Pedro Pascal As Joel Miller - Tumblr Posts

IT’S SO GOOD 😭

à la carte

5.8k / dbf!joel x f!reader

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

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

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

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

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4

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

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

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

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

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

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

“—want anything—” 

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

“Sorry, what?

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

“From…” 

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

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

“For tonight, smartass.” 

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

“You could try to sound enthused.” 

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

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

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

You pause. The mug stalls halfway to your lips. 

“We have company?” 

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

You scowl. 

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

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

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

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

Yeah, you think.

You mind. 

You find your voice in the dregs of your coffee. 

“No,” you tell him. “Not at all.” 

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

“Yeah,” you say. 

You’re sure. 

—

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

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

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

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

You: heard you’re coming to dinner 

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

Joel: That a problem? 

You: no

You’re feeling bold, so you double text. 

You: assuming you can keep your hands to yourself.

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

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

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

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

You: i’ll manage 

Joel: We’ll see. 

“Dick,” you mutter.

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

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

You think.

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

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

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

You: you bringing something? 

Joel: You want me to? 

You: most polite guests do 

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

Joel: Cheeky. 

Joel: Got something in mind? 

You hesitate half a second. 

You: something sweet. surprise me.

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

—

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

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

You unlock the door, ease it open, and — 

Oh. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your cheeks burn.

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

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

He looks amused. 

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

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

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

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

“I don’t,” he answers. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Careful,” he warns.

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

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

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

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

He angles two fingers against your core. 

“—here.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck. 

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

So. Fucking. Smug. 

You’ll show him. 

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He hisses through his teeth. 

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

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

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

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

“Quit.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He stiffens. 

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

“Gettin’ old,” your dad teases. 

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

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

Because he’s blushing. 

You made Joel Miller blush. 

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

Your dad tries to protest.

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

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

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

“Did you cook?” he asks. 

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

Completely in control. Completely pissed. 

“No,” you mumble. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You wanna fuckin’ explain that?” 

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

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

“Asked you a question,” he grits. 

His erection crowds your hips, nudging into your core.

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

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

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

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

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

The hand on your waist clamps tighter. 

“Open your mouth,” he says. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“God damn, baby.” 

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

He groans. 

“Turn around,” he orders. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuck,” you breathe, “Joel, f—”

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

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

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

You nod weakly. Okay. 

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

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

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

You whimper softly, mourning the loss.

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

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

This is punishment. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You need to cum?” 

Yes. 

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

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

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

“Yes or no?” he hisses. 

“No,” you mumble. “I—fuck. No.” 

“You sorry?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink. Right. 

“Yeah,” you mumble. “Sure.” 

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

—

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

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

Your dad stops you. 

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

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

“Sure,” you say. 

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

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

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

“No,” he says, quickly. 

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

“Okay,” you say. “So—okay.” 

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

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

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

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

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

“No one knows,” you say, slowly. 

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

He huffs. His weight shifts on the floorboards.

Your stomach pools at your feet. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then what is it, exactly?” 

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

“I—‘f we keep goin’ like this, I—”

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

You stare at him. Shake your head, incredulous. 

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

He doesn’t move. 

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

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

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

“Don’t,” you warn. 

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

“Just go, Joel,” you mumble.

He goes. 

taglist (lmk if you wanna be added!):

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

Oh. Dear. Jesus.

the fall

13.9k / dbf!joel x f!reader

official dbf!joel playlist

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

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

this is part 9 of my dbf!joel series. read the previous parts here:

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

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

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

Of course Hayes is her fucking nephew. 

Of course he is. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your head swims. 

“Hey, Laurie,” he says. 

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

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

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

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

“What the fuck?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah,” Hayes bites. “Or something.” 

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

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

Hayes sniffs. 

“Can I talk to you?” he blurts. 

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

“In private,” he adds. 

Laurie frowns. “Hayes—”

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

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

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

“It’s through here,” Hayes clips. 

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

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

“You wanna sit?” 

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

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

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

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

So you talk. Because the silence is fucking unbearable. 

“So,” you say. “She’s your, um…” 

“Aunt.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So you did get my texts,” he says. 

Fuck. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He looks at the counter. His cheeks turn pink. 

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

Hayes looks back up. He’s struggling. 

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

He shrugs. His eyes are wide. 

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

“We did,” you say. “We had fun.” 

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

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

“Okay, but — in a day?” 

“Sorry?” 

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

Fuck. Off. 

You flip up your hands.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You took yours off,” he says. 

“Oh.” You blink. “I…” 

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

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

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

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

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

And then he frowns again. Deeper. Darker. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Stop it. Step back.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s breathing hard. His eyes are dark. 

“Who?” he asks. 

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

He huffs. 

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

Stop, you think. Fucking stop. 

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

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

“Holy shit,” he says. 

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

“Hayes,” you say, “it’s not—”

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

There’s a pause. You swallow. 

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

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

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

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

“Fuck me,” Hayes mutters. “Jesus.” 

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

“Hayes—”

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

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

“You’d probably like that, right?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hayes’s voice rises. You lift your head. 

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

You blink. 

“Am I okay?” 

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

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

“What?” 

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

“What the fuck,” you breathe. 

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

“I just—”

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

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

“It’s not sick.” 

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

“I asked him to,” you bite. 

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

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

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

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

“No,” you say. “I didn’t.” 

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

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

“—are you in love with him?” 

You freeze. Full stop. 

“Excuse me?” 

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

“Fuck off,” you snarl. 

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

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

“Get your hand off me,” you say. 

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

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

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

“Hey,” he says, softly, “are you…?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

The silence stretches. Laurie clears her throat. 

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

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

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

Laurie laughs awkwardly. 

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

“Is he? Is he the best?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Joel huffs. 

“I’m sorry?” Laurie says. “What?” 

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

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

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

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

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

“We’re done here,” Joel says. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t touch me,” you hiss. 

Joel’s hand tightens on your back. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey,” he breathes. 

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

The job you just fucked. 

“I’m sorry,” you whimper. 

His face slackens. He looks heartbroken, now. 

“Oh, baby girl,” he murmurs. 

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

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

He holds you closer. Tighter. 

“It ain’t your fault,” he murmurs. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The light turns green. He doesn’t go. 

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

He’s quiet. The car behind you honks. 

“Go,” you say, dully.  

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

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

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

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

So you run first. Or you try to. 

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

Joel glances over at you. His brows knit. 

“Let me out,” you say. 

He blinks. You tug the handle again. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Run?” he says. “Who’s runnin’?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What the hell is that?” you say.

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

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

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

“It’s terrible,” you tell him. 

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

“Oh, yeah. No. Much better.” 

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

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

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

“Stop apologizin’,” he says. 

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t care ‘bout the job,” he says. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

You sniff. Nod. 

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

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

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

“Don’t,” you say. “It’s weird.” 

He shakes his head. Rolls his eyes. 

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

You hum. 

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

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

“’S a to-go cup,” he drawls. 

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

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

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

He shrugs. 

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

You swallow back a pang of guilt. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Pull over,” you say. 

He looks over at you. Frowns. 

“What?” 

“Pull. Over.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“For…” 

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

He swallows. You smile softly.  

“Mm. A good something?” 

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

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

You hum into his neck. His hands still. 

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

You pull back. Search his face. 

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

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

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

You jump at the sound. 

“Fuck,” you mumble.

He laughs. 

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

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

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

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

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

“Good?” he murmurs. 

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

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

— 

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

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

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

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

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

He smiles. You think he looks proud of himself. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

“Smile,” he says. 

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

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

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

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

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

He grunts. 

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

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

He looks at you. Frowns. 

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

Your cheeks heat. You shake your head. 

“Fuck off,” you mumble.

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

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

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

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

“Joel,” you say. 

“Yeah, angel.” 

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

“I don’t know,” you mumble. 

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

“S’okay, baby,” he says. “I know.” 

— 

He takes you to dinner, too. 

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

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

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

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

“Shut up,” he says. 

You laugh. 

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

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

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

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

“Yeah,” he says. 

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

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

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

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

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

“What’d he want?” you ask, dully. 

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

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

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

You nod. 

“Hey,” he says, softly. “S’okay.” 

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

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

“Fuck,” you mutter. 

“That kid again?” 

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

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

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

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

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

“Hayes?” 

Joel nods. 

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

“But it bothered you,” he says. 

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

“Matters ‘f it bothered you.” 

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

It’s sick. 

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

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

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

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

Joel is silent. You shake your head. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He shrugs. 

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thought you didn’t care,” he says. 

“Yeah, well.” 

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

“No.” 

He grumbles. Keeps surfing. 

“Storage Wars,” he says. 

“No.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mm,” he mumbles. “Somethin’ funny?” 

“You,” you say. “You’re cute.” 

“I’m cute?” 

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

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

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

“’N you’re a liar,” he says, softly. 

Your brows furrow. 

“I’m a—” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No,” you squeak. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’re quiet. His black eyes search yours. 

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

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

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

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

“C’mon,” you whimper, “Joel, please—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jesus,” he mutters. “Come here.” 

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

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

“Sit down,” he growls. 

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

“I’ve never...”

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

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

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

“Holy fuck,” you yelp, “Joel—” 

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

He drags his mouth away for a split second. 

“Do that again,” he says. 

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

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

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

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

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

“One more,” he says. 

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

“I—fuck,” you pant. “I can’t.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Um,” you say. “That was…” 

His fingers still over your spine. 

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

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

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

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

“Impossible,” he mutters. 

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

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

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

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Maybe.”  

—

You drive back to Austin in the morning. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He squints at his watch. Frowns. 

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

You shrug. 

“Maybe he called in?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah,” he echoes. “Me too, angel.” 

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

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

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

“Yeah,” you mumble. “Okay.” 

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

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

He shakes his head. 

“Stop,” he says. 

“I’m just—” 

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

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

“Fuck the job,” he says. 

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

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

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

— 

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

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

“Dad?” you call. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s hammered. 

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

“Where’s Joel?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Um, yeah,” you say. “It was good.” 

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

You nod, slowly. 

“Yeah,” you say, again. “Good view.” 

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

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

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

“What?” 

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

You swallow. Feel it stick. 

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

“Sit your ass down,” he snarls. 

You sit down. 

“Dad,” you say. 

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

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

taglist (lmk if you wanna be added!)

@bbyanarchist @elissaaa @nana90azevedo @cannolighost @jbb-sgr @cedricbitch @nenyahh @totallynotastanacc @jasminedragoon @hrdc0re-goth @myswficlist @brucewaynescock @aestheticangel612 @re3kin @untamedheart81 @pedrosheartshapedbeardspot @am-3-thyst @godisawomansblog @prettyangelsthings @walkingintheheartbreaksatellite @daddy-din @crocodiile @socket-seahorse-blog @confused-and-clumsy @she-could-never @suzmagine @artsymaddie @mellmannn @virgogaia @mysteriousheat4058 @fandomoniumflurry @projectionistwrites @buckyandlokirunmylife @brattynbookish @carriganbrowning @brittmb11 @iamsherlocked1479 @ghostofjoharvelle @kay2601 @casa-boiardi

@silkiers @mrsquill @stileslvr @joelssheep @joelsversion @pedropascalsbbg @bonesblow @madblue3500 @evyiione @missandaei @trishpish-blog @sarahhxx03 @pedritosgirl2000 @zliteraturehoe @thedeadsingwithdirtintheirmouths @l0vem3n @nelsohanx @cassiecasluciluce @wildcat116 @sanriowhorelol @ifall4dilfs @act816 @lunarxeclipse @gracevnn @papiispunk @anner--nanner @illusivepeony @pureaustralianhoney @peqchsoup @fifia-writes @hallofagayqueer @livinxdeadxgrl @sentients17 @jamesmasbone @pattwtf @shjl15 @caitispunk @mmmmandoz @ssweetart42 @eyelismtears @h1ghinmiami @olivermarfanking @hayley-the-comet @abigails-gf @blondewonk @worhols @lesmismakesmehappy @subconsciouscollapse @lucylynnrose @foras @kosh-kaj-blog @jazzy-music-cat @abuttoncalledsmalls @sarahp-77 @the-names-peach@yo-its-jackie @iluvurfather @llovegallore @jessahmewren @sparklingwine829229 @vickie5446 @lmariephoto37 @defibrillator7 @winwin70 @joelsguitar @marnle @spideysimpossiblegirl @vickie5446 @xocalliexo @yiikkesss

@goldenhxurs @akah565 @spacelatinos4life @mellymbee @purplexical @whichwitchwanda @mandofanclub @scarletsloveletter @thewiigers @zarakirbyy @cordeliasenvy @iwantaharrystylesalbum @cumulonimbus34 @tremendouscreationperson @sweetorangecakeboi @toomanynights @chantelle-mh @willbereturningshortly @kelesisworld @awxcoffeexno @siggy-things @joybabyjune @carlsssbarkley @bluetattoos @thefourteenthofoctober @spaceface25 @lestlie @oliveg95 @a-rose-of-amber @ninja-ubg @ladybubblelift

patchwork

12.4k / dbf!joel x f!reader

official dbf!joel playlist

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So you just ask — 

“How?” 

—in a hollowed-out voice. 

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

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

Your skin pricks. Of fucking course. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’re quiet. 

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

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

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

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

 You suck in a breath. Fuck. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He stares at you. 

“How long?” he asks. 

“What?” 

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

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

“You don’t know,” he repeats. 

You swallow. 

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

He makes a small sound. 

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

You’re silent. 

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

“Okay,” he says, softly. “Okay.” 

“Dad—”

He nods. Once. Just to himself. 

“I’ll kill him,” he says. 

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

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

You lunge across the table. 

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

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

“It’s not his fault?” he says, slowly. He sounds incredulous. “No? I let him into my house. Drive his fuckin’ kid to soccer practice. ’N he—”

He breathes deep. It rattles wet between his ribs. 

“You’re right,” he scoffs. “It ain’t his fault.” 

It’s not exactly reassuring. Not the way he says it. 

“It’s mine,” he slurs. He shoves himself up, off of the table. Stands straight, and dusts his hands off on his knees. He runs a palm over his face, and his boot catches on an empty bottle. You watch it roll under the table. 

“Shoulda seen it,” he says. His lip twitches. “Right in fronta me, right?” 

He laughs. Or — barks. It sounds angry. 

“Joel Miller,” he drawls. “Can’t keep a wife. Fuckin’ deadbeat brother’s in jail every weekend. His own kid's hardly home.” 

He scoffs again. Shakes his head. 

“Shoulda known, huh? Shoulda fuckin’ known.” 

“Stop it,” you say, and there’s something else in your voice now. It sounds like a warning. “Stop. You don’t know. You have no fucking idea—“

“Oh, I got some fuckin’ idea,” he snarls. “Known him a helluva lot longer ’n you.” 

“He’s good,” you say. You take a shaky breath. You don’t remember your voice starting to rise. “He’s good, dad, you—”

He brings his hand down, hard, on the table. The sound makes you flinch.

“He’s a fuckin’ liar, ’s what he is.” He drags a shuddering breath. “And you’re a goddamn kid. You’re my kid.” 

“I’m not a kid.” 

He ignores you. Some of the bottles must be broken, you think, because his boots crunch glass when he staggers past you. 

“I’m not,” you echo, and you hate that you sound like a kid, now. Fucking begging him to listen, begging him to stay. 

He stumbles out of the dining room. You turn in your chair. 

“Where are you going?” 

“Stay there,” he says. “Deal with you later.” 

“Dad,” you say. “Don’t—”

“Stay the fuck there!” he shouts. His hand curls in his hair. “Jesus! Fuck!” 

His eyes squeeze shut. He pushes out a shaking sigh. 

“I’m not doin’ this right now,” he mumbles. You can see him holding back. His fingers tremble at his sides. “Just go upstairs. Please. We’ll talk about this later.” 

“Go upstairs,” he repeats, when you still don’t move. 

Your throat crowds. Something hard and bitter sticks there. 

“He didn’t do anything,” you breathe. 

He huffs. Shakes his head. There’s thunder, somewhere far outside. You’re pretty sure it’s raining. You can hear it thrash at the front door. 

“He did fuckin’ plenty,” he growls. 

—

You stay in your room for hours. 

Not because your dad told you to. You’re not thirteen, and you’re not grounded. You stay there because it’s safe and silent and familiar, and because you don’t know where the hell else to go. 

You wish you hadn’t given Joel’s shirt back. That stupid, soft cotton one, with his name scrawled in print across the back. You’d curl up in it now, if it was still dripping across your dresser. You’d dig yourself under the covers and try to capture his scent on the collar. 

But you don’t have his shirt, and you don’t have him. So you lay at the foot of your bed, in your own clothes, and you scroll through your phone until the screen makes you sick. 

You text Joel twice. Maybe three times. He doesn’t respond. 

You do get up at some point. You’re not sure when. You take a shower, and two Tylenol for the pounding, throbbing ache in your head, and you settle back into bed with wet hair. You swipe your phone back open and stare at the screen. 

No texts from Joel. No nothing. 

You call him. It rings eight, nine times and goes to voicemail. 

“Fuck,” you mutter. 

Your dad isn’t here, either. He’d come back once, hours ago, and stomped around downstairs before leaving again. He hadn’t come up, and you hadn’t gone down. You’d watched him leave from your bedroom window and peel out into the rain. 

That was hours ago. When it was still light out. You think maybe you should call him, but — you don’t. You just don’t. 

You go to your window, instead. You cup a hand to the glass and try to catch a sign of life from Joel’s house. 

Nothing. The rain is coming down too hard. It blurs the glass, and makes the night bleed darker, and all his fucking lights are off, anyway. Every single one. Even his porch is pitch black. 

But his truck is still in the driveway. You can see it from your room — or the shape of it, at least. So you’re pretty sure he’s home. Sure enough to roll out of bed at ten, when it’s clear you won’t be falling asleep, and wander out of the house. Sure enough to run barefoot across the street, in the rain, in a pair of sleep shorts and a shirt two sizes too big. 

You don’t take anything with you. You leave your phone in the house, upstairs, half-hidden underneath your pillow. You figure your dad will try to call you, eventually. Or he’ll come home, finally, and come upstairs, and scream at you some more. You don’t want to deal with either possibility. 

So — fuck it. You leave your phone. And your socks, and your shoes, and the sweater that’s hanging on your bedroom door. You leave everything, and you sprint across the street to Joel’s. 

Your hair is dripping, by the time you make it to his door. Your shirt is clinging to your chest. Your cheeks are wet, and you can’t tell if it’s that hot, gloomy, summer-soaked rain or if you’ve just been crying. 

Basically — you look like a fucking mess. But he looks a hell of a lot worse, when he opens up his door. 

You only have to knock twice. Call his name once. And then the door is creaking open, a little reluctantly, and he’s staring at you from the threshold. 

All the lights are off behind him. You can’t see into his house. And you can barely — barely — see his face. 

But you can see enough. Enough to make your breath catch. 

“Oh my god.” You take half a step forward. He shrinks back, into the dark, like he doesn’t quite want you to touch him. Like he doesn’t want you to see him. 

“Joel,” you breathe. 

“S’okay,” he murmurs. 

Your lip trembles. 

“My dad,” you say, quietly, “did he—?” 

He doesn’t answer. Your heart breaks.

“Can I come in?” you plead. “Please?” 

He doesn’t answer. Again. But he holds the door open, a little wider, and he steps back to let you in. You move past him, into his pitch-black hallway, and he shuts the door behind you. The rain fades to a nervous patter. 

“Sarah?” you ask, softly. 

He shakes his head. 

“Home in the mornin’,” he murmurs. 

Thank god, you think. 

The dark doesn’t really faze you. You know his house like the back of your hand. But you walk carefully all the same, cause you can feel him behind you like a spooked animal. You wander into his kitchen and he hangs back a few feet. He leans against the counter with his face turned toward the dark. 

“Joel,” you say, softly. 

He’s quiet. 

“I need to turn a light on,” you say. You’re speaking slowly. Quietly. The way you’d speak to a child. “I need to — I need to see.” 

He doesn’t say anything. But he doesn’t try to stop you, when you reach for the switch. You hit the lights, dimmest setting, and the kitchen flickers to life. 

You turn around. Blink. Your eyes adjust to the change in light. 

And then you see him — like, really see him — and you gasp. You can’t help it. 

It’s worse than it looked in the dark. It’s…way worse. 

His right eye is swollen shut. There’s a bruise underneath, puffy and purple, pulling up around his eye and dripping down onto his cheek. There’s a neat little slice across the bridge of his nose. Blood on his cheek and his chin — from his nose, maybe, or from something else you can’t see. 

But that’s not what kills you. None of that is what kills you. 

It’s his hands. His fucking hands. There are no bruises blooming across his knuckles. There’s no blood splashed on his palms. 

His hands are clean. He didn’t fight back. 

He catches you staring. He sees the look on your face. 

“S’okay,” he repeats. “Ain’t ’s bad as it looks.” 

He tries to smile. The wince he lets slip instead says it’s worse. 

You’ve never seen him like this. Not in all the years you’ve known him. You’ve never seen him look broken. 

You’re trying not to cry. From the look he gives you, you must not be successful. 

“Don’t do that,” he says, gently. “Please don’t cry, angel.” 

“Your fucking — your face, Joel—”

“S’fine,” he slurs. “S’nothin’.” 

“It’s not fine.” You shake your head. Water drips down your back. You’d shiver, if you could think about anything other than him. Him and his gorgeous, stupid, shattered face. “It’s not — fine, Joel.” 

He’s quiet. You take a breath. Then another. You start to think a little clearer. Maybe it’s adrenaline, or some kind of base, protective instinct. Not an instinct you thought you had, but — it’s sure as hell kicking into high gear right now. 

“Sit down,” you tell him. Your own tone surprises you. You sound collected. Commanding. A whole lot calmer than you feel. “You’re not fine. Sit down.” 

His brows furrow. But he listens, so either you are that commanding, when you want to be, or he’s just too beat up to fight you. 

You point to the breakfast table. He wanders over obediently and slumps into a chair. 

“Do you have a first aid kit?” 

He stares up at you. Blinks, with his good eye. 

“Joel,” you say. “Do you have a first aid kit?” 

“Uh—” he thinks, nods, “—yeah. Bathroom. My bathroom. Under the sink. But I don’t need—”

“Yeah you do,” you say. “Don’t move.” 

He doesn’t move. You leave him at the breakfast table, huddled in his seat, and return a few minutes later with his first aid kit in tow. You pop it open on the table. Everything’s intact — gauze, isopropyl alcohol, tape, tweezers. It looks like it’s never been used. 

“Don’t need all that,” he grumbles. 

“Shut up,” you say. 

He shuts up.   

You should turn some more lights on, really, so you can see exactly what it is you’re doing. But you keep it dark — or dim, at least — because he winces whenever you tilt him to the light. So either the light hurts his bad eye — or, more likely, you think — he just doesn’t want you to see him like this.

You stand between his legs. The small of your back brushes his breakfast table. You take his chin in your hand and angle it up. 

He hisses through his teeth. 

“Stop fidgeting,” you murmur. 

You dab at his chin with soaked cotton from the kit. The alcohol takes the blood right off. 

“Y’don’t need t’do this,” he mumbles. 

“Yeah,” you say. You can feel him looking at you. You’re ridiculously close like this, caged between his legs. But you’re focused on his face — on the blood splashed on his cheek, and the ragged cut across the bridge of his nose. “I know.” 

He winces when you dab at his nose. Makes a low, annoyed sound in the back of his throat. 

“Ow,” he says, flatly. 

“You’ll live.” 

“Mmph.” 

You move onto his cheek. You try your best to avoid the bruise there, splattered underneath his eye, but you catch an angry edge on a few passes. You know when you do, because you feel him tense. You hear the breath he sucks in under your fingers. 

“Shit,” you mumble. “I’m sorry.” 

He tries to shake his head. But that hurts, too. 

You pause. The cotton hovers over his cheek. He squeezes his thighs together, just slightly, and they cage you in tighter. His hands come up to hold your waist. 

“I’m sorry,” you say, again. Your voice is softer, now. Shattered. You’re sorry for something else. You’re sorry for this. 

“I didn’t know,” you say. “I tried — I tried to stop him. I didn’t know he would—”

His grip tightens on your waist. You dab his cheek with the cotton and your fingers linger on his skin.

“Stop,” he murmurs. 

But you can’t stop, really. It’s all just — bubbling up. Now that the blood is off his face your composure is slipping — no more cool, calm, collected. You feel as broken as he looks. 

“It was — it was Hayes,” you say. It just tumbles out. “He — he tried to text me, last night, and when I didn’t respond I guess he fucking — he drove back to Austin. To my dad. And he—”

You wave a hand. He did this. 

“—I don’t know, he snitched, and then my dad — he found the cancellation, for the hotel room, and — and he was so fucking drunk, and I—I told him you didn’t do anything, I told him not to come here, but—”

 Joel is quiet. You shake your head. 

“I should’ve done something. I don’t know. I could have — I could’ve stopped him, or something—”

“No,” he says, quietly. 

“Yeah. Yes. I could’ve — I should’ve been here. With you. Not fucking — not upstairs, in my room, just —”

“No,” he bites. The way he says it shuts you up. 

“I told you,” he says, quietly. “He doesn’t like mess.” 

He looks at you, with that one good eye. 

“’N we made a fuckin’ mess,” he murmurs. 

You shake your head. Tears well at the back of your throat. His thumb strokes aimlessly at the band of your shorts. 

“Why didn’t you do something?” Your voice breaks. “Why didn’t you hit him back?” 

He sighs. You hear it rumble in his chest. He runs big, broad hands up the sides of your soaked shirt. 

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to. 

You take a trembling breath and he pulls you down, into him, until you give up standing and crumple into his lap. Your legs dangle sidelong over his. The dye on your soaked shorts bleeds into his jeans. 

He doesn’t care. He pushes your hair back from your face and kisses your jaw, your cheek, the side of your nose. Whatever he can reach. It’s not sexual. It’s just…gentle. So fucking gentle. 

“What do we do?” you ask. You sound miserable. You feel even worse. 

His breath dances on your jaw. 

“I don’t know, angel,” he says, finally. 

You make a small, desperate sound and bury your face in his shoulder. He holds you there. You can feel him breathe. In and out and in and out. Slow. Even. It used to piss you off, how unbothered he always seemed. Now your fingers sprawl over his heart and cling to his steady pulse-beat like a lifeline. 

“He’s not home,” you say. The words are muffled in his shirt. “I don’t know where he went.” 

He nods. You figure he already knew that. He can see your empty driveway from his window. 

“I don’t want—” you swallow thickly. His scent crowds your nose. Coffee, linen. The copper twang of blood. 

“I don’t want to go back,” you say.

He breathes in deeply. His lips graze your temple. 

“He’ll wanna talk t’you,” he murmurs. “Can’t avoid him forever, baby girl.” 

“I could try,” you mumble. You’re only half-joking. 

Joel smiles. You feel it curve at your temple. 

“I don’t want to talk to him,” you say. “Not yet. Not — not now.” 

You pull your head back from his shoulder. You put a hand on his cheek and run a careful thumb along his jaw. 

He tips his head back a little, responding to your touch. A soft sigh slips past his lips. 

You run your thumb along his bottom lip. His mouth parts, slightly. His good eye blinks at you, soft and brown and almost pleading. 

“Please,” you breathe. “Joel. I don’t want to go home.” 

He nods again. Your thumb stills over his lip. 

“Okay,” he murmurs. His hand drifts up your back. His fingers trace your spine, stroking over soaked fabric. “Yeah. Okay, baby.” 

His free hand comes up to wrap around yours. He moves your thumb gently from his lip and kisses it, instead. Featherlight. The pad of your thumb, your knuckles, your fingertips. It’s kind of a startling contrast, you think. The rough wrap of his hand around yours. The reverent brush of his lips. 

“C’mon,” he breathes. 

He whispers it between kisses, buried in the valley of your knuckles, so desperately soft you’re not sure he’s even said it at all. 

But then he’s letting your hand go, and moving you gently from his lap, and he’s standing up from his seat with a wince that makes your heart ache. 

He holds his arm out for you and you fold into his side. You can’t tell if you’re supporting him, when he limps through the dark to his room, or if he’s supporting you. Keeping you upright, with his big hand bunched in your wet shirt. 

Maybe it’s both. You’re not sure that it matters. Either way you don’t let go of him,  and he doesn’t let you go — not until you’re in his room, for the second time ever — and you’re staring at his unmade bed. 

His duffel bag is open on the floor. There are clothes sprawled out across the carpet. Some of them are folded. He was probably in the middle of unpacking, when your dad got here. 

You don’t know why that — specifically that — makes you so, indescribably sad. You stare up at the ceiling fan over his bed and try your fucking hardest not to cry. Again. For the ten thousandth time tonight. 

He watches you. He sees your eyes roam across his carpet, and the clothes there, and the wrinkled, crumpled sheets on his bed. 

“Sorry,” he murmurs, a little sheepish. “Everythin’ — it’s a mess.” 

He means the clothes, you think. He means the room. 

But, yeah, you think. Everything is a fucking mess. 

You shake your head. His ceiling fan hums somewhere above you, and the air it kicks up makes you shiver. You hadn’t really realized how cold you were, when you were patching him up in soaked clothes. You realize now. 

So does he. He takes one look at you — the way your hands rub up your arms — and swears, softly. 

“Fuck,” he mumbles. “I didn’t even — you’re freezin’.” 

“I’m fine,” you say. 

“You’re soakin’ wet,” he says. “Take those off. I’ll get you somethin’.” 

You hate the way he limps to his closet. You wish he’d just sit the hell down, and let you take care of him the way you did in the kitchen. But he’s stubborn, when it comes to this. When it comes to you. 

You strip down to your underwear while he roots around in his closet. They’re the only thing the rain hasn’t soaked through. The rest — your shirt, your cotton shorts — you leave in a damp heap by your feet. 

Then you sit back, onto the foot of his bed. Your arms come up to fold across your chest. You’re not sure why. It’s dark in his room, and it’s nothing he hasn’t seen a hundred times now. 

It’s just — he still makes you nervous, when he limps back from the closet with a dry shirt in his hand. He still makes you shy. And he’s impossible to read, on a good day, but after all this…you have no idea what he wants. 

So you keep your arms crossed, pressed tight across your chest. Watch him with quiet eyes when he stops, a few feet from you, and holds out the shirt like a peace offering. 

You hesitate. Just a second. When you reach out to take it, his eyes flick to your chest and then drop to the floor. He swallows. 

“Thanks,” you say, softly. 

He nods. 

You tug it on without really looking, but the fabric feels familiar. Silk-soft, from one too many washes. You catch a glimpse of orange letters when you slide it over your head. 

It’s that fucking Miller Contracting shirt. The one he’d given to you weeks ago. The one you’d slept in, next to Hayes. The one you wish you’d never given back. 

It smells like him again. You twist a hand in the hem. 

“Never should’ve given this back,” you say. 

He smiles. You can see it in the dark. Soft. Small.

“Second time’s the charm,” he mutters. 

You huff. 

“Yeah,” you say, quietly. “Something like that.” 

He’s quiet. He watches you toy with the sleeve. 

“Keep it,” he says. “S’yours.” 

You’re sure your dad will love that. He already knows you’re fucking Joel. Might as well traipse around the house in his signed shirt. 

That’s if he ever lets you back in the house again. If he ever even comes home. 

Fuck. If you ever even come home. 

“Hey,” Joel murmurs. He must read the look on your face. The way your smile fades. The way your throat pulls taut. 

“We’ll figure somethin’ out,” he says, gently. “He’ll — he’ll come around.” 

You scoff. Yeah, right. The empty bottles scattered in your dining room; Joel’s shattered face — none of that spells about to come around. None of that spells reasonable, or even halfway rational. And Joel knows it. You think he lies to comfort you, and it almost — sort of — works. 

“Just give him time,” he says. He takes a weary seat beside you, on the foot of his bed. The duvet sinks beneath him. 

You look at him, next to you. His face is shadowed in the dark. 

“He hurt you,” you whisper. 

He’s quiet. You can hear him wrestle with the silence.

“He loves you,” he says, softly. 

“That’s not—” You shake your head. “You should have hit him back.” 

There’s a pause. You think he sighs. 

“No, darlin’,” he says, quietly. 

“Why? Just cause he’s — cause he’s your fucking friend?” 

He swallows. You hear it, tight and thick, buried deep in his throat. His fingers slide over his knees. 

“No, baby,” he murmurs. “Not cause he’s my friend.” 

He doesn’t elaborate, which is…typical. But this quiet feels deeper, heavier than his usual lapses into silence, so…you let it go. You mumble something into the dark and stare off the edge of his bed. You watch your own bare feet dangle over his carpet. 

“I wouldn’t blame you, y’know,” you say. “If this is just — if it’s too much, now.” 

He looks at you. His good eye sparkles. 

“Funny,” he says. “Was gonna tell you the same thing.” 

You frown. 

“It’s not too much for me,” you say, a little defensive. “Why — why would it be too much for me?” 

He looks vaguely amused. 

“I dunno,” he drawls. “You’re the one who brought it up.” 

“Well, yeah, but — I’m not the one who got my shit rocked.” 

His brows flick up. His smile pulls. You’re teasing him again. Must mean you feel at least a little, tiny bit better. 

“I’m just saying.” You’re serious, again. “I wouldn’t blame you for running now.” 

“You want me t’run?” 

“No,” you say. It’s faster, harsher than you mean. “No, fuck. Of course not. I just — I wouldn’t — blame you. If that’s what you — want.” 

He’s quiet. 

“’S not what I want,” he says, softly. 

He’s been careful not to touch you, since you’ve been in his room. He’d given you his shirt and then given you space — and you appreciate his hesitation, under the circumstances — but you wish he would just put his fucking hands on you. Make your eyes roll back. Make you forget. Just for a night, at least. Just for tonight. 

And he does put his hands on you, now. Finally. Just — not in that rough, domineering way that you’re used to. He lifts a hand to your face and brushes a piece of hair back, behind your ear. His fingers splay under the cut of your jaw. He tips your face up, towards him, and your chin rests in the palm of his hand. 

“I told you already,” he says. “I ain’t goin’ anywhere.” 

You look at him. You don’t have much of a choice. He’s forcing your gaze, with a grip like silk steel. His thumb strokes soft over your jaw. 

“Yeah,” you say. “But that was before.” 

“Doesn’t matter when it was,” he murmurs. “It was the truth.” 

You feel small, with your chin in his hand. With your face tipped to his, and his big, warm fingers sprawled out over your skin. But you like it. You like that you fit in the palm of his hand. 

You want to kiss him. You always want to kiss him, if you’re being honest, but — right now it’s less of a want, and more of a need. It tugs deep in your chest, somewhere behind your ribs, and you whimper uselessly around his fingers. 

“Joel,” you say. 

He must see how badly you need him. How your eyes are blown wide, pleading pathetically with him. How your throat tightens up when you try not to beg. But he doesn’t kiss you. 

“How many times ’til you understand?” he breathes. “I’m right here. I ain’t goin’ nowhere. I’m — fuck.” 

His jaw flexes. He pushes out a breath. 

“I’m yours,” he says. “’Til you say I ain’t.” 

He’s quiet. His thumb stills on the ridge of your jaw. 

“How many fuckin’ times ’til you get that straight?” 

He’s so close. You don’t remember him getting this close. You don’t remember his hand sliding up to cup your cheek, and you can’t tell if it’s his skin that’s white hot or if it’s yours. 

He leans in — closes that last, searing inch — and his lips brush yours. It’s not quite a kiss. But almost. Almost. 

“I don’t know,” you mumble. “Tell me again.” 

You tip into him. Rob him of his lead. You kiss him and his mouth parts obediently, like he was just waiting for you to do this. Just — sitting, stubbornly, until you took what you wanted. And now that you’re here — now that you’re taking — he gives it up. Willingly. More than willingly, you think. 

You bite at his bottom lip and he groans. Sweet, smooth. Still distinctly Southern, in its silk-soft timbre. His hand skates up your back, over your shirt and under your still-damp hair — and he cups the back of your neck. Gently. Like he’s just — bracing himself, so that he doesn’t lose your kiss. Making absolutely, desperately sure you stay close. 

You slip your tongue to his mouth. He makes a sound that sets your skin on fire. 

You reach up to touch his face. You’re not really thinking. Your fingers brush his cheek — and the nasty, sprawling bruise there — and he winces. 

You pull back. All of you — your mouth and your fingers. 

“Fuck,” you breathe. “I’m—”

His hand is still on the back of your neck. And this time it’s not so gentle, the way he pulls you back against his mouth. But it shuts you up, at least. 

“Don’t—”

He breaks his kiss for half a second. Just to scold you with that Southern snarl— 

“—fuckin’—” 

He licks into your mouth. Makes you whine. 

“—apologize.” 

“Sorry,” you squeak. 

He tugs your head back. Holds you there, an inch from his lips. 

You watch him toll his tongue across his teeth. Then you watch him shake his head. 

“Jesus,” he says. 

