Crimson And Clover, Honey

crimson and clover, honey

Pre-outbreak!Joel Miller x f!reader Rating: 18+ Word count: 18.1k

Summary: When you realize that living in Austin without a car will be impossible in the long run, you take on a babysitting job to earn some extra cash, hoping the kid’s dad won’t be too much of a distraction.

Warnings: Smut, pre-outbreak babysitter AU, the ONLY Chloe slow burn you will EVER read, slight age gap (late 20s/36), oral (f, m receiving), masturbation (f), dubiously protected PIV, creampie, fluff, flirting, reference to loss of a pet, Sopranos references, Sarah is 14, mention of being drunk and topless in public, celebrating Christmas, reader’s hometown is cold, alcohol, drunk confession, no use of y/n, there's no real conclusion cause I never finished the original fic.

A/N: This is the first fic I ever wrote! This isn’t something I would personally read or even recommend that you read, but I promised a couple of mutuals that I would post it. When I say first I mean first, like, before Without A Warning, first. I wrote all of this in April, ditched it for eight months, then edited it into a reader insert oneshot now. It was meant to be a series and I wrote 25k of it, but ditched it before I ever got around to posting because I thought having too much MC centered action was frowned upon in the fic community (laughs in Love Me Back and Seeking). There's no real conclusion cause I never finished the original series idea lmfao

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You’ve been walking for at least thirty minutes and the scenery hasn't changed a bit. Three months have already gone by and you still aren’t used to the temperature, even in September when you’d expect it to cool down a little. You’re reminded of the moment you stepped off the airplane and into a wall of heat, now feeling like a moron for thinking you would quickly adjust. 

Naive. 

Land of opportunities, you scoff as you hear car after car rumbling by, the smell of exhaust and concrete filling your nostrils. The air is hot, dry and dusty, feeling little specks of pollution floating down into your lungs. You wrestle with the nearly bursting shopping bags hanging from your elbows, trying to put two of them down so you can rummage through your purse and fish out your cell phone. You shake your head and sigh as you dial Lexi’s number, knowing she won’t be happy with what you’re about to tell her. 

A few rings and she picks up, though, enthusiastic as ever, and you don’t even say hi before starting your monologue, “I don’t know how to break it to you but I’m fucking broke and need to save up for a car—”

You wipe a bead of sweat from your hairline and squint as the sun hits you directly in the eye and you realize you forgot your sunglasses at work. 

“If I have to haul ass to and from the store one more time like this, I’m gonna lose my shit… So how about we go to the Bahamas when I’ve retired or have like six months to live instead?”

Lexi’s response is pretty much what you expected, and you listen attentively at first but eventually it all turns into a blurry soundscape with the noise of endless cars mixed with mentions of Hawaii, Ft. Lauderdale, travel agency, and hotel deals. Lexi goes on about her trip ideas and you occasionally offer up a yeah, maybe, knowing damn well your bank account won’t get you much further than San Antonio. 

Still being in your probation period at work, you know your paychecks won’t budge even by a cent, no matter how hard you work, for the next three months. There’s a silence on the phone call as you stand there on the sidewalk, wondering what opportunities your friend back home was talking about when you floated the idea of moving all the way here in the first place. 

“Why don’t you just babysit or something?” Lexi asks and breaks the silence, making it sound like the most obvious suggestion in the world, “I don’t make a ton of money but— it’s something, it’s worth a shot and it’s only a few hours a week.”

You've never been great with kids, finding them more stressful than cute and wondering how your parents even put up with raising you. Aside from entertaining your little cousins during family visits, you’ve had no real experience watching out for children either, so at this point you’re more of a liability to some poor kid’s parents than a helpful presence. You thought the stress may turn to fondness as you got older, but here you are in your late twenties and the fondness has yet to arrive.

You swing the bags over your shoulder and keep walking with Lexi still on the line, feeling the plastic handles digging into your skin and walking on manual mode as your shoes slap the pavement one after the other. It’s a pathetic feeling, and an even more pathetic sight for the people flying by in their air conditioned, cruise controlled vehicles. 

“The girl I’m babysitting as we speak has a soccer game on Saturday,” Lexi mentions in a sneaky tone, “Just come along and we can have dinner after like we planned. Maybe you can meet some of the parents and see if any of them are looking for a sitter. The kids are, like, fourteen anyway, you don’t really have to do anything when you babysit.” 

Fine, you concede after a loud sigh, and Lexi fires back enthusiastically, “Great! I mean… Some of the dads are kinda hot so, worst case, we can just sit there and watch them play coach for an hour then go get wasted, right?”

You respond after a few seconds of silence, a monotone yeah, you bet, a dry “Aren’t they all like fifty years old? don't realize Dr. Phil was your type,” and, lastly, an equally dry, “Bye, Lexi.” 

Her excited, almost singsong-y see you Saturday is the last thing you hear before you clap your phone shut and toss it in your bag, finally seeing your house in the distance. 

—

Sitting at some random kid’s soccer game is at the bottom of the list of places you imagined yourself being on a hot Saturday afternoon, blue skies and the sun shining, but truth be told you don’t really have anything better to do.

You’re trying to pass the time by looking at a group of moms all wearing the same type of large sunglasses and seemingly sharing some gossip by the way they chat and look in the same direction, not so subtly pointing at another set of parents present before they go back to talking with their heads leaning in. 

As you look around for something new to ponder about in between checking the time, you spot a man talking to the coach, and shift your gaze in his direction to get a better look. You give him a long glance up and down, pondering what type of role he’s playing but mostly taking in how handsome he is — brown curls, dark eyes, scruffy face, mustache, broad shoulders, a navy t-shirt lightly restricting his muscular arms, jeans that sit a little too tight over his thighs and, most importantly, no ring. 

Finally something interesting to look at. 

With his arms crossed and brows furrowed, you can’t tell if he’s pissed off or blinded by the sun as he looks onto the field. He doesn’t turn to look at the coach at all, he just shifts his eyes around to follow the action and makes occasional comments while the coach talks continuously. You don't get to ponder whether he’s an assistant or not for very long before you feel Lexi elbow you in your side, and you turn to see another young man standing right in front of you with his hand stretched out. 

“Tommy, Tommy Miller,” he says with a smile on his face, eagerly shaking your hand as Lexi introduces you as her coworker and friend, who would be a great babysitter for Sarah if Joel was looking for one. 

You offer a shy smile, and she continues, “I mean, you’re always dropping her off at soccer so if she had a sitter then you would have some well deserved time off.” 

You recognize her sales pitch voice immediately and prepare to put on your own best customer service self as you hear Tommy calling out, “Joel, come over here!” and you try to figure out who he’s calling, looking at the sea of dads who indeed look like Dr. Phil. You look at their white tennis shoes, polo shirts tucked into light wash jeans and gigantic belt buckles, thinking that they probably have some extra money to throw your way.

Trying to brainstorm your own sales pitch, you’re caught off guard yet again by another outstretched — this time larger, more calloused — hand. You snap out of your stare into the Dr. Phil costume convention and glance up at the man standing there. 

The shirt and jeans look even tighter from where you're sitting, and your gaze lingers for a second too long before you hastily bring your hand out to meet his. He looks friendlier up close, brows no longer furrowed as he introduces himself. 

“Joel, Tommy’s brother. Uh, Sarah’s my daughter,” he says as he shakes your hand and points to a tall, curly haired girl on the field. Lexi takes over before you get to introduce yourself past your name, getting straight to business and pitching you as Sarah’s babysitter. 

“You're just as enthusiastic about babysitting as Lexi, I take it?” Joel asks with a chuckle, picking up on your friend’s enthusiasm. 

Flustered by his dark gaze not leaving your eyes, you blurt out, “Oh— I’m just trying to save up for a car.. And a tr—” There’s Lexi’s elbow again, this time aggressive and accompanied by a death stare indicating you've blown her diabolical plan and ripped up her ticket to the Bahamas right in front of her eyes. 

Much to Lexi’s, and your own, surprise, Joel laughs. “I like your honesty,” he said, “How ‘bout you text me your schedule and we figure somethin’ out?”

You spend the rest of the soccer game listening to Lexi and Tommy’s small talk, Joel sitting next to you without saying a word. You assume he’s very invested in Sarah’s soccer career by the way he pays such close attention to what’s going on out there on the field, his eyes shifting back and forth, arms folded across his chest. It seems like Lexi is trying to put a good word in for you, so it’s too bad that Joel apparently can’t hear any of it. 

The game eventually finishes up, and Joel gives you his number before going to get Sarah. Lexi spends so much time saying goodbye to Tommy that Joel and Sarah come back around, giving you the chance to introduce yourself properly with Lexi occupied. 

Then, Joel puts his arm around Sarah’s shoulders and starts pitching, “I was thinkin’ that our friend here could come over and keep an eye on you a couple days a week, so Tommy and I can finish up that job,” he occasionally glances over at you as he speaks, “Not sayin’ you need a babysitter, you just—” 

Sarah interrupts him, knowing what he was about to say, “I know, you don’t like it when I’m home alone for hours at a time,” she says, mimicking her dad’s accent while looking at me. He doesn't seem too amused, but you try to smile reassuringly to both of them and promise Sarah you won’t hover. 

—

A little while later, at a restaurant not too far from the soccer field, Lexi is telling you about all the soccer mom drama you picked up on earlier but couldn’t quite figure out on your own. Only one margarita deep by now, you think you should text Joel before you really start feeling the effects of the alcohol, and potentially get fired before the first day on the job. You type a quick text message, trying to be concise but not reserved. 

“Hey Joel! It’s Lexi’s friend from earlier. I work 9-5 Mon-Fri so just let me know when you want me to babysit and I’ll be there :)”

You stare at the screen for a few seconds before you hold your phone up to Lexi in search of approval. “Too casual?” you ask with a look of concern, looking back at your screen again and trying to find things to change.

“He said he liked your honesty and you’re being honest, so…” she says and clicks her tongue, shrugging before picking up her glass and chugging what’s left. She clearly isn’t too interested in talking about Joel, evident by her leaning over the table, looking side to side and asking if you thought it seemed like Tommy was seeing someone, based on their conversation earlier in the day.

You’d love to remind her that you literally just met the man today, that you know about as much about him as you know about his older brother, and that the only reason you know that he’s older is thanks to Tommy mentioning Joel’s thirty-sixth birthday last week. 

You know what she’s looking for, though, and she definitely would not appreciate your honesty. You shake your head and stuff another chicken wing in your mouth, giving you some time to think. “Definitely not,” you say with your mouth full, hoping she won’t ask you any more questions you don't have the answer to.  

—

You wave goodbye to the receptionist as you leave work a little early, heading to the Millers’ house so Joel can stop by and give you a tour and a copy of their house key before he goes back to work. 

Standing outside the door, you try to peek through the window when you jump at the sound of a car behind you, signaling Joel’s arrival. He doesn't make much small talk beyond saying hi, asking how your day is going and thanking you for stopping by so early.

If anything, he seemed a bit disheveled when he walked up from the driveway to greet you, and it feels somewhat tense for a second as he unlocks the door in silence before tilting his head towards the inside of the house to signify ladies first, letting you walk in front of him and carefully place your bag on the floor of the hallway. 

He takes his boots off but doesn’t let go of the keys as he shows you around, starting with the first floor. It looks like a regular house, all things considered. The sun shines in through the blinds behind the couch and hits the large screen of the TV so all the dust particles become visible, it’s a little cluttered here and there but overall very clean — the charm of a house clearly lived in. You follow Joel around as he points to the different areas and states the obvious. 

“Livin’ room, dinin’ room, kitchen, and, uh— yeah, that’s it for the ground floor pretty much.”

You look at him and nod reassuringly with a smile, “Looks nice.” He shrugs before pointing to the stairs at the back of the dining room, asking if you want to check out the upstairs, climbing the staircase while you follow closely behind him, leaving his question unanswered. 

“Bathroom is here,” he says as he stands outside, looking in for a second before continuing down the hallway towards a room with bright pink walls, clearly belonging to Sarah. You lean into the door frame carefully, quickly glancing at the collection of trophies standing in the window, halfway covered by thin, draped curtains. 

“Very girly, I love it,” you remark, thinking back to your own similarly colored childhood bedroom. 

“Yup,” Joel responds, followed by a moment of silence. 

He lazily points out the guest room, now Tommy’s bedroom, while you walk back towards the staircase and he starts talking. “Your friend might’ve told you that Tommy and I are contractors and we have this job right now that’s takin’ a lot of time, so I’ve been coming home late and Sarah’s had to be by herself which I’m not a fan of,” he explains, "It shouldn’t take that long but the concrete guys have been slackin’ lately and— I'm boring you, aren't I?” 

You don’t get a chance to respond before he’s onto the last leg of the tour. 

“My bedroom," he states with no real follow-up as you walk past the last door. You nod and reply with an upbeat mhm, then follow him back down the stairs and into the kitchen. 

You stand in silence for a few seconds before you feel the need to volunteer some information about yourself, telling him what you do for work, about Lexi and you being coworkers, about moving to Texas recently — the summary you've given countless people over the last few months, that sounds more or less like an automated message. 

As for tonight, you inform him that you plan to swing by the store to get some groceries, make dinner for Sarah and yourself, help her with homework if needed, and stay out of her way by doing work on your computer. He nods along, and you can’t quite gauge if it’s what he expected from you as a babysitter. 

“I mean, I have to make dinner for yourself every day anyway, so—” you say in hopes of getting some sort of approval for your plan, hesitating for a few seconds before trying to take it into a more humorous direction, “My lack of a taste tester is the only thing stopping me from becoming the next Bobby Flay.”

Joel cracks up a little at your attempt at a joke, and offers you a ride to the store on his way back to work — a luxury you have no interest in turning down. 

A few minutes later, you’re out of the house and in his truck, with the windows down and radio on. You don't think to make conversation, or even recognize that you're in a car with someone who’s basically a stranger — too occupied with feeling like the world’s richest person for not having to drag yourself to the store on foot. 

You thank him as you hop out, reassuring him that Sarah is going to think you're super cool, and that he has no need to worry at all. 

“If you say so,” he says as he turns the truck and drives off. Thank God, you think to yourself as the glass doors slide open and you step into the store, that these painfully stiff encounters with Joel will probably be few and far in between.

—

You notice a decent amount of leftovers when you're cleaning up after dinner, and act completely out of habit when you open a drawer full of Tupperware containers, pull one out and dump the rest of the pasta in it. Looking down at the steamy plastic, wondering what to do next, you realize how much of a creature of habit you’ve become in your adult age, staring into the sauce, wondering if anybody would notice a missing container, until an idea strikes you. 

You rummage around the drawers until you find a marker and an old pad of post-it notes, scribble down Joel lunch and a smiley face on the note, then stick it on the lid before putting it in the fridge. “Could you tell your dad there’s some leftovers for him in the fridge for when he gets back?” you call out to Sarah from the kitchen. 

—

You’re packing up your computer when Tommy and Joel arrive home from work, two truck doors slamming and heavy footsteps approaching as you zip up your backpack. You're almost in the hallway when the door opens and Tommy comes in first, seeming cheery as usual. 

“How’s it goin’? Is Sarah behaving? Smells great in here,” he says, bright and eager. It’s the first time you’ve spoken to Tommy beyond simple hello’s since the soccer game, so you stick around in hopes that some chit chat will help your impression. Neither of the two seem to be in a rush to get out of their work clothes despite coming home as late as nine, having left the house at eight in the morning according to Sarah. 

Tommy makes small talk and asks you a variety of questions about yourself while Joel just stands there listening, leaning against the wall and occasionally glancing over at you as you answer. He asks the typical questions first, more or less about work, before he gets to the big one with a smile. 

“You seein’ anybody these days? Bet there’s a lot of—” 

“Tommy,” Joel sternly interrupts, “Interrogation hour is done for tonight, you’re gonna scare her off.” He stares at his younger brother for a few tense seconds. 

“I found her, didn't I?” Tommy responds, smirking and gesturing towards you. 

“You didn't find her, she found us,” Joel says, his voice turning into a whisper, idiot. 

You can’t quite tell if it’s acceptable to laugh, no matter how funny you find their interaction, but you figure you should step in. 

“Definitely not seeing anybody these days,” you say and shake your head, laughing a little, “Have you seen the men around here? Yikesi..” You inhale through your teeth and look down, pretending that Joel isn’t the most gorgeous man you’ve seen in years, his standoffish demeanor being the only thing standing between you and a totally inappropriate crush. 

“Present company excluded,” you quickly correct, holding your hand up, trying to damage control but probably just making it worse. 

“You hear that?” Tommy teases and elbows Joel in the arm, “Looks like there’s hope out there for you, brother.”  

Joel rolls his eyes and slowly shakes his head, looking down and muttering shut the fuck up, Tommy so low he thinks you won’t hear it. “Allow me to apologize, miss,” he looks at you and scoots away from the front door, noticing the time and saying sorry for holding you up. You don't mind, but want to play it cool, so you grab your bag and head out the door with a smile, saying it was nice to see them both again. 

—

It started as a normal lunch break; your coworker, Nick, and yourself, sitting at a table across from each other, looking side to side and whispering, catching up on whatever office gossip you’ve managed to conjure up before sitting the rest of the break in silence, looking past each other while eating. You tend to listen to the chatter from down the hall and the clock on the wall ticking, counting down the minutes until you have to drag yourselves out of the chairs, sigh dramatically to each other, and go back to work. 

This time, however, your daily silence is interrupted when Susan, Barbara and Shelley walk in, shaking their salads and speaking in extremely long but somehow coherent sentences, barely stopping to breathe as they fire off a three-way conversation about being banned from a community pool, seemingly not noticing you and Nick sitting right next to them. 

“It’s like they have surveillance cameras up or something,” Barbara complains, “How could they tell it was sangria in my cup? I think they’re spying on me.” Shelley and Susan look at each other as Barbara shakes her head and stabs at her salad. 

Shelley leans over to her, trying to speak quietly, “Barb, honey, you were topless.” 

Nick snorts, then immediately clears his throat to cover it up. 

“You know what, Shelley? Maybe I was, but who ran and told Bill?” she asks under her breath, and you assume Bill has some sort of role in her local Homeowners Association based on what you've previously heard about him. It’s tense for a minute as they all sit in silence, wondering which neighbor was the most likely to report three middle aged women being drunk at the community pool on a Saturday afternoon. 

Lexi comes into the room and sits down, hearing only the tail end and demanding the full story. “Barb, when are you gonna stop being such a naughty girl?” she asks, lightly slapping Barbara’s arm as Nick neatly summarizes the events to her. 

“Getting your drinks on at four PM, you are so crazy. Wish I was more like you, girl,” she winks. 

Lexi finds your coworkers strangely entertaining, somehow managing to play interested enough to get them to talk and occasionally share some interesting details about their lives, but you have no idea how she does it. The story started off pretty interesting, but it has quickly devolved into a muttered-under-their-breaths murder mystery style discussion about who ratted them out, throwing out names you've never heard and speculating on whether some neighbor’s husband is having an affair. 

A lot of their conversations adhere to this formula, starting with an interesting plot but devolving into the same briefing about the behaviors and attitudes of certain neighbors. You look back and forth at them, half heartedly trying to keep up but eventually hearing the clock ticking and just watching Susan’s lips moving as she has an epiphany and starts recounting a string of events that amount to some sort of evidence for a woman named Sharon being the neighborhood rat.

Lexi seems shocked, which is actually quite impressive, considering it means she has actually paid enough attention to all of these stories to have a clear idea of who this Sharon is.  

At some point, though, even Lexi throws in the towel and looks at the clock, hoping the time will soon come when she can jump up and say, “God, I love chatting with you ladies but I have to get back to work.” It always follows the same pattern — you check out, then Nick, then Lexi. 

The buzzing of the microwave, the ticking of the wall clock and Barbara’s nearly inaudible ramblings about Bill, Sharon, sangria and the Homeowner’s Association all bleed into each other, creating a blur of sound that is sort of soothing and suffocating at the same time as it drones on endlessly with no clear direction.

The sounds blend together more and more while you stare with squinted eyes at the tiny cracks in the wooden cupboards, your one hand holding up the weight of your head, cheek squished up into your eye, and the other barely holding onto the fork sticking up from your lunchbox. You can’t tell if you're falling into sleep or some sort of trance when you suddenly snap back to the present as your phone goes off, letting you know you have a text from Sarah. 

 “What are we making for dinner 2day???”

—

"You know I don’t really need a babysitter, right? My dad is just... Overprotective," Sarah asks, to which you put on your best shocked expression. 

"No way, man,” you sigh, “I thought you were like eight years old."

Sarah laughs a little before she pauses. "But I like having you around, so don’t tell dad," she says. 

You smile while shaking your head, "I won't, I promise." 

She helps you clean up the table and continue with her homework, the music from the radio resuming as you do the dishes. 

—

You’re halfway to your house at the end of the night, when you have a feeling something is off and stick your hand into your bag, rummaging around to no avail and realizing you left your keys at the Miller residence. You wonder to yourself how you manage to keep a job, own a house, and now even take care of a teenager several nights a week, but still be such an idiot sometimes. 

