peakymarvelworld - Tumblr blog

peakymarvelworld · 6 months

Text

kinktober | pretty mama - j.m.

kinktober day eleven - breeding

pairing: joel miller x plus size!reader

wc: 3.48k

summary: after the beginning years of telling your husband you weren't ready for a baby, your four year marriage anniversary came up in the fall and you were having a little bit of baby fever.

warnings: 18+ ONLY! NO MINORS ALLOWED!! teasing, fingering, slight car sex if you squint, pregnancy kink, breeding kink, creampie, u protected penetration (p in v), dirty talk, talks of being a mother, pet names, talks of getting you pregnant.

reblogs, likes and comments are always appreciated and loved! THANK U SO MUCH FOR 500 FOLLOWERS OMG!!! this ones for u guys!

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YOU DIDN'T REALIZE HOW MUCH joel craved to see you pregnant. something you found was a bit odd but after being married to joel for a few years, you realized it was more endearing than anything.

it was like clockwork — every time you and joel had sex, he craved to fill you up. you always told him no, that you didn’t want him to cum inside of you even though you yourself wondered of the outcome.

not only did he have a small kink for wanting to watch his cum leak out of you, to think about you finding out you’re carrying a mini you and him in your womb – he ached for it. he imagined you walking around, swollen and round, achy feet and coming to him to make you feel better. to console you, to take care of you, to love you.

but tonight, your four year marriage anniversary, you felt something different. something that you’d never felt before, something that you couldn’t even imagine wanting.

joel couldn’t even wait before getting inside the house he fixed up for you, kissing you against the front door with his key jiggling in the doorknob.

he took you to your favorite restaurant to celebrate, having a couple of glasses of wine and mindlessly laughing with each other, like a normal married couple. but you were feeling particularly needy.

rubbing your heeled feet against his calf, rubbing up and resting your chin on your palm as his eyes grew dark. it was an exciting scene, and feeling your heel press into the thick of his thigh, he couldn’t wait to get you home any longer.

you were dressed in a deep red dress that cinched at your waist and acted as a corset, flowing out down your hips. paired with your black pumps with the thick heel and your skin scented with your sweet perfume he loved - he couldn’t stop staring at you.

“quit it,” he mumbled behind the wine glass, still letting you rub up to his crotch under the table.

too dim to notice movement underneath, everyone too deep in conversation to acknowledge the couple next to them.

“i’m not doing anything,” you said, using your fork to scrape against the plate.

“i’m serious, honey.”

and he was. because the minute the two of you left, he had your leg thrown over his thigh while he drove, his fingers curling up inside of your hole that leaked for him.

“joel please,” you cried, gripping onto the seat as your pretty red dress sat above the thick of your thighs.

“what is it, baby? what do ya need?” his condescending voice only made you clench harder around his fingers, feeling your cunt throb in response.

“you! i need you, please,” he only curled his fingers at a relentless pace, the only thing being heard was the light sound of the radio and your cunt gushing around his fingers.

“oh? you need me? ‘s that why you were actin’ all needy in there?” he smirked, coming to a red light and being able to watch himself finger your hole, watching you sink into the leather seat and prop yourself against the door.

luckily for you, joel had just the perfect amount of tint to prevent anyone from really seeing how you get for him. even though he wouldn’t mind, he liked the thought of claiming you in every way.

but now, joel opened the door finally and pushed you inside to aim for the bedroom.

“what do you need from me, sweetheart?” he asked, fingers tugging at the buttons of his white dress shirt after shucking off his shoes and blazer.

your fingers were tugging at your panties already, still walking backwards to the main hall of your home. as you watched him walk towards you while taking off his top, you shook your heels off to take off a few inches of your height and finally reach the bedroom that was lit by the fairy lights you hung up — ones that joel fought you on, but you won anyways.

the back of your knees hit the bed when you felt a cool breeze from the autumn wind blow through the open window, and you sat on the mattress while leaning on your palms.

he stood in front of you, shirtless and unbuckling his pants as he stared you down:

“i think,” you sighed dramatically, “i think i need you to fill me up.”

he wasted no time to strip off his clothes and yours, leaving both of you bare as he crawled on top of you and spread your legs with his calloused hands. you might say that his hands are your favorite thing about him, but it seemed like every part of him drove you mad without trying.

“do ya know what you’re sayin’ right now, baby?” joel asked, humming into your neck as he kissed and licked over the skin.

you stared at the ceiling, a smile on your face as you wrapped your arms around his neck and pressed your cheek into his.

“mhm, i know. i need it, joel. need to know how it feels when you cum inside of me,” you said lowly into his ear, and you swore you heard him practically growl as his hand snaked between your bodies.

“you want me t’ knock you up? you gonna let me put my babies right here,” he asked, pressing down on the fat of your lower tummy before inching his way to your mound.

you just nodded, whining as you felt his hand start to spread your cunt.

“joel, please, need you to breed me, please,” before you could cry for him again, his hand swiftly goes to grab you by your jaw and chin, squeezing the chub of your cheeks together so he can graze his nose against your ear.

“say it again, tell me again,” he growled, and you bucked your hips up to try to rub your cunt against his bare cock, but he kept you down.

“fuck, cum inside of me please, please knock me up,”

you heard something animal like come from his throat, grabbing you harshly and pulling you up to lay back on a few pillows. he grabbed you by your thighs and pushed them up, exposing your sex to him so he could see every detail.

he needed to admire you like this, the way your tummy bulges more than usual because of your knees near your chest, the way your thighs pushed the lips of your cunt together — covered in your slick. he loved watching you like this, seeing how you let him maneuver you however he wanted.

still, with your legs pressed together against your chest as far as they could reach, joel sat on his knees and guided his tip between the thick lips of your cunt. he watched as your pussy covered him in your arousal, only watching as he slid between the lips, up your cunt and between your thighs.

“such a pretty baby, gonna let me pump you full? full of me?” he huffed as he fucked between your thighs, rubbing his shaft and balls over your cunt.

your arms wrapped around the back of your thighs to hold yourself for him, and he smiled, kissing your calf and up your feet. moving his cock from rubbing between the fat of your thighs, he slowly let his member spread your cunt generously to rub over your hooded clit, down to prod at your tight hole.

“yes, please, fill me baby,” you whined, feeling him start to sink into you, inducing you to stretch and mold around him.

“mmm, fuck, always thinkin’ of fillin’ you up, always thinkin’ what you’d look like carryin’ my babies,” he grunted, taking over where you held your legs for him, spreading them wide and slotting between them.

“fuck, joel please, please,” you were begging, aimlessly, but he only gave you more inches as he maneuvered his hips to slide further inside of your warmth.

you could feel the way his cock made its way into your cervix, the way he pumped in and out of you slowly after finally bottoming out made you feel every curve, every vein, the way his head nudged the spot you couldn’t reach with your fingers.

his mouth was everywhere, all over you as he pumped in and out of you kissing over your hot skin and the birth marks you had on your shoulders and neck. the dark freckles you hated, the stretch marks you thought you had too many of past the acceptable amount, the hair you tried to shave on your arms when you were a child — he worshiped all of you at every given moment.

his arms snaked under your body, hooking over your shoulders to have leverage to keep his pace relentless. he held you close to his body, using every ounce of strength he had to make sure you didn’t have to lift a single limb to do any of the work.

another thing about joel — he loved to just watch you take everything he had to give you.

“that’s right baby, hold on to me, let me make you feel good, gonna make sure i put a baby in ya,” he whispered in your ear over the wet slaps that bounced off the walls, and you listened.

you wrapped your thick legs around his waist, locking him in a hold with your calves as your arms wrapped around his, still holding you by your shoulders to keep you on his cock. your moans and whimpers would sound desperate, like you’d never be able to have him like this again, and you gripped at his forearms with your manicured nails.

he loved when you were like this. desperately trying to get him closer, anymore closer to you than he already was, trying to grip onto him, to ground yourself with him. but it was never enough, you could never get enough of joel. no matter how many times he’s fucked you, or had you like this — you needed more.

the thought of joel being a father to your kids never failed to make you swell with warmth, it never failed to make you fuzzy at the thought of joel claiming you in another sense. to make you a mother, the mother of his children, to have that tie forever and so everyone can know who you are made for — it sent a different type of pride in you.

he wanted to get you pregnant, show the world that he had you to create and hold a life that you both had something to do with. to show everyone that he is the only one who could give you the world and more, to know that he’s practically locked you down in every way gave him a sense of security.

the thought only sent your cunt to clench around the girth of his cock, something you’d never get used to be thoroughly enjoyed every time he gave himself to you.

“fuck, fuck joel, fuck! so good, so so so good, wanna have your baby so bad,” you cried, and joel grunted at the thought as he situated himself on his knees.

his hands were sunken into your plush tummy, hands gripping the fat of your body to hold up half of his weight and hold you down, as if you were going to slip away from him. he held you to the bed with his hands, pulling back and watching your legs unwrap around his waist to being held in the air, bent at the knee. without missing a beat, joel’s mouth hangs open a little at the sight and moved his hands from holding you by your waist, to grabbing your legs and holding you spread open by your thighs.

this way, he could see every bit of you, the way your cunt sucked him in and made obscene sounds of squelching, how your tits looked pressed together, bouncing with fervor to each thrust. he imagined how they’d look when you were pregnant, how they’d fatten and round up as a response to your hormones and child-bearing body.

“i know honey,” he cooed, licking his lips as he watches his cock disappear in and out of your cunt, “such a pretty pussy, ain’t lettin’ no on else have ya, you’re mine baby, all fuckin’ mine,”

his southern accent came out more in his grunts and moans, losing concentration of anything else but you.

he couldn’t imagine you getting any sexier, more desirable until he thought about you with his baby. after, especially. seeing you in a rocking chair with the baby in your arms, reading a story or cuddling them until they fell asleep. he remembered when he first met you. so outgoing, couldn’t get you to stay home, partying and doing all types of drugs. to be frank, he wasn’t approving of your way of life.

he always worried about you, had to pick you up shitfaced at clubs, wanting to make sure you weren’t getting into any trouble. of course you did, there was a time joel had to bail you and tommy out of jail together because the two of you thought it was smart to get into a tussle at the bar with an obnoxious couple. joel never trusted tommy after that, mad at him for letting you do that, but you had to step in and tell him it was your decision.

after that night, joel let you know how he felt. how your reckless ways weren’t fair for him, how he worried about you constantly, hoping you don’t end up drunk in a ditch somewhere. thinking about you now, asking him to make you a mother, only going out when joel went with you because you got tired of going out every night with your friends as you got older. now when you get drunk you aren’t crazy and sloppy, you were giggly or emotional. he admired your growth, and it even made him smile with pride realizing even though you changed some of your ways, you were still you at heart.

he just knows you’re going to be the cool mom, the fun, exciting mom. he didn’t mind taking the burden of being the one to discipline and being not so fun to be around, it just made him flutter at the thought. knowing you went from crazy, wild and a party girl to wanting to be the mother of his kids made him warm. he had never loved anything as much as he loved you.

“gonna be such a pretty mama, ain’t you? my perfect fuckin’ wife,” he growled, almost to himself as he stared down at you.

no matter what, every time joel looked at you, you felt heat rush into your cheeks. this doesn’t change, not even when your bare underneath him.

your eyes focus on his, watching his hair tousle and sweat form on his body. you couldn’t think, not even what to do with the rest of your limbs he wasn’t gripping onto, so you just hooked your arms under your calf, and held yourself open for him.

“good fuckin’ girl, already knows what to do for me,” he smirked, watching you hold your folded position as far back as you can to open your cunt for him, just so he can see the hood of your clit between your lips and watch your hole flutter around his cock as you watched him.

every time he soaked you in, you couldn’t help but clench. joel enjoyed watching you almost as much as you enjoyed watching him watch you.

he smacked you on your ass a couple of times, stinging with every thrust he began to speed up with. your breath was being knocked out of you, no air in your lungs as he fucks into you to try to angle himself to hit your g-spot. it didn’t take much at all, especially not even he bent his knee to plant one foot on the bed and burying himself to a hilt.

watching him like this, have so much desire and want for you enough to scrounge up any way to just be further pressed into you made the bundle of heat in your lower tummy nearly explode.

“please, please, please cum in me, please, want your cum so bad, make me yours, wanna be good for you,” you rambled, breathy sentences coming out and not completely clear to you, but very clear to joel.

he felt himself losing control watching you take his length, watching the ring of your arousal build on his cock. he couldn’t get used to how drenched you became at the sight of him, how slick you felt every time he slid between your folds. how his face and the scruff of his grown out beard would always be soaked coming up for air from your cunt — it was addicting.

because he could be between your legs for hours, until you finally begged him to stop, to let up on your sore sex.

“always so wet f’me, always ready to take my cock, always ready f’ me to plant my seed right,” he trailed, grabbing one of your hands from the backs of your thighs and using it to push onto your lower tummy that slightly hung over your mound, “here,”

his hand rested on yours, and watched as your eyebrows furrowed into pleasure, your eyes fluttering and felt as if they were going cross eyed. vision blurred as you felt the undeniable pressure of your release threatening to spill over. you could feel him in your stomach, you could feel him everywhere.

“such a pretty mess, ready for me to make her a mama, wantin’ t’ be mine forever, let me breed her pretty cunt whenever i want,” he whispered, and moved his hand down to your cunt to gather your juices that was covering his cock and spread it to your clit.

he stuttered a moment, enjoying the way your hips tried to fuck back onto him, wanting to meet his thrusts with persistence. when you finally got into the rhythm, joel used his two fingers to rub firmly onto your clit.

“gonna look so pretty filled with my cum, ain’t that right? cum for me, baby, make a mess on my cock pretty girl, let me feel you,” his words were too much for you, wanting to hold on for him, to cum together but it looked like you couldn’t help yourself.

“gonna cum, gonna cum, joel, m’ c-cumming for you,” you moaned, followed by a heavy gasp caused by the jolts of your body after the knot in your tummy pulled apart and unraveled under him.

he was the only one that could pull that reaction from you, the only one who got to see you shake under his hold, and god did he love it. he loved how you milked his cock until he felt his hips go sloppy, grabbing you harder than he knows, his mouth hanging open as he winced from the overstimulation of your cunt not letting go.

he could do this over and over again, except this time, cumming inside of you was an entirely new situation. not only were you dripping down his shaft, but his last few thrusts into you and he came with a gravelly moan, one that made you throb around his cock.

it was almost beautiful the way he made you feel warm, inside and out. the ropes of his hot release coated your walls entirely, and his hips slowly kept gliding in and out of you very softly. in his mind he was making sure you had a chance of carrying his baby, and even if not, he’d have the chance to do it over and over again until then.

it’s all he could dream of really, filling you up with the purpose of making you a mother.

“baby,” he breathes, letting your legs lay straight on the bed, his weight falling onto your body and he traps you.

your bodies are sticky, covered in sweat and spit, your juices coating his entire groin and the bed. it was lovely, something that wasn’t at all sexual given how unflattering it is to be sweaty, disheveled and out of breath, but still you had a sense of lust and desire for him. love, is what you felt. and love was sensual, sexual, emotional, spiritual — it was everything.

and as you laid there under joel while he gave small kisses over the skin exposed to him, playing with his hair and joel whispering to tell you how you are going to be the most amazing, beautiful mother there is — you couldn’t have imagined having a kid, being a mother, especially not to anyone else’s child. anyone but joel.

TAGLIST

@awilderi @nerdieforpedro @cyb3rluvvxx @joelmillers-girl @pedritoferg @bethanymccauley @subconsciouscollapse @teyamsgrl

i hope u enjoyed! thank u so much for the support and for reading!

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peakymarvelworld · 10 months

Note

I love smutty tropes with joel where the reader is sweet and shy but LISTEN can we talk about when reader is just an absolute slut for it? LIKE opening her legs wide automatically, spreading her cunt open with her fingers and begging for it, pleading for it to leave her unable to walk for days......... just like me for joel fr

so real nonnie bc if he asked me to i would gladly beg for it on my knees !!

warnings : smut, minors dni, afab reader, needy!reader, mean!joel, breeding kink if you squint

"say it again."

you almost pout in desperation, eyes focused on his bottom-half as joel pumps himself in front of you, his already hard cock inches away from where you're dripping ready for him. if only it was that easy with him...if only. you've been sprawled on his couch since minutes and all he's done is reward you with gentle kisses, maybe a brush of his knuckles over some skin but nothing more. to say it's getting frustrating isn't even close to what you're feeling.

"i said it already." you grumble. "please, just—"

"uh-uh," he tuts. "all of it, jus' like before."

"god, fine." you mumble, rearranging yourself against the pillows. "fill me up, joel. 's been so long, been missin' your cock so much it— fuck, it hurts not having you around even for a day. need you so bad, i'll do anything—"

"anything?"

there's a playful glint of hope dancing in his eyes over the words as you hum in confirmation, legs spreading open while your fingers dip down to give him a look at all that he could have if he stopped being a tease. when the obscene sound reaches his ears, you breathe a sigh of relief as joel stops pumping his cock and instead positions himself between your legs.

"hope y'know what you're asking for, honey." he whispers, weight almost crushing you under him. you could care less. "no goin' back once i– god damn, you're needy."

you grin, noticing the furrow in his eyebrows when your legs wrap around his waist and pull him close. of course you're aware of what it takes to have a good time with joel, you wouldn't have whispered the same words to him at the bar if you thought otherwise.

a strand of gray hair sticks to joel's sweaty forehead. your fingers reach up to brush it aside but he's quick to grab your wrist and slam it down above your head against the armrest, your gasp of protest making him smirk bitterly on top of you.

"an hour." he whispers, unbothered as you frown in confusion. "got an hour 'til tommy calls me down for patrol. how many times d'you think i can make you cum before i fill that pussy up? anythin', am i right?"

534 notes · View notes

peakymarvelworld · 10 months

Text

the job

9k / dbf!joel x f!reader

warnings: 18+, minors dni. smut. like this might be the longest consecutive smut sequence i have ever written. take the laptop away. age gap (reader is 23, joel is in his late 40s). dbf!joel, dom!joel, some angst and some fluff, fingering, oral (f receiving), unprotected p in v, pet names (angel, baby, babygirl, darlin', etc), possessive!joel, choking, praise kink, no use of y/n.

a/n: i love y'all. pls accept this chapter of gratuitous smut as an extension of my love for you. requests incorporated: choking, eye contact/possessive joel, joel fuckin with reader while she's on the phone, using that big old hotel window, maybe something else i missed.

this is part 8 of my dbf!joel series. read the previous parts here:

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

“Good girl,” he mumbles. His thrusts are more erratic, now. He bottoms out and his cock pulses somewhere deep inside you. “’S my good—” “—fuck," you whimper, “Joel—“ “—fuckin’—" He punctuates the word with a roll of his hips. “—girl.”

Waking up next to Joel is kind of … surreal.

You don’t remember where you are right away. The white sheets, the sprawling window, the duffel bag on the floor. It’s all foreign, in that split second after you open your eyes. You hear Joel mumble something — sound asleep, next to you — and your pulse kicks into high gear.

Fuck. Joel is in your bed, and you’re naked, and your fucking — your dad will come upstairs, and see him, and kill you —

No. No. You’re in San Antonio, in a hotel room that shouldn’t be this nice, and your dad is a hundred miles away.

You’re with Joel. Just Joel. And you’re safe.

You sink back against the mattress. Your breathing cools. Joel shifts beside you, twitching in his sleep, and his finger brushes your bare thigh.

You wriggle closer to him. The sheets wrinkle, tangled up between your legs, and you kick them free. He’d bucked the duvet off both of you, sometime in the middle of the night. You hadn’t minded. He sleeps hot, like a furnace. You hadn’t even minded that he’d tucked you in naked, hair damp from the shower — because he’d managed to keep you so fucking warm.

So warm, in fact, that you’d had to gently extricate yourself some hours later and seek refuge on the cold side of the bed.

You snuggle back into him now. Sunlight seeps through the window, where you’d been too distracted to pull the blinds last night — and casts the sheets in golden glow.

You press your back into his chest. He’s dead asleep, but he responds right away. His body unfurls, making room for you in the curve of his chest, and a sleepy arm drapes over your side. His nose nuzzles by the shell of your ear.

This is usually the part where you roll out of bed, and try your best to quietly — very, very quietly — pull your pants back on without waking the frat boy snoring five feet away. Then you sneak out, and maybe text him later. Or maybe — more likely — not. Even with Hayes, who’d admittedly been a step up from any college boy you’d met, you’d woken up and shot out of bed like a bat out of hell.

But here, now, with Joel…you don’t want to go anywhere. You’d stay here all day, wrapped up like this, if he didn’t have that stupid meeting. You’re pretty sure you could stay like this forever.

You wriggle closer to him. You don’t really mean to — not consciously, at least — but your ass grinds into his boxers. His cock swells to life at your back.

Your skin heats. Something needy pulls at the pit of your stomach. It’s too soon, probably — if you stood up right now, you’re sure every limb would ache from Joel fucking you senseless in the shower last night — but you don’t ache right now. Except for him. For his half-hard cock nudging at your ass.

He groans softly by your ear. Still asleep. His hips give a shallow, sleepy roll. The arm across your body tightens, dragging you closer, and his big, broad palm snakes up to cup your breast. His fingers splay, clutching you close. You bite your lip and bear down on the tug between your thighs.

You don’t want to wake him. Not yet. Maybe it’s stupid, but — as soon as he wakes up, it’s like the big ticking countdown on your last day starts. One more day and one more night in San Antonio. One more day and one more night of just Joel.

So you sneak your hand between your legs. Try to alleviate the tension there yourself.

And that wakes Joel up.

He stirs. His nose nuzzles at your ear. His hand slinks from your breast and charts a line down your tummy.

Your skin prickles. You grind against him — on purpose, this time — and he rewards you with a low, sleepy purr. Your finger grazes your clit and he stops you. He wraps rough, bruised fingers around your wrist.

You still. He’s fully hard now, straining against cotton, and you’re one sleepy, shallow thrust from soaking through white sheets.

“Mm.” His hold tightens on your wrist. Your fingers flex, half an inch from where you need them most — but just out of reach, thanks to Joel’s iron grip. “Couldn’t wait?”

His voice is so fucking sexy like this. A thousand times more Southern when it’s drenched in sleep and sex. It’s a crime you’ve never heard it like this before. That it took you this long to wake up next to him.

There’s no point playing coy. You’d teased him enough last night, and vice fucking versa. You need him, right now, and he knows. He knows.

You make a small, pathetic sound. Try to wrest your hand out of his, and touch your aching clit. But he’s a hell of a lot stronger than you.

“Didn’t wanna—wake you,” you mumble.

“Already up,” he says. He puts your hand down on the bed. Presses it into the mattress, and the implication is clear. Stay put.

He peels his fingers from your wrist. Drags his palm back to your stomach. You whine softly and push further into the curve of his chest, urging his hand lower.

He obliges. Not in the mood for teasing either, apparently. Which means he’s either too sleepy, still, to give you attitude — or he needs you just as badly as you need him.

His fingers trail over your tummy, drawing goosebumps on your skin. Over the curve of your hip. Over the ridge of your thigh and then lower, closer to the wetness between your legs.

The pad of his finger brushes your clit and you push out a breath. You turn, just slightly, trying to grant him easier access. Not that he needs the help. His hand slides between your legs and cups your aching cunt.

He hisses softly. He rolls a finger over your clit and your hips jerk. He sinks lower, pushing two fingers through your slick, and you hear him groan at your back.

“Fuck,“ he murmurs. “This for me, baby girl?”

You nod. Your chin crinkles the pillow.

“Okay,” he says, softly. “Alright, baby. Goddamn. Hold still f’me.”

You nod again. Or — you think you do. You can’t focus on anything, with his hand between your thighs. His mouth is by your shoulder, nipping at the skin there, whispering low, ragged words as he dips a finger inside you.

You gasp. He bites down on your shoulder — just hard enough to leave a mark — and adds a second finger before you’ve processed the first.

“Fuck,“ you breathe. “I—”

“Quiet,” he mumbles. His breath is hot on your skin. You want to turn around — look at him — but he’s got you braced against his chest, fingers crooked inside you. You can feel his heartbeat at your back.

“Quiet,” he echoes, when you mewl at the stretch. “Just relax, angel.”

You relax. He’s stretching you, from this angle. Nudging at that spongy, sensitive spot that only he seems to reach. You fight the urge to rut against him and bite down on the pillowcase, instead. He pumps his wrist faster and your thighs tremble around his hand.

“So fuckin’ wet for me,” he growls. He drags his fingers out, all the way, and you whimper at the loss. “So fuckin’ — needy.“

He drags slick fingers over your clit. He’s so fucking good at this — he knows just how much pressure to apply; just how long to keep his fingers there — like he can read the fire building in your core.

“I know, baby,” he murmurs, when you moan into the pillow. “I know. Gonna take care ‘a you.”

Fuck.

Just — that. Just his voice at your ear, and his breath by your shoulder, and his soaked fingers toying at your entrance again. It’s enough to send you racing to the edge. He dips his middle finger back inside you and you yelp into the pillowcase. Your hand shoots off the mattress and scrabbles over his.

Sleeping next to Joel means a night’s worth of tension, knotted up ten times over in your core. So it doesn’t take much, now that he’s finally touching you. It’s just the pad of his finger, and well-timed teeth at the curve of your shoulder, and you’re falling apart in his arms.

It’s a lazy, rolling kind of orgasm that he drags out of you. The kind that’s been brewing at the surface all night, while you slept wrapped up in his arms. He draws it out and fucks you through it with his fingers. Only pulls his hand back when your breathing starts to even.

Your legs shake. Your breath pulls against the pillow. His arm loops back around your waist, drawing you close, and you feel him prop himself up on his elbow. He presses a gentle kiss to the side of your jaw.

You hum. And then you whine, softly, at the scrape of his stubble and the hard, persistent nudge of his cock at your back.

You roll over. All the way, until you’re face to face with him.

You’re expecting the usual smirk. The dark eyes and the hungry half-smile. You’re not expecting him to look so…wrecked. So desperate. It stokes something deep inside you.

He doesn’t put up a fight when you hook your leg around his waist and hoist yourself on top of him. Or when you roll your hips over his lap, and drag your cunt over his boxers. His hands go to your waist and he blinks up at you: a little hazy, still, with sleep and lust and something softer.

You bend down to kiss him. He rakes broad hands up your back and lifts his head to meet your mouth. His tongue slips to yours and you moan.

It’s easy. Lazy. There’s no urgency to the way you kiss him, or to the gentle, tugging need that gathers at your core. Your dad isn’t waiting outside the door to barge in. Sarah isn’t sound asleep in the next room over. It means he can take his time, kissing you. It means his hands can map your body and his tongue can map your mouth, and he can learn every part of you before he moves on to the next.

And he does. He’s patient, even with his cock straining as you straddle his lap. His hands graze your ribcage, and cup your breasts, and drag down to your hips again. Over and over, until your skin is on fire, and you have to break his kiss to breathe.

He watches you catch your breath. His hands still at your sides and he smiles, lips swollen, dark hair tousled and dripping to his brows.

Your face heats, and you’re not sure why. He always does this to you. Always makes you nervous, even when he’s dragged one orgasm out of you already and seems well on his way to the second.

“Hey,” you say, softly. You look in his eyes. At his mouth. At the slope of his nose and the cut of his jaw. You try to memorize it, for the next time you wake up and he’s not in your bed.

He smiles again. His fingers squeeze at your waist.

“Mornin’,” he says, in that rough, serrated, sleepy drawl.

Mornin’. As if he didn’t just have his hand between your legs. As if there isn’t a picture-perfect print of his teeth on your shoulder. As if his cock isn’t swollen and straining while you straddle his lap. Just — mornin’. That’s it.

You lean in to kiss him again.

“G’morning,” you murmur. And then, after a beat, when a smile starts to play on your face, “—Mr Miller.”

His brows flick. The sleep washes out of his eyes. His grip tightens on your waist, fingers digging at your hips, and his arousal swells thick at your core.

“Thought I told you not t’call me that.”

Your smile curves against his mouth. His palms splay at your back, pressing you close.

“Sorry, Mr Miller,” you say, and the look he shoots you is downright wicked. “Must’ve slipped my mind.”

“Fuck,“ he growls. “Don’t.”

“What?” You grin. Your hips rock. His clothed cock slides against your cunt. “Remind me. What happens if I call you Mr Mill—”

You’re used to college boys. Lots of teasing, minimal follow-through. All bark and no bite.

But that’s not Joel Miller. Joel Miller’s equal parts bark and equal parts bite. In other words — he follows through.

And he certainly follows through now, when he grabs you by the hips and rolls you both over with a low, feral snarl.

Your back hits the mattress and you make a small, surprised sound. You’re not really sure how it happens — you were straddling him a second ago, thighs braced around his waist — and now he’s got you caged in white sheets. His biceps flex beside your head.

“Jesus,“ he mutters. His lips hang over yours, agonizingly close, but he doesn’t bend to kiss you. You’re in trouble. “Y’never fuckin’ listen.”

Your lips quirk. You tip your head back against the mattress — a little defiant, a little inviting. You’re not sure what you’re asking him to do, but — you’re asking him to do it. Make me listen. Shut me up.

He knows what you’re asking for. He gets it right away. His hand leaves its spot beside your head and wraps loose around your throat. Loose. Like he’s just … resting his palm there, at first. There’s barely any weight behind it.

“Say it again,” he tells you.

You look up at him. Into his eyes. You open your mouth to taunt him again — yes, Mr Miller — and the grip on your throat goes tight.

Not so tight that you can’t breathe. But tight enough that you can’t get the words out. Tight enough that his fingers dig into your neck, and leave prints on the thin skin there, and bear down just hard enough to bring the fire in your belly to a boil.

You’d had one boy — one — try this before. In a dorm room your freshman year, when you were younger and dumber and not experienced enough to know he wasn’t doing it right. But experienced enough to know you didn’t fucking like it. You’d had to bat his hand away, and gasp for air, and after that he’d been so horrified he’d left his own room without a shirt.

But Joel…

Joel’s doing it right. Joel’s got your throat wrapped up in his big hand, and he knows when to squeeze and he knows when to stop. He knows what kind of pressure to apply to make you whine and not speak. And it feels fucking — good. It feels like you’re his.

“C’mon,” he urges. His thumb nudges at the base of your jaw. The pressure lets up on your throat and you drag a shaky breath. “Go on. Say it, pretty girl.”

You try. But he’s squeezing again — gently, expertly, like he’s done this before — and you can’t fucking say it.

You look up at him. You swallow back the words, and you can feel your throat move underneath his palm. The ache between your thighs hits a fever pitch.

“No?” he murmurs. “Nothin’?”

You whimper. The sound slips out and drips down his palm.

He notices you squirming. Rubbing your thighs together, half-tangled in sheets while he squeezes your throat.

He shakes his head. His hand slackens, just slightly, and he strokes at your jaw.

“Poor baby,” he says. “Bet you got a lot to say, huh? Tell you what—”

He squeezes your throat; pushes his hips into yours — and the combination makes you whine.

“—I’ll let you speak,” he says, softly, “but only ‘f you tell me somethin’ I wanna hear, this time.”

You swallow again. His palm on your throat makes your eyes roll.

“Yeah?” he asks. “You gonna be good?”

You try to nod. His grip slackens and you take a shaky breath.

“Fuck,“ you breathe. “Holy—shit, Joel—“

“’S better,” he muses. “Ain’t quite right, though.”

You mumble something unintelligible. Sounds like please.

“Heard you last night,” he says, softly, and you already know what he means. You know what you’d said to him, when the lights had gone dark and his breathing had stilled. You were pretty sure he’d been asleep, but — you’d meant it all the same.

Yours, you’d whispered. I’m yours.

You blink up at him. He takes his hand from your throat and hooks a finger through his boxers, working them down in a single, swift motion.

He settles back on top of you. Nudges your legs apart, so he’s resting in the cradle of your hips. He drags the head of his cock through your slick and you push out a breath.

His eyes search yours. Dark. Wide.

“Mine, yeah?”

You nod. “Yes,” you pant. Your hips squirm under his. “Yes, fuck, Joel, yours—“

“Say it again,” he says. And this time he’s not teasing. He lines his cock with your entrance and waits. “Tell me.”

“I’m—fuck. Y-yours.”

His jaw clenches. He swears, softly. He pushes inside you, just the tip, and you whine at the stretch. Your eyes flicker shut.

He stills over you. Your nails dig into his biceps, urging him deeper, and he doesn’t fucking move. Not until you —

“Look at me,” he murmurs. “Fuckin’ — look at me.”

You open your eyes. He’s inches above you, panting softly, so close that his forehead ghosts yours. He runs hot, when your fingers dig into his arms. Even hotter than he did in his sleep; like every part of him is licked in flame. Your skin sears where he touches you.

He pushes deeper and you bite back a moan. You kill the urge to close your eyes, again, and let yourself drift — because he wants you to look. He wants you to see him.

So you look at him. You watch his eyes go dark when he rolls his hips and fills you up. You watch the muscle in his jaw tick when you squeeze around his cock. You watch the stray curl in his hair drip down to his brow and the ache in your chest outdoes the one between your legs.

He stretches you inch by inch. It’s almost agonizingly slow. When he does bottom out you’re squirming underneath him, scrabbling at his arms, and his shoulders, and the back of his neck, urging him deeper, faster. But he takes his time, because for once he has it. And you’re glad he does, because when he finally bottoms out you have to swallow back his name.

There’s a sweet, searing sting where he splits you open. A leftover twinge of soreness from last night. Anyone else and it might be verging on painful. But Joel is uncharacteristically gentle, this morning — slow and sweet and patient — not what you begged him for but what he knows you need.

“Joel, fuck,” you breathe. “Fuck. You feel so—f-fucking—good.”

He murmurs something in your skin. You’re too blissed out to hear what.

He pulls all the way out — slow, slow, — and you both gasp. Your breath catches on his lips. And then he thrusts back in; fills you again, and your head rolls against the pillows.

You almost close your eyes again. It’s almost too much.

He catches you. Lifts one hand to your throat, where his print is blooming on your skin — and tips your chin with his thumb.

“Hey,” he breathes, and the sound of his drawl makes you whine. Soft, silky, Southern. “C’mon, angel. Eyes on me. Wanna—fuck—wanna fuckin’ see you.”

You look at him through hooded eyes. He rewards you with an expert roll of his hips. His cock catches your g-spot and your hands fly to his forearms, digging marks in wired muscle.

“Fuck,” you yelp. “Joel—”

He finds a pace he likes and sets it. Slow at first, still easy, gentle — but after a while he can’t help himself. Or maybe your begging just gets to him. He snaps his hips into yours with a growl. Pulls all the way out and thrusts back in, over and over until you can’t cry his name.

But you look at him, because he told you to. You keep your eyes on him and your head goes fuzzy. Your muscles clamp pathetically around his cock.

He sees the effort. How desperately you’re trying to do what he asks. His cock kisses your g-spot, again and again and again — and his voice melts like honey at the base of your neck.

“Doin’ good, baby,” he breathes. “Real good. Attagirl.”

You whimper. Your second orgasm claws its way up your chest.

“Fuck,” you whine. “Please don’t s-stop, feels sofuckinggood, please, I—”

“Fuck,“ he growls. He speeds up, pounds into you faster, and the sound of skin-on-skin makes your head spin. Sunlight seeps through the window and splashes his skin. Makes him burn even hotter, if that’s possible. “S’okay. C’mon, babygirl. Cum f’me. Lemme fuckin’—ngh—lemme feel you.”

That’s all it takes. Just his permission. Just his word, and the band at the base of your belly snaps, and you cum so hard your vision swims. You bear down on his cock and he groans.

Your legs tremble. Your eyes roll back and he doesn’t bother scolding you. He fucks you through it — deep, steady thrusts — until the noises you’re making undo him.

“Good girl,” he mumbles. His thrusts are more erratic, now. He bottoms out and his cock pulses somewhere deep inside you. “’S my good—”

“—fuck," you whimper, “Joel—“

“—fuckin’—"

He punctuates the word with a roll of his hips.

“—girl.”

You don’t have to beg him not to pull out anymore. He does that on his own. His palms tremble on the mattress, braced beside your head, and he sinks to his elbows when he can’t hold himself up. He cums inside you with a moan that sounds a whole lot like your name, and he brings his head down to yours for a sloppy, heated kiss. It’s messy. His teeth hit yours and his tongue is in your mouth and you’re swallowing the sound of his galloping pulse. Your nails sink in his back, pressing him into you, and his heartbeat echoes over yours.

And then you just…stay like that. For a long time. There’s no urgency to get up, quick, before someone fucking sees. He stays buried inside you, draped on top of you like a big, sunlit blanket. His nose is nuzzled by the side of your neck. He lays kisses there, occasionally, soothing the marks he’s left on your throat — but that’s the only time either of you move.

Until the white-hot bliss starts to ebb, and you realize how fucking heavy he is.

“Joel,” you mumble.

He grunts. His nose nudges at your neck. You push at his arm and he flops back down.

“Off,” you whine. “Can’t breathe.”

“‘F you can talk, y’can breathe,” he hums, sleepily.

You roll your eyes. A smile plays at your lips, nestled under his shoulder.

“Get—off,“ you say, trying to wriggle free. “You weigh like — ten thousand pounds.”

He relents with a huff. He rolls off of you, cock slipping free, and you gasp at the loss. He flips onto his back and sprawls beside you on the sheets.

“Happy?” he drawls.

Truth is, you’d take suffocating under him any day, if it means he’ll stay that close. If it means every part of him is tangled up in every part of you. But you don’t tell him that. You’re not sure if you should.

So you settle for a contented hum, instead. You roll over on your side, propped up on your elbow, and kiss the patchy spot in his stubble.

“Yeah,” you say. “Happy.”

And it’s the truth.

Until your fucking dad Facetimes you, while you’re naked in white sheets.

You reel your phone in from the nightstand and stare at the notification.

“Fuck,” you mumble. “Um—“

You tilt the phone so Joel can see. He scowls.

“Shit. Fuckin’ — hang up.”

“I can’t hang up. He’s calling me.”

“Well — don’t answer.”

“Oh, really?” You shoot him a look. Wave the phone in his face. “You don’t want to Facetime him together? Oh, hey dad. No, yeah, we’re doing great. Work trip is awesome. Here’s Joel right now. Why is he naked? No, that’s a good question. I guess — I mean, we just finished having crazy sex, so maybe that’s—”

“Enough,” Joel growls. He snatches the phone from your hands and clicks it off. The screen goes dark. It lights up half a second later with a new notification. Dad - Missed Facetime call. There are half a dozen other notifications underneath that one. All from Hayes. All unopened.

“See?” Joel growls. “Ain’t so fuckin’ hard.”

You try to grab your phone back. He hoists it over his head, just out of reach, and you scrabble at his forearms.

“Give it,” you tell him. “He gets all weird when I don’t respond. He’s—”

Your phone buzzes again. In Joel’s hand, this time. Your dad’s contact lights up the screen again.

“Fuck,” you hiss. “See? Now he won’t let it go. Probably thinks I got murdered. He always does this. He called, like, every day while I was at school. Just —“

You make grabby-hands at Joel. He frowns, but he forks it over. You decline the Facetime but answer his call. Audio only. The last thing he needs is video proof of whatever the hell is going on here.

“Hey, dad,” you say.

Joel rolls his eyes. Sprawls back against the bed.

Hey, kiddo. All good?

“Uh. Yeah. All good.”

Good. Just checkin’ in. No Facetime?

“Um.” You stare at Joel. He’s spectacularly unhelpful, splayed out across the sheets. He blinks at you with dark eyes and you fumble. “Uh, no. Sorry. I’m in the — we’re in the car.”

Oh, sure. Sure. No worries. Well, look—

He cuts out a little. Static bites through the line. You sit up and swing your legs out of bed, much to Joel’s chagrin. His scowl deepens when your feet hit the floor.

—just wanted to see how you’re doin’, make sure Joel’s behavin’—

Anxiety nips at your chest. You tuck the phone by your ear and pace the length of the room, shuffling on carpet, trying not to look at Joel stretched out across the bed.

He looks so good, like this. He just fucked you silly for the last half hour and all you want to do is climb back in there with him. And he looks like he knows it, too. He’s watching you pace with one arm behind his head, propped up against the pillows. His eyes rake your body with a lazy sort of hunger.

He gives a hooked half-smile when you catch him looking. You bend to pick a pillow up off the floor and hurl it with one hand to his chest.

He makes a quiet, exaggerated, oomph sound.

Stop staring, you mouth.

He shrugs.

Your dad’s voice cuts the line. You there?

You freeze. Swallow. “Yeah,” you say. “Sorry. You cut out for a second.”

Just sayin’, I hope Joel ain’t too much of a pain. Really appreciate you pickin’ up the slack for me this weekend—

“Yeah,” you say, quickly. “It’s not a problem. Joel is—”

He perks up, at the sound of his name. Cocks his head.

“—behaving,” you say.

Joel shakes his head. You ignore him. Ignore the pull between your legs.

You turn your back on him, because he’s fucking distracting, and bend to rifle through his duffel bag. You pick a tee shirt off the top and pull it over your head while your dad rattles away on the line.

“Uh-huh,” you say, when there’s a lull in his story. You tug the shirt on. “Sure.”

You brought your own shirts. Naturally. You just like Joel’s better. Mostly because they’re soft, from too many goes in the washer, and they smell like him. But also because you like the look on his face when you stand up, and straighten, and turn around to face him in his favorite tee shirt.

His eyes go dark. He sits halfway up in the sheets.

