Feelings On Fire (joel Miller X F!reader) 18+ PART SIX

feelings on fire (joel miller x f!reader) 18+ PART SIX

previous chapters | again, thank you so much for all the love on this fic. it's so beyond overwhelming and wonderful to know that people are enjoying this story. i hope you enjoy this chapter, let me know! and here's my kofi if you'd like to leave me a tip 💕 chapter summary: it's time for your first official "lesson" with joel. rating: 18+ explicit warnings: age difference (joel is in his 50s, reader is in her early 20s), innocent/inexperienced reader, praise kink, dirty talk, pet names, mentions of religion, catholic guilt, fingering, oral (f receiving), lap-sitting, grinding word count: 8.7k ao3

You feel ridiculous.

You stare in your bedroom mirror at yourself with a look of pure mortification, assessing the beige dress you're currently wearing that your mother picked out from her own closet, falling to your ankles and bagging off your hips in the most unflattering way imaginable. It looks like a potato sack with long sleeves, long and floppy and absolutely horrendous.

You slowly shake your head at your reflection as she comes up behind you with attentive eyes, assessing the same trainwreck you are. You can see in her expression that she's similarly disappointed in the way it looks.

"I'm not wearing this," you say quietly, trying not to sound too harsh, "Please, Mom, this doesn't fit me right."

She bites her lip, eyes still scanning you up and down, "You're probably right," she sighs.

She wants you to dress modestly for your first lesson with Joel. You'd settled on Saturdays as your official "lesson" day, a perfect choice in your opinion as you now have an excuse to go to his house on the weekend without having to lie to your parents about where you are. You want to appease them in some way, your mom in particular; you've felt so bad about all the lying you've been doing, you feel you owe her something. And that something is apparently agreeing to let her pick your outfit, a decision you're already regretting immensely.

"The navy blue one was nice," you say, gesturing toward one of the other options she's laid out on your bed - one that's actually from your own closet and not hers, "I know I've grown out of it but it's not that short."

She walks over to your bed and picks up the dress in question with an exasperated sigh, eyeing the clock on your night stand, "I guess it'll have to do, we're running out of time. You don't want to be late," she hands it to you quickly, "You'll have to wear stockings with it though."

You nod - that's a compromise you can deal with.

She gives you some privacy to change, leaving you to fight your way out of the oddly shaped beige atrocity on your own. It crumples into a pile at your feet and you kick it to the side with a little too much aggression. Imagine if she'd actually made you wear that - Joel would never want to touch you again.

The thought of Joel sends a rush of warmth throughout your body as you slip into the other dress, velvet and modest but nowhere near as awful as the previous one. You'd talked to him on the phone last night after he'd finished work, cuddled in bed against an extra pillow in place of him - you'd slept so well on Thursday night when you'd slept in his bed, felt so safe and warm in his arms, you're now doing anything you can to replicate it. You'd wrapped his flannel shirt around it, coating it in his scent.

"I miss you," you'd whispered through the phone, the insecurities from the previous night almost nonexistent as you nuzzled your cheek into the fabric of his shirt, "I know I saw you this morning but I can't help it."

He'd laughed lightly, soft and familiar in your ear, "I miss you too, babygirl. Miss havin' you in my bed."

You'd taken only one deep breath before admitting softly, "I miss your cock."

He'd groaned, low and deep, "I know, darlin'. I know you do."

You'd both had simultaneous orgasms about ten minutes later, your name on his lips as he came into his fist and you buried your face in the pillow you wished was him, fingers scissoring inside you. You walk over to your bed now and pull up the mattress a bit, tugging his shirt out from underneath while you have a spare moment alone. You bring it to your face and inhale deeply, eyes closing and heart fluttering; you're obsessed.

"Ready to go?" your mom calls from downstairs, and you quickly shove the flannel back under the mattress, making sure it's hidden before you dash to your dresser to grab a pair of stockings. They're black and stop at your thigh, the edges hidden beneath the dress; you already know Joel will take them off soon enough.

You immediately notice the grimace on your mother's face when you appear at the bottom of the stairs and you wonder what you've done wrong already. She assesses you again without saying anything, gnawing on her lip and circling you a bit.

"Can I go?" you ask quietly, unsure what she's going to say, "I don't wanna be late."

"Where's your crucifix?" she finally says, tilting her head slightly, "I don't think I've seen you wear it all summer."

Astute observation - you haven't worn it all summer. It's still upstairs in your jewelry box, exactly where you'd left it when you went off to college several years ago. You'd begun to resent everything it represented and no longer felt like parading around with it on your neck like you'd done your whole life. The thought of wearing it now after so many years of forgetting it even existed... well, it certainly doesn't appeal to you whatsoever.

But you are trying to make up for all the lying, even if she doesn't necessarily know it.

You plaster a forced smile on your face, "I'll go get it." She mirrors it and nods as you turn around and head back up to your bedroom. Do it for the lessons, you think to yourself calmly.

Looking in the mirror after clasping the silver cross around your neck is a trip to the say the least. You suddenly feel ten years younger, standing in your bedroom preparing for an early service, Sunday School homework crumpled in your backpack and an immense weight of pressure on your shoulders to be perfect. You stare at the crucifix and feel that familiar sense of guilt begin to creep in, surrounding you in a quiet but palpable void of judgement that you've spent years trying to escape.

Why the fuck are you doing this? Why are you so hellbent on following the rules, after everything you've done? Why does the approval of your parents still mean so much to you? How is any of this even worth it?

You swallow back the pain you feel, the guilt, the anger, the resentment, all of it. Now is not the time to have an existential crisis; you have a "lesson" to go to - something you are not going to feel guilty about, no matter how bad your former Catholic brain may want you to.

As if by some ironic miracle, your phone buzzes and you unlock it to see a sudden surge of text messages in your college group chat:

have fun at your lesson 😘

don't do anything we wouldn't do!!!

pls give us all the details later 🥵

ITS ENTIRELY POSSIBLE TO SUCK DICK ON ACCIDENT JUST FYI

A breathless laugh escapes you, relief flooding your body at the sudden sense of normalcy, the reminder that what you're doing is not wrong. You're so glad you told your friends about what's been going on - you can't imagine keeping this secret all to yourself any longer. Knowing that they're there, that they support you and care about you and want you to have these experiences... it's enough for you to turn from the mirror without a second glance.

It's just a fucking necklace.

--

You arrive on Joel's doorstep at exactly ten o'clock, smoothing down your dress a bit and taking a deep breath before knocking. You're not sure how he's going to react to you standing there in all your Catholic glory, hair down and parted through the middle, crucifix dangling from your neck, hymn book weighing heavily in your purse. You still feel like that past version of yourself, shifting nervously from right foot to left as you stand there waiting for him to open the door.

The knob finally twists and there he stands, tall and broad in front of you. Your eyes widen when you see him, lips parting in surprise - the exact same reaction he has when he sees you.

He's dressed up. No band t-shirt or jeans to be seen, no bare feet or messy hair or disheveled beard. His grey curls are gelled back, demure and handsome, scruff trimmed up to shape his jaw. He's wearing a grey button down tucked into a pair of black dress pants, shoes that look freshly shined. For all intents and purposes, he looks like he's about to go to a church service.

You both stand there staring at each other without saying anything, both pairs of eyes scanning up and down your bodies with almost no regard for politeness. You're speechless, completely in awe of his sudden transformation, a transformation you certainly had not been expecting.

"I thought, uh-" he chokes out, breaking the silence between the two of you as his hand reaches up to awkwardly touch the back of his neck, "I thought your mother might bring you."

You continue to stare at him, a ball of emotion suddenly growing heavy in your throat, "Y-you wore this in case my mom came with me?"

He slowly nods, suddenly looking a bit sheepish as his eyes scan the road behind you for any onlookers, "I wanted to make a good impression."

With a shaky inhale full of a feeling you can't describe, you take a step toward him, unable to stop yourself from reaching forward to grab his hand, "Joel," you whisper, barely audible and almost alien in your mouth - you're so used to calling him Mr. Miller, "That's... that's..." you don't even know what to say, words completely failing you.

"It's no big deal," he says with a small smile, tugging on your hand and urging you to follow him inside, "C'mere."

As soon as the door closes behind you he's grabbing both your hands and pulling back to look at you again, eyes still awestruck. You can't help but feel embarrassed when his gaze freezes on your crucifix.

"My mom made me dress up," you mumble, "I know, it's a lot."

He nods and clears his throat, taking a long exhale through his mouth as he continues to peer at you, "I'm a bad man." Your brow furrows, confused for a moment before he laughs breathlessly and shakes his head, "I am, I must be, 'cause I shouldn't find you wearin' all this so damn sexy."

A giggle slips past your lips, skin warming as he entwines his fingers with yours and moves forward a bit to tower over you, eyes trailing to your lips.

"I mean it, darlin'," he whispers with a tender smile, "You look... fuck, you look pretty."

"Thank you," you whisper back, tilting your head up a bit more, waiting for him to kiss you - and he does. It's soft and sweet, not the type you'd been expecting after a comment like that. He seems slightly reserved as he kisses you, squeezing your hands in his and pulling away far too quickly, "What is it?" you ask quietly, raising an eyebrow, "What's wrong?"

He shakes his head again with a chuckle, "Nothin' at all, babygirl. I'm just... I'm tryin' to keep at least some of these next two hours focused on learnin' guitar."

You make a face, "Oh. Right."

"Remember what I said the other night?" he looks down at you with a playful smirk.

We'll make it sexy.

A smile spreads slowly across your face, "I remember."

--

He sits you between his legs on the couch, just like the first time he'd touched you. He noses your shoulder and breathes you in, pulls you close as he carefully places the guitar into your lap. His arms are warm and comforting, thighs strong and safe. You lean back into his touch immediately with a sigh of contentment, closing your eyes.

"Now, how am I supposed to teach you if you've got your eyes shut?" he asks with a laugh. You pout and open your eyes again, turning your face a bit to catch a glimpse of his relaxed expression.

"Sorry, it's just - you're distracting."

He snorts and redirects your attention to the task at hand, reaching down to capture your fingers in his and bring them up to the neck of the guitar. It's already distracting having him so close, but you can feel the shape of his cock against your lower back; it's not even hard -not yet, anyway - and your heart is already pounding.

"I mean it," you mutter softly, "I can't think when you're so close to me. Not after..." you trail off, feeling your cheeks warm at the thought, "Not after what we did the other night."

You feel him smile against your jaw, lips ghosting your skin, "I know, it's overwhelmin' isn't it?" His fingers trace the shape of yours, pressing gently against the guitar, "That's normal, sweetheart. We took a big step."

You can't help but lean back into him as he speaks, head coming to rest gently on his shoulder, forehead brushing his neck, "It felt so good," you whisper, secretive and shy, "When you were on top of me like that. When you had your mouth..."

He hums softly in understanding without you having to finish the thought, turns a bit to nose your hairline, "You want my mouth on you again, huh?"

"Yes."

He kisses your skin softly, lingering for a moment before moving his face downward, "How 'bout this?" he murmurs, pressing another soft kiss to the bare skin at your neck, "How 'bout I teach you three chords? Just three," another kiss, this time to the spot above your collarbone, near your crucifix, "and when you can play them for me without my help, I'll give you a reward."

"What kind of reward?" you breathe, eyes closing again as his lips graze your neck back and forth.

"Somethin' that feels really good," he whispers, and you swear you feel the tip of his tongue flutter against you for a brief moment, warm and wet, "Somethin' new I wanna show you, if you'll let me."

"I'll let you do anything," you admit, voice shaky, "You know that."

He smiles against you, then slowly licks a long stripe up from your neck to your cheek, an act that probably would have disgusted a previous version of yourself but now sends you reeling, skin going hot beneath his mouth. You turn your head toward his and he captures your lips in a searing kiss, the kind you'd expected at the door, full of arousal and sex and the promise of more. You're already wet and throbbing when he pulls back to peer at you.

"I know," he murmurs, hand that's not on the guitar coming up to hold your chin between his thumb and index finger, "You'd do anything I asked, huh?" You nod, eyelashes fluttering as he thumbs your chin and whispers, "Such a good girl."

Your mind is empty as he releases your chin and takes your other hand in his, bringing it down to the strings. You let him move you the way he wants to, adjusting you a bit between his legs so you're pressed more firmly against him, his broad chest tight against your back. You can't help but let out a breathless noise, almost a whimper.

"I know," he repeats, voice calm and soothing as he pushes his groin forward so his clothed cock makes even more contact with your lower back, "I know, babygirl, it's so much, isn't it? Feelin' so many different things," he carefully adjusts your fingers on the neck of the guitar, places them on the correct strings and murmurs, "You can do this, I know you can. And then you'll get your reward, I promise."

His words are smooth as butter and have almost no meaning at this point, thoughts foggy as you press down on the strings and try your best to focus on what he's asking of you. You're suddenly completely pliant under his touch - he could pick you up and bend you over the kitchen counter and you'd let him, wouldn't even have a thought in your mind as he did it.

But he won't - that's not why you're here.

Learning guitar chords with a half-hard cock digging into your back and warm breath at your neck is much easier said than done. You don't know how you manage to get through the fifteen minutes it takes you to learn the C chord, and the ten minutes it takes to learn what you think is the D chord - you can't even remember now, you're so distracted by his body against yours. He's teaching you G when you feel yourself slipping, thighs rubbing together to seek some kind of relief. It's never felt like this before; usually you'd be touching yourself at this point or he'd be touching you. The lack of contact almost hurts, your pussy throbbing around absolutely nothing and dampening your underwear, begging silently to be relieved in some way.

"What's wrong?" he whispers, big fingers still pinning yours to the neck of the guitar, stubble scratching against your skin as he presses a feather-light kiss to your ear, "Tell me, darlin'. Why're you wigglin' around like that, huh?"

He knows why; you can feel the smirk on his face, sense the teasing edge to his voice. He's enjoying this, having you completely under his spell while you try your hardest to learn and remember. His cock is getting harder by the second, the movement of your hips and ass certainly not helping the situation by any means. You know what it looks like now, what it feels like, can picture it in your mind growing stiffer and stiffer, leaking from the tip through his pants.

"Feels f-funny," you manage to whimper, forcing yourself to strum out your first G with shaky results. You try again, pushing your fingers more firmly against the strings with Joel's help, feeling his nose trailing gently across your temple.

"What feels funny, sweetheart?" he murmurs, and part of you wants to rip yourself from between his legs, toss the guitar to the floor, and straddle his lap, grind yourself down on him. You've never done it before but you can suddenly see it in your mind plain as day, an obvious solution to the problem in your panties that's growing worse by the second.

"My pussy," you moan, closing your eyes and tilting your head against his shoulder again, hands loosening on the guitar, "It hurts."

He pulls you in closer, inhales your perfume and releases a low groan, "Poor baby," he murmurs, "I know, honey, you're just achin' to be touched, huh?" He tightens your fingers against the strings again, eyelashes fluttering against your neck, "Come on, sweet girl, you almost got it, you're so close."

You're not sure he intends for that to have a double meaning but it makes you groan nonetheless, a weak sound that makes him chuckle. He removes his fingers from yours and waits for you to show him the chord without help - you can feel his eyes on you as you shakily strum. You wince when it comes out sounding wrong.

"Gotta push down harder," he murmurs, "You almost got it, babygirl, show me."

"I can't," you whimper, shaking your head, "I can't, Mr. Miller, it's too much, please."

"Shhh," he soothes, pressing a gentle kiss to your neck, "You can, darlin'. You're doin' so good." You feel him pull your dress up in the back as he speaks, and then he's suddenly pulling you up and into his lap, sitting you directly on his clothed cock. "You just gotta push a little bit harder." He grinds against you at the word, firm and purposeful, pinning you to the solid length of him.

"Oh my god," you gasp out, awestruck by the feeling of him, so big and thick and warm beneath you. Your pussy continues to pulse and throb and you know you're already starting to soak the nice pair of dress pants he'd worn for you, covering his crotch in your slick.

It's somehow still not enough. You find yourself grinding down onto him, matching his own movements as your hands squeeze the guitar and your thighs push together. You whimper pitifully in his lap, squirming and making a mess but too horny to care about how ridiculous you probably look.

"You feel my cock against your pussy, baby?" he asks, voice low and deep, and all you can do is nod frantically, a moan tearing from your throat, "That feel better? Think you can play now?"

You truly don't think you can, but he's clearly still waiting for you to show him. Your whole body is on fire, hands trembling as you push your fingers against the strings as hard as you can, strumming out the G chord with more success this time. You sigh in relief, loosening your grip on the guitar and leaning back into his touch.

"Now show me all three," he whispers.

"Mr. Miller," you groan, frustration and arousal starting to fully overtake you, "Please."

"Shhh," he repeats, "Shh, baby, it's okay. It's okay, I'll touch you this time. Just play those three chords while I play with your pussy, alright? Can you do that for me?"

You nod again, swallowing tightly as you reposition your fingers on the neck of the guitar and try to remember where they're supposed to go for the C chord. It's impossible to focus as Joel snakes his arm up around your belly, slips his hand down beneath your dress to where you're aching.

"Lemme feel," he murmurs, fingertips tickling over the wet spot of your panties and pressing down gently against you, "Oh, she's throbbin', babygirl." You moan again, borderline hysterical as he uses two fingers to circle your hole through the fabric, callused tips prodding your folds. "Shhh, I know, baby, I know. Keep goin honey, keep playin'."

You don't know how you do it, have absolutely no idea how you manage to actually strum out the chords while he's touching you like this, but you do. You shakily play the C as he slips his index finger inside your panties and places it against your hole, feels how much you're dripping for him and groans into your neck.

"Always so fuckin' wet for me," he murmurs, "Never even had a cock inside you and your pussy's so ready for it every time, babygirl, just beggin' to be filled up."

He pushes both his index and middle fingers inside as you play the D chord, slipping them in with barely any resistance as you grip the guitar and try your hardest to keep going, to not give up - you're so close, in more ways than one. You whimper when the tips of his fingers brush gently against that spongey part inside you that you can't reach yourself.

"That's it," he encourages you softly, slowly beginning to fuck you with them, pulling them out and pushing them back in as he noses your neck and breathes you in as you tremble, "I know, sweetheart, feels so good, doesn't it? One more, baby, one more."

Tears are stinging in your eyes as you strum out the G chord, the last one you need to play in order to get your reward, to end Joel's teasing and finally get what you were promised. You push your fingers down as hard as you can and play it with a finality that makes him smile against your skin.

"All done," he murmurs, taking the guitar from you with one hand and tossing it to the other end of the couch. You moan out a sound of relief and he pulls you in close, holds you firm against his lap and speeds up his fingers, fucking you harder and smiling wider when you cry out in pleasure, "Good girl, angel, good girl."

You can't speak, jaw going lax and eyes hooded as his fingers plunge in and out, his other hand spread on your belly as he pushes you down onto his cock. You turn your head slightly to bury your face in his neck, biting down on your lip and letting the sensations overwhelm you, whimpering when you feel his cock twitch and pulse through the material.

"Now, that wasn't so bad, was it?" he asks huskily, "Didn't even wanna learn guitar today, did you? Just wanted to come over and be my good little girl, get fucked by my fingers and grind against my cock, that right?"

You're unable to answer any of his questions, letting your body do all the talking for itself as you become completely loose and pliant under his touch, a ragdoll in his lap as whimpers continue to escape your mouth.

"Wearin' this little dress," he murmurs, "And these fuckin' socks," the hand that's not on your pussy comes down to rest on your thigh, squeezes the bare spot between your dress and your stocking, "Just beggin' to be touched, babygirl."

