Dinomdubs - Donttriphomie

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

---

katsuki's never been one to let himself get attached to his flings. he knows his limits, knows when fucking turns into love-making. he has a hard 45 day limit on his relationships, even going so far as to mark their expiration dates down on his calendar.

still, he can't smother the feeling he gets in his chest on day 36 of you. he wasn't even planning to see you today, wasn't thinking about talking to you until he notices you sitting out in front of a dive bar from the window of his car. you're at a small patio table, alone, picking at the label on your empty beer bottle, doing that thing you do where you purse your lips when you're trying not to cry.

and when that first tear rolls down your face and you quickly swipe it away, katsuki feels like his ribs are caving in and his thoughts are swirling around in his head, a cosmic whirlpool of I'm going to protect you, who did this to you who hurt you? I'll never let you feel this way again, not ever again, not ever ever again

he tells his driver to pull over and he's in the bar before anything can stop him, grabbing another two beers, some cheap brand he saw in your fridge after a night in your bed.

"katsuki?" you look at him with glassy eyes when he sits down next to you, sliding one of the bottles across the table.

"why're you cryin' outside of a shitty bar at 2am, hm?" he takes a swig of his drink, nearly grimaces at the flavor.

"can we just fuck like usual and leave it at that?" you ask hoarsely.

"tell me why you're cryin' and then I'll take you back to my place." katsuki lays a hand on your thigh and you trace along his splayed out fingers with your nails.

you're quiet for a minute, and then:

"what would you do if you were in love with someone, but they didn't love you back?"

katsuki unconsciously strengthens his grip on your thigh, blunt nails digging into your skin.

he knows he has a choice in this moment, one that scares him more than any day he's had as a pro-hero.

but the next words out of his mouth feel so natural, he barely has to think about them.

"I'd buy her a beer at a shitty dive bar on my way home."

---

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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😭 ✨🤌🏽

fourth of july

pairing: joel x f!reader

rating: 18+, minors dni

warnings: dbf!joel, no outbreak, age gap (reader is 23, joel is in his 40s), dominant joel, oral sex (m receiving), little bit of praise kink good girl action iykyk

a/n: done with finals so we are back to the important things (writing joel smut)...going through a dbf!joel phase so lmk if we like this/if we want more parts. i have some ideas for a lil series if people are into this one. love u bye <3

It’s good to be back in Texas. Back home. You’re only here for a few months, in that awkward, post-grad summer between college and real-life - but it’s nice. Good to see your dad, and your friends, and…Joel.

You’ve known him since you were a kid. He’s your dad’s best friend. You shouldn’t be nervous to see him - you see him every summer, every Christmas, every family get-together. But this time feels different. The past few times have felt different, if you’re being honest. He’s…

No. He’s Joel. He taught you how to swim. Showed you how to ride a bike. He’s got an ex-wife, and a daughter, and twenty years on you. But still. Still. 

You’ve only been home for a few days, but you still haven’t seen him. He makes himself scarce. Always at work, or busy with Sarah, or bailing Tommy out of jail. It’s probably better that way, anyway. The last thing you need is that fucking Southern drawl in your ear every day. 

But you’ll see him today. Today it’s inevitable. The annual Fourth of July barbecue, organized by your dad and hosted by Joel. They’ve modified the theme this year - Fourth of July meets Graduation! - to celebrate you. The guest of honor.  

So, yeah. You’re nervous. You’re really fucking nervous. You take an hour to pick out a sundress, and if you pick a matching set of underwear to go beneath it - black, lace, expensive - it’s definitely not because of him. 

The walk across the street to Joel’s is torture. You drag your feet the whole way, mute alongside your father. He fills the silence with inane chatter. Something about Joel’s contracting business, you think. You follow him to Joel’s front door, and through the foyer, and out to the back yard - and there he is. Joel Miller, leaning heavily against his fence with a beer in one hand. A wallflower at his own party. 

He perks up when you approach. Tips his beer in easy greeting. 

“Hey, kid. Long time no see.” 

You swallow. “Yeah. Long time no see.” 

