Lakeside

lakeside

13.2k / dbf!joel x f!reader

official dbf!joel playlist

warnings: 18+, minors dni. y'all know the deal by now. smut. heavy on the fluff. age gap (reader is 23, joel is in his late 40s). dbf!joel, dom!joel (he's back) (prepare the red carpet), fingering, toys, some, uhh, light ass play and some equally light...tying up? spanking, unprotected p in v, reader can get/is on her period, joel's face is still busted, ive exhausted myself y'all can let me know if i missed something

a/n: hello party people. i love you long time. y'all make my day every day. have fun, be safe, live laugh love dilfs, etc etc. inbox is always open for all of y'all 🤍 enjoy the cabin. it will be a two part affair.

this is part 11 of my dbf!joel series. read the previous parts here:

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 | bonus chapter (joel's pov) | part 7 | part 8 | part 9 | part 10

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

“Fuck,” he mumbles. “What?”  He swallows. Shakes his head. His thumb drops to skim the edge of your mouth.  “Nothin’,” he says.  And then he kisses you. 

Joel waits in his truck while you get your stuff. He keeps the engine going and his foot on the gas. 

You like knowing he’s there, when you slip into your house. You like knowing he’s close. 

You make a beeline for the stairs the second you’re inside. You don’t announce you’re home, the way you usually do, and you think with any luck your dad won’t hear you come and go. 

You make it to your room without a chase. You drag a duffel from your closet and throw in some clothes — tee shirts, jeans, whatever’s closest — and whatever’s within reach on your bathroom sink. A toothbrush and toothpaste. An open, almost-empty box of tampons. Whatever. You figure Joel can stop for anything you miss. 

Your phone is where you left it two nights ago, half-buried underneath your pillow. You fish it out and stuff it in your duffel. Your charger, too. Then you do a final, hurried sweep — and, fuck it, — you shove that little black vibrator in, too. The one tucked in the back of your nightstand. The one you haven’t touched since that night with Hayes. 

You zip the bag. Sling it up over your shoulder. Your pulse paints a weird, nervous patter by your throat. 

And then — because of course your luck has to run out, sooner or later — your dad’s voice lurches behind you. Hard and brittle. Almost broken. 

“You’re home,” he says. 

You freeze. Your hackles are up, like a cat in the corner. His shadow stains the carpet.

You turn, slowly. Your duffel slouches. 

“I’m leaving,” you say. Soft. Even. But — firm, you think. You’re leaving. Get out of my way. 

“Where’ve you been?” he asks. He sounds tired. 

You don’t answer. You know he already knows. 

He sighs. His head hangs. 

“Fuck,” he mumbles. His hand comes up, fast, and slams the doorframe. “Fuck!”

You wince. 

“You’re not goin’ anywhere,” he says. You can’t tell if it’s an order or a plea. Both, maybe. “Just—put the bag down. Come downstairs. We’ll talk.”

“I don’t wanna talk.”

“Just — fuck!” He swears, again. Slaps the door, again. You wonder if he hit Joel like this. Open-palm. So hard he makes splinters. Or if it was worse — closed fist, knuckles scraping. 

Your cheeks burn. 

“I’m not talking right now,” you say. “You’re too—” 

You don’t finish. He’s too everything. Too much. 

You walk closer. He doesn’t step aside, so you squeeze past. 

He doesn’t stop you, at least. Doesn’t touch you. But he follows you, when you sidestep him and take the stairs two at a time. You can hear him on your heels. 

“Stop,” he says. He’s slower than you are on the stairs. You’re halfway out the door by the time he hits the bottom. 

You don’t stop. You can hear Joel’s engine, purring out in the middle of the road, waiting for you when you step into the sun. Just like he promised. 

You take your porch steps two at a time, too. When your shoes hit the street you’re almost sprinting. Not — away from your dad, so much as towards Joel.

He cracks his door when you get close. Trots around the truck to the passenger side. 

You shrug your bag off your shoulder and he takes it from you. Puts it in the backseat. He snaps the passenger door open and nods. 

“Okay?” 

“Yeah,” you mumble. Your face is flushed. 

He nods again. His finger flexes on the door. He’s looking past you now, up the street, where your dad is stomping down your driveway with an angry sort of gleam. 

“Get in,” Joel says. 

You get in. He shuts the door behind you. His window is cracked — you’re not sure they’re even capable of closing — so you can hear every snarled syllable when your dad crosses the street. 

He’s shouting. It takes you a minute to work out that he’s yelling at Joel and not you. 

“Are you fuckin’ serious?” he’s saying. Shouting. 

He’s barefoot on the pavement. He’s lucky it’s still overcast, you think. Or else the soles of his feet would peel right off. You kind of wish they would right now. 

Joel is quiet. Which is nothing new, really, but — still. You wish he’d fight back. He’s bigger than your dad. Taller. His voice rolls deeper. It’d take one word to set him back in his place. 

But he’s quiet. Silent. You notice, though, that he doesn’t move. He stays wedged in front of the passenger-side door. Between the truck and your dad. Between you and your dad. 

“Where the fuck d’you think you’re goin’?” your dad yells. “You asshole. Y’can’t take her.”

“Dad,” you say. 

He ignores you. Joel stays put. 

“Goddamn it,” your dad swears. “You didn’t learn your fuckin’ lesson already? Huh? Wanna go again?” 

“Dad,” you say. 

He ignores you. Again. He takes a jolting step forward, towards Joel and towards you. He shoves Joel with two flat palms and a snarl. 

Joel stumbles. His back thumps the door. Heat swirls in your chest. 

“Don’t fucking touch him,” you snap. Your hand curls on the handle. “You need to — you need to calm down.”

“I need to calm down?”

He’s talking to you now, at least. He sounds incredulous. He glares between you and Joel. 

“Get outta the car,” he says. He’s not yelling. You wish he would. 

“No.”

“Yes. We’re gonna talk about this now. Get out of the fuckin’ car.”

He reaches around Joel for the door handle. You shrink back. 

And Joel — who didn’t fight back two nights ago, who’s peppered black and blue with bruises, who hasn’t moved a muscle this morning- 

Joel puts a flexing, furious hand on your dad’s shoulder. 

“Step back,” he growls. 

There he is. That’s the Joel from the bar. That’s the Joel that beat the shit out of two grown men and sent them running. 

And you get it, you think. You get it now. Your dad can threaten him all day long. Beat him black and blue. But the second he raises his voice at you—the second it’s you he’s reaching for — Joel is on guard. He’s pulling rank. He straightens up, drags himself to his full height, and you see the not-so-subtle way his shoulders bunch. Even banged and bruised, he looks imposing. More so than usual, maybe. Like a wounded animal: angrier, untethered. 

“You got some fuckin’ nerve,” your dad says. But he’s stepped back, you notice. “She’s my kid.”

“‘N she doesn’t wanna talk,” Joel says. “So I’m tellin’ you to step—” his jaw flickers, “—the fuck back.”

Your dad stares. You swallow. 

“Fuck you,” he says, finally. But he’s stepping back now, all the way. Crossing his arms. 

Joel doesn’t say anything. No last word. No smug smile. He just walks quickly around the truck, to the driver’s side, and clips the door shut when he climbs in. He wraps a hand around the gear shift. 

You stare straight ahead. Your hands are shaking. 

“You okay?” he murmurs. Still gentle. 

“Yeah,” you breathe. You can see your dad in your peripheral, standing in the middle of the road. Arms barred. Face tangled. “Just drive.”

Tommy’s cabin is in the middle of fucking nowhere. Which is — nice, actually. It’s nice to get away. From Austin. From everyone. From everything.

The nearest town is a place called Two Springs. Two Springs, Texas. It sounds more like a stop on the Disneyland express and less like an actual location, but — Two Springs. You stop there, on your way up. For groceries, gas — the essentials, according to Joel. 

It turns out town is a gross exaggeration. Two Springs has exactly four buildings to its name: a gas station, a bar, a Mexican restaurant, and a sprawling, Western-style structure with a sign that says GENERAL ORE. You figure it might’ve said General Store once, like a century ago, when someone painted it for the first and last time. 

It’s well-stocked, at least. They have Tylenol, Advil, Aleve — for your cramps and for Joel’s ten thousand cuts and bruises. They have a reusable ice pack Joel insists he doesn’t need. They have tampons, to supplement the grand total of three you’d managed to scavenge from your desperate sweep of your bathroom. 

And they have food. Lots of food. 

“Better stock up,” Joel tells you. He’s slouched against the shopping cart with a lazy sort of lean. His sleeves are sloughed up to his elbows. The further from Austin you’ve gotten, the more he’s seemed to relax. He almost looks content, right now. 

“Hundred bucks says Tommy ain’t got a damn thing in the house,” he says. “So. Get whatever y’like.”

“Oh, god.” You fake a groan. “Does that mean you’re cooking?”

He shoots you a glare. You grin. 

You split up. You case one aisle and he takes another. When you meet back up in the middle of produce, you’ve got your hands full of ice cream and he’s cradling a case of beer. 

You point to the beer. Shake your head. 

“You’re useless,” you say. 

He frowns. 

“You’re one t’talk,” he says, with a nod toward Ben and Jerry.

