I Know It When I See It - Part 7

i know it when i see it - part 7

series masterlist | ao3

pairing: pornstar!joel miller x fem!reader

rating: explicit 18+ minors dni

word count: 8.4k

warnings: attempted rape/non-con, non-consensual drug use, main character is roofied, hurt/comfort, descriptions of vomiting, finally some feelings talk, victim-blaming by the victim

summary: a bad night brings you and joel closer than expected.

a/n: this chapter contains the graphic description of an attempted assault against the main character. if you believe this content may be triggering for you, there is an abridged version of the chapter posted here. please be responsible and protect your peace. resources are included at the end of the chapter.

The sunlight is brutal the next morning.

Slipping through the half-drawn blinds, burning red behind your eyelids. The sheets are warm and smell heavily of your roommate’s perfume, the lavender oil she puts on her wrists to fall asleep. Your head is heavy with hangover, mouth cottoned and dry. You’re achy and sore and so fucking embarrassed you want to die.

God, Joel must think you’re pathetic. Trailing after him like that, picking a fight when it was clear he wanted to leave. Grabbing his dick through his jeans — fucking hell, basically begging him to fuck you.

You bury your face in the pillow to muffle a groan, trying to cringe away from the memory.

What the hell is wrong with you? What is it about him that makes it impossible for you to keep your shit together? You told Tess that you were a big girl, that you could handle this. A fucking lie, clearly, since you can’t keep your cool for a single evening in his presence. 

You are so soft for him, so easy. Just some cock-addled idiot willing to take whatever crumb he’ll give you, and then somehow hurt when that’s all you get. Of course he left. He always leaves. It’s like getting surprised when the sun starts to set.

Even if, for a second, you felt like things were different this time. That quiet moment when you were caught together, the way you felt him laugh, the scrape of his smile against your cheek. When your heart stilled and you were sure, so fucking sure that he felt it too. 

Fuck.

You groan again, cringing away from the memory, the oil-slick shame of it that clings to your skin.

A gentle hand rests on the crown of your head, stroking your hair. Your roommate shifts in the sheets beside you.

“Baby, you’re spiraling,” she says, “Go take a shower.”

You do, because you are a little bit disgusting. The stale sweat from the club, from the sex. Glitter and mascara smudged around your eyes. Joel’s dry semen flaking between your thighs. You let the hot water scald your skin and think, unwillingly, of baptism. At this point, you doubt even the holiest of water could wash away your sins.

You stare at the grout, the little specks of mold that live there.

It’s just sex.

That’s what you had said to him, the lie that spilled out of you when you realized he was leaving. 

Because that’s how it is with everyone else, the revolving door of co-stars that spend a few hours with your cunt. You fuck strangers the same way that you file taxes or wait in line at the bank. Efficiently, without anything resembling real want, no jagged edge of feeling. Sweaty and soulless, all gaping mouths and shuddering gasps. Checking your nail beds and chatting about the weather between takes, coming so hard you can’t see straight and never speaking to them again.

It’s just always just sex. 

It shouldn't be different just because it’s Joel. 

You’re tired of smoking until your fingers burn, tired of staring at the scrawl of his phone number, tired of waiting for the other shoe to fucking drop.

You’ve survived bigger disappointments. You won’t let yourself be wasted by it, won’t shrink into some softer shape, cannibalized by your own bastard affection. You tell the gnawing ache in your belly to fuck off, let it go, maybe chew on your ribs for a while. 

The phone rings just as you’re stepping out of the shower, the sound muffled through the walls. You wrap a towel around your waist and crack open the small window to let out a spill of steam. The mirror is too fogged to see your own reflection, and it feels like a small mercy. You’re not sure you can look yourself in the eye right now.

Silly, shameless girl. 

The voice in your head sounds like your mother’s.

You’re slightly more human when you shuffle out into the kitchen. Your roommate is at the stove, nudging a pat of butter around a sizzling pan. 

“Someone called for you,” she says, nodding at the phone.

Only one of the other girls has resurrected, sitting cross-legged on one of the mismatched dining chairs, staring bleary-eyed into a soggy bowl of cereal. You ruffle her hair as you make a bee-line for the coffee pot, and she preens like a cat.

You see Tess’s number scrawled on the pad of paper by the phone, and wince at the idea of talking to her right now. You’ll need to ask her not to book another scene with Joel, explain some version of what happened last night. That was a conversation for later, once you had some food lining your stomach, a steady drip of caffeine in your veins. 

The Hustlers cover is taped to the fridge, and your own face stares at you as you take out the cream. 

Well, not your face, really. 

It’s all Lucky, her heavy-lidded eyes, her please come fuck me smile. The girl in the magazines, the thing you came here to become. A better version of yourself in so many ways. Radiant and unrepentant. 

She watches you take a sip of your coffee. Hair still dripping around your shoulders, so hungover you can barely stand upright. The lovesick, wet rat version of the nation’s newest sex symbol.

It’s just sex.

That’s all it was. A cruel biological trick, the inconvenient compatibility of your bodies. Some fucked up animal magnetism making you think any of it meant more than it did.

You’re not heartbroken. 

Obviously.

Porn stars don’t put their heads in the oven. 

x x x x x

When you tell Tess that you don’t want to work with Joel again, she doesn’t argue. 

She gives you a long look, her gray eyes searching. And for a second it looks like she’s going to say something else, raise some other, elusive point. But then she just shrugs.

“Whatever you want, kid.”

And you’re grateful that she doesn’t ask you to explain, that you don’t have to fess up to your stupid feelings. You’re desperate to feel less in general, to tamp down on that part of you that wants so many things you can’t have.

So instead, you focus on the shit you can control. 

The work, the sex — the tangle of the two together. Business meetings and gang bangs, contract negotiations and nipple clamps. The most lurid moments of your life parsed out in frank, unfeeling conversations. Signing on the dotted line to spread your legs and smile pretty for the camera. 

You sink into it, let yourself be submerged in the endless stream of smut. Every day a new set, a new scene. You’re a waitress, a dancer, a nanny, a prison warden. The ever-changing, eternally fuckable girl. So many skins you can slip into and shed the messy, inconvenient parts of yourself, just for a little while. 

You avoid anything with even a whiff of cowboy in it. No more beard scruff or calloused hands, no low rolling voice, no Texas twang. Instead, only smooth-bodied bull types, oiled and hairless, who greet you with broad, dopey grins. Beautiful, lithe-limbed women, all coy smiles and conspiratory laughter, a breathless whisper in your ear before each take.

You’re not as picky when it comes to the projects. You do the rougher stuff, the longer days. Resetting over and over so the camera can get a better angle, catch the edge of a cock in your throat. Take after take after take. You leave sets sore, but usually satisfied, and so exhausted that you can't do much more than climb into bed.

Less time for thinking. For pining, God forbid.

You’re a pledge, the oh-so-reluctant prey of an older girl in some sorority flick. Knees chafing against plush carpet, your skirt hiked high on your hips as you recite the Greek alphabet. You get a playful spank for every mistaken letter, tripping over the tau and upsilon, forgetting chi altogether. 

You bring your co-star off once with your hand, once with your mouth, and then again with the handle of a hairbrush. It’s a little crass, a porn cliche infecting the girlish room, but the cameras love it. After, she presses you back against the flowery bedsheets to return the favor. It’s not scripted but she coos in your ear that you’ve earned it. 

When the director calls cut, you lay there for a long moment, staring up at the high rafters of the soundstage. Settling back into yourself, feeling out your body. The burn of your knees, the slight ache in your neck. But there’s a warmth low in your belly, the slow-burning embers of your arousal, a sleepy sort of satisfaction in your limbs.

Your co-star’s face appears over yours. Cheeks still flushed, eyes shining. Her hair a golden halo, blocking the too-bright light of the overheads.

“You good?” she asks.

The sheets stick to the sweat of your back, the drip of release still cooling on your thighs. You huff out a sigh. 

“You fucked my brains out.”

She rolls her eyes.

“Please, that was nothing,” she says, “Imagine what I could do with a few hours.”

She winks and you laugh, finally forcing yourself up off the damp bed. 

Around you, the crew has already started striking the set: taking down the frames with their posed pictures, the stray textbooks and candy bars, the pennant for a college that doesn’t exist. Echoes of a life so obviously un-lived, the man-spun fantasy of a dorm room.

The dressing room is cramped, tucked in the back corner of the sound stage and wallpapered pink to disguise its past life as a storage closet.

The mirror is fogged over with hairspray, your reflection cloudy at the edges. You look well-fucked. The blur of mascara beneath your eyes, hair frizzed from her fingers. The tacky shine of her arousal is still damp on your hairline, and you wipe it away with the edge of your robe. 

Your co-star is still mostly naked, the robe draped open around her shoulders. Her breasts sway as she leans closer to the mirror, dabbing at a smudge of lipstick with her pinky finger. 

“Scoot over,” she teases, bumping your elbow as she reaches for the crumpled heap of her carpet bag.

There’s an easy familiarity in your movements, your comfortable closeness. The kind of de-facto friendship you earn after an hour between her legs.

She cuts a neat line of coke on the vanity, nudging aside the bottles of cheap perfume and for her pleasure lube left out by production. She sweeps her hair to the back of her neck, gathering it at the base of her skull as she lowers her head. It’s gone on a long inhale, the excess caught on a fingertip and tucked into her gums.

She straightens and meets your gaze in the mirror.

“Come out with us tonight.”

You raise an eyebrow at her reflection, “Out?”

“There’s a party in the hills,” she says with a shrug, “A bunch of us are going.”

It takes only another half a second of hesitation to decide fuck it. The quiet ache in your hips, the tired pinch behind your eyes, the dizzying cost of the taxi you’ll have to take home at the end of the night. 

It’ll be good to get out. Healthy, probably. 

Lately your brain has started to eat itself if you spend too much time in the empty apartment. Something to do with the weather, probably. Or your diet, the long days of black coffees and crafty croissants. Or maybe it’s guilt, so many Catholic ghosts catching up with you.

You smile at her in the mirror and catch a glimpse of your shiny, shimmering self.  

x x x x x

The taxi crawls through the winding roads towards Mulholland, the windows rolled down so your breath, that blur of backseat conversation, doesn’t fog the windshield. 