Your dad is midway through a story about one of your neighbors. Alicia Simmons, the crazy divorcee. Something about her custody battle. You’re not really listening.

“Uh-huh,” you say, again. “That’s wild.”

You’re not sure if it is. But your dad seems to agree.

You turn away from Joel again. Pad across the room, to the portrait window on the wall, and put a palm up to the glass. Joel’s shirt just covers your ass, and you can feel his stare at the top of your thighs. Right where the hem meets bare skin.

Your dad is still talking. You press your forehead to the glass and stare at people fourteen stories below.

The Alicia Simmons story seems to reach its natural conclusion. You jump in before he can start another.

“Dad,” you say. “I’ll be home tomorrow. So we can — we can talk then, yeah?”

Oh. Yeah. ‘Course.

Then you feel kind of bad, because he sounds a little dejected, and you picture him in his worn-down easy chair watching Christmas in July alone. So you throw him a bone.

“Hey—how’s work?” you ask. “That big project you had?”

I’m workin’ on it. Would rather be in San Antonio, lemme tell you. S’posed to be beautiful weather this weekend.

“Yeah,” you say. The mattress groans behind you. You hear Joel’s feet hit the carpet and you stiffen. “Uh—it’s nice.”

And the room is good? No issues?

Jesus. He asks a lot of fucking questions.

“No issues,” you assure him. You peel your forehead off the window. “The room’s real nice.”

Good. Good.

There’s silence. You think he might finally be done.

“Okay,” you say, tentatively. “So I’ll talk to you—”

Is Joel there? Need to ask him a quick question.

You pause. The phone feels heavy in your hand.

“Uh,” you say.

You’re in the car, right? Just pass me over.

“He’s not, um — we’re at a gas station.”

You wince. It doesn’t even sound convincing in your head.

Oh, your dad says, after a brief pause. So he’s not there?

“No,” you lie. Because he is there — he’s right there, closing the distance to the window with heavy footfalls on the carpet. He stops inches from your back and drops his mouth to your shoulder.

You gasp. You pray to god it doesn’t translate through the phone.

“He’s, um—” Joel’s hands slide up your sides. He nips at your neck and you swallow. “He’s…pumping…gas.”

Silence. Your shirt — Joel’s shirt — bunches underneath his fingers. He drags it up, past your ribcage, and skims the skin he’s uncovered. You shiver. Your eyes stay fixed on the street far below.

Okay, your dad says. Well. Just have him gimme a call. ’S not mission critical.

“Yeah,” you clip. “Well, if that’s it—”

And tell him Alicia’s been trying to reach him. Wants to get together. Think she could be good for him. She’s a little nuts, but. Y’know.

You blink.

“Alicia’s trying to reach him,” you repeat, for Joel’s benefit. He makes a low, annoyed sound in your shoulder. “Uh-huh.”

He can probably sense the way your hackles raise. It’s not like you’re jealous — not when Joel dragged you upstairs, at a party she hosted, and fucked the life out of you in her own master bedroom.

You’re not jealous. You’re just…irked. And Joel can tell.

He smoothes your shirt back down. His hands slide to your hips, to your thighs, and then he’s sinking to his knees. His hands wrap around your calves, tugging gently, urging you to turn and face him. So you do. Your back thuds against the window. The phone hangs half-forgotten at your ear.

Yeah, your dad says. And then he says something else, and you don’t hear. Because Joel Miller is on his knees for you, framed by a picture window in broad fucking daylight, spreading your thighs with those big, rough hands. The hem of your shirt bunches up around his knuckles. He pushes his head forward; nudges his nose between your legs, and your back arches against glass. You swear into the phone and the line goes quiet.

Sorry, kiddo. Can’t hear ya.

“Nothing,” you say, quickly. Joel’s warm tongue licks between your thighs and you swallow back another word. “N-nothing.”

Okay, your dad says. You can’t tell if he sounds weird. If he does, you chalk it up to your own imagination. Well, that’s it from me. Remember to have Joel call.

Joel’s busy, you want to say. And he is. His tongue curves against your clit, hot and thick and soaked in your slick. Your hips buck into his mouth. Your free hand shoots out to tangle in his hair.

“Okay,” you squeak, instead.

Talk soo—

You hang up. You have to fucking hang up. Sorry, dad.

Your phone drops from your ear and dangles at your side. Joel’s hand leaves your thigh — just for a second — and he rips the phone out of your grasp. Tosses it to the carpet.

Then his hand is back on you. Bracing you against his mouth. His tongue flutters against your clit and your head thuds against glass.

“My—fuck,” you breathe. You tug aimlessly at his hair. “My dad wants you t—ah—to call him.”

His amused sound shoots straight to your core. He pulls his mouth away for half a second. Just to ask, in that gravelly purr —

“Anythin’ else?”

“Yeah,” you say, breathless. Your back writhes against the windowpane. You guide his mouth back to your cunt and sigh. “Alicia wants to—fuck—”

“Mm.” He looks up at you. Dark eyes and a slick, swollen mouth. The sight makes your legs weak. “Don’t wanna fuck her.”

“No,” you pant. “She wants to—ngh—“ His tongue is on you again, and your hands are in his hair, and if anyone on the street would just look up, right now, they’d see him worshipping you on his knees. “She wants to — t-talk. To you.”

He hums. His hands slide up to squeeze at your ass.

“Don’t wanna talk to her.”

You nod absently. Your fingers tangle in his roots and he groans into your cunt.

“My dad thinks—“ you gasp, “—thinks she could—could be good. F-for you.”

He slows up. Your hips chase his mouth.

“Yeah?” he murmurs. “’N what do you think, angel? Think she’s good f’me?”

You look at him. Your eyes are heavy, skin pricked with want. Your thighs are soaked where he pries them apart. Where he kneels in between your legs and stares up at you with those big fucking brown eyes.

“No,” you breathe. “Think I’m better.”

“Think you’re right,” he murmurs. And then his mouth is on you, warm and soft and safe, and he doesn’t drag his tongue away until you see stars. Even then he does it slowly, lapping at your swollen clit until you push his head away.

Then you drag him up by the hair, and kiss him until you taste yourself. Until you feel his smile curve against your lips.

You break the kiss. Push him away, with your palms on his shoulders.

“Okay—fuck. Go. Go away. We’re gonna be late.”

His brow flicks.

“You kissed me,” he drawls.

“Yeah, well, you did—“ You gesture blankly to the window. “That.“

“Oh, ‘m sorry,” he says. “Did you not like that?“

“Okay, no. Shut up. That’s not what I meant.” He doesn’t say anything, so you glare at him. “Shut up.”

He grins. “Didn’t say anythin’.”

“Yeah, but — you have that look.”

“What look?”

“That one! Your fucking — smug little smirk. Look. You’re doing it right now.”

“‘S just my face.”

“No it’s not. You know it’s not. Your face is more … scowly.”

“It’s what?“

“You know, like—“ You affect a scowl. It’s more of a grimace.

“That’s nice.” Joel nods. “That’s real nice. Be sure t’remember that one, next time I think ‘bout gettin’ down on my knees.”

You open your mouth. Clamp it shut again.

His eyes glitter. Checkmate.

And then he has the nerve to turn around and walk away from you, which is exactly what you asked him to do, when you pushed him away and said, “go away,” but still.

“Where are you going?”

He pauses. Blinks back at you.

“Shower,” he says. He shrugs. “I’d ask you t’join me, but…wouldn’t wanna make us late.”

Your cheeks heat. If there were any more pillows on the floor you’d hurl one at his head. But there aren’t, so — you settle for watching him walk away. Which isn’t, like, a terrible view.

When he’s safely sealed in the bathroom you sink back down on the bed. Cover your face with your hands.

“Fuuuck,” you mumble. You thump your head against the pillows. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”

Which seems like an understatement. But there’s not really an appropriate word that describes how fucked you are, so you settle for — well. Fuck.

Cause you’re pretty sure you’re falling in love with Joel Miller.

—

You take a shower after Joel. For all your talk about being late, there’s still an hour until you have to be on the road. Plenty of time to dry your hair, and get dressed, and eat the breakfast that’s waiting for you when you step out of the bathroom.

He must’ve ordered room service as soon as you’d gotten in the shower. It’s all set up when you come out, balanced on a wood tray at the foot of the bed. And — ever the gentleman — he hasn’t waited for you to join him. He’s sitting cross-legged in a pair of blue jeans and an unbuttoned flannel, hair still damp, gnawing on a piece of bacon like a wolf.

“Nice of you to wait,” you say.

He looks at you. His eyes sparkle.

“You look nice,” he says, and he sounds so genuine it makes your heart hurt. He nods to your outfit. You’ve ditched his oversized Hanes shirt for one that actually fits.

“Liked the other shirt better,” he says.

“Yeah, well. Heard it wasn’t professional to meet a client in the boss’s clothes.”

“Mm.” He picks up his coffee. Takes a long, thoughtful sip. “Might be right. Heard the boss ain’t much of a stickler, though.”

You smile. You sit beside him on the bed and your knee nudges his. You kick the urge to stare at his chest, where his flannel drips open and exposes toned skin — and drag your eyes to his, instead.

“Wasn’t sure what you liked,” he says, and you almost think he sounds shy. Or — tentative, at least. He gestures toward the tray with the bacon he’s holding.

“So you just got…” You look at the selection. Pastries, bacon, eggs. A separate plate of just pancakes. OJ and coffee. Ice water in a glass carafe. “…Everything?”

He huffs.

“It’s good,” you say, quickly. “It’s — I mean, it’s enough food for, like, a small army, but — no.” You laugh. “It’s good.”

He smiles, softly. Shakes his head. You tear off a piece of croissant and eat beside him on the bed.

The quiet is so nice — so…domestic — that you’re almost afraid to talk. You don’t want to break up…whatever this is. But you have to. The question in your throat is clawing its way out.

“What would happen if we just…told him?” you ask, when his fork is halfway to his lips.

He pauses. Puts the fork back down.

“My dad,” you clarify. “Like, if we just — if we just came out and said it.”

He looks at you. You can’t quite read the expression he makes.

“Think y’know what would happen,” he says, after a beat.

“Yeah, sure. He’d kill us. But, like — would he? Would he actually kill us?”

Joel squints. Swallows. He looks like he might actually be mulling it over, but then —

“Yes,” he clips.

“Okay. Great. Good talk.”

He puts his mug back on the tray. Unspools his legs.

“Listen t’me,” he says, softly. “Your dad is a — he’s a good man. He takes care ‘a his people. Looks after me. Looks after you. But he ain’t— he ain’t exactly—”

He hesitates.

“Yeah,” you say. You know.

“One time, long time ago, your dad—“ He sucks on his teeth. Shakes his head. “I was drivin’ back from a site. Saw a dog on the highway, just sittin’ on the shoulder. Little puppy.” He holds out his hands. “This big, maybe. Fuckin’ - fleas, ticks. Wasn’t lastin’ through the night out there.”

You frown.

“This was—”

“When y’were away. First year ‘a school, or somethin’. Couple years ago. Anyway, look, I—I couldn’t leave it. But last thing I need’s a fuckin’ -- month old puppy runnin’ around. Sarah’s a handful as it is.”

You laugh a little. Nod.

“So, I — I took him to your dad’s place. Stopped by the pet store first. Got him a fuckin’ — collar. Food. Squeaky toy. Some fuckin’ — flea shampoo. Shit, I didn’t know what I was doin’.”

You stifle a smile. The thought of Joel wandering a PetSmart, picking up a collar for the flea-infested puppy in the front seat of his truck — it certainly paints a picture. Big tough guy. Defeated by a puppy on the side of the road.

“I pulled up to your dad’s house with him, figurin’ — ‘f I took him back to mine, that’d be that. Sarah’d see him, ’n then — we’d have a fuckin’ dog. Figured she ain’t lettin’ that thing go. So safest bet was your dad’s, til I figured out what to do. He wasn’t home, so — I let myself in. Had a key. At this point the dog’s barkin’. Wants outta the truck. So I let him out, fuckin’—give him a bath, towel him off. Feed him. ’N then your dad comes home.”

You’ve never heard this story. It seems like a pretty major oversight, considering how much your dad likes to talk about nothing. He’d call you every day in school with some inane neighborhood gossip. Ted Thomas burnt his shed down, tryin’ to grill. Alicia Simmons gettin’ a divorce. Carter’s takin’ the semester off from Syracuse. So Joel was in our bathtub, with a dog from the highway — seems like a weird one to omit.

“He never told me this,” you say.

“No, I figure he wouldn’t. He was — I don’t know. Maybe he was in a mood.”

A mood. Your dad is rarely in a mood. But when he is, it’s…

“What’d he do?”

Joel shrugs. “Parked his truck in the garage. Came in, saw the mess I’d made ’n his house. Think he was — think he was kinda pissed, that I’d been in there without askin’.”

“He gave you a key.”

“Yeah, but—don’t think he expected me to use it for that. He was — he wasn’t happy I’d come in with that puppy. He put the collar on the dog ’n drove it down to the shelter himself. Didn’t say much to me. Just took it on out ’n left. ’N I probably woulda kept it, too, y’know? Said I wouldn’t, but — he kinda grew on me. Woulda made Sarah happy.”

You’re quiet. Processing. It’s probably the longest Joel’s ever spoken on his own.

“Your dad, he — he asked for his key back, after that.”

“What? Why?”

“Don’t know. Never made a fuss. Just gave it back, ’n that was that.”

You blink. You take a bite of pancake and realize it’s lost its taste.

“Your dad’s a good man,” Joel repeats. “But he—he likes things a certain way. His way. Doesn’t like people makin’ a mess in his house.”

“Yeah,” you mumble. You shake your head. “Sorry. It was a — stupid thought.”

“No,” Joel says, gently. “Wasn’t stupid, darlin’.”

He touches your leg. His thumb strokes your knee.

“‘M sorry,” he breathes. There are tears behind your eyes, all of a sudden, and you’re not entirely sure why.

“No, it’s —“ You shake your head. Blink back the tears. “We should go, right? The meeting?”

He’s quiet.

“Yeah,” he says, after a pause. “Yeah, we should go.”

You get up abruptly. Fix your shirt, and your jeans, and do up your laces while you wait by the door. Joel takes a few minutes, gathering his things, and you’re pretty he’s dawdling to give you privacy.

Which you appreciate. It gives you time to swipe away the rogue tear on your cheek. When you straighten up again you almost look fine.

He meets you by the door. His bag is slung over his shoulder, brimming with blueprints, and he almost looks professional. If it weren’t for the way his collar sticks up, half-cocked. If it weren’t for the marks you’ve left under his jaw.

So you almost look fine, and he almost looks professional. What a duo. Dream team, you think. You reach up to smooth his collar and he catches your wrist.

“Hey,” he breathes.

“I’m okay,” you tell him. And it’s the truth. You are. You will be. It’s just — your dad. This mess. The fact that tonight is your last chance, as far as you can tell, to wake up wrapped in white sheets with just Joel.

But you’ll be fine. You will. Cause he’s worth it.

And that — that you should tell him.

“‘F this is too much—”

“No,” you say, quickly. “No.”

You look up at him. Your eyes search his. He looks scared.

“Joel,” you say. “You’re worth it.”

He gives a faint, ragged sigh. When he kisses you you melt.

“We’re gonna be late,” you mumble, pressed to his lips.

You hear his chuckle. He breaks the kiss and herds you out the door.

“Out ‘cha go, angel,” he drawls. “Ladies first.”

—

Hotshot client was an understatement. This woman is fucking loaded. You catch the first whiff of fuck-you money when you turn up her drive. Which is like…a mile long. And lined with trees you’ve only seen on a Netflix nature show.

“Jesus,” you mumble. Joel’s truck grumbles over gravel. “Who is this lady?”

Joel grunts.

He parks in front of the house. It’s one of those sprawling Mediterranean villa-style things that wouldn’t look out of place in Architectural Digest.

“She wants to move out of this?“ You turn to him in the driver’s seat. “Into something…you’re gonna build?”

He puts the truck in park. Looks over at you.

“You—“ He shuts his mouth. Opens it again. “Shut up,” he says.

You grin.

“Try to fuckin’ behave,” he tells you.

You put your hands up in surrender.

“Yes, sir,“ you say, and he shoots you a look.

But he must trust you, cause he gives a heavy sigh and pushes open the door. You follow, crunching on gravel when you hop from the truck, and you can’t help but notice how out of place you both look. Joel cleans up nice, but he still looks like Joel. A little rough around the edges.

You tug at your shirt. Try your best to look at all competent at a job you’ve never done.

Thankfully your role is pretty simple. Stay out of the way, help Joel carry shit in, look professional. Nod along, occasionally, when he says something about a blueprint.

You’re supposed to look like you know what you’re doing, so that she thinks he has an assistant — which, in turn, makes him look a hell of a lot more put-together than he is. Not to say that he’s not…put-together. He is. Usually. He’s just a little rougher than the tucked-shirt, briefcase, fake-assistant thing he’s got going on today. And he usually wouldn’t bother with all this shit, but — this lady is an enigma.

You get the sense he wants this job, bad, cause she’s chomping at the bit to overpay. She’s hemorrhaging cash. She even smells like money — like old parchment paper and overpriced perfume — when Joel rings the bell and she meets you at the front door.

“Hi!” She extends a hand and it takes you aback. You’re not really expecting her to look — or sound — this cool. Big chunky necklace, and a sundress, and a woven, dripping sunhat. Mojito in her free hand, in a glass with fancy ice and sprigs of real mint. And she’s younger than you’d thought. Late forties. Early fifties, maybe.

“Laurie,” she says. “You must be Joel.”

Joel takes her hand. Shakes.

“Can’t thank you enough for comin’ all the way out here.”

He shrugs. “Not a problem,” he gruffs.

She turns to you. Shakes your hand, too.

“And you’re—“

“She’s helpin’ me out,” Joel clips.

“A-ha.” She gives you a knowing look. It’s irritatingly disarming. “The assistant. Well — come in! Both of you. Can I get you a drink—-?”

You wouldn’t say no to a mojito. Especially if it’s gonna have the fancy little mint sprig. But Joel says, “no, ma’am,” in that I’m polite drawl, so you say no, too. And then you make a mental note to make him buy you one, later.

“It’s just through here,” she says, floating through the foyer ten steps ahead of you. You exchange a look with Joel. He shakes his head.

“You have to excuse the mess,” she says. “My nephew’s stayin’ with me for a few days. Not used to the company. And—“ she turns around, gives you a knowing look, “—you know how boys can be.”

You blink. Give a stuttered, affirmative hum. She turns back around, satisfied.

You have no idea what mess she’s referring to. Unless the white sneakers by the door — or the single unwashed plate on the counter, when you pass through the kitchen — somehow qualify.

She leads you both down a hallway and into an office. There’s a desk by a window, and she motions for Joel to put his things down there. He gets to work setting up — spreading out blueprints, smoothing down the edges — and Laurie makes small talk with you.

You kind of wish she wouldn’t. You’re nervous enough as-is. God forbid you knock over one of the ten thousand tchotchkes she has lying around. One tiny bronze statue of Napoleon is probably worth more than your inheritance.

But she’s rattling away, so — you tune in. You watch Joel out of the corner of your eye and nod along. She asks you questions about school and you answer. Where’d you go and did you like it and what did you study?

“English,” you tell her. “Lit.”

“English!” She smiles. “Good for you. Not enough English majors.”

You lift a brow. Don’t hear that one a lot.

“Yeah,” you say, with a tentative smile. “I agree.”

“My nephew — the one who’s visiting — he’s around your age. Majored in — what was it? Engineering. Ugh. Can you imagine?” She makes an exaggerated, disgusted face, and you can’t help but laugh. “I swear to god, I don’t understand a damn thing he says. He’s a sweetheart. Really. But — god. Not a word.”

You laugh again. You kind of like this rich lady.

“He’ll be around later,” she says. “Maybe you can meet him. Might be good for him to meet a real-life girl. He’s had his nose in his damn phone for two days straight.”

You smile awkwardly. She catches your look and waves her hand.

“Oh, no. No. Don’t mean it like that. Gorgeous girl like you, I’m sure someone’s gone and snatched you up already. Just meant it might be nice, for him to see someone his age. I’m sure he’s feelin’ cooped up here with me.”

“Nice place to be cooped up,” you say, and hope she takes it as intended.

She does. She laughs, nods. “Sure,” she says. “Sure.”

Then Joel is done setting up, mercifully, and you’re released from conversation duty. She joins him by the desk and Joel bends over the prints.

There’s a number two pencil tucked behind his ear. His sleeves are rolled to his elbows, and when he grips the edge of the desk you watch his forearms flex.

You swallow. Look down. You’re keeping it professional.

Your phone buzzes in your back pocket. You fish it out, to turn it on do not disturb — and Hayes’s name lights up your screen. Again. You must have four thousand missed texts from him at this point.

You haven’t read a single one. And this one shouldn’t be an exception, when you go to clear the notification — except your finger fumbles, and you accidentally swipe it open. His entire text thread pops up. Grey message after grey message after grey message. All from the last four days.

Hayes: hey

Hayes: hang tonight?

Hayes: are you okay?

Hayes: kinda worried. just checking in.

Hayes: did i do something? can we talk?

Hayes: hello?

Hayes: i had a lot of fun with you. if I fucked up i’m sorry.

Hayes: out of town for the weekend. talk when I’m back?

And then his last one. Timestamped two seconds ago.

Hayes: please?

You scan the texts. You can’t help it. Something heavy settles at the back of your throat.

That second-to-last text. Out of town for the weekend.

“Your nephew,” you blurt.

Joel and Laurie both pause, mid-conversation, and turn from the desk to look at you. Joel blinks.

“Sorry,” you say. “I—just—you said he studied engineering at—?”

She frowns. Shrugs. An awkward silence comes and goes.

“Stanford,” she says. “Smart kid.”

Your pulse stumbles. It feels like it stops. You look at Joel, and he clocks the panic in your stare.

His gaze narrows.

“And he’s here?” you ask. “Like he’s — here? Now?”

“Well, just for a visit,” Laurie says, a little uncertain. She looks between you and Joel. “Came down from Austin.”

You’re silent. You’re all silent.

There’s a crunch outside the window, and you catch a glimpse of a cherry-red bumper as it pulls into the drive.

“Speak of the devil,” Laurie says.

You hear the car door close. The telltale crinkle of footsteps on gravel. And then the front door, somewhere not too far off, easing open and clicking back shut.

“Hayes,” Laurie calls. “We’re all in here.”

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peakymarvelworld · 10 months

Text

san antonio

12.5k / dbf!joel x f!reader

warnings: 18+, minors dni. smut. more smut. smut after that. age gap (reader is 23, joel is in his late 40s). dbf!joel, dom!joel, feisty reader, oral (m receiving), toxic!joel, light violence, edging, teasing, nonconsensual touching/harassment (creepy men at the bar), protective!joel, possessive sex, unprotected p in v, shower sex, pet names (angel, baby, pretty girl, etc), praise kink, no use of y/n.

a/n: im back...with another ridiculously long chapter and a ridiculously horny joel miller. i tried to incorporate a lot of requests this time around - shower sex, date night, pda, feisty reader...if you're someone who requested any of those i hope i could do 'em justice. i wanna thank y'all a million times over for all of your support on this series. it means everything to me. finding this fandom and being able to share this writing has been incredible. i love every one of y'all.

this is part 7 of my dbf!joel series. read the previous parts here (or read this standalone):

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

“C’mon,” he says, when you don’t move. “‘Less you’d rather starve.” He turns and walks off. You swear softly and scrabble at your own door, wrenching it open and jumping down to the asphalt. You have to jog to catch up to him. “You’re supposed to wait,” you pant, when you reach him. He shrugs. He pulls his car key from his pocket and clicks the lock. The truck chirps somewhere behind you. “Y’were takin’ too long,” he says. “You’re a gentleman.” He looks at you. The corner of his lip curves. “’N you’re a brat,” he says, cooly.

You don’t see much of Joel the rest of the week. It’s not for lack of wanting on either of your parts. You’re just…busy. You spend your days applying to every job you can get your hands on, and your nights watching shitty cable movies with your dad.

Your dad is even clingier than usual. He’s cockblocked you twice in as many days. You’d planned on sneaking out last night, after dinner — making up some excuse and going to Joel’s place, instead — and he’d stopped you with one foot out the door. Guilt-tripped you into eating frozen pizzas and watching the Hallmark Channel’s mind-numbing Christmas in July special.

So you’d stayed home, and swallowed the ache between your legs. Tried to think about anything other than the fact that you could be getting railed by your father’s best friend, right now, if you weren’t watching the world’s worst movie instead.

You’d texted Joel to let him know you wouldn’t make it. Some innocuous complaint about Hallmark and frozen pizza. You hadn’t been expecting much of a response.

But he had responded, about five minutes into the opening scene. You’d felt your phone buzz between couch cushions and fished it out of the dark.

Joel: That’s a shame. Had big plans for you.

You’d almost thrown your phone at the TV. And of course he hadn’t fucking responded to anything after that — even when you’d double and triple texted a series of frustrated ???s — because he’s a tease.

“Turn your phone off,” your dad had said. “It’s movie night.”

And then —

“Who’re you talkin’ to, anyway? That Hayes kid?”

You’d stared at Joel’s name on your screen. Clicked your phone off, and let it slide back between cushions.

“No,” you’d muttered. “Just a friend.”

—

By the time day three of no Joel rolls around, you’re coming out of your skin. It’s kind of embarrassing, how badly you want to see him.

So when your dad mentions him at breakfast, casually, like he’s reporting on the weather — you choke. Your mug comes down hard on the glass.

He stares at you. You wave him off.

“Sorry,” you sputter. “Swallowed wrong.”

“Mm.” He shakes his head. “So damn jumpy lately. Couldn’t even make it through Christmas in July.”

“I’m not jumpy,” you bristle. “That was just a terrible movie.”

His jaw drops. He glares at you, mock-wounded.

“Not terrible,” he says. “Classic. Iconic. Fun for the whole family.”

You lift a hand in surrender. Whatever you say. Your dad leans back in his seat, hands laced behind his head. He gives you an easy, goofy grin and you almost feel bad for steering the conversation back to his best friend.

“You were saying something about, um—” You clear your throat. Drop your gaze from your dad to your coffee. “About Joel, I think? Before?”

“Oh, sure.” He sits up. Slaps his hands on his thighs. “Alright. Listen. Hear me out ‘fore you say no.”

“Not off to a promising start.”

“Just—listen,” he says. “I was s’posed to head down to San Antonio with Joel this weekend. Just two nights. He’s meetin’ a client there. Some hotshot lady buildin’ a big house here in Austin. Wants to hire him for the job.”

You sip your coffee. It burns your throat on the way down.

“Okay,” you say, slowly.

“I can’t go. Got my own client problems. Need to stay here this weekend and put out some fires.”

“Okay.” You blink. “So…”

“So, I promised I’d help him out. S’posed to be a two person job. He’s haulin’ blueprints, samples, all kinds of shit to San Antonio. Go a lot faster for him if he had an extra set of hands.”

You’re not stupid. The only reason you don’t immediately pick up on what he’s asking is because you can’t quite believe what you’re hearing.

“So—sorry.” You shake your head. “You’re asking me to—”

“I’m askin’ you to go with him. As a favor. For me. You can—put it on your resume, or somethin’. For all those jobs you been applyin’ for.”

He must take your blank stare for distaste, because he doubles down.

“Look,” he says, when you forget to blink, “I know he ain’t the easiest. You been weird about him since you got home. But—”

“I haven’t been weird,” you say.

There’s an awkward pause.

“Okay,” your dad says, lifting his palms. “Whatever. Anyway, point is, he’s a pain in the ass. But I gave him my word. He’ll take good care ‘a you. And you hardly have to see him. Just — drive up there with him, help him with the client. That’s it.”

“That’s it,” you repeat. Your throat feels thick.

“C’mon,” your dad says. “Two days. You can handle him for two days, right?”

You can feel your heartbeat behind your eyes.

It’s kind of perverse, him pleading like this. You wonder what he’d do — to you, to Joel — if he knew just what he was offering. If he knew he was sitting here at the breakfast table, practically begging his only daughter to fuck off on an all-expenses-paid weekend of sex with his best friend.

So, really — you should say no. It’s the right thing to do. The good daughter thing to do.

But you ticked the good daughter box already, last night, when you watched that godawful movie instead of sneaking off to Joel’s. So…

“Yeah,” you say, and hope your voice sounds even. “Sure. I’m not doing anything.”

“You’re a lifesaver,” your dad says, and you almost feel bad. “I’ll break the news to Joel. Hope he won’t be too disappointed. S’posed to be a boy’s weekend, ’n all.” He looks at you. “No offense, kid.”

“Mm.” You shake your head. You have to bury your smile in the rim of your cup. “None taken.”

—

Joel, as it turns out, is pretty far from disappointed.

Your dad wanders over there around noon to let him know the change in plans. You get a text from Joel ten minutes later.

Joel: Heard you’re my new plus one.

You can’t help smiling. Your fingers fumble on the keyboard when you go to text him back.

You: disappointed?

Joel: I’ll live.

You smirk.

You: anything i should pack? clothing-wise?

He waits a couple seconds before responding. You can see his three grey bubbles appear and disappear at the corner of your screen.

Joel: The less the better.

Your head swims.

—

It’s a ninety-minute drive to San Antonio.

You listen to music for the first half of the drive. Joel lets you DJ and doesn’t kick up a fuss — not even when you put on a 2000s Party Hits playlist and sing into your phone like a mic. He refuses to sing along, though. You tilt your phone to his mouth at every chorus and watch the almost-imperceptible shake of his head. You have a niggling suspicion he’s trying not to laugh.

You nudge him halfway through Fergalicious. He tries his best to ignore you.

You lean forward and click off the music. Fergie trails into silence.

“You know,” you say, “you’re not very fun.”

He scowls.

“I’m fun,” he says.

“Oh, yeah? Name the last time you had fun.”

He tears his eyes from the road for a split second. Just to glare at you.

“Jesus.” He shakes his head. “How long is this fuckin’ drive?”

“Has anyone ever told you,” you say, leaning over the center console, “how sweet you are?”

He grunts.

Your phone buzzes before you can torture him more. You pull it back down to your lap and tap at the lockscreen.

Hayes: 1 new message

It buzzes again before your screen can go dark.

Hayes: 2 new messages

Your heart sinks. You click your phone off and let the screen go black.

“Good?” Joel asks, when you’re quiet just a beat too long.

You look up. Nod, quickly, and stash your phone in your pocket.

“Yeah,” you mumble. “Sorry.”

He shrugs. Unfazed. Your gaze lingers on his profile: the square cut of his jaw, the scrunch of dark eyes when he squints at the sun. His hand on the wheel, wrapped up on worn leather.

Hayes and his unread texts flee your thoughts before they settle. You’ve got one thing on your mind, and he’s sitting six inches away. His lip curves, like he can feel you staring, and a bolt of longing stings your core.

When he speaks he doesn’t look at you. His stare is fixed on the road.

“Can feel ya starin’, pretty girl.” His jaw flinches, like he’s trying not to smile. “See somethin’ you like?”

“Not staring,” you say, as you continue to stare.

You shift in your seat, trying to alleviate some of the tension between your legs. His gaze flicks briefly from the road. Just long enough to stoke the fire on your skin.

You twist to face him fully. You rest your elbow on the console and lean over into his space.

“I’m not,” you echo. You lay your free palm on his knee and smirk when he stiffens.

A muscle jumps in his leg where your fingertips dig into denim. He doesn’t say anything, though. Not until your hand moves higher, skating over his knee and up the muscled expanse of his thigh.

Your fingers tighten. You edge closer to the seam of his jeans.

“What are you doin’?” he mutters.

You pause. Your hand hovers at the inside of his thigh.

“Nothing,” you say.

You move again. Your fingers drift into his lap and trace the growing hardness there.

He drags in a breath. It breaks the heavy silence in the car.

“Let me,” you say, quietly. You squeeze, gently, and his exhale stumbles. “Please.”

He huffs. His eyes break from the road, long enough to look at you.

“Go on, then,” he growls. “Get a fuckin’ move on.”

Your skin flushes. His lip quirks.

“Go on,” he repeats. “Wanna run that mouth so much. Might s’well give it somethin’ to do.”

You swallow. White heat pools between your legs.

You stroke the head of his cock through his jeans and he sucks in a breath. Your hand pulls higher, to the metal teeth of his zipper, and you steal a look at him.

He’s still staring stubbornly ahead. Jaw tight. Eyes glued to the highway. Hand looped around the wheel with a white-knuckle grip.

You work his fly down. His fingers flex on the wheel.

He lifts his hips. Gives you just enough leeway to drag his jeans and his boxers down far enough to free his cock.

The truck lists to the left. He pulls it back to center with a curse.

“Shit,” he mutters. His voice sounds strained. “You—”

You don’t wait for him to finish. You lean further across the console, braced on your elbow, and take the tip of his cock into your mouth.

He curses. Covers his groan with a cough.

You smile. Your lips curve around his cock, squeezing gently when you take him deeper. Your palm stays flat on his thigh, resting on faded denim as you ease him past your tongue.

He’s big. A hell of a lot bigger than anyone you’re used to. Especially at this angle, draped across the console with his cock stuffed in your mouth. He nudges the back of your throat and you choke.

“Fuck,” he drawls. You can hear his velvet smirk. “Too big, baby?”

You have to clench your fist to keep from whining. Your nails dig into your palm. You try to tell him no, fuck off, screw you — and all you manage is a strangled mmph.

So much for that. You hear his satisfied chuckle somewhere above you.

“S’okay,” he says. “You’re tryin’.”

You mumble something defiant around his cock, and the hum of your voice makes him groan. You relax your throat and take him deeper — as far as you can — and the added inch makes him hiss.

Then you ease up, and drag your mouth up his length, and release him with a tight little pop. Spit drizzles from your lip to the head of his cock.

His hips twitch. He bears down so hard on the wheel that the leather starts to groan.

You stick your tongue out. Lick at the tip of his cock with tiny, shallow strokes until his palm picks up and smacks hard on the wheel.

“Fuck,” he growls. “Stop it. Just— ”

You pause. Your breath pants at the head of his swollen cock. You wrap a fist around his base and hold him steady, just in front of your tongue.

He swears again. Tries to strain into your mouth. Pre-cum beads at the tip of his cock and drips to the top of your fist.

“I can take it,” you say.

He grunts. Irritated, turned on — both, maybe.

“Let me show you.”

He grunts again. A little more desperate, this time. You feel his truck drift to the right before he drags a sharp breath and corrects on the wheel.

You lick a stripe up his shaft. He groans.

“Unless…” You look up. He swallows, hard. “Unless you think I can’t.”

“No,” he huffs. “Fuck. No. Know you can, angel. Show me. Fuckin’—Christ.”

You smile. You swirl your tongue along the head of his cock, lapping at the mess he’s already made, and take him back between your lips.

It’s almost too much. You can tell. His cock pulses on your tongue.

“Easy,” he gasps. “Slow, baby, easy.”

You ignore him. You hollow your cheeks and swallow him deeper, all the way to the base, until your lips brush his pelvis. Your throat burns. He throbs inside your mouth, hot and thick and velvet-soft. He’s too fucking big for this, but you’re determined.

One of his hands flies off the wheel. You hear it pound against the window.

“Fuck,” he groans. “God — damn. You’re a fuckin’ — ah, angel, slow. Fuckin’ — slow.”

You grin. But you listen, this time. You take it slow. Mostly because you’re having fun, torturing him, and it’s another half hour to San Antonio. You figure he can suffer a little longer.

You ease up. Your head bobs slower and you hold him at the back of your throat. You hum softly, ignoring the heat that drips between your thighs.

His breathing evens. Just slightly. You can tell whenever he takes his eyes off the road and looks at you, wrapped around his cock, because the truck lists dangerously close to the median. He must drag it back from the brink five times in ten minutes.

“Told you you were fuckin’ — dangerous,” he punches out. “Gonna get us — fuck, baby — gonna get us killed.”

You drag your mouth from his cock. His eyes leave the road and roll to the sky.

“I could stop,” you offer.

There’s a grunt. His hips chase your mouth.

“Think I’d rather die,” he says, trailing to a groan when you take him back to your mouth.

You’re content to keep him on the edge like that for a while. Until you feel the truck slow, to what you assume must be the speed limit, and you hear his finger taptap on the wheel.

“Cop,” he mutters. “Keep your head down.”

You sputter. You try to slow up — to pull your head back — and he snakes a hand from the wheel. It tangles in your hair and holds your head steady. Your mouth stays fastened around his cock.

“What did I just fuckin’ say?” he breathes.

You mumble. His hand loosens in your hair, forming a makeshift ponytail as he guides your mouth updownup.

Your pulse quickens. Wetness seeps to the hem of your panties. You half expect the whine of sirens; the flash of blue and red with every shallow thrust of his hips.

“Attagirl,” he says. His gaze is trained on the windshield. On the road. “Such a pretty mouth, baby. Better not get us into any fuckin’ trouble.”

You shake your head, or try to. It’s kind of useless, with his hand stunting your movements. His thigh twitches under your palm.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “You wanna swallow, babygirl?”

You nod, as best you can with his cock down your throat. His fingers stroke your hair.

“Not til he’s fuckin’ gone,” he says, with a glance at the cop in his rearview. “Y’hear me?”

Your breath quickens. You squeeze your thighs against the ache that pulls there. You try to nod, again, and it’s good enough for Joel. His cock pulses twice at the back of your throat and he spills hot across your tongue.

He breathes hard. A broken moan slips past his lips.

“Fuck,” he pants. “Fuck, baby.”

You draw back, but you don’t get up. You stay sprawled over the console, head in his lap, mouth full of his cum. A little bit spills free and drizzles down your chin, and it’s filthy — it’s fucking filthy — but you don’t think twice. You just do it. You hold it there in your mouth, let it drip down your chin — because he asked you to. Because you want to.

The cop must pass, because you hear Joel breathe out a sigh, and the truck picks up speed again. His hand goes flat against your head, nestled snugly in your hair.

“He’s gone,” he says, so casually it makes you weak. “Sit up, pretty girl. Swallow.”

You pull yourself out of his lap. Slump back against your own seat. He rips his eyes from the road long enough to watch you swallow.

“Good girl,” he mutters. He takes one hand off the wheel and reaches over, swiping his thumb across the mess on your chin. “Listen a whole lot better when your mouth is full.”

You shrug. You pull the mirror down on the passenger side and fix your rumpled hair.

“Maybe you should shut me up more often, then.”

You watch him swallow.

“Jesus,” he mutters.

You snap the mirror closed. Look over at him with a raised brow.

“What?”

“Nothin’.” He shakes his head. You’re pretty sure he almost laughs. “Not gonna get any fuckin’ work done.”

—

Joel checks you both into the hotel. It’s nice enough. A Hyatt in the center of downtown.

You’re booked for two separate rooms. It’s your dad’s reservation — and, naturally, he’d opted for his own room.

The woman at reception confirms the booking. Rooms 1410 and 1412. Joel stops her with a quiet hand.

“Just need the one,” he says.

Your heart skips. You’re not sure why. You can blow him all day in the front seat of his car, but it’s the fact he wants to share a room that brings on the butterflies.

You lay your hands on the front desk. Lean into the counter, casually, and pretend like you’re not interested in the conversation Joel’s having with the concierge.

“—change of plans,” he’s explaining. “Don’t need it.”

The lady hesitates. She looks at him. Then you.

“Okay,” she says, after a beat. “And is that — sorry, is that gonna be two Queens? Or—”

Joel tilts his head. His fingers trill on the counter.

“That all you got?”

She consults the computer.

“We have, uh — one King left.”

“King, then,” he drawls. “Only need one bed.”

You swallow. The concierge nods.

“Sure. That King room is one of our suites, though. It’d be about — $300 extra, for the two nights.”

He tosses you a sidelong glance. You start to shake your head.

“It’s fine,” you say, quickly, “you don’t have to—”

He draws his wallet out of his back pocket. Slides his card across the counter.

“Work trip,” he says, when the lady takes his card. “No expense spared.”

You have to hide your blush in your sleeve.

—

The room is nice. About $300 nicer than it needs to be, thanks to Joel’s spur of the moment upgrade. You’re on the 14th floor — very top — with a bird’s eye view of downtown from your window. You can make out the tops of peoples’ heads as they gather at a crosswalk.

Joel carries your bag up from the car. He sets it down by the bed and joins you at the window, caging you against the glass with his chest to your back.

Your body responds immediately. Your head tilts back, into his shoulder, and he bends to nip at your neck. His hands settle heavy on your waist.

“This is nice,” you say, softly. “The room. And — this.”

He hums. His stubble rakes your neck.

“You do this for all your work trips?” you murmur. “Or am I just special?”

His mouth drops to your shoulder. His hands squeeze gentle at your sides.

“You’re certainly somethin’,” he mutters. Teasing.

You twist to face him. Your back thuds softly against the window. You rest your arms on his shoulders and fix him with a grin.

“Rude,” you say.

He huffs. You watch his gaze dart from your mouth, to your eyes, to your mouth, again.

“Meetin’s not til tomorrow,” he says. His voice is low. “We could…y’know.”

He nods out the window. To the street below, lined with life. You catch his drift.

“Mr Miller,” you gasp. “Are you suggesting a date?”

His jaw flickers. “Don’t fuckin’ — call me that.”

“What? Mr Miller?” You laugh. “You don’t like that?”

He stares at you. You clock the change in his eyes; the way they darken, the way his breath pulls — and your brows flick.

“Oh,” you say. “You do like that.”

“Fuck,” he growls. “Stop it.”