“This counts as food.” You study the label. “See? Chunks of real cookie dough.”

He stares at you. Blinks. Then he sighs; that beleaguered, bemused huff that hides his smile.

“Just put it in,” he grumbles.

You do manage to get some actual food. Eventually. And you talk him into that reusable ice pack,  for the sprawling, angry bruise under his eye. Eventually.

A spindly, skeleton of a man checks you out up front. His eyes droop. He’s got a cowboy hat on — true Texan — and there’s a layer of dust on the brim. He’s probably been sitting here since they built the store. 

He takes an eternity to scan your items. You can feel Joel getting antsy beside you. 

“Passin’ through?” the man croaks. 

He’s got a voice like a broken rattle. It startles you both. 

Joel grunts. 

The man nods. He mutters something you can’t hear. Then he points to you with a gangly finger. 

“She’s a nice little thing,” he drawls. 

Your nose scrunches. Fucking — gross. 

Joel tenses beside you. His fist folds on the counter. 

“Don’t,” he says. His voice is dangerously quiet. “I ain’t in the fuckin’ mood.” 

The man blinks. Swallows. He drops his gaze and doesn’t look at you again. 

He finishes ringing you up in silence. When he hands Joel the bag his fingers tremble. 

“Y’all have a nice day,” he says. 

Joel grunts. 

You follow him back out to the truck. He puts the groceries in the backseat, by your duffel, and you don’t say anything to him, not yet, but you’re gnawing on your cheek when he climbs back in the driver’s seat. 

You’ve had a shitty start to the day. A shitty last few days, to be honest. You don’t want Joel to be pissed. It’s just — he’s kind of hot, when he gets riled up. When he snaps at your dad. When he rolls his fist on the counter and snarls at strangers. 

No. He’s not kind of hot. He drives you fucking crazy. 

But you keep that to yourself. For now. At least ’til you get where you’re going. You figure you can wait at least a little while longer. 

Tommy’s cabin is nice. 

Not that you were expecting anything less. Joel built it, after all. 

But — still. It’s nice. It’s really nice. It looks like something straight out of a Hallmark postcard: Adirondack chairs on a pinewood porch, stone chimney surrounded by trees. No neighbors — at least none you can see. A quiet lake with a pebbled shore. 

The whole place smells like sunlight and pine needles and freshwater. It’s a far cry from Austin. From home.

He parks the truck out front, on a packed-down slope of dirt. There are tire treads baked into the soil — Tommy’s, you assume. 

You’re halfway out of the truck before he puts it in park. You snatch your duffel from the back and stand in the shade, staring at the tops of trees, waiting restlessly for Joel to get his ass out of the car. 

He lumbers out, eventually. You shift your bag to your other shoulder while he gathers up the groceries. 

He leads the way up the slope, towards the cabin. You follow on his heels. 

“This place is kinda cool,” you admit. “I haven’t been camping since I was, like, ten.” 

“This ain’t campin’,” he says. 

Typical. You roll your eyes. Pull a face behind his back that he — mercifully — doesn’t see. 

“Uh-uh,” he drawls. “Don’t roll your eyes ’t me, pretty girl.” 

You pause halfway up the steps. Your duffel hangs off of your shoulder. 

“I didn’t roll my eyes at you.” 

He hums amusedly. He digs a key out of his pocket and twists it in the lock. 

The door gives with a push. The smell of pine drips down the porch. 

“What, so, you can read my mind now?” 

He hums again. He puts the key back in his pocket and leads the way inside. 

“Somethin’ like that,” he says. 

You roll your eyes again. He turns around this time, just past the threshold, and fixes you with a hooked half-smile. 

“You ain’t that hard t’read, darlin’.” 

You grumble something in response. His smile widens and yours does too, reluctantly, because seeing him happy is fucking infectious. It almost makes you forget about the bruise under his eye, and the slice across his nose that still looks too fresh. 

“C’mon,” he says. He flicks a switch by the door and the whole place flickers — once, twice — then settles into soft light. “I’ll give ya the tour.” 

He snatches up your hand and you lean into his arm, smothering your smile in his sleeve. 

“Alright,” you tell him. “Better be good.” 

It is good. You’re impressed. It’s a small place, cozy, but he’s thought of everything. Dark wood floors and a light leather couch and comfortable, colorful throws. Sketches on the walls: deer and ducks and charcoal antlers. Half-finished woodworks on a desk by the window. You wonder if they’re Joel’s, or Tommy’s, or both. 

You don’t ask. Yet. 

The bedroom is equally intimate. White sheets on the bed. Wooden headboard. Flannel blanket that screams Joel Miller. It makes you smile, when you drop your duffel down on it and unpack your things. You like it. This whole place feels like Joel. 

You put your random, assorted toiletries in the bathroom, and — in a spur of the moment decision — you shove that black vibrator in the back of the nightstand, where you’re keeping your phone charger. Force of habit, you guess. You leave the rest of your clothes in your duffel and shuffle out to find Joel.

And — speaking of Joel — he was right to stock up, in that shitty not-quite-town of Two Springs, because the kitchen is empty. Well — almost empty, if you count the cobwebby bottle of clear liquor stashed beside the sink. You pick it up while Joel puts the groceries away. Turn it label-side out. 

“What the hell is this?” you ask. 

You hoist it up, towards Joel. Dust sloughs off the glass. 

He straightens. Turns. 

“Not a damn clue,” he says. “But I wouldn’t touch it ‘f I were you. Knowin’ Tommy, ’s probably radioactive.” 

Your nose scrunches. You work the top off and put your nose to the rim — which is a huge mistake, because it smells like raw gasoline. You cough loudly and reseal the cap. 

“What the fuck,” you sputter. 

Joel laughs. Told ya so.

You shove the bottle back by the sink. Wipe the dust off on your jeans. Joel finishes arranging his beers and stands back to admire his handiwork. 

“So-o,” you say. You push yourself off the counter and wander out of the kitchen. You drag a curious finger toward the wall of charcoal sketches, and you can feel Joel’s gaze follow. You can hear his sigh, too. Like he’s preparing himself. 

“Tommy’s?” you ask, turning halfway to face him. “Or yours?” 

He shifts a little. Shoves his thumb through a belt loop.

“Tommy’s,” he gruffs. 

That checks out. You’ve seen Joel’s drawing skills on display, in that tiny coffee shop in San Antonio. He’s god awful. And these are at least…halfway decent. You wouldn’t say impressive, but — 

“They’re good.” You flash a grin. “I mean. Better than yours, for sure.” 

His brow lifts. The corner of his lip twitches. 

“I’d watch it, ‘f I were you.” 

“Oh, yeah? Or what?” 

He almost smiles. You almost catch him. 

“Or y’can sleep outside,” he drawls. “With the bears.” 

“Mm.” You turn away from the drawings. You’re not so interested, now you know they’re not his. You wander back to him and smooth your hands along his collar. “Very scary. I’m terrified.” 

His pulse picks up at your touch. You can feel it, when your hands drift lower and skim across his heart. 

“Should be,” he murmurs. 

You’re close to him, now. Really close. You have to tilt your chin to meet his gaze. His voice drips to your lips and settles there, white-hot. 

You want to kiss him. You really do. It’s just — that fucking bruise on his cheek is glaring at you, mangled and purple and mean. 

You swallow. Draw back, just a little. He looks disappointed. 

“That bruise looks bad,” you murmur. 

He starts to shake his head. You cut him off. 

“C’mon,” you say. “We bought that ice pack. Let’s try it, at least.” 

“You bought it.” 

“Not true. I just put it in the cart. You paid.” 

He frowns. 

“Don’t say no,” you say. 

“Didn’t say anythin’,” he gruffs. “But no.” 

“Mm. Okay. Keep it up, you can sleep outside with the bears.” 

He frowns again. Deeper, this time. You get the sense he’s forcing back a smile. 

“Don’t be a baby,” you say. “We can’t waste it. It was, like, seventeen bucks. Total rip off.” 

He grumbles. But he doesn’t grumble quite as much as he did two nights ago, when you first begged to take care of him. So he’s either getting used to someone caring about him — caring for him — or you’ve just worn him down. 

You don’t mind either way. Whatever gets the job done. 

“Go on,” you tell him. “Couch.” 

He’s still grumbling. But he goes obediently to the couch and sits, sinking down onto the cushions with a heavy sort of sigh. 

You sit beside him. He’s easier to reach like this, when you’re both sitting. You can perch yourself on the arm of the couch and tip his chin up, towards you. You can hold the pack to his face without reaching. Press it gently to the mangled colors on his cheek and his chin and his jaw. 

He hisses softly, but he doesn’t pull away. If anything he sort of melts into your touch, the way he’d been too scared to do two nights ago. 

He could do this himself. Easily. He tries to tell you as much, a couple times — and you bat him away. You like helping. You like feeling useful. And you like any excuse to be this close to him; to touch him, even though you don’t need much of an excuse at all. 

He stops asking to do it himself, after a while. You get the sense he likes the help as much as you like giving it. His face gets heavier in your hands, and you realize he’s stopped propping himself up. He’s just — dead weight, in your palms. He trusts you. 

