his hand leaving your folds. You could’ve cried in that moment. Joel grabbed your forearm and tugged you towards the bed, pushing you down onto the duvet.

“Joel, please. I need to cum.” You whined, your head falling back into the soft mattress. Joel purses his lips at you, his hand running along the smooth skin of your leg, inching closer to where you needed his attention most.

“Jesus, sweetheart. At least you know what you want.” Joel said, squeezing the flesh of your thigh with the rough skin of his palm. “Here’s how this is gonna go. First I’m going to taste you. Then, I’m going to fuck you until you forget how to think. Got it?”

You nodded pathetically, grinding your hips down onto the mattress, desperate for some sort of friction. Joel ghosted his hands over your thighs to the seam of your latex skirt, gripping it between his fingers. In a swift motion, Joel tugged the skirt down your legs and off your body, tossing it somewhere on the floor. He left your boots on, not quite wanting to get rid of them yet. Your pussy looks so pretty underneath the transparent lace fabric of your thong. It left little to nothing to Joel’s imagination. Your breasts were spilling out of your black top, your areolas peaking out. You looked breathtaking.

“Fuck, angel. I wish you could see yourself. So pretty for me.” Joel muttered, lowering his face to your groin, pressing a soft kiss to your inner thigh. He ran his large hand up the back of your thigh, squeezing every few inches. You bite your lip and you stared down at his face as he littered kissed across your thighs. His salt and pepper beard added even more texture to the sensations you were feeling. He slipped his fingers underneath the fabric of your panties and slowly pulled them down your tights and over your boots, leaving your heat bare. Joel lowered his face down to your core, his hot breath fanning over your sensitive skin. He pressed a kiss to your pelvic bone, then ghosted his lips in a line down to your sensitive bud. He planted another kiss over your clit, taking his sweet time teasing you. Your pussy was throbbing at this point, desperate for any sort of touch.

“Joel please.” You pleaded, grinding your hips up towards his mouth. “I need your tongue.”

“Good girl.” He said, lowering his tongue to your folds, licking a wet stripe up your vulva, tracing a circle around your clit, sucking down on it gently. He moaned into your flesh, the vibrations sending a chill down your spine. His tongue began to work faster, flicking up and down and side to side over your clit. He brought his middle finger to your opening, ghosting circular motions over it, before slowly pushing it inside of you. You exhaled deeply at the sensation. He began pumping his finger rhythmically in and out of you, paying special attention to curl his fingertip upwards to brush against your g spot. As he felt your walls growing accustom to the girth of his singular digit, he added a second finger, pumping faster. Just from his fingers and tongue, you already felt fucked out of your mind. The pleasure sent shocks down your legs and up your spine, your head rolling back into the mattress in euphoria. A quiet moan slipped through your cherry lips, your fists grabbing the bedding for leverage to cope with the immense pleasure coursing through you.

“Joel.” You whimpered, one of your hands jetting down to grab at his hair as he lapped at your wet heat. His soft brown eyes flicked up to meet yours at the sound of your voice. Your moan went straight to his already throbbing cock.

“Christ, baby.” He groaned, lifting away from your core to unbutton his Levi’s. His hand fumbled with the zipper to get them off as fast as he could. The anticipation was killing him; he was so hard that it was beginning to hurt. He needed inside you immediately.

Finally managing to slide his jeans down his legs, his cock was straining against his boxers. The tent was revealing in itself; you already knew he was packing a punch. It felt painfully slow, but finally Joel slipped off his boxers, revealing his erection. Leaking at the tip, he brushed his thumb over, cleaning up the precum that had accumulated from tasting you.

You sat up from the mattress and grabbed his face in your hands, pressing your lips to his. Your lips moved against his in a passionate rush. You could taste yourself on his lips. Another whimper rose from your throat, the moan vibrating off his lips. The sound of your wet kiss filled the room as he lowered his body over yours to lay you back down against the bed. His hand moved from his cock to your breast, pulling it out of your top and giving it a firm squeeze.

“Fuck.” He muttered against your lips as you rocked your hips into his. You needed his touch desperately.

“Fuck me.” You breathed out, pulling away to look him in the eye. “Please.”

That was all Joel needed to hear. He reached down to take his cock in his hand again, guiding his top to press into your folds. He ran back and forth against your slick, his precum mixing with your arousal. His eyebrows furrowed in pleasure as he felt your wetness already beginning to coat him. His eyes lifted back to meet yours as he began to slowly press his tip into your entrance, the stretch already making you feel crazed. Your lips parted, an exhale escaping your lips as he pressed himself into your further. Your hands darted up to grab onto his biceps as leverage. He lowered down to your lips, pressing a slow, gentle kiss to them as he pushed his length inside of you to the hilt. Another moan escaped your lips.

“Y’okay?” Joel breathed out, slowly pumping in and out of you, allowing you time to adjust. You nodded your head, unable to form a coherent sentence.

“More.” You begged. “I need more.”

Joel ran his hand from your thigh up your belly, dragging his finger tip slowly to take in every inch of your skin. He reached your neck, wrapping his calloused fingertips around your throat, carefully squeezing on the sides. He leaned down to meet your lips, taking your bottom lip between his teeth momentarily.

“So fucking needy.” He grumbled against your mouth, his eyelids fluttering closed.