There are four of you crammed together, a flask passed between you, an elbow digging into your ribs at every sharp turn. You don’t know the others well — another actress and one of the girls from wardrobe — but your co-star’s arms are wrapped around your waist in lieu of a seatbelt, and you can feel her laughter in your ribs. It’s easy to melt, lean into the warmth, listen eagerly to a story about people you’ve never met. 

One of the other girls pulls out a little baggie, digs into it with the edge of her house key. She notices your gaze and offers it out to you.

“Want some?”

It’s only a little bump, but it burns at the back of your throat, that awful chemical drip.

The taxi turns into the driveway of some sprawling behemoth of a house, perched high at the top of the valley. The windows glow, all glass, and you watch the shift of silhouettes against the dark sky. 

You feel light, giddy, as you make your way up the drive. Gravel crunching underneath your heels, the other girls bumping into you, their laughter carried away on the cool night air.

Someone presses a glass of champagne into your hand the second you step over the threshold, and the bubbles fizz down your throat as you take it all in. The crowd, the dizzying masses, all sequin and leather and lace. A chandelier glitters above it all, concentric circles that seem to spin if you stare at it for too long.

Your co-star keeps her elbow locked with yours, tugging you through the house, pausing occasionally to accept an air kiss or make a vague promise to catch up soon. As soon as you move on, she leans in to whisper some scrap of gossip in your ear. 

Terrible flirt, never keeps his hands to himself. 

Worst actress I’ve ever seen, chews the scenery like you wouldn’t believe.

Shame about the divorce, but he should have seen it coming.

You melt from one circle to the next, an endless tide of introductions. You call yourself Lucky before you have a chance to correct it, to rethink the nickname, the endless blur of brand and body. But it doesn’t matter, not really. 

You can be Lucky tonight. 

These days, you’re her more often than you are you.

You wander through the house, taking it all in. The ugly, expensive art. Little statues tucked away on high shelves. No family photos, no shoes by the door. Only the icy veneer of impressive, impersonal wealth. There’s music playing, but it’s shapeless, meant to be heard rather than listened to. Just sounds, really. A bloated bassline, some sluggish synth. 

You think that you prefer the kinds of parties that your friends throw. Casual, comfortable. People sprawled out on the carpet, passing around a joint, or crowded together in the kitchen, trying to dance without bumping elbows. You’d kill for a night that was just dancing.

Here, it was hard not to feel watched. Observed.

Industry types lean in doorways and against railings, cool and impassive, polished in a sheen of self-importance. Around them: the aspirational drift moonish and eager, desperate to be swept into someone’s orbit. An artful hand on the hip, a precisely positioned chin. Hoping desperately to be seen, scouted.

You turn a corner and collide with someone. Champagne jumps from your glass, spilling over your fingers. A soft hand closes over your elbow, catching you before you can stumble.

“Shit, sorry about that.”

You blink up at the man attached to the hand, the apology written across his expression.

And you recognize him. At least, you think you do. 

He has a face like so many men in this city. Handsome enough, half-sculpted. The better-looking boys in their high schools, bolstered by some small-town ego, buoyed by visions of distant stardom. Inevitably disappointed when their egg whites and lean cuts of protein did not grant them entry into some secret world. Chiseled but unfinished. Forgotten marble. They pour coffee, they wait tables. Their good looks became window-dressing for someone else’s story.

He offers his hand with a warm, friendly smile and says, “It’s good to see you again.”

And you think maybe you do remember him. Standing at the edge of a set, a forgettable face from some past project. A producer, you think, like most of the men here. 

You smile up at him the way that you’re good at and say you too.

It’s mostly a lie. You’re trying very hard to remember his name, conjure it up from the blank spaces of your memory. Patrick, maybe. No, Patrick was the AD on the last film you shot. He must be Richard. Robert? You can’t figure out how to ask without insulting him.

“Do you know many people here?” he asks, maybe mistaking your expression for interest, romantic or otherwise. 

“Only a few,” you shrug, “It’s not really my scene.”

His smile widens as he shakes his head. 

“I don’t believe that,” he says, “I bet you fit in anywhere.”

He’s flirting. Leaning in the way that men tend to, like he might catch a bit of your shine if he stands close enough. 

Your co-star reappears, breathless and grinning.

“Everyone is jumping in the pool!” she says, taking your hand in hers and pulling you towards the back of the house.

The man watches you go with a wistful sort of look on his face.

“Maybe I’ll see you later,” he calls after you.

It’s hopeful, almost charming. 

You let your gaze linger for a moment. Let him indulge in the fantasy, however briefly. And maybe you will find him later, circle back as the night ebbs and make good on the promise of your smile. 

But probably not. 

It’s been less than an hour, and you already want to leave. You miss Joan Baez. You miss your bottle of wine. You miss the sound of your own name, the way it’s said without any innuendo or smirk. 

But the night has barely been worth the price of a taxi, so you swallow down the rest of your champagne and try to find the fun in it. The excitement. People would kill for an invitation to a party like this, to be in a beautiful house surrounded by such beautiful things. You search for any of that in yourself, some wide-eyed awe that could gloss over the evening. 

Instead, you only find the beginnings of a headache, a low throb in the base of your skull.

There’s a crowd gathering at the edge of the enormous pool, watching amused as a group of drunken guests splash around in the shallow end. Clothes on, still holding cocktails that must be half-chlorine. Lost in their own revelry, trying to playfully drown each other as the rest of the party watches.

You sip your champagne, waiting for the buzz to take hold, to soften the cold and the ache of your heels. 

Guest after guest kicks off their shoes and jumps in the pool to a giddy wave of oohs and aahs. The occasional cannonball or backflip earns a scattering of applause. Suit jackets are stripped away, abandoned on deck chairs. Women’s dresses billow underwater, strange jellyfish that float up above their waists.

There’s a shout as a young actress is scooped into someone’s arms and thrown into the pool. The splash arcs high, water raining down on the skirts and shoes of those standing closest. The actress emerges after a beat, drenched and beaming, swiping her hair back from her pretty face.

That starts something. Men grabbing their dates, their girlfriends, and tossing them into the water. There are indignant cries, playful laughter. A few of them get pulled in, toppled over by their own gravity.

A hand reaches from out of nowhere, grazes along your lower back, and you shrink away instinctively. 

You’re not going in the fucking pool.

Actually, you think that maybe you need to go home. The headache is getting worse, and you’re starting to feel a little dizzy. Something in the music is setting your teeth on edge, the occasional shrieks striking an uneasy nerve.

A girl standing too close to the edge loses her balance and falls in. She comes up spluttering and scared, floundering for the edge. There’s a cheer when she finds it, a few glasses raised. Her white dress has gone sheer, exposing the pink pebble of her breast to the onlookers. When she smiles, her teeth are chattering.

Your stomach twinges uncomfortably.

Shit.

You might actually be sick.

Not here. Not in front of all these people. 

“I’ll be right back.”

Your co-star catches your eye, raises an eyebrow. Need company? But you shake your head and lift your glass. Just getting another drink.

You slip back into the main house, away from the noise and bodies, down a quiet hallway that stretches into the rest of the house. More terrible art lines the walls. Brutalist and obscure, void of any warmth. You pause between paintings, waiting for your stomach to settle, for the headache to recede.

But it doesn’t.

You’re not drunk — you can’t be drunk. 

You’re only a few sips into your second drink. And sure, maybe you’re a bit of a lightweight, but never like this. Maybe the hit in the car was laced with something, or it’s reacting badly with the wine, or there was something —

Your gaze slides to the champagne flute in your hand, the soft ripples on the surface. 

Did you set it down? Just for a second? To shake a hand, maybe, or refasten the strap on your heel. You didn’t notice, you weren’t paying attention. 

But you can feel it now.

The slow creeping fog in your head, a haze of dilution. The lights a little too bright, the music a little too loud. Your skin feels heated and buzzing, something boiling beneath.

There was something in your drink. 

The realization sinks through you like a stone, a buzz of panic rising in your veins. You press your fingertips to your throat and feel your fluttering, unsteady pulse. Slower than it should be. 

Not good. Probably very bad, but you try not to panic. 

You double back to the pool area, the mess of bodies, so many strangers. The music is so fucking loud, God, how does anyone think? You search for your co-star, or any of the girls from the car, but they could be any one of the many wet heads in the pool. It’s impossible to tell, impossible to get anyone’s attention amidst the chaos. 

Someone bumps into you and your heel slips against the wet cement. You manage to catch yourself, but only just. Your balance is all wrong, off-center, some new gravity taking hold.

Whatever this is, it’s working fast.

And you can’t keep looking for the others, can’t wait for this to get any worse. 

You turn back to the house, but find a man in front of you, his broad face twisted in a leer. The front of his shirt is soaked through, clinging to the stretch of his stomach.

“Want to go for a swim?” 

You force a smile, even as your insides revolt, as your skin stretches too tight. 

“Not right now, thanks.”

You try to step around him, but he moves with you, blocking your way. His pupils are blown wide, expression hungry as he takes in your dress, the bare skin of your legs. 

“C’mon,” he coaxes, “The water’s warm.”

You don’t have time for this, for him. You let the mask drop, Lucky sliding away to leave only you. Angry, frightened, slightly feral you. No more smiling, teeth bared in a snarl.

“Fuck off,” you snap.

His expression sours, curdling like milk.

“Bitch,” he mutters, but doesn’t try to stop you again as you shoulder past.

You try to keep your breathing steady, weaving through the crowd gathered at the window, watching the spectacle outside. The house has half-emptied, everyone else spilling out into the night air. There’s a couple tangled together on one of the sofas, all legs and arms, apparently oblivious to their surroundings.

It takes a few wrong turns, a few locked doors, before you find a phone down one of the empty hallways.

Your hand is shaking as you dial Tess’s number, the receiver held so tightly you can hear the plastic creaking against your ear. 

It rings. 

And rings.

And goes straight to Tess's voicemail.

Fuck.

You try the apartment next, but it rings right through. And of course it does. It’s a Saturday night, the girls are almost never home on the weekend. And they’re too far anyways, all the way on the west side. You’re not sure you could even stay conscious for the hour it would take them to get here. 