You swallow. Your throat feels thick. So does the air, all of a sudden, like someone’s tossed a giant blanket on the inches between you. You move the ice pack half an inch to the right. Expose the corner of his mouth you’d had covered. 

And then you try not to kiss him. Again. 

The edge of his lip you’ve exposed quirks up, like he’s asking you to do it. Teasing you. Wondering just how long you’ll hold out. 

You clear your throat. 

“So the drawings are…Tommy’s,” you say, lamely. 

He blinks. Hard. He’s been staring at you. 

“Yeah,” he says, after a beat. “Says he comes up here t’hunt, but — I’ve never seen him shoot a deer. Only ever seen him draw ‘em.” 

You smile. You pull the ice pack back and examine his face. It looks a little better. Less…angry. There’s a pink shine on his right cheek, where the ice has numbed his skin. 

“I get it,” you say. “Miller boys. You’re both big softies.” 

He glares at you. You can feel his jaw tense where you cup his face. 

“Sorry,” you say, quickly. “I mean — very scary. So scary.” 

He grunts. Mumbles something unintelligible. You could swear his almost-smile gets wider. 

“And the little wooden things?” You tilt your head toward the far wall of the cabin. Toward that desk by the window, littered with half-finished carvings and pinewood peels. “Are those Tommy’s, too?” 

He doesn’t answer. Which is fine, because you’ve gotten pretty good at reading his silence. 

“Okay,” you say. “So. Not Tommy’s.” 

There’s a pause. He sniffs. Then his gaze drops; off of the couch, onto a knot in the hardwood, and the cheek you haven’t been icing turns pink.

He’s blushing.

You stifle a grin. He’s cute when he’s flustered. And he’s even cuter when you consider that this must be how he spends his free time. Joel Miller, strong, silent, a little bit mean, carving little creatures out of wood. 

You push off of the couch before he can protest. He grumbles weakly and sinks further into the cushions. 

You walk over to the desk. Sunlight pours through the window, baking the glass, and the wood is lighter where it spills. You slough some wood chips aside with the flat of your hand. Most of the carvings are in some state of progress, like he can’t quite decide what to work on and what to finish — but you find one that seems pretty much done. You pick it up, gently. Turn it over in your hands. You hold it up to the window and swallow back your smile. 

It’s a duck. A little wooden duck, with a flat bill and pine feathers. There’s a tiny J.M. carved into the side. 

It’s good. Better than Tommy’s drawings. But, then — you might be biased. 

When you turn back to Joel you’re grinning. The duck is hoisted in your hand. 

“Shut up,” he says. 

“I didn’t say anything!” 

“You’re ‘bout to.” 

“It’s good.” You walk back over to him. Sit beside him on the couch. His little duck sits in the palm of your hand. 

“It’s cute,” you say. 

He glares at you. Then the duck. 

“It ain’t cute,” he says. 

“Yeah it is. It’s cute. It’s adorable. You carve ducks.” 

“Don’t carve ducks,” he says, gruffly. “’S just the one. The feathers are — hard t’get right. ’S good practice.” 

“Right. For more ducks.” 

He looks at you. Shakes his head. He snatches the duck up out of your hand before you can close your fist. 

He stands up, off of the couch. Walks his duck back to its place on that sunlit desk. 

“Come on,” you protest. “Finder’s keepers.” 

“Uh-uh.” 

“Fine. Then you can make me one.” 

He sets the duck down. Adjusts it, so its bill is basking in the sun. You’ve only ever seen him this gentle when he’s touching you. Well — you and his wooden duck. 

He straightens up. Turns back to face you. 

“You’re a pain in the ass,” he says.

“Yeah. So you’ve said.” 

“Y’don’t want one of these,” he says, with a gesture toward the desk. Toward the dozens of half-finished creatures. You can make out the vague shape of a deer, in one block of wood. The hint of an antler. “They ain’t even good.” 

He’s self-conscious. Joel Miller is self-conscious about his ducks. Or — duck. Singular. 

“Yes they are,” you say. You stand up, too. Join him over by the desk. You loop your arms around his waist and rest your head on his back. “I mean, you’re not gonna be carving the David anytime soon—”

He twists around to glare at you. Your arms drop from his waist. 

You laugh. You laugh until he’s smiling, too. You laugh until he tugs you into his chest, and tucks your hair behind your ear, and tilts his bruised face down to yours. 

“You made them,” you say, softly. “‘Course I love them.” 

You mean that. You’d love anything he’s scrawled his initials into. 

He’s quiet, for a second. His thumb stills on the ridge of your cheek. 

“Fuck,” he mumbles.

“What?” 

He swallows. Shakes his head. His thumb drops to skim the edge of your mouth. 

“Nothin’,” he says. 

And then he kisses you. 

You’ve been waiting for this all day. There’s been a borderline-painful tug between your legs since you left that shitty almost-town of Two Springs. So you melt into him, when he bends to kiss you, and you’re almost — almost — too preoccupied to feel your phone buzz in your pocket. 

You ignore it. His tongue slips into your mouth. He tastes like summer sun and coffee, and his lips are still cool from the edge of that ice pack. 

You fist your hands in his flannel. Bite at his bottom lip and swallow his groan. His hands go to your waist and he’s turning you — turning you both, so that your back nudges the desk — and you get the vague sense he’s lifting you up. He swipes stray wood chips aside, clearing space for you, and puts you down with a gentle sigh. 

You mumble something into his mouth. You’re not sure what. Your legs are hooked around the backs of his, pulling him close, and when he bends to kiss your neck you tilt your head for him. His nose grazes the side of your throat. 

And then your phone buzzes. Again. 

He hears it, this time. He pulls back with a bemused smile. His eyes are heavy. 

“Wanna get that?” 

“Not particularly,” you mutter. But you dig your phone out of your pocket anyway, just to turn it off, and your dad’s contact lights up the screen. 

You groan. Your heart sinks to your feet. 

 “Shit.” 

Joel is quiet. He’s still desperately close. There’s a piece of his hair that’s out of place, thanks to your wandering hands. It’s curled halfway down his forehead. 

“It’s my dad,” you say, blandly. You flip the screen to show him. 

“Figures.” 

You swipe the notification open. Your phone is ridiculously slow in opening, which probably has something to do with the fact it’s on 2% battery. It’s kind of impressive it’s even still functioning, considering you can’t remember the last time you plugged it in. 

Your dad’s messages come up. Slowly. You read them with your feet dangling off the desk. 

“What’s he say?” Joel asks, quietly. 

You shrug. 

“Wants to know where we are,” you say. “I turned my Find my Friends off, so.” 

You don’t elaborate. You doubt Joel even knows what the hell that is. 

“I should tell him something,” you say. “So he knows I’m not dead, at least.” 

Joel nods. 

“Sure,” he says. 

You swallow. Look back down at your phone. The screen blinks with a battery warning.

“Fuck,” you mutter. “I need my charger. Can you—?”

“Yeah,” he says, quickly. “‘Course. Where ’s it?” 

“Uh—nightstand. In the bedroom. The one on the right.” 

He nods. He extricates himself from between your legs, a little reluctant, and you watch him disappear down the hallway. 

You look back down at your phone. At your dad’s messages. Your last text to him is still plastered on the screen — something inane from San Antonio, when everything was still good. Normal. It makes your heart hurt a little. 

You text him back quickly. Before your phone can die. 

You: i’m fine. need a few days. we can talk when i'm home. 

The service up here is hanging on by a thread. It takes a minute to deliver, but when it does his grey bubble pops up almost immediately. It takes another minute for his response to come through. And it’s not really what you’re expecting, when it does. It’s not angry. It’s just — short. It makes your throat swell a little. 

Dad: OK. Be safe.

You lay your phone down on the desk. Face-down. It’s progress, you think. It’s something. 

And then you wonder where the hell Joel is, because this place is not that big and he’s been gone way too long for a phone-charger scavenger hunt. You told him exactly where it is. So unless he’s blind—

“Joel,” you yell. “The nightstand on the right. It can’t be that hard to—”

He pokes his head around the corner. Steps out, slowly, until the sun washes his skin.

“…find,” you finish, lamely. 

He moves closer to you, and it’s clear there’s something in his hand. Judging by the look on his face — narrowed gaze, crooked smile — and the way his fist is folded, tight, it’s not your charger. But there was only one other thing in that nightstand, which means— 

He’s just a few feet from you, now. You think about sliding off of the desk, and darting under his arm — but he’s stepping in between your legs, again, and you let him cage you in. 

You watch the gentle rise-fall of his chest under flannel. The way his smile drags wider when he unspools his fingers and shows you his palm. 

“What’s this?” he drawls. 

You know what he’s holding. You don’t have to look. You’re blushing before his fist can unfurl. 

Your little black vibrator. The one you’d taken from your room, on an impulse, in a mad-dash sweep of your things. The one you’d squirreled away in the nightstand on the right, next to your fucking charger. 

“Uh,” you say. 

His eyes sparkle. He looks annoyingly smug. You figure he’s probably loving the look on your face right now, after you subjected him to torture by wooden-duck. This is payback, you think. 

“Go on,” he urges. 

He drags a rough thumb over the black shell, and your stomach clenches. A shiver crawls up your throat. Whatever’s been stirring in your core since the car ride up here sparks suddenly to life. 