You should've seen what I had on before I left the house, you think to yourself, remembering the beige potato sack and thanking the heavens that your mother hadn't made you wear it. You watch as Joel pulls up your dress in the front, exposing both of you to the pornographic image of his hand inside your panties, fingers fucking you relentlessly while you drip and soak everything within reach.

"You want your reward now, baby?" he asks you softly, pulling your hair back and pressing a wet kiss to your temple, fingers beginning to slow, "Huh? You wanna try somethin' new?"

"Y-yes," you manage to finally speak, voice faint and weak, "W-want it so bad." And it's true - you don't even know what it is but you're dying for him to do it already, teach you something else that's not just chords on the guitar.

At your words he pulls his fingers out of you and you whine, petulant and frustrated as your hips buck in his lap. Without a word he pulls you off of him and carefully slips off the couch, placing you back against the cushions where he was sitting. You watch with wide eyes as he kneels on the floor in front of you, hands coming up to rest on your knees as he slowly pushes your legs apart.

"W-what are you doing?" you whisper, but a small voice in the back of your mind tells you that you already know, recalling past discussions from your friends that you'd listened to with curiosity. Is he...? Is he really going to?

"Gonna kiss it better, baby," he breathes, hands trailing up to the edges of your stockings and carefully thumbing your bare skin, shuffling closer and looking up at you with those big brown eyes, "Gonna make you feel so good."

"Isn't it..." you feel yourself frowning, thoughts muddled, "Don't guys not like..." you're not sure how to word it, grimacing, "Aren't you supposed to hate doing that?"

His brow furrows, "And where'd you hear that from?"

"My friends at college," you breathe, "They say guys hate doing it. Or... or they don't know how to do it right or something like that."

He surprises you when he smirks, eyes going devilish and sexy in that rugged way you love, "That's 'cause college girls usually sleep with college boys, babygirl," he says softly, "And college boys are dumb as rocks."

You giggle at his words, thinking back to that freshman party you'd attended where the handsome college boy had rejected you, gone for your friend instead. Joel's words are validating, comforting.

He pushes up your dress a bit more, then drags your panties down your legs, completely soaked. He smirks again at the sight of them, squeezes them in his palm before dropping them to the floor and picking your legs up to place them on his shoulders, pulling you toward him. You let out a gasp, eyes going hooded again as he scoots you forward and then dips his head down, presses a kiss to the soft skin of your inner thigh.

"This," he murmurs against your skin, "is one of my favorite things to do in the whole world." He kisses your other thigh, the hint of his tongue just barely flicking out to wet your skin, "And I wanted to do it to you," another kiss, "since the first day," and another, "you showed up on my doorstep."

You're losing your breath again, lips parting as he finally brings his lips to where you're aching for him, soaking the couch with your arousal. He presses a small and tender kiss to one of your outer lips, then the other, then carefully moves his hands up to thumb them apart, holding you open for him. You don't dare make a sound, biting down hard on your lip as you watch him look at you, take you in.

"Prettiest pussy I ever saw," he says quietly, breath fanning out over your wet skin, "I mean it, sweetheart. Ain't never gotten to kiss a pussy like this," he leans forward then and presses a small kiss to your clit, feather light. Your hips buck immediately, an odd sound coming from the back of your throat as you try to keep yourself together, "I know," he murmurs, "Just let go, honey. Don't hold back, want you to come all over my mouth."

And then he's licking a stripe up your folds, just like he'd done to your neck, long and languid and wet. Your eyes roll back, head hitting the back of the couch as he tastes you. The feeling of his mouth on such a sensitive part of you is indescribable; your head is suddenly empty again, no thoughts to be found other than feels so good, feels so good, feels so good. You don't even realize you're saying it out loud until he laughs, mouth vibrating against your pussy in the most perfect way.

"Love this cute little clit," he murmurs, kissing it again and then tugging it into his mouth with his tongue, sucking on it and making you writhe on the couch, fingernails digging into the cushions. He hums around it, pulls off it relatively quickly, then drags his mouth downward and pushes his tongue inside your hole, fucks you with it as your head lolls atop your shoulders.

College boys really are dumb as rocks.

"Your tongue," you moan out, eyes scrunching together as gasps continuously rip from your throat, "Oh fuck, oh my god." He licks inside you, pulls his tongue out to suck your labia, nose bumping against your clit. You shriek, hands coming up to cover your face as you bite down so hard on your lip you fear you might draw blood.

"Tastes so fuckin' sweet, babygirl" he says gruffly, pulling away for only a few seconds to peer up at you, chin glistening with your juices, "Just like I knew you would." He drops back down to suckle on your clit again, the tip of his tongue circling it over and over until you're on the verge of completely falling apart, a fire burning inside your belly that's growing stronger and stronger by the second.

The only thought that comes into your mind before you come is how sinful you must look right now, wearing your Sunday best, crucifix around your neck, hymn book strewn to the side as your fifty-six year old neighbor eats your pussy, coaxes noises out of you that you didn't even know you could make. You should feel ashamed, should feel sorry, but you don't. In fact, it's probably the hottest thing you've ever experienced in your life.

You have no time to give him any sort of warning, not that he needs one anyway. With one final suck to your clit you're gone, hips bucking upward as you cry out into Joel's living room pathetically, eyes shut tight as you flail beneath him. He puts his hands on your hips, pins you to the couch so you don't fall off as you come all over his mouth, just like he asked.

You lay there for what feels like a long time, body like jelly as you sink further and further into his couch. He peppers tiny kisses all over your pussy, avoiding your clit as not to cause you too much overstimulation, then very slowly pulls back to look at you, dropping your thighs from his shoulders.

"Good reward?" he asks softly, and all you can do is nod.

You listen as he gets up and busies himself in the kitchen for a moment, running the tap. He returns with a wet cloth and a glass of cold water, handing it to you before dropping back to his knees to wipe you clean. You hiss a bit when he touches your clit, hips stuttering.

"Shh, it's okay," he murmurs, "Just cleanin' you up, sweetheart."

When he's done he scoots in beside you on the couch, lets you curl up against him and lay there for a few quiet moments, breath evening out as you come back down to Earth. He strokes your hair, kisses your forehead, thumbs your cheek.

"That felt really good," you finally whisper softly, eyes hazy as you open them to look at him, "Thank you."

He smiles, charming and gentle, "You're welcome, babygirl."

"What time is it?"

He looks at his watch, "Ten after eleven, still got some time to spare," he brushes his nose against yours, "You wanna keep practicin' or do you wanna relax?"

"Relax," you hum, "Definitely relax."

He chuckles, "I'll put this away then," he extricates himself from you and reaches for the guitar, turning around to lean it back against the wall. He picks up your hymn book and goes to slip it back inside your purse before you sit up, shaking your head.

"I told my mom I loaned that to you," you smile sheepishly, "You should probably, um, keep it for a little bit."

"Ah, so that's my reward," he says with a laugh, thumbing the pages gently, "I'll take good care of it, promise."

Your eyes go wide at his words, "Oh my god."

He raises an eyebrow, puzzled by your reaction, "What?"

"You never came," you sit up on the couch, shaking your head frantically, "I'm so sorry, oh my god, come here, let me help," you reach toward his belt and he just laughs again, taking a step back.

"You don't need to do that, sweetheart," he says softly, kindly, but you're not having it.

"No, I want to, please," you stand up from the couch and step toward him, gripping his belt buckle, "Please let me."

He shakes his head; suddenly he's the one looking sheepish. You halt your movements, staring at him in confusion.

"I came, darlin'," he says with a breathless sort of laugh, smiling at you, "I came in my pants like one of your college boys. Haven't done it in years, actually. I'm surprised I still could." He pulls your hand off his belt and brings it to his lips, presses a kiss to your knuckles, "You're not the only one who learned somethin' new today."

You feel a proud sort of flush tinge your cheeks, smiling softly to yourself as you take his words in.

"That bein' said, I'm gonna need to change," he winces a bit as he adjusts his pants, "I'm a bit of a mess right now." His eyes suddenly light up with some kind of realization, and he quickly puts his finger up before walking over to one of his bookshelves and pulling a little gift bag off the bottom shelf, "Which reminds me," he says with a smile, heading back over to you, "This is for you."

You stare at the bag, confused, "For me?"

"For you."

You take it from him, feeling beyond touched despite not having any idea what's inside. Your heart is beating fast as you reach in the bag, push past the tissue paper and pull out something lightweight, soft under your touch. You stare at it for a few seconds, looking at the pastel pink material and thumbing it gently, brow slowly beginning to furrow.

"You said you needed a new swimsuit," he says softly, "You wanted a bikini, remember? I picked this up for you."

"Yeah, I... I remember," you're still staring at it; it's cute and ruffled, nothing too crazy like the things you'd worried he might get for you. However there's an odd feeling in the pit of your stomach as you look at it, dropping the bag at your feet and holding up the top half in front of your face, staring at it like it could attack you at any second.

It's quiet for a moment, then, "I can take it back if you don't like it, darlin'. No worries."

"No, no, I...I like it," you say quickly, "I just..." you can't really explain how you're feeling, unsure how exactly to word it, "If my parents ever saw me in this..." you suddenly feel like you're going to cry, shaking your head and dropping the top back into the bag, "I'm sorry, I know I told you to get it but... now that I'm actually looking at it... there's no way I can wear this in my pool. Not without my mother having a conniption. I don't know what I was thinking."

You feel his eyes on you as you reach down to pick the bag back up, pushing it back toward him, waiting for him to take it from you - he doesn't.

"It's yours, angel," he says softly, "You don't have to wear it but I want you to have it."

You shake your head, pushing it toward him again, "No, you don't need to waste your money on something I'll never wear."

"I don't care, I want you to have it," he repeats, voice kind yet firm, "I bought it for you, it's a present, and I think you deserve to have somethin' nice for yourself."

"I have plenty of nice things," you snap, letting go of the bag and watching as it cascades to the floor, "I don't need it."

You can't bring yourself to look at him, crossing your arms against your chest and biting down on your lip to keep the tears at bay. He stands there for a few seconds silently, probably waiting for you to say something else, but you don't.

"Well, I'm gonna go change outta these clothes," he says quietly, "I'll meet you out on the back deck, alright? It's real private out there, don't gotta worry about anyone seein' you."

You nod slowly, staring at a spot on the floor. He turns away from you and heads upstairs, leaving you standing there feeling like a complete asshole. What is wrong with you? He just gave you a fucking present, not to mention the best orgasm of your life, and this is how you treat him? You take a deep breath and force the tears away, sighing to yourself and bringing your gaze back to the little bag on the floor.

You hate this. Why does every single thought you have need to be somehow policed by your parents despite them not even being in the room? Why is every decision, every move you make, always influenced by that guilty part of you, the part of you that wants to be their perfect girl, their star student, their obedient God fearing daughter? How has it gotten this deep? Why are they so ingrained in you to the point where something you literally asked for is tainted by thoughts of their disapproval?

You stand there staring at the bag, arms still crossed, thoughts going a mile a minute. Get over yourself. You just had a man's mouth on your pussy and you're suddenly worried about wearing a bikini? You make a grumbling sound in your throat, exhaling and shaking your head. Stop letting them control you. Stop giving them power.

You slip inside the downstairs bathroom, little bag in tow.

--

The sun is hot against your skin as you step out onto Joel's back patio, clad in your brand new bikini and surprisingly less self conscious than you thought you'd be. He was right; the backyard is very private, shielded by trees and a tall white fence similar to your own. You briefly wonder why he'd choose to play guitar on his front step when he has such a nice atmosphere back here, but the thought fades quickly when you see him sitting there in front of you in a lounge chair, wearing a pair of shorts and nothing else.

You feel yourself flush as you walk forward, shutting the door behind you with eyes glued to the hair on his chest, the sweat clinging to his skin, dipping into his tummy. You're still a bit embarrassed by your initial reaction to your gift but it's seemingly water under Joel's bridge when he turns around at the sound of the door to see you standing there.

He whistles when he sees you, low and cartoonish, "Phew. I think I made a good choice," he looks you up and down as you smile shyly, "Gimme a twirl."

You do as you're told, the thin ruffles tickling the tops of your thighs as you spin on the spot. You giggle when he whistles again.

"I really do like it," you say softly, walking over to him and settling into the other lounge chair, "It suits me. I'm sorry I got all weird."

He smiles at you tenderly, "That's alright, babygirl. I understand," he pauses then, looks thoughtful for a moment before saying, "You know... I know what it feels like to be worried about disappointin' your parents. To always be seekin' approval."

Your brow furrows at his words, "You do?"

He nods, leaning back a bit in the chair and sighing a bit, "I may be new to this neighborhood but I ain't new to Texas, darlin'. Born and raised here, went to church every Sunday just like you, had a curfew and rules and expectations and all those things you have." He closes his eyes against the rays of sun, "Difference is, I'm not an only child. I wasn't dealin' with it alone, thank God. Had my little brother Tommy with me every step of the way."

You smile at that, trying to picture a much younger version of Joel in his childhood, horsing around with another little boy. You'd always thought about what it would have been like to have a sibling, to not be the only one with all the pressure on your shoulders, but your parents had never given you any. Your mom had wanted to have more kids and simply couldn't, another layer of guilt added to your ever increasing pile. Her only daughter - a sinner. You shake the thought away and continue to listen to Joel.

"The thing about havin' a brother, in my experience anyway, is that people will always find ways to compare you. Tommy was always the smart one, the moral one, good head on his shoulders, always did well in school and knew his scripture back to front," he chuckles to himself, "I tried so hard to be like him but I just couldn't do it, wasn't built that way, never have been. I was the angry one, the problem child. Was always good with my hands but my parents never saw much value in that, always ended up askin' me the same shit: Why can't you be more like Tommy? Tommy's got straight A's, why don't you? When are you gonna start actin' more like Tommy?"

You frown, feeling a pang in your heart at the words.

"Was too much pressure to be like Tommy. He was their golden boy, you know? And I just couldn't compare. God knows I tried but..." he reaches over the side of his chair and picks up a bottle of beer you hadn't noticed before, bringing it to his lips and taking a sip, "I started messin' up a lot when I hit my teenage years," he continues, "Drinkin', breakin' curfew, sneakin' out to see girls. I had fun but my parents...phew, my father in particular, he was not happy, let me tell you. And then -" he cuts himself off suddenly, frozen for a moment before taking one last sip of beer and putting it down again.

"Then...?" you ask softly.

He shrugs to himself, hesitating a bit before answering, "Then... I got myself into some trouble. Won't go into it, not right now, but they kicked me out. That was that, didn't wanna have nothin' to do with me after that."

Your stomach twists at his words, "That's horrible."

He shrugs again, finally turning to look at you, "It ain't as bad as it sounds, trust me. I was better off, I didn't need any of their judgement in my life, any of that Catholic guilt. It was like a weight came off my shoulders. Sure, I had some bigger fish to fry after that, had to do a lot of things on my own, but I wouldn't change a thing."

"So, do you still talk?" you can't help but ask, feeling slightly selfish; it's for you, for your own conscious.

"Who, me and my parents?" he laughs lightly, "They're long gone now, sweetheart. But yeah, after my Dad died I spent some more time with my Momma, got to have her in my life again for a bit. That was nice." He ponders to himself for a moment, "I think, as cliché as it sounds, time really does heal most wounds. Nothin's ever perfect, nothin' can ever go back to the way it was, but people change. And while they're changin', you gotta focus on what's right for you, on livin' the life you want, not worryin' about what they'll think."

You nod thoughtfully, taking in his words. "So... this life, the one you're living right now... is it what you want?" you ask softly, brow furrowed, "Are you happy?"

He sighs then, leans further back into the chair and closes his eyes once more, "Now that's a complicated question."

You both lay there in silence for a little while, though it's neither awkward nor uncomfortable. It feels nice, to just sit with somebody with no pressure of making conversation or answering things about yourself. Every time you've interacted with anyone this summer, whether it be your parents or your mom's friends or people you used to know, there's always been an expectation to inform. To prove yourself, to show how good of a person you are, how much you've achieved. With Joel none of that pressure exists; it's so easy to just be with him and not have to be anyone but yourself.

Though he hadn't really answered your question, you have an answer of your own. Before you met Joel, almost two weeks ago now, you hadn't known where you stood in life, what you wanted, who you were. And now you're slowly beginning to realize that there's this whole other person inside of you, dying to get out, to be free. And you like that person, want to be her more than anything, want to live that life.

But just like Joel said - it's complicated.

"Do you ever..." you break the silence, trailing off slightly before continuing, "Do you ever feel like you're just kind of going through the motions? Like... wasting all your time doing things for other people instead of yourself?"

"Honey, you just summed up my whole life," he says with a laugh, deep and smooth, "You think I wanna be out workin' til ten every night, doin' construction and barkin' orders and layin' plans for shit I got no interest in? I'm fifty six, I should be thinkin' about retirin' by now." He winces at his own words and then sits up a bit, giving you an odd look, "Forget I said that."

You raise an eyebrow, confused, "Why?"

He grimaces, "I don't need to be remindin' you how old I am."

You can't help but laugh, smiling to yourself and shaking your head quickly, "I don't mind, Mr. Miller, really."

His expression softens at your words, but then his brow furrows. He's quiet for a moment, the cogs in his head seemingly turning until he finally says softly, "Call me Joel, darlin'."

You're a bit surprised by his words, eyes widening, "Oh, I'm sorry."

He smiles, "Don't be sorry, sweetheart. I... I do like you callin' me Mr. Miller, but you can call me by my name too, if you want. If it feels natural for you."

You nod slowly, "Joel," you say quietly and he chuckles, "Joel," you repeat, smiling to yourself, "Joel."

"Don't wear it out," he admonishes with a grin, reaching down to pick up his bottle of beer again, "Though I do like how you say it."

Your cheeks warm at his words and you settle back into the chair, closing your eyes and inhaling the fresh air. Your time is winding down now - you'd told your mom you'd be home around noon; the sun is almost at the highest point in the sky.

"So what would you be doing?" you ask suddenly, "If you had more freedom for yourself, if you weren't doing the whole contracting thing?"

He thinks to himself for a moment, then shrugs, "Playin' music, I guess. Always wanted to when I was young but my parents didn't like the idea, I'm sure you can imagine." You grimace at his words, understanding completely. "But yeah... doin' some gigs, playin' guitar, singin' a bit here and there... that'd be the dream." He smiles at you then, crinkly eyed and gorgeous, "What about you, darlin'? If you didn't have all these things with your parents to worry about, what would you do?"

You bite your lip, averting your eyes from his as you softly murmur, "I think I'd still be sitting right here with you."

He looks at you for a long time, thoughtful and soft. You can't help but feel shy under his gaze, toying with a ruffle on your bikini and wondering if maybe you've said too much. You've barely known him two weeks, you doubt he's feeling any ounce of the butterflies that have been fluttering in your belly since the day you met him, and yet you can't help but hope that maybe...just maybe... he's starting to.

"You want a beer or anything, sweetheart?" he interrupts your thoughts, standing up from his chair and gesturing toward the house, "I'm goin' in to get another one. I have some lemonade too."

"Lemonade sounds nice," you say with a smile, and he mirrors it, reaching down to push a strand of hair behind your ear.

"One lemonade comin' right up," he murmurs, then leans down to press a soft kiss to your lips, sweet and quick. You melt under his touch, eyes closing as he strokes your cheek, realizing you could sit here forever just existing with him, being touched by him, being kissed by him.

Yup. Very complicated.

--

You arrive home to find your mother sitting at the kitchen table eating lunch; she looks up as soon as she sees you, eyes lighting up, "So? How'd it go?"

You're wearing the dress again, the stockings, the crucifix. The only difference is that the hymn book in your purse has been replaced with the pink bikini, wrapped in tissue paper. You sit down across the table from your mother, feeling a little lighter, like there's a little less weight on your shoulders.