“Or…”

“Or we ain’t goin’ anywhere,” he mutters. “Stay here ’n fuck you, instead.”

Your fingers bunch at his shirt collar. You tug him into a kiss, and he meets your mouth with a low, hungry groan.

You slip your tongue to his. His cock stirs to life against you and he groans, breaking the kiss before he loses himself. His forehead tips to yours.

“Go—” he pants, watching you through hooded eyes, “—go get dressed. ‘Fore I change my mind.”

You smirk. Your arms slip from his neck and drop back to your sides.

“What am I wearing?” you ask. “Is this, like — fancy?”

He frowns. “You want fancy?”

“Not particularly.”

He grunts. “Then no.”

You stifle a smile. Tip your head up, quickly, and brush your lips against his jaw. Then you’re ducking out, under his arm, leaving him at the empty window. You rifle through your bag for something date-with-Joel-Miller appropriate and disappear into the bathroom.

—

Joel’s waiting for you when you re-emerge, half an hour later. You look good. Maybe a little nicer than the casual look he’d suggested — slip dress, white sneakers, jacket slouched over your arm — but, fuck it. It’s your first date.

It takes Joel a hell of a lot less time to get ready. You’re pretty sure all he’s done is swap his t-shirt for a flannel and rake a comb — or his fingers — through his hair. The rest of him looks the same. Same jeans, same boots, same belt he’d driven down in. Never one to make a fuss.

He’s sprawled across the bed when you come out. His legs are angled off the side, letting his boots dangle. His hands are clasped across his chest. You’re pretty sure he’s asleep, if his heavy breaths are any indication. It’s kind of adorable, as far as Joel goes. Barely eight o’clock, and he’s passed out on the pillows.

Your phone buzzes before you can wake him. You flip it over in your palm and check the screen.

Hayes: 4 new messages

You ignore the notification. You swipe open your messages and text your dad, instead.

You: made it to san antonio

He responds quickly. Probably been waiting for your update, you think, with a pitiful pang.

Dad: Thx for update. Have fun! Don’t give Joel too much trouble…

You look up from your phone. Look at Joel, stretched out across the sheets. You smile.

You: i’ll do my best

But that’s a lie, of course, because you have every intention of giving him trouble. And you do, when you climb quietly to the bed and straddle his waist.

He blinks himself awake. You roll your hips into his lap and he hums sleepily, hands coming up to grip your sides.

“Nice nap?”

He scowls. “Was just — restin’ my eyes.”

“Oh, sure. Okay.”

You smile. You bend to kiss him and his hands skate higher, up the dress you’ve worn just for him and to the silk-sheathed shape of your breasts.

“Thought I said nothin’ fancy,” he murmurs. His palm splays against your breast. He finds your nipple over silk and swipes his thumb across the fabric.

You gasp. Your hips roll into his.

“Didn’t wear it for you,” you breathe, which is a dirty fucking lie and you both know it. But he doesn’t kick up much of a fuss. His attention is elsewhere — on his hand, gliding over silk and under your dress and to the edge of lace panties you’re wearing for him.

He hooks a finger in the band. You swallow, hard, and your hips jerk in his lap.

“How bout these?” he murmurs. “You wear these for me?”

You bat his hand away. A blush stains your cheeks.

“No.”

“No?” he echoes. He sounds amused.

“No,” you repeat. Your teeth graze your lip. “Don’t — fuck. Don’t sleep with guys on the first date. And I definitely don’t—ah—” He tugs at your panties, and the fabric drags against your clit, “—don’t sleep with them before.”

His eyes flash. You hear him mutter a curse. At least he’s awake now, you figure. He could barely keep his eyes open two minutes ago. Now he’s T-minus ten seconds from fucking the life out of you.

You notice the change in his stare — the shift from sleepy to starving — and you try to wriggle from his lap with a squeal. His finger slips from the band of your panties and his hands curl tight around your hips, holding you squarely in place.

“Keep it up,” he warns, “’n you’re gettin’ yourself off tonight, pretty girl. Which would be a shame —”

He slips one hand back under your dress. Swipes his thumb over damp lace.

“—considerin’ how fuckin’ soaked you are.”

Your breath catches. You rut your hips into his thumb and your smirk twists to a moan.

He drags his hand away before you can use it. Slaps it lightly to your hip.

“Up,” he gruffs. He sits up, off of the pillow, and you crumple to his chest. You wrap your legs around his waist and he gives a playful groan, swinging his feet to the floor while you cling like a koala.

He stands up and takes you with him, lifting you like you weigh nothing. Your lips nuzzle in the crook of his neck. His hands drift to your ass, and your dress bunches between his fingers when he gives a gentle squeeze.

“You’re a tease,” you whine, when he sets you down on your feet. You smooth your dress. Flatten your hair with your palm.

He shrugs. You watch him swipe a room key from the nightstand and shove it deep into his pocket. He’s already halfway to the door when he turns to look at you.

“You comin’?”

You huff. You drag yourself across the room and meet him at the door. He holds it open for you and you mutter under your breath.

“Apparently not.”

“Clever,” he drawls. He tips his head to the hallway. “Get your ass out there.”

You roll your eyes, but you do as he says. You hear his shallow chuckle at your back, and the click of the door as he pulls it shut. He joins you in the hallway and slips his hand into yours.

You steal a glance, when you’re sure he’s not looking. You’re pretty sure it’s the first time you’ve ever really seen him smile.

—

When Joel says not fancy, he means really, decidedly, not fucking fancy. He drives you to a spot about fifteen minutes from the hotel, somewhere off the main road, and when he parks the truck you’re convinced he’s lost.

But — no. He cuts the engine and looks expectantly at you.

“Alright,” he drawls. “Out you go.”

“Here?” You cup your hands to the window. Stare out, squinting at the dark. “In this…abandoned parking lot?”

He grunts.

You pull your hands away. Stare at him.

“Romantic,” you say. “I know I said casual, but—”

He rolls his eyes. Leans over, and unclips your seatbelt. Then he cracks his car door and hops out, dusting his hands on his jeans.

“C’mon,” he says, when you don’t move. “‘Less you’d rather starve.”

He turns and walks off. You swear softly and scrabble at your own door, wrenching it open and jumping down to the asphalt. You have to jog to catch up to him.

“You’re supposed to wait,” you pant, when you reach him.

He shrugs. He pulls his car key from his pocket and clicks the lock. The truck chirps somewhere behind you.

“Y’were takin’ too long,” he says.

“You’re a gentleman.”

He looks at you. The corner of his lip curves.

“’N you’re a brat,” he says, cooly.

Your stomach swirls. You try to scowl, shake your head, something — but it’s too late. He sees the way your eyes dart to his mouth. To the silver buckle on his belt.

His smile pulls. He puts a broad hand on the small of your back and your core sparks at the contact.

“S’alright,” he mutters. “Deal with you later.”

Fuck. You almost turn around right there. March him back to the truck, and make him deal with you in the backseat. But you don’t, because — well, because you’re kind of curious, if you’re honest. You want to know what Joel Miller considers a date. And you’d like to see this parking lot adventure through, now that he’s swindled you out of the car.

So you suck it up, and ignore the slick pull between your legs, and follow him over cracked asphalt.

He tugs you around a bend and your eyes go wide. You make a small, surprised sound and turn to look at him.

“Okay,” you say. “I take it back. This is cool.”

He shakes his head. But he looks pleased, you think. Like he’s happy you’re impressed.

And it is cool. Like, surprisingly so. You’re still in a parking lot — graffiti and asphalt and concrete medians — but a huge swath of space has been reclaimed by string lights, and food trucks, and wooden picnic tables. Colorful lanterns on the ground and woven runners on the tables. Music humming from outdoor speakers. And it’s crawling with people — vendors, couples, families. Like a makeshift night market, hidden smack-dab in the heart of downtown.

“How’d you find this?”

He shrugs. He looks annoyingly smug. “Could tell you,” he says. “I’d have to kill you, though.”

You glare at him. Punch lightly at his sleeve. He catches your arm and pulls you close, into his chest, and you bury your nose in his flannel. It smells like him. Warm. Safe. Light. He presses a kiss to the crown of your head and your heart skips.

People can see you. There are a lot of lights, and a lot of people, and a lot of eyes on you when Joel kisses your head. You make eye contact with one couple while his arm is slung over your shoulder. A few minutes later a larger group stumbles past, obviously drunk, and Joel wraps you up into him as they pass.

You almost push him away — out of instinct, and nothing more. You’re half expecting your dad to wander out of the dark. Or Sarah. Or Hayes, and his thousand missed messages.

But they’re not here. They’re a hundred miles away, and you’re alone, and this is — new. This is nice. The closeness. The not having to hide when someone swings in your direction. Him dragging you close, instead of shoving you back. Making you laugh — out loud, with his hand on your waist — instead of muffling your moans in his palm.

It’s so nice it almost hurts. Because it’s not really real, and you know it, and you wonder if he knows it, too. You wonder if he’ll hurt the way you will, when you have to go back home. When you have to hide again.

But you can worry about that later. For now, you can just — be. You can pretend he’s not your dad’s best friend, and you can pretend there won’t be hell to pay if you touch him like this back home.

He strokes your hair back from your forehead. Looks down, frowning slightly, like he can tell your mind has slipped.

“I’m good,” you say, before he can speak. “I just — I like you. I like — spending time with you.”

His brow lifts. He looks bemused.

“Like you too, angel. Figured you knew that already.”

“Yeah, I just — you know.” You wave a hand. You’re not sure what the hell you’re trying to say.

“I know,” he says, gently.

You look up at him. His thumb stills on your chin. He tips your face to his and kisses you.

“Go ’n get a table,” he says, quietly. His lips brush yours. You can taste him: whiskey and cedar. Masculine. Joel.

His eyes drop. His stare rakes over you: your jacket, the slinky, silk slip you definitely didn’t wear for him — over the lace he knows is waiting underneath. You shiver.

“Fuck,” he mumbles. He wrings his head, like he’s trying to focus. “Go. I’ll get us some food.”

You’re reluctant to leave him — especially when he looks this close to breaking, and just dragging you back to the hotel — but you do as you’re told. You find an empty picnic table and beat a teenage couple to it.

You don’t feel like turning your phone on, and seeing god knows how many messages from Hayes — so you look around, instead. You watch a herd of tiny children sprint across the lot, dodging in between food trucks, wielding vanilla cones like little scepters. One of them has dark hair. Tousled, unkempt. He races past you, light-up sneakers thudding on pavement, and you catch a glimpse of big brown eyes.

It makes your heart hurt. You’re not sure why.

“Scoot.”

Joel’s voice. Gruff, gentle. You blink twice and your focus snaps back. You move down the bench to make room.

He drops down beside you with two paper plates. You peek over his hand.

“Tacos,” you say. “Inspired.”

“Just—fuckin’—try ‘em.”

“I’ve had tacos.”

“Not like this.”

“Well, yeah,” you say. “Exactly like this. They all kinda look the same.”

“Jesus Christ. You’re a piece ‘a work.”

You grin. You slide one of the plates in front of you and take a bite. He watches you intently, like he’s genuinely invested — like he really, truly cares whether you like his stupid tacos.

And you do. Of course you do. Because they’re really fucking good. Because he bought them for you.

“Oh, shit,” you mumble. Sauce drizzles to your hand. “You’re right. That is good.”

He rolls his eyes. Leans in, close, napkin in hand, and swipes your wrist clean. It’s weirdly intimate. More so than every kiss you’ve shared since you stepped out of his truck.

He lingers in your space for a second. Long enough for you to watch him scowl.

“See?” he mutters, when he draws back. “‘F you listened more, ‘stead of runnin’ your mouth all the goddamn time — I could show you a few things.”

“It’s one taco. Don’t get a big head.”

He stares at you. He tries — really, really tries — to keep the scowly, stern, I’m so scary thing going. He lasts a solid three seconds before he breaks. His frown crumples. A shallow laugh spills out of him.

“Fuck’s sake.” He shakes his head. “You’re impossible.”

You wipe your mouth with the edge of your napkin. When you’re done you push your empty plate away and lean into his shoulder. You’re making the most of this uninhibited closeness. Touching him whenever you get the chance: little, harmless brushes and soft kisses behind strangers.

You rest your head on his shoulder and look up at the lights. The string above you flickers, muted yellow, and the glow paints Joel’s skin golden.

You sigh. His flannel grazes your lips. His mouth finds the top of your head and nestles in your hair.

It’s been largely innocent up until now. The touches, at least. You’re not really one for PDA — not usually, anyway — but he has you feeling like a teenager again. And he doesn’t seem inclined to stop you, when the flat of your palm slips underneath the table and dusts over his knee.

He only pumps the brakes when your lips graze his ear, scraping soft skin, and you whisper something filthy that only he can hear.

He clears his throat. His gaze flicks to the milling crowd.

“S’it,” he announces. “We’re leavin’.”

You have to stifle a laugh at the sound of his voice. The quiet desperation he masks as command. Turned on. Time to go.

He makes to stand and you squeeze his knee. His body stiffens. His weight drops back to the bench.

“Don’t wanna leave,” you say. You give him your best pout. “I’m having fun.”

You’re teasing. Truth is, you’d race him to the truck right now if it meant you’d get back faster. But you like working him up. You like him riled, by the time he’s fucking you. You like his breathing ragged and his snarl at your back.

He gives you a sharp look. Heat pools at the pit of your stomach.

“Come on.” You’re egging him on now, and he knows it. He knows it. “You take me out, and you can’t even make it past ten?”

There’s a muscle in his jaw going haywire. You watch it. It’s a good gauge of just how fucked you’ll be, later, when he takes back his upper hand.

For now you press him. You’re feeling bold. Maybe it’s the little plastic-cup margarita he’d brought out with your food, or the fact that a hundred people can see you with him, watch you touch him, and for the first time you don’t give a shit.

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” you say, dropping your voice. Your hand skates higher, under the table — up his thigh, over blue jeans. “I didn’t even — I wasn’t even thinking. It’s, like — it’s way past your bedtime, right?”

A low, low sound escapes his throat. His hand finds yours on his thigh and closes fast around it — just tight enough to stop your moving. Not tight enough to hurt.

“Got a real goddamn attitude tonight,” he growls.

His hand squeezes yours. Harder. Enough to make you whimper, when you imagine those fingers on your throat, instead.

“S’okay,” he murmurs. His hand lets up. Your own fingers tremble on his thigh. “S’alright, babygirl. Gonna take care of it.”

He leans closer. His breath is hot on your skin.

“Gonna fuck it outta you,” he drawls.

The heat in your stomach spills over. Fire drips between your legs.

“Fuck it,” you mumble. “Let’s go back.”

But he’s playing, now. You teased him too much, overplayed your hand, and now you’re fucked. He’s looking at you with those big brown eyes and you can see them go black when he smirks.

“What’s ‘a matter, angel? Thought you wanted to stay out.”

“Joel—”

“Made a whole goddamn fuss,” he says. “Can’t go back now.”

“We can,” you insist. “Yes we can. There’s not even — look. Everyone’s leaving.” You point to the crowd. No one is leaving. “It’s all — it’s closing. It’s done. Let’s go back.”

He doesn’t look. He clicks his tongue, instead. Mock-sympathy.

“C’mon, now,” he says. “We’ll think ‘a somethin’. Keep you nice ’n busy. Few more hours, at least.”

You groan. Your forehead thuds on the edge of the table.

“Fuck, you’re mean.”

You hear him hum his soft agreement. The bench whines when he stands, and then his palm is at your back, gently guiding you up and onto your feet.

“Ain’t the one who started it,” he says. He drapes an arm around your shoulders and leads you away, back towards the truck. His mouth bends to brush your ear. “Could be headed back to the hotel, right now,” he says. “Could be in bed. Could have my head between those pretty legs.”

You swallow.

He pauses. His fingers tap lazily against your shoulder. “Too bad y’were such a goddamn brat.”

You make a quiet, frustrated sound. You know he won’t let up. You’re resigned to suffering in silence, until Joel decides you’ve had enough. Until he decides to drive you back to the hotel, finally, and fuck you the way he knows you need.

“Y’know what your problem is?” he asks, casually, as you approach the car. “Y’got no follow through. Roll over too easy.”

“I don’t roll over,” you huff.

“No? ’N how come every time you run that mouth, try to tease me—” he cracks the driver’s side door. Looks at you. “—you always end up beggin’?”

You’re quiet. You’d bite back, if he wasn’t infuriatingly right. It’s not like you can think of a comeback, anyway. You’re so turned on your mind is hazy.

“Think on it,” he says, cooly. He puts the truck in reverse and throws his head over his shoulder. “Got nothin’ but time.”

You mutter something soft. A curse. A plea, maybe. You watch him turn out of the lot and go the wrong way — not back to the hotel, not back to the room, not back to bed — and you pull your thighs against an ache that won’t quit.

—

He takes you to a bar downtown. Kind of…divey, but fun. Cool. It’d be a hell of a lot cooler if you could actually enjoy it. If you could think about anything other than him fucking you senseless, right now.

You trail him in. Out of the car, down the steps, past the bouncer who checks your ID and not Joel’s.

He posts up by the bar and you join him. There’s one stool left and he saves it for you, standing at your side while you sit and smooth your dress.

You’re attracting looks. A lot of them. The crowd in here is…diverse — college kids, bikers, bachelorettes on the road to blackout. You stand out, in your little silk dress. Joel — in his flannel, and blue jeans, and worn out work boots — not so much.

He flags down the bartender. It’s a miracle he gets served, considering how swamped the bar is. But Joel commands a room, in that cool, quiet way. He taps a lazy finger on the bartop and the bartender comes running.

“Whiskey,” he says. “’N a…”

“Rum and coke,” you say. It’s the first thing that comes to mind.

The bartender nods. Joel slides a bill across the bar and tells her to keep the change.

“Rum ’n coke,” he says, when she leaves to get your drinks. He shakes his head. Chuckles. “You drink like a high schooler.”

“Shut up. They’re good.”

“Uh-huh. Remind me t’make you a proper drink, sometime.”

You shoot him a scowl. But your heart lifts, a little, at the implication that there will be a sometime. You’re always half-expecting him to run again.

It’s hot, in here. Too many people. You shrug your jacket off and spread it out across your lap. You lean your elbows on the counter and frame your chin in your palms as you look up at him.

His head tilts. His gaze drops to the skin you’ve exposed. You catch the almost-imperceptible hitch in his breath, and it makes you smile. It almost redeems the blinding, white-hot burn between your legs that he refuses to acknowledge.

“Parking lot tacos and a dive bar,” you say. “I feel like a princess.”

His eyes drag back to yours. He huffs.

“You wanna go out again, ’n act like a good girl — maybe I’ll treat you like one.”

Your breath snags. A blush tickles the base of your neck.

He pushes his sleeves up, past his forearms. Leans an elbow on the bar to get closer to you. There’s music blaring — some classic rock mix — and by all accounts it should be the only thing you hear. That, and the clamor of too many people and too many drinks. But you’re too far gone, staring at him, and you can’t hear anything that doesn’t start and end with his velvet fucking drawl.

It’s the reason you don’t hear the voice at your back. Not until it’s rasping hot along your ear.

“Hey, pretty lady.”

You start. Your back stiffens. You swivel in your seat to face the sound.

There’s a man there. Two men, actually, crowding the side of you Joel isn’t occupying. They both look trashed. Slurring, bleary-eyed — but sober enough, still, to know what they want. And drunk enough to try and get it.

The one closest to you — crew-cut, square jaw, somewhere between your age and Joel’s — slaps his hand on the bartop. The sound makes you flinch. You can feel Joel bristle at your side. He pulls up, off of his elbow, and straightens to his full height.

“Sorry,” you say, and you hate that you apologize. Hate that it’s reflexive, when they’re bothering you. “I’m — we’re kind of in the middle of something.“

The one with the crew-cut frowns. His friend simpers.

“You don’t even have a drink,” he says. “C’mon. Let us buy you a drink, at least.”

The bartender re-appears, as if on cue. She slides Joel his drink and hands you yours. You wait til she’s gone and tip your glass towards the men. Cheers. Fuck off.

Crew-Cut smiles. His friend shrugs.

“Alright,” he says. “But we can do ya one better.”

His friend rifles through his jacket. He produces a tiny, plastic baggie and passes it to Crew-Cut. Two pink pills rattle at the bottom.

“See this?” Crew-Cut grins. A gold cap glitters on his tooth. He folds the baggie in his hand and nudges yours. “You wanna have a little fun, sweetheart? Look like you know how.”

His touch makes you freeze. Your throat feels thick.

“I’m not—”

There’s a thud — furious, loud — as Joel’s fist comes down on the bar. You can feel it, beside you. The whole counter shudders. Someone four seats down looks up in surprise.

“She ain’t fuckin’ interested,” Joel growls. “Move on.”

Crew-Cut lifts a brow.

“Who’s this?” he laughs. His hand slips to your wrist. “This your daddy?”

Silence. He nods at Joel. “You her daddy?”

“Take your fuckin’ hand off her.”

“Oof. Daddy’s got a mouth on him.” His fingers dig into your pulse point. “Ain’t gonna take my hand off her,” he says. “Think she likes it. What do you think, Dutch? Think she likes it?”

His friend — Dutch — nods stupidly. You try to pull your hand away and your drink wobbles on the bar.

“Fuck off,” you hiss.

“Damn. You got a nasty mouth, too.” He looks up at Joel. “She’s a hot one, huh? Ain’t no way you can handle all that.”

You rip your hand free. Successfully, this time. Your wrist knocks your drink and it goes flying — glass, rum, ice on the floor. Coke splatters Crew-Cut’s jeans and he swears.

“Shit,” he mutters. “Fuckin’ bitch.”

“Shut your goddamn mouth,” Joel snarls.

He slips from your side. You can feel the heat roll off him, when he moves around your seat and stands in front of you, instead. You watch his back. The way his shoulders bunch under flannel; the way his fist flexes at his side.

He’s blocking your view, now. Standing between you and the men. You have to tip to the side to catch a glimpse of Crew-Cut’s glare.

And he’s glaring, all right. He looks pissed. His lip curves up and his gold tooth winks.

“What ya gonna do?” he taunts, when Joel takes half a step forward. The words are slurred. He’s fucking hammered. Probably high, too, if the pills in his palm are any indication. “Huh, big man? Two ‘f us. One ‘a you.”

Dutch nods. His big, dumb hand curls to a lazy fist. Not the brains of the operation, you figure. But still large, and still tall, and still leering with a look that makes you sick.

“You got ten seconds to get the fuck out,” Joel says. He sounds eerily composed.

“Or what?” Another nasty grin. “You gonna fall asleep on me? Bite me with your fuckin’ dentures?”

“Nine,” Joel says. “Suggest you get a move on.”

“Yeah? You suggest I get a move on?” Crew-Cut jabs his head past Joel. Towards you. “That what she tells you when you fuck her?”

Oh, fuck.

“Joel,” you mumble, but it’s too late. He’s closing the distance between Dumb and Dumber before you can even process he’s moved. He leans over the counter in a single, fluid motion and swipes something from behind the bar. You don’t see what it is. Not until he brings it down, to the thin stretch of skin between Crew-Cut’s knuckles, and you catch a flash of silver just before it lands.

You’re lucky this place is so packed, and so loud, and so — well, shitty. Because the shout Crew-Cut lets slip — followed by the horrified yelp from his friend — would be pretty fucking hard to miss anywhere else.

“Holy shit,” you breathe. “Joel—”

There’s a steak knife pinning Crew-Cut’s hand to the counter. Joel’s fingers are wrapped around the hilt. There’s blood where Crew-Cut’s hand rips, dripping heavy to the floor — but it’s not as much as you’re expecting. Not as much as there will be, when he pulls the knife back out.

Your gaze darts to the bartender, at the far end of the bar. Her back is to you, and to Joel, and to the steak knife sticking out of her patron’s hand. It’s dirty. Serrated. Probably giving Crew-Cut tetanus, on top of the stitches he’ll need.

Joel leans in. His hand tightens on the knife.

“C’mon,” he drawls. That velvet voice that makes you ache. Darker, rougher, but — still Joel. “Lemme walk you out.”

He yanks the knife out. You wince. Crew-Cut gives a mangled cry and stumbles back into his friend. Blood gurgles from his palm and drizzles down over his wrist.

“Fuck you, man,” Dutch says. He looks a little pale, but he stands his ground. They both do. “Messed with the wrong fuckin’ guys.”

Joel’s quiet. He slams the tip of the steak knife into the wood bartop, and you watch the handle wobble. The men flinch.

“Out,” he says, softly. “Now.”

Crew-Cut goes first, cradling his hand. Dutch follows with a dumb, dark scowl. Joel trails them both. His boots crunch on glass from your spilled drink.

You get a glimpse of his face, when he turns to you. You’ve never seen it quite like that.

“Stay put,” he mutters. You realize he’s talking — to you, and not the men— and your skin sparks.

You should probably stop him. From — well, from whatever he’s about to do. Escort them outside, murder them, something in between, maybe.

But you…don’t. You just nod, slowly, and swallow back the fire in your throat.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Take your time.”

He pushes both men past you. Crew-Cut mutters something as he passes you. Sounds a lot like fuckin’ slut.

You watch Joel tense in your peripheral. The tug between your legs pulls so taut it almost hurts.

You’re pretty sure it’s fucked up, to want him the way you do right now. You should be horrified, or something. You should look at the blood on the bartop and get the first bus back to Austin.

You definitely shouldn’t just…sit here. You shouldn’t be fighting every urge to slide a hand up the hem of your dress and make yourself cum to the sound of his snarl.

But — fuck it. You’ve done a lot of things you shouldn’t do, this past month. So you watch his knuckles close around the back of Crew-Cut’s collar, and you watch him drag both men across the threshold of the bar. Out the door. Out of sight and out of mind.

You order another drink while you wait. No one bothers you, this time.

And when Joel comes back ten minutes later, alone, with bloody knuckles and a split in his lip — you practically drag him out of the bar.

—

The drive back to the hotel is pretty much silent.

He doesn’t tell you what happened outside of the bar. You don’t ask.

You watch his knuckles grip the wheel, instead. Red. Raw. Ruined. You rub your thighs together and shift in his seat.

He pulls in by the lobby. He puts the truck in park and doesn’t let the gear shift go.

He looks up. At you.

“Are you alright?” he murmurs.

It’s so…gentle. Kind of a jarring contradiction, to the blood splashed on his knuckles.

“Yeah,” you say. Your voice is quiet. “I’m good.”

He nods. But he doesn’t quite believe you, you think, because his whole frame is stiff — when you grab for his hand on your way inside, and when you lean into his side while the elevator comes.

You get in first and he follows, slowly. He stands opposite you and grips the steel handrail.

He reaches for the buttons. Presses 14.

He clears his throat when the doors close.

“‘M sorry,” he says, finally. “You shouldn’t—wasn’t right, what I did. You shouldn’t ‘a seen — had to see that.”

“See what?” You cock your head. “See you beat the shit out of two assholes?”

He looks at you sharply. You shrug.

“That’s funny,” you say, and you’re only half teasing. “I was gonna ask if you could do it again.“

He shakes his head. Swears, softly.

“Ain’t right,” he mutters. “‘F your dad was here, he’d—”

“He’s not here,” you say. A little more bite than you mean.

It shuts him up, at least. He’s silent when the elevator climbs past 4.

“Never seen you that mad,” you say, after a beat.

His fingers tense on the rail.

“I scare you?”

“No,” you say, quickly. “Just never seen it before.”

He watches you. A muscle jumps in his jaw.

“You always get that pissed?” you ask.

“No,” he says, after a pause. He looks at you. Then —

“Just don’t like people touchin’ what’s mine.”

Your stomach swirls. The elevator announces floor 9.

“Is that what I am?” you ask, quietly. “Yours?”

He tilts his head. A low, quiet sound slips past his lips. He pushes off the rail and crosses the floor to you, caging you against the wall. The small of your back digs into steel.

“You tell me,” he growls.

His mouth is so close you can taste him. His drawl drips to your skin and paints you red.

You kiss him. Your mouth slants against his and he punches out a sigh. His hands find your waist and crumple cheap silk.

You drag him closer. Your fingers bunch at the front of his shirt. You pop one of his buttons and he groans, licking into your mouth.

You’re so busy attacking his shirt you don’t hear the elevator ding at floor 12. You don’t even feel it stop until the doors are wheezing open.

You freeze. Your lips go slack against Joel’s. You hear him huff and you push at his chest. He stumbles backwards, half a step, just as an elderly woman shuffles inside.

She greets you both politely. You manage a smile and Joel manages nothing.

And then you’re moving again, climbing the last two floors to 14 — and the elevator opens.

“S’cuse us,” Joel gruffs, and practically shoves you over the threshold. You apologize to the woman when you trip over her shoes.

“Sorry,” you squeak.

“Quite the hurry,” she notes.

You have no fucking idea, you want to say. But Joel is dragging you down the hall, and keying open the room, and she’s out of sight before the door can even close.

—

You wonder if he’ll say more, now that you’re finally alone. But when you’re back in the room, and he drops his wallet and his phone and his keys on the desk by the door — he’s clearly not in the mood for conversation. He tips his chin to the bed, and the command is clear. But you still want to hear him say it.

So you stand, stubbornly. His mouth twitches.

“On the bed,” he says. “Right fuckin’ now.”

You take a few steps back, toward the bed. Then you stop.

He growls in frustration.

You ignore him. You point to his bloody knuckles, and to the dust on his flannel. There’s blood on your lip — his blood — where he kissed you with a sliced mouth.

“No,” you say. “No. I’m sorry. I’m not going anywhere til you get in the shower. You look like you just killed someone.”

He scowls. Stares at you, nonplussed.

“You didn’t, right? Kill someone? Or — someones? Because—”

His frown deepens. You watch his eyes narrow.

“Kidding,” you say, quickly. “Sort of. Just — shower. Please. You’re a mess. And those are white sheets.”

He mumbles something unintelligible. He holds your gaze a second longer and then stalks past you, toward the bathroom, still muttering as he fumbles with his shirt.

“What was that?”

“Nothin’,” he grunts.

“Didn’t sound like nothing.”

He whips back around. His shirt hangs, half-undone. His eyes glint.

“Said you’re fuckin’ impossible,” he gruffs.

You grin. You flop back onto the bed while he hovers at the bathroom door.

“Better hurry,” you tell him, trailing a hand up your thigh. You bump the hem of your dress and your fingers creep under. “Might get started without you.”

His stare goes dark. His hand drops from his shirt.

“Don’t,” he warns.

You give him a look. Your fingers drift up the seam of your thigh, circling the wetness there. The hem of lace panties peeks over your wrist.

“Don’t…what?”

“Fuck,” he hisses. “The hell’s gotten into you?”

“Don’t know,” you say, innocently. “You? Hopefully?”

His jaw flickers. He swears, softly, and his belt hisses from his jeans. He shrugs his shirt off his shoulders and takes half a step toward you.

You grab a pillow off the bed and hurl it at his chest. It lands with a thud and stops him in his tracks.

“Go,” you say.

“Jesus,” he mutters.

But he does as you say. He turns around; walks back to the bathroom with a low, angry sigh, and you watch his jeans ride low on his waist.

The door clicks shut behind him. You wait for the water to start and then you get up, off of the bed, shedding your shoes and your dress as you cross the carpet. You crack the bathroom door open and slip in.

He doesn’t see you come in. He’s turned away from you, standing under the water with his back to fogged glass. The walls and the counters are slick with steam already.

You step out of your underwear and leave them on the tile. Tug the shower door open, just wide enough to edge through, and join him underneath the spray.

“Hey,” you say, softly.

He turns. Blinks at you. Water streams down his brow and cleans the cut on his lip.

For half a second he seems surprised. And then his gaze evens out and his eyes rake your body.

Your skin heats — under his stare, under the water. You watch him swallow and your stomach does a flip.

“Close the door,” he mutters. “Lettin’ all the steam out.”

You do as he says and slide the glass shut. The added warmth makes your skin sting.

He brings his hands up, to push through soaked hair. Water drips past his knuckles and hits the ground pink.

You take half a step forward and the spray beats at your neck. You lift your hands to his and drag one of them down and he lets you, watching you with quiet eyes. You fold a palm over his knuckles and he sucks in a breath.

You bring his hand up to your mouth. Press a featherlight kiss to the bruise on his knuckle.

He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t yank his hand back. Just looks at you, with that soaked-black stare.

You gaze up at him, eyes wide. Water drips from your lashes and skates to your cheeks. You part your lips and drag two of his fingers up into your mouth.

He sighs. His half-hard cock stirs to life by your thigh.

His fingers are soaked, from the spray of the shower. Slippery. It means they slide easily into your mouth, and curl wet against your tongue when you take him to the knuckle. Your lips brush the cuts there and he hisses through his teeth.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “Easy. Easy.”

He uses his free hand to tip your chin up. To look into your eyes, when you hollow your cheeks and take his soaked fingers deeper. There’s a look on his face you can’t quite read.

“You like that, baby?”

He sounds a little mystified, maybe. His fingers play on your jaw, urging your mouth open wider. You can taste the salt on his skin. The metal tang of blood where his knuckles are raw. The sweet-smelling soap he’s used to clean out his wounds.

You whine, with your mouth full of him. Try to take his fingers deeper when they hook around your lips.

“Fuck,” he mutters, half to himself. “You do.”

He drags his fingers out of your mouth. A string of spit hangs from his fingertips and disappears under the spray.

“Turn around,” he says, softly.

You turn around.

Truth be told, you’re expecting him to fuck you. Finally. What you’re not expecting is the telltale pop of a shampoo cap, and the smell of artificial fruit, and Joel’s broad, bruised hands in your hair, massaging soap to your scalp.

You let a small, involuntary sound slip. You tilt your head into his hands and water splashes your collar.

“Can do that myself,” you mumble.

He hums in response. His fingers dig into your scalp and you moan.

“Know you can, angel.” He works the soap through your hair. Kneads tight little circles at your roots. “But let me.”

You nod, absently. Let him cradle your head in his hands. His fingers pull to the nape of your neck and work at the knots there. Probably the same ones that settled when you leaned over his lap in his truck, this afternoon, and dragged your mouth along his cock.

His hands leave your hair too soon. The excess soap drips down your back and leaves you smelling like strawberries and Joel.

You almost turn back around to face him. But then his hand is on your back, between your shoulder blades, and he’s pushing you forward until your palms kiss tile.

He doesn’t tease you. He doesn’t make you beg for it. You’re sure he would, if you’d never gone to that bar. He’d torture the hell out of you, the way he promised he would.

But you did go to the bar, and now he’s bruised and bleeding and broken, and there’s something to his touch that you can’t quite place. Something different. Something desperate. Like he needs you worse now than you’ve needed him all night.

“You still want this?” he asks, behind your back.

You can feel his cock, soaked and swollen, nudging at the slick skin between your thighs. But you’re pretty sure that’s not what he’s asking about. You can tell, from the drag in his voice. From the way the words stumble down your back and swirl to the drain. You know what he’s actually trying to ask — in that rough, muddled way that only he can muster.

You still want me?

You twist your head over your arm. Look at him under the spray.

“Always,” you mumble. “Always want you. Please, Joel—”

You don’t need to beg him. He listens. He lines his hips behind you and his skin touches yours, soaked and soapy and scalding hot where water runs. He’s taking the brunt of the spray, behind you. It thrashes his eyes and streaks past his mouth, punching the split in his lip. You can hear him wince at your back. Can hear him hiss, when his knuckles squeeze at your sides and his sliced lip buries in the slope of your shoulder.

He’s clearly in pain. And he clearly couldn’t care less, when he tugs your hips back into his and strokes his soaked cock through your slick.

“Fuck,” you breathe. Your fingers scrabble for purchase on the tile. It’s too slippery, too wet, and you have to lean over further to brace your forearms on the wall.

The new angle makes him groan. You’re more exposed, like this. Bent and dripping for him. The head of his cock notches at your entrance and his fingertips twitch on your waist.

He’s not stingy with the foreplay, usually. But his mouth is out of commission, and so are his fingers, and even though you have a feeling he’d do it, gladly, if you asked — you’re so turned on from hours of back and forth teasing and whatever the hell happened at that bar that you’d rather he just —

“Fuck me,” you gasp. Your muscles clench around nothing. The steam from the shower muffles your moan. “Just — fuck me.”

“Relax,” he drawls. “Relax, baby.”

He pushes the tip of his cock into you. Just barely. Making sure you’ll take him, without his mouth or his fingers to ease your way, first.

You squeeze pitifully around the head of his cock. Whimper something that sounds like his name.

“Fuck,” he mumbles. He sounds a little awed. “You’re fuckin’ — soaked. You need it this bad, babygirl?”

You rock your hips back in response. His cock slides deeper, an inch, two inches — stretching you open — and then he’s grabbing at your hips and thrusting all the way in.

You yelp at the intrusion. His hips smack your ass and shove you up against slick tile. You have to push back against him to keep from slamming into the wall — and when you meet his thrusts he snarls.

“Always so — fuckin’ — tight,” he hisses. Something drips to your back. Hot and thick, thicker than water. Blood from his lip, you think, torn open again on his snarl.

“Tell me,” you say, urgently. You wouldn’t ask, usually, but — you can’t think straight. The water is scorching your skin, and his hands are even hotter, and his cock is lighting you up from the inside out. “Tell me what you — ah. Tell me what you did to them.”

His thrusts slow. He drags his cock out of you.

“Who?” he murmurs.

And then he pushes back into you, white-hot and no warning, and your breath punches out of your lungs.

“The—fuck,” you yelp, “the guys. At the — the — ngh, Joel — at the bar.”

He’s quiet. He pulls out again, all the way, and waits until you whine to thrust back in. And then he does it again, and again, over and over, until the slap of soaked skin drowns the sound of the shower.

“Tell me,” you plead.

“Fuck,” he swears. “Fuckin’—sent ‘em home.”

“Yeah?” You swallow a moan. Your muscles clamp down on his cock. “In one — fuck — piece?”

He makes a sound — like a chuckle, or a groan, or something in between. His hand leaves your hip and wraps tight around your shoulder, bracing you against his cock as he pounds you into the wall.

“Just about,” he pants.

You bite down on your lip. His cock rolls against your g-spot and you cry out. The sound fogs the glass and drips to your feet.

Heat drills at your core. Your eyes glaze.

“Fuck,” you mumble. “Fuck, Joel, I’m gonna—”

“Yeah?” His voice rips through you like wildfire. Low, rough, serrated — like that dirty fucking blade he’d left swaying in the counter. “That turn you on, hearin’ all that? You gonna cum?”

You whine. Water rakes down his jaw and splatters your back.

“Bad fuckin’ girl,” he growls. He bottoms out and his hips stall. His cock throbs somewhere deep inside you. “Never been so fuckin’ wet for me.”

Your hands make useless fists on the tile. You stare at the water on the floor and your vision swirls.

“Joel—”

“Go on,” he says. “Attagirl, baby, go on. Lemme feel.”

You’re so tightly wound your whole body almost snaps. You’ve been two well-timed touches away from falling apart since this afternoon, when he shoved his cock down your throat and told you in no uncertain terms to keep your fuckin’ head down.

So when he pushes you over the edge, finally — your knees buckle. You’re lightheaded. Your muscles strangle his cock, bearing down so hard it practically drags his own release out. His hips stumble into yours and he chokes on your name.

His hand lets up on your shoulder when he cums. Without him holding you in place you go limp, boneless — and your forearms slip on the tile wall. He barely — barely — catches you before you sink to the shower floor.

“Woah — hey —” He’s got you, you think, and you can’t really see, with the shower all fogged and your eyes all hazy — but he’s got you. He’s got you. He’s got his big arm wrapped around your tummy, stopping you from crumpling all the way down.

“Okay, easy,” he murmurs. You can barely hear him over the roar of the shower, and the static between your own ears. “Shh. Easy. S’okay. ‘M right here. I got you, babygirl.”

You mumble something that gets lost in the spray. You’re pretty sure it’s his name. And then he’s sinking to the ground, with you, because it’s easier to go down than to bring you back up. He clutches you to his chest as he slumps against the wall. He hits the ground first, before you, so that you land in his lap instead of the floor.

And then he just…holds you. You fold into his chest and you feel so fucking small, all wrapped up in him, with your legs tangled over his and your head tucked under his jaw. He wraps an arm around you and you leave soaked, breathless kisses on whatever bit of him you can reach.

He reaches his free hand up and fumbles for the shower handle. He cranks it, hard, and the water shuts off. A few searing droplets land on your bare shoulder. He kisses them dry and his stubble scrapes your skin.

“Okay,” he breathes. Over and over, until his voice soothes your shiver. You tuck into his chest and your breathing starts to still. “Okay, angel.”

You feel like crying and you’re not totally sure why. Maybe it’s the earth-shattering release he’s just given you, after hours and hours of fucking nothing. Maybe it’s something else. Maybe it’s the fact you can hear his heartbeat, pressed up against your ear, and you can feel it skip when your lips skim his jaw.

“Talk to me,” he says, softly. And then, a little unsure — “Please.”

“‘M fine,” you mumble. The words are semi-slurred. You’re blissed out. You’re tired. You smell like soap, and sex, and you smell like Joel. Or Joel smells like you. You can’t even tell anymore. “‘M good.”

“Fuck,” he says. “Fuck. Was that — was I too rough? I — you should’ve said, I should’ve —”

“No,” you say. You shake your head. “No. Was good. You’re good. Perfect.”

You hear him exhale. Short, shallow. Relieved, or amused.

“Okay,” he echoes. Agonizingly gentle. “Alright, baby. Let’s — let’s get you to bed, yeah?”