“College graduate,” he muses. “Too smart for me now.” 

“Hardly.” 

“What’d you study, anyway?” 

You eye him. “You actually wanna know? Or you just making conversation?” 

The corner of his lip quirks. “Humor me.” 

“English. Lit. You know, Jane Austen. Brontë sisters. That kinda thing.”

“Mm.” He looks amused. He takes a long sip of beer and you watch him swallow. “Bet you could teach me a thing or two. Last book I read was the Givin’ Tree.” 

You stare at him. 

“Sarah’s favorite,” he elaborates. 

You laugh, then. “Sure.” 

He eyes you. Keeps drinking. You shift a little in the silence, picking at the peeling wood along his fence. 

“Can I have a sip?” 

He pauses with the bottle halfway to his lips. His brow lifts. But he hands the bottle over, fingers brushing yours when you reach out to grab it. 

“Keep forgettin’ you’re old enough to drink,” he says. 

You take a sip in response. He watches you closely, eyes twinkling. 

He’s almost smiling. Almost. It fades when he steals a glance over your shoulder. “You got company,” he says, snatching the beer back from your hand. 

You turn in time to see Carter Thomas loping towards you. Twenty-something, next-door neighbor, one-time boyfriend. And perpetually, persistently, in love with you. You have enough time to sigh before he approaches. 

“Hey,” he says. He turns to Joel. “Mind if I steal her?” 

Joel’s jaw ticks. “No,” he says, after a moment’s hesitation. “‘Course not. Don’t have too much fun.” 

He pushes himself from the fence. You watch him go with a sinking heart. He turns to watch you over his shoulder, and you could swear there’s something in his eyes — something — and then he blinks, and turns away, and it’s gone. You’re stuck with Carter Thomas.

“—last semester at Syracuse,” he’s saying, waving his hands for emphasis. “You know how it is.” 

You nod absently. Your eyes wander, searching aimlessly for Joel as he disappears back into the crowd. You catch a flash of flannel and smile softly. 

“Are you even listening?” Carter whines. He sounds annoyed. He snaps his fingers — like, actually snaps — and your eyes flick back to him. “Like, you can’t even pretend to be interested? God. I text you, I call you, you can’t even be bothered to respond, and now you can’t even listen to a word I say—” 

You feel Joel before you see him. At your side again, slinking there like a shadow, all brooding, quiet, six-foot something of him. 

“There a problem?” he asks, softly. 

“No,” Carter says, quickly. “We’re just talking.” 

“Sounds more like you’re yellin’.” 

Carter turns, exasperated. “Look, we’re fine,” he says. “Just — it’s really not your business.” 

“It’s my house,” Joel says, quietly. “Think that makes it my business.” He looks at you. “You alright?” 

“Yeah.” You glare at Carter. “He was just leaving.” 

Carter blinks. He looks between you and Joel in disbelief. “Fine,” he huffs, putting his palms to the air. “Nice to see you.” 

Joel grunts in response. He watches him go, standing silent at your side. You turn to face him after a brief moment. 

“Thanks for that.” You shrug. “He can’t take a hint.” 

Joel grunts again. Not much for talking, you remember. Seems to speak less and less with each passing year. 

But then he surprises you. 

“You okay?”  

“Yeah,” you say, a little caught off guard. “Fine. He’s harmless. Just annoying.” 

He nods. “Sure. You wanna…you wanna talk about it?” 

You stare. 

“You want to talk about something?” 

He laughs at that. A short, sharp chuckle. “Not particularly. Good excuse to get away from this.” He gestures with his beer to the party; to the people milling through his yard. 

“You hosted.” 

“Yeah, well. It’s your dad’s thing. I just have the grill.” 

You shake your head, laughing a little. “Whatever. I could use a break, too. Lead the way.” 

He weaves his way through the yard, stopping to pluck two beers from a cooler. You follow him inside, through the kitchen and up the stairs and down a quiet hallway. 

“Through here,” he says, ducking into the guest bathroom. 

“The … bathroom.” 