With no other choice, you close your eyes, take a deep breath and exhale hard before you turn around and trudge back to the house, wondering how Joel didn’t notice your keys on the dining table when he came in. You haven’t spoken much since the first day of babysitting, almost a month ago, other than pleasantries when you’ve crossed paths in the hallway and that one case of chit chatting with Tommy. 

After a reluctant walk back, you ring the doorbell and fear, for a second, that he’s fallen asleep, but breathe a sigh of relief when you hear footsteps and see a shadow through the glass. 

The relief doesn't last long as you look up to see Joel shirtless, wearing only a pair of sweatpants, with wet, slicked back hair and water dripping down his chest. You get flashbacks to the day at the soccer field, eyes trailing up and down his body, wondering what was under those jeans and that dark t-shirt, both taut and giving away the contours of his shoulders, biceps, and thighs, wondering what it would feel like to have those dark eyes looking up at you with your fingers in his hair, noticing his firm handshake and wondering how his hand would feel around your waist, or around your throat. 

You snapped out of it quickly when you realized having a professional relationship with him would be your only ticket out of pedestrian hell, and you luckily don't have to see him very much day to day anyway, so there hasn’t been much fuel to be poured on your fantasies. The quick hello’s as you put your shoes on and leave aren’t even too common of an occurrence. Your contact with Joel consists of mostly waving to him through his truck window as you walk home or wishing him a good night from the hallway when you leave. 

But now, you've seen too much, and even though you tell yourself to be normal about him, knowing how he looks fresh out of the shower makes the attraction you felt the day you met him hit you again like a freight train. 

“I’m so sorry, I probably didn't hear you call when I was in the shower — somethin’ wrong?”, he asks, apologizing as you try to unglue your eyes from his body and look at him like a normal, fully clothed, person. 

“Oh, no, I just forgot my keys somehow and came right back,” you assure, rubbing your forehead in an attempt to look embarrassed but, in actuality, trying to get another glimpse of what’s been hiding under there this entire time. 

“I got you,” he says before he disappears into the house, letting you get a good look at his thick, toned back, coming back after what a few seconds and handing you the keys, “Call me next time, I’ll come meet you so you don’t have to walk all the way back here, alright?” 

He insists on driving you home, going upstairs to put on a shirt before grabbing his keys and escorting you out to his truck. You try your hardest to make small talk and not just stare into the air the entire ride home, as the image of him shirtless is etched into your vision. 

—

It’s the end of another babysitting shift, and you're packing up your things when you hear Joel come in the front door, recognizing him by the sound of his boots in the hallway, then a loud sigh as he locks the door behind him, despite knowing you'll be heading out any minute now. Your phone buzzes as you're putting it in your pocket and you open a text from Jenna containing an unpleasant surprise. 

“Parents’ dog kicked the bucket and mom wants to have a memorial on Saturday - u know how she is.. Can Lexi drive u instead?”

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me…” you mutter to yourself, not realizing Joel is within earshot. 

“Everything alright?” he asks carefully, and you wonder if perhaps you should lie to make your life sound more interesting than your only weekend plans being an hour and a half drive to pick up furniture you saw in a catalog, and said plans being torpedoed by a dog who made it a full year limping, with barely any hearing or eyesight, but somehow couldn’t make it another three days, and your only other potential driver is out of town on a work trip you weren’t invited to. 

“Well—” you start, taking a deep breath to muster up the courage to put your pathetic reality on display for a man who just did a full day of manual labor, “My friend, Jenna, was supposed to drive me to San Antonio on Saturday to help me pick up this stupid dining set but now she has to plan a dog funeral.”

You watch Joel’s expression change from concern to a cross between confusion and amusement before you stop yourself, “I— never mind. Don't worry about it,” you wave dismissively. 

“You need a ride somewhere?” he asks, sensing your hesitation as you try to think of what to respond. His tone shifts, softening as he can likely tell you regret saying this much already. “You’ve done so much for me and Sarah, it’s the least I could do, really.”

You inhale, about to say that he’s too sweet and he doesn’t have to do it and you'll figure it out, but before you get a word out, he’s already speaking. “Please let you do somethin’ for you for once,” he says as your eyes are locked to his, those deep brown eyes always as intense regardless of what he’s saying. 

“Okay, okay. Thank you, Joel,” is all you come up with before he takes the floor again, this time in planning mode. 

“San Antonio, right?”, he pauses for a second, “I’ll pick you up at three and you’ll be back in time to enjoy your night.” 

“You don’t have to—” you start, but he stops you before you finish your sentence.

“Be ready at three and I’ll be there.”

“Got it. Three PM,” you smile and nod affirmatively before heading out the door. 

—

The clock strikes three on a pleasantly warm, bone dry Saturday, and you hear the familiar rumble of Joel’s truck pulling up outside your house. You look at yourself in the mirror one last time and take a deep breath, giving yourself a pep talk before you head out — don’t be weird, be cool, you’re cool and interesting, he’ll think you’re cool and interesting and will definitely not fire you after today, it will not be awkward, just be professional, he’s just Sarah’s dad, nothing special. 

Inhale, exhale, you grab your bag and pick your keys off the dish in the hallway, turning around after locking your door to see Joel already standing outside with the truck door open for you. 

“You ready?” he asks, waiting for you to come around so he can close the door behind you and get in the driver’s seat. You’ve never really seen him like this, a stark contrast from the tired, worn out, stressed out, or annoyed-by-Tommy state he’s usually in when you cross paths.

“Ready to see what the famous Texas landscape has to offer,“ you say, earning a laugh from Joel. It’s not nearly as awkward as you anticipated, so far at least. 

“Brought you some coffee, ” he says as he points to the two travel mugs in the cup holder. You thank him, probably sounding a little surprised, as he grabs the top of your seat and turns to look back as you pull out of the driveway. 

—

“How’s that famous Texas landscape lookin’ from your side?” you can sense the smirk on Joel’s face as you roll your eyes and try not to laugh at yourself. 

You’ve been driving for half an hour and, more than anything, the landscape has been reminiscent of your tedious trips to the oversized grocery store. “The same as half an hour ago,” you respond dryly, looking over to Joel’s side to check if there’s something interesting you’ve missed, “I thought there would be more ranches?” 

You keep looking out of the window while the radio plays and the landscape changes so little it feels like you're looking at a photo rather than flying down a highway at seventy five miles per hour. The mile-long patches of dirt and burnt grass are occasionally interrupted by small bushes and patches of green grass, even spotting some bluebonnets somewhere close to the only ranch you’ll see on the entire drive to San Antonio. You're about to make a joke about tumbleweeds when you suddenly gasp, causing Joel to quickly turn his head towards you in concern. 

“Cows!” you exclaim, your eyes glued to the herd of large brown and white spotted animals, all grazing surprisingly close to the road. 

“Huh, would you look at that,” Joel says, switching his attention between the cows and the road, “Don’t tell Sarah we saw cows, or else she’ll flip cause we don't bring her along. She loves those things.”

— 

With the dining set secured in the truck, you’re headed back to Austin but only drive for a few minutes before Joel asks if you're hungry and want to stop somewhere, saying he knows of a Tex Mex place a few exits ahead that you might like. 

Not wanting to sound desperate, you respond in the most nonchalant way you can, I could eat, knowing you're indeed starving, worried he’d notice further down the road, so his suggestion comes as a relief. 

And before you know it, hours have gone by. The sun is already setting despite Joel’s promise to have you back in Austin before it officially rolls over into evening time, but you don't mind — you're at a restaurant somewhere right outside of San Antonio, sitting across from a man you've never spoken to for longer than about five minutes at a time before today, chatting loosely and trying not to eat too fast. 

You’re not sure how he figured you would like the food here, but you do, and you're secretly happy that Jenna had to bail. Though you only see cars and highway lanes looking to your right, looking to your left reveals the beautiful landscape you'd hoped to see in the car on the way there. Texas may be flat and full of a whole lot of nothing, but the horizon offers a truly spectacular arrangement of colors during the sunset, taking the shape of endless soft clouds scattered across the sky. 

You admire them as Joel tells a story about having to bail Tommy out of jail after a bar fight for the second time, and you can’t help but get distracted when you notice how the yellow and orange lamps above you illuminate him against the backdrop of the sun setting — the light bouncing off his hair, his eyes piercing as they lock you in and prevent you from looking away. Even when he tilts his head down, smiling as he talks and looking up at you without lifting his chin. 

He catches the waiter’s attention to ask for the bill and you seize the opportunity to let your gaze travel down to his broad shoulders, giving the fabric of his shirt a run for its money and stretching every time he moves his arms. He doesn’t talk much with his hands, he lets them rest on the table, not quite in fists, relaxing as his elbows support him and he leans slightly towards you. 

You reach for the check before he quickly snatches it out from under your hand. “I’ll get—” you start, interrupted by Joel insisting your money’s no good here, saying something about southern hospitality, not even letting you get a glance at the bill itself. He doesn’t take no for an answer and your only option is to thank him, yet again, this time slightly shyly as you realize no man has ever reached for the check that fast before, even after a date they’ve asked you on. 

But here Joel is, picking up furniture and taking the check and ensuring you're well fed and driving you home, for no apparent reason. He gets the leftovers packed up and hands them to you in the truck, saying they’re nowhere near as good as the lunches he gets at work the days after you've made too much dinner for Sarah and yourself the night before, but at least you have somewhere to eat them now. 

You spend the drive home continuing the chit chat that started over dinner as you both watch the sun continue to set, and the darkness lowers over the seemingly endless road ahead. You try to contribute to the conversation as best as you can and try even harder to ignore how intoxicating it feels when the smell of his cologne washes over you, when he runs his fingers through his hair, and when the muscles in his arms twitch as he grips the steering wheel. 

Barely noticing the radio being on, you struggle to even make out the words he’s saying as you sit there entranced, wondering where this version of Joel has been hiding since you met. He divides his attention between you and the road, with his glances to the right getting longer as he notices your inability to take your eyes off of him, maintaining the lighthearted conversation but looking you deeper in the eyes every time he meets your gaze, as it gets progressively darker outside the closer you got to Austin. 

—

The doorbell rings just as you get out of the shower, and you grab the only robe that's hanging on the door, not thinking much of it, throwing it on as you wonder who from work could be wanting something from you this early. Out of the ordinary but not totally unprovoked, you ponder it as you head down the stairs, but the realization suddenly hits you as you stand in the hallway with your hand on the door handle. 

The staircase. Shit. 

You hear Saturday the thirteenth, ten AM in Joel’s voice inside your head and remember the haze you were in two weeks prior, when you mentioned your staircase being creaky on the way back from San Antonio. Of course he volunteered to fix it, and of course you were too distracted by his side profile in the truck to realize you suggested a date and time for the repair. 

“I, uh— is this a bad time? Did I get the time wrong?”, he asks, looking a little taken back when you open the door to reveal your outfit choice. It’s a seriously short robe, the type that comes with a pair of shorts because it’s so tiny. 

“Nope,” you chirp, followed by a forced laugh, waving him in, “I’m just more forgetful than I thought.” 

You look down as you close the door and realize that the robe does absolutely nothing to hide your legs or your figure. It can’t get much worse than this, you decide, as you stand with your back to the door and take a deep breath. Your professional act has been going right down the drain at a blistering speed and, as if your gawking in the car wasn't bad enough, he’s obviously going to think that you damn near flashing him was a fully intentional accident on your part.

He puts his tools down by the staircase, starting to shake the railing with a firm grip and a skeptical look on his face. You can’t really tell what he’s doing once the tools come out, but you decide to trust the professional and not get in the way, not wanting to risk your fractured image any further. You can hear the Sopranos theme song playing in the living room as you stand in the kitchen silently, brewing coffee and wishing you'd turned the TV off before opening the door. 

You place a coffee mug on the table a few meters away from where Joel is standing, gesturing to it and saying it’s for him. He thanks you before you head upstairs to get changed, hoping the robe won’t betray you as you walk carefully up the steps in front of him. 

—

You decide to check out the progress after you get changed, not realizing how long you've spent trying to find an outfit that says casual, but not a total loser on the weekend. You're drying your hair as you walk down the stairs and notice Joel leaning over one of the dining chairs in view of the TV, tools already packed up and waiting by the door as he stands there in silence while you walk into the kitchen. 

“That’s Karen’s last ziti,” he whispers at the same time as Bobby says it on screen, and you can’t quite tell if he’s talking to you or himself as his eyes narrow and don't leave the show when you come over and refill his coffee, unsure if he notices or not. 

“Wanna sit down and watch the rest of the episode? I mean you still need to finish your coffee, so—” you ask as you wave the remote around and point it at the mug on the table. He shrugs and raises an eyebrow, half smiling, before he approaches the couch. 

He plops down, stretches his legs out on the end section, throws his arm over the back and pats the seat next to him, gesturing for you to join, and you sit down in the corner, leaning back into the cushion, trying to breathe normally as you inhale whiffs of his scent, attempting to keep your head from somehow ending up on his chest. The warm, musky amberwood whiffs hit you intermittently, his scent mixed with the heat radiating from him, threatening to melt you into a puddle on the couch. 

There’s something deeply comforting about Joel's presence, and you’re not entirely sure if it’s his warm laugh, his deep voice softening as he talks about what you’re watching, or the feeling of safety, with just a sliver of tension, that comes with having a man like him so close to you. You never want to leave the bubble you’re in, surrounded by Joel’s scent and warmth, feeling flattered that he could spend his scarce free time anywhere and yet chooses to spend it with you, despite the amount of times you think you’ve made an ass out of yourself in front of him. 

“You don't strike me as a big TV watcher, Joel,” you carefully suggest after a handful of comments from him about the show, indicating either trivia-level knowledge of pop culture or a history of watching the show often, and very often at that. 

“Tommy and his old girlfriend,” he says without taking his eyes off the screen, “They’d hog the TV for hours, so after Sarah went to bed, I’d have the choice between starin’ at the wall or watching these gavones live a more interesting life than me.”

You see your opportunity and take it, looking up at him. 

“What are you gonna do?”, you ask in your best Tony Soprano voice, feeling incredibly corny for a second until Joel cracks up and repeats the line back to you, chuckling while he nudges you in the arm so firmly you’d fall over had it not been for him catching you with his other hand. 

You smile and roll your eyes before shifting your attention back to the show, this time sitting slightly closer to him, with your knees resting on the side of his thigh. He doesn’t seem to mind, leaning over slightly, making the space between you just a little smaller. 

A full hour goes by before Joel’s phone lights up with a ring and a text from Tommy, met with a sigh and a moment of silence before he picks up the phone to read what his brother has to say. 

“Well, guess that’s my cue to leave,” he groans as he puts his phone in his pocket and looks down at you, your eyes meeting and faces just inches apart. 

You see your opportunity again, and decide to take it. 

“What are you gonna do?”, you ask again, this time with a shrug and pinched finger gesture with both hands. You're rewarded with another laugh, an eye roll and a softer nudge before he stands up with a groan and collects the coffee mugs, soon headed into the kitchen. 

“Thank you very much for havin’ me over, sweetheart,” he says as he stands in the door, not quite dragging out the time but also not leaving nearly as fast as he probably should. 

“You’re very welcome," is all you come up with in response, overly politely, trying to hide how flustered the pet name makes you and completely forgetting to thank him for the free repair. 

“Guess we’ll have to see what happens to Carmine some other time,” he says and looks at you with a half smile, pretending like he doesn't know. 

“Guess we do,” you agree, as he opens the door and heads out. 

—

Being at your parents’ house makes it feel like you never moved out, despite only having visited for a little over a week. It definitely doesn't help that every Christmas feels the same, year after year, celebrating with your family, eating the same food, decorating the tree in the same spot, and having the same visitors.

It feels, in some ways, like your life in Austin is just a made up fantasy world that you thought up as some sort of hallucination, and you have to remind yourself of your very tangible links to the city, like your job and your house, in order to realize that you do actually have a separate life there.

You've spent a week meeting up with friends, relatives, family friends and neighbors, telling the same life update over and over and answering the same questions about the weather, your job, and your love life, to which you’ve responded “great”, “great” and “non-existent.” 

You take the bus downtown on a freezing cold afternoon, the sun already long gone by five and commuters crowding the terminal. Knowing that the scenery hasn’t changed a bit since last winter, it still feels like you're seeing it for the first time as it flies by. 

Standing outside of Leah’s building, you click the numbers on the buzzer and wait for the door to make that familiar buzzing sound that lets you enter the door. When the elevator slides open on her floor, you're greeted by a very excited dog you haven’t seen since before you left for Texas. 

“Ziggy, look at you! Are you so excited?” you call out in the highest pitch you're capable of as she jumps up on your legs, wagging her tail like it's about to fall off and her tongue hanging out of her mouth. You shuffle over to the right apartment where your best friend is standing in the doorway, ready to embrace you with a hug you've been missing for a long time. 

Her apartment smells like spicy noodle soup, and you're more ready than ever to take off the layers covering your entire body, sit down at the small table in her kitchen and give the full rundown of your new life while you eat. You tell her about work, your friends, your house, and that you're babysitting for a really sweet girl three nights a week to save up for a car and a trip to the Bahamas. 

Despite generally being very enthusiastic about traveling and living somewhere new, none of these things apparently interest Leah as much as a remark you make in passing. 

“The dad’s kinda hot, not gonna lie,” you say when you describe how you ended up with this uncharacteristic babysitting job, thinking you're making a comment that would be very typical for you. It’s a gross understatement, but you know the questions will start firing after the words leave your mouth, and at least there isn’t much to grasp at with such an understated comment. 

After that moment, you keep trying to expand on different work stories, stories from nights out, even your coworker flashing her tits at her community pool, but Leah isn’t having it. It’s not hard to notice how briefly you describe Joel before moving on, your close friends knowing how much you love giving detailed character descriptions of everyone you interact with on a regular basis. Leah receives a full rundown of all five coworkers, Jenna, Sarah, and even Tommy have a few stories told about him, but Joel is glossed over repeatedly. 

She can tell something is a little off and eventually corners you when she’s had enough of you avoiding going into any detail about him, despite being at his house half the evenings of the week. 

“Tell me about Sarah’s dad,” she says and taps her nail on the table, “You’re being weird.” 

“What about him?”, you ask, to which she rolls her eyes. 

She asks what he’s like, aside from being kinda hot, copying your earlier tone, but when you try to answer in an inconspicuous manner, all you get in response is a raised eyebrow. 

“You like him, don’t you?” she muses, and you roll your eyes. 

“Shut up.” 

—

When you get into bed after a long day of socializing, you realize you're headed back to Texas in only a few days, and start thinking about what you should bring back as presents for Sarah, the things you need to do when you get to your house, the groceries that have to be picked up, friends who need to be alerted that you're in town, and the text that needs to be sent to Joel, reminding him you're back. 

Despite how busy you are, seeing friends and participating in various festivities, your thoughts keep coming back to him, wondering what he’s doing these days when he’s off work. Probably hanging out with Sarah, you guess, maybe Tommy, maybe even their parents or some other friends. 

But more than wondering about what he’s up to during the day, you wonder what he does when he’s alone at the end of the night. Because as much as he’s a stressed out, overworked, annoyed-by-Tommy, single dad, he is, at the end of the day, still a thirty six year old man. 

Someone has to occupy his thoughts occasionally when he gives himself some relief, no? 

You’d probably spend more time wondering if he’s seeing someone on the down-low had you not been consumed by the mental image of him stroking his cock and unloading onto himself.

Seeing him shirtless that one time was enough for it to sear the image in your brain, and it doesn’t take much imagination to picture what the rest of him looks like, legs spread and hand around his girth, sliding it up and down while thinking about being inside some woman’s dripping wet pussy, watching her tits bouncing as she rides him, or her ass cheeks on display as he fucks her from behind, pulling her hair. You have no idea who or what he’s into, but it has to be something. 

You're already breathing fast without having touched anything, your body just laying there stiffly, nipples tight and sensitive when you realize you need to give in. You're buzzing with arousal, senses heightened and your body desperate for release.

Lifting your hand from your side, you trace it along your skin, across your lower abdomen and down to between your legs, already separated in anticipation. You barely touch the tip of your finger to your opening and can already feel how wet you are, before catching some of the slippery fluid and dragging your finger up to coat your aching clit. 

Two fingers push down and start rubbing in circles, already sending a small shock wave through your lower body as you're taken back by how good it feels. It doesn't take long before you put your other hand to use, sliding it up to your chest and grasping your nipple, squeezing slightly as you continue circling your clit, occasionally dipping your fingers inside to catch more of the wetness. Your fingers slide back up to your clit, pinching it gently, before continuing to slip around across the warm, wet surface, making you arch your back and press into your touch. 

Your thoughts have gone from Joel fucking his fist, to you being under him, drenched in his sweat, hearing him grunt and moan in your ear while he fucks you against your bedroom wall. The mental image somehow creates phantom sensations inside you, knowing how he smells, how he sounds, and how warm his touch is. 

It can’t possibly take too many mental gymnastics to at least have an idea of what he sounds like in bed, how he breathes or how he looks at whoever is lucky enough to be under him. You begin thinking about what it would be like if you both went out one night and ran into each other, a few drinks deep, and went back to your place. You think about how it would feel to have him rip your clothes off, work you with those big hands and eventually hold you up against the wall in his muscular arms and fuck you until you'd see stars. 