“Mm,” you mumble. “Yeah.”

You let him lift you. Let him carry you out of the shower, past the glass sliding door and onto dry floor. He sets you down, on top of the closed toilet seat, and sits you there while he finds you a towel. Your head hums. Your skin glows pink — from the shower, from his touch. When he comes back with a towel you let him wrap you up like a burrito, thudding into his chest while he dries you off.

He leans down when he’s finished. Presses a kiss to the top of your head.

“C’mon,” he says, softly.

You look up, bleary-eyed. His stare searches yours.

“Bed?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Think so.”

“Mm. Not tired.”

“No?” You watch his brow lift. “Not tired?”

“Mm. Mm-mm.”

“Okay. Sure.” He takes a breath.“How ‘bout you just humor me, then?”

You nod solemnly, like you’re doing him a favor. You let him tug the towel tight around your shoulders and you stand on your own, this time, wobbling on shaky legs. You lean into his side and he walks you out, into the bedroom and straight into bed.

He pulls the sheets up around your chin. You’re semi-aware of the fact that you’re naked, and you can’t bring yourself to care. You watch him pull on dry boxers from the duffel bag at the foot of the bed, and then he’s climbing in beside you. The mattress dips with his weight. You register somewhere, in the back of your mind, that it’s the very first time you’ve ever slept beside him.

The thought makes you lightheaded again. You nuzzle into his side and he drags you close.

A few minutes pass like that. His breathing slows.

“Joel,” you say.

He mumbles. His voice is rough in the dark.

“Yeah.”

“I had fun,” you say, sleepily. “Today."

He exhales. He rolls onto his side and pulls you close, his chest to your back. His mouth drops to your shoulder.

“Yeah,” he repeats. “Me too, angel.”

“‘Specially when you killed those guys.”

You can feel him roll his eyes. His teeth nip at your shoulder.

“Ain’t kill anyone,” he mutters. “Jesus. Go t’sleep.”

“Mm.” You yawn. “Okay. When you stabbed that one guy, then.”

He sighs. His breath drips down your skin.

“He was a dick,” you say. The words are muffled in the crook of his arm.

You hear him huff.

“Yeah,” he says. “He was a dick.”

You hum happily. Curl up between his arm and his chest. Your ass rubs up on his boxers and you can feel him harden again, already — but he doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t roll his hips into yours, or say something filthy, or tighten his grip on your body. He just holds you there, to him, until his breathing drops off and his arm goes limp.

Something flickers in your chest. Something dangerous. You twist quietly in his arms until your chest is brushing his.

“Joel,” you whisper.

When he doesn’t respond you edge closer to him. You rest your nose and your mouth in the crook of his neck.

“I am, y’know,” you breathe. “Yours.”

He doesn’t answer. You’re pretty sure he’s asleep. But later, when you drift off with your head on his heart — you could swear he buries a kiss in your hair.

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peakymarvelworld · 10 months

Text

jealous (joel's version)

4.4k / dbf!joel x f!reader

warnings: 18+, minors dni. age gap (reader is 23, joel is in his late 40s). dbf!joel, angsty!joel, jealous as hell!joel, kind of (?) voyeuristic!reader, masturbation (m), light violence (joel breaks shit), no use of y/n.

a/n: this is a bonus chapter in my dbf!joel series. it explores the events of jealous from joel's pov.

i got a lot of asks requesting joel's pov, so that's exactly what this is. it runs parallel to the events of jealous, and there are numerous references to events that happened there (which we saw through reader's eyes) so i would recommend reading that first if you haven't yet/if you need a refresher.

this is a new one for me! i haven't written from joel's pov...like, ever. so thank y'all for getting me out of my comfort zone. for everyone who requested something like this - i hope this was somewhat in the realm of what you wanted. we are all learning together!

i wanted to get this out before the next actual chapter in this dbf!series, rather than after. insert gif of jeremy strong saying it makes sense ... dramaturgically.

ok love you thanks for listening. see y'all when we return to san antonio 🤍

this is a bonus chapter in my dbf!series, to be read alongside part 6. read the other parts here:

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

He’s pretty sure Hayes is still talking. Something about a drought. Always about the fucking drought. “Do I fuckin’ know you?” he interrupts. “Oh.” Hayes blinks. “Um, no, sir. Sorry. Like I said, I was just driving by—” “So keep drivin’,” he says. Hayes swallows. “I think you know my, uh — my —” Hayes is pointing behind himself. To you. You’re slumped so far in your seat you don’t see it, but Joel does. His brow furrows. “Listen to me,” he growls. “I ain’t got a goddamn clue who you are. But I’m sure as hell she ain’t your fuckin’ anythin’.”

The first time Joel sees you with Hayes, it’s not dusk and he’s not in his driveway.

It’s before that. Like, hours before that. It’s ten in the morning, and Hayes is rocking on his heels on your front porch, working up the nerve to ring your bell.

It’s not Joel who spots him first. It’s Sarah. She’s sitting at the breakfast table, eating a semi-stale muffin Joel hasn’t stored right — and she sees him through the window. Watches him drive up to the curb in his cherry-red convertible and park between your house and Joel’s.

She doesn’t say anything. Not at first. She’s used to silent meals with Joel — but an amicable sort of silence. Whatever charred, heavy quiet he’d dragged home a few nights ago, after that dinner at your place — it’s excruciating. And it hasn’t let up. Not yesterday, not today. Not with the sunlight, or a cup of hot coffee, or Sarah’s attempt at lighthearted conversation.

It sticks. And it’s ugly.

So she doesn’t mention Hayes, not right away, because — well. Because Joel seems preoccupied. He’s stationed at the sink with his back to the window, letting hot water run cold.

“Hey,” she says.

Nothing. He’s got his knuckles wrapped around granite and his shoulders bunched over the sink. Like melted marble.

“Hey,” Sarah echoes.

He turns. She tuts.

“Come on, man. We’re in a drought.”

He listens, at least. He shuts off the tap and wipes his hands on his jeans.

“Sit down,” Sarah says. So he sits.

“Jeez,” she mumbles. She rips off a chunk of muffin. “You’re a zombie today.”

He doesn’t answer. He’s leaning forward in his chair, elbows on the table, staring out the window at the convertible on his curb. The car door slams and Hayes’s tousled head pops up like a gopher.

Joel watches him. Watches him straighten out his shirt, and smooth his jeans, and run a shaky, nervous hand through dark hair. Watches him lean back down, over the driver’s side door, and retrieve a bouquet from the seat. White roses. Wrapped up in red silk.

And then he watches Hayes walk up the street — away from his house, and up towards yours.

His mug comes down hard on the table. A little bit of coffee sloshes out over his hand.

“Dad,” Sarah bites. “Jesus.”

“Who is that?”

“Who is — who?”

“That kid.”

“What kid?”

“That — fuckin’ — the kid on the street. There.”

“Oh.” She shrugs. “I don’t know. Never seen him before.”

Joel grunts. Coffee trickles down his fist and pools beside his wrist.

Sarah asks him something else and he doesn’t answer. He’s not listening. He’s staring at Hayes while he scales your front steps, with that bouquet stashed behind his back.

Hayes rings your doorbell and Joel imagines the sound. He imagines the sound of your laugh, too, when the door swings open and you greet Hayes with a smile. And he imagines the smell of those fucking flowers, when you take the bouquet and bring it up to your nose. They’re nice, he thinks. The roses. They’re what you deserve.

He’d almost gotten you flowers. Three nights ago. When he’d come over for that fucking dinner. He’d even gone to that refrigerated flower section of the store: the same fancy, overpriced market where he’d bought you that wine — and stood there smelling flowers with a bunch of perfumed retirees. Trying to figure out which ones you’d like the most. Which ones would make you smile.

He’d put the white roses back first. They hadn’t seemed like you. And then he’d left without buying anything at all.

But maybe he’d been wrong, because you’re smiling when Hayes hands you the bouquet. You smile the way he’d pictured in that store. So maybe he doesn’t know you at all.

“He’s probably her date,” Sarah drawls. She’s watching, too. Her face is scrunched, trying to squint through the window.

He watches you lean over the threshold. You kiss Hayes on the cheek and your mouth lingers by his jaw.

“Date?” Joel mutters.

“Yeah. Sure.” She shoves more muffin into her mouth and chases it with a shot of OJ. When she speaks her mouth is still half-full. “Probably the dude she was drunk-texting me about last night. Hayden…Hayes…something like that.”

This time he does rip his gaze from the window. Not like he’s missing much, anyway. Hayes is over the threshold. You’ve invited him in, and shut the door, and Joel can’t see you anymore.

“What?”

Sarah blinks. She looks nonplussed. “What…what?”

“What are you — why is she drunk textin’ you?”

Sarah frowns. She makes a face. An I’m nineteen and you’re kind of stupid face.

“What do you mean, why is she drunk texting me? Because she was drunk? And texting me?”

“She shouldn’t — ’s not a good influence. You’re nineteen.”

“Drunk texting isn’t a good influence? Who am I talking to? What have you done with my dad? You poured me a whiskey last week while I watched Bachelor in Paradise. Remember? You said it was educational. Which, by the way, it was disgusting—”

He shakes his head. Rakes a hand through his stubble.

Sarah looks at him funny. Her brows are knit.

“Dad, she’s — she’s an adult. She’s fine. You don’t — if you’re, like, worried about her, you don’t have to — plenty of people meet on apps, these days. There’s, like, less than a ten percent chance he’s a psycho killer.”

He looks at her sharply. For a second it seems like he’ll say something profound, at least by Joel Miller standards — his lip twitches, and his gaze is narrowed, and he’s got a look in his eye that she can’t quite read.

But then he puts his coffee down, with a thud that makes the table shake. Stands up, and scrapes his chair across the floor.

“Ain’t my fuckin’ business,” he says.

Sarah flips up her hands.

“You brought it up,” she whines. But he’s long gone. He doesn’t answer, and she doubts he hears. She clocks the thump of his boots on the stairs and the creaky slam of his bedroom door. The shower eeks to life half a minute later.

“Drought,” she mutters. Shakes her head. She turns back to what’s left of her muffin, and when that bores her she traipses upstairs, too.

It means that no one’s at the window when you and Hayes reappear on your front porch, half an hour later, and walk hand in hand to his car. It means that Joel doesn’t see you, when you can’t stop yourself from looking for him. It means he doesn’t see the blossoming mark on your neck, or the bloom of red on your finger that you hide in your fist, where that bouquet bit you on its way to the vase.

He doesn’t see any of it. Doesn’t see you. Not until later — dusk — when Hayes knocks on his fucking front door.

—

He can’t quite believe what he’s seeing, at first. He watches Hayes trudge up his drive and calls for Sarah to get her ass down here — but, naturally — she’s gone. Scooped up by one of ten thousand friends.

So — goddamn it. He answers the door himself. And there’s Hayes, wobbling on his top step like an unwelcome ghost. All long, lean limbs and an angled jaw and green eyes like a meadow. A toothy, self-deprecating grin that Joel nearly swipes clean.

His fist flexes at his side.

“Hey, man,” Hayes says, and Joel’s fist bunches further. His nails dig into the meat of his palm. “I’m sorry to bug you like this. It’s just — I saw your hose from the street —”

Hayes points to the hose. Water gushes from the nozzle and drenches wet grass.

Joel follows his gaze. To the drive, to the grass, to the hose — then past them all to you. Sitting in that fucking convertible by the curb, slumped in your seat, wearing a necklace he’s never seen before. There’s a matching, cheap-looking pendant wrapped around Hayes’s wrist, when Joel drags his stare back. It makes his blood boil.

He’s pretty sure Hayes is still talking. Something about a drought. Always about the fucking drought.

“Do I fuckin’ know you?” he interrupts.

“Oh.” Hayes blinks. “Um, no, sir. Sorry. Like I said, I was just driving by—”

“So keep drivin’,” he says.

Hayes swallows.

“I think you know my, uh — my —” Hayes is pointing behind himself. To you. You’re slumped so far in your seat you don’t see it, but Joel does. His brow furrows.

“Listen to me,” he growls. “I ain’t got a goddamn clue who you are. But I’m sure as hell she ain’t your fuckin’ anythin’.”

“Look, I didn’t mean—”

“Don’t care what you meant. Now get the hell off my porch ‘fore I break your fuckin’ jaw.”

Hayes falters. He looks like a deer in the headlights, all spindly limbs and slack jaw. He’s not used to being told off. Joel can tell. He’s got that golden boy look: light eyes and fine clothes and a drawl that doesn’t quite sound Texan.

“Sorry,” Hayes says, again. He puts his palms up. “Sorry. Was just trying to help. Not my place.”

“No,” Joel says. “It ain’t.”

“Right. Yeah. Sorry. I’ll just—” Hayes motions again: down the drive, across the street — toward where you’re cowering in his passenger seat. “I should — she’s waiting, so —”

“So go,” Joel says. Flat. Cold.

But Hayes still — still — hesitates. He wobbles on his heels like he’s charging up a question.

“She is…something,” he says, quickly. “To me. Just — just so you — cause you said, before, that she’s not my — and, like, she’s not, really, not yet, but — but she could be, so —”

Joel stares.

“Just so you…so you know,” Hayes says. “If you were…if you were worried. I know you’re friends with her dad, or something. So. Just to say I’m not a — a creep, or anything. Which I guess is what a creep would say. But I’m not. A creep, I mean.”

“Jesus,” Joel mutters. His fist is flexed so hard it cramps. Pain lances his wrist and warps his scowl to a snarl.

“Yeah,” Hayes says. He backs up half a step. Shoves his fingers through the loops in his jeans. “So. Anyway. Just wanted to…set the record straight. You know.”

Joel grunts. And Hayes is still fucking talking.

“I just thought, cause you—” he blinks, “—cause it seems like maybe you don’t really like me, so I figured maybe it’s because of — of that.”

Joel is quiet. His fist unfurls and re-wraps around his doorframe. He stares at Hayes: at the tiny bloom of red sticking out under his collar, where you’d nipped him in the kitchen — and the frame groans under his fingertips.

“Don’t like you,” Joel says, “cause I don’t fuckin’ like you. Got nothin’ to do with her.”

Lie. But Hayes buys it, he thinks. There’s no reason he shouldn’t. The lie — that Joel is just an asshole, nothing more — is a lot more believable than the truth. That he’s incandescently, furiously jealous.

“She’s an adult,” Joel says. His voice is rough. “Reckon she can do what she wants. Includin’ you. Now get—” he takes a step forward, over the threshold, and Hayes shrinks back, “—the hell out. ’N mind your goddamn business, next time.”

“Yeah.” Hayes coughs. “Okay.”

He looks a lot less golden, now. A lot more pale. But there’s something in his stare that’s not quite deferential. A spark of indignance, maybe. Or anger.

But he doesn’t do a damn thing. Because Joel is still bigger, and still taller, and his threat hangs between them like an overripe rain cloud.

Hayes’s shoulders slump. He opens his mouth to say something — sorry, again, probably — and Joel slams the front door. Sends him scurrying straight back down the drive. Back to you.

Inside, Joel’s hand stays glued to the doorknob. His forehead leans against the door.

“Fuck,” he mutters. He picks his head up. Thuds it back against the wood. “Fuck.“

—

He watches you and Hayes from the window again.

He tells himself he doesn’t care. Convinces himself that he’s not really looking — that he just happens to be by the window, doing…something — when you drag Hayes up the street by his hand.

He watches you tug Hayes up your porch steps. Toward your front door. He’s standing in the same spot that Joel had been in, three nights ago, when he’d broken something off that hadn’t even started.

Except Hayes doesn’t run away. He doesn’t turn his back on you, and leave you standing in the dark.

Hayes kisses you, and you kiss him right back, and Joel watches. He tries to remember if you ever kissed him quite like that.

And then you’re pulling Hayes inside, over your threshold and into your house — and Joel watches that, too. He watches warm light spill out when you open the door. Watches Hayes’s hands on your waist, when you stumble in together. Watches the door close, and seal him out, right as Hayes’s mouth drops to cover your neck.

He’s not really sure what to do with himself after that. He goes upstairs, to his bedroom, and sits for a while on the foot of his bed. He picks his phone up off his nightstand and scrolls through his messages.

There’s an unread one from you. From two days ago. He’d seen the notification come through, and he’d left it to rot. Too scared to open it, maybe.

He clicks on it now and your text thread pops up. Your last conversation hovers at the top of the screen. It's from hours before he’d come over for dinner. You’d told him to bring something sweet, when he came over. You’d asked him to surprise you.

Well. He’d certainly surprised you. He still can't shake the look on your face, when he'd blindsided you in the dark.

He looks lower. To your last text; the one he’d been too scared to read — sitting at the bottom of his screen. Sent two days ago, four-thirty am.

You: fuck you, joel.

His stomach sinks.

He tosses his phone behind him. It lands facedown somewhere on the bed.

He gets up and wanders into the bathroom. He turns the shower on, for the second time today, because he needs to clear his head and there’s no one around to bitch about the stupid fucking drought.

He cranks the temperature too high and winces when he steps inside. But he leaves it. It’s distracting. He can burn to a crisp instead of thinking about you.

But that only lasts so long, because after a while he gets used to the water, or maybe the thought of you with Hayes scalds even hotter. Either way he’s fucked. He came in here to scrub you out and now you’re soaked into his skin. You and that golden boy, with his white roses and his white sweater and those too-white teeth in his too-big smile. Probably got you wrapped up in white sheets, too. Touching you with hands that aren’t calloused and a mouth that smells like mint, not whiskey.

Maybe that’s what you prefer, he thinks.

The water is too hot. It turns his skin pink. But he doesn't care, because his mind is elsewhere. He's thinking —

Maybe that’s what you like. Smooth hands and soft sheets and a drawl that’s not so rough.

Maybe that’s better. Maybe that’s what you deserve.

“Jesus,” he mutters. It’s muffled, in the water. “Fuck.”

He slams his palm on the wall. It connects with wet tile and smacks above the spray.

He doesn’t want to think about it. Whether or not you’re fucking — Hayden, or Hayes — or whatever the hell his name is, right now. But he can’t help it. He can’t think about anything else. About how it could be him, instead, if he hadn’t fucked it all up at that goddamn dinner.

If he hadn’t gotten scared.

He wonders if Hayes is touching you right. If he’s talking to you. If his fingers stretch you out the way his do. If he’s even using them.

The thought makes him angry. It pisses him off to think of Hayes touching you, and it pisses him off — even more, maybe — to think of Hayes touching you wrong. Because you should be touched right. You should be fucked right. You should be —

Everything should be right. For you.

Heat curls at his chest and clutches there like a vice. He’d do it right, if it were him and not Hayes — he’d stretch you out with two fingers, and his tongue, and his cock, when you’d beg him. His cock stirs to life at the thought.

He groans. Not now.

He wills his cock back down and it makes him that much harder. He tries to think of anything other than you — you and that fucking boy, in your bedroom, where Joel’s never been — and it only makes the thought stick more.

He knows the noises you make. He knows the way you kiss, and the way you taste, and the way you fall apart.

So it should be him in there, he thinks. It should be him. Even if he doesn’t deserve it.

He wraps his fist around the base of his cock and swears, softly. His hips thrust into his palm.

He tries not to think about how fucked up this is. But he wants you, and he hates Hayes, and there's too much tangled up inside him. He's not good at this. At feeling. He doesn't know how else to get it all out.

He strokes himself faster. His fist is slick with soap and warm from dregs of too-hot water. His thumb rolls over the head of his cock and he pushes out a breath, stumbling halfway forward. His free hand comes up to brace against tile.

He would make you feel good. Better than that fucking kid. He’d drop his head between your legs and say I’m sorry with his tongue til you scream.

But he can’t make you feel good. Because he fucked it. And now he’s alone, in his shower, jerking himself off with your name in his throat.

He pumps his wrist faster, harder, and a desperate tension knots inside him. Precum drips between his knuckles and mixes with slick soap.

He thrusts into nothing. His fist falters, pumping out a shallow rhythm, and he cums across his fingers with a groan. He mumbles your name and the water drowns it out.

He stands there for another minute, until the heat gets to his head. And then he gets out, and wraps a towel around his waist, and stands in front of the mirror with his hands on the sink.

He can’t see his reflection. Too foggy. But it doesn’t matter, because he doubts he looks any better than he feels. The fucking shower didn’t help. Making himself cum, with your name on his lips — that didn’t fucking help, either. The knot in his chest is still there. The white-hot tension hasn’t let up. His heart still hurts.

He slams the door on his way out of the bathroom. Sarah isn’t home to hear it screech.

—

He tries to sleep. He really does.

But then your bedroom light goes on, flicking warm against the dark, and your silhouette dances by your window. Top floor. Directly across the street from Joel’s.

In all the years you've known each other — as neighbors, friends, whatever — your curtains have almost always been drawn. Warding off prying eyes from the street. And his lights are almost always off, meaning you can never see in, so — it’s a moot point. He never sees you and you never see him.

Except now, except tonight, when your light comes on sometime past midnight and he watches you pull back the blinds.

He doesn’t look, at first. He sees your shadow in the window, tugging back the curtains, and he drops his gaze.

But you don’t move. You stay there, framed in the glass, bare legs washed in golden light. Because you want him to look.

So he does, when it's clear you're putting on a show. He walks across his room, to his own window, and leans his palms against the sill. His shoulders bunch in his tee shirt: Black, worn, MILLER CONTRACTING scrawled across the back. He’s pretty sure you have one just like it. He insisted you keep it. When he made you cum in his mouth, on the side of his pool, and sent you home shaking in his favorite shirt.

He winces. His hands curl on the windowsill.

You walk closer to your window and he can see you better, now. He can’t make out which shirt you’re wearing. But he sees the way your head lifts, and your body tips forward, and you put a palm up to the pane.

You’re staring at him from across the street. Begging him to watch as your fingers skim your thigh.

He mutters softly. Swears. He looks to his left, to his bed, where his phone is still scattered between the sheets. Your message plays between his ears.

Fuck you, Joel.

You straighten in the window. Rake a hand through your hair. The motion makes your shirt hitch, exposing the curve of your bare hip, and you don’t pull it down. You let it ride up. You want Joel to see, and he does.

He huffs. Punches out a breath. He watches you toy with the hem of your shirt, flooded with light in that fucking window, putting on a show that only he can see. Punishing him.

And then there’s another silhouette in the glow of your room. Taller, darker. It wanders up behind you and bends to kiss your neck.

Joel doesn’t stick around to watch. It’s punishment enough, just seeing Hayes there. Seeing your head tilt back to meet his mouth. He shoves himself off of the sill and his curtains scream shut.

He doesn’t sleep after that. He can’t. He wanders back down the stairs, and into the kitchen, and rummages around for a snack he doesn’t want.

He finds a second stale muffin that Sarah hasn’t claimed. He peels back the wrapping and then throws it in the trash. Fuck the muffin, he thinks.

The knot in his chest is still there. It’s worse than before. He doesn’t know how to get it untangled, and it frustrates him. It pulls the tension even tighter.

He builds things for a living. Fixes them. Breaks them apart and puts them back together better. But when it’s him — when there’s something broken inside of his chest — it’s a mystery. He doesn’t know how to make it right. He doesn’t even know where to start.

And that, fucking —

Hurts. It hurts. And it pisses him off.

He’s used to being in control. He likes it that way. It makes everything easier, when he’s calling the shots. Like when he broke it off with you, on your front porch, so that he didn’t have to feel.

Except that didn’t work, because all he does now is feel. And he doesn’t feel fucking good. It’s why he can’t eat, or sleep, or think about that — kid — without the knot in his chest pulling taut.

He hates it. He hates Hayes, and he hates this feeling, and he hates everything, right now.

Well. Everything except you.

He leans his weight against the kitchen island. The lip of the counter creases his shirt. He watches the clock on the oven — 12:21, displayed in blinking red. It flips to 12:22 and he wonders if you’re still at the window.

Maybe you are still there, teasing him by the glass. Or maybe you’ve gone back to bed, with that taller, leaner, younger shadow at your side, and turned out the lights again. Maybe Hayes’s mouth is still on your neck, marking you — or maybe it’s dragged lower.

“Fuck,“ Joel snarls. His fist thuds on the stone. Pain sparks up his wrist and he welcomes the hurt.

He shoves himself off the counter. He ransacks the cabinet for a suitable glass and pours himself a whiskey, and when his fingers tremble on the neck of the bottle he ignores them. He downs the drink in one sip and slams the glass down too hard. It’s a miracle it doesn’t break.

But he wants something to break. Something other than him. He makes a sound — low, rough, annoyed — and stalks the length of the kitchen with his hackles raised.

He pauses by the coffee pot. Cheap. Glass. Nestled in a cozy corner.

He drags it out by the handle and looks into the glass. His reflection stares back: a little warped, distorted — but clear enough. The same reflection he couldn’t see in that fogged-out bathroom mirror.

But he can make it out now, in cheap coffee pot glass. And he doesn’t fucking like what he sees.

He looks tired. Angry. His brows are drawn, and he’s scowling, but there’s a softness in his eyes that spells sad.

He looks jealous. And he hates that he does.

He slams the pot down on instinct. It shatters on the lip of the counter and the shards settle like dust: on the floor, between tile, across granite. Only the plastic handle is intact, still, clutched in his palm while he drags in a breath.

He’s panting. His pulse is going at a gallop. It’s why he doesn’t realize he’s bleeding, until it drips down his wrist and lands thick at his feet, pooling sickly red beside glass.

“Shit,” he breathes. He drops the handle and that clatters, too. The motion frees up his wound and he winces. “God—damn it.”

It’s long, and deep, and it looks nasty. A jagged cut through the heart of his palm. There are pieces of glass, still, lodged inside the slice. He’ll have to tweeze them out later.

He probably needs stitches. But it doesn’t really hurt — not as much as that fucking ache above his ribcage — and the blood on his hands gives him something else to think about. And he’s Joel Miller, anyway. Stubborn til the bitter end. So he leaves the glass on the floor and trudges back upstairs, back into his bathroom, and he pours alcohol and neosporin and superglue on that cut until it cleans and seals and stops weeping blood. And then he wraps it up, haphazard, so that it doesn’t stop stinging — and he goes to bed. Finally.

But he still dreams about you.

And in the morning, when he tells your dad what happened, and walks across the street to your place for an intact cup of coffee —

He prays that you’ll forgive him.

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peakymarvelworld · 10 months

Text

jealous

11.6k / dbf!joel x f!reader

warnings: 18+, minors dni. smut. smut, smut. so much smut. age gap (reader is 23, joel is in his late 40s). jealous sex, jealous!joel, dbf!joel, dom!joel, fingering, oral (f receiving), unprotected p in v, edging, light angst, pet names (angel, baby, pretty girl, etc), praise kink, no use of y/n.

a/n: ok so it's possible i got slightly carried away because why tf is this chapter 11.6k ... anyway for everyone in my requests asking for jealous/mean joel this one is dedicated to you. i love you and i cannot thank you enough for the support on this series. this is so much fun to write and y'all are so much fun to share it with. appreciate every last one of you - your comments, reblogs, requests are the best. see you in the next part. peace 🤠🤍

this is part 6 of my dbf!joel series. read the previous parts here (or read this standalone):

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5

masterlist here. kofi here, if you feel like leaving a tip! love y'all.

He’s gorgeous. He’s nice. He makes you feel good, and you have a feeling he’s about to make you feel even better, if the way he pushes you back onto the bed and slides between your thighs is any indication. But that’s not what really turns you on. That’s not why you’re about to let him fuck you. You want this — in some twisted, sadistic back corner of your brain — because you liked the way Joel looked when Hayes touched you in the car. Scowling, dark, a little bit lost. You imagine how he’d look now, if he could see you like this. If he could see another man’s head bending down to taste you. Fuck Joel Miller, you think. And then you fuck Hayes, instead.

Fuck Joel.

That’s been your mantra the last two days. Fuck Joel Miller, fuck Joel Miller, fuck Joel Miller — which does help channel your anger, to some degree. Until of course you inevitably slip, and think about him actually fucking you, and then you’re back to square one.

The truth is you’re sad. Like, really, honestly, genuinely sad. Heartbroken feels a little too strong — you only kissed him for the first time last week — but, gun to your head, it’s probably the better word.

But it’s easier to be angry, so that’s what you decide to be. You plaster over the part of your heart he’s left hollow with a fresh, furious coat of fuck Joel Miller.

And then you try to forget about him. Which is impossible, really, but you’re stubborn, so you try anyway.

Which is why you’re on Hinge at one in the morning, tucked under the covers, sending messages to some guy named Hayes.

You matched with him a while ago. The day before the Fourth of July, you’re pretty sure. He’s cute, based on what you can glean from his profile. Tall, lean, green eyes and dark hair. Dimples and a goofy smile. He’s your type, for sure. But you never messaged him beyond hello, because —

Well. Because of Joel.

He doesn’t hold it against you, thankfully. He responds almost immediately when you message him after a week and a half of radio silence.

you: hey.

hayes: hey! didn’t think I’d hear from you.

you: yeah, sorry. got caught up. family stuff.

hayes: no worries. i get it.

hayes: so what’s up?

You roll your eyes to the ceiling. For a second you consider swiping out of Hinge — thumbing to your messages instead, and texting Joel — but you’re better than that. You’re angry.

you: not much. home for the summer. bored. you?

hayes: haha. same. just finished my last semester at stanford. home for a little bit before work starts.

Your brow lifts. Stanford. That’s not in his profile, so either he’s spectacularly humble, or he’s a pathological liar. Your experience on dating apps tips you toward the latter.

But then you type his name into Instagram, and his profile pops up straightway — public and very popular — and, sure enough, there he is. His latest post is from graduation. Location tag: Stanford University.

you: stanford. impressive.

hayes: depends. you like nerds?

You laugh a little.

you: if they’re cute.

hayes: oh, well. in that case.

You smile for the first time in two days. It’s nice.

hayes: kind of feels like we should grab a drink.

Forward. You’re not opposed, though. Not if it gets your mind off of Joel. The faster the better, you think.

you: im listening.

hayes: church and anchor? tomorrow night? i can pick you up.

You know that place. You like that place. Noisy, dark, full of rowdy students getting drunk off cheap beer. You doubt Joel would ever touch it with a ten-foot pole.

you: yeah, sure. nine?

hayes: it’s a date.

You close the app and your screen goes dark. You lay there for a long time, phone face-down on your chest, breathing through your nose while you stare at the ceiling.

You have a date. Handsome, smart, not a serial killer, by all accounts. And not best friends with your fucking father.

So you should be excited, really. And you are. You are. It’s just — and you can’t help it, really — it’s just that when you fall asleep, phone still clutched between your hands, you still dream about Joel.

—

Your date with Hayes goes well. Like…surprisingly well.

He’s better looking than he is in his photos, which is saying a lot. He’s tall — at least as tall as Joel — which, why are you even comparing?

Joel’s maybe half an inch taller, if you had to say. But you don’t have to say, because it doesn’t matter. Because you’re not comparing.

He’s clean-shaven. No patchy beard, no square jaw, no broad, tanned chest. He’s all angles: lean and lithe and toned, and when he takes off his jacket his muscles flex under his shirt.

Not the kind of muscles you’d get from, say, contracting — but the kind you hone in the gym, on a machine, with exact weights and counted sets.

His smile is striking, all straight white teeth and dimpled cheeks. And he smiles a lot. He smiles when he picks you up, in a cherry-red convertible with the top slung down, and holds the door for you. He smiles when you taste his favorite drink, some disgusting rum punch he insists is the best. And he smiles when you touch his hand, and drag him to the dance floor, because you’re tipsy and he’s cute and you want to forget.

It strikes you, when you’re dancing — when he’s laughing under strobe lights, and his face is painted blue — that you’ve never seen Joel smile.

Not really, anyway. Not like this.

Hayes is nice, too. Kind. He pays for your drinks. He buys you McDonald’s when you’re drunk and it’s late and you’re starving, and you walk around until he’s sober. And then he gives you his jacket, and he drives you home, and he doesn’t touch you until he walks you to your door.

Even then it’s just to take back his jacket. He gently — very gently — rolls it off of your shoulders and gathers it back into his arms. You kind of wish he’d let you keep it. Then you’d have some other man’s clothes in your room, and maybe Joel’s tee shirt on your dresser wouldn’t drive you so crazy.

He’s talking to you, you realize. You tune back in and look up at green eyes.

“I had fun tonight,” he’s saying.

You’re not so drunk anymore. You can see him more clearly than you could in the club. He doesn’t make your stomach flip; doesn’t set your skin on fire when his knuckles brush yours, but you still kiss him. You want to.

He’s a little surprised, but he recovers nicely. His hands go to your waist and he hums into your mouth when you slip your tongue to his.

He’s a good kisser. Kind of — soft, tentative — but he knows what he’s doing. He’s bolder when he relaxes, hands skimming up your sides, splayed under your breasts when you bite at his lip.

He pulls back, panting softly.

“Ow,” he teases.

It’s just a joke. He’s just playing, but — still. His reaction is so different from the man you’re not supposed to be comparing him to — that it throws you off your game.

“I’m kidding,” he hurries, when he sees your face. “Fuck. Sorry. That was — you’re amazing.”

“No, it’s —” You shake your head. “It’s fine.”

“It’s just — I don’t usually —“ he nods awkwardly at your front door. The insinuation is clear. “I mean, not — I definitely want to, I was just-”

“Uh-huh.” You look at him. “You know that was just a kiss, right? Like, I’m not actually inviting you in?”

“Oh.” He swallows. “God. No. Yeah. Of course not. Sorry — can we, like, rewind? I’m a total idiot. I just — you’re beautiful, you kissed me, I —”

“It’s fine,” you laugh. Hayes is cute when he’s nervous. It’s kind of nice to know you have this effect. You don’t think Joel’s ever been nervous in his life.

“It’s fine,” you repeat, when he still looks mortified. “But, you know-” you can’t resist teasing him, “—probably would’ve asked you in, if you hadn’t just blown it.”

He takes it in stride. His goofy grin lights up your porch.

“Alright, well. I’ll make it up to you. Date number two. Tomorrow? Or is that, like, creepily eager?”

“Oh, the second. For sure. Way too eager.” You smile. “It’s a good thing you’re cute.”

“Yeah, I get that a lot.”

If you’d met this man three weeks ago, you’d have locked him up before he could blink. He’s young, he’s hot, he’s falling over his feet just to see you again. And you click. You’ve talked all night, about everything under the sun — school, friends, your tolerance for spicy food, whether aliens exist — and you haven’t scared him off, yet.

But now, it’s just —

Something’s not quite right. Something’s missing. And you try — really try — not to think about what.

“Tomorrow,” you say, quickly. “But you’re paying.”

“Whatever it takes.”

You roll your eyes. Laugh. When he leans to kiss you again you melt into to him. And when he pulls back, and gives you a small, private version of that megawatt smile, you almost forget about Joel.

Almost.

—

Hayes brings you flowers for your second date.

And not the cheap, grocery-store kind that wilt before they can bloom. These are the nice kind. The ones that come fresh from a florist, wrapped up in silk ribbon.

White roses. Red felt presumptuous, he explains, when he greets you at your front door with the bouquet and that smile.

You let him in while you search for a vase. He helps you look for one in the kitchen, rifling through cabinets, and for the second time in twelve hours you don’t think about Joel.

But then you lean back, against the same granite counter he fucked you into, and you can’t think about anything else.

You shove yourself off the counter. Wipe your hands on your jeans.

“Found one,” Hayes announces. He turns to you, vase in hand. He clocks the way your face falters and looks toward the bouquet.

“Too much?” he asks, anxiously.

“No, it’s —” You shake your head. You take the vase from him and busy yourself rearranging the roses. “The flowers are great. Nice touch. Very classy.” You smile. “I’m just — preoccupied, I think. Sorry.”

He shrugs. You finish with the flowers and he crosses the kitchen, placing gentle hands on your waist.

You stiffen. Your back is dangerously close to that counter.

“Don’t be sorry,” he says, and his voice is so sweet, so earnest, you almost feel bad for the way your body tightens. “Can I…help?”

You hesitate for half a second.

No, you want to say. I think I’m fucked.

But you make yourself fall into his touch. You let his mouth drop to your collar and let his lips trace the marks that have faded there.

“You can try,” you tell him.

—

You’re late for your date. Your makeout session in the kitchen sets you back half an hour.

But it doesn’t matter, really, because you end up spending the entire day with Hayes.

You tell him the name of your favorite brunch place and he drives you there. He lets you order for him, coffee and bacon and too many waffles, and you laugh when he gets whipped cream on his nose. He asks you questions and listens to your answers. When the bill comes he pays it, and tips more than he should, and leaves a scribbled smiley face in the signature line.

Everything is so easy it makes your heart ache.

Because if you’d just done this a few weeks sooner — if you’d just texted him on the fucking…third of July —

Maybe you never would have gotten on your knees for Joel. Maybe you never would have let him rip a hole through your heart. Maybe it would still be whole, and you could offer it up to the boy across the table.

Maybe.

He drives you around after brunch. There’s no real destination in mind, but neither one of your wants to go home. You don’t want to drive down your street quite yet. You don’t want to drive past Joel’s house.

But you do, eventually. You have to. You stop for ice cream, and you drag Hayes through a thrift shop, and he buys you a five-dollar necklace that he clasps around your collar. He drives you home after the sunset slips and you doze in his car, head slumped against your hand. He’s got the radio on low and his hand on your thigh.

It’s nice, you think. Safe. He turns onto your street and slows to the speed limit.

Your pulse picks up when he parks by the curb, halfway between your house and Joel’s. He cuts the engine and his hand slips from your knee.

“Today was…” He shakes his head. Laughs, lightly. “I had the best time.”

He has that Texas drawl — Austin born and raised — but it’s not rough, like Joel’s. It’s soft. Smoothed around the edges from four years in California.

“Yeah,” you tell him. “Me too.”

It’s the truth.

He leans in, a little shy, and brushes his lips to yours. You smile into the kiss and he slips you his tongue.

When he pulls away he’s smiling. A blush darkens the band of his nose.

“Do you, um—” He sniffs. Rakes a hand through his hair and watches you with quiet eyes. “Do you want me to — can I walk you inside?”

You know exactly what he’s asking. But you’re not sure exactly what you’re feeling. You look past him onto the street, scanning dusky driveways — and your body goes still. Your heart settles near the top of your throat.

Joel is standing in his driveway, twenty feet away, staring at you with a look you can’t read. You assume he’s been watering the grass out front — there’s a hose in his hand — but it’s lost its purpose. It dangles from his fingers, dousing the concrete.

He watches you across the street. Watches Hayes, when his finger traces your arm and draws circles up your skin.

The hose chokes in his hand. He lets it fall, still spitting water, and turns his back on the car. On you. You watch him trudge up the driveway and disappear through his door.

You hear it slam. It echoes down the empty street. Hayes shifts, turning in his seat to follow the sound.

“Who was that?” he frowns.

“It’s—” Your jaw clenches. Unclenches. “It’s nothing. My dad’s—friend. Our neighbor.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Hayes’s frown deepens. He squints, eyeing the hose. “He left his hose on.”

“Yeah,” you repeat. “I guess.”

“Should we tell him?”

“No,” you say, too quickly. “I don’t—he’ll figure it out.”

Hayes drums his fingers on the steering wheel. It seems to annoy him, for reasons beyond your comprehension.

“Yeah, I’m gonna tell him,” he decides, unbuckling his seatbelt and popping open the door.

You try to stop him. He shrugs you off.

“It’s fine,” he insists — with that easy, loping smile. “Neighbors love me.”

“Not this one,” you grumble, but it’s too late — he’s crossing the street, jogging up the drive, picking the leaking hose up from the concrete like the good Southern samaritan he is.

He tosses the hose to the grass and knocks on Joel’s door. You sink into your seat and pray the leather swallows you.

You’re slumped so low you can barely see over the dash. You watch the top of Hayes’s head and hope to god Joel doesn’t answer.

But — of course — he does.

He cracks the door open, and for a second he just stares, nonplussed, blinking at Hayes with a dark, narrowed brow. His hair is tousled, sticking up at the back like he’s raked his hands through it. His arms are barred across his chest. He looks, in a word, unfriendly.

You can’t see Hayes’s face, but you assume he must be speaking, because Joel most certainly isn’t. You haven’t seen his mouth move once, except to furrow to a frown.

You see Hayes gesture to the hose, and Joel’s gaze trails — down the drive, over the puddle leaking into the street — and onto you.

You can’t sink any further into your seat. You try.

You can feel Joel staring. His gaze settles hot on your skin and licks between your legs, and you hate that he does this. That his look is more electric than Hayes’s touch, and his teeth, and his tongue all combined.

When you can’t take it anymore you fish your phone from the cupholder and pretend to scroll through it. You feel Joel’s gaze lift, eventually, and you only look up when the driver’s door opens.

Hayes slinks back to his seat. His cheeks are pink.

“Yeah, so, that thing I said? About neighbors liking me?”

“Mm.” You try to sound neutral. “Yeah, he’s, um — you know. He’s a character.”

“He told me to, uh—” Hayes cocks his head, like he’s trying to get the phrasing just right, “—get off his porch before he breaks my fuckin’ jaw.”

He affects a rough, serrated drawl for the impression. It’s not Joel, but it’s not far off.

You stare at him.

“He said that? Just now?”

“Yeah,” Hayes laughs. “Like, I told him his water was on, and we’re in a drought, y’know, so, his bill’s gonna be crazy, and I offered to run around back and shut it off for him, if he wants, and he was like, or you could mind your own fuckin’ business, and then, like—” He shrugs. “Real get off my lawn energy. He’s your dad’s friend, you said?”