Suddenly, Joel began pounding into you. His hot breath fanned over your face as he rammed in and out of you, his length reached the deepest parts of you. You gasped, your hand reached up to grab his wrist that was busy squeezing your throat. Your eyes rolled back in your head and he slammed into you over and over. You were sure he was hitting you so deep that he was nicking your cervix. Just when you thought you couldn’t be more overwhelmed with pleasure, Joel’s free hand snaked between your thighs, his thumb finding your clit, ghosting gentle circles over the sensitive nub. You squeaked out a moan, the pleasure overcoming your senses completely. Your legs began to shake from the stimulation, your lower belly muscles tensing from the overwhelming sensation. Your breath was shaking, the oxygen feeling as through it had completely left your lungs.

“F-fuck.” You stuttered as Joel thrusted into you. “I’m close.”

Joel took this as an opportunity to slide out of you, wasting no time in flipping you onto your belly, laying a hard slap against your bare ass cheek. He groaned as your ass jiggled from the slap, his hand coming back down to grab a handful of your flesh. You pressed your face down into the duvet, letting out a moan. Your pussy was throbbing from the sudden lack of attention. You wiggled your hips, nonverbally begging for Joel’s cock. He chucked, slapping your ass once more before pressing himself back at your entrance, ramming into you fully, his hips meeting your ass in a rush. He grabbed a cheek with his rough fingertips, pulling your ass apart to get a full view of himself slamming into you. Your tightest hole was on perfect display for him.

“One day I’m going to claim you here too.” Joel growled, his fingertip grazing the ring of your asshole. You gasped, your forehead coming down onto the bedding, pressing your face down into the duvet to cover your moan. “You’d like that wouldn’t you? Me claiming your tight little ass as mine?”

You nodded rapidly, a straggled breath leaving your mouth. It was so goddamn hard for your mind to focus on anything except the feeling of his tip grazing the opening of your cervix with every thrust. Once again, Joel reached his hand down to toy at your clit, bringing you closer to your climax. The white heat hit you again as your legs began to shake under you. Joel wasn’t far behind you, and his pace wasn’t easing up.

His hips met yours hard and fast, the sound of skin slapping echoing off the walls of the spare bedroom. If it weren’t for the music thumping downstairs, your sinful act would’ve already been heard throughout the entire house. Joel leaned down, kissing you against your spine, his hand kneading your ass.

“F-fuck, where do you want me? Your mouth? Or should I fill you up?” Joel grunted, his hand snaking around your front to firmly grab your breast, pinching your nipple between his fingertips.

You gasped, the stimulation for your nipple slipping you into the beginning of your orgasm. You didn’t answer him, the feeling of your impending climax completely taking over your body.

“Look at you cumming around my cock. Such a good fucking slut.” Joel growled, his pace somehow quickening further. His hand reached up to your hair, grabbing a fistful of locks and pulling your head backwards. His other hand reached around to your throat as he bent down to kiss you from the intense angle, your orgasm taking over you entirely. Your toes began to curl beneath you, your pussy clamping around Joel’s cock that was twitching deep inside you. Your pussy clenched down around his length, hugging it perfectly.

“Fuck.” Joel whimpered, his high hitting him like a train. Your spasming canal clamped down around him as he came in hot spurts, coating your walls deep inside of you. Your walls clenched around him, milking every ounce of cum from his length.

His thrusts slowed as his seed filled you up, his hands grabbing your hips for stability as he came the hardest he’d ever came in his life. He moaned as he slowly slipped his spent cock out of you, some of his release dripping out of your used up hole. The sight was intoxicating.

“Fuck.” Joel breathed out again, taking in the ruined state of your folds. He ran his fingers down your slick, mixing his cum with yours. You flinched at the sensitivity of your pussy, whining as he brushed over your clit.

You were spent. Your face was still pressed against the mattress, your ass still perched in the air. Joel’s cum was slowly leaking out of you, and you couldn’t bring yourself to move. You were too fucked out of your mind to notice that Joel had left the bed to retrieve a wet rag from the attached bathroom. You winced as he gently cleaned up the juices spilling from you.

“You look so beautiful with my cum dripping out of you.” He spoke, running a hand up and down the back of your thigh. He pressed a kiss to your sore ass cheek from where he had smacked it.

You rolled over onto your back, your tender breasts jiggling from the movement. Joel leaned down and took a breast into his mouth, gently sucking on your hardened nipple.

“As much as I’d love to stay here and fuck you all night, I should go before your daddy starts to wonder where we went.” Joel said, leaning down to press a kiss to your lips.

A pit grew deep in your gut at the thought of Joel leaving you, but you knew the nature of this interaction and it would be silly of you to expect any different. You gazed up at him and frowned.

“Don’t look at me like that.” Joel shook his head and straightened up, moving his attention to dress himself. He began buttoning his flannel that he’d taken off during your interaction at some point that you hadn’t noticed. You watched in silence as he pulled his boxers and Levi’s back up over his legs.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” Joel said after he was fully dressed. You were still laying on the bed completely nude attempting to recover from the mindblowing sex you’d just endured. Joel walked towards the door, turning briefly to look at your one last time.

“You might want to get dressed, sweetheart. Hate to have your daddy walk in to see my cum spilling out of you.” He winked, then disappeared out of the door, leaving you alone fucked out of your mind.

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