Something about that thing in his hand. How small it is. How smug he looks. 

“It’s nothing,” you say, softly. 

“Yeah?” He cocks his head. That one stray curl flips against his forehead. He pushes his thumb down, gently, and the vibrator buzzes to life in his palm. 

You stare at it. So does he. Heat pools at the pit of your stomach. 

“Don’t look like nothin’,” he murmurs. 

He flicks it off. You swallow back a sound. 

You lean in. Snatch it up, out of his hand. Your fingers close around the shell, and you ignore the fact they’re trembling.

He lets you take it. He looks amused, if anything. He likes watching you squirm.

“I just thought, maybe—” your cheeks are burning again, “—you wouldn’t want to, like — you know.” 

He looks at you, nonplussed. You blink. 

“Since I’m on my period?” you offer, weakly. “I didn’t know if you’d want to do—like, do anything, so—I just brought it in…case.” 

He’s silent. Even more so than usual, if that’s possible. 

“It’s totally fine, by the way,” you say, hurriedly. You’re pretty sure you’re just talking to talk, now, but — you can’t stop. “If you don’t want to. I wasn’t trying to—”

He tilts his head a little. Enough to show he’s listening. Enough to shut you up. 

And then he puts his palm out. Face-up, in the small space between you both. 

You know what he wants. He doesn’t have to ask. Your fingers flex around the toy, a little hesitant, but you give it up. You give it back. 

His hand folds around the shell. He slides it into his jeans, into his pocket, and you watch it disappear. 

The tension is too thick. Sticky. It’s hard to draw a breath. Outside the sun slips toward the water. 

The light slants a little darker through the window. Almost blue. Almost dusk. 

“Bedroom,” he says, and his voice is silk. Like smooth whiskey and the slipping sun. “Five minutes.” 

And then he turns, and goes, and you count back from three hundred. 

 You wait five minutes, like he asked. 

It feels excruciatingly long. But, then — you’re used to this, by now. The minutes with him go too quickly and the ones without him never end. You can’t ever seem to get it just right. 

But the time does pass, eventually. You make it pass. You push yourself off the desk and wander into the bathroom. You take your clothes off — everything, except black underwear — and you take your tampon out, and you run a brush through your hair. Then you walk back to the living room, where his duffel bag is still sitting by the front door — and you fish one of his flannels from the top. It’s red and brown and smells like bourbon and it’s way too fucking big. But you button it up anyway, over your bare chest, and leave the top two undone. 

It’s huge on you. The sleeves drip over your fingers. The hem drops just above your knees. 

You like it. It’s warm. It feels like him. 

And then your five minutes are up, just like that, and you follow his shadow to the bedroom. 

You’re nervous, when you open the door. But you’ve gotten used to that, too. The constant swarm in your stomach when he calls you by name. The flush in your face right before you see his. 

You take a quiet step inside. Let the door click shut behind you. 

“Hi,” you say, softly. 

He’s sitting on the edge of the bed: Still dressed, in his belt and his boots and his jeans and his flannel. The sleeves are cuffed at his forearms, exposing tanned skin and corded muscle. His runaway curl is smoothed back into place. 

There’s a towel spread across the sheets. One of the big, fluffy black ones you’d seen hanging by the shower. The edge hangs slightly off the bed. 

He doesn’t say hi back. But he does give you a look — like, a look — that makes your throat run dry. His eyes roam your body: up your legs, over his flannel, over the bit of exposed skin where you’ve neglected the top buttons — and you watch them go dark. 

“C’mere,” he says. 

You take one step forward. Then another. There’s something intensely commanding about the way he sounds right now, and you’re not sure if it’s the fact he’s almost completely, totally silent, or the way he doesn’t move a muscle while he watches you approach. He only really moves once, to push his own sleeve higher. You watch his wrist flex with the motion. 

You stop at the edge of the bed. He tilts his chin to look at you. 

“Lie down,” he says. 

You get the sense that this is not about to be a repeat of two nights prior, when you issued all the orders. You’re pretty sure that was a one-time thing. Or at least — a once-in-a-blue-moon thing, if the look on his face and the cut in his voice are any indication. 

He’s back to his old self. More commanding, if that’s even possible, like he’s making up for lost time. His eyes are black. 

“Don’t like repeatin’ myself,” he murmurs. 

Your breath hitches. The tug between your legs is borderline painful. You have to bite back a whimper when you sink down onto the bed, on top of the sheets and on top of the towel. 

He doesn’t move, still, when you lie down. He stays sitting at the foot of the bed. But he does turn slightly, to look at you, and his stare is so sharp you drop your own gaze. 

He doesn’t do anything, so you pick up his slack. Or…try to. You bring shaky fingers to your flannel — his flannel — and start to pull at the buttons. 

He shakes his head. Your fingers still. 

“Don’t,” he says, gently. 

So you don’t. You drop your hands. Let them fall useless to your sides. 

And then he moves. Finally. He undoes his belt with deft fingers and slips it through his jeans with a soft, leathery hiss. It’s the only sound in the room. It makes your skin prick and your stomach clench. 

He gets up, off of the bed, and you tilt your neck to follow him. He walks up to you, where your head is propped against the pillows, and bends to pick up your hands. 

He’s gentle, while he does all this. Gentle and quiet and not at all the rough, teasing, domineering type you’ve gotten used to. But there’s something about him, still, that spells you into silence. Something that makes you listen, and makes your wrists go limp when he takes them both in one hand. 

He pulls your hands up over your head. Your pulse beats a double-rhythm in his palm. He holds them to the headboard, to the second wooden slat of four, and ties them in place with his belt. 

And you let him. You let him wrap the leather around your hands and the headboard, let him cinch it tight, let the metal buckle bite into your wrists. You don’t say a damn word and neither does he. 

Not until he sits back down beside you, on the edge of the bed, and digs that black vibrator back out of his pocket. 

Your breath picks up. Your legs pull. You flinch a little, tugging at his belt, but it doesn’t give. If anything the leather cinches tighter. 

“What’re you…?” 

He puts a broad hand on your thigh, inches above your knee. Heat flushes underneath his touch. The hem of your flannel bunches around his fingers. 

He looks up at you. 

“Said you weren’t sure ‘f I wanted it,” he says. 

He flicks the vibrator on. It hums to life in his palm. 

“Stupid fuckin’ question,” he murmurs. He drags his hand up the seam of your thigh, until his thumb grazes cotton. Your hips jerk a little. 

He holds you in place with that hand. Puts the toy to your clit with the other. 

“Makin’ sure y’never ask again,” he growls. 

And then you really do buck your hips; pulling at his makeshift restraints, whining through your teeth while he teases you through cotton. 

“Fuck,” you yelp, “Joel—”

“Shh,” he mumbles, half to himself. He moves the vibrator half an inch lower, clicks the setting higher, and fire shoots through your core. Your wrists wrench at the headboard. The wood doesn’t give. Neither does his belt. But you’ll have a bruise on both hands, you’re pretty sure, where the buckle gives a warning bite. 

“Y’move too much,” he murmurs. 

“S-sorry,” you pant, and you’re not really sure what you’re apologizing for, but you’re kind of delirious and you’ll say whatever he wants if he just — doesn’t stop. The pressure he’s putting on your clit is fucking — it’s ten times better than any time you’ve used this thing on yourself. You’re not sure if it’s just him, or if he’s got some kind of magic technique, or what, but — 

“S’okay, baby,” he says, in that gentle, slopey drawl. “’S why we used the belt.” 

Your legs are trembling, and you’re not really sure if it’s the toy or his voice or the words themselves, dripping to your skin like honey. You try to pull them together, against the ache he won’t fill, and his free hand tightens on your thigh. 

“Jesus,” he murmurs. He sounds amused. His thumb strokes at the seam of your thigh. “Tie the rest ‘a you down, too, ‘f you don’t quit movin’.” 

You whimper — something pitiful, pathetic — but you stop moving. Part of you wants to push him: rut your hips, and writhe against his belt, just to see if he’ll make good on his promise. Part of you wants him to. 

But this is enough, for now. This is almost too much. He’s got your eyes rolling back, and he’s keeping you still with that big, broad palm above your knee. He flicks the setting higher, higher, highest — and you shout his name. You pitch forward, panting, and the belt snaps against your skin. It might hurt, if you weren’t so preoccupied. 

“Fuck,” you plead, “Joel, p—fuck—”

“Too much?” he asks, gently. 

You shake your head. Your hair is in your face, in your eyes, and you can’t shove it away. Your thigh flinches underneath his hand. 

“No,” you punch out. “N—fuck, please don’t st—op.”

You’re close. He can tell, probably before you can. It never takes you long with the vibrator — that’s why you bought it — but Joel plus toy is something else entirely. It’s a hell of a lot different than when you use it yourself. You never push it past the first few settings. You’ve got an easy, relaxed routine, under your covers, in the comfort of your upstairs bedroom, or your dorm room, or wherever. It’s lazy. Languid. Sometimes there’s a video, to help things along. More often than not you just use your imagination. 

 And you always — always — think of Joel. 