You almost laugh. But he swallows it up in a kiss, so you settle for a smile on his lips. 

You’re gentler with him, this time. More aware of your hands: of where they are and how you touch him. You put your arm over his shirt, just under his heart, and take stock of the way his breath hitches. 

You figure it’s probably not just his face that’s mottled black and blue. So you’re extra careful, when you drag your fingers up his arms, and over his sleeves, and across the soft flannel of his collar.

And you’re extra, extra gentle when you break his kiss, panting softly, and put two hands on the flat of his chest. 

“Lie down,” you tell him. 

He doesn’t move. So stubborn. 

You push at his chest. Gentle. Gentle. 

“Joel,” you say. “Lie down.” 

“Mm,” he says. “Don’t take orders.” 

There he is. That’s the Joel you’re used to. It’s kind of a relief, as stubborn as he is. Nice to know he’s not broken. Just…bruised.

You stare at him. He matches your gaze, one good eye for both of yours. 

This is the part where you give in, usually. But you made him listen in the kitchen, and you’re gonna make him listen now. 

“Yes you do,” you say. “Tonight you do.” 

He opens his mouth. You shut him up before he argues. 

“Joel,” you say. “Just — let me take care of you.” 

His breath snags. He shakes his head, but his eyes look pleading. Like he doesn’t quite know how to say yes. It makes your heart hurt, a little. You wonder if anyone’s ever looked after him. If anyone’s ever offered. 

“Already took care ‘a me,” he protests. “Y’don’t—” 

“If you tell me I don’t need to, I swear to god, I’m gonna kill you.” 

He blinks. 

“I’m serious,” you say. 

A smile plays at the edge of his mouth. He nods. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Y’look serious.” 

“So lie down.” 

He looks at you. Half a second longer. And then you push at his chest, again — still light, still gentle — and this time he goes. He lies back and his weight dips the mattress. 

“Scoot back,” you say. “Head on the pillows.” 

He glares up at you. He looks a little peeved, but — he listens. He moves up and lays his head down on the pillows. You don’t miss the way he relaxes, almost instantaneously — all bunched up, beaten, six-foot-something of him. The way his muscles untense, when he splays on the sheets. The way his fingers unspool at his sides. 

“Comfy?” 

He grumbles. 

“You can say yes,” you say. “I won’t tell anyone.” 

He grumbles again. Slightly softer. You can feel him eyeing you, where you still sit at the end of his bed. 

“Come up here,” he huffs. He sounds impatient. 

You tilt your head. Twist your finger in the hem of your shirt. 

His eyes flicker shut. His fingers tangle in the sheets. He lets a low groan slip, and it goes straight to your core. 

“Please,” he grits, and you stifle a grin. Joel Miller, pleading with you. You should get it on camera, for posterity. But you’re not that mean. You’re just mean enough to make him repeat himself. 

“Please…what?” 

The look he gives you is downright wicked. You’ll pay for this, when he’s all healed up. When he can lunge up, off of those pillows, and flip you on your back without dragging in a wince. 

But he can’t, right now. So…

“Please,” he repeats. Low, deliberate. Dripping in that deadpan drawl. “Get your ass up here.” 

You indulge him. 

“Okay,” you say, softly. “Since you asked so nicely.” 

He mutters something. It sounds like a curse. You shuffle toward him on your knees, crinkling his sheet and straddling his legs. You stop when you’re hovering over his lap. 

The hem of your shirt tickles his. When you sink down slightly, and drop a fraction of your weight to his lap, your underwear graze the dark seam of his jeans. 

He hisses. His hands come up to hug your sides. He ruts his hips up, winces, and rolls his head back to the pillow. His arousal nudges at your thigh. 

“Please,” he mumbles. He doesn’t sound annoyed, anymore. You’re not even sure he knows he’s begging. 

He swallows. Rocks his hips up, again, and winces. Again. 

You put a hand on his face. On the good side. He drops his hips and looks at you with one wide eye.  

“Slow,” you breathe. “We’ll go slow.” 

“Don’t wanna go slow,” he growls. Always so. fucking. stubborn. His grip tightens on your waist. “Wanna fuck you." 

“You’re not doing anything,” you say. “You’re out of commission.” 

“‘M not—fuck.“ 

You palm his cock through his jeans. His hips fumble mid-thrust and then fall. His breath shudders. 

“Fuck, darlin’,” he mumbles. “What—”

“Relax.” You flatten your palm and drag it over denim. Over the rapidly-hardening line of his cock. His fingers dig at your shirt, crumpling the cotton, kneading at the soft spot between your ribs. 

“Relax,” you repeat. And then, again, for the thousandth time tonight, “—Joel. Let me take care of you.” 

He’s quiet. His eyes are half open, heavier with every short slide of your hand up his thigh. 

“Please,” you murmur. 

Your hand stills over his lap. You watch him with wide eyes. He swallows, thick, and then — 

“Okay.” His head thumps back against the pillows. His cock strains uselessly, chasing your hand. “Fuck, baby. Okay.” 

You start with his belt. Your fingers fumble on his buckle, and you blame the dark. And maybe your nerves, a little bit. He’s never let you take control like this. And you want — you want to do a good job. You want him to feel good. 

You’re kind of surprised, actually, just how badly you want him to feel good. It’s not like you’re selfish, usually, when it comes to guys, but — this is different. This is a different kind of want, and a different kind of ache that bites low in your belly.

You get his buckle undone and slide his belt through his jeans. You toss it somewhere, and you think it hits the floor. You don’t bother looking. You’re busy again, already, tugging at his zipper, undoing the stiff button on his jeans. 

“Lift your hips for me,” you say, softly. And then — because you remember how he winced, when he bucked his hips up into you, “—slowly.” 

He does what you say. With a trademark grumble, but — still. He tilts his hips; slowly, gently, just high enough off the bed for you to pull his jeans down. 

You shuck those off the bed, too. You can find them in the morning, in the half-folded sea of all his other clothes.  

He’s breathing hard, by the time you settle back over his lap. There’s a damp spot at the front of his boxers, where pre-cum leaks from the tip of his cock. He’s this fucking desperate, and you haven’t even touched him yet. Not properly, at least. 

And obviously he thinks you’re about to put him out of his misery, because his thigh twitches under yours, and you can feel his chest pull tight. His fingers curl hard on the mattress. You can hear the silk snap of sheets where they bunch in his knuckles. 

Your hand drifts over the head of his cock. You can see the outline clearly now, without his jeans on. Hard and thick and dripping under black boxers. You stroke him through the fabric and he growls. Like — low, dark, buried at the base of his throat. It might scare you a little, if he had any fight left in him. 

But he doesn’t. So you just…let go. 

He groans. It sounds dangerously close to a whine. 

“Fuck,” he pants. “Please. Baby.” 

You ignore him. You move your hands up, to the hem of his flannel, and you watch his gaze flicker. A little confused. A lot annoyed. You start on the lowest button and he hisses through his teeth. 

“What are you doin’?” he whines. Definitely a whine, this time. 

You snap the second button. A sliver of golden skin peeks out. 

“Going slow,” you say. 

Third button. You run your fingertips over the skin you’ve uncovered. Featherlight. But he’s so fucking sensitive it’s enough to make him shiver. 

“Fuck,” he hisses. 

Fourth button. Fifth. You’re almost to the top, now. You work the last one undone and his flannel falls open, exposing his chest to the dark. You can’t see much, but you chart the change in his breath when your touch lands in certain places. The tender space between his ribs. The swell under his heart and the ridge of his collar. You imagine they’d look a lot like his face, if you leaned over and turned on the light. Black and blue and angry. 

“Joel,” you breathe. 

“S’okay,” he mumbles. In that dopey, blissed-out, touch me drawl. He shakes his head. “Doesn’t hurt.” 

You don’t believe him, because it’s a lie. It hurts, and you know it fucking hurts. You see the way his eyes close, when your fingers graze his ribs. 

“Yes it does,” you say, softly. “It hurts.” 

He huffs. 

“Doesn’t matter,” he mumbles. “You f—fuck.” 

You lay your palm on his stomach. On a safe spot. Your hand is so warm, and so small, sprawled out across him, and when it inches just slightly, slightly lower he takes a shuddering breath. 

You take your hand away. Brace it beside him, on the mattress. Then you lean over his chest, over the skin you’ve revealed, and you kiss the shivering print your palm left on his skin. Just underneath his navel. 

He whines again. His big hands come up to tangle in your hair. 

“I what?” you murmur. Your lips skim his skin.

“You feel good,” he says. “Make me f-feel fuckin’ good, baby, fuck—”

You’re feeling bold. Kind of. You press your lips to that sore spot, just between his ribs. You figure his hands are already in your hair, if he wants to yank you off. 

But he doesn’t. He hisses, sure — you hear the sharp breath he drags in, and the swear that slips free — but he doesn’t buck you off. He lets you put his lips on him. Lets you try to kiss it better. 

Until he just can’t take it, anymore. 

You pepper kisses on his chest, and his stomach, and on the jutting ridge of his hip. You pull at the hem of his boxers, just a little, whenever your mouth drifts down to his hips. Tug them down, fraction of an inch by fraction of an inch, and kiss the new skin you uncover. 

And that drives him fucking crazy. That’s when he starts begging. 

Mumbled, at first. You can’t even tell what he’s saying. That’s how fucked out he sounds. But you get the gist of what he’s asking for. His fingers in your hair, buried at your roots. His cock straining and neglected underneath you. 

“Words,” you say. Your breath skitters along his hipbone. Your fingers toy with the hem of his shorts. “Use your words, baby.”

“Fuck,” he pants. His head is tossed back, tipped up against the pillows. The fan over his bed rustles the sheets. It doesn’t do a damn thing for the fire on his skin. 

“Your m—ah. Your mouth, angel, pl—fuck. Please.”

His words — if you can call them that — are going straight to your core. If you let him feel you right now, you’re pretty sure you’d be soaked through. But his hands are busy, clinging to your hair while you draw lazy circles on his skin with your tongue. And it’s not about you, anyway. You don’t care that you’re aching for him, or that your whole body trembles when he begs you, please. 

This is for him. For Joel. You can worry about you later. 

You drag your lips off his skin. Long enough to rest your chin on his stomach and gaze up at him. 

“My mouth,” you repeat. You dip the pad of your finger into his boxers. His thigh flinches. “My mouth where?”

“Oh, fuck,” he moans, and you can’t really tell if he’s pissed, or just desperate. His voice is hoarse. “On my f—on my cock, baby, please. Such a pretty f—fuckin’ mouth, angel. Wanna f-fill you up. Need t’feel you, fuck—“

You hook your fingers in his boxers and tug. His cock springs free, red and swollen. Pre-cum beads at the tip and drizzles down his shaft. 

You flatten yourself in the cradle of his legs. You wrap a tight little fist around his cock and lick a stripe up his length, base to tip, collecting his taste on your tongue. 

The sound he makes is broken. His fingers flex, then slacken in your hair. 

You pause at the tip of his cock. Your tongue swipes over his slit, once and then twice, and his fingers tighten again in your hair. He likes that. 

And then you flatten your tongue, and drag it over the silk-smooth underside of his head — and he ruts into your mouth. So he really likes that.

It’s not like you’ve never done this before. You’ve just never had the time to do it properly. Like, really, truly, right. Never been able to focus on him fully, on his bathroom floor or in the front seat of his car. 

But here, in the dark, sprawled out between his legs —you can take your time. You can take care of him. 

You flutter your tongue along that hidden spot until he’s saying something incoherent. You think it might be your name. And then you hollow your cheeks, and slip him into your mouth, and take his cock inch by inch to the back of your throat. 

Slow. Slow.

“Fuck,” he’s mumbling, “such a g—good girl, darlin’, fuck. P-pretty girl. Look so f-fuckin’ pretty f’me.”

His broken praise makes your stomach swarm. Spurs you on. You shift up a little, sprawled out between his legs, and try your best to take him deeper. 

The tip of his cock nudges the back of your throat. You choke, but you don’t let him go. You don’t move, either. You just hold him there, thick and pulsing on your tongue, until he begs you to move. 

“Pl—fuck. Move your head, baby. Please. Lemme—ngh. Lemme feel you.”

You drag your eyes up. Look at him, in the dark, when you start to bob your head. 

His eyes roll back. His head tips, digging into his pillow. You drag your mouth along his length, setting a steady pace, and when he’s soaked with your spit you add your fist. You swirl your hand, slow, in time with your tongue. 

He won’t last long. He was a mess before you put your mouth on him — and now that you’re touching him, choking on his cock while he splays on soft pillows — 

“Fuck,” he punches out. “Not gonna—last, babygirl.”

His fingers curl in your hair. He can’t thrust his hips up, into your mouth  — he learned that lesson, already — and you can tell it’s taking everything in him not to go for the alternative. Not to just — sink his fingers down, into your roots, and shove your head down, instead. 

You drag your mouth back to his tip. Release him, with a tight little pop that makes him groan. Your breath drips over his cock and makes him twitch. His tip grazes your soaked bottom lip. His fingers tremble in your hair.

“Joel,” you say, softly. “Take what you want.” 

His breath picks up. His fingers flex again, experimentally, asking for permission you’ve just given. 

You let him push your head down — gentle, gentle — until his cock is just kissing your lips. 

“It’s okay,” you breathe. “Use me. Make yourself feel good.” 

You think maybe it’s your words that get to him, more than your mouth or your fist or your tongue could do. He fucking whimpers — like, honestly whimpers, with his head tipped and his eyes shut and a soft, shattered plea on parted lips. 

And then he does exactly — exactly — what you ask him to do. He digs rough, thick fingers into your skull and guides your head onto his cock with a frantic, stilted shove.

You almost choke. But you’re warmed up; stretched out from the agonizingly slow pace you’d set for him, before — so you take it. You can take it. You let your jaw go slack. Let him fuck himself on your mouth. 

It’s the opposite of slow. It’s fast, and sloppy, and desperate, and for once you don’t stop him. His stomach clenches. His balls pull up tight. He groans, long and low and broken, and you —

You pull off of him. Right before he can cum down your throat. 

“What—” He’s a mess. His chest is heaving, slick with sweat. His cock twitches. Slick, swollen. Fucking — aching, if the twisted look on his face is any indication.

“What are you doin’,” he groans. “Baby, please, I n—”

“Relax,” you breathe. 

He doesn’t relax. He’s the opposite of relaxed. Every part of him is tensed; coiled up like an angry spring. 

His breath hitches, when you untangle yourself from his legs. When you climb back into his lap and straddle his cock. 

You lift the hem of that worn-out, faded, Miller Contracting shirt. It’s huge on you. It drips down onto his chest, when you lean forward, and shove your soaked panties to the side, and roll your hips over his cock. 

He gasps. Swallows. His hands come up to grasp weakly at your hips. 

You sink down onto him. Inch by inch. You’re fucking — soaked, for him — but he’s still a stretch. He still splits you open. 

“God—damn,” he hisses. “So f—fuckin’ tight, sweetheart, fuck—”

You’re gentle with him. Like — really, really gentle. You fold over him — almost chest to chest, but not quite touching — and brace your hands on either side of his shoulders. You’re careful. The way you roll your hips is careful. The way you put your lips on his neck, above the bruise on his collar and below the one on his cheek — is careful. 

Everything is careful, and gentle, but when you swivel your hips, and his cock nudges your g-spot, it’s him who tells you —

“Slow—”

—in that husky, rasping drawl. 

You listen to him. You lift your hips up, walls fluttering around him, and sink back down slow. He sighs. You bury your own gasp in his neck. 

“Cum for me,” you tell him. “It’s okay. Wanna feel — fuck. Wanna feel you.” 

He grunts. His cock throbs.

You know how close he is. It must be borderline painful, you think, so you wonder why he won’t let go. But then his hand is sliding off of your hip, and slipping under the hem of that worn t-shirt,  and his thumb is rubbing circles on your clit. 

“You f—fuck,” he breathes. “You first.” 

You bite back his name. Your hips buck, involuntarily — too hard, too fast — and if he was half-coherent he might wince. But he just bears down harder, racing you to the finish line, and your muscles clench around his cock. 

You cum hard, trembling around his cock, and your chest drops over his. You’re putting weight on him; on the bruises scattered across his skin, but — he doesn’t care. He holds you there. His hands come up, over your shirt, and splay out across your back. He presses you down, into him, and his hips jerk up. You feel his cock pulse, somewhere deep inside you, and he spills inside you with a groan. 

You think he’ll move you, as soon as he comes to. As soon as he remembers that he’s hurt. You’re sprawled across his chest, curled up around his bruises while his cock still throbs inside you. 

But he doesn’t move you. He doesn’t even try. He holds you there, draped across him like a blanket, stroking lazy, stuttered patterns up your back. 

You bury your head in the crook of his neck. You move your hips, just to see — and he moans into your collar. His fingers bunch in your shirt. 

“Fuck,” he groans. “Gonna—ngh. Kill me.” 

You smile. It curves soft in the column of his throat. 

“Not tonight,” you mumble. 

You try to slip off of him, then. Try to lift your hips up, and roll onto your side. 

He’s not having any of that. He clutches you harder. Presses you to his chest, and keeps his half-hard cock speared inside you. 

“Stay,” he mumbles. And then — still begging, “—please.” 

“Don’t wanna hurt you,” you whisper. 

“Ain’t hurtin’ me.” He sounds sleepy. His arms are heavy, where they drip over your back. 

“You feel good,” he slurs. His nose nudges at your collar. “Feel like home.”

Your heart skips. Swells. You nuzzle into his neck, and even though it’s not physically possible to get any closer to him — you’re tangled up in every part of him, already — you try. You try. 

He sighs. His breathing slows. You think he’s half-asleep, already. 

You lift your head. You press a gentle kiss to his lips, and he responds with a sleepy little moan. His mouth is warm. Soft. He tastes like coffee and he smells like you.

He licks into your mouth with a low, lazy groan. When you break the kiss his head flops back to the pillows. His hands slacken on your back. 

“Take good care ‘a me,” he mumbles. His good eye flickers open, and flutters back shut. His sleepiness is contagious. You bite back a yawn and snuggle into his shoulder. He’s still talking — mumbling — when your eyes start to close. 

“So f-fuckin’ good t’me,” he breathes. “Don’t deserve you.” 

You don’t respond. There’s nothing to say, except that you love him. And he’s already fast asleep. 

So you nestle into him. Close your eyes. You listen to his breathing, deep and even, and you fall asleep over his heartbeat.

—

The morning is decidedly less romantic. 

You wake up before him. You’ve both moved, in your sleep, and when you open your eyes you’re somewhere on your side. His arm is draped loosely over you. And there’s a dull, cramping throb at the base of your stomach.

“Shit,” you hiss. 

You extricate yourself from his arm. You slip out of his bed and tiptoe to the door, sidestepping the mess of clothes on the floor. The sun pokes through a crack in his drapes. It lights a patch of cream carpet and a sliver of his skin. Tanned, golden, tinged with the purpling edge of a bruise. 

You swallow. Shake your head. You push open his door, as quietly as you can, and sneak into his bathroom. You click the lock behind you. 

You drop down onto the toilet. Dig your head into your hands. You confirm that — yes, you’ve started your fucking period — which is a good thing, really, considering the alternative — but still. Of all the days. 

“Fuuuck,” you mumble. 

You ransack his drawers. They’re predictably empty. There’s a half-full bottle of shaving cream, and some men’s razors, and a bottle of moisturizer that looks like it’s never been used. A gift from Sarah, you assume. 

You shove the drawer shut. Huff. You click the door open and tiptoe back down the hall, back into his room, and stand awkwardly on the threshold. 

Your presence must wake him up. He rolls over, wincing slightly, and his eyes blink open. He stares up at you, a little confused as to why you’re in his doorway and not in his sheets. 

“…Hey,” he says, sleepily. “You okay?” 

“Yeah.” You shift uncomfortably. Gesture vaguely toward the bathroom. “I just — do you have a tampon?” 

“Oh.” 

He blinks again. Props himself up on his elbow. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, ‘course. Uh — check Sarah’s bathroom. Should be, uh — under the sink, or somethin’.” 

“Great. Thanks.”

“Yeah,” he says. He watches you, half a second longer. Watches the faded letters on your shirt when you duck out into the hallway again. 

Sarah’s bathroom is a success. You come back in, a few minutes later, and sit on the edge of his bed. You rub at your stomach with the heel of your palm.

He sits up in the sheets. All the way, this time. He scoots closer to you and rests his chin on the ridge of your shoulder. Strokes his hand up your arm. 

“Feel okay?” 

“Yeah,” you mumble. “Just fucking — cramps. It’s whatever.” 

“Ain’t whatever,” he mutters. His lips skate along your shoulder. You lean back, into his touch. You tilt your neck to let his mouth wander. 

“What d’you need, baby?” 

“Nothing,” you say, quickly. Your face heats. He’s a fucking mess. Beaten and bruised and half black and blue. The last thing you need is him worrying about you. 

He pauses. His mouth is hot along your neck. 

“Nothing,” you say, a little less convincing. “I’m good.” 

“Okay,” he says, quietly. He nibbles at the side of your throat. You gasp. Your head tips back, toward him. “I gotta bottle ‘a Advil in the bathroom. ’N some tea downstairs. Can start there.” 

“I just said—”

“Yeah, I heard what you said,” he drawls. His stubble rakes your skin. “Ain’t listenin’, though.” 

“Fuck off,” you grumble. But Advil sounds good. So does tea. So does his mouth on your neck, the way he’s got it right now, nipping gently at thin skin. 

“Mm,” he hums. He’s uniquely unfazed by your tone. He sees the way you melt into his touch. The way you try not to smile, when his nose nuzzles your neck. 

“Took care ‘a me,” he murmurs. “Lemme take care ‘a you.” 

“That’s not the same,” you grumble. 

He ignores you. His mouth leaves your neck and he pulls you gently back to bed. He leans over you, half-lit by the quiet sun, and kisses your forehead. 

“Stay there,” he says. “I’ll get it. What kinda tea you like?” 

“I don’t know. Uh — like, Peppermint, I guess.” 

He makes a face. 

“Okay,” you say. “Chamomile.” 

“Don’t have Chamomile.” 

You blink.

“What do you have?” 

“Dunno,” he says. “Little red tin. Got the Queen on it.” 

You stare at him. He’s an enigma. Whip smart, sometimes, and other times — like, say, now — he’s just. Dense. He’s so fucking dense. 

“Okay,” you say. “Great. The one with the Queen.” 

He nods happily. He kisses you again and rolls off the bed. He pulls on a shirt, hissing slightly at the stretch of sore muscles — and you stifle a smile. He’s trying, you think. He’s trying.

You can hear him clattering around in the kitchen, a few minutes later. You lift your head off the pillows. 

“Do you know how to make tea?” you call. You’re only half-teasing. You’ve seen him try to cook, on a few unfortunate occasions. It’s a disaster every time. 

He doesn’t answer. More clattering. 

“It’s just water,” you shout. “It’s just hot water. You take the little bag—”

The clanging pauses. 

“Shut up,” he shouts back. “You’re s’posed to be asleep.” 

You grin. Settle back against the sheets. You toy with the hem of his shirt and wait for him to come back. 

And he does, a few minutes later. With two Advil in the palm of his hand, and a steaming mug of tea that looks — in a word — acceptable. 

He puts it down on the nightstand, next to you. He looks proud. 

“See?” he drawls. “‘M a professional.” 

You roll your eyes. You take a sip, just to appease him — and he definitely did not leave the bag in long enough, but you don’t tell him that. You just smile, into the rim of the mug. Swallow back the pills he’s brought.

“Don’t you have work?” 

“Called off.” He gestures to his eye. “Don’t feel like answerin’ questions.”

“Oh.” You look down. A pang of guilt darts up your chest. “Yeah. Sure.” 

“Besides,” he drawls. “Someone’s gotta watch you. Make sure y’don’t keel over.” 

“Oh, fuck off. I’m fine.” 

“Mm.” He leans in. Kisses you. “Pain in the ass, though.” 

But he’s smiling, and so are you, and everything is so normal, for a minute. So domestic. You pretend he isn’t hurting, and neither are you. 

“Joel,” you tell him, when he gets up to leave, again.

He pauses in the doorframe. Runs a hand through ruffled hair. 

“Never mind,” you say. 

—

Sarah comes home sometime after noon. You’re in Joel’s living room, on his couch, bundled up in a fleece blanket while the TV blares. You’ve got a pillow clutched up to your stomach, to help with the cramps that you’ve told Joel are nonexistent. 

But he doesn’t believe you, because you’re a terrible liar, so — here you are. Relegated to the couch, while he works on his laptop. There’s some innocuous, sleepy show on TV. TLC. My Strange Addiction, or something like that. The guy on screen can’t stop eating tartar sauce. 

Joel looks up from his laptop. He points to the TV. “That,” he says, matter-of-fact, “is fuckin’ disgustin’.”

“Mm. I thought you were working.”

"I am," he says. 

He’s not. 

He slams his laptop shut. Makes a face at the TV. You swallow back your smile and snuggle into his shoulder. 

“Your eye looks better,” you tell him. And it does. Sort of. In the sense that it’s no longer completely swollen shut. 

“Yeah, well. Had a good nurse.”

He looks down at you. Smiles. 

“Kinda strict, though,” he says. 

“Watch it.”

“‘N stubborn as hell.”

You glare at him. He grins. He tucks a strand of hair back from your cheek. Lowers his lips to the shell of your ear.

“Real good with her mouth, though,” he drawls. 

Your face heats. You drag the pillow from your stomach and swat gently — gently — at his shoulder. 

He laughs. 

He disappears into the kitchen later, to make you both lunch, and you trail behind him. Perch yourself on his counter, while he rifles through the fridge. He hasn’t pulled the blinds, so you can see your driveway through his window. Your dad’s car is still gone. You wonder if he’s tried your phone. 

You know Joel sees the empty space in your drive. You catch him staring. But he doesn’t say anything, and neither do you. 

You’re glad. You don’t want to talk, yet. Not about that. He makes you a sandwich and you eat with your back to the window. 

You’re still sitting there when Sarah comes home. 

In your defense, you didn’t know she’d be home, like — right now. It’s why you’re still in Joel’s shirt and a pair of his boxers, when she wanders out into the kitchen. 

She sees Joel first. To her credit, she seems remarkably unfazed. Her backpack slides off her shoulder and hits the ground with a thud.

“Damn,” she says. “What happened to you?”

“Uh.” He touches his fingers to his face. “Accident. At work. I’ll live.”

“I figured.” Her face softens. She shakes her head. “Be more careful,” she says. 

He nods. 

She turns. Clocks you, at the table. She does a double take — the shirt, the rumpled hair, the bare feet — and her brow furrows. 

“…Hey,” she says. 

You stare at each other. Sarah blinks. Joel clears his throat behind her. 

“She’s just, uh — here helpin’ out,” he says. “Work stuff.”

He points vaguely towards you. You nod. 

Sarah looks between the two of you. Her lip quirks, like she’s hiding a smile. 

“Work stuff,” she says. “Cool. Cool.” 

You stare at the table. Joel shifts uncomfortably. An awkward silence strains. 

“How are you, kiddo?” Joel asks, after a beat. “How was, uh—Abigail’s?”

“Oof.” She sucks her teeth. “So close. Alison. But — yeah. Sure. Good. She says hi.”

“Uh-huh. Yeah. Good.”

Sarah blinks. Again. 

“Oo-kay,” she says. “Weird vibe in here. I’m gonna go shower.” She points to you. “Are you staying?”

“Oh.” You glance at Joel. “Uh—”

“Yeah,” he says. “For a bit.”

Sarah shrugs. “Cool,” she says. “We’ll hang out.”

—

You do hang out. And — it’s fun. It’s easy. You love Joel, but it’s nice to just…have a friend, for a while. You hang out in her room for the whole afternoon, lounging on her bed while he wraps up work. You listen to her shitty 2000s pop-punk playlist. You sprawl across her pink duvet, and she tells you about boys. 

One boy in particular, actually. Some dude named Luke. Turns out Sarah wasn’t at Abigail’s — or Alison’s, or whoever the fuck’s— last night. 

“I was with him,” she says. She giggles a little. Her eyes are wide, and she looks punch-drunk. “Do not tell my dad.” 

Trust me, you want to say. He’s hardly one to talk.

“‘Course,” you say, instead. You put a finger to your lips. “Not a word.” 

She nods. Hits skip song on her speaker. 

“What about you?” she asks.

“What about me?” 

“Well, I don’t know. I just told you a secret. The polite thing to do is tell me one.” 

“Oh,” you say. “Um.” 

You stare at her. She stares back. And then Joel is rapping at her door, and you thank god for his blundering timing. 

“Hey,” he says, through the door. “Uh. I ordered pizza.” 

“You’re not off the hook,” Sarah says, when you roll off her bed. “I want something juicy.” 

Your face heats. You almost trip, on your way out the room. 

—

Sarah notes your empty driveway during dinner. The glaring, dusky space where your dad’s car should be. 

She asks if your dad is out of town. You tell her yes. 

“Huh,” she says. She shrugs at Joel. “You should spend the night here, then.” 

You blush. You try not to look at him. You don’t tell Sarah you already spent the last. 

“I mean — that’s cool, right?” she asks, when Joel doesn’t answer. “She can stay?” 

He’s quiet. His glass clinks on the table. 

“Yeah, course,” he murmurs. “Course she can stay.” 

“Cool,” she says. “That’s settled, then.” 

—

You help Joel clear the table while Sarah finishes up. It gives you at least a second of much-needed privacy.

“I’ll take the couch,” you say, quickly. 

He looks at you. His jaw flickers. He doesn’t like that plan, you can tell, but — 

“It’s too risky,” you say. “With Sarah. I’ll just — I’ll sleep on the couch.” 

He swallows. Nods. 

“Fine,” he mumbles. “But — least lemme make it nice for ya.” 

“Yeah,” you say, softly. “Sure.” 

—

It turns out nice in Joel Miller-speak just means gathering up every single spare pillow, and every single spare blanket — enough to comfortably sleep a small village — and layering them on top of the couch. By the time you’re ready for bed, it’s like slipping into a cloud. Like — an oppressively hot, way-too-plush, suffocatingly sweaty cloud. 

But he looks really proud of himself, when he presents his handiwork. He wants you to be comfortable, if he can’t fall asleep with you. So you sink down, into his makeshift nest, and tell him it’s nice when he tells you goodnight. 

The second he’s gone you sit up straight. You rip the sheets off your body and sit there panting in the dark. 

Sarah peeks out of her room. She wanders over to the couch and laughs at you. 

“Nice,” she says. “You look cozy.” 

“Shut up.” 

“You wanna sleep in my room?” She shrugs. “I can move over.” 

“No, it’s — fine,” you say. 

She hesitates. Then she sinks down onto the couch, next to you, and rolls her tongue across her teeth. 

“You can just go in there, you know,” she says.

Your head whips to her. Your pulse picks up. Pounds.

“What?” 

She shrugs. “C’mon,” she says. “You’d probably both sleep better.” 

You stare at her. You’re pretty sure your mouth is open. 

“You—” Your voice drops. “You know?” 

“Oh, seriously?” She sighs. “Dude, come on. I’ve known for weeks.” 

“What—how?” 

She blinks. 

“Well, it’s not like you’re subtle. No offense. You left your bathing suit in my bathroom, that night I found you guys swimming. Plus, you were, like — extra weird. So, you know.” She gestures. “Connect the dots.” 

“That was —” You shake your head. “That was, like, three weeks ago. You’ve known for three weeks? And you just—nothing?”  

“Well, what do you want me to say?” She shrugs. “Yeah. Sure. It was a little weird, at first. I mean, you’re way younger than him. He’s so old. He’s, like, ancient. He’s—”

“Okay,” you say. “Point made.” 

“Look, I love my dad,” she says. “But he’s a pain in the ass. He’s always cranky. He says, like, two things a day. He’s impossible to shop for.” 

“Is there a but somewhere?” 

“But,” she says, with a pointed look at you, “—he’s—different, now. The last couple weeks.” 

“Different how?” 

She shrugs. 

“He’s happy,” she says. “You make him happy.” 

You’re quiet. She looks at you a long time. 

“Does he make you happy?” she asks, softly. 

It’s the first time you’ve ever talked about Joel with someone other than — well, Joel. Or Hayes, or your dad, you guess, but you’re not sure that counts. That was — less conversation, more screaming match. 

But Sarah’s looking at you earnestly, with a brown-eyed stare that reminds you of her dad. So you answer her honestly. 

“Yeah,” you say. “Yes.” 

She nods. 

“Okay,” she whispers, and you see her smile in the dark. She nods down the hallway. Towards his room. “So get off my couch, then.” 

You get off her couch. You’re halfway to his room when you turn back to look at her. 

“No,” she says, before you can open your mouth. “No, I can feel it. You’re gonna say thank you, or some shit, and just —”

She waves you off. 

“Don’t,” she says. “Do not thank me, for letting you sleep with my dad. That’s so gross. I’m covering my ears, if that’s what you’re gonna do.” 

You bite back a laugh. 

“You’re a piece of work,” you tell her. 

“Yeah, well.” She flashes a grin. “Runs in the family.” 

— 

Your dad’s car is in the driveway, the next morning. Joel sees it first. 

You figure there’s no harm in filling Sarah in over breakfast. You leave out the part where Joel gets beaten to a pulp — she doesn’t need every detail — but you give her the Reader’s Digest version. 

Your dad knows. He’s pissed. You’re camped out here, like a fugitive, because the thought of confrontation is enough to make your head spin. 

She listens. Nods, every now and then. She doesn’t ask any questions, which you think you appreciate, but you can tell she’s processing. She prods at her Eggo with a painted nail. 

“He’ll come over here,” she says. “Now that he’s back. He’ll — I mean. Sounds like he’ll come looking for you.” 

“Yeah,” you say. You know.

She rips off a piece of Eggo. Chews thoughtfully. 

“And you don’t want to talk to him,” she says. 

“I don’t know,” you mumble. “Not—not right now. Not until he’s…”

“Cooled off?” she offers. “Less psycho?” 

“Sure,” you say. “That.” 

Joel roams past the breakfast table, and you both look up to watch him. He’s been patrolling the window like a German Shepherd all morning, ever since he saw your dad pull in. He hasn’t let you stray more than four feet from his side. 

“Hey,” Sarah says. She snaps her fingers. “Earth to dad.”

He blinks. Drags his stare from the window. Sarah points at you. 

“Take her to Tommy’s,” she says. 

He pauses, mid-pace. 

“Tommy?” You look at Sarah. Then Joel. “Like your brother, Tommy?” 

He’s quiet. Thinking. Sarah answers for him.

“Yeah,” she says. “Like Uncle Tommy. You’ve met him a couple times, I think. Funny stories. Man-bun.” 

It rings a vague sort of bell. 

“He has a cabin,” she says. “Like, three hours away. East Texas. Up in the Piney Woods.” 

“Just take her there,” she says, and she’s talking to Joel, now. “Not, like — forever. Just til you figure your shit out. ‘Cause I don’t want to be here when—” She gestures toward the window. Toward your driveway. “Whenever that goes down.” 

 You can tell he’s thinking about it. He scrapes a hand over his scruff. 

“I’d have t’ask Tommy,” he says. 

Sarah rolls her eyes. “Tommy hasn’t been up there in months. He won’t care. Besides, you built it for him. Isn’t it, like — doesn’t that technically make it yours?” 

“No,” he says, flatly. 

He drops his hand from his jaw. Cocks his head toward the kitchen. He wants to talk to you. In private.

Sarah grumbles. You put your fork down and follow him in. 

He turns to you, when you’re safely out of Sarah’s earshot. Drags in a deep breath. 

“What d’you think?” he asks, softly. 

“What do I think — of what? Of — hiding out, at your brother’s cabin? I’ve met him once. If that.” 

“Not like he’d be there,” he says. 

You push out a breath. Stare at him. 

“Listen,” he says, gently. “’S your call, darlin’. But she’s right. Y’can’t—” his jaw ticks, “—we can’t stay here. Not ‘less you wanna deal with your dad today. Now.” 

You don’t. Not today. Not — not right now. 

You need time. And you need Joel. 

“You wanna talk t’him, I’ll go with you,” he says. He touches your face. Tilts your chin with two fingers. “Right now. Across the street. We’ll do it together.” 

It’s too raw. It’s too fresh. His face is still shattered. 

He can see your hesitation. The way you shrink at the suggestion. 

“You wanna run, I’ll run with you,” he says, quietly. “Doesn’t matter t’me, baby girl. I’m with you either way. But you gotta choose, angel.”

You bite down on your lip. Your pulse pulls between your ears. When you look at him your eyes are wide. 

“He won’t mind?” you ask. “Tommy?” 

“Nah,” he says. “He won’t mind.” 

You nod. Half to yourself. 

“I’d have to — get stuff,” you say. “From my house. My phone is still there. And I need clothes—”

He gives a patient sort of hum. 

“We’ll get ‘em,” he murmurs. “Whatever y'need.” 

You look at him. Your heart settles in your throat. 