“You’re impatient, you know?” 

He moves to the back of the bathroom, to a window there. He puts his shoulder into the pane and nudges it open, letting cool air wash the room. And then he bends, grumbling softly as he climbs through the open window and steps onto the roof. 

You pause for a minute before you follow. He’s still grumbling when you make it onto the roof, catching your balance on the ledge. You take a cautious seat and let your legs dangle over the eave. 

“Gettin’ too old for this,” he mutters. 

You laugh, watching as he stumbles over to join you. The guests look smaller from up here. Distant. The sun slips beneath the roof and stains the sky purple. 

He makes it to your side and drops down next to you with a sigh. He cracks both beers open and passes you one. 

“I hate parties,” you blurt, after a moment’s silence. 

He hums appreciatively. “Sure.” 

More silence. He takes an excruciatingly long sip. 

“I could kill him for you, if ya want,” he says, casually. “That Carter kid. Just say the word.” 

Your head whips to him. A laugh bubbles up from your throat, and his lip quirks.  

“Yeah, thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.” 

He nods. “I got you covered,” he says. Playful, but…you get the sense he’s not entirely teasing. “Any boys give you a hard time, you send ‘em my way.” 

You laugh again. Shake your head. 

“So,” he says. “Carter. Anyone else I gotta watch out for?” 

“Since when are you interested in my love life?” 

He puts the bottle to his lips. “It’s called makin’ conversation,” he says. 

You roll your eyes. Ignore the way your pulse quickens at the question. 

“No one at school, if that’s what you’re asking.” 

He can read your tone. It’s not exactly subtle. “So there is someone,” he says. 

“It’s nothing.” You glance away from him. You swing your feet and watch the tips of your shoes. 

“You told him how you feel?” 

“No.” 

“No,” Joel repeats. He sounds amused. “Why not?” 

“It’s complicated,” you say, a little sharper than you intend. “Look, it doesn’t matter. Let’s just…” 

“OK. Alright.” He hoists his hands in mock surrender. But there’s something else in his eyes - something darker. It’s gone before he can blink. 

“How’s my dad?” you ask. It’s a terrible attempt at a tone-shift, but he lets it go. He shrugs, lifting his bottle. 

“You know. He’s alright. Think he misses havin’ you around.” 

Your heart tugs a little. “Yeah. I miss him too. Feel kinda bad, leaving him all alone here.” 

Joel nudges your leg with his. “Don’t worry about him,” he says. “I make sure he does alright.” 

You nod. It’s suddenly painfully obvious how close he is - how his shoulder brushes yours; how his bottle clinks yours when he shifts. 

“We should probably go back down,” you say. “You’re the host. And I’m the guest of honor, or something. We can’t both be missing.” 

His gaze lingers half a second longer. 

“No,” he agrees. He stands, brushing off his jeans, and offers you his hand. 

You take it. He helps you up and your hand stays in his for a split-second longer than it should. Just long enough for your breath to catch. 

He drops his hand. Clears his throat. “After you,” he says, motioning back through the window. He follows after you, closing it shut, and again you find yourselves in a rapidly-thickening moment of silence — this time in the confines of his tiny guest bathroom. 

“Um, I think —” You blink. “I’m just gonna freshen up in here, if that’s cool. I can meet you back downstairs.” 

“Oh. Sure. ‘Course.” He shuffles past you to the door. He pauses before he lets it close, peeking back in at you with one hand on the handle. 

“You look real pretty tonight,” he says. “In case I didn’t say. Meant to tell you earlier.” 

You blush. He nods, half to himself, and closes the door. 

“Fuck,” you mumble. You stand in front of the mirror, hands braced on the sink as his footsteps recede. Your heart sits at the base of your throat. 

You look real pretty tonight. 

He’s never called you pretty before. Not ever. You’ve never heard Joel Miller call anything pretty in his life. But, then, maybe it’s a friendly kind of pretty. A fatherly sort of pretty. A you’re still the girl who used to babysit my daughter sort of pretty. 

Or maybe not. 