You’re halfway gone already. The slow creep of fever along your spine, the fuzzing edges of your vision. It’s an effort to stay upright, to stay focused. You can’t stay here, in this house full of strangers. 

There’s only one other number that you know.

One you memorized, girlish and hopeful, but never called. The numbers scrawled on a receipt, tucked into a book by your bed, read over and over until they burned on the back of your eyelids. 

Your hands are shaking as you dial, slipping twice so you have to start over. And you realize it’s late, too late to call, and he doesn’t even like you very much. But there’s no one else.

Joel answers on the second ring. 

“Hello?”

His voice is low, scratched up with sleep. 

“Joel?”

He says your name, and you think, inanely, how much you like the way he says it. The deep gravel of his voice, all the things you’ve been trying to forget. 

“Everything okay?” he asks. He sounds — surprised, maybe. Confused. But not annoyed, not angry that you called. At least he hasn’t hung up on you yet.

“I’m sorry, it’s so late. I tried to call Tess. First, I called her first. And my friends. But no one’s answering and — and —”

You shake your head as a wave of dizziness threatens to overtake you. 

“Hey, slow down,” Joel says, “What’s going on?”

“I think —” you swallow, “I think there was something in my drink.”

You hear his sharp intake of breath. 

“Where are you?”

There’s a hard edge to his voice. An urgency.

You try to scrape through the fog of your memory. You can’t keep your thoughts straight, they keep spilling and tripping together. Someone had said, had told the driver the name as you slid into the back of the car. 

“In the hills. At a house. Some producer guy’s — Rich something?”

“Matthews?”

Fuck. Maybe. Names really are not your strong suit tonight.

“I think so?”

“I’m coming to get you.”

Relief surges through you, though with it comes another wave of dizziness, the black-blue blur at the edge of your vision. It takes a second to realize that you haven’t answered, that Joel is still talking to you.

“Just stay put, alright? I’ll get there as fast as I can.”

“Okay,” you tell him.

“Twenty minutes,” he says, and the line goes dead.

You let the phone slip from your hand, skittering back against the wall as the coil contracts. 

He’s coming. Joel is coming. Twenty minutes. 

You’re not sure how much time you have, how much further you have to fall. You dig your nails into the skin of your arm, focusing on the bite of pain, the sharp sting. Something to keep you awake. Present.

There’s a burst of laughter, the dance of footsteps, and a couple stumbles into the hall. Faces flushed, hands entwined. They stop short when they see you, their shameless apology tripping out through laughter.

You force something like a smile onto your face, straightening as they make their way past you, disappearing through a doorway down the hall. 

Shit. Your head aches. You need quiet, need to be alone. You really need to not fall apart in the middle of this party, where anyone could see you and shape your current state into some seedy tabloid story.

You press your hands over your eyes, digging the heel into your socket, trying to relieve some of the pressure there.

“Lucky?”

You look up. 

It's him again. The producer, the one whose name you can’t fucking remember. Patrick-Richard-whatever.

You try to straighten, but your knees buckle and you fall back against the wall. Stars burst in front of your vision, obscuring his face, distorting his mostly handsome features. 

“Woah, hey,” he frowns, “You okay?”

“Not feeling great,” you mutter, swallowing down the bile at the back of your throat. 

He chuckles, “The bartender’s a pretty stiff pour.”

You smile weakly. You really don’t want to throw up on him. But his shoes don’t look that expensive. You could probably replace them. 

You must be a little green, because he asks, “Want to get some air?” 

Yeah. Yeah, air might be good. Might clear some of the fever in your head, defibrillate you back into sobriety. At the very least, there will probably be fewer witnesses if you puke. 

You nod, and he offers his arm out for you to take. Which is good, because it’s starting to feel like the ground is slipping out from beneath you. 

“There’s a great balcony,” he’s saying, “You can see the whole valley.”

You’re staring at the floor, focusing on every step as you take it. The rich brocade of the hall carpet, the threshold of the room, the dark hardwood of wherever the fuck you are now. You blink up at the dark room, the French doors and the balcony beyond. 

Then you hear the soft click of the lock behind you.

And your stomach drops.

Hands reach out from behind you, sliding around your waist, pulling you close. A sweaty grip at the back of your dress, a gin-soaked breath at your ear. 

“Thought we could use a little more privacy.”

You freeze. Breath catching in your throat, every joint and muscle locking in place. A fear like poison, like disease, slithers through your veins. 

He put something in your drink.

Somewhere between shaking your hand and making you smile, he slipped something in your fucking champagne. You hadn’t noticed, hadn’t registered him as a threat. His banal, lukewarm smile. His easy flirtation. Not asking too much, barely even pushing.

Because he didn’t need to push.

He planned this.

Nausea twists in your stomach and now you wish you would puke. Ruin the moment, spoil whatever fucked up fantasy he wants to play out. But you can’t even think against the ache in your head, the thrum of your own pulse.

He presses his face into your neck, tongue darting out to taste your skin. His hand slides over your hip, down to the hem of your dress. He gathers it in a fist, the fabric bunching beneath his grip.

“Such a tease,” he murmurs, “This dress was driving me crazy.”

His grip is tight, holding you firmly to his chest. Every touch is hungry, consuming. You can feel him hard against you, pressing against your ass, threatening every awful thing that he wants to do to you. 

You feel surrounded, smothered. The heavy spice of his cologne, the bitter taint of sour sweat beneath. He’s everywhere, hands moving over your body, scraping across your skin.

“Stop,” you try to say, but your voice is a weak, shattered thing. 

It’s taking everything in you to cling to that last scrap of consciousness. Even if you weren’t drugged, you doubt you could fight him off. He’s twice your size, all lean muscle. The hand that flexes at your waist is a threat, a warning.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he murmurs, “Don’t be like that.”

And maybe you should just give in. 

Let go, slip into the waiting black. Submit to sharper teeth, let yourself become easy prey. It might be less painful that way. You probably wouldn’t even feel anything. You would wake up tomorrow, sore and aching, with the shadow of this awful thing, but no real memory of it. 

Lips brush your cheek, searching for your mouth. Tasting of smoke and gin and the worst night of your life. 

He’s too close, his grip too tight. The hand at your waist slides down, finding your bare thighs beneath the hem of your dress. Your breath hitches, catching on a sob, as his fingers brush against your center.

“Let me in.”

Something base and animal comes to life inside you. A clawing, gnashing fear that rips through you.

You twist in his grasp. Twist and writhe and wrench away from his hands, the suffocating press of his body against yours. His hands scrape against you, nails breaking skin, but you break free. 

Just for a second. Just for a breath.

Long enough to turn to face him on your shaky legs, to stare into the eyes of this man whose name you don’t even fucking know. The warmth is gone from his gaze. His friendly, forgettable face is now twisted, turned ugly with frustration. His hands twitch at his side — the hands he put on you, the fingers he tried to press inside.

“So that’s how it’s going to be?” he sneers.

And then lunges for you.

You see him coming, the hands reaching out for you, and try to move out of the way. 

But your legs don’t work. Your reactions are slow, stuck in the mind-numbing molasses of whatever was in your drink. You take a single, stumbling step and your heel snags on the carpet.

Your head hits something on the way down. The sharp edge of a table. You didn’t see it, didn’t realize it was there. 

You land hard, wrong. All the air punches out of your lungs from the force of the fall, the pain splitting through your skull. You can taste blood in your mouth, the bite of metal behind your teeth. It’s thick and bitter when you try to swallow.

It’s too much. The ache in your head, the heavy weight in your limbs. You want to sleep, to stop fighting, to sink into the soft darkness waiting just at the edge of your vision.

There are hands on you again. Dragging you back, turning you over. A weight settles over your legs, pinning you down.

“You like it rough, huh?” he hisses. 

You can barely see, vision spotting and smeared with color. His face is a blur above you. Your dress is shoved up over your stomach. You hear the clink of his belt coming undone.

Things are slipping, gone hazy and hard to understand. You can’t think over the pounding in your head. 

Or maybe it’s not in your head.

There’s a heavy thud, a muffled shout, and then the crack of splintering wood as the door is forced open.

You can’t see, can’t breathe. It’s all colors and sounds, shuffling and swearing, until suddenly the weight is off you. 

You twitch away, curling in on yourself, knees tucking up to your chest. A black film swims over your vision, threatening to overwhelm you. Your nails bite into your legs, and the sharp sting brings you back, keeps you teetering on the edge of consciousness. 

Blinking hard, the blackness ebbs away. The room settles into soft-focus.

The man is crumpled on the floor a few feet away from you, clutching at his nose. Blood seeps between his fingers, dribbles down his chin. You didn’t hear bone but you hope to fuck it’s broken. His expression is stained with fear, eyes wide as he watches —

Joel.

It’s Joel.

He’s here. He came for you. He’s here.

His steps are heavy as he crosses the room and drags the other man up by the collar of his shirt, lifting him so they’re eye level. His expression is stony, severe. Ice-cold fury.

“What the fuck did you give her?” Joel demands.

The other man struggles against him, but it doesn’t matter. Joel is bigger, stronger. When the answer doesn’t come immediately, he tightens his grip.

“Ow, shit, man,” the guy winces, “Fucking rohypnol. It’s just supposed to loosen them up.”

Joel’s jaw tenses, and you think maybe he’s going to hit him again. Break some more bones. Damage some vital organs, if you’re lucky.

Instead, he lets go. Shoves him back towards the door, sniffling and still bleeding.

“Get out,” Joel snarls.

The guy doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t spare you so much as a glance before he stumbles out of the door.

When Joel turns to you, all the anger is gone from his expression. His brow drawn, concern etched in every line on his face. He approaches you slowly, warily. Easing down to crouch beside you.

You swallow hard, trying to find words in the slur of your head, the blood in your mouth.

“He — he —”

You realize you’re shaking, the cold of shock settling in. 

“Hey,” Joel says gently, “You’re okay.”

He smooths his hand over your skirt, pulling your dress back down to cover your legs. You ease a little under his familiar touch, the careful way he pieces you back together. Sliding the strap back onto your shoulder. Thumbing the blood on your chin.

“Can you walk?” he asks.

“I think so.”

You just want to go, to get out of this house. You’ll crawl if you have to.