“Okay,” you say. “Just for a few days. Just ’til we figure it out. Together.” 

“Yeah, baby,” he murmurs. His thumb strokes at your jaw. “Together.”

taglist (lmk if you wanna be added!)

@bbyanarchist @elissaaa @nana90azevedo @cannolighost @jbb-sgr @cedricbitch @nenyahh @totallynotastanacc @jasminedragoon @hrdc0re-goth @myswficlist @brucewaynescock @aestheticangel612 @re3kin @untamedheart81 @pedrosheartshapedbeardspot @am-3-thyst @godisawomansblog @prettyangelsthings @walkingintheheartbreaksatellite @daddy-din @crocodiile @socket-seahorse-blog @confused-and-clumsy @she-could-never @suzmagine @artsymaddie @mellmannn @virgogaia @mysteriousheat4058 @fandomoniumflurry @projectionistwrites @buckyandlokirunmylife @brattynbookish @carriganbrowning @brittmb11 @iamsherlocked1479 @ghostofjoharvelle @kay2601 @casa-boiardi

@silkiers @mrsquill @stileslvr @joelssheep @joelsversion @pedropascalsbbg @bonesblow @madblue3500 @evyiione @missandaei @trishpish-blog @sarahhxx03 @pedritosgirl2000 @zliteraturehoe @thedeadsingwithdirtintheirmouths @l0vem3n @nelsohanx @cassiecasluciluce @wildcat116 @sanriowhorelol @ifall4dilfs @act816 @lunarxeclipse @gracevnn @papiispunk @anner--nanner @illusivepeony @pureaustralianhoney @peqchsoup @fifia-writes @hallofagayqueer @livinxdeadxgrl @sentients17 @jamesmasbone @pattwtf @shjl15 @caitispunk @mmmmandoz @ssweetart42 @eyelismtears @h1ghinmiami @olivermarfanking @hayley-the-comet @abigails-gf @blondewonk @worhols @lesmismakesmehappy @subconsciouscollapse @lucylynnrose @foras @kosh-kaj-blog @jazzy-music-cat @abuttoncalledsmalls @sarahp-77 @the-names-peach@yo-its-jackie @iluvurfather @llovegallore @jessahmewren @sparklingwine829229 @vickie5446 @lmariephoto37 @defibrillator7 @winwin70 @joelsguitar @marnle @spideysimpossiblegirl @vickie5446 @xocalliexo @yiikkesss

@goldenhxurs @akah565 @spacelatinos4life @mellymbee @purplexical @whichwitchwanda @mandofanclub @scarletsloveletter @thewiigers @zarakirbyy @cordeliasenvy @iwantaharrystylesalbum @cumulonimbus34 @tremendouscreationperson @sweetorangecakeboi @toomanynights @chantelle-mh @willbereturningshortly @kelesisworld @awxcoffeexno @siggy-things @joybabyjune @carlsssbarkley @bluetattoos @thefourteenthofoctober @spaceface25 @lestlie @oliveg95 @a-rose-of-amber @ninja-ubg @ladybubblelift

@whorror-s @sunnywithachanceofjavi @omghwa @joelslegalwhre @i-workwithpens @dinomdubs @kdogreads @lizzie-cakes @sustainedsigh @ashleymsnodgrass @mondaychildsworld @imsoborediwannadie @012307-jd @akah565 @hexidous @sanscas @grounderprincesslookspissed @obscurexsorrows @dizzyforyou @pedrobaby @hopplessilse @pedroluver

lakeside

13.2k / dbf!joel x f!reader

official dbf!joel playlist

warnings: 18+, minors dni. y'all know the deal by now. smut. heavy on the fluff. age gap (reader is 23, joel is in his late 40s). dbf!joel, dom!joel (he's back) (prepare the red carpet), fingering, toys, some, uhh, light ass play and some equally light...tying up? spanking, unprotected p in v, reader can get/is on her period, joel's face is still busted, ive exhausted myself y'all can let me know if i missed something

a/n: hello party people. i love you long time. y'all make my day every day. have fun, be safe, live laugh love dilfs, etc etc. inbox is always open for all of y'all 🤍 enjoy the cabin. it will be a two part affair.

this is part 11 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

masterlist here. kofi here, if you wanna leave a tip :)

“Fuck,” he mumbles. “What?”  He swallows. Shakes his head. His thumb drops to skim the edge of your mouth.  “Nothin’,” he says.  And then he kisses you. 

Joel waits in his truck while you get your stuff. He keeps the engine going and his foot on the gas. 

You like knowing he’s there, when you slip into your house. You like knowing he’s close. 

You make a beeline for the stairs the second you’re inside. You don’t announce you’re home, the way you usually do, and you think with any luck your dad won’t hear you come and go. 

You make it to your room without a chase. You drag a duffel from your closet and throw in some clothes — tee shirts, jeans, whatever’s closest — and whatever’s within reach on your bathroom sink. A toothbrush and toothpaste. An open, almost-empty box of tampons. Whatever. You figure Joel can stop for anything you miss. 

Your phone is where you left it two nights ago, half-buried underneath your pillow. You fish it out and stuff it in your duffel. Your charger, too. Then you do a final, hurried sweep — and, fuck it, — you shove that little black vibrator in, too. The one tucked in the back of your nightstand. The one you haven’t touched since that night with Hayes. 

You zip the bag. Sling it up over your shoulder. Your pulse paints a weird, nervous patter by your throat. 

And then — because of course your luck has to run out, sooner or later — your dad’s voice lurches behind you. Hard and brittle. Almost broken. 

“You’re home,” he says. 

You freeze. Your hackles are up, like a cat in the corner. His shadow stains the carpet.

You turn, slowly. Your duffel slouches. 

“I’m leaving,” you say. Soft. Even. But — firm, you think. You’re leaving. Get out of my way. 

“Where’ve you been?” he asks. He sounds tired. 

You don’t answer. You know he already knows. 

He sighs. His head hangs. 

“Fuck,” he mumbles. His hand comes up, fast, and slams the doorframe. “Fuck!”

You wince. 

“You’re not goin’ anywhere,” he says. You can’t tell if it’s an order or a plea. Both, maybe. “Just—put the bag down. Come downstairs. We’ll talk.”

“I don’t wanna talk.”

“Just — fuck!” He swears, again. Slaps the door, again. You wonder if he hit Joel like this. Open-palm. So hard he makes splinters. Or if it was worse — closed fist, knuckles scraping. 

Your cheeks burn. 

“I’m not talking right now,” you say. “You’re too—” 

You don’t finish. He’s too everything. Too much. 

You walk closer. He doesn’t step aside, so you squeeze past. 

He doesn’t stop you, at least. Doesn’t touch you. But he follows you, when you sidestep him and take the stairs two at a time. You can hear him on your heels. 

“Stop,” he says. He’s slower than you are on the stairs. You’re halfway out the door by the time he hits the bottom. 

You don’t stop. You can hear Joel’s engine, purring out in the middle of the road, waiting for you when you step into the sun. Just like he promised. 

You take your porch steps two at a time, too. When your shoes hit the street you’re almost sprinting. Not — away from your dad, so much as towards Joel.

He cracks his door when you get close. Trots around the truck to the passenger side. 

You shrug your bag off your shoulder and he takes it from you. Puts it in the backseat. He snaps the passenger door open and nods. 

“Okay?” 

“Yeah,” you mumble. Your face is flushed. 

He nods again. His finger flexes on the door. He’s looking past you now, up the street, where your dad is stomping down your driveway with an angry sort of gleam. 

“Get in,” Joel says. 

You get in. He shuts the door behind you. His window is cracked — you’re not sure they’re even capable of closing — so you can hear every snarled syllable when your dad crosses the street. 

He’s shouting. It takes you a minute to work out that he’s yelling at Joel and not you. 

“Are you fuckin’ serious?” he’s saying. Shouting. 

He’s barefoot on the pavement. He’s lucky it’s still overcast, you think. Or else the soles of his feet would peel right off. You kind of wish they would right now. 

Joel is quiet. Which is nothing new, really, but — still. You wish he’d fight back. He’s bigger than your dad. Taller. His voice rolls deeper. It’d take one word to set him back in his place. 

But he’s quiet. Silent. You notice, though, that he doesn’t move. He stays wedged in front of the passenger-side door. Between the truck and your dad. Between you and your dad. 

“Where the fuck d’you think you’re goin’?” your dad yells. “You asshole. Y’can’t take her.”

“Dad,” you say. 

He ignores you. Joel stays put. 

“Goddamn it,” your dad swears. “You didn’t learn your fuckin’ lesson already? Huh? Wanna go again?” 

“Dad,” you say. 

He ignores you. Again. He takes a jolting step forward, towards Joel and towards you. He shoves Joel with two flat palms and a snarl. 

Joel stumbles. His back thumps the door. Heat swirls in your chest. 

“Don’t fucking touch him,” you snap. Your hand curls on the handle. “You need to — you need to calm down.”

“I need to calm down?”

He’s talking to you now, at least. He sounds incredulous. He glares between you and Joel. 

“Get outta the car,” he says. He’s not yelling. You wish he would. 

“No.”

“Yes. We’re gonna talk about this now. Get out of the fuckin’ car.”

He reaches around Joel for the door handle. You shrink back. 

And Joel — who didn’t fight back two nights ago, who’s peppered black and blue with bruises, who hasn’t moved a muscle this morning- 

Joel puts a flexing, furious hand on your dad’s shoulder. 

“Step back,” he growls. 

There he is. That’s the Joel from the bar. That’s the Joel that beat the shit out of two grown men and sent them running. 

And you get it, you think. You get it now. Your dad can threaten him all day long. Beat him black and blue. But the second he raises his voice at you—the second it’s you he’s reaching for — Joel is on guard. He’s pulling rank. He straightens up, drags himself to his full height, and you see the not-so-subtle way his shoulders bunch. Even banged and bruised, he looks imposing. More so than usual, maybe. Like a wounded animal: angrier, untethered. 

“You got some fuckin’ nerve,” your dad says. But he’s stepped back, you notice. “She’s my kid.”

“‘N she doesn’t wanna talk,” Joel says. “So I’m tellin’ you to step—” his jaw flickers, “—the fuck back.”

Your dad stares. You swallow. 

“Fuck you,” he says, finally. But he’s stepping back now, all the way. Crossing his arms. 

Joel doesn’t say anything. No last word. No smug smile. He just walks quickly around the truck, to the driver’s side, and clips the door shut when he climbs in. He wraps a hand around the gear shift. 

You stare straight ahead. Your hands are shaking. 

“You okay?” he murmurs. Still gentle. 

“Yeah,” you breathe. You can see your dad in your peripheral, standing in the middle of the road. Arms barred. Face tangled. “Just drive.”

—

Tommy’s cabin is in the middle of fucking nowhere. Which is — nice, actually. It’s nice to get away. From Austin. From everyone. From everything.

The nearest town is a place called Two Springs. Two Springs, Texas. It sounds more like a stop on the Disneyland express and less like an actual location, but — Two Springs. You stop there, on your way up. For groceries, gas — the essentials, according to Joel. 

It turns out town is a gross exaggeration. Two Springs has exactly four buildings to its name: a gas station, a bar, a Mexican restaurant, and a sprawling, Western-style structure with a sign that says GENERAL ORE. You figure it might’ve said General Store once, like a century ago, when someone painted it for the first and last time. 

It’s well-stocked, at least. They have Tylenol, Advil, Aleve — for your cramps and for Joel’s ten thousand cuts and bruises. They have a reusable ice pack Joel insists he doesn’t need. They have tampons, to supplement the grand total of three you’d managed to scavenge from your desperate sweep of your bathroom. 

And they have food. Lots of food. 

“Better stock up,” Joel tells you. He’s slouched against the shopping cart with a lazy sort of lean. His sleeves are sloughed up to his elbows. The further from Austin you’ve gotten, the more he’s seemed to relax. He almost looks content, right now. 

“Hundred bucks says Tommy ain’t got a damn thing in the house,” he says. “So. Get whatever y’like.”

“Oh, god.” You fake a groan. “Does that mean you’re cooking?”

He shoots you a glare. You grin. 

You split up. You case one aisle and he takes another. When you meet back up in the middle of produce, you’ve got your hands full of ice cream and he’s cradling a case of beer. 

You point to the beer. Shake your head. 

“You’re useless,” you say. 

He frowns. 

“You’re one t’talk,” he says, with a nod toward Ben and Jerry.

“This counts as food.” You study the label. “See? Chunks of real cookie dough.”

He stares at you. Blinks. Then he sighs; that beleaguered, bemused huff that hides his smile.

“Just put it in,” he grumbles.

—

You do manage to get some actual food. Eventually. And you talk him into that reusable ice pack,  for the sprawling, angry bruise under his eye. Eventually.

A spindly, skeleton of a man checks you out up front. His eyes droop. He’s got a cowboy hat on — true Texan — and there’s a layer of dust on the brim. He’s probably been sitting here since they built the store. 

He takes an eternity to scan your items. You can feel Joel getting antsy beside you. 

“Passin’ through?” the man croaks. 

He’s got a voice like a broken rattle. It startles you both. 

Joel grunts. 

The man nods. He mutters something you can’t hear. Then he points to you with a gangly finger. 

“She’s a nice little thing,” he drawls. 

Your nose scrunches. Fucking — gross. 

Joel tenses beside you. His fist folds on the counter. 

“Don’t,” he says. His voice is dangerously quiet. “I ain’t in the fuckin’ mood.” 

The man blinks. Swallows. He drops his gaze and doesn’t look at you again. 

He finishes ringing you up in silence. When he hands Joel the bag his fingers tremble. 

“Y’all have a nice day,” he says. 

Joel grunts. 

You follow him back out to the truck. He puts the groceries in the backseat, by your duffel, and you don’t say anything to him, not yet, but you’re gnawing on your cheek when he climbs back in the driver’s seat. 

You’ve had a shitty start to the day. A shitty last few days, to be honest. You don’t want Joel to be pissed. It’s just — he’s kind of hot, when he gets riled up. When he snaps at your dad. When he rolls his fist on the counter and snarls at strangers. 

No. He’s not kind of hot. He drives you fucking crazy. 

But you keep that to yourself. For now. At least ’til you get where you’re going. You figure you can wait at least a little while longer. 

—

Tommy’s cabin is nice. 

Not that you were expecting anything less. Joel built it, after all. 

But — still. It’s nice. It’s really nice. It looks like something straight out of a Hallmark postcard: Adirondack chairs on a pinewood porch, stone chimney surrounded by trees. No neighbors — at least none you can see. A quiet lake with a pebbled shore. 

The whole place smells like sunlight and pine needles and freshwater. It’s a far cry from Austin. From home.

He parks the truck out front, on a packed-down slope of dirt. There are tire treads baked into the soil — Tommy’s, you assume. 

You’re halfway out of the truck before he puts it in park. You snatch your duffel from the back and stand in the shade, staring at the tops of trees, waiting restlessly for Joel to get his ass out of the car. 

He lumbers out, eventually. You shift your bag to your other shoulder while he gathers up the groceries. 

He leads the way up the slope, towards the cabin. You follow on his heels. 

“This place is kinda cool,” you admit. “I haven’t been camping since I was, like, ten.” 

“This ain’t campin’,” he says. 

Typical. You roll your eyes. Pull a face behind his back that he — mercifully — doesn’t see. 

“Uh-uh,” he drawls. “Don’t roll your eyes ’t me, pretty girl.” 

You pause halfway up the steps. Your duffel hangs off of your shoulder. 

“I didn’t roll my eyes at you.” 

He hums amusedly. He digs a key out of his pocket and twists it in the lock. 

The door gives with a push. The smell of pine drips down the porch. 

“What, so, you can read my mind now?” 

He hums again. He puts the key back in his pocket and leads the way inside. 

“Somethin’ like that,” he says. 

You roll your eyes again. He turns around this time, just past the threshold, and fixes you with a hooked half-smile. 

“You ain’t that hard t’read, darlin’.” 

You grumble something in response. His smile widens and yours does too, reluctantly, because seeing him happy is fucking infectious. It almost makes you forget about the bruise under his eye, and the slice across his nose that still looks too fresh. 

“C’mon,” he says. He flicks a switch by the door and the whole place flickers — once, twice — then settles into soft light. “I’ll give ya the tour.” 

He snatches up your hand and you lean into his arm, smothering your smile in his sleeve. 

“Alright,” you tell him. “Better be good.” 

—

It is good. You’re impressed. It’s a small place, cozy, but he’s thought of everything. Dark wood floors and a light leather couch and comfortable, colorful throws. Sketches on the walls: deer and ducks and charcoal antlers. Half-finished woodworks on a desk by the window. You wonder if they’re Joel’s, or Tommy’s, or both. 

You don’t ask. Yet. 

The bedroom is equally intimate. White sheets on the bed. Wooden headboard. Flannel blanket that screams Joel Miller. It makes you smile, when you drop your duffel down on it and unpack your things. You like it. This whole place feels like Joel. 

You put your random, assorted toiletries in the bathroom, and — in a spur of the moment decision — you shove that black vibrator in the back of the nightstand, where you’re keeping your phone charger. Force of habit, you guess. You leave the rest of your clothes in your duffel and shuffle out to find Joel.

And — speaking of Joel — he was right to stock up, in that shitty not-quite-town of Two Springs, because the kitchen is empty. Well — almost empty, if you count the cobwebby bottle of clear liquor stashed beside the sink. You pick it up while Joel puts the groceries away. Turn it label-side out. 

“What the hell is this?” you ask. 

You hoist it up, towards Joel. Dust sloughs off the glass. 

He straightens. Turns. 

“Not a damn clue,” he says. “But I wouldn’t touch it ‘f I were you. Knowin’ Tommy, ’s probably radioactive.” 

Your nose scrunches. You work the top off and put your nose to the rim — which is a huge mistake, because it smells like raw gasoline. You cough loudly and reseal the cap. 

“What the fuck,” you sputter. 

Joel laughs. Told ya so.

You shove the bottle back by the sink. Wipe the dust off on your jeans. Joel finishes arranging his beers and stands back to admire his handiwork. 

“So-o,” you say. You push yourself off the counter and wander out of the kitchen. You drag a curious finger toward the wall of charcoal sketches, and you can feel Joel’s gaze follow. You can hear his sigh, too. Like he’s preparing himself. 

“Tommy’s?” you ask, turning halfway to face him. “Or yours?” 

He shifts a little. Shoves his thumb through a belt loop.

“Tommy’s,” he gruffs. 

That checks out. You’ve seen Joel’s drawing skills on display, in that tiny coffee shop in San Antonio. He’s god awful. And these are at least…halfway decent. You wouldn’t say impressive, but — 

“They’re good.” You flash a grin. “I mean. Better than yours, for sure.” 

His brow lifts. The corner of his lip twitches. 

“I’d watch it, ‘f I were you.” 

“Oh, yeah? Or what?” 

He almost smiles. You almost catch him. 

“Or y’can sleep outside,” he drawls. “With the bears.” 

“Mm.” You turn away from the drawings. You’re not so interested, now you know they’re not his. You wander back to him and smooth your hands along his collar. “Very scary. I’m terrified.” 

His pulse picks up at your touch. You can feel it, when your hands drift lower and skim across his heart. 

“Should be,” he murmurs. 

You’re close to him, now. Really close. You have to tilt your chin to meet his gaze. His voice drips to your lips and settles there, white-hot. 

You want to kiss him. You really do. It’s just — that fucking bruise on his cheek is glaring at you, mangled and purple and mean. 

You swallow. Draw back, just a little. He looks disappointed. 

“That bruise looks bad,” you murmur. 

He starts to shake his head. You cut him off. 

“C’mon,” you say. “We bought that ice pack. Let’s try it, at least.” 

“You bought it.” 

“Not true. I just put it in the cart. You paid.” 

He frowns. 

“Don’t say no,” you say. 

“Didn’t say anythin’,” he gruffs. “But no.” 

“Mm. Okay. Keep it up, you can sleep outside with the bears.” 

He frowns again. Deeper, this time. You get the sense he’s forcing back a smile. 

“Don’t be a baby,” you say. “We can’t waste it. It was, like, seventeen bucks. Total rip off.” 

He grumbles. But he doesn’t grumble quite as much as he did two nights ago, when you first begged to take care of him. So he’s either getting used to someone caring about him — caring for him — or you’ve just worn him down. 

You don’t mind either way. Whatever gets the job done. 

“Go on,” you tell him. “Couch.” 

He’s still grumbling. But he goes obediently to the couch and sits, sinking down onto the cushions with a heavy sort of sigh. 

You sit beside him. He’s easier to reach like this, when you’re both sitting. You can perch yourself on the arm of the couch and tip his chin up, towards you. You can hold the pack to his face without reaching. Press it gently to the mangled colors on his cheek and his chin and his jaw. 

He hisses softly, but he doesn’t pull away. If anything he sort of melts into your touch, the way he’d been too scared to do two nights ago. 

He could do this himself. Easily. He tries to tell you as much, a couple times — and you bat him away. You like helping. You like feeling useful. And you like any excuse to be this close to him; to touch him, even though you don’t need much of an excuse at all. 

He stops asking to do it himself, after a while. You get the sense he likes the help as much as you like giving it. His face gets heavier in your hands, and you realize he’s stopped propping himself up. He’s just — dead weight, in your palms. He trusts you. 

You swallow. Your throat feels thick. So does the air, all of a sudden, like someone’s tossed a giant blanket on the inches between you. You move the ice pack half an inch to the right. Expose the corner of his mouth you’d had covered. 

And then you try not to kiss him. Again. 

The edge of his lip you’ve exposed quirks up, like he’s asking you to do it. Teasing you. Wondering just how long you’ll hold out. 

You clear your throat. 

“So the drawings are…Tommy’s,” you say, lamely. 

He blinks. Hard. He’s been staring at you. 

“Yeah,” he says, after a beat. “Says he comes up here t’hunt, but — I’ve never seen him shoot a deer. Only ever seen him draw ‘em.” 

You smile. You pull the ice pack back and examine his face. It looks a little better. Less…angry. There’s a pink shine on his right cheek, where the ice has numbed his skin. 

“I get it,” you say. “Miller boys. You’re both big softies.” 

He glares at you. You can feel his jaw tense where you cup his face. 

“Sorry,” you say, quickly. “I mean — very scary. So scary.” 

He grunts. Mumbles something unintelligible. You could swear his almost-smile gets wider. 

“And the little wooden things?” You tilt your head toward the far wall of the cabin. Toward that desk by the window, littered with half-finished carvings and pinewood peels. “Are those Tommy’s, too?” 

He doesn’t answer. Which is fine, because you’ve gotten pretty good at reading his silence. 

“Okay,” you say. “So. Not Tommy’s.” 

There’s a pause. He sniffs. Then his gaze drops; off of the couch, onto a knot in the hardwood, and the cheek you haven’t been icing turns pink.

He’s blushing.

You stifle a grin. He’s cute when he’s flustered. And he’s even cuter when you consider that this must be how he spends his free time. Joel Miller, strong, silent, a little bit mean, carving little creatures out of wood. 

You push off of the couch before he can protest. He grumbles weakly and sinks further into the cushions. 

You walk over to the desk. Sunlight pours through the window, baking the glass, and the wood is lighter where it spills. You slough some wood chips aside with the flat of your hand. Most of the carvings are in some state of progress, like he can’t quite decide what to work on and what to finish — but you find one that seems pretty much done. You pick it up, gently. Turn it over in your hands. You hold it up to the window and swallow back your smile. 

It’s a duck. A little wooden duck, with a flat bill and pine feathers. There’s a tiny J.M. carved into the side. 

It’s good. Better than Tommy’s drawings. But, then — you might be biased. 

When you turn back to Joel you’re grinning. The duck is hoisted in your hand. 

“Shut up,” he says. 

“I didn’t say anything!” 

“You’re ‘bout to.” 

“It’s good.” You walk back over to him. Sit beside him on the couch. His little duck sits in the palm of your hand. 

“It’s cute,” you say. 

He glares at you. Then the duck. 

“It ain’t cute,” he says. 

“Yeah it is. It’s cute. It’s adorable. You carve ducks.” 

“Don’t carve ducks,” he says, gruffly. “’S just the one. The feathers are — hard t’get right. ’S good practice.” 

“Right. For more ducks.” 

He looks at you. Shakes his head. He snatches the duck up out of your hand before you can close your fist. 

He stands up, off of the couch. Walks his duck back to its place on that sunlit desk. 

“Come on,” you protest. “Finder’s keepers.” 

“Uh-uh.” 

“Fine. Then you can make me one.” 

He sets the duck down. Adjusts it, so its bill is basking in the sun. You’ve only ever seen him this gentle when he’s touching you. Well — you and his wooden duck. 

He straightens up. Turns back to face you. 

“You’re a pain in the ass,” he says.

“Yeah. So you’ve said.” 

“Y’don’t want one of these,” he says, with a gesture toward the desk. Toward the dozens of half-finished creatures. You can make out the vague shape of a deer, in one block of wood. The hint of an antler. “They ain’t even good.” 

He’s self-conscious. Joel Miller is self-conscious about his ducks. Or — duck. Singular. 

“Yes they are,” you say. You stand up, too. Join him over by the desk. You loop your arms around his waist and rest your head on his back. “I mean, you’re not gonna be carving the David anytime soon—”

He twists around to glare at you. Your arms drop from his waist. 

You laugh. You laugh until he’s smiling, too. You laugh until he tugs you into his chest, and tucks your hair behind your ear, and tilts his bruised face down to yours. 

“You made them,” you say, softly. “‘Course I love them.” 

You mean that. You’d love anything he’s scrawled his initials into. 

He’s quiet, for a second. His thumb stills on the ridge of your cheek. 

“Fuck,” he mumbles.

“What?” 

He swallows. Shakes his head. His thumb drops to skim the edge of your mouth. 

“Nothin’,” he says. 

And then he kisses you. 

You’ve been waiting for this all day. There’s been a borderline-painful tug between your legs since you left that shitty almost-town of Two Springs. So you melt into him, when he bends to kiss you, and you’re almost — almost — too preoccupied to feel your phone buzz in your pocket. 

You ignore it. His tongue slips into your mouth. He tastes like summer sun and coffee, and his lips are still cool from the edge of that ice pack. 

You fist your hands in his flannel. Bite at his bottom lip and swallow his groan. His hands go to your waist and he’s turning you — turning you both, so that your back nudges the desk — and you get the vague sense he’s lifting you up. He swipes stray wood chips aside, clearing space for you, and puts you down with a gentle sigh. 

You mumble something into his mouth. You’re not sure what. Your legs are hooked around the backs of his, pulling him close, and when he bends to kiss your neck you tilt your head for him. His nose grazes the side of your throat. 

And then your phone buzzes. Again. 

He hears it, this time. He pulls back with a bemused smile. His eyes are heavy. 

“Wanna get that?” 

“Not particularly,” you mutter. But you dig your phone out of your pocket anyway, just to turn it off, and your dad’s contact lights up the screen. 

You groan. Your heart sinks to your feet. 

 “Shit.” 

Joel is quiet. He’s still desperately close. There’s a piece of his hair that’s out of place, thanks to your wandering hands. It’s curled halfway down his forehead. 

“It’s my dad,” you say, blandly. You flip the screen to show him. 

“Figures.” 

You swipe the notification open. Your phone is ridiculously slow in opening, which probably has something to do with the fact it’s on 2% battery. It’s kind of impressive it’s even still functioning, considering you can’t remember the last time you plugged it in. 

Your dad’s messages come up. Slowly. You read them with your feet dangling off the desk. 

“What’s he say?” Joel asks, quietly. 

You shrug. 

“Wants to know where we are,” you say. “I turned my Find my Friends off, so.” 

You don’t elaborate. You doubt Joel even knows what the hell that is. 

“I should tell him something,” you say. “So he knows I’m not dead, at least.” 

Joel nods. 

“Sure,” he says. 

You swallow. Look back down at your phone. The screen blinks with a battery warning.

“Fuck,” you mutter. “I need my charger. Can you—?”

“Yeah,” he says, quickly. “‘Course. Where ’s it?” 

“Uh—nightstand. In the bedroom. The one on the right.” 

He nods. He extricates himself from between your legs, a little reluctant, and you watch him disappear down the hallway. 

You look back down at your phone. At your dad’s messages. Your last text to him is still plastered on the screen — something inane from San Antonio, when everything was still good. Normal. It makes your heart hurt a little. 

You text him back quickly. Before your phone can die. 

You: i’m fine. need a few days. we can talk when i'm home. 

The service up here is hanging on by a thread. It takes a minute to deliver, but when it does his grey bubble pops up almost immediately. It takes another minute for his response to come through. And it’s not really what you’re expecting, when it does. It’s not angry. It’s just — short. It makes your throat swell a little. 

Dad: OK. Be safe.

You lay your phone down on the desk. Face-down. It’s progress, you think. It’s something. 

And then you wonder where the hell Joel is, because this place is not that big and he’s been gone way too long for a phone-charger scavenger hunt. You told him exactly where it is. So unless he’s blind—

“Joel,” you yell. “The nightstand on the right. It can’t be that hard to—”

He pokes his head around the corner. Steps out, slowly, until the sun washes his skin.

“…find,” you finish, lamely. 

He moves closer to you, and it’s clear there’s something in his hand. Judging by the look on his face — narrowed gaze, crooked smile — and the way his fist is folded, tight, it’s not your charger. But there was only one other thing in that nightstand, which means— 

He’s just a few feet from you, now. You think about sliding off of the desk, and darting under his arm — but he’s stepping in between your legs, again, and you let him cage you in. 

You watch the gentle rise-fall of his chest under flannel. The way his smile drags wider when he unspools his fingers and shows you his palm. 

“What’s this?” he drawls. 

You know what he’s holding. You don’t have to look. You’re blushing before his fist can unfurl. 

Your little black vibrator. The one you’d taken from your room, on an impulse, in a mad-dash sweep of your things. The one you’d squirreled away in the nightstand on the right, next to your fucking charger. 

“Uh,” you say. 

His eyes sparkle. He looks annoyingly smug. You figure he’s probably loving the look on your face right now, after you subjected him to torture by wooden-duck. This is payback, you think. 

“Go on,” he urges. 

He drags a rough thumb over the black shell, and your stomach clenches. A shiver crawls up your throat. Whatever’s been stirring in your core since the car ride up here sparks suddenly to life. 

Something about that thing in his hand. How small it is. How smug he looks. 

“It’s nothing,” you say, softly. 

“Yeah?” He cocks his head. That one stray curl flips against his forehead. He pushes his thumb down, gently, and the vibrator buzzes to life in his palm. 

You stare at it. So does he. Heat pools at the pit of your stomach. 

“Don’t look like nothin’,” he murmurs. 

He flicks it off. You swallow back a sound. 

You lean in. Snatch it up, out of his hand. Your fingers close around the shell, and you ignore the fact they’re trembling.

He lets you take it. He looks amused, if anything. He likes watching you squirm.

“I just thought, maybe—” your cheeks are burning again, “—you wouldn’t want to, like — you know.” 

He looks at you, nonplussed. You blink. 

“Since I’m on my period?” you offer, weakly. “I didn’t know if you’d want to do—like, do anything, so—I just brought it in…case.” 

He’s silent. Even more so than usual, if that’s possible. 

“It’s totally fine, by the way,” you say, hurriedly. You’re pretty sure you’re just talking to talk, now, but — you can’t stop. “If you don’t want to. I wasn’t trying to—”

He tilts his head a little. Enough to show he’s listening. Enough to shut you up. 

And then he puts his palm out. Face-up, in the small space between you both. 

You know what he wants. He doesn’t have to ask. Your fingers flex around the toy, a little hesitant, but you give it up. You give it back. 

His hand folds around the shell. He slides it into his jeans, into his pocket, and you watch it disappear. 

The tension is too thick. Sticky. It’s hard to draw a breath. Outside the sun slips toward the water. 

The light slants a little darker through the window. Almost blue. Almost dusk. 

“Bedroom,” he says, and his voice is silk. Like smooth whiskey and the slipping sun. “Five minutes.” 

And then he turns, and goes, and you count back from three hundred. 

— 

You wait five minutes, like he asked. 

It feels excruciatingly long. But, then — you’re used to this, by now. The minutes with him go too quickly and the ones without him never end. You can’t ever seem to get it just right. 

But the time does pass, eventually. You make it pass. You push yourself off the desk and wander into the bathroom. You take your clothes off — everything, except black underwear — and you take your tampon out, and you run a brush through your hair. Then you walk back to the living room, where his duffel bag is still sitting by the front door — and you fish one of his flannels from the top. It’s red and brown and smells like bourbon and it’s way too fucking big. But you button it up anyway, over your bare chest, and leave the top two undone. 

It’s huge on you. The sleeves drip over your fingers. The hem drops just above your knees. 

You like it. It’s warm. It feels like him. 

And then your five minutes are up, just like that, and you follow his shadow to the bedroom. 

You’re nervous, when you open the door. But you’ve gotten used to that, too. The constant swarm in your stomach when he calls you by name. The flush in your face right before you see his. 

You take a quiet step inside. Let the door click shut behind you. 

“Hi,” you say, softly. 

He’s sitting on the edge of the bed: Still dressed, in his belt and his boots and his jeans and his flannel. The sleeves are cuffed at his forearms, exposing tanned skin and corded muscle. His runaway curl is smoothed back into place. 

There’s a towel spread across the sheets. One of the big, fluffy black ones you’d seen hanging by the shower. The edge hangs slightly off the bed. 

He doesn’t say hi back. But he does give you a look — like, a look — that makes your throat run dry. His eyes roam your body: up your legs, over his flannel, over the bit of exposed skin where you’ve neglected the top buttons — and you watch them go dark. 

“C’mere,” he says. 

You take one step forward. Then another. There’s something intensely commanding about the way he sounds right now, and you’re not sure if it’s the fact he’s almost completely, totally silent, or the way he doesn’t move a muscle while he watches you approach. He only really moves once, to push his own sleeve higher. You watch his wrist flex with the motion. 

You stop at the edge of the bed. He tilts his chin to look at you. 

“Lie down,” he says. 

You get the sense that this is not about to be a repeat of two nights prior, when you issued all the orders. You’re pretty sure that was a one-time thing. Or at least — a once-in-a-blue-moon thing, if the look on his face and the cut in his voice are any indication. 

He’s back to his old self. More commanding, if that’s even possible, like he’s making up for lost time. His eyes are black. 

“Don’t like repeatin’ myself,” he murmurs. 

Your breath hitches. The tug between your legs is borderline painful. You have to bite back a whimper when you sink down onto the bed, on top of the sheets and on top of the towel. 

He doesn’t move, still, when you lie down. He stays sitting at the foot of the bed. But he does turn slightly, to look at you, and his stare is so sharp you drop your own gaze. 

He doesn’t do anything, so you pick up his slack. Or…try to. You bring shaky fingers to your flannel — his flannel — and start to pull at the buttons. 

He shakes his head. Your fingers still. 

“Don’t,” he says, gently. 

So you don’t. You drop your hands. Let them fall useless to your sides. 

And then he moves. Finally. He undoes his belt with deft fingers and slips it through his jeans with a soft, leathery hiss. It’s the only sound in the room. It makes your skin prick and your stomach clench. 

He gets up, off of the bed, and you tilt your neck to follow him. He walks up to you, where your head is propped against the pillows, and bends to pick up your hands. 

He’s gentle, while he does all this. Gentle and quiet and not at all the rough, teasing, domineering type you’ve gotten used to. But there’s something about him, still, that spells you into silence. Something that makes you listen, and makes your wrists go limp when he takes them both in one hand. 

He pulls your hands up over your head. Your pulse beats a double-rhythm in his palm. He holds them to the headboard, to the second wooden slat of four, and ties them in place with his belt. 

And you let him. You let him wrap the leather around your hands and the headboard, let him cinch it tight, let the metal buckle bite into your wrists. You don’t say a damn word and neither does he. 

Not until he sits back down beside you, on the edge of the bed, and digs that black vibrator back out of his pocket. 

Your breath picks up. Your legs pull. You flinch a little, tugging at his belt, but it doesn’t give. If anything the leather cinches tighter. 

“What’re you…?” 

He puts a broad hand on your thigh, inches above your knee. Heat flushes underneath his touch. The hem of your flannel bunches around his fingers. 

He looks up at you. 

“Said you weren’t sure ‘f I wanted it,” he says. 

He flicks the vibrator on. It hums to life in his palm. 

“Stupid fuckin’ question,” he murmurs. He drags his hand up the seam of your thigh, until his thumb grazes cotton. Your hips jerk a little. 

He holds you in place with that hand. Puts the toy to your clit with the other. 

“Makin’ sure y’never ask again,” he growls. 

And then you really do buck your hips; pulling at his makeshift restraints, whining through your teeth while he teases you through cotton. 