“Um.” You blink. What the fuck, Joel? “Yeah.”

“Huh,” Hayes says, thoughtfully. “Well, whatever.”

You admire his ability to not give a shit. He seems spectacularly unfazed.

It spurs you on, actually, just how unperturbed Hayes is. And, conversely, just how perturbed Joel seems to be.

“Come on,” you say, suddenly. You unbuckle your seatbelt and push at the door. Hayes looks at you, curious, but he goes willingly. He lets you drag him up the street, tapping his key, locking the car with a neat little chirp as you pull him up your driveway and tug him toward the house.

He stops you on the threshold. His eyes sparkle. Light green. So much lighter than Joel’s.

“Are you sure?” he asks, breathless. “Your parents—”

“It’s just my dad,” you say. “He’s probably already asleep. And he doesn’t give a shit.”

It’s true. He wouldn’t care about Hayes, because Hayes isn’t his best friend. Hayes isn’t his neighbor. Hayes didn’t teach his only daughter how to drive.

You’re not sure how that makes you feel. Good, you guess. Good you don’t have to keep a secret. Bad you don’t have one to keep.

It’s all the convincing Hayes needs. He’s polite, sure — but he’s still a man. He stumbles over the threshold and captures your mouth with his, walking you back through the hall.

“Where’s your room?” he whispers.

“Upstairs,” you tell him. You break away long enough to lead him up the steps, into to your bedroom. You enter first and he locks the door behind you.

“You’re sure,” he says, again, pausing with his fingers on the handle. “Cause you can change your mind.”

“I don’t want to change my mind.”

“I’m just saying. If you do want to. I don’t want to—”

“Hayes,” you say. “I want to.”

And you do.

But that’s not what really turns you on. That’s not why you’re about to let him fuck you.

You want this — in some twisted, sadistic back corner of your brain — because you liked the way Joel looked when Hayes touched you in the car. Scowling, dark, a little bit lost. You imagine how he’d look now, if he could see you like this. If he could see another man’s head bending down to taste you.

Fuck Joel Miller, you think.

And then you fuck Hayes, instead.

—

He spends the night.

You’re not really planning on that, but he falls asleep in your bed and you don’t have the heart to get him back up. Besides, you’re exhausted, too. Once he’d checked in for the ten-thousandth time to ensure that, yes, you really do want this — he’d kicked the Southern-gentleman thing to the curb. And turned out to be surprisingly…well, surprising.

He wasn’t as big as Joel, and he didn’t talk to you with that low velvet drawl — and, yes, you’d had to use your vibrator, the one you hadn’t touched since Joel had fucked you — to get yourself over the edge. But Hayes had been more than willing to oblige, and if it wasn’t for the fact that you could still feel the stretch where Joel split you in two, you might have said he’s the best you’ve had.

You’d left him in bed while you’d gone to shower. When you’d come back in he’d been sound asleep, sprawled out across the sheets, snoring softly into your pillow. You’d pulled a shirt from your dresser and slipped into bed beside him.

And you don’t mind waking up to him, really. It’s nice to sleep next to someone. It’s nicer still when he wakes up with a happy, satisfied hum, and wraps his arms around your waist, and presses a kiss to your jaw.

“Hey,” you say, softly.

“Hey,” he says. His voice is thick with sleep. It sounds rougher. More Texan. More Joel.

“My dad’s gonna see you, if you go downstairs,” you say, sleepily. “We could sneak you out the window.”

You hear him laugh beside you.

“I’ll take your dad over the window,” he says.

“Mm.” You roll over, press a kiss to his lips. “You say that now.”

You stay like that for a few minutes, and then you gently extricate yourself from him. You stand up and stretch, rolling your shoulders, and —

“Fuck,” you mumble.

Hayes’s head pops up from the pillow. His hair is tousled.

“What?” he asks, propping up on his elbow.

“Nothing, I—”

You’re facing away from him. He doesn’t see your blush when it creeps up your cheeks.

You’re wearing Joel’s shirt.

You’d put on Joel’s shirt, last night, after your shower — when you’d reached for your dresser in the dark. You’d worn Joel’s shirt to bed beside another man. You’re wearing Joel’s shirt, and it doesn’t smell like him, anymore — it smells like your detergent, and your shampoo, and Hayes’s cologne.

“Nothing. Sorry.” A little more convincing, this time. You turn back to face him and shrug, apologetic. “I just — remembered something I have to do. Not a big deal.”

He hums sympathetically and collapses back into bed. It would be endearing, if your pulse wasn’t hammering against your temples. If your fists weren’t balled in the fabric of Joel’s shirt.

You have to get out of this bedroom. You need — something. Fresh air. Coffee. Something. You swallow, hard, and gesture toward the door.

“You want — coffee, or something? I can make some.”

“Full-service operation,” Hayes grins. He sits up, and the sheets rumple at his waist. He runs a hand through his hair and yawns. “Yeah, sure. Coffee’s good.”

He slides out of bed and you turn away. You’d let him rail you last night, but you can’t watch him put his pants on now. You can dissect that one later, you figure. Coffee first.

He wanders over to you in his clothes from last night — white tee, rumpled jeans — sans shoes, sans belt, sans jacket. If Hayes does run into your dad downstairs, it’s obvious what the two of you have been doing. If the fact it’s nine in the morning doesn’t tip him off, the I just fucked! outfit Hayes is sporting sure will.

He plants a kiss on the top of your head. His sleepy smile curves in your hair.

“Okay,” he says, happily. “Lead the way.”

It’s the first time you tug away from his touch. You tell yourself you’re just tired.

Your dad is downstairs, as predicted. You nearly collide with him when he steps out of the kitchen, staring down at his iPad. His coffee sloshes in his hand.

“Oh—” He looks up at you. He sees Hayes at his side and his brows knit. But, to his credit, he recovers quickly. You’re an adult. It’s not the first time a boy’s spent the night.

“Morning,” he says, slowly. He lifts a brow. “Mister…”

“Just Hayes, sir. Pleasure.”

“Don’t call me sir. Makes me feel old. Nice to meet you, Hayes.”

Hayes smiles, that million-dollar smile, and your dad melts. Hayes was right, apparently, about his ineffable charm. Waiters, cashiers, dads — everyone you’ve come across, he seems to have won over.

Well. Almost everyone.

He loops an arm around your shoulders and you don’t push him away.

You note the plate in your dad’s hand, balanced precariously on top of his iPad, and point to it with the arm not pinned to Hayes’s side.

“What is that?” You frown. “You made breakfast?”

“Told you,” he says. “I cook when we have company.”

“You didn’t know Hayes was here.”

“Not talkin’ about Hayes,” your dad says. He nods at Hayes, afraid he might have offended, and adds, quickly, “—but help yourself, kid. There’s plenty.”

You blink. “Then who—”

But you know who.

You already know exactly who, even before he steps out of the kitchen, a few steps behind your dad, and stops in his tracks like a deer in the headlights.

“Joel,” you yelp. It’s inadvertent. You have to bury the sound with a cough. “What are you…”

He looks at you. Dark eyes and a pitch-black stare. He takes it all in: you, Hayes, the arm around your shoulder. Ruffled hair and wrinkled clothes and the fresh-forming marks on your neck that cover his own. But he doesn’t look pissed — not really — until he clocks what you’re wearing. Until he sees his shirt, ghosting your thighs and hanging loose off your frame and smelling like cologne that isn’t his.

He’s got one of your mugs in his hand, filled to the brim with black coffee. He grips the ceramic so tightly you think it might crack.

“His coffee pot’s busted,” your dad says, cheerfully. He’s completely, utterly oblivious to the seething tension outside his kitchen right now. It’s kind of impressive, you think. “Idiot shattered it last night. Split his damn hand open. Told him to come over here ’n grab some.”

You manage to look at Joel long enough to corroborate your dad’s story. There’s white gauze wrapped around his palm. Little flecks of faded red where the bandage meets his skin.

He hadn't had a bandage on, when Hayes had knocked at his door last night. So it must have happened later. After. Shattered coffee pot, sliced palm, glass on the floor. You imagine it wasn’t much of an accident. In fact — you imagine it had a lot to do with Hayes, if the look Joel gives him now is any indication.

Hayes pulls you closer. He extends his free hand toward Joel.

“Hayes,” he says. “Don’t get a chance to introduce myself, yesterday. Sorry about the hose thing. I was — that’s on me.”

Joel stares at him. A muscle leaps in his jaw.

He takes Hayes’s hand. You watch them shake and consider the merits of simply dying right here on the spot.

Joel drops his hand. He takes a sip of coffee, and when he pulls his lips from the rim he’s looking at you. You do your best not to meet his eye. But it’s impossible not to, when he asks you — causal, low, in that rough, sharpened timbre you’d missed so much last night —

“That my shirt?”

Your stomach twists to an ugly knot. You can’t stop the blush that crawls to your cheeks, and you’re sure they all see it — Joel, your dad, Hayes. Your dad looks puzzled. Hayes’s hand tightens on your shoulder, and you can sense the way he frowns.

Only Joel is looking right at you. Your skin heats under his stare. And then you’re angry, because fuck him for trying to trip you up.

“I don’t—” You tug at the fabric, like you’re seeing it for the first time. Black. Soft cotton. The text on the back brands you unmistakably — MILLER CONTRACTING, in faded orange letters. Definitely Joel’s.

“Sarah lent it to me,” you say, after a beat. “Sorry. Didn’t realize. I wouldn’t have taken it if I knew.”

Your last words pack a private sort of punch. You watch Joel’s face crumple, and you almost — almost — feel bad, when his eyes drop back to his coffee.

Not a great start to the morning, you think, when you drag Hayes away, down the hall and into the dining room and away from Joel Miller.

But still. Could be worse.

And sure enough it gets worse, about half an hour later, when Hayes’s car won’t start.

Your dad and Joel are finishing up in the breakfast room when you wander back in, a little sheepish, and explain the situation. You try not to look at Joel while you speak to your dad, which is difficult, because you can feel his stare prying at your peripheral.

“I can’t give you a tow,” your dad says, not unsympathetically. “I have to work, otherwise I’d help—”

“It’s fine,” Hayes pipes up, from behind you. “Please don’t worry about it. I don’t wanna put you guys out. I can just call Triple A—”

“No, don’t—don’t call them,” your dad says, waving him off. “They’ll rip you off. Joel’s got a truck. He can tow you to the nearest place. Yeah?”

You’re silent. So is Joel. Your dad turns to look at him.

“Yeah?” he prompts, again. “You good with that, Joel?”

You watch Joel’s jaw flicker. You watch his knuckles flex when he sets his coffee down.

“Yeah,” he says, gruffly. “Sure.”

—

You ride with them to the service place. Partly because you feel bad, leaving Hayes alone — and partly because you’re worried Joel might murder him. They might be evenly matched, height-wise, but you’re pretty convinced Joel would snap him like a twig.

Which probably shouldn’t turn you on, when you think about it.

You change your clothes before you get in Joel’s truck. You clamber into the backseat with Hayes and pass Joel his shirt back. You don’t want it anymore, you tell yourself. You don’t need it. You can borrow one of Hayes’s, if he ever offers. You can smell like him instead.

Joel scowls when you hand the shirt back. But he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t say anything for most of the ride, actually: just drives in dead silence while his hands choke the wheel.

You see him glance back at you a few times, in the rearview mirror. You catch his eye once, in the lingering silence at a red light, and you slip your hand over Hayes’s. Joel tracks the motion like a hawk. You watch his jaw tighten in the mirror.

And then the light goes green, and his gaze rips away. He hits the gas too hard and his truck lurches forward.

“Fuck,” you mutter. “Take it easy.”

He doesn’t respond.

“Thanks for doing this,” Hayes says, during a particularly uncomfortable stretch of silence. “Again. I really appreciate it.”

Joel is quiet. His fingers tap the wheel.

“It’s kind of embarrassing,” Hayes continues, chirping into the void, “my parents never taught me how to fix a car or anything, growing up. Like, all this school and I still can’t change a tire.”

Joel grunts. You’re surprised to hear him speak.

“Where’d you say you went to school?” he asks.

“Oh, uh — I didn’t. But, Stanford? Out in California?”

Joel grunts again. There’s no follow-up, no remark, no nod to acknowledge he’s heard. It’s the only question he asks the whole ride.

He drops Hayes and his car at the nearest service station. You offer to wait with Hayes, but he insists he’s fine — and, to be honest, you don’t push the point.

You’re not in the mood to wait around an auto shop all day. You’d rather get home, and try to forget about this morning as quickly as humanly possible.

So you ride home with Joel, alone. In the front seat, this time.

And — if it’s possible — he’s even more silent than before.

You last valiantly for about ten minutes, until you simply cannot take it any longer. You’d rather bail out the window and take your chances on the highway than spend another minute in suffocating silence with Joel Miller.

You lean forward. Click the radio on. A staticky Beach Boys song filters through.

Joel leans forward, half a second after you, and clicks it back off.

“Really?” you clip.

He’s silent. You stare at him, seething, and he doesn’t look over.

You turn it back on. The Beach Boys crackle back to life.

“Jesus,” Joel mutters. He snakes his hand off the wheel, punching the music back off, and this time his hand hovers on the control. “Stop fuckin’ touchin’ it.”

“I like that song,” you say.

“So listen to it later.”

“Move your hand.”

“No, ‘m not gonna—”

You’re not sure what comes over you. Maybe it’s pent-up frustration. Maybe it’s some petty need to show him how angry you are. Maybe you just want him to put you in your place. You reach for the volume dial and try to force his hand away, scrabbling at his fingers. He looks over at you, briefly, and the truck swerves dangerously close to the margin.

“Goddamn it,” he hisses. He bats your hand away, correcting on the wheel. The truck settles back into the lane. “Stop it. Fuckin’—quit.”

There he is. Just for a second. That rough, commanding snarl. His hand finds your fingers, snatching at the dial, and he wraps them up into his palm. He holds them there, briefly, and then he’s shoving your hand back into your lap. He drags his own hand away and puts it back on the wheel.

“Fuck,” he mutters.

You sit back against your seat, panting softly.

“What the fuck is your problem?” you bite.

“I ain’t got a problem,” he says. His voice has evened out again. Back to that infuriatingly quiet drawl. “Just want quiet.”

But, of course, you can’t give him that. You have to poke the bear, because the bear is right here, grizzled and grump and scowling, and he’s so easy to poke, and his jaw is twitching in a way that tells you he’s this close to breaking.

“Is this about Hayes?” you prod.

He huffs.

“Okay, so. That’s a yes.”

“Kid is none of my business,” he says.

“He’s not a kid,” you say.

He huffs again.

“‘F you’re lookin’ for approval, ask your dad,” he says, cooly.

That lands like a slap. You look up at him, sharply, and he keeps his eyes on the road.

He speaks again, unprompted. Bear successfully poked.

“Smart kid,” Joel remarks. “Stanford. Can’t change a tire, but—”

“Don’t,” you mutter.

“I wasn’t.” His mouth tightens. “Think he’s good for you.”

You push yourself up. Look at him, again, even though he doesn’t look at you.

“What are you doing?”

“Not doin’ anythin’,” he says, evenly.

When you don’t respond he takes his eyes off the road. Looks at you, for half a second.

“What d’you want me to say?” he asks, quietly. “You want me to hate him?”

“Oh, no. You’ve got that part covered already, I think.”

He makes a low, angry sound at the back of his throat. The truck stutters to a stop at a red light and he slams the heel of his palm into the wheel. His head whips to face you.

“What the hell is your deal?” he growls.

“What the hell is yours? You fucking — the shirt, Joel? Seriously? In front of my dad? In front of Hayes? What happened to no one finding out? What happened to it’s too risky? You’re worried about me, when you’re doing shit like that? What the fuck, Joel?”

He’s quiet for a long time. When the light turns green he drags his gaze back to the road.

“Wasn’t you I was worried about,” he says, finally.

You’re not sure what to say to that. It knocks the wind out of you, a little bit. Strips the anger right out of your throat.

“I wasn’t thinking,” you say. Your voice is small. “It was on my dresser. I just grabbed it. I didn’t — I didn’t know you were downstairs. I wouldn’t have — it didn’t mean anything.”

That’s a lie. It meant something. It meant a hell of a lot more than you’re willing to admit to him, right now, in the passenger seat of his car.

“You fuck him in it?” he murmurs.

You’re not sure you hear him correctly, at first. It’s low. Casual. He doesn’t even look you in the eye when he asks.

“What?” You stare. When he doesn’t answer; when it’s clear that you heard him right — you push out a laugh. “Jesus — fuck. I’m not answering that.”

He’s silent, still. Too silent.

“No,” you say, when it’s too much quiet. “No, I—obviously not.”

He nods.

“But you fucked him,” he says. Not a question.

Your face is burning. Your fingers dig into his seat.

He doesn’t need the confirmation. Not really. He doesn’t need to hear you say it.

“Yeah,” you say, anyway. “Yes.”

He nods again. He turns onto your street and you can’t tell if you’re relieved, that your dad’s house is in sight — or if you’d rather be anywhere else.

But he pulls into his driveway, not yours. He puts the truck in park and turns to look at you, with his fist around the gear shift.

“And?” he asks. Deadly quiet.

You blink at him. You try to stifle the way your stomach swirls.

“And, what?”

But you know what he’s asking. And when he’s too quiet, again, the frustration in your throat spills over.

“Yeah,” you snap, “he was fucking fantastic. What the fuck do you want me to say, Joel? You want me to compare notes? You wanna know if his dick was bigger?”

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “No.”

He clears his throat. Shakes his head.

“I was just—I just wanted—you’re good?” His voice is awkward. Strained. “He’s treatin’ you—you’re happy?”

“I don’t know, Joel. I’ve known him two fucking seconds.”

And you my whole life, you want to add. But you don’t. You sit in simmering silence, instead.

“This isn’t my house,” you say, finally. You sound tired.

“No,” he says.

He looks at you. His eyes search yours. You feel that tug at the pit of your stomach: familiar, with Joel. You don’t feel that, with anyone else. You don’t feel that with Hayes.

“Come inside,” he murmurs.

You swallow. You look through the windshield: up his driveway, to the window by the front door. All of his lights are off. His house looks hollow.

And then you look across the street, to your dad’s house. Up the drive, where his lights spill warm across the porch. You can see his silhouette through the window when he wanders to the living room.

You drag your eyes away. Look back at Joel’s house with your pulse in your throat.

“Sarah—”

“She’s out,” he says. “Friend’s house.”

You look at him. Something fractures in dark eyes. Like shattered glass. Like his broken coffee pot.

“Please,” he says.

You’ve never heard him say please.

You speak before you can do something smarter. Before you can think. Because he’s soft and sincere and he’s sad, and you still want him, and the anger you’ve plastered all over your heart is starting to flake.

“Okay,” you say, quietly.

He leans into your space. Unbuckles your seatbelt for you. When his fingers brush your side you shiver.

“Okay,” he says.

You let him lead you inside.

—

The house is quiet without Sarah. It’s odd to cross the threshold and not see her on the other side. It’s odd to be here with just Joel.

He lets you in and disappears into the kitchen. You wander out to the living room and sit perched on the edge of his sofa.

There’s a knot in your calf, where Hayes had tossed your legs up over his shoulders. It had been a sweet kind of soreness, this morning. Now you want it gone.

You bend at the waist and dig your fingers into your calf. Rub at the ache there. You don’t hear Joel when he steps out of the kitchen and rounds the back of the couch.

You see his boots, though. The faded blue of his jeans, when he comes to stand in front of you. Your fingers fall from your calf. You straighten, slowly, and sit back up.

He’s holding whiskeys. Two glasses. He sits down a few inches from you and offers one of them up. You accept.

“Good?” he asks, softly. He nods to your leg.

“Oh. Yeah.” You swallow. “Just kind of — sore.”

You don’t miss the way his face falls. The way his eyes flicker when he drops them to his drink.

An awkward silence follows.

“Look,” he says, finally. “The other night—”

“It’s fine, Joel.”

“’S not fine,” he says, roughly. “I was — wasn’t right, what I said. I was an asshole.”

You look at him.

“Yeah,” you say.

He huffs.

“Is that why you asked me to come in? So you could tell me you were an asshole? Cause I — you know, I kinda worked that out, already.”

His lip twitches. Any other time, he’d snarl at you to lose the attitude. Probably fuck you into happy silence.

Maybe that’s why you keep prodding. Maybe you kind of wish he would.

“If this is an apology,” you say, slowly, “it’s kind of terrible.”

He pauses, drink halfway to his lips.

“Jesus,” he mutters, voice muffled in the glass. “You’re a pain in the ass.”

You grab your own drink. Take a sip. You ignore the way your fingers tremble on the glass. The way the whiskey licks at your stomach, white-hot, and stokes the fire on your skin.

“‘M sorry,” he says, after a beat.

Your brow lifts. You look at him — keep going.

“I shouldn’t have—” he sighs. He looks physically pained, and you wonder what it is that’s killing him: if it’s the apology itself, or what he’s trying to apologize for.

“I shouldn’t have—shouldn’t have said it. Any of it. You didn’t — wasn’t fair. I was — shit. I don’t know. Fuckin’ — scared.”

“Scared?” You almost laugh. “Of what?” Of — me?”

His jaw jumps.

“Of this,” he mutters. “It’s a fuckin’ — it’s a mess. It’s trouble.”

Your face heats. Anger, the whiskey, something else. You don’t know, anymore.

“There is no this,” you say. “You made that perfectly clear.”

He’s silent. You press him.

“That’s what you wanted,” you say. “That’s — Joel, that’s what you fucking wanted.”

“‘Course it’s not what I wanted,” he hisses. “You—fuck.”

“Then why—”

“Cause it’s too much,” he snarls. He sets his glass down, on the coffee table, and rakes a hand through his stubble. His eyes flash, black as sin.

“It’s too much,” he echoes. His voice is dark. “You’re dangerous.”

“I’m dangerous?”

“You don’t get it,” he says. “You don’t see what you — what you’re doin’. This — it wasn’t — it ain’t just nothin’, to me.”

You’re silent. Your heartbeat rings between your ears.

“It wasn’t nothing to me,” you mumble. “It was never — it was never nothing.”

“No?” he challenges. “Moved on pretty quick.”

You set your drink down opposite his. When you straighten your breath comes faster, harder.

“Fuck off,” you say, softly. “You have no right.”

He’s silent.

“Hayes is good for me,” you say. You’re not sure who you’re convincing. “He’s good to me. He’s — nice.”

“He’s nice?” Joel repeats. The word sounds empty, when he says it. It sounds like nothing.

“Is that what you want?” His voice is dangerously low, now. You don’t remember him getting so close. “Nice?”

Your stomach tugs. Your face flushes. The flame on your cheeks spills to your neck. But you stand your ground.

“Yes,” you grit.

Joel makes a quiet sound.

“He fuck you nice, too?” he growls.

“Joel,” you warn. But there’s no bite to it. Your resolve is slipping, faster than you can snatch it back, and he knows it. He knows it. He knows you.

“Show me,” he says.

You swallow. He’s so close you can taste him: his breath on your lips and his scent in your nose, honey whiskey and something else, something distinctly Joel. Like sawdust and sunlight and cedar.

“Show you—”

“Show me how he fucked you,” he says.

“I don’t—” Your heart clears its way up your throat. Your pulse is drumming at your wrist, stuttering under his stare, and the whiskey in your system makes you bolder than you feel.

Fuck Joel Miller, you think.

And you want to. You want to.

So you show him. Even though what he’s asking is wrong, and it’s twisted, and it’s fucked. You tilt into him, the rest of the way, and press your lips to his. His tongue flicks out to meet yours, slipping hot inside your mouth. Sparks settle in your core.

Your fingers tangle in his hair. You tug, pulling his head back, breaking the kiss. Your breath mingles with his.

You reach for his hand. It’s bigger than Hayes’s. Rougher. Broad and tanned and warm. Your fingers wrap around his and you lead his palm to your thigh.

“Like this,” you say, softly. “He started like this.”

He doesn’t move right away. He lets the heat from his palm seep under your jeans and settle into your skin. Testing you; testing your patience.

When you can’t take it anymore you guide him higher. You urge his hand between your thighs and his thumb rolls a circle over your clothed clit.

You make a small, desperate noise. He pauses with his fingers pressed to your core.

“You make those sounds for him?” he breathes.

Your face burns. He rubs you slowly, deliberately, and you rut into his palm. Your jeans dig into your cunt when you arch your hips, and the pressure is unbearable. You’re so tightly wound you’re surprised you don’t snap.

When you don’t answer him he stops, abruptly. His fingers threaten to drag away.

“No,” you gasp. “No. Only — fuck. Only you. Joel, please—“

“Please what?” he mutters.

“Touch me,” you plead.

“Am touchin’ you,” he growls. “Touchin’ you just like he did. Since you liked it so damn much. Since you want him so fuckin’ bad.”

“I—fuck—I don’t,” you mumble, “I don’t, I was just—fuck, Joel, I w—“

You’re not even sure what you’re saying. You can barely hear yourself think over the roar in your ears. He’s moving so slowly that all bets are off — you’re ready to beg him, please, if it means he’ll stop teasing you and just pull your fucking pants down.

But he’s not finished. You have a feeling he’s just getting started, when he pulls his hand back, and picks his drink up from the coffee table, and takes a long, quiet sip while you sink into his sofa.

You hear his glass clink when he sets it back down. He leans back into the couch and doesn’t look at you. He looks at his hand, instead. At the bandage still wrapped around his palm.

“Take ‘em off,” he says, quietly.

You don’t ask him to elaborate. You know what he wants, even with his stare fixed on his hand. He doesn't bother watching as you lose your jeans and your underwear and kick them to the floor.

“You leave your fuckin’ shirt on?” He toys with the gauze. Plucks at it on his palm. “For him?”

“No,” you say, softly.

“Then take it off,” he growls.

You take it off. Your bra, too. They join the pile on the floor and you settle shyly into the sofa.

It’s the first time you’ve been naked in front of Joel. You’re not self-conscious, usually, and it’s probably even sillier to be self-conscious now, in front of him, after you’ve fucked him in another woman’s house and on your father’s kitchen counter. But you can’t help it. There’s something about his stare, when he finally looks up from his hand. When he lets the bandage go and looks at you, instead.

Hayes was so complimentary, last night. So…nice. He paused at every possible moment to tell you how beautiful you looked, how gorgeous, how perfect. It was sweet, you thought. A little saccharine, maybe, in hindsight.

Joel, though —

Joel doesn’t say anything at all. He just looks at you, the way no one’s looked at you before — like you’re the only person he’s ever bothered to see. His stare rakes over you, over your body, and when he speaks his voice is hoarse. There’s something raw on the words that you can’t quite place.

“Tell me,” he says, quietly. “Tell me what else.”

“Joel,” you mumble. “We don’t have to—”

“Tell me,” he says.

You hesitate.

“He—” You swallow. Your throat is tight. “I was on my back,” you say, cheeks blazing, “and he was — he used his — fingers.”

You watch Joel’s eyes go dark. Brown to black, like the color’s drained out.

“On your back, then,” he says, quietly.

You catch his eye. Your pulse skips before it settles.

You scoot back. Lay down on his couch, with your back flat on the cushions and your neck propped on a pillow. Wetness drips down the seam of your thigh, soaking the seat of his sofa.

He works his uninjured hand up your thigh. His fingers brush the wetness there and he hums.

“This for him?” he breathes. “Or for me?”

Your breath hitches. You lift your hips off the cushions, chasing his hand. He slides a finger over your folds, gathering slick, and presses the pad of his finger to your entrance.

You squirm.

“You,” you whine, pushing your hips up, trying in vain to pull him deeper. “Fuck—you.“

You hear his rough agreement. His finger slips inside you.

“One finger?” he asks, fucking into you with a crooked index finger. His thumb rolls lazy circles over your clit. Enough to make you crazy. Not enough to make you cum. “Or two?”

“T-two,” you mumble. “He—fuck—two.”

That’s a lie. For all his merits, Hayes had been terrified of a misstep. Good, but hesitant. One finger, even when you’d pressed for two.

Joel can sniff out a lie like a bloodhound. But he slips another finger inside you, stretching you just right, bracing on his bandaged palm as he leans forward and fucks you deeper — so he either doesn’t notice, this one time — or he lets you lie to him.

“He do it like this?” he growls.

You moan. Something unintelligible.

“Words,” he growls. “Use your fuckin’ words.”

“He was — fuck, he was — s-softer. Gent—ngh—gentler, Joel, fuck—“

“Yeah?” He hooks his fingers, and you cry out. “That what you want, angel? You want gentle?“

He slows up. His movements soften and you cant your hips in frustration.

“No,” you yelp. “No.“

“No,” he agrees. He crooks his fingers again and you come dangerously close to falling apart. The heel of his palm bumps your clit and the contact makes you see stars.

Your head rolls against the pillow. Your vision swims when his wrist pumps faster. You can feel the cuff of his flannel, grazing the seam of your thighs while he works you with his fingers — and it strikes you he’s still dressed. Not sort of dressed; not half-undone, with his belt hanging off and his jacket shucked and his jeans unbuttoned at the waist.

He’s fully, completely dressed. He’s got his fucking Carhartt jacket on, still, over his flannel. His boots are planted on the carpet. He’s dressed like he’s still on the job and you’re naked — totally naked — sprawled out on his sofa with his fingers inside you.

The imbalance makes your head spin. You want to tell him to take some clothes off: to even the playing field, a little, but you can’t think that far ahead. Not when your muscles clamp down around his knuckles, and your breath steals out of your throat, and you try to tell him, desperately, that you’re—

“Gonna cum,” you gasp. “Please—“

“He make you cum?” he asks, roughly, fingers still pumping into you.

You try to focus. Your head swims.

“Joel—“

“He make you cum like this?” he repeats.

You can’t lie, this time. No energy.

“No,” you whine. “Fuck. No.”

“Fuck, baby,” he murmurs. It’s almost sympathetic. “Thought you said he was nice.”

And then he drags his hand away, right before you can cum, and the message is clear. Didn’t cum then — not gonna cum now.

You’re not stupid. You get what he’s doing. Fucking you the way Hayes did; exactly the way Hayes did, until you break, and beg him to fuck you the way you really want to be fucked. The way only Joel can do.

But you’re stubborn, and you’re pretty sure you’re still supposed to be angry with him. So can hold out — a little longer, at least. Even when you writhe against the cushions, and whimper at the loss, and plead with him to just touch you again.

“Focus,” he tells you. His voice is dark. “What else, pretty girl?”

“His—” you breathe hard, trying to focus on the ceiling, “his—fuck, his—mouth.”

He pauses. You can feel him pause. You tip your head forward, off of the pillow, trying to get a read when he doesn’t immediately respond.

His bad hand flexes around his bandage. He looks … pissed. Maybe a little lost, too, if the way his stare flickers is any indication. But you’re so fucked out it’s hard to say for certain.

“You let him taste you?” he growls.

You look up at him. You’re panting. Short, shallow breaths.

You nod.

“Fuck,“ he swears.

His jaw tightens. He rolls his shoulders; big and broad and ticked the fuck off. Then he sheds his jacket, and rolls his sleeves to his forearms, and gets up off of the couch with an angry sort of sigh.

He sinks to his knees, facing the sofa. He grabs your calves with his hands and moves you like you weigh nothing, shifting you around until your back is flat and your legs hang off the couch.

You let out a little oomph when your head slips off the pillow. He shuffles closer to the edge of the sofa, lifting your calves over his shoulders in a swift, easy motion, and drags his head down to your cunt.

His breath puffs hot against your core. You squirm. You try to grab at his hair, but he’s too far away, like this — kneeling in front of the couch, work boots digging divots in the carpet. You settle for scrabbling at the cushions, instead.

“He do it right?” His voice goes straight to your cunt. Your legs strain, digging into his shoulders. “Huh, baby? You cum in his mouth?”

“No,” you whine. Your hips rise and then fall, chasing his lips, and you can feel your resolve waning. “No, he fucking—I couldn’t—fuck, Joel—I—please.“

“Couldn’t what, darlin’?

Your head spins.

“Couldn’t s-stop—ngh, Jo—couldn’t stop t-thinking about you.”

“Poor baby,” he whispers. His teeth close around your clit. He applies gentle, gentle pressure, enough to make your hips go flying off the couch as you cant into his mouth.

And then his tongue is sliding into you, hot and wet and thick, curving inside you with a wicked hum.

“Oh, fuck,” you mumble. “Joel, shi—fuck. You f-feel—god— feel good.”

He slides his tongue out of you. Just long enough to ask you, in that gravelly whisper —

“This what you wanted last night, angel? This what you thought about?”

You moan weakly. You nod, or try to.

“Dirty fuckin’ girl. Thinkin’ bout some other man’s mouth on you. Think about my cock, too, while he was fuckin’ you?”

“Yes,” you whimper. You’re beyond caring, now. You can’t think about anything that doesn’t start and end with Joel. “Yes — fuck. Yes.”

“You play nice, baby girl? You fake it for him?”

“Yes,” you pant, again. “Ah. F-fuck. Yes.”

“’N now? You gonna fake it now, sweetheart?”

“No,” you punch out. “No, f—no. Joel, please, fuck, I need—“

“Know what you need,” he growls. He licks a stripe up your clit with the flat of his tongue. You let out a strangled cry and dig your nails in his sofa. “You can wait.”

“Fuck,” you sob. “Come on, fuck—please, Joel—“

“Can’t, baby,” he murmurs. “Y’wanna fuck him so bad, I’ll fuck you the same. ’N you didn’t cum for him.”

“That was diff—different,” you mumble. You’d kill him, if you could string two words together. But you can’t, so you writhe into his mouth, instead. “He wasn’t—ngh—wasn’t you.”

He makes a quiet, hungry sound. His tongue slips back inside you and you grip at his hands, his shirt, the couch. You mark anything you can find with your nails, leaving crescent drags in his skin, and his sleeves, and his sofa. You’re loud — calling his name, over and over and over when he fucks you with his tongue but doesn’t let you cum — and he doesn’t shut you up, this time. Doesn’t clamp a hand over your mouth, or shove a belt between your teeth. He lets you whine his name. And when he drags his tongue from your cunt he murmurs yours against your core.

He stands. You watch him dust his hands off on his jeans.

And then he’s leaning forward, bending at the waist to slide his hands under your legs. He scoops you up easily, off of the couch and into his arms, and your head thumps against his chest.

He feels good. Strong. Safe. Your nose buries in his flannel and you breathe in his scent.

You’re not sure where you’re going. You don’t really care. You hear his footsteps, boot prints on the hardwood, and you feel his hands when they squeeze you closer. The gentle scrape of his bandage on the back of your thigh.

Your arms come up to loop around his neck. He lets you cling to him, like that. Naked and shaking and completely, utterly fucked. You press your lips to his neck; to the soft stretch of skin above his collar, and he doesn’t go rigid, this time. You see his throat bob when he swallows.

You hear the creak of a door as it opens and shuts. Cool air hits your skin. It smells different in here — like linen and leather.

His bedroom, you think, aimlessly. You’re in his bedroom. You’ve never been in his bedroom, before.

He sets you down on his bed. Grey sheets crumple where you land.

Everything smells like him. Dark wood, and smoke, and pine. Masculine and earthy and Joel.

He doesn’t join you on the bed right away. You hear the rustle of denim and when you crane your neck he’s undressing, finally, leaving his boots and his clothes and his boxers on the floor.

And then he’s climbing on top of you, caging you into soft sheets, and your hands come up to skim his arms.

“How?” he breathes.

“Joel,” you mumble. You don’t want to think about Hayes anymore. You don’t want to think about anyone else.

You want Joel. Just —

“Joel,” you whine, again. “Please.”

“How?” he echoes.

You tip your head against the pillows. Your cunt throbs, aching and swollen and begging for him.

“He was on top,” you tell him. “We were — it was like this.”

He nods, slowly.

He rolls his hips into yours. The head of his cock nudges your entrance and you whimper, arching back against grey sheets.

“Like this?” he murmurs. He snakes a hand between you both. Fists the base of his cock in his palm and guides it through your slick.

“Fuck,” you gasp. “Y—yes.”

“He talk to you?”

“No,” you plead. “N-not like —”

“Not like what, angel?” He moves agonizingly slowly, rubbing the head of his cock against your clit. Your fingers fumble for purchase in the sheets.

“Not like you,” you say, breath tangled. “Not like—ngh—fuck, please. Please.”

“’S a shame,” he murmurs.

“Please,” you beg him, “talk to — fuck— talk to me.”

“Can’t, baby.” He’d almost sound sympathetic. Almost. If he wasn’t being so goddamn mean. He drags his cock back over your slit, coaxing his name from your lips, and then he finally — finally — pushes inside you. You’re so overstimulated that just the tip of his cock makes you shiver. Your whole body tenses, seizing up under him when he bottoms out inside you.

Your hands find his shoulders. Your nails dig in there, scratching at his skin, drawing tiny lines of blood when he pulls out of you and thrusts back in so hard you see black.

“’S too bad, too,” he’s muttering. His mouth hangs by your neck. Close enough to kiss you, touch you — but never quite dropping that extra, desperate inch. “I’d tell you what a good girl you are, takin’ this cock. Tell you how pretty you look all stretched out f’me.”

You moan. Your hips cant, chasing his cock when he grinds down into you. He drags himself out, dripping onto grey sheets, and you gasp at how empty you feel.

“That what you want?” he growls.

“Yes,” you whisper. You scratch at his shoulders, trying to pull him down, trying to tug him back inside you. “Fuck. Yes.”

He’s stronger than you. He doesn’t budge when you scrabble at his skin, or beg him, or roll your hips against his swollen cock. Eventually you give up. You fall back against the pillows with a frustrated sigh, hands going slack at his shoulders.

It’s only then he picks back up. He lines his hips with yours and thrusts back into you with a tight, shallow groan. He hits that spongy spot inside you and you whine into his chest.

“Ah—god,” you mumble, “You f-feel so good, fuck, I—”

Heat licks at your core. It spills to your skin and sets you on fire. You’ve lost track of how many orgasms he’s denied you. But the collective build-up is threatening to take you the fuck out.

“Faster,” you tell him, urgently. Your fingers dig into his back, spurring him on, clinging to him when he snaps his hips and makes you yelp. “Please, Joel. Fast—ah. Faster.”

He obliges, this time. He mutters darkly against your neck, pounding into you, and the slap of skin on skin punches in between your breaths. Your eyes roll. Your vision fogs, bliss-white.

“Joel,” you mumble.

“Tell me —” he growls, hips flexing, “tell me he made you cum like this, pretty girl. Hate seein’ you all — ngh — all fuckin’ worked up.”

“Joel,” you echo. Your voice breaks. Your cunt clenches around him, choking his cock and begging for release. “He—Joel—”

“Tell me,” he grits.

“No,” you cry. “I mean, fuck, yes, but I—I had to use a—a, fuck, Joel, a toy—”

He groans. “You’re breakin’ my heart, baby.”

And then he pulls out — and doesn’t fucking let you cum.

“Fuck, Joel!” You writhe underneath him. You scratch at his back, his sides, his arms. Leave scrawled, desperate marks on his skin. “Please, I don’t—”

“I want you,” you sob. Tears sting behind your eyes. “Please. Please just — fuck me. Please. I want — fuck, Joel, — I want you.”

His gaze softens. A sad sort of smile tugs at his lip.

And then he bends to kiss you, soft and slow and not at all like the Joel you’re used to. You mumble into his mouth and his tongue dips to taste you. You lift a shaking hand to trace his jaw. Your finger trembles at the edge of his mouth, holding his lips to you. You keep it there when he breaks the kiss; resting gentle at the corner of his mouth.

“‘M sorry,” he breathes. His eyes are lighter. Not black. They look brown, again. “For everythin’. I’m sorry.”

Your breath snags. You stare up at him, lips grazing his, and your heart tugs.

“Show me,” you say, softly.

He rolls both of you over. He’s surprisingly agile, for being so big. His head hits the pillows and he holds you steady, hands on your waist as you straddle his lap.

He blinks up at you. His bandaged hand skates up your ribcage.

You blush. You’re nervous, for some fuck all reason. Looking down at him like this, it’s —

It’s intimate. More intimate than your mouth on him on a bathroom floor, or your palms pressed to the neighbor’s door, or your cheek flat on the kitchen counter.

This is something else. It makes your pulse hitch.

“Um—” you stumble, “—this isn’t—”

He looks up at you. His hand drifts up your ribcage, over your breast, tracing the contours of your skin.

“Isn’t what?”

“It’s not how he—how we—”

His gaze softens. His hand moves higher, over your breast and your collar, snaking under your hair to the back of your neck. He pushes there, gently, pressing your chest to his. His head comes up, off of the pillow, and his mouth closes hot around your neck.

“Good,”he says.

You melt into him. His hands skate up your back, holding you close. His stubble drags along your throat and nuzzles at the soft skin of your shoulder.

“I need you,” you say, breathless. “Joel, pl—I want you.”

“Okay,” he murmurs. His hands slide your ass. He lifts your hips and lines you with his straining cock. “Okay, angel.”

He guides your hips down, onto him, and you bury your face in his neck. You hear his stilted groan when you sink all the way, choking his cock as he settles inside you.

“Fuck,” he mutters. His head tips, creasing the pillow. His fingers dig for purchase on your skin. “You’re—fuck.“

You extricate yourself from his chest. You sit up straight, straddling him, and the new angle makes you whimper. His fingers fumble at the sheets.

“Don’t do that again,” you tell him, bracing both palms on his chest as you start to ride him. “Don’t—fucking—tell me it’s too risky. Don’t walk away.”

You grind your hips down onto him. He moans, hands gripping at your hips.