He lifts you up carefully, helps you settle on shaky legs. You try to straighten, to stand on your own stupid heels, but the world tips sideways, a sudden lurch that has stars dancing across your vision again.

But Joel is there. His hand at your hip, his arm wrapping around your waist. Steadying you. 

“Easy,” he murmurs, tucking you into his side, “I’ve got you.”

It’s a blur, mostly. The hardwood, then back onto the carpet of the hall. Joel supporting most of your weight, his voice low in your ear. Doing good. Just a little further. Through the crowd downstairs, the eyes that slide over you, drunk and disinterested.

When you finally reach the front door and step out into the night, you stop short. You close your eyes, inhaling deeply, hoping the fresh air might settle something in you. 

It doesn’t. 

“Almost there, baby,” Joel says.

You force yourself to nod, to keep moving.

His truck is a reddish blur at the end of the driveway. He keeps you balanced as he unlocks the door and helps you inside, closing it carefully behind you. Your body sags into the worn leather seat, aching and exhausted, eyes already fluttering shut.

You’re distantly aware of the engine roaring to life beneath you, the crunch of gravel as Joel pulls out of the drive. The dark, twisting hills that sink into city streets. Asphalt and lilacs, the air cool on your feverish skin.

You come-to a few seconds before you realize that you’re going to be sick.

“Shit,” you mutter, “Joel, pull over.”

He does, easing the truck over to the side of the road.

The second it rolls to a stop, you’re fumbling for the door handle and throwing it open. You barely manage to lean over the side before you’re vomiting, spilling sour champagne into the street below. 

You feel hands scraping up your hair. Soothing strokes down the length of your spine.

“You’re okay,” Joel says, “Get it all out.”

It takes a second. Shuddering and retching, your body finally revolting against the poison inside it. When you’re finally empty, you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand and lean back into the seat. Sweating. Shaking. The acid taste of bile sharp on your tongue.

Joel watches you. Wary. Worried. Waiting for your go-ahead. 

“You good?”

No. Definitely not. But you think you’re done puking, so you nod.

“Alright,” he says, “Not much longer now.”

X x x x x

You come back to your body in a quiet, unfamiliar place – bathed in a deep blue darkness, the muddy warmth of a streetlight. Soft carpet beneath your bare feet, a blanket around your shoulders. Someone moving nearby, a low voice. Gentle, coaxing.

“Can you look at me?”

It takes a second to focus on Joel’s face in front of you.  Everything is a little melty, the colors soft and smudged, blurring at the edges. Your head feels so impossibly heavy, an anvil on your shoulders.

“Where are we?” you ask, and the words come out slurred, the consonants gone soft and lazy.

Joel raises his hand to stroke your hair back from your face. His fingers feel warm and dry against your cheek.

“My place,” he tells you.

His place. The idea of it sits strange, doesn’t settle. You figured he would take you home, or to Tess. Leave you for someone else to deal with. You’re not his mess, not his problem.

You frown.

“Why?”

“You’re sick,” he says simply, “Someone’s gotta keep an eye on you.”

You blink again, trying to bring the blurred outline of him into focus. He’s crouched in front of the sofa, face level with yours. The tense set of his jaw, his brows drawn together in concern. He’s holding a glass of water, and he presses it carefully into your palm, curling your fingers for you.

“Can you drink this for me?” he asks, voice as gentle as his hands. 

Your arm shakes as you bring the glass up to your lips, and it’s an effort to make your throat work the way it’s supposed to. It feels raw, wrong. But you manage, swallowing down a few mouthfuls, the water soothing some of the burn inside of you, washing away the metallic taint of vomit and blood.

“Good girl,” Joel murmurs, “Let’s get you cleaned up, alright?”

You hum your assent, though your head is still too hazy to follow from one thought to the next. It snags on the good girl, the warmth in his voice that makes you want to cry. 

But then Joel's arms are around you, lifting you easily and tucking you against his chest. You sink into the warmth of him, the sway of his step as he carries you upstairs. Eyes closed, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. You wish your own would settle, even out. It’s still too slow, your blood too thick in your veins.

He eases you down onto the bathroom counter, cool granite under the bare skin of your thighs. His hand holds steady at your hip as he leans over to flip a switch. Soft light spills into the small room, and you wince against the brightness. Your head is still sore. Every inch of you aches.

Joel's gaze flickers over you. Steady, assessing. You think, absently, that you must be a mess. Mascara smudged from crying and puking, sick still clinging to your skin. Dress stained from the same, ripped in places you don’t want to think about, not when your stomach still feels so tender.

“Can we take this off, darlin’?” Joel asks.

You nod, lifting your arms. You want it off, gone. Burned, maybe. You doubt you could ever wear it again without feeling the grip of those hands, the snag and tear when he tried to take it off you. 

Joel's hands are careful as he eases the dress over your head.

You shiver, goosebumps on your bare skin. But you don’t bother covering your breasts. It’s not like there’s anything to hide. Joel's seen it all before, knows every inch of your body better than anyone else.

There’s no heat in his gaze when he looks at you now, no hunger as he wipes a damp rag over your skin. Skin that he’s kissed and bit and come over. That he now strokes gently, carefully. Cleaning away the remnants of the night.

You should really shower, but you’d probably drown.

He tugs a worn t-shirt over your head. Pulls your hair free from the collar, smooths it over your skin. You blink up at him, and his brow furrows in concern. Dark eyes lingering on your split lip, all the places you’ll probably bruise. 

“That hurt?” he asks.

You shake your head.

“S’not bad.”

He hums, but still looks. Tilting your head towards the light, touching the swollen skin.

He’s being so — soft. The tenderness in his touch, in the way he’s looking at you. It makes you ache in a way that has nothing to do with the drugs.

You lean forward, tucking your face against his neck, breathing in the whiskey and oak smell of him. His hand rubs along your back, over the knobs of your spine. You feel the pinch of tears behind your eyes.

“I was really scared,” you whisper.

Joel tenses, his hold on you tightening a fraction. 

And it strikes you how easy this is, how well you know each other's bodies. There’s familiarity in every touch, every inch of skin. You’re half-drugged, half-naked. And still you feel safe, despite his bigness, his rough edges.

His hand comes up to cup the back of your head, cradling the bowl of your skull in his heavy palm. His nose brushes against your temple, breath warm against your cheek. You’re alright, he murmurs. 

You twist your fingers into the fabric of his shirt, nuzzling your face into his neck. Hoping he can feel the thank you, the gratitude fluttering at the base of your throat. He strokes your hair, and you think he understands.

“Come on,” he says, “Let’s get you to bed.”

He steps back, and you try to slide off the counter. 

Your knees give out the second your feet touch the floor, and stumble. Catching yourself on the edge of the counter, wincing as the room spins.

“Fuck,” you mutter. The pounding behind your eyes resumes, a steady throb.

“Careful,” Joel says, “That shit’s still in your system. Can't do any cartwheels.”

You mumble something about just trying to fucking walk, but then Joel’s arms are around you again, scooping you off the floor. And that’s fine too. Better, probably.

He deposits you gently onto a bed. His bed, you realize, dimly. The smell of him on soft gray sheets. Your bare legs slide beneath the blankets, the same space he sleeps every night. It twists inside you, a funny feeling blooming in your stomach.

The mattress shifts as he sits beside you, holding out the refilled glass.

“Drink some more for me.”

You do, and you don’t shake as much this time. You feel only slightly more human when you finish. Still drugged, but the room stops spinning. You can blink without seeing stars.

You grimace, setting the glass aside. 

“I think men are bad.”

Joel chuckles softly, his hand smoothing over your hair.

“Real bad.”

You meet his gaze, the warmth in the deep brown of his eyes.

“Not you,” you murmur, “You’re okay.”

Even as you say it, you feel the weight of what’s happened hanging between you. The ugly way you’d left things. The anger, the uncertainty. There’s still so much shit you don’t understand, can’t make sense of. The way he is with you now — where was that when he left you standing in that fucking closet, hurt and confused.

Joel’s brow furrows, and he drops his gaze.

“‘M sorry about the other night,” he says, “I shouldn’t’ve left like that.”

Something nervous and vulnerable flutters in your stomach, but you figure you’ve done plenty to embarrass yourself tonight. It can’t get any worse, really.

“Did I —” you swallow, “Did I do something wrong?”

Joel looks up sharply, shaking his head.

“No. No, ‘course not,” he frowns, “It ain’t that. It’s, well — it’s complicated.”

You tilt your head, studying him in the half-light. There’s that nerve that ticks in his jaw. You used to think it meant he was angry, annoyed. Now you think it’s something else. All the things he won’t let himself say, swallowed down like glass.

“I’ve got time,” you say softly.

Joel looks up, lips twitching.

“What you’ve got is a bunch of fucking benzos messin’ with your head.” 

You bite back a smile.

“Might as well tell me then,” you shrug, “I probably won’t remember in the morning.”

Joel huffs out a sigh, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, staring down at a blank stretch of carpet. His profile silhouetted by the bedroom window, bathed in soft blue light.

“I, uh, kept tellin’ myself I’d keep my distance,” he says.

You blink.

“From me?”

He nods, still not meeting your eye.

“Why?”

He scrubs a hand over his face, frustration evident in every hard line of his body.

“Told you, lines get blurred,” he says, “Figured it’d be easier if I stayed away.”

You think of that first scene, the way he walked away without looking back, how it settled like lead in your stomach. The anger in his face when you’d shown up at the bar, the livewire of tension between you. How much it hurt every time he pulled away, shut you out. 

You frown.

“I don’t want you to stay away.”

“I know, darlin’,” he sighs, gaze flicking up to meet yours, “And that makes it a helluva lot harder.”

Something warm pools in the pit of your stomach. 

Stupid, infuriating man. You want to hit him. You want to kiss him, actually, but you’re pretty sure you still taste like puke. Still, you should try to argue. Plead your case. Explain all the reasons why staying away from you is a terrible idea.

You try to push yourself up, and spots immediately cloud your vision. A fresh wave of nausea threatens to overtake you and you wince, squeezing your eyes shut. 

“Woah, easy,” Joel catches your arm before you can topple off the edge of the bed and eases you back down. 

You can’t even argue as he tucks the blankets in around you, pulling the comforter up to your chin.

“Just gotta sleep it off, baby,” he says.