"It was amazing," you tell her, unable to stop the genuine smile that spreads across your face, "I learned so much."

IT’S SO GOOD 😭

à la carte

5.8k / dbf!joel x f!reader

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

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

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

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

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4

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

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

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

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

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

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

“—want anything—” 

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

“Sorry, what?

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

“From…” 

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

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

“For tonight, smartass.” 

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

“You could try to sound enthused.” 

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

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

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

You pause. The mug stalls halfway to your lips. 

“We have company?” 

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

You scowl. 

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

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

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

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

Yeah, you think.

You mind. 

You find your voice in the dregs of your coffee. 

“No,” you tell him. “Not at all.” 

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

“Yeah,” you say. 

You’re sure. 

—

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

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

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

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

You: heard you’re coming to dinner 

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

Joel: That a problem? 

You: no

You’re feeling bold, so you double text. 

You: assuming you can keep your hands to yourself.

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

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

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

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

You: i’ll manage 

Joel: We’ll see. 

“Dick,” you mutter.

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

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

You think.

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

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

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

You: you bringing something? 

Joel: You want me to? 

You: most polite guests do 

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

Joel: Cheeky. 

Joel: Got something in mind? 

You hesitate half a second. 

You: something sweet. surprise me.

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

—

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

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

You unlock the door, ease it open, and — 

Oh. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your cheeks burn.

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

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

He looks amused. 

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

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

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

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

“I don’t,” he answers. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Careful,” he warns.

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

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

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

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

He angles two fingers against your core. 

“—here.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck. 

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

So. Fucking. Smug. 

You’ll show him. 

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He hisses through his teeth. 

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

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

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

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

“Quit.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He stiffens. 

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

“Gettin’ old,” your dad teases. 

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

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

Because he’s blushing. 

You made Joel Miller blush. 

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

Your dad tries to protest.

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

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

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

“Did you cook?” he asks. 

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

Completely in control. Completely pissed. 

“No,” you mumble. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You wanna fuckin’ explain that?” 

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

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

“Asked you a question,” he grits. 

His erection crowds your hips, nudging into your core.

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

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

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

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

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

The hand on your waist clamps tighter. 

“Open your mouth,” he says. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“God damn, baby.” 

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

He groans. 

“Turn around,” he orders. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuck,” you breathe, “Joel, f—”

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

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

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

You nod weakly. Okay. 

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

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

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

You whimper softly, mourning the loss.

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

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

This is punishment. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You need to cum?” 

Yes. 

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

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

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

“Yes or no?” he hisses. 

“No,” you mumble. “I—fuck. No.” 

“You sorry?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink. Right. 

“Yeah,” you mumble. “Sure.” 

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

—

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

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

Your dad stops you. 

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

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

“Sure,” you say. 

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

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

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

“No,” he says, quickly. 

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

“Okay,” you say. “So—okay.” 

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

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

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

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

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

“No one knows,” you say, slowly. 

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

He huffs. His weight shifts on the floorboards.

Your stomach pools at your feet. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then what is it, exactly?” 

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

“I—‘f we keep goin’ like this, I—”

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

You stare at him. Shake your head, incredulous. 

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

He doesn’t move. 

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

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

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

“Don’t,” you warn. 

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

“Just go, Joel,” you mumble.

He goes. 

taglist (lmk if you wanna be added!):

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

---

✨ chef’s kiss ✨

Happy Birthday

Pairing: Kiba Inuzuka/fem!reader

Warnings: 18+ mdni // modern au, intoxication, unhealthy amount of tension, edging. reader is naruto uzumaki's younger sister.

Word count: 11.5k

Summary: Kiba invites you to his 22nd birthday party. Stuff happens.

a/n: nobody asked for this, but here i am; posting this one-shot in honour of the birthday boy.

HAD this all been a mistake?

As you feel the bitter burn of yet another consumed shot seep its way down your throat, you can't say for sure.

Placing the tiny glass back upon the kitchen counter, your expression twists into one of pure disgust when the heat settles into the pit of your stomach.

You've forgotten just how bad vodka tastes on its own, lacking the sweet tang of Red Bull or juice. The reminder is semi-welcomed, you suppose.

The broad palm to land upon your shoulder blade in that moment is warm as it pats you encouragingly one, two; three times.

You suck in a sharp breath through gritted teeth, swallowing the runny saliva that's only there because of the damn vodka, before a bright red solo cup is shoved right into your hands.

Your eyes narrow as you look up at the tall, handsome brunet which you've had the unfortunate pleasure of knowing ever since you were little.

Unbeknownst to many, Kiba has been terrorizing your life for as long as you can remember. Adorning nearly every picture in your family photo album with that tan, freckled face of his, the ebullient Inuzuka had met your big brother on his first day of preschool, and stuck by his side from that moment onward.

Since Kiba is Naruto's best friend, it's no wonder how most of the memories you have of your childhood include him.

Only two years younger than the two boys, you grew up alongside both Naruto and Kiba; building sandcastles on the beach together whenever you went on vacation, playing hide and seek, as well as every other game you could possibly come up with off the top of your tiny heads and which made you constantly end up in trouble together.

Kiba - always the rather boisterous and rowdy kid, much like your big brother - had been more or less invariably nice to you throughout all those years.

Until he abruptly wasn't.

After all, as soon as the Inuzuka turned eight, he had started getting mean; towards you, specifically. Constantly tugging on your pigtails and taunting you for how you acted and spoke, Kiba had made you cry and tell on him to your mother on several occasions.

Crying big, fat tears, you never quite understood why she only chuckled at your childish complaints back then. Why Tsume, Kiba's own mother, had had the exact same reaction, too. Why Naruto agreed with everything he said like the traitorous older brother he was, and got fussy all of a sudden if you wanted to play with them like you always did.

You stopped trying to fit in amongst the two rowdy boys at some point, and instead focused on your own hobbies.

So, years passed. You grew up into a sweet girl, who eventually found friends of her own, and forgot all about stupid, idiotic Kiba who teased you until you cried, despite that he swung by nearly every other day.

That is, until he went to visit his dad one summer when you were thirteen. That year, Kiba came back tall and lean; with his limbs almost comically long, as well as accompanied with a deep voice that made you burst out with laughter whenever it cracked into a higher pitch mid-sentence.

You still quarelled in the same way you used to when you were little, but this time without your tearful complaints to your mother.

He told you all about how his summer went, how his dad was pretty okay whenever he wished to be, and how his older sister Hana had stepped on a sea urchin and had to be rushed to the hospital, where he laughed his ass off as she groaned with every pluck of the doctor's tweezers.

But then that summer came to an end, as all things do, and Kiba started high school along with Naruto, and you were forgotten once again because of other, new friends and experiences that interested him as a proper teenager, and that certainly had nothing to do with thirteen-year-old you. 

By the time you became a freshman yourself, he was already seventeen and a junior. Much to your beffudlement, Kiba had started acting weird around you at that age, mostly turning an ignorant eye towards your direction and barely speaking to you at all, which had most definitely been way out of his usually outgoing personality.

He stared at you only when you weren't looking. Asked Naruto about how you were doing, but never once voiced the question directly to you. The entire ordeal only made you grow further apart.

You never questioned him about it; well at least not truly, anyway. It wasn't like you actually cared about what someone as silly as Kiba thought of you, after all.

And then all of a sudden said boy was a senior finishing high school, getting ready to begin living yet another chapter of his life. He got a sports scholarship and left town for college without ever saying goodbye, much like your own brother. He left you behind, just like that. They both did.

It seemed that university life was a blast for an open, untamed person like Kiba, at least judging from the pictures he posted on his Instagram. From eighteen to twenty-one, you mostly saw him transfigure from a boy to a man over the screen of your phone - barely interacting with him at all, if it weren't for the rare exception whenever he liked the selfie you occasionally posted, was asking for Naruto, or if he dropped by the house to say hi to your parents during the summer.

So, to say that you were absolutely flabbergasted when you received a random text from him one night, inviting you to his 22nd birthday party would be an understatement.

Even Naruto seemed surprised when you asked if Kiba had possibly made a mistake. Had turned slightly suspicious, too, as you skipped down the stairs way more dolled up than usual on the night of the party, staring up at him with slightly anxious eyes.

"It's just Kiba," your brother tells you, eyeing the pretty skirt and top you've decided on tonight, "so, why are you all dressed up?"

"Who said it was for him?" you reply with an eye roll, despite that there's an inexplicable bounce to your step as you leave the house.

And that was that, as well as the reason how you find yourself staring at a freshly turned twenty-two-year-old Kiba, the golden amber within his irises recoiling whenever your gazes meet inside his dimly-lit kitchen.

You have no idea how he has managed to hunt you down amongst the mass of people to fill every room of his house, but the honey-like shade nearly glows with overt amusement when he smiles down at you after he's successfully persuaded you into sharing a third round of double shots with him.

Let's be honest, it's not like it took him a lot of effort. It's his birthday, after all. And the birthday boy gets what he wants!

Meanwhile, Kiba, who is feverishly determined and drunk just enough to finally shoot his shot with the girl that's been off limits to him for fucking aeons, is putting his best effort in making that statement true.

He knows what he's attempting to do is supposedly wrong as he keeps poking and prodding at you to see how you play - knows it darn well, but after literal years of loyalty and restraint, he's allowed to go behind his best friend's back just this once, right?

Sure, Naruto will unleash hell and fury upon him if he finds out, but...

I mean, come on! You're old enough to make your own decisions in life. He's tired of only liking your cute selfies and never sliding into your DMs, because Naruto gets upset everytime he sees him double-tap the damn posts. It's his birthday, for crying out loud!

And it's not just any birthday. This year, Kiba has finally allowed himself to wish for you; hence why you're here in the first place. 

So, it's the fact that it's just you and him inside the little kitchen that matters most to him, no matter that you're surrounded by other individuals who he can't bring himself to care about in that moment. Honestly, with so many people around, Kiba is slightly surprised that he's the only one you seem to endure the company of tonight.

After all, he had waited for an hour or so before leaving his friends to go look for you instead, giving you plenty of time to mingle. When he at long last found you behind the kitchen counter, mixing yourself a drink, completely alone and not talking to anybody, it was like yet another birthday present amongst many.

The realization that you're actually standing in front of him and he's seeing you properly after years of nothing is making his heart feel all kinds of weird. He's been crushing on you ever since he was a little kid, but that's long gone. 

He's a man now - a man that's still undeniably crushing on you, but still...

All he has left to do as an infatuated man, now; is to score. It's a parlous task, however Kiba is willing to take the risk. 

He's thought long and hard about this. Has taken safety precautions. The people he invited have no fucking clue who you are, or are far too intoxicated and high to remember whose baby sister exactly he's beginning to hit on. The sister, mind you, whose annoyingly protective older brother is nowhere to be seen, because Kiba had made sure to invite his friend Hinata from college, so that she'd keep the damn cockblocker busy while he kicks up the charm.

But you don't know anything about his wicked plan. You just see his smile, and assume he's being nice to you because a circuit inside that little, male brain of his must have glitched, or whatever.

He's telling you something, but you can barely hear him over the booming music and equally as loud chatter. The brown-haired Inuzuka seems to own an entire army of friends, however is that really a surprise, considering how damn affable he is?

His mouth moves in the most peculiar way when he grins, upper lip pink and plump as it pulls back on his teeth; as well as slightly glossy from the shot he's just finished. The two incisors he owns are way sharper than whatever you've seen on any other human. They glint in the dim light, causing your pulse to quicken.

"Hey," you hear him drawl seemingly from miles away, "you doin' okay there?"

You feel your nose scrunch up when he snaps his fingers in front of your face all of a sudden. Catching gazes with the fierce amber, you feel like the silliest of fools.

You've successfully zoned out, thinking about his stupid mouth, and Kiba is staring at you now; studying you like you're a goddamn enigma he seems surprisingly eager to solve.

His eyes are enticing just like his mouth. The realization that you've been caught ogling at his lovely smile makes heat radiate through your chest. You swear that you can feel your heart hurting from the sheer and utter embarrassment.

Jittery nerves propel your adrenaline levels, your grip around the cup which you're still holding in your hand, tightening in response.

The tips of your fingers feel somewhat numb from all the alcohol you've indulged yourself in. You're not entirely sure if that's a good thing or not.

"y/n," he says your name, waving a hand in front of your face again.

"Wha-... Sorry, what?" you manage lamely.

The second heatwave of humiliation to hit you in that moment isn't exactly helping in sobering you up, but that's not the plan anyway. It's just annoying that you can't seem to focus.

Kiba snickers at your obvious discomfort, just like he did when he was a kid. "Somebody can't handle their booze?"

The frown you portray is subtle and pouty. "I'm just tired."

"Mhmmm," he hums exaggeratedly, nodding, "of course you are."

You can't believe you used to have a crush on a taunting prick like him. The sigh you loose is exasperated as you point to the solo cup he's just handed you. "What's in this?"

"What?" He quirks one dark brow before leaning in slightly so that he can hear you better.

His cologne invades your nose in an instant. Kiba smells like rain and cedarwood; heavy, balsamic notes that remind you of a forest that's wrapped in a blanket of thick fog and moss, all of it coated in a layer of cool morning dew.

The pleasant scent titillates your senses to the point where it makes you want to cling onto the white t-shirt he's wearing, so that you'd be able to bury your face into the crook of his neck. 

Pause. It's Kiba we're talking about here. Idiot Kiba, who forgot to tie his shoes before he went on a roller coaster when he was nine, and sent them flying away in the middle of the ride.

Kiba, who chugged milk straight from the carton and laughed so hard it spurted out his nose when you told him how gross he was. Kiba, who kept picking up spiders and other nasty bugs, and then ran after you, threatening you he'll drop them into your hair as you squealed and cried.

The thought of sin that had crossed your mind nearly makes you cringe away from him at the other memories to otherwise flood your brain as if in argument. How embarrassing for you!

Blinking, you instantly hang blame upon the alcohol that's coursing your veins, and obviously clouding your better judgement. He's your brother's best friend, after all - one who you've known since diapers and that's been seen as nothing but a menace in your eyes ever since.

It'd be gross to think like that about Kiba of all people, wouldn't it?

... Wouldn't it?

Partially satisfied with your reasoning, you grumble and curl your fingers around the unbuttoned front of the flannel he's wearing over the white t-shirt, so that you can pull him closer.

He's compliant as he leans in, but what you fail to notice, however, is that his hand rests against the kitchen counter at the tug; trapping you in-between the cool marble and his body. Caging you right in.

The sleeves of his flannel are rolled up to his elbows. You can't help but glance at the defined knuckles and flexible digits. His forearm is tan and covered in dark hair, but you can still see a small fraction of the thin, white scar he's acquired when he fell off his skateboard when he was seven, and that's now hiding underneath the rather familiar forest green, vowen bracelet he's been wearing since forever.

Back then, it would have been either a sprained wrist, or a head-on collision with you when you had swerved in front of him on your little, bright pink rollerblades just as he had picked up speed on the damned board.

Luckily for you; Kiba had chosen the former.

Come to think of it, he always chose you over his own well-being. He fussed about it, of course, but he nonetheless picked your safety first.

You're not entirely sure why you even remember such a thing; even less why it makes your heart flutter. But you're not one to dwell on it.

Stepping onto the tips of your toes, your mouth is right next to his ear as you raise your voice and repeat the question, "I was asking what's in the cup?"

"It's just soda, pipsqueak," Kiba says, the rasp of his voice laced with laughter as he adds, "it'll help in getting rid of the taste of booze that you can't seem to endure."

Both of your brows shoot up in mild astonishment at the blatant taunt. "Excuse me?"

He smiles down at you once more. "What?"

Your eyes dip to his smile again. There you go, staring at his mouth for a second time in the mere span of five minutes. Making him notice. Stupid, stupid, stupid! 

Your voice shakes slightly as you utter, "Don't you think you're a bit too old to keep teasing me, Kiba?"

"Hmm?" His eyes glimmer with profound mischief when he says, "I always thought you'd be the kind of girl that'd enjoy a little bit of teasing."

Heat creeps up your neck at the hint. He's obviously drunk, but so are you, because now you're smirking as you reply, "It completely depends on the occasion."

"Yeah?" He seems completely invested, impatient fingers tapping against the marble of the counter as he towers over you. "What kind of occasion, exactly?"

You can't resist an eye roll. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

"Oh, I'd like to know, all right. Very much so."

The giggle you weave into the tease is innocently cute, "Sorry, but I don't kiss and tell." It's all fun and games, right? No harm done.

He's quick to turn it into his favour. "Mind making an exception for me?"

"For which one, exactly," you quip in an instant, "the kiss, or the tell part?"

"Why, you little-... Hah." His lips part, revealing the perfect, straight row of teeth again as he laughs quietly at your jab.

The beam itself is crooked and appealing, and it's in that exact moment that you realize how close he actually is as he stands next to you. How his gaze burns like a forge as it focuses solely on you, and how anyone walking past could take it the wrong way as you push back against the counter and he leans in even further, like it's his fucking instinct to follow after you.

Wait. Are you actually flirting with him right now?

You pray to every God you know that Naruto doesn't come searching for you. If he were to find you like this, your brother might just tear you to shreds for messing with his best friend of all people. Might rip Kiba apart for allowing it in the first place, too.

But in all seriousness; are you just messing around with him? Or do you actually want to initiate something with your brother's best friend, who, at long last, is giving you the attention you've wished for ever since you were thirteen? Or perhaps it is just the booze taking control of your actions?

The edge of the counter bites into the small of your back with the movement as you pull back. Kiba's digits tap against the marble again. He trails his eyes all over you - up and down. Like a proper bastard.

His arm is so close to your side that you can feel his body heat pour into you, even though you're not making any sort of physical contact ever since your hand had left his flannel. The feeling is overwhelming, to say the least. You can't believe you're actually growing flustered around an idiot like Kiba, for fuck's sake.

The daze you feel is the reason why the best you can do is stare at his chest now, which is so wide that you're wondering how big his goddamn ribcage must be. His heart definitely beats like a war drum; you're sure of it.

Before you can hesitate, the curiosity you feel makes you press your palm against the middle of his chest. Not a moment passes, and there it is - the strong, steady heartbeat you've expected to feel; grazing your finger pads, and making your own pulse skyrocket. 

"Anyways," you pat his firm chest, trying to seem as nonchalant as possible while placing the cup of soda onto the counter, "I can handle it just fine, Kib."

"Sweetheart," Kiba utters, the grin on his face growing even wider, "I'm not entirely sure you can."

Your gaze lifts as you look at him underneath your eyelashes. His face owns a reddish tint to it now; both cheeks blooming with heat which you're guessing is there because of the alcohol.

His eyes seem glossy, the stare heavy-lidded and complacent, but most importantly - unmoving from your own.

Your nerves are firing up all at once at the intense eye contact. Pressure climbs up your throat, making your chest tighten with blazing-hot tension. Your mind is running all over the place, turning you incapable of concentrating. 

The suspense makes you falter as you peel your eyes away from him. It turns you into a coward, because now you're completely changing the subject, "Nice bracelet."

Kiba on the other hand, seems to be holding his ground. His voice is smooth as velvet as he tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear and says, "As far as I remember, you've bought it for me at the beach years ago."

Hyper-awareness flashes throughout you at his touch, making you tongue-tangled with the jumble of words you let out, "Yeah, 'cause you wouldn't stop bitching about how I lost your stupid Spider-Man towel, and I had to make it up to you somehow."

"First of all, it wasn't stupid. And second," he chuckles as he curls the same strand of hair around his finger and tugs it lightly to provoke you further, "it was an Iron Man one. Please educate yourself before you come for me, cutie."