“Fuck,” you yelp, “Joel—”

“Shh,” he mumbles, half to himself. He moves the vibrator half an inch lower, clicks the setting higher, and fire shoots through your core. Your wrists wrench at the headboard. The wood doesn’t give. Neither does his belt. But you’ll have a bruise on both hands, you’re pretty sure, where the buckle gives a warning bite. 

“Y’move too much,” he murmurs. 

“S-sorry,” you pant, and you’re not really sure what you’re apologizing for, but you’re kind of delirious and you’ll say whatever he wants if he just — doesn’t stop. The pressure he’s putting on your clit is fucking — it’s ten times better than any time you’ve used this thing on yourself. You’re not sure if it’s just him, or if he’s got some kind of magic technique, or what, but — 

“S’okay, baby,” he says, in that gentle, slopey drawl. “’S why we used the belt.” 

Your legs are trembling, and you’re not really sure if it’s the toy or his voice or the words themselves, dripping to your skin like honey. You try to pull them together, against the ache he won’t fill, and his free hand tightens on your thigh. 

“Jesus,” he murmurs. He sounds amused. His thumb strokes at the seam of your thigh. “Tie the rest ‘a you down, too, ‘f you don’t quit movin’.” 

You whimper — something pitiful, pathetic — but you stop moving. Part of you wants to push him: rut your hips, and writhe against his belt, just to see if he’ll make good on his promise. Part of you wants him to. 

But this is enough, for now. This is almost too much. He’s got your eyes rolling back, and he’s keeping you still with that big, broad palm above your knee. He flicks the setting higher, higher, highest — and you shout his name. You pitch forward, panting, and the belt snaps against your skin. It might hurt, if you weren’t so preoccupied. 

“Fuck,” you plead, “Joel, p—fuck—”

“Too much?” he asks, gently. 

You shake your head. Your hair is in your face, in your eyes, and you can’t shove it away. Your thigh flinches underneath his hand. 

“No,” you punch out. “N—fuck, please don’t st—op.”

You’re close. He can tell, probably before you can. It never takes you long with the vibrator — that’s why you bought it — but Joel plus toy is something else entirely. It’s a hell of a lot different than when you use it yourself. You never push it past the first few settings. You’ve got an easy, relaxed routine, under your covers, in the comfort of your upstairs bedroom, or your dorm room, or wherever. It’s lazy. Languid. Sometimes there’s a video, to help things along. More often than not you just use your imagination. 

 And you always — always — think of Joel. 

So having him here — actually here, flipping your lazy routine on its head, working the toy against your clit with the kind of practical skill that comes from a lifetime of using your hands — 

It’s a whole lot better than your imagination. And you try to tell him that, or something like it, but your head is foggy and your vision is blurred and his knuckles are grazing the soaked-black fabric of your panties while he guides the toy along. 

So you settle for his name, instead. It comes out broken on your tongue. 

“S’good, baby,” he coaxes. “Good girl.” 

You cum hard, then, with his name still on your lips and a slew of fractured curses behind that. His free hand lets up on your thigh. It’s still there, still warm and rough and comforting, but he’s not applying any pressure. He doesn’t have to keep you still. 

He clicks the vibrator off. Moves it back, gently. The guys you’re used to would keep going, once they got a result — struck gold once, why stop digging? — but Joel knows when to stop, when to pull back, when to let you catch your breath. He knows how to read your voice, and your body, and the words that get tangled on their way up your throat. 

He leans back while your breaths steady. You see his shape in your peripheral, putting the toy down gently on the nightstand, and then his hand is on your face and he’s pushing your hair back, away from your eyes and your mouth and your cheeks. 

Even that touch makes you shiver. You figure you’re probably just fucked, when it comes to Joel Miller. 

You pull up a little on the restraints. You want to kiss him. Or — you want him to kiss you, since there’s not much you can do. 

He doesn’t give you what you want. He pulls back, and moves back to his familiar spot beside your legs. He drags an aimless hand up your calf, your knee, your thigh. 

You suck in a breath. Push it out through your teeth. 

He knows what you want. He picks up on the patterns in your breath; the way your panting turns to pleading. 

“Can you —fuck—” you pull against his belt, “—just—fucking—untie me, please—”

His fingers drift up your thigh, ghosting cotton, and then — they drop. His touch trickles back to your calf. And then he starts again, even slower, and it’s softer than the toy, and gentler, and lighter, but it’s driving you just as crazy. Maybe more. 

He takes his time, like he’s pretending to think. His touch skates higher. 

“No,” he says, after a long pause. “Don’t think so.” 

You make a long, frustrated sound. Drop your head back to the pillow. Your wrists go limp against his belt. 

His thumb strokes at the edge of your panties. You gasp.

“Make ya a deal,” he drawls. “Gimme one more — ’n we’ll see ‘bout the belt.” 

“We’ll see about the belt?” 

He shrugs. It takes everything in you not to buck your hips into his thumb. 

“Best I can do,” he says. “Take it or leave it.” 

You stare at him. Then your head flops against the pillow, and you sigh. 

“Fine.” 

He smiles. You can feel it. 

“Kinda like ya like this,” he says. “Ain’t so stubborn.” 

He swipes past your swollen clit. You yelp.

“Fuck you,” you pant. 

He hooks a finger through your waistband. Pulls your underwear down, down your thighs and over your knees and off around your ankles. Then he holds them, wrapped around his index finger, and tilts his head. 

“We’ll do somethin’ ‘bout that mouth, next time,” he says. 

He tosses your panties to the floor. Pushes his slipping sleeves back to his forearms. You roll your eyes, but you know he sees the blush that stains your cheeks. 

His brow lifts. 

“You’d like that, huh?” He smiles. “Dirty fuckin’ girl.” 

You mumble something. It sounds like a whimper. But it must be good enough for him, because he takes pity on you. 

“What d’you want, baby?” he asks, softly. His gaze drifts to the nightstand. “Up t’you.” 

You know what he’s asking — and with most guys you’d say yes, please, use the fucking vibrator, I thought you’d never ask — because its success rate is exponentially higher than most college boys’s clumsy fingers. 

But this isn’t a college boy. This isn’t most guys. This is Joel, and you want Joel. Just Joel.

“No,” you tell him. “Just — you.” 

He doesn’t move, so you add, a little awkwardly — 

“—please.” 

He blinks. Then he snaps back, like he’s just — recalibrating. He’s got the same look on his face as he did half an hour ago, when you told him you loved his little wood duck. 

“Is that…okay?” 

“Yeah,” he says, after a beat. “Fuck. Yeah, ‘course it’s okay. Just thought—” he’s looking at the nightstand again, with a curious kind of look on his face, “—thought y’might like that better.” 

That’s stupid, you think. It’s a stupid fucking question, even though with anyone else it would be true. 

“No,” you say, quietly, and you’re blushing, still, but for a different reason. “I like you better.” 

He swallows. His jaw flexes. 

“What?” you ask. 

“Nothin’,” he says, again. And then — softly, “—just don’t know what t’do with you.” 

He looks at you. His fingers are still splayed at the inside of your thigh, half an inch from where you want him most. You stare at them; at his hand sprawled on your skin, and he follows your gaze. 

“I know where you can start,” you mumble. 

And then he smiles again — that crooked, happy, satisfied smile — and his hand slides higher. 

“Hold still this time,” he says, in that honeyed drawl, “or the belt stays.” 

It’s not much of a threat. You like the way the leather hugs your wrists. You like that it belongs to him. You like that you do, too. 

But you play along. You nod. And when he slips two fingers inside you you try your hardest not to squirm. 

You don’t think you’re that successful. But he’s nice about it, or he’s distracted, because he doesn’t say another word. He lets you thrash against his belt, and writhe into his hand, and shout his name when he crooks his fingers and pumps his wrist and hits something inside you that that fucking toy can’t ever reach. 

And — if it’s even possible — you cum faster on his fingers than you did with the vibrator. 

He talks you through it. Murmured words and quiet praise. You tell him you’re close, again, and he tells you he’s got you, good girl, y’look so beautiful like this.

It’s the last one that sends you over the edge, you think. The way he calls you beautiful, in that molasses drawl, quiet and reverential and a little bit awestruck when you come apart in his hands. 

And then he’s untying you; unclasping the buckle, releasing you from the headboard, and you’re undressing him before you can rub at your wrists. You can do that later, in the dark. You can ice his face and then your hands and then his face, again. 

He kicks his boots off. His jeans are easy to get off, without his belt in the way, and he helps you with his shirt when your fingers shake. He leaves yours on, though. He stops you, when you go to take it off for the second time tonight. 

“Leave it,” he says, and his voice is so dark, so deep, that it stops you in your tracks. “Like you like this.” 

By this he means — in his clothes. In his scent. Wrapped up in him, in every way. He likes the way his shirts are too big, and he likes the way the smell of pine and coffee linger on your skin. You’d say he likes showing off that you’re his, but — there’s no one around. He just likes to see it for himself. 

Which you knew, already. It’s why you pull his shirts out of his duffel, whenever you get the chance. It’s why you’re swimming in his flannel now. 

So you nod, shyly. You keep his shirt on, and when he leans forward, and cups your jaw in his hand, it feels like he’s everywhere. On your skin and in the air and on your lips, when he kisses you. 

You fall back against the pillows. He climbs over you, on top of you, and his knees dig into the towel. And this is the part, now, where you might start getting self-conscious — about the fact you’re on your period, and he’s gone to all this trouble, even though it’s really no trouble at all, about the fact you might make a mess, about ten thousand other things that couldn’t matter less. 

But you don’t think about that. You think about Joel. And when your mind slips, into that fuzzy, peaceful space, you think about the way he feels, and the way he tastes, and you spell that you love him in drifting fingers down his back. 

You have nothing but time, so he takes his. He drags his teeth up your neck and smoothes the marks with his tongue. He kisses your collar, where the edge of his shirt meets the dip in your skin, and his scruff leaves gentle scrapes. You put your hands in his hair, in his roots, and he lets you guide him. 

And then — finally, finally, he draws away from you, and pulls back on his haunches to take off his boxers. 

You watch him, while he does. You watch him toss them onto the floor and then fold back over you, chest to chest. His cock nudges at your entrance and you spread your legs, lifting your hips for him — but he doesn’t push into you. Even though it would be easy; even though he’s achingly hard and you’re soaked for him and you’re practically begging him, please. 

He doesn’t fuck you. Not yet. He noses your cheek, instead, surprisingly gentle, and he kisses you there. And then he kisses the edge of your brow, and your temple, and your forehead. Just — gentle. Soft. Like he’s telling you something, or — trying to — but this is all his mouth can do. 

He stops when you whine, softly, because you need him closer. You put your palms on his chest and push up, lightly. He breaks his kiss and pulls back. His forehead hangs over yours. 

“Please,” you whisper. 

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Okay, angel.” 

His hands are splayed somewhere beside your head. He moves one of them, now, to wrap around the base of his cock and guide himself into you. He slides in easily, so fucking easily, like he just fits there. Your head sinks into the pillow and your nails sink into his skin, into the muscle on his arms, and you’re sure he’ll have marks there. Little crescent cuts to go with all the rest. 

He sets a slow, patient rhythm. He’s usually rougher, faster, and you’re pretty sure his show of self-restraint is driving you crazier than him. He’s hitting something deep inside you, over and over, not quite fast enough to push you over the edge but steady enough to keep you there. 

And even though the cabin is empty, and you don’t have to be quiet, you are — because he’s kissing you. He swallows all your quiet moans and his own tangled, whimpered name. 

He pulls halfway out of you. Drags his mouth away to breathe. You gasp at the emptiness but he swallows that, too — he flexes his hips, and thrusts into you, and his tongue is sliding back to yours before he’s even fully gone. 

You have never — never — fucked Joel like this. You’ve never fucked anyone like this. Not in a dorm room, or a frat party, or a childhood bedroom that feels too cramped, now. Not your ex-boyfriend Carter, or any guy at school, or Hayes. 

Not anyone. Not ever. Not until now. 

“Feel good,” he’s mumbling, in those rare seconds when his mouth leaves yours. “Feel fuckin’—good.” 

He pulls out, again. Thrusts back into you. This time he groans, into your mouth, and his hips stumble a little. His cock twitches. You dig your fingers into his shoulders, clench around him, and he breaks your kiss with a gasp. 

“Fuck,” he pants. “D-do that again.” 

You’d make him work for it, usually, but you can’t bring yourself to tease him. You drag him closer; squeeze tight around his cock, and his head drops to your shoulder. He pushes into you —less steady, less restrained — and finally picks up the pace. 

You loop your hands around the back of his neck. Let your head go hazy. But when the pressure at the pit of your stomach starts to build, you tell him — 

“—Wait—” 

—in a shallow, breathless voice. 

He stops. Immediately. He slips out of you, and his head whips from your shoulder, and he looks at you with wide eyes. 

“Fuck,” he mumbles. “What's wrong? Did I—”

“No,” you say, quickly. “No. I just—”

You trail off, a lot more self-conscious now than you were two seconds ago. Easier to demand things of him when he’s railing you, you guess. 

“I just wanted to—or, I wanted you to—”

You’re blushing, again. Your eyes dart to the side, away from his. 

The concern drips out of his stare. He knows exactly what you want — what you’re trying to ask for — because he knows you. 

Now, he looks — amused. And fucking smug, again. 

“All y’gotta do is ask,” he drawls. 

You swallow. 

“Or you could just tell me,” you say, quietly. 

You watch his eyes go dark. He likes that. You know he does, because you know him. 

“Flip over,” he says. 

You flip over. Stomach-down on the towel. Your cheek digs into the pillow. His hands wrap around your calves and he drags you down, lower, and you let him manhandle you. You let him move you the way he wants. 

And then he’s settling over you again, and you can’t see him but you can feel him. His weight, behind you. His hand, when he shoves your shirt up and puts his palm on the small of your back. 

“Hold still,” he says, for the thousandth time tonight. You smile. 

“Or what?” You grin into the pillow. Try to lift your hips and push against him. But you keep forgetting how strong he is, even with one lazy palm sprawled out across your back. He pins you down too easily. “You’re gonna bring out the belt?” 

You hear his huff. 

“Keep ya still without the belt,” he says. 

“Not a chance.” 

You can feel him roll his eyes. This must’ve been how he felt, earlier this afternoon, when you’d rolled your eyes behind his back. You can't see him, but you just know. 

“No?” he drawls. 

It’s a terrible attempt to rile him up. But he’s humoring you. 

You mumble your no into the pillow. Shake your head. 

You hear him sigh above you. Then his palm lifts off the small of your back, just briefly, just for a second — before he cracks it down across your ass. It’s not hard, really — not hard enough to hurt — but it’s enough to leave a mark. Enough to make you yelp. 

“F—”

He does it again. Same spot. The sting that sticks behind is sweet. 

You swear into the pillow. Your skin glows white-hot. If he flipped you over right now, you’re not sure if you’d slap him, or kiss him, or beg him to fuck you. 

Probably the last one. Definitely the last one. 

“You never fuckin’ listen,” he says. 

His palm settles over your ass. Over the handprint you’re sure he’s already made. 

“You gonna hold still?” 

This time you nod. As best you can. 

“Yeah?” he asks. 

“Yes,” you say. 

He squeezes your ass. 

“‘Atta girl,” he says. 

Then he slides into you, one hand braced on the towel beside you and the other on your ass, and you have to bite into the pillowcase to keep from mangling his name. 

The angle he’s hitting is so much deeper, and so much different, and he’s splitting you open all over again, and — 

“Fuck,” he pants, “you—fuck.” 

He flexes his hips. Thrusts deeper into you. This is a much different pace than the one he’d set before, when he’d peppered you with gentle kisses and gentler words. This is something else entirely. This is rough, and untethered, and exactly what you tried to ask for. 

He fists your hair in his palm and pulls, yanking your chin up off of the pillow, wrapping your hair around his knuckles while he slams into you. You gasp for breath.  

“This what you needed, baby girl?” 

You say something. You’re not sure what. 

He pulls on your hair. Tilts your neck back, further. 

“Yes,” you yelp, “Fuck! Y-yes.” 

He lets you go. Lets your head drop back to the pillow. His hand is back on your ass, splayed out in a possessive sprawl. 

“Yeah,” he agrees. “’S what you needed.” 

He pushes deeper into you. Groans, softly. His flannel scrunches up around your cheek, your mouth, and you bite down on the fabric. 

His hand drifts lower, over your ass. His thumb skims the ring of muscle there. 

You tighten. He notices — he must — because he stills, for a minute. But his thumb doesn’t move. 

There’s a beat. You take a breath. 

“No?” he asks, softly, and you already know what he’s asking. 

You go to shake your head, reflexively — you’ve said no every time, to everyone, no matter how creative or long-winded or desperate the proposition. Just — no. 

“S’okay, angel,” he says, gently. “Don’t have to.” 

“No,” you say, quickly — but you’re not saying no to him, you realize. “I want — I want you to.” 

“Don’t sound too sure.” 

“No, I am, I’ve just never—”  

There’s silence. You can feel him above you, gauging your reaction. Gauging the blush on your upturned cheek. 

“I want to,” you say, again. And you mean it. You want to, with him. 

“Okay,” he murmurs. But his thumb still doesn’t move. He doesn’t move. 

“Joel,” you say, a little impatient, now, because you’ve been on the edge for so long, and you just gave him permission, so what the fuck is he waiting f—

“Relax,” he says, quietly. He’s not rough anymore. He’s just Joel. “Relax, angel.” 

You only realize how … not relaxed you are when you actually, really try to relax. Everything is tense. Your jaw, your stomach, the fist you’ve wrapped around his sheets. 

You’re nervous. Which — okay, fine — but this is Joel. With the gentle Texas drawl, and the warm hands, and the flannel shirt that smells like sunshine. 

It’s just Joel. And you trust Joel. 

So you do relax. For real. You let your jaw go loose and untangle your fingers. 

“I trust you,” you mumble, into the pillow. 

He’s quiet. 

“Yeah,” he says, simply. “I know, baby.” 

Then he pushes back into you, stretching you out, and you breathe his name into his flannel. His thumb nudges at your ass and you push your hips back, into him. You want him to. 

“Easy,” he murmurs, and you’re not sure who he’s talking to. His thumb pushes into you — just the tip — and you hiss into his shirt. But that’s it. It hurts for a second, maybe, and then it doesn’t. He’s crooking his thumb, pressing deeper into you, hitting something deep inside you, and you just feel full. You feel like he’s fucking everywhere — inside you, and on your skin, and in the words you can’t say. 

“Fuck,” you gasp, “Joel, fuck—”

“Good?” he asks. He’s not really moving, and you realize he’s waiting for your green-light: waiting for you to re-set the pace. 

“Yes,” you plead. “Fuck, yes, please just—” 

You whimper. Mumble around his shirt. 

“—don’t stop,” you tell him. “Don’t fucking — stop.” 

That’s all the green-light he needs. He snaps his hips up, into you, and he fucks you at that frantic, furious pace you’d begged him for. You push back weakly; against his hips, against his thumb, but you’re content to just let him take over. You can’t think straight, anyway. Everything is foggy and white and bright, and when he takes you to the edge this time you let yourself fall. 

“Doin’ so good, baby,” he’s saying, over and over again, good girl, good girl, doin’ so fuckin’ good f’me, look so good like this—and you can barely hear him, because you’re so blissed out, but you feel him, when his hips trip into you and he spills inside you with a strangled cry. You feel him, when his chest crumbles to your back. You feel his heart beat through your shoulder blades, frenzied and wild. 

It takes you a long time to catch your breath. It takes him even longer. When you’re aware of your surroundings again — when you can hear things that aren’t your own pulse between your ears — you roll over and touch him. 

His eyes are closed. Or half-closed, at least. He looks like he’s dozing, or drifting, or in some kind of happy, dreamlike, almost-sleep. You feel kind of bad, waking him up. He hardly ever looks this…peaceful. 

You prod him. When that doesn’t work you nuzzle into his shoulder, and kiss his cheek, and nip at his jaw until he groans.

“Mmmph,” he grumbles, which is not usually a sentence, but which you’ve learned in Joel-speak can mean a myriad of things, like who the fuck is bothering me and why the fuck are they bothering me and can you please stop fucking bothering me.

“Move,” you say, pushing at his arm. It’s like moving a grizzly bear. But he does move, eventually, with a long-suffering sound that makes you roll your eyes and laugh.

“What?” he grumbles. 

“The towel,” you say, and you hate that you still sound shy. That that self-conscious streak has wriggled back in. “I’m gonna — I need to clean up. So do you.” 

He opens his eyes, then. He rolls over and frowns. 

“Go get ’n the shower,” he says. 

“But—”

“I’ll take care ‘f it,” he says. 

You look hesitantly at the towel. At him. 

“I can do it,” you say. 

“Didn’t say y’couldn’t,” he drawls. Then he’s rolling off the bed, and tugging the towel out from under you, and you have no choice but to stand up and let his shirt drip back over your knees. 

“But—”

“But nothin’,” he says. He nods toward the bathroom. “Go. Hot water ain’t great. Only lasts a couple minutes.” 

You stare at him. But then you go, because he said so, and there’s really no arguing with him. So you shower while he puts the towel and the sheets and the pillowcases in the laundry, and when he’s done he joins you in there. 

The hot water is almost gone, but he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t complain. He washes your hair, and works out the tangles, and swipes soap off your jaw with even soapier fingers. 

“Thanks,” you say, a little awkwardly. “For — cleaning up.” 

He shrugs. 

“It’s nothin’,” he says. And it is nothing, to him. Everything is just — nothing. Except for you. 

You let him have a turn under the water. It’s pretty much icy, now. Your teeth clatter while you wait for him. 

“We should probably make dinner,” you say, while he sloughs shampoo from his hair. 

He opens his eyes. Blinks water at you. 

He’s a terrible chef. And you’re too wiped to even think about cooking. You both know both of these things, so you just — stare at each other. Eventually he turns the water off, and bundles you in a towel, and dries himself off with another. 

“Or,” you say, slowly, “we could just eat the Ben and Jerry’s.” 

He pauses, mid-towel dry. 

“Chunks of real cookie dough,” you remind him. 

“Mm.” He pulls a tee shirt on over his head. “Lead the way.” 

—

You do eat the Ben and Jerry’s. The whole thing, between the two of you, and even he has to admit that it’s — in his own words — pretty alright. 

After that you’re both full, and a little hopped up on half a pint of sugar, so you sit on the couch with your legs in his lap and you ask him every stupid question that flies into your mind. He rubs your feet while you talk, like he’s silently praying you might just wear yourself out. 

But he indulges you. There’s a smile playing at the edge of his lips. He’s turned the fireplace on, with a lighter he found somewhere deep in the kitchen, and his face flickers in the glow — orange, red, orange, again. 

“Favorite color,” you say. 

He tips his head to the ceiling. 

“Brown.” 

“Oh my god. Brown?” 

“’S wrong with brown?” 

“Dirt is brown. Mud is brown. No one’s favorite color is brown.”

But you’re realizing, as you’re saying it, that you’re wrong. His hair is brown. Deep brown, dark brown, like a forest after rain. His eyes are brown. Light, sometimes, like water over silt, and sometimes almost-black. His flannels are brown: brown and red, brown and yellow, brown and something, and he always looks like autumn. 

So he’s right, you think, when he says brown is his favorite color. You think maybe it’s yours now, too. 

“What?” he asks, when you’re quiet too long. 

You look up at him. Brown eyes, tired. Brown hair, tousled. 

“Nothing,” you say. “Next question.” 

“Childhood pet,” you say. 

“Black lab. Cooper. Used t’hunt ducks.” 

“Like that one?” You nod toward the desk, where his little wood duck sits facing the moon. 

He makes a soft sound. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Sure.” 

“And when did you start wood…working?” 

“Carvin’,” he amends. His thumb stills on the arch of your foot while he thinks. “Dunno,” he shrugs, after a while. “After Sarah came ‘long, I guess. ’S—relaxin’.” 

“You should sell them,” you say, matter-of-fact. “Like. At a Farmer’s Market, or something.” 

He half-laughs. But then he sees you’re serious — or as serious as you can manage, in your fucked-out, sugar-high, loopy sort of bliss, and he shakes his head. 

“Nah,” he says. 

“Why not?” 

“‘Cause no one would buy ‘em,” he says. “They ain’t any good. And,” he adds, when your mouth snaps open to protest, “—‘cause they’re—part ‘a me.” 

Your mouth snaps back shut. 

“What d’you mean, part of you?” 

“They’re mine,” he says, a little helpless. “I made ‘em. Don’t wanna give ‘em away.” 

“Sell them,” you amend.

“Don’t wanna sell ‘em,” he says. “Ain’t worth anythin’, anyway. ‘Cept to me.” 

“And me.” You prop yourself up on your elbows. Look at him across the couch. “They’re worth something to me.” 

He actually does smile at that. Not — smug, or self-satisfied — but shy. Sweet and shy and a little bit sheepish. 

“Okay,” you say. “One more question.” 

“Said that ten questions ago.” 

“I was lying. This is the last one.” 

“Mm,” he says. But he lets you go. 

“What’s his name?” 

“What?” He blinks at you. “Who?” 

“The duck,” you say. “What’s his name?” 

He’s silent, for a moment. 

“Ain’t got a name,” he says. “’S a duck.” 

“Ducks have names. Donald Duck. Daisy Duck.” 

“Those ‘re fake ducks,” he says. 

“So’s yours,” you say. 

“Jesus,” he says. 

But it’s soundproof logic, so — you win. He sighs, heavily. 

“Clyde,” you say, after a minute. 

“Clyde?” 

“Yeah. That’s his name. He’s British.” 

“Mm.” He leans back against the cushions. His hand strokes a lazy line, from your calf to your ankle and back up again. “Long way from home.” 

“Yeah,” you agree. Your eyes are heavy, now. You rest your head against the arm of the couch and stretch your legs out in his lap. “Poor Clyde.” 

He chuckles, softly, and that makes you smile. You flex your foot against his hand and close your eyes.

You sit quietly for a few long minutes. You maybe — maybe — fall asleep. 

His voice wakes you. His gentle hand below your knee. 

“Tired?” he murmurs. 

“No,” you say, without opening your eyes. “I’m — resting my eyes.” 

“Okay,” he says. “Well. Y’can rest your eyes in bed.” 

You try to mumble something in protest. You don’t want to go anywhere. You like it right here, with your feet in his lap and your head on the couch and the fireplace warming your skin. You like how close he is, how domestic. You don’t want it to change. You don’t want the sun to rise. 

You want to stay right here. 

But you’re fighting a losing battle, because he’s moving your legs aside, gently, and standing up off the couch, and he’s scooping you up like you weigh nothing at all. 

“C’mon,” he mutters. 

You don’t argue anymore. You let your head slump in his shoulder and your nose nudge at his neck. You kiss him there, lightly, and you hear his hum in response. Warm and silk-smooth. 

He puts you down and disappears for a few minutes — to lock the door, and turn the fireplace off, and check the windows are sealed. Then he comes back in, and shucks his sweatpants and his shirt off, and when he climbs into bed beside you you nuzzle at his side. 

He’s like sleeping with a space heater. Every part of him is a thousand fucking degrees. Which is nice, because you’re freezing. You chalk it up to genetics, or the half-pint of frozen ice cream floating through your bloodstream. Either way he lets you burrow into him. Under his arm and into the warm plane of his chest. 

“G’night,” you say, softly. 

He kisses you. Somewhere buried in your hair. 

“Night, angel,” he murmurs. 

You could swear he mumbles something else, too — something softer — but you’re half-asleep already. You don’t hear, and he doesn’t repeat it. 

And then you really do sleep, wrapped up in his arms and pressed to his heart, and when you dream they’re all of him. 

— 

When you wake up it’s still dark. Which sucks, but — you have to pee, and the only thing left over from your Ben and Jerry’s dinner is a fucking headache, and you have cramps that bite you awake. 

Great, you think. It’s the trifecta. 

And there’s something else, too, something bigger and heavier that won’t let you sleep, but you don’t — or you won’t — think about that, right now. Right now you roll out of bed, eyes adjusting to the dark, and you hobble over hardwood to the bathroom. 

You only turn the light on when you’re sealed inside. Joel’s a heavy sleeper, but — still. You don’t want to wake him. He deserves the rest. 

You dig around in your bag and slam two Tylenol — one for the headache and one for the cramps. Or so you figure. You use the bathroom, wash your hands — and by the time you’re back in the bedroom you’re wide awake. 

Naturally. 

So — fuck it. You grab a hoodie from your duffel and slip out of the bedroom, down the hall and through the living room and to the front door Joel’s dead-bolted. 

You undo the latch and let yourself outside. You leave the door open but close the screen behind you — so you won’t lock yourself out, on accident. You don’t love the thought of spending the night — or whatever’s left of it, at least — outside. 

You’re not sure what time it is. If it’s closer to morning or to night. The sky is pitch-black, littered silver with stars, and the water on the pebbled lake is glittering, moon-grey. 

It’s beautiful. It’s peaceful. You can’t remember the last time you looked at the stars.

You pick your way over to one of Tommy’s Adirondack chairs, sprawled out across the porch. It’s huge — big enough for two people, easily — and you slouch down against the slats. It makes you smile, how small you feel. In the too-big chair under the too-big sky. You put your hand on the wooden arm and tilt your head up to the stars. 

Behind you the screen door opens, and whines, and then shudders shut. Joel’s heavy footsteps join you on the porch. 

You twist around in the chair. He’s leaning up against the cabin wall, in a grey Dallas Cowboys shirt and a pair of grey sweatpants. His hair is mussed. He’s got a chipped mug in his hands that he cups with both palms. 

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks. His drawl is still thick. He must’ve just woken up. 

“Not really.” You frown. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”  

He shrugs. 

“Didn’t wake me,” he says. “Room just felt empty.” 

You’re quiet. Steam twists out of the mug and drifts apart in the cold air.  

You don’t know what to say. That thing that will not let you sleep is getting bigger, heavier. 

So you nod, quietly. And you accept the mug, when he peels himself off of the wall and offers it with both hands. 

“What is it?” you ask, a little skeptical. You put your nose over the rim and sniff.

“Tea,” he says. There’s a pause, then he adds, “Peppermint.” 

Peppermint. Your favorite. You told him as much, just a few nights ago — and apparently he listened. 

You take a tentative sip. Smile. He made it right, this time. Kept the bag in long enough.

“Where’d you get this?” 

“Had some at that gas station, on our way up. I just thought—” He shrugs. “Just ’n case.” 

“Just in case,” you repeat. You take another sip. 

“It’s good,” you say, quietly. “Thanks.” 

He smiles. You think he looks pleased. He takes a seat in the other Adirondack chair, beside you, and you watch the moon paint his face silver. His jaw, his cheek, the bruise under his eye and the slice across his nose. Everything looks lighter. More muted, less angry. 

You put the mug down on the chair’s arm. Then you stand, careful not to let it spill, and you go to his chair, instead. 

He makes room for you right away. You don’t ask him to, but he does. He scoots back, spreads his legs, and you drape yourself across his lap. His nose nestles in your hair, by the shell of your ear. 

"Y'alright?" he asks.

"Yeah," you tell him. "I think so."

But you're not, really, and he can tell. He can read your mind, or something close to it. So you're not all that surprised when he noses your ear, a little more insistent, and says—

“Hey. Talk t'me."

The irony of Joel Miller, asking you to talk to him. You’d laugh, if it didn’t feel like something was sitting on your chest. 

“I don’t know,” you mumble. But you do know. “It’s nothing.” 

He’s quiet, for a moment. You wonder if he’ll let it go. 

“Your dad?” he asks. 

“No,” you say. Which is the truth. You haven’t thought about your dad since you texted him, half a day ago now. It’s not him. 

Joel is silent again. You turn in his arms to look him in the eye. 

“It’s nothing,” you repeat. “It’s not—it’s stupid.” 

He takes a breath. Lifts a finger to your face, and traces a strand of hair. 

“Bet it ain’t stupid,” he says, softly. 

“Yeah.” You push out a laugh. It sounds hollow. “It is. It’s dumb. Let’s just — drop it.” 

You can feel him studying you. Watching you. But he’s quiet, and he doesn’t ask you again, because you asked him to drop it. He only says, “okay, angel,” in that syrupy drawl, and strokes your arm with a rough thumb. 

And you appreciate that. You do. But you kind of fucking wish he’d ask you until you break, if only to get this weight off of your ribs and your chest and your stomach and your heart. 

But he doesn’t. Because that’s not Joel. Joel listens. He listens when you tell him your favorite tea. He listens when you tell him to leave it alone.

He changes the subject, instead. He brings his hand up beside your face and points to the sky. 

“’S, uh — Orion, I think.” 

“Oh.” You blink. The change in subject throws you a little, but — you follow his index finger. Squint up at the dark. You have no fucking idea what you’re looking at, but he seems eager enough. 

“Sure,” you lie. It all looks the same to you. Just a bunch of streaky silver. Beautiful streaky silver, but — still. 

“To the left,” he says, gently, and you can hear the smile on his lips. His breath tickles your cheek, your neck, your collar. 

He drops his pointer finger. Puts his hand on your jaw, instead, and tilts your head in the right direction. 

“There,” he mutters. “Now look.” 

And you actually do see it, this time. 

At least, you think you do. It’s hard to concentrate, with his fingers so close to your neck. With his voice like starlit silk in your ear. 

You shift a little in his lap. The wind whistles, whinging off the lake, and his arm tightens reflexively around you. Possessive. Protective. But — gentle, too. Always gentle. 

It bubbles up in your throat again. That thing you can’t keep down. That thing that will not let you sleep. 

“Joel,” you whisper. It sounds like a whine. 

“Yeah.” 

You turn to look at him again. His hand is still on your jaw, fingers slack, just — holding you. His thumb rolls over your chin. 

You shake your head. Fuck.

“Yeah,” he repeats. “I know, baby.” 

“No you don’t,” you say. Your throat feels tight. You’re angry, you think — not with him, just — at the sky. At Orion. At yourself. Just fucking say it.

“I want—but I don’t want to—”

His thumb inches to your bottom lip. He holds it there, effectively shutting you up. 

“S’okay,” he says, softly.

His thumb strokes higher — to the edge of your mouth and then back down, over your chin, to the ridge of your jaw. He’s tracing you. Mapping you like the stars. 

“S’okay, angel,” he echoes, and you’re still shaking your head when he speaks again. Low. Gentle. So, so gentle. “I love you, too.” 

taglist (lmk if you wanna be added):

@bbyanarchist @elissaaa @nana90azevedo @cannolighost @jbb-sgr @cedricbitch @nenyahh @totallynotastanacc @jasminedragoon @hrdc0re-goth @myswficlist @brucewaynescock @aestheticangel612 @re3kin @untamedheart81 @pedrosheartshapedbeardspot @am-3-thyst @godisawomansblog @prettyangelsthings @walkingintheheartbreaksatellite @daddy-din @crocodiile @socket-seahorse-blog @confused-and-clumsy @she-could-never @suzmagine @artsymaddie @mellmannn @virgogaia @mysteriousheat4058 @fandomoniumflurry @projectionistwrites~ @buckyandlokirunmylife @brattynbookish @carriganbrowning @brittmb11 @iamsherlocked1479 @ghostofjoharvelle @kay2601 @casa-boiardi

@silkiers @mrsquill @stileslvr @joelssheep @joelsversion @pedropascalsbbg @bonesblow @madblue3500 @evyiione @missandaei @trishpish-blog @sarahhxx03 @pedritosgirl2000 @zliteraturehoe @thedeadsingwithdirtintheirmouths @l0vem3n @nelsohanx @cassiecasluciluce @wildcat116 @sanriowhorelol @ifall4dilfs @act816~ @lunarxeclipse @gracevnn @papiispunk @anner--nanner @illusivepeony @pureaustralianhoney @peqchsoup @fifia-writes @hallofagayqueer @livinxdeadxgrl @sentients17 @jamesmasbone @pattwtf @shjl15 @caitispunk @mmmmandoz @ssweetart42 @eyelismtears @h1ghinmiami @olivermarfanking @hayley-the-comet @abigails-gf @blondewonk @worhols @lesmismakesmehappy @subconsciouscollapse @lucylynnrose @foras @kosh-kaj-blog @jazzy-music-cat @abuttoncalledsmalls @sarahp-77 @the-names-peach @yo-its-jackie @iluvurfather @llovegallore @jessahmewren @sparklingwine829229 @vickie5446 @lmariephoto37 @defibrillator7 @winwin70 @joelsguitar @marnle @spideysimpossiblegirl @vickie5446 @xocalliexo @yiikkesss @goldenhxurs @akah565 @spacelatinos4life @mellymbee~ ~@purplexical @whichwitchwanda @mandofanclub ~@scarletsloveletter @thewiigers @zarakirbyy @cordeliasenvy ~@iwantaharrystylesalbum @cumulonimbus34 @tremendouscreationperson @sweetorangecakeboi @toomanynights @chantelle-mh @willbereturningshortly @kelesisworld @awxcoffeexno @siggy-things @joybabyjune @carlsssbarkley @bluetattoos @thefourteenthofoctober @spaceface25 @lestlie @oliveg95 @a-rose-of-amber @ninja-ubg @ladybubblelift

@whorror-s @sunnywithachanceofjavi @omghwa @joelslegalwhre @i-workwithpens @dinomdubs @kdogreads @lizzie-cakes @sustainedsigh @ashleymsnodgrass @mondaychildsworld @imsoborediwannadie @012307-jd @akah565 @hexidous @sanscas @grounderprincesslookspissed @obscurexsorrows @dizzyforyou-blog @pedrobaby @hopplessilse @pedroluver @iront33thhcrochan @sallyrooneypilled @pastelnap @thewiigers @vvackos @huggablepanda @mishala005 @ennema @jester-the-goblin @amymoments @lolzdayz @poolbool @cowb00t @glassslipper485 @gracieispunk @strang3lov3 @macfrog @dindjarinsbeskarbunny @spookyxsam @joeldjarin @kittypascal8775 @nightdreamss @aphterthoughtt @multibandstan @bbymamalitz

lakeside

13.2k / dbf!joel x f!reader

official dbf!joel playlist

warnings: 18+, minors dni. y'all know the deal by now. smut. heavy on the fluff. age gap (reader is 23, joel is in his late 40s). dbf!joel, dom!joel (he's back) (prepare the red carpet), fingering, toys, some, uhh, light ass play and some equally light...tying up? spanking, unprotected p in v, reader can get/is on her period, joel's face is still busted, ive exhausted myself y'all can let me know if i missed something

a/n: hello party people. i love you long time. y'all make my day every day. have fun, be safe, live laugh love dilfs, etc etc. inbox is always open for all of y'all 🤍 enjoy the cabin. it will be a two part affair.

this is part 11 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

masterlist here. kofi here, if you wanna leave a tip :)

“Fuck,” he mumbles. “What?”  He swallows. Shakes his head. His thumb drops to skim the edge of your mouth.  “Nothin’,” he says.  And then he kisses you. 