So having him here — actually here, flipping your lazy routine on its head, working the toy against your clit with the kind of practical skill that comes from a lifetime of using your hands — 

It’s a whole lot better than your imagination. And you try to tell him that, or something like it, but your head is foggy and your vision is blurred and his knuckles are grazing the soaked-black fabric of your panties while he guides the toy along. 

So you settle for his name, instead. It comes out broken on your tongue. 

“S’good, baby,” he coaxes. “Good girl.” 

You cum hard, then, with his name still on your lips and a slew of fractured curses behind that. His free hand lets up on your thigh. It’s still there, still warm and rough and comforting, but he’s not applying any pressure. He doesn’t have to keep you still. 

He clicks the vibrator off. Moves it back, gently. The guys you’re used to would keep going, once they got a result — struck gold once, why stop digging? — but Joel knows when to stop, when to pull back, when to let you catch your breath. He knows how to read your voice, and your body, and the words that get tangled on their way up your throat. 

He leans back while your breaths steady. You see his shape in your peripheral, putting the toy down gently on the nightstand, and then his hand is on your face and he’s pushing your hair back, away from your eyes and your mouth and your cheeks. 

Even that touch makes you shiver. You figure you’re probably just fucked, when it comes to Joel Miller. 

You pull up a little on the restraints. You want to kiss him. Or — you want him to kiss you, since there’s not much you can do. 

He doesn’t give you what you want. He pulls back, and moves back to his familiar spot beside your legs. He drags an aimless hand up your calf, your knee, your thigh. 

You suck in a breath. Push it out through your teeth. 

He knows what you want. He picks up on the patterns in your breath; the way your panting turns to pleading. 

“Can you —fuck—” you pull against his belt, “—just—fucking—untie me, please—”

His fingers drift up your thigh, ghosting cotton, and then — they drop. His touch trickles back to your calf. And then he starts again, even slower, and it’s softer than the toy, and gentler, and lighter, but it’s driving you just as crazy. Maybe more. 

He takes his time, like he’s pretending to think. His touch skates higher. 

“No,” he says, after a long pause. “Don’t think so.” 

You make a long, frustrated sound. Drop your head back to the pillow. Your wrists go limp against his belt. 

His thumb strokes at the edge of your panties. You gasp.

“Make ya a deal,” he drawls. “Gimme one more — ’n we’ll see ‘bout the belt.” 

“We’ll see about the belt?” 

He shrugs. It takes everything in you not to buck your hips into his thumb. 

“Best I can do,” he says. “Take it or leave it.” 

You stare at him. Then your head flops against the pillow, and you sigh. 

“Fine.” 

He smiles. You can feel it. 

“Kinda like ya like this,” he says. “Ain’t so stubborn.” 

He swipes past your swollen clit. You yelp.

“Fuck you,” you pant. 

He hooks a finger through your waistband. Pulls your underwear down, down your thighs and over your knees and off around your ankles. Then he holds them, wrapped around his index finger, and tilts his head. 

“We’ll do somethin’ ‘bout that mouth, next time,” he says. 

He tosses your panties to the floor. Pushes his slipping sleeves back to his forearms. You roll your eyes, but you know he sees the blush that stains your cheeks. 

His brow lifts. 

“You’d like that, huh?” He smiles. “Dirty fuckin’ girl.” 

You mumble something. It sounds like a whimper. But it must be good enough for him, because he takes pity on you. 

“What d’you want, baby?” he asks, softly. His gaze drifts to the nightstand. “Up t’you.” 

You know what he’s asking — and with most guys you’d say yes, please, use the fucking vibrator, I thought you’d never ask — because its success rate is exponentially higher than most college boys’s clumsy fingers. 

But this isn’t a college boy. This isn’t most guys. This is Joel, and you want Joel. Just Joel.

“No,” you tell him. “Just — you.” 

He doesn’t move, so you add, a little awkwardly — 

“—please.” 

He blinks. Then he snaps back, like he’s just — recalibrating. He’s got the same look on his face as he did half an hour ago, when you told him you loved his little wood duck. 

“Is that…okay?” 

“Yeah,” he says, after a beat. “Fuck. Yeah, ‘course it’s okay. Just thought—” he’s looking at the nightstand again, with a curious kind of look on his face, “—thought y’might like that better.” 

That’s stupid, you think. It’s a stupid fucking question, even though with anyone else it would be true. 

“No,” you say, quietly, and you’re blushing, still, but for a different reason. “I like you better.” 

He swallows. His jaw flexes. 

“What?” you ask. 

“Nothin’,” he says, again. And then — softly, “—just don’t know what t’do with you.” 

He looks at you. His fingers are still splayed at the inside of your thigh, half an inch from where you want him most. You stare at them; at his hand sprawled on your skin, and he follows your gaze. 

“I know where you can start,” you mumble. 

And then he smiles again — that crooked, happy, satisfied smile — and his hand slides higher. 

“Hold still this time,” he says, in that honeyed drawl, “or the belt stays.” 

It’s not much of a threat. You like the way the leather hugs your wrists. You like that it belongs to him. You like that you do, too. 

But you play along. You nod. And when he slips two fingers inside you you try your hardest not to squirm. 

You don’t think you’re that successful. But he’s nice about it, or he’s distracted, because he doesn’t say another word. He lets you thrash against his belt, and writhe into his hand, and shout his name when he crooks his fingers and pumps his wrist and hits something inside you that that fucking toy can’t ever reach. 

And — if it’s even possible — you cum faster on his fingers than you did with the vibrator. 

He talks you through it. Murmured words and quiet praise. You tell him you’re close, again, and he tells you he’s got you, good girl, y’look so beautiful like this.

It’s the last one that sends you over the edge, you think. The way he calls you beautiful, in that molasses drawl, quiet and reverential and a little bit awestruck when you come apart in his hands. 

And then he’s untying you; unclasping the buckle, releasing you from the headboard, and you’re undressing him before you can rub at your wrists. You can do that later, in the dark. You can ice his face and then your hands and then his face, again. 

He kicks his boots off. His jeans are easy to get off, without his belt in the way, and he helps you with his shirt when your fingers shake. He leaves yours on, though. He stops you, when you go to take it off for the second time tonight. 

“Leave it,” he says, and his voice is so dark, so deep, that it stops you in your tracks. “Like you like this.” 

By this he means — in his clothes. In his scent. Wrapped up in him, in every way. He likes the way his shirts are too big, and he likes the way the smell of pine and coffee linger on your skin. You’d say he likes showing off that you’re his, but — there’s no one around. He just likes to see it for himself. 

Which you knew, already. It’s why you pull his shirts out of his duffel, whenever you get the chance. It’s why you’re swimming in his flannel now. 

So you nod, shyly. You keep his shirt on, and when he leans forward, and cups your jaw in his hand, it feels like he’s everywhere. On your skin and in the air and on your lips, when he kisses you. 

You fall back against the pillows. He climbs over you, on top of you, and his knees dig into the towel. And this is the part, now, where you might start getting self-conscious — about the fact you’re on your period, and he’s gone to all this trouble, even though it’s really no trouble at all, about the fact you might make a mess, about ten thousand other things that couldn’t matter less. 

But you don’t think about that. You think about Joel. And when your mind slips, into that fuzzy, peaceful space, you think about the way he feels, and the way he tastes, and you spell that you love him in drifting fingers down his back. 

You have nothing but time, so he takes his. He drags his teeth up your neck and smoothes the marks with his tongue. He kisses your collar, where the edge of his shirt meets the dip in your skin, and his scruff leaves gentle scrapes. You put your hands in his hair, in his roots, and he lets you guide him. 

And then — finally, finally, he draws away from you, and pulls back on his haunches to take off his boxers. 

You watch him, while he does. You watch him toss them onto the floor and then fold back over you, chest to chest. His cock nudges at your entrance and you spread your legs, lifting your hips for him — but he doesn’t push into you. Even though it would be easy; even though he’s achingly hard and you’re soaked for him and you’re practically begging him, please. 

He doesn’t fuck you. Not yet. He noses your cheek, instead, surprisingly gentle, and he kisses you there. And then he kisses the edge of your brow, and your temple, and your forehead. Just — gentle. Soft. Like he’s telling you something, or — trying to — but this is all his mouth can do. 

He stops when you whine, softly, because you need him closer. You put your palms on his chest and push up, lightly. He breaks his kiss and pulls back. His forehead hangs over yours. 

“Please,” you whisper. 

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Okay, angel.” 

His hands are splayed somewhere beside your head. He moves one of them, now, to wrap around the base of his cock and guide himself into you. He slides in easily, so fucking easily, like he just fits there. Your head sinks into the pillow and your nails sink into his skin, into the muscle on his arms, and you’re sure he’ll have marks there. Little crescent cuts to go with all the rest. 

He sets a slow, patient rhythm. He’s usually rougher, faster, and you’re pretty sure his show of self-restraint is driving you crazier than him. He’s hitting something deep inside you, over and over, not quite fast enough to push you over the edge but steady enough to keep you there. 

And even though the cabin is empty, and you don’t have to be quiet, you are — because he’s kissing you. He swallows all your quiet moans and his own tangled, whimpered name. 

He pulls halfway out of you. Drags his mouth away to breathe. You gasp at the emptiness but he swallows that, too — he flexes his hips, and thrusts into you, and his tongue is sliding back to yours before he’s even fully gone. 