Your pulse is racing now. "Cutie?"

Kiba blinks. His knuckle brushes your cheekbone and it's like a tingling, nearly electrical jolt that surges through him at the accidental touch in that exact moment.

He pulls back, leaving the part of skin he touched burning in his wake. "I'm sorry. I didn't-... I didn't mean it like that. Fuck, hah."

His laughter is somewhat nervous now, and to be honest, you've never seen him act this hesitant before. The Kiba you know had always been nothing but smug in every single aspect, but at the same time, you barely know the current Kiba.

You haven't talked in years, after all - not properly, at least, which is why this entire interaction is so freaking odd in the first place. You wish you had some sort of power to know what on earth is going on inside that pretty head of his.

Based from experience gained from spending so many years in his company, you're guessing not much is happening inside that thick skull, but you'd kill to know the reason as to why he's invited you to his birthday party at all.

What has changed? Why was he searching the house for you, specifically, pretty much ignoring all the people he had invited, and why has he decided to spend the rest of the night in your presence, instead of anyone else's?

It seems that no matter how simple his mind may be, Kiba is - much to your dismay - the true enigma here.

Great.

"Ugh, I'm sorry," he repeats when you don't say anything in return, running a frustrated hand through his chestnut hair, "I think I'm just really wasted and saying shit I don't mean, 'cause of it."

In truth, he just wants to see if you'll bite into the bait he's setting up for you. If you'll play, and allow him to yank you right into his greedy hands.

You must be wasted, too, because now you're looking him right in the eye, saying, "It's all right, Kib. I liked it."

You just can't help yourself. Tonight is the first time in your life that you're seeing him this defenseless. That you're able to tug and pull on his strings, and play with him like he's a shiny, new toy that you can't wait to mess with. The opportunity is simply too good to miss out on.

If only you knew.

The atmosphere changes yet again at the words you've just spoken out loud, God have mercy on your soul. Something sticky and morally questionable settles right between you.

The tension is making your mouth dry. You're both circling now; unsure and waiting to see who is willing to take the first step towards the reason behind your uncertainty.

"You liked it," he mumbles at long last, unable to look at you properly, "the pet name?"

"Mhmm, I think it's cute." The smile you offer him is as cunning as one of a fox - pure vixen. Kiba doesn't understand why, but something about your face brightening up and the way the sheen of your lip gloss catches light tempts him; makes him tilt his head to the side and take you in unashamedly this time around.

He's outright leering at you now, studying you from head to toe, and taking in the pretty skirt and tight top, without trying to hide his interest like he's been doing for the past hour and a half.

You might own the smile of a fox, being an Uzumaki and all that, but when his amber eyes darken with shadows you can't quite read, you realize that he's the hound that's just about ready to start hunting you down.

His bottom lip is tucked underneath the same teeth that are now chewing the tender flesh from deeply pondering a thought which you'll never get the pleasure of knowing.

Kiba steps from one foot to another, loosing a huffed chuckle before he looks you in the eye again; seemingly satisfied with his conclusion.

Time to go all-in.

"You know," he says, voice wary, "I've got loads of other stuff from way back when we were kids, saved in a box upstairs, if you wanna check it out?"

He pauses for a second as his head whips to the side. He looks over his shoulder, and you can see him scan the room quickly; searching for something, or rather someone, before he turns back towards you and adds, "It's, uh... It's up in my room."

You quirk a brow at the suggestion. "You want to take me up to your room?"

Is he seriously asking what you think he is?

"Yeah," he says a bit more confidently now, scratching the back of his neck. His face is red as he mutters, "But only if you want to, of course."

"Hmm." You spend two or three seconds pretending that you're thinking it over just to see him fidget and squirm a bit more, before you at long last give him a slow nod of your head, "Sure, I guess."

Kiba seems relieved, until: "Though, I should probably go tell Naruto, so that he knows where I am."

Pushing from the counter, you dust off the imaginary lint from your cute skirt, however before you can even look up at him, his hand is back to pressing against the marble; blocking your path.

It seems that you aren't going anywhere.

Kiba's eyes are dark and glazed, the iridescent flecks of gold lazily swirling inside the liquid amber whenever the light catches the irises just right. He's looking down at you with a furrowed brow and an expression that's pretty bitter, unlike his honey eyes, but you only realize that he can't stop staring at your mouth when he says, "Maybe we shouldn't tell Naruto about where we're goin', sweetheart."

You aren't stupid. You know that the words have a deeper meaning. And now, you have yet another reason for your hunch to be proven right on why he doesn't want your brother to find out where you're going with him. Still, you push his limit, feeling him out, "And why is that?"

"He's probably busy." His voice is firm as he looks down at you when you flutter your eyelashes up at him. Perhaps it even owns a certain edge of frustration to it.

You sound like a bimbo when you reply, "Ah, I see."

You stare at each other as you feel the buzz of tension to sear your skin in mind-numbing waves. They're hitting against you both like you're cliffs that are constantly being kissed by the rowdy sea.

You can almost taste the anticipation of what's to come. Meanwhile, Kiba can nearly taste your saliva mixing with his own.

All he wants to do is kiss you. Kiss you, until you won't be able to feel your mouth anymore from how hot his tongue is to stroke yours and scorch you.

He's been imagining how it'd be like to kiss that pouty mouth ever since he was fourteen. And now - at twenty-two - he wants to know just as bad.

"Well?" he utters, impatience peeking through the mask he's put on ever since you've shown up at his front door.

"Chill, you idiot," you giggle finally, nodding again, "I won't tell Naruto if you don't want me to."

It'll be our little secret.

Relief washes over him yet again. He smirks as he moves at your compliance, offering you his hand like those cocky gentlemen in the films you're an absolute sucker for. "Well, shall we, then?"

The action is so cheesy and sweet, that you don't even hesitate to place your palm upon his own, not realizing the consequences of your decision in that moment. 

His grip is tight and possessive in all the right ways. You can't remember the last time you've held hands with him, but it certainly didn't feel like this.

"Lead the way, Kib."

And so, Kiba does.

---

"Christ, I haven't been up here in forever."

"And yet, you seem to have made yourself quite at home."

You turn to look at him from your spot on his bed you've just plopped down and made yourself comfortable on. His childhood bedroom is a bit different than what you saw the last time you were here, but what exactly has changed?

The bed is certainly bigger, as well as the wardrobe that stands in one corner opposite from where you're currently sitting. All of the furniture is made out of rich oak, exactly like most of the house; as well as the desk that's covered in random clutter, mostly consisting of notebooks, bright highlighters and sticky notes, which he must have brought home from college.

The movie posters to adorn the walls are still there, and somehow compliment the cosy aesthetic of his space. You spot the fluffy-looking dog bed that's set-up right next to his desk. It's empty.

"Is Akamaru with your mom?"

"Yeah, they won't be back until tomorrow evening," Kiba replies, closing the door, "now stop snooping through my stuff, will ya?"

"Uh, it's called looking around? Who said I was snooping?" The scoff you let out in answer is nothing short from derisive as you say, "And besides, it's not like there'd be anything new to find... Not much has changed; seeing that your room is still as messy as it was when you were ten."

"It ain't that messy," he retaliates, fingers wrapping around the key that's secured in the lock. He stands next to the door for a couple of seconds, making you stare at his back in puzzlement.

His voice is surprisingly quiet and soft when he speaks again, though thankfully you can still hear him over the muffled noise of music that's still being blasted downstairs, "By the way, uh... Do you mind if I lock the door?"

Oh?

The smirk which insists on curling the corners of your gloss-coated lips upwards is hard to hide. "Why would you lock it?"

He pauses again, body going still. You just know the gears within his head are turning at the speed of light. You can't help but wonder if it hurts him to think this much; this hard, when he says, "I don't want people getting the wrong idea."

Your reply is as swift as an arrow: "Don't you think locking the door would give them that exact idea in the first place, Kiba?"

For fuck's sake, you're too clever and witty for your own good; always have been. It's infuriating, but Kiba tames the tone of his voice into something sweeter by swallowing hard. "Let's hope not."

Before you can quip anything back at him, the lock clicks into place. Click! - your fate is sealed with his decision. God help you.

"Wow," you snort, shaking your head, "thanks for having the decency to at least ask me if I wanted the door locked, I suppose."

Kiba flashes you a playful, closed-eyed smile when he turns around and makes his way towards the wardrobe. You try to your best ability to not ogle at the way the flannel tightens around his broad shoulders and back when he raises his arms to pick up the box he's been telling you about.

Still, no matter how hard you try to look away, it seems to be literally impossible for you to quit glancing in his direction whenever the rippling muscle shifts underneath the cotton with every minuscule movement he makes.

The sports scholarship must have done him good, because he's fit and fucking fine as hell.

Though, not in the tall and lean way kind of fit, like he's been during most of his teenage years. No, as a proper adult, Kiba is appealingly vigorous and buff; owning strength you can't quite possibly imagine being unleashed upon your smaller frame.

He'd be able to crush you into a pulp if he ever wished to do so. To squeeze your throat until you'd be fighting against him, so that he'd allow air into your lungs. To hold you up without any sort of trouble as he'd fuck you against the goddamn wall.

You're not entirely sure if the knowledge of that last one thrills you, or instead frightens you right to the bone which he'd be able to break right in half anyway. Still, possibly scared or not, you might just start drooling at the sight of him.

You're looking at him like he's a piece of meat you'd like to chew on. How pathetic of you to be this shallow.

And how pathetic of him to be doing the exact same thing.

"Okay," he mumbles as he brings the box over and plops down onto the bed right next to you, "let's see what's in here."

Kiba flicks the lid off, the tiniest of smiles creeping up on his lips at the audible gasp you let out as soon as the items come into view.

The box is filled with seemingly completely random clutter, but after taking a closer look, you recognize the tiny sea-shells, the movie tickets, as well as all the postcards you've sent him. It's more than ten years of life - stuffed into a cardboard shoebox.

You spend the next half hour going through the box with him, reminiscing about memories that are both equally as sweet as they are nostalgic, sharing laughs and teasing each other as they bring you closer together; sewing up that gap of unfamiliarity between you with every passing second and exchanged relic.

Kiba's heart is fluttering with every drunken, tinkling giggle you're letting out, as well as the way your entire expression brightens because of him.

And he - the smitten, poor man that he is - just can't stop looking at you, because he's missed this. Talking to you, bringing those beaming smiles forth everytime he makes you laugh; just being in your warm presence, overall. Truth be told, he's missed all of it.

He's missed you.

"Can't believe you've kept all of this, Kib," you utter softly, reading the postcard you've sent him nearly nine years ago, "most of these literally make no sense. I'm just blabbering about my vacation, but in writing."

"I know. I suppose you could call me sentimental, eh?" He laughs quietly as he leans in and trails the tip of his finger over the scribbles you've written down when you were eleven. "But I always liked the lil' hearts you drew for me on every one."

"The hearts?"

"Yeah, look," he says as he pushes even closer to you, pointing to the corner of the postcard, "here's one. And... Another one."

His index finger brushes against your thumb when he points to the second doodle of a heart on the postcard you're still holding. He's sprawled on his side, supporting himself with one elbow and reclining so close to you, that you can smell his cologne all over again.

The scent clouds your mind for a second time that night. You're right back inside that rainy forest again; wishing to lie down onto the damp, moss-covered ground and just be fucking overtaken by the fog, until you'd feel the chill of its kiss on your neck.

The thought makes you drop the postcard somewhat absent-mindedly as you turn to look at him. He's much closer than you've realized, because as soon as you make eye contact; your faces are mere inches apart, the tips of your noses almost touching.

You can see all of his freckles this up-close, as well as the dimple in his cheek which shows up when one corner of his mouth tugs to the side. Something within you begins to glow when he looks at you so very warmly with those big, fierce amber eyes of his.

He makes you feel special with just one look alone. Unique. One of a kind.

"What is it, cutie?" His voice is barely above a whisper now.

"Nothing, I just," you mumble as heat sears your face at the pet name, "I think I must be very drunk right now, because I actually think you look super pretty up-close."

"Oh?" Kiba snickers at what you admit. "Why, thank you. Wish I could say the same for you, but you're kind of blurry for me right now."

"Ha ha, funny." You roll your eyes at him, shoving him away by pressing your palm against his chest. However, before you can even fully extend your arm to use more force, his fingers are wrapping around your wrist; tugging you closer in one swift movement.

He yanks you towards himself, until you're practically hovering above his face with your own. You're so close that you're sharing your breaths, staring into each other's eyes - both of your pupils dilating at the intimate closeness.

"I-I'm very drunk right now, Kiba," you repeat, cursing yourself internally for the stutter.

"As am I," he replies quietly, pushing your hand firmer against his chest. You can feel his rapid heartbeat right underneath the tips of your fingers again. The rhythmic sensation makes you gather up the cotton of his crisp, white t-shirt between your own digits as you clutch it tightly.

Your forehead presses against his own. You're almost breathless already, and he hasn't even kissed you. "This... This might not be a good idea."

"We haven't done anything," he utters in a hushed whisper, the hand that was just holding your wrist snaking up to caress your cheek. He trails the tip of his finger over your cheekbone, eyes glued to your mouth, "And we don't have to either, if that's not something you want."

The alcohol is pushing you to tell the truth. It's promising you that you'll feel better if you admit your feelings that have been there for ages. That the fear you feel is nothing compared to the relief that's to come.

"The problem is that I, uh... I do." You sigh, inching closer and closer, "I do want to."

Oh, god. Kiba's heart is just about ready to burst from joy at your answer. He feels nauseous from how overwhelmed all the feelings are making him. He just has to feel everything so strongly, doesn't he? It's amazing how he hasn't burned out yet, but he has to keep it together. Has to keep himself in check for you.

"Yeah?" His chuckle is dark in humour as he cups your cheek tighter, "You want me to kiss you?"

"Ye-... Yeah."

Kiba doesn't need anything else. His lips latch to your own as soon as you get the approval out, and the moment your mouths connect in panting, careful kisses that become hotter and hotter with passion with each one that follows after the other, it's everything you could have possibly wished for.

Kissing him is better than whatever you've imagined for all these years. He tugs on your bottom lip, spoils the upper one with affection, warms them both with his gentle sigh. You can't believe it took you this long to actually get to feel that plush mouth of his pressing against your own this softly, this tenderly.

Better late than never, you suppose.

He pulls back after a while, taking a deep, shaky breath. You're both chuckling quietly now, avoiding each other's eyes and not saying anything; too stunned to speak from the kiss you've just shared. His face is gaining the colour of a red tomato. He just likes you so much.

"Fuck, that was..." He's quiet for a moment, shaking his head with a grin that owns the power to bring you to your knees as he says, "Can I, uh... Can I kiss you again, maybe?"

"Yes," you barely let out, before his mouth is back upon your own.

His warm tongue strokes your bottom lip, silently asking for entrance. As soon as your lips part with a content sigh, he's pushing against you, tasting and gliding over every crevice within your sweet mouth, as well as the roof of it - tasting you for the very first time, and relishing you thoroughly because of it.

You can feel him forcing you into the mattress as the kisses flow between you and the tension you feel spreads through your entire body like a wildfire; until you're lying down on your side, and he's hovering above you exactly like you've done just a minute prior. 

He's more eager now; overtaking your mouth with his tongue and the quick, slightly painful prickles which burn whenever he sinks his teeth into your bottom lip. A small moan manages to slip past your mouth at the sensation when he tugs on your swollen lip that's long since lost all the gloss from how harsh your kissing is turning.

The sound of your mewl is so appealing that it makes him lazily part his eyelids, which are so heavy and hooded that he's barely keeping them open. Kiba watches you completely melt into the kiss he's been waiting to happen for literal ages. You look so sweet that he can barely control himself.

His chest feels like it's going to explode, and not from the lack of air, but from all the emotions he's feeling all at once again.

Your hands are running through his chestnut hair; entire body squirming and writhing when he trails his own palm down your side. He stops at the hem of your skirt, eager fingers twitching from anticipation as he asks, "Want me to touch you, too?"

Your voice is breathless as you whine, "Please."

"Look at you, asking so nicely." He snickers quietly, the smirk on his mouth tricksy, "Didn't know you had it in you."

And before you can even come up with a witty reply to his teasing, he's kissing you yet again, his warm hand grasping and squeezing the plush flesh of your thigh. His touch is greedy and possessive. It makes your core burn even hotter with wildish need.

His hand squeezes your thigh so harshly that it burns. You're gasping into his mouth in response to the ache, before he inches higher up to the inner part. The noises you're making as you're parting your legs to help him gain better access are adorable, and are also the reason why his dick keeps twitching inside his pants. He can feel the surge of warmth rushing to his groin. You're making him hard just by sound alone.

He keeps circling the spot where you need him most as he plays with you; testing your patience. He's so close but yet so far, making the tension within you build up to the point where you can feel your skin tightening over your bones because of it. 

"Kiba," you whisper, tugging on his hair to bring him closer, "st-stop messing around."

"Here?" His voice is nearly a gentle coo as he at long last rubs a digit over the damp spot of arousal on your pretty panties, completely disregarding your empty warning, "You want me to touch you here, cutie?"

"Mhmmm," you hum, dazed already from the sensation.

He taps the lace with a single rough fingertip, nearly making you purr from the way he's pressing against your clit over the fabric. "Take these off for me, then, pretty please?"

You don't have to be told twice. His request is so sweet that you're eager as ever as you reach underneath your skirt, hook your fingers around the waistband and tug the delicate lace down your legs.  

Kiba's hand finds you the second your panties hit the floor of his room. Your eyelids flutter at the contact, but you somehow force them to stay open, so that you can watch his smug smile as he trails a fingertip over your soaking pussy; gathering the arousal you've been trying to hide from him the entire night.

His voice is a rough whisper as he traces lazy circles over your throbbing clit, "So wet for me, huh? It seems like you haven't been touched in a while."

"It's been a lonely couple of months, yeah."

"That silly boyfriend of yours ain't around anymore, hmm?"

"We br-broke up."

"Good. I was growing tired of seeing his stupid face on your Insta all the time."

All you can do is nod as you stare up at him, your bottom lip tucked underneath your teeth. With one side of his face splashed in the soft glow of the light coming from the desk lamp that's positioned on the other end of the room, Kiba looks absolutely stunning.

His amber eyes shine golden when your leg hooks around his hip, so that you can give more space to that big hand of his as he pleasures you.

He keeps toying with you, rubbing your clit in soft circles that give you just enough friction to make your legs shake, and for your pussy to clench around nothing. The desire to be filled up by him is making you foam at the mouth. You're on the verge of going completely feral.

"Kiba, c'mooon," you whine, "I thought I've told you to stop mes- Fuck...! Oh, god."

"Hm? What was that?" His words are a lazy drawl as he now starts to pump two fingers inside you, stroking your hot, sensitive walls, "Did you say something, sweetheart?"

You're tugging on his hair so harshly that it makes him hiss as you try to fuck yourself on his fingers, "Holy shit, that feels so good."

"Needy," he mumbles quietly, his thumb still stroking your clit. He curls his fingers and forces himself even deeper inside you, until you can feel the brush of knuckles against your walls. Despite your hushed pleas to go faster, he keeps the languorous pace; sending your mind into absolute overdrive. 

Your hands are clumsy as they slide down his chest and dip to his belt buckle. You're growing frustrated from being such a klutz, until you at long last hear that satisfying click! as you unbuckle his belt on your third attempt. Quickly undoing the button and zipper of his jeans, you're eager to finally slip your hand into his black boxer briefs.

You stroke him over the fabric first. He pushes against you in an instant; chasing that extra friction as you try to cup and fondle as much as you can. You could have sworn that you feel him twitch as his breathing picks up its speed.