He seems like he would be generous in bed, based on his insistence on helping and doing stuff for you whenever he sees the opportunity, though you can never be sure without having experienced a side of him that’s entirely off-limits to you. 

Working your nipple with one hand and your clit with the other, your mind creates a pheromone drenched spectacle, intermittently reaching down to slide your fingers as far into yourself as you can, curling them and making you miss the feeling of being filled with someone's thickness. 

The scenarios keep spinning in your head as you touch yourself the way you imagine he would touch you, somehow making it feel even better than before and revealing a level of arousal you haven’t felt in a long time. There’s no coherent mental image in your mind anymore, just the visualization of Joel on top of you, behind you, all over you, coating you with his sweat and his come.

Maybe it’s the thought of him looking up at you while licking your pussy, looking down at you with your ankles on his shoulders, or holding you down by your neck while fucking you from behind. Either way, your fingers work in tighter, faster circles until you come, shaking under your own touch and collapsing into the mattress while the bliss spreads across your body and your head clears, coming to an unpleasant realization. 

You can never look him in the eyes again. Not only because you’ve now touched yourself to thoughts of him, proving that you're embarrassingly hot for him, but because you now have no other choice but to accept the reality that Leah was right — you're into Joel. Formally, on paper into Joel. You’re not just attracted from a distance anymore, superficially crushing. 

You’ve spent hours and hours alone with him and gotten to know what he’s like under his somewhat aloof exterior. He’s warm, caring, attentive, charming, kind, and sexy, all without doing anything to try to get your attention.

And that’s the worst part — that you feel this way for Joel when he’s being his normal, everyday self. The Joel that drove you to San Antonio when he had nothing to gain from it, who sat across from you and smiled and laughed and shared about his life, about his daughter who he is so immensely proud of, the Joel who always texts to thank you for lunch, to thank you for taking Sarah with you to go places, who fixed your staircase — which you still haven’t thanked him back for — and who sat and entertained your terrible Tony Soprano impression when he could’ve been out doing anything else. 

Fuck.

—

“You should call him!” 

“It’s like two AM in Austin right now, are you insane?” 

“And? It’s three AM here, what’s your point?” 

You say fuck it and dial the number, head a little woozy and hands a little shaky as you hold the phone up to your ear and hear it ringing, waiting for Joel to pick up. Leah scoots in next to you, with her ear up to the phone, covering her mouth with her hand. 

His husky voice sounds even deeper than you remember when he says your name, and you roll your eyes, half-assedly covering the phone with your hand as you look at Leah, whispering, so sexy, ugh. Her eyes widen as she nods and slaps you on the arm. 

“Hi Joel! Hi— Um, yeah, hi,” you stutter and try not to giggle, “Remember me?”

You close your eyes immediately after the words leave your mouth, realizing how drunk you already sound. There’s no chance he’s going to think you're sober after that, and boy, would he be right. 

“If it isn’t the babysitting queen herself,” you can hear him cracking up on the other end, trying to stifle his laugh but failing just a little, clearly realizing you're wasted, “And to what do I owe the pleasure of this call, honey?” 

You're reminded of how much you’ve missed hearing his accent, how charming it always makes him sound regardless of what he’s saying, and how you have to try not to squeal every time he uses any term of endearment when he talks to you. 

You pick at a thread on Leah’s couch as you try to come up with a reason for this completely unwarranted phone call, staying silent for a second before your tone shifts a little. “I just wanted to thank you for fixing my staircase. I never said thank you so… I wanted to say thanks... To you… Joel.” What an absolute slam dunk, you think. It’s the perfect excuse to call him at this hour, and he definitely loves to receive drunken appreciation for a free repair, several weeks late. 

“Anything for you, baby,” he says, his voice smooth as butter, “You having a good night, I take it?”

You suddenly feel so pathetic, in disbelief that you've called him in the middle of the night, not to mention drunk as hell. “Yeah, um..” you hesitate for a second, “I’m sorry, am I bothering you?”

Pinching the bridge of your nose, you start brainstorming how to damage control tomorrow, before you hear Joel’s comforting, rumbly laugh, making you smile. 

“Never..” he says before taking a breath, “I miss you, been wonderin’ how you’ve been over there.”

You hold your breath to prevent yourself from screaming, answering with closed eyes, “I’m good.. I— I miss you too, Joel.” 

“Yeah?” he responds with a chuckle. 

“Can I tell you a secret?” you ask, after a few seconds of radio silence, biting your lip and looking at the floor. 

“Of course,” he says.

You can feel your eyes widening as you whisper to your cell phone, “I’m drunk right now… Are you dru— also drunk right now?” 

He laughs again, and the conversation has to be incredibly entertaining for him judging by the amount of laughter you hear on the other end. “Nah,” he finally answers, much to your dismay as you can’t stand the thought of him being sober during this entire conversation, “Maybe a little, though.. Had some beers with Tommy and some friends, nothin’ crazy.” 

There’s another silence before you speak again, this time softly, avoiding Leah’s stare as you ask the question, feeling your face getting hot, “You miss me?”

“Of course.. How could I not?” he answers in a low voice, “Not the same without you here, princess.” He has to be more than a little bit drunk — he’s never talked to you like this before. He’s always kind, but he’s not exactly affectionate, and definitely not the type to volunteer his feelings about much of anything, at least not to you. He keeps talking without any response from you as you bite your tongue and feel your heart rate increasing. “Miss seein’ you when I come home from work,” he murmurs, “Always makes my day better.” 

You'd be lying if you said you’re not getting a little turned on as you sit there on your friend’s couch, listening to Joel say things you'd only ever fantasized about hearing him say. “That answer your question?” he asks, and you giggle a little before saying yes. 

Leah, whose ear has been right up in your phone this entire time, pretends to dramatically faint onto the couch. You're too flustered to say anything more and finally come to your senses enough to end the call, saying you look forward to seeing him again. He reciprocates, and you hang up after saying bye a little awkwardly. It’s a miracle that you didn’t somehow blurt out anything about you coming, hard, to the thought of him railing you, just a few nights ago. 

You clap your phone shut and turn to Leah, who’s biting her lip and grinning more than ever. “His voice,” she says with a heavy emphasis on the last word, shaking her head, “And that accent… Girl. He’s, like, in love with you. None of the guys I date even talk to me like that.” 

She can tell you're flustered, covering your face with your hands and looking down, a muffled shut up escaping you. 

“You should sleep with him,” she says and snorts, “He probably has a huge dick.”

You grab a pillow and stuff your face into it, unable to hold in your internal screams much longer, dreading seeing him in real life again. You’ve made it this far without thinking about those specific dirty details, but at some point you're bound to run out of luck and start wondering what he has going on down there. 

The attraction you felt prior to the trip to San Antonio was bad enough, overwhelming enough, and the only thing grounding you since then was the idea that he was just like that with women, with people in general, and that he didn't treat you in any special way. But that phone call made it personal, drunk or not, and the thought of him being into you is so beyond too much that you don't even want to think about it.

You can’t handle thinking about how it would make you feel if you knew he’d thought about touching you, kissing you, seeing you naked with his hands all over you, hearing you moan his name or having his way with you.

—

"I think my dad's gotten sick of me," Sarah says matter-of-factly as she chews. 

“Oh?” you respond, on the verge of laughing. 

"Yeah.. He kept asking when you'd be back from vacation, so I think he’s sick of me and his memory is starting to suck.”

“Well, you’re a real handful, Sarah,” you say jokingly, trying not to jump to conclusions from the piece of information you just received. “Getting in constant trouble, never doing your homework, a total slob…” you start listing off sarcastically while counting with your fingers, shaking your head and seeing Sarah cracking up, “Just an absolute nightmare to deal with, so I don’t blame him for wanting to pawn you off on me again.” 

“I guess I forgot to tell him when I’d be back,” you say with a shrug, knowing very well you haven’t, “Or maybe he’s getting old.” She seems to think that the latter is more likely. 

You’ve watched a few episodes of Extreme Home Makeover and already deemed yourselves experts on interior design when Joel comes home from work. You're commenting on a chandelier when you feel your heart rate increasing a little as you hear keys rattling outside the door, unsure of which Miller brother is on their way in, if not both. You look to your left when the door opens, and spot Joel, whose eyes light up when he meets yours. 

He comes right over, arms open and a smile on his face, welcoming you back, and you stand up from the couch to embrace him, hoping he won’t notice your heart pounding out of your chest. It wouldn’t have been a problem had it been one of those stiff, formal side hugs you’ve given your coworkers, but it’s a real bear hug from a real man and it feels amazing. He smells amazing, of course. your face accidentally getting buried in his neck, making you feel like you're getting high from inhaling the scent of him — one that you haven’t inhaled in weeks but have thought about every goddamn day. 

With his big arms around you and his warm hands on your back, he’s squeezing you so tightly you can feel the rumble in his chest when he asks you how your trip was. 

“Cold”, you say while nodding as you let go and you feel yourself start to perspire, “Happy to be back wearing a few pieces of clothing at a time and not my entire closet.” He smiles a little extra as he looks at you, clearly remembering your phone call but thankfully not bringing it up in front of Sarah, though it would probably be a good idea to address it at some point. 

He says he wants to hear all about your trip, with Sarah chiming in to say she also wants to hear about it, and insists you sit down and tell them everything. You're telling them about Leah and Ziggy when a sharp pain in your neck hits you, making you wince and squeeze your eyes shut with no way of preventing the reaction that interrupts you mid-sentence. 

“Sorry,” you wave dismissively and rub the back of your neck before either of the Millers get the chance to ask, “Slept weird on the plane, where was I?”

You try to refocus as Joel looks at you with a concerned face, when your attention turns to Sarah, slapping Joel’s arm. “Don’t just sit there,” she commands her father, nodding in your direction, “Help her.” The girl’s stern look changes into a smile as she looks at you, pushing Joel forward a little, “Dad gives great backrubs, I bet that would help.” 

You look at him quizzically with a raised eyebrow, “Well? Do you?” 

He looks at the floor and laughs a little, surrendering his hands, “I don’t wanna toot my own horn or anything but—” 

He doesn't get any further before you sit down on the floor in front of him. “Have at it, Miller, '' you say as you cross your legs and straighten your back. 

One of Joel’s hands lands on your shoulder as the other carefully sweeps your hair across your back, letting it fall onto your chest, already making you exhale and release some of the tension that has built up under your skin. He grasps your shoulders firmly and starts moving his thumbs in small circles, deeply but not painfully, between your shoulder blades. They almost disappear under his large, strong hands, his touch surprisingly gentle despite the roughness of his skin. 

“Is this okay?” you faintly hear him ask, about to fall asleep under his touch, groaning in response and making him and Sarah laugh as you clearly turn into putty in front of them. His hands slide down on each side to squeeze your shoulder muscles and your arms, before moving back up again. 

You try to enjoy each second to the fullest, assuming he’ll get tired and stop at any time, but he keeps going as Sarah presses play on the TV, and you all watch the show, some paying closer attention than others. When he lifts one hand, you fear the massage might be over, but you’re pleasantly surprised when you feel him sweep your hair upwards, holding it out of the way as he uses his other hand to rub your neck up and down, finally melting away that nagging pain you've walked around with all day. 

His hand slides up your neck and down to your shoulder blades, loosening up the entirety of your upper back and giving a little extra attention to the areas that feel tight, and a full ten minutes have gone by before he pats your shoulders and asks how you feel, keeping his hands on you and looking down while he awaits your response. 

“So much better,” you say with closed eyes, leaning your head back on the cushion, still sitting between his legs. He gives you a last little squeeze and says he’s happy to hear, then helps you up as you thank him, moveing your head side to side, finally free of pain. 

—

"Tell me all about your trip," Jenna says eagerly, taking multiple small containers out of a large paper bag and dividing them between the two of you. 

"Well, um—" you start, looking down and sliding the containers towards yourself as she puts them down, "I kinda realized some stuff when I was home.. Was thinking about my life here and stuff.” 

Jenna freezes with both hands inside the bag, gasping a little, assuming she knows where you're headed, "Don't tell me you're moving back home,” she says, taking out a hand to point a finger at you, “I will kill you and so will Lexi." She glares at you, waiting for you to tell her you're planning to permanently leave Austin after only six months, while you spin one of the salsa containers around repeatedly. 

"Oh my god, no, no," you assure her, struggling to find the words to continue the sentence. Somehow, trying to confess having feelings for someone is more terrifying than announcing that you're leaving town, "I just realized that I, uh—" 

Jenna sticks her head out towards you, still glaring, batting her eyelashes, implying you should get your ass in gear and tell her what your big realization is. "I think I may have accidentally developed some feelings for, um—" you drag it out as long as you possibly can, looking down at the table again to avoid her questioning gaze, "For… Joel," you finally admit, then clear your throat as you avert your gaze away from her.

—

You don't notice Joel arriving home from work hours earlier than expected until you hear him slam the truck door shut, sighing as he walks into the house. Sarah looks up at him from her homework and asks what he’s doing at home so early, her tone indicating that this isn’t the first time this has happened. 

“Some of the—” he rolls his eyes, stopping himself mid sentence. “You ladies just pretend I’m not here,” he says, laying down on the couch, one arm up and the other on his stomach, closing his eyes.

You and Sarah look at each other and shrug before going back to homework and dinner preparation, humming and singing along to the radio when a good song comes on. You try to keep the sing-alongs a little quieter than usual so as not to wake him up, but it doesn't take long before you both hear snoring from the living room. 

When the food is ready, she tries to call Joel over while setting the table, but he’s clearly in deep sleep after only half an hour, and she has to shake him to get a response. He looks comically disoriented when he cracks open an eye and looks around the room, seeming surprised to see you, probably believing for a moment that he’d slept a whole night, that it was already the next morning. “Dinner’s ready!” is all Sarah says before coming back to the kitchen and taking the plate you hand her. 

After dinner, you don't give Joel much of a choice. If he’s going to come home early, he’s going to join your regular routine of eating dinner and watching a movie or TV show of your choosing, which you’re allowed to talk over as much as you please, commenting on everything from the outfits to the scenery to the acting itself. 

He leaves you to decide on which movie to watch while he goes to take a shower, and you immediately get to business, discussing what you should watch while you clean up the table and do the dishes, eventually reaching a mutual decision. Sarah rummages through the console to find the second Lord of the Rings movie on DVD, quickly popping it in the player, grabbing the remote, and turning the TV on to flip through the menu.

You sit down in the reclining chair adjacent to the couch and grab a blanket, shaking it out before you toss it over your entire body, up to your shoulders. You look like a mummy — all too comfortable at this Miller residence. 

Joel comes downstairs, fully clothed this time but with that same slicked back hair and shower fresh scent he had the last time you saw him in this state, so you direct your attention to the TV quickly, trying to repress the thoughts about Joel in the shower and forget how he looks his in sweats and white t-shirt while you look like a floating head in a sea of fabric. 

He gets on the couch and tells Sarah to promise she won’t fall asleep during this one, to which she says she definitely won’t and is totally awake. Joel shoots you a look of doubt, and you stifle a laugh. She puts her head on his shoulder as she gets comfortable, and you can already tell it’s a matter of time before she’s out like a light. 

After intentionally paying such close attention to the movie that you nearly forget where you are, you look over at the two for just a second, hoping that Joel will somehow, maybe, look less distracting as time goes on. Sarah is already fast asleep with her head in his lap, his hand resting on her arm as he looks towards the screen. 

He must notice you in his peripheral vision, looking at them and smiling, but you can’t stop. It warms your heart too much to see how safe she feels around him — another little glimpse of him being himself, being the loving father he is to her. It doesn’t take long before he looks down and discovers that Sarah broke her promise no more than twenty minutes into the movie, and he chuckles a little, whispering to you before he carefully lifts her up, “Stay right there, I think Sopranos is on. I’ll be right back.” 

You can't blame Sarah for falling asleep — you recognize his calm, comforting, warm energy and the soothing sound of his breathing from when he was at your house, and the only reason you didn't fall asleep then was the coffee that trapped him on your couch in the first place. He carries her quietly up the stairs, and you barely hear some whispers before her door is shut and Joel comes back. 

He sits down and changes the channel to HBO before looking at you, his eyebrows furrowed and lifted. 

“What?” you whisper, and he shakes his head with a smirk, patting the seat next to him. You oblige, leaving behind the blanket you accepted as your unappealing yet comforting cocoon for the next hour, and take two steps over to sit down next to him. There’s a bit of space between where you sit, but you're close enough to smell the mix of his cologne and body wash every time you inhale. Intoxicating as ever, a million times worse now that you know how it’ll affect you, and you try to breathe as shallowly as you can, to prevent your eyes from rolling back into your head every time you catch a whiff. 

You wonder why on earth you stuck around and didn't immediately pack up when Joel announced his plans to shower, knowing what would meet you on the other side and what the mental image did to you before. You can handle stressed-out-after-work-Joel, but freshly showered-, driving-, fixing-, and scowling-onto-the-field-Joel are simply too overwhelming for the senses.

There’s only so much you can do to prevent your instincts from taking over and the physiological response from happening when you're around him in any of these states, threatening to make you flushed and wet as you try to act semi-professionally. 

The strands of his hair that fell down onto his forehead dry into soft curls while the rest is slicked back, making matters even worse when the TV illuminates him in the hue of the room, a dark shade of blue thanks to the sun having set but the darkness not arriving quite yet. You know what’s about to happen to you, and you mentally prepare yourself to sit there pretending not to be turned on for an entire hour, going home, trying to convince yourself not to do anything about it, then ultimately giving in and dreading the next time you have to look him in the eyes.

Your focus is dead set on another sit-down between Tony and his associates on the screen when you feel Joel’s hand landing on your leg and gently brushing the fabric of your pants, the heat spreading under his fingers and making your heart rate spin out. 

Looking at the screen intensely, you try to figure out your next move. You pull your legs up to get more comfortable, but Joel seems to interpret it as shifting away, as his hand lifts off you for a second while you scoot closer to him. Your knee hits the side of his leg, and his hand lowers back onto your thigh. 

Neither of you are paying attention to the show anymore, putting on your best performance to seem like you have no idea what’s going on, that you can’t feel your heart racing, your palms sweating, or the little jitters in your limbs. 

But after a while, you give up on pretending, turning your head and looking directly at his side profile, looking him up and down and feeling the heat starting to build deep down. You don't understand how he can look so fucking good, especially after a shitty day, just sitting and watching TV. 

He must not notice your staring as the living room has gotten relatively dark over the course of the last hour, and thank god for that, because this level of gawking is lightyears beyond what you did in his truck. 

His eyes are narrowed — the scene about to play out on the show takes place in the dimly lit back office of a strip club, so the lack of light from the TV renders you nearly invisible as he looks straight ahead. “Did you know that, uh—” he starts to say, looking at the screen, before turning to you mid sentence and pausing when his eyes meet yours. 

You give him a careful “Hm?” looking down at his lips before returning to meet his eyes, gazing into them with a half smile and waiting for the rest of the sentence. 

He holds still for a second, his eyes flicking down to your lips before returning to your gaze, his hand still warm and heavy on your thigh. He carefully grasps your jaw and tilts your face up so he can look you deeper in the eyes for one last second before his lips meet yours, still gently squeezing your thigh with his other hand. Your lips part and graze each other for a moment before fully embracing again, tongues lightly meeting and sweeping across each other. 

He softly bites your bottom lip before releasing it and pulling back, still keeping your face in his hand as you look at each other without saying a word. You sit there in silence, eyes locked and breathing a little heavier. You probably could’ve done this the first time you watched TV together, considering how similar the energy was, but you're not about to admit your attraction to him starting that early on. You don't know when his attraction to you began either, and at this point, you're too afraid to ask. 

His hand leaves your face as he kisses you again, this time barely letting his lips leave yours as they clasp together and separate over and over, getting increasingly wet as your tongues intertwine. He grabs your waist and pulls you onto his lap so you can straddle him, and you feel your body intensely responding to his touch, making you embarrassingly wet as you feel his hands move down to your ass, squeezing it as if he’s making up for lost time. 

His kisses get deeper as he begins pulling you closer to him, his hands firmly grabbing you and rocking your lower half slightly up and down his crotch, making him harder every time you sit back down onto him. You can’t hide how heavily you're breathing, and you try your best to stifle the moans that come from somewhere deep down every time the fabric of your panties drags along your clit when he rubs you against his hardening bulge. 

He pulls away from your face but keeps rocking your hips, looking at you and smiling a little as he watches you blink slowly and try to hide how good it feels. But there’s no way he can't tell — your thighs squeezing around him and labored breathing surely must rat you out. 

“Do you wanna—” you start suggesting quietly, gesturing to the staircase as he slides his hands away from your hips and starts unbuttoning your pants. He pauses and looks at you for a second, tracing his fingertips along the inside of your waistband. 

“Relax, honey, just let you take care of you,” he says in a low, raspy voice, making you nervous as you remember all the nights you've fantasized about him doing just that — touching you, taking care of you, recognizing your needs and satisfying you. 

He lifts you up, one hand on your back and the other under your thigh, and places you at the end of the couch, shifting around so he can lean over and start kissing your neck. He tugs at your shirt as he kisses your chest, eventually pulling it up and kissing down your stomach while undoing the clasps on your bra. Sitting back, he pulls your pants off, looking at you with dark, lustful eyes as your breathing goes shallow and you feel the nervousness bubbling under the surface. 