Joel waits in his truck while you get your stuff. He keeps the engine going and his foot on the gas. 

You like knowing he’s there, when you slip into your house. You like knowing he’s close. 

You make a beeline for the stairs the second you’re inside. You don’t announce you’re home, the way you usually do, and you think with any luck your dad won’t hear you come and go. 

You make it to your room without a chase. You drag a duffel from your closet and throw in some clothes — tee shirts, jeans, whatever’s closest — and whatever’s within reach on your bathroom sink. A toothbrush and toothpaste. An open, almost-empty box of tampons. Whatever. You figure Joel can stop for anything you miss. 

Your phone is where you left it two nights ago, half-buried underneath your pillow. You fish it out and stuff it in your duffel. Your charger, too. Then you do a final, hurried sweep — and, fuck it, — you shove that little black vibrator in, too. The one tucked in the back of your nightstand. The one you haven’t touched since that night with Hayes. 

You zip the bag. Sling it up over your shoulder. Your pulse paints a weird, nervous patter by your throat. 

And then — because of course your luck has to run out, sooner or later — your dad’s voice lurches behind you. Hard and brittle. Almost broken. 

“You’re home,” he says. 

You freeze. Your hackles are up, like a cat in the corner. His shadow stains the carpet.

You turn, slowly. Your duffel slouches. 

“I’m leaving,” you say. Soft. Even. But — firm, you think. You’re leaving. Get out of my way. 

“Where’ve you been?” he asks. He sounds tired. 

You don’t answer. You know he already knows. 

He sighs. His head hangs. 

“Fuck,” he mumbles. His hand comes up, fast, and slams the doorframe. “Fuck!”

You wince. 

“You’re not goin’ anywhere,” he says. You can’t tell if it’s an order or a plea. Both, maybe. “Just—put the bag down. Come downstairs. We’ll talk.”

“I don’t wanna talk.”

“Just — fuck!” He swears, again. Slaps the door, again. You wonder if he hit Joel like this. Open-palm. So hard he makes splinters. Or if it was worse — closed fist, knuckles scraping. 

Your cheeks burn. 

“I’m not talking right now,” you say. “You’re too—” 

You don’t finish. He’s too everything. Too much. 

You walk closer. He doesn’t step aside, so you squeeze past. 

He doesn’t stop you, at least. Doesn’t touch you. But he follows you, when you sidestep him and take the stairs two at a time. You can hear him on your heels. 

“Stop,” he says. He’s slower than you are on the stairs. You’re halfway out the door by the time he hits the bottom. 

You don’t stop. You can hear Joel’s engine, purring out in the middle of the road, waiting for you when you step into the sun. Just like he promised. 

You take your porch steps two at a time, too. When your shoes hit the street you’re almost sprinting. Not — away from your dad, so much as towards Joel.

He cracks his door when you get close. Trots around the truck to the passenger side. 

You shrug your bag off your shoulder and he takes it from you. Puts it in the backseat. He snaps the passenger door open and nods. 

“Okay?” 

“Yeah,” you mumble. Your face is flushed. 

He nods again. His finger flexes on the door. He’s looking past you now, up the street, where your dad is stomping down your driveway with an angry sort of gleam. 

“Get in,” Joel says. 

You get in. He shuts the door behind you. His window is cracked — you’re not sure they’re even capable of closing — so you can hear every snarled syllable when your dad crosses the street. 

He’s shouting. It takes you a minute to work out that he’s yelling at Joel and not you. 

“Are you fuckin’ serious?” he’s saying. Shouting. 

He’s barefoot on the pavement. He’s lucky it’s still overcast, you think. Or else the soles of his feet would peel right off. You kind of wish they would right now. 

Joel is quiet. Which is nothing new, really, but — still. You wish he’d fight back. He’s bigger than your dad. Taller. His voice rolls deeper. It’d take one word to set him back in his place. 

But he’s quiet. Silent. You notice, though, that he doesn’t move. He stays wedged in front of the passenger-side door. Between the truck and your dad. Between you and your dad. 

“Where the fuck d’you think you’re goin’?” your dad yells. “You asshole. Y’can’t take her.”

“Dad,” you say. 

He ignores you. Joel stays put. 

“Goddamn it,” your dad swears. “You didn’t learn your fuckin’ lesson already? Huh? Wanna go again?” 

“Dad,” you say. 

He ignores you. Again. He takes a jolting step forward, towards Joel and towards you. He shoves Joel with two flat palms and a snarl. 

Joel stumbles. His back thumps the door. Heat swirls in your chest. 

“Don’t fucking touch him,” you snap. Your hand curls on the handle. “You need to — you need to calm down.”

“I need to calm down?”

He’s talking to you now, at least. He sounds incredulous. He glares between you and Joel. 

“Get outta the car,” he says. He’s not yelling. You wish he would. 

“No.”

“Yes. We’re gonna talk about this now. Get out of the fuckin’ car.”

He reaches around Joel for the door handle. You shrink back. 

And Joel — who didn’t fight back two nights ago, who’s peppered black and blue with bruises, who hasn’t moved a muscle this morning- 

Joel puts a flexing, furious hand on your dad’s shoulder. 

“Step back,” he growls. 

There he is. That’s the Joel from the bar. That’s the Joel that beat the shit out of two grown men and sent them running. 

And you get it, you think. You get it now. Your dad can threaten him all day long. Beat him black and blue. But the second he raises his voice at you—the second it’s you he’s reaching for — Joel is on guard. He’s pulling rank. He straightens up, drags himself to his full height, and you see the not-so-subtle way his shoulders bunch. Even banged and bruised, he looks imposing. More so than usual, maybe. Like a wounded animal: angrier, untethered. 

“You got some fuckin’ nerve,” your dad says. But he’s stepped back, you notice. “She’s my kid.”

“‘N she doesn’t wanna talk,” Joel says. “So I’m tellin’ you to step—” his jaw flickers, “—the fuck back.”

Your dad stares. You swallow. 

“Fuck you,” he says, finally. But he’s stepping back now, all the way. Crossing his arms. 

Joel doesn’t say anything. No last word. No smug smile. He just walks quickly around the truck, to the driver’s side, and clips the door shut when he climbs in. He wraps a hand around the gear shift. 

You stare straight ahead. Your hands are shaking. 

“You okay?” he murmurs. Still gentle. 

“Yeah,” you breathe. You can see your dad in your peripheral, standing in the middle of the road. Arms barred. Face tangled. “Just drive.”

Tommy’s cabin is in the middle of fucking nowhere. Which is — nice, actually. It’s nice to get away. From Austin. From everyone. From everything.

The nearest town is a place called Two Springs. Two Springs, Texas. It sounds more like a stop on the Disneyland express and less like an actual location, but — Two Springs. You stop there, on your way up. For groceries, gas — the essentials, according to Joel. 

It turns out town is a gross exaggeration. Two Springs has exactly four buildings to its name: a gas station, a bar, a Mexican restaurant, and a sprawling, Western-style structure with a sign that says GENERAL ORE. You figure it might’ve said General Store once, like a century ago, when someone painted it for the first and last time. 

It’s well-stocked, at least. They have Tylenol, Advil, Aleve — for your cramps and for Joel’s ten thousand cuts and bruises. They have a reusable ice pack Joel insists he doesn’t need. They have tampons, to supplement the grand total of three you’d managed to scavenge from your desperate sweep of your bathroom. 

And they have food. Lots of food. 

“Better stock up,” Joel tells you. He’s slouched against the shopping cart with a lazy sort of lean. His sleeves are sloughed up to his elbows. The further from Austin you’ve gotten, the more he’s seemed to relax. He almost looks content, right now. 

“Hundred bucks says Tommy ain’t got a damn thing in the house,” he says. “So. Get whatever y’like.”

“Oh, god.” You fake a groan. “Does that mean you’re cooking?”

He shoots you a glare. You grin. 

You split up. You case one aisle and he takes another. When you meet back up in the middle of produce, you’ve got your hands full of ice cream and he’s cradling a case of beer. 

You point to the beer. Shake your head. 

“You’re useless,” you say. 

He frowns. 

“You’re one t’talk,” he says, with a nod toward Ben and Jerry.

“This counts as food.” You study the label. “See? Chunks of real cookie dough.”

He stares at you. Blinks. Then he sighs; that beleaguered, bemused huff that hides his smile.

“Just put it in,” he grumbles.

You do manage to get some actual food. Eventually. And you talk him into that reusable ice pack,  for the sprawling, angry bruise under his eye. Eventually.

A spindly, skeleton of a man checks you out up front. His eyes droop. He’s got a cowboy hat on — true Texan — and there’s a layer of dust on the brim. He’s probably been sitting here since they built the store. 

He takes an eternity to scan your items. You can feel Joel getting antsy beside you. 

“Passin’ through?” the man croaks. 

He’s got a voice like a broken rattle. It startles you both. 

Joel grunts. 

The man nods. He mutters something you can’t hear. Then he points to you with a gangly finger. 

“She’s a nice little thing,” he drawls. 

Your nose scrunches. Fucking — gross. 

Joel tenses beside you. His fist folds on the counter. 

“Don’t,” he says. His voice is dangerously quiet. “I ain’t in the fuckin’ mood.” 

The man blinks. Swallows. He drops his gaze and doesn’t look at you again. 

He finishes ringing you up in silence. When he hands Joel the bag his fingers tremble. 

“Y’all have a nice day,” he says. 

Joel grunts. 

You follow him back out to the truck. He puts the groceries in the backseat, by your duffel, and you don’t say anything to him, not yet, but you’re gnawing on your cheek when he climbs back in the driver’s seat. 

You’ve had a shitty start to the day. A shitty last few days, to be honest. You don’t want Joel to be pissed. It’s just — he’s kind of hot, when he gets riled up. When he snaps at your dad. When he rolls his fist on the counter and snarls at strangers. 

No. He’s not kind of hot. He drives you fucking crazy. 

But you keep that to yourself. For now. At least ’til you get where you’re going. You figure you can wait at least a little while longer. 

Tommy’s cabin is nice. 

Not that you were expecting anything less. Joel built it, after all. 

But — still. It’s nice. It’s really nice. It looks like something straight out of a Hallmark postcard: Adirondack chairs on a pinewood porch, stone chimney surrounded by trees. No neighbors — at least none you can see. A quiet lake with a pebbled shore. 

The whole place smells like sunlight and pine needles and freshwater. It’s a far cry from Austin. From home.

He parks the truck out front, on a packed-down slope of dirt. There are tire treads baked into the soil — Tommy’s, you assume. 

You’re halfway out of the truck before he puts it in park. You snatch your duffel from the back and stand in the shade, staring at the tops of trees, waiting restlessly for Joel to get his ass out of the car. 

He lumbers out, eventually. You shift your bag to your other shoulder while he gathers up the groceries. 

He leads the way up the slope, towards the cabin. You follow on his heels. 

“This place is kinda cool,” you admit. “I haven’t been camping since I was, like, ten.” 

“This ain’t campin’,” he says. 

Typical. You roll your eyes. Pull a face behind his back that he — mercifully — doesn’t see. 

“Uh-uh,” he drawls. “Don’t roll your eyes ’t me, pretty girl.” 

You pause halfway up the steps. Your duffel hangs off of your shoulder. 

“I didn’t roll my eyes at you.” 

He hums amusedly. He digs a key out of his pocket and twists it in the lock. 

The door gives with a push. The smell of pine drips down the porch. 

“What, so, you can read my mind now?” 

He hums again. He puts the key back in his pocket and leads the way inside. 

“Somethin’ like that,” he says. 

You roll your eyes again. He turns around this time, just past the threshold, and fixes you with a hooked half-smile. 

“You ain’t that hard t’read, darlin’.” 

You grumble something in response. His smile widens and yours does too, reluctantly, because seeing him happy is fucking infectious. It almost makes you forget about the bruise under his eye, and the slice across his nose that still looks too fresh. 

“C’mon,” he says. He flicks a switch by the door and the whole place flickers — once, twice — then settles into soft light. “I’ll give ya the tour.” 

He snatches up your hand and you lean into his arm, smothering your smile in his sleeve. 

“Alright,” you tell him. “Better be good.” 

It is good. You’re impressed. It’s a small place, cozy, but he’s thought of everything. Dark wood floors and a light leather couch and comfortable, colorful throws. Sketches on the walls: deer and ducks and charcoal antlers. Half-finished woodworks on a desk by the window. You wonder if they’re Joel’s, or Tommy’s, or both. 

You don’t ask. Yet. 

The bedroom is equally intimate. White sheets on the bed. Wooden headboard. Flannel blanket that screams Joel Miller. It makes you smile, when you drop your duffel down on it and unpack your things. You like it. This whole place feels like Joel. 

You put your random, assorted toiletries in the bathroom, and — in a spur of the moment decision — you shove that black vibrator in the back of the nightstand, where you’re keeping your phone charger. Force of habit, you guess. You leave the rest of your clothes in your duffel and shuffle out to find Joel.

And — speaking of Joel — he was right to stock up, in that shitty not-quite-town of Two Springs, because the kitchen is empty. Well — almost empty, if you count the cobwebby bottle of clear liquor stashed beside the sink. You pick it up while Joel puts the groceries away. Turn it label-side out. 

“What the hell is this?” you ask. 

You hoist it up, towards Joel. Dust sloughs off the glass. 

He straightens. Turns. 

“Not a damn clue,” he says. “But I wouldn’t touch it ‘f I were you. Knowin’ Tommy, ’s probably radioactive.” 

Your nose scrunches. You work the top off and put your nose to the rim — which is a huge mistake, because it smells like raw gasoline. You cough loudly and reseal the cap. 

“What the fuck,” you sputter. 

Joel laughs. Told ya so.

You shove the bottle back by the sink. Wipe the dust off on your jeans. Joel finishes arranging his beers and stands back to admire his handiwork. 

“So-o,” you say. You push yourself off the counter and wander out of the kitchen. You drag a curious finger toward the wall of charcoal sketches, and you can feel Joel’s gaze follow. You can hear his sigh, too. Like he’s preparing himself. 

“Tommy’s?” you ask, turning halfway to face him. “Or yours?” 

He shifts a little. Shoves his thumb through a belt loop.

“Tommy’s,” he gruffs. 

That checks out. You’ve seen Joel’s drawing skills on display, in that tiny coffee shop in San Antonio. He’s god awful. And these are at least…halfway decent. You wouldn’t say impressive, but — 

“They’re good.” You flash a grin. “I mean. Better than yours, for sure.” 

His brow lifts. The corner of his lip twitches. 

“I’d watch it, ‘f I were you.” 

“Oh, yeah? Or what?” 

He almost smiles. You almost catch him. 

“Or y’can sleep outside,” he drawls. “With the bears.” 

“Mm.” You turn away from the drawings. You’re not so interested, now you know they’re not his. You wander back to him and smooth your hands along his collar. “Very scary. I’m terrified.” 

His pulse picks up at your touch. You can feel it, when your hands drift lower and skim across his heart. 

“Should be,” he murmurs. 

You’re close to him, now. Really close. You have to tilt your chin to meet his gaze. His voice drips to your lips and settles there, white-hot. 

You want to kiss him. You really do. It’s just — that fucking bruise on his cheek is glaring at you, mangled and purple and mean. 

You swallow. Draw back, just a little. He looks disappointed. 

“That bruise looks bad,” you murmur. 

He starts to shake his head. You cut him off. 

“C’mon,” you say. “We bought that ice pack. Let’s try it, at least.” 

“You bought it.” 

“Not true. I just put it in the cart. You paid.” 

He frowns. 

“Don’t say no,” you say. 

“Didn’t say anythin’,” he gruffs. “But no.” 

“Mm. Okay. Keep it up, you can sleep outside with the bears.” 

He frowns again. Deeper, this time. You get the sense he’s forcing back a smile. 

“Don’t be a baby,” you say. “We can’t waste it. It was, like, seventeen bucks. Total rip off.” 

He grumbles. But he doesn’t grumble quite as much as he did two nights ago, when you first begged to take care of him. So he’s either getting used to someone caring about him — caring for him — or you’ve just worn him down. 

You don’t mind either way. Whatever gets the job done. 

“Go on,” you tell him. “Couch.” 

He’s still grumbling. But he goes obediently to the couch and sits, sinking down onto the cushions with a heavy sort of sigh. 

You sit beside him. He’s easier to reach like this, when you’re both sitting. You can perch yourself on the arm of the couch and tip his chin up, towards you. You can hold the pack to his face without reaching. Press it gently to the mangled colors on his cheek and his chin and his jaw. 

He hisses softly, but he doesn’t pull away. If anything he sort of melts into your touch, the way he’d been too scared to do two nights ago. 

He could do this himself. Easily. He tries to tell you as much, a couple times — and you bat him away. You like helping. You like feeling useful. And you like any excuse to be this close to him; to touch him, even though you don’t need much of an excuse at all. 

He stops asking to do it himself, after a while. You get the sense he likes the help as much as you like giving it. His face gets heavier in your hands, and you realize he’s stopped propping himself up. He’s just — dead weight, in your palms. He trusts you. 

You swallow. Your throat feels thick. So does the air, all of a sudden, like someone’s tossed a giant blanket on the inches between you. You move the ice pack half an inch to the right. Expose the corner of his mouth you’d had covered. 

And then you try not to kiss him. Again. 

The edge of his lip you’ve exposed quirks up, like he’s asking you to do it. Teasing you. Wondering just how long you’ll hold out. 

You clear your throat. 

“So the drawings are…Tommy’s,” you say, lamely. 

He blinks. Hard. He’s been staring at you. 

“Yeah,” he says, after a beat. “Says he comes up here t’hunt, but — I’ve never seen him shoot a deer. Only ever seen him draw ‘em.” 

You smile. You pull the ice pack back and examine his face. It looks a little better. Less…angry. There’s a pink shine on his right cheek, where the ice has numbed his skin. 

“I get it,” you say. “Miller boys. You’re both big softies.” 

He glares at you. You can feel his jaw tense where you cup his face. 

“Sorry,” you say, quickly. “I mean — very scary. So scary.” 

He grunts. Mumbles something unintelligible. You could swear his almost-smile gets wider. 

“And the little wooden things?” You tilt your head toward the far wall of the cabin. Toward that desk by the window, littered with half-finished carvings and pinewood peels. “Are those Tommy’s, too?” 

He doesn’t answer. Which is fine, because you’ve gotten pretty good at reading his silence. 

“Okay,” you say. “So. Not Tommy’s.” 

There’s a pause. He sniffs. Then his gaze drops; off of the couch, onto a knot in the hardwood, and the cheek you haven’t been icing turns pink.

He’s blushing.

You stifle a grin. He’s cute when he’s flustered. And he’s even cuter when you consider that this must be how he spends his free time. Joel Miller, strong, silent, a little bit mean, carving little creatures out of wood. 

You push off of the couch before he can protest. He grumbles weakly and sinks further into the cushions. 

You walk over to the desk. Sunlight pours through the window, baking the glass, and the wood is lighter where it spills. You slough some wood chips aside with the flat of your hand. Most of the carvings are in some state of progress, like he can’t quite decide what to work on and what to finish — but you find one that seems pretty much done. You pick it up, gently. Turn it over in your hands. You hold it up to the window and swallow back your smile. 

It’s a duck. A little wooden duck, with a flat bill and pine feathers. There’s a tiny J.M. carved into the side. 

It’s good. Better than Tommy’s drawings. But, then — you might be biased. 

When you turn back to Joel you’re grinning. The duck is hoisted in your hand. 

“Shut up,” he says. 

“I didn’t say anything!” 

“You’re ‘bout to.” 

“It’s good.” You walk back over to him. Sit beside him on the couch. His little duck sits in the palm of your hand. 

“It’s cute,” you say. 

He glares at you. Then the duck. 

“It ain’t cute,” he says. 

“Yeah it is. It’s cute. It’s adorable. You carve ducks.” 

“Don’t carve ducks,” he says, gruffly. “’S just the one. The feathers are — hard t’get right. ’S good practice.” 

“Right. For more ducks.” 

He looks at you. Shakes his head. He snatches the duck up out of your hand before you can close your fist. 

He stands up, off of the couch. Walks his duck back to its place on that sunlit desk. 

“Come on,” you protest. “Finder’s keepers.” 

“Uh-uh.” 

“Fine. Then you can make me one.” 

He sets the duck down. Adjusts it, so its bill is basking in the sun. You’ve only ever seen him this gentle when he’s touching you. Well — you and his wooden duck. 

He straightens up. Turns back to face you. 

“You’re a pain in the ass,” he says.

“Yeah. So you’ve said.” 

“Y’don’t want one of these,” he says, with a gesture toward the desk. Toward the dozens of half-finished creatures. You can make out the vague shape of a deer, in one block of wood. The hint of an antler. “They ain’t even good.” 

He’s self-conscious. Joel Miller is self-conscious about his ducks. Or — duck. Singular. 

“Yes they are,” you say. You stand up, too. Join him over by the desk. You loop your arms around his waist and rest your head on his back. “I mean, you’re not gonna be carving the David anytime soon—”

He twists around to glare at you. Your arms drop from his waist. 

You laugh. You laugh until he’s smiling, too. You laugh until he tugs you into his chest, and tucks your hair behind your ear, and tilts his bruised face down to yours. 

“You made them,” you say, softly. “‘Course I love them.” 

You mean that. You’d love anything he’s scrawled his initials into. 

He’s quiet, for a second. His thumb stills on the ridge of your cheek. 

“Fuck,” he mumbles.

“What?” 

He swallows. Shakes his head. His thumb drops to skim the edge of your mouth. 

“Nothin’,” he says. 

And then he kisses you. 

You’ve been waiting for this all day. There’s been a borderline-painful tug between your legs since you left that shitty almost-town of Two Springs. So you melt into him, when he bends to kiss you, and you’re almost — almost — too preoccupied to feel your phone buzz in your pocket. 

You ignore it. His tongue slips into your mouth. He tastes like summer sun and coffee, and his lips are still cool from the edge of that ice pack. 

You fist your hands in his flannel. Bite at his bottom lip and swallow his groan. His hands go to your waist and he’s turning you — turning you both, so that your back nudges the desk — and you get the vague sense he’s lifting you up. He swipes stray wood chips aside, clearing space for you, and puts you down with a gentle sigh. 

You mumble something into his mouth. You’re not sure what. Your legs are hooked around the backs of his, pulling him close, and when he bends to kiss your neck you tilt your head for him. His nose grazes the side of your throat. 

And then your phone buzzes. Again. 

He hears it, this time. He pulls back with a bemused smile. His eyes are heavy. 

“Wanna get that?” 

“Not particularly,” you mutter. But you dig your phone out of your pocket anyway, just to turn it off, and your dad’s contact lights up the screen. 

You groan. Your heart sinks to your feet. 

 “Shit.” 

Joel is quiet. He’s still desperately close. There’s a piece of his hair that’s out of place, thanks to your wandering hands. It’s curled halfway down his forehead. 

“It’s my dad,” you say, blandly. You flip the screen to show him. 

“Figures.” 

You swipe the notification open. Your phone is ridiculously slow in opening, which probably has something to do with the fact it’s on 2% battery. It’s kind of impressive it’s even still functioning, considering you can’t remember the last time you plugged it in. 

Your dad’s messages come up. Slowly. You read them with your feet dangling off the desk. 

“What’s he say?” Joel asks, quietly. 

You shrug. 

“Wants to know where we are,” you say. “I turned my Find my Friends off, so.” 

You don’t elaborate. You doubt Joel even knows what the hell that is. 

“I should tell him something,” you say. “So he knows I’m not dead, at least.” 

Joel nods. 

“Sure,” he says. 

You swallow. Look back down at your phone. The screen blinks with a battery warning.

“Fuck,” you mutter. “I need my charger. Can you—?”

“Yeah,” he says, quickly. “‘Course. Where ’s it?” 

“Uh—nightstand. In the bedroom. The one on the right.” 

He nods. He extricates himself from between your legs, a little reluctant, and you watch him disappear down the hallway. 

You look back down at your phone. At your dad’s messages. Your last text to him is still plastered on the screen — something inane from San Antonio, when everything was still good. Normal. It makes your heart hurt a little. 

You text him back quickly. Before your phone can die. 

You: i’m fine. need a few days. we can talk when i'm home. 

The service up here is hanging on by a thread. It takes a minute to deliver, but when it does his grey bubble pops up almost immediately. It takes another minute for his response to come through. And it’s not really what you’re expecting, when it does. It’s not angry. It’s just — short. It makes your throat swell a little. 

Dad: OK. Be safe.

You lay your phone down on the desk. Face-down. It’s progress, you think. It’s something. 

And then you wonder where the hell Joel is, because this place is not that big and he’s been gone way too long for a phone-charger scavenger hunt. You told him exactly where it is. So unless he’s blind—

“Joel,” you yell. “The nightstand on the right. It can’t be that hard to—”

He pokes his head around the corner. Steps out, slowly, until the sun washes his skin.

“…find,” you finish, lamely. 

He moves closer to you, and it’s clear there’s something in his hand. Judging by the look on his face — narrowed gaze, crooked smile — and the way his fist is folded, tight, it’s not your charger. But there was only one other thing in that nightstand, which means— 

He’s just a few feet from you, now. You think about sliding off of the desk, and darting under his arm — but he’s stepping in between your legs, again, and you let him cage you in. 

You watch the gentle rise-fall of his chest under flannel. The way his smile drags wider when he unspools his fingers and shows you his palm. 

“What’s this?” he drawls. 

You know what he’s holding. You don’t have to look. You’re blushing before his fist can unfurl. 

Your little black vibrator. The one you’d taken from your room, on an impulse, in a mad-dash sweep of your things. The one you’d squirreled away in the nightstand on the right, next to your fucking charger. 

“Uh,” you say. 

His eyes sparkle. He looks annoyingly smug. You figure he’s probably loving the look on your face right now, after you subjected him to torture by wooden-duck. This is payback, you think. 

“Go on,” he urges. 

He drags a rough thumb over the black shell, and your stomach clenches. A shiver crawls up your throat. Whatever’s been stirring in your core since the car ride up here sparks suddenly to life. 

Something about that thing in his hand. How small it is. How smug he looks. 

“It’s nothing,” you say, softly. 

“Yeah?” He cocks his head. That one stray curl flips against his forehead. He pushes his thumb down, gently, and the vibrator buzzes to life in his palm. 

You stare at it. So does he. Heat pools at the pit of your stomach. 

“Don’t look like nothin’,” he murmurs. 

He flicks it off. You swallow back a sound. 

You lean in. Snatch it up, out of his hand. Your fingers close around the shell, and you ignore the fact they’re trembling.

He lets you take it. He looks amused, if anything. He likes watching you squirm.

“I just thought, maybe—” your cheeks are burning again, “—you wouldn’t want to, like — you know.” 

He looks at you, nonplussed. You blink. 

“Since I’m on my period?” you offer, weakly. “I didn’t know if you’d want to do—like, do anything, so—I just brought it in…case.” 

He’s silent. Even more so than usual, if that’s possible. 

“It’s totally fine, by the way,” you say, hurriedly. You’re pretty sure you’re just talking to talk, now, but — you can’t stop. “If you don’t want to. I wasn’t trying to—”

He tilts his head a little. Enough to show he’s listening. Enough to shut you up. 

And then he puts his palm out. Face-up, in the small space between you both. 

You know what he wants. He doesn’t have to ask. Your fingers flex around the toy, a little hesitant, but you give it up. You give it back. 

His hand folds around the shell. He slides it into his jeans, into his pocket, and you watch it disappear. 

The tension is too thick. Sticky. It’s hard to draw a breath. Outside the sun slips toward the water. 

The light slants a little darker through the window. Almost blue. Almost dusk. 

“Bedroom,” he says, and his voice is silk. Like smooth whiskey and the slipping sun. “Five minutes.” 

And then he turns, and goes, and you count back from three hundred. 

 You wait five minutes, like he asked. 

It feels excruciatingly long. But, then — you’re used to this, by now. The minutes with him go too quickly and the ones without him never end. You can’t ever seem to get it just right. 

But the time does pass, eventually. You make it pass. You push yourself off the desk and wander into the bathroom. You take your clothes off — everything, except black underwear — and you take your tampon out, and you run a brush through your hair. Then you walk back to the living room, where his duffel bag is still sitting by the front door — and you fish one of his flannels from the top. It’s red and brown and smells like bourbon and it’s way too fucking big. But you button it up anyway, over your bare chest, and leave the top two undone. 

It’s huge on you. The sleeves drip over your fingers. The hem drops just above your knees. 

You like it. It’s warm. It feels like him. 

And then your five minutes are up, just like that, and you follow his shadow to the bedroom. 

You’re nervous, when you open the door. But you’ve gotten used to that, too. The constant swarm in your stomach when he calls you by name. The flush in your face right before you see his. 

You take a quiet step inside. Let the door click shut behind you. 

“Hi,” you say, softly. 

He’s sitting on the edge of the bed: Still dressed, in his belt and his boots and his jeans and his flannel. The sleeves are cuffed at his forearms, exposing tanned skin and corded muscle. His runaway curl is smoothed back into place. 

There’s a towel spread across the sheets. One of the big, fluffy black ones you’d seen hanging by the shower. The edge hangs slightly off the bed. 

He doesn’t say hi back. But he does give you a look — like, a look — that makes your throat run dry. His eyes roam your body: up your legs, over his flannel, over the bit of exposed skin where you’ve neglected the top buttons — and you watch them go dark. 

“C’mere,” he says. 

You take one step forward. Then another. There’s something intensely commanding about the way he sounds right now, and you’re not sure if it’s the fact he’s almost completely, totally silent, or the way he doesn’t move a muscle while he watches you approach. He only really moves once, to push his own sleeve higher. You watch his wrist flex with the motion. 

You stop at the edge of the bed. He tilts his chin to look at you. 

“Lie down,” he says. 

You get the sense that this is not about to be a repeat of two nights prior, when you issued all the orders. You’re pretty sure that was a one-time thing. Or at least — a once-in-a-blue-moon thing, if the look on his face and the cut in his voice are any indication. 

He’s back to his old self. More commanding, if that’s even possible, like he’s making up for lost time. His eyes are black. 

“Don’t like repeatin’ myself,” he murmurs. 

Your breath hitches. The tug between your legs is borderline painful. You have to bite back a whimper when you sink down onto the bed, on top of the sheets and on top of the towel. 

He doesn’t move, still, when you lie down. He stays sitting at the foot of the bed. But he does turn slightly, to look at you, and his stare is so sharp you drop your own gaze. 

He doesn’t do anything, so you pick up his slack. Or…try to. You bring shaky fingers to your flannel — his flannel — and start to pull at the buttons. 

He shakes his head. Your fingers still. 

“Don’t,” he says, gently. 

So you don’t. You drop your hands. Let them fall useless to your sides. 

And then he moves. Finally. He undoes his belt with deft fingers and slips it through his jeans with a soft, leathery hiss. It’s the only sound in the room. It makes your skin prick and your stomach clench. 

He gets up, off of the bed, and you tilt your neck to follow him. He walks up to you, where your head is propped against the pillows, and bends to pick up your hands. 

He’s gentle, while he does all this. Gentle and quiet and not at all the rough, teasing, domineering type you’ve gotten used to. But there’s something about him, still, that spells you into silence. Something that makes you listen, and makes your wrists go limp when he takes them both in one hand. 

He pulls your hands up over your head. Your pulse beats a double-rhythm in his palm. He holds them to the headboard, to the second wooden slat of four, and ties them in place with his belt. 

And you let him. You let him wrap the leather around your hands and the headboard, let him cinch it tight, let the metal buckle bite into your wrists. You don’t say a damn word and neither does he. 

Not until he sits back down beside you, on the edge of the bed, and digs that black vibrator back out of his pocket. 

Your breath picks up. Your legs pull. You flinch a little, tugging at his belt, but it doesn’t give. If anything the leather cinches tighter. 

“What’re you…?” 

He puts a broad hand on your thigh, inches above your knee. Heat flushes underneath his touch. The hem of your flannel bunches around his fingers. 

He looks up at you. 

“Said you weren’t sure ‘f I wanted it,” he says. 

He flicks the vibrator on. It hums to life in his palm. 

“Stupid fuckin’ question,” he murmurs. He drags his hand up the seam of your thigh, until his thumb grazes cotton. Your hips jerk a little. 

He holds you in place with that hand. Puts the toy to your clit with the other. 

“Makin’ sure y’never ask again,” he growls. 

And then you really do buck your hips; pulling at his makeshift restraints, whining through your teeth while he teases you through cotton. 

“Fuck,” you yelp, “Joel—”

“Shh,” he mumbles, half to himself. He moves the vibrator half an inch lower, clicks the setting higher, and fire shoots through your core. Your wrists wrench at the headboard. The wood doesn’t give. Neither does his belt. But you’ll have a bruise on both hands, you’re pretty sure, where the buckle gives a warning bite. 

“Y’move too much,” he murmurs. 

“S-sorry,” you pant, and you’re not really sure what you’re apologizing for, but you’re kind of delirious and you’ll say whatever he wants if he just — doesn’t stop. The pressure he’s putting on your clit is fucking — it’s ten times better than any time you’ve used this thing on yourself. You’re not sure if it’s just him, or if he’s got some kind of magic technique, or what, but — 

“S’okay, baby,” he says, in that gentle, slopey drawl. “’S why we used the belt.” 

Your legs are trembling, and you’re not really sure if it’s the toy or his voice or the words themselves, dripping to your skin like honey. You try to pull them together, against the ache he won’t fill, and his free hand tightens on your thigh. 

“Jesus,” he murmurs. He sounds amused. His thumb strokes at the seam of your thigh. “Tie the rest ‘a you down, too, ‘f you don’t quit movin’.” 

You whimper — something pitiful, pathetic — but you stop moving. Part of you wants to push him: rut your hips, and writhe against his belt, just to see if he’ll make good on his promise. Part of you wants him to. 

But this is enough, for now. This is almost too much. He’s got your eyes rolling back, and he’s keeping you still with that big, broad palm above your knee. He flicks the setting higher, higher, highest — and you shout his name. You pitch forward, panting, and the belt snaps against your skin. It might hurt, if you weren’t so preoccupied. 

“Fuck,” you plead, “Joel, p—fuck—”

“Too much?” he asks, gently. 

You shake your head. Your hair is in your face, in your eyes, and you can’t shove it away. Your thigh flinches underneath his hand. 

“No,” you punch out. “N—fuck, please don’t st—op.”

You’re close. He can tell, probably before you can. It never takes you long with the vibrator — that’s why you bought it — but Joel plus toy is something else entirely. It’s a hell of a lot different than when you use it yourself. You never push it past the first few settings. You’ve got an easy, relaxed routine, under your covers, in the comfort of your upstairs bedroom, or your dorm room, or wherever. It’s lazy. Languid. Sometimes there’s a video, to help things along. More often than not you just use your imagination. 

 And you always — always — think of Joel. 

So having him here — actually here, flipping your lazy routine on its head, working the toy against your clit with the kind of practical skill that comes from a lifetime of using your hands — 

It’s a whole lot better than your imagination. And you try to tell him that, or something like it, but your head is foggy and your vision is blurred and his knuckles are grazing the soaked-black fabric of your panties while he guides the toy along. 