“What if — what if I — asphyxiate, or whatever,” you mumble. 

You hear Joel’s low chuckle somewhere nearby, the shift of the mattress beneath him as he settles in.

“Not gonna let you,” he says, “I'll be right here.”

The darkness seeps in at the edges of your vision, and finally, you give in.

x x x x x x x x 

author’s note: There is no situation, context, or flirtation that ever excuses sexual assault. It is never the victim’s fault.

If you need support, the resources below may be helpful: 

RAINN National Sexual Assault Hotline 800-656-4673 | Online Chat

Find a sexual assault service provider near you here. For international readers, you can find local providers here.

Additional resources:

The Sexual Trauma and Abuse Care Center

LGBTQ National Hotline

Mental Health Support for BIPOC Survivors

National Organization of Asian and Pacific Islanders Ending Sexual Violence

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

Notifications blog | Tip jar | Chloe's masterlist

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. 

◁ Meet Me in the Back Masterlist ▷

{Moodboard by the head "sleazy gas station joel" slut herself @chloeangelic}

Status: Ongoing (sporadic) Pairing: sleazy gas station clerk!joel x fem!reader Series Summary: When you stumble into your local gas station one night and the sleazy clerk refuses to sell you alcohol, you have to get creative. What should have just been a one time bribe winds up being more than you bargained for. Rating: Explicit 18+ for all chapters [Minors Do Not Interact] Series Warnings/Tags: Age gap, daddy!kink, size!kink, breeding!kink, mentions of cigarettes/weed/alcohol, minor degradation!kink, VERY light dubcon for first part, really cringey dirty talk courtesy of joel but it's hot. Please see individual chapters for more indepth warnings/tags. a/n: this series has such a special place in my heart, and i'm so humbled and grateful for all of the love (and reluctant attraction) y'all have expressed for my little slimeball Joel I've crafted. if you're new, i hope you enjoy and please feel free to hop into my inbox with thoughts/headcanons/requests and i'll see what i can do :) 💘

Main Series:

Part 1: Meet Me in the Back  summary: When the gas station clerk refuses to sell you alcohol after a shitty day, you need to get creative word count: 3.8K

Part 2: The Night Is Dark Enough We’re Only Seeing Stars summary: You can’t resist another visit to Joel in all his pervy glory. word count: 4.7K

Part 3: Hard to Break the Habit summary: When you need some air in your tires, Joel does some filling  word count: ~5k

Headcanons/Drabbles:

-> Thanksgiving/Black Friday Headcanon (~290 words)

-> A Day in the Life Headcanon (~500 words)

-> First Text Exchange Headcanon (~200 Words)

-> Schtupping the Soccer Mom Headcanon

-> Our Man’s Kinks

Extras

Steal His Look!!! by the effervescent chloeangelic once again

i know it when i see it // masterlist

ao3 | playlist | ethics

pairing: pornstar!joel miller x fem!reader

summary: it's the golden age of porn. sex and sin are the national pastime. your career in adult films starts opposite a man who goes by the name texas.

part one

part two

part three

part four

part five

part six

part seven

part eight

epilogue

thoughts

1.6k / joel miller x virgin!reader / master

sequel to Aches but can read alone. Next: Needs. WARNINGS: I8+ mdni, big girthy age gap (20/50s) only one sleeping bag, pining, fingering, grinding, jacking off, hand job, mutual masturbation, innocence, pet names. No use of y/n.

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“You don’t have to do it for me,” you whisper.  

The problem is, the more Joel relieves you, the more often you seem to ache.  The more you think about him and his body - his body pressed against yours, wrapped around yours.  Inside yours - It’s what you think about all day, every day now.  It’s getting really bad.  It’s hard to keep eye contact sometimes.  

-

Earlier, you were both rummaging through an abandoned convenience store. Joel walked up and asked, “Find anything ya like?”  You turned around and your eyes instantly fell on his tight jeans.  He followed your gaze down, then slowly stepped toward you.  “Hmm?” he prompted you.  

You stammered, “Sorry. What?”  

He smiled to himself.  “See anything ya like?” 

“I, uh-”  

“In the store, honey.”  He briefly glanced around the building.  “Find anything good?” 

“Oh.  No, I guess not.” Your whole face was hot.  

He cupped your burning cheek and his brow furrowed as he asked, “You okay, sweetie? You’re warm.” 

“Yeah, I’m okay,” you whispered with your eyes drowning in his.  A pool was forming in your panties and his touch on your face made you throb between the legs.  It was that moment you realized how out of control your desires were getting.  It was a constant distraction. 

-

Now you’re huddled in his sleeping bag as usual.  Joel is spooning you with his hard dick pressed against you.  Your top leg is back slightly behind you, between his legs, to make room for his hand between your thighs. He’s two knuckles deep and you’re already close to falling apart. He’s been helping you for a couple of weeks now, and it gets easier and easier to let yourself come. 

“Course I don’t have to,” he says and pushes another finger into you.  You inhale a chest full of air as he pushes his digits to the hilt and curls them.  Your hips lift into his hand which was already soaked with your arousal before he inserted a single digit.  “Why? Want me to stop?” Your clit rubs against his slick palm as he expertly works his fingers. 

“No,” you whisper. “I don’t want you to stop.” 

“Good,” he murmurs, moving his fingers rhythmically as you grind into his hand.  Then he whispers in your ear,  “Cause I kinda like doin’ it.”  

You moan softly. 

“Ya know,” he says softly, “You might like helpin’ me, too.”  

You’ve thought so much about his cock.  You’ve felt it pressed hard against you so many times through his boxers and your panties.  You’ve never touched it though, not with your hands.  You haven’t felt the skin, except one time when it was accidentally peeking through his boxers and the tip touched your lower back, making a wet spot on your shirt.  When you flinched, he apologized. 

“Yeah,” you whisper. “Maybe.” 

“Why don’t we find out,” he murmurs. “try just a few seconds?”

You swallow, ashamed of your eagerness for anything involving his cock.  “Okay,” you say hesitantly.  

“Good girl.”  He takes his hand away from between your legs for just long enough to free his aching manhood from his boxers and lube it with your slick. “Gimme your hand, sweetie.”  

“I dunno how or anything,” you tell him. You clench your thighs together, still in need of relief.  You’re not sure if you’ve ever ached this badly.  

“That’s okay.  Don’t gotta do anything.” 

You slowly reach back, offering him your hand as you crane your neck to look to his eyes for reassurance.  It’s too dark to see, but you can still feel what his warm eyes would look like. 

“Think you’re gonna like this. But if ya don’t, ya don’t have to, okay?” He wraps your hand around his cock upside down. “Yeah,” he whispers.  “Just kinda hold it. That’s all ya gotta do.” His breathing is heavier with your hand touching his stiff cock. It’s larger than you thought it would be.  You always imagined you’d easily be able to wrap your hand around one.  

Joel thrusts into your slick hand and you feel a stab of need.

“How’s that?” he asks, thrusting slowly into your hand again with a barely audible grunt. 

“Good,” you whisper, holding your hand behind you. The skin of his shaft is so smooth. Now more than ever, you’re aching to be filled.  

“Attagirl,” he murmurs.  “Still want my help, right?”

“Yeah,” you breathe.  

“Good girl.” He reaches his arm over yours and slides his hand between your legs again. He softly groans when he feels how much wetter you are than you were just a minute ago.  All this, just from touching his cock.  “God damn,” he whispers. 

“What?”

“Nothin', baby.”  

It would be hard to say what you prefer - having his cock thrust into your hand or against your body. But finally feeling it naked, feeling its shape, the softness of the skin, the impossible firmness of the erection – it takes your breath away.  He slides two fingers into your cunt and pumps them at the same slow rhythm he’s thrusting into your hand. 

Your pleasure builds rapidly, and you badly need release. “Doin’ great, baby,” he says in a deep, gruff whisper. “Just perfect.” He gradually increases the pace,  moving his fingers and cock in unison.  His cock fills your hand as his fingers fill your dripping cunt.  You’re keenly aware of what you’d rather be filled with.  

He softly grunts into your hair.  “Ohh, yeah,” he sighs as he thrusts into your hand and pumps his fingers.

You whimper at the edge of your climax, your upper back pressing into his chest and your hips grinding desperately into his large hand as his fingers fuck you. Your whole body tenses. 

He talks you through it soothingly as usual, lips planted near your ear. “Yeah, baby,” he murmurs, “you’re there, I got ya.”  Your hips push desperately into the palm of his hand, and his hand pushes back just right.  You whine his name as your core finds its stuttering release. The pleasure is more explosive than ever.  

“Good girl,” he whispers.  You recover for a few seconds, then turn around to face him.  He quickly folds down the unzipped sleeping bag for more space and rolls onto his back.  “You wanna keep helpin’?”

You nod and whisper, “yeah.” Then you add “Am I doing okay?” 

“'Course you are, baby. Get your hand wet between your legs now,” he says, which embarrasses you.  

“Nothin’ to be ashamed of, remember?” 

You take his cock in  your hand again and he covers it with his, showing you how tight to grip it and how to stroke it over the head. 

“Good girl.” 

-

Once you’ve got the hang of it, he asks, “You like helpin’ me?” 

You nod as you keep stroking his cock.  

Joel says, “Mmm hmm,” and looks at you curiously.  “Why’d ya say I don’t have to help?” His breathing is still heavy, but he’s trying to control it as you talk. 

You open your mouth but hesitate to answer. Instead, you stare down into the darkness, imagining what his cock must look like based on all the details that are gliding in and out of your hand.  He’s soooo hard.  

“You can tell me anything, pretty girl.”  He takes a deep breath. “We figure stuff out together, remember?” He breathes again. “Always do.” 

“Yeah,” you whisper, then you swallow. “I dunno how to say it,” you admit.  

“Do your best,” he says. 

“Since you’ve been helping me, I’ve been feeling it more often.”

“You have?” he asks. “Like how?” His hips subtly move as you keep stroking his cock. 

“Like during the day.  Randomly.” 

“That’s okay, baby.” 

“But it aches, and it’s distracting.” 

“Distracting?”  His voice becomes more strained. 

“I have a lot of thoughts all the time.” 

“What kinda thoughts, baby?”  His voice has a sense of urgency. 