An idea starts to form. It’s not a good one. It’s probably a terrible one, actually, but you’re more than a few drinks deep, and something about the way he looked at you - the way he snapped at Carter, the way he led you to the roof - is telling you to do it. 

So - fuck it. You do.

You lift the hem of your sundress and work your underwear off. Black. Lace. Somewhere deep in your brain you know you must have worn them for him. 

You’re more than a little embarrassed to find they’re already damp. Just the fucking thought of him - just that caramel drawl calling you pretty - and you’re already soaked.

You swear silently, balling the fabric into your fist, and push the door open before you can talk yourself out of this. Out of the bathroom, down the stairs, back into the yard. 

You make a beeline for Joel. Your dad stops you, and your heart nearly stops — but you fend him off pretty easily. He’s too drunk to notice the blush on your cheeks, or the fabric stashed in your fist. 

You find Joel by the pool, trapped in conversation with his aggressively eager neighbor. Ms. Simmons. You remember her. Recently divorced, forever on the prowl. She’s got her claws sunk into Joel like a botoxed vulture. 

She’s laughing loudly — too loudly — when you approach. You get the sense Joel hasn’t said anything that resembles a joke. 

“You’re too much,” she coos, reaching out to touch his shoulder. “You have to come by sometime. I’ll open a bottle of wine…” 

She stops when she sees you at Joel’s side. Her expression sours. 

“Sorry,” you say, softly. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.” 

She opens her mouth to say something. Joel is faster. 

“You ain’t interruptin’,” he says. He scoots a little to make room for you, even as Ms. Simmons scowls. 

“I was just inviting Joel over for a glass of wine,” she says, eyeing you. “You’re always welcome too, of course. Just as soon as you’re old enough to drink.” 

“I’m twenty-three,” you say. You manage a fake smile. You can feel Joel try not to laugh beside you. His hand hangs at his side, brushing yours. “Thanks for the offer, though.” 

Ms. Simmons huffs. She’s determined, though - the way half of the women in this town are determined when it comes to Joel Miller - and she doubles down as if you’re a ghost. 

You ignore her. You move closer to Joel, almost imperceptibly, but you can tell the way his frame goes rigid that he can feel you. You move your hand to his as Ms. Simmons chatters away. Joel is grunting politely every so often - that quiet, deadly Southern charm - but he goes quiet when he feels your fingers on his. And quieter still when you slip the scrap of black fabric into his palm.

His whole body stiffens. Even Ms.Simmons - oblivious as all hell and three sheets to the wind - can sense the change. She frowns. 

“Joel? Are you alright?” 

He blinks, hard. His fist tightens on the lace. 

“Fine,” he grits. “Would you excuse me a second?” 

“Oh.” Her face falls. “Sure.” 

You’re not expecting him to move as quickly as he does. You’re also not expecting him to grab you the way he does, his free hand snatching at the back of your dress and yanking you into his chest. 

“Bathroom,” he growls, stubble raking your ear. “Two minutes.” 

He releases you before you can answer. You watch him stalk past you - past the party - and disappear into the house. 

And then you follow. 

You barely have to knock. Your knuckles graze the door and it swings open, wide enough for Joel’s hand to drag you inside. 

The door slams shut behind you. You stand sandwiched between Joel and the handle. 

“What the hell are you thinkin’?” he snarls. His fist is still wrapped around your underwear. You can see the fabric peeking out between his fingers. 

Your face goes hot. 

“I don’t…I thought—”

“What did you think?” he says, accent rough. “You thought takin’ off your panties —” he opens his fist and hooks a finger through the band, letting them dangle — “and handin’ ‘em to me at a party was a good idea?” 

You swallow. 

“You know what your dad’d do to me if he saw this?” he hisses. “What he’d do to you?” 

“Kill us both,” you offer, unhelpfully. 

He lifts a brow. Your underwear dangles from his middle finger.

“Damn right, kill us both.” 

“So don’t tell,” you say, softly. It’s a hell of a lot bolder than you feel. 

He looses a low whistle. You can’t tell if he’s amused, or pissed, or…something else. 