You're both looking down now, staring at your hands that are exploring each other's bodies.

The groan to leave the back of his throat makes you feel absolutely primal as you use one hand to tug the boxers down just enough for his cock to push free from the tight confines of his clothes, and the other to stroke him properly this time around.

The gasp to leave your lips is as astonished as your gawking. You've been wondering how he looked like underneath all those layers ever since you were fifteen and had gotten that first wave of hormones flooding your brain.

And as you're ogling at him so blatantly now, eyeing his throbbing cock and the pre-cum that's leaking out the tip, you realize that his size could best be described as nerve-wracking.

Your fingers are hesitant to wrap around him properly because of how tiny your hand looks compared to his dick, and yet you still do it anyway. Kiba's hand clamps around your own the moment you make contact, forcing you to tighten your grip and start pumping.

"Fuck," he whispers, eyes dark and murky at the touch, "that feels so good."

He's copied you word for word.

"Aha," you utter nervously, feeling him pick up his pace, "so, so good, Kib."

He feels big in your hand, the surge of blood making his dick so hard and throbbing that you're worried how on earth you'll make him fit if things actually escalate in that direction. If he doesn't calm down, he might just tear you apart with his cock.

The handjob you're giving him is as sloppy as the kisses you're sharing while he fingers you. It's so intimate and overwhelming; the way you're pushing against one another, writhing on his bed so much that you're both starting to sweat. 

"Wanna fuck you," he groans into your mouth at some point, his words nearly incoherent from the way you're gliding your tongue along his front teeth, "wanna fuck you so bad, cutie."

"Do it," you gasp when he applies more pressure to the sensitive bundle of nerves that makes you squirm against him. The need you feel comes first before the nervosity. You'll deal with your wrecked insides after he fucks you silly.

"Yeah?" he murmurs softly, kissing your jawline when your head tips back from the pleasure, "You'll let me fill up that cute pussy of yours?"

Heat crawls up your neck at his question and your answer, "Yeah."

He quickens his pace. "Pound it, too?"

"Yes...!"

Kiba lets out a short, huffed laugh at your enthusiasm before he presses a messy smooch right against your panting mouth. The sound echoes throughout the bedroom, making you giggle in reply. His face is so red. You doubt that it's from the alcohol now.

Thick fingers leave you slowly, rubbing the sweet arousal all over your inner-thighs and clit as he says, "Turn around for me."

You're worse than an obedient slut, or a feral bitch in heat from how happily you follow his orders. As soon as your back is turned towards him, your gaze falls upon the mirror of the wardrobe that's right opposite you.

The sight of your body as it twists and recoils on top of the bed sheets is a pitiful one, but it's quickly obscured by the fluttering of your eyelashes as soon as you feel him rub his cock over your dripping heat.

His mouth is right next to your ear when he whispers, "You on the pill?"

"Mhmm."

"Okay," he says, kissing your neck lovingly. You can feel the graze of his sharp canines slide across your pulse point when he adds, "gonna fuck you raw, then. Nice and slow, to really savour the feeling of that lil' cunt."

You're arching your back in response, pushing your ass towards his hips while your spine is pressing flush against his heaving chest.

Kiba slowly aligns himself with your sopping, tight hole. Now, your whimper is more of a cry than a moan as he begins to stretch you out with every inch he's leisurely pushing into your warmth. Even he's surprised that he's patient enough to be this gentle, but he just cares for you so much.

Your upper lip quivers as tears brim your eyes from the burn to sear through you. His forearm flexes as it tightens around your middle to keep you from outright running away from him. The shifting of muscles you see in the mirror as his grip turns tenacious is a welcome distraction.

"You're taking it so well, cutie," he encourages you delicately, using every chance to push himself in deeper, "you gonna keep taking my cock, right? Gonna keep being good for me?"

You can't form words, so you only nod as he keeps forcing himself further and further between your walls, sighing at the friction and the tight, wet warmth to surround him. You're on the cusp of crying by the time he at long last bottoms out within you, groaning at the sensation of being balls deep inside your soaking cunt.

"Fuck," he curses, breathing quick, "I've wanted to do that since I was seventeen."

"Kiba," you whine his name out, arching your back again, "it-it's too much...!"

It really is. He's taking over your entire capacity, and you feel like you're about to burst.

"Nu-uh," he smirks, not taking no for an answer as he kisses your temple, "you just need a lil' time to get used to it. Imma stretch you out real nice, sweetheart. We're gonna have so much fun."

Your fingers tighten their grip on the bed sheet, until you're literally clawing at it when he pulls his hips back and slams them right back into you with a lewd squelching noise and a smack!

"Oh, god!" Your eyes are sent rolling into the back of your head when he does it again. And again.

"No god here, 's just me," he laughs quietly, gaining a steady rhythm when it comes to destroying your insides. You're leaking milky arousal right down to the hilt of his dick as he keeps slamming home into you, making you cry out profanities every two seconds or so.

The noises you're both making mix with your heavy breathing and the sound of muffled music that's still thundering downstairs without stop. You're both so invested into each other that neither you nor him can recognize the song that's playing in that exact moment. All that matters are his grunts and your soft moans. As well as the friction. Holy fuck, the friction.

"You're a sucker for this, aren't you?" He pants into your ear, ramming himself into you with even more force, "You love the way my cock fills up your cute cunt, and how it hurts when I make you take it; all of it."

"I do," you sob out, face contorting from the intense pleasure, "I lo-love it so much...!"

"Fuck yeah, you do, cutie," he grits out, teeth clenched, "fuck yeah, you do."

You can't see his face in the mirror, but just the sight of his big, rough hands roaming your front; greedily lifting your top until your bra is exposed, and groping at your tits without any kind of respect is enough to make you want to scream his name until the entire house could hear.

Luckily for you, he chokes you before you can do it, though the desire is still there. He's making you feel that good.

So good, in fact, that the heat in the pit of your stomach is becoming unbearable. You're on the verge of erupting into pure bliss from the mind-shattering orgasm that's coming up; lingering just around the corner. There'll be nothing left of you if he keeps this up. He'll make you blaze, until you're nothing but ash.

"S-So close," you manage through shallow breaths because he's barely allowing you to breathe while you're rolling your hips against his own for that extra push, "please, please, fucking please."

"Already?" He laughs at your fucked out state as his expert digits hook around your thigh. Lifting your leg without warning, the pressure within your core swells and grows bigger and bigger. His fingers dig into the back of the plush flesh before he trails them upwards; aiming them for your clit again.

"Kiba," you gasp his name once more, feeling his grip around your throat tighten in response as he pulls you even closer to his chest, "fuck, please, I-... Need it...! Need to cum so bad."

"I thought you said you liked to be teased a little?" 

"Just do it, god fucking damn!"

"All right, all right!" He chuckles lowly, "So impatient, damn... Keep your leg up for me."

The moment his rough finger pads make contact with your demanding clit, your entire body spasms in his tight hold, fire licking at your skin with ferocious hunger. You can see it all in the mirror, the way the veins atop his tan skin protrude as he applies the pressure you need to become undone in the end.

"Ri-Right there. Fuck, yes...!" Your whispers are a trembling jumble of moans and whimpers. Kiba is chuckling quietly, his smile pressing against the back of your head as he keeps fucking you; keeps slamming you into goddamn oblivion. You're delicate like glass, but he sure as hell isn't going to handle you that way.

"Yeah?" He drawls tiredly, blushing at the lewd, wet sounds your lovemaking is producing. You're so wet that he's mesmerized in a way. Never before had a girl been this excited to have him. It's like a present. "Like this, baby?"

"Mhmm, like that."

"Gonna cum for me?"

"Wanna, yeah. So bad."

His laughter warms your very soul. "You're such a slu-"

"Kiba!" The sudden knock to come from the door makes you both stiffen, bodies turning rigid at the suspense of what's going to happen next. Your heart is pounding inside your ribcage, because the voice you've just heard sounds familiar. Especially when it says: "Yo, Kiba! You in there?"

Naruto.

The hushed exclamation of panic to leave you is quickly stifled by Kiba's palm that covers your mouth in a movement that's faster than lightning. He's panting now, leaning into your ear, going, "Shh, shh, shh. Keep quiet."

All you do to reply is make a muffled noise, fingers curling around his arm that's still keeping busy between your legs. He's never stopped fucking you; even whilst your brother is standing right on the other side of the door.

You're lucky Kiba had decided to lock it, because now you can hear the sound of the handle as Naruto tries it.

"Kiba," your sibling repeats, knocking again, "hellooo?"

The irritation to lace Kiba's voice is so profound that it sets your teeth on edge as he shouts, "What? I'm busy, man!"

"Busy? With what?"

"Fucking your sister."

Holy fucking hell.

Your eyes widen in shock, another muffled noise escaping your lips as you twist and turn to fight back against the tight grip he holds you in, but Kiba refuses to let you go. He fights right back, using his weight to press you flush against the mattress as he makes you roll onto your stomach.

His hands wrap around your wrists, shoving them both into the pillow to keep you from thrashing on top of his bed.

The moment he pushes his cock all the way into your warmth again, you go completely still. The new, deeper angle makes your breath stagger in the back of your throat. It takes all you have within you to not moan as loudly as you can as you try to crawl towards the headboard of the bed to pull yourself up.

He just can't stop fucking you, unable to release you from the cage his body has created around you. He's been waiting for too long; daydreamed and fantasized about this exact moment far too much to just allow Naruto to cockblock him yet again. He wants to see this entire thing to its end. Wants to see you cream on his dick, and to kiss you right after.

"You idiot," you cry out into the pillow, "why'd you tell him that?"

"Stop squirmin' around," he whispers, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, "you wouldn't want your big brother to hear us, now would you? And besides, it's not like that moron is ever gonna take it seriously."

"Ha, wow, you're so funny!" Naruto snorts in that exact moment, his voice the epitome of intoxication and proving Kiba right, "Speaking of y/n: do you know where she is? It's been a while since I've last seen her."

"I dunno, I think she left early to go hang out with her friend, or some shit," Kiba replies, eyeing your writhing body underneath him with a smirk as he keeps pushing, and pushing, and pushing until it hurts, "now quit nagging me, will ya? You're annoying as fuck, and I don't really care where your sister is."

He's a good liar, at least. And a mean one, too.

When you whip your head to the side to look up at him, he's shaking his own head no, leaning in quickly to kiss your cheek.

"Didn't mean any of that," he whispers into your ear, peppering soft kisses to the corner of your jaw, "don't be angry with me."

All you do is roll your eyes and lift your ass up higher into the air by arching your back. Kiba chuckles at the sinful portrayal of truce between you, biting back a groan when he burrows himself so deep inside you that he's kissing your cervix with every thrust.

You're so close that your toes are curling in on themselves. As he picks up his pace again, trying to make it as silent as he can, you're biting into the pillow, squeezing your eyes shut from the euphoria to start overtaking you.

Kiba can feel your walls clenching around him; can feel them spasming and pulsating around his cock as your pretty cunt tries to milk him dry - tries to force the cum right out of him. 

You look fucking beautiful like this; panting and drooling on his pillowcase as you attempt to stay quiet. It just makes him torture you even more. Especially when his fingers find your clit again.

You're clenching around him so hard that it nearly hurts as he strokes, pinches and spoils your sensitivity with his rough touch. He's completely dazzled from how well you're taking him. And as for you: all you can feel is his hand as it covers your mouth again just to be safe the moment before you're finally pushed over the edge.

And then, you're falling. Falling into true, utter bliss that only some good, ferocious pounding can bring.

He fucks you like an animal throughout your entire high, never once stopping in slamming home and torturing that sweet, sensitive spot deep within you - not even as your entire body shakes when you gush milky slick all over his cock and make it drip onto the bed sheet. It spurts and stains your inner-thighs; makes it even easier for him to abuse your cute pussy from how slick it is now.

"Ki-Kiba."

"Holy fuck, cutie," Kiba whispers, caressing your cheek lovingly as he keeps pounding; drilling into you, "you're so hot."

"Kiba!" Naruto shouts in that moment.

"What?!"

"Christ, man... Don't gotta be so grumpy all the time." He sighs, "Did she tell you which friend she was going with?"

Kiba looks down at you again, trying not to pay mind to just how fucking gorgeous you look with your skirt hiked up around your waist and sweat glimmering on your skin as you keep bouncing on top of the mattress everytime he pounds into you. His tongue flicks over the side of your neck as he murmurs, "Sweetheart?"

Your pupils are dilating inside your glazed irises when you look up at him. You're completely dazed from the high you've just experienced. Goddamn, he fucks like other men can only dream about fucking. He's worse than a beast. More insatiable than Greed itself. "Mm, Tenten... Tell him it's Tenten. She'll cover for me."

He grins at the lie before he calls out, "I think it was some chick called Tenten."

Naruto's reply is quick. "Ah, okay! That fits."

"Go away now, stupid!"

"Yeah, yeah! Going away now, you fuckin' grouch!"

You're both silent for a couple of seconds as you wait for Naruto to leave you alone before you finally allow yourself to giggle quietly.

Kiba joins in a moment later, snickering against your shoulder. He rests his forehead upon it and sighs. You can feel the layer of sweat sticking to his skin. He's completely drenched in salt, and so are you. Must be the clothes you were both far too impatient to take off.

"Fuckin' hell," he mutters quietly as you flip onto your back and wrap your legs around his waist with a sheepish grin, "he's always trying to cockblock me when it comes to you, I swear. Even without knowing it."

Your brow quirks in wicked amusement. "Oh? You've tried to hit on me before?"

Colour blooms on his tan face when he looks down at you and leans in to kiss you again. His arms are on both sides of your head as he looms above you. He's so big and bulky that he overtakes you completely. It makes you feel safe, instead of threatened.

There's just something peculiar seeing this completely new, unexplored side of him after knowing him for years. It's thrilling.

"I've wanted to text you and ask you out so many times," he mumbles, unsure if it's the alcohol talking or his heart, "I've been crushin' on you since I was a kid, but, uh... I was Naruto's friend first, ya know...? I didn't wanna make it weird between us."

"I get it, Kib." The tips of your noses are touching before he tilts his head to the side and kisses you again - this time deeply, slowly; sensually. The way he moves now is intimate and it means something deeper than it did before. You're both rocking alongside each other, trying to match each other's pleasantly laggard pace.

"Do you," he mumbles, staring down at you through hooded, heavy eyelids, "get it?"

"Yeah," you sigh, your own eyelids fluttering at the pleasant sensation of being so full, "I've been crushing on you for years, too."

"Ha, knew it."

"Don't laugh, now."

"Okay, okay."

The deep, raspy grunts to leave his mouth mix with your breathless gasps and quiet whimpers. Especially when he lifts your leg and places it on top of his shoulder, so that he can brand your fucking soul with his mark.

You're clawing at his damp t-shirt, trying to gain hold of him as much as you possibly can, so that you can keep him as close as he lets you. 

"You're so fuckin' pretty, y/n."

"You're pretty, too."

"Can't call me handsome?"

"No."

The bashful chuckles to leave both of your mouths fade into silence when you kiss again, tongues tangling into something more gentle and sincere. He's so close to you that all you can breathe in is him. He makes you glow from within yet again; like your heart is being submerged in liquid sunshine.

You've missed him so much. He's been the one for all this time, after all.

"Fuck, that's it."

"Mm, yeah... So good."

"Gonna-... Gonna cum soon."

The headboard of the bed starts to slam against the wall as Kiba picks up his pace, every thrust becoming quick and hard when he at long last allows himself to reach his finish. His brow furrows when your panting mouth latches to his own hungrily, swallowing the groan he lets out as the heat to build up within his lower stomach finally spills right into your goddamn womb in the form of thick, warm ropes of cum that paint your walls entirely white.

His entire body feels like it's on fire. The release is as heavenly as was the build-up.

You follow a fraction of a second later, writhing underneath him in your own high as you cling onto him, leaking a mixture of your own juices of pleasure and his seed. It's messy, and hot, and so fucking overwhelming that you both feel slightly dizzy as you try to breathe in as much air as possible.

You're both soaked in sweat, but he still holds you so tightly that it hurts while you're both losing yourselves in each other, and you don't mind at all that your bones are nearly breaking in half as he keeps whispering sweet praises into your ear; telling you how good it feels, how goddamn proud he is of you.

"Such a good girl," he murmurs as he kisses you again and again, "such a pretty, clever girl."

You're still absolutely dazed, cunt clenching around him in attempt to gather every last drop of his warm cum, head tipped back in complete ecstasy as he's kissing your jaw. 

You can't move. He's fucked you stupid, so it's no wonder that your only, rather brainless, response is:

"Happy birthday, Kiba."

---

patchwork

12.4k / dbf!joel x f!reader

official dbf!joel playlist

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So you just ask — 

“How?” 

—in a hollowed-out voice. 

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

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

Your skin pricks. Of fucking course. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’re quiet. 

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

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

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

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

 You suck in a breath. Fuck. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He stares at you. 

“How long?” he asks. 

“What?” 

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

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

“You don’t know,” he repeats. 

You swallow. 

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

He makes a small sound. 

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

You’re silent. 

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

“Okay,” he says, softly. “Okay.” 

“Dad—”

He nods. Once. Just to himself. 

“I’ll kill him,” he says. 

His eyes drag to you. You catch a glimpse of something dark. 

And then he’s standing up, out of his seat, moving a hell of a lot faster than he should be able to, in this state. His chair scrapes across the floor with a slurred screech. 

You lunge across the table. 

“Dad, stop.” You try to grab at his hand. His wrist. Anything to tug him back down. “Stop. It’s not his fault.” 

He pauses. Then he leans over, hands braced on the edge of the table. His shoulders bunch. 

“It’s not his fault?” he says, slowly. He sounds incredulous. “No? I let him into my house. Drive his fuckin’ kid to soccer practice. ’N he—”

He breathes deep. It rattles wet between his ribs. 

“You’re right,” he scoffs. “It ain’t his fault.” 

It’s not exactly reassuring. Not the way he says it. 

“It’s mine,” he slurs. He shoves himself up, off of the table. Stands straight, and dusts his hands off on his knees. He runs a palm over his face, and his boot catches on an empty bottle. You watch it roll under the table. 

“Shoulda seen it,” he says. His lip twitches. “Right in fronta me, right?” 

He laughs. Or — barks. It sounds angry. 

“Joel Miller,” he drawls. “Can’t keep a wife. Fuckin’ deadbeat brother’s in jail every weekend. His own kid's hardly home.” 

He scoffs again. Shakes his head. 

“Shoulda known, huh? Shoulda fuckin’ known.” 

“Stop it,” you say, and there’s something else in your voice now. It sounds like a warning. “Stop. You don’t know. You have no fucking idea—“

“Oh, I got some fuckin’ idea,” he snarls. “Known him a helluva lot longer ’n you.” 

“He’s good,” you say. You take a shaky breath. You don’t remember your voice starting to rise. “He’s good, dad, you—”

He brings his hand down, hard, on the table. The sound makes you flinch.

“He’s a fuckin’ liar, ’s what he is.” He drags a shuddering breath. “And you’re a goddamn kid. You’re my kid.” 

“I’m not a kid.” 

He ignores you. Some of the bottles must be broken, you think, because his boots crunch glass when he staggers past you. 

“I’m not,” you echo, and you hate that you sound like a kid, now. Fucking begging him to listen, begging him to stay. 

He stumbles out of the dining room. You turn in your chair. 

“Where are you going?” 

“Stay there,” he says. “Deal with you later.” 

“Dad,” you say. “Don’t—”

“Stay the fuck there!” he shouts. His hand curls in his hair. “Jesus! Fuck!” 

His eyes squeeze shut. He pushes out a shaking sigh. 