“About you.” 

He moans softly. “Uh-huh. Like what?” 

“Um-”

“Tell me anything, baby,” he quickly reassures you, nearly out of breath.   

“About this,” you whisper. You pause to give his cock a squeeze to make sure he knows that’s what you’re talking about.  “Yeah, about this.” Then you continue stroking.  

“Ohh baby,” he exhales. “Course ya do.” 

“All the time,” you whisper. 

“And what about it?”  he pants.  

“I’m not sure,” you mutter.  

“Thinkin’ ‘bout me bein’ inside you?” he asks, still panting.  He moans softly.  

“Yeah,” you whisper. 

“Ohhhhhh, God,” he sighs as he begins to pulse into your hand. “God damn, baby,” he breathes as he releases his last hot, sticky rope into your fist.   

-

Joel catches his breath, then says, “'Course ya have those thoughts, sweetie. I have the same thoughts. Everyone does."  

“You do?” 

“It’s normal,.  They teach biology in FEDRA school right?” 

“Yeah.”

“It’s biology, honey.  Our bodies feel things for each other.  They wanna be together in the way they’re meant to.  It’s how we work -  Nothin’ but science.” 

You’re not sure how that’s supposed to help you.  

He reaches for his backpack and grabs some paper to wipe off your hand and his stomach. 

“So what do I do about it?” you ask him. 

He’s quiet for a few seconds.  "Let’s think about it, honey.  We’ll figure it out together.” 

“Okay.” 

“We’ll figure it out, sweetie.  We always do.” 

“Yeah.” 

He wraps himself around you and kisses your head, then you say good night.  You think about what he said so matter of factly.  The thought of it excites you but also scares you.  Especially now that you’ve felt how big he is with your hand for scale. 

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Thank you so much for reading and engaging.  Love you guys <33

if you like this, please check out my dbf x innocent virgin! reader fic Left in Lincoln (dbf x virgin) which has been ongoing since April. Read warnings. Also, my master list has a virginity section on it.

You can subscribe to @toxicfics for notifications and @toxicrecs for my fic recs.

-

All Joel:@ethanhoewke @silkiers @eiviea @evyiione @xdaddysprincessxx @queerly-anxious @chernayawidow @ambassadortotrilliusprime @not-a-unique-snowflake-blog @jasminespringtime @romanarose  @fandomsfallnomore  @djarinxore @blackvelveteen1339   @manazo @wolvesandvampires  @taeslarityy  @str84pedro @lokanda  @kyloispunk  @filthfairy  @fieryglutenfreechickennoodles  @harriedandharassed  @moonlightdivine @worhols @fan-fiction-floozy  @cutesyscreenname  @weddingfairy  @pedropascal-whore  @spideysimpossiblegirl  @feministfanboi @gracieispunk @prettypartyfavor @am-3-thyst @babeincolor @milla-frenchy @switchbladedreamz

BAD BLOOD pt 3

Pairing: step uncle Joel Miller x f!reader x stepdad Tommy Miller

Tw: +18, mdni, smut, step-cest, big age gap (reader is 22, Joel and Tommy are in their late and mid-40s), perv!Joel, dark!Joel, dark!reader, dubconned!Tommy, mention of f!oral, mention of mfm, fingering, semi public, cum eating, degradation kink, praise kink, daddy kink, alcohol consumption, swearing, reader wears makeup.

Summary: Joel and Tommy take you out and things get heated.

Word count: 5,8k

A/n: it took me longer than I planned but pt 3 is finally here. I really hope you’ll like it! Kisses and hugs to everyone who has given love to the series💖 I’m very grateful!! Special thank you to @milla-frenchy for the support! Ily baby❤️

Series Masterlist || MASTERLIST

*****

You’re sitting at your vanity putting final touches to your makeup. Butterflies are dancing in your stomach and your pussy is tingling as the anticipation of the night electrifies your nerves.

You can’t believe that it’s finally going to happen. You’ve been imagining it for so long. Every holiday, every family visit to your college, every time you saw your stepdad the desire for him ignited your core. You imagined him taking you in your bed, claiming your pussy under the secrecy of the night. You wished he would send your mom to hell, close the door in her face and take you in your dorm room. You dreamt of him fucking you on your desk and making you squirt all over the books. You’ve craved that cock and the man attached to it for so long and today you’re finally going to get it all.

***

“Can you hurry up?” Joel’s booming voice startles you and your hand jerks making your eyeliner too thick. “Tommy’s waiting at the car and getting on my nerves, fidgety fucker.”

You see your step uncle’s reflection in the mirror and exclaim not turning to him, “Fuck! Stop creeping on me! Go away!”

Despite your words you quickly check him out through the mirror. He’s wearing dark blue jeans and a cardigan with the lowest V neck you’ve ever seen. Your mouth waters when you see his naked chest.

The man curses and steps into your bedroom shutting the door behind him. You turn swiftly, raising your hand in a stop gesture.

“No. Get out! You’re not coming on my face again. I just did my makeup,” you turn back to the mirror and start fixing your ruined eyeliner barely moving your lips to talk, “tonight is about Tommy and me anyway.”

“In love with your stepdad. Fuckin’ hell!” Joel chuckles, walking to your bed. He sits down and places the elbows on his thighs. His voice gets serious, “I want you to remember what you promised me, angel. No back outs.”

“I’m not in love, Joel. Just wanna fuck him. I’m gonna do everything the way we planned, ok? I can’t believe he’s still talking to you. After what you’ve done.”

Joel rubs his beard hiding a smile. “Told him you wanted to find out if he’d fuck you and I obliged. Then I just made big eyes ‘What?! She recorded it? No way! What a bitch!’ He ate it up,” he adds, looking pleased with himself.

You finally turn to him, eyes wide and mouth agape.

“Oh, so he thinks you’re innocent?!”

“Tommy knows that I’m far from innocent. But you…”, he points his index finger at you, “your stunt shocked him. His sweet stepdaughter, blackmailing him into fucking her.. Shit!” He adjusts himself and you lick your lips shooting a glance at his bulge.

You turn back to the mirror and silence fills the bedroom while you’re applying your lipstick. You feel Joel's heavy gaze on you until his gruff voice breaks it, “This color will look great smeared on my balls, baby.”

You scoff at his words but don’t say anything. You can’t deny that the desire to suck him off has been growing exponentially since the moment he slapped you in the backyard. Especially when you saw his fat cock that morning. Now you really want that bonus he promised stuffed into your pussy.

When the makeup is done you get up and walk to the bed. Your short black dress with sheer sleeves is laid out next to Joel who’s manspreading his thick thighs. His knee touches your bare leg and you step away furrowing your brows and whine, “Can you leave? I need to change.” Your voice lacks confidence as in reality you want him to stay and watch but it’s hard to admit that this man who looks more like a pimp than a contractor makes your pussy tingle.

“What’s the matter, angel? We’re family, no need to be shy around me.”

You roll your eyes and shift on your feet contemplating your next move. After a few moments your hands rise up to untie your robe. You open it not turning away from Joel and throw it off your shoulders fully exposing yourself. The robe pools at your feet as you’re looking at him with defiance.

Joel’s expression is serious and pensive. He takes you in like you’re an object on display in a shop window. You hold your breath fearing that any degrading comment thrown your way now might really hurt you. But a wave of relief washes over you when you see him breathe in sharply, lean back on his hand, spreading his legs wider and palming his bulge.

“What if I give you my bonus right now, angel. I feel generous.”

Triumph seizes you when you see the signs of his desire - your power over him. You have an upper hand and now it’s your turn to smirk.

“Don’t think so, step uncle. Need to ask my daddy first.”

You turn around and walk to the dresser hearing the man chuckle. You feel his gaze on your ass and push it out a little to give him a better view.

You open the top drawer and look through your panties and bras wanting to choose a perfect set for tonight.

You hear your bed creak and then the heat of Joel’s body warms up your bare back and ass.

“Want me to help you choose, angel? I know what my brother likes.”

“I was thinking this one,” you muse picking up a red lacy set and showing it to him.

“Fuck, it’s hot, baby. Suits you well. Slutty,” he comments and then leans lower, his lips are brushing your ear as he whispers, “but don’t forget your role, angel. You’re his innocent stepdaughter. He thinks he hates that he wants to fuck you but he fuckin’ loves it. He’s as twisted as me, just hides it.”

He raises his arms at your sides caging you between his massive biceps and searches through the drawer. He’s looking over your shoulder and when his hot wet exhale hits your naked breasts, your nipples get hard. He picks up a light pink mesh set, decorated with cute little white hearts.

“Wear this one and he’ll bust his nut as soon as he sees you”.

“I kinda need him to last,” you murmur but decide to follow his advice.

The thoughts are jumbled in your head as Joel’s low voice and hot breath on your naked skin are making you weak. You press your thighs together chasing any relief from the ache in your core. You feel cold air on your wet pussy. His bulge grazes the hollow of your ass and you bite your lip trying to swallow a whimper that is crawling up your throat.

“Yeah, it’s a good one,” you say, your voice soft and breathy. You want to take the lingerie from him but he doesn’t let you and pulls his hand away.

“I’ll help, angel.” You hear shuffling and turn around slightly to see him get on one knee behind you. He looks up at you, still dominant even in this position and your breath hitches.

Suddenly his hands grip your thighs and he turns you around. His face is so close to your pussy now your clit tingles and you gush more.

He drops his head and brings the panties to your feet. Your mouth parts with a surprise.

“Come on,” he hurries you and you step into the underwear, one foot and then the other. He hums with satisfaction and pulls them up, his hands brushing your legs and tickling your skin making it erupt in goosebumps. He notices your body’s reaction to his touch and stops his hands mid thigh looking straight at your pussy.

“Joel,” you whine as a sudden surge of shyness grasps you.

He seems not to hear. He leans closer to your mound and you gasp when his nose pushes into the spot just above your seam.

Then he plants a soft kiss on your mound and you take a deep breath as the desire overwhelms you. You want his mouth on you with fierce desperation, your mind is empty and only one thought is swirling through it, “do it do it, do it.”

You shut your eyes ready to drown in pleasure and hear his soft and seductive voice as his breath warms your skin, “Who’s gonna eat your pussy tonight, angel, me or your stepdaddy?”