“You used to be a good girl,” he says, and now his voice is dangerous. Low, silken, Southern. “What the hell happened?” 

“Don’t know.” Somewhere in the back of your mind, you register that he’s stepped closer. A lot closer. “Grew up, I guess.” 

“I guess,” he echoes. 

He lifts his free hand to your face. Your breath catches. You’re halfway convinced he’ll kiss you — but then he grabs your jaw, holding it between rough fingers — and tilts your face to his. 

“What am I supposed to do with these?” he growls. 

You shake your head, as best you can with his hand on your jaw. 

“Whatever you want,” you manage.

“Whatever I want,” he repeats. His eyes are black, his lips inches from yours. You can taste whiskey on his breath. “And you? What am I supposed to do with you?” 

You stare at him. His fingers slacken on your jaw, slipping lower, wrapping loosely around your throat.

“Let me guess,” he mutters. “Whatever I want?” 

You swallow. Nod, slowly. 

He huffs. 

“Alright,” he murmurs. His voice is velvet. His hand squeezes your throat. “Get on your knees.” 

You look at him, a little surprised. His expression is almost unreadable. 

“Anythin’ I want, right?” He cocks his head. “Don’t make me ask twice.” 

You don’t. You kneel on the ground, knees digging into the tile. It’ll leave a mark, you’re sure. You couldn’t care less. You put your hands on his belt and he doesn’t stop you. Your panties hang from his finger, still, dragging by your cheek as you work his belt free and tug his jeans past his hips.

“You do this for all the boys?” he taunts. His drawl is thicker, now, slipping to a slur as his self-control wanes. 

You shake your head. “No,” you mumble. 

“No,” he agrees. His eyes are dark. 

You work his boxers down and his cock springs free. You let out a small sound at the sight. 

“Quiet,” he clips. He cocks a head toward the window, where the sounds of the party filter through. “Unless you wanna give ‘em a show.” 

You shut up. He moves his free hand to the back of your head and wraps his fingers in your hair, pushing you into his cock. Your mouth parts, gasping slightly as his tip drags past your lips. 

It’s the first reaction you’ve pulled from him. A chink in brooding armor. A small, quiet grunt as he slides into your mouth.

You smile a little, lips curving around his cock. He tightens his grip in your hair and pulls you closer, wiping your smile clean, making you choke. 

“Fuck,” you breathe, when his grip finally slackens. You take a breath, panting softly. His cock is slick with your saliva. 

“You ain’t finished.” 

He doesn’t grab you this time. He waits for you to move; waits for you to shuffle closer, and brace your hands on his thighs, and take him in your mouth. Waits for you to set the pace. 

You can feel him tremble when you move faster, head bobbing, fingers digging at his hips. His hand stretches, steadying himself on the lip of the counter. 

“Good?” you murmur. You drag the flat of your tongue along the underside of his cock. He flinches. 

“Thought I told you—” he swears, knuckles tight on the sink, “—quiet.” 

You smile again. He’s losing control. You can tell — the way his hips twitch, the way his cock jumps in your mouth. 

“Don’t always listen,” you breathe, placing a kiss to his tip. 

“Fuck,” he mutters. His head tilts back. His fist balls around your panties. “That’s good, sweetheart. Just like that. Good—god damn — good girl.” 

You swirl your tongue along the head of his cock. His hips buck into your mouth. 

“Don’t be a fuckin’ tease,” he growls. 

You grin. You hum a soft apology around his cock and take him deeper, ignoring the throb in your knees. 

He shudders. His hand flies off of the counter and buries again in your hair. 

“Where you want it?” he breathes. His eyes are dark, blown black with lust. His drawl drips down your skin and settles in between your legs. 

You draw back long enough to speak. Those same three words. 

“Whatever you want,” you mumble. 

That drives him fucking crazy. You drive him fucking crazy. His hand tangles in your hair and he fucks your mouth, swearing softly, your own soaked panties crumped in his other hand. 

And then his hips jerk, and his half-silent swears spill broken from his mouth. He cums hard, clutching at your hair. 