“Fuck,” he pants. “Don’t fuckin’ — say that.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” he grits. “Won’t ever be able to l-let you go.”

You lean down. Catch him in a kiss, as the heat in your core starts to swirl again. He nips at your lip and your breath stumbles to his mouth. Your hips stutter over his.

“That’s kind of the — idea,“ you mumble. He matches your pace, thrusting up into you, and your eyes roll. “God, Joel—”

“’S’okay,” he murmurs. He’s sitting up before you can process the motion. His arms are wrapped around your back, holding you steady, rearranging you both until he’s sitting up straight and you’re caged in his lap. Your legs wrap loose around his waist. “I got you.”

He takes over for you. You rest your head in the crook of his neck, whimpering into his skin when he rolls his hips up into you — over and over, again and again, clutching you to his body and spearing you down onto his cock.

Your breath comes quick. Shallow. It drips over his neck and breaks on his name.

“I need—please.“

“Easy,” he murmurs. His hand comes up again to wrap around the back of your neck, clasping you to his chest as he picks up the pace. “Easy, angel. You’re okay.”

“Fuck,” you mumble. “Fuck, Joel—”

“C’mon, baby,” he murmurs. “S’okay. I got you. You’re—fuck. You’re good. God damn. Such — ah — such a good girl.”

You cum so hard your vision pulls blank. You stall out on top of him, hips jerking, strangling his cock when you bear down on his lap.

He groans. He nips at your neck, your throat, your jaw — and then his mouth finds yours and he’s kissing the hell out of you.

“Joel,” you gasp, when his thrusts falter, and he breaks your kiss to swallow a moan, “please. Fucking—please.”

You know what you’re asking for. So does he. But you don’t expect him to oblige you. Not when he never has, before.

But then his head tips, and his cock swells inside you, and his stomach tightens against yours. He’s close. You loosen your legs; start to make it easier for him, for when he inevitably untangles your limbs from his before he can cum.

But he doesn’t. Not this time. This time he pulls you closer instead of pulling out.

His hips jerk. He thrusts once, twice, and then he’s spilling inside you with a rough, brambled groan.

His head rolls forward and thuds against your shoulder. His cock twitches inside you, still half-hard even as his breathing starts to level.

Your mind is going a thousand miles an hour. And, simultaneously, nowhere at all. You speak with your lips to his skin, unwilling to separate yourself.

“You—“

“Leave him,” he mumbles.

You draw back, half an inch. You stare at him and he stares back. You roll your hips against his and he hisses your name through his teeth, cock still throbbing when you squeeze him dry.

“Leave him,” he echoes. The silence is thick when it stretches. It almost sounds like please. “Just — stay. With me.”

You nod. He brushes a stray hair back from your face, and his thumb traces the hollow of your cheek.

You lean into his touch. Rough. Warm. Safe. Your hand finds his and closes fast around his knuckles.

“Okay,” you breathe. “Okay.”

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peakymarvelworld · 10 months

Text

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

3K notes · View notes

peakymarvelworld · 10 months

Text

cinephile

6k (got carried away...again) / dbf!joel x f!reader

warnings: 18+, minors dni. smut smut smut. this is filthy. age gap (reader is 23, joel is in his late 40s), semi-public fingering, jealousy, unprotected p in v, dbf!joel, dom!joel, dirty talk, praise kink, pet names (angel, baby, sweetheart, etc), no use of y/n.

follow-up to fourth of july (pt 1), put it into words (pt 2), and poolside (pt 3), but this can be read separately.

masterlist here. kofi here. reblogs & comments always appreciated, love y'all. 🖤

“’S a seat right here.” He releases his grip on your ankle and pats the spot beside him. Then he leans back on his elbows, sprawled out on the grass. “‘F you want.” Your heart nudges at your throat. You cast a wary glance behind you — up the makeshift aisle in the yard, where your neighbors are spread picnic-style — and try to spot your dad. Or Sarah. Neither notices you. “Okay,” you say, softly. You step over his legs and sit beside him. He smiles. Small; Joel, but genuine. He grabs a blanket and tosses it across both of your laps. It’s dark by the time the movie starts. You’re pretty sure it’s E.T., but you can’t really be sure, because the second the opening credits play Joel’s hand is on your thigh. And then you can’t think about anything else.

You barely sleep after your late-night swim with Joel. You spend most of the night — what’s left of it, anyway — thinking about him. His lips. His hands. His head between your thighs.

You make yourself cum twice with his name on your mouth. Your vibrator remains untouched, tucked away in the top shelf of your nightstand. You doubt you’ll need it anytime soon.

So it’s understandable you’re tired — exhausted, even — when movie night rolls around the next evening. You’re half-asleep on the couch when your dad comes bouncing down the steps with a beer in his hand.

He walks up to the couch. Jabs your leg with his shoe.

“What are you, eighty?” he teases. “Can’t even make it to seven o’clock?”

You make a noncommittal sound. Your eyes flicker open and you yawn.

“Late night?” he asks, eyeing you. He’d been asleep by the time you’d come home last night. He hadn’t seen you unlatch the door with trembling hands and scale the stairs in Joel’s shirt. “You and Sarah have fun?”

“Uh—” You shake your head, clearing the cobwebs. It’s an innocent question, but your heart still pounds. “Yeah. We went swimming.”

He nods. “Was Joel there?”

Now you’re awake. Your head whips to him. You straighten on the couch, nails biting at the cushions.

“I don’t — um. What — why?”

Your dad shrugs. He looks at you, a little perplexed, and lifts his hands in mock surrender.

“Just a question. Jeez. Been tryin’ to get ahold of him since the Fourth of July. I think he’s avoidin’ me.”

“Oh.” You pick at a nail. “Yeah. I don’t know. Maybe he has work, or something. You said he had that big client.”

“Maybe.” He shrugs again. “But you didn’t see him. While you were with Sarah.”

“Um.” You hesitate. “No. I mean, he might’ve come in later. I dont know. We were watching a movie.”

You’re not sure why you lie. It would be just as easy to admit that you’d seen him. But then there’d be the follow-up: How’d he seem? You talk to him? — and the thought of discussing Joel Miller right here, now, on the couch with your dad — is enough to make you squirm.

For what it’s worth, your dad seems unfazed.

“Ah, well. Guess I’ll see him tonight, anyway. I’ll find out what’s up.”

Your breath stumbles. You nod, avoiding his gaze when a blush creeps in. You mumble something about getting ready and shove off of the couch, slipping past him before he can notice the marks on your skin. The blurred almost-bruises where Joel’s teeth scraped your neck.

You do your best to cover them up before you come back downstairs. But the concealer you’re using is mediocre, at best, and the angry red seeps through. You settle for wearing your hair down, around your neck, and hope to god it gets the job done.

Your dad is waiting by the door when you return. He gives you a cursory glance —

“New dress?”

—and your skin flushes.

“Um, yeah.”

“Looks nice, kid.”

“Thanks.” You manage a smile. You sure as hell don’t tell him who it’s for.

You follow him out the door and down the street. It’s warm out again — Texas summers — and there’s the gentle, persistent buzz of a thousand cicadas. A lone black cloud drips over the road.

Your dad points it out while you walk. “Better hope it doesn’t rain,” he says. “Alicia’s been plannin’ to host for a month now. She’ll be pissed.”

You’re only half-listening. But your ears perk up at the name.

Alicia Simmons. Ms. Simmons to you. The same Ms. Simmons who’d had her manicured claws in Joel just last week at his barbecue.

“You didn’t tell me she was hosting,” you say, carefully. A scowl tugs at your mouth.

“Didn’t think you’d care,” your dad says.

“I don’t,” you say, quickly. Too quickly. “I just…didn’t know.”

He looks at you. But for all his qualities he’s not exactly perceptive, and he doesn’t clock the look on your face, or the bloom of red on your collar when the breeze lifts your hair. So he lets it go, the way dads do. Leads the way to Ms. Simmons while you drag your feet behind him.

—

She knows how to host. You’ll give her that much.

Her house is at the end of the block, at the top of a cul-de-sac. Long and low and suburban, like the rest, but with a distinct touch of divorcee. A tiny white dog greets you at the door — badly groomed and trained even worse, with a blinged-out tag that reads PRINCE.

She’s gone all out in the yard for movie night. Blankets piled on the grass. Round, colorful cushions scattered like candy. A giant outdoor screen propped up by metal spokes. It’s still being set up when you wander out there — by none other than Joel Miller, you realize, when he steps around the front to admire his handiwork.

He does a double-take when he sees you standing there, flanked by your dad. He recovers nicely, though — always smooth, in control — and wipes his forearm across his brow.

Your stomach swirls. It would be embarrassing, the effect he has on you, if it wasn’t so strong. You look down at the ground, and you can feel his gaze sweep you. Your legs, your thighs, the hem of the dress you’ve worn just for him.

And then the heat lifts off your skin, and you hear him say something to your dad. You figure it’s safe to look, so you do — and, fuck.

He looks good.

He always looks good. But the way he’s standing right now: sleeves shoved to his elbows, hammer hanging from his hand as he straightens from the spokes — it makes your breath hitch.

If he feels you staring he doesn’t let on. It drives you crazy how poised he is. How casual. Drawling out some easy, Joel-excuse when your dad asks him why he’s been ditching his calls.

Just been busy, you hear him say. Lotta smart-ass clients these days.

You don’t miss the smirk he gives you, in the split-second when your dad looks away.

You’re interrupted — maybe mercifully so — by Ms. Simmons herself, waltzing into the yard to examine Joel’s work. The movie hasn’t started and she’s already plastered.

“I knew you’d figure it out,” she slurs, placing a hand on Joel’s bicep. His brows lift, but he doesn’t say anything. She leans in, theatrically close. “You’re amazing. So good with that hammer.”

Oh, Jesus. You have to look away to keep from gagging. Even your dad stifles a smile. He might be oblivious, but she’s about as subtle as a plane crash.

Joel takes it in stride. Ever the gentleman. He mutters something about getting the movie started, finding a seat, talking to Sarah — three excuses for the price of one — and wanders off into the sea of neighbors.

You excuse yourself, too, before she can corner you. She goes to turn the movie on, finally, and you scan the yard in search of a seat. Your dad is unavailable — scooped up by a group of golfing buddies. Sarah is similarly out of commission, wrapped up in a posse of old high school friends. You don’t want to crash her party.

You spot an empty patch of grass by the front of the screen. You almost make it there before a hand snakes fast around your ankle.

You start, catching yourself before you can trip. Your foot drags on the grass.

You glance down. Joel looks up at you, head tilted halfway to the side, hand wrapped loose around your ankle.

Your pulse drums.

“Where you goin’?” he drawls.

“To my seat?”

“’S a seat right here.” He releases his grip on your ankle and pats the spot beside him. Then he leans back on his elbows, sprawled out on the grass. “‘F you want.”

Your heart nudges at your throat. You cast a wary glance behind you — up the makeshift aisle in the yard, where your neighbors are spread picnic-style — and try to spot your dad. Or Sarah. Neither notices you.

“Okay,” you say, softly. You step over his legs and sit beside him.

He smiles. Small; Joel, but genuine. He grabs a blanket and tosses it across both of your laps.

It’s dark by the time the movie starts. You’re pretty sure it’s E.T., but you can’t really be sure, because the second the opening credits play Joel’s hand is on your thigh.

And then you can’t think about anything else.

He shifts closer to you, drawing circles on your knee with the tip of his finger. His hand moves higher, dragging goosebumps up your thigh, and his knuckles bump the hem of your dress. You get it, now. Why he asked you to wear this. The thought makes you shiver.

He’s moving so. fucking. slowly. Two hour movie, and at this rate he’s planning on taking the whole runtime to work his way up your leg. You squirm, a little impatient, and start to hike your dress up yourself when Alicia Simmons — fucking Alicia — materializes in front of you like a washed-out ghost.

You freeze. You’re covered up by the blanket, but you still drop your hand.

Joel doesn’t. His palm stays glued to your thigh, big and broad and warm, squeezing gently even as Alicia clambers awkwardly over the blankets to sit on the other side of him.

“Thought I’d squeeze in,” she whispers, loudly. “Nowhere else to sit.”

You bristle. You can spot about a thousand other places to sit in your peripheral alone.

Joel grunts. You’re not sure why it annoys you — it’s not like you expect him to tell her no, and kick her out of her own backyard — but, if you’re honest, you’d kind of like him to.

He scoots over to allow her room. She spreads out beside him, too close to be comfortable, and leans into his side with a sigh.

He ignores her. His gaze stays fixed on the screen. His fingers flex at the seam of your thigh.

You try your best to watch the movie too. But you’re not as stoic as Joel — not as unreadable — and you pluck angry fistfuls of grass from your side. You’re pissed. You hate the way she’s leaning on him, hate the wine you can smell on her breath, hate the lipstick that smears with her satisfied smile.

His free hand — the one not currently squeezing your thigh — isn’t covered by the blanket. It’s splayed at his side, palm flat against the grass. You can see Alicia’s gears turning, out of the corner of your eye — and then, sure enough, her long, painted nails as they skate across his knuckles.

“Fuck’s sake,” you hiss. It’s barely audible. But it’s loud enough for Joel to hear — loud enough to draw his gaze from the screen, momentarily, and catch the fire in your eyes.

He adjusts himself, subtly moving his hand from hers. It’s smooth; inconspicuous. She probably doesn’t even realize he’s done it on purpose.

His other hand — the one burning a brand on your thigh — moves half an inch higher.

Your breath catches. You squirm and his grip doubles down.

He leans forward, slightly, and puts his hand to his mouth like he’s biting back a cough. Then he growls at you, muffled, only loud enough for you to hear.

“Keep fuckin’ still.”

Your body responds to him immediately. You settle.

He leans back. His hand slips beneath your hem and his knuckles ghost fabric. You lift your hips — almost instinctively — and his hand clamps around your leg. You watch his jaw flicker. He doesn’t tear his gaze from the movie, but the message is clear. What did I just say?

You swallow. You try your best to stay still; completely still, as his fingers stroke up your thigh. When he grazes the edge of your underwear you part your knees, making room for his broad hand between your legs.

You wait for him to scold you. But he doesn’t, this time. Either he doesn’t notice you move — you doubt it — or this is affecting him more than his stony expression lets on. Judging by the way his fingers tense against you, stinging into your skin — you guess it’s the latter.

You’re soaking wet for him already. Half an hour of aimless touching; of him dragging tiny, hopeless circles on your thigh — has driven you ten kinds of crazy. He feels it, too, when he brushes damp cotton.

His finger catches the edge of your underwear. He pulls the fabric to the side and you swallow a sigh.

You try to keep your eyes on the screen, even as Joel’s middle finger dips halfway inside you. The angle is awkward — you’re side-by-side on the grass, your legs parted under the blanket for him — but he’s surprisingly dexterous. He pretends to readjust again, moving imperceptibly nearer, and the added closeness lets him sink inside you to the knuckle.

You barely stifle your moan. It’s a good thing the movie is so fucking loud, you think, absently. It drowns the tiny noise you let slip.

But Joel hears it. He’s close enough; turned toward the screen but so finely tuned to you that he doesn’t miss a beat. He pauses with his finger hooked inside you. You’re so desperate for him to move that you abandon all shame and lift your hips off the grass, rutting against the heel of his palm. The blanket hikes half an inch and exposes a sliver of skin.

He’ll tell you off, now. You’re sure of it. Some twisted part of you almost hopes that he does.

But — as it turns out — he doesn’t have to. Alicia Simmons does that for him. She gives a dramatic sigh and yawns, fading into Joel’s shoulder. Oldest trick in the book. If you were any less preoccupied you might think to roll your eyes. Instead you just hiss; a low, annoyed sound, mingled heavy with arousal as Joel crooks his finger just right.

He sits up a little straighter. This time it’s not so subtle, the way he rolls Alicia off his shoulder. The way his palm bumps your swollen, aching clit.

He tilts his head toward you. Whispers in your ear, soft and rough and fleeting as his fingers find that spongy spot inside you and drag out a gasp.

“Don’t tell me you’re jealous,” he growls.

It takes everything in you not to turn and look at him. To not tear the blanket off of your lap and rip his hand away. Teach him a lesson for being so cocky. Or — who are you kidding — to not just grab his wrist and fuck yourself on his fingers til you scream.

“Don’t,” he warns, like he can read your mind. His breath rasps along your ear. “You’ll make a fuckin’ scene.”

You’re so stubborn, usually. It’s hard to believe that it’s Joel, of all people, who finally gets you to behave. The Joel who used to pay you to babysit his daughter. The Joel who taught you to drive stick. The Joel who’s got his hand up your dress, right now, fucking into you with two soaked, lazy fingers.

It’s filthy. It’s wrong. He’s got another woman hanging by his shoulder while his wrist pumps between your legs. Your dad is four rows back on the grass, probably watching the back of your head as it tips in muted pleasure. And Joel — fucking Joel — is still watching the screen with that perfect, immovable stare.

Your muscles clench around his knuckles. Heat pools white-hot in the pit of your stomach. You start to rock into his palm again, more desperately this time, seeking any sort of added friction.

You look at him, quickly. You catch a glimpse of his profile, cast in the glow of the screen. The flinch in his jaw when you squirm on his hand is the only indication he’s remotely affected.

He leans into your space again. Puts his lips to your ear. To anyone watching you’re sure the movement looks innocent — a quiet question, maybe.

And his voice is quiet, when it scrapes your neck. But it’s not a question.

“You’re gonna cum for me," he mutters. He flexes his wrist, and you bite your lip to keep from screaming. “And you ain’t gonna make a fuckin’ sound.”

He crooks his finger. A whimper catches in your throat.

“Nod if you understand.”

You nod. Your breath pulls.

He leans back. Re-settles in his spot. His gaze returns to the screen, and you’d swear E.T. had his full attention, if it wasn’t for the heel of his palm grinding into your clit.

You’ve never been very good at keeping your mouth shut. It’s not a trait that’s serving your particularly well, right now. The heat in your core threatens to spill over with each hollow thrust of his fingers.

You drag the edge of the blanket up to your mouth and bite down on fuzzy fabric. He catches you in the corner of his eye and his hand moves faster, working you up and over the edge.

It takes everything in you not to rip the blanket out of your mouth and whine his name until your voice breaks. But there are people — so many people — your dad, and Sarah, and Alicia at his shoulder. So you keep quiet.

He only pulls his hand away when your muscles go slack. The scrap of blanket falls from your teeth. He adjusts himself — conspicuously, you think — and your cheeks blaze.

You don’t hear a single word of the movie after that. You don’t even pretend to watch it. You watch him, instead — staring shamelessly at his jaw, at the denim that peeks from the blanket, at the still-slick hand that splays beside you in the grass.

Fuck.

You scoot closer to him. Make sure no one’s looking before sliding your hand under the blanket and into his lap.

He stiffens immediately at the contact. But he still — still — doesn’t look away from the screen. Alicia leans in to tell him something — nothing related to the movie, you’re sure — and cups her hand around his ear.

It spurs you on. It shouldn’t, but it does. You move your hand up his thigh and lay your palm on the bulge in his jeans.

He flinches. It’s maybe the first thing all night that he hasn’t controlled. You hear him start to respond to her, and then his voice catches and he clears his throat.

That makes you bolder. You drag your hand over the outline of his cock and feel him strain into your touch. He lets you go until it’s too much, apparently — and then his hand slips under the blanket to stop yours.

His grip bites. He holds your hand in place, palm pressed to the swell of his cock. There’s some big scene onscreen — shouting, strobing lights — and he takes the opportunity to hiss in your ear.

“What are you doin’, darlin’?”

His gaze flicks from the screen, just long enough to look at you. Long enough for you to read his lips when he drops his voice and adds, almost inaudible —

“Don’t start somethin’ you can’t finish.”

You wouldn’t dream of it. But the universe has other plans, it seems, because as soon as he speaks it starts to rain.

Pour is probably a better word. That cloud your dad had pointed out earlier seems to have finally made its way over. With a vengeance. Thunder rolls across the yard, drowning the surround-sound. Water lashes at the screen.

There’s confused chaos as twenty-something neighbors rush to stand. Alicia leaps up, abandoning her post at Joel’s shoulder, and starts to usher people inside.

It takes longer for Joel to stand than anyone else. He sits there in the grass, getting soaked to the bone, and you can guess the reason for the holdup when you see him trying to adjust his jeans under the blanket.

You hide your grin. You wait for him in the dry confines of the doorway as he stands, scowling, and crosses the yard. He’s drenched by the time he makes it to you.

He takes two steps inside and shakes his head like a dog. Water sloughs off his collar and sprinkles the hardwood. Your dad clocks the two of you by the door and wanders over, laughing a little at Joel’s bad luck.

“Christ,” he says. “You take the scenic route gettin’ inside?”

Joel’s scowl deepens.

“Alicia’s settin’ us back up in the den,” your dad continues. “Gonna keep the party goin’. Nothin’ stops that woman.”

“Got that right,” you mutter.

Joel’s gaze snaps to you. You feel the warning on your neck. But your dad is oblivious, as always. You’re not even sure he hears you.

“Go dry off and meet us in the livin’ room, he says, still chuckling. He shakes his head. “Jesus.”

And then, mercifully — he leaves you both. You watch him walk down the hall, into the living room, and the rest of your neighbors trickle in after him.

No one seems to notice that you and Joel haven’t joined them. That the two of you are still standing by the doorway, even as the last neighbor disappears into the den.

The second you’re alone — the second no one’s eyes are on you — Joel grabs your wrist. Hard. You yelp, stumbling over your feet as he drags you toward a set of stairs. The opposite direction of the living room. And decidedly off-limits, you’d think.

“Joel—” you wriggle in his grip. He’s stronger. “St — what — where are we going?”

He hauls you up the stairs, two at a time. Water drags off the hem of his flannel.

“Dryin’ off,” he says, simply. “Gotta get a towel.”

“Is that a—” he yanks you up, onto the landing, and tugs you down a muted hallway, “—a two person job?”

He stops dead in his tracks at the end of the hall, in front of a door. And then he looks at you, eyes blazing, and your stomach seizes. He looks hungry. Starved. His stare roves over you, black as coal, searing your skin.

“Get inside.”

“Um.” You look at him. Then the door. You’ve overshot the bathroom by at least a few paces — that door is half-open, a ways back down the hall. “Don’t think this is where the towels are.”

“Pit stop.” He leans his shoulder into the door and it gives, sneaking open. He pulls you inside and now you go willingly, practically stumbling over his feet. His hands are all over you the minute you’re inside — your hips, your hair, the hem of your dress. He nips at your neck and his voice soothes the mark, low and rough and breathless. “Gonna fuck you first.”

You don’t bother hiding the noise you make. You’re too far gone. He hasn’t even fucked you yet, not properly, and you’re already wrecked. He knows it, too. It’s why he looks so fucking smug, when his smile curves up the column of your throat.

Your hands go to his shoulders. To the damp flannel on his skin. You tug him closer and your back thumps the door.

“Joel,” you whimper. “Kiss me.”

He ignores you. His mouth drops, to the curve between your neck and shoulder, and his teeth sink into your skin.

You whine. Your nails dig into his shirt.

“Turn around,” he growls.

He’s not gonna kiss you. Not if you beg him, not if you ask nicely. The thought runs laps around your brain; makes your mind short-circuit as his hands find your waist and twist you around so you’re facing the door.

He’s punishing you. For teasing him on the grass. For getting him drenched.

The realization makes you weak. You feel him behind you: the ragged rise-fall of his chest at your back, and you bring both palms up to brace against the door.

There’s the rustle of leather behind you. A soft tink as he works his buckle undone. The sharp bite of metal when he drags his zipper down. He crowds the space at your back, hips pressed to your ass, and shoves your dress up and out of his way.

He doesn’t bother dragging your underwear down. He nudges them to the side — for the second time tonight — and his finger catches on your clit.

You gasp. Your hips roll into his.

He moves his hand back. The blunt head of his cock replaces his finger, nudging at your entrance.

“Fuck,” you breathe.

Your fingers flex on the door. You try to push your hips back, into him — try to push him inside you — but he stays stubbornly still. Holds you in place with that teasing, iron grip.

“Joel,” you moan. “P-fuck. Please.”

“You’re cute when you’re jealous,” he murmurs. He rocks forward. Drags his cock up your slit, gathering slick.

“Not — ngh — jealous.”

“No?” His voice is low. Teasing. His accent rolls heavy off his tongue and drips to your skin. “Not even a little bit? Didn’t piss you off, seein’ some other woman on me?”

“No,” you grit. He rolls his hips, cock hitting your clit, and you whine.

He leans forward. His chest folds against your back, big and firm and broad. He gathers your hair in his fist and tugs.

“Think you’re lyin’,” he says, softly. “Think it drove you crazy, pretty girl.”

Your stomach flutters. Your muscles clench around nothing.

“Think that’s why you let me touch you, front’a all those people,” he continues, and you want to smack him, kiss him, whatever it takes for him to shut up and fuck you. You squirm against his cock and he leans even closer. His stubble kisses your neck.

It’s then — only then, in a split-second of marked clarity — that you realize where you are. Where he’s taken you. Your tunnel-vision expands long enough for you to clock the bed in your peripheral. The silver-framed photo of Alicia Simmons and her sad ex-husband, sitting on a lacquered nightstand. He could have pulled you into any bathroom. Or an empty guest room off the hall. But he’s dragged you through the last door — into the master bedroom — into her bedroom.

“Wanted some fuckin’ attention,” he growls. “’S why you’re gonna let me fuck you in here—

The head of his cock pushes into you; just barely, and you stifle a scream. He’s stretching you already, just the tip, and you squeeze the hell out of him as he notches inside you.

“—next to her fuckin’ bed.”

He thrusts into you. All of him; all at once. His hips slam into your ass and you cry out, slumping into the door as he splits you in two.

Your eyes sting. He’s so big it’s almost — almost — painful.

“Fuck,” you yelp. “Joel—”

His name comes out broken.

He doesn’t move. He’s desperately patient; gauging your breaths and the sound of your pleas. He lets you get used to him, adjusting to his size until the burn mellows out and the stretch starts to sweeten.

“You’re okay, baby.” That voice, honeyed whiskey and sex. Dark and silk-smooth. “Relax.”

“Please,” you whimper. “I c—ah—I can take it.”

“I know you can, angel.” Still waiting, patient, as you settle around him. “You’re doin’ good, pretty girl. Takin’ it so well.”

Your head spins at his praise. Your muscles clamp around his cock as he pulls out halfway, soaked in your slick, and thrusts into you again.

“F-uck,” you groan. “Oh my — god.”

You lose track of yourself after that. He finds a regular rhythm once he knows you can take it; not rough, not yet, but a far cry from gentle. He couldn’t be bothered to take his pants off — just shoved his jeans and his boxers past his hips — and denim scrapes the backs of your thighs.

You don’t mind. You can barely feel it. You’re too focused on him; the way he feels splitting you open, thick and hot and buried in your cunt.

You must be making a lot of noise. Too much, maybe, considering he’s pounding you right now in your hostess’ bedroom, while the whole fucking neighborhood gathers downstairs. But it’s impossible to stay quiet, when he’s fucking you like this. When he sets a new, punishing pace and hits a spot that makes you scream.

He takes care of it. Of you. He doesn’t cover your mouth with his hand — too busy grabbing you by the waist, keeping you steady as he fucks into you.

No. He reaches for his belt, instead, looped unbuckled through his jeans. He tugs it free and holds it out, between you and the door, until the leather hangs level with your mouth.

You don’t understand what he wants, at first. But then his hips roll into yours, and you cry out, and he shoves the belt between your teeth.

You bite down instinctively. The sound muffles in the leather. He drops his hand — satisfied — and returns it to your waist.

“’S right,” he mutters. “Good girl.”

He loops an arm around your front, forearm braced against your tummy. His fingers dip to rub your clit while he fucks you from behind.

You jerk at the touch, but there’s nowhere to go. You’re wrapped up in him. Wedged between his chest and his arm, speared on his cock as you palm the door.

He’s right. You were jealous. You were jealous of that woman on his arm, touching him, laughing into his ear. Of her fingers on his hand and her head on his shoulder.

And he’s right, too, that you wanted his attention. That you practically begged him — in soft, unspoken terms — to slip his fingers in between your legs. The same silent way you’re begging him now, with words smothered into his belt.

This shouldn’t turn you on. You’re in some other woman’s room, your palms pressed to her door so hard you’ll leave prints. Her clothes are on the bed, her lipstick on the nightstand — that same garish shade she’d worn tonight, when she’d put her lips to Joel’s ear.

It’s twisted. It’s — beyond fucked. But, then — so are you.

Joel gives a rough thrust and you moan into his belt. Your teeth sink in the leather. Heat builds in your core, white-hot and electric, and threatens to snap when he works on your clit.

You try to tell him you’re going to cum. You can’t get the words out, between his belt, and the fact he’s fucking you so hard it punches your breath.

You manage a moan, or something close to it, muffled and desperate as your head starts to fog.

He gets it. He keeps his pace while you fall apart, fucking you through it, praising you with that velvet drawl.

“’S’good, baby,” he breathes. “Such a good girl. Knew you’d take this cock.”

Your mind goes blissfully blank when you cum. Your teeth clamp around the belt and your tongue tastes leather.

He groans, hips flexing when you squeeze around his cock.

“Fuck,” he mumbles. His thrusts are frantic. Less controlled. He pulls out, panting, and stumbles back in. “Fuck, baby. S—ngh—so goddamn tight for me.”

You’re too fucked to respond. You moan weakly, trying to meet his hips as he pushes into you. Your whole head is heavy. You’re not sure you’d still be standing if Joel wasn’t currently nailing you into the door.

He reaches up and tears the belt from your mouth. It falls to your feet with a clink.

You can’t stay quiet without it. But he’s past caring, or he’s so caught up chasing his high he doesn’t give a shit about the neighbors anymore. He wants to hear you.

His movements are rough. Erratic. His hand moves between your legs, stroking your clit, and you’re so sensitive — too sensitive, almost — but he’s so fucking good at this you don’t think to ask him to stop. Heat pools in your core again, tugging at your stomach.

He’s gonna make you cum again. A second time, in almost as many minutes.

“J-Joel,” you whimper, “gonna—ah—I c-can’t—”

“Yes you can,” he grunts. His hand fists in your hair and he moves it to the side ,exposing your neck. His mouth bends to rake your skin. “One more, baby.”

“Fuck, fuck—”

“You’re alright,” he coos. “Easy, angel. Slow. Let go.”

He drags it out of you. You moan into the door, pushing back against him as your muscles choke his cock. You hear him swear into your skin when you cum.

He drags his hand from your clit and puts it back on your waist, holding you steady as your body sags. And then he rocks his hips up, into you — starts to fuck you harder, faster, as his own release nears.

“Joel,” you whine.

He’s gone noticeably silent behind you. The only sounds he can manage are heavy breaths and tight, muffled grunts.

He’s close.

“Cum inside,” you mumble, breathless. “I’m—fuck—‘m on the pill, it’s fine, I’m—”

His cock nudges at your g-spot. You lose your focus and your eyes roll back.

“Y’know I can’t do that, sweetheart.” He sounds pained. “Too risky.”

If you were any more cogent you’d say something snarky — and fucking me in the neighbor’s room isn’t? — but you’re done for. He’s ruined you. So you just make a sound — a disappointed mewl — and cry out softly when he pulls out of you.

He doesn’t let you turn around. One hand stays on your hip, holding you still while the other wraps around his cock. You can hear the slick slide of his fist as he jacks off behind you. He gives a low, broken moan and your stomach clenches, gasping when he yanks up your dress and spills across the small of your back.

“Fuck,” he mutters. His hand slips from your hip. You use the newfound freedom to turn and face him, straightening up and letting his cum leak to your thighs. “You—fuck.”

He pulls you close on an impulse. His hand comes up to grab your jaw and he kisses you, catching your sigh with his mouth.

He leans back with a quiet groan. His forehead brushes yours.

“Gonna ruin me,” he says, quietly. It’s almost…affectionate.

Your heart flickers.

He looks at you a second longer — dark eyes searching yours, searching for something , and then he reaches around you, for the door handle, and slips out before you can protest.

He’s back a minute later, two towels in hand. One for him, to soak up whatever rain remains in his flannel — and a smaller, softer cloth for you.

You reach your hand out for it — I’ll take that — but he doesn’t give it up. He bends slowly, sinking to his knees, and drags the cloth between your legs.

You put a hand in his hair to steady yourself. Spread your legs a little as he moves the cloth up your thigh. Something about this — about Joel Miller on his knees, hair tousled, staring up at you while he cleans his own mess —

You could probably cum again, if he’d touch you.

But he doesn’t. He’s excruciatingly gentle, cleaning every drop of himself from your legs. When he’s done he just stands, and kisses your forehead, and leads you out of the room with his hand on your back. Down the hall, and back down the stairs, and into the den to re-join the party.

You slip in just in time for closing credits. You find individual spots on separate ends of the room, perched on the edge of two couches. By the time Alicia hits the lights, there’s nothing to suggest you’d even left.

Except for the picture-perfect imprint of your teeth on his belt, when he stands to shake your dad’s hand goodbye.

5K notes · View notes

peakymarvelworld · 10 months

Text

poolside

5.1k (this got away from me) / dbf!joel x f!reader

warnings: 18+, minors dni. no use of y/n. oral (f receiving), age gap (reader is 23, joel is in his late 40s), no outbreak, fingering, dbf!joel, (slightly) dom!joel, pet names, praise, slight edging if you squint.

follow-up to fourth of july (pt 1) and put it into words (pt 2), but this can be read separately. masterlist here. reblogs & comments so appreciated, lots of love 🤍

“Tell me,” he murmurs. His voice goes straight to your core. White heat pools where his words land. “Want you,” you pant, hips arching. “Your — fuck — your mouth, Joel, please.” He looks smug. His eyes darken, brown to black, and his head tips obediently to the apex of your thighs. “Okay,” he murmurs. “All right, angel. Lean back for me, baby. Nice ’n slow.”

A week after the Fourth of July, Sarah comes home.

She’s been away — Missouri, Kansas, you can’t remember which — working as a camp counselor. You remember how excited she’d been when she’d first landed the job — six straight weeks of kids, and sunscreen, and weaving friendship bracelets.

Not exactly your scene. But you’re happy if she’s happy, and you find yourself counting down the last days until she’s home.

Not because you know she’ll invite you over the second you get back. Not because it’ll give you an excuse to be back at the Miller’s. Not because it’s a chance to see him.

Not — definitely not — because of any of that.

She texts you, as expected, an hour after she lands in Texas. An hour after that you’re at her place, in her pool, floating side-by-side as she regales you with gossip.

“Do not tell my dad,” she’s saying, as her latest story draws to a close. Something about a counselor named Brandon. “I’m nineteen. You know? And he’s still weird about boys.”

Your stomach flutters. Sarah gives you a look - clearly expecting backup - and you manage a weak nod.

“Yeah. Sure. Secret’s safe with me.”

She splashes you. “What’s your deal, anyway? You seem weird.”

“I’m not weird.”

“Yeah you are. You’ve said, like, two words since we got in the pool.”

Your face heats. Sarah may be younger than you, but she’s smart. Perceptive. She can read the hesitation in your frown.

“Did something happen?” she probes. “College? Carter?”

“Still a dick. But no. No. I’m good. Sorry. I’m just — I’m just distracted, or something.”

To your relief, she lets it go. You fall back into your easy rhythm — you listening, her rambling — until the sun starts to slip.

It’s only then you get out of the pool. You relocate to a pair of lounge chairs laid out across the grass. You drape your towel over one and sprawl out like a cat, catching the last rays of sun. Sarah splays beside you, still chattering away.

You’re too busy listening. You don’t hear the sliding door open, or the crunch of boots on grass. You don’t even see Joel until he’s looming over you, blocking out the sun with wide, sloped shoulders.

“You’re home late,” Sarah says.

Joel’s gaze is unreadable. His eyes bore into yours.

“Yeah,” he says, finally, tearing his gaze away. “Sorry, baby girl. Some pain in the ass client.”

Sarah shrugs. Unbothered. Joel’s stare slides back to you.

“I invited her over,” Sarah says, when the silence grows uncomfortable. Her brow furrows. “That’s…cool, right?”

He blinks.

“Yeah. ‘Course.” He turns to you. His jaw flickers. “Your dad know you’re here?”

You ignore the way your pulse picks up when he looks at you. The way your heart settles somewhere just south of your throat.

It’s been less than twenty-four hours since you last spoke. Since he called you, in the middle of the night, and made you cum for him on speaker phone.

The thought makes your cheeks burn. But you hold his gaze.

“I’m an adult,” you say, flatly. At least you hope it’s flat. “Do I have to let him know when I go across the street?”

He stares. You stare back. Sarah looks between you with a frown.

“No,” Joel says, quietly. “‘Course not.”

He eyes you half a second longer. His gaze drops — just for a beat — raking over your legs, and your stomach, and the scraps of skin peeking out from under your drenched bikini.

He swallows again. Then he turns, abruptly, and starts back toward the house.

“You don’t wanna swim with us?” Sarah calls.

He pauses by the sliding door. His gaze flicks — from Sarah, to you, back to Sarah again.

“Not today,” he clips. He shifts a little. “'Nother day, maybe.”

He turns and heads inside. Sarah makes a face.

“Lame. What’s his deal?”

You don’t look at her. There’s a brand on your body where his stare burnt your skin.

“No idea,” you murmur.

—

Eventually the pool light goes off, and the porch lights dim, and you’re left in disquieting darkness. Your cue to head back in, probably.

So you do. You march down the hall, single-file to Sarah’s room. You scrap your bathing suit in her sink and she lends you new clothes - cotton shorts and a too-big shirt.

“My dad’s,” she explains, when the hem ghosts your knees.

Your breath snags. You turn your face into the sleeve to hide your blush.

She doesn’t last long after that. She insists on watching something on her laptop — you land on Princess Bride — and she’s asleep before the ten-minute mark.

You smile softly. You drag the laptop off of her lap, pause the movie, and tuck it safely away on her nightstand. Then you get up — careful not to wake her — and tiptoe out of her room.

It’s not that late. Ten, ten-thirty at most. If you head back home now, you’ll probably catch your dad before he goes to bed. And he’ll probably catch your blush when you walk into the house in one of Joel Miller’s shirts.

So you linger a little longer, taking your time gathering your things. You can hear the TV on in the living room, and you figure Joel must still be up. That, or he’s fallen asleep with the football game on.

You wander out to check. Sure enough he’s slumped across the cushions, sound asleep, TV light glazed across his face.

You smile. Like father, like daughter.

You sneak past him, into the kitchen. You pour yourself a glass of water and hiss when you accidentally rattle the ice-machine.

The sound wakes Joel. He stirs on the couch - and then the game turns off, and his sleepy drawl cuts the dark.

“…Sarah?”

You step back into the living room, a little sheepish.

“Just me. Sorry.”

He turns, blinking at you over the couch. His eyes are bleary, thick with sleep. “Oh.” He clears his throat. “Where’s, uh…where’s Sarah?”

“Sound asleep. Think the jet lag finally got her.”

He nods, still a little out of it. He rakes a hand through his stubble and looks at you — at the glass in your hand, at your towel-dried hair, at the curve of your thighs in plaid sleep-shorts.

His eyes move higher. Your stomach tugs.

“That my shirt?” he asks, softly.

“Oh. Um.” You touch it, like you hadn’t noticed. “I don’t know. Sarah lent it to me.”

He’s staring. He’s staring so hard you think you might crack.

“It’s mine,” he repeats.

“Uh,” your face heats, “sorry. I can - I have the shirt I came in, I can —”

“No.” His eyes burn, black as sin. “Keep it.”

And then, in a low voice, so low you think you might have misheard, he adds -

“Looks better on you, anyways.”

You blush. Hard. You shift your weight, trying to displace the pressure building between your legs.

Joel gauges your reaction. Then he yawns, rolling broad shoulders, and smooths a hand through tousled hair.

“Should have come swimming with us,” you say, softly. You toy with the hem of your — his — shirt. He watches with a predatory stare. “Water was nice.”

He makes a low, dangerous sound. Tilts his head towards the hall; towards Sarah’s room.

“You sleepin’ over?”

“No,” you say, quickly. Your pulse goes again, hammering at the tip of your tongue. “I mean. Uh - I wasn’t going to. I was just gonna head back. She seems pretty - pretty wiped.”

He nods. You wonder if he’s disappointed.

“Sure,” he says.

You avert your gaze, hands shaking slightly as you set your water down and start to gather up your things, again. When you lean to grab your wallet your shorts ride up, exposing the black thong beneath, and you can feel his stare start to burn.

“Stay.”

You straighten at the sound of his voice. Turn back, slowly, to face him.

“‘F you want,” he adds. He’s awake, now. The sleep is out of his eyes, and his voice. “For a — beer, or somethin’. Now that you’ve woken me up.”

You laugh. He takes that as a yes.

“I’ll get ‘em,” he says, when you start for the kitchen. He pushes himself off the sofa and brushes by you, lingering in your space a second longer than necessary.

“Fuck,” he mutters, half to himself. His hands hover by your hips, grazing your shirt.

He’s incredibly close. You’re not sure you’ve ever been this close to Joel - not even that night on his bathroom floor, when he’d pushed you to your knees.

Your breath catches.

“What?” you mumble, suddenly self-conscious.

He shakes his head. A muscle jumps in his jaw.

“You smell like me,” he growls.

He rips himself away before he does something stupid. Something he can’t take back. He stalks past you, into the kitchen, and you hear the telltale clink as he grabs two beers.