He takes his time taking off your panties, teasing his fingers under the waistband while he kisses the inside of your thighs, before running his hand up and down your slit, still covered in a thin layer of fabric. After a tortuous little while, he hooks his middle fingers under each side of the waistband and pulls it down, revealing your naked form to him — a sight that makes him curse under his breath and lick his bottom lip subtly before he bites it back, stroking your hips with his thumbs and giving you a reassuring glance. 

Then he pushes your legs apart, letting one rest on the back of the couch and carefully placing the other over his shoulder, slowly beginning to kiss the inside of your thigh, watching how it makes you ache, your face and body saturated with desperation as his hands run up and down from your waist to your thighs. 

He caresses your stomach, slowly stroking your legs and kissing progressively closer and closer, then finally runs his tongue up from your opening to your clit, forcing out a breathy moan from you that reveals just how desperately you need him. A quick smile is rewarded to you before he starts licking your clit, slowly but intentionally, matching his pace with yours as you begin to grind your hips.

You don’t stand much of a chance at lasting more than thirty seconds after he’s riled you up so much, and it’s best to make the most out of the time you have, so you close your eyes and try your hardest to be quiet, as he alternates between licking and lightly sucking, still caressing and squeezing your waist, occasionally reaching up under your shirt to play with your nipples. 

An electrifying sensation spreads across your entire body, his hands grounding you, his tongue creating tiny shockwaves in your core as you surrender to him, little by little. He looks up at you here and there to gauge how you're feeling, giving your thigh a squeeze, seeming satisfied with what he sees and diving back in. 

You start to feel as though you're about to give in and unravel in front of him completely until he pulls his hand out from under your shirt and he lifts his face from your heat, his scruffy beard soaked with your wetness. He looks up at you, not shifting his eyes for even a second as he puts his middle finger in his mouth and slowly pulls it out before sliding it into you, waiting to revel in your reaction. You inhale deeply, mouth falling open as you feel it enter you and you tilt your hips to give him better access. 

He curls it a few times while he watches you push your hips down onto his finger, your chest raised as you bite the back of your hand to stop yourself from making any noise. He smiles and blinks slowly, seeing you struggle to keep it together, clenching when he slides another finger in, knowing you're completely under his spell, desperately needing him to push you over the edge. He looks down and goes back to licking, a little faster this time, putting you into a trance with his tongue, rubbing you from the inside with his fingers. 

It all becomes too much when he lightly pushes his hand down on your stomach, digging his fingers into you over and over, and starts sucking on your clit while his tongue slides around it. You feel yourself leaking onto his hand, mortified at what you're about to do to his couch but so lost in the feeling of him both inside and on you that you can’t think about it any further, tensing your lower body and arching your back as your walls pulsate around his fingers. You cover your face with your hands while your orgasm rips through you, and you fight the urge to scream Joel’s name, biting your lip to hold back.

You don't need to say anything, he can tell how hard he’s made you come by the mess on his face and his hand. He keeps looking at you with those warm eyes, caressing you as you come down from your high. 

“You needed that, didn't you, girl?” he asks, almost as if he knows how badly you’ve been needing him to do everything he could ever want to you, since the day you sat in his truck and you felt yourself get slightly horny just from smelling his cologne and sweat after a long day. 

Mhmm, you nod, your head completely empty, feeling like you could fall asleep right there. He pats you on the leg and starts to put your panties back on, saying with a quiet laugh, “You look like you need to get some sleep.”

​​"What about that?" you ask, gesturing to the bulge in his sweats about to bust out of the light gray material. 

"Don't worry about that, I'll deal with it,” he says as he looks down, chuckling lightly. 

"I can help," you suggest with a wink, but you’re met with Joel’s smirking resistance. 

"I’m not lettin' you touch anything today, baby," he murmurs while he helps you slide your pants back up your legs. 

You try to plead, why, why, please, let me, trying not to sound too needy. 

"Cause we'll need all night for that," he says, pausing to look you up and down, "And I can already tell I still won't be able to get enough of you."

You’re about to make an attempt at bargaining when he uses your own words against you, “Didn’t you just complain about having an early client tomorrow?” 

You sigh and give up, then get busy buttoning up your pants when you hear keys turning in the door. “Tommy’s back, I’ll drive you home,” he whispers as he brushes your hair behind your ear and straightens out his pants. 

—

“I’ve heard enough,” Susan says with her hand up, closing her eyes for a second before continuing, “I’m setting you up with my nephew, Jeremy.”

You and Nick meet each other’s eyes immediately, a most amused grin spreading across his face, knowing he’ll relish in this moment as a blind date is being shoved down your throat. “That sounds like such a great idea, Susan,” he says, laying his hand on her arm and nodding, “Right?” 

You're about to politely decline when Nick turns to Susan again and starts talking before you get the chance to ruin his afternoon entertainment special, “Do you have photos? I think she would love to hear more about Jeremy before their date.”

Lexi is too busy stifling her laugh to say anything, and Nick keeps egging Susan on with the support of both Shelley and Barbara, who have now joined the chorus singing Jeremy’s praises and talking about what a lovely young man he is. He might be the greatest guy in the state of Texas for all you know, and you’re not sure what makes you blurt it out, but before you can stop yourself, the words have already left your mouth. 

“I’m seeing someone, actually, or— uh, we went out last night.” You regret your choice of words but you’re unsure of what would’ve sounded more accurate without giving Susan and company a heart attack. Sure, coming all over someone’s face has to count as going out, right? 

The silence is painful. They totally think you're lying. Nick rolls his eyes as if he knows you're trying to get out of this blind date before Jeremy even finds out you existed. You think you've dodged a bullet by making your announcement, but realize you've walked right in front of another one, as the questioning starts and you have to cough up some answers about this mystery man. 

They start off innocent enough, asking where you met and how long you've known him, to which you answer through a friend and a few months, I guess, trying to sound genuine but vague at the same time. It gets a little more difficult when Shelley demands to know what he looks like, trying to guess your taste in men. 

You tried to keep it vague again. “You know.. Dark hair, kinda—” you gesture towards your face with your finger, not entirely sure what you're trying to refer to. “Mustache?” you say with an unsure tone, “Brown eyes, kinda tall, I guess.” It doesn't sound too convincing — you could look out of the window and point to a handful of different men who fit the police sketch perfectly, but it seems to work. 

The three ladies nod approvingly as Nick shakes his head at you, disappointed that you won’t go on this blind date just so you can have a story for him after. When the question of what you did last night comes up, you decide you're tip-toeing too close to the edge of saying something really stupid, so you gasp, acting as shocked as you can when you look up at the clock. “I would love to tell you all about it, ladies,” you say confidently, nodding towards the door, “But I’ve got clients waiting for me, so—” 

Nick follows when you get up, and you’re walking down the hallway in silence when he starts getting suspicious of your story. "Wait.. I called you yesterday and you didn't pick up, so you were actually out somewhere," he starts recalling, "But we can never hang out on Wednesdays because you're always babysitting." 

You look at him carefully, half nodding, trying to look normal as he starts piecing it together. 

"You dirty girl," he slowly whispers as he stops and turns towards you, smirking and shaking his head as he looks at you with narrowed eyes, "Hooking up with Tommy Miller behind Lexi’s back. Tsk tsk.” 

Your eyes shift around in confusion, but no opportunity is offered for you to interject. “Good for you, he’s hot," Nick says in a low voice. It seems like Lexi has been a bit of a blabbermouth about the soccer guardians recently, not only to you but your other coworkers as well, and she has always been particularly happy to tell people about Tommy for some reason, with photos to back up her claims of him being the most eligible bachelor of the Dr. Phil convention. 

Either way, that's where you screw up. The smart thing for you to do in this situation would be to redirect the conversation to how on earth Nick knows so much about Tommy, having never met him as far as you're aware, but you get ahead of myself.

"Tommy? Why would I hook up with Tommy? Joel is way mo—” you word-vomit before you catch yourself and slap your hand over your mouth, making yourself shut up. You look at each other for several seconds, and it’s a little bit reminiscent of a Mexican standoff as you hold his gaze, unsure of whether you should fess up or play the whole thing off as a joke. 

His eyes suddenly widen as his mouth opens in surprise, "The brother? The one you're—” he asks, immediately met with you shushing him, trying to shut him up. He bites his lips into his mouth, then looks you up and down. “I can't process this right now, give me three business days and I’ll get back to you,” he says as he holds his hand up and stifles a laugh before disappearing down the hallway. 

—

As you’re about to finish having dinner, the phone rings and Sarah darts over to pick it up. She patiently listens to the person on the other line before exclaiming, “Yes! I’ll be ready in like ten minutes, I just have to tell dad,” and listens a little while longer before saying goodbye and hanging up. 

You ask her what she’s up to, in your sneakiest, most curious voice, to which she tells you that her friend’s super cool aunt is in town and wants to take them both out to have ice cream and go to the movies, then have a sleepover at her friend’s house. She grabs her phone and texts Joel so fast you can barely tell what she’s typing. 

“Dad will totally say yes, right?” she shouts to you as she runs up the stairs towards her room. 

“I don’t see why not,” you shout back as you start hearing her closet doors open and stuff being frantically thrown into a bag on the floor. 

Sarah nearly trips as she puts on her shoes, dashing out of the door, towards the car that has just swung into the driveway. You hear a very excited goodbye from the car window as they drive away, and you head back inside to pack up your things. 

It’s strange to be in the house all alone, looking at the time and wondering what to do for the rest of the evening as you're suddenly off-duty with no plans on a Friday night. You try to brainstorm a little while you gather your phone and keys from the hallway, then pick up your bag, and head out the door. 

As you're closing it behind you, you see Joel pulling up in the driveway, and stop to say goodnight. He slams the truck door shut as he runs up to you with a grin on his face, shaking his head. 

"You're not goin' anywhere, baby,” he says, lifting you up and wrapping your legs around his waist, looking at you with that piercing gaze as his voice lowers, “Finally have you all to myself.”

He carries you into the house and kicks the door shut, brings you up to his bedroom and lays you down on his sheets. They smell just like him, they’re soft and warm on your skin as he undresses you, kissing your lips, your neck and your chest as he slides off your top, your bra, then your leggings and panties, spreading your legs and giving a few slow licks to your seam while he works at his belt and zipper. Undressing himself, he stands by the edge of the bed as you scoot closer, sitting up so you face his hard cock when it springs free from his boxers. 

You give him a long look before you lean over and trace your tongue up his entire length, maintaining your stare into his eyes as he watches you. Starting off easy, you lick all over the head and stroke him gently, working your way up until you're nearly drooling from the feeling of him throbbing in your hand, leaking precome from his slit. Your tongue slowly coats his shaft with your saliva as it runs down from your lips and onto your hand, swiveling up and down the base of his cock with a slippery palm, his tip almost in your throat. 

Your hand glides up and down, across his entire length, only interrupted by the occasional swiping of your dripping hand across the tip while you leave a trail of wet kisses over the front of his thigh, or the need to lick and swallow the sticky drops leaking out of him as his eyes roll back, as you see his chest rising and falling, and all you can hear is his grunting. 

He holds your jaw for a while before he pulls himself out of your mouth, breathing heavily as his wet cock throbs, with his tip resting on your lower lip. “Fuck,” he whispers as he shakes his head and looks down at you, “That feels way too good.” You smile and run your hand up his torso as you look at him through your eyelashes, waiting for him to cool down. He bends down and starts kissing you, tasting himself on your tongue, lightly pushing you back until you're flat on the bed with him hovering over you and looking at you from above. 

Resting his weight on his elbow, he plants it next to your head so you can grab onto his arm when it inevitably becomes too much. “I need to feel you inside me, Joel,” you purr, dragging your nails down his back as he keeps his gaze fixated on you. He groans, teases you, runs his hand up and down your side and caresses your entrance with his tip. 

“Yeah? You ready?” he asks, finally sliding his cock through your folds, slowly entering your body when you wince from just the head stretching you out. 

“Shit, Joel, I—” you stutter as you look up at him, "I don't— I don’t know if I can take it, you’re too big."

"Yes, you can, baby," he coos, "I’m gonna make you feel good, so good, just open up for me, relax your body." 

He angles your face up and to the side so he can access the length of your neck, running his nose up and down your skin as he talks you into softening for him. He pushes in further, draws his hips back and sinks into you again, slowly, measured. 

“Wanted to fuck you for so long,” he whispers, thrusting into you smoothly, keeping one hand on your jaw and moving the other over your lower stomach to rub your clit, “Wanted to lick you, fuck you, wanted to feel you on my cock, make you come all over me.” He reaches down to cover his thumb in your wetness, and slides it back up to caress your most sensitive spot, keeping his hand steady, gliding in tight circles until you tense up for a second, knowing you can’t hold back any longer. 

You no longer hear your own nor Joel’s moans, as every sound in the room is reduced to his faded voice repeating his words like a mantra, “Come for me, baby, let me get deeper.” Feeling your walls pulsating around him as you start to come, his name falls from your lips, exasperatedly, as he coaxes an orgasm out of you that starts in your spine and quickly spreads down your thighs and up your back. 

You need him to take you harder, rougher, until your legs tremble and he loses control of himself. You need to be fucked, to be ravaged by him, to let him split you open and ruin your chances of ever being satisfied with another man again. “Just use me, Joel,” you whimper as he keeps rubbing against the spot deep down that makes you shake, “Fuck me, do whatever you want, please.” 

He looks at you with intense eyes before firmly grabbing your hips to flip you over and place onto your knees. He grabs your ass with both hands and tightly squeezes as your upper body melts into the sheets, your own hands searching for something to grab onto. You feel him enter you from behind, sliding in so deeply you immediately let out a muffled moan. He starts slowly, pulling your ass onto his hips so he can see it bounce and recoil after every thrust. 

There has to be a limit to how long he can keep watching you get fucked and jiggle in his hands, a limit that must be dangerously close when you get progressively louder, with more muffled words forced out of you as you lose the ability to think, completely taken over by the feeling of him thoroughly wrecking you, causing your wetness to seep out and run down the inside of your thighs. 

His pace gets faster and faster, your cervix getting hit every second on the dot while he firmly holds your hip in one hand and grabs ahold of your neck in the other, pushing your ass back on him while he thrusts into you. You heard his constant grunts, only interrupted by labored breaths, getting louder and louder until he removed his hand from your hip and snakes it up to your sternum, pulling your upper body towards him so your back is flush with his chest. 

Shoving his face in the side of your neck, he wraps his arm around your ribs as he fucks you slower and harder, your fingers interlocking with his as you hold onto him. He keeps you tightly against his chest and pushes into you while you spill around his cock, your entire body shaking and not a sound coming out of your mouth other than nearly inaudible, little moans. 

You’re lost in him, his arms around you, his nose digging into your neck, his growls filling your ears, and his cock filling you so deeply, when you both freeze at the sound of the front door opening and closing, followed by keys hitting the table. 

Joel stays still for a few seconds, trying to hear where Tommy is headed, maintaining his grip on you and holding you up, panting quietly and looking out of the open bedroom door. You hear the TV turn on and Tommy’s weight flopping down on the couch, leading Joel to look down at you and start thrusting slowly again. A single gasp from you is all it takes for him to cover your mouth with his hand, the muffled sounds driving him to pick up his previous pace and fuck you open as you melt into his hands again. 

You can tell he’s about to come when his thrusts start staggering, pushing quickly into you and staying inside for a second before pulling halfway out and getting deep once again, grunting and groaning into your ear. You clench around him when he takes a final plunge and his cock starts pulsating inside you, coating your walls with his warm load and letting it run back down his shaft. 

He stays in you and breathes a few exhausted breaths into your ear, his sweat transferring onto your back as you both fall forwards and he catches his fall with his hand on the mattress, still holding you tight while you twitch around him. 

After pulling out of you, he sits back on his ankles, watching while you turn around to face him, his lips parting slightly as he sees his come dripping out of your pussy. He’s mesmerized, gazing down at you as you’re spread out in front of him, with his sweat glistening on your body and his load seeping out. He barely blinks as he holds your legs open and looks at you, quietly whispering to himself, fuck, eventually snapping back to the present, taking a deep breath as he gets up. He lifts your chin to kiss you before gazing at you deeply for a few seconds and caressing your thigh, kissing you again and breathing a thank you into your lips. 

You throw on one of Joel’s t-shirts before peeking out of the door, checking if the coast is clear as he lays in bed and watches you sneaking out with an amused look on his face. The TV is still going downstairs, so you take the chance and carefully walk to the bathroom. 

Doing your due diligence on the way out as well, you look side to side quickly before stepping out of the door, turning towards Joel’s room. You walk slowly, placing each foot carefully in front of the other, shifting your weight gradually to avoid creaking, almost reaching his room when you hear steps and a voice in the staircase. 

“I was wonderin’ what Joel’s sudden emergency was,” Tommy muses, raising his eyebrows and surveying your outfit when you glance back at him. 

You take a deep breath, try your best not to laugh, then whisper, “Goodnight, Tommy,” and head back to Joel. 

Just Friends (Javier Peña x Female Reader)

Part 2

Summary: You’re planning to have sex for the first time and you’re nervous—Javi offers to show you a thing or two, but just as friends of course.

Pairing: Javier Peña x Female Reader

Warnings/Tags 🏷 18+ only, minors dni. reader is in late 20’s; reader is an agent for the DEA; established friendship, idiots in love lust, overprotective/slightly jealous Javi; Javi is his canon manwhore self, reader is a virgin, talks of virginity loss and her desire for no strings attached sex, a bit of pining and yearning, lots of pet names, a couple insults, friendship fluff; touching, groping, dry humping, reader gets off, Javi does not. I know, I know. I will make it up to him in part dos. this does not follow the timeline of the show accurately, Messina is in the picture, Connie is still around. reader is bilingual, no descriptions of her race or ethnicity mentioned though.

Word Count: 7.9k

A/N: This took me forever to edit and post because I’m scared lmao. I included a sneak peek at the next part at the end, along with a couple translations. 🤍

thank you to @cutesyscreenname for encouraging me to write this idea. I owe you cherry gansitos!

You observed your own reflection in the full length mirror in front of you and let out a curious little hum as you lifted the short, scarlet red minidress, holding it right up against the length of your body. You then held up the second dress that you had clutched in your opposite hand, a stunning, satin black midi number whose length was a lot longer than the first option, the hem of it falling down to your calves.

It appeared rather innocent, modest enough while it was still on the plastic hanger, but it fit you beautifully, just like a fucking glove. The bodice of the garment cinched at your waist and it was tightly fitted, hugging the curves of your upper body so closely that it looked and even felt like something of a second skin whenever you wore it. The billowy skirt of the dress flowed out around you, darling and sweet at first glance, however it came with a borderline dangerous slit in the side of it that stopped about two or three inches above the middle of your thigh near the hinge of your hip. It exposed the entire length of your leg whenever you walked, danced, or moved around in it—Murphy had once referred to it as the infamous femme fatale dress, telling you that it was a far, far more dangerous weapon than your gun could ever be. 

You were fairly certain his remarks had something to do with the fact that you’d worn the dress on a number of different occasions while you were out on the job, going undercover in Bogotá for the US Drug Enforcement Administration. 

As the only female agent on her team in Colombia and a younger, very beautiful female agent at that, Messina found herself using you to her advantage quite often these days. She would send you out all over Bogotá in that very same black dress with the hope that it would aid you in luring in members of the Medellín drug cartel in efforts to capture their leader, Pablo Escobar.

Tonight, however, you weren’t going undercover.

You were doing something much more frightening than mingling among some of Colombia’s most dangerous men. 

Far, far more daunting than that.

You were going out on a date. 

“I like the red dress the best,” Javier’s deep voice came from behind you, startling you slightly. He had mentioned to you earlier that day that he was going to some lounge with Murphy for a smoke and some drinks after work hours since it had been a long, draining week for him at the office; Messina had stuck him with an endless amount of tedious paperwork to do and it had just about driven him insane, but nothing a pack of cigarettes and some bourbon couldn’t fix. With the soft, Latin cumbias playing from the old stereo perched on top of the white oak dresser beside you, you had completely missed the sound of the front door opening and closing when he’d gotten home.

You glanced over your shoulder to see him standing there in the open doorway with his arms crossed over his chest. Javier’s dark brown eyes were fixed intently on you, a small, devilish smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth as he casually leaned up against the door frame of your bedroom. Well, technically, it was actually the guest bedroom of his apartment unit that he’d let you take over several months ago. The housing department of the agency had placed you into a unit in the building across the street from his, right next door to Murphy and his wife, Connie. It had been a special arrangement requested by your diligent supervisor in an effort to make sure that no one found themselves in a compromising situation—she trusted you enough not to get any dumb ideas, but she didn’t trust Peña as far as she could throw him. It wasn’t very far.

While it had certainly been quite nice, and even kind of comforting at times to have Steve and Connie as your neighbors, you’d expressed to Javier one night over dinner at his place that you weren’t all too fond of having to live alone. Without an ounce of hesitation on his part, Javi offered to have you move into his spare bedroom that very same evening after you were both done eating, but only on the condition that Messina didn’t find out about the new living arrangement. She would wring Javier’s neck with her bare hands if knew that you two had been sharing his apartment this entire time. 