You can’t help but imagine them both between your thighs and you moan dropping down your head and running your fingers through his hair.

To your disappointment Joel pulls the panties up and doesn’t stop until your pussy lips swallow the sheer fabric. It presses on your clit and you take a sharp breath as a surge of need ignites your core.

You lift one leg, brace your hand on the dresser behind you and put your thigh over his broad shoulder giving him a perfect view of your pussy. Then your hand darts to pull the material to the side and you bite your lower lip as his hot breath hits your wet skin. Joel growls and raises his eyes at you. His gaze is so dark the irises are hardly visible. You’re sure your pupils are as blown as his.

“Want uncle to lick your pretty pussy?” he asks softly but you hear a trace of mockery in his voice. Your need suffocates your pride and you answer him by gliding your foot up and down his muscular back.

He hums and leans closer to your center. You hold your breath in anticipation and run your fingers through his hair ready to tug on them when he finally eats you out. But you furrow your brows and blink in confusion when he presses his cheek to your folds and stills. “What are you..?”

Suddenly he moves his head up and down against your sensitive pussy rubbing it with his rough scruff. You cry out and jump back away from him.

“What the fuck, Joel?! It hurts!” you’re fuming looking at your burning folds while he chuckles getting up from the floor with a grunt.

“Just wanted to save your scent, baby,” he laughs rubbing his beard and you shout at him to get out putting on a bra.

“You have 5 minutes,” he says, still chuckling as he leaves the room.

***

When you finally step outside the house you see the brothers smoking by Joel’s truck. Jess took your stepdad’s car to go on a spa retreat and her plans to waste Tommy’s money pampering herself coincided perfectly with your plans to fuck her husband.

You bite your lip when you see Tommy wearing a black western shirt and dark jeans. Your heart sings at the thought that he wanted to look good to take you out.

Tommy quickly looks you over, trying to hide his interest but you notice his gaze slide over your body tightly enveloped by the slinky dress.

Joel on the other hand doesn’t hide anything. “Looking good, baby,” he comments shamelessly adjusting his bulge.

“Let’s go,” you say, coming up to the truck and batting your lashes at Tommy, “Daddy, will you keep me company in the back?”

“Sweetheart...” Tommy starts talking with an unsure expression but you pout your lips, mouthing, “please”.

He sighs and gets in the back seat. A little part of you wonders if he’s pushed by your threat or genuine desire to be close to you. But you shut this little voice down reminding yourself that the result is what’s important.

When you get into the car your dress rides up exposing even more of your thighs but you don’t bother tugging it down.

Joel starts the engine and backs out of the driveway while you’re looking around at the interior of his truck. It’s surprisingly tidy and you’re genuinely impressed until your gaze raises up and to your shock you see your panties hanging on the rear view mirror. Your jaw drops and you’re about to shout at Joel when you stop yourself. You realize that the perv must have picked them up from the floor of your room that morning and you’re not eager to let your stepdad know about your fun time with your step uncle.

So you shut your mouth and see Joel winking at you in the mirror.

Tommy on the other hand reacts as soon as he sees it, “God, Joel, take this thing off!”

“Why?” His older brother asks with defiance driving through the town streets with one hand on the wheel.

Tommy just sighs, not even trying to come up with a reason.

You’re squirming in your seat praying that Joel doesn’t mention whose panties are now swinging in front of the windshield. You almost moan with relief when he turns on some classic rock and doesn’t say anything.

Your eyes keep shooting at Tommy from time to time who’s looking out of the window. You hate that he’s so far so you unbuckle your seat belt and slide over closer to him. You trace a wedding band on his finger getting his attention. He snaps his head your way, brows furrowed.

“Get back in your seat. ‘s dangerous.”

You take his hand and bring it up to your lips as he’s watching you closely. You press your cheek to his knuckles and rub your face against his hand.

“Love when you worry about me, daddy,” you purr into his hand and then place it on your thigh that’s further from him.

You put your hand over his and make him squeeze your naked flesh.

“Keep me safe, please,” you breathe out feeling his palm against your skin, so close to your pussy and at the same time torturously far.

“I ain’t a seat belt, sweetie,” Tommy mumbles looking down at your skin erupting in goosebumps under his touch. He takes a sharp breath and lifts his hips before spreading his legs a little wider. You notice his bulge has grown bigger and you close your eyes for a second trying to calm down but sink even deeper in the sticky pit of desire. You think about moving his hand to your inner thigh and then closer towards your pussy. His fingers would immediately find your panties soaked and if he slid his thumb under the fabric he could easily find your throbbing clit and …

“Hey, lovebirds!” Joel rumbles and you snap your eyes open as he interrupts your daydreaming.

Tommy clears his throat feeling his brother's eyes on him in the car mirror and his hand flies away from your thigh. You curse Joel inwardly for ruining the moment.

Joel’s head turns to you slightly as he asks, “how about we skip the restaurant and get a motel, huh?”

You know that you’re the one he’s asking because Tommy has no say in any of this thanks to the recording you have on your phone.

“I’m not some cheap hooker you picked up at a gas station, Joel. I can’t just jump into bed with you,” you reply, putting your seatbelt back on.

Joel laughs and your stomach burns with rage. You’re fed up with his mocking, his attitude, his cockiness.

“What’s so fucking funny, old man?” You spit out at him grinding your teeth.

“Fuck, baby,” he says locking eyes with you in the mirror, “I don’t remember buying you dinner before I jizzed all over your pretty face a few days ago?”

“You WHAT?!” Tommy exclaims and your heart falls into your stomach. As long as you’ve known him you never heard him raise his voice like that, maybe only watching sports but never at a person. Especially Joel. He scoots forward in his seat to get closer to Joel and grabs his arm. “Have you fucked her already?” Joel seems absolutely unfazed as he replies in his usual “fuck y’all” tone, “No, I haven, Tommy, relax. We just fooled around. The princess wanted to come and I helped her.”

Tommy’s head snaps in your direction and you squeeze your body into the seat as fear grips your heart. He looks livid, eyes are scorching you under the furrowed brows, lips form a tight line in anger or disappointment. You feel small under his stare and stammer weakly, “d..daddy, he didn’t… ”

He suddenly gets closer to you, leans in, grabs your hand and squeezes it in his. It’s not painful but his strength and wrath make your breath hitch and your pussy clenches around nothing as the fear affects you like an aphrodisiac.

“If he fucks your needy hole before I do, believe my words, sweetie, I won’t touch you. You can put that recording of me on national television I don’t give a fuck. Got it?” He throws the words at you as his eyes are boring into yours.

You whimper as his face is so close you feel his breath on your parted lips. Realizing that he’s waiting for your answer you nod hastily and he gets back in his seat.

You feel your world tilting and turning upside down. Your stepdad, the calmest, softest man you know just shouted at his brother and said all that to you.

Tommy’s still fuming, clenching and unclenching his fist resting on his thigh and you wonder why it stirred him up that much. Why has his possessiveness burst out now? It was the first time you witnessed his passion for you. Is it sibling rivalry? Insecurity? Or did he finally let himself do what he’d wanted? You ask yourself these questions before you see Joel watch you through the mirror. He looks smug and you try to make your expression neutral not to give him the satisfaction.

You glance out of the window and your anxiety spikes up again seeing that you’re almost at the place you’ve picked.

“Oh, fuck no!” Tommy exclaims seeing where you three are going. “Are you fucking kidding me? You know that it’s Jess’ favorite place. How am I gonna look with you grinding against me all night?” He’s shooting daggers at you and you take a deep breath trying to find the right words.

“Tommy, listen. This restaurant is the only ok place in this shithole of a town. And I promise I’ll behave,”

Mistrust is painted on his face but seeing you shaken and nervous calms him down a bit.

“No ‘daddies’!” he demands pointing his finger at you.

“No “daddies,” you promise with sadness in your voice.

He points his finger at Joel next, “You too! None of your usual shit!”

Joel raises his hands and brows acting like he’s never done anything wrong in his life. You scuff but turn your pleading gaze at Tommy.

“And we leave when I say we leave!”

You hate losing your upper hand in the situation but your pussy is throbbing for him now, so dominant and rough, and you decide to submit this time.

You all get out of the car and Tommy stomps to the restaurant still angry. Having stayed alone with Joel you use the opportunity and grab his arm to stop him.

“Why have you said it? About the morning? I thought we were on the same page.”

“We are, angel.” Joel replies, wrapping his arm around your waist and pulling you in the direction of the entrance, “I know my brother. He always wants something I don’t have. He must be ecstatic seeing how hungry you’re for him. I just fiddled with his toy a bit and now he wants it even more.”

His hand grabs your ass and you slap it off getting away from him as you see Tommy watch you two waiting at the door.

You can’t believe that Joel is manipulating his brother so easily. But his words have reassured you and you feel less agitated.

When the brothers and you step into the restaurant, a host greets Tommy by the name and you see the confusion hiding behind his features at Mr Miller’s unusual company.

He asks about Jess and you cringe rolling your eyes so far up your head, the host gets even more flustered.

He leads you to your table and you settle down.

A waiter brings you the menus and you order a glass of red wine, adding “Please, you two, no hard liquor, we have a long night ahead of us,” Tommy chokes on his water as the waiter slightly raises his eyebrow.

Joel gets a beer and Tommy follows suit. When the waiter leaves your stepdad glares at you.

“You promised to behave.”

“I am behaving. I just don’t want you to forget why we’re here.”

Joel chimes in, leaning back against his chair with a grunt, “And why exactly are we here, baby?”

“I want us to get to know each other better.”

“We’re family, angel, I know everything there is about you.”

“Really? What’s my favorite color, Joel,” you ask, narrowing your eyes at him.

“The color of my brother’s dick?” Joel asks and you burst into giggles while Tommy mumbles profanities under his breath.

When the drinks arrive Joel starts asking Tommy about his work and you’re surprised to notice how the older brother eases him up. They talk and you listen, not really getting through the meaning of a bunch of contractor terms but you smile when they do and laugh when they say something funny.

Soon you’re drinking and talking and it actually feels comfortable. They reminisce about their life in Austin and you ask them questions genuinely interested in their past.