So you settle for his name, instead. It comes out broken on your tongue. 

“S’good, baby,” he coaxes. “Good girl.” 

You cum hard, then, with his name still on your lips and a slew of fractured curses behind that. His free hand lets up on your thigh. It’s still there, still warm and rough and comforting, but he’s not applying any pressure. He doesn’t have to keep you still. 

He clicks the vibrator off. Moves it back, gently. The guys you’re used to would keep going, once they got a result — struck gold once, why stop digging? — but Joel knows when to stop, when to pull back, when to let you catch your breath. He knows how to read your voice, and your body, and the words that get tangled on their way up your throat. 

He leans back while your breaths steady. You see his shape in your peripheral, putting the toy down gently on the nightstand, and then his hand is on your face and he’s pushing your hair back, away from your eyes and your mouth and your cheeks. 

Even that touch makes you shiver. You figure you’re probably just fucked, when it comes to Joel Miller. 

You pull up a little on the restraints. You want to kiss him. Or — you want him to kiss you, since there’s not much you can do. 

He doesn’t give you what you want. He pulls back, and moves back to his familiar spot beside your legs. He drags an aimless hand up your calf, your knee, your thigh. 

You suck in a breath. Push it out through your teeth. 

He knows what you want. He picks up on the patterns in your breath; the way your panting turns to pleading. 

“Can you —fuck—” you pull against his belt, “—just—fucking—untie me, please—”

His fingers drift up your thigh, ghosting cotton, and then — they drop. His touch trickles back to your calf. And then he starts again, even slower, and it’s softer than the toy, and gentler, and lighter, but it’s driving you just as crazy. Maybe more. 

He takes his time, like he’s pretending to think. His touch skates higher. 

“No,” he says, after a long pause. “Don’t think so.” 

You make a long, frustrated sound. Drop your head back to the pillow. Your wrists go limp against his belt. 

His thumb strokes at the edge of your panties. You gasp.

“Make ya a deal,” he drawls. “Gimme one more — ’n we’ll see ‘bout the belt.” 

“We’ll see about the belt?” 

He shrugs. It takes everything in you not to buck your hips into his thumb. 

“Best I can do,” he says. “Take it or leave it.” 

You stare at him. Then your head flops against the pillow, and you sigh. 

“Fine.” 

He smiles. You can feel it. 

“Kinda like ya like this,” he says. “Ain’t so stubborn.” 

He swipes past your swollen clit. You yelp.

“Fuck you,” you pant. 

He hooks a finger through your waistband. Pulls your underwear down, down your thighs and over your knees and off around your ankles. Then he holds them, wrapped around his index finger, and tilts his head. 

“We’ll do somethin’ ‘bout that mouth, next time,” he says. 

He tosses your panties to the floor. Pushes his slipping sleeves back to his forearms. You roll your eyes, but you know he sees the blush that stains your cheeks. 

His brow lifts. 

“You’d like that, huh?” He smiles. “Dirty fuckin’ girl.” 

You mumble something. It sounds like a whimper. But it must be good enough for him, because he takes pity on you. 

“What d’you want, baby?” he asks, softly. His gaze drifts to the nightstand. “Up t’you.” 

You know what he’s asking — and with most guys you’d say yes, please, use the fucking vibrator, I thought you’d never ask — because its success rate is exponentially higher than most college boys’s clumsy fingers. 

But this isn’t a college boy. This isn’t most guys. This is Joel, and you want Joel. Just Joel.

“No,” you tell him. “Just — you.” 

He doesn’t move, so you add, a little awkwardly — 

“—please.” 

He blinks. Then he snaps back, like he’s just — recalibrating. He’s got the same look on his face as he did half an hour ago, when you told him you loved his little wood duck. 

“Is that…okay?” 

“Yeah,” he says, after a beat. “Fuck. Yeah, ‘course it’s okay. Just thought—” he’s looking at the nightstand again, with a curious kind of look on his face, “—thought y’might like that better.” 

That’s stupid, you think. It’s a stupid fucking question, even though with anyone else it would be true. 

“No,” you say, quietly, and you’re blushing, still, but for a different reason. “I like you better.” 

He swallows. His jaw flexes. 

“What?” you ask. 

“Nothin’,” he says, again. And then — softly, “—just don’t know what t’do with you.” 

He looks at you. His fingers are still splayed at the inside of your thigh, half an inch from where you want him most. You stare at them; at his hand sprawled on your skin, and he follows your gaze. 

“I know where you can start,” you mumble. 

And then he smiles again — that crooked, happy, satisfied smile — and his hand slides higher. 

“Hold still this time,” he says, in that honeyed drawl, “or the belt stays.” 

It’s not much of a threat. You like the way the leather hugs your wrists. You like that it belongs to him. You like that you do, too. 

But you play along. You nod. And when he slips two fingers inside you you try your hardest not to squirm. 

You don’t think you’re that successful. But he’s nice about it, or he’s distracted, because he doesn’t say another word. He lets you thrash against his belt, and writhe into his hand, and shout his name when he crooks his fingers and pumps his wrist and hits something inside you that that fucking toy can’t ever reach. 

And — if it’s even possible — you cum faster on his fingers than you did with the vibrator. 

He talks you through it. Murmured words and quiet praise. You tell him you’re close, again, and he tells you he’s got you, good girl, y’look so beautiful like this.

It’s the last one that sends you over the edge, you think. The way he calls you beautiful, in that molasses drawl, quiet and reverential and a little bit awestruck when you come apart in his hands. 

And then he’s untying you; unclasping the buckle, releasing you from the headboard, and you’re undressing him before you can rub at your wrists. You can do that later, in the dark. You can ice his face and then your hands and then his face, again. 

He kicks his boots off. His jeans are easy to get off, without his belt in the way, and he helps you with his shirt when your fingers shake. He leaves yours on, though. He stops you, when you go to take it off for the second time tonight. 

“Leave it,” he says, and his voice is so dark, so deep, that it stops you in your tracks. “Like you like this.” 

By this he means — in his clothes. In his scent. Wrapped up in him, in every way. He likes the way his shirts are too big, and he likes the way the smell of pine and coffee linger on your skin. You’d say he likes showing off that you’re his, but — there’s no one around. He just likes to see it for himself. 

Which you knew, already. It’s why you pull his shirts out of his duffel, whenever you get the chance. It’s why you’re swimming in his flannel now. 

So you nod, shyly. You keep his shirt on, and when he leans forward, and cups your jaw in his hand, it feels like he’s everywhere. On your skin and in the air and on your lips, when he kisses you. 

You fall back against the pillows. He climbs over you, on top of you, and his knees dig into the towel. And this is the part, now, where you might start getting self-conscious — about the fact you’re on your period, and he’s gone to all this trouble, even though it’s really no trouble at all, about the fact you might make a mess, about ten thousand other things that couldn’t matter less. 

But you don’t think about that. You think about Joel. And when your mind slips, into that fuzzy, peaceful space, you think about the way he feels, and the way he tastes, and you spell that you love him in drifting fingers down his back. 

You have nothing but time, so he takes his. He drags his teeth up your neck and smoothes the marks with his tongue. He kisses your collar, where the edge of his shirt meets the dip in your skin, and his scruff leaves gentle scrapes. You put your hands in his hair, in his roots, and he lets you guide him. 

And then — finally, finally, he draws away from you, and pulls back on his haunches to take off his boxers. 

You watch him, while he does. You watch him toss them onto the floor and then fold back over you, chest to chest. His cock nudges at your entrance and you spread your legs, lifting your hips for him — but he doesn’t push into you. Even though it would be easy; even though he’s achingly hard and you’re soaked for him and you’re practically begging him, please. 

He doesn’t fuck you. Not yet. He noses your cheek, instead, surprisingly gentle, and he kisses you there. And then he kisses the edge of your brow, and your temple, and your forehead. Just — gentle. Soft. Like he’s telling you something, or — trying to — but this is all his mouth can do. 

He stops when you whine, softly, because you need him closer. You put your palms on his chest and push up, lightly. He breaks his kiss and pulls back. His forehead hangs over yours. 

“Please,” you whisper. 

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Okay, angel.” 

His hands are splayed somewhere beside your head. He moves one of them, now, to wrap around the base of his cock and guide himself into you. He slides in easily, so fucking easily, like he just fits there. Your head sinks into the pillow and your nails sink into his skin, into the muscle on his arms, and you’re sure he’ll have marks there. Little crescent cuts to go with all the rest. 

He sets a slow, patient rhythm. He’s usually rougher, faster, and you’re pretty sure his show of self-restraint is driving you crazier than him. He’s hitting something deep inside you, over and over, not quite fast enough to push you over the edge but steady enough to keep you there. 

And even though the cabin is empty, and you don’t have to be quiet, you are — because he’s kissing you. He swallows all your quiet moans and his own tangled, whimpered name. 

He pulls halfway out of you. Drags his mouth away to breathe. You gasp at the emptiness but he swallows that, too — he flexes his hips, and thrusts into you, and his tongue is sliding back to yours before he’s even fully gone. 

You have never — never — fucked Joel like this. You’ve never fucked anyone like this. Not in a dorm room, or a frat party, or a childhood bedroom that feels too cramped, now. Not your ex-boyfriend Carter, or any guy at school, or Hayes. 

Not anyone. Not ever. Not until now. 

“Feel good,” he’s mumbling, in those rare seconds when his mouth leaves yours. “Feel fuckin’—good.” 

He pulls out, again. Thrusts back into you. This time he groans, into your mouth, and his hips stumble a little. His cock twitches. You dig your fingers into his shoulders, clench around him, and he breaks your kiss with a gasp. 

“Fuck,” he pants. “D-do that again.” 

You’d make him work for it, usually, but you can’t bring yourself to tease him. You drag him closer; squeeze tight around his cock, and his head drops to your shoulder. He pushes into you —less steady, less restrained — and finally picks up the pace. 

You loop your hands around the back of his neck. Let your head go hazy. But when the pressure at the pit of your stomach starts to build, you tell him — 

“—Wait—” 

—in a shallow, breathless voice. 

He stops. Immediately. He slips out of you, and his head whips from your shoulder, and he looks at you with wide eyes. 

“Fuck,” he mumbles. “What's wrong? Did I—”

“No,” you say, quickly. “No. I just—”

You trail off, a lot more self-conscious now than you were two seconds ago. Easier to demand things of him when he’s railing you, you guess. 

“I just wanted to—or, I wanted you to—”

You’re blushing, again. Your eyes dart to the side, away from his. 

The concern drips out of his stare. He knows exactly what you want — what you’re trying to ask for — because he knows you. 

Now, he looks — amused. And fucking smug, again. 

“All y’gotta do is ask,” he drawls. 

You swallow. 

“Or you could just tell me,” you say, quietly. 

You watch his eyes go dark. He likes that. You know he does, because you know him. 

“Flip over,” he says. 

You flip over. Stomach-down on the towel. Your cheek digs into the pillow. His hands wrap around your calves and he drags you down, lower, and you let him manhandle you. You let him move you the way he wants. 

And then he’s settling over you again, and you can’t see him but you can feel him. His weight, behind you. His hand, when he shoves your shirt up and puts his palm on the small of your back. 

“Hold still,” he says, for the thousandth time tonight. You smile. 

“Or what?” You grin into the pillow. Try to lift your hips and push against him. But you keep forgetting how strong he is, even with one lazy palm sprawled out across your back. He pins you down too easily. “You’re gonna bring out the belt?” 

You hear his huff. 

“Keep ya still without the belt,” he says. 

“Not a chance.” 

You can feel him roll his eyes. This must’ve been how he felt, earlier this afternoon, when you’d rolled your eyes behind his back. You can't see him, but you just know. 

“No?” he drawls. 

It’s a terrible attempt to rile him up. But he’s humoring you. 

You mumble your no into the pillow. Shake your head. 

You hear him sigh above you. Then his palm lifts off the small of your back, just briefly, just for a second — before he cracks it down across your ass. It’s not hard, really — not hard enough to hurt — but it’s enough to leave a mark. Enough to make you yelp. 

“F—”

He does it again. Same spot. The sting that sticks behind is sweet. 

You swear into the pillow. Your skin glows white-hot. If he flipped you over right now, you’re not sure if you’d slap him, or kiss him, or beg him to fuck you. 

Probably the last one. Definitely the last one. 

“You never fuckin’ listen,” he says. 

His palm settles over your ass. Over the handprint you’re sure he’s already made. 

“You gonna hold still?” 

This time you nod. As best you can. 

“Yeah?” he asks. 

“Yes,” you say. 

He squeezes your ass. 

“‘Atta girl,” he says. 

Then he slides into you, one hand braced on the towel beside you and the other on your ass, and you have to bite into the pillowcase to keep from mangling his name. 

The angle he’s hitting is so much deeper, and so much different, and he’s splitting you open all over again, and — 

“Fuck,” he pants, “you—fuck.” 

He flexes his hips. Thrusts deeper into you. This is a much different pace than the one he’d set before, when he’d peppered you with gentle kisses and gentler words. This is something else entirely. This is rough, and untethered, and exactly what you tried to ask for. 

He fists your hair in his palm and pulls, yanking your chin up off of the pillow, wrapping your hair around his knuckles while he slams into you. You gasp for breath.  

“This what you needed, baby girl?” 

You say something. You’re not sure what. 

He pulls on your hair. Tilts your neck back, further. 

“Yes,” you yelp, “Fuck! Y-yes.” 

He lets you go. Lets your head drop back to the pillow. His hand is back on your ass, splayed out in a possessive sprawl. 

“Yeah,” he agrees. “’S what you needed.” 

He pushes deeper into you. Groans, softly. His flannel scrunches up around your cheek, your mouth, and you bite down on the fabric. 

His hand drifts lower, over your ass. His thumb skims the ring of muscle there. 

You tighten. He notices — he must — because he stills, for a minute. But his thumb doesn’t move. 

There’s a beat. You take a breath. 

“No?” he asks, softly, and you already know what he’s asking. 

You go to shake your head, reflexively — you’ve said no every time, to everyone, no matter how creative or long-winded or desperate the proposition. Just — no. 

“S’okay, angel,” he says, gently. “Don’t have to.” 

“No,” you say, quickly — but you’re not saying no to him, you realize. “I want — I want you to.” 

“Don’t sound too sure.” 

“No, I am, I’ve just never—”  

There’s silence. You can feel him above you, gauging your reaction. Gauging the blush on your upturned cheek. 

“I want to,” you say, again. And you mean it. You want to, with him. 

“Okay,” he murmurs. But his thumb still doesn’t move. He doesn’t move. 

“Joel,” you say, a little impatient, now, because you’ve been on the edge for so long, and you just gave him permission, so what the fuck is he waiting f—

“Relax,” he says, quietly. He’s not rough anymore. He’s just Joel. “Relax, angel.” 

You only realize how … not relaxed you are when you actually, really try to relax. Everything is tense. Your jaw, your stomach, the fist you’ve wrapped around his sheets. 

You’re nervous. Which — okay, fine — but this is Joel. With the gentle Texas drawl, and the warm hands, and the flannel shirt that smells like sunshine. 

It’s just Joel. And you trust Joel. 

So you do relax. For real. You let your jaw go loose and untangle your fingers. 

“I trust you,” you mumble, into the pillow. 

He’s quiet. 

“Yeah,” he says, simply. “I know, baby.” 

Then he pushes back into you, stretching you out, and you breathe his name into his flannel. His thumb nudges at your ass and you push your hips back, into him. You want him to. 

“Easy,” he murmurs, and you’re not sure who he’s talking to. His thumb pushes into you — just the tip — and you hiss into his shirt. But that’s it. It hurts for a second, maybe, and then it doesn’t. He’s crooking his thumb, pressing deeper into you, hitting something deep inside you, and you just feel full. You feel like he’s fucking everywhere — inside you, and on your skin, and in the words you can’t say. 

“Fuck,” you gasp, “Joel, fuck—”

“Good?” he asks. He’s not really moving, and you realize he’s waiting for your green-light: waiting for you to re-set the pace. 

“Yes,” you plead. “Fuck, yes, please just—” 

You whimper. Mumble around his shirt. 

“—don’t stop,” you tell him. “Don’t fucking — stop.” 

That’s all the green-light he needs. He snaps his hips up, into you, and he fucks you at that frantic, furious pace you’d begged him for. You push back weakly; against his hips, against his thumb, but you’re content to just let him take over. You can’t think straight, anyway. Everything is foggy and white and bright, and when he takes you to the edge this time you let yourself fall. 

“Doin’ so good, baby,” he’s saying, over and over again, good girl, good girl, doin’ so fuckin’ good f’me, look so good like this—and you can barely hear him, because you’re so blissed out, but you feel him, when his hips trip into you and he spills inside you with a strangled cry. You feel him, when his chest crumbles to your back. You feel his heart beat through your shoulder blades, frenzied and wild. 

It takes you a long time to catch your breath. It takes him even longer. When you’re aware of your surroundings again — when you can hear things that aren’t your own pulse between your ears — you roll over and touch him. 

His eyes are closed. Or half-closed, at least. He looks like he’s dozing, or drifting, or in some kind of happy, dreamlike, almost-sleep. You feel kind of bad, waking him up. He hardly ever looks this…peaceful. 

You prod him. When that doesn’t work you nuzzle into his shoulder, and kiss his cheek, and nip at his jaw until he groans.

“Mmmph,” he grumbles, which is not usually a sentence, but which you’ve learned in Joel-speak can mean a myriad of things, like who the fuck is bothering me and why the fuck are they bothering me and can you please stop fucking bothering me.

“Move,” you say, pushing at his arm. It’s like moving a grizzly bear. But he does move, eventually, with a long-suffering sound that makes you roll your eyes and laugh.

“What?” he grumbles. 

“The towel,” you say, and you hate that you still sound shy. That that self-conscious streak has wriggled back in. “I’m gonna — I need to clean up. So do you.” 

He opens his eyes, then. He rolls over and frowns. 

“Go get ’n the shower,” he says. 

“But—”

“I’ll take care ‘f it,” he says. 

You look hesitantly at the towel. At him. 

“I can do it,” you say. 

“Didn’t say y’couldn’t,” he drawls. Then he’s rolling off the bed, and tugging the towel out from under you, and you have no choice but to stand up and let his shirt drip back over your knees. 

“But—”

“But nothin’,” he says. He nods toward the bathroom. “Go. Hot water ain’t great. Only lasts a couple minutes.” 

You stare at him. But then you go, because he said so, and there’s really no arguing with him. So you shower while he puts the towel and the sheets and the pillowcases in the laundry, and when he’s done he joins you in there. 

The hot water is almost gone, but he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t complain. He washes your hair, and works out the tangles, and swipes soap off your jaw with even soapier fingers. 

“Thanks,” you say, a little awkwardly. “For — cleaning up.” 

He shrugs. 

“It’s nothin’,” he says. And it is nothing, to him. Everything is just — nothing. Except for you. 

You let him have a turn under the water. It’s pretty much icy, now. Your teeth clatter while you wait for him. 

“We should probably make dinner,” you say, while he sloughs shampoo from his hair. 

He opens his eyes. Blinks water at you. 

He’s a terrible chef. And you’re too wiped to even think about cooking. You both know both of these things, so you just — stare at each other. Eventually he turns the water off, and bundles you in a towel, and dries himself off with another. 

“Or,” you say, slowly, “we could just eat the Ben and Jerry’s.” 

He pauses, mid-towel dry. 

“Chunks of real cookie dough,” you remind him. 

“Mm.” He pulls a tee shirt on over his head. “Lead the way.” 

You do eat the Ben and Jerry’s. The whole thing, between the two of you, and even he has to admit that it’s — in his own words — pretty alright. 

After that you’re both full, and a little hopped up on half a pint of sugar, so you sit on the couch with your legs in his lap and you ask him every stupid question that flies into your mind. He rubs your feet while you talk, like he’s silently praying you might just wear yourself out. 

But he indulges you. There’s a smile playing at the edge of his lips. He’s turned the fireplace on, with a lighter he found somewhere deep in the kitchen, and his face flickers in the glow — orange, red, orange, again. 

“Favorite color,” you say. 

He tips his head to the ceiling. 

“Brown.” 

“Oh my god. Brown?” 

“’S wrong with brown?” 

“Dirt is brown. Mud is brown. No one’s favorite color is brown.”

But you’re realizing, as you’re saying it, that you’re wrong. His hair is brown. Deep brown, dark brown, like a forest after rain. His eyes are brown. Light, sometimes, like water over silt, and sometimes almost-black. His flannels are brown: brown and red, brown and yellow, brown and something, and he always looks like autumn. 

So he’s right, you think, when he says brown is his favorite color. You think maybe it’s yours now, too. 

“What?” he asks, when you’re quiet too long. 

You look up at him. Brown eyes, tired. Brown hair, tousled. 

“Nothing,” you say. “Next question.” 

“Childhood pet,” you say. 

“Black lab. Cooper. Used t’hunt ducks.” 

“Like that one?” You nod toward the desk, where his little wood duck sits facing the moon. 

He makes a soft sound. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Sure.” 

“And when did you start wood…working?” 

“Carvin’,” he amends. His thumb stills on the arch of your foot while he thinks. “Dunno,” he shrugs, after a while. “After Sarah came ‘long, I guess. ’S—relaxin’.” 

“You should sell them,” you say, matter-of-fact. “Like. At a Farmer’s Market, or something.” 

He half-laughs. But then he sees you’re serious — or as serious as you can manage, in your fucked-out, sugar-high, loopy sort of bliss, and he shakes his head. 

“Nah,” he says. 

“Why not?” 

“‘Cause no one would buy ‘em,” he says. “They ain’t any good. And,” he adds, when your mouth snaps open to protest, “—‘cause they’re—part ‘a me.” 

Your mouth snaps back shut. 

“What d’you mean, part of you?” 

“They’re mine,” he says, a little helpless. “I made ‘em. Don’t wanna give ‘em away.” 

“Sell them,” you amend.

“Don’t wanna sell ‘em,” he says. “Ain’t worth anythin’, anyway. ‘Cept to me.” 

“And me.” You prop yourself up on your elbows. Look at him across the couch. “They’re worth something to me.” 

He actually does smile at that. Not — smug, or self-satisfied — but shy. Sweet and shy and a little bit sheepish. 

“Okay,” you say. “One more question.” 

“Said that ten questions ago.” 

“I was lying. This is the last one.” 

“Mm,” he says. But he lets you go. 

“What’s his name?” 

“What?” He blinks at you. “Who?” 

“The duck,” you say. “What’s his name?” 

He’s silent, for a moment. 

“Ain’t got a name,” he says. “’S a duck.” 

“Ducks have names. Donald Duck. Daisy Duck.” 

“Those ‘re fake ducks,” he says. 

“So’s yours,” you say. 

“Jesus,” he says. 

But it’s soundproof logic, so — you win. He sighs, heavily. 

“Clyde,” you say, after a minute. 

“Clyde?” 

“Yeah. That’s his name. He’s British.” 

“Mm.” He leans back against the cushions. His hand strokes a lazy line, from your calf to your ankle and back up again. “Long way from home.” 

“Yeah,” you agree. Your eyes are heavy, now. You rest your head against the arm of the couch and stretch your legs out in his lap. “Poor Clyde.” 

He chuckles, softly, and that makes you smile. You flex your foot against his hand and close your eyes.

You sit quietly for a few long minutes. You maybe — maybe — fall asleep. 

His voice wakes you. His gentle hand below your knee. 

“Tired?” he murmurs. 

“No,” you say, without opening your eyes. “I’m — resting my eyes.” 

“Okay,” he says. “Well. Y’can rest your eyes in bed.” 

You try to mumble something in protest. You don’t want to go anywhere. You like it right here, with your feet in his lap and your head on the couch and the fireplace warming your skin. You like how close he is, how domestic. You don’t want it to change. You don’t want the sun to rise. 

You want to stay right here. 

But you’re fighting a losing battle, because he’s moving your legs aside, gently, and standing up off the couch, and he’s scooping you up like you weigh nothing at all. 

“C’mon,” he mutters. 

You don’t argue anymore. You let your head slump in his shoulder and your nose nudge at his neck. You kiss him there, lightly, and you hear his hum in response. Warm and silk-smooth. 

He puts you down and disappears for a few minutes — to lock the door, and turn the fireplace off, and check the windows are sealed. Then he comes back in, and shucks his sweatpants and his shirt off, and when he climbs into bed beside you you nuzzle at his side. 

He’s like sleeping with a space heater. Every part of him is a thousand fucking degrees. Which is nice, because you’re freezing. You chalk it up to genetics, or the half-pint of frozen ice cream floating through your bloodstream. Either way he lets you burrow into him. Under his arm and into the warm plane of his chest. 

“G’night,” you say, softly. 

He kisses you. Somewhere buried in your hair. 

“Night, angel,” he murmurs. 

You could swear he mumbles something else, too — something softer — but you’re half-asleep already. You don’t hear, and he doesn’t repeat it. 

And then you really do sleep, wrapped up in his arms and pressed to his heart, and when you dream they’re all of him. 

 When you wake up it’s still dark. Which sucks, but — you have to pee, and the only thing left over from your Ben and Jerry’s dinner is a fucking headache, and you have cramps that bite you awake. 

Great, you think. It’s the trifecta. 

And there’s something else, too, something bigger and heavier that won’t let you sleep, but you don’t — or you won’t — think about that, right now. Right now you roll out of bed, eyes adjusting to the dark, and you hobble over hardwood to the bathroom. 

You only turn the light on when you’re sealed inside. Joel’s a heavy sleeper, but — still. You don’t want to wake him. He deserves the rest. 

You dig around in your bag and slam two Tylenol — one for the headache and one for the cramps. Or so you figure. You use the bathroom, wash your hands — and by the time you’re back in the bedroom you’re wide awake. 

Naturally. 

So — fuck it. You grab a hoodie from your duffel and slip out of the bedroom, down the hall and through the living room and to the front door Joel’s dead-bolted. 

You undo the latch and let yourself outside. You leave the door open but close the screen behind you — so you won’t lock yourself out, on accident. You don’t love the thought of spending the night — or whatever’s left of it, at least — outside. 

You’re not sure what time it is. If it’s closer to morning or to night. The sky is pitch-black, littered silver with stars, and the water on the pebbled lake is glittering, moon-grey. 

It’s beautiful. It’s peaceful. You can’t remember the last time you looked at the stars.

You pick your way over to one of Tommy’s Adirondack chairs, sprawled out across the porch. It’s huge — big enough for two people, easily — and you slouch down against the slats. It makes you smile, how small you feel. In the too-big chair under the too-big sky. You put your hand on the wooden arm and tilt your head up to the stars. 

Behind you the screen door opens, and whines, and then shudders shut. Joel’s heavy footsteps join you on the porch. 

You twist around in the chair. He’s leaning up against the cabin wall, in a grey Dallas Cowboys shirt and a pair of grey sweatpants. His hair is mussed. He’s got a chipped mug in his hands that he cups with both palms. 

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks. His drawl is still thick. He must’ve just woken up. 

“Not really.” You frown. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”  

He shrugs. 

“Didn’t wake me,” he says. “Room just felt empty.” 

You’re quiet. Steam twists out of the mug and drifts apart in the cold air.  

You don’t know what to say. That thing that will not let you sleep is getting bigger, heavier. 

So you nod, quietly. And you accept the mug, when he peels himself off of the wall and offers it with both hands. 

“What is it?” you ask, a little skeptical. You put your nose over the rim and sniff.

“Tea,” he says. There’s a pause, then he adds, “Peppermint.” 

Peppermint. Your favorite. You told him as much, just a few nights ago — and apparently he listened. 

You take a tentative sip. Smile. He made it right, this time. Kept the bag in long enough.

“Where’d you get this?” 

“Had some at that gas station, on our way up. I just thought—” He shrugs. “Just ’n case.” 

“Just in case,” you repeat. You take another sip. 

“It’s good,” you say, quietly. “Thanks.” 

He smiles. You think he looks pleased. He takes a seat in the other Adirondack chair, beside you, and you watch the moon paint his face silver. His jaw, his cheek, the bruise under his eye and the slice across his nose. Everything looks lighter. More muted, less angry. 

You put the mug down on the chair’s arm. Then you stand, careful not to let it spill, and you go to his chair, instead. 

He makes room for you right away. You don’t ask him to, but he does. He scoots back, spreads his legs, and you drape yourself across his lap. His nose nestles in your hair, by the shell of your ear. 

"Y'alright?" he asks.

"Yeah," you tell him. "I think so."

But you're not, really, and he can tell. He can read your mind, or something close to it. So you're not all that surprised when he noses your ear, a little more insistent, and says—

“Hey. Talk t'me."

The irony of Joel Miller, asking you to talk to him. You’d laugh, if it didn’t feel like something was sitting on your chest. 

“I don’t know,” you mumble. But you do know. “It’s nothing.” 

He’s quiet, for a moment. You wonder if he’ll let it go. 

“Your dad?” he asks. 

“No,” you say. Which is the truth. You haven’t thought about your dad since you texted him, half a day ago now. It’s not him. 

Joel is silent again. You turn in his arms to look him in the eye. 

“It’s nothing,” you repeat. “It’s not—it’s stupid.” 

He takes a breath. Lifts a finger to your face, and traces a strand of hair. 

“Bet it ain’t stupid,” he says, softly. 

“Yeah.” You push out a laugh. It sounds hollow. “It is. It’s dumb. Let’s just — drop it.” 

You can feel him studying you. Watching you. But he’s quiet, and he doesn’t ask you again, because you asked him to drop it. He only says, “okay, angel,” in that syrupy drawl, and strokes your arm with a rough thumb. 

And you appreciate that. You do. But you kind of fucking wish he’d ask you until you break, if only to get this weight off of your ribs and your chest and your stomach and your heart. 

But he doesn’t. Because that’s not Joel. Joel listens. He listens when you tell him your favorite tea. He listens when you tell him to leave it alone.

He changes the subject, instead. He brings his hand up beside your face and points to the sky. 

“’S, uh — Orion, I think.” 

“Oh.” You blink. The change in subject throws you a little, but — you follow his index finger. Squint up at the dark. You have no fucking idea what you’re looking at, but he seems eager enough. 

“Sure,” you lie. It all looks the same to you. Just a bunch of streaky silver. Beautiful streaky silver, but — still. 

“To the left,” he says, gently, and you can hear the smile on his lips. His breath tickles your cheek, your neck, your collar. 

He drops his pointer finger. Puts his hand on your jaw, instead, and tilts your head in the right direction. 

“There,” he mutters. “Now look.” 

And you actually do see it, this time. 

At least, you think you do. It’s hard to concentrate, with his fingers so close to your neck. With his voice like starlit silk in your ear. 

You shift a little in his lap. The wind whistles, whinging off the lake, and his arm tightens reflexively around you. Possessive. Protective. But — gentle, too. Always gentle. 

It bubbles up in your throat again. That thing you can’t keep down. That thing that will not let you sleep. 

“Joel,” you whisper. It sounds like a whine. 

“Yeah.” 

You turn to look at him again. His hand is still on your jaw, fingers slack, just — holding you. His thumb rolls over your chin. 

You shake your head. Fuck.

“Yeah,” he repeats. “I know, baby.” 

“No you don’t,” you say. Your throat feels tight. You’re angry, you think — not with him, just — at the sky. At Orion. At yourself. Just fucking say it.

“I want—but I don’t want to—”

His thumb inches to your bottom lip. He holds it there, effectively shutting you up. 

“S’okay,” he says, softly.

His thumb strokes higher — to the edge of your mouth and then back down, over your chin, to the ridge of your jaw. He’s tracing you. Mapping you like the stars. 

“S’okay, angel,” he echoes, and you’re still shaking your head when he speaks again. Low. Gentle. So, so gentle. “I love you, too.” 

taglist (lmk if you wanna be added):

@bbyanarchist @elissaaa @nana90azevedo @cannolighost @jbb-sgr @cedricbitch @nenyahh @totallynotastanacc @jasminedragoon @hrdc0re-goth @myswficlist @brucewaynescock @aestheticangel612 @re3kin @untamedheart81 @pedrosheartshapedbeardspot @am-3-thyst @godisawomansblog @prettyangelsthings @walkingintheheartbreaksatellite @daddy-din @crocodiile @socket-seahorse-blog @confused-and-clumsy @she-could-never @suzmagine @artsymaddie @mellmannn @virgogaia @mysteriousheat4058 @fandomoniumflurry @projectionistwrites~ @buckyandlokirunmylife @brattynbookish @carriganbrowning @brittmb11 @iamsherlocked1479 @ghostofjoharvelle @kay2601 @casa-boiardi

@silkiers @mrsquill @stileslvr @joelssheep @joelsversion @pedropascalsbbg @bonesblow @madblue3500 @evyiione @missandaei @trishpish-blog @sarahhxx03 @pedritosgirl2000 @zliteraturehoe @thedeadsingwithdirtintheirmouths @l0vem3n @nelsohanx @cassiecasluciluce @wildcat116 @sanriowhorelol @ifall4dilfs @act816~ @lunarxeclipse @gracevnn @papiispunk @anner--nanner @illusivepeony @pureaustralianhoney @peqchsoup @fifia-writes @hallofagayqueer @livinxdeadxgrl @sentients17 @jamesmasbone @pattwtf @shjl15 @caitispunk @mmmmandoz @ssweetart42 @eyelismtears @h1ghinmiami @olivermarfanking @hayley-the-comet @abigails-gf @blondewonk @worhols @lesmismakesmehappy @subconsciouscollapse @lucylynnrose @foras @kosh-kaj-blog @jazzy-music-cat @abuttoncalledsmalls @sarahp-77 @the-names-peach @yo-its-jackie @iluvurfather @llovegallore @jessahmewren @sparklingwine829229 @vickie5446 @lmariephoto37 @defibrillator7 @winwin70 @joelsguitar @marnle @spideysimpossiblegirl @vickie5446 @xocalliexo @yiikkesss @goldenhxurs @akah565 @spacelatinos4life @mellymbee~ ~@purplexical @whichwitchwanda @mandofanclub ~@scarletsloveletter @thewiigers @zarakirbyy @cordeliasenvy ~@iwantaharrystylesalbum @cumulonimbus34 @tremendouscreationperson @sweetorangecakeboi @toomanynights @chantelle-mh @willbereturningshortly @kelesisworld @awxcoffeexno @siggy-things @joybabyjune @carlsssbarkley @bluetattoos @thefourteenthofoctober @spaceface25 @lestlie @oliveg95 @a-rose-of-amber @ninja-ubg @ladybubblelift

@whorror-s @sunnywithachanceofjavi @omghwa @joelslegalwhre @i-workwithpens @dinomdubs @kdogreads @lizzie-cakes @sustainedsigh @ashleymsnodgrass @mondaychildsworld @imsoborediwannadie @012307-jd @akah565 @hexidous @sanscas @grounderprincesslookspissed @obscurexsorrows @dizzyforyou-blog @pedrobaby @hopplessilse @pedroluver @iront33thhcrochan @sallyrooneypilled @pastelnap @thewiigers @vvackos @huggablepanda @mishala005 @ennema @jester-the-goblin @amymoments @lolzdayz @poolbool @cowb00t @glassslipper485 @gracieispunk @strang3lov3 @macfrog @dindjarinsbeskarbunny @spookyxsam @joeldjarin @kittypascal8775 @nightdreamss @aphterthoughtt @multibandstan @bbymamalitz

😍😍😍

𝓞𝓫𝓵𝓲𝓿𝓲𝓸𝓷

SoftDark!Joel Miller x afab!fem!reader

Summary: Explicit pictures of you taken by a man you cheated with find their way to your boyfriend's father's desk. He isn't too impressed with the artistry. Good thing he can make it right. He’s a photographer after all.

Warnings: 18+ only minors DNI you will be blocked. No outbreak, NONCON, DUBCON, coercion, blackmail, manipulation, power imbalance, implications of revenge porn [not by Joel], infidelity, girthy age gap [reader is in her early 20s, Joel is in his early 50s], explicit photographs and photography, petnames, praise kink, daddy kink, minor size kink, soft dom!Joel, sub!reader, fingering, edging, just the tip action, creampie, cumplay?, unprotected P in V [be better!!]. Let me know if I missed anything 🫶

Word Count: 5.9K

A/N: Surprise Joel Miller smut because why not. This is my first time writing for Joel, so please be gentle. Going for the subtle horror meets porn vibes. Hope you nasties enjoy. mwah 💗

Masterlist

“S’ just a hobby.” Kind, gentle mister Miller had scratched the back of his neck modestly, towering over you as you inspected the black and white photo negatives freshly hung on his walls. He just seemed happy that someone appeared to be taking up an interest in his retirement activities. It was an interesting choice, you thought, to hang up the negatives. 

That was your first time visiting the Miller household, and had you known your boyfriend’s father was as unassuming and sympathetic as he turned out to be, you wouldn’t have been as worried about meeting him as you were. You surely wouldn't have been able to guess looking at his pictures. But his scowl melted away into a soft, subtle smile the moment you walked through his door, and so did your reservations. 