Hell, she would wring yours too. And you were the favorite child of sorts. Less annoying than Murphy and certainly a lot less problematic than Peña. 

She only liked you because she never had to worry about you. On or off the job.

But even though you were Messina’s number one, her star player, that would do absolutely nothing to spare you from her wrath if she ever came to find out that you were living with Javier Peña. She wasn’t a fan of just how close the two of you had become over the last several months; she’d told you herself that she much preferred it if you kept your distance from him while you were off duty. One wrong move on your part or Javi’s and it was game fucking over. Messina wouldn’t hesitate to send one of your asses packing, back home to be assigned somewhere else, somewhere far away from the other.

Pursing your lips together lightly, you turned your attention back over to the mirror. Raising an eyebrow, you lifted the red minidress up against your body once more to get another good look at it, as if you hadn’t just been staring at it for the last five minutes before he’d appeared. “I don’t know, Javi. I don’t like this one all that much to be honest. I’m not even sure why the hell I let Connie talk me into buying it in the first place. She said it was cute,” You remarked, tilting your head slightly to the side. You wrinkled your nose at the diamond cut out design in the sides of it. Whoever designed it must have not had enough money to spring for more a teensy bit more fabric. “But it’s kind of tacky. And it makes me look like a whore.”

“Mm yes, but a very beautiful whore,” Javi stated, his smirk widening as he drank in the gorgeous sight of you before him. He licked his lips, openly admiring the way you were clad in nothing but one of his shirts, his pink button up with short sleeves that you had once told him you loved so much because it was your favorite color; you’d sneakily stolen it out of his closet on laundry day a couple weeks back while all of your clothes had been in the washing machine and had never given it back to him. Not that Javier even really wanted it back at this point—his shirt looked a million times better on you than ever it did on him. Seeing you in it did inexplicable things to him and he fucking loved it when you padded around your now shared apartment in nothing but a pair of panties and his pink shirt. He took another glimpse at you, nearly foaming at the mouth at how it fit your frame, how the hem of it fell to the tops of your smooth thighs, the material hardly doing anything to cover up the tantalizing curves of your hips and your perfect ass. “Hermosura. The most beautiful whore in all of Colombia.”

You narrowed your eyes at him through the mirror, wishing you had a free hand you could flip him off with. “Gee, thanks for the compliment, Peña. You are always such a fucking charmer, aren’t you?”

“Oh, come on. Solo es una bromita, muñeca. No tienes por qué ofenderte. I’m just messing around with you. You know I don’t think you actually look like a whore—and trust me, I know what a whore looks like,” he responded with a deep and hearty laugh. He uncrossed his arms, allowing them to fall down to his sides as he pushed himself away from the door frame. He sauntered his way further into your bedroom, uninvited. “I’m being serious about the dress, though. Go with the red one. El vestido rojo. It’s perfect. Besides, that color would look gorgeous on you, cariño. I bet it would look almost as good on you as pink does.” He laughed again as he added, “Nice shirt, by the way.”

Your annoyed expression immediately softened into one of guilt. “I’ve been meaning to give you your shirt back,” You told him, sheepishly. “Te lo juro, Javi.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you have,” Javier snorted, waving off the little white lie. He finally forced himself to tear his attention away from you and glanced around, observing the current state of your room instead. It looked like a tornado had hit the inside of your closet; dresses, jackets, and high heeled shoes were strewn all over the place. He wasn’t all too surprised by the mess. He knew you like he knew the back of his own hand by now, and this was typical of you when you were searching for the perfect outfit to wear on a free night out in the city. “I don’t remember you telling me you had any plans tonight, bonita. What’s the occasion? Going out for drinks with the chismosas of the office? Or are you going out for a girl’s night with Connie?”

You momentarily hesitated.

“Actually, I have a date.”

Through the mirror, you saw the smile fade from Javier’s face almost instantly.

Here we go, You thought inwardly to yourself.

“You have a date? With who?” he demanded. 

Reluctantly, you turned around to face him. “You know Valeria, don’t you?”

The color drained from his face.

“That’s the translator who works up on the third floor, right?” He touched his hand to the back of his neck, shrugging his shoulders. “I don’t know her, but I’ve seen her around a couple of times.”

You almost laughed at the manner in which Javier tried playing dumb. 

Of course he knew Valeria. 

He had fucked her three weeks ago.

Javi had tried to keep it on the down low, but loud mouthed Valeria would brag to anyone who would listen all about how Agent Peña had fucked her in her office one evening while they’d been working late together and everyone else had gone home. Not that Javier even needed her services as a translator, he’d just needed an excuse to find himself in her office after hours so he could get his dick wet.

For some strange reason, you felt oddly fucking generous and decided to let Javier have this one, playing along with him and his sheer stupidity. “Yeah, her. She has an older brother who’s visiting the city for a few days. His name is Diego. He’s an immigration attorney who is here on business in Bogotá. She offered to set me up with him,” You explained, keeping everything as brief as possible. “I’m meeting him for drinks tonight.”

Javier frowned. “Have you met him in person?”

“Well no, but Valeria showed me his picture and she told me all about him. It’s not like he’s just some random ass guy I met on the street, Javi. He’s her brother, she advocated for him,” You tried to reason with him, knowing all too well where this conversation was heading. Sure, it was nice to know that Javier cared about you enough to be concerned about you meeting up with someone who was essentially a complete stranger, but it wasn’t like you couldn’t handle yourself. You’d spent many evenings sitting right in the laps of the violent criminals who worked for Escobar—a blind date with a coworker’s brother was nothing for him to make a fuss over. “I really don’t think that I have anything to worry about with him.”

He rigidly shook his head. “Look, no offense to Valeria, but I don’t like the idea of you running around this city at night with some fucking prick that you’ve never even met before. And before you throw all that undercover bullshit at me, just know that it’s not the same thing. You aren’t going out on the job tonight. You’re not going out with your team on standby to watch your back, you’re not going out with me and Murphy armed and ready to jump into action if things head south. What if something happens to you?”

You scoffed and rolled your eyes at the complete and utter ridiculousness of his drama king antics. “Oh, give me a fucking break, Peña. Diego’s not a member of the fucking cartel, he’s a lawyer. And besides that, you’re acting like I can’t take care of myself.”

“Listen, I know damn good and well that you can take care of yourself just fine, muñeca. But still, that doesn’t make me feel any better about this whole arrangement.” Javier’s hands went to his waist and he let out a heavy sigh, shaking his head once again. “I’m going to need to meet this guy before you go out with him. I don’t care whose fucking brother he is—whichever way you try to spin it, the bottom line is that he’s a still a fucking stranger and I want to check him out for myself before I let you go out with him.” He saw the mischievous twinkle in your eyes and peered at you suspiciously. “Please tell me he’s coming to pick you up here at the apartment.”

You laughed. “Of course not, Javi. I’m not stupid. I already knew you would behave like this. I knew you would go straight into overprotective mode, just like you always do. I didn’t want you scaring him off, so I’m taking a taxi cab and we’re meeting up at the bar instead.” You easily clocked the all too familiar glint in his eye and smiled sweetly at him. “And don’t even think about trying to guess which one it is so that you can show up and keep tabs on me the whole night. There are thousands of bars in this damn city and I can promise you that you’re not smart enough to figure out which one we’re going to, Agent Peña.”

Annoyed by the smugness in your tone and the way it was starting to get under his skin, Javier’s lips pressed into a thin, tight line. He watched you walk over to your closet, subtly swaying your hips to the music as you pulled out yet another dress to add to your rapidly growing list of options.

He could feel the envy prickling at each and every last single nerve ending in his entire body, his frustrations stewing at the mere thought of you going out with another man. His jaw clenched and he forced himself to shove the feeling down knowing damn well that he didn’t have the right to be jealous. Not when you two weren’t anything more than just friends.

If you’d just been a coworker, it would be different. 

Javier would gladly, happily, risk mixing business with pleasure as he had so often done in the past with several secretaries—and a translator or two—in his time. But no matter how hard he’d tried over and over again to place you into that box, into that category, he simply couldn’t bring himself to do it.

You weren’t just his coworker, you were his friend.

His best friend.

For as much shit as he gave you, you mattered to him. You were important to him, way too important to ever risk fucking up your friendship by fucking you. 

Still. Javier would be lying if he said he didn’t think about it. He thought about it all the damn time. When he discovered that fucking himself into the palm of his hand and moaning your name quietly over and over again under his breath didn’t quite do the job for him anymore, he would find himself standing outside of your bedroom prepared to say fuck it all and make his move on you. But then it happened every single fucking time without fail—as soon as he lifted his curled fist to knock on your door, he started to remember things. 

He’d remember the way you could so easily make him laugh with your clever and quick witted sense of humor. He remembered all those late nights you two would spend together lounging on his brown leather couch in your pajamas watching old, poorly made slasher films while indulging in the greasiest, unhealthiest takeout Bogotá had to offer. He remembered how you could read him just like a fucking magazine, how you always knew when something was wrong—and how you would always somehow know exactly what to say and do to comfort him whenever he needed it the most.

He would remember how you’d come to feel like his home away from home. 

And then he would drop his hand right back down to his side, whirl around on his heel, and march straight back into his bedroom where he had little choice but to go back to fantasizing about what could never be between you and him.

Snapping himself out of his own train of thought, Javier carefully stepped over the mountains of clothing and shoes on the floor and made his way over to another pile of dresses that were draped over the foot of your bed. He caught a glimpse of the lingerie set on top of them, brand new with the price tag still attached to the fabric; the set was black, made of delicate, see through lace that would leave very little to the imagination when you put it on. He picked up the thong, hooking the thin elastic of it around his index finger. “Something tells me that you’re not planning on coming back home tonight.”

“What are you talking about?” Confused, you turned around and gasped, dropping the dresses in your hands. “Javier!”

“Are these even going to cover anything up?” he teased you with a laugh, his eyes gleaming with pure amusement as they darted between the thong and the lower half of your body. “Falta mucha tela, cariño.”

You rushed up to him and made a dive for the underwear. “Give me those!”

“How come you don’t ever wear anything like this around the apartment, hermosa?” Javi dangled them above your head and out of your reach. “All I ever get to see you in are those cotton panties, the ones with polka dots on them.” He glanced down, getting an eyeful of you and the aforementioned polka dot panties. “Kind of like the ones you’re wearing now—”

“Javier, cut it out!” You placed a hand on his shoulder as the other continued grabbing for the lingerie. “Come on, stop being such a fucking asshole!”

Although he could have easily enjoyed taunting you for hours and hours on end, Javier knew you wouldn’t hesitate to have your knee meet his balls. Not wanting to risk ending up on your floor curled up in pain, he eased up and handed them over to you. 

“Idiota!” You hissed at him, furiously snatching the underwear out of his hand. You stomped over to your dresser and shoved them into the middle drawer, slamming it closed so hard the old stereo nearly went crashing to the floor. “You can be a real fucking douchebag, Peña.”

Javier wasn’t bothered by the insults; he’d grown used to those—however any trace of playfulness vanished as the reality began to set in for him. The reality of you sleeping with another a man tonight. “Wait a minute, are you really planning to fuck the guy?” He didn’t even make the attempt to mask the disappointment that laced his tone. “I mean, you haven’t even met him yet. I didn’t think you were that kind of girl, querida.”

“You sound awful judgmental for someone who brings home a different escort every other fucking week,” You snapped at him, placing your hands on your hips. “Oh, and speaking of escorts, I had the pleasure of meeting Alessandra in the bathroom this morning. She asked if I had a tank top that she could borrow since apparently you got too eager and ripped her shirt off last night.” You tilted your head, squinting at him as he started shuffling uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “If you happen to go back to her for a second round, tell her that I want it back. Washed.”

Javier grimaced, looking down at the floor. “Shit. I thought she would be gone by the time you woke up,” he mumbled, shaking his head. “Lo siento, bonita. I’m sorry.”

You blinked. “Sorry for what?”

He opened his mouth, then clamped it shut.

Javier wasn’t all too sure, actually.

He didn’t have anything to apologize for, not really.

He was a single man who could do as, and who, he pleased.

Yet he still felt like a pile of dog shit knowing you’d encountered Alessandra while he had still been asleep.

You would never admit it, but Javier knew that to some extent, it hurt you to run into the women he would bring home. As if having to hear him railing them on the other side of your bedroom wall for hours wasn’t bad enough, having to meet them the following morning and seeing them half naked with their smeared makeup and disheveled hair from the previous night’s activities only made it so much fucking worse. 

Having read his mind, you sighed and offered him some reassurance. “It’s fine, Javi. We both know that you don’t have anything to be sorry for,” You said, prompting him to look back up at you. You pointed a finger at him. “I do want my shirt back, though. And then maybe I’ll be nice and give you back yours.” 

You expected Javi to scamper off to his room with his tail between his legs in shame. It was what he usually did—he’d avoid you for about a few hours until the dust settled, and then everything would go back to normal. Instead of running off, he stood there and spoke again. 

“Are you really going to have sex with this guy?”

You tried to ignore how disheartened he sounded.

“I don’t know,” You confessed, quietly. “I want to have sex with him, but I don’t know if I’ll actually have the fucking balls to go through with it.”

“Por qué? Estas nerviosa?”

Though Javier hadn’t been poking fun at you, you couldn’t help but feel irritated with him for asking you if you were nervous; because you actually were nervous, and him asking you only made you even more fucking nervous. “And so what if I am a little nervous?” You challenged him, lightly. “Sorry that we’re not all just confidently fucking our way through this city like you are, Peña.”

“When’s the last time you had sex, anyway?”

“None of your fucking business, that’s when,” You quipped.

“That’s not fair.” Javi pouted at you. “You know when the last time I had sex was.”

“Not by choice,” You retorted. “You’re right on the other side of my paper thin wall and I left my Walkman in the office.”

Javi waited expectantly for an answer. He wasn’t going to drop the subject, and you knew that.

“You’re such a stubborn son of a bitch, you know that?” You muttered. Feeling a burning heat flood to your face, you decided to give him just about the most generic answer there was in order to get him off your back. “It was a long, long time ago.”

“Okay, but how long ago?” He pressed, curiously. “Are we talking weeks? Months?”

Your stomach began to churn violently, the hidden secret you’d kept to yourself for your entire adult life now at risk of being exposed. 

“I-I really don’t remember,” You stammered out in response, averting your gaze away from his. “Can we not talk about my sex life, please? Besides, it’s getting late and I still need to take a shower and get ready for my date tonight. So if you would just kindly fuck all the way off, that would be great.”

Javier took a step back and there was a very brief moment where you had been certain you’d just narrowly avoided what could have been a painful, humiliating conversation. However, just as he was about to turn to leave, Javi’s eyes widened as it slowly clicked into place for him. 

“Wait a minute—are you fucking serious?”

You groaned. “Javier, please don’t. For the sake of what’s left of my sanity, please don’t,” You nearly pleaded him, wishing that a large, Twilight Zone style swirling vortex would open up in the middle of your floor and swallow you whole. 

“You’ve never had sex before,” he realized. “Have you?”

Your face felt like it had caught on fire.

Not knowing what to say or even do, you clasped your hands together and wrung them anxiously in front of you. 

Of all the people to find out your secret, it just had to be Peña.

“Cariño, are you really a virgin?”

Surprised, you looked up at him. 

Javi wasn’t teasing you or being a dick about it.

He seemed genuinely perplexed by the fact that you’d never had sex before. Not that it made it any less mortifying.

“Yes,” You admitted, exhaling the breath that you hadn’t even realized you’d been holding in. “I’m a virgin, alright? There, are you satisfied?”

“But how? Going undercover? And informants—”

Despite the circumstances, you couldn’t help but laugh. “I know this might come as a shock to you, but you don’t always have to fuck your informants to get what you need out of them, Peña. It’s not a requirement. I use my brains, not my body.” 

“You’re shaming me for using my body?” he joked lightly, hoping it would further ease the awkward nature of the conversation—for your sake, not his.

“Just a little bit.” You offered him a small, crooked smile and felt your tense shoulders finally begin to relax. “You’re probably going to think it’s stupid or maybe even crazy, but the truth is that I’ve always wanted to wait and give it to the right man. Maybe even to a man that I’m in love with. But with the way my romantic life has been going, it just seems like that’s never going to happen for me.” You shrugged. “I just want to lose it already, Javi. I’m almost in my fucking thirties—either I lose it now, or I may as well throw in the damn towel and join a convent.”

“You would look kind of cute in a nun’s habit,” Javi mused, thoughtfully.

You shot him a glare, but felt the corners of your mouth threatening to turn up into another smile. 

After a long minute, Javier broke the silence that had fallen over the both of you. “So then, Valeria’s older brother is the man you’re going to lose your virginity to? Tonight?”

“That’s the plan. He’s only here until the end of the week. It’d be no strings attached, so it works out perfectly.” You anxiously chewed on the inside of your cheek. “But only if I can find the courage to actually go through with it.”

“What are you afraid of?”

“Not knowing what to do.”

Javier quirked an eyebrow.  “It’s not exactly rocket science, querida.”

You resisted the sudden urge to go up to him and backhand the stupid smirk right off of his face.

“Could you please just take me seriously for one second, Peña?” You huffed out in frustration. “I’m just really fucking nervous about it, alright? What if I can’t—what if I’m not good at it?”

Javi’s bottom lip rolled between his teeth and he stifled his laughter. “Preciosa, you’re being kind of…” He trailed off, trying to choose his next word carefully.

You lifted your chin. “Kind of what?”

“Ridiculous. And before you come over here and start pummeling me to death with those little fists of yours...” He stopped and held up his hands in defense. He took a second or two to let eyes glaze over you from head to toe. “I’m only saying that because you’re fucking gorgeous, muñequita. Any man would be lucky to have a night with you. You have nothing to be afraid of.”

“It’s not about how I look, Javier. It’s about how I perform.” You felt your face grow hot for what had to be the umpteenth time in the last ten minutes. Never did you think this would be a conversation you’d be having with him of all fucking people. “I listen to the way those women you bring home—I hear what they do to you. And I hear how much you like it.”

His lips parted slightly. “And you want to do that to him?”

“I want to make him feel good.”

Javier’s jealously simmered in his veins. But what could he do?

Nothing, that’s what. Just like him, you could do as, and who, you pleased. But if he could just get his hands on you first, at least to some extent, it would help ease the blow. He saw nothing wrong with blurring the lines, so long as he didn’t cross them.

Javi hummed. “If you really want to know how to make a man feel good, I can help you.”

“You can help me?” You repeated. “How?”

“By showing you a thing or two.”

You let out something mixed between a scoff and a laugh.

“I am not having sex with you, Peña.”

He tossed you an innocent look. “That’s not what I was suggesting at all.” He crossed the bedroom and walked over to you, reaching for your hands. He took them in his own and then started pulling you towards your bed. “If you’re really that worried about not knowing what to do, I can give you a few pointers. And calmada, querida. Our clothes stay on,” he reassured you before you could open your mouth to protest. “Just think of it as a friend helping out a friend. There’s nothing wrong with that, right?”

You chewed on your lower lip. “I don’t know about this, Javi.”

Javier’s thumbs softly smoothed across the back of your hands. “You trust me, don’t you?”

“Right now, I’m not so sure that I do.” You paused long enough for him to throw you an exasperated, almost offended look. You rolled your eyes at him and nodded your head. “Yes, of course I trust you, Peña. I trust you with my fucking life. Literally, I put my life in your hands at least once or twice a week.”

“Then let me help you, hermosa.”

You inhaled a deep breath, held it for a moment, then exhaled it softly. “Fine. But remember, our clothes stay on—” You were cut off, all the air leaving your lungs as Javi yanked you forward, slamming you against his chest. You looked up at him, ready to give him a piece of your mind for knocking the wind out of you, but as his eyes met yours, words failed you and all you could do was stare at him like a deer caught in the headlights. 

This could not possibly end well.

And yet here you were, going along with it.

He snaked an arm around your waist, holding your body flush against his. Feeling how tense you had become, stiff as a fucking board, Javi gave you a light shake in an effort to get you to loosen up a bit. “First thing is first, you need to relax. There’s no need to overthink this, cariño. Especially not with me.” He reached up with his opposite hand, letting his index finger feather along your jawline. He then slipped it underneath your chin, lifting it ever so slightly and forcing you to look right into his rich pools of espresso. “I mean it. It really wouldn’t take much for a beautiful girl like you to drive me—I mean, drive him wild.”

You tried your hardest to keep your voice from trembling, but between his touch and being in such close proximity, you were finding it a hell of a lot more difficult than you’d imagined. “Show me, Peña. What drives you—I mean, what’s going to drive him wild?”

“Well, it always starts with the right kiss.”

You quickly shook your head. “Javi—”

“Kiss me.”

Had he lost his fucking mind?

“Have you lost your fucking mind?” You echoed your thoughts

“Just a friend helping out a friend,” Javi reminded you in a murmur. “Remember?”

You should have said no. You should have decked him for even suggesting such a thing.

Instead, you gave him a small nod. You rested your hands delicately on his hard, lean chest and tilted your head upwards, lightly pressing your lips to his for a split second before quickly pulling away.

“There.”