You have never — never — fucked Joel like this. You’ve never fucked anyone like this. Not in a dorm room, or a frat party, or a childhood bedroom that feels too cramped, now. Not your ex-boyfriend Carter, or any guy at school, or Hayes. 

Not anyone. Not ever. Not until now. 

“Feel good,” he’s mumbling, in those rare seconds when his mouth leaves yours. “Feel fuckin’—good.” 

He pulls out, again. Thrusts back into you. This time he groans, into your mouth, and his hips stumble a little. His cock twitches. You dig your fingers into his shoulders, clench around him, and he breaks your kiss with a gasp. 

“Fuck,” he pants. “D-do that again.” 

You’d make him work for it, usually, but you can’t bring yourself to tease him. You drag him closer; squeeze tight around his cock, and his head drops to your shoulder. He pushes into you —less steady, less restrained — and finally picks up the pace. 

You loop your hands around the back of his neck. Let your head go hazy. But when the pressure at the pit of your stomach starts to build, you tell him — 

“—Wait—” 

—in a shallow, breathless voice. 

He stops. Immediately. He slips out of you, and his head whips from your shoulder, and he looks at you with wide eyes. 

“Fuck,” he mumbles. “What's wrong? Did I—”

“No,” you say, quickly. “No. I just—”

You trail off, a lot more self-conscious now than you were two seconds ago. Easier to demand things of him when he’s railing you, you guess. 

“I just wanted to—or, I wanted you to—”

You’re blushing, again. Your eyes dart to the side, away from his. 

The concern drips out of his stare. He knows exactly what you want — what you’re trying to ask for — because he knows you. 

Now, he looks — amused. And fucking smug, again. 

“All y’gotta do is ask,” he drawls. 

You swallow. 

“Or you could just tell me,” you say, quietly. 

You watch his eyes go dark. He likes that. You know he does, because you know him. 

“Flip over,” he says. 

You flip over. Stomach-down on the towel. Your cheek digs into the pillow. His hands wrap around your calves and he drags you down, lower, and you let him manhandle you. You let him move you the way he wants. 

And then he’s settling over you again, and you can’t see him but you can feel him. His weight, behind you. His hand, when he shoves your shirt up and puts his palm on the small of your back. 

“Hold still,” he says, for the thousandth time tonight. You smile. 

“Or what?” You grin into the pillow. Try to lift your hips and push against him. But you keep forgetting how strong he is, even with one lazy palm sprawled out across your back. He pins you down too easily. “You’re gonna bring out the belt?” 

You hear his huff. 

“Keep ya still without the belt,” he says. 

“Not a chance.” 

You can feel him roll his eyes. This must’ve been how he felt, earlier this afternoon, when you’d rolled your eyes behind his back. You can't see him, but you just know. 

“No?” he drawls. 

It’s a terrible attempt to rile him up. But he’s humoring you. 

You mumble your no into the pillow. Shake your head. 

You hear him sigh above you. Then his palm lifts off the small of your back, just briefly, just for a second — before he cracks it down across your ass. It’s not hard, really — not hard enough to hurt — but it’s enough to leave a mark. Enough to make you yelp. 

“F—”

He does it again. Same spot. The sting that sticks behind is sweet. 

You swear into the pillow. Your skin glows white-hot. If he flipped you over right now, you’re not sure if you’d slap him, or kiss him, or beg him to fuck you. 

Probably the last one. Definitely the last one. 

“You never fuckin’ listen,” he says. 

His palm settles over your ass. Over the handprint you’re sure he’s already made. 

“You gonna hold still?” 

This time you nod. As best you can. 

“Yeah?” he asks. 

“Yes,” you say. 

He squeezes your ass. 

“‘Atta girl,” he says. 

Then he slides into you, one hand braced on the towel beside you and the other on your ass, and you have to bite into the pillowcase to keep from mangling his name. 

The angle he’s hitting is so much deeper, and so much different, and he’s splitting you open all over again, and — 

“Fuck,” he pants, “you—fuck.” 

He flexes his hips. Thrusts deeper into you. This is a much different pace than the one he’d set before, when he’d peppered you with gentle kisses and gentler words. This is something else entirely. This is rough, and untethered, and exactly what you tried to ask for. 

He fists your hair in his palm and pulls, yanking your chin up off of the pillow, wrapping your hair around his knuckles while he slams into you. You gasp for breath.  

“This what you needed, baby girl?” 

You say something. You’re not sure what. 

He pulls on your hair. Tilts your neck back, further. 

“Yes,” you yelp, “Fuck! Y-yes.” 

He lets you go. Lets your head drop back to the pillow. His hand is back on your ass, splayed out in a possessive sprawl. 

“Yeah,” he agrees. “’S what you needed.” 

He pushes deeper into you. Groans, softly. His flannel scrunches up around your cheek, your mouth, and you bite down on the fabric. 

His hand drifts lower, over your ass. His thumb skims the ring of muscle there. 

You tighten. He notices — he must — because he stills, for a minute. But his thumb doesn’t move. 

There’s a beat. You take a breath. 

“No?” he asks, softly, and you already know what he’s asking. 

You go to shake your head, reflexively — you’ve said no every time, to everyone, no matter how creative or long-winded or desperate the proposition. Just — no. 

“S’okay, angel,” he says, gently. “Don’t have to.” 

“No,” you say, quickly — but you’re not saying no to him, you realize. “I want — I want you to.” 

“Don’t sound too sure.” 

“No, I am, I’ve just never—”  

There’s silence. You can feel him above you, gauging your reaction. Gauging the blush on your upturned cheek. 

“I want to,” you say, again. And you mean it. You want to, with him. 

“Okay,” he murmurs. But his thumb still doesn’t move. He doesn’t move. 

“Joel,” you say, a little impatient, now, because you’ve been on the edge for so long, and you just gave him permission, so what the fuck is he waiting f—

“Relax,” he says, quietly. He’s not rough anymore. He’s just Joel. “Relax, angel.” 

You only realize how … not relaxed you are when you actually, really try to relax. Everything is tense. Your jaw, your stomach, the fist you’ve wrapped around his sheets. 

You’re nervous. Which — okay, fine — but this is Joel. With the gentle Texas drawl, and the warm hands, and the flannel shirt that smells like sunshine. 

It’s just Joel. And you trust Joel. 

So you do relax. For real. You let your jaw go loose and untangle your fingers. 

“I trust you,” you mumble, into the pillow. 

He’s quiet. 

“Yeah,” he says, simply. “I know, baby.” 

Then he pushes back into you, stretching you out, and you breathe his name into his flannel. His thumb nudges at your ass and you push your hips back, into him. You want him to. 

“Easy,” he murmurs, and you’re not sure who he’s talking to. His thumb pushes into you — just the tip — and you hiss into his shirt. But that’s it. It hurts for a second, maybe, and then it doesn’t. He’s crooking his thumb, pressing deeper into you, hitting something deep inside you, and you just feel full. You feel like he’s fucking everywhere — inside you, and on your skin, and in the words you can’t say. 

“Fuck,” you gasp, “Joel, fuck—”

“Good?” he asks. He’s not really moving, and you realize he’s waiting for your green-light: waiting for you to re-set the pace. 

“Yes,” you plead. “Fuck, yes, please just—” 

You whimper. Mumble around his shirt. 

“—don’t stop,” you tell him. “Don’t fucking — stop.” 

That’s all the green-light he needs. He snaps his hips up, into you, and he fucks you at that frantic, furious pace you’d begged him for. You push back weakly; against his hips, against his thumb, but you’re content to just let him take over. You can’t think straight, anyway. Everything is foggy and white and bright, and when he takes you to the edge this time you let yourself fall. 

“Doin’ so good, baby,” he’s saying, over and over again, good girl, good girl, doin’ so fuckin’ good f’me, look so good like this—and you can barely hear him, because you’re so blissed out, but you feel him, when his hips trip into you and he spills inside you with a strangled cry. You feel him, when his chest crumbles to your back. You feel his heart beat through your shoulder blades, frenzied and wild. 

It takes you a long time to catch your breath. It takes him even longer. When you’re aware of your surroundings again — when you can hear things that aren’t your own pulse between your ears — you roll over and touch him. 

His eyes are closed. Or half-closed, at least. He looks like he’s dozing, or drifting, or in some kind of happy, dreamlike, almost-sleep. You feel kind of bad, waking him up. He hardly ever looks this…peaceful. 

You prod him. When that doesn’t work you nuzzle into his shoulder, and kiss his cheek, and nip at his jaw until he groans.

“Mmmph,” he grumbles, which is not usually a sentence, but which you’ve learned in Joel-speak can mean a myriad of things, like who the fuck is bothering me and why the fuck are they bothering me and can you please stop fucking bothering me.

“Move,” you say, pushing at his arm. It’s like moving a grizzly bear. But he does move, eventually, with a long-suffering sound that makes you roll your eyes and laugh.

“What?” he grumbles. 

“The towel,” you say, and you hate that you still sound shy. That that self-conscious streak has wriggled back in. “I’m gonna — I need to clean up. So do you.” 

He opens his eyes, then. He rolls over and frowns. 

“Go get ’n the shower,” he says. 

“But—”

“I’ll take care ‘f it,” he says. 