You learnt a lot from him that evening– about cameras and such. He indulged you in conversations about your life and interests– you had many in common. There were quite a few people at the Miller’s Christmas party, and he made sure you weren’t too lost in the crowd. It was nice to have a listening ear.

Humble as he was, it was only months later you discovered his pretty pictures in a photography magazine. At the hotel you were staying in while on vacation with his son. It was the last vacation you ended up taking together. Switzerland. 

Since that Christmas you visited him every once in a while, occupying the couch in his office to help him sort through his prints, tidy up his gear, and chart out subjects he wanted to capture. His son didn’t really like making the twenty minute commute back home, so you brought his well wishes with you. Mister Miller liked the strawberry puff pastries you baked, so you brought them along as well. 

He was a quiet guy, and after all these years alone seemed to enjoy the company of someone in the house. His face lit up just that little bit whenever you came over. Enough to let you know you were welcome back anytime. 

His office was cozy. With a large Persian rug at its center, and tufted, walnut brown, leather furniture. He had an expansive library of literature beside his desk, one that he’d fitted to the wall himself. Reading- another one of his retirement hobbies. 

His desk was tidy, almost completely empty save for a picture of him and his brother Tommy, sitting on a ledge with their arms slung around each other, an in-progress construction site for background. Judging from the lack of gray hair on his head, and the absence of the little crinkles beside his eyes, the photograph was at least twenty years old. It looked like it belonged to an alternate universe. 

Mister miller looked a far cry from the sophisticated, whiskey drinking, cigar smoking, middle aged man you knew. A regular ol’ Joe, or Joel, rather. He had this rugged boyish charm about him. He was smiling wide, he looked happy. There was a jarring absence of that tired look in his eyes. Whether he looked more handsome back then, or now– you couldn’t decide. 

It was late July. You watched the menacing, dark gray clouds drift lazily towards you from your living room window. It was 4pm, but you had the lights on, and the oven going in your kitchen. The younger Miller was not yet back from work, even though he was supposed to be off by 2:30. At times like that one you hardly regretted your unfaithfulness. 

You had your little dinner date with Mister Miller that evening, but from the looks of it you might have had to reschedule. A crack of thunder reverberated along the walls of your two bedroom, and had you reaching for the kitchen timer you’d abandoned on your center table– the dial dangerously close to hitting ‘0’.

It felt more wrong than it should, calling it a date, considering the circumstances. You couldn’t say you didn't feel guilty still meeting his father, telling him that things were going great when they really weren’t. You wondered what Joel would think of you if he ever found out about your little secret. 

It was difficult not to wonder how two people could be so similar and different at the same time. Why, save for some of his good looks, Mr. Miller’s best qualities did not seem to pass down to his son. Admittedly, you thought about it a lot. You thought about it when you found a shade of lipstick that surely didn’t belong to you stain the collar of his cream sweater. 

Things had spiraled far out of your control since that moment. Into your secret paradise of hotel rooms and weekend getaways. Worst of all, you knew your partner was living a parallel life to yours. You could have ended your relationship, but things were just never that easy. Especially when consciously, or subconsciously mister Miller was part of the mix. 

You reached in the oven and pulled out the pastries. Looking between the custard you’d put into your piping bag, and the strawberries you’d cut lengthways laying beside the powdered sugar. The clouds were closer than they were five minutes ago. Your backyard was no longer the lush Eden of green and purple it was in the morning. You thought of Mister Miller– spending the night alone at home, sitting at his desk, with no dessert to enjoy after dinner. 

You reached for the piping bag and sighed, beginning to assemble the sweet treats and lay them in the pink paper box you’d picked out for him from your kitchen cabinet. 

—

By the time you got to his house thick droplets of rain were already coming down from the sky. It was about three shades darker than it was when you left home, and the minacous clouds had caught up with you. You glanced at your phone. 

7:00 pm 

You felt a drop trickle down the side of your cheek as you ran up the front staircase leading to the main door. You rang the bell. It sounded full, and new. He must have fixed it recently. 

Mister Miller opened the door. He always wore some variation of the same flannel shirt and dark jeans. Like a cartoon character. It was quite charming. You liked it. It was soft, and smelt like his perfume. Tobacco, Sandalwood. He rubbed your back soothingly when you hugged him. 

You handed him the pink box. It had a darker pink ribbon wrapped around it, folded at the top into a big bow, with a small card wedged in between the loops. 

“To Joel Miller :) ” 

He chuckled, then smiled. “Thank you, sweetie.” You didn’t need his gratitude, he was nice enough to you as is, but you did appreciate it. In the past months he had become your only real excuse to bake. 

He welcomed you inside, and soon enough you were settled in the dining room. He’d hung up a new painting since you’d last visited, and changed the light switches on the wall. Every time you were over there was a new addition to the home. You figured he liked having something to do. 

By the looks of it he’d lit the candles there a while ago, and laid the table. He’d butterflied napkins in their napkin rings, and set out glasses for red, white, and dessert wine. You felt a lot better about not canceling. You noticed the brand new table runner against the table’s wood. He told you he bought it that morning. He sounded excited. 

You helped him bring in the pot of stew from the kitchen, as well as a plate of cheese and a loaf of warm bread set on a wooden board. He served you some stew, then cut a few slices of the bread he’d baked and placed them on your side plate. It was surprising that he’d taken up an interest in baking. He always said he preferred to cook on the stove. He did it well. 

“Taking after you.” he’d said, reaching for the wine decanter. 

You wondered if he ever taught his son to cook, and if he did why the latter never liked to do so. You recognised the cheese on the platter. It was from the shop beside your house. You’d served it when he came home in February, with berry jam, marmalade and grapes. He hadn’t been back since then. 

He was mostly quiet during dinner, as always. He listened to you ramble about the show you were watching, and how you found your grandmother’s recipe book in your attic. You assured him you’d be trying every recipe in that book. He said he hoped so. Other than that it was quiet. A comfortable quiet. And you watched wax dribble away from the candle wic, and pool at the base of the candelabra. 

He cleared up while you brewed some tea and placed your pastries on the hand painted porcelain tray you’d gifted him for Christmas. You padded across the hardwood floors to his office, and it was only then you noticed how heavily it had been pouring outside. 

You peeled back the white lace curtains to find a sheet of rain clouding your vision. You made out the dim, golden lights coming off the neighbor’s porch, and the street lamps flickering gently. You were glad you came. It was all quite welcoming, and warm and golden in the Miller household– far more than you would be if you decided to stay back home. 

The door clicked open, and you felt him walking up behind you as you stood at his bookshelf. You pointed to the clock on the wall above it. “It stopped.” He exhaled heavily, with his hands on his hips, and looked up to the pathetically stuttering hours hand. It looked like it was fighting for its life within the confines of the glass– spluttering, struggling. 

“Fixed it two days ago.”

You peeled your eyes away. 

He eased himself into his leather office chair, reaching below the mahogany table to lift a large cardboard box filled to the brim with film. Used, unused, polaroids, disposables. It had red electrical tape around its edges, and the words ‘32, spiral cord and wire’ scribbled in black sharpie. 

“Gotta sort these.” He looked at you apologetically, but you reassured him with a smile, and poured him a cup of tea while he inspected the box. Your eyes wandered to the wooden clock, the hand still pleading for help. You heard it's garbled tic. The contents of the box clattered to the desk, rhythmically with a crack of thunder outside. 

You placed a plate and cup in front of him, then took your seat on folded legs across the table. The white curtains momentarily set ablaze, followed by another hard, violent thrum. You foredged through the pile, lightly covered with residual dust. The rings on your fingers sparkled when they caught the light of his table lamp. 

Amongst the many treasures were some polaroids of the lake mister Miller liked to fish in, the cabin he built upstate, and the back end of Tommy's Miller’s orchard. They looked like test films to you. Not as fixed on composition as Joel was. The settings on the camera all over the place. 

In the pile, under an oversaturated photograph of an apple tree, two familiar eyes peered up at you– much of the face covered and lost to the clutter. You reached for it. Bound together with a thin, blue paperclip were three separate photographs flimsily hanging on to one another. 

You felt sick to your stomach.

The eyes were familiar, because they were yours. 

A mangled torso, waxy, glossy legs, a chest glazed with the sheen of sweat. You looked more like a deserted mannequin than you did yourself. The dark gray “lighting” rendered your body and its surroundings lifeless– ironically, you remember quite enjoying it in the moment. But the polaroids were far more reflective of what you felt of them at present– plagued with regret and shame, and lifelessness. 

How long had he known? Importantly, How did he find them? It hurt you to even think about it. The sound of the stuttering clock was deafening in your ears, ringing like an ominous, cruel joke. 

You distinctly remember taking those pictures. Worse, you remember thinking of mister Miller as your partner had clicked them. You thought of what he’d think if he ever saw them. You could have never guessed you would actually find out. 

“How long, sweetheart?” You forced yourself to look up, finding his eyes already boring you. He was upset, and angry, and there was something brewing behind his eyes. But worst of all he was disappointed in you. And out of all the possibilities, somehow that was the worst. You’d rather him be yelling, because there was something about that soft, gentle voice of his that unnerved you. 

“Why didn’t’ ya say somethin’?” It was like a car crash, you just couldn’t look away from the polaroids in your hands. Your spread legs, bare breasts, panties thrown to the side. You opened your mouth to say something, but you just couldn’t manage it. 

“Really shouldn’t let just anyone take those kinds of pictures.” Your eyes welled with hot tears as he reprimanded you. The whole ordeal had you feeling like you’d been sent to the principal's office, sitting across from him at his desk, both his forearms leaned on the table as he threatened you with consequences. He continued to speak, despite being met with your silence. 

“You’re lucky these ended up here, would be a shame if he found out about it before you did.” While your little affair hadn’t ended well, you surely hadn’t expected whatever this was from your ex partner. He must have still thought your boyfriend lived at his childhood address. Boy did he make a miscalculation. You didn’t know which outcome you preferred. 

You wanted to explain yourself, wanted to assure him you weren’t some cheating, lying piece of shit. That you and his son were just not working anymore, that you felt guilty, and never did it again, that the man who took those pictures was the last one you slept with. That you couldn’t just end things with his son because you didn’t want to lose him. “Mister Miller- I-” 

He cut you off, snatching the images from between your fingers. You watched with burning eyes and your heart hammering in your chest as he inspected them. The man would never look at you the same. He sighed, his downturned, disappointed eyes catching yours. That look, it broke your heart. 

“I mean, look at these babygirl. Ya’ look dead.” 

With your palms cold and sweaty, and cheeks set ablaze, you sure felt like it. The burning in your chest and neck had become almost unbearable. 

“Such a cute lil’ body ya’ got there. And this-” he shook his head, his unblinking gaze forcing your eyes to his. “This boy fuckin’ ruined ya.” He tossed the polaroids on his desk, and leaned forward. 

It took you about ten seconds to realize that mister Miller’s real quam with the pictures was, for better or for worse, not the fact that they existed, or worse, weren't taken by his son, but that they were bad. Not morally, or ethically, especially considering how they’d landed in his possession, but artistically, formally. 

“Would be a shame if my son were to say, find em, layin’ ‘round.” The room began to spin in slow circles. In a second a flash of lighting struck through the curtains in the window behind Joel, his frame completely backlit by the blinding light momentarily. You winced as another harsh crack of thunder descended upon the quiet office. 

“No, mi- Please-”

“‘Specially to see ya like this, catch ya like this. In these god awful pictures.” He took your chin between his fingers, eyes filled with faux concern, brows furrowed. But behind the obvious facade there was something sinister and cruel. Something you wished you had seen before. Because you were sure it had always been there. 

“How ‘bout we fix ‘em, huh babygirl?” your eyes widened at the realization, at the weight of his implication. His grip on your chin was unrelenting, a warning, a little taste of what was to come. Had he forgotten somehow that you were in fact his son’s girlfriend and not his? A girl who was to him, until about ten minutes before, his future daughter in law? 

“You gonna help daddy fix ‘em for ya?” Time seemed to lose its cadence, every moment  stretched endlessly as you remained trapped under his dead eyed, unwavering gaze. His words sent a jolt between your legs, that name sent a jolt between your legs, and had you squeezing them together shamefully as you struggled to blubber out a response. 

He raised his brows in question, once again offering you the artificial choice before you were sure he would take what he wanted himself. You swallowed thickly, and nodded. It was a lot less difficult than you let yourself believe. What were you going to do? 

“Hmm good girl. Get on ya knees sweetie.” Still gripping your chin he reached for the camera on his desk. A polaroid SX 70– the one he used to click a picture of you blowing out your candles on your birthday. In that same office, where he sang to you alone, because his son was on a work trip. 

He pinched your cheek, and got up to round the table. You knew better than to talk back. You were reminded when you saw how his frame towered over you, like that first night you’d met him. Except this time his broad shoulders and muscular arms were threatening, intimidating, and undeniably making you weak in the knees. 

Pushing your chair back you got on your knees on that once thick, soft Persian carpet. It’s weave like a thousand needles piercing your skin, and no longer the cloud on which you liked to sit. 

“Would’ve expected more from a smart cookie like you. Didn’t I teach ya better sweetie?” It was sick. You knew he was talking of not only your carelessness, but those pictures. You should have known to come to him. He would have helped you figure it out. Your relationship troubles, and how to take those photographs. He squatted down to your level, eyes raking over your body like you were already on display for him. 

“Lemme see ya sweetie.” You wished he would just rip off the bandaid and do it himself. It would feel less humiliating. Reaching for the buttons of your sweater you undid them one by one. He watched your every movement, eyes trained on your chest as you exposed the swell of your breasts. 

He reached forward, and brushed his thumb over your skin, hushing you soothingly when you shivered. Your hot skin burned further under his feather light touch. It was like you’d always imagined– gruff and rugged, but skillful. Just like him. His fingers were rough, and reminded you of the photograph of him and Tommy on his desk. He suddenly looked a lot more like the man in that picture.   

It was like he was eating you up with his eyes with each bit of clothing you discarded on his floor. He hummed when you got to your white, daisy print ankle socks, and caught your wrist when you reached to pull them off. 

“Keep em’ on.”

Once brimming with vitality, his brown eyes turned lifeless, devoid of any flicker of emotion or human connection. You found yourself questioning whether you ever really knew him– the gentle, unassuming man you adored. If he even existed in the first place.

Left in nothing but your bra and panties you sat on your knees in front of him, unable to meet his eyes. Pink lace. You’d worn them on purpose, because your little dates were always a special occasion. You weren't planning on him seeing them. 

By the looks of it he seemed quite pleased with your choice. 

“All f’ me, babygirl?” His voice had dropped three octaves, almost slurred thanks to his smooth southern drawl. You swallowed thickly, and nodded your head. As much as you hated to admit it, he was, in some convoluted way, one hundred percent correct. 

Excitement defiantly swirled in your tummy as he let his hands roam your mostly bare body for a few seconds. Like he was examining and inspecting you. He lifted your limp arm to get a better look at your bare waist, then let it fall by your side and reached for the straps of your bra– loosening them to the point they were barely hanging on to your shoulders. 

The room began to spin a little faster when he gently pushed you back against the carpet, one palm planted firmly on your stomach to hold you there, the other hand folding your knees and planting your heels on the ground. The cup of your bra slipped off your chest, your breast now bare to the cool air. You felt exposed, for reasons less obvious than they really were. 

You heard the violent swish of the wind outside. It felt far and distant, and like it was right in that room, all at the same time. 

He began inspecting you again. It was odd, surely he liked the sight of your body, you could tell when you eyed the obvious bulge in his pants, but he was looking at you like you were some prop– like a little sex doll for his little photoshoot. He was moving you around as he pleased, positioning your limbs and tilting your head like an inanimate object. You didn’t fight back, let him take control of your body. It made your stomach churn, your core tingle. 

He nudged and then kneeled between your legs, fully clothed, looking at you methodically. You felt the cool air brush the wet spot that had formed on your panties as you gazed up at the ceiling, far too ashamed to meet his gaze. 

You watched him reach upwards towards his desk, and shift the lamp there till it was barely hanging on to the edge. The light hit you in the face, and forced your eyes shut till he turned it away and towards your chest. You tilted your chin to get a look at him, despite your better judgment. 

He hummed, swiping your dripping seam with his thumb, only stopping to eye you in warning when your body understandably jerked at the contact. The dark look in his eyes reminded you you weren’t really there for your own enjoyment, and more for his. It was like your natural movement was some sort of inconvenience to him, something that was hindering and interfering with his creative process. 

It was nauseating. But despite the fear that bubbled in your chest, you couldn’t deny the thrum of excitement that ran through your system when he began adjusting the settings on his camera. A part of you, a much bigger part of you than you'd like to admit, was enjoying the entire experience. 

“Look at that.” He chuckled, presumably at the way the fabric of your panties clung messily to your wetness in spite of your seemingly unwilling demeanor.  You felt a drop of sweat roll down between your breasts in anticipation. 

He teased your clit over your panties, switching between watching your face intently and finding the best angle. Leaning backwards and forwards. You knew better than to move around this time. “That boy doesn't know a thing about angles does he?” He was mumbling, excessively concentrated on properly composing his shot. 

“‘S’ okay sweetheart, we’ll fix it.” Hooking two fingers under the seam of your panties he pulled them aside, exposing your bare cunt to the chilly air. “Daddy’ll fix it.” He watched himself run his fingers through your wetness, and you watched him swallow thickly at the view. You chewed on your bottom lip, summoning all your restraint not to wiggle your hips in his direction. 

“Thought ‘bout this cute lil cunt all fuckin week.” 

Your disobedient mind encouraged the desire that pooled in your core, and you turned your head side to side to rid yourself of the disturbing thought. 

He must have noticed your strained expression, the way you were so clearly begging to be touched, but refused to admit it. Your creased brow was not one of intense pleasure, but anxiety, uncertainty and perpetual frustration. His shoulders dropped defeatedly, and he looked at you like he was about to unleash on you another set of debased instructions. 

“Gotta look like you’re enjoyin’ yourself more than that babygirl.” 

Caught slightly off guard, but admittedly thankful nonetheless, a breathy sigh escaped your lips as he began drawing soft circles on your aching clit. “That’s it babygirl” His praise licked between your legs, going straight to your core. Fingers wet with your slick he rubbed your throbbing pussy, and you let your head fall back against the carpet. 

“So fuckin’ wet f’ daddy.” 

Increasing his pace ever so slightly his fingers moved to tease your aching hole, just barely pushing in. You felt a moan bubble in your throat, forcing its way out of your mouth. It was more than embarrassing to admit you were enjoying his attention. 

“Let go babygirl. Daddy’s gonna make ya’ look so pretty in his pictures- like ya’ really are, like ya' deserve.”

He bit his lip to keep from smiling when he heard the soft moan slip past your lips. “That's better.” You didn’t know if he was more pleased with your pleasure, or the fact that you’d look better in the photographs.  

As your chest rose and fell with his movements you were more and more convinced. It was undoubtedly better to play along and give in. There was little point resisting by the time the thought even occurred to you. Admittedly, embarrassingly late. At least that's what you told yourself when you moaned and sighed below him. 

“Shit sweetheart. Wish you could see what ‘m seein’.” You imagined what Joel could see through the lens. It felt dirty, and contrite, but also exhilarating, and warm and right. 

You felt the tension build in your hips, between your legs. He had been resisting fucking you with his fingers, and your need to be filled was only increasing with each touch to your sensitive clit– your aching hole clenching around nothing. Your mind wandered to the way you’d undoubtedly seen his cock twitch in his jeans at the sight of you. How you’d been wishing secretly for him to fill you up. 

The coil in your belly tightened, and tightened, and you felt yourself reach the edge, the very peak of your pleasure. You made out a beam of white lightning through your half closed, lust clouded eyes. 

He brushed his thumb over your clit, ever so slightly. You were so so close, feeling the tension reach its highest point in a split second and then dissolve entirely. You gasped, back arching off the ground. 

In the deafening silence you heard the shutter and click of the camera. The sound was menacing. And it made your tummy flutter.  

“That's it baby, good girl” 

Your slick pooled at your entrance, running down your thighs and making you shift uncomfortably. You felt numb in your toes, something in you prompting you to kick your feet just a little. At the lost pleasure. The word was leaving your mouth before you could even register it. 

“Daddy” 

“I know, I know-” Fuck. He sounded so gentle. Like the Joel you knew. The Joel you loved.  “just a little longer sweetheart, you can take it.” He rubbed the inside of your thigh. 

He rested his camera on his knees and reached forward to cup your cheek, stroking your warm skin with his thumb. His fingertips were ice cold, and made you wince. “Just think of how pretty they're gonna turn out-” The look in his eyes was pleading, like you even had a choice in the matter. You wondered if he thought you did. Either way it seemed to work on you. “How pretty you’re gonna look.” 

“C’mon be a good girl f’ daddy.” His words made you mewl. Joel pinched your hip in warning, but kept his voice steady. 

“C’mere” Hitching both your legs on his shoulders and on either side of his head he scooted forward on his knees. Your skin tingled in anticipation, and you wondered what it would be like to have his head between your thighs. 

Admiring your white ankle socks he ran his thumb along the base of your foot, making your squirm in his hold. He engulfed its arch in his large palm, placing a kiss to your soul and then your ankle, moving forward to nuzzle your calf with his nose. 

“Goddamn, such a cute lil thing.” 

You watched him palm his bulge through his jeans, then undo his belt with his eyes still trained on your messy, wet pussy. As if he’d caught you staring he reached forward and tilted your chin back up towards the ceiling. Surely, you straining your neck to get a good look at him was doing nothing for his shot composition. 

You felt him let go of your shin in favor of guiding his cock along your throbbing seam. His tip bumped your clit, making you mewl and inadvertently lift your hips in his direction. You wished you could see him, on his knees in front of you, his cock teasing your dripping cunt. 

“Poor thing, can feel how bad ya’ need it.” Exhaling heavily he continued to rub his cock against your wet folds, eyes fixated below him. He cursed lowly under his breath, and lined himself up with your entrance, pushing in just a little. 

Your mouth fell open in a wordless cry at the slow stretch of him, and you attempted to grab fistfulls of the carpet beneath you. He’d barely put it in , but it was enough to send your eyes fluttering shut. 

“Cute lil pussy can barely take my cock, baby.” 

He fucked you, giving you just the tip, over and over and over, unwilling to burry himself in you to the hilt. You felt him twitch inside you, the slow pace and minimal contact enough to keep you both on edge, and not enough to provide any semblance of relief. 

You whined in protest. 

“Shh babygirl, I know.” He fucked you in slow shallow strokes, hips barely moving. You felt his eyes glued to your face, as if he was waiting for the perfect moment to snap his shot.

He thumbed your clit, his own breath quickening when your walls clamped around his cock. 

You’d never reach your peak this way, and it looked like he noticed. It seemed to be quite a large part of his artistic vision, and you were more than glad. 

He groaned and thrust himself to the hilt in a single slow push, picking up his pace just enough to where you could feel him hit that sensitive spot inside you. His cock throbbed against your aching walls, the drag of him sending your eyes rolling back into your head. His hands gripped your thighs, lips dragging across your calves every now and then as he fucked your warm, wet pussy– slow and deep. 

You felt full, unlike you ever had before. With the way he was making you feel it was difficult to think of who he was, and how he’d got you into this position. Neither your boyfriend’s existence, nor the reality of his intimidation took away from the soaring pleasure that made your body sing. 

It was all too much to bear, and you could feel your orgasm building in your core once again. 

The ominous sound of the wooden clocks garbled tic found its way back to your ears, this time in rhythm with your pounding heart. It sounded oddly comforting, like it was pushing you closer to the edge. 

“Daddy-” you reached for his hand, bringing his large palm to squeeze your breast. He obliged, his free hand moving from there to tug and pinch at any part of you exposed to him. 

“Daddy, gonna cum-” Joel sat back just a bit, still fucking into your soft cunt. “Cum ‘f daddy babygirl, fuck, that’s it.” It was all you needed, the tension that had been building in your core for what seemed like forever finally snapping. Your body went rigid, eyes screwing shut and back arching off the ground once again, legs tingling. Your walls fluttered around his cock as he slowed his pace, coaxing you through it. He hit that sweet spot inside you over and over, seemingly enjoying the many waves of your orgasm just as much as you. 

Between the ticking and Joel's labored breaths, and ringing in your ears you barely heard the click of the camera, but the soft sound sent a jolt through your body, like an electric aftershock. 

You took more than a moment to catch your breath, face tingling and head buzzing. 

When your eyes fluttered open you noticed Joel had abandoned his camera on the ground beside him in favor of grabbing your thighs. Still sensitive you shivered as he fucked into your pussy, fast and hard. You looked up at his face, twisted in pleasure, the little wrinkles on his skin accentuated thanks to his frown and furrowed brow. 

“So fuckin tight babygirl” You felt him pulse and throb inside you, emptying himself in a few final, sloppy thrusts. 

He looked so handsome, with his hair just slightly out of place, and flannel wrinkled and messy. The thought of being filled up by him had your tummy erupting with butterflies. 

Still catching his breath he reached for his camera, pulling out ever so slowly. With your legs still on his shoulders he tucked himself back into his jeans and fixed his belt, slowly easing himself on his stomach in front of you, and dropping your legs on either side of his head. 

You couldn’t see him, but you felt him chuckle against your bare thigh, his breath tickling your skin. “Show me how full ya’ are of me babygirl– how messy ya’ are f’ daddy”. You bit your lip as you pushed, and heard yet another click of the camera echo across the room. 

“Fuck. look so fuckin’ pretty, full’ve my cum” His spend leaked out of your fluttering entrance, and you felt him swipe his finger against the cut of your pussy and push anything that escaped right back in. He shifted your panties back in place, the material already dampening once again, this time with both your and his juices.

He sat up with his legs stretched out in front of him, back resting against the legs of his couch beside you. He pulled you to rest your head on his lap. You watched him intently as he reached beside him for the photographs. They must really be something, because mister Miller sure looked impressed with himself. 

When he turned to you you were probably met with his most wide and genuine smile yet, the three fresh new polaroids pinched between his thumb and index. You watched as the white light from outside invaded the room, and struck his face, illuminating it for a split second. The garbled tic of the wooden clock had subsided into the white noise of the background, along with the steady hum of the rain. You relaxed into his embrace. 

“Make the prettiest little model, don’t ya think sweetheart? Daddy’s gonna have to use ya’ more often” 

And no, I'm not a jerk

I would ask if you could help me out

It's hard to understand

'Cause when you're running by yourself

It's hard to find someone to hold your hand

You know it's good to be tough like me

But I will wait forever

I need someone else

To look into my eyes and tell me

"Girl, you know you've got to watch your health"

See you on a dark night

See you on a dark night

See you on a dark night

Going to hell for this one. Please let me know what you think. Comments and reblogs keep me writing. I also want to re iterate please be careful about who you send or let take explicit pictures of yourself. Never show your face and stay safe. Dividers by @ saradika and @cafekitsune 💗🐝🫶

Yessss! I thought of this when I seen this picture. That looks like his pre outbreak Joel shirt

Stoooop 🫠

Imagine

He looks at you like that because you didn't give him a hug.

Me, walking away from this story pleased as punch because everything about it was pure perfection

creep it real! | joel miller x f!reader

summary: a masked angel. a rugged cowboy. you're the answer to joel's prayers...until he realizes who you are.

pairing: dbf!joel miller x f!reader rating: 18+ minors dni word count: 9.7k warnings etc: [NO OUTBREAK] smut, age gap (20s/50s), dbf!joel comes with his own warning, a bad case of hidden identity leading to what one could maybe call dubcon*, semi-public sex, just a smidgen of degradation (joel calls reader a slut), brief daddy kink, fingering, oral (f receiving), unprotected p in v sex (we're living in a make believe world in this one, folks), mirror sex, creampie, use of a gag, one (1) pussy slap, spit in places it doesn't need to be, reader has hair and wears make up, hair pulling, spanking, dirty talk, pet names, alcohol, reader's family celebrates halloween, allusions to past parental trauma. no use of y/n. *reader deceives joel by concealing her identity up to the point of kissing. consent is knowingly given for everything thereafter.

a/n: for mimi @mrsquill, who gave me this idea and for being the biggest dbf!joel whore i know. happy belated birthday, angel. also thank you to @joelscruff for accidentally beta'ing this.

my kofi | updates blog: @swiftispunkupdates

It's cooler than it should be.

The end of October has brought with it a chill you don't recall from your years growing up in Texas. Or maybe it's just been too long since you've been home.

You stare yourself down the mirror of your vanity. The light blue wood of it is faded with time, sticky drawers barren save for the remnants of memories from days gone by; letters from now-dead grandparents, Polaroids with now-lost friends, empty tubes of now-out-of-fashion lipstick shades.

Everything around your reflection is the same as it was when you'd left this place five years ago, a frame of youthful innocence. The person staring back at you, however, is anything but innocent, even if she is donning the wings of an angel.

No. Surrounded by the leftovers from your childhood, the angel in the mirror is all woman.

And she looks good.

A white, boned corset hugs the curves of your upper body, pushing your tits up high on your chest and accentuating the slopes of your waist. The strapless sweetheart neckline shows off your collarbones deliciously, the long line of your neck accented by a thin, white choker. A flowing satin skirt fans out over your hips, cutting off at the midpoint of your thigh, just a hint of skin showing between the hem and the lace edge of your white thigh-high stockings.

You adjust the ribbony straps that hold the feathered, white wings in place over your shoulders, fan your hair out and tousle it slightly, testing out your very best smile before letting it fall, satisfied.

You debate whether or not to even wear the stupid mask. Gaudy and ornate, you have to admit it matches the rest of your costume beautifully, with silver gems glued to one side and a sheer, white veil that you know will conceal most of your face. Perfect for the masquerade bar crawl your high school friends are dragging you to later this evening. A bit much for your father's annual Halloween Bash you feel obligated to attend first.

Resignedly, you slip it on - practice that smile again. It's the only part of your face still visible.

Just one piece remains, sitting on the vanity, white and dainty and looking up at you somewhat menacingly. You slip the garter over your leg and wedge it high up on your thigh, concealed under the flouncy fabric of your skirt like a secret.

You take one last look at the obnoxious cleavage spilling out over the edge of the corset and decide, at least for now, to opt for modesty. You carefully remove your wings and follow the scent of naphthalene to your closet, fish out an old cardigan and throw it over your exposed shoulders. A relic from another life, it's a few sizes too small, fuzzy and a shade of ivory that doesn't quite match the perfect white of the skirt. The sleeves hit just below your elbows and the fabric clings a little too tightly to your form but it's better than the alternative.

Pearlescent buttons line its front, and you seal them right to the top, so only a hairsbreadth of flesh is poking out below the silver cross at the centre of the choker.

Better.

You slip your wings back over your arms, smooth out the straps and finally leave the woman in the mirror behind.

-

Creep it real!

The words line the banner that hangs above your father's front door, just one of many cheesy puns and hokey decorations that litter the main floor of his home.

It's too fucking much. It's always too fucking much. Your dad's favourite holiday for as long as you can remember, Halloween is always a bit of a production.

You help string cotton cobwebs from the ceilings and stick cartoonish bats to the wood-panelled walls. Your mother, dressed as the perfect Bride of Frankenstein, makes punch and fills bowls with chips and candy while your father, dressed as her perfect monster, puts the finishing touches on the lawn display, all gravestones and skeletons and intricately carved jack-o-lanterns. You watch him through the front window with a dubious smile as he gets the smoke machine going. Easily his most prized possession, it had been a lucky find at a yard sale from a neighbour who'd once worked in set direction.

It's funny how, after all these years, your parents haven't changed a bit. It's also funny how seemingly easy it is for them to pretend you hadn't left on bad terms.

"Thanks for helping out, kiddo," your dad's saying as he makes his way back inside, snatching a plastic spider, black from your hand and reaching up over your head to the corner of the window pane, lodging it into place in a tangle of cotton. "Nice to have you home."

You give him your best smile, that one you'd practiced so much it probably looks as phony as it feels.

"It's nice to be back," you tell him even though it's a lie. "Thanks for putting me up."

He frowns. "We're not putting you up; this is your home."

It's a nice sentiment but it's not really true. This hasn't been your home in years and you've been more than content to keep it that way. Even now, you've got no plans to stay beyond this weekend, already bored and tired of the life you'd left behind.

"I know it is, Dad, sorry," you amend for his benefit.

"You're a good sport stickin' around for the party, too," he adds.

"Sure," you shrug, although you're selfishly much more interested in getting to the bar and finding someone who will hopefully make it so you don't have to spend the night at your parent's house.

"I think some folks'll be surprised to see you," he goes on. "Dropped in so last minute, I didn't get the chance to tell anyone you'd be home."

Yeah - you know. It had been a somewhat intentional move on your part, knowing all too well how your parents would make a thing out of your return. Plus, you hadn't really planned to be here, either; the timing had just worked out as you'd happened to be passing through the Austin for work. It had felt almost wrong not to stop in for a few days. Try to put appearances and make nice.

"It's fine, I probably won't hang out too long anyway." Best not to get his hopes up.

He grins warmly, tells you to stay as long as you want, and then your conversation is abruptly cut off by your mother blasting 'Monster Mash' through the living room speakers.

-

Twilight fades into dusk fades into night and the party is in full swing.

The sound of music and a cacophony of voices fills the air, clinking beer bottles and thrumming bass echoing loudly in your ears where you stand against a wall, mostly keeping to yourself unless otherwise spoken to. The living room is dimly lit by a superfluous display of electronic tea lights, casting an orange glow over the crowd of faces that you assume would be familiar if they weren't obscured by smatterings of fake blood, glitter and silicone.

One figure stands out among the throng though, perhaps because he doesn't seem to have put much effort into his costume at all. The dark plaid that stretches across the expanse of his back unleashes a flood of memories (or more accurately, a distant collage of schoolgirl fantasies). You recognize him beyond a doubt, even before he turns to the side and reveals that unmistakable hooked nose and strong jaw, patchy facial hair that's a little greyer now than it was when you used to daydream about how it would feel brushing against your cheek.

Joel Miller.

Your father's oldest friend from down the road, he's broader than you remember him, thicker in the arms and midsection, the latter especially noticeable in the way his belly strains over the waistband of his jeans, confined by plaid tucked into well-worn denim, all accented by an ostentatious belt buckle. His face is partially cast in shadow by the off-white cowboy hat he's wearing, the ensemble capped off by a faded red bandana tied clumsily around his wide neck.

And fuck, if it doesn't suit him. There's something almost natural about the way he tips his hat at passing partygoers, the way he leans against the wall opposite you and hooks a thumb over the massive belt buckle, the engraved metal shining faintly in the low light. Gripping the neck of a beer bottle with his other hand, he's a man plucked straight from a Marlboro ad, even more beautiful now than the last time you saw him - years ago now.

Your heart nearly stops when his eyes suddenly flit upwards and catch yours across the room. He smirks, a lop-sided, curious thing and it's only then you realize you're fucking staring.

You avert your eyes, scan the crowd without seeing anything, only to land your gaze on him again. He hasn't looked away. You stiffen where you stand, hold his stare for a second too long. You swallow harshly and his smile widens.

Christ, you need a drink. Your heart's pounding as if there's anything more to that smile than an old family friend politely recognizing his best friend's daughter.

But then his eyes rake over your front, not-so-subtly fixating on the skin above your stockings. He tilts his head to the side, and if you didn't know any better, you'd think he were assessing. Even from here, under the low glow of synthetic candlelight, you see a muscle in his jaw click, plush lips pursing as his dark eyes trail back up your chest, landing on your masked face before he brings his beer bottle back up to his mouth and takes a long pull. His eyes don't leave your face.

Okay, maybe you're not imagining it. Sweet, reserved, respectful Joel (a single dad if your memory serves) is definitely eye-fucking you from across the room right now. In your father's home. Like he doesn't care at all that he once knew you as a child.

You resist the urge to pinch yourself.

Instead, you decide to test the waters. Bite your lip and flit your gaze to his mouth, watch him as you turn towards the kitchen and catch the moment he decides to follow.

Not imagining it.

It's lighter in the kitchen, the sound of the party dulled but not entirely silenced beyond the wall. Safer, private.

You feign nonchalance, crouching to retrieve a beer from the fridge, blissfully aware that the boots you hear against the linoleum a moment later belong to Joel without needing to look up and see for yourself.

Sure enough -

"S'a nice costume," a gruff says from behind you. You jolt upright, beer in hand, to face the source of the sound. And there's the Marlboro man in all his glory, standing in the doorway of the kitchen with a playful glint in his eye and a devilish smile plastered to his face.

You grin, cheeks warming at the way he looks you over in the light of the kitchen, brighter here than in the living room, staring at your chest as though he could see right through the thin fabric of your cardigan.

You work to play it cool, even as your skin burns under the weight of his stare.

"You think?"