You swallow, hard. Your fingers make fists in his shirt.

“Go on outside,” he calls, deceptively casual. “Don’t wanna wake Sarah up, talkin’ in here.”

Your heart skips. It’s a perfectly reasonable request — good dad, looking out for his daughter — but something about it makes you shiver.

You do as he says. You slide the back door open and head out to the yard, pitch-black now without the glow of pool lights. It’s the same as you’d left it a few hours ago — towels still splayed on the lounge chairs, bottle of sunscreen still open on the grass.

The whole yard is drenched in the dark. You stick an experimental toe in the pool and drag your foot along the surface.

Behind you, the sliding door opens and closes again. Joel’s footsteps cross the yard and settle at your side.

“Hey,” he mutters, nudging a bottle into your hand. You take it — he’s already uncapped it — and take a quiet sip.

“Hey.”

His eyes search yours. It’s warm out — aggressively so — and he wipes a band of sweat from his brow.

You’re not really sure what to say. You’re afraid you’ll kiss him if you don’t speak at all.

“Hot,” you announce, dumbly.

Jesus Christ.

His brow lifts. He looks amused. “What?”

“It’s hot,” you say, doubling down, exaggerating the T. You tug at his tee shirt, clinging to your chest in the humid dark. “I’m getting all…sweaty.”

A smile pulls at the seam of his mouth. He brings his beer to his lips but doesn’t sip. He’s waiting. He wants to see what you’ll do.

You can’t blame the beer for your boldness. You’ve had two sips. But you can blame him, and you do. His voice like velvet and his eyes on you and his scent on your shirt, clinging to your skin.

You turn your back to him and wander over to the pool, shimmying out of cotton shorts as you do. His shirt is so big on you that it covers you still, even without the shorts, even as you feel his gaze land at your ass.

You sink into the pool, onto the first step. The water laps at your ankles, pleasantly cool. You hear Joel’s breath hitch behind you and the sound spurs you on.

His shirt next. You pull it off, over your head, and stand in the water with your bare back to him.

His shirt dangles from your hand. You hold it out to the side and let it drop to the concrete. Then you sink lower — second step, third — until you’re nearly submerged. Your head bobs, hands carving through black water.

It’s only then you turn to look at him. He can’t see the skin you’ve revealed: it’s dark out, and the water’s almost black, and you’re sunk to your neck in slippery shadow. But you can see enough of him — the way he’s standing, death-grip on the neck of his beer — to know your stunt paid off.

He’s stiff. Rigid. Breathing hard as he watches you. He looks wrecked.

His throat bobs as he watches you swim.

“Better?” he drawls.

You shrug. “A little cold.”

He huffs. “No pleasin’ you, is there?”

You grin. Water splashes your collar. You lift your head, just slightly, and the very top of your chest slips out of the black. Joel locks on immediately. A low growl slips from the back of his throat.

“Come see for yourself,” you taunt.

He looks at you for a few seconds, then stands heavily. He walks to the edge of the pool and stands there, over you, fingers hooked in the loop of his jeans. The bottle dangles from his hand.

You swim up to him and rest your wrists on the ledge. You have to tilt your chin to meet his gaze.

“Get in,” you tease. You kick off the ledge and float on your back, bare breasts breaking the surface of the water.

He’s quiet. His eyes track you across the pool.

“View’s better from here,” he murmurs.

If it was any lighter he’d see you blush. Instead you swim back to the ledge and smile up at him, lips slick with clinging water.

His gaze darkens. He shifts a little above you, and you can see the growing hardness in his jeans.

“You wear yourself out yet?” he growls.

“Just about.”

He bends at the waist, extending his hand to help you out of the pool. You grab it — and yank on his arm as hard as you can.

He’s stronger than you, but he’s not expecting you to grab him, and he’s already standing precariously close to the water’s edge. He loses his balance and goes in, shoulder-first and fully clothed.

You stifle a laugh. His head pops up by your side half a second later. Water drips from his jaw and beads at his lashes.

He glares daggers. You try an innocent look in response.

“My bad.”

“Jesus,” he mutters, following you to the shallow end. “What the hell’s 'a matter with you?”

When the water is shallow he stands, shoving a hand through soaked hair.

You grin. “Feels good, right?”

“Feels wet,” he scowls. His eyes are black. “You’re a pain in the ass.”

You catch the smile on the edge of his mouth. And then he’s surging towards you, big hands reaching through the water, and you yelp. You thrash at the water as you try to out-pace him, but he’s faster. He grabs you by the hips, dragging you close, and his fingers dig into your waist.

“Uh-uh,” he says, lazily, holding you to him. “You ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

You relax into his touch. A quiet moan leaves your lips when one of his hands sneaks higher, breaking the water and coming up to palm your breast.

He tugs you even closer and his mouth drops to kiss your shoulder. You tip your head, allowing him access, and he marks your skin between his teeth. His stubble rasps beside your throat.

“Fuck,” you mumble. One of his hands scans your back, pressing you to him. “Joel.”

He doesn’t answer. But his mouth leaves your throat and his hand replaces it, winding soft around your neck.

He pushes you backwards, cutting through the water until your spine hits the wall.

You’re trapped, now. Trapped between Joel and the rim of the pool, your back to smooth tile and your throat in his palm.

“Look at me,” he says.

You look at him. His thumb strokes your jaw. He tips your chin — just slightly, just enough — and he kisses you.

It’s the first time you’ve kissed him. It’s not what you’re expecting — not at first — not rough and domineering, the way he’d been a week ago on his bathroom floor. The way he’d been last night, on the phone.

This is different. This is...soft. Or almost soft. As soft as Joel Miller can manage. He kisses you like he’s asking permission, even with his hand wrapped loose around your throat.

So you grant it. You part your lips, urging him deeper, and when his tongue licks into your mouth you whine in his grasp.

His hand slackens on your throat and then falls. He moves both hands to your waist, dragging over your ass, and the soaked piece of fabric still clinging to your hips. Your arms drape around his shoulders and you land a playful bite on his bottom lip.

He’s still in his clothes. They’re drenched; dripping and plastered to his skin. He doesn’t seem to care.

Your fingers tug at his hair and tangle there. He groans into your mouth, and his hand comes up again to splay at your breast. He rolls your nipple between rough fingers and you moan, muffled hot against his lips.

And then — in the corner of your eye — a light goes on.

Sarah’s room.

You both freeze. His breath stalls, grazing your mouth. His hand stills.

“Quiet,” he breathes.

The water ripples. Somewhere under his palm, your heart thunders.

The light goes off. Joel waits ten seconds, just to be sure — and kisses you again.

His hands slide back to your waist and he lifts you, up out of the water and onto the pool’s ledge. Your ass hits concrete and you grunt. Your legs dangle over the edge, feet still submerged. Water drizzles down your shoulders, dripping from your fingers, and you shiver despite the warm air.

“Don’t move,” Joel warns. He’s in the water still, standing in between your legs, mouth eye-level with your soaked, clinging thong. His shirt sticks to his skin like tissue. You can make out the muscles beneath, even in the dark — the shallow rise-and-fall of his chest as he spreads your legs.

You gasp, but you don’t protest. You let him drag you even closer to the water’s edge, teetering on the cement ledge. He moves closer, bracketed by your thighs, and his hands skim your damp skin.

He hooks his finger in the band of your panties. You lift your hips for him and he pulls them off, tossing them blindly to the grass.

You don’t care. You’ll search for them later.

He pauses, then — just for a second, just to peel his own shirt off. He throws that to the grass, too, and you hear it land with a soaked-wet thud.

And then he’s back on you, like he never left, water lapping at his shoulders as he settles in between your thighs.

He’s at the perfect angle like this, with you perched on the ledge above him. His head — his mouth — hang dizzyingly close to where you want him most.

You tell him as much, in not quite so many words.

He looks up at you, smirking softly. He lays his mouth on the seam of your thigh, nipping at the thin skin there. It’s enough to make you squirm. Not enough to leave a mark.

“’S ‘a matter, sweetheart?” he drawls, stubble scraping your thigh. He drags his mouth higher, higher, —

“Still cold?”

Your head tips, eyes rolling back at his low, gravelly taunt.

“Shut up,” you mumble. “Shut up, please, just—”

He stops just short of your aching cunt. His fingers dig into your thighs, holding them open and holding you still.

“Tell me,” he murmurs.

His voice goes straight to your core. White heat pools where his words land.

“Want you,” you pant, hips arching. “Your — fuck — your mouth, Joel, please.”

He looks smug. His eyes darken, brown to black, and his head tips obediently to the apex of your thighs.

“Okay,” he murmurs. “All right, angel. Lean back for me, baby. Nice ’n slow.”

You do as he says. It’s still an order — still that cool, commanding tone — but gentler, now. He wants you to feel good. Wants to make you feel good. You can tell, the way his fingers drag on your thighs, painting tight circles. The way his breath licks hot between your legs.

He leans in, slow, and presses a kiss to your swollen clit.

The contact almost makes you scream. You writhe, trying to lift your hips, trying to force his mouth down onto you. But he’s stronger. His grip on you is iron. He keeps you pinned, placing soft, maddening kisses to your core, over and over until you beg him, please, to just use —

“Your tongue,” you gasp, cheeks heating with the ask. You’re never this forward. But, then, boys are never this willing.

You can feel Joel’s smirk when it curves against you. He obeys, tongue darting to lick a stripe up your clit, and a strangled moan snakes past your lips.

“Fuck,” you whimper. “Oh my — god, Joel, fuck—”

His smile darkens in response. The tip of his tongue dips inside you and you cry out, scrabbling on wet concrete.

He moves slowly. Painfully slowly. His nose is buried by your clit, tongue dipping to taste you. It’s driving you fucking insane — how good it feels, how good he is.

Every so often he groans softly, into your cunt, and the sound sends shockwaves through your core. He wants this — likes this — and that realization alone is enough to make you whimper.

When he finally drags his tongue from you — just briefly, just to catch his breath — you’re wrecked. You’re a mess. You’re panting, hard, and his name is broken on your lips, and your legs are shaking where he pins them in place.

You’re suddenly shy under the heat of his stare.

“You don’t…you don’t have to,” you tell him, even though he already is, even though your slick is smeared across his lips. But you feel like you should say something anyway: tell him it’s fine, that he doesn’t have to, because if college boys have taught you anything it’s that this is a perfunctory politeness, at best. A means to an end.

But what Joel’s doing — fucking you long and slow and steady with the flat of his tongue, gripping you tight while he licks inside you —

It doesn’t feel polite.

And when you suggest he can stop, if he wants; when you mumble softly that he doesn’t have to — you could swear he looks offended. And then — almost — angry. Like you’ve cut him off when he’s only one drink deep.

“You want me to stop?” he asks, carefully. His mouth hovers over you, breath puffing at your swollen clit.

“No,” you struggle. “No — fuck — I just thought —”

He stares up at you. His fingers tighten on your thighs.

“What did you think?"

When you don't respond, he rolls his eyes. "Jesus. Don’t tell me your little college boyfriend ain’t doin’ this to you.”

If it’s possible, your blush grows deeper. You’re glad it’s dark, so he can’t see it stain your cheeks.

Your silence is answer enough. Joel groans, bending to bury his tongue back in your cunt.

You moan. Your fingers curl on slick concrete.

“Fuckin’ — idiots,” he hisses, moving one hand from your thigh to join his mouth between your legs. He slips a finger inside you, crooking it just right, and you fight back his name. “Don’t know what they’re missin'."

He adds another finger, stretching you out. When he’s satisfied you can take it he picks up the pace, pumping his wrist, fucking you with his hand and his mouth still fastened to your clit.

The combination is almost too much. He’s been teasing you for so long — going so slow — that you’re almost too sensitive.

Almost.

But Joel knows. He knows how to keep you on the edge, tease you, let you fall when you’ve had enough. And he knows how to catch you.

Your muscles clench around his knuckles. He nibbles at your clit, featherlight, and the pressure makes you see stars.

He knows you’re close. He can feel it. He urges you on with a low, brambled growl.

“Taste so fuckin’ good, baby,” he murmurs. “Taste like heaven.”

Your hips rut against his palm, chasing his touch. Chasing his mouth.

“Joel,” you whine. “Gonna cum.”

He doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t make you wait for him to finish first. This is about you, this time.

Only you.

He pulls his mouth away, fucking into you with his fingers as you start to unspool. You register, vaguely, that he’s talking you through it — low, gentle, slightly slurred, like he’s drunk on you.

“’S it. C’mon, sweet girl.” The pads of his fingers hit that spongy spot inside you and you moan, stomach fluttering. “Cum for me, angel.”

You cum hard — so much harder than the night before, when it was your hand and your fingers. Joel works you through it, slowing his pace but never stopping.

“That’s it,” he echoes. “That’s it, angel. So fuckin’ good for me. Good girl.”

You squeeze around his knuckles, gasping softly, head tipping back to thud against the ground. He drags his fingers from you and you whimper at the loss.

It takes a moment for things to slide back into focus. The sky. The blurry, silvered stars. The gentle splash as water laps at Joel’s waist.

You sit back up, slowly. Your arms tremble. Your legs feel numb.

He strokes your calf, still dangling over the ledge.

“Good?” he murmurs.

You stare at him. You’re not sure how to respond. Good doesn’t seem to cover it. Good doesn’t seem like enough.

He laughs a little at your hesitation. At how completely fucked out you must look. His hands trail back up your legs, pulling instead of pinning, this time, and you’re too limp to fight him. You slide boneless back into the pool. Back into his arms.

It’s shallow. You could stand, if you wanted. But you cling to Joel instead, looping your arms around his neck and your legs around his waist. Your head buries in the crook of his shoulder.

He’s still in his fucking jeans. The dye is running, seeping out into the pool. They’re stuck to his leg like wet paper. It can’t be comfortable — standing there in soaked denim — but you’re not even sure he notices.

He just holds you. Tight. One hand comes up to cradle the back of your head.

“This is a bad idea,” he says, softly, his lips to your ear.

You nod. You know. But this, now — his hands on you, pressing you to his heart, holding you like this —

It doesn’t feel like one.

“We could stop,” you offer, sleepily, nuzzling into his neck. You move your teeth there, biting gently, and you hear his sharp breath. Feel the swell in soaked jeans when his hips nudge yours.

“Don’t wanna stop,” he grits.

You smooth the mark you’ve made with your tongue. Kiss it better.

“Then don’t,” you say.

You can hear his sigh.

You let him carry you out of the pool, too tired to disentangle yourself and too content with the closeness. He sets you down on one of the lounge chairs and drapes a towel around your shoulders, hovering close while you cover yourself.

Then he bends, and retrieves both of your discarded clothes from the grass. The shirt he was wearing and your underwear are soaked — a lost cause — but the shirt and shorts Sarah lent you are intact.

His shirt.

You take it from him. Pull it back on, and try to ignore the way his eyes go dark when the fabric swallows your frame.

You’re pretty sure he’s about to say something when that fucking light in Sarah's room comes back on. You’re not exactly compromised, this time, but your breath still snags. Your pulse thrums against your wrist.

Joel pauses, blinking. His waterlogged jeans ride low on his waist, exposing the dip in his hips. He wraps a towel around himself when the light doesn’t go off.

Sure enough — footsteps. The creak of the sliding door. And then a very sleepy Sarah, peering out into the yard.

“Oh.” Her face twists to a frown. “It’s you guys. I thought I heard something.” She rubs at her eyes, and her gaze narrows. “I fall asleep for an hour and you go swimming without me? What the hell?”

Joel collects himself faster than you.

“Sorry, kiddo,” he says, voice easy. “Next time. Figured you were beat.”

Sarah side-eyes him. Then you. She takes in the towel around your shoulders and the one around Joel’s waist.

“Did you…swim in your clothes?” She stares at you. At wet hair and dry clothes. Her brow furrows. “Your bathing suit’s still in my bathroom.”

Your eyes widen. Oh, fuck.

Joel clears his throat.

Sarah looks between you. If she were any more awake she might piece it together right there.

“Oo-kay,” she relents, after a long moment. “Whatever. I’m going back to bed.” She nods at you. “Are you still coming tomorrow? Movie night?”

Fuck. Movie night. You’d forgotten. Summer tradition, projector out on the grass — your dad, Joel, the rest of the neighbors. And an already-suspicious Sarah, if the look she gives you now is any indication.

“Um.” You look at Joel. Then the ground.

“Yeah,” he says. “She’ll be there.”

Your eyes snap to him. He’s talking to Sarah, but you can see the smirk at the edge of his lips.

“Cool.” Sarah looks at you, still frowning slightly. “See you tomorrow.”

He waits until she’s back in her room — until her light is back off — to lead you inside. He disappears for a few minutes, returning with a dry set of clothes on, and then he helps you gather your things in silence. He only speaks when you’re halfway out his door.

“That was…a little too close, maybe,” you tell him.

He grunts. You move closer to him, despite yourself. Something about Sarah almost catching you — about walking home, to your dad’s house, in Joel’s shirt and no panties — it shouldn’t turn you on like this. But it does.

“Save me a seat?” you ask, quietly. “Tomorrow?”

You’re close enough to kiss him, but you don’t. Too exposed, with Sarah down the hall and your house down the street.

He looks at you. His thumb comes up to swipe your bottom lip. He pushes the pad inside, past your lip, and you part your mouth for him. Your tongue swirls over the tip, sucking obediently. He tastes like salt, and sweat, and chlorine, and you.

It’s filthy. Standing on Joel Miller’s front step, in his shirt, with his thumb in your mouth.

You can’t bring yourself to care.

He drags his thumb free. Moves it to your jaw, and uses it to tip your chin.

“Wear a dress,” he says.

You don’t ask why. He doesn’t tell you. He doesn’t have to.

He knows you’ll do just what he asks.

4K notes · View notes

peakymarvelworld · 10 months

Text

put it into words

2.6k / dbf!joel x f!reader

warnings: 18+, minors dni. mutual masturbation, age gap (reader is 23, joel is in his 40s), phone sex, dirty talk (joel talks u through it), use of toys, pet names (sweetheart, baby, etc.), praise kink if you squint, dom!joel, no use of y/n.

a/n: dbf!joel strikes again. pt iii soon?!

pt ii of dbf!joel series (read the first part here, but this can also be read standalone)

The throb between your legs verges on painful. You slide a hand under the covers to alleviate the ache. And then, like he can see you — like he can read your mind — your phone buzzes again. Joel: What are you doing? You pause, phone in one hand, cupping yourself through thin fabric. You: Talking to you. Joel: Don’t be a smartass. Are you touching yourself?

You don’t see Joel again. Not right away, at least. You’d half-expected — hoped — that he’d text. Or call. Or show up at your window sometime after midnight, and scale the wall, and climb into your bedroom like a scene from a rom-com.

But he’s not a rom-com. He’s Joel. Silent. Brooding. Your dad’s best friend.

He’s a man, not a boy. And men like Joel Miller don’t just show up at your door.

So you’re at a standstill. A standoff is probably more like it — telling yourself not to give in first; to make him wait, make him beg.

But of course you break first.

In your defense, it’s late. You’ve been out with some old high school friends, and you’d lost track of time somewhere between drink three and four.

You’re still a little tipsy when you stumble upstairs to your room. But not tipsy enough to blame a tequila soda on what happens next.

You leave your clothes in a pile on your bedroom floor. You’ll deal with them later, when you’re sober. When you can think about anything other than him. Him and that stupid drawl, and his hands in your hair, and his cock in your mouth.

Fuck.

You pull on an old tee shirt and slip into bed. The sheets graze your bare legs, and you’re so turned on — by the thought of him — that even that touch makes you shiver.

You tip your head to eye the nightstand. Your vibrator is there, top shelf, tucked behind a book in case your dad gets nosy. You could pull it out. You could be a big girl, and deal with the ache between your legs yourself.

Or you could do the wrong thing — the bad thing — and ask for help.

You swear softly and reach for the nightstand. Not for the drawer, but for your phone, charging on the countertop. You yank it unplugged and settle back against the pillows.

You navigate to messages. To Joel.

You’ve texted him maybe ten times in all the years you’ve known him. Always something inane on your part — Can you pick me up today? Are you coming to dinner? Do you want me to watch Sarah? — and his accompanying one-word reply. Sure. Yes. Maybe.

A man of few words.

Your fingers hover over the keyboard now. You agonize for a good three minutes before settling on a timeless classic.

You: Hey.

Just one y. He doesn’t need to know how desperately you need him. Not yet, at least.

To be honest, you’re 99% sure he won’t respond. It’s late — almost one, when you check your phone — and Joel’s the type to have a bedtime. Plus, he’s about as wed to his cellphone as he is to his ex-wife. If he’s in bed, it’s probably long forgotten on the kitchen counter, or lost between the cushions on his couch.

But then he surprises you. Again.

Your phone buzzes in your hand. His name pops up - no contact photo - just Joel Miller, ICE. Your dad put his number in ages ago, way back when you’d gotten your first iPhone. Joel Miller. In Case of Emergency.

Well. You’d consider this one.

You swipe open his message. Your stomach flutters.

Joel: You’re up late.

You smile.

You: So are you.

Joel: Couldn’t sleep.

You: Me neither.

He starts to type, then stops. You can almost see his brow lift.

Joel: Somethin' on your mind?

You’re suddenly shy. Even alone in your room, under the covers — just his print on the screen makes you blush.

Fuck it. You texted him. Might as well bite the bullet.

You: You.

Joel responds coyly, the way you knew he would. Cool. Collected. Always, always in control.

Joel: What about me?

You slam the phone face-down on your chest.

“Asshole,” you whisper, to your empty room.

And then you pick it up again.

You: You know what.

Joel: Don’t like guessing.

“Fuuuck,” you grumble. Your cheeks are hot. The tug in your stomach translates to a slick, spreading mess between your thighs.

He’s teasing you. He knows why you texted him at one in the morning, two nights after you sucked him off on his bathroom floor. He knows what you want.

But not until you ask.

You: Your party. Your bathroom. Your cock in my mouth.

You can almost hear his smirk when he replies. It pisses you off; how casual his response is. How much it turns you on.

Joel: Thought you’d last longer than two days.

You: Fuck you.

Joel: Ask nicer.

The throb between your legs verges on painful. You slide a hand under the covers to alleviate the ache.

And then, like he can see you — like he can read your mind — your phone buzzes again.

Joel: What are you doing?

You pause, phone in one hand, cupping yourself through thin fabric.

You: Talking to you.

Joel: Don’t be a smartass. Are you touching yourself?

Your breath snags. Your face heats — even though he’s not here, even though he can’t possibly know — and your fingers freeze like you’ve been caught.

You: No.

Joel: Bad liar.

You: If you don’t believe me, come see for yourself.

Joel: Now you know I can’t do that.

You can almost hear his voice when you read the words. Gentle. Firm. Maybe — possibly — a twinge of regret. He texts again, and a small sound slips your lips.

Joel: Not with your daddy downstairs.

You’re on fire. Your fingers skate lower, toying with the band of your underwear, dipping to the smooth skin beneath. You stare at his words and imagine him sitting there patiently — on his couch, or his bed, maybe — waiting for you to beg. To break.

And you do. Embarrassingly easily.

You: Please.

Joel: Please…what?

You: I need you.

He doesn’t respond for at least a minute. It’s long enough for a blush to paint your cheeks.

Your mind starts to race. Maybe you scared him off. Maybe the other night was just a fluke, and this was —

Your phone rings. His name lights up your screen.

He’s calling you.

You freeze. Your hand freezes.

“Fuck.”

You pick up before you can do something smarter. Put him on speaker.

“Hi,” you say, softly.

“You dressed?”

No hello. No preamble. Just that drawl, thick as honey, dripping through your speaker and sticking sweet between your legs.

“Just a shirt.”

“Take it off.”

“What—” you start to protest — it’s cold, you can’t see me anyway, I’m comfortable — and then his voice cuts the line.

“Do it. Now.”

So you do. You tug it over your head and toss it to the growing pile, and then you settle back beneath the sheets. Your skin pricks at the added exposure.

“Okay,” you say. Your voice wavers a little. If you sound nervous, it’s because you are. “It’s off.”

He makes a low sound. “Good girl. Now tell me why you called me.”

“You called me,” you whine.

“You texted me,” he growls. “At one in the goddamn mornin’. Only called you cause I figured you typin’ with one hand was gettin’ tough.”

Your stomach drops. You blush so deeply you’re sure it’ll stain.

“I wasn’t—” You can feel his stare. You’re a bad liar — he’s already deduced as much, even over speakerphone. So you relent. “I didn’t…I haven’t….done anything, yet.” You swallow. “I was w-I was waiting for you.”

You hear his soft chuckle on the other line. The rustle of something — bedsheets? — as he re-adjusts.

“Where are you?” you blurt. You half-expect him not to answer. But then he says —

“My bedroom.”

“In bed?”

“On the bed.”

“Sitting, or lying down?”

You hear his tight hiss.

“God damn,” he mutters. “You ask a lot of fuckin’ questions.”

“I’m setting the scene,” you snipe back, trying to even the playing field — trying not to sound as nervous as you are. Your voice drops. “Known you my whole life, never been in your bedroom.”

It’s innocent enough, except it’s not. You can practically feel the way his eyes darken, and the way his grip chokes the phone.

“Put your hand between your legs,” he says.

Your breath catches. You do what he says, laying the phone on the sheets and snaking a hand back down, over your bare tummy. You dip the pads of your fingers underneath cotton panties and glide over your swollen clit.

He hears your gasp. The tiny, involuntary whimper when you touch yourself.

“Slow,” he orders, and your motions pause. “Two fingers.”

You don’t think to talk back. Your mind is totally blank, foggy with him, clinging onto his words like a lifeline. You slip your middle and ring fingers into your soaking cunt.

He can hear you. He can hear the little gasps as you stretch yourself out, and the broken start of his name when you start to pump your wrist.

“Louder.”

“Joel,” you breathe, fucking yourself faster, rutting against the heel of your palm.

“Again,” he growls. “Like you mean it.”

“J—fuck—” your head rolls back, eyes screwed shut. A sheen of sweat rides across your forehead. “Joel.”

He breathes heavily.

“That’s better,” he mutters. “Tell me how it feels, sweetheart.”

“F-feels good,” you choke, fucking yourself senseless, harder and faster than you’d ever do alone. Pretending your fingers are his, rougher and bigger and curling just right, toying with that spongy spot that makes you writhe. “I want—ngh— want—”

He sounds amused. “Words, baby. Tell me what you want.”

“Want you,” you whine, so blissed out now between his voice and your own motions that you don’t care what the fuck you tell him, “want you to f—fuck—me.”

“I know,” he drawls. “I know, baby.”

“Please,” you mumble, your own fingers crooking, eyes rolling back at the sound of his coos.

“We can’t now, darlin’,” he reminds you. “Your daddy’s home.”

“I’ll be quiet,” you pant, hips bucking, palm rubbing at your swollen clit. “Don’t—don’t care.”

“I care,” he says, voice low. “Wanna take my time when I fuck you. Wanna do it right. Ain’t right if I don’t make you scream.”

His words go straight to your core. Your fingers pump faster, hooking the way only you know you like — and your stomach tightens. Your neck tips, eyes half-shut as your head goes hazy.

“Fuck,” you mumble, “fuck, Joel, ‘m gonna—”

“Good girl, baby,” he coaxes. “Cum for me. Let me hear you.”

His voice digs into your skin, ripping your orgasm free, and you whine brokenly into the speaker, over and over as your whole body trembles. Your fingers stall, plunged deep as you cum hard around them. You call out his name — a hell of a lot louder than a whisper, this time — and sink boneless into the bed.

You hear his smile. The soft laugh on his lips.

“Talk to me.”

“Better,” you mumble aimlessly. “Feel better. Feels…”

You can’t quite describe how it feels. Your mind is blank, and your eyes are glazed, and —

“What was that?” you ask, suddenly alert, as the unmistakable clink of a belt buckle shatters the silence. You scramble to prop yourself up. “Are you…touching yourself?”

That quiet chuckle again.

“That ain’t why you called me,” he says, dangerously low. “So no.”

“But if I…if I wanted you to?”

A brief pause. Your breath — which has just now started to even itself out — picks up again.

“So fuckin’ needy,” Joel hisses. “That what you want, sweetheart? You wanna hear me cum to that pretty little voice?”

There it is again. The second time Joel Miller’s ever called you pretty, and it’s over the phone while you beg him to jerk himself off. Any other time — any other man — you might take a long, hard look at yourself. But for him you double down.

“Yes.” You shift, rubbing your legs against the pressure already building back between your thighs. “Please.”

You hear the rustle of denim. A telltale zip. And a low, throaty groan — you know that groan — when he takes his cock in his hand.

“Only gonna do this if you give me one more,” he says.

It’s embarrassing how quickly you fold for him. How quickly your hand slides back beneath cotton at his gentle command.

And then — like he can read your mind, again —

“Not your fingers.”

You pause.

“I don’t—”

“Yes you do,” he growls. “Dirty fuckin’ girl, handin’ me her panties in front of her daddy—” He groans, and you can hear the slick tug as he jerks himself off — “suckin’ me off on the bathroom floor. Girl like you’s got somethin’ lyin’ around.”

You hate how confident he is. And you hate that he’s right even more.

“Tell me,” he prompts.

“A—a vibrator.”

“Where?”

“Nightstand. Top drawer.”

“Get it.”

You get it.

“Turn it on. Lowest setting. Don’t touch yourself yet.” You hear his breath hitch. He’s enjoying this. Toying with you. Bossing you around. Issuing orders that he knows you’ll follow. But you knew that already.

You do what he asks. You turn it onto the lowest setting but don’t move it from your hand, yet. You hold it still and the quiet buzz fills the dark.

“Good girl. You wanna use it?”

You nod, forgetting he can’t see you.

“Words.”

“Yes,” you say. “Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

The vibrator hums in your hand. The slick burn between your legs is almost painful.

“Yes please,” you gasp. “Please.”

He likes that. Likes hearing you beg. He groans softly, and a muffled curse filters through the speaker.

“Gonna have to be more specific,” he says. “Don’t know what you want.”

You want to cry. Or punch him. But both are useless, because he’s not here. So you wait, ignoring the mess between your legs, and you beg him again.

“Please let me use it,” you whimper. “Please let me cum.”

“God damn, baby.” He sounds wrecked now, his own breathing shallow. “All you had to do was ask.” He groans, softly, and you imagine his hips chasing his hand.

“Use your toy, sweetheart.”

You’re too fucked to respond. You shove the vibrator where you need it most and yelp at the sensation. Even on the lowest setting, you’re rapidly approaching your second high. Between his voice, and his soft, slick sounds, and the black bullet vibe against your clit —

You won’t last another minute.

You tell him as much.

“Don’t you fuckin’ dare,” he warns. “Not until I say. Turn it up.”

“Joel—”

“Higher. Don’t make a fuckin’ sound.”

You change the setting. The vibrator hums louder, buzzing hard against your swollen clit, and the feeling is so fucking good it’s almost painful.

“Joel,” you echo, desperate now, “I can’t—”

“Yes you can,” he snaps. He sounds strained. Choked. “You’re gonna wait until I’m finished.”

You whimper, writhing in the sheets. You pray you’re quiet enough not to wake the whole house.

“Please,” you beg him.

That does it. He cums with a low, heavy groan and your name on his lips. The sound — and the thought of him in his bedroom, panting in his sheets, cumming into his hand — is enough to make you see stars.

“Fuck, baby,” he hisses.

“Joel—”

He knows what you want. What you’re asking.

“Yes,” he says, and it’s the only permission you need. You follow him over the edge, so hard your vision falters. The vibrator falls forgotten from your hand.

For a long time you’re both silent. You slip in and out of sleep with him still on the line, name still lighting up your phone.

“Joel,” you mumble, after what feels like an eternity. A lazy blush blooms on your skin. “I…thanks.”

His voice is gravelly when he responds. Thick with sleep, and sex, and you.

“Go to sleep.”

2K notes · View notes

peakymarvelworld · 10 months

Text

fourth of july

3.9k / dbf!joel x f!reader

warnings: 18+, minors dni. dbf!joel, no outbreak, age gap (reader is 23, joel is in his 40s), dominant joel, oral sex (m receiving), little bit of praise kink good girl action iykyk

a/n: done with finals so we are back to the important things (writing joel smut)...going through a dbf!joel phase so lmk if we like this/if we want more parts. i have some ideas for a lil series if people are into this one. love u bye <3

“What the hell are you thinkin’?” he snarls. His fist is still wrapped around your underwear. You can see the fabric peeking out between his fingers. Your face goes hot. “I don’t…I thought—” “What did you think?” he says, accent rough. “You thought takin’ off your panties —” he opens his fist and hooks a finger through the band, letting them dangle — “and handin’ ‘em to me at a party was a good idea?”

It’s good to be back in Texas. Back home. You’re only here for a few months, in that awkward, post-grad summer between college and real-life - but it’s nice. Good to see your dad, and your friends, and…Joel.

You’ve known him since you were a kid. He’s your dad’s best friend. You shouldn’t be nervous to see him - you see him every summer, every Christmas, every family get-together. But this time feels different. The past few times have felt different, if you’re being honest. He’s…

No. He’s Joel. He taught you how to swim. Showed you how to ride a bike. He’s got an ex-wife, and a daughter, and twenty years on you. But still. Still.

You’ve only been home for a few days, but you still haven’t seen him. He makes himself scarce. Always at work, or busy with Sarah, or bailing Tommy out of jail. It’s probably better that way, anyway. The last thing you need is that fucking Southern drawl in your ear every day.

But you’ll see him today. Today it’s inevitable. The annual Fourth of July barbecue, organized by your dad and hosted by Joel. They’ve modified the theme this year - Fourth of July meets Graduation! - to celebrate you. The guest of honor.

So, yeah. You’re nervous. You’re really fucking nervous. You take an hour to pick out a sundress, and if you pick a matching set of underwear to go beneath it - black, lace, expensive - it’s definitely not because of him.

The walk across the street to Joel’s is torture. You drag your feet the whole way, mute alongside your father. He fills the silence with inane chatter. Something about Joel’s contracting business, you think. You follow him to Joel’s front door, and through the foyer, and out to the back yard - and there he is. Joel Miller, leaning heavily against his fence with a beer in one hand. A wallflower at his own party.

He perks up when you approach. Tips his beer in easy greeting.

“Hey, kid. Long time no see.”

You swallow. “Yeah. Long time no see.”

“College graduate,” he muses. “Too smart for me now.”

“Hardly.”

“What’d you study, anyway?”

You eye him. “You actually wanna know? Or you just making conversation?”

The corner of his lip quirks. “Humor me.”

“English. Lit. You know, Jane Austen. Brontë sisters. That kinda thing.”

“Mm.” He looks amused. He takes a long sip of beer and you watch him swallow. “Bet you could teach me a thing or two. Last book I read was the Givin’ Tree.”

You stare at him.

“Sarah’s favorite,” he elaborates.

You laugh, then. “Sure.”

He eyes you. Keeps drinking. You shift a little in the silence, picking at the peeling wood along his fence.

“Can I have a sip?”

He pauses with the bottle halfway to his lips. His brow lifts. But he hands the bottle over, fingers brushing yours when you reach out to grab it.

“Keep forgettin’ you’re old enough to drink,” he says.

You take a sip in response. He watches you closely, eyes twinkling.

He’s almost smiling. Almost. It fades when he steals a glance over your shoulder. “You got company,” he says, snatching the beer back from your hand.

You turn in time to see Carter Thomas loping towards you. Twenty-something, next-door neighbor, one-time boyfriend. And perpetually, persistently, in love with you. You have enough time to sigh before he approaches.

“Hey,” he says. He turns to Joel. “Mind if I steal her?”

Joel’s jaw ticks. “No,” he says, after a moment’s hesitation. “‘Course not. Don’t have too much fun.”

He pushes himself from the fence. You watch him go with a sinking heart. He turns to watch you over his shoulder, and you could swear there’s something in his eyes — something — and then he blinks, and turns away, and it’s gone. You’re stuck with Carter Thomas.

“—last semester at Syracuse,” he’s saying, waving his hands for emphasis. “You know how it is.”

You nod absently. Your eyes wander, searching aimlessly for Joel as he disappears back into the crowd. You catch a flash of flannel and smile softly.

“Are you even listening?” Carter whines. He sounds annoyed. He snaps his fingers — like, actually snaps — and your eyes flick back to him. “Like, you can’t even pretend to be interested? God. I text you, I call you, you can’t even be bothered to respond, and now you can’t even listen to a word I say—”

You feel Joel before you see him. At your side again, slinking there like a shadow, all brooding, quiet, six-foot something of him.

“There a problem?” he asks, softly.

“No,” Carter says, quickly. “We’re just talking.”

“Sounds more like you’re yellin’.”

Carter turns, exasperated. “Look, we’re fine,” he says. “Just — it’s really not your business.”

“My house,” Joel says, quietly. “Think that makes it my business.” He looks at you. “You alright?”

“Yeah.” You glare at Carter. “He was just leaving.”

Carter blinks. He looks between you and Joel in disbelief. “Fine,” he huffs, putting his palms to the air. “Nice to see you.”

Joel grunts in response. He watches him go, standing silent at your side. You turn to face him after a brief moment.

“Thanks for that.” You shrug. “He can’t take a hint.”

Joel grunts again. Not much for talking, you remember. Seems to speak less and less with each passing year.

But then he surprises you.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” you say, a little caught off guard. “Fine. He’s harmless. Just annoying.”

He nods. “Sure. You wanna…you wanna talk about it?”

You stare.

“You want to talk about something?”

He laughs at that. A short, sharp chuckle. “Not particularly. Good excuse to get away from this.” He gestures with his beer to the party; to the people milling through his yard.

“You hosted.”

“Yeah, well. 'S your dad’s thing. I just have the grill.”

You shake your head, laughing a little. “Whatever. I could use a break, too. Lead the way.”

He weaves his way through the yard, stopping to pluck two beers from a cooler. You follow him inside, through the kitchen and up the stairs and down a quiet hallway.

“Through here,” he says, ducking into the guest bathroom.

“The … bathroom.”

“You’re impatient, y'know?”

He moves to the back of the bathroom, to a window there. He puts his shoulder into the pane and nudges it open, letting cool air wash the room. And then he bends, grumbling softly as he climbs through the open window and steps onto the roof.

You pause for a minute before you follow. He’s still grumbling when you make it onto the roof, catching your balance on the ledge. You take a cautious seat and let your legs dangle over the eave.

“Gettin’ too old for this,” he mutters.

You laugh, watching as he stumbles over to join you. The guests look smaller from up here. Distant. The sun slips beneath the roof and stains the sky purple.

He makes it to your side and drops down next to you with a sigh. He cracks both beers open and passes you one.

“I hate parties,” you blurt, after a moment’s silence.

He hums appreciatively. “Sure.”

More silence. He takes an excruciatingly long sip.

“Could kill him for you, if ya want,” he says, casually. “That Carter kid. Just say the word.”

Your head whips to him. A laugh bubbles up from your throat, and his lip quirks.

“Yeah, thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”

He nods. “I got you covered,” he says. Playful, but…you get the sense he’s not entirely teasing. “Any boys give you a hard time, you send ‘em my way.”

You laugh again. Shake your head.

“So,” he says. “Carter. Anyone else I gotta watch out for?”

“Since when are you interested in my love life?”

He puts the bottle to his lips. “It’s called makin’ conversation,” he says.

You roll your eyes. Ignore the way your pulse quickens at the question.

“No one at school, if that’s what you’re asking.”

He can read your tone. It’s not exactly subtle. “So there is someone,” he says.

“It’s nothing.” You glance away from him. You swing your feet and watch the tips of your shoes.

“You told him how you feel?”

“No.”

“No,” Joel repeats. He sounds amused. “Why not?”

“It’s complicated,” you say, a little sharper than you intend. “Look, it doesn’t matter. Let’s just…”

“Ok. Alright.” He hoists his hands in mock surrender. But there’s something else in his eyes - something darker. It’s gone before he can blink.

“How’s my dad?” you ask. It’s a terrible attempt at a tone-shift, but he lets it go. He shrugs, lifting his bottle.

“Y'know. He’s alright. Think he misses havin’ you around.”

Your heart tugs a little. “Yeah. I miss him too. Feel kinda bad, leaving him all alone here.”

Joel nudges your leg with his. “Don’t worry about him,” he says. “I make sure he does alright.”

You nod. It’s suddenly painfully obvious how close he is - how his shoulder brushes yours; how his bottle clinks yours when he shifts.

“We should probably go back down,” you say. “You’re the host. And I’m the...guest of honor, or something. We can’t both be missing.”

His gaze lingers half a second longer.

“No,” he agrees. He stands, brushing off his jeans, and offers you his hand.

You take it. He helps you up and your hand stays in his for a split-second longer than it should. Just long enough for your breath to catch.

He drops his hand. Clears his throat. “After you,” he says, motioning back through the window. He follows after you, closing it shut, and again you find yourselves in a rapidly-thickening moment of silence — this time in the confines of his tiny guest bathroom.

“Um, I think —” You blink. “I’m just gonna freshen up in here, if that’s cool. I can meet you back downstairs.”

“Oh. Sure. ‘Course.” He shuffles past you to the door. He pauses before he lets it close, peeking back in at you with one hand on the handle.

“You look real pretty tonight,” he says. “In case I didn’t say. Meant to tell you earlier.”

You blush. He nods, half to himself, and closes the door.

“Fuck,” you mumble. You stand in front of the mirror, hands braced on the sink as his footsteps recede. Your heart sits at the base of your throat.

You look real pretty tonight.