You look hesitantly at the towel. At him. 

“I can do it,” you say. 

“Didn’t say y’couldn’t,” he drawls. Then he’s rolling off the bed, and tugging the towel out from under you, and you have no choice but to stand up and let his shirt drip back over your knees. 

“But—”

“But nothin’,” he says. He nods toward the bathroom. “Go. Hot water ain’t great. Only lasts a couple minutes.” 

You stare at him. But then you go, because he said so, and there’s really no arguing with him. So you shower while he puts the towel and the sheets and the pillowcases in the laundry, and when he’s done he joins you in there. 

The hot water is almost gone, but he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t complain. He washes your hair, and works out the tangles, and swipes soap off your jaw with even soapier fingers. 

“Thanks,” you say, a little awkwardly. “For — cleaning up.” 

He shrugs. 

“It’s nothin’,” he says. And it is nothing, to him. Everything is just — nothing. Except for you. 

You let him have a turn under the water. It’s pretty much icy, now. Your teeth clatter while you wait for him. 

“We should probably make dinner,” you say, while he sloughs shampoo from his hair. 

He opens his eyes. Blinks water at you. 

He’s a terrible chef. And you’re too wiped to even think about cooking. You both know both of these things, so you just — stare at each other. Eventually he turns the water off, and bundles you in a towel, and dries himself off with another. 

“Or,” you say, slowly, “we could just eat the Ben and Jerry’s.” 

He pauses, mid-towel dry. 

“Chunks of real cookie dough,” you remind him. 

“Mm.” He pulls a tee shirt on over his head. “Lead the way.” 

You do eat the Ben and Jerry’s. The whole thing, between the two of you, and even he has to admit that it’s — in his own words — pretty alright. 

After that you’re both full, and a little hopped up on half a pint of sugar, so you sit on the couch with your legs in his lap and you ask him every stupid question that flies into your mind. He rubs your feet while you talk, like he’s silently praying you might just wear yourself out. 

But he indulges you. There’s a smile playing at the edge of his lips. He’s turned the fireplace on, with a lighter he found somewhere deep in the kitchen, and his face flickers in the glow — orange, red, orange, again. 

“Favorite color,” you say. 

He tips his head to the ceiling. 

“Brown.” 

“Oh my god. Brown?” 

“’S wrong with brown?” 

“Dirt is brown. Mud is brown. No one’s favorite color is brown.”

But you’re realizing, as you’re saying it, that you’re wrong. His hair is brown. Deep brown, dark brown, like a forest after rain. His eyes are brown. Light, sometimes, like water over silt, and sometimes almost-black. His flannels are brown: brown and red, brown and yellow, brown and something, and he always looks like autumn. 

So he’s right, you think, when he says brown is his favorite color. You think maybe it’s yours now, too. 

“What?” he asks, when you’re quiet too long. 

You look up at him. Brown eyes, tired. Brown hair, tousled. 

“Nothing,” you say. “Next question.” 

“Childhood pet,” you say. 

“Black lab. Cooper. Used t’hunt ducks.” 

“Like that one?” You nod toward the desk, where his little wood duck sits facing the moon. 

He makes a soft sound. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Sure.” 

“And when did you start wood…working?” 

“Carvin’,” he amends. His thumb stills on the arch of your foot while he thinks. “Dunno,” he shrugs, after a while. “After Sarah came ‘long, I guess. ’S—relaxin’.” 

“You should sell them,” you say, matter-of-fact. “Like. At a Farmer’s Market, or something.” 

He half-laughs. But then he sees you’re serious — or as serious as you can manage, in your fucked-out, sugar-high, loopy sort of bliss, and he shakes his head. 

“Nah,” he says. 

“Why not?” 

“‘Cause no one would buy ‘em,” he says. “They ain’t any good. And,” he adds, when your mouth snaps open to protest, “—‘cause they’re—part ‘a me.” 

Your mouth snaps back shut. 

“What d’you mean, part of you?” 

“They’re mine,” he says, a little helpless. “I made ‘em. Don’t wanna give ‘em away.” 

“Sell them,” you amend.

“Don’t wanna sell ‘em,” he says. “Ain’t worth anythin’, anyway. ‘Cept to me.” 

“And me.” You prop yourself up on your elbows. Look at him across the couch. “They’re worth something to me.” 

He actually does smile at that. Not — smug, or self-satisfied — but shy. Sweet and shy and a little bit sheepish. 

“Okay,” you say. “One more question.” 

“Said that ten questions ago.” 

“I was lying. This is the last one.” 

“Mm,” he says. But he lets you go. 

“What’s his name?” 

“What?” He blinks at you. “Who?” 

“The duck,” you say. “What’s his name?” 

He’s silent, for a moment. 

“Ain’t got a name,” he says. “’S a duck.” 

“Ducks have names. Donald Duck. Daisy Duck.” 

“Those ‘re fake ducks,” he says. 

“So’s yours,” you say. 

“Jesus,” he says. 

But it’s soundproof logic, so — you win. He sighs, heavily. 

“Clyde,” you say, after a minute. 

“Clyde?” 

“Yeah. That’s his name. He’s British.” 

“Mm.” He leans back against the cushions. His hand strokes a lazy line, from your calf to your ankle and back up again. “Long way from home.” 

“Yeah,” you agree. Your eyes are heavy, now. You rest your head against the arm of the couch and stretch your legs out in his lap. “Poor Clyde.” 

He chuckles, softly, and that makes you smile. You flex your foot against his hand and close your eyes.

You sit quietly for a few long minutes. You maybe — maybe — fall asleep. 

His voice wakes you. His gentle hand below your knee. 

“Tired?” he murmurs. 

“No,” you say, without opening your eyes. “I’m — resting my eyes.” 

“Okay,” he says. “Well. Y’can rest your eyes in bed.” 

You try to mumble something in protest. You don’t want to go anywhere. You like it right here, with your feet in his lap and your head on the couch and the fireplace warming your skin. You like how close he is, how domestic. You don’t want it to change. You don’t want the sun to rise. 

You want to stay right here. 

But you’re fighting a losing battle, because he’s moving your legs aside, gently, and standing up off the couch, and he’s scooping you up like you weigh nothing at all. 

“C’mon,” he mutters. 

You don’t argue anymore. You let your head slump in his shoulder and your nose nudge at his neck. You kiss him there, lightly, and you hear his hum in response. Warm and silk-smooth. 

He puts you down and disappears for a few minutes — to lock the door, and turn the fireplace off, and check the windows are sealed. Then he comes back in, and shucks his sweatpants and his shirt off, and when he climbs into bed beside you you nuzzle at his side. 

He’s like sleeping with a space heater. Every part of him is a thousand fucking degrees. Which is nice, because you’re freezing. You chalk it up to genetics, or the half-pint of frozen ice cream floating through your bloodstream. Either way he lets you burrow into him. Under his arm and into the warm plane of his chest. 

“G’night,” you say, softly. 

He kisses you. Somewhere buried in your hair. 

“Night, angel,” he murmurs. 

You could swear he mumbles something else, too — something softer — but you’re half-asleep already. You don’t hear, and he doesn’t repeat it. 

And then you really do sleep, wrapped up in his arms and pressed to his heart, and when you dream they’re all of him. 

 When you wake up it’s still dark. Which sucks, but — you have to pee, and the only thing left over from your Ben and Jerry’s dinner is a fucking headache, and you have cramps that bite you awake. 

Great, you think. It’s the trifecta. 

And there’s something else, too, something bigger and heavier that won’t let you sleep, but you don’t — or you won’t — think about that, right now. Right now you roll out of bed, eyes adjusting to the dark, and you hobble over hardwood to the bathroom. 

You only turn the light on when you’re sealed inside. Joel’s a heavy sleeper, but — still. You don’t want to wake him. He deserves the rest. 

You dig around in your bag and slam two Tylenol — one for the headache and one for the cramps. Or so you figure. You use the bathroom, wash your hands — and by the time you’re back in the bedroom you’re wide awake. 

Naturally. 

So — fuck it. You grab a hoodie from your duffel and slip out of the bedroom, down the hall and through the living room and to the front door Joel’s dead-bolted. 

You undo the latch and let yourself outside. You leave the door open but close the screen behind you — so you won’t lock yourself out, on accident. You don’t love the thought of spending the night — or whatever’s left of it, at least — outside. 

You’re not sure what time it is. If it’s closer to morning or to night. The sky is pitch-black, littered silver with stars, and the water on the pebbled lake is glittering, moon-grey. 

It’s beautiful. It’s peaceful. You can’t remember the last time you looked at the stars.

You pick your way over to one of Tommy’s Adirondack chairs, sprawled out across the porch. It’s huge — big enough for two people, easily — and you slouch down against the slats. It makes you smile, how small you feel. In the too-big chair under the too-big sky. You put your hand on the wooden arm and tilt your head up to the stars. 

Behind you the screen door opens, and whines, and then shudders shut. Joel’s heavy footsteps join you on the porch. 

You twist around in the chair. He’s leaning up against the cabin wall, in a grey Dallas Cowboys shirt and a pair of grey sweatpants. His hair is mussed. He’s got a chipped mug in his hands that he cups with both palms. 