“That was fucking pathetic,” Javier laughed softly, his warm breath fanning over the tip of your nose. “You’re not kissing your abuela, you know.”

You smacked his chest. “Javi! Leave my grandma out of this.”

“You have to kiss a man like you actually want him, querida. Here, allow me to demonstrate.”

Your throat went dry as his grip around your waist tightened. He moved his other hand away from your chin and it went to the back of your neck, gingerly tilting your head up towards his. Your heart hammered almost painfully against your ribcage, beating way too hard and way too fast for him not to feel it against his own chest. You had to silently remind yourself to breathe as Javi inched his face closer to yours, slowly. You knew that he was doing it on purpose, moving an agonizingly glacial pace to allow your anticipation to build; all the while his dark eyes were staring deeply into the depths of your very fucking soul, causing a fire to set ablaze deep in your lower belly.

Your thighs clenched together involuntarily as the tip of his nose skimmed a spot near the corner of your mouth, his lips brushing the underside of your jawline.

God, he was fucking good. 

“Javi…” You uttered his name weakly.

You needed to stop this. Javier was your friend—friends didn’t do shit like this.

Javi sensed your reluctance. “It’s alright, mi vida,” he whispered, uttering an affectionate pet name that he’d never used before. He gave you a small grin as he moved in to finally close the small gap of space between your faces. His lips met yours and every ridiculous cliché of sparks flying and fireworks exploding occurred the moment they did. His tongue swept across your bottom lip, gently coaxing its way into your mouth to begin a slow, sensual dance with yours. Cupping the back of your neck, he tilted your head up a bit further, granting himself better access to your mouth so that he could fully explore it inch by inch. 

There was kissing other men.

And then there was kissing Javier. 

Whimpering, your body melted against his as he swelled your lips with a kiss that was slow and sensual, yet somehow still hungry and possessive at the same time. Javier’s hands travelled down to your hips, his fingers skimming the hem of his shirt that you wore. He took the opportunity to sneak them underneath the garment, allowing them to meet the warmth of your skin. 

Gasping, you jerked back and pulled away from him. 

“Javier!” You squeaked out his name breathlessly, furiously swatting his hands away from your sides. You glared at him. “I thought we agreed, our clothes fucking stay on!”

“Funny, I wasn’t aware that I was taking any of your clothes off.” Javier reached up and tucked a lock of hair behind your ear. He then took a step backwards and gestured towards your bed. “Lay down.”

Your mouth fell open at his request.

“W-what?” You sputtered out, your eyes wide. 

“You heard me. Get on the bed and lay down.”

Javi reached down, sweeping your pile of dresses off of the bed and onto the floor. 

“Why? What are you going to do?” You questioned him, shuffling anxiously from one bare foot to the other.

Javier rolled his eyes and let out a small, impatient sigh. “Just do it, hermosa. You can trust me.”

Swallowing harshly, you obeyed him and walked around to the side of your bed, taking a seat. You inhaled another deep breath before bringing your legs up and laying back, your head resting against your decorative pillows. You nervously tugged and pulled at the hem of his stolen pink shirt, trying to cover yourself up as best as you could as you laid there, sprawled out before him; however Javier had other plans. He climbed onto the bed after you, positioning his body so it hovered over yours. He nudged your legs apart with his knee, settling himself right in between your thighs. He grabbed one of your legs and hiked it up around his waist, putting the two of you in a very, very dangerous position. His fingers remained wrapped around your thigh, his touch burning right into your soft flesh as he held your leg in place around him. 

“Don’t be shy, muñequita.” His voice had gone low and husky. He trailed his hand further up your thigh.

He grinned, feeling satisfied with himself when he felt the goosebumps erupt across your skin.

“Shut up, I’m not shy,” You fibbed, prompting him to chuckle.

“Mentirosa.” Javi’s hand abandoned your leg and he brought his hand up to the side of your face to cradle your cheek in his palm. His thumb brushed across your bottom lip. 

“Kiss me,” he commanded, gently. “And this time, kiss me like you mean it.”

You reached up for him with trembling hands and grabbed two fistfuls of his pewter blue, button up shirt. You pulled him down towards you and lifted yourself up slightly off your pillows, crashing your mouth against his. You allowed yourself to finally release any fears that you might have had before and kissed him greedily and with fervor, as if it would be the very last time you’d ever get to kiss Javier Peña—because it very well could be the last time you would ever get to kiss Javier Peña.

You kissed him deeply, going on until your lungs began to burn—you only broke away from him once they started screaming, demanding oxygen. 

Tearing yourself apart from him, you released his shirt and dropped back down onto your pillows, breathlessly asking, “Better?”

“Oh, so much better. Good girl, mi muñequita linda,” he praised, grinning again as he caressed the silkiness of your cheek. He lowered his head and lips ghosted over yours for a moment before he moved them down your neck, feathering kisses to any exposed skin peeking out from underneath his shirt. His hand found your breast and he groaned realizing that you weren’t wearing a bra underneath it. He kneaded the perfect, soft mound of flesh through the thin fabric, rolling your hardened nipple between his fingers. He bucked his hips into yours, causing a loud moan to escape from your lips the second you felt his hardened cock through his tight, light blue jeans. He caught sight of the way you blushed at the sound that he’d elicited from you and his grin widened. “Noises like that? The louder the better. So don’t hold back, preciosa.”

“What else can I do to make you—to make him feel good?”

Javier dipped his face right into the hollow of your neck, thinking it over for a moment. “A woman who takes control can be very sexy. I like it—I bet he’ll like it if you get on top.”

“I think I can do that.” Biting your bottom lip, you placed your hands on his chest and pushed him back, sliding yourself out from underneath him. You guided him to lay back onto your pillows and climbed on top of him, straddling his waist. 

Shit. Javier cursed inwardly.

Maybe he’d been in over his head with this idea.

He knew at some point he’d have to stop it from going too far—but would he be able to?

“How do you like it?” You asked him, shyly. This time, you hadn’t bothered to correct yourself. 

You didn’t want to know how to please another man.

You wanted to know how to please Javi.

Even if you’d never get the chance to do it.

“Depends on the mood,” he replied, shrugging his shoulders in the most nonchalant manner that he could muster under the circumstances—as if his cock wasn’t rock hard, straining against the zipper of his jeans and begging to be inside you.

“Te gusta despacito?” You start to rock your hips back and forth against his, slowly. “Do you like it slow?”

Javier’s breath hitched in the back his throat. At this point, there was no doubt about it—you could feel him underneath you, throbbing. “Sometimes,” he managed to choke out in reply. “Like I said. Just depends on the mood.”

“Or what about like this?” You grinned down at him, gaining a sense of confidence as you started to move faster on top of him, finding your perfect rhythm. You could see and clearly feel what you were doing to him. Knowing that you were having this kind of effect on Peña was nothing short of a fucking dream come true. 

His hands went to your hips, holding on as you picked up the pace, grinding your clothed core down against his bulge. 

You could feel your own arousal pooling between your legs, soaking your panties; you wouldn’t be surprised if you’d leave behind a wet spot on his jeans. “How am I doing?”

“Fucking amazing, muñeca,” he answered, earnestly. His long, thick fingers dug into your sides as he suggested, “It helps if you put on a little show while you’re up there, too.” He then pictured you in that sexy black lingerie set you’d bought; he imagined what it would be like to slip that tiny little thong to the side so you could freely ride his cock. The mere thought had him seeing stars.

“A show, huh?” You smirked and popped the top two buttons of your shirt—his shirt—exposing the smooth valley between your breasts to him. “I think I can do that too,” You giggled, pulling the fabric to the side, just enough to give him the tiniest glimpse of the soft curves of your chest but not enough to expose yourself completely. 

“Hermosa,” he couldn’t help but groan out. It took every ounce of strength he had inside him not to reach up and tear his shirt right off of you so he could see all of you. 

You grabbed his hands from your hips and slowly began guiding them all around your body. You started by placing them on your breasts, giving him permission to cop another feel before moving them slowly down the lengths of your sides and placing them on your bare thighs. From there, you picked up Javi’s hands once more and placed them behind you, allowing him to take two generous handfuls of your ass. Your hands then abandoned his and you placed them on his chest, supporting yourself as you continued to roll your hips against his, riding him through his jeans. You tossed your head back and closed your eyes; the friction of your clit against his pelvis even through all the clothes felt like absolute heaven, and you let out a lustful moan that bounced off of your bedroom walls as you continued to drive your hips harder against his own.

Realizing that this was no longer a lesson and you were actually pleasuring yourself, Javier groaned again. He moved his hands back to your hips and found himself bucking his own hips upwards to meet you halfway—he abandoned any and all worries about taking it too far. He wanted you to come. 

He needed to see you come.

“Javi,” You gasped his name, moaning again.

“That’s it, muñeca,” he rasped out. “Just like that, baby. Keep going. What a good girl, what a good fucking girl.”

Any and all common sense had been washed away by pleasure and by your need to reach that sweet, sweet release. 

It was so close. You felt him right there, right between your clothed folds, and all you could do was imagine what it would be like to have his cock fill you up and stretch you completely. 

His name began to slip from your lips, rolling off of your tongue over and over again with such ease.

Your movements fell in perfect sync with his.

You went down, he went up.

You pulled, he pushed.

No doubt about it, Javier was trying to get you off.

Somehow, you find a voice that speaks in between all your pitiful little pants. 

 “J-Javi, maybe we s-shouldn’t—”

Javier quickly sat up and wrapped one of his arms around your waist. He slammed your mouths together, silencing you mid sentence. He thrusted upwards, and you whined into his kiss, rubbing your clit against his bulge even harder. 

The beginning of your orgasm coiled up tightly in your belly, and you knew it would spring forward any second now.

“Javi, I’m so close—” 

“It’s okay, hermosa. Come for me,” he mumbled into your mouth.  “I’ve got you.”

Your arms found their way around his shoulders and you buried your face into his neck. Squeezing your eyes shut, your loud cries came out muffled against his collarbone as you unraveled, coming undone with one last cry of his name.

You slumped forward, resting your head on his shoulder as you fought to catch your breath, the pleasure still pulsing between your thighs.

Javier’s other arm curled around you and he said nothing as he held you. 

Once you’d finally started coming down from your high, your eyes flew open and a chill went up the length of your spine.

What had you two just done?

Still straddling his lap, you pulled back. “Javi—”

Without warning, Javier flipped you over so you were on your back underneath him once again. He hovered over you, his eyes meeting yours for just a moment before he dipped his head and captured your lips with his one final, deep and sensual kiss. 

“I don’t think you have anything to worry about tonight,” he murmured once he had pulled away. “You’re fucking perfect, mi vida.”

He touched the tip of his nose to yours before climbing off of you.

“I fucking hope this guy realizes what a lucky son of a bitch he is,” Javier said quietly before turning on the heel of his boot and walking out of your bedroom, leaving you laying there with your mouth parted open in complete shock.

Translations

Solo es una bromita, muñeca. No tienes por qué ofenderte. - It’s just a little joke, doll. No need to get offended.

El vestido rojo. - The red dress.

Te lo juro, Javi. - I swear to you, Javi.

Chismosas - Gossipers

Falta mucha tela, cariño. - There is a lot of fabric missing, darling.

Mentirosa. - Liar.

Te gusta despacito? - Do you like it a little slow? 

Part 2 Sneak Peek

“Muñeca,” Javier breathed out in relief the second that he saw you standing there in the aisle with an array of packaged Marinela pastries in your hands. He rushed up to you and took your face gingerly in between his large palms, taking a look at you. Javi managed to keep a calm and collected composure for the sake of not making things any worse, but it would be short lived and he knew that—he felt the anger boiling underneath his skin, bubbling hot in his veins when he realized just how poor of a state you were in; the strap of your dress had been torn, your high heels were missing, and your eyes were bright red and brimming with tears that he could see you were trying your hardest to hold back. He let his hands fall from your face and shrugged out of his tan colored jacket, quickly draping it around your shoulders as he asked, “Estas lastimada?”

You shook your head. “No, I’m not hurt.”

Javier stepped back. “Tell me where he’s staying,” he demanded. “Which hotel is this fucker at?”

“That’s not necessary. I handled him myself.”

“Tell me which fucking hotel so I can kill him—”

Finally, a tear slipped down the side of your face.

“Javi, please,” You pleaded in a whisper. “Please. It isn’t even worth it, alright? I just want to buy these cakes and I want you to take me home so I can take a shower, put on my pajamas, and eat them.”

---

Lather

(Inspired by our curly, long-haired Pedro with his broken wing) When Joel injures his shoulder, he needs your help washing his hair and getting off 🧴🧻💦🧼🚿🛀(4k)

Part one of a new mini series!!

Tags- shoulder injury, forced proximity, hair washing, handjobs, blowjobs, Joel finishes little too early, sexual tension, masturbation, pissed off joel, impish reader as per ushe. Joel starts out soft and gentle, this will not last long. Just you wait for part two, mwahahahahah!!

A/N- This new series is written for and inspired by my very dear friend @noxturnalpascal , please do not eat Pedro’s fucking hair. I’m begging you. And thank you @tightjeansjavi for the title name!!

Generously edited by my dear friend, the lovely @papipascalispunk

You’re at the dinner table, watching Joel awkwardly cut his chicken and potatoes with the side of his fork, held by his left hand. He brings the food to his mouth kind of slowly, deliberately, like he has to consciously think about where his fork will end up. He catches your watchful gaze and looks at you, “What?”, he scowls.

You shrug, “Nothing.”

“Quit lookin’ at me,” he huffs, “Creep.”

You’ve been living in Jackson with Joel and Ellie for quite some time now. Ellie’s got the garage and the downstairs bathroom to herself, you and Joel live in separate bedrooms upstairs. It works out. Kind of. The stairs are an issue. They’re old and steep, kind of slippery. It was only a matter of time before someone slipped and fell, and last week, that’s exactly what Joel did. Early one morning, he had misstepped and totally ate shit, landing hard on his right shoulder. You rushed to help him, but Joel shrugged you off, insisting he was fine. But you could hear in his voice he wasn’t, how he strained to speak. And in the following days, you noticed how his routine changed in the aftermath of his injury. He’s been favoring his right arm heavily, eating, cooking, opening doors, picking things up all with his left hand, rarely his right. 

Ellie gets up from the table to rinse her plate. When she passes you and Joel on her way back to the garage, she stops next to Joel and just stares at him, a look of confusion and disgust on her face. She reaches her hand forward, pushing her fingers slowly through his hair and watching the curls stand up straight. Joel freezes before turning to look at her, perplexed and irritated. “What’s the matter with you?”, he asks. 

“Gross,” Ellie giggles, still playing with his hair. He swats her hand away. 

“Yeah, shut up,” Joel grumbles, “You’ll have gray hair one day too. It ain’t that funny.”

“I’m not talking about the color. Your hair is disgusting, Joel. It’s like, sticking straight up. Are you hydrophobic or something?”

“Leave me alone,” Joel tells her, “Go do something. Go play in traffic.”

“You smell like you’re hydrophobic,” Ellie retorts as she continues towards her room. 

You turn your attention back to Joel, who looks insulted. Subtly, he turns his nose to his armpit to smell himself and then checks his reflection in the window, using his left hand to mess with his curls. He notices you staring at his reflection as well, “Don’t you know it’s rude to stare?”, he asks defensively as he messes with his hair a little more, flipping the mess to one side of his head, then to the other, rubbing the strands between his fingers. Joel sighs deeply then, gets up from his seat, and – using his left arm – he drags his chair across the kitchen and sets it in front of the kitchen sink. “I need help,” he confesses in a tone hardly audible, like he’s sheepish and uncomfortable. Disappointed, too. 

“What?”

“Washin’ my hair,” he speaks louder this time, “It’s hard with my uh…shoulder. I need your help.” 

“Took you long enough to as–”

“Knock it off,” he interrupts. It was probably around day four post-staircase incident that you noticed Joel’s hair taking on a more dirty appearance. You stare at his hair a lot lately now that he’s growing it out for winter. His hair curls in all sorts of directions, little cowlicks all over his head. The ringlets at the bottom of his neck are your favorite part. How gorgeous they look with the multitude of colors on his head. Deep, chocolatey brown with highlights of caramel and silvery gray streaks. With resources being fairly scarce even in Jackson, Joel doesn’t wash his hair every day, which is honestly fine for him. However, the days that he does wash his hair, he struggles to scrub his scalp properly with just his left hand, hence the dirty and greasy appearance. And really, it doesn’t look that bad. Probably feels worse for him, though, all that schmutz built up. Probably itchy and uncomfortable. 

You take your plate to the kitchen sink and give it a quick wash before drying it and putting it away. Joel sits in the chair he’s placed in front of the sink, and reaches behind himself for the dish soap, then kind of just puts it in your hand. You look at Joel, tilting your head in confusion. Sure, it's slim pickings for resources, but there’s a reason you’re close with the soapmaker here in Jackson. It’s the little things that keep you going; one of the little things being fruity scented shampoo that the soapmaker hooks you up with. 

You place the soap back on the kitchen counter and leave quickly to grab your shampoo, then come back to meet Joel at the sink. Joel looks at the bottle of shampoo in your hand, “What the hell is that?”, he asks. 

“My shampoo. It smells kinda like strawberries, see?”, you open the cap and squeeze the bottle to waft the scent towards him.

 Joel scrunches his nose, “It’s too girly.”

“You’re too girly,” you taunt, and Joel rolls his eyes. “Beggars can’t be choosers. I’m washing your hair, so I get to pick the shampoo. It’s like a spa night,” you chirp happily. 

“Nope, not a spa night,” he replies harshly, “Just wash my damn hair. No funny business.” When you stare down at him, unimpressed with his attitude, Joel backtracks, “Please,” he begs. 

“Spa night.”

“Fine,” Joel sighs in defeat and leans his head back into the sink, scooting down the chair. He looks deeply uncomfortable already, putting his weight on the left side of his body and raising his shoulder up and away from resting on the sink. Poor guy. You turn on the sink and begin to run the water over his scalp with the detachable faucet, but Joel yelps in pain. “Hot, s’ way too hot,” he says loudly, craning his neck away from the stream. 

“Sorry,” you apologize, quickly turning the faucet lever in the other direction. 

“Cold, cold, Christ—cold,” Joel hisses as he reaches behind himself to try to haphazardly adjust the lever himself, swatting his hand violently. He ends up hitting your hand instead, resulting in you dropping the faucet on his forehead. He yelps again and quickly sits up straight, water flinging across the room from his wet hair. “This isn’t gonna work,” he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, “Think we need to get this over with in the shower.”

“I think that’d work better,” you agree. 

So, you and Joel make your way upstairs, you’ve got your fruity shampoo in your hand. Joel’s wet hair drips down his neck and back as you follow him towards the bathroom where he turns on the shower, letting the water warm up. He shuts and locks the bathroom door before unbuttoning his flannel, again with his left hand only. Turning away from you, you watch Joel twitch and wince in pain as he tries to take off his undershirt. It kind of makes you sad, seeing him struggle like this. You wish he would have asked for help before now. “Joel?”, you tap his back. 

“Hm?”, Joel turns around and you reach his right arm. “Oh,” he says. Carefully, you do your best to painlessly help him out of his shirt, pulling his sleeve towards your body and keeping his arm as low as can be. You pull the rest of the shirt off of his body, catching a glimpse of his torso, his soft, pillowy belly. “Thanks,” he mumbles. 

“No problem.”

“I uh–,” Joel begins, turning away from you again and undoing his belt, “I’m gettin’ undressed and gettin’ in, okay?”

“Am I getting in there with you?”

“I’d reckon that’s probably easiest, yeah. And if ya don't wanna get your clothes wet, then you can take 'em off too,” Joel offers, “I don't wanna make you uncomfortable, so I'm keepin’ my eyes shut and facin’ the shower head the whole time so I don’t see anything I'm not ‘sposed to.”

“I appreciate that,” you reply. You’ve been through a lot with Joel, and truth be told, you’re both past the point of modesty, all that you’ve been through together. You have endless trust and respect for each other. Still though, you appreciate what he’s doing to keep you feeling safe and comfortable with him. A lot can be said about Joel, but he’s never been anything but respectful and considerate towards your safety and comfort. It doesn’t go unnoticed. “I’ll undress. Just give me a minute.”

“Not a problem,” Joel says. You face away from him as he takes off his belt, it lands with a clatter on the floor. Next his jeans and boxers, then each of his socks. You hear the sound of the shower curtain moving and his heavy footsteps in the bathtub. “M’done. Eyes stayin’ closed now.”

“Okay,” you say as you look at Joel through the shower curtain, unable to see much. You have no doubt he is, in fact, squeezing his eyes shut, but you smile to yourself when you notice where his arms lie. They’re resting across his body, his hands cupping his member securely. Oh, Joel. He’s a grump, but a gentleman nonetheless. 

After taking off your own clothes and leaving them in a pile on the floor, you move the shower curtain aside and step inside of the tub. It’s a tight fit, despite being relatively spacious. There’s a built-in bench to the side of the shower where your soaps sit. Joel always complains you have too many lotions and potions taking up space, that they always fall on his toes when he bathes. Dramatic. 

 Immediately you’re in awe of Joel’s beauty. You can’t see his face, but you can see his back, freckled and scarred and striped with stretch marks here and there. Water trails down his neck and his spine. You can’t help but steal a peek of his ass, so firm and plump. He’s blessed, truly. 