At one point Joel acts like a perfect wing man telling you a hot story of Tommy getting arrested for starting a bar fight because of a girl and you tingle all over. Your stepdad gives you a shy smile and your breath hitches.

Suddenly you feel Joel’s piercing gaze on you.

“What about you, angel? Got any fun college stories for us?” Tommy looks uncomfortable and you remember your promise to him to behave so you say softly,

“I’m a good girl, uncle Joel. I’m there to study, not to waste my time on boys.” You drop your gaze acting so innocent even you don’t believe yourself.

Joel chuckles and Tommy glances up at you with a little smile.

“Ok, our good girl. What about girls? Bet you’ve licked some pussies after a wild party.”

“Fuck, Joel,” Tommy curses and you bite your lip trying not to smile at the way your stepdad squirms in his chair. The wine makes you bolder and you decide to spice up the night.

“How about we play a game? I answer your question and then you two answer mine?” you offer fidgeting in your chair giddy with excitement.

“Shoot, baby.”

“No!”

The men reply at the same time. Tommy’s shaking his head and Joel slightly punches his brother’s shoulder.

“Come on, Tommy. Let’s hear how naughty our good girl gets. I remember you were fine with her… how did you put it… exploring herself.”

Your eyes are glinting with excitement as Joel quotes that dialogue. You remember it by heart now having listened and come to it so many times you lost count.

“Go ahead, angel,” Joel nods, motioning you to speak.

You take a deep breath and start talking softly.

“I’ve been with a girl just once. We weren’t wasted or anything,” You shoot a glance at Joel and then continue, “We were in her room watching a movie and then it kinda happened.” You suddenly feel shy as not only Joel’s but also Tommy’s gaze is glued to you.

“Nah, baby. We need details.” Joel’s voice, seducing and gruff, pulls the words out of your mouth before you can stop them.

“We started making out.. then I tugged her shirt down and sucked on her nipples,” you muse tracing the edge of the wet glass with your finger. “I kissed her stomach, then her pussy… She was so wet. So soft on my tongue. I sucked on her clit and fingered her for some time and she came…her pussy was clamping on my fingers so hard.”

When you lift your eyes you see the brothers stare at you with hungry obsidian eyes as if they’re ready to pounce on you at any moment. Joel palms himself through the jeans and Tommy doesn’t tear his eyes off you as they slide from your lips to your breasts and back up again.

For a few moments you three are soaking in this horny silence until you break it clapping your hands together.

“My turn!”

Tommy takes a big gulp of his beer and Joel raises his brows waiting for your question.

“Have you ever fucked a girl together? Like… shared her?” you quickly regret your question as only saying it already is making you uncomfortably wet.

You’re looking at Joel expecting him to answer but suddenly hear your stepdad’s voice,

“Yeah, we have. Once.”

Your head snaps his way and you gawk at him. You don’t say anything and just wait for him to continue. And he does.

“She was Joel’s girlfriend at the time. We went to a bar, got really drunk and fucked in the bathroom.”

Tommy glances up at you and then quickly averts his eyes.

“Fuck…,” you moan rubbing your thighs together imagining them using some lucky girl like that and ask,

“How did you do it?”

Joel leans closer to you placing his massive arms on the table and replies savoring every word while his velvety voice hits you right in the pussy, “I made her bend over to suck Tommy off and then shoved my dick deep into her cunt. He fucked her throat, I fucked her hole and we pumped her full.”

The moment Joel finishes talking you hear the waiter’s shaky voice asking if you’d like anything else.

Tommy curses and sends him away. He acts polite but his voice strains with rage.

He hastily gets up and mumbling the word ‘bathroom’ leaves you two. Before he turns away you spot his massive bulge and swallow loudly.

You take a deep breath trying to calm down.

“Angel, you look pale,” Joel laughs at you and then shakes his head, “you want him, he wants you, what are all these fuckin’ games for? You coulda been stuffed with our cocks by now but no, little princes wanted to be wined and dined. Lets hope he doesn’t change his mind about tonight. If our plan goes to shit because of you, uncle Joel will get very angry. And you surely don’t want that, missy.” Joel’s expression is serious and you remember that he has his personal motive and his concern quickly becomes yours.

“I’ll talk to him,” you say, getting up from the table.

You come up to the bathroom and knock. It’s quiet so you knock again until you hear the lock click.

Tommy opens the door and steps out of the room but you gently push him back in.

“Please, let’s talk,”

You hear people’s voices and not wanting to be caught with you alone at the bathroom Tommy begrudgingly steps back and shuts the door behind you two.

“What?!” He grumps and steps up to the sinks. He opens the tap and bends down to wash his face.

You lean back against the door watching him and contemplating your next move. He’s about to snap and you’re afraid what unexpected fit he could throw again. You know he wants you and you need to be wise rather than play on his nerves. “You’re his innocent stepdaughter,” Joel’s words emerge from your mind.

You come up to him slowly and wait while he’s drying his face with a hand towel.

“I’m not a monster, Tommy. I don’t wanna ruin your life,” you speak softly, placing your hand on his shoulder. He turns to you, anger still painted on his face.

You inch closer, press your forehead to his shoulder and whisper breathing in his scent,

“I want you, Tommy. So fucking much.”

You feel vulnerable at the moment but that’s exactly what he wants you to be right now.

“So that’s why you spread your legs for my brother? ‘Cause you wanted me?”

You sniff not saying anything for a few moments, then lift your head, and glance up at him. His face is blurry as you’re looking at him through the tears.

“I was just horny, daddy. And when he was fingering me, I was imagining you fucking my pussy.”

Tommy’s breath hitches and you hold yours as well hoping he’ll react.

“Fuck, babygirl,” your stepdad whispers as his rage shifts into sympathy, his eyes sad and blown out.

The next moment he grabs you under your thighs, lifts you and sets you on the counter. He’s standing between your legs as you place your hands on his shoulders. His thumb wipes a tear from your cheek as the other hand is pressed to your lower back. You open your legs wider and the dress pulls up at your hips exposing your light pink panties.

“Shhh, don’t cry, sweetheart. I’m here,” he whispers, kissing your cheek gently and his head drops as he’s looking at your pussy, “I want you too.”

His smell, his touch, his confession make you ecstatic and you press your parted lips to his. They’re soft and plump as his tongue breaches your lips and he licks into your whimpering mouth. You grab his ass and pull him closer to your heated center. You feel him hard against your pussy and start grinding on his stiff bulge.

“What do you need, babygirl? Tell me,” Tommy says, parting from your lips.

“Touch me, please… can’t wait any longer,” you whine, pulling your dress up to the waist. His hands rush to free your pussy and you lift your hips before Tommy takes your panties off.

The cold marble under your ass makes you hiss but you forget about it as soon as Tommy’s fingers push between your folds and he rubs your clit making you moan.

“You like it, babygirl? Daddy’s finally touching your needy pussy.”

You can’t form any words so you just moan and nod your head frantically. His forehead is pressed against yours as you’re both watching his digits glide down to your hole and without hesitation he pushes his middle finger inside you. You’re so wet it slides in easily and he starts massaging your walls.

“More please,” you plead and he groans as his index finger joins the first.

“Good girl! You're sucking me in so well, can’t wait to bury my cock inside you,” Tommy murmurs in your ear and you whimper before you see the door opening. Your heart freezes in your chest as you’re about to get caught being fingered by your stepdad. But you breathe out with relief seeing Joel stepping into the bathroom.

“Fuckin’ finally,” he grumbles coming up to you two. He stands next to Tommy, his bulge pressed to your thigh. Through the haze of pleasure you feel Joel’s hand cup your tears stricken cheek and he leans to your ear and whispers, “Clever girl.”

Then his big palm squeezes your naked thigh as he asks you,

“Enjoying daddy’s fingers, angel? Who’s better at fingering your tight little hole, him or your uncle?”

Tommy groans and suddenly his lips are on yours. His kiss is hungry, desperate, claiming. You melt into it feeling your climax build as his fingers are pushing on the soft spot inside you.

You moan into his mouth and Tommy’s lips leave yours as he mumbles, “I’ll feed your pussy my cock.. soon, babygirl… just wait.”

“You’ll be full by the end of the night, angel,” Joel smirks and pulls down the neckline of your dress exposing your naked breasts to the men. He starts twitching your nipple as his brother is working your pussy.

Joel watches your face twist with pleasure, your teeth biting your lips mercilessly.

“Don’t ruin your pretty lips, angel,” he says, bringing his thumb to your mouth. He brushes your swollen lower lip and pulls it out from between your teeth, “Here.” He pushes his thumb into your mouth and you welcome it. You start sucking on his thick digit making the filthiest noises.

With your stepdad’s fingers fucking your hole and step uncle's thumb stuffing your mouth you feel yourself about to unravel. Tommy pushes you over the edge pressing his thumb to your clit and swirling it a few times.

“Come, babygirl. Make daddy proud,” Tommy says and your explode clumping hard on his fingers and moaning, your pretty noises muffled by Joel’s thumb still pressed to your tongue. The man praises you, “That’s our girl. Perfect little slut.”

The orgasm is hitting you hard and you’re shaking and trembling so Tommy wraps his arm around your waist holding you tight but still pleasuring you.

They both are watching Tommy’s digits rhythmically disappear inside your dripping hole and your pussy squelches as your creamy cum, pushed out by the intrusion, slides down your ass towards the counter. Finally your climax subsides and your body stills, jerking with aftershocks from time to time.

Joel's thumb leaves your mouth and he holds the back of your neck while you’re trying to catch your breath.

Tommy pulls out his fingers too and lifts them up for the three of you to see. Under the bright lights you see his digits glazed with your juices. A drop of your slick slides down his middle finger and Tommy licks it off and then brings his digits to your mouth. You happily suck them clean while they both are praising you, “that’s our girl”, “like that, angel”, “came so hard for daddy and uncle.”

When you’re done cleaning your stepdad’s fingers off your cum, he cups your cheek and asks softly, “ready to go home, babygirl?” You look at Tommy, whose adoring and hungry gaze makes you tingle again, then at Joel, who’s eating you up with his blown out eyes, his hand palming his huge bulge, and the anticipation of the night ahead makes your heart and pussy flutter.

Batting your eyelashes at the men you give them a shy smile and say “yes.”

******

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