“Fuck,” he pants. You stare up at him, holding him on your tongue, swallowing slowly as he watches. “Good girl, baby. Fuck.” 

His praise makes you blush. You sit back on your haunches and watch as he drags his boxers back up, then his jeans, then his belt. He fastens the buckle and looks down at you, still on your knees. He slides your panties into his back pocket and offers you his hand for the second time that night. 

You take it and stand, a little shaky. Joel watches you. That impenetrable look is back.

You’re not sure what to say. You’re pretty are you should say something. But you’re spared — for better or worse — by the sound of footsteps in the hall. Loud footsteps. Close footsteps. Footsteps that stop, suddenly, and darken the light under the bathroom door. 

Joel moves faster than you. He grabs you, pressing his chest to your back, and claps a palm across your mouth. 

The footsteps shuffle, a little uncertain. A knock follows at the door. 

“Hello?” 

Your heart drops. You slacken in Joel’s grip. 

You know that voice. You both do. 

Your dad. 

“Hello?” he repeats. “Someone in there?” 

You squirm. Joel’s hand tightens on your mouth. 

“Yeah, sorry,” he calls. “Gimme a sec.” 

“Joel?” You can hear your dad chuckle. He sounds drunk. “You seen my kid anywhere?” 

You mumble into Joel’s palm. He digs his fingers into your cheek, chest tight against your back. 

“Don’t think so,” he calls back. 

Your dad sighs. “Saw her talkin’ to that Carter boy…” he mutters. “Kid is bad news.” He pauses. “You okay in there?” 

You giggle. You can’t help it. Joel’s arm flexes by your head. 

“Fine,” he says, shortly. “Go ahead and use the bathroom downstairs. I need a minute.” 

Your dad pauses again. You stifle a laugh, muffled in Joel’s palm. 

“Okay,” your dad says, finally. “Let me know if you see my damn daughter.” 

“Yeah. Sure.” 

His footsteps fade. Joel waits until he’s doubly sure he’s gone to release you. 

“Really?” he scowls, when he sees your grin. 

“Need a minute,” you imitate him, affecting his drawl. You laugh. “You’re a bad liar.” 

“Like hell I am. Saved your ass.” He nods at the door. “Get out of here,” he says. 

When you don’t move, he puts a hand on the small of your back and pushes you to the door. “Out. Now. ‘Less you wanna explain this.” 

“Not particularly.” 

“Didn’t think so.” He cracks the door for you, sweeping the hallway before ushering out out. 

You turn back to him before he can shut the door. 

“I’m here all summer, you know.” 

An almost-smile ghosts his lips. 

“You got a death-wish, or somethin’?” 

You shrug. “Maybe.” 

“Mm.” He huffs. He leans in, desperately close, eyes flicking over your shoulder to ensure you’re alone. “Make sure to fuck you properly next time, if you want it that bad.” 

Then he draws back, and that narrowed gaze is back. He yanks the door shut and leaves you alone in the hall.

You take a breath and start downstairs, smoothing your dress down your thighs. 

You wonder if that was a promise. 

And later — when you make it home, and climb into bed, and slip your hand between your legs — 

You hope it was. 

---

☀︎ your summer dream masterlist ☀︎

joel miller x f!reader

ONGOING SERIES~

series playlist

pairing: joel miller x fem!reader rating: 18+ minors dni series warnings etc: [NO OUTBREAK] we'll call him dad's buddy!joel, fairly soft!joel, age difference (28/50), alcohol, food, smut (will specify with each chapter), fluff, anxiety, mentions of infidelity, mentions of divorce, jet skis????, secret relationship. no use of y/n.

series summary: fresh on the heels of the worst breakup of your life, you find an unexpected kindred spirit in joel miller, who's agreed to tag along for seven days at a tropical resort with you and your parents.

Drive your car down to the sea / All the while you build a scheme / Take her hand and walk on with her / Make it real, your summer dream

prologue

day one–(re)introductions

day two–?

day three–?

day four–?

day five–?

day six–?

day seven–?

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