“Doin’ okay?”, Joel interrupts your thoughts. 

“Oh– yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. Gonna shampoo you now.”

“Get to it,” he tells you. 

You reach for your strawberry shampoo and squeeze a small amount into the palm of your hand, then reach up to lather it into Joel’s scalp. “I need you–”, using your hands to guide Joel to tilt his head back, “Yeah, like that. Thanks.”

“Mm,” he hums in response.  

You begin to wash Joel’s hair, building up a thick lather of bubbles. You pay special attention to the sides of his head, down towards his neck, scratching and massaging his scalp. It’s almost imperceptible, but you hear a slight groan, a soft exhale of relief as you scrub Joel’s head. Washing the hair near his neck, you toy with his curls, wrapping them around your fingers and watching them bounce and swing when you pull your hands away. You’re about to reach for more shampoo when you really see it– the bruise on his shoulder. It’s yellowing now, but there are still purple and blue splotches of his skin. “Fuck, Joel,” you mumble, tracing your fingers lightly over his bruise.

“Yeah, yeah.”

It was an accident. You know this, so you’ll spare Joel from your long-winded lecturing about taking care of himself. Instead, you just press a soft kiss to his bruise. 

“You– I um–”, Joel clears his throat, a little bashful now, “Need you to wash up by my hairline, f’ya wanna come up front here.”

“Yeah, of course,” you speak softly. You begin to scoot past Joel, but the tight fit of the two of you in the shower makes it difficult to move. You slip and reach for Joel’s arm. 

“Careful,” he warns you softly, “Here, I gotcha.” Joel, still keeping his eyes shut, holds your waist and helps guide you to stand in front of him. When you’re situated, he quickly protects his modesty once again.

You grab some more shampoo and reach for the front of his scalp. This time, you can admire more of him. His face, eyes scrunched tightly shut. Careful not to look at what he’s not supposed to. That little line between his eyebrows is more deep and prominent than usual. Water drips down the slope of his aquiline nose and his plump, rosy lips. Droplets cling to his wiry salt and pepper facial hair. He’s a work of fucking art. When Joel’s properly shampooed, you reach for the detachable shower head and start to rinse his hair, watching the strands fall on his forehead. 

You’re not sure exactly what happens, but in an instant, Joel is unexpectedly groaning and reaching for the shower head from your hand. You step back and watch him scramble to wipe his eyes and blink quickly. “Fuckin’, ahh,” he hisses, “Got soap in my eyes. Jesus.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.”

“S’okay, was an accident. Fuck,” Joel hands you the shower head and then wipes his eyes a few more times before he stops and stares at you before him, not even thinking about his rule. Fuck. He shuts his eyes quickly, but the damage is done. His mind is swimming with images of your body, the drops of water rolling down the curves of your breasts, your hips, thighs. His cock hardens almost instantly, and he hurries to cover himself again. “Fuck. I’m sorry. It’s not cause of you.”

“Okay, Joel,” you reply calmly. 

Joel groans. “No, it’s not like that, you– you’re– it’s…My shoulder’s been hurtin’, y’know how it’s been.” 

 “Mhm,” you hum, knowing where he’s going with this, “It’s okay.”

“Haven’t been able to take care of myself, uh…in that regard,” Joel clears his throat before continuing, “So I’m just a little wound up– oh–”

Joel’s interrupted when you step forward, reaching for his wrists to pull them away from his member. “I get it,” you whisper, “I can help with that too, if you’d like.”

“Jesus, fuck–”, Joel hisses as you touch his hips, his thighs, skating your fingers along his skin. He moans softly when your fingers lightly touch his heavy balls, the base of his cock, then trailing them up his shaft. “Quit– fuck – quit teasing me, hon. Not a smart idea.”

“I’m not teasing you, Joel.” 

Except Joel’s not listening. All he can think about is how fucking good it feels to be touched where he needs it most. He reaches for your hand, but doesn’t pull it away. Like he’s at battle with himself, doing what he thinks he’s supposed to do, not that he actually wants to. He wraps his fingers around yours, encouraging you to grip his cock tightly. But with his brow furrowed, he looks conflicted. “Don’t know what’s gotten into ya, but–”, he says shakily, “Hon– you gotta stop cause, fuck–”, he breathes, “Don’t think I have it in me– fuck – to walk away from you.”

“You don’t have to, Joel,” you coo quietly as you grip his cock tighter. You lean closer to Joel, wrapping one of your arms around his waist. Joel opens his eyes then, and you kiss his cheek, still stroking his cock. His thick head is nudging your hip as you work him, “Why don’t you let me help you with this?”

Joel nods, sighing in relief as he gives into you, gives into pleasure.  He’s been hard as a rock all week. Left hand just doesn’t do the trick, but yours, your hand does just fine. “Lord have mercy,” he gasps, “Thank you.” Rubbing your hand up and down his cock, you kiss his neck, then lower, his collarbones and his chest. Lower still, sinking to your knees as you kiss down that soft and pillowy tummy of his, trailing your tongue along that patch of hair that leads to his cock. You take his thick base in one hand and his ass in the other, then press sloppy kisses to his blushed tip, flicking your tongue over his soft skin. “Sweetheart,” he warns softly, “Doin’ too much for me.” 

“I don’t think so,” you tell him innocently before trailing your tongue along a prominent vein of his cock. 

“I disagree,” he mumbles quietly. Oh, Joel. Silly Joel. As if you’d satisfy him with just your hands. But this is as much for you as it is for Joel. You’ve spent a lot of time daydreaming about him, kissing him and fucking him. He’s who you think about at night with your hand between your thighs. So no, taking him in your mouth is not too much. It’s what you both need. 

Joel hums sweetly as you guide him to your mouth, his thick head parting your lips. You toy with him, swirling, flicking your tongue, alternating between taking him deeply and more shallow in your mouth. He’s warm and thick, just like you imagined. His cock feels heavy in your mouth as you take him deeper and deeper, hollowing your cheeks to massage him. You love his smooth skin, how he squirms and his hips stutter when you slide his cock to the back of your throat. As he gains more confidence, he begins to draw in and out of your mouth slowly, an action encouraging to both you and himself. 

“Good god,” Joel groans as you work his shaft, one hand still squeezing his ass cheek, the other now fondling his balls, cupping and squeezing them gently. You hum against him, sending vibrations down his shaft. He reaches down, stroking your cheek with soft and warm eyes as you work him. His hand finds the back of your head, grunting as he inches you forward to take him deeper. 

 “Not lastin’ long the way you–”, he  chokes out, a stuttered string of profanities following as you feel his cock stiffen and twitch under your tongue, spurting hot ropes of his spend down your throat. It’s salty and warm and masculine, taking you by surprise. His orgasm surprises himself, too. You don’t mind, though. In fact, it’s flattering the way he’s come undone for you so quickly, so desperately. Poor Joel, so worked up and bent out of shape all week. Probably part of the reason he’s been so cranky.

He takes heaving breaths above you, his chest rising and falling steadily as he stares down at you in admiration. He’s got the kindest eyes. When you pull off of his cock, he offers his hand to you, helping you back to your feet. He thanks you again, then apologizes for finishing how he did. You assure him that you don’t mind a bit. “M’not gonna leave ya high and dry, you know,” he says, “You just give me a few days to get myself right and I’ll take good care of you. Return the favor and all that good stuff. Hm?”

Sure, Joel, you think, nodding to him. He nods back at you, feeling good and satisfied, already dreaming about getting you off in a few short days. How soft and wet your pussy will be, pulsing around his cock, all for him. He’ll make you come just as hard as he did, if not harder. He can see it now, he’ll have you falling to pieces under his tongue and his fingers. He just needs to fucking heal first. While Joel’s been favoring his right arm quite a bit, he still hasn’t been taking it as easy as he should have been. But he’s got a woman waiting on him now, and healing is his top priority. 

Joel smiles, you smile sweetly back at him as you wrap an arm around his waist for stability and set one of your feet on the ledge of the bathtub. His smile contorts into a confused frown as he watches you take your free hand and snake it between yours and Joel’s bodies, your fingers toying with your center. “Whatcha doin’?”, Joel asks. 

“Oh, you know,” you reply plainly. You sigh softly, tilting your head back as one of your fingers circles your hole. 

“No, no, no, no,” Joel protests, “No, thought you were gonna wait your turn.” 

“My turn’s right now,” you breathe, now dipping a finger into your entrance, curling it and swirling it around. “You’re not the only one with needs.”

“I know you got needs, hon, thought we just agreed I’d be the one to take care of ‘em,” he tries, “Right?”

“It’s alright,” you purr, “I got it.”

It’s almost cartoonish, how Joel’s expression turns from one of satisfaction and bliss to betrayal and astonishment. “I don’t like this,” he mutters, “It’s teasin’ me, you know.”

“Oh, Joel,” you whimper softly, your fingers now rubbing over your clit, “What don’t you like?”

“Uh, that,” he spits, “Don’t like hearin’ you moanin’ my name when I’m not the one touchin’ ya. Don’t like that at all.”

You pout, “Oh, you can touch me,” you offer as you take his left hand into your own, sliding it up your body. He thumbs the plump underside of your breast and glides his fingers over your nipple, feeling it harden beneath his touch. 

“Oh, real nice. You’re playin’ dirty,” he accuses, “You’re nothin’ but trouble. Shoulda known.”

You don’t bother replying as you begin to trace steady circles into your clit, dipping your fingers at your entrance to collect more of your arousal. Your fingers slip and slide through your folds with such ease. 

Joel growls, squeezing your breast harshly one last time before his arm finds your waist and he pulls you flush against his body. With your head still tilted back as you whimper quietly, Joel takes the opportunity to kiss your neck, biting and nipping at your hot, dampened skin. It only fuels you. “Joel,” you cry, “Fuck, oh my god,” as that warm, sticky feeling deep in your gut is beginning to build.

Joel watches you, conflicted. How sweet his name sounds falling from your lips with your broken, honeyed moans, but Jesus, he needs to be the one touching you like that, not you. He should have known it’d turn out this way, that you’d revel in having this one-up on him. Your fucking audacity. I made you come so hard you saw stars, and I’m doing the same thing to myself. And you can’t do a single thing about it. Ha. Ha. 

Joel holds you tighter when your cries begin to get louder as you reach your peak, your knees beginning to buckle. You moan frantically, loudly, and Joel watches you knit your brows together and your mouth drops open as you begin to fall apart. Your fingers massage your clit faster, harder, feeling that tension in your gut snap and splinter as waves of pleasure overtake you, washing over your body. With your eyes shut, you feel it deep in your stomach, down the back of your thighs, riding out your orgasm on your own fingers as Joel holds you close to his body.

When you finally open your eyes, Joel’s glaring at you. He says nothing. Deep down, he knew you’d probably end up taking care of yourself tonight, but in front of him? You’ve got some fucking nerve. 

When your breathing slows, Joel lets you go. He stares at you, unimpressed, mouth slightly agape. You take the opportunity to slide two of your fingers past his lips, letting him taste your sweet arousal on his tongue. His brows furrow and his eyes flutter shut as he groans deeply, hungrily. “Seriously?”

You nod with a smile, then press a quick kiss on his lips before shimmying past him to reach for your towel. You dry off and step out of the tub, and when you look back at Joel, he wears a scowl. 

“You’re the fuckin’ devil.” 

Next

---

— looking back

joel miller x f!reader

rated e - 2.2k

tags: jackson-era Joel pov, angst, canon-typical violence/references to death, established relationship, Joel is an ass man, consensual somno elements, posessive!joel, body worship, dirty talk, male masturbation, spitting, touching, come marking

a/n: easing back into writing and started 2 little wips that are sort of "introspective-joel-pov-smut-fics" - here is the first one! 💕

“Fuck. I need you.” He rasps - an edge to his voice, “Would you let me look at you, honey? Just let me look.”

Or - Joel gets off just from the sight of you

He’s strung as tight as a bow. The lingering adrenaline a notched arrow, leaving him about to snap. Blood seeps into his jeans - splattered across his knees, where he had jerked the knife from the man’s neck.

It had been a mercy killing. A stranger, but they had all seen the bite. He had been the only one to do something about it.

He’s told others that you get used to it. The killing - that after a while, survival wins out.

You get over it.

But you don’t. Instead, it clings to him like a shadow, following him home - down the worn, familiar path. Inside the gates, back to Jackson.

Heavier than it’s been before. An itching beneath his skin. If he was over it, he wouldn’t have to turn himself off. Shutting away a part of himself, only to fight to come back - clawing his way out later.

An aching reminder at how short life could be. That yes, things were different - but he was never really safe.

Not really.

His path brings him to you. A beacon, guiding his way back.

His - your - home coming into view, just as the dawn creeps over the fall, wooden fences. The misty grey brightening into gold and pink with the sun, as he’s unlocking the wooden door, shouldering it open.

A look thrown out the window as he scrubs his hand clean in the kitchen - seeing that the garage light is on. That she’s home, that she’s okay. An automatic check, before his weary feet take him upstairs.

Joel sheds the layers, the jacket thrown over the railing at the top of the stairs. Fingers fumbling with his belt, pulling the worn leather through the loops before his stained jeans crumple on the floor, as he pushes the cracked door open.

The light from the hallway stretches across the wooden floor, creeping into the dark room. Where you still lay sleeping, curled on your side within the blankets and sheets. Missing him in your dreams, that space next to you long empty.

Cold - where your fingers reach out, searching for him.

His path diverts, moving to you instead of the attached bathroom. The edge of the bed sinking under his weight, a soft sound as you stir.

“‘Welcome ‘ome.” You murmur, still half-asleep. A little wiggle as your bent knee hitches higher, the oversized shirt you’re wearing bunching up around your hips.

He reaches out, just the ghosting of his fingers against the soft skin near your knee. The fluttering of heavy lashes as you fight sleep, only to be pulled under again.

Joel’s hand shifts. A warm palm pressing against your thigh. Against soft skin, so different than his own calloused touch.

Home.

It is, isn’t it? As close to he’s had in years. Decades. The old apartment in the QZ had never felt that way, not with the faded floral walls. Those small rooms that still held ghosts.

But here, his own touch lingers. Yours, melding with it. It would never be like before - the picking out of furniture, of paint. But it’s his clothes in the closet. His worn guitar that rests against the couch. His wooden carvings lining the top of the mantle, above the fireplace.

And you - you're scattered throughout. Woven blankets and thick sweaters. Books, covering damn near every surface.

A little bottle of found lotion tucked away in the bathroom. He can smell it now, as he leans over you. A bristly kiss pressed against your cheek, the curve of your shoulder.

Amber, vanilla, caramel.

He’s pulled back to the memory, the light shining in your eyes when he handed the beaten bottle over. The minuscule amount you had worked into your knuckles - the soft sigh of contentment.

A bright laugh when he had pulled you close, the murmured “smells good” against your throat, as you had squirmed in his grasp - smiling as you read the fragrance notes out loud.

Something stirs in him, then. The press of his thigh against yours, as he leans over. Eyes dragging down to the bare curve of your ass, his hand tracing cup your thigh to palm your flesh.

His already uneven breath hitching, as you sigh. That little smile - his name - murmured out as you rock instinctively into his touch. Still on the edge of sleep, lulled off into a deep sleep with the cooling of summer.

Waking you up wouldn’t be unusual. Half the time you’re already up after these early-morning patrols. Waiting for him.

How he waits for you, on those few days where it’s you out there, instead of him. His jaw working with irritation until you’re home and back and safe, and he’s stripping your clothes from you himself.

It’s selfish to wake you, on a morning where you sleep so deeply. Even with the stress that’s eating at him, simmering in his veins.

But maybe… maybe he can just-

Joel is leaning, his mouth against your neck. A shift as you stretch, baring your skin to him as your lips curl in a smile. A soft, sleepy hum as you reach for him, fingers curving over the thick muscle of his forearm.

The hand on your ass drifting up - across to the small of your back. Meeting noting but warm, bared skin beneath your shirt.

“Fuck. I need you.” He rasps - an edge to his voice, “Would you let me look at you, honey? Just let me look.”

Heavy-lidded eyes open then at the sound of his voice - his words - as you tilt your head. A slow sweep over the breadth of his shoulders, the curve of his stomach. The spread of his thighs as he kneels behind you. The already half-hard tent of faded boxers.

You had been waiting for him. Anticipating his return, eager for his touch. The cloud of sleep begins to clear as he palms himself, the bed shifting as your hips shift, thighs spreading open for him.

“I can take care of you,” Your voice is scratchy - husky, in the early morning. A hand pressing again on your back as you begin to roll over, holding you in place.

“You already are,” Joel groans, as your hips tilt up, off the bed. Knees pressing into the mattress as he nudges your thighs wider, fitting between them, “Stay just like that, alright?”

The combination feels erotic. His smell on the shirt you wear. The tingling throb between your thighs, the desire in his voice. How much he wants - enough that just the sight of you has him hard, thumbs catching on the waistband of his boxers to free himself.

You relax into the bed, as you watch. The weight of his hand as it moves to squeeze your ass. A pressure as he tugs, opening you up.

“Fuck.”

Joel spits in his palm, before it’s wrapping around his cock. A rough groan as some of that need is eased, with the sharp stroke of his fist.

Just letting himself look. Admire.

A sight that is only his, fingers sinking into soft flesh. The way you trust, how effected you are already - the shallow rock of your hips as the sound of skin-on-skin fills the room.

“You got a pretty little pussy, honey.” He hears himself saying. Watching how you clench at his praise, the little gasp that follows. “Pretty little holes. All for me, right?”

He can feel the weight of your gaze. Darkening, as your hunger grows low in your belly. Darting between his face and the sharp flick of his wrist.

Rarely getting to see him take, like this. Usually he would have been buried in you, by now. There’s the urge to ask, but there’s a power in this - wanting to watch him get off to you. Not having to lift a finger to do so.

“All for you.” You sigh, “Always.”

His jaw grits, teeth clicking together. A bead of precum joins the slick of his spit, that angry fire in his belly transforming.

So different that the little mouse he had taken to bed, all those months ago. Your hands covering your mouth, muffling the moans, until he had pried them away. Pinning them against the pillows, whispering filth in your ear.

Now, he can see the greed in your eyes. The way you glisten, when his own gaze drops. The shift of your thighs as he takes a second to rub himself against the curve of your ass. Dipping down to press against your core.

The tip coming back slick, in a new kind of way - fueling the pressure, building in his belly.

Your moan breaks the early-morning quiet. His name on your lips again - more urgent than before.

The little beg only sends him closer, a rough groan in his throat. His own hand too familiar - used to the quick and precise touch he needs to get off, when he had to.

In the before. In the during - when it was only words that the you of you had exchanged. Heated looks that lingered late into those lonely nights.

Hasn’t felt the urge to, since he’s had you.

He expects you to ask him to fill you, eyes caught on the enticing lift of your hips.

Caught off-guard for the briefest second, a heat flushing over his cheeks, when you shift beneath him instead. Flipping over, onto your back.

Eyes bright, teeth sinking into your lip as you smile.

“Wanna watch.” You admit, and that tension in his shoulders settles in his chest, turning sweet.

His fist tightening around his cock, as your thighs splay over his. Opening yourself up under his gaze, stretching out in front of him.

And fuck, what a sight. There’s a rolling wave deep in his core that he chases with the rock of his hips.

His hand fits perfectly against the curve of your waist, eyes caught on the way your fingers catch on the hem of your shirt.

Pulling it up over your breasts, a path that his eyes follow greedily.

“Christ, darlin’.” The words rumble in his chest.

A rough exhale as your own gaze drops to his fist. The pace that he’s picked up - the peek of the flushed tip when he strokes down to the base.

Already about to burst, like he’s a man half his age. Could say it’s just his own touch, the urge to relieve the weight of his stress.

But he knows it’s more. That warmth in his chest, a tenderness that has only softened the rough stone of his heart since he’s left Boston.

It’s there in the way that he could linger on the slick place between your thighs. But instead he’s watching you watch him. Focusing on the part of your lips, the shine in your eyes.

“‘m close.” Joel breathes, his words low. Rough. “Where do you want it?”

He’ll catch it in his palm if he needs to. If it helps you go back to sleep, after. He hasn’t given up on that wish - to let you drift off for a little longer.

The look you give him, the little smile that turns mischievous, has his stomach twisting into knots. Like butterflies, he thinks.

Your hand drifts down, knuckles brushing over the jerk of his. Soft fingers tracing over hot, swollen flesh. Only to curve over your mound, to spread yourself open for him.

“Fuck.” He breathes, again, “There?”

The answering hum is low, desperate.

“Wanna hear you ask me.” Joel pushes - needing to hear you say it, knowing it will push him over the edge.

You squirm beneath him, affected by the edge to his voice, the soft command.

“Want you to come on me.”

“Where, baby?” The word slides from his lips without thought.

The eye contact breaks, your gaze darting away with embarrassment. But after a moment it’s back - the soft heave of your breasts as you suck in a breath, steeling your nerves.

“Want you to come on my pussy, Joel.”

He can’t help the rough groan, ripped from his chest. The shift of his thighs as he pulls back, as that pressure builds. The pleasure surging instead of ebbing, as he tips his cock downward.