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks. His drawl is still thick. He must’ve just woken up. 

“Not really.” You frown. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”  

He shrugs. 

“Didn’t wake me,” he says. “Room just felt empty.” 

You’re quiet. Steam twists out of the mug and drifts apart in the cold air.  

You don’t know what to say. That thing that will not let you sleep is getting bigger, heavier. 

So you nod, quietly. And you accept the mug, when he peels himself off of the wall and offers it with both hands. 

“What is it?” you ask, a little skeptical. You put your nose over the rim and sniff.

“Tea,” he says. There’s a pause, then he adds, “Peppermint.” 

Peppermint. Your favorite. You told him as much, just a few nights ago — and apparently he listened. 

You take a tentative sip. Smile. He made it right, this time. Kept the bag in long enough.

“Where’d you get this?” 

“Had some at that gas station, on our way up. I just thought—” He shrugs. “Just ’n case.” 

“Just in case,” you repeat. You take another sip. 

“It’s good,” you say, quietly. “Thanks.” 

He smiles. You think he looks pleased. He takes a seat in the other Adirondack chair, beside you, and you watch the moon paint his face silver. His jaw, his cheek, the bruise under his eye and the slice across his nose. Everything looks lighter. More muted, less angry. 

You put the mug down on the chair’s arm. Then you stand, careful not to let it spill, and you go to his chair, instead. 

He makes room for you right away. You don’t ask him to, but he does. He scoots back, spreads his legs, and you drape yourself across his lap. His nose nestles in your hair, by the shell of your ear. 

"Y'alright?" he asks.

"Yeah," you tell him. "I think so."

But you're not, really, and he can tell. He can read your mind, or something close to it. So you're not all that surprised when he noses your ear, a little more insistent, and says—

“Hey. Talk t'me."

The irony of Joel Miller, asking you to talk to him. You’d laugh, if it didn’t feel like something was sitting on your chest. 

“I don’t know,” you mumble. But you do know. “It’s nothing.” 

He’s quiet, for a moment. You wonder if he’ll let it go. 

“Your dad?” he asks. 

“No,” you say. Which is the truth. You haven’t thought about your dad since you texted him, half a day ago now. It’s not him. 

Joel is silent again. You turn in his arms to look him in the eye. 

“It’s nothing,” you repeat. “It’s not—it’s stupid.” 

He takes a breath. Lifts a finger to your face, and traces a strand of hair. 

“Bet it ain’t stupid,” he says, softly. 

“Yeah.” You push out a laugh. It sounds hollow. “It is. It’s dumb. Let’s just — drop it.” 

You can feel him studying you. Watching you. But he’s quiet, and he doesn’t ask you again, because you asked him to drop it. He only says, “okay, angel,” in that syrupy drawl, and strokes your arm with a rough thumb. 

And you appreciate that. You do. But you kind of fucking wish he’d ask you until you break, if only to get this weight off of your ribs and your chest and your stomach and your heart. 

But he doesn’t. Because that’s not Joel. Joel listens. He listens when you tell him your favorite tea. He listens when you tell him to leave it alone.

He changes the subject, instead. He brings his hand up beside your face and points to the sky. 

“’S, uh — Orion, I think.” 

“Oh.” You blink. The change in subject throws you a little, but — you follow his index finger. Squint up at the dark. You have no fucking idea what you’re looking at, but he seems eager enough. 

“Sure,” you lie. It all looks the same to you. Just a bunch of streaky silver. Beautiful streaky silver, but — still. 

“To the left,” he says, gently, and you can hear the smile on his lips. His breath tickles your cheek, your neck, your collar. 

He drops his pointer finger. Puts his hand on your jaw, instead, and tilts your head in the right direction. 

“There,” he mutters. “Now look.” 

And you actually do see it, this time. 

At least, you think you do. It’s hard to concentrate, with his fingers so close to your neck. With his voice like starlit silk in your ear. 

You shift a little in his lap. The wind whistles, whinging off the lake, and his arm tightens reflexively around you. Possessive. Protective. But — gentle, too. Always gentle. 

It bubbles up in your throat again. That thing you can’t keep down. That thing that will not let you sleep. 

“Joel,” you whisper. It sounds like a whine. 

“Yeah.” 

You turn to look at him again. His hand is still on your jaw, fingers slack, just — holding you. His thumb rolls over your chin. 

You shake your head. Fuck.

“Yeah,” he repeats. “I know, baby.” 

“No you don’t,” you say. Your throat feels tight. You’re angry, you think — not with him, just — at the sky. At Orion. At yourself. Just fucking say it.

“I want—but I don’t want to—”

His thumb inches to your bottom lip. He holds it there, effectively shutting you up. 

“S’okay,” he says, softly.

His thumb strokes higher — to the edge of your mouth and then back down, over your chin, to the ridge of your jaw. He’s tracing you. Mapping you like the stars. 

“S’okay, angel,” he echoes, and you’re still shaking your head when he speaks again. Low. Gentle. So, so gentle. “I love you, too.” 

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sending jjk men "i know what you did" texts

lmk if u want a part 2!!

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f!reader, self ship coded, reader and gojo are in a semi established relationship. suggestive conversation that turns into something a little cutesy.

“Wanna come over tonight?”

The sun is beginning to set low over the horizon and Satoru slows his pace to walk in lockstep with you, hands shoved deep in his pockets. Your question doesn’t catch him off guard, in fact he suspected it would be his place rather than yours, but he hums with a note of uncertainty and you roll your eyes. 

“I dunno, I might have other plans.”

His attempt at a lie is ridiculous at worst and pathetic at best. The two of you know the only place he spends his evenings is by your side when he isn’t working but you decide to take a bite, letting him have his little back and forth. 

“That’s too bad, I was going to make dinner and everything.”

Gasping, he feigns shock and pulls one of his hands from his pocket to wrap it around your forearm to stop you in your tracks. You bite back a smile and look down at the ground but you can hear the rustling of the high neck of his jacket indicating that he’s shaking his head. 

“You mean you don’t just want to ride me into the sunset tonight? I’m flattered.”

Snorting, you try to shrug his hand off but it stays in place no matter how much you fidget. He’s inescapable and you both know it but you scrunch your nose and attempt to pry him off of you anyway, bringing both of your hands to his forearm to try and pull him off with exaggerated effort. 

“That’s kind of a gross way to put it, don’t you think?”

You grit your teeth and knit your brows while trying to move him with both hands and he just chuckles, loosening his grip on you and allowing you the victory just this once. You pick his hand up and try to shove it back in his pocket, laughing when he wiggles his fingers in your direction and reaches for your side. You get out of the way of his onslaught just in time, pulling your hip far enough away that he can’t reach and he pouts.

“I could make it even more gross, you know,” he teases and you raise a brow curiously. There’s no telling what he’ll say next but you’d be lying if you said you didn’t enjoy wondering. He steps closer to where you stand and you lean against him, arms brushing together. “Could talk about how pretty you look when you’re bouncin’ on it.”

You slap his arm and he hisses dramatically, pulling his hand out of his pocket to clutch his opposite forearm with grimace. Rolling your eyes again, you reach out and gently rub the jacket resting over the apparently injured area of his arm and he sighs as you wrap your arm around his, tipping his head to the side as the two of you start walking toward the steps that will take you off of the school’s property.

“You’re such a drama queen, Satoru. You make it sound like I only use you for sex.”

He shrugs, looking ahead instead of down at you to hide the twitch of his lips. He’s so satisfied with himself when he gets to give you a hard time it’s no wonder every person around you two gives you as much space as they possibly can. Not that it matters to either of you - when the other is near it’s like you’re the only two people that exist anyway.

“I think you use me as a taste tester, too.”

You nod, humming your agreement before picking up where he left off.

“A hair washer sometimes.”

He hums, nodding emphatically.

“Teeth brusher.”

You scoff, ready to refute his claim.

“I’ve brushed yours more often than you’ve brushed mine.”

It’s true. Often he props you up on the edge of your bathroom counter and lets you hold his chin in your free hand, moving his head around while you scrub with an electric toothbrush and tut at him about not taking better care of his mouth despite the unnervingly perfect teeth inside of it. 

“If anything,” you add with a little wag of your head, “I'd say this is mutually beneficial at worst and almost a real relationship at best.”

He clicks his tongue and shrugs. How can he argue when the two of you are in a relationship by your own admission?

“Well then, let’s head back to your place so you can get on your trusty steed.”

You giggle despite yourself and press your cheek into his arm, wrapping your free hand around it and squeezing at the same time while the pink and orange sky fades to inky blue ahead of you.

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the coolest kids on the block

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If you ever find yourself in a horror scenario, remember to blush really hard when the ghost/demon/monster appears. If you do that fast enough you might be able to shift the genre.

doting wife - enji x reader

pairing: Enji “Endeavor” Todoroki x Reader rating: 18+ summary:  ”Enji,“ You said as you walked through the manor. It was summer and Enji wanted to put you something more traditional during these summer months. So you went through the halls of the manor in nothing bout a yukata decorated with flower and flames to signify who you belonged to. As if your round and active middle didn’t give it away.  tags: wife!reader, pregnant!reader, smut, rough sex, doggy style, pregnancy kink, breeding kink

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