“I’m not doin’ this right now,” he mumbles. You can see him holding back. His fingers tremble at his sides. “Just go upstairs. Please. We’ll talk about this later.” 

“Go upstairs,” he repeats, when you still don’t move. 

Your throat crowds. Something hard and bitter sticks there. 

“He didn’t do anything,” you breathe. 

He huffs. Shakes his head. There’s thunder, somewhere far outside. You’re pretty sure it’s raining. You can hear it thrash at the front door. 

“He did fuckin’ plenty,” he growls. 

—

You stay in your room for hours. 

Not because your dad told you to. You’re not thirteen, and you’re not grounded. You stay there because it’s safe and silent and familiar, and because you don’t know where the hell else to go. 

You wish you hadn’t given Joel’s shirt back. That stupid, soft cotton one, with his name scrawled in print across the back. You’d curl up in it now, if it was still dripping across your dresser. You’d dig yourself under the covers and try to capture his scent on the collar. 

But you don’t have his shirt, and you don’t have him. So you lay at the foot of your bed, in your own clothes, and you scroll through your phone until the screen makes you sick. 

You text Joel twice. Maybe three times. He doesn’t respond. 

You do get up at some point. You’re not sure when. You take a shower, and two Tylenol for the pounding, throbbing ache in your head, and you settle back into bed with wet hair. You swipe your phone back open and stare at the screen. 

No texts from Joel. No nothing. 

You call him. It rings eight, nine times and goes to voicemail. 

“Fuck,” you mutter. 

Your dad isn’t here, either. He’d come back once, hours ago, and stomped around downstairs before leaving again. He hadn’t come up, and you hadn’t gone down. You’d watched him leave from your bedroom window and peel out into the rain. 

That was hours ago. When it was still light out. You think maybe you should call him, but — you don’t. You just don’t. 

You go to your window, instead. You cup a hand to the glass and try to catch a sign of life from Joel’s house. 

Nothing. The rain is coming down too hard. It blurs the glass, and makes the night bleed darker, and all his fucking lights are off, anyway. Every single one. Even his porch is pitch black. 

But his truck is still in the driveway. You can see it from your room — or the shape of it, at least. So you’re pretty sure he’s home. Sure enough to roll out of bed at ten, when it’s clear you won’t be falling asleep, and wander out of the house. Sure enough to run barefoot across the street, in the rain, in a pair of sleep shorts and a shirt two sizes too big. 

You don’t take anything with you. You leave your phone in the house, upstairs, half-hidden underneath your pillow. You figure your dad will try to call you, eventually. Or he’ll come home, finally, and come upstairs, and scream at you some more. You don’t want to deal with either possibility. 

So — fuck it. You leave your phone. And your socks, and your shoes, and the sweater that’s hanging on your bedroom door. You leave everything, and you sprint across the street to Joel’s. 

Your hair is dripping, by the time you make it to his door. Your shirt is clinging to your chest. Your cheeks are wet, and you can’t tell if it’s that hot, gloomy, summer-soaked rain or if you’ve just been crying. 

Basically — you look like a fucking mess. But he looks a hell of a lot worse, when he opens up his door. 

You only have to knock twice. Call his name once. And then the door is creaking open, a little reluctantly, and he’s staring at you from the threshold. 

All the lights are off behind him. You can’t see into his house. And you can barely — barely — see his face. 

But you can see enough. Enough to make your breath catch. 

“Oh my god.” You take half a step forward. He shrinks back, into the dark, like he doesn’t quite want you to touch him. Like he doesn’t want you to see him. 

“Joel,” you breathe. 

“S’okay,” he murmurs. 

Your lip trembles. 

“My dad,” you say, quietly, “did he—?” 

He doesn’t answer. Your heart breaks.

“Can I come in?” you plead. “Please?” 

He doesn’t answer. Again. But he holds the door open, a little wider, and he steps back to let you in. You move past him, into his pitch-black hallway, and he shuts the door behind you. The rain fades to a nervous patter. 

“Sarah?” you ask, softly. 

He shakes his head. 

“Home in the mornin’,” he murmurs. 

Thank god, you think. 

The dark doesn’t really faze you. You know his house like the back of your hand. But you walk carefully all the same, cause you can feel him behind you like a spooked animal. You wander into his kitchen and he hangs back a few feet. He leans against the counter with his face turned toward the dark. 

“Joel,” you say, softly. 

He’s quiet. 

“I need to turn a light on,” you say. You’re speaking slowly. Quietly. The way you’d speak to a child. “I need to — I need to see.” 

He doesn’t say anything. But he doesn’t try to stop you, when you reach for the switch. You hit the lights, dimmest setting, and the kitchen flickers to life. 

You turn around. Blink. Your eyes adjust to the change in light. 

And then you see him — like, really see him — and you gasp. You can’t help it. 

It’s worse than it looked in the dark. It’s…way worse. 

His right eye is swollen shut. There’s a bruise underneath, puffy and purple, pulling up around his eye and dripping down onto his cheek. There’s a neat little slice across the bridge of his nose. Blood on his cheek and his chin — from his nose, maybe, or from something else you can’t see. 

But that’s not what kills you. None of that is what kills you. 

It’s his hands. His fucking hands. There are no bruises blooming across his knuckles. There’s no blood splashed on his palms. 

His hands are clean. He didn’t fight back. 

He catches you staring. He sees the look on your face. 

“S’okay,” he repeats. “Ain’t ’s bad as it looks.” 

He tries to smile. The wince he lets slip instead says it’s worse. 

You’ve never seen him like this. Not in all the years you’ve known him. You’ve never seen him look broken. 

You’re trying not to cry. From the look he gives you, you must not be successful. 

“Don’t do that,” he says, gently. “Please don’t cry, angel.” 

“Your fucking — your face, Joel—”

“S’fine,” he slurs. “S’nothin’.” 

“It’s not fine.” You shake your head. Water drips down your back. You’d shiver, if you could think about anything other than him. Him and his gorgeous, stupid, shattered face. “It’s not — fine, Joel.” 

He’s quiet. You take a breath. Then another. You start to think a little clearer. Maybe it’s adrenaline, or some kind of base, protective instinct. Not an instinct you thought you had, but — it’s sure as hell kicking into high gear right now. 

“Sit down,” you tell him. Your own tone surprises you. You sound collected. Commanding. A whole lot calmer than you feel. “You’re not fine. Sit down.” 

His brows furrow. But he listens, so either you are that commanding, when you want to be, or he’s just too beat up to fight you. 

You point to the breakfast table. He wanders over obediently and slumps into a chair. 

“Do you have a first aid kit?” 

He stares up at you. Blinks, with his good eye. 

“Joel,” you say. “Do you have a first aid kit?” 

“Uh—” he thinks, nods, “—yeah. Bathroom. My bathroom. Under the sink. But I don’t need—”

“Yeah you do,” you say. “Don’t move.” 

He doesn’t move. You leave him at the breakfast table, huddled in his seat, and return a few minutes later with his first aid kit in tow. You pop it open on the table. Everything’s intact — gauze, isopropyl alcohol, tape, tweezers. It looks like it’s never been used. 

“Don’t need all that,” he grumbles. 

“Shut up,” you say. 

He shuts up.   

You should turn some more lights on, really, so you can see exactly what it is you’re doing. But you keep it dark — or dim, at least — because he winces whenever you tilt him to the light. So either the light hurts his bad eye — or, more likely, you think — he just doesn’t want you to see him like this.

You stand between his legs. The small of your back brushes his breakfast table. You take his chin in your hand and angle it up. 

He hisses through his teeth. 

“Stop fidgeting,” you murmur. 

You dab at his chin with soaked cotton from the kit. The alcohol takes the blood right off. 

“Y’don’t need t’do this,” he mumbles. 

“Yeah,” you say. You can feel him looking at you. You’re ridiculously close like this, caged between his legs. But you’re focused on his face — on the blood splashed on his cheek, and the ragged cut across the bridge of his nose. “I know.” 

He winces when you dab at his nose. Makes a low, annoyed sound in the back of his throat. 

“Ow,” he says, flatly. 

“You’ll live.” 

“Mmph.” 

You move onto his cheek. You try your best to avoid the bruise there, splattered underneath his eye, but you catch an angry edge on a few passes. You know when you do, because you feel him tense. You hear the breath he sucks in under your fingers. 

“Shit,” you mumble. “I’m sorry.” 

He tries to shake his head. But that hurts, too. 

You pause. The cotton hovers over his cheek. He squeezes his thighs together, just slightly, and they cage you in tighter. His hands come up to hold your waist. 

“I’m sorry,” you say, again. Your voice is softer, now. Shattered. You’re sorry for something else. You’re sorry for this. 

“I didn’t know,” you say. “I tried — I tried to stop him. I didn’t know he would—”

His grip tightens on your waist. You dab his cheek with the cotton and your fingers linger on his skin.

“Stop,” he murmurs. 

But you can’t stop, really. It’s all just — bubbling up. Now that the blood is off his face your composure is slipping — no more cool, calm, collected. You feel as broken as he looks. 

“It was — it was Hayes,” you say. It just tumbles out. “He — he tried to text me, last night, and when I didn’t respond I guess he fucking — he drove back to Austin. To my dad. And he—”

You wave a hand. He did this. 

“—I don’t know, he snitched, and then my dad — he found the cancellation, for the hotel room, and — and he was so fucking drunk, and I—I told him you didn’t do anything, I told him not to come here, but—”

 Joel is quiet. You shake your head. 

“I should’ve done something. I don’t know. I could have — I could’ve stopped him, or something—”

“No,” he says, quietly. 

“Yeah. Yes. I could’ve — I should’ve been here. With you. Not fucking — not upstairs, in my room, just —”

“No,” he bites. The way he says it shuts you up. 

“I told you,” he says, quietly. “He doesn’t like mess.” 

He looks at you, with that one good eye. 

“’N we made a fuckin’ mess,” he murmurs. 

You shake your head. Tears well at the back of your throat. His thumb strokes aimlessly at the band of your shorts. 

“Why didn’t you do something?” Your voice breaks. “Why didn’t you hit him back?” 

He sighs. You hear it rumble in his chest. He runs big, broad hands up the sides of your soaked shirt. 

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to. 

You take a trembling breath and he pulls you down, into him, until you give up standing and crumple into his lap. Your legs dangle sidelong over his. The dye on your soaked shorts bleeds into his jeans. 

He doesn’t care. He pushes your hair back from your face and kisses your jaw, your cheek, the side of your nose. Whatever he can reach. It’s not sexual. It’s just…gentle. So fucking gentle. 

“What do we do?” you ask. You sound miserable. You feel even worse. 

His breath dances on your jaw. 

“I don’t know, angel,” he says, finally. 

You make a small, desperate sound and bury your face in his shoulder. He holds you there. You can feel him breathe. In and out and in and out. Slow. Even. It used to piss you off, how unbothered he always seemed. Now your fingers sprawl over his heart and cling to his steady pulse-beat like a lifeline. 

“He’s not home,” you say. The words are muffled in his shirt. “I don’t know where he went.” 

He nods. You figure he already knew that. He can see your empty driveway from his window. 

“I don’t want—” you swallow thickly. His scent crowds your nose. Coffee, linen. The copper twang of blood. 

“I don’t want to go back,” you say.

He breathes in deeply. His lips graze your temple. 

“He’ll wanna talk t’you,” he murmurs. “Can’t avoid him forever, baby girl.” 

“I could try,” you mumble. You’re only half-joking. 

Joel smiles. You feel it curve at your temple. 

“I don’t want to talk to him,” you say. “Not yet. Not — not now.” 

You pull your head back from his shoulder. You put a hand on his cheek and run a careful thumb along his jaw. 

He tips his head back a little, responding to your touch. A soft sigh slips past his lips. 

You run your thumb along his bottom lip. His mouth parts, slightly. His good eye blinks at you, soft and brown and almost pleading. 

“Please,” you breathe. “Joel. I don’t want to go home.” 

He nods again. Your thumb stills over his lip. 

“Okay,” he murmurs. His hand drifts up your back. His fingers trace your spine, stroking over soaked fabric. “Yeah. Okay, baby.” 

His free hand comes up to wrap around yours. He moves your thumb gently from his lip and kisses it, instead. Featherlight. The pad of your thumb, your knuckles, your fingertips. It’s kind of a startling contrast, you think. The rough wrap of his hand around yours. The reverent brush of his lips. 

“C’mon,” he breathes. 

He whispers it between kisses, buried in the valley of your knuckles, so desperately soft you’re not sure he’s even said it at all. 

But then he’s letting your hand go, and moving you gently from his lap, and he’s standing up from his seat with a wince that makes your heart ache. 

He holds his arm out for you and you fold into his side. You can’t tell if you’re supporting him, when he limps through the dark to his room, or if he’s supporting you. Keeping you upright, with his big hand bunched in your wet shirt. 

Maybe it’s both. You’re not sure that it matters. Either way you don’t let go of him,  and he doesn’t let you go — not until you’re in his room, for the second time ever — and you’re staring at his unmade bed. 

His duffel bag is open on the floor. There are clothes sprawled out across the carpet. Some of them are folded. He was probably in the middle of unpacking, when your dad got here. 

You don’t know why that — specifically that — makes you so, indescribably sad. You stare up at the ceiling fan over his bed and try your fucking hardest not to cry. Again. For the ten thousandth time tonight. 

He watches you. He sees your eyes roam across his carpet, and the clothes there, and the wrinkled, crumpled sheets on his bed. 

“Sorry,” he murmurs, a little sheepish. “Everythin’ — it’s a mess.” 

He means the clothes, you think. He means the room. 

But, yeah, you think. Everything is a fucking mess. 

You shake your head. His ceiling fan hums somewhere above you, and the air it kicks up makes you shiver. You hadn’t really realized how cold you were, when you were patching him up in soaked clothes. You realize now. 

So does he. He takes one look at you — the way your hands rub up your arms — and swears, softly. 

“Fuck,” he mumbles. “I didn’t even — you’re freezin’.” 

“I’m fine,” you say. 

“You’re soakin’ wet,” he says. “Take those off. I’ll get you somethin’.” 

You hate the way he limps to his closet. You wish he’d just sit the hell down, and let you take care of him the way you did in the kitchen. But he’s stubborn, when it comes to this. When it comes to you. 

You strip down to your underwear while he roots around in his closet. They’re the only thing the rain hasn’t soaked through. The rest — your shirt, your cotton shorts — you leave in a damp heap by your feet. 

Then you sit back, onto the foot of his bed. Your arms come up to fold across your chest. You’re not sure why. It’s dark in his room, and it’s nothing he hasn’t seen a hundred times now. 

It’s just — he still makes you nervous, when he limps back from the closet with a dry shirt in his hand. He still makes you shy. And he’s impossible to read, on a good day, but after all this…you have no idea what he wants. 

So you keep your arms crossed, pressed tight across your chest. Watch him with quiet eyes when he stops, a few feet from you, and holds out the shirt like a peace offering. 

You hesitate. Just a second. When you reach out to take it, his eyes flick to your chest and then drop to the floor. He swallows. 

“Thanks,” you say, softly. 

He nods. 

You tug it on without really looking, but the fabric feels familiar. Silk-soft, from one too many washes. You catch a glimpse of orange letters when you slide it over your head. 

It’s that fucking Miller Contracting shirt. The one he’d given to you weeks ago. The one you’d slept in, next to Hayes. The one you wish you’d never given back. 

It smells like him again. You twist a hand in the hem. 

“Never should’ve given this back,” you say. 

He smiles. You can see it in the dark. Soft. Small.

“Second time’s the charm,” he mutters. 

You huff. 

“Yeah,” you say, quietly. “Something like that.” 

He’s quiet. He watches you toy with the sleeve. 

“Keep it,” he says. “S’yours.” 

You’re sure your dad will love that. He already knows you’re fucking Joel. Might as well traipse around the house in his signed shirt. 

That’s if he ever lets you back in the house again. If he ever even comes home. 

Fuck. If you ever even come home. 

“Hey,” Joel murmurs. He must read the look on your face. The way your smile fades. The way your throat pulls taut. 

“We’ll figure somethin’ out,” he says, gently. “He’ll — he’ll come around.” 

You scoff. Yeah, right. The empty bottles scattered in your dining room; Joel’s shattered face — none of that spells about to come around. None of that spells reasonable, or even halfway rational. And Joel knows it. You think he lies to comfort you, and it almost — sort of — works. 

“Just give him time,” he says. He takes a weary seat beside you, on the foot of his bed. The duvet sinks beneath him. 

You look at him, next to you. His face is shadowed in the dark. 

“He hurt you,” you whisper. 

He’s quiet. You can hear him wrestle with the silence.

“He loves you,” he says, softly. 

“That’s not—” You shake your head. “You should have hit him back.” 

There’s a pause. You think he sighs. 

“No, darlin’,” he says, quietly. 

“Why? Just cause he’s — cause he’s your fucking friend?” 

He swallows. You hear it, tight and thick, buried deep in his throat. His fingers slide over his knees. 

“No, baby,” he murmurs. “Not cause he’s my friend.” 

He doesn’t elaborate, which is…typical. But this quiet feels deeper, heavier than his usual lapses into silence, so…you let it go. You mumble something into the dark and stare off the edge of his bed. You watch your own bare feet dangle over his carpet. 

“I wouldn’t blame you, y’know,” you say. “If this is just — if it’s too much, now.” 

He looks at you. His good eye sparkles. 

“Funny,” he says. “Was gonna tell you the same thing.” 

You frown. 

“It’s not too much for me,” you say, a little defensive. “Why — why would it be too much for me?” 

He looks vaguely amused. 

“I dunno,” he drawls. “You’re the one who brought it up.” 

“Well, yeah, but — I’m not the one who got my shit rocked.” 

His brows flick up. His smile pulls. You’re teasing him again. Must mean you feel at least a little, tiny bit better. 

“I’m just saying.” You’re serious, again. “I wouldn’t blame you for running now.” 

“You want me t’run?” 

“No,” you say. It’s faster, harsher than you mean. “No, fuck. Of course not. I just — I wouldn’t — blame you. If that’s what you — want.” 

He’s quiet. 

“’S not what I want,” he says, softly. 

He’s been careful not to touch you, since you’ve been in his room. He’d given you his shirt and then given you space — and you appreciate his hesitation, under the circumstances — but you wish he would just put his fucking hands on you. Make your eyes roll back. Make you forget. Just for a night, at least. Just for tonight. 

And he does put his hands on you, now. Finally. Just — not in that rough, domineering way that you’re used to. He lifts a hand to your face and brushes a piece of hair back, behind your ear. His fingers splay under the cut of your jaw. He tips your face up, towards him, and your chin rests in the palm of his hand. 

“I told you already,” he says. “I ain’t goin’ anywhere.” 

You look at him. You don’t have much of a choice. He’s forcing your gaze, with a grip like silk steel. His thumb strokes soft over your jaw. 

“Yeah,” you say. “But that was before.” 

“Doesn’t matter when it was,” he murmurs. “It was the truth.” 

You feel small, with your chin in his hand. With your face tipped to his, and his big, warm fingers sprawled out over your skin. But you like it. You like that you fit in the palm of his hand. 

You want to kiss him. You always want to kiss him, if you’re being honest, but — right now it’s less of a want, and more of a need. It tugs deep in your chest, somewhere behind your ribs, and you whimper uselessly around his fingers. 

“Joel,” you say. 

He must see how badly you need him. How your eyes are blown wide, pleading pathetically with him. How your throat tightens up when you try not to beg. But he doesn’t kiss you. 

“How many times ’til you understand?” he breathes. “I’m right here. I ain’t goin’ nowhere. I’m — fuck.” 

His jaw flexes. He pushes out a breath. 