He’s never called you pretty before. Not ever. You’ve never heard Joel Miller call anything pretty in his life. But, then, maybe it’s a friendly kind of pretty. A fatherly sort of pretty. A you’re still the girl who used to babysit my daughter sort of pretty.

Or maybe not.

An idea starts to form. It’s not a good one. It’s probably a terrible one, actually, but you’re more than a few drinks deep, and something about the way he looked at you - the way he snapped at Carter, the way he led you to the roof - is telling you to do it.

So - fuck it. You do.

You lift the hem of your sundress and work your underwear off. Black. Lace. Somewhere deep in your brain you know you must have worn them for him.

You’re more than a little embarrassed to find they’re already damp. Just the fucking thought of him - just that caramel drawl calling you pretty - and you’re already soaked.

You swear silently, balling the fabric into your fist, and push the door open before you can talk yourself out of this. Out of the bathroom, down the stairs, back into the yard.

You make a beeline for Joel. Your dad stops you, and your heart nearly stops — but you fend him off pretty easily. He’s too drunk to notice the blush on your cheeks, or the fabric stashed in your fist.

You find Joel by the pool, trapped in conversation with his aggressively eager neighbor. Ms. Simmons. You remember her. Recently divorced, forever on the prowl. She’s got her claws sunk into Joel like a botoxed vulture.

She’s laughing loudly — too loudly — when you approach. You get the sense Joel hasn’t said anything that resembles a joke.

“You’re too much,” she coos, reaching out to touch his shoulder. “You have to come by sometime. I’ll open a bottle of wine…”

She stops when she sees you at Joel’s side. Her expression sours.

“Sorry,” you say, softly. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

She opens her mouth to say something. Joel is faster.

“You ain’t interruptin’,” he says. He scoots a little to make room for you, even as Ms. Simmons scowls.

“I was just inviting Joel over for a glass of wine,” she says, eyeing you. “You’re always welcome too, of course. Just as soon as you’re old enough to drink.”

“I’m twenty-three,” you say. You manage a fake smile. You can feel Joel try not to laugh beside you. His hand hangs at his side, brushing yours. “Thanks for the offer, though.”

Ms. Simmons huffs. She’s determined, though - the way half of the women in this town are determined when it comes to Joel Miller - and she doubles down as if you’re a ghost.

You ignore her. You move closer to Joel, almost imperceptibly, but you can tell the way his frame goes rigid that he can feel you. You move your hand to his as Ms. Simmons chatters away. Joel is grunting politely every so often - that quiet, deadly Southern charm - but he goes quiet when he feels your fingers on his. And quieter still when you slip the scrap of black fabric into his palm.

His whole body stiffens. Even Ms.Simmons - oblivious as all hell and three sheets to the wind - can sense the change. She frowns.

“Joel? Are you alright?”

He blinks, hard. His fist tightens on the lace.

“Fine,” he grits. “Would you excuse me a second?”

“Oh.” Her face falls. “Sure.”

You’re not expecting him to move as quickly as he does. You’re also not expecting him to grab you the way he does, his free hand snatching at the back of your dress and yanking you into his chest.

“Bathroom,” he growls, stubble raking your ear. “Two minutes.”

He releases you before you can answer. You watch him stalk past you - past the party - and disappear into the house.

And then you follow.

You barely have to knock. Your knuckles graze the door and it swings open, wide enough for Joel’s hand to drag you inside.

The door slams shut behind you. You stand sandwiched between Joel and the handle.

“What the hell are you thinkin’?” he snarls. His fist is still wrapped around your underwear. You can see the fabric peeking out between his fingers.

Your face goes hot.

“I don’t…I thought—”

“What did you think?” he says, accent rough. “You thought takin’ off your panties —” he opens his fist and hooks a finger through the band, letting them dangle — “and handin’ ‘em to me at a party was a good idea?”

You swallow.

“You know what your dad’d do to me if he saw this?” he hisses. “What he’d do to you?”

“Kill us both,” you offer, unhelpfully.

He lifts a brow. Your underwear dangles from his middle finger.

“Damn right, kill us both.”

“So don’t tell,” you say, softly. It’s a hell of a lot bolder than you feel.

He looses a low whistle. You can’t tell if he’s amused, or pissed, or…something else.

“You used to be a good girl,” he says, and now his voice is dangerous. Low, silken, Southern. “What the hell happened?”

“Don’t know.” Somewhere in the back of your mind, you register that he’s stepped closer. A lot closer. “Grew up, I guess.”

“I guess,” he echoes.

He lifts his free hand to your face. Your breath catches. You’re halfway convinced he’ll kiss you — but then he grabs your jaw, holding it between rough fingers — and tilts your face to his.

“What am I supposed to do with these?” he growls.

You shake your head, as best you can with his hand on your jaw.

“Whatever you want,” you manage.

“Whatever I want,” he repeats. His eyes are black, his lips inches from yours. You can taste whiskey on his breath. “And you? What am I s'posed to do with you?”

You stare at him. His fingers slacken on your jaw, slipping lower, wrapping loosely around your throat.

“Lemme guess,” he mutters. “Whatever I want?”

You swallow. Nod, slowly.

He huffs.

“Alright,” he murmurs. His voice is velvet. His hand squeezes your throat. “Get on your knees.”

You look at him, a little surprised. His expression is almost unreadable.

“Anythin’ I want, right?” He cocks his head. “Don’t make me ask twice.”

You don’t. You kneel on the ground, knees digging into the tile. It’ll leave a mark, you’re sure. You couldn’t care less. You put your hands on his belt and he doesn’t stop you. Your panties hang from his finger, still, dragging by your cheek as you work his belt free and tug his jeans past his hips.

“You do this for all the boys?” he taunts. His drawl is thicker, now, slipping to a slur as his self-control wanes.

You shake your head. “No,” you mumble.

“No,” he agrees. His eyes are dark.

You work his boxers down and his cock springs free. You let out a small sound at the sight.

“Quiet,” he clips. He cocks a head toward the window, where the sounds of the party filter through. “Unless you wanna give ‘em a show.”

You shut up. He moves his free hand to the back of your head and wraps his fingers in your hair, pushing you into his cock. Your mouth parts, gasping slightly as his tip drags past your lips.

It’s the first reaction you’ve pulled from him. A chink in brooding armor. A small, quiet grunt as he slides into your mouth.

You smile a little, lips curving around his cock. He tightens his grip in your hair and pulls you closer, wiping your smile clean, making you choke.

“Fuck,” you breathe, when his grip finally slackens. You take a breath, panting softly. His cock is slick with your saliva.

“You ain’t finished.”

He doesn’t grab you this time. He waits for you to move; waits for you to shuffle closer, and brace your hands on his thighs, and take him in your mouth. Waits for you to set the pace.

You can feel him tremble when you move faster, head bobbing, fingers digging at his hips. His hand stretches, steadying himself on the lip of the counter.

“Good?” you murmur. You drag the flat of your tongue along the underside of his cock. He flinches.

“Thought I told you—” he swears, knuckles tight on the sink, “—quiet.”

You smile again. He’s losing control. You can tell — the way his hips twitch, the way his cock jumps in your mouth.

“Don’t always listen,” you breathe, placing a kiss to his tip.

“Fuck,” he mutters. His head tilts back. His fist balls around your panties. “That’s good, sweetheart. Just like that. Good—god damn — good girl.”

You swirl your tongue along the head of his cock. His hips buck into your mouth.

“Don’t be a fuckin’ tease,” he growls.

You grin. You hum a soft apology around his cock and take him deeper, ignoring the throb in your knees.

He shudders. His hand flies off of the counter and buries again in your hair.

“Where you want it?” he breathes. His eyes are dark, blown black with lust. His drawl drips down your skin and settles in between your legs.

You draw back long enough to speak. Those same three words.

“Whatever you want,” you mumble.

That drives him fucking crazy. You drive him fucking crazy. His hand tangles in your hair and he fucks your mouth, swearing softly, your own soaked panties crumped in his other hand.

And then his hips jerk, and his half-silent swears spill broken from his mouth. He cums hard, clutching at your hair.

“Fuck,” he pants. You stare up at him, holding him on your tongue, swallowing slowly as he watches. “Good girl, baby. Fuck.”

His praise makes you blush. You sit back on your haunches and watch as he drags his boxers back up, then his jeans, then his belt. He fastens the buckle and looks down at you, still on your knees. He slides your panties into his back pocket and offers you his hand for the second time that night.

You take it and stand, a little shaky. Joel watches you. That impenetrable look is back.

You’re not sure what to say. You’re pretty are you should say something. But you’re spared — for better or worse — by the sound of footsteps in the hall. Loud footsteps. Close footsteps. Footsteps that stop, suddenly, and darken the light under the bathroom door.

Joel moves faster than you. He grabs you, pressing his chest to your back, and claps a palm across your mouth.

The footsteps shuffle, a little uncertain. A knock follows at the door.

“Hello?”

Your heart drops. You slacken in Joel’s grip.

You know that voice. You both do.

Your dad.

“Hello?” he repeats. “Someone in there?”

You squirm. Joel’s hand tightens on your mouth.

“Yeah, sorry,” he calls. “Gimme a sec.”

“Joel?” You can hear your dad chuckle. He sounds drunk. “You seen my kid anywhere?”

You mumble into Joel’s palm. He digs his fingers into your cheek, chest tight against your back.

“Don’t think so,” he calls back.

Your dad sighs. “Saw her talkin’ to that Carter boy…” he mutters. “Kid is bad news.” He pauses. “You okay in there?”

You giggle. You can’t help it. Joel’s arm flexes by your head.

“Fine,” he says, shortly. “Go ahead and use the bathroom downstairs. I need a minute.”

Your dad pauses again. You stifle a laugh, muffled in Joel’s palm.

“Okay,” your dad says, finally. “Let me know if you see my damn daughter.”

“Yeah. Sure.”

His footsteps fade. Joel waits until he’s doubly sure he’s gone to release you.

“Really?” he scowls, when he sees your grin.

“Need a minute,” you imitate him, affecting his drawl. You laugh. “You’re a bad liar.”

“Like hell I am. Saved your ass.” He nods at the door. “Get out of here,” he says.

When you don’t move, he puts a hand on the small of your back and pushes you to the door. “Out. Now. ‘Less you wanna explain this.”

“Not particularly.”

“Didn’t think so.” He cracks the door for you, sweeping the hallway before ushering out out.

You turn back to him before he can shut the door.

“I’m here all summer, you know.”

An almost-smile ghosts his lips.

“You got a death-wish, or somethin’?”

You shrug. “Maybe.”

“Mm.” He huffs. He leans in, desperately close, eyes flicking over your shoulder to ensure you’re alone. “Make sure to fuck you properly next time, if you want it that bad.”

Then he draws back, and that narrowed gaze is back. He yanks the door shut and leaves you alone in the hall.

You take a breath and start downstairs, smoothing your dress down your thighs.

You wonder if that was a promise.

And later — when you make it home, and climb into bed, and slip your hand between your legs —

You hope it was.

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peakymarvelworld · 10 months

Text

cruel summer

no rules in breakable heaven

word count: 6.7k

pairing: modern!fuckboy!eddie x fem!reader

summary: eddie is your summer fling, your friend with benefits - or at least, that’s all he’s supposed to be. what happens when your feelings get in the way?

cw: 18+ ONLY MINORS DNI - SMUT. eddie is a fuckboy!! he acts like an ass in this, fingering, unprotected piv, creampie, angst, hurt with no comfort (yet), alcohol consumption, use of pet names, reader cries, like a lot honestly, miscommunication/misunderstanding, use of Y/N, as always if I missed something feel free to lmk!

author’s note: this fic is, of course, based on the song cruel summer by miss taylor swift, so I highly recommend listening to that if you haven’t! part two will be in the works soon! no idea when it’ll be posted, but it is coming >:)

Your fingers dug into the soft material of the mattress, face smooshed against the cotton sheets. Your brain felt foggy, the alcohol in your system making your whole body buzz slightly. Your back arched almost involuntarily as Eddie’s hips snapped roughly into your aching heat, bringing you fully back into the moment. He was railing you relentlessly from behind, rough hands taking a firm hold on your hips, keeping them in place for him. If it didn’t feel so good you’d almost feel bad for fucking in a bed that didn’t belong to either of you, Eddie having pulled you into a spare room at Steve’s house, escaping the noise of the party for some alone time. This is how things went with the two of you as of late, the wild and free atmosphere of summer leaving you craving each other and crossing boundaries. He’d call you late at night or maybe you’d call him, asking the other to come over. Letting Eddie fuck you raw till your insides burned and your body was spent. Leaving his trailer at 2 in the morning with your mascara running and his cum dripping down your thighs, just to do the same thing all over again in a few days.

You knew Eddie got around, knew you weren’t the only girl he was hooking up with. But the way he’d look at you when you were riding him and the way he’d caress your face as he’d lean in to kiss you made you feel like you were the only one. Like you were his. His energy was intoxicating, the sex even better, and you couldn’t get enough of him. No matter how hard you tried, he kept pulling you back in for more. Another hard thrust into you brought you back out of your drunk haze, his cock pulling all the way out just to slam fully back in. Your pussy welcomed him, enveloped him in the warmth of your walls, never wanting to let him go.

“Shit, baby, this pussy loves me,” Eddie grunts. “Suckin, me right in, fuck.”

You bite down on your lip hard, stifling what would’ve been a rather loud moan. Eddie pulls out and flips you onto your back, pushing your thighs to your chest, folding you right in half for him. Your pussy is on perfect display for him, wide open and pleading for him to come back in. He moves his hips expertly, cock gliding into you with complete ease despite his size. Your moans are staggered as he fucks you at a brutal pace, your whole body bouncing on the mattress with every thrust.

“My favorite fuckin’ girl, such a slut for me. No one lets me fuck them like you do, baby, mmmmmfuck,”

Your head spins at the praise, his choice of words. His favorite girl. You can’t help but wonder how many other girls he calls his favorite, too. You shake the thoughts away promptly, trying to allow yourself to just enjoy this moment with him. Enjoy having him for as long as you can. His calloused fingers are pressed into the doughy skin of your thighs, gripping with such intensity it almost hurts. Before you can fully process it you’re cumming around him, walls tightening over and over in a staggered pattern.

“G’na cum inside this pussy, baby, shit,” Eddie grunts before finally letting go.

His release paints your insides, your tight cunt milking every bit out of him. He pulls out once he’s fully spent, smacking your ass for good measure. You hear him zipping up his jeans, his belt buckle clanking as he secures it. He grabs a few tissues from the bedside table, gingerly wiping you clean before tossing them in the wastebasket.

“You’re such a doll, you know that right?” he asks, bending down to give you a quick peck on the lips.

You give him a half hearted smile, but he doesn’t seem to notice there’s any sadness behind it. He cautiously opens the bedroom door, slinking out under the guise of “letting you get situated”. Just like that, the euphoria is over. Your moment with him is gone, and he’ll slink back to the hustle and bustle of the party, leaving you in the shadows. You didn’t want to fall so hard for Eddie when your whole charade started, you really just wanted a fuck buddy. It’s just that he’s so goddamn alluring, and he’s sweet when he wants to be. He makes you feel good in ways no other guy has been able to, and it’s like you get drunk on him. You’re tumbling head over heels for Eddie, and to him you’re just one of many notches on his belt.

You fix yourself up, tidying up your appearance before heading back down to the party. A song you don’t recognize blares over the speakers, colorful lights flashing in the otherwise dark house. You check your phone for any texts, reading one from Nancy asking where you went. You decide you really don’t feel like answering that right now, slinking into the kitchen for another drink and slipping your phone back into the pocket of your jeans. You pour yourself some of whatever inebriating mixture sits in the pitcher on the countertop, the bright blue liquid filling your red plastic cup. You sip the drink, probably quicker than you should, walking past groups of people - couples getting a little too friendly with each other, a shirtless guy you don’t know standing on a table, a few girls huddled together on a sofa taking selfies.

You walk out to the backyard, the noise of the party becoming too much. The night air is warm and it smells sweet, a bonfire lit in the fire pit on the opposite side of the backyard. The unmistakable scent of the burning wood clings to your nose as you glance up into the trees where fireflies blink slowly. Your thighs ache, and you swear you can feel Eddie’s cum still leaking out of you. Your stomach twists in knots at the thought of it, wishing he’d stayed to help you clean up, wishing he’d kiss you in front of everyone to lay claim on you, wishing he’d let you snuggle into him as you sat around the bonfire. Wishing so desperately that he’d make you his, the way your friends always joke that he should because they can always sense the tension between the two of you.

You’re pulled from your thoughts when you hear a high pitched squeal and then a splash, looking up to see a girl’s head protruding from the water in the pool.

“Eddie!” she squeals, over exaggeratedly loud. “You got me all wet,” she pouts, “you’re gonna have to come in here with me.”

“No can do, sweets, can’t ruin the hair,” Eddie jokes, sitting down at the pool’s edge.

The unfamiliar girl pulls herself out of the water to sit beside him, reaching out and pretending to scrunch his hair with her wet fingers. Eddie laughs and leans away, grabbing her wrists with his much larger hands to stop her. She giggles as Eddie pulls her closer to him, slinking an arm around her waist. You feel like you could throw up, the skin of your cheeks heating up significantly. Eddie notices you standing up against the side of the house, meeting your eyes for only a moment before you turn and enter the large house once more. Your cup trembles in your hand, your stomach turning as you process the scene you just witnessed. He just fucked you raw upstairs, and already he’s got a new girl with him. He doesn’t even have the decency to wait until you’ve left, prick. You scowl, but the worst part is you know you can’t stay mad at him. You don’t actually think he’s a bad person, and you don’t know if you ever could. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes when you feel a delicate hand on your shoulder.

“Y/N? Hey, are you okay? Where have you been?”

“Nance - hey. Uh y-yeah I’m just… not feeling so well all of a sudden? I think I’d better get going-” you stammer, furiously wiping the wetness from your eyes.

Nancy’s eyes are no longer trained on you but instead are gazing out the floor-to-ceiling windows of the sun room. You turn to follow her gaze, and see that she’s looking right at Eddie, who’s now in the pool with the giggly girl, kissing her with her arms around his neck.

She looks back at you, catching the way you nervously chew your bottom lip and also catching the hickey that was left on your neck.

“You say the word and I swear to god I’ll kill him,” Nancy says, getting the sentence out just as Jonathan comes up behind her.

He doesn’t even need to ask who she’s referring to, and you see his eyes flicker up to look out the windows, becoming another witness to Eddie’s bullshit. He frowns slightly before turning his attention to you.

“Hey, kid, you okay?” he asks, patting you on the back with one firm hand.

You try to open your mouth to speak, but you can’t bring words to come out. Your throat feels thick and your lips start to wobble. You shake your head ‘no’ in favor of trying to talk and starting to sob, and your friends can tell you’re close to tears. You can hear Eddie and the girl shouting outside, and before you can turn around to look Nancy’s hurrying you out of the sun room. Her and Jonathan guide you into an empty bedroom, Nancy sitting beside you on the soft mattress of the bed, rubbing your back tentatively.

Your friends don’t know all of the details to what’s going on with you and Eddie, but they know enough. Considering most of them are your and his mutual friends, it’s not hard for speculation to go around based on the way the two of you act towards one another. And, quite frankly, they’re not stupid. You and Eddie disappearing for the same amount of time at group hangouts, the occasional flirtatious glances you share, you being visibly upset when he hasn’t spoken to you in a while, the pieces add up. They know you’re more sweet on Eddie than you let on and they know he’s a complete fuckboy asshole half the time, never quite knowing what’s going on with him and why he has to act the way he does with women. They never let Eddie in on your presumed feelings, they keep that secret guarded with their lives and for that you’re grateful. You know they know and you also know they’ll never make you say it out loud unless you’re ready to. But you have a feeling they must grow weary of picking up your pieces when he lets you down yet again, in ways they don’t have the full details on.

Nancy and Jonathan offer to get you a glass of water, both of them embarking on the rather simple task solely so they can discuss the situation at hand.

“What the fuck is his problem!?” Nancy seethes loud enough for her boyfriend to hear over the music.

“I don’t know, Nance, I don’t know. But I do know that if I have to see Y/N break one more time because of him I’m gonna lose it,” Jonathan responds, weaving past people in attempt to keep up with her.

Nancy just looks at him, her eyes sad and a little defeated. Jonathan understands the look. The look that says she knows Eddie upsets you far more than you ever tell them, a look that says she wishes she knew what to do in this situation.

She turns on the tap in the kitchen sink, filling a cup with ice and then with cold water. She jumps, spilling a little bit of the cup’s contents as Eddie walks in from outside, whooping and hollering and very intoxicated. The girl from the pool is clinging to his side, her hands roaming all over him. Jonathan rolls his eyes, leaning against the kitchen counter and facing away from the commotion.

“He’s such a fucking asshole sometimes,” Nancy says finally, having refilled the cup, now wiping her wet hand on her skirt. “Someone needs to knock some sense into him, or I’m gonna knock his teeth in.”

“Oooo, kitty’s got her claws out,” a voice purrs from beside her.

Nancy gasps, earning a roar of a laugh from Eddie. She smacks him on the arm, typically open to Eddie’s jokes and antics but extremely done with him in the present moment.

“Who’s got you so worked up, Nance?” Eddie slurs, stumbling a little before Jonathan shoves him back upright.

“He’s talking to me right now, actually,” she gives him a fake tight lipped smile, trying to push past him and get back to you.

“Me? What’d I do? You’ve barely even seen me all night!” Eddie shouts, almost knocking into a couple party goers as he tries to catch up.

“I really shouldn’t have to tell you what you did wrong, Eddie. Get your head out of your ass for once and figure it out yourself!” Nancy yells.

There’s a lull in the music as she says it, and several people turn to look in their direction, Steve and Robin sharing confused glances at the sight. Nancy storms off, leaving Jonathan face to face with Eddie.

“Think about it, man,” is all Jonathan says before he walks away, following after his girlfriend.

Eddie stands there, in the middle of a room packed with people, suddenly feeling very, very alone.

•

It’s been a week since you sat in a bedroom in Steve’s house, crying into Nancy’s shoulder as she did her best to console you. It’s been a week since you’ve had any interaction with Eddie, and your heart ached. Not because of how he behaved at the party, no, you couldn’t bring yourself to stay mad at him. Your heart ached with a longing to see him, a deep desire to have him. You’d kept the ringer turned up on your phone, hoping he’d call or text and ask you to come over, but to no avail so far. You huffed, dropping your phone down onto your bed beside you after checking it for the hundredth time in the last ten minutes. Your bedroom window is open slightly, letting the soft breeze and the sounds of summer nights penetrate your otherwise quiet abode. You lay with your legs dangling off the edge of your mattress, staring up at your ceiling and trying to will yourself to get up. You finally bring yourself to stand, pulling your coziest sweatshirt over your head and slipping on some shoes. You trod down the stairs to the lobby of your apartment building, stopping in front of the vending machines they so nicely placed there for residents. You were running out of snacks because you couldn’t bear to go out and go grocery shopping, so this was your best bet. You deserved some Cheetos and maybe a chocolate bar, god dammit. You stand there for a moment, skin glowing a blue-white hue from the fluorescent lights inside the machine. Your phone chimes in your pocket, breaking you from your haze. You grab it embarrassingly quickly, almost dropping it as you hold it up to look at the screen. It’s only Robin, sending an embarrassing photo of Steve at work.

You sigh, stuffing your phone back in your pocket and letting your head hang. You take a breath, trying of make yourself feel some sort of normal right now. You’re fine. You don’t need Eddie. You’re not gonna die. You press a few buttons on the vending machine, inserting your card before it dispenses your selections. You’re trudging back up to your apartment, ripping into your bag of Cheetos when your phone rings. You manage an impressive amount of self control as you wait till you’ve fully opened your door and taken your shoes off to see who’s calling. Eddie’s name lights up on your screen, and you feel your stomach do a somersault. You answer the call with shaky hands.

“Hello?” you force out around your mouthful of cheesy snacks, trying to sound as graceful as possible.

“Hey, sweetheart. I’m sorry I’ve been a little MIA lately. I missed you,” his voice purrs into the phone.

“I missed you too…” you admit, going against your brain telling you not to give into him.

“What’re you doing right now? Can I come pick you up?” he asks.

“Yeah, yeah of course. I’m not doing much of anything,” you can’t help but smile as you say it, your cheeks heating up.

“Cool, I’ll be there in fifteen,” Eddie promises before ending the call, leaving you standing in your living room with your cheese powder covered fingers, smiling at your phone like an idiot.

You hurry into your room to change, slipping on a loose little tennis skirt and a snug fitting crop top, the fabric hugging your body and accentuating your breasts perfectly. You pull a thin cardigan sweater over top of it to ward off the chill of the nighttime air. Eddie’s true to his word and in about fifteen minutes your phone chimes with a text from him.

‘Here. Don’t keep me waiting ;)’

You scurry out the door, grabbing your bag and your keys. You hurriedly apply a bit of lipgloss as you run down the stairs, knowing Eddie likes the flavor of this one. Eddie watches you from out his windshield as you come bounding towards his car, giving him a sly little wave in the process. He licks his lips as his eyes rake up and down your frame. You swing open the passenger side door, sitting down on the seat and letting your bag drop to the floor.

“Hey, sweets. You look pretty tonight,” he says, grabbing one of your hands and kissing it as he winks at you.

You blush, wondering if he’s sweetening you up to make up for the events of the party. You once again find yourself clinging to the notion that this time it’ll be different, this time he won’t leave you, this time he’ll stay the night after and you’ll make breakfast together in the morning and dance together in the kitchen. His hand squeezes yours as he drives, and he turns up a song on the radio. His stereo is tuned to the oldies station, as per usual. Hysteria by Def Leppard blasts through the speakers, Eddie tapping the fingers of his left hand on the steering wheel as he sings along exaggeratedly.

“I gotta know tonight, if you’re aloneeee toniiiiiight!” Eddie sings, off key and purposely pitchy to make you laugh.

You giggle in the passenger seat as he steals glances at you while he sings along, his right hand entwined with your left.

“Can’t stop this feelin’, can’t stop this fiiiiire,” he continues on, bringing your hand to his chest and pounding on it in a passionate performance.

The drive continues that way, Eddie singing any song he recognizes and turning every single one into a ballad somehow, serenading you. You’re a fit of giggles and stolen glances in his direction, smirking whenever you meet his eyes. You feel more alive in this moment than you have all week.

Tires crunch over gravel as Eddie’s car finally pulls into a parking spot behind The Hideaway, a local bar-slash-restaurant that leans further into the bar aspect with cheap drinks and greasy food, perfect for a summer night. Eddie jogs around to your side of the car to open the door, grabbing your hand and helping you out. He’s being much more chivalrous than usual and it makes your heart swell. This feels like a real date, and your hands tremble with giddiness. The two of you grab a table once you’re inside, the skin of your thighs sliding over the cool material of the booth. You order a couple drinks and whatever food strikes your fancy, one of Eddie’s hands reaching across the table to stroke your arm now and then as you sit and talk. You don’t miss his wandering glances down to your breasts and your lips, and he doesn’t miss the way you eye his ringed fingers and the chain around his neck.

Once you have a few drinks in you, you’ve loosened up quite a bit. Music plays loudly throughout the building and several people have gathered on the makeshift dance floor, moving to the rhythm. You’re pulling Eddie out of his seat, walking backwards onto the floor to dance with him. You pull him close till he’s pressed against your backside, letting your hips sway against him. You don’t miss the way he stiffens when your ass presses into his crotch, his body going tense and his grip on your waist getting tighter. You lean your head back a little bit, inviting him in to kiss your neck. His soft lips press into your sensitive skin, nipping at the soft spot where your neck meets your shoulder. His dark curls hang in his face and tickle your skin, the cold metal of his rings digging into the soft skin of your waist left exposed by your crop top.

You dance like this for a while, touches growing more intimate and lips becoming more reluctant to leave each other’s skin. Finally, Eddie decides he can’t take it anymore. He’s rock hard pressed up against you and the way your body moves is sinful. He pulls you off the floor and into a private bathroom, locking the door quickly behind him. As soon as he does he pulls you to him, kissing you with fervor as his hands roam your body. You melt right into him, your body pliant to whatever he wants to do to you. Your tongue prods into his mouth and you roll your hips into his, taking what you want. Your hand tugs on the collar of his shirt, his breath coming out of his nostrils in heavy huffs as he kisses you like his life depends on it.

He walks you backwards to press you against the small counter for the sink, smiling into the heated kiss when you jump to sit on the counter immediately. His fingers find their way up your thighs, roaming further until they reach the sticky heat between them. Eddie wastes no time, hooking a finger under the fabric of your panties and sliding them to the side. You groan into his open mouth, and his cock twitches in his jeans at the sound. He dips two fingers inside of your warm, wet cunt, the digits being sucked in instantly.

“Pussy’s so fucking greedy for me, did my favorite girl miss me?” Eddie’s voice is a husky growl as he speaks, lips mere centimeters from yours.

All you can do is nod, a high pitched moan escaping your lips. His favorite girl his favorite girl his favorite girl. It never gets old hearing him call you that, he knows exactly what to say to get you to bend to his every whim. His fingers scissor inside of you, your wet walls squelching as he pries them apart.

“Fucking filthy, baby. Such a little whore for me, hm?” he grins, his pink tongue rolling over his front teeth.

Your moans leave your mouth in breathy spurts as he continues to pump his fingers in and out, curling them right into your sweet spot. You lean your head forward, resting on his chest as his free hand comes to rest on your lower back, keeping you close. His thumb presses to your clit, rubbing the sensitive bead with just the right amount of pressure. He knows exactly what you like, exactly how to bring you to the edge. You’re whimpering for him, his lips coming to crash against yours, teeth nipping at the plump skin. The alcohol in your system amplifies your senses, making every touch he gives you feel magnified.

“You gonna cum for me, sweetheart? Gonna cum for me so soon?” Eddie groans, sensing how close you’re getting by the way your walls tense around his fingers.

You can’t even reply before waves of pleasure wrack your body, your orgasm hitting you incredibly quickly. You cry out his name as his fingers continue to curl inside of you, a smirk gracing his face, cockiness taking over completely.

“Suuuuuch a fuckin’ slut for me, hm? Gonna let me fuck you baby?” his husky voice fills your ears, along with the sound of his belt being undone.

He knows you won’t deny him, knows how badly you need this. You hear the zzzzzzzip of the zipper on his jeans being tugged down, watch as he pulls the black denim down just enough. Keep your eyes trained on him as he grabs his cock from beneath the green cotton of his boxers, yanking it into view. His boxers get shoved down with his jeans, resting just below his ass. The pink head of his cock is shiny with pre cum as you wrap a hand around it, lining him up with your aching hole. He sucks in a breath as he pushes the tip in, reveling in the way you tilt your head back in ecstasy as he parts your folds. Your tits are propped up perfectly thanks to your snug top and your push-up bra, swells of skin on display for his eyes to rake over. He dips down, attaching to your collarbone and sucking the thin skin, licking over the stinging bruises he leaves behind.

“F-feels so good, Eddie,” you choke out, gasping as he thrusts as deep as he possibly can, knocking the breath out of your lungs.

“I know it does baby, know how much you love this cock,” Eddie growls.

His hands dig into your hips, holding you in place while he fucks you ruthlessly. The lewd sounds of his shaft gliding in and out of your soaked cunt echo off the bathroom walls, his balls slapping with every jolt of his hips. You tangle your fingers in his curls, knowing it drives him crazy. Eddie doesn’t let you in on a whole lot of the things that make him weak, but the hair pulling one was discovered involuntarily. You’d done it the first time you ever hooked up and he’d moaned embarrassingly loud before he could stop himself, and you’d been using the knowledge to your advantage ever since. He curses as you tug on his dark brown locks, his cock pounding into you even harder. Your body feels like it’s on fire in the best way, so close to release again already. Another bar patron knocks on the bathroom door, only grabbing your attention for a fraction of a second before Eddie grabs your face with one hand, turning you to look directly at him.

“Don’t worry about that, focus on me,” he instructs, his jaw hanging open in a moan as he drives particularly deep into you.

His forehead rests on yours, brown eyes staring straight into yours as he ruins you. The movement of his hips grow messy, and you know he’s close. You’re free falling over the edge in no time, your heavy-lidded eyes trying their best to focus on Eddie as your second orgasm crashes through you.

“That’s it, baby, so good for me,” he grunts, not slowing his movements even a bit.

“Cum inside me, Eddie, please,” you whine, clawing desperately at the collar of his shirt.

“Gonna give it to you, baby, gonna fucking cum,” he’s panting, rolling his hips a couple more times into your soaking cunt until he’s a goner.

You feel him twitch slightly inside you as spurts of his cum fill you to the brim. His eyes squeeze shut as he rides it out, slowly rocking in and out of you, milking himself for every drop. He pulls out of you carefully, causing you to wince at the emptiness. You hop down from the counter on shaky legs, his cum mixing with your release as it slowly rolls down your thighs.

“You’re so fucking hot, babe,” Eddie almost whines, grabbing your face to kiss you.

He situates himself back in his jeans and leaves you to clean up, telling you he’ll be at your table from before. You wipe the mess off your thighs with the horribly thin toilet paper the bar offers, sitting on the grimy toilet seat to pee. You deem yourself good to go after washing your hands and open the door, catching Eddie giving you a little wave from the booth you’d been sitting at. You bound over to him, an unmistakable wave of relief at the fact that he was waiting right where he said he’d be. The two of you are about to leave, throwing cash on the table for the staff to pick up, when you hear a chipper voice call your name.

“Y/N!?”

You spin around, searching in the direction of the voice when your eyes land on a head of strawberry blonde hair and bright blue eyes.

“Chrissy? Oh my god, it’s so good to see you!” you shout, turning to Eddie briefly. “I’ll be right back, kay? I have to catch up with her real quick!”

You jog towards your old friend, wrapping her in a tight hug. She doesn’t seem to take note of who you were with, or if she does she doesn’t pry for details, and you’re grateful for that. You hadn’t seen Chrissy much at all since high school, and the two of you get right to chit-chatting. You tell her about your job, she tells you about her breakup with Jason, so on and so forth. A little more time passes than you’d intended, so you leave her with a mutual promise to get together soon and yet another hug. You turn to find Eddie so you can leave, your brows furrowing when you don’t see him.

Finally your eyes land on him, sitting on a stool at the bar, a blonde bartender leaning over the counter with a hand on his bicep, and another woman standing on his one side, eyeing him up. The bartender leans further over the counter, her tits pressed together and on display from her low cut top, basically staring Eddie in the face. He seems to be laughing, striking up conversation in his disgustingly easy manner. Your stomach turns and your face grows hot, and you bring a hand to your mouth to muffle a cry as you rush out the door of the bar. The tears flow instantly, there’s no use in even trying to stop them. You grasp your phone in a trembling hand, dialing Nancy’s cell. The lights from the street go blurry as your eyes burn with tears, your chest heaving as the dial tone rings in your ear.

“Hello?” her voice picks up, concern evident in her tone given that it’s 11pm and you’re calling her.

“Nancy,” you sob, trying to steady your voice but it’s fruitless, “can- can you please pick me up? I’m at The Hideaway,” you stutter, wiping your nose with your sleeve.

“Jonathan and I are on the way. Sit tight, ok?” you agree and the call ends, leaving you alone until they arrive.

You tilt your head back, leaning against the brick wall of the old building, sobs wracking your entire body. Stupid, stupid, stupid. You curse yourself for believing that this night with Eddie would go any differently than the others. Your mind replays the way he sang to you in the car, the way he held your hand, the way he opened doors for you and stroked your skin at the table earlier. The lump in your throat is impossible to swallow, and you gasp for air between your cries. Nancy’s car pulls up at the curb in front of you, Jonathan in the drivers seat. She immediately jumps out and runs to you, leaning down to your shriveled frame as you curl into yourself. She all but scoops you up, an arm around your shoulder as she guides you to the backseat of the car. She gets in beside you rather than returning to the passenger seat, a gentle and soothing hand resting on your knee as Jonathan starts to drive. You catch the way he glances warily at you in the rearview mirror, face riddled with concern. Your head is pounding, the drinks you had earlier still making your thoughts slightly hazy and everything around you feel slow. When Eddie picked you up, you’d imagined yourself going home with him, making out in his van, tangling up together in his bedsheets. You hadn’t predicted yourself to be drunk in the back of your best friend’s car, crying like a baby on your way home. You mentally scold yourself, embarrassed with the way your friends have to see you, the way they have to try and pick up your pieces when they don’t even know what’s wrong. This is the second time in a week that these two have consoled you, and you feel horrible for making them put up with it.

“Were you with Eddie tonight?” Nancy asks cautiously, but there’s no judgment in her voice.

All you can do is nod, your eyes glassy as you gaze out the window. She squeezes your knee, and the rest of the ride back to your apartment is silent.

Nancy makes sure that you get safely inside, leading you into your room to help you change into some comfortable clothes. She fills your favorite water bottle and grabs your favorite blanket off of the couch, handing them both to you.

“Nance-” you go to thank her, but she cuts you off.

“You don’t have to thank me. You don’t have to say anything. Just take care of yourself, alright? Call me if you need anything,” she squeezes your hand and gives you a tight smile before leaving, closing the door quietly behind her.

The sobs that had started to subside come back in full swing once you’re left alone, hot tears rolling down your cheeks. You take shaky breaths, your heart feeling like it’s been shattered to pieces in your chest. You wanted to believe that Eddie was going to redeem himself this time, and to see that he had no shame about flirting with other women while in the bar that he drove you to stung deep to your core. What hurts even worse is that all you crave, still, is his arms around you, his lips on yours, a moment of peace in a fragile heaven. You curl into a ball on your mattress, letting all of the feelings out in the quiet of your lonely apartment.

Eddie was in a slight panic when he couldn’t find you anywhere in the bar. He had gotten bored while you were catching up with Chrissy, so he went to get himself one last drink before the two of you went on your way. He sunk himself onto a seat at the bar, where a brunette about his age was chatting with the bartender. The second he sat down, he could feel their eyes roaming all over him. The flirting was incessant from the get-go, and truly, all Eddie wanted was to take you home with him, his body craving a second round of you. He had no interest in the two women before him, but for the sake of keeping the peace he just allowed them to fawn over him, roaming hands and seductive eyes drinking him in. He made small talk, forcing smiles and even a couple laughs just to appease the crowd before he could dip. He downed his drink fairly quickly, intentionally so, so that he could make his exit and find you. All he wanted was to grab your hand and kiss you and hold you all night long and- fuck.

He shakes his head as if to rid himself of the thoughts. His brain had been overwhelmingly full of you since the party at Steve’s, and he was uneasy about it. The situation with you was strictly friends-with-benefits, nothing more. It can’t be more. Dark eyes scan the premises, searching for you but coming up unlucky. He checks with Chrissy, who didn’t see where you went after you said your goodbyes, he knocks politely on the bathroom doors to no avail. He goes out to his vehicle only to find it empty. He calls you once, twice, three times, only for the line to ring and ring. With ever perfect timing, a text pops up on his phone screen.

Jonathan: Nancy and I drove Y/N home. What happened, man?

Eddie’s brow furrows as he reads the message, why did you call them to take you home? What did happen? He curses to himself, climbing into his car and peeling out of the parking lot, heading in the direction of your apartment. His fingers drum nervously on the steering wheel, every red light feeling like it takes years to change to bright green. He finally pulls up to your building, his body feels unsteady as he walks up the stairs to your door. He knocks with a shaky hand.

You’re startled by the knock at your door, your crying having stopped for the time being and your body starting to relax. The knock comes again, urgent sounding, and you trod down your hallway and towards the door. Your head pounds and your sinuses are stuffy from your breakdown, and you wince as the loud banging sounds on your door yet again. You pull it open, met with the shaggy hair and big eyes of the man you’ve been wallowing over.

“Y/N, what the fuck!? You scared me half to death, why did you leave without me?” Eddie nearly shouts, running a hand through his hair.

His question dumbfounds you, and you almost want to laugh at the absurdity.

“Why did I leave? Why did I leave!? I don’t know, Eddie, why don’t you ask the bimbo bartender and her friend, and god knows what other women you flirted with when I walked away for maybe twenty fucking minutes!?” the words spill out of you, and you’re shocked at your ability to call him out.

“The bartender-? What? Sweets, I wasn’t flirting with anyone I was just-”

“I don’t want to fucking hear it, Eddie, okay? You pulled the same shit at Steve’s party last weekend! Hook up with me and make me feel sooooo special and then turn around and woo someone else right after. I’m sick of it!” your voice is raised, leaving Eddie wide-eyed in front of you.

“Oh, you’re sick of it? You’re sick of me?” Eddie no longer feels like he owes you an explanation, his need to defend himself taking over.

“I’m sick of keeping secrets, Eddie! I’m sick of not telling our friends what the fuck is going on between us because I don’t want to make you out to be the bad guy! I’m so god damn tired of watching you flirt with every woman under the fucking sun,” your voice wavers, anger trickling in.

“Why the fuck do you care if I flirt with other women? Why does it matter?” Eddie counters, holding his hands out in exasperation.

“Because I love you, Eddie! I’m in love with you!” you shout, tears streaming from your eyes now in a mixture of sadness and anger and passion.

The silence is palpable as Eddie just stands there, shaking his head a little bit. Your heart feels as though it might beat out of your chest.

“What, is that the worst fucking thing you’ve ever heard?” you challenge.

He turns on his heel and exits without a word, leaving you to slam your door shut. You sink down on the inside of it, tears flowing harder than ever before. His silent exit was worse than any words he could have said, cutting you right to the bone, leaving you to bleed all alone.

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