The next stroke of his fist pushes him past the threshold. Relief sings in his veins as he spills across your mound. Painting your abdomen with his release, eyes fluttering closed as his hearing goes fuzzy.

Drowning out his long moan, as you push yourself up. He meets you instinctually, arcing over you as his mouth is drawn to yours.

As his spend drips down the crease of your thigh, so warm against soft skin.

It feels like a weight is lifted, like he’s back in his own skin again. Relaxing into the fingers that scratch into his hair, the tongue that sweeps against his.

But it’s only a few moments before he remembers. Coming back to himself, as he fits his hand between your thighs.

Fingers dragging through his release, bringing his slick fingers to circle against your clit.

Because there’s no way you’re going back to sleep after this. Not if he knows you - which he’s now certain that he does.

"Thank you honey." He murmurs, with lips that press against your cheek.

The smallest smile after, as your own part with a moan - as he croons against your skin.

"Now let me take care of you."

thank you for reading! was excited to explore a little idea I had 💕

(tags: @celestianstars)

---

Dark but Just a Game

pairing: (pre-ellie) joel miller x afab!fem!reader

summary: your dad’s associate and friend, joel miller, finally tires of your constant teasing

warnings: rough sex/smut (fingering, fem penetration, unprotected sex) so 18+ only content; fem afab reader; mention of reader having long-ish hair; alcohol consumption & drunkenness; pet names (sweetheart, angel, baby); dubcon (intoxication, power imbalance); age gap.

beta reader: @millllenniawrites aka that’s bestfren

word count: 3.7k

no use of y/n in this fic.

Click to read part 2: Pretty When You Cry

Click to read part 3: Let Me Love You Like a Woman

ahhhh this is my first time writing for joel so any and all feedback is super appreciated. i was slightly inspired by the amazing dbf!joel drabbles that @anchoeritic writes (seriously, if you enjoy this fic, go read them). as always, my requests are open !!

—

THEN,

It started out so innocently.

Your dad often helped Tess and Joel smuggle contraband in and out of the QZ, sometimes by keeping the right people quiet, other times by offering the pair a place to lay low at. You got accustomed to the sight of them passed out on the floor, the glow of the sunrise illuminating only their sleeping faces, or else a murmuring trio of hushed voices in the middle of the night.

Soon, however, you began to notice the way Joel’s eyes seemed to trail on you, often catching his hardened gaze in yours. Still, he rarely spoke to you and when he did, he mostly just grunted a “hullo” or asked if your father was around.

But you suspected that he noticed you.

Especially when your old clothes got too tight, hugging your skin and leaving little to the imagination. You observed his breath hitching the very first time he saw you in a skirt.

So, naturally, you played into it. You started sneaking downstairs in the morning wearing only a t-shirt and your underwear, feigning innocence at the way (you imagined) he tried, hard, not to look at your ass as you sauntered back up to your room.

Sometimes, you bumped into him on the streets of the QZ. You’d loop your arm around his broad bicep, wide-eyed, gazing up at him through your eyelashes and asking why he hadn’t dropped by to say hello recently. Causing him to tense beneath your hands always felt electrifying; the restraint in his grumbled “soon” always felt like a victory.

When it was dark out and he, Tess, and your dad shared a drink together on the dusty-old-living-room-couch, you made sure to lock eyes with him, taking in the danger lurking in them. He’d look away, leaning back casually and adjusting his jeans.

But—it was always innocent.

It was a game you played with yourself; one you weren’t even sure he was in on. Life in the QZ got dull, and there were only so many good-looking men your age that your dad’s work allowed you to see.

Sometimes, when business was good, your old man got his hands on an extra shipment of liquor, inviting all of his favourite bandits in the Zone and throwing a “party” in one of the run-down, less monitored buildings. You did yourself up as best as you knew how to, shared a flask with your friends and flirted with young smugglers.

It was seedy, but it was fun.

Joel was always there, usually asking around for parts or looking to cut deals. Usually, he drank and stayed out of your way.

Once, however, after being extremely irresponsible with your consumption, you found yourself alone with Andy, a young FEDRA guard (working for your side, of course), slurring your words and stumbling on your feet. He was good-looking in a boyish way and handsy to high heavens. You vaguely remembered his insistence on taking you back to his place and the feel of his wet lips against yours. You clearly remembered hearing a gruff, “Get off,”—Joel’s baritone echo taking you both by surprise. Andy’s head swung to find Miller’s looming form in the doorway; he immediately tore his hands from your body and scampered off. You were alone with Joel, his expression a mask of rage and contempt tinged with—could it have been—jealousy?

After that, it was all bits and pieces of blurred images and sounds. Big hands pulled you into strong arms; your feet were lifted from the ground. You retained flashes of drunken faces smiling and jeering at you as you were carried away from the festivities—then it was dilapidated hallways, the jangling of keys fumbling with a lock, and finally, the ceiling above your bed as Joel gently set you down. Even now, you could clearly picture the way his eyes traveled along your exposed skin as he stood, arms crossed, at the edge of the bed.

Sitting up, fixing your drunken, playful eyes to look deeply into his, you slurred, “Got a bit jealous?”

He said nothing. He only held your gaze and crossed his arms, the muscles beneath flexing and relaxing in rhythm with the motion.

“C’mon Joel,” you teased him, “so serious, all the time. I was fine.”

Now that had an effect.

He growled, “one more minute with that asshole…” and shook his head, his words trailing off as he fought the urge to take your bait. “Just go to sleep. You’ll thank me in the morning.”

He turned, heading towards the door. Perhaps the excess liquor made you reckless or Andy’s kisses left you wanting—either way, you needed to push the limits with Joel. You needed him to stay, to turn around and play your game.

“I could thank you now, if you want.”

He stopped in his tracks, his head slowly turning to the side. Your blood burned in your veins, both from the alcohol and from the tension pulsing between you and him in that darkened room. He paused for a moment and it felt like a lifetime—laid on the bed, watching his shoulders move with every breath he took. He flexed a hand, something he often did when he was around you.

Finally, he spoke.

“Go to sleep.”

And with that, he shut off the light and left the room, closing the door behind him.

So, you decided it was probably all in your head. Maybe the looks and the tension and the teasing were just part of a one-sided game you played with yourself. Still, you couldn’t help thinking about the strain in his voice when he ordered you to bed or the anger that went beyond disdain and contempt at the sight of Andy’s hands exploring your body. You regularly reminisced about the events of that night, most often without meaning to. Most often alone, between the hours of one and three AM, sneaking a guilty hand down between your thighs.

That was the last time Joel had interacted with you.

At least before tonight.

—

NOW,

Joel stands between Tess and a seedy looking short guy you’ve never seen before, clearly not paying attention to whatever the two of them are hashing out. Tensions are low, which makes Joel look comically out of place. He lifts a silver flask to his lips.

The chatter of people talking and laughing fills the narrow, dusty space—from somewhere down the hall, you hear your father’s booming laugh. You’re finding it increasingly hard to concentrate on whatever your peers are gushing on about. The warmth in your stomach and the buzz under your skin from whatever liquor finds its way into your cup brings you back to the last time you’d seen Joel at one of these get-togethers.

“Can’t believe Miller comes to these things,” one such peer—a bandit in training, your good friend Emma—remarks. “Weird seeing him… well, not relaxed but… not stressed.”

You laugh. “I know, right. When he’s passed out, I don’t even recognize him. Looks completely different without his signature scowl.”

She turns away from him, focusing her attention instead on you. “Right,” she says, “I forgot him and your dad…” She trails off, her expression changing as her interests do, as well.

Emma suddenly smirks at you. “Does he sleep naked?” she asks, mischievous. This piques the interest of the others paying attention to your conversation, who subsequently tune in to hear your answer.

You smile, shaking your head. “No,” you respond, keeping your voice low. “Fully clothed—with his gun in hand.”

Emma’s eyes settle back on Joel as her smile fades. The other delinquents go back to their respective conversations. “Such a shame,” she says, wistfully. “I’d bet a month’s rations that his dick is huge.”

You giggle at that and she passes you the flask. You take a big swig, heat blooming across your tongue as the whiskey burns down your throat.

He catches you staring—his eyes darken when he notices the drink in your hand. Smiling innocuously at him, you wave your fingers in an extremely girlish greeting gesture. He raises his thick eyebrows, unimpressed.

A familiar figure interrupts your silent conversation.

“Hey,” Andy says, his voice unsure and subdued.

“Hey.”

He looks rumpled and flushed, as though recent weeks had not been kind to him. Andy’s not-brown-not-blonde hair hangs limp around his crown, mirroring the defeated air his stature gives off. Despite the near foot he has on you, he seems ironically small.

He runs a nervous hand through his hair. “Look,” he tries, awkwardly stuffing his fingers in his pockets, “I’m sorry about last time. I was really drunk and I don’t really remember what I said, but I know it wasn’t cool.”

You scoff. “I don’t really think it was so much what you said, Andy,” you respond playfully. After all, you know he meant no harm. Drunk people get horny, and you had both been very drunk. “Don’t worry about it. No hard feelings,” you add.

That’s when, from over Andy’s shoulder, you catch a glimpse of Joel’s expression. Pure disapproval. Cold, ruthless contempt burns in his eyes.

“At least not from me.”

Andy turns around slowly, following your eye-line. By the time he clues in to who you’re referring to, Joel’s already looked away, turning his attention to the still-ongoing conversation between Tess and the stranger.

“Right,” Andy says, wincing. “He’s been giving me a hard time on the streets.”

“Don’t sweat over Miller,” Emma interjects casually. “He gives everyone a hard time.”

Once again, you find yourself distracted from the conversation, focussing on a different man in the room. Why should he get to decide when you get to be wild? What business does he have protecting you from other guys? After all, Joel Miller is not your father.

It frustrates you that he keeps pretending not to notice your stare. It frustrates you that he keeps his head ducked, feigning interest in the deal being made beside him. Taking in his size, the salt-and-pepper of his hair, and the fierce angle of his jaw, you steal another swig from the flask, wiping the excess off your lips.

It emboldens you.

Leaning up on your tippy-toes, you muster up your most sensual tone, whispering softly in Andy’s ear: “Let me make it up to you.”

You pull back to catch his look of disbelief, his pouty pink lips parting slightly as he struggles to locate his words. Grabbing his hand in yours, you nod your head to the right, wordlessly encouraging him to take you down the hall. He obeys without a sound.

You quickly shove the flask back into Emma’s hand.

“Save some for after,” you plead, and she shakes her head, tossing you an exaggerated eye-roll.

You lock eyes with Joel momentarily before you’re pulled down the hall, satisfaction leaking from your gaze—you’re not quite sure why. You break away, ignoring the non-verbal warning in his stare.

Who cares what he thinks, anyways?

You wind up in a run-down, dim-lit room, empty save for an old desk. Andy pins you against the wall as soon as the door creaks to a close behind you, pressing his lips to yours in a sloppy, tipsy kiss. His hands travel south to grab your ass and you respond by wrapping your arms around his neck. Things heat up—his clumsy fingers brush the fabric over your breasts and you dig your hip into the bulge beneath his denim.

It’s not that you want Andy. Frankly? It could be anyone. None of the boys you hang out with really interest you beyond being potential partners for youthful experimentation—which is exactly what Andy is to you. In all likelihood, that’s not what you are to him.

Oh well. Those are morning thoughts.

Andy’s hands snake under your shirt, the pads of his fingertips creeping up to your breasts.

The door slams open.

Andy basically leaps off of you, a horrified expression settling on his features as he registers the identity of the intruder—as history repeats itself.

“Out,” Joel orders through gritted teeth, holding the door open for the boy to walk through. Andy practically sprints free—without risking a goodbye, without uttering a “sir, yes sir.”

You sigh once you and Joel are alone, adjusting your clothing and casually leaning back against the wall.

“Okay, Joel,” you say, exasperation coating your words. “What’s this all about.”

Wordlessly, he closes the door and locks the handle. His movements are slow, precise, and calculated—butterflies erupt in your stomach.

He approaches you, leaning one hand against the wall behind your head and using a pair of thick, callused fingers to tilt your head up. He smells like sandalwood and hard liquor; he smells like a man. Electricity crackles throughout your entire being.

The touch of his hand on your face drains every last drop of your boldness.

“I think,” he grumbles out, his voice low, gravelly, dangerous, “You know exactly what this is about.”

You swallow, focussing all your energy on holding his severe gaze. Between your thighs, your nerves begin to pulse, responding to his proximity with enthusiasm.

“No, I really don’t,” you respond, mustering up some confidence from god-knows-where to render your tone convincing.

He scowls. “S’lil’ game you’re playin’,” he mutters softly, coolly. “Comin’ downstairs half-naked, clingin’ onto me in public when you know I can’t do anything…”

He shakes his head, his grip on your jaw tensing slightly.

This time, when he speaks, his tone is hoarse. “What are you tryin’ to get out of it?”

A smile creeps onto your face at the anguish in his voice.

So you hadn’t imagined it. Joel had been in on it from the start.

You look up at him with big, sultry eyes, taunting him. There’s no point in avoiding the truth anymore—you want joel. And you’ve never really been the type to not go for what you want.

In this moment, you’re willing to risk anything to have Joel do something, anything to you.

Wicked innocence drips off your every word as you purr, “Whatever you’ve been dying to give me, Joel.”

You watch your answer take effect. A vein in his jaw twitches—lust floods his eyes.

In a flash, you’re facing the wall with both hands pinned above your head by one much larger, much stronger hand. Joel’s weight presses against you, pinning you in place.

“That right, angel?” Joel challenges under his breath as his other hand explores your chest, grabbing roughly at your breasts. “Want me to show you what I’ve had in mind?”

His hand travels towards your underwear, sliding down your front in a tantalizing motion; you moan before his fingers even brush your most sensitive spot.

“I do, Joel,” you moan, desperate for his touch. The feel of his chest against your spine is intoxicating, your mind goes blank at the sensation of his cock pressed against your ass.

Joel’s index and middle fingers find your clit, rubbing torturous circles around the throbbing bud. His thumb presses into your skin, anchoring his hand in place.

“So fuckin’ wet,” he groans. “Wonder what your dad’d say if he knew his lil’ girl was soakin’ wet for this cock.”

He slips a finger inside you, curling it up, making your mouth gape open in a silent ah and your eyebrows crease together. “You think of me when you’re touchin’ this pretty pussy?” Gasping and struggling against his hold, you nod enthusiastically, overwhelmed by the feel of him inside you.

“Please,” you whisper, wanting more, more, more.

“Manners,” he growls, tightening his grasp on your wrists. “Please, Joel,” he corrects, pumping his fingers in and out of your cunt, his palm flattened and working against your swollen clit.

“Please-please, Joel,” you gasp out, throwing your head back against the crook of his shoulder. He leans forward, laying a soft kiss in the delicate nook of your neck. Then, he’s releasing you, pulling his fingers out and taking a step back.

He gestures to the desk.

“Facedown, sweetheart.”

You obey, stumbling over to it and laying your chest against the cold wood. It stings and you shiver.

Joel fumbles with his belt and then he’s behind you, unzipping his fly and pulling his length out. With your cheek laid against the desk, you get a perfect view of him towering over you, a dark God, holding his cock in his hand.

Emma had been right.

“You gotta be quiet,” he warns, before flipping up your skirt. He groans at the sight of your ass, roughly grabbing one cheek and squeezing it—hard.

“I will be,” you whine, desperate to take him in.

He chuckles, pulling down your dripping panties, letting them fall to your ankles. His tip runs between your folds, teasing your clit in tormenting strokes. You whine and moan, “Joel-s’good,” responding to every brush of his tip.

“You’re needy,” he says, gruffly.

He pushes his cock deep into your cunt, settling every inch of himself inside you.

“I like needy.”

You gasp at the sting and the pleasure and the fullness, unable to control yourself. Joel is huge—your walls wrap tightly around him as he pulls out near-completely before snapping his hips against your ass, filling you up to the brim again. You cry out as he holds your arms in place, setting a rhythm, grabbing you just as roughly as he fucks you.

“Joel,” you moan loudly before a large hand slaps over your lips.

“Shut up,” he growls.

Your eyes roll to the back of your head as you give yourself to him entirely, cravenly grinding against his hips.

“Look at you, fuckin’ yourself on my cock,” he taunts. “Takin’ it so good, pretty girl.”

The sound of flesh hitting flesh echoes through the room, dirty and filthy and hot.

Joel’s fingers muffle your moans of abandonment, every “fuck,” “yes,” and “thank you,” coming out simply as “mmm.”

“This what you fuckin’ wanted?” he asks gruffly, leaning a hand next to your head and bending forward to loom over you. “Gettin’ fucked by a man twice your age?”

The angle allows him to push even more of his length inside you, causing you to squirm pathetically against his hips. His fingers dig into your cheeks as he adds, “That right, pretty girl?”

You nod eagerly, your eyes growing heavy, filling with abandon.

He looses a hollow laugh. “Needy lil’ thing,” he breathes, tangling his fingers in your hair. “With a needy lil’ pussy.”

Freeing your mouth, he throws his head back, straightening out and bringing both hands to your circle your waist. Now, he fucks you fast and brutally, his breath coming heavy and hard. With every stroke, Joel’s tip grazes your inner most sensitive spot, causing sheer ecstasy to radiate throughout your core.

“Come inside me, Joel,” you beg. “Come in me—please.”

Joel groans sinfully. “Can’t do that, sweetheart.”

Fluttering waves ripple from your cunt down your legs, threatening to take you over the edge.

“Joel,” you half-sob, “I’m gonna-”

He slows down, thrusting into you in great, harsh strokes, well-versed in the art of bringing a woman to climax. You cry out as your orgasm tears through you, unable to form words or thoughts or anything beyond “Joel,” “Ohmygod,” and “yes-yes-yes.”

“S’it baby,” he coaxes. “Come aaalll over my cock.”

Your walls clench around him, your pussy just as desperate as you are to keep him tucked inside you.

He exhales shakily, grabbing fistfuls of your ass in his hands.

“Fuck it,” he groans, thrusting faster inside you. “M’gonna fill you up.” Your eyes are still rolled to the back of your head, your hands desperately searching for something to grasp onto. His cock swells inside you, tensing up between your walls as his seed spills out between them—he comes with an “oh fuck” and a final, brutal stroke.

You lie still for a moment, listening to the sound of your ragged breathing harmonizing with Joel’s. He runs a massive hand along your arm, his touch suddenly delicate, revering.

“You’d better fuckin’ pray I can find the pill for you tomorrow,” he says finally, his husky voice both amazed and amused.

Lifting your chest off the table, you slowly flip around, perching on the edge to face him as he reorganizes his clothes, pulling his boxers up and tugging at his fly. He looks so handsome between your knees, with his hair slightly disheveled and his shirt all rumpled.

“Get extra,” you coo, your breath still uneven, your thoughts still bungled. You run a slight hand devotedly down his plaid shirt, marvelling at the pleasure the proximity brings you.

He laughs low, shaking his head. “S’was a one-time deal, angel,” he says with a smile. He finishes doing up his belt and leans both his hands on the table, his nose just centimeters away from your own. “Can’t be caught fuckin’ my associates’ daughters—bad for business,” he adds, pulling your underwear back up your thighs. You adjust yourself and pout at him, playfully.

“You didn’t like it?” you ask, pretend-innocence soaking your tone.

He smiles softly. “I liked it too much,” he responds. “S’why it can’t happen again.”

You raise your eyebrows defiantly. “Well, I’m not gonna make it easy on you, Miller.”

He slowly straightens up, offering you a hand as you scoot off the desk. Your legs feel shaky, but his hold anchors you in place.

“M’countin’ on that.”

With that said, he gestures for you to leave the room, following closely behind you. He opens the door and you peer into the hallway, making note of its emptiness before stepping out. Joel exits soon after, taking off in the opposite direction. You catch him looking back at you, a dazed, hungry look still lingering on his expression.

It makes you smile.

Later that night, you find Emma and Joel finds Tess. You’re back to your side of the divide and he’s back to his.

It’s as though nothing ever happened.

“Hey, check it out,” Emma remarks. “Miller actually looks, like, chilled-out,” she slurs loudly.

You smile knowingly, nodding in agreement.

“‘Guess he found a way to blow off steam.”

She gives you a quick, faded nod before becoming absorbed in something else. It doesn’t bother you. You’re also absorbed in something else: lost in thought, consumed by the lingering echoes and traces of Joel’s skin on yours.

When you catch his eye from across the room, you can tell that his thoughts are haunted by the very same thing.

This was no longer an innocent game.

It was a dirty secret.

—

Read part 2: Pretty When You Cry

Read part 3: Let Me Love You Like a Woman (Let Me Hold You Like a Baby)

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i wanna be your lover | 70s!pornstar!joel miller

pairing/AU: 70s!pornstar!joel miller x inexperienced!female!reader

summary: miserable after losing your job, your friend drags you out to a club to dance away your sadness. on the dancefloor you meet a handsome stranger, who then whisks you away into his fantasy world as his assistant for his porn career. what happens when the lines get blurred?

warnings/rating: 18+ explicit. extended warnings will be given for each part.

main masterlist

ao3

part one: i wanna be your lover

part two: lover, lover, lover

part three: just crazy love

© shellshocklove

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