“I’m yours,” he says. “’Til you say I ain’t.” 

He’s quiet. His thumb stills on the ridge of your jaw. 

“How many fuckin’ times ’til you get that straight?” 

He’s so close. You don’t remember him getting this close. You don’t remember his hand sliding up to cup your cheek, and you can’t tell if it’s his skin that’s white hot or if it’s yours. 

He leans in — closes that last, searing inch — and his lips brush yours. It’s not quite a kiss. But almost. Almost. 

“I don’t know,” you mumble. “Tell me again.” 

You tip into him. Rob him of his lead. You kiss him and his mouth parts obediently, like he was just waiting for you to do this. Just — sitting, stubbornly, until you took what you wanted. And now that you’re here — now that you’re taking — he gives it up. Willingly. More than willingly, you think. 

You bite at his bottom lip and he groans. Sweet, smooth. Still distinctly Southern, in its silk-soft timbre. His hand skates up your back, over your shirt and under your still-damp hair — and he cups the back of your neck. Gently. Like he’s just — bracing himself, so that he doesn’t lose your kiss. Making absolutely, desperately sure you stay close. 

You slip your tongue to his mouth. He makes a sound that sets your skin on fire. 

You reach up to touch his face. You’re not really thinking. Your fingers brush his cheek — and the nasty, sprawling bruise there — and he winces. 

You pull back. All of you — your mouth and your fingers. 

“Fuck,” you breathe. “I’m—”

His hand is still on the back of your neck. And this time it’s not so gentle, the way he pulls you back against his mouth. But it shuts you up, at least. 

“Don’t—”

He breaks his kiss for half a second. Just to scold you with that Southern snarl— 

“—fuckin’—” 

He licks into your mouth. Makes you whine. 

“—apologize.” 

“Sorry,” you squeak. 

He tugs your head back. Holds you there, an inch from his lips. 

You watch him toll his tongue across his teeth. Then you watch him shake his head. 

“Jesus,” he says. 

You almost laugh. But he swallows it up in a kiss, so you settle for a smile on his lips. 

You’re gentler with him, this time. More aware of your hands: of where they are and how you touch him. You put your arm over his shirt, just under his heart, and take stock of the way his breath hitches. 

You figure it’s probably not just his face that’s mottled black and blue. So you’re extra careful, when you drag your fingers up his arms, and over his sleeves, and across the soft flannel of his collar.

And you’re extra, extra gentle when you break his kiss, panting softly, and put two hands on the flat of his chest. 

“Lie down,” you tell him. 

He doesn’t move. So stubborn. 

You push at his chest. Gentle. Gentle. 

“Joel,” you say. “Lie down.” 

“Mm,” he says. “Don’t take orders.” 

There he is. That’s the Joel you’re used to. It’s kind of a relief, as stubborn as he is. Nice to know he’s not broken. Just…bruised.

You stare at him. He matches your gaze, one good eye for both of yours. 

This is the part where you give in, usually. But you made him listen in the kitchen, and you’re gonna make him listen now. 

“Yes you do,” you say. “Tonight you do.” 

He opens his mouth. You shut him up before he argues. 

“Joel,” you say. “Just — let me take care of you.” 

His breath snags. He shakes his head, but his eyes look pleading. Like he doesn’t quite know how to say yes. It makes your heart hurt, a little. You wonder if anyone’s ever looked after him. If anyone’s ever offered. 

“Already took care ‘a me,” he protests. “Y’don’t—” 

“If you tell me I don’t need to, I swear to god, I’m gonna kill you.” 

He blinks. 

“I’m serious,” you say. 

A smile plays at the edge of his mouth. He nods. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Y’look serious.” 

“So lie down.” 

He looks at you. Half a second longer. And then you push at his chest, again — still light, still gentle — and this time he goes. He lies back and his weight dips the mattress. 

“Scoot back,” you say. “Head on the pillows.” 

He glares up at you. He looks a little peeved, but — he listens. He moves up and lays his head down on the pillows. You don’t miss the way he relaxes, almost instantaneously — all bunched up, beaten, six-foot-something of him. The way his muscles untense, when he splays on the sheets. The way his fingers unspool at his sides. 

“Comfy?” 

He grumbles. 

“You can say yes,” you say. “I won’t tell anyone.” 

He grumbles again. Slightly softer. You can feel him eyeing you, where you still sit at the end of his bed. 

“Come up here,” he huffs. He sounds impatient. 

You tilt your head. Twist your finger in the hem of your shirt. 

His eyes flicker shut. His fingers tangle in the sheets. He lets a low groan slip, and it goes straight to your core. 

“Please,” he grits, and you stifle a grin. Joel Miller, pleading with you. You should get it on camera, for posterity. But you’re not that mean. You’re just mean enough to make him repeat himself. 

“Please…what?” 

The look he gives you is downright wicked. You’ll pay for this, when he’s all healed up. When he can lunge up, off of those pillows, and flip you on your back without dragging in a wince. 

But he can’t, right now. So…

“Please,” he repeats. Low, deliberate. Dripping in that deadpan drawl. “Get your ass up here.” 

You indulge him. 

“Okay,” you say, softly. “Since you asked so nicely.” 

He mutters something. It sounds like a curse. You shuffle toward him on your knees, crinkling his sheet and straddling his legs. You stop when you’re hovering over his lap. 

The hem of your shirt tickles his. When you sink down slightly, and drop a fraction of your weight to his lap, your underwear graze the dark seam of his jeans. 

He hisses. His hands come up to hug your sides. He ruts his hips up, winces, and rolls his head back to the pillow. His arousal nudges at your thigh. 

“Please,” he mumbles. He doesn’t sound annoyed, anymore. You’re not even sure he knows he’s begging. 

He swallows. Rocks his hips up, again, and winces. Again. 

You put a hand on his face. On the good side. He drops his hips and looks at you with one wide eye.  

“Slow,” you breathe. “We’ll go slow.” 

“Don’t wanna go slow,” he growls. Always so. fucking. stubborn. His grip tightens on your waist. “Wanna fuck you." 

“You’re not doing anything,” you say. “You’re out of commission.” 

“‘M not—fuck.“ 

You palm his cock through his jeans. His hips fumble mid-thrust and then fall. His breath shudders. 

“Fuck, darlin’,” he mumbles. “What—”

“Relax.” You flatten your palm and drag it over denim. Over the rapidly-hardening line of his cock. His fingers dig at your shirt, crumpling the cotton, kneading at the soft spot between your ribs. 

“Relax,” you repeat. And then, again, for the thousandth time tonight, “—Joel. Let me take care of you.” 

He’s quiet. His eyes are half open, heavier with every short slide of your hand up his thigh. 

“Please,” you murmur. 

Your hand stills over his lap. You watch him with wide eyes. He swallows, thick, and then — 

“Okay.” His head thumps back against the pillows. His cock strains uselessly, chasing your hand. “Fuck, baby. Okay.” 

You start with his belt. Your fingers fumble on his buckle, and you blame the dark. And maybe your nerves, a little bit. He’s never let you take control like this. And you want — you want to do a good job. You want him to feel good. 

You’re kind of surprised, actually, just how badly you want him to feel good. It’s not like you’re selfish, usually, when it comes to guys, but — this is different. This is a different kind of want, and a different kind of ache that bites low in your belly.

You get his buckle undone and slide his belt through his jeans. You toss it somewhere, and you think it hits the floor. You don’t bother looking. You’re busy again, already, tugging at his zipper, undoing the stiff button on his jeans. 

“Lift your hips for me,” you say, softly. And then — because you remember how he winced, when he bucked his hips up into you, “—slowly.” 

He does what you say. With a trademark grumble, but — still. He tilts his hips; slowly, gently, just high enough off the bed for you to pull his jeans down. 

You shuck those off the bed, too. You can find them in the morning, in the half-folded sea of all his other clothes.  

He’s breathing hard, by the time you settle back over his lap. There’s a damp spot at the front of his boxers, where pre-cum leaks from the tip of his cock. He’s this fucking desperate, and you haven’t even touched him yet. Not properly, at least. 

And obviously he thinks you’re about to put him out of his misery, because his thigh twitches under yours, and you can feel his chest pull tight. His fingers curl hard on the mattress. You can hear the silk snap of sheets where they bunch in his knuckles. 

Your hand drifts over the head of his cock. You can see the outline clearly now, without his jeans on. Hard and thick and dripping under black boxers. You stroke him through the fabric and he growls. Like — low, dark, buried at the base of his throat. It might scare you a little, if he had any fight left in him. 

But he doesn’t. So you just…let go. 

He groans. It sounds dangerously close to a whine. 

“Fuck,” he pants. “Please. Baby.” 

You ignore him. You move your hands up, to the hem of his flannel, and you watch his gaze flicker. A little confused. A lot annoyed. You start on the lowest button and he hisses through his teeth. 

“What are you doin’?” he whines. Definitely a whine, this time. 

You snap the second button. A sliver of golden skin peeks out. 

“Going slow,” you say. 

Third button. You run your fingertips over the skin you’ve uncovered. Featherlight. But he’s so fucking sensitive it’s enough to make him shiver. 

“Fuck,” he hisses. 

Fourth button. Fifth. You’re almost to the top, now. You work the last one undone and his flannel falls open, exposing his chest to the dark. You can’t see much, but you chart the change in his breath when your touch lands in certain places. The tender space between his ribs. The swell under his heart and the ridge of his collar. You imagine they’d look a lot like his face, if you leaned over and turned on the light. Black and blue and angry. 

“Joel,” you breathe. 

“S’okay,” he mumbles. In that dopey, blissed-out, touch me drawl. He shakes his head. “Doesn’t hurt.” 

You don’t believe him, because it’s a lie. It hurts, and you know it fucking hurts. You see the way his eyes close, when your fingers graze his ribs. 

“Yes it does,” you say, softly. “It hurts.” 

He huffs. 

“Doesn’t matter,” he mumbles. “You f—fuck.” 

You lay your palm on his stomach. On a safe spot. Your hand is so warm, and so small, sprawled out across him, and when it inches just slightly, slightly lower he takes a shuddering breath. 

You take your hand away. Brace it beside him, on the mattress. Then you lean over his chest, over the skin you’ve revealed, and you kiss the shivering print your palm left on his skin. Just underneath his navel. 

He whines again. His big hands come up to tangle in your hair. 

“I what?” you murmur. Your lips skim his skin.

“You feel good,” he says. “Make me f-feel fuckin’ good, baby, fuck—”

You’re feeling bold. Kind of. You press your lips to that sore spot, just between his ribs. You figure his hands are already in your hair, if he wants to yank you off. 

But he doesn’t. He hisses, sure — you hear the sharp breath he drags in, and the swear that slips free — but he doesn’t buck you off. He lets you put his lips on him. Lets you try to kiss it better. 

Until he just can’t take it, anymore. 

You pepper kisses on his chest, and his stomach, and on the jutting ridge of his hip. You pull at the hem of his boxers, just a little, whenever your mouth drifts down to his hips. Tug them down, fraction of an inch by fraction of an inch, and kiss the new skin you uncover. 

And that drives him fucking crazy. That’s when he starts begging. 

Mumbled, at first. You can’t even tell what he’s saying. That’s how fucked out he sounds. But you get the gist of what he’s asking for. His fingers in your hair, buried at your roots. His cock straining and neglected underneath you. 

“Words,” you say. Your breath skitters along his hipbone. Your fingers toy with the hem of his shorts. “Use your words, baby.”

“Fuck,” he pants. His head is tossed back, tipped up against the pillows. The fan over his bed rustles the sheets. It doesn’t do a damn thing for the fire on his skin. 

“Your m—ah. Your mouth, angel, pl—fuck. Please.”

His words — if you can call them that — are going straight to your core. If you let him feel you right now, you’re pretty sure you’d be soaked through. But his hands are busy, clinging to your hair while you draw lazy circles on his skin with your tongue. And it’s not about you, anyway. You don’t care that you’re aching for him, or that your whole body trembles when he begs you, please. 

This is for him. For Joel. You can worry about you later. 

You drag your lips off his skin. Long enough to rest your chin on his stomach and gaze up at him. 

“My mouth,” you repeat. You dip the pad of your finger into his boxers. His thigh flinches. “My mouth where?”

“Oh, fuck,” he moans, and you can’t really tell if he’s pissed, or just desperate. His voice is hoarse. “On my f—on my cock, baby, please. Such a pretty f—fuckin’ mouth, angel. Wanna f-fill you up. Need t’feel you, fuck—“

You hook your fingers in his boxers and tug. His cock springs free, red and swollen. Pre-cum beads at the tip and drizzles down his shaft. 

You flatten yourself in the cradle of his legs. You wrap a tight little fist around his cock and lick a stripe up his length, base to tip, collecting his taste on your tongue. 

The sound he makes is broken. His fingers flex, then slacken in your hair. 

You pause at the tip of his cock. Your tongue swipes over his slit, once and then twice, and his fingers tighten again in your hair. He likes that. 

And then you flatten your tongue, and drag it over the silk-smooth underside of his head — and he ruts into your mouth. So he really likes that.

It’s not like you’ve never done this before. You’ve just never had the time to do it properly. Like, really, truly, right. Never been able to focus on him fully, on his bathroom floor or in the front seat of his car. 

But here, in the dark, sprawled out between his legs —you can take your time. You can take care of him. 

You flutter your tongue along that hidden spot until he’s saying something incoherent. You think it might be your name. And then you hollow your cheeks, and slip him into your mouth, and take his cock inch by inch to the back of your throat. 

Slow. Slow.

“Fuck,” he’s mumbling, “such a g—good girl, darlin’, fuck. P-pretty girl. Look so f-fuckin’ pretty f’me.”

His broken praise makes your stomach swarm. Spurs you on. You shift up a little, sprawled out between his legs, and try your best to take him deeper. 

The tip of his cock nudges the back of your throat. You choke, but you don’t let him go. You don’t move, either. You just hold him there, thick and pulsing on your tongue, until he begs you to move. 

“Pl—fuck. Move your head, baby. Please. Lemme—ngh. Lemme feel you.”

You drag your eyes up. Look at him, in the dark, when you start to bob your head. 

His eyes roll back. His head tips, digging into his pillow. You drag your mouth along his length, setting a steady pace, and when he’s soaked with your spit you add your fist. You swirl your hand, slow, in time with your tongue. 

He won’t last long. He was a mess before you put your mouth on him — and now that you’re touching him, choking on his cock while he splays on soft pillows — 

“Fuck,” he punches out. “Not gonna—last, babygirl.”

His fingers curl in your hair. He can’t thrust his hips up, into your mouth  — he learned that lesson, already — and you can tell it’s taking everything in him not to go for the alternative. Not to just — sink his fingers down, into your roots, and shove your head down, instead. 

You drag your mouth back to his tip. Release him, with a tight little pop that makes him groan. Your breath drips over his cock and makes him twitch. His tip grazes your soaked bottom lip. His fingers tremble in your hair.

“Joel,” you say, softly. “Take what you want.” 

His breath picks up. His fingers flex again, experimentally, asking for permission you’ve just given. 

You let him push your head down — gentle, gentle — until his cock is just kissing your lips. 

“It’s okay,” you breathe. “Use me. Make yourself feel good.” 

You think maybe it’s your words that get to him, more than your mouth or your fist or your tongue could do. He fucking whimpers — like, honestly whimpers, with his head tipped and his eyes shut and a soft, shattered plea on parted lips. 

And then he does exactly — exactly — what you ask him to do. He digs rough, thick fingers into your skull and guides your head onto his cock with a frantic, stilted shove.

You almost choke. But you’re warmed up; stretched out from the agonizingly slow pace you’d set for him, before — so you take it. You can take it. You let your jaw go slack. Let him fuck himself on your mouth. 

It’s the opposite of slow. It’s fast, and sloppy, and desperate, and for once you don’t stop him. His stomach clenches. His balls pull up tight. He groans, long and low and broken, and you —

You pull off of him. Right before he can cum down your throat. 

“What—” He’s a mess. His chest is heaving, slick with sweat. His cock twitches. Slick, swollen. Fucking — aching, if the twisted look on his face is any indication.

“What are you doin’,” he groans. “Baby, please, I n—”

“Relax,” you breathe. 

He doesn’t relax. He’s the opposite of relaxed. Every part of him is tensed; coiled up like an angry spring. 

His breath hitches, when you untangle yourself from his legs. When you climb back into his lap and straddle his cock. 

You lift the hem of that worn-out, faded, Miller Contracting shirt. It’s huge on you. It drips down onto his chest, when you lean forward, and shove your soaked panties to the side, and roll your hips over his cock. 

He gasps. Swallows. His hands come up to grasp weakly at your hips. 

You sink down onto him. Inch by inch. You’re fucking — soaked, for him — but he’s still a stretch. He still splits you open. 

“God—damn,” he hisses. “So f—fuckin’ tight, sweetheart, fuck—”

You’re gentle with him. Like — really, really gentle. You fold over him — almost chest to chest, but not quite touching — and brace your hands on either side of his shoulders. You’re careful. The way you roll your hips is careful. The way you put your lips on his neck, above the bruise on his collar and below the one on his cheek — is careful. 

Everything is careful, and gentle, but when you swivel your hips, and his cock nudges your g-spot, it’s him who tells you —

“Slow—”

—in that husky, rasping drawl. 

You listen to him. You lift your hips up, walls fluttering around him, and sink back down slow. He sighs. You bury your own gasp in his neck. 

“Cum for me,” you tell him. “It’s okay. Wanna feel — fuck. Wanna feel you.” 

He grunts. His cock throbs.

You know how close he is. It must be borderline painful, you think, so you wonder why he won’t let go. But then his hand is sliding off of your hip, and slipping under the hem of that worn t-shirt,  and his thumb is rubbing circles on your clit. 

“You f—fuck,” he breathes. “You first.” 

You bite back his name. Your hips buck, involuntarily — too hard, too fast — and if he was half-coherent he might wince. But he just bears down harder, racing you to the finish line, and your muscles clench around his cock. 

You cum hard, trembling around his cock, and your chest drops over his. You’re putting weight on him; on the bruises scattered across his skin, but — he doesn’t care. He holds you there. His hands come up, over your shirt, and splay out across your back. He presses you down, into him, and his hips jerk up. You feel his cock pulse, somewhere deep inside you, and he spills inside you with a groan. 

You think he’ll move you, as soon as he comes to. As soon as he remembers that he’s hurt. You’re sprawled across his chest, curled up around his bruises while his cock still throbs inside you. 

But he doesn’t move you. He doesn’t even try. He holds you there, draped across him like a blanket, stroking lazy, stuttered patterns up your back. 

You bury your head in the crook of his neck. You move your hips, just to see — and he moans into your collar. His fingers bunch in your shirt. 

“Fuck,” he groans. “Gonna—ngh. Kill me.” 

You smile. It curves soft in the column of his throat. 

“Not tonight,” you mumble. 

You try to slip off of him, then. Try to lift your hips up, and roll onto your side. 

He’s not having any of that. He clutches you harder. Presses you to his chest, and keeps his half-hard cock speared inside you. 

“Stay,” he mumbles. And then — still begging, “—please.” 

“Don’t wanna hurt you,” you whisper. 

“Ain’t hurtin’ me.” He sounds sleepy. His arms are heavy, where they drip over your back. 

“You feel good,” he slurs. His nose nudges at your collar. “Feel like home.”

Your heart skips. Swells. You nuzzle into his neck, and even though it’s not physically possible to get any closer to him — you’re tangled up in every part of him, already — you try. You try. 

He sighs. His breathing slows. You think he’s half-asleep, already. 

You lift your head. You press a gentle kiss to his lips, and he responds with a sleepy little moan. His mouth is warm. Soft. He tastes like coffee and he smells like you.