You twist to the side, giving him a better view of the entire ensemble, wings and all. You figure there's no need for subtly at this point; wrong or right, the way he's looking at you now tells you he hasn't just followed you into the kitchen for a quick hello.

"Yeah, I do," he says, inching further into the room. "Go on, let me see all of it."

Jesus. Joel's apparently given up on subtly too. You suppose it could be interpreted as harmless. But then you spin for him, all the way around so the soft fabric of your skirt flutters around your thighs. You come to a stop facing him, watch his smile fade to something darker when you daringly lift the hem of your skirt to reveal the garter with a smirk.

And if there was going to be a moment for him to decide that you'd taken things too far, that would be it. But he doesn't. Instead, he stalks even closer, eyes fixed on the edge of your skirt, almost entranced in the way he shakes his head.

"So fuckin' sexy," he marvels quietly.

"Oh my god."

The words escape you almost like a laugh because there's just no fucking way. Every fantasy you've ever had is being brought to life before your eyes. A moment imagined in a thousand different ways. Joel Miller finally seeing you as an object of desire. Joel Miller undeniably wanting you.

He instantly flushes at your reaction, setting his empty beer bottle down on the counter and removing his hat to run a nervous hand through his hair. And it's the first sign you see of the Joel you think you know - polite, charming. Disarmingly good-mannered.

"Sorry, comin' on a bit strong, I guess," he chuckles. He holds his hat to his chest and reaches his other hand between your bodies. You stare at it in confusion. "I'm Joel. What's your name, sweetheart?"

"Oh."

Another involuntary reaction, whispered and soft as realization smooths across your features.

No wonder he's being so callous with his advances; Joel doesn't know who you fucking are.

Faced with a dilemma, you very quickly work through your options. You know what you should do, what the morally right decision is. You should be honest, tell him your name, remove your mask. Watch him grapple with embarrassment and politely leave you to it. You can't imagine he'd carry on with you if he had any idea you were his friend's daughter.

But then again...he already wants you. Right? And you wholeheartedly want him. So what if he doesn't know who you are? Maybe part of you likes it that way. You're not the same person you were the last time he saw you anyway.

You will tell him the truth, you decide. Just...not yet.

You take his hand in yours and shake.

"Tonight, cowboy, you can just call me Angel."

Joel grins, cocks his eyebrows and chuckles. "Oh yeah?"

You don't get a chance to respond because then he's bringing your hand up to his lips to press a soft kiss against your knuckles and the words die on your tongue, your mind temporarily going blank at the feeling of his scruff scratching at the back of your hand and his dark gaze peering up at you from under his lashes.

"Alright, then Angel."

No. You're definitely not telling him the truth yet.

He lets your hand fall and puts his hat back on before leaning an elbow casually against the kitchen counter. The sleeves of his flannel are rolled up, revealing thick forearms and tan skin. Unconsciously, you gravitate closer.

"S'quite the party, huh?" he grins, cocking his chin in the direction of the music and orange light emanating from just around the corner.

You shrug. "It's fine. I'm not staying long. Going out to a club soon."

You don't miss the way his smiles falters just the slightest bit.

"You live in the neighbourhood?" he asks. "Don't think I've seen ya around before."

"Haven't you?"

"Woulda remembered, I reckon."

You have to bite back a laugh at that.

"Well, I used to live around here, but I moved away a few years back," you shrug. It's technically not a lie.

"But you're back in town," he says. States it. Not a question.

"For now."

Joel smirks, drags his eyes over you again, contemplative. Still, no sign of recognition passes over his features, only unbridled interest that makes your cheeks burn and your mouth water.

"What made you leave?" he wonders after a moment of charged silence, his wandering gaze finally landing on the one part of your face he can see.

Now there's a loaded question. Your eyebrows shoot up your forehead as you consider how best to answer him, attempting to bide yourself some time as you ease your body closer to his with a pointed sway of your hips.

"You know, I don't really like to think about the past," you land on and right now it couldn't be more true.

Joel chuckles, brows knitting together somewhat dubiously at the response. Thankfully, he doesn't push it.

"What are you drinkin', Angel?" he asks, his eyes darting down to the beer bottle in your hand.

"Oh - beer," you tell him. "You want one?"

"Won't say no to ya," he smiles.

You turn back to the fridge to grab a bottle for him, bending at the hip rather than crouching this time, fully aware of the view you're offering him. If he reacts, you don't hear it, but when you face him again, beer in hand, his arms are crossed over his chest and his cheeks are painted a faint shade of pink.

Good.

You extend one of the bottles out to him, eyes fixed on the way his biceps strain against the fabric of his shirt. His fingers ghost against yours when he takes the bottle from your hand and it shoots an electrical tingle down your spine.

"Bottle opener's in there," you tell him, nodding towards the drawer he's currently leaning against. He follows your gaze and seems to consider moving for a moment. Then he grins.

"I got it," he says, placing his own bottle on the counter. Your brows furrow and then your jaw drops as Joel then begins to fiddle with his belt buckle, undoing the notches so it hangs loose around his waist.

Your pulse quickens and you nervously look over your shoulder, suddenly terrified of someone walking in on you.

"S'alright," Joel assures you, redrawing your attention. When you turn back to him you he's holding a hand out to you. "Let me see."

He nods towards the bottle and you silently hand it to him, entranced. Then you watch as he deftly hooks the edge of the silver buckle under the lip of the bottle cap. He flicks his wrist upwards and with a sizzling pop, the cap goes flying, landing with a quiet clang onto the tiled floor.

"Wow," you murmur, genuinely impressed and suddenly unable to tear your eyes away from his fucking crotch.

Joel seems to notice the response, taking you by surprise as he places the bottle on the counter and wraps his fingers around your wrist, gently pulling you into him. Your bodies don't touch but you can feel the heat radiating off him from here, the static buzz that fills the remaining space between you.

"Old party trick," he jokes, voice low.

You find yourself peering towards the kitchen door again. Joel notices that too.

"Hey," he murmurs, catching a finger on your chin to turn your face back in his direction. You swallow against the nerves suddenly bubbling up in your throat.

"S'this alright?" he asks as he traces his fingers up your arm, leaving goosebumps in their wake. You nod.

"Yeah," you decide, throwing caution to the wind and pressing your hips forward till you feel the hard metal of his loosened belt buckle jutting into your stomach.

He hums, a sound deep in his chest, and it's all you can do just to stand there as he curiously runs his fingers over your shoulder, smirking as he fiddles with the feathers of your wings and inspects the costume up close, dark brown eyes scaling hungrily up and down your body. His hand moves downward then, over the fabric of your cardigan, thinly veiling the bones of the corset beneath and you wonder if he can feel them, if he knows what you're hiding when he rests his palm against your waist and pulls you in just that little bit closer.

His gaze lands on your parted lips and there's a moment of heated anticipation where you're certain he's going to kiss you, the smell of him so close and inviting.

"No halo?" he whispers instead, cocking his eyebrows and lifting his gaze to the top of your head. "Shouldn't a good little angel have a halo?"

Oh, fuck.

"Well, maybe I'm not such a good little angel," you purr, only the hint of a shake in your voice as you widen your eyes and bat your lashes for good measure. You swear you hear his breath stutter before he's shaking his head in near-disbelief. You smirk; it's exactly the reaction you'd been hoping for.

"Anyway, the halo felt like overkill," you shrug.

Joel scoffs, glancing down to grab at the fabric of your skirt. Your brain short-circuits as he hikes it up your leg, revealing the white lace garter sat high on your thigh.

"And this?" he questions darkly. "You're tellin' me this ain't overkill?"

You laugh even though it's not funny, even though arousal is steadily pooling at your core and coursing through your burning veins.

"Well, at least I put some effort in," you attempt to tease him lightly, answering the unrelenting grip he has on your skirt with a tug at the fabric of his shirt, fisting the plaid at his sides and trying not to think too hard about the fact that it's first time you've ever touched Joel Miller like this. That you're only here because of a shameful lie. "Bet you just had all this lying around the house, right, cowboy?"

Joel's lips twitch and he watches in wonder as you reach up and grab the cowboy hat off his head, planting it atop yours with a wink. Joel snakes a hand behind you to tip the rim back, showing him more of your masked face as you stare up at him expectantly.

"Now that's pretty," he marvels softly and then he's entwining a hand around the back of your neck and leaning in closer and there's no mistaking it now; he's going to kiss you and you want so badly to kiss him back but -

"Not here," you stop him with a firm hand on his chest. You don't know what the fuck you're doing, but it can't happen in your parent's kitchen. You give him his hat back and he groans as he yanks you in closer when you try to pull back.

"What exactly are we doin', honey?"

"Just come with me?" you suggest breathlessly, untangling yourself from his grasp and grabbing him by the hand. He doesn't argue, just nods and lets you lead him out of the kitchen. You cautiously watch your back, make sure no one sees you dragging Joel Miller up the carpeted stairs and into the concealed darkness of a second-floor hallway.

There's a beat as you size each other up, eyes adjusting to the lack of light. Then Joel is crowding you against the wall, his gaze flitting over your masked face curiously.

You know in that moment the question he's asking. And you know in that moment what your answer should be. Take off the mask. Tell him the truth. Watch him walk away.

But instead, you hook your fingers into his belt loops and tug him into your body, crane your neck upwards and whisper, "Kiss me," praying to the heavens above you'll be forgiven for this.

You'll tell him. You'll tell him.

But right now you just want to kiss him.

Joel exhales sharply, hums a quiet assertion and then he's crashing his mouth into yours. Your head hits the glass of a framed photo behind you, a sting quickly remedied by the feel of his lips moving on yours, his hands cupping the sides of your face with a tenderness you wouldn't have expected.

His kiss is far from tender though, and for that, you're grateful. It's rushed and breathy, toothsome when his tongue invades the space between your lips. He tastes like beer and mint, and the masculine scent of his skin takes up the air around you as his broad frame encages you against the drywall. Your mind goes blank with the headiness of it, the coarse drag of his moustache along your skin soothed by the plush softness of his lips. Dreams of how that aquiline nose would feel bumping into yours, material at last.

His hands move lower then, traversing the line of your body, making you moan into his mouth while his touch ignites a fire inside you. You don't think, just impatiently begin to unbutton the pearly confines of your cardigan to reveal the corset beneath.

Joel breaks the kiss to glance down at your exposed chest and groan, his upper lip curling at the sight. His hands hover over the scratchy fabric, fingers twitching with another endearing flash of uncertainty. You stamp it out with an overly-confident graze of your palm over the bulge in his jeans, grinning when it makes his breath hitch, when you realize with a sick sense of triumph that Joel Miller is hard for you.

"Shit," he curses softly as he watches your hand work over him and you feel his cock come alive under your touch.

"Touch me, Joel," you quietly plead when his eyes finally find yours again.

He shakes his head.

"Wanna see you," he insists breathlessly, reaching up to toy with the edges of your mask.

You let your hand fall from his cock to swat his fingers away. Joel frowns.

"Where's the fun in that?" you ask innocently.

"Well," Joel hums, ducking forward to press his lips into the space below your ear. "I usually like knowin' who it is I'm about to ruin."

An involuntary shiver courses through you and when you speak, it's with a shake.

"You want to ruin me?"

His low chuckle echoes into the hollow of your ear while his teeth graze gently over the lobe. "Ain't that what you want, Angel?"

Oh, god. Fuck it then. It's now or never.

In a flash of movement, you tear the mask off your face and quickly clutch at Joel's curls, pulling him back into a bruising kiss before he can properly take you in. You take charge as best you can, languidly licking into his mouth and pressing your hips forward till they collide with his. Joel's response is swift, his arms wrapping around you and holding you prisoner against his body while his tongue begins to dance messily with yours.

And fuck, it's perfect. Your hips grinding against his is an almost unconscious thing, pure hunger taking over every other emotion until you feel it.

The way his body goes rigid and his lips still on yours.

Then the sudden, quiet grunt of protest against your mouth that has your eyes flashing open in response. It takes your brain a second to catch up, to notice that he's not looking at you but rather something right behind you.

Only then he does look at you and at last you see it click.

"Fuck - wait," Joel gasps, prying your mouths apart and pushing himself off you with two firm hands on your shoulders. Pathetically, your lips chase after his.

"Joel - " you whine, attempting to yank him back, clutching at the fabric of his shirt. But those firm hands encircle your wrists and tear you away, forcing space between your bodies.

"You..." Joel shakes his head, glancing between you and whatever he's seeing behind you, his expression some mixture of shock and outrage. You peer over your shoulder and finally understand; your high school graduation photo is tacked on the wall beside your head, the beatific smile of a younger, more-optimistic you staring you both down in the quiet darkness of the hallway.

You sigh exasperatedly. "Joel, it's okay. It's fine."

"It ain't - " Joel scoffs lightly and drops your wrists, steps back out of reach. A painful knot of rejection curls in your stomach, made worse by the burning heat of guilt over your stupid, stupid lie. "It ain't fine."

"Joel, please, you wanted me just a second ago," you whisper and you hate that it sounds so broken, so needy. Your words seem to affect him though, his features softening into something almost pained. "Please, I-I'm not some little girl anymore."

His jaw tightens, conflict etching the weathered lines of his face. "I don't think that's how your old man would see it."

"You think I give a fuck what he thinks?" you demand, stepping forward. He doesn't touch you, but he doesn't move either. You sigh.

"You asked why I left town."

Joel frowns. "Yeah?"

"It's because of him, Joel. Both of them," you nod in the general direction of the stairs, to the place where music is thrumming and your parents are obliviously mingling. "I mean, we - we hardly even speak. You have no idea what they put me through."

Joel's eyes stay fixed on the stairs, to the light of the party shining up from below. You see it clear as day - that part of him telling him to run as fast as he can from this. But he doesn't. So you go on.

"They don't know me, Joel," you insist, reaching out to wrap your fingers around his wrist. He turns back to face you and that pained look is back in his eyes. But he's drifting closer to you, hands stretching out in front of him like he wants so badly to touch you.

"You don't know me either," you breathe and at that, Joel scoffs. The pained look on his face gives way to something else and there's a shift behind his eyes as he frees his wrist from your grasp to press his hand into the wall beside your head.

"Actually, I think I do, little girl," he spits, leaning in close, the change in atmosphere taking you aback as your heart pounds violently in your ears. "You think I didn't hear it all from him? All your sneakin' around and actin' out? Runnin' away at eighteen? I know you."

"Who did you think I was running away from?" you bite back, petulant.

Joel shakes his head and chews on the inside of his lip, but you can see it, see the way his resolve is fading before your eyes.

"You're just - you're just a kid. He's my best friend."

You scoff.

"I hate him, Joel."

His eyes narrow and the sound of your pulse in your ears is almost deafening as Joel takes up all the space around you, something darker taking over his gaze, something menacing and delicious and promising.

"You know, that really ain't no way to talk about your daddy," he snarls.

You should flinch away from that tone, shrink and recoil from its threatening edge, its condescension. Instead, you gravitate towards it like a magnet, something warm and achy pulsing between your legs at his words.

"Maybe you need a little discipline," Joel grits out, grabbing roughly at your waistline, other hand still braced against the wall beside you.

And - oh. That really shouldn't turn you on as much as it does. Petulance quickly fades and you find yourself nodding frantically, overwhelmed as arousal swiftly burns through you, when you realize what you're on the precipice of.

"Maybe, I do," you breathe, crashing your pelvis forward into his and craning your neck up higher so your mouths are only an inch apart. Joel doesn't back away anymore. "Are you going to put me in my place, Joel?"

At that, his head falls forward and he's whispering, Goddamnit but it's too fucking late now.

Because his strong hands are clutching at your face as he presses his body weight into yours and he kisses you again, hungrier now and decidedly rougher. You whimper as his mouth moulds into yours, his hands moving to draw the silken fabric of your skirt up your thigh. His knee invades the space between your legs and forces them apart, while his lips greedily begin to trail below your jaw, sucking and nipping at the delicate skin of your neck. You curl your leg up over his waist and pull his body in closer, grind your clothed heat into the strong muscle of his thigh and hear him groan into your skin.

You claw at his back, clutching him to you as he plunges a hand between your thighs and cups your sex through your panties. The lacy fabric, wet with your arousal, scratches dizzyingly against your folds and your head falls back into the wall with a strangled sigh.

"This what you want?" he coaxes, strumming at your clit over your underwear.

"Yes - yes, Joel."

He bites down on your clavicle, pressing harder against your pussy, the tips of his thick fingers moving lower to brush your clothed entrance and cloud whatever is left of your judgment as you melt into his touch.

"Beg for it," he growls, taking you by surprise yet again. His free hand grabs you firmly by the jaw, and when his eyes find yours, there's a desperation burning in his blown-out browns, the lewdness of his request dulled by the impression you suddenly get that he needs to hear you tell him you want it. "Beg."

You don't deny him.

"Please, Joel," you plead pathetically, wriggling on his fingers and clutching desperately at fistfuls of plaid. "Please don't stop. I want this. I want you."

"Yeah?"

In lieu of an answer, you very quickly make a decision. Perhaps the stupidest of your life.

You bite your lip and unravel yourself from his embrace, tugging him hurriedly down the hall to your bedroom before you can think any better of it.

You pounce on him the second the door is locked behind you, throwing your arms around his wide neck and knocking his hat to the floor as you kiss him with newfound fervour.

"What're you doin'?" he demands but his hands are warm at the small of your back, holding you close.

"I said I want you," you repeat, fumbling with the buttons of his shirt. Joel swats your hands away, tearing his mouth from yours abruptly.

"Here?"

He glances around the room, seemingly well aware you've led him directly into your childhood bedroom, eyes raking over the juvenile details that remain here; flouncy wallpaper and patterned bed sheets, *NSYNC posters and a corner full of discarded stuffed animals.

You palm at his cheek to redraw his attention, marvelling at the feel of his scruff beneath your fingers.

"Here," you assert.

Joel sighs, long and ragged, almost tortured as he quietly curses under his breath. You stare back at him dolefully, daringly ducking forward to kiss the corner of his mouth and run your fingers through his greying curls.

"Fuckin' Christ," he snarls.

All hesitance fades as his fingers coil firmly around your wrists, pinning them to your sides and guiding you into the room till your lower back hits the edge of your vanity.

"Angel, my ass," he grits, big hands meandering below the hem of your skirt, stealing your breath as he hooks his fingers under the lace edge of your panties. "You're a bad fuckin' girl, aren't you?"

You barely manage a soft, "Mhmm," before he's shimmying your underwear down your legs, taking care not to disrupt the garter around your thigh. He encourages you up onto the vanity, trinkets and make-up and perfume bottles clattering underneath you as you spread your legs for him and wrap them around his waist.

"Wanna taste you," he whispers urgently, like he's afraid he'll change his mind. You shudder as he ghosts his lips down your chest, laying open-mouthed kisses over the exposed skin above your breasts.

"Oh fuck," you whine as Joel falls to his knees between your legs and pushes your thighs further apart, making space for those broad shoulders. He positions your left leg over his shoulder and hooks his arms beneath your knees, dull fingernails digging into tender flesh. "Please."

"Shut up," he growls as his teeth come down on the skin of your inner thigh, chastising. And you know he's right, know you have to find the will to stay quiet. You curl your bottom lip between your teeth and let your head fall into the mirror behind you while Joel hungrily kisses his way closer to the apex of your thighs, groaning when he tastes the sticky slick that's already begun to coat the skin there.

You're throbbing - aching - for him to touch where you need it most and Joel doesn't tease you for long.

"Pretty fuckin' cunt," you hear him say and then his tongue is swiftly licking through the seam of your folds, sending an electric shock through every nerve in your body. Your mouth falls open in a gasp but Joel doesn't give you a chance to catch your breath, closing his lips around your clit and sucking harshly before pulling back with a lewd smack.

Your fingers are in his hair then, desperate to force him back onto you. Joel chuckles, glancing up at you with pink cheeks and wet lips.

"When's the last time someone ate your pussy, sweetheart?"

Too fucking long, you want to say but your brain can't form the words so instead you just whine and furiously shake your head from side to side.

"Oh, she's a needy thing, ain't she?" Joel murmurs darkly, eyes glinting with lust. "Been that long, huh?"

Now you nod, biting down harder on your lip to stop yourself from begging. Though Joel seems determined to make you.

"Poor little pussy," Joel says, making you shudder as he frees one of your legs from his grasp to press two fingers against your folds. He caresses you, languid swipes over your aching hole and your puffy clit, spreading your arousal tortuously till you meet his gaze, pleading.

"Please," you finally break, voice cracked. Joel smirks, triumphant.

"There she is," Joel smirks. Then you watch as he parts your lips with two fingers, exposing you fully to him before spitting onto your clit. Your eyes widen and you squeal at the sensation, watch him marvel at the sight of his own saliva mixing with your arousal as it drips down to your cunt before he catches it on his tongue and begins to devour you.

And fuck - the urge pinch yourself returns full force. Joel Miller, a man you've known most of your life, consumes your pussy like it's his last meal on Earth.

His mouth is hot and wet, eager with his efforts as he sucks and puckers over your folds. He teases you with his tongue, fucking it into your tight hole and making you writhe beneath him. Joel hums approvingly at the response, sending a fresh wave of sensation searing through you as you curl your leg around his shoulder and pull him in closer. His nose bumps against your clit and it's so good but it's not enough; you can't help it. You whine, high-pitched and broken as you wriggle your hips in search of more.

"Quiet now," Joel chides you, using the hand he'd been using to part your folds to lay a swift slap against your pussy. A wet smack fills the room and you arch your spine at the sudden, harsh contact on your sensitive cunt. Your knees instinctively come together but Joel holds them firmly apart, already diving forward to lap at your core once again.

You hiss through clenched teeth, nearly falling apart completely when he at last begins to carefully circle your clit with the tip of his tongue. Tight, practiced, impatient swirls that make your vision blurry and your toes curl. Your fingers slacken in his curls as you give in to him, let the sweet ministrations of his tongue bring you closer and closer to the edge.

Wetness gathers at your core when he flattens his tongue and lets you grind lazily against it, another quiet hum of approval encouraging you as a knot of pleasure begins to pull taut at your insides.

"More," you find yourself moaning softly.

You can feel his smile against you. "Yeah?"

"Please," you keen, rutting up into his mouth, not even entirely sure what it is you're asking for. It's so hot in here you can hardly think straight; your skin burns in the confines of your bedroom, under the heat of his mouth, layers of fabric and feathers clinging sticky to every part of you.

Joel cocks an eyebrow at you. "You gonna keep that pretty mouth shut?"

"Yeah - yes, I will, I promise," you ramble, grabbing wildly for his wrist, guiding it towards your centre.

"You want my fingers?" he asks like he doesn't already know.

"Please."

He shoos your hand before you can even get the word out, pinning it on the vanity beside you before sinking a thick finger into your heat, grunting as the warm, wet of you engulfs his digit. The back of your head collides with the glass behind you as Joel begins to fuck his finger in and out of you, quickly adding a second. You keen at the stretch, some strangled noise getting stuck in your throat as Joel chuckles lowly.

"You like that," he comments matter-of-factly as he hooks his fingers inside you and nudges at a spot seldom found by boys your age.

"Joel!" you gasp, too loud, and the fingers he has curled around your wrist tighten, a warning. You curse yourself, covering your mouth with your free hand in an attempt to contain the noises threatening to claw their way out of way.

Joel doesn't seem to be paying much attention anyway, enraptured as his mouth finds your clit again, fingers still working you open in shallow thrusts and beckoning little motions. His tongue flicks and sucks at the bundle of nerves and you don't know when or how but the hand that conceals your lips falls to clutch as his curls again, your hips grinding into his hot mouth and pushing his fingers deeper. You're so close now, can feel release ready to snap inside you.

"M'gonna stop f'you don't shut up," Joel murmurs against you, muffled wetly into your heat.

You hadn't even realized you'd been making any sound.

You think you whisper, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry but you don't know for sure because then Joel is pulling his fingers from you and gripping your ass under your skirt to hold you flush against his face, softly moaning around your clit as he laves at you, his tongue and mouth insistent, greedy.

"Oh god, oh god, oh god," you're chanting and Joel hums a noise that sounds like a question as his eyes flash up to meet yours. You can only moan and nod, telling him without words, don't stop, don't stop, don't stop before your muscles tense and you're coming with such force your entire body preens with it, spine arching and slick pooling where his chins meets your pulsing core.

Joel eats you through it, offering no reprieve even when you begin to squirm and flinch with the come down, stars still bursting behind your eyes.

"Joel, fuck," you whine when it begins to feel too much. "Can't - "

He grunts, finally detaching his mouth from you. You shiver at the loss of his warmth, cry out without meaning to when he licks a parting stripe through your sensitive folds.

When your vision refocuses, you find he's staring up at you wrecked, pink lips swollen and slick staining his cheeks and chin. There's something else there too - that stupid, pained look, that unmistakable conflict.

"Goddamn," Joel groans softly, turning his face to bite at the garter around your inner thigh.

"Joel, it's okay," you find yourself saying. You grab at the bandana around his neck, try to force him to look at you again. "Fuck me. Please. I want you to fuck me."

Joel sighs, shallow and tight, shakes his head against your leg. "You're bad fuckin' news, kid."

You can't contain the smile that spreads across your face at that. "But you want me, too? Right?"

You pet his scruff till he finally meets your gaze. There's a resignation there, in that tortured stare he gives you. But there's also lust. Wanting. He wants you.

He nods.

"Then take me," you tell him.

There's a final moment of pause, of hesitance, as Joel looks over his shoulder towards your bedroom door. You follow his gaze, pussy aching with emptiness. Joel considers the door for a moment, then looks back at you, staring at him beseechingly.

Please don't leave now, you plead with your eyes.

Joel sighs and shakes his head. You watch with curious fascination as he then begins to tug at the bandana around his neck, loosening it enough to lift it over his head.

"Sit up," he orders you, and you do, Joel moving to stand over you. You can see how hard he is now, cock straining against the zipper of his jeans. He doesn't let you ogle for long though, tilting your chin up with a strong hand under your jaw and smushing your face under his calloused fingers as he hinges down to kiss you. You taste yourself on his tongue when he forces it into your mouth, his kiss all spit and slick and commanding dominance before he pries you off him.

"You're gonna behave," he tells you simply. Not a request, but an order as he drops his hand from your face.

"Yes, daddy," you say coyly with a big, toothy smile and Joel groans, exasperated. It makes you giggle.

"Christ," he growls with a shake of his head. "'Course you're one of those. Turn around."

He doesn't wait for you to obey, rather, he manhandles you down off the vanity and spins you away from him, bringing you face to face with your own reflection before a firm hand between your shoulders is pushing you down into the faded blue wood.

You go perfectly still, waiting, feeling the rough drag of denim against the back of your thighs and the hard metal of his belt buckle digging into your flesh. But Joel's not done.

He tugs at the straps of your wings, wriggling you loose from them along with your cardigan and leaving them discarded on the floor, all traces of innocence abandoned.

"Fuck," Joel breathes, eyes flitting wildly between the you before him and the you in the mirror, running a hand roughly down your spine, grabbing at every ridge and curve before landing on your hip and pulling you into him.

"Joel..." you whine and then you jolt, gasping when the tender hand on your hip makes harsh contact with your ass.

"What'd I say?" he chides you.

Before you have time to react, he's moving over you, leaning in close so his lips are right at your ear.

"You're gonna behave," he repeats. You nod but it makes no difference because then there's a flurry of red in the mirror, as Joel slips his bandana over your head. With rough but certain fingers, he tilts your chin upwards and hooks his fingers under the fabric.

"Open," he tells you and your lips part without argument.

You watch him in the mirror as he then pulls the makeshift gag up over your chin and forces it into your waiting mouth, soft, washed cotton pressing down on your tongue and scratching at your molars with how far he pushes it in.

"Bite down," he says and you do, lips straining around red, compelling you to breathe through your nose so all you can smell is the masculine scent of him embedded into the bandana's fibres, woodsy and salty and all-encompassing.

"Good girl," Joel offers and your eyes flutter at the praise. "God, look at you. Look."

His hand in your hair tugs your neck up, giving you no choice but to appraise your reflection as he hikes your skirt up to your waist and begins to unzip his jeans behind you.

You have to admit you look a mess, hair tousled and mascara smudged around your eyes, your mouth stretched obscenely around the bandana, involuntary drool already turning red to dark brown. If you'd thought the person staring back at you in this very same mirror was all woman before, now she is all girl, all mouldable and pliant and dutiful. All Joel's.

Your pussy clenches around nothing and you moan at that thought, impatiently pushing back into him when you hear the metallic clang of his belt hitting the floor.

"Yeah - gonna fuck you now," Joel vows, pressing down between your shoulder blades so your chest is flush with the vanity. Again, he yanks at your hair to keep your eyes up, keep you focused on your reflection when the hard line of cock notches at your entrance. "Watch."

You do watch, watch him as his brows furrow and his nose scrunches in concentration, staring at the place where your bodies are nearly connected before spitting a slow stream of saliva down on to your already drenched hole. He runs the tip of his cock up and down through your folds and you feel like you might go insane with want until finally, finally, he begins to sink inside with a hushed groan.

Your hands brace against the edge of the vanity as you writhe at the stretch, the burn of him filling you. It would almost be too much, you think, if the twinge of pain you feel at the intrusion wasn't one you found so delicious, wasn't a reminder that you don't think you've ever had something this big inside you before.

"Tight little pussy," Joel mutters through gritted teeth, voice strained. "Fuck me."

You whine, wish you could repeat his words right back to him. Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me.

"What?" Joel goads, bottoming out inside you, stilling with two firm hands on your waist. "What do you want?"

You can only wiggle your hips and moan softly, a silent plea. Joel chuckles once.

"Yeah, I know," he purrs and then at last, Joel Miller is fucking you.

He wastes no time, starting a hurried pace, accented by the dull smack of skin on skin and laboured grunts passing through Joel's teeth. The vanity shakes beneath you, and you wish the rush of panic you feel at someone downstairs possibly hearing its incessant scraping against the hardwood didn't make your head spin with arousal, but it does. Or maybe it's just Joel's thick cock pounding into you, nudging at your cervix with each unforgiving stroke.

"This is what you needed, huh?" he's murmuring, voice low and dark. "A big, fat cock fillin' you up?"

Oh, god. You nod, whine around the gag, find his eyes in the mirror again and your knees go weak at the sight of his form looming over yours, the collar of his shirt askew, sweat dampening his forehead.

"Yeah? Dirty - fuckin' - slut."

You keen at that, push back into the place his hips meet yours and moan. Slick dribbles between your thighs and your pussy flutters around his length and of course, of course Joel notices the response.

"Oh - you like that, don't you?" he grunts, tugging at your hair once again and making your spine arch for him.

"Look," he repeats, coaxing you to lock eyes with your own depraved reflection, a fallen angel spilling out of a corset, willingly split open by her dad's best friend. "Look what a bad girl you grew up to be."

Another muffled moan is swallowed by his bandana, his words sending a lick of heat down your spine as something wild and heady begins to scratch at your nerves. His frame engulfs yours again, lips back at your ear as he whispers,

"Daddy's cock'll fix you."

Oh fuck. Your eyes roll back into your skull and you think you hear him laugh, a mocking sound that only drives you crazier, only makes your brain go foggier when he pulls back and clutches at your hips, fucking you so hard you feel tears prick at your eyes and a tightness start to build in your core all over again.

"Yeah, that's right," Joel rasps softly, breathless. "You wanna be good, don't you? Wanna be a good girl and come again for daddy? Go on, baby - come on daddy's cock."

You want to - fuck, you want to come again. You want to be so, so good for him. To show him you always could be. Your eyes begin to flutter closed as you crane onto your tippy toes to take him deeper, feel the drag of him against the sweetest part of you, hurtling towards release with each thrust of his hips against yours.

"Don't," Joel orders you, tapping your cheek with gentle intent till you open your eyes. "Want you to look at yourself when you come on my cock."

You immediately flit your gaze up to meet your reflection, see your cheek pressed into wood, eyes wet and mouth full of fabric. You barely register Joel reaching around you to toy sloppily with your clit before you're falling apart, coming with a silent scream and clenching down around his length.

"Good girl," Joel grants you raggedly as your body quivers under his and then goes limp, waves of your come gathering around his girth and dripping down his balls. "Fuck - that's so good, baby."

Joel fucks you relentlessly as your second orgasm crashes over you, chasing his own high as he begins to ramble wildly under his breath, his voice echoing hollowly in your pleasure-drunk mind as though he were speaking from very far away.

"Gonna fuckin' ruin you, baby girl. Gonna use this little pussy up. You're not gonna wanna take another cock for weeks."

You whimper tiredly, nod obediently. You're not sure you want to take another cock besides his ever again.

"Maybe I'll send ya out to that club with my come drippin' outta ya."

And you know it's stupid and careless and wrong to want that but you make a noise that sounds like yes please all the same. Joel groans.

"Say that again?" he presses you, the rock of his hips coming faster, more erratic.

Yes please, you try again, words turning into mumbled nothings against the gag.

"Shit," Joel curses lowly, and you're jolted back to almost-reality when he forcefully tugs the bandana from your mouth and air fills your lungs in a cool rush. "One more time."

"Please," you say, voice broken and hoarse. "Yes, please. Come inside me."

You think you catch him smirk in the mirror but it's quickly replaced by something else entirely, his jaw slackening as his breath begins to stutter and his chest begins to heave, a whispered chant of, oh shit oh shit oh shit your final warning before he's spilling deep inside you.

He hardly makes a sound as his big hands come down on the vanity beside your head, thick arms all around you as he pumps his load into you. He's biting down hard on his lower lip, doing a far better job of staying quiet than you are, tired little whimpers pouring from between your lips until he's folding over your back and covering your mouth with his palm again.

You stay like that, your breath hot against his hand and his lips in your hair, until he's emptied himself completely. He frees your mouth once it's over but stays glued to your back, a heavy weight above you as both your breathing levels out.

You both shiver when he pulls out, and there's a softness in the way he tilts your face towards his now, in the way he lazily licks into your mouth at the same time that his fingers reach between your bodies to catch the come dripping out of you and push it back inside.

Eons seem to pass before he's sighing and hoisting himself off you with a gentle, "C'mon, baby." He taps your sides as he steps away but you stay where you are. You're not sure you have it in you to move just yet.

You hear the buzz of his zipper and the clang of his belt buckle and then his hands are on you again, tentative as he pulls your skirt down over your ass and smooths out the fabric.

"Hey," he murmurs, and you're pleasantly surprised at the feel of his lips pressing sweetly into your upper back. "Come on."

He tugs at your arms, gently helping pull you upright and sighing again as he takes in the sight of you. You smile, almost bashful about it, Joel carefully lifting the bandana up over your head and adjusting your hair for you with a sigh. He crouches to retrieve your cardigan and fits it back over your shoulders before slipping you back into your angel wings.

"Look up," he says, and you do as he says, holding perfectly still as he rubs his thumbs under your eyes, caressing away drying tears and smears of black make-up.

He tuts.

"You might wanna..." He makes an errant gesture with his hand at your tarnished visage, and you understand.

The ridiculousness of it all seems to catch up with you then and you giggle breathily, shaking your head as if to wake from some perfect, lucid dream.

"Thanks," you tell him. "Joel, I'm - I'm sorry for lying to you."

Joel licks his lips and you think for a moment he's going to tell you off, scold you like you probably deserve. But then he grins and there he is again - the Joel you remember from before.

"Guess I can't really complain," he concedes, tucking a lock of hair behind your ear. "You're, uh - you're somethin' else, sweetheart."

You smile and Joel sighs, finally letting his hand fall. You watch him as he finds his hat, warming when he stops to kiss your cheek before making his way towards the door.

"Wait," you call quietly after him. "So would you...do you wanna do this again? While I'm in town?"

There's a lengthy beat of nervous uncertainty and then Joel laughs. He shakes his head and stares at the floor as he readorns his hat, finally turning to face you with one hand on your doorknob.

"You're gonna be trouble, aren't you, Angel?"

You smirk devilishly back at him. "You're damn right, cowboy."

You offer him a parting wink that has him shaking his head for the millionth time as he slinks discreetly out the door, closing it behind him and leaving you alone with the woman in the mirror.

No wonder his back hurts

joel being ellie’s ladder

I find it hard to believe there exists a person who doesn’t find him attractive. At least a little bit

[x]

Are these captions for what’s on the TV or for me? Because….

Rewatching The Last of Us and the closed captions are just -

So well said

Good morning

I love arm

What is it about this neck?

Now that I hear Michael I can’t think of anything else

Pssssttt what do yall HC Joel’s middle name as?

I call him Joel Michael Miller to all my friends

I loved this

I’m only okay with this cuz they are friends 😭💀

I keep seeing posts about the internet turning on Pedro or something along those lines, but I haven’t seen an explanation yet. Is this true? Whats the reasoning?

I felt that wink. That was absolutely meant for me 🤣

A better video of the wink

🤷🏻‍♀️

This one kills me. His face 🫠

just when i think i'm safe from sag awards pedro a new picture drops and i immediately lose my sanity all over again