He licks into your mouth with a low, lazy groan. When you break the kiss his head flops back to the pillows. His hands slacken on your back. 

“Take good care ‘a me,” he mumbles. His good eye flickers open, and flutters back shut. His sleepiness is contagious. You bite back a yawn and snuggle into his shoulder. He’s still talking — mumbling — when your eyes start to close. 

“So f-fuckin’ good t’me,” he breathes. “Don’t deserve you.” 

You don’t respond. There’s nothing to say, except that you love him. And he’s already fast asleep. 

So you nestle into him. Close your eyes. You listen to his breathing, deep and even, and you fall asleep over his heartbeat.

—

The morning is decidedly less romantic. 

You wake up before him. You’ve both moved, in your sleep, and when you open your eyes you’re somewhere on your side. His arm is draped loosely over you. And there’s a dull, cramping throb at the base of your stomach.

“Shit,” you hiss. 

You extricate yourself from his arm. You slip out of his bed and tiptoe to the door, sidestepping the mess of clothes on the floor. The sun pokes through a crack in his drapes. It lights a patch of cream carpet and a sliver of his skin. Tanned, golden, tinged with the purpling edge of a bruise. 

You swallow. Shake your head. You push open his door, as quietly as you can, and sneak into his bathroom. You click the lock behind you. 

You drop down onto the toilet. Dig your head into your hands. You confirm that — yes, you’ve started your fucking period — which is a good thing, really, considering the alternative — but still. Of all the days. 

“Fuuuck,” you mumble. 

You ransack his drawers. They’re predictably empty. There’s a half-full bottle of shaving cream, and some men’s razors, and a bottle of moisturizer that looks like it’s never been used. A gift from Sarah, you assume. 

You shove the drawer shut. Huff. You click the door open and tiptoe back down the hall, back into his room, and stand awkwardly on the threshold. 

Your presence must wake him up. He rolls over, wincing slightly, and his eyes blink open. He stares up at you, a little confused as to why you’re in his doorway and not in his sheets. 

“…Hey,” he says, sleepily. “You okay?” 

“Yeah.” You shift uncomfortably. Gesture vaguely toward the bathroom. “I just — do you have a tampon?” 

“Oh.” 

He blinks again. Props himself up on his elbow. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, ‘course. Uh — check Sarah’s bathroom. Should be, uh — under the sink, or somethin’.” 

“Great. Thanks.”

“Yeah,” he says. He watches you, half a second longer. Watches the faded letters on your shirt when you duck out into the hallway again. 

Sarah’s bathroom is a success. You come back in, a few minutes later, and sit on the edge of his bed. You rub at your stomach with the heel of your palm.

He sits up in the sheets. All the way, this time. He scoots closer to you and rests his chin on the ridge of your shoulder. Strokes his hand up your arm. 

“Feel okay?” 

“Yeah,” you mumble. “Just fucking — cramps. It’s whatever.” 

“Ain’t whatever,” he mutters. His lips skate along your shoulder. You lean back, into his touch. You tilt your neck to let his mouth wander. 

“What d’you need, baby?” 

“Nothing,” you say, quickly. Your face heats. He’s a fucking mess. Beaten and bruised and half black and blue. The last thing you need is him worrying about you. 

He pauses. His mouth is hot along your neck. 

“Nothing,” you say, a little less convincing. “I’m good.” 

“Okay,” he says, quietly. He nibbles at the side of your throat. You gasp. Your head tips back, toward him. “I gotta bottle ‘a Advil in the bathroom. ’N some tea downstairs. Can start there.” 

“I just said—”

“Yeah, I heard what you said,” he drawls. His stubble rakes your skin. “Ain’t listenin’, though.” 

“Fuck off,” you grumble. But Advil sounds good. So does tea. So does his mouth on your neck, the way he’s got it right now, nipping gently at thin skin. 

“Mm,” he hums. He’s uniquely unfazed by your tone. He sees the way you melt into his touch. The way you try not to smile, when his nose nuzzles your neck. 

“Took care ‘a me,” he murmurs. “Lemme take care ‘a you.” 

“That’s not the same,” you grumble. 

He ignores you. His mouth leaves your neck and he pulls you gently back to bed. He leans over you, half-lit by the quiet sun, and kisses your forehead. 

“Stay there,” he says. “I’ll get it. What kinda tea you like?” 

“I don’t know. Uh — like, Peppermint, I guess.” 

He makes a face. 

“Okay,” you say. “Chamomile.” 

“Don’t have Chamomile.” 

You blink.

“What do you have?” 

“Dunno,” he says. “Little red tin. Got the Queen on it.” 

You stare at him. He’s an enigma. Whip smart, sometimes, and other times — like, say, now — he’s just. Dense. He’s so fucking dense. 

“Okay,” you say. “Great. The one with the Queen.” 

He nods happily. He kisses you again and rolls off the bed. He pulls on a shirt, hissing slightly at the stretch of sore muscles — and you stifle a smile. He’s trying, you think. He’s trying.

You can hear him clattering around in the kitchen, a few minutes later. You lift your head off the pillows. 

“Do you know how to make tea?” you call. You’re only half-teasing. You’ve seen him try to cook, on a few unfortunate occasions. It’s a disaster every time. 

He doesn’t answer. More clattering. 

“It’s just water,” you shout. “It’s just hot water. You take the little bag—”

The clanging pauses. 

“Shut up,” he shouts back. “You’re s’posed to be asleep.” 

You grin. Settle back against the sheets. You toy with the hem of his shirt and wait for him to come back. 

And he does, a few minutes later. With two Advil in the palm of his hand, and a steaming mug of tea that looks — in a word — acceptable. 

He puts it down on the nightstand, next to you. He looks proud. 

“See?” he drawls. “‘M a professional.” 

You roll your eyes. You take a sip, just to appease him — and he definitely did not leave the bag in long enough, but you don’t tell him that. You just smile, into the rim of the mug. Swallow back the pills he’s brought.

“Don’t you have work?” 

“Called off.” He gestures to his eye. “Don’t feel like answerin’ questions.”

“Oh.” You look down. A pang of guilt darts up your chest. “Yeah. Sure.” 

“Besides,” he drawls. “Someone’s gotta watch you. Make sure y’don’t keel over.” 

“Oh, fuck off. I’m fine.” 

“Mm.” He leans in. Kisses you. “Pain in the ass, though.” 

But he’s smiling, and so are you, and everything is so normal, for a minute. So domestic. You pretend he isn’t hurting, and neither are you. 

“Joel,” you tell him, when he gets up to leave, again.

He pauses in the doorframe. Runs a hand through ruffled hair. 

“Never mind,” you say. 

—

Sarah comes home sometime after noon. You’re in Joel’s living room, on his couch, bundled up in a fleece blanket while the TV blares. You’ve got a pillow clutched up to your stomach, to help with the cramps that you’ve told Joel are nonexistent. 

But he doesn’t believe you, because you’re a terrible liar, so — here you are. Relegated to the couch, while he works on his laptop. There’s some innocuous, sleepy show on TV. TLC. My Strange Addiction, or something like that. The guy on screen can’t stop eating tartar sauce. 

Joel looks up from his laptop. He points to the TV. “That,” he says, matter-of-fact, “is fuckin’ disgustin’.”

“Mm. I thought you were working.”

"I am," he says. 

He’s not. 

He slams his laptop shut. Makes a face at the TV. You swallow back your smile and snuggle into his shoulder. 

“Your eye looks better,” you tell him. And it does. Sort of. In the sense that it’s no longer completely swollen shut. 

“Yeah, well. Had a good nurse.”

He looks down at you. Smiles. 

“Kinda strict, though,” he says. 

“Watch it.”

“‘N stubborn as hell.”

You glare at him. He grins. He tucks a strand of hair back from your cheek. Lowers his lips to the shell of your ear.

“Real good with her mouth, though,” he drawls. 

Your face heats. You drag the pillow from your stomach and swat gently — gently — at his shoulder. 

He laughs. 

He disappears into the kitchen later, to make you both lunch, and you trail behind him. Perch yourself on his counter, while he rifles through the fridge. He hasn’t pulled the blinds, so you can see your driveway through his window. Your dad’s car is still gone. You wonder if he’s tried your phone. 

You know Joel sees the empty space in your drive. You catch him staring. But he doesn’t say anything, and neither do you. 

You’re glad. You don’t want to talk, yet. Not about that. He makes you a sandwich and you eat with your back to the window. 

You’re still sitting there when Sarah comes home. 

In your defense, you didn’t know she’d be home, like — right now. It’s why you’re still in Joel’s shirt and a pair of his boxers, when she wanders out into the kitchen. 

She sees Joel first. To her credit, she seems remarkably unfazed. Her backpack slides off her shoulder and hits the ground with a thud.

“Damn,” she says. “What happened to you?”

“Uh.” He touches his fingers to his face. “Accident. At work. I’ll live.”

“I figured.” Her face softens. She shakes her head. “Be more careful,” she says. 

He nods. 

She turns. Clocks you, at the table. She does a double take — the shirt, the rumpled hair, the bare feet — and her brow furrows. 

“…Hey,” she says. 

You stare at each other. Sarah blinks. Joel clears his throat behind her. 

“She’s just, uh — here helpin’ out,” he says. “Work stuff.”

He points vaguely towards you. You nod. 

Sarah looks between the two of you. Her lip quirks, like she’s hiding a smile. 

“Work stuff,” she says. “Cool. Cool.” 

You stare at the table. Joel shifts uncomfortably. An awkward silence strains. 

“How are you, kiddo?” Joel asks, after a beat. “How was, uh—Abigail’s?”

“Oof.” She sucks her teeth. “So close. Alison. But — yeah. Sure. Good. She says hi.”

“Uh-huh. Yeah. Good.”

Sarah blinks. Again. 

“Oo-kay,” she says. “Weird vibe in here. I’m gonna go shower.” She points to you. “Are you staying?”

“Oh.” You glance at Joel. “Uh—”

“Yeah,” he says. “For a bit.”

Sarah shrugs. “Cool,” she says. “We’ll hang out.”

—

You do hang out. And — it’s fun. It’s easy. You love Joel, but it’s nice to just…have a friend, for a while. You hang out in her room for the whole afternoon, lounging on her bed while he wraps up work. You listen to her shitty 2000s pop-punk playlist. You sprawl across her pink duvet, and she tells you about boys. 

One boy in particular, actually. Some dude named Luke. Turns out Sarah wasn’t at Abigail’s — or Alison’s, or whoever the fuck’s— last night. 

“I was with him,” she says. She giggles a little. Her eyes are wide, and she looks punch-drunk. “Do not tell my dad.” 

Trust me, you want to say. He’s hardly one to talk.

“‘Course,” you say, instead. You put a finger to your lips. “Not a word.” 

She nods. Hits skip song on her speaker. 

“What about you?” she asks.

“What about me?” 

“Well, I don’t know. I just told you a secret. The polite thing to do is tell me one.” 

“Oh,” you say. “Um.” 

You stare at her. She stares back. And then Joel is rapping at her door, and you thank god for his blundering timing. 

“Hey,” he says, through the door. “Uh. I ordered pizza.” 

“You’re not off the hook,” Sarah says, when you roll off her bed. “I want something juicy.” 

Your face heats. You almost trip, on your way out the room. 

—

Sarah notes your empty driveway during dinner. The glaring, dusky space where your dad’s car should be. 

She asks if your dad is out of town. You tell her yes. 

“Huh,” she says. She shrugs at Joel. “You should spend the night here, then.” 

You blush. You try not to look at him. You don’t tell Sarah you already spent the last. 

“I mean — that’s cool, right?” she asks, when Joel doesn’t answer. “She can stay?” 

He’s quiet. His glass clinks on the table. 

“Yeah, course,” he murmurs. “Course she can stay.” 

“Cool,” she says. “That’s settled, then.” 

—

You help Joel clear the table while Sarah finishes up. It gives you at least a second of much-needed privacy.

“I’ll take the couch,” you say, quickly. 

He looks at you. His jaw flickers. He doesn’t like that plan, you can tell, but — 

“It’s too risky,” you say. “With Sarah. I’ll just — I’ll sleep on the couch.” 

He swallows. Nods. 

“Fine,” he mumbles. “But — least lemme make it nice for ya.” 

“Yeah,” you say, softly. “Sure.” 

—

It turns out nice in Joel Miller-speak just means gathering up every single spare pillow, and every single spare blanket — enough to comfortably sleep a small village — and layering them on top of the couch. By the time you’re ready for bed, it’s like slipping into a cloud. Like — an oppressively hot, way-too-plush, suffocatingly sweaty cloud. 

But he looks really proud of himself, when he presents his handiwork. He wants you to be comfortable, if he can’t fall asleep with you. So you sink down, into his makeshift nest, and tell him it’s nice when he tells you goodnight. 

The second he’s gone you sit up straight. You rip the sheets off your body and sit there panting in the dark. 

Sarah peeks out of her room. She wanders over to the couch and laughs at you. 

“Nice,” she says. “You look cozy.” 

“Shut up.” 

“You wanna sleep in my room?” She shrugs. “I can move over.” 

“No, it’s — fine,” you say. 

She hesitates. Then she sinks down onto the couch, next to you, and rolls her tongue across her teeth. 

“You can just go in there, you know,” she says.

Your head whips to her. Your pulse picks up. Pounds.

“What?” 

She shrugs. “C’mon,” she says. “You’d probably both sleep better.” 

You stare at her. You’re pretty sure your mouth is open. 

“You—” Your voice drops. “You know?” 

“Oh, seriously?” She sighs. “Dude, come on. I’ve known for weeks.” 

“What—how?” 

She blinks. 

“Well, it’s not like you’re subtle. No offense. You left your bathing suit in my bathroom, that night I found you guys swimming. Plus, you were, like — extra weird. So, you know.” She gestures. “Connect the dots.” 

“That was —” You shake your head. “That was, like, three weeks ago. You’ve known for three weeks? And you just—nothing?”  

“Well, what do you want me to say?” She shrugs. “Yeah. Sure. It was a little weird, at first. I mean, you’re way younger than him. He’s so old. He’s, like, ancient. He’s—”

“Okay,” you say. “Point made.” 

“Look, I love my dad,” she says. “But he’s a pain in the ass. He’s always cranky. He says, like, two things a day. He’s impossible to shop for.” 

“Is there a but somewhere?” 

“But,” she says, with a pointed look at you, “—he’s—different, now. The last couple weeks.” 

“Different how?” 

She shrugs. 

“He’s happy,” she says. “You make him happy.” 

You’re quiet. She looks at you a long time. 

“Does he make you happy?” she asks, softly. 

It’s the first time you’ve ever talked about Joel with someone other than — well, Joel. Or Hayes, or your dad, you guess, but you’re not sure that counts. That was — less conversation, more screaming match. 

But Sarah’s looking at you earnestly, with a brown-eyed stare that reminds you of her dad. So you answer her honestly. 

“Yeah,” you say. “Yes.” 

She nods. 

“Okay,” she whispers, and you see her smile in the dark. She nods down the hallway. Towards his room. “So get off my couch, then.” 

You get off her couch. You’re halfway to his room when you turn back to look at her. 

“No,” she says, before you can open your mouth. “No, I can feel it. You’re gonna say thank you, or some shit, and just —”

She waves you off. 

“Don’t,” she says. “Do not thank me, for letting you sleep with my dad. That’s so gross. I’m covering my ears, if that’s what you’re gonna do.” 

You bite back a laugh. 

“You’re a piece of work,” you tell her. 

“Yeah, well.” She flashes a grin. “Runs in the family.” 

— 

Your dad’s car is in the driveway, the next morning. Joel sees it first. 

You figure there’s no harm in filling Sarah in over breakfast. You leave out the part where Joel gets beaten to a pulp — she doesn’t need every detail — but you give her the Reader’s Digest version. 

Your dad knows. He’s pissed. You’re camped out here, like a fugitive, because the thought of confrontation is enough to make your head spin. 

She listens. Nods, every now and then. She doesn’t ask any questions, which you think you appreciate, but you can tell she’s processing. She prods at her Eggo with a painted nail. 

“He’ll come over here,” she says. “Now that he’s back. He’ll — I mean. Sounds like he’ll come looking for you.” 

“Yeah,” you say. You know.

She rips off a piece of Eggo. Chews thoughtfully. 

“And you don’t want to talk to him,” she says. 

“I don’t know,” you mumble. “Not—not right now. Not until he’s…”

“Cooled off?” she offers. “Less psycho?” 

“Sure,” you say. “That.” 

Joel roams past the breakfast table, and you both look up to watch him. He’s been patrolling the window like a German Shepherd all morning, ever since he saw your dad pull in. He hasn’t let you stray more than four feet from his side. 

“Hey,” Sarah says. She snaps her fingers. “Earth to dad.”

He blinks. Drags his stare from the window. Sarah points at you. 

“Take her to Tommy’s,” she says. 

He pauses, mid-pace. 

“Tommy?” You look at Sarah. Then Joel. “Like your brother, Tommy?” 

He’s quiet. Thinking. Sarah answers for him.

“Yeah,” she says. “Like Uncle Tommy. You’ve met him a couple times, I think. Funny stories. Man-bun.” 

It rings a vague sort of bell. 

“He has a cabin,” she says. “Like, three hours away. East Texas. Up in the Piney Woods.” 

“Just take her there,” she says, and she’s talking to Joel, now. “Not, like — forever. Just til you figure your shit out. ‘Cause I don’t want to be here when—” She gestures toward the window. Toward your driveway. “Whenever that goes down.” 

 You can tell he’s thinking about it. He scrapes a hand over his scruff. 

“I’d have t’ask Tommy,” he says. 

Sarah rolls her eyes. “Tommy hasn’t been up there in months. He won’t care. Besides, you built it for him. Isn’t it, like — doesn’t that technically make it yours?” 

“No,” he says, flatly. 

He drops his hand from his jaw. Cocks his head toward the kitchen. He wants to talk to you. In private.

Sarah grumbles. You put your fork down and follow him in. 

He turns to you, when you’re safely out of Sarah’s earshot. Drags in a deep breath. 

“What d’you think?” he asks, softly. 

“What do I think — of what? Of — hiding out, at your brother’s cabin? I’ve met him once. If that.” 

“Not like he’d be there,” he says. 

You push out a breath. Stare at him. 

“Listen,” he says, gently. “’S your call, darlin’. But she’s right. Y’can’t—” his jaw ticks, “—we can’t stay here. Not ‘less you wanna deal with your dad today. Now.” 

You don’t. Not today. Not — not right now. 

You need time. And you need Joel. 

“You wanna talk t’him, I’ll go with you,” he says. He touches your face. Tilts your chin with two fingers. “Right now. Across the street. We’ll do it together.” 

It’s too raw. It’s too fresh. His face is still shattered. 

He can see your hesitation. The way you shrink at the suggestion. 

“You wanna run, I’ll run with you,” he says, quietly. “Doesn’t matter t’me, baby girl. I’m with you either way. But you gotta choose, angel.”

You bite down on your lip. Your pulse pulls between your ears. When you look at him your eyes are wide. 

“He won’t mind?” you ask. “Tommy?” 

“Nah,” he says. “He won’t mind.” 

You nod. Half to yourself. 

“I’d have to — get stuff,” you say. “From my house. My phone is still there. And I need clothes—”

He gives a patient sort of hum. 

“We’ll get ‘em,” he murmurs. “Whatever y'need.” 

You look at him. Your heart settles in your throat. 

“Okay,” you say. “Just for a few days. Just ’til we figure it out. Together.” 

“Yeah, baby,” he murmurs. His thumb strokes at your jaw. “Together.”

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---

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

---

it’s just so good 😭

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